Chapter 21 - Alex
I stand on the doorstep, staring at Jonah's shocked face, trying to find words that won't make everything worse. Behind him, I can see his entire family frozen mid-dinner.
The four-hour drive here was a blur of highway. I spent the entirety of it trying to figure out what the hell I was going to say.
I'm sorry I disappeared. I'm sorry about Saskia. I'm sorry I'm such a fuck-up. I'm sorry you're pregnant with my child when I said I never wanted children.
None of it seemed right. None of it seemed enough.
Now, standing here on his doorstep with his family staring at me, I can smell the pot roast and hear the scrape of chairs as people shift to get a better view. Jonah's still in the doorway, one hand on the frame like he needs the support, eyes wide with something between hope and terror.
“May I come in?”
"Alex," he breathes, and then—
Click. Click. Flash.
"Alex! Is it true about you and Saskia?"
"Are you here to reconcile?"
"Jonah! Are you taking him back?"
More flashes. More shouting. I can see them now, pushing through the hedge at the property line.
"Get inside," Jonah's father appears suddenly, his hand firm on my shoulder, practically yanking me through the doorway. "Now."
The door slams behind us, but we can still hear them, their questions muffled but persistent through the walls. I've brought the circus to their door. Again.
The dining room goes silent as I enter. Six siblings, their spouses, a handful of kids, and Jonah's parents all staring at me like I'm a bomb that might go off. Someone's baby starts crying, breaking the spell.
"I'm sorry," I say to the room at large. "I didn't mean to interrupt dinner. Or bring..." I gesture vaguely toward the windows. "That."
Jonah's mother—recovers first, her ingrained politeness overriding everything else. "Would you... would you like to join us? There's plenty of food."
"I couldn't impose—"
"Sit," Jonah’s brother Robert says, and it's not quite friendly but not hostile either. More like resigned. He pulls out a chair next to him, across from Jonah. "Mom made enough to feed an army, as usual."
I sit carefully, hyperaware of every movement. The last time these people saw me, I was drunk. Now I'm stone-cold sober, exhausted, and trying not to stare at Jonah across the table.
He looks pale. Beautiful, but pale. There are shadows under his eyes. His hand rests on his stomach, unconsciously protective already.
This wasn’t what I planned. I wanted to talk to him. I didn’t plan to talk to him with over a dozen pairs of eyes watching me.
A plate appears in front of me. Pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans. Home cooking. Real food. My stomach, which has been in knots for hours, suddenly reminds me I haven't eaten since yesterday.
"Thank you," I say. Jonah’s Mom nods carefully.
The silence stretches. Even the kids are quiet, sensing the adult tension. I should say something. Apologize. Explain. Something.
Maybe I should just try make conversation.
"So," I try, "I just got back from a wellness retreat. Turns out I'm terrible at yoga."
They all stare at me and then Robert snorts. Actually snorts. “Seriously? You”
"I know, right? They made me eat kale. On purpose. Multiple times."
"The horror," Robert says dryly, but there's the tiniest smile tugging at his mouth.
"How long were you there?" he asks.
"Just over a week. Would have been less but they lock up your phone and car keys like it's rehab." I pause. "Which, to be fair, it kind of was. Sorry, Jonah. I didn’t get your messages. I came straight here the moment that I did."
The tension eases fractionally. Jonah doesn’t say a word to me but I can see him thinking. He’ll have thought I ignored his messages. Whatever happens with us, I’d never do that. I need him to know that.
Jonah’s Mom gives me a smile. “Come now. Eat. Eat.”
I obey. I eat, letting conversation slowly restart around me. The kids go back to their chatter. Someone passes the gravy. Normal sounds, normal family dinner, except for the occasional shout from outside.
"I really am sorry," I say during a lull, addressing Jonah’s parents. "About the photographers. They've been hounding you for weeks because of me."
"It's not your fault," his father says, though we all know it kind of is.
"I can have my security team—"
"We don't need your security," he says firmly. "We've managed."
After dinner, I stand to help clear plates, they look surprised but doesn't protest. I carry dishes to the kitchen, Robert beside me. From the looks that they give each other, I’m guessing this isn’t the alphas’ job.
Jonah’s oldest brother seems determined to stick to my side either way. His mother hovers, probably waiting to redo the dishes after the amateurs do them wrong.
She might have a point. I’ve never washed dishes in my life, but it can’t be that difficult?
Robert stacks them in the sink, then looks underneath for dish soap.
"You're different," he observes, running water in the sink.
"Sober," I correct. "Eighteen days."
"That why you look so bad?"
"Thanks. Really feeling the brotherly love here."
He huffs a laugh, passing me a dish towel. "Just saying. You look rough."
"Yeah, well. You guys may have a point with the whole teetotal thing."
We work in silence for a moment. Through the window, I can see photographers' silhouettes at the property line.
"I saw the photos," Robert says quietly. "Of you and that actress."
My hands still on the plate I'm drying. "It's not what it looks like—"
"It better not be." He turns to face me fully. "Hurt him again and I'll kill you. I mean that literally. I know where to hide bodies."
"Noted."
"I'm serious. He came home broken. You did that."
"I know." The words come out raw. "I know I did."
"So why are you here?"
