Page 77 of Omega's Fire

The ride to my mother’s house passes in comfortable silence, Emma sleeping peacefully in her car seat between us in the back. Mom insisted on driving so Nash could sit with me, “in case you need anything.” The thoughtfulness of the gesture isn’t lost on me, though I suspect it has more to do with giving Nash and me time to figure out our next steps.

My phone buzzes constantly from the cup holder where Nashplaced it, unknown numbers calling repeatedly.

I’m too exhausted to care who’s trying to reach me. Whatever it is can wait until I’ve had more than two hours of consecutive sleep.

“Someone’s very popular,” Nash observes, glancing at the screen as another call comes through.

“Probably reporters,” I mutter, shifting to find a more comfortable position. The hospital’s discharge instructions included warnings about media attention for “high-profile patients,” which apparently now includes me thanks to our very public relationship drama.

“I can handle them,” Nash offers. “Screen the calls, deal with whatever needs dealing with.”

The casual way he assumes responsibility for protecting me from media harassment should irritate me. Instead it settles something anxious in my chest. I’m too tired to fight, too overwhelmed by new parenthood to handle anything beyond the immediate needs of my daughter.

“Thank you,” I say, meaning it.

The house looks the same as always but something feels different as Mom pulls into the driveway. Maybe it’s having Emma with me, or maybe it’s the way Nash’s presence changes the entire dynamic.

Mom parks and I reach for the seat.

“Let me,” Nash says as I struggle with the seat’s release mechanism. His fingers brush mine as he lifts Emma out, still sleeping peacefully despite the transition from car to cold air.

Mom shepherds us all inside, fussing over blankets and tea and whether I need to lie down immediately. She decides that I do and Nash follows me up the stairs, carrying Emma in her seat.

The guest room—my temporary room—feels smaller with Nash in it. He moves around the space like he belongs there,checking the temperature, adjusting the blinds to block the sun. Small gestures that show he’s thinking about what we’ll need, what will make us comfortable.

“I should go,” he says eventually, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Let you rest. Get settled.”

“You don’t have to leave,” I find myself saying. “I mean, if you want to stay for dinner. Mom’s probably already planning to cook enough food for an army.”

His smile is soft, pleased. “I’d like that. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

But as evening approaches and Emma begins her first night at home routine of feeding and fussing and brief stretches of sleep, reality intrudes. Nash will have to leave eventually. I’ll be here with my parents, figuring out how to be a single parent in my childhood home, while he goes back to his apartment and his life and his work.

The thought sits heavy in my stomach as I watch him burp Emma, having somehow mastered the technique in the few hours that we’ve had her.

“You’re good at this,” I observe, echoing what Mom told me at the hospital.

“She makes it easy,” he replies, settling her against his shoulder. “Don’t you, sweetheart?”

After dinner, after Emma’s been fed and changed and finally settled into the portable crib in my room, Nash lingers by the door. The air between us feels charged with things unsaid.

“Nash,” I start, then stop. “I don’t want to stay here,” I admit, the words rushing out before I can second-guess them. “Not because I don’t appreciate my Mom, but because this isn’t home anymore. And I don’t want Emma’s first weeks to be about me hiding from my life.”

“Leo—”

“I want to come with you,” I continue, cutting off whateverreasonable objection he’s forming. “To your apartment. To the nursery you’ve prepared. To whatever life we can build together.”

His eyes widen, hope blooming bright and undeniable across his features. For a moment I think he’ll say yes immediately, sweep me and Emma into his arms and take us home where we belong.

Instead, he shakes his head.

“No.”

The single word hits like a slap. “What?”

“You just had a baby, Leo. Twenty-four hours ago you were in labor, and now you’re making life-altering decisions while running on no sleep and a massive hormonal shift.” His voice is gentle but firm, the tone of someone who’s thought this through more clearly than I have. “I love you and I want you and I’ve been wanting to hear this for so long, but I’d be doing you wrong if I said yes. This isn’t the time.”

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