The soft glow of morning sunlight filtered through the tall windows of Knight Manor, casting long golden streaks across the old wooden floors. The warmth of it slowly pulled Jamie from the depths of sleep, the edges of his exhaustion still lingering but lighter than the day before.
For a moment, he just lay there, his body sinking into the mattress, his breathing steady. His mind wasn't racing, wasn't tangled in the weight of responsibilities or the ghosts of the past.
It was… quiet.
His fingers ran through his hair as he sat up, blinking against the sunlight. Last night replayed in his head—the conversation with his grandmother, the feeling of her arms around him, the way the piano keys had felt beneath his fingers after all these years. He hadn't played that melody since his mother died, and yet, as soon as he sat down, it had come back to him like an old memory whispered in the dark.
Jamie exhaled, rubbing his hands over his face. He wasn't at a hundred percent. Far from it. But for the first time since arriving in Seattle, he felt like he could breathe.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stretched his arms before standing. The hardwood floor was cool beneath his bare feet as he moved toward the window, looking out over the vast estate. The gardens stretched out in neat rows, and beyond them, the city was just beginning to stir in the distance.
Today was a new day.
And Jamie Knight wasn't the type to sit still for long.
Jamie made his way to the bathroom, the cool tile sending a brief shiver up his spine as he stepped inside. The room was just as he remembered from childhood—sleek marble countertops, old but polished brass fixtures, and the faint scent of cedar and soap lingering in the air.
He turned on the light and faced the mirror.
Dark hair in a mess, curling slightly at the edges where it had grown unkempt. A beard that looked like he hadn't shaved in weeks—not far from the truth. The stubble had thickened into something closer to a shadow, uneven and coarse.
And his eyes—blue, striking even in the dim light, but dulled by exhaustion, the dark rings beneath them stealing away their sharpness.
Jamie really looked at himself for the first time in a while.
When had he stopped caring?
Before the army, he was a perfectionist. His wealthy upbringing, coupled with a natural sense of refinement, had shaped him into someone who always looked effortlessly put together. He had that certain flair—the one that turned heads at galas and charity events in Seattle, the one that made women gravitate toward him. Elite through and through.
It was one of the things his father had never understood about him.
While his dad had been practical, rugged, and lived in well-worn clothes, Jamie had always been particular. Every summer spent in Seattle with his grandparents had drilled etiquette, presentation, and image into him. Appearance mattered. Not for vanity's sake, but because it was a statement—it told the world who you were.
Then the army happened.
Years of being covered in dirt, grime, and blood. Uniforms that served only for function, hair cropped short for convenience, a razor used only when necessary. Luxury was what got you killed if it interfered with movement. Presentation had no place when survival was the only concern.
But this wasn't the battlefield.
This was his life now. And if he wanted to reclaim some sense of control, maybe he could start here—with something small, something tangible.
If he looked the part, maybe—just maybe—his mind would follow.
Jamie turned from the mirror, pulling the towel from the rack and wiping a hand down his face before heading toward the door.
He stepped into the hallway and called down toward the grand staircase.
"James."
Within seconds, the butler appeared, as if he had been expecting it.
"Yes, Master James?"
Jamie leaned against the doorframe, running a hand over the stubble on his jaw.
"Call someone in. I need a haircut and a shave."
James smiled faintly, the kind of knowing smile that only someone who had seen him grow up could give.
"Of course, sir. Right away."
Jamie nodded, stepping back inside.
It wasn't much. But it was a start.
Within the hour, a barber had arrived. A man in his late fifties with neatly combed silver hair and the quiet confidence of someone who had worked with the city's elite for years. Jamie sat in the high-backed chair that had been moved into the sunlit study, the scent of sandalwood shaving cream already lingering in the air.
James stood off to the side, overseeing things as he always did, arms clasped behind his back.
The first stroke of the clippers sent a light vibration against Jamie's scalp, and with each precise movement, the weight he hadn't even realized he was carrying seemed to lessen. The barber worked methodically, trimming the overgrown edges, shaping the hair back into something deliberate—something controlled.
Then came the shave.
Warm lather spread smoothly over his jaw, the rich foam softening the rough stubble. The straight razor moved with expert precision, gliding across his skin, scraping away weeks of neglect with each careful stroke. The rhythmic motion, the quiet efficiency of it all, was strangely grounding.
By the time the barber stepped back and wiped the last traces of shaving cream from his skin, Jamie looked up and saw a man he hadn't seen in years.
He looked almost ten years younger.
The dark circles were still there, but they weren't as stark, no longer the defining feature of his face. The sharp angles of his jawline were visible again, his hair neatly styled but not overly polished. He looked his age—finally.
Jamie exhaled, running a hand over his smooth jaw.
"Thank you," he said, voice softer than before.
The barber gave a polite nod, packing up his tools. James, however, gave Jamie a once-over, his expression unreadable before he finally spoke.
"Your mother would approve."
Jamie paused for a second, then gave the older man a small, knowing smile before standing.
"Yes. Yes she probably would". Jamie whispered
After a long, hot shower, he stepped into his walk-in closet. His fingers skimmed over the fabric of neatly pressed shirts, tailored trousers, and polished leather shoes. He didn't need a suit today—this wasn't a business meeting, nor was it a battlefield.
Instead, he opted for something that felt right.
A crisp white button-down, open at the collar. A soft cashmere sweater in a deep navy layered over it, paired with perfectly tailored dark brown slacks. Polished leather boots, comfortable yet undeniably expensive. A sleek, understated wristwatch, a Patek Philippe. Something that carried quiet luxury, something timeless.
He fastened the watch on his wrist, adjusted his cuff, and looked at himself in the mirror.
It wasn't just the clothes. It was a shift. A small one, but a shift nonetheless.
Jamie exhaled, running a hand through his freshly cut hair.
A step in the right direction.
Jamie descended the grand staircase, his polished boots barely making a sound against the aged wooden floors. The morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting warm golden hues across the dining hall. His grandmother sat at the head of the table, a porcelain teacup in her hands, flipping through the morning papers as she always did.
She looked up—and froze.
For a moment, she just stared. Then, slowly, a smile crept onto her face.
"Well," she murmured, setting her teacup down with a soft clink. "Now, that is a sight I haven't seen in a long time."
Jamie smirked slightly but said nothing.
"Take a seat," she said, motioning to the chair across from her.
He did as she asked, adjusting his sleeves slightly, the cuff of his crisp shirt just peeking out from beneath his well-tailored outerwear. His grandmother continued watching him, amusement dancing in her eyes.
