Page 75 of Omega’s Forward

“Read it.”

I read it. Then I read it again, slower, because I don’t believe it the first time.

It’s a relinquishment, drawn up by a firm whose letterhead I recognize, dated yesterday. It’s not yet signed or witnessed. In four paragraphs of clean American legal English, Brody Callahan surrenders every custodial priority his country’s law hands an alpha.

All of it. Unconditional.

“Why didn’t you give this to me yesterday?”

“I didn’t have it yesterday. I called a lawyer last night while you were sleeping and he drew it up for me.” He shrugs. “You snore by the way.”

I ignore the snoring comment.

“This isn’t enforceable here. England doesn’t recognize alpha priority in the first place.”

“I know. It’s not for here.” He nods at the paper. “It’s for the day you decide — if you ever decide — to bring him back to the U.S. I’m not having you weigh that decision against what I could take off you. Now you don’t have to. I just need to get it signed and witnessed properly.”

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“Yeah, I did. You were never going to take this seriously otherwise.”

I laugh. It surprises us both. Then I cross the kitchen and kiss him once with my hand flat on his chest. His heart is going hard under it. “Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.

He takes my face in both hands and kisses me back, slow.

And that’s all it takes. He lifts me onto the counter anyway and steps in between my knees. For a while the only sounds in the flat are the river traffic and us.

He’s unhurried this time, maddening about it, his mouth at my throat until I’m the one issuing instructions, and when I finally haul him closer by the waistband he laughs into my shoulder, warm and pleased with himself. He stops laughing very shortly after that.

We don’t make it out of the kitchen for some time.

*

Two weeks later

The car drops us at the far end of the taxi rank at Heathrow. Brody wrestles the cheap black case out of the trunk himself before the driver can reach it.

“Saturday’s at home,” he says. “Then we fly out west for four. I’ll call you from wherever that is. The time zones are going to be brutal.”

“I know the schedule, Callahan. I own the team.”

“Yeah.” The grin arrives. “Still not used to that being a good thing.”

We stand there. A trolley clatters past. He looks at the doors, then at me, and I watch him decide not to make a speech.

“Watch the games,” he says. “I’ll look up.”

I kiss him. In the middle of departures, on my toes, his hand coming up to cradle the back of my skull. Sooner or later, everyone is going to find out about us. I find I don’t care.

“Go,” I say, against his mouth. “Before I’m ridiculous.”

“Too late.” But he goes — three steps, back for one more kiss, then properly.

The flat is quiet when I let myself back in.

I climb the six flights slower than I would ever admit to him, and on the fourth landing I stop, one hand on the rail, and swear at him quietly, because he’s right about the stairs.

Inside, the whole place smells of woodsmoke. The old me would have had every window open before my coat was off. I hang the coat up and leave the windows shut.