Burke’s thumb traced small circles on my knee, a rhythmic touch that matched the hum of the tires against asphalt. It was these small gestures of his that undid me—the casual, constant reminders that I was cherished, protected, never alone.
“What are you thinking about?” Burke asked, his voice cutting gently through my thoughts.
“Everything,” I admitted. “The baby. The house. Our future.”
My mind had been racing with plans since Rawley and Macon had given us the land. My omega instincts had kicked into overdrive, manifesting as an almost desperate need to create a safe, perfect space for our child.
I’d never understood the term “nesting” before, had laughed when Carter described organizing the kitchen cabinets three times in one night.
I wasn’t laughing now.
“We should start building the house soon,” I said, straightening in my seat as excitement pushed away the last traces of my earlier fear. “Before winter sets in too deep. The foundation at least.”
Burke nodded, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Macon’s got the contractor lined up. Just waiting on our final plans.”
I’d been sketching layouts every night, erasing and redrawing rooms until my fingers cramped. The house in my mind kept growing, expanding to hold all the possibilities of our future together.
“I want a large office for my studies and work,” I added enthusiastically. “Something with big windows facing east, for the morning light.” I’d been taking online courses toward my computer science degree, determined to finish what Dennis had tried to prevent. The thought of having my own space—a room dedicated to my future, not just survival—still felt like a luxury I barely deserved.
“Whatever you want, darlin’,” Burke agreed with an indulgent smile that told me he’d build me a palace if I asked. “We’ve got ten acres. Sky’s the limit.”
I hesitated, fingers still tracing the outline of our baby on the sonogram. The next words had been forming in my mind fordays, but speaking them aloud felt momentous somehow, a line being crossed.
“And I want a guestroom specifically for Sterling,” I finally said. “A quiet place that’s just his when he needs it. No one else.”
Burke’s eyebrows shot up, his surprise evident. In the rearview mirror, I caught Sterling’s eyes flicking up from the road, his shoulders visibly tensing though his expression remained carefully neutral.
“His own room?” Burke asked, his tone careful. “You mean like when he visits?”
I shook my head, suddenly certain about this in a way I rarely felt about anything. “Not just for visits. For whenever he needs it. A permanent place.”
The truck cab fell silent except for the steady hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel under the tires. I could almost feel the weight of Sterling‘s gaze from the car behind us, the intensity of it burning through the glass.
“He’s your brother,” I said softly when Burke didn’t immediately respond. “And he’s... he’s keeping us safe. All of us.” I placed my hand over my stomach, over our growing child. “I want him to know he has somewhere to come home to. Always.”
Burke’s hand tightened on my knee, a complex emotion crossing his face that I couldn’t quite name—something between gratitude and wonder, with a hint of something deeper, more painful.
“Danny,” he began, then stopped, seeming at a loss for words.
I turned to look out the back window, meeting Sterling‘s eyes through two panes of glass. His expression hadn’t changed—it rarely did—but something in his posture had shifted, a barely perceptible softening around the edges. I offered him a small smile before turning back around.
We completed the drive in comfortable silence, Burke’s hand never leaving my knee, my fingers never stopping their gentle tracing of the sonogram image.
By the time we pulled into the ranch driveway, the afternoon sun was starting its slow descent toward the distant mountains, casting long shadows across the yard.
Sterling’s vehicle pulled in behind us, the engine cutting off with a soft purr. I climbed out of the truck before Burke could come around to open my door, deliberately walking ahead toward the house.
This moment needed to happen without me—a conversation between brothers that had been brewing since Sterling arrived three weeks ago.
“I’ll make coffee,” I called over my shoulder, giving them the excuse they needed to linger by the vehicles.
I stepped inside, but left the front window cracked just enough to hear their voices carry across the yard. Through the glass, I watched them—mirror images with identical features but entirely different body language. Burke, open and expansive; Sterling, contained and precise.
“Is he really serious?” Sterling’s voice drifted through the open window, softer than I’d ever heard it. “About the room, I mean.”
“He is,” Burke confirmed, leaning against the truck’s tailgate. “Why?”
There was a long pause, filled with what I imagined were all the things Sterling never said aloud—about loneliness, about purpose, about belonging nowhere and everywhere at once.
