My heart stutters at the tenderness in his voice. I move forward, easing off Beckett's shoes while Warren steps back, giving me space. Together but separate, we orbit around our sleeping child.
I pull the bright green comforter up to Beckett's chin and press a kiss to his forehead. "Sweet dreams, baby."
Warren stands at the door, waiting. The moment stretches between us like a taut wire.
In the living room, he retrieves Beckett’s small backpack from the floor. Our fingers brush when he hands it tome, a jolt of electricity that neither of us acknowledges snapping between us.
I clutch the backpack against my chest, unsure what to say. Everything's too fragile to disturb. Restraint, I remind myself. Give him space.
Warren’s eyes shift past me to the stuffed bear on the coffee table. His mouth softens, not quite a smile, but close.
“Thank you again,” I manage.
He nods once, decisive. “I should go.”
But he hesitates. And in that pause, something close to hope washes through me. We created a glimpse today of what could be, the three of us not just existing, but happy.
Warren steps toward the door. No kiss goodnight. No promise of tomorrow. Just this suspended moment between what was and what might be.
I follow him to the threshold, backpack still clutched tight against me. He pauses once, looks back, then walks down the steps to his vehicle.
When the door clicks shut, I press my forehead to the cool wood, my breath uneven, and heart racing with dangerous possibility.
Hope claws its way back in, fragile and reckless, even when the odds of us ever being anything are almost nonexistent.
TWENTY-TWO
Warren
The Torres file sits on the corner of my desk, thicker than it was a week ago.
The counter-notice bought her time, and yesterday the judge made it official: as long as Melissa pays rent on time, she and her son can stay in their apartment for the rest of the nine-month lease.
The landlord had to clean up the mold, fix the leak, and replace the broken lock after housing inspectors stepped in.
It’s not perfect. Black mold doesn’t vanish overnight, and she’s already on the waitlist for a more affordable complex. But she has breathing room. Stability. A chance to get through winter without packing up her life in garbage bags.
That’s a win.
I keep replaying the way Janie crouched beside Melissa, steadying her with a hand on her arm. We didn’t just push back against a predatory lease clause. We gave that family time.
And for one dangerous moment, I believed Janie and Icould still be on the same side of something bigger than our mistakes.
I swirl the cold coffee in my mug, eyes skimming the stack of briefs without absorbing a word.
Last night drags me under again. Beckett’s weight in my arms as I carried him inside, the way his head tucked perfectly against my shoulder. Then I remember Janie bathed in the porch light, hesitant and quiet.
“Focus, Carter.” I straighten my tie for the third time this morning.
My phone beeps with another client message. I should answer. Instead, I scroll through the photos from the fair. Beckett on my shoulders, face sticky with cotton candy. Beckett mid-throw at the ring toss, tongue poking out in concentration.
None of Janie. Didn’t need any. I can see her without them, the wind tugging at her hair on the Ferris wheel, her eyes crinkling when Beckett won that ridiculous bear.
My fingers drum against the desktop. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was going to be in Beckett’s life, nothing more. Clean lines. Clear boundaries.
But Janie?—
I shut my eyes, and regret it instantly. Firelight across her face, that look that says I matter.