"I assume you'll be staying for breakfast," she mused.
Jamie inclined his head. "If the offer still stands."
"Always," she said warmly, before gesturing to James, who had already anticipated their needs.
Moments later, the aroma of fresh-baked ciabatta and brewed espresso filled the room. The butler set down a plate before Jamie—a soft frittata, perfectly golden, with creamy ricotta, wilted spinach, and just the faintest drizzle of truffle oil. A side of prosciutto and melon, arranged with delicate precision, added a touch of sweetness to the meal.
Jamie exhaled quietly.
He had been running on black coffee and convenience-store sandwiches for the past month, grabbing bites of food in between surgeries and late-night shifts. The sight of a proper meal—something carefully prepared, something real—felt strangely grounding.
His grandmother watched as he took his first bite, nodding approvingly.
"It's been too long since you've had a proper meal, hasn't it?" she said knowingly.
Jamie swallowed, then gave a small shrug. "Something like that."
She stirred a touch of sugar into her tea, watching him carefully.
"You know," she said, her voice softer now, "I don't expect you to have it all figured out yet."
Jamie didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached for his espresso, taking a slow sip. The rich, slightly bitter taste settled on his tongue, cutting through the lingering thoughts in his mind.
He set the cup down, glancing out the window for a brief moment before looking back at her.
"I know," he admitted.
His grandmother gave him a look—one that said she knew he wasn't being entirely honest.
But she let it go. For now.
"Eat," she instructed instead. "We can talk after."
Jamie nodded, picking up his fork again. For the first time in what felt like forever, he actually wanted to eat.
And so he did.
As Jamie finished his espresso, his grandmother set down her own cup with a measured grace that always preceded a conversation he wouldn't be able to escape from.
"There's an event this weekend," she said, her voice smooth but expectant.
Jamie sighed, already bracing himself. "Let me guess—another gala?"
His grandmother's lips twitched. "The Avery Foundation Gala."
That made him pause.
"Catherine Avery?"
His grandmother nodded. "It's their annual fundraiser, and as always, the Knights have been invited."
Jamie exhaled slowly. The Avery Foundation Gala wasn't just a social event—it was the event in the medical world. The country's top surgeons, medical innovators, and hospital board members all in one room, dressed in their finest, sipping champagne, and talking shop while pretending it was about philanthropy.
"You expect me to go," Jamie said flatly.
His grandmother smiled knowingly. "I expect you to remember your manners."
Jamie dragged a hand through his hair. He wasn't against high-society events—he had been raised in them. But after a week of chaos at the hospital, another event filled with pleasantries and medical egos wasn't exactly his idea of a relaxing evening.
"Catherine will be attending, of course," his grandmother continued. "And her son, Jackson."
Jamie raised a brow. He'd heard of Jackson Avery, mostly through word-of-mouth from Mercy West residents. Smart, talented, and from medical royalty—though Jamie had no idea what kind of person he actually was.
"Tell me you're at least considering it," his grandmother pressed.
Jamie exhaled. "Fine. I'll go."
His grandmother smiled. "Good. I already had James confirm your attendance."
Jamie gave her a dry look. "Of course you did."
She took a sip of her tea, looking entirely pleased with herself.
Jamie sighed as he pushed his plate back, already resigning himself to another evening of forced smiles, expensive suits, and champagne-fueled medical conversations.
Somehow, being covered in blood and sutures in the OR sounded more appealing.
Jamie noticed the shift in his grandmother's expression the moment she set her teacup down. The lightness of their earlier conversation faded, replaced by something heavier—something deliberate.
She turned to James, the butler, and gave a small nod. "Bring him in."
Jamie's brows furrowed slightly. "Who?"
James didn't answer, merely stepping out of the room. Moments later, the heavy oak doors opened again, and a man in a tailored navy suit stepped in.
Jamie recognized him instantly.
Robert Callahan. The Knight family lawyer. The last time Jamie had seen him was in New York, in a boardroom full of people talking about wills, estates, and assets—things Jamie had refused to deal with. Things he had walked away from.
Jamie's jaw tightened slightly as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.
"Mr. Callahan," he greeted, his tone unreadable.
"Dr. Knight," Callahan returned, setting his briefcase down before unbuttoning his suit jacket. "It's been a long time."
Jamie didn't respond to that. Instead, he turned to his grandmother. "What's this about?"
His grandmother's expression remained calm, but there was something expectant in her gaze.
"After last night. I felt it's time," she said simply. "Time you face what was left behind."
Jamie exhaled through his nose. Of course.
He never settled his parents' estate.
Not when his mother died in a car crash when he was in high school. And certainly not when his father was killed on 9/11. He had been barely twenty-six then—just finishing his fellowship, already one of the most promising young cardiac surgeons in the country.
And when the towers fell, so did everything else.
Instead of taking a prestigious attending position, instead of staying in New York, instead of facing his grief—he had walked away from everything.
He enlisted. He disappeared for six years.
And now? Now, he had no choice but to finally deal with the past.
Callahan pulled out a thick file, placing it on the polished wooden table between them.
"This," Callahan said, "contains the full details of your inheritance. Your parents' wills, their estate holdings, your trust funds, and—" he flipped open the first page, "—a few things they left specifically for you."
Jamie's throat tightened slightly, but his face remained impassive.
His grandmother watched him carefully, gauging his reaction.
Jamie sat still for a long moment, his mind already running through memories he'd buried for years.
Then, with an exhale, he reached forward—
And opened the file.
Jamie's fingers brushed over the edges of the thick file as he flipped open the first page. The scent of aged paper mixed with the faint trace of his grandmother's tea. He could feel her gaze on him, watching, waiting.
The past had been carefully cataloged inside this file—pages and signatures that spoke of what was left behind. Not just money or property, but pieces of his parents, frozen in time.
His chest felt tight, but he kept his face unreadable.
Robert Callahan adjusted his cuffs before speaking. "We'll start with your mother's estate."
Jamie gave a small nod, barely breathing as Callahan pulled out a worn leather-bound book and placed it on the table in front of him.
Jamie recognized it immediately. His mothers name in bold letters.
Dr. Elizabeth Knight
His mother's medical journals.
The edges of the pages were softened from years of use, the cover slightly worn, but inside… it was all there. Her handwriting, her thoughts, her case notes. It was everything she had ever learned in her career, recorded meticulously in ink.
Inside the cover, in writing he hadn't seen in years, was a note:
Jamie, if you're reading this, then you're ready to see the world the way I did. Medicine isn't just about saving lives—it's about understanding them. Make me proud, my love.