I meet his eyes. "Because I'm an idiot and I fucked up and I want to fix it."
Robert studies me for a long moment. "Yeah," he says finally. "You really are an idiot."
But he claps me on the shoulder as he says it, almost friendly.
When we return to the dining room, Robert says. "Jonah, why don't you show Alex the garden?"
"We can't," Jonah says, glancing toward the front windows. "The photographers—"
"Use the back door," his father suggests. "They're all at the front."
We slip out through the back door into the deepening twilight. The garden is simple. There is a big yard with scattered toys, a large vegetable patch, some flowers, a weathered porch swing that creaks when Jonah sits on it. I settle beside him, careful to leave space between us.
"You got my message," he says quietly.
"I'm so sorry. I wasn't ignoring you. They took my phone at the retreat. I didn't see it until this morning."
"And you drove straight here?"
"Had to. You're..." I swallow hard. "You're pregnant."
His hand goes to his stomach again. "Yes."
"And the father's an asshole who doesn't deserve you."
"Yes."
We sit in silence, the swing creaking gently. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.
"About Saskia," I start.
"You don't have to—"
"Yes, I do. She just turned up. She was wasted, crying. She slept in my bed but I didn’t. I took the sofa. Nothing happened. I promise."
Jonah looks me in the eye, tension slowly leaving his shoulders. "You didn't..."
"No. I haven't touched anyone since you left. I haven't wanted to."
He looks at me then, really looks at me, and I see everything in his eyes—hurt, hope, fear, want.
"What now?" he asks.
"I don't know. I'm terrified about the baby. I still don't know if I can be a father. I definitely know I've been a terrible husband."
"I haven't been great either," he admits.
"We're quite a pair."
"The worst," Jonah agrees, but he's almost smiling.
"I want to try," I say. "I want to figure out who we are together when we're not fighting or fucking."
"Language," he says automatically, then blushes.
"Sorry. When we're not fighting or... making love?" I shift on the porch swing, wanting to move closer to him. I think it would be welcomed but I’m still not completely sure.
Jonah laughs, soft and surprised. "That sounds worse somehow."
"Right? There's no good word for it."
"We could go with 'intimate relations,'" he suggests, mock-serious.
"Very Jane Austen,” I say. “'Mr. Colborne and I engaged in intimate relations. It was most agreeable.'"
He's really laughing now. When he finally stops, he looks at me with those impossible eyes.
"I want to try too," he says. "How about I come back to the estate, but we take it slow. Separate bedrooms. Actual dates. Talking."
"I can do that. I want to do that."
"Okay then."
We sit there, not quite touching but close enough to feel each other's warmth. Inside, I can hear his family cleaning up, kids getting ready for bed. Normal life happening while we sit in the garden making promises we both hope we can keep.
"There's one problem," I say eventually. "My car is surrounded by photographers. I can't leave without causing another scene."
From the back door, Robert's voice carries. "I heard that. I’ll go out and pretend to talk to them. You two can sneak out in Mom's Honda."
"You'd do that?" I ask.
Robert appears in the doorway. "For Jonah. Not for you. Yet."
Twenty minutes later, Robert walks out into the front yard and starts engaging the paps in conversation. I wonder what he’s telling them. Part of me really, really hopes he’s feeding them sheer drivel that they’ll print and look like fools for.
We sneak into the garage and start the car. The escape feels like something from a bad spy movie, but it works.
"Where to?" Jonah asks once we're clear.
"There's a hotel about twenty minutes away.”
He stills.
"We don't have to do anything," I say. "Mostly, I just want to talk. Whatever you want."
He rolls his eyes but follows me inside when I park. The desk clerk recognizes me but stays professional, handing over key cards without comment.
The suite is good enough. It’s not the standard I’d usually order, but it has soft armchairs, a bed, a bathroom and, most importantly, privacy. There’s nothing else we need right now. Jonah stands by the window, arms wrapped around himself.
I run my hands through my hair. “I guess I should ask what you want.”
He turns to me, and there's something different in his expression. Determined. "I know what I want."
He crosses to me in three steps, hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me down for a kiss. This is fire and need and weeks of missing each other poured into the connection of our mouths.
"Jonah—"
"Shut up," he says against my lips. "We can talk later."
His hands are already working at my buttons, and mine find the hem of his shirt. We undress each other frantically. When he pushes me onto the bed and straddles me, I nearly lose my mind.
"I missed this," he says, rolling his hips in a way that makes me see stars. "Missed you."
"God, me too. So much."
This isn't like his heat. This is choice. Conscious, deliberate choice. He chooses to kiss me, to touch me, to take me inside his body with a soft cry.
We move together, slow and deep, eyes locked. No games this time, no power plays. Just us, stripped bare.
When we finally collapse together, spent and sweating, the city lights painting patterns on the ceiling, I feel something I haven't felt in years. Maybe ever. Hope.
"We'll have to face them eventually," I say, meaning the photographers, the gossip, the whole mess we've made. "But not tonight."
"Not tonight," he agrees, curling into my side like he belongs there.
Tomorrow we'll go back to the estate. We'll figure out how to date while married, how to prepare for a baby neither of us expected, how to bridge the gulf between our worlds.
But tonight, we just hold each other and pretend the morning might never come.