"I can't," I whisper, and I'm not even sure what I'm saying I can't do. Can't feel this. Can't want this. Can't let myself believe this might be real.
"Can't what?" His hand on my hip tightens slightly, thumb stroking small circles through the fabric of my shirt. "Can't let yourself feel something for us? Can't admit that maybe you want this as much as we do?"
The "we" catches me off guard. Not just Wyatt.We. All of them.
"I don't want to overstep," I manage, setting the knife down on the cutting board before I accidentally hurt someone. My hands are shaking. "I don't want to assume things or push where I'm not wanted or—"
"Amelia." He cups my face in his hands, making me look at him. "You're not overstepping. You're not pushing. The reason the other women didn't work out, the reason we had to let themgo, is because theydidoverstep. They stepped in where they weren't wanted. They took things that weren't theirs to take."
My breath catches in my throat. "And I'm not doing that?"
"No." The word is absolute, leaving no room for doubt. "The difference is wewantyou here. Not just as someone to watch the kids or clean the house or make dinner. We wantyou."
The words settle over me like a physical weight, pressing down on my chest until I can barely breathe. I want to believe him so badly it physically hurts. Want to let myself lean into this feeling, this want, this possibility of something good.
But Vincent's voice whispers in the back of my mind, reminding me that he wanted me too in the beginning. That wanting isn't the same as cherishing, that desire can twist into control so gradually you don't notice until you're already trapped.
Wyatt must see something of that fear in my face because his expression softens. His thumbs stroke across my cheekbones, tender and careful. "I'm not him," he says quietly, like he can read my mind. "None of us are. And I know that's hard to believe right now, that you need time to see that we mean what we say. But we're patient. We can wait."
"I don't know what you're waiting for," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
"For you to be ready." He leans in slowly, giving me plenty of time to pull away, to stop him, to tell him this is too much too fast. But I don't. I stay frozen, my heart in my throat, as he presses a soft kiss to my cheek. His lips linger against my skin, warm and gentle, before he pulls back just enough to meet my eyes again. "For you to trust that this is real. That you're safe here. That we're not going anywhere."
I stare at him, shock rendering me momentarily speechless. He just kissed me. It was just my cheek, chaste and sweet, but it felt like so much more. Like a promise. Like a beginning.
"We all want you here," Wyatt continues, his voice soft but sure. "All of us. This isn't just me being impulsive or saying things I don't mean. We've talked about it. About you. About what we want moving forward."
"Even Hunter?" The question escapes before I can stop it, smaller and more vulnerable than I want it to be.
Hunter, who's been warmer lately but still maintains that careful distance. Who smiles at me over dinner but never lingers in rooms alone with me. Who seems most likely to see me as a temporary fixture, someone who'll leave when summer ends and school starts back up.
Wyatt's smile is knowing, almost amused. "Especially Hunter. He's just... he's dealing with his own guilt about wanting someone while still dealing with his grief. But trust me, he wants you." He pauses, his eyes glinting with something playful. "Next time you talk to him, watch the way his eyes go soft when he focuses on you. Watch the way he can't quite look away. He's not as subtle as he thinks he is."
Heat floods my face, spreading down my neck and across my chest. The idea that Hunter—stoic, controlled Hunter—might look at me like that when I'm not paying attention feels impossible and thrilling in equal measure.
"I should—" I gesture vaguely toward the stairs, toward where Isaac is still singing instead of napping. "The kids. I need to get Isaac down for his nap."
"You don't have to run away every time things get intense," Wyatt says gently, but he steps back, giving me space. "And you don't have to apologize for having feelings, Amelia. For wanting things. You're allowed to want."
The permission feels revolutionary. Vincent spent two years convincing me that my wants were selfish, that needing anything beyond what he chose to give me was greedy and ungrateful. Theidea that I'm allowed to want, that wanting isn't something to be ashamed of, makes my eyes sting with tears I refuse to let fall.
"Okay," I whisper, because I don't know what else to say.
Wyatt's smile is soft, understanding in a way that makes my chest ache. "Go take care of Isaac. We can talk more later. Or not talk, if you need space. Whatever you need."
I nod and flee, my heart pounding and my thoughts spinning. I can still feel the ghost of his lips on my cheek, the warmth of his hands on my face, the absolute certainty in his voice when he saidwe want you here.
The stairs feel longer than usual, my legs shaky as I climb them. Isaac's door is cracked open, his little voice still singing what sounds like the alphabet song but with several letters mixed up and repeated. I push the door open to find him sitting up in bed, surrounded by his stuffed animals, conducting them like an orchestra.
"Hey sweetheart," I say softly, stepping into the room. "You're supposed to be napping."
"I'm not tired," he protests, but his eyes are heavy-lidded and his voice has that slow quality that means he's fighting sleep.
"How about I sit with you for a little bit?" I offer. "Just until you fall asleep."
He considers this, then nods and scoots over in his toddler bed, making room for me. I settle onto the edge of his mattress, running my fingers through his curly hair the way I've learned soothes him. He leans into the touch, his eyes already starting to close.
"Mia?" he murmurs, his voice thick with impending sleep.
