Page 78 of Omega's Fire

“When is the time?” I demand, frustration and hurt bleeding into my voice.

“When you’re sure,” he says simply. “When you’re choosing me because you want to, not because you’re overwhelmed and grateful and don’t know how to separate what you need from what you feel.”

The calm rationality of his response makes me want to scream. Or cry. Or both. He is such an infuriating ass.

“I am sure,” I insist, but even as I say it, doubt creeps in. Am I? Or is this the emotional aftermath of birth.

Nash steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body.

“Think about it,” he says, hands framing my face with infinite gentleness. “Really think about it. Not just tonight, not just while you’re recovering, but when you’re yourself again.”

“And if I decide I want you? Want us?”

“Then I’ll be here,” he promises, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “I’m not going anywhere, Leo. I’m not disappearing, I’m not finding someone else, I’m not giving up on us. Take the time you need to be certain.”

The certainty in his voice, the patient devotion, should comfort me. Instead, the man makes the fire in me start raging again. All this time, he’s chased me and now he’s tell me no.

“Nash...”

“We need to do this right. And I love you enough to want you to choose me freely, completely, without reservations or doubts or gratitude clouding your judgment.”

“I love you too,” I admit, the words scraping out of my throat.

The light that comes into his eyes at my admittance is blinding. He kisses my forehead again, then steps back before I can cling to him. “Get some sleep. Take care of our daughter. Let your body heal. And when you’re ready—really ready—call me.”

“And you’ll come?”

“Try to stop me.”

After he leaves, the guest room feels too quiet despite Emma’s soft breathing from her crib. I lie on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, my body exhausted but my mind spinning with everything he said.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am making this decision from a place of vulnerability and gratitude rather than genuine certainty. Maybe I need time to separate what I want from what I think I should want.

But as I drift toward sleep, Nash’s scent still clinging to my clothes, Emma safe in her crib beside me, I can’t shake the feeling that I already know what I want.

I just need to be brave enough to claim it.

Nash

I drop my keys on the kitchen counter and stare at the closed door of the nursery I’ve spent months preparing.

I did the right thing. I know I did. Leo needs to make this choice for the right reasons. But knowing I did the right thing doesn’t make it hurt less.

My phone sits silent on the counter, no missed calls or messages. Leo is probably asleep, exhausted from birth and the emotional upheaval of the past few days. I resist the urge to text him, to check if Emma is feeding well, if he needs anything. He has his Mom there if he needs anything. He doesn’t need me hovering.

I open the nursery door. Everything is exactly as I left it—the crib assembled and waiting, the changing table stocked with supplies, the rocking chair positioned by the window where morning light streams in. I’d imagined sitting there with our baby—Emma—feeding her bottles while Leo recovered, watching her sleep in the early hours of dawn.

The baby clothes I’d bought are folded neatly in the dresser. Tiny onesies and sleepers in soft pastels, all waiting for a daughter who might never live here.

I should pack these up. Take them to Michelle’s house tomorrow. From what I could see from Leo’s room, they were already quite well stocked but Emma came early. They might not have everything.

But as I begin folding the tiny clothes into a box, each piece feels like surrender.

Maybe Leo will choose me. Maybe when the hormones settle and the exhaustion fades, he’ll remember what we built together. The partnership that emerged from conflict. The love that survived every attempt to destroy it.

Or maybe he won’t. Maybe the cottage and the Bureau and all my mistakes will outweigh whatever good I’ve managed since then. Maybe he’ll decide that co-parenting from a distance is enough, that Emma deserves better than a father who once terrorized her other parent.

I pack methodically. Clothes in one box, toys in another, the mobile I’d hung over the crib carefully wrapped in tissue paper. Everything Emma might need, delivered to where she is instead of where I’d hoped she’d be.

---