I watched as he poured himself a new cup. He stood there for a long time, staring at it, then at the window, then at the empty yard. The distance between the two of us was maybe fifty feet, but it could have been measured in years. In universes.
He didn’t see the bassinet. Not yet.
The light in the hallway flicked on next. Someone else, small and quick—probably Jojo, the man Hooper had told me about, the omega who’d followed Rawley to the ends of the earth, and who now made a point of adopting every stray animal, human or otherwise, that limped into the ranch’s orbit.
I found myself hoping it would be Jojo who found Emilio. Jojo would know immediately what to do, and maybe wouldn’t look too closely at the rest of the mess. Or maybe he would, but he’d do it with mercy. I wanted mercy for Emilio, if not for myself.
The waiting expanded. The cold dug in deeper. I pressed my hands together so hard I heard the knuckles pop.
I let my thoughts go fuzzy, slipping back to the night in Billings, the night that had wrecked my ability to pretend. Hooper had found me at the cheap hotel bar, drinking the kind of rail whiskey that erases your last name and all your regrets. He’d smiled, bought me a better drink, and then followed me upstairs with the casual confidence of someone who expected the universe to cooperate.
He had been funny, which is not something I say about men. He’d talked about engines and guitars and the time he’d triedto rescue a coyote pup and ended up in the ER with his shirt in ribbons. He’d made me laugh. A real laugh, not the nervous kind.
We hadn’t even bothered with undressing all the way. He’d bitten the inside of my knee, left a constellation of bruises along my hip. His hands were huge and precise, careful where they needed to be and rough where I wanted them. He’d made me feel safe, but not in the way of a locked door—in the way of a light on in the kitchen, the kind you leave on for someone you’re hoping will find their way home.
The morning after, I’d left before sunrise. Left because I knew I was already too far gone, and if I gave it another minute, I’d never leave. Not ever. He’d woken, maybe, found my thank-you scrawled on the pad from the nightstand. Or maybe he hadn’t cared.
Men like Hooper did not pine for half-broken, second-string omegas who cried in the shower and had never managed to fix a single thing about themselves.
Except now he had a new thing to fix, and this one had my eyes and, God help him, maybe my luck.
The light in the kitchen shut off. The world contracted to just the porch, the carrier, the last trembling hope that someone would open the door and look.
I counted to a hundred, then a hundred more.
I heard the baby this time—not loud, but a soft, high, questioning note, like he’d woken and found the universe missing the part he needed most. I had to bite down again, this time hard enough to make my eyes water. My body wanted to run to him, to say just kidding, I’m right here, you are not abandoned, not alone.
But I didn’t move.
The porch door opened.
Hooper stepped out into the light, carrying nothing but the mug. He paused, looked left, looked right. Even from this far I could see the way his body changed as he spotted the carrier—a jolt, a suspicion, and then a measured, practiced calm. He put the mug down on the steps and crouched, examining the bassinet. For a second, he didn’t move.
Then he reached out, touched the handle, and lifted.
He did not make a show of checking for bombs, for traps. He just lifted the carrier, cradling it in one arm, Emilio in the other, and carried them both back inside like it was a football or a foundling or a bomb anyway, something he’d always known would end up in his hands.
The porch door clicked shut.
That was all.
Done.
I leaned my head against the tree. The bark scraped my cheek and the cold burned through my shirt, but it anchored me. I let my knees go, and I sank down slow, just a careful collapse. I didn’t let myself cry. I hadn’t earned the right yet.
Somewhere inside, Hooper would be opening the carrier, unwrapping the blankets, reading the note. There would be questions. There would be anger, or maybe disbelief. Maybe, if the universe was feeling especially cruel, there would be relief.
I hoped he would see the part about the singing. I hoped he would try.
The world didn’t end. The wind didn’t change. But a sound somewhere deep in my chest unclenched, a fist finally letting go.
I watched the porch for another long minute, waiting for some kind of sign. There was none. No one came after me.
I let myself think, for a second, that maybe in another timeline I would have been inside that house, holding the baby instead of running from him.
But not this one.
I waited until I couldn’t hear anything but my own breathing—ragged and white in the dark, ugly as a broken windshield. The light in the hallway flickered as Hooper’s body passed by, then steadied.
