How The Butcher Met His Wife (Thomas Hewitt x Reader)

Chapter 11: Enough is Enough, part 1

First of all: sry this took so long. I didn't want to keep you guys in suspense, so I decided to upload the final chapters all together. I wanna say that I'm sorry if I mischaracterized anybody, but I wanted to keep the plot going. ALSO! I apologize if it gets too corny for your liking. I wanted it to be dramatic, but I hope I didn't exaggerate it too much. There will be another chapter that follows the aftermath of it all, but that will be a lot more chill. Thank you guys for reading my first ever fiction. I love ya'll and hope you have fun reading :D

btw follow me for more killer boy love stories! (Jason x reader next?)
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"Phew..." You threw your jacket onto the kitchen chair, sighing heavily. Your day had been busier than you thought it would be. The visit from Thomas had occupied your mind all day. You weren't too keen on sneaking out at night and wandering around town in the dark, but thinking about Thomas made those fears drift away much quicker.

*"Hello, my dear. How was work?"* Your mother greeted you from the living room.

"Busy as always!" You replied as you poured yourself a glass of water. Interestingly, your father was nowhere to be seen. He'd usually sit in the living room, occupying his favorite chair while watching TV. But this afternoon, it was empty.

"Where's Dad?" You asked.

Your mother came to join you in the kitchen.

*"He's out in the garage, tinkering with the car..."*

You could hear loud music coming from the garage. It was something your father did when he needed to blow off steam or clear his mind. You couldn't help but snicker at the corny rock songs blasting from the radio in the garage. He hadn't done that in quite some time.

*"Sweetie..."* your mother started, drawing your attention back to her.

*"I want to show you something."* She said, urging you to follow her with a gentle tap on your shoulder.

You placed your glass down and followed her upstairs into your parents' room. Her closet was open, with boxes full of photos and trinkets from your childhood scattered across the floor. The family photo album lay open on her bed. It was full of your baby pictures, and you smiled at one of the photos of your young parents holding you as a baby, their smiles stretching from ear to ear.

*"Come sit."* your mother said, patting the bed as she took the album onto her lap.

You sat beside her, watching her flip through pages of old memories. She stopped at one with pictures of her and your dad.

*"I was your age when I met your dad."* She smiled, her voice soft with nostalgia. *"Funny story, really. He used to pass by on his way to baseball practice while I worked at a café nearby. He never had the courage to talk to me."*

You smiled, familiar with the story but loving how happy it made her every time she told it.

*"The first time he spoke to me was to ask for ice—for a concussion! He took a baseball straight to the head,"* she chuckled, flipping through more pictures of them together. *"My dad hated him, said, 'He can't even play baseball without hurting himself!'"* She mimicked your grandpa's voice, making you laugh.

Her smile faded slightly as she closed the album. *"Your dad always felt he had to prove himself to my dad, even after we got married and had you. That never left him."*

The faint sound of rock music and the clinking of tools echoed from the garage below, where your father was hard at work.

*"What I'm trying to say is..."* she paused, placing the album aside, her eyes searching yours.