Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The house was quieter than usual.

Not in an unsettling way — more in the sense of calm before something big, something beautiful. It was late morning, sunlight pouring in through the wide kitchen windows of the new house Clara and Jason now called home. The scent of toasted bread and honey still lingered in the air, and the faint sound of birdsong trickled in from the garden. It was a far cry from the whirlwind they’d endured just months ago. Jack was at school, settled and thriving. Jason had insisted his routine remain undisturbed — no matter how much was going on with the baby, the house move, or the occasional headline still echoing from the storm they’d weathered. Clara had agreed, wholeheartedly. Jack’s security was sacred.

Although still in the heart of the village, their home now was a soft blend of old and new. They’d left behind her childhood house just a few weeks earlier. A bittersweet farewell, if ever there was one. Clara had walked through those familiar hallways one last time with a hand on her growing bump and tears that refused to be wiped away. There had been memories in every corner — ones of quiet heartbreak, but also the laughter of a little boy who had somehow always made her stronger. Yet, despite the ache of letting go, there was an undeniable excitement too. 

This new house — theirs — was filled with sunlight, promise, and the kind of warmth that can only come from building something together. Jason had insisted on helping design the nursery himself, surprising even Clara with how particular he’d been about colours and soft furnishings. (“Greys are neutral, right? Not boring. Classic,” he’d insisted, with a stubborn nod.). He’d also agreed — a little reluctantly — to a couple more press photos. Nothing intrusive, just controlled, brief moments of him stepping out again. A few grumbles from his side, and endless teasing from Howard via text, but Jason had done it. For Clara. For the life they were building. Just enough to offer the world a glimpse before firmly pulling the curtain shut again.

Now, all attention had turned to the next big moment: tomorrow’s scan. The one where they'd finally find out — really find out — whether there was one baby or two. And, just maybe, the baby's gender. They were giddy with anticipation, the kind that made Jason clumsy in the kitchen and Clara get weepy over baby socks. He had barely stopped touching her bump all week, talking to it, humming to it, sneaking kisses when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.

“Can you believe we might know if you’re a little miss or a mister this time tomorrow?” Jason had whispered to her the night before as they’d curled together on the sofa. “I still can’t believe we got here.”

Neither of them could…But here they were…Settled. Expectant. Stronger than ever….And waiting — hearts wide open — for the next beautiful chapter to begin.

That evening, the rain had arrived — soft and persistent, brushing against the windows in waves that matched the steady rhythm of Jason’s fingers tracing lazy circles over Clara’s bump. He hadn’t said anything in a while—just content to lie there, breathing in the scent of her hair, listening to the hush of the room. But there was something simmering just beneath his calm, a flicker of thought he’d been holding back. They were in bed, cocooned beneath the crisp white sheets of bed, the bedroom lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp and the occasional flicker from the cars passing by outside. Clara lay on her side, head nestled on Jason’s chest. His heartbeat was calm and familiar beneath her ear. One hand was entwined with hers; the other still rested on her growing stomach.

“I think it’s a girl,” Clara said suddenly, her voice gentle.

"Psychic are you now?" Jason looked down at her, his lips curving into a knowing smile. “What makes you think that then?”

"I've been carrying them for the past several months so trust me...I know" She nodded. “Call it instinct too. Or the fact that I’ve had constant cravings for marmite and pineapple, which apparently is a sign according to that mother and baby magazine that Dani brought me round the other day...”

Jason chuckled. “Right. Scientific, that is.” There was a pause. “I hope you’re right though,” he murmured, almost like it wasn’t meant to be said aloud.

“Really?” Clara looked up at him, slightly surprised. “You want a girl?”

“Actually yes…” He nodded, slowly. “I do.”

“Why?” she asked, quietly curious. “I would of thought you'd want a boy ,another lad to take to the big games..give all the boys advice..”

“Not really to be honest”Jason inhaled, then let the breath go slowly as if choosing his words carefully. He nodded, his lips pulling into a soft, sheepish smile. “I think it would… I don’t know… balance something in me. Maybe teach me a few things I missed along the way Because I think... I think having a daughter might finally heal something in me. It’s hard to explain, but—look, I spent so long being that guy I wouldn’t want her anywhere near, y’know? That kind of guy…” He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Back in the day, I was the kind of bloke I’d warn her about, let's be honest here. You know, a bit too flirty, too charming for my own good. All show and no depth. I got away with a lot just because I could smile the right way or say the right thing those women wanted to hear.”

“So you was basically a walking red flag?”Clara raised an eyebrow teasingly. “Wow…look at you now though…Reformed pop star turned protective dad”

“Exactly,” he grinned, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “I mean, I’m not proud of it all and what I was like. Especially in those early days. The fans, the flings, the way I treated love like it was... just something to dance through. But I think if I had a daughter... maybe I’d finally see it all from the other side. Understand it differently. Be better. Do better. For her…you do get what I'm going on about dont you?”

“Of course…every word. But do know this” Clara softened at that. “You’ve already done better, Jason.”

“I like to think I have after all these years. I definitely was something else back then thats for sure ” Jason gave a laugh. “I’d be that warning in a group chat between girls: ‘Avoid. Will make you laugh and then vanish for a year.’” His grin faded slightly. “But I've changed now Clara…. Because of you.”

"I always knew you was a very naughty man deep down" Her smile softened. “Jason…you did it all though”

“You taught me how to be present. How to feel instead of just performing. You made me want to be better. And now I keep thinking—if we do have a daughter, I want to raise her knowing her worth, teaching her that no smile or sweet word should ever make her forget it. And if some bloke ever shows up at our door trying the same lines I used to back in the day—God help him. He wont know whats hit him”

“Is it bad that i can actually visualise that when shes older” Clara let out a burst of laughter, pushing gently at his chest. “You’re such a softie really though.”

“Not when it comes to prospective boyfriends thats for sure…” He squeezed her hand. “ Look at me..saying stuff like that and shes not even here yet...I just want her to have everything Clara. Not stuff — just... safety. Kindness. Someone to look up to. And I want to be that someone.”

“You already are and dont need to give her anything more..you're doing it already” she smiled, allowing her hand to drop from his face to his chest “So Have you thought anymore about names?” Clara asked, lifting her head. “We keep saying we will go throughthe list, but haven’t really sat down and done it yet...”

"New parents scatter brain i guess..." Jason looked thoughtful. “Go on then. What have you got on that list of yours?”

"OUR list..not just mine cheeky" Clara bit her lip and reached for her phone. “Alright. What about... Ella?”

“Too obvious.”

“Matilda?”

"No.. reminds of that film.." He tilted his head. “Hmm. It’s nice though. Bit too posh? I am from up north Clara..that's a bit too upmarket for my child ”

“Luna?”

“Sounds like we’re naming a cat.”

“For God's sake Jason at this rate she will be going off to university and still be called Baby Orange” Clara groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“Calm down…” Jason laughed. “sorry....what else you got?”

“I have one more... a great name if you must know” She scrolled again, then paused. “Okay. This one’s not even on a list, really. Just a word that stood out to me the other day when I was sitting in the garden thinking when we first moved in this place” She looked at him. “Hope…Hope Orange..i think it goes pretty well…haven't thought of a middle name yet. Look how long sorting out a first name has taken the pair of us ”

Jason went still. The room felt quieter than before.

“Hope,” he repeated softly, like tasting the word “Hope Orange…”

“Well? what do you think?” Clara watched him stare aimlessly into the distance..almost trance like. “You okay?”

“Sorry…” He nodded slowly, something stirring behind his eyes. “Yeah. It’s just... that word’s followed me around for years. When I didn’t think I’d ever have this. A family. Peace. You. Jack.” His hand moved over her bump again. “Her.”

“So…what do you think?” Clara’s hand moved to cover his. “You like it?..I think its beautiful”

“I love it,” he whispered. “It’s not just a name. It’s... everything we’ve fought through to get here to this moment... Everything I never let myself believe I deserved.” His throat tightened slightly. “She’ll be a symbol of that, won’t she?”

“The most perfect symbol you could ever ask for” Clara smiled, her eyes suddenly misty. “Hope…our Hope…our little girl…” He leaned in and kissed her gently — slow and meaningful. The kind of kiss that said I see you. I thank you. I love you. “I think we just found her name,” Clara murmured against his lips. Jason nodded, forehead pressed to hers. “Hope…Hope Orange”

The room continued to still around them after they whispered her name into the silence — Hope. Like the air had thickened with something sacred. A pause from the world. Just the two of them, wrapped in warmth and quiet reverence. Jason hadn’t moved. His fingers were still spread protectively across Clara’s bump, and his eyes… they were no longer just smiling — they shimmered. As if the word had unlocked a feeling too long buried. Clara could feel the subtle tremble in his chest beneath her cheek.

“You’re thinking about something" she whispered."something is on your mind...I can tell...I know you"

"You really do..." Jason gave a small, breathy laugh. “Always thinking these days Clara..even with this peace with you my mind wont switch off at times”

“Want to talk about it?”

He hesitated, then nodded. His voice dropped to a hush, like he didn’t want to disturb the stillness around them.

“You know… when the band finished the first time back in the 90s, and even when I quit properly... people always assumed it was about fame. Or privacy. Or I got bored. But it wasn’t that. Not really. I think… I just felt like I was missing something. I didn’t know what it was at the time — I just knew that all the lights and stages and travel... none of it filled that space. Not properly.” Clara turned her head to look up at him. She didn’t speak. Just listened. “I remember once, years ago, I was walking through the park. Alone. I was meant to be doing some radio interviews with the lads to promote the big PROGRESS tour but I skipped it. Told them that I had a family emergency..awful I know” shaking his head “I saw this woman — she was heavily pregnant. Her partner came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her, kissed her on the cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world. And I felt like I’d been punched in the chest.” He looked down, eyes glinting. “Because that was what I was really craving. That moment. That simplicity. That depth. And I was so far from it, Clara. I was lost. Then... I found you. You saved me…” 

 “Maybe we saved each other.” Jason’s fingers gently cupped the side of her face, brushing a lock of hair back. Clara let the silence sit for a moment. Then, softly, “Do you still feel lost sometimes?”

He thought for a long while. Then shook his head.

“No. Not anymore. Scared, yes. Insecure, definitely. Like... how can I possibly be the father this little girl deserves?” He laughed shakily. “I’m fifty-three. I used to get crippling stage fright back then, Clara. How the hell am I meant to raise a daughter when I get nervous ordering coffee sometimes? Or paying at the local supermarket..paranoid constantly someone will recognise me”

“You're only human Jason…” Clara smiled through her tears. “The bigger picture is that you have love in your veins. And for me..for Jack and now this baby… that’s more than enough and all we need from you.”

"you really are incredible Ms Mcfly..”Jason kissed her forehead. “Do you know how grateful I am for you?”

“I think I do,” she said quietly, snuggling closer. “But I never get tired of hearing it. So how about telling me one more time ... .for old times sake..”

“I thank whatever higher power bought you into my life..” His voice dropped, almost reverent. “You’ve given me a second life, Clara. A real one. A life where I'm not pretending for once. No facades….Just A family….my family…You’ve made me believe in good things again. Things I never thought I’d deserve.”

“I love you Jason,” Clara whispered, tears in her voice. “More than you’ll ever know.” They lay like that for a long while. Just soaking in the stillness. The warmth between them. The soft hum of rain. Jason eventually reached for her hand again and brought it over to rest on her belly. There was the smallest flutter beneath their palms. Clara smiled. “She’s listening to us..she recognises your voice for sure”

“Mummy and Daddy were having a moment there and you of course were eavesdropping little lady ” Jason blinked away sudden moisture. “but i'll let you off Hope...my little girl”

Their Hope.

The bedroom was wrapped in moonlight as the bedside clock hit 1am. The moon spilled in soft and silver through the sheer curtains, brushing its glow across the duvet where Clara slept peacefully curled on her side, her hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink. Her breath was slow, deep. The kind of peaceful rhythm that came only after days that asked too much of her. Jason lay beside her, wide awake and just watching her. There really was something about the way she looked lying there next to him— the faint glow of her skin, the subtle curve of her body — rooted him in place. Yet, He couldn't help himself. He reached out and gently rested a hand on her swollen bump. It felt warmer somehow. More alive in the quiet sanctuary of their room. The shape of their child. Their future. He leaned in slowly, pushed up Clara’s nightshirt just slightly and pressed the softest kiss to it — reverent, almost as if he scared to wake either of them. Then, resting his cheek there, he closed his eyes and whispered:

“Hey, you. I don’t know if you can hear me yet… but I hope so. Your mother says you are recognising my voice” He paused, smiling at himself “Clara thinks you're a girl. I think she might be right, you know. There's this feeling I get... like you're going to come into this world and completely undo me. Just like dads to daughters are” He let out a quiet breath, his hand splaying wide across the curve of Clara’s abdomen. “I've done a lot in my life, Hope — if that’s indeed who you are in there. I’ve sung in front of tens of thousands. I've seen cities I never dreamed of. I've been lost more times than I can count. But nothing… nothing has ever felt like this.” He swallowed thickly. “I’m not perfect. I’ve made more mistakes than I like to admit. I’ll be a lot older than most dads will be at the school gate when I will pick you up. I overthink constantly. I panic over the most trivial of things. And sometimes, I still feel like the boy who never quite believed he deserved something this good.” His thumb brushed slow circles over the bump. “But I'm trying. And I will never stop trying for you. For your brother. For your mother. You’ve already changed me, whoever you are in there.” Jason leaned in and kissed the bump again. “I promise to be better than I was yesterday. To protect you. To love you. To dance like a fool just to make you laugh. And to always be honest — even when it’s messy.” A flutter. A tiny kick. Enough to make him catch his breath. His lips parted. “Was that a yes?” Clara stirred slightly, but didn’t wake. Just shifted closer to his side. Jason tucked the blanket over her shoulder, then rested his forehead gently against her bump once more. “I love you, kid,” he whispered. “And whether you’re a girl or a boy or two of you are in there plotting world domination… I already think you’re magic.”

He watched her sleep a little longer, then quietly reached for the notebook he kept by the bed. He had a few things to write down — before this moment slipped away.

The soft morning light filtered in like a whisper, gently warming the room with a golden glow. The first thing Clara noticed as she stirred awake was the sound of Jason’s breathing — slow and even, his body curled slightly toward her, one arm stretched protectively across the bed. His head rested near her bump, hair tousled and silver at the temples, catching the light like a halo. He was asleep sitting up, his body slightly slouched, the softest crease between his brows — even in rest, he wore his heart openly. Clara smiled sleepily and reached out, running her fingers gently through his long greying hair, brushing it back from his forehead. He didn’t stir, just leaned unconsciously into her touch like it grounded him….That’s when she noticed it.

A small, navy blue notebook had slipped from his hand, now resting partially on his lap, its cover barely hanging on by a thread. The pages were gently crinkled from frequent turning, the paper worn smooth in places. One corner still had the soft press of his thumb. Carefully, Clara reached down and picked it up. She hesitated, her fingertips lingering on the cover. Jason rarely wrote things down — his thoughts were usually kept close to his chest. But curiosity, laced with affection, nudged her forward. And something about the way he was clinging to it even in sleep made her feel like it was safe to look. Like it was something he wanted her to see. She turned to the most recent page.

And her breath caught.

It wasn’t a journal entry. It wasn’t lyrics. It was a letter.

To Hope…their baby…

“Hey, you. I don’t know if you can hear me yet… but I hope so.” Clara blinked, her throat tightening instantly as her eyes moved down the page. Every word was soaked in love. In vulnerability. In quiet, aching hope. The kind Jason rarely spoke aloud but always carried in his eyes. She kept reading — about his doubts, his promises, the way he already adored their baby without even knowing her face. The part where he talked about his past, about feeling unworthy, broke something tender in Clara. And then — “I love you, kid. And whether you're a girl or a boy or two of you are plotting world domination… I already think you’re magic.” Her free hand moved to her stomach, cradling the gentle curve where their child grew. A tear slipped silently down her cheek. She looked down at Jason again, her heart stretching painfully in her chest. He looked younger like this. Softer. Almost like the scared boy he sometimes admitted still lived inside him. She leaned in slowly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I already think you’re magic, too,” she whispered against his skin. Jason stirred slightly. A breath caught. And then those sleepy blue eyes fluttered open. “Hey,” she said softly, brushing her thumb across his cheek.

“Morning..” He blinked at her, disoriented for a moment, then saw the notebook in her hand and winced slightly. “You… read it?”

"Yeah...I did..." She nodded, tears still in her eyes. “ And I’m so glad I did.” His face crumpled just a little, like he wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or relieved. Clara reached out and placed his hand over her bump. “She heard you didnt she?” she whispered. “We both did.” Jason closed his eyes, overwhelmed, and let out a shaky breath as Clara leaned in and rested her forehead against his. “I love you Jason Orange ” she whispered. “You’re already everything she’ll ever need..never stop believing that”

He kissed her, slow and quiet, as morning poured through the window and wrapped around them like a promise.

The car moved smoothly through the streets, the hum of the engine a soft, constant background as Jason and Clara made their way to the hospital. The radio was off—neither of them had turned it on. Outside, the world carried on with its regular rhythm: buses sighed to a halt, people waited at crossings, shops flickered with morning life. But inside the car, it felt like time had slowed. Clara sat curled slightly in the passenger seat, one hand resting beneath her bump, the other gently stroking the top of it in slow, absentminded circles. Her eyes stayed fixed on the soft rise and fall beneath her jumper, her thoughts clearly miles away. Every so often, her fingers would pause, pressing just slightly more firmly as though trying to make contact, to feel something in return. Jason glanced sideways at her, eyes flicking quickly from the road to her face and back again. Her lips were parted slightly, her brow creased—not in pain, but in thought. She hadn’t said much since they'd left the house. No musings about names. Just this deep, still quiet that seemed to wrap around her like a cloak.

“You okay?” he asked gently, his voice low and careful, not wanting to break whatever space she was in if she needed it.

She nodded, still looking down. “Yeah… yeah, just…” Her voice trailed off. Her fingers tightened slightly over her bump, cradling it with unmistakable protectiveness. “I guess it’s hitting me now. We’re really going to see her today. Or him. But I still think… I still think it's a her.”

“Guess we will find out soon” Jason smiled, hand flexing on the steering wheel. “Still going with a girl?..look, are you sure you're okay?”

“I don’t know if I'm completely honest with you..it's just such a strange feeling.” She finally looked at him, her eyes soft, almost vulnerable. “It just feels so different this time but I'm okay..”Clara turned to him, smiling softly. “Yeah. Nervous, but okay.”

“You cant hide anything from me Clara..” Jason’s lips twitched into a half-smile. “You’ve been ‘nervous but okay’ for the past hour Ms Mcfly.” His throat tightened, but he kept his eyes on the road. “It's different because I’m here.”

She gave a small nod, and turned back to the window, her reflection briefly visible in the glass—just her and the curve of her bump. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was full of everything they didn’t need to say out loud. The second-chances. The fears they'd carried. The long, winding road that led them here. Jason drove with one hand on the wheel, the other loosely curled around Clara’s fingers as they rested on her lap. She glanced out the window, eyes tracing the familiar streets, but her thoughts were tumbling like clothes in a dryer.

“Well yes but I’m carrying an actual person inside me. So I think I’m allowed to be nervous, I have you know..” she teased, nudging his arm. “Besides, you’ve been chewing your bottom lip since we left the house too..you always do that when you're anxious”

“Okay, Mrs hair twirl..surprised you haven't done that yourself yet” He shot her a mock glare. “I thought we agreed not to notice each other’s nervous habits.”

She laughed, and he grinned, squeezing her hand. A moment later, her phone buzzed.

“Dani,” she said, swiping the screen. “She’s sent us a message.”

She opened it, and a photo of a whiteboard scrawled with names and odds popped up. Clara blinked.

“What on earth is she up to?” Jason leaned over at the red light to peer at it “She really is something else at times..”

“Apparently… the staff at the zoo have started a sweepstake on what the baby’s gender will be.” Clara let out a disbelieving laugh. “There’s actual money involved.” Clara showed him the message beneath the photo. “‘Put myself down for a girl — tenner on it. She’s definitely a mini-Clara. I can feel it.’”

"Only a tenner…my hopefully soon to be daughter is worth more than that” He snorted. “She really is committed..”

“Looks like Team Pink is leading the bet, by the way. You might get your wish after all Jason Orange.”

Jason’s grin softened. “Yeah, well... only if everything’s okay. That’s what really matters, right?” His voice was quieter now. “Girl, boy, twins... tiny alien. Just want them healthy.”

"Me too" Clara’s hand instinctively moved to her bump. she said gently. “And… I know we joke, but I’ve seen the way your eyes light up every time you think she might be a girl.”

“I really cant hide anythjng from you can i?” Jason flushed a little and rubbed the back of his neck. “Guilty.”

“Why?” she asked softly “why really?”

He glanced at her quickly, then turned back to the road. “It's like I told you last night maybe because I spent a lot of time being the kind of man I wouldn’t want near someone’s daughter. And now, all I want is the chance to show that I’ve changed. That I could be the kind of man she’d feel proud of.”

Clara blinked at him, a lump rising in her throat.

“You already are,” she whispered. “To Jack. To me. And to her... no matter who she is.”

Jason glanced at her with a smile so full of love, it made her breath catch.

Before long, Jason's classic Mercedes pulled into the hospital car park in comfortable silence, the moment lingering like a melody just fading out. He soon parked the car, but didn’t move to open the door just yet. As they pulled into the hospital car park, Jason turned the engine off and reached over to take her hand. Clara gave him a small, trembling smile—eyes bright but dry—and let him press a kiss to her knuckles. He knew her silences weren’t empty — they were full of noise, of thoughts running fast and looping back. Her hand was still in his, but her grip had slackened, resting loosely in his palm like she was drifting somewhere else.

“Hey…” he said gently, brushing his thumb along the curve of hers. “What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours then Clara McFly?”

“Guilty as charged mister Jason…” She blinked, her eyes fixed on the dashboard and reached for his face. Her fingertips gently brushed against his salt and pepper stubbled cheek “Just thinking about the last time I did this.” Jason stayed quiet. He wanted her to have her moment, to open up so he could listen to her inner thoughts brought into the open “The first scan,” she added softly. “With Jack.” He shifted slightly in his seat, angling his body towards her. Her voice didn’t waver, but he heard the ache beneath it. “I went alone back then. Sat in that waiting room surrounded by couples and smiling parents-to-be. I remember watching this one guy put his hand on his partner’s belly and I just thought — I wish… I wish I had that. I didn’t even know if Sean remembered what time the appointment was. I’d told him, but…” She trailed off, and Jason felt something inside him clench. Her eyes remained fixed forward, as if afraid that looking at him might make her crumble. “He used to say scans were pointless,” she continued. “That I was being dramatic. That the baby would still be there whether he saw it or not. I remember calling Dani afterward, just sobbing in the toilets — but even that was rare, because he’d already started making it hard for me to speak to her. Said I was ‘too dependent.’ So I stopped.”

“Sweetheart…” Jason reached over, cupping the side of her face and guiding her gently to look at him. “Clara…”

She blinked, and the tears finally welled up. “I didn’t realise until recently looking back just how cruel he was to me. How much he made me feel like I deserved to be alone. Even when I was carrying Jack, he made me feel… like I was nothing.” Her voice cracked, and Jason pulled her across the console into his arms, wrapping her in a protective, enveloping embrace. She didn’t cry loudly — she just folded into him, pressing her cheek into his chest like she’d needed this for a long, long time.

Jason pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and held her tighter.

“I hate that he made you feel that way,” he said, his voice low and steady despite the storm brewing in his chest. “I hate that he robbed you of moments that should’ve been beautiful. And I hate that he made you feel unworthy of the kind of love that should’ve surrounded you.” Clara didn’t move, only breathed a little shakier. “But look at where you are now and how far you've come..both you and Jack have..,” he continued. “You're not alone. Not anymore. You’ve got Dani back. You’ve got Jack. And you’ve got me now…. Always.” She looked up at him then, and the look in her eyes undid him. “I’m not going to miss a single thing,” Jason whispered, brushing her hair away from her cheek. “Every scan, every kick, every sleepless night. I want it all. Because this time, it’s not just about a baby. It’s about you. It’s about everything you’ve already been through and everything we’re building together. I want to be by your side through every heartbeat — hers and yours.”

Clara reached up, cupping his face, her thumb brushing beneath his eye. “You already are. More than anyone’s ever been.” He leaned forward and kissed her — a quiet, steady kiss that wasn’t rushed or heavy, but full of unspoken promises and layered truths. When they parted, Clara rested her forehead against his. “You’re the first person in a long time who’s made me feel like I’m not broken..damaged,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“You were never broken,” he said, “You were just waiting for someone who could see all your strength..and that someone was me”

She closed her eyes, breathing him in.

“Let’s go see our baby,” she murmured.

Jason smiled, helping her out of the car, still holding her hand like she was the most precious thing he’d ever carried.The morning felt like it hummed with anticipation. The air was crisp but bright, the kind of day that made everything feel slightly more vivid…

The soft hum of fluorescent lights filled the small waiting room, accompanied by the occasional rustle of magazines and the distant beeping of machines behind closed doors. Jason’s knee bounced nervously, his fingers laced tightly with Clara’s. Despite her calm exterior, he could feel the tension in her grip. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her nervous, but this was different. This was sacred. Clara rubbed her thumb slowly along the back of his hand. Jason’s fingers gently cupped the side of her face, brushing a lock of hair back. 

 “You okay?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “It's going to be fine..I promise”

"Me?" He nodded, managing a tight smile. “Yeah... just didn’t think this day would ever come, that’s all.” Clara leaned her head against his shoulder, the moment swallowing them both in quiet understanding. Jason's hand came to rest gently on her knee, steadying both of them as the nurse finally called her name.

The walk to the ultrasound room felt like a dream, every step echoing louder than it should. The walls were covered in faded posters of smiling families, tiny handprints, and quotes about life and love. Jason’s heart thudded louder with each one. The room was dimly lit, the examination table already set. Clara eased herself onto the bed, nerves and excitement threading through her breath. Jason stood beside her, still holding her hand, his fingers slightly trembling.

The sonographer smiled warmly. “First scan?" Clara nodded.

“Yes… first together.”Jason chuckled nervously. “It’s... a big moment.”

“Let’s have a look, then,” the sonographer said gently as she applied the gel to Clara’s belly. Clara shivered a little and Jason instinctively brushed a stray curl from her forehead.

And then—there it was.

A flicker.

On the screen, an unmistakable shape. Tiny. Perfect.

The room went silent for a moment except for the quiet, whirring sound of the machine, until a strong, rhythmic thumping filled the air.

Jason’s breath caught in his throat.

“Is that...?”

“That’s your baby’s heartbeat,” the sonographer said softly.

Clara’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes misting over instantly. “Oh my God…”

Jason’s hand tightened around hers. He didn’t say a word at first. He couldn’t. The sound of that heartbeat—fast, sure, alive—cracked open something in him that he didn’t even realise he’d been holding closed.

“That’s our baby?” he whispered hoarsely.

“Yes..” Clara turned to him, smiling through tears. “That’s our baby.”

The soft echo of the heartbeat still filled the room, thudding steadily as if the tiny life on the screen was tapping out its own introduction to the world. Jason leaned forward slightly, eyes still fixed on the grainy image of their baby on the monitor, his thumb absently stroking the top of Clara’s hand. 

“Um… sorry to ask, I know it’s probably a weird question,” he began, voice low and almost sheepish, “but… are we sure there’s just one in there?”

The sonographer raised an eyebrow, amused. “Ah, you’re not the first dad-to-be to ask that. Any reason?”

“Well the thing is…its just that” Jason chuckled quietly, rubbing the back of his neck as he struggled to find the words. “I’m a twin you see. My brother and I gave our mum a bit of a surprise back in the day..” Clara turned to look at him, startled and smiling. “Sorry…I just needed to put my mind at ease..I know twins can be hereditary” He gave her a soft shrug. “Didn’t want to panic you..we was a pair of little shits growing up Clara..”

“Double trouble” The sonographer moved the wand slightly, scanning around with precision. “Well, let me reassure you Daddy. There’s just one baby in there. No hidden stowaways.”

“Oh thank god” Jason let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, laughing under it. “ I mean …. Good to know. Just… always figured with my luck, we’d get the double bill.”

“I'd end being the size of a house if there were 2 in here” Clara was still grinning as she squeezed his hand. “One little miracle at a time”

“Okay. One’s enough.” Jason leaned down, kissed her forehead again, and whispered, “Even just one feels like more than I ever dreamed of.” he soon let out a breath of relief and laughed, the sound catching on the edges of his emotion. Clara giggled beside him, her cheeks flushed from the tears. 

“Would you like to know the gender?” the sonographer asked. “Or do mum and Dad want it to be a surprise?” Clara and Jason exchanged a look. “Your choice”

“Do we want to know?” Clara asked.”I get we both are convinced we know but do we want to know for definite?”

“Yes..plus Dani needs to know if she's won that tenner at work” Jason smiled, bringing her hand to his lips. “ Anyway..I want to know everything about them. Every tiny detail.”

“Alright then.” A few more gentle movements across her stomach, and the sonographer smiled. “Congratulations… you’re having a little girl and by the looks of it, a healthy strong beautiful baby girl”

Clara’s gasp was sharp and beautiful. Jason’s mouth fell open slightly as he stared at the screen, overwhelmed by the sight of his daughter in that moment. Their daughter.

“A girl?..I FUCKING KNEW IT..” he echoed before quickly apologising to the giggling nurse beside them for swearing. “We’re… we’re having a daughter? A little girl” Clara couldn’t speak. Tears spilled freely now as she clutched Jason’s hand to her chest, overcome.Jason bent low, pressing a soft kiss to Clara’s forehead, then one to her temple. “She’s ours,” he whispered. “Our little girl…our little Hope ”

“Hope….”Clara nodded, still trying to find words. “I always wanted a girl… I just never thought I’d be lucky enough to get this. To create something so special with someone like you”

Jason rested his forehead against hers, the screen still flickering behind them with the image of their baby—tiny and wiggling, strong and alive.

“You deserve everything good, Clara. So does she.”

They soon left the room with a small photo of their daughter clutched in Clara’s hands like a sacred relic. As they stepped out into the daylight, the world suddenly felt different. Brighter. More real. And in Jason’s heart, that rhythm—the beat of a tiny, growing heart—echoed louder than everything else.

Outside, the late afternoon sun had begun to dip, casting long golden streaks across the car park. The world was moving on, people hurrying to their cars, traffic humming in the distance, but for Clara and Jason, time had gently slowed. They sat in the front seats of Jason’s car in silence, parked under a tree that filtered the light like dappled lace across the windscreen. Neither had said a word since buckling in. Clara held the ultrasound picture in both hands, fingers trembling slightly as she stared down at the blurred outline of their baby girl—tiny, curled, delicate.Jason watched her out of the corner of his eye, his hand resting quietly over the gearstick, not ready to start the engine. It wasn’t just the weight of the moment keeping them still—it was reverence

“She’s real,” Clara whispered eventually, her voice filled with awe. “Not just an idea anymore… she’s really in there. That sound—that heartbeat. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

“Neither will I.” His voice cracked faintly as he nodded slowly. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything that beautiful before. Not even a Take That crowd in full swing back in the day,” he added with a wobbly grin “we did this Clara..we created her..she came from us..we made something so pure…so perfect”

“Well that's normally how babies are made Jason Orange …53 years old and you're only discovering this now?” Clara let out a watery laugh, brushing a tear away as she looked over at him. “You’re hopeless sometimes but adorable..”

"It was an amazing effort on both parts..always is when I'm with you” He smiled, but then turned serious, his gaze fixed now on the photo in her lap. “I keep thinking… about everything that had to happen to get us here and to this moment. Every choice. Every mistake. Every terrifying moment.” He swallowed. “And still, we made it. To this.”

“I know what you mean” Clara reached across and took his hand in hers, weaving their fingers together as he stared out through the windscreen. “You remember the day you brought Jack back to me?”

“I don’t think I could forget it,” Jason said, his voice thick. “You standing looking at me like I was just a normal everyday bloke—not someone famous. You didn’t know who I was. I had Jack in one hand and Molly’s lead in the other…even then I still couldn’t stop staring at your legs in those knee high boots you had on”

“I saw you feeding that horse those carrots from a distance and I couldn't stop watching you that day” she said softly. “And that moment you brought Jack back to me. Even then, I knew there was something about you. The way you looked at Jack. Like you saw him like nobody else did..there was something special about you..he saw it and from that moment so did I”

“That first day will stay with me forever” Jason turned toward her, emotion pooling behind his eyes. “That little boy changed everything for me. So did you. Before you, my world was… just echoes. Old memories. Now I’ve got a life I want to keep showing up for.”

“and with me Jason” Clara traced his fingers, thinking back. “After everything with Sean, the fear… those months where we were waiting to see if this pregnancy would hold. All the worry. We’ve both been through hell, Jason. But we kept choosing each other.”Jason looked down at the ultrasound picture again, gently running his thumb once again over the shape of his daughter’s tiny head. “She’s proof of that, isn’t she? Proof that something beautiful can grow out of all that pain. Hope.”

“That's why her name is so perfect for her” Clara’s breath hitched as Jason cupped Clara's cheek “it's what she's given both of us…”

“Hope,” she repeated, the sound blooming softly in the car. “Yeah… she is. She’s our Hope.”Jason leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Clara’s. Their eyes closed, hearts full. For all their broken pasts, this was a moment of healing. Of beginnings.

“I was so scared to believe in something like this,” Jason whispered. “A baby. A future. But now… all I want to do is protect it.”

“You already are,” Clara said, eyes shining. “You’re going to be everything she needs. Just like you’ve been for me and Jack.”

For a while longer, they just sat in the quiet hum of the evening, holding hands, the ultrasound resting between them like the most sacred promise.

Eventually, Clara leaned her head on his shoulder, and Jason started the car. But neither of them were in a rush to leave. Not when everything they’d ever hoped for was suddenly, undeniably real.

Later that evening, the house was quiet, bathed in the warm glow of soft lamps and the fading gold of a spring sunset streaming through the living room windows. Jack was curled up on the sofa, his school jumper tossed over the armrest, cheeks still slightly flushed from his usual after-dinner burst of energy. Jason and Clara exchanged a glance from the kitchen doorway. Clara held the small envelope containing the ultrasound printouts close to her chest, her fingers brushing over the edge.The soft hum of the kettle filled the kitchen as Jason leaned back against the counter, watching Clara delicately ease the ultrasound photo from the envelope the sonographer had placed it in hours earlier. Her fingers trembled slightly—not with nerves, but with excitement and love. Jason noticed and offered a quiet, reassuring smile before he called into the other room.

“Ready?” Jason asked, his voice low “he needs to be involved in this as much as possible.“Jack! Come in here, buddy”

“yes…” Clara nodded. “Let’s tell him.”

The sound of little feet came bounding down the hall, and Jack skidded into the kitchen, his face lit up with that boundless curiosity only children could truly master. They walked over together to the dining table, Clara settling on one side of Jack and Jason lowering himself down on the other. Jack looked up from his book, his grin immediate at the sight of them.

“You both look all weird and smirky..am I in trouble” he said, squinting suspiciously. “Did I forget to do something? It’s not bath night, is it?”

“What makes you think that?” Jason chuckled. “No, mate you're not in trouble..and You’re safe from soap for now.”

“We just have something really special to show you,” Clara added gently. “Something we got to see today.”

“ooh exciting”Jack sat up straighter, intrigued. “What is it?”

“So you know that mummy has a baby in her tummy right? And that you are going to be a big brother?” Clara took a breath and slid the photo from the envelope. “Well, Jason and I went to the hospital today, remember? For the scan… to check on the baby?”

“The Baby?” Jack’s eyes lit up. “You saw the baby?!”

“Yeah mate we did..” Jason smiled and handed him the black and white printout. “We did. And now you get to as well..”

Jack’s small hands took the picture carefully, as though it might disappear if he blinked too fast. He stared at the swirling shades of grey, his head tilting.He gently took the photo from Clara and held it with both hands, treating it like it was the most precious treasure in the world.

"She’s right there,” Clara said, pointing gently. “That’s her little head, and that’s her curled-up body.”

“The baby is a girl? That's so cool” Jack blinked. “She? It’s a girl?”

“Yes kid ..she's a girl..all official now” Jason nodded, his voice hushed. “ You’re going to have a baby sister.”

“She's TINY” Jack was silent for a long moment, just gazing at the photo. Then he whispered, “Wow... she looks like a jelly bean.”

“Love your way with words baby” Clara laughed through her tears. “but she kind of does, doesn’t she?..I never thought of it like that”

“This is the best day EVER” Jack’s eyes went wide. “I’m gonna be a big brother to a real baby! Not just a pretend one in Mummy’s belly?”

“Yes mate you are” Jason ruffled his hair. “A real one. And you’re going to be the best big brother there ever was.”

Jack’s arms suddenly flung around Jason, hugging him tight. Then he turned to Clara and did the same, squeezing as if he were trying to pour all his love into both of them at once.Jack clutched the ultrasound picture close to his chest, his face glowing with pride. Jason and Clara exchanged a glance, their hearts full. In that moment, their family felt perfectly whole—hopeful, strong, and wrapped in love.

“I’m gonna help her with everything,” he said fiercely. “I’ll teach her about stars and dinosaurs and how to draw cats. And if anyone’s mean to her at school, I’ll tell the teacher straight away..“I’m gonna keep this in my room. So she knows I was there right from the start.”

“Oh Jack…” Clara’s heart ached with love as she cupped her son’s face. “She’s going to be so lucky to have you.”

Jason swallowed thickly, watching the boy he loved beam with pride and excitement. “She already is, mate.”

“Can I talk to her?” he asked shyly, his voice small and hopeful.

 “Of course sweetheart..” Clara smiled and held out her hand. “let's go sit on the sofa..Mummy is getting a little tired now after a busy day”

They soon made their way to the warm comfort of the lounge. Clara was now stretched out on the sofa, one hand cradling her bump, the other smoothing Jack's hair as he sat next to her, his arm protectively draped around he tightr. Jack soon scrambled onto the sofa and nestled in that bit more closer, laying the photo of the ultrasound beside his mother on a nearby cushion like it belonged there. Jason shifted to give him space, and Jack slowly leaned down, placing his ear gently against Clara’s belly. For a long moment, there was only silence and the steady rhythm of Clara’s breathing. Then Jack whispered…

“Hi… I’m your big brother. My name’s Jack. I’m going to look after you, okay?” He paused, his hand resting gently on the side of Clara’s bump. “I’ve got loads of dinosaurs and books and even a really soft teddy bear you can borrow when you’re here properly. But you have to be careful with Rexy—he’s very old and a bit grumpy.” Clara and Jason shared a look, emotion swelling in their chests. Jack looked up at Clara, then down at her belly again. “Mummy and Jason said your name is Hope. That’s a pretty name. I think it suits you. I hope you like cuddles, because I’m really good at them” Then, in the quietest of voices, he added, “I’m really happy you’re coming. I wasn’t always this happy before Jason and Mummy got together. But now I have you, too. So... Thank you for picking us.” Jack pressed a kiss to her bump, then leaned back into Clara’s side. “I love you already, baby sister.”

Jason felt the breath catch in his throat, and Clara blinked back the tears that had welled in her eyes. Jack didn’t understand the full depth of what he’d just said, but they did. And in that moment, everything felt calm, safe, and exactly as it was meant to be.

“Oh Sweetheart that was beautiful” Clara’s hand rested gently on her son’s head. “And know that she loves you too, Jack. She’ll always know who was there for her from the very beginning..her mummy..her daddy and her amazing big brother”

Jason reached across and held them both close, his heart aching in the most beautiful way. As they all sat there, curled up together with the soft rustle of the picture still in Jack’s hands, Clara reached out and laid a hand on Jason’s knee, squeezing gently. They were a family, stitched together with love, second chances, and a bond that no photograph could ever fully capture — but this little image, this jelly-bean shaped girl, was a start.

This was Hope...Their Hope…their little girl

Chapter Text

Morning light spilled into the kitchen like a soft golden tide, wrapping everything in a glow that made even the chipped mugs and scattered toast crumbs seem magical. Clara sat at the breakfast table, curled into her chair with a mug of tea cradled in her hands. Jason was opposite, his arms folded loosely, staring at the photo of their baby girl that sat carefully on the table between them. There was a rare stillness in the air, the kind of silence that wasn’t empty — it was full. Full of memories, of laughter, of struggles, of promises. Full of everything they had survived to reach this moment. After a few moments of peace, Jason caught Clara’s eye and smiled. It was a smile that held wonder and disbelief, a boyish kind of awe that even all his years couldn’t dull. His hand reached out to her own, almost shyly, and soon afterwards he tenderly went back tracing the edge of the scan photo with a feather-light touch.

Jason hadn’t touched his toast. Instead, he sat hunched slightly over the table, his elbows now braced on either side of the ultrasound photo that lay flat between his hands. His thumb traced the grainy outline of their daughter—their little girl —as though committing it to memory. His eyes held a far-off look, almost like he was still somewhere between awe and devotion. The image was of course still pretty grainy, but somehow, to him, it was the most perfect thing he'd ever seen. Their baby. His daughter. A little girl. Hope. His eyes drifted up from the photo, and across the kitchen. Clara was now standing at the counter, barefoot and glowing in the soft morning light, her robe tied loosely around her waist. She was gently fussing over Jack, who sat swinging his legs at the breakfast bar, half-heartedly nibbling his toast while trying to sneak his toy dinosaur into the jam jar.

"Jack, sweetheart," said Clara in that soft-but-firm tone that only mothers ever truly master, “Dino doesn’t like raspberry jam. He told me he prefers marmalade.”

Jack giggled and gave her a cheeky smile, one that reminded Jason a little too much of himself when he was a youngster. His chest swelled. The corners of his lips curled into a quiet, reverent smile as he watched them — his son and the woman who’d changed everything in his life for the better. A calm was now firmly settled into his bones, a grounding peace that was still new but growing stronger every day within him. This was his family. Not just a word anymore. Not a longing. Not "maybe one day." It was here, living and breathing right in front of him. Still watching from across the table, the warmth of it moved through him like sunlight. He never thought he’d have this — not really…not ever. For so long he’d told himself he didn’t need it, constantly telling himself that love was for braver people. That being a father was for other men and definitely not for him. But then in came Clara. And Jack. And now this tiny little unborn soul growing inside the woman he adored. He quickly glanced back down at the scan and ran his thumb gently over the smooth curve of the paper. Hope Eliza Orange. The name fluttered through his mind again like the softest whisper. She had his name…She was already a part of them all.

Jason looked up once more, locking eyes with Clara just as she turned around, smiling at him across the room. For a second, the noise of toast-crunching and toy chatter fell away, and there were just the two of them. Her green eyes that he just adored — always so expressive — held something that looked a lot like peace. He raised the ultrasound gently in his hand, just enough for her to see, then placed it against his heart.

“She’s really in there,” he said in a low, rough voice, as if he still couldn’t quite believe it.

“Yep..She really is” Clara echoed, reaching across to squeeze his hand “I've got the stretch marks and swollen feet to prove it”

For a long moment, they just looked at each other, no words needed. Two lost souls who had somehow, against every odds, found their way to each other. Two broken hearts that now beat stronger because of the other. The love between them wasn’t just passion — it was quiet devotion, woven from the million ways they had stayed when it would have been easier to run.

“I still can't get over this..” Jason cleared his throat, looking back down at the photo and ran his hand through his hair. His thumb brushed over it again with his eyes locked firmly on the grainy image once more . “It’s mad, isn't it?” he murmured, half to himself. “Me... about to be a dad. Properly.”

“What do you mean?” Clara squeezed his hand tighter. “You already are one..you have been for the past two years now practically”

"You know what I'm going on about..” He let out a breath, shaky around the edges. “Still feels unreal. Like any second someone’s gonna turn up and tell me... nah, sorry mate, its all been a mistake, you’re not meant for this.”

There was no bitterness in his voice, just an old, deeply ingrained doubt. The shadow of years where he’d convinced himself he wasn’t the ‘right kind’ of man for something as pure as fatherhood.

“You are meant for this,” Clara said, her voice fierce with love. “You’re meant to be her dad, Jason. Jack’s too. And you’re brilliant at it. Age... scars... none of it changes that. If anything, it makes you even more perfect.”

Jason’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, trying not to let the emotion spill over. He wasn't used to being seen so clearly, so purely loved. Especially not in the ways that mattered most.“You make it sound so easy,” he said, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips “but is it really?”

"That’s because it is” said Clara, standing up and walking around the table. She leaned down, pressing a kiss to his silver-streaked hair, letting her lips linger there. “Loving you. Believing in you. It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

He closed his eyes for a second, breathing her in — the scent of her skin, the steadiness of her presence. And for a rare, precious moment, Jason allowed himself to believe it. To believe that maybe, just maybe, this happiness wasn’t a dream he would wake from.

Yet deep down, behind Jason’s smiles and jokes, the fear still lingered.

Fear of not being enough.

Fear of losing everything he had waited so long to find.

Fear of messing up something so precious it felt almost sacred.

Clara saw it, of course she did. She always saw the things he tried hardest to hide ...leaning back in his chair, the ultrasound photo still in his hand Jason glanced across the breakfast table at Clara. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, soft but certain.

“So…” he started, voice a little lighter now, “what do you think she’s going to look like?..who is she going to take after the most out of the two of us?”

“That's a tough one…” Clara raised her brow, spoon pausing midair as she made herself another tea. “Hmm…I reckon she will definitely inherit your smile that's for sure”

“Mine?” Jason laughed, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Really?”

“Absolutely. That ridiculous, heart-melting grin that still manages to make my knees weak even after all this time.” She gave him a knowing look. “It’s your most disarming feature.”

“Well…thanks for that..good to know” Jason let out a bashful laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I always thought it was a bit crooked to be honest”

“It’s perfectly crooked to me then” Clara said, smiling. “And she’s going to have it. Just you watch..one flash of that famous Orange smile and she will have anyone she meets wrapped firmly around her finger…i mean it worked for you right?” she teased

“Hey…” He chuckled, gazing back down at the picture. “If you’re playing that game then I hope she has your eyex“

"My eyes?” Clara blinked. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, They were the first thing I noticed about you” His tone softened. “Still are. That green... the beautiful emerald shade…Every time you looked at me it was like a forest that kept going forever. There’s so much soul in them, Clara. If she’s lucky enough to have your eyes, then the world will be lucky just to look into them.”

“Wow..” Clara blushed and looked away briefly, heart thudding at how powerful his words were. “That’s very poetic of you”

“Well…” He grinned. “You inspire poetry within me everyday Ms Mcfly”

"You really know the right things to say" She reached over, brushing his knuckles. “What about personality? Think she’ll be shy and introverted like you?”

“Well..maybe” Jason tilted his head with a smirk. “She’ll be stubborn like you though, no question..very determined ”

“What??” Clara gasped dramatically. “Stubborn? Me?.I dont know what you're talking about”

“Clara You drove three hours in your pyjamas to confess your love on my doorstep…you cant get any more determined and stubborn than that”

“I'd say more passionate than stubborn” she laughed “Because you were going to disappear into the wind like a tortured romantic recluse!”

“Exactly,” he laughed. “And you didn’t let me. Stubborn as hell. I love that about you." They laughed together, the kind of laughter rooted in shared memories and the comfort of knowing they were exactly where they were meant to be. Jason brought her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles gently, then glanced again at the scan photo. “Whoever she turns out to be like the most...” he murmured, “she’ll be ours. And that’s the best start in the world.” Clara blinked back a wave of emotion and nodded. “She’s already got everything she needs.”

Sliding her hand into his once more, she pulled it to her belly, where their daughter fluttered softly against his palm. His breath hitched, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from crying.“She’s going to know you, Jason,” Clara whispered. “She’s going to grow up knowing that the best place in the world is her daddy’s arms. Just like I do.”

Jason rested his forehead against her arm, letting her words wash over him. Letting them seep into the cracks of all the old pain, the old doubts. Maybe he didn’t have to be fearless. Maybe he just had to stay. To keep loving, fiercely and imperfectly.

And he would.

For her.

For them.

For the family he never dreamed he could have — but now couldn’t imagine living without.

With breakfast now winding down, the clatter of cutlery and clink of mugs faded into the soft hum of the kettle switching off. Clara let out a satisfied sigh, stretching slightly as she rose from her seat and scooped up the empty plates. Jack was already one step ahead of her, carefully stacking his butter-smeared plate on top of Jason’s.

“I’ll help, Mummy!” he chirped, padding over with syrup-sticky fingers and a proud grin.

Clara smiled, her heart blooming at how eager he always was to be involved. “Thank you, sweetheart. You’re my best helper.”

Together, they crouched by the dishwasher — Jack handed her each plate one by one, concentrating hard not to drop them. She guided his little hands, showing him where the mugs fit and how the cutlery tray worked. His tongue poked out slightly in determination. It was a simple moment, domestic and quiet, yet bursting with the kind of warmth Clara had once only dreamed of. Her son, her partner, her growing baby… all safe, here.

When they were finished, Jack wiped his hands dramatically on a tea towel before turning to Clara with shining eyes.

“Can we go to the park today?” he asked, breathless with excitement. “All of us?”

“The park again?” she teased. “Didn’t we just go the other day?” Clara turned to look at Jason, who stood leaning in the doorway, tea in hand, already smiling “Well, I was going to take a long bubble bath and pretend I’m not pregnant and swollen…”

“But it’s fun when we all go,” Jack insisted, bouncing slightly on his toes. “When it’s you and Jason and me and the baby — well, she’s not here yet, but she still comes in your belly, right?” Jack looked up at Clara with wide, earnest eyes. “It’s the best when we all go together. Remember when Jason pushed me so high on the swings I nearly touched the sky? You said you had a mini heart attack, Mummy!”

“I did,” Clara laughed, hand instinctively going to her chest.

"And that time when Jason brought a kite and we couldn’t stop it from crashing into the tree? But then he got it back — and then it crashed again!”

“I cant believe you still remember that” Jason gave a mock groan. “You’re never letting me live that down, are you?”

“Nope!” Jack beamed. But then his voice softened. “It’s just... When we go to the park together, I feel like everything’s good. Like... nothing bad can happen.”

The weight of his words settled between them. Clara’s breath caught slightly. Jason gently reached for her hand, giving it a tender squeeze. Jack’s innocence, his need for security — it was so simple and yet so profound. To him, the park wasn’t just about swings and slides. It was the backdrop of belonging. The place where his family was whole. It was freedom, joy, laughter... love.

“Then the park it is,” Jason said gently, his thumb brushing over Clara’s knuckles.

Jack let out a cheer and raced off to grab his coat, already babbling about which dinosaur he was going to bring along this time.

Clara turned to Jason, her voice hushed with emotion. “He’s so happy with you, you know that?”

Jason nodded, eyes still lingering on the hallway where Jack had disappeared. “And I’m happy with him. With both of you. More than I ever thought possible.”

“Then movies after?” Jack cried, dragging his coat behind him, rejoining them both, bouncing on the spot.

Jason chuckled. “You, my lad, have quite the agenda. Park, movies, and then dinner?”

“Cartoons during dinner?” Jack asked, even cheekier now.

Clara mock-gasped. “Who’s raising you?”

Jack beamed. “You are...both of you”

They all laughed as Jason leaned over and ruffled Jack’s hair. “Alright then, park it is. But I’m picking the movie.”

“You always pick the boring ones,” Jack said, wrinkling his nose “the old ones..”

“Boring?...old?.” Jason gasped with mock horror. “How dare you insult Paddington 2.”

Clara kissed Jack’s head. “You two go get ready. I’m going to shower.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Need a hand?”

 “Absolutely not. If you come in, I’m locking the door and spraying you with cold water.” She shot him a look as she passed by, a coy glint in her eyes. Leaning in, she pulled him, pressing his ear to her lips “maybe later…”

"I'll hold you to that…” He laughed. “literally”

With her laughter trailing up the stairs, Jason let Jack run off to find his wellies. Quietly, he walked to the study nook off the upstairs hallway and settled into the worn armchair. The scan photo was still in his pocket, folded carefully in its protective sleeve. He pulled it out and smoothed it on his lap, heart thudding. The black-and-white image stared back at him. A tiny outline, soft and curled, like a comma in the story of their lives. Just above the details, the printed label read: Baby Orange. He stared at it, moved beyond words for a moment. Hope, he thought. The name already lived in his chest like a song.

The house now settled into a gentle stillness once more, broken only by the sound of running water upstairs as Clara stepped into the shower. Jason lingered in the study still, the ultrasound photo still clutched softly between his fingers. The grainy, ghostly outline of their baby girl stared back at him — the smallest flicker of life, yet already so much a part of his heart that it was hard to believe she wasn’t here already. He traced a fingertip along the edge of the photo, as though touching it could somehow bring him closer to her. Sitting alone at the table, a battered old notebook in front of him, the same one he’d once used for songwriting ideas and little scribbles of lyrics that never saw the light of day. Today, though, it wasn’t music he needed to write.

It was her.

His daughter.

His little girl

His chest swelled with an emotion that sat somewhere between awe and fear. Slowly, he walked to the old writing desk by the window. He pulled open the drawer, retrieved a blank sheet of paper, and sat down, the ultrasound placed reverently beside him. For a long moment, he stared at the page, then, taking a breath, he picked up his pen. The pen trembled slightly in his hand as he poised it above the page. He sucked in a breath, shook his head with a soft chuckle. How did you even begin to put something like this into words? Finally, he lowered the tip to the page and let his heart lead the way.

"Dear Hope,"

"If you’re reading this, you’re probably old enough now to understand a few things about life. About me. About how much you mean to me even before I ever saw your face."

"I wasn’t sure if I should write this at first. Part of me still feels like I’m not the sort of man who should be giving advice about life. I got a lot wrong over the years. I ran from things. I let fear get bigger than my dreams sometimes.”Jason stopped for a second, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes. The ink blurred, but he kept going. "I used to be in a band once. Maybe you’ll have heard about it by now — or maybe not. We were called Take That. I was just a normal bloke from Manchester who somehow got lucky enough to live a dream I wasn’t sure I deserved. I had more fame and money than I knew what to do with. But sometimes when you get everything you thought you wanted... you find out it’s not the real thing your heart was searching for." He continued to still scribe, letting his heart show him the way "I spent a lot of years hiding, Hope. From the world. From people. From myself. I told myself I didn’t need love. That it was easier to be alone than to risk being hurt. I thought... I thought I'd missed my chance." He paused, tapping the pen against his lip. Jason glanced toward the bathroom, where he heard Clara was singing sweetly . His heart swelled “And then your mum came along." His eyes fell to the shelf. Resting in a silver frame stood one of their first pictures together. Pressed up close standing by one of the huge safari trucks from the zoo "She didn't see the singer. She didn’t care about any of the fame or the stories. She saw me. Just me. The broken bits, the scared bits, the parts I'd long given up hope anyone could love. She made me feel like maybe I could build a life instead of just surviving through one. And your big brother, Jack? He showed me how much love one tiny human heart could carry. How brave you can be, even when you’ve seen too much sadness. He’s a hero, Hope. I hope you’ll always know that."

"Now, there's you. You, growing inside her right now. You, with your little heart already beating steady and strong. Sometimes I lie awake at night thinking about you. Wondering if I’ll still be young enough to keep up with you. If I’ll embarrass you with my grey hair. If you’ll mind having a dad who’s a bit older than most. I still get scared, Hope. Scared that you deserve someone braver, younger, stronger. Someone better."

Jason swallowed thickly. His chest was tight with love and fear.

"But here's what I promise you. I'll love you with everything I have, every day that I'm lucky enough to be here. I'll dance like an idiot if it makes you laugh. I'll be at every school play, every broken heart, every triumph, and every quiet bedtime. I’ll always show up. No matter what. And on the days when you’re scared, when you don’t know who you are or where you’re going... just remember. You are my greatest adventure, my greatest song. You and your mum and Jack — you’re my home. I’ll never be perfect, Hope. But I’ll always be yours."

"Love you forever…Dad."

As Jason gently laid the letter down, his eyes were wet, but he wasn’t ashamed. Not anymore. He looked down at the photo again, kissed it softly, and whispered, “See you soon, little star.” Behind him, the sound of the shower ceased, and the house felt full once more.Jason sat back, staring at the letter with blurry eyes.

He had never thought of himself as someone’s "Dad" before Clara. Before Jack. And now? Now, it was the most important title he would ever carry. He carefully folded the paper, tucking it between the pages of the notebook where it would be safe until the right time. Their future wasn't perfect. It was messy, fragile, stitched together with hope and second chances.And Jason Orange, for the first time in his life, wouldn’t want it any other way. The sound of soft footsteps padding across the hallway broke Jason from his reverie. Clara, wrapped in a thick towel, her wet hair clinging in tendrils to her shoulders, stood in the doorway of the study nook. Her cheeks were flushed from the shower, her eyes soft with curiosity as she took in the sight of him, hunched gently over something in his lap, lost in thought. Without a word, she stepped closer, and before he could even look up, she draped her arms loosely around his neck from behind, the scent of her fresh skin and lavender soap enveloping him.

“You okay?” she whispered into the crown of his head, pressing a soft kiss there. Jason reached for her arm and laced his fingers with hers. “Are you alright Jason?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice carrying that low rasp it always did when he was holding back emotion. He turned slightly, his face softening at the sight of her, hair damp from the shower, cheeks still flushed from the heat “Just... thinking that's all..as always”

Clara rested her chin on his shoulder. “Looks like more than thinking. You were miles away.” She caught a glimpse of the ultrasound photo and the closed leather-bound notebook on his lap. “Are you writing again?”

“Kind of..” He nodded slowly. “It was A letter.” He turned his head slightly to look at her, offering the smallest smile. “To Hope. I Just… wanted to put some things down. For her. For one day, when she’s old enough.” 

“Wow..” She hesitated, watching him closely, before asking gently, “Can I read it?”

“Well…” Jason blinked, then gave a small shrug, a flicker of nervousness in his expression. “Only if you want to. It’s a bit raw. I wasn’t thinking about anyone else seeing it. But… yeah. If you want to.” He hesitated for a moment, chewing the inside of his cheek, then nodded. “just dont laugh at my god awful handwriting. Or the bit where I got too soppy and compared her to a spark in the dark.”

 Clara gave him a soft smile as she took the envelope, sensing how vulnerable he felt. She moved to the nearby armchair and sat carefully, unfolding the letter with quiet reverence. “Soppy’s my favourite version of you.” She kissed his temple gently, then reached for the envelope as Jason shifted in his seat to give her space.

She opened it delicately, hands trembling just a little. Jason watched her silently as her eyes moved across the page, word by word. As the silence stretched out, so did the weight of her breathing. Halfway through, her hand came up to her mouth, and he saw the tears start to spill, slow and steady, like rain slipping down a windowpane. Her shoulders began to shake, but she didn’t speak, didn’t stop. She read every word. Let every emotion pour into her heart. When she finally finished, she looked up at him. Her eyes were brimming with love and heartbreak and joy all at once.She reached the final line — love you forever. Your dad, Jason — and the tears came. She didn’t sob. It was quieter than that. But her whole body shifted with emotion as tears slipped down her cheeks, falling onto the open page.

“Clara…” Jason reached up instinctively, gently brushing her face with his fingertips. “was it too much?”

“No. It’s… it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read.” She reached for his face, cupping it, her thumb brushing over the stubble on his cheek. “You talk about being scared you’ll let her down, but you don’t see what I see, what Jack sees, what she will see one day. You’re the strongest, kindest man I’ve ever known.” Clara shook her head, lowering the notebook to her chest, holding it to her heart like something sacred. “Jason… It was perfect. So full of love. So you.” Her voice cracked slightly. “She’s going to treasure this one day. She’ll know what kind of father you are long before she even remembers your voice. She’ll feel it. Just like I do.”

Jason swallowed hard, resting his forehead against her bump. “I just want her to know how loved she is. From the start. I want her to have what I didn’t always feel like I had.”He turned toward her, standing now, still cradling one of her hands. “I never used to be good at saying things out loud. Not the important things, anyway. But writing always helped me figure out the noise. I just want her to know me, Clara. Not the guy from pictures or stories or music... me.”

“She will,” Clara whispered. “Because she has you in her life. And me. And Jack. And this… this little letter — she’s going to treasure it one day. Just like I do now.”Clara cupped his cheek in her damp palm. “She already does. Because of this,” she took his hand and placed it between them, pressing it softly against her bump. “Because of us.”

As if sensing the moment, Hope gave a firm kick beneath Clara’s skin, and Jason laughed softly, placing a kiss to where he’d felt it. Beneath his hand, there was a definite flutter — a firm little kick. Jason’s eyes widened.

“Was that—?”

“She agrees,” Clara smiled through her tears “That was our little girl and I think she liked her letter.”

Jason let out a shaky laugh, overwhelmed, and rested his forehead against hers. “She’s already smarter than me.”

“You’re the best man I’ve ever known,” Clara whispered.

He closed the gap between them, pressing his lips to hers with gentle urgency. Their kiss was slow and reverent — the kind of kiss that needed no explanation, no prelude. The kind that simply said: I see you. I love you. I’m here. They stayed like that for a long moment — two souls wrapped in stillness, love, and the quiet magic of a new life waiting just beneath Clara’s skin. As they pulled apart, Jason pressed another soft kiss to her damp shoulder 

“I can’t wait to meet her.” his hand was still gently resting on Clara’s bump, his eyes on hers, when another solid little thud pushed up beneath his palm. Hope kicked again — not once, but twice — with a strength that made Clara gasp and laugh through her remaining tears. Jason’s eyes widened, and then his face lit up, awe and wonder softening every line. “There she goes again,” he murmured, eyes dropping to Clara’s belly. “It’s like she knew were talking about her. Like she was listening.”

Clara placed her hand over his. “Of course she was. She hears everything. She feels everything.” Her eyes shimmered as she added, “And she feels how much you love her already, Jason.”

He kissed her bump reverently, whispering, “We’ve got you, little one. I promise.”

There was a beat of silence — full and tender — before Clara reached up and kissed Jason gently. It was unhurried and grateful, lips lingering with love. Then she pulled back, brushing his fringe away from his forehead with a fond smile.

“I’m going to get dressed,” she whispered. “Give me five.”

Jason nodded and let her go, watching her disappear into the bedroom. As she closed the door gently behind her, she let out a soft sigh, holding the letter still pressed to her chest.

In the quiet of their bedroom, Clara dressed slowly. The sunlight filtered in across the bedding and cast a soft glow around her as she sat down on the edge of the bed. The letter rested on her lap, unfolded again, as if she couldn’t help but read parts of it once more. Her fingers traced Jason’s handwriting, each curve of the pen somehow carrying all the weight of the man who had written it.

Tears threatened again, but this time they were steadier, quieter.

She was overwhelmed — not by fear, not by uncertainty — but by a sense of deep pride.

Pride in him.

In how far he had come.

In how bravely he had written about his fears, his transformation, his love for her and the family they were building together. He was the man who’d once been unsure he deserved love at all… and now he was pouring it into their unborn daughter like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her hand instinctively cradled her bump.

“That’s your daddy, sweetheart,” she whispered aloud. “And we’re both the luckiest girls in the world.”

It still hit her sometimes, like a warm wave crashing over the heart — this was her life. This was her family. After everything. After him. After the fear and the ache and the loneliness. She had this. Clara at last now smiled softly through her tears, lifted her chin, and stood to rejoin the day ahead — 

stronger, more grounded, and more in love than ever.

Chapter Text

Luckily the park wasn't too far from their home and had become a firm family favourite, mainly due to its vast nature area and lake full of ducks and swans close by. The sunny day brought rays with the strength to shine through curtains as easily as forest leaves. The cloudless sky above their heads blossomed blue as if it were the petals to gaily dancing hearts of cloud.  The afternoon sun warmed the park with a soft, golden light, and Clara couldn’t stop smiling as she watched Jack race ahead of them, his little arms outstretched like airplane wings.  Jason ambled beside her, one hand loosely holding the paper bag of duck feed, the other firmly interlocked with hers. Every so often, his thumb would brush against her knuckles — a simple, loving reminder that he was there, always. Clara glanced down at her bump, feeling the subtle shifting inside. Hope was wriggling more these days, growing stronger with every heartbeat. Those times you create a good atmosphere for your family - one of peace, tranquility and love - you become the stability they need to thrive. When you can hold on in the bad times and be the good captain of the family ship, calm and empathic, then the love for your family will speak in your actions and create good ripples for generations to come. 

Clara sat on a nearby bench, sitting quietly and gently brushing her hand over her swollen stomach as Hope began to kick, almost in acknowledgement. Her eyes were fixed on the scene before her. Jack’s bright laughter echoing by the pond as Jason clutched his tiny hand protectively within his own. The two had just run through a flock of birds close by who were trying to get at the stale bread Jack held tight that caused the little boy to burst out laughing as one flew just that bit too close to his face. Jason’s arms reached out with playful exaggeration, and Jack darted away with delighted shrieks, his face alight with joy. It was chaos in the most beautiful, ordinary way. And it filled Clara’s heart with something she had spent too many years believing she’d never truly have—peace. Belonging. Love without conditions.

This was her family. Not the one she had come from, not the one fractured by silence and control, but the one she had built—fragile at first, but now standing strong on laughter, trust, and the quiet tenderness that only grows from shared pain and hard-won healing. She remembered the isolation of those early days with Jack, when the weight of responsibility had felt like it might crush her. The nights she cried alone, afraid she was failing, afraid she was invisible. And now… here they were. Jason had stepped into their lives and somehow made all the sharp edges softer. Not perfect. Not without scars. But safe. Whole. She watched on as Jason had scooped Jack up and spun him around, both of them breathless with giggles. That one image hit her with such intensity she felt the ache in her chest. It was more than love. It was a sanctuary. This—her two boys, their beautiful new perfect home, the baby girl growing inside her—was everything. Her heart was no longer a house with locked rooms. It had opened itself wide, letting light pour in, letting hope grow where once there had only been survival. She blinked back tears and smiled still at the happy scene. No matter what lay ahead, Clara knew one thing with unwavering certainty: this was her family, and nothing mattered more. They were hers. And she was theirs.

Forever

"You okay?" Jason asked as he seemingly sensed Clara’s gaze from the bench, his voice tender, his eyes darting quickly to her belly with an automatic protectiveness that melted her heart.

"I’m perfect," she said, squeezing his hand. Slowly he pulled her up to her feet and together they reached the pond’s edge where Jack by now had found even more bread and was already tossing handfuls of seeds into the water. A gaggle of ducks glided over instantly, quacking hungrily “not too close to the water baby…”

The water sparkled in the light, and somewhere behind them, someone strummed an old guitar, faint and imperfect, but still beautiful. It was the kind of day that made the world feel still. Jason crouched down beside Jack, showing him how to hold out the food flat in his palm. Clara stood back a few steps, letting her boys have their moment. She smiled at the way Jack leaned into Jason instinctively, trusting him completely, as they fed the ducks together.

“I think that one likes him,” Clara smiled, nodding toward a particularly persistent duck that had begun to follow Jack up and down the edge of the pond “Think you've made a friend now Jack..”

“He’s got your charm,” Jason said, grinning. “Even the wildlife is drawn in.”

“You’re just jealous that the duck prefers him.” Clara rolled her eyes playfully, nudging him with her elbow “Can mummy have a go Jack?”

Almost instantly, Jack handed her some bread and together they fed the ducks. Jack soon beaming with pride as a huge beautiful swan soon joined them. Excitement took over the little boy within seconds as he furiously tugged on Clara’s sleeve. Watching the pair of them, a wave of emotion hit Jason like a tidal surge. Once again he remembered this scene. Not here of course or with them. But back in London, all those years ago. The memory pressed vividly into his mind.The day he quit Take That for good. He had wandered aimlessly through the city, trying to make peace with the chaos in his soul. At one point, he found himself standing in St James Park, by a pond very much like this one. He had seen a woman, heavily pregnant, sitting on a bench. Her partner sat beside her, one arm thrown protectively around her shoulders as their young daughter fed the ducks in her polka dot wellies. Jason had stood there for a long moment, unnoticed, clutching the railing, watching them.

Back then, he didn’t know if he'd ever have that.  He thought maybe he didn’t deserve it. Maybe it wasn’t in the cards for someone like him. And yet… here he was now.The air crisp and sweet with possibility, the woman he loved standing only a few feet away, their little boy throwing bread with delighted giggles, and a new life kicking gently within her. It wasn’t a dream anymore. It was real.

Jason chuckled, then let his eyes drift from the water to Jack, who was now crouched at the bank, talking softly to the birds as if they could understand him. Watching him, Jason felt that familiar ache—overwhelming love, pride, and disbelief all tangled together. This was his family. This was his life now. Slowly he edged back to the bench before reaching for Clara’s free hand and gently pulled her over beside him as she rest her head on his arm

"Come here, Mumma," he murmured playfully, kissing her temple. She laughed, cradling her bump protectively. Jason soon slipped his hand tenderly onto her belly, grinning as he felt the faintest flutter in response."

"You thinking again?” Clara seemed to sense the emotion in him and turned to kiss his cheek “She definitely recognises your voice..she honestly kicks everytime you speak…say something and let's see if I'm right”

“Well, these dulcet tones always did have an effect on the ladies..did with you… but let's give it a go” he laughed as Clara playfully hit him on the arm “Hey, Little One," Jason whispered, his voice so soft it blended with the breeze. "It’s me. Daddy." Clara swallowed hard, her heart catching at the sight of him. So open, so loving. "You know," Jason continued, speaking softly to Hope, his thumb brushing in circles over Clara’s bump, "I used to dream about this. About you. About feeding the ducks and laughing and having someone to love me like your mummy does." Hearing him speak so soft, Jack edged closer, sitting cross-legged beside Jason on the bench, his wide eyes listening intently. "I didn’t think it’d ever happen, to be honest," Jason said, his voice thick with unshed emotion. "But you proved me wrong, didn't you, Little Hope? You and your mummy and Jack... you’re everything I ever wanted” Clara brushed a tear away quickly, pretending it was the sunlight making her eyes water. She caught Jack sneaking a look at her, his little face glowing with pride and understanding far beyond his years. Jason smiled, leaning closer to her bump. "You just stay in there a little longer, sweetheart. Grow big and strong. Your brother's already got a million adventures planned for you, and your mum..." He glanced up at Clara, his voice faltering a little at the love he saw shining in her eyes. "Your mum is going to show you what real love looks like every single day." Hope kicked again, and Jason’s whole face lit up like a sunrise. "See that?" he laughed, wide-eyed. "She heard me…my girl heard me”

"She knows you're her daddy already Jason" Clara whispered, running her fingers through the long wavy locks of his now grey hair. "She knows she's loved..she knows you're going to be the most important person in her life forever..”

Jason leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to Clara’s bump. Then another. Then another. Jack giggled, copying him by giving a gentle kiss to Clara's side too. The three of them stayed there, sitting by the pond, surrounded by the sunlight and the quiet miracle of the life they were building — together. For Jason, it was more than just feeding ducks or laughing in a park. It was a full-circle moment.The broken boy who had once stood alone behind that railing in London had finally found his home, right here, wrapped up in love, laughter, and the warm glow of a family he never thought he'd have.

It was no longer just a dream…It was a life….And it was only just beginning.

Later that afternoon, after their long walk and lazy moments at the duck pond, the little family returned home. The low hum of life outside faded as the front door closed behind them, leaving only the soft warmth of their world.The soft click of the key turning in the front door echoed quietly as Clara pushed it open, and the familiar scent of their new home welcomed them like a warm hug. Afternoon light spilled in through the hallway window, casting golden shadows across the floorboards. It was still a relatively new house—fresh paint on the walls, a faint scent of pine from the recently assembled furniture—but already, it felt lived in. Safe. The kind of place where memories would be made and laughter would echo through its rooms for years to come.

Jason and Clara's home wasn’t grand, but it was chosen with care—and with heart. Tucked away on a quiet, tree-lined street just outside the bustle of town, the house seemed to exhale peace. The moment they first stepped inside during a viewing, something shifted between them. Jason remembered glancing at Clara as she wandered into the sunlit kitchen, running her fingers along the worn farmhouse table left by the previous owner, and knew—this was it. It was the kind of place that held stories in its walls. A modest Victorian semi with ivy trailing gently across the brickwork, it had charm without being showy. A small front garden with a gate that creaked, a bay window perfect for a Christmas tree, and a back garden that Clara immediately envisioned filled with laughter, picnic blankets, and small muddy boots. What sealed it for Jason was the light. The house was flooded with it—golden, natural light that streamed through wide windows in every room. The lounge had a fireplace with a carved wooden mantel, and he could already imagine Clara curled up on the couch there with Jack in one arm and their baby in the other. Upstairs, the bedrooms were just enough—one for them, one already transformed into a nursery, and another for Jack, decorated with blue stars and maps of imagined adventures. The attic space above? Back in the day Jason may have secretly thought it might one day become a studio but today it was a quiet reading space for them both to unwind. He didn’t need many rooms. Just the right ones. But more than the features, it was how the house made them feel. Safe. Settled. Like they were finally writing their own story on clean, sturdy pages. After everything they’d endured—the anxiety, the fear of loss—it became their have

Everytime he walked into their home, Jason still couldn’t help but remember that first moment when they first came across their now beautiful home..

They were halfway through their third viewing of the day when they stepped into this house.

Clara had wandered toward the kitchen while Jason lingered in the front room, trailing his fingers absentmindedly along the windowsill. It was quiet—just the sound of a bird outside and the faint creak of old floorboards. And then he heard her soft voice from down the hallway.

“Jason… come here for a second.”

He followed the sound and found her standing by the back window, both hands resting lightly on her bump, eyes fixed on the small garden.

“What do you think?” she asked, her voice gentle, cautious—hopeful.

Jason didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he stepped behind her, slid his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. They stood like that for a while, watching the breeze dance through the trees, sunlight casting slow-moving shadows on the lawn.

“it's Perfect” Then he whispered into her hair, “This feels like the kind of place I could finally exhale at” Clara turned in his arms to face him, her brow furrowed in question. “I mean it,” he said, brushing her curls from her face. “I’ve lived in big houses, expensive houses, quiet flats… but none of them ever felt like I could just be. Not until now. Not until this. You, me, Jack… the baby… this house feels like it was waiting for us.” She blinked, a tear slipping from the corner of her eye. He caught it with his thumb. “I want to grow old with you here,” he continued softly. “Watch Jack climb those trees. Help the baby take their first steps across that garden. This house—you—you’re what home feels like to me now.”

And with that, Clara didn’t need to say a word. She just nodded and pulled him in close, knowing they’d both found more than a house—they’d found their beginning.

They didn’t pick the house because it was flawless. They picked it because it felt like home.

Jason by now had stepped inside behind her, holding Jack’s hand as he helped the boy wiggle out of his slightly muddy shoes. Clara turned to look at them—Jason crouched in his dark jeans and soft wool jumper, patiently unzipping Jack’s coat, chatting with him in low tones. A domestic scene, maybe to others. But to her, it was everything. Their home wasn’t huge, but it was theirs—filled with books, blankets, the scent of lemon and lavender oil from Clara’s diffuser, and scattered baby items waiting to find their final place. It had a little garden out back where Jack had already claimed his “explorer zone,” and the nursery next to their bedroom was almost finished, the soft blush walls waiting for the baby they’d soon hold. Clara dropped the house keys into the bowl by the door and turned to find Jason already kicking off his shoes, Jason helped him hang up his coat, but before he could even straighten up, Jack grabbed his hand.

"Come on, Jason! Movie time! You promised!" Jack grinned, his face flushed from the cool spring air and excitement of the afternoon.

“Alright, alright,” Jason laughed, feigning dramatic exhaustion. “You drive a hard bargain, kid.”

Jason chuckled, allowing himself to be pulled into the living room. Clara followed more slowly, a hand resting against the weight of her growing bump. Glancing on she stood at the edge of the lounge, watching them both melt into the cushions with popcorn and a blanket. Jason’s long arm pulled Jack into his side, the boy’s head resting against his shoulder. Clara sat nearby, legs curled beneath her, her heart full. She laughed softly, easing down beside them. Jason immediately looped his arm around her too, drawing her in until her bump was pressed gently to his side. Jack, already half asleep from the warmth and safety, buried his head against Jason’s chest.

As the opening credits rolled, Jason turned to her with a soft smile. His eyes, though tired, held something strong—something grounding. For a long moment, none of them spoke. The only sound was the low, comforting hum of the TV in the background and the rhythmic beating of Jason's heart against Jack’s ear.Jason leaned his head back against the sofa, closing his eyes, breathing them all in. The feeling of Clara tucked into his side, her hand slipping into his, the bump moving slightly as Hope wriggled inside her. Jack snuggled safe and tight against him, breathing slow and deep. His family. His whole world opening his eyes, Jason glanced sideways at Clara, his gaze impossibly soft. Jason sank into the worn fabric of the sofa, letting out a quiet breath as his body settled into the soft cushions beneath him. The comforting weight of Clara curled into his side grounded him instantly — the subtle press of her hip against his, her hand slipping easily into his, warm and familiar. Her head rested beneath his chin, the silky strands of her hair carrying the faint scent of lavender shampoo, still clinging to her from her earlier shower. Jack, tucked into the crook of Jason’s other arm, was already beginning to drift off — his soft, rhythmic breaths creating a whisper of warmth against Jason’s chest. A faint popcorn scent lingered in the air, blending with the homely trace of laundry soap and fresh air still clinging to their coats. The baby shifted within Clara’s bump, a gentle flutter Jason felt beneath his palm like the quietest knock

Outside, the rain had begun — soft and persistent, a hush of drops tapping against the windows. The world was muted. Just the low hum of the TV in the background and the soothing, steady beat of Jason’s own heart echoing in the stillness. His eyes drifted toward Clara, her lashes resting softly against flushed cheeks, her breathing slow, the hand on her belly protective and absentminded all at once. Her presence alone was enough to calm the restlessness in his chest. He lowered his voice, husky and low

"I know I say it a lot,” he whispered, reaching for her hand, “but I swear it—Clara, I will protect you. Always. You, Jack, the baby. All of it. I don’t care what comes next.”

“I know you will,” Her head tilted gently, brushing against his collarbone. Her lips curved into the faintest smile, and her fingers gave his hand the lightest squeeze. she whispered.Tears filled her eyes—not from fear, not from hormones—but from pure, overwhelming love “I’ve never doubted it.”

“I’ve got you.”Jason shifted slightly, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. Her hair was warm from the heat of their home, and it smelled like the vanilla and citrus oil she used to calm her nausea. That scent had become a kind of tether for him — a reminder that she was real, that they were real. he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion, "I never knew I could feel this... complete."

"I didn’t either,"Clara turned just enough to kiss the inside of his wrist. Her lips were soft, slightly cool, and it sent a shiver all the way to his chest. She looked up at him, her heart clenching as Jason kissed the top of her head, his hand smoothing down her hair with tender care.

"You're everything to me now..," he said, pressing another kiss into her curls. "And I swear to you, Clara — I'll protect you all with everything I have. Always."

Clara blinked back sudden tears

"I know you will,"  she whispered, resting her head against his shoulder, feeling the steady, calming beat of his heart. Clara blinked back sudden tears.

Jason’s arm tightened slightly around her, a subconscious protective gesture. His body was practically shielding both Clara and Jack — as if by sheer will he could keep every harm and sorrow at bay.

"I mean it," Jason said again, his voice rougher now. "I’ll fight anything, anyone, for you. Nobody gets to touch what we have. No press... no courts... no past. None of it.”His words, so fierce and full of love, settled deep into Clara’s soul.

"You already protect us every day," Clara said softly, tracing slow, calming circles against the inside of his wrist with her fingertip. "Just by being you..by being here with me..with us"

Jason smiled down at her, his entire being soaking in the moment. Jack stirred slightly in his arms, nuzzling closer. "Looks like we've officially worn him out," Jason chuckled quietly "too much fun"

"He feels safe," Clara said simply "just like I do around you"

“Sweet dreams kid” Jason pressed his lips to Jack’s hair, then shifted slightly so he could rest one hand gently across Clara’s bump."And you, Little Hope..." he murmured. "You're already so loved. You'll never have to wonder if you're wanted. Never." Clara blinked hard to clear her vision, her emotions bubbling so close to the surface. Jason caught her hand and placed it over his heart. "This is yours," he whispered. "All of it."

For a while longer, they simply sat there — no rushing, no worrying, no outside world.

Just the steady sound of Jason’s heartbeat, the warm cocoon of his arms around his family, and the soft, precious movements of new life growing inside Clara.

Safe. Loved. Home

 Jack eventuallyfull drifted off part way through the film, his little body going limp with sleep,  soJason gently scooped him into his arms and carried him slowly upstairs. Clara followed quietly, watching from the doorway as Jason laid the little boy in bed, brushing a curl from the boy’s forehead and pulled the blanket over his shoulder. He stayed there a moment longer, just watching Jack breathe, his heart heavy with love.

Silently, he slipped his hand into hers and together they padded softly back to the front room to the sofa, leaving the TV humming quietly in the background. Back downstairs, Clara soon patted the space beside her on the sofa and Jason sank into it with a soft sigh, her head finding the crook of his shoulder. They sat there in the quiet, hands intertwined, the baby softly kicking between them. For a moment, they just sat— close, touching, breathing the same quiet air.

“Do you ever wonder what it’s going to be like?” Clara murmured. “When she’s here?”

“All the time,” Jason said, his voice low. “It scares the hell out of me, actually. I think about the night feeds and the nappies and the teething, but also… her first steps. Her first words. Her first heartbreak. It’s overwhelming. And then there’s this part of me… that worries I’m too old for this. That by the time she’s twenty, I’ll be—” Jason chuckled too, reaching up to gently tuck a stray curl behind her ear. "Too old…” he prompted, his blue eyes crinkling with affection.Jason let out a slow breath and offered a faint smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes “hell, I might not even be here by then…”

 “Enough…Don't talk like that..” Clara turned toward him, placing a finger gently on his lips. “Stop. Age means nothing. Not when it comes to love. Not when it comes to being a good father and you're going to be the best one our little girl could ever ask for.”

“Clara..there's no beating about the bush here…I'm going to be nearly 60 when this one turns five and is at school ”

“just stop “ Clara shifted, sitting up slightly so she could better see his face. “Jason…”

"I can't help it…those thoughts will always be there in this messed up head of mine” He looked away, jaw tight. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ve waited too long. If I’m selfish for wanting this now. There’s so much I won’t be able to do later. Football in the park when she’s ten. Long bike rides. Carrying her on my shoulders without my back cracking like old furniture.” He chuckled, but it was hollow. “What if she’s embarrassed of me? What if she thinks I’m more like her granddad than her dad?”

Clara reached out and gently cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at her.

“Listen to me..She’s going to think you're magic,” she whispered. “Because you’ll show her what it means to be steady. To be kind. She’ll never have to guess if she’s loved, because you’ll show her in everything you do. You already do.” Jason blinked rapidly, emotion flickering behind his eyes. “Of course, You’re not the same man you were in your twenties. Definitely not the same man you were when you were in the band that's for sure…you've changed” Clara added softly. “You’re better. Wiser. More grounded. You’ve lived. You know what matters now.”

“She deserves a dad who can be there for everything,” he said, voice tight.”Can I honestly give that to her?”

“You will and She will have that,” Clara replied. “Because being there isn’t just about physical strength. It’s about presence Jason. Love. Safety. She’s going to grow up knowing her dad is her hero—because he chose to show up, not just once, but every day.”

Jason reached down and pressed a lingering kiss to her bump, his hand stroking across her skin like a vow.

“I just don’t want to miss a thing that's all.”

“You won’t,” Clara said, her voice steady. “Because you’re already giving her more than most children ever have. A father who’s all in.”

They sat in silence then, cradled in the glow of dusk and the hum of quiet love. The house had quieted into the kind of hush that only arrived once the day had surrendered to night. The television played a soft hum in the background, some old film neither of them were really watching. Rain had started to patter gently against the windows, its rhythm calming, steady—almost like a heartbeat. Clara still lay nestled against him, her head tucked beneath his chin, his arms cradling her like she was something sacred. The way they held each other wasn’t out of routine or convenience—it was out of need. Out of a love that had been tested and proven in the fires of loss, fear, hope, and healing.

Jason rested his hand over her bump, his thumb gently moving in small circles. “Do you feel it?” he whispered, voice nearly lost in her hair "how special this is between us?"

“I do..always” Clara breathed. “Not just in her. Everything. You. Us. This life we’re building…”

Jason pulled back just enough to look into her face. Her eyes were glossy, but full of light. “I don’t know how I got so lucky meeting you,” he said. “You’ve seen every one of my scars, and you’ve still stayed.”

Clara smiled faintly, tears welling now. “You never asked me to fix you. You just let me in. That’s all I ever needed.”

He kissed her forehead, then her temple. “There are days I still wonder if this is real.”

“It is,” she said. “And it’s ours.”

Jason’s voice cracked, raw with emotion. “I was so lost, Clara. For years. I thought love was something that happened to other people. People who hadn’t messed it all up already.”

“You didn’t mess it up,” she whispered, holding his face in both hands. “You were waiting. For me. Just like I was waiting for you.”

Their foreheads pressed together, breaths syncing in the quiet. Then, without words, they kissed.It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate.It was everything.

A kiss that said: I see you. I choose you. I love you—still and always. As the rain danced down the windows, they stayed in their embrace, a single light glowing beside them. A family, a future, a forever

"I was thinking..." Jason began, running his fingers absentmindedly along the curve of her wrist. "Maybe after Hope's born, we take some real time. Just for us. Slow everything down. No pressure, no crazy expectations. Just... be a family."

“Wow..” Clara blinked up at him, heart swelling. "You mean that?"

"Course I do," Jason said firmly. "So No big projects. I know there's already a lot speculation if i'll be part of that new netflix documentary on the band..I wont do it, no matter how much they offer me....no more random paparazzi pictures of me out and about... I’ll even turn my phone off if you want." He grinned crookedly. "We'll be like proper hermits..I mean i managed it fine for a decade right? I'm a dab hand now at staying off the grid"

“You'd do that?” Clara laughed, wiping a tear from her eye with the heel of her hand. "You'd do that for me….”Jason rested his forehead against hers, voice dropping even softer “oh wow…I Don't know what to say..”

"I missed out on so much before. Let everything else come first. Work, the band, trying to keep everyone happy but myself. I don't want to do that anymore. I don't want to miss one single thing with you or our children"

Clara tilted her head to kiss him gently, pouring all her love into the soft brush of lips

"You won’t miss anything" Clara tilted her head to kiss him gently, pouring all her love into the soft brush of lips. she whispered against his mouth. "You're already everything they need.."

Jason swallowed thickly, emotion catching him off guard.

"I need you," he said hoarsely. "God, Clara... I need you so much."

"I’m not going anywhere," she smiled. "You, me, Jack, Hope... that's my life now. And it’s the best life I could have ever dreamed of.”

As they both got to their feet. Their eyes met again—soft, searching, filled with the weight of everything they’d endured and everything they still hoped for. Jason cupped Clara’s face like it was the most delicate thing he’d ever touched, his thumb brushing away a tear that had dared to fall. 

“You know,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with emotion, “I used to think love was just a fleeting thing. A moment, not a lifetime. But then I found you.”

Clara’s lips parted, but no words came. She didn’t need to speak. The look in her eyes told him everything—her trust, her gratitude, her unwavering love. A love that had never asked him to be more than he was, only ever invited him to be his truest self. He leaned in slowly, reverently. Their lips met—warm, slow, and unhurried. This wasn’t a kiss of passion or need. This was a kiss of recognition. Of home. It held a thousand unsaid things. Thank you for staying. I’m here. I’m yours. We’re safe now. Clara’s hand slid up to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair as she pulled him closer, deepening the kiss with a soft sigh. His arms wrapped around her tighter, as if holding her was the only way to make sure the rest of the world stayed away. Their kiss lingered, breath mingling, hearts beating in tandem, the air around them thick with emotion. When they finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, neither of them opened their eyes right away. 

“I’ll never stop kissing you like that,” Jason whispered against her lips. “Even when we’re old and grey, well even more grey in my case obviously…I’ll still want to kiss you like you’re the miracle you are.”

“Well Mister Jason…” Clara let out a trembling breath, her fingers brushing his cheek. “Then don’t ever stop.”

Clara fingers slipped into Jason’s with a tenderness that made his heart clench. She didn’t say a word—didn’t need to. The warmth of her touch, the softness in her eyes, the way she looked at him as if he were the only constant in her chaotic world—it all spoke louder than words ever could. She gave his hand a gentle tug. He followed…Up the stairs. Past the framed photos of moments that once felt impossible—of Jack’s laughter, of ultrasound prints, of smiles captured when they weren’t even trying. Jason watched the sway of her silhouette ahead of him, felt the weight of her love wrapped around his chest like a promise. When they reached their room, Clara paused. She turned to face him, their hands still joined between them. Her gaze searched for him like she was memorising his soul all over again.

“Just… be here with me,” she whispered. Jason's gaze lingered on her as he closed their bedroom door behind them with a quiet click. The room smelled of her — lavender, citrus, warm skin and faint traces of the vanilla lotion she always applied before bed.

Jason brushed a strand of hair from her face and nodded. “Always.”

Their lips met again—but this time, it was deeper. Slower. The kiss unfolded like a confession—each breath, each press of lips a layer peeled back, a scar healed, a vow renewed. His hand found the small of her back and drew her into him, their bodies fitting together like they always had—perfect, natural, made to find each other in a world full of missteps. Clara’s hands cupped his face, her thumbs grazing the faint lines near his eyes. He kissed her again, firmer now, pouring every ounce of devotion he felt into her as they fell backwards onto the bed—into the kiss that trembled on the edge of everything unsaid. When she turned to him, the soft fabric of her shirt shifting against her skin, his heart clenched. Not from desire — not entirely — but from the overwhelming tenderness of seeing the woman he loved laying there, vulnerable and glowing, with their child growing beneath her ribs.

You saved me.

You made me whole.

You gave me a reason to believe again.

She kissed him first — lips soft, searching. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate. It was deep and certain, like a tide coming in. His hands slid around her back, fingertips pressing into damp skin as he held her to him. Her body curved into his like a returning echo. A small sigh escaped her as he lowered them gently onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath their shared weight. Jason’s touch was reverent, brushing over the slope of her spine, the silk of her thigh, the soft roundness of her belly. Hope stirred beneath his palm, and he paused — a beat of awe pulsing through him.When they finally broke apart, breathless and still tangled in each other, Jason rested his forehead against hers, his voice barely more than a whisper. 

“How did I get so lucky?” They lay side by side, breath slowing, hands still tangled. The warmth of the sheets cocooned them, their skin still tingling from the brush of mouths and hearts. Jason’s thumb traced her cheekbone slowly, memorising the feel of her. “Clara…” he breathed, voice low and husky. “You’re everything I never thought I could have.”

Clara smiled softly, her nose brushing his. “You kept your heart open. Even after everything. And somehow, it found mine.” She kissed his chest once, right over his heart. “And you’re everything I didn’t know I was waiting for.”

The quiet of the room wrapped around them like a lullaby as they eased back onto the bed—still kissing, still holding, still discovering the kind of closeness that didn’t just warm the skin but reached right down to the soul. Jason’s arms tightened around Clara as they lay together in the hush of their bedroom, the soft golden light from the bedside lamp casting a gentle glow over the both of them. Her head rested against his chest, her fingers drawing lazy circles over the thin cotton of his t-shirt. His heartbeat, steady and strong, echoed beneath her palm—like a quiet lullaby she never wanted to stop hearing.Their foreheads rested together once more, Hope fluttering between them. Outside, the rain whispered its steady song against the windows, and in the quiet of their room, their world was made whole again — held in breath, touch, and love

"You’re thinking again..," she whispered sleepily, smiling at the familiar scent of him—something safe, grounding, like home. She tilted her head to look at him, her eyes shimmering with something deeper than just affection “I can tell…I can feel it”

“Clara…”Jason looked down at her, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “You always make me feel like I belong somewhere” he murmured, his voice soft with emotion. “Even when I didn’t think I deserved it.”

Clara pressed a kiss to his chest. “You belong with us. With me. With Jack… and her.” She guided his hand to her bump again, their fingers intertwined over the growing curve of new life.

He gazed at her as if the weight of the whole world rested in her eyes. His thumb stroked the back of her hand. “You’ve made me brave in ways I never imagined,” he said. “And this little one… she’s already got me wrapped around her tiny finger.”

This time Jason kissed her like he was trying to memorise her. Not just the shape of her lips, but the way she sighed against him, the way her fingers curled at his shirt. The world outside their home could press and pull in a hundred directions, but right here—in this moment—nothing mattered more than the way she felt in his arms. Clara melted into him, her palms pressed flat to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. The slow weight of his hands slid from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her gently against him. He kissed her temple next, then her cheek, each one softer than the last, until she smiled against his shoulder.

“You still take my breath away,” he whispered, forehead resting against hers “Still sexy as hell to me”

“Wow…” She looked up at him, eyes glowing with affection and a thousand shared memories. “You don’t need to say that just because I’m carrying your daughter.”

“I’m saying it,” Jason replied, voice husky, “because it’s the truth. That bump just makes you more beautiful to me, not less.”

“Charmer…” Clara blinked rapidly, emotion swelling in her chest. “You really mean that?”

He nodded, cupping her face in both hands. “Clara... every day, I wake up and wonder how I ever got lucky enough to find you. You’re everything. And this—” he looked down at her bump with a mix of awe and pride, “—this is more than I ever dared hope for.”

Clara’s lips trembled with the start of a smile, even as tears welled in her eyes. “I love you, Jason.”

“I love you too,” he murmured, brushing her tears away with the back of his fingers. “More than anything. I don’t care how old I am, or what people think. You and our kids are my purpose now. My reason for everything.”

Without another word, he leaned down and kissed her again, this time slower—more deliberate—like a promise. The world outside was loud and relentless, but in this room, there was only softness. Warmth. Devotion. Clara responded in kind, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him close, letting the heat of their love chase away every fear and doubt.

Later, as they lay wrapped in the quiet of each other’s arms beneath the soft covers, Jason’s fingers traced gentle lines over the swell of her stomach.

“Hope,” he said softly. “That’s what she is. That’s what you gave me. What you both gave me.”

Clara smiled, eyes closed, and nestled even closer. “And you gave me a reason to believe again.”

They stayed that way—still, safe, and surrounded by love. The road ahead might be long and uncertain, but they would walk it together. As a family.

Always.

Chapter Text

Jason lay on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other stretched out toward Clara—his fingers barely brushing the hem of her sleep shirt, like even now, he couldn't quite believe she was real. Morning light spilled softly through the curtains, golden and gentle, painting her face in quiet reverence. She looked serene in sleep, curled protectively around the swell of their unborn child, one hand resting lightly atop her bump as though already shielding the life within. Her breath came slow and steady, each rise and fall of her chest a silent lullaby.

He watched her as if he were memorizing a prayer—how the light kissed the hollow of her cheek, how her lips parted slightly with each breath. His hands ached to reach for her, to trace the tender arc of her jaw, to place a kiss against her temple and whisper all the things his heart could never quite put into words. But he didn’t move. He just lay there, awe settling over him like sacred stillness, like he was witnessing something he had no right to touch. Every breath she took felt like a miracle. Every sigh, a reminder that somehow, against all odds, she had chosen him. And he loved her—God, how he loved her. Not just for the way she held him when his darkness threatened to devour him, or the way she knew when to say nothing and simply place her hand in his. But for how fiercely she held their love together, especially when he didn’t know how. For carrying their quiet, enduring devotion even when the weight of the world pressed in.

Every breath she took was quiet and even, the subtle rise and fall of her chest hypnotic. Her eyelashes fluttered now and then, a telltale sign of dreams. He wondered if she dreamed of him. Of them. Of the future blooming softly inside her. A knot of love and ache twisted in his chest. He still wanted to reach for her, to trace the curve of her jaw with his fingertips, to bury his face in the crook of her neck and whisper all the unsaid things. But instead, continued to watch. Memorizing. Breathing her in like oxygen.

Clara shifted slightly in her sleep, a faint sigh slipping from her lips. He caught it—felt it in his bones. His hand moved instinctively to her belly, brushing his palm over the thin fabric. The warmth beneath made his throat tighten. Their child. Their little miracle. His thoughts drifted to their beginnings—the taste of her lips in the rain, urgent and uncertain. The night she came to his door, voice trembling with fear and love, saying she was done running. The way they’d stripped themselves bare—not just bodies, but souls. And now, they had built this. A life stitched together in whispered promises, in cotton sheets and drowsy mornings. A future taking shape inside the woman he adored. Gratitude pressed heavy in his chest, sharp with emotion. They had survived storms—cameras, his past, strangers who thought they knew their story. The unspoken fears still crept into his mind when the world went quiet. But here, now, she shifted beside him, sighing in her sleep, and his hand slid gently over the curve of her belly. Warmth. Strength. Hope. The promise of a tomorrow he never thought he’d deserve.

He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers for just a moment, his heart pressed so close to hers he could almost believe they beat in sync. She hadn’t slept well. He knew. All night, she had stirred, her body aching, restless. Her hand had reached for him in the dark, and when she found him, she clung like he was her anchor. He’d held her as best he could, murmuring soft reassurances against her temple, his lips brushing the crown of her head, trying to pour all his love into her without words. His eyes followed the line of her brow, the gentle slope of her shoulder, the way her body curved protectively around their child. This—her, their baby, the peace in the quiet—this was everything. She was his heart, his home, the one place where the world stilled and he wasn’t afraid.

“You saved me, you know that?” he whispered, voice barely audible. “You gave me something to believe in. Something to come home to.”

And for the first time in years, the future didn’t feel like a shadow. It felt like a sunrise. He moved slightly, pressing a careful kiss to her hair, his hand finding her hip, grounding himself in her presence. He stayed close, watching the delicate lines of her face, the strands of hair that had slipped loose and kissed her skin. The intimacy of the moment wrapped around him like warm linen, sacred and untouched. Eventually, she stirred, almost as if she was sensing him close before she opened her eyes. Her lashes soon fluttered, with her gaze still blurry with sleep, but when her eyes found his, something in her softened. Her hair was tousled, sleep-mussed, her expression open in a way it only was with him. Tired. Tender. Beautiful…

“Morning…” Her voice was a breath of silk. “You were watching me again, weren’t you?”

“I cant help it…” Jason smiled sheepishly, brushing her hair back. “When you say it like that, it sounds so creepy and weird though”

She chuckled, wincing as she stretched, her hand instinctively finding her bump to get that bit more comfortable. “Well, pretend-sleep would’ve been easier than last night. I swear she was throwing a rave in there.”

Jason’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t sleep again?” He scooted closer, thumb tracing along her cheek. “Why didn’t you wake me? I’d have rubbed your back, made your tea, sung you lullabies—whatever you needed. You know that”

She yawned, her laugh sleepy. “Because you looked so peaceful yourself. And truthfully…” she nuzzled against his nose, “just having you near is enough...more than enough”

“Clara…” That quiet truth landed deep. Jason swallowed hard, chest aching with the sheer love of her. “You’re growing a whole person inside you. Our little person.Let me take care of you, too.”

“You already are.” Her smile was soft, full of affection. “That's all that I truly need…’

"That may be so but.." He kissed her forehead. “Still not enough if you’re this tired. Which is why Jack and I are having a boys’ day today. You’re staying in bed, catching up on rest, and binge-watching that terrible show you love.”

Clara raised an eyebrow. “Terrible? That show has brilliant character development and you know it.”

“Sure it does…” Jason smirked. “Which is why you can have it all to yourself while Jack and I get muffins from that cafe he loves—the one with the rocket mural outside. That one he can’t stop talking about whenever we go into town”

"Thank you…” Clara’s eyes shimmered with gratitude and amusement. “You spoil me Jason Orange…you really do”

“Always” He cupped her bump with reverence. “Only because you deserve to be Clara McFly"

“I really am the luckiest girl,” she whispered, fingers brushing his cheek.

“No,” Jason said, voice thick with emotion. “I’m the lucky one. I love you. I love us. And I’ll do whatever it takes to protect this” They stayed like that a moment longer, foreheads touching, sharing breath, sharing hearts—until Jack’s little voice echoed down the hall, sleepy and sweet. Jason grinned against Clara’s skin. “Sounds like I'm being called” he murmured, pressing one last kiss to her lips before rising. “Coming, kid…”

As he left, Clara curled into the space he’d just vacated, her hand gliding over the sheets still warm from his body. She pulled his discarded hoodie to her chest, inhaling his scent—cedarwood, cotton, a hint of coffee and boyish sweetness. She listened to the distant hum of their son’s laughter, Jason’s voice following, low and patient.

Her boys.

Her whole world.

Her heart swelled, tender and full. The baby stirred beneath her hand, as if sensing her joy. So much had led to this peace—grief, longing, hope stitched through every memory. But now, wrapped in Jason’s scent and sunlight, Clara let herself feel it fully. She missed him already. Not just because he was along the hall with Jack, but in the way you ache for someone who carries your soul in their hands. She pressed her hand to her heart. He had said he loved her—and meant it. She believed him. But she also saw what he didn’t say. The way he still carried wounds buried deep, the scars no one could see. He still bore the weight of the old pain from his in silence. But the big change now was that he wasn’t broken.

He was hers. Jack’s. Their daughter’s.

And he was enough.

“I see you,” she whispered into the quiet. Cuddling up into his hoodie “All of you. And I love you more because of it.”

The day stretched gently ahead, grey and still. She curled into the warmth he’d left behind, hoodie clutched tight, one hand cradling her belly, and let herself breathe in all they had built. Love. Home. Redemption. This wasn’t just a love story. It was healing. And no one—not the world, not the past—could take that away.

Jason was already halfway through tying Jack’s shoes when Clara soon heard the thump-thump-thump of little feet racing down the hallway.

“Wait! I need to say bye to Mummy before we go!” Jack’s voice rang out like sunshine as he barreled into the bedroom, curls bouncing, backpack hanging askew off one shoulder.

“Morning..” Clara, propped herself up against the pillows, blinked through a tired smile. “Hey, sweetheart…” she murmured, her voice husky from lack of sleep. With the baby having been restless most of the night, her kicks insistent enough to keep Clara turning over again and again.

Jack scrambled up onto the bed with all the grace of a hurricane. “I’m going out with Jason mummy!! ! Boys’ day! We’re gonna get muffins, and I’m gonna get the BIGGEST hot chocolate, and maybe see the ducks in the park if it’s not raining!”

“Wow…” Clara laughed softly, brushing a hand through his wild curls. “Sounds like the perfect kind of day to me. Will you give me an extra cuddle before you go?”

“of course…” He threw his arms around her neck immediately, planting a kiss on her cheek. “I love you, Mummy. You have a nice nap, okay?”

"I’ll try..hopefully your sister will finally let me” she said, hugging him tight. “You behave for Jason okay? You listen to him..always”

Jason stood in the soft early light of their bedroom, watching Clara stretch slowly beneath the duvet. Her hair was tousled and her eyes still heavy with sleep, but to him, she’d never looked more beautiful. The glow of morning wrapped around her like a halo. He moved to her side of the bed and leaned down, pressing a kiss gently to her temple, then lower—over her cheek, her lips, and finally down to her swollen belly.

 “Tell her to be gentle with her mama otherwise Daddy will be having words” he whispered to the bump, his hand cradling the curve of new life. Then, lifting his gaze back to Clara’s, his voice softened. “You still need rest. I’ve got Jack so don't worry about a thing okay?” she nodded solemnly, then looked at Jason. He kissed her again—longer this time, slower, letting everything he couldn’t quite put into words pass through the press of his lips. “I love you,” he whispered against her mouth. “More every day. You and her and Jack—you’re everything.”  

“love you too” She clutched his hand, letting go at the very last minute as he pulled away. “Be careful out there, okay?”

Jason nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her face with a tenderness that made her breath catch. “Always. You just get some rest. I’ll bring you back something sweet.”

Clara watched the bedroom door click shut behind them, the soft hush of their absence settling like a second blanket over the room. For a long moment, she didn’t move. She remained curled beneath the duvet, her fingers idly twisting the edge of Jason’s hoodie, still warm from his body, still humming with his scent—cedarwood and cotton and something so achingly him it made her chest throb. She pressed her cheek into the fabric, eyes fluttering closed, letting the quiet fill in the places sleep had left hollow 

Jason

Her Jason 

She missed him like an echo, like the shadow of a lighthouse beam slipping off the sea. Because he carried pieces of her she hadn’t known she’d given away. Because even when she was wrapped in his arms, some part of her still whispered don’t lose this. And now that she finally felt safe, that old fear had nowhere to go but inward. She shifted slightly, groaning as a familiar ache tugged low in her back. One hand found her belly, fingers splaying instinctively across the curve. The baby shifted beneath her touch, not kicking—yet—but present. Always present. It was strange, this sensation of being filled by someone you’d never met. Of loving someone so fiercely without ever having seen their face.

“Morning, little girl,” she whispered, her voice rough with sleep and tenderness. “You gave me hell last night, didn’t you?” She let out a low, breathy laugh, though there was a shimmer of fatigue behind it. Her body was changing faster than she could catch up—tight skin, swollen ankles, a stretch of discomfort nestled beneath every breath—but still, it was worth it. She was worth it. Her hand smoothed across the warm dome of her belly again, slower this time. “You’ve got your daddy’s stubbornness already, I can feel it. You didn’t want me sleeping, and nothing was going to change your mind.” Her lips quivered faintly. “You’ll keep us on our toes, I just know it.”

But beneath the humor, there was a flicker of doubt. A thread of quiet anxiety she rarely gave voice to. Because sometimes, late at night—when Jason was asleep beside her, his arm draped protectively over her hip—Clara still questioned whether she could be enough. Whether she could mother this new life the way she wanted to. Whether her own past, her fractured past relationship with Jack’s biological father, had prepared her for any of this. What if she broke in front of them? What if the calm they had built was more fragile than it seemed?

She curled tighter into the hoodie, pulling it close, as if she could anchor herself to him across the distance. Jason didn’t always talk about the scars he carried. She didn’t push—but she saw them. She saw how sometimes his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. How he still startled in his sleep. How he downplayed his needs to care for hers. And she loved him even more for that quiet strength. For the way he poured himself into their love like it was a second chance. But she also knew love wasn’t a fix. It was a balm. A promise to stay, even on the days when healing felt slow.

Her thoughts drifted to all they’d survived—the sleepless nights, the lingering headlines, the whispers from people who thought they knew better. There had been days when she wasn’t sure they'd make it. When Jason’s past had seemed too loud, too raw. But somehow, they had kept choosing each other. Not because it was easy. But because it mattered.

She let out a slow breath and let her body sink deeper into the mattress, every ache and flutter and heartbeat reminding her of what they were building. A home not made of walls, but of them—patched together from late-night talks and half-burnt dinners, from lullabies and rough days and kisses that tasted like survival.

This was her life now….This messy, aching, beautiful life

And even with exhaustion clinging to her bones and the baby hiccupping inside her like a drumbeat, Clara wouldn’t trade a second of it.

“I see you,” she whispered to the empty room, her words meant for Jason, though he wasn’t there to hear them. “All of you. Even the parts you think you have to hide.” She pressed her palm against her heart, then back down to her belly. “And I love you more because of it.”

Outside, the wind rustled against the windowpane. Somewhere in the distance, Jack’s laughter echoed—muffled but bright. Clara closed her eyes again, Jason’s hoodie clutched tight against her chest. Despite the ache in her limbs and the weight of her weariness, her heart pulsed with quiet certainty.

This wasn’t just about being loved.

It was about being seen.

And in this quiet morning, in the hollow Jason left behind that still smelled like warmth and safety, she let herself believe she was finally home.

The village was already stirring to life as Jason and Jack stepped out into the soft grey morning. The air carried the faint scent of woodsmoke and damp earth, mingled with the warmth of fresh bread from the corner bakery. Sparrows chattered from the eaves, their wings flitting between ivy-covered chimneys, and the distant hum of a delivery van rolled lazily down the lane. Jason adjusted Jack’s backpack, which was already sliding off one small shoulder, and took his hand—tiny, sticky from breakfast syrup, and clenched with excitement. Jack practically bounced on the cobbled path, pointing out every dog, bird, and oddly shaped cloud with the earnestness only five-year-olds could muster.

“That one looks like a rocket!” Jack beamed, tugging his arm toward the sky. “Just like on the café wall!”

Jason smiled. “You’ve got a good eye, buddy. Maybe you’ll be an astronaut one day.”

"That would be so cool…” Jack looked up at him with wide, serious eyes. “Only if you come with me.”

"Always.." Something in Jason’s chest went tight. He ruffled Jack’s curls to hide it.

As they walked past the familiar shopfronts—the florist with its buckets of wildflowers, the old bookshop that always smelled of dust and stories—people nodded their good mornings. Jason nodded back, his hand firm around Jack’s, his other tucked in his jacket pocket. They probably looked like any father and son—something that still caught Jason off guard sometimes. There had been a time, not long ago, when this version of his life had felt impossible. Unreachable. He'd spent so long running from the idea of family, convinced he was too broken to carry something so fragile. The idea of being a parent had felt laughable—like trying to catch sunlight in your hands.

He hadn’t expected Clara. And he certainly hadn’t expected Jack—bright-eyed, stubborn, curious Jack. Looking down at him as they waited at the crossing, he just watched him. There were moments like this—quiet, unscripted, impossibly tender—where the world slowed enough for him to feel everything all at once. He saw Jack's eyes, bright and alive, full of that unshaken trust children carried like armor. Saw the curl of his lashes, the softness in his cheeks. His whole being was light and movement and noise. So full of joy he seemed to radiate it. He was telling a story—something about a duck who wore boots and ran a detective agency—and gesturing wildly with his hands as if he were illustrating it in midair. Something inside Jason twisted with fierce, aching love. For years he’d kept people at arm’s length because of that. Afraid of breaking them. Afraid of being too much, or worse—not enough. He thought about the man he used to be: the one who couldn’t picture anything past the next gig, the next mistake, the next sleepless night. The man who had believed family was for other people. The man who sometimes still woke up at 3AM, heart racing, waiting for the sky to fall.

But now… here was this child. This little human who reached for his hand without hesitation. And then, without warning, memory overtook him. Jason had picked Jack up from school because Clara wasn't feeling well and he ordered her to rest up. He remembered Jack’s backpack bouncing behind him, shoes scuffed, eyes bright and full of chaos. He'd barely made it into the house before launching into a breathless, excited stream of everything that had happened that day.

“And then Miss Helen said my dinosaur drawing was awesome and I told Henry that velociraptors are actually really fast and I ate all my lunch and Daddy look!—Dad..”

It stopped him cold. That word.

Jack hadn’t even noticed. He’d just kept talking, flipping through pages in his folder to show off his crayon-scribbled masterpiece. But Jason had stood there, knees weak, trying to breathe past the sudden, unbearable lump in his throat.

Daddy....Dad

It was natural. Unthinking. Like maybe—just maybe—Jack’s heart had made the decision before his mind ever caught up.He hadn’t said anything in the moment. Just crouched down, smiled softly. But his voice had been hoarse. His hands had trembled a little when he reached for the paper. Later that night, when Clara curled up against him in bed, he finally told her. She went quiet for a moment, like she was holding something delicate between her palms. Then she reached out and touched his face—gently, reverently.

“He sees you, Jason,” she’d said, voice soft in the dark. “The way you show up for him. The way you love him. That wasn’t a mistake. That was his heart speaking.”

Jason had stared up at the ceiling, blinking fast.

“I never thought I’d have this,” he’d whispered. “I didn’t think I deserved it...this life”

"Come here' Clara had kissed his temple. “You didn’t just deserve it. You earned it. Every single day.”

The memory lingered like sunlight on glass—bright, delicate, impossible to hold. That small word still echoed in the quiet parts of him, where old fears used to live. It had cracked something open the day Jack said it—quietly, unintentionally—and part of him was still learning how to live with what it set free. Still thinking, Jason's eyes were fixed on the sunlight glinting off the fountain across the street as the memory played out again, vivid and visceral—the weight of that small word, Daddy, still echoing like it had only just been spoken. It had cracked something open in him that day. A door he hadn’t even realized was still locked. He’d thought he was fine. That he’d made peace with his past, with the versions of himself that had never believed in things like family or forever. But hearing Jack say that—hearing it so innocently, so naturally—had made something bloom and ache all at once in the hollow of his chest. He hadn’t known what to do with it then. Even now, it still knocked the breath out of him.

But suddenly, there was a tug at his hand. Small fingers curling around his palm. Jason looked down and found Jack blinking up at him, cheeks flushed from walking, curls sticking to his forehead

“Jason?” Jack asked, peering at him with that same tilt of the head Clara had when she was concerned. “You okay? You looked… floaty.”

Jason swallowed hard, blinking the tears from the corners of his eyes before they could fall. He gave Jack’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“Yeah, mate,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “Just thinkin’. But I’m right here.”

"Let's go" Jack grinned, not pressing further—just content to hold Jason’s hand in his. “Come on,” he said, tugging him toward the café again. “I want the chocolate muffin with the gooey middle! You said you’d get it!..you promised”

Jason laughed softly, letting himself be pulled forward, hand in Jack’s, heart full and raw in the best possible way.

He still remembered the first time Jack called him Daddy and always would for the rest of his days. But right now, what mattered most was the adorable 5 year old clinging to him. He hadn’t just found a home in Clara. He’d found one in Jack too.

The morning sunlight spilled like honey over the quiet street, warm and gentle, chasing away the last clinging threads of mist. Jason adjusted his sunglasses, one hand holding Jack’s smaller one as they walked slowly toward the café, their steps unhurried, easy. Jason smiled, touched in a way he couldn’t explain. The simplicity of the observation stirred something in him. He didn’t always know if he was doing things right, not after the life he’d led, the mistakes, the regrets—but moments like this? They whispered to him that maybe, just maybe, he was. As they walked, Jack swung his joined hands back and forth with the carefree rhythm only kids have. They walked in no rush, hand in hand, like the whole village had softened just for them. Jack’s chatter had slowed to a hum, the kind of contented ramble that only came when he was completely at ease. At one point, Jason paused near the stone bench by the duck pond, squatting down to tie Jack’s shoelace for the third time that morning.Jack leaned in as Jason knelt, tiny arms wrapping around his neck in a spontaneous cuddle that nearly toppled them both.

“Hey, careful there, mate,” Jason chuckled, catching his balance.

“I just love you lots and lots..,that's all” Jack said simply, pressing his cheek to Jason’s shoulder. “I like it when it’s just us…”

“Jack…” Jason swallowed the lump rising in his throat. “I love you too, kiddo.”

They stayed like that for a few seconds longer, the world hushed around them. A breeze rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of coffee and earth. Jack eventually loosened his grip, and they kept walking—closer now, shoulder brushing thigh, Jack’s little feet skipping over cracks in the pavement while Jason matched his pace.

Jack scrunched up his face thoughtfully. “can I ask you something very important too please?”

“Of course…you know that mate…” Jason looked down. “Yeah?”

“Do you think they’ll have the blueberry muffins today? The really squishy ones?” Jack nodded ever hopeful Jason couldn't help but laugh, the sound low and light in his chest “they are the best”

“I’ve got a good feeling they will” Jason said, smiling down at the boy “you gonna tell me the real reason you love these muffins so much first though?” 

“Because they’re soft,” Jack grinned, gently squeezing Jason’s hand. “Like clouds. But also because they have those little crunchy bits on top! Like muffin treasure!...they’re Mummy’s favourite too”

Jason laughed, full-bodied and free, the sound echoing off the café walls. “Muffin treasure, huh? That’s genius.”

“Yes..the best treasure there is…” Jack nodded proudly. “And they taste like hugs. You know, like when Mummy bakes something and the house smells warm and she hugs you after?...like that”

Jason’s heart clenched—good this time. A kind of quiet gratitude. With them now at the crossing, Jason reached across and ruffled Jack’s hair.

Then, just ahead as if by magic, the rocket ship mural came into view—splashed across the café’s brick wall in bursts of color, cartoon stars and planetary rings looping into a swirl of blues and oranges. 

“There it is!” Jack gasped, bouncing on his heels. “Jason, Jason! Lift me! I wanna reach the stars!” Jason grinned and hoisted Jack up without hesitation. Jack squealed with delight, arms reaching out toward the painted sky, his fingers grazing faded constellations that had weathered a few seasons of sun and rain. “You think we can fly up there one day?” Jack whispered, now quieter, resting chin to Jason’s head, his voice hushed like a secret.

"I dont see why not mate.." Jason steadied him against his shoulders. “Maybe. But even if we can’t, I’ll always be right here with you. That’s kind of like flying, yeah?”

Jack nodded thoughtfully, fingers absently playing with Jason’s hair. “Yeah… ‘cause it feels like you’re holding the whole world.”

Jason smiled, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, pressing a kiss into Jack’s temple. He could feel the weight of Jack's love in his bones. It wasn’t heavy—it was anchoring. Real. A kind of grace he never thought he’d earn. When Jack wiggled to be let down, Jason gently lowered him to the ground. He crouched to tie his own laces, only for Jack to wrap around him again in another unprompted cuddle, this one slower, softer. The kind that didn’t ask for anything but to be held. And Jason held him. Because how could he not?

What they didn’t notice was a woman across the street, camera lifted subtly to her face. They didn’t see the shutter click in a quiet snap. Or the way she lingered a moment too long, watching as father and son shared something so pure the world itself seemed to pause around them. In that moment, all Jason saw was Jack. All he heard was laughter. And all he felt was love.

The café was tucked between a dusty antiques shop and a row of flower boxes spilling over with lavender and trailing ivy, its door painted a cheerful red that stood out against the stone buildings of the village. The bell above the door chimed as Jason pushed it open, holding it for Jack, who bounded in like he owned the place. Inside, the space was cozy and warmly lit, filled with the scent of ground coffee, baked cinnamon, and something sweet cooling on a tray behind the counter. Exposed wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, strung with tiny fairy lights that twinkled even in the daylight. The walls were a mosaic of hand-painted stars, old concert posters, and children’s drawings pinned up like proud little flags—some of which Jason swore hadn’t changed in months, maybe years. Mismatched tables and chairs were scattered around the room, each with a small jar of fresh flowers in the center. A long cushioned bench ran along one wall, piled with well-loved pillows, and in the back corner, a bookshelf sagged under the weight of storybooks and worn board games.

Jack headed straight for the counter, pressing his hands to the glass to admire the lineup of muffins, cookies, and pastries. Jason followed, feeling the calm wash over him. This place wasn’t just Jack’s favourite—it was safe. Familiar. A piece of their new life carved out with warmth and cinnamon toast

“There it is!” he said in a loud whisper, pointing. “The gooey one with the chocolate middle!”

Jason smiled, ruffling Jack’s curls as he joined him. “One rocket muffin, coming up.”

Behind the counter, the barista—a young woman with silver hair and ink on her forearms—offered them a familiar grin. “Morning, boys. Usual for you, Jason?”

“Yeah. And a hot chocolate for the co-pilot here.”

Jack beamed. The café felt like a little pocket of magic—worn in, welcoming, and tucked safely away from the outside world. Here, it was just them, the smell of sugar and steam, and the promise of a slow, perfect morning. The barista chuckled warmly as she leaned over the counter, sliding a handful of crayons and a small stack of napkins toward Jack.

“Thought you might need these,” she said with a wink. “Your spaceship drawings were all the rage last week. Had customers asking when the next one was coming.”

Jack lit up, bouncing on his toes. “I’m doing a whole series!” he declared proudly. “Today I’m drawing a rocket dog who saves muffins from a space dragon.”

“Well, make sure you sign it,” she said, mock-serious. “I want the first edition before you get famous.”

Jason grinned, exchanging a glance with her that was part amusement, part gratitude. This place—these people—felt like an extension of their little world now. He handed over a few coins for their order and took the plate of muffins as they were passed over, careful not to spill the foam-topped hot chocolate that Jack was already eyeing like treasure.

“Let’s grab our usual table,” Jason said, guiding Jack across the café to the sunlit corner by the window.

Jack hopped up onto the bench with practiced ease, already scribbling circles and flames onto a napkin with his red crayon. Jason slid into the seat across from him, placing their drinks down gently. The whole space buzzed with a soft kind of life—clinking cups, quiet conversation, the faint hum of indie music overhead. But at their table, everything felt calm. Familiar. Home. The corner table by the window was bathed in gentle light—the kind that softened the edges of the morning and made the steam rising from their drinks seem like something magical. Jason leaned on one elbow, chin in his palm, watching Jack with quiet awe as the boy hunched over his napkin canvas, tongue poking out slightly in concentration.

“This one’s got rocket boosters that make rainbow fire,” Jack narrated, jabbing the red and orange crayons across the napkin in wide, bold strokes. “Because he needs to go super fast to get to the muffin planet.”

Jason chuckled, reaching for his coffee. “Naturally. Can’t be late for muffins.”

“jason…” Jack looked up, grinning. “do you think that one day we can go there too?”

“Of course…” Jason gave a mock-thoughtful nod. “Only if they have coffee.” They shared a smile then—an unspoken, uncomplicated moment that nestled in the space between laughter and love. Jack slid the napkin across the table with pride, and Jason reached over to trace one of the crayon stars with his fingertip. “You’re something else, kid,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent.

The bell over the café door tinkled gently behind them as the morning crowd began to drift in and out, but at their little corner table, the world felt hushed, cocooned in steam and light. Jack was still nestled in Jason’s lap, one hand gripping a red crayon, the other absently playing with the strings on Jason’s hoodie. The barista appeared a moment later, balancing their drinks on a small tray, her silver hair tied up in a loose knot, tattoos of stars and flowers peeking from under her sleeves.

“Alright, rocket man,” she said warmly as she set the hot chocolate down in front of Jack, foam perfectly swirled with a cocoa-dusted heart. “One chocolate booster fuel, just as requested.”

Jack gasped. “You remembered the heart foam!”

“Of course I did,” she grinned. “Only the best for our café astronaut.”

He leaned forward, nose almost touching the mug. “It smells like heaven had a party.”

Jason snorted softly, resting his chin against Jack’s temple. “You come up with that one yourself?”

Jack beamed. “Yep! Gonna write it in my muffin poem later.”

The barista set Jason’s coffee down and nodded approvingly. “Ooh, a muffin poem? That sounds like something the world needs.”

Jack nodded very seriously. “It’s about how muffins are like hugs that you eat. There’s a space dragon in it too, but he’s nice once you get to know him.”

“I’d read that,” she said, eyes twinkling. “You should hang it on the wall with your drawings.”

“I might!” Jack sat up straighter, clearly loving the attention. “But only if Jason says it’s good enough.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Mate, if it’s got muffin hugs and dragons, it’s already a masterpiece.”

The barista gave Jason a knowing glance—one of those small, unspoken things shared between adults who’ve seen love bloom in surprising places. Then she gently placed a sugar packet on the table next to Jack’s mug.

“For emergency rations,” she whispered, winking.

Jack whispered back like it was a top-secret mission. “Thanks. Space gets cold.” As she disappeared behind the espresso machine, Jack turned and nestled in again, whispering into Jason’s hoodie, “She’s the bestest. Almost like a café fairy.”

She gave a mock salute and turned to head back to the counter. 

Jason chuckled, wrapping both arms gently around Jack’s middle. “She kind of is, huh?”

At that moment—across the street, behind the streaked glass of a florist’s storefront—a camera shutter clicked. They didn’t hear it over the café hum. They didn’t notice the figure just outside the café window, half-obscured by passersby. Someone raised a phone again, capturing another photo—Jason leaning forward, resting his forearm on the table, eyes full of light as he listened to Jack’s excited story. Jack’s hand was caught mid-gesture, eyes wide with wonder.

Another shutter. Another frame. Stolen moments neither of them knew they were giving away. Inside, Jason reached across the table and gently brushed a crumb from the corner of Jack’s mouth. Jack giggled and leaned in close, reaching for another crayon, his fingers brushing Jason’s. For a second, Jason closed his eyes. He never imagined mornings like this. 

The café had emptied out a little, the mid-morning rush giving way to a softer hush. Outside, the sun was beginning to slant in through the wide front window, casting dappled light across the table where Jason sat, his coffee cooling untouched beside him. Jack had abandoned his crayons for now. Without a word, he’d climbed into Jason’s lap—something he still did when he was tired, or simply when the world felt too big and Jason felt like the safest place to shrink into. Now, Jack rested against his chest, small hands curled against his hoodie, the top of his curls pressed beneath Jason’s chin.

Jason wrapped his arms around him without even thinking, one hand splayed across Jack’s back, thumb stroking slow, absentminded circles through the soft cotton of his jumper. Jack wasn’t speaking. Just breathing slowly, eyes half-lidded, a thumb drifting toward his mouth before deciding against it. He was getting older. But not too old to still need this—this closeness, this anchoring. He closed his eyes for a second. The weight of Jack in his arms, the scent of his hair—shampoo and cinnamon and something distinctly Jack—flooded him with a quiet kind of gratitude. There were days, still, when he couldn’t believe this was real. That he was someone who could give comfort, who was comfort. He’d spent so many years believing he was more shadow than substance, more damage than worth.

But Jack didn’t see that. Jack never had.

Jason barely noticed the cup in front of him anymore. The froth had long since dissolved, leaving a pale coffee ring against the porcelain. His hand, rough and calloused from years of music and mistakes, rested lightly on Jack’s back—small and warm beneath the soft knit of his jumper. Jack had climbed into his lap mid-sentence, unbothered by age or social cues or what anyone might think. He did that sometimes, especially when he needed to be near. And Jason never asked questions. He just made space.

Now, Jack curled against him, legs folded sideways, arms tucked into himself like he was trying to become smaller—more held. His cheek pressed against Jason’s chest, and Jason could feel the faint flutter of his breath syncing with his own. It wasn’t just a cuddle. It was a return. Jason shifted slightly, adjusting his grip around the boy—careful, reverent. One hand cradled the back of Jack’s head, fingers brushing through soft curls, and the other wrapped around his small body, thumb moving instinctively in that slow, grounding circle against his spine.

Jack wasn’t speaking. But he didn’t need to. Jason stared out the window, jaw tight, blinking against the sudden ache behind his eyes. It caught him off guard sometimes—how much love could hurt, how heavy it felt in the best way. He remembered, in vivid, visceral pieces, the first time Jack had ever reached for him like this. Not out of fear or shyness, but trust. That wordless, soul-deep trust that children gave only when they felt completely safe. There had been a time when he didn’t believe he’d ever be someone worthy of that. When the thought of being anyone’s safe place had felt laughable. He’d grown up believing love was conditional. Fragile. Something you had to earn and could lose in an instant. But here was this little boy—folded into him without hesitation, heart wide open.

Jason felt it all at once: the life he almost didn’t have, the son he’d almost missed, the family he never thought he could be part of. The fear, still lingering in some far corner of him, that one day it would disappear. That he’d wake up and this life—this love—would have been a dream too good for him. The boy shifted slightly, nuzzling closer into Jason’s chest

“I like it here,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath. “It’s warm. And your heart makes noise.”

Jason smiled into his curls. “It’s saying it loves you. Can you hear that?”

“Yes I can…” Jack nodded slowly. “I love you too,” he whispered.Jason kissed the crown of his head and held him tighter, like if he let go, something essential might slip away.

They didn’t see the woman across the street. The one with the camera slung around her neck on a frayed strap. Her coat was threadbare, sleeves tugged low over chilled hands. Her cheeks were hollowed, eyes tired but kind. She crouched slightly by the shop window, watching through the glass. She didn’t lift the camera with urgency or intrusion. Just quiet reverence. She’d been walking, looking for something she couldn't name—something beautiful, something real. And now here it was: this moment, simple and soft. A boy, safe in the arms of the man who loved him. The kind of love that could warm through even the frostiest mornings.

Click.

Inside, Jason had no idea they were being watched. He shifted slightly to rest his cheek against Jack’s curls, eyes closed, the world narrowing to the heartbeat between them. Jack’s breathing deepened. His fingers were looped loosely in the collar of Jason’s shirt now, like he didn’t want to be anywhere else. And Jason didn’t, either.

“I like cuddles with you Jason,” Jack whispered suddenly, voice muffled by Jason’s jumper. “It makes the quiet feel nice.”

Jason’s throat closed. He pressed a kiss to Jack’s hair, then rested his cheek there, as if by doing so he could keep them both grounded.

“I like cuddles with you too, mate,” he said softly, voice breaking around the words. “You don’t even know how much.”

A silence bloomed between them—not empty, but full. Full of the weight of all they’d survived. Of every scar Jason had thought made him unlovable. Of every moment Jack had undone that belief with one small hand, one sleepy smile, one wordless cuddle like this.

Across the street, the camera clicked again. They didn’t see. They didn’t hear. The photographer stayed in the shadows, unnoticed, capturing something that couldn’t be posed or repeated. It wasn’t just a picture—it was the raw, unfiltered image of a man being loved back into the world by a child who never knew how lost he’d been.

Jason closed his eyes. Jack stirred slightly but didn’t move away. His small hand found Jason’s collar and curled into it, like anchoring himself to the only truth he knew: that Jason would stay. Would hold him. Always.

And Jason would. Because in that moment—eyes closed, arms full of everything he never knew he needed—he wasn’t a man afraid of failing anymore.

He was a father.

Jason gently adjusted Jack’s weight in his lap, brushing a few muffin crumbs from the corner of the boy’s mouth. Jack was half-dozing, the kind of sugar-slowed tired that came after a treat and a morning full of excitement. His fingers still idly toyed with the hem of Jason’s sleeve, comforted by the simple closeness. Jason’s phone buzzed softly against the table. He glanced at the screen. Clara. A small smile curled at the edge of his lips as he answered, careful not to shift Jack too much.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and warm. “We were just thinking about you.”

Clara’s voice was still sleep-soft and husky, the kind that always made something in him melt. “Thinking about me, huh? Or just the muffins?”

Jason laughed under his breath. “I mean, both. But mostly you.”

He heard her smile through the line. “How’s my little astronaut?”

Jason looked down at Jack, who was still nestled quietly. “Mission complete. Muffin consumed. Cocoa inhaled. He’s currently in orbit.”

“Perfect…” Clara chuckled, the sound like a warm breeze. “I love you both so much, you know that?”

“Yeah of course” Jason said softly. “And we love you right back.”

There was a pause, then a slight shift in her voice. “I hate to ask love… but do you think you could stop by the chemist before heading home? I forgot to grab the vitamins and I’m nearly out. They should have the ones I like behind the counter—the ginger ones for nausea.”

“Already done,” Jason said, lifting the paper bag beside him. “See? Your man’s on top of it.”

“You’re a dream,” she said, genuinely touched "the perfect partner"

He let silence settle for a moment before speaking again. “How are you feeling now?”

Clara sighed softly. “Tired. But a good tired. I’ve just been curled up in your hoodie, reading. She’s been quieter, too. I think she’s finally taking a nap in there.”

“See she listened to Daddy..” Jason’s heart did a gentle twist. “Good. You both needed it.”

“And thank you, Jason… for this morning,” she added. “I know it wasn’t just about letting me rest. You needed this too, didn’t you?”

Jason didn’t answer right away. He looked down at Jack’s peaceful face, at the chocolate smeared on his cheek, and felt that same ache and awe he always did.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I really did.” Another pause, full of emotion that didn’t need to be spoken.

“I’ll let you go,” Clara said, quieter now. “But hurry home, okay? I miss you both already.”

“We’re on our way,” Jason promised. “I’ll bring extra muffins.”

“I don’t need muffins,” she said.”just my boys back…”

“But you deserve them,” he replied gently. "and us.."

The call ended, and Jason slipped the phone back into his jacket. Jack stirred slightly.

“Was that Mummy?” he mumbled.

Jason nodded. “She says hi and that she misses you.”

“I miss her too…” Jack yawned, stretching in Jason’s lap before perking up. “Can we get a muffin for her? One with blueberries. She likes those.”

Jason smiled. “Already in the bag, little man.” They sat for another minute in the café's golden hum, two hearts beating in quiet sync. Then Jason helped Jack down, wiped his face with a napkin, and stood. “Time to head home,” he said, taking Jack’s hand.

Looking at his watch, Jason was surprised to see that they both spent nearly an hour there, chatting, colouring, munching on their vast array of sweet treats. And in that small, cinnamon-scented bubble of time, the world felt quieter. Kinder. Like maybe healing didn’t always happen in grand moments—but in simple ones, shared over muffins with someone who saw the best in you, just because you were theirs. He pulled out his phone at one point and quietly snapped one last picture of Jack to send to Clara, his cheeks flushed with excitement, totally lost in his drawing..As they walked toward the door, neither of them saw the shadowy figure across the street lower her camera and slip away into the alley, phone in hand. Her mission complete 

As they stepped out of the café, the wind caught Jack’s hair and sent it into messy tufts. Jason laughed and tried to flatten it down, but Jack swatted his hand away with a cheeky grin. The village was still quiet, just the odd car trundling past and the sound of birds in the trees. Jason tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, matching Jack's slower steps as they meandered back toward home. For a little while, they walked in comfortable silence, the only sound Jack humming some tune he’d made up, the crinkling of the paper bag Jason was carrying their leftover muffins. 

Neither of them had any idea that before the afternoon was out, their simple, happy moment would be all over the internet. Neither of them knew yet that the very privacy Jason had worked so hard to protect for so long was about to be shattered once more But for now, it was just the two of them — laughter ringing through the sleepy streets, the kind of laughter that stitched hearts together for life.

The walk home was slower, more dreamlike now, the village steeped in the soft amber of early afternoon light. Jack clutched a paper bag in both hands, careful as he’d ever been in his five years of life. Inside were two precious muffins—one for Clara, one “just in case she wants seconds.” Jason walked beside him, the chemist’s bag tucked under his arm, his gaze flicking down every now and then just to watch the way Jack’s curls bounced with each uneven step. The way he held that bag like it held starlight. A grin tugged at Jason’s mouth. They passed the florist again. The older woman outside waved with a hand full of lavender stems.

“Nice walk, you two?” she called "give my love to Clara"

“The best,” Jack said proudly. “We had muffins!”

Jason laughed, tipping a wave of thanks as they moved on. The rhythm of the village was calmer now—post-lunch stillness settling in, the bakery windows fogged slightly from ovens cooling. A few schoolkids zipped past on bikes. A cat stretched on a windowsill, sun-drunk and blinking. They turned the corner onto their street—small terraced houses with ivy creeping up the bricks and flowerpots clustered on doorsteps. Their home was three houses down, where Clara had planted marigolds that were somehow still blooming, stubborn and golden.

As they reached the front gate, Jack suddenly stopped and looked up.

"Can I ring the bell?”

“Why mate?” Jason arched a brow. “We have a key.”

“I know,” Jack grinned. “But it’s more fun if she hears us.”

Jason unlocked the door anyway, letting Jack press the doorbell triumphantly as they stepped inside. The house smelled faintly of coffee and rosemary—Clara must’ve lit one of her candles.

“Mummy!” Jack called. “We brought you things!”

There was movement from the living room, and then Clara appeared, hair up in a lazy bun, still wearing one of Jason’s hoodies drowning her frame, a soft smile spreading across her face the moment she saw them.

“There’s my boys,” she said warmly, reaching for Jack first as he launched into her arms before greeting her beloved Jason with a kiss. “I missed you..missed you both.”

Jack squeezed her tightly, handing her the bag with the muffins. “We got these for you! I didn’t eat yours. Not even one bite.”

Clara laughed. “You’re my hero.”

Jason followed, setting down the chemist’s bag and shrugging out of his coat. Their eyes met across the small entryway—a long, quiet look full of all the things they didn’t have to say out loud.

“Thank you,” Clara mouthed.

He smiled, brushing a kiss to her temple. “Always.”

As the three of them moved into the kitchen—Jack already climbing onto a stool to recount his adventures—the house seemed to hum with something invisible but deeply felt. Not just warmth, not just quiet joy.

It was belonging.

And outside, just beyond the hedgerow, a camera lens peeked from a parked car window. A soft click, and then it disappeared again.

But inside, the door closed. Safe. Whole. Unaware.

Home.

Chapter Text

Dani sat at her desk, surrounded by a jungle of paper and pixelated data. The dull whirr of the office fan was a poor substitute for the warm, animal breath and low grumbles of the gorilla troop outside her window. As head zookeeper, she was used to wrangling the chaos of living creatures—but today, it was bureaucracy giving her a headache. A new arrival. A young silverback from Germany. Transport details, habitat prep, integration protocols. Dani rubbed her temples. It wasn’t that she didn’t love the job. It’s just that sometimes, even the noblest work could feel suffocating when her mind was elsewhere She slouched at her desk, elbows planted among a scatter of animal intake forms, medical reports, and transport clearances. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but her eyes had drifted hours ago. The new gorilla was due in three weeks—young, nervous, likely traumatized by travel. She set down the intake form for the new silverback—they were renaming him from Tamu to Bruce, which felt criminal—and leaned back in her chair with a sigh. She should have been laser-focused on the integration protocol. Yet instead, she opened the bottom drawer, slid a few forms aside and pulled out a small picture

The sonogram

Still folded along the same creases, worn now from how often she looked at it when no one was around. She traced the outline of the curled bean of a baby with her thumb, its tiny limbs caught mid-tumble in grayscale fuzz. Clara’s baby. But not just Clara’s. Jason Orange’s baby. Dani stared at the smudge of life caught in the grainy gray. A flutter of something bittersweet moved through her. Jason Orange, her nostalgic crush from years gone by and now here she was sitting here, cradling a photo of his unborn child. If someone told her years ago that she’d soon to be known as Auntie Dani to Jason Orange’s child, she’d have laughed in your face and then quoted a Take That lyric right back at you. She was THAT take that fan. She had every album. Saw them live multiple times and even had the band logo inked on her hip to prove it, a lasting memory of one drunken trip to Ibiza with her best friend. Many of her friends she hung out with were of course big Mark Owen fans, yet Jason had always been the one that had her heart though. Not just because he was the obviously chiseled good-looking one in the group, but in her eyes he was the quiet, soulful one. The one who didn’t need the spotlight because he was the spotlight. She chuckled softly to herself, then closed her eyes and soon let the memories in. Glancing down at the faint but still sharp outline of the Take That logo tattooed high on her hip, hidden now under her work khakis. She’d seen them live multiple times now. The first time was in 2006 for the “Beautiful world” tour. A warm smile filled her lips as she was instantly transported back, Standing there, in this ocean of screaming girls, thinking there was no way they’d even see her. But then something special happened. Something that Dani could still remember to this day, even nearly 20 years later. Jason somehow came to her side of the stage. And he looked at her. Not just a sweep of the crowd as he had done on most nights but he looked right at her. His eyes caught hers instantly as he flashed her that famous beaming smile. That notion alone pushed her over the edge, grabbing her best friend by the arm and swearing that she blacked out for three seconds. She'd also worn a homemade T-shirt with his name in glitter iron-ons that night. During the encore, when Jason came close to the edge of the stage once more, he’d pointed—actually pointed—and mouthed “I like your shirt” to her. She literally couldn't speak for two days afterwards. She loved that tour so much that she even bought another ticket for the following night. She paid an absolutely absurd amount of money to see it again but even when it absolutely poured with rain, she didn’t care. Standing in a rainstorm with soaked hair and frozen toes, and just having Jason wave at her section. Not a vague sweep of the hand—a real wave, eyes squinting in the downpour, grin wide like he was glad they were all there. Truly made it all worthwhile…

The Circus tour of 2009 came next for Dani—Take That at their peak, the four of them, larger than life under the big top of their own creation. The set had been absurd in the best way: jugglers, acrobats, a mechanical elephant that trumpeted fireworks. But none of it mattered once they took the stage. She remembered the energy, the lights, the screams vibrating through her ribs. But mostly, she remembered him. Jason had always been the quiet one. The one who didn’t have to shout to be seen. And somehow, she had always felt seen by him—even from hundreds of feet away. During the bridge of “Said it all,” he’d scanned the crowd and, for a heartbeat, his eyes had landed on hers. He smiled. A tiny, knowing curve of the lips. Her heart had somersaulted so hard she’d gone dizzy. She and Chris had been in the near the B stage that night —perfect line of sight. Her husband had surprised her with the tickets, knowing full well that Jason Orange still held prime, rent-free real estate in her heart. They’d laughed and danced and screamed the lyrics like teenagers, arms wrapped around each other, beer sloshing from paper cups. She remembered gripping Chris’s hand so tightly when “Shine” began, because Jason always sang the harmony in that one, and she could pick his voice out like a thread of gold in the fabric. That was the magic, wasn’t it? That he was there in the background, anchoring everything. Quiet, steady, golden. Then— later just as the chorus to “Hold up a light” swelled—Jason and Howard jogged past their section. He scanned the crowd like he always did: playful, deliberate. And there it was again…

The eye contact.

It wasn’t imagined. Dani knew the difference. He saw her, smiled wide, and winked. An actual wink. Before moving off, he tugged his towel from around his neck and chucked it up into the stands. It arced through the air and landed two rows below, bounced once, and somehow—somehow—ended up in her lap. She hadn’t screamed. She’d just stared down at it, stunned into silence. Chris leaned over and said, half-laughing, “Well, that’s going in the will.” Once home, She’d wrapped it in tissue paper and tucked it in a shoebox under the bed like a relic from another life. It wasn’t just a towel. It was a moment—proof that for a second, someone she’d admired from afar had seen her. Really seen her. That meant something. Especially to someone who, back then, didn’t always feel visible in her own skin. To this day, Dani never told Jason. Not because she was embarrassed. But because some moments are meant to stay untouched by time—small personal galaxies that don’t need to be explained to shine.

After that was, the Progress tour. 2011. The last time she saw Jason perform live. She knew it before the show ended—something had shifted. The stage still pulsed with spectacle: lights, choreography, the roar of tens of thousands. The songs hit every note. But Jason… he was different. His movements were smooth, sure, but there was no joy behind them. Just muscle memory. His eyes swept the crowd, but without the spark—without that familiar connection Dani used to wait for like a girl waiting for lightning. She tried to tell herself it was nothing. Maybe it was just the scale of the stadium. That he couldn’t possibly make eye contact from up there. But she'd felt it before, across even greater distances. And now, there was only absence. He smiled, waved, hit his marks. But Dani saw through the polish. That flicker behind his eyes—the one that used to gleam like a kid on Christmas morning—was gone. Something in him had dimmed. He looked like a man performing a version of himself. And it hit her hardest during “Never Forget.” Everyone around her was on their feet, hands in the air, shouting lyrics into the night sky. The energy was euphoric, a whole generation screaming their adolescence back to life. And yet, Dani felt alone. Even in the sea of bodies, even with the music thundering through her chest—she felt invisible. Jason sang with a half-smile, but his gaze wasn’t reaching them anymore. He wasn’t meeting the crowd where they were. His eyes were lifted upward, unfocused, as if the real version of him had already walked away, leaving only the echo. And for the first time ever… he didn’t see her.

Not just literally—he didn’t glance in her direction, didn’t flash that knowing grin or playful wink she used to count on—but emotionally. She wasn’t seen. Not the way she used to be. Not the way he’d made her feel back when she was just a girl in the crowd with his name glittered on her T-shirt and all her hope hung on a glance.

Something inside her cracked, quietly.

She turned to Chris, her voice small even against the noise. “This is it. He’s done.”

Chris frowned. “What do you mean?”

She shook her head slowly, eyes never leaving Jason. “He’s not happy anymore. You can see it.”

And she could. Always had. But that night, she saw something else too—grief. Not hers. His. A kind of quiet resignation...a silent goodbye...And somehow, it made her ache for him more than ever.

 How she saw him now was a far cry from how she used to see him. Back then, Jason Orange was a walking daydream — the brooding, quietly smoldering one who stood a step back from the spotlight yet somehow commanded all of it. He was the man she once pinned his picture up proudly on the wall of her office, his magazine cutouts surrounded by ticket stubs and glittery posters. He was the one she watched through binoculars from the cheap seats, heart hammering whenever his gaze swept the crowd and landed, she swore, on her. Jason Orange had been untouchable — a glistening fantasy she’d spun a million stories around….But now… Now, when Dani looked at Jason, she didn’t see the enigmatic pop star with the bedroom eyes and the slow, sinuous dance moves. She saw a man standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up, washing paintbrushes after helping Jack with his school project. She saw him sprawled on the living room rug, letting Jack climb all over him as they built LEGO cities that took up half the floor. She saw him sitting on the back porch, head in his hands, eyes haunted and raw as Clara whispered to him, stroking his hair, grounding him wherever things got too much.

Now, Jason wasn’t an untouchable dream. He was a man who flinched when his past clawed its way into the present, who clenched his jaw when Clara winced from a kick too hard, who watched over Jack with a fierce, almost desperate kind of love. There was no mystery to him anymore. But there was something better. Depth. Realness. Vulnerability. And it struck her that the version of Jason she once loved — the polished, perfect version she watched on stage— was only the surface. A shiny thing to admire from afar. But this version? The one who smiled at Clara like she was the only thing keeping him from falling apart? The one who sang lullabies to Jack in a low, tender voice when he thought no one was listening? This Jason was the real man. And for Dani, being around him now, loved him even more — but in a different way. Not as a fan. Not as the girl in the crowd. But as someone who saw him as he truly was. A man would do anything to protect the life he was so desperately trying to build. He still made people feel seen. But it was different now. Real. Gentle. Unperformed. He wasn’t perfect. He could be awkward, over-apologetic, too eager to fix what couldn’t be fixed. But when he was with Clara, he softened. And when he was with Jack, he lit up. Not with ego, but with purpose. Like being useful to a little boy somehow patched something broken in himself. And now, there was this baby.

Her niece…. A child who’d never know the screaming fans or stage lights from her father's past, only this quieter version of Jason—the one who took pride in the joys of the school run, brought Clara decaf tea with honey every morning and in her eyes was the one who bought Clara back to the family. . Dani wiped at the corner of her eye before it turned to anything embarrassing. She was going to be an aunt. To Jason Orange’s baby. But not because he was Jason Orange. Because he was Jason. Her friend. A good man. Practically her brother in law 

She wasn't afraid to admit it but she truly loved him. Not in the giddy, adolescent way she’d once adored him from a stadium crowd. That Jason had been untouchable—a poster smile, a glittery daydream. But this Jason—the one who forgot to put petrol in Clara’s car but never missed a parent-teacher meetings —was real. Quiet. Earnest. Broken in places, but trying harder than anyone she’d ever known. They didn’t hang out all the time—life was busy, messy, relentless—but when they did, there was ease. An unspoken shorthand. A depth that didn’t need constant tending. He could tell when she needed to vent. She could tell when his smile didn’t reach his eyes. They had seen each other’s raw parts and never once turned away. To most of the world, Jason was the one who used to be someone. But to Dani, he was someone who had become something even rarer: a good man. A true friend. Part of the family.

For Dani, posting in the Take That Facebook groups used to feel like slipping into a cozy, well-worn sweatshirt — familiar, warm, and a place where she could gush, swoon, and relive the best nights of her life without a second thought. It was where she could share old concert photos, laugh at inside jokes only die-hard fans would understand, and talk endlessly about that moment when Jason smiled right at her during The Circus tour. But now, it felt different. Complicated. Like trying to fit into clothes that no longer fit. Because now, Jason wasn’t just a distant, untouchable fantasy. He was Clara’s partner. The father of her soon-to-be niece. The man she’s seen barefoot in the kitchen, hair mussed, making Jack a peanut butter sandwich ready for school. The man she watched hold Clara’s hand at the family BBQ when she was feeling queasy and the man who murmured reassurances when she felt scared about the baby. The group used to be a place where she could indulge in harmless fantasies. But now, she knew too much. Too involved. And every time she scrolled through a thread about him — the speculation, the assumptions, the gossip, she always felt like she was overhearing a conversation she shouldn’t be part of. Because Jason wasn't a poster on her wall anymore and hadn't been for nearly 2 years now. He was family..her family... And that changed everything.

Dani knew she shouldn’t. She really, really shouldn’t. But nostalgia had teeth, and today, it bit down hard. She opened Facebook, her fingers moving almost without thought, typing in the group name: Take That Forever and Always. The familiar banner filled her screen — a collage of the band through the ages, from wide-eyed boys in baggy jeans to grown men in tailored suits. It was the kind of comfort she hadn’t allowed herself in a long time. She started scrolling. The usual posts — a fan sharing her concert ticket collection, another posting a grainy clip of A Million Love Songs from 1994, Gary’s voice crackling through the speakers. Someone had uploaded an edit of Jason and Howard during The Circus tour, arms slung around each other, grinning like mischievous schoolboys. Dani smiled softly, her heart giving a little nostalgic twist. Howard and Jason — the quiet ones. The ones she always felt were hers. She kept scrolling. A fan speculating about a possible reunion. Someone else asking for recommendations for a Take That-themed playlist. A post featuring a blurry scan of a vintage Smash Hits interview, Jason leaning against a brick wall, smoldering at the camera.

Then she saw it.

Her blood ran cold instantly.

The picture was instantly recognizable. Jason crouched down, one knee on the ground, tying Jack’s shoelace. Jack’s small arms looped around Jason’s neck, head tilted back, giggling. Jason’s face caught mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, hair falling over his forehead. The intimacy of it made Dani’s stomach twist. This wasn’t just a father and son moment. This was their moment. Private. Intimate. Sacred. The post had over a hundred comments already. Fingers trembling, Dani clicked to expand them.

“OMG is this recent???”

“Who knew Jason had a kid?!”

“That poor little boy. What kind of life is he going to have with Jason as a dad?”

“Honestly, it’s just weird seeing him like this. Like, dude, you were the hot one, the one who only cared about flirting with women— now you’re doing school runs?”

“Ugh, he always hated the spotlight. Imagine how he feels now.”

“This is crossing a line. Delete this.”

Dani’s throat tightened almost instantly. This wasn’t some blurry concert pic taken from the cheap seats. This was Jason, vulnerable, exposed. Jack, oblivious and trusting. She pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the shaky breath that clawed its way out of her chest. Her vision blurred as she read the comments again, each word scraping like sandpaper against her heart.

“Aww, look at Jason being a dad! He always seemed like such a sweetheart — happy to see him happy.”

“That little boy is adorable. Jason looks so at peace. Let them be.”

“I’m glad he’s found a life outside the spotlight. He deserves some normalcy.”

“Wow, is that really Jason Orange? He’s aged a bit, but still good-looking.”

“What happened to him? He used to be so fit. Now he just looks… old.”

Her chest tightened, and her fingers curled into a fist. How dare they? How could they look at that picture — that beautiful, unguarded moment — and twist it into something ugly? Did they have any idea how hard Jason tried every single day to do the right thing? To be a good dad, a good partner, a good man? She wanted to scream at them. Type furiously in all caps, tell them to back off, to leave him alone. She wanted to write paragraphs about how Jason wasn’t just “the hot one” — how he was thoughtful, quiet, how he remembered people’s names and never walked past a bit of litter without picking it up. How he didn’t ask to be anyone’s fantasy — he just wanted to be Jack’s dad and Clara's partner 

“Why is he dragging that kid around in public if he wants to stay hidden? Hypocrite.”