Jamie ran his fingers over the ink, his mother's words anchoring him in place.
He swallowed against the lump in his throat as Callahan pulled out the next item. A small silver locket, delicate but well-worn.
Jamie hesitated before opening it. Inside was a photo—a snapshot of his life before everything had fallen apart.
He was just a baby in the picture, cradled in his mother's arms, his father's arms wrapped around them both.
She had worn this every day.
The next item was an envelope, sealed and dated.
His medical school graduation.
She had written him a letter before she died, knowing she wouldn't be there to see him walk across the stage. She must have written it in her final moments in the hospital, after the car accident.
Jamie exhaled slowly, his fingers gripping the paper tighter. He wasn't ready to read it yet.
Callahan placed another book in front of him—a first edition copy of Gray's Anatomy. Bound in deep blue leather, pages slightly yellowed with age, his mother's notes filled the margins, observations scribbled in the empty spaces like a conversation she would never get to have with him.
And then… a thin stack of sheet music.
Jamie's breath hitched. He knew this melody. He played it yesterday.
His mother had started writing it when he was a child, playing it for him on lazy Sunday mornings when they had nothing but time. But she had never finished it.
He ran his thumb over the pages, eyes scanning the notes.
But now, it was complete.
She had finished it.
She had finished it, and he had never even known.
Jamie shut his eyes for a second before carefully setting the pages down.
His grandmother placed a gentle hand over his, squeezing it softly.
"Your father left you something, too," Callahan said.
Jamie exhaled sharply, blinking back whatever was building behind his eyes as Callahan pulled out a polished wooden box, the navy insignia engraved on its lid.
Jamie didn't move at first.
Then, slowly, he reached forward and unlatched it.
Inside, everything was perfectly preserved.
A Beretta M9, his father's sidearm, rested in its holster, the metal worn but cared for. Jamie had never seen his father use it—not after he left the service. But now, it was here, a piece of a man Jamie had spent his whole life chasing.
Beside it were his father's military medals.
The Navy Cross. Bronze Star. Purple Heart.
Honors Jamie had never understood as a kid. Now, he knew what they meant.
What they cost.
Jamie ran his fingers over them lightly before Callahan placed something else in front of him.
A watch. Classic, understated, elegant.
Jamie turned it over, and his breath caught at the engraving on the back.
"For the man who always comes home."
His mother's handwriting.
She had given it to his father.
His father, who had never taken it off.
Until he didn't come home.
Jamie clenched his jaw, placing the watch back into the box before Callahan pulled out a bundle of photographs.
Old Yankees tickets were tucked between them, the edges soft with time.
One of the photos was of him and his father at a game, Jamie sitting on his dad's shoulders, both of them grinning.
His father had kept everything.
Callahan cleared his throat. "There's also the matter of the properties."
Jamie forced himself to focus.
The trust fund he had never touched had remained untouched, flowing back into the Knight holdings under his grandmother's management. She had handled it all these years because Jamie had never come back.
There was the cabin—the one in Seattle where his father had taken him every summer, where he had learned how to hunt, how to build a fire, how to be still.
And the Park Avenue house, the place they had lived before everything fell apart.
Jamie's stomach tightened.
And then, finally, Callahan placed a set of keys on the table.
Jamie frowned. "What's this?"
Callahan gave him a small smile. "Your father's car."
Jamie's fingers closed around the cold metal.
A Chevrolet Chevelle SS 454 LS6. All black.
It had been his father's pride and joy.
Jamie hadn't seen it in years.
"It's still there," Callahan said simply. "Untouched. Waiting."
Jamie stared at everything laid out before him.
It wasn't just money. It wasn't just property. It was pieces of them.
His mother's mind. His father's legacy.
And Jamie hadn't just lost them.
He had run from them.
His grandmother's voice was gentle. "I thought… maybe it was time."
Jamie exhaled sharply. His fingers curled around the locket, around the keys, around the life he had abandoned.
Then, finally, he nodded.
"Yeah. Maybe it is."
Jamie had always wondered why his father never gave him his mother's things.
For years after she died, he had expected it. On birthdays, on milestones, on the day he got accepted to Harvard. But the box never came. The letters never surfaced.
It wasn't until now—almost two decades later—that he realized why.
His father couldn't. Not because he didn't want to.
Because he wasn't ready to let go.
Jamie thought back to his childhood, to the nights he would wake up to find his father sitting in their living room, staring at old photographs, fingers ghosting over his wedding ring like a lifeline.
His father loved her. And when she died, something in him had fractured.
He didn't remarry. He didn't move on.
Instead, he held on.
Her journals stayed in his study, stacked neatly on the highest shelf. Her sheet music remained tucked away in the piano bench, undisturbed, as if she might walk in one day and start playing again.
And the locket?
Jamie had seen it once—just once—dangling from his father's fingers late at night, after he thought Jamie was asleep.
But his father never gave him any of it.
Because letting go of those things meant admitting she was truly gone.
And he wasn't ready for that.
Maybe he never would have been.
Jamie swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the locket.
Maybe they had that in common.
Jamie closed the file slowly, his fingers pressing against the smooth paper. His chest felt tight—too tight—but his expression didn't waver.
His grandmother was still watching him, her gaze softer now, but she didn't say anything.
Neither did Callahan.
Jamie exhaled through his nose, then pushed his chair back. "Excuse me," he said quietly.
He reached for the box, lifting it carefully. It wasn't heavy—his mother's entire legacy, reduced to something he could carry under one arm.
Without another word, he turned and walked out of the room, his steps steady even as something inside him felt like it was unraveling.
He took the stairs two at a time, not stopping until he reached his room.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence.
Jamie stood there for a long moment, staring down at the box.
Then, carefully, he set it on the bed and opened it.
Inside, nestled between delicate sheets of old paper, was the letter.
A small envelope, yellowed with time. His name written across the front in his mother's handwriting.
Jamie inhaled deeply, then sat down on the edge of the bed.
His fingers hovered over the envelope for a second before he finally picked it up.
He turned it over once.
Then, carefully, he broke the seal and unfolded the letter inside.
And he began to read.
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Jamie,
If you're reading this, it means I'm not there anymore. And that thought alone—missing the life you've lived, the person you've become—hurts more than I can put into words.
I wanted so badly to see you grow up, to watch you chase your dreams, to be there when you took your first steps into the world of medicine. But life, as you'll come to learn, doesn't always give us what we want.
