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NINETEEN

TOON

"The bear's paw leaves no permanent tracks, but its impact on the world endures." — Unknown

It starts just after dawn.

Dia’s pacing the hallway, hand braced on the wall, her other curled under her belly.

“You look like you got hit by a truck, darlin’.”

She glares, “thanks, Romeo.” She breathes heavy. “I don’t think these are practice anymore,” she says between gritted teeth.

I bolt up from the couch, where I’d been half-sleeping with one ear tuned to her breathing all night.

She breathes through it, slow and deep like we practiced, then groans, “Yeah, definitely not practice.”

I’m moving before the next one hits. Bag by the door. Phone in hand. Calling the clinic. Calling BW. Getting her coat.

She swats me with it when I try to help her into it. “I’m pregnant, not helpless.”

I grin. “Sure. Tell that to the wall you just threatened.”

She glares.

But she lets me take her hand.

The drive is the longest thirty minutes of my life.

She grips the edge of the seat like it insulted her personally. I keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her thigh. Every few minutes she squeezes the life out of it.

“God, Justin—just drive.”

“I’m going the speed limit.”

“Screw the speed limit.”

“You yell at me for driving too fast, and now you yell when I don’t.”

She growls like a wounded animal.

“You’re beautiful when you’re homicidal.”

“I will kill you.”

But when the next contraction rolls through, she doesn’t let go of my hand. At the hospital, everything goes fast. Too fast and not fast enough.

The nurses check her in. Monitors beep. Fluids drip. There’s talk of centimeters and effacement and “early labor” and “we’ve got time.”

She gives them a look that says you don’t know shit . She’s already dilated five centimeters.

By the time they get her into a delivery suite, she’s at seven.

“No drugs,” she growls.

I blink. “Babe, maybe we talk about?—”

“ No. Drugs. ”

The nurse glances at me with wide eyes.

I just nod. “She means it.”

Dia breathes through another contraction, her whole body going taut. I hold her hair back and rub her shoulders.

“You’re doing perfect,” I whisper.

She doesn’t answer.

She bites down on my shirt.

An hour later, she’s at ten.

“I can’t do this,” she gasps.

“You are doing this,” I tell her. “You’ve done harder things.”

“I’ve never done this!”

“Well, I hate to tell you, darlin’ you got no choice. He’s ready to meet his momma. You’re doin’ this.”

She’s sweating, shaking, but her eyes are on fire. “When I get done here, I’m going to punch you in the junk, Justin Miller! You don’t get to be a sexy smartass when my vagina is about to be ripped in two pieces!”

I lean close, press my forehead to hers. “You’ve got me. You’ve got the club. And you’ve got that kid in you who’s already a damn fighter.”

Tears stream down her face, but she nods.

And when the doctor says push, she pushes.

She groans but doesn’t scream.

I cry. Yes, the tears fall watching her in pain helpless to take it away. I’m enamored by her strength as wave after wave of contractions roll through her.

And then.

He’s here.

A rush of movement. Wails.

A wet, squirming little miracle placed on her chest. As fluids of the bodily variety continue to ooze from her, I watch as the doctor’s clamp the cord handing me scissors.

As I cut the lifeline of my son to his mother, she watches me nodding her encouragement.

Dia sobs.

I can’t breathe.

The baby— our baby —is pink and screaming and perfect. His little fists curl tight, his mouth wide open, voice already louder than life.

I place my hand on his back, trembling.

And just like that, everything changes.

My entire life means so much more. I won’t miss a single moment of life with them.

Hours later, it’s quiet.

Dia’s sleeping in the hospital bed, pale but glowing. Strong. God, she’s strong.

The baby’s tucked against her side, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, skin perky pink, dark hair matted down against his tiny head.

I sit in the chair beside them, my hand still in hers.

A nurse comes in and says gently, “Have you two settled on a name? We have to get the birth certificate set up.”

Dia stirs.

Then she looks up at me, eyes glassy with love and exhaustion.

“You say it,” she whispers.

“Did you decide for sure?” I know she’s talked about a few things and I didn’t want to push her. Out of respect for Clutch, I didn’t want Dia to feel obligated to give their baby by blood my name because I have the lifetime of experience with him.

“Benjamin Ward Miller.” She says it and immediately I know where it comes from. A piece of Clutch, a piece of Tripp as it’s his middle name and BW’s, and a piece of me. All the men who matter to Dia.

Our son has my last name and it’s an honor I can’t get over.

The nurse smiles. “That’s beautiful.”

Dia squeezes my fingers.

I brush the baby’s cheek.

“Benjamin for his dad,” she says softly, more to herself than the nurse. “Ward for the only man who’s ever stood beside me in every kind of storm, my own dad, and Miller because he deserves all of us.”

I don’t cry.

However, I shatter.

But in the best way.

Two Days Later - Home

BW meets us on the front porch, a balloon tied to the railing, a stuffed biker bear tucked in one arm.

“Let me see the kid,” he says, already reaching.

“Wash your hands,” Dia says without looking up from the carrier. “Or I kick you in the balls.”

“God, you’re a mom already.”

“Justin’s teaching me how to threaten people properly.”

I smirk. “Darlin’ I have an appreciation for your love of hitting a man where it hurts. But as a man, the mention of kicking anyone in the balls automatically draws them up. So while sassy you is sexy, could we leave a man’s junk out of the mix.”

“I’ll think about it,” she retorts.

We all laugh.

Once inside, the house feels different.

Like a new soul moved in.

Benjamin’s first wail echoes through the hall and it sounds like home.

Sass and Tank show up an hour later. Tripp and Doll leave a gift on the doorstep—a tiny black leather vest with the Hellions patch stitched on the back because we were sleeping.

