Chapter Text
The first thing Chris registers is pain.
The second is his son trying to shove him awake.
Small hands jab insistently at his shoulder hard enough to rock the old mattress springs beneath him. The kid’s putting his whole body into it too, knees digging into the bed every time he throws his weight forward.
“Dad.”
Chris ignores it on instinct, burying his face deeper into the pillow while dull gray morning light bleeds through the crooked blinds in thin stripes across the room.
He’s sprawled facedown across the mattress, one arm hooked around a flattened pillow while the other hangs uselessly off the side of the bed, fingertips brushing cold hardwood.
The old mattress springs groan beneath his weight every time he shifts, the sound sharp in the otherwise quiet room. Tangled sheets knot around his legs from where he must’ve fought them in his sleep, trapping him just enough to make moving irritating.
One blanket is bunched beneath him while the other hangs half off the bed, pooled on the floor beside a discarded flannel and yesterday’s jeans.
Then the bed dips harder.
A heavy weight lands across the backs of his legs with an excited huff.
“The hell—”
Moose clambers fully onto the mattress without permission, tail slamming recklessly against the wall while he crowds into Luke’s side of the bed like he’s helping.
“Moose, get down,” Luke whispers loudly, immediately betrayed by his giggling.
The dog ignores him completely, cold nose pressing insistently into Chris’s arm before one paw stomps directly into the back of his thigh.
Every muscle in Chris’s body aches.
His shoulders burn from twelve straight hours hauling chains and fighting machinery that should’ve been retired years ago. There’s still sawdust clinging stubbornly to the dark strands of his hair and ground into the rough skin of his hands. He can smell it too—pine, sweat, motor oil—all of it soaked so deeply into him that no amount of showering ever really gets rid of it anymore.
“Dad.”
Another shove.
Smaller this time, but determined.
Chris groans into the pillow, eyes squeezing shut tighter for half a second before forcing themselves open. His vision blurs against the gray light filtering through the blinds.
“Go back to bed, Luke,” he mutters thickly, voice wrecked with sleep. “Still early.”
Silence.
Then the scrape of plastic against wood.
Chris barely has time to lift his head before the alarm clock smacks against the side of it.
“Jesus Christ—”
He jerks upright with a curse, tangled sheets tightening around his legs as the mattress springs screech beneath him while Moose startles hard enough to nearly fall off the bed.
Luke jumps off the bed completely unimpressed, tiny arms crossed over the front of an oversized hoodie swallowing his frame. His jeans are wrinkled, one pant leg cuffed higher than the other, mismatched socks covering his feet.
“We’re late,” the boy says firmly.
Chris blinks at him once before dragging a rough hand down his face.
And then he sees the clock laying beside him.
8:17 AM.
“Shit.”
“Dad,” his son says again, equal parts patient and annoyed. “You said we were gonna make pancakes.”
Chris groans into the pillow.
Pancakes.
He promised pancakes. The kind with cinnamon and vanilla mixed into the batter, just like his mom used to make before school.
Back when she was still around.
Luke had been three when she left.
No note.
No goodbye.
Chris had come home from a twelve-hour shift to find half the closets empty and silence sitting in the house where she used to be. Luke fast asleep in his bed.
He knew why. Knew it had been him in the end.
The long hours. The money never stretching far enough. The failed promises about a better life that sounded real when they were staring at two pink lines in a gas station bathroom.
Luke hadn’t been planned.
But Chris had never once thought about leaving him.
Chris tried not to think about it much anymore.
Still didn’t change the fact that every time Luke asked for pancakes, he remembered her standing barefoot at the stove humming under her breath like life wasn’t already falling apart around them.
He drags himself upright with a grunt, the old mattress springs shrieking beneath him as he reaches for the clock.
8:17.
“Well, fuck,” he mumbles under his breath.
The blankets fight him while he untwists himself from them, one leg nearly trapped as he stumbles off the mattress.
Chris scrubs a rough hand over his face before reaching out to ruffle the kid’s hair as he passes.
“Go on, Bud,” he says, voice still gravelly with sleep. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Luke sighs dramatically but heads for the kitchen anyway.
The cabin creaks awake around them.
It’s one large open room downstairs, the kitchen bleeding into the living area beneath heavy timber beams Chris and his father had cut and hauled up the mountain themselves years ago. Pine walls glow gold beneath the dim morning light leaking through the windows. The old stone fireplace still smells faintly of last night’s firewood, mixing with coffee grounds, damp wool, and the permanent scent of sawdust that lives in the place no matter how often Chris cleans.
The old space heater rattles in the corner loud enough to sound like it’s fighting for its life.
