Page 33 of Run Omega Run
"There you go," I murmured as she accepted another spoonful, her throat working carefully to swallow. "Dante made this especially for you. He said it's an old family recipe."
She smiled, transforming her gaunt features into something that echoed the mother I remembered from childhood. "It's wonderful," she said, her voice still weak but steady. "That young man has a gift."
Outside the small room, I could hear the sounds of construction resuming now that the rain had passed and they’d eaten their share of Dante’s risotto—hammering and sawing, voices calling back and forth as the volunteers continued their work on our damaged home. The noise should have been intrusive, but instead it felt comforting, like the sound of hope being built into our walls one nail at a time.
"Tell me about the work," Mom said, settling back against her pillows but keeping her eyes fixed on my face. "I can hear them out there, but I want to know what they're actually doing."
I spooned up another bite, organizing my thoughts while she chewed slowly. "They've replaced most of the damaged shingles on the roof," I began, unable to keep the wonder out of my voice. "Bennett says the structural damage was worse than I realized, but it's all fixable. They've sealed the foundation cracks, and Angus has been working on the front steps—apparently they were about to collapse entirely."
Mom nodded, unsurprised. "I worried about those steps every time you carried groceries up them."
"There are six volunteers helping," I continued, offering her another spoonful. "All skilled tradesmen who wanted to help." I shook my head, still trying to process the generosity. "They're not even asking for payment, Mom. They're doing all of this because Bennett asked them to."
Something shifted in Mom's expression, a knowing look that made my chest tighten with emotions I wasn't ready to examine. "Bennett... he’s one of the four men who helped us yesterday? They're still here?"
Heat rose in my cheeks despite my best efforts to remain composed. "They are. Dante's been cooking for everyone, making sure the workers and children are fed. Cole showed up with his medical bag to check on the children—Dylan's cough was already easing. And Angus..." I smiled despite myself,remembering the sight of him patiently explaining tool safety to Tomas. "Angus has somehow become the children's favorite person. They follow him around as if he's the most fascinating thing they've ever seen."
"And Bennett?" Mom asked, and there was something in her tone that suggested she already knew the answer.
"Bennett organized everything," I admitted, my voice dropping to something barely above a whisper. "The volunteers, the materials. He's..." I struggled to find words that wouldn't expose how deeply he'd already gotten under my skin. "He's very thorough."
Mom reached out with trembling fingers to touch my hand where it rested on the bed beside her bowl. "Heather, look at me."
I met her eyes, seeing an intensity there that reminded me of all the important conversations we'd had over the years.
“I know you struggle with giving up control.” I pursed my lips. “But those men aren't here out of charity," she said, her voice gaining strength from conviction. "And they're not here because they saw you in distress and felt obligated to help." Her grip on my hand tightened with surprising firmness. "They're here because you belong with them."
My pulse jumped, and I felt that familiar warmth spreading through my core that seemed to happen whenever I was in their presence. "Mom—"
"I can smell them on you," she interrupted gently. "Even with my senses dulled by medication, I can smell how their scents cling to your clothes, how yours responds to theirs." Her eyes sparkled with something that looked almost like joy. "Strawberries and cream mixed with marshmallows and peppermint, chocolate cake, and toffee. It's beautiful, Heather. It's the smell of a pack forming."
Tears threatened to blur my vision as her words gave voice to something I'd been afraid to acknowledge. "I don't know how to do this," I whispered. "I've spent so long taking care of everyone else. How do I let people take care of me?"
"It's time to learn," Mom said, squeezing my hand with all the strength she had left. "Those men... they're not trying to take your independence away from you. They're trying to give you the support you need to be stronger."
I gripped her hand in both of mine, feeling the delicate bones beneath skin that had grown too thin, trying to memorize the warmth of her touch while I still could. "Are you sure?" I asked. "How can you be so certain?"
"Because I've sat looking out of the window, watching them watch you," she said with a smile that held echoes of the fierce protectiveness that had defined her parenting. "I've seen how Bennett looks at you like you're something precious that needs protecting. How Dante's entire posture changes when you're near him, like he's found his center. How Angus becomes gentler around you, and how Cole's serious expression softens whenever he hears your voice." She paused, studying my face. "And I've seen how you respond to them, even when you're trying to pretend you don't."
The risotto was growing cold, but neither of us seemed to care about finishing the meal. This conversation felt more important than food, more necessary than the practical concerns that usually consumed our days.
"They scare me," I admitted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "Not because I think they'd hurt me, but because I want to trust them so completely. I want to let them help, let them be part of this life we've built. But what if something goes wrong? What if they change their minds, or decide this is too much responsibility, or—"
"What if they don't?" Mom interrupted, her voice gentle and wise. "What if they're exactly what they appear to be—good men who recognize their mate when they find her, and who want to build something beautiful with her?"
I leaned forward, resting my forehead against our joined hands, breathing in the familiar lavender scent that had always meant safety and unconditional love. "I'm scared of losing anyone else," I whispered.
"Oh, my darling girl," Mom murmured, her free hand stroking my hair with the same tenderness she'd offered when I was small and frightened by thunderstorms. "You can't live your life in fear of loss. Sometimes the greatest risk is not taking any risk at all."
When I finally lifted my head, her eyes were growing heavy with the fatigue that seemed to claim her more frequently as time passed. But her smile was peaceful, content in a way that suggested she'd said something that had been weighing on her mind.
I picked up the spoon again, offering her another bite of the cooling risotto. "Rest now," I said softly. "We can talk more later."
Her eyes remained fixed on my face with an expression of love so complete it made my chest ache with the knowledge of how precious these moments were, how limited our time together had become.
As she drifted toward sleep, her breathing settling into the steady rhythm that the medications made possible, I continued to hold her hand and think about everything she'd said. About belonging, about risk, about the difference between independence and isolation.
Outside, the sounds of repair work continued—hammers and voices, the scraping of tools against damaged wood; it all meant repair and rebirth.
