Chapter 12 Warren
TWELVE
Warren
I lie back against the pillows, my heartbeat finally slowing from gallop to canter. Janie's head rests against my chest, her hair spilling across my skin like dark water. The air conditioner hums quietly, cooling our damp skin.
I’d fought it for so long I almost believed I could. But it took nothing, a tile of her lip, her touch, for me to fold. For me to remember, I never stopped wanting her.
My fingers drift through her hair, separating the silky strands. When I press my lips to her temple, she makes a small sound that lodges somewhere beneath my ribs.
"I never stopped thinking about you." The words tumble out, quiet in the dim light. "Not once since that night. Cutting you off seemed necessary then, but it never killed what I felt."
I hadn't planned to say it, hadn't planned any of this. But the truth pulses between us, too powerful to contain. Now that I've gotten out of my own way, I want to shout it to everyone.
Janie shifts against me, her chin tilting up. Her eyes catch what little light filters through the blinds.
"I waited for you to answer my texts." Her palm spreads flat against my chest. "I checked my phone a hundred times a day. Then I saw you blocked my number..."
"I thought it was the right thing to do." My throat tightens. "For your family. For Blake. For you."
"Has that changed?"
My hand cups her face, thumb tracing her lower lip. "I think it has. I don't know how to handle it, but this is bigger than me. My feelings for you aren't surface."
She rises up slightly, her eyes searching mine. "I never stopped wanting you either, Warren. Even when I hated you for disappearing."
Not I love you, but something just as dangerous. Just as binding.
"I'm sorry." I mean it more than any apology I've ever given. "I think your family will understand now. We’re not kids anymore. You’re not just starting your life—you’ve built one. And I want to be part of it."
"Do you think we can do this?" She echoes my question back to me, her voice steady despite the vulnerability in her eyes.
"I do." I pull her closer, inhaling the scent of her skin. "I want us to talk about it as adults and figure out how to do this. Together."
Janie relaxes against me, her leg sliding between mine, her arm draped across my stomach. The casual intimacy of it hits harder than the sex, this easy claiming of space.
"Tell me something I don't know about you," she murmurs.
I laugh softly. "After all these years? You know me better than almost anyone."
"We haven't spoken in five years. I bet there are a few things I could learn."
My fingers trace lazy patterns on her shoulder. "I learned to enjoy cooking, trying recipes. Not just survival cooking. Actual recipes. And I like it."
"Really?" She tilts her head, surprise brightening her voice. "I never would have pegged you as a chef."
"My specialty is risotto." I press another kiss to her forehead. "And you? What don't I know?"
"Something you don't know about me. Hmm." Janie taps her chin, her smile playful in the dim light. "When I can't sleep, reruns of Forensic Files are my go-to. I know, it sounds creepy. But something about that guy's voice that narrates it puts me right to sleep."
"I have no idea what show you're talking about, but based on your caveat, I have a feeling it is at odds with a peaceful sleep." I prop myself up on one elbow.
"Murder, blood, and luminol. That's all you need to know. Oh, and a soothing narrator that will lull you to sleep as he tells you about the poor woman who was maimed and tortured."
The lamp on her nightstand casts a honey-gold glow across her skin. With the sheets tangled around our legs and her hair spread across the pillow, she looks like something from a dream I never allowed myself to have.
"That sounds unhinged. I will make a note to stay away from that. Not to change the subject, but did you notice Caleb's bow tie at the gala? The thing was so loud I was worried he was causing a scene."
Janie laughs, and it vibrates through me, hitting nerves I didn't even know I had. In the best way."I can't decide if I should be impressed by the variety of bow ties he has, or worried it's a sign of a bigger issue."
We both crack up, shoulders brushing as the laughter lingers. Turns out we’ve both been cataloging Caleb’s fashion choices, neither daring to admit it until now.
This is what it’s always been like with her. Our banter that comes so easily, and jokes that land just right. My chest loosens, my pulse jumping harder than it has in I don't know how long from something as simple as making her laugh.
There's no panic or shame. Just her. Just us.
The conversation slides seamlessly from gossip to vaccine suppliers, staffing models for the outreach sites. We overlap, finish each other’s thoughts, ideas locking into place like puzzle pieces, like we've been doing this forever.
Because we have, just not in this capacity.
I lean back against the headboard, watching her gesticulate as she explains her vision for community outreach. For a dangerous second, I imagine this scene repeated night after night—strategy sessions in bed, shared showers, morning coffee.
