Page 25 of Stitch & Steel
LOGAN
Two Years Later
Christmas Eve.
Up here in the mountains, it feels like the world holds its breath the night before Christmas. The air is cold and still, a hush hanging in the pine like even the wind doesn't want to disturb the magic.
The cabin is lit up like a Norman Rockwell postcard—fresh garland draped over the porch rails, flickering candles glowing in every window.
There’s a wreath the size of a motorcycle tire hung on the front door, and the scent of woodsmoke, cinnamon, and pine needles wraps around you the second you step inside.
This place used to be Gran’s. Hers in spirit and soul. She left it to us just like she said she would, but it’s not just a deed in a drawer. It’s a promise I made—to keep it safe. To keep Bella safe.
She’s inside now, cradling our son, cheeks flushed with laughter and heat, dressed in an oversized sweater and reindeer pajama bottoms she swore she'd never wear, but does every year now anyway.
The ring on her finger—the family ring—catches the firelight.
Goddamn, she still takes my breath away.
Bear’s over by the firepit in full Santa getup, the red suit stretched tight over his broad chest, beard glued on crooked. He’s handing out marshmallows to the kids, pretending he doesn't tear up when our son climbs on his lap for the second time, asking for "a puppy and maybe a little brother.”
Scout’s laid out near the fire, chin on his paws, watching everything with the patience of a mountain sage. That dog’s been through it with us. He knows.
The MC boys came up early to help decorate.
Bullet strung lights around the barn and trees, Bear handled chopping firewood, and even Pledge, now a full patch, made sure the generator stayed humming in case the power blinked.
They teased and cursed, drank hot cocoa like it was spiked with motor oil, but every single one of them showed up like family.
Because that’s what we are now.
Family.
We’re not in the clubhouse this year. Not anymore. Christmas is here now. At our home. The one Gran gave us. The one we turned into something new and lasting.
Gran…
She passed quietly last spring.
Bella held her hand. Scout curled at the foot of the bed. I stood at the window, biting the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t break.
She went with a smile. Said she'd already lived a thousand lives in one—seen her girl happy, kissed her grandbaby's forehead, watched a man she trusted build the kind of life up here most only dream of.
She was ready.
We weren’t. But she was.
So tonight, we light a candle in her window. Every window, really. Her way of guiding people home. Her legacy.
At midnight, Bullet climbs onto the porch, raises a glass of whiskey high in the icy air. The men fall quiet. The women stop fussing with their kids and cups. Even the kids hush up as the fire crackles and the stars shine down over this blessed mountain.
“To the woman who started it all,” Bullet says, voice rough. “To the first Queen of this cabin. To Gran—and to her first love. May they ride together again on these roads, under these stars, forever.”
Glasses clink. Eyes shimmer. And for a second, the night holds more weight than a thousand chrome engines could carry.
Bella wipes her eyes. Our son giggles, curls into her chest. I walk over, wrapping my arms around both of them. My family. My everything.
This cabin? I put it in a trust. It’ll always be here. For our son. And the ones that come after him, God willing. I’ll teach them to ride, to fix an engine, to string a line and catch a trout. I’ll teach them how to love a woman so hard it shakes something loose in your bones.
And Bella?
I still wake up sometimes just to watch her breathe. To thank whatever force decided to send her up this mountain and into my arms.
She leans into me, whispering against my jaw, “This is perfect.”
“It’s just the beginning,” I whisper back.
She smiles, our son yawns, and the world feels just right.