What I do know is this: You were always meant to do something extraordinary. Even as a little boy, you had this spark in you—this hunger to understand, to learn, to fix things. It's why you used to take apart your toys just to see how they worked. It's why, when you cut your hand that one summer, you didn't cry—you just studied the wound, fascinated by how the skin pulled apart and how the blood pooled. You always wanted to know more. And that kind of curiosity, that kind of relentless drive, is rare.
You have my hands—the hands of a surgeon. But more importantly, you have your father's heart. He will teach you strength, resilience, and honor, just as he has always done. And if he ever struggles, if the weight of loss is too much for him—be patient with him. He loves you more than you will ever know.
I want you to hold on to that.
The world will try to shape you into something smaller, something safer. But you are not meant to be small, Jamie. You were never meant to just exist—you were meant to change things.
But in your pursuit of greatness, promise me one thing.
Do not lose yourself.
I know you. I know that once you set your sights on something, you will push yourself beyond reason to reach it. You will sacrifice sleep, time, and maybe even pieces of yourself along the way. But medicine—life—it isn't just about skill. It isn't just about achievement. It's about people. It's about the lives you will touch, the ones you will save, and even the ones you will lose.
There will be moments when you will wonder if it's worth it. When you will feel like you are drowning under the weight of it all. And in those moments, I need you to remember this:
You are enough.
You do not have to prove your worth. You do not have to chase something just because you feel like you have to. The world will not end if you stop, if you breathe, if you take a moment to just be.
I know your father will raise you well, with all the love and strength that man has inside him. But I also know he will struggle. He will carry grief in his own way, and there will be days when you will feel like you have to be strong for him. But you don't. You are allowed to grieve, too.
I have left you pieces of me—not just in this letter, but in my journals, in my music, in the memories I hope you will hold close. If you ever feel lost, if you ever forget who you are, go back to them. Let them remind you of where you came from.
And, my love, if there is ever a day when the world feels too heavy, when you don't know if you can keep going, I want you to close your eyes and hear my voice.
Take a breath, Jamie. Just one. And then another. The rest will follow.
It's what I used to say when you were scared, when you were overwhelmed. It's what I hope you will remember now.
I love you beyond words, my son. And wherever I am, I will always be with you.
Mom
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Jamie set the letter down with a careful, almost reverent touch. His fingers lingered on the edge of the worn paper, tracing the faint indentations of his mother's handwriting.
A single tear escaped before he even realized it, trailing down his cheek in silent defiance of the composure he had always forced himself to maintain.
But this time—this time, he didn't wipe it away.
He let it fall.
His throat tightened as he exhaled shakily, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Take a breath, Jamie. Just one. And then another. The rest will follow."
The words felt different now. He had heard them a thousand times as a child, felt them wrap around him like a safety net when the world felt too big, too uncertain. But now, they carried weight. They carried grief. They carried love.
Jamie closed his eyes, letting the silence settle around him.
For the first time in a long time, he let himself just be.
Eventually, he exhaled and stood, moving on instinct more than thought. His legs carried him to the bathroom, where he turned the faucet and let the water run cold. He leaned over the sink, cupping his hands before splashing the icy water onto his face.
The shock of it grounded him, pulling him back into the present.
He looked up.
The mirror reflected tired blue eyes—his mother's eyes.
It was strange, how genetics worked. The same gaze, the same intensity, just set in a different face.
Jamie dragged a hand through his damp hair, inhaling slowly. Then, without another glance, he straightened and left the bathroom.
By the time he reached the main hall, the lawyer was gone.
Only his grandmother and James remained, seated in the same spot they had been before. His grandmother looked up first, her gaze sweeping over him with quiet understanding.
Jamie didn't ask where Callahan had gone. Instead, he pulled in a breath, then asked the one thing that had been on his mind since opening that folder.
"Where's dad's car?"
James didn't speak, didn't hesitate. He simply gave a small nod and gestured toward the garage.
His grandmother mearly smiled. "Boys will be Boys" she muttered.
Jamie turned without another word, his footsteps measured as he made his way down the hall. The house was quiet, save for the faint creak of the old wooden floors beneath him.
The garage smelled of oil, aged leather, and something faintly metallic—memories wrapped in scent. Jamie had barely stepped inside before his eyes landed on it.
The Chevrolet Chevelle SS 454 LS6 sat beneath a dusted cover, its sleek black body still holding the same commanding presence it always had. His father's car.
For a moment, Jamie just stood there, taking it in.
His dad had loved this car, had spent hours fine-tuning the engine, making sure it roared just right. Jamie had spent entire summers riding shotgun, learning how to shift gears on the long stretches of highway just outside of Seattle. It had been their thing—his father teaching him how to drive, how to respect the power of a machine like this.
Slowly, Jamie stepped forward, reaching for the cover. With one smooth pull, he dragged it away, revealing the deep black paint beneath. It gleamed, well-kept despite years of disuse. His grandmother must have seen to that.
Jamie exhaled, his hand trailing over the hood.
He moved around to the driver's side, fingers grazing the door handle before he pulled it open. The leather seats, the worn steering wheel—it was all the same.
Settling into the seat, Jamie let his hands rest on the wheel, his grip light, thoughtful.
The key was already in the ignition.
His father's watch had stopped, but the car was still waiting.
Jamie sat there for a long moment, staring at the dashboard, feeling the weight of everything he had lost, everything he had left behind.
Then, almost without thinking, he reached for the key—
And turned the ignition.
The engine roared to life, a deep, guttural sound that echoed through the garage like a beast awakening from a long slumber. Jamie tightened his grip on the wheel, feeling the familiar hum of the Chevelle SS 454 LS6 beneath his hands. It was different from his Aston—raw, unfiltered power compared to the refined purr of European engineering.
He didn't hesitate.
The garage door rolled open, revealing the crisp Seattle morning beyond, and Jamie eased the car into reverse, backing out onto the driveway. He barely glanced at the manor in the rearview mirror before shifting into first gear and pressing the accelerator.
The tires gripped the pavement, and within seconds, he was tearing down the road.
The city passed by in a blur, the early morning traffic barely registering as he weaved through the streets, the growl of the engine reverberating off the buildings. His Aston was built for elegance—smooth handling, perfect traction, effortless speed. It was a car that whispered wealth, sophistication.
This?
This was power.
There was no luxury in the way the Chevelle moved, no careful precision. It was muscle, pure and unrelenting, every shift in gear sending a deep vibration through his bones. The steering was heavier, the acceleration rougher, demanding complete control.
Jamie took the first opportunity to escape the city, turning onto the open highway stretching out beyond Seattle. The morning air was sharp as he rolled down the window, the scent of asphalt and pine rushing in as he pushed the gas pedal down—hard.