Evidence of last night is everywhere.
Paperwork scattered across the coffee table beside a dead phone and a lamp still left on. Laundry piled over the back of a chair. An old leather couch with a rip in one arm from the time Luke decided wrestling the dog indoors was a good idea.
Chris grabs yesterday’s flannel off the floor, gives it a quick smell test, then pulls it on.
“Good enough.”
Fresh jeans are on in under thirty seconds. Boots half-laced while he walks through the house rubbing both hands through his hair trying to knock the sawdust loose and make it look like he didn’t just crawl out of bed.
By the time he reaches the kitchen, Luke is already perched on one of the island stools swinging his legs beneath him.
“You forgot,” the kid says quietly.
“Yeah. I forgot.”
Chris plugs his dead phone into the kitchen outlet before immediately moving on instinct more than thought.
Bread into the toaster.
Eggs cracked too fast against the pan.
Lunch half-packed while he searches the counter for his truck keys.
Coffee grounds still sitting in yesterday’s pot.
“Did you brush your teeth?”
“Yes.”
“You lyin’ to me?”
A pause.
“…Maybe.”
Chris snorts tiredly and points toward the bathroom with a spatula. “Go brush ‘em, Little Man.”
Luke groans but hops off the stool obediently while the dog lifts his head from beside the back door, tail thumping lazily against the floorboards.
Chris pours coffee straight from yesterday’s pot, grimaces after the first sip, then drinks more anyway.
By the time Luke comes back, backpack half-zipped and hoodie crooked, Chris is trying to juggle six things at once.
Lunchboxes.
Hard hats.
Paperwork for the new cutting site.
His son’s backpack.
Truck keys clenched between his teeth while he lets the dog outside.
“You got that field trip paper?” Chris asks over his shoulder.
Luke freezes halfway to the door.
“…Maybe.”
Chris points at him immediately. “That means no.”
The boy scrambles for his backpack while Chris pulls a pen from his jeans pocket and shoulders the front door open.
Cold mountain air rushes inside instantly.
Everything after that becomes rushed motion.
Luke handing him crumpled papers while Chris climbs into the truck.
Signing against the steering wheel.
Handing them right back.
“Put this away before they disappear again.”
“I didn’t lose ‘em.”
“You lost ‘em twice.”
“That was different.”
“Mmhm.”
The heater blasts the second the truck rumbles to life. Logging radio crackles softly through the speakers while the dog settles onto the bench seat between them, head dropping heavily onto Chris’s thigh while his tail smacks against Luke’s leg.
Chris backs down the long dirt driveway with one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped around burnt coffee in a travel mug.
“Sorry about the pancakes, Buddy,” he says after a minute.
Luke shrugs, staring out the frosted window.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it ain’t. I promised.” Chris glances over at him briefly. “We’ll go to Rita’s on Sunday, alright? Real pancakes. The ones bigger than your head.”
That finally earns a grin.
“Can we still stop at the comic store after school?”
Chris exhales through his nose.
“Yeah. Yeah, alright.”
“Could I also get a new comic?”
“The one you’ve been staring at for two weeks?”
Luke nods quickly.
Chris shakes his head with a tired smile.
“Yeah, Wingman. I’ll get you the book.”
The school comes into view too soon after that.
Chris pulls into the drop-off lane behind a line of muddy trucks and sleepy parents. Before
Luke jumps out, Chris reaches over automatically, fixing the boy’s crooked hood and tugging it properly over his head.
“Behave.”
“I do behave.”
“That’s a lie.”
Luke grins.
Chris squeezes his shoulder once. Quick. Firm.
“Love you, Kid.”
“Love you too.”
Then Luke is gone, jogging toward the school doors with his backpack bouncing behind him.
Chris watches until he disappears inside before finally pulling away.
The second he turns back onto the highway, something in him shifts.
Foreman mode.
His jaw tightens slightly while his brain starts running ahead of him automatically.
Schedules.
Fuel costs.
The harvester that’s been making that grinding noise for two damn weeks.
Equipment maintenance.
Today’s site survey.
He already knows the crew’s waiting on him at the yard.
And then there’s the new mechanic showing up today.
Leon had vouched for the kid personally over the phone a few nights ago. Said he was young but solid. Good with engines. Hard worker. Looking for somewhere stable.
Chris had told him to set up a bed in the bunkhouse with the rest of the crew.
Most of the men stayed there except Graham and Barry, who had families back in town.
Chris drums his fingers once against the steering wheel, exhaustion still heavy behind his eyes while the logging radio crackles low in the background.
The dog lifts his head slightly when the logging yard finally comes into view through the trees.
And Chris already feels like turning around.