“What a joke. He thinks he can just disappear and live a ‘normal’ life? Newsflash — we made you famous.”

“Feel sorry for that little boy. Imagine growing up with a washed-up pop star as a dad.”

“This is creepy. Why is he touching that kid’s face like that? Something feels off.”

“I wonder who the kid’s mum is. Can’t imagine Jason being a real dad.”

“Maybe he’s just playing dad. Hard to believe he could handle the responsibility.”

“What’s he hiding? First he disappears, now he’s parading a kid around?”

Dani was now growing even more angry by the second, she desperately wanted to post about how Jason would be devastated if he saw this and read the awful comments — how he’d blame himself, how the guilt that it had happened would crush him. How Clara would hold him and try to convince him it wasn’t his fault. And Jack — sweet, trusting Jack, who loved his dad like a hero — what would happen when he was old enough to understand that strangers dissected his life online like it was entertainment?

She wanted to tell them they didn’t know Jason at all. Not really. They may have thought that they did but in all honesty they never truly did. They’d seen a version of him — the dancer, the heartthrob, the guy who sang a few harmonies and flashed that irresistible smile. That was never who he truly was

Tears pricked in Dani’s eyes, and she wiped them away roughly. She couldn’t post any of that. It wouldn’t change their minds, wouldn’t stop the photos from spreading. It would only add fuel to the fire. And yet, the unfairness of it all burned inside her. She could feel the helpless fury building in her chest, like a scream stuck in her throat. Jason didn’t deserve this. Jack didn’t deserve this. They were just trying to live, to be a family — to be happy. And now, because of some stranger with a camera and a thirst for clicks, that happiness had been tainted. She wanted to punch the screen, to smash it to pieces She swallowed hard, trying to steady herself. She needed to tell Jason. He had to hear it from her, not from the internet. But just the thought of seeing his face when he found out made her want to curl up and cry.

“This isn't right… “ She took a deep breath and whispered, “This isn’t fair. It’s just not fair.” 

Dani’s hands hovered over the keyboard, her fingers trembling. The cursor blinked at her, waiting, taunting. The post loomed large on the screen — the picture of Jason crouched down, Jack’s tiny arms looped around his neck, Jason’s smile caught mid-laugh, eyes crinkled in that way Dani knew so well. The comment section buzzed below, a swarm of mixed reactions, each word a tiny cut. She swallowed, the lump in her throat thick and heavy. Her chest tightened, and her jaw clenched as she read the latest comment:

“Why bring a kid into the spotlight if you’re so desperate to stay out of it? Hypocrite.”

Her fingers twitched. That was it. That was enough. She started typing, words spilling out in a rush:

“You don’t know him. You don’t know what he’s been through, what he’s sacrificed to keep his family safe and out of the spotlight. You have no idea how much he cares, how hard he tries every day to be a good dad and partner. This isn’t just some ex-pop star moment — it’s a private, beautiful moment between a father and his son, and you’ve stolen it. You’ve turned it into gossip, into fodder for strangers to tear apart. You have no right. None.”

Her chest heaved as she read it over, the words vibrating in her head, her heart pounding. For a second, she felt the satisfaction of it, the righteous, searing release. But then, the adrenaline ebbed, leaving only a sick, heavy feeling in her gut. What would posting it actually do? Would it make them stop? Or would it only add more fuel to the fire? Would it drag Jason and Jack even further into the spotlight? And what if Jason saw it? Would he know it was her? Would he feel betrayed that she’d even looked? Dani’s thumb hovered over the “Post” button. She could almost feel Jason’s eyes on her, that wounded, haunted look he got whenever the past came creeping back in. The guilt that still clung to him like a second skin. The way he apologized for things that weren’t his fault. The way he never felt enough. Her throat closed up. The cursor blinked at her, a silent, relentless metronome. She closed her eyes, took a shaky breath, and then — with a trembling finger — she hit Delete....The words vanished.

The silence felt deafening. Dani leaned back, her heart thundering against her ribs, her eyes stinging. The urge to scream, to punch something, to protect Jason and Jack from all the strangers with their cruel, careless words pressed down on her like a weight she couldn’t lift. Instead, she shut the laptop, pressing it closed with a force that made her fingers ache. Then she pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and buried her face against her knees. Jason needed to know. He needed to hear it from her, not from the internet. But how could she tell him without breaking his heart? Without undoing everything he’d worked so hard to rebuild? She squeezed her eyes shut, the image of Jack’s tiny arms wrapped around Jason’s neck seared into her mind.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, but whether she was saying it to Jason, to Jack, or to herself, she couldn’t be sure.

By now Dani began to pace her office, the phone pressed to her ear as she chewed on her thumbnail. Her eyes kept darting to the closed laptop on the coffee table, as if the screen might spring open and spill the poison she’d just read once more. “Dan?” Chris’s voice came through the line, warm and familiar. “Hey, babe. Everything okay?”

A sob caught in her throat, sharp and sudden. She swallowed it down, but it left her voice thin and shaky. “No. No, it’s not.”

“Talk to me…” She heard Chris shift, the rustle of fabric, the soft creak of the chair in office. “What’s happened?”

“I was on Facebook.” Dani pressed her fingertips to her temple, as if she could hold her head together through sheer force of will. “One of the Take That group. I know, I know, I shouldn’t have, but—”

“You know how it makes you feel reading those pages now” Chris sighed, but it was gentle. “What did you see?”

“They posted pictures. Of Jason and Jack. Someone took them at the café — without them knowing Chris. Jason’s tying Jack’s shoe, and Jack’s got his arms around him and — Chris, it’s so intimate. It’s... it’s beautiful. And they ripped it apart. They’re saying the most horrible things. They’re calling him a hypocrite, saying he’s dragging Jack into the spotlight, accusing him of being a bad dad. Some of them are saying even worse.” The words rushed out, one after another, tumbling over each other as Dani’s breath quickened. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. “How am I supposed to tell him that? How am I supposed to walk in there and tell Jason that his worst nightmare is all over the internet?”

Chris was quiet for a moment, and Dani could almost see him leaning forward, brow furrowed, that calm, steady expression he always wore when she was unraveling.

“Dani, breathe,” he said, his voice a low anchor. “Take a deep breath honey ” She did, but it didn’t help much. The ache in her chest felt like it was spreading, pressing against her ribs. “Okay. I’m here. I’ve got you. Listen — this isn’t your fault,” Chris said, his tone firm but gentle. “You didn’t take those pictures. You didn’t write those comments.”

“But I looked..I told Jason that i'd never look” Dani said, her voice breaking. “I shouldn’t have. And now I know, and they don’t, and I feel sick. Jason’s already struggling, worrying that hes going to be too old to be a father. He’s barely holding it together some days, and now... now this.”

Chris exhaled, and it sounded like he was rubbing his forehead. “I know it’s awful. But you’re right — they need to hear it from you. Not from some stranger on the internet. It’s going to hurt, Dani. There’s no way around that. But they need you to be honest. And Clara’s strong. She’ll be there for Jason.”

Dani nodded, though Chris couldn’t see it. The room felt too small, the walls too close. “I just... God, Chris, he’s going to feel like he failed. Like he let Jack down. He’s going to blame himself.”

“I know,” Chris said, and his voice was soft, like he was holding her through the phone. “But that’s why he needs you. You can remind him that he hasn’t and I'm sure that sister of mine will tell him too. He's done everything he can for them.”

Dani closed her eyes, tears sliding down her cheeks. “I don’t know how to say it. I don’t know how to look him in the eye and tell him that people are tearing apart his life. His family. Jack…Clara..what are they going to say when they find out she's carrying his child?”

Chris paused. “You start by telling the truth. And then you hold him. And you let him feel it. That’s all you can do.” A small, broken sound escaped her, and Chris whispered, “I love you, Dani. You can do this.”

She nodded again, wiping her cheeks. “I love you too.”

She hung up, staring at the phone in her hand, its weight too heavy, too solid. Jack’s laughter echoed from the other room, a bright, innocent sound that only made the ache in her chest deepen. Dani sank down onto the couch, pressing her palms to her knees, trying to ground herself. She took a deep breath. And then another. Because Chris was right. There was no way around this. Only through.

She sat there quietly, elbows braced on her knees, head bowed, eyes closed. The room felt too quiet, too still. The silence pressed against her, heavy and smothering, amplifying the pulse thrumming in her ears. She could still hear Chris’s voice, calm and steady, telling her to breathe. To just tell the truth. But how? How did you look a man in the eye and tell him that the world had turned his most vulnerable, beautiful moment with his son into a spectacle? Those people who didn’t know him — who had never seen how he gently brushed the crumbs from Jack’s cheeks after breakfast or how he carried Clara’s bag without being asked — were dissecting his life as if it were public property?Dani swallowed, her throat tight. She glanced toward the closed door, toward where Jack was still watching his movie. Innocent. Unaware. God, how was she supposed to go to Jason and Clara and say, Hey, the world’s found you again. You know that peace you thought you’d finally made with your past? It’s gone.

Her stomach twisted.

She rubbed her palms down her jeans, the friction a small, grounding sensation. She had to do this. There was no other choice. Dani pushed herself to her feet, the movement slow and reluctant, her limbs heavy like they were moving through water. Crossing the room, she opened the door and poked her head out into the hallway.

“Lauren?” she called, her voice scratchy, frayed "can i borrow you a second?"

A moment later, Lauren appeared, a clipboard in hand, her brow furrowed. “Yeah?”

“I —” Dani cleared her throat, trying to sound steady. “Something’s come up. I need to leave for a bit. Can you cover for me? Make sure Kito gets his meds on time, and keep an eye on the chimp habitat? If there’s any trouble, call me.”

“No worries” Lauren’s expression softened with concern. “Of course. Everything okay?”

Dani forced a tight, quick smile. “Yeah. Just… family stuff.”

"Sure thing boss" Lauren nodded, squeezing her arm as she passed. “Take care.”

Dani waited until Lauren had disappeared down the hall before closing the office door again. She stood there for a moment, the silence rushing back in, wrapping around her like a vise. Her eyes fell to the bottom drawer. She didn’t want to. But she had to. Kneeling down, she eased it open. Beneath a stack of outdated animal intake forms, a few worn envelopes, and a half-empty pack of gum, it lay there. The sonogram.She lifted it gently, the paper soft and frayed from how many times she’d unfolded and refolded it, how many times her thumb had traced the outline of the tiny, curled shape nestled in the grainy grayscale. Sitting down onto the floor, her back resting against the drawer. The room felt even smaller now, as if the walls had crept closer, pressing in.She held the sonogram up, her thumb grazing the edge of it, her breath catching in her throat.

 “Hey, little one,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I know you’re not even here yet, but I need you to know something.” Her eyes blurred as she stared at the shadowy, bean-shaped form. “You are so loved. You have no idea how loved you are. By your mama, by your daddy, by your uncle Chris… by me. You’re going to have this whole family wrapped around your tiny little finger. And we’re going to protect you. I promise.” Her chest hitched, and she blinked rapidly, a tear slipping free. “Your daddy… he’s one of the best men I know. He’s going to love you so fiercely.. but I have to go hurt him a little more now. I have to break his heart so he can protect it and you too…But it’s for the right reasons Hope, I promise you... Because you and Jack and Clara — you deserve to be safe.”

Dani swallowed hard, pressing a shaky kiss to the sonogram before carefully folding it back along the creases. She tucked it back into the drawer, sliding it beneath the stack of papers like she was tucking away a secret.She pressed her palms to the floor, pushed herself up, and stood there for a moment, staring at the drawer. The weight of what she had to do hung heavy around her neck. But Chris was right. The only way through this was to tell the truth And then, with one last glance at the closed drawer, she walked out of the office, shutting the door behind her.

Dani’s knuckles were now white against the steering wheel, her eyes fixed on the road but not really seeing it. Chris’s words echoed in her mind: You love them. That’s all you need to know. But love wasn’t going to protect Jason and Jack from this. Love wasn’t going to stop the avalanche that was already rolling. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she pulled up to Clara and Jason’s house. The house was warmly lit, a soft, golden glow spilling through the windows. Inside, she could hear Jack’s laughter, high and bright, drifting through the evening air. Dani closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, willing her legs to move, willing herself to be strong enough to do what she had to do. She slowly stepped out of the car, her phone heavy in her pocket like a ticking bomb.

Inside, Clara opened the door with a warm, open smile that fell the moment she saw Dani’s face. Dani didn’t say a word. She just stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her sister-in-law, holding on tight, pressing her face into Clara’s shoulder.

“What are you up to?” Clara stiffened, her arms hovering awkwardly for a moment before she wrapped them around Dani. “Dani? Hey... what’s going on? Are you alright?”

Dani swallowed, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to hold back the tears burning at the corners of her eyes. You can do this. You have to do this. She pulled back, hands still on Clara’s shoulders, her eyes wet and glistening.

“Where’s Jason?” Dani asked, her voice rough. “Is he here?”

“Yes…” Clara blinked, clearly thrown. “Uh… he’s just putting Jack to bed. They had a boys’ day — ice cream, the park, the toy store. Jack’s wiped out.” She forced a soft laugh, but her eyes stayed fixed on Dani’s face, concern deepening. “Dani, what’s wrong? You’re scaring me.”

Dani glanced down, fingers shaking as she pulled her phone from her pocket. The Facebook page was still open, the image of Jason and Jack staring back at her like a ghost she couldn’t shake. She swallowed, tucking the phone away. “There’s... something I need to tell you… both of you”

Clara’s brow furrowed. “Okay...”

Footsteps soon  creaked on the stairs, and by now Jason appeared in the hallway, his hair mussed, face soft with that tired, content look he always had after spending time with Jack. He took one look at Dani and frowned, his expression tightening. “Dani? What’s going on?..it's not Chris is it?”

Dani opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat, thick and heavy. She couldn’t do this. But she had to. She forced herself to meet Jason’s eyes, the warm brown gaze that had seen so much already, that had been through so much more than he deserved.

“Maybe we should sit down,” she said, her voice cracking.

Jason glanced at Clara, then back at Dani, his jaw working as if bracing himself for a blow. Clara reached for Jason’s hand, her fingers twining with his as they both settled onto the couch. Dani didn’t sit. She couldn’t. Instead, she pulled out her phone again, her heart hammering so hard she thought she might throw up. With shaking hands, she swiped to the post — the picture of Jason and Jack, Jack’s arms around his neck, Jason’s face caught mid-laugh, vulnerable, exposed, and absolutely beautiful. She handed it to Jason.

“It’s all over Facebook,” she said, her voice breaking. “And the comments... they’re tearing you apart.”

Jason took the phone, his eyes fixed firmly on the screen. Clara leaned closer, her expression twisting as she took in the photo. Dani watched as Jason’s face crumpled before her, his jaw clenching tight, his hand gripping the phone so hard his knuckles went white. Shei stood there, frozen, her heart thundering in her chest as she watched Jason stare down at the phone in his hands. It was as if the ground had fallen away beneath him, leaving him suspended, weightless, unanchored. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, dark and hollow, like he was looking through it rather that it. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked along his cheekbone, and his breathing had gone shallow and uneven. Dani could see the way his chest rose and fell, as though he was trying to swallow down a scream.

Jason’s thumb hovered over the image, the pad of it trembling slightly. The way Jack’s little arms clung to his neck. The way Jason’s head was tilted toward his son, eyes crinkled in mid-laugh. That tender, unguarded moment now twisted, tainted, dragged out into the glare of a screen for strangers to dissect. Dani could already hear the accusations spiraling through his mind — I should have been more careful. I should have known. I should have protected him better. This is my fault.

He squeezed the phone tighter, his knuckles going bone-white, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. But his eyes — God, his eyes — they were glassy and distant, like he was slipping away, sinking under the weight of all those cruel words. The room felt too quiet, the air too heavy. Dani couldn’t breathe. Jason still hadn’t looked up, hadn’t said a word. Clara’s hand was on his knee, her thumb moving in slow, soothing circles, her own face tight with worry. But Jason was somewhere else — somewhere deep inside his own head, where those old, familiar voices were already tearing him apart. And Dani stood there, hands clenched at her sides, stomach churning with guilt and anger and helplessness. She’d known it would be bad. She just hadn’t realized it would look like this — Jason unraveling, breaking apart right in front of her. And all she could do was watch.

Dani sank into the armchair opposite them, the weight of the room pressing down like a storm cloud ready to burst. Clara’s hand remained on Jason’s knee, her knuckles pale, eyes darting between Dani and the phone as if searching for a way to undo what she’d just seen. Jason’s gaze was still fixed on the screen. He wasn’t blinking. Wasn’t breathing. Dani could almost hear the echo of every ugly comment reverberating in his head — hypocrite, washed-up has been, bad dad — each word striking like a blow. His thumb trembled as he slowly scrolled, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.

“How… why?” Jason whispered, the words cracking like glass. The rawness of his voice made Clara flinch.

Dani swallowed hard, her eyes stinging. The urge to rush forward, to wrench the phone from his hand, to undo this entire night clawed at her insides. But there was no going back now. Clara leaned closer, her hand sliding up to Jason’s shoulder, but he didn’t move, his eyes glued to the image of Jack clinging to him, of his own unguarded smile frozen in time — a smile that now felt like a betrayal.

“It was just… someone at the café,” Dani said, her own voice foreign to her ears, hollow and flat. “Someone with a phone and no sense of decency.”

Jason swallowed, a hard, convulsive motion, as if forcing down the bile rising in his throat. He looked up at Dani then, and the look in his eyes nearly broke her. It was the look of a man slipping under, the ground crumbling beneath his feet, the walls caving in.

“How did I not see them?” he said, voice frayed. “How did I not know?”

Clara squeezed his shoulder, her own eyes glassy. “Jason, this isn’t your fault. You were just—”

“With my kid…our kid Clara” Jason said, his jaw twitching. “Just being his dad.”

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Dani couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She’d thought the worst part was showing them the photo. But it wasn’t. The worst part was watching the man she’d followed for years as a devoted loyal fan— a man who’d worked so hard to build a quiet, simple life — come apart at the seams, one ugly comment at a time.

And deep down, Dani knew this was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

Jason had spent years learning how to shrink the noise around him. After the band, after the spotlight faded and the world kept asking where he went, he’d simply wanted to exist. Not for show. Not in nostalgia. Just... exist. Quietly. Genuinely. So Dani knew how sacred privacy had become to him—not just as a preference, but as a lifeline. It wasn’t about being aloof, or mysterious, or trying to hide. It was about healing. About carving out a life that felt like his own, not one borrowed, magnified, or stolen frame by frame. He never said it outright, but Dani had seen it—in the way he always picked the quietest booth in a café, always kept sunglasses on even when the clouds hung low. Almost as if the world would twist even that into something sellable. And now, this.

A stranger with a long-lens camera had captured a moment of softness—a father figure tying a little boy’s shoe, lifting him toward a painted rocket, accepting a toddler's weight like it was gravity itself—and turning it into content. Clicks. Comments. Speculation. Not just the photos, but the invasion. The breach of something sacred. And Dani’s stomach instantly churned, because she knew what he’d do next. He’d withdraw. He always did. She’d seen it before—when the press hounded him after his disappearance from public life. When old clips were recycled like they were still relevant. He shut down. Not cold. Not angry. Just… gone. Quiet in a way that didn’t feel peaceful. Like a part of him had curled up and closed the door. And this time, it wasn’t just about him. It was Jack. A child who trusted Jason with everything—his giggles, his nap hair, the way he reached for Jason’s hand without looking. That trust was something Jason guarded with his whole heart. And now it had been turned into bait. Dani could already hear the stories: “Reclusive Star’s Secret Life.” “Daddy Reveal?” “Is Jason Orange Back?” It made her sick. Because he wasn’t back. He had arrived—finally, fully, as the man he was always meant to be. Quiet. Grounded. Trying his damned best. And now the world was clawing at him again, and honestly Dani didn’t know if he could survive it a second time.

Jason took the phone, his eyes fixed on the screen. Clara now had leaned closer, her expression twisting as she took in the photo. Dani watched on as Jason’s face crumpled, jaw clenching tight, breath quickening. His eyes stayed locked on the image — not blinking, not moving — as though looking away would make it real. Clara’s hand tightening around Jason’s, her knuckles white

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, Jason…”

But Jason couldn’t hear her. Couldn’t hear anything. His world had gone silent, narrowed down to that one image. Jack, so small, so trusting, arms around his neck. Jason’s smile, wide and open, a moment of pure, unfiltered joy. A moment he thought was private. Safe. Sacred. Now it was bait. Content. Clicks. Comments. Hypocrite. Washed-up. Pathetic. The words blurred together, a slurry of accusations and speculation. Jason’s throat tightened, bile rising.

“I just wanted to be a dad..give him the perfect day” he said, voice strangled. “Just a dad out with his boy” His jaw clenched, his breath shuddering as he tried to hold it together. “Not… this.”

“You are Jack’s dad,” Clara said, voice firm. She reached for him, but Jason jerked away, rising abruptly to his feet.

“But now everyone’s seen him, Clara…the people I walked away from have seen him” Jason said, voice rising. “Everyone’s seen my son.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair, eyes wild and glassy. “They think I’m using him — that I’m dragging him into the spotlight. They think… they think I want this..that i'd do that to a child” He let out a bitter, hollow laugh. “God, Clara, they think I’m parading Jack around for attention. Like I’m some… desperate, washed-up—”

“Jason,” Clara said, standing, reaching for his arm. “Stop...enough”

But he was already backing away, chest heaving. “I should have known better. I should have been more careful. I should have —”

“Should have what?” she snapped, her voice breaking. “Locked Jack in the house forever? Never taken him outside? You didn’t do anything wrong!...this isn't your fault ”

Jason’s jaw twitched, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. “But it happened anyway,” he whispered. His eyes dropped to the phone, the image of Jack’s innocent, smiling face burning a hole through him. “I let it happen. I wasn’t paying attention. I wasn’t… protecting him.”

“Jason,” Clara stepped forward, her hands reaching for him “please…”

But Jason pulled away, backing toward the door. “I need air,” he said, voice raw and fractured.

Before Clara could speak, he was gone — the screen door slamming shut, the echo of it reverberating through the house. The sound lingered like a tremor, sharp and jarring. Inside, the air was heavy, thick with the residue of Jason’s pain. Dani stood frozen, eyes wide, heart pounding in her chest as if it were trying to beat its way out. She hadn’t expected it to feel like this — like she’d just dropped a grenade into the middle of their living room and was now standing in the smoking aftermath. Jason’s face was burned into her mind, that haunted, hollow look as he stared at the photo. As he stared at the evidence of his failure — or what he believed to be his failure. Her fists clenched, her nails biting into her palms. Every instinct screamed at her to run after him, to say something — anything — to undo what she’d just done. But her feet stayed glued to the floor, the words jammed in her throat. She had brought the wolves to their door. She had been the one to break Jason’s fragile sense of safety. How could she undo that now?

The room was too quiet, the silence a suffocating blanket. Clara stood by the sofa, one hand wrapped protectively over her belly, the other clenching the edge of a cushion so hard her knuckles went white. She was staring at the teacup Jason had made her, the tea still steaming, the surface trembling from her shaking hand. Her face was drawn, pale, eyes red-rimmed as if she were holding herself together by sheer force of will.

“Clara?” Dani’s voice was a rough whisper, the words like shards in her throat. “I’m sorry.”

Clara’s back stiffened, but she didn’t turn. Her gaze stayed locked on the tea, as if the steam rising from the cup was the only thing tethering her to the present. “You didn’t take the picture,” she said flatly. “You didn’t post it. You didn’t write those words.”

“But I brought it here,” Dani said, her voice quaking. “I knew it would hurt him. And I still —”

Clara inhaled sharply, her shoulders rising, then falling in a slow, shuddering exhale. Slowly, she turned to face Dani, her jaw clenched so tight Dani could see the muscle jumping. When she spoke, her voice was tight, controlled, but her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“You did what you had to do,” said Clara, voice breaking. “I know that. Jason knows that. It’s just…” Her voice wavered, and she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, as if holding in a sob. “God, Dani. Everything was going so well.”

Dani’s eyes welled up, guilt crashing through her like a tidal wave. “I knew it would be bad,” she said, her gaze fixed on a tiny chip in the tile floor. “But seeing his face… Clara. I feel like I’ve ripped his heart out.”

Clara let out a breath, shaky and unsteady, then sank down onto the sofa, her head dropping into her hands. “You didn’t,” she whispered, her voice muffled. “You didn’t.”

But Dani couldn’t shake the image of Jason’s eyes, wide and disbelieving, like he’d been punched in the gut. She could still hear his voice, cracking under the weight of his own guilt. What kind of father does that?

“Doesn’t matter,” Dani said, her jaw clenched. “I was the one who handed it to him. And now he’s out there, falling apart. And we both know what that means.”

Clara swallowed thickly, her hands coming to rest on her bump, rubbing slow, soothing circles. “Yeah,” she whispered. “We do.”

Outside, the faint crunch of gravel echoed through the room — Jason pacing the garden, his shadow moving back and forth through the glass doors like a caged animal. Dani’s eyes tracked his silhouette, the line of his hunched shoulders, his hands buried in his hair as if trying to hold himself together.

“I just — I hate them,” Dani said, voice rising. “Those people. They don’t know him. They don’t know how hard he’s trying. How much he loves Jack. How much he’s trying to be a good man, a good dad.”

“I know…” Clara’s gaze stayed fixed on the floor, her face pale and drawn. “They don’t see the way he wakes up every night to check Jack’s breathing. Or how he leaves little notes in his lunchbox to say he loves him. Or how he writes down every single thing Jack says that makes him laugh so he can remember it forever.” Her eyes glistened, and she bit down hard on her lip, as if trying to contain the sob. “They don’t know how he still questions if he’s good enough. If he’s... enough.”

Dani’s breath hitched. “But it’s more than that, Clara. You know how he is. He carries everything. It’s like... it’s like he thinks he doesn’t deserve any of it. You. Jack. The baby. This life. Like he’s just waiting for someone to take it away from him.”

Clara flinched, her shoulders curling in as if against a blow. “I know,” she said, voice breaking. “I know. And this… this is exactly what he was afraid of. Being exposed. Being judged. He left everything behind to protect Jack from this. And now...”

Dani’s eyes filled with tears, and she dragged a shaky hand through her hair. “Now he’s probably thinking he failed. That he should’ve done more. Be smarter. Seen it coming.”

Clara’s lips trembled, and she pressed a fist against her mouth, her breath coming in ragged gulps. “That’s the thing about Jason. He’ll turn all of this inward. He always does. When things go wrong, he doesn’t get angry at the world — he gets angry at himself. He's told me multiple times he was like that in the band too…every time he missed a cue or a dance move went wrong…he always blamed himself. He was his own worst enemy”

Dani’s heart clenched. “I keep thinking about how he was back then. Just before he left the band. The way he was just… fading away. Like he was disappearing inside himself. And I can see that look in his eyes again. That hollow, empty look. Like he’s falling back into that darkness.”

Clara pushed up from the sofa, pacing, her hands cradling her bump as if holding onto something tangible. “I can’t let that happen,” she said, voice breaking. “I won’t.”

“You won’t,” Dani said, stepping forward, her hand landing on Clara’s arm. “You’re the only one who can pull him back. You, Jack, and this baby. You’re his anchor.”

Clara nodded, but her eyes stayed fixed on the glass doors, on the shadow of Jason hunched forward, his hands still tangled in his hair. “But what if it’s not enough?” she whispered. “What if... what if this is the thing that finally breaks him?”

Dani’s grip tightened. “Then we hold him together. As long as it takes. Until he can hold himself.”

Clara swallowed, her tears finally spilling over, carving slow, glistening paths down her cheeks. “He thinks he’s not enough, Dani. He thinks he’s still just that guy in the background, the one nobody listened to, the one nobody cared about.”

Dani’s face crumpled, her own tears falling freely now. “But he’s not. He’s so much more. And we have to make him see that. Somehow.”

“I…” Clara swiped at her tears, inhaling deeply. “I just... I love him so much, Dani. And it hurts to see him hurting like this. It hurts to see him hating himself all over again for something that wasn't his fault”

Dani pulled Clara into a tight hug, her hand stroking up and down Clara’s back in slow, rhythmic sweeps. “You are going to get him through this,” she whispered, her own voice breaking. “We’re going to remind him who he is. And how loved he is. Every single day if needs must.”

Clara nodded against Dani’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut, her hands fisting in Dani’s shirt, holding on as if letting go meant losing everything. And outside, through the glass doors, Jason sat alone on the edge of the garden, head in his hands, shoulders hunched, as if the world was too heavy for him to bear. Dani soon pulled Clara into one last embrace, her arms tight, fierce, as if she could pour all her strength into Clara in one last squeeze.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Dani murmured against Clara’s hair. “If you need anything — anything at all...”

Clara nodded, but her eyes were already drifting toward the back door, toward the sliver of night beyond the glass. Toward Jason.

Dani stepped back, her thumb brushing a tear from Clara’s cheek. “You’re stronger than you know Clara McFly, you always have been” she said softly. “And so is he.”

Clara’s lips quivered in a fragile, fleeting smile. “I hope so.”

“Look after him…” Dani lingered for a moment, her gaze moving past Clara to the darkened garden, to the lone figure hunched on the bench — a man carved in shadow, his head bowed, his shoulders drawn in as if he were trying to make himself smaller, to disappear “He needs you…” Then, with one last, lingering look, Dani slipped out the front door, closing it softly behind her.

When Dani finally left, Clara stood there for a moment, the silence of the house pressing in around her. The only sound was the faint murmur of the wind rustling through the trees outside. Her breath caught in her throat. The house felt achingly empty, as if the air had been sucked out, leaving only the echo of what had been said, what had been felt. Jason was still outside. Still in that same position. The faint glow from the kitchen spilled across the garden, washing over him in soft, muted gold. It made him look smaller somehow, like he was folding in on himself. Her heart twisted painfully as she watched him through the glass. He looked so small. So lost. His elbows braced against his knees, his head hanging low, his hair falling forward to curtain his face. His fingers gripped the edge of the bench, knuckles white, as though the wood was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

She swallowed back the tightness in her throat, watching him for a moment — the way his shoulders trembled beneath his shirt, the way his fingers dug into his scalp, as if he was trying to press down all the chaotic thoughts storming inside his head. The sight of him like that — folded in on himself, his back hunched against the world — made something in Clara ache, a dull, throbbing pain that settled deep in her chest. It was the way he was sitting, like a boy scolded and sent to the corner. Like he was carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders and didn’t know how to set it down. She swallowed, her throat tight, and pressed a hand to her belly, feeling the baby’s soft, fluttering kick against her palm. This is your father Hope, she thought. This man who loves so fiercely it breaks him. Steeling herself, Clara moved to the door. The air outside was cool, the scent of wet earth and the distant murmur of wind rustling the trees. Each step she took felt heavy, slow, as if the ground itself were trying to hold her back. Gravel crunched beneath her feet, and Jason didn’t move. Didn’t look up. Didn’t even flinch. Clara’s heart ached with every step. When she reached him, she stood behind him for a moment, her shadow falling over his hunched form. She could see the rise and fall of his shoulders, the tension coiled tight beneath his skin, the way his fingers dug into the wooden bench as if bracing for impact.

She lowered herself onto the bench behind him, close enough that her knees brushed his back. Then, without a word, she lifted her hands and gently threaded her fingers through his hair. Jason tensed, a sharp, shuddering breath escaping him. But when Clara’s thumbs began moving in slow, soothing circles against his scalp, he exhaled, the tension bleeding out of him, leaving only exhaustion. Clara leaned forward, her chest pressing gently against his back, her cheek resting against the crown of his head. Her fingers continued their slow, rhythmic motion, stroking through his hair, her nails lightly grazing his scalp

"Hey..i'm here….” she whispered, her lips brushing the back of his neck. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Jason’s eyes squeezed shut. A strangled sound escaped him — a mix of a sob and a breath, like he was trying to hold something in and let it go at the same time. Clara swallowed, fighting back the wave of emotion tightening her throat. Then, without a word, she moved even closer and slipped her hands over his shoulders, sliding them down to his chest, folding herself around him. Her body pressed to his back, her cheek resting against the curve of his neck. She felt the shudder of his breath, the way his body trembled beneath her touch. His body felt heavy, like he was sinking into the bench, his limbs leaden with exhaustion. Every breath dragged through his chest, thick and jagged, like it hurt to even pull air in. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the memory of those words — hypocrite, washed-up, pathetic — but they echoed, sharp and relentless, like shards of glass rattling around inside his skull.

Then Clara’s hands found him.

Her fingers slid through his hair, warm and steady, moving in slow, gentle strokes. It was such a simple thing, the way her nails grazed his scalp, her fingertips tracing soft, soothing lines through his hair. But it felt like she was reaching inside him, touching the parts of him he kept buried — the raw, unhealed places that ached and stung. His jaw clenched, but the tension began to unravel beneath her touch. Each slow stroke seemed to pull a knot free, the tight coils of stress loosening one by one. Clara pressed closer, her chest warm against his back, her breath a soft, steady rhythm against his ear. And for a moment, Jason let himself lean back, let himself rest against her. Her scent wrapped around him — that warm, familiar blend of lavender and something sweet, something uniquely her. He swallowed thickly, his throat working, his eyes still squeezed shut as she spoke.

“I'm here Jason,” she repeated, her lips brushing the back of his neck, the words a gentle caress that shivered down his spine. “You’re safe. I’ve got you….always”

Safe. The word sank deep, sinking through the layers of tension like a stone dropping through water. Safe. It felt foreign. Like something that happened to other people — people who weren’t followed, watched, exposed. People who weren’t Jason Orange. But right now, with Clara holding him, stroking his hair like he was something precious, something worth comforting, he almost believed it.

Almost.

The warmth of her body against his back anchored him, each rise and fall of her breath matching his own, grounding him. And the way she held him — God, the way she held him. Not just with her arms but with her voice, with the steady, unyielding reassurance in her words. Jason’s eyes burned, and he blinked hard, the tears pressing behind his lids, aching to spill. Because this — being held, being seen, being spoken to so tenderly — was something he’d never let himself need. Not after the band. Not after years of being the pretty one, the one whose worth was in his looks, his dance moves, his silence. But here, in Clara’s arms, with her hands threading through his hair like she could smooth out every fractured thought, he felt like more than that. More than a background dancer. More than a man with a past. More than a man who couldn’t keep his son safe.

“You’re the man I want,” Clara whispered, her words sliding through him like warm honey. “The father I want for Jack. The only man I want to build a life with. Do you hear me?”

A quiet low sob broke loose, Jason shuddered beneath her touch. Clara’s fingers never stopped moving — slow, rhythmic, anchoring him to her, to this moment. Jason tilted his head back slightly, letting her cradle him, letting himself melt into her. The world outside still spun, cruel and relentless, but here — with her hands stroking through his hair, with her voice a balm against the ache — he could almost forget it. And for a little while, he let himself drift. Let himself be held. Let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he was enough.

“They think…” His voice cracked. “They think I’m using him. That I’m… parading Jack around like some… some prop.”

Clara’s hands stilled for a moment before resuming, her touch even gentler now. “You’re not,” she said softly. “Anyone who knows you knows that.”

“But they don’t know me,” Jason said, voice breaking. “All they see is that guy from the posters, from the arenas — the one who smiled and danced and barely sang a word because no one thought he could.”

Clara’s chest tightened against his back. “Jay…”

“I was never good enough,” he whispered, his eyes still closed, lashes wet. “I remember them telling me not to sing. ‘Just mouth the words, I was nothing more than a good-looking one. A pretty face. A background dancer. A joke. I only learned to play the fucking guitar to feel like i contributed something”

Clara’s hands moved to his shoulders, her thumbs pressing into the knots of muscle there. “You weren’t a joke. You were their heart. The one who kept everyone together. The one who made people feel seen.”

Jason shook his head, a harsh, bitter laugh escaping him. “If that were true, they wouldn’t have forgotten me so fast. They wouldn’t be tearing me apart now.”

Clara pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, lingering there, breathing him in. “I didn’t forget you,” she murmured. “I never could.”

Jason’s throat worked, his jaw clenched tight. “I don’t… I don’t know if I can do this, Clara,” he whispered, his voice small and raw. “I don’t know if I can be the father Jack deserves. Or the partner you need. Not with this… this hanging over us. Is this… is this what you really want? A man with a past that won’t let him go? A man who can’t even protect his own child?”

Clara slid her arms around him from behind, wrapping him up, her cheek pressed to the side of his head. “Jason,” she said, her voice thick but steady. “I didn’t fall in love with you because you were perfect. I fell in love with you because you were real. Because you care so deeply it hurts. Because you’re a man who would give anything to protect the people he loves..to protect us..your family.” Jason’s shoulders shook, and Clara felt the warm, wet press of his tears against her arm. “You’re the man who stayed up all night building Jack’s rocket ship out of cardboard, even though you knew he’d destroy it in a day,” she said, her voice soft and full of love. “You’re the man who made me tea when I had that crippling morning sickness, sat on the bathroom floor and held my hair back while I threw up, and sang to the baby even when you thought that might help her” Jason’s hands lifted, covering hers, squeezing tight. “You’re the man I want,” Clara whispered, her lips brushing the curve of his ear. “The father I want for Jack and the father of my unborn child. The only man I want to build a life with. Do you hear me?” she reached over, cupping his heavily stubble filled cheek “it's not Jason from Take That that I want…it's you… I didn’t fall in love with the guy in that band. I didn’t fall in love with that crazy breakdancer, spinning on his back or the heartthrob or even the man who used to make women scream.. I love you…the real you…Just you. The man who’s right here in my arms. The man who holds me like I’m the only thing keeping him afloat.”

“You are…you have been ever since that first day I met you” Jason turned his head, his cheek resting against hers. Their tears mingled, salty and warm. “I hear you,” he said, his voice a broken rasp. “But what if… what if they don’t stop? What if this never stops?”

Clara kissed the edge of his jaw, a featherlight touch. “Then we keep going,” she said, her hands still stroking through his hair, her fingers threading through the strands as if she could ground him, anchor him. “Together.”

Her fingers moved continuously slowly through his hair, and Jason closed his eyes once more, leaning further back against her. Each stroke was a tether, a lifeline, anchoring him to the present — to her. Her other hand slipped around his chest, holding him as if she could keep him from falling apart. He swallowed, his throat thick, the words coiled tight inside him. But with Clara’s warmth at his back, with her fingers in his hair, the knot began to loosen, thread by painful thread.

“You know,” Jason started, his voice rough and broken, “I used to think I was okay with it. That it didn’t bother me. Being the... the pretty one in the band. The hot dancer. The one who just stood there and kept his mouth shut.” Clara’s hand paused briefly, then resumed its gentle rhythm, fingertips grazing his scalp, urging him to keep going. “But then,” Jason said, a bitter laugh slipping out, “then you read stuff like that and it... it all comes back. Like it never left. Like they haven’t moved on from it, so how the hell am I supposed to?” Clara’s hand tightened slightly around his chest, holding him closer. Jason took a shuddering breath, his eyes still closed, the garden a blur behind his eyelids. Clara pressed closer, her forehead resting against the back of his head, her arms tightening around him. He soon felt her heartbeat, slow and steady, pulsing against his spine. It was a tether, an anchor in the storm of his mind.

“Back then,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “I tried, you know? I wanted to be more than just the good-looking one. Wanted to sing. To actually be heard. But they didn’t want that. Management said I should just focus on dancing. ‘Let Gary sing. Let Mark sing. You just look good, mate.’” His jaw clenched, the muscles jumping beneath the skin. Clara pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, her lips soft, her breath warm. “One time,” Jason continued, his voice shaking, “I tried anyway. We were recording, and I — I didn’t even realize I was doing it. Just started singing along. Just harmony. Just... trying to be part of it.” The memory flared bright and raw behind his eyes. The studio lights, the stale air, the sting of embarrassment when the sound engineer stopped the track, eyes narrowed in annoyance. “‘Who’s that?’ he said. Who’s singing that? Jason, mate, you’re not supposed to — just mime, yeah? We don’t need you for this bit.’” Jason exhaled, his breath a jagged thing. “They didn’t even tell me to my face. They just... turned my mic off. Made a joke of it. Like I was too stupid to notice. Like I was nothing more than a bloody prop.” Clara’s hand moved up to his jaw, her thumb brushing over the slight stubble, and Jason leaned into the touch, his eyes burning, throat tight. “So when I read those comments,” he said, voice breaking, “when they say I’m a hypocrite for taking Jack out... when they call me a has-been, a washed-up pop star... it just... it just drags me back there. To being nothing. Just a pretty face that’s lost its shine.”

Clara shifted, sliding around to kneel in front of him, her hands cupping his face. Her eyes searched for him, her expression fierce and loving and shattered.

 "Jason..listen to me” she said, her voice a soft, aching thing. “You are so much more than that. You were then. You are now.” He shook his head, a tear slipping free, and instantly Clara caught it with her thumb, wiping it away. “You were never nothing,” she whispered, her forehead pressing to his. “Not to me. Not to Jack. Not to this baby.” Her thumb traced his cheekbone, slow and reverent. “You’re everything to us. You’re more than a face. You’re more than a past they can’t let go of. You’re here. With me. With Jack. Building a life that’s real and beautiful and yours.” Jason’s chest hitched, a sob catching in his throat. Clara pressed closer, her hands sliding into his hair, holding him there, holding him together. “I see you,” she murmured, her lips brushing against his temple. “All of you. And I love every part. Even the parts that hurt. Even the parts that still think they don’t deserve to be seen.”

Jason shuddered, his hands coming up to clutch her wrists, holding on as if she were the only solid thing in a world that kept slipping out from under him. And as Clara continued to stroke his hair, her fingers threading through the strands with slow, tender movements, Jason finally let himself breathe. And in that breath, he let himself believe her. The night air pressed cool against Jason’s skin, a stark contrast to the heat thrumming beneath his chest. Clara stayed close, kneeling in front of him, her hands cradling his face as though she could hold him together with just her touch. Jason’s eyes fluttered shut, a tremor running through him as her thumbs traced gentle circles over his cheekbones.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to fall apart like this.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Clara said, her breath a warm whisper against his skin. “You don’t have to hold it all in, Jay. Not with me.”

He shook his head, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I just... I thought I was done with all that. I thought I left it behind when I walked away from that life. But it’s still there — still hanging over me like some shadow I can’t shake. And now they’re dragging Jack into it. They’re dragging you into it. How the hell did I let this happen?”

“Listen to me,” Clara said, her hands framing his face with more urgency now, her eyes fierce and shining. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You took your son to get muffins. You played with him. You were a dad. A good dad.”

Jason’s eyes snapped open, raw and wounded. “But they don’t see that. They don’t care. All they see is Jason Orange — the washed-up boy band heartthrob playing at being a father.”

“Stop it,” Clara said, her voice trembling. “Stop doing this to yourself.”

Jason swallowed hard, his jaw working as he fought to hold back the tide of emotions threatening to drag him under. “All those years in the band… I felt like I was invisible. Like I didn’t matter unless I was dancing, smiling, giving them what they wanted. They didn’t want my voice. They didn’t want what I had to say. They just wanted me to shut up and look good.”

Clara’s fingers tightened in his hair, grounding him. “You matter to me,” she said, her voice breaking. “Jason, you matter so much.” Clara’s eyes squeezed shut, her forehead resting against his. “I'm so sorry they made you feel like that back then” she breathed, her fingers stroking through his hair with slow, tender movements. “They were wrong, Jason. So wrong.”

Jason let out a bitter, hollow laugh. “And now they’re doing it again. Treating me like some joke. Like I’m pretending to be something I’m not.”

“You’re not pretending,” Clara said, her voice stronger now. “You’re Jack’s dad. You’re my partner and love of my life. You have been for nearly 2 years now for fucks sake. And you’re more than just some pretty face they all used to scream over.”

Jason’s face crumpled, and Clara pressed her lips to his brow, lingering there, as if trying to kiss the ache away. “I’m scared,” he whispered. “I’m scared they’re right. That I’ll never be more than that guy who just looked good on a poster.”

Clara pulled back slightly, eyes locked onto him. “Jason.. You’re the man who never complains when Jack wants the same story ten times in a row. You’re the man who rubs my feet when they ache and kisses my belly and talks to our daughter every single morning.” Jason swallowed, his eyes searching hers desperately, as if needing to believe her. “You are the man who makes me feel safe and have done every day since I met you” Clara continued, her hand sliding to the back of his neck, her fingers curling in his hair. “You’re the man who loves with his whole heart, even when it’s breaking. Especially when it’s breaking.” Jason’s breath hitched, and Clara brushed a tear from his cheek with her thumb, her touch gentle, reverent. “And you’re not alone in this,” she said, her voice a soft, fierce whisper. “You don’t have to carry it all by yourself. I’m here. Right here. And I’m not going anywhere.” Jason shuddered beneath her touch, his eyes falling shut as he leaned into her, their foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling. Clara stroked his hair once more, the slow, rhythmic motion easing the knots of tension in his neck. He felt himself sinking into her, his hands coming up to clutch at her waist, needing her closeness like air.Jason’s eyes squeezed shut, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. Clara pressed closer, her lips brushing the curve of his jaw, the warmth of her breath sending a shiver through him.'"You’re not alone,” she whispered, and her voice was a soft, aching thing. “You’re not that boy in the band anymore. You’re the man who stayed. The man who fights. The man who loves. And I love you, Jason. All of you.”

Jason let out a low, broken sound, his hands reaching up to cover hers, holding them against his face, holding on like she was the only thing keeping him from drowning. Her fingers threaded through his, and he pressed her palms to his mouth, his lips brushing against her skin in a silent, desperate prayer. Clara moved around to kneel in front of him, her knees pressing against the gravel, her face inches from his. Jason opened his eyes, and her gaze was there, steady and fierce and full of so much love it ached.

"Clara...."

“I love you,” she said, and the words seeped into his bones, filling every hollow space inside him. “And I am not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.” Jason’s chin trembled, and Clara leaned forward, her forehead pressing against his, her fingers moving back to his hair, stroking, soothing, anchoring. And Jason breathed her in — her warmth, her scent, her love — and let himself sink into her, let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, she was right. And for a while, they stayed like that — forehead to forehead, breath mingling, hands entwined. The night air whispered around them, and in Clara’s arms, Jason finally let himself be held. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t feel alone.

“Come on,” Clara murmured, her lips brushing against his temple. “Come inside with me..it's bloody freezing out here anyway” Jason hesitated, his body heavy, weighted with exhaustion and the lingering ache of old wounds. Clara pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, her breath warm against his skin. “Come to bed with me,” she said, her fingers threading through his hair. “Let me hold you. Let me love you.” Jason swallowed, his throat tight, but when Clara stood, her hands still holding his, he let her pull him up. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing close, her cheek against his chest, listening to the wild, erratic beat of his heart. “Together,” Clara whispered, lifting her gaze to his. “We’ll get through this together"

"I tell you what Clara..."Jason cupped her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks, his eyes glistening as he drank her in. “I truly don’t deserve someone as special you,” he rasped.

“Stop...don't...Yes, you do,” Clara said, her hands sliding up to cradle his jaw, her thumbs stroking slow, soothing paths across his skin. “You deserve all of this, Jason. You deserve love. You deserve to be seen. You deserve to be held.”

Jason’s breath shuddered out of him, and Clara rose onto her toes, pressing her lips to his — a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of salt and tears and promises. Jason’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer, and Clara melted into him, holding him as tightly as she could, as though she could anchor him to the ground, to her, to the life they were building together. And as the night air swirled around them, as the garden lay hushed and still beneath the moonlight, Jason let himself fall into her, the world outside forgotten — if only for a moment.

“Come to bed,” Clara whispered again, her hands drifting down to lace with his. “Let me love you.”

Jason nodded, his forehead resting against hers. “Okay,” he said, his voice raw and broken. “Okay.”

And with Clara’s hands in his, her steady, unwavering presence guiding him, Jason followed her inside.

The gravel crunched beneath Jason’s feet, each step feeling heavier, like he was dragging his past behind him, a ghost tethered to his ankles. Clara’s hand wrapped around his, her fingers laced tightly, her thumb brushing slow, steady circles against his skin. He focused on that small point of contact, letting it ground him, anchoring him as the words kept circling his mind

Hypocrite. Washed-up. Pathetic.

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as he tried to push the words away, but they pressed against the back of his skull like a relentless drumbeat. The night air was cool, a sharp contrast to the burning ache in his chest. It felt like he was walking through a fog — each step up the stairs dragging him deeper into the haze of his own self-doubt. At the top of the stairs, Clara stopped and turned to face him. Her eyes were dark, glistening in the soft, amber glow spilling from their bedroom. Jason swallowed, his throat thick, his gaze dropping to their joined hands. Her skin was warm against his, her grip firm and steady, but he still felt untethered, like he was floating above his own body, watching himself stumble through a life that didn’t quite fit.

Clara reached up, her fingertips grazing the line of his jaw, her touch gentle but deliberate. “Come here,” she said softly, and in that moment, Jason felt himself shatter.

He let out a shuddering breath as Clara led him into their bedroom, the room that usually felt like a sanctuary but now felt foreign, too bright, too close. She shut the door behind them, the click echoing through the silence like a full stop at the end of a sentence.

Clara stepped closer, her hands moving to the hem of his shirt, her eyes searching for him. “Can I take this off?” she whispered, her voice tender, as if she were asking for permission to touch his very soul. Jason swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he nodded, his eyes falling closed. His arms rose on autopilot as Clara pulled the shirt over his head, the fabric whispering against his skin. When the shirt fell away, Clara’s hands were there, sliding over his shoulders, down his arms, as if she could smooth away every knot of tension, every shard of self-loathing. “You’re here,” she murmured, her palms resting flat against his chest. “With me. Right here.”

Jason’s eyes fell closed, a tremor running through him as her touch warmed his skin. The room was still, the only sound their shared breaths, the air between them heavy with unspoken words. Jason leaned forward, his forehead resting against Clara’s, his fingers finding her hips, holding on like she was the last solid thing in a world that had gone sideways.

“Clara…” His voice broke, the word slipping out like a prayer. “I — I don’t know how to…”

Clara’s hands rose to his face, cradling him, her thumbs stroking the rough stubble along his jaw. “You don’t have to do anything,” she said, her breath warm against his lips. “Just let me love you.”

A sob broke free from Jason’s chest, raw and guttural, and Clara swallowed it with a kiss — slow, deep, her mouth a gentle, insistent reassurance against his. Jason’s hands moved up, sliding beneath her shirt, his palms skimming over the soft, warm curve of her waist. The feel of her beneath his hands — solid, real, his — sent another shudder through him. Clara lifted her arms, and Jason peeled the shirt from her body, letting it drop to the floor. The sight of her — bare and open, her skin glowing in the soft lamplight, her belly full and round with their daughter — hit him like a punch to the chest.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, his hands trembling as they slid up her sides, thumbs grazing the underside of her breasts. “God, Clara… you’re everything.” Clara’s breath hitched, her chest rising to meet his touch, her eyes falling closed as Jason lowered his head, pressing a kiss to the swell of her belly. His lips lingered there, warm and reverent, as he whispered, “I’m so sorry. I should be stronger. I should be better for you… for her.”

Clara’s hands found his hair, her fingers threading through the tousled strands as she gently urged him up, back to her. “You’re enough, Jason,” she said, her voice a fierce, broken thing. “You’re more than enough.”

Their mouths met again, the kiss deeper this time, more urgent, more desperate. Jason’s hands roamed over her body, memorizing every curve, every dip, every inch of her. Clara arched into him, her breath coming in soft, shuddering pants as his lips moved over her collarbone, down to the valley between her breasts. Jason’s hands trembled as they cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over the taut, sensitive peaks. Clara gasped, her back arching, her nails scraping lightly over his scalp. Jason groaned, his mouth finding her skin, his lips pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses over her flesh as though he could taste away the ache, the fear, the lingering echoes of the past.

“Tell me what you need,” Clara whispered, her fingers stroking through his hair, her body pressing closer, as though she could fuse herself to him.

Jason’s eyes fell closed, his forehead resting against her chest, his breath ragged, his heart pounding against her skin. “You,” he choked out, his voice a fractured, aching sound. “Just you. Just… please.”

Clara’s hands slid down, finding his wrists, guiding his hands to her waist, pressing them firmly against her. “Take what you need,” she said, her voice a soft, soothing murmur. “I’m right here.”

Jason shuddered, his grip tightening as his hands moved up, tracing the lines of her body, feeling the warmth, the softness, the steady, grounding presence of her. And with each touch, each kiss, each whispered promise, the weight of the outside world fell away, piece by piece, until it was just them — two hearts, two bodies, moving together in the quiet, amber-lit room. The room seemed to close in around them, the air thick and heavy, charged with the lingering ache of all Jason couldn’t say. Clara’s hands moved over his chest, her palms warm, steady — a gentle, grounding pressure against his bare skin. Each slow stroke seemed to press him further into the present, into her, as though she were willing him to feel her, to see her, to come back to her.

Jason’s breath hitched as Clara’s fingertips grazed his collarbone, her nails trailing the delicate ridge, sending a ripple of shivers down his spine. Her touch was achingly tender, as if she were memorizing every inch of him, as if she could soothe the raw places inside him with her hands alone. His eyes fell closed, his jaw going slack as she pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the center of his chest, right where his heart thundered beneath the skin. Her lips lingered there, warm and wet, her breath a slow, steady pulse against him. Jason’s hands drifted to her waist, fingers splaying over the curve of her hips, his thumbs brushing slow circles against her soft skin. Clara pulled back just enough to look up at him, her eyes dark, searching. 

“Let me love you,” she whispered, her voice thick, trembling. “Let me remind you of who you are. Who you are to me.” Jason’s chest tightened, the words lodging somewhere behind his sternum, aching and raw. He swallowed, his throat working, and then he nodded, the movement small but certain. Clara’s hands slid lower, palms gliding over his ribs, his stomach, her touch so gentle it was almost reverent. Jason shivered, his breath stuttering as she dipped her head and kissed a slow, languid path across his chest — each press of her lips a silent promise, each soft, wet drag of her mouth a plea for him to let go. “You’re here,” Clara murmured against his skin, her hands moving to his shoulders, her thumbs pressing into the taut muscles there, kneading gently. “Right here. With me.”

Jason’s eyes fell closed, his jaw going slack as he tilted his head back, surrendering to her touch. Every stroke of her hands felt like it was pulling him apart and holding him together at the same time. Clara leaned forward, her hair brushing over his chest like a warm, silken veil. She kissed the curve of his shoulder, her lips moving with exquisite slowness, her teeth grazing the skin just enough to make him gasp. Jason’s hands slid up her back, his fingertips tracing the ridges of her spine, feeling her arch beneath his touch.

“God, Clara…” he breathed, his voice a low, broken rasp.

Clara’s mouth found his neck, her lips warm and wet, her tongue flicking out to taste him, to soothe the tension that still coiled beneath his skin. Jason’s hands trembled as they moved to her hips, gripping her harder now, needing to feel her solid and warm beneath his palms.

“You’re safe,” Clara whispered, her lips grazing the shell of his ear. “I’ve got you.” A ragged sound escaped him, half moan, half sob. Jason’s fingers tightened on her hips, pulling her closer, aligning her body with his. The gentle swell of her belly pressed against his stomach, and Jason’s heart squeezed, his hand moving to cover the curve, his palm spreading out over the life growing within her. Clara placed her hand over his, lacing their fingers together. “She knows you’re here,” Clara said, her breath warm against his jaw. “She knows you love her.”

Jason swallowed hard, his throat thick, and leaned down, pressing his lips to Clara’s belly. The skin there was warm, impossibly soft, and Jason lingered, brushing slow, reverent kisses over the curve of her womb, his eyes stinging with the weight of everything he felt. Clara’s hands slid into his hair, her fingertips threading through the dark strands, her nails grazing his scalp in a way that made Jason’s breath catch. 

“Come here,” she whispered, tugging him up, bringing him level with her. “Let me take care of you.” Before he could respond, Clara’s hands moved to the waistband of his sweats, her fingers hooking beneath the elastic, slowly pushing them down over his hips. The cool air kissed his skin, and Jason shivered, his pulse pounding as Clara’s hands swept back up, grazing his thighs, his waist, his chest. “Lie down,” she said, her voice a gentle command. Jason hesitated, his eyes searching hers, still unsure, still afraid of falling apart. Clara cupped his jaw, her thumbs brushing over the hollow beneath his cheekbones. “I’m right here,” she said, her eyes shining. “You don’t have to hold on so tight, Jay. Let me hold you now.”

Jason let out a shaky breath, then let her push him back, his body sinking into the mattress, the sheets cool against his overheated skin. Clara climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips, the curve of her belly pressing against him, a warm, gentle weight that made his chest tighten. She leaned down, her hair falling like a dark curtain around them, and kissed him — deep, slow, her tongue sliding against his in a soft, languid dance. Jason’s hands moved to her hips, holding her there, grounding himself in the feel of her, the taste of her, the way her body fit so perfectly against his. Clara kissed a slow, deliberate path down his throat, her mouth tracing the line of his collarbone, her tongue dipping into the hollow at the base of his neck. Jason’s fingers dug into her hips, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering pants as Clara continued her slow, sensual exploration of his skin. When she reached his chest, she lingered, her lips brushing over his heart, her tongue flicking out to taste the sweat that glistened there. Jason moaned, his head tipping back, his throat exposed, his eyes falling shut as Clara’s mouth moved lower, her hands roaming over his chest, his stomach, her touch both soothing and searing.

“Please,” he choked out, the word slipping free like a prayer. “Please…”

Clara rose up, aligning her body with his, her hands framing his face as she kissed him — deep, aching, her tongue sliding against his in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Jason’s hands moved to her back, his fingers splaying out, holding her close, needing her skin against his, needing to feel her heartbeat thrumming through him like a lifeline. And as Clara sank down against him, her body enveloping him in warmth and softness, Jason exhaled, a shuddering, broken sound that felt like a release. Clara kissed the tears from his cheeks, her fingers stroking through his hair as they moved together, slow and unhurried, the world outside falling away, until it was just them — two bodies, two hearts, two souls tangled together in the dark.

And when the storm finally passed, when the last tremor shuddered through them both and their bodies stilled, Clara stayed wrapped around him, her lips pressed to the side of his neck, her breath warm and steady against his skin. Jason lay beneath her, his chest heaving, his heart pounding, his hands still gripping her hips as though she might disappear if he let go. But Clara only held him closer, her fingers sliding through his hair, her voice a soft, soothing murmur against his ear.

"I’ve got you..always” she said, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The room was now steeped in the kind of stillness that only comes after a storm — a deep, encompassing quiet that felt almost sacred. Outside, the wind stirred the branches, a low, murmuring lullaby that filtered through the window. Inside, the air was thick with the mingled scent of sweat and skin, the warmth of their bodies still pressed together beneath the soft sheets. Jason lay beneath Clara now, his body a tangle of spent, heavy limbs, his chest rising and falling in slow, shuddering breaths. Clara remained draped over him, her body a warm, solid weight that grounded him, her cheek resting against his chest. Her hair spilled over his skin in a dark, silken veil, the strands sticking to the sheen of sweat that still glistened over him. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed, the lingering ache of everything that had come pouring out of him still hanging in the air like a low, mournful note. His arms wrapped around her back, palms spread flat against her skin, as though he were afraid she might slip away if he let go. Beneath his fingertips, he could feel the subtle, rhythmic thrum of her heartbeat, steady and strong, echoing against his own. Clara’s fingertips now traced idle patterns across his chest, slow, hypnotic circles that soothed and anchored him, each stroke easing the last of the tension from his muscles. Her lips brushed against his sternum, soft and lingering, a kiss that felt less like a touch and more like a vow.

“You still with me?” she murmured, her voice a warm, breathy murmur that sent a shiver down his spine. Jason swallowed, his throat tight. He nodded, but the motion was small, almost imperceptible. The ache inside him was still there, but now it was softened, muted, drowned beneath the warmth of Clara’s body against his and the slow, gentle way she was holding him — like he was something fragile, something worth keeping. “Good,” Clara whispered, pressing another kiss to his chest, right over the spot where his heart beat in slow, heavy thuds against her lips. “Stay with me. Just stay right here.”

Jason’s hand drifted up, his fingertips trailing through her hair, the silky strands slipping through his fingers like water. He breathed her in, the familiar scent of lavender and warm skin sinking deep into his lungs, grounding him. Clara’s hands slid lower, moving over his ribs, his sides, her palms pressing gentle, calming strokes into his muscles. Jason let out a slow, shuddering breath, his body sinking further into the mattress, the last of the tension unraveling beneath her touch.

“Clara…” he rasped, his voice thick, raw.

“I’m here,” she said, lifting her head to look at him, her dark eyes shining in the low light. “Right here.”

His eyes met hers, and in that moment, he felt the ache inside him crack open, spilling through him like a wave. His throat worked, his jaw clenching as he fought to hold it back, but Clara just cupped his face, her thumbs brushing over the damp tracks of his tears, her expression fierce and loving.

“You’re safe Jason” she said, her voice soft but sure. “I’ve got you…I'm here…always”

Jason’s chest hitched, his lips trembling as the words echoed through him, sinking deep. Safe. God, how long had it been since he’d felt that? How long had he been holding himself together, bracing against the world, waiting for the next blow?

“Clara…” he said again, the sound of her name a broken, aching thing. Clara pressed her forehead to his, her hands moving to the sides of his neck, her thumbs stroking the line of his jaw in slow, soothing sweeps. 

“Let it go,” she whispered, her breath warm against his lips. “You don’t have to carry it anymore. Let me hold it for a while.”

Jason’s hands slid up her back, clutching her to him, his fingers tangling in her hair as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. The tears came then, hot and silent, spilling over, dampening her skin. Clara held him tighter, her own eyes wet, her lips pressing soft, reverent kisses to the side of his head.

“You’re not alone,” she whispered, her fingers threading through his hair, her other hand sliding up and down his back in slow, tender strokes. “I’m here. I’m not letting go.”

Jason’s body shook beneath her, the sobs breaking loose, raw and unrestrained. Clara cradled him through it, her hands never ceasing in their slow, grounding caresses, her mouth pressed to his temple as she whispered soft, soothing words against his skin.

“I love you,” she said, the words like a lullaby, a balm. “Every part of you. The broken bits, the strong bits, the scared bits. Every single piece.”

Jason clung to her, his hands fisting in her hair, his breath shuddering as he let it all pour out — the fear, the guilt, the shame. Clara stayed with him, holding him through it, her warmth a lifeline, her presence a balm against the ache still lingering in his chest. When the storm finally eased, when Jason’s breathing slowed and the tears subsided, Clara shifted, brushing the damp hair from his forehead. Jason’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze finding hers, raw and vulnerable and open in a way he hadn’t been in years.  Clara leaned down, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, a soft, lingering press of lips that felt like a promise. Jason’s hands smoothed over her back, his palms tracing the curve of her spine, feeling the steady, grounding beat of her heart against his chest.

“Thank you,..i needed that...” he whispered, his voice a rough, broken rasp. “For holding me… for staying.”

Clara’s eyes shone, a tear slipping free as she smiled down at him. “Always,” she said, her hand cradling his jaw, her thumb stroking along the curve of his cheekbone. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jason leaned into her touch, letting the warmth of her palm seep into him, anchoring him. Clara’s hand moved to his hair, her fingers threading through the dark strands, her nails lightly scratching his scalp in slow, lazy circles. Jason closed his eyes, a slow, shuddering breath escaping him as he sank further into her, letting himself be held, letting himself believe that he was safe. That he was enough. That he was still here. And as Clara continued to stroke through his hair, her other hand tracing slow, soothing patterns over his back, Jason felt something inside him loosen, release — the last knot of tension unfurling beneath her touch. He let out a long, heavy breath, his body going limp beneath her, his arms wrapping around her waist as he nuzzled closer, his cheek resting against the soft curve of her breast.

Clara kissed the top of his head, her lips lingering there as she whispered, “I love you, Jason Orange. Every bit of you.”

The air in the room was warm and thick, weighted with the scent of skin and the lingering heat of their bodies. The soft, amber light from the bedside lamp painted them in gold, turning every curve, every shadow, into something rich and tender. Jason still lay sprawled beneath Clara, his arms wrapped loosely around her waist, his cheek pressed to the soft swell of her breast. Clara cradled him, her fingers threading through his hair in slow, rhythmic strokes. The movement was gentle, hypnotic, like a lullaby for his battered heart. Beneath her touch, Jason felt himself drifting — untethered, weightless, like he was floating just beneath the surface of some dark, still water. The ache inside him, raw and relentless, had softened to a dull throb, each slow stroke of Clara’s hand smoothing the jagged edges. His eyes remained closed, his lashes damp against his cheeks. He could still hear the words, those cruel, careless comments, echoing in the back of his mind like a haunting refrain. Hypocrite. Washed-up. Pathetic. They circled him like vultures, hungry and unrelenting, tearing at the tender parts he kept hidden.

But here, in Clara’s arms, the words began to lose their sting. Here, he was something more than a name, a face, a body that strangers thought they could still claim. Here, he was just Jason — Clara’s Jason. Her nails scraped lightly against his scalp, sending a shiver down his spine, and Jason exhaled a slow, ragged breath, letting his body sink further into the mattress. The sheets were cool beneath him, a comforting contrast to Clara’s warmth above him.

“You’re so quiet,” Clara murmured, her voice a low, soothing hum that vibrated through his chest. “Talk to me.”

Jason swallowed, his throat thick. His hand moved slowly, almost absently, up and down the curve of her back, feeling the smooth, warm skin beneath his palm, the gentle rise and fall of each breath. “I don’t know what to say,” he said, his voice a rasp, as if he’d been crying for hours.

Clara shifted slightly, her legs still tangled with his, her body draped over him like a warm, protective cocoon. “You don’t have to say anything,” she whispered, her thumb tracing the line of his brow, smoothing away the tension that lingered there. “Just stay here. Let me hold you like this…”

Jason’s chest rose and fell beneath her, each breath a little deeper, a little less ragged. He turned his head slightly, pressing his lips to the soft curve of her breast, just above her heart. The steady, rhythmic beat echoed through him, grounding him, reminding him that she was real, that this was real. Her hand moved to his jaw, cupping it gently, her thumb stroking over the scruff there, back and forth, back and forth. Jason leaned into the touch, a low, shuddering sigh escaping him. 

“I’m so tired,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “So fucking tired.”

“I know,” Clara said, her lips brushing the top of his head, her breath warm and soft against his hair. “I know, love.”

Jason’s fingers tightened around her waist, pulling her closer, as though he were afraid she might slip away if he let go. The fear was still there — coiled low and tight inside him — the fear that this moment, this stillness, was just an illusion, that he would open his eyes and find himself alone, the room empty, the bed cold. But Clara was still there, her hands still moving over him in slow, soothing circles, her body warm and solid against his

“Its okay..I'm here...” Clara said again, her voice gentle, coaxing. “Tell me what’s in your head.”

Jason swallowed again, his throat bobbing beneath her palm. His eyes remained closed, his lashes fluttering as he struggled to find the words. “I feel like… like I can’t breathe,” he said, the confession a raw, trembling thing. “Like everything’s too heavy. Like… like I’m drowning in it.”

Clara’s fingers moved to his temple, her thumb tracing a slow, hypnotic circle there. “You’re not drowning,” she said, her voice a warm, steady current. “You’re right here. You’re with me. Just stay with me.” Jason shivered, a full-body tremor that left him gasping. Clara leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his forehead, her lips warm and soft and sure. “Breathe with me,” she whispered, her breath fanning over his skin. “In… and out.” Jason drew in a shaky breath, his chest rising beneath her, his lungs expanding with the scent of her — lavender and the soft, sweet warmth that was uniquely hers. He held it for a moment, feeling it fill the hollow ache inside him, then released it in a slow, controlled exhale. “There you go,” Clara murmured, her lips brushing over his brow, his temple, his cheekbone. Each kiss a tether, anchoring him, pulling him back to her. “Just like that.”

Jason’s hand drifted up, sliding beneath the curtain of her hair to cup the back of her neck, his thumb stroking over the soft, sensitive skin just beneath her ear. Clara’s breath hitched, and she pressed closer, her chest flush against his, her heart beating steady and strong against his own.

“Stay,” Jason whispered, his lips grazing her jaw, the words a quiet, desperate plea. “Please, Clara. Just… stay like this..us...together.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Clara said, her eyes locking onto his, dark and warm and brimming with everything she couldn’t say. “I’m right here. I’ve got you….always”

Jason’s eyes glistened, his throat working as he blinked hard, fighting back the swell of emotion. Clara’s hands continued their slow, soothing dance over his skin, her nails lightly scraping his scalp, her fingertips trailing down the nape of his neck, tracing lazy, loving patterns that grounded him, that held him together. His head now tipped back, his throat exposed, vulnerable, and Clara took the opportunity to press a lingering kiss to the curve of his jaw. Her lips moved slowly, reverently, over his stubble-rough skin, her breath warm and steady against him. Jason’s hands tightened on her hips, his fingers flexing, needing to feel the solid weight of her in his grasp, to remind himself that she was real, that she was here.

 Clara’s mouth found his again, her kiss a slow, deep caress, her lips moving over his in a soft, unhurried rhythm. Jason let himself sink into it, let himself get lost in the taste of her, the warmth of her, the steady, anchoring press of her body against his. When they finally parted, their foreheads rested together, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. Clara’s fingers threaded through his hair once again, her nails lightly scratching his scalp, and Jason let out a slow, shuddering sigh, his eyes drifting closed once more.

“Sleep,” Clara whispered, her voice a soft, melodic murmur that washed over him like a lullaby. “I’m here. I’m not letting you go.”

And as Clara held him close, her hands moving in slow, tender circles over his back, Jason let his body go heavy, let his mind go quiet. He let the words fade, the voices quiet, the ache subside.

In Clara’s arms, he finally — finally — let himself rest.

Chapter Text

Jason lingered in that hazy space between sleep and waking, where dreams and reality blur in a soft, golden fog. The first thing he felt was warmth — the solid weight of Clara draped over him, her leg tangled with his beneath the crisp sheets of their bed. Morning light seeped through the blinds, painting the room in slants of amber. It caught in Clara’s hair, turning it to a dark, burnished halo against the pillow. The room felt cocooned in that soft, sleepy silence that only early morning could hold — a stillness that seemed to hold its breath, as if afraid to disturb the fragile peace wrapped around them.

He soon blinked, his eyes heavy, with the remnants of sleep clinging to him like a fog. For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just lay there, feeling the weight of the room pressing down, the hush of early morning cocooning them in silence. Clara was obviously still asleep, her body still curled toward him, one arm flung over his waist. The sheet clung to her in a soft tangle, baring the curve of one shoulder, the warm, golden skin rising and falling with each slow, deep breath. His gaze roamed over her, drinking her in — the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the way her dark hair fanned across the pillow in tousled waves. The way her lips were slightly parted, the soft, vulnerable curve of them catching the morning light.

God, she was beautiful.

A lump rose in his throat as he just watched her, his heart pulling tight with a love so full it almost hurt. Last night’s tenderness lingered like a warm, heady hum beneath his skin. Even hours later, He could still feel the imprint of her hands, that gentle sweep of her fingers through his hair, the soft brush of her lips against his tears. The scent of her lingered in the air — lavender and the faint sweetness of vanilla, mixed with the deeper, heady warmth of skin against skin. The memories of last night unfurled inside him like a slow-moving tide. The way she had touched him, her hands sliding over his bare skin as if mapping out every scar, every ridge, every inch of him with a reverence that still made his chest ache. The way she had kissed him — slow, deep, and unhurried, as though she were trying to breathe life back into him, as if each press of her lips was a silent reminder that he was still here....That he was loved

Last night, when he’d broken apart in her arms, all the old wounds split open, the ugly words and memories spilling out of him in sobs he couldn’t hold back. Deep down, he couldn't help but think she might have turned away, recoiling from the mess of him. But she hadn’t. Instead, Clara held him closer, her hands threading through his hair, her body wrapped around him like a warm, soft shell. Her voice had been a low, soothing murmur in his ear, grounding him with each whisper, “I’ve got you… I’m here… I love you…” Jason squeezed his eyes shut, a slow, shuddering breath escaping him. How had she done that? How had she put him back together with her hands, her mouth and her words? How had she looked at him — at the man who felt like he was drowning in his own past — and seen someone worth saving?

Soon, A soft sigh slipped from Clara’s lips, and she shifted further against him, her cheek now pressed closer to his chest. Jason’s heart gave a heavy, aching thud. His hand now moved to her bare back, fingers tracing slow, aimless patterns over her spine. Beneath his touch, her skin was warm and smooth, the steady rise and fall of her breathing a quiet, comforting rhythm that grounded him, tethered him. Last night, he had felt raw and exposed, the old wounds laid bare and bleeding. But now, with Clara wrapped around him, her body soft and pliant against his, he felt… something else.

Whole.

Seen.

Loved.

Last night, in the darkness, he had clung to Clara as though she were the only solid thing in a world that kept slipping through his grasp. And she had let him. She had kissed his tears away, her mouth moving over his skin with a tenderness that had almost undone him. She had whispered his name like a prayer, each syllable a balm against the ache that had burrowed deep inside him for years. And she had told him — over and over again — that he was enough.

Now, in the gentle morning light, he felt the weight of those words settle inside him, a warmth unfurling like a bloom in his chest. The fear was still there, a dull, persistent ache beneath the surface. The memories of the comments, the accusations, the sneering, hateful words — they still echoed, still lurked like dark clouds at the edges of his mind. Beneath the fear and the gnawing ache of his past, something new now stirred. A fragile sense of peace. A belief — faint but growing — that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as broken as he once believed. He let out a slow breath and gazed up at the ceiling, his eyes blinking through the sunlit room. His thumb stroking along the curve of Clara’s hip where his hand rested. She shifted again, a sleepy murmur escaping her, and Jason’s heart clenched, the ache turning sweet, tender. Leaning down, he pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, his lips lingering against her hair, breathing her in. He closed his eyes, his other hand splaying over the curve of her belly, feeling the soft, warm weight of their daughter beneath his palm. The life they had created together. The life that still felt too good to be real -But it was real.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Jason let himself believe it.

Carefully, he reached out again, his fingertips brushing a strand of hair away from her cheek. Clara stirred, a soft, sleepy murmur escaping her lips, but she didn’t wake. His thumb traced a slow, gentle path along her cheekbone, her skin warm beneath his touch. He couldn’t stop. As if her warmth, her solidity, was the only way to believe she was real and laying next to him.

His hand drifted lower, fingertips grazing the delicate line of her jaw, then down to the gentle curve of her neck. He could feel the faint, steady pulse beneath her skin — strong and rhythmic, each beat a quiet, grounding reminder that she was here, she was his, she was breathing. His lips now hovering just above hers, close enough to feel the soft, steady warmth of her breath. His eyes roamed over her face, his heart aching with the sheer intensity of how much he loved her. How much he needed her. He let his hand move lower, tracing the curve of her shoulder, down to the swell of her arm, his touch featherlight, reverent. The sheet soon slipped, exposing more of her skin to the cool morning air, and Jason’s eyes continued to drink her in — the curve of her collarbone, the soft, inviting valley between her breasts. His palm flattened over her belly, the soft, round curve where their daughter grew. Beneath his hand, he felt a faint, gentle flutter — a tiny, insistent kick that made his chest tighten, his breath hitch.

“Hey, little one,” he whispered, his voice a soft, broken rasp. “I’m here.”

Clara stirred again, this time a sleepy sigh escaping her as she shifted closer to him, her body seeking his warmth even in sleep. Her leg slid over his, her thigh pressing against his hip, and Jason let out a slow, shuddering breath, his eyes falling closed as he pressed a lingering kiss to her temple one more. He stayed like that for a moment, his lips resting against her skin, his hand still splayed over her belly, his heart beating in time with theirs. And in that quiet, golden morning light, with Clara wrapped around him and their daughter nestled beneath his hand, Jason finally let himself believe that he was exactly where he was meant to be.

He let his gaze roam over her face — the delicate sweep of her lashes, the faint pink flush still lingering across her cheeks. She looked so peaceful, so unguarded. As if all the heaviness of the night before had finally been released, leaving only the soft, contented rise and fall of her breath. He shifted, the sheets rustling as he adjusted his weight, turning to face her fully. His arm was still draped over her waist, his palm resting just beneath the curve of her belly. Beneath his hand, the gentle swell of their unborn child rose and fell with Clara’s breaths, a warm, solid reassurance beneath his fingertips. Jason exhaled, a slow, shuddering breath that felt like it came from somewhere deep. Somewhere he was still trying to access. He hadn’t felt this quiet inside in months. Maybe years. He wanted to stay here. In this stillness. In this warmth. Just the three of them, wrapped in the quiet, morning light painting the walls in gentle, golden hues.

A part of him still didn’t feel like he deserved it — this calm, this safety, this woman beside him who had held him through the night like he was something precious. Like he wasn’t a man who’d come undone in her arms, spilling all his fears and insecurities and pain like blood from an open wound. But Clara was still here. Still next to him. Still wrapped around him, her breath soft against his skin. it was Clara’s hand that anchored him, the way her palm lay flat over his heart, her fingers splayed across his chest as if holding him together. He could feel her warmth seeping through his skin, the weight of her arm like a tether, pinning him to the bed, to her, to this moment God, he needed this — the feel of her against him, her body wrapped around his, her hand splayed over his heart. She was his anchor, his lighthouse in the storm, the one solid, steady thing in a world that kept spinning too fast. He pressed his own hand over hers, holding her there, his thumb stroking along the curve of her knuckles.

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open, dark and sleepy, and she blinked at him, a soft, drowsy smile curving her lips.Then her eyes found his, and something inside Jason loosened, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding slipping free.

“Hey,” she whispered, voice thick with sleep.

Jason’s throat worked. “Hey.”

Clara’s hand moved beneath his, fingers splaying over his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath her palm. “You okay?” she asked, her voice gentle, her eyes searching his.

Jason’s lips twitched in a small, tired smile. “Yeah,” he said, his thumb stroking over her knuckles. “I am now.”

Clara’s eyes softened, her hand drifting up to his jaw, her thumb brushing over the stubble there. “Good,” she whispered, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Her gaze softened, and she shifted closer, her leg sliding higher over his, her knee pressing into his hip. The movement brought her belly flush against him, the warmth of her skin bleeding into his, and Jason’s hand drifted down, splaying over the gentle curve. Beneath his palm, the baby stirred, a tiny, insistent kick that made his breath catch. Those beautiful green eyes never left him. “She knows you’re here,” she murmured, her lips curving in a soft, sleepy smile. “She knows you love her.”

Jason’s chest tightened, his hand flexing against Clara’s skin as though holding her there, holding them both there. “I do,” he said, his voice cracking, the words slipping free before he could stop them. “I love you both so much.”

Clara’s hand slid up to cup his jaw, her thumb brushing over the rough line of his stubble. “I know,” she whispered, her eyes warm, fierce. “We know.” When she pulled back, Jason caught her hand, bringing it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her palm.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice rough, raw. “For last night. For… everything.”

Clara’s eyes shone, her thumb tracing slow circles over his cheekbone. “You don’t have to thank me,” she said, her voice a soft murmur, her gaze unwavering. “I love you..”

Jason’s chest tightened, the ache both familiar and new, sweet and tender. “I love you, too,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly.

Leaning in, Clara nuzzled his nose with hers, their foreheads resting together. And in that moment, with the morning light bathing them in soft gold, Jason felt it — that fragile, quiet feeling of being home. Of being safe. Of being loved…being together 

“I really should get up,” she said, her voice soft, her hand slipping away from his chest. “Need to use the bathroom.”

“No..” Jason’s hand dropped to her thigh, his fingers tightening slightly, a reflexive, almost pleading gesture. “Stay,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “Just a little longer…I can't hear Jack yet..”

“Orange?, are you trying to seduce me?” Clara’s eyes searched his, and she leaned in, pressing a kiss to his temple, her lips warm and lingering against his skin 

“Well…..” His lips twitched, the smallest hint of a smile. “Maybe.”

“No stopping you is there?” Clara’s fingers playfully traced a lazy path over his chest, her touch featherlight, teasing. “I'd of course be absolutely fine with that but little Hope here might have something to say about it”

Clara slowly slid out of bed and reached for her robe. Jason’s eyes followed her, the cool air rushing in to replace her warmth, sending a shiver through him. He watched as she wrapped the robe around herself, tying it loosely at her waist, the fabric parting slightly to reveal the curve of her belly

He laughed watching her, his gaze tracing the familiar lines of her body, the soft, sleep-rumpled curves that still held the heat of the night before. God, she was beautiful. Now as he lay there alone and for a moment, the room felt strangely empty without her. The sheets were cool now, the place where she had lain still warm beneath his hand. Then he exhaled, raking a hand through his hair, his muscles tight and aching from a night spent holding on too tightly. 

“I’m gonna jump in the shower,” he called after her, his voice rough and scratchy as he pushed himself up, the sheets pooling at his waist. He sat there for a beat longer, his head hanging low, his hands braced on his knees. The air felt colder now, the world brighter, sharper, less forgiving in the daylight. 

He now stood beside the bed and searched for his jogging bottoms he discarded from last night. The cool floorboards pressing against the soles of his feet, the morning air cool and sharp against his bare skin. He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the scratch of stubble beneath his palm, his muscles stiff and heavy, as though he were carrying the weight of last night on his back.

Last night.

It still lingered in the air like the scent of her skin — lavender, vanilla, the heady warmth of sleep and skin and everything they’d shared. It was in the sheets, still tangled and rumpled, the imprint of their bodies ghosting over the mattress. It was in the aching pull of his chest, the way his heart felt raw and tender, like she’d reached inside and smoothed out the jagged edges he’d kept hidden for so long. Jason dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers slipping through the dark strands, still mussed from sleep and Clara’s hands. His gaze drifted to the bathroom door, slightly ajar, a sliver of soft, golden light spilling through the crack. He could still hear the water running — a low, steady murmur that echoed through the room, mingling with the faint, melodic hum of Clara’s voice. A lullaby. The same one she sang to Jack when he was restless. God, how many times had he heard that song? In the middle of the night, when Jack was crying, his small, warm body tucked against Clara’s chest, her hand stroking through his hair as she rocked him back to sleep. Jason had watched them both, his heart twisting with a fierce, aching love that sometimes felt too big to contain.

Now, standing here alone, that same ache spread through him, deep and slow, sinking into his bones. He could still feel Clara’s hand on his chest, her palm warm and steady, her fingers splaying over his heartbeat like she was trying to hold it together, keep it from falling apart. She’d touched him like she was memorizing him. Like she needed to remind him of every inch of his skin, every curve and scar and line, as if he were something precious. Something worth holding onto.

Jason swallowed, his throat thick, and glanced back at the bed. The sheets were still rumpled, the pillow where Clara had laid still dented with the shape of her head. A knot formed in his chest, a raw, pulsing ache that made his ribs feel too tight. He could still see her there, eyes dark and heavy, her hair fanned out like a dark halo against the white cotton. He could still hear her voice, whispering his name in the dark, a soft, broken plea:

“I’ve got you… I’m here… I love you…”

How had he ended up with her? This woman who looked at him like he was more than just a man still haunted by the ghosts of a past he couldn’t shake? How had he ended up with someone who saw him, really saw him, when he could barely look at himself in the mirror some days? Jason’s jaw clenched, his hand flexing at his side, as if searching for something to hold onto. He could still feel the warmth of Clara’s skin beneath his hand, the soft swell of her belly, the flutter of their daughter kicking beneath his palm. The sensation pulsed through him now, sharp and sweet, leaving him breathless.

His daughter….

Jason exhaled, his breath shuddering out of him. What kind of man was he now? The kind who fell apart in the dark, who let his insecurities and old wounds bleed all over the woman he loved? Or the kind who held her through the night, whispered promises into her skin, his lips moving over her body like she was something sacred, something he didn’t quite deserve but couldn’t bear to lose?

Clara’s laughter continued drifting from the bathroom, soft and hushed, and Jason’s chest tightened, his feet moving of their own accord. He needed to move. Needed the rush of water against his skin, the steam and heat to wash away the lingering ache beneath his ribs. He headed for the bathroom, the floor cool beneath his feet, the air still carrying the scent of Clara’s perfume and the faint, lingering warmth of last night. His body felt heavy, weighted down with the ache of everything he couldn’t say, everything he’d almost said, everything he still wanted to say.

At the bathroom door, he paused, his hand resting against the frame. Through the crack, he could still see Clara’s reflection in the mirror, her hair tumbling over one shoulder, her hands sweeping her hair back into a loose, messy knot. Her eyes caught his in the mirror, and her smile softened, a warmth that sank deep into his bones.Jason leaned against the bathroom counter, steam curling in soft, lazy tendrils around him. The mirror was fogged, the glass a blurred, silvery sheen, but Clara’s outline was still visible — the curve of her bare shoulder, the messy knot of hair piled high on her head. She stood at the sink, one hand braced on the counter, the other smoothing a cool, damp washcloth over her flushed face. The scent of lavender clung to the air, mingling with the faint, sweet warmth of her skin.

Jason watched her for a moment, his gaze tracing the delicate slope of her neck, the way her robe gaped slightly, revealing the soft, warm curve of her collarbone. A knot of tenderness tightened in his chest, and he swallowed, his throat thick.

Clara caught his reflection in the mirror, her eyes meeting him through the steam-clouded glass. A lazy, satisfied smile curved one corner of her mouth. “Are you planning to just stand there and stare at me all day, Orange?”

Jason’s mouth twitched, a reluctant grin breaking through. “Guilty as charged. But can you really blame me?”

Clara let out a soft laugh, rolling her eyes as she wrung out the washcloth and draped it over the edge of the sink. “As much as I’d love to be ogled like a piece of prime meat…” She loosened the knot of her robe, the fabric slipping down one shoulder before she caught it, holding it closed as she turned to face him. “You should jump in first.”

Jason’s eyes darkened, his gaze dipping to where her hand clutched the robe just above her breasts. “Are you sure? I could always join you.”

Clara raised a brow, her smile widening. “Oh, I’m sure. I need food, and so does Hope.” She smoothed a hand over her belly, rubbing gently. “Besides, we both know you’d keep me in there for hours. And Jack’s going to wake up any second.”

Jason stepped closer, his fingers catching the loose knot of her robe. “Hours, huh? I didn’t hear any complaints last night.”

Clara’s eyes softened, her fingers drifting up to trace his jaw, her thumb brushing over the rough line of stubble. “No complaints at all,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a husky, sleepy tone that made Jason’s pulse throb beneath her touch. “There never is when I’m with you.”

Jason leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, his hands sliding around her waist. “Stay,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “Just a few more minutes.”

Clara’s smile softened, her fingers slipping into his damp hair. “You drive a hard bargain, but…” She pressed a tender kiss to his lips, her breath warm against his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere, Jason,” she said, her voice low and certain. “But if I don’t get some toast in me soon, your daughter might start a riot.”

“Spoilsport,” Jason grumbled, but the rough, low laugh that rumbled from his chest felt good, grounding. He dropped his head, pressing a lingering kiss to the curve of her neck, breathing her in. “Fine,” he muttered against her skin. “Go feed my little dictator.”

“She’s becoming a diva… just like you.” Clara smirked, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging gently until he met her eyes. “You love her demands. Just wait till she’s born.”

Jason’s eyes softened, his hands drifting down to cup the soft, warm swell of her belly. “Yeah,” he said, his voice a low, aching murmur. “I really do.”

Clara’s gaze held him for a beat longer, her eyes warm and full, so full it made Jason’s chest ache. Then she stepped back, slipping out of his grasp, and cinched the robe tighter around her waist.

“I’ll save you some toast,” she said, turning toward the door, her hand trailing along the doorframe as she glanced back over her shoulder. “And Jason?”

“Yeah?”

Clara’s eyes sparkled, her smile soft, a mix of affection and playful mischief. “Don’t get lost in your head. Or our water bill’s going to be as high as your ego.”

Jason huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re lucky you’re cute, McFly.”

“And you’re lucky you’re mine,” Clara shot back, her grin lingering for just a moment longer before she slipped out the door, her soft humming trailing behind her like a ghost.

Jason stood there for a moment, the bathroom suddenly too quiet, too empty without her. The warmth of her body still lingered in the air, the scent of lavender and sleep mingling with the steam. He turned toward the shower, exhaling a slow, shaky breath.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

God, he wanted to believe her. But the ache in his chest twisted, sharp and insistent, like a warning. Because the last time he’d felt this lucky, the ground had given way beneath his feet. And the last time someone had said they wouldn’t leave… they had.

Eventually Jason forced himself to move, he stepped into the shower, the water pouring over him in a scalding rush, washing away the lingering warmth of Clara’s touch. But no matter how hot the water ran, it couldn’t touch the feeling that everything he had was too good to last. The water pounded over him, streaming down his back in relentless, burning rivulets. It hurt — but he welcomed it. Let it burn. Let it sear away the ache, the anger, the shame. Let it strip him down to nothing.

He braced his hands against the cool tiles, head bowed, shoulders hunched. Droplets ran down his face like tears he refused to shed, mingling with the steam that filled the air like a suffocating fog. Behind his closed eyes, memories played like a film reel caught in a loop: Jack’s small arms wrapped tight around his neck, his giggle echoing in Jason’s ears. Clara’s sleepy smile, her warm body pressed close beneath the sheets, her hand on his chest, anchoring him.

Stay here. Stay in this moment. Stay with them Jason .

But the comments cut through, sharper than the water slicing over his skin. Words still lodged under his skin like splinters too deep to pull free.

Hypocrite. Washed-up. Parading a poor child around. Pathetic.

Jason’s jaw clenched, his fingers curling against the tile. Why did it feel like he was right back there — back in the band, back when they only wanted him to dance, to smile, to keep his mouth shut? Back when he was nothing more than a pretty face with nothing to say. A puppet. A prop. Disposable. A shudder tore through him, a deep, aching breath rattling in his chest.

“She’s got you,” he whispered, the words catching in his throat. “She loves you. Always.”

But it wasn’t working. The words fell flat, slipping down the drain like the water pouring over him. The ache in his chest twisted, sharper, deeper. God, he wanted to believe it — wanted to believe he was still the man Clara saw, the father Jack adored, the man who deserved this life.But what if he wasn’t? What if he was still that hollow, washed-up boy with nothing to offer but a face and a name people barely remembered? Jason pressed his forehead against the tile, the coolness biting into his skin. The past wasn’t buried. It never stayed buried. It waited, biding its time, coiling like a snake, ready to strike. And now it had — photos splashed across the internet, faceless voices hurling accusations that felt like the truth.

Soon the bathroom door creaked open, a cool rush of air slicing through the heavy steam. Jason tensed, his eyes still closed, the water still streaming down his back. And then, there it was — Clara’s soft, familiar hum, weaving through the fog like a thread of light.

He pulled back the shower curtain, blinking against the haze. Clara stood in the doorway, her hip against the frame, hair twisted up in a messy knot. One of his old T-shirts skimmed her thighs, a faded band logo stretched over her bump. A part of him wanted to laugh — the sight of her, all tousled and warm, her belly curving out beneath his shirt. But another part of him wanted to crumble, right there on the bathroom floor. Because how could he deserve this? How could he deserve someone as perfect her?

Clara arched a brow, her smirk lazy, but her eyes were soft, searching. “Well, well,” she drawled, her voice a gentle tease. “Putting on quite the show in there, Orange. Are you planning to stand under that water until you melt?”

Jason huffed out a laugh, the sound rough, raw. “Maybe.”

Clara stepped closer, her bare feet making no sound against the tile. “Mm. I only came back in to grab my vitamins, but…” She toyed with the hem of the T-shirt, her fingers grazing the soft fabric, her eyes not leaving his. “I could hang around. You know, in case you need a lifeguard.”

Jason swallowed, his gaze drifting down to her legs, the T-shirt clinging to her in the humid air. “Nice shirt,” he said, voice rough. “Looks better on you.”

Clara’s grin widened as she tugged at the hem, her fingertips brushing over her belly. “You think so? It’s a bit snug.”

Jason’s chest tightened, his gaze following the curve of her body, the soft swell of their daughter beneath the thin fabric. “Maybe you should take it off,” he said, his voice dropping, the ache spilling into his words. “Since it’s technically mine after all.”

Clara shook her head, stepping closer, the steam parting around her. “Nah. I keep stealing it because…” She trailed off, her hand sliding up to rest over his heart, her palm warm against his damp skin. “Because it feels like you.”

Jason’s breath caught, his throat working. “Clara…”

Her thumb traced slow, soothing circles over his skin, her eyes holding his. “You know why I wear it all the time?” she asked, her voice a soft murmur. “Because it makes me feel close to you. Especially when you’re in here, hiding out like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I just…” His throat bobbed, the words stuck like shards of glass. “Sometimes it’s hard to get out of my head.”

Clara moved closer, her forehead resting against his, her hands cupping his jaw, grounding him. “Then don’t,” she whispered, her breath warm against his lips. “Let me come in and find you. Every time.” Jason’s eyes fell shut, his hands coming up to cover hers. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction. Clara pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I love you,” she said, her voice firm, steady. “You hear me? Even when you’re hiding. Even when you’re quiet. Even when you’re in here, drowning in your own head.”

Jason swallowed, his throat tight, eyes burning. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Clara said, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw, the touch tender, deliberate. “I love you. I got you. Always.”

Jason’s chest shuddered, the ache easing, a warmth flooding through him, settling into the empty spaces. Clara lingered a moment longer, her hand resting against his cheek, her eyes steady and unwavering.Then she stepped back, her fingers slipping away like a breath.

“Now, hurry up,” she said, grabbing her glass of juice from the sink. “Before your daughter and I eat all the toast without you.”

Jason chuckled, the sound rough but real. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Clara shot him one last look, her eyes soft, a touch of concern still lingering there. “And Jason?”

“Yeah?”

Clara’s smile softened, her eyes sparkling. “I’m keeping the T-shirt permanently now just so you know,” she said, her voice dropping to a murmur. “Looks pretty damn good on me, right?”

Jason’s grin widened, a breath of laughter escaping. “Best thing I’ve ever seen.”

Clara’s smile lingered as she slipped out the door, the air cooler without her in the room. Jason stood under the spray, eyes falling shut as the water poured over him, her words echoing through his mind like a steady, grounding heartbeat.

“I love you. I got you. Always.”

But as the steam began to dissipate, as the cool air slid in through the open door, the ache twisted inside him, a cold, coiling fear settling deep in his gut. Because Clara’s love might be constant. Her faith in him might be unshakable. But that didn’t mean the world wouldn’t crash in any way. And as he shut off the water and reached for a towel, Jason couldn’t shake the feeling that the ground beneath him was already starting to crack.

Jason took a deep breath, shutting off the water with a decisive twist. The sudden silence was startling, the pounding rush of water replaced by the steady drip of droplets hitting the tile. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist, steam curling around him like a fading fog. The air was cooler now, but he felt warmer somehow — the ache in his chest dulled by Clara’s touch, her words still echoing through him like a heartbeat. I love you. I got you. Always.

He stepped into the bedroom, padding across the wooden floorboards, his damp hair dripping onto the cool surface. The bed was still unmade, the sheets rumpled and tangled from last night. Clara’s T-shirt now lay discarded at the foot of the bed, a crumpled reminder of her warmth and closeness. His lips twitched, a faint smile surfacing as he reached down and lifted the shirt. It was one of his old band tees, the logo faded and stretched. It still smelled like her — lavender, vanilla, and something unmistakably Clara. God, he loved her.

His chest tightened as he set the shirt down and moved to the dresser, pulling out a pair of boxers. The chill of the room crept under his skin, a sharp contrast to the lingering heat of the shower. He was just stepping into them when he heard it — the sound of small, rapid footsteps racing down the hallway.

The door soon burst open, and Jack flew inside, all wild hair and sleepy eyes.

“Jason!”

Before he could react, Jack launched himself at him. Jason caught him just in time, lifting him effortlessly, Jack’s little arms wrapping tight around his neck.

“Whoa, kid” chuckled Jason, ruffling Jack’s hair. “What’s the rush?”

Jack pressed his cheek against Jason’s shoulder, his small body warm and soft. “Mummy said breakfast is almost ready. And she said we’re having French toast!”

“Yeah?” Jason smoothed a hand down Jack’s back, feeling the rapid flutter of his heartbeat. “Are you excited? I know that’s your favourite.”

Jack nodded, his cheek squished against Jason’s shoulder. “Yup! But I wanted to say good morning first.”

Jason’s chest clenched, the ache flaring hot and sweet. Good morning first. Like Jason was the first thing Jack thought of. Like he was the person Jack couldn’t wait to see.

“Well, good morning, kid.” Jason kissed the top of Jack’s head, the scent of syrup and baby shampoo flooding his senses. He closed his eyes, holding Jack just a little tighter. “Good morning.”

Jack pulled back, his big eyes shining. “You’re the best.”

Jason’s throat tightened, the words hitting him straight in the chest. “Aww, mate…” He swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “I love you too, Jack. So much.”

Jack grinned, squirming out of Jason’s hold. “I love you more!” And just like that, he was off, his little feet pounding down the hallway, his excited voice echoing down the stairs. “Mummy! I said good morning to Jason!”

The room now fell  quiet. The air was still warm from the shower, the scent of Clara’s perfume and Jack’s baby shampoo lingering like ghosts. Jason exhaled, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. The towel slipped lower on his hips, but he didn’t move to adjust it. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the ache in his chest both sweet and heavy. The sweetness of Jack’s words still lingered, but beneath it was the deeper ache — the fear that he wasn’t enough. That he could never be enough.

His gaze drifted to the dresser, to the framed photo sitting in the center. Slowly, he reached for it, fingers brushing over the glass. It was a candid shot of him, Clara, and Jack taken at the park not too long ago. Clara’s head was thrown back in laughter, her hair a wild mess from the wind. Jason was behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder. Jack stood in front of them, grinning up at the camera with a popsicle in one hand and a fistful of dandelions in the other. Clara’s hand was on Jason’s cheek, her thumb tracing a line along his jaw. They looked so happy. Untouchable. Like a family frozen in a perfect moment, a single second when nothing could touch them. Jason’s thumb traced the edge of the frame, his jaw working. That day at the park. Jack had been sticky with melted popsicles, Clara’s laughter had echoed through the trees, and Jason had felt it — that elusive feeling of home. Like he belonged somewhere.

But that was the thing about photos. They captured a perfect second but said nothing about what came before or after. They didn’t show the cracks. The doubts. The way Jason had clung to Clara a little too tightly, as if bracing for the moment she’d slip away. Jason swallowed, his throat thick. What if the world took this away? What if one wrong move, one slip, one photo out of context was all it took to unravel it all?

The words from earlier echoed back, sharp and relentless. Hypocrite. Washed-up. Parading a poor child around.

Jason exhaled, setting the photo back down with a heavy, shaking hand. The ache in his chest tightened, his ribs feeling too small to hold it all in. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the photo, at Clara’s laughing face, at Jack’s grin. This was what he was fighting for. This was what he couldn’t lose. He reached up, swiping a damp strand of hair from his forehead. His hand was still trembling. God, he was tired.

The warmth of Jack’s hug still lingered against his skin, a sweetness that made the ache beneath it feel sharper, heavier. His hand hovered over the dresser, fingers twitching. Then, with a slow breath, he reached for the top drawer. Beneath a stack of old T-shirts and socks, his fingertips found the worn edge of another photo.

He pulled it out, the corners creased, the ink slightly faded. It was a candid shot of him and Matt York, taken in some pub years ago. Jason’s arm was slung around Matt’s shoulders, both of them mid-laugh, eyes bright and unburdened. Matt’s dark hair was tousled, his blue eyes crinkled with mischief. Jason held a pint in one hand, Matt a shot glass, both of them looking like they didn’t have a care in the world. The pub behind them was packed, the glow of amber lights spilling across the wooden tables, faces blurred by movement and laughter. The air had been thick with the scent of spilled beer and cheap cologne, rock music blasting from the jukebox, Matt’s arm heavy around Jason’s shoulders. Jason swallowed, his jaw working. God, that night. They’d closed down the pub, singing off-key to old rock songs, slurring promises to be kings of the world. Back then, Jason had believed it. He’d believed that the world was still his for the taking, that he could drink and laugh and shout away the emptiness inside.

Now, everything felt like it was slipping away.

Jason traced the edges of the photo, his thumb catching on a deep crease running through the center — right between him and Matt. Matt York. His best friend. His once-upon-a-time. The guy who could talk his way out of anything and drag Jason along for the ride. Back then, Matt was the guy who could charm a bouncer one minute and argue a judge down to a lesser sentence the next. The kind of guy who made you feel bulletproof just standing next to him.

Now, he was a lawyer. A damn good one. Smart. Relentless. The kind of guy who bulldozed over the opposition, whether his clients were guilty or not. He’d built a reputation for himself as the go-to lawyer for anyone looking to beat the odds.

Jason’s fingers tightened around the edges of the photo. And he needed Matt now. Needed that sharp, fearless version of his old friend — the one who knew how to spin a story so convincingly that even Jason might believe it. Because if they could take one innocent photo of him and Jack and twist it into something ugly, what would they do if they got one of Clara? Or worse, one of the baby?

London 

December 2015 -“The Rose and Crown” Pub

The pub was heaving. Bodies pressed together, the air thick with beer and sweat, music thumping through the speakers with the bass cranked up too high. Jason wove through the crowd, a pint sloshing in his hand, shoulders hunched. The smell of spilled lager and stale cigarettes hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sound of rowdy laughter and off-key singing. He kept his head down, dark eyes scanning the room for something — anything — to distract him. It had been months since the band split. Months since he’d been Jason Orange, the guy in the background who danced and smiled but never said too much. Now he was just Jason. And he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

He spotted her at the bar. Blonde, glossy hair pulled into a high ponytail, cherry-red lipstick gleaming under the overhead lights. She was laughing at something the bartender said, head tipped back, exposing the long, smooth line of her neck. Jason swallowed, licked his lips, and pushed forward.

“Hey,” he said, leaning a little too casually against the bar. “What’re you drinking?”

She gave him a once-over, her expression somewhere between disinterest and pity. “Vodka tonic.”

"Oh.” He nodded, glancing at her glass. “Yeah. That’s, uh… a classic.”

Her brows lifted. “Right.”

Jason fidgeted, fingers drumming on the bar. “So, you come here often?”

"The woman blinked, looking away. “Wow,” she said flatly. “Did you really just say that?”

Jason cringed, cheeks burning. “No. I mean, yeah, but —”

“Oh my God,” she said, turning to the bartender. “Could you top me up? Quickly?”

Jason dropped his gaze, his jaw clenching. Smooth. Real smooth. He felt like a teenager all over again — the awkward, shy kid hiding behind his mates while they did the talking. A snort of laughter sounded beside him. Jason glanced over and found Matt York leaning against the bar, his grin wide, eyes sparkling. He had dark hair that curled over his forehead and a jaw that could cut glass. His white shirt was rumpled, the top buttons open, revealing a sliver of tanned skin.

“Well, well,” Matt drawled, his grin widening. “If it isn’t Jason Orange. Dancing sensation. Ladies’ man. Absolute legend.”

Jason rolled his eyes, hunching his shoulders. “Piss off, York.”

Matt clapped a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “What? Just paying my respects to the guy who single-handedly carried Take That’s dance routines.”

Jason forced a grin. “You forgot ‘backing vocals’.”

“Ah, right. The ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs.’ Vital stuff.” Matt leaned closer, his breath smelling faintly of whiskey. “So how’d that go with Blondie over there?”

“Brilliantly,” Jason muttered. “She couldn’t keep her eyes off me.”

Matt’s gaze flicked to the woman, who was now laughing at something the bartender said, completely oblivious to Jason. Matt shook his head, chuckling. “Yeah, mate. Nailed it.”

Jason sighed, lifting the pint to his lips and taking a long, bitter gulp. It tasted like regret and missed chances. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Same as you,” Matt said, motioning for the bartender. “Drowning my sorrows and pretending I have a life.”

Jason frowned, glancing at him. “Since when do you have sorrows?”

“Since I quit law school,” Matt said, tossing back a shot. “My mum’s still screaming about it.”

“Why’d you quit?”

Matt shrugged, his eyes darting to the crowd. “Couldn’t stand it. The lectures, the arse-kissing, the constant pressure to be the best. Figured I’d take some time off. Maybe figure out what I actually want to do.”

Jason nodded, his chest tightening. “Yeah. Know the feeling.”

Matt eyed him, tipping his glass toward him. “And what about you, Orange? What’s a world-famous pop star slumming it here with the rest of us mortals?”

Jason laughed, the sound bitter and forced. “World-famous? Mate, the world barely noticed me when I was in the band. They sure as hell aren’t noticing me now.”

Matt arched a brow. “What’re you talking about? You were in Take That. That’s huge.”

“Yeah, it was.” Jason stared into his pint, watching the foam settle. “But that’s over now. And I’m just… I don’t know who the hell I am anymore.”

Matt’s expression softened, the usual cocky grin fading. “Mate, you’re Jason Orange. The guy who could outdance the rest of them blindfolded. The guy who made it out of a council estate and became a bloody pop star.”

“Yeah, and now I’m the guy who can’t even chat up a girl in a pub.” Jason shook his head, jaw clenched. “I was the guy in the back. The one who danced and smiled and never said anything. No one even noticed me. Not really.”

Matt studied him for a long moment, then leaned in, his voice low and firm. “Hey. I see you.” Jason’s throat tightened, his gaze dropping. “You know what your problem is?” Matt said, sliding a fresh shot over to him. “You keep thinking you’re that kid in the background. But you’re not. You’re the guy who went on stage every night and made people watch you. Made them believe in something.”

Jason swallowed, the sting of the shot burning his throat. “Yeah. But that was the band. That was…” He trailed off, his chest aching.

Matt nudged him with his elbow. “You’re still that guy. You just gotta remind people.”

Jason huffed out a laugh. “Remind them of what?”

"That you’re not just some pretty face in a boyband.” Matt lifted his glass. “You’re Jason bloody Orange.”

Jason snorted. “Says the guy who quit law school to hang out in pubs.”

Matt grinned, his blue eyes twinkling. “Hey, at least I’m hanging out with a pop star.” Jason finally cracked a real smile, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. For a moment, it almost felt like he wasn’t lost. Like he wasn’t drowning in his own skin. Matt threw an arm around Jason’s shoulders, pulling him close. “Say cheese, Orange,” he said, holding up his phone.

Jason managed a lopsided grin, the flash going off as Matt snapped the picture. In the photo, they were both mid-laugh — Jason’s arm slung around Matt’s neck, Matt’s grin wide and reckless. Behind them, the pub glowed in a haze of amber light, the world blurring around them like a memory slipping away.

In that moment, Jason felt like he was seen. Not as the guy in the background or the washed-up pop star. Just as Jason. And for the first time in months, he felt a spark of something close to hope.

Jason blinked and was now back in the present, his gaze locked onto the photograph still in his hand. The moment it captured still burned vivid and raw. Two boys, wild-eyed and carefree, frozen in a pub that reeked of stale beer and reckless dreams. Jason’s arm slung around Matt’s shoulders, his grin wide, face flushed from too many shots and too many lies he’d told himself that night. Matt’s blue eyes twinkled with that trademark mischief, his jaw sharp, his laughter caught mid-echo.

He swallowed hard, the taste of old whiskey and bitterness still clinging to the back of his throat. He could almost feel the press of Matt’s arm around his neck, the scratch of his stubble as he’d pulled Jason close, the flash of the camera going off in that one, perfect second. Back then, they’d felt untouchable. Kings of the world. Two idiots with nothing to lose. Now, it felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, and the ground beneath him was starting to crack.

Jason’s thumb traced the crease down the center of the photograph, the line that split him and Matt in two. What happened to that guy? The one who could laugh like he meant it. The one who didn’t second-guess every move, every word, every breath. Back then, Matt had seen him. Not the background dancer from Take That, not the guy who couldn’t talk to a woman without tripping over his own tongue. Just Jason. And for a moment, he’d felt like that was enough.

Now? Jason closed his eyes, the ache twisting tight and sharp in his chest. It was too quiet. Too still. Downstairs, he could hear Jack’s laughter, the clatter of plates, the soft lilt of Clara’s voice singing along to a song in the kitchen.

Home.

A home he’d built with them. A home he’d do anything to protect. But how long before that world cracked open too? How long before the whispers and the accusations turned their way — before they tore into Clara and Jack the way they’d torn into him? Jason squeezed the photograph, his knuckles whitening. If they could take one innocent picture of him and Jack and twist it, what would they do if they got one of Clara? Or worse, of the baby? The thought was a fist to his gut, sharp and cold.

“You’re Jason bloody Orange.” Matt’s voice echoed in his mind, a drunken slur wrapped in bravado. “You just gotta remind them.”

But who was he now? A washed-up boybander trying to keep his head above water? A man who couldn’t even protect his own family? Jason swallowed, forcing his eyes open. The photograph stared back at him — a snapshot of a night that felt like a lifetime ago. A night when he’d felt like he still had a chance to figure himself out. Matt had been the guy who saw through the smile and the dancing and all the noise to the man beneath. The guy who called him out when he was full of shit and lifted him up when he was drowning in it. And now, Jason needed him again. Jason’s jaw clenched, his heart pounding. If Clara believed in him — if Jack believed in him — maybe it was time to believe in himself too.

He set the photograph down gently, fingers lingering on the edges, as if the memory might slip away if he let go. Then he straightened, shoulders squaring, his resolve hardening. He wasn't surprised when Matt went back to law school after that night in the pub. Law was his passion. It always had been for as long as Jason had known. So it didn't shock him in tbe slightest when he went back to the books to complete his studies. Today Matt was a lawyer with a practice a few towns away from their home. He was the kind of lawyer who could spin a story so convincingly even Jason might believe it. And Jason needed that Matt now. The sharp, relentless, never-back-down version of his old friend. Because the world was starting to close in, and Jason couldn’t do this alone.

He then crossed the room, grabbing his phone from the dresser. His thumb hovered over Matt’s contact, a number he hadn’t called in months. Months of silence. Months of distance. Months Matt had tried to pull him out of the fog, to make him see he was more than just the guy who once danced in the background.

Jason took a deep breath, the air heavy and cold in his lungs. His thumb trembled over the screen. What if Matt didn’t pick up? What if he did? What the hell was he even going to say?

Downstairs, Jack’s laughter echoed through the floorboards.

Protect them Jason...keep them safe..they need you...your family needs you

Jason squeezed his eyes shut, Clara’s words echoing through his mind. “I believe in you.” Maybe, with Matt’s help, he could finally start believing in himself too.

The ringing in his ear stopped. A click. And then —

“Jason?” Matt’s voice came through the line, warm and steady, threaded with concern. “Mate, what’s going on? You alright?” Jason swallowed, jaw clenched. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. The words tangled up in his throat, a knot of shame and fear and bone-deep exhaustion. “Jay?” Matt’s voice sharpened, urgency creeping in. “Talk to me. You okay mate?”

Jason dragged in a shaky breath, forcing the words out. “No. Not really.”

A beat of silence soon filled the air. Then a soft, steady sigh. “What's happened?”

Jason’s eyes drifted to the photograph in his hand — him and Matt, two boys frozen in time, laughing like they had the world at their feet. He pressed his thumb to Matt’s face, feeling the ache bloom beneath his ribs. The ache of being seen, once upon a time.

“It’s… it’s Jack,” Jason said, his voice cracking. “Someone took pictures of us at the café yesterday. Me tying his shoe. Lifting him up to the rocket mural. And… and one where he’s... he’s resting his head on my chest.”

“Oh, no…” Matt’s voice dropped, a mix of anger and disbelief. “They posted them?”

Jason nodded, then remembered Matt couldn’t see him. “Yeah. Facebook. Some fan group. And it’s spreading. And the comments, Matt — they’re...” His voice broke, the words catching in his throat. “They’re brutal. Like before.”

Matt’s breath hissed through the phone, a slow, controlled exhale. “Jesus. Jason, I’m so sorry.”

Jason’s eyes dropped to the floor, to the small puddle of water pooling beneath his feet. He felt cold, exposed, like his skin had been peeled back, layer by layer. “I should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve known someone would —”

“Don’t,” Matt said, cutting him off, his tone firm. “This isn’t your fault.”

“But it is,” Jason bit out, jaw tight. “I let my guard down. Thought I could just be his dad. Just be normal. But they — they twisted it. Made it into something else. And now Jack’s... he’s...”

His voice cracked, and he pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, eyes squeezing shut. The walls felt like they were closing in, the air too thick. God, he couldn’t breathe.

“Jason,” Matt’s voice softened, a low, steady anchor. “Listen to me. You are not a failure. You hear me? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, his throat raw. “Tell that to Jack when he’s old enough to read those comments. Tell that to Clara when they drag her into it. When they find out she’s having my baby.”

The silence on the other end was thick and heavy. Jason swallowed, his chest tight, waiting for Matt to say something. Anything.

“Clara’s pregnant?” Matt’s voice was a low murmur, a mix of surprise and something else — something softer, almost wistful.

Jason nodded, the emotion pressing down on his chest like a weight. “Yeah. Three months to go. A little  girl.." He swallowed hard, the fear clawing at him. “Matt… they don’t know yet. But what if they find out? What if they get a picture of her? Of us? They’ll tear her apart.” Matt was silent, but Jason could hear his breathing — slow, measured. And Jason knew Matt was doing the math, picturing the headlines, the articles, the comments. “You know what a lot of these fans are like…and that media…They’ll call her a gold digger,” Jason said, his voice hardening, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “They’ll say she’s using me. That she trapped me. That the baby’s some… some PR stunt. And Clara — she’s not… she’s not built for that. She didn’t sign up for it.”

“Neither did you,” Matt said, his voice a low, steady pulse of anger. “You just fell in love.”

Jason’s throat tightened, the words choking him. “Yeah. But they won’t see it that way. They’ll say I’m washed up. A has-been who couldn’t make it in the real world, so I’m using her kid and my now pregnant partner to stay relevant. They’ll say… they’ll say I don’t deserve them.”

“Bullshit,” Matt snapped, the word sharp and fierce. “They don’t know you, Jay. They don’t know how much you love them.”

Jason pressed a fist to his temple, the photograph crumpling in his other hand. “But they’ll say it anyway. And Clara… she doesn’t deserve that. And Jack — God, Matt, he’s just a kid.”

Matt’s breath hitched, a sound Jason almost missed. “Jason,” he said, his voice rough now, layered with something heavy and unspoken. “You know I always knew it would be Clara.”

 "What do you mean?" Jason’s brow furrowed, his heart giving a small, painful lurch. “I dont get you"”

“The night she showed up at my door,” Matt said, voice softer now, almost a whisper. “Middle of the night. Wet from the rain. Shaking like a leaf. She didn’t even say a word at first. Just stood there, clutching her car keys like they were a lifeline. And then she looked at me and said, ‘Where is he? Where’s Jason?’” Jason’s eyes stung, his vision blurring. He could see it — Clara standing there, hair plastered to her face, eyes wild and desperate. “That’s when I knew,” Matt said, a smile in his voice. “You’d finally found your person. The one who’d go through hell and back just to get to you.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, the ache rising in his chest like a tide. “Yeah. I did.”

“And now you’re scared of losing them,” Matt said, his voice hardening. “But that’s not gonna happen. Not on my watch.”

Jason’s grip on the phone tightened, the words like a balm to the ache in his chest. “Matt… I don’t know what to do.”

“Here’s what you do,” Matt said, his voice sharpening with resolve. “You and Clara come to my office next week. I’ll clear my schedule. We’ll go through everything — the photos, the comments, the legal angles. And we’ll hit back. Hard.”

Jason swallowed, the weight of those words settling around him like armor. “You’ll do that?”

“Mate,” Matt said, his voice low and firm. “I’m not just your lawyer. I’m your friend. And I’m not letting them take this from you.”

Jason’s eyes dropped to the photograph, the memory of that night in the pub flickering through his mind — Matt’s arm slung around his neck, both of them grinning like idiots, as if the world couldn’t touch them.

“Thanks, Matt,” he said, voice raw. “For being there.”

“Always,” Matt said, the warmth in his voice grounding Jason in a way nothing else could. “Now, go be with your family. I’ll handle the rest.”

Jason nodded, his chest tightening. “Alright.”

"And, Jay?”

“Yeah?”

"You’re a good dad,” Matt said, the words slow and deliberate, as if he were hammering each one into Jason’s mind. “Don’t let them take that from you. And don’t let them make you forget it.”

Jason’s throat burned, the tears threatening to spill over. He pressed his eyes shut, the photograph still crumpled in his fist. “I won’t,” he said, his voice thick. “I promise.”

The call ended, the silence rushing back in, heavy and cold. Jason set the phone down, his gaze lingering on the photograph one last time — that moment when he and Matt were untouchable, laughing at a world that hadn’t yet tried to break them. But this time, Jason wasn’t going to let it.

Not now. Not ever.

Jason straightened, the weight of his decision solidifying like steel around his spine. He moved to the closet, pulling on a T-shirt and jeans. He had a family downstairs waiting for him. And he had a fight to prepare for. Because this time, he wasn’t just fighting for himself. He was fighting for all of them.

The house was too quiet. Jason stood at the bottom of the stairs, one hand gripping the banister so tightly his knuckles ached. Matt’s words echoed in his mind, each syllable like a stone sinking to the bottom of a dark, endless well. From the kitchen, the soft, familiar sounds of home drifted toward him — the clatter of plates, the faint hum of Clara’s voice as she sang some old tune, Jack’s giggles bouncing off the walls. It should have felt safe. It should have felt warm. But everything felt like it was fraying at the edges, like the world outside was pressing in, ready to tear them apart. Jason squeezed his eyes shut, the ache in his chest sharpening. They were slipping through his fingers — Clara, Jack, the life they’d built. He could feel it. The world was out there, claws bared, hungry for a piece of him. But he was damned if he was going to let them take his family. He pushed off the banister, moving through the doorway like a man stepping into battle.

The kitchen was bathed in late morning light, the air thick with the scent of toast and cinnamon. On the table, Jack’s half-finished drawing lay forgotten — a rocket ship with three stick figures holding hands, faces beaming. Jason’s chest tightened. The photograph of him and Matt felt heavy in his back pocket, the edges biting into his skin like a warning. Clara stood at the stove, her back to him. One leg bent, the curve of her spine dipping beneath the hem of her blouse. Her hair was twisted up in a messy knot, wisps falling free. Jack was perched at the table, syrup-soaked fingers clutching a fork as he drowned his French toast in more syrup. Jason stood there for a moment, just watching them. His family. His world. The life he never thought he’d have. And now it was at risk. His jaw clenched. Not again. He wouldn’t let the world rip them apart like it had ripped him apart back then. He wasn’t that kid anymore — the one who kept his head down and let them paint him as the fool, the joke, the one who danced and smiled and swallowed his words. Not anymore.

Clara glanced over her shoulder, her soft smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Hey, you,” she said gently. “Feel better after your shower?”

Jason forced a smile, but it felt wrong. Too tight. Too forced. “Yeah.”

“Jay?” Clara’s brow furrowed, her gaze sweeping over him, searching. “You okay?”

Before he could answer, Jack’s voice broke through, syrupy and muffled. “Mummy! Jason said hes always going to be my bestest friend!”

Jason managed a chuckle, ruffling Jack’s hair as he passed, the boy leaning into the touch. “You are, mate. You definitely are.”

Clara watched them, her eyes shadowed, her smile slipping. Jason could feel her gaze tracking every move — the way his shoulders tensed, the way his jaw clenched, the way he hovered too close to Jack, as if trying to shield him from something invisible.

“Hey,” she said softly, setting down the spatula. “What’s going on?” Jason swallowed hard, the words thick and heavy on his tongue. How was he supposed to tell her that the world outside their little kitchen was closing in? That the walls were closing in, the wolves at the door? Clara’s eyes flicked to Jack, her hand gently brushing his hair. “Jack, honey,” she said, her voice soft. “Why don’t you go play with your cars in the living room?” Jack’s face fell, but Clara crouched down, cupping his cheek. “I promise I’ll come play with you in just a minute, okay?” Jack nodded, syrup-sticky fingers grabbing his toy car as he trudged into the living room, the wheels squeaking against the floor. The sound faded, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence in its wake. Clara straightened, turning to Jason. “Alright,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “Talk to me.”

Jason’s jaw worked, the muscles in his neck taut. The words felt like glass in his throat, sharp and cutting. “I called Matt.”

“Matt?” Clara’s brows shot up, her eyes widening. “As in… Matt York?”

Jason nodded, his hand shaking as he pushed it through his hair. “Yeah. He’s clearing his schedule. Wants us to come in next week. Both of us.”

"I don't understand" Clara’s lips parted, her eyes searching for him. “Why?”

“Why do yo think Clara?” Jason stepped forward, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Because I can’t run from this now” he said, voice rough, raw. “Not this time. I can’t sit back and let them twist our life, twist Jack’s life, into something ugly. I have to fight.”

Clara’s chin quivered, a tear slipping free. “You… you want to fight back?”

“Yes..I have to..I need to” Jason nodded, his hand sliding to the back of her neck, grounding himself in the warmth of her skin. “For Jack. For you. For Hope.”

His gaze dropped to her belly, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against her nape. Images of Clara, her bump exposed, plastered across a magazine cover, flashed through his mind. Accusations. Lies. Insults. They would tear her apart, question her motives, call her names.

“Jay..” Clara’s hands tightened on his wrists, her pulse thrumming against his skin. “ Remember You don’t have to do this alone,” she whispered, her eyes fierce, burning. “You’ve got me. You always have.”

“I know…” Jason’s eyes fell shut, a tear slipping free. Clara caught it with her thumb, her touch gentle, anchoring. “I love you,” he said, his voice cracking, the words a raw, desperate plea. “And I’ve got you, Clara. Always..but i need to do this..”

Clara let out a sob, her hands fisting in his shirt as she pulled him close. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “So damn proud of you, Jay.” Jason’s breath shuddered, her words sinking deep, filling the cracks that had been spreading inside him all morning.Clara’s hand moved to his cheek, her thumb brushing away a tear. “You could’ve run,” she said, voice trembling. “You could’ve buried your head in the sand, but you haven't.”

Jason’s jaw quivered, his forehead dropping to hers. “ Clara. I just don’t want them to hurt you. Or Jack. Or her.”

“They won't…we wont let them” Clara’s lips trembled, her arms wrapping around him. “You’re not alone,” she whispered. “I’m right here. Every step of the way”

Jason swallowed, the ache in his chest finally easing, the knot in his throat loosening. He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips. In the other room, a toy car beeped as Jack zoomed it across the floor. And then, small, rapid footsteps echoed down the hall.

“Jason!” Jack barreled into the kitchen, eyes bright, car clutched tight in his hand. Without warning, he wrapped his arms around Jason’s leg, hugging him fiercely, face pressed against his thigh. Jason’s breath hitched, his hand trembling as he rested it atop Jack’s head, fingers threading through the boy’s tousled hair. Jack’s grip tightened, his little voice muffled but firm. “I love you”

Jason’s chest squeezed, the ache too much and not enough all at once. He dropped to one knee, cupping Jack’s face between his hands. “I love you too, buddy,” he whispered, voice breaking. “So much.”

Jack beamed, leaning forward to plant a sticky, syrup-sweet kiss on Jason’s cheek before darting back into the living room, car in hand, his laughter echoing behind him. Jason stayed there, kneeling on the floor, eyes closed, the warmth of Jack’s hug still lingering. Clara knelt beside him, her hand finding his, their fingers lacing together.

“You’re doing the right thing,” she said softly, her thumb stroking over his knuckles.

Jason nodded, his gaze fixed on the hallway where Jack had disappeared, his heart pounding, his resolve solidifying.

"I have to,” he said, his voice firm. “For them. For us.”

And as he squeezed Clara’s hand, feeling the weight of her love anchoring him, Jason knew he was ready to fight. For Jack. For Clara. For Hope. For the life they were building — and the life he was determined to protect.

Chapter Text

ONE WEEK LATER

A week later, the house felt heavier, as though the walls had absorbed every whispered conversation, every sleepless night, every anxious glance. The air hung thick with the scent of stale coffee and unshed tears, and the once-cozy living room was now cluttered with newspapers and half-read legal documents, their edges curling beneath the weight of too many restless nights. The kitchen, usually filled with Jack’s laughter and Clara’s soft humming, was eerily quiet — a forgotten plate of toast sat untouched on the counter, the butter congealing. 

Outside, the world moved on, oblivious, while inside, time felt suspended, stretched thin between what they’d had and what they were desperately trying to hold onto. Clara stood alone in the kitchen, Jason’s old T-shirt hanging loose around her, the hem brushing against her thighs. The soft, worn fabric carried his scent — a mix of cedarwood and the lingering trace of his cologne — and she wrapped her arms around herself, as if holding onto him. The kettle whistled, sharp and piercing, breaking the heavy silence. Jack’s laughter drifted in from the living room, a burst of sound beneath the blare of cartoons, but it did little to lift the ache pressing down on her chest. Clara’s gaze fell to the counter, where a stack of plates sat unwashed, toast crumbs scattered like tiny, forgotten pieces of a life that felt too fragile. Outside, the morning was overcast, the sky a dull gray that pressed against the windows, and somewhere in the distance, the rhythmic pound of Jason’s feet against the pavement echoed like a heartbeat, steady and relentless.

The morning sun filtered through the blinds in fractured lines, slanting across the kitchen tiles. Clara stood by the kitchen table, brushing crumbs off Jack’s backpack while he chattered away about dinosaurs and rockets. His little voice was a warm, familiar sound, but Clara’s mind was somewhere else, her shoulders tense beneath Jason’s old T-shirt. Her phone buzzed against the countertop, the sharp vibration cutting through Jack’s rambling. Clara frowned, reaching for it. Probably another spam email or a group chat notification. But when she picked it up, the Twitter icon glowed on the screen. Twitter? Her brow furrowed. She hadn’t opened that app in years. Years before she met Jason. The account had been a forgotten relic from her university days — back when her biggest concerns were exam stress and where to find cheap wine.

She tapped the notification, and it took her straight to a tweet from a big Take That fan account...

“Who’s the kid with Jason Orange? Secret love child? Or a baby mama cash grab for the former boyband heartthrob?”

Clara’s stomach dropped. The one tweet had been shared hundreds of times. Beneath it were the photos —. Jason kneeling to tie Jack’s shoe, lifting him up tenderly to see his favourite spaceship mural at that cafe. And the one that twisted the knife: Jason holding Jack close, Jack’s head resting on his chest, eyes closed, safe and content. A knot tightened in Clara’s chest, a sharp, burning ache. How could they take something so innocent and twist it? How could they make something so pure feel so… dirty? She knew it was a mistake but her thumb scrolled down, and the comments unraveled beneath her in a relentless thread of pain:

@TTForeverFan:

Wait... is that Jason Orange with a kid? Since when does he have a son?! #TakeThat #BlastFromThePast

@NostalgiaQueen89:

Whoa. I didn’t even know he had a kid. Who’s the mum? Another fling coming back to haunt him I bet? #JasonOrange #Scandal

@90sPopPrincess:

Look at the eyes. Same as Jason’s. But seriously, WHO’S THE MOTHER?! #SpillTheTea

@TTGossipGuru:

Wasn’t he linked to some model a few years back? Blonde? Could be her kid. #JasonOrange #MysteryBaby

@KingForever: “Remember how he treated Robbie? Jason’s always been a bully. Bet he manipulated this poor girl into bed.”

Clara’s stomach lurched. Manipulated? Poor girl? She swallowed, her vision blurring as one particular comment caught her eye:

@RobbieRules: “Jason’s always been a prick. Can’t believe some girl let him knock her up. She’ll learn the hard way.”

Clara’s pulse thundered in her ears. The hard way? 

@ 90sThrowbackQueen: “He’s still the same Jason Orange — flashing that smile, charming his way into another girl’s bed..was only a matter of time before he got some random woman pregnant..i mean that reputation of his”

@KingOfTheNight: “Probably doesn’t even remember her name. Just another notch in the belt.”

@TTForeverFan: “So, who’s the mother? Another one-night stand no doubt?”

Clara’s jaw clenched, her chest tightening until it felt like she couldn’t breathe. The room seemed to close in around her, the edges blurring as the words on the screen drilled deeper, each one sharper than the last. She gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles turning white, fingertips pressing so hard they ached.

In the dark, reflective screen, her own eyes stared back at her — glassy, wide, her lips trembling as though she’d been slapped. A flush crept up her cheeks, burning hot beneath her skin. Jason. A reckless, careless flirt. The same boy-band heartthrob who winked at the camera, flashing that easy, practiced grin. The flirt. The player. The one who charmed every girl in the room and left a trail of broken hearts in his wake.

A one-night stand? Seriously?

Clara’s pulse pounded against her temples. She forced herself to swallow, her throat tight, breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. They were talking about Jason like he was still that twenty-something boy with a too-bright smile and a roguish wink. Like he was still that carefree kid with the floppy hair and the easy laugh, sliding through life on a slick of charm and pretty-boy looks. But that wasn’t her Jason.

Her Jason was the man who had cradled her face in the dark of that Paris hotel room, eyes shining as though she was the only thing in the world he could see. The man who had whispered “I love you” against her skin, his hands trembling as they traced the curve of her waist. The man who had pulled her close, their bodies flushing beneath the cool, crisp sheets, his heartbeat pounding against her palm like a secret only she was meant to hold.

The memory rushed forward, vivid and aching... Her birthday.

Paris.

The memory surged, vivid and aching, washing over her in a slow, relentless tide. Her mind flashed back to that night. Her birthday. The city lights twinkling like a million tiny stars, the Eiffel Tower lit up against the velvet sky. Jason held her close, his hand at the small of her back, his breath warm against her ear as they swayed to the soft, lazy rhythm of a street musician’s guitar. His eyes had been soft, molten gold in the dim light, his fingers tracing slow, reverent circles against her skin Their hands tangled together, the air thick with laughter and whispered promises. That night, he’d kissed her slow and deep, almost like he was memorizing her, like he was trying to fuse them together. That night, they’d created Hope.

Paris

Several months previous 

It had been her birthday. Jason had kept the destination a secret, that familiar, mischievous glint in his eye as he’d led her blindfolded through the Eurostar departure lounge that early Saturday morning after they had safely packed Jack off with Dani. When they stepped into the hotel suite — a room on the top floor with a sprawling balcony overlooking the Eiffel Tower — Clara’s breath caught in her throat.

The air inside was heavy with the scent of jasmine, sweet and intoxicating, mingling with the cool bite of late autumn air seeping in from the open balcony doors. Outside, the Eiffel Tower glittered against the deep indigo sky, every light a tiny, pulsing star. But inside, the room glowed with a softer, golden light — lamps dimmed to a low, warm flicker that seemed to wrap around them like a gentle embrace. Clara stood by the window, fingers trailing over the sheer curtains as she took it all in. Paris. The city of love. And Jason had brought her here. For her. From behind, she felt his presence before she felt his touch — the warmth of his body as he stepped closer, his chest pressing softly against her back. Jason’s hands slid around her waist, slow and deliberate, palms warm through the thin silk of her dress. Clara leaned back against him, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat against her spine. His breath skimmed over her ear, warm and sweet, smelling of the dark chocolate truffles they’d shared downstairs as the waited to check in

“You know how much I love you, right?”

Clara shivered, her eyes slipping shut as the words sank in. “I know,” she whispered. “But tell me anyway.”

Jason’s hands tightened at her waist, his thumbs tracing lazy, languid circles against her hips. “I love you,” he repeated, his voice a low, aching rasp. “God, Clara. I love you so much it scares me.”

She swallowed, a lump forming in her throat. Jason wasn’t usually this raw, this open. The vulnerability in his voice made her chest ache. She turned in his arms, her hands reaching up to cradle his jaw, thumbs brushing over the slight roughness of his stubble. He hadn’t shaved since that morning, and the dark shadow only made his eyes look more intense, more molten as they searched hers.

Outside, a soft breeze rustled the curtains, sending a shiver through the room. But the air between them was thick, charged, as if every breath carried a confession, a promise, a plea.

“Jason,” Clara murmured, her fingertips grazing his cheek, the curve of his jaw. “Then show me.”

Something flickered in his eyes — a flash of want, need, desperation. And then instantly his mouth was on hers, slow and deep, a kiss that felt less like a question and more like a declaration.Jason kissed her like he was drowning, like she was the only solid thing he could cling to. His lips moved over hers in a slow, unhurried dance, his tongue sweeping against hers, coaxing, savoring, as if trying to memorize the taste of her. sliding against hers in long, languid strokes

Her knees weakened, her hands clutching his shoulders to keep from sinking to the floor. His hands skimmed down her sides, fingertips grazing the silk of her dress, inching it higher and higher. Jason’s fingers slipped beneath the hem of her dress, gliding up her thighs, his touch firm but reverent. The silk bunched beneath his palms, sliding higher, exposing more skin to the cool air. His mouth trailing back down her jaw, the rough scrape of his stubble sending sparks down her spine. Clara’s heart thundered beneath her ribs as Jason’s hands lifted to her shoulders, his fingers sliding beneath the thin straps of her dress. He watched her closely, as though waiting for a sign, a word, a breath that said she was ready. She was. God, she was. His thumbs now stroked over her collarbones, slow and deliberate, sending a shiver cascading down her spine. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough and low, the words almost reverent.

His fingers slipped the straps down her arms, his knuckles grazing her skin as he drew them lower, the dress falling away inch by inch. The silk whispered against her body, a soft, cool slide as it pooled around her feet, leaving her standing before him in nothing but a delicate lace bra and matching underwear. Jason sucked in a breath, his gaze sweeping over her, slow and unhurried. His eyes roamed the curves of her body, lingering on the gentle swell of her breasts, the soft curve of her hips, the way her skin flushed beneath his gaze. Clara felt exposed, vulnerable — but not in a way that made her want to hide. Jason’s eyes held hers, dark and intense, like he was trying to memorize her, etch every inch of her into his mind. He stepped closer, his hands sliding up her arms one more, trailing goosebumps in their wake. His palms were warm, calloused, a stark contrast to the cool air that kissed her bare skin. Slowly, he cupped her face, his thumbs brushing along her jaw, his eyes searching hers.

“You’re everything,” he said, his forehead dipping to touch hers, his breath warm and ragged. “Everything to me.”

Clara’s lips parted, a soft breath escaping as his hands continued their slow, deliberate path down to the tops of her breasts. His thumbs brushed the delicate lace, grazing the soft skin that peeked above the cups. Clara’s nipples tightened beneath the thin fabric, a sharp, electric pulse shooting through her. Heat pooled low in her belly, and she trembled beneath his touch, her knees going even more weak by the second. Jason’s jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring as he watched her, his gaze fixed on her chest, on the rapid rise and fall of her breathing. He swallowed hard, as if steadying himself. Then, with aching slowness, his fingertips slipped beneath the lace, sliding under the cups of her bra.

Clara gasped, her head falling back, exposing the long line of her neck. Jason’s hands were warm and sure, his palms cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing slow, deliberate circles over her nipples. The contact was soft, almost reverent, as though he were committing her to memory, inch by inch. His hand remained beneath her bra, palm pressed to her breast, his thumb flicking over her nipple in a rhythm that was both torturous and perfect. Each pass of his thumb sent a spark of pleasure straight to her core, her thighs clenching in response, a needy whimper escaping her lips. He gently pulled at the lace. Dipping his head, capturing her exposed nipple in his mouth, the wet heat of his tongue a stark contrast to the cool air around them, Clara’s knees buckled, a strangled moan escaping her. Jason caught her, his arm tight around her waist, holding her steady as he lavished attention on her breast, his tongue swirling, his teeth grazing just enough to send a shudder rolling down her spine.

“I love you,” he rasped, pressing a fierce, lingering kiss to her mouth, the words a vow, a prayer, a plea. “I love you so damn much.”

And as he kissed her again, deeper this time, his hands slid to the clasp of her bra, fingers trembling as he unhooked it, letting the lace fall away. The cool air met her bare skin, but Jason’s touch was quick to follow, his hands cupping her fully, his thumbs brushing over her now-sensitive nipples once again, his mouth moving back to her neck, his breath hot and ragged against her pulse. Clara was lost. Completely, utterly lost in him. In his touch, in his words, in the way he made her feel — worshipped, cherished, adored.

The air between them was thick, pulsing with the soft hum of the city outside. Clara’s breath came in shallow, uneven bursts as she stood before Jason, her chest rising and falling beneath a flood of words or perhaps a groan. But Clara didn’t want words. Not right now. Slowly, she reached for him, her hands finding the open edges of his shirt. The cotton was warm from his body, the fabric soft against her palms as she smoothed her hands up his chest. Jason’s muscles tensed beneath her touch, the hard lines of his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. Jason swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his eyes fixed on hers as if he couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

“Clara…” he murmured, his voice a rasp, rough and low.

Clara’s hands slipped to his shoulders, and she pushed the shirt back, letting it slide down his arms. It fell to the floor with a soft rustle, pooling at his feet like a discarded secret. Now he was bare before her, all smooth, golden skin and taut muscle, the soft lamplight casting warm shadows over every ridge and hollow. Clara’s gaze drank him in, her pulse pounding as she took in the expanse of his chest, the faint sheen of sweat glistening along his collarbone, the dark trail of hair that dipped below the waistband of his slacks. God, he was beautiful. Her hands came up again, palms flattening against his chest, feeling the heat of him, the way his skin tightened beneath her touch. Jason’s eyes fluttered closed, a shuddered breath escaping him as her fingertips traced slow, lazy circles over his pecs. His skin was warm and firm, and she could feel his heart pounding beneath her hand — a heavy, insistent rhythm that echoed her own. She leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the center of his chest, her lips brushing over the warm skin, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath her mouth. Jason’s hand came up, sliding into her hair, his fingers tangling in the strands as he held her close.

His eyes searched hers, his brow furrowing as if he were struggling to find the right words. Then, in one swift, fluid motion, he scooped her up into his arms, carrying her to the bed.

The sheets were cool against her back as he gently lay her down, the room spinning around her. But Jason’s eyes never left hers — he hovered over her, his hands braced on either side of her head, his knees sinking into the mattress. He looked down at her like she was art, like she was something holy. His hand moved back to her breast, palms warm and reverent, his thumb tracing slow, sensual circles over her hardened nipple. Each pass sent another ripple of heat coursing through her, her legs trembling through the matress. He lowered his head, again capturing one nipple in his mouth, his tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. Clara’s head fell back, her hands sinking into his hair, holding him there, needing him closer. Jason groaned, the sound vibrating against her skin, and he moved to her other breast, giving it the same attention, his tongue stroking in long, lazy licks that had her hips arching against him, seeking more.

“Please,” she whimpered, her nails scraping down his back, her thighs squeezing together, desperate for friction “I need you..”

Jason leaned down, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that was slow, deep, and devastatingly tender. His tongue swept inside, tangling with hers, his hips pressing down, the hard length of him rocking against her core in a slow, torturous rhythm. Clara now whimpered into his mouth, her hands slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, her fingers wrapping around him. Jason gasped, his forehead falling to her shoulder, his breath coming in harsh, ragged pants as she stroked him, slow and deliberate. Catching his breath, his hand slipped between them, hooking beneath the waistband of her underwear, dragging them down her thighs. The cool air met her bare skin, and she shivered, her breath catching as Jason settled between her legs, his hips aligning with hers.  Then, in one slow, deliberate thrust, he slid inside her, their bodies joining completely. Clara gasped, her nails biting into his shoulders as he filled her, stretching her, grounding her. Jason’s forehead fell to hers, his breath mingling with hers as he began to move — slow and deep, every thrust a silent, aching declaration of love.

Slowly, he moved within her, each deliberate thrust a silent, aching confession. Clara’s legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back, urging him closer, deeper. The slow, sensual slide of him was maddening, each roll of his hips a tease, a promise, a vow. Jason’s gaze held hers, his pupils blown wide, eyes dark with need and something deeper, something raw. His hands roamed over her body like he was memorizing her — one sliding up to cradle the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, while the other glided down her side, palm splaying over her hip, anchoring her in place.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over hers, his voice a low, trembling rasp. “So perfect.”

Clara’s breath hitched, her hands moving to his shoulders, fingers pressing into the firm muscles there, feeling them bunch and flex with each slow thrust. The weight of him above her was grounding, his heat seeping into her, melting her, until she felt like she was dissolving into him. Jason’s mouth soon trailed along her jaw, his stubble a rough, delicious scrape against her skin. His lips found the hollow beneath her ear, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot there, and Clara shuddered, her nails raking down his back.

"Jason…” she gasped, arching beneath him, her body taut, nerves singing.

“I got you” he whispered, his hand sliding beneath her lower back, lifting her hips to meet him, the angle deeper now, more intense. “Always…” He pulled back just enough to look down at her, his chest rising and falling in heavy, shuddering breaths. His gaze swept over her — her flushed cheeks, the dark, heavy-lidded eyes, the way her hair fanned out across the pillow like a dark, silken halo. “God, you’re beautiful,” he said, his thumb tracing her bottom lip, his eyes softening as they held hers. “You have no idea.”

Clara swallowed, her throat tight. The intensity in his gaze was too much — like he could see right through her, every fear, every hope, every hidden corner of her heart. But she couldn’t look away. Couldn’t hide. Not from him. Jason’s thumb pressed against her bottom lip, slipping just inside, and Clara’s lips parted, her tongue flicking out to taste him. Jason’s jaw clenched, a low, guttural sound escaping him “You drive me crazy…” he muttered, his hips rolling forward, deeper, the sensation a slow, torturous drag that had Clara’s toes curling, her back arching off the bed.

“Then lose control,” she whispered, her breath hot against his jaw. “I want you. All of you.”

Something in Jason’s expression shattered, a flicker of something raw and unguarded flashing across his face. Her head falling back, eyes slipping shut. ason watched her, his gaze dark and intense as he took her in — the way her lips parted, the soft, needy sounds she made, the way her skin flushed beneath his touch. Clara’s eyes fluttered open, meeting his. The room felt heavy, the air thick and heady with the scent of sex and jasmine and something darker, something deeper. Jason’s hips slowed, each thrust a deliberate, slow grind, his pelvis pressing against hers, hitting that spot inside her that had Clara gasping, her nails digging into his back.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice a low, rasping plea. “I want to see you.” Clara’s eyes locked onto his, her breath coming in short, stuttering pants. Jason’s hand slid down to the back of her thigh, hitching her leg higher, opening her up wider. The shift sent him deeper, the sensation a slow, sweet ache that had Clara’s head spinning. Jason’s forehead fell to hers, his breath hot and ragged against her lips. “You feel that?” he murmured, his hips grinding slow and deep, the friction exquisite. “I love you,” he said, each word a rough, aching rasp that vibrated against her lips. “I love you so damn much.”

A sob caught in Clara’s throat, her hands sliding up to cradle his face, her thumbs brushing over the rough stubble that dusted his jaw. Clara’s heart pounded against her ribcage, the words sinking deep, threading through her like a lifeline. Jason didn’t answer with words. Instead, he kissed her — slow and deep and devastatingly tender, his mouth moving over hers in long, languid strokes that stole her breath, her thoughts, her everything. Their bodies continued to to move together, the rhythm building, each thrust deeper, more intense, the tension winding tighter and tighter until the world around them blurred, until there was nothing left but the slide of skin against skin, the heat and the friction and the sounds of their bodies coming together in slow, desperate harmony.

When Clara finally shattered, it was with Jason’s name on her lips, her body arching into him, her nails digging into his shoulders. Jason followed a heartbeat later, his hips stuttering, his breath catching as he buried himself deep inside her, his forehead falling to the crook of her neck as he let go. The room was silent except for the sound of their breathing — heavy and uneven, the air thick and hazy, the scent of sex mingling with the jasmine. Jason’s body lay heavy against hers, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. He lifted his head, his eyes finding hers, his expression soft, almost dazed.

 “Happy birthday,” he whispered with a small chuckle, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from her damp forehead. “Was it everything you wanted?”

Clara’s eyes filled, her throat tight as she cupped his face, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones. “It was everything,” she said, her voice breaking. “And more.”

Jason’s smile was small, tender, his gaze dark and warm as he leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips. When he pulled back, he shifted onto his side, drawing her close until her head rested on his chest, her leg draped over his hips.

His fingers trailed up and down her back, slow and soothing, his other hand splaying over her belly, his thumb tracing lazy circles over her skin. Clara’s eyelids grew heavy, her breath evening out as she sank into the warmth of him, into the soft, steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear. Outside, the Eiffel Tower sparkled against the night sky, and inside, Jason held Clara close, his arms wrapped around her as if he could keep her safe from everything — from the world, from the past, from every fear and insecurity that lingered in the shadows.

And in that moment, it was enough.

Now, back in the present, those words rang through Clara as she stared at the Twitter comments, her heart pounding, her fists clenched. They thought they knew him — that he was still that boy from the ’90s with a charming grin and a wandering eye. The flirt. The player. The one who never stayed. But they didn’t know the man who had held her that night in Paris, who had kissed her like she was his whole world, his voice breaking with emotion as he whispered his love against her skin. They didn’t know the man who had cradled her, his hand resting over her belly, his thumb tracing a slow, reverent circle as if he could already feel the life they’d created. They didn’t know the man who had now become the father of her child — the one who kissed her every morning, who read Jack bedtime stories until the boy’s eyes fluttered closed, who stayed.

Her breath hitched as she scrolled down, her eyes catching on a particularly cruel comment:

@90sThrowbackQueen:

Bet he’s got her knocked up already. Once a player, always a player. Whoever she is, I Hope she’s ready to be the next one he leaves behind…just like he did the band

Clara’s jaw clenched, her pulse roaring in her ears. The next one? She pressed a hand to her belly, feeling the steady, insistent kicks from Hope — as if the baby was trying to remind her that she was here, that they were real, that they were more than the lies and gossip of strangers. They didn’t know Jason. They didn’t know him at all. Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding as her gaze fell to another tweet.

@90sTTfan:

Jason Orange was always grinning, flashing those dimples, moving from girl to girl. Looks like old habits die hard…player

Clara’s breath caught, a flush of anger rising hot and fast beneath her skin. Player? They had no idea. No idea who Jason Orange was now. No idea how he had changed, how he had grown and evolved. How he had looked at her that night and every day they’d been together like she was the only woman in the world.

But still the words kept coming, each one like a punch to her gut.

@RobbieRules:

Guess he’s still a bully too. Remember how he treated Robbie? He was the one who got him sacked. Probably manipulated this girl the same way. Got her pregnant, now what? Leave her behind like he did the band?

Clara’s fingers dug into the edge of the counter, her knuckles white. Leave her behind? Manipulated her? As if that night had been some cheap conquest, some careless fling. As if she were some naive, lovestruck fan, duped by his smile. She squeezed her eyes shut, the ache in her chest intensifying.

Even months later, She could still feel the way Jason had held her that night — the way he’d kissed her like she was air and he was drowning. How he’d trembled against her, the vulnerability in his eyes raw and exposed, like he was terrified of how much he felt for her. And then, afterward, how he’d wrapped himself around her, his face pressed to her belly, his lips brushing soft, whispered words against her skin. Now, here they were. Her stomach churned, nausea rising as her eyes dropped to the next tweet.

@KingForever:

She’s probably just some fan who got lucky. Bet he barely remembers her name.

Clara’s eyes burned. Lucky? Barely remembers her name? She could still feel his fingers threading through her hair, his mouth tracing her name against her skin as he moved inside her, slow and deliberate, every thrust a silent declaration. And they thought he’d forget her? They thought she was just another girl? Her breath shuddered out of her, and she pressed a trembling hand to her belly, feeling the solid, reassuring weight of it beneath Jason’s T-shirt. Inside, Hope kicked, a small, insistent nudge against her palm. Clara swallowed thickly, a sob clawing up her throat. They didn’t know a damn thing. They didn’t know how Jason had whispered, “You’re it for me,” that night, his eyes dark and glassy, his hands shaking as he cradled her face like she was precious. How he’d kissed her like he was trying to fuse them together, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of being apart. They didn’t know how he had pulled her close after, holding her so tightly, like he was afraid she might disappear. How he had pressed his lips to her belly, almost foreshadowing the child they created that night, his eyes shining as he said, “You’re everything to me” They didn’t know how he had woken her up hours later, his voice thick with sleep, his fingers trailing lazy circles over her skin. How he’d kissed her again, slow and sweet, whispering, “I love you,” like a man finally letting himself believe in something good. They didn’t know how he had watched her sleep that night, his hand resting protectively over her stomach, as if he already knew. As if he could already feel Hope, that tiny spark of life nestled between them.

They didn’t know Jason Orange at all.

Clara’s breath came in ragged, uneven pulls, her hand sliding from her belly to her chest, pressing down hard, trying to quell the ache. Hope kicked again, stronger this time, like she was trying to remind Clara that she was here. That Jason was here. That what they had was real — no matter what the world said. Clara blinked, the screen blurring as another tweet popped up.

@TTForeverFan:

She’s probably some gold digger. Waiting for the payout. Sad to see Jason fall for it. Thought he was smarter than that.

Clara’s hand shook. Gold digger?

No. No

This wasn’t their story. This wasn’t who they were. These people knew absolutely nothing. Her gaze dropped to the “Delete Account” button, her finger hovering over it. Her pulse pounded in her ears, each beat echoing with the memory of that night.  Her breath caught, the ache in her chest splintering, and she squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the warmth of Hope’s kicks beneath her hand. Jason was right. These people had no right to their family. No right to their love. Clara drew in a deep, shuddering breath, her jaw setting as her eyes snapped open. With one sharp, decisive click, she hit Delete Account.

And just like that, the noise stopped....The world fell away.

And in the silence that followed, Clara finally let herself breathe. The room felt bigger somehow, the air easier to pull into her lungs. From the living room, Jack’s laughter rang out, pure and bright, as a cartoon played on the TV. The kettle whistled softly behind her, the hum of normal life bleeding back into focus. Clara pressed her hands to her belly, feeling Hope kick once more — steady, reassuring. She took another deep breath, the tension easing from her shoulders. In that moment, she knew: the world didn’t get to define them. Only they did. And that was enough.

The front door swung open, and Jason stepped inside, the cool morning air clinging to his sweat-soaked skin. His T-shirt stuck to his back, the fabric damp and heavy, and his chest rose and fell in steady, labored breaths. The run had done nothing to shake off the tension coiled inside him. If anything, the pounding of his feet against the pavement had only made his thoughts race faster, each step a relentless echo of the words he couldn’t outrun. Jack’s laughter rang out from the living room, bright and unburdened, a sweet, unbroken sound that clashed against the tightness in Jason’s chest. He moved to the doorway, leaning against the frame as he caught sight of his boy sprawled across the floor. Jack was surrounded by a perfectly arranged fleet of toy cars, each one lined up in neat, precise rows. The sunlight slanted through the window, catching the glossy paint of the toy cars, making them gleam like tiny, defiant stars in a world that suddenly felt far too dark.