The speedometer climbed. (mph)
80 - 81 - 82
Jamie could feel it.
The tension in his chest, the pulse in his veins. The road blurred beneath him, the tires gripping the pavement as he wove between lanes, wind whipping against his face.
The Aston was perfection—graceful, controlled. It let him be careful, let him calculate every turn.
The Chevelle?
The Chevelle didn't allow for hesitation. It demanded commitment.
100 - 101 - 102
The rush of adrenaline hit like a punch to the gut, sharp and burning.
Jamie should slow down.
But he didn't.
Not yet.
He pushed it further, the engine roaring, screaming, matching the wild rhythm of his own heart. It felt like a fight—man versus machine, instinct versus recklessness. He could almost hear his father's voice in his head, telling him to ease up, to respect the power beneath him.
For a moment, he let himself remember.
Summer mornings, his father's hands on the wheel, guiding him. "It's not about speed," his dad had told him once. "It's about knowing when to let go and when to hold on."
Jamie's grip on the wheel tightened.
Maybe that was the problem.
He'd spent so long holding on.
To the past. To the pain. To everything he hadn't allowed himself to face.
He exhaled.
And finally—he let off the gas.
The engine rumbled as he downshifted, the speedometer ticking down, the wind still rushing past him but no longer feeling like a force trying to rip him apart.
Jamie guided the Chevelle toward the shoulder of the highway, pulling over onto the gravel beside an overlook. The city sat behind him, distant now, the mountains stretching endlessly beyond the horizon.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months—he just breathed.
The engine idled beneath him, but Jamie made no move to turn it off.
He just sat there, hands still gripping the wheel, staring out at the open road ahead.
And for the first time in a long time—
He didn't feel like he was running.
Jamie leaned back against the worn leather seat, fingers still resting on the steering wheel, as his heartbeat gradually slowed. The rumble of the Chevelle's engine vibrated beneath him, grounding him in the present, but his mind drifted—back, back to a different kind of road. A gravel path winding through thick forest, leading up to a secluded cabin nestled between towering pines.
The contrast between his two worlds had always been stark.
His mother and grandmother had shaped him for one of them—an existence of polished shoes, tailored suits, and carefully measured words spoken over crystal glasses of champagne. Galas, charity balls, fundraisers in elegant hotels where he learned how to navigate a room full of powerful people before he was even old enough to order a drink.
They had taken him to Vienna and Paris, made sure he knew the difference between fine Bordeaux and a cheap bottle of red. His summers were filled with gallery openings and yacht parties, rubbing elbows with surgeons, politicians, and aristocrats.
But his father?
His father had dragged him into the woods, handed him a hunting knife, and told him to survive.
"A man should know how to take care of himself," his dad had always said.
Jamie could still hear the low timbre of his voice, steady and unshakable, shaped by years in the Navy. His father had been a warrior, through and through. A SEAL. A man who lived by discipline and instinct. His lessons were brutal, honest, and, in the end, necessary.
"Out here, there's no one to bail you out, kid," his father had told him once, handing him a compass and pointing toward the dense tree line. "No names, no legacy. Just you, your wits, and whether or not you're smart enough to make it back before sundown."
Jamie had learned.
He learned to build a fire in the rain.
He learned how to track, how to move silently through the forest, how to fish with nothing but a line and a hook.
He learned to shoot. First with a .22 rifle, then with his father's Beretta, and finally, when he was old enough, with the heavier calibers.
His father's idea of bonding wasn't sitting around a dinner table—it was teaching Jamie how to gut a fish, how to sleep in subzero temperatures without freezing to death, how to keep himself alive when the world turned hostile.
And later—much later, when Jamie was dropped into the middle of a war zone, those lessons saved his life.
He inhaled slowly, gripping the wheel tighter.
It had been years since he'd been back to that cabin. Not since before his father died.
Maybe it was time.
Jamie shifted the Chevelle back into gear and pulled onto the highway, heading back.
Heading home.
The Chevelle roared down the highway, the city skyline shrinking in his rearview mirror. Jamie kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the gear shift, fingers tapping absentmindedly. The hum of the engine, the rush of wind through the open window—it was grounding in a way nothing else had been lately.
His phone buzzed against the dashboard, the number flashing on the screen.
Shepherd.
Jamie exhaled before answering. "You better not be calling me from the hospital. I'm officially off duty."
A chuckle from the other end. "Relax, I'm not at the hospital. I was actually calling about something else."
Jamie arched a brow. "What, you finally decided to take my advice and shave that ridiculous hair?"
Derek ignored the jab. "I want to go camping."
Jamie blinked, caught off guard. "You? Camping?"
"Yes, Jamie. I am perfectly capable of being outdoors."
Jamie smirked. "Right. Because nothing screams 'wilderness survival' like Dr. Derek Shepherd, renowned neurosurgeon, lost in the woods."
"Ha. Ha." Derek deadpanned. "Are you in or not?"
Jamie considered it for a second, then glanced at the road ahead. The hunting cabin. It had been years, but he knew every path, every shortcut, every unmarked trail leading into the forest.
He had just been thinking about it—maybe this was the push he needed.
"I have a place," Jamie said after a beat. "Outside the city, deep in the woods. My dad took me there when I was a kid. No service, no people. Just trees, stars, and whiskey. That work?"
Derek hummed in approval. "Sounds perfect."
Jamie could hear the hesitation in his voice before Derek added, "Burke wants to come, too."
Jamie's grip on the wheel tightened.
Burke.
He hadn't confronted him yet. He'd been about to—but then the emergency OB case had pulled him away. He had seen it, though. The tremor. The compensation. The hesitation.
Burke wasn't fine.
And Jamie had told himself he wouldn't look away again.
Still, this wasn't the time for a direct confrontation—not yet. But a few days in the woods? A chance to observe him outside the walls of the hospital? That could tell Jamie everything he needed to know.
"Fine," Jamie said after a pause. "Burke can come."
Derek was silent for a second, probably expecting more of a fight. "You sure?"
Jamie smirked slightly. "Let's just say… it'll be interesting."
Derek chuckled. "Alright then. I'll bring the beer."
Jamie shook his head as he shifted gears, the Chevelle responding instantly beneath him. "Yeah, you do that. I'll handle the rest."
He hung up and focused on the road ahead, the trees blurring past him.
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Jamie stepped through the grand entrance of Knight Manor, the lingering scent of aged wood and his grandmother's ever-present lavender filling the space. James, ever the impeccable butler, was already waiting in the foyer, his hands clasped behind his back as if he somehow anticipated Jamie's arrival.
