I pad naked to the kitchen, grateful for the moment to steady my racing thoughts. The domesticity of navigating someone else's home at night strikes me. Here I am, opening cupboards in search of a glass, running the tapuntil the water runs cool. For a man who's spent his life careful about attachments, this feeling of belonging in Janie's space is both exhilarating and terrifying.
When I return to the bedroom, something has changed. Janie sits propped against the pillows, the sheet pulled up to cover herself. Her eyes are fixed on some distant point, her fingers plucking nervously at the fabric.
"Here you go." I hand her the water glass.
She takes it without meeting my eyes. "Thanks."
The air in the room has shifted from warm intimacy to something cooler, more uncertain. I grab my boxers and settle on the edge of the bed, not crowding her, but close enough to touch.
"You don't need to look so guilty." I attempt a smile. "I'm not filing a motion about what we just did."
The joke falls flat. No answering smile curves her lips, no relief softens her features. If anything, she grows more tense, her finger tips whitening around the glass.
My stomach tightens. "Hey." I reach for her free hand, relieved when she doesn't pull away. "Whatever you're thinking, just say it. We've wasted enough time not talking."
She sets the glass down with exaggerated care, like she’s trying not to make a sound. My chest tightens. Maybe she’s thinking what I’ve been afraid of all along — that a single mom doesn’t get to have this, doesn’t get to want me in her bed without it costing her.
“Is this about Beckett?”
Her eyes flick to mine, then away. But I can see a slight nod to the affirmative.
"I'm sorry if I pushed too far."
I'm trying to offer understanding, to show that whatever we need to do, I can handle it. Hell, I know nothing about Beckett's father. Surely she knows after all theseyears that I'm not the kind of man who runs from complexity or pain.
The silence stretches between us, taut as a wire. Something's wrong. Very wrong.
I watch her swallow hard, her chest rising and falling too quickly. When she finally looks at me fully, her eyes are swimming with tears, her lips pressed into a trembling line.
"Janie?" Worry courses through me. "What is it?"
Her hands begin to shake, water spilling over the rim of the glass she's picked up again. It's not relief that contorts her features, but sheer panic.
"Warren, I—" Her voice breaks. A tear spills down her cheek. "There's something I need to tell you."
My whole body tenses. The world narrows to this moment, to her trembling hands and tear-streaked face.
"Okay. Tell me. I'm here."
"I'm sorry." Her words come in broken puffs. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to—I tried to?—"
"Janie, you're scaring me." I take her hands in mine, steadying them. "Whatever it is, just say it."
She pulls in a ragged breath. Her eyes lock with mine, glistening with tears and something deeper. My mind is racing, trying to think of whatever it is that has her so scared to tell me.
"What secret, Janie? What are you talking about?"
She swallows hard. Her lips part, and in a whisper that somehow fills the entire room, she says: "Beckett."
"What about Beckett?"
"You're his father, Warren."
The words hit like a physical blow. My body goes rigid, and my lungs seize mid-breath. The room spins, tilts, rights itself in sickening lurches.
"What did you say?" My voice doesn't sound like my own.
"Beckett is your son." Each word falls between us like a stone.