Page 40 of Run Omega Run
The first bite was a revelation—pillowy soft pasta that melted on my tongue, herbs that had been balanced with professional precision, vegetables that had been roasted until they were caramelized and sweet. It was comfort food elevated to an art form, the meal that nourished both body and soul in ways I hadn't realized I needed.
"This is incredible," I said, unable to keep the wonder out of my voice as I took another bite. "I can't believe you made this in our kitchen."
"Your kitchen still has good bones," Dante replied, settling back in his chair with the satisfaction of someone who'd accomplished exactly what he'd set out to do. "It just needed someone who understood how to work with what was available."
As I ate, I found myself studying his face in the soft light from Mom's bedside lamp. There was something peaceful aboutsharing this meal with him, something that felt both intimate and comfortable in ways I hadn't experienced since before Mom got sick. His scent wrapped around me like a warm blanket, mixing with the herbs from the food and creating an atmosphere that felt safe despite everything that was happening.
"Tell me about your grandmother," I said, wanting to hear his voice, wanting to focus on something other than the steady rhythm of Mom's breathing and what Cole had said about the time we had left.
Dante's expression softened with memory, and I could see affection in the way he talked about family. "Nonna Elena," he said with a smile that transformed his entire face. "Barely five feet tall, but she could command a kitchen like a general commanding an army. She believed that no problem was so big it couldn't be improved by a good meal shared with people who cared about you."
I smiled. “I wish I could have met her; she sounds so sweet.”
He laughed. “Oh, she was anything but. She used to scare my cousins to death when she shouted, but not me. She always had a soft spot for me.”
I laughed and finished the last of the gnocchi, savoring the way the sage butter lingered on my tongue. Dante leaned forward in his chair. "You should go see the children for a bit," he said softly, his dark eyes moving between my face and Mom's sleeping form. "Stretch your legs, get some fresh air. You've been sitting in this chair for hours."
I shook my head, the automatic refusal that had become my response to any suggestion that I leave Mom's side, but Dante reached out to cover my hand with his before I could voice the protest.
"I'll stay with her," he continued. "And I'll call you the moment she wakes up, the moment anything changes. ButHeather..." He squeezed my fingers gently. "You can't take care of anyone else if you don't take care of yourself first."
The logic was sound, even if every instinct I possessed wanted to reject it. I'd been so focused on being present for every moment of Mom's consciousness, terrified that I might miss something important or that she might need me when I wasn't there.
"Just for a few minutes," I said finally, standing up with movements that felt stiff and uncertain. "And you'll really call me if—"
"The second anything changes," Dante promised, settling himself more comfortably in the chair I'd vacated. "Go. Listen to the children laugh. Remember that there's still joy in the world even when everything feels dark."
The hallway outside Mom's room felt longer than usual as I made my way toward the kitchen, my bare feet silent on floorboards that no longer creaked in quite the same places thanks to the day's repair work. The sounds of dinner conversation grew louder as I approached, and I could hear the children's voices mixing with Becky's gentle corrections.
When I reached the kitchen doorway, I paused for a moment to take in the scene that greeted me. All the children were seated around our old table, their faces bright with contentment.
Loubie Lou looked up first, her one-eared rabbit propped in the chair beside her, and her face lit up with a smile that made something tight in my chest loosen completely.
"Miss Heather!" she announced, bouncing slightly in her seat. "Angus told us about a dragon who forgot how to breathe fire and had to learn how to breathe bubbles instead!"
"Did he?" I said, moving into the room and automatically running my fingers through her wild curls, then moving to ruffle Manny's hair where he sat carefully protecting his truck from any accidental bumps. "That sounds like a very unusual dragon."
"The bubbles were rainbow colored," Tomas added quietly. His voice was barely above a whisper but carried more enthusiasm than I'd heard from him in months. "And they made music when they popped." My eyes widened at hearing his voice. He hadn’t spoken in so long, I couldn’t remember what he sounded like.
I continued around the table, touching each child briefly—a hand on Dylan's shoulder, fingers combing through Denson's hair, a gentle squeeze of Susie's arm that acknowledged her role as the responsible older sister. They all looked fed, cared for and happy in ways that reminded me why all of this mattered, why every struggle and sacrifice had been worthwhile.
Becky smiled at me from where she was cleaning dishes at the sink, her vanilla scent mixing with the lingering aromas of dinner and creating something that felt like home in the deepest, most comforting sense of the word.
"They've been good as gold," she reported, though her expression suggested that might not have been entirely true throughout the day. "Once I convinced a certain someone that bedtime stories about digestive systems were not appropriate for the dinner table."
Angus grinned unrepentantly from his position near the window, his massive frame somehow looking sheepish despite his obvious pride in whatever educational entertainment he'd been providing. "They asked questions about a dragon’s biology," he protested. "I was being scientifically accurate."
Before anyone could respond to this defense, I heard the front door opening and closing, then Bennett's scent cut through all the domestic chatter like a blade through silk—sharp peppermint that commanded my attention in ways I was still learning to understand. When I turned toward the hallway, he was there, filling the doorway with his presence, his dark eyes scanning the room until they found me among the children.
All the noise and conversation seemed to fade into the background as our gazes met across the space between us. There was something in his expression that I couldn't quite identify, satisfaction mixed with something that looked almost like pride.
"Heather," he said, his voice carrying easily over the children's chatter. "Could you come with me for a moment? There's something I'd like to show you."
I looked back at the children, who were already absorbed in animated discussions about rainbow bubbles and musical dragon breath, then at Becky, who nodded encouragingly.
"Go on," she said, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. "We're fine here."
Bennett waited patiently as I made my way through the kitchen and into the hallway, his presence both commanding and somehow protective as he guided me toward the front of the house. His peppermint scent was stronger here, mixed with sawdust and honest sweat that spoke of physical labor and accomplishment.