Jamie didn't bother with pleasantries.
"Tell me we still have that old SUV," he said, pulling off his jacket and draping it over the nearest chair.
James gave him a knowing look. "The Defender? It's been maintained, per your grandmother's request. Gassed and ready."
Jamie nodded, relieved. He didn't trust taking the Chevelle into the mountains—not with the rough terrain. The Defender, though? That thing was built for this.
A voice interrupted from behind.
"And where exactly are you going?"
Jamie turned to see his grandmother standing at the base of the grand staircase, arms crossed. She was watching him carefully, like a mother assessing whether her child was about to do something foolish.
"Camping," Jamie said simply, rolling his shoulders.
She arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "Camping," she repeated, as if the word itself was offensive.
Jamie smirked. "With Derek."
Her lips pressed together, but there was amusement behind her disapproval. "Derek Shepherd?"
Jamie nodded. "And Burke."
That made her pause.
Her sharp gaze flicked over his face, searching. Jamie didn't offer any further explanation. He wasn't sure he even had one yet.
After a beat, she sighed and waved him off. "Fine. Just don't do anything reckless."
Jamie chuckled. "No promises."
With that, he turned on his heel and headed for the storage room, where most of his father's old gear had been kept.
Dust lingered in the air as Jamie pried open the storage trunks. The scent of aged leather, oiled metal, and pine hit him instantly, bringing back flashes of summer trips deep into the mountains. His father had been a meticulous man—his equipment always packed with military precision, every item in its place.
Jamie ran his fingers over the worn canvas of an old backpack before flipping it open. Inside, the essentials—compass, paracord, fire starter, knife, a first-aid kit that was probably older than he was.
He moved efficiently, pulling out everything he needed—tents, sleeping bags, an old Coleman stove, a mess kit. His father had been a practical man. A man should know how to survive, he'd always said.
Jamie had learned well.
He slung the bag over his shoulder, grabbed a well-worn canteen, and tossed a few MREs into the pile for good measure.
By the time he was done, the trunk of the Defender was packed and ready.
Now, all that was left was to pick up Shepherd.
Jamie climbed into the old Defender, adjusting the worn leather of the driver's seat. The ignition turned over on the first try, the deep, guttural hum of the engine filling the garage.
He smirked.
Time to get this trip started.
Jamie pulled off the highway onto the gravel path leading to Derek's land, the Defender kicking up dust as it rolled over the uneven terrain. The land itself was vast—untouched forest stretching into the distance, the trailer sitting near the edge of a small clearing. It was quiet, peaceful, the kind of place someone came to when they wanted to escape the world.
Derek was already outside, waiting. He stood with his arms crossed, a small duffel at his feet, watching as Jamie brought the SUV to a slow stop.
Jamie threw the Defender into park and stepped out, taking in the sight of Derek's so-called home.
"You know, for a guy who used to live in Manhattan, this is… rustic," Jamie remarked, smirking.
Derek rolled his eyes. "Not all of us need a five-story brownstone to feel comfortable."
Jamie chuckled. "I don't need it. I just appreciate a real roof." He nodded toward the trailer. "This? This screams 'midlife crisis.'"
Derek sighed, shaking his head. "You picking a fight already?"
Jamie grinned. "Just getting warmed up."
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The SUV rumbled along the quiet suburban streets, the city lights now long behind them. Jamie adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, his fingers tapping lightly against it as they neared their destination. The silence between him and Derek was comfortable—until Derek decided it wasn't.
"So," Derek started, stretching his arms behind his head. "You and Burke."
Jamie didn't look away from the road. "What about me and Burke?"
Derek smirked. "Don't think I didn't notice the pause when I asked if he could come."
Jamie sighed through his nose. "It's complicated."
Derek scoffed. "You're making it complicated. The guy's a control freak, yeah, but he's solid."
Jamie said nothing, eyes scanning the numbers on the houses as they passed. Almost there.
Derek shifted, tilting his head slightly. "You saw something, didn't you?"
Jamie's grip on the wheel tightened for a fraction of a second. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Derek huffed a laugh. "You forget I know you, Knight. You don't hold back unless you're debating whether or not to say something."
Jamie pulled the SUV into Burke's driveway, shifting into park before finally turning to Derek.
"Let it go, Shepherd."
Derek studied him for a moment, his gaze assessing but not pressing. "Fine," he relented, though Jamie knew it wouldn't last. Derek never truly let things go.
Jamie exhaled and unbuckled his seatbelt. "Let's just get him."
They stepped out of the SUV and made their way to the front door. Derek knocked twice.
A few moments later, Burke opened it, already dressed in casual outdoor gear.
"You're actually coming," Jamie observed, a hint of something unreadable in his tone.
Burke adjusted the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. "Shepherd asked. I agreed."
Derek grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. "See? Team bonding."
Burke raised a brow. "If you say so."
Before Jamie could respond, a voice from inside made them pause.
"You're going camping?"
Christina Yang stood just behind Burke, arms crossed, staring at him like he had just announced he was leaving medicine to become a professional hiker.
Burke didn't so much as blink. "With Shepherd, yes."
Christina's expression remained blank. "With the camping on the ground and everyone peeing behind the same bush."
Burke smirked. "With the fresh air."
Jamie fought the urge to chuckle, watching the exchange with mild amusement.
Christina shook her head. "We have back-to-back CABGs. I booked the ORs."
Burke, completely unfazed, responded simply. "I canceled the ORs."
Christina blinked. "Why?"
Burke shrugged. "Because I'm going camping with Shepherd."
Christina tilted her head, narrowing her eyes slightly. "But why?"
Burke glanced at Derek, then at Jamie, before exhaling through his nose. "Because sometimes, even the best surgeons need to step away from the OR."
Christina scoffed but didn't argue. Jamie could tell she was analyzing him, piecing things together, but Burke didn't give her any more to work with.
Derek clapped his hands together. "Alright, let's get going before someone changes their mind."
Burke grabbed his bag, stepping past Christina without another word.
Jamie met her gaze for half a second before following him out the door.
"But we do have to make one stop." Burke added suddenly.
Jamie frowned. "A stop? What stop?"
Stop #1:
The SUV rumbled to a stop outside a hotel in downtown Seattle.
The doors to the hotel swung open, and out stepped Chief Richard Webber, looking far too pleased for someone about to spend the weekend in the wilderness.
"Mountain men in the wild. Terra incognita." The Chief climbed into the backseat, settling in as if this had been planned all along. "You know, this is my first camping trip."
