CASSIUS (One year later)

I didn't hesitate. Maybe I should have, but I didn't.

The second we got back into town, I proposed.

Quinn laughed in my face, but she accepted. Eventually. A year later.

It was so worth the wait.

Wyatt was Quinn's 'maid of honor', a title he proudly accepted.

He even had a giant smile on his face while Quinn shoved him in a fluffy dress that she swore 'accentuated his breasts'. He pretended to fan himself over her compliment. Hell, he even took on the role of Cinderella for a good twenty minutes, singing to imaginary animals and dancing around.

It was all fun and games for him.

But, once she started trying to shove his feet into heels, I think the realization set in that she was completely serious. His features darkened as he stared down at her like she was enemy number one. Next thing you know, he was mumbling, "I can't do this."

He kicked the sparkly heel across the floor, lifted the hem of his dress, and waltzed right out of the room.

Quinn caught him by the edge of the garment and hung on for dear life while he continued to storm through the shop, dragging her across the floor the entire way. Needless to say, I had to pay for the damn thing when it finally ripped.

Witnessing how long it held up was a great testament to the quality of the material, though. Left an outstanding review on their website.

Quinn's mum only did six months in rehab for her first go around. Ended up relapsing within a few weeks of being out. We didn't expect miracles, but I thought she would last a bit longer than she did. I guess her voluntarily admitting herself the second time spoke volumes to her shift in thinking, though.

She was still in rehab during the wedding, doing much better her second time than the first. We took a shit ton of pictures for her and Quinn was more proud of her mum than anything else, despite not being able to be there.

It took a lot of detective work and a lot of coaxing information out of Mabel, but I managed to fly Quinn's dad, Jacques in for the wedding. As soon as Quinn saw him standing in the doorway of her dressing room, she chucked the croissant she was eating at my face.

The bloodshot eye that I could barely open during the ceremony was a small price to pay for seeing them reunite. They both broke down and grieved the loss of their relationship together, looking forward to rebuilding. Quinn saved the news about Dylan for later on. It would have been too much, too soon.

I almost had a meltdown myself when I realized she was letting him walk her down the aisle. The pride in his misty eyes made me hopeful for both our futures.

I wouldn't change a single thing in our relationship. In our marriage. In Quinn.

I vowed to spend my entire life being tortured by her and I'll uphold that until I cease to exist.

***************

CASSIUS (Ten years later)

I'm sitting in the bleachers, the hot metal burning through my jeans. The sun is beating down and all I can smell is fresh-cut grass and sweat from all the people around me. I check to make sure no one is behind me before leaning back to prop my elbows up.

Warren is on my left, bent forward, elbows resting on his knees as he intently watches the soccer match like he's got money on it. Ryan Farrow is to my right, trying and failing to be secretive while he sips from a flask that's being passed around amongst the other parents.

Quinn and Ryan's wife, Tessa, are standing together off to the side of the field, cheering on all the toddlers running around like maniacs. They only manage to actually kick the ball every five minutes or so. But what can you expect from a bunch of four-year-olds?

A lot, apparently, judging by the way one of the dads a few rows beneath me is screaming every time the ref – who obviously doesn't take his volunteer job seriously – makes a 'bad' call. Didn't realize there were bad calls in a kid's game.

Ryan chuckles into his fist the next time the angry father calls out the ref and nudges me with his shoulder.

"I can't tell if we're the right kind of parents, or the wrong kind of parents." He mumbles, the smell of whiskey wafting over my face.

I glare at the back of the man's head, wishing I could kick him out of the park. Or shove a soccer ball down his throat. That guy's kid is going to grow up with some serious issues with insecurities.

The ref blows the whistle, and two kids gets substituted out. When I see Dylan hop off the bench and stumble forward, losing his footing halfway to centerfield, I straighten right on up. This match is suddenly the most interesting thing on the planet.

My son finally manages to take his position and the whistle blows. He's a little steadier on his feet than most of the kids on his team, but still clumsy. Ryan backhands my elbow, and I can't help but smile as I watch our two kids run around on that field together.

If you would have asked me ten years ago if I'd be sitting here with the guy I nearly killed, watching our children play soccer – try to play soccer – while our wives wrangled the team, I would have thought you were out of your mind.

"Watch watch watch!" Warren mumbles, repeatedly pushing his knee into mine, like I'm not already watching.

Dylan pushes the ball forward, trips over it, recovers, and carries on until he's face to face with the goalie. They stare at each other for a long minute and all three of us are holding our breath, waiting for him to kick it in.

Instead, he starts giggling and runs up to the goalie, leaving the ball behind like yesterday's news. I slump down and grin at the same time, knowing he's about to hug his best friend. It happens every damn game.

Dylan tackles the goalie – Ross, one of his friends from daycare – and they embrace each other like there's not a game going on. I love seeing that he's so affectionate with other kids. It seriously makes my heart feel like it's going to beat out of my chest.

"Oh, come on!! Bench that kid!" Angry dad – AKA Steve – yells.

Warren throws a cheese fry at his back, and he whips around to face us. My brother immediately looks off to the side and whistles, feigning innocence. Steve's gaze falls on mine and I just shrug and pretend I didn't see what happened. He huffs before focusing back on the game.

I shoot Warren a look, but he's laughing.

"What?! Nobody talks to my nephew like that."

It's true. The same protective nature he has over Julia, spilled over to Dylan as well. I take a more relaxed approach to the whole thing. People will try to tear you down throughout your entire life. If you're shielded from it, you're less likely to persevere. But let any motherfucker cross a line and I will kill them in a heartbeat.

Right now, Steve's taunts that I know Dylan can't hear don't pose a threat to my son's wellbeing, so I leave it be. Doesn't mean I'm not watching him, though.

