Silas wraps his arms around Wyatt from behind, resting his chin on top of Wyatt's head. It's a gesture of comfort and solidarity, and I watch them hold each other for a moment, these two Alphas who are trying so hard to keep everything together.
"We're a right mess, aren't we?" Silas says softly, dark humor in his voice.
Wyatt huffs out something that might be a laugh. "Understatement of the year."
Then Silas pulls back slightly, looking at Wyatt with curiosity and something that might be awe. "Also, how the fuck did she get Hunter to eat? I've been trying for months, and he just brushes me off."
Both of them turn to look at me, and I shift uncomfortably beneath their scrutiny. "She looked at me with those pitiful eyes and I thought I was going to break her heart if I didn't eat. What was I supposed to do, let her think she'd failed somehow?"
Wyatt snorts. "So all we needed this whole time was sad Omega eyes and you'd fall in line? Good to know."
I flip him off, but there's no heat in it. He's not wrong, exactly. There was something about the way Amelia asked that had cut through all my defenses. I couldn't bear to add to her burdens by refusing the meal she'd made.
Wyatt's expression shifts then, becoming more thoughtful. "I noticed something the first day she came over. Well, the first few minutes before she ran. She doesn't have a scent. Or she didn't today, at least. That first morning, for those few minutes, her scent was there. Rose and something... else? But then she left too fast, and today there was nothing."
Silas processes this information, working through the implications. "She must be wearing blockers or something. Heavy-duty ones if they're masking her scent completely."
If Vincent was obsessive and controlling like Dylan mentioned, he probably used her Omega nature against her. Of course she'd want to hide that part of herself now.
"I'd wear those too if I'd come from a situation like that," I say quietly. Whether Amelia thinks Vincent can track her by herscent or she’s just terrified of anyone catching a whiff, I’m not sure.
Wyatt nods slowly, standing up and stretching. "Well, I'm on cleanup duty, I guess. Can't leave the kitchen like this."
He starts gathering up the remaining dishes from the table, stacking them carefully by the sink. The domesticity of the action, the normalcy of cleaning up after dinner, feels surreal after everything that just happened.
I push off from the counter where I've been leaning. "I'll go read the kids their bedtime story. They're probably still wound up from earlier, and Riley's going to have questions I'm not sure how to answer."
Silas watches us both, and I see the moment he's about to excuse himself and disappear into work because that's how he copes. But Wyatt and I both look at him, and something in our expressions must communicate what we're thinking because he stops.
He lets out a long, heavy sigh. "I'll help with the kitchen."
The surrender in his voice makes it clear this isn't what he wants to do, but he's doing it anyway. Baby steps toward being more present, more engaged with us instead of hiding in his work.
Wyatt's whole face softens as he steps forward to kiss Silas' cheek, Silas melting a little beneath the attention. "Baby steps," Wyatt murmurs against his skin. "We got this."
Amelia
Isaac is sprawled across my lap like a boneless cat, one hand shoved into a bag of goldfish crackers while his eyes track the bright colors dancing across the TV screen. Riley is on the floor in front of the couch, propped up on her elbows with her chin in her hands, completely absorbed in whatever animated adventure is unfolding. The living room smells like the grilled cheese sandwiches we demolished for lunch, mixed with the faint scent of the lavender cleaner I used on the kitchen counters this morning.
I've been cleaning since seven this morning when I arrived, working through the house room by room with a kind of manic energy I couldn't quite explain. Scrubbing counters that were already mostly clean, organizing cabinets that didn't really need it, folding and refolding the blankets in the living room until every edge was perfect. My hands needed to be busy, my mind needed the distraction, and taking care of their house felt like the least I could do after the disaster that was dinner two nights ago.
I still can't think about it without my face burning with shame. Dropping to the floor like that, hiding under the table while everyone watched, completely falling apart over a broken glass. Wyatt had texted me that night to make sure I was okay, and then again the next morning to confirm I was still coming to work. I'd apologized in the message, a long rambling explanation that he'd cut off with a simple reply:You have nothing to apologize for. See you tomorrow.
But I'd apologized anyway when I showed up yesterday morning. And then again this morning when I walked through the door at six forty-five, fifteen minutes early because I couldn't stand the thought of being even a second late. Wyatt had laughed, actually laughed, before pulling me into a quick hug that made my heart stutter in my chest.
"Amelia, seriously. It's fine. We're fine. You're fine. Stop apologizing or I'm going to start charging you a quarter every time you say sorry."
I'd managed to keep my apologies to myself after that, though the urge to say it again kept bubbling up throughout the morning. Instead, I channeled all that anxious energy into making their house shine, scrubbing away my embarrassment one surface at a time.
Around eleven, Riley had found me reorganizing the pantry, standing on a step stool to reach the top shelves. She'd plantedherself in the doorway with her hands on her hips, looking so much like a tiny disapproving adult that I'd nearly laughed.
"Miss Amelia, you're working too hard," she'd announced with the kind of authority that only a six-year-old can pull off. "Dad says you need to take a break and come watch cartoons with us. Isaac is getting sad because you keep saying you're busy."
The idea of Isaac being sad because I wasn't sitting with him had been enough to make me abandon my color-coded reorganization system immediately. I'd followed Riley into the living room to find Isaac on the couch with his bottom lip stuck out in the most devastating pout I'd ever seen.
"You don't want to sit with me?" he'd asked, his hazel-green eyes huge and wounded.
My heart had cracked right down the middle. "Of course I want to sit with you, sweetheart. Come here."