Jason swallowed, his gaze fixed on Jack. For a moment, the world outside fell away — the rumors, the accusations, the relentless thrum of Facebook comments that still buzzed in his skull. For a moment, there was just this: his little boy's laughter, pure and untainted, echoing through the house like a lifeline. But even as Jason tried to hold onto that sound, a cold, creeping dread slithered up his spine. How much longer could they protect Jack from what was coming? How much longer until the innocence in his son’s laughter was swallowed up by the ugliness of the world outside?

“Hey Kid,” Jason said, running a hand through his hair, pushing back the sweat-soaked strands. His breath was still coming in heavy pants, his pulse drumming loud and fast beneath his skin.

Jack’s head popped up, eyes shining. “Jason ” he squealed, scrambling to his feet and barreling straight into Jason’s legs “mummy said you got up early to run”

“Yeah..i did..sorry i missed your morning wake up call” Jason chuckled, catching him with ease and lifting him high, pressing a loud, smacking kiss to Jack’s cheek. The scent of syrup and baby shampoo clung to the boy, a sweet, grounding comfort against the acrid tang of sweat clinging to Jason’s skin. “Whoa there, mate. Careful. You’ll get all sweaty.”

“Ew, you’re all wet!” forcing a smile, Jack wrinkled his nose, squirming. ““And you stink!”

"WOW” Jason laughed, setting Jack down and swiping a hand over his face. “Cheers for that. You’re just full of compliments this morning.”

“Love you really but you do smell a bit” Jack giggled waving his hand across his face, his laughter echoing through the house like a balm. “Mummy said you and her are both taking me to schoo today!”

“Yes, so how bout you start getting ready?” he smiled, kissing his head. “That will give me time to jump in the shower..”

Jason’s smile lingered, soft but already fading as he watched Jack disappear around the corner. The hallway swallowed up his son’s carefree joy, and with it, the fragile illusion of normalcy Jason had tried so hard to hold onto. The air in the house felt thicker, heavier, as though every word and accusation online had found its way inside, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t shake. His chest tightened, the heaviness settling like a stone in his gut. How much longer could they keep Jack cocooned in this bubble of innocence? How much longer until he heard whispers? Until he saw the photos? Until he read the words strangers were spewing online? Jason swallowed, his throat dry, and forced his feet to move toward the kitchen. Inside, the air was thick and heavy, the scent of burnt toast lingering, acrid and sharp. The kettle whistled, its piercing sound cutting through the silence like a scream.

Clara was leaning over the sink, her shoulders hunched beneath his old T-shirt. The soft, worn fabric clung to her damp skin, the hem brushing against her thighs. Her hands gripped the counter, knuckles white, shoulders drawn tight. Jason’s gut twisted. In the dim morning light, she looked small, like she was trying to hold herself together by sheer force of will. He moved forward, his bare feet whispering against the cool floorboards. Without a word, he slipped his arms around her from behind, pressing his chest against her back. The contrast was startling — her warmth against the chill that had settled into his bones and his sweat-soaked skin against her. Jason’s hands splayed over her belly, thumbs stroking in slow, soothing circles. His hands spread across her belly, thumbs stroking in slow, gentle circles, trying to ease the tension coiled tight beneath her skin. He pressed his lips to the nape of her neck, breathing her in.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rasp. “What’s wrong?”

“Now..don't get mad at me…but” Clara’s breath hitched. Her fingers flexed against the countertop, as if she couldn’t bear to look at him. Her jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath her cheekbone.“It’s Twitter,” she said, the words a choked whisper. “The pictures… they’re on Twitter now.”

Jason stilled. The air seemed to thicken, closing in around them. The kitchen felt smaller, the walls pressing in like a vise. His jaw clenched, muscles ticking beneath his stubble as he fought to keep his voice steady.

“Clara?” he said, turning her in his arms, his hands finding her hips, grounding them both. his voice a low, tight murmur. ““Please don't tell me you're reading the comments?”

“Im sorry..im so sorry” Clara’s eyes dropped to his chest, unable to meet his gaze. “I know I shouldn’t have,” she said, her voice breaking. “But… I couldn’t stop. They’re saying you’re still that guy. The flirt. The player. That you’re just using me — that I’m just some… some random fan who got lucky…dont they get it that you're a middle aged man now for fucks sake…”

“Listen to me” Jason’s expression hardened, his eyes darkening. “You’re not some random fan..you know that..you didnt even who know the fuck i was when we met,” he said, his grip tightening, his voice fierce. “You’re the woman I love. The woman carrying my child. The woman who saved me from myself.”

“I know..i know” Clara shook her head, her hair falling forward, strands sticking to the dampness on her cheeks. “They don’t know that. They don’t know you. They think you’re still… him..”

“Fuck them..” His voice snapped, a raw jagged rasp. Jason’s chest ached, a dull, throbbing pain that spread through his ribs. “Let them think whatever the hell they want,” he said, his thumb brushing a tear from her cheek. “They don’t know me. They don’t know us. They don’t know how much I love you..they don't know anything about what what we have”

Clara’s breath shuddered, her fingers clutching at his shirt like she was trying to anchor herself. “But it’s not fair,” she said, her voice trembling. “It’s not fair that they get to say those things — that they get to drag you down and make me look like some… some girl you’ll just leave behind. A notch on your bedpost”

Jason’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. He turned her in his arms, cupping her face, his thumbs stroking over her flushed cheeks “Look at me,” he said, his voice a low, steady murmur. Clara’s eyes met his, glassy and shining. “You’re not some random woman..not some mistake..not some fling” his voice breaking. “You're my soulmate. The woman who made me believe in forever. And you’re the mother of my children..MY children.. That’s the truth. That’s our truth.” Clara let out a sob, her forehead falling to his chest, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Jason held her, his arms wrapping around her, his chin resting on the crown of her head. “I’m not that guy anymore,” he whispered, his eyes slipping shut, the words a confession, a plea. “I’m not that guy. Not with you…I haven't been that guy for over a decade..this is the real me…the one you see…not the one those fucking idiots hiding behind a keyboard see” reaching up he slid his handx through her hair “They are the ones clinging onto the past, the ones thinking that I'm still breakdancing, spinning on my fucking head..the one who will slide straight into some cheesy boyband dance routine at drop of a hat..Thats not my life…deep down..it never was…even back then” Clara’s arms came up, wrapping around his waist, her fingers digging into his back as if she were afraid he might disappear “My life is with you….always”

“I know,” she whispered, her voice raw. Clara’s eyes met his, shining with unshed tears “But they don’t. And it’s not fair. It’s not fair that they get to say those things about you — about us. About our family.”

Jason swallowed hard, his thumbs tracing gentle, soothing strokes along her cheekbones. “Clara… let them say what they want. We know the truth. You, me, Jack — we know what we have.”

“But what if Jack hears it? What if he sees it? What if he thinks… thinks he’s some mistake or some dirty secret?”

Jason’s chest tightened, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might crack his ribs. He lifted a hand, brushing his thumb over Clara’s cheek, wiping away a stray tear. “We won’t let that happen,” he said, his voice thick, resolute. “We’ll talk to him. We’ll tell him the truth. Our truth.”

Clara nodded, a fresh tear slipping free as she pressed her palm to his cheek, her thumb brushing over the rough line of his jaw. “You’re a good man, Jason. You’re a good dad.”

Jason leaned into her touch, his eyes slipping shut, a shuddering breath escaping him. “I just… I don’t want him to ever doubt that. Not for a second.”

Clara rose on her toes, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, her mouth warm and sweet and full of silent promises. “He won’t,” she whispered. “Because we’re going to show him. Every single day.”

Jason nodded, his forehead resting against hers, his fingers still tangled in her hair. “Yeah,” he said, his voice breaking. “Every single day.”

Jack’s sneakers thudded against the stairs, each step echoing through the too-quiet house. His backpack bounced against his back, the zipper clinking like tiny, nervous heartbeats. When he hit the bottom step, he skidded to a stop. Jason and Clara were sitting close together on the couch, knees touching, fingers laced tightly like they were holding onto each other to keep from falling. Jason’s face was serious, eyes dark and soft, but his jaw was tight, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. Clara’s hand rested on Jason’s, her thumb brushing over his knuckles in slow, steady circles — a soothing motion that betrayed the way her fingers trembled, just a little. The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of coffee gone cold and toast gone uneaten. The little boy's stomach twisted. The room felt different, like the air had shifted and everything inside it had gone still, holding its breath. He dropped his backpack to the floor, the thud loud in the silence.

“Are we still going to school?” Jack asked, his voice small.

Jason patted the empty space beside him, his smile too tight to be real. “Yeah, buddy. But first, can you come sit with us for a minute?” His voice was warm but heavy, each word weighted down like it was dragging something too big to carry.

Jack hesitated. His chest felt tight, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was about to get in trouble. Like the time he’d broken Clara’s favorite mug, the one with the tiny blue flowers, and hid the pieces under the sink. But this felt bigger. Much bigger. Slowly, he moved to the couch, climbing up and wedging himself between them. Clara’s hand found his knee, her palm warm but slightly damp, her thumb still tracing those endless circles, as if she needed to keep moving to stay grounded. Jason’s arm settled around Jack’s shoulders, heavy and solid, the weight of it both comforting and too much. Jack swallowed, his throat dry. Outside, a bird chirped, the sound too bright, too cheerful for how the room felt. He glanced at Jason, then at Clara, then down at his small hands fisted in his lap.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.

Jason looked down at Jack, his eyes soft, yet there was an undeniable seriousness in his gaze. “Jack,” he began, his voice low and gentle. “There’s something we need to talk about. Something that’s been happening lately. Its a lot to take in but i know that you're such a smart clever boy and you will understand”

Jack’s stomach twisted, his fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “What? Did I do something wrong?” His voice was small, almost afraid.

Jason’s heart tightened. “No kid. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not about you.” He paused, his gaze searching for the right words. “Remember when I told you about how, when I was in Take That people would take pictures of me? At the shows and sometimes when they saw me out and about about ”

“Aunt Dani showed me pictures she took of you at your shows...you was a clown” Jack nodded slowly. “Yeah, like when we went to the concert after Mister Gary gave us tickets…we had a picture with us and Mister Howard and Mister Mark too”

“Thats right…those pictures from the concert were very special..just for us” Jason said, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips. “Those pictures from when i was with the band, I knew about. I even planned some of them. I told the photographers where I’d be, so they could take pictures I was okay with.”

“oh yes..” Jack seemed to relax a little, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t quite go away. “Like when we went to London that time and you were walking through the town with your green coat? Pushing your bike..me and mummy waited for you at the toy shop”

“Yeah, exactly” Jason nodded. “Those were pictures I planned. I knew they were going to be taken.” He took a deep breath, his fingers lightly tapping against Jack’s knee. “But there are some people who don’t ask. They just take pictures, even if you don’t want them to.”

“oh no..that's not nice” Jack’s brow furrowed, his confusion growing. “Like what kind of pictures?”

“The thing is Jack..its…there is” Jason hesitated, his stomach twisting. He wanted to protect Jack from this as much as possible, but Jack needed to understand. “There are pictures online. Of you and me. From when we had our boys’ day at the café, remember? The one where I tied your shoe and we ate muftins?”

“what???” Jack’s face scrunched. “People took pictures of us? Without asking?”

Jason’s chest tightened. He nodded. “Yeah, buddy. Those pictures weren’t okay. The people who took them didn’t ask for mine or mummys permission. They just took them and put them online for everyone to see.”

“But… but why did they do that? Don’t they know we didn’t want them?” Jack’s eyes grew wide, his lip trembling slightly

Jason’s heart cracked. He pulled Jack closer, wrapping his arms around him gently. “I don’t know, Jack and to be honest with you I wondered that every single day i was in Take That. Some people just don’t care. They think it’s okay to take pictures of us without asking. But you know what?” He pulled back just enough to look Jack in the eye. “That’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just that some people don’t respect our privacy, and that’s why we’re going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“but…but” Jack’s bottom lip trembled, and his eyes darted nervously between Jason and Clara. “But… what if they take more pictures? What if they put them on the internet again?”

Jason’s breath caught in his chest. “We’re going to make sure they don’t. Remember I told you about Matt? My friend with the dog, Molly?” Jack nodded, his face still drawn with concern. “Well, mummy and me are going to talk to him today,” Jason explained. “Matt’s going to help us figure out a way to keep people from taking pictures like that. He’s going to help make sure no one takes pictures of you and me like that without asking, ever again.”

“Jason…” Jack’s face relaxed a little, though his worry still clung to him. “You promise? They won’t do it again?”

“look at me…you trust me right?” Jason cupped Jack’s face in his hands, his voice firm but gentle as the boy nodded. “I promise, buddy. No one’s going to take pictures of you or me or Mummy or Hope without asking. We’re going to make sure of that.”

Jack’s small hands clutched at Jason’s shirt. “You won’t let them make you go away, will you? You wont leave me, mummy or Hope will you?”

Jason’s heart shattered at the question. “No, Jack I'm never leaving you..never leaving you, mummy or Hope. No matter what anyone says, you’re mine. You hear me? You’re my son. I don’t need a piece of paper to know that. I don’t need blood. You’re my son because I love you. Because I choose you every single day.”

Tears welled up in Jack’s eyes, and he wrapped his arms around Jason’s neck, holding on tightly. “I love you too.”

Jason leaned closer, his forehead pressing against Jack’s, his eyes shining. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice fierce, his hands framing Jack’s face. “You are the best thing that ever happened to me. You and Mummy and Hope. You’re my family, my world. And nothing — nothing those people say can ever change that.” Jason’s chest tightened, and he held Jack even closer. “I’m right here, Jack. I’m not going anywhere. We’re a family. And we’re always going to protect each other. Always.”

Jack sniffled, pulling back to look at Jason. “Will we be okay?”

“We will,” Jason said softly, brushing his hand over Jack’s hair. “I promise. We’ll be okay.” Jason’s eyes slipped shut, and he held Jack tight, his hand cradling the back of the boy’s head. “I love you, mate,” he said, his voice thick with tears. “I love you so much. And I love Mummy. And I love Hope. And nothing — nothing — is ever going to change that.”

Clara leaned in, wrapping her arms around both of them, pressing a kiss to Jack’s temple, then to Jason’s cheek. Jason’s hand found hers, squeezing tight, anchoring them all together. In the living room, Jack’s backpack sat slumped against the wall, forgotten, and in that moment, nothing else existed except this — the three of them holding onto each other like they were the only things left in the world that mattered

Jack’s small body crumpled against Jason’s chest, his arms wrapping tightly around his neck. Jason held him close, his hand splayed wide over Jack’s back, feeling the rapid rise and fall of the boy’s breaths. The warmth of Jack’s cheek pressed against his skin, the soft tickle of his curls beneath Jason’s jaw. Jason closed his eyes, sinking into the moment, letting it anchor him. For a few beats, the world outside fell away. There was no noise, no Twitter, no flashing cameras or cruel words. Just this — the solid, undeniable weight of Jack in his arms, the press of his little fingers clutching the back of Jason’s shirt like he was afraid to let go.

Jason’s chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, matching the soft, hitching breaths against his neck. Jack’s heart thudded against his own, the small, steady beats grounding him, tethering him to this moment. Jason pressed a kiss to Jack’s temple, the warmth of the boy’s skin like a lifeline against the ache spreading through his chest. Clara’s hand slid up and down Jack’s back, her touch a gentle, repetitive motion. Jason felt her lean into him, her cheek brushing his shoulder, her breath a soft, steady warmth against his arm. The three of them tangled together, holding tight, holding on — as if they could squeeze out all the fear and uncertainty, as if the closeness alone could shield them from the world outside. Jack shifted slightly, his little arms loosening their grip, and he pulled back just enough to look up at Jason. His eyes were still glassy, his cheeks flushed, but there was a small, tired smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“So…” Jack sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Does that mean I still have to go to school?”

A laugh bubbled up, soft and unexpected, from Jason’s throat. He leaned back, cupping Jack’s face, his thumbs brushing over his cheeks. “Yeah, mate,” he said, voice thick but warm. “You still have to go to school. Nice try, though.”

Jack’s smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Okay,” he said, then wiggled out of Jason’s hold. “But first, I gotta get Rexy!”

And just like that, he was off — his small feet pounding up the stairs, the sound growing fainter as he disappeared down the hallway. The house seemed to exhale, the silence rushing back in like a tide.

Jason remained seated on the couch, his eyes still fixed on the empty space where Jack had been. The room felt quieter now, too quiet, the silence pressing in like a heavy, invisible weight. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, each inhale pushing back the knot of tension still coiled tight beneath his ribs. Clara stayed close, her body angled toward him, her hand moving to the back of his neck. Her fingers slipped into the damp, tousled strands of his hair, nails grazing his scalp in slow, soothing circles. Jason’s eyes fell shut, his shoulders slumping as if the touch had melted something deep inside him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Clara’s fingers continued to weave through his hair, gently massaging the base of his skull, her thumb stroking a tender line just behind his ear. Jason leaned into it, his head tipping forward, the weight of it heavy in her palm. The soft, rhythmic drag of her nails sent a shiver down his spine, the sensation both grounding and achingly intimate.

“You handled that perfectly,” Clara whispered, her voice warm, honey-soft. Her other hand came up to cradle his jaw, her thumb brushing over the rough stubble dusting his cheek. “You were so good with him, Jay. So calm. So strong.”

Jason’s throat bobbed, a shaky breath escaping as he pressed his face into her hand. “I don’t feel strong,” he rasped, his voice frayed and raw. “I feel… I feel like I’m barely holding it together.”

Clara’s heart ached, a tender, throbbing pulse that echoed through her chest. She shifted closer, her knees brushing against his as she cradled his head, her fingers threading deeper into his hair. “You were perfect,” she murmured, her lips ghosting over his temple, the soft brush of skin against skin sending a slow, sweet ache rippling through them both. “The way you talked to him… the way you made him feel safe…he understood everything”

Jason’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze meeting hers. His pupils were blown wide, dark and glassy, the weight of everything he was holding pressing down behind them. “He’s just a kid,” he whispered, his jaw tightening, the words spilling out like a confession. “He shouldn’t have to hear that shit in the first place. He shouldn’t have to worry about people taking pictures of him without permission.”

“Yes…” Clara’s fingers moved to the nape of his neck, her nails tracing slow, languid lines up and down his skin, her touch firm and reassuring. “I know,” she said softly, her eyes never leaving his. “But you did exactly what he needed. You made him feel seen. Heard. Loved.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring as he dragged in a deep breath. “I just… I don’t want him to ever doubt how much he means to me,” he said, his voice cracking. “I don’t want him to think that because some strangers out there are talking shit that it changes anything. Not one fucking thing.”

“It doesn't and it never will…” Clara’s chest tightened her heart aching for him — for all the pain he was carrying, all the fears he couldn’t quite shake. She leaned forward, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his forehead, her lips warm and soft against the furrowed skin. “You’re such a good dad,” she whispered, her breath feathering over his skin. “I’m so proud of you, Jason Orange. So proud of how you love him.”

Jason let out a shaky exhale, his hands coming up to grip her waist, fingers pressing into her hips as if he needed to hold on to something solid. “I love you, Clara,” he said, the words breaking free, raw and aching. “You and Jack and Hope. You’re everything.”

Clara’s fingers continued to stroke through his hair, slow and rhythmic, her touch steady and grounding. “And we love you,” she said, her voice a soft murmur against his skin. “And we’re going to get through this. Together.”

Jason swallowed, his forehead dipping to rest against hers, their breaths mingling in the small, fragile space between them. Clara’s hands slipped down to cradle his face, her thumbs brushing tenderly over the dark circles beneath his eyes.

“You’re not alone in this,” she whispered, her gaze steady, unwavering. “You’ve got us. And we’ve got you.”

Jason’s eyes slipped shut, a single tear escaping to trail down his cheek. Clara caught it with her thumb, brushing it away before leaning in to press another kiss to his temple, her lips lingering there, a silent vow.

In that moment, the world outside could not touch them. There was only this — her fingers in his hair, his arms around her waist, their breaths entwined, the warmth of her skin against his.

A heartbeat. A grounding. A promise

Jason’s breaths came slow and uneven, each exhale warm against Clara’s cheek. His forehead pressed to hers, the weight of it heavy and grounding, like he was anchoring himself to her — to this moment, to the only thing that felt real. Clara’s fingers continued their gentle rhythm, threading through his hair, nails grazing the base of his scalp in slow, soothing strokes. His eyes fluttered shut, his lashes brushing against her skin as he leaned into her touch, his hands gripping her waist like he was afraid to let go. Clara could feel the tension still thrumming through him, a barely restrained tremor beneath his skin. Beneath her fingertips, his pulse pounded, heavy and insistent.

She shifted closer, pressing her body fully against his, her knees bracketing his thighs as she nestled herself between his legs. Jason’s arms wound tighter around her, his hands sliding beneath the hem of her shirt, splaying wide over the curve of her back. The feel of her — soft, warm, solid — seemed to ease some of the tension coiled tight in his muscles. Clara rested her forehead against his, her nose brushing his as their breaths mingled, each inhale and exhale a slow, shared exchange. The room felt smaller, the walls closer, but here in his arms, she felt safe. Protected. Held. She shifted one hand to his jaw, her thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line along the curve of his cheekbone. His stubble rasped beneath her skin, rough and familiar, a grounding sensation. Jason’s eyes opened then, glassy and dark, the weight of so many unsaid things glimmering in their depths.

“You’re okay,” Clara murmured, her voice a soft, soothing hum. “We’re okay.”

“in all honesty Clara…”Jason swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against her thumb. “I just… I don’t know how to make it all stop,” he said, his voice rough, frayed at the edges. “The pictures. The comments. The way they’re talking about you — about Jack.”

Clara’s heart twisted, a dull, aching pulse that echoed through her ribs. She cupped his face in both hands now, bringing him closer, her thumbs stroking along the edges of his jaw. “You can’t make it stop,” she whispered, the words gentle but firm. “But you can control how we respond to it. You already did that with Jack. The way you talked to him… the way you reassured him…”

Jason shook his head, his forehead pressing harder against hers. “He was so scared, Clara. I could feel it. I could feel it in how tight he held onto me.” His breath hitched, and Clara’s chest ached, a raw, open wound. “I don’t ever want him to feel that way again. I don’t want him to be afraid.”

“He’s not,” Clara said, her voice fierce, her hands cradling his face as though she could press her strength into him. “Not with you. You made him feel safe. Protected. Loved.”

Jason’s eyes slipped shut again, a tear escaping to trace a slow, glistening path down his cheek. Clara caught it with her thumb, her breath catching in her throat. He was unraveling, and it hurt to see him like this — the man who always held everyone else up, now on the verge of falling apart.

“Hey,” she said softly, leaning in to brush her lips against his temple, the kiss featherlight, a whisper of warmth against the coolness of his skin. “It's like you told me earlier…You’re not that guy they’re talking about. You’re the man who kisses me awake every morning and rubs my back when I can’t sleep. The man who sits on the floor for hours playing dinosaurs with a little boy who thinks you hung the moon.”

Jason shuddered beneath her, his fingers flexing against her back, holding her closer. Clara shifted in his lap, her knees pressing tighter against his thighs, her arms wrapping around his neck as she sank against him, her cheek pressed to his hair. Jason buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath coming in warm, ragged bursts against her skin.

“I can’t lose this,” he whispered, the words muffled against her throat. “I can’t lose you. Or Jack. Or Hope. You’re everything to me, Clara. Everything.”

Clara’s hands slid up, threading through his hair, cradling the back of his head as she held him to her. “You won’t,” she said, her voice breaking. “You won’t lose us..EVER. We’re right here.”

Jason pulled back then, just enough to meet her eyes. His gaze was dark, raw, like he was baring himself completely to her, stripping away every mask, every wall he’d ever built. “I love you,” he said, the words trembling between them, his voice thick with emotion. “God, Clara, I love you so much it scares me.”

Clara leaned in, pressing her forehead to his, her breath mingling with his. “Then hold onto me,” she whispered, her hands framing his face, thumbs brushing tenderly over his cheekbones. “Just hold on.”

Jason’s eyes fell shut, and he did. His arms wound tighter around her, his body sinking into hers as if he could fuse them together. They stayed that way for long minutes, their breaths falling into sync, their heartbeats pounding in tandem, the world outside falling away until there was nothing but this — the feel of each other, the steady, grounding warmth of skin against skin.

Eventually, Clara pulled back, her fingers still threaded through his hair, her gaze soft but steady. “We will see Matt soon,” she said, her voice gentle, her thumbs still stroking the nape of his neck. “Are you ready for that?”

Jason exhaled, a heavy, shuddering breath that felt like it took everything in him to release. “I have to be,” he said, his voice stronger now, more resolute. “We need to fight this. For Jack. For Hope. For us.”

Clara nodded, her fingers trailing down to his jaw, tracing the strong, familiar line. “And we will,” she said, her eyes darkening with a fierce, protective light. “We’re going to fight for our family. Together.”

Jason leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, his lips warm and tender against her skin. “Together,” he echoed, the word a promise, a vow.

They stayed that way for a moment longer, Clara’s fingers still stroking through his hair, Jason’s breath still warm against her cheek. Then, slowly, he pulled back, his hands slipping down to her waist, his eyes searching hers.

“Let’s go see Matt,” he said, his voice low, steady, determined. “Let’s put an end to this.”

Soon A small, rhythmic thumping echoed down the hallway, followed by Jack’s muffled voice singing some tune he’d probably picked up from a cartoon. Jason and Clara remained tangled together, forehead to forehead, breaths mingling in the stillness. The world outside was loud, relentless — but here, in this quiet, sun-dappled room, everything felt softer. Safer. The thumping grew louder, and then Jack appeared, barreling into the room with his backpack half-open, the tail of his dinosaur poking out like it was trying to make a break for it. He skidded to a stop in front of them, his hair sticking up in wild tufts, one shoe untied.

“Look!” Jack puffed out his chest proudly, his cheeks flushed. “I got my shoes all by myself. And I brought Rexy to show Leo at school” He held up the dinosaur, its plastic teeth bared in a fierce, lopsided grin.

Jason pulled away from Clara, but his arm remained slung around her waist, keeping her close. He leaned back, taking in the sight of Jack in his slightly-too-big school jumper, his backpack sagging from one shoulder. Something in Jason’s chest ached — a dull, sweet throb that almost brought tears to his eyes. This. This was what he wanted. This right here.

“That’s amazing, mate,” Jason said, his voice thick with something he couldn’t quite swallow down. “You look ready to conquer the world.”

Jack grinned, holding Rexy aloft. “I am! And Rexy is too. He said he’s going to protect me and Mummy and Hope from the bad guys..those naughty people who took that picture…they are bad”

Jason’s breath caught a sharp, sudden pang. He forced a smile, reaching out to ruffle Jack’s hair. “Sounds like Rexy’s got it all figured out, then.”

Jack nodded, his grin wide and carefree. Then he squinted up at them, his gaze bouncing between Jason and Clara. “Are you coming too, Jason? You said you and Mummy were both gonna take me.”

Jason’s heart twisted. You said you and Mummy. Not Mum and Dad. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But God, he wanted it. He wanted it so much.

“Yeah, mate,” Jason said, his voice softer now, the words edged with a tenderness that made his throat ache. “We’re both coming.”

Jack’s face lit up, and he grabbed Jason’s hand, his small fingers wrapping tight around Jason’s. “Okay! Let’s go!”

Jason stood, his hand still clutched in Jack’s, feeling that small, solid grip like a lifeline. Behind him, Clara rose too, her eyes meeting Jason’s. There was something raw and soft there, a shine that made his chest go tight. She stepped closer, brushing a hand over Jason’s back, a gentle, grounding touch.

“Jack,” Clara said, reaching down to straighten his backpack strap. “Remember to tell Miss Lisa if you need anything today, okay? And if anyone says anything that makes you feel weird or upset —”

“I’ll tell you and Jason too,” Jack finished, his tone serious, his little brow furrowed like he was memorizing something important. “Don't worry mummy…”

Jason swallowed, his gaze dropping to where Jack’s small hand was still wrapped around his own. The world outside was chaos. But in here, with Jack’s sticky fingers squeezing his and Clara’s hand warm against his back, everything was exactly as it should be. Normal. Messy. Real. The life he’d never dared to dream he could have.

“All right, then,” Jason said, giving Jack’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Let’s get you to school, mate.”

Jack beamed, his eyes bright and shining, and then he was off, racing toward the door, his dinosaur swinging wildly in the air. Jason watched him go, the sight so achingly familiar and beautiful that he had to blink hard to clear his vision. Clara stepped closer, her hand slipping back to his waist, her cheek pressing against his arm. Jason leaned into her, his eyes still on Jack, his chest rising and falling in a slow, deep breath.

“This,” Clara murmured, her voice a soft, hushed confession against his shoulder. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Jason swallowed, the lump in his throat too thick to speak around. He turned his head, pressing a kiss to Clara’s temple, letting his lips linger there, his breath warm against her skin.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice a rough, choked rasp. “This is it. This is everything.”

“Hey,” Clara whispered, her thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone, warm and soft. “Listen ” Jason drew in a shaky breath, the air quivering through him as Clara pressed her forehead to his, their noses brushing. Her hand slipped from his cheek to his chest, resting over his heart, feeling the rapid, uneven beat beneath her palm. “You are a good father,” Clara said, her voice low, a tender, aching promise. “Jack knows that. He feels that every time you hold him, every time you read him a story, every time you tell him you love him. None of those people online can take that from you, Jay. No one can.” Jason’s eyes fluttered open, a tear slipping free. Clara caught it with her thumb, brushing it away with a touch so soft it nearly broke him. “You’re the reason he’s not scared right now,” she continued, her voice thick, trembling. “Because he believes in you. Because he trusts you. And so do I.”

Jason swallowed hard, the knot in his throat loosening just enough for him to speak. “I just want to keep you safe,” he whispered, his hand splaying over her belly, feeling the faint, steady press of Hope’s movements beneath his palm. “All of you.”

“You already are,” Clara said, her hand covering his, pressing down. “Every single day.”

Jason’s chest rose and fell in a deep, unsteady breath, his eyes slipping shut as Clara leaned in, her lips brushing over his in a kiss that was slow, warm, and so full of love it made his knees weak. He kissed her back, his hands sliding up her sides, holding her closer, deeper, as if he could breathe her in and anchor himself in the feel of her. The sound of small footsteps pattered back down the hallway. Jason and Clara pulled apart just as Jack reappeared, his face flushed, his grin wide, his dinosaur clutched tightly to his chest.

“I’m ready!” Jack announced, spinning in a circle, his backpack bouncing against his back. “Can we go now?”

Jason forced a smile, swiping a hand over his face to clear the dampness there. “Yeah, mate,” he said, voice still thick, still raw. “Let’s go”

Jack bounded toward the front door, his dinosaur swinging wildly, his sneakers squeaking against the hardwood floor. Clara slipped her hand back into Jason’s, squeezing tight, her eyes meeting his. Jason squeezed back, a silent thank you, a silent promise. Then, together, they followed Jack out the door, into the cool morning air, and toward the car — toward the world that waited outside, louder and harsher, but still holding space for small, tender moments like this one. Moments where family was everything. Moments where love held them steady. And as Jason opened the car door for Jack, watching as his son clambered into the backseat, chattering to his dinosaur, he couldn’t help but think — yes, this was the life he wanted. This was the life he was going to fight to protect.

Always.

Chapter Text

The drive to school was cloaked in a silence that felt almost suffocating, like the air in the car had thickened with everything they weren’t saying. Jason’s hand gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, thumb tapping a restless, uneven rhythm against the denim on his thigh. Each tap echoed the pounding of his heart, a steady, anxious beat. Beside him, Clara sat with her hands folded over her belly, fingers laced so tightly her knuckles had gone pale. Her eyes flicked to the side mirror every few seconds, tracking the cars behind them as if expecting someone to follow. Each breath she took was slow and deliberate, a silent battle to keep herself grounded.

In the backseat, Jack swung his legs, his little sneakers scuffing the seat in time to his soft, distracted hum. Rexy the dinosaur was clutched tight to his chest, the plastic tail tapping against the seat in a steady, rhythmic beat that mirrored Jason’s thumb. The sound filled the car, small but insistent, like a countdown to something they couldn’t stop. When they pulled up to the school, the playground was already a hive of noise — kids shouting, running, their laughter rising and falling in carefree waves that clashed against the tension thrumming through Jason’s veins.

Clusters of parents stood by the gates, heads bent together, voices low. A group of mothers glanced up as Jason’s car rolled to a stop. One of them said something to the others, eyes lingering a second too long on the vehicle before quickly looking away. Beside him, Clara’s shoulders drew up, her hand pressing into her belly. Jason felt her fingers twitch against the fabric, her knuckles white beneath the thin cotton of her shirt.

Jason forced a breath through the tightness in his chest and turned to Jack, softening his voice. “You okay, mate?”

Jack nodded, but his grip on Rexy tightened, his little fingers wrapped so tightly around the dinosaur’s spine that the plastic dug into his skin. “What if people say stuff?” he asked, his voice so small it barely rose above the hum of the engine.

Jason twisted in his seat, the leather creaking beneath him as he reached back, his hand cradling the back of Jack’s head. His thumb stroked slow, gentle circles against Jack’s hair, the touch more for Jason’s sake than Jack’s. “Remember what we said?” Jason’s voice was low, a careful, calming rasp. “If anyone says anything that makes you feel weird or bad, you tell Miss Lisa. And you tell us. Straightaway. Okay?”

Jack nodded, but his brow stayed furrowed, his gaze dropping to Rexy’s beady eyes. “But… what if they say stuff about you?”

Jason’s chest tightened, his throat thickening. “They can say whatever they want about me,” he said, his thumb still moving in slow, soothing circles. “It doesn’t make it true.”

Clara twisted in her seat, forcing a bright, gentle smile. “And Rexy’s got your back, right?”

Jack held the dinosaur up, making it nod with exaggerated bobs. “Rexy’s gonna chomp all the bad guys,” he said, his voice a little stronger now.

Jason forced a chuckle, though it came out tight and frayed. “That’s right. And me and Mummy — we’re gonna chomp them too.”

Jack’s eyes softened at that, a tiny smile breaking through. He leaned forward, pressing a quick, sticky kiss to Clara’s cheek, then one to Jason’s stubbled jaw. “Bye, Mummy. Bye, Jason. Love you both.”

Jason swallowed, forcing himself to smile back. “Love you too, mate. Lots and lots.”

Jack slipped out of the car, his backpack bouncing against his back as he sprinted toward the school gates. Rexy bobbed along, a tiny plastic protector in a world that suddenly felt far too big. Jason watched him go, his throat tight, his heart pounding in a slow, aching rhythm. Even after Jack disappeared into the crowd, Jason kept staring at the gates, as if the boy might reappear, as if he could somehow pull him back.

Beside him, Clara let out a long, shuddering breath, her shoulders slumping forward. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”

Jason’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, the leather creaking beneath his grip. “He has to be,” he said, his voice a little too firm, as though saying it louder would make it true. But his eyes stayed fixed on the rearview mirror, on the closed gates, on the empty spot where Jack had been.

Clara reached over, her hand slipping beneath his, her fingers lacing through his. “Let’s go,” she said softly, her voice a tether pulling him back. “Matt’s waiting.”

Jason nodded, the motion stiff, mechanical. He pulled away from the curb, the engine humming beneath them, the world outside a muted blur of grey and green.

As they drove through town, the air in the car felt thick, almost too heavy to breathe. The world outside was still moving — a group of teenagers loitering by a shop, eyes fixed on their phones; a woman pushing a stroller, her head down, hair falling like a curtain over her face.

Jason’s gaze flicked to her, his jaw clenching. “Did you see that?” he muttered. “That woman. Did she look at us?”

Clara’s thumb moved in a slow, steady rhythm against his hand. “It was just a look,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “They don’t know anything.”

Jason swallowed, his jaw tightening. “Feels like they do.”

A beat of silence. The sound of tires rolling over wet pavement. The low murmur of a distant radio playing a song he couldn’t place.

Clara’s voice broke the stillness, her words hesitant, soft. “Do you ever regret it?”

Jason’s brow furrowed. “Regret what?”

“Leaving the band,” Clara said, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. “Do you ever wish you’d stayed? Had that control?”

Jason’s throat bobbed, the memory of those days rolling over him, dark and relentless. “Sometimes,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “Back then… I could call the shots. I could tell them where I’d be. What to shoot. Spin the story how I wanted. Now… they just take.”

Clara’s thumb moved to his jaw, tracing the tense line there. “But you did stop it, Jay. You built this life. You built us.”

Jason’s gaze dropped to where her hand rested against his thigh. “Yeah,” he said, his voice breaking. “But now… it’s all falling apart.”

Clara’s hand slid up to his neck, her fingers threading through his hair, nails grazing his scalp. “It’s not falling apart,” she said, her voice fierce and tender. “We’re still here. You haven’t lost us.”

Jason’s eyes closed, his breath shuddering out as he leaned into her touch, letting it ground him. “I just… I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, the words a raw confession. “Not you. Not Jack. Not Hope.”

Clara’s hand tightened in his hair, her forehead pressing to his. “You won’t,” she said, her voice breaking. “You won’t lose us, Jay. Not now. Not ever.”

Jason swallowed, his hand slipping to cover hers, holding it tight against his chest. “Promise?”

Clara leaned in, her lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “Promise,” she whispered, her breath warm against his skin.

Jason’s eyes opened, dark and glassy, and for a moment, they just stayed that way — tangled together in the small, still car, the world outside nothing but a blur of grey and green. Then, with a deep, grounding breath, he pulled away, his jaw set, his shoulders squaring.

“Okay,” he said, his voice stronger now, steadier. “Let’s go see Matt.”

Together, they stepped out of the car, and Jason took Clara’s hand, holding it tight as they walked toward the glass doors of Matt’s office. The world outside might be falling apart, but right now, at this moment, they are still holding on. Together.

Matt’s office was a study in quiet, understated power. The kind of room designed to keep secrets and hold heavy conversations. The walls were a deep, smoky grey, lined with shelves stacked with law books and heavy binders, their spines marked with labels that whispered of divorce settlements, custody battles, and restraining orders. The air held the faint, lingering scent of leather and old paper, mingling with the sharper tang of fresh coffee cooling in a mug on the desk. The desk itself was a massive, dark oak slab, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen. Papers were spread across it in neat, precise stacks, their edges aligned perfectly — a meticulous order that betrayed Matt’s need to control what he could in a situation spinning wildly beyond his grasp. The laptop sat open, the screen casting a pale, blue-tinged glow over his face. The cursor blinked, a relentless, taunting metronome against the sea of text. Matt sat in his high-backed leather chair, shoulders hunched forward, elbows braced on the edge of the desk. The leather creaked softly as he leaned in, fingers pressed to his temples as though trying to ease the pounding behind his eyes. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the cuffs wrinkled, his tie loosened, hanging crooked and forgotten.

The room was dim, the blinds half-drawn, slats slicing the weak morning light into thin, fractured stripes that fell across Matt’s tense face, the shadowed hollows beneath his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept — jaw unshaven, eyes bloodshot, a deep crease etched between his brows. On the desk, his phone lay face up, the screen dark but full of missed calls and unanswered texts. He’d cleared his schedule. Canceled every meeting. Turned off his notifications. Today was for Jason. Today was for Clara and Jack. Because when Jason had called him last night, his voice rough, frayed, words spilling out in a rushed, jumbled panic, Matt had known. He’d known it was bad.

Now, Matt’s gaze flicked to the open tab on his laptop — Twitter. The screen was crowded with images and comments, each one more vicious than the last. The photos of Jason and Jack at the café, enlarged and dissected, faces circled in red, with captions that tore at the truth.

“Jason Orange — who’s the kid? Secret love child? A fling gone wrong?”

Matt’s jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. He leaned back, dragging a hand over his face, fingertips scraping through the roughness. The leather creaked beneath him, the sound sharp, too loud in the silence. On the wall to his right, a framed photograph caught his eye — the only personal item in the room. A candid shot of him, Jason, and a grinning Jack, the boy perched on Matt’s shoulders, his tiny hands clutching Matt’s hair like reins. It was from last summer, a lazy Sunday afternoon when Clara had insisted they all come over for a barbecue. Jason had been smiling, eyes bright, looking more relaxed than Matt had seen him in years. Jack had been giggling, the sound high and sweet, his arms waving wildly as Matt pretended to gallop around the garden.

Matt swallowed, his throat tight. That day felt like a lifetime ago. Now, Clara and Jason were on their way. And Matt would have to sit across from them, look into their anxious, exhausted faces, and try to convince them he could fix this. That he could protect them. That he wouldn’t fail them.

He pushed away from the desk, the chair rolling back with a low, tired groan. The room felt too small, too suffocating, the air heavy with the scent of coffee gone cold and paper grown stale. He rose, moving to the window, his back to the desk, his gaze fixed on the street below. People hurried by, heads down, oblivious. The world outside kept moving, kept spinning — completely unaware that soon one of its former golden boys would be upstairs, fighting to keep his life from unraveling. Matt exhaled, his breath fogging up the glass, his hands braced against the window frame. Behind him, the laptop screen glowed, the words blurring into a sea of digital venom. But one tweet stood out, stark and bold against the chaos.

“Jason Orange. Player, liar, deadbeat dad.”

The door swung open, and Jason stepped in first, his shoulders tense, eyes dark and shadowed. Clara was right behind him, her hand slipping from Jason’s to press protectively against her belly, the soft curve accentuated beneath the fabric of Jason’s old sweatshirt. Matt straightened, his chair creaking as he rose.

“Hey, mate,” Jason said, his voice rough, words heavy with exhaustion. But there was a small, grateful curve to his mouth as he stepped forward, his arms already outstretched “good to see you”

Matt met him halfway, their arms slapping around each other in a rough, tight embrace. Jason held on a beat longer than usual, his forehead pressing against Matt’s shoulder, like he needed to anchor himself. Matt’s hand thudded against Jason’s back, a solid, reassuring pat. When they pulled back, Matt took a moment to really look at him — at the dark circles beneath Jason’s eyes, the tight line of his jaw, the way his shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow.

“Jay…” Matt’s voice softened, the word carrying a thousand unspoken things. Jason swallowed, his eyes darting away, and Matt’s gaze shifted to Clara. She stepped forward, offering a small, tight smile, but her eyes were glassy, red-rimmed. Matt’s expression softened, and he opened his arms. “Come here, you.” Clara let out a shuddering breath as she moved into the embrace. Matt’s arms came around her, one hand rubbing a soothing circle between her shoulder blades. “Jesus, Clara,” he murmured, pulling back to look at her. “If I’d known all it took to get you in here was a baby, I’d have slipped Jason some fertility pills years ago.”

Clara let out a watery laugh, wiping at her eyes. “Please. You couldn’t even get a houseplant to grow.”

Matt smirked, his eyes twinkling. “Hey, I got Molly, didn’t I? And she’s thriving.”

“Only because Jack sneaks her half his lunch every time he’s at your place,” Clara shot back, the banter a balm against the tension. Jason’s mouth twitched, a brief flicker of amusement lighting his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it came.

Matt’s expression sobered, his gaze flicking between them. “All right,” he said, moving back around to his desk and gesturing for them to sit. “Let’s get into it.”

Jason and Clara sat down, the couch too big, too stiff beneath them. Jason’s leg bounced, his heel tapping nervously against the floor. Clara leaned closer to him, her fingers finding his and threading through, her thumb stroking slowly, calming circles over his knuckles. Matt sank back into his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. He dragged a folder from the edge of the desk and flipped it open, revealing printed screenshots of the photos — the one of Jason kneeling to tie Jack’s shoe, the one of him lifting Jack to see the mural, the one where Jack’s head was pressed to Jason’s chest, eyes closed, utterly trusting. And then the comments. Dark, bold, vicious.

Matt’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath the stubble as he scanned the words. He looked up, eyes dark. “I went through as much of it as I could stomach last night,” he said, his voice tight. “It’s bad.”

Jason swallowed, his throat bobbing. “How bad?”

Matt’s gaze flicked back to the comments, his jaw tightening. “They’re still saying Jack’s a secret love child. That you’ve been hiding him. Usual bullshit that you're the same player from back in the day — knocking up some poor unsuspecting girl and leaving her behind..fanfiction” Clara flinched, her hand tightening around Jason’s. Jason’s face went white, a muscle in his jaw ticking furiously. Matt leaned forward, his elbows braced on the desk, hands clasped together. “some of these tweets are from major gossip accounts with hundreds of thousands of followers. The photos are spreading fast. Faster than we can keep up.”

Jason dropped his head into his hands, his fingers threading through his hair, gripping tight. “Fuck.”

Clara leaned closer, her free hand moving to Jason’s back, rubbing slow, firm circles. “What can we do?” she asked, her voice trembling but strong. “There has to be something.”

Matt exhaled, leaning back in his chair, the leather groaning beneath him. “There are a few options,” he said, his tone more measured now. “First, we can issue a cease and desist. Go after the original posters of the photos. Demand they take them down immediately.”

“Right..” Jason looked up, eyes dark. “Will that stop them?”

“Well…” Matt’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’ll slow them down. Maybe. But once those photos are out there…” He shook his head, the gesture tight, frustrated. “You can’t ever fully erase them.”

Clara swallowed, her throat tight. “What else?”

Matt’s gaze dropped to the papers on his desk, his jaw tightening. “You could make a statement. Go public. Tell the truth about who Jack is to you. Set the record straight. It could shift the narrative. Maybe even shut them up….”

“Are you fucking serious?” Jason’s face hardened, his jaw clenching so tight his teeth ached. “drag Jack into the spotlight even more? Make him a talking point for every gossip rag and keyboard warrior out there? No...not happening..Im not having him served up on a platter for these vultures…I do that and they will come for Clara next..they done it before especially in the 90s when it got out who i was dating”

“Fair enough and I get it Jay,” Matt nodded, as if he’d expected that answer. “There’s a third option,” he said, his tone gentler now. “Go after them legally. Slander, defamation, invasion of privacy. It’s a long, hard road, Jay. But it’s a road we can take.” Jason let out a shuddering breath, his eyes closing. Clara’s thumb stroked over his knuckles, her touch grounding, steady. Matt watched them, his chest tightening. He knew Jason. Knew how much he valued his privacy, how hard he’d fought to build a life that was his own, far away from the cameras and the whispers and the spotlight. But now, that life was under attack. And so was Jack. Matt leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Jason’s. “Jay,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “What do you want to do?”

The tension in the room was palpable, thick and suffocating. Jason leaned forward, his elbows braced against his knees, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Clara stayed close, her hand resting on the back of his neck, her fingers working slow, soothing circles into his tense muscles. Matt stood behind his desk, arms crossed, his expression dark. He looked like he hadn’t slept. The blinds were half-closed, slicing the room into sharp stripes of light and shadow. Papers were scattered across the desk — printouts of the article, screenshots of the online posts, photos of Jack and Jason that now felt tainted, stolen. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

“They’re baiting you, Jay,” Matt continued, his jaw tight. “They’re trying to back you into a corner. They want you to panic. They want you to react so they can milk it for more clicks, more stories..one article says theres more pictures..more shots”

Jason’s eyes dropped to the floor. “What other photos could they have?” he muttered, his voice low, thick. “What else did they take?”

Matt shifted her weight, her gaze flicking between Clara and Jason. “They’re vague,” he said, his voice soft. “They’re not saying what the photos are — just calling them ‘intimate moments’ between you and Jack. They’re spinning it like there’s some hidden story, like you’re hiding something.”

“Hiding something?” Clara’s voice cracked, a sharp, angry sound. “What the hell is ‘intimate’ about a father spending time with his son?”

Jason flinched, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Father. The word echoed through him, both a comfort and a knife twist. Legally, he wasn’t Jack’s father. But in every other way that mattered, he was.

Matt rubbed a hand over his jaw, his gaze dark and heavy. “That’s what they do, Clara. They plant seeds of doubt. Make it look like you’re keeping secrets, like there’s more to the story. And people eat it up.”

Jason’s hands tightened, his nails biting into his palms. “They’re trying to force my hand,” he said, voice tight. “They want me to confirm something. Or deny something. Either way, they get their headline.”

Clara’s hand moved up to his hair, her fingers threading through the damp strands. “You don’t owe them anything, Jason,” she said, her voice firm, fierce. “You don’t owe them a single word.”

Jason closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, his breaths coming short and sharp. “But if I don’t say anything… they’ll keep digging. They’ll keep pushing until they find something. Or until they make something up…”

Matt leaned forward, his eyes hard, determined. “Right now, they’re holding back. They’re waiting for you to crack. If you respond, they’ll release more. If you don’t, they’ll say you’re hiding something.”

"So what do we do?” Jason asked, his voice frayed, raw. “What the hell do we do?”

Matt took a deep breath, his fingers drumming against the edge of his desk. “We move forward with the cease and desist. Now. Today. And we file for a privacy injunction. But for that to stick, we need to establish your legal standing with Jack.”

Jason’s jaw clenched. “You mean… guardianship?”

“at the moment you have no legal rights to him…at present you are just his mothers partner… i know you don't want to hear this but biologically you have no ties…in the eyes of the law hes not your son ”The words landed like a punch, and Jason’s shoulders stiffened, his eyes darkening. Clara’s fingers tightened around his, and he felt her pulse thrumming against his palm. Matt nodded. “So we need to file for legal guardianship. Fast. Once that’s in place, you can make decisions about Jack’s privacy, his rights, his protection. But until until then..it's not good”

“Jason's made more of an impact on his life these past two years than Sean did as a whole…Jason is his father but I get it” her hand stilled against Jason’s neck. Clara cleared her throat, her voice coming out tight and strained. “What about me? I’m his mother. Can I file for it on my own? Give my permission ”

“Yes but in all honesty, It would be stronger with both of you,” Matt said, his voice careful, measured. “But without you two being married… it complicates things.”

Silence fell, heavy and tense. Jason’s jaw ticked, his gaze dropping to their joined hands. Clara’s thumb traced over his knuckles, slow and rhythmic, grounding them both. His eyes flicked to Clara, his heart pounding. Marriage. They’d never really talked about it — not seriously. Not beyond late-night pillow talk, not beyond the wistful, sleepy-eyed “someday.”

“I would marry you Jason…take your name” Clara said suddenly, the words tumbling out in a rush. Her eyes darted to Jason’s, wide and glistening. “I mean, I want to. God, I do. But not like this. Not because of a legal thing. Not because we have to.” Clara’s gaze met his, a flicker of something vulnerable, raw, passing between them. “I love you,” she said, her voice soft but sure. “I’d marry you tomorrow and in a heartbeat..But not like this Jason. Not because some tabloid is forcing our hand.”

Jason swallowed, his throat tight. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “Me too. Not like this.”

Matt exhaled, nodding, his gaze shifting back to the paperwork on his desk. “Okay. Then we focus on guardianship. Clara, you file as Jack’s mother. Jason, we push for you as his legal guardian. It’s not as strong as two parents, but it’s still a move in the right direction.” Jason sat back, his head falling against the back of the chair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Everything felt like it was spinning, slipping out of his control “Clara to get this guardianship application fast tracked im going to have to know what kind of man Jack’s biological dad was like..why he's been out of the picture..what he put you through.. I know some of it but as much as it pains me, I'm going to need to know more..I'm sorry”

Jason’s jaw clenched as he stared at the spread of printed comments and screenshots scattered across Matt’s desk. His hand tightened around Clara’s, their fingers laced together, knuckles white. Matt leaned back in his chair, eyes sharp and steady on Jason, waiting Clara stiffened, her jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumped beneath her skin. Jason’s gaze snapped to her, his eyes dark with concern. 

Clara swallowed, her gaze dropping to the floor, her thumb still absently stroking Jason’s knuckles. Her eyes lost focus, drifting somewhere far away, to a night that still haunted her dreams. “Sean’s never been in Jack’s life,” she said, her voice flat, hollow. “Not really.”

Jason’s hand tightened around hers, feeling the tremor running through her fingertips. He could almost see the ghost of that night flickering behind her eyes — Sean’s hand slamming into the wall beside her head, the cold glint in his eyes as he leaned in close and said, “You’ll never see that kid again.”

Matt’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“He…” Clara’s throat worked, her jaw clenched. “Because… because he was violent..all the time” she said, her voice shaking. “I was Dumb. Fell for the wrong guy. By the time I got pregnant, he was already showing signs — drinking too much, getting angry over nothing. But then, after I told him about Jack… it got worse. He wanted me to have a termination.” Jason’s hand tightened around hers, his jaw clenching so hard he could feel his molars grinding

“What did he do to you?”

“He hit me..he even hit me while i was pregnant..manipulated me against my family..” Clara’s eyes squeezed shut, a tear slipping free and sliding down her cheek. “He threw things. Punched holes in walls. Screamed in my face until I thought my eardrums would burst. And one night…” She sucked in a sharp breath, her shoulders trembling. Jason moved closer, his hand coming up to cup the back of her neck, his thumb brushing slow, soothing strokes. “One night, he shoved me against the wall. I was about 7 months pregnant with Jack and he had me by the throat Hard. Told me I was ruining his life. Told me I was worthless. And then he said he’d take Jack from me. That he’d make sure I never saw my baby again..then he attacked me..it bought on the labour and Jack ended up in the premature baby unit at the hospital in town.”

A cold, sharp rage pulsed through him, hot and acidic, flooding his veins. He tried to breathe through it, tried to keep his grip steady on Clara’s hand. But his other fist was balled so tight his nails bit into his palm, leaving crescent-shaped indents in his skin. He could see it — could see that bastard’s hands on Clara, his pregnant Clara. Could picture her pinned against a wall, terror-stricken, Jack small and fragile inside her. It made Jason’s blood roar, a vicious, relentless thrum pounding through his skull.

Clara’s breath hitched, a small, broken sound, and Jason’s focus snapped back to her. Her hands were shaking, her eyes fixed somewhere far away. Without thinking, Jason moved closer, sliding his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against him. He pressed a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering there, the warmth of her skin grounding him.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice a low, fierce rasp. “I’ve got you..always. He’s never touching you again..Not now. Not ever.”

Clara exhaled, the breath shuddering through her as she sagged against him, her cheek resting against his chest. Jason’s hand moved to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, holding her as close as he could without crushing her. Matt’s eyes dropped to his notes, but not before Jason saw the flicker of tension in his jaw, the way his knuckles tightened around the pen.

“Where is he now?” Jason’s voice was calm, too calm. Like the still, cold air before a storm. “Where the fuck is he?”

Clara shook her head, her fingers fisting in Jason’s shirt, her grip desperate. “I don’t know. I don’t…”

Jason forced himself to take a breath, forced his shoulders to loosen, forced his hand to stroke gently over Clara’s back, slow, steady. But his gaze cut to Matt, dark and deadly.

"If he even thinks about coming near her,” Jason said, his jaw tight, voice low and cold, “I swear to God, Matt. I will end him.”

Matt met his eyes, his expression grim. “Let’s make sure it doesn’t come to that,” he said. “But if it does… I’ll back you.”

"Who knows where he is…” Clara shook her head, wiping at her tears. “I don’t know. I left him when Jack was about a year. Finally found the courage to see what he was doing wasn't right for Jack and for me….so i grabbed all i could in this big black bag and moved in with Chris and Dani.i had about 5 pounds in my purse and i built a life down here…I don’t know where he is in all honesty. I haven't seen or heard from him since that day i took jack to meet him for one of their scheduled visits that Sean's mother put in place” she turned to Jason and squeezed “that day Jack ran away and you bought him back to me, you really are my hero Jason”

Matt leaned forward, his expression grim. “If he still has legal rights, you’ll need his consent to transfer guardianship to Jason. Otherwise…”

“Otherwise, he could try to contest it,” Jason finished, his voice a raw, gravelly rasp.

Clara’s face crumpled, her eyes shining. “I can’t let him near Jack,” she whispered. “I can’t. Not after what he did to me…to us”

Jason reached for her, pulling her into his side, his arm a solid, warm weight around her shoulders. “He’s not getting near Jack,” he said, his voice a low, dark promise. “Over my fucking dead body.”

Matt nodded, his jaw tight. “Okay,” he said, his voice firm. “First step, I’ll file the cease and desist for the photos. We’ll get those down as fast as we can.”

“And then?” Jason asked, his eyes never leaving Clara’s tear-streaked face.

“Then,” Matt said, “we go after Sean. We find out where he is, what he’s doing, and if he’s willing to sign over his rights. If he’s not… we fight.”

Jason’s arm tightened around Clara, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. The room seemed to close in around them, the walls too close, the air too thick. But beneath the fear, beneath the anger, there was something else. Resolve.

Matt cleared his throat, leaning forward. The leather chair creaked, a sharp sound that cut through the silence. “Okay,” he said, his voice measured, each word carefully placed. “We have to be strategic here. Sean… we need to locate him. Find out what he’s doing, where he is, if he’s even in a position to contest anything.”

Clara lifted her head, her eyes red-rimmed and glassy. “What if he says no? What if he refuses to sign over his rights?”

Matt’s jaw flexed, a hard line setting beneath his stubble. “Then we prepare for a fight. We collect evidence — your statement, police records, any documentation from back then that shows he was abusive or unstable.”

Clara swallowed, her throat tight. “I never filed a report. Dani and Chris wanted me to but… I just wanted to get out…i was terrified. I still am in some way”

Matt’s eyes softened, a flicker of understanding passing through them. “That’s okay,” he said gently. “You did what you had to do to protect yourself and Jack. We’ll work with what we have.”

Jason’s hand squeezed Clara’s, the pressure firm, steady. “What about me?” he asked, his voice rough. “If Sean fights this, will it matter that I’m not Jack’s biological father?”

Matt leaned back, his fingers drumming lightly against the arm of the chair. “It could. But we can make a strong case. You’ve been in Jack’s life for several years now. You’re his primary father figure. You’re a stable influence, and —”

“And I love him,” Jason said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. His throat bobbed, and his gaze dropped to his lap. “I love him like he’s mine. Because he is mine.”

Matt’s expression softened, his jaw unclenching. “That’s the heart of it, Jay. We lead with that. But we have to be prepared. If Sean decides to make this a battle, it’s going to get ugly. You need to be ready for that.”

Clara’s hand tightened in Jason’s. “What kind of ugly?”

Matt leaned forward, folding his hands together on the desk. “Sean could argue that Jason’s not a fit guardian. He could dredge up Jason’s past, the band days, the partying, the rumors. He could try to paint a picture that Jason’s unstable, unreliable — that he’s not the kind of man who should be raising Jack.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing. “That’s not who I am anymore.”

“I know,” Matt said, his voice firm. “But we have to be ready for him to throw everything he’s got. And that includes you, Clara.”

Clara’s back straightened, her shoulders pulling back. “Me?”

Matt nodded, his eyes serious. “If Sean decides to fight, he might come after you, too. Accuse you of alienating him from Jack. Claim you didn’t give him a fair chance to be a father.”

Clara shook her head, her eyes wide, wild. “He was never a father to Jack. Not for one damn second..he didnt even want him..he told me to have an abortion”

Jason’s arm tightened around her, pulling her closer, his hand sliding to the back of her neck. “Hey,” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple. “He’s not taking Jack. Not now. Not ever.”

Matt sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I need to reach out to a private investigator. We need to find Sean, get a read on his situation. Maybe he’s moved on. Maybe he’s in no position to fight. Maybe he’ll sign the papers without a fuss.”

Clara exhaled, the sound shuddering through her. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then we get ready for a custody battle,” Matt said, his gaze hardening. “But you won’t do it alone. I promise you that.”

Jason swallowed, his throat tight, a heavy ache spreading through his chest. “What about the photos?” he asked, voice gruff. “The ones already out there?”

Matt’s expression darkened. “I’m sending out cease and desist letters this afternoon. Targeting every account that’s shared them, every tabloid, every fan page. But…”

“But they’re still out there,” Jason finished, his jaw tight.

Matt nodded, his gaze dropping to the folder of printed screenshots. “We can’t unsee what’s already been seen. But we can make sure they don’t keep spreading. And we can damn well make it clear that Jack is off-limits. Legally.”

Jason’s chest rose and fell in slow, heavy breaths, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. Clara’s hand slipped beneath his shirt, her palm warm against his lower back, a silent, grounding touch.

“Okay,” Jason said, his voice firm, eyes locked on Matt’s. “Do it. Whatever it takes. I’ll pay whatever it costs.”

Matt’s gaze softened, his shoulders slumping just a little. “I know you will,” he said quietly. “But this isn’t just about money, Jay. It’s about protecting your family. And that… that’s going to take more than a check.”

Jason nodded, his eyes dark, his jaw set. “Then we fight,” he said, his voice a low, fierce growl. “For Jack. For Clara. For Hope.”

Clara’s fingers squeezed his, her nails digging into his skin, and Jason squeezed back, the pressure grounding them both. Matt watched them, a flicker of something soft and sad passing through his eyes before he nodded, reaching for the phone.

“All right,” Matt said, his voice firm. “Let’s get to work.”

Jason pressed a kiss to Clara’s hair, his lips warm against her temple. “We’re gonna get through this,” he murmured. “Together.”

Clara closed her eyes, leaning into him, her hand finding his, their fingers lacing tight. “Together,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Matt leaned back in his chair, eyes dark, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The papers strewn across his desk were a chaotic mess — printouts of the Facebook posts, screenshots of tweets, a few grainy photos of Jason and Jack that Clara couldn’t bear to look at for long. Jason’s arm remained around Clara, his thumb stroking slow, steady circles against her shoulder, grounding them both. Clara’s face was buried against his chest, her fingers clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her anchored. Jason’s jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on a point over Matt’s shoulder, staring at nothing, seeing everything.

 Matt sat back, already running through the list of contacts in his mind. They were going to need all the help they could get. The silence in the office was thick, the kind that settled like a fog, wrapping around them, heavy and suffocating. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city moved on — cars speeding by, people walking, the world continuing as if nothing had changed. But inside, the air felt heavy, like the walls were closing in. The air hung heavy with everything unsaid, the words they couldn’t quite bring themselves to voice. Jason sat hunched forward on the couch, elbows braced against his knees, hands laced together so tightly his knuckles had turned white. Clara sat beside him, her body angled toward him, one hand resting on his thigh, her thumb stroking slow, calming circles.

“So,” Matt said, exhaling a long, slow breath. “Cease and desist. We can do that. But remember won’t erase what’s already out there. Once it’s online…”

"It’s there forever,” Jason finished, his jaw tight, voice thick.

Matt nodded, his gaze flicking between them. “We can get a temporary injunction. But to make it stick — to really protect Jack — we’d need this guardianship to be in place as soon as possible ”

Jason’s jaw clenched, his leg bouncing restlessly. Clara’s hand squeezed his thigh, her touch a soft anchor. Yet Before Matt could say anything else, the door swung open. His assistant, Lydia, stepped in, her expression drawn tight, eyes wide. She held a tablet in her hands, her knuckles white against the edges.

“Matt,” she said, her voice low but urgent. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but you need to see this.”

Matt’s brows knitted together. “What is it?”

Lydia swallowed, her gaze darting nervously toward Jason and Clara, as though she was bracing herself for the impact. “It’s… it’s gone beyond social media now.” She stepped forward, her heels clicking softly against the hardwood floor, and handed the tablet to Matt. “The Daily Mail just dropped a full article.”

Matt’s face darkened as he took the tablet, his jaw tightening as he scrolled through the article. Clara couldn’t see the screen, but she could see the way Matt’s brows furrowed deeper, his lips pressing into a thin, grim line. Jason leaned forward, his body taut, his hands gripping his knees as though he might fly apart if he let go.

"What does it say?” Jason asked, his voice sharp, barely controlled.

Matt took a steadying breath, his gaze lifting to meet Jason’s. “It’s… bad.” He turned the tablet around, the screen facing them now. “They’re calling Jack your secret son.”

Jason’s eyes locked onto the screen, his pulse roaring in his ears as he took in the headline: 

“Jason Orange’s Secret Son? Take That Star Spotted with Mystery Child in rural village”

EXCLUSIVE: Jason Orange Spotted with Young Boy – Secret Son or Just a Close Bond?

By Gareth Mills for The Daily Mail 

Former Take That star Jason Orange, who famously stepped away from the spotlight to live a quieter life, has been photographed during a rare outing with a young boy, sparking speculation about his personal life. The 54-year-old singer, known for fiercely guarding his privacy, was seen enjoying a relaxed café visit with the boy, estimated to be around six years old. In the candid images, Orange is pictured tying the child’s shoelaces and sharing what appears to be a warm, affectionate embrace. At one point, the boy is lifted onto Jason’s shoulders, both of them laughing and seemingly at ease in each other’s company.

But the question remains — who is the child?

Social media is buzzing with theories, with some suggesting the boy could be Orange’s secret son, a claim fueled by the apparent resemblance between the two. With dark eyes and unruly hair, the child bears a striking similarity to the former boyband heartthrob.  H owever, a source close to the café staff told The Daily Mail, “They looked really close. Jason was so attentive and gentle. It was obvious there was a strong bond, but whether that’s father and son or just someone he’s close to — who knows?”

Since leaving Take That, Orange has kept a low profile, retreating from the public eye and moving away from the media frenzy that once followed his every move. Despite this, these latest photos have reignited interest in the singer’s private life, with many wondering if he has been quietly raising a family out of the spotlight.

So far, Orange has made no comment regarding the boy’s identity, and his representatives have remained tight-lipped. The images, which have circulated widely on social media, have drawn mixed reactions from fans.

“He’s always been private. If that’s his son, it’s his business,” one fan tweeted, while another questioned, “Why hide him? What else is he hiding?”

While some speculate about a secret child, others have pointed out that the boy could simply be a relative or the child of a close friend. Until Orange speaks out, the truth remains unclear — but in a world that thrives on speculation, will he be forced to break his silence?

Stay tuned as The Daily Mail continues to monitor this developing story.

The words swam before his eyes, the lines blurring and reforming until they no longer made sense. Jason swallowed, his throat tight, his chest a vice. Clara leaned forward, her hand clutching his, her nails biting into his skin as she read the words aloud, her voice a trembling whisper: The air in Matt’s office felt colder, the chill sinking deep into Clara’s bones. The words from the article echoed in her head, each syllable a sharp, relentless jab. Secret son. Mystery child. Public speculation. It was as though they’d taken everything pure and good about Jack — his innocence, his laughter, the way he clung to Jason’s hand — and twisted it into something sordid. Jason remained frozen, his jaw clenched so tightly a vein throbbed along his temple. His hands hung between his knees, fingers laced together, knuckles white. Clara could feel the tension radiating off him, each ragged breath like a silent scream.

Matt tossed the tablet onto his desk, the device landing with a dull, final thud. “We need to act now,” he said, his voice a low, simmering growl. “Before this spreads any further.” Matt leaned forward, his elbows braced against the desk. “Cease and desist is the immediate step. But it’s a temporary fix. They’ll comply, maybe take it down, but the damage is done. The article’s out there. It’s been shared. Reposted. The rumors are already spreading like wildfire.”

Jason’s fingers flexed, his jaw working. “Then what? What else?”

Matt’s gaze flicked to Clara, then back to Jason. “You want to protect Jack. That’s the priority, right?”

“Yes,.” Jason nodded, the motion jerky, desperate. “I don’t give a damn about me. Just him.”

Matt exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “We can seek a court order. A privacy injunction. We can make it illegal for them to publish, repost, or share images of Jack without explicit permission. But…”

“But what?” Jason snapped, his eyes flashing.

Matt’s gaze was steady, his jaw set. “But to do that, you’d still need legal standing as Jack’s guardian officially”

The words hung in the air like a stone sinking in water. Jason’s breath hitched, his fists tightening in his lap. Clara’s heart pounded, the sound deafening in her ears.

“But I am his guardian,” Jason said, his voice low, frayed. “I’ve been there every day. Since he was three. How the hell do they think they can say I’m not?”

Clara’s hand slipped over his, her fingers threading through his, her palm warm and firm. “They don’t know that, Jay. Legally… they don’t know that.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, his throat working as he swallowed hard. “Then let’s make it legal,” he said, his voice rough. “I want it in writing. I want it on paper. I want them to know Jack is my son, even if I’m not his…” He couldn’t say the word. Blood. It felt meaningless.

Matt nodded, his expression grim. “I'll get Lydia to start the paperwork. But it won’t be immediate. And until it’s official, we’re vulnerable.”

Clara’s breath caught, and she looked down, her other hand absently rubbing her belly. “So, what do we do in the meantime?”

Matt’s jaw tightened. “We go after them. Hard. We issue a cease and desist against The Daily Mail. We file complaints with every platform that has reposted the images. We make it clear that Jack is a minor and that they are exploiting a child for profit.”

Jason nodded, his eyes fixed on the wall, his jaw set, his pulse pounding beneath Clara’s fingertips. “Do it,” he said, his voice hard, unyielding. “Do whatever it takes.”The clock on the wall ticked steadily, a relentless, hollow sound that filled the silence. Jason’s eyes stayed fixed on it, each second dragging like molasses, each beat a countdown to something he couldn’t control. Matt’s fingers moved rapidly over the keyboard, the clacking of the keys sharp, insistent, slicing through the oppressive stillness. Beside him, Lydia whispered into her phone, her brow furrowed, her back turned to them. Papers rustled. Screens flickered. The world outside kept spinning, but in here, everything felt suspended, holding its breath.

Clara stayed close to Jason, her fingers still threaded through his, grounding him. He could feel her warmth, her thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles over his knuckles — the only thing keeping him tethered. He kept his eyes on the clock. Five minutes had passed. Ten. Each minute a lifetime. Each second a heartbeat too loud in his ears. Matt finally sat back, rubbing a hand over his jaw, his eyes bloodshot and tired. 

“Okay,” he said, his voice gravelly, worn. “The paperwork’s being drawn up. Lydia’s reaching out to contacts at the tabloid. We’re pushing for the cease and desist. And the guardianship forms… we need to get them signed today.”

Jason nodded, but it felt mechanical, like his body was moving without him. Like he was on autopilot as he reached for the pen.

Clara leaned closer, her shoulder pressed against his, her cheek resting against his temple. “Hey,” she whispered, her breath warm, her voice soft and steady. “You okay?”

Jason swallowed, his throat thick, his eyes still fixed on the clock. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice barely a rasp. “I just… I keep thinking about Jack. About how he looked at me this morning. How scared he was.”

Clara’s fingers tightened around his. “He trusts you, Jay. More than anyone in the world. You told him you’d protect him, and you will"

Jason closed his eyes, a shaky breath escaping. “What if it’s not enough?”

Clara shifted, pressing her lips to his temple, the kiss lingering, warm and firm. “You are enough,” she said, her voice fierce, unyielding. “We’ll get through this. Together.”

Jason let his head drop forward, resting against Clara’s shoulder, the tension in his body finally giving way, his breaths coming in slow, shuddering waves. Clara held him, her fingers weaving through his hair, her other hand covering his heart, feeling the unsteady rhythm beneath her palm. Slowly he signed his name on the sheet, pushing it back to matt

Matt rose from his desk, moving to the window, his back to them. He stared out, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed against the glare of the morning sun.

And in the silence, the clock kept ticking. A steady, unrelenting beat.

second a promise.

Each breath a vow.

They were still here.

They would keep fighting.

Together.

The air was heavy with the scent of damp grass and fallen leaves. The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, a watery amber glow filtering through the branches. The park was mostly empty, just a few joggers passing by, a mother pushing a stroller, a couple walking a dog. The world moved on, oblivious. After an intense meeting with Sean, Jason and Clara were now sat on a wooden bench at the local park, a bench with the wood worn smooth by years of use, the edges splintered and softened by time. The bench faced the pond, where an array of ducks drifted lazily across the glassy surface, their ripples spreading in slow, endless circles.

Jason leaned back, his head tipped toward the sky, eyes closed, the sun casting a faint, golden glow over his stubbled jaw. Clara sat beside him, her body angled toward him, her cheek resting against his chest, ear pressed to the slow, steady thump of his heartbeat. One of Jason’s arms wrapped around her, his hand splayed over the curve of her belly, his thumb tracing absent, slow circles. While Clara’s fingers drifted over Jason’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths beneath her palm, the warmth of his skin through his shirt. His heart beat strong and steady beneath her ear, a grounding rhythm that kept her anchored. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves above them, sending soft rustles through the branches. The air was cool, edged with the first bite of autumn, but Jason’s body was warm against Clara’s, he felt solid and safe. For a while now, they had just sat there, wrapped around each other, as the world hushed around them. Clara’s eyes drifted shut, her fingers still moving in lazy patterns over Jason’s chest — tracing the line of his collarbone, the curve of his neck, the strong, steady thrum of his pulse. He gently pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering in her hair, breathing her in — the scent of her shampoo, that warm, familiar vanilla and something softer, sweeter. He closed his eyes, letting the moment sink into his skin, trying to imprint it there, to keep it.

“I can hear your heart,” Clara murmured, her voice muffled against his shirt.

“Really?” Jason swallowed, his throat tight. “What’s it saying?”

Clara’s lips curved, a small, sad smile. “That you’re scared.”

Jason’s hand tightened against her belly, his thumb still moving in those slow, absent circles. “I am,” he admitted, voice raw, almost a rasp. “I’m scared of losing you. Of losing Jack. Of… of not being enough.. not being strong enough to deal with all this shit going on now ”

Clara pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were soft, dark and warm, catching the fading light. “You’re everything, Jason,” she said, her hand cupping his jaw, her thumb brushing over the roughness of his stubble. “You’re everything to us and you're stronger than you think.”

Jason’s eyes fluttered shut, a shuddering breath escaping him. “Feels like it’s slipping through my fingers, regardless of what Matt says” he said, voice cracking. “All of it. And I don’t know how to hold on.”

“ Remember…” Clara rose up, leaning closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his jaw, just beneath his ear. “You don’t have to hold on alone,” she whispered, her breath warm against his skin. “You have me. You have Jack. You have us.”

Jason’s hand slipped from her belly to her thigh, his fingers splaying over the denim, squeezing gently. “When Matt said… when he said about guardianship…” Jason’s voice broke, the words sticking in his throat. “I felt like a fraud. Like I don’t even have the right to call Jack mine.”

“Just don't…listen” Clara shook her head, her eyes fierce now, a shine of tears glistening. “You are his dad, Jason. In every way that matters. You’re the one who held him when he was sick, who taught him to ride a bike, who reads him bedtime stories every single night. That’s what makes you his dad.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath her palm. “I know. But to the world… I’m nothing. Just the guy his mum’s dating..some former somebody shacked up with his mother”

“For goodness sake…You're so much more than that…especially to me. You should know thst by now” Clara’s throat tightened, her eyes dropping to the space between them. “When Matt brought up marriage…I saw the expression on your face..”

“You want the truth Mcfly?” Jason’s jaw worked, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “I’d marry you tomorrow if given the chance,” he said suddenly, the words tumbling out, raw and ragged. “I’d put a ring on your finger and make you my wife right now if it meant keeping him safe. Keeping all of us safe.”

“Jason Orange..” Clara’s hand slipped to his nape, her fingers threading through the soft, damp strands of his hair, stroking slow, deliberate lines, her voice thick. “I'd give anything to marry you too. But not like this, not this way. Not because some sleazy tabloid is backing us into a corner.”

Jason’s eyes opened, and he met her gaze — raw, vulnerable, wide open. “I know,” he said, his hand sliding up to cradle her jaw, thumb brushing over her cheek. “I want it to be because we want it. Not because we have to. Not because some lawyer says it’s the only way.”

“Exactly and Trust me..” Clara leaned into his touch, her cheek nuzzling his palm. “I’d love to officially be Mrs. McFly Orange one day… even after all this time it still makes me think of a cocktail putting our names like that together” she whispered, a watery smile curving her lips. “But I don’t want it to feel like… like a transaction. Like a piece of paper that says you belong to Jack.” Clara’s eyes softened, and she shook her head, her thumb stroking over his bottom lip. “I want to marry you because it feels right…because I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” she said, her voice a tender, aching murmur. “ Not because we’re being backed into a corner. Not because the press is breathing down our necks, trying to tear us apart.”

Jason’s breath hitched, his chest heaving beneath her hand. “But what if it’s the only way?”

“It’s not,” Clara said firmly, leaning in, her forehead pressing against his. “If we got married, I'd want it to be because you want to wake up next to me every morning for the rest of your life. Because you can’t imagine not being my husband and Because you want me to be your wife— not because of some lawyer calling the shots”

Jason’s eyes fluttered shut, a tear slipping free and trailing down his cheek. Clara caught it with her thumb, brushing it away with a touch so soft it almost undid him.

“I do want that,” he whispered, his voice thick. “I want that so fucking much.”

Clara’s hands slid down to his shoulders, her fingers kneading the tense muscles there. “Then we do it when the time is right,” she said, her voice breaking. “we do it when it’s just you and me, looking at each other and saying ‘I do’ without a single other thing weighing us down…that moment isn't now and deep down we both know it ”

Clara’s eyes filled, and she nodded, leaning in to press her forehead to his. Their breaths mingled, the world shrinking to just this — his warm, rough hand cradling her face, her fingers threading through his hair, the feel of his heart pounding beneath her palm A child’s laughter echoed somewhere in the distance, followed by the sound of a dog barking, the shriek of a swing creaking on rusted chains. Jason’s eyes flicked open, drifting over to the playground.

A little boy was running through the grass, his father chasing after him, both of them laughing, hands reaching, fingers grasping. The park stretched out before them, a patchwork of green and gold beneath the late morning sun. Leaves rustled in the gentle breeze, their edges curling and browning as summer gave way to autumn. The scent of damp earth and fresh-cut grass hung heavy in the air, mingling with the distant, sweet aroma of a nearby coffee cart. The branches arched above them like a shelter, dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across their skin. Clara now sat sideways, her legs curled up beneath her, her head was still resting against Jason’s chest. She could still hear his heartbeat, strong but uneven, as if it were trying to catch up with everything that had happened in the last hour.

Jason stared straight ahead, his gaze fixed on a group of children playing on the climbing frame. Their laughter floated toward them, bright and carefree, each giggle a sharp contrast to the weight pressing down on him. A father pushed his daughter on a swing, her legs kicking high as she squealed in delight. A couple strolled by, holding hands, leaning into one another. Normalcy, unfolding all around them — a life that felt worlds away. Clara shifted, her hand slipping beneath Jason’s shirt, her fingertips grazing the bare skin at his waist. His abs clenched beneath her touch, a shiver rolling through him, and he let out a slow, shaky breath.

Jason’s jaw tightened, the ache in his chest swelling. “Middle age,” he murmured, his voice low, almost bitter. “Feels like I blinked and woke up here.”

“Oh come on..” Clara sat up to face him, gentle fingers slipped to the back of his neck, stroking in slow, soothing circles. “here isn’t so bad,” she whispered. “Here is Jack. Here is Hope. Here is me. Here is us...our family”

Jason swallowed hard, his throat working, the knot there almost choking him. He leaned forward, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his arms sliding around her, holding tight. Clara held on just as fiercely, her hands sliding up and down his back, her cheek pressed to the top of his head. The ache in his chest swelled, pressing hard against his ribs. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be — not when they’d fought so hard to build this life. Not when he’d left the chaos of fame behind for something quieter, something real. The park blurred around them, the world fading into soft, golden light. For a long while, they just sat there, wrapped around each other, breathing each other in. The wind rustled through the trees, leaves dancing, the sky shifting from amber to dusky grey. And in that moment, Jason let himself feel it all — the fear, the love, the ache, the hope. Let it all course through him, pulse through his veins, settle deep into his bones. Because no matter what happened next — the tabloids, the lawyers, the lies — this was real. This moment was his. And he was never letting go.

“You know,” he said, his voice lower now, almost like a confession, “when I left Take That, I was relieved. Thought I could finally breathe, finally just… be me. Not the one in the band. Not the one with the dimples and the cheeky grin.”

Clara turned to him, her eyes soft, her thumb stroking slow circles over his hand. “Who did you want to be?”

Jason swallowed, his jaw clenching as he stared straight ahead. “A man. A normal bloke who had a pint at the pub without someone shoving a camera in his face. Someone who didn’t have to look over his shoulder every time he stepped outside.” His fingers tightened around hers, his grip almost desperate. “Then I met you. And Jack. And suddenly… I had everything. And it was better than anything I’d ever dreamed. Better than the screaming fans, the tours and the flashing lights. Just… better.”

Clara’s throat tightened, a lump forming that she couldn’t quite swallow down. “And now you think they’re trying to take it away.”

Jason shook his head, his jaw clenching. “They can’t,” he said, the words fierce, almost a growl. “They can’t have this. They can’t take Jack. Or you. Or Hope.”

Clara leaned closer, her free hand sliding to the back of his neck, fingers slipping into the short, soft strands of his hair. “They can’t,” she said, her breath warm against his cheek. “We won’t let them.”

Jason’s shoulders slumped, the fight bleeding out of him as he released a long, shuddering breath. He turned his head, his eyes finding hers. The golden light spilled over Clara’s face, softening the edges, making her eyes glow, dark and deep and filled with so much love it almost hurt to look at.

“Do you ever wish it was different?” he asked, his voice cracking. “That you’d never met me? That Jack didn’t have to… go through this?”

Clara’s brow furrowed, her fingers tightening in his hair. “No,” she said, the word firm, resolute. “Never. You’re it for me, Jason. You and Jack and Hope. You’re my family. And even if the world gets ugly, even if they say horrible things, it doesn’t change what we have and what i feel for you..”

Jason’s throat bobbed, his eyes glistening. He turned his hand, pressing her palm to his lips, letting the warmth of her skin ground him, steady him. “I love you,” he whispered against her hand, the words rough, aching. “I love you so bloody much.”

Clara shifted closer, leaning across the console, her forehead touching his, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. “I love you too,” she said, her voice breaking. “And I’m so proud of you. The way you talked to Jack today, how you talked with Matt… you were perfect. You were everything…so know that i'll never give up on you ever” she smiled, threading her fingers through his hair “Do you ever think what would've happened if i didn't come to my senses in my feelings for you?” Clara said, her voice small, almost childlike. “If I hadn’t shown up on Matt’s doorstep that night, demanding your address.”

Jason’s chest rose and fell beneath her, his fingers resuming their slow, tender stroke through her hair. “Sometimes,” he admitted, his voice rough. “But then I stop. Because I don’t want to know.”

Clara lifted her head, her chin resting on his chest as she looked up at him. The angle made her look so young, so open, eyes dark and glistening. “What do you mean?”

Jason swallowed, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “Because I know exactly where I’d be,” he said, his voice thick. “I’d still be in that empty house in the countryside. The one with the broken heater and the peeling wallpaper. Still waking up alone, still going through my days like a ghost..”

Clara’s hand moved up, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her touch featherlight, reverent. “You weren’t a ghost,” she said, her voice breaking. “You were just… lost.”

Jason’s eyes fell shut, his throat working as he fought to keep the emotion at bay. “I didn’t know how to be anything else,” he whispered. “Not after the band. Not after… everything.”

“So know this…I'm here..I'm with you…” Clara pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart, her lips soft and warm. “You’re not lost now.”

Jason’s eyes opened, and he looked down at her, his gaze tender, vulnerable. “I know,” he said, his fingers slipping from her hair to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing the curve of her cheekbone. “You found me.”

Clara’s lips trembled, her breath hitching as she turned her head, pressing her cheek into his palm. “And you saved me,” she whispered, her eyes slipping shut, a tear slipping free. “I was so scared on that drive up. So scared that you wouldn’t let me in. That you wouldn’t want me.That you'd shut the door in my face”

Jason’s jaw clenched, and he rolled them slowly, carefully, until he was hovering over her, his forearms braced on either side of her head, his body caging hers. Clara’s hair fanned out over the pillow, her eyes wide, shining up at him.

“Clara,” Jason said, his voice a rasp, his breath warm against her face. “I wanted you the second I saw you on that doorstep. I never stopped wanting you. Not once…it was a surprise seeing you there but as soon as I saw you, that was it"

Clara’s hands slid up, framing his face, her thumbs stroking slow, soothing lines over his stubble. “Even after everything I told you? All about Sean..”

“Especially after that,” Jason said, his eyes burning. “You were so fucking brave. Strong. And Jack… God, the first time he called me Jason, I felt like my heart was going to burst…Then that day he got over excited and called me Dad”

Clara’s eyes filled, a soft, broken laugh escaping her. “And now he’s yours,” she whispered, her fingers slipping to the nape of his neck, holding him close. “In every way that matters.”

Jason’s forehead dropped to hers, his breath shuddering. “But I want more,” he said, his voice trembling. “I want it to be official. Legal. I want it in writing that he’s mine.”

“and it will happen..” Clara swallowed, her fingers threading through his hair. “We’ll get there,” she said, her voice fierce, certain. “But you don’t need a piece of paper to be his dad. You already are.”

Jason’s lips found hers, a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of salt and tears and a love too big to hold inside. When he pulled back, his thumb traced the curve of her bottom lip, his eyes dark, glistening.

“You, Jack and Hope. You’re everything.” he said, the words a vow, a prayer

Clara’s eyes shone, and she pulled him down, cradling his head to her chest, her fingers weaving through his hair, holding him close, holding him tight.

And you’re ours,” she whispered, her lips brushing over his temple, her heartbeat strong and steady beneath his ear. “Always.”

Jason closed his eyes, sinking into her, letting her warmth wrap around him, anchor him. Outside, the world still spun, too fast and too loud, but here — here in this park, in the quiet, in the safe haven of Clara’s arms — everything felt right.

Everything felt whole.

And in that moment, despite everything — the lies, the fear, the whispers — they were together….And that was enough.

Jason let out a long, shuddering breath, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer, tighter. Clara settled into him, her cheek pressed to his chest, her breath warm against his skin.

A breeze rustled the leaves overhead, sending tiny specks of sunlight dancing across their entwined bodies. The children’s laughter drifted toward them again, a sweet, innocent sound that made Jason’s chest ache.

“I always thought,” Jason said, his voice a low, raspy murmur, “that by now, life would feel… settled. That I’d be settled. But it doesn’t. It feels like I’m still trying to figure out who the hell I am.”

Clara lifted her head, her eyes searching his, deep and dark and full of so much love it made his heart clench. “You’re Jason, Mister Jason” she said, her voice a soft, unwavering declaration. “You’re the man who stayed, Jay. You’re the man who chose us. And that’s more than enough.”

Jason’s throat tightened, his hand slipping to the back of her neck, pulling her in. Their mouths met in a slow, lingering kiss, a press of lips that was soft and warm and full of everything he couldn’t say. When they pulled back, their breaths mingled in the small space between them, Jason’s forehead resting against Clara’s.

“I love you,” he said, his voice breaking. “God, Clara, I love you so much.”

Clara’s fingers threaded through his hair, holding him close. “I know,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his in another tender kiss. “And I love you, With everything I have.”

They stayed that way, wrapped around each other on that park bench, the world spinning on without them, the breeze rustling through the leaves, the sunlight shifting and dancing like a promise that despite everything, they still had this.

Each other. 

I got you.. I'm here…Always..

A breeze rustled through the trees, carrying with it the distant sound of children’s laughter, a dog barking, a ball bouncing against concrete. The world continued to move, oblivious to the storm that had settled inside Jason. Clara shifted, leaning back against the bench, her hand still resting on his thigh. Jason’s gaze drifted back to the father and child by the swings. The little boy squealed, his arms reaching as his father caught him, lifting him high. Jason’s throat tightened, the ache spreading through his chest like a bruise.

Clara followed his gaze, her fingers threading through his. “We’re going to get through this,” she said, her voice a soft, steady murmur. “We’re going to protect him.”

Jason swallowed hard, nodding, but his eyes stayed fixed on the father and son. The father set the boy down, ruffling his hair as they walked away, hand in hand. The sight struck Jason like a fist to the gut. The wind picked up, carrying the distant blare of a car horn, a burst of laughter, the rustling of paper — and something else. The click of a camera.

Jason’s jaw clenched, his shoulders tensing. Clara felt it, her hand tightening on his thigh.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice hushed, wary.

Jason shook his head, forcing his gaze away from the playground. “Nothing,” he said, but his eyes scanned the park, the bushes, the shadows.

A chill slid down his spine, the kind that warned of eyes watching, waiting.

Because the world was still out there. Still hungry. Still circling.

And Jason knew, deep in his gut, that Sean was too.

London 

The bedsit was a grimy, claustrophobic box of a room. The walls were yellowed with years of stale smoke and damp, and the air hung thick with the stench of vodka, sweat, and something sour, like old takeaway left too long in a bin. A single, cracked window let in a sliver of dirty orange streetlight, slicing through the gloom and casting a jagged line across the unmade bed.

Sean Markson lay sprawled on the mattress, a thin, stained sheet tangled around his waist. Beside him, a woman snored softly, her smeared makeup crusted around her eyes, dark smudges bleeding into the pillowcase. One leg hung off the edge of the bed, exposing a faded rose tattoo curling up her thigh. Her lipstick was a crude, clownish smear, her breath hot and rancid in the stale air. Sean grunted, rolling onto his back with a groan. His head pounded, each throb a dull, insistent ache that pulsed through his skull. His hand groped blindly across the nightstand until his fingers closed around the neck of the vodka bottle. He lifted it to his lips, taking a long, scalding swig that left his throat raw. The burn of cheap liquor cut through the fog in his brain, sharpening his focus, igniting a slow, festering anger beneath his skin.

His phone buzzed, the cracked screen flaring to life in the semi-darkness. Sean squinted against the glare, blinking hard as he tried to focus on the words. A news alert. Something about Jason Orange.

Jason fucking Orange.

Sean’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath his stubble. He swiped the notification open, the headline blaring across the screen:

"Former Take That Star Jason Orange Spotted With ‘Secret Son’ — Father-Son Day Out Raises Questions”

Beneath it were the photos. Jason kneeling to tie Jack’s shoelaces. Jason lifting Jack to see a mural. Jason holding Jack close, the boy’s head pressed to his chest, eyes closed.

Jack….Sean’s son.

Sean’s fists tightened around the phone, the plastic creaking beneath his grip. Jack, looking up at Jason with those wide, trusting eyes. Jack clinging to him, the way a boy clings to his dad. Sean’s teeth ground together, the bitter taste of vodka churning on his tongue.

"Fucking bitch,” he muttered, his voice thick, slurred. “Does she think she can just replace me? With that washed-up boy band prick?”

The woman beside him shifted, her brow furrowing, a soft moan slipping from her lips. Sean shoved her arm off his waist, his eyes never leaving the phone. He scrolled down, his breath coming faster, the sick knot of rage tightening in his gut.

“Jason Orange’s Private Life Under Scrutiny: How Much Is the Former Boyband Star Really Worth?”

Sean’s eyes sharpened. The vodka bottle dangled from his fingers, forgotten, as he tapped the link. The page loaded, and there it was: 30 million.

A slow, ugly grin twisted Sean’s mouth. Thirty million. For what? Singing some shitty pop songs twenty years ago? Waving to a bunch of screaming girls? Now he was playing daddy to Sean’s son — the son he never wanted, the son he told Clara to get rid of. Thirty million. And there was Jason Orange, strolling around with Jack like he owned the kid. Like he could just step in and play hero. Sean tossed the phone onto the mattress, the screen bouncing against the stained sheets. His hand shook as he grabbed the vodka bottle again, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. He took another long, searing swig, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Beside him, the woman stirred, her arm flopping across his chest. Her breath was hot, sour. Sean shoved her off, barely glancing her way. She was nothing. Just a body. Just a distraction. Just like all the others. His phone buzzed again. Another notification. Another taunt. Another reminder that Jason Orange was out there, living the life that should have been his. Sean’s jaw ticked as he snatched up the phone, scrolling through his contacts. There.

Mark Prescott. The sleazy solicitor who’d bailed him out after Clara’s brother called the cops. The one who told him he could squeeze Clara for every penny she had — if he played it right. The one who knew how to work the system.

Sean pressed call, the ringing echoing through the room, loud and insistent. The woman beside him groaned, turning over, mascara-smeared eyes blinking groggily.

“Hello?” Mark’s voice crackled, groggy and annoyed. “Sean? It’s Sunday, mate.”

Sean leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, eyes locked on the screen. His reflection stared back at him — unshaven, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched so tight he could feel his teeth grinding.

“You remember Clara McFly?” Sean said, voice low, rough. “You remember her kid?”

Mark let out a pause. Then a slow, knowing hum. “Yeah. The one you said wasn’t yours.”

Sean’s grin widened, dark and ugly. “Turns out he’s hanging around with Jason Orange. You know — the one with thirty million quid in the bank.”

There was a long silence. Then Mark’s voice, sharper now, more alert. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Sean’s eyes gleamed. “I don’t want the kid,” he said, his voice a low, venomous rasp. “Never did. But Orange… he wants to play daddy. Let’s see how much he’s willing to pay to keep doing it.”

Mark chuckled, the sound greasy and unpleasant. “All right, mate. Let me make some calls. See what we can dig up.”

Sean ended the call, tossing the phone aside. It bounced off the mattress and landed near the woman’s bare leg. She muttered something unintelligible, her arm reaching for him, fingers curling weakly around his wrist.

Sean pulled away, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, that sick, oily grin still stretching his mouth. Thirty million. Jason Orange. Jack McFly.

His son. His blood. His leverage.

Sean closed his eyes, the vodka bottle clutched tight in his hand. He could almost see it — the money, the power, Jason on his knees, begging him to back off. Begging to keep Jack. Sean’s lips curved, his eyes sliding shut as the room swayed around him.

Because Jason Orange might think he was Jack’s dad. But Sean Markson knew the truth.

Jack was his.

And so was that money.

Chapter Text

Several days had passed since the tense meeting with Matt, and the weight of it still lingered in the house like a shadow, slipping through the cracks of quiet moments and settling in the spaces between words. Jason and Clara had coped in the ways they knew best — Jason throwing himself into parenting and routines, keeping Jack entertained with trips to the park and endless rounds of Mario Kart, his laughter louder than usual, as if determined to drown out the heaviness pressing down on them.

Clara, meanwhile, moved through the days with a forced brightness, keeping herself busy with baby preparations and cleaning rooms that were already spotless. Her hands stayed busy, folding and refolding tiny clothes for Hope, arranging and rearranging baby bottles on the kitchen counter, anything to avoid sitting still, anything to keep her mind from circling back to the dark possibilities Matt had warned them about. But at night, when the house had quieted and Jack was finally asleep, the unspoken fears crept in. Jason would find Clara staring blankly at the ceiling, her fingers tracing absent patterns over her growing belly. And in those moments, he’d pull her close, wrapping himself around her as if his arms alone could keep the world at bay. And Clara would burrow into him, her face pressed to his chest, her breaths slow and shallow as she tried to absorb his calm.

Despite the tension, there had been progress. They’d taken Matt’s advice and started the process of securing Jason’s legal guardianship over Jack, the paperwork spread out on the dining room table like a battlefield of signatures and dotted lines. But despite all the steps forward, the uncertainty lingered, an invisible weight pressing against them, reminding them that the fight was far from over..

Today was finally the weekend however and the house was steeped in the soft, muted gray of early morning, the kind of quiet that felt as if the world were holding its breath. Outside, the rain drizzled in a fine, relentless mist, each droplet tracing delicate silver veins down the glass. The air was cool and damp, tinged with the scent of wet earth and freshly fallen leaves — a scent that seeped in through the slightly open window, mixing with the faint, lingering hint of lavender from the sheets. It was dawn, and the first blush of sunrise crept timidly over the horizon, a faint, rosy filtering through the clouds. The light seeped through the curtains of Jack's room in thin, pale slants, slicing across the floorboards and pooling in soft, ghostly shapes. Beneath the covers, the boy lay curled up in a loose ball, his small chest rising and falling with each slow, steady breath. One hand clutched his favorite stuffed bear, its worn ear tucked beneath his cheek.

The entire house was still, save for the slow, rhythmic tick of the rocket ship clock beside him and the distant patter of rain against the windowpane. Outside, the garden was shrouded in mist, its edges blurred and softened, the flowers sagging under the weight of the rain. The roses Clara had planted in the spring swayed slightly, petals heavy and glistening, their pale red hue deepened to crimson by the damp. The trees loomed like dark, dripping silhouettes, their leaves shivering under the drizzle, each drop a tiny, translucent bead sliding down to the ground belo. The light seeped through the blinds in thin, pale slants, slicing across the floorboards and pooling in soft, ghostly shapes. The air was cool and damp, tinged with the scent of wet earth and the faintest trace of lavender lingering in the sheets — the last whisper of Clara’s goodnight kiss. Jack lay cocooned in his blankets, the covers pulled up to his chin, his small body curled tight against the chill. His dark curls were a tousled halo against the pillow, cheeks flushed with sleep, lips slightly parted. The room was still and dim, save for the faint, golden glow of the nightlight casting soft, flickering shapes across the ceiling — tiny stars and moons, turning the walls into a sleepy, shifting sky.

Outside, the rain still pat against the windowpane, a gentle, rhythmic lullaby. The soft, steady tick of the wall clock marked time in the stillness, each second stretching out like a sigh. Inside the room, the air was warm, heavy with the scent of cotton and sleep and the lingering warmth of Jason’s hoodie draped over the chair Close by. Jack stirred slightly, a soft murmur slipping from his lips, his fingers twitching against the edge of the blanket. Beneath the covers, his small fists curled, as if holding onto something precious, something fragile. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, the sleep still heavy in his lashes. He yawned, a big, slow yawn that stretched his tiny limbs beneath the covers. Then rolled onto his side, his gaze drifting to the bedside table. There, framed in smooth, dark wood, was a photograph.

It was his Papa…

In the photograph, Clara’s father beamed, eyes crinkling, his arm wrapped tight around a younger Clara who was about the same age as Jack was now. She was laughing, her head thrown back, her dark curls catching the sunlight, a wild, carefree halo. Jack’s eyes lingered on her smile — that big, open grin he hadn’t seen in days, a kind of happiness that felt so distant now.

Jack reached out a small hand, fingertips brushing the edge of the frame. The glass was cool beneath his touch, a chill that seeped into his skin, and he traced the outline of his Papa’s face — the strong jaw, the eyes that always seemed to twinkle with mischief, as if he were in on a secret only he knew. Jack swallowed, his throat tight. He could almost hear his papa’s voice, that warm, gravelly laugh that used to echo through the house. Could almost smell the faint, spicy scent of his aftershave, the one that lingered on his shirts long after he’d gone. Soon the little boy's fingers drifted lower, brushing over Clara’s younger self, that girl who looked so light, so free. His chest ached, a heavy, dull pull, because she hadn’t smiled like that in so long. Not since… Jack’s hand dropped back to the mattress, eyes still fixed on the photograph, as if by staring hard enough, he could will his Papa back into the room, back into their lives. As if he could bring back that warmth, that laughter, that sense that everything would always be okay.

“Good morning, Papa,” whispered Jack, his voice soft, husky with sleep. “I miss you.” The words hung in the air, the silence pressing down. Jack’s throat tightened, a lump forming that he couldn’t swallow away. He pressed his cheek to the pillow, eyes still on the photo. “Mummy was really sad last night,” he said, his voice small, as if confessing a secret. “She looked at your picture a lot. And Jason…” Jack swallowed again, a deep, shaky breath. “He was sad too. He tried not to show me, but I know. I saw him hug Mummy really tight when I was coming upstairs to brush my teeth. Jack's brow furrowed, his fingers curled tighter around the frame. He glanced at the ceiling, blinking up at the soft, dancing shapes cast by the nightlight.

“I really love Jason, Papa ” Jack murmured, the words slipping free, warm and sure. “You would love him too..He tells me stories at night and pushes me really high on the swings. He makes Mummy laugh as well. Like, really laugh. He doesn’t get mad when I mess up or if I’m being naughty, and he always tells me I did a good job when I tell him all about my day at school.” Jack chewed his bottom lip, his small, round face creased in thought. “But he looked so sad yesterday, Papa. Really, really sad. Maybe ‘cause of the pictures the bad people took of us. Maybe ‘cause…” Jack hesitated, his chest rising and falling beneath the covers. His voice dropped to a whisper, so soft it was almost a breath. “I know Jason isn’t my real daddy, but… he feels like it. Maybe one day I should ask him if I can call him it. Maybe he’d say yes.” A flicker of doubt crossed his face, his eyes falling back to the photograph. “Or maybe he’d say no. Maybe he wouldn’t want me to. Maybe he’d get mad and cross at me.” The little boy’s hand dropped back to the mattress, and he stared at the ceiling again, his eyes glassy, wide. “I miss having a daddy like the other boys and girls,” he said it so quietly it was almost a prayer. “Just to be able to call someone my daddy would make me really happy.” The rain pattered softly against the window, a steady, rhythmic lullaby. Jack took another deep breath, the ache inside him too big for his small body, too heavy for his little heart.

But then, slowly, he sat up, the blankets pooling around his waist. His gaze swept across the room, catching on the soft, rumpled pile of Jason’s black hoodie draped over the back of the chair. The one Jason had left last night when he was putting Jack to bed. The one Jason always wore when he made breakfast. The one that still smelled like him — warm, woodsy, a little bit like coffee. Jack pushed the covers back, the cool air prickling his bare arms. His small feet hit the floor with a soft thump, and he shivered, the wooden boards cold against his skin. The room smelled of rain and Jason — the hoodie holding that familiar scent like a hug. He dragged the hoodie off the chair, the fabric heavy and oversized in his small hands. Pulling it over his head, the collar slipping down to his shoulders, the sleeves flopping far past his fingertips. It swallowed him whole, almost as if Jason’s warmth wrapped around him, the scent filling his lungs. He clutched the sleeves, pulling them over his hands like mittens, feeling the comforting weight of the hoodie drape around him. Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, Jack stood there imagining Jason’s arms wrapped around him, holding him tight, exactly the way he did when Jack had a bad dream. Opening his eyes, he looked down at the too-long sleeves and the way they flopped around his hands. His lips quivered into a small, determined smile.

“I know,” he said, a spark of resolve flaring in his eyes. “I’ll make them breakfast. Just like Jason does.”

And as he padded out of the room, sleeves dragging behind him like a cape, he walked a little taller, his tiny shoulders squared, his chin lifted. Because at that moment, he felt just a little bit like the man he wanted to call Daddy.

The kitchen was steeped in a fragile, silvery light, the kind that softened the edges of everything, as if the whole house were still tangled up in a dream. Outside, rain still drizzled in a slow, unhurried rhythm, each drop sliding down the glass in crooked paths, trailing like tiny, glistening veins. The air hung heavy with the scent of wet earth and the faint, lingering sweetness of Clara’s lavender candle, now just a puddle of wax on the windowsill. Jack stood in the center of the kitchen, dwarfed by the space around him. Jason’s hoodie hung off his small frame like a cape, the sleeves still drooping far past his fingertips, dragging across the cool tiles with each hesitant step. The fabric was thick, soft, and heavy, its weight both comforting and suffocating. Jack hugged it tighter, burying his nose in the collar. Jason’s scent — warm and woodsy, with something deeper, something that always made Jack think of bedtime stories and bear hugs — filled his lungs, anchoring him.

“You can do this,” Jack whispered to himself, his breath shaky. His voice echoed in the empty kitchen, sounding smaller than he’d meant it to.

The room felt vast and empty without Jason’s presence. Last night, Jason had been here, the air full of his laughter as he’d lifted Jack onto the counter and let him help cook dinner for Clara, calling him “my right-hand man.” But now, the countertops stretched out before Jack like distant islands, cluttered with dishes and half-empty glasses. Shadows pooled in the corners, making everything seem taller, sharper, more intimidating. Eventually Jack’s eyes now drifted to the waffle maker on the top shelf, where Jason always kept it. The cord dangled over the edge like a black snake, swaying slightly as the little boy tried to reach for it. He stretched up on tiptoes, the cool fabric of the hoodie slipping down over his wrists, fingertips just grazing the handle.

“C’mon,” he muttered, his jaw clenched, cheeks puffed as he strained. “You can do it. You’re Jason’s right-hand man remember.”

The words felt thin, wobbly. They didn’t feel true.

His hand closed around the handle, and he yanked it forward, the heavy appliance thudding onto the counter with a crash that echoed through the empty house. Jack flinched and froze, his pulse spiking. He stood still for a beat, waiting, his chest tight. Was someone coming? Was Jason awake? Silence. Just the rain outside, tapping insistently against the window like tiny fingers as he breathed a sigh of relief. Jack swallowed, the knot in his throat tightening as he manged to lock in the socket. The red light on the waffle maker blinked at him, solid and unyielding.

"Red means wait,” he recited, his voice a small, shaky thread. “Green means go..that's what Jason told me.” His gaze drifted to the waffle mix on the top shelf. The one Jason always grabbed with one hand, making it look so easy, so effortless. But to Jack, it felt a million miles away. His chest rose and fell, the hoodie growing warmer, heavier. He could feel sweat prickling at the back of his neck, the cotton clinging to his skin. He bit his lip, eyes narrowing in determination. “You can do it,...I know” he said again, and this time his voice was fierce, more like a command. He grabbed a wooden spoon, its handle too thick for his small hand, and stretched up, jabbing at the box. It wobbled, the cardboard scraping against the wood, until finally —

Thud.

It toppled down, slamming onto the counter. The lid burst open, and a plume of flour exploded into the air, a soft, powdery cloud that drifted down like snow. Jack stood frozen as the flour settled, coating his curls, sticking to his damp cheeks, dusting the sleeves of the hoodie. His chest felt tight, his hands shaking as he reached up to swipe at his hair. The flour smeared, turning sticky with the tears he was trying so hard to blink back.

“It’s okay,” he muttered, voice wobbling. “Jason says it’s okay to mess up.” But the words felt hollow, like a song sung off-key. .Taking a deep breath, he looked down and saw that the red light on the waffle maker had blinked to green. Jack’s heart gave a hard, nervous thump. “Go time,” he whispered, forcing a grin that felt too tight, like a mask.

Grabbing the mixing bowl, his arms straining as he hefted it onto the counter. The flour bag was heavier than he expected, the open top spilling more powder across the counter, ghostly white against the dark wood. Jason always cracked the eggs with one hand, quick and easy, his wrist flicking like it was no big deal. Jack picked up an egg, holding it carefully, his small fingers trembling.

“You can do it,” he said again, his jaw clenched. “Like Jason.” He drew in a deep breath and brought the egg down against the edge of the bowl. Crack. The shell splintered, a wet, slimy mess oozing over his hands and slopping onto the floor with a sickening splat. Bits of shell clung to his palms, the yolk sliding between his fingers. Jack’s heart dropped. The hoodie felt too big, too hot, Jason’s scent too strong. It pressed in around him, suffocating, and the tears that had been threatening finally welled up, spilling over in hot, stinging drops. “It was supposed to be good,” he whispered, voice breaking, eyes blurring. “I was trying to make it good.”

His hands shook as he grabbed a kitchen towel, scrubbing at the mess, but the egg only smeared, yellow streaks spreading across the floor like a bruise. The waffle maker hissed and sputtered, the scent of burning batter thickening the air. Jack’s head jerked up.

“Oh no.” He lunged for the handle, his hand closing around the hot metal, a searing pain shooting up his arm. Jack yanked his hand back, eyes wide, the skin reddening, throbbing. The air was filled with the scent of burnt waffles and sour orange juice. The counter was a battlefield of flour and eggshells, the floor a minefield of sticky puddles and crumpled towels. Jack pressed his fists to his eyes, the sleeves of the hoodie bunched up against his face, Jason’s scent enveloping him. “You can do it,” he whispered again, the words breaking, shattering. “You can do it, mate…that's what Jason always says to me…” But they didn’t feel like his words. They felt like Jason’s. And Jason wasn’t here.

The hoodie hung heavy around him even further, the sleeves dragging on the floor, sodden and smeared with flour and yolk. Jack closed his eyes, his chest heaving, a sob building in his throat.

Right now, he didn’t feel like Jason’s right-hand man.....He felt small. Clumsy. Like he’d ruined everything.

With the bedside clock now hitting 6am, The house was steeped in the soft, misty gray of early morning. Outside, the rain continued to fall in a gentle, unhurried rhythm, each drop trailing down the glass in silver veins, the sound a soft, rhythmic patter. Inside, the air hung warm and still, carrying the scent of damp earth, fading lavender, and the lingering warmth of sleep. In the bedroom, Jason and Clara lay entwined beneath the rumpled sheets, their bodies curved toward each other in the hushed, unconscious intimacy of sleep. Jason’s arm draped over Clara’s waist, his hand splayed across the curve of her swollen belly, their fingers curled protectively. His face was pressed deep against the nape of her neck, his breath slow and steady, each exhale a soft, warm whisper against her skin.

Clara slept deeply, her dark hair fanning across the pillow in a wild, tangled halo. One hand rested atop Jason’s, holding it close, as though even in sleep she couldn’t bear to let him go. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm, the gentle rise and fall like the swell of a calm sea. Outside, the rain whispered against the windows, a lullaby that wrapped around the house like a tender embrace. The room was awash in the dim, silvery light of dawn, the first blush of sunrise slipping through the curtains in thin, watery slants, pooling in soft, hazy shapes across the floorboards. The glow bathed them in a fragile, ethereal light, turning Clara’s skin to porcelain and painting Jason’s dark hair in strokes of gold. For a moment, the world felt impossibly still — a suspended breath, a heartbeat stretched between night and day. The only sound was the rain, the quiet ticking of the bedside clock, and the soft, steady cadence of Jason’s breathing against Clara’s neck.

But then, a sound from downstairs cut through the calm — a muffled clatter, then a high, sharp, “Oh no!” Jason’s eyes snapped open. His body tensed, a bolt of adrenaline firing through his veins. Another noise followed — a metallic clang, then a soft, shaky whimper.

Jack.

Carefully, Jason eased his arm from around the still sleeping Clara, his movements slow and deliberate, not wanting to disturb her. The mattress dipped as he pushed himself up, his bare feet hitting the cool wooden floor of their room. She murmured something, her brow furrowing, but she didn’t wake. Jason leaned down, brushing a gentle, lingering kiss to her temple. “Shh… go back to sleep,” he whispered, his voice a low, sleepy rasp.

Straightening, he pulled a T-shirt over his head, the fabric sticking to his warm skin. The air in the house was cool, tinged with the scent of rain and the fading traces of Clara’s lavender candle. But as he headed downstairs and moved down the hallway, a new scent met him — acrid, sharp, unmistakable. Something was burning. His jaw tightened as he quickened his pace, his footsteps soft against the floorboards. The kitchen loomed ahead, the air growing heavier, the smell of burnt batter mingling with the sticky-sweet scent of spilled orange juice.

He rounded the corner and stopped.

There,stood in the middle of the kitchen, swallowed up in one of his old hoodies was Jack. The sleeves from the hoodie hung well past his fingertips, dragging against the floor like a child playing dress-up. Flour dusted his curls like powdered sugar, and a smear of sticky yolk glistened on his cheek. The floor was a battlefield — puddles of orange juice and splattered egg yolk, flour trailing like ghostly footprints across the tiles. The waffle maker sat open, a charred, blackened waffle hissing inside, tendrils of smoke curling up like thin, accusing fingers. And Jack — Jack stood in the middle of the chaos, his shoulders hunched, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyes round and brimming with tears. One tiny hand clutched the edge of the counter, his knuckles white. Jason’s chest clenched, a sharp, visceral ache. The sight of the youngster standing there, so small, so desperately trying to be big, tore through him. For a beat, he just stood there, absorbing the scene — the mess, the smell, the tiny boy who only wanted to be like him. 

“Hey, mate,” he said, crouching down so his eyes were level with Jack’s. “What’s going on in here then?” Jason dropped to one knee, bringing himself fully to Jack’s level. The floor was cold beneath him, but all he felt was the small, warm weight of Jack’s shoulder beneath his palm. “You were making breakfast?” Jason said softly, his gaze steady “oh Jack..”

“Yeah,” he whispered. Jack’s eyes welled up, his lower lip quivering as he nodded “For you and Mummy. Like you do for us before I go to school”

Jason’s chest ached, the tenderness sharp and deep. Oh, kid… 

“Jack Thomas McFly,” he said, his voice low and warm. With one gentle finger, he tipped Jack’s chin up, catching his eyes. “Look at me.” Jack’s dark eyes met his, wide and watery, framed by a wild tangle of flour-dusted curls. “You did an amazing job and I'm dead proud of you,” said Jason, his thumb brushing away a streak of flour from Jack’s cheek. “You tried really hard. That’s what matters.”

Jack swallowed, his little throat bobbing, and his shoulders sagged. “But… the kitchen…” His gaze darted around, taking in the mess. “The juice is everywhere and the waffles are burnt and —”

“And that’s okay, it's absolutely fine mate” Jason continued, shifting his hand to the back of Jack’s neck, feeling the small, trembling warmth there. “You know what happened the first time I tried to make breakfast for your Mummy?” Jack shook his head, blinking up at him, the tears still glistening but not falling. “I set the smoke alarm off. Twice.”

“You did?” Jack’s mouth dropped open, a tiny, hiccupped laugh escaping him. “Really?”

Jason nodded, brushing a floury curl from Jack’s forehead. “Really. And the first time I made waffles for her? Charcoal. Mummy tried to eat them, but I caught her spitting them in the bin when she thought I wasn’t looking.” Jack giggled, the sound small and shaky but real, and it made Jason’s chest loosen, the tension unwinding. “You know what?” Jason leaned in, voice dropping to a playful whisper. “I think you did a pretty amazing job trying to surprise us.”

“Are you sure?” Jack asked, his tiny hands twisting in the hoodie sleeves, fingers knotted up tight. “Really?”

“Really,” Jason said, his voice soft, his gaze unwavering. “And you know what else?” Jack shook his head, eyes round and hopeful. Jason brushed another smudge of flour from Jack’s cheek, his thumb tracing a gentle, soothing path. “I think Mummy’s still asleep. And if we work together, we can make her the best breakfast ever. What do you say? You and me. Teamwork.”

Jack’s face lit up, the tears drying as his shoulders straightened. “Okay,” he whispered, voice thick but steadier now. “Together?”

“Always…,” Jason said, standing and holding out his hand. Jack’s small, sticky hand slipped into his, gripping tight. Jason squeezed back, feeling that tiny pulse beat against his skin, that small, fierce heart still so determined to be good. “Alright, let’s clean up this mess first. Then we’ll try again. And this time,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to Jack’s flour-dusted curls, “we’ll make it perfect. You and me. A Team.”

The kitchen felt strangely still now, the chaos subdued, the soft hiss of rain outside the only sound. Jack’s eyes shone up at him, wide and expectant, cheeks flushed with the kind of pride that only comes from trying so hard to do something special. Jason swallowed, the lump in his throat thickening. This — this moment right here — it was everything he never thought he’d have. Years ago, back when he was performing on stage every night with Take That, he was a different man. Flashing cocky, dimpled smiles for screaming girls, strutting across stages drenched in flashing lights and playing to some of the most iconic arenas in the UK. The world loved Jason Orange from Take That — the man who flirted with everything that moved, who knew how to work a room, who could charm the pants off anyone with a smirk and a wink. Back then, his days were loud and crowded — backstage parties that bled into sunrise, hotel rooms that all blurred together. Screaming adoring teenage girls and lipstick-stained pillowcases. He was the guy who flirted with backup dancers, who collected numbers he never called and kisses he never kept.

Fatherhood? Not a chance. It wasn’t that he didn’t think about it. Sometimes, when the band would huddle around someone’s phone, cooing over baby pictures — pudgy fingers gripping a parent’s thumb, a kid dressed as a pumpkin for Halloween — Jason would feel that hollow ache. A yearning he buried under another shot, another laugh, another girl. Because being a dad meant being responsible. Meant sticking around. Meant being someone worth staying for. And Jason was the fun one in Take That, the one who slipped out before dawn, leaving behind rumpled sheets and a hastily scrawled note that said, Had a good time. See you around. He was always that guy — too reckless, too selfish, too unwilling to plant roots anywhere.

But now?

Now here he was, well into his middle age years of life, kneeling on a sticky kitchen floor, hands stained with flour and syrup, his favorite hoodie hanging like a tent off the small, bony shoulders of a little boy who had somehow, impossibly, become his entire world. Jack’s dark curls were still tousled from sleep, a smear of batter smudged across his cheek. And that look in his eyes — so hopeful, so bright, as if Jason’s opinion was the only one that mattered. It knocked the breath right out of him.

God. How had he gotten here? How had he gone from shallow one-night stands and meaningless hookups to memorizing bedtime stories, to tucking a little boy in at night, to knowing just how much syrup Jack liked on his waffles? How had he become a man who could love a child so fiercely that it made his chest ache, made him feel both raw and whole at once?

Jason let his eyes trace the curve of Jack’s small hand beneath his own, the tiny fingers still clutching him like it was a life raft. That hand — so small, so trusting. How many times had Jack reached for him, little fingers seeking his, even before Jason had known how to hold on? Before Clara, before Jack, he’d been a man drifting through life without an anchor — aimless, reckless, coasting on the fading glow of old fame and good looks. The life he’d built was all surface, shiny and shallow, a string of one-night stands and meaningless parties. No roots. No one was waiting for him to come home. No little voice calling out in the dark, “Jason? I had a bad dream.” Now, the silence was a comfort. Now, the sound of Jack’s small, sleepy breaths and Clara’s soft humming as she brushed her hair in the bathroom were the melodies he wanted to hear. Now, he couldn’t imagine waking up to anything else.

Before Clara, he never thought he could stay. He never thought he could be someone a kid looked up to or someone a woman leaned on. He’d been a man of borrowed rooms and temporary promises, a man who drifted in and out of people’s lives without leaving a trace. Years ago, he never would have imagined himself here — in a kitchen soaked in syrup and flour, his heart swelling with love for a little boy who wasn’t his by blood but felt like he was in every In that moment, Jason knew with a bone-deep certainty that there was nothing — nothing — he wouldn’t do for this little boy. He would move mountains. He would slay dragons. He would burn the world down to keep Jack safe, to keep that light in his eyes, to keep that trust in his tiny hand.

Jason took a slow, deep breath, his thumb brushing absently over the back of Jack’s hand. The sticky warmth of the little boy’s skin grounded him, tethered him in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Jack was staring, waiting, and Jason felt the words rising, unbidden, too big to hold inside. Jason swallowed hard, his eyes burning. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t find the words to tell Jack how much that meant, how those tiny moments had become the compass he now lived by, the things that made him feel like he was finally, finally someone worth holding onto.Jack leaned into him then, his little face pressing against Jason’s chest, his small hands fisting in the fabric of Jason’s shirt. Jason’s arms came up, wrapping around the boy, holding him close.

“Hey, Jack?” Jason whispered, his voice rough, raw. “You know I’m never going anywhere, right? Never.”

Jack nodded, his fingers gripping Jason’s shirt like a lifeline. “I know,” he said, his voice small but sure. “I know.”

Jason pressed a kiss to Jack’s curls, breathing him in — syrup and flour and that sweet, innocent scent that was uniquely Jack. And in that moment, Jason felt it settle deep in his bones — a fierce, unwavering certainty.

This was it. This was what it felt like to be a dad.

The kitchen was a battlefield. Flour blanketed the counter like fresh snow, spilling onto the floor in ghostly patches. Splashes of orange juice pooled around the base of the cabinets, sticky and glistening, each step leaving a faint, tacky imprint of Jack’s small, socked feet. Eggshells lay crushed and scattered, their sharp, jagged edges glinting beneath the soft, gray morning light. Jason took it all in — the lopsided waffle dripping batter onto the counter, the scorched, blackened square still steaming in the waffle maker, the wooden spoon resting in a puddle of spilled milk. And there, in the midst of it all, stood Jack. His little boy, in Jason’s too-big hoodie, sleeves hanging past his hands like limp, flour-dusted wings. His dark curls were wild, smudged with a streak of batter, and his cheeks were flushed with the effort of trying so hard to get it right. He blinked up at Jason, eyes wide and searching, as if waiting for the verdict.

Jason swallowed the lump in his throat, the love so fierce it pressed against his ribs. He crouched down, meeting Jack’s eyes, and for a moment, he just looked at him. Really looked at him. The way Jack’s dark eyes shone with unshed tears, the way his tiny fists clenched the hem of the hoodie, knuckles white beneath the flour dust. His heart clenched, the ache sharp and deep. Because he knew that look. Knew it all too well — the look of a kid trying so damn hard to get it right. 

Jason forced a grin, nudging Jack’s foot gently. “Looks like a tornado hit the kitchen,” he said, his voice soft but warm. “But you know what? I still think this is the best breakfast mess I’ve ever seen.”

Jack’s mouth twitched, a small, uncertain smile. “Really?”

“Really,” Jason said, standing up and ruffling Jack’s curls, dusting a bit of flour off his ear. “Now, let’s clean up a little so we can make a real masterpiece. Think we can do it?”

Jack nodded, the worry easing from his little shoulders. “Okay.”

“Alright, my right-hand man. Grab that towel.” They moved together, side by side, Jason gently guiding Jack through each step. Jack’s small hands clutched the towel, his tongue poking out in concentration as he wiped the counter, leaving wet, floury smears in his wake. Jason followed behind, scooping up the shattered eggshells, tossing them in the trash, and giving Jack an encouraging nod. “Good job, mate,” Jason said, his voice warm. “Now, let’s try those waffles again.”

Together, they poured the batter, Jack’s small hands gripping the handle of the measuring cup with both hands, his brow furrowed in fierce concentration. Jason’s larger hands covered his, steadying them, guiding the slow, careful pour as the batter spread across the waffle iron. A few blobs sloshed over the edge, sizzling softly against the hot metal.

“There you go,” Jason said, his voice warm and encouraging. “Perfect, mate.”

Jack’s face lit up, eyes sparkling as he beamed up at Jason. “Perfect?”

“Absolutely,” Jason said, ruffling Jack’s dark curls. “You’re a natural.” Jack puffed up, his small chest swelling with pride as he stood on tiptoe to reach the orange juice. Jason slid the glass closer, watching as Jack poured, his tongue poking out in concentration. A few drops spilled over the rim, but Jason just smiled, grabbing a cloth and giving Jack a little wink. “No worries,” Jason said, swiping up the drips. “That’s how you know you’re doing it right — a little mess means you’re really working hard.” Jack giggled, swiping his sleeve across his flour-dusted cheek, leaving a streak of batter behind. Jason chuckled, his heart tightening at the sight — Jack, trying so hard, so determined to do it just like Jason. “All right,” Jason said, pulling open a drawer and retrieving a small plate. “Think the waffles are ready?”

Jack nodded eagerly. Jason handed him the tongs, hovering close as Jack’s little hands wrapped around the handles. Together, they lifted the waffle from the iron, placing it carefully on the plate. It was golden and steaming, the edges crisp, the middle soft and fluffy.

Jack bounced on his toes, eyes wide with delight. “We did it!”

"We did,” Jason said, his grin just as wide. “Now, let’s add a little something extra.”

“What?” Jack asked, tilting his head.

Jason’s gaze drifted to the window, where the garden gleamed wet and misty, rain still dripping from the edges of the roof. “How about a flower? Something special to make the tray look nice.”

Jack’s eyes sparkled. “Yeah!”

“Come on,” Jason said, offering his hand. Jack slipped his small, floury hand into Jason’s, and they walked out onto the back porch.

The garden was cool and damp, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and the last traces of rain. Clara’s roses stood in a neat line along the fence, their petals heavy with droplets. The pinks and reds glistened like jewels in the soft morning light. The garden was drenched in the silver light of morning, each droplet of rain clinging to the petals like tiny glass beads. The air was heavy with the scent of wet earth and crushed leaves, a damp, green fragrance that wrapped around them as Jason and Jack stood side by side. Jason kept his hand on Jack’s small shoulder, feeling the warmth radiate through the thin fabric of his hoodie — Jason’s hoodie, which swallowed Jack’s little frame. The sleeves hung well past his fingertips, brushing against the tops of his shoes, now damp from the wet grass

Jack stepped closer, his eyes scanning the blooms. “Which one?”

Jason crouched beside him, his hand resting gently on Jack’s shoulder. “How about that one?” He pointed to a deep crimson rose, its petals full and lush, a perfect bloom.

Jack reached out, his fingertips grazing the petals. “It’s pretty.”

"Yeah,” Jason said, his voice softening. “Roses are your mum’s favourite.”

“They are?” Jack looked up at him, brows lifted.

“I remember it like it was yesterday. I was a nervous wreck, holding this bunch of roses like an idiot, thinking I’d look cool and romantic. But instead, I just looked… well, ridiculous.”Jason nodded, a soft smile touching his lips. “They were some of the first flowers I ever gave to her. I saw these roses at the market, and they just reminded me of her. Beautiful, a little wild, and impossible to ignore…it was a bunch of red ones if i remember rightly”

Jack giggled, leaning against Jason’s knee. “Did she like them?”

“She did,” Jason said, his smile deepening. “She told me they were her favourite. And I remember thinking I’d finally done something right. I was terrified when I gave them to her. I’d never met anyone as special as your mother Jack . And I just didn’t know how to be around her… I didn’t know how to be the kind of man she deserved.” 

Jack’s brows knit together, his dark eyes fixed on Jason’s. “But you are,” he said, his voice earnest, his hand wrapping around Jason’s wrist. “You’re the best.”

Jason’s breath hitched, his heart tightening in his chest. How was it that this little boy — this tiny, fierce, beautiful boy — could look at him like he was everything? Like he was enough?

Jason lifted his free hand, cupping Jack’s cheek, his thumb brushing a damp curl back from his forehead. “Thanks, mate,” he said, his voice rough. “That means more than you know.” Jack beamed, his small face lighting up, and Jason felt it like a punch to the chest. God, how had he ever thought he didn’t want this? How had he convinced himself that he was better off alone? Jason swallowed, clearing the tightness from his throat. “Alright,” he said, forcing a smile. “Let’s pick a rose for Mummy. Which one do you think she’ll like best?”

Jack’s eyes scanned the blooms, his little mouth pursing in thought. His gaze landed on a deep red rose, its petals still tight, but just beginning to unfurl. “That one,” he said, pointing. “It’s like the ones you gave her, right?..its red too ”

Jason’s chest ached, the memory swelling beneath his ribs. “Yeah,” he said, reaching for the shears. “Just like that” Carefully, Jason clipped the stem, holding the rose in his hand for a moment, his thumb brushing over the delicate petals. He handed it to Jack, who took it with both hands, cradling it like it was something precious.

The excited little boy brought it to his nose, closing his eyes as he inhaled the scent, his expression softening. “Smells nice,” he whispered.

“It does,” Jason said, watching him, the soft morning light catching in Jack’s curls, painting him in gold. “Mummy’s gonna love it.”

Jack opened his eyes, his smile shy but proud. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Jason said, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to Jack’s forehead. The boy’s skin was cool from the morning air, but beneath it, Jason could feel the warmth, the life, the heartbeat that pulsed just below the surface.

Jason straightened, letting out a slow, steady breath, and they stood there for a moment — just the two of them, surrounded by Clara’s roses, the scent of rain and earth and flowers weaving around them like a soft, tender cocoon. A drop of water slipped from a petal, trailing down Jack’s wrist, and Jason reached out, brushing it away with his thumb. Jack glanced up at him, his eyes shining, his fingers still gripping the stem of the rose. And Jason felt it then — that familiar ache, the one that pressed against his ribs whenever he looked at this boy, this beautiful boy who had somehow become his whole world.

“Come on,” Jason said, his voice thick but warm, his hand finding the back of Jack’s neck, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Let’s go surprise Mummy.”

Jack nodded, clutching the rose tight, his little fingers careful around the thorns. Jason kept his hand on Jack’s neck as they walked back inside, the scent of rain and roses clinging to their skin, and Jason found himself sending up a silent, unspoken prayer....Let me be enough for them. Let me keep them safe. Let me love them the way they deserve

As Jack darted ahead, the rose clutched tight in his little fist, Jason stayed rooted to the spot, eyes tracking the boy as he disappeared through the back door. The screen door squeaked, then banged shut, its echo hanging in the air. Jason stood there, alone in the garden, the rain-soaked grass cool beneath his bare feet, the scent of roses thick in the air. Drops still clung to the petals, glistening like tiny crystals, each one reflecting the gray morning light. He dragged a hand over his jaw, feeling the rough scrape of stubble beneath his fingertips. His chest rose and fell with a deep, shaky breath, the ache in his ribs swelling. This — all of this — was his life now.

Years ago, he’d have laughed at the thought. Jason Orange, Take That heartthrob, biggest flirt in pop, the one who never stayed long enough to hear anyone say, “Stay.” He was the guy who slipped out before dawn, shoes in hand, T-shirt crumpled, perfume clinging to his skin like a bad decision. Back then, love had been fleeting, disposable. He was a man in motion, always running, always reaching for something that never quite filled the empty spaces inside him.

And now?

Now he was here, hitting middle age, barefoot in a rain-soaked garden, watching a little boy carry a rose inside to surprise his mum. The boy who looked at him with those wide, dark eyes, who reached for his hand like it was the safest place in the world. The boy who called him “Jason” but whispered “Daddy” when he thought no one was listening. His throat tightened, the ache spreading. How the hell had he gotten here? How had he gone from the man who couldn’t stay, who couldn’t love without running, to the man who would do anything — anything — to keep these two safe? To keep them smiling, keep them laughing, keep that trust shining in Jack’s eyes.

Jack’s little voice echoed in his mind — “You’re the best.”

Jason let out a slow, unsteady breath, his eyes closing as the rain pattered softly around him, each drop a tiny, rhythmic heartbeat. He pressed the heel of his hand against his chest, right over that thudding ache. Because that’s what it was now — a heartbeat. Not just his, but theirs. Jack. Clara. The baby.

Family.

The word wrapped around him like a warm coat, heavy and snug, settling over the parts of him he never thought would feel whole. Because now, there were little feet running through the house. There were sleepy, whispered goodnights and tiny hands reaching for his in the dark. There were roses in the garden and baby clothes folded in drawers and a woman upstairs who saw through every wall he’d ever built and loved him anyway.

He opened his eyes, blinking against the misty drizzle, and looked toward the back door. Inside, Jack’s laughter echoed — bright, sweet, the sound of everything Jason never knew he wanted. And now he had it. Jason swallowed hard, his jaw clenched tight against the swell of emotion pressing up from his chest. The rain continued to patter softly against the leaves, a gentle, steady rhythm that seemed to echo the beat of his heart. Inside, Jack’s laughter floated through the open door — bright, pure, the sound of everything Jason never knew he wanted but now couldn’t imagine living without. His hand curled into a fist at his side, his knuckles taut beneath the misty chill. Because this was it. This was the life he’d almost let slip through his fingers. A life built on soft mornings and sticky, syrup-sweet kisses. On a boy with dark, shining eyes who looked up at him like he was the safest place in the world. On a woman whose love had peeled him open and let the light pour in, revealing all the hidden, aching parts of him he never thought anyone could love.

He dragged a hand down his face, the rough scrape of stubble grounding him, tethering him to this moment, to this life. Because he was here now. And he was never going back. The man who ran, who slipped away before dawn and left nothing but tangled sheets and a hollow ache in his wake — that man was gone. Now, he was the one who stayed. The one who wiped sticky hands and soothed bad dreams and stood barefoot in the garden, watching over the people he loved more than his own life.

Inside, Jack called out, his small voice rising above the rain. “Jason! Are you coming?”

Jason’s chest tightened, that familiar ache swelling beneath his ribs. His heart thudded heavy and strong, every beat a vow. Yes, he was coming. He would always come for them. Because now, he wasn’t the man who left. Now, he was the man who stayed. And he would fight — with everything he had, with everything he was — to keep them safe. To keep them his.

The bedroom was steeped in the soft, muted gray of early morning, the curtains drawn halfway, filtering the light into thin, silvery slants that fell across the bed. The room was warm, cocooned in the lingering scent of lavender and sleep, the air heavy and still. Clara lay nestled beneath the covers, her dark hair spilling across the pillow in soft, unruly waves. One arm was tucked beneath her cheek, her lips parted in the gentle rise and fall of sleep. Her face was slack with dreams, brows smooth, lips softly parted. A faint, peaceful smile curved her mouth, as if whatever she was dreaming about was something tender and sweet. Jason stood in the doorway, tray balanced in his hands, and his gaze softened as he took her in. God, she was beautiful. Especially like this — vulnerable, unguarded, so achingly at peace. It struck him, as it always did, how much he loved being the one she trusted enough to sleep so deeply beside.

Years ago, mornings had been cold and empty, silence echoing through hotel rooms that all looked the same. Waking up alone, the sheets still twisted from the night before, and that hollow ache in his chest — the one he could never quite shake. But now, there was this. Clara, warm and soft and right there, the curve of her body a perfect fit against his. He still couldn’t believe that this was his life — that he got to wake up next to her, touch her, love her.

At his side, Jack shifted from foot to foot, his excitement barely contained. Jason crouched down, balancing the tray carefully on his knee. “Alright, mate,” he whispered, his voice low and warm. “Here’s the plan. I’m gonna sneak back into bed, and you bring the tray in like it’s a big surprise. Think you can do that?”

Jack’s eyes widened, his whole face lighting up. “Yes!” he whispered, nodding so hard his curls bounced. “I can do it!”

Jason grinned, ruffling Jack’s hair. “Atta boy. Remember — act surprised.”

Jack giggled, pressing a flour-dusted finger to his lips. “Shhh. Got it.”

Jason gave Jack’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before gently handing him the tray and slipping quietly across the room. He moved carefully, lowering himself back onto the mattress, the sheets cool against his skin. Clara stirred as he settled in, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she instinctively pressed her back against his chest. Jason wrapped his arm around her, his palm resting on the curve of her belly, feeling the faint warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her sleep shirt.

“Mmm,” Clara murmured, her eyes still closed as she nuzzled closer. “You’re warm.”

Jason kissed her temple, letting his lips linger. “And you’re gorgeous.”

Clara’s sleepy smile curved wider, her hand slipping up to rest over his. Jason took a deep breath, soaking in the peace, the way everything felt so perfect and still. Then the bedroom door creaked open. Jack appeared, the tray gripped tight in his little hands, his brow furrowed in fierce concentration. The orange juice wobbled dangerously, the rose leaning precariously to one side. Jason nudged Clara gently, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

“Hey… wake up, McFly,” he whispered, his voice hushed and warm “Clara..”

Clara’s lashes fluttered, her eyes blinking open. “What’s going on?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

“Surprise!” Jack announced, holding the tray out with both hands, his face glowing with pride.

Clara sat up, her eyes widening as she took in the tray — the slightly uneven waffles, the sticky rim of the juice glass, and the single rose, its petals rich and velvety red. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes going glassy.

“Oh my goodness, Jack,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Did you…?”

“I made it!” Jack said, chest puffing with pride. “All by myself!”

Jason leaned back, hands laced behind his head, grinning. “All by himself, huh?”

Jack shot him a look, lips pursed. “Well… Jason helped a little. But mostly me.”

Clara’s gaze moved to Jason, eyes narrowing. “Oh, really? So you had absolutely nothing to do with this?”

“Nothing at all,” Jason said, feigning innocence. “ I've been fast asleep…Must’ve been dreaming of you the whole time.”

“Course you were Orange..”Clara rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed a soft pink. “Uh-huh. And the rose? So Jack's a florist now?”

“I don't know what you're going on about..” Jason’s grin softened. “Rose? What rose?”

Clara lifted the flower, twirling it slowly between her fingers. “This one,” she said, her voice softening. “The same kind you gave me that night at the market. The night you told me I was beautiful…the night we walked hand in hand through town like nothing else mattered”

Jason swallowed, his smile fading. “I remember,” he said, his eyes holding hers. “I remember how scared I was. And how you looked at me like I’d just handed you the moon.”

Clara’s lashes fluttered, her thumb stroking over the rose’s stem. “You did,” she whispered, her voice thick. “And you still do.”

Jason’s chest tightened. He reached for her hand, threading their fingers together. “You deserve it,” he said, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Every bit of it.”

Jack watched, wide-eyed, before letting out an exaggerated groan. “Ew…are you going to kiss now? .”

“Obviously….” Jason chuckled, pulling Clara closer, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her temple. “Sorry, mate,” he murmured against her skin. “But sometimes your Mummy’s just too pretty not to”

Clara laughed, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Thank you, Jack. This is the best breakfast I’ve ever had.”

Jack beamed, his whole face lighting up. “Really?”

“Really,” Clara said, tugging him onto the bed and wrapping him in a tight hug. Jason reached out, pulling them both closer. For a moment, they just sat there — tangled together in a sleepy, syrup-scented hug, the world outside still gray and rainy, but the room so bright, so warm.

And in that moment, Jason knew, with a fierce certainty, that he would do anything to protect them. Anything to keep this warmth, this laughter, this love wrapped around them like the sheets tangled around their legs. Because this was everything. And he was finally, finally enough to hold it. They stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the tray balanced carefully between them. Jack’s small head rested against Clara’s chest, his eyelids growing heavy as Clara ran her fingers through his curls, her touch gentle and slow. Jason kept one arm draped around both of them, his thumb tracing soft, absentminded circles against Clara’s shoulder.

The room was quiet, the world outside still wrapped in the soft, misty gray of the morning. Rain tapped gently against the window, each drop a soothing, rhythmic lullaby. The warmth of the bed, the scent of waffles and roses and sleep — it all felt like a perfect, fragile bubble, a moment Jason wanted to press between the pages of his life and keep forever.

Clara lifted her gaze to him, her eyes soft and shining. “So,” she said, her voice low and teasing. “Dreaming about me, huh?”

Jason’s mouth quirked, a slow, lazy grin spreading. “Every night,” he said, his voice rough and warm. “And every morning. And every second in between.”

“Oh, is that right? You are still such a charmer Orange..even after all this time “ Clara raised a brow, feigning suspicion. “Even when you’re sneaking roses into breakfast trays?”

Jason chuckled, his thumb stroking a line down her arm. “Especially then.” He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. “Can’t help it, McFly. You’ve got me wrapped around your little finger.”

Clara’s lips curved, but the smile wavered, her expression turning softer, more vulnerable. “You know it,” she whispered, her voice catching. “You’re a good man, Jason.”

The words hit him like a gentle punch to the chest. His jaw clenched, and he swallowed, his gaze dropping to where their fingers were laced together, resting on her thigh.

A good man.

There was a time he never thought he’d hear that. Not from anyone. Certainly not from someone like her. Someone who saw all the broken, jagged pieces and loved him anyway.

Jason took a breath, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “I try,” he said, his voice thick. “For you. For Jack. For... all of this.” He lifted his eyes to hers, the ache rising in his throat. “I just... I don’t ever want to mess it up.”

Clara’s hand slipped free from his and rose to his cheek, her palm warm against his stubble. “You won’t,” she said, her eyes steady, sure. “You already did the hardest part. You stayed.”

Jason closed his eyes, the words sinking deep, wrapping around the bruised parts of him that still doubted, still questioned if he was good enough to hold onto this kind of love.

Jack yawned then, a big, sleepy yawn that wrinkled his nose and made Clara smile. “I’m hungry,” he mumbled, his head heavy against Clara’s chest. “Can we eat the waffles now?”

Jason chuckled, his thumb brushing gently against Jack’s warm cheek. “Yeah, mate,” he said, his voice lighter now, the ache in his chest easing. “Let’s eat.”

Jack perked up, wiggling out of Clara’s arms to sit up and reach for the tray. Clara shifted, pulling the tray onto her lap as Jason leaned back against the headboard, one arm draped around her shoulders. Jack tore off a piece of waffle and handed it to Clara, his eyes bright and hopeful. “Mummy, try it. It’s the best one we made.”

Clara took the piece, popping it into her mouth and making a big show of chewing, her eyes going wide. “Mmm, Jack!” she said, her face alight with exaggerated delight. “This is the best waffle I’ve ever had!”

Jack’s face lit up, his chest puffing with pride. “Really?”

“Really,” Clara said, leaning down to press a kiss to his sticky cheek. “And I’ve had some pretty amazing waffles in my life.”

Jack beamed, his little feet swinging off the edge of the bed. “We did good, huh, Jason?”

Jason’s throat tightened as he looked at Jack, this little boy who had once been a stranger and was now the center of his world. “Yeah, mate,” he said, his voice rough, his heart swelling as he met Clara’s gaze. “We did real good.”

And as they lay there, sharing sticky waffles and stolen kisses, Jason let himself sink into the moment, let himself hold it close. Because this was it. This was what mattered. A morning wrapped in warmth and love and the scent of syrup and roses. And he would do anything — anything — to make sure they never lost it.

After eating, the room settled into a soft, sleepy hush. The empty plate rested on the nightstand, crumbs scattered across the tray, the scent of syrup lingering in the warm, still air. Outside, the rain had gentled to a misty drizzle, each drop a delicate tap against the glass — a lullaby that seemed to wrap around the room. Jack now lay sprawled between them and had fallen fast asleep, his small body curled against Clara’s side, his dark curls pillowed on her chest. One hand clutched the corner of the duvet, the other loosely wrapped around Clara’s thumb, his tiny, sticky fingers still holding traces of syrup. His breaths came slow and steady, each warm puff a soft, rhythmic exhale against Clara’s collarbone. Every so often, his lips twitched, the ghost of a smile flickering across his sleep-softened face.

Clara’s hand moved in slow, soothing strokes over Jack’s back, her fingertips tracing gentle circles against the thin fabric of his T-shirt. Her eyes were soft, dreamy, the kind of look that came from somewhere deep — the kind of love that didn’t need words. Jason’s chest tightened as he watched her, the tenderness in her touch almost unbearable. This was the way she used to look at Jack when he was a baby, cradling him close in the still hours of the night, as if he were the most precious thing in the world. Jason leaned back against the headboard, his arm draped around both of them, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against Clara’s shoulder. The warmth of her skin was a comfort, grounding him, a lifeline. His gaze wandered over them — Clara’s hair, tangled and dark against the pillow, Jack’s small hand clinging to hers even in sleep, his fist so tight it was as if he were holding on to everything that mattered. He closed his eyes, letting the weight of them pressed against him. The rise and fall of their breathing synced up with the soft rhythm of the rain that had suddenly started to fall. He breathed them in — syrup and shampoo, sleep and skin — and it hit him like a wave, the realization of how deeply he was rooted here.

Back then, he’d thought he was untouchable. Hotel rooms, empty beds, a string of nights blurred by alcohol and adrenaline. Back then, he was the man who slipped out before dawn, shoes in hand, whispers of call me echoing in his wake. He was the man who never stayed, who never let himself get too close. But now? Now, he was here — holding everything he never thought he deserved. A family. A home. This life was messy and warm yet so achingly real.

His eyes dropped to Jack, to the way his small body fit so perfectly against Clara’s, the way his little fist clutched her thumb as though even in sleep, he needed to be tethered to her. Jason leaned down, pressing a kiss to the crown of Jack’s head, his lips lingering. The scent of syrup and little boy dreams filled his lungs, and the sweetness of it almost undid him. Jack stirred, a tiny, contented sigh escaping his lips. Jason’s heart ached at the sound, a fierce, protective love swelling inside him. I will keep you safe. Both of you. Always.

Clara’s eyes met over Jack’s head, and for a long, breathless moment, they just looked at each other. Jason reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, his thumb tracing a slow, tender path beneath her eye.

“You okay?” he whispered, his voice rough, threaded with so much emotion it ached.

“Yes…” Clara swallowed, her gaze dropping to Jack. “Look at him, Jay,” she said, her voice catching. “He tried so hard to make us happy.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, his throat tightening. “Yeah,” he said, his voice thick. “He’s a good kid. The best.”

Clara’s lips trembled, her thumb moving in a gentle stroke over Jack’s tiny hand, as if committing the feel of him to memory. “And you…” she said, her voice barely a breath. “You’re so good with him. You’re so… right for him.” Jason swallowed hard, the lump in his throat almost unbearable. He wanted to say I’m still learning, wanted to say I’m trying so hard to be enough for you both. But before he could find the words, Clara leaned closer, her free hand slipping around the back of his neck. “Do you know how much he loves you?” she whispered, her breath warm against his cheek. “When you’re not around, he talks about you all the time. He tells me how you make the best waffles, how you push him the highest on the swings, how you always kiss his forehead before bed.”

Jason’s eyes burned, his chest tightening as he swallowed back a sob. Kiss his forehead before bed. Just a small thing, something he’d done without thinking, but to Jack, it mattered. To Jack, it was everything.

“I love you,” he said, his voice raw, open. “Both of you. So damn much.”

A tear slipped free, tracing a slow, glistening path down Clara’s cheek. She leaned in, her lips finding his in a soft, lingering kiss — a kiss that tasted of syrup and sleep and tears and love. Jason cupped the back of her head, his thumb stroking the soft curve of her neck, his heart pounding with everything he couldn’t say. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. 

“We love you too,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Always”

Jason closed his eyes, letting those words settle, letting them anchor him. This — this was the life he never thought he’d have. A bed tangled with limbs and sheets and love, the rain outside a steady, rhythmic lullaby, the room filled with the scent of syrup and roses and sleep. Jack sighed again, his little hand tightening around Clara’s thumb, as he burrowed deeper into her side. Clara’s hand moved back to Jack’s back, tracing slow, lazy circles, her touch as soft and steady as the rain. He watched them, his heart so full it hurt. How had he ever thought he didn’t want this? How had he convinced himself that love was a trap, that staying meant losing himself?

Because this was who he was now. A father. A partner. A man who would move mountains to protect them, to keep them safe and loved and wrapped in mornings like this — sleepy and warm, filled with the scent of syrup and the sound of rain. Jason leaned down, pressing another kiss to Jack’s head, his lips soft against the boy’s warm, sleep-flushed skin. I’m not going anywhere. Not ever. And as Jack’s breath deepened into the even rhythm of deep sleep, Jason lay back against the pillows, his arm wrapped tight around Clara and Jack, holding them close. Holding them safe.

And for once, he wasn’t afraid.

For once, he wasn’t running.

For once, he was exactly where he was meant to be.

Jason moved to lay back against the pillows, his arm a solid, steady line around Clara and Jack, as if by holding them close he could somehow keep the world at bay. Outside, the rain continued to fall, soft and unhurried, each drop a gentle reminder that they were here, safe and warm, wrapped up together against the gray world beyond the window. Jack’s breaths deepened, each exhale a soft, sleepy sigh against Clara’s chest. Clara kept stroking his back, her hand moving in those slow, tender circles, as if lulling him even further into sleep. Her eyes were still fixed on Jack, that same aching, infinite tenderness softening her features, and Jason couldn’t look away.

Clara’s fingers drifted to Jack’s dark curls, combing them back gently, her thumb brushing over his temple. “When he was a baby, he used to fall asleep like this,” she murmured, her voice a low, hushed rasp. “Pressed right against me, like he couldn’t get close enough.”

Jason swallowed, his eyes locked on her hand, the way it moved so gently, so effortlessly — as though every touch were a silent vow. “He still does,” Jason said, his voice thick. “Even now. Like he needs to know you’re here.”

Clara’s gaze flicked up, meeting his. There was a softness there, a vulnerability Jason hadn’t seen in a long time. “Sometimes I still feel like that too,” she whispered. “Like I need to hold onto him to remember what’s real.”

Jason’s chest tightened, a deep ache pressing against his ribs. He reached out, his knuckles grazing her cheek, thumb brushing away a tear she hadn’t even realized had fallen. “You don’t have to hold on alone,” he said, his voice raw. “I’m here too.”

Clara’s eyes closed, her cheek pressing into his hand. “I know,” she said, her voice breaking. “You’re here.”

Jason felt his throat tighten, the words catching, too heavy to get out. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to her forehead, letting them linger there. A silent promise. A vow.

When he pulled back, Clara opened her eyes, her gaze so open, so unguarded, that it nearly shattered him. “I was scared, you know,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Before you came along. I thought… I thought it was just going to be me and Jack. Forever.”

Jason’s thumb traced slow circles over her cheekbone, the warmth of her skin grounding him. “You were doing fine,” he said, his voice gentle. “More than fine. You were incredible.”

Clara swallowed, her eyes falling to Jack’s sleeping face, the way his little mouth was slightly open, his lashes dark crescents against his cheeks. “But then you showed up,” she said, her fingers tightening in Jack’s curls. “And he started looking at you like… like you hung the moon..his beloved Mister Jason.”

Jason’s heart clenched, the ache both beautiful and brutal. He glanced down at Jack, at the small hand still wrapped around Clara’s thumb. “I’m still learning,” he said, his voice rough, the confession spilling free before he could stop it. “I still don’t know if I’m doing it right. If I’m enough for him.”

Clara’s eyes flashed, fierce and certain. “You are,” she said, her hand sliding up to cup his jaw. “You’re more than enough. You’re everything.”

Jason’s breath hitched, his eyes burning. He leaned into her touch, his hand sliding over hers, pressing it tighter to his cheek. “I love him so much,” he whispered. “Sometimes it scares me. How much I love him. How much I need him.”

Clara’s thumb brushed over his cheekbone, a soft, slow stroke. “He needs you too,” she said, her voice breaking. “He loves you so much, ‘Jason says this’ or ‘Jason does that.’ You’re his hero, Jay…it may not be in blood but you are his dad”

Jason swallowed, his throat working, his gaze fixed on Jack. How was it possible that this little boy — this beautiful, fierce, fragile boy — could love him so completely, so unconditionally? How was it possible that he could feel the same way, that this kind of love could crack him open and rebuild him all at once?

Suddenly Jack stirred in his sleep, his little body shifting, his brow furrowing as though caught in a dream. Jason leaned down, his lips brushing the soft curls at Jack’s temple. “I’m here, buddy,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I’m right here.”

Jack sighed, his small hand reaching out blindly in sleep, his fingers grasping the air. Jason caught it, folding the little hand on his own, squeezing gently. Jack’s face relaxed, a tiny smile curving his lips as he drifted deeper into sleep. Jason closed his eyes, his forehead resting against Jack’s, the warmth of his son’s breath a balm against his skin. His son. The thought was still so new, so overwhelming, so perfect. How had he ever convinced himself he wasn’t made for this? Clara’s hand slid into his hair, her fingers threading through the dark strands, her touch so gentle it almost brought him to his knees. 

“You’re a good dad, Jay,” she whispered, her breath warm against his cheek. “Better than you know.”

Jason pulled back, his eyes locking onto hers, his hand still holding Jack’s. “I just don’t want to mess it up,” he said, his voice breaking. “I don’t want to lose this. Lose you. Lose him.”

Clara’s gaze softened, her fingers tightening in his hair. “You won’t,” she said, her lips brushing over his in a slow, tender kiss. “You couldn’t. Not now. Not ever.”

Jason’s chest rose and fell, the ache sharp and sweet, the weight of everything pressing down on him — this love, this family, this fragile, perfect life he’d been given. And as he looked down at Jack, at the boy who had slipped so effortlessly into his heart, Jason knew that he would never, ever let go..Not of Jack. Not of Clara. Not of this. With a soft, shuddering breath, Jason lay back against the pillows, drawing Clara closer, holding Jack between them like a promise. The rain continued to fall, a soft, rhythmic lullaby against the glass. And in the quiet, in the stillness, Jason closed his eyes and held on.

Held on to the life he never thought he’d have.

Held on to the love he never thought he’d deserve.

Held on to the family he would protect with everything he had.

Forever.