All of a sudden, there's screaming out on the field and some of the parents start standing up in the bleachers. I stifle a groan and push Warren aside to hop off the edge of the metal seating.

There's this one kid on the team, Andrew, that tends to pick on the other kids. And right now, Dylan is clinging to his ankle as he gnaws on it with the few teeth he has.

"Bite harder!!" Quinn yells, hopping up and down.

Jesus Christ. Our son is going to be a lunatic.

"Not helping, Quinn!" I yell over my shoulder as I sprint down the field to collect our little killer.

Once I make it over to the children's scuffle, I scoop Dylan up and throw him over my shoulder. He laughs maniacally the entire jog back to the sidelines. He's his mother's son, that's for damn sure.

I place him on the bench and sit cross-legged on the grass, so our faces are level. When I try to start the lecture, my breath hitches.

I'll never get over the fact that he has his mum's eyes. The same haunting, pale green. I smooth my hand over his hair and try my best to look stern.

"We don't bite people, Dylan."

He scrunches his brow and looks equally as serious.

"I know, dad. We didn't bite him. I did."

He's got his mum's logic as well; did I mention that part?

Quinn runs up behind me and throws herself down on the ground.

"Did you draw blood? Did he cry?" She asks excitedly.

"No. My teef aren't sharp enough yet." He chomps his teeth together and makes a little grr sound.

I shoot her a look that says 'seriously?' and she replaces her smile with a grimace.

"Dylan, you shouldn't bite people. Unless they deserve it. Then, you make sure you bite real hard, okay?"

My head drops. I give up. The boy might have my stature, in the top growth percentile for his age, but the rest is all Quinn.

He's stubborn and doesn't listen to a word you say. I'm almost positive Quinn's apartment curse rubbed off on him because he gets hurt by every single thing in our house, including the stuffed animal in his room. Don't ask.

He's confusing as shit, does the weirdest things, is fiercely loyal to people he barely knows. And he's fucking perfect in all his wrecking ball glory.

I glimpse over at my previous spot on the bleachers and see Ryan losing his shit, laughing so hard he's keeled over while Warren has a proud smile on his face.

"Sorry, daddy." Dylan whimpers, kicking his little legs back and forth as they hang from the bench.

"It's alright, kiddo." I smirk, ruffling his hair, which lights his face up. "Next time someone pisses you off, think it through before you act."

"Cash! You can't say bad words in front of him!" Quinn whisper-yells at me.

"Oh, but you can tell him to bite people?" I'm trying really hard to keep the smile at bay, loving every minute of this moment in time.

"Go! Shoo! Off the field!" She flips her hands around at me until I get to my feet.

I lean down and kiss Dylan on the top of his head before taking long strides back to the bleachers.

"Fucking freak show." I hear Steve mutter as I'm walking by.

My fists clench as I think of all the ways I could break him beyond repair. There's a lot of injuries you can't heal from, and I know how to cause them.

But I'm supposed to be a role model, now. So, I give him a friendly shoulder grip and lean in real close.

"At least my wife's not fucking the ref." I whisper and squeeze his shoulder so tight that he folds into me with a grunt.

Releasing him, I step over his bench and trot up, reclaiming my spot between Ryan and Warren.

"Did he at least draw blood?" Warren asks.

I slowly shift my head until I'm glaring at him. Really? Am I the only adult here?

My phone starts ringing, instantly irritating me. I check the number and silence it, returning my attention back to the game. Max can wait.

He's been going crazy ever since he retired and handed the club over. I swear he calls me ten times a day, asking if I counted the drawer right or checked to make sure the lights are all working.

I know he's proud of what I've done with the place, but he's having a hard time letting go. Sometimes, he'll show up randomly and I let him roam around like he still runs the show. Makes him feel good, I think.

I'm still working out some of the kinks but, over the years, I've managed to turn it into a legitimate business.

Ollie and similar fighters have been banned from competing there, which means there's no more dirty matches.

Fletch and his merry band of criminal bookies are no longer welcome.

Joey keeps his dealing to the outskirts of the club. Once he steps foot in my building, he's on his best behavior.

I still have the same staff, but the guns haven't been necessary as a form of protection anymore. I can tell they get bored sometimes, missing the action, but they're all loyal to a fault. Besides, there's still some fights for them to break up. Where there's alcohol, there's people who don't know how to control their drinking.

We don't bring in as much money as we did back when we were harboring illegal activities, but that was to be expected. We make do and I feel better. I take pride in being someone my son can look up to.

Quinn went back to school for law, and she is damn good at her job.

Honestly, I think she just confuses the lawyers to the point where they lose track of their own argument. It's not even on purpose but I'm almost positive that's how she wins the majority of her cases.

I tried to attend one of her trials before, watching from the back row of the courthouse. I felt so bad for the bastard she was up against. He had the face. The face I used to have whenever Quinn would talk. The face you make when you're pretty sure you're in a drug-induced dream rather than facing reality.

She confused the ever-living shit out of him. He stumbled over his words, shuffled through papers without being able to focus on actually reading them, and started wiping gallons of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. It was so damn painful to watch that I never stepped foot in there again.

I choose to support her mental terrorism from a distance.

I zone back in to see my wife smiling up at the bleachers, sending my heart flying in all different directions. Every time she looks at me like that, I can't control my own face. I break out in a grin and nod to her before she goes back to watching the game.

The healing time for a broken heart? I used to think it was infinite. And maybe it still is. But I think, with the right person, you just stop feeling it as much. The scar seals itself shut and you build on top of it.

And that's what we did. We took our mistakes and regrets and somehow created this perfectly imperfect life together.

Quinn made every single fracture worth the pain, and I'd endure it all again as long as it led me to her.