Chapter 3 Wyatt #2
The study door is closed but not locked. Silas isn't hiding, exactly. He just needs to be alone with his grief sometimes, even if the way he does it is slowly killing him.
I'm unsurprised to see him poring over pictures and files when I push the door open slightly.
He's got photographs spread across the desk, some face-up and some face-down.
Crime scene photos, probably, or evidence from whatever case he's working.
There are files stacked in neat piles, color-coded tabs sticking out, Silas working by the glow of his desk lamp.
Working from home made sense at first. It would give him more time with the kids while we were all navigating Evie’s loss. But it's become a crutch. An escape. A way to avoid dealing with the empty space in our bed and our hearts and our lives.
God, it hurts so goddamn much, even a year later. Some days it feels like it happened yesterday. Other days it feels like Evie's been gone forever, like I can barely remember what her laugh sounded like or the way she'd scrunch her nose when she was thinking hard about something.
Fuck. Focus, Wyatt.
I knock lightly on the doorframe, not wanting to startle him. "Earth to Silas."
He looks up, and for just a second, I see the exhaustion written plainly across his face. The dark circles under his eyes, the way his glasses sit crooked on his nose like he's been rubbing at his face. Then he manages a small smile.
"Just a few more minutes," he says, already looking back down at the file in front of him.
I shake my head and push inside the study properly, crossing the small space in a few strides. Before he can protest, I grab the arms of his rolling chair and drag it backward, away from the desk.
"Wyatt—" he starts, but I'm already moving.
I slide into his lap, settling my weight across his thighs and framing his face with my hands.
His skin is warm beneath my palms, the light scratch of his beard rough against my fingers.
I lean in and kiss the bridge of his nose, right where his glasses rest, then pull back just enough to look him in the eyes.
"Alpha," I say softly, my thumbs stroking along his cheekbones. "It's time to come out of your little work cave and join society. All of this will still be here tomorrow morning."
Silas opens his mouth to argue, the excuses already forming. "But—"
I shake my head, cutting him off before he can get started. Tears gather in my eyes, blurring my vision as I let him see the truth I usually try to hide. "I hate watching you curl into yourself, babe. I hate it so fucking much."
The words come out rougher than I intended, cracking around the edges with emotion I can't quite contain.
It feels like there's a hand around my throat, squeezing tighter every time I find Silas holed up in here, every time he chooses work over dinner with us, every time he misses story time because he's lost in a case file.
Silas stares at me for a long moment, the careful mask he wears starting to crack. His dark brown eyes get glassy, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he fights for control.
Then his bottom lip starts to tremble, and I know I've broken through.
"But if I'm in here I can pretend she's still out there," he whispers, his voice breaking on the words.
"With our babies. Maybe making dinner or folding laundry or singing off-key in the shower.
" His hands come up to grip my wrists where I'm still holding his face, not pulling me away but holding on like I'm the only thing keeping him anchored.
"We had everything, Wyatt. Everything! A perfect Omega, beautiful kids, a pack that worked.
And one moment stole it all from us. One drunk driver who ran a red light, and everything we built just.. . gone."
The tears spill over, tracking down his cheeks and dampening my fingers. My own vision blurs, hot tears sliding down my face as I pull Silas' head into my chest, wrapping my arms around him as tightly as I can.
We cry together, and it feels like something we should have done months ago. Maybe we have. Maybe we've had this exact breakdown a dozen times and it never gets easier and never feels like enough.
This is why trying to find another Omega never worked. We're too hurt, too broken, too raw. We can barely take care of ourselves and our kids. How could we take care of someone else? How could we ask someone to step into Evie's place, to fill a hole that can never really be filled?
And even when we'd hired nannies or maids, they would always try to get closer to us.
They'd see three single Alphas with cute kids and a nice house and assume we were looking for more than just help with the housework.
They'd make moves, drop hints, and try to position themselves as the solution to all our problems.
But they never actually wanted the kids. That was always the problem. They wanted the fantasy of being with a pack, but not the reality of raising grieving children who had tantrums and nightmares and needed constant attention and reassurance.
It never worked out well. Arguments would happen. Lines would be crossed. We'd have to let them go, and the cycle would start all over again.
I press my face into Silas' hair, breathing in his scent, a mixture of fresh rain and earth, a familiar, comforting warmth. My Alpha. My partner. My person.
"Come on," I murmur against his temple. "You can help me order from the diner and then make sure Hunter eats something."
Silas pulls back slightly, swiping at his face with the back of his hand. "He's not eating again?"
I nod, shifting my weight to slide off his lap. My legs have gone a little numb from the position, and I have to grab the edge of the desk to steady myself. "You know how he gets. Too busy, too focused, and too stubborn to admit he needs to take care of himself."
"Pot, meet kettle," Silas says, but there's affection in his voice. He stands up, his chair rolling backward and hitting the wall with a soft thud. He's taller than me by a couple inches, and I have to tilt my head slightly to maintain eye contact.
I hold my hand out to him, palm up, an invitation and a lifeline all at once.
Silas looks at my hand for a moment, then places his in mine. Before I can step away, Silas uses our joined hands to pull me back, right into his space. His free hand comes up to cup the back of my neck, and then he kisses me, taking what he needs.
I kiss him back, letting myself sink into the feeling of his lips on mine, his body solid against mine. It's been too long since we've really kissed or done much of anything since we lost Evie, too caught up in ourselves to realize that part of our brokenness is because of ourselves.
When we finally pull apart, I rest my forehead against his. "We're going to be okay," I whisper, needing to believe it as much as I need him to hear it. "Maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon. We're going to figure out how to live again. How to be happy again."