Later that afternoon, the house was steeped in a soft, golden light, the rain having finally let up. Jack lay sprawled across the living room rug, eyes fixed on the TV as cartoons flickered across the screen, his little hand dipping lazily into a bowl of popcorn. in the kitchen, Jason leaned back against the counter, his arms folded over his chest, his gaze following Clara as she moved around the kitchen, aimlessly wiping down the already spotless counter. The tension from the meeting with Matt still hung between them — a thick, heavy thing they both felt but hadn’t yet acknowledged. Jason’s eyes traced the curve of her back, the loose fall of her hair as it slipped over one shoulder. She was wearing a short summer dress the hem brushing the tops of her thighs, her legs bare and still faintly tanned. There was something about her like this — barefoot in the kitchen, her brow furrowed in thought — that made his chest ache.

“Still wiping that same spot, McFly,” he said, pushing off the counter and moving toward her. “Are you trying to polish a hole in it?”

Clara huffed, dropping the cloth and leaning against the counter. “I just can’t stop thinking about what Matt said,” she murmured, crossing her arms over her chest. “About the photos. About Jack.”

Jason stepped closer, his hands slipping around her waist, pulling her in until her hips met his. “He’s a lawyer,” he said, his voice low and warm. “He gets paid to scare people into action.”

Clara’s lips twisted. “Well, he’s good at it. Because now all I can think about is what Jack might hear. What he might see. What those photos might do.”

Jason’s thumbs moved in slow, soothing circles against her lower back. “Jack’s a smart kid,” he said, leaning down to nuzzle the side of her neck. “And he’s got us. We can handle this.”

Clara shivered, the warmth of his breath sending a tingling shiver down her spine. “You’re too calm,” she muttered, her hands coming up to rest on his chest. “How are you so calm?”

“Maybe I’m just trying to distract you,” Jason murmured, his lips brushing over the spot just beneath her ear, the place that always made her breath hitch.

Clara’s fingers tightened in her dress her body pressing closer. “Is that right?” she whispered, her eyes darkening. “How exactly do you plan to do that?”

“Oh, I have a few ideas,” Jason said, his hands sliding lower, fingers skimming the hem of her dress. “But they all involve you not thinking about Matt or those photos or anything except what I’m about what I want to do to you.”

Clara’s laugh was soft, breathless. “Confident, aren’t you?”

Jason leaned back, his eyes dancing, that lazy, cocky grin curving his mouth. “Maybe.” He brushed his thumb over her lower lip, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Or maybe I just really want to kiss you right now.”

Clara’s eyes fluttered, her lips parting slightly. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Jason didn’t wait. He dipped his head, capturing her mouth in a slow, deep kiss that unraveled them both. His hands slipped beneath her shirt, the soft fabric bunching against his wrists as his palms smoothed over the warm curve of her back. His fingers traced slow, lazy circles against her skin, each stroke a tender, lingering caress. Clara melted into him, her body pressing closer, molding to his as though they were two pieces finally clicking into place. Her arms looped around his neck, her fingers threading through the dark strands of his hair, tugging gently, grounding herself in the feel of him. Jason’s lips moved over hers, coaxing, teasing, his mouth warm and firm and infinitely patient, like he had all the time in the world to savor her.

Her breaths came faster now, little puffs of warmth against his cheek as his tongue slid against hers, slow and deliberate, a lazy exploration that sent heat pooling low in her belly. The taste of him — coffee and syrup and something deeply, undeniably Jason — flooded her senses, and she whimpered softly, her nails grazing the nape of his neck. Jason groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through her, and he tugged her closer, his hips pressing against hers, his thumbs tracing slow, hypnotic lines up and down her spine. Each pass of his hands was like a gentle, unspoken vow — I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Clara arched into him, her body curving against his, the thin barrier of her shirt doing little to temper the heat radiating between them. His stubble scraped deliciously against her cheek as he angled his mouth, deepening the kiss, and she gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair, holding him closer, closer. The kitchen around them blurred, the world shrinking to just the feel of him — the way his hands skimmed up her back, the way his chest rose and fell against hers, the way he breathed her name like a prayer between kisses.

Jason’s eyes flashed, and in the next breath, his mouth was on hers again — hotter, hungrier, the kiss deeper, more demanding. The world outside the kitchen ceased to exist. There was only the heat of his hands, the slide of his tongue, the way his body fit so perfectly against hers, as though they’d been made to melt together like this. And in that moment, Clara felt herself falling — deeper and deeper into him, into them, into this life they were building together. And she never wanted to stop.

When they finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. Clara’s fingers slid up into his hair, her nails grazing his scalp. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” she whispered.

“Dangerous?” Jason smirked, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of her dress, tugging her closer. “You’re the one driving me crazy, Clara”

Clara bit her lip, her eyes dancing. “Good,” she said, brushing her lips over his in a featherlight kiss. “Because you drive me crazy too.”

Before Jason could respond, the phone on the counter buzzed, the sudden sound breaking through the haze. Clara groaned, leaning her forehead against his chest. “Of course.”

Jason chuckled, pressing a kiss to her hair. “You gonna get that, or should I tell them you’re busy being driven crazy?”

Clara rolled her eyes, swatting his chest as she reached for the phone. “It’s Dani.”

Jason leaned back against the counter, folding his arms over his chest, watching her with a smug grin. “Go on, then. Tell her I’ve got you tied up..Dare you”

Clara shot him a glare, then answered the call. “Hey, Dani.”

“Clara!” Dani’s voice came through the line, bright and full of energy. “How’s my favorite mama to be? You up for some baby shopping? There’s this new place in town with the cutest little onesies and blankets. And lunch, of course.”

Clara opened her mouth to say no, her eyes sliding to Jason. “I don’t think—”

Jason stepped forward, his hands finding her hips again, his thumbs brushing gently over her skin. “Go,” he mouthed, his eyes warm, urging. Clara hesitated, the words caught in her throat. Jason leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “You deserve a break,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. “Go. Have fun.”

Clara’s shoulders eased, and she nodded, lifting the phone back to her ear. “Yeah,” she said, her voice lighter now. “Okay, Dani. Let’s do it. Meet you in an hour?”

Dani’s squeal echoed through the receiver. “Perfect! And wear something comfy. We’re gonna shop ‘til we drop..only the best for my niece.”

Clara laughed, a sound that eased some of the tension from her body. “Alright. See you then.”

She hung up and set the phone back on the counter. Jason was watching her, that warm, crooked grin still in place. “See?” he said, sliding his hands up to her waist. “You’re allowed to have a life outside of us, you know.”

Clara shook her head, her arms slipping around his neck. “Are you sure you can handle Jack while I’m gone?”

“Handle him?” Jason said, pressing a kiss to her jaw. “Please. We’re gonna have the best boys’ day ever. Popcorn. Cartoons. Might even let him win at Mario Kart.”

Clara arched a brow, her nails grazing the nape of his neck. “Let him win?”

Jason grinned, nipping at her bottom lip. “I mean, if I feel like it.”

Clara laughed, her hands sliding down to his chest, her eyes sparkling. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” Jason said, dipping his head to kiss her again, slow and deep, as if he couldn’t quite get enough. When they finally pulled back, Clara’s cheeks were flushed, her breath coming in soft, shallow puffs. Jason’s thumb stroked the side of her neck, his eyes holding hers. “Go on,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Have fun. Buy something cute for Hope. And maybe something for yourself, too.”

Clara bit her lip, her eyes shining. “What about you?”

Jason smirked, his hand sliding down to give her backside a light squeeze. “Oh, don’t worry about me, McFly. You’ll make it up to me later.”

Clara rolled her eyes, but her smile was pure warmth. “You’re incorrigible.”

"You knew what I was like when you met me" Jason’s grin widened, his hands settling on her hips. “And you love it.”

Clara pulled back, swatting him lightly before heading toward the bedroom to get ready. Jason watched her go, his smile softening as she disappeared down the hall.

Yeah. This was everything. And he’d keep it safe. No matter what.

Chapter Text

Clara stood by the front door, her bag already slung over one shoulder, the other hand resting gently on the curve of her belly. The afternoon air drifted through the open doorway, warm and thick with the scent of fresh-cut grass and lingering rain. Dani’s car idled up the driveway, the low hum of the engine a constant, grounding vibration beneath the quiet. But Clara’s feet remained rooted to the spot. Jason leaned against the doorframe, his arms folded casually over his chest, but his eyes gave him away. Dark and soft, they tracked every move she made, lingering on the sway of her dress, the way her fingers splayed protectively over her stomach. That crooked grin curved his lips — the one that could still make her insides flip — but beneath it was something deeper. His gaze held a warmth, a tenderness that threatened to unravel her.

Beside him, Jack hovered close, his little hand clutching Jason’s leg, the other holding a half-eaten biscuit. Crumbs peppered his shirt, and his eyes were wide, a faint crease of worry between his brows. The sight of it squeezed Clara’s heart. God, it was just a few hours, but the ache of leaving them — even for that long — pressed down like a weight. Clara inhaled, filling her lungs with the scent of rain-soaked grass and Jason’s aftershave — a grounding mix of familiarity and longing.

“You sure you’re gonna be okay without me?” she asked, her attempt at playfulness only partially disguising the tightness in her voice.

“We'll be fine…” Jason’s grin widened, and he reached out to gently tug the strap of her bag. “Might even throw a wild party like I used to back in the day. Pizza for lunch. You know — all the things you’d disapprove of.”

“Oh, cool!” Jack’s eyes lit up, glancing up at Jason. “Really?”

“Really?” Clara echoed, raising an eyebrow.

Jason chuckled, his hand sliding around her waist to pull her in close. The warmth of his palm pressed against her lower back, his thumb tracing a slow, lazy circle. “Kidding, McFly. I promise to feed him something green and leafy for lunch. Keeping the house standing too. Mostly.”

Clara swatted his chest lightly, but her fingers lingered, her thumb brushing the edge of his collarbone, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath her touch. It was strong. Reassuring. A beat she knew better than her own.

“Behave yourself, Orange.”

Jason’s grin softened, and his hand slipped lower, cupping her belly. His palm was warm and broad, a reassuring weight against her. “Go on,” he said, his voice dropping, his forehead resting against hers. “Spend my money on ridiculous baby things I’ll pretend to hate.”

Clara’s eyes misted, and she blinked rapidly, forcing a smile. “You’re a saint, you know that?”

“More like a martyr,” Jason quipped, his thumb moving in a slow, soothing stroke over her belly. “But if Hope ends up in one of those god awful frilly tutu things my sister bought for my niece years ago, we’re gonna have words.”

“You’re a fine one to talk about fashion choices,” Clara huffed a laugh, swatting at his chest again, but the sound caught in her throat. “What was that video you did? The one with the matching leather shorts? The blinged-up codpieces… Oh, I remember — ‘Do What You Like.’ And the whipped cream and Jelly. Sophistication at its finest.”

“You've never told me that you knew about that video. I thought I got away with you knowing all about that one. Dani showed you didnt she?” Jason groaned, dropping his head back, one hand covering his eyes. “Why do people still keep bringing that up? It was one video. And it was the ‘90s. Everything was questionable in the ‘90s. Everyone was doing it…honestly”

“Except, you know, most people weren’t writhing around covered in dessert toppings while wearing less clothing than a toddler at a beach…and yes of course Dani showed me” Clara leaned in, voice dropping to a playful whisper. “It was a crime against fashion, whipped cream, and good taste.”

Jason huffed, but his lips twitched, a reluctant grin forming. “You think that was bad? You should’ve seen the stuff they wanted us to wear. Sequin capes. Feathered collars. I was practically begging for the whipped cream.”

“You bought the outfits?” Clara laughed, her head falling back as she shook her head. “Okay, you are officially banned from buying baby clothes for our child. And if I see Hope in anything resembling that get-up —”

“Relax,” Jason said, sliding his hands down to her hips and tugging her closer. “No tight leather shorts. No sequin bodysuits for her until she’s at least thirty.”

“Oh, thirty?” Clara’s eyes sparkled, her arms slipping around his neck. “Good to know you’re setting such realistic boundaries already”

Jason’s grin widened, his hands drifting lower. “Besides,” he said, leaning in until his lips brushed her ear. “You’re the only one I’d want to see in a little leather number these days anyway.” Clara swatted his chest, but her cheeks flushed, her breath catching as Jason’s mouth moved to her neck, trailing slow, lingering kisses.

“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured, but her voice was softer now, a little breathless.

“And you love it,” Jason said, his lips grazing her jaw before pulling back, that wicked grin firmly in place.

Clara shook her head, trying to keep the smile off her face. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” Jason said, his thumbs brushing the sides of her waist. “Standing here, kissing me, instead of running off to buy baby stuff for our child.”

Clara took a deep breath, her smile softening as she cupped his face in her hands. “I could stay here all day to be honest,” she whispered, her thumb stroking over his cheek. “But then Dani would drag me out by my hair, and I’d rather keep what’s left of my dignity intact.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening. “Go,” he said, his voice thick, raw. “Before I change my mind and kidnap you back inside.”

Clara pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips — slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that tastes like promises. When she pulled away, Jason’s eyes searched hers, his forehead dropping to rest against hers.

“Keep that spot warm for me,” Clara whispered, her hand flattening over his heart.

“Always,” Jason said, his thumb brushing a tear that had slipped down her cheek. “you know that.”

Clara took a step back, her heart aching, and forced herself to turn away. As she walked toward the car, the ache in her chest spread, stretching wide and deep, until it felt as though it might swallow her whole. Behind her, Jason remained by the door, his arms now wrapped around Jack, holding him close, watching until the car pulled away.

Inside the car, Clara clicked her seatbelt into place, her eyes flicking to the side mirror. Jason and Jack were still standing there, framed in the doorway — a father and son, wrapped around each other like lifelines. Clara swallowed, her gaze lingering, her heart tightening as the car rolled forward. Dani glanced over, her expression softening as she took in Clara’s glassy eyes. She reached over, her hand warm against Clara’s knee.

 “Hey,” she said, her voice gentle. “You okay?”

She closed her eyes, the image of Jason and Jack burned into her mind, haunting her like a ghost. “No,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “No, I’m not.”

Dani’s hand tightened, her thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles against Clara’s leg. “You’re not alone, Clara,” she said, her own eyes misting. “Always”

Clara nodded, her hand moving to her belly, her fingers splaying protectively over the life they’d created. Beneath her palm, Hope kicked — strong, sure, and relentless. And Clara held on, letting the sensation tether her to the present, to the world outside the car window, to the life she was building piece by fragile piece. She forced herself to step back, her hand slipping from his as she finally turned away. She took a deep, steadying breath, blinking rapidly as she headed toward Dani’s car. Behind her, Jason remained by the door, his arms now wrapped around Jack, holding him close, watching until the car pulled away.

Soon the rumble of Dani’s car faded down the street, the taillights blinking red as it rounded the corner and disappeared from view. The quiet that followed felt thick, almost hollow, like the air had been sucked from the space around them. Jason stood on the porch, one hand braced against the doorframe, his eyes fixed on the spot where Clara’s car had vanished. Beside him, Jack pressed closer, his small hand clutching a fistful of Jason’s jeans. The half-eaten biscuit dangled limply from his other hand, forgotten. His wide, solemn eyes searched Jason’s face, the crease between his brows deepening.

“Is Mummy coming back?” Jack’s voice was small, tentative, the words wobbling with the faintest tremor.

Jason swallowed, his gaze still locked on the empty street. The ache in his chest hadn’t quite settled yet, that gnawing, hollow feeling of watching Clara leave, even for just a few hours. He forced a breath, then crouched down beside Jack, his hand coming to rest on the little boy’s shoulder.

“Course she is,” Jason said, his voice soft but firm. “She’s just going shopping with Auntie Dani. Won’t be long..off to get some more bits for Baby Hope”

Jack nodded, but his lower lip wobbled, his eyes still fixed on the empty stretch of road. “But what if she gets lost?”

Jason’s chest tightened. God, the worry in that little voice. He ran a hand through Jack’s dark curls, smoothing them down, his thumb brushing lightly over Jack’s temple.

“Mummy’s too smart to get lost,” Jason said, leaning in close, his forehead resting lightly against Jack’s. “And besides, Dani’s with her. And you know your Aunt Dani — she could get lost in her own backyard, but she’d always find her way back.”

Jack sniffed, his mouth curving into a small, reluctant smile. “Yeah. Auntie Dani’s silly.”

Jason chuckled softly, a warm, rumbling sound, and wrapped his arms around Jack, pulling him in close. Jack’s little arms wound tightly around his neck, the biscuit now squished between them, its crumbs catching in Jason’s shirt. Jason didn’t care. He just held on, feeling the soft, fragile weight of Jack against his chest, the rapid flutter of the little boy’s heartbeat echoing against his own.

“We’re okay, buddy,” Jason murmured, his chin resting atop Jack’s head. “She’ll be back before we know it.”

Jack nodded against him, his breath warm against Jason’s neck. “Okay.”

Jason closed his eyes, pressing a lingering kiss to Jack’s hair, inhaling the sweet scent of biscuits and little boy shampoo. But even as he held Jack close, his eyes drifted back to the road, that empty stretch of asphalt, his heart still aching with the echo of Clara’s goodbye.

The cool rush of air conditioning swept over Clara now, a stark contrast to the thick, humid air outside. Dani shot her a sideways look over the top of her sunglasses, one brow arched.

“Well, that was a bit dramatic,” Dani quipped, shifting the car into gear. “Are you sure we're just going shopping and not off to war?” Clara forced a laugh, but it came out thin and tight. “Feels like it,” she murmured, clicking her seatbelt into place Clara’s gaze flicked to the side mirror, catching the last glimpse of Jason and Jack framed in the doorway. Jason’s arm was still draped around Jack’s shoulders, his jaw set, eyes fixed on the car as it pulled away. Jack clutched the hem of Jason’s shirt, his little face pressed against his side. The sight twisted something sharp and aching inside Clara’s chest. “Hey..” Dani’s expression softened, the teasing edge fading as she pulled onto the main road. “You okay?”

Clara swallowed, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. The trees whipped past in a blur of green, the sun filtering through the branches like tiny shards of light. “Yeah,” she said, but her throat was tight. “Just… I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

Dani kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly against Clara’s knee. “Not stupid,” she said after a beat. “I saw your face back there. You looked like you were saying goodbye forever.”

Clara pressed her lips together, fighting the sting in her eyes. “It’s just… last time I left them…” She drew in a shaky breath, her hand drifting down to her belly, her thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles over the curve. “Last time, those pictures were taken for all the world to see. And then came all those awful comments about Jack… about Jason.”

“I know,” Dani said, her jaw clenching as she nodded. “But you went to Matt. You’re doing everything you can to fix it, to protect them.”

“But what if it happens again?” Clara’s gaze dropped to her lap, her hand tightening over her belly. Beneath her palm, Hope shifted, a soft, fluttering kick — a reminder that she was here, that Clara wasn’t alone. “What if someone’s watching right now? What if it’s me they catch next time? Pregnant with Jason Orange’s baby? What will they say then? What will they do to us?”

Her voice broke, the words tangling in her throat. The image of those photos flashed behind her eyes — Jason’s haunted expression, the way Jack’s little hand had clung to Jason’s leg, his face turned away as the cameras flashed. The look of utter helplessness on Jason’s face as he’d tried to shield Jack, his shoulders squared as though he could physically block out the world. Dani’s jaw tightened, and she guided the car to the side of the road, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The engine idled as she shifted to face Clara fully. 

“Clara,” she said, her voice gentle but unyielding. “Look at me.” Clara forced herself to turn, her eyes meeting Dani’s. Dani’s sunglasses were pushed to the top of her head now, her brown eyes intense and steady. “You’re not abandoning them by just going out with me for a few hours,” Dani said, her hand squeezing Clara’s knee. “Jason is right there at home... Right there. He’s not gonna let anything happen to Jack. You know that. He adores you. He would move mountains just to keep you, Jack, and that baby safe.”

Clara’s breath shuddered out, a tear slipping free despite her efforts to hold it back. “But I can’t help it, Dani. I keep thinking… What if someone’s lurking out there? Waiting for me to leave so they can get another shot of Jack? Or of Jason looking…”

“Looking like he’s drowning?” Dani finished softly “being a dad to his son?”

She nodded, a fresh wave of guilt washing over her. “I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there when it happened that day, and they were just… they were so exposed. Jason was just trying to protect Jack, and the whole world saw…” She swiped at her eyes, pressing her palm to her mouth to stifle a sob. “God, what if it happens again?”

Dani’s eyes softened, her thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down Clara’s cheek. “Clara, those pictures were a violation. They took something private and twisted it into a spectacle. But you and Jason are taking back control. You’re doing the right thing by going to Matt. And you know what? You’re protecting them now.”

Clara’s gaze dropped to her belly, her fingers tracing slow, soothing circles over the curve. Beneath her palm, Hope kicked again — stronger, more insistent. Clara closed her eyes, letting the sensation anchor her. “I just feel like I’m failing them,” she whispered. “Jason. Jack. And now Hope. I don’t know how to be everything for all of them.”

Dani’s hand slid over hers, both of them pressing gently against the swell of Clara’s belly. “You don’t have to be everything,” Dani said. “You just have to be you. And you’re enough, Clara. More than enough. That's all they need”

Clara’s breath hitched, a sob catching in her throat as she leaned back against the seat, the tears finally slipping free. “I’m scared, Dani,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’m so scared.”

Dani leaned closer, her forehead pressing gently against Clara’s. “I know,” she whispered. “But you’re not alone. You’ve got Jason. You’ve got Jack. You’ve got me. And you’ve got that little warrior inside you kicking up a storm to remind you she’s right there.”

Clara let out a wet, broken laugh, her hand moving in slow, soothing circles over Hope’s kicks. “She’s a fighter already,” she said, her voice thick.

“And so are you,” Dani said, pulling back just enough to meet Clara’s eyes. “Now, let’s go buy that little warrior some ridiculously overpriced baby clothes, okay?”

Clara sniffed, a watery smile breaking through as she nodded. “Okay.”

Dani squeezed her hand one more time before shifting the car back into drive, pulling back onto the road. The car wound through the narrow country lanes, sunlight dappling through the canopy of trees overhead. The leaves danced in the breeze, casting shifting patterns of gold and green across the road. Clara leaned her head against the window, her gaze trailing over the fields that stretched out on either side — lush, rolling green, dotted with wildflowers swaying like tiny, fragile dancers.It was beautiful. Peaceful. And yet, Clara’s chest felt tight, her heart heavy with a mix of wonder and disbelief.

She lifted a hand to her belly, her palm smoothing over the gentle curve. Beneath her touch, Hope moved, a slow, languid roll that sent a shiver up Clara’s spine. It was still surreal — that there was a life inside her, growing stronger every day. A little girl. Jason’s little girl. Her throat tightened as she thought of him standing on the porch, Jack’s small hand wrapped tightly around his leg, their eyes following her until the car turned the corner. Jason — the man who had once sworn he’d never be a father. And now here they were. They had created a child. A little girl who would one day run down these country roads, her hair wild and free, her laughter echoing against the trees.

Dani glanced over, her gaze softening as she took in the sight of Clara, her hand resting over her belly, eyes far away. Dani squeezed the steering wheel, memories of the Clara she’d once known surfacing — the broken, battered woman who had once hidden bruises beneath layers of makeup. But now… now she was glowing. Now she was loved. And all because of a man Dani had seen passionately breakdancing on stage as thousands of women screamed his name, because of a man who once threw her his sweat soaked towel one night at Wembley Stadium while he was dressed as a clown but now more importantly because of a man who had fallen in love with her sister in law. Bringing back a spark from within that Clara had given up on

Dani’s eyes misted as she tightened her grip on the wheel, a smile breaking through. “You okay now?”

Clara blinked, her eyes refocusing, her hand still cradling Hope’s tiny kicks. “Yeah,” she said, her voice softer, calmer now. “I think so…thanks Dani”

“Good,” Dani said, her lips curving. “Because we’re about to buy more baby clothes than a newborn could ever need.”

And as the car wound its way through the country lanes, Clara leaned back, feeling Hope’s steady, reassuring kicks — a silent promise that they were all still here, still holding on.

The car continue to wind its way through the narrow  lanes, the trees arching overhead like a protective canopy. Sunlight poured through the leaves in soft, golden streams, painting dappled patterns over the road. The wind whispered through the open window, carrying the scent of damp earth and wildflowers. Dani kept one hand on the wheel, her other resting lightly against Clara’s knee, her thumb stroking gentle, grounding circles. Clara sat back against the seat, her eyes fixed on the passing fields. Lush, rolling green stretched endlessly on either side, speckled with grazing sheep and the occasional burst of wildflowers swaying like tiny dancers. The world outside seemed so open, so vast — but inside the car, it felt small, tight. The air heavy with everything Clara hadn’t said.

She lifted a hand to her belly, fingers tracing slow, rhythmic circles over the curve. Beneath her touch, Hope moved — a strong, deliberate kick that sent a shiver through Clara’s entire body. Each nudge, each flutter, was a reminder that she wasn’t alone. That no matter how much fear and doubt gnawed at her, there was a tiny life inside her, a heartbeat that pulsed in perfect time with her own.

“Hey, little one,” Clara whispered, her thumb stroking the spot where she felt the kick. “You can hear me, can’t you?” another nudge, firmer this time. Clara swallowed, her eyes misting as she pressed her palm more firmly against the swell. “I’m scared, you know,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “But I promise… I’ll keep you safe.”

Dani’s eyes flicked over, taking in the way Clara cradled her belly, her head resting back against the seat, eyes half-closed. For a moment, Dani just watched her — really watched her. The way Clara’s fingers moved in slow, soothing circles over her bump. The way her lips trembled, the barest hint of a smile breaking through the sadness. It still floored Dani, how far Clara had come. How much she’d survived. The Clara she knew now — the Clara with a man who adored her, a baby growing inside her, a home filled with laughter and warmth — was a far cry from the Clara she’d met years ago. That Clara had been a ghost, hollowed out by Sean’s fists and his venom-laced words. Dani could still see her, the way she used to sit hunched in the corner of the sofa, makeup caked on too thick to hide the bruises, eyes vacant and empty as she stared through the television screen.

Dani tightened her grip on the steering wheel, her knuckles going white. She’d watched it all. Watched Sean whittle Clara down to nothing. Watched him turn a vibrant, fiercely independent woman into a shell of herself — a woman who flinched at the sound of her own name. Dani remembered the black eyes, the split lips. The lies. The excuses.

“I walked into a door.”

“I tripped on the stairs.”

“I’m just clumsy, Dani.”

Her chest tightened, the memory sharp as glass. There had been one night — the worst night — when Clara had turned up at her door, shivering in the rain, a suitcase clutched in one hand, Jack asleep against her shoulder. Her lip was split, a cut above her eyebrow still oozing blood. Dani had let her in without a word, wrapped her in a blanket, and listened as Clara sobbed out everything she’d been holding in for years. Now, when Dani looked at her, she saw the woman Clara had fought to become again. The spark in her eyes was back. The light in her face was real, not something she’d plastered on to keep up appearances. And it was all because of Jason.

Jason Orange.

Dani’s lips twitched as she remembered the posters she used to have plastered across her bedroom walls back in the 90s. Jason’s smouldering eyes staring back at her every night before she fell asleep, his boyish grin frozen in glossy magazine spreads that she’d torn out and carefully taped up. Back then, he’d been a fantasy. A face on a screen. The man who sang her through every heartbreak, every teenage crush. There had been that one iconic poster — Jason sprawled out on a leather sofa, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show off the curve of his defined muscular torso , a mischievous smirk pulling at his lips. Dani used to lie on her bed, feet propped up against the wall, staring at that poster as some “A million love songs” and “Why can't i wake up” played on repeat through her headphones. In those days, she’d whispered her secrets to that image of him, told him all the things she couldn’t say to anyone else. How her mum had missed her school play. How her dad had forgotten her birthday. How the boy she liked had kissed someone else behind the bike sheds. “Jason Orange would never do that,” she’d mutter, as if he could hear her. As if the smouldering gaze in that poster was meant just for her.

She’d remembered spending her pocket money on every magazine that featured him and the band — glossy spreads that promised to reveal “10 Secrets About Jason!” or “What Jason Looks for in a Girl.” She’d read every word, memorized every answer, convinced that if she ever met him, she’d know exactly what to say. She even wrote a letter once, pouring her teenage heart out onto pink, scented stationery. She’d never sent it, of course. But she kept it folded beneath her pillow for months, a silly, secret hope pressed between the pages. Back then, he was a fantasy. A boyband heartthrob. The guy she’d daydreamed about while sprawled across her bed, dreaming of a life where someone like Jason Orange might actually look at her, really see her.

But now? Now, he was so much more.

Now, he was the man enjoying his middle age years waiting back at Clara’s house, with a biscuit-crushed Jack cradled in his arms, his eyes dark and stormy as he watched Clara drive away. The man who had stood by Clara’s side when she couldn’t even stand on her own. The man who’d gone from a face on a poster to a father holding his son tight, shielding him from a world that seemed determined to rip them apart. And now, he was going to be a father to Clara’s daughter. A baby girl. A little life they’d created together. Jason Orange — the boyband heartthrob she’d once plastered across her walls — was going to be the dad to her niece pushing a pram through the park, the one carrying a pink backpack stuffed with nappies and tiny socks.

Dani’s throat tightened. It was surreal, really. This man she’d once only known through posters and magazine spreads was now her brother-in-law. The man who kissed Clara goodnight, who woke up to Jack crawling into their bed at dawn. The man who’d held Clara as she sobbed about Sean, promising her he’d never let anyone hurt her again. Dani swallowed, her grip tightening around the steering wheel. Life had a funny way of turning fantasies inside out. Once, she’d imagined Jason holding her the way he now held Clara. Once, she’d daydreamed about his arms around her waist, his lips against her ear. But those daydreams had been the fantasies of a girl who didn’t know what real love looked like.

Now, Dani knew.

Real love was what he’d found with Clara. Real love was Jason holding Clara’s hair back as she threw up every morning in the first trimester of her pregnancy. Real love was him kneeling on the floor, Jack curled against his chest, whispering, “I’m right here, buddy,” as Jack cried himself to sleep. Real love was Jason sitting at the dining table late into the night, poring over legal documents with Matt, eyes dark and jaw clenched as he vowed to protect his family from those photographers, from Sean, from anyone who dared to hurt them. Dani blinked, her eyes misting as she glanced over at Clara, still stroking her belly, eyes far away. This was the real Jason. The man behind the poster. And Dani knew that Clara was the luckiest woman in the world — not because Jason Orange had fallen in love with her, but because he was the kind of man who would fight like hell to keep her safe. And that was worth more than any poster, any autograph, any boyband fantasy she’d ever had.

So come on..What’s going on in that head of yours now?” Dani asked softly, her voice breaking through the silence “still worrying?”

"Well..." Clara’s eyes fluttered open, the distant look fading as she met Dani’s gaze. “I still can’t believe it,” she whispered, her thumb circling a spot just beneath her ribcage, where Hope had given another solid kick. “That we made her. That she’s almost here.”

Dani’s chest tightened. “And you did, Clara. You and Jason. You made her.” She smiled, her eyes misting. “She’s going to be perfect.”

Clara’s lips trembled. “But what if I mess it up, Dani?” Her gaze dropped to her belly, her hand flexing over Hope’s tiny movements. “What if I fail her? I couldn’t protect Jack from Sean. I couldn’t protect Jason from those photographers. What if… what if I can’t protect her?”

"Listen to me" Dani swallowed, her throat thick. “You’re not that woman anymore, Clara. You’re not alone. You’ve got Jason. You’ve got me. You’ve got a whole tribe of people who would go to war for you.” Clara nodded, her eyes shimmering, but she didn’t speak. The silence stretched between them, heavy and aching, until Dani couldn’t take it anymore. She reached over, threading her fingers through Clara’s and squeezing tight. "And Jason?” Dani said, her voice dropping. “That man would walk through fire for you. For Jack. For Hope. He’d burn the world down if it meant keeping you safe.”

Clara’s breath hitched, a tear slipping free despite her efforts to hold it back. “I know,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I just… I’m so scared, Dani.”

Dani leaned closer, her forehead pressing against Clara’s, their breaths mingling in the cool, shaded air. “You’re allowed to be scared,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “But you’re not alone. You’re never alone. Not anymore.”

Clara’s eyes fell closed, her tears slipping free as she squeezed Dani’s hand tighter. “Thank you,” she whispered, the words heavy with all the things she couldn’t say.

Dani pulled back, her own eyes glistening as she cleared her throat, shifting the car back into gear. “Now,” she said, forcing a bright, too-cheerful tone. “Let’s go spend Jason Orange’s hard-earned Take That royalties on a thousand tiny onesies and some overpriced baby shoes.”

"Sounds like a plan" Clara let out a watery laugh, swiping at her cheeks. “Yeah,” she said, her hand drifting back to her belly, feeling the steady, reassuring rhythm of Hope’s movements. “Let’s do that.”

The car rolled forward, gravel crunching beneath the tires as they pulled into the car park of the baby boutique. Through the glass storefront, Clara could see rows of tiny clothes — soft blankets folded in neat, pastel piles, onesies with little bear ears, shelves lined with plush toys and tiny shoes that looked more like doll accessories than anything practical. Dani cut the engine, but neither of them moved. For a moment, they just sat there, the air between them heavy with unspoken words. Then Dani reached over, giving Clara’s hand one last squeeze.

“You ready?” Dani asked, her voice soft, her eyes searching Clara’s face.

Clara took a deep, steadying breath, her fingers still splayed protectively over her belly. “Yeah,” she said, her voice a little stronger now. “I think I am.”

And together, they stepped out of the car and walked toward the shop — toward this new life, toward everything Clara had fought so hard to build.

They stepped inside the shop, the soft chime of the bell melting into the quiet hum of gentle piano music. The space was wrapped in a tender glow—walls painted in soft creams and blushes, sunlight filtering through sheer curtains like liquid gold. Every surface seemed touched by warmth, the kind that makes time slow and worries fade.

Clara’s eyes were immediately drawn to the rows of tiny clothes, each one a whisper of possibility: knitted cardigans in delicate pastels, socks folded with such care they seemed almost too precious to wear, and soft cotton onesies embroidered with tiny stars, bears, and wildflowers. The subtle scent of fresh cotton mingled with lavender, a quiet comfort woven through the air. Dani’s voice bubbled with enthusiasm as she picked up a pair of baby dungarees, her fingers brushing over the soft fabric. She chatted easily, pointing out every sweet detail—the snaps, the stitching, the softness that would cradle a baby’s skin. But Clara’s attention drifted. Near the window, a dress caught her eye—an exquisite white cotton frock, its skirt flaring softly like a whispered promise. Delicate roses, embroidered in shades of pale pink, spiraled up from hem to bodice, each petal stitched with such tender care they seemed almost alive. Clara’s breath hitched. The roses—her favorite flower—felt like a secret conversation between her heart and the future she dared to hope for. Memories stirred—the first time Jason brought her roses, their petals soft against her skin, the silent vow she had made to herself in that moment: to nurture this fragile, precious new life. Her fingers lifted hesitantly, brushing the embroidery like a sacred touch, feeling the weight of everything she wanted to protect. The room around her softened; Dani’s words and laughter became distant, fading beneath the swell of emotion tightening Clara’s chest.

This is what I never had before, Clara thought, her heart aching with both sorrow and hope. A chance to dream for her child. To believe in a future that isn’t shadowed by fear.

“Clara?” Dani’s voice was gentle, steady—a lifeline pulled through the fog. “Hey… are you alright?”

Clara blinked, warmth flooding her cheeks as her eyes glistened. “It’s just… this dress,” she murmured, voice trembling. “Shopping for baby clothes. I never got to do this with Jack. Sean made it impossible. Every little thing I bought, he shouted. He made me feel like I was doing something wrong—like I didn’t deserve it.” Her hand fell to her belly, fingers curling protectively. “I wore his old clothes when I was pregnant. Just stretched the ones I had.”

Dani stepped closer, wrapping her arms around Clara’s shoulders in a steady, grounding embrace. Their bodies fit together like pieces that had long sought each other out.

“You’re not alone anymore,” Dani said softly, her voice thick with care and conviction. “You have Jason now. And he loves you—both of you—with everything he has. He’s not just here, he’s all in. Watching over you, dreaming with you, fighting for you.”

Clara’s breath trembled, tears slipping free despite her best efforts. “He’s… different,” she whispered. “The way he holds Jack, the nights he stays up just to make sure I’m okay. I never thought someone could love me like that. Or this baby.” Her eyes searched Dani’s, seeking reassurance beyond words.

“You deserve that love,” Dani said, voice low and sure. “You deserve to feel safe. To be held without fear. And Jason—he’s not just a protector. He’s your partner now, your family. He’ll build this life with you, every step of the way.”

Clara let herself lean into the warmth of Dani’s words, the fragile hope blooming deep inside her—a promise stitched with care, stronger than any past pain. Maybe this time, I’m not just surviving. Maybe this time, I’m finally living. “I’m scared,” Clara finally admitted, voice breaking. “But… I want to believe in us. In him. In this baby.”

“Listen to me, What you have with him…what youve found” Dani’s hand found hers, squeezing gently. “That’s what real love looks like—fear and hope tangled together. And you’re not walking this alone, Clara. We’re all here. Jason’s here. And so am I.”

Clara closed her eyes, letting the tears fall freely now, the weight lifting just a little. The embroidered roses on the dress shimmered softly in the sunlight, like a quiet blessing, a promise of new beginnings. When Clara opened her eyes again, Dani was still holding her hand, her gaze warm and steady. Slowly, Clara smiled—a fragile, trembling curve that spoke of courage returning.

“Thank you,” Clara whispered, voice barely audible. “For being here. For everything.”

Dani brushed a stray lock of hair behind Clara’s ear, her fingers lingering for a moment, a silent vow. “Always,” she said simply

They moved through the store, Dani chatting away as Clara wandered, her eyes catching on the soft pastels and tiny, delicate fabrics hanging on the racks. Then she saw it — a white onesie with soft, pink lettering that read “Daddy’s Girl.” Clara plucked it from the rack, the fabric warm and comforting against her palm. The words seemed to glow, each curve of the letters a promise. Daddy’s Girl. A knot rose in her throat, tightening around all the things she hadn’t said. But this? This was something new. Something tender. Something she could finally give her daughter.

“Oh, he’s going to love this,” Clara murmured, her lips curving into a gentle, private smile.

Dani sidled up beside her, glancing down at the onesie. “Oh yeah. Hope’s going to have him wrapped around her little finger.”

“She's not even here yet…” Clara chuckled, but it was soft, a little wistful. “He’s already wrapped. This girl is going to be his princess. And Jason? He’ll be the kind of dad who stands at the school gates glaring at teenage boys, won’t he? Nobody will ever good enough for her”

“Absolutely,” Dani said, nudging her. “And he’ll be fifty-four by then wont he?. Old man Jason, trying to look intimidating with his dad bod and still rocking the salt-and-pepper beard.”

“Dani...” Clara rolled her eyes, but her smile deepened. “He worries about that, you know. The age thing. He still gets sensitive about it. He tells me that he doesn’t want to be the granddad-looking dad at parent-teacher meetings.”

“Oh come on,” Dani snorted. “Please. If he’s still strutting around the pool like he did last summer, he’s got nothing to worry about..dad bod likd that..plus ive seen the comments he gets when he does a pap walk..ultimate DILF said loads of them...”

Clara’s laugh unfurled, warm and loose. “Exactly. Besides, he’s still got plenty of...” She waggled her brows. “Stamina…”

“Clara, please don’t go there,” Dani groaned, slapping a hand to her forehead. “Oh God. Nope. We are not doing this… not in the middle of a baby clothes shop.”

“What? I mean, the way he was last week —The way he..”

"Clara!” Dani clapped her hands over her ears. “Nope. I am not listening to my sister gush about her sex life with her hot, fifty-four-year-old man, someone whose picture that I once had on my wall i might add”

“Honestly, Dani, that man… He really knows his stuff.” Clara smirked, unrepentant. “Let’s just say we had a lot of fun creating Hope that night in Paris”

“Clara, enough.” Dani shook her head, but she was laughing, her cheeks flushed. “Okay, stop. Stop before you ruin my entire day.”

"I mean..all night Dani..I was exausted in the best possible way.."

"STOP....NO MORE.."

Clara’s grin lingered as she draped the onesie over her arm, the fabric soft and warm against her skin. Beneath her laughter, though, the words echoed: Daddy’s Girl. A baby girl. Their little girl. The symbol of everything she and Jason had fought so hard to build. Proof that they could make something beautiful after all the brokenness. The fabric felt heavier than it should, as though it held the weight of a thousand silent promises.

Relieved that Clara had got the hint and stopped talking about Jason’s sex drive, Dani moved on to another rack of clothes, pulling a baby vest from the hanger. The scent of fresh cotton and faint lavender drifted up as she held it out. “Oh my God, look at this one.” Clara turned. The vest was white with bold, playful text that read: “All I Do Each Night Is Pray.” But the word “Pray” had been slashed through in red and replaced with “cry.” Dani grinned, holding it up. “Perfect, right? Because that’s exactly what she’ll be doing every night for the next six months.”

"That's hilarious" Clara’s laughter bubbled up, raw and unrestrained, the kind that started deep in her belly and pushed everything heavy and dark aside. The sound echoed through the quiet shop, drawing a few curious glances. "You do know that he is going to absolutely hate that.”

“Which is why we absolutely have to buy it,” Dani said, tossing it into the basket with a wicked grin. “I mean, we’re already blowing his royalties from Back For Good, right? Might as well keep going with Pray too.”

Clara wiped at her eyes, her shoulders shaking with laughter. It felt so good — that weightless, sparkling kind of laughter that made her chest ache in the best possible way. The kind that pushed out all the fear and sadness and replaced it with something warm, something light. She clutched the onesie tighter, pressing it against her chest, feeling its softness against her heart.

"Good to see you laughing" Dani slung an arm around Clara’s shoulders, the scent of her floral perfume wrapping around them both. “See? You’re okay. You’re more than okay.”

"You know what.." Clara leaned into her sister’s warmth, the fabric of the Daddy’s Girl onesie still clutched tight in her hand. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I really am.”

At the counter, the cashier began scanning their pile of tiny clothes and baby things. The rhythmic beep of the register blended with the soft hum of the store’s air conditioning, a steady, grounding sound. Clara watched as each item was folded and bagged, the sight of those tiny socks, that silly cry vest, and the Daddy’s Girl onesie slipping into the glossy paper bag. Each item felt like a step forward, a tangible piece of the life she was finally claiming as her own.

Dani nudged her, her hand gentle against Clara’s arm. “You ready?”

Clara met her gaze, her lips curving into a soft, secret smile. Outside, the sunlight poured through the windows, painting streaks of gold across the tiled floor. “Yeah,” she said, her voice strong and sure. “I think I am.”

And as they stepped outside into the cool afternoon air, Clara clutched the bag close to her chest, feeling its warmth seep into her skin, the tiny clothes inside like soft, sacred relics. The breeze kissed her cheeks, cool and fresh, as she inhaled deeply, grounding herself in this moment. Because this time, she was walking toward a life she was ready to live.

The café was a warm, inviting cocoon of soft amber light and the comforting scent of freshly ground coffee. The hiss of the espresso machine blended with the low murmur of conversations, and the sweet, yeasty perfume of pastries drifted through the air. Bags crowded the small table — glossy white shopping bags with pastel baby clothes peeking out from the tops. Clara leaned back against the plush velvet seat, her fingers tracing absent circles against the soft upholstery, the gentle pressure grounding her.

Dani pushed her hair back, leaning forward. "Well, that was some damage we did. Jason’s Take That royalties may never recover by the time this baby arrives at this point."

Clara laughed, the sound airy and warm, but her fingers still trembled against the mug. "Worth it." Her phone buzzed suddenly on the table before them. Clara swiped it open, her expression softening instantly. A selfie. Jason and Jack on the old tree swing in the garden, Jack’s arms thrown around Jason’s neck, both grinning so wide their eyes crinkled. The light filtering through the leaves cast a dappled glow over them, making the moment seem almost unreal. "Look," Clara said, turning the screen toward Dani. "They built that swing together. Back when we first moved into the house"

“Awww” Dani smiled, her eyes softening. "That’s pure." Clara smiled too, but it faltered, slipping away like sand through her fingers. Dani caught the shift, her brows knitting. "Hey. You okay?"

Clara set the phone down, her fingers gripping the edge of her mug a little too tightly. "It’s just... that meeting with Matt."

Dani’s smile faded. "What about it?"

“It was really intense Dani," Clara said, staring into the dark swirl of her coffee as if the answers might appear there. "They’re putting things in place to stop those photos from going any further. Legal stuff. Letters. Warnings." She swallowed, her throat tight. "But that’s not all."

“Go on..” Dani leaned in closer, her hand resting over Clara’s wrist, grounding her. "What else?"

"Matt wants to apply for Jason to be Jack’s legal guardian," Clara said, her voice dropping to a fragile whisper. "Make it official. In case... in case anything happens."

“Oh my god..” Dani’s thumb stroked gentle circles over Clara’s skin. "Wow. That’s... huge."

"Yeah." Clara’s gaze drifted back to the phone, to Jason and Jack frozen in that perfect, carefree moment. "It’s the right thing. But it’s just... it’s a lot."

Dani squeezed her wrist, her eyes soft and steady. "You’re not alone in this, Clara. You know that, right?"

Clara nodded, her eyes misting, the scent of coffee and cinnamon wrapping around her like a hug. "I know," she whispered. "I really do." She took a slow breath, her eyes following the slow spiral of cream dissolving into the coffee. "Matt said the guardianship could get complicated because Jason and I aren’t married," she continued, her voice low, almost as if she were afraid of the words. "Without that legal bond, it’s going to be harder to make it official. Harder to protect Jack."

"Oh..." Dani’s brows furrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line, but she stayed quiet, letting Clara unravel.

"Jason said..." Clara swallowed, fingers tracing the rim of her mug. "He said if getting married is the only way to make it official, then we should just do it. You know, make it legal. He said, ‘We love each other, Clara. We’re having a baby. Let’s just do it.’"

Dani leaned forward, eyes softening. "And what did you say?"

Clara let out a shaky breath, a wry smile pulling at the corner of her lips. "I said no. Not like this. Not because some lawyer says it’s a quick fix. I love him, Dani. God, I absolutely adore everything about him. He’s everything I never thought I’d get the chance to have. He’s my world. But I want to be his wife because he can’t imagine waking up another day without me. Because he wants to call me his wife, not just to make him Jack’s legal guardian."

“Clara…” Dani reached across the table, taking Clara’s hand in hers. "That’s exactly how it’s going to be. Because he’s crazy about you. Anyone with eyes can see it. You two are perfect together and meant to be. And when he asks, it won’t be because of a lawyer. It’ll be because he can’t wait another second to make you his wife…to make yo officially mrs. Orange."

“I have thought about it a lot you know..how id want someone to propose to me” Clara’s eyes dropped to her lap, her thumb moving in slow circles over her bump. The baby shifted beneath her palm, and a tender ache spread through her chest. "I want him to ask under the oak tree in the garden, just the two of us. The place where he first told me he could see himself spending forever with me. The place where he held me close and promised me that no matter what, he’d never let me go. I want it to be there”

Dani’s thumb stroked over Clara’s knuckles. "And it will be. Because that’s the kind of man Jason is. The kind who loves you with everything he’s got. The kind who’s going to get down on one knee not because some lawyer said so, but because he can’t imagine his life without you."

Clara’s chest tightened, a tear slipping free despite the smile tugging at her lips. "God, I hope so."

Dani stood and moved around the table, pulling Clara into a warm, lingering hug. Clara buried her face in her sister’s shoulder, breathing her in, letting herself feel held, supported. She leaned down, pressing a kiss to Clara’s temple. "You’re going to get everything you want, Clara. And so is he."

Clara pulled back, wiping her eyes, then lowered her hand to her bump. "Did you hear that, baby girl? One day, Daddy’s going to make me Mrs. Orange. And you, little one… you’re the proof that dreams really do come true."

Dani pressed her hand over Clara’s, both their palms cupping the swell of Clara’s belly. The baby shifted, a tiny flutter against their joined hands. They stayed that way, in the middle of the bustling café, two sisters holding tight to each other and to the fragile, beautiful hope they both needed so desperately to believe in. Clara blinked, catching sight of her reflection in the café window — her flushed cheeks, the dampness at the corner of her eyes. And for a moment, she let herself see it. The oak tree. Jason on one knee, his hand trembling as he slid the ring onto her finger. The way he would look at her — like she was already his wife. Already his forever.

Back at home, the house was now steeped in the cozy stillness that came after a day of simple pleasures. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting soft, golden stripes across the living room floor where Jason and Jack sprawled amidst a nest of blankets and scattered popcorn kernels. Empty plates and crumpled napkins cluttered the coffee table, remnants of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. The buttery scent of melted cheese lingered in the air, mixing with the warmth of Jack’s hair beneath Jason’s hand — a small, tousled head resting trustingly against his chest.

The latest Pixar movie played on the TV, filling the room with bright colors and swelling music. Jack’s eyes were glued to the screen, his face slack with focus, the glow of the screen dancing across his soft features. Jason glanced down at Jack, taking in the way the boy’s lashes fanned against his cheeks, how his small fingers absentmindedly toyed with the frayed edge of the blanket. Jason’s hand moved in slow, rhythmic strokes over Jack’s hair, a gesture so natural it felt instinctual. The warmth of Jack’s scalp seeped into Jason’s palm, anchoring him to the moment. To this boy who had already claimed so much of his heart.

“You still awake, buddy?” Jason murmured, his voice a low, comforting hum  "I thought you liked this one.."

Jack nodded, eyes still fixed on the screen. “Yeah. I like this part,” he said, voice soft, a sleepy edge blurring the words.

Jason smiled, his chest tight with a tender ache. He had planned the day carefully — lunch together in the kitchen, letting Jack choose the menu, even if it meant burnt sandwiches and soup splattered across the stove. Then a movie marathon, the two of them huddled up on the couch, Jack’s small body pressed close to his. He had wanted it to feel normal. Uncomplicated. Something they could both hold on to while Clara and Dani had their day out. A little pocket of time, just the two of them. As the credits began to roll, Jack yawned and snuggled closer, his cheek pressing against Jason’s chest. Jason continued the slow, soothing strokes, his thumb brushing lightly against Jack’s hairline. The warmth beneath his hand. The steady rise and fall of Jack’s breath. The soft, damp scent of the boy’s hair, like baby shampoo and warm skin. These small, precious things that had woven themselves into the fabric of Jason’s days.

“What was your favorite part then, mate?” Jason asked, voice a low, rumbling murmur.

Jack thought for a moment, his thumb sneaking up to his mouth in a gesture that was half childhood habit, half comfort. “The dad. When he said he’d always protect her. Even when she was scared.”

Jason felt his throat tighten, his hand stilling against Jack’s hair. Protect her. Always. The words lodged themselves in his chest, striking with a force he wasn’t prepared for. He swallowed, the ache beneath his ribs unfurling, deep and raw. “Yeah,” he said, voice thick. “That was a good part.”

Jack shifted, tipping his face up to look at Jason, eyes wide and serious. He chewed at his lower lip, a nervous gesture Jason had seen a hundred times. “Jason… Can I ask you something? Something very important?”

"Sure..." Jason’s chest tightened, heart thudding against his ribcage. “Of course, mate. You can ask me anything.”

"Remember when I used to Call you Mister Jason? Then I didnt want to anymore and just called you by your name" Jack swallowed, gaze flicking down to his lap. “So… what would you think if… if I called you Daddy and not Jason now?”

The question hung in the air, fragile as glass, each syllable a shiver of vulnerability. Jason felt the world tilt. The room narrowed to just this — Jack’s wide eyes, the weight of his small body pressed against Jason, the soft rise and fall of his chest. The warmth of Jack’s scalp beneath Jason’s palm. A sensation that had become as familiar as breathing. Jason’s breath hitched, his fingers trembling as he cupped the back of Jack’s head, brushing his thumb over the boy’s hair in slow, gentle circles

 “Wow… what a question, mate,” he said, voice breaking. “What brought this on?”

Jack shifted, his small hands twisting in the hem of his t-shirt. “Well…Baby Hope will call you that when she’s here. And… you already feel like my daddy. So… is it okay if I do too?”

Emotion surged through Jason, a wave so fierce and all-consuming he thought he might drown in it. The warmth beneath his hand. The scent of Jack’s hair. The trust in Jack’s eyes. He swallowed hard, his throat raw. “Yeah,” he rasped, voice thick. “Yeah, mate. It would be… more than okay.” Jack’s lips curved into a small, shy smile before he leaned back against Jason’s chest, settling in. Silence fell, but it was warm, sweet, and full of a new kind of promise. Jason closed his eyes, the word echoing in his mind like a bell tolling in a vast, empty cathedral. Daddy. "Id be honoured for you to call me it"

“Awesome…” Jack yawned again, his eyes fluttering closed. “ so can I have some ice cream then please, Ja… Daddy?”

Jason’s breath hitched again, a tear slipping free as he pressed a kiss to the top of Jack’s head, the scent of baby shampoo mingling with salt and warmth. “Yeah, mate,” he whispered, his voice thick and unsteady. “You my boy can have all the ice cream you want.”

Jack’s grin widened as he hopped up from the couch, the word still echoing in the air — Daddy. Jason stayed where he was, staring at the spot where Jack had been. The air still held the shape of him — the weight, the warmth, the word. Jason leaned back, head dropping against the cushion as he exhaled a shaky breath. The word echoed through his mind, reverberating like a heartbeat. Daddy. It was a name he’d never expected to hear. A name that felt both impossibly heavy and light at the same time. A name that carried all the fears and hopes and dreams he’d held close to his chest, afraid to want too much. Afraid to lose it. Afraid to fail.

He rubbed a hand over his face, another tear slipping free. Because in this moment, the world felt whole. Because today, in this small, sunlit room, he’d become something he never dared to dream he could be — Jack’s Daddy 

The house was still bathed in the lingering warmth of the afternoon, golden light filtering through the blinds, casting stripes across the living room floor where Jason and Jack had just been huddled amidst a nest of blankets. Popcorn kernels littered the rug, and the scent of buttery salt hung in the air, mingling with the faint trace of Jack’s shampoo — strawberries and vanilla. Jason still couldn’t stop smiling. His chest felt too full, heart still pounding from the moment Jack had said it. Daddy. The word echoed in his mind, a sweet, perfect note, like a bell that kept ringing and ringing. He wanted to tell Clara, wanted to see her face light up the way his had, to say, ‘He said it. He called me Daddy.’

Soonthe doorbell rang, snapping Jason from his thoughts. He moved quickly, fingers still slightly sticky from popcorn, his grin widening as he reached for the handle. The warmth of Jack’s hair lingered against his palm, that small, grounding softness that now felt like a lifeline.

"Forget your key again?" he said, pulling the door open, already poised to tease “Baby brain eh Mcfly?”

But it wasn’t Clara.

A man in a dark suit stood there, eyes sharp, posture rigid. He held a crisp white envelope in his hand, the edges pristine, like it had been delivered with meticulous care.

"Jason Orange?" the man asked, voice clipped.

Jason’s smile faltered, the warmth of Jack’s hair suddenly a phantom sensation against his palm. "Yeah?"

“This is for you and Ms Clara McFly” The man extended the envelope. "You’ve been served."

The words hit like a punch. Jason took the envelope, eyes locking onto the letterhead. Gold embossed. Sterling & King Solicitors. Before Jason could say anything, the man nodded and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the steps. Jason closed the door, fingers tightening around the envelope as he stared down at it, knowing the name Sean Markson would be inside glaring back at him like a curse.

"Daddy?" Jack’s voice piped up, and Jason’s head snapped up. Jack stood in the doorway, clutching the remote, his small face creased with concern. "What’s the next movie?"

Daddy. Jason swallowed, forcing a smile that felt as flimsy as paper. "Uh, you go pick, buddy. I’m just gonna top up the popcorn."

"Okay!" Jack chirped, dashing back to the living room.

Jason moved to the kitchen, the envelope burning in his hand. He set it on the counter, the sound loud and sharp, then pressed both palms down on the cool granite, head dropping forward. The air felt colder now, a stark contrast to the warm cocoon of moments ago. The scent of butter and strawberries lingered, mocking the sudden chill that tightened his skin Finally, he ripped the envelope open, yanking the letter free. The words blurred before coming into focus.

Custody. Access. Sean Markson. Visitation rights 

Joint custody of Jack Thomas McFly.

The floor seemed to tilt beneath him. Jason clutched the counter, the letter crumpling in his fist, his breath sawing in and out as he tried to wrap his mind around it. How? Why? They had just had the perfect day. Jack calling him Daddy, smiling at him like he was his whole world — and now this?

Images flashed through Jason’s mind — Sean Markson, smug and grinning, Jack’s small hand being led away, his eyes wide and confused, turning back to Jason, the word "Daddy" caught in his throat. The ache beneath Jason’s ribs unfurled, deep and raw, like a wound and a healing all at once.Jason shoved a fist against his mouth, eyes squeezing shut. He could still feel the weight of Jack’s head against his chest, the warmth of his small body, the trust in his sleepy eyes as he’d asked to call him Daddy. Now, Sean Markson wanted to waltz in and take that away?

"Daddy?" Jack’s voice came again, soft and hesitant, the sound slicing through Jason’s spiraling thoughts. Jason’s eyes snapped open. He dragged in a ragged breath, the word Daddy now feeling like both a gift and a cruel joke "are you coming?"

"Yeah, buddy! Be right there."

He crumpled the letter in his fist, shoving it deep into the back pocket of his jeans, and headed back to the living room, forcing himself to smile. But inside, the word Daddy kept echoing, each beat of his heart pulsing with the fear of how easily it could be taken away.

Chapter Text

Jason couldn’t move.

The letter still trembled in his hand, its edges crushed and damp with sweat where he’d gripped too hard. The words—custody, access, visitation rights—blurred and danced, but they were already branded into his mind. And there it was again: Sean Markson. A low roar surged in his ears. His lungs seized. The kitchen seemed to press in on him. The walls narrowed, the ceiling dipped lower with every frantic beat of his heart. The buttery scent of popcorn curdled in his nose, turning rancid. It clogged his throat. He gagged, stumbled backward as his heel caught the cabinet. Then he was moving….Pacing. Sharp, erratic strides cut across the kitchen floor. Back and forth. Back and forth. One hand tore through his hair, tugging hard at the roots. The other clutched the crumpled letter like it might detonate. His knuckles bone-white.

Clara. Oh God….How the hell was he supposed to tell Clara?

A wave of dread slammed through him, knocking the air from his lungs. His mind splintered, a storm of memory breaking through. “I used to sleep in the bathtub sometimes,” she’d whispered once, wrapped in his arms, her voice barely holding. “It was the only place with a lock.” He saw her again—knees to her chest, drowning in an oversized sweater. Sleeves shoved up just far enough to show fading bruises. The night she showed him the photos—those awful, yellowing pictures. The sick patterns across her ribs. The long, deep scar cut into her stomach. “He said no one else would want someone broken like me,” she’d said then, voice shredded thin, eyes hollow. Struggling to take it in, Jason stumbled, crashing into the nearby counter. His breath came in shallow gasps. His chest felt like it was caving in. His jaw locked so tightly it ached. This would destroy her. She had only just begun to believe they were safe. That Sean was gone. That Jack was truly theirs. And now Sean was crawling out of the grave they’d buried him in—reaching for the child he’d never wanted. Trying to claim the title of father. With his vision blurred with fury, Jason didn’t want to picture it but he couldn’t help himself: Sean’s hand on Jack’s shoulder. Sean’s voice, syrupy and warm, laced with poison. The man who broke Clara wanted to play Daddy? His stomach turned. Acid rose in his throat. Then—

“Daddy?”

The word sliced through the fog like a flare. Jason’s head jerked up. He glanced over and could see Jack stood in the doorway, soft and sleep-rumpled, with a stuffed dinosaur dangling from one hand. His eyes blinked slowly, still full of dreams and quiet confusion. The scent of strawberries and vanilla followed him in—Clara’s lotion—curling around Jason like a cruel memory. A comfort turned sharp-edged. Forcing out a smile, Jason didn’t speak. He just couldn’t. For a heartbeat, he didn’t even register what the little boy had called out. Then it hit him, like a jolt to the chest. Daddy. It yanked him out of the spiral, sudden and brutal.

“Hey…” Jack tilted his head. “Are you okay, Dad?”

The word hovered in the air like a lifeline. Jason’s throat convulsed. The sound of it—Dad—landed like both a blade and a balm. His shoulders slackened, just barely. Quickly, He shoved the letter behind his back, pressing it hard against his spine like he could will it out of existence. The paper dug into him, crinkling like it had teeth.

“Yeah, mate,” he said hoarsely. Too rough. He cleared his throat. “Just… thinking. You know what I’m like.”

Jack’s brow pinched. “Oh no… you look sad.” his voice was quiet. Too perceptive. Too still.

That eerie way only children could see straight through you. “Are you sad?”

Jason nearly flinched. The pressure in his throat tightened again. He couldn’t unravel now. Not here and not like this. Not now. Not in front of Jack. He could still feel the letter like a brand in his palm. Custody. Access. Visitation rights. Sean. He tried to open his mouth but Nothing came, only silence. A silence stretched too long.

“No, I’m fine, kid,” he lied gently. The word cracked in his mouth. He forced a smile—one that felt like it might split his face open. “Just tired, that’s all.”

Jack studied him for a second longer… then nodded. “Okay.” He brightened. “Can we watch the next movie now?”

Jason nodded again. His voice was barely a rasp. “Yeah. Go get it set up. I’ll be right there.”

“Yay”Jack’s face lit up, his little face beaming proudly. “Okay, Daddy! Love you!” He turned and padded down the hallway, dinosaur trailing behind him, feet thudding softly against the floorboards. “Don’t be too long!”

And just like that, Jason was alone….

Alone, the silence wrapped around Jason like a vice. He slumped against the counter, the crumpled letter clenched tight in one hand. Custody. The word still burned behind his eyes like a siren—blaring, impossible to ignore. And then the sobs came Silent. Shaking. Violent. One trembling hand rose to cover his face. The other clutched the letter like a weapon. Or a shield. Or both.

How was he supposed to tell Clara? How was he supposed to protect them now? Protect her, from the man who once broke her. Protect Jack—from the man who now wanted to take him away from him. The letter lay on the table, smoothed flat now but no less dangerous. Harmless at a glance—just paper and ink. But to hjm it might as well have been a landmine. Quiet. Coiled. Ready to destroy everything they’d built. He couldn’t look at it anymore.Not when one word kept echoing through his chest like a bell struck too hard…Daddy. Jack hadn’t gasped it. Hadn’t shouted it either. He’d just said it—soft, sleep-heavy, concerned. A word so simple, it shattered Jason. It looped through him now, not because it hurt but because it mattered more than anything. Daddy. Jack had given him that name without prompt. Without pressure. Not because Jason asked. Not because Clara encouraged it. But because, somewhere between early-morning cuddles and bedtime stories, in the sacred hush of everyday love—Jack had chosen him.

Jason closed his eyes. Memories came thick and fast—Jack at three, wide-eyed and wary, clinging to Clara like she was the only safe place in the world. Mister Jason, he’d called him at first. My bestest friend in the whole wide world. Then came that day in the woods— finding Jack, lost and sobbing. At how Jason crouched low, arms open, voice soft. Waiting. And Jack had come to him. Crawling into his arms like he belonged there. And Jason had never let go. Now bedtime meant whispered secrets and sleepy giggles. It meant “just one more cuddle,” and tiny fingers curled tenderly into his shirt like anchors. It meant trust. Deep. Fierce. Unquestioned. Of course Jack didn’t carry Jason’s blood. Didn’t share his name or legacy. But for Jason the little boy was his. In every way that counted. Jason had once imagined fatherhood as something loud—scraped knees, football games, milestones. But Jack taught him better. Fatherhood crept in through the quiet. A toy fixed without fanfare. A tantrum met with patience. A small hand reaching for his without hesitation. The love didn’t roar. It whispered. And now it filled Jason’s chest so completely, he didn’t know where it ended and he began. And now Sean Markson wanted to take that away.

The thought of that man hollowed him. The rage came first—hot, immediate. But beneath it sat something colder, more dangerous: Fear…What if the law didn’t care about wounds that didn’t bruise anymore? What if Sean stood in court—polished and rehearsed—and told lies that sounded like truth? What if this one letter, this one damned piece of paper, could undo everything?

Jason raked his hands down his face, trying to find breath in the hurricane building behind his ribs. But nothing felt steady. Then he heard the front door creaked open and laughter spiling in. Bags rustled. The sound of life returning.

Clara’s voice, light and carefree “Oh, we definitely bought too much…”

“That’s because someone thinks five dresses for a newborn count as restraint.” Dani’s reply, teasing “you didn't need much persuading Clara McFly”

Jason stiffened. The letter was half-tucked beneath a magazine now, almost like his mind was telling him hiding it could make it disappear. He wasn’t ready. Not for what was going to come next. Not for the moment he’d have to break her all over again.

“Hey, Mummy!” Jack’s voice rang out. His little feet thundered across the floor and hurled himself at her leg. Jason turned just as Jack burst into the room, cheeks flushed with excitement. “I was playing the dinosaur game again! I nearly beat the T-Rex this time!”

“You did? That’s amazing!”Clara crouched, laughing, arms wide. “Well done baby..”

“I know right?” Jack threw himself into her hug, giggling. Then turned to Jason, beaming. “Daddy helped me! We beat it together! And we watched a movie too—Daddy was so silly, he pretended to fall asleep! But i tickled him awake”

Jason froze. The room tilted slightly, like the floor wasn’t quite where it used to be. Clara blinked. Her eyes flicked from Jack—glowing and breathless then to Jason. Her smile faltered. And then—slowly—it returned. Softer. Deeper. Brimming with something tender and real.

“Well,” she murmured, brushing hair from Jack’s forehead, “looks like I missed something kind of huge while I was out.” Jason’s throat bobbed. He tried to speak but couldn’t. Jack was now looking up at him like a hero. Eventually Jason managed a nod. A small, tight smile. He reached out and ruffled Jack’s hair. Clara rose to her feet and moved toward Jason. As she passed, her fingers brushed his arm. A gentle squeeze. A shared moment. But then—she saw him. Really saw him. The smile drained from her face. Her body went still, like every cell remembered something ancient and bracing.“Jason?” she asked quietly. “What is it?”

He looked at Jack. Then back at her. Everything in him broke a little…

“Hey, mate,” Jason said gently, crouching to Jack’s level. “How about you ask Auntie Dani to start that movie you wanted to watch?”

“What? But I thought we were gonna watch it together?” Jack frowned. “Now?”

“Just for a little while.” Jason mustered a smile. “Mummy and I need to talk about something important, okay?”

Jack hesitated, but Dani stepped in effortlessly.

“Come on, champ,” she said, grinning. “Let’s go get snacks. You can even pick the movie—no grown-up veto.”

That did it. Jack lit up and trotted off. Jason stood slowly. Clara hadn’t moved. Her gaze followed him, full of thoughts and questions. When their eyes finally met again—he reached for the letter. And everything that had once been safe began to tremble. Clara watched him, barely breathing, her eyes searching his face like she could already sense the world shifting beneath her feet. Jason held the letter loosely in his fingers, but didn’t offer it. Not yet. The weight of it was still too raw, too cruel.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting it,” Clara said softly, her voice trembling as she tried to ease the groeing tension within her. “Jack… calling you that..Daddy..wow.” she let out a shaky laugh—caught between wonder and disbelief. “I’ve never called you that to him. I didn’t want to push anything. I figured he’d be confused. Or maybe it wasn’t my place to say it yet. I thought we had time.” Her voice cracked. “And then he just… said it.” Her gaze dropped. She stared at her hands like they might steady the ache in her chest. “I missed it. I went shopping for dresses for our baby—and I missed that moment ” She shook her head, a fragile smile tugging at her lips. “He said it like he’s always known. Like you’ve always been that to him.” Jason still didn’t speak. He just wasn’t sure he could, it hurt too much right now. Clara looked back up, her eyes shimmering. “How did it feel?” she whispered. “When he called you that..”

He exhaled slowly. The question cracked something wide open inside him. He set the letter down on the table—untouched, for now. Then he looked at her, really looked at her, and the words came, quiet but relentless.

“Its strange really…I’ve thought about it,” he said. “Sometimes. Quietly. When no one was around to hear it. Wondered if he’d ever saw me like that. As his dad. If maybe—maybe—I could be enough to earn it.” His voice was rough now, thick around the edges. “But I never expected to hear him actually say it. Not really. Not after the man I used to be like back in the day.” He moved slowly, like the air had grown heavier. “You remember,” he said. “ Loud. Flirty. A bit of a player and party guy. Always looking for the next distraction, normally a woman. I didn’t take anything seriously, especially not myself. Back then, I didn’t know how to stay still, let alone show up for someone else.” He paused, jaw tight. “I was the last person anyone would’ve trusted with a child….” He looked down, then back at her. His voice softened, broke open. “But Jack did. Somehow, he did. This tiny boy with big eyes and bigger fears… he looked at me like I was safe. Like I could be something solid in his world. He let me hold him when he didn’t want anyone else near. He chose me long before I even realized it.” Jason’s throat bobbed. He moved to the window and back again, restless with emotion. “It didn’t happen all at once. It wasn’t fireworks or some big epiphany. It was quiet. In the everyday. A toy fixed. A tantrum weathered. A story read for the tenth time because he liked the silly voice I gave the dragon.” he glanced toward the hallway where Jack had disappeared. His voice turned reverent. “It crept in slowly, until one day I realized I couldn’t imagine my life without him in it. He’s not mine by blood, not by name—but he’s mine. In every way that matters Clara.” he pressed a hand to his chest, voice breaking. “He’s… everything. And being the one he called ‘Daddy’—” His breath hitched. “It was like the universe gave me something I didn’t even know I was allowed to want.”

Clara’s hand rose to her mouth, her shoulders trembling. Her eyes were glassy with tears at his beautiful heartfelt declaration, but she didn’t blink them away. She let them fall, silent and full of something she couldn’t yet name.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered. “I don’t think you even realize how much you’ve changed since you left that band all those years ago. You’re not that man anymore. You haven’t been for a long time.”

Jason closed his eyes for a beat. Then opened them, heart in his hands.

“That’s why this hurts so much.” He picked up the letter again, this time with both hands. “That’s why I don’t even know how to say this” he held it out. Clara took it, but didn’t unfold it. Her fingers trembled around the edges. And then he said it. “I think you better read it"

Taking the letter from him, Clara went utterly still. Like her body had forgotten how to breathe, how to stand. Taking a breath, she began to read. The silence that followed Jason’s words wasn’t empty—it was suffocating. A scream trapped in a jar. A room with no air. Seeing that name again terrified her instantly. Her knees buckled from under her as she clung to her swollen stomach with one hand trying to reach for the kitchen counter.. Jason lunged forward instinctively, catching her just before she collapsed. Her body hit his chest with the weight of someone who had held it together too long. Her fingers clawed at his arms, not out of panic, but something more primal. As if touching him was the only proof she hadn’t shattered completely. Her breath came in short, desperate bursts. No sound. Just trembling inhales. One after another. And then a heartbroken sob broke free from the very depth of her core.. It wasn’t loud. It was worse than that. It was raw. Muffled against his shoulder, but laced with years of fear, memory, and exhaustion. The kind of sound that carved itself into the soul of anyone who heard it.

Slowly still in his arms, Jason lowered her to the floor gently, like she was made of porcelain and grief. She folded in on herself in his arms, face buried against the curve of his neck. He felt the heat of her tears soaking into his shirt instantly, the way her body quaked with each breath she couldn’t quite catch.

“He can’t have him,” she choked out, her voice shredded and fragile. “He can’t. He can’t take him away from me..”

Jason’s jaw tightened, arms tightening around her in response. Not a word passed his lips—but his entire body answered her. He held her like a shield. Like a vow. Clara’’s hands fisted into the fabric at his back, pulling him closer, needing something—anything—to ground her. Her thoughts spun violently behind her eyes. The years she’d spent protecting Jack, the nights she’d stayed awake just to watch him breathe, the way he’d only just begun to feel safe again. It was all unraveling. Just from the sight of that envelop

The kitchen floor was cold against Clara’s bare legs, but she barely felt it. Her whole body buzzed with shock, like her nerves had been frayed and rewired. The wooden flooring beneath her was solid, unyielding—but it was Jason’s arms that kept her grounded. He sat on the kitchen floor with his back braced against the lower cabinets, legs bent to either side of Clara’s body. She was cradled in his lap, knees folded close to her chest, her entire frame curled inward like she was trying to make herself small enough to disappear. But he wouldn’t let her. One of his arms wrapped protectively yet firmly around her lower back, anchoring her to him, while the other hand rested between her shoulder blades, fingers spread wide, holding her together. She fit there—tucked against his chest like she’d always belonged. Her face was buried against the curve of his neck, warm breath ghosting over his collarbone in uneven waves. Every exhale trembled. Every inhale stuttered.Jason’s hand slowly moved up and down her spine, not to soothe her with words—he didn’t have them yet—but with presence. With rhythm. With the promise of not letting go. He pressed his cheek lightly to the top of her head, the scent of her hair grounding him even as emotion surged through him like a tide he couldn’t control. Her arms looped tightly around his waist, fists clutching handfuls of his shirt like she needed to hold on to something physical—something real—to keep from breaking apart. He felt her fingers flex every time a new wave of panic rolled through her. And beneath her—beneath all of it—he stayed still. A living shelter.

He bent his knees a little more, drawing her closer, her legs resting across one of his thighs now. His hand drifted to her hip, fingers splaying over the soft cotton of her dress as if trying to memorize the shape of her, reassuring her body as much as her mind. She was shivering—not from cold, but from the kind of sorrow that stole warmth from the bones. So he gathered her tighter. Not just to comfort her—but to contain her. To remind her she hadn’t shattered. Not yet.

Not while he was still holding her together.

Clara’s fingers had loosened from the tight grip they’d held on his back, but she still clung to the hem of his shirt, as if letting go might unmoor her completely. She could feel the tension in him—his breath, measured and deep, almost forced. The slow rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek, the way his jaw rested against the top of her head like it belonged there. His skin was warm. His shirt smelled like clean cotton and something distinctively him—a note of aftershave, a faint echo of the outdoors. Comfort. Home. 

The silence stretched.

It wasn’t empty. It was full—of breath, of heartbeat, of memories. Jason’s hand slipped up to cradle the back of her head. His fingers threaded gently through her hair, slow and careful, like touching something fragile. Her eyes slipped closed, and for a moment, the sound of her breathing matched his. Outside, wind rattled faintly against the kitchen window. Somewhere down the hall, the sound of Jack’s movie flickered like a far-off echo, punctuated by his quiet giggles. That sound—the small, joyous murmur of their boy—cut through the fear like a flare in the dark. Jason shifted slightly, his arms tightening.

“We’re still here,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp in her ear. “He’s still ours…nothing is ever going to change that”

Clara’s throat tightened. Her tears had slowed, but her chest still felt like it was cracked open. She didn’t speak—just pressed her face closer into the crook of his neck, where the scent of safety lived, where his heartbeat was steady beneath her lips. Her hand moved to his chest, resting just over his heart. She could feel it—strong, steady, real. A metronome for everything they had survived. The baby shifted inside her, a faint flutter low and quiet—like even that small life knew something had changed. Jason felt it too. He stilled. His hand slid down to her stomach, resting there gently. Their fingers met—her hand on top of his, covering the curve of their future. For a moment, neither spoke.

And then Clara whispered, her voice nearly lost in the hush between them: 

“I’m scared.”

Jason’s eyes closed. He leaned forward, forehead brushing hers, their breath shared in a single space. Jason held her like she was breaking—and maybe she was. But beneath the shaking and the silence, there was something else forming too. Something sharper. Resolve. Clara’s breath began to slow, inch by inch. Her grip on his shirt loosened, just slightly. And then she shifted—just enough to look at him. Her face was blotched with tears, eyes rimmed in red. But they were clearer now. Focused.

“We won’t let him win,” she said hoarsely. Jason blinked, searching for her expression. She sat back a little, still cradled by his arms but no longer collapsed inside them. “We’ve done everything right,” she said, voice steadier with every word. “We’ve given Jack safety. Love. A real home. And Sean—he’s never once earned that.” Her jaw clenched. “He abandoned him. He hurt us. And now he thinks he can just walk back in and rewrite history?” Her spine straightened, slow and deliberate. Her hand came to rest over her belly, protective and fierce. “No.” Her voice was soft—but steel ran beneath it. “He doesn’t get to take our son away... You're his Dad Jason in every way…i dont need blood or DNA to tell me that..you've been his father for the past 2 years..”

“Clara…” Jason’s throat tightened at the word: our. She hadn’t said it by accident. She looked at him, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The room was quiet—except for the faint sound of a movie playing down the hall, Jack’s laughter distant but real. Jason cupped her face gently, brushing a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “I’ll fight,” he whispered. “I don’t care how long it takes. How ugly it gets or how much it costs me. I’ll fight for him. For you. For this family...our Family”

She leaned into his touch, just a fraction. Her lips parted with a shaky breath, then pressed together like she was trying to hold something in. But she didn’t have to anymore. Not with him.

“I know,” she said.

And then she folded into him again—not like before, not shattered—but seeking closeness. Strength. Something steady. Jason held her tighter. They didn’t say anything for a while after that. They didn’t need to. Because now, beneath the fear, beneath the grief, something else had taken root. A shared knowing. A promise made in silence. And an unspoken vow to never let go.

Dani stood in the shadow of the hallway watching them both, her shoulder resting against the doorframe, arms crossed as though trying to contain the storm swelling in her chest. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop — not really. She’d only come looking for her bag, but when she heard Clara’s voice, low and cracking, she froze. Then Jason started speaking, and Dani couldn't bring herself to move. Now, she watched them — her sister in law and the man who had become so much more than any of them had expected. She watched Jason kneel before Clara, his voice a soft, steady thread wrapping around her like balm. Dani couldn’t make out the words, but she didn’t need to. She saw it in the way he looked at her — reverent, protective, full of an aching, steady love. He rose slowly, drawing Clara to her feet with gentle hands. Her fingers clung to him for balance, and he wrapped his arms around her as though shielding her from the world that had once broken her.

She felt something inside her crack. She stood still as Jason reached up to brush the tears from Clara’s cheeks, his thumb lingering with quiet tenderness. Clara laughed softly, embarrassed, wiping her eyes, but Jason simply leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers. It wasn’t a grand gesture. Just simple, quiet intimacy — and it said more than words ever could. And all Dani could think about was Sean. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her throat burning. The bruises Clara had hidden beneath turtlenecks. The trembling hands clutching mugs of untouched tea. The hollow-eyed silence. Dani had held her through it all, whispering promises she’d never been sure she could keep. Promises that Clara wouldn’t be alone. That she’d find light again. Now, watching Jason hold her — like she was precious, like she mattered — unspooled something fierce and fragile inside Dani. She blinked quickly, swallowing the tight knot in her throat, and stepped back from the doorway. This was Clara’s moment. Her healing. Dani knew she couldn’t intrude. So She made her way back to the lounge where Jack sat curled into the corner of the sofa, a well-worn comic about space explorers flopped open across his lap. He looked up immediately, brows knitting.

“You okay?” he asked.

Dani mustered a smile and sank beside him, curling one leg under herself. “Yeah,” she said, though her voice didn’t quite reach full volume.

“are you sure?” Jack studied her, quietly perceptive. “You look... kind of sad.”

“No, not sad,” she said, shaking her head gently. “Just thinking about stuff.”

“Auntie Dani…” He waited. Then, softly whispered, “I didn’t mean to make Mummy upset earlier. When I called Jason Daddy....

“Jack…” Dani blinked. “Sweetheart... why would you think that would upset her?”

“I dont know..” He shrugged. “She looked surprised. Not mad I guess, just... like she didn’t expect it. I didn’t know if I was allowed.”

“Oh, Jack.” She reached out and smoothed a hand over his hair. “You don’t need permission to love someone my sweet boy”

“And I love him loads” He bit his lip, eyes fixed on his fingers. “I just wanted to. He feels like my dad. More than anyone else ever has.” Instantly Dani felt her heart twist at the innocence in his voice. “He helps with school stuff,” Jack went on. “He makes Mummy laugh and he's always dancing with her in the kitchfn. He's always waiting for me at the gates, even when it is raining…he gives the best cuddles too. Dads do that, right?”

Dani nodded, eyes stinging. “Yeah, they do. And Jason does it all because he wants to — not because he has to.”

His eyes lifted to hers, hope flickering. “So it’s okay?”

“It’s more than okay.” She smiled through the tightness in her chest. “Jason’s the best dad anyone could ask for. And I think you’re really lucky to have someone as special as him in both your lives.” Jack beamed, pride blooming across his face like sunshine. Dani let the moment sit, warm and quiet, before nudging him with her elbow. “Speaking of lucky... guess what?”

“What?” he asked, instantly alert.

“We’ve got a new gorilla arriving at the zoo first thing tomorrow morning. Big guy. Probably grumpy. Definitely loud.”

Jack’s jaw dropped. “Seriously?!”

“Oh yeah,” she grinned. “And I need someone brave enough to help me settle him in. Think you’re up for the job?”

His eyes lit up. “Can I really come?”

“Well... only if you stay over at mine and Uncle Chris’s tonight,” she teased. She wanted to give Clara and Jason some alone time plus she loved spending time with her beloved nephew “You’ll have to be up at the crack of dawn though.”

He shot to his feet like he’d been launched by springs. “I’m in! I’m gonna go tell Mum and Ja…I mean Daddy!”

And just like that, he bolted from the room, voice echoing down the hallway in a whirlwind of excitement.

Dani watched him go, a deep ache and warmth tangling in her chest. There had been so much loss. So much pain. But now — here in the quiet aftermath — there was love. And laughter. And a boy who was learning what it felt like to be truly safe.

Sometimes healing didn’t shout. Sometimes it arrived on soft footsteps, in shared smiles, in the thrill of a child racing toward something new — and the promise of a brand-new day beginning with the rumble of a delivery truck and a gorilla’s sleepy growl.

The echo of Jack’s footsteps faded into the hallway, leaving behind a hush that felt almost sacred — the kind of quiet that follows something raw and real. The three of them stood in it, suspended. Jason let out a slow breath, his hand still curled gently around Clara’s. Her face was flushed, her eyes red-rimmed but clear, the kind of clarity that only came after tears. There was strength in her expression now — a flicker of peace where chaos had once lived. Behind them, a soft shuffle of footsteps broke the silence. Dani stepped forward from the archway, one hand loosely rubbing the back of her neck. The silence left behind wasn’t hollow. It was rich. Something sacred. She let herself breathe in that stillness — the aftertaste of healing — then rose, letting her feet carry her forward. Her heart thundered softly, not from nerves, but from the sheer magnitude of what she’d just seen. In the next room, Clara and Jason stood facing one another, hands still lightly linked.

"Hey.."Dani stepped into view, rubbing the back of her neck. “I didn’t mean to listen in...im really sorry” she said, voice low. “I was grabbing my bag and... I just... couldn’t walk away..look, im going to take Jack for the night…give you both some space..hes just gone to grab his rucksack.”

Jason turned first. Clara followed. There was no anger in their expressions. Just weariness, and something warmer blooming beneath it.

“You don’t need to apologise,” Clara said quietly.”and thank you for taking him…we appreciate it…”

“you know there isn't anything I'd for you both…”Dani crossed into the room, her voice gaining steadiness. “You both deserve peace tonight…I watched the way he looked at you,” she said, nodding to Jason. “And how you let him. Like you trusted him with the most breakable part of you. And you never used to let anyone near that.”

Clara’s voice wavered. “I didn’t think I ever would again.”

“I know,” Dani said, swallowing thickly. “I remember the nights I sat outside your room because you couldn’t sleep without the door open. I remember how long it took for you to wear your hair up again. And now... I see you smile. Really smile.” She stepped closer. “I know Sean’s trying to claw his way back in. That he filed for custody like it was a formality. But he’s not getting Jack. I’ll fight that with everything I have — and so will Jason.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. “He won’t win. He might have fooled people before. But he won’t fool the courts now. Not with the evidence. Not with the truth.”

“I don’t want to live in fear anymore,” she whispered. Clara’s hand trembled in his. But she held on.

“You don’t have to,” Dani said. “You’re not alone. You never were.”

They folded into one another then — the three of them standing not in triumph, but in survival. In grace. In something earned the hard way.

Clara turned to Dani, her voice low but certain. “I wouldn’t be here without you.”

“You would,” Dani said. “But I’m grateful I got to walk beside you.” Then she looked at Jason, her gaze soft. “And you... thank you. For loving her gently. For never asking her to be more than she is. For loving Jack like he’s your own.”

“He's my son Dani…” Jason gave a small, quiet smile. “He is my own. Not by blood. But by everything else. Everything that counts and everything that matters”

“ That boy loves the bones of you Jason Orange” Dani’s voice broke into a quiet laugh. “He’s planning to bring binoculars tomorrow. Said he wants to be your ‘gorilla scout.’”

The patter of familiar footsteps soon broke the quiet — fast, eager, full of light. Jack burst into the room, his backpack thumping against his shoulders, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Ready!” he declared breathlessly. “Got some snacks, gorilla book, and my special binoculars — just in case he hides in the bushes or something!”

His grin was so wide it nearly swallowed his face, the kind of joy that radiated outward and pulled everyone into its orbit. Jason turned at once, his face softening as he dropped to a knee. Jack skidded to a stop in front of him, barely able to contain the energy vibrating through his small frame.

“Hey mate,” Jason said gently, resting his hands on Jack’s shoulders. “Big day ahead according to Aunt Dani now, huh?” Jack nodded with such enthusiasm his hair flopped forward over his eyes. Jason reached up and brushed it back, fingers lingering with quiet affection. “I’m proud of you,” he said softly.

“what for?” Jack blinked, surprised. “Why?”

“i don't need a reason to be proud of you Jack but if i had to say why…” Jason smiled, his voice a thread of something steady and true. “its mainly because you’re brave. You’re kind. You’re curious and honest. And because you love with your whole heart, and that’s the bravest thing of all.”

“Daddy?” Jack looked down for a second, almost bashful — then peeked up again. “Are you and mummy gonna be okay without me?”

Jason chuckled, heart twisting. “Barely. I’ll probably mope the whole time.” Jack’s eyes widened, amused. “But,” Jason added, “if you promise to come back with gorilla stories — especially the loud, messy, funny ones — I think I’ll survive.”

Jack nodded solemnly. “I’ll bring a million. Maybe more.”

Jason leaned in and pulled him into a hug — strong and protective, a quiet fortress built in an instant. Jack wrapped his arms around his neck without hesitation, clinging with the open-hearted trust that only children carry so easily. Clara stood watching, her hand drifting toward Dani’s. Without a word, Dani reached for it, their fingers intertwining — a simple gesture, full of gravity. They’d once clung to each other like lifelines. Now they held hands like anchors — not to survive the storm, but to honor the calm after it.

“Right…” Jason released Jack slowly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Go grab your coat. And dont forgetting the snacks. Make sure Aunt Dani takes lots of pictures for me”

“I won’t!” Jack spun and bolted from the room like a spark lit his heels, joy trailing behind him like streamers. The silence he left behind was full, but not heavy.

Clara leaned against Dani, letting her head rest briefly on her sister’s shoulder.

“Do you think he knows?” she whispered

Dani glanced at her. “Knows what?”

“How much he’s healing me. Every day.”

Dani smiled softly, her eyes glossy. “I think he knows. And I think Jason does too.”

Clara looked toward where Jason still knelt, his hands resting on his thighs, eyes wet but smiling. The man who had seen every scar and never once looked away. Who had held her pain like something sacred. Who had shown her, day after day, that love didn’t have to come with fear. She stepped forward and stood beside him, her fingers brushing his. He turned to her — and the way he looked at her then, like she was made of light and hope and the strength it took to survive — made her throat close.

“I love you,” she whispered, just for him. “More than you ever know..”

“I love you too…”Jason smiled through the wet shimmer in his eyes. “You saved me first, you know that right?.”

She shook her head gently. “Not like you saved me.”

He leaned in, forehead to hers. “Exactly like I did.”

Dani stood quietly in the doorway, watching them — this beautiful, battered family who had grown from so much brokenness. Jack’s laughter echoed faintly from the hallway, and something inside her released. They had all walked through the fire And now, in the quiet aftermath, they stood among the ashes — not charred or hollow, but alive.

Changed…..Rooted in love.

Later that night, after the laughter had faded down the drive and Jack’s voice became just a distant echo riding the night air, Clara stood by the window, arms folded loosely across her chest. She watched the taillights disappear into the dark, swallowed by trees and silence. But the stillness that followed wasn’t empty. It was full in a different way — gentle, breathable, the kind of quiet that didn't echo loneliness, but presence.

Behind her came the soft strike of a match. A pause. Then the fireplace answered with a low hiss as the flames caught, curling around pine kindling. The scent of wood smoke crept into the room — earthy and grounding, like the memory of a childhood she almost remembered, one with winter nights and safe arms.

Jason was still crouched at the hearth, adding another log, coaxing the flames higher until they danced in golden ribbons behind the grate. The firelight pulsed softly against the walls, casting flickering shadows that breathed along the floorboards. He moved with an easy sort of care, brushing ash from his hands onto his jeans as he stood. His gaze found hers across the room — not surprised, just steady, like he'd been waiting in that silence with her.

“Come here,” he said gently.

It wasn’t a request so much as an invitation — one that reached through the distance between them with warmth. She moved toward him without a word, drawn not by obligation but by something deeper. Something quiet and rooted. Jason settled into the corner of the sofa, opening his arms like a space he’d made just for her, and she went to him like a tide returning home. She curled into his side without hesitation, her cheek settling against the firm curve of his chest. The steady thrum of his heart was right there beneath her ear — familiar, unchanging. Her fingers brushed against his shirt, then stilled. His arm came around her shoulders, slow and sure, drawing her in with a tenderness that didn’t ask anything in return. He was always like this — not performative, not trying to prove love, just embodying it in every motion. His touch was slow, rhythmic, grounding: his palm resting against her arm, his other hand gently stroking through her hair. No pressure. No expectation. Just presence. Outside, the wind whispered at the windows. Inside, the fire popped softly in the hearth. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding — not from exhaustion, but release. Her body softened, unclenching inch by inch as his warmth seeped into her.

There had been a time — not long ago, really — when even kindness made her flinch. When the sound of another heartbeat, another body too close, felt like a threat. But Jason didn't. His touch never startled her. It invited her. It asked her to breathe. To stay. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself in the weight of him, the certainty of him. Every place their bodies touched — his thigh brushing hers, the rise and fall of his breath under her cheek, the slow circles he traced at the nape of her neck — felt like balm. Soothing parts of her that still trembled sometimes, invisible scars tugged by old ghosts. She closed her eyes. He didn’t speak, and neither did she. There was no need. In the hush between them, she felt herself unspool. Not in grief, not in fear — but in peace. In the unfamiliar, tentative wholeness of being held without having to brace for the cost of it.

Jason’s fingers now threaded through her hair again, slow and certain. You’re safe, the motion seemed to say. Not in words. In touch. In breath. In presence. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Clara believed it. Not because someone had told her — but because her own body did not shrink. Because her pulse no longer fled. Because this love, quiet and consistent, had made space for her to return to herself. She nestled closer, breathing in the scent of woodsmoke and cotton and Jason’s skin — warm and familiar. The fire cracked gently beside them, and the world outside slipped further away. Here, in the cradle of his arms, she was not healing for anyone else. Not surviving. Just existing. Just loved. And that, more than anything, was what made her whole. The silence lingered a little longer, but it was no longer weighty. It was full — of breath, of warmth, of a rhythm they shared now without needing to speak.

Then Clara shifted slightly, her fingers absently brushing across Jason’s chest. “He’s doing this because of the photos, you know,” she said quietly, not looking up. “The ones from the cafe of you and Jack. He's seen them Jason..I know it.” Her voice was steady, but he could feel the undercurrent of tension tightening in her shoulders again. “He saw it. And he recognised you..he knows who you are.” Jason didn’t speak at first. He just tightened his hold, his hand resting protectively along her spine. Clara let out a slow breath. “He doesn’t care about Jack. Not really. He never did. But now? Now he sees a chance. A headline. An angle.”

“You think he's doing this…” Jason’s voice was low, calm, but edged with steel. “Because I used to be in a boyband in the 90s?. Because of who I was a lifetime ago?”

 "Yes..Because he knows who you are now. Because he knows you’ve got a house with more than one bathroom and a name he can Google. He just sees pound signs, Jason. Leverage.” Her fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt. “Sean’s always been manipulative. Charming, when he needs to be. Cruel when he doesn’t. He’s got this way of turning everything around, making it feel like you’re the one in the wrong, like you’re overreacting. And if you push back, he makes you doubt yourself for it.”

Jason’s jaw ticked faintly as he listened. “Has he ever reached out to you before?”

“No..” She paused. “But that’s worse in some ways. He doesn’t need to yell to hurt people. He just... sets things in motion and watches from a distance.”

Jason cupped the back of her head, gently guiding her back against his chest. “Hey. You’re not going through this alone. I promise you that.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I’m still scared.”

“I’d be worried if you weren’t,” he murmured. “But we’ve got truth on our side. And love. And Jack — he’s got us.” He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, lingering. “I’ll call Matt in the morning. We’ll get ahead of this. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

She looked up then, eyes shining, vulnerable. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His voice was gentle but resolute. “This isn’t just your fight. It never was.”

“You won't let him take my little boy away from me will you?” She pleaded. Her gaze softened, and she let out a breath that trembled slightly before it calmed. “please don't let him Jason”

“He won’t get the chance, Not while I have breath in my body” Jason soothed. “ Besides, Jack knows who his real family is. And if this goes to court, we’ll fight with everything we’ve got. You’ve built a life for that boy — a real one. You gave him safety, love, stability. Sean doesn’t get to claim that just because he saw a photo online of me..he's no father..”

"you're Jack’s father in my eyes” Clara leaned up then, her fingers brushing his cheek. “it was so beautiful hearing him call you Dad today,” she said softly.

Jason’s throat worked around the emotion that rose there. “Yeah. I didn’t want to make a thing of it. Didn’t want him to think he had to take it back either to be honest.”

“He didn’t mean to say it out loud. But he meant it.” Her thumb traced a small arc across his jaw. “You’ve been a dac for him for the past two years now… You show up. You protect him. You listen. You’re the one he looks for in the crowd...not Sean…you”

“i know” Jason swallowed, and then smiled — small, full of feeling. “It wrecked me a little hearing him say it, i'm not going to lie...but it was In the best way.”

“You’re not trying to replace anything. You’re just... filling in the spaces where Sean was never present.” Her voice dipped. “And I think part of me is grieving that. But the rest of me? The rest is just grateful.” Jason leaned down, brushing his lips gently to hers. It wasn’t rushed — just a kiss that spoke of steadiness, of promise, of being here. Fully. Without retreat. When they broke apart, Clara rested her forehead against his. “Thank you for not walking away from this mess.”

“It’s not a mess. It’s our life. And I’m exactly where I want to be…with you…”

Clara traced the edge of Jason’s shirt collar with slow, absent fingers, eyes half-lidded against the glow of the fire. The silence between them had softened into something warm and weightless — not empty, but full of unspoken understanding. They sat like that, entwined, while the fire whispered beside them — two hearts learning how to be whole again, not through grand declarations, but in the steady quiet of being seen and staying anyway. She let the quiet stretch, then lifted her gaze to meet his.

“I don’t say it enough,” she murmured. “Not really. Not in the way it deserves. But I’m grateful for you, Jason Orange. Every single day.” His brow furrowed slightly — not from confusion, but from the weight of what she was offering. He didn’t interrupt. “I mean it,” she went on. “You came into our lives like... like light cracking through a storm. Not loud. Not demanding. Just... steady. And I think I’d forgotten what that kind of safety even felt like. You gave it back to me. To Jack.” Her throat caught for a second. “You made it possible for us to breathe again.”

Jason swallowed hard, and his hand, still cradling her shoulder, squeezed gently. “Clara…”

“No, let me finish..” She shook her head, eyes shimmering. “You’ve seen me at my worst. You’ve held me through it. You’ve helped me rebuild from nothing. And the way you love him — Jack — it’s not something I’ll ever stop being amazed by. You didn’t just step in. You became home for him…for me…and now this baby…our baby ”

Jason's expression cracked open with something raw and luminous. “He made it easy Clara…so did you,” he said quietly. “Jack... he’s extraordinary. Brave. Kind. Funny. And he still trusts people — after everything. That’s not just him, you know. That’s you. Hes part of you so that makes him part of me now...”

Clara leaned in, her forehead resting lightly against his. “We were broken. Both of us. And you... you loved us anyway.”

“I never saw broken,” Jason whispered. “I saw strength. I saw someone fighting every single day to be whole. And I saw this boy who deserved the world, and a mother who was determined to give it to him.”

Clara closed her eyes, breath hitching. “You gave us back our joy.”

Jason tilted his head just slightly, eyes shining now too. “You gave me purpose,” he said. “It started because I needed something to believe in again. Something that wasn’t about chart singles, fame and screaming girls. I was burnt out. Spinning my wheels. Then I met you. And suddenly, everything clicked.”

Clara blinked. “Jason…” He cupped her face gently.

“You made me feel real again. Like I mattered. But more than that — you made life feel alive. Watching you, the way you care for every fragile, forgotten soul... it reminded me who I wanted to be.”

Her breath hitched again. “You saved me, Jason, Jack. And now Hope…”

At the sound of her name, Jason’s eyes softened. “She’s a miracle,..our little girl” he whispered. “And not just because she’s breathing. Because she’s yours. Because she’s ours.”

Clara smiled through the tears that shimmered, unshed, in her lashes. “I used to think I’d never have a family again. That Sean had destroyed that part of me.”

Jason leaned in and kissed her softly — a slow, reverent touch that held no urgency, only depth.

“You do have a family,” he whispered against her lips. “You have Jack. You have Hope. You have me. And no one — not Sean, not his money, not some courtroom — can ever take that from you.”

She let herself sink into him, every part of her yielding to that truth, to the comfort of being completely known and still completely loved. The fire crackled. The wind sighed against the glass. But inside, wrapped in his arms, Clara finally let herself believe it — that love, real love, could stay. That it could be quiet and healing and whole. That maybe this time, she was safe. Jason’s thumb brushed the curve of Clara’s jaw, his gaze locked with hers — not intense, not urgent, just wholly present. Everything else had fallen away: the fire, the storm of Sean’s threats, the noise of the past. All that remained was this: the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek, the warmth of his touch, the way he looked at her like she was something sacred. Clara lifted her hand, let her fingers thread into the hair at the nape of his neck — soft, familiar, grounding. Her other hand rested flat over his heart, feeling its pulse. He leaned in, and she met him halfway, their foreheads touching, breaths mingling. Then, slowly, they kissed.

Not a kiss of desperation or need — but of knowing. Of quiet reverence. His lips moved against hers like a promise, like a breath taken after holding it too long. She melted into him, letting go of the fear that still hovered at the edges of her mind. Jason's hand cradled the back of her head, fingers weaving into her hair, holding her as though he could anchor her just by touch alone. Clara felt it everywhere — not just the press of his mouth, but the way he exhaled softly as he kissed her, the subtle tremble in his hand where it cupped her ribs, the way their bodies instinctively curved into each other. It was full of everything they hadn't had the words to say — gratitude, tenderness, healing. When they finally pulled apart, it was by the smallest margin, their noses still brushing, breath shared in a fragile hush.

“I love you,” Jason whispered, his voice breaking at the edges. “And I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”

Clara let out a trembling breath and smiled, tears slipping down her cheeks, slow and silent. “I believe you,” she said. “For the first time in a long time... I believe I don’t have to face everything alone.”

He kissed her again — softer this time, like sealing a vow. They stayed there for a long moment, curled into each other on the sofa, surrounded by firelight and shadows that no longer frightened her. And as Clara laid her head once more against his chest, listening to the lull of his heartbeat and feeling the safety of his arms wrapped tight around her, she thought of how far they’d come. From silence and survival to this: warmth, connection, love that asked nothing but gave everything.

They stayed there for a long moment, curled into each other on the sofa, firelight flickering against the walls, shadows no longer something to fear. Clara rested her head once more against Jason’s chest, listening to the hush of his heartbeat — steady, real, hers. The world outside could stay storming. Here, wrapped in his arms, she was whole. She thought of the woman she used to be — braced for survival, stitched together by silence and fear. And now… this. This peace. This love. Not loud or perfect, but present. Enduring. True. Something long-buried inside her exhaled, soft and deep, like roots settling into warm earth.

She looked up at him, eyes glimmering. “We’re not broken anymore.”

Jason smiled, kissed the crown of her head, and whispered, “No. you never was...”

And in that quiet, in that golden hush between firelight and heartbeats, Clara finally let herself believe it: She was home.

And this time, she wasn’t just staying. She was choosing it.

Chapter Text

Morning soon slipped through the curtains in gentle ribbons of gold, soft and hesitant—as if even the dawn itself paused, reluctant to break the fragile peace between them. Clara lay still beneath the quiet hush of waking light, her body molded against the warmth of the sheets and the steady, comforting rhythm of Jason’s breath brushing like a whispered caress against her shoulder. She didn’t move, choosing instead to just simply watch him—his face relaxed, serene in sleep, lashes fanning delicately against his cheeks. One hand lay flung lazily across the rumpled sheets, the other resting near the gentle curve of her stomach, as if instinctively guarding the life growing inside her. It was a small, sacred space of quiet intimacy, where the world beyond seemed to soften and fall away. Even in sleep, Jason’s expression held a quiet melancholy—an unspoken weight beneath his calm exterior, like he had lived whole lifetimes of silence and longing before she ever entered his world. But now, in this tender morning stillness, that sorrow felt softened, tempered by the hope and love that bound them here, in this fragile, perfect moment. Clara’s fingers twined gently in his hair, marveling at the softness beneath her touch, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the surface—steady and sure, a promise unspoken but deeply felt. Here, in the hush of dawn, everything that had once felt broken was beginning to mend.

Jason Orange. Once a name thundered through packed arenas, shouted and sung at by thousands in unison—a force larger than life itself. The mystery behind the music—the man whose effortless smile ignited a generation, capturing hearts before slipping away with a quiet, almost ghostly grace that left fans yearning. The enigma wrapped in layers of fame and silence, the boyband heartthrob who vanished from the spotlight but never from memory. But now, here he was. No longer just a legend framed by flashing lights and roaring crowds, but a man transformed—softened, deepened by love and life as he settled into middle age. The impossible gentleness in his hands, the quiet strength in his presence. The way his eyes held tenderness when they found hers—a far cry from the polished boyband heartthrob they once knew. The man who seemed untouchable had become Clara’s anchor, the steady heartbeat beside her in a world suddenly fragile and precious.

He was hers—not in fleeting moments or whispered secrets alone, but in every shared breath, every stolen smile, every promise made and kept. A protector not just of her, but of the life growing inside her—their child, their future. Jason Orange, the former Take That enigma, now was a man who loved fiercely, deeply, without reserve. A man who had chosen her and who would stand with her come what may. She watched him as if memorizing the quiet peace etched into his features—the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, earned through laughter and loss. The softness of his brow, the calm strength behind the jaw she’d seen tighten numerous times since they first got together. Her hand moved on its own, sliding a lock of hair from his forehead, fingertips threading slowly through the silky strands. He stirred at her touch, never fully waking—only shifting toward her warmth, seeking her as if drawn by an invisible thread. A soft breath escaped him, a sound caught between a sigh and her name, and in that fragile moment, the enormity of everything settled over her like a tide....She was carrying his child.

A truth so delicate, so wondrous, it caught in her throat whenever she let herself truly feel it. This tiny life within her—half his, half hers—already a symphony of hope and love. A promise rising from the ashes of all they’d survived from both their pasts. Not born from fear or escape, but from a love that was real. Steady. Chosen. Once, she’d doubted she could ever belong so wholly. If the wreckage she carried inside would forever keep her at arm’s length from the life she longed for. But Jason never flinched. He held her hand through every echo of pain. He whispered back to her from every edge. Never rushing, only standing firm beside her. She lay next to him, remembering the first time he cradled her head to his chest, the way his arms folded around her like he was made for that singular purpose—to shield, to hold, to stay. How safe she’d felt in that cocoon of warmth. How fiercely loved. As if every wound was seen—and none of them could disqualify her from being held by him. She looked at him now—her past, her present, her quiet, unspoken future—and marveled.. But more than that, she was in love with the man behind the breakdancing and 90s ballads. She hadn’t fallen for the man on the posters, or the voice nervously strumming a guitar to adoring crowds. She hadn’t fallen for the dancer or the heartthrob who once stole the spotlight. She’d fallen for the man who looked at Jack like he was treasure. The man who chose a quiet life and built something sacred in its stillness with her. For the way he made tea without asking when her hands shook too hard to hold a mug. For the way he held her like she was made of light—yet still let her burn. Eventually He shifted again. This time, his eyes blinked open—bleary, slow, and warm. A shadow of sleep still softened his gaze, and the faintest smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, as if his dream had followed him into waking.

“Mornin’,” he murmured, voice husky with sleep and closeness.

Clara leaned down, her hair brushing his forehead as she pressed a kiss there—tender, reverent. “Hey,” she whispered, her thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone. “You were dreaming.”

“Was I?” His voice was a thread of gravel and velvet, and his eyes, though still fogged by sleep, began to focus—first on her face, then trailing downward.

His gaze stilled. There, beneath her nightshirt, her hand had come to rest over the subtle curve of her belly—barely there, yet everything. A breath caught in his chest. His expression changed—not dramatically, not with shock or overwhelming emotion, but something quieter. Deeper. His features shifted into a kind of stillness, like a prayer had just taken form inside him. Clara watched his reaction, the soft awe blooming in his eyes like dawn’s first blush.

“We both were,” she whispered, lips trembling with truth. “But this… this isn’t a dream.”

“No,” he murmured. Jason reached for her hand. Carefully, as though afraid to wake something sacred. He brought her fingers to his mouth and pressed them to his lips, lingering. “It’s a becoming.”

Something caught Clara’s chest. Not grief. Not fear. Just the weightless ache of being known, loved, and safe all at once. And for the first time in years, She didn’t need to brace for the fall. She simply let herself be held by the moment. And believed. Jason soon shifted onto his side, the covers rustling with him, one arm wrapping around her waist with the ease of someone whose body had memorized hers. His palm found the small of her back—warm, grounding, splayed wide—and pulled her gently to him. Their foreheads touched, his breath soft against her skin, mingling with hers. Clara nestled against him, her head fitting beneath his chin like it belonged there. She closed her eyes and breathed him in—sandalwood, sleep, and the faintest ghost of the fire they’d lit the night before. That scent had become her compass. Her home. His thumb moved in slow, hypnotic circles at the base of her spine. Neither spoke. Not yet. The silence between them was thick, but not heavy. Sacred. The kind of silence born not of absence, but of presence—two souls who had learned the language of quiet comfort.

“I didn’t sleep much,” Clara admitted finally, her voice barely more than breath

Jason’s hand paused, then resumed. “I know.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were shadowed with the ache of memory, of uncertainty. “That letter,” she said. “It just… loops in my head. I close my eyes and there it is. His name. Always his name…and those words”

Jason’s jaw tightened, not with frustration at her—but at the world that had made her flinch so often, even in safety. His hand rose, cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath her eye.

“Look at me.” His voice had changed—low and unwavering, anchored in something immovable. “He won’t get near him, Clara. I swear to you”

Her lips trembled. “But the law—”

“I don’t give a fuck what the law says,” he cut in, gentle but firm. “Not if it puts Jack at risk. Sean Markson can wave all the paper he wants. He’s a stranger to Jack. He was a stranger to you even when he wasn’t. He doesn’t get to rewrite history just because he’s decided he wants a page in it now.”

She swallowed hard. “But what if he twists it? He always knew how. He made me look unstable. Like I was emotional. Too much.”

Jason shook his head, his hand never leaving her face. “You’re not too much. You never were. You were surviving. You were protecting yourself…protecting Jack” He moved his hand down, resting it over her stomach, his palm flat, fingers reverent. “And now you’re protecting someone else.”

Her heart cracked open all over again—not from pain this time, but from how deeply she loved this man.

“He’ll try to scare us,” she whispered. “That’s what he does. With words. With silence. With showing up when you finally let yourself believe he’s gone.”

Jason’s eyes darkened—not with fear, but with purpose. “Then let him come,” he said quietly. “Let him try.”

Clara looked at him—truly looked—and felt the breath leave her lungs. There was no performance in him. No inflated promises. Just presence. Steadfast and unflinching. He wasn’t posturing to reassure her. He didn’t need to. He simply meant it. He would protect them—not with rage, but with stillness. Not with vengeance, but with loyalty. With love that didn’t shift when things got hard. He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers again, their shared breath quiet between them.

“I don’t care who he was,” Jason said. “I care who you are now. Who Jack is. Who we are together. You’re not doing this alone Clara... Not anymore.” Clara’s hand found his chest, her palm pressed over the beat of his heart—steady, strong, real.

“I know,” she said, tears slipping finally. “I believe you.”

Jason then kissed her—slow and deep, like he had all the time in the world. It wasn’t hurried, wasn’t fueled by heat or hunger, though both flickered beneath the surface. This was something older. Truer. A language they’d written together over sleepless nights and whispered reassurances, over laughter in quiet kitchens and tears shed behind closed doors. It was the kind of kiss that said you are safe now, you are mine, and I am yours, and nothing will move me from your side.

His hand framed her face, thumb tracing the line of her jaw as his lips moved with reverence against hers—gentle but certain, like he was kissing both the woman she was and every girl she’d once been who thought she might never be loved this way. She melted into it instantly, her hands fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself to the reality of him, the truth of his presence. And he held her like she was something sacred. Something breakable, but not broken. Their mouths moved in slow communion, not trying to erase the past, but rewriting what tenderness could feel like. His breath caught slightly when she exhaled into him, when her fingers slipped up to cradle the nape of his neck. He deepened the kiss just enough to let her know he was here, in this moment, in this life, with her—completely.

When they finally parted, it wasn’t with reluctance, but with a kind of reverent slowness—as if pulling away too quickly might undo something delicate. He pressed one last, lingering kiss to her bottom lip, then rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the stillness between. Then his hand returned to her belly, warm and steady. It wasn’t just a gesture. It was an unspoken vow. He let it rest there, splayed across the place where their child grew quietly beneath skin and heartbeat and hope. His thumb brushed absent-mindedly over the curve, anchoring them both to something bigger than fear or memory. Claiming this quiet, fierce future with a devotion that had nothing to prove. Jason didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The kiss had said it all.

“I think I’m going to run you a bath,” he said, voice still gravelly with morning, but already touched with that teasing tone she’d come to adore. “You need spoiling. And I happen to be extremely good at that.”

Clara raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “Are you being chivalrous... or just hoping to sneak a view of me naked again?”

He let out a soft laugh, eyes sparkling. “Can’t a man do both?” he quipped, leaning in to brush his nose against hers. “Besides, I think it’s in my contract now—daily worship of the goddess growing my child inside her”

She smirked. “Flattery and steamy water? You really are pulling out all the stops this morning.”

“Only because you’re worth it,” he murmured, the mischief in his voice giving way to something gentler. His hand slid from her belly to her waist, anchoring them in that quiet morning intimacy. “Honestly, love... you didn’t sleep well. You’ve been carrying so much recently —more than just this little one.” He glanced down, his hand spreading protectively across the swell of her stomach. “You need rest. Care. Peace.” His voice softened further, dipped into something reverent. “And I want to give you that. All of it.”

She stilled at the sincerity in his gaze—wide open and tender, his boyish charm eclipsed now by something deeper, rooted. He looked at her like she was something sacred, something fragile he was lucky enough to hold and desperate never to harm.

Clara reached up, brushing her fingers through his hair. “You already do. Even when you’re not trying.”

He leaned in then, kissing her slowly, like a thank you he didn’t know how to say with words. When he pulled back, his hand lingered on her cheek.

“I’ll make it just the right temperature,” he said with a grin, trying to lighten the gravity between them. “With that ridiculous fancy bath oil that smells like a French bakery.”

“Don't you mock me Orange..” she chuckled. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

He stood, bare feet padding softly across the floor as he called over his shoulder, “That’s slander, and I’ll sue you after I bring you tea.”

Clara watched him go, the soft sway of his back disappearing into the en suite, the low hum of running water soon filling the silence he left behind. Her hand drifted instinctively to the place he'd just been, fingertips grazing the warm hollow in the sheets, as if trying to hold onto his shape a moment longer. The heat of his body still lingered there, a quiet echo of his presence pressed into the cotton. She closed her eyes, her palm splayed wide over the warmth, and breathed in the remnants of him—sandalwood, sleep, and that indefinable something that was just Jason. A scent that had once lived on posters and CD inserts, that had once made stadiums roar. And now it lived here. In her bed. In the lull between morning light and memory. In the quiet space where love had taken root. Jason Orange.

Once the name the world had chanted. A silhouette behind strobe lights and screams. A mystery that glittered across magazine covers and disappeared before anyone could truly touch it. He had belonged to millions—idolized, mythologized, chased. But not like this. Not with stillness. Not with tea at 3 a.m. when the nightmares came. Not with fingers tracing stretch marks and telling her they were beautiful. Not with hands steadying her when the panic tried to rise. Not with whispered reassurances in hospital corridors, or the way he kissed her when she wasn’t sure she deserved to be held. Somehow—quietly, without spectacle, without the need for performance—he had become hers. Not as a claim. Not as possession. But in the way he showed up. In the way he listened. In the way he stayed. And now, here she was, cradled in a bed warmed by the very man the world thought they’d lost—only to find he’d never really belonged to the spotlight at all. He belonged to this. To the silence after love. To the hand she rested now on her belly, where new life stirred beneath her skin. To her. And when she heard the water stop, she smiled into the quiet, knowing he would always find his way back to her

Clara remained still, her hand splayed across the lingering warmth in the sheets, the ghost of Jason's touch anchoring her in the quiet aftermath of their morning exchange. The hush of running water drifted from the en suite—a soft, steady rhythm, like the heartbeat of a home being tended with care. She listened to it for a moment, letting it soothe the frayed edges of her thoughts. The letter, the fears, the fragile hope blooming inside her—everything softened under the weight of his love and the promise of that bath. With a deep breath, Clara finally sat up, the sheets slipping from her shoulders as she moved slowly, reverently, as though entering a new kind of sacred.

When she stepped into the bathroom, steam curled gently in the air, fogging the edges of the mirror and carrying the scent of vanilla and orange blossom—her favorite oil, already diffusing into the water. Jason was crouched by the tub, testing the temperature with his elbow like he'd done it a hundred times before. He turned at the sound of her approach, and that same lopsided smile tugged at his lips.

“Just right,” he said, rising to meet her with a towel in hand and a warmth in his eyes that made her chest ache in the best way. “Told you I know how to treat a goddess right.”

Clara arched a brow, lips curving as she accepted the towel. “Mmm. That line work on all the others too, or just me?”

“Mcfly!!! seriously you're going to go there are you?” Jason’s grin deepened, but there was a flicker of something quieter behind it—fondness, maybe even a hint of contrition. “Well Maybe it did back in the day… but I only ever truly meant it for one,” he said.”It just took me a while to find her..”

And just like that, her breath caught again—not from doubt this time, but from the sudden, almost unbearable tenderness in his voice.

Steam curled around them, a warm hush softening every edge. It gathered on the mirror, clung to the tiles, and wrapped around Clara like a breath held between heartbeats. She stood in the doorway, barefoot on cool tile, wearing one of Jason’s old t-shirts—worn thin with age, the fabric soft and familiar against her skin. It hung loosely over her, catching gently at the swell of her belly and clinging in faint damp patches along her ribs and back. Jason looked up from where he knelt by the tub. His breath caught—not loudly, but subtly, like a shift in wind—and then he rose, slow and steady, as if afraid to break the moment with anything sudden. He stopped in front of her. His eyes roamed—not with hunger, but with something quieter. Deeper. Awe. Love.

“Okay?” he asked, voice low, barely above a whisper.

Clara nodded, but it wasn’t a confident motion. There was a flicker of uncertainty behind her eyes, vulnerability surfacing even as she trusted him. She felt the weight of his gaze and the warmth of the steam on her bare legs, and her pulse quickened—not from fear, but from being seen. Jason reached for the hem of the shirt slowly, reverently. His fingertips brushed the tops of her thighs as he gathered the fabric. Then he began to lift—inch by inch—his hands gliding up her sides with a touch so tender it made her shiver. The shirt dragged softly over her belly, then her breasts, catching slightly at her shoulders before he eased it over her arms and head. She stood there, bare and still, the cool air against her damp skin prickling over her body. Her breath caught—not from his eyes on her, but from the emotion in them. He didn’t stare; he absorbed. As though he was memorizing her, moment by moment.

Her breasts were fuller now all thanks to her pregnancy, sensitive and heavy, and her belly curved gently outward. She felt changed—softened in ways that used to make her self-conscious. But in Jason’s gaze, she saw none of that. Only reverence. Only love. It should have made her feel exposed, undone—but somehow, in his silence, she felt held together. Seen, not as something broken or foreign, but as something becoming. She looked at him then, truly looked—and what she saw in his expression made something tight in her chest loosen.

“I don’t feel like myself sometimes,” she admitted quietly. “Like I’m someone else’s body now..Still got a couple of months to go and I feel huge. I'm not going to lie..”

"Enough..you're still beautiful" Jason shook his head, slow and certain. “You’re still you. Just…nothing changed. Like everything I loved got lit from the inside.”

He bent slightly, pressing a kiss just above her heart—light, grounding. Then, with the same gentle care, he guided her to the tub. One hand supported her elbow, the other at the small of her back. As she stepped in, the water welcomed her with warmth, coaxing a soft gasp from her lips as she sank down and let the heat envelope her. Jason stayed crouched beside her, one hand still on the rim, the other drifting in the water. She leaned back, watching him as the steam rose between them. She closed her eyes, the heat soaking in, and let the quiet between them settle around her like a second skin. Clara sank deeper into the bath, the water lapping at her collarbones, her hair damp and curling against her neck. Steam clung to the air, turning the room soft and dreamlike. Her eyes stayed closed, her breathing slow—but her awareness of Jason never waned. He was there. Close. Steady. A quiet gravity she kept drifting toward.

Now and then, her hand would reach toward the rim of the tub where his arm rested. Her fingers brushed his skin—wrist, forearm, the back of his hand—before slipping away again. Like her body remembered him before her thoughts could. Like it needed to be sure he hadn’t left. There was a time she might’ve flinched from that kind of closeness, unsure how to be touched without armor. But now? Now her fingers found him like they’d always known the way. And each time they did, something inside her loosened.

“You really do know how to treat a goddess right,” she murmured, a lazy smile curving her lips. “And spoil someone…i'm honoured ”

“See..,” Jason chuckled, low and warm. “Told you.”

“You say that like it’s common knowledge.”

He shifted slightly, arm still draped along the tub’s edge. “Only the lucky ones know.”

Her smile widened, teasing. “So, just me then?”

“Obviously..” He didn’t hesitate. “One and only.”

A breath of laughter escaped her—soft and almost soundless. Her fingers curled briefly around his wrist, then let go. The heat in her chest wasn’t just from the bathwater. It was him. All of this. She felt him move behind her, then the grounding weight of his hand on her shoulder. His fingers began to work slow, gentle circles into her skin, and she let out a quiet moan, her body melting under his touch.

“Mmm… you really are good with your hands,” she murmured, voice heavy with relaxation.

“AT Last..”Jason gave a mock-sigh. “Finally. Some well-earned recognition.”

She laughed again, teasing but fond. “Don’t let it go to your head.” His thumb traced a lazy path up her neck, firm enough to draw another soft sigh from her lips. Her eyes stayed closed, lips parted, a faint smile still lingering. “You’re magic like this,” she whispered. “Feels like you pull the tension right out of me.” He said nothing, but she could feel his gaze—warm, steady, as if it were resting over her heart. Then, suddenly, a splash of warm water hit her cheek. Her eyes snapped open with a gasp. “Orange!”

“What?” Jason grinned, utterly unrepentant. “You looked too peaceful. Had to make sure you were still conscious didn’t i?.”

She flicked a splash back at him, lazy but aimed. “You’re playing a dangerous game, sir.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said, laughing low and easy in the steam-thick air.

Their joy lingered, light and unguarded, curling into the silence like breath. Clara leaned her head back against the rim of the tub, eyes fluttering closed once more. The water held her, but it was Jason—his nearness, his care, his warmth—that made her feel truly anchored. And for the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t bracing for the world to come rushing back. Jason’s smile softened as her laughter faded into quiet. Her head rested on the tub’s edge, curls flattened into damp spirals across her skin. The stillness between them was full, not empty. Present. Then, after a long pause, her voice came—low and unsure.

“That letter…” Jason stilled. The air seemed to shift. Clara didn’t open her eyes. “It’s real now. All the way real. I’ve read it three times and still feel like I’ll disappear if I breathe too hard.”

“Hey..” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out and brushed a soaked strand of hair from her cheek. “You won’t vanish,” he said quietly. “Not with me.”

Her throat moved as she swallowed. “I keep waiting to fall apart. For you to look at me and decide I’m too much.”

Jason leaned closer, his hand still in her hair, the other settling gently on her shoulder. “Clara… you’re not too much. You’re just more. And I’m not going anywhere.”

She opened her eyes then, turned her face just enough to meet his gaze—and with a quiet tug at the front of his shirt, invited him closer. Jason leaned in, slow and sure, and their lips met. The kiss wasn’t urgent. It was tender, reverent—a whisper between them more than a declaration. Clara’s hand curled lightly in the fabric against his chest, grounding herself. His thumb brushed her jaw, steadying her in return. When they parted, her breath lingered against his, soft and warm. Her smile came then—small but unmistakably mischievous, the kind that carried memory and promise all at once.

“You’re not getting out of here without washing my back,” Clara murmured, tipping her head toward him with a slow, deliberate smile. Her voice was velvet—half a tease, half a summons.

Jason laughed under his breath, pushing to his feet in a slow stretch that made his joints crack. “And here I was, about to make you a tea. Look at me, trying to rack up adulting points.”

Clara arched a brow, eyes glinting beneath the damp tendrils of hair clinging to her forehead. “Tea can wait. My back’s got seniority.”

He tilted his head. “So that’s how it works? Divine priority?”

She gave him a mock-serious nod. “Exactly. Back first, tea second. It's a sacred bath law. You’re welcome to contest it, but I should warn you…” She reached out and let her fingers trail lazily through the water. “You’d be arguing with a goddess…your words not mine Orange"

Jason made a show of considering it, then bent to retrieve the washcloth with exaggerated caution. “Well, when you put it that way… I’d rather not risk divine wrath before breakfast.”

“Smart man.” She grinned, foot flicking out beneath the surface to splash him. Water caught his shirt and darkened the hem instantly. “You clearly underestimated the sensual potential of bath-time diplomacy.”

“Oh, I’m seeing it now,” he said, stepping closer. The steam curled around him like a second skin, warm and heavy. “Tell me—are you trying to lure me in? Siren-style?”

Clara’s lips curved. “Would it work if I was?”

Jason paused just beside her, eyes holding hers with unguarded affection. “Clara, it’s already working. Honestly… I don’t think it ever stopped.”

The sincerity in his voice stilled her smile, just for a breath. Her fingers flexed in the water, reaching—but before she could touch him, his foot slipped on the slick tile near the tub. He flailed with a startled grunt, catching himself with one palm on the tub’s edge. A cascade of water sloshed over the rim.

Clara’s laugh burst out, full and unfiltered. “see..,” she declared, barely catching her breath. “I warned you. This goddess must be appeased"

"Mcfly..honestly" Jason looked down at his soaked sleeve, then back at her—half-drenched, hair starting to curl at the edges, and absolutely smitten. “You are dangerous.”

“In the best possible way.” He sat down again on the floor, his knee brushing the bath mat. She reached out, fingers brushing the wet fabric of his sleeve, a small, tender gesture that lingered. “Then I’ll make sure it’s a beautiful kind of danger,” she whispered.

Jason didn’t answer right away. He just watched her, the playful grin on his face softening into something quieter, more reverent. Then, with a slow breath, he reached up and touched her shoulder, thumb tracing a gentle circle across her skin. The way she leaned into it—unguarded, instinctive—made something warm bloom in his chest. Steam wrapped around them. The room smelled faintly of lavender and warmth and her. Clara let her eyes slip closed, head tilting slightly into his hand. Jason leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple—featherlight, lingering. It wasn’t a claim. It was a vow.

“I’m going to make that tea,” he murmured against her skin.

Clara didn’t open her eyes. “Mmm. Are you sure you can tear yourself away?”

His smile ghosted against her temple. “Barely. But I’ll be back.”

Under the water, her fingers stretched just enough to tap his knee. “Mint if we have it...” She cracked one eye open, smiled slyly. “For the goddess.”

Jason chuckled, standing again. The edges of his shirt clung to him, damp from where she’d splashed and where he’d learned too close. He gave her one last look—fond, lingering, full of something he didn’t have to say.

“Only the best,” he said, his voice thick with affection.

He stepped away, footsteps soft against the tile. The door eased shut behind him with a quiet whisper. Clara stayed where she was, still cradled in the heat, the silence humming around her like a secret. The water held her weight, but it was more than that. It was his touch still lingering on her skin. His care soaking into all the places she used to keep guarded. She rested her head back again, a slow exhale slipping past her lips. The corners of her mouth curled upward—not just in amusement, but in something deeper. Something steady.

Tea would come. The day would return. The world would resume its shape. But in this small, steaming pause, she let herself feel it fully.

Loved.....Held....Becoming.

Jason moved quietly down the stairs, each creak of the old wood beneath his feet unusually loud in the hush that followed the warmth of the bathroom. The scent of lavender still clung to him, subtle and clean, like Clara’s laugh echoing just under his skin. But as he reached the bottom step, a coolness settled around his shoulders—a reminder that the rest of the world, with all its sharp edges and complications, hadn’t paused to match the softness they’d found upstairs. In the kitchen, morning light streamed through the windows in ribbons of pale gold. It spilled across the counters, catching on the edges of mugs and casting long shadows that made the room feel quieter than it was. Jason moved without thinking, filling the kettle at the sink, hands moving through a routine etched deep by years of mornings like this—except it wasn’t like this. Not really. Not anymore.

His gaze drifted, and there it was still—the envelope. Still on the table. Still opened since he’d carefully, wordlessly placed it down the night before. Jason’s breath caught, low and unexpected. His fingers tapped absently on the kettle’s handle, but his eyes remained fixed on it—on the soft slope of the legal branding, the edge of the page that still held the faintest smudge of a thumbprint. He hadn’t needed to read it again. The words lived in him now, like they’d folded themselves into the seams of his ribcage. His fears. His longing. The brutal honesty of someone who’d seen how easy it was to run—and had stayed anyway. He’d let her see him. All of him. The kettle clicked on. A low, steady hum filled the silence. Jason tore his gaze away from the letter, trying to redirect—to do something normal. He reached for the mugs, lined them up side by side. But then his eyes caught on the photo leaning against the backsplash. The family photo.

Him. Clara. Jack.

Taken on a wind-chilled day last fall. Jack had insisted on carrying the tripod and spent half the time yelling at the timer to “hurry up!” Jason could still remember Clara laughing as the shutter snapped, her arms wrapped tight around both of them, wind tugging her hair across her cheeks, her eyes squinting with joy. She’d looked at the picture after and wrinkled her nose. “Don’t you dare delete that just because my hair’s wild,” she’d said. “That’s what happiness looks like.” He hadn’t deleted it. He’d saved it. Framed it. Held onto it like proof.

Jason’s throat ached as he reached out and touched the glass, thumb brushing over the smooth surface like he could feel the memory beneath it. But everything was changing now. And fast. His gaze shifted again. This time, to the small slip of black and white paper resting beside a notepad. Partially covered, easily missed—but unmistakable. The ultrasound. He picked it up slowly, with both hands, like it was too delicate to hold any other way. His fingers traced the slight curl of the edge. Baby Hope. His daughter. He stared at it intently. There was the outline of her. Small. Shadowy. Already a presence. Already real. Except—somehow, still not.

Jason’s breath stilled in his chest. I’m going to be a dad, he thought time and time again. And not in the halfway, find-your-feet, trial-by-fire kind of way it had been with Jack. This time, he’d be there from the beginning. From the very start. He should’ve felt ready. He’d done the tantrums, the scraped knees and endless questions. He’d patched up homework crises and read bedtime stories on loop. He’d shown up. But now… now it felt different. And a small part of him—a quiet, stubborn part he rarely let see the light—still wondered if he was enough. What did he know about being a father, really? Not just playing the part, not just surviving it. But being it. Could he protect them? Could he hold this? Would he fail again?

He sank into the nearest chair, the scan still in his hands. The edge trembled just slightly between his fingers. Not from the paper. From him. A vibration buzzed across the countertop. His phone. Jason blinked, glanced over. Matt’s name lit up the screen.He didn’t hesitate. Just tapped Call. It rang once. Twice.

“Morning,” Matt answered, voice thick with sleep, then sharper, alert. “What’s going on? You okay?”

“No..no I'm not..”Jason leaned against the chair, eyes on the ultrasound in his hand. “Sean filed.”

There was a beat of silence.

“For custody?” Matt asked, voice tightening. "are you serious mate?"

“yep..visitation too” Jason nodded, even though Matt couldn’t see it. “Full custody. Clara got the letter yesterday. From his solicitor. Straight to the house. No warning.”

“Shit,” Matt muttered. Then again, sharper: “Full custody? That prick hasn’t shown up for a birthday in three years.”

“Clara thinks he's only doing it because he saw the poxy pictures…because he knows about my past and more importantly my money..”Jason let out a breath that bordered on a scoff. “Now he wants to play father of the year. Just in time to blow up our lives.”

“Typical. Has Jack said anything?”

“We haven’t told him.” Jason swallowed hard. “Clara’s not ready. I don’t know if I am either to be honest.”

Matt was quiet on the other end. Then, softly he whispered in a comforting tone, “You’ve raised that kid like your own. Since day one when you got with Clara. You’ve patched up his scraped knees. Stayed up with him when he had the flu. Took him camping. Showed up for the damn school meetings…you're his dad, J. Not Sean.”

“I know that Matt,” said Jason. “But courts… They like clean lines. Names on birth certificates. Blood. The stuff that looks good in folders.”

“They also like stability,” Matt said. “They like consistency. And family. You and Clara? That’s home. We’ll make sure the court sees that.”

Jason hesitated. “You really think that matters? When Sean’s walking in with a last name that opens doors?..he's Jack’s biological father Matt…I'm not..im nothing”

Matt didn’t miss a beat. “Then we make them see it. We lay everything bare if we have to. Every soccer practice, every bedtime story, every school pick-up. They’ll know who Jack belongs to.”

Jason sat back in the chair, dragging a hand through his hair. “I keep thinking—I should be stronger. More certain. But I keep asking myself what happens if I screw this up.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” Matt’s voice didn’t waver. “Because I remember you before Clara. Before Jack. You were lost. And I watched you fight your way into the man you are now. Nobody handed you that. You built it. You earned it.”

Jason was quiet. Then, “It doesn’t feel like enough. Not when it’s all on the line.”

There was a pause. “Is this about Jack? Or the baby?”

Jason’s voice dropped. “Both.”

He glanced at the scan again. Hope. She looked like a comma in time, paused in the space between breaths. And still, somehow, she had rewritten everything. His beautiful little baby girl

“I held the scan this morning, and it hit me—this isn’t something in the distance anymore. It’s not a plan. It’s real. I’m going to be a father. In my 50s as well. I don’t know if I’m doing it right. I still don’t know if I ever have been this past two years”

“Listen to me..” Matt’s voice softened. “You think any of us know what we’re doing? We love, we try, we screw it up and come back again the next day. That’s the job. That’s fatherhood.” Jason let the words settle. “You know what the difference is between you and Sean?” Matt added.

Jason’s lips twitched. “A decent moral compass?”

Matt chuckled, but then said, “No. It’s that you show up. Even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy. You don’t run.” Jason didn’t speak. He didn’t trust his voice. “Come by the office later,” Matt said. “We’ve got movement on the press stuff, too. One outlets issued a public apology. The other wants to settle under the radar.”

“Wow…” Jason arched his brow. “That’s fast.”

“They’re not stupid. Pregnant partner, custody battle over a minor? They don’t want that headline following them.”

Jason stared down at the scan. Her profile. That little flicker of life. Already anchoring something in him he hadn’t known he needed.

“Thanks, Matt,” he said quietly.

“Always,” Matt replied. “We’re going to fight this. And we’re going to win.”

Jason hung up, then sat in the stillness, heart heavy but steadier.

He looked at the photo. Then the scan. Then the envelope. Everything he loved one side. Everything he feared the other. And here he was still standing.

After getting dressed, Clara moved slowly through the bedroom, her cardigan soft against skin still warm from the bath. Steam lingered in the air, scented thick with lavender. She paused at the mirror, tucking a damp strand behind her ear, and listened. Downstairs, she could hear him—the soft clink of ceramic, the low hum of the kettle, the familiar rhythm of Jason moving through their kitchen. That sound grounded her in ways she hadn’t words for. Barefoot, she padded down the stairs, drawn toward the quiet comfort of him. He didn’t hear her—the hush of her steps lost beneath the kettle’s gentle whisper. Jason stood at the counter, his back to her, steam curling above two mugs. His shoulders sloped slightly forward, tension settled deep in the lines of his frame. Clara smiled faintly and slipped behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, her cheek resting between his shoulder blades.

Jason jolted a little, then let out a breathy laugh. “Jesus, woman.”

“You love it,” she murmured into his shirt.

“You’re lucky I didn’t drop this tea. Would’ve scalded us both.” He laughed "I told you you was dangerous"

“You’re lucky I didn’t drag you back into that bath,” she teased, her breath warm against his spine.

Jason tipped his head back, giving her a crooked grin over his shoulder. “You smell like that stuff again.”

She pressed a kiss just below his neck. “The one you swear gives you headaches?”

“It does. I’m telling you—it’s weapon-grade lavender.”

She chuckled and gave his waist a soft squeeze. “Funny how it keeps showing up in the bathroom.”

“I’m being gaslit by aromatherapy,” he muttered, deadpan.

“Face it,” she said. “You’re just bitter, it smells better than your sad little pine-sweat deodorant.”

“Hey.” He huffed. “That’s a classic. Rugged. Masculine. Smells like resilience.”

“Smells like gym socks and a panic attack.”

Jason laughed, turning in her arms, his hands finding her waist. “Okay. You got me.” He held out a mug. “Truce. Drink this.”

Clara accepted it with a small smile. “You made it right?”

“Two sugars. Half oat milk. Stirred clockwise with the back of the spoon. Because I’m a craftsman.”

She sipped and let the warmth fill her chest. “Perfect,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

Jason’s smile faded slightly as he studied her. His voice dropped. “How are you really feeling?”

The light in her expression dimmed. “Like I ran a marathon barefoot… and forgot how to breathe halfway through.”

He nodded slowly, setting his mug down. “Yeah. I know that one.”

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

“A bit,” he admitted. “Mostly I listened to you breathe. It helped Keep the noise in my head from getting too loud.”

Her throat caught, fingers tightening around the mug.

“I’m sorry, Jay,” she whispered. “For all of this. I hate that we’re even standing here talking about custody and press leaks and—God, just the drama of it all.”

Jason stepped in close, firm but gentle. “Clara, don’t. Don’t take that on. This isn’t your mess. Sean lit the match. We’re just putting out the fire.”

Her voice cracked. “It’s just… it feels like we finally got steady and now the rug’s being pulled again. Like we can’t even breathe before the next wave hits.”

He touched her wrist. “We’re not drowning. Not this time. Not when we’ve got each other.”

She blinked up at him. “What do you mean?”

“I called Matt,” he said.

Clara’s eyes widened. “When?”

“This morning. While you were upstairs. I had to do something. I couldn’t just keep staring at that fucking letter, hoping it would vanish.” A beat passed between them. “He wants us to come in today,” Jason continued. “There’s movement. Updates about the custody papers. And... the press.”

Her pulse fluttered. “You think it’s bad?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But Matt sounded focused. Like he’s got a grip on it. That’s something.”

Clara’s voice wavered. “I don’t know if I can walk into that office again. Not if we’re just going to hear the worst.”

Jason reached for her, holding her gently. “You don’t have to be ready. You just have to be with me. We face it together.”

She leaned into him, resting her head on his chest. His arms came around her without hesitation.

“I’m scared, Jay.”

“I know,” he whispered. “Me too. But I’d rather be scared beside you than brave alone.”

She smiled, small and wet-eyed. “Do we tell Jack?”

Jason exhaled. “Not yet. Let’s talk to Matt first. Figure out what kind of storm is coming—and how much of it we can keep him safe from.”

She looked up, eyes searching for him. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“No more shutting down. No more pretending you’ve got it all handled when you don’t.”

He met her gaze and held it. “You’re in this, Clara. All of it. I promise—no more silent shielding. No more disappearing behind calm.”

“Good,” she whispered. “Because I can’t carry it alone either.”

Jason brushed a damp strand from her cheek, pressed a kiss to her forehead. “We don’t have to carry it alone. We just have to keep holding each other up—especially when it’s heavy.”

They stood there for a moment longer, the kitchen quieting around them, the weight of the day waiting beyond the walls. The tea in their mugs cooled slowly, forgotten.

But neither of them moved. Neither of them let go.

The village passed in a muted blur beyond the car windows—tall buildings rising like silent sentinels, indifferent and unmoved by the people who hurried beneath them. Traffic lights blinked dull red and green in the distance, their reflections smearing across the wet asphalt. Trees bowed under the weight of the low, sullen sky, their branches swaying like they were shouldering the same tension that wrapped itself around the quiet car. The clouds hung oppressively low, thick with a promise not yet kept, as if the sky itself was holding its breath. Every few seconds, a thin thread of rain slid down the glass, chasing its reflection with a gentle tap-tap rhythm, like a clock ticking just a little too loud in a silent room. It should have been soothing. It wasn’t.

Inside, the air was thick with tension—unspoken words crowding the space between them, heavy like fog. Clara sat in the passenger seat, her travel mug empty in her hands, but she held it like it still offered comfort. The warmth was mostly gone, but she needed to hold on to something. Jason’s eyes stayed on the road, unmoving. Both hands clutched the steering wheel, his knuckles taut, skin stretched pale. The tendons in his forearms flexed every time his mind wandered too far ahead. Her breathing felt shallow. Controlled. Like she was only allowed so much air at a time. He sat beside her, silent. His focus locked on the road ahead, though it was clear he wasn’t really seeing it. Both hands clutched the steering wheel—too tight. The skin on his knuckles had gone pale, stretched thin over bone. The muscles in his forearms rippled each time he adjusted his grip, which he did often, like something inside him wouldn’t let him be still. His jaw clenched. Once. Then again. Clara glanced at him. She knew this version of Jason. This quiet, storm-eyed man who said nothing but vibrated with everything unsaid. His silence wasn’t empty. It was packed tight with fear, frustration, helplessness—all the things he wouldn’t name out loud.

Clara felt it too. But her body was beginning to betray her in smaller, sharper ways. Her head was light. Not dizzy exactly, but detached, like she wasn’t quite seated in her own skin. A faint sheen of sweat had gathered at her hairline, despite the lack of heat. Her stomach fluttered in a sickly rhythm, like something cold and heavy was turning over inside her. Anxiety, she thought. It had to be. She recognized the shape of it, the way it crept in under the ribs and expanded. Clara reached one hand toward the window controls and hit the switch. The glass lowered an inch with a mechanical hum. A rush of damp, chilled air pushed in, brushing over her skin and lifting the hair at her temples. She turned her face toward it slightly, breathing it in—trying to will it to wash some of the pressure from her lungs. Jason’s eyes flicked toward her briefly. Concern flickered, but he said nothing. Clara’s fingers trembled slightly as she reached across the space between them, brushing lightly against his forearm. The contact was small, fleeting, but it anchored her. She needed to feel something real—solid and warm.

“You’re doing that thing again,” she murmured, her voice barely louder than the rain.

Jason didn’t look at her. “What thing?”

"That stare. Like you’re trying to outrun whatever’s chasing you in your head.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just exhaled slowly through his nose and eased his grip on the wheel a fraction.

“I don’t want him near Jack,” he said finally. His voice was low, but it cracked at the edges—fraying under the strain of everything he was trying to hold in place.

“I know,” Clara replied, her voice soft but certain.

Jason’s knuckles whitened again. “Even the idea of supervised visits—it makes my skin crawl. After what he did to you.”

The words felt like stones, heavy in the air between them. Clara didn’t respond immediately. Her body still felt wrong—too tight in places, too light in others. She pressed her palm flat against her thigh, grounding herself.

“He’s still Jack’s biological father,” she said eventually, though the words tasted bitter.

Jason’s jaw flexed again. “That doesn’t make him a safe one.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It buzzed. Clara rolled the window down a little farther, letting more of the cold morning air fill the cabin. Her skin prickled in response, but at least it helped her breathe. It wasn't for long, Clara’s breaths came shallower now, each one catching slightly in her throat, like her lungs had forgotten how to open all the way. Her vision blurred—not the tears yet, but the strange unfocused haze that came just before. The edges of the world were curling in, like the car had suddenly shrunk around her, windows pulling closer, the ceiling dropping an inch. Jason glanced at her again, this time longer, alarm clear in his face.

"Clara?"” he said sharply. “Hey. What’s going on?”

She shook her head once, not because she didn’t know, but because the words were stuck somewhere deep, tangled in the tightness blooming across her ribs.

“I can’t—” she rasped. “I just… I can’t breathe.”

Jason pulled the car into a side street without hesitation, tires crunching gently against wet pavement. He threw it into park and twisted toward her, unbuckling before the car had fully stopped moving.

“Okay. Okay. You’re alright,” he said, his voice low and steady even though panic was creeping into his own eyes. “This is just anxiety, okay? You know this. You told me you had them before.”

Clara turned her face toward the window, trying to gulp the cold air in like water. It wasn’t working. Her chest burned with the effort.

“I feel like I’m disappearing,” she whispered.

Jason was out of the car in a heartbeat, coming around to her side. He opened her door, crouched down beside her like she was a fallen thing he was trying to put gently back together.

“Clara, look at me,” he said, voice firmer now, but never sharp. “I’m right here. You’re here. You’re safe. Nothing’s going to hurt you. I need you to follow my voice.” She closed her eyes. The wind kissed her damp cheeks, cool against skin that had gone clammy. Her hands trembled, curled still around the empty mug. Jason gently pried it from her grip and set it aside. “Give me your hands,” he said. It took effort—immense, stupid effort—but she did. “Good,” he whispered, wrapping his fingers around hers. “Now just match my breathing. Okay? In through your nose. Slow. Count it. One... two... three.” She tried. Her breath hitched halfway through, but Jason didn’t flinch. “That’s okay. Try again.” Another breath. Slightly better. Another. A little steadier. The trembling didn’t stop, but it shifted. Became manageable. “See?” he said. “You’re doing it. You’re here.”

Tears came then—unbidden, hot, fast.

“I’m so tired, Jay,” she gasped. “I feel like I’m made of cracks and if I move wrong, I’ll break apart.”

Jason stood and leaned into the car, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. She buried herself in his chest, forehead pressing into the fabric of his coat, now damp from the drizzle. He held her tightly, anchoring her like a weight that kept her from floating off the edge of herself.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re allowed to fall apart. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Clara didn’t speak. She couldn’t. She just let the storm inside her burn through, quiet and raw and human. Eventually, her breath evened. Her shoulders loosened. Her hands no longer shook.

Jason stepped back slightly and brushed a damp strand of hair from her temple. “Are you good to sit for a minute?”

She nodded. “Just… don’t go far.”

“Not a chance.” He closed the door gently but stayed just outside, leaning against the car with one eye always on her. Inside, Clara stared through the windshield. The clouds had finally broken. Just a little. But enough for light to begin sifting through.

By the time Jason opened her door again, Clara’s breathing had steadied, but the rawness still clung to her like damp fabric—cold in places it had no right to be. Her lungs were working, technically, but it felt like each breath only reached the edges of herself. Her legs, when she moved them, were stiff, filled with the memory of panic. Her limbs carried the ghost of that tight, collapsing feeling, the aftershock of nearly unraveling in front of the man she trusted most.

“Ready?” Jason asked gently, crouched slightly, watching her with that careful quiet she’d come to depend on.

“No,” she answered, honest in the way only exhaustion could make her. “But I’ll go anyway.”

He offered his hand without a word. She took it, her fingers curling into his palm, and let the solidity of him steady the rest of her. Outside, the world had shifted while they sat cocooned in that car. The rain had slowed to a mist, a light breath of water brushing over the windshield. The sky was cracking open above them—ribbons of pale blue threading through iron-grey clouds. Sunlight hadn’t broken through yet, but it was trying.

The pavement of the lot gleamed with puddles, oil-slick and shimmering. Reflections shifted as they walked—trees, clouds, the skeletal outlines of cars. The scent of rain still hung heavy in the air, earthy, metallic, tinged faintly with oil and something green—wet leaves or new grass trampled beneath tires.  The building ahead looked small from the outside—two stories, white clapboard siding, a clean-cut hedge lining the walkway. But to Clara, it loomed. Not for its size, but for what waited inside. The brushed steel plaque by the door read York Family Law, as cold and precise as the man who ran it was not. Clara’s hand tightened slightly in Jason’s as they stepped up to the door. He opened it for her. She stepped into the hush of artificial light and sanitized air that tried too hard to feel welcoming. Somewhere down the hallway, a printer chirped. The receptionist looked up, her expression professionally pleasant, her smile tight in a way Clara could never quite tell was compassion or conditioning

“You’re early,” she said, tapping something on her keyboard. “Mr York has just finished his last call—he’ll be with you in a minute. Go ahead and take a seat.”

Clara nodded, but it felt like her head moved on delay. Jason offered a quiet “Thanks,” and they crossed to the familiar arrangement of waiting room chairs—pale beige upholstery, dark wood arms, slightly too firm. Nothing had changed. The room smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and paper. The same stack of parenting magazines still sat on the low side table—some edges curled, some covers boasting advice for toddlers long since outgrown. A bowl of peppermint candies sat perfectly centered. Untouched.They sat—not touching, but close. Clara folded her hands tightly in her lap. Her thumbs circled each other in an unconscious loop. Jason leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his posture tense, his jaw set.

“Feels like I can still hear that clock ticking,” Clara said after a moment, her voice soft, barely audible over the drone of the building.

Jason looked up, eyes flicking toward the far wall. “The one from last time?”

She nodded. “It was louder than I expected. Everything was.”

He didn’t respond, but she saw it—the twitch at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, not quite a wince. A shared memory. The kind neither of them liked revisiting but both understood. Then the door opened. Matt stepped out with a folder in one hand and a pen still tucked behind his ear. He looked the same as always—tall, slightly disheveled in a put-together way, his shirt sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms that had stacked a thousand cases and carried the emotional weight of twice that many. His tie was loosened at the collar, and his glasses caught the overhead light just enough to make his eyes unreadable for a half-second. Then he saw them—really saw them—and softened.

“Jason. Clara. Come on in.”

They stood. Clara’s legs argued again, slow to obey. Her knees felt like they belonged to someone else. Jason placed a hand lightly on her back as they walked down the short hall into Matt’s office. It wasn’t large, but it held a presence. The kind built not by furniture or space, but by years of hard conversations and harder decisions. The air inside smelled of coffee and old paper, of cold rain on warm windows. The scent of resolve. File folders were spread open on the table, some fanned, some closed but stuffed thick with paper. Paper-clipped names and legal language peeked out like whispered secrets. Clara’s stomach turned at the sight of her own surname. Rain trailed faintly down the large windows behind Matt’s desk. Each streak moved slowly, like the sky was crying too slowly to feel real. They sat….With the storm now seemingly moving inside.

Matt waited until they were both seated before he rounded the desk and took his place. He didn’t open the file in front of him right away—just rested his hands on either side of it and studied them both for a beat longer than necessary. Clara felt her spine stiffen under that silence, like she was bracing for bad news. Jason’s hand found hers under the table.

“There’ve been a few developments,” Matt began, his tone careful, steady. “Mostly on the media front. I’ve been in touch with several of the digital outlets that ran with the story earlier this week.” Clara’s stomach tightened instantly  “The Daily Mail—that’s one of the bigger ones—has already pulled the article completely. No correction, no footnote. Just gone.”

Jason’s brow furrowed. “That quick?”

Matt nodded once, almost grimly. “They panicked. I told them my client had a pregnant partner and that the publication was knowingly contributing to undue emotional distress. The legal team didn’t want the smoke, not with a potential cease and desist already in play and potential liability if anything escalated.”

"Hold on..." Clara blinked, her lips parting slightly. “You told them I’m pregnant?”

"I'm sorry Clara" Matt turned to her, gentling his tone. “Yes. I had to. The emotional toll was the quickest way to make them nervous, and frankly, it worked. They backed off faster than expected.”

Her chest constricted. “So they know.”

Matt sat forward slightly, his expression shifting—measured, reassuring. “Some editorial teams know, yes. But that doesn’t mean they’ll publish it. They’d be opening themselves up to serious legal backlash if they did. My office is already drafting follow-up letters. My assistant is monitoring all mentions, all reposts. You won’t be blindsided.”

“But if it does get out…” Clara’s voice faltered, her pulse kicking up again. “If that gets published somewhere—that I'm carrying Jason Orange’s child..it was bad reading those comments on the photos of Jack online..what will those fans say if it comes to light about me and this baby?”

“It won’t, trust me Clara” Matt said, firm enough to stop the spiral before it took hold. “We’re putting things in place. Legally, we can’t erase the fact that someone leaked the photos. But the coverage? The narrative? That we can control. And we are.” Jason looked at Clara, his grip on her hand tightening. Matt exhaled. “I won’t lie to you. The photos are still out there. Reddit threads, gossip blogs, the usual parasites. But the major outlets—the ones with reach—they’re backing off. We’ve made progress. If they see us pushing harder, they'll fold. They’re already folding.”

Clara tried to breathe. It felt like her ribs wouldn’t move. Her other hand drifted toward her belly without her thinking.

“They still have the photos though,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“They do. But most of them are low-resolution, poorly lit, and more importantly, legally grey,” Matt said. “They don’t show anything incriminating. Nothing harmful. But if we can prove they were taken without consent or on private property, that gives us more leverage. And we’re building that case.” Clara nodded, slowly. She didn’t trust her voice to respond yet.

Jason cleared his throat. “So what now?”

Matt leaned back. “Now, we tighten. We go after the smaller outlets. We send reminders to the ones who took the story down—remind them not to pick it up again. And we prepare a brief in case this escalates.” He paused, eyes flicking to Clara again. “In the meantime, I want you both to know we’re monitoring everything. Every byline. Every photo repost. You’re not alone in this.”

Clara exhaled slowly. “Feels like we’re patching a dam with our hands.”

Matt gave a faint, wry smile. “Maybe. But right now, the dam’s holding.”

