Page 104 of Yours on the Canvas

Silas looks down at his hand, a soft, heavy shadow crossing his dark eyes before he curls his fingers around mine, trapping my hand against his palm.

“You found me, dove,” Silas murmurs, his voice dropping low that vibrates right through my chest. “Even when you tried to protect me by running, that ring stayed with me. It was the only piece of you I had left to hold onto while I tore everything apart looking for you.”

Tears well up in my eyes, hot and clean, washing away the last ghosts of the dirt and blood from Seattle.

“You found me,” I whisper, looking up into his unwavering, possessive eyes. “You found me when I was already dead and buried.”

“I would burn the entire world to ash and dig through every dark corner on this earth before I ever let you slip away again, Jack,” Silas replies, his voice breaking with a raw, desperate intensity that makes my soul ache. “You are my entire existence. Every line of code I write, every breath I take… it belongs to you. You are my home.”

“I’m yours,” I whisper against his lips, capturing them in a kiss that tastes like salvation, like light, like forever. “Always yours, Sol.”

* * *

The next weekend, I’m surrounded by the smell of woodsmoke and charred grill as it drifts across the back deck, hanging thick and heavy in the warm afternoon air.

I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, leaning on my knees as I sit on the edge of the steps.

Out on the lawn, I watch as Eli cooks at the BBQ, CJ standing next to him, supervising. Eli flicks his wrist at CJ, and I laugh quietly as CJ frowns, and listen as he insists that meat patties are supposed to be charcoal, and not the raw and still running around the paddock that Eli is cooking. All the while, Finn and Deck argue loudly over whether a steak is medium rare or thoroughly ruined.

This is my family. My brothers.

I hear Hale’s laugh, as it rings out clear and bright as he moves around Mack, a hockey stick loose in his hands as he flicks a ball toward the goal.

“Yeah, fucker!”

We’ve tried to curb Hale’s language, but given he’s already lived a lifetime, we’ve pretty much given up. And seeing as he hangs out with ice hockey players, former soldiers and Finn, Eli and myself, he really doesn’t stand a chance.

So, I sit and watch as my ten-year-old boy celebrate, running around with his hands in the air after firing a goal past Callan, his small body practically vibrating with triumph.

Ice Hockey is Hale’s religion.

Because Silas plays in a beer league, Hale insists on tagging along to every single practise and game. At this point, he’s their unofficial mascot, loud, loyal, and entirely convinced he’s part of the official roster.

Every practice, every game, he throws his gear bag next to Silas’s in the back of the truck, climbing in and bouncing in his seat, eager to get to the team. He’s Silas’s sidekick, a dynamic Hale pretends to hate but secretly clings to with everything in him.

Ever since Silas started the adoption process, Hale’s been loosening up, testing boundaries, and playing around in ways he never used to. He finally has consistency, someone who shows up, and he’s learning how to be a kid again, even if that kid is a chirping little shit.

Coming from Ottawa, Hale worships the Senators with a devotion usually reserved for a cult. Silas finds this personally offensive, given his unwavering loyalty to the Canucks. The two of them can argue for hours, neither willing to concede even a single stat.

Technically, Hale has bragging rights this season; his Sens clawed their way into Round One of the playoffs… only to lose to the Canes. Silas reminds him of this at every opportunity, usually with a grin that makes Hale want to commit minor violence.

Hale’s response is always the same: a quick punch to Silas’s arm and a muttered, “Shut the fuck up,” which only makes Silas laugh harder.

And Hale loves it. He loves that he can throw a punch and Silas doesn’t flinch. He loves that Silas chirps him back. He loves that he finally has someone to argue with, joke with, and belong to, even if that someone is a Canucks fan.

For a second, the laughter fades into a low hum. The warmth of the sun on my face blurs, and the sound of the crackling grill shifts, morphing beneath the weight of an old memory.

I am suddenly six years old again, standing on the patchy grass of our old backyard before the shadows took everything over. I see my mother standing by the old grill, wiping a smudge of soot from her cheek with the back of her hand, her face lit up with a bright, carefree laugh as she flips burgers for us. She was always trying to find the light in that house, trying to carve out little islands of joy before the dark closed in.

She smiled. She laughed. She made the world feel big and safe, even when the walls were crumbling around us.

A sharp, familiar ache twinges in my chest, but it doesn’t sting the way it used to. It feels softer now, like a scab finally finished healing.

My gaze drifts to the side, landing on Silas.

He’s leaning casually against bench by the BBQ, holding a cold bottle of beer while Deck says something sarcastic that makes Silas huff a short, amused laugh. The late afternoon sunlight catches the dark waves of his hair and highlights the sharp, familiar lines of his profile. He’s relaxed. The constant, lethal tension that usually defines his posture has melted away, leaving behind a man who is simply standing in his own home, surrounded by the people who would burn the world down for each other.

I smile when I hear his laugh again, a deep, rich sound that hits my ears like a physical touch, and watch as he throws his head back just slightly.