By the time I catch up, Beckett’s already in his pajamas, wriggling to climb into bed without brushing his teeth.
“Uh-uh,” I warn. “Bathroom first.”
He groans but slides down. Warren crouches to meet him halfway. “I’ll race you,” he says, eyes glinting.
Beckett grins, bolts for the hall, and Warren chases after him. Their laughter bounces off the walls, loosening something tight in my chest.
A few minutes later, they return, victorious, toothpaste foam still clinging to Beckett’s chin. Warren wipes it away with his thumb before Beckett scrambles back onto the bed.
“Pick a book,” I tell him.
Beckett’s little hand hovers over the stack on his nightstand. He grabs the tattered copy ofWhere the Wild Things Areand thrusts it toward Warren. “This one. You always do the best monster voices.”
Warren takes the book carefully, like it’s a precious heirloom. He sits on the edge of the bed, and Beckett curls into his side without hesitation.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, pretending to be immune.
Warren clears his throat and begins, his voice slipping into a low, dramatic rumble. "The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind?—"
Beckett giggles, whispering the next line along with him. When Warren roars his best “terrible roar,” Beckett claps his hands over his ears, squealing with delight.
I bite my lip, fighting a smile, unshed tears forming in my eyes. It’s the most alive I’ve seen Beckett all week, the happiest.
By the last page, Warren’s voice softens. “‘And Max, the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.’”
Beckett snuggles closer, eyelids drooping. “That’s you,” he mumbles.
Warren pauses, throat working. “What’s me, buddy?”
“I wanna be where you are.”
The room stills. Warren presses his lips to Beckett’s hair, not trusting himself to speak.
I swallow hard. “Alright, B. Time for sleep.”
Beckett’s already half there, clutching Warren’s arm like a lifeline.
Warren gently eases free, tucking the blanket up to his chin. “Goodnight, pal.”
“‘Night,” Beckett whispers, eyes fluttering shut.
I flick the light, leaving the soft glow of the nightlight. For a moment, I stand there, watching both of them, my chest aching with something too complicated to understand fully.
When I finally step into the hall, Warren follows, quiet at my shoulder. Normally, this would be the point where he leaves. Instead, I hear my own voice before I realize what I’m saying.
“Do you want to talk?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I would love that.”
I step into the kitchen, flick on the small lamp by the sink. The warm glow settles over the room, making it intimate. Warren hovers near the table, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to sit.
I gesture to the chair across from me. “You can sit. I won't bite.”
He lowers himself slowly, hands clasped on the table like he’s in court, not my kitchen. His gaze flicks to me, then down again.
I clear my throat, my palms flat against the wood. “Nicole, my attorney, told me you withdrew the petition.”
His eyes close and open slowly. Then, he bites his bottom lip, but doesn't respond.