BW and Karsci basically move into our spare room. They are determined to help take off some of the work load and allow both Dia and I to get some sleep.

That night, Dia rocks the baby while I clean bottles and try not to burn the rice.

She hums a lullaby I don’t recognize. Benjamin makes a little sound in response.

When she tucks him into the bassinet, she turns to me.

“You ready for this?” she asks.

I walk to her. Wrap my arms around her.

“We’ve already started.”

She leans into me.

And for once, there’s no storm.

Just peace.

Just family.

Just us .

Two days later, we are rested and feeling more human. After a solid feeding, we head out.

Early evening. The sun starting to drop low. Benjamin’s strapped in the carrier against my chest, small and warm and completely unaware that today is something sacred.

Dia’s quiet beside me still in the truck, one hand on the door handle, the other resting on our baby. She hasn’t said much since I suggested it this morning— Let’s take him to see his dad. Her silence isn’t refusal. It’s something deeper.

Grief, maybe.

Fear.

Closure, if that’s even really possible.

We walk out into the cemetery as the sky turns a soft gold. The place is empty. Still. Peaceful in that way cemeteries always are when the living don’t bring too much noise with them.

Benjamin Ward Miller is one week old and already feels like my whole heart beating outside my body.

Dia brushes her fingers gently over his hair. “Let’s go see your namesake, baby boy. Let’s go see your dad.”

Clutch’s grave is like the man simple stone, grass neatly trimmed, a motorcycle charm someone left tied to a wooden stake in the ground. The name still hits like a brick.

I shift little Benjamin slightly and crouch down.

Dia kneels beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch.

“We brought him,” I say, as if Clutch can hear me. “The little boy with your name, your blood. The one you never got to meet. Thank you for this gift, brother.”

Dia reaches over and lifts the edge of the blanket from Benjamin’s face. He shifts a little but doesn’t wake.

“He’s so perfect,” she whispers. “And so loved.”

The breeze picks up. A slow hush through the trees. It almost feels like something listening.

“I wish you were here,” she says. “I wish you could’ve seen Justin hold him in the delivery room. You would’ve cried. And then you would’ve pretended you didn’t.”

I smile, but it hurts. If he was there, I wouldn’t be and that’s the tragedy of all of this.

“He’s everything we never planned,” she goes on. “And somehow still everything we needed.”

She looks at me. “Us. All of us. You too.”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

Then I hear the gravel shift behind us.

I stand up fast, eyes narrowing.

Dia follows, body tense.

And then we see her.

Patricia Henderson.

Clutch’s mother.

She’s thinner than I remember. Her hair down instead of pulled tight like always. She’s wearing a pale cardigan and holding a single white flower.

I take a step forward, body between her and Dia by instinct.

But Dia reaches for my wrist. “Let me.”

I glance back. She’s not trembling.

She’s ready.

Patricia’s eyes are glassy when she speaks. “I didn’t come to cause trouble. I just wanted to see his headstone.”

“You’re out on bail,” I say.

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t be near her.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you here?” I ask flatly.

She looks at Dia, not me.

“I didn’t come for you. I came for my son.”

“ You already came for my son, ” Dia replies, voice tight. “When you hired people to take me. And your son would hate you for that.”

Patricia flinches.

“I didn’t know they’d hurt you.”

“You drugged me,” Dia says, stepping forward. “You planned to take my child. What exactly did you think would happen?”

“I was grieving,” she says, voice cracking. “I lost him. And you?—”

“You were grieving yes,” Dia interrupts. “So was I. So were all the Hellions who loved him too. But that doesn’t excuse what you did.”

Patricia looks down at the flower in her hands. She doesn’t offer it. Just stares at it like it’s the last thing she’s got left.

“I don’t hate you,” Dia says softly. “That would be easier.”

Patricia looks up, eyes wide.

“I think some part of me understands you,” Dia continues. “That kind of loss? It rips everything apart. It makes people do things they never thought they would.”

She steps forward again, slow.

“But you came for my family. And no one touches what’s mine.” She gestures toward Benjamin in my arms. “That boy is mine. Mine and Justin's. And I would die before I let you take him. And you should know none of us will ever go down without a fight.”

Patricia says nothing.

Dia’s voice is calm now. Steady. “You crossed a line. And even if I can forgive the grief that drove you there, I can’t ever forget what it cost.”

Patricia blinks fast, fighting tears.

“You don’t have to like me,” Dia says. “You don’t even have to look at me. But you’ll never come near my child again.”

The wind picks up. Patricia nods once. Silent. She sets the flower on the headstone. No ceremony. No apology.

And she walks away.

We stand there for a long time. Dia doesn’t cry.

Neither do I.

Benjamin stirs, small and quiet.

I look down at him.

And I know.

The future doesn’t live in the past.

It lives here—in our arms.

We get home and settle in. I hold Benjamin while Dia showers. He’s finally quiet, fed and swaddled and blinking slowly at the world like it’s too big to take in all at once.

I sit in the rocker in the nursery and hum something under my breath. A lullaby I didn’t even know I remembered until he was born.

He rests one tiny hand against my chest.

I cover it with mine.

“I’ll protect you,” I whisper. “With every breath I’ve got.”

Dia walks in, towel wrapped around her hair, one of my shirts draped over her swollen postpartum belly. She leans in the doorway and watches us.

“You okay?” she asks.

I nod. “Yeah. Better now.”

She crosses the room, presses a kiss to my temple, and kneels beside me.

“Our family starts here,” she says, her hand joining mine over Benjamin’s.

And I believe her.

Because we’ve already walked through fire.

And come out holding love.