"Bedtime, buddy." I scoop him up, his little body heavy with exhaustion.
"Warren, too," he mumbles against my shoulder. "Story."
Warren follows us upstairs without hesitation. He sits on the edge of Beckett's bed while I pull superhero pajamas over my son's head. Together we listen to Beckett's increasingly incoherent requests for "just one more" story until his breathing deepens into sleep.
We tiptoe out, our fingers brushing as I pull the door nearly closed.
Downstairs, the quiet wraps around us like a blanket. Warren pours us each a glass of wine. We drift to the couch, not speaking but not needing to. His arm slides around my shoulders as if it belongs there. My head tips against him, fitting perfectly in the hollow beneath his collarbone.
"Thank you for today," I whisper, afraid to break the spell.
"Don't thank me for being with my son." His voice rumbles against my ear.
My chest tightens. Our son.
When he kisses me, it's different from last night. This time is slower, softer, a conversation rather than a confession. My hands find his face, holding him there as something deep inside me unravels and rebuilds.
I pull back slightly, palm resting over his heart. Itssteady rhythm grounds me even as everything else spins. For one perfect moment, I can see it all: weekend breakfasts, summer vacations, falling asleep together every night, waking up every morning to this man who loves our son.
But reality crashes back.
"We have to be careful." My voice tightens. "We need to figure this out."
Warren nods, understanding in his eyes. He presses one final kiss to my hair, lingering. "I should head home. Change. Shower. Reset. I know you're tired, too."
At the door, his hand catches mine. "Tomorrow? Tree shopping?"
I force a smile. "Yes."
He studies me a moment longer, like he's memorizing something, then leaves.
From the window, I watch his taillights fade down the street. My chest is impossibly full yet twisted with dread.
Secrets never stay buried. And when this one erupts, I don't know if even love will be enough to hold us together.
TWENTY-SIX
Warren
I drag myself out of sleep, one eye cracking open to confirm what my body already knows: I’m alone.
Her scent still clings to me. Warm skin, faint vanilla, the trace of her shampoo. It’s in my hair, on my chest, sunk into me deeper than a single night should allow.
The clock on my nightstand reads 5:17 AM. It's way too early for a Saturday. But sleep isn’t coming back. Not with my body still keyed up for her.
The shower doesn’t help. Water pounds my shoulders while images slam through me: Janie arching under me, firelight making her hair burn, her mouth opening on my name as she came apart, then her slick body under my hands in the shower, soap sliding over every curve.
I press my forearm to the tile, bowing my head. Control isn’t what I’ve lost, it’s clarity.
Do I want her body? Absolutely. God, yes.
But wanting her is a knot I can’t untangle. She’s Beckett’s mother. She's the one who has raised him up until now, when I didn’t even know he existed. The one wholooked me in the eye after she came back and kept that secret she'd harbored for five years and still didn't tell me.
My chest tightens. How the hell do I reconcile that? How do I imagine a life with her, when part of me still can’t forgive her?
And yet, I do. In flashes, I can see it too clearly: a family. A home. The three of us.
I dig my palm against the tile like pressure alone can drown out the truth.