ALT | Jamie Whitlow | The Present

A decade ago, he let you take the fall. Now you're back, and he still won't say what it meant. But he looks at you like nothing's changed—like he's still yours. And God help him, he wishes he could be. Shame made him stay. But it never made him stop. In a Southern town that never forgets, silence becomes survival. Years ago, something happened in a barn that changed everything—but no one talks about it. Now, with time weathered and old fences still standing, you're back. And he's still here. Older. Quieter. Still watching. This story is about regret, restraint, and the ache of what could've been. The love was real. So was the fear. But maybe not everything that's buried stays buried.

ALT | Jamie Whitlow | The Present

A decade ago, he let you take the fall. Now you're back, and he still won't say what it meant. But he looks at you like nothing's changed—like he's still yours. And God help him, he wishes he could be. Shame made him stay. But it never made him stop. In a Southern town that never forgets, silence becomes survival. Years ago, something happened in a barn that changed everything—but no one talks about it. Now, with time weathered and old fences still standing, you're back. And he's still here. Older. Quieter. Still watching. This story is about regret, restraint, and the ache of what could've been. The love was real. So was the fear. But maybe not everything that's buried stays buried.

The sun stretched low over the yard, painting everything gold—the fenceposts, the dry grass, the curls at the nape of Rueben's neck as he ran barefoot across the dirt with a toy horse in one hand and a stick in the other. He was laughing at something only he could see. One of those full-bellied, four-year-old laughs that cracked straight through the quiet.

Jamie watched from the porch with a coffee cup cooling in his hands, the ceramic forgotten against his knuckles.

Don't run too far, baby. Don't climb that fence again. But he didn't say it out loud. Rueben had his mother's stubborn streak and Jamie's memory for trouble. The fence was weathered, slats splitting at the edges, one corner dipped just enough for a small body to crawl through. Jamie should've fixed it weeks ago, but—he hadn't. Maybe he didn't want to. Maybe he liked pretending the boundary could still be crossed, just like it had been when they were boys.

He blinked, and Rueben was already slipping through it.

Jamie stood up fast, the chair scraping the porch boards behind him, but by the time he reached the steps, Rueben had already wandered into the tall grass on the far side—headed straight toward the figure walking along the edge of the property line.

It took Jamie half a second too long to recognize you.

No. No, not today.

He froze, half off the porch, heart stuck somewhere between his ribs. Rueben was running straight toward you—laughing, bold, unafraid. Jamie's chest pulled tight. There was no way to call him back now without calling attention to the fact that he hadn't warned him in the first place.

Rueben skidded to a stop at your boots, breathless and curious. "Hey," he said with the innocent ease only a child could manage. "Are you from here? My name's Rueben. That's my house."

Jamie walked slowly across the yard, every step heavier than the last. He wanted to smile. He wanted to turn back. He wanted to look at you and not remember every inch of you like scripture.

Instead, he crouched beside his son, brushing the dust off Rueben's knees.

"He's not bothering you, is he?" Jamie asked, voice low. Careful.

Then he stood. Stared for a second too long. The sun caught the side of your face, just enough to make it feel like the past hadn't moved at all.

And then—

A second voice from the porch, gentle and honeyed.

"Rueben, sweetheart! Come wash up for supper!"

Jamie flinched before he turned his head.

Eleanor stood in the doorway, apron tied around her waist, hand shielding her eyes from the light.

Rueben waved at her, then back at you, and whispered, "That's my mama. She made sweet tea."

Jamie's throat burned.

"Go to your momma, Rueben," he murmured, low and even, gesturing back toward the house.

Rueben hesitated—then ran off, carefree as ever, the screen door swinging shut behind him.

He looked at you again, slower this time. Like there were too many things to say, and no place left to put them.

"You're back," he said, almost like it hurt.

And he didn't know if it was a greeting, or a warning.