Jamie blinked. Then he turned slowly to Derek, voice low. "We're taking the Chief to my cabin?"
Derek exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Oh, you don't say. So, Preston, any other little surprises?"
Burke remained perfectly composed. "I thought it would be a good bonding experience."
Jamie gave him a long, measured look before shifting back into drive.
"Right. Bonding."
This trip was already turning into a logistical nightmare.
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Stop #2: Meredith's House
By the time they pulled up outside Meredith's house, Jamie was reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this moment.
The front door swung open before they even had a chance to honk, and Izzie Stevens came marching out, arms full of supplies.
"Okay, sunscreen, your insect repellent, and you're going to need a shovel to bury your poop," she announced, handing George a plastic bag full of camping essentials.
Jamie raised an eyebrow. "Poop shovel? Really?"
"You'll thank me later." Izzie grinned, patting the bag like she had just solved all their problems.
George, meanwhile, was struggling with the zipper of his oversized jacket. "Izzie, I'm not five. Zip me."
Izzie sighed but did as asked.
George turned to Burke, straightening his shoulders. "If Callie calls... tell her... I'm a mountain man. A man of the wild, right Dr. Burke?"
Burke gave him a blank look. "Okay, him I invited."
Jamie rubbed his temples. Derek just shook his head.
"Izzie baked us treats!" George added, holding up a neatly wrapped tin.
Jamie exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "I already regret this."
Meredith crossed her arms, looking at Derek. "Have fun with your... space... or whatever."
Derek gave her a tight smile before heading back toward the SUV.
Jamie caught the look on Meredith's face as she watched Derek leave. He sighed, shaking his head, then climbed back into the driver's seat.
Stop #3: Joe's Bar
By the time they reached Joe's, Jamie was convinced they had collected half the hospital.
They had only stopped for an extra tent—at least, that had been the plan.
Then Joe and his boyfriend Walter stepped out, each carrying a duffel bag.
George frowned. "I just said we needed an extra tent. Do you think Joe misunderstood?"
Joe smirked. "Do you want to follow us, or should we follow you?"
Jamie shot Derek a look. Derek just muttered something under his breath, clearly regretting this as much as Jamie was.
And just when Jamie thought things couldn't get more chaotic—
"Hey guys."
Jamie turned to see Alex Karev, duffel slung over his shoulder, looking like he had been waiting for this moment his whole life.
George immediately threw his hands up. "That wasn't me, I swear!"
Jamie sighed, gripping the wheel tighter.
Derek leaned back, rubbing his face. "We should've just gone to a damn hotel."
Burke, ever composed, simply adjusted his sleeve. "Too late now."
Jamie shook his head, muttering, "This is going to be a disaster."
As Joe, Walter, and Karev loaded their gear into the second car, Jamie pulled back onto the road.
It was supposed to be a peaceful weekend. A small group. Some time away.
Now?
Now they were leading a full caravan into the woods.
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The SUV rumbled to a stop, tires crunching over gravel as Jamie pulled up to the cabin. The drive had been long, and the air had grown cooler the farther they'd gone into the mountains. Towering trees surrounded them, thick forest stretching for miles in every direction.
Jamie killed the engine and stepped out, stretching his arms as he took in the familiar sight of his father's hunting cabin. The place hadn't changed much—rustic, solid wood, a wraparound porch with old chairs still in place. It was a piece of his past, untouched by time.
He turned back to the group, who were already unloading their gear.
"You can set up your tents in the clearing." His voice was even, but firm. "The cabin is off-limits."
The group set to work quickly, clearing a space in the open field near the cabin. The air was crisp, the scent of pine heavy in the wind. The distant sound of a stream echoed through the valley, the only other noise the rustling of gear and the occasional frustrated grunt from Karev as he attempted to set up his tent.
George, ever the overachiever, gathered rocks to surround the fire pit while the Chief settled himself comfortably at a nearby log, already unpacking a ridiculously fancy picnic basket.
"That is a nice-looking picnic basket," George remarked, eyeing the carefully wrapped cheeses and spreads.
"Thank you," Webber said, pleased. "The concierge at the hotel put it together. We've got crackers, pâté, and an assortment of Seattle's finest soft cheeses. You want some?"
George hesitated. "No, thanks."
Karev scoffed. "Dude, he brought silverware."
George turned to him, frowning. "You should talk. Have you ever been camping before?"
Alex shot him a glare. "What?"
George gestured at his clothes. "A t-shirt and sneakers? You'll freeze your ass off."
Alex rolled his eyes. "I'm wearing a jacket."
"Just don't come crawling to me in the middle of the night when you want to huddle for warmth." George said shaking his head.
Alex muttered something under his breath as he continued struggling with his tent, while Joe and Walter worked on setting up their own—one that looked suspiciously bigger and better built than the rest.
Webber, still clearly not understanding the tent arrangements, eyed Joe's setup.
"It's a good-looking tent, Joe. You and Walter got room for one more?"
Joe paused. "We thought you'd be sleeping with one of the doctors."
Webber blinked, considering. "Well, Preston's already got O'Malley for a roommate. But just between you and me, these other tents are kind of puny."
Joe coughed. "Well, Walter and I were hoping to share this one. You know... just the two of us."
"But I guess if you really want to—"
Alex, having finally gotten his tent somewhat upright, glanced over. "Chief... I don't think you really—"
Webber, clearly not getting the hint, nodded. "They've offered, Karev."
George's face twisted. "They want to be alone—"
Then it hit Webber. His eyes went slightly wider, and he quickly backpedaled. "Oh! So you are, um…"
Burke cleared his throat. "Chief."
Webber quickly straightened. "Wonderful. Man love. Beautiful. My cousin's gay… so I'm hip. Brokeback Mountain and all that."
Jamie, standing off to the side watching the entire exchange, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jesus Christ."
Derek clapped his hands together. "Alright. Who's ready to go fishing?"
Webber jumped to his feet, clearly eager to escape the awkward conversation. "I am!"
Burke nodded, grabbing the fishing gear. "Then let's go."
Jamie exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face.
This was already shaping up to be one hell of a trip.
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The river was calm, the water gliding over smooth rocks as sunlight reflected off the surface. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, a sharp contrast to the sterile scent of the hospital.
Webber and Joe stood near the bank, rods in hand, while the others spread out along the water. Jamie had found his own spot further down, casting his line in silence. Burke was with O'Malley, while Derek and Karev had moved to a rocky section upriver.
Webber shifted slightly, watching his fishing line bob in the water before glancing at Joe.
"So, uh… how long have you and Walter been together?"