Jason glanced at Clara again. “We’ll make sure it keeps holding.” Clara didn’t answer, but her hand squeezed his once—small, but certain.

Matt flipped open the folder at last, paper rustling like the next chapter starting. “Alright. Let’s go over what we’ll do if any of this shows up again—and what steps we’ll take if someone tries to cross the line.” Matt slid a paper from the folder, glanced at it, then looked back at them with a different kind of weight in his expression. “There’s something else,” he said. “It’s about the guardianship application.” Clara’s posture tightened instinctively. Jason leaned in a little, jaw setting. Matt continued. “We were on track. Everything filed, evidence in place, and honestly? It was going to be a smooth run. But with Sean resurfacing…” He let the implication finish itself. “It’s thrown a spanner in the works.” Clara’s breath hitched. She already knew. Hearing it aloud didn’t make it hurt less. “I’m due in court later this afternoon,” Matt went on, “to get a preliminary read from the judge on how Sean’s reappearance affects the process. For now, nothing has changed officially—but his name being reinserted into the conversation complicates things.”

“for Christ's sake” Jason’s hand curled into a fist on his thigh. “He hasn’t been part of Jack’s life in years. He shouldn’t just be able to walk back in and throw everything off course.”

“I agree,” Matt said, voice level. “Which is why I’m already building the argument around stability—what Jack knows, what’s consistent, what’s safe. That’s where you come in, Jason.” Jason nodded once. “You provide structure. Emotional consistency. Clara and Jack live with you, your records are clean, your household is secure. The court will consider all of that. And Sean’s history—particularly the violent incidents—that will matter. But we’re still dealing with family court, which means…” He sighed. “It’s not always straightforward.”

Clara stared at a point on the floor. “Are you saying we’ll have to see him again? Face him?”

“Possibly, I'm sure he will be at the hearing later too” Matt said carefully. “But we’ll be there every step of the way. And it’s more likely it’ll begin with supervised visitation, if anything is granted. I doubt the court will even entertain joint custody—not with his record, not without proof of real rehabilitation.”

“And Jack?” Jason asked. “Will they talk to him?”

Matt hesitated. “They might. Especially if this escalates into a longer process. Judges want to hear from children, even if it’s through an appointed child advocate or social worker. If it comes to visitation rulings, Jack’s voice could play a part.”

Clara’s breath caught. She shook her head once, twice, fast—then her face crumpled.

“No,” she whispered. “He’s just a kid. He shouldn’t even know this is happening.” Matt’s expression softened instantly, but Clara was already sinking forward in her seat, covering her face with both hands as the tears broke through—hot, immediate, unstoppable. Jason moved to her without hesitation, his arm around her back, one hand at the base of her neck. She leaned into him, trying to breathe through it, but it came out in broken sobs. “He’s been through enough,” she said between gulps of air. “He doesn’t even remember Sean properly, not really. We promised him he didn’t have to.”

Matt waited respectfully, quietly, giving her space. When he spoke again, his voice was low.

“I know. And I’ll fight to make sure Jack stays protected—for his environment, his well being, his future. That’s the whole case. But part of that may mean preparing him, gently, if the court asks for his input. We can control how that happens. But I wanted you to hear it from me now.”

"Its okay.." Jason pressed a kiss into Clara’s hair. “We’ll protect him. No matter what.” Clara wiped at her eyes, breath shaky but coming back. “We can’t let that man take one more thing from him. Not even a question.”

Matt nodded, firm. “Then we start now. Building that wall around him—piece by piece.”

Clara’s breathing steadied again, though her hands remained clenched in her lap. Jason gave her a quiet glance, a small nod that said: I’m right here. Matt gave them both a moment before clearing his throat gently and flipping to the next document in his file.

“There’s one more matter I want to cover before you go,” he said. “We’re going to need to get ahead of Sean’s next move.”

Clara lifted her head slowly. “You think he’ll fight it?”

Matt’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “He hasn’t yet. But he’s been in contact with a solicitor—someone from a small firm just outside Birmingham. That tells me he’s considering his options. Maybe he’s testing the waters. Maybe he’s planning to challenge the guardianship outright. Either way, I’m not waiting to find out.”

Jason leaned forward. “What can we do?”

“I’m filing for an emergency interim guardianship order. If the court sees even the potential for instability caused by Sean’s return, we might secure temporary legal authority for you, Jason, over Jack. It’s not permanent, but it buys us breathing room. Keep everything in place until the full hearing.” He let that sink in before continuing. “I’ll also be filing a no-contact provision tied to that order. It won’t be a full restraining order, but it means Sean would have to go through legal channels to even approach Jack. And we’ll make clear that any violation of that will be treated seriously.”

Clara gave a shaky nod. “And Jack doesn’t have to see him? Not unless the court orders it?”

"Correct,” Matt said. “For now, you stay in control of access. We’re protecting Jack’s wellbeing as the cornerstone of this case. Not Sean’s rights. Jack is the priority.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “What if Sean starts making noise—goes public? Uses the press again?”

Matt sighed. “Then we respond accordingly. I’ve already contacted the outlets running stories with your names attached. One’s taken the article down outright after we mentioned Clara’s pregnancy and the potential legal ramifications of invasion of privacy.” Clara’s breath caught again, and Matt raised a hand, calming. “I didn’t give specifics. Just enough to remind them they were walking a legal tightrope. We have rights here, and we’re invoking them. I’ve got my assistant doing a sweep of every outlet that picked up the initial story. We’ll send cease and desist letters to any site that hasn’t complied.”

Jason rubbed his jaw, eyes dark with calculation. “So we wait? Let him make the next move?”

Matt shook his head. “We don’t wait—we prepare. I’ll handle the court today, and I’ll contact you with any updates. In the meantime, start collecting anything that shows Jack’s routine—school letters, photos, drawings. Anything that paints a picture of what his life looks like now. Judges respond to the emotional texture, not just the legal paperwork.” Clara nodded slowly, her mind already turning. Matt closed the folder. “You two are doing everything right. You’ve built a life around that boy. Now we protect it. All of it.”

The door to Matt’s office clicked shut behind them with a sound too final for Clara’s liking. For a moment, they stood just outside the building, the cool air washing over them like a curtain drawing them back into the real world. Clara pulled her coat tighter around herself, though it wasn’t the chill that made her shiver. Jason stood beside her, quiet, his gaze fixed on some invisible point down the street. He didn’t speak, didn’t rush her. Just waited. Present. Steady. They began to walk. Their steps were unhurried, feet echoing softly against the damp pavement. The rain had passed, but the streets still glistened with it—puddles catching pieces of sky, thin streams tracing the edges of the curb. The town was caught in that in-between quiet: too late for the rush, too early for the lull. Just enough movement to feel alive without being overwhelming.

Clara kept close to Jason, their shoulders brushing every few steps. He didn’t offer his hand, but his arm stayed close enough for her to lean if she needed to. And she did, briefly, bumping her elbow into his. He glanced at her and offered the smallest, warmest smile. It didn’t erase the tension in his eyes, but it softened it. Shopfronts passed by in a blur—bookstores with sun-faded covers in the window, a florist closing up for the day, tiny cafés spilling warm light out onto the sidewalk. The smell of coffee, distant and familiar, curled into the air as they neared the corner. They didn’t talk. There was something sacred about the silence—the way it let everything breathe. Their thoughts, their fears, the ache they didn’t yet know how to put into words. But even in that quiet, there was connection. The rhythm of their walk had a kind of unity to it. Two people moving through uncertainty, side by side. When the café came into view, Jason gently guided Clara toward it, his hand hovering at her lower back. The gesture was subtle, instinctive. She glanced up at him, eyes tired but warm.

“Just a tea,” she murmured.

Jason nodded. “Just us.”

They stepped inside together, letting the door swing shut behind them with a soft thud that sounded, this time, a little more like sanctuary. The café smelled like cardamom and roasted beans, soft jazz murmuring from unseen speakers. It wasn’t crowded—just a few scattered patrons tucked into corners with laptops or books, the hush of conversation layered like a warm blanket. Jason led Clara to a table by the window, slightly tucked away but still catching the late afternoon light as it broke through the thinning clouds. They didn’t speak as they settled in—just slid into the familiar rhythm of each other. Clara slipped off her coat, folding it over the back of the chair, her hands brushing over the fabric as if grounding herself in something tangible. Jason ordered without asking—he knew what she’d want. She caught the way his hand lingered on the menu when he gave it back, as if bracing himself against the weight of the day.

A few minutes later, their drinks arrived. A white ceramic mug of chamomile tea was placed in front of Clara, steam curling from it like breath. A sturdy coffee for Jason—black, no sugar, just how he always took it. The server left with a smile and no interruption, sensing the quiet around them. Clara cupped the mug with both hands, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. She didn’t drink yet—just breathed it in, let it settle something inside her. Jason watched her for a moment, his own cup untouched.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She nodded slowly. “Getting there.”

The quiet stretched again—not heavy, but full of things waiting to be said. Jason leaned forward slightly, his hands cradling the coffee, elbows resting on the edge of the table.

“It feels different now,” he said. “More real. All of it.”

Clara’s eyes stayed on the tea. “Because it is.”

Jason didn’t argue. He let out a breath through his nose, steadying. “I hated hearing Matt say Jack’s name like it belonged on court documents. Like he’s just a part of the case.”

“Me too” Clara looked up then, her voice low but steady. “He’s not. He’s our boy.”

Jason nodded. “Yeah. And no matter what happens, I need him to know that. That we’re fighting because we love him. Because we’re trying to protect him, not drag him through something ugly.”

Clara’s throat tightened. She took a small sip of tea, then set the cup down. “It scares me,” she admitted. “The idea of him being dragged into this. Having to ask him to speak… to choose.”

Jason reached across the table then, his fingers brushing hers before settling around them. His grip was warm, firm, gentle.

“He won’t have to choose,” he said. “Not between us. And not between safety and chaos. We’ll make sure of that.”

She met his gaze, and there was something in his eyes—resolve, but more than that. Devotion. To Jack. To her. To the life they were trying to build from the wreckage.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you Orange…” she whispered.

“Mcfly..” Jason gave her hand the slightest squeeze. “You’re never going to have to find out...promise you”

They sat like that for a while—fingers entwined, the soft sounds of the café spinning around them. The world was still out there, waiting with all its uncertainty and fight, but in that moment, it was just them. Warm drinks cooling slowly. Words and comfort shared in the space where love lived quietly, steadily, in the cracks. Outside, the streets had quieted, the earlier drizzle lifting, leaving the windows of the café streaked and glinting in the softening light. Inside, the calm cocoon held them in place, a pocket of stillness amid the residual echoes of the legal meeting. Clara leaned back in her seat, fingers now loosely around her tea mug. She was quieter, but not withdrawn. More like someone standing in a doorway, not sure whether to step through or stay where it felt safer. Jason took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. 

“You always get chamomile,” he said, gently. “Even when it doesn’t help.”

Clara smiled faintly. “It’s not about helping. It’s about pretending I know how to calm and be in control.”

Jason leaned his elbows on the table, voice softer. “Then pretend a little longer. We’ve earned the illusion.” She chuckled under her breath, and he smiled at the sound—fragile, but real.

After a beat, Clara looked out the window. “That building always makes me nervous.”

“Matt's office?” Jason followed her gaze, though they couldn’t see much of it from here.

“Yeah. It’s not the building. It’s the weight of it. What it represents.” She paused. “What it might mean for Jack.”

Jason didn’t rush to reply. He looked at her instead, taking in the strain that still lingered around her eyes, the quiet war she was always fighting beneath her calm surface.

“He’s going to be okay,” he said, not as a platitude, but like he needed to believe it, too.

“you're probably right,” Clara’s voice dropped, and she glanced down at her lap. “He’s still just a kid, Jason. He’s smart and kind and stubborn, and he’s already lived through too much. I don’t want courtrooms and statements and lawyers talking about where he belongs.”

"He belongs with us...his family" Jason’s hand reached for hers again—unthinking, instinctive. “He belongs with you.”

Clara looked at him. The space between them had shortened somehow—not physically, but emotionally. The noise had quieted. Everything unnecessary fell away.

“I used to be so scared of letting anyone in,” she said. “But now… I don’t know how I ever lived without this. Without you.”

Jason’s thumb brushed over the back of her hand. “You don’t have to be scared anymore.”

She blinked, slowly. “I still am. But I trust you. More than I’ve ever trusted anyone.”

A silence bloomed, soft and full. Then, as if drawn by gravity, Clara stood and stepped around the table. Jason shifted back in the booth to make space, and she curled up beside him, legs tucked under, head finding its place just beneath his collarbone. He said nothing—just wrapped his arm around her like it was the most natural thing in the world. His other hand drifted to her hair, fingers combing through it in slow, absent strokes. She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. The steady drum of his heart was louder here, beneath her ear, anchoring her to something real. Something safe. And there they stayed, a quiet island in a noisy world, the first threads of deeper conversation winding toward them like the tide.

Jason’s hand never stopped moving through her hair, each pass slower than the last, like he was memorizing the weight and texture of the moment. Clara’s body softened against him, tension unwinding in subtle degrees. Her cheek pressed over his heartbeat, her breath syncing with his.

“I love this,” she whispered, eyes closed. “Not the coffee shop, or even the quiet. Just… you. Being here.”

Jason kissed the top of her head, his lips brushing her hairline. “Me too. It feels like the world lets us breathe again when we’re like this.”

She shifted slightly, but didn’t pull away. “Do you ever think about how different life could’ve been? If we hadn’t met when we did?”

“All the time,” he said. “I spent years thinking I’d missed the window. That fatherhood wasn’t going to happen for me.” He let out a quiet laugh. “The guys from Take That all had kids. I used to see interviews—Gary talking about his daughters, Mark running after his kids when they were toddlers. I thought maybe I’d just… missed the train. And then suddenly, I’m in the middle of it. Here in Middle age, and Jack’s calling me ‘Dad.’” His voice caught a little. “And it’s the best thing I’ve ever been.”

Clara pulled back just enough to see his face. “You’re better than I ever hoped he’d have. I used to lie awake at night thinking he’d grow up without anyone like you. That I’d be enough, but maybe not the right kind of enough.”

Jason looked at her then—really looked. “You were always the right kind. You’re the one who got him this far. All I’m doing is walking beside you both now.”

Her eyes welled unexpectedly, and she reached for his face, cupping it in both hands. “No. You changed everything. You gave me room to hope again. You gave him something he didn’t even know he was missing.”

Jason held her gaze, overcome with the weight of what they had built from broken places. “He’s mine, Clara. Blood or not. I love him more than I’ve ever loved anything.”

They sat like that for a long moment, a soft hum of the café behind them, the world outside slowly turning. Eventually, Clara laid her head back on his shoulder.

 “We’re going to have to tell him.” 

Jason’s breath caught. “I know.”

“He needs time to understand it. Before someone else tries to twist it.”

Jason nodded slowly, his jaw tensing. “We’ll do it together. Carefully. With love. And truth.”

Clara reached for his hand again, lacing her fingers with his. “With us. That’s all he needs.”

Jason tightened his grip. “Then that’s what he’ll have. Always.”

Outside, the clouds began to shift again, letting through long, tentative bands of light. Inside, they held on—not because they were afraid, but because they finally knew they didn’t have to face the next part alone. Jason’s hand still never stopped moving through her hair, each pass slower than the last, like he was memorizing the weight and texture of the moment. Clara’s body softened against him, tension unwinding in subtle degrees. Her cheek pressed over his heartbeat, her breath syncing with his.

They stayed in that soft hush, the rhythm of the café moving around them like a tide they were separate from. Clara’s fingers absently traced small circles on the inside of Jason’s wrist, his pulse steady beneath her touch. The world beyond their corner might have been miles away. For once, the silence between them wasn’t heavy—it was full. Full of all they’d endured, of love that didn’t need proving anymore, only holding. Her breathing was even now, and the slight tremble in her shoulders had faded. There was warmth between them that nothing outside could dim.

Jason watched the rain ease outside the window. Drops lingered on the glass, catching the light like tiny prisms.

“You know what I think sometimes?” he murmured. “Maybe life doesn’t get easier. Just clearer. Like fog lifting a little at a time. You don’t stop being afraid. But you know what you’re afraid for. Who you’re protecting.” Clara closed her eyes for a moment, letting his words settle over her.

"That’s how I feel too,” she said. “Like I’m finally seeing what matters. You. Jack. This little life we’re trying to keep safe.”

"Well.." Jason pressed a kiss into her hair, letting it linger. “He’s coming back from Dani’s soon.”

Clara nodded against him. “I know.” A pause. Then: “We can’t put it off anymore, can we?”

Jason exhaled, the sound low and reluctant. “No. We owe him the truth before someone else forces it into the room.”

Clara sat up slowly, brushing her thumb beneath her eye. “He’s only 6, Jay.”

“I know,” he said, gently. “But he’s smart. Sensitive. He’ll feel something’s wrong if we wait.”

Clara swallowed. “I keep thinking… what if it changes how he sees me?”

“Stop it…” Jason’s expression softened with quiet certainty. “He adores you. Nothing will change that. He knows your love better than anything else. That’s his anchor.” Her shoulders slumped with a mix of fear and resolve. “We just have to find the right words.” Jason reached for both her hands and squeezed. “We’ll find them. Together.”

Outside, a bird landed briefly on the windowsill, feathers fluffed against the chill. It looked in, head tilting, as if curious about the two people inside trying so hard to build something gentle in a world that wasn’t.Clara watched it, a faint smile tugging at the edge of her mouth. 

“We’ll be okay,” she said softly.

Jason didn’t hesitate. “We already are.”

Clara leaned into Jason once more, her head finding the familiar curve beneath his shoulder. The lull between them stretched again, but this time it held something more solid—resolve wrapped in tenderness. The moment wasn’t free from fear, but it was made bearable by the nearness of each other. Outside, the clouds had softened to a gentler gray, the kind that didn’t threaten a storm, but promised stillness. The streets glistened like fresh ink. Inside, the café’s quiet rhythm carried on—cups clinking, chairs shifting, low laughter from a table across the room. But their corner felt sealed off, a quiet harbor in the current. Jason shifted slightly to press a kiss to Clara’s temple.

 “Whatever comes next, we’re not alone in it.”

Clara turned her face toward him, her smile small but sure. “I know.”

She laced her fingers through his, palms warm, thumbs grazing. “I’m scared. But I’m ready to face it. Not because it’s easy… but because it’s us.”

Jason looked down at her, his expression full of something deep and steady. “There’s no one else I’d rather walk this road with.”

Their foreheads met, breath mingling, and for a few moments more, they just sat like that—anchored in each other. Not rushing forward. Not running from what waited. Just being. Outside, the last of the rain faded. The world, for now, was quiet. And they were together. Still and strong. And ready.

Chapter Text

The office smelled faintly of coffee and old paper—an oddly comforting blend Matt had come to associate with war. Legal war. Custody battles. Heartbreak annotated with footnotes. He sat behind his desk, the surface nearly swallowed by neat stacks of manila folders, legal pads scrawled with shorthand, and color-coded tabs bristling like flags on a bureaucratic battlefield. The ambient hum of the building’s conditioning system filled the silence. Outside the frosted glass window, dawn smeared a pale gray across the city. Rain tapped the pane in an irregular, insistent rhythm. Matt adjusted his tie for the third time that hour—though he hadn’t even left his chair. He wasn’t due in court for another two hours, but he’d been in the office since before six. Sleep had eluded him again. His fingers hovered over a folder marked Markson v. McFly, the label penned in his assistant’s sharp, slanted script. He opened it slowly, deliberately, as if bracing for something volatile.

Jack McFly. Age: 6.

Matt leaned back, hands steepled, eyes drifting toward the bookshelf near the door—lined with legal tomes and framed degrees—but he wasn’t seeing any of it. He was remembering Jason’s hand resting gently on Clara’s back as they left the office. Protective. Not possessive. Not performative. Just… genuine. He’d seen a lot of couples in his line of work—fractured ones, feigned ones, desperate to convince the court or themselves that they were united. Jason and Clara had walked out like a unit. But still, there had been a tremor in Clara’s voice. She’s afraid…Not of Jason..Not even of losing…She’s afraid of what this fight will do to Jack.

Matt exhaled and leaned forward again. He flipped through witness statements, parenting-time logs, text message screenshots. A motion had arrived late last night from opposing counsel—aggressive and veiled in accusation. It painted Clara as unstable. It implied Jason’s presence disrupted the child’s bond with his biological father, Sean Markson. Matt’s hand curled into a fist on the desk. Slowly, he unfurled it. He knew how fragile the scales were. How a single sentence from a judge could splinter a child’s world. That’s what haunted him—not the strategy, not the courtroom—but the weight of it all.

He closed the file and reached for the notepad beside his laptop. Flipping past procedural notes and reminders, he landed on a short list written in his own hand

What Matters for Jack

1. Stability

2. Safety

3. Emotional continuity

4. Validation of his feelings

5. Honesty (age-appropriate)

6. Agency without burden

He’d written it after the first consultation with Clara and Jason. Late at night. Whiskey in hand. It wasn’t law. It wasn’t admissible. But it was his compass. A quiet map in the murky waters of litigation. The rain thickened, drumming harder against the glass. Matt stood and crossed the room to refill his coffee. He liked the ritual—the grounding of it. The warmth. The bitterness. He sipped, returned to his desk, and sat. What am I walking into today? A courtroom tense with conflict? A child whose world teeters on adult language even adults don’t fully understand?. Two people trying to protect him—flawed, frightened, but genuine. And a father who may see his son not as a person, but as an extension of loss, or pride, or guilt. That was the danger. When the fight stopped being about the child—and became about what the child represented. He picked up his pen and wrote one word at the top of the folder: Clarity. He would carry that into court. Not as an advocate for war, but as a steward of truth. He couldn’t control the past. He couldn’t control the judge. But he could shape the story—with intention. Taking a breath, Matt stood. He straightened his jacket. Picked up the file. Ready to speak for the quiet things: A child’s grief. A mother’s hope. And the invisible thread that tied them all together.

Slipping into his car, The windshield wipers clicked in a metronomic rhythm, sweeping arcs of rain off the glass. The city passed by in smudged streaks of gray—traffic lights blinking like slow heartbeats in the gloom, pedestrians bundled against the chill, faceless behind fogged umbrellas. Matt’s hands gripped the steering wheel at ten and two, knuckles pale against black leather. The heater hummed low, blowing warm air into the cabin, but it didn’t quite reach the tightness in his chest. His tie felt too tight. Again. He’d dressed the part: dark tailored suit, clean shave, briefcase buckled and ready in the passenger seat. But no matter how pressed the fabric or polished the shoes, there was a rawness under it all this morning. Something that couldn’t be filed, faxed, or reasoned into order. Markson v. McFly. Even the name felt like a fracture.

His eyes scanned the rearview mirror—habit, reflex—but what he saw wasn’t traffic. It was Clara. Not the version from depositions or carefully-worded affidavits. The other Clara. The one who showed up on his doorstep one night, in her pyjamas and a long coat that swallowed her frame. Rain in her hair. Eyes rimmed red from crying. She didn’t even knock. He remembered the sound of the screen door creaking open, the confused bark of his dog, the soft thud of her feet on the porch. And then her voice, small and hoarse: “Matt... I need Jason’s address.” No explanation. No pleasantries. Just need—bare and trembling. He hadn’t asked why. Not then. He’d seen it in her face. The realization. The clarity. That lightning-bolt awareness people spend their lives chasing. Clara had found it in the wreckage of her past—in the ashes of what Sean had done to her. Not just the bruises, though God knew they had been bad enough. It was the breaking of her. The way he’d made her doubt her own mind, her worth, her right to peace.

Jason had been the opposite of all that. Not a savior. Not a fantasy. Just safe. Constant. A man who listened without trying to fix. Who touched her like she was real—not fragile, not broken, not dangerous. And that night, Clara had finally understood something profound and terrifying: she loved him. Not with desperation, but with certainty. That’s why Matt gave her the address. Not because it was legally sound. Not because she was in love with his best friend. But because she was asking as a person. As a woman choosing to run toward love instead of just running away from fear. He could’ve said no. Cautioned her to slow down, to think it through. But the truth was, he’d never seen her clearer than she was in that moment. “I just need to see him,” she had whispered, clutching the address slip like it was oxygen. Now, as Matt turned onto the arterial leading to the courthouse, the weight of it all settled in his chest. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this. This case should be just another entry in his calendar. Another client. Another family. But it wasn’t. Because Clara had found the courage to love again. And Sean Markson wanted to tear that down.

The rain had softened to a mist by the time the courthouse came into view—its limestone facade rising pale against the bleak morning. Matt slowed as he pulled into the underground lot, bracing himself for the next few hours. For the rhetoric. The cross-examinations. The eyes of a judge trying to read between carefully curated lines. Butt what weighed on him most wasn’t what would be said—it was what had already been lived. A broken woman. A terrified child. A man offering hope not as a shield, but as a home. Matt parked, killed the engine, and sat still for a beat. Let it be enough, he thought. Let truth matter today. He grabbed the briefcase, tightened his grip, and stepped into the storm. Matt stepped out of the car and into the drizzle, the cold kissing his skin through his coat. The courthouse loomed ahead—gray, sober, unblinking. He locked the car with a beep, slung his briefcase over his shoulder, and turned toward the entrance. That’s when he saw them. Sean Markson and his lawyer, walking side by side beneath the wide arch of the courthouse canopy. Sean had a calmness about him, the kind that wasn’t earned but worn—like a mask fitted perfectly over something hollow. His gait was steady, confident, almost too controlled. Dressed in a sharp, steel-gray suit that matched the weather, he looked more like he was arriving for a business deal than a custody battle.

Matt slowed slightly, instinct taking over. Years of litigation had taught him how to read people before they ever opened their mouths. Posture, eyes, tension in the jaw—all of it told stories words never could. And Sean’s body language was screaming. He wasn’t nervous. He was expectant. Like this wasn’t a man fighting for a relationship with his son—it was a man expecting something to be returned to him. Entitled. Calm. Predatory in its patience. His lawyer, a tall man with a briefcase nearly as sleek as his smile, was saying something low and measured, but Sean wasn’t really listening. He was watching. Scanning. Hunting for the moment he could take control of the room.Then Sean’s eyes swept the lot and met Matt’s. A flicker of recognition. The faintest smile—not warm, not polite. Something else. Arrogant, maybe. Amused. Matt had seen that expression before. In mediation rooms. In cross-examinations. It was the look of a man who still believed the courtroom was a stage for manipulation, not accountability. He might as well have been asking: Are you ready to lose today? But Matt just held his gaze. Didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. He didn’t need to snarl or posture. All he needed to do was show up with the truth. And the weight of that would be heavier than anything Sean could wield. Still, as Sean and his lawyer disappeared through the courthouse doors, Matt felt it settle in his bones—that low, gnawing awareness. This wasn’t about love.It was about control. And that made it dangerous.

Inside the court foyer, Sean Markson sat perched on the edge of a chair, sharply dressed but twitching with barely contained fury. His leg bounced like a restless heartbeat, each tap a silent curse. His lawyer, a man worn thin by years of disillusion, shuffled papers with tired efficiency.

“This is a joke,” Sean spat, voice rough. “He’s got money, a mansion, the perfect image. Everyone loves Jason Orange but beneath all that charm? He’s still a womanizer. A player who treats women like trophies and forgets them by morning.”

The lawyer didn’t look up. “You’ve said that before.”

“And I’ll say it again. Clara’s just the latest fool to fall for his act. Jason’s history is a parade of broken hearts and reckless nights. Do you think any of those women mattered to him? No. He uses them. And when Clara walks away—because she will—what happens to Jack then?”

The lawyer set the folder down, voice tired but firm. “And what about you? You have a documented history of violence. You disappeared when Jack needed you most. You left Clara to handle everything alone.”

Sean’s voice dropped to a growl. “I was under pressure. Clara—she twisted me. Made me feel like I had no choice. It wasn’t me. Not really.”

“Jack was two years old. He saw it all. He remembers every word, every scream. That’s not pressure. That’s trauma.”

Sean rose, pacing the sterile tile floor, his anger boiling over. “Jason’s a damn flirt. Tabloids called him the biggest flirt in boy band history—he never stays with anyone. How is that stability? Clara’s bound to get hurt when she realizes Jason’s just another chapter. And when she leaves, Jack pays the price.”

The lawyer’s voice sharpened, cutting through the rage. “This isn’t about Jason’s past. It’s about you. You don’t win custody by throwing mud, especially with gossip from decades ago. He's quietly stayed out of the limelight for a decade for goodness sake Sean. ”

The door opened and Matt entered, calm, steady—an anchor in the storm. He set the file down and fixed Sean with a steady gaze.

“You’re trying to take my son,” Sean hissed. “You!!”

“Mr. Markson” Matt met the fury head-on. “No. I’m trying to protect him. There’s a difference.”

Sean sneered. “You don’t even know me.”

"I know Jack. That’s what matters. He sleeps without fear. He laughs again. He doesn’t flinch when someone raises a hand.”

Sean’s fists clenched, white-knuckled. “You think that makes that middle aged nobody have rights to be a father? To MY Son?”

“Yes..My client has always been there for that child” Matt held his ground. “It makes him someone who stayed. Someone who never made him afraid. Someone who showed up when it counted.” The tension thickened. Silence stretched between them. “You think blood gives you a claim,” Matt said quietly. “But Jack isn’t a prize to be won. He’s a little boy finally safe. Finally loved the way he deserves.” Sean’s mouth tightened. No answer. Matt gathered the file, voice unwavering. “The court will decide. But if they ask me, I’ll tell them the truth. Jack has a family now—not the one he came from, but the one that stayed. The one that healed him.” He paused, locking eyes with Sean. “And it doesn’t take a genius to see who that is.”

Matt knew. This wasn’t about dramatics. It was about clarity, protection, and truth.

Matt now sat alone at the petitioner’s table, flanked only by his notes and the file that had come to feel more like a burden than a brief. Clara and Jason had chosen not to be present for the hearing—at Matt’s advice. It was safer that way, cleaner. Less risk of emotional escalation. But now, with the judge's gaze looming like a scalpel and Sean seated just feet away, the absence of their presence pressed hard against Matt’s ribs. There was no reassuring nod from Clara, no silent strength from Jason’s folded arms or steady gaze. Just empty benches. Just silence. The room itself was a study in restraint—muted tones, oak paneling, a distant echo every time a paper rustled or a shoe scuffed against the tile. The judge’s bench rose like a quiet mountain, unshaken by the tension coiling beneath it. Matt’s suit, tailored and pressed, suddenly felt too tight. His tie itched. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, like a question that wouldn’t go away. He glanced across the aisle at Sean—perfectly groomed, composed, a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth like a man already drafting his victory speech. Sean wasn’t just confident. He was comfortable. And that was the part that unsettled Matt the most. It wasn't bravado—it was belief. Sean truly thought he belonged here. That he had a claim. That this courtroom would validate it. Matt flexed his fingers around his pen. No Clara. No Jason. Just his voice. Just the truth. But truth, he knew, wasn’t always louder than performance.

The court officer called the room to attention as the judge re-entered. Matt rose, spine straight, file in hand. His stomach was tight. His face was unreadable. He had walked into courtrooms hundreds of times—but today, the stakes weren’t theoretical. They were flesh and blood. They were a six-year-old boy who laughed in Jason’s arms, who traced pictures for Clara in crayon, who had once whispered to Matt, “I don’t get scared at night anymore.” This wasn’t just litigation. This was the line between a future and a fracture. And Matt stood on it—alone.

Sean sat across from him, his arms folded tightly over his chest, his eyes narrowed. The mask of civility had cracked, but there was still a glint of calculation behind his expression—like a man grasping at the last remaining thread of control.

He quickly cleared his throat. “Your Honour, I’d like to respond to Mr. Markson’s custody petition—specifically the motivations behind it.”

“Proceed,” the judge said.

Matt adjusted the microphone, his voice steady, resolute.

“I believe this petition wasn’t filed out of paternal concern or love. It was filed out of jealousy. Out of wounded pride. Sean Markson had no interest in Jack McFly’s wellbeing until recently. No calls. No letters. Not even a birthday card in six years. And yet—suddenly—after seeing photographs of Jack with my client Mr Orange, a well known familiar public figure, he files a motion for shared custody.” He paused. “Those photographs, Your Honour, were taken without permission—long-lens images of Mr Orange at the cafe with Jack. Published without consent. Stolen moments twisted into a narrative that conveniently repositions Mr. Markson as a wronged father watching his child be raised by a ‘celebrity.’ That media exposure is what triggered this filing—not a sudden epiphany about fatherhood.” from across the room, Sean’s jaw clenched. His lawyer leaned in, whispering something, but Sean shook him off. Matt continued. “Let’s talk about Mr Orange. Yes, he was once in the public eye. Yes, he has a past, just like we all do. But what’s relevant is the man he is today. At 54, Jason Orange is retired. He lives quietly. He’s been in a committed relationship with Ms McFly, mother to Jack, for over two years now. They’re expecting a child. He is—by every measure—a stabilising, loving presence in Jack’s life. Something this little boy has waited 6 years of his life to finally experience”

Sean scoffed audibly, earning a sharp look from the judge.

“Mr Orange is devoted to his family” Matt didn’t flinch. “He doesn’t seek publicity now. He doesn’t exploit his name or use the band he was a beloved part of for many years. He reads bedtime stories. He goes to school assemblies. He built Jack a treehouse last summer. He is not trying to ‘replace’ anyone. He is simply doing the job someone else walked away from.” He let that land for a moment before continuing, more quietly now. “This guardianship application isn’t about ego. It’s about ensuring continuity and consistency for a child who has finally found security and a loving home with a decent male figure in his life. Jack knows where home is now. He knows who shows up. He knows who listens. That consistency is critical.” Matt looked directly at Sean. “Trying to reinsert yourself into Jack’s life through a legal filing, after years of absence, without addressing the harm you caused to both him and his mother, without taking responsibility—that’s not fatherhood. That’s theatre.”

Sean’s eyes burned. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but the judge raised a hand.

“You will have your chance, Mr. Markson. For now, sit.”

Sean sank back in his chair, seething. His foot bounced restlessly beneath the table. His lawyer leaned in again, whispering more insistently this time. But Sean barely nodded, his focus locked on Matt, who now stepped down from the stand and returned to his seat. The courtroom had fallen into a brittle silence after Matt York stepped down. He returned to his seat with calm, but his jaw was tight, his fingers clenched in his lap. The truth was never easy to speak aloud, especially when it was weighed against a man like Sean Markson, whose sense of entitlement hadn’t dimmed despite years of absence. From across the room, Sean’s eyes narrowed. That name—Jason Orange—landed like salt on old wounds. Twenty years ago, the man was on every cover, in every bed, singing into millions of hearts. And now, here he was again. Taking what little was left of Sean’s legacy—his son. His lawyer, Gerald Raynor, stood now, buttoning his jacket as he made his way toward the center of the court. Raynor was polished, measured—a man who spoke in practiced tones and rehearsed pauses. The kind that could spin stormclouds into reasonable doubts.

“Your Honour,” Raynor began, his voice low and persuasive, “we cannot overlook the circumstances surrounding the decisions that have led us here today.” He gave a quick glance at Matt, then directed his gaze toward the judge. “Mr. York’s assertion that my client is acting out of jealousy or revenge is, frankly, speculative and emotional. What we do know is this—Mr. Markson is Jack’s biological father. He has expressed a willingness to re-enter his son’s life, to contribute, and to reestablish a relationship. That is not something to be dismissed lightly.” He took a step forward, lowering his tone as if confiding something regrettable. “But there is a pattern worth examining on the other side as well. Miss Clara McFly, the child’s mother, has a documented history of anxiety and—at times—erratic decisions. She left the family home in a state of distress, denied my client contact, and placed her trust almost immediately in a man whose public image has, in the past, raised legitimate concern.” Matt stiffened. Raynor noticed, and pounced. “I refer, of course, to Mr. Jason Orange. A former pop icon whose years in the spotlight included numerous high profile romantic entanglements, documented battles with mental fatigue, and public statements suggesting discomfort with long-term commitment. He was, at one point, known more for his relationships than his music. And now, at fifty-four, retired, he finds himself playing house with a younger woman and her child—one who is not his own.” He turned to the judge again, drawing his words out like silk. “We are not here to attack Mr. Orange’s celebrity past. But we must ask—is this truly a stable environment for a child? Is this truly the best situation for Jack? Or is this a scenario built on the fragile hopes of a woman seeking refuge rather than reason?”

Matt stood abruptly. “Objection—”

The judge raised her hand. “Mr. York, you’ll have your chance. Sit down.”

Raynor nodded as if this interruption only proved his point.

“My client does not seek to remove Jack from his home, only to be given the chance to play the role nature intended. Mr. York, with respect, is not Jack’s father. Mr. Orange, for all his efforts, is not Jack’s father either. That is a title only Mr. Markson holds. And though he may not have been present, he has never relinquished that right.” He stepped back, hands folded. “We ask for shared custody. Nothing more. An opportunity for reconciliation. A chance—for Jack—to know where he comes from.”

Sean’s expression had shifted as his lawyer spoke. His earlier arrogance was clouded now by a tense, simmering panic. He glanced briefly toward Matt, then down at his hands, jaw working. The veneer of confidence was cracking. Matt met his gaze, unflinching. He knew this wasn’t just about Jack. It never had been. It was about control. It was about Clara. And it was about a man trying to claw back what he’d lost—only now, it was too late. The judge adjusted her glasses, the weight of silence lingering in the courtroom like thick fog. She looked down at her notes for a moment, tapping the edge of her pen against the desk before raising her eyes to address the room.

“Thank you, Mr. Raynor. And thank you, Mr. York,” she said, her tone level but firm. “I’ve heard both arguments, and I want to acknowledge that this is not a simple case of one party being clearly right or wrong. What we have before us is a situation layered with emotion, history, and—most importantly—the well-being of a minor.” She paused, her gaze flicking briefly toward Sean before settling on Matt. “From the evidence presented, it’s clear that Mr. Orange has stepped into a paternal role in Jack’s life. He has no legal obligation to that child, and yet, he’s made the conscious decision to be present, supportive, and nurturing. The court recognises that. And the fact that Miss McFly is expecting his child further supports a strong foundation of family stability within that household.” Matt exhaled slowly, fingers pressed together in cautious relief.

“However,” the judge continued, her voice sharpening slightly, “this court cannot and will not dismiss a biological parent’s desire to reconnect with their child—however flawed that parent's history may be. There are questions that remain unanswered. Concerns have been raised about influence—verbal or emotional—that could shape Jack’s perception of his father. I will not ignore those concerns.” She folded her hands atop her bench. “Therefore, I am ordering a formal evaluation of Jack by the child care and welfare team. This will assess his emotional well-being, his feelings toward both his biological father and Mr. Orange, and whether any undue influence has occurred within the household.” Matt closed his eyes briefly, jaw tight, then gave a quiet nod. He understood the necessity, even if it stung. “Additionally,” the judge said, “in one week’s time, this court will reconvene with the minor present. I would like to hear Jack’s thoughts—not in open court, but privately, in my chambers. His voice matters in this.” She turned her gaze fully onto Sean. “Until then, Mr. Markson, you will be permitted a supervised visit with your son. This will take place in a neutral, child-friendly setting with a professional supervisor present. No exceptions.”

Sean began to stand, shaking his head. “Your Honour, with respect—he doesn’t even remember me properly. He’s being fed things. He’s—”

“I said supervised, Mr. Markson,” the judge cut in sharply. “Not unsupervised. Not unregulated. I am well aware of your history. But every child—every child—deserves to know where they come from. What they choose to do with that knowledge is theirs. But they deserve the truth.” The courtroom stilled once more. “I am not here to grant redemption or punishment,” she added. “I am here to serve the best interests of a child. The next hearing will consider the outcome of the supervised visit, the care team’s evaluation, and Jack’s own input.” Her gavel struck the wood with finality. “Court is adjourned. We reconvene next Thursday.”

As murmurs filled the room, Matt leaned back in his chair, the weight of the day slumping across his shoulders. One week. One week to hope that the truth, lived quietly in love and trust, would be enough. And in the corner of the courtroom, Sean stood rigidly still, jaw clenched, eyes unreadable—as if even he wasn’t sure whether what he wanted was fatherhood… or revenge.

Back at home, the house was quiet—too quiet for Clara’s liking now. Not even the kettle murmured, no music hummed faintly from Jason’s speaker system like it usually did. It was the kind of silence that didn’t feel peaceful, but expectant. Heavy. As if the walls themselves were holding their breath. She sat at the edge of the sofa, perched like a woman bracing for impact. Her fingers were knotted tightly in her lap, nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. She couldn’t take her eyes off the front door. It stared back, unmoving, yet full of threat. A barrier between now and what came next. Her mind looped in anxious circles: Would Jack understand? Would he feel betrayed? Would he stop seeing Jason as his dad? Behind her, Jason paced the open-plan kitchen with restless energy, his socked feet silent against the floorboards. His phone was clenched tightly in one hand, the screen lighting up now and then with notifications he didn’t read. He’d seen Matt’s message an hour ago. Call me. ASAP.

He hadn’t called back. Not yet. Not until Jack was home. Not until he could feel something solid under his feet again. His gut already knew what it was. Something about the court. About Sean. About a storm that hadn’t passed, just circled back with sharper teeth. But all he could think about right now was Jack. Jack, who would come running up the path in a flurry of chatter and half-zipped jacket, still sticky from zoo sweets, full of stories and questions. Jack, who laughed with his whole face. Who reached for Jason’s hand in crowds. Who called him “Daddy” like he always had. Eventually Jason stopped pacing when Clara spoke.

“You think we’re doing the right thing?” her voice was low, a break in the silence that didn’t relieve the tension—it only made it more real. He turned toward her slowly, like it hurt to stop moving "telling him all about the court stuff...and Sean"

“We have to,” said Jason. “He deserves the truth. No matter how much it might hurt and... change things.”

Clara nodded, but her eyes stayed fixed on the front door. Her hand drifted to her belly without thought, resting protectively there. A gentle flutter rippled under her palm. The baby—this new beginning—was a reminder and an ache all at once. She pressed her hand more firmly, trying to draw courage from the life blooming quietly inside her.

“What if he doesn’t understand?” she whispered. “What if this ruins everything we’ve built with him?”

Jason came to her, crouching beside the sofa. His hand closed around hers, gently untangling the tension from her fingers. “Then we explain. Slowly. Carefully. We make sure he knows the only thing that’s never changed is how loved he is.”

“Jay…” She met his eyes then. They looked tired. Not from lack of sleep, but from the weight of holding so much without breaking. “He’s only six.”

“I know.”

“He thinks you’re his father.”

“I am, I have been for the past two years now” Jason said firmly, without hesitation. “Maybe not in blood. But in every way that matters.” He paused, swallowing the lump that had lodged itself in his throat. “I tucked him in. I brush the dirt off his knees when he trips over his own feet. I show up. Every day. That has to mean something.”

Clara’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “It means everything.”

Jason nodded, but his jaw was tight. “Sean will try to turn him against us. He’ll plant doubt—he already has. If Jack hears the truth from someone else, twisted and weaponised...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “We can’t let that happen.” Silence fell again, heavier than before.

Clara leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his. “Then we tell him. But not all at once. Just enough. The truth... in pieces he can carry.”

Jason nodded against her skin. “Together.”

Soon A noise outside broke the stillness—the crunch of tyres on gravel. Clara sat up straighter. Jason stood, tense. A moment later, the sound of a car door closing, the clatter of little feet, and a high-pitched laugh rang out like a bell through the evening air. Jack was home. And so was the moment they’d been dreading. Before either of them could say more, the front door burst open. Jack exploded into the room, a whirlwind of motion and sound.

“Mummy! Daddy!” he shouted, tossing his backpack aside and launching himself at Jason. Jason caught him mid-leap, lifting him into a hug that felt like both flight and freefall. Jack’s arms locked around his neck, warm and real and trusting. Jason held him tightly, his throat constricting. “You should’ve seen it!” Jack cried. “The gorilla was huge! And he banged on the glass! And then a zookeeper gave me a sticker and said I had ‘excellent behaviour’!”

Jason chuckled, the sound rough around the edges. “Did he? That’s brilliant, kid”

Jack beamed, then turned to Clara. “Mummy, the baby’s gonna love the zoo! Can we go again when the baby’s here?”

Clara smiled, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Of course we can, sweetheart.”

In the doorway, Dani lingered with a quiet presence. Her arms were crossed loosely, her gaze calm but perceptive. She saw everything—the tightness in Jason’s laugh, the flicker behind Clara’s smile, the way both of them were trying a little too hard to seem normal.

“Alright,” Dani said gently, ruffling Jack’s hair, “my job here is done. I’ll let you guys get settled.”

“Do you have to go?” Jack pouted.

“’Fraid so,” she said, tapping his nose. “But I’ll see you soon, okay? We’ll plan another zoo day.”

Jason set Jack down and gave Dani a grateful nod. Clara followed her to the door.

On the porch, the air was cool, the sky starting to soften into evening hues. Clara closed the door behind them.

“We’re going to tell him,” she said quietly.

“Oh…” Dani’s brows lifted, then softened. “Matt called?”

Clara nodded. “Jason hasn’t listened yet. But we know. Court’s moving.. We decided that Jack needs to hear it from us. Before anyone else.”

Dani took Clara’s hand, her voice low but firm. “It’s the right call. It’ll hurt—God, it’ll hurt—but you’re the ones he trusts. You’ve built that trust, day by day. And Jason—he’s already Jack’s dad. Biology doesn’t change that.”

Clara blinked quickly, her eyes shimmering. “We just don’t want him to feel... betrayed. Like we kept something from him.”

“You kept him safe,” Dani said. “There’s a difference.” She pulled Clara into a hug—tight, grounding. “And if it all gets too much, I’m just a phone call away. Don’t shut me out, okay?”

Clara nodded into her shoulder, holding her tighter than she had in months.

Inside, Jason sat helping Jack unpack crumpled zoo drawings and a sticky half-melted packet of sweets. Jack’s chatter spilled out in waves, but Jason’s focus drifted—hovering above the moment like a man about to step off a cliff. His hands moved, but his mind was already elsewhere. On what came next. On the moment when the laughter stopped, when Jack’s face changed, when the word “father” became complicated. His heart pounded—not like adrenaline, but dread. The moment was coming. And he didn’t know if he’d survive breaking the boy who had healed him.

Evening soon draped the house in hush, a kind of stillness that only arrived when the world had finally spent all its noise. The last light of the sun slipped across the floor in golden threads, wrapping the living room in a gentle warmth that made everything feel softer, quieter—more fragile. The scent of Jack’s shampoo lingered in the air, mingling with the soft hum of the dishwasher. Somewhere in the kitchen, a glass settled in the drying rack with a quiet clink. But no one moved.

Jason sat cross-legged on the rug, his back against the sofa, a worn plush dinosaur in his hand. Clara was perched above him on the couch, her hands clenched together, knuckles pale. They both had the look of people waiting for a storm to break—not the kind with thunder and rain, but the kind that changes a landscape forever. Jack had been full of stories when Dani dropped him home—gorillas pounding on glass, banana ice cream, a monkey who peed on a zookeeper’s boot. But that brightness had softened now. He was curled into Jason’s lap, head resting just over the steady beat of Jason’s heart, thumb gently rubbing at the edge of his sleeve. Jason looked up at Clara. She gave the smallest of nods. It was time.

“Hey, Jack,” Jason said softly, brushing a curl from the boy’s forehead. “Can we talk about something? Just us?”

“Am I in trouble?” Jack stirred, eyes lifting with curiosity. “Is it something bad?”

“Oh mate, you are not in trouble, trust me..”Jason hesitated. “It’s something important. And we want you to hear it from us, not from anyone else.”

"Okay then" Jack sat up a little. “Is this about your friend Mister Matt? I heard you talking about him the other day to mummy. You gave her a cuddle afterwards when she looked sad”

"You saw that?" Jason nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s about what Matt asked us to talk about.”

"Sweetheart..." Clara reached out and took Jack’s small hand in hers, voice low but steady. “Jack… do you remember when we lived in the old flat above the sweet shop when you was little? Before we moved here with Jason and before we lived in Papa's house?”

“oh yes..not much but…” Jack’s shoulders shifted. “I remember a little bit” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “I had bad dreams. You cried a lot back then.”

Clara’s breath caught. “Yes, sweetheart. You did. And I did too.”

“There was yelling,” Jack said, voice quiet but certain. “that man shouted at you. And at me.” Jason stilled, the dinosaur limp in his hand. He didn’t dare speak. “He hit the wall,” Jack continued. “And he threw my red robot. I cried but he told me to stop being silly. I wanted him to go away.”

Clara blinked back tears, fingers tightening around Jack’s.

“That man sweetheart,” she said gently, “his name is Sean. And… he’s your biological father..you must have been about 3 when you saw him last.”

Jack went quiet. Very quiet. His eyes dropped to the floor. Clara waited. Letting the silence settle. Letting him feel whatever it was he needed to feel. Finally, Jack spoke

"“I know.”

Clara’s breath hitched. “You do?”

“I saw his picture once…” He glanced up, voice small. “I knew it was him. I remembered that he was my real Daddy” Jason's chest tightened. A thousand words he didn’t know how to say crowded his throat. Jack looked up at Clara, then at Jason. “But I don’t want him to be.” Jason’s heart cracked wide open. “I know he’s the one who made me with you mummy,” Jack went on, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “But he made you cry and wasnt very nice. He scared me. He shouted so loud my ears  hurt. That’s not what a daddy does”

“No sweetheart ,” Clara said, her voice breaking. “It’s not.”

“I remember him shouting at you about me that day at the park when we first met you Daddy” his eyes turned to Jason’s “ when I was hiding behind the tree, wearing my marty outfit and you had Molly with you” his eyes were still locked on Jason, wide eyes glistening. “You’re my real daddy. Even if you didn’t make me with Mummy. You’re the one who stayed with us. Who makes me breakfast and reads dinosaur books and holds my hand when I’m sick.” Jason let the words wash over him, raw and life-altering. He pulled Jack close, burying his face in those curls, breathing him in. Jack’s voice was muffled now. “I don’t want to see that Sean person. Even if Mister Matt says I have to. He’s not my daddy. Not in here.” He pressed his small fist to his chest “You are..i love you..not him”

“oh my sweet little boy” Clara leaned down, wrapping her arms around both of them. “You are so brave, Jack. So brave to know what you feel and say it out loud.”

“I just… I don’t want the bad dreams to come back,” Jack whispered.still clinging onto Jason “Don't make them come back please Daddy…”

“They won’t,” Jason murmured. “Not if we can help it. We’ll tell Matt everything. What you said, what you feel. No one gets to decide your life without hearing your voice first.”

Jack nodded into his shirt. “Okay. But promise you won’t let him shout at you again mummy.”

“I promise,” Clara whispered, kissing his cheek.

“Never again,” Jason echoed, his voice rough.

And there, wrapped in each other—one broken past, one fragile present, and one uncertain but fiercely held future—they sat. Not shattered. Not defeated. But bound tighter than ever by truth, by trust, and by the kind of love that doesn’t count blood, only presence. Jack knew now where he came from. But more importantly—he knew where he belonged. And tonight, that was everything.

The house was quiet again, but not the peaceful kind. It was the kind of quiet that settles after a storm—not calm, exactly, but fragile. A hush heavy with things unsaid. Jack had finally fallen asleep—curled tightly against Clara, his small frame tucked into her side, one hand still fisted in her shirt like a lifeline. It had taken nearly an hour of slow breathing, soft reassurances, and whispered stories to ease him into rest. Even then, his sleep was light. Fitful.

Jason had waited until Jack’s breathing deepened before gently slipping off the edge of the sofa. Clara didn’t stir. She’d been too still herself, blinking up at the ceiling, her fingers still in Jack’s hair. Her exhaustion ran deeper than lack of sleep. Quickly he grabbed his phone from the nightstand and padded barefoot down the hall, through the kitchen, and out the back door. The screen door gave a soft creak as it shut behind him. The night air was cooler than he expected, brushing his skin like a warning. Above him, the sky stretched wide and dark, an ink-blue canvas scattered with the first pricks of starlight. He stood still for a moment, breathing it in, then started to pace. Once. Twice. His thumb hovered over Matt’s name on the screen. He hadn’t responded to the earlier message—not because he didn’t care, but because he hadn’t had the space to take it in. Not while Jack was crying into Clara’s shirt. Not while Clara was shaking but pretending not to..

The cool air kissed his skin, heavy with the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine. He paced the small patch of grass, the soft crunch beneath his feet the only sound besides his own ragged breath. His fingers trembled as he tapped Matt’s name. The call rang once.

“Jason,” Matt’s voice was sharp but steady, cutting through the stillness. “You got my message?”

Jason pressed a palm to his forehead, feeling the pulse of tension in his temples. “Yeah. It’s been a long night. I didn’t want to talk in front of Jack. He just fell asleep.”

There was a long pause before Matt’s voice softened, quiet as the night itself. “How did he take it?”

Jason’s eyes rose to the sky—stars like distant fires twinkling in the abyss. His voice was low, cracked with exhaustion. “Better than I thought… worse than I hoped. He remembers more than we knew. The shouting, the fear… Sean breaking his toy. He said he doesn’t want him back. Called him his ‘real dad,’ but only by name. Said I’m the one who stayed..called me Daddy again..”

The weight of that silence between them felt like thick fog. “That’s heavy,” Matt finally said. “But it matters. The judge will want to hear that.”

“What did the judge say, exactly?” Jason’s shoulders tightened, the chill night pressing against his skin like a physical weight.

Matt sighed, a slow, weary sound. “It’s complicated. Sean’s lawyer tried to paint Clara as unstable—dredged up her past with you, your age, everything. But the judge didn’t bite.” Jason waited his breath shallow. “She acknowledged Clara’s pregnancy, your stability, your relationship. Said it all shows a strong environment for Jack. She even mentioned you by name. She sees what you’ve done.”

Jason swallowed hard, a lump lodged deep in his throat. “But?”

“The judge said Jack has to be heard. He’s old enough now. She ordered a child welfare assessment and said Jack will need to come to court next week—to speak with her privately.” Jason closed his eyes, the cold air suddenly sharper, more invasive. “She also granted Sean one supervised visit before then. To watch Jack’s behavior—make sure he’s not being coached, that his feelings are his own.”

"What the fuck?" Jason’s jaw clenched, the muscles taut beneath his skin. “Coached? You think Clara or I would—? He beat her for Christ's sake...he did it for YEARS..infront of his own kid too”

Matt’s voice softened, full of patience. “I know you wouldn’t. But the court doesn’t run on trust. It runs on proof. The judge was clear: every child deserves to know where they come from. But she won’t force anything harmful. She wants Jack’s truth. Not ours. Not Sean’s. His.”

Jason’s gaze drifted back to the warm glow spilling from the house—the safe haven where Jack slept at last, free from nightmares.

“I just want to protect him.”

“I know,” Matt said, quiet as a prayer. “And right now, that means letting him speak for himself. But he won’t be alone. Not really. He’ll have all the love you and Clara have poured into him backing every word.”

Jason nodded slowly, voice rough and raw. “Thanks, Matt.”

“Get some rest. We’ve got a week to make sure Jack knows he’s safe.”

The call ended, but Jason stayed rooted in the shadows, the night folding around him like a shroud. The cool grass pressed beneath his feet, the scent of jasmine thick in the air, his phone a heavy weight in his hand. Matt’s words churned in his mind like storm clouds on the horizon. One supervised visit. The phrase echoed, a dull ache beneath his ribs, each repeat a punch to the chest. He tried to reason with himself. It would be controlled, safe. Clara and he would be close. Sean’s power was limited now. But logic couldn’t reach the part of him that remembered Jack flinching at sudden noises, the part that had knelt beside his bed night after night, whispering him away from nightmares. Those nightmares were gone but in a week, they risked returning. His chest tightened, a coil of anxiety squeezing tighter with every breath. He rubbed his eyes, tried to steady his heartbeat, but it was like trying to breathe through thick fog. He didn’t want Sean near Jack. Not anywhere near. And yet the court had cracked the door open. Jason wasn’t sure if the fire burning inside was rage, fear, or helplessness—maybe all three—but it scorched through him like wildfire. Still, he turned back toward the house. Because if fear clawed at his throat, love was the tether pulling him home.

Inside, the lights were low, the house hushed and golden with the warmth of late evening. A soft lull of music spilled from Clara’s phone—some quiet piano melody she hadn’t even realized was still playing. She sat curled into the corner of the couch, one hand absently stroking the swell of her stomach, the other resting over Jack’s small frame where he lay tucked against her side His breath was warm against her ribs. His thumb still hooked beneath her arm like an anchor. He’d cried himself dry earlier, clinging to her with everything he had. It had taken almost an hour of whispered stories and quiet breathing to lull him toward sleep. Even now, Clara didn’t move. She was afraid to. The weight of the day pressed deep into her bones—grief, fear, that slow, quiet panic of not knowing what comes next. But more than anything, she was holding herself still for Jack. As long as he felt her heartbeat, maybe he’d rest. When she heard the creak of the screen door, she didn’t look up at first. But then Jason appeared in the archway, silhouetted in soft light, shoulders heavy with everything he hadn’t said yet. She met his eyes. No words. Just a shared look of bone-deep exhaustion and something gentler. Trust. Understanding. He crossed the room quietly.

 “I’ve got him,” Jason whispered, the words gentle but sure.

Clara gave the smallest nod, her hand trailing lightly over Jack’s back as Jason knelt beside them. She watched as he gathered the boy into his arms with reverence, as though carrying something fragile and sacred. Jack stirred, murmured sleepily, and curled instinctively against Jason’s chest, his cheek finding that space just under his chin. Clara’s throat tightened. That space belonged to Jack. Jason held him for a moment, eyes closing as if grounding himself in the feel of that tiny heartbeat against his chest. Then he carried him upstairs, and Clara was left alone in the quiet, her palm resting over the place where Jack had been.

Upstairs, Jason tucked Jack beneath the blankets with the care of someone placing a prayer. He smoothed the boy’s hair, let his fingers linger a moment longer than necessary. Suddenly the little boys eyes fluttered open.

“Daddy?” he mumbled.

Jason leaned in. “Yeah, mate. I’m here.”

“Just so you know…” Jack blinked once, half-asleep. “You my best daddy. My forever one.”

Jason’s breath hitched. “I love you, Jack. So much.”

“I love you too,” came the barely-there reply, and then Jack rolled to his side, lost again to dreams.

Jason stayed by the bed, watching. Breathing.

Downstairs, Clara stared at the ceiling. Her hand drifted to her belly again—two lives she was holding now. She thought of Jason’s face, the storm in his eyes earlier when he’d gotten the news. She’d felt that storm, too. Still felt it. But under it all was something else. They were doing this. Together. She heard Jason’s footsteps returning, slow and steady down the stairs. When he reappeared, she looked at him—not just at the weight he carried, but the way he carried it.

“Was he okay?” she asked softly.

“He called me Daddy again… Jason nodded, voice rough. “Called me his forever one.”

Clara’s arms tightened around him. Her throat swelled with a hundred things she wanted to say, but she just pressed her cheek to his temple instead. “Because you are,” she whispered. “You always have been.” Jason let out a breath that trembled on the way out. His hands found her sides, then slid to her back, pulling her even closer. They sat like that, curled into each other, the fear still in the room—but held at bay. “I hate that he has to go through this,” Clara said quietly. “That we have to let Sean near him, even for a second.”

Jason nodded against her. “I know. But we’re not handing him over. We’re watching. We’re staying close. And he knows we’re not going anywhere.”

Clara pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “We just have to keep showing up.”

“For him,” Jason said.

“For this one too,” she added, brushing his hand to her belly.

His palm rested there a moment, fingers spreading. “They’ll never have to wonder if they’re safe.”

“No,” Clara said. “They’ll know.”

Jason leaned in, kissed her forehead, then her lips—gentle, lingering. It wasn’t passion. It was a promise.

Clara exhaled slowly and let her head rest on his shoulder again. “Let’s just stay like this for a while.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

They held each other in the hush of the room, surrounded by soft light and quiet music and the weight of everything unspoken. And still, there was peace. Not the kind that comes when nothing is wrong—but the kind you build in spite of it. The kind that stays. Jason sat beside her. Not close enough to break the silence completely, but close enough that she felt his warmth. Her fingers found his between the cushions. The fear hadn’t gone. Not for either of them. But something stronger had taken root in its place. Resolve.

Because no matter what Sean did. No matter what the court allowed. They would show up—for Jack, for this new baby, for each other. Because love wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It just showed up. And it stayed.

Chapter Text

Two days later and the house felt heavier somehow. The late spring sun filtered weakly through the kitchen window, casting pale, tired shadows that barely touched the worn linoleum floor. Clara stood by the counter, her hand pressing into the cool surface for support, her breath shallow and uneven like a fragile whisper. The pregnancy was dragging her down—each movement weighed her down as if gravity had doubled. Her limbs ached, her joints were stiff and protesting, and a dull nausea clung to the back of her throat. Every step felt like wading through thick fog, her body screaming for rest she couldn’t afford. The looming court date hovered like a dark storm cloud just beyond reach, its pressure squeezing her chest tighter with every passing hour.

Jack sat at the small kitchen table, hunched over his crayons, the faint scratch of wax against paper the only sound in the room. The faint smell of morning toast mingled with the sharp tang of lemon-scented cleaner still clinging to the counter. Clara’s patience, once a steady flame, flickered now, thin and unsteady. Her mind spun—fractured by worry, exhaustion, and dread—that gnawing fear that any moment something could shatter the fragile peace they’d fought so hard to build. She swallowed hard, the bitter taste of anxiety rising at the back of her tongue. She needed to keep it together. For Jack. For the baby growing quietly inside her. For Jason, who seemingly carried his own invisible battles. But the weight of it all was crushing, threatening to unravel her from the inside out. Her fingers trembled slightly as she wiped her palms on her skirt, the ache between her shoulder blades blossoming into a dull, persistent throb. A wave of dizziness rose unexpectedly, stealing her breath and forcing her to clutch the edge of the counter again. The room swayed, colors bleeding at the edges like a watercolor left too long in the rain. The soft scrape of Jack’s crayons was distant now, muffled beneath the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears. She blinked rapidly, desperate to clear the haze, to hold herself upright, but the exhaustion was relentless.

Jack’s small voice suddenly cut through the fog, innocent and unaware. “Mummy, are you okay?”

Clara forced a smile she didn’t feel, voice brittle as glass. “I’m fine, love. Just… a bit tired.”

But inside, her thoughts continued to spiral—too tired to carry the weight of their lives, yet unable to stop, unable to let go. The battle wasn’t just outside the wall of the courtroom. It was here, in this kitchen, in every shaky breath and trembling muscle, in every silent prayer whispered beneath the weight of their uncertain tomorrow. A small crash startled her—the ceramic salt shaker tipped over, scattering tiny crystals across the counter. Clara’s head snapped up, tension snapping tight inside her. 

“Jack!” Her voice cracked, sharper and louder than she meant it to be. “Be careful! You knocked it over again! For goodness sake…”

The little boy flinched, his small body shrinking back as if trying to disappear. His wide eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, locked onto hers—fear flickering there like a fragile flame.

“I—I’m sorry, Mummy,” he whispered, voice trembling. His fingers clutched the edge of the table as if it might anchor him against the storm in her tone.”it was an accident..”

Clara’s chest tightened painfully. The sharpness of her words hit her immediately, the weight of exhaustion and worry boiling over in a cruel, sudden spill. She swallowed hard, gripping onto the chair behind him, fighting the heaviness dragging at her limbs and mind. Her voice softened, fragile and shaky. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You didn’t mean to scare me. I’m just… tired. I’ll try to be kinder. I'm sorry baby”

Jack blinked quickly, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, still trembling as he pressed close to her. For a moment, Clara let herself breathe in the softness of him, but then a wave of dizziness hit—hot and sharp, swirling her vision The room spun violently. The edges of her sight darkened and blurred, sounds muffled like they were underwater. She grasped the counter, fingers digging into the cool surface for balance, but her knees buckled slightly. The world tilted sideways, cold sweat breaking out on her skin.

“Mummy?” Jack’s voice cracked with panic, his small hands reaching out to steady her.

“It's okay sweetheart” Clara blinked hard, forcing breath in and out, her chest rising and falling unevenly. “I’m… okay,” she whispered, though the unsteadiness lingered “mummy's just….”

Suddenly, Clara ’s grip on the counter slipped. The cold tiles beneath her bare feet tilted. The kitchen now swam in slow, treacherous spirals. Her breath came in shallow, jagged pulls, like her lungs were filling with water. A ringing buzzed faintly in her ears. Her vision tunneled, the edges darkening as her body swayed under the invisible weight bearing down on her chest. Her hand flailed for the countertop, the other clutching her belly. The baby shifted—a soft, fluttering kick, like even it sensed something was wrong. Jack, she thought, panic threading through the fog. I need to—Then the floor rushed up.

There was a dull, bone-jarring thud—her knees cracked hard against the tiles before her shoulder slammed the lower cabinet. Her body twisted instinctively as she went down, just enough to protect her stomach. And then—nothing. Stillness.

“Mummy!” Jack’s voice pierced the air like broken glass. Crayons scattered across the tiles as he launched from his chair, socks slipping as he ran. His drawing forgotten, his world narrowed to the sight of Clara’s crumpled form. “Mummy?” he cried, dropping beside her. His hands hovered uselessly, too afraid to touch, too desperate not to. Her eyes were closed. Her hand no longer shielded her belly. Her face was pale in a way he didn’t understand—but it terrified him. “Mummy, wake up.” His voice cracked, thick with tears. “Please… wake up.”

A kettle clicked off behind them. A bird chirped somewhere outside. But inside this kitchen, time had stopped.

“DADDY!”

Jason was already running, footsteps hammering against the floorboards like a drumbeat of panic. The sound of Jack’s scream still echoed in his ears, slicing through him with a clarity that froze his blood. He burst into the kitchen, breathless, heart slamming against his ribs. The scene hit him like a physical blow. Jack was the first thing he saw—crumpled on the floor beside Clara, his tiny frame shaking with sobs, hands hovering helplessly over her. His face was blotched red with panic, his eyes wild, disoriented. He looked so small, too small to be witnessing something so frightening. Then his gaze found Clara. Time stuttered.

She lay twisted on the cold tile, her limbs limp, her head tilted at an unnatural angle against the cabinet door. One arm was cradled across her belly as if in instinctive protection, the other slack beside her. Her skin looked waxen—pale in a way that seemed to drain the color from the room itself. Her chest moved, but barely, and her lips were parted just enough to let the faintest breath escape. Jason’s stomach dropped, the air sucked clean from his lungs. He froze for a heartbeat—just one—and then everything inside him snapped into motion.

“What happened?” he choked, already dropping beside her.

“She—she just fell!” Jack wailed. Shaking on Clara’s sleeve “She just fell down and she’s not waking up Daddy!”

Jason’s hands moved fast, muscle memory kicking in even as fear roared in his chest. He checked her pulse—it was weak, but there. Her skin was clammy, her breath shallow. Her lips parted, pale. Her shoulder bore the brunt of the fall, but his gaze went straight to her belly. Please be okay. Please both be okay.

“Jack,” he said, forcing calm into his voice, “go get my phone. It’s on the counter. Right there. Go fast, buddy.” As Jack bolted. Jason gathered Clara gently into his lap, supporting her upper body, brushing the damp strands of hair from her face. His hands trembled as he touched her. She was too cold. Too quiet. “Clara,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers. “Come on, love. Stay with me. Please…” Jack returned seconds later, shoving the phone into his hand with shaking fingers. Jason dialed. “My Partner—she’s pregnant. She fainted in the kitchen. She hit the floor—she’s breathing, but she’s not waking up. Please, we need an ambulance.”

His voice cracked on the last word—splintered like glass under pressure. It wasn’t just fear—it was helplessness, raw and clawing. The kind that came when the person you loved most was right there in front of you, and yet somehow out of reach. His hands hovered over her face, her belly, unsure where to land, terrified to find something wrong he couldn’t fix. He could feel the tremor in his own limbs—his fingers weren’t steady. His throat was tight with unshed tears, his jaw clenched in a futile attempt to hold everything in. Clara looked so fragile—her lashes resting too still against skin that had lost its warmth. And the baby—God, the baby. Jason swallowed hard, leaning closer, his breath catching in the space between them.

“Clara, please,” he whispered, barely holding it together. “We need you. I need you.” The kitchen felt too quiet now, except for the muffled sobs of Jack behind him and the low hum of the refrigerator—a sound too mundane for a moment that felt like it could break the world. He stroked her hair back again, his thumb trembling against her temple. He ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket with one hand, the other still wrapped protectively around Clara. “She’s going to be okay,” he said to Jack, though his voice was barely above a whisper.”she's going to be fine..the ambulance is on its way..”

“I don’t want her to die,” Jack sobbed, clinging to Jason’s arm. “Please, Daddy.”

“Hey..listen to me…look at me Jack” Jason pulled him close with the crook of his arm, holding both of them. “She’s not going to. I promise you. We’re with her, okay? She’s not alone.” Carefully, he scooped Clara into his arms. She felt weightless in the wrong way. Limp. As though something vital had slipped free. He carried her into the front room and lowered her onto the soft rug by the window. Jack stayed close, never letting go of Jason’s shirt. Jason knelt beside her again, one hand on her back, the other gently stroking her temple. “We’re here,” he whispered. “We’ve got you.” And then—a twitch. So faint he almost missed it. Her fingers curled slightly where they rested against her belly Jason’s breath hitched. “That’s it,” he whispered, brushing her cheek. “Come on back, McFly…please”

She hadn’t opened her eyes yet. But she was still here….And that was enough to keep him holding on. Slowly, Clara's fingers twitched first—just a flutter—and then her eyes began to flutter open, slowly, like someone surfacing from deep water. Her lashes lifted, pupils sluggish as they tried to focus. And then she saw them—two ashen faces hovering above her. Jason’s eyes were wide with fear and fierce relief. Jack was beside him, tear-streaked and pale, clutching the hem of Jason’s sleeve with white knuckles.

“Clara,” Jason breathed, his voice breaking again—but this time with something closer to gratitude than panic. “Hey… hey, You’re okay.”

She blinked, confused, breath hitching in her throat. “What…?” Her gaze flickered to Jack, who let out a sob the moment her eyes met his. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered hoarsely, tears spilling down her temples as reality crashed in. “Jason—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—God, I scared him—I scared you…”

“Hey, hey,” Jason said quickly, brushing damp hair from her cheek, then leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. “None of that bullshit okay?. Don’t you dare apologize for scaring the hell out of me.” His voice was thick, but his smile was shaky and real. “But let’s make a deal, yeah? Maybe don’t do anything like this again.”

A weak laugh slipped from her lips, broken by a wince. She tried to shift and flinched, her shoulder blooming with pain. “Ow— my shoulder,” she hissed, “hurts so bad..”

“Lay still” Jason steadied her with gentle hands. “You took the cabinet hard,” he said. “Don’t move too much. The paramedics are on their way.”

“What about Hope?” Clara’s hand instinctively moved toward her belly, panic rising again in her chest. “The baby—” But before Jason could answer, a small, solid kick pressed from inside—low and firm, a reminder, a reassurance. Clara gasped softly, her free hand pressing over the movement. “She kicked,” she whispered, her lip trembling. “She’s okay. She’s still here.”

Jason’s hand moved to cover hers, both of them feeling it—another kick, a little stronger, defiant almost.

The wail of sirens cut through the quiet afternoon, rising and swelling until they howled just outside the house. Red and white lights flashed through the windows, casting fractured shadows that jittered across the walls like anxious heartbeats. Jason shifted slightly, never letting go of Clara. His arm remained firm around her trembling shoulders. Jack clung to his side, small fingers digging into his shirt, wide eyes darting between his parents. The silence inside the house, thick with fear, shattered at the sharp knock on the door.

“Ambulance,” came a calm, assertive voice.

The door opened, and two paramedics stepped inside—Sarah, a woman with calm, steady eyes and a warmth behind her professionalism, and her younger partner, swift and silent as he scanned the room. Their presence swept in like fresh air, cutting through the heavy stillness that had swallowed the house whole.

“In here,” Jason said, his voice strained but in control.

Sarah knelt beside Clara, her hands confident but gentle. “Hi Clara, I’m Sarah. You’re safe now, okay? We’re going to look after you.”

“My baby…just check my baby first please…” Clara tried to sit up, but a sharp gasp escaped her lips as pain flared down her side. “I fainted,” she whispered. “I think I hit… something.”

Jason’s arm remained steady behind her. “She went down fast. Knees hit first, then her shoulder cracked into the cabinet. She’s about six and a half months pregnant.”

Sarah nodded, already checking Clara’s pulse and blood pressure while her partner unzipped the med kit. The faint scent of antiseptic spilled into the room—clean, clinical, surreal.

“Do you remember what happened just before?” Sarah asked gently.

“I haven't felt right all morning to be honest” Clara nodded weakly. Her skin was still pale, but the blue tint had faded. “I felt dizzy… like the room tilted. Then my chest got tight. I couldn’t get a full breath.”

Sarah exchanged a quick glance with her partner. “Could be vasovagal syncope. It’s not uncommon in pregnancy, especially with stress or low hydration. But we’ll run a full check at the hospital.” She turned to Jason. “She’ll need scans—shoulder, possibly a head CT if symptoms warrant. And fetal monitoring.”

At the mention of the baby, Clara’s hand moved instinctively to her belly. A soft nudge responded beneath her palm—delicate, but real.

“Is she okay? Please….She’s moving,” Clara whispered, her voice trembling with a fragile kind of hope. “She’s still there. Still fighting. I felt her”

Jason’s jaw clenched, emotion tightening his throat. He reached out, laying a hand gently over Clara’s. Their fingers laced without a word.

“Can I ride with her?” Jason asked.

Sarah gave a quick nod. “We’ll make space.”

Jason turned to Jack, who hadn’t let go of his sleeve. The boy looked up at him with round, tear-brimmed eyes.

“I don’t want Mummy to go,” Jack whispered.

“Its okay Jack…” Jason knelt, gathering the little boy into his arms. He pressed a kiss into Jack’s hair, breathing in the scent of sunshine and crayons. “She’s just going to the hospital to get checked out. We’ll go with her, every step, alright? She’s going to be okay.”

“I'll be okay sweetheart…I promise” Clara smiled through her pain, brushing a trembling hand across Jack’s cheek. “Be brave for me..Like Daddy.”

Jack nodded slowly, wiping his sleeve across his nose. With practiced care, the paramedics lifted Clara onto the stretcher. She winced but said nothing. The cool nylon straps clicked into place over her body. Jason stayed beside her, grabbing his phone and wallet, his movements fast but measured. As they wheeled Clara out, the house exhaled with them. The air seemed to loosen, like a storm had just passed through and left behind the faintest break in the clouds. Jason held Jack close as they stepped outside into the bright chaos. The sirens had stilled, but the lights still flashed in a quiet rhythm. Behind them, the kitchen lay in soft disarray—plates left on the table, juice spilled across a napkin, and Jack's crayon drawing still waiting on the wood.

Unfinished. But not forgotten.

The ambulance doors shut with a final, echoing thud, sealing them inside a cold, humming cocoon of metal and fluorescent light. The world outside blurred into streaks of gray and crimson, sirens slicing through the quiet like a wound. Clara lay strapped to the stretcher, eyes half-closed, her breath shallow but even. One hand was curled protectively over the curve of her belly, the other resting in Jason’s grip, limp but warm. The monitor beeped steadily behind her—two heartbeats, fragile and persistent. Jason sat on the narrow bench beside her, cradling Jack in his arms. The boy was curled tightly against him, knees tucked up, his little body shivering despite the stifling heat in the back of the vehicle. His cheek pressed into Jason’s chest, small hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt.

Jason leaned down and pressed a kiss into Jack’s hair. It smelled like syrup and sweat. “It’s okay, Jack,” he murmured, even though it wasn’t. “Mummy’s right here. We’re all together.”

But Jack didn’t move. He just held tighter, as if letting go might make the whole world fall apart. Jason turned to Clara. She looked impossibly small against the sterile white of the stretcher, the harsh fluorescent lights casting a bluish hue over her skin. Her face was pale, drained of its usual glow, lips parted in a soft, whispering breath—like she was murmuring to someone he couldn’t see. Not the doctors. Not him. Maybe the baby. Maybe herself.. Her fingers moved lightly over the swell of her belly, brushing in slow, circular motions, as if by touch alone she could anchor their child in place. And then he saw it—that delicate flutter beneath the thin fabric of the hospital gown. A kick. Small. Defiant. A sign of life. His baby girl was still there. Still fighting.But as relief flickered, it was overtaken—eclipsed—by something darker. The thought came uninvited, stealthy, sharp. What if he lost her? What if he lost them both? It was like a door creaking open in his mind, one he’d kept locked for years. But now it swung wide, and all the terrible possibilities came flooding in. What if this was the beginning of the end? What if today was the day everything fractured? His throat tightened. He blinked, willing the images away, but his imagination betrayed him.

He saw their house dim and silent. Her empty side of the bed, untouched. A toothbrush still sitting in its cup, untouched. Music never playing. Her favorite mug—chipped and stained from years of tea—sitting in the cupboard with no one to reach for it. He pictured mornings without the sleepy hum of her voice, no rustle of her feet padding toward the kitchen, no hands sliding around his waist from behind as he stirred her morning coffee. The fridge was full of food but no one cared to cook. The light went from rooms that used to sing with warmth. The dancing—God, the dancing. No more barefoot twirls across the kitchen floor while dinner burned on the stove and she laughed so hard she cried. Without her, the color would drain from everything.

And Jack—Jack wouldn’t be the same either. His wide, fearless smile would dull. His laughter would lose its music. He’d ask questions Jason couldn’t answer, cry in the middle of the night for a mother who would no longer come. Jason knew what grief could do to a child. He knew how quickly a little heart could splinter without the one who made them feel safe. No Clara. No Jack, even—not the way he was now. Because without her, they wouldn’t just lose a mother and a partner. They would lose the thread of their story. The warmth. The meaning. Without her, they would both become shadows of something broken—echoes in a house too quiet to bear. Snapping out of it, He leaned forward slightly, his thumb stroking over the back of her limp hand, like touch could keep her tethered.His throat closed. He kissed the top of Jack’s head again, and this time, Jack spoke.

“Is Mummy going to die?”

The words landed like a blow—small, soft, but devastating. Jason didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. His heart was knocking hard against his ribs, but he made his voice calm, steady, even though it cracked at the edges.

“No kid,” he said softly. “She just fainted, but she’s awake now. The doctors are going to help her feel better.”

“But…Daddy..” Jack tilted his head, eyes wide and wet, searching his surrogate father’s face for something solid. “But… what if the baby’s not okay?”

Jason swallowed hard. “I don’t know yet, buddy. But she was moving just now. I just saw her. That's a good sign. And the doctors will check everything. They’ll do everything they can.”

Jack pressed closer, resting his forehead against Jason’s chest. “I don’t want to be without Mummy. Or the baby. I don’t want it to just be me and you.”

Jason let that settle for a moment. Then he wrapped both arms around the little boy and held him tightly.

“I don’t either mate,” he whispered. “I don’t want to even think about it. But if anything ever did happen… you’d never be alone, Jack. Not for a second. I’d carry you through it, every day. I’d hold you so close you’d never feel the cold. We’d talk about her every night. We’d remember everything. Her laugh, her smile… how she always sang the wrong lyrics.” Jack let out a tiny, broken laugh, and Jason smiled through the sting in his eyes. “I’d tell you every story we shared, how we danced in the rain outside that terrible restaurant she took me too on my birthday, how she made me believe in things I never thought I deserved. She made us.” Jason glanced at Clara again. Her hand still lay over her belly, unmoving now, but peaceful. A faint sigh escaped her lips, and her eyelashes fluttered. “She’s the glue that holds us together,” Jason said softly. “But if we had to, we’d hold for her too. And your sister. But she's hoing to be okay...i promise”

Jack looked up at him. “But I don’t want to be brave without her.”

Jason nodded slowly, his voice breaking open. “Me neither, mate. Me neither.”

The siren shrieked above them, but inside, only the soft beep of the monitor and the steady breath of a father and son clinging to each other filled the silence. Jason closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to Jack’s.

“We’re not losing her,” he whispered. “We’re holding on. As long as it takes.”

The ambulance slowed, sirens tapering off into silence. Fluorescent lights bathed the emergency bay in a sterile glow, everything humming with a quiet urgency. The rear doors swung open with a click and a gust of cold air, sharp against the warmth inside.

“Let’s go,” Sarah said gently, already unfastening the stretcher.

Jason stood, still cradling Jack in one arm. He felt the boy’s grip tighten as the paramedics slid Clara out and wheeled her swiftly down the corridor. Her eyes were half-lidded now, body limp with pain and exhaustion. She looked as if she was floating, caught in the space between here and somewhere far away.

“Right this way,” a nurse called, ushering them through.

Jason followed close, Jack still tucked against his chest. The hallway stretched out in sharp lines of white and chrome, echoing with clipped footsteps, murmured orders, and the faint beeping of machines. It smelled like antiseptic and something colder—like fear wearing a clean mask. Inside the examination bay, the curtain was drawn. Clara was carefully transferred to a hospital bed. Wires and monitors bloomed around her like a second skin—heart rate, blood pressure, fetal Doppler. Jason could barely keep track of the voices, but he answered what he could. Clara soon stirred weakly, her voice a broken whisper. 

“The baby… please… check my baby first.”

The doctor, calm and focused, moved quickly. “We are.” He pressed the Doppler probe to her belly.

The room held its breath. Jason held Clara’s hand tighter, trying to steel himself. Bracing for silence. But then— A soft, rhythmic gallop filled the air. Light. Fast. Steady. The sound of life. Clara gasped, a sob catching in her throat as her hand flew to her mouth. Her other hand clutched Jason’s, trembling.

“That’s her,” she whispered Jason blinked hard, his throat tight with tears. “That’s Hope, Jason..that's our girl… is she okay?”

“She’s strong,” the doctor said. “Everything sounds normal for now. We’ll keep monitoring both of you closely. We’ll do an ultrasound shortly and get an orthopedic consult for your shoulder. But right now—your baby’s doing just fine.”

Clara exhaled a shuddered breath and sank back against the pillows, tears slipping freely now.

“Thank god” Jason leaned over her, brushing sweat-damp curls from her forehead. “I love you, McFly,” he whispered, pressing a kiss there. “You’re incredible.”

Her lips lifted in the faintest smile. “Oh, Orange she's okay...she's still here...” Her eyes fluttered open just enough to find his. “I love you too.”

“Always,” he said, and meant it with every beat of his bruised, grateful heart.

Jack, still curled in Jason’s lap, looked up and slowly reached out his small hand to touch Clara’s. She turned to him, her smile widening through tears.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she whispered. “I’m okay.”

Jack didn’t say anything—he just nodded and pressed his cheek against Jason’s chest, his fingers wrapping tighter around his shirt. A nurse soon handed Jason a chair and helped him settle beside the bed. Jack melted into his lap, exhausted from holding so much fear in such a little body. Together, they sat watch—sentinels made of love, devotion, and fragile hope. Jason turned to Clara. Her face was pale, lips parted in a soft, whispering breath, like she was speaking to someone only she could hear. He watched her fingers shift gently over her belly, and saw the faintest flutter of movement beneath the hospital gown.

The baby was still there. Still fighting. But then the thoughts from earlier crept in yet again —uninvited, cruel. What if he lost her? What if this was the beginning of that? He tried not to imagine it, but his mind outran him anyway—showing him the silence that would follow. A bed too big. Mornings without her laughter. A kitchen without her singing. Crayon drawings unfinished. A little boy growing up half-wild, missing the way she tucked his curls behind his ear. Without her, there wouldn’t just be absence. There would be a collapse. He looked at Jack, whose breathing had finally slowed. His small body pressed close like he was trying to become a part of Jason, as if that would keep them both from unraveling. Because without her, they wouldn’t just lose a mother and a partner. They would lose the thread of their story. The warmth. The meaning. Without her, they would both become shadows of something broken—echoes in a house too quiet to bear. He leaned forward slightly, his thumb stroking over the back of her limp hand, like touch could keep her tethered.

Jason stroked the little boys hair and whispered, “See? She’s still with us… They both are.”

And right then, surrounded by the soft chorus of monitors and the rhythm of three heartbeats that mattered more than anything in the world, Jason made a vow. He would never again take her presence for granted. Not one second. Not one breath. Not one dance in the kitchen. He would hold her—always—with everything he had left.

Several hours passed and the examination bay had now quieted. The monitors still hummed, soft beeps threading through the stillness, but the rush of adrenaline had ebbed. The storm had passed—for now. Jack had finally surrendered to sleep, his small body curled gently at Clara’s side on the hospital bed. One hand rested near her ribs, his cheek tucked close to her arm as if proximity could tether her to him. Clara shifted carefully, pain flickering across her face as she tried to make space for her son without disturbing the wires and her bruised shoulder. Jason moved instinctively, helping tuck the blanket around both of them. His fingers brushed against hers—warm, familiar. She looked up at him. Her eyes were tired, rimmed in red, but there was something soft there. A light that still flickered, still burned.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah..” She gave the tiniest nod. “I think so.”

Jason pulled the chair closer and leaned in, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the mattress. “I was so scared, Clara,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know what to do. I—” His voice caught, thick with the weight of everything unsaid.

“You did everything right,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. “You always do Jason”

He smiled faintly, brushing his knuckles against her cheek. “I felt like I was losing everything. You. Her. Even Jack—he looked right through me like I couldn’t fix it, like I couldn’t keep you safe.”

“Don't do this to yourself..I know you.. i know what you're like and i know what you're thinking right now” She turned into his touch, her voice barely above breath. “Listen...You kept me safe. You held us together...you did EVERYTHING”

"Promise me something,” he murmured. Jason swallowed, leaning closer until their foreheads touched "please Clara...just promise me.."

“Anything.”

“Don’t scare me like that again.”

“Well..” Clara gave a breathless laugh—soft and cracked around the edges. “I didn’t exactly plan it.”

“I know.” He smiled gently, eyes still closed. “Just… don’t go anywhere, okay? I’m no good at any of this crazy chaotic life of ours without you.”

“Hey…” She turned her face and kissed his temple, lingering there, breathing him in. “You’d be more than good. But I’m not going anywhere so don't worry”

Jason leaned in, his forehead brushing hers, their breath mingling—warm and trembling. For a moment, he just held her gaze. So much unsaid swam there. All the fear, the gratitude, the bone-deep love that only nearly losing someone can carve into you.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I swear I stopped breathing the moment i saw you laying there like that on the floor.”

“Listen to me…” Clara’s hand rose shakily, fingertips tracing the line of his jaw. “But you didn’t,” she murmured. “I’m right here…with..”

That was all it took and he cut her off. His lips met hers like a man rediscovering something sacred—no rush, no desperation. Just the deep, deliberate reverence of someone who had known this once, lost it, and found it again by grace alone. It wasn’t a kiss that begged. It was one that thanked. A surrender. A homecoming. Clara exhaled softly into him, her breath catching as her hand slid to the back of his neck, her fingers curling into the edge of his hair. She anchored herself there, as though afraid the moment might slip through her fingers if she didn’t hold tight enough. Jason shifted closer, careful not to disturb Jack asleep on the bed beside them, careful not to lean too hard. But restraint burned in him like a fever. Everything inside him ached to touch her fully, to gather her into his arms and never let go, to remind them both that she was here—warm, real, alive.

Her soft lips moved beneath his, parting in silent invitation. He deepened the kiss slightly, not with hunger but with intention, a gentle press that said everything words could not: Thank you. I love you. I need you. Please don’t leave me. And she heard him. Clara answered with that same quiet intensity, not driven by lust but by love so complete it seemed to pulse in the air between them. Her kiss was steady and certain, as if to say, I hear you. I’m here. I’m yours. She pressed in, tilting her chin just enough to match his depth, and for a breathless moment, the world fell away. There was only this—the warmth of her mouth, the whisper of her breath, the soft, subtle movement that said everything was forgiven, everything was still possible. When they finally parted, their foreheads touched, noses brushing in the hush between heartbeats. Their breaths mingled in the quiet, shaky and uneven. Jason closed his eyes, letting his forehead rest against hers as the weight of it all crashed gently into him—the relief, the wonder, the overwhelming gratitude of this moment.

“When I walked in the kitchen …and” His throat worked around the words. “You weren’t moving. I said your name over and over and you just didn’t answer. I’ve never felt so helpless. Useless. Like I was standing in the middle of a nightmare and couldn’t wake up.” Clara’s eyes welled, but she said nothing. Just listened. Jason exhaled shakily, his gaze drifting to where Jack slept. “I thought… if I lost you, everything else would just stop. Not just you, but who I am. Who we are. I kept seeing things—flashes of life without you. Waking up to an empty bed. Coming home to silence. No baby. No laughter. Never feeling your touch or never getting to hold you against me” She smiled faintly at that, through her eyes shimmered with tears. He squeezed her hand, more tightly now. “I’ve lived in that silence before, Clara. You know that. Before you, my life wasn’t empty—it was numb. Days blurred together. Nights were just long stretches of pretending I was fine. I didn’t think I’d ever find someone who’d… fill me up the way you have. Who’d see me, all of me, and stay.”

“I'm going anywhere,” she whispered, tears slipping freely now.”I never will..”

“I know that. I do. But today scared me. Not just the fall, not just the baby—it was you. Seeing you small and quiet like that. It felt wrong. Like the world forgot how to spin without you in it.” Jason shifted, his other hand coming to rest gently on the curve of her belly, feeling the faintest roll beneath the gown. “You gave me a family. You made me believe in things I never even dared to want. I can’t go back to that version of me. That lonely, guarded man who thought he’d missed his chance.”

“You didn’t miss out Jason” she whispered. Her fingers gripped his tighter, grounding him. “You were always meant to find me” She reached for his hand and placed it on her swollen belly "to find us..."

“yes....” he said, his voice cracking. “Jack, Hope, all of it—it started with you…it may of taken me a fucking decade but this…what we have..was meant to be”

There was a long, quiet beat. Then Clara lifted her hand and cupped the side of his face, her thumb brushing a tear from the corner of his eye. Tenderly caressing his salt and pepper designer stubble

“You are so much more than you think Jason Orange” she said. “You saved me, too, you know. I didn’t believe love could be safe. Until I met you that dsy at the park.” Jason leaned in slowly, eyes locked on hers. Their foreheads met. And then, without hesitation, he kissed her again —slow and deep, but tender, like a promise. Like a vow. Her lips tasted of salt and stillness, of fear and relief and the ache of having come so close to goodbye. When they parted, she rested her cheek against his. “We’re still here,” she breathed. "I got you...always"

He nodded, brushing another kiss over her temple. “And I’m never letting you go. Not ever. I love you so much it scares me.”

“Same,” she whispered.

Jason pulled the blanket a little higher over her and Jack. He stayed there beside them, fingers entwined with hers, eyes wide open in the dark—not in fear anymore, but gratitude. She was still with him. Their daughter was still with them and his little boy was sleeping soundly next to him….And to Jason Orange that was everything.

A soft knock at the curtain soon broke the tension in tbe cubical.Jason sat up straighter as it parted and the young doctor reappeared, a clipboard in hand and a kind, steady smile on his face. A nurse followed with a portable ultrasound machine, already wheeling it toward the bed.

“Sorry to wake anyone,” the doctor said gently, nodding toward Jack, still curled up like a comma beside his mother. “Just wanted to check on that shoulder and take a closer look at Baby Hope, yeah?”

Clara gave a small nod, brushing a tear from her cheek. “Please… I just need to see her.”

Jason stood to help, gently scooping Jack up without disturbing him too much and settling him on the nearby chair, draping his jacket over him. Then he returned to Clara’s side, his hand finding hers again like instinct. The doctor began with her shoulder. After a quick, practiced exam, he glanced at the screen beside him, where her X-rays had already been uploaded.

“You’ve got a hairline fracture at the top of your humerus,” he said. “Right where the shoulder ball fits into the socket. It’s going to be sore—very sore—but it doesn’t need surgery. We’ll put you in a sling, give it time to heal naturally. You’ll need rest, physio down the line. But it’ll mend.” Clara let out a shaky breath. Jason squeezed her fingers in response. “Now,” the doctor said more softly, turning the machine toward them. “Let’s check on the little one.”

The nurse helped roll up Clara’s gown, tucking a paper drape into place. The doctor applied the cold gel and pressed the probe gently to her belly. The screen flickered to life. Grainy black-and-white textures shifted and shimmered until, there—there she was. Little Hope Eliza Orange Perfectly formed. Moving. A tiny hand floated up like a wave from another world. Jason felt something crack wide open in his chest.

“There she is,” the doctor said with a warm smile. “Heartbeat’s still strong. Good fluid levels. Looks like she was cushioned well during the fall—babies are tougher than we give them credit for. Everything is measuring right on schedule.”

Clara’s breath hitched. Her hand flew to her mouth as tears slid freely down her cheeks. Jason leaned in, wrapping his arm around her carefully, both of them staring at the screen like it held the universe.

“She’s beautiful,” Clara whispered “hello my Baby girl”

Jason couldn’t speak. He only nodded, eyes locked on the tiny miracle pulsing with life inside her. His hand found her belly again, hovering just over the place where the probe moved.

“Look at her…” he finally breathed. “She’s okay…thank god”

“She’s more than okay,” the doctor said, adjusting the angle so they could see her heart beating like a starlight pulse. “She’s thriving”

Clara laughed—a watery, disbelieving sound. “That’s my girl,” she murmured. “Tough as hell.”

Jason looked at her then, overwhelmed by the two hearts beating within the woman he loved. One bruised but unbroken, the other fighting before she’d ever seen daylight.

“You did that,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “You protected her. Even falling, even hurting… you held on..you're amazing Clars.”

She turned her head, their eyes meeting with the weight of everything they’d just survived. “We did,” she said.

The doctor gently wiped away the gel and nodded to the nurse. “We’ll get that sling sorted and keep monitoring for a bit longer, but I’m confident you and the baby are both stable. We’ll keep an eye overnight, just to be safe.”

“Thank you,” Clara said. She meant it with her whole soul.

As the curtain closed again and the monitor dimmed, Jason bent down, pressing a kiss to her belly, just below the spot where he’d seen their daughter’s fluttering form.

“Hi, Hope,” he whispered. “You scared the hell out of us, But you’re strong… just like your mum and maybe a little after me…but mainly your mummy ” He looked up, resting his forehead against Clara’s. “I love you,” he said again, like it was a prayer. “And I'm never going to stop telling you McFly”

“I love you too Orange..” she whispered back. “Both of you.”

And for that moment—in the soft quiet of that hospital bay, with their son dreaming nearby and their daughter swimming safely inside her—everything else faded. There was pain. There would be healing. But there was life. And that life was theirs.

 Moments later Jack stirred in the chair, a quiet little whimper escaping as he blinked into the dim light. Jason turned as the boy shifted under his jacket, confused for a moment, disoriented by the unfamiliar room.

“Hey, kid,” Jason said gently, walking over and kneeling beside him. “You’re okay. We’re still with Mummy. Its all good mate”

"Are we still at the hospital?" Jack rubbed his eyes, his voice thick with sleep. “Is Mummy still hurt?”

“She’s okay,” Jason whispered, brushing the boy’s hair back. “She’s resting. And guess what?” Jack blinked up at him, yawned and rubbed his eyes “We just saw your sister.”

“The baby?” The boy’s eyes widened, sleep melting away in an instant. “Hope?...you saw Baby Hope?” Jason nodded, taking his small hand and guiding him toward the bed. Clara smiled softly when she saw them. Jack climbed up carefully onto the edge of the mattress, avoiding her shoulder like he somehow knew it hurt.The screen still glowed faintly beside them—the ultrasound image paused in perfect clarity. Baby Hope, tiny and curled like a comma, her little hand frozen mid-motion. “That’s her?” Jack whispered, staring at the image.

“Yes…that's her Jack… Clara nodded, tears rising again. “That’s your baby sister darling.”

"Cool..." Jack leaned in close, almost nose-to-screen, studying the strange, cloudy shapes. “She’s so little,” he said in awe. “She’s inside your tummy?”

“Mm-hmm.” Clara rested her good hand over his and slowly guided it onto her belly. “Right here..she might kick if you say hello”

Jack looked at the monitor again, then leaned toward her bump, laying his cheek gently against it like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was quiet for a moment. Then—

“Hi, Hope,” he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. “I’m your big brother. It’s okay now. We’re all here…mummy..Daddy and me..we won't let anything bad happen to you”

Jason couldn’t stop the emotion from flooding his chest again. He swallowed hard, reaching for Clara’s hand.

“She’s listening,” Clara whispered, her voice catching. As if on cue, the baby kicked and Jack felt it against his cheek. His eyes drew wide in awe “see..Told you”

“You’re okay Baby Hope” Jack pulled back and looked up at them, eyes wide and solemn. “Do you think she got scared when Mummy fell?”

“I think she felt everything you felt,” Jason said softly. “But you stayed brave for her and that shows already how amazing a big brother you are Jack. You held onto her and Mummy, remember? You kept talking to them. That helped. You called out for me too..I'm so proud”

"Thank you Daddy" Jack nodded slowly, glancing down again at her belly. “I told her to stay with us.”

“She did,” Clara said, voice shaking. “You helped her stay, sweetheart. You helped me, too…you always have baby”

Jack gave a tiny, proud smile. Then he leaned in once more, pressing a kiss to Clara’s bump—gentle and careful.

“I love you already,  BabyHope,” he whispered. “I promise I’ll look after you always..... Even if you’re a girl.”

Clara laughed, breaking into a teary smile. Jason reached over and pulled both of them into his arms, careful of her shoulder, surrounding them with quiet warmth.For a long moment, the three of them stayed like that—wound together in something stronger than fear or pain. A family, bruised but not broken. Whole in all the ways that mattered. Jason kissed the top of Jack’s head, then Clara’s temple.

“She’s already lucky,” he whispered. “She has the best big brother in the world.”

“And the best dad too..don't forget that Orange” Clara added, resting her cheek against his.

The monitor flickered once, then dimmed, but the image stayed imprinted in all their hearts.

Hope Eliza Orange…The tiniest heartbeat… Yet the loudest love.

Jason shifted in his chair beside Clara’s hospital bed, the stillness of the moment peeling back just enough to let in the real world again. He stepped out gently, careful not to wake Jack, still tucked into Clara’s side, his little hand resting on her bandaged arm like an anchor. He stepped into the hallway, phone already vibrating in his hand. It was Dani.

He answered with a tired, rasping “Hey.”

“Jay,” she breathed. “I saw your message. I just got home and nearly dropped my phone.”

Jason let out a shaky breath, one that trembled on the edge of something too big to name.

“She collapsed, Dani. In the kitchen. One minute she was smiling at Jack, the next…” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I didn’t know if she was breathing. She hit the floor hard.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Just breathing. Listening.

Then, softly, “Is she awake now?”

“Yeah. They ran the scans. The baby’s okay. Clara’s got a small fracture in her shoulder and they’re keeping her overnight.” He leaned against the wall, eyes stinging. “But I’ve never been that scared in my life Dani. Not even in the early days when we were together, when she didnt know who I was. .This was different.”

“Of course it was,” Dani said. “Because you’ve built a life with her now. And it’s real. You’re not scared of losing the idea of love anymore—you’re scared of losing her.”

Jason nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “You’ve always been my rock, Dani. Especially in those first few months with Clara. You were the one who kept telling me I was worth something. Worth something to her. To Jack. I don’t think I ever told you how much that meant.”

“You just did,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “And Jason… you still are. Worth it. You don’t have to carry it all alone, you know. You’ve got Clara, Jack, Hope. And me. Always me. Somone who is there for you if ever need to offload. just a friend…a friend who stayed up till 3 a.m. sewing your name on her jacket for The Beautiful World Tour of course. By the way”

Jason gave a wet laugh. “And the friend who apparently banished her husband to the spare room until he got her Circus tickets for her birthday.”

“You never told me you knew that? that bloody husband of mine told you didn't he?” she said, feigning shock. “Poor Chris. Worth it though..that tour was the best.”

There was a pause, one that let the laughter dissolve into something steadier. More vulnerable.

“Thank you though Dani,” he said quietly. “I needed this. To hear your voice. To feel like I wasn’t unraveling in a vacuum.”

“You’re never in a vacuum, Jason,” she said. “You’ve got people. You’ve got me. But more than that—you’ve got you. And the version of you standing there right now? That man is doing just fine.” Jason’s throat tightened again, but this time it didn’t feel like drowning. Just a swell. A weight shared. “Go be with them,” Dani added softly. “Call me tomorrow. No excuses.”

“Promise.”

He hung up and turned back into the room.

Clara was still asleep, a crease between her brows even in rest. Jack had shifted, now curled even closer, his head tucked beneath her chin. The monitor beeped steadily beside them, the quiet pulse of two hearts—mother and daughter—beating on. Jason crossed the room, knelt beside the bed, and took Clara’s hand in his. Her fingers moved in her sleep, closing around his like they always did, like her body recognized him before her mind could.  The storm hadn’t passed completely. But with Clara and Jack at his side—and Dani in his corner—Jason knew now that he could weather whatever came next. He brushed a kiss to Clara’s fingers, then looked up at the monitor, its dim glow casting soft light across her face.

“Together,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “We’ve got this . Together"

Chapter Text

Sunlight slanted through the high hospital window, soft and gold—the kind of light that quiets a room without asking. It stretched across the linoleum floor like a whispered promise, warming every cold surface it touched. Dust drifted lazily through the beam, suspended in the stillness like they had nowhere better to be. Morning didn’t arrive with noise. It arrived with reverence. Jason stirred in the stiff hospital chair beside Clara’s bed, his body aching in quiet protest. His neck was stiff, bent at an awkward angle. His right arm was numb from where Clara had leaned into him during the night, her weight soft and unconscious. But he didn’t move. He wouldn’t risk breaking the peace. Not this peace. Not after what they’d been through to get it. Clara lay curled on her side, her injured arm cradled in its sling. The blanket had slipped slightly, revealing one bare shoulder, the soft slope of her collarbone. Her face, washed in morning light, looked years younger. Not just beautiful—rested. And beside her, Jack was sprawled in sleep, his limbs flung out like he’d been fighting dragons in his dreams. One of his small hands was draped across Clara’s belly, fingers curled loosely over the place where his sister still grew.

Jason watched them in silence. He took in the slow rise and fall of Clara’s chest. The faint flutter of her lashes. The shape of Jack’s tiny fingers, clenched like a vow. And beneath the blanket, beneath Clara’s skin, their daughter stirred—a slow, steady movement. Not frantic. Not distressed. Just there. Present. Alive. Hope. Jason let his eyes close for a moment, just to feel it—not the exhaustion, but the gratitude. The weight of what hadn’t happened. The future they still had. They were here.They were safe. And Hope was still with them.

It wasnt long before A soft knock broke the hush. Jason opened his eyes as the door eased open. A friendly nurse stepped in, clipboard tucked against her chest, scrubs whispering across the floor.

“Morning,” she said quietly, her smile warm but respectful. “Just doing rounds. She’s stable—vitals are strong. We’ll get her down for another scan later today, just to be safe. But… the night was kind to her.”

Jason exhaled, slow and quiet. “Thank you. For… everything.”

The nurse nodded, gave them one last glance, and slipped out, closing the door with a hush so soft it was like an apology to the light. Jason stayed still for another long beat. Then he rose slowly, every muscle protesting like they too had held vigil. He stretched carefully, mindful of the groan in the floorboards beneath his feet. The air in the room felt sacred somehow. Like a chapel. He reached for his phone and thumbed it awake. A message was already waiting.

> [Dani]: How’s our girl this morning? And how are you—no vague answers, please. I have spidey senses. Trust me.

Jason smiled, a small, crooked tug of his mouth. The weight in his chest eased—not because the fear was gone, but because Dani’s voice had always been an anchor. Direct. Loving. Unapologetic. He looked over at Clara again, the way the light had settled on her skin like a benediction. Then he typed:

> [Jason]: She’s okay. Tired. Sore. But stable. Hope’s still kicking like she’s training for a title fight. Jack curled up beside her all night. Didn’t let go once.

The reply came almost instantly.

> [Dani]:Of course he didn’t. He’s got Clara’s softness and your dramatic flair. Probably gave Hope a monologue in his sleep.

Jason let out a breath—half laugh, half something heavier. Then Dani followed up with:

> [Dani]: But seriously. How are YOU? Don’t say “fine.” That’s my line when I’m crying over Bake Off reruns.

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering. What was he? Not fine. Not okay, really. But also not broken anymore. Finally, he answered:

> [Jason]: Still shaky. But anchored.

A few seconds passed, then:

> [Dani]: Good. Stay anchored, Orange. We need you upright and mildly functional. You’re on snack duty at the next McFly BBQ. I want hummus and at least three types of salad.

Jason smiled, and this time it reached all the way to his ribs. Behind him, the soft rustle of sheets. Clara soon stirred. He turned just as her eyes fluttered open, lashes catching the light like threads of gold. She blinked up at him, her voice soft with sleep.

“Hey,” she murmured.

He crossed to her side in two steps, kneeling down beside her. His hand brushed her hair back from her cheek, slow and tender.

“Hey, beautiful. You slept.” A small, sleepy smile ghosted across her lips at his words. Her gaze dropped to the little shape beside her. “So did he by the sound of it.”

He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “And your girl’s been doing somersaults in there all morning. I think Hope heard Jack snoring.” Clara chuckled, and immediately winced. Her good hand went to her shoulder. “God. Remind me never to fall like that again.”

“Deal,” he whispered. Then, even softer: “But if you do… fall into me next time.”

She looked at him then—really looked. It was the kind of gaze that spanned years and heartbeats. That saw everything—his fear, his strength, his flaws, his love—and held them anyway. She reached up and cupped his face with her good hand, her thumb brushing the edge of his jaw.

“You caught me, Jason, you always do,” she said quietly. “Even when I didn’t know how to ask for it.”

He closed his eyes, leaned into her touch. “You caught me first. Since the moment you walked into my life that day I found Jack. The way you looked at me like I wasn’t broken.”

“I never saw broken in you..EVER,” she said. “I saw scared. I saw kind. I saw a man who didn’t believe he was allowed to want things.” Jason’s breath hitched. “I loved all of it,” Clara whispered. “Still do.”

“In all honesty” He took a deep breath, his voice shaking. “There were days I thought I’d ruin this. Thought I’d fade again. Like I had before.”

“You didn’t.”

“I was terrified.”

"I was to.. trust me..not every day you find out the man you've fallen in love with was once pop royalty apparently. and you had absolutely no idea” 

“But thanks to you…”Jason pressed his forehead to hers. “I’m here. And I’m staying. No more hiding. No more leaving.”

“Good,” she whispered. “Because I don’t want to do this life with anyone else.”

They stayed like that for what felt an eternity, wrapped in each other’s breath as he held her close.

Then Jason smiled faintly. “I spoke to Dani last night.”

Clara huffed a soft laugh. “Of course you did. What’d she say?”

“reminded me that I’m not a pop star anymore. Just one more chaotic soul in her ridiculous, wonderful little village and part of the Mcfly family.”

“She’s not wrong.”

“The court case…sean….” Jason nodded. “We’ve still got a road ahead Clara.”

Slowly she leaned in until their noses touched. “Then let’s walk it together.”

“I’m not just walking it with you,” he whispered. “I’m walking because of you.”

From the other side of the bed, a soft little voice blinked into the silence.

“Is it morning?”

They turned together. Jack was rubbing his eyes, his curls in full rebellion.

“It is, mate,” Jason said, reaching toward him. “And Hope’s waiting to hear your next bedtime story.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Jack yawned, stretching. “Did she like the one about the dragon I told her last night?”

“She loved it,” Clara said, her voice breaking slightly with tenderness. “Especially the part where the little boy saved the day.”

Jack grinned proudly and leaned forward, placing a hand on her belly. Hope stirred beneath his fingers—a soft, sure kick, like a thank-you. Jason watched them—Clara, Jack, and the daughter still safely inside—and felt something in his chest finally let go. Not pain. Not panic. But a weight he hadn’t even known he’d been carrying. For so long, he’d treated joy like a loan. Conditional. Fragile. Bound to be recalled. But now—Wrapped in morning light, in steady breath, and small, certain heartbeats— He knew better. Joy wasn’t a visitor.It was theirs.

They were still here. And so was she.

The hospital room still smelled of warmed linens and clinical calm when the nurse stepped in mid-morning, holding a clipboard and a soft smile.

“Well,” she said, her voice bright but gentle, “someone’s going home today.”

Clara blinked up from her pillow, still groggy with sleep and the haze of days stitched together by IV drips, vitals checks, and the rhythmic lullaby of monitors. For a moment, the words didn’t register. Then they bloomed in her chest, slow and golden.

“Home?” she breathed.

The nurse nodded. “Your vitals have been steady. The baby’s heartbeat is strong, and your scan looks good. Doctor’s orders are strict rest and avoid stress, but yes. You’re stable enough to recover somewhere a little more comfortable than this mattress.”

Jason straightened from the armchair in the corner, a paperback tumbling from his lap. His eyes locked onto Clara’s, wide with something between disbelief and relief. Jack, seated on the floor nearby with his coloured pencils and dragon drawings, looked up.

“We get to go?” he asked, like it was a fairytale.

Clara smiled. Not her polite hospital smile—the real one, the one that lived in the soft corners of her mouth. “We get to go.”

Jason packed with quiet urgency. His movements were fast, but careful—wrapping her toiletries, folding her cardigan, checking her discharge folder twice. Jack helped in his own way, stuffing socks into the overnight bag like treasure. Clara changed slowly. The nurse helped her into loose maternity leggings and a long cream jumper as Jason smiled and kissed her forehead. The sliding doors opened with a soft whoosh, and outside, the world was waiting. Jason helped Clara into the passenger seat like she was made of spun glass—gently, reverently, the way a man holds something he’s already feared losing. Jack climbed into the back, fastening his seatbelt with careful focus. He held his latest drawing for Baby Hope: a lopsided sun with “WELCOME HOME, MUMMY” written in crooked letters. Then the car pulled away slowly.

Outside, the world moved on as if nothing had happened. Buses sighed at corners. Trees swayed in the breeze, indifferent but beautiful. The sky was a cool, forget-me-not blue, clouds smudged like chalk above rooftops. Inside, the silence was golden. Jason’s hand reached across the console and found Clara’s. Her fingers slid into his memory. His thumb traced the edge of her knuckles, slow and grounding.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, eyes flicking to her, then back to the road.

Clara turned her face toward the window, letting the sunlight spill over her. It kissed her cheekbones and warmed her neck.

“I think so,” she whispered. “Everything feels… softer. Like the whole world’s been turned down a little.”

Jason smiled faintly. “Maybe the world knows it has to behave now.”

They soon passed the bakery she used to crave during her first trimester. The bench where Jack once made her stop and name every dog that walked by. The oak tree at the bend in the road where they first told Jack he’d be a big brother. All of it familiar—but newly sacred. The car hummed beneath them, its soft rumble a cradle. Wind whispered at the windows. Hope stirred once beneath Clara’s hand, a small, certain thud. Clara leaned her head against the glass. For the first time in days, she didn’t brace. She just breathed.

The hum of the tyres on the road, the soft clink of Jack’s pencil case in the back seat, and the faint hiss of the heating filled the car with a sort of domestic calm. Clara’s head leaned gently against the cool windowpane once again, eyes half-lidded, her hand resting protectively over the curve of her bump where Hope shifted beneath. Jason drove with one hand on the wheel, the other curled around hers where it lay in her lap. His thumb traced slow, grounding circles—more for him than her, a silent rhythm against the noise in his head. They stopped at a red light. The soft click of the indicator ticked into the silence. Then he saw it.

The café.

Tucked into the same row it always had been, between the tired old florist and the secondhand shop. The green awning sagged slightly now. The chalkboard was still crooked, promising "THE BEST SCONES IN THE GALAXY." But it was the mural that caught his eye first—same as always. A rocket ship, cartoon-bright, painted across the side wall with stars trailing behind it. His breath caught and His hand tensed on the wheel. That café. That day. Weeks earlier, he and Jack had stopped in. A rainy afternoon, a couple of shared hot chocolates and organic muffins, Jack laughing with chocolate on his nose. Jason had worn a cap low over his brow, but someone had noticed anyway. Photos of him and Jack had gone up online the next morning. No warning. No context. Just… there. Their private joy turned public property.

The pictures hadn’t included Clara—she hadn’t been with them. She’d stayed home, tired that day, complaining gently of swollen ankles and feeling off. But now, sitting here at this red light, his mind spun into the shape of what if. What if Clara had come? What if she’d been there beside him on that table, belly round and visible, legs tucked under her, smiling? The thought twisted in his gut. He could see the headlines already. “Jason Orange’s Girlfriend—Too Young? “From Pop Star to Family Man: Who Is the Woman Carrying His Baby?” Comment sections filled themselves in, cruel and inevitable. *She looks like his daughter.* *Did she trap him with a baby? *He’s clearly lost it—used to be the hot one”

He could imagine Clara seeing it. Could see her trying not to care and failing. The way her lips would tighten. The way her voice would go small. The way she might fold in on herself and say, “It’s fine,” when it wasn’t. And if she had been there that day? Would the stress have hit her harder? Would she have spiraled the way he had, when the headlines found him years ago? God. If she’d been there, would she have fainted even sooner and they lost their little girl? His fingers curled tighter around the wheel. The café shimmered at the edge of his vision—its cheerfulness jarring now, almost mocking. And with it came another memory. Older. Sharper. Back when he was still in Take That and the band was still burning bright at the top of the charts, when his name was still currency, when fame hadn’t yet become a weight he eventually hated carrying. He’d been dating someone then, a woman called “Sophie” —a photographer, ironically. Someone quiet. Private. They’d taken a long weekend in the Lakes. Just the two of them. No entourage, no headlines. Just a rented cottage, takeaway dinners, borrowed books, and walks without phones. But it hadn’t stayed private. A single blurry image—Jason kissing her temple outside a deli—surfaced online. And suddenly it was open season. Within days, her name was out there. Her workplace. Her ex. Fan forums tore her apart. She’s not even pretty. Bet she’s just using him. She’d literally cried nonstop in the car on the way back to London. And he just didn't know how to stop it. That had been the end of them. Not in a fiery way. In a tired way. Like watching something gentle sink. He hadn’t let anyone close for a long time after that.

Not until Clara.

Now here he was again—parked at a red light, staring down a memory, suffocating in the possibility of almost. The café blurred slightly at the edges. The mural—so bright, so innocent—seemed to mock him. Rocket ships….Dreams….Escape…Except there was no escape. Not for him. Not for Clara. Not from being seen…A trance…A familiar spiral.  And then—Clara’s hand touched his jaw. He blinked. She hadn’t said a word. Just laid her hand there—warm, grounding. Her fingers grazed the salt and pepper like stubble along his cheek. Soft. Present. Real. He turned to her slowly. Her eyes were tired but steady. They said: I know where you just went. But I’m still here. Jason swallowed hard. The light turned green, but he didn’t move yet. He squeezed her hand. Breathed in deep. And let it go. Then he eased his foot off the brake, and the car rolled forward again. The café slipped into the rearview. And this time, Jason didn’t look back.

Before long, the car made its journey home. The tyres crunched softly over gravel as the car pulled into their driveway, and for a moment, no one moved. Jason shut off the engine, and the quiet that followed felt deeper than silence. It felt like holding his breath. Like the space between heartbeat and exhale. Inside the car, the air was still warm with the smell of hospital plastic and peppermint gum from the glove compartment. Clara’s hand was still in his, her fingers soft, unmoving. Jack had fallen asleep in the back seat, his drawing for Hope folded gently in his lap. Jason stared at the front of their house—familiar bricks, flaking white trim, the hanging fern Clara never remembered to water. Everything looked the same. But nothing felt the same. He didn’t get out. Not yet.

“Are you okay?” Clara turned to him slowly. “You’re quiet,” she said softly, her voice rustling the stillness.

“Yeah…” Jason kept his eyes on the house, but his grip tightened a little. “I saw the café.” Clara didn’t need him to explain which one. He swallowed hard, jaw working overtime. “And I couldn’t stop thinking… if you’d been there that day—” He cut himself off, like the words themselves might break something. Clara waited. Jason turned finally, his eyes finding hers. “It would’ve ruined you, Clara. Not just the photos—the internet. The headlines. The comments. The vultures who act like they have a right to you just because you love me.” She blinked, surprised by the edge in his voice—not anger at her, but fear. Raw. Deep-seated. “I’ve seen what it does,” he continued. “Years ago, someone I was with… she wasn’t famous and ironically was a photographer. She didn’t ask for any of it. We tried to hide. We thought we could be small enough to be safe. But it still found her. One photo. One blurry fucking photo—and suddenly her life was dissected like she didn’t even own it anymore. She cried the whole drive home.” He paused. His voice cracked when he added, “She didn’t stay. And I didn’t blame her either.” Clara said nothing, just reached over and laced her fingers through his again. “I hated myself after that,” Jason admitted. “Hated what I came with. Hated what I couldn’t protect her from. And now… I’ve got you. Jack. Hope. And I feel like I’m standing in front of a storm I’ve seen before, screaming at it not to come near us.”

“Look at me…” Clara’s voice, when it came, was calm. Clear.. Was always his anchor “You think I don’t know what you carry?” He looked at her, surprised. “You walk around with the whole world in your arms,” she said. “You’re always bracing for the next thing that might take it away. But Jason…” She reached out, resting her hand against his chest, right over his heart. “It didn’t take me. I’m still here. And I have been for nearly two years now” His eyes burned. She pressed on.

“And if someone had snapped a photo of us that day, I’d have held your hand tighter. Smiled for the camera and let them see what love actually looks like.”

Jason’s breath hitched. “Even if they tore you apart?”

“They only have that power if we let them define the story,” she said. “But they don’t get to write this one. We do.”

A long, quiet beat passed. Jason turned to look back at Jack, still asleep, his mouth open slightly, hair stuck to his forehead.

“I just want to keep all of you safe,” he whispered. “All the time.”

“I know,” she said. “But safety doesn’t always mean hiding. Sometimes it means letting people see what’s good and holding each other through the noise.”

Jason looked at her. She was tired, healing, and still radiant.

“I don’t deserve someone like you,” he said quietly “I really don't”

“True” Clara smiled. “Maybe not. But you’ve got me now anyway..so tough.”

They sat in the driveway another minute, hands tangled, breath steady.

“Come on…” Then Jason reached for the door. “Let’s go home.” And this time, it didn’t just mean the house.

The door creaked open on its hinges, and for a breathless second, no one moved. The house smelled of lavender and yesterday’s rain. Dim light filtered through the living room blinds, casting soft lines across the floor. The silence was the kind that only exists in homes that have been waiting—unbothered, untouched, but somehow aware.Jason stepped in first, still holding Clara’s hand like a lifeline. Jack followed behind them, dragon drawing in one fist and rucksack in the other, blinking sleep from his lashes. He mumbled something about needing cereal and disappeared toward the kitchen, his small feet padding over floorboards that sighed under his weight.

Clara paused in the hallway. It wasn’t dramatic. She didn’t gasp or cry. She just… stood there. One hand resting over the curve of her belly, the other trailing along the skirting board like she was reacquainting herself with something sacred. The edge of a photo frame. A familiar scuff mark by the doorframe. She needed to feel it—to remember this place had held its breath waiting for her return. Jason watched her, chest tight. Then he moved—quiet but precise. Through the living room, adjusting, arranging. Fluffing sofa cushions like he was preparing a throne. Lighting the soft lamp near the armchair. Pulling out the blanket and refolding it, even though it was already neat. He adjusted the thermostat. Wiped a perfectly clean counter with the edge of his sleeve. All of it gentle. All of it just busy enough to keep the ache from rising too fast. He turned finally, his voice carefully level.

“Do you want the sofa or the bed?”

Clara glanced at him and smiled, soft and real. “Sofa’s fine.”

“Right…” He nodded, already pulling the ottoman closer. “Feet up. Doctor’s orders.” A pause. Then—“Do you want peppermint tea? You haven’t had any since—”

“Jason,” she said gently. He froze. Her tone wasn’t sharp. Not scolding. Just steady. Kind. “I’m okay. Really.” He hesitated. The kind of hesitation that’s not about disbelief, but fear that if he stops moving, everything might collapse. Clara extended her hand toward him. “Sit with me?..please...just sit”

That was all it took. He lowered himself beside her carefully, like she might shatter beneath the weight of him. Clara leaned into him with a tired sigh and tucked herself against his side, her body fitting into the crook of his arm like it had always belonged there. His arm curled around her automatically, protective, quiet. His palm brushed her arm, then the gentle curve of her side, finally resting over her bump. Hope shifted beneath his touch—just a small flutter, like a breath saying I’m here too. Clara rested her head on his chest.

“Orange,” she murmured. “You don’t have to hold everything up on your own, you know.”

Jason exhaled. A breath that was half laugh, half confession.

“I know. But I keep trying anyway.”

“That’s what I love about you,” she said, eyes still closed. “And also what makes me want to hit you sometimes.”

“You never struck me as a violent person. Mcfly” He chuckled softly, pressing his cheek into her hair. “You wouldn’t hit an injured man. Would you?”

“You’re not injured.”

Jason’s voice dropped. “Aren’t I?”

Clara shifted, tilting her head to look at him. Her gaze searched his face, gentle but unwavering.

“You’re healing,” she said. “Like me.”

“Okay…point taken” He looked down at her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll try not to fuss.”

"You can fuss,” she whispered. “Just… do it from here.”

She took his hand and guided it gently to rest over her heart.

Jason blinked. Something caught in his throat—something old and fragile and full of ache. He leaned in, slowly. She met him halfway. Their lips brushed. Soft. Familiar. No heat, no rush—just a kiss made of slow mornings and second chances. A promise sealed in silence. When they pulled apart, their foreheads rested together. Clara’s eyes were damp, but her smile was steady.

“Still here,” she whispered. He nodded before kissing the top of her head. “And not going anywhere.”

From the kitchen came the soft clink of a spoon and Jack’s sleepy voice narrating a cereal commercial to himself. The sound made them both smile. Jason pressed another kiss to Clara’s forehead, then rested his chin lightly on top of her head. The storm had passed. The world hadn’t stopped spinning. But in this house, in this moment, in this heartbeat—they were still whole. And that was everything.

After a chaotic few days, the house had finally exhaled. Not with fanfare. Not even with relief. But with that sacred hush that settles over a place once the storm has passed—once hearts have cracked, spilled, and found their way back. Upstairs, Jack was asleep—truly asleep. His dragon drawing tucked beneath his pillow like a spell cast in crayon. Downstairs, the living room glowed in low amber lamplight. Outside, the rain sang against the windows, soft and rhythmic, like the world was breathing along with them. Clara was curled across the sofa, her body sprawled like something finally unfurling. Her legs were tucked beneath a blanket, but her upper half melted fully into Jason’s lap—her cheek pressed to his thigh, one arm curled loosely at her side. She hadn’t looked this still in days. Not just still in body—but still in spirit. The walls she never admitted to having had slipped down without sound.Jason sat with one foot on the ground, the other curled beneath him, his body forming a quiet crescent around hers. His hand moved through her hair with a rhythm born not of habit, but of knowing. This was his language. The only one he trusted to say what words always fumbled. He ran his fingers through her hair slowly—twisting, smoothing, brushing the strands back like he could anchor her to the moment by touch alone. It wasn’t soothing. It wasn’t coddling. It was seeing. It was remembering.

Clara let it happen. Let him happen. The way his thumb traced behind her ear. The slow drift to her neck. Her body answered him in sighs, in softened breath, in the way her hand curled faintly into the blanket. Every sweep of his hand whispered: Are you still here? And every shift of her breath replied: Yes. Because you are. Then, quietly—almost shyly, like a secret trying to take shape—

“You know… this reminds me of the first night you stayed over,” she murmured.

“Oh THAT night. I have very fun memories of that night" Jason stilled, then smiled softly. “your house with the squeaky floorboards and that candle on your bedside table.”

"Oh yes.." Clara chuckled, a breath against his leg. “The one that smelled like expensive vanilla and questionable decisions.”

“That’s the one.” He grinned “the one that cost you 20 quid”

"Worth every penny..." Her voice turned quieter. “I just emember lying there looking up at you over me,  gazing into your perfect eyes… not even touching you yet. Just listening to you breathe. And I remember thinking, if he touches me now, I might shatter… but I hope he does anyway.” Jason’s hand slowed, twining a piece of her hair around his fingers. “You touched my hair first,” she whispered. “Like it meant something. Like it told you things about me that I didn’t even know how to say. You didn’t rush. You just… let me be.” He bent down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “When we made love,” she went on, “you didn’t take anything from me. You gave. You explored. You kissed me like you were trying to understand every piece of me before you ever undressed me.” Jason said nothing. But his thumb brushed her cheek, tender, reverent. Clara opened her eyes and looked up at him, her voice catching. “And then… when I blacked out the other day, when everything went dark—I didn’t think of pain or panic. I thought: I’ll never feel his hands again. Not on my hair. Not on my skin. Not holding me like I’m something worth protecting. Not on my belly like I’m holding the whole world inside me.” Jason inhaled sharply. “I thought I lost it,” she whispered. “I thought I lost you.”

He kissed her before the ache could break either of them. Slow. Certain. A kiss that didn’t ask anything—it answered. It remembered. Their foreheads pressed together when they pulled apart, breath mingling in the warm hush of lamplight.

“You’ll never have to go without this again,” Jason said quietly. “Not as long as I breathe.”

Clara’s palm found his chest. “I already have you,” she whispered. “I never lost you.”

His fingers returned to her hair, combing, caressing, anchoring. Hope soon kicked once beneath the blanket.

"She’s  definitely listening Jason smiled. “She knows we’re okay.”

"Plus she's very much like her mummy..." Clara murmured, “She knows her dad’s hands.”

And still, the house held its breath around them.The rain softened.The world quieted. And Jason kept stroking her hair—not because she needed it. But because it was the one thing that told him, more than anything else, that they had made it through.That she was still his to hold.

And he was finally home.

The house had gone still again, the kind of stillness that comes not just with quiet, but with completion. Upstairs, Jack slept soundly—an occasional soft rustle beneath his duvet the only sign he was still there, still breathing the untroubled rhythm of a child at peace. Downstairs, the world had narrowed to a golden pool of lamplight, one old record murmuring in the background—dusty piano notes slow and low, like something half-remembered. Jason sat on the edge of the sofa, Clara’s body curled delicately into his side. The blanket had slipped halfway off her legs, her arm draped loosely around his waist. Her breathing was soft now, each inhale deep and slow, the kind of sleep that the body only gives into when it feels absolutely safe. He looked down at her, brushing a thumb across her temple, then into her hairline where the strands were damp from heat and dreams. Her skin was warm against his, her scent still threaded with shampoo and sleep and something that was just… her. He felt the rise of her belly against his ribs with every breath. Hope stirred gently beneath, a quiet shift, like even she was settling.

His hand continued its quiet path—fingers tracing the outline of Clara’s shoulder, down her arm, slow and reverent. He kissed the crown of her head, lingering there for a beat longer than he meant to. Clara murmured something unintelligible against his chest, shifting slightly to get closer. Jason’s head tipped back against the sofa. His body exhaled without asking. His muscles, tense for days, finally softened into the cushions. He felt the burn behind his eyes—the exhaustion, the gratitude, the quiet awe of still having her—but he didn’t cry. Not now. He listened instead. To the soft tick of the wall clock. To the rain pressing gently against the windows. To the way Clara breathed like she belonged nowhere else but here. He wrapped his arm more tightly around her, his hand splaying protectively across her back, anchoring her to him. Their legs tangled loosely beneath the blanket. Their warmth folded into each other like pages pressed shut. And then slowly, gently, Jason’s eyes began to close. The sounds of the room drifted into a blur. The lamp flickered softly. The rain sang its steady hush. The world fell away. And in the space between one breath and the next—

He slept.

Not with hesitation. Not from collapse. But with trust. With peace. With Clara in his arms and their future breathing steadily beneath her skin.And in that warm cradle of love, Jason dreamed— Of a garden…A little girl with Clara’s eyes, and his smile…and the life he never thought he’d be lucky enough to live.

It began in light.

Soft, morning light—not the kind that stings your eyes but the kind that slips in like a whisper through linen curtains. The air inside the house was warm with the scent of toast and wildflowers, something blooming just outside the open kitchen window. A kettle whistled faintly in the distance, unattended but not forgotten. Jason stood barefoot on the cool tiled floor, a chipped mug in one hand, a quiet ache of contentment in his chest. The radio murmured in the background—some old acoustic ballad he couldn’t quite place—but it didn’t matter. Every note fit. Every sound belonged. He turned toward the window and saw them. Outside, the garden was washed in early gold. Sunlight dappled the grass in soft patterns. Bees hovered lazily over lavender stems. The old garden bench they’d painted together last summer sat under the pear tree, flaking slightly now at the corners, like it had a memory of its own.

Clara was out there, barefoot in the grass, her hair pinned loosely on top of her head, a long shirt falling soft over her jeans. She had a mug of tea cupped in both hands and a familiar peace in her eyes—the kind he rarely saw in waking life, the kind that only came when nothing hurt and nothing was missing. She looked up and smiled. It was the smile she reserved just for him—crooked, quiet, full of a hundred unspoken things. And there, just beyond her, was Hope. His little girl…his daughter..the child created from their love. Three years old now and wild with sunshine. She ran barefoot through the grass, the curls she'd inherited from her mother bouncing with every step, her tiny fists clenched around a string of bubbles that drifted behind her like a parade. Her laughter was loud, unapologetic, and impossibly joyful—like music that hadn’t been written down yet. Jason watched her, transfixed. She had Clara’s unique emerald eyes—wide and endlessly curious—but there was absolute no doubt she had his smile. That uneven, mischievous grin that tugged at one side first. He could see it in the way her mouth pulled up when she looked back at Clara, proud of nothing in particular. She moved like her mother—graceful and chaotic all at once—but when she laughed, it was his voice that echoed back.

Jack was there too, taller now—eight, maybe—kicking a football gently around the edges of the garden. He wore his usual uniform of rolled-up joggers, a faded Star Wars tee, and a concentration that bordered on comic. At one point, Hope even ran into him and collapsed in a heap of giggles. Instead of getting annoyed, Jack flopped beside her in the grass, arms wide, and let her climb all over him. Content, Jason stepped outside. The wood of the porch was warm beneath his feet. The sun touched the back of his neck, and he let himself feel it—really feel it—like maybe this moment wasn’t something he’d wake up from. Clara glanced up at him again. Her smile softened.

“You’re staring at me Orange,” she said “you're doing that look again”

“Can you blame me?”

“honestly…” She tilted her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. “You’ve seen this a hundred times.”

“I’ve dreamed of it a hundred times. There’s a difference.”

She didn’t argue. Just reached out her hand, and he took it, sinking beside her on the grass. After seeing that he'd joined them in the garden, Hope looked up and squealed, 

“Daddy!”

She scrambled into his lap without hesitation, curls in his face, fingers sticky from something sweet he hadn’t seen her eat. Jason held her close, felt her tiny heartbeat through the thin cotton of her dress. She smelled like strawberries and sunscreen and the kind of happiness that doesn’t fit in words.

“Hey gorgeous girl…’ He looked down at her, tracing the curve of her cheek with his knuckle. “You’ve got your mum’s eyes,” he whispered. “But that smile? That one’s trouble..so you definitely got that from me”

Hope beamed and kissed his chin with a dramatic mwah! before scampering off again, chasing Jack toward the treehouse. Jason leaned back, bracing his hands behind himself on the grass. Clara slid beside him, shoulder pressed to his. They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to. He studied her profile—freckled, serene—and thought about how far they’d come. The nights they’d spent with fear curled between them like a storm waiting to break. The hospital room. The waiting. The aching. The near-miss of it all. And now… this.

A wedding ring glinted on her hand as she brushed hair from her eyes. He watched it catch the sun. She was his wife. He was her husband. They had done it—not just survived, but built. A life. A home. A future. And Jason, once convinced he’d never want anything but solitude, now couldn’t imagine a world without this garden. Without that messy-haired boy playing football against a tree, that giggling girl doing cartwheels in the grass and the woman whose smile had rebuilt him from the inside out.

This was everything he’d ever wanted. Not arenas. Not the number ones. Not the headlines and exposure. Not all the awards 

This.

A garden, a family, a kiss shared in sunlight with no one watching.

Clara nudged his knee. “What are you thinking about?”

He looked at her. “Everything I ever thought I’d never have.”

She leaned in and kissed him—gentle, certain.

“Well,” she murmured against his lips. “You have it now…forever..”

-Buzz.

The vibration cut through the quiet like a crack in glass.

Buzz.

Jason stirred on the sofa, still tangled in Clara’s arms. The light was different. Dimmer. Real.

Buzz.

He blinked, disoriented, and reached for the phone.

Matt.

Jason stared at the screen, thumb hovering. He let the dream linger for just a heartbeat longer—the garden, the giggles, the sun-warmed grass pressed into his palms Then he answered. Because some dreams weren’t dreams. They were destinations. And he wasn’t done chasing them.

<

Chapter Text

The rain had softened to a whisper against the windows—less storm now, more memory. The kitchen stood hushed, caught in the amber glow from a single lamp bleeding in from the living room. Jason stood barefoot at the sink, the tile cool beneath his feet, anchoring him like ballast. The kettle had long since clicked off behind him, steam gone cold. One hand gripped the edge of the counter; the other clenched in the pocket of his hoodie, thumb twitching with the static hum of dread.

“I know what you're going to say, mate,” Matt said on the line, his voice low and steady, “and trust me—I tried. I pushed for a delay on medical grounds. Sent over her discharge notes, flagged Clara’s condition, even had the consultant draft a letter. But the court won’t budge.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. He turned his head toward the living room doorway, eyes settling on Clara’s sleeping form.

“She’s barely holding it together, Matt,” he said, voice rough. “She’s still bruised. On painkillers. And Jack…” His throat caught. “He doesn’t even know yet that Sean’s going to be there.”

Matt sighed. “I know. But the judge wants it closed. Sean’s team is pushing the idea that we’re stalling. That Clara’s avoiding.”

Jason’s voice turned sharp. “We’re not stalling. We’re protecting Jack for fucks sake. He’s six. He doesn’t remember the man. And now what? We sit him in a room with him and play happy families?”

Matt’s tone gentled. “No one’s asking for that. The court's ordered a meeting with a child liaison officer first—just to check in, assess Jack’s wellbeing. But Jason… Sean will be present at the final hearing. And he’s allowed a visitation. Supervised—for now.”

“You're joking?” Jason’s hand curled into a fist. “No. Not after what she’s told me. The threats. The coercion. That crocodile smile of his, rewriting history while she flinches.”

“He won’t get to rewrite it,” Matt said firmly. “Her statement stands. So does yours. And I’ll be in that room to make damn sure it holds. I promise you mate…you know that”

Jason closed his eyes, his voice a rasp. “How do I tell her, Matt? After everything she’s survived. How do I sit down beside her and say, ‘Hey, the monster you finally outran? He’s back. And the system’s letting him knock on the door with your son you thought you protected.’”

There was a pause, then Matt’s voice softened.

“You tell her the way you always do. Gently. Honestly. And when her world starts tilting again, you remind her what hasn’t moved—you. Right there. Still standing beside her.”

Jason’s gaze drifted back to the living room, to the curve of Clara’s back beneath the blanket. Her quiet breathing. Her stillness hard-won.

“She’s exhausted,” he said. “And I swear, when I held her hand last night at the hospital, I could feel it—how much she’s still fighting just to stay upright.”

“I know,” Matt said. “But Jason, don’t confuse softness with fragility. She doesn’t need rescuing. She needs partnership.”

Jason leaned back against the counter, the weight in his chest like a hand pressing down.

“Sean doesn’t want Jack. Not really. He wants power. Proof he can still pull strings.”

“Yes, its obvious, ” Matt agreed. “But he’s not the only one with strings to pull. We’ve got evidence. A plan. You’re not alone in this. And neither is she.”Silence filled the room. Heavy, but understood. “We’ll prep Jack gently. But the hearing’s set. Likely within the week.”

Jason nodded, mostly to himself. “Okay.”

“You’ll tell her?”

He looked toward the sofa again. To the woman who had survived more than most people could name. To the quiet miracle that was her simply breathing in his house, under his roof.

“Yeah,” he said. But softer now. “Not tonight.”

Matt didn’t argue. “Call me when you’re ready.”

Jason ended the call and slid the phone into his pocket. The refrigerator hummed softly beside him, the only sound in a world still holding its breath. He stood for a moment longer, then crossed the threshold back into the living room. Clara now lay curled on her side. One hand rested over her bump, the other tucked beneath her cheek. Her brow had smoothed. Her face was flushed with sleep. Hope shifted once beneath her skin—a small, certain nudge.

Jason knelt beside the sofa, elbows resting on the cushion’s edge. He watched her. Really watched her. The way the lamplight kissed the tips of her lashes. The way one curl had fallen loose across her cheek. Slowly, He reached out and brushed it away, his touch so soft it barely registered. Yet Clara stirred.

“Mmm…” she mumbled, voice slurred with sleep. “The lavender one…”

Jason smiled, brushing his thumb across her temple. Maybe she was dreaming of something good. Something like the garden he’d dreamed of himself earlier —sunlight, Hope, their little girl in her arms, Jack chasing shadows, Clara laughing like she’d never known what pain was.

He slowly leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Hey,” he whispered. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“What do you mean?” Her eyes fluttered open, bleary with sleep. “We’re not in bed?”

He couldn’t help but grin. “Nope. Still on the sofa. Though I do admire your commitment.”

“You're taking me to bed?” A sleepy smirk tugged at her lips. “You’re not trying to seduce me with your heroic lifting technique, are you?”

“Course not…not tonight at least” Jason raised a brow. “It’s chivalry. Pure and simple.”

“Spoilsport.” She sighed. “Feels suspiciously like a plot…” He chuckled and slid one arm beneath her knees, the other bracing her carefully, mindful of her still injured shoulder. As he lifted her, she melted into him like breath into lungs. Her good arm slipped around his neck, fingers curling in his hoodie. “Mmm… you smell like soap and rain. And maybe a little… dread?”

Jason laughed. “It’s called unexpected Fatherhood. By Dior.”

“Very sexy I have to say…suits you.”

“You’re delirious.”

“I’m horizontal in your arms and heavily pregnant. Same thing.”

Soon, He reached the foot of the stairs and shifted her in his arms. Her head rested against his collarbone.

“I could get used to this,” she murmured.

“What, being carried around like a Victorian ghost bride?”

“No,” she whispered. “Being carried by you. In your arms” Jason’s heart stuttered. She pressed a kiss to the curve of his neck. “I’m so lucky to have you Orange.”

“Mcfly” He kissed her hair. “No. I’m the lucky one.”

At the top of the landing, he nudged open the bedroom door with his foot. The room was dim, the sheets turned down like the bed had waited. He lowered her carefully to the mattress, easing the blanket over her legs, tucking it under her chin. 

“hey…” She caught his wrist before he could pull away. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” he whispered, brushing her cheek. “I’m staying right here.”

She let go, smiling faintly as her eyes drifted shut again.

“Good.”

Quickly, He stripped off his jeans, shed his hoodie, and slipped into the sheets beside her. She curled toward him instantly, pressing into the space beneath his arm like it had always belonged to her. A soft sigh left her lips as she kissed his chest.

“Home,” she murmured.

Jason pulled her tighter, rested his chin against her hair.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “We’re home.” Outside, the rain kept falling—steady, hushed, like the sky itself had exhaled "time to rest Clara.."

The house had now gone still. The kind of stillness that arrived only after long days and longer fears—the kind that hovered just above sleep but never quite let you fall into it.Jason lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the weight of Clara’s body continued to curved gently into his side. Her arm draped over his chest, warm and trusting, her breath steady against his skin. The duvet rose and fell with each inhale, and somewhere beneath it, Hope stirred occasionally in her sleep, tiny kicks against her mother’s belly like soft reminders: I’m here too Dad. But Jason didn’t move. Didn’t blink. The words Matt had said on the phone circled in slow, methodical loops. Sean will be there…The hearing’s within the week….You’ll tell her?

He felt the pressure of it building behind his ribs—not panic, not quite. It was heavier than that. A creeping sense of inevitability, like standing on a beach and knowing the tide would always return, no matter how long it took to recede. His fingers brushed slowly across Clara’s back, tracing small, thoughtless patterns. Her skin was warm beneath his touch. Familiar. Alive. And still—somehow—miraculous. Because she had come back. From blood. From pain. From that sterile hospital bed that had once felt too still, too quiet, too final. She was beautiful in sleep. Not flawless. Not glowing. But soft. Unguarded. Her face had lost the tension that crept in during daylight hours. Her lips were parted slightly, her brow smooth. One curl had fallen across her cheek, and he reached up, gently brushing it back. She stirred faintly, but didn’t wake—just burrowed closer with a small, content sound. She was here. And he was failing her. He knew should have told her earlier. But how did you tell someone who had only just climbed out of the wreckage that another collision was coming? He turned his head slightly, gazing down at her in the dark. Her mouth was parted slightly in sleep. One curl stuck to her cheek. Her injured shoulder rose awkwardly above the blanket, and he resisted the urge to adjust it, afraid to wake her. 

How many times had she braced against that man? How many times had she lied to protect Jack’s innocence or hid bruises beneath jumpers? And now, after all she had clawed her way through—after surviving with scars that no one could see but him—he had to sit her down and say: It’s not over. Jason blinked. The ceiling wavered above him, blurred at the edges. He pressed the back of his hand to his eyes, swallowing against the thick knot in his throat. She had survived Sean. And now, she had to face him again—not because she wanted to. Not because she was ready. But because the system had decided it was time

.And Jack. God.

Jason turned his head toward the door, imagining the quiet weight of Jack in the next room. His wild curls splayed on the pillow. His dragon drawing still folded under his arm. His small, solid heart still believing that the world was kind. Would it break him to see Sean again? Would it confuse him? What would that meeting do to the boy Jason had slowly, patiently built trust with—brick by careful brick? He soon felt Clara shift in her sleep. A quiet sigh escaped her lips. Her fingers twitched faintly against his chest, as if searching for something even in dreams. He caught her hand and held it. He’d tell her. Tomorrow. When the light was softer. When the weight of the night wasn’t pressing so hard on her still-healing bones. Because Matt was right—she didn’t need protecting from the truth. She needed someone to face it with her. But still…

Jason ran a hand down his face. Let it settle over Clara’s back again. She quietly murmured something in her sleep. He couldn’t quite catch the words, but they were soft. Familiar. Like she was dreaming of something good. Maybe the garden. Maybe that future. Maybe the sun-warmed version of their life that felt just out of reach. He kissed her hair, letting his lips linger there.

"I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ll always be here.”

Jason looked down at her again. How could he tell her that the storm hadn’t passed? How could he look into the eyes of the woman he loved, the woman he almost lost, and ask her to keep fighting? His hand found her belly, resting gently over the rise where Hope kicked softly in her sleep. Because, he thought, this is what love is. Not just warmth and laughter and garden sunlight. It was carrying the weight when your person couldn’t. It was stepping between them and the storm—again, and again, and again. Even when your arms shook. Even when your voice trembled. Even when the sky was falling.Jason closed his eyes. And finally, in the soft hush between her breaths, he whispered, 

“Whatever comes Clara—we’ll face it together…I promise”

Then, slowly, quietly, he let sleep take him. Because tomorrow, the fight began again. But for now— They were still here. Still together and Still whole.

The morning light now spilled across the bedroom like honey—slow and golden, filtering through the edge of a curtain that hadn’t been drawn quite shut. The room felt wrapped in a hush, that sacred stillness between sleep and noise, where the world hadn’t yet remembered to rush. Jason nudged the door open with his shoulder, careful not to spill the mugs in his hands. One of them—the blue one with the tiny crack by the handle—was her favorite. The one she refused to throw out was filled with Peppermint tea. Steeped just the way she liked it. Clara stirred beneath the duvet, a soft sigh curling from her lips. Her curls fanned across the pillow like ink in water. She blinked slowly at him, the corners of her mouth tugging up.

“Mmm. Are you bribing me with tea?” she croaked. “What’s this all about?”

“I wouldn’t call it bribery,” Jason said, setting the mugs down gently on the nightstand. “More like… strategic caffeinated diplomacy.”

“Big words for you.” She groaned, sitting up gingerly, her sling-adjusted arm wincing at the effort. “Diplomacy sounds suspiciously like you're about to ruin my day.”

Jason hesitated, then sat down beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Just watched her cradle the mug like it might hold more than tea. Like it might hold strength.

“ Nothing gets past you does it? Matt called last night,” he said, voice soft but steady. “While you were asleep.”

Her body stilled. He saw it—the way her shoulders stiffened, the way her mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Okay…” she said carefully. "what happened?"

Jason inhaled slowly. “The court won’t delay. Sean’s pushing for a fast resolution. And the judge agreed. The final hearing’s set. Likely next week.”

Clara blinked. Her fingers curled tighter around the mug. “And?”

“There’ll be a meeting before that—with a child liaison officer,” Jason said gently. “For Jack. Just a check-in. It’s meant to be informal. But…”

“But Sean will be there,” she finished, her voice flat. "wont he?"

He nodded. “They’ve granted him one supervised visitation before the court makes a decision.”

The breath left her all at once. She stared down at her tea like it had betrayed her.

“I need to be there,” she said. Quiet. Fierce. “I’m going with Jack.”

“Clara—”

“No.” She looked up, eyes wide and wild. “I need to sit in that courtroom, look him in the face and remind him he doesn’t get to rewrite our story. He doesn’t get to walk back in and pretend none of it happened. Everything that he did to me..what he put me through”

Jason reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “I know,” he said gently. “And you will. Just… not now. Not this week. You only got out of hospital. You’re on painkillers. You can barely walk downstairs without holding the bannister like it owes you money”

“Wow…” Clara scoffed and pulled her hand back. “So now I’m fragile?”

“No.” His voice sharpened. “You’re recovering. There’s a difference. And that difference matters.”

“I can sit in a courtroom,” she snapped. “Jack needs me.”

“You couldn’t sit through dinner yesterday.”

“I’m not staying behind while my past walks into that room and tries to shape my future, Jason!” Her voice cracked on the last word.

He pressed his palms together, breathing deep. “We’ve got Matt. We’ve got your statement. Mine too. Everything we need to stop him—without you dragging your body through a place designed to trigger every trauma you’ve ever carried.”

She stared at him, breathing hard.

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I’m not,” he said, quieter now. “I’m asking you to let your body catch up with your bravery.”

That landed. She turned her face away, blinking fast. Then, softly she looked at him— 

“You’re insufferable when you’re right.”

Jason gave her a crooked smile. “And you’re impossibly stubborn when you’re wrong.”

Clara narrowed her eyes. “Says the man who once tried to fix the upstairs sink with chewing gum and a YouTube video called Plumbing for People Who Shouldn’t Be Allowed Near Tools.”

Jason shrugged. “It was a visionary attempt.”

“It was a full-blown plumbing apocalypse.”

“I prefer the term ‘creative water feature.’”

“You flooded the entire landing.”

“Modern art.”

“You’re lucky i still think you're cute” She sighed and shook her head, but her mouth curved despite herself. “Good job you make decent tea too.”

“And you’re lucky I haven’t patented my domestic inventions.”

She reached for his hand again and placed it gently on the curve of her bump. He felt the soft press of Hope shifting beneath.

“I’ll stay,” she whispered. “But only if you promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“You don’t let him get into your head. Not even for a second”

Jason leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead, his hand still cradling the bump between them.

“Never.”

She looked up at him. “And you’ll tell Jack?”

“I’ll take him to the park later,” Jason said. “Somewhere open. Somewhere that feels safe.”

"He's gking to have a lot of questions" Clara exhaled. “He’s going to ask why.”

“I know,” Jason said. “And I’ll tell him the truth. Carefully. The way you would.”

She gave a long, shaky sigh, then pulled his hand up to her chest and held it there—right over her heartbeat.

“Then go,” she said. “Before I change my mind and launch myself out the window.”

Jason stood, laughing. “Please don’t. The neighbors already think we’re dramatic.”

Clara snorted. “We are dramatic.”

At the door, he paused. She called after him.

“Jason?” He turned back. “I trust you.”

He held her gaze. There was no need to say more.

“I’ve got this,” he said.

And then he left—quietly, carefully—heading down the stairs to find Jack. Because today, he had to be the one to carry the truth. And make sure it didn’t break the boy he loved like his own.

The park breathed quietly around them. Morning light filtered through the thinning mist, catching in the treetops like it wasn’t ready to come all the way down. The air held the clean chill of last night’s rain—soft, earthy, the scent of wet bark and damp grass mingling with the faint sweetness of something baked drifting from a nearby café. Jason sat on a worn bench beneath the old horse chestnut, collar up against the breeze, coffee cooling between his hands. He didn’t drink it. Just held it, as though the warmth might seep into something deeper. Leaves above him quivered, occasionally shaking free a drop of water that would land with a soft tap on his shoulder or knee. A few joggers passed. A toddler shrieked with glee chasing pigeons. A man with a red scarf bent to tie his dog’s lead. Jason barely registered any of it. His eyes stayed on Jack. The boy moved in slow loops near the climbing frame, dragging a stick like a sword, hopping from one paving stone to the next as though the ground in between was lava. Other children darted around, shrieking and laughing, but Jack kept to himself—contained, quiet, self-steadying in the way he always had been. Every few seconds, he looked back. Just a flick of his eyes, making sure Jason was still there. Still anchored. Jason gave a small wave the next time Jack turned. The boy didn’t smile. Just nodded, satisfied, and went back to circling. Jason’s gaze drifted across the park, to a familiar shape in the landscape—a tree on the far side of the gravel path, gnarled at the base.

That spot. That’s where it had started.

It had been just over 2 years ago now—an overcast afternoon, the kind that pressed on the back of your neck. Molly had been restless, and had begged Jason to take her for a quick walk. He’d only agreed because the air matched his mood: grey, low, unsettled. The world had started whispering about Take That again. Another tour. More headlines. More noise. His past inching toward him like a tide. And then he saw the boy.  Hunched at the roots of the tree, a puffy red vest over a denim jacket, shoelaces trailing in the mud. A plastic hoverboard clutched in one hand. His cheeks were blotched red from crying, his curls stuck to his forehead.

“Mister Jason… is Mummy going to be mad at me?”

That was it. That was the moment. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just a child’s question, raw and small, cutting through something ancient inside him. He hadn’t known Jack’s name. Or Clara’s. But he’d known that ache. That frightened, forgotten feeling. And somewhere between the tears and the hoverboard, Jason Orange—ex-pop star, reluctant recluse—had fallen into something that would change his entire life. And now, watching Jack move through the playground with cautious purpose, that same ache stirred in his chest. Only deeper. Rooted. Familiar. The kind of ache that came not from sudden love—but from earned love. Jack turned and started back toward him. Jason shifted his cup to the bench as the boy climbed up beside him, silent, small hands shoved into his coat pockets. He didn't speak. Just sat with his shoulders high, like they might shield him. Jason waited.

