Mattaniah lifts his head from Amos' shoulder and looks at me across the couch. "You owe me twenty dollars."
"I saidspreadsheets. A nutrition plan cross-referenced with a withdrawal timeline is a spreadsheet."
"It's two spreadsheets, technically," Amos says.
I wrap my hand tighter around Mattaniah's ankle and watch the Omega settle deeper into the couch between us. His scent has shifted from the burnt-wood distress into something warmer as his body relaxes. The fear is still cycling through the bond in slow waves, but it's no longer the only signal.
"I need to ask you both something." Mattaniah's voice is small. "And I need an honest answer."
"Ask," Amos says.
"Will you be good fathers?" He doesn't look at either of us when he says it. "Because I've been sitting on a park bench thinking about the fact that every parent we've ever had has been a weapon. And I need to know that you've thought about that too."
Amos' hand stills on Mattaniah's shoulder. My grip on his ankle tightens before I force it loose.
"Every day," I tell him.
"Me too," Amos says. "The difference is that we know what not to do. That's not nothing, Niah. It might not be much,” Amos murmurs against Mattaniah's hair. “But it’ll be enough.”
Mattaniah
Dominichasbeenunbearablefor thirty-six hours. It started the morning after the park bench. I came out of the bathroom and found him standing in the hallway with a glass of water and two saltine crackers arranged on a small plate. The nausea had already passed by then but he watched me eat both crackers like he was supervising a hostage negotiation.
By noon he had reorganized the refrigerator to put "easy-access foods" at eye level, which apparently meant yogurt, bananas, and six different types of crackers. By evening he had removed the step stool from the kitchen because reaching for high shelves involves stretching, which involves core engagement, which is apparently a concern now. I'm two weeks pregnant. The baby is the size of a poppy seed.
The second morning is worse. I wake up to find him sitting on the edge of the bed watching my stomach instead of my face. When I roll over to get up he's on his feet in a second. His hand hovers near my elbow as if swinging my legs over the side of the bed might kill me.
"Dominic." I sit up and push his hand away. "I'm pregnant, not dying."
"You threw up yesterday." His hand hovers again. "Twice."
"It's morning sickness and it's standard. Amos already explained the physiology to you in detail that I personally found excessive."
"Amos said the first trimester carries the highest risk of—" He stops because my face is doing something that makes him reconsider finishing the sentence. "I'll make breakfast."
He makes breakfast. A mid-morning snack appears beside my laptop at ten thirty. Water arrives at eleven without being asked, then a different water at eleven fifteen because the first one wasn't cold enough. When I stand up to go to the bathroom his whole body shifts toward me before he catches himself.
Amos is marginally better but only because his hovering takes the form of data rather than physical presence. He's been reading research papers on Omega pregnancy after prolonged suppressant use since six in the morning. The information emerges in periodic updates I haven't requested.
"The studies suggest increased folic acid supplementation during the first eight weeks," he says from behind his laptop atnoon. "I've ordered prenatal vitamins. They should arrive this afternoon."
"Great."
"Also the research on post-suppressant fertility shows a slightly elevated risk of multiple gestation."
"Amos."
"I'm just noting it for awareness."
"I am aware. Thank you." I close my laptop and press my palms against my eyes. The apartment has shrunk in the past day and a half. Every room contains at least one Alpha tracking my movements. The bond marks on my neck transmit their anxiety in a frequency that makes my own pulse run faster.
"I need one hour of normalcy." I look at both of them. "Just one hour where nobody monitors my water intake or reads me statistics about folic acid."
Dominic's hands grip the kitchen counter. He fights the possessive response he obviously wants to make, the effort visible in his whitening knuckles. "One hour." He says it through his teeth.
"Thank you." I pick up my phone and text Tamsin.
The walk to the cafe on the corner is the first time I've been alone since the pregnancy tests. The absence of their scents hits me as I head down the hallway, the leather and smoke and pine and cedar that have been a constant overlay on every breath I've taken for the past two weeks thinning out until the elevator smells like cleaning solution and metal. My bond marks ache at the loss. The rest of me exhales.
