Jeffrey was just about to step into the room when Philip ca out. But his grandfather stopped him with a raised hand.
"You might want to let her think for a while," Philip said quietly.
Jeffrey froze, eyes locked on the closed door. If he stared hard enough—long enough—maybe he could see through it. Maybe he could see her.
He still wasn’t sure what his grandfather was planning. He wasn’t sure if he trusted it. But for once, he chose to listen.
Still, there was sothing he needed to say.
"I’ve decided to stay with her. In Rockchapel, I—"
Philip glanced around, eyes flicking over the hallway like a man seasoned in the art of being overheard. Then he turned and walked forward, wordlessly. Jeffrey followed. He knew that look. Privacy.
Philip led him to the library—a room untouched by the chaos of the Winchester household. A fortress of dark wood, scent of leather and parchnt, and an almost sacred silence. No one entered here without Philip’s permission. Not even family.
Jeffrey stepped in, and the door closed behind him with a quiet finality.
It had been years since he was last in this room, yet everything was the sa. The towering shelves cradling generations of knowledge and pride. The dust motes suspended like ghosts of the past. And in the center, the old armchair—Winchester authority carved into its very bones.
Philip took his seat, commanding as ever. He gestured for Jeffrey to sit across from him.
Jeffrey did. And as he settled into the chair, the casual air he once carried into this room was gone. In its place was sothing heavier. Sothing warr.
A quiet current moved through his veins, like blood waking up to mory. This was more than a room. This was a legacy. Generations of Winchesters had sat here, made decisions here, shaped empires here. And now... here he was.
Part of it. In spite of everything... he was part of it.
And for the first ti in a long while, he didn’t flinch from that truth.
"I was amazed by your clever managent this past year," Philip began, his voice calm, but his gaze sharp. He already had a fair idea of what Jeffrey was about to say—he just wanted to hear it out loud.
Jeffrey nodded, his voice steady. "I did it because she wanted to see rise. She wanted to reach my potential—to silence those who called a useless Winchester. I did what I set out to do. Now I want to return to her."
Philip opened the drawer beside him and pulled out a cigar. With a practiced flick, he cut the end, lit it, and took a slow draw, saying nothing.
Jeffrey continued, undeterred. "She’s an only child. The one who inherited the Smith family’s legacy." His eyes scanned the portraits lining the walls—generations of Winchester patriarchs looking down on them.
"The Smiths may not have had the influence of the Winchesters, but in Rockchapel, they were legends. Her grandfather’s na still ans sothing. She’s respected there, not just as his granddaughter but as herself. Joanne Smith—carrying on Sean Smith’s na."
Philip exhaled a cloud of smoke, the edges of a smile curling his lips. "You don’t have to tell about Old Sean, boy." He chuckled lightly. "I knew that man better than anyone. Hell, better than Joanne ever did."
Jeffrey cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure how much truth was there to it. But that didn’t matter. "I found my ho there. On that land. In that house. With her. Our kids... they’ll take the Smith na. That’s where my life is now."
He braced himself, expecting resistance. But Philip just looked at him, silent. Calm. That, more than anything, unnerved Jeffrey.
"Does she know?" Philip asked, casually. "Is this sothing you both decided?"
Jeffrey hesitated. "It’s obvious this is what she would want. She’s the only one who can carry that na forward. She has a responsibility—"
Philip let out a snort of laughter. "Of course. And the Winchester family has a battalion of sons to carry on the na, doesn’t it?" He puffed on the cigar again. "But... doesn’t she have a male cousin?"
Jeffrey stood, his posture bristling. "Your chauvinism has no place in our love, Grandpa. I’m not going to let you dictate my life anymore."
Philip didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked amused.
"Chauvinism?" he repeated, chuckling again. "Is that what you think this is?"
Jeffrey blinked. He hadn’t expected laughter, especially not now, not when he accused him of sothing heavy.
"You boys have no idea what we fought for. Equality, legacy, bloodlines... we gave up more than you’ll ever know." Philip leaned forward, cigar between his fingers. "Tell sothing. Have you ever wondered why her land is called McDonald Farm, when it’s clearly been in the Smith family for generations?"
Jeffrey frowned. He hadn’t. There were so many things he and Joanne had shared, but that detail had never co up.
"Old Sean’s wife—Joanne’s grandmother—was an only child too. The only one to carry her father’s legacy. It was called Smith Farm until the day he married her. You know what he did?" Philip smiled, eyes gleaming. "He renad it McDonald Farm. His wife’s maiden na. She gave him sons to carry on his na, and he gave her sothing to carry on her family’s legacy."
Jeffrey stared. The weight of the gesture settled over him.
"So don’t talk to about carrying nas and responsibilities as if you invented the idea." Philip sat back and exhaled smoke. "You didn’t even talk to her. You made this decision on your own. Why? Because you’re the man?"
Jeffrey looked down. Ashad. That low, mocking chuckle from Philip cut deeper than any scolding.
"Who’s the chauvinist now?"
Jeffrey had no answer.
And yet, beneath the sha, Joanne’s words echoed.
I don’t know if I love you anymore.
Would she even listen? Would she even care to make that choice together?
He returned to his room. Joanne was still asleep, curled on her side, her face turned away. The furrow in her brow hadn’t relaxed. Even in sleep, she looked troubled.
Jeffrey stood by the bed for a mont, unsure. He wanted to do sothing—anything—to make her more comfortable. To make things right.
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