Eventually, Jack broke the silence. “You’ve got your serious face again.”

"Really?" Jason huffed a quiet breath. “That obvious?”

"Yeah..." Jack nodded. “It’s like... super serious. Not like when you forget bin day. Like court-serious.”

"Oh..."Jason turned slightly to face him, heart hitching. “You heard about that?”

"I did..."Jack shrugged, not looking up. “I heard Mummy talking to Auntie Dani. I didn’t mean to listen. Sorry”

"The big question is.." Jason’s voice softened. “You remember who Sean is?”

Jack was quiet. Then nodded.

“Bits. Mostly not-good ones.”

"oh Jack.." Jason’s stomach turned. He reached out, laid a hand gently on Jack’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry you even have not-good memories like that.”

Jack didn’t move away. “He made Mummy cry. All the time.”

Jason nodded slowly. “Yeah. He did. But she doesn’t cry like that anymore.”

There was a long pause

"Dad" Jack’s voice dropped. “At court... Do I have to talk?”

"listen..." Jason hesitated. “Only if you want to. The judge might ask you some questions. But it won’t be scary. There’s someone whose job is just to listen and make sure you feel safe. And I’ll be right there. The whole time"

"But...but.." Jack frowned. “But what if I say the wrong thing?”

“There’s no wrong thing,” Jason said, squeezing his shoulder gently. “Just tell the truth. Say what it’s like with us. How it feels to be home. That’s all they want to know.”

Jack was quiet. He rubbed one shoe against the other. “Will you be there if Sean tries to come near me?”

Jason turned fully, hand now cradling the back of Jack’s neck. “I would stand between you and the whole damn world if I had to,” he said, voice thickening. “I promise you, Jack—I will never let him near you. Not without me there. You are safe. You are loved. And nothing he says or does will ever change that.”

Jack’s lip wobbled. “Even if I mess up?”

“Kid…” Jason’s heart cracked. “You couldn’t. You couldn’t mess anything up if you tried. You are the bravest boy I’ve ever met. Do you know that?”

Jack didn’t answer. He leaned in instead, pressing his forehead to Jason’s chest. Jason wrapped him close, hand stroking his back slowly.

“I don’t want to be scared anymore,” Jack whispered.

Jason kissed the top of his head. “Then we’ll walk through the fear together. One step at a time. You don’t have to do it alone.”

They stayed like that for a while. Father and son—not by blood, but by bond. By choice. By love forged in quiet moments and shared safety. Eventually Jack pulled back, but didn’t let go completely. His fingers stayed curled in Jason’s jumper, anchoring.

“Will Mum be okay?” he asked.

Jason nodded. “She’s still recovering. But she’s stronger than most people I know.”

Jack was thoughtful. “Sometimes she cries when she thinks I’m asleep.”

Jason’s throat tightened. “Yeah. She does. But not because you make her sad.”

“I know,” Jack said. “I just wish I could help.”

Jason smiled, brushing a curl from his forehead. “You already do. You bring her joy every day. Dragons, cereal, bad knock-knock jokes—you bring the light back. You’ve fixed more than you’ll ever know.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “I’m not a fixer.”

“You’re better,” Jason said. “You’re real.”

They sat back, the bench creaking under them. A breeze moved through the branches above, shaking more drops loose. A squirrel darted across the gravel path.

“Daddy…” Jack said eventually, voice small again. “I don’t want to go to court.”

“I know Son.” Jason leaned down, catching his gaze. “But if you decide to, I’ll be there. If you want to hold my hand, hold it. If you want to leave, we’ll leave. And you don’t have to be brave every second. That’s my job. That’s why I’m your—”

“You’re my Daddy,” Jack interrupted, firm and clear. “You don’t have to say it. You just are.” Jason felt the air catch in his lungs. “But… you’re scared too, right?”

“Yeah,” Jason admitted. “All the time.”

“Even now?”

“Especially now.”

Jack looked up. “Then let’s be scared together. But like... the kind that still shows up anyway.”

Jason let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Brave enough to show up scared. That sounds about right.”

Jack stood then, brushing off his coat. “Okay. I’ll do it. Once. Just long enough.”

Jason stood too. “That’s more than enough.”

“But…” Jack glanced up. “But you won’t let him take me away, right?”

“Never…” Jason reached for his chin, meeting him eye-to-eye. “Over my dead body,” he said. “And even then? I’d come back. Haunt him. Chainmail and everything.”

Jack giggled. “Like a ghost knight.”

“Exactly.”

 Moments later as Jack broke away to chase a squirrel with his stick, Jason sat still for a moment, watching him. That little boy by the tree had led him here. To fatherhood. To purpose. To home. And no one—no one—was going to take it from him. Not again.  Jason leaned back on the bench as Jack darted after the squirrel with a stick-sword and an impossible amount of focus. The boy was all knees and curls, bounding across the wet grass like gravity hadn’t been invented yet. The older man smiled. A slow, aching kind of smile. One that pulled from somewhere old. Because this? This wasn’t where he ever thought he’d end up.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the wind carry him backward. Back to the stages. To the arenas To smoke machines and spotlights. Back to the roar of fifty thousand voices chanting his name and the way his ears would ring for hours after a show. To the Confetti, leather jackets, dance rehearsals that pushed his body to the edge of breaking. Autographs on bathroom walls. Hotel lobbies at 3AM. Fans crying, screaming, fainting. Years of adrenaline and blur. And then the quieter years—the ones that followed when the music stopped. When the crowds thinned and the lights turned off. The silence was brutal. He hadn’t known how to be still. He’d tried everything—therapy, travel, disappearing. None of it stuck. The ghosts of who he’d been clung too tightly. There were moments of joy, sure. Times when the music felt pure again. When the reunion tours didn’t feel like nostalgia trips but something real. But there were costs. There were years he couldn’t sleep without pills. There were headlines that scraped too deep. Relationships that cracked under the weight of all the things he couldn’t say. Or wouldn’t.

Jason opened his eyes again, blinking at the soft gold light as Jack stumbled and laughed, stick still raised. And now… here he was. 54 years old, in a park. On a damp wooden bench. Wearing a hoodie that smelled faintly of Clara’s fabric softener. Watching a six-year-old boy in a second-hand coat defend the realm from invisible monsters. And somehow, this was the loudest his heart had ever felt. He’d never meant to fall into this life. But the moment Jack had looked up from beneath that tree, tear-streaked and dressed like Marty McFly, it was over. Something in Jason had clicked into place. Not like falling—but like landing. He’d fought it at first. The feelings. The pull. The fear of screwing it all up. But Clara hadn’t let him run. And Jack—Jack had let him in. Jason of course hadn’t written a song in years, not really. But if someone asked him now what his greatest work was—it wouldn’t be a Take That ballad. It wouldn’t be a number one hit or one that one a brit award. It would be this. This bench. This boy. This quiet promise he had made to love something more than he feared losing it. Soon, He felt his phone buzz in his coat pocket. A message from Dani.

[Dani]: Just checking in. You okay? Clara’s resting, I made her toast and she cried watching a puppy ad. It’s one of those days. No pressure. Just… breathe. x

Jason smiled. He typed a quick reply.

[Jason]: Thanks. Jack’s okay. We talked. He called me “Daddy” again.

A moment passed. Then:

[Dani]: oh, Jay..That’s so wholesome right there.

As He tucked the phone away. Jack ran toward him again, flushed and triumphant, holding a leaf like it was treasure.

“Look!” he beamed. “It’s shaped like a heart.”

Jason took it carefully. “It is,” he said. “That’s lucky.”

Jack tilted his head. “Maybe it’s from Hope.”

Jason swallowed, blinking hard. “Maybe it is.”

“Think she’ll be brave?” Jack asked.

"With a brother like you?” Jason knelt and pulled him close. “She’ll be unstoppable.”

Jack leaned in, pressing a hand to Jason’s cheek. “You’ll protect her too, right?”

Jason nodded, holding the boy’s gaze.

“With everything I’ve got.”

And at that moment—there was no stadium. No screaming fans. No confetti or charts or chaos. There was just a man kneeling in the grass, his arms around a boy who had once been lost. Jason held him tightly, letting the stillness wrap around them both. This was his legacy now. Not the past fame. Not his fortune. But family. And as Jack slipped his hand into Jason’s again, sticky with leaf-sap and trust, they turned toward home. The wind behind them. The fight ahead. And the quiet, unshakable truth: this was worth everything. And no one—not a judge, not Sean, not the ghosts of who he used to be—was going to take that away. Not now. Not ever.

The pavement was still damp, scattered with crushed leaves and the occasional glimmer of a leftover raindrop clinging to a bench or branch. The air had warmed slightly since morning, the chill giving way to the kind of late-autumn softness that smelled faintly of chimney smoke and coming change. Jason walked slowly, Jack beside him, their strides uneven but in rhythm. The boy's stick—a battered remnant of his earlier squirrel duel—tapped lightly against the ground with each step. Neither of them spoke much. They didn’t need to. There was peace in the quiet now. Not because things were solved, but because something hard had been said and survived. Jack’s hand slipped into Jason’s again as they neared the end of the street. No words. Just fingers finding fingers. Jason tightened his grip gently, looked down, and smiled. They turned onto their road—quiet, familiar, lined with crooked fences and front gardens cluttered with half-forgotten toys and garden gnomes listing at strange angles. The kind of street where time seemed to move a little slower. Where things felt held. Their house waited at the far end, its white trim flaking a little more than it had last week. The hanging fern was, predictably, browning at the edges. A tiny crack had spread across the front window pane, just beneath the sill—like a laugh line on an aging face.

Jack slowed as they reached the gate. “Will Mum be awake?”

“She might be,” Jason said. “But she’s meant to be resting.”

Jack paused, then asked quietly, “Should I be quiet?”

Jason looked down at him, touched by the question. “You don’t have to tiptoe,” he said. “But maybe don’t shout about the squirrel battle just yet.”

Jack grinned, then whispered theatrically, “We defeated him anyway.”

Jason pushed open the gate, and they stepped into the little front garden. A breeze fluttered the edge of a blanket someone had hung out to dry and forgotten. The smell of laundry detergent still clung to it, clean and ghostlike. Inside, the house was warm. Not overheated—just soft and lived-in. The scent of peppermint tea still lingered faintly in the air, along with something sweet—toast maybe, or the remnants of the candle Clara liked to burn when she was trying to feel calm. Jason closed the door behind them with a quiet click.

“She’s upstairs,” Dani’s voice drifted from the kitchen. “She asked for quiet and then immediately fell asleep on a heating pad. Heroic stuff, really.”

Jason peeked into the kitchen and saw her sitting at the table, scrolling her phone. A slice of banana bread, half-eaten, rested beside a cold cup of tea.

“Thanks for staying,” he said.

Dani smiled up at him. “Of course. You okay?”

"Yeah we had...we talked.." Jason nodded. “He was brilliant.”

Dani glanced at Jack, who offered her a solemn wave before quietly heading up the stairs—his stick still in one hand. Once he was gone, Jason rubbed a hand over his face.

“She told me,” Dani said softly. “He called you Daddy.”

Jason nodded. His throat was thick. “Yeah.”

“Jay…”

“I know.”

There was a pause. Dani stood and gently wrapped her arms around him. He didn’t resist. Just held onto her for a second. Let it land.

"Right..ill leave you be" When she pulled back, she said, “Go see her. She woke up an hour ago and asked for you. Then immediately fell asleep again. But I think she’s waiting.”

Jason smiled faintly. “That sounds about right.”

He climbed the stairs slowly. Quietly. Each step felt heavier now, but not in a bad way. Just full. Like his chest held more than it had this morning—weight and warmth mixed together. At the top of the stairs, their bedroom door was slightly ajar. The curtain fluttered gently in the breeze from the cracked window. Clara was curled on her side, duvet half-tangled around her, the soft pink of her shoulder peeking from beneath one of Jason’s old T-shirts. Her breathing was steady. Peaceful. A paperback lay splayed open on the nightstand, spine-up, abandoned mid-sentence. Jason stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her. Then—

“I heard a stick sword on the stairs,” she murmured without opening her eyes. “Either we’re under attack… or Jack’s home.”

Jason smiled, stepping inside. “He’s home.”

"Come out with it..." She opened her eyes then, lashes slow to lift. “How was it?”

"Well.."Jason sat gently on the edge of the bed. “It was… a lot. But he was incredible.” Clara reached for his hand. He gave it. “He’s scared,” Jason said. “But he’s willing. Just long enough. If I’m there.”

“You will be.”

“I will.”

She closed her eyes again, just for a second. “Did he call you Daddy again?”

Jason nodded. “Yeah. He did.” Her fingers squeezed his. "in all honest...i dont ever tire of hearing him say it Clara"

They didn’t speak for a while. Just sat in the soft hush of a home that had, somehow, become sanctuary. Jack thumped softly in the room down the hall, likely putting away his “sword.” A breeze moved through the room like breath. The quiet was gentle. Earned. And Jason, sitting there beside her, hand in hers, felt something settle in his chest. Not peace—not yet. But purpose. And for now… that was enough.

After sending Jason off to make her a much needed tea, The soft creak of the bedroom door gave Clara just enough warning. She turned her head on the pillow, one eye half-open, as Jack tiptoed in with all the stealth of a six-year-old who’d never quite mastered tiptoeing. He had ditched his coat, but not his stick. It was still clutched in one hand like a knight’s scepter, the tip tapping lightly against the floor with each step.

“You know,” Clara said, voice husky with sleep, “if that stick gets any more important, we’re going to have to apply for a passport for it.”

Jack’s eyes lit up at her voice. “It’s not a stick,” he corrected, climbing onto the bed like a squirrel scaling a soft mountain. “It’s the Sword of Protection.”

Clara shifted to make space, stifling a wince as her shoulder pulled, and patted the duvet beside her. “Ah, my mistake. Tell me, Sir Jack of Stickdom… are you here to protect me, or are you invading?”

He paused thoughtfully. “Bit of both.”

She laughed—light and real. The kind of laugh she hadn’t been able to manage for days. “Well, fair enough. If you’re going to overthrow me, I expect biscuits and cartoons as your new laws.”

“Also,” he said, solemn now, “less vegetables.”

“Obviously, but dont let Jason hear you say that. You know how insistent he is about you eating your vegetables” Clara murmured, letting him curl beside her under the blanket. “You’re ruthless.”

Jack was quiet for a moment, head resting against her arm. He looked up at her, lashes brushing his cheeks. “Mummy?”

“Mm?”

“You were asleep when we got home. And Daddy said you cried at a puppy ad.”

Clara rolled her eyes. “Your aunt is a traitor.”

“She said it was a ‘healing cry,’” Jack offered diplomatically.

“Well, she’s not wrong.” Clara reached up with her good hand and brushed a bit of dirt from his cheek. “Are you okay?” He shrugged, burying his face against her shoulder like he wasn’t quite sure how to answer "you know you can talk to about anything bothering you baby"

"I don’t like the court stuff,” he mumbled.

“I know,” she whispered "none of us do at the moment sweetheart"

“But I liked talking to DDaddy He didn’t get all ‘school voice’ about it.”

Clara smiled faintly. “Yeah. He’s good like that.”

There was another long pause. Jack’s fingers idly traced the seam of the duvet.

“I said he was my daddy again,” Jack said. “Out loud. Not just in my head.”

Clara felt something twist in her chest—not painful, just enormous.

She brushed her fingers through his curls. “I’m glad you did.”

“Is that okay?” he asked, almost shyly now. “I know he’s not my… you know. Like Sean was. He didnt make me in your tummy”

“Listen..” Clara’s voice came soft but sure. “Jack, being a dad isn’t just about who made you. It’s about who stays. Who shows up. Who listens. And Jason—he’s stayed. Even when it was scary. Even when he didn’t have to.” Jack seemed to be absorbing that, nodding slowly. “And anyway,” she added, “you picked him. That’s the best kind of family. The kind you choose.”

“Like a team?”

“Exactly.”

Jack sat up straighter, pleased. “Then I pick you too. You’re on my team mummy . You’re like… the magic healer. And Hope’s the tiny mascot.”

"Oh i like that title" Clara laughed again. “That’s a lot of responsibility for someone who isn’t even born yet.”

“She’ll be good at it,” Jack said confidently. “She’ll be the one who keeps everyone brave.”

Clara blinked hard, breath catching. She reached for him, pulling him close again with her good arm.

“Do you know what you are, Jack?” He shook his head. “You’re the heart of this house. You make it safe. You make it fun. You remind me every single day how strong we are—together.”

Jack squinted. “Even when I burp in my sleep?”

“Especially then,” Clara said. “It’s very alpha…Jason does it too..don't tell him i told you..he talks in his sleep too. Last week he talked about clowns and unicycles” He giggled and tucked his face under her chin, arms looped gently around her. She held him for a long moment, pressing her lips to the crown of his head. “I love you, you know,” she said. “More than anything.”

“I know,” Jack murmured. “Me too.” Then, after a long beat: “Mummy?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?”

"Jack Mcfly" Clara glanced at the clock. “It’s only five o’clock.”

"Okay..." Jack blinked up at her. “what about after bathtime?”

"Nice try..." She grinned, and reached for the remote on the bedside table. “How about we compromise? We watch something silly. I make us toast with way too much butter. You tell Jason we’re mutinying. Deal?”

Jack thought it over. “Deal.”

Clara kissed his forehead. “Stick of Protection and all?”

“All weapons allowed.”

Jason stood at the top of the stairs, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe, the other holding two forgotten mugs—one with tea he'd made for Clara, now cooling in his grasp. He hadn’t meant to stop. Hadn’t meant to listen. But something—maybe the softness in her laugh, maybe the low murmur of Jack’s voice—had kept him still. He stood just outside the half-open bedroom door, where golden light spilled into the hallway and voices trickled out like warmth from a hearth. “…And Hope’s the tiny mascot,” Jack had said. And Clara—her laugh, that real one, the one he hadn’t heard for days, maybe weeks—had folded around the moment like a blanket. Jason leaned against the frame. Quiet. Motionless. Just listening. Jack's voice again, muffled but clear: “Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” “It’s only five o’clock.” Jason smiled. The kind of smile that barely touched his mouth, but went somewhere far deeper. He knew that tone in Jack’s voice. That tiny, brave ask. Not because of nightmares. Not because of fear. But because, sometimes, love needs proximity. Sometimes, to feel safe was to feel near. He heard Clara’s answer—playful, warm, tired in the way only mothers could be tired and still give more. And Jack’s soft laugh. Jason let out a slow breath through his nose, letting his head rest against the wall. He blinked, and for a moment, something burned quietly behind his eyes.

He had performed to sold-out stadiums. Been interviewed by every major radio station in the country. There had been points in his life where people had screamed just to catch a glimpse of him in a car window. And yet nothing—nothing—had ever felt as significant as this. A boy with a stick sword and a mother with a healing heart. Laughter on a rainy afternoon. A whispered “Can I stay?” met with a quiet “Of course.” He closed his eyes. Not long ago, his life had been noisy. Applause. Chaos. Then silence. Loneliness. Then Clara. And Jack. And now, this hallway. He didn’t need to walk in. He didn’t need to be seen. Right now, they were okay. And he was allowed—just for a moment—to stand at the edge of it all and let it soak in: this was what staying looked like. What loving looked like. Not performance. Not grand gestures. But this. He placed the mugs down quietly on the hallway table, one hand bracing himself as he turned, eyes prickling, heart full in a way he hadn’t been prepared for. Tomorrow would come. Court would come. Fear would knock again. But tonight? Tonight, his family was laughing behind a bedroom door—and that was enough. He walked downstairs, quietly, carefully. The kettle still warm. The lamp in the living room casting a soft, amber glow. And with every step, he reminded himself. This is real. This is yours. Hold it close.

Because some days, the only armor you needed was a child’s laugh, a woman’s trust—and the stillness of knowing you belonged.

The bedroom was now hushed, cloaked in that golden quiet that only comes after a storm. Jack had gone to bed and Clara and Jason had settled on for the night. The window cracked slightly open, letting in the cool breath of early evening, scented faintly with rain on warm brick and the distant sweetness of blooming jasmine. The sheets tangled loosely around their bodies, bare skin pressed to bare skin, not in hunger but in communion. Stillness. Closeness. Clara lay nestled into Jason’s chest, one leg draped over his, her hand resting just beneath the dip of his ribs, where she could feel his heart steady beneath her fingers. His hand traced the length of her spine slowly, like memorising a language he never wanted to forget.

“I used to think…” she whispered, her voice drowsy but honest, “that I’d ruined my chances. Like I missed the exit. That love—real love—was something meant for other people.”

Jason didn’t respond right away. His fingers paused, then started moving again—slow, deliberate, grounding.

“I get that,” he murmured. “I used to believe… if you waited too long, or broke too much, love stopped knocking.”

Clara lifted her head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes in the soft amber glow. “And then?”

"Well..." Jason gave her the faintest smile. “I found a little lost boy dressed like Marty McFly in the woods one day and brought him back to his very relieved mother. You didn’t look at me like I used to be someone famous. You looked at me like I still could be.”

"My Mister Jason" She blinked, her throat tightening. “You saw me, too. Not just the pieces I let people see… all of me. Even the broken bits I wanted to hide.”

“I loved those parts first,” he said, brushing his knuckles down the side of her face. “Because they were honest.”

She exhaled, slow and shaky. “I never thought I’d be wanted this way. Not just loved—but chosen. Over and over.”

Jason slid his fingers beneath her jaw, tilting her face gently toward his. “I still wake up and can’t believe this is my life,” he said. “Not the band. Not the tours. This. You. Jack. Hope on the way. This is what I didn’t know I was starving for.”

Clara gave him a half-laugh, half-sob and pressed her forehead to his. “I spent so long being small. Making myself quieter. Easier to carry. I didn’t know it was allowed to feel this full.”

Jason’s hand slid over her hip, pulling her in until there was no space left between them. “You were never too much,” he whispered. “You were just with the wrong person.”

She pressed a kiss to his jaw—slow, deliberate, reverent. “You make me feel like I’m allowed to be loud.”

“You’re allowed to be anything,” he said. “Soft. Loud. Tired. Brave. Angry. Terrified. You don’t have to earn love here. It already belongs to you.”

She kissed his throat next, then the hollow beneath his collarbone. Her hand curled against his chest again, fingers spreading over the warmth of his skin like she could anchor there.

“And you?” she murmured. “What if you’re still scared, too?”

“I am,” Jason said. “I always have been. But being with you made me brave enough to stay anyway.”

Their mouths met then—slow and deep, not urgent, not rushed. A kiss made of memory and wonder and the quiet disbelief that, after everything, they still found each other here. Jason’s hand slid into her hair, holding her there. Clara’s palm pressed against the side of his neck, like she was feeling his heartbeat as much as her own. When they finally pulled apart, their noses brushed. Their eyes stayed locked.

“I feel like I finally got picked,” she whispered. “Like… life didn’t forget me.”

Jason cupped her cheek, voice low and certain. “You weren’t forgotten. You were just… becoming.”

Clara melted into his touch, burying her face against his shoulder. “How did I ever survive without this?”

“You didn’t,” he said softly. “You endured. Now you get to live.”

They eventually lay like that for a long while—limbs tangled, hearts steadying. The soft press of skin against skin, the scent of lavender and soap, and the subtle shifting weight of her belly between them. Hope stirred once, a faint flutter beneath his palm. Clara stilled, then smiled.

“She knows you, she recognises your voice…your touch” she murmured. “Even now.”

“She’ll know us,” Jason whispered. “She’ll know safety.”

“More importantly” Clara tilted her head, her fingers brushing his jaw. “She’ll know love,” she said. “Because that’s what we’re built from now. Not pain. Not fear. Love.”

Jason closed his eyes as she kissed him again—slow, open, intimate. A moment that wasn’t about heat but depth. Not lust, but soul. And when they stilled, their breath rising and falling together, Jason whispered into her hair:

“Whatever comes, I’m not letting go. Not of you. Not of this.”

Clara’s answer came without hesitation.

“You don’t have to,” she said. “I’m already home.”

Clara stayed curled against him, skin warm and flushed where it touched his. Her head rested in the crook of his neck, curls fanned over his chest, her breath a soft rhythm against his collarbone. The duvet had slipped to her waist, and the borrowed shirt she wore—his, loose and faded—was rumpled open just enough to expose the line of her shoulder, the delicate slope of her back. Jason’s hand moved slowly beneath the cotton, fingers sliding up the bare skin of her spine in a slow, reverent path. She shivered—just slightly. Not from cold. From the sheer tenderness of it. Goosebumps followed his touch like the earth answering rain.

She tilted her face toward him, eyes half-lidded, mouth curved with something soft. “That’s not fair,” she murmured.

“What isn’t?” he asked, voice low and rough with quiet.

“You touching me like that when you know exactly what it does to me.”

His thumb stroked over the notch at the base of her spine, then back up again, like he was tracing something holy. “It’s not about what it does to you,” he said. “It’s what it does to me.”

"so..."Her lashes fluttered. She swallowed, the movement delicate against the light. “What does it do?”

Jason shifted, barely. Just enough to nuzzle his nose into her temple, his lips brushing the edge of her hairline. “It reminds me you’re real,” he whispered. “That this… isn’t something I dreamt up because I was tired of waking up alone.”

Clara’s hand slipped under the edge of his T-shirt, splaying across his ribs. Her thumb found the small scar there—the one she’d once asked about on a rainy Tuesday morning when neither of them had plans. A tumble during a tour rehearsal, he’d told her. A reminder that even on stage, he wasn’t invincible.

“You do this,” she whispered. “All this care. This gentleness. You hold me like you’re afraid I might vanish. But you don’t know how often I’ve thought you’d wake up and realise I was too much. Or not enough. Or just… not.”

Jason drew back far enough to look at her properly, his eyes searching hers with devastating calm. “You’ve never been too much. And God, Clara… not enough? You’re everything. You’re the air after the storm. You’re the space where I finally learned how to breathe again.”

Her throat worked on a breath she didn’t take.

“I didn’t think I’d be allowed to feel like this,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Like I belonged in someone’s arms without needing to earn it. Or shrink to keep it.”

"Come here..." Jason’s hand cradled the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. “You don’t have to shrink here. You don’t have to change. Just stay exactly like this. In my arms. Saying things that wreck me in the best way.” he laughed, but it was a quiet thing—shaky and real. His hand moved again, slow and reverent down the curve of her back, warm palm against her spine. Another ripple of goosebumps, another small gasp from her throat. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, then to the hollow just above it, lips lingering. “I love the way your body answers me,” he murmured. “Like it knows something before your mind does.”

"Trust me..." Clara’s eyes fluttered shut. “It does,” she whispered. “It knows you’re home.” Jason let the silence fall around them like snowfall—soft, delicate, total. His hands never stopped moving—slow, circular strokes that spoke louder than any vow. He wasn’t trying to claim her. He was reminding her she was safe. When she finally spoke again, her voice was quiet and filled with wonder. “This is what I always wanted,” she said. “Not the passion or the drama. Or even the amazing sex. Just this. Someone who sees all the cracks and loves me harder because of them.” Jason pulled her tighter, one hand still beneath her shirt, stroking the soft, warm line of her back.

“I don’t just love you, Clara,” he whispered. “I know you. And I’m never letting go.”

She nestled closer, breath brushing his throat. “Then don’t.”

He didn’t answer. He just held her. And with every breath, every caress, every soft graze of skin against skin. The room had gone still around them. Not the kind of stillness that feels hollow, but the kind that settles after something true. Outside, the rain had started again—light, almost shy—tapping against the window like it was trying not to disturb what was inside. Clara now lay half-draped across Jason’s chest, his T-shirt pushed slightly up where her cheek rested against his skin. The slow rise and fall of his breathing rocked her gently, like waves cradling a boat that had finally found shore. Her hand stayed beneath the hem of his shirt, fingers splayed, palm warm and open against his ribs. Jason’s arms circled her without effort now—natural, instinctive. One hand still tucked under the back of her shirt, stroking in the same slow rhythm down her spine. The other lay across her hip, grounding. Protective without pressure. Reverent without demand. Neither spoke for a long time. They didn’t need to. The light was golden and low. A threadbare calm draped itself across the bed, soft as breath, as certain as skin. Time moved slower here—stretching out in the small space between heartbeats and eyelids growing heavy. Clara’s lips brushed lightly against his collarbone. Not a kiss, not quite. Just contact. Just the silent echo of everything she couldn’t say aloud.

Jason shifted slightly, adjusting the covers around her, then let his hand trail once more beneath the back of her shirt. She shivered again, but this time she didn’t tease him for it. She just whispered, “Stay.”

“Not going anywhere,” he murmured, voice gravelled by quiet and love and all the things he never used to believe he deserved.

“I know,” she said. And nestled in deeper, letting the last of the tension drain from her bones.

Jason looked down at her—at the woman who’d somehow wandered into his life when he’d stopped expecting anything new. She was flushed and tousled and barefoot and more beautiful than any polished version of love he’d ever known. And as he kissed the top of her head—just once, soft and slow—he thought: So this is what peace feels like. It wasn’t silence. It was her heartbeat against his chest. It was her skin beneath his fingers. It was the feeling that, for the first time, he didn’t have to run. They drifted, wrapped in each other, the rain whispering its steady lullaby on the glass. No fanfare. No fear. Just breath. Just warmth. Just love, quiet and complete, humming softly between their ribs. It was about everything they’d survived to get here. And the quiet promise—woven in touch and stillness—that they’d never let each other fall again.

It wasn't long before Jason had let sleep take him. Clara lay awake, curled into the warmth of his body. He had drifted off not long after, his breathing soft and even, one arm still wrapped around her middle, palm resting just above her navel like a silent vow. She didn’t move at first. Just listened to him. To the slow rhythm of his breath, the subtle hum in his chest when he exhaled. His body pressed gently against hers, solid and grounding, his legs tangled with hers beneath the duvet. They fit together in a way that made her believe in fate, or maybe just the right kind of timing. Her gaze moved across his face—softer in sleep, the usual guarded lines smoothed out. His lashes curled just slightly, shadows falling gentle across the curve of his cheekbone. She traced the air above them with her fingers, not quite touching, as if any real contact might wake him. But he didn’t stir. She smiled, something small and stunned and full in her chest. Slowy lifted her hand and let her fingers trail lightly along his jaw, the familiar rasp of stubble beneath her touch. She brushed her thumb across the curve of his lips, and he murmured something in his sleep—just a sound, a breath—but it made her chest ache in the best possible way.

Her hand moved lower, tracing his throat, then over the defined slope of his collarbone. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath her palm—still firm, still strong. She smiled again. He was in pretty damn good shape for a man in his fifties. Still toned, still carved with the echoes of the body that had once danced across arenas. But there was more softness now. More depth in the way he held himself. No performance. No spotlight. Just presence.Just him. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, just over his heart. His skin was warm, and she stayed there for a moment, letting her lips linger as if the steady beat beneath could answer all the things she didn’t know how to say.

“I love you, Jason Orange” she whispered, barely a breath. “More than I ever thought I’d be allowed to.”

Jason stirred faintly, his arm tightening around her in reflex, but he didn’t wake. His hand, large and warm, settled just beneath her breast, fingers twitching slightly as though reaching for her even in dreams. Clara curled into him, one arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting lightly across his ribs. The scent of him—linen, skin, a trace of aftershave she always forgot the name of—wrapped around her like something sacred. Familiar. Home. She closed her eyes, her smile still there as her thumb gently stroked over the space where her kiss had just been. Here, in this quiet. In this bed. In this body that had carried her through so much—she was safe. 

Loved.

Chosen.

And in Jason’s arms, she finally let herself rest. Because everything they had fought for, everything they had broken and rebuilt, had led them here.

To this stillness.

To this belonging.

To this love.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was hushed. Sunlight pooled across the tiled floor in long, golden strips—warm but not yet bright. Outside, the world was only beginning to stir: birds chattered unseen in the hedges, and the distant slam of a car door echoed like a punctuation mark in the morning’s soft grammar. But inside, the silence held a different kind of weight—one shaped by waiting, and by things not yet said.

Jason moved with quiet precision at the stove, careful not to rattle the kettle as he poured hot water into Clara’s favorite cracked mug—the one she insisted made the tea taste better. It had a tiny chip on the rim, worn smooth by use. He cradled it briefly before setting it gently in front of her with a soft clink. Clara sat at the table in her robe, one hand resting absently over her belly, her fingers splayed protectively over the swell of it. The other hand held a piece of toast she had long since stopped eating, the corner damp and sagging. Her eyes were fixed on the middle distance—somewhere between the sunlight and the shadows—though her attention flicked now and then toward Jack. Jack sat opposite her, swinging his legs in mismatched socks, humming softly under his breath. He was stacking raspberries in a careful tower on the edge of his toast, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. He didn’t yet know. Not really. Not what today meant. No one had said the word court.

Jason sat beside Clara, his hand brushing over her shoulder in a gesture more grounding than comforting. She leaned into it, slightly, almost imperceptibly. His other hand reached for the mug, rotating it so the handle faced her just right. Always the small things. They watched Jack in silence for a few moments. His toast tower collapsed, and he sighed, unconcerned, and began again. There had always been something unspoken but unwavering between Jason and Clara—a kind of love that didn’t clamor or declare itself loudly, but instead lived in the quiet spaces: in the way he remembered how she took her tea, or the way her fingers found his under the table when words became too heavy. It was a love forged not just in warmth, but in the hard places—through sleepless nights, hospital rooms, and the aching quiet after bad news. They had made a promise once, not in the ceremony of vows but in the stillness afterward, lying side by side in the dark: Whatever comes, we face it together. That promise had been tested more than once, stretched thin by circumstance and fear, but never broken. It lived now in the silent glance they shared over their little boys bowed head, in the strength she found in his touch, in the way he carried the weight she could no longer hold. No matter what the court said. No matter what was taken or decided or rewritten. They were each other’s constant—two people who had chosen, over and over, to stay. To be there. To hold the line when everything else threatened to give way.

“He’s not ready,” Clara said quietly, not looking away from their son. “It will break him..”

Jason didn’t respond right away. The kettle let out a final hiss behind him as it cooled.

“We’ve said what we can,” he murmured eventually. “In the ways we know how.”

“I know…” She turned toward him. “But is that enough?”

“To be honest… Jason's jaw tightened, his eyes still on Jack. “I don’t know. I don’t think it ever is.”

Clara blinked quickly, pressing her palm more firmly to her belly as if shielding the child within from whatever was about to unfold. “He still thinks it’s just a visit. A new room. Toys. Maybe a dog.”

Jason reached across the table and plucked a stray raspberry from the placemat, setting it carefully beside Jack’s toast. Jack grinned up at him, eyes bright, unaware of the way his parents’ silence had thickened around him like fog.

“We’ll remind him about the rules,” Jason said softly. “The ones we talked about last night. That he can say what he wants. That he’s allowed to ask for us. That it’s okay to be scared.”

Clara nodded, but her hand trembled slightly as she lifted the mug to her lips. The tea was too hot. Yet she didn’t flinch as Jack giggled at something only he understood and reached for another berry. Jason met Clara’s eyes across the table, his gaze steady, a silent question passing between them. Ready? Clara swallowed hard. Her answer came not in words, but in the slow, deliberate way she set the mug down, squared her shoulders, and reached across to brush a crumb from Jack’s cheek. He leaned into her touch, still smiling.

“Hey, love, can we talk to you about something ” she said gently, leaning a little toward Jack. “You remember what we talked about the other day? About the hearing?”

“The court thing?” Jack looked up, his face more serious than it should’ve been at six. “I remember.”

Clara’s heart pulled at that—how quickly he’d learned to wear that look. How it made him seem older, like the child in him had gone somewhere quieter to hide. She reached across and took his hand.

“Mummys still poorly so Jason’s going to take you there today, like we said. You’re not going to be alone for a second, okay? He’ll be with you every step.”

“Oh okay…”Jack glanced at Jason, then back at Clara. “why not you too?”

“It's tricky…” Clara’s throat tightened. “I can’t come, sweetheart. Not today.”

“Why?”

“You see Jack…” She swallowed. “my body’s still healing, and I have to rest—for me and Hope. And because sometimes... being strong means knowing when to stay behind and let someone else carry the hard thing for a little while…even as much as i desperately want to be in there with you and Daddy”

“But it’s about you,” Jack said, brows furrowed. “About what he did to you.”

“I know, sweetheart, ” she said softly. “And that’s why I wrote everything down. Every truth. Every memory. Every piece of what I lived through. I gave it to the judge and told Matt as well. So even though I can’t be in the room, my voice is." Jack was quiet. He looked down at his plate. “I will be there right with you Jack okay?” Jason leaned in gently and stroked the boys shoulder. “And you don’t have to say anything you’re not ready to. Remember what we spoke about yesterday..”

“At the park…” Jack nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“I know that you ard going to make me the proudest mummy there is by being there today..” Clara gave his hand a squeeze. “So can you go get dressed for me, love? Your nice jumper with the lion on it that Aunt Dani and Uncle Chris got you for Christmas —the one that doesn’t have cereal on it.”

That earned a small smile. “Okay.”

He slid off the chair and padded out of the kitchen, leaving the silence behind him like a ripple across a lake. Clara let out a shaky breath the moment he was out of sight.

“Come here…” Jason reached for her hand. “You did great.”

“I feel like I’m failing him,” she whispered, eyes shining. “He’s walking into that building for me, Jay. To protect me. And I’m sitting here with tea and toast like I’m made of glass.”

“Listen to me..” Jason turned fully to her, his voice low and steady. “You’re not made of glass. You’re made of steel that’s been bent and burned and still doesn't break. He’s walking in for us. And because he knows—because you’ve shown him—that he’s not alone.”

“He's still my baby boy” Her voice wobbled. “What if he forgets what to say? What if he panics?”

“Then I’ll be there. I’ll step in. We’ve got child advocates, we’ve got Matt, we’ve got every truth lined up like bricks in a wall.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “He doesn’t have to carry the whole story. Just a piece.”

“Why is Sean doing this?” Tears soon slipped quietly down her cheeks. “I hate it..I hate that it ever got this far.”

Jason pulled her into his arms without another word, wrapping her tightly, cradling her like he’d tuck the world around her if he could. His hands moved across her back with deliberate care—slow, grounding strokes, like he was smoothing tension from fabric too worn to take any more strain. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of lemon balm and sleep, that familiar mix that always felt like home. The kitchen light caught the strands at her temple, gold and trembling.

Clara melted into him, her body softening in increments, like a held breath slowly released. Her forehead came to rest in the crook of his neck, her breath hot and uneven against his skin. He could feel the tremor in her chest—quiet, stifled sobs that never quite made it to sound. Her fingers curled into the back of his shirt, clutching, not for drama but for something solid to hold onto, something that wouldn’t shift beneath her. He tightened his hold in response, his arms a firm shell around her smaller frame, his voice low and steady in her ear.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You don’t have to hold it all by yourself.”

She nodded against him, the motion slight, her breath catching again as she tried to speak but didn’t. He didn’t push. Just let the silence stretch around them like a blanket, soft and dense and forgiving. Outside, a bird trilled. Somewhere down the street, a car engine turned over and faded away. But in the kitchen, time slowed. It narrowed to the rhythm of her breathing against him, the weight of her pressing into his chest, and the way her tears warmed his collarbone before disappearing.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, barely above a whisper, like it was a secret only for her. “No matter how this goes. I’m here. We’ll get through it—you, me, and Jack. We’ll hold the pieces if they fall.”

Clara pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes red but steady now. She didn’t smile, not yet, but something inside her began to unclench. He saw it in the way her shoulders eased, in the way her hands relaxed from fists into something closer to a touch. She nodded again, more firmly this time, and rested her hand over his heart like she was reminding herself of its beat. Jason pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there, eyes closed. He didn't say "I love you"—not because it wasn’t true, but because everything he was doing already said it louder than words could.

“You’re not failing him,” he murmured. “You gave him a life where he feels strong enough to speak. That’s not failure, Clara. That’s a miracle.”

She clung to him, letting herself lean into the strength of his arms, the beat of his heart.

“I just want it over,” she whispered “Just to be us again in our little bubble..as a family”

“It will be,” he said. “Soon. And when it is, we’ll shut the door on this chapter. Together. Start a new one of our own. Me, you, Jack and our little girl”

“Just do one thing for me…” Clara nodded against him, then pulled back enough to look into his face. “Take care of him”

“Always.”

“And… come back whole. Both of you.”

Jason gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes—but was still true. “We’ll come back better.”

They held each other for a moment longer—no words, just breath and hands and the deep, quiet bond of two people who’d carried each other through every kind of storm. Jason’s hand splayed across Clara’s back, feeling the subtle rise and fall of her breathing as it began to steady beneath his touch. Her cheek was pressed to his collarbone, warm and damp, her fingers hooked lightly at his waist like she was anchoring herself to something that wouldn’t drift. Around them, the world remained still: the faint tick of the clock above the stove, the rustle of leaves outside the window, the distant hum of Jack’s soft voice narrating something to his toast. But here—in this hush—they were suspended in a space that grief, fear, and even time couldn’t reach. It was the kind of embrace shaped by history: by sleepless nights with fevers and whispered apologies at 3 a.m., by arguments weathered and laughter stolen in grocery store aisles, by small, fierce promises made over hospital beds and kitchen sinks. In that silence, they reminded each other—without saying a single word—that they were still here. Still choosing each other. Still a team. And whatever came next, they would face it not as individuals trying to stay upright, but as two people leaning in, braced together against the wind.

“DADDY…” The voice rang down the hallway, high-pitched and urgent in that theatrical way only a five-year-old could muster. “I can’t find the jumper without cereal on it!”

Clara let out a small, teary laugh—half-sob, half-smile—the kind that slipped through even when your chest still ached. It bubbled up unexpectedly and caught in her throat, loosening something tight inside her. She tilted her face up toward Jason, eyes still glassy but brighter now. He smiled softly, brushing her hair back behind her ear, his thumb lingering for a second at her temple. Her face tilted instinctively into the touch. She kissed him once—quick and tender, but full of everything they didn’t have time to say. A quiet thank you, a don’t go far, and a come back soon all wrapped in one breath.

“Go,” she said, voice low, steadying. “Be his hero.”

Jason stood, but not before resting his hand gently over her bump. He held it there for a beat, feeling the faint shift beneath her skin—a future in motion. Then he looked at her, gaze soft but sure. “I already am.”

He turned and left the kitchen, his footsteps echoing faintly against the wood floor as he moved down the hallway. The moment stretched behind him like a shadow—his presence retreating, but the warmth of it still clinging to the room like the scent of toast and lemon balm. Clara stayed where she was, hands wrapped tightly around her tea. The steam had thinned, and the liquid had cooled, but she didn’t lift it to drink. Instead, she sat still, breathing in the calm left behind. Her eyes settled on the way the morning light broke across the table—soft and slanted now, catching in the flecks of crumbs, turning the plain surface golden. Her body ached with exhaustion, but in her chest, something fluttered—small, cautious, but unmistakable. It wasn’t peace, not yet. Not certainty, either. But something close.

And for the first time that morning, she let herself believe—believe that maybe things wouldn’t fall apart completely, that maybe love was enough to stitch the days back together, that maybe their son would come through this with his bright laugh still intact.

That maybe, just maybe, they all would.

The morning air shimmered faintly, still cool with the last sighs of night, clinging to the skin like a breath held too long. It was the kind of chill that hinted not at cold, but at quiet—an almost holy pause before the day dared to begin. Every leaf, every fence post, every forgotten toy in the garden seemed stilled, outlined in fine dew as if preserved in glass. The hedges along the drive were heavy with silver droplets, beading along the edges like jewelry strung by spiders and frost. Some fell in slow motion, catching the light as they dropped, silent punctuation in the hush of dawn. The scent of damp earth rose gently, mingling with the faint sweetness of cut grass and distant lilac, stirred awake by the sun. Somewhere behind the house, a blackbird began to sing—a tentative, flute-like phrase that wove itself through the silence and then stopped, as if listening for an answer.

Above, the sky stretched wide and weightless, a fragile blue just beginning to burn off the lavender bruises of night. The clouds were lace-thin and high, brushed in pale, buttery streaks that caught the sunlight like gossamer. There was gold in the light—thick and low and reverent, casting long, honeyed shadows across the gravel drive. Even the air seemed touched by it, like the whole world had been gilded at the edges. It was the sort of morning that felt both fleeting and eternal—quietly sacred, as though it belonged not to any ordinary calendar, but to memory itself. The kind of morning that would live in the backs of eyelids for years. And in that light, the old car gleamed like something out of time.

Jason’s old Mercedes—an ‘85 280SL, cream as moonlight and lovingly kept—glinted in the sun like it knew it had a role to play. The body curved with elegant defiance, low and lean, every line a quiet rebellion against time. Chrome trim ran along its edges like jewelry, catching fire in the dawn light. It didn’t hum—it prowled, even when standing still. It looked like it should’ve been parked along the Riviera with the sea behind it, not waiting patiently at the edge of a gravel drive in the English countryside. It was a relic from another life, and somehow, today, it felt right. Jason had bought it the first week “Pray” hit number one back in 1993. He’d walked into the dealership like a man who still couldn’t quite believe his luck—new fame burning in his chest, ink still drying on the record deal, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins. The Mercedes had been spotlighted in the center of the showroom, all curves and confidence, and Jason hadn’t even hesitated. It was impractical, unnecessary, and completely irresistible. The kind of car a working-class boy dreams of long before he knows the cost of real success. It was freedom on four wheels. It was arrival. Over the years, it became more than just a car. He took Clara out in it during the early days they were together, when it was just them—long drives with the windows, her hair flying loose in the wind, her laughter wrapped around his ribs. Those moments felt like something filmed in soft focus, sunlit and suspended. They’d go nowhere in particular, just away. Just fast. Just together.

But when Jack came along, things shifted. Life did. The Mercedes didn’t have room for car seats, snack bags, or emergency baby wipes. It didn’t accommodate the chaos of parenting or the sleepy sprawl of a child in the backseat. So it was gently retired to the garage—a sacred thing, wheeled out only for MOTs and quiet Saturdays. The family took the safer, more sensible SUV now—reliable, roomy, unremarkable. Still, the Mercedes remained his pride. He kept it covered like a treasure, polished it by hand a few times a year, started it just to hear the purr. It reminded him of something—not who he had been, exactly, but who he had once allowed himself to be. And every now and then, he’d catch Jack peeking under the tarp with wide eyes, like the car was a dragon waiting to be awakened.

Today, Jason chose it without hesitation.

There was something in the way the light fell. Something in the gravity of the morning. Something about this being a day Jack might remember all his life. He wanted the boy to feel it—the weight of it, yes, but also the dignity. The strength. The pride. The Mercedes roared to life on the first turn of the key, deep and smooth, its engine still loyal after all these years. Jack stood by the open door, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes wide as he traced his hand along the doorframe.

“Are we really taking this one?” he asked, half awed, half suspicious “we're taking your special car??”

“Yes….” Jason smiled. “Only the best for you…we are going to arrive in style”

And in that moment, with sunlight spilling gold over cream paintwork and history curling between them like exhaust in the cool morning air, it didn’t feel like a car. It felt like a promise. A beginning. A legacy reclaimed. Clara bent slightly to help Jack into the low passenger seat, one hand braced on the edge of the door, the other steadying his backpack as he climbed in. The car sat lower than anything Jack was used to—close to the road, like a coiled cat ready to pounce—and he sank into the worn leather with a quiet gasp.

“Whoa,” he murmured, hands already gliding across the seat beneath him, then up along the curve of the dash. The leather was warm from the sun, aged to a soft patina, still carrying the faint scent of polish and time. He traced the polished wood trim with reverence, fingers lingering on the chrome-edged dials, the analog clock, the old-fashioned radio knobs that clicked with satisfying weight. It was like sitting inside a time capsule—one built not for function but for feeling “this really is the coolest car EVER”

Jason stood back for a moment, letting him have it. Watching Jack soak in every detail, as if the car were whispering stories to him. Maybe it was.

Clara smiled, crouching at the door now, her hand lightly on Jack’s knee. “You know, this car’s older than you,” she said softly, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “Your daddy here bought it before he even knew I existed.”

Jack turned to look at her, wide-eyed. “Really?”

“Mhm. When his song hit number one. The first big one. He told me once he saw this car and just… knew. Like it was waiting for him.”

“i love this car…” Jack nodded, running his palm again across the curved dash like he was trying to feel that history. “It’s so cool.”

Clara’s smile held for a second, then softened. She reached in, adjusting his seatbelt carefully, pulling the strap so it lay flat across his chest. Her hands were gentle but precise, moving like muscle memory—like all the mornings she’d done this for school, for trips, for all the ordinary days that now felt like some kind of lost Eden.

“Listen to me, sweetheart,” she said, her voice quiet now, close. “Today is important. You’re going to go in there and tell the truth. That’s all you have to do. Just be yourself. That’s more than enough, okay?”

Jack gave a little nod. The excitement in his face was still there—but it was quieter now, tinged with something more thoughtful. He looked at her with those huge, clear eyes and gave a little half-smile. “Okay, Mummy.”  She kissed him on the forehead—quick but lingering—and her breath caught just slightly as she did. Then she stood up, smoothing his hair once more, and closed the passenger door with a soft thunk "love you..."

Jason now stepped forward, watching her with a look that was both gratitude and ache. She didn’t say anything, just rested her hand for a moment on the cream-coloured hood, then stepped back toward the house. He lingered by the open driver’s side door, one hand gripping the frame, the other flexing at his side like he needed something to hold onto. Jack was already settled in, humming faintly under his breath as he explored the car's console, but Jason’s gaze hadn’t left Clara. She stood a few feet away on the gravel, arms folded gently, like she was holding herself together. The morning was still quiet around them, the hush before the birds grew bold, the kind of silence that asked for something sacred to happen inside it. He stepped toward her slowly, gravel crunching under his boots. When he reached her, he didn’t speak right away—just looked at her. Her face was soft in the morning light, her eyes tired but bright, the faintest line between her brows betraying everything she was holding back. He reached up and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. His thumb lingered at her cheekbone.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” he asked, his voice low, rough with sleep and nerves. “I know it’s not ideal. Me taking him.”

Clara gave a quiet breath of a laugh—not sharp, not amused, just worn.

“You’re his daddy,” she said. “He needs you there. I want him to have that.” Her voice faltered for the briefest second, then steadied. “I’ll be waiting. However it goes.”

Jason nodded, jaw tight, like he didn’t quite trust his voice yet. His hand moved from her cheek to her waist, gently drawing her in. She came easily, almost reflexively, fitting into his space like they were built to do it. Like no time had passed at all.

“I hate this,” he said into the quiet between them. “That he even has to—”

“Don't…” She pressed a finger to his lips, soft and firm. “He’s strong because of you. Because of us. We did that right.”

Jason blinked, and something shimmered in his eyes that he didn’t let fall. Not yet. Then he kissed her. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic or fragile. It was full.His hands rose to cradle her face, thumbs brushing beneath her ears. Her hands found his back and held on, steady. Their mouths met with aching familiarity—warm and slow, deepening with each passing second like the moment itself was stretching out just to give them room. She tasted like mint and sleep, like morning, like memory. He breathed her in like he wasn’t sure how long he’d have the right. When they finally broke apart, they stayed close—foreheads touching, breathing each other’s air, the rest of the world paused around them.

“You come find me the second it’s done,” she whispered, her voice catching.

“I will,” he said. “No matter what.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth once more, tender and final. Jason gave a last look into her eyes—like a promise—and then turned back to the car, his jaw set, shoulders squared. Jason slid into the driver’s seat beside his son, the familiar creak of the leather wrapping around him like an old jacket. He glanced over at Jack, who looked suddenly older, suddenly very still.

“You ready, mate?” he asked, quietly.

Jack nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Jason gave her one final look, a silent promise heavy in his eyes, before closing the driver’s door with a firm, metallic thud. The sound echoed in the stillness of the drive, sharper than it should have been. The Mercedes stirred to life with a deep, throaty growl—low at first, like a big cat stretching awake after too long asleep. Clara stepped back instinctively as the engine idled, its purr smooth but muscular, vibrating faintly through the gravel under her feet. The smell of warmed oil and aged leather lingered on the breeze, the scent stirring a thousand memories she hadn’t prepared herself to feel today.

Jason revved the engine once, gently—but the old machine responded with a resonant, confident snarl, a sound that rose up and bounced off the brickwork and hedges like the past wasn’t done talking yet. Jack laughed inside the cabin, barely audible through the rolled-up glass, his excitement spilling out in that bright, uncontaminated way only children could manage. Then the car began to move. The tyres crunched the gravel with a rhythmic crackle, the sound granular and grounding. As Jason eased the Mercedes down the long curved drive, the engine deepened into a smooth, powerful growl—rising in tone and urgency as he reached the end and turned onto the lane. When he shifted up and pressed the accelerator, the car responded instantly, the roar of the exhaust rolling into the countryside like thunder wrapped in silk. Clara stood frozen at the edge of the drive, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She watched the car until the last flash of cream disappeared between the hedgerows, swallowed by the road and the rising day.

Then came the silence.

Not total—there were birds now, tentative in the trees. A breeze stirred the leaves in the hedge. But to Clara, everything felt too still, too wide. The air where Jason had just been felt colder. Her chest ached in that deep, dull way, as if something had been gently carved out of her and taken with him. She pressed her fingers to her lips, still warm from his kiss, then lowered them slowly, blinking hard. The silence filled with all the words she hadn’t said. All the fears she hadn’t let slip. The house behind her loomed quiet, ordinary—and entirely too far from the road her son had just taken. She didn’t move for a long time. Just stood there, breathing shallowly, heart thudding in her ribs, staring at the empty road. And praying. Not just for the outcome in court—but for time to hold. For her family not to shatter. For love—complicated, imperfect, stubborn—to be enough.

Not just the absence of sound, but a hush that settled over everything with weight. Like dust over long-forgotten furniture. Heavy. Still. Not the calm of peace, but the silence that follows something breaking. A held breath after a slammed door. Clara stood in the entryway, unmoving. The door was still warm where Jason had pulled it shut. Her hand rested on the firm curve of her belly, fingers splayed as if she could shield the baby from the hollow bloom of dread spreading inside her chest. Outside, the rain had started—soft at first, a breath of water suspended in air. Now it tapped at the kitchen window with uncertain fingers, like the sky hadn’t quite made up its mind whether to cry or not. A whisper of weather. A pause before the storm begins in earnest. She moved into the kitchen, her bare feet brushing against the cool floorboards. The fridge hummed steadily in the corner, mundane and indifferent, its sound deepening the stillness rather than disrupting it. Above it, the clock ticked with maddening patience—each second a drag. Each breath an effort.

Her tea had long gone cold. The mug sat untouched on the counter beside Jack’s breakfast bowl—milk soured, cereal limp. The spoon tilted like it had been dropped mid-thought. His crumpled napkin lay where he’d tossed it, as careless as the wave he’d thrown over his shoulder on his way out the door. She should have cleaned up. She didn’t. Her hands searched for something—anything. Something real. Something with shape and weight. They wandered past the unshelved baby books, past the battered board games with missing pieces, until they found the worn spine of the photo album. She hadn’t meant to open it. Yet now she was at the dining table, one hand curled protectively over her bump, the other turning pages with slow, practiced care. The leather creaked beneath her fingers. The corners of each page were softened by time. A few photos had slipped askew, their plastic sleeves clouded by fingerprints and age—smudged with Jack’s eager, sticky touch. She paused on a photo from the coast. Jack, mid-run, sandy footprints scattering behind him. Jason, squinting into sunlight, one hand lifted to shield his eyes. And her—windswept, laughing, her arm slung around Jason’s waist like she was tethered there. Like she belonged. A faint smile broke through. Brief. Brittle. She turned the page. Jack, asleep in Jason’s lap, a book forgotten in his hands. A dalmatian dog curled beside them, all three of them tangled in a too-small blanket. Jason’s head tilted back slightly, eyes half-closed. Not asleep—just unwilling to let the moment end.

Christmas morning. Matching pyjamas. Jason grinning beneath a crooked paper crown from a cracker. Tinsel looped around his shoulders because Jack had announced, “You’re the tree now!” Clara blinked hard against the blur in her eyes, but she kept turning pages. And then—she stopped.

The zoo.

Jack’s 4th birthday treat from her brother. Staying the night in that gorgeous lodge right next to the lions. In this one shot, Jason was beside her, one arm gently resting at the small of her back, the other holding a juice box Jack had shoved at him before running off to see the giraffe. Behind them, the fake safari jeep. Jason’s glasses crooked. Her red scarf vivid against the gray of her jacket. Her smile—wide open, unguarded. A woman already in love and not even realising it. A woman standing on the edge of a life she didn’t yet understand. She hadn’t known then. Not really. Not who he was. Not who he’d been. The name Jason Orange had meant nothing. She hadn't really heard of Take That either… To her, he was only “Mister Jason”—the man Jack talked about after a chance meeting in the park over two years ago now. “Mister Jason gave me a tissue.” “Mister Jason said Molly’s paws get cold too.” “Mister Jason said he likes penguins.” She hadn’t even believed someone like him existed until she met him—coat pockets stuffed with dog biscuits, voice like gravel softened by honey, eyes that crinkled when Jack talked about dinosaurs. Not a pop star. Not some headline. Just... Jason.

And that was the man she’d fallen in love with. The man she had now conceived a child with

Now, staring at that photo—at that moment—that simple, extraordinary beginning—it knocked the breath from her lungs. Because today, she wasn’t beside him. She wasn’t in the courtroom. Wasn’t holding Jack’s hand. Wasn’t locking eyes with Jason across rows of strangers and judgment, telling him: I’m here. We’re in this together. She was here. At the table. At home. Waiting. The tears hit her suddenly, hot and wild. She clutched the album to her chest like it could hold her upright, bent forward with a sob. Her belly shifted beneath her ribs—the baby rolling, uneasy. Startled. She gasped, pressed her hand against the swell, grounding herself in the movement.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

She didn’t even know what part of it she meant. Maybe all of it. For letting Sean near them. For not seeing what was there. For needing Jason to fight this battle. For not being able to fight beside him. Her phone sat silent on the table. No messages. No call. Just the locked screen glowing faintly, Jack’s grinning face staring back at her, dressed like a pirate, gap-toothed and wild. The sharp edge of a photo pressed against her ribs. She opened the album again, her eyes pulled once more to the zoo picture. It hadn’t been perfect. But it had been theirs. And it had been enough. She had shown up. Again and again. She had loved them both, fiercely. So maybe she couldn’t be there today. Maybe she couldn’t take the stand or face the press or carry Jason’s burden. But she could be here. She could be the finish line. The safe place they ran to. The warmth waiting behind the front door. She bent and pressed her lips to the photo—right over Jason’s shoulder.

“Come back to me,” she whispered.

Then she closed the album gently, both hands resting on top of it.Outside, the rain still fell—soft, steady, unhurried. Inside, the silence no longer felt hollow. It was patient. It held space. And so did she. Wrapped in memory. Anchored in love. Waiting for the knock.Hoping for the shape of their future to walk through the door.

The journey to the courthouse had been quiet. The streets still shimmered with last night’s rain, and the sky wore that uncertain, bruised gray—like it couldn’t decide between sun or storm. Jack sat stiffly in the back seat, watching the world slip by too fast. People walked dogs, sipped coffee, laughed into phones. Like it was any other morning. Like the world hadn’t tilted off its axis. In his pocket, Jack kept a photo Clara had folded into his hand before they left—a picture of the three of them crammed together on the sofa, laughing at something none of them remembered. He didn’t take it out. Just rubbed the worn corner with his thumb, over and over.

When they reached the courthouse, the building rose up like something out of a movie—cold, towering, all stone and shadow and sharp corners. Jack slid out of the car, his shoes crunching damp gravel. He didn’t speak. Just reached for Jason’s hand. Jason didn’t hesitate. His fingers closed around Jack’s like they had a hundred times before—steady, warm, familiar. Jack gripped tighter than he meant to. He didn’t let go. They walked the short path to the entrance, but it felt longer than anything Jack had ever done. The doors loomed. The steps echoed. And still, he held Jason’s hand. Inside, everything was too bright. Too clean. It smelled faintly of polish and something sharp—like paper and nerves. The quiet wasn’t peaceful. It buzzed in his ears. Footsteps clicked too loud against the floor. People whispered behind folders. Eyes slid past them, pretending not to stare. But Jack felt them. Felt every glance, like static on his skin. He kept his gaze low. He didn’t let go. The hallway stretched too long. Fluorescent lights blinked overhead, the hum of them low and endless. Jason slowed his pace just enough for Jack to keep up, never letting go. Every few steps, someone nodded or murmured his name—formal, clipped, reverent. Jason nodded back but didn’t stop. Jack watched his face. Calm, mostly. But his jaw was tight. The kind of tight Jack recognized from when he’d dropped a bowl and it shattered and Jason had just closed his eyes, breathed once, and said, “It’s okay, buddy.” The kind of tight that meant it wasn’t okay, not really.

They reached a set of double doors. Tall. Closed. A man in a suit opened them without speaking. Jason gave Jack’s hand a quick squeeze.

“You ready?” he asked, voice low.

Jack nodded, even though he wasn’t sure. He just didn’t want to let go.

Jason looked at him—really looked—and something softened. “Just stay with me. That’s all you have to do.”

And Jack did.

Back at home, Clara sat in silence. The kind that felt thick enough to touch. The kind that clung. Her mug was warm now, not from tea, but from where she held it too long, cradled between both palms like it might offer answers. The rain had stopped. For now. Drops slid down the kitchen window, racing each other, vanishing at the frame. The quiet wasn’t empty anymore. It had weight. Shape. Like breath being held. She kept her phone close, though it hadn’t lit up. Not yet.The photo album was still on the table. Her fingers drifted over its cover, tracing a faded scratch she didn’t remember. She didn’t open it again. She didn’t need to. Every page played behind her eyes now like scenes on loop—Jason’s smile, Jack’s laughter, that lodge by the lions, the scarf, the crooked sunglasses. She pressed a hand to her belly. The baby rolled, a soft shifting reminder.

“I’m here,” she whispered. Not to the baby. Not just. But to both of them. To Jack and Jason. Wherever they were, whatever came next. “I’m here.”

The boy walked slightly behind him, shoulders hunched, his free hand clutching the front pocket of Jason’s coat like a lifeline.

Jason glanced down. “You doing okay, mate?”

Jack nodded, but the movement was clipped, mechanical. “Is it starting?”

“Not yet,” Jason said, crouching slightly to meet his eyes. “We’re just waiting to check in with Matt. You remember what I said, yeah? We’re not doing anything you don’t want to. We’re here just to talk. That’s it.”

Before Jack could answer, a voice called out.

“Jay.” Matt, tall and calm and dependable as ever, emerged from the hallway with a clipboard under one arm and a soft expression that was clearly meant for Jack. He wasn’t wearing his usual sarcastic smirk. Just something close to kindness. “There’s my guy,” he said, crouching in front of Jack like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You made it.”

Jack hesitated, still close to Jason, but nodded. “Hi, Matt. How is Molly doing?”

“Hey, champ. She's doing great. She's having puppies very soon” Matt offered a fist gently and waited. After a moment, Jack tapped his knuckles against it. “So here’s the deal. You’re not going into any big courtroom. No scary judge with a hammer, no weird wigs. Just a quiet room down the hall with a lady named Michelle. She’s got drawing paper, snacks, and a really nosy cat. Swear to God, this cat acts like it owns the building.”

Jack blinked. “A cat?”

“A real one, called Agatha apparently ” Matt said. “Bit judgy, but she means well.”  Jason smiled faintly at that—thankful, as always, for Matt’s ability to soften sharp edges. Jack’s grip loosened a little on his hand. Matt stood and looked to Jason. “She’ll talk to him gently. He doesn’t even need to say much. Just answer a few questions, draw if he wants. The main hearing’s not for another hour.”

Jason nodded. “Thanks, mate.”

Then—before anything more could be said—a unfamiliar voice cut across the lobby.

“Jack.” It wasn’t loud, but it landed like a gunshot. The kind of voice that carried without needing to raise itself. Jason froze and Jack stiffened. “Jack,” the voice repeated, more insistent now. “Jack, son—hey.”

The three slowly turned and saw It was him….Sean Markson. Jack’s biological father. He stood across the lobby, just outside the double doors—impossibly composed, like he belonged here. Like this wasn’t the moment everything should be collapsing beneath him. His suit was sharp and expensive, the tie too perfect. Hair slicked back. That unsettling smile stretched across his face like it had been practiced in the mirror. Rehearsed. Controlled. Beside him, his solicitor stood expressionless—clipboard in hand, mouth set in that clipped, guarded way. But Jason barely registered the man. He only saw Sean And the world collapsed inward. Not with noise—but with weigh This was the man Clara had whispered about through tears she didn’t mean to shed. The one who had stolen whole years from her spirit. Jason had never met him, but he’d spent the last two years living with the aftermath of him. He’d seen Sean in every flinch Clara didn’t admit to. In the way she used to apologize for having feelings. In the way she used to disappear inside herself when things got tense. Had watched her rebuild herself in inches. He had kissed the scarred pieces. Held them together. And loved her, not despite them—but because she had survived them. And this man—this parasite—had been the one to fracture her light. Jason’s jaw tightened. His hands flexed..

“Jack.” Just that. Soft. Smooth. Entitled. Jason didn’t move at first. Neither did Jack. “Jack, son—it's great to see you again my boy”

Son?  The word rang out like a strike to the chest. It made something snap deep in Jason’s ribcage. Jack flinched, almost violently. His breath hitched. And then, with a panicked urgency that split Jason in half, he turned and clutched at Jason’s coat, eyes wide, terror fully bloomed.

“No. No, no—” His little voice broke. “Daddy—please—pick me up, pick me up—”

Jason’s body moved before his mind could catch up. In one fluid motion, he scooped Jack into his arms. The boy wrapped himself around him—legs locking at Jason’s hips, arms wound tight around his neck. His face buried deep in the curve of Jason’s shoulder. He was shaking. No child should ever have to shake like that. Jason turned on instinct, placing his body firmly between Jack and Sean. Shielding. Protecting. Owning the space with nothing but presence and the burn of fury in his blood.

“Don’t look at him,” Jason murmured, voice taut with barely restrained rage. “He doesn’t matter. He doesn’t get to touch you. Not now. Not ever.”

Behind him, Matt stepped forward—calm but firm, one hand lifted between the two parties.

“You were told not to approach,” he snapped at Sean, voice like flint. “Do not speak to the child again.”

Jason didn’t look back. He couldn’t. He felt Jack’s heart pounding against his chest—fast and frantic—and he had to get them away from there. Had to put space between this boy and the man who had once made Clara feel like nothing. He carried Jack down the hallway, his hands splayed protectively against his small back. Each step was measured. Steady. Like a heartbeat.

“It’s okay,” he whispered into Jack’s hair. “You’re safe now. He can’t touch you. Not while I’m here.”

Jack didn’t speak. Just clung tighter. His little fingers fisted the fabric at Jason’s shoulder, holding on like he might drown otherwise. Jason reached a quiet bench just beyond the family waiting room and sat, keeping Jack curled in his lap. He didn’t force conversation. He didn’t push comfort. He just held him—arms wrapped firm, rocking him gently, like when he was smaller. Like when nightmares used to leave him sobbing into Jason’s T-shirt and Clara’s soft hands would stroke his hair until sleep took him again. Now it was just the two of them. The air thick with aftershock. Jason pressed a kiss to the crown of Jack’s head, hand making slow, grounding circles across his back.

“You’re alright,” he whispered. “You’re right here with me. You’re safe.”

Jack’s voice came out small and cracked, barely a whisper. “I don’t want to see him again.”

“You won’t,” Jason said, steady as granite. “I promise you, Jack. You won’t ever have to again.”

Behind them, Matt reappeared, quieter now. “He’s been warned,” he said lowly. “Judge won’t like that. It won’t go unnoticed.”

Jason nodded without looking up. His hand never stopped moving on Jack’s back. Because in that moment, Jason didn’t care about proceedings. Or reputation. Or headlines. He cared about this—this boy trembling in his arms. His son in every way that mattered. Clara’s boy. Their boy. And the echo of Clara’s voice in his mind:

“I just want him to feel safe. That’s all I ever wanted.”

Jason would give her that. He would give Jack that. He would carve that safety out of stone if he had to. And if Sean ever tried to take it away again? Jason would burn the whole goddamn world down.

As they moved down the hallway, the harsh clang of the main courthouse faded behind them, replaced by a softer stillness. Jack’s steps, though hesitant, found a steadier rhythm alongside Jason’s. The cold, echoing tiles gave way beneath their feet to a thick carpet that muted their footsteps into quiet whispers. Jason tightened his grip on Jack’s hand, feeling the boy’s small fingers tremble within his own. The weight of Sean’s presence still hung heavy in the air, but Jason was determined to pull them both away from that shadow. Slowly, deliberately, he turned and led Jack away from the lobby, away from the chaos of memories and pain. The air here felt different—calmer, gentler—like the waiting room of a school nurse’s office or a small town library. It carried a faint scent of tea, aged paper, and something floral—like someone had tried too hard to mask the sterile chill with air freshener. For the first time since arriving, Jack’s grip on Jason’s hand loosened just a little, as if this quieter space might hold a sliver of safety after the storm. Ahead was a blue door. It had a sticker on it—a cartoon cat wearing a bow tie and holding a crayon. Jack’s eyes caught it, held on it, even as his heart thudded loud in his chest. Louder than the sounds around him. Louder than anything.

Jason squeezed his hand. “That’s the room, mate.”

Jack nodded, but the nod felt too big for his neck. His throat was dry. His tummy had been flipping ever since they left the house, but now it felt like it was full of bees. Soon A lady in a purple cardigan stood by the door. She had kind eyes and a soft voice.

"Hi, Jack. I’m Michelle. You must be the brave one I’ve been hearing about.”

Jack looked up at Jason.

“The one and only…” Jason smiled gently. “You're okay”

Jack didn’t speak. Just nodded again.

“Nice to meet you Jack…” Michelle crouched down. “We’re just going to go into the room. There’s some colouring stuff, a comfy sofa, and I think there might even be biscuits hiding in the cupboard. You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. You don’t even have to sit still if you don’t feel like it.” Then she looked at Jason. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait just outside.”

“But…” Jason stiffened. “He’s six,” he said, more to the woman than to Jack. “He’s been through enough already. I promised I’d be there with him.”

“I understand,” Michelle said gently. “But the court requires this part to be just myself and Jack. You’ll be right outside that door. He can come back to you whenever he wants.”

“Remember…” Jason looked down at Jack. “You don’t have to do this. We can walk away. Right now.”

Jack looked at the door. Then at Jason. His daddy. And even though every part of him wanted to hide in Jason’s coat, to wrap his arms around his neck and never let go—he shook his head.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “You said I was brave. I want to be.” Jack nodded again, and then he did something he’d never done in a moment like this before.

He let go of Jason’s hand And walked toward the blue door. Michelle opened it, stepping aside. Inside, Jack saw bright cushions, a low table with crayons scattered across it, and a big window with a view of trees waving in the wind. A soft blanket was folded on the arm of a chair. It didn’t look like a courtroom. It looked like a room for stories. Maybe for quiet talking. He stepped inside. Before the door closed behind him, he turned back just once. Jason was standing there, hand still half-raised, like he didn’t know what to do with it now that it was empty. Jack gave him the tiniest smile. A whisper of one. But real. And Jason smiled back, full of pride and pain and love. Then the door clicked shut. And Jason stayed outside—waiting, heart pounding, every nerve stretched taut—but knowing, in the deepest part of him, that Jack had just taken a step he’d never forget. Because courage didn’t always look like roaring. Sometimes, it looked like a six-year-old boy walking into a quiet room… alone.

The room was warm. Not hot—just cozy, in a way that made Jack feel like maybe it wasn’t going to be scary after all. He sat cross-legged on a squishy beanbag shaped like a turtle. The woman—Michelle—sat nearby in a low chair, a clipboard balanced on her lap. She hadn’t touched it yet. Instead, she’d brought over a tray with biscuits and squash and asked if he liked colouring. Jack had shrugged. Said he didn’t mind. Now, he was holding a green crayon and drawing something that might’ve been a dragon… or possibly a bus.

Michelle smiled. “You’re very good at that.”

“It’s a dragon bus,” Jack explained. “It breathes fire—but also takes people to the zoo.”

“Impressive.” She took a sip of tea and tilted her head gently. “Would it be alright if I asked you a few questions while you draw, Jack?”

"Okay..." Jack considered. “Are they hard questions?”

“No,” she said. “Just about you. Your family. What life’s like.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

Michelle leaned forward, voice soft and even. “Can you tell me a bit about your daddy?”

Jack looked up instantly. “Which one?”

“Well…” Michelle’s expression softened. “How about the one you live with now?”

“Oh!” Jack beamed. “That’s Jason. He’s not my ‘real’ daddy-daddy like when I was born or made me with Mummy, but he’s my proper one now. He’s the best.”

“What makes him the best?”

“Well…” Jack chewed his lip, thinking hard. “He makes the best bread. Banana bread sometimes, too. And he’s really funny. Like… clown funny. Like he was once on the circus tour.”

Michelle raised her brows, amused. “Circus tour?”

Jack nodded with wide eyes. “Mister Gary told me! That’s Jason’s friend. There’s Mister Gary, Mister Mark, and Mister Howard. They used to be like… singing superheroes. That’s what Auntie Dani says.”

“Oh?” Michelle smiled, eyes twinkling. “Was Jason in a band?”

“Yeah! A long time ago,” Jack said, voice lifting. “They were called Take That. They wore shiny sparkly shirts and Jason did all the dancing. I love watching him on YouTube when I’m tucked up in bed. But he doesn’t do all that  special music or crazy dancing now . He stays home with us instead.”

Michelle nodded slowly, thoughtful. “Do you like that? That he’s home?”

“I love it.” Jack reached for a biscuit. “He still sings and plays the guitar sometimes. But mostly to Mummy in the kitchen. And to Hope. That’s the baby in Mummy’s tummy. He sings to her and me when he thinks I’m asleep. It’s not loud singing. Just soft.”

Michelle smiled gently. “Soft songs can feel like cuddles, can’t they?”

Jack looked pleased. “Yeah.”

“What’s it like at home, with your mummy and Jason?”

Jack’s grin softened. “It’s good. They kiss and cuddle a lot.” He pulled a face, but it was affectionate. “They think I don’t see, but I do. I did think it was yucky at first but if it makes mummy smile then its okay with me”

Michelle chuckled, her tone warm. “Sounds like there’s a lot of love.”

Jack shrugged, shy now. “Yeah. Mummy used to cry a lot. She doesn’t anymore. Jason helps her be smiley.”

“That’s special,” Michelle said, quieter. “Sounds like he takes care of her heart.”

Jack nodded, mouth full of biscuit. “And she helps him too. He used to be all quiet and serious—like a sad bear. Now he laughs more. Especially when Mummy makes fun of his singing. She didn’t even know he was famous or made the special music!”

“She didn’t?” Michelle raised her eyebrows, curious.

“Nope!” Jack beamed. “When they met, she just thought he was Mister Jason. He was helping me look for meerkats after we stayed in one of Uncle Chris’s lodges at the zoo. She didn’t know about the music, or his cool dancing moves… or even his doll.”

“His… doll?”

Jack hopped up and ran to his little backpack in the corner. He unzipped it and pulled something out, holding it up proudly.

“This! Daddy doesn’t know I sneaked it into my bag,” he said. “Mister Gary sent it to me for my birthday. It’s a Jason doll from when he was in the band making the special music. It has tiny jeans and everything.”

Jason’s Take That doll was both endearing and slightly ridiculous—like a time capsule dipped in hair gel. About ten inches tall, it had a mop of dark, stylized hair swept into a 90s boyband quiff. The doll wore tiny denim jeans with real stitching and a snug black tank top stretched across its plastic chest—just like Jason wore in one of the old music videos. Around its neck: a miniature silver chain. On its feet: impossibly detailed boots with molded laces. Its face bore a permanent smirk—not quite Jason’s real smile, but close enough for Jack to insist it looked “a little cheeky, like when he hides the biscuits.” The doll’s eyebrows arched slightly, giving it an energy—like it might start dancing or wink at any second. One hand was shaped to hold a microphone, though the mic itself had long disappeared into the bottom of Jack’s toy box.

“Wow, Jack…” Michelle let out a warm, delighted laugh. “That’s amazing.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, hugging the doll to his chest. “But Jason’s better now. Real-Jason, not Doll-Jason. He does bedtime stories. Doll-Jason can’t read.”

Michelle smiled, her eyes softening. “And what do you think of him, Jack? Jason, I mean.”

Jack blinked. His fingers tightened around the doll’s soft legs. His face shifted—quieter now, like a curtain falling. Suddenly, he looked older than six.

“He’s my safe place,” he said. Michelle didn’t move. She just breathed, steady and slow, watching him. Jack added, even softer, “He makes all the bad stuff feel smaller. He doesn’t shout. He listens. He waits. And when I have nightmares, he just lets me sleep on his chest and says, ‘You’re okay now. I’ve got you.’” He looked up again. “So yeah. He’s my daddy. And I love him lots and lots.”

Michelle swallowed gently. Her voice was almost a whisper. “Thank you, Jack. That’s really helpful.”

Jack looked pleased. He climbed back onto the beanbag, legs folding back into a curl.

“Can I finish my dragon bus now?”

“Absolutely,” Michelle said, and let him draw in silence—his world steady again, colouring itself back to calm, one green crayon line at a time.

The hallway outside the consultation room was too bright. Too clean. A clinical sort of calm that rubbed against Jason’s nerves like sandpaper. He stood, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against a tension he couldn’t shake. The cheap plastic chairs lined against the wall looked impossibly uncomfortable. He didn’t bother trying one. He couldn’t sit still. Not now. The door had closed behind Jack with a gentle click. Michelle had smiled kindly, reassuringly, and Jack had looked back one last time before stepping in. Brave face on. Lip trembling. Jason wasn’t sure how his heart had kept beating after that. Now he paced a slow, deliberate line back and forth just beyond the door. A rhythm to match the beat of his thoughts—steady but strained. Each step felt like walking the edge of a cliff. Too far in one direction and he might lose the calm. Too far in the other, and he might shatter from the weight of his silence. He reached the end of the corridor, turned back again. Passed a framed photo on the wall—something generic. A landscape. Trees, maybe. He didn’t see it. Not really. He only saw Jack’s face, pale and worried, the way he’d clawed into Jason’s jumper when Sean had appeared downstairs like a shadow resurrected. Jason could still feel the way Jack had pressed his cheek to his chest, as if trying to crawl into his ribs.

Jason’s stomach twisted. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, resisting the urge to pace faster. He should be in there. Jack needed him. He hated that the system had drawn a line, a threshold he couldn’t cross. That someone, somewhere, had decided his presence might interfere instead of anchor. As though love wasn’t the most stable thing in that child’s life.  A familiar voice echoed in his head—Matt’s steady, grounding baritone: “The judge just wants to know Jack feels safe. That’s all.” But that wasn’t all. That wasn’t ever all. Because behind that door, Jack was talking about him. About Jason. About their home. Their life. And every part of Jason burned with the ache of not knowing what words were being used to define what he felt in his bones. He leaned against the wall, head tilted back, eyes closing. He opened his eyes again and looked down the corridor, half-expecting Sean to slink around the corner with that smug, acidic grin that haunted Clara’s nightmares. Jason’s fists twitched. The memory of Sean calling out to Jack still scraped raw against the inside of his chest. The panic in Jack’s eyes. The terror in his voice when he’d whispered, “Pick me up.” Jason hadn’t hesitated. He’d lifted him like it was the most natural thing in the world—because it was. His son had been scared. And Jason had answered.

Not with blood. But with love. That had to count for something. Surely. He exhaled sharply and moved to the door, pressing his palm flat against the wood—not pushing, not knocking. Just being there. A quiet signal through the barrier. You’re not alone, Jack. Not for one second. The corridor buzzed faintly with the overhead lights. Somewhere down the hall, someone coughed. A phone rang. Life moved on outside this room like nothing was happening. But Jason waited. And loved. And hoped.

The room felt safe, in that soft, not-school, not-home kind of way. The walls were pale yellow. The table between them was small enough for Jack’s feet to swing freely. He clutched a crayon but hadn’t drawn anything for a while now. Michelle—kind eyes, warm voice—sat across from him. Her pen moved sometimes, but not too much. She didn’t make him feel like he was being tested.

“You’re doing really well, Jack,” she said softly. “Thank you for talking to me.” Jack didn’t answer right away. His curls had flopped over his eyes, and he shook them back with a twitch of his head. “Can I ask you something else?” Michelle asked gently. “You can tell me if it’s too much.” Jack looked up. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no either. So she went on. “You told me before that your mummy used to cry a lot. That was when you lived with Sean?”

He nodded slowly. “I was a baby when we left. But I remember stuff.”

“Like what?”

Jack chewed the inside of his cheek. His voice was smaller now. “I had bad dreams. All the time. And I saw… I saw him hurting her once.” Michelle’s pen stopped. “I was hiding,” Jack whispered. “Behind the door. Mummy was on the floor. She wasn’t moving. I tried to shout, but my voice got stuck.” Michelle's breath caught, but she stayed still. “I ran to her after, but she wouldn’t wake up at first.” His eyes welled. “I thought she was broken. I thought maybe… she died.”

“But she didn’t,” Michelle said softly.

“No,” Jack nodded. “She woke up and said she was okay. But her face was bleeding. And she sang to me after, even though she couldn’t talk properly. Just humming.”

Michelle wrote something quietly in her notes. Observed trauma at a young age. Memory recall of physical violence and emotional distress.

“And did those dreams continue?”

“They stopped after a while,” Jack said. “When Jason came mainly. When we met him.”

Michelle gave him a small smile. “Do you remember how that felt?”

Jack tilted his head, thinking. “Like when you fall down a big hill and think you’re going to break, but someone catches you at the bottom.”

“That’s a very good description,” Michelle said gently. “Has Sean ever tried to talk to you since?”

“No,” Jack said quickly

Michelle paused for a moment, her tone still calm but thoughtful. “Jack… can I ask you something a bit different now? It’s about something more recent.”

Jack looked up warily. “Okay.”

“Do you remember when you and Jason went to the café not long ago?”

Jack nodded slowly. “We got muffins.”

“Did anything unusual happen?”

He thought about it, his forehead scrunching. “Not really. It was sunny. Jason let me pick the muffin. I got blueberry. He got a banana one.”

Michelle smiled a little. “That sounds nice. Did anything happen after you left the café?”

Jack looked down. “We walked home. Jason let me hold the bag of muffins for mummy because it was warm.”

She kept her voice gentle. “Do you remember seeing anyone with cameras?”

Jack blinked. “No. I didn’t know there were any.”

Michelle gave a small nod. “That makes sense. Sometimes people take pictures without asking, especially of people they’ve seen on TV or in court stories.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “Is that what happened?”

“Yes,” Michelle said. “There were photos taken of you and Jason that day. Did you see them?”

He shifted in his chair. “Yeah. Mummy showed me one later. She was upset.”

“What did you think when you saw it?”

Jack shrugged, but his mouth twisted. “We didn’t do anything wrong. We were just getting muffins.”

“I know,” Michelle said gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong at all.”

“I don’t like that people can just… look at us like that,” Jack added, voice small. “Jason looked tired in the photo. And kind of sad. I think he was trying not to be.”

Michelle made a note. Child unaware of being photographed. Later exposed to image. Emotional recognition of caregiver's distress.

“Did Sean come up to you that day?”

Jack shook his head quickly. “No. But…” His voice trailed off.

“But?” Michelle encouraged softly. "I think he was there. Across the street. I only saw a bit of someone, but Jason turned me around really fast and said we should go the long way back.”

“Do you think Jason saw him too?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah. He didn’t say, but I could tell.”

Michelle nodded and let the silence sit a moment before speaking again. “That must’ve felt confusing.”

Jack was quiet, then said, “I just wanted to eat my muffin.”

Michelle made another note, then looked up again. “And if you had to see Sean now—how would that make you feel?”

Jack's body curled a little smaller in the chair. “I don’t want to. I think I’d feel sick in my tummy.”

Michelle leaned forward just a little, keeping her voice soft and calm. “Thank you for telling me, Jack. That’s really important. You’re very brave.”

He picked at a thread on the knee of his jeans. “What happens now?”

“Well,” Michelle said kindly, “someone else might want to talk to you—just once. A judge. But you don’t have to be scared. She's very nice”

“Will Jason come with me?”

“ I'm afraid not but He’ll be close. Very close. You’ll never be alone.”

Jack nodded, still quiet.

“Can I tell the judge what I told you?” he asked, voice unsure. “About the dreams… and Mummy singing to me?”

Michelle smiled. “Yes. That would help the judge understand what life was like—and what it’s like now.”

Jack exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

Michelle reached over, offering her hand. He looked at it for a second before placing his smaller one in hers.

“You’re doing so well,” she said, giving his fingers the lightest squeeze. “You’re not alone, Jack. And you’ve already helped more than you know.”

Jason paced a slow circuit around the corridor’s bench, one hand clenching and unclenching in his coat pocket, the other cradling a half-cold coffee he hadn’t sipped in over ten minutes. The courthouse hallway was sterile in its silence—soft-carpeted, beige-walled, designed to feel calm but failing at every turn. Too quiet. Too still. Jason couldn’t breathe properly in places like this. Not when his son—his son—was behind a closed door, being asked to speak the truth about a past he never should’ve known. He looked at the door again. Still shut. Still no movement. How long had it been? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? He pressed his thumb hard against his temple. Every instinct in him screamed to go inside, to scoop Jack up, to pull him out of that chair and take him home—to Clara, to warmth, to safety. Somewhere without grey walls and legal language. What if it was too much? What if he froze? What if he said the wrong thing? What if someone—somewhere—used it all against them? Soon The door shifted slightly, but didn’t open. Jason’s chest tightened. Then Matt appeared, quiet-footed and calm as always, a file clutched in one hand, his tie a little crooked like he’d tugged it loose in frustration earlier.

“Jason,” he said gently.

Jason turned sharply. “Is he okay?”

Matt nodded. “He’s doing really well. The liaison said he’s honest, clear, and spoke about you and Clara in a way that—frankly—broke everyone’s heart.”

Jason blinked hard. “Right. Okay. Good.”

Matt stepped closer, voice lower. “There’s something else.”

“What?”

“The judge wants to see Jack.”

Jason’s body locked up. “What—no. No, that wasn’t the plan. That wasn’t agreed. That’s not—he’s six, Matt.”

“I know.” Matt held up a calming hand. “It’s not formal testimony. Just a brief, private chat. The judge wants to hear his voice. See his face. He’s asked for the support officer to stay in the room. It’ll be short. A few minutes.”

Jason’s pulse roared in his ears.

“Does Clara know? Did she sign off on this?”

“She signed the provisional release forms weeks ago. This was always a possibility.”

“But no one said it would happen today.” Jason’s voice dropped to a growl. “He’s just a little kid. He’s scared. He shouldn’t have to—” Before he could finish, the door creaked open with a soft click. And there he was. Jack stood in the doorway, his curls slightly flattened on one side, his face pale but composed. His little hand still clutched a green crayon, smudged slightly where his fingers had sweated. Jason’s breath left him in one long, shaky exhale. “Hey, mate” he said, stepping forward. Jack’s eyes scanned the hall—until they locked on Jason. His whole body moved then, quick and instinctive. He ran into Jason’s arms like gravity had shifted, like it was the only direction that made sense. Jason crouched and caught him, wrapping him in one firm, anchoring hug. “You okay?” he murmured into Jack’s curls.

Jack nodded, but his arms clung tight. “The lady was nice,” he whispered. “But they said the judge wants to talk to me now.”

"Listen to me.."Jason pulled back just enough to look in his face. “You don’t have to, Jack. Not if you’re too tired, or if it feels too much. I’ll tell them that.”

Jack looked up at him, wide-eyed but steady. “Will you be right outside?”

“Closer,” Jason said. “Right at the door.”

Jack gave a small nod. “Then I can do it. Just for a little bit. I want to tell them what it’s like. With us at home.”

Jason bit back the emotion rising in his throat. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“I just want us to stay the same,” Jack whispered. “Me, and Mummy, and you..and Baby Hope.”

Jason kissed the top of his head, and when he stood, his hand never let go of Jack’s.

Matt leaned in, quiet. “They’re ready when you are.”

Jason looked down at Jack. “You good?”

Jack gave one sharp nod. “Let’s finish it.”

And together, they walked toward the door at the end of the corridor—the one that led to the person who could change everything.

The clock ticked louder than usual.Clara stood at the kitchen counter, fingers wrapped around the edge like she needed it to stay upright. Her tea had gone cold on the windowsill, forgotten hours ago. The house felt still—too still. The kind of stillness that made everything in her feel louder. The hum of the refrigerator, the ache in her shoulder, the throb of anxiety building just beneath her ribs. She pressed a hand to her belly. Hope gave a little nudge in response, a flutter just under the skin. The familiar reassurance of life moving forward. But today it didn’t help. Not the way it usually did. Jason and Jack had been gone for just over an hour now. Clara had tried to stay calm—tried to distract herself. She’d folded laundry she didn’t remember washing. She’d made a sandwich again and didn’t eat it. She’d opened the photo album and ended up crumpled on the floor, sobbing over a picture of the three of them at the zoo once more. Jack with his gap-toothed smile, Jason’s arms around them both, his head tipped back in laughter. 

A sharp wave of dizziness broke her thoughts. She gripped the counter tighter. Breathe. Her vision swam for a moment. She closed her eyes and counted. One. Two. Three— The doorbell rang. She startled, heart in her throat. For one irrational moment, she panicked—thought it was bad news. That it had all gone wrong. That someone had come to tell her Jack was scared, that Jason had lost control, that— She opened the door with shaking hands. And found Dani. Clara let out a strangled breath—half-laugh, half-relief—and sagged forward into her friend’s arms before either of them spoke.

“Oh, love,” Dani murmured, wrapping her tight. “I knew you’d be a mess. Come here”

“I’m fine,” Clara lied into her shoulder.

“Liar.” Dani pulled back and looked at her. “You’re pale, and you haven’t eaten, and your tea smells like it’s been reincarnated three times.”

Clara huffed a teary laugh. “I’m scared, Dani.”

“I know.”

She led her into the kitchen without asking. Sat her down gently at the table, then opened a cupboard like she’d lived there all her life. The kettle clicked on. Clara rested her cheek against the cool wood of the table and shut her eyes.

“I should’ve gone,” she whispered. “I should be with them.”

“No,” Dani said firmly. “You shouldn’t. You gave everything you had to get to this point. Jason knows how to fight for him now. You gave him that.”

“I just feel so… helpless.”

“You’re not.” Dani set a steaming mug in front of her and crouched beside the chair, resting her hand gently over Clara’s. “You’re the reason Jack could tell the truth today. You’re the reason he knows what love feels like. That’s not helpless, Clara. That’s everything.”

Clara’s lips trembled. “I don’t know what I’d do if we lost him. If Sean—”

“You won’t,” Dani said. “I won’t let that happen. Jason won’t. Jack won’t. You’ve already changed the ending of that story.”

Silence fell, but it was warmer now. Hope kicked again. Clara glanced down at her bump, then up at her beloved Sister in law.

“You think she knows what’s going on?”

Dani smiled. “She knows her mum’s a warrior and her dad would burn down the world to keep her safe. That’s enough.”

Clara blinked back fresh tears and wrapped her arms around her middle, cradling the place where the next part of her family waited.

“I just want them to come home.”

“They will.”

“And when they do…” Clara said softly, “I’m never letting either of them out of my sight again.”

Dani nodded. “Fair. But maybe let them pee in peace.”

Clara let out a hoarse laugh. “Deal.”

And for a moment, she didn’t feel quite so alone. The steam from the new cup of tea curled upward in slow spirals. Clara watched it from her seat at the table, both hands wrapped around the mug now, as though it might hold her together if she gripped it tightly enough. Dani moved around the kitchen with quiet familiarity—checking the fridge, rustling through the bread bin, slicing a banana without asking. She didn’t offer advice or pretend she could fix anything. She just existed beside Clara in a way that didn’t need permission.

“I can’t stop picturing him,” Clara murmured. Dani glanced over. “Jack. His little face. The way he always tries to be braver than he should have to be. I hate that he’s even in that building. I hate that Sean gets a single second of his life.”

Dani set the cup down, leaned her elbows on the counter. “That man might be sitting in a courtroom, Clara. But he’s not in Jack’s heart. Not anymore.”

Clara blinked, staring into the tea like it might answer her.

“It’s like… I keep flashing back,” she said quietly. “To when Jack was little. How he’d wake up crying and I’d have to sing just to calm him down. I remember how I used to hold him against my chest and wonder if I’d ever feel safe again. If he would.” She looked up, tears clinging to her lashes. “Then Jason came. And it all started to feel… like it could be real. A family. A future. And now today—he’s carrying everything. He’s shielding both of us. And I’m just here. Useless.”

“You are not useless,” Dani said, crossing to her and kneeling beside the chair again. “You’re the foundation, Clara. The whole damn root system. And do you know what foundations do when storms hit?” Clara shook her head, wiping her cheek. “They hold,” Dani said simply. “They keep the rest from falling.”

That broke something in Clara. She reached for Dani, burying her face into her friend’s shoulder as the tears came. Not loud or wracking—but steady. Long-held grief draining like rain off a roof. Dani held her. One hand in her curls, the other stroking her back with the patience only someone who’s been through the worst can offer.

“I’m just so tired,” Clara whispered. “Of surviving.”

“I know, love,” Dani murmured. “But you’re not just surviving anymore. You’ve built something. With Jason. With Jack. And whatever happens today—you still have that.”

They stayed like that for a while, soft with silence, steady with breath. Eventually, Clara sat up, eyes rimmed red but a little clearer.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Dani gave her a look. “If you ever apologise for crying again, I’ll personally unplug your kettle.”

That earned a weak laugh. Clara sniffed and reached for a tissue.

“Dani?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think he’s scared right now?” Her voice cracked. “Jason, I mean.”

Dani leaned back on her heels, thoughtful.

“Of course he is,” she said. “But that man would walk through fire barefoot if it meant Jack didn’t have to feel the heat. And you know what else?” Clara looked at her. “He’s not scared alone. He carries you with him. Every word, every look, every night you held him when he couldn’t sleep. You gave him something to fight for.”

Clara’s bottom lip trembled again.

“I just need them both to come home.”

Dani reached up and touched her cheek.

“They will.” A pause. “And when they do,” Dani added gently, “we’re going to eat something ridiculously unhealthy, toast survival, and sit on that sofa until your feet swell and you can’t get up without help.”

Clara gave a teary smile. “Deal.”

A soft knock came at the door—just the mail slot this time. They both startled, then stilled.

“Just the post,” Dani said, already rising. “But you see? They’re still out there. Life’s still moving. And you—” she kissed the top of Clara’s head—“you’re allowed to wait. You’re allowed to rest.”

Clara sat back in her chair, hand on her belly as Hope rolled gently beneath her palm. Waiting. Breathing. Loving them from here.

The courtroom had been quiet, formal — all polished wood, stern faces, and voices that echoed too easily. But the judge’s chamber was quieter still, though in a different way. It wasn’t cold, and it wasn’t grand. Just a softly lit room tucked behind all the formality, with high bookshelves lining the walls and wide windows framing the city skyline in dusky gold. The blinds were half-drawn, letting in a light that felt filtered, gentler — as though the room had learned how to soften the outside world. A kettle sat on a side table, quietly humming, and the faint scent of peppermint tea hung in the air. On the desk was a scattering of papers, a small ticking clock, and a cluster of framed photographs. Not legal ones — personal ones. A black Labrador in a Santa hat. A messy spring garden in full bloom. A child mid-jump in muddy wellies, suspended in joy. It didn’t feel like a place where life-changing decisions were made. It felt like a study. A Sunday room. Somewhere you’d read books and sip tea and forget about the outside for a while.

But even in that warmth, Jack shrank into himself the moment they stepped inside. His fingers curled tighter around Jason’s. His shoulders hunched. He scanned the room quickly — checking for exits, for threats, for sharp edges only he could still see. Then his eyes landed on the judge. She was waiting — not in robes, not behind a bench. Just standing beside her desk, sleeves rolled up, expression soft. But Jack didn’t speak. Jason crouched beside him, knees creaking as he settled close. His suit jacket bunched at the shoulders, but he didn’t care. All his focus was on the small boy in front of him.

“Hey,” Jason said gently, voice low and steady. “You don’t have to be brave. You just have to be you.”

Jack didn’t respond right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor — on a patch of carpet where the sunlight fell in slanted stripes. He was already chewing his bottom lip, hard — the skin there had only just healed. He tugged at his sleeve, pulling it down past his wrist like he could hide inside it. Jason watched, heart aching. That sleeve — the one Clara had rolled for him that morning, laughing when he insisted on wearing the jumper even though it was warm. He’d said it felt safe. Said it smelled like home. Now, he just looked small. The judge — a woman in her sixties with kind eyes and a no-nonsense haircut — stepped forward.

“Hello, Jack,” she said. “I’m Judge Penrose, but you can call me Anna if you like. Thank you for coming in. You don’t need to be nervous, sweetheart. This is just a chat. You can sit wherever you like.”

Jack glanced at the couch across the room — too big, too far. He looked up at Jason.

Jason gave a small smile. “I’m right here, mate. Always.”

Matt approached them with an ease Jason envied. “We’ll go together,” he said gently to Jack. “You’re not doing this alone.”

Jason gave Jack’s hand a final squeeze. “I’ll be right outside,” he promised.

Jack didn’t nod with excitement — just quiet resolve. He let go, slowly, and followed Matt toward the desk. Jason watched until the door clicked shut behind them. Inside, Matt sat with Jack on a cushioned bench along the wall. They stayed close, hands still linked. Judge Penrose didn’t sit behind her desk. She chose a chair opposite them, her voice calm, even.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Jack. You like dragons, right?”

Jack’s voice was a whisper. “Yeah.”

She smiled. “Me too. When I was your age, I had a stuffed dragon named Bernard.” That drew the faintest flicker of a smile. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” she added gently. “But I’d love to know what it’s like at home. With your mummy. With Jason.”

Jack looked up at Matt — a silent check-in. Matt nodded, his hand resting gently on Jack’s back.

Jack took a breath. “It’s… fun. We’re silly sometimes. We play games. Jason makes pancakes in weird shapes. And Mummy says he gives the best cuddles.”

Judge Penrose smiled. “That sounds like a happy home. And Jason — what’s he like?”

“He’s so cool,” Jack said with a small shrug. “He’s funny. And he always waits for me. Like, if I can’t say something, he doesn’t rush me. He just… waits. ”

The judge’s voice remained soft. “Do you feel safe with him?”

Jack didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Always.”

A kind silence followed.

“And Sean?” she asked after a pause.

Jack stiffened. “He… he’s my real daddy,” he said quietly. His eyes dropped. “I don’t remember everything. Just some things. He shouted a lot. Mummy cried. One time, I… I saw him push her. She didn’t wake up for a while. I shook her. I sang really loud, but…” Matt’s hand twitched on Jack’s shoulder as the little boy's voice broke. “Mummy said it wasn’t my fault. But it felt like it.”

The judge’s tone didn’t shift. Still calm. Still kind. “I’m very sorry that happened, Jack. And I believe you. None of that was your fault.”

Jack glanced toward the door. “It got better when we met him.”

“Him?”

“Jason..I call him my Daddy now”

There was a pause. Then a soft smile.

“I bet Jason likes you calling him that so do you know what he used to do?” she asked, voice lightening. “All that singing and dancing with his band?”

Jack grinned. “Oh, yeah. Mummy didn’t know when we first met him.” His grin widened. “He was in a very special band too. With Mister Gary and Mister Howard and Mister Mark. We saw one of the shows last year and it was the best day ever! But Jason doesn’t do that now with them. Now he’s just my daddy.”

Judge Penrose nodded, jotting a note in her lap.

“And if you had to choose,” she asked, “what would you want to happen next?”

Jack’s voice trembled. “I don’t want to see Sean. Not ever. I just want to go home. With Mummy. With my daddy Jason. And baby Hope.”

The judge’s hand paused on the page. Then she looked at him gently.

“Thank you, Jack,” she said softly. “You were very brave. You can wait just outside now. We’ll only be a few more minutes.”

Jack started to rise, then hesitated. “Is Jason still there?”

“Right outside,” she said.”go to him..”

He nodded. “Okay.”

Anna’s voice caught slightly. “Jason sounds very kind.”

Jack nodded again, solemnly. “He is. I love him lots and lots. He’s not just my daddy. He’s my bestest friend.”

Matt stood and offered his hand. Jack took it. Jason was already on his feet when the door opened. Jack ran to him — not panicked, just in need of anchoring. Jason crouched low, arms open.

“You alright?” he murmured.

“I did it,” Jack whispered.

Jason kissed the top of his curls. “You really did. I’m so proud.”

Matt gave Jason a soft nudge. “She’d like a word.”

Jason looked toward the open chamber. “Alone?”

Matt nodded. “Just you.”

Jason glanced down. “You good for a minute?”

“I want a banana muffin,” Jack said, tired but calm.

Jason chuckled. “Two muffins, then.”

He handed him off to Matt, then stepped inside. Judge Penrose stood by the window, hands folded.

“Mr. Orange,” she said, nodding. “Thank you for coming.”

Jason cleared his throat. “Of course. Was… was that okay?”

She turned to face him, eyes warm. “More than okay. Jack is thoughtful, observant, emotionally clear. That doesn’t happen in a vacuum.”

Jason shifted, uncertain. “He’s just a kid who’s been through a lot.”

“And yet,” she said gently, “he talks about safety like it’s a fact. Not a hope. That kind of trust is built, Mr. Orange. Brick by brick. And you did that.” Jason swallowed hard. “You didn’t just tell him he was safe. You made it true. That matters. To him. To this court. And to me.”

He blinked, voice caught. “Thank you.”

She nodded once, firmly. “We’ll be in touch shortly . But I wanted you to hear that. Not just as a hopeful legal guardian — but as someone who changed the course of a child’s life.”

Jason stepped out quietly. In the hallway, Jack was halfway through a muffin, cheeks dusted with crumbs. He looked up, smiled with blueberry-stained lips, and reached for his hand again. And Jason thought — for the first time in a very long while — We might actually be okay now.

The courthouse hallway murmured with low voices and the soft thud of doors closing — a steady rhythm that passed right through Jason without landing. He stood near the vending machine, arms crossed, back against the wall, eyes fixed on nothing. Beside him, Matt hovered quietly, his jacket draped over one arm, thumb absently flicking his phone screen. Neither of them spoke. Waiting had its own gravity — heavy, silent, inevitable.

Finally, Jason broke the stillness. “You think he was okay in there?”

Matt looked up and nodded slowly. “He did better than okay. That kid held his own in a situation grown men would buckle under.”

“Matt…” Jason exhaled, long and low. “He’s just a kid.”

“Yes but he's…” Matt placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “A kid who trusts you with everything he’s got.”

Before Jason could respond, a door opened down the corridor. A court officer stepped into view.

“The judge would like to see Mr. Orange and Mr. York now.”

Jason blinked, throat tightening at the shift in formality. He nodded and fell into step beside Matt. Inside the judge’s chambers, the world softened. Filtered light slanted through half-closed blinds. Judge Penrose sat composed at her desk, hands neatly folded atop a stack of documents. She gestured to the chairs in front of her. Jason and Matt took their seats.

“I want to begin,” she said, “by acknowledging the bravery and composure your son showed today.” Jason flinched — not at the formality, but at the words your son. His throat worked around something unspoken. He nodded. “Jack was clear, emotionally articulate, and remarkably centered. It’s clear he comes from a home full of love.” Jason’s anxiety spiked. He gripped his hands in his lap until his knuckles turned white. The judge turned to him. “And Mr. Orange — much of that is your doing. I’ve read the reports. Seen the photos. You’ve given Jack consistency, patience, and a strong father figure. That cannot be overstated.”

Jason’s voice came rough and quiet. “Thank you.”

Her tone shifted — still warm, but anchored in something heavier. “However, the law also recognizes the child’s right to contact with both biological parents. This is not a decision I make lightly, nor without full awareness of the trauma documented.” Jason’s stomach tightened. The space between his breaths grew thin. “I am not issuing a final custody ruling today. But I am ordering one supervised visit — brief, and held here in the courthouse — between Jack and his biological father. The visit will take place in two days. After that I will make my decision regarding your application for formal guardianship Mr Orange and Mr Markson's custody request”

The words hit like a sudden wind, cold and breathless. Jason didn’t move. He couldn’t. Behind them, the stillness shattered.

“No!” The door suddenly swung open. Jack soon stumbled inside, face flushed, eyes wide. “No, please, don’t make me see him!” Jason was already on his feet. He met Jack halfway, catching him as the boy hurled forward — a bundle of panic and small, shaking limbs. Jack clung to him, fists tangled in his coat. “don’t let him,” he sobbed. “Don’t let him, Daddy”

Jason sank to the floor, cradling him close. “Hey, hey— I’ve got you. I’ve got you,Mate. You're safe.”

Jack buried his face in Jason’s shoulder, breath hitching between sobs.

Matt knelt beside them, his voice low but urgent. “Jay — we’ll appeal. There are other options. We’re not done. I'll get right on it now..”

Judge Penrose stood slowly, her voice softer now. “The visit will be carefully monitored. If Jack shows distress, it will be ended immediately. His well-being is the guiding priority.”

“Look at him…” Jason looked up, his voice tight. “He’s already in distress.”

“I see that,” she said gently. “But I also see a child who knows exactly where he belongs.”

Jason turned back to Jack, still trembling in his arms.

“You belong with us,” he whispered into the boy’s hair. “No one’s taking that away.”

Jack’s sobs softened to hiccups. His grip didn’t loosen. The judge marked the date in her notebook. Two days. Jason didn’t know how he’d get Jack through it. But he would.Because no matter what the law said, Jack already knew who his father was.

And Jason would never let the world — or Jack — forget it.

The courthouse gardens lay hidden behind tall stone walls — a secluded patch of calm, as if the world had taken a breath and left it here for those who needed to exhale. It was quiet in a different way from the courtrooms inside. No polished shoes clicking on tile. No clipped voices or rustling papers. Just the hush of nature reclaiming space, and the late afternoon sun dripping gold through a net of green. Light filtered softly through the canopy of old trees, scattering warm, dappled patterns across the flagstone path and wooden benches. The scent of lavender lingered in the air, sharpened by trimmed hedges and the sweetness of early summer roses — a smell that didn’t belong to custody hearings or judges’ chambers or the tight knot of fear that had sat all morning in Jason’s chest. Jason sat on a weathered bench beneath a sprawling plane tree whose wide limbs arched like open arms. His posture wasn’t relaxed — not fully — but it held a kind of careful stillness. Like he was anchoring them both. Jack was curled in his lap, knees drawn up, head tucked tight beneath Jason’s chin. One of Jason’s arms held the boy close across his back — protective, steady, unmoving. The other wrapped around his legs, as if bracing him against the world. His coat was draped over them both, cocooning Jack in a familiar scent and warmth, sheltering him from more than just the breeze.

Jason’s hand moved in slow, instinctive circles across Jack’s narrow back, his thumb catching the rhythm of the boy’s breath — shallow at first, then deeper, steadier. Every movement was careful. Measured. As if Jason were afraid that the spell of peace might shatter if he let himself shift too suddenly. The quiet here wasn’t heavy. It didn’t demand anything. It just let them be. Birdsong echoed overhead — distant and soft, like the sky had forgotten it was watching something delicate. A pigeon swept across the path in a low arc, wings catching the light. In the distance, a gardener moved along the rose beds, his wheelbarrow creaking softly. The world continued — but gently, as though it knew to tread lightly today. Jack shifted a little, turning his face inward, pressing it closer to the safety of Jason’s chest. His fingers clutched at the lapel of Jason’s coat, not with urgency, but with quiet desperation — a wordless plea to hold on, to stay wrapped in something that couldn’t be taken away. Jason felt that tiny hand, those too-thin fingers, and it undid him. He dipped his head, pressing a kiss into Jack’s hair. His throat burned. His whole body ached with the helpless need to make the world kinder than it had been — to undo every bruise, every shouted word, every memory that still lived like shadows under Jack’s skin. The boy’s voice came at last, quiet and rough around the edges.

“Do I have to see him?” Jack’s voice barely stirred the air, but Jason felt it like a stone dropped into still water.

Jason exhaled slowly, eyes still closed, forehead gently resting against the top of Jack’s head. His arms tightened almost imperceptibly — not to trap, but to shield. As if he could pull the boy far enough into his chest to keep him safe from the world forever. He didn’t answer right away. Because the truth was a knot in his throat. Because he wanted to say no — plain and simple — but he also knew the rules weren’t made with softness in mind. And Jack had already had too much of the world failing to protect him. So he chose honesty. The kind that didn’t hurt. The kind Jack could carry without it getting heavier.

“There’s a visit,” Jason said quietly. “Just one. At the court. With people there to make sure you’re okay. I’ll be waiting just outside.” Jack’s small body tensed in his arms. Not dramatically. Not like a storm. Just that sharp, silent stillness Jason had learned to recognize — the kind that came when Jack was scared but trying hard not to show it. Jason shifted slightly, just enough to cradle Jack’s head with one hand and tilt his face up gently with the other. His eyes were soft, but clear. Solid. “Listen to me, mate,” he said, voice low and even. “No one — no one — gets to hurt you again. Not him. Not anyone. I don’t care what the rules say. If you’re not okay, it stops. You say the word, I’m there. I’ll always be there.”

Jack blinked, lip trembling. “But what if they say I have to go with him?”

Jason felt his heart cracked clean down the middle.

“They won’t,” he said, steady as stone. “Because I’ll fight like hell if they try. You hear me? I’ll fight every second of every day to make sure you stay where you belong.” Jack stared at him, searching, as if trying to find the edges of that promise — to see if it could break. But Jason’s eyes didn’t waver. “You’re mine, you're MY son okay?” he whispered. “Not because of blood or names. Because I love you and I’m not going anywhere.”

“I hate that I’m scared.”

"It's okay..." Jason hugged him tighter. “Being scared doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. And brave doesn’t mean not scared — it means doing the hard thing even when you are.”

Jack considered that, then looked up at him. “Are you scared?”

Jason smiled faintly. “A little.”

"Did you want to cry too?”

Jason’s voice caught. “Yeah. I did.”

Jack nodded, as if that made everything make more sense. “Can we just sit here for a bit?”

“For as long as you want.”

So they sat, wrapped in silence and birdsong, in the kind of stillness the world rarely made space for. The courthouse loomed behind them, but here — in this garden full of filtered sunlight and long shadows — it felt far away. Here, they could breathe. And for now, that was enough.

Jack’s chin wobbled. He leaned in fast, almost a jolt, arms winding around Jason’s neck with all the strength in his small frame. He didn’t cry — not this time. He just held on, like Jason was the last lifeboat and the sea was rising fast. Jason wrapped both arms around him again, tighter now, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other splayed protectively across his back. They stayed like that — two figures tucked into each other on an old garden bench beneath the wide arms of a tree — while the world went on in quiet motion around them. Leaves rustled gently overhead. The sky slipped closer to evening. And inside Jason’s chest, something hard and frightened and fierce began to ease.

Not because the fight was over. But because Jack knew — finally, fully — that he’d never have to fight it alone.

Chapter Text

The courthouse steps spilled into the late afternoon like they, too, were exhaling — their hard lines softened by the spill of golden light, the echo of earlier voices now just memory in the stone. Jason kept a steady hand on Jack’s back as they descended, guiding him with quiet precision, as if even gravity might be too much today if left unguarded. Each step felt oddly suspended, like the world was holding its breath again, waiting to see if the two of them would fall apart or keep walking. Jack’s small frame pressed in close, the warmth of him barely registering through Jason’s coat. His head was slightly bowed, shoulders hunched as if bracing against more than wind. One small fist clutched at the edge of Jason’s coat — not tugging, not pulling, just holding. Steady. Desperate. Like the fabric itself might be the last thread tying him to safety. And Jason let him cling. Let him take whatever he needed. He didn’t rush. Didn’t speak. Because he understood what that silence meant. It wasn’t sulking. It wasn’t resistance. It was Jack trying to stay stitched together while the seams of the day still trembled.

They moved as one — two shadows spilling long across the stairs, the boy half-tucked beneath Jason’s arm, the man moving like he was shielding something fragile from a world too used to breaking things. Around them, the world carried on — footsteps echoed at a distance, pigeons flapped from the balustrade, a car horn sounded faintly from a nearby street. But none of it touched them. Jack hadn’t spoken since the judge’s chambers. Not a word. And Jason didn’t press. Some wounds needed quiet before they could begin to close. He just kept that hand firm between Jack’s shoulder blades — grounding, present, a silent vow: And as they reached the pavement, with the courthouse rising behind them like some towering witness to everything they’d just endured, Jason didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. What mattered was in front of him. What mattered was the boy still holding on like the world might try to take him back at any second. And Jason? He wasn’t letting go. Jason continued to hold Jack’s hand as they stepped into the late afternoon light. The warmth on their skin didn’t reach very far. Jack walked close, his shoulder brushing Jason’s side with every step, his grip clinging tighter than it needed to. Jason didn’t mind. He welcomed it. If Jack needed to hold on like that all the way to the car, all the way through the night — fine. Jason would be there. They moved in silence across the stone path, the soft scuff of their shoes the only sound between them. Jason kept glancing down, not to rush him, but just to see. To feel. To wonder.

What’s going through that head of yours, mate?

He could guess — fear, maybe shame, confusion. Maybe something deeper, something he couldn’t name. There was always more beneath the surface with Jack. Always some small weight the boy carried without letting anyone see it. And Jason hated that. Hated that a child — his child — had learned to keep his pain so quiet. What kind of world teaches a kid not to speak when they’re scared?

“You did really well today,” Jason said, trying not to make it sound like praise. More like permission — for Jack to believe it. Jack nodded but didn’t look up. His silence wasn’t stubborn. It was survival. Still, Jason saw it — the way Jack’s eyes flicked down at the ground, the way his shoulders rounded like he was bracing for something. “You okay?” Another small nod. Automatic. But his hand squeezed Jason’s tighter, and Jason felt the truth in that instead. They stopped at the car. Jason crouched, leveling himself with Jack. “Hey… you don’t have to say you’re okay. You just have to be honest. I can handle the truth. Whatever it is.”

Jack looked at him — really looked — and Jason saw all of it: the fear, the hesitation, the weight of what that courtroom had stirred up. And still beneath it… trust. Fragile, but real.

“I’m scared,” he whispered "really really scared Daddy"

Jason let that settle. No rush to soothe it away.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.” Jack’s eyes widened a little. That wasn’t what he expected. Jason could tell. “But being scared doesn’t mean you’re not strong Jack,” Jason added. “It just means you’ve got something worth protecting.”

He helped Jack into the seat, buckled him in with a hand on his shoulder the whole time. Jack leaned slightly into the touch. Not fully, not the way he did when he felt safe but enough to say he still wanted the connection. Jason hesitated, pausing before closing the door, eyes lingering on Jack’s face. He was watching out the window now, blank-faced, but Jason could see the questions behind it. Will they make me see him? What if I mess up next time? What if this isn’t over? What if I lose this? Jason swallowed the burn in his throat. He leaned down, voice soft.

“I love you,” he said. “And I don’t care what anyone says. You’re mine okay?. You’ve got me — for good. I’m not going anywhere…never'

Jack turned to him, just a little. His expression cracked open — a small nod, a flicker of something warmer. Not a smile. Not yet. But something unbroken. Jason moved to the driver’s side, his chest still heavy, but steadier. He could feel Jack behind him now — not just physically, but there. In every way that mattered. And as he reached for the door handle, he thought: Whatever’s going on in your head, kiddo… you won’t have to face it alone.

Jason had just closed the passenger door when he caught it — the shift in Jack’s face. A flicker. Subtle, but sharp. The boy’s eyes fixed on something beyond the windshield, and whatever he saw drained the color from his cheeks like a tide pulling back too fast. Jason turned. Sean stood behind him. Hands in his pockets, casual as if he’d just strolled out of a pub instead of a courtroom. His posture was loose, but the smirk on his face said everything — he wasn’t here to talk. He was here to dig. Immediately Jason stepped away from the door, shielding it instinctively, placing his body between Sean and Jack. He didn’t move at first. He just stood there, staring at Sean. Not blinking. Not speaking. Just watching — like something ancient had gone still behind his eyes. Because he knew. He knew who this man really was. Not just from files, not just from what Clara had eventually whispered in those raw moments between them. But from what had poured through in Jack — the fear, the silence, the way he flinched at certain tones, certain footsteps. Jason had pieced it together even before Clara said it aloud.

Sean was the kind of man who chipped away at others to feel bigger. A coward in bravado’s coat. The kind who saw strength in control, not care. Jason had seen his type for decades and especially in the music business— in backrooms, boardrooms, green rooms. Men who smiled in interviews and crushed someone’s spirit before lunch. Another reason why he was even more glad to have walked away from that life all those years ago. His lips curled into a cruel smile as he stepped closer, eyes gleaming with the kind of venom only bitterness breeds.

“Well, well,” sneered Sean, his voice low but sharp enough to cut the quiet around them. “Look at you — the has-been pop star, clinging to someone elses kid like some desperate old man. Thought you’d left all that behind, didn’t you? But no, Take That’s reclusive lost boy, washed up and dusted off just to play dad.” He laughed, a harsh sound that grated against Jason’s calm. “Seriously, Jason? What are you now, Fifty-three, middle aged and still pretending you’ve got it?” Jason said nothing. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. His jaw was tight, his eyes steady, like a wall built to block every word Sean spat out. Sean kept going, feeding off the silence. “You’ve got no idea what real life is. No idea what it takes to be a man. You’re just a washed-up singer playing house, hoping the past buys you a future.” Jason’s hands curled into fists at his sides but he kept still — silent, unshaken. Sean’s sneer deepened. “You’re too old for this, too soft. Jack deserves better than a tired old man clinging to the past.”

Jason continued to breathe out slowly — steady, calm, unbroken. He didn’t need to respond. He didn’t need to prove anything to a man like Sean. Because words like that were just noise. Background static to a man who knew what real strength looked like.

Sean’s grin twisted, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “You know, back in the day, you were the charming one — the flirt, the heartbreaker. Always had a smile for the women, never serious about anything but the spotlight. Funny to see you now, all grown up and stuck in your fifties, trying to play the responsible dad. To a brat that's not even yours too” He chuckled, like it was the funniest thing in the world. “You must miss the glory days when you were the golden boy. But let’s be honest — those days are long gone, mate. The world moved on, and you’re just the leftover punchline.” Jason’s jaw tightened but he didn’t respond. Didn’t flinch. He stood there, unmoved, letting Sean’s words roll over him like water off stone. Sean pressed on, voice low and mocking. “I bet you still think you’ve got that same charm, huh? Like you’re still the same guy from Take That, the kid who could get anything he wanted with a wink and a smile. Well, newsflash — you’re not. You’re just an aging has-been” Jason’s eyes locked onto Sean’s, steady and calm, unshaken by the barbs. Sean scoffed, clearly frustrated by Jason’s silence. “But hey, keep pretending. Maybe one day you’ll believe it too.” Jason still didn’t say a single word. Because to him, some fights weren’t worth the energy — especially when the other guy was so clearly empty. Sean’s smirk deepened, shark-like. “And now there’s a little spawn Clara’s carrying — you somehow got her pregnant then?..at your age as well”

“How dare you insult her” Jason took a step forward, slow, controlled, but something in his eyes cracked like glass. “Don’t talk about my baby like that”

But Sean was circling the emotional wound now, eyes bright with something meaner than bitterness. “Oh come on, Jason. Don’t act like you’re special. You’re just next on Clara’s list of mistakes.” Jason clenched his jaw, lips parting but no words escaping — not yet. Sean shrugged. “Let’s not pretend she's some saint. She knew what I was like, and she still came back for more. Kept making excuses. And every time she looks at him—” he flicked his chin toward Jack without even glancing at him “—she remembers me. What I did to her. What I said. Every single time. You think that’s gonna fade? Doubt it.” Jason’s nostrils flared. His pulse was a drumbeat behind his eyes. Sean leaned in just a bit closer, voice like poison in a smile. “Truth is, I told her to get rid of him. Flat out. Told her she’d be better off. That we both would. And you know what? She probably should’ve listened.”

Jason took another step forward, close now. His voice was low. Too low. “Say that again.”

Sean raised his brows, amused. “What? That she should’ve—?”

Jason surged toward him a half-step — a breath from grabbing him — but held back at the last possible second. His hand shook at his side, not from fear but from restraint. Barely.

“You’re lucky he’s here,” Jason said, his voice shaking with fury. “Because if Jack weren’t watching, you’d already be on the ground. Even in my 50s I'm sure I could beat the shit out of you ” Something in Sean’s smugness flickered. Just for a second. Jason took a long breath through his nose. He didn't look back at Jack — didn't dare — but he could feel the boy’s presence behind him, small and still, like a tight knot of pain. “I know exactly what you did to Clara,” Jason said, voice quieter now, but colder. “What kind of man you are. And I swear to God — I’m not you. I’ll never be you. So don’t think for a second I’ll let you drag her or Jack through your filth again.” 

Sean’s smile had faded. He stepped back, but not before muttering under his breath, “She’ll always see me when she looks at him. You won’t change that…im his real father” Jason didn’t respond. He just stared. And it was worse than yelling. Worse than hitting. Because Jason wasn’t just angry — he was done. And Sean knew it. Sean’s mouth twisted into a grin again, that oily kind of charm that always meant danger was coming next. “You know, I did some research n you,” he said, stepping sideways, keeping his voice just loud enough to dig beneath Jason’s skin. “Take That. Proper legacy stuff, right? Number one after number one. What was it — like, fifty million records sold? Stadium tours, girls screaming, a couple dodgy dance moves...” He gave a mocking little shimmy, then scoffed. “Christ, the ‘90s were weird.” Jason didn’t answer. He stood still, the muscles in his jaw twitching, breath slow and deliberate. “But hey — you cashed in, didn’t you?” Sean said. “Houses, cars, whatever else you pop stars collect. Good for you, man.” He flashed a grin full of teeth. “Which is why I know you can afford it.”

“What are you going on about?” Jason’s brow furrowed. “Afford what?”

“What do you think?” Sean tapped his temple like he was explaining something to a child. “Me. Out of your life. Out of his life.” He jerked his chin lazily toward Jack again. “Come on, you’re a smart guy. I’m not really trying to play dad here. Never was. Never will be. I told Clara from the start — I didn’t want him and to get rid of it. Still think she should’ve. But she didn’t. And now he’s your problem.” Jason’s fists curled at his sides. “I walk away,” Sean said, voice low and  smooth. “No more courtrooms. No more threats. No more suddenly showing up. You write a number on a cheque and I disappear. Simple. You know what that’s worth, don’t you? Peace. Stability. A kid who never has to wonder when the ghost of his past is gonna show up at his door.” Jason stared at him, eyes hard and unreadable. “You’ve got the money,” Sean added with a shrug. “Hell, you’ve probably got accountants who could write it off as charity. You pay me — and all of this? Gone. Forever. Think about it. No more scenes like this. No more reminders of who she used to crawl back to. No more looking over your shoulder wondering if I’ll pull something legal next time.” His smile thinned. “All it takes is one cheque, Jase. You buy and sell houses dont you?. You buy silence and I'll sell you freedom.”

Jason let the silence stretch between them like a drawn bowstring. His breath came heavier now, the heat rising in his chest not from fear — but fury. Fury wrapped around love. Fury made from every night Jack had cried in silence, every day Clara had fought to protect him alone, every bruise, every insult, every echo of “you should’ve got rid of him.” But he didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just looked at Sean the way someone looks at rot — not afraid, but disgusted by how far something living could fall. Jason stood there, the silence between them crackling. Sean’s words circled like flies — cheap, stinging, designed to rot something tender. And for a moment, just one — Jason had let it in. That voice. That poison. That same thread Clara had begged him not to follow. “Don’t let him under your skin, Jason.” And he had. Not with fists, but with doubt. With fear. With the bile-stained narrative Sean was so good at spinning — like he could rewrite history with a smirk and a price tag. Jason’s hands flexed at his sides. He looked at Sean — really looked. This wasn’t a man. This was a hollow thing in a leather jacket, standing on the bones of other people’s pain and calling it leverage. Jack’s pain. Clara’s. And now he wanted Jason’s too. But Jason wasn’t giving him that.

He exhaled slowly — then lifted his chin.

“You done?” he asked, voice low but clear. Sean tilted his head, a smile faltering just slightly.Jason took one step forward — not threatening, not dramatic. Just anchored. “I’ve worked my whole life to be someone better than where I came from,” he said, eyes hard. “You? You’re still circling the same drain. You think money’s the answer? That a number on a cheque makes you vanish like magic?” Jason shook his head. “It doesn’t. Because you’ll always be there, Sean — in your own mess, blaming the world for the life you pissed away.”

Sean scoffed. “Mate, don’t pretend you’re some saint just because you wore leather pants and learned how to spin on your head for the cameras.”

“I'm definitely not your mate” Jason smiled faintly. “No, I’m not a saint. I’m a father. That means when I see a scared kid holding on to me like I’m the only thing keeping him standing — I show up. I stay. You don’t get to buy that, and you don’t get to tear it down just because it wasn’t yours to begin with.” He glanced toward the car, where Jack sat watching — wide-eyed, silent, waiting for someone to make it safe again. Jason looked back at Sean. “You can sling whatever insult you want. About my age. My past. Clara. Even my unborn baby girl you didn’t even have the decency to call by her name. But here’s the truth — I’m the one here. I’m the one driving him home. I’m the one he trusts. And you? You’re just noise...you're NOTHING”

He turned and walked to the driver’s side. Didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. The door shut with finality, and as Jason started the engine, he caught Jack’s gaze in the passenger seat— uncertain, a little pale, but still there. Jason reached back and rested his hand on the seat.

“I’m alright,” he said softly. “And you are too.”

And just like that, they pulled away — leaving Sean on the pavement, small and shrinking in the mirror. Not a threat. Not anymore. Just a man who never learned how to stay.

The car was warm as they drove away. Quiet. Too quiet. Jason kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting palm-up on the center console — an open offer. Jack hadn’t taken it yet, but that was alright. Sometimes you have to let kids come to you on their own time. The hum of tires against tarmac filled the space between them. A grey stretch of road, familiar but unfeeling, sliding under the wheels as if nothing had happened at all. But something had. Jason glanced in the rearview mirror. Jack stared out the window, head leaned slightly against the glass, his expression unreadable. Not crying. Not sleeping. Just gone somewhere behind his eyes. And Jason couldn’t stop thinking about Sean. You write a number, I disappear. It had felt like bile when Sean said it. Like rot disguised as reason. Jason had shut him down — hard. But now, with Jack safe in the car and the courtroom behind them, that sentence kept echoing like a song he couldn’t stand but somehow knew all the words to. You pay me — and all this? Over.

What if it was that simple? Jason tightened his grip on the wheel. A flash of guilt followed instantly — like even thinking it was a betrayal. But Christ, hadn’t they all been through enough? Clara. Jack. The baby on the way. Wouldn’t a clean break be worth the price? He pictured Clara’s face — the way it had looked when she told him the truth about Sean the first time. Pale, shaking, like she’d dug something toxic out of herself just to hand it over to him. He said things… did things… and I let him back in, again and again. I hate that I did. I hate that Jack saw it. Jason had held her through that storm. Promised her she’d never have to face it alone again. But Sean wasn’t going quietly. And the system — the process — didn't care about ghosts in the closet. It wanted boxes ticked. Paper trails. Half-truths filed neatly in triplicate. Maybe Sean was right about one thing: Jason could afford it. Not just the money. The silence. The clean slate. He could buy peace for the family. But at what cost? Would Clara see it as protection — or betrayal? Would Jack? Would he? He exhaled, slow. The thought sat heavy in his chest, pulsing with quiet dread. The turn for their street came up fast. Jason blinked, realizing he hadn’t remembered the last five minutes of the drive. Autopilot.

He flicked on the indicator. “Almost home, mate,” he said softly.

Jack didn’t respond. But Jason caught the faintest movement — a nod. Maybe. The car rolled into the drive, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The house stood still and solid, its windows glowing amber in the fading light. A place that promised safety. A place that had held them all together, even on the days they came apart. Jason shifted into park. But he didn’t move. He looked over his shoulder. Jack met his eyes this time — just for a second.

“I’m proud of you,” Jason said.

Jack still didn’t speak, but his lips pressed tight, like he was holding the words in. Or maybe holding himself up. Jason wanted to say more — about Sean, about Clara, about all of it — but none of it felt right yet. None of it was finished. He’d have to tell Clara what happened outside the courthouse. He’d have to find the words, the right words — ones that wouldn’t set fire to everything they’d built.

“He offered to disappear… if I paid him.”

Even in his head, it sounded dirty. Tainted. But maybe she’d understand. Maybe she'd even want him to. Or maybe she'd look at him like he’d become the very thing they’d been fighting against. He rubbed at his jaw, tired suddenly. So damn tired.

“You ready to go in?” he asked.

Jack hesitated. Then nodded again, more certain this time. He reached for the door handle — then paused.

“Will she be mad?” Jack asked quietly.

Jason turned to him fully. “At you? Never.” Jack looked down at his hands. Jason softened. “She might cry. Might get quiet. That’s just her heart working things out. But no — she’s not mad. She loves you more than anything”

Jack gave the smallest smile. Barely there. It was enough. The front door closed with a dull click behind them.  Jack dropped his bag by the stairs and leaned against the banister, eyelids drooping. “Can I just… go to bed?”

Clara slightly shocked  turned to him, her voice soft. “Of course, love. Go on up. I’ll be there in a bit.”

He didn’t wait for more. Just nodded and climbed the stairs, one slow step at a time. Jason watched him go until the boy disappeared into the shadows of the landing. Only then did he look at Clara. She was standing still in the hallway, arms crossed, mouth drawn tight.

“Well?” she asked, voice clipped.

Jason hesitated. “He did great. Handled himself better than I expected.”

Clara nodded once, but her jaw clenched.

“And?” she said.

Jason sighed. “The court gave a temporary visitation order. Jack’s to see Sean in two days.”

Clara blinked. The news hit her like a slap. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Two days?”

He nodded.

Clara’s knees buckled slightly, and she sank onto the bottom stair. “I can’t— I can’t believe they’d make him do that. After everything.” Jason knelt beside her, reaching for her hand. But Clara’s hand pulled away, suddenly shaking. “He’s just a child.”

“I know.”

She shook her head again and again, as though she could rewind the moment. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I thought the judge would see through Sean. I thought—” She stopped. Her face crumpled. The tears came fast, catching her by surprise. Jason wrapped his arms around her. She clung to him, burying her face in his chest. But in her grief, she noticed something. Jason wasn’t fully with her. His arms held her, but his body was stiff — the kind of tension that wasn’t from sadness. Clara pulled back, just enough to look at him. “What is it?” He hesitated. “What are you not telling me?”

Jason’s mouth tightened. Then he exhaled, eyes cast downward.

“After the hearing… Sean pulled me aside.”

Clara went still. “And?”

“He said… if I pay him off, he’ll walk away. No court. No contact. He disappears.”

The air in the hallway froze.

Clara blinked, stunned. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” Jason said quickly. “But—”

Her voice cut in, sharper than he’d ever heard. “But?”

“I didn’t agree to anything, Clara,” he said. “But maybe it’s not such a bad idea.”

She stared at him. Silent. Then: “What did you just say?”

Jason kept his tone calm, reasoning. “It’s not like we can’t afford it. If paying him gets him out of our lives for good—”

“I can't believe you Jason” Clara stood up fast, arms wrapped tight around her own body. “Jack isn’t something you buy off a blackmailer like a used car!”

“I know that,” Jason said, rising too. “I’m not saying we’re buying Jack. I’m saying we’re buying peace.”

“Are you honestly for real?” Clara’s eyes flashed. “His peace doesn’t come at a price tag. It comes from having parents who fight for him, not ones who hand cash to the man who—” Her voice cracked. “Who hurt him.”

Jason’s voice rose too, louder than he meant. “And what if fighting only makes things worse? What if we lose? What if Sean stays in his life because we were too proud to take the one way out he offered?”

“Proud?” Clara repeated. “You think this is about pride? He knows you've got money…he doesn't want Jack..he never has..even after all I told you, you can't see it? ” He didn’t answer. He couldn't. Clara shook her head slowly, like she didn’t recognize him. “We’ve never fought like this.”

“No,” Jason said quietly. “We haven’t.”

She stood still, chest rising and falling, trying to find words through the hurt.

“I want him gone too,” she said, finally. “But not like this. Not on Sean’s terms.. God, I need some water.” Jason looked away. For a long moment, they were just two people standing in a hallway they’d built together, not sure how to bridge the space between them. Then Clara turned and walked toward the kitchen without another word 

Jason immediately followed her into the kitchen, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet, the overhead light casting a harsh, sterile glow over everything. The air was heavy — thick with things unsaid and too long suppressed. A pan still sat in the sink, half-washed, forgotten. The baby monitor on the counter buzzed softly with static, as if even the house was holding its breath.

“You don’t get it, Clara!” His voice bounced off the tiled walls, too loud, too brittle. “I’m doing everything I can. How’s that STILL not enough for you?”

Clara whipped around, arms folded tight against her chest, the curve of her belly rising between them like a fragile wall. Her eyes were fire. “Enough? You think paying Sean to go away is enough? You think throwing money at him makes this all disappear? Jack isn’t a bloody transaction, Jason!”

Jason’s chest heaved. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears, feel the sweat prickling behind his neck. God, why couldn’t she see he was trying? Trying to fix everything, trying not to fall apart.

“I’m just trying to protect you all for Christ's sake,” he spat, voice rougher now. “Jack, you, Hope—what else am I supposed to do? Sit back and let that piece of shit have access to our son? To our family. Maybe it’s not noble, but it’s survival.”

“You really don't get it do you?” She stepped forward, trembling, not from fear but fury. “You don’t protect a child by giving him the message that he can be bought and sold. You teach him to stand up and fight. To matter. And that starts with you. With us. Why can't you see that?”

Jason’s hands shook. His throat was dry, like every word scraped his insides raw. “You want a fighter? I’m here, every damn day. Even when I feel like I’m drowning. Even when it feels like I’m already losing him—losing you. Maybe I’m not the perfect dad you want, Clara. Maybe I never was.”

Clara’s eyes widened slightly, her breath hitching. “You think I’ve been coping through any of this?”

Jason could feel it rising — the guilt, the resentment, the exhaustion he never dared name out loud. And then, like something ripped from the pit of him, he said it:

“FINE!! You win, Clara. You’re perfect. I’m the mess who keeps screwing things up. I did it in the band and now i'm doing it with you ” he cried “It must be nice — always having the moral high ground. I wish I knew how to be flawless. Like you.”

The words echoed in the silence after, soft but slicing. His voice broke on the last word, barely above a whisper, but heavy with everything he’d buried for months — the fear that he wasn’t good enough, that he was just a stand-in, a shadow of someone stronger. That she didn’t need or want him at all. Clara’s expression shattered, like glass under pressure. Her arms fell to her sides. Her voice, when it came, was almost too quiet to hear.

“Is that what you think?” she said, barely breathing. “That I’m perfect? That you’re broken?” Jason looked away, ashamed. He didn’t mean to say it — not like that. But wasn’t it true? He’d always seen her as unshakable, the one who didn’t fall apart.  She stepped back, her voice trembling now. “Maybe it’s easier for you to believe you’re the failure. That I’ve got it all figured out. But you know what? I’m terrified, Jason. Every damn day. I cry in the shower at times so Jack or you don't hear. I hold it together by a thread. I’m not perfect. I’m surviving.” Hope kicked hard then, a sudden, jolting thump beneath Clara’s ribs, and she pressed a hand to her belly, gasping. “I’m holding us all together and I’m so, so tired. And if you think buying Sean off is the answer, then maybe you don’t know me at all.” Her tears fell freely now, but she didn’t wipe them. She looked him dead in the eye, voice sharp and breaking. “Jack deserves better. Hope deserves better. I deserve better.”

She turned and walked toward the stairs, one hand steadying herself on the bannister. Jason tried to move, to stop her, but his legs wouldn’t work. The image of her holding in the sobs, doing everything to stay strong in front of Jack — it gutted him. He stood there alone in the kitchen, the static of the baby monitor humming like a warning in the silence, and the weight of what he'd said pressing down like a stone on his chest. What if she couldn’t forgive him this time? What if this was the moment they broke?

Upstairs, Clara eased Jack’s door open, her fingers trembling around the handle like it might burn her. The hinges gave a soft creak, barely audible over the baby monitor’s rhythmic crackle out in the hallway. The room was bathed in the warm amber glow of the nightlight — soft, gentle, like it understood that the boy sleeping here had already seen too much of the world. Shadows of dinosaurs marched across the walls, fierce and silly all at once. Jack had arranged them that way. He said they made him feel brave. Clara closed the door behind her with a quiet click, sealing the hush in with them. Her throat was tight, her heartbeat loud in her ears. He was curled on his side, knees tucked up, the covers pulled to his chin like armor. One small hand clutched his threadbare rabbit — the one he’d carried through every move, every meltdown, every tear he didn’t yet know how to name. His eyes opened as soon as she stepped in. Not startled. Just… watching. Quiet. Braver than any six-year-old should have to be.

There was no dreamy softness in them. Only that too-old gaze she’d come to dread — weighing her, reading her, trying to decide if things were okay. If he was safe. Her heart broke cleanly, silently. She moved slowly, like stepping into a sacred space. And in a way, she was. Jack’s room was one of the few places untouched by the storm outside these walls. But even here, in this pocket of calm, the echoes of the night still lingered — in his silence, in his grip, in the way his little body never quite surrendered to sleep anymore. Clara knelt beside his bed.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Can’t sleep?”

Jack didn’t answer right away. His brow furrowed slightly, eyes searching hers — not for the truth, but for safety. Eventually, he shook his head.

“I was waiting,” he said.

“For what?”

“For you to come.” It undid her. She reached out, brushing a curl from his forehead, her touch tender and reverent. She let her fingers linger — a reminder to him, and to herself, that she was still here. "I needed a mummy cuddie"

“I’m here now,” she whispered.

And even after his eyes fluttered shut again, she stayed — kneeling by his bed, holding her breath in the quiet like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

Then his small voice returned, hesitant and tight. “Why were you shouting at Daddy?”

Clara’s heart gave a painful twist. “You heard that, sweetheart?”

He nodded. “It was loud.”

She crossed the room and sat on the edge of his bed. The mattress dipped under her, and she reached out, smoothing his damp hair, the scent of strawberry shampoo hitting her like a memory. She blinked back the tears. She had to be steady now. For him.

“I’m sorry you heard that,” she said gently. “Sometimes grown-ups argue when they’re upset. It doesn’t mean we don’t love each other. Or that we don’t love you.”

Jack studied her closely. “But you were really angry.”

She nodded. “I was. I still am… a little. But not at you. Never at you.”

He frowned. “Is Daddy in trouble?”

That question hit like a knife to the chest.

Clara leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently to his. “No, baby. Daddy’s not in trouble. We’re just... trying to figure out the right thing to do. It's been a really hard day for everyone”

Jack was quiet for a long moment. Then he whispered, “Are you sad?”

Clara instantly felt something inside her crack open.

“Yeah,” she admitted softly. “I am. But not because of you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Jack reached out with his small hand and placed it gently on her cheek. The warmth of his touch anchored her more than anything else had all day.

“You can have Mister Bunny,” he said. “He makes me feel better when I’m sad.”

Her laughter caught on a sob — soft, breathless, almost broken. She kissed the tips of his fingers and took the offered rabbit like it was made of gold.

“Thank you, my love.” She pulled him into her arms, tucking him against her chest. Hope kicked in her belly — one soft nudge, like she was reaching for her brother, too. Clara wrapped her arms around both of them — her son, her unborn daughter — and held them close. “I love you so, so much,” she whispered into his hair.

“I love you too, Mummy,” came the sleepy reply.

She closed her eyes. Let the quiet hold them all for just a while. Whatever tomorrow brought, it could wait. Because this — this was everything.

Outside the door, Jason stood frozen. His forehead rested against the frame, hands clenched at his sides. Her voice filtered through — soft, unsteady, full of the kind of grace he hadn’t earned tonight. The way she comforted Jack, even after what he’d said — it carved him open. He’d followed her without meaning to. Not to intrude. Just… to be near. To witness what strength looked like when it wasn’t loud. And now, with her words trembling through the wood and Jack’s small voice asking if Daddy was in trouble, Jason felt something inside him sink.

Yes, he wanted to answer. Daddy is very much in trouble. Because Daddy said things he didn’t mean. Because Daddy doesn’t always know how to fight for the people he loves without letting fear steer the wheel. He pressed his eyes shut, jaw clenched. Every word Clara said to Jack — every gentle reassurance, every thread of love she stitched back into him — was a reminder of what Jason had risked with a few reckless sentences. When she said “I love you so, so much,” Jason’s throat closed up. He could picture her in there, holding their little boy, arms curved around her belly. The woman who’d put herself between the storm and the people she loved, over and over again. He whispered into the stillness, 

“I’m so sorry.”

And then, quietly, Jason stepped away — not running, not hiding. Just a man carrying the weight of love and failure and a silent promise: Make it right. Somehow. Make it right.

The house had fallen into that thick, echoing silence that only comes after a storm — the kind that hums beneath the floorboards, hangs in the corners of rooms, and makes everything feel both too loud and too still. Outside, the rain had finally stopped, but the windows still bore streaks of its passing, as though the house itself had wept.Upstairs, in the half-light of the bedroom, Clara lay curled on her side, back to the door, the duvet pulled up to her shoulders though she wasn’t cold. The darkness was a balm — gentle, forgiving, the only thing soft enough to hold the raw places inside her. Her pillow, damp beneath her cheek, had long since absorbed the tears she’d stopped trying to fight. Not the dramatic, sobbing kind — but the quieter ones. The kind that slide silently from the corner of your eye when you’re too tired to do anything but let them fall.  What remained now was weight. The ache in her chest. The fog of emotional whiplash that came from trying to love someone and survive them at the same time. She hated arguing with Jason. Not just because of how drained it left her — though it did. It hollowed her out. Like her body kept moving but her heart hadn’t caught up yet. But more than that, she hated what it took from them. How it rewired the air. How it made everything suddenly feel fragile — like one wrong word might shatter the life they’d built together. His touch, once grounding, now felt like a memory. His silence felt like a wall. He wasn’t supposed to be someone she braced herself against. He was supposed to be her home. The place she exhaled.

And yet tonight, his voice — the same voice that once read lullabies into the curve of her neck, that whispered I love you into the space between kisses — had felt like it came from across an ocean. But even now, in the grief of it, she loved him. Fiercely. Messily. Hopelessly. Not because he was perfect. He wasn’t. God, he was maddening sometimes — defensive, stubborn, too quick to shut down when things got hard. But he tried. He paid attention in quiet, thoughtful ways. He remembered how she liked her tea: just enough milk to soften the edge, but still strong. He remembered the stretch marks she hated on her hips and kissed them like reverent proof. He noticed the way her smile tightened when she was lying and never called her out on it — just reached for her hand and held it until the truth came easier. She didn’t need him to be flawless. She just needed him to show up. And until tonight, he always had. He once told her she was like a song he didn’t know the words to yet, but couldn’t stop humming. That had undone her more than any diamond or grand gesture ever could. That had anchored her — because she didn’t want to be easy to figure out. She just wanted to be heard.

And tonight… that song had faltered. Their rhythm had gone off-key. And now here she was, alone in the dark, clinging to the echo of what they used to be when the noise wasn't louder than the love. Then — footsteps. Slow. Hesitant. Familiar.

Jason.

She knew his gait like a second heartbeat. The way he moved when he didn’t want to wake her. The almost-too-careful creak of floorboards. The pause outside the bedroom door like he was still deciding whether he had the right to open it. Slowly, the door eased open. A beat of stillness. Then it closed again. Clara felt the mattress dip behind her, slow, tentative. His weight warmed the space, but she didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She let the silence hold them both.He thought obviously she was asleep and She didn’t correct him. The heat of his body behind her was so familiar, usually comforting yet tonight felt uncertain. Not dangerous. But fragile. Like if she breathed too hard, they might fracture again.

“I'm so sorry…” His exhale hitched slightly. “God, Clara. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I don’t even know what I meant. I just— I get so full of all this stuff I don’t say, and then it comes out sideways.” She kept her eyes closed, the tears starting again, soundless. “You’re not perfect,” he said. “I know that. I do. But sometimes I look at you, and I feel like I’m standing next to the only person who ever figured out how to be good. And I know I’m not that. I try, but I mess it up. I get scared. I shut down. I say things that tear instead of mend.” His voice dropped further, almost a whisper now. “You changed me. You made me... want to be good. To be someone Jack could look up to. Someone who could deserve you. I didn’t know how to do that before you. And maybe I still don’t.” She felt his hand move, barely grazing the blanket between them — like he wanted to reach for her, but didn’t dare. “I’m angry at Sean, yeah. But mostly I’m angry at myself. For even considering what he asked. For making you feel like Jack was some transaction. He’s not. He’s... he’s everything to me. Just like you are too” Silence. A breath. The air between them thick with words that never made it past their lips. “I love you” he whispered finally. “Even when I’m too broken to say it right.”

Clara stayed still. Her shoulders trembled just once before she willed them calm. She wasn’t ready to speak yet — not because she didn’t love him back, but because loving someone didn’t always mean forgiving was instant. Sometimes, the pain had to sit first. Sometimes, it had to bleed before it could close. But even then, she shifted just slightly — enough to let her hand fall back, brushing against his. A small touch, but deliberate. And Jason, still believing her asleep, let his hand rest against hers. Neither said anything more. But for the first time that night, the silence didn’t feel like distance — it felt like a thread trying to be mended.

she lay still for a moment longer, her breath caught somewhere between pain and longing. Jason’s words lingered in the room like smoke after a fire — raw, exposed, no longer angry, but stripped bare. The thread between them, the one that had frayed earlier in the evening, hadn’t snapped. It was thin, yes. Strained. But still intact. Still holding. She blinked, the sting of tears fresh in her lashes. Then, quietly, deliberately, she shifted. Her shoulders trembled once, then steadied, the silence stretching, not as a wall this time, but a bridge being slowly rebuilt plank by plank. Then — she moved.Just slightly. A shift in breath, a whisper of fabric. But to Jason, it was seismic. He felt the bed shift beneath her as she turned onto her back, then slowly toward him. He held his breath. And when her eyes finally met his in the soft spill of moonlight, it undid him completely. Because she didn’t shut him out. She could have. She had every right to. But she didn’t. And in her eyes — rimmed with tears, worn thin with exhaustion — there was something still open. Still reaching.Jason had never seen anything more beautiful, nor anything more devastating. Her cheeks were blotched from crying, lips trembling slightly, one hand tucked under her cheek like she needed something to hold herself together. Her entire face was a map of pain and strength, written in equal measure. And still, she looked at him. Not through him.

At him.

Like she was seeing not the version of him that had failed tonight, but the one still fighting to be worthy of her.It hit him like a blow to the chest — sudden, full, leaving him breathless. His love for her surged with a kind of aching urgency, hot and unrelenting. Not the tidy, easy kind of love, but the kind forged in arguments and silences, in fear and fire, in everything they'd survived together. And then, her voice — low, frayed, and quietly heartbreaking.

She wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand. Her voice came low and frayed: “You really think I’m perfect?”

Jason swallowed. “No. I think… I forget that you’re not.”

Clara blinked at him, her gaze steady despite the ache in it. “You think it’s easy, carrying all this? Being strong for Jack? For you? For me?”

“I don’t,” he said softly. “I just… I guess I didn’t see how much you were carrying until I made you drop it.”

Her breath hitched, a sound that was part grief, part relief. “I hate arguing with you,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, voice thick. “I hate it too.”

“It’s not just the fighting,” she murmured, her voice quieter now. “It’s that I miss you even when you’re still in the room.”

Jason closed the space between them. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For everything. For what I said. For making you feel like Jack was something anyone could bargain for. He’s not. He’s… he’s ours.”

She looked at him for a long, quiet moment. Then, barely audible: “I’m scared, Jay.”

“I know,” he said again. “Me too.”

“But I don’t want to be scared alone.”

“You don’t have to be.” He touched her face — both hands now, cradling her like something sacred. “You’ve never had to be.”

Her forehead met his, and for a moment they just breathed — each inhale syncing with the other, the rhythm of people who knew how to fight, but also how to stay.

“Don’t fix it on your own,” she whispered. “Just stay with me. Even when it’s messy.”

“I will,” he said. “Always.” They didn’t speak after that — not in words. The silence became something softer, less sharp. She turned into him fully, tucking her head beneath his chin, her hand slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to find the warm skin of his side.He held her like something fragile. Not because she was weak, but because he understood now how much she’d been holding for the both of them. “I love you,” he murmured into her hair.

She didn’t say it back — not with words. Instead, her arm tightened around his waist, a silent yes. A quiet still here. For a long while, they stayed like that. The storm beyond the windows had passed, but inside, the ache still hummed in their bones. And yet, here they were — bruised, but not broken. Silent, but not distant. Still tethered, even through the wreckage. Clara’s breathing was deeper now, steady. Her fingers curled into his shirt like she was anchoring herself in him. Jason closed his eyes.It wasn’t over — this storm with Sean, this fight for Jack, this mess of the future. But tonight, they’d found their way back. Not because they had the answers. But because they still wanted to hold on. And that, Jason knew, was the hardest kind of love. The real kind.

Jason’s eyes stayed closed, Clara’s breath now a warm rhythm against his chest, her hand curled beneath the hem of his shirt like an anchor. He let himself drift — not into sleep, but into memory. It came back to him like a pulse beneath the quiet: that night. That night she’d shown up soaked and shivering, dressed in pyjamas and heartbreak, standing on his doorstep like a woman who’d run out of places to hide. He’d thought, at first, that he was imagining it. That maybe the rain had conjured her, some wishful hallucination.But then she’d looked up at him, drenched to the skin, mascara in rivulets down her cheeks, and said simply “I love you.” No preamble. No apology. Just the truth. Raw and unvarnished. Her voice had cracked on the word “love,” and he’d felt something in his chest split wide open. He’d barely managed to breathe out her name before she’d launched into a breathless explanation — how she couldn’t stop thinking about him, how she didn’t care what made sense anymore, how she was sorry it took her so long to figure it out. He hadn’t let her finish that night. He’d pulled her inside — into the warmth of his hallway, into the quiet that wrapped around them like a held breath — and kissed her before she could say anything else. His hands had been wet just from touching her coat. Her hair had clung to her neck. She was shaking — from the cold, from nerves, from everything she didn’t know how to say. But the second their lips met, all of that melted. It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed. It was deep and slow and devastating. Like they’d both been holding their breath for months and finally remembered how to exhale. He remembered how her fingers had gripped the front of his hoodie, tugging him closer like she couldn’t bear even a sliver of distance. They hadn’t made it far. Just the stairs. Just the landing. She’d kissed him like she was writing a confession against his mouth. He’d held her like he was afraid she’d disappear.