Joe smirked, reeling in his line slightly. "Ten years. Off and on. But now, definitely on." He paused. "Thinking about kids."
Webber raised a brow. "That's a big step."
Joe nodded. "You have kids?"
Webber hesitated. "No." His tone was even, but there was something behind it. "I work a lot. Adele and I… well, she always said she didn't want to raise kids alone."
Joe hummed in understanding. "Walter says the same thing."
Webber turned slightly, interested. "He does?"
Joe chuckled. "Well, I'm always working at the bar. But what are you gonna do, right? Someone has to run the place."
Webber nodded. "Exactly."
Joe adjusted his grip on his fishing rod. "But Walter… if I have to make a change, I'll do it. Can't imagine my life without him, you know?"
Webber was silent for a moment, staring out at the water. He exhaled slowly. "Yeah… I know."
George and Burke stood side by side, rods in hand. The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the water, the occasional ripple breaking the glassy surface.
Burke watched as George reeled in his line, nodding in approval. "Very nice, O'Malley."
George grinned. "At least once a month, my dad would take me and my brothers to White River."
Burke nodded. "Your father taught you well."
A comfortable silence settled between them as they cast their lines again. Then Burke glanced at George. "How are you and Dr. Torres doing these days?"
George hesitated briefly before answering. "Good. She doesn't know it yet, but good. Excellent, even." He exhaled. "For a while, she wanted a certain level of commitment, and I just didn't feel… I was…" He trailed off before shaking his head. "Now I am, though."
Burke studied him for a moment. "So you're stepping up?"
George straightened. "I'm stepping up." He glanced at Burke. "You knew, right? That it was time with Cristina?"
Burke nodded, his expression unreadable. "Right."
Silence stretched between them again, the sounds of the river filling the space.
Burke reached for his bait, his fingers moving to tie the hook, when—
A tremor.
Subtle, but enough to make his hands fumble for a second longer than they should have.
George saw it.
He frowned. He didn't say anything at first, letting Burke adjust, but the hesitation was there. The uncertainty.
"You alright?" George finally asked, keeping his voice light, as if he hadn't noticed.
Burke didn't even look up. "Absolutely."
George hesitated. "I just—"
Burke's voice was firmer this time. "We're here to fish, remember?"
George looked confused but nodded. "Right."
Burke reeled in his line and adjusted his stance. "I'm going to see if I can get a bite downstream."
And with that, he walked away, leaving George staring at the water, the weight of what he had just seen pressing into his chest.
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The river continued its steady flow, the occasional splash of a fish breaking the surface. Alex and George stood a few feet apart, both pretending to focus on their fishing rods, but George could feel Alex watching him.
After a few moments of silence, Alex smirked. "So, you getting back with Callie?"
George nodded, reeling his line in slightly. "Yep."
Alex let out a breath, shaking his head. "Trust me, man, I don't think you really want to do that."
George raised a brow, turning to look at him. "Really?"
Alex gave a casual shrug. "Really."
George scoffed, turning back to his fishing line. "So when I get back with her, I'm going to tell her that we shouldn't see each other anymore, and when she asks why, I'm going to say, 'Alex Karev thinks our relationship isn't such a good idea.'"
Alex smirked. "You think that'll do the trick?"
George shot him a dry look. "Oh yeah, definitely."
Alex snorted. "Fine, suit yourself." He cast his line again, rolling his shoulders. "Just don't come crying to me when it all blows up in your face."
George narrowed his eyes. "It's not going to blow up."
Alex didn't say anything, just gave him a knowing smirk before focusing back on the river.
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Derek, Jamie and Preston stood near the riverbank, their fishing lines cast into the slow-moving water. The late afternoon sun shimmered through the canopy of trees, dappling the surface with golden light. It should have been peaceful, but the silence between them wasn't entirely comfortable.
Derek let out a breath, stretching his shoulders. "You know, I thought this trip was supposed to be relaxing. Fresh air, fishing, a break from the hospital." He shot Jamie a look. "Then you insisted on bringing actual camping gear, and suddenly it feels like survival training."
Jamie smirked, adjusting his stance. "You're welcome, Shepherd. Some of us like to be prepared when we go into the wild." He gave Burke a glance. "Tell me, Preston, do you know how to start a fire without a match?"
Burke raised a brow. "I know how to delegate fire-starting responsibilities."
Derek laughed. "Translation: No."
Jamie shook his head. "Unbelievable. Two of the top surgeons in the country, and neither of you can survive a weekend without central heating."
Burke cast his line again, his expression unreadable, though Jamie didn't miss the slight hesitation in his movements. The subtle tremor. It was barely there, but Jamie had already seen it once. Now, it was confirmation.
His gaze flickered to Derek, who was completely oblivious.
Jamie exhaled through his nose and turned his attention back to the water. He wasn't here to pick a fight. Not yet.
Instead, he decided to let the moment breathe.
"You know," Jamie said after a pause, keeping his gaze on the river, "the last time I went fishing was with my dad. He always said it was the one thing that forced a man to slow down. That if you rush, you scare the fish away."
Derek nodded. "Sounds like good advice."
Jamie hummed. "Yeah. It was."
Burke was silent, listening.
Jamie let the words settle before adding, "Though, judging by our luck so far, I think we scared them all away just by showing up."
Derek groaned. "Finally, something we can agree on."
The three of them fell into an easy silence, the river flowing steadily before them.
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Jamie had been patient.
He had tolerated the Chief's ridiculously luxurious camping setup, Burke's nonchalant attitude, and even Derek's this-is-a-frat-party-now smirk when more people kept showing up. But when George and Alex started fighting, he'd had enough.
He watched the two grown men bicker like schoolchildren, voices escalating, testosterone practically leaking into the river
Jamie exhaled, dragging a hand down his face before pushing himself up.
"I'm going to go hunt something," he announced flatly, reaching for his gear. "Maybe bring back some real food before we all die of starvation."
He looked over his shoulder as he walked toward the treeline. "Try not to kill each other while I'm gone."
No one stopped him.
Chief Webber, watching Joe and Walter pack up their untouched fishing gear, turned to Burke.
"Joe and Walter got tired of not catching any fish. What do you make of that?"
Burke, still looking amused by the fight breaking out a few feet away, barely glanced over. "Joe and Walter?"
Webber shook his head. "No, no. Joe and Walter are great. I meant that we haven't caught any fish. Any theories?"
Derek smirked, not even looking up from where he was tying off a lure. "Just one. Fish generally don't like to go where there's a lot of noise."
They all looked back toward the riverbank, where Alex and George were still arguing.