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."
Wyatt
The diner is packed for a Wednesday night, every booth filled with families and couples enjoying comfort food and conversation. The smell of grease and coffee hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the sound of clinking silverware and overlapping voices. I move toward the register, waiting for our order, when I spot Dylan across the restaurant.
He's at a corner booth, nursing what looks like black coffee, his Beta scent barely detectable over the overwhelming smell of fried food. His eyes are tired, shoulders slumped in a waythat speaks an exhaustion similar to mine. When he notices me looking, recognition flashes across his face and he raises his hand in greeting.
I make my way over, weaving between tables and dodging a waitress before clasping Dylan’s outstretched hand.
"Wyatt. It’s been a while."
"Too long," I agree, sliding into the booth across from him without being invited. Dylan doesn't seem to mind. We've known each other for years, served together briefly before he transferred to a different unit. He's one of Silas' closest friends, their bond forged in the kind of situations that either break people or make them brothers for life.
"How's the family?" Dylan asks, settling back into his seat.
I let out a long breath, feeling the weight of the question. "We're managing.Barely. The kids are a lot, you know? Riley's in this phase where she's testing every boundary we set, and Isaac has decided he doesn't want to sleep in his own bed anymore. Work is insane for all three of us and the house is falling apart because none of us have time to keep up with it." I drag a hand through my hair, working through a few of the tangles. "We're drowning, if I'm being honest. Completely drowning."
Dylan's expression softens with understanding. He knows what we've been through this past year. He was at Evie's funeral, stood with Silas through the worst of it. "That's rough, man. I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well." I shrug, not knowing what else to say. Sorry doesn't fix anything. Sorry doesn't bring her back or make the grief easier or help us figure out how to be functional parents when we're all barely keeping our heads above water.