They made love that night — quiet and reverent, their bodies damp from rain and tears. The kind of intimacy that didn’t ask for anything but presence. Every kiss had felt like a promise. Every sigh, a letting go. He remembered how she’d gasped his name like it was a tether. How she’d wept after, face buried in his chest, not from sadness — but from release. From relief. From finally arriving. And how he’d just held her, arms wrapped around her so tight it felt like maybe they’d always been meant to be this — this wrapped, this tangled, this certain.

Now, as he lay beside her again, her warmth soaking into him like sunlight after frost, Jason felt the echo of that night all over again. Felt what it meant — what she meant. She was the moment his life changed direction. She was the night he stopped drifting and finally found home. Clara stirred slightly, her fingers curling tighter into his side, her breath evening out again. And Jason closed his eyes, his chest aching with a love that had only deepened through storms and silences. You came to me, he thought, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You came back. And I’ll never stop choosing you for that. Not because she was perfect. But because she was real. And raw. And brave enough to stand in the rain and say the words first. And now, two years later, even bruised by what they'd just endured, she was still the same woman — showing up. Still reaching. Still here. And so was he. Still choosing her. Always.

Jason continued to lay awake, Clara curled against his chest, her breath soft against his skin. The room was dark and hushed now, the silence not empty but full — thick with everything they hadn’t said and everything they finally had. Outside, the rain had stopped. Inside, something inside him finally began to settle. He held her gently, one arm beneath her shoulders, the other around her waist, his thumb brushing small, slow circles along the curve of her spine. Her body was warm against his — real, solid, familiar — and yet he felt something sacred in the way she clung to him now. Like forgiveness. Like a second chance. He watched the ceiling, the shadows shifting like slow waves as the wind nudged the curtains. His heart beat quietly beneath her cheek, but his thoughts churned. You almost lost her. The words threaded through his mind like a warning — not melodramatic, not imagined. Real. He had seen it. In her eyes. In the way she turned from him with her hand pressed to her belly like it was the only thing anchoring her. She’d looked like she was already halfway gone. And the terrifying part was... he couldn’t have blamed her if she had walked. He’d been so afraid of failing that he failed her anyway. He thought of Jack — how Clara had protected him like a fortress even when she was crumbling inside. He thought of Hope, still unborn, still safe within her, already absorbing every tremor in the house. And he thought of himself — trying so hard to be strong, but still carrying the damage of a man who’d spent most of his life not knowing how to stay. And yet... here she was. Curled into him. Trusting him with her softness again. Her quiet.

Jason turned his face toward her hair and kissed the top of her head. She smelled like sleep and lavender and something only hers — the scent he’d memorised before he even knew he needed it. He let his nose rest there, breathing her in like it could undo everything he’d said wrong. Everything he hadn’t said at all. She could’ve pulled away. She could’ve closed off. But instead, she turned. She touched him. She let him in. And in that touch — in that small hand falling back to brush against his in the dark — something in him had buckled. Not in defeat. In surrender. In all his years, in all the noise of fame and disappearing to try to build a life in the quiet, he had never known this: what it meant to be seen in his worst moment and still be chosen. He didn’t deserve her. But God, he loved her. He loved how she never played small. How she didn’t let him get away with half-truths or easy exits. How she challenged him — fiercely, endlessly — and somehow still held his face in her hands like it was something worth saving. And now, lying here, years later, with her curled into him and forgiveness humming soft between their ribs, Jason knew: this was that moment again.

Another beginning. Not because it was clean or easy or wrapped in certaint. But because love was choosing to stay. Even when it hurts. Even when it cracked something open. Especially then. Clara stirred slightly, shifting closer, her hand pressing lightly against his chest as if to remind herself he was real. Jason tightened his hold on her, pulling her gently in.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered — not to wake her, but because the words were too big to keep inside. “I’ve always got you.”

And in the stillness that followed — in the breath between apology and forgiveness — Jason Orange held the woman who had taught him how to stay. Not with promises, not with perfection, but with love.

And for the first time that day, he finally felt steady again.

Chapter Text

The grey wash of morning filtered through the bedroom curtains, turning the room a muted, dreamy blue. Outside, the world held its breath in the hush that follows a storm — branches dripping, air thick with petrichor, birdsong weaving gently through the stillness like a lullaby for the house itself. Inside, Clara stirred. The ache of the night before clung to her muscles, soft and sore, like bruises not yet faded. Her head rose and fell with the quiet rhythm of Jason’s chest beneath her cheek — slow, steady, too careful. She blinked, eyelids heavy, lashes damp with sleep or something just before it. Her limbs were leaden, but safe. Held. When she tilted her head, she found him already awake. He hadn’t moved. Not even a shift of his shoulders or the curve of his hand on the blanket. Just lay there, watching her — eyes open, raw, rimmed with exhaustion and something else, something reverent. His gaze didn’t flinch away. Not once.

“How long have you been awake?” she asked, her voice roughened by dreams and yesterday’s tears.

Jason swallowed. “A while.”

“You should’ve said something.”

“It’s fine..” He offered the faintest smile — small, tired, but honest. “Didn’t want to wake you. You looked… peaceful.”

“Look at you Orange..” She searched his face. The wear in it. The quiet ache still holding in the furrow of his brow, the slack of his mouth. “You look like you’ve been carrying the sky all night.”

“Well…” He gave a huff of breath — almost a laugh — but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Feels about right.”

They lay like that for a while — quiet, tangled in sheets and unspoken truths. Taking inventory. Her eyes were swollen at the corners. His jaw was unshaved, his expression etched with the ghost of regret. But the air between them had changed. No longer sharp. No longer flammable. Just soft. Just open. Clara lifted her hand and brushed her fingertips along the line of his jaw, featherlight — like she was touching the edge of something still fragile. He closed his eyes at the contact, like her skin against his was something sacred.

“You didn’t let go,” she whispered. “Even when I did.”

“Clara…” Jason caught her hand in his and brought it to his chest, pressing it over the quiet thrum of his heartbeat. “Neither, did you,” he said gently. “You just needed a second to breathe and remember.”

Her eyes stung again, but this time it wasn’t grief. It was relief. The kind that comes when someone sees through your silence and waits anyway.

“I was so angry,” she said, voice thick. “And scared. And tired.”

“I know.”

“But even when I went upstairs, even when I said I needed space… I really wanted you to follow me.”

"I did.” His thumb brushed across her knuckles. “I followed you. I heard you talking to Jack”

Clara let out a shaky breath, the kind you don’t realise you’ve been holding. “And when you came to bed?”

“I thought I’d ruined it, to be honest” Jason said quietly. “That I’d pushed too far. That you’d finally had enough of me..like a lot of people have over the years”

“Look at me” She looked down at their hands — the way he held hers so gently, like something fragile but never weak. “You didn’t.” Jason exhaled slowly, and it sounded like it came from the deepest part of him — like he was breathing fully for the first time in hours. Clara shifted closer, closing the last of the distance between them until their foreheads touched. Her voice was a hush, an offering. “Do you remember the night I first showed up at your place? I drove Three hours in the rain, in my pyjamas of all things”

“How can i forget”Jason’s mouth curved, and this time, the smile was real. It reached his eyes. “You were shivering. Furious. Gorgeous. I thought you hated me after the way things ended between us. I Thought id never see you again”

“I've never hated you,” she laughed softly. “Well, maybe for making me feel so much for you.”

“You kissed me before I could even open the door properly.”

“Excuse me..if we're going there for that night, You kissed me first..don't you deny it.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“Orange…really?” She nudged his shoulder with her nose. “Liar...you're such a liar”

“To be honest, I was already in love with you at the moment I opened the door and saw you standing there.”

Clara blinked at that — slow, stunned, though she already knew. “I thought I’d made the biggest mistake of my life, loving you.”

Jason’s eyes closed briefly, like the weight of that truth pulled something in him taut. “And now?”

She brushed her lips against his — soft, sure, unhurried “Now I know it was the best one.”

Jason didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes searched hers, that ocean-storm blue still thick with sleep and truth, and something in him broke wide open — not from pain, but from the impossible weight of love. The kind that endures storms. That unearths itself in the aftermath. Then he kissed her. Not cautiously. Not like an apology. Like memory. Like hunger. Like all the words he hadn’t found in the dark. It started slow — a deep pull of breath between them, then the meeting of mouths, a soft press that deepened almost instantly. His hand slid to the nape of her neck, threading into her hair like he needed to anchor himself to something real. Her fingers curled into his T-shirt, pulling him closer, their bodies already pressed together, but not close enough.

The kiss tasted of rain and salt and the night before — all the fear, all the forgiveness, all the aching want that had lingered under the hurt. Her lips parted beneath his and he deepened it, slow and searching, reverent and wild all at once. Their breaths mingled — warm, unsteady — as if they were breathing each other back to life. Clara made a quiet sound in the back of her throat, and it undid him. That small, broken whimper. It wasn’t sadness. It was release. The letting go of everything that had built up between them — the silence, the tears, the worry that maybe they wouldn’t find their way back. He kissed her like she was the only thing tethering him to this earth. His other hand slid over her hip, pulling her flush against him, and the heat between them flickered alive, slow and dangerous. But it wasn’t about lust — not this time. It was about need. About proof. About the way love could still burn, even when it had been shaken to its core. When they finally pulled apart, both breathless, their foreheads met again, eyes still closed, hearts thundering.

“I never stopped choosing you,” Jason whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Even when I get lost in it all”

Clara’s thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, still pink from their kiss. “I know,” she breathed. “I felt it. Even when it hurts.”

They lay together in the quiet lull of morning, the room dim with soft light filtering through the curtains, the storm outside and between them finally passed. It was the kind of stillness that came after a downpour — heavy but peaceful, everything washed raw and clean. Clara’s head rested against Jason’s chest, their hands tangled low over the curve of her belly. The silence between them wasn’t empty anymore. It breathed. It held. Hope kicked — a gentle thump, steady and sure beneath their joined palms. And there, in the early light of morning, with the storm behind them and the future unknown, they kissed again. Not to forget. But to begin again. Together.

Clara gave a quiet laugh, the sound a little cracked from everything they’d said, everything they hadn’t. “She’s glad we made up.”

Jason arched a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh totally..” Clara nodded. “You didn’t feel her last night when we were fighting. She was kicking so hard I thought she might crack a rib.”

Jason winced slightly. “She takes after you.”

Clara smiled, tired but soft. “No, she takes after both of us. Fiery when it matters… but soft when things are right.” As if on cue, Hope shifted again — a slower, calmer movement now, like a quiet stretch beneath the surface. “See?” Clara whispered, her voice thick with feeling. “That’s her peace. That’s her knowing we’re okay again.”

Jason swallowed. He bent his head and pressed a kiss to the top of her growing bump, his lips lingering there.

“I’m sorry we made her feel that,” he said. “Even from in there.”

“Hey…” Clara touched his cheek. “We’ll fight. We’re human. But we’ll always find our way back to each other just like we always do. That’s what she needs to feel.”

Jason nodded, brushing his thumb gently over her skin. “We’re here. All of us.”

Then, Clara leaned in and kissed him — slow, smiling — and when they broke apart, she murmured, “And for the record… I’m glad we made up too.”

“Yeah..” Jason’s grin returned. “So’s my back. I think your death grip in the middle of the night might’ve dislocated something.”

Clara laughed — that deep, healing kind of laugh that came from the chest. “You’re lucky I didn’t elbow you on purpose.”

“You did,” he said, mock wounded. “Twice.”

She smirked, nestling closer into him, her hand resting lightly over his. “Next time you suggest paying off a blackmailer, I’ll make it three.”

“Noted,” Jason murmured, brushing a kiss to her temple. “Though... worth it if it leads to this.”

“Careful,” she said with a sly smile. “You’re starting to sound romantic.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he whispered, feigning horror. “They’ll revoke my brooding former boyband heartthrob moniker that they always say about me in tbe papers …actually maybe you should. That's not my life anymore anyway”

Clara rolled her eyes fondly and let herself melt into him, her belly pressed between them like a warm, living tether. Hope gave another soft kick, and Jason’s hand instinctively cradled the curve of her. Outside, the clouds thinned, morning stretching gently across the sky. And in that bed — tangled in shared breath and whispered promises — Clara and Jason held the quiet, glowing pulse of everything they'd built. Still them. Still growing. Still love.

A soft creak at the door soon broke the quiet. Jason turned his head just in time to see a small silhouette hesitate in the doorway — hair rumpled, stuffed rabbit clutched to his chest like a talisman.

“Jack?” Clara called gently, already reaching toward the space beside her.

He stood there for a second, toes curled against the wooden floor, uncertainty flickering across his sleepy face. “I didn’t want to be alone,” he said quietly. “It’s still raining.”

“Its okay…” Jason sat up just enough to open the covers. “Come here, mate.”

Jack didn’t hesitate after that. He padded across the room in bare feet and climbed into the bed, wriggling between them like he’d done a hundred times before storms and hard dreams changed everything. Clara shifted to make space for him, tucking her arm around his back, while Jason wrapped one over both of them. Jack sighed — that deep, contented sound children make when they know they’re safe. He nestled his rabbit between his chin and Clara’s shoulder, then looked up at them with eyes clearer than sleep should allow.

“You’re not angry at eachother anymore now?”

Clara pressed a kiss to his temple. “No, love. We’re not.”

“its all fine now mate” Jason smoothed a hand down Jack’s hair. “We’re okay. Sometimes grown-ups argue, but we always come back. That’s what love does. It comes back.”

“That's good..” Jack was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “I dreamed about the baby last night.”

"Oh really" Jason raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“She was really small. And loud.”

“just you wait till she's here..” Clara laughed softly. “Sounds accurate to me.”

Jack’s face scrunched thoughtfully. “She had your eyes mummy,” he said to Clara. “And Daddy’s eyebrows and smiley face”

Jason made a dramatic face. “Poor thing.”

Clara rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered as she watched their son burrow down under the covers, his little body warm and familiar between them. For a moment, they just lay there — three heartbeats beneath the same blanket. The storm beyond the window had become a quiet drizzle, the kind that made the house feel wrapped in cotton. Safe. Still. Jason looked over at Clara, then at Jack, and something inside him stilled. This was it. This was the point. Not the battles, not the headlines, not the haunting grip of the past — but this. A boy between them. A baby kicking just beneath Clara’s ribs. A woman who still looked at him with the kind of softness that made him feel worth the fight.

He glanced down at Jack, who was already half-asleep again, bunny pressed to his face. Clara reached for his hand under the duvet, lacing her fingers with his. Outside, the rain whispered on, steady and light. And inside, they stayed in the hush of morning — a family threaded back together by something that felt a lot like grace. The room held that early morning hush — the kind that followed storms and difficult truths. Rain still whispered softly against the windows, a steady backdrop to the slow, sleepy breaths shared under one blanket. Jack lay between them, warm and quiet, his bunny tucked under his chin, his body curved instinctively toward Clara. Jason ran a gentle hand over Jack’s curls. Clara shifted, brushing her lips to their son’s forehead. It was peaceful — but not untouched. There was still a tightness beneath the calm, like breath held just below the surface.

“so…” Jack blinked up at the ceiling. “Is it tomorrow I have to go see Sean?”

Jason and Clara exchanged a glance over his head — not one of panic, but quiet readiness.

Clara spoke first, her voice soft and even. “Yes, sweetheart. Tomorrow.”

Jack rolled onto his side to face her. “Do I have to?”

“No,” Jason said gently. “But the judge wants to understand what’s best for you. And hearing from you helps. You don’t have to talk much. Just tell the truth.”

Jack was quiet for a long moment. “Is it so the judge decides if you can be my dad?”

Jason’s throat thickened. He leaned in, brushing Jack’s hair from his forehead. “Yeah, mate. That’s part of it.”

Clara reached across and took Jack’s hand in hers. “But no matter what the judge says, it doesn’t change how much we love you. You’re our son, always.”

“You’re not going anywhere?” Jack’s voice trembled, just a little 

Jason shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving his. “Never. You’re stuck with me, pal. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Even if I mess it up?”

“There’s no messing it up,” Clara said firmly. “This isn’t a test. There’s no wrong answer.”

“You know what families do?” Jason added. “They mess up sometimes. They get loud. They cry. They laugh. And then they cuddle up in beds like this one and start again. That’s what makes it real.”

Jack looked at them both, then let out a long breath — not quite a sigh, more like the release of a worry he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Okay,” he whispered. “But I don’t want to think about it today.”

Jason’s smile was soft, instant. “Then we won’t. Today’s just for you.”

Clara nudged Jack’s nose with hers. “What would you like to do, love? Anything at all.”

Jack blinked slowly, as if surprised he was really being asked. Then a small, hopeful smile crept across his face. “Could we go to the beach? The one with the old boats?”

Jason grinned. “The one with all the crumbling fishing gear and weird sea smells? Sounds perfect.”

“I like how quiet it is there,” Jack said. “It feels like the world goes slower.”

“It does,” Clara agreed. “And we’ll go as slow as you want. How about we have a picnic?"

Jason stretched and pulled them both a little closer. “Alright then. No court talk. No grown-up stuff. Just sea air, sand in our shoes, and probably a lot of snacks.”

Jack snuggled into the blanket, letting his bunny fall between them. “We’re all squashed.”

Jason kissed the top of his head. “That’s how you know it’s a proper family bed. Squashed is the goal.”

Clara laughed softly. “I happen to like it squashed.”

“I like it warm,” Jack murmured.

Jason rested his head beside them both. “I like it just like this.”

Outside, the rain had softened to mist, and the morning stretched around them like something sacred. Inside, the three of them lay tangled together — hearts full, fears quieter for now, the shape of their love holding steady through all that lay ahead.

Still them...Still home....Still love.

After much deliberation, They took Jason’s car — the cream classic Mercedes that looked like it had stepped out of another decade and been polished with reverence ever since. It was more than just a car; it was a memory on wheels. A little indulgent, a little sentimental — just like Jason. Clara had teased him endlessly about it when they first met and he showed it off. “Who are you trying to be? James Bond?” But secretly, she’d loved it. The worn leather seats, the low purr of the engine, the way Jason always drove with one hand on the wheel and the other on the gearshift, humming softly to the radio. It wasn’t just about going somewhere. It was about how they got there — slow, intentional, wrapped in something that felt like story. This morning, it felt right taking it. Jason pulled out of the driveway as the clouds began to lift, their edges blushed with early light. The roads still wore the sheen of rain, puddles rippling beneath the wide cream fenders as they rolled through the soft grey hush of the countryside. Clara sat beside him, tucked into a chunky knit cardigan, her hand finding his between the seats with an ease born from years of practice.

In the back, Jack was practically vibrating with excitement — his little face pressed against the window, his legs swinging off the edge of the seat. The smell of saltwater drifted in faintly through the cracks in the windows as they left the town behind, houses falling away to fields, then to the first glimpses of sea. Jason glanced over at Clara, who had her eyes half-closed, her hand resting lightly on her belly. She looked peaceful. Not untroubled, not untouched by the night before — but softer now. Worn in the way love sometimes wears people: shaped, scarred, but still reaching forward.

“Alright back there, mate?” Jason called over his shoulder.

"Yeah..." Jack didn’t turn. “Is this your really special car?”

“Yep.” Jason mock-gasped. “This car has class. It’s vintage.”

“It’s definitely something,” Clara murmured, but the warmth in her voice was unmistakable. She reached over, lacing her fingers with his again. “Vintage means old Jack by the way”

“Why are you looking at me when you said that McFly?” Laughed Jason as Clara blushed furiously, biting her lip in the process “you'd better be talking about the car”

They hit a stretch of open road and Jason rolled the window down halfway. Wind rushed in, cool and clean, sweeping through the cabin like a breath of ocean. Jack squealed with laughter, sticking his head halfway out before Clara gently tugged him back.

“Careful,” she said, smiling. “We still need you in one piece.”

“But it feels like flying!” Jack beamed, hair whipped into chaos. “Can we leave the window open?”

"Of course... "Jason reached out and ruffled his hair. “Sure thing.”

The breeze danced through the car, lifting strands of Clara’s hair, tugging at the hem of Jack’s hoodie. There was music on the radio — something low and jazzy, soft enough to become part of the background. A kind of rhythm to match the road. They wound along the coast, the sea occasionally flashing through breaks in the hedgerows. That familiar beach was coming into view now — the one with the broken fishing boats half-buried in the sand, weathered and beautiful in their decay.

Clara leaned forward, eyes on the horizon. “There it is.”

Jason slowed the car, gravel crunching beneath the tires as he pulled off to the side. He turned to Clara, his fingers still linked with hers.

“Time to make this Jack’s day.”

She smiled, eyes glinting. “Our day.”

He nodded once. “All of ours.”

Jack was already out of the car, dashing toward the shore, arms wide like wings.

Jason watched him go for a second, then turned to Clara and kissed her hand. “Come on, McFly.”

She laughed. “Let’s go be a family.”

And with that, they stepped out of the car and into the wind — where the sky stretched vast and pale above them, and the sea waited like a promise below. The storm had passed. Their hearts were lighter. Their love, still whole.

The wind hit them first — sharp and briny, carrying the cold breath of the sea straight from the horizon. Clara’s cardigan billowed around her as she stepped out of the car, gravel crunching beneath her boots. The sky had lifted, the storm fully passed, but the clouds lingered in soft greys and pearl-white patches, drifting like ghosts made gentle. The beach spread out before them in hues of shale and silver — not the soft golden sands of postcards, but a wild sweep of pebbles that glinted like wet coins beneath the morning sun. The tide was out, but the sea still surged in restless pulses, waves crashing rhythmically onto the stones with the low, rolling thunder of a living thing.  Jack raced ahead, the pebbles unsteady beneath his small feet. His laughter carried across the wind, high and fierce, like a gull wheeling overhead. He ran to the shoreline and back again, chasing the foam like it might carry treasure. Jason stood still for a moment beside the car, eyes squinting into the bright light on the water. The salt in the air was crisp and clean, threaded with the scent of kelp and wet stone. He reached back to take Clara’s hand as she joined him, fingers slipping into place like they always had.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low, nearly lost to the roar of surf.

Clara nodded, her cheeks pink with cold and something softer. “Better than okay.”

They started walking, slow and unhurried, picking their way across the uneven pebbles. The wind tugged at their hair, their clothes, lifting strands and twisting hems. Clara tightened her grip on Jason’s hand, grounding herself against the gusts. The sound was constant — pebbles shifting beneath their feet, waves crashing and hissing, gulls crying somewhere further down the shore. It wasn’t peaceful in the way a still lake is peaceful. It was alive. Every breath tasted like salt. Every moment felt wide and elemental. Jack was already crouched by a tide pool, poking a stick into the dark water and narrating everything he found — a crab shell, seaweed, something he was convinced was treasure. His voice came in fragments, scattered by the wind.

Jason leaned down to pick up a smooth, flat stone. He held it out to Clara. “Perfect for skimming.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You think you can still do it?”

He gave her a mock-offended look, stepped forward, and sent the stone flying. It skipped three times — just enough to earn Jack’s distant cheer of approval.

“Not bad for an old man,” Clara teased.”oh sorry… i meant vintage”

"Cheeky cow ..." Jason turned to her, wind lifting his fringe. “Still got it.”

“Show-off.”

They continued down the beach, jackets flapping, fingers tangled. The fishing boats came into view — leaning and half-sunk in the shingle, hulls blistered with age and sea salt. Jack scrambled up the side of the nearest one like a pirate, shouting something about buried treasure and sea monsters. Clara stood beside Jason, her belly curved beneath her cardigan, Hope giving a soft flutter against her ribs. She rested a hand there, instinctively, and Jason’s followed.

“She likes it here,” Clara said, voice soft, watching Jack laugh in the boat’s hollowed-out belly. “She’s calm.”

Jason looked down at her. “So am I.”

She leaned into him, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then murmured, “Thank you for today.”

He smiled, resting his forehead against hers. “You don’t have to thank me. This — all of this — is the good part.”

Clara tilted her head. “Even the pebble bruises on the soles of your feet?”

“Especially those. Makes it feel earned.”

They kissed  — a slow, wind-stung kiss full of salt and breath and everything unsaid. Behind them, Jack whooped and shouted something unintelligible, and they pulled apart laughing.

“We should join him,” Clara said, brushing a strand of hair from her mouth.

“In a minute,” Jason replied, slipping an arm around her waist. “Let’s just… stay here. Just for a moment.”

So they stood there together — wind-blown, battered, but whole — watching their son play beneath a sky that was finally, unmistakably, clearing. And in the hush between crashing waves, Clara felt something shift deep in her chest. Not an end to the storm. Not quite. But the beginning of something steadier. Something like peace. The wind curled around them in long, tugging strands, lifting Clara’s hair so that it whipped across her face like silk. Jason gently tucked it behind her ear, his fingers lingering just a second too long, as if to steady both of them. She turned into him fully then, hands slipping beneath the lapels of his coat, resting over his chest where his heartbeat thudded low and steady. The same heartbeat that had lain against her back the night before, whispering apologies into the space between them when words felt too jagged to touch. That same rhythm, now grounding her again.

“I forgot what this felt like,” she murmured, her voice barely audible beneath the wind. “To just… breathe.”

Jason leaned his forehead to hers, his eyes closing at the contact. “Same. Last night… I was scared I’d wrecked us.”

Her thumbs moved slowly over the fabric of his coat. “You didn’t wreck us,” she whispered. “You hurt me. Yeah. But we’re still here.”

“I don’t take that for granted,” he said. “You. Us.”

He kissed her again— no rush, no apology. Just a slow meeting of lips that tasted of salt and morning and the long road back to one another. The wind pressed against their bodies, cold but not cruel, and Jason pulled her closer, his hand splayed wide across the curve of her belly. Hope kicked gently beneath his palm. They both paused, smiling against each other’s mouths.

“She approves,” Jason whispered "she wont mind Daddy giving mummy a little kiss"

“She’s been calmer today,” Clara said. “Last night… she was unsettled. But now…” She pressed his hand tighter to her belly. “She’s at peace.”

Jason’s eyes brimmed, and he ducked his head into the crook of her neck, breathing her in. “God, I love you,” he murmured. “Even when it’s hard. Especially then.”

“I know,” she said, voice thick with emotion. “Me too.”

The pebbles shifted beneath their feet as they turned, side by side now, to watch Jack clamber across the side of the fishing boat like a miniature captain surveying his kingdom. His hair whipped wildly around his face, and his shouts echoed like seagulls across the cove.

Clara leaned her head on Jason’s shoulder. “This is the memory, isn’t it? The one that sticks.”

He nodded, chin resting atop her crown. “The one we’ll tell her about when she’s older. When we say, ‘This is when we started again.’”

She looked up at him. “Promise me we keep choosing this. Even on the hard days.”

Jason turned to her fully, kissed her forehead. “Every damn time.”

And with her hand in his and the wind roaring around them, Clara believed him. Not because he said it perfectly. But because he meant it. Because he stayed. Because they both did.

They spread the blanket in the wind-shadow of the boat — a weatherworn husk of something once proud, now tilted into the pebbles as if time itself had asked it to stay Its sides were flaked with salt and peeling paint, the timber silvered and softened by years of waves and sun. Clara pressed her hand to the hull as they set up, as if in thanks — for its stillness, for its shelter, for the way it held space without asking anything in return. Jason laid the thermos down carefully, unscrewing the lid with the same precision he used to handle records — reverent, unhurried. He poured tea into enamel cups, the steam curling up in delicate plumes that drifted into the wind. Clara smiled when he handed her one — he hadn’t added sugar. He never did. He remembered. Jack was already digging in the canvas lunch bag, pulling out sandwiches and fruit and the chocolate buttons Clara had snuck in as a surprise. He unwrapped his sandwich like a treasure map, then scooted close between them and leaned against his mother’s side.

The three of them sat there, nestled against the hull of the old boat, their bodies close to keep the wind off, the waves crashing rhythmically just beyond. The sky above was a wide wash of cloud, but the sun made brief, golden appearances through it — gilding the top of Jason’s hair, warming Clara’s hand where it rested across her belly. Hope kicked again — once, then again — strong and sure, and Jason smiled down at Clara like he could feel it too.

Jack broke the silence in his small, serious voice. “Do you think she’ll like the sea?”

Clara looked over at him, brushing a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “I think she already does.”

Jason added, “She’s been listening to it her whole life, remember. Through Mummy’s belly.”

Jack seemed satisfied with that, then frowned. “Can we bring her here one day? When she’s bigger?”

“We will,” Clara said softly, her eyes on the curve of the sea. “We’ll show her the boats. And the stones. And the birds that follow the tide.”

“And tell her about today,” Jason said, reaching across Jack to squeeze Clara’s hand.

Jack grinned. “And that I climbed the highest boat and didn’t even fall.”

They ate slowly, in that unhurried way people do when they’re not keeping time — when they’re counting something else entirely. Moments. Glances. The steady pulse of normalcy. At one point, Jason lay back in the pebbles, hands behind his head, the faintest smile playing on his lips as he watched the sky shift above them. Clara shifted to lie beside him, her belly curved like a crescent moon between them. Jack, wrapped in her scarf and full of biscuits, curled up on her other side with his head in her lap. No one spoke for a long while. There was only the sound of the sea. The slow drift of clouds. The creak of the old boat above them. And the warmth of a family re-learning its rhythm.

Eventually, Clara whispered, “You know what I love about today?”

Jason turned his head, brow lifting. “What?”

“No one’s asking anything of me. No forms. No lawyers. No fixing. Just… this.”

Jason reached out and brushed her knuckles. “This is everything.”

She nodded, tears threatening again — not from pain this time, but from the strange, exquisite fullness of it all.

And as the tide stretched its fingers toward the shore, as a gull cut lazy circles in the sky above, Clara leaned her head against Jason’s shoulder and whispered, “Let’s stay here just a little longer.”

Jason kissed the crown of her head.

“We’ve got nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Later, Jason leaned back into the pebbles, one hand resting behind his head, the other lightly brushing against Clara’s. The hull of the boat towered gently beside them — splintered, softened, patient — and Jason’s gaze caught on its shape, the way it seemed to breathe with the wind. A memory stirred — not sharp, but warm. Familiar.

Wooden Boat

He hadn’t thought about that song in years. Not properly. It had been his first solo moment on the Beautiful World tour — soft, raw, simple. Just him barefoot on stage, a spotlight and his guitar, a hush in the arena thick enough to swallow nerves whole. He remembered how his heart had pounded the first time he sang it live — throat tight, hands clammy, feeling utterly exposed. No choreography. No distractions. Just words. Just his voice. And yet, that was the moment fans would write to him about. Not the dances. Not the harmonies. But that song. Back then, he hadn’t understood what he was singing. Not fully. He’d been in his thirties — still performing, still hiding in rhythm and routine. Still searching for home. But now — now it clicked. Now he was the man in the boat. Sitting here beside this weathered hull, with Clara’s head on his shoulder and Jack’s small form curled under her arm, Jason understood the song in a way he never had before.

"Sometimes we don't know what we're waiting for...That's the time to be the first one on the dance floor"

He stared out at the waves crashing softly in the distance. They were different than they’d been yesterday. They always were. Always shifting. But today, they carried something else — not threat, not loss — but rhythm. Familiarity. Something he could trust. He turned his head slightly, watching Clara’s fingers rest over her belly, her thumb moving in slow, grounding circles. He felt Jack’s breath against his arm. And the ache in his chest was the kind that came not from pain — but from knowing. He wasn’t drifting anymore. He wasn’t performing to earn love or standing alone under a spotlight. He was here. In the stillness. In the messy, imperfect miracle of it all.

Jason exhaled slowly, the sea wind threading through his hair. A smile tugged at his lips. He didn’t need a stage to be seen anymore. He didn’t need to earn silence with song. He had everything he used to sing about. Right here. In the curve of Clara’s hand against his. In the soft rise and fall of Jack’s breath beside them. In the old boat that had once sailed, and now simply stayed.

"What I wouldn't give to be on that wooden boat.."

He finally understood what he’d been trying to say all those years ago. And the beauty of it? He hadn’t needed to finish the journey alone after all. Clara turned her head slightly, her cheek brushing against Jason’s shoulder as she studied his profile. His jaw was relaxed, eyes half-lidded, gaze fixed on the sea — but there was something in his stillness. Not tension exactly. But weight. Thought. That soft sort of silence she’d come to know in him — the kind that meant something deeper was drifting beneath the surface. She reached for his hand again, gently weaving her fingers through his. Her voice came low, warm, wrapped in salt and sea air.

“What are you thinking about, Orange?”

“You…me..” Jason blinked, slow. Then gave a quiet smile without looking at her. “Just… that wooden boat mainly for some reason ”

Clara’s gaze followed his, settling on the weathered wooden hull beside them — timeworn, half-sunk into the pebbled shore, like it had chosen to stay instead of keep sailing.

“Looks like it’s seen things,” she murmured.

“That makes two of us” Jason nodded. “Yeah.” He paused, the sea filling the space between words. Then, gently “I used to sing Wooden Boat... back when we got back together. My first solo moment on tour.”

“Oh yes..i remember” Clara tilted her head toward him. “You sang it to jack one time and played it on my dad's guitar. The youtube clip of you doing it made me cry. It was beautiful ”

“That's the one but i was just thinking about the first time i sang it” He chuckled softly, a little embarrassed. “It was quiet. No spotlight stuff. Just… me and the words. I was terrified. First time I ever sang on my own in front of that many people.”

“You was amazing I'm sure” Clara’s hand tightened around his. “What is the song actually about?”

Jason looked down, watching their fingers. “Waiting. Stillness. Letting go of what you thought you needed and realising what you were really searching for was already inside you. Or… maybe waiting for the sea to change you. I don’t know. It was always one of those songs that felt like it meant something more than I knew how to say.” He looked at her now — eyes soft, voice steadier. “I didn’t really get it back then. But sitting here now, with you… with Jack… with Hope kicking like she owns the place…” Clara laughed quietly, and Jason smiled wider. He went on, voice rough with honesty. “I think this is what the song meant. This moment. Letting yourself stop running. Loving someone enough to stay still and build something. Even if it’s old. Even if it’s messy. Just… being in the boat. Together.”

Clara’s eyes shimmered, tears rising without falling. She leaned in and pressed her lips to his — not urgent, not shy, just there. Certain.

When she pulled back, she whispered, “You’re not alone in the boat anymore.”

Jason swallowed hard. “I know.”

They sat in the quiet again, waves crashing gently in the background, the boat beside them holding stories of its own. And for once, Jason didn’t feel like a man trying to reach the shore. He was already home. He had just leaned in to kiss her again — slow, grateful, like he wanted to pour everything he hadn’t said into that one touch — when a shout split the air.

“MUUUM! DAD! LOOK!”

Clara laughed against his mouth, forehead tipping to his. “We should’ve known it wouldn’t last.”

Jason grinned, voice still rough from emotion. “We’ve got maybe four seconds of romance at a time these days.”

Jack came pelting over from the water’s edge, breathless and wild-haired, waving something triumphantly in his hand. “I found a crab claw! Look!”

Clara squinted at it, clearly trying to muster enthusiasm for the severed bit of shell dangling between Jack’s fingers. “Wow. That’s… very crabby.”

“It’s so cool! Do you think it was in a fight?”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “With who? A pirate?”

“Maybe another crab,” Jack said seriously. “Like, a mega one.”

Clara glanced at Jason, still smiling. “Crab gladiators. We’re raising a marine biologist-slash-action hero.”

Jason bumped her shoulder gently. “Better than a boy who just collects shell bits and sings melancholy songs about boats.”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Hey, I like melancholy songs about boats.”

Eventually they packed up the picnic slowly, working together in that easy, instinctive way long-time lovers and young parents learn — Jason folding the blankets, Clara brushing crumbs from Jack’s hoodie, Jack still chatting to himself about crustacean warfare. The breeze had picked up slightly now, cooler against their faces, tugging at Clara’s cardigan and Jason’s shirt sleeves, and making the pebbles clatter gently underfoot like wind chimes in the sand. With the basket slung over Jason’s shoulder and Jack darting ahead in fits and starts, they began to walk — not fast, just wandering. Just together. The coastline stretched wide and low, the tide pulled far out, revealing glistening rocks and forgotten pools. The sun had pushed its way through the cloud cover, scattering golden light over the sea in shimmering ribbons. Each step crunched over smooth grey stones, interspersed with streaks of washed-up seaweed, abandoned shells, and tangled driftwood shaped like forgotten sculptures. Clara curled her arm through Jason’s, her head resting briefly against his shoulder as they walked. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head without breaking stride.

Jack skipped ahead, balancing on larger stones like he was walking a tightrope. His laughter was high and clear, bouncing off the open air. Occasionally he turned back to shout facts — mostly made up — about sea creatures or theories about how long it would take to build a boat and sail to Norway.

Jason watched him and exhaled. “He’s flying again.”

Clara nodded, her voice soft. “Yeah. You can hear it in his laugh.”

They kept walking, a family stitched together by choice and scars and the quiet miracle of trying again. Jason’s fingers traced little circles on the inside of Clara’s wrist where her arm looped through his, and she leaned into his side just a little more with each step. Behind them, the old boat shrank into the distance, a relic of someone else’s storm. They’d been walking for over an hour now, weaving in and out of tide-carved hollows and scattered driftwood, laughter trailing behind them like footprints in the wet sand. Clara was starting to slow. Her hips ached, her back was tight, and the soft weight of Hope shifted low in her belly — as if even their daughter had decided it was time to rest.

She stopped near a smooth boulder that jutted out from the pebbles like an old spine, sinking down carefully with one hand cradling her bump. Jason noticed immediately.

“Need a breather, McFly?” he called out, his grin audible in his voice.

Clara rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “You try lugging around a whole extra human and see how sprightly you feel.”

“Tempting,” he called back, scooping up Jack with a mock groan. “Oi! Carrying this one counts, doesn’t it?”

“Daddy stop it” Jack squealed, limbs flailing, “I’m not a baby!”

Jason spun him once in the air, earning another high-pitched giggle, then set him down near a patch of polished stones glinting in the sand. The two of them bent together, heads close, examining shells like ancient treasure hunters deciphering maps. Their voices lifted and fell in bursts — Jack’s high and animated, Jason’s lower, patient, always encouraging. Clara let the wind press against her cheeks, soft and salt-sweet. She tucked a hand beneath her bump and breathed it in — this life she never expected. This peace, hard-earned and quietly blooming. From where she sat, they looked like a painting. Jason, crouched down in that old fisherman’s jumper he loved, sleeves rolled up, hair messy from sea spray. Jack beside him — small and wild and full of everything good. Her little boy. His little hand tucked into Jason’s larger one, both sorting through the shells like they were sacred. It hit her, then — not like a wave, but a tide that had been rising steadily all day.

Jason Orange..Jason...Jay... Once the man who avoided cameras like fire, who’d vanished from the spotlight before the world had even realised he’d slipped out the back door. The former 90s heartthrob who didn’t belong to the world anymore but had found a place here — crouched beside a tide pool, knees wet, heart full. A father, now. A partner. Hers.

He caught her watching and stood, dusting the sand from his hands. “Find a good one!” Jack shouted after him, already deep into the next handful of shell fragments.

Jason crossed the beach toward her, the wind tousling his hair, eyes soft as he reached her. He dropped to one knee in front of her, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“Tired?” he asked gently.

She nodded, but there was more love in her eyes than weariness. “Only a little. Mostly just... soaking you in.”

"Me?" He tilted his head, curious. "Middle aged old and grey haired me?”

"Enough with the middle aged old man crap" Clara smiled. “You. The way you are with him. With me. I think I’m still catching up to the fact that out of all the versions of you there is, I get this version of you all to myself.”

Jason ducked his head a little, shy as ever when praise got too close. “Well... you made it possible. You and that turning up on my doorstep in your pyjama stunt. Plus you being most probably the only person in the world that hadnt heard of Take That”

She chuckled softly, remembering it too — how scared she’d been that night, how certain she’d been anyway.

“You still wont let me forget that will you? Yet I’d do it all again,” she murmured. “Every mile. Every storm...just to have this life with you”

Jason leaned forward and kissed her — not the deep kind, but a warm, lingering brush of lips that felt more intimate than anything else could have. His hand covered her belly. Hope shifted beneath it.

“She likes the beach,” he said softly.

“She likes you,” Clara replied. “You and Jack.”

Jason rested his forehead against hers. “Then I’ll keep showing up.”

“You already do.”

They sat there for a moment, just listening to the surf, the wind, and Jack’s distant giggles. Then Jason helped her to her feet, steady and strong.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go see what he found. If it’s another broken crab claw, I’m blaming you.”

Clara looped her arm through his, grinning as she leaned into him. “Deal.”

And together, with the shore stretching wide and open before them, they walked — one step, one tide, one day at a time — toward the rest of their story.

The light began to change, slowly at first — the edges of the sea turning from steel-blue to violet, then to the faintest flush of gold. The tide was creeping back in now, brushing over stones that had baked beneath the afternoon sun. Waves softened, lost their crash, and became a steady hush — like the sea itself had exhaled.They hadn’t spoken for a while. Not because there was nothing to say — but because some days don’t need words to finish them.Clara sat on the smoother end of a driftwood log, her boots nudged off, bare toes curling into the pebbles. Her body was heavy now — not just from pregnancy, but from the calm that always came after a storm. That quiet fatigue you welcomed, because it meant the worst had passed. Jason stood a little way off, silhouetted against the water, tossing stones out into the surf. Jack mirrored him, smaller, quicker, mimicking the flick of his wrist and laughing every time a stone bounced even once. Their twin shapes moved in rhythm — one lean and slow, the other loose-limbed and excitable, like a little shadow stitched to his heels.

Clara watched them, hand resting over her belly where Hope moved in slow rolls, sleepy now. The breeze had cooled but not turned cold yet. She wrapped Jason’s old jumper tighter around herself, the sleeves far too long, the hem brushing her thighs. It smelled like him. Like sea salt and something earthy and safe. Jason eventually glanced back over his shoulder, caught her watching, and offered that quiet half-smile that had undone her from the very beginning.

“You okay?” he called softly.

Clara nodded. “Better than.”

Jack came bounding back a few moments later, holding out a shell — curved like a teardrop, mother-of-pearl on the inside. “For the baby,” he said. “It’s pretty. She’ll like it.”

Clara reached out and took it gently, her eyes stinging. “She will,” she said. “She’ll love it.”

Jason dropped down beside her in the pebbles with a soft grunt, stretching his legs out and letting his fingers brush lightly over the inside of her wrist. “We should probably think about heading back soon. Before it gets dark.”

Clara leaned into him, her head on his shoulder. “Not yet.”

Jack was curled a few feet away, wrapped in a towel they’d kept in the car — arms tucked beneath his head, eyes half-lidded. He was watching the sky change, mouth slightly open in that way only children could sleep — as if the whole world could rest without asking permission.

Jason looked down at him, then at Clara. “He’s happy,” he murmured.

She nodded, eyes soft. “He feels safe.”

A silence settled again — but not the kind that asked anything. The kind that offered room.

The boat loomed behind them, more shadow than shape now. And the sea had turned that soft grey-blue that only came just before dusk — the kind of blue that whispered rather than shouted. Everything had quieted. Even the gulls were gone, replaced by the occasional flick of a wave, the rustle of wind through tall grass, and Jack’s breathing, slow and even.

Jason leaned his head back against the wood of the boat, eyes half-closed. “I missed this. Us. Just being.”

Clara turned her face into the crook of his neck. “It’s not gone.”

He reached across and slid his hand beneath hers over her belly. Hope stirred again — slow, as if dreaming. Clara smiled. “She doesn’t want to leave either.”

Jason kissed her temple, slow and reverent. “Then we’ll stay. Just a little longer.”

They sat like that — the wind soft in their hair, the sky fading toward night — letting the day stretch into memory. The kind you don’t write down because it never really leaves you.

Eventually,Clara gathered the remains of the picnic, pausing only once to glance back at the wooden boat — worn, battered, beautiful in its stillness.Clara lingered behind for a moment as Jason began to gather their things — folding blankets with practiced ease, brushing crumbs from the picnic cloth while Jack sat sleepily rubbing his eyes and clinging to his half-empty water bottle. She stood beside the old boat, her hand resting lightly on its salt-scoured hull, fingertips tracing the grain of wood softened by sea and time. The planks were warped in places, edges flaked with white where the paint had long given up — but there was a kind of grace in its wear. A dignity. This boat hadn’t sunk. It had simply… stayed. Weathered the storms, grounded itself, and waited. Like it knew that sometimes survival wasn’t about moving forward, but about holding still long enough to remember who you are.

It wasn’t just a relic, not to Clara. It was a mirror. To Jason, it had once been a lyric — his first solo song, quiet and stripped bare, sung from a stage where he had stood alone under the lights, no bandmates, no choreography. Just him and the truth. He used to say the song terrified him. That it felt too honest. Too still. Too much like revealing something he hadn’t fully understood. but now, Clara thought, this boat was all of it — the years they had wandered and wrecked and somehow washed back into each other’s arms. It was the two of them — the version of love that didn’t glitter but endured. The kind that didn’t sail away; it stayed grounded. Rooted in the same salt and wind and choice, day after day. She exhaled slowly, her breath clouding faintly in the cooler dusk air. The wind had picked up just enough to lift the hem of her cardigan, to stir her hair across her cheeks. Hope shifted inside her — not wildly, not like the kicks of the night before, but a soft pressure. Present. Real. As if she was part of the moment too.

They’d fought for this. For each other. For Jack. For the small, steady future they were still shaping — one heartbeat, one tide, one quiet return at a time. Clara leaned her head briefly against the curved hull, eyes slipping closed. Thank you, she thought. To the boat. To the universe. To the woman she had once been, who’d driven three hours in the rain, terrified and sure all at once. A voice broke the stillness, soft and warm from a few paces away

“Hey…” Jason. “It’s time.” She opened her eyes. Turned. He stood beside Jack, who was now leaning heavily against his side, thumb hooked through the strap of his little backpack, eyelids drooping with the weight of too much fresh air and adventure. Jason smiled, gentle and knowing. “You looked miles away.”

“Sorry..”Clara nodded. “Just… catching my breath.”

He walked toward her, then knelt without a word and scooped Jack into his arms. The boy barely stirred, his head lolling to Jason’s shoulder like a memory. Clara watched him adjust his grip — the way his hand instinctively cradled the back of Jack’s head, the way Jack’s fingers curled into his jumper like they’d done it a thousand times before.

“You good?” he asked, turning back to her.

Clara looked one last time at the boat — that steadfast, silent witness to the day. And nodded.

“I am now,” she said. Jason tilted his head, brow lifting slightly in a question. Clara stepped forward, brushing her hand down Jack’s back as she reached for Jason’s free one. “I was just thinking,” she murmured, “about how sometimes… The bravest thing isn’t sailing. It’s staying.”

Jason looked at her for a long moment. “Still love that you understand that song more than I ever did.”

She smiled, brushing the hair from Jack’s forehead. “That’s because I lived it. We both did.”

The wind rose again, whistling softly through the shingle and grass, as the sun dipped lower into the sea, spilling amber over the horizon. Jason adjusted Jack in his arms and gently tugged Clara closer, wrapping his arm around her waist. Together, they walked slowly back across the pebbles — three heartbeats, steady in the falling light. Behind them, the wooden boat stood sentinel, shadowed now, but somehow even more beautiful in the dusk.

Not abandoned…Not broken….Just… exactly where it was meant to be.

Just like them.

The sky was dipped in violet by the time they left the beach, the sea behind them humming low and endless beneath a slowly darkening sky. Jason opened the passenger door for Clara with one hand, Jack cradled in the other — still asleep, heavy and warm against his chest. Jack had fallen into dreams the moment they’d wrapped him in his jumper, barely stirring as Jason buckled him into the back seat of the Mercedes. Now he lay curled against the leather, one hand still clutching the claw he’d refused to let go of, his stuffed rabbit tucked in beside him like a co-pilot.

The car rolled smoothly down the winding coastal road, the engine humming low, steady. The windows were cracked just enough to let the air in — salt and pine and that soft, almost-electric coolness that comes before true nightfall. Jazz played gently on the radio, something brushed and slow, curling through the car like smoke. Clara sat with her head turned toward the window, watching the trees blur past in inky outlines. Her fingers were linked loosely with Jason’s across the gearshift, resting between them like an unspoken vow. For a long while, they didn’t speak. The kind of silence that didn’t need filling — the kind that held what words couldn’t carry. Jason glanced at the rearview mirror, then at Clara.

“He’s out cold.”

Clara smiled faintly, her eyes soft. “Too much sea air and wonder.”

Jason squeezed her hand gently. “The good kind of tired.”

She nodded, then turned to look at him. The last traces of daylight caught in her hair, casting it gold. Her face was flushed from the breeze, her cheeks pink, her eyes shadowed with peace.

“You alright?” he asked quietly, without taking his eyes off the road.

“I’m really alright,” she said, and meant it. “You?”

Jason glanced at her, just a flicker of a look — but it held everything. A kind of quiet awe. A kind of steadiness that felt new, but earned.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I am now”

The tyres whispered over the tarmac, the headlights cutting soft tunnels through the coming dark. Jack snored softly in the back, the kind of snore only children can get away with — open-mouthed and oblivious, full of trust. Clara leaned her head against the window, still watching him. Jason kept his hand in hers, thumb brushing slow circles against her skin. His other hand stayed on the wheel, steering them home. They didn’t need to say it. Today had been a turning point. And tomorrow could wait.

The road unwound beneath them, and in the mirror-glint of twilight, love looked like this — a sleeping child, joined hands, and the silence of two souls still afloat in their wooden boat, weathered but steady, sailing home.

Chapter Text

The sun was already up when Clara opened her eyes — not sharp, not blinding, but golden and low, spilling through the slats of the blinds in long, softened stripes. It painted the bedroom in a kind of gentle hush, the kind of light that made everything look quieter than it was. Softer than it felt. Like the world had draped itself in a warm filter and hoped she wouldn’t notice the edges She lay still for a long moment, her body sunk deep into the mattress, curved protectively around the full weight of her belly. One arm was folded beneath her pillow, the other curled instinctively over her side, where the ache had settled overnight like a stone. Her shoulder — her right, always her right — throbbed with the dull persistence of overuse, the slow complaint of a body doing too much, too often, without asking for rest. Every step along the beach the day before, every shift and bend and stretch — it echoed now, whispering through her muscles like a held breath finally let go.

She shifted slightly to relieve the pressure, wincing as she pressed her palm to the knot just above her shoulder blade. The movement set off a chain reaction — a ripple of discomfort that travelled down her back and curled around the base of her spine. Her hips felt tight, her feet still vaguely swollen beneath the duvet. Her stomach, usually so active in the mornings with Hope’s fluttering kicks, felt still — but queasy. A sour wave rolled low in her belly, curling up into her throat and settling there like heat. Clara closed her eyes again and swallowed hard, her fingers tightening in the sheet beside her. The nausea didn’t feel like illness — not quite. It was just… everything. Too much air, too little sleep, too many thoughts jostling for space in a body already full. The kind of tired that went beyond rest. The kind that lived in the bones. She turned her head on the pillow and stared at the ceiling, blinking against the sting at the back of her eyes. Not from pain. Just weariness. Just the quiet kind of ache that came from carrying too much — inside and out. From across the room, she heard the soft creak of the door, then Jason’s quiet footfall on the wooden floor. A pause. The rustle of his hoodie sleeve.

“You’re awake,” he said gently, voice still husky with sleep.

Clara didn’t turn to look at him. She just gave the smallest nod, eyes still trained on the ceiling, lashes damp. “Sort of.”

“You okay?” he asked, already crossing the room to her side.

She opened her mouth to say yes, out of habit. But the word caught behind her teeth, caught somewhere in the thick of her throat with everything else.

“No,” she admitted softly, her voice raw. “Not really.”

“Oh no..” Jason crouched beside the bed instantly, his hand reaching for hers beneath the blanket. “Talk to me.”

She turned her head then — not all the way, but enough to meet his gaze. “My shoulder’s killing me. My stomach’s a mess. And I just… I feel awful. Like I’ve been hit by something slow-moving and heavy.”

“Clara...” Jason’s thumb rubbed gently along her knuckles. “All that Walking yesterday?”

She gave a small, humourless laugh. “Apparently I’m not as sprightly as I pretend.”

“Hey.” He smiled gently, brushing her hair from her forehead. “You’re eight months pregnant, McFly. You’re allowed to ache.”

“Oh god…” Clara sighed, her body sagging a little further into the mattress. “I feel like I’ve been stitched together with bits of string and goodwill.”

Jason kissed her knuckles. “Then today, you do nothing that asks anything of you. Deal?”

“But…” Clara closed her eyes again, tears prickling behind them. “There’s Jack’s visit later.”

“I’ll handle it. You just focus on getting some rest.” She nodded, barely. Knowing deep down he was right Jason stood and leaned over to kiss her temple. “I’m going to run you a bath. Then bring you tea. Maybe toast if you can stomach it.”

“What would I do without you?” Clara smiled faintly despite the nausea. “You’re very good at looking after sick women.”

“Only the hot gorgeous ones,” he murmured 

Her smile grew by a fraction, and she squeezed his hand before he slipped from the room. She lay back again, letting the morning light touch her face, letting Jason’s care fill the space where her strength had temporarily slipped.Clara let her eyes close again for a moment, the memory of the beach flickering behind her lids. Jack’s laughter as he chased gulls along the tide line. The gleam in his eyes as he held up shells like they were ancient artefacts. The warmth of Jason’s hand steady at her back. It felt like a pause — like a page turned without the rush to keep reading. But today… She opened her eyes again.

“I wish we had another day like yesterday,” she murmured. “Just one more.”

“We will,” he promised. “After today. This part’s just… the bridge.”

Clara sat up slowly, rubbing her side, wincing again. “Feels like more than a bridge. Feels like a damn mountain climb.”

 “Let me go run you that bath. Nice and warm. Then I’ll sort breakfast. You just sit there and look beautiful, pregnant and slightly grumpy.”

She gave him a sideways look. “You forgot radiant.”

“Radiant,” he said quickly, raising his hands. “Absolutely. Glowing. Terrifying.”

She laughed — a short, grateful sound — and let him help her to her feet. In the distance, through the floorboards, the sound of Jack moving about filtered up. Padding feet. A quiet opening and closing of drawers. A hum of some tune they didn’t recognise. Clara paused in the doorway of the en suite, her hand braced against her lower back.

“He knows it’s today,” she said.

Jason met her eyes in the mirror. “Yeah. But he’s okay.”

Clara nodded slowly. “Because of yesterday.”

Jason stepped forward, kissed her temple. “Because of you.”

“No,” she whispered, brushing her fingers through her hair. “Because of us.”

They didn’t say anything more. The day was already beginning — a day of hard things, brave steps, and heavy truths. But beneath it all, there was still the hum of the sea in their ears. Still the memory of that weathered boat, holding firm in the tide. And for now, it was enough.

The tap hissed softly as steam began to curl up from the porcelain tub, fogging the mirror in delicate spirals. Jason tested the water with his fingers, adjusting the heat just so — warm, soothing, not too hot. He poured in a capful of lavender oil, watching as it bloomed across the surface, a calming swirl of scent and shimmer. Clara leaned in the doorway, her robe wrapped loosely around her frame, one hand on the curve of her belly. Her other hand was braced on her lower back, and she arched slightly as she shifted weight from one foot to the other.

“Are you trying to drown me in essential oils?” she teased, nose wrinkling playfully as the steam hit her face.

Jason looked over his shoulder, unabashedly taking her in. “I’m trying to ease the ache in that shoulder you won’t stop pretending doesn’t hurt.”

Clara moved slowly. Part grace, part lumbering and let him help her. As he untied her robe and she stepped carefully out of it, she caught him watching. Not in a way that made her self-conscious. In that way only he could — full of reverence, like he was looking at something sacred and a little wild. Her body had changed during this pregnancy. soft in places it hadn’t been, stretched in ways that didn’t always feel poetic. Her breasts were fuller, her stomach taut and low, the line of her hips more pronounced. She’d felt like a stranger in her own skin more days than not. But with Jason’s eyes on her, she felt… seen. Not assessed. Not apologised for. Just seen.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re thinking something filthy, but you’re trying to look noble at the same time.”

“Honestly Clara….” Jason grinned. “I’m older and hitting middle age, not dead for fucks sake. Of course I'm thinking something filthy”

“Older, wiser…hey” she teased as she stepped into the bath, hissing softly as the heat hit her skin. “More likely to throw your back out then.”

Shaking his head, He helped her ease in, his hands gentle but firm beneath her arms. When she was settled, he crouched beside the tub, resting his chin on the edge, one hand trailing lazy circles across the surface of the water .As Clara melted into the bath, a low sigh slipped from her lips — the kind that came from pure, aching relief. Muscles uncoiled. Her swollen ankles disappeared under clouds of bubbles. Warmth wrapped around her like a lullaby. She let her head fall back against the rolled towel Jason had fussed over, eyes half-lidded in bliss.

“So Orange…” she opened one eye and pinned him with a look. “Just so we’re clear — if you ever get me pregnant again, I’m changing the locks, the alarm code to the house, and possibly my name”

“Overreaction much” Jason, seated on the edge of the tub, let out a low laugh. “Wow. All that for one night of passion? Harsh.”

“I mean it,” she said, though the smirk playing on her lips gave her away. “No more surprise babies again. If I ever feel like this again — this achey, puffy, queasy mess — I’m staging a full rebellion.”

“Yeah right…” Jason dipped his fingers in the water and flicked a few drops at her. “Don’t act like you weren’t all enthusiastic about the activities that led us here.”

"That was before I had to sleep propped up by five pillows and ice my ankles twice a day.”

“Come on…” He leaned in a little, voice dropping into something low and teasing. “You knew I was older. Wiser. Seasoned.”

“Seasoned?” she snorted. “You're not a cast iron skillet.”

“No,” he said, giving her a shameless once-over, “but I am a man of a certain age now, with... certain needs.”

“Please…” Clara arched an eyebrow, sinking deeper into the bubbles. “You’re not exactly suffering.”

“Oh, I am,” Jason said, clutching his chest dramatically. “Do you know how long it’s been? I’m wasting away.”

“Poor thing,” she cooed. “You’ll survive.”

He leaned down, brushed a kiss against her temple, then murmured against her skin, “You say that like I don’t remember every inch of you.”

“There's that Jason Orange charm i remember” Clara gave him a lazy smile, lips curling as her fingers trailed through the water. “Flattery’s not going to get you laid.”

Jason grinned, smug. “No, but it’ll keep me top of mind when you’re not waddling like a penguin.”

She reached up and splashed him with a flick of her fingers. “You’re lucky I’m too relaxed to get up and drown you.”

Jason stood, shaking the water off his sleeve with an exaggerated shiver. “And yet you love me.”

“God help me, I do.”

“See?” he winked as he backed toward the door. “Older. Wiser. Still got it.”

“Don't push your luck, Grandpa,” she called after him.”now go make me that tea” 

His laughter echoed down the hallway — warm and unguarded — and Clara leaned her head back again, the towel behind her soft and just right. Her eyes drifted closed as the bath cradled her tired, beautiful body. Her skin felt looser. Her breath came slower.

And in that quiet, warm hush, she let herself just exist — held by water, buoyed by love.

Later, Clara stepped out of the bath carefully, the towel Jason had left for her warm from where it had rested on the radiator. She wrapped it around herself and stood still for a moment, water trickling down the curve of her spine, her hair damp and curling at the ends. Her skin felt flushed, her limbs looser, the ache dulled. Not gone — but quieter. Contained. Like something soothed. She moved slowly through the bedroom, trailing one hand along the edge of the bed as she passed. The sheets were still rumpled from the night before — the imprint of their bodies faint in the linen, pillows askew. The soft dent where Jason had lain closest to her. A quiet history lived in that bed — of arguments and making up, of whispered plans, of love that had stretched and strained and mended again. Of moments they would never repeat and some they wouldn’t trade for anything.

Her eyes drifted to the dresser — to the photo that stood there in a weathered silver frame. She and Jason, caught mid-laugh on a windswept beach last summer. His arms around her waist, her head thrown back, her cheeks pink with salt air and joy. She remembered that day. How light it had felt. How inevitable he’d seemed. She touched the edge of the frame, fingertips gentle. Still us. The wardrobe creaked softly as she opened it. She reached for something comfortable — one of her old shirts that hung loose over her bump, soft with too many washes, and a pair of leggings that still mostly fit. She moved slowly, drying herself as she went, wincing only slightly as she lifted her arms to smooth her curls back with a clip. The scent of lavender still clung to her skin. When she turned, Jason was already there — one shoulder leaning against the doorframe, a mug of tea cradled in his hands. He held it out wordlessly, eyes scanning her face like he was taking stock of her all over again.

“You look better,” he said softly.

“I feel better.” She took the mug, the heat blooming against her palms.”needed that”

They stood in silence for a beat. The kind of silence that says thank you without needing to speak it. Jason stepped forward, brushing a stray curl behind her ear, his thumb grazing her cheekbone. Clara exhaled, her breath catching at the edges. She rested her forehead lightly against his chest, letting the weight of him ground her. The tea trembled slightly in her hand, so he took it gently and set it on the dresser.

“Come here,” he said, folding his arms around her — not careful, not tentative. Just sure. The way someone holds what they know is precious. Her arms circled his waist, and they stood like that — close, quiet, the day pressing gently at the windows around them but not yet breaking in 

“I don’t know if I’m ready for today,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to be,” he said. “You just have to show up for Jack. And you will.”

She nodded against his chest, her voice barely audible. “Promise me we’ll have more days like yesterday.”

He tilted her chin up, kissing her lightly — a brush of lips that said of course. That said always.

“We will,” he said. “You and me. And them. We’ll write a thousand more.”

Outside, they could hear Jack moving about — a knock, the scrape of a chair, the sound of a cereal box shaking. Life, waiting. Jason pulled back, his palm resting briefly over her belly. Hope stirred again — a flutter, then a kick — as if she, too, was listening.

Clara smiled. “She remembers the beach.”

Jason grinned. “Then let’s give her more to remember when shes here i promise you.”

The kitchen was still and slow, steeped in soft sounds: the occasional clink of a spoon against a bowl, the whisper of the kettle just before it clicked off, the steady ticking of the clock on the far wall. Morning light spilled through the window in long, tired streaks, painting the table in stripes of warmth. It was the kind of morning that would have felt peaceful, if not for the cloud sitting silently in the center of it all. Jason stood by the counter, hands curled around a chipped navy mug, the tea inside long gone cold. He stared out the window but didn’t really see it — just the blurred green of the garden and the ghost of his own reflection. His jaw ached from being clenched too long. The smell of toast lingered in the air, faintly burnt at the edges. Clara sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long gone lukewarm, its steam now a memory. She hadn't taken a sip. Her stomach couldn’t seem to decide if it wanted anything inside it or not. The light from the window fell in pale, dappled stripes across the table, warm but somehow too bright. Too cheerful for today. She was exhausted. She was trying to hide it. She always did.

Jason’s eyes flicked to Jack, perched at the table like a little soldier in his hoodie and mismatched socks, spoon dragging slow, absent-minded circles through his cereal. His face was quiet in a way kids' faces shouldn’t be. Not yet. No one had said the word court yet. They didn’t need to. Clara’s fingers tightened around her mug, knuckles pale. Every part of her body ached. The dull, grinding ache of late pregnancy — low back, hips, the tight stretch beneath her ribs. Her feet still felt puffy and bruised from the long walk on the beach yesterday, and her right shoulder hadn’t stopped throbbing since she'd woken. It was a bone-deep tiredness. A kind that sleep didn't touch. She shifted in her seat, searching for a position that didn't make her wince, but her body no longer moved with ease.

She glanced at Jack again, her heart pulling tight. How could she not go? How could she not be there? She had promised him. Promised herself. That she would hold his hand through every moment, especially the hard ones. Especially this one. And yet… she knew. Her body couldn’t do it today. The guilt bloomed sharp and familiar in her chest. Like a vine curling tighter around her lungs. Clara swallowed hard. She looked at Jason, who still hadn’t turned around. But she felt him — his quiet waiting, the way he was holding space for her to speak. He always did that. Gave her time. Gave her room. But he wouldn’t take the decision from her. She had to say it. Catching her eye, Jason’s stomach twisted. He wanted to punch something. But he kept his tone easy, light. Kept his movements slow. For Jack. For Clara. Especially Clara. She shifted in her seat, trying to stretch her hips. He could see the way she winced — small, but there — and how tightly she held her mug, like warmth alone could keep her upright.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, low and quiet, her thumb rubbing at the handle of her mug. “About today.” Jason turned to face her fully, keeping his expression soft. Not pushing. Just present. “I don’t think I can come,” The words landed like stones. her voice frayed around the edges. “I’m so sorry, Jack.” The boy’s spoon stilled again. He looked between them, unreadable at first. Jason held his breath. Not because he doubted Jack — but because he knew how much Clara had been holding on, just to be there. Just to be enough. “It’s just…” She pressed her palm to the underside of her belly, wincing. “Hope’s been doing somersaults since 4 a.m., and my legs feel like they’re made of concrete. Yesterday’s walk…” she trailed off, guilt bleeding into her voice. “I think I pushed too hard.”

She hated how weak she sounded. Hated that she couldn’t push through. But it wasn’t just physical. It was mental, too — the quiet unraveling of her resilience. She felt like a balloon stretched too tight, one more breath away from popping. Jason came to her side without a word and placed a hand gently on her shoulder. She leaned into it, grateful for the grounding, but the guilt twisted deeper. He shouldn’t have to take it all on. Not again. His thumb rubbed gently at the spot just below her collarbone — the way he always did when she needed grounding.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said softly, for her ears alone. “You’re allowed to be tired.”

“I'm sorry sweetheart” Clara turned her gaze to Jack, eyes glassy now. “I wanted to be there. I really did.”

Jack slipped down from his chair and padded over to her. Jason stood back, watching, his heart thudding in his chest. He’d never stop being surprised by how big Jack’s heart was. As he headed over to her Clara braced for Jack’s disappointment. Braced for the slump of his shoulders, the downturned mouth, the quiet “okay” that always broke her heart. But it didn’t come.

Without hesitation, Jack reached up and rested his small hand on Clara’s swollen belly. He looked up at her, eyes wide, steady.

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “Hope needs you more today.”

Jason swallowed hard. That one sentence did something to him — cracked something open. He didn’t move. Just watched, breath tight. Clara’s breath caught. Jack’s touch was warm. Steady. So much older than his six years had any right to be. Her throat tightened as she cupped his face, thumb brushing his cheek.

Clara cupped Jack’s face in her hands, her fingers trembling. “You’re so brave,” she whispered, voice thick with tears. “You’re the best big brother there is.”

Jason crouched beside them, pulling Jack briefly into his arms and brushing a kiss to the top of his head. “You’ve got me today,” he said, keeping his voice light. “We’ll go together. Just the guys.”

“And thats okay” Jack nodded, leaning into the hug. “You make it all not scary.”

Clara laughed, a soft, watery sound. “He really does,” she said, brushing her fingers through Jack’s hair. “He’s got a superpower for that.”

For a beat, the world went quiet. The light through the kitchen window shifted ever so slightly, warming the pale floorboards. Jack leaned in and pressed his forehead to her belly for a long, quiet moment, like he was listening to something only he could hear. Clara closed her eyes, her arms folding around him, careful and full.

Jason stood, brushing a hand over Clara’s hair, smoothing it behind her ear. “We’ll be back before lunch,” he said softly. “Just rest.”

“I’ll have muffins ready,” Clara said, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. “Chocolate ones for me and you Jack….and something organic for Daddy.”

Jason leaned in and kissed her forehead, then turned to the door. Jack trailed after him, small hand brushing against his.Clara, her heart heavy but full. And though her body ached and the day ahead loomed like a mountain, something in her had eased. She wasn’t coming with them.

But love — the kind they’d all built, day by day — was going in her place.

The front door stood open, and the morning pressed in, cold at the edges and too still. The kind of hush that felt like the world was holding its breath. Clara stood in the doorway, one hand braced on her lower back, the other cradling her swollen belly. Her feet were bare on the cool floorboards. The ache in her hips throbbed in waves, but it was distant — drowned out by the sharp, relentless ache in her chest. Jack stood in front of her, his backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie slightly too big, sleeves covering the tops of his hands. His hair was still messy from sleep. His face was trying to be brave. He looked so little. So heartbreakingly little. Just behind him, Jason unlocked the car with a quiet click. He gave them space. He always did.  Clara knelt, slow and unsteady, breath catching as her joints protested. Her hand reached for Jack’s cheek, her thumb brushing under his eye. It was soft, warm, impossibly young.

“Hey,” she whispered. Her voice felt too small for the size of her emotions. “My brave boy.”

“Mummy…” Jack gave her a half-smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes. “You’re gonna cry.”

“Too late baby” She let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I already am.” She took both his hands in hers, kissing his knuckles. Her eyes stung, her throat closing in around the words she didn’t want to say — because none of this was fair. None of it had ever been fair. “I hate this,” she said, her voice breaking like glass. “I hate that someone who didn’t fight for you, didn’t show up for you — ever — gets to drag you into a courtroom and pretend that matters now. I hate that he has a name on a piece of paper and thinks that makes him your father.” Jack blinked. His lips pressed tight. Clara swallowed a sob. “You are not small because of him. You are not less because he doesn’t know how to love you right. Do you hear me?” Jack nodded, silent, serious. “You know who you are?” she said, trying to steady her voice, trying to hold it together long enough to pour her love into him. “You are good, Jack. So good. And clever and kind and strong and... so loved. You’re not going in there alone. You’ve got Daddy — YOUR true daddy — with you. And you’ve got me and Hope, right here. Right here, waiting.” Tears spilled freely now, silent and hot. “You be brave in there,” she whispered, pressing her hand over his heart. “But if you’re scared... it’s okay. Just reach for Jason’s hand. You’re not carrying this alone. Not ever.”

“okay…” Jack gave a tiny nod. His own eyes glistened. “I know.”

Clara leaned forward, pressing her lips to his forehead, then each cheek. She breathed him in like she could memorize him in this moment — the softness of his skin, the smell of cereal and shampoo and seven years of love.

“I’m so proud of you,” she choked out. “Just for being you.”

“I love you, Mummy,” Jack said suddenly, fiercely, and threw his arms around her.

She held him tightly, her body shaking, her belly pressing between them like a third heartbeat. She never wanted to let him go.But she had to. When he stepped back, Jason was there. At the top of the path, waiting.

Clara rose slowly, her legs unsteady, her hands bracing on the doorframe. “You’ve got this,” she called softly to Jack, her voice splintering. “We’re with you.”

Jack nodded again. And then he did the hardest thing: he turned and walked away.Jason met him by the car, opening the door. But before Jack climbed in, Jason looked back up at her. And in that look — just one second — Clara felt his love reach all the way to her bones. Still, he came back. Back up the path, back to her. He reached for her hand, pulled her into him, and she collapsed into his arms with a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. His arms went around her, solid and sure, holding all the pieces of her that felt like they were breaking.

“I feel like I’m failing him,” she sobbed into his chest. “Like I’m sending him back into something dark, and I’m not there to keep the shadows off.”

“You’re not failing,” Jason said, voice rough but steady. “You’re choosing love — just a different kind. The kind that knows when to stay. The kind that grows here.” He touched her belly, cupping it gently between them. “Hope needs you. Jack needs me. We are where we’re meant to be today.”

“I hate this,” she whispered.

“I know.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “But this is the kind of love that lasts. The kind that makes him brave, even when you’re not in the room.”

Clara let the tears come. She didn’t try to stop them.

Jason kissed her forehead, her cheek, then her lips — a kiss full of everything unsaid. Then he pulled back and smiled gently. “I’ll bring him home to you.”

“You always do,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

He stepped away, back down the path. Jack was already buckled in. The car door closed. The engine started. Clara stood in the doorway, hand over her heart. Jack turned and waved from the back seat.

She waved back, tears blurring her view. “I love you,” she mouthed. “Forever.”

And then they were gone.

The silence afterward was unbearable. The kind that makes your ears ring. She closed the door slowly and leaned her forehead against the wood, shaking. Her hands slid down to her belly, grounding herself in the soft, solid weight of the life inside her.

“I’m sorry, baby girl,” she whispered. “I should be there. But I can’t do both things today. I can’t be everywhere.” Hope shifted inside her — a fluttering press against her ribs, as if answering. “I know,” Clara murmured. “I know you need me too.”

She stood there in the quiet for a long time, tears slipping down her cheeks, her breath shallow. And though her body stayed behind, everything in her — every thread of her love, every piece of her heart — was already riding in that car, heading toward the place she couldn’t go.

The road curved gently out of the neighborhood, trees lining either side, still touched by morning mist. The light was thin and grey — a kind of in-between light, like even the sky didn’t want to decide what kind of day it was going to be. The car was quiet. Too quiet. Just the soft thrum of tires on wet tarmac and the steady, shallow rhythm of Jack’s breathing from the back seat. Jason’s hands were tight around the steering wheel, his grip too hard. His knuckles stood out, pale. He forced himself to breathe and loosened his hold, flexing his fingers against the leather. His shoulders ached with tension. His jaw was locked so tight he could feel the pulse ticking just beneath his ear. He couldn’t stop thinking about her…Clara. Standing in the doorway, barefoot and shivering. Pale from exhaustion. Crying quietly, trying to be strong. One hand on her belly, the other waving as they pulled away. She’d looked like she was breaking in half and holding herself together with nothing but love. And it had gutted him.

He’d wanted to turn the car around. Just stop. Just go back. Wrap her in a blanket, make her that favourite tea of hers that she loved, hold her close, and press his forehead to hers until the pain in her eyes softened. Until she believed — really believed — that she wasn’t failing. Because she wasn’t. Not even close. She just loved so hard that it broke her when she couldn’t be everything for everyone. Jason knew that version of her — the quiet kind of strong. Not the loud, bossy strength some people mistook for control, but the strength that showed up when no one else could. The kind that said I’ll carry this too. And now she couldn’t. Not today. Not with her body aching and the baby moving and her heart pulled in two directions. And all he could do was take one piece of the weight and hold it tight.

He glanced into the rearview mirror. Jack sat in the back seat, staring out the window, his small hands clutched in his lap. He wasn’t crying. But his silence was heavy — the kind that said he was thinking too hard for a six-year-old. Jason’s chest pulled tight.

“You okay back there, mate?” he asked gently. “All good?”

Jack looked up. Their eyes met in the mirror. “Yeah,” he said, quiet but steady.

Jason nodded. “Just checking.”

A few more beats of silence.

“Mummy didn’t want to cry,” Jack said suddenly. “But she did.”

Jason softened his voice. “Yeah. She does that. She cries when it matters.”

Jack turned back to the window. “I think it makes her strong.”

Jason blinked and looked back to the road. “It does.”

Another pause. Then Jack’s voice, softer now responded. “She told me I didn’t have to carry everything by myself.”

Jason swallowed. That woman, even with her heart in pieces, always knew the exact right thing to say.

“She’s right,” he said. “You’ve got me. You’ve got her. You’ve got us with you every step of the way.” He reached over and turned the heat up a little, just enough to chase the chill from the car. “We’re meeting Matt at the court,” he added after a moment, his voice shifting just slightly — practical now, anchoring. “He’ll be there before we go in. You remember him from before, yeah?”

“Oh yes, he's funny,” Jack nodded. “The one with the red car.”

Jason smiled faintly. “Yeah. That’s him. He’ll be with us the whole time.”

And he would. Matt was solid. Loyal. Protective of Jack in the quiet, grown-up way Jason had come to respect. It mattered. It helped. But none of it could fix what this day was.

Jason flexed his hands again, one gripping the gearstick now, shifting down as they slowed into a quieter stretch of road. His thoughts drifted — not to Sean, not yet — but back to Clara. He truly had never loved anyone the way he loved her. Not even close. He'd had relationships before, sure. Plenty of them. Some long enough to leave a dent, most over before they ever became real. There had been people who liked him because of who he was — Jason Orange from Take That — the one who smiled too easily, danced well, played the guitar with enough swagger to keep the illusion alive. They liked the image. The stage-light version of him. They liked the flirtation, the fame, the photos. But not many had ever stayed long enough — or quiet enough — to see the man behind the flash. The quiet one. The sometimes-anxious, overthinking one. The man who craved stillness and hated conflict and had spent years feeling like a puzzle with the wrong corners. Some partners had wanted to fix him. Others had wanted to be seen next to him — but not see him. But Clara? She had never asked him to perform. She saw him. Fully. Flaws and all. She called him out when he retreated, challenged him when he disappeared inside himself, but she never tried to shape him into something else. She just loved him. And it terrified him — that kind of love. Because it made everything matter more.

Loving Clara had made him softer and braver in the same breath. Made him want to show up — not just be present, but stand beside her in the fire. Catch her when she was burning out. And when he saw her in that doorway, trying to smile through pain and guilt, something in him had ached so fiercely he could barely speak. “I’ll bring him home to you,” he had told her. And he would. He had made a thousand promises in his life. To fans, to family and even to his former bandmates but this was one he’d keep if it was the last thing he did. Soon he glanced in the mirror and spotted that Jack had dozed off now, his head tipped toward the window, hoodie bunched around his neck. Jason’s chest loosened just a little. They were halfway there. Halfway between past and future. Between what Sean had been and what Jason would always be. He turned the music on low — just enough to fill the space — and drove on. One hand steady on the wheel. The other, silently holding Clara’s heart in his own.

The car soon came to a stop with a soft jolt. Jack’s eyes blinked open. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. His cheek was warm where it had been resting against the window, but the rest of him felt cold — not from outside, but from inside. That kind of cold that starts in your chest and makes your fingers curl in. He sat up slowly, pushing his hood back from his eyes. The courthouse was right in front of them. It looked even bigger than last time. Tall and grey. Not scary like a monster, but scary like something important. Like the kind of place where you have to be quiet and grown-up, even if you’re not. Jack stared at it through the windshield. The windows were misted around the edges, and someone had written something with their finger on the glass — not them. It had been from before. The letters were smudged now. Faded.

He looked down and reached for his backpack, tugging it closer onto his lap. Mister Bunny was inside. Clara had tucked him in that morning without saying a word — just quietly placed him on top of Jack’s folded hoodie like she didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. But Jack had noticed. She always made sure he was there on hard days. He unzipped the front pocket and found the worn, familiar shape right away — one ear bent funny, the fur matted from years of being held tight. Jack curled his fingers around the floppy paw and squeezed, just to feel the softness. Just to remember he could. Behind it, tucked carefully into the back of the pocket, was something else.

A photo.

Jack pulled it out gently, unfolding the edges. It was the one from the beach. All three of them — him, Clara, and Jason — standing together in the wind. Jack in the middle with a shell in his hand and a grin too big for his face. Clara with one hand on her belly, squinting into the sun. Jason’s arm around both of them, hair a mess, eyes crinkled at the corners. They all looked a little wild from the wind. And a lot like a family. Jack stared at it, his fingers brushing the edge. It didn’t feel like a big photo. But it held a big feeling. He looked at Jason in the picture — the way he leaned in toward them, slightly bent like he was already protecting them without even meaning to. Jason was like that. Not loud about it. Not showy. Just… there. Like gravity. Like warmth you didn’t know you needed until it was gone. Jack’s chest went tight with something warm he didn’t have a name for. He loved Jason. He knew that. But it wasn’t just bedtime hugs and packed lunches and funny voices when he read books. It was the way Jason made everything feel more still. Safer. Like when he was next to you, you could stand a little taller. Breathe a little easier. Sometimes the little boy remembered what life felt like before Jason Orange came into his life. Bits and pieces. Cold silences. Tense voices. Grown-ups who didn’t look at you when they spoke. He remembered that feeling — of being around people who didn’t know how to love gently. Who didn’t try. But Jason had everyday. Not with fireworks or promises. Just by showing up. Again and again.

Jack looked back at the photo and felt that steadiness. That safety. That love. And he knew — in the way only kids truly know — that this was what family was supposed to feel like. He tucked the picture back into the pocket, underneath Mister Bunny, like he was hiding treasure. He didn’t need to take it out during court. Just knowing it was there — tucked close, carried with him — was enough.

Jason now turned off the engine and looked back at him.

“We’re here, bud.” Jack nodded once. His backpack felt heavier now — but not in a bad way. More like something solid. Something full of love. Jason got out first, came around to open Jack’s door. He crouched down beside him, steady eyes and that warm hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Take your time. We don’t have to rush.”

Jack nodded again. He hated rushing. Sometimes when people rushed, they forgot you were scared. He climbed out slowly, his trainers hitting the pavement with a soft thud. The air outside smelled like wet stone and something sharp — coffee, maybe — from the café across the road. A man in a suit walked past them fast, talking into a phone. His voice was loud and fast and didn’t make any sense. Jack looked up at the building. It was so tall. The sky behind it was flat and grey, like someone had painted over all the colour. Everything felt too quiet — but not the peaceful kind. The kind that made you feel like something was about to happen.

His voice was small when it finally came out.

“It still looks big.”

Jason looked down at him, one corner of his mouth lifting. “It is big.”

Jack frowned. “Do you think it feels that way to grown-ups too?”

Jason was quiet for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. Sometimes things feel big no matter how tall you are.”

Jack liked that answer. It didn’t try to make anything better. It just told the truth. He looked back at the doors. He remembered the chairs inside — too high for his feet to touch the ground. The smell of paper and lemon cleaner. The man who asked too many questions. And Sean — sitting across the room, smiling like it meant something, when it didn’t. Jack’s hand found Jason’s coat sleeve and held on. Jason didn’t speak. Just reached down and covered Jack’s hand with his own, warm and steady. A small squeeze. Just once.

“We’re meeting Matt just inside,” Jason said. “He said he’s wearing that silly tie you like.”

"Cool" Jack smiled a little. “The one with the flamingos.”

"Yep.."Jason chuckled. “That’s the one.”

They stood there for a moment longer. Then Jack took a breath — big and shaky. The kind Clara called a brave breath.

“I’m ready,” he said.

Jason didn’t ask Are you sure? He didn’t need to. He just opened the door and walked beside him. And Jack walked in. Not fast. Not fearless. But not alone. Never.

The lobby was too bright. Big windows spilled pale light across the tiled floor, and everything smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and something too clean to be comforting. Jack stepped just inside the doors, his backpack clutched in front of him, Mister Bunny pressing into his back through the fabric. The noise from the street hushed instantly, like the courthouse had its own kind of silence — heavy and waiting. Jason’s hand hovered just behind his shoulder, not touching him. Just close.

Matt was already waiting near the front desk, leaning against a pillar with his hands in his coat pockets. His tie stood out — loud flamingo pink, with tiny dancing birds that seemed completely out of place in the courthouse. Jack saw it immediately.

“Daddy said you’d wear the silly tie,” Jack said, smiling faintly.

Matt looked down at it and grinned. “You think I wear this for just anyone?”

Jack giggled a little. “It looks like it’s having a party.”

“Well,” Matt said, crouching down beside him, “I figured if anyone deserved flamingos on a courtroom day, it was you.”

Jack nodded, the smile slipping away almost as fast as it came. “Can I get something from the vending machine please Daddy?”

Jason checked the time, then nodded. “Yeah, go ahead. Same place as last time?”

Jack pointed toward the far wall, where the vending machines stood next to a long row of orange plastic chairs. “I know the way.”

“Alright. Want me to come with you?”

Jack shook his head. “I’m okay.”

As he walked away, Jason watched him carefully until he was out of earshot, then turned toward Matt. His voice dropped low.

“Have you heard anything?”

Matt nodded once. “I spoke to the court officer half an hour ago. The judge isn’t happy.”

Jason gave a dry laugh. “Good. Because I’m still reeling from that conversation.”

Matt’s voice turned cautious. “He really asked for money?”

Jason shook his head. “Not asked. Told. Told me he’d walk away and leave Jack alone if I bought him out. Said he was being ‘practical.’ Like this is a transaction. Like Jack’s a bloody debt.”

Matt’s face didn’t change much, but his eyes darkened. “You did the right thing by calling me.”

Jason rubbed the back of his neck, tense. “And the judge? What’s she saying?”

“She’s pissed,” Matt said plainly. “It’s not official, obviously, but they’re taking it seriously. Attempting to trade off parental rights? Not a great look.”

Jason’s jaw clenched. “Then why are we still here? Why’s Jack still being put through this — again?”

Matt let out a breath, slow and measured. “Because the system’s careful. Too careful, sometimes. She has to go through the motions. Make the process airtight. Give Sean every chance to prove himself — even if it’s only so he can hang himself with his own rope.”

Jason’s eyes burned. “He already has.”

“I know,” Matt said gently. “But she needs it to be undeniable.”

Jason didn’t respond. He looked across the lobby, where Jack was bent in front of the vending machine, hands braced on his knees, peering through the glass like it held the meaning of life. And then something shifted in the air. Jason felt it before he saw it — that prickle at the back of his neck. He turned. Sean was there, across the room, standing beside a liaison officer. His shirt was crisp, his hair freshly cut, and his body language so relaxed it made Jason’s skin crawl. He gestured lazily as he spoke, like he was at a dinner party.  Then he looked up. And saw Jason.And smiled. A slow, sarcastic little smirk — like he knew exactly what he’d done, and exactly what he still thought he could get away with. Jason didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But every muscle in his body coiled tight, his fists curling at his sides.

“Don’t,” Matt said quietly, stepping in closer. “He wants you to react.”

Jason’s voice was low. “I’d like to give him exactly what he deserves.”

“And I’d like you not to get arrested in a courthouse lobby,” Matt replied. “Especially not today.”

Jason looked away, exhaling hard. “Tell me what happens next.”

Matt nodded, slipping into professional calm. “The officer’s going to come out soon. They’ll take Jack into a private room. Sean will already be in there. So will the liaison.”

Jason’s head snapped back. “Wait — I can’t go in with him?”

Matt shook his head. “You’re not allowed in the room. Neither is Sean’s lawyer. It’s just Jack, Sean, and a trained officer watching the whole thing.”

Jason’s eyes blazed. “He doesn’t want to see Sean. He shouldn’t have to.”

“I know,” Matt said. “But it’s supervised. Nothing will happen. If Jack even looks uncomfortable, the officer will end it. And you’ll be the first to know.”

Jason looked back toward the vending machines. Jack was putting coins into the slot now, his head tilted slightly as he made his choice. He looked so small in the wide, polished room. Too small for this.

“He’s got Mister Bunny in his bag,” Jason said quietly. “And a photo Clara put in this morning. Us at the beach. He hasn’t said it, but I think he’s carrying it all with him today.”

Matt followed his gaze. “Then he’s stronger than most grown men I know.” Jason didn’t answer. He just nodded once. And waited.

Jason crouched down slowly in front of Jack, hands resting on his knees to bring himself to eye level. He hated that he had to say this. Hated that it was true.

“Alright, mate,” he said gently. “I need to tell you something” Jack looked up from where he was fiddling with the zipper on his backpack. His eyes, already wary, went still. Jason hesitated only a second. “I can’t go in the room with you.”

Jack blinked. “What?”

Jason shook his head, voice low. “Not because I don’t want to. I do. But the rules say it has to be just you and Sean, with a special officer in the room to make sure everything’s safe.”

Immediately, Jack’s face changed. His mouth pinched at the corners. His shoulders stiffened under his hoodie. “I don’t want to go in alone.”

Jason reached out and cupped the side of Jack’s face with one steady hand. “You’re not alone,” he said firmly. “Not really.”

Jack’s lower lip wobbled. “But you won’t be there.”

Jason took his other hand and pressed it to Jack’s chest — right over his heart.

“I am there. Right here. You carry me in with you. And your mum. And Hope. And Mister Bunny. And that picture in your bag.” His voice grew softer. “You’re going in with all of us.”

Jack’s eyes filled suddenly, blinking hard against tears. He gripped Jason’s wrist and didn’t let go. “What if I get scared?”

“Then the officer will bring you out. Right away. If you feel weird, if you feel upset, if you don’t like it — even a little — you tell them. And it’s over. I’ll be right here the whole time. You’ll see me when you come out.”

Jack’s voice cracked. “Promise?”

Jason’s throat thickened. “I promise, kid. Cross my heart, all the way to the moon and back.”

Jack let out a shaky breath. Then he did something Jason wasn’t expecting — he threw his arms around his neck.Jason caught him, held him tight. Felt his small fingers grip his collar like he was anchoring himself. He pressed his face into Jack’s shoulder and breathed him in — child-scented, soft, brave in a way no child should ever have to be.

“You’ve already made us proud,” Jason whispered. “No matter what happens in there.”

Behind them, the officer stepped forward gently, giving Jason a small nod. Jack pulled back slowly. His face was pale, but he gave a tiny nod. He picked up his backpack and hugged it to his chest. Mister Bunny’s ear stuck out of the top, flopped sideways. And then Jack turned. Jason watched every step — the soft tread of his trainers on the tiled floor, the way the backpack bumped against his back, the bunny tucked tight in his arms. He didn’t look back. Jason’s chest ached with the effort it took not to follow.

He stayed crouched even after Jack disappeared through the door, his hand hanging useless at his side. Then he felt it — Matt’s hand on his shoulder. Steady. Wordless.

“He’ll be okay,” Matt said. “You’ve given him everything he needs.”

Jason nodded once, jaw clenched. But his eyes were locked on the door.

Clara sat on the edge of the bed, hands pressed to her belly, the baby shifting restlessly under her palm. The sunlight through the window was soft and gold now, but it felt too still. The house had never been so quiet. Her phone was on the nightstand, face-down. She hadn’t heard anything yet. Her heart beat in double-time, fast and shallow, like it didn’t know whether to brace or hope.

She brushed her hand across her belly, murmuring softly. “They’re there now, baby girl. Jack and Daddy. Doing the hard thing.”  Hope kicked in reply — not hard, but definite. Clara closed her eyes. She imagined Jack’s face. Brave, but frightened. That careful, thoughtful look he got when something mattered more than he knew how to say. She imagined him holding Mister Bunny, his little fingers gripping Jason’s sleeve. She pictured the photo tucked in his backpack — the three of them smiling in the wind.

Clara swallowed hard. “He’s so brave,” she whispered. “And he’s ours.” Another kick, just beneath her ribs. “I know,” she said. “You feel it too.” She let out a shaky breath and rested both hands over her belly “I wish I could be there,” she said. “But you need me here. And today, Daddy’s the one who gets to hold Jack up. Just like he holds me up when I forget how to be strong.”

She glanced at the door, half expecting it to open. It didn’t. So she leaned back against the pillows, one hand still cradling her bump, and let herself picture it: Jason, kneeling in front of their son. Their boy, walking away — scared, but not alone. And all of them, stitched together by love. Even here. Even now.

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft thud. Jack stood just inside the room, still and small. It wasn’t big, not like the rest of the courthouse. Just a square space with beige walls and no windows. One table. Two chairs. A third against the wall. A jug of water. A tiny box of tissues someone had tried to make look normal. Everything smelled like paper and floor cleaner. He clutched his backpack against his chest, one strap hooked over his shoulder, Mister Bunny’s ear sticking out where he could grab it fast if he needed to. His fingers gripped the photo inside the front pocket like it was a safety rope. Sean was already in the room. He stood the second Jack entered. And Jack froze. For a second, they just looked at each other. Sean looked... different. Cleaner than usual. His hair was neater. His clothes weren’t creased. He had a kind of sharp, pointy smile on — the kind grown-ups sometimes used when they wanted something but were trying to act like they didn’t.

Jack didn’t move.

“Hey there,” Sean said, stepping forward slightly — too casually. “Jack, right?” Jack nodded. Barely. His throat was too tight to say anything. Sean's smile widened, like he was trying to make it reach his eyes but they hadn’t gotten the message. “It’s good to see you,” he said, like they were meeting at a park or something. “You’ve gotten big.”

The little boy looked over at the officer in the corner of the room. A woman, standing near the wall, clipboard in hand. She didn’t smile, but she gave him the tiniest nod. Like I see you. You’re okay. That helped. A little. Jack stayed near the door.

“its okay” Sean gestured to the chair across from his. “You wanna sit?”

Jack looked at the chair.Then back at Sean. Then at the officer again. His legs felt stiff. Not from walking, but from dread — the kind that sat low in his belly and made it hard to breathe right.   Slowly, he crossed the room and sat down. But he didn’t take off his backpack. He didn’t let go of Mister Bunny’s ear. He perched on the edge of the chair like he might need to leave quickly. Like he wasn’t sure yet if the chair wanted him to stay. Sean sat down too. His hands folded awkwardly on the table. Like he was trying hard to look calm but wasn’t sure how. There was a silence — long and weird.

Sean cleared his throat. “So. Um. School good?” Jack gave the smallest nod. “Got a favourite subject?”

Jack’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Art.”

Sean perked up. “Yeah? I liked art too, when I was a kid. You like animals? Dinosaurs?” Jack nodded again. His mouth felt dry. He reached for the cup of water in front of him, but his hands were shaking, so he didn’t. “You still like that bunny?” Sean asked, eyeing the ear poking out of Jack’s bag. “What’s his name again... Mr. Bear?”

Jack’s eyes flicked up. “Mister Bunny.”

Sean laughed like it was funny. “Right, right. Mister Bunny. Yeah, I remember now.”

But Jack knew he didn’t. He never remembered Mister Bunny. Not once. Jack could feel it — the lie. The pretending. The act. Sean was trying to be nice. But it didn’t feel like Jason was nice to him. Or when Clara was. It didn’t feel real nice. It felt like the kind of nice that made your skin feel tight, like clothes that didn’t fit.

Sean leaned forward a little. “You know, I’ve been thinking about you.” Jack’s body went still.“I’ve been wanting to see you. You’re my boy, you know. I’ve missed you.”

Jack’s hands gripped his bag tighter. The photo inside dug into his knuckles — that picture from the beach. Jason’s arm around him. Clara smiling, wind in her hair. Safe. Real. Sean kept talking, but Jack wasn’t really listening anymore. The officer shifted slightly, and the boys eyes darted to her again. She was still there. Still watching. Still ready. He focused on Mister Bunny’s ear. On the stitches Clara had fixed herself. The way Jason had once used him to wipe a tear from Jack’s cheek when he thought he wouldn’t notice.That was love. This? This was something else.Jack didn’t know the word for it. But his body knew. And it didn’t want to stay.

The door had closed almost five minutes ago, but Jason hadn’t moved. He stood where Jack had left him, one hand curled around the back of the nearest chair, the other fisted in his jacket pocket, nails biting into his palm. He hated this waiting. This quiet, helpless stillness. He could imagine it all too clearly — the cold room, the awkward silence, the way Sean probably turned on that fake charm like a switch. And Jack… sitting there, clutching Mister Bunny, that brave little body full of nerves and trying not to let it show. Jason's stomach twisted. He turned away from the door and let himself sink down into one of the orange plastic chairs. The kind that always seemed designed to make you uncomfortable. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands laced together. Staring down at the speckled tile floor, his mind wandered — not to Sean, not to the court officer, but to something else.

A memory.

Clear as if it were yesterday.

Jason blinked and sat back, breath catching. The noise of the room came back in around him — quiet chatter, the low hum of vending machines, footsteps on tile. He reached for his phone, thumb hovering. A message had come through.

Clara ❤️

Thinking of you both. Has he gone in yet? Is he okay?

Hope’s kicking like mad. I think she’s cheering for her brother.

Jason smiled, chest tightening. He typed back.

Yeah. He’s in. He was scared, but he went. Took Mister Bunny. Has the photo in his bag. He’s doing us proud.

He watched the little “typing…” bubble appear, then disappear again. No reply yet. Maybe she was crying. Maybe just breathing. Matt walked over from where he’d been speaking to one of the officers, cup of coffee in one hand.

“Anything?” Jason asked.

Matt shook his head. “Still in there. Officer said he’s calm. Holding it together.”

Jason rubbed the back of his neck. “I hate this.”

Matt sat down next to him. “Yeah. I know.”

Jason let out a breath, quiet. “You know... I never thought I’d be here. Not just physically — I mean here. This life.”

Matt didn’t interrupt.

“Back in the day…” Jason stared at the floor, voice quiet. “I used to tell myself I wouldn’t date anyone with kids. Too complicated. Too much… baggage. That was the word I used back then. ‘Baggage.’ Like a human child was just an inconvenience.”

“You were young mate…plus” Matt nodded slowly. “People say stupid things when they’re protecting themselves.”

“I thought it’d be hard,” Jason went on. “That I’d always feel like an outsider. Like a stand-in. But I don’t know. I’ve never felt more in. I look at Jack, and it’s like — he’s mine. Even though he’s not. Not on paper. Not in blood. But in every way that counts?” He swallowed hard. “I’d go to war for that kid.”

Matt’s voice was soft. “And that right there — that’s the difference.” Jason glanced at him. Matt nodded. “That’s what Sean will never understand. You don’t claim a child. You show up. You earn it. Again and again.”Jason exhaled slowly. His fingers twitched toward the door again.

“I’m not his father,” he said. “But I’m his dad.”

Matt smiled faintly. “Damn right you are.”

Jason leaned back in the hard plastic chair, the echo of the closed door still ringing in his chest. He rubbed at his jaw, heart pounding, hands restless in his lap. He could feel every second passing like a tremor. He let out a breath.

“I used to think kids were just added pressure i didn't need ,” he said softly. Matt, still beside him, turned just enough to listen. “Not in a cruel way. I just… I told myself I wasn’t built for all that. Family. Dependence. I thought I needed freedom to stay creative — whatever that meant.” Matt didn’t interrupt. He just waited.“Back in the band,” Jason continued, his voice low and a little hoarse, “when we got back together — Gary, Mark, Howard — they all had families. They’d be on calls with their kids after rehearsals. Talking about packed lunches and school runs. I’d be there with my smoothies, my vitamins and my silence, pretending I didn’t feel left out.” He gave a short laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You remember the I’d Wait for Life video?”

“Oh yeah, that big country house,” Matt nodded. “Yeah. You were with the kids.”

"Yeah.” Jason smiled faintly. “Blowing bubbles on a fake staircase. Surrounded by a fake family. The director said, ‘Just look like you belong here.’ I tried. But all I could think was, this’ll never be me. I looked like I was babysitting someone else’s dream.” He stared at the floor. “And now? Look at me.” Matt waited. “It took over a decade, but I got there. Properly. A Real family of my own. Not for the cameras. For life…for my life ” He paused, eyes softening as the memory pulled into focus. “You remember me telling you Jack’s fourth birthday?”

“yes..” Matt nodded again. “Course. Back to the Future theme. Wild choice.”

Jason chuckled, but it faded into something tender.

“That was the day it all changed. Not just for Jack — for me.” He sat forward, elbows on his knees, eyes distant. “Clara and I had just gotten back together. She showed up at my door one evening — rain in her hair, shaking, furious at herself for walking away. She didn’t say ‘I missed you.’ She said, I love you. And then she kissed me. Said she wanted to stop running and start something real.” Jason’s voice lowered, gentler now. “She invited me to the party. Said, let’s surprise him. We didn’t tell Jack. She just led him outside where I was waiting with Molly. Full cowboy gear. Boots, hat, the whole ridiculous look. Molly had that red scarf on — I swear the dog was proud of it.” Matt smiled. And Jack,” Jason continued, his voice catching slightly, “Jack saw me… and it was like the air disappeared. He froze. Just for a second. Then he ran at me like nothing else in the world mattered. Jumped into my arms and shouted, my birthday wish came true!” He paused, eyes stinging now. “That was the moment,” he whispered. “That’s when he stopped calling me Mister Jason and called me by my first name. Because we were family he said and I'll never forget it. Now look, he calls me Daddy now. Like he’d known all along that’s who I was supposed to be.” Jason rubbed his jaw again, swallowing. “I didn’t realise it could feel like that. That chosen kind of love. Not because you have to. But because a little boy looked at you and decided you were safe. You were his.”

Matt exhaled slowly. “I remember you messaging me. He never left your side that whole day.”

Jason nodded. “And I haven’t left him since.” A silence settled between them, thick with meaning. “I’d do anything for that boy,” Jason said finally. “Anything. And not because I’m trying to prove something. Just because… he’s mine. Even if there’s no paperwork. No DNA. It doesn’t matter. He’s my son.”

Matt looked at him for a long moment.

“That’s the difference,” he said quietly. “That’s the line between you and Sean. You love without needing to own. He wants to own without knowing how to love.”

Jason nodded once, jaw tight, chest aching. He looked back at the door.

Waiting. Always waiting. But never walking away.

Jack’s feet dangled off the edge of the chair, not quite touching the floor. His legs had gone stiff. His fingers clutched Mister Bunny’s ear so tightly it hurt — but he didn’t let go.Across the table, Sean was changing.The false warmth was gone. His tone had sharpened. Each word was a jab now — not meant to connect, just to wound.

“I don’t know why you’re acting like this,” Sean said, voice rising with every sentence. “I came, didn’t I? I showed up. That’s more than most dads bother to do.” Jack stayed quiet.“You think Jason’s better than me?” Sean scoffed. “Of course you do. He’s your big bloody hero, isn’t he?” Jack blinked, eyes on the table, heart thudding so hard it shook his chest. Sean leaned back, sneering. “You know he was the only one in that crappy band who couldn’t sing? Just stood at the back, flashing that dopey grin and clapping along like a spare part. Couldn’t carry a verse. Couldn’t write a note. Couldn’t even fake it.”

Jack’s fists clenched tighter around Mister Bunny.

“He’s not useless,” he whispered.

Sean gave a sharp, humourless laugh. “Right. That's what he told you? I bet he’s got you thinking I’m the villain. That I walked away. But here’s the truth, kid — I didn’t want you. Not really. I told your mother what I wanted. She didn’t listen.”

The officer shifted. “Sir,” she warned, tone low but clear, “I’m going to need you to stop—”

Sean ignored her, his voice snapping like a whip now.

“I only showed up again because of Jason’s money. Figured if he wanted to play daddy, he could pay for the privilege.” He leaned forward, lips curling. “I tried to make it easy. Asked for it straight. Told him to pay me off and I’d disappear. But I guess that saint of a mother of yours had to take the moral high ground.” He shook his head, bitter. She always was righteous. So bloody noble. Probably why she didn’t get rid of you when I told her to..you shouldn't even be here”

The air shifted. The officer went still. Even she looked stunned. Jack’s breath caught in his chest like a punch. Then something cracked inside him. But not the way Sean wanted. He stood. Small. Shaking. But upright. His voice came out soft — but it didn’t waver.

 “DONT say those mean things about Jason..” Sean looked startled. “He's my daddy.” .Jack took a breath — one of the brave ones Clara taught him. Held it deep, then let it go slowly. “Daddy always tells me that hating people isn’t good,” Jack said. “That it hurts you more than them.” The room held its breath. “But I hate you, Sean.” Sean blinked. “I hate what you did to Mummy. The way she cried. The times she said it was okay when it wasn’t. I hate what you did to me — even if I don’t remember all of it, I still feel it.” his voice cracked — just once. “I hate that you lie. That you only come when you want something. That you don’t love people. Just use them.” He paused, breath trembling. “You’re not my family,” he said. “You’re just a bad man who wants things instead of people.”

“Right…” The officer stepped forward, her voice soft but unshakable. “Let’s go, Jack.”

Jack pulled on his backpack. Mister Bunny was still tucked under one arm. The photo inside — the one with Jason and Clara and the beach — pressed against his chest like armor. He walked out. Not fast. Not running. Just steady. And for the first time since the door had closed behind him, something inside him let go. He had told the truth. And walked out of the wreckage still holding on to love.

Jason hadn’t sat down in fifteen minutes. He was pacing the same three steps back and forth in front of the double doors, his hands flexing open and closed. The moment Jack had gone in, something in Jason had started ticking — quiet, but relentless. A kind of helpless energy he couldn’t burn off.Matt stood nearby, calm on the outside but clearly listening for every footstep, every change in tone from the room beyond.When the door finally opened, Jason turned so fast he nearly dropped the water cup in his hand. Jack stepped out with the officer beside him. He looked smaller than when he’d gone in. Not like something had been taken from him — but like he’d let go of something heavy. His backpack was tugged too tight across his chest, Mister Bunny clutched under one arm, his face blotchy with dried tears. But his eyes — when they found Jason — were clear.Jason crouched before he even thought about it. Arms wide, voice soft.

“Hey, mate” Jack didn’t say anything. He just walked straight into Jason’s arms and held on. Not loose, not polite — but held, like he needed Jason’s heartbeat against his ear to believe he was safe again. Jason wrapped him up tight, one hand cradling the back of his head. “I got you,” he whispered, over and over. “I got you.”

Jack didn’t let go. Not for a long moment. When he finally did, he didn’t step away — just kept one fist curled in Jason’s shirt like a tether. Behind them, the officer was already talking to Matt, her voice low but brisk.

“I’ve called security,” she said. “Mr Markson became verbally aggressive, increasingly erratic. Jack was never physically harmed but—”

“He grabbed his arm,” Matt interrupted grimly. “We’ll want the footage.”

Jason turned sharply. “What?”

The officer nodded, grave. “It was brief. I intervened immediately. But yes, I saw him reach for Jack when the conversation escalated. I’ve already logged it. And there’s more.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. Jack’s grip on him tightened too.

“Sean admitted,” Matt said carefully, “that he tried to get you to pay him off. Said it in front of a court officer. That’s not just manipulative — it’s corruption. Potential bribery.” Jason’s breath caught, but Matt kept going. “He also said Clara shouldn’t have gone through with the pregnancy. That he told her to terminate. Said Jack shouldn’t be here. In front of him. What kind of man says that to a 6 year old? His own son, his flesh and blood”

Jason’s vision blurred for a second, not with tears — with rage. His hands curled into fists.

“I swear to God,” he hissed. “If I go near him right now, I’ll kill him. I will.”

Jack looked up suddenly, his voice small but clear. “Don’t.” Jason froze instantly. jack reached for his hand and held it tight. “You’re not like him, Daddy.”

Jason’s breath caught in his throat. That one word — Daddy — cut through everything. The anger. The adrenaline. The part of him that wanted blood. He dropped his head, forehead resting against Jack’s.

“No,” he whispered. “I’m not.”

Moments later,The doors swung open behind them again. Sean was shouting before he even cleared the frame, security on either side trying to keep a loose grip as he flailed.

“You smug little sh—! Hiding behind your lawyers and your fake family—”Jason rose to his full height, instinctively moving Jack behind him. The officer moved quickly too, placing herself in front of them, but Jason didn’t even blink. “You think you’ve won?!” Sean barked. “With your precious boy band record and your bloody storybook family? You’re not a father — you’re a fan service! A dancing pretty boy who tricked some single mum into playing house and has knocked her up too.” Jason didn’t move. He didn’t speak. But his fists clenched at his sides, the only thing keeping him from lunging being Jack’s tiny hand still looped around two of his fingers. “You think she chose you because you’re special?” Sean sneered. “She chose you because she was lonely. Because I palmed her off. That’s the only reason you’re even in the bloody picture!”

Jason’s voice was low — level — but lethal.

“Get him out of here.”

Security moved in, now fully engaged, hands on Sean’s arms.

“You’re a fraud, Orange!” Sean shouted over his shoulder as he was pulled toward the hallway. “You were just a bloody backup dancer with a lucky face!”

Jason didn’t respond. He just turned, dropped to one knee again, and looked Jack in the eyes.

“You alright?”

Jack nodded, shakily. “I said what I needed to,” he said.

Jason’s voice caught. “Yeah, mate. I heard.”

He pulled Jack close again, arms wrapped tight.

And even as Sean’s voice echoed down the corridor — fading, wild, pointless — Jason held his son like something sacred…..because right now he was.

Matt’s office was small, tidy, and smelled faintly of peppermint and printer ink. There were law books on the shelves, a framed photo of him and his dog Molly on the windowsill, and — to Jack’s delight — a tall rectangular fish tank bubbling quietly in the corner. Jack stood in front of it now, his backpack on the floor beside him, nose nearly pressed to the glass. The tank was full of bright, colourful fish that darted between bits of coral and fake seaweed, little blurs of orange, blue, and yellow.Jason sank into the armchair opposite Matt’s desk, finally letting out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for hours. He watched Jack trace the glass with one finger, smiling faintly.

“Are those all from Finding Nemo?” Jack asked without turning around.

Matt grinned. “Close enough. That’s Dory — the real boss of the tank. And that orange one you’re staring at? We call him ‘No Chill Nemo.’ He’s dramatic.” Jack giggled softly, face lit by the soft blue glow of the water.

Jason leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Tell me what’s next.”

Matt sobered. He opened the file in front of him, though it was mostly for show — he knew the contents by heart.

“Well, Sean’s little meltdown? It didn’t just help us — it might’ve just ended this entirely.”

Jason frowned. “That fast?”

Matt nodded. “Faster than I expected. I’ve already sent the surveillance footage of the supervised meeting to the judge. It’s damning. Verbal abuse. Attempted bribery. Grabbing Jack’s arm? That’s enough to trigger an emergency review on its own.” Jason’s jaw tightened again at the memory, but Matt raised a hand, reassuring. “And that’s exactly what I requested. I also flagged Sean’s earlier admission about trying to get Clara to terminate the pregnancy. It’s all logged. All admissible.”

Jason exhaled through his nose. “So what happens now?”

“I’ve got a meeting with the judge’s clerk this afternoon,” Matt said. “To discuss immediate outcome options. In the meantime, I’ve asked my assistant to fast-track the guardianship process paperwork.”

Jason blinked. “Already?”

“I don’t like waiting,” Matt said simply. “And frankly, no judge in their right mind is going to grant Sean Markson anything after today. He’s toxic. No family court will touch him. No lawyer will represent him now. He’s legally radioactive.”

Jason sat back slowly, the words sinking in like sunlight on wet ground.

“Are you serious?” he asked.

Matt nodded, smiling now. “You’ve got a window. A clear one. We’re going to file for full, permanent guardianship next week. No more hoops. No more supervised visits. No more threats.”

Jason blinked hard. “Jesus.”

Matt leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Honestly? I think Jack sealed it for us. The judge watched some of the earlier footage of him in the lobby — calm, respectful, brave as anything. And then saw that footage of Sean losing it? It was night and day.” He shrugged. “Either that or she’s a closet Take That fan.”

Jason huffed out a laugh, rubbing his eyes. “God. Clara’s going to cry.”

“She deserves to,” Matt said gently. “You all do.”

Jason looked over at Jack, who was now crouched in front of the tank, watching a blue tang zip back and forth like it had somewhere to be.

“Jack,” he said softly. The little boy turned. Jason stood and opened his arms. “Come here, mate.” Jack ran to him without hesitation, tucking himself under Jason’s chin, arms winding around his waist. Jason held him close, breathing in the scent of shampoo and warm fabric and safety. And “It’s almost over,” he whispered into Jack’s hair. “We’re gonna go home soon. Home, where you belong.”

Jack pulled back, tilting his head. “Will we tell Mummy the fish tried to chase me?”

Jason smiled, brushing his hair back. “We’ll tell her everything.”

Jack nodded solemnly. “Even about the man being bad?”

Jason kissed his forehead. “Especially that part.”

Jack soon slid off Jason’s lap quietly and wandered around Matt’s office, his small fingers brushing over the spines of law books, his eyes catching on the framed photos on the shelves and desk. He stopped in front of one picture in particular — Matt, his wife Kirsty, and their two boys, all smiling broadly in a sunlit garden. Jack’s lips curved slightly as he looked up at Jason.

Jason noticed, then turned back to Matt’s desk, leaning forward with a wry smile.

“I probably know what you’re about to say,” Jason said. “What if Sean goes to the papers? The photos of me and Jack are still out there.” Matt nodded, folding his hands on the desk.

“Most of the articles were taken down after the custody hearings started, but some are still floating around. What’s stopping him from going to the press?” Jason sighed, running a hand through his hair“Yeah... I can see the headlines already. ‘Take That Heartthrob Stole My Son’ or some nonsense like that.”

Matt raised an eyebrow, trying not to smile.

“You don’t exactly blend into the background, do you?”

Jason chuckled, but it was a bitter sound.

“I haven’t been part of anything Take That for ten years. Yet the press still treat me like I’m stuck in the past.” He paused, his voice dropping a little. “What if Sean leaks stuff about Clara? About her being pregnant? I can have pictures of her or my baby out there matt” Matt’s expression turned serious. “That kind of dirt can ruin people. Hell this nearly did” Jason nodded, the weight of it pressing down. “He’s the kind of man who stops at nothing. I can already picture the comments — ‘Middle-aged pop star plays daddy again,’ or ‘Pop star’s scandalous late pregnancy,’ like it’s some soap opera.” Jason looked at Matt, urgency in his eyes.

“You have to understand why I’m so private about all this. Why I protect Jack and Clara like they’re the last things I’ve got. Because with Sean? It’s not just about custody or money. It’s personal. It’s our lives, our peace.”

Matt leaned back, nodding thoughtfully.

“Understood. We’ll keep you all shielded as best we can.”

Jason finally let out a breath, feeling the tension ease a little but knowing the battle was far from over.Jason sat back slightly in the chair, rubbing a hand over his jaw, the pressure behind his eyes dull but insistent. Across the room, Jack crouched in front of the fish tank again, face lit by the soft blue glow, tapping gently on the glass as ‘No Chill Nemo’ darted back and forth like he had a deadline.Matt watched him for a second before turning back to Jason. His smile was small but genuine — warm, a little wry.

“I’ve known you a long time, mate,” he said. “Long enough to say you’re one of my best friends.” Jason gave a half-smile, the corners of his mouth twitching despite the heaviness in his chest.

 “I’ve been there for the good,” Matt went on. “The sold-out tours. The arena screaming. The half-dozen haircuts. Honestly what the fuck was going on with that mohawk? The fanmail that needed its own storage unit. And the bad too — the anxiety, the long silences, the times you didn’t believe you were worth a damn, even when half the world did.” Jason looked down, swallowing hard. Matt leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. “I know Jason Orange better than Jason Orange knows himself.”

Jason huffed softly. “Not hard.”

Matt grinned. “Still counts.”

Then his tone shifted — gentle but firm. “And that’s why I understand all of it. The fear. The need to protect what you’ve got. It’s not ego, Jason. It’s instinct. You fought to find peace, and now you’ve finally got it — you’ve got Clara, you’ve got Jack, you’ve got another baby on the way — of course you’re terrified of someone tearing that open.” Jason nodded once, grateful, his throat too tight for words. “So here’s what I’ve done,” Matt continued. “I’m drafting an order — part of the guardianship application. If Sean goes to the press, leaks anything about you, Clara, or Jack — any personal detail, photos, pregnancy rumours — we’ll sue him for everything he’s got.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Which I’m guessing is somewhere between a cracked phone and a dodgy watch?”

Matt smirked. “Exactly. But it’ll still bury him. And more importantly, it sends a message — you mess with my family, you pay.”

Jason’s chest loosened slightly, the first real sense of safety creeping in since the morning.

“As for the guardianship application,” Matt went on, flipping to the front of the file, “I’ve included a clause for an immediate restraining order upon approval. No contact. No loopholes. No proximity. If the judge grants it — and after Sean’s stunt earlier, there’s a damn good chance she will — he’ll be barred from even approaching Jack.”

Jason leaned forward again, voice quiet. “That’ll be it?”

Matt nodded. “That’ll be it.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of it all settling.

Across the room, Jack stood up and wandered over to a shelf of framed photos, his fingers hovering over the one of Matt with Kirsty and their boys.

“Are those your kids?” he asked.

Matt smiled. “Yeah. Max and Theo. That one was taken the day we put the trampoline together — mostly backwards, I’ll admit.”

Jack smiled, then wandered back toward the tank again, Mister Bunny poking out of his backpack.

Jason watched him, then turned back to Matt with something unspoken in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Matt just nodded, voice steady. “We’re almost there, Jay. And when this is done? He won’t just be safe — he’ll be yours.”

Jason stood slowly, the heaviness of the day slowly giving way to something else — not quite lightness, but release. Peace creeping in around the edges. Matt stood too, stretching his back with a quiet sigh. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Jason stepped forward, arms open in that quiet, unshowy way of his, and pulled Matt into a hug. It wasn’t the kind of hug men gave often — not a slap-on-the-back, half-laughing gesture. It was solid. Grateful. One man thanking another for standing at his side through hell and still being there when the smoke cleared.

Matt squeezed his shoulder firmly. “You know,” he said as they pulled apart, “you owe me for all of this.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Do I?”

“Oh, definitely,” Matt said, with mock seriousness. “I’m the one who gave Clara your address. That night she turned up at my house — half past eleven, hair scraped back, still in her pyjamas, shaking like a leaf.”

Jason blinked. “You never told me that.”

Matt grinned. “She looked like she’d just walked out of a rom-com and hadn’t decided if she was going to kiss you or punch you. Said she didn’t know what she was doing, just that she had to see you. Said she couldn’t go another night without knowing if it meant something.”

Jason smiled faintly, heart aching in the best kind of way.

“I felt like the old man in that ‘Babe’ music video, even sang her a line ” Matt went on. “come to your door…To see you again…But where you once stood..Was an old man instead.’”

Jason barked out a laugh. “You did not.”

“I did!” Matt said, deadpan. “And she just stared at me like I’d grown a second head. Had no idea what I was on about. Had no clue she was about to fall in love with a former member of one of the greatest British acts in history.”

Jason shook his head, grinning now. “That’s the thing. She didn’t want the band. She wanted me.”

Matt’s voice softened. “Exactly.”

They stood in the quiet for a moment, the weight of it all settling — but now, for the first time in weeks, that weight didn’t feel crushing. Jason looked over at Jack, who had returned to the fish tank, watching the neon tetras flicker through the fake coral like fireworks in slow motion. Safe again. Still a boy.

Jason turned back to Matt. “So what do I do now?”

Matt didn’t hesitate.

“You take your son,” he said gently, “and you go home.”

Jason swallowed hard, his voice low. “And after that?”

Matt gave the smallest smile. “You hold your girl. You make dinner. You let Jack sleep between you both for a night or two. You build your life. Quietly. Exactly the way you’ve earned it.”

Jason exhaled slowly. It felt like the first full breath he’d taken all day.

He crossed the room and knelt beside Jack, easing his backpack over his shoulders. “Ready to go, bud?”

Jack nodded and slipped his hand into Jason’s without needing to be asked.

Jason turned back at the door. “Thank you,” he said, his voice full now. “For everything.”

Matt’s smile widened. “Go be with your family, Jase. That’s what all this was for.”

And so Jason opened the door, took his son’s hand, and walked out. Not toward a headline. Not toward the past. But toward the only thing that mattered now.

Home.

Chapter Text

Clara sat on the sofa with one hand resting on her belly and the other curled around her phone. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the screen in nearly ten minutes — not because she expected anything new, but because she needed to see the last message again.

We’re on our way home.

That had been forty minutes ago. Her thumb hovered over the words, rereading them as if repetition might conjure new meaning, some overlooked nuance, some buried reassurance. She zoomed in on the timestamp. Refreshed the thread. Twice. The kind of small, helpless act that felt like doing something, even when it wasn’t.

The house was too still. Even with the television murmuring in the background and the washing machine spinning through its cycle, the quiet pressed in from all sides. The kind of silence that amplified everything — the click of the heating, the twitch of the curtains in a draft, the slow tick of the hallway clock. She flicked through channels aimlessly, the remote clenched too tightly in her palm. Every show felt wrong. Too loud. Too forced. She paused briefly on one about renovating cottages — but the couple on screen were arguing about tap finishes, and something in her chest twisted. She turned it off and exhaled sharply, the sound ricocheting through the room like a dropped glass. Then she stood. Again. And made her way upstairs

The nursery door gave slightly under her hand, as if it had been waiting. She crossed the room slowly, her gaze skimming over shelves lined with picture books and soft toys, the mobile above the cot spinning faintly on an invisible current of air. Hope’s tiny clothes were already folded in the drawers. Organised by size. Washed in non-bio detergent. Everything was arranged just so. But Clara opened the top drawer anyway and began to refold the muslin cloths — the lemon ones, the grey star-patterned ones, the plain white squares that smelled faintly of fabric softener. Third time today.

“Look at this one, baby girl,” she murmured, unfolding a lemon-yellow sleepsuit with tiny bees marching across the chest. “Your brother picked this one. Said it looked happy.” She held it to her cheek for a moment, eyes fluttering closed. “He wanted you to wear it the first time you meet him properly.” A soft smile crept across her lips, ghostlike. “He’s brave, you know. So brave. And your Daddy… Daddy’s the kind of man who never stops showing up. Even when it’s hard.”

Talking to Hope had become a habit. It helped turn the stillness into something else — not waiting, but preparing. A soft reframe. A way to hold off the worry that kept sliding under the doorframe like cold air. She perched on the edge of the cot, one hand on her bump as Hope shifted inside her — a gentle, rolling movement, like the baby was listening. Like she felt it too.

“You’ll know that feeling soon,” Clara whispered. “That moment when the door opens and they come back and everything just... clicks. Like the world exhales. Like the missing piece slots in and the noise makes sense again.” Her voice caught. She swallowed. “Because it does. It always does. No matter what happens out there... he will come back to us.”

The words felt like both a promise and a prayer. She stood again, restless, unable to stay settled. Her feet carried her down the hallway, stopping in front of Jack’s room. The door stood slightly ajar. Inside, the soft chaos of a six-year-old life was frozen mid-motion — a stack of storybooks by the bed, a crayon drawing of a dinosaur taped to the wall, the unmistakable scent of watermelon shampoo and childhood still lingering in the air. His trainers were by the door. One sock half-draped over the radiator. Clara stepped forward and laid her fingertips gently against his pillow. The texture of the cotton. The memory of him curled there, arms flung wide, mouth slightly open in sleep. Her throat tightened. She drew her hand back quickly, suddenly breathless with how much she missed him.

Back now in the lounge, she lowered herself onto the sofa — slower this time, the weight of the day pressing down into her bones, into her belly. Hope fluttered again, a tiny response. She stared at the door. Not just looked — stared. The kind of gaze that tries to make something happen. The kind that makes time bend and crawl.

And then — A sound.

The low mechanical hum and click of the electronic gate outside broke the silence like a held breath being released. Clara’s head snapped up. Her body went still.

A second sound followed.

Beep-beep.

Faint. From the driveway. Jason’s car. Her hand flew to her mouth, tears springing to her eyes before she had time to think. The noise wasn’t loud. Wasn’t dramatic. But it was everything. It was home. It was safe. It was them. She stood without thinking, both hands pressed over her belly as if shielding Hope from the force of her heartbeat. She moved to the hallway, bare feet silent against the floor. She reached the front door. Paused. Her fingers hovered above the handle, trembling slightly. And in that hush — just before the moment broke open — she whispered to no one and to everyone:

“They’re home.”

The car hadn’t even fully stopped before Jason saw the front door swing open. There she was. His beautiful Clara. Barefoot on the top step, hair pulled into a loose, fraying bun, one hand braced across her belly like she was holding herself together with the palm of her hand. Like if she didn’t anchor herself, she might come apart. Jason hadn’t even reached for the handbrake before Jack was scrambling with his seatbelt, fingers fumbling, eyes wide and locked on the house.

“Mummy!”

The latch clicked. The door burst open. Jack launched himself from the backseat with the kind of force only six-year-olds are capable of — legs pumping, backpack thumping against his shoulders, voice bright and cracking all at once. Clara didn’t move at first. She froze — just for a second — as if her brain couldn’t believe her eyes. Then she inhaled, hard, like someone surfacing from too long underwater, and stumbled down the steps, not gracefully but urgently, arms outstretched.

She crouched low before her knees even fully bent, her body folding in on itself to catch him — heart-first. Her belly pressed into her thighs, and she didn’t care. Her feet burned on the gravel and she didn’t notice. Jack collided with her like a storm, like he’d been held back by invisible glass and finally shattered through it. She caught him. God, she caught him. His little body slammed into hers with a force that knocked her slightly backward, but she stayed upright. Wrapped him in her arms. Pulled him against her chest like she could sew the moment into her skin.

“Oh my god. Jack. Jack—” Her hands moved everywhere at once — over his back, up into his hair, across his cheeks like she had to map him with her fingers to believe he was real. She kissed his head, his temple, the shell of his ear. She was laughing and sobbing all at once, the sounds tangled, broken, unfiltered. “You’re here. You’re here.” Her voice cracked. “Sweetheart, are you okay? Did he hurt you? Let me see—”

Jack burrowed into her neck, his small arms straining to hold her even tighter.

“I’m okay, Mummy,” he whispered, muffled by her hair. “I said what I needed to. Just like we talked about.”

Her breath hitched. She cupped his face, leaned back just enough to see him, really see him.

“You did?”

He nodded solemnly, his bottom lip trembling. “I was scared. But I did it anyway.”

Clara pressed her forehead to his, her fingers shaking now as she ran them through his tangled hair.

“You’re so brave, baby. Braver than I’ve ever been.” She kissed his forehead and held it there, letting her tears fall into the space between them. “I am so proud of you. So, so proud.”

Jason hadn’t moved from the driver’s seat. Not yet. He sat with one hand resting on the door handle, knuckles white, breath shallow. Watching. Witnessing. It felt wrong to interrupt. Like stepping into a sacred moment. Like speaking would shatter the glass dome of grace that had just fallen over them. There was no soundtrack to match it — no sweeping music or dramatic gust of wind to make the gravel fly. Just the creak of the car door, the soft thud of Jack’s shoes, and the whisper of Clara’s cardigan brushing the hem of her shirt as she knelt in the driveway.

Her laugh cracked again — light, watery, disbelieving — as she kissed Jack over and over, like each press of her lips was a reassurance: you’re real, you’re safe, you’re mine. Jason felt something loosen in his chest — something knotted and sharp that had been wedged there since the courthouse, since Jack’s small hand had left his. Since Clara’s tearful goodbye that morning when she couldn’t come with them, not this time. She’d stayed behind because the stress was too much, because of the baby, because of the doctor’s warning about staying calm. She had watched them leave with red eyes and silent prayers. He’d told her: “We’ll come home. I promise.” And now they had. And still, Jason didn’t move.

His hands had slipped into his coat pockets. His jaw was tight. His whole body was drawn inward. He watched Clara hold their son with a kind of desperate gentleness that made his throat close. Not because it was foreign — but because it was everything he’d ever wanted and never quite believed he was allowed to have. He’d had no children of his own before Clara. No one to teach him this kind of love. There had been no front-porch reunions when he returned home after a tour. No arms flung wide. No partner kissing him like her entire heart lived in his smile. But now — here it was. A woman kneeling in gravel, clutching her child like he’d returned from a battlefield no one else could see. A little boy clutching her like her skin was the only place his bones remembered how to fit. And Jason, standing still, feeling like he’d just watched the world spin back onto its axis. He swallowed hard. This. This was it. Not the win in court. Not the evidence. Not the judge’s words on the record. Not even Jack’s brave little voice, steady and clear when it mattered most. No — this was the moment that made it real. They’d made it. They were okay.

Clara finally looked up, her tear-streaked face breaking into a smile so wide and relieved it undid him. Jason stepped out of the car then — finally — and walked toward them. Slowly. One hand brushing his jeans, the other falling instinctively to the base of his throat, where his breath was catching. Jack turned and saw him, then reached out with one arm still wrapped around Clara.

“Daddy, come here. We need you too.”

Clara shifted to make room, still crouched, eyes on Jason now — soft, glowing, exhausted. Jason knelt. The gravel dug into his knees. He didn’t care. He wrapped one arm around Jack and the other around Clara’s back, beneath her hair, his palm splaying wide across the ridge of her spine. He let his forehead drop against hers. Closed his eyes. No one said anything for a moment. It was just breathing. Touch. The weight of their bodies leaning into one another like a makeshift shelter.

Like a home.

Hope stirred between them — literally. A flutter beneath Clara’s belly, a quiet kick, a reminder. She’s here too. Jason smiled faintly against Clara’s temple.

“You did it,” she whispered.

We did it, he thought, but didn’t say. He didn’t need to. She knew. They stayed like that, the three of them clinging together in the quiet, the wind shifting through the trees overhead. And in that moment, Jason knew with bone-deep certainty that whatever battles came next — court dates, hard conversations, nights with no sleep — they’d already won the one that mattered most. They’d found each other…They’d come home. As a family 

Dinner that evening was a slow and gentle affair. The kind where no one said much, but every glance across the table said everything. Jack picked at his pasta — not because he wasn’t hungry, but because he was tired. Worn out in a way children shouldn’t have to be. Still, he smiled when Clara leaned over to kiss his forehead. Still laughed, soft and warm, when Jason asked if No Chill Nemo would approve of his drawing that he'd been busy working on ever since they got home.

Yet Now, the house was dark around the edges, wrapped in a kind of quiet that only comes after something hard has ended. Jack padded upstairs between them, one small hand tucked into Clara’s, the other clutching Mister Bunny like the day hadn’t stretched him too thin to hold on. Jason walked just behind, carrying a glass of water and the pyjamas Clara had laid out that morning — before court, before fear, before any of them knew just how brave a little boy could be. She sat on the edge of the bed while Jason helped Jack wriggle out of his hoodie. There was no hurry. No bedtime rush. Just soft, careful movements, like they were wrapping him in calm.

Jack’s voice rasped as he asked, “Can Mister Bunny wear pyjamas too?”

Jason smiled, kneeling beside him. “I think Mister Bunny’s earned the right to sleep however he wants. Even naked.”

Jack giggled — a small, sleepy bubble of sound that made Clara’s heart bloom. Jason helped him into his pyjamas, smoothing the fabric gently over his back, as if he were made of something delicate. Then he pulled the duvet down while Clara fluffed the pillows behind him. slowly he crawled into the centre of the bed like it was a nest.

Clara leaned over him, tucking the blanket under his chin. “Comfy?” she asked.

Jack nodded, eyes already growing heavy. He reached out, touching her face — fingers soft and searching.

“You waited for me,” he whispered.

Clara blinked, her breath catching. “Always,” she said. “There’s nowhere else I’d ever be.”

Jason sat on the other side of the bed, one knee tucked under him, resting his hand lightly on Jack’s chest. “You were brave, mate,” he said softly. “Beyond words.”

“I was scared,” Jack admitted.

Jason nodded. “That’s what makes it brave.”

Jack was quiet for a moment, his gaze flicking between them. It felt different, having them both there. Not just putting him to bed, but together. One on each side. Like nothing could get in. He didn’t say it aloud, but it nestled under his ribs — a warm, wordless thing. He didn’t have to guard anything tonight.

“Did you hear what I said to him?” he asked, voice barely above a breath.

Jason looked at Clara, then back at Jack. “I did,” he said. “Every word.”

Clara brushed his fringe back from his forehead, her touch slow, reverent. “And we’ve never been prouder of you.”

Jack blinked slowly. “I told him you’re my daddy,” he murmured.

Jason’s breath caught. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently to Jack’s.

“You are my son,” he whispered. “Every bit of you"

Jack sniffled, but it wasn’t sadness. It was something else. Something softer.

“Do I have to be strong all the time?” he asked.

Clara shook her head. “No, baby. That’s what we’re here for. To be strong with you. When you’re tired, we carry the rest.”

A full silence settled around them — safe and steady.

Then Jack whispered, “Can I sleep in the middle of you both tonight?”

Jason smiled. “Of course you can.”

Clara rose and walked around to the other side of the bed. Jason helped her ease in beside Jack — her body tired too, her back aching, but her heart finally quiet. She curled on one side of him, Jason on the other. Jack turned toward Clara, his little arm stretching across her stomach, fingertips grazing the round curve of Hope beneath her skin. Jason rested a hand lightly on Jack’s back. Content the little boy felt like a secret being kept safe between them. He let out a small sigh, nestled deeper into the covers. Mister Bunny was tucked under one arm. Clara stroked her fingers along Jack’s spine, slow and steady. Jason watched them both, his eyes lingering on Clara’s expression — her face half-lit by the soft bedside lamp, love etched into every line.

“I love you,” Clara whispered, her voice aimed at both of them.

“I love you too,” Jack murmured. “Both of you.”

Jason didn’t speak — he just reached across the bed and threaded his fingers through Clara’s, holding on. That simple gesture — steady and sure — said everything. Jack was asleep minutes later, mouth parted, brow smooth. No weight. No fear. Just a boy. Jason lay back, eyes on the ceiling, Clara’s hand still in his. Hope shifted beneath her ribs, slow and content, and he swore he could feel her heartbeat through the mattress — quiet but strong.

This was family. This was home. No court document could define it. No bloodline could rewrite it.

They had built this. Together. And in that small, still bedroom — wrapped in breathing and love — they finally, finally rested.

The room dimmed into near-darkness, the lamp switched off, just the faint glow from the hallway spilling in beneath the door. The air was warm and still — the hush that comes after the hardest part is over. Clara lay still, propped on one elbow, watching Jack sleep. His face was turned toward her, lashes soft against his cheeks. He looked years younger like this — smaller, unburdened. His arm flung wide across the bed, Mister Bunny squashed beneath him like a secret he wasn’t ready to let go of. Jason was quiet beside them, eyes half-lidded, hand resting lightly on Jack’s ankle — a tether, a reassurance.

“He’s out,” Clara whispered, smiling faintly. “Like a light.”

Jason nodded. “Didn’t even flinch.”

They were silent again, just listening to the slow rhythm of Jack’s breathing. The unconscious mumble of lips forming dream-words that never found sound.

Clara reached across and touched Jason’s arm. “Tell me,” she murmured. “What was he like in there?”

Jason exhaled slowly, gaze still on Jack. “Terrified. But steady. I’ve never seen anything like it. He held his backpack like it was armour. And when the moment came — he spoke. Properly. Clearly.” He swallowed. “He told Sean he hated him.” Clara stilled, her hand resting on Jason’s wrist. “He said Daddy told him hate wasn’t good. But he hated Sean anyway. For you. For himself.” Jason’s voice dropped. “he was incredible by the sounds of it.”

Clara’s chest ached with fierce, flooding love. She bent and kissed the top of Jack’s head.

“He’s ours,” she whispered.

Jason nodded. “Yeah.” He paused. “Sean did say some things. Things I’m not going to repeat because I don’t want them in this room.” Clara nodded, her throat tight. “But Matt… Matt’s moving fast. He’s finalising the paperwork. Told me this might be it. The turning point.” Clara looked at him, hope blooming in her chest like something she hadn’t dared plant too deep. “He said he’d call,” Jason murmured. “As soon as he hears back from the judge.” As if summoned by fate, Jason’s phone buzzed on the bedside table. They both froze. Jason sat up carefully, easing out of bed like the moment might break if he moved too fast. He looked once more at Jack, then kissed Clara’s temple.  “I’ll take it in the hall,” he whispered.

She nodded, her hand brushing along his back as he slipped from the room. She stayed a moment longer, just watching Jack. His fingers twitched slightly in sleep. She leaned down and kissed his cheek.

“I’m so proud of you, my love,” she whispered, and stood. She slipped into her slippers and padded out into the hall. Jason’s voice was low, steady, but she could hear something beneath it — something blooming.

“…yes, that’s what we were hoping for… thank you, Matt… we’re so grateful.”

His back was to her, hand braced on the wall. He still held the phone like it had just handed him something impossible.

Clara paused in the doorway. Then, quietly: “Was that it?”

Jason turned — and the look on his face said everything.

“They’re granting it,” he said, stunned. “Matt’s drawing up the order immediately. Guardianship. Restraining order in place. No more visits. It’s happening.”

Clara didn’t speak. She just crossed the distance and folded herself into his arms — belly and all — and held on. And in that narrow hallway, with their son asleep behind the door and their daughter pressing gentle kicks beneath Clara’s ribs, they let themselves believe — This was the beginning of something whole. Something safe. Something theirs. She blinked at him, the words still sinking in. Guardianship. No more visits. It’s happening. She took a breath that didn’t quite reach the bottom of her lungs. Her eyes shimmered, mouth parted slightly — not because she didn’t understand, but because, for the first time in what felt like forever, there was nothing left to brace for. No looming battle. No shadow of Sean waiting to intrude.

“It’s over?” she whispered. “Really over?”

Jason didn’t answer right away. He stepped forward, eyes locked on hers, and gently cradled her face in both hands, his thumbs brushing along her cheekbones. Then, slowly — reverently — he nodded.

“As of next week,” he said softly, “I’ll be Jack’s legal guardian. Signed, sealed, and filed in Matt’s office.” A breathless, almost disbelieving laugh slipped from him. “Sean’s out of the picture. No more threats. No more supervised visits. It’s done.”

Clara’s knees buckled — just a shift, slight and instinctive, enough for Jason to catch her. His arms swept around her waist, steady and sure. And before she could speak, he lifted her off her feet.

“Jason—” she gasped, laughing through the tears already spilling over.

“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice thick with joy. “I’ve always got you.”

He spun her gently — not fast, just enough to lift her hair and carry her laughter into the air like sunlight through storm clouds. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her head dropping into the crook of his neck as he held her close. When he set her down, her hands didn’t let go. Her fingers curled into the collar of his jumper like she was holding on for dear life — or maybe for life itself. And then she crumbled. Tears came in a rush, her body folding into his, face pressed against his chest as the weight of everything — every sleepless night, every guarded smile, every time she stayed strong for Jack while breaking inside — spilled out all at once.

"I can’t believe it,” she sobbed. “I can’t believe it’s really over.”

Jason held her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other stroking slow circles over her back. He said nothing. Just stayed still. Holding her while she let go. When her breathing softened, when her sobs faded into quiet hiccups against his chest, he tipped her chin up with gentle fingers. And kissed her.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss from a movie — all urgency and hunger. It was the kind of kiss that said thank you. The kind that said I stayed. The kind that said we made it.

It began soft — his lips brushing hers like a question, like an offering — but deepened slowly, meaning unfolding with every heartbeat. He kissed her like he’d been waiting days to do it right. Like the only way he could tell her the truth was through the shape of her name in his mouth. Clara melted into it, hands in his hair, body molding to his like there had never been space between them. She could taste salt — tears or joy, she couldn’t say. Maybe both. Maybe all of it.

Because this was the kiss of homecoming. Of family. Of forever. When they finally parted, foreheads pressed together, breath shared in the narrow space between, Jason’s voice came low, unsteady.

“You are my future, Clara.” She opened her eyes slowly, heart pounding. “You and Jack… and this little firecracker inside you,” he whispered, one hand resting over her belly. “This is everything I never knew I was allowed to want. And somehow, you… you gave it to me. Not because you had to. Not because I earned it. But because you saw me — the messy, anxious, uncertain me — and you still chose this.”

She brushed her fingers along his jaw, tender and sure.

“I’d choose you every time,” she said.

Jason swallowed hard. His voice cracked.

“I used to think love had to be dramatic. Fireworks. Heartbreak. Songs written in hotel rooms.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “But this — this quiet, this loyalty, this family — you, barefoot in the kitchen… Jack in his pyjamas… Hope kicking the hell out of you while you fold laundry for the fifth time…” He shook his head, reverent. “That’s what love really is.”

Clara smiled through the tears still drying on her cheeks.

“It’s us,” she whispered.

Jason nodded. “Yeah. It’s us. And no one — no one — gets to touch what we’ve built.”

She kissed him again. Soft. Sure. No tears this time — just warmth. And as they stood there in the hallway — their son safe and dreaming just a room away, their daughter pressing gentle kicks against Clara’s ribs like she, too, wanted to be part of this moment — Jason pulled her close again. Not just because he could. But because this was the life they’d built from ashes.And now — finally — it could begin.

Something whole....something safe....Something theirs.

Jason’s arms wrapped around her the moment she broke, and it was the safest place Clara had ever known. He held her like he always did — not to fix, not to hush, but to catch. To carry. She didn’t cry quietly. She didn’t try to. Her whole body shook as the tears came — all the fear, the guilt, the rage, the relief. And Jason held it. All of it. Without flinching. He always had. And as he pulled her in tighter, pressing his cheek to the top of her head, Clara let her eyes close and gave herself over to the moment. To the man. To him. Because she remembered.

God, she remembered everything.

Clara let herself fall into the centre of him — the only place in the world where her grief and joy were both allowed to live in the same breath. He’d spun her, gently, arms sure and wide, laughter in his throat and tears in her eyes. And when her feet touched the floor again, it wasn’t just the house that steadied — it was her. Her arms stayed looped around his neck, her heart thudding as she clung to the man she’d built a life with, piece by fragile piece. And as she leaned her head against his chest, she remembered the beginning. Not the polished beginning. The real one. That day in the park behind the village hall. Jack had run. Again. It had been after one of those meetings with Sean — the kind where Jack came back too quiet, his tiny body pulled in like he was trying to fold himself smaller than the world. Clara had only turned away for a second, to thank the staff member who had stayed late to supervise. When she looked back, he was gone. It had started to rain — of course it had — and she was half-wild, calling his name, voice cracking, panic bleeding into every syllable. And then out of the trees came a man she’d never seen before. Mysterious. Calm. She hadn’t learned his last name that day. She hadn’t needed it. What she did remember was that gentle way he’d looked at her — not with judgment, not with pity. Just understanding. Like he’d recognised something in her panic that he knew well.

The second time was weeks later — that daft day on the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch railway. Jack had begged to ride it again, and she'd given in, weary and amused. Jason had turned up unexpectedly, chatting with the conductor like an old friend, and somehow ended up squeezed into the same tiny carriage as them. He was far too tall for it — knees practically up to his chest, ducking the entire ride — but he’d made them both laugh until Clara’s stomach ached. At one point, Jack leaned against Jason’s shoulder like he belonged there. And maybe… maybe that’s when something had started to shift. But then… came the truth. When he finally told her who he really was..Take That She hadn’t even let him finish before she shut it down. She’d told him she couldn’t do it. That her life didn’t have room for some ex-celebrity with a hidden past and a thousand women who once screamed his name.

She remembered the first time they made love. It hadn’t been wild. There hadn't been fireworks. It had been quiet. Reverent. Like they were building something instead of burning it. She remembered looking up at him — the soft tremble in his arms, the way his voice broke when he whispered her name — and thinking, How is this real? This man. This beautiful, complicated man — adored by millions once. Framed in teenage bedrooms and posters and tabloids. A boy band icon. A face on a tour bus. And now? He was hers. Hers in all the ways that mattered. Not as a name, not as a legacy, but as a man. The one who folded laundry. Who did bath time. Who held her hair when she was sick and read bedtime stories in ridiculous voices. The one who kissed her like time didn’t exist. And as he lifted her tonight, spun her gently, and set her back down — this man who had been known by so many — saw only her. But in their hallway. Their home. The weight of a son asleep upstairs. A daughter stretching beneath her skin. The future wrapped around them like breath.

“You okay?” Jason asked softly, brushing a tear from her cheek.

She nodded. “Just remembering.”

He smiled. “Good memories?”

“All of them,” she whispered. “Even the hard ones. They brought us here.”

Jason looked at her like she was the most important thing in the world. And then he kissed her. Not like a man who used to belong to the world. Like a man who finally belonged to one woman. It was slow. Deep. Sure. Her hands found the edges of his jaw, the stubble at his neck, the quiet sigh in his throat when their bodies aligned without effort. This was not a new love. It was a proven one. When they pulled apart, her breath hitched.

“I still can’t believe this is real.”

Jason rested his forehead against hers. “It is. And it’s only just beginning.”

She smiled through the blur of tears. Then Jason cupped her bump with both hands, like he was already holding their daughter, and whispered:

“You are my future, Clara. Jack. Hope. This life we built. It’s all I’ll ever need.”

She leaned into him, kissing him again, her voice a breath between them.

"And you’re mine.”

Jason smiled, his hands still cradling her belly, his eyes never leaving hers. Clara rested her hands over his, letting herself feel the weight of them. The steadiness. The love that had carried her from heartbreak into hope. The love that had made Jack brave. That had made her believe in softness again. That had turned a man once afraid of family into the father she’d always prayed for — and never thought she’d find. She reached up and kissed him one last time — soft and sure. Not for reassurance. Not for comfort.

Just because. Just because they could. Just because they were home. And upstairs, Jack slept on, dreamless and safe, wrapped in blankets and belonging. And inside Clara, their daughter turned in the dark. Another story beginning. A family — not built by blood, but by choice. And love.

Always, always love.

They stayed like that — locked in the hallway, arms wrapped tight around each other, unwilling to let go. Clara’s forehead rested against Jason’s chest, her body melting into his, her breathing slowing now that the storm had passed. Jason held her like he always did — not to fix, not to hush, but to catch. To carry. To be the stillness she could rest inside. Eventually, Clara’s fingers slipped into his hair, smoothing it back, then came to rest at his jaw. She cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing gently across the soft edge of his stubble.

“I’m honestly like Jack right now,” she murmured, voice low, drowsy. “Completely done in.”

Jason smiled softly, his eyes fluttering open just enough to find hers. “Go lie down,” he whispered. “Let’s just have an early night.”

“Sounds good to me.” She nodded, her palm lingering on his cheek. “You coming?”

"In a minute,” he said gently. “Won't be long… “

She didn’t press. She kissed the corner of his mouth — quiet and grateful — then turned and walked slowly down the hall. Her bare feet were silent on the floorboards, her cardigan trailing behind her like a whisper of peace. She paused outside Jack’s room, peeked in, and then slipped into their bedroom, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Now alone, Jason stood in the hush and let it settle around him. Then he turned and walked to the nursery. The door was ajar. He nudged it open with his fingertips. A soft glow from the hallway spilled into the room, casting golden light over the pale grey walls. The skirting boards gleamed, freshly painted. One wall bore a hand-painted mural Clara had designed herself — a sunrise rising over gentle, rolling hills, done in pastel watercolours. She’d sketched. Jason had filled in the sky. It had been one of those nights when they were both too tired to speak but too in love to stop building. Jack had helped, too — dipping his fingers in yellow paint and declaring the sun needed “more smile.” On the back of the door, painted in soft script, was her name:

Hope.

Tiny yellow stars dotted around it. Bumblebees, clustered near the corners — Jack’s idea, because “they make it look happy.” Jason reached out and traced the letters with his fingertips, slow and deliberate. His hand paused beneath the curve of the H.

Hope.

They hadn’t chosen it lightly. It had come one night when the future still felt like a question mark. Jack had finally gone to sleep, and Clara had curled against him, her voice barely above a whisper:

“Hope. That’s what I held onto. Even when it felt ridiculous. Even when everything was going wrong. I still hoped. For Jack. For us.”

Jason had taken her hand that night and placed it over his chest. He didn’t need to say anything. She’d felt the truth in his heartbeat. Now, standing in the room they had built, he breathed in the stillness. The soft cotton scent of new sheets, lavender from the drawer sachets, the faint smell of paint still clinging to the skirting boards. Hope wasn’t just a name. It was a promise. A defiance. A decision to believe in something better. He had never stopped hoping — not when Clara pulled away. Not when Sean came back. Not when Jack cried in his sleep or when the courts made everything feel like quicksand. Jason had clung to hope with both hands — even when it was frayed and fragile and made of nothing but breath.

And now?

Now she had a room. A name on a door. A drawer full of lemon-yellow sleepsuits and tiny socks that would barely fit over his thumb. He crossed the room slowly, running his hand along the crib rail — whitewashed, simple. The mattress was made up in soft honeycomb-patterned sheets Clara had found online at 2 a.m. There was a hand-knitted blanket folded over the edge, cream and thick, gifted by one of Dani’s friends.

In the corner sat the reading chair — second-hand, reupholstered in a warm ochre fabric that Clara had called “somewhere between goldenrod and questionable.” They’d argued playfully over that chair for a full week.

“It’s hideous,” she’d laughed when he dragged it home from the charity shop.

“It’s character,” he insisted. “It has soul.”

“It has cat hair,” she replied.

“Then it’s authentic.”

She’d rolled her eyes — but kept it.

Jason smiled at the memory. The mural, the bees, the bookshelf, the drawer full of muslins — they’d built it all together. In between court dates and exhaustion, grief and joy, they had made this space not just for a baby… but for belonging. He walked to the changing table and ran his hand over the folded sleepsuit — the one Jack had picked, with the tiny bees across the chest. Mister Bunny sat on the windowsill now, tilted and watchful, like he’d claimed the room as his own.

Jason let out a soft laugh and leaned against the window frame. He definitely hadn’t expected to become a father at fifty-three. At thirty, it kind of felt inevitable. By thirty-five, it began to slip away as did the relationships in his life. By forty, it belonged to other people. It stopped being something he longed for and became something he quietly made peace with. Not out of bitterness — just realism. And then he met Clara. He hadn’t seen fatherhood on the horizon. He hadn’t even seen her coming. But now, he couldn’t imagine life without any of it. Fatherhood hadn’t struck him like lightning. It had crept in gently. Through tiny, sacred things: Jack’s hand gripping as they walked to school. Reading The Gruffalo five nights in a row. Packing school lunches. Sitting quietly on the floor while Jack worked through tears without asking for help. It came through presence. Through patience. Through staying.

And now, it would come again. In lullabies. In midnight feeds. In tiny hands wrapped around his finger. In Baby Hope learning to crawl across this very rug, beneath this mural, toward the painted sunrise. He closed his eyes for a moment and let it settle — not as a hope anymore, but a certainty. This room had once been nothing. Just a forgotten space. A dumping ground. Now it was a sanctuary. A beginning. He turned toward the door. Rested his hand on the painted letters.

“Hope… Hope Eliza Orange.”

He whispered her name aloud for the first time — in full. A name already thick with meaning. With legacy. With love.

“Thank you for finding me,” he whispered. Then, softer: “See you soon.”

He turned out the light, letting the hallway glow frame the doorway like a halo, and pulled the door closed behind him — fingers lingering on the wood just a moment longer.

Then he walked down the hall. Toward the woman he loved, The boy who called him Dad And the daughter who would grow up knowing that every inch of this home was built for her. Not from perfection. But from hope. And choice.

And always, always love.

Chapter Text

“This is the life we've been given. So open your heart and start loving…We can make a start if we only learn to listen…You and me, we just lay down in the garden... Yeah, the garden.”

The garden had become their quiet witness. It stretched behind the house in generous sweeps of green and soft shadow — not manicured, but lovingly, instinctively tended. The kind of garden that grew with you, not despite you. Earthy and a little wild, with plants spilling over their borders like they didn’t believe in boundaries. Lavender buzzed with bees, their wings a low hum that threaded through the air like background music. Peonies bowed under their own weight, petals lush and velvet-soft. Forget-me-nots ran riot near the fence, a scatter of blue stars at their feet. In places, the grass was uneven, flattened where Jack had rolled, cartwheeled, or collapsed mid-game.

The air smelled alive — crushed thyme underfoot, sun-warmed stone, the heady sweetness of lavender and old apple wood. Somewhere out of sight, a blackbird trilled from the cherry tree, and the wind carried the rustle of leaves like whispered secrets. Two apple trees stood just off-centre — one gnarled and leaning slightly, the other tall and straight — like companions in lifelong conversation. Their branches reached into each other, as if mid-embrace. In spring they bloomed together, blossoms scattering like confetti. In autumn, their fruit dropped side by side.