It would be so easy to want this forever.
The thought hits me with unexpected force. I've spent my career creating legal frameworks for other people's families while carefully avoiding any permanent attachments of my own.
But watching Janie's lips curve into a smile as she outlines her plans for networks for single parents, I realize I want this. I want her. I want the partnership that extends beyond board meetings and bedsheets.
She breaks off mid-sentence, clearing her throat. Her voice comes out scratchy.
"Sorry, I'm a little—" She clears her throat again.
"Let me grab you some water." I swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
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 tap until 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 these years 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.
I bolt upright, the sheet tangling around my legs as I stumble from the bed. My hands rake through my hair, gripping hard enough to hurt.
"My son?" The words taste foreign on my tongue. "How long have you known?"
"Since Chicago. I found out I was pregnant two months after I left."
"And you didn't think to tell me?" My voice rises. "For five years, Janie? Five fucking years?"
"I tried!" Her words rush out. "I called you. I texted you. Over and over. But you blocked my number, Warren. You cut me off completely."
I pace across the room, unable to stand still as memories realign themselves. The boy's dark hair. The way he furrows his brow when concentrating. My son.
My son.
"That's a fucking copout. I wasn't some goddamned stranger. You knew how to reach me if you needed to tell me something important. I'd say this falls in that category."
"You're right. I'm sorry."
"Who else knows?" I whirl to face her. "Does Blake know? Your parents?"
"No one except Gemma. I never told anyone else who his father was."
"So you let me walk back into your life, into his life, without saying a word?" My chest burns with each breath. "You sat across from me in meetings. You watched me with him at your parents' house. All while knowing—"
"I was afraid!" She reaches for me, but I step back. "I was afraid of losing my job, my family. I was afraid you'd hate me, or worse—that you wouldn't want him."
Her desperation only fuels the fire burning through me. Five years of his life. His birth. First steps. First words. Everything. Stolen.
"I have a son." The words come out hollow, stunned. "I have a son, and you kept him from me."
"We can tell my parents together." Janie's voice cracks as she reaches for her robe, her fingers fumbling with the belt. "I'll call Blake right now. We can—"
"Don't." The word slashes through the room. "You fucking kept this secret from everyone for five goddamned years. You won't tell a soul until I tell you to."
My hands shake as I yank my pants on, the contradiction tearing me apart. I'm furious she kept this from me, yet I'm demanding she continue keeping it a secret. The rage has nowhere to go but out.
"Warren, please—" She touches my arm, her fingers burning like brands.
I jerk away. "Five years, Janie. Five years I can never get back. How could you?"
The walls close in as I button my shirt, missing holes as my hands shake uncontrollably. My breath comes in short bursts, my vision narrowing to a tunnel. I need air. I need space. I need to not be in this room with her, and the weight of what she's done.
"Let me explain—"
"Explain? There's nothing to explain." My voice sounds foreign, stripped and raw. "You made your choice. You decided I didn't deserve to know my own son."
Her tears flow freely now, but they don't move me. Not when I'm drowning in the magnitude of what's been stolen.
"I need to think about this." The promise comes automatically, the family lawyer in me knowing what must happen next. "We'll figure out a custody arrangement."
I drive without direction, the streets a blur through the sting in my eyes. I tell myself to keep going, to get as far from her as I can.
But when I finally stop, I’m right back where I started. Parked in front of her house.
Her house. Their house.
A light glows faintly through the curtains. Somewhere inside, my son sleeps. My son. The words are foreign, jagged in my chest. "My" and "son" don't belong in my mouth.
He’s just feet from where I sit, and yet I’ve never been further from him.
His entire life of firsts are gone. Rocking him to sleep. Teaching him to ride a bike. Bandaging scraped knees. All of it, stolen by a secret I never saw coming.
I slam my hand against the steering wheel, the sound cracking through the night, but it doesn’t release the pressure building in my chest.
My father disowned me for telling the truth. And now I’ve been cut out of my own son’s life because the truth was hidden from me. Two different lies. Same result. Families torn apart.
My family.
My chest heaves, shame colliding with fury. I press my palms to my eyes, but Beckett’s face burns behind my lids, overlaid with my own childhood photos.
How the hell do I come back from this?
I sit in the dark, gutted, the weight of his existence pressing down on me. I can’t walk away. I won’t walk away.
But every path forward is more betrayal waiting to happen, and I’ll be damned if I let it happen again.