Chapter 25 Janie #2
"I want to." Something shifts between us. His eyes hold mine. Steady. Certain. Something flickers there, and for a heartbeat, I forget I need to get out of here. "We'll be fine. Right, Beck?"
Beckett's face brightens instantly, his disappointment vanishing. "Can we make hot chocolate with the little marshmallows?"
"Absolutely." Warren's smile is easy, natural. "And maybe start on those decorations your mom's been promising."
The sight of them together, so comfortable, so right, steals my breath. Warren's hand rests casually on Beckett's shoulder, and they mirror each other's posture without realizing it.
"Thank you," I manage, gathering my purse and keys, heart hammering with gratitude and something deeper I'm not ready to name.
I crouch down, smoothing Beckett's hair back. “Becks, I’ve got to go to the hospital for a little while. Warren’s going to hang here with you, okay?”
Beckett beams. “Can we put the lights up when you get back?”
“Absolutely.” I kiss his forehead, then straighten to find Warren watching me again, unreadable.
“Don’t let them bulldoze you,” he says quietly.
I give him a quick, humorless smile. “That’s the plan.”
And then I’m out the door, already shifting into hospital mode, my heart pounding with the weight of what’s waiting at CHG.
Hours later, I push open my front door, body sagging with exhaustion. The crisis took three meetings, countless apologies, pleading with two doctors to come in on their holiday weekend, and a complete reworking of the pediatric staffing schedule.
My shoes pinch, my head throbs, and all I want is silence and darkness.
What I find instead is my kitchen transformed into a winter wonderland workshop.
Paper snowflakes hang from every cabinet handle. Bits of white confetti litter the floor like actual snow. Warren stands at the counter, sleeves pushed up, a streak of glue across one cheek. Beckett perches on a stool, face smeared with chocolate, carefully cutting another snowflake.
"Mommy!" He jumps down, running toward me. "We made decorations! And hot chocolate! And Warren showed me how to fold the paper so the snowflakes come out fancy!"
Warren shrugs, something almost shy in his expression. "We might have gotten carried away."
"Tomorrow," Beckett announces, bouncing on his toes, "we're all going to get Christmas trees. One for our house and one for Warren's."
The declaration steals my breath. It's a ritual, a tradition, the beginning of something that could bind us together. A family.
Later, after hanging the snowflakes, the kitchen cleanup is almost as fun as the decorating. Warren tosses wadded paper towels into the trash with perfect aim while Beckett giggles and attempts the same with much messier results.
"Again!" Beckett squeals when Warren pretends to dunk him like a basketball. I guess now that soccer is over, we are moving on to another sport.
"First dinner, then maybe one more game," I say, pulling some spices from the pantry.
Warren catches my eye across the counter. "Need help?"
"You've already done enough today," I answer, but secretly love that he asked.
Warren insisted on his famous risotto and a baked chicken. Beckett chatters about snowflakes between bites, sauce smeared across his chin.
"Did you know no two snowflakes are the same?" Warren asks, leaning toward Beckett conspiratorially. "Just like people."
"Even twins?" Beckett's eyes widen.
"Even twins."
Our laughter flows easily, filling my kitchen. I catch myself staring at Warren, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, how he automatically wipes Beckett's face without being asked.
This is dangerously right. The three of us, Warren seamlessly stepping in when work calls, Beckett safe and happy.
By seven, Beckett's energy finally crashes. His head droops mid-sentence about tomorrow's tree adventure.
"Bedtime, buddy." I scoop him up, his little body heavy with exhaustion.
"Warren, too," he mumbles against my shoulder. "Story."
Warren follows us upstairs without hesitation. He sits on the edge of Beckett's bed while I pull superhero pajamas over my son's head. Together we listen to Beckett's increasingly incoherent requests for "just one more" story until his breathing deepens into sleep.
We tiptoe out, our fingers brushing as I pull the door nearly closed.
Downstairs, the quiet wraps around us like a blanket. Warren pours us each a glass of wine. We drift to the couch, not speaking but not needing to. His arm slides around my shoulders as if it belongs there. My head tips against him, fitting perfectly in the hollow beneath his collarbone.
"Thank you for today," I whisper, afraid to break the spell.
"Don't thank me for being with my son." His voice rumbles against my ear.
My chest tightens. Our son.
When he kisses me, it's different from last night. This time is slower, softer, a conversation rather than a confession. My hands find his face, holding him there as something deep inside me unravels and rebuilds.
I pull back slightly, palm resting over his heart. Its steady rhythm grounds me even as everything else spins. For one perfect moment, I can see it all: weekend breakfasts, summer vacations, falling asleep together every night, waking up every morning to this man who loves our son.
But reality crashes back.
"We have to be careful." My voice tightens. "We need to figure this out."
Warren nods, understanding in his eyes. He presses one final kiss to my hair, lingering. "I should head home. Change. Shower. Reset. I know you're tired, too."
At the door, his hand catches mine. "Tomorrow? Tree shopping?"
I force a smile. "Yes."
He studies me a moment longer, like he's memorizing something, then leaves.
From the window, I watch his taillights fade down the street. My chest is impossibly full yet twisted with dread.
Secrets never stay buried. And when this one erupts, I don't know if even love will be enough to hold us together.