To the right, the pond caught the sunlight in flickering patterns, interrupted only by a dragonfly darting low or the soft splash of a frog surfacing. The water smelled faintly of stone and shade — cool and deep, the scent of roots and hidden things. The weeping cherry bowed over it, its branches trailing low, petals drifting without sound. Jason had cleared that pond by hand their first summer. “Therapeutic,” he’d muttered through grit and sweat, soaked to the knees and grinning anyway. Now it shimmered quietly, as if proud of what it had become. Closer to the house, the patio spread wide in sun-warmed stone. Terracotta pots spilled over with rosemary, sage, and marigolds the colour of fire. Two mismatched deck chairs sat slightly askew, faded stripes and tea-stained arms bearing the imprint of years. The table between them had hosted birthday cake, late-night tea, and the occasional quiet argument that always ended in held hands and laughter.

But the bench — nestled beneath the largest apple tree — was where they went to simply be. Jason had insisted on it.

“It’s not just a bench, Clara. It’s a safe space to think. Very different.”

She’d rolled her eyes. But when it arrived — heavy, hand-oiled, smelling faintly of cedar — and she’d sat beside him, knees touching, she understood. That’s where they were now. Jason sat back, one arm stretched along the top of the bench, the other resting gently across Clara’s side. She lay curled beside him, head in his lap, legs tucked, body angled toward him as if he were the sun and she was leaning into light. One hand cradled the curve of her belly. The other clung lightly to the hem of his shirt. His fingers moved in slow circles across her bump — not with purpose. Just presence. A blossom floated down from the cherry tree, landed in her hair, unnoticed. Jason noticed. He brushed it away gently and let his hand linger — tucking a curl behind her ear, then tracing the soft slope of her temple with his thumb.

“It’s almost too quiet,” she murmured.

“Or maybe it just knows we need the quiet,” Jason said, still tracing soft patterns on her skin.

Clara shifted, and Hope rolled beneath her ribs — a low, deliberate nudge.

“She’s awake,” Clara said.

Jason glanced down, his face lighting with quiet awe. “You think she can hear us?”

“I think she listens when we’re still,” Clara whispered. “She always kicks more when it’s quiet. Like she knows it’s safe to move.”

Jason cupped both hands around her bump, holding her like something ancient and new. “I hope she loves this garden when she’s finally here. I hope it’s where she learns about bees, and puddles, and how to climb things badly.”

“She’ll have the best teacher in her big brother,” Clara said. “Jack’s practically feral out here.”

Jason grinned. “Not wrong.”

fThe silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full — of breath, memory, anticipation.

Clara opened her eyes slowly. “Do you ever think about where you were... before this?”

Jason gazed out over the pond. “Every day. Not with regret. Just… awe. That I got from there to here.” He paused. “Back then, with Take That... it was chaos. Lights, cameras, girls outside hotels. I was barely out of my teens and suddenly I was someone. But not for who I was. Just for how high I could jump on stage or hit a note in harmony.” Clara didn’t interrupt. “I didn’t hate it at the start. Not all of it. There were good bits — music, energy, the brotherhood with the lads. But as the years went on, I always knew deep down it really wasn't for me. I guess the real me started to disappear inside the version of me people expected.” His voice lowered. “I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted anymore”

Clara reached up, laid her hand over his heart. “And now?”

“Well..” Jason looked down at her. “Now I get to be me. No mask. Just me. Middle-aged, slower, softer and greying. But still me.”

“You’re the kind of father people write about, Jason,” she said. “Gentle. Present. Loving.”

“You forgot old…” He blinked. “I thought I was too late for any of this”

“You were right on time, trust me,” she said softly. “For Jack. For me. And now for her.” She moved his hand back over her bump. “Hope Eliza Orange…our girl”

“It really goes you know” Jason raised an eyebrow. “Eliza”

“She needed something elegant to balance out the chaos of that surname.” teased Clara

“Chaos?” he grinned. “Oi. ‘Orange’ is noble. Regal, even...strong..straight to the point”

“Sure,” Clara laughed. “But let’s be honest — she’ll need a strong middle name to survive Year Two playground politics.”

“True” Jason leaned in, mocking solemnly. “If anyone teases her, I’ll be in that school faster than Mister Bunny loses his stuffing.”

“Oh God,” Clara groaned. “You’re going to be that dad right?. Calm, but terrifying.”

“I’m protective, okay,” he said simply. “Especially over what I love.”

“Obviously” She kissed his jaw, brushed her fingers along his cheek. “And we love you for it.” Jason swallowed hard. Then Clara leaned in close, her eyes soft and sure. “Come on then, Daddy-to-be,” she whispered. “Let’s go make it official…theres papers that need your autograph”

Jason kissed her — slow, steady, full of thanks. When they stood, neither rushed. They rose like something unfolding, gently — limbs waking, hearts already wide open. Clara smoothed her dress instinctively, then smiled up at him — a soft, crooked smile that held no performance, just truth. Jason reached for her hand and found it already waiting for his. They turned together.  And as they walked out of the garden — hand in hand, the grass warm beneath their feet, the light dappled and shifting — the wind picked up ever so slightly, just enough to stir the branches above. A quiet shower of petals drifted down from the cherry tree, catching in Clara’s hair, clinging to the curve of Jason’s sleeve. Like the garden was blessing them. Like it was letting go of one version of their life and ushering in the next.

They didn’t move like people bracing for the unknown. There was no tightness in their shoulders. No weight on their backs. They moved like people who had chosen each other again — in the stillness, in the stretch marks, in the unmade beds and broken mugs and sleepy mornings. They moved like a family who had already done the hardest part: staying soft when things got sharp. Clara glanced back once — at the bench, the pond, the blossoms still floating, the life that had grown around them without asking for permission. Jason followed her gaze, then squeezed her hand gently.

“Ready?” he asked.

She didn’t answer with words. Just leaned her head briefly on his shoulder as they kept walking — side by side, step for step, hearts in rhythm. And the garden — that generous, tangled witness — stood behind them in full bloom.

Rooted.

Steady.

Still watching.

They stepped forward into sunlight, into summer, into the next chapter of their life — not as two, not even as three. But as a family. Finally claiming what love had already made true. And knowing, for the first time, it was theirs to keep.

The waiting room at Matt’s office smelled faintly of lemon polish and printer ink — a sterile kind of clean, sharpened by the metallic edge of too many early mornings. The blinds were half-drawn against the sun, casting angled light across the parquet floor in quiet stripes. The air was still, thick with waiting. Somewhere down the corridor, a phone rang twice and stopped. Then silence again. Jason sat stiffly in one of the low mid-century chairs by the coffee table, flipping through a dog-eared copy of The Week without reading a word. The pages rustled, out of sync with his breath. Clara sat beside him. One hand rested lightly on his knee, the other curled around the swell of her bump, thumb brushing slowly over the fabric of her dress — small, absent circles that gave her nerves somewhere to go. They hadn’t said much on the drive over. Or in the lift. Or here. It wasn’t the kind of silence that comes from fear — not anymore. But it held weight. The kind that settles in your chest before something sacred is signed, sealed, and made real.

Across the room, a tall ficus drooped in the corner, as if exhausted by its own pretense of thriving under corporate strip lights. A child’s drawing had been pinned to the receptionist’s corkboard — a crooked house with stick-figure people holding hands, red hearts floating out of the chimney like smoke. Someone had written “My Family” in clumsy rainbow capitals across the top. Clara stared at it for a beat too long. Her throat tightened. She blinked once, slow. Then reached for Jason’s hand. He met her halfway. Their fingers laced together without hesitation — like muscle memory. Like gravity. Like truth.

The office door clicked open.

Matt stood in the doorway, trim as ever in his navy suit, manila folder in one hand, a mild tiredness behind his eyes that came from too many hours being someone’s calm voice of reason. He scanned the room, then settled on them. His nod was brief. Professional. But when his eyes flicked to Clara — then to Jason — a small, knowing smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

“You ready?” he asked.

Jason exhaled. “As we’ll ever be.”

Matt stepped aside, gesturing toward the open door.

“Come in.”

Clara rose first, smoothing her dress instinctively. Jason followed, his hand still in hers. As they stepped past the ficus, past the drawing, past the point of no return, neither of them looked back. The air inside the office was cooler. Quieter. A different kind of waiting. They walked in together.Not as two people hoping. But as a family becoming.

The office smelled different — older, warmer. Like cedarwood and ink, with something faintly metallic beneath it, the scent of paperclips and polished history. A row of tall windows looked out over the city’s rooftops, the light here softer — diffused through pale linen blinds, dappling the parquet floor in broken gold. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with thick legal tomes and labelled file boxes in a precise, slanted hand. Jason stepped inside first. Clara followed, slower now, her hand pressed to the small of her back like she always did when the baby shifted low. She moved with quiet care — a woman carrying weight in more ways than one. Matt gestured to the small round table at the far end of the room. Not his desk. Clara noticed that. A deliberate choice. This wasn’t business. It wasn’t transactional. It was family. There were three chairs. They took two. Matt sat across from them, opening the folder with a breath that was small but deliberate — like he knew this wasn’t just paper.

“These are the final forms,” he said. “The guardianship agreement — witnessed, filed. The judge signed off yesterday. It’s all here. Just needs yours.”

Jason looked down. The top page bore his full name. Clara’s. Jack’s. Hope’s name wasn’t part of any legal clause. But it was there — scribbled in Matt’s corner notes, inked gently into the margin. A small, unofficial postscript. A quiet acknowledgement of what was coming. Clara swallowed. Jason stared at the document like it might vanish if he looked away.

“You alright?” Clara asked, her voice low “are you okay?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. Just…”

“Hey…just breathe” She placed her hand over his, grounding him. “Breathe.”

He did. And then, his voice — rougher than usual — broke the hush.

“I spent most of my life being recognised, but never known,” he said. “Now I’m known — by a boy who calls me ‘Daddy’ in the dark when he’s scared. And by a woman who sees every inch of me and still stays.” He paused. Swallowed. “I’m not used to paperwork making it real. It’s already real. But this... this is the part that means no one else can undo it.”

Matt’s voice, when it came, was quieter. “That’s exactly what it is.”

Clara blinked hard. Matt turned a few pages, showing them where to sign. The pen gleamed on the table between them — blue ink, not black. A quiet human detail in a room full of legal permanence. Clara reached for it first. Her hand was steady. She signed her name in slow, careful script, and paused just after the last curl of her surname — eyes closed, just for a second. Breathing it in. Making space for what it meant. Jason watched her. When she passed him the pen, their fingers brushed. He took it. But his hand didn’t move to the page. The folder lay open. Paperweight still. Corners crisp. The page was headed neatly:

Guardianship Agreement

Applicant: Jason Thomas Orange

Child: Jack Thomas McFly

His name. Jack’s name. So different. But now — linked. Not by blood. Not by accident. By choice. Jason’s heart thudded. And then — something shifted.

The page didn’t blur, not exactly. But the edges of the room softened. The light sharpened too much at the edges. The air thinned, just slightly — not choking, but tight. Like the atmosphere was leaning in. He couldn’t move. Clara felt it instantly. She hadn’t looked at him — didn’t need to. The tension in his thigh beneath her palm. The subtle tremor in his grip. The way his breath had shortened, shallow in his chest.

“Jay?” she asked, gently.

He didn’t look at her. He just Couldn’t.

His eyes were locked on the names. The lines. The shape of this new chapter printed in ink that suddenly felt heavier than it should. His fingers curled inward, half-moons pressing into his palms. A reflex. An old habit he used to ground himself when his anxiety took over. The past — the one he kept tidy and zipped behind decades of performance and politeness — uncoiled at the edges. Not like a monster. More like a memory. Slow. Uninvited. Dense.

He wasn’t on stage.

He wasn’t twenty-two and smiling for strangers.

He was here.

Being seen.

And it terrified him.

Madrid, 1994

Hot lights. Damp towels. Too many bodies in too little space. Nigel had booked them for a show in Madrid. The kind where the crowd became an animal — massive, roaring, alive — voices rolling over the band like surf, crashing harder than any bassline. The 5 of them had just come offstage soaked and shaking, high on adrenaline, skin buzzing with electricity they hadn’t yet learned how to live without. The dressing room was chaos. White tiles. Fogged mirrors. Music still bleeding through the monitors like a phantom heartbeat. Someone’s hairspray hung in the air — citrus and chemical — thick enough to taste. The floor was slick with water and sweat. The walls too white. Too loud. Everything pressed inward. Jason sat down too fast, elbows on knees, towel to his face. His heart thudded — not triumph. Panic. He couldn’t get air. Every breath was gauze. His ribs resisted. His chest cinched tight, like someone had bound him in from the inside. And then Nigel walked in. Crisp. Cool. Clipboard in hand like a scalpel, suit immaculate despite the heat.

 “Photo op in twelve. Then German radio — they’re waiting backstage. Quick turnaround. Jay, shirt buttoned. You’re leading the second quote. And don’t mumble this time.”

Jason blinked up at him. The edges of the room had started to tilt.

“I can’t breathe,” he said. Quiet. Almost hopeful “I need air..”

No one looked. Or maybe they did — and chose to look away.

Mark tossed him a water bottle. “Here, mate. You alright?”

Before Jason could answer, Nigel cut in again, tone clipped, already moving on.

“Out of time in the second verse Jason.” Flip of the clipboard. “Again. And don’t improvise in interviews for gods sake. You sounded like a golden retriever.

Jason froze. “I was just answering the question—”

“Not your job,” Nigel snapped. “ your job is to Smile and Keep Standing in the background. Let Gary do the talking. That’s the brand.,.you know that!! You’re not the clever one, Jason.” You’re just the one that dances and flashes skin to the punters"

 “I wasn’t—” Something inside him stilled. He looked down. His hands had started to shake “I didn't do anything wrong”

“ listen…You’re not nothing,” Nigel said, almost kindly now — smooth, condescending. “You’re just not the one and lets be honest i dont think you ever will be either?. Don’t try to be what you’re not Jay. That’s how careers end.”

“He's right…” Howard clapped him on the back, mistaking stillness for sulk. “Cheer up, mate. This is life, innit?”

Jason said nothing. He stood — too fast. The dressing room reeled. He ducked out the door without knowing where he was going. Just away. He found the staff toilet down the corridor — white walls, buzzing light. Locked the door. Sat on the lid of the toilet, arms braced on thighs, fists in his hair. The breath still wouldn’t come. He could hear the crowd outside — muffled now, distant. Still chanting someone’s name. Not his. It was never his..

He leaned over the sink and gagged. Dry. Acid. Nothing came but heat and shame. When he finally raised his head, the mirror blurred. Unshaven. Pale. Pupils too wide. A jaw clenched so tight it ached. He didn’t look famous. He didn’t look young. He didn’t even look there. The crowd had chanted his name an hour ago. Now he felt like a prop backstage.

Like decoration.

Like noise.

Like a product they hadn’t quite figured out how to sell.

Fifteen minutes later, he opened the door. The corridor was empty. They’d gone ahead without him. No one had called his name. Nobody came to check on him…maybe Nigel was wrong..maybe he was nothing after all….

He hadn’t remembered that night in years. But now, sitting in the solicitor’s office, pen in hand, it lived under his ribs like it had never left. Jason blinked — and Madrid was gone. No stage. No lights. No breathless stall behind a locked door. He was in a quiet, warm room. Wooden shelves. Steady light. Paper instead of applause. But the old panic still clung like static, humming beneath his skin. The air felt tight again. The pen on the table seemed too bright. The folder shimmered at the edges like heat haze. His jaw locked. His body froze. His mind — racing, stuck — was halfway back in that tiled toilet stall. The sweat. The shame. The silence of no one calling his name

And then—

“Jason,” Clara whispered.

Her voice was warm silk, pulling him gently back from somewhere deep and dark. She turned fully toward him, moving with care, both hands cupping his face. Her eyes searched his — not with alarm, but knowing. She could read him by breath, by stillness, by the subtle ways he disappeared. She saw the boy behind the man. The one who’d once been told to smile and stay quiet. The one who’d learned how to vanish in full view.

“Jay,” she said again. “You’re here. With me. Look at me.”

His eyes flicked to hers — still glassy. His mouth opened like it wanted to form a word, but it caught. Splintered. Clara didn’t pull away. Her hands dropped — not in retreat, but to guide. She took his, gently. Turned them over. Laid them both on the curve of her belly, warm and alive beneath her dress. 

“She’s here,” Clara said softly. “I’m here. You’re here.” Jason’s hands trembled against her skin. But then — a shift. A flutter. A kick. Real and sudden. Like someone from inside had tapped him: Come back. Clara laid her hands over his, anchoring him. “You don’t have to go back there,” she whispered. “That room. That version of you. He’s not who you are now.” Jason closed his eyes. A breath stuttered out — not steady, but better. “You’re not alone,” she said. “You’re not backstage. You’re not a product. You’re not invisible anymore. You’re a father. You’re his guardian. You’re her dad and more importantly….You’re mine.”

A tear slipped from the corner of Jason’s eye. Silent. Swift.

“I couldn’t breathe,” he rasped. “Back then… I didn’t even realise I was drowning.”

“And now?” she asked, pressing his hand more firmly to her belly.

He exhaled — long, trembling. “Now I can feel her.”

“She’s real. We are. And you’re safe.”

Jason nodded, slowly. The pressure in his chest began to ease — not vanish, but soften. Like storm clouds rolling back from the ridge of a hill.

“I’m here,” Clara said again. “And I’m not letting go.”

He looked at her now — properly. Eyes clearing. Focus returning. Then his voice, soft and stunned:

“She kicked.”

“She did,” Clara smiled through her own tears. “That’s her way of saying, ‘Come on, Daddy. she will always be cheering you on…just like all of us’”

Jason gave a small, breathless laugh. “She already knows I’m a soft touch.”

“Well…”Clara leaned in, resting her forehead gently against his. “We both do.”

Behind the desk, Matt hadn’t moved. He sat respectfully still — as if he knew this wasn’t his part of the story. Jason turned back to the papers. His name. Jack’s. Everything waiting. He drew in one more breath — fuller this time — and reached for the pen. He stared down at the page. The pen was light in his fingers, but the moment carried weight — generations of it. His hand hovered above the line, poised. He read the names slowly, reverently, like scripture.

Guardian: Jason Thomas Orange

Child: Jack Thomas McFly

Parent: Clara Jennifer McFly

His own name — once a brand, then a burden, now something reclaimed. Jack’s name — the boy who had once flinched at footsteps and now stood tall in courtrooms. Clara’s — the woman who had rewritten his definition of home, one cup of tea, one steady truth at a time. And the middle name. Thomas. Shared. Not planned. But there — a thread of coincidence that had always felt like fate tapping him gently on the shoulder. Jason smiled. Just a flicker. But real. He didn’t rush. He signed — slowly, deliberately — as if each letter were an oath. And when the pen lifted from the paper, the air shifted — quiet, cleaner somehow. Like something had exhaled. Clara watched him with still eyes, her hands folded over her belly, her breath steady. Jason sat back. Only then did he reach sideways — and find Clara’s hand. She was already there. Palm open. Waiting. Their fingers slid together like they’d been doing it for lifetimes. Matt accepted the folder with quiet care, handling it like something priceless. Because, in truth — it was. He looked at them — not as a lawyer, not as a man with a job to do — but as someone who understood what had just happened.

“You did it,” he said, soft. “Congratulations. All of you.”

Jason turned to Clara. She looked back at him like they’d just crossed an ocean. Because, in a way — they had.

By 3:10, the sun had softened into something golden and forgiving, spilling through the leaves above the school gates in warm, slanting light. It filtered down in slow, dappled patterns, turning the cracked pavement into something almost gentle. The iron bars cast long, even shadows across the ground — stretched like clock hands marking time. Behind the fence, the hum of children was rising now — a swelling tide of laughter, shouted names, and the rustling chaos of end-of-day energy. Zippers zipped. Chairs scraped. A whistle blew once, thin and distant.

Jason stood among the other parents, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket — the fabric warm from the sun and worn soft at the cuffs. He shifted his weight slightly, grounding himself. Above him, the leaves trembled with every slow, deliberate gust of wind. This — this quiet corner of the day — had become one of his favourite rituals. He liked the rhythm of it. The soft choreography. The scatter of parents with takeaway coffees and folded-up scooters. The tired, half-distracted nods. The way someone’s toddler always tried to open the wrong gate. But mostly? He loved that no one here cared who he used to be. No one looked twice. No one whispered or watched him sideways. No one asked about arenas or albums, or what Robbie was really like, or whether he missed the spotlight. No one mentioned Take That at all. Here, he wasn’t the quiet one. Or the handsome one. Or the one who left. He wasn’t anyone. He was just another man in a sun-warmed jacket, checking his watch. Just another dad squinting into the golden light.

Just Jack’s dad.

And somehow — out of all the names he’d ever been given, all the headlines, all the credits and interviews — that one felt the most true. No applause. No spotlight. No noise. Just a patch of sun on his shoes. A shadow stretched beside his own. A breeze lifting the edge of his sleeve. And the slow, familiar magic of waiting for someone small — someone loud and messy and entirely his — to come barreling out of the building with a backpack half-zipped and stories spilling from his mouth. To run to him without hesitation. Because he knew, without ever having to be told —This is where home is.

“All right, mate?”

One of the other dads — Tom, he thought — gave Jason a nod, takeaway coffee in one hand, a Spiderman lunch bag in the other.

“Yeah,” Jason replied, smiling. “All good. You?”

“Can’t complain. George has swimming later, so we’ll see how much gear I forget this time. was in the badbooks with the missus for a good week last time” He grinned, easy and self-deprecating. “Clara doing okay?”

Jason’s smile deepened — genuine, instinctive. “She’s good. Tired, but good. Baby’s kicking like she’s training for the circus.”

A woman nearby — Andrea, whose daughter sat next to Jack — leaned in, folding her arms against the breeze. “You’re nearly there now, right?”

“Pretty much” Jason nodded. “Few more weeks. Give or take.”

“Well, tell Clara I’ve got some bits if she wants them. Hand-me-downs, but in lovely nick. All baby girl stuff.”

“That’d mean a lot,” he said warmly. “Thanks. I’ll let her know.”

And just like that, the conversation shifted — someone brought up the parents bake sale; someone else complained good-naturedly about forgotten reading logs; another dad groaned about this week’s spelling list, sparking mock outrage and half-laughed threats of “homework mutiny.” Jason stood in the middle of it, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, and realised — he didn’t feel on the edge of things. Not anymore. He wasn’t tolerated or politely included. He belonged. Not because of anything he’d done — not because of who he’d been. But because he showed up. Because he asked about swimming kits and brought in cupcakes and waited outside the classroom with the rest of them. Because he was there. He listened, nodded, laughed. Someone passed him a flyer for the Year 2 picnic. Someone else asked if Clara might fancy joining the walking group once the baby was born.

No one looked at him sideways. No one blinked when he said his name. No one cared who he used to be — not really. Not here. And the most surprising part? He didn’t want them to. Once, he’d lived in hotel rooms with blackout curtains and bodyguards posted outside. He’d flown across continents and stood under lights hot enough to sear. People had screamed his name in stadiums. Now? They said it like it was normal. Like it was enough.

Jason. Jack’s dad.

And something inside him — something that had been coiled for years — unknotted a little more each time he stood at this gate. This was a different kind of recognition. Not the flashbulb kind. The real kind. The kind you earn by turning up, again and again, with your sleeves rolled and your heart in it. His name might still be printed on old album sleeves in someone’s attic, but here — it was written on school forms, jotted onto birthday RSVPs, muttered with gratitude when he brought wet wipes or remembered snack duty. And that? That was the name that mattered.

Jack’s shout split the air.

“Daddy!”

Jason turned just in time to see him — barreling down the path with his jumper askew, curls bouncing, Mister Bunny trailing behind him like he was on an adventure. Jason crouched, arms open before he even thought about it. Jack flung himself forward, solid and warm and so very his.

“Hey, superstar,” Jason murmured into his hair, breathing him in. “Good day?”

“Yeah!” Jack beamed. “We did painting and I didn’t even get any on my sleeves!”

“Wow..im impressed” Jason laughed. “That’s progress.”

He stood, took Jack’s bag from his shoulders, and slung it easily over his own. They walked away hand in hand, Jack already chattering about worms and glitter and someone who’d been sick in the corridor. And Jason — in the echo of playground noise and pigeons on the roof, in the press of Jack’s small fingers curled around his — felt it again: This wasn’t the life he used to have. It was better. Not louder. But deeper.

They walked together, hand in hand, past the iron gates and into the soft spill of late afternoon. Jack talked without pausing — about glitter glue and worm compost and someone named Sam who'd cried because he thought he’d lost his shoelace (it was in his pocket). Jason murmured in the right places, his replies gentle, but his eyes — they kept returning to the boy beside him. To the small, determined figure keeping pace with him like it was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it was. A pigeon scattered up ahead. The trees rustled as a breeze threaded through their branches. Somewhere behind them, a teacher called out a goodbye. The world was still moving — loud in places, messy, imperfect — but Jason felt... centred.

Not performing. Not disappearing. Just here.

When they reached the corner, Jack paused to kick at a leaf that skated across the pavement. Jason watched him for a moment — the bounce in his step, the light in his eyes — and felt it again. That slow, almost unbelievable truth.This was his life now. They passed the old stone wall where the ivy always climbed too high and the neighbour’s lavender spilled through the cracks. Jason breathed it in — the scent sharp and clean, grounding. Jack reached for his hand again without looking. Jason took it. They walked the rest of the way home like that — quiet now. Not the silence of absence, but the kind that comes when everything that matters has already been said. The house appeared just as the clouds began to soften overhead — paint a little weathered, garden still scattered with toys, one window cracked open like it had been forgotten. Jason felt something catch in his throat. This wasn’t just a house. It was a life.

Clara opened the door before they reached it, bump round beneath her shirt, hair pinned back, a tea towel slung over her shoulder. Her face lit up the moment she saw them.

“There you are,” she said.

“Here we are,” Jason replied, smiling.

Jack ran ahead, launching himself through the door with the boundless joy of a boy who trusted the world to hold him. Jason paused on the threshold, hand resting for a moment against the frame.Once, he'd stood on stages beneath heat and noise. Once, he'd heard his name shouted in arenas louder than thunder. Once, he’d flown across oceans and called it success. Now? Now his name was whispered into a sleeping child’s hair. Scribbled on school notes. Written on a guardianship form tucked in the glovebox. Spoken in laughter and quiet reassurance. Said only by the people who meant it. And here — in this moment, in this doorway, in this life he’d built not by fame, but by choice — he finally understood something he hadn’t known how to name before. He hadn’t lost himself. He’d come home to himself.

Jason stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him And the world — for now — was exactly where it needed to be.

Later, when the sun had begun to shift lower in the sky and Jack had finished his snack, Jason reached into his pocket and closed his fingers around the edge of the folded court papers — still warm from the glovebox.

“Fancy a drive?” he asked quietly.

Clara looked up from the sink, drying her hands. She didn’t need to ask why.

She just nodded. “Yeah. I think we should.”

Jack, sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by crayons, perked up instantly.

“The special car?” he asked, already scrambling to his feet

Jason smiled. “Yeah. The special car.”

Because today was a special day. And sometimes, beginnings deserved a little ceremony.

The Mercedes purred softly beneath them, warm from the sun but cool inside — the faint scent of pine still clinging to the dashboard vents. The special car. The one they kept for court dates and Christmases. Important days. Jack climbed into the back with a small huff, buckling in with the grace of someone who knew the steps. His curls were damp with playground heat, cheeks flushed, Mister Bunny stuffed ear-first into the cupholder like he was listening in. Jason glanced at Clara, flicked on the air con just enough to cool Jack’s pink cheeks.

Jack frowned, suddenly alert. “Wait a minute… we’re in the special car right?.”

"Yes..."Jason smiled. “We are.”

"Well..."Jack squinted at them both. “That means something important’s happening. You only use this car when it’s big stuff.”

"Smart kid.."Clara turned in her seat, her eyes bright. “He’s not wrong.” Jason drummed his fingers on the wheel. The road ahead was still. No rush. No noise. "Well,” Clara said gently, her hand resting on Jason’s arm, “we do have something to tell you, love.”

Jack leaned forward, wide-eyed. “It’s not a baby boy in mummys tummy too, is it?!”

Jason laughed. “Nope. Still just one tiny, furious kicker in there.”

“Phew.” Jack exaggerated a sigh of relief. “Okay. Hit me.”

Jason turned slightly in his seat to face him. He took a breath — not out of nerves, but fullness. A breath thick with meaning.

“So,” he began, voice steady. “You know how we’ve been talking to the court, and to Matt, about making sure our family stays just the way it’s meant to be?”

“Oh yes..” Jack nodded, slower now. “Because of Sean.”

Clara nodded too. “That’s right. And we’ve done everything we could to make sure you feel safe. Always.”

jason held Jack’s gaze. “Well… today we signed the final papers.”

Jack blinked. “What kind of papers?”

“The kind that makes it real,” Jason said. “ you see....I’m your legal guardian now Jack. Forever. No more visits. No more Sean. Just us.”

Silence.

And then—

“WHAT?!” Jack exploded, bouncing so hard in his seat he nearly hit the roof “THAT'S SO COOL”

“Careful!” Clara laughed, reaching back with a hand brimming with happy tears “daddy won't be happy if you put a hole in the roof”

Jack didn’t care. He surged forward as far as his seatbelt allowed, arms outstretched. Jason turned just in time to catch him. Jack wrapped both arms around his neck from behind the seat, burying his face into Jason’s shoulder.

“I knew it,” Jack whispered, breathing warmly. “I knew you were my real daddy.”

Jason’s throat tightened. He gripped Jack’s arms, holding him close. Pressed his cheek to his son’s hair.

"I always was,” he said. “I was just waiting for the world to catch up.”

Clara leaned over the console, wrapping one arm around both of them, laughing through tears. Jack shifted to reach her, too, his little hand resting on her bump.

"You too, Hope,” he said, voice soft. “You’re in this cuddle whether you like it or not.”

The three of them sat like that — tangled across seats and years, held together not by blood but by something fiercer.

By love.

By choice.

By the quiet kind of forever.

Outside, the world moved on — cars, pigeons, breeze, time. But inside the Mercedes, everything held still. Clara’s head rested on Jason’s shoulder, one hand cradling Jack, the other on her belly. She whispered it so gently that only they heard it.

“We’re home.”

Chapter Text

Several days had now passed since the signature. Since Jason’s hand had lifted from the page, fingers trembling, eyes shining. Since Matt had looked up from the document with that quiet, reverent “Congratulations” — a single word that still echoed in the corners of Clara’s heart several days later. Since they’d told Jack in the car, the windows fogging slightly from the press of the afternoon sun, and he’d nearly launched himself through the roof in joy.

The memory played over in Clara’s mind like a soft reel on loop — not loud, not insistent, just present. Jason’s voice, low and thick with emotion, telling Jack what the papers meant. Jack’s eyes wide and wet and bright. The silence that came before the words — I knew you were my real daddy — like he hadn’t just believed it but always known it. As if the paper had caught up to what his heart already understood. They hadn’t made a fuss afterward. No champagne. No announcement on the fridge. No party hats or matching T-shirts. Just life. Just them. And that was the beauty of it. Because the shift didn’t come with fireworks. It came in smaller ways. Softer ones.

Jason laying out Jack’s school clothes in the morning before Clara had even woken. The way Jack reached for his hand now without hesitation, threading their fingers together like it had never been a question. The way Jason no longer lingered in the background at school pick-up — he stood tall, greeted by name, by title. Dad. He signed permission slips now. Helped with spelling. Sat cross-legged at the coffee table helping Jack glue googly eyes onto cardboard monsters like it was the most natural thing in the world. In the evenings, when Clara sat on the bench in the garden and watched them through the open patio doors — Jack sprawled across Jason’s chest, reading upside-down while Jason absently played with the curls at the nape of his neck — she didn’t think of custody hearings or legal language. She thought of belonging. Of how healing didn’t always look dramatic.Jason had never wanted to make it about him. But Clara saw the difference in him now. He moved through the house with a sureness he hadn’t before. Like something had clicked into place inside him. Like he’d stopped asking the world for permission to belong, and finally just… belonged.

That night after the papers were signed, after Jack was asleep, Clara found Jason in the garden again, sitting beneath the apple tree where the petals had begun to fall like soft pink rain. She sat beside him without a word. He didn’t look at her at first — just passed her the mug in his hands. Chamomile. Warm. Familiar. They sat in silence for a while, the kind that spoke volumes. Then he said, quietly, without looking over:

“I still can’t believe he said that. About me being his real dad.”

Clara smiled softly, leaned her shoulder into his.

“You always were,” she said. “He just put it into words.”

Jason swallowed, his eyes shiny in the half-light.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever felt that kind of… certainty,” he admitted. “Not with music. Not even with the band. Not like this.”

Clara reached for his hand. “That’s because this isn’t a performance,” she said. “This is home.”

He looked at her then — really looked — and she saw it all in his face. The awe. The gratitude. The man who had once been unsure of his place in the world now completely rooted in it.

A father. A partner. A man no longer running. And beside him, in the quiet hum of night, Clara thought: There’s no certificate for this part. No judge. No signature. But this — this is what being a family feels like.

Safe.

Ordinary.

And whole.

And now — this evening — was the kind of evening Clara never used to let herself believe in. Not really. The house was hushed, dimmed by the soft blue light of early evening. A summer breeze ghosted through the open window, carrying the smell of fresh grass and the neighbour’s laundry detergent. Somewhere in the hallway, the low thrum of the shower filtered through — steady and distant — where Jason was rinsing off the day. Clara lay curled on the sofa, her legs stretched out along the cushions, one hand resting across her belly. Hope had been active all day — kicking like she was late for something — and now, finally, she’d settled. Clara hadn’t. Not quite. There was a tightness low in her back. The start of something or maybe just another false alarm. Still, she was trying to be still. To rest. Jason had told her to — and while she usually teased him about being bossy, tonight she’d let him win.

On the rug, Jack was sprawled out on his front, tongue tucked into the corner of his mouth as he focused intently on a piece of paper. Crayons were scattered around him like confetti. He didn’t look up, only paused occasionally to frown at his work, then kept going.

Clara tilted her head. “What are you working on, my love?”

Jack didn't glance up. “A picture. It’s for the baby’s wall.”

Clara smiled, shifting slightly to ease a twinge. “Can I see?”

“Not yet,” Jack said seriously. “You have to wait until I finish the names.”

“The names?”

Jack nodded solemnly and began sounding out each letter under his breath, brows furrowed with concentration. Clara watched him — this small, beautiful boy who still wore odd socks and couldn’t ever seem to sit still at dinner, but had the most enormous heart she'd ever known. A few minutes passed.

Then Jack sat up with a flourish. “Okay. You can look now.”

He stood, brushing crayon dust from his t-shirt, and walked the picture over to her, holding it like something sacred. Clara took it carefully. Her throat caught the moment her eyes landed on the page. He’d drawn the four of them. Stick figures — slightly wobbly, wonderfully imperfect — standing side by side beneath a big sun with thick yellow rays. The biggest figure had long curly hair and a round belly. Next to her was a tall figure with messy brown scribbles on its head, labelled “DADDY ” in bold red letters. Clara blinked. That alone undone her. Next to Jason was a smaller figure with curls and a big smile: “ME - JACK.” And in Clara’s belly — a tiny dot with a heart around it — was simply: “HOPE.” Clara's breath hitched.

“Oh… sweetheart…”

She pressed the drawing to her chest for a moment, as if holding it closer might help her hold all of it — the truth it represented, the simplicity, the way Jack had just known.

He looked at her, a little uncertain now. “Is it okay?”

Clara reached out and pulled him into the crook of her arm, tucking him gently against her side.

“It’s more than okay,” she whispered. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jack beamed, nestling against her.

“I wanted Hope to know straight away who we are,” he said sleepily. “So she knows where she belongs.”

Clara swallowed against the ache in her throat.

“She already knows,” she murmured, brushing a kiss into his hair. “Because of you.”

Jack yawned, tucked himself deeper under her arm, and rested his hand gently over her belly. Hope rolled under his fingers — as if reaching back. In the distance, the shower stopped. Pipes hummed. Footsteps sounded down the hall. And as Clara sat there — her son in her arms, her daughter stirring beneath her skin, and her partner just down the hall — she looked at the drawing again. At the names. At the heart Jack had drawn around Hope.

At Daddy written in big, unmissable red crayon. This wasn’t just a child’s drawing. It was a map. Of who they were. Of how far they’d come. Of where they belonged — together

Clara padded quietly into the kitchen, still cradling the drawing like it might blow away if she didn’t. She placed it gently on the sideboard, just beside the fruit bowl, letting it rest in the heart of the house. The names, the colours, the heart around Hope — it grounded her. She exhaled. Pressed a hand into the small of her back and the kettle clicked as she filled it. Her other hand rubbed gently under her bump, fingers brushing the stretched cotton of her vest. Her skin was tight tonight. Her lower back ached. And her mood… was everywhere. She leaned her hip against the counter while the kettle bubbled to life, eyes drifting to the window, watching the garden stir in the dusk. The scent of cut grass still lingered on the breeze, sweet and nostalgic.

God, she was tired.

But beneath the exhaustion — layered between the emotion and the heaviness — was something else.

Restless. Raw. Wanting.

She wouldn’t say it aloud. Not easily. Not without blushing and feeling ridiculous. But it had been there for days — this quiet, burning tension beneath her skin. Like her body wanted to feel something that wasn’t swelling or aching or sore. Something that reminded her she was wanted… not just held or helped or cared for, but craved. She stirred sugar into her tea absently, then set the spoon down with a soft clink. It was all so messy — this hormonal cocktail of need and self-consciousness. Because along with the desire came the insecurity. Her reflection in the kettle’s curve caught her eye. Round cheeks. Swollen belly. Dark circles under her eyes. She felt huge. Stretched. Slower than herself. And even though Jason told her she was beautiful — God, he always told her — sometimes she still didn’t feel like the woman he’d fallen in love with. Not lately.

Not when she was leaking on her vest at 2 a.m. Not when her thighs ached and her ankles puffed and she couldn’t get comfortable in bed without four pillows and half a yoga pose. She took a sip of tea. Closed her eyes. Then she heard it — the sound of the bathroom door opening upstairs. Jason’s footsteps, soft and bare on the floorboards. She let out a slow breath. She honestly didn’t know whether she wanted to cry or climb him like a tree. Maybe both at this moment in time. Because sometimes she just needed to be kissed like she wasn’t breakable.

Like she was still the same Clara who made him stammer when she walked into a room. Even if she was carrying his daughter now. Especially because of that.

She took another sip. Set the cup down and turned toward the sound of him coming down the stairs. Clara didn’t move. She stood by the kitchen counter, tea cooling in her hands, when she heard his feet on the stairs — the steady rhythm of someone unhurried, someone at home. The hallway creaked softly under his weight. Then Jason appeared in the doorway. And instantly Clara forgot how to breathe. He was barefoot. The soft thud of his steps against the wood floor reached her first — then the sight of him, emerging from the hallway like a scene her hormones had hand-selected especially for her. Damp strands of greying hair clung in loose waves to his temples, still tousled from the shower. A few beads of water traced slow, lazy paths down the slope of his neck and disappeared behind the white towel slung low on his hips. That was all he wore. No shirt. No effort. Just Jason. Steam still clung faintly to his skin, softening the edges of him like light through gauze. His chest was broad — not sculpted like the twenty-somethings on fitness magazines, but real. Solid. Lived-in. The chest of a man who’d carried weight — literal and emotional — and worn it without complaint. There was strength there, yes, but also softness. A slight curve to his middle, the faint dip between his ribs, silver hairs scattered in the centre like threads of moonlight.

Clara’s breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat. Heat bloomed low in her belly, slow and sure, like a match striking damp tinder. Her fingers tightened around the mug in her hands, knuckles whitening, tea forgotten. A flush crept up her chest, spreading beneath the thin cotton of her vest, and her thighs pressed instinctively together — not from modesty, but need. Raw, restless need. Her heartbeat stuttered, not in panic, but in recognition — of the man she’d chosen, the one who still, after everything, could make her feel undone with nothing more than the sight of him in a towel and a half-asleep smile. He rubbed the back of his neck absently, unaware of the way her eyes followed the motion. The muscles in his arm flexed with the movement — not gym-honed, but naturally built from years of dancing, lifting, living. The veins along his forearm rose like topography, and she caught the familiar creak of his shoulder as he stretched. That sound had become oddly comforting. Part of him. Like the laugh that always came half a second after hers, or the sigh he gave before he pulled her closer at night. His torso tapered into hips wrapped in nothing but cotton and damp warmth. The towel sat low, revealing the slight V of his pelvis, the flat plane of his lower abdomen — a place she knew well, had kissed with reverence and joy. He adjusted it with one hand, completely unaware of the quiet storm he was stirring just by existing.

His skin was tanned in places from the garden, paler where the sun hadn’t touched. There were scars — small ones — the kind you only noticed when you knew someone well. A faint mark near his ribcage from falling off a stage on the Beautiful world tour. A thin pale line on his wrist from a bad drawer handle. Life etched into flesh. And God, he was beautiful. Not in a glossy, airbrushed way. Not like he’d been in the old photos — young and luminous and impossible. No. Now he was real. And that made him even more dangerous. Fifty-three, and more arresting than anyone Clara had ever met. Because this was the body of a man who had learned things. Who had broken and healed and still stood tall. A body that had held hers through laughter, through birth pains, through sobs at 3 a.m. A body that had once danced for millions and now curled behind her in the kitchen while she made toast.

She hadn’t meant to stare. But she couldn’t not.

He was hers. And she wanted him — not despite the age, the silver, the sighs and soft edges… but because of them. Because this was the man who had weathered fame and family courtrooms and still looked at her like she was art. Because every inch of him was known. And still — every inch of him made her ache. And it did things to her.

Clara didn’t speak. She didn’t even sip her tea. She just stared. Something low in her belly shifted — not a cramp, not a kick. Heat. It rose slowly, curling under her skin like a whisper. Her breath hitched, quiet and tight in her throat. Her fingers clenched around the mug as if it might tether her to the ground. Jason still hadn’t seen her yet. He was moving toward the laundry basket by the door now, muttering to himself as he pulled it open, completely oblivious to the slow storm building behind her ribs.She let her gaze trail lower. The towel hung that bit more loose. Water traced a line down his spine and disappeared behind the curve of his hip. God. She swallowed hard.

He wasn’t trying.

That was the part that undid her. He wasn’t posing. Wasn’t putting anything on. He just was — comfortable in his skin, at peace in a way younger men rarely were. It wasn’t just the body. It was him. Jason Orange. Her partner. The man who painted sunrise murals on the nursery wall and whispered to their unborn daughter when he thought she was asleep. And now he was standing in her kitchen — damp, warm, beautiful — and she felt every nerve in her body stir awake like it had been waiting for this exact moment. She didn’t say a word. Just watched — and burned beneath her skin, where want lived like breath.

Jason finally looked up and caught her staring.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You alright?”

Clara blinked. Slow. Then shook her head, voice barely audible. “Yeah… nothing.”

But her cheeks were flushed. Her mouth soft. Her eyes dragging over him like a secret. Jason stepped forward slightly, towel still firmly in place, but now smiling — slow and knowing.

“You sure?”

Clara anxiously bit the inside of her cheek.

“Mm-hmm.”

But her body said everything. Her skin hummed. Her chest rose and fell like she’d run halfway across the garden. And if he touched her now — even just her wrist — she might unravel right there, tea forgotten, toes curling on the tile. She set the mug down without looking. Her hands were suddenly too warm, her breath too shallow. And then — without thinking, without asking — she crossed the kitchen floor toward him. Not hurried. Just certain. Jason stood still, eyes locked on hers, as if he could feel the air shift. She stopped just in front of him. Close enough to feel the heat of him. To smell the soap on his skin and the faint trace of his aftershave beneath it — that same cedarwood note that always seemed to undo her. Clara reached out and placed both hands gently on his chest — just above his heart. Her fingers spread, slow, reverent, as if reminding herself this man was real. Solid. Hers. He drew in a breath, like he might say something — but didn’t. So she stood on tiptoe, just barely, and kissed the base of his throat. Light. Slow. Like a thought made physical. Like a promise whispered into skin. Jason’s eyes fluttered shut.

“I'm fine now,” she murmured against him.

His hands rose — slow, careful — and came to rest over hers where they still pressed against his chest. He didn’t pull her in. He didn’t have to. She was already there. Wrapped in warmth. In him. And in the quiet that followed, neither of them moved. Just held. Just breathed. Just stood there in the kitchen, between laundry baskets and cooling tea, with every part of the day — the week, the months behind them — folding gently into stillness.

The café was loud in the way all cafés get around lunchtime — layers of conversation piling over the clink of cutlery, the low scrape of chairs on tile, and the soft hiss of milk steaming behind the counter. The room pulsed with the easy chaos of people filling space — kids in highchairs drumming spoons, someone spilling sugar, a baby squawking with glee. Clara sat by the window, curled into the corner booth like she needed the edges. One leg tucked beneath her, the other angled stiffly to make room for the weight of Hope pressing low against her spine. Her dress clung a little too tightly across her belly, the fabric damp beneath her arms. She cradled a mug of mint tea — long gone lukewarm — and stared out the window at strangers walking by. Outside, the world moved in slow, summery certainty. People in linen. Sunglasses. Flip-flops clapping on the pavement. Prams rolled by with well-packed baskets and serene-looking mums who smiled like they had it all handled. Clara remembered faking that calm when Jack was tiny. Inside, she’d felt held together with coffee and sheer will. Now, she felt like she was unravelling. Softly. Invisibly. A dull ache pulled low in her back, persistent and familiar. Her bra dug in. Her thighs itched. And emotionally? She felt like someone had strung her up with thread and left her in a warm room to fray. Then Dani arrived. A breeze of purpose and perfume, sunglasses perched on her head, lipstick too perfect for a casual lunch. She slid into the seat opposite, tote bag thudding to the floor and immediately spilling its guts — a crushed cereal bar, a receipt and her good pen from work

“Took forever to park,” Dani muttered, waving down a server with all the authority of a woman who knew what she wanted and always got it. “Seriously, half the village must be panic-buying sourdough.”

Clara cracked a smile. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.” Dani peeled her sunglasses off, squinted at her. “Alright. Spill. You’ve got your ‘about to cry or throw a chair’ face on.”

"Okay..." Clara hesitated, dragging a hand through her hair. “I feel… weird.”

Dani blinked. “Weird how? Like ‘cried over a moth’ weird? Or ‘found your keys in the fridge again’ weird?”

Clara let out a weak laugh. “Like... restless...needy… Like my whole body is full of static. I want to cry. And scream. And also— God — jump Jason before he finishes his tea.”

Dani paused mid-reach for her coffee. “Whoa. Okay. Didn’t see that one coming.”

Clara groaned, covering her eyes. “Sorry. I know. Hormones. Madness. Whatever. But this morning he walked into the kitchen — fresh from the shower, towel barely hanging on — and I swear I forgot what words were. I just stood there with my tea... clenching every part of my being.”

Dani cackled, loud enough that the couple at the next table turned. She didn’t care. “Bloody hell, Clara.”

“I know!!!” Clara slumped in her seat. “I feel ridiculous. I’m the size of a mini fridge and my thighs are currently stuck together on this sofa, but all I wanted was for him to press me up against the fridge and ruin my day in the best possible way.”

Dani snorted into her coffee. “Wow. That’s… vivid.”

“I’ve been stewing in this mess of hormones, itchy boobs, and frustrated libido for days Dani. I just want to feel like I’m still me. Not just ‘mum-to-be’ or a sacred fertility vessel. I want to feel like a woman.”

“I get it though,” Dani said, sobering. “You’re not just feeling physically needy — it’s all the emotions tied up in it, yeah?”

Clara nodded quickly. “Exactly. It’s not just the obvious amazing sex with him — although, yeah, also that — it’s... feeling connected. Feeling wanted. Remembering that under all the maternity bras and stretch marks... I’m still a woman. One with needs.” She rubbed her hand over her forehead, restless and flushed. “He keeps being so gentle with me. Hand on my back, kisses on my temple, all ‘you alright, sweetheart?’ — like I’m made of blown glass. And I appreciate it, I do. But at some point, I stopped wanting to be kissed like a saint and started wanting to be kissed like... like a woman who’s still allowed to be wanted.”

Dani’s expression softened, eyes losing their sparkle for something more grounded.

Clara’s voice dropped. “I feel huge. And tired.. But under all that? I still want him. Not just love. Not just partnership. But desire. I want to feel like he sees me. Really sees me.”

Dani reached across the table, fingers brushing her forearm. “Hey. You don’t have to justify wanting to be wanted. You’re not less of a woman because you’re about to be a mother. The two can live in the same body.”

Clara blinked. That landed harder than she expected. “That was… kind of profound.”

“I surprise myself sometimes,” Dani shrugged. “But look — Jason’s a good man. A thoughtful man too. And this whole fatherhood thing? It’s all new for him. He probably thinks he’s doing the right thing by holding back. Won't want to hurt you or the baby”

Clara nodded slowly. “Yeah. He’s so careful. So respectful. But I think he’s afraid I’ll snap in half if he kisses me like he means it, how I know he can.”

Dani tilted her head. “Then maybe you need to show him you won’t.”

Clara gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “You think I should just… tell him?”

“I think,” Dani said, tossing her empty coffee cup into the bin like a free-throw champion, “you should jump him.”

Clara burst out laughing, then winced and held her side. “Christ. I might actually pull something if I try.”

“Then whisper something filthy instead. Same effect. Less physio.”

They were now outside and soon reached Clara’s car, the sun warm on the bonnet, shadows stretching long across the tarmac. Clara paused before unlocking it, hands resting over her bump.

“I just don’t want him to think I’m asking out of insecurity,” she said quietly. “I just want to feel like myself again. Like we’re still us.”

Dani’s voice gentled. “Then tell him exactly that. And if all else fails, remind him he used to be in a boy band. He’s contractually obligated to have stamina — even in his fifties. If the others can still do the Pray dance hitting middle age, having sex with you will be a walk in the park. Probably more fun and creative too”

“Dani,” Clara laughed, doubling over slightly. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re welcome.” Dani winked, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Now go home. See if that man remembers how to misbehave.”

Clara stood by the driver’s side of her car, watching Dani disappear around the corner with her usual whirlwind energy — sunglasses perched, bag bouncing off her hip, already halfway through a voice note to Chris if Clara knew her right. The silence that followed felt strangely loud. No café clatter. No Dani quips. No excuses to laugh through the discomfort. Just the soft clink of her keys in her palm, the warm metal of the car door against her hip, and her own heartbeat drumming a quiet rhythm behind her ribs. She opened the car door, slid into the seat, and closed it with a quiet thud. The air inside was warmer than it should have been. She didn’t start the engine. Didn’t even fasten her belt. Just sat there, one hand on the curve of her belly, the other resting over the gearstick like it could anchor her. The silence pressed in. And then, like water rising over stone, Dani’s words echoed again.

“You’re not less of a woman because you’re also about to be a mother. The two can live in the same body.”

Clara blinked hard, her throat tightening. God, how long had it been since she let herself believe that? Somewhere between the swollen ankles and the baby name spreadsheets, between the school runs and maternity leggings and the smell of E45 cream on everything she owned — she'd started to vanish. Not from Jason. Not really. But from herself. She didn’t wear perfume anymore unless she was leaving the house. She hadn’t worn proper knickers in weeks. The idea of sexy lingerie now felt absurd — like a costume from a life she used to live, a character she used to play. Except it wasn’t a character. It was her. It is her.

She ran her fingers down her bump slowly, trying to catch her breath. The truth was, she didn’t just miss the sex — though God, yes, she missed the sex with him. She missed being desired. Being touched like the world might end tomorrow. Being looked at like a person, not a patient. Not a sacred vessel or fragile miracle — but a woman. A woman with thighs and hunger and a body that could still catch fire. Dani was right. She didn’t need to justify it. She didn’t need to dress it up or make it poetic. She just needed to say it out loud. She still wanted to be wanted. And not just gently. Not just with feather-light kisses on her temple and foot rubs and “how’s your back, sweetheart?” She wanted to be claimed. Loved out loud. Kissed hard. Bent over a countertop if necessary. She wanted Jason to see her — not just the woman he’d built a life with, but the one who made him stammer when she stripped off his shirt for the first time, covering his chest in soft gentle kisses. The one who climbed into his lap and nuzzled on his neck like she had nothing to lose. The one who didn’t ask to be wanted — she knew she was.

Clara swallowed hard. Her palms were sweating now at the very thoughts. What if I’m not that woman anymore? But then, a softer voice inside her — steadier, clearer — whispered: Then show him who you still are. She exhaled shakily. Reached for her phone. Scrolled to his name.

Jason ❤️

Her thumb hovered. Then she tucked the phone into her bag instead. No. Not yet. She wanted to say it with her hands. With her mouth. With her body. She wanted to tell him by kissing the doubt out of him — and herself. She looked into the rearview mirror — hair mussed, cheeks flushed, eyes tired but bright with something fierce. Not the girl she used to be. Not just a mother-in-waiting. But a woman still full of want. Full of power. Still capable of setting fire to the world with a look, a laugh, a kiss. And maybe she’d forgotten that for a while. Maybe the noise of stretch marks and swelling and sacredness had blurred the edges of her reflection. But now, with her hands on the wheel and her heart beating loud in her chest, she saw her. Still there. Still hers. And she was going home to remind them both.

The bedroom was dim, washed in the amber spill of the bedside lamp. Outside, the world had quieted — dusk thick with the scent of lavender and the distant hum of traffic threading through the silence. It was the kind of evening that wrapped itself around the house like a breath held between heartbeats. Jack was asleep down the hall. Hope, too — at last. The thrum of movement in Clara’s belly had faded, leaving only stillness. The kind that should have brought peace. But it hadn’t. She lay on her side, one hand tucked beneath the curve of her bump, the other resting open on the duvet like it was reaching for something. Her skin hummed. Her breath was shallow. And somewhere low in her belly, heat flickered — not sharp, not sudden. Slow. Like an ember coaxed to life. It wasn’t just hormones. It was want. Then she heard the door. Soft. Familiar. The creak she knew by heart. 

Jason stepped into the room with the quiet ease of someone who belonged to it — no shirt, barefoot, wearing only his joggers. The fabric hung low on his hips, the waistband slightly askew like he hadn’t looked in a mirror before coming in. The light touched him gently, catching the silver at his temples, the faint scatter of hair along his chest, the slow breath rising and falling like he hadn’t even noticed her yet. But Clara had noticed everything. The quiet strength of his shoulders. The softness earned by age, by years of carrying more than his share. The shape of him now — not the sleek, sharp lines of youth, but something steadier. Deeper. A body built by living. By loving. Her breath hitched. She felt it in her chest. In her hips. In the way her thighs pressed together beneath the blanket, the ache both familiar and new. He moved to the dresser, picking up a book. His glasses. Still half in the rhythm of the day, unaware of the storm he’d just stepped into. Then he turned. And saw her. He paused. Eyes flicking to her face. Holding there. And something in them shifted.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You alright?”

She nodded. Then shook her head. Too quickly. Jason’s brows lifted just a little. Not in alarm — in understanding. He crossed to her without hesitation, sinking down beside her on the bed, one knee pressing into the mattress, hand resting on her thigh through the blanket.

“You’re quiet,” he said gently. “Not your usual kind. What do you need?”

Clara blinked, breath caught in her throat. And for a moment, she didn’t answer — because how could she? The words felt too heavy in her mouth, too full of things she hadn't let herself say.

What do you need?

Dani’s voice echoed back, low and fierce, the way it had over lukewarm café coffee earlier:

“You’re not less of a woman because you’re about to be a mother. The two can live in the same body.”

Clara had laughed at the time. Brushed it off. But now, with Jason’s hand resting warm and steady on her thigh, that sentence came back with weight. She was a mother. A partner. A woman swollen with late pregnancy and barely-contained exhaustion. But she was also still the woman who wanted to be touched. Kissed like she was wanted. Bent backward over the edge of the kitchen counter just because. That woman hadn't vanished — she'd just gone quiet. And maybe tonight was about reminding herself she hadn’t gone anywhere at all.

Her chest rose with a slow, shaking inhale. She couldn’t keep pretending. Not tonight. Not with him so close — warm, steady, unknowingly unravelling her with every quiet breath. For weeks she’d swallowed it down: the ache, the tension, the need to feel like more than soft caution and borrowed patience. But it was cracking through her now, rising fast in her throat like a truth she couldn’t un-think. Dani had been right — there was no shame in wanting. No apology necessary for craving connection, for needing to feel like a woman and not just a mother-in-progress. And Jason… God, if anyone deserved her honesty, it was him. He’d held space for her, for her body, her fears, her shifting moods — never pushing, always waiting. But she couldn’t keep waiting for him to read her mind. She had to tell him. Had to show him. Because she wanted him — fully, messily, fiercely — and she was done pretending that she didn’t. Slowly, she reached for his hand. Threaded her fingers through his, anchoring herself in the shape of him — familiar and solid. Then, without breaking his gaze, she guided his palm beneath the blanket. Over the curve of her hip. The slope of her thigh. Her breath trembled, but her voice, when it came, was steady. Low. Honest.

“You,” she whispered. “I need you.”

Jason’s breath caught. He didn’t move. Not yet. His thumb brushed along her leg, slow and reverent. His gaze searched hers — not for permission. But for truth. For how deep this need ran. And Clara looked back at him — eyes open, body pulsing with quiet ache — and gave him everything in that look. All the craving. All the exhaustion. All the want. He shifted closer, tucking one arm behind her shoulders. He leaned down, brushed his lips against her temple — and then lower. Her cheek. Her jaw. The place just below her ear that always made her breath falter. Jason’s hand lingered on her hip, warm through the blanket, his fingers curled protectively around her. He didn’t rush. Didn’t assume. He waited, the way he always did with her — not out of hesitation, but reverence. . And in that simple, wordless gesture, something broke loose in him.

He had been holding back.

Not just from her body, but from his own longing. He’d tiptoed around her exhaustion, her swollen ankles, the way her body had changed. He’d watched her carry their daughter with quiet awe, and tried not to ask for more — not when she was already giving so much. But now, beneath the low hush of the lamp and the heavy breath of lavender-soaked dusk, she had asked him. Reached for him. And it unspooled every careful line he’d drawn between restraint and reverence. He leaned down slowly, bracing one hand behind her shoulder, and kissed her. It started soft — a brushing of lips, the kind meant to check if the earth was still holding still. But it wasn’t. The ground shifted the moment their mouths met. Her breath caught. Her fingers clutched at his side. The kiss deepened, mouths parting, opening — not hurried, but full. Hot. Familiar. Her skin was warm under his hands. He felt her body respond before she moved — the slight tremble in her thigh, the lift of her hips, the way her legs parted just enough to let him closer. The blanket rustled. Her nightdress bunched higher as he slid his hand along her leg, across her hip, feeling the stretch and strength and softness of her.

She smelled like her — that faint scent of skin warmed by sleep and something sweeter beneath it. Not perfume. Just her. He kissed her again — slower now, like he was trying to remember every shape of her mouth, relearn her rhythm. His thumb traced the edge of her jaw. Her lips followed his with something close to desperation. The curve of her belly rose between them — a beautiful, undeniable presence. Not a barrier. A testament. It shifted with her breath, with her need. He kissed the underside of her jaw, then lower — reverent, mapping the places that made her body sing. She arched against him. Her hands found the waistband of his joggers. She was quiet, but nothing about her was still. Every inch of her reached. Called. Welcomed. He held her face in both hands for a moment, just looking at her — eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed, lips damp from him. And he felt it in his chest then, fierce and wordless: she’s mine, and I am hers.

“I’ve just…” Clara began, voice low, uncertain. “I’ve been carrying a lot. Not just physically — though, obviously, that too.” She gave a small, breathy laugh that barely masked the ache. “But here.” She touched her chest. Then her temple. Jason didn’t speak. He simply listened — the way he always did when it mattered most. Eyes steady. Shoulders open. Present. “I feel like I’m split between two people,” she said. “The mother — the one who rubs oil on her belly, makes freezer meals, sobs at baby socks. And then...” She faltered. Jason waited. “And then there’s the woman I used to be. The one who wore lipstick for no reason and liked being kissed like it meant something. The one who didn’t waddle or cry at garden centre music. The one who still wants to be wanted — not just because I’m carrying your child. But because I’m me.” Her voice cracked on that last word. “I look in the mirror and sometimes I don’t even recognise myself. And then you walk into the room looking like…” — she gestured at his bare chest, his joggers, the maddening calm of him — “that, and my body wants to jump you and cry at the same time. It’s ridiculous.”

Jason’s voice, when it came, was gentle. Certain.

“It’s not ridiculous. It’s you. And I love every part of you.”

Clara blinked — surprised by how fast the tears reached her lashes. She hadn’t realised they were building.

“I’m not asking you to fix it,” she whispered. “I just needed to say it and for you to listen. I need you to know I’m still here. That I still want you. Not just for support. Not just comfort. But that connection. That fire. Not as your partner. Not as Hope’s mum. But as me.”

he moved closer, cupping her cheek in his palm.

“I know you’re still here,” he said. “You never left.”

Clara pressed her forehead to his, voice fraying. “But I feel like I’ve gone from myself.”

“Then let me help you come back,” he murmured. “Just... by being with you. However you need.”

She exhaled — a sound half-relief, half-release. Not all the way out yet. But beginning. Her hand slid to his jaw, anchoring herself in the feel of him. The warmth. The steadiness. The realness.

“I want you to touch me like I’m yours,” she said. “Not gently. Not like I’m breakable. Like I’m still a woman. Like you remember.”

Jason’s breath hitched. And then he kissed her — deeply, slowly — like he was rediscovering her shape, her hunger, her yes. His hand moved to her hip, then lower, drawing heat from every place he touched. When he finally broke the kiss, his voice was low. Rough.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his eyes flicking to her bump. “I don’t want to hurt you. Or her either.”

Clara smiled, brushing his damp curls from his brow. “You won’t. She’s fine. She’s floating happily and Probably doing somersaults in there. Besides, even if she’s aware of anything happening — which I promise you, she isn’t — she’s not going to come out traumatised and give you side-eye. So don't worry”

Jason let out a laugh — surprised and unguarded. And it loosened something in him.

“I didn’t want to be selfish,” he murmured. “I’ve been trying so hard to do everything right by you and her.”

“And you are,” Clara said. “But part of getting it right is letting me feel like I’m still me. That I haven’t disappeared.”

That landed instantly with him.

Jason nodded slowly. “Okay. If this is what you want—”

“It is.”

A pause. Then, sheepish: “So, uh... we good on, you know... how?..I mean obviously I know how but for fucks sake you know what I mean”

“You really are adorable when you're nervous “ Clara raised an eyebrow, her voice dipped in amusement. “Positions? ”

He coughed. “Yeah.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, drawing one leg over his. “I’ve done my research.”

“Excuse me..” Jason stared at her. “You what?”

“Extensively, trust me” she replied, wickedly calm. “Top options: side-lying, or me on all fours.”

He blinked like he’d short-circuited. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly. Side-lying is best for comfort and closeness. All fours give you control of depth. Pillow under the bump — highly recommended.”

Jason ran a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“Oh, I’m not done.” Her voice was pure silk now. “ I found this book that states Some women have the best orgasms of their lives in the third trimester. All that blood flow. All that sensitivity.”

“Clara..do me a favour please” Jason gave a strangled sound. “You need to just stop talking.”

“Hey…” She leaned in, voice husky in his ear. “You’ve been walking around this house in joggers that should be illegal, flexing your porridge-stirring forearms, and what?. expect me to stay celibate?”

“Are you actually serious?” Jason half-laughed, half-groaned. “I didn’t know my breakfast prep was such a hazard.”

She grinned. “It is. You should carry a warning label Jason Orange.”

Jason’s eyes had darkened now. His hand slid to her waist — slow, deliberate. “So,” he murmured, “side-lying?”

Clara’s smile curled, full and sure.

“Side-lying,” she whispered. Her fingers slipped into the waistband of his joggers and tugged gently: “Now shut up and take those off before I change my mind.”

Jason definitely didn’t need telling twice.

He stood slowly, never breaking eye contact, and peeled off the joggers in one fluid motion — not showy, not rushed. Just sure. The cotton slid down his hips, over legs that had once danced under spotlights but now moved only for her. When he dropped them to the floor and stepped out, there was no self-consciousness. Just him, open and steady in the amber light — hers, completely. The moment held, charged and reverent.

He climbed back into the bed like it was sacred ground, curling behind her with a gentleness that made her breath catch. His body was warm against hers, all skin and weight and quiet reverence. His hand slid over her hip, then lower, grounding her — not just in the desire, but in the knowing. She reached back, guiding him with a slow, aching certainty. And just like that, the space between them disappeared — not in a rush, not in desperation. But in something deeper.

Home.

With Jason’s help, Clara lay on her side, the duvet half-pushed down, her nightdress gathered in soft, crumpled folds around her hips. The quiet of the room wrapped around them — not empty, but full. Full of breath, of weight, of the history between them. The soft creak of the headboard marked his slow, careful movement as he came to lie behind her, body curving to hers like memory. He’d slid off his joggers without flourish, like shedding something unnecessary — and now he was there. Warm. Real. Solid. His chest pressed to her back, his knees tucked behind hers, anchoring them in this small, sacred space. His hand found her hip first — not possessive, not hurried. Just steady. A touch that said: I’m here. I’ve got you. Then he dipped his head, brushing a kiss to the back of her shoulder — just above the line where fabric gave way to skin. He paused there, breath fanning softly over her, as if giving her the choice to move forward or fold into stillness.

“That book of yours,” Jason murmured against her skin, voice rough with want, “did it say I should be gentle?”

“Well…” Clara smiled, lips curling with heat and mischief. “It said start gently,” she breathed. “Didn’t say anything about staying that way.”

Jason’s laugh was quiet, deep, and close — the sound rumbling low against her spine. “Noted,” he said, the word a promise more than a reply.

He reached down and lifted the nightdress over her head — slow, deliberate — until the fabric whispered over her skin and bunched briefly at the swell of her bump. Then it slipped free, soft as breath, and landed somewhere across the room. She heard it fall, heard the faint thud of it hitting the floor — and grinned. Then he kissed her again. First, the nape of her neck. Then lower — the tender hollow just beneath her ear, where her pulse thrummed hot and fast. His lips lingered there, then traced downward, finding that spot below her collarbone that always undid her. When he kissed it now, she gasped — just as he knew she would. And still, he lingered. Soft. Unhurried. Each kiss was a vow in disguise. Each breath he let out across her skin left goosebumps in its wake. She arched toward him, and his hand came up — slow, steady — to cup her breast. His touch was reverent. Warm. The weight of her fuller body met his palm without apology. He held her like he was learning her again. And when his thumb brushed across her nipple — tender, circling — her breath caught. A sound slipped from her lips, small and breathless. A sigh. A plea.

“You okay?” he whispered, breathing hot against her shoulder “you need to tell me if it gets too much”

“Yes,” Clara said, her voice trembling as she rolled onto her back. “I'm okay at the moment but I'll tell you..Promise”

He leaned down and kissed the swell of her breast — not the nipple yet, just the skin. Her breath caught again as his mouth moved across her, lips trailing warm and open-mouthed, then finally closing around her nipple. She cried out — soft, breathless — as he suckled gently, tongue flicking over the tip, then circling slowly. His other hand palmed her other breast, thumb stroking, coaxing, learning her new rhythms. Clara arched into him once more, one hand buried in his hair, the other bracing herself against the sheets. Her skin was humming. Her whole body alive beneath his mouth. Jason moaned softly into her as she squirmed beneath him, gasping. He switched breasts, giving the same gentle attention to the other, his hand trailing down her side to her hip, grounding her.

He moved back behind her, spooning her now, his chest pressed to her back, one arm curling around her to cradle her belly again — protective and possessive all at once.Jason’s other hand moved across the swell of her bump, splaying his palm there — protective, adoring — before sliding carefully lower, down to her thigh, then between them. Clara inhaled sharply, her hips tilting back into him as his fingers explored her gently — testing, teasing. She was already slick, open, aching. He groaned softly behind her, a low, reverent sound. She turned her head slightly, just enough to kiss him — slow and deep, her hand reaching back to grip his hip, to anchor herself. Their kiss was messy and searching, lips parting with hunger they hadn’t let loose in weeks. Maybe longer. He shifted behind her, pressing closer now, his body aligning with hers. He stroked her once more — then, slowly, guided himself to her entrance.

“Tell me if—”

“I will,” she whispered. “Please.”

He entered her in a single, careful motion — slow, deep, restrained — and she gasped, gripping the sheets. The fullness, the stretch, the rightness of it brought tears to her eyes. Jason stilled.

“Too much?”

“No…no” She shook her head. “Perfect. Just... stay.”

He did. For a long breathless moment, he stayed just like that — inside her, wrapped around her, forehead resting against the back of her shoulder. The moment held a sacred stillness. Not just sex. Not just comfort. But something in-between. A claiming. A remembering. Then he began to move. Slow and rhythmic at first — his hips rolling gently, his hand cradling her breast again, the other gripping her thigh to guide her rhythm with his. Clara moaned, her voice breaking open. He kissed the curve of her shoulder again and again as he moved inside her, every motion full of aching restraint and silent worship. Clara reached behind her to hold his hip, her nails digging in lightly. Her moans were soft, broken — threaded with joy and desperation. He kissed the back of her neck, then her shoulder, his lips damp and open as he began to move — slow, deep thrusts that rocked her body forward, then pulled her gently back into him. Each movement felt like a reminder. A reclaiming. She wasn’t just carrying life — she was alive. Fully. Blazingly. One of Jason’s hands came around her front, large and sure, fingers brushing over the curve of her belly. Then he moved lower, slow and deliberate, until he found her most sensitive place. He stroked her there — gentle at first, just teasing — then with more rhythm, in time with his thrusts.

Clara gasped again, her body arching back into him, needing more. The heat built fast, sharper now, edged with months of hunger that had never really gone away. Their rhythm built — not frantic, not wild — but layered with emotion, with need drawn out over months of quiet aching. His body against hers, within hers, surrounded her until she felt less like a woman lost in pregnancy and more like the woman she used to be — fierce, wanted, alive. He rubbed small, perfect circles over her core as he thrust into her, each movement smooth and sure, full of muscle memory and reverence. But also something wilder — older. As if his body had missed hers, had craved this space between them. She moaned, half-broken. His voice. His hand. His length inside her, hitting that perfect spot again and again as his fingers rubbed her core — not fast, not rough, but precise. Deep. Right. Clara was already trembling again. And as the pleasure built — deeper, sharper, hotter — she let herself feel all of it. The fullness. The sensitivity. The way her body, swollen and stretched, was still his. Still hers. Still deserving of this much joy. Jason moved inside her slowly — a deep, unhurried rhythm that seemed to echo the beat of her own heart. His chest was warm against her back, one hand splayed protectively across her belly, the other cupping her breast as it bounced gently with each stroke. Clara was drowning in sensation. The stretch of him inside her. The soft scrape of his chest hair against her back. The wet flick of his tongue when he leaned forward to kiss the curve of her neck. His breath in her ear. The palm that cradled her breast, thumb grazing her nipple in slow, deliberate strokes that sent sparks down to her core. She felt held in every sense. Not just braced — cherished.

 He moved harder, deeper, hips snapping into her just enough to make her cry out — pleasure building in long, rising waves, coiling and tightening. Her hand flew back, gripping his thigh behind her, anchoring herself. Every inch of her skin felt electric, like a live wire — hypersensitive, pulsing with blood and heat and the unbearable closeness of him. Of this. Jason dragged slow and deep, and she could feel every ridge, every twitch, as he pressed into her again and again — steady, patient, giving her time to feel it all. The depth. The weight. The fullness. Her body was building now — a low hum growing louder, faster, hotter. It gathered in her hips, her thighs, her chest. Her nipples, swollen and slick from his tongue, rubbed against his knuckles with each thrust, each brush of his hand. She couldn’t keep still. Her body moved with him — pushed back, rolled into his rhythm, begged for it. His fingers pressed just a little firmer, matching his thrusts. And that was all it took. She broke. Her orgasm hit like fire under water — a soundless scream, her whole body trembling, heat rolling through her in pulsing waves. She sobbed out his name, every part of her opening and shaking. When her climax hit her, it rolled in slow, deep waves. Her whole body trembled, jaw slack, breath shuddering. Jason held her through it, kissing her shoulder, whispering her name.

His followed seconds later — with a gasp, a groan, a stillness that said everything he couldn’t. She felt him release inside her, deep and full, his breath catching as he collapsed forward, wrapping her in his arms.

They stayed like that — still joined, breathless and damp with sweat, their bodies pressed together in a hush that felt almost sacred. Jason’s arms wrapped around her middle, anchoring her from behind, his chest rising and falling against her back in sync with hers. His lips lingered at the nape of her neck, soft and warm, reverent. Neither of them spoke. There was no need. Every breath, every heartbeat, every inch of skin said it for them. What they’d shared wasn’t just release — it was remembrance. Reclamation. A return to each other. And in the quiet after, wrapped in one another, they didn’t rush to move. They simply existed in the aftermath — held, whole, and finally, home. Clara turned her head slightly. Jason kissed her temple.

“Still with me?” he whispered.

She let out a breathless laugh. “Always.”

He brushed a hand down her side, curling protectively around her. They breathed together, the rhythm of it steadying. Her heart still raced. Her thighs were sticky from their need. The baby stirred beneath Jason’s palm — a gentle roll, soft and slow, like a tiny witness shifting in sleep.

Clara smiled. “Told you we’d rock her to sleep.”

Jason laughed against her shoulder, low and warm. “Best lullaby she’ll ever get,” he murmured. Then, quieter: “You’re bloody amazing.”

Clara’s eyes fluttered shut. “Tell me again in five minutes. When I stop shaking.”

He didn’t move from behind her, arms wrapped around her like a second skin. The air between them cooled gradually, sweat-damp skin kissed by the lazy whisper of evening air. But Clara still buzzed — not with want anymore, but with the echo of it. With closeness. With the intimacy that settled after. She turned just enough to meet his eyes — sleep-softened, shadowed by age and candlelight and something gentler still.

Jason reached up, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “You sure you’re okay?”

Her smile was slow, secretive. A flush bloomed beneath her skin, warm and wicked.

“More than okay,” she said. Then added, breezily: “And I wasn’t joking about the other position, by the way.”

Jason blinked. “Wait… you mean again?”

Clara’s grin turned deliberate. “Come on, Orange. I’m sure you’re up for the challenge.” She shifted slightly, limbs stretching, spine unfolding like silk. “Pillow under the bump. Very pregnancy-safe. I’ve done my research, remember.”

Jason let out a groan, burying his face in her shoulder. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“What?” Clara laughed, low and wicked. “It’s not like it’s your first time. You’ve definitely done it that way before.” He lifted his head just enough to glance at her, wide-eyed, breathless. She leaned back against him, smile curling, voice dipping. “You can’t just be my emotional support these days,” she whispered. “I need you to ruin me a little. Kindly, of course.”

Jason let out a strangled sound — half protest, half prayer — before reaching for her again. That did it. He pulled back just enough to see her properly — eyes darkened, jaw tight with restraint. He looked at her like she was everything he’d ever wanted and never quite believed he’d get to keep.

“You absolutely sure?” he asked, voice low and serious now, not from doubt but from care. “I just want you to be comfortable.”

Clara’s expression softened — no teasing left, just truth. Certainty. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” she murmured. “I want to feel you. Deep. Close. All of you.”

Jason didn’t answer — not with words. He kissed her instead, slow and reverent, then reached for the pillow. Clara rolled to her knees, deliberate and unhurried, her nightdress long gone, the soft sway of her bump beneath her. She positioned herself carefully, pressing her forearms to the bed and curling her fingers around the headboard. Jason guided the pillow beneath her belly, hands steady, lips brushing the small of her back like a thank you. A vow.She let out a low sigh. The stretch of her hips. The relief in her spine. The readiness in her body. She was exposed now, open — but not fragile. This was her choice. Her want. Her yes.

He knelt behind her, naked and trembling with reverence. His hands settled on her hips, grounding, worshipful. And then — slowly, carefully — he guided himself into her. The stretch was deeper this time. Fuller. She gasped — not in pain, but in awe of how complete it felt to be filled by him again. His hands mapped her body — her spine, her sides, her ribs — one coming to rest protectively on her belly, the other anchoring her hip as he began to move. Long, deliberate strokes. No urgency. No rush. Just knowing. Just depth. Each thrust lit something new in her — something primal and exquisite. Her thighs trembled. Her grip shifted from headboard to sheets as her body bowed into the rhythm. The heat built quickly. Sharper this time. Older. It was months of patience uncoiling. Weeks of craving made real. Jason moved like he’d been waiting for this — holding it back, holding it sacred — and now he couldn’t hold it anymore. He curved over her, lips at her shoulder, chest brushing her back with every breath. One hand stayed firm at her hip; the other swept low over her belly. A gesture full of promise. Of pride. Of awe. He whispered something into the space between her shoulder blades — not words exactly. Just a sound. A hum. A worship. His thrusts came deeper now. Controlled but hungry. She moaned — into the sheets, into the dark — rocked forward by the force of him, pulled back by the want.

Her orgasm began slow and low, coiling up from behind her ribs. Pressure. Bloom. Fire. It rushed down her spine like heat lightning. She arched. Sobbed. Her whole body convulsed around him, helpless and holy. And he stayed with her through it — murmuring her name, holding her together even as she fell apart. His came moments later — sharp, shuddering, wrecked. He spilled inside her with a groan that broke open his chest, clutching her as if letting go would undo him.

Then stillness.

No words. No need.

Just breath. Just skin. Just the quiet hum of everything they were.

Jason collapsed over her slowly, careful of her body, wrapping himself around her like shelter. They stayed like that, still joined, limbs heavy and damp with sweat. Her heartbeat thudded under his palm. His breath warmed the back of her neck.

“See…” Clara finally murmured, lips curved into the sheets, voice light and shaking. “Told you the internet never lies.”

Jason let out a stunned, breathless laugh and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “You… are something else, Clara McFly.”

“Hey…” she whispered. “You make me feel like I am.”

He didn’t pull out right away. Just stroked her hair back and kissed her cheek — soft, reverent. As if she were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And maybe, in that moment, she was. Eventually, they shifted. Heavy-limbed, breath still catching, until she was curled against his chest again — his arms wrapped around her belly, her body folded into his.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

Because beneath the haze of spent pleasure and sweat-slick skin was something deeper. A truth they could both feel in the quiet.

They weren’t just parents-to-be.

They were still lovers.

Still partners.

Still each other’s home.

Jason lay on his back now, Clara curled into his side, her cheek resting just above his heart — right where the rhythm of him was most steady. His arm was wrapped around her shoulders, his fingers trailing slow, absentminded shapes along her upper arm. The room smelled like skin, sex, warmth and lavender from the pillow spray she always used. Neither of them spoke for a while. The silence between them wasn’t awkward — it was full. Like a still lake after a summer storm. There were things they could say… but didn’t need to. Not yet. Clara’s hand rested over her belly, Jason’s covering it without needing to be asked. He rubbed his thumb gently over the tight curve of her bump — almost like he was lulling their daughter back to sleep.

“Do you think she’s okay?” Clara asked softly, voice hazy “I mean that was definitely something she wouldn't have been expecting that's for sure…I hope she was alright”

“Wait a second… let me get this straight …You're the one that said she'd be fine…and NOW you’re worried” Jason smiled against her hair. “I think she more than likely slept through most of it…bit of turbulence never hurt anyone”

“Yeah for sure” Clara laughed, her body moving with it — a low, contented sound. “Well, that was… unexpectedly needed.”

Jason turned his head to kiss her forehead. “You mean the part where you seduced me with your intense research and a maternity pillow?”

She nudged him lightly in the ribs. “Don’t act so scandalised. You’ve walked around this house for weeks like a middle aged Calvin Klein ad and don't expect me not to do something about it.”

He chuckled. “So are my joggers really that bad?”

“Jason Orange honestly, you bare chested in just those joggers are an attack on my hormones on a daily basis…8 months pregnant or not.” His chest rumbled with laughter again, but his hand stayed where it was — cupping her belly, thumb still moving in small, lazy strokes. “I missed this,” she said after a long beat. “Not just the sex. The closeness. I’ve felt so… detached from my body lately. Like I was disappearing into the pregnancy. And tonight…” She trailed off, breath catching.

Jason shifted to look at her, eyes soft. “Tonight, what?”

She glanced up at him, blinking slow. “Tonight I felt like me. And like you still saw me as… more than the mother of your child.”

Jason’s hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheek.

“I’ve never stopped seeing you,” he said. “Not once. You’re the centre of it all, Clara. You’re the reason this feels like home.”

She let her eyes fall closed at that. And for a long time, they stayed like that — warm and wrapped in the soft hush of the night. The world outside might be full of things waiting to go wrong. But in this room, in this bed, nothing was missing.

Jason pressed his lips to her hair again and whispered, “I love you.”

Clara smiled against his chest, her hand finding his and threading their fingers together over her belly. “I love you more.”

And just beneath their joined hands, the smallest kick answered back — light and fluttery, like even Hope wanted to be part of this moment.

Clara laughed softly. “She’s awake again.”

Jason chuckled. “Just letting us know she’s here.”

“She’s always here,” Clara whispered. “Just like us.”

He held her tighter, anchoring her body against his like she was the map and he was finally reading it right. Her skin was still damp — not just with sweat, but with all the remnants of release, of surrender, of being fully seen. But what lingered most now wasn’t lust. It was peace. The kind that came only after you stopped chasing someone else’s definition of what you were supposed to want. The kind that found you when you stopped performing, and finally started being. Jason stared at the ceiling, breath slowing, and let his mind flicker — not far, just far enough to remember. There’d been a time — a long stretch of time — when his name had been screamed by strangers louder than he could hear his own thoughts. Hotel rooms that smelled like vodka, shower steam, stale perfume, sex and regret. Bedrooms with blackout curtains and silences that always felt too sharp after the music died. Polite girls. Loud girls. Girls who said they loved him but didn’t even know his middle name. Back then, sex had been part ritual, part escape. A fix. A distraction. A way to feel wanted, even if it never made him feel real.

He was the smiley-handsome one. The flirty one. The one who looked good on the posters, album covers and turned heads in hotel lobbies. He’d flirt because it was expected. Because it was easier to be charming than to be honest. And because the moment he stopped, someone else might fill the space — take the light, take the attention, take his place. Sex had meant being seen — but never truly known. And afterward, always — always — there was an ache. A quiet dissonance in his chest that no encore ever seemed to drown out.

But this?

This wasn’t about adrenaline. Or ego. Or youth. This was something earned. Something layered with memory, with ache and survival, with joy so quiet it almost hurt. With love so certain it didn’t have to shout. Intimacy, now, wasn’t about being watched. It was about being witnessed. Clara, warm and flushed beside him, her breath slowly syncing with his, wasn’t just his partner. She was the truth he’d spent years trying to sing about but never quite reached. She was what happens when you stopped running — from fame, from failure, from yourself — and turn toward someone, open your hands, and say, “Here. This is what’s left. Will you take it?” And they do. What they’d just shared… it wasn’t about reclaiming who they used to be. It was about something better. Not smoother. Not shinier. But more whole.Because when you’ve lost things — when you’ve buried versions of yourself that once stood on magazine covers and stages and still felt hollow — you learn to value what stays. And Clara had stayed. Through the quiet days and the courtroom days and the messy, ordinary, deeply beautiful ones.

He looked down at her now — sleep-kissed, hair clinging to her cheek, skin still humming from the echo of what they’d made together — and felt something rise in his chest. Not pride. Not possession. Something simpler. Belonging.This was what it meant to be home in someone else’s arms. To be wanted not as an idea, but as a person. To be touched not because you shone, but because you stayed. He bent and kissed the crown of her head. Her lashes fluttered, her fingers twitching softly over the swell of her belly. And in that moment, Jason understood something he never had in his twenties:

Real desire isn’t loud.

It’s not urgent.

It’s not fleeting.

It’s this.

The quiet. The weight of a shared blanket. The afterglow of being loved without having to earn it. This was the intimacy that didn’t end when the lights went down. This was what it felt like to come all the way home. Clara lay curled into Jason’s side now, one leg draped over his, her head resting just beneath his collarbone where his heart beat slow and steady — an anchor in the dark. The air was still warm between their bodies, damp with sweat and the scent of skin and lavender. Beneath the duvet, she could feel where their legs stuck, where her breast rested heavy against his ribs, where her thighs still throbbed softly from the ache of pleasure. But more than anything, she felt… quiet.

Not in a sad way. Not in the way she had earlier that week, when she'd stood in the bathroom brushing her teeth and barely recognised the woman in the mirror. This quiet was deeper. Warmer. She felt known. Her hand rested over the curve of her belly, where Hope had finally settled into stillness. Jason’s hand covered hers, solid and sure. Not possessive. Just present. Like he always was when it mattered most. Clara’s body still pulsed faintly with aftershocks — not just from the climax, but from the connection. From the way he had held her, touched her, moved inside her like her body was still something beautiful. Something strong. Something worth being wanted.

She had spent months floating between roles — mother, partner, planner, patient. Everything about her had been slowly stitched into something for someone else. And the version of her that used to take up space — the Clara who wore lipstick just to go to Tesco, the one who’d straddled Jason on the sofa with a glass of wine and no shame — had felt so far away. Until tonight. Until he looked at her like that. Until she remembered, through the ache and stretch and heartbeat between her legs, that she wasn’t lost. Just… transformed. And still entirely herself beneath the layers. She blinked up at Jason now, his profile glowing soft in the low light. He was staring at the ceiling, eyes unfocused, like he was somewhere between thought and breath. His chest rose beneath her cheek, warm and real, the soft scatter of silver hairs catching the lamp’s glow.

God, she loved him.

Loved him more now than she did in the beginning. Because this man — Jason — wasn’t just charm and cheekbones and old tour stories. He was the one who knelt beside Jack’s bed when the nightmares came and whispered that nothing could ever take him away. The one who rubbed oil into her aching hips without asking. The one who had waited for her to want herself again before asking for anything at all. She shifted slightly, pressing her nose into the crook of his shoulder, her hand smoothing once more over her belly as she exhaled. She didn’t need more words. Not right now. Not even the whispered I love yous that had already passed between them like prayers. This was enough. This was everything. Her breathing slowed. Muscles softened. The ache in her back dulled beneath the hum of satisfaction and safety. Her limbs grew heavier. Her mind drifted.

And just before sleep took her completely, she thought:

I’m still here.

I’m still a woman.

Still desired.

Still loved.

And more than anything —Still his.

She let out a long, slow breath, her body curving more fully into his, and finally — finally — let herself rest. Wrapped in love.Wrapped in skin. Wrapped in the kind of peace that comes when you stop asking if you deserve it.

And drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Clara didn’t move at first. Just lay still, one hand beneath her cheek, the other curled protectively over the curve of her bump. The room was dim, washed in a hush of midnight blue — no sound but the low hum of the night and the steady breath of the man beside her.  Jason was fast asleep, the duvet kicked down around his hips, one arm stretched toward where she’d been minutes ago, fingers slightly curled like they’d missed her heat. She watched him quietly. His chest rose and fell in that deep, even rhythm she knew so well. His mouth was parted slightly — lips still kiss-warm — and faint stubble shadowed his jaw, catching in the moonlight. Damp curls clung to his temple, silver threading through the dark. His skin still held the heat of them — the memory of what they’d shared. Of what they’d been.

And then suddenly, she was back there. Back in it.

Her body remembered before her mind did. The drag of him inside her — slow, reverent at first, then deeper, hungrier. The whisper of breath breaking on her name. The way his hand had cradled her belly as he moved, like he was worshipping not just her body, but everything she was. Safe. Desired. Seen. She closed her eyes and her skin flushed — not with embarrassment, but with afterglow. With that aching kind of want that still hummed under the surface. She could feel the ghost of his palm between her thighs, coaxing her higher. Still heard her own breathless sounds, soft and surprised, as he held her, filled her, loved her. And then — the second time. When she braced on all fours, the pillow beneath her bump. When he’d guided her hips back into him with a groan like he couldn’t bear the space between them. You’re perfect, he’d said. And she had believed him.

She swallowed, her thighs pressing together beneath the sheets. Her nipples still ached from his mouth. Her muscles, still tender, satisfied. There was a soreness between her legs — but it was the good kind. The kind that reminded her she hadn’t disappeared inside motherhood. She hadn’t vanished into softness and sacrifice.

She had been seen.

Touched.

Loved.

Clara looked back at Jason now — at the man who had done that. With care. With fire. God, she loved him. She loved the way he never rushed her. Loved the way he checked in even when she begged him not to hold back. Loved that he could make her feel treasured and wrecked in the same night. And now, lying there — so beautifully undone by sleep — he looked like something sacred. And hers. Clara reached for her nightshirt, swallowing a slow breath. Her bladder was starting to shout. Carefully, she eased herself out of bed. Jason barely stirred, though his fingers twitched when she moved — like they were still reaching for her.

“Sleep while you can, Orange,” she whispered softly. “You’ve earned it.”

She headed toward the bathroom, the memory of his body still warming hers, unaware that the next memory they’d make was only moments away. And it would change everything.

Clara padded softly across the bedroom floor, tugging her nightshirt down over her hips. Her thighs still ached faintly, her breath still not fully her own — not after last night. There was something deeply satisfying about the way her body hummed. Tender. Marked. Loved. The bathroom light spilled low as she opened the door, flicking the switch with the side of her hand. Cool tile kissed her bare feet and made her hiss under her breath. The mirror caught her as she passed — a flash of tousled hair, flushed cheeks, and the loose fall of fabric that clung to the outline of her still-heavy belly. She indeed looked like a woman who had been thoroughly loved. And she smiled. That was the word for it, really — not just sex, not just intimacy. Loved. In every way. Claimed. Cherished. Held until the ache in her chest felt less like pressure and more like peace.

She used the toilet quickly, her breath slowing, still remembering the way Jason’s hand had splayed across her bump like a shield. How he’d whispered her name like it was a prayer. She was reaching for the towel, halfway through drying her hands, when the first cramp hit. It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t double her over or make her cry out. But it was sharp. Tighter than the usual stretch-and-roll of Braxton Hicks. It caught her in the middle — not just pressure, but a kind of… intent. Clara froze. The water ran. Her fingers hung mid-air, still damp. Then she slowly braced one hand against the sink and breathed through it, letting the sensation bloom and then ease.

“…okay,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “That was… new.”

It passed. Not immediately, but eventually. Leaving a low hum in its wake — a drumbeat in her back, a pull deep in her pelvis. She finished drying her hands and glanced at her reflection again, this time more soberly. Something about the way she was holding herself had changed. Her body knew. She pressed a hand gently over her bump.

“Hope… sweetheart…” The baby shifted in response — not a kick, just a slow, purposeful roll. Clara’s palm rubbed soft circles, her voice lighter now, trying for calm. “I know mummy and Daddy may have… startled you. With certain activities last night. It was gentle. Loving and Completely safe. Medically approved by several smug mum bloggers and a very reassuring NHS leaflet.”

Another roll. Lower, this time. And then came the second cramp. Sharper. More pronounced. She hissed, her hand tightening around the sink edge as she leaned forward — breathing slowly, deeply.

“Okay. Okay… not Braxton Hicks.”

It faded again — like a tide pulling back from the shore — but it lingered. It left something behind. A sense of beginning. Clara looked at herself in the mirror again — properly this time. Her eyes were wide. Clear. Her skin still flushed with heat, but her posture was different now. Braced. Steady. The kind of steadiness that came not from calm… but from instinct. And it told her, in no uncertain terms:

This might be it.

She stepped carefully back from the sink, one hand on her bump, the other flat against her lower back. Her pulse was still elevated, though not from desire anymore. Something else had taken root now — not panic, not fear… just readiness. Clara somehow made it back to the bedroom on autopilot, her phone clutched in one hand, the other braced against her lower back.Jason was still asleep — properly asleep — sprawled across his side of the bed with the duvet half-kicked down, hair a mess, jaw slack with that rare kind of rest that only came after a long, emotional day. Clara didn’t wake him. Not yet. Instead, she sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed and opened the contraction timing app with hands that trembled slightly. Her fingers hovered over the screen.

She’d used the app once as a test, back when she was still laughing about it with Dani. Back when she’d imagined this moment would come weeks from now — in a hospital room full of warm lighting and whale sounds and overpriced essential oils. Maybe even Jason in a ridiculous birthing ball pose, whispering affirmations from a print-out they’d never actually read. Not like this.

 Her thighs sticky from sex.Her heart beating in time with a rhythm her body had remembered how to follow. And then —

The next one hit.

Harder.

Longer.

Undeniable.

She doubled forward, bracing with both hands. Her breath came sharp. Purposeful. This wasn’t a drill. And this time, she didn’t hesitate. She turned her head, looked at the man who’d made love to her like she was sacred just hours before — and whispered, as calmly as she could:

“Jason…”

The next one hit hard.

It started in her lower back — a dull throb — but then it spread like hot wax poured too fast. Down her thighs. Across her belly. The kind of pain that bloomed and pulled, then tightened everything around it like a vice. Clara gripped the edge of the mattress, her toes curling into the carpet. She tried to breathe through it, like the books said. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

“Jesus—” she whispered through clenched teeth.

It didn’t stop right away. It held. Long enough to bring tears to her eyes. She fumbled for the phone and hit “Start Contraction.” The screen began to pulse gently. Too gently. As if it didn’t understand what was happening in her body. As if this was still some theoretical exercise. The pain slowly ebbed. Not completely. But enough to leave her breathless, jaw aching from how hard she’d clamped it shut. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. She looked down at her belly, one hand shaking as she brushed her fingers over the curve.

“You’re not due yet baby,” she whispered. “I had plans. We were meant to be in hospital. With soft lighting. A yoga ball. Whale music. Oils.” She winced as a tight aftershock rolled through her lower abdomen. “I was going to be one of those women,” she panted. “The smug, calm ones. You ruined my bloody fantasy, Hope Eliza Orange.” She tried to laugh. It came out broken. “Just give me another ten minutes, alright? Let me have one more snack and a proper shower. Or at least a hairbrush.”

She heard her own voice wobble and clamped her lips together. Another cramp. Not full strength this time — but enough to make her fold forward, elbows resting on her thighs, breath catching. She turned her head toward the bed.

“Jason?” she whispered. He didn’t stir. “Jay…”

Still nothing. He was on his stomach now, face buried in the pillow, one arm flopped over where she’d been. Clara looked down at the phone again. Eight minutes between contractions. And that last one? Long. Sharp. Deep. A fresh wave of fear pricked at her skin like static. It’s too soon. We’re not ready. She closed her eyes and let a slow breath out through her nose.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself. “Okay.”

She reached for the lamp, flicked it on. The light was warm and low, throwing shadows across the room. She looked at Jason again, her heart full and aching. Then the next contraction hit — harder than before. Clara bit down on a moan, clenching the bedsheet in both hands, head dropping forward. Tears pressed behind her eyes as her body curled inward. Not like this. Not alone. Jason woke to a sound. At first, it barely registered — a low noise, like someone trying not to make one. He blinked against the warm light of the bedside lamp, disoriented. The other half of the bed was empty. Then came the sound again. A breath caught in the throat. A gasp. His body reacted before his brain caught up.

He sat bolt upright, heart leaping into his chest. “Clara?”

A sharp breath. A shaky exhale. And then he saw her — curled forward on the edge of the bed, both hands braced on her thighs, her head low, body trembling. The light caught the sheen of sweat on her brow, her face tight with pain. Jason was out of bed in an instant, barefoot, sleep forgotten. He grabbed the nearest thing — joggers — and dragged them on as he stumbled toward her.

“Clara—? What is it? What’s wrong?” He knelt in front of her, both hands reaching to steady her as she gritted her teeth through another wave.

“It’s… happening,” she ground out, voice taut. “I think… I think I’m in labour.”

Jason’s brain flashed white…everything inside him surging at once

“What—now?! It’s early—are you sure?”

"yes" She glared at him — pale, sweating, and very sure. “Trust me. I’m not making this up for attention.” 

He caught her hands. They were clammy and shaking.

“How long this been going on? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I tried,” she panted. “You were dead to the world. It’s been… maybe three contractions. Getting closer.”

“Jesus.” Jason stood up fast. “Okay. Right. Bag. Hospital. Where’s your phone—wait, I’ve got mine. Did you call anyone?”

“No, i didn't if you must know” Clara hissed, as another sharp wave pulled her forward, her hands clutching the mattress. “I was too busy trying not to give birth on the floor, thanks.”

Jason shot off toward the bathroom, grabbing a towel, her dressing gown, anything. He was awake now — fully. His mind raced through every checklist they’d discussed but never expected to need this soon.

He turned back, panic bubbling. “What do you need? Talk to me.”

“Start with not shouting,” she snapped, breathing shallowly, jaw clenched. “call the hospital. Then… maybe help me to the bed.”

Jason was already beside her again, slipping an arm carefully around her shoulders, the other braced under her belly. She was warm and trembling, her body tense like a wire stretched too tight.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”

“Jason…”Her voice broke as she leaned into him, her next words muffled against his bare chest. “This isn’t how it was supposed to start.”

Jason closed his eyes and held her tighter.

“I know,” he whispered. “But we’re in this now. Together.”

He reached for the phone on the nightstand and started dialling — one arm still around Clara, holding her steady as her world started to shift. Clara sat on the edge of the bed, legs trembling, hands gripping the duvet like it might anchor her to something solid. The contraction had just eased, but only just — it left a hollow ache behind, like her body was bracing for more.

“Right. Right — I understand, but that doesn’t help us,” he was saying, his tone tight but polite. Too polite. “She’s in active labour. I’m telling you, the contractions are getting closer. We need someone here now—” He paused. His back stiffened. His hand came up to his forehead. “A pile-up?” he repeated. “So what — you’re saying no ambulance for another… forty-five minutes?”

Silence.

Clara blinked hard against tears. No. No, no, no. This wasn’t the plan. They were supposed to be in the car by now. In a hospital. With pain relief and reassuring midwives and the smell of antiseptic instead of… Jason’s shower gel and duvet fabric softener. She let out a shaky breath as Jason hung up the call and turned around, his face already speaking the words before he did.

“Traffic’s blocked up on the motorway,” he said gently. “Big crash. They’re rerouting units. They said they’ll try, but… it’s going to be a while.”

“Oh god…”Clara’s bottom lip trembled. She blinked furiously. “I’m going to give birth on our new bloody bed, aren’t I?...i really liked this bed..these sheets cost 70 quid.. ”

Jason crossed the room in two strides and knelt in front of her.

“Clara,enough about the fucking sheets okay?.. if it happens,” he said calmly, “we’ll buy another set…it's just a bed for Christ's sake”

She let out a broken laugh — but it caught in her throat as another contraction slammed through her like a wave of heat and lightning.

“Jason—!” she gasped, fists clenching in the front of his t-shirt as her body folded over him.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, cradling her. “I’ve got you, love…always ”

The pain roared. Pressure. Burning. Everything was tightening so fast it felt like her skin might split. Clara buried her face in his neck and screamed. Not loud — but primal. When it passed, she collapsed forward, breath ragged, sweat beading at her brow.

“You’re never getting sex again, you hear me!!! ” she muttered, collapsing against his chest. “Ever.”

“Hey” Jason let out a stunned huff of laughter. “You said you were needy. You did the seducing McFly..you and that book of yours..this is all on you…all i wanted to do was go to bed with my book… sleeping comfortably in my jogging bottoms..you made me take them off”

“Don’t make me laugh!” she snapped. “It hurts when I laugh!”

He kissed the side of her head. “Then I’ll be serious.” Jason’s eyes softened. He cupped her face in both hands and kissed her knuckles before lowering their joined hands to rest against her bump. His voice was quiet, steady — the voice he saved for when it really mattered. “Clara... look at me.” She did. Barely. But enough. “You can do this,” he whispered. “You’re doing it. You’re the strongest person I know. You’ve carried this baby, even through the worst days. You’ve kept Jack safe, held me together, and still found time to laugh and love and make a home. You’re not alone, Clara. You’re not doing this alone. I’m here. Right here. And I’m staying, no matter how messy or scary or out of order it gets.” Tears rolled freely now down her cheeks. “You know why I love you?” he whispered, kissing her temple. “Because you’re brave even when you’re breaking. Because you walk through fear without pretending it’s not there. Because you see love as something worth fighting for.” Another contraction began — slower this time, building. She whimpered, curling into him. Jason didn’t flinch. He held her tighter. “You’re going to bring our daughter into the world. And you’re going to do it surrounded by love. Maybe not how we planned it — but exactly the way that matters.”

“I—” she gasped, pain spiking again, stealing her words. “can't….”

“Let go,” Jason whispered, guiding her breath. “I’ve got you. Just let go, Clara. You’re not alone. I swear.”

She screamed again — this time louder, tears blurring her vision. But through it all, she felt his hands. His voice. His love. And when it eased — finally, finally — she collapsed against his chest once again. Breathless. Broken open. But not afraid anymore. Jason eased her back against the pillows, brushing her damp hair from her face with trembling fingers. She was flushed and breathing hard, her hands gripping his wrist like it was the only thing tethering her to earth.

“Love,” he whispered. “I need to check you. Just gently. You tell me to stop if it’s too much, yeah?”

Clara gave the faintest nod, her eyes glassy. He moved slowly — carefully — the mattress dipping beneath his knees as he settled between her legs. He slipped his hand between her with reverence, his breath hitching when he felt the unmistakable swell of pressure. His heart stuttered.

“Oh God,” he breathed “oh Christ”

Hope was right there. No time. No hospital. No midwife. Just them. He pulled back, wiped his hand on the towel beside the bed, and reached for his phone.

Chris first. Straight to voicemail. He didn’t even wait for the tone. “Chris. It’s Jason. Clara’s in labour. Proper labour. It’s… it’s happening now. I need you to come. Or call. Or something.” Next: Dani. Again — voicemail. “Dani, it’s me. Clara’s in labour. The ambulance is delayed and we need help. If you get this, please come. Please.” He hung up, chest tight, hands shaking. The world suddenly felt small. Just this room. Just this bed. Just Clara — his love, his person — trembling through the next contraction like the storm was trying to break her open from the inside out. Jason tossed the phone to the side and climbed back beside her, taking her hands in both of his. Her eyes met his, wide with panic.

“I can’t—” she gasped. “Jason, I can’t do this. I need someone. I need someone who knows what they’re doing—”

“You have someone,” he said gently. “You’ve got me.,Christ.  i might not know what the fuck i'm doing but i'm here…”

She let out a sob, the contraction cresting again — her body curling inward.

“I’m so scared,” she cried.

“I know,” Jason whispered, his forehead pressed to hers. “But you’ve never let fear stop you. Not once. And I’m here. Every second. I’m not going anywhere.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. His thumb caught them, smoothing them away. “I’ve got you, Clara. Just like I had you in the dark. Just like I had you when you came to my door in your pyjamas and told me you loved me. Just like I had you when you gave Jack a family. I’ve got you now.” Another wave slammed through her. Clara cried out — raw and guttural — her fingers clawing at the sheets, at him. Jason didn’t flinch. He held her through it, kissed her forehead, murmured into her skin. “I know it hurts. I know. But you’re doing it, sweetheart. You’re doing it.”

The world narrowed. No ambulance sirens. No texts. No calls back. Just breath. Just pain. Just him and her — the only two people in the world right now. One bringing life. The other holding her through it.

Just her body, pulling the earth closer, opening under stars neither of them could see. And Jason — steady, terrified, devoted — loving her through every moment. Everything was heat and pressure. Clara could barely breathe. Her body was no longer hers — it was a tunnel, a force of nature, and all she could do was ride the wave of it. She was soaked in sweat, the sheets beneath her damp and twisted, Jason’s voice the only thread holding her to the present.

“You’re doing amazing,” he kept whispering. “So strong, Clara. You’re so close.”

So close. She didn’t feel close. She felt split. Wide open. Scared. The pressure in her pelvis was unbearable now — like the world was trying to exit through a space never designed for it. Her legs were trembling uncontrollably, her back arching off the mattress. Jason was kneeling between her legs again, his face pale, hands shaking as he looked. And then he stilled.His breath caught. Clara saw the shift in his eyes — awe and fear and something almost sacred.

“oh my god” He looked up, voice barely a whisper. “I can see her”

For a moment, everything fell quiet. Even the pain. He was staring, trance-like, eyes wide — reverent. Like he’d glimpsed something holy. Clara reached for him, her hand fumbling until her fingers closed around his. She squeezed, dragging him back to her.

“Jason.”

He blinked and looked up at her, his throat working.

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t mean it,” she whispered, her voice cracked with effort.

He frowned. “Didn’t mean what?”

“you know…” Clara gasped as another wave gripped her spine, but forced it out between panting breaths. “What I said earlier. About never having sex again.”

Jason blinked. Then — of course — he let out a breathless laugh.

“Clara—”

“You’re really good at sex ” she moaned. “…amazing at it in fact..all things considered”

 “Well..” His hand shook in hers as he barked another laugh. “Thank you?,” he said, eyes wet with emotion. “I should hope so..all those years of being in a boyband in the 90s taught me well”

“I mean it,” she groaned, half-delirious with pain and love and everything in between. “You’re Really good. Too good.”

“Good to know you think that after all these years I've still got it” Jason kissed her knuckles, still holding her hand tight. “ But, There’s a time and a place, love. And this probably isn’t either.”

“I’m just saying…” She squeezed his hand again, teeth gritted through another contraction. “If i die, let it be known that you was the best id ever had”

Jason laughed through a sob, his forehead pressing to hers.

“You’re not going to die, you daft cow. You’re going to meet our daughter…our beautiful little girl” Then he pulled back, eyes shining, and nodded. “ Clara…I…I… think I'll have to deliver her. We're on our own…”

Jason’s knees pressed into the bed, hands shaking slightly as he knelt between Clara’s legs, steadying himself with a breath that didn’t come easily. The world had gone quiet. No ambulance. No midwife. No monitors or machines. Just Clara — breathless, raw, shining with sweat and strength — and the crown of his daughter’s head emerging slowly, surrounded by the most human, sacred moment he had ever witnessed. And it was his hands that would catch her. His palms were damp, his knees aching against the sheets — but he didn’t flinch. He reached forward, heart pounding, because he knew: No one else was coming. This was his to catch. And he would. He looked up. Clara’s hands were gripping the headboard, her face twisted in a mix of agony and power. She was crying and breathing and breaking — and rising, like the strongest storm he'd ever seen. Then she looked at him. Just for a second. And even with tears in her eyes, sweat across her brow, and pain carved into every line of her face — she found him. Locked eyes with him. Held there, in the eye of the storm.

“we are both absolutely terrified, i know but know” Jason reached up and pressed a hand to her cheek. “You’ve got this and I'm with you…always” he whispered. “Let it happen. we can do this…together”

Clara let out a ragged breath, head spinning. And then she pushed. Her body took over — raw, unstoppable. She bore down with everything left in her, a scream tearing from her throat, not just from pain but from power. Jason’s breath caught. And then…

There she was...his beautiful little baby girl

“I’ve got you,” he repeated to tiniest human in his hands. The head, slick and dark and impossibly small, slid into his hands — warm and real and alive. His fingers trembled as he supported her, barely breathing. He looked up, voice breaking. “She’s here, oh my god!!!” he whispered. “Clara—she’s here.”

Clara let out a choked sob as the next wave overtook her — one final contraction rolling through her body, one last fierce bearing down. Jason held steady, coaxing, catching, crying. Then— A breath, a cry, a final heave — and then, she was free. The world stopped. Baby Hope was slick with birth, with blood and vernix and the miracle of becoming — but she was here. Wrinkled. Wailing. Whole. 

“She's real….she's here” Jason stared, tears pouring freely down his face now. He looked up at Clara — wide-eyed, disbelieving, wrecked. “She’s perfect…you did it”

Clara collapsed back into the pillows, her breath jagged and broken, eyes wide and searching.

“Let me see her—” she gasped “please…I need to see her”

Jason moved with reverence, his hands still cradling their daughter like something divine. He brought her forward, pressing the tiny body to Clara’s chest, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat. The baby’s cries softened the moment she touched her mother. Her tiny mouth rooting. Her hands, impossibly small, flexing against Clara’s breast. Clara sobbed — full and open, her hands wrapping around the baby, around Jason, around this moment. Jason knelt beside them both, his hand covering theirs, his forehead resting against Clara’s temple as his whole body trembled. And for a moment — for a breath — there was no pain, no panic, no missing midwives or flashing ambulance lights.

Just this. The sound of their daughter’s first cry. The weight of her pressed between them. The smell of skin and sweat and everything sacred. A beginning.

Clara whispered it first, her voice raw and breaking:

“Hope.”

Jason kissed her temple.

“Hope Eliza Orange,” he said, reverently.

Their daughter shifted in Clara’s arms, letting out another small cry — but softer this time. As if the worst was over. As if she knew she was home.

“She’s you,” Jason said hoarsely, his thumb brushing gently over Hope’s downy head. “Strong. Beautiful. Loud when it matters.”

Clara laughed again, breath hitching as tears slipped down her cheeks — not from pain, not anymore, but from the sheer weight of everything. Her whole body trembled, exhausted and cracked open by something deeper than labour: love. Jason kissed her. Her temple first. Then her brow. Her damp cheek. And finally, his lips hovered above hers — reverent, soft, still shaking.

“I’ve never loved anyone like I love you Clara,” he whispered. “And I didn’t know I had room to love anyone else… until I looked into her face.”

Their daughter let out another sharp cry, stronger this time. Alive and full of fight.

 Clara murmured, rocking her gently. “Our girl’s here, Jay… hello, Hope Eliza Orange.”

And Jason — who had once stood backstage in front of thousands, who had known every kind of noise — finally let himself cry. Not out of fear. Not out of relief. But from a love so massive, so all-consuming, it cracked him wide open and flooded every part of him with light.

The room stilled. Only the soft coos of a newborn and the deep, unsteady breath of two people holding something holy between them filled the air. Clara lay back against the pillows, her body wrecked but her spirit wide open. Hope lay against her chest, her tiny fists curled, cheek pressed to Clara’s skin like she’d always known the shape of it. Her breaths came in soft, puffy rhythms, her mouth twitching in the smallest reflexive suck, lashes damp and impossibly long. Jason sat beside them, bare-chested, skin streaked with sweat and awe, one arm wrapped around Clara’s shoulders like he needed the contact just to stay grounded. His eyes never left their daughter. She had his mouth. Clara’s nose. A furrow to her brow that was already familiar.

They didn’t speak for a while. Jason gently rubbed slow circles along Clara’s arm with his thumb. The silence was not empty — it was brimming. Like a bell still humming after being struck.

Finally, Clara let out a slow, shaky laugh. “She really did not want to wait, huh?”

Jason chuckled, voice hoarse. “You think she was traumatised?”

“Absolutely. Heard her parents having sex and thought, ‘nope, I’m out.’” smiled Clara “Don't blame her really?...that's enough to traumatise anyone ”

Jason dropped his forehead to hers with a groan. “She made a run for it. You’ve got to admire the timing.”

Clara looked down at the tiny bundle on her chest. “Look at her. Ten minutes old and already making dramatic exits. Just like her Daddy”

He gently traced the curve of Hope’s cheek with the back of his knuckle. “That nose, though…” he murmured. “That’s all you.”

Clara smiled, soft and full of wonder. “Her mouth’s yours. And that stubborn little chin.”

Jason tilted his head, mock-contemplative. “You think?”

“She came out scowling,” Clara whispered. “Just like you do when you’re concentrating. Exactly the same face as you did on that last pap walk you did for the papers the other week. The one where you was wearing that dry robe walking through London with your headphones in..very serious faced”

Jason kissed her temple, then her cheek, then finally her lips — slow, soft, messy with salt and sweat and everything they’d just become. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t clean. But it was real. And it was theirs. Hope soon sighed in their arms. A long moment passed — warm, heavy with joy. They stayed like that: skin to skin, their newborn nestled between them, the world held at bay by breath and touch and love. The bed sheets were twisted and damp. Jason’s hands were still faintly shaking. Clara’s thighs trembled from the aftershocks. But their hearts — their hearts had never felt more whole. Jason glanced down at Hope, then back at Clara, quieter now.

"I caught her,” he whispered, like it had just hit him.

Clara looked up at him, eyes shining. “You did.”

“I actually caught our daughter.”

“You were incredible,” she said. “I’m so proud.”

Jason’s throat worked. He leaned down and brushed his lips across Hope’s forehead. “Hi, little one,” he said softly. “Welcome home.”

Hope’s tiny fingers curled. Her hand found his chest — barely a brush of skin, but enough to make Jason shudder.

And then: the soft crunch of tyres on gravel outside.

The world, finally catching up.

Clara’s head dropped back to the pillow. “Timing,” she muttered. “Unbelievable.”

Jason reached for the edge of the duvet, tucking it gently around both of them.

“They missed the main event,” he said with a quiet grin.

“Yeah,” Clara murmured, her hand slipping into his. “But we didn’t.”

Jason kissed the back of her hand, then Hope’s head again — slower this time.

“Ambulance will be here soon,” he said.

Clara nodded.

But they weren’t rushing. Not anymore. Because their daughter had arrived in a flurry of pain and love and chaos. And now, for a moment, everything was still.

Everything was exactly as it should be.

The sound of keys rattling in the front door barely registered at first — just another background noise in the stunned, sacred stillness that had settled over the bedroom. But then came the unmistakable creak of the door swinging open, followed by the thump of hurried footsteps and a voice that could only belong to Dani.

“Right! Help is here! Don’t panic — I’ve got Lucozade, a towel I definitely stole from a spa, and very vague recollections of a hypnobirthing podcast!” Clara blinked and turned her head toward the door just as Dani’s voice climbed higher, more frantic with each word. “I brought extra hair ties — because obviously — and snacks, and I swear I read somewhere about tennis balls for back pressure, which sounds weird, but honestly at this point—” Footsteps thundered up the stairs, too quick to stop. “—it doesn’t matter because I’m here now, and we’re getting you to the hospital like civilised humans, not giving birth on your bedsheets like some wild forest people!”

The bedroom door instantly flung open.

Dani stood in the doorway, breathless, rain-damp hair stuck to her forehead, tote bag hanging from one shoulder and a half-empty bottle of orange Lucozade in her hand. Then silence. Her mouth dropped open. Words died mid-sentence. On the bed, Jason sat bare-chested, shoulders hunched, hair damp with sweat, eyes wide and shining. His arm was wrapped protectively around Clara’s shoulders. He looked wrecked. And radiant. Clara, nestled against a mountain of pillows, looked pale and exhausted, her lips still parted like she hadn’t caught her breath yet. And in her arms — a tiny bundle wrapped in Jason’s shirt, only the top of a pink-knit hat and a soft cloud of dark, damp hair visible. Dani froze. No one moved. Jason looked up slowly, blinking like he hadn’t quite returned to earth yet.

“Hey,” he said, voice wrecked and hoarse. “You made it.”

Dani stepped into the room in a daze, her eyes locked on the tiny shape in Clara’s arms. The Lucozade slipped from her hand and landed on the carpet with a dull thud.

“Is that…” She pointed, hand trembling. “That’s not… you didn’t…”

“Dani..meet your niece” Clara nodded faintly. “Hope Eliza Orange. Born right here. About seventeen minutes ago…Baby Hope… this is your Auntie”

“Oh my GOD” Dani’s eyes widened. “Seventeen minutes? In the bedroom?!”

“On the bed,” Jason added helpfully. “I didn't really have much of a choice but I delivered her.”

“You—” Dani looked like someone had unplugged her brain. “You… delivered her?”

“Don't sound so shocked…” He nodded slowly. “Caught her. Cut the cord with nail scissors.”

“Wow…I must call Chris” Dani blinked. “Jesus.” She took another step in, eyes darting between them all, still trying to compute. “I was halfway through texting you both something rude for making me come out in the rain—” Then she saw the blood-streaked towel on the floor. The soft wet patch on Jason’s joggers. Clara’s trembling legs. The stillness of the room that only ever came after something extraordinary. Her throat closed. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “You actually did it. You actually… did it.”

Hope let out a small, sleepy sigh. Her hand twitched, fingers curling around Clara’s shirt collar.

Jason looked down at her, completely undone. “She’s got the tiniest hands.”

Dani lowered herself slowly to the edge of the bed, tears springing to her eyes. “Oh, Clara,” she whispered. “You did it. And she’s beautiful…she looks just like you”

Clara exhaled shakily, brushing Hope’s damp cheek with her thumb. “It wasn’t the plan. But I think… it was exactly what it was meant to be.”

Dani didn’t argue. She couldn’t. Her voice had gone. All she could do was sit there, blinking back tears, watching her best friend cradle the beginning of something brand new. Downstairs, the sound of the ambulance crew finally arriving broke the spell.

Jason rubbed a hand down his face and let out a breathless laugh. “They’re a bit late.”

Clara smiled, voice soft. “But we’re not.”

Jason ason pressed his lips to her temple and whispered, “No. We were exactly on time.”

The female paramedic moved with quiet authority now, slipping on gloves and gently easing back the edge of the makeshift swaddle from Hope’s tiny body. Clara kept one hand cupped around her daughter’s back, as if any space between them might cause her to disappear. Jason watched, shoulders tight, hands hovering — still protective, still not quite trusting the calm.

“She cried straight away,” Clara murmured, still dazed. “And she fed. I think. I don’t know if I did it right—”

“You did,” the paramedic said warmly, checking Hope’s chest with a stethoscope barely bigger than a biscuit. “Strong lungs. Good latch. Reflexes are perfect.”

Hope gave a sleepy grumble as the cuff was gently slipped onto her ankle, her mouth twitching in disapproval.

Jason let out a slow breath. “She’s alright?”

“She’s better than alright,” the paramedic said, lifting the cuff. “She’s small, but she’s alert. She’s a little flushed — that’s normal. I’d still like to monitor her at hospital, just to be safe.”

Clara nodded, even as her fingers tightened slightly around her daughter.

Then the other medic glanced at her — not Hope, but Clara herself. “Mind if I check you now?”

Jason moved instinctively closer, brushing damp hair from Clara’s brow as she gave a weary nod. “Go ahead.”

The woman moved gently, checking her pulse, her temperature, palpating her uterus.And then her brow furrowed slightly.

Jason noticed first. “What is it?”

“There’s a bit of bleeding,” she said calmly. “Not unexpected after a fast delivery like that — but it’s more than I’d like.”

Clara’s breath hitched. “Am I okay?”

“You are. But I’d be a lot more comfortable getting you checked out properly. Monitored for a few hours at least.” She turned to Jason. “You did everything right. But now we take over, yeah?”

Jason nodded once, sharp and tight.

Clara swallowed hard, shifting slightly against the pillows. “Is the baby going with me?”

"She should. It’s better if she does.”

Clara looked down at Hope, still sleeping in the cradle of her arms. “Okay.”

That’s when Dani reappeared, holding a bundle of towels and a fresh set of pyjamas. Her hair was wild and her face blotchy from crying — not that she’d admit it.

“Right,” she announced, clapping her hands once. “Hospital it is. You go. I’ll sort Jack when he wakes up, strip this bed, throw the mattress out, burn it… whatever’s needed.”

Clara gave a weak laugh. “You don’t have to do all that.”

“Please,” Dani said, already dragging a laundry basket across the room. “Let me be useful. I’ve already seen Jason’s nipples and your bloody towels— I need something to cleanse the mental palate.”

Jason barked a short, tired laugh. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Dani tossed him a look. “I’ve seen less exposed flesh on Love Island, Orange. You owe me therapy.”

The younger paramedic grinned under his mask.

Jason turned to Clara, his expression sobering. “I’ll ride with you.”

Clara blinked. “You sure?”

“I’m not letting you go through another second of this alone,” he said softly. “Besides, you need someone to keep Hope from giving the staff the side-eye.”

Clara looked down at the baby again. “She really does look unimpressed.”

“She takes after her mother,” Jason whispered, kissing her forehead "you're exactly the same when you wake up too early" 

The paramedics moved quietly now, securing the car seat into their stretcher system, readying the monitors. One of them gently took Hope, cradling her with surprising ease, while the other helped Jason guide Clara to sitting. She winced — the pain catching up now that the adrenaline had started to fade. Jason supported her, wrapping her dressing gown carefully around her shoulders.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered 

“I know,” she breathed.

Dani paused by the door, voice quieter now. “I’ll tell Jack when he wakes up. I’ll make sure it’s gentle.”

Clara looked up at her. “Thank you.”

“Go,” Dani said, shooing them. “Let the professionals poke you. I’ll hold the fort.”

And with that, Jason and Clara were helped gently down the stairs — her hand in his, Hope nestled safe in her arms, the dawn light beginning to spill through the windows as they stepped out into the world again… This time as three.

They were halfway down the stairs when the younger of the two paramedics — a cheerful, ginger-bearded guy named Lewis — glanced back toward Clara and offered a lopsided smile.

“So,” he said casually, as he steadied the stretcher with the newborn car seat clipped in, “any idea what might’ve triggered labour? You’re a little early, yeah?”

“Umm..well..” Clara, wincing slightly with each step as Jason supported her, gave a breathless half-laugh. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

The older paramedic, Sarah, smiled knowingly as she checked the monitors on the baby. “It’s always the way. The full moons, the curry, the pineapple smoothies… one mum swore by bouncing on a birthing ball while shouting at Antiques Roadshow.”

“I’ve heard sex does it,” Lewis added with a grin. “Bit of the old magic. Gets things going naturally, they say.”

There was a beat. Clara blinked. Jason stiffened. And then — almost comically — they both turned their heads and looked at each other at the same time. Jason’s expression: stunned guilt. Clara’s: horrified amusement.

“Oh my God,” Dani said from the landing, arms full of laundry and eyebrows already halfway to her hairline. “Are you serious? That’s what kicked this off? You two—? Last night?!”

Jason opened his mouth, closed it again, then said with mock dignity, “I mean… we weren’t purposely trying to induce labour.”

“It was a reconnection moment,” Clara hissed, cheeks scarlet. Wanting the floor to open up and swallow her whole “A very loving—”

"A very vigorous loving moment,” Jason added helpfully, lips twitching.

“Jesus Christ,” Dani muttered, fanning herself with a baby muslin. “This poor child is going to need a therapist before she can even crawl..you really did take my advice then Clara..you little minx.”

“What? She slept through it,” Jason said innocently. “At least, we think so anyways. But if not, maybe she just wanted to get out before anything else happened.”

Clara groaned. “This is mortifying.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dani said with a smirk. “I think it’s kind of poetic. Born of love and light pelvic pressure.”

Jason turned to the paramedics. “So you’re saying… my moves were just that effective?”

Lewis snorted. “Let’s call it well-timed, mate.”

Sarah rolled her eyes fondly. “Old wives’ tales or not, I’ve seen more than one baby come flying out after a ‘reconnection moment.’ You wouldn’t believe the number of blokes who walk out of the hospital grinning like they won a race.”

Jason raised both eyebrows. “You should’ve seen me last night—”

“Don’t encourage him please” Clara groaned, cutting him off. “Let’s not make my uterus a trophy cabinet please Orange.”

Dani cackled. “Too late! You two are the poster couple for unexpected, sex-triggered home births now. I’m never looking at yyour bedroom rug the same way again.”

Jason laughed, slinging a careful arm around Clara’s shoulders as they reached the bottom step. “What can I say? We still got it.”

Clara muttered something under her breath about regretting everything and pulled her dressing gown tighter around her. But even through the embarrassment, she was smiling. Because her baby was safe. Her partner was beside her. And if labour had started with pleasure and ended with love — well, maybe there were worse stories to tell.

Or not tell.

Ever.

Later and The ambulance disappeared down the lane, blue lights fading into the soft, chalky blue of pre-dawn. Dani stood on the doorstep, Jason’s hoodie zipped up over her pyjamas, arms folded tightly as the early morning mist curled around her. For a long time, she just stood there. Let the cool air sting her cheeks. Let the stillness settle. The kind that always came after something seismic. Then she drew a breath, shook herself gently, and stepped back inside — closing the door behind her with a soft click. The house was quiet again. Not calm — too much had happened for that — but quiet in the way a house is when it’s holding something sacred. A silence that understood its job was to cradle what had just occurred. She walked up the stairs slowly. A towel was bunched halfway up the landing. The hallway smelled like lavender, sweat, and something new. Something holy. She opened Jack’s door.

The room was dim — bathed in soft blue light from the Star Wars night lamp near his bed. Jack was twisted sideways under the duvet, his mouth slightly open, one arm thrown over his head like a tiny rock star mid-dream. Mister Bunny had been unceremoniously shoved under his armpit. Dani stood in the doorway a moment. Then padded over and sat carefully on the edge of the bed. She brushed a hand through Jack’s unruly curls, careful not to wake him. He didn’t stir. Just sighed, long and deep, and turned his face into the pillow.

“You don’t know it yet, kid,” she whispered, “but you’ve just become the best thing a baby sister could ever ask for.” Her hand lingered. “She’s here,” she said softly. “Hope Eliza Orange. Born right there in your mum and Jason’s bed, like something out of a film — the kind where everything goes wrong but somehow ends up exactly right.” She smiled to herself. “I wish you could’ve seen them. Your mum, fierce and glowing like a bloody goddess. And Jason…” Her voice caught. Then steadied. “You should’ve seen him, Jack. Calm, terrified, completely wrecked — but he caught her. His hands. Caught your sister.” She shook her head.

“And to think,” she added, glancing around the room, “I had his face on my wall once. Jason bloody Orange from Take That. I had a full-on shrine. Posters. Magazine clippings. I used to practice signing my name as if I’d marry him — Danielle Orange. It was a whole thing.” Jack gave a little snore. Dani grinned. “And now look. He’s your dad and my brother in law. Your actual dad. You live with him. You eat cereal next to him like it’s no big deal.” She lowered her voice. “I used to dream about what he smelled like. Spoiler: It’s sandalwood, fabric softener, and man-who-makes-a-good-cup-of-tea.” She leaned forward, resting her hand lightly on Jack’s chest.

“But more than that… he loves you, Jack. So much. I saw it. Tonight. In the way he held your mum. In the way he looked at your sister like she’d hung the stars.” Her voice softened. “He’s your family. Properly. Not just in name.” She brushed a kiss to Jack’s hair. “And you… you’re going to be the best big brother in the world. I know it. Because you already know how to love people with your whole heart.”

Jack stirred slightly, sighed again, then went still. Dani stood carefully, pulled the blanket up to his chin.

“Get some sleep, superstar,” she whispered. “The world's different now.”

She walked to the door, pausing for a last look — at Jack, at Mister Bunny, at the quiet hum of a house forever changed. Then she stepped out into the hall, closed the door softly behind her…

and let the silence settle again — a silence full of love, laughter, and the beginning of something new.

Chapter Text

The wheels of the stretcher clicked softly against the pavement as they guided Clara out into the grey-blue hush of dawn. The ambulance waited with its rear doors flung open, the soft gold of its interior lights spilling into the morning like a held breath. Birds were just beginning to stir in the hedgerows. A fox darted out of view near the bins. The world was waking, but gently — like it knew what had just happened inside that house.

Jason climbed in first, his arms wrapped around the smallest bundle he had ever held — and yet the most immense. Hope was swaddled in the pale pink knitted blanket Clara had packed weeks ago “just in case,” folded neatly next to the emergency snacks and half-read hypnobirthing notes. Now it smelled of lavender, milk, sweat, and skin. And inside it, their daughter — impossibly small, impossibly real — was curled like a comma, her head tucked beneath Jason’s chin. She was so quiet, he might have panicked if not for the rise and fall of her chest. Tiny, perfect movements. A breath here. A twitch of fingers there. Her mouth opened now and again in a half-formed suckle, as though still tasting the moment she’d landed in her mother’s arms. One fist had worked its way free of the blanket and rested against Jason’s collarbone — barely a touch, but he felt it like a lightning rod. Her fingernails were soft and translucent, moons etched in miniature. Her lashes, still damp, clung together like whispers.

He held her like she was made of breath and starlight. One hand cradled her whole skull. The other splayed across the curve of her back, anchoring her with the only steadiness he had left. His thumb stroked slow, unconscious circles against her onesie — a motion that felt older than him, like something his bones had always known how to do. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His throat ached — from the sobs he’d swallowed, from the scream Clara had torn from his name, from the wonder now crashing in waves. There weren’t words for this. Not yet. Behind him, the paramedics eased Clara into the vehicle. Her limbs were heavy, trembling. Her gown was damp, her brow slick, her breath shallow. She looked spent in every possible sense — but still beautiful to him every way. Hollowed out by love. Bright in the softest places. They strapped her in gently, murmured reassurances she barely registered. All she knew was the ache in her legs and the absence of Hope in her arms. She turned her head on the pillow and searched — not for pain relief, not for answers. Just for Jason.

Their eyes met.

And in that gaze: everything. She saw him — undone, radiant, holding their daughter like a holy thing and her breath caught. Her hand reached out, trembling with effort. She couldn’t stretch far, but it didn’t matter. Her fingers found his knee. Just rested there, featherlight. A tether. Jason looked down at her hand, then covered it with his. His palm was warm. Solid. And she knew, without needing him to say a word — I’ve got you. I’ve got both of you. Clara’s gaze shifted — down. To the bundle in his arms. She hadn’t seen Hope properly yet. Not with clarity. Not without the blur of pain and panic. Now she did. Really saw her. Her face crumpled. Hope shifted in response — not startled, just... aware. As if something in her registered her mother’s presence. She let out the softest sigh — barely louder than the pulse of the road beneath the wheels. Her mouth opened. Her limbs twitched, searching. The top of her head, still damp and crowned with soft, dark curls, caught the light. Jason didn’t speak. He just adjusted his grip — reverent — and angled the baby slightly so Clara could see better. Their daughter blinked once. Then settled again. Clara didn’t cry, not quite. But her eyes brimmed, tears spilling silently down her cheeks as she mouthed something Jason couldn’t hear but felt anyway. Thank you. I love you. She’s everything.

The monitor clipped to Hope’s ankle beeped softly — a reminder that they were still in the world, still being watched. But it didn’t break the moment. It framed it. The ambulance moved — a low, steady hum carrying them away from the house and into whatever came next. Outside, the hedgerows blurred past in tones of sage and slate and gold. The sun was beginning to thread colour through the mist. Inside, the silence was sacred. No one filled it with noise. It was a silence full of breath. Of heartbeat. Of becoming. Clara’s body hurt in ways she couldn’t yet name. Her muscles trembled, her skin felt stretched too tight in some places and paper-thin in others. But none of it mattered. Not in the presence of this miracle — pink and sleeping and cradled in Jason’s arms like she had always belonged there. She reached for Jason’s knee again. He squeezed her hand without looking away from their daughter. His whole body was bowed forward — not with tension, but with devotion. Like he couldn’t bear to be more than a breath away. And in that tiny ambulance, rumbling gently down the morning road, three lives pulsed quietly in time — hearts syncing, breath steadying, everything changed and everything beginning.

Between them: Hope. Wrapped in wool and wonder….The smallest thing in the world. And somehow, the biggest.

The ambulance slowed. Jason felt it before he registered anything else — the almost imperceptible change in pressure as the vehicle glided off the main road, the subtle shift in sway as the tyres rolled onto smoother tarmac. Hospital bay. His body knew before his mind caught up. The air changed too — from movement to stillness, from urgency to arrival. And with it, a strange silence settled inside him. Not peace. Not yet. But something braced. Quiet and wide-eyed. The soft clunk of the back doors unlocking cut through it. Then came the voices. Clipped. Professional. Someone radioed for a wheelchair. Another mentioned triage. “Delivery suite, Room 3—straight through.” The hiss of walkie-talkies. The rush of cooler air as the doors opened to the pre-dawn light. Everything became motion. Sharp. Quick. Clinical.

Jason didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not yet. After just grabbing one of his oversized cardigans, Hope was still sleeping against his bare chest, a fragile weight bundled in pink knit — the blanket Clara had packed “just in case,” barely folded when they’d grabbed it from the overnight bag. It smelled faintly of lavender and sweat now. Real things. Lived things. But the newborn swaddled inside it didn’t smell like anything but newness and skin and something unnameable — something ancient. Her breath ghosted the base of his throat. Warm. Steady. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe properly. Just… watched her. Because it didn’t seem possible. That he could be holding all of it. Everything. His whole life, rewritten and reset in the span of one night. In the span of one push. And yet here she was. His daughter. Their daughter. Perfect and impossibly small and devastatingly real.

Then Clara stirred.

“Jason?”

He turned before her voice had fully reached him — instinct moving faster than thought. Her voice was ragged, not from exhaustion this time but from something else. Fear. Sharp and sudden. She was pale again. Her fingers, which had been slack only moments ago, were now gripping the side of the stretcher like it might vanish. Nurses hovered around her — kind, calm, too calm — their voices pitched low with reassurance, but Clara wasn’t hearing them. Not really. Her eyes jumped from face to face, searching for something familiar. Something safe. Her breathing quickened. Her ribs shook beneath the hospital gown someone had helped her into en route. Panic was blooming fast.

“Wait—no—don’t take her from me” Her voice cracked mid-sentence as a midwife stepped toward Jason, arms reaching for the baby. “Please—don’t. I need her with me. I need Jason. Jason?” He was already there. Beside her in a blink. Kneeling next to the stretcher so she could see his face.

“Clara, love. I’m here. Right here.” Her eyes flicked to him — wide, glassy, terrified. "Its okay..."

“They’re taking me through,” she whispered, voice thready. “They said they have to examine me first and you can’t come in yet and I— I don’t want to be alone, not now. Not after—”

Jason leaned closer, cradling Hope tighter against his chest with one arm and cupping Clara’s cheek with the other. His palm was clammy, but steady. The way he hoped he sounded.

“You’re not alone,” he said, his voice low but firm. “You’re never going to be alone again, Clara. Not for one second. I’ll be right outside that door. I swear to God. They can’t keep me out for long. The second they let me in, I’m there. You look over your shoulder and I’ll be there.”

Her tears spilled before she could answer. Not the frantic kind — just quiet, raw ones. The kind that meant her body was too tired to hide the truth anymore. Jason pressed his forehead to hers. Breathed her in. Salt, shampoo, new sweat. She was shaking again, but not from pain now. From vulnerability. And God, he hated this part — the waiting. The doorway. The pause. After everything they’d done together, the idea of being told to wait somewhere felt like violence.

Hope shifted between them, a soft grunt slipping from her lips — a sound so small it broke something wide open in Jason’s chest.

“She’s fine,” he whispered, leaning down to let Clara feel her warmth again. “She’s warm and breathing and perfect. Just like her mum. And I’m not leaving her…or you.”

A nurse touched Clara’s arm gently. “Just a few minutes, love. Quick checks. Then we’ll bring him in. Promise.”

Clara didn’t nod, but her shoulders dropped. She exhaled shakily. Reluctantly. Trusting him. Always. Jason kissed her forehead. Then again at her hairline, where the strands stuck to her skin. She smelled like birth. Like blood and skin and womanhood and power. Like the beginning of the rest of everything.

“I’ll be outside the whole time. Every breath.”

They began wheeling her through the double doors. Jason followed, step for step. He didn’t even realise how tightly he was holding Hope until the nurse gently reached for his shoulder.

“You’ll have to wait out here, sir. Just for a moment.”

Jason stopped. Nodded once. Hard. Clara looked back — her eyes locking onto his with a force that made his lungs forget how to work. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Instead, he raised their daughter higher against his chest. A shield. A vow. A promise. We’re here. Clara’s lips moved, but no sound came. Just a breath. Just belief. The doors swung shut behind her. And Jason stayed exactly where he was — unmoving in the corridor, his feet cold against the tile, the pink bundle of his newborn daughter pressed to his heart, and the woman he loved on the other side of a sterile door. The hallway hummed. Machines beeped in the distance. Footsteps echoed past him. But he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe properly. He just waited. And he wasn’t going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.

Jason sat alone in the corridor outside the examination room, elbows braced on his knees, shoulders curled protectively around the tiniest, most important thing he had ever held. Hope Eliza Orange — barely seven pounds, barely an hour old — was nestled against his chest, wrapped in a hospital-issued pink blanket so soft and thin it felt more symbolic than practical. Her entire body fit into the cradle of one forearm, her weight featherlight and yet soul-heavy. One tiny fist was curled beneath her chin. The other rested against his collarbone like punctuation — like she was signing her name onto him. She was asleep. Completely surrendered. Mouth open, breath puffing in shallow, contented sighs that brushed warm against his throat. Jason didn’t dare move. He was afraid the moment might dissolve. Or that he might. He looked down at her face — flushed, slightly creased, impossibly new — and felt something inside him shift again. It had already broken open once, back in the bedroom. Shattered, really. But this was different. This was something deeper. A widening. A soft, unbearable stretching of love into places he didn’t know were still empty.

“Hi,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “It’s me. Your dad. Jason. If we’re being formal.” He smiled faintly. “Which we won’t be. Ever.” She didn’t move. Just breathed. Peaceful. Entirely unbothered by the world she’d just landed in. “I used to be someone…you know” he murmured, eyes still fixed on her. “A long time ago. There was this band. A lot of screaming girls. A lot of bad hair styles and questionable outfits. I used to dance. I used to sing. I used to think that was what being loved felt like.” A breath escaped him — soft and uneven. “But this…” His gaze dropped again, to the delicate shape of her nose, her damp lashes, the faint suggestion of his mouth on her sleeping face. “This is something else entirely.”

He shifted slightly, bringing her even closer — like instinct, like muscle memory, like prayer.

“I didn’t know I still had it in me, even at this stage of my life” he whispered softly. “This capacity to accept change. To embrace normality and peace. To want to change. I thought those days were over to be honest. I thought… love had already happened to me. That I’d peaked in the nineties, for Christ’s sake.” He let out a broken, incredulous laugh. “Turns out, I was just waiting for this. For you…for your mother” Hope stirred — the tiniest flutter beneath the blanket. She wrinkled her nose. Exhaled a soft, squeaky puff. Jason stilled, completely captivated. He would’ve stopped the clocks if he could’ve. “I don’t know how to be perfect, god knows I'm not for sure” he said, his voice quieter now. “I won’t always know the answers. I’ll mess up. You’ll roll your eyes at me. You’ll scream that I don’t get it. And maybe I won’t. Yes, I know I'm a lot older than a lot of Daddy's out there too. But I will never stop trying to be the best version of myself for you regardless of my age. I swear to you Hope, I will always be there. Every scraped knee. Every birthday party. Every stupid, terrifying parent-teacher evening. I’ll be there. Because you’re it, Hope. You’re the moment my world changed shape.” His thumb brushed over the curve of her cheek. “You’re not even crying. You’re just… here. And I already love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in my entire crazy life.”

She blinked then. Just once. Her eyes unfocused and blue-grey and barely open — but open. Jason froze. Her gaze didn’t land on him. Not really. But for a second, it felt like she was trying. Like she knew him.

“Hi there,” he whispered, every muscle in his face softening. And then — as if on cue — she yawned. A full-body ripple, face scrunching into something ancient and impossibly sweet. Jason felt his heart trip over itself. “Wow,” he said, awe cracking through the syllable. “I bare my soul, and you yawn right in my face. That’s fair.” Another smile. Softer now. Tired. Reverent. “You’re your mother’s daughter already. Blunt. Beautiful. Impossible.”

He leaned down and kissed the crown of her head. Her hair was fine and damp and smelled like something elemental — like rain and milk and the very first breath of the world. Jason closed his eyes.

“When I used to be a pop star,” he whispered, like it was a secret. “I danced in arenas. I wore mesh shirts and leather shorts in those early days. Your mum would probably pay money to make sure you never see the photos.” He laughed quietly. “But none of it means anything next to this. To you. I’d trade every number one I ever had, every sold-out tour, just to keep holding you like this for five more minutes.”

His voice dropped, low and fierce with love.

“You will never have to question it Hope…. Not once. I am yours. For all of it.”

Hope sighed, sinking deeper into sleep. Jason leaned back against the wall, blinking up at the speckled ceiling tiles. His throat ached. His back hurt. His eyes stung with unshed tears.But in his arms was a tiny, pink-wrapped reason to stay soft. To stay steady. To keep becoming.

Hope Eliza Orange. Born an hour ago…his little girl 

And already the greatest thing he'd ever created.

The room smelled like antiseptic and something sweet — maybe the baby lotion the nurse had just opened — and for a few moments, that was all Clara could focus on. The low hum of the fluorescent light. The quiet squeak of the nurse’s rubber soles. The rhythmic tap of a monitor logging something vital. She lay propped up slightly, hospital gown loose around her shoulders, blanket tucked to her hips. Her body felt like it had been turned inside out — hollowed, filled, shaken, blessed. Her thighs ached. Her breasts throbbed. Her skin buzzed from adrenaline and exhaustion and something too raw to name. There was a smear of dried blood on her forearm. She didn’t bother to brush it off. A young doctor — kind eyes, clipped tone — finished pressing gently across her abdomen and nodded at the nurse.

“Uterus is firm. The bleeding slowed. Still more than we’d like, but not alarming. We’ll keep her overnight. Observation only.”

Clara blinked slowly. “So… I’m okay?”

“You’re okay,” he said, with the kind of certainty she hadn’t realised she needed. “Rest. Fluids. We’ll monitor you both.”

They left quietly, murmuring outside the door, letting it close with a quiet click. She was alone again. Not for long, she knew. Jason was just down the hall. The nurse had said he was with the baby, holding Hope while they ran the final checks.

“How’s the baby?” Clara had asked, breath tight in her chest.

“She’s perfect,” the nurse had said with a reassuring smile. “Pink. Warm. Alert. He hasn’t put her down…he wont stop smiling at her. That's one very proud Papa”

Clara had smiled at that. God, she’d nearly wept. Now the quiet had returned, and she felt herself beginning to fray. She tilted her head and stared at the ceiling. Pale blue. Slightly cracked near the corner. Somewhere, a distant door opened and closed. A baby cried. Not hers. Hers... was down the hall. Held. Safe. Loved in her fathers arm's. And that was when the past came back. Not in a rush — but in a slow, sharp flood that started behind her ribs and didn’t stop until it reached her throat. The emotion didn’t slam into her. It seeped. Warm. Heavy. Rising through her chest like water in a glass too full. And then she was crying — silent, trembling tears slipping sideways into the pillow beneath her cheek. Because this time… this time it had been different.

When she had Jack — she’d been alone. Not just physically. Utterly alone. She remembered the fluorescent lights overhead. The too-cold metal of the stirrups. The silence before his first cry — so sharp it nearly split her in two. They took him instantly from her arms and straight to the NICU. No pause. No touch. Just gloves. Just distance. Just fear.  Sean hadn’t come. He’d been at the pub of course. He’d made her walk to the hospital. Told her she was being dramatic when she said she was in labour. When she started bleeding on the bathroom floor, he’d told her to “clean it up.” She’d given birth with several cracked ribs, a bloodied lip and a black eye. She hadn’t known if her baby would live. She hadn’t even held him. 

And now… here she was.

In a hospital again. After a birth she hadn’t planned. A pregnancy that hadn’t been part of the script. But instead of fear and fury and sterile detachment — there had been Jason. Her beloved Jason — who had wrapped his arms around her when she screamed. Who had whispered her name like it was the answer to everything. Who had caught their daughter with trembling hands and the fiercest love she’d ever seen. Jason — who had wept the second he looked at Hope. Who had looked at her with reverence even as she broke apart. This wasn’t how she imagined her life would turn out. It wasn’t linear. It wasn’t simple. It wasn’t clean. But it was real. This baby — Hope Eliza — hadn’t been dreamed into being with Pinterest boards or prenatal vitamins or a carefully padded savings account. She had been loved into being. She had been born in chaos, in sweat and fear and tenderness so deep Clara still didn’t know how to hold it. But more importantly she had been born into love. And that was everything.

Clara blinked up at the ceiling again. Her chest still ached. Her body still felt split. But her heart… her heart had never felt more whole. As if, at last, every fracture had found its match. As if love had come back for her — and this time, it had brought its whole self. The door eased open with a whisper, and Clara turned her head — slow, aching — just in time to see Jason step inside. And everything in her stilled. He stood framed in the soft amber wash of the hospital corridor light, Hope cradled in his arms like something holy. His hair was mussed, his newly bought shirt creased and streaked with something — milk? tears? — but it was his face that undid her. Open. Raw. Lit with something reverent and shaken. His eyes met hers and held — and in that breathless second, the world collapsed to just that image: the man she loved, standing there like a miracle, holding the child they’d made in the quiet blaze of love and chaos. She didn't speak. Couldn’t. Her mouth trembled. Her chest pulled tight. And still, all she could do was look. At him. At her. At the life in his arms that had remade everything. The tears came again, but this time with no fear, no grief — only wonder. Only awe. Only love.

Jason stood just inside the hospital room, the door clicked softly shut behind him. For a moment, he couldn’t move. His legs felt rooted, his arms full of something impossibly small — and impossibly everything. Hope Eliza Orange. Seven pounds of beginning. Swaddled in the pink hospital blanket Clara had packed weeks ago as a joke, a maybe. Now it held the whole universe. The soft overhead light painted the scene in amber, catching on the damp curl of Hope’s hair, the outline of Clara’s cheek where she lay propped against the pillows. He looked at her — at Clara — and nearly lost his breath. She was pale, her hair sticking to her forehead, her eyes glassy with exhaustion and something more vulnerable than he’d ever seen. But to him, she was breathtaking. Wrecked and radiant. Fierce and fragile. His. He remembered the rhythm of stages from his music life — smoke machines, in-ear monitors, the thunder of bass underfoot. The way thousands would shout his name like a chorus he’d forgotten how to conduct. But none of that prepared him for the sound of his daughter breathing. Or the silence that followed it — holy, weighty, loud with love.

She looked at him, and Jason saw it. All of it. The storm she’d just survived. The grief she still carried. The disbelief. The wonder. The weight. And beneath it all, the longing. For her daughter. For him. He crossed the room slowly. Every step reverent. Measured. As if rushing might shatter the moment. Hope stirred in his arms, her mouth forming a sleepy suckle against his collarbone. Jason shifted her slightly, instinctive now, one hand supporting her head, the other cupped at her back. He knelt beside the bed. Clara reached out. Her fingers brushed his wrist. Then moved to Hope — just a soft stroke against the baby’s cheek. Jason exhaled, the breath shuddering out of him.

“She’s so small,” he said hoarsely, voice barely above a whisper. “Feels like I’m holding a flame.”

With a tenderness that made his chest ache, he transferred Hope into Clara’s waiting arms. His hands lingered — not just with reluctance, but reverence. As though passing her over meant giving away a piece of himself he’d only just realised he had. He’d held microphones. Gold discs. Platinum records. But nothing had ever felt this fragile. Or this right. The second Hope settled against her mother’s chest, something shifted. Clara let out a sound — soft, broken, wondrous. Not quite a sob. Not quite a laugh. A sound like something old leaving her body. A sound she hadn’t known she was holding since the first time she gave birth alone. This time, she got to hold her. This time, there was warmth. Skin. Home. Jason sat on the edge of the bed beside them. One hand rested on Clara’s shoulder. The other brushed the back of Hope’s head. He leaned his forehead against Clara’s temple, his eyes closing for a long moment. Inside, he was unravelling. Not with fear. But with something far older. Deeper. Love that cracked him open. That rebuilt him.

“I used to think the biggest moment of my life was singing to thousands of people all those years ago,” he whispered against her skin. “But that... that doesn’t even touch this.”

“Shes perfect…” Clara turned slightly, cheek brushing his. “We made her Jason.”

Jason swallowed hard. “And she made us.”

He looked down at Hope, her cheek nestled into Clara’s chest, her tiny fingers curling near her mother’s collarbone like they already knew the way home. Jason’s heart thudded — a slow, reverent drumbeat. Hope made a quiet, disgruntled noise — as if annoyed at the light, the fuss, the sheer fact of being observed. Jason chuckled softly.

“She’s going to rule us,” he murmured, “you know that right?”

“She already does,” Clara whispered.

Jason pressed a kiss to Clara’s temple. Then to Hope’s head. Then to the space between them, where love lived now — not as a performance, not as a promise, but as a presence. A weight. A truth. His thumb brushed Hope’s hand. It twitched. Flexed. Touched his chest like a secret passed between them. Jason closed his eyes. Hope's hand twitched. Brushed his shirt and seemingly found his heartbeat. Jason closed his eyes, breath catching in his throat. This — this was forever. And for once, forever didn’t feel like something to run from. It didn’t feel like a stage or a headline. It felt like breath. Like skin. Like Clara’s hand resting beside his. Like a tiny heartbeat asleep between them. It felt like peace. Like purpose. Like home.

The room had softened finally . The harsh edges of earlier — bright lights, blood, panic, pain — had dulled now into a hush of amber warmth. The monitor’s rhythmic beep pulsed like a lullaby only hospitals knew how to sing, and a quiet stillness had settled like a blanket across every surface. Clara was asleep. At last. Her head turned toward the crib, lips parted, hair damp and curling against the pillow. Even in sleep, her hand reached instinctively toward the small plastic cot beside her, fingers just brushing the edge. Always reaching. Always hers.

Jason sat in the recliner at her side, the stiff hospital blanket bunched behind his back, long forgotten. His shoulders sagged forward, his hands clasped loosely between his knees — like he didn’t trust himself to let go. The hospital crib — clear-sided, impossibly small — glowed faintly in the low light. Hope was bundled inside, impossibly still, swaddled in the soft blanket Clara had packed weeks ago with a nervous laugh. Her sleepsuit — the one with pale stars and silver moons — dwarfed her. The fabric gathered in soft folds at her feet, her tiny fists poking out like punctuation marks.

And even still Jason couldn’t stop watching her.

She had shifted, just a little, when Clara whispered her name before sleep claimed her. Turned her head, as if she already knew the sound. He had seen it. He felt something in his chest crack and stretch and settle all over again. She was here. She was his. And the miracle of it hadn’t faded. Not even a little. He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, shoulders curled like he was still bracing for impact. His body was aching in ways that felt earned — not from strain, but from holding too much. He should’ve been exhausted. His legs were numb. His spine throbbed. But his heart wouldn’t stop racing. Hadn’t stopped since he’d caught her — warm and slick and impossibly real — with his bare hands. Since he’d placed her on Clara’s chest and watched the woman he loved break open and become someone new. Someone more.

It hadn’t stopped since he became a father. Really became one. Not a sideline. Not a signature on a form. Not an echo. Present. Blood and breath and hands. A sob hovered in his throat, but he didn’t move to swallow it down. It was soft. Clean. Just another part of the night. He turned toward the crib, leaned in slowly, his forearms resting on the cool edge.

"Hi again,” he whispered. “Still not over all this, I’m afraid…don't think that I will be for a while to be honest”

Hope didn’t stir. Her lips parted slightly. Her face twitched in a dream — her first dreams, maybe. The kind made of heartbeat and scent and skin. Jason watched her breathe — that tiny chest rising and falling with such fragile certainty — and felt everything inside him go quiet. Hushed in reverence.