Page 60 of Run Omega Run
"You don't have to be strong all the time," he murmured against my hair, his voice gentle now, stripped of the earlier anger. "That's what pack means, Heather. That's what love means. You carry what you can, and we carry the rest."
I clung to him with desperate fingers, letting myself sink into the safety of his embrace while the city's broken skyline stretched around us like a promise that even the most devastating damage could be repaired, given time and care and people willing to do the work together.
Chapter 25
Heather
Becky gathered her coat from the back of the kitchen chair, her vanilla scent mixing with the lingering traces of the chamomile tea we'd shared after Bennett walked me home. Her eyes were kind but tired behind her glasses as she studied my face, no doubt cataloging the tear tracks and emotional exhaustion I hadn't quite managed to hide.
"You're sure you'll be alright tonight?" she asked, her voice carrying the gentle concern of someone who'd witnessed my breakdown from a distance. "I could stay longer if you need me to."
I shook my head, forcing a smile that felt more genuine than it had any right to after the evening I'd endured. "We'll be fine. The children need their routine, and you've already done so much today."
She nodded, but her hand lingered on the door handle as if reluctant to leave us. "Call if you need anything. Anything at all, Heather. Promise me."
"I promise," I said, and meant it.
After her footsteps faded down our front path, I climbed the stairs toward the soft murmur of children's voices drifting from their shared bedroom. The floorboards no longer creaked, but tonight the silence felt different, more precious somehow, as ifthe house itself was holding its breath around the fragile peace we'd created.
The children's bedroom glowed with warm lamplight that transformed its worn edges into something magical. Mismatched quilts covered beds that had been donated from half a dozen different sources, creating a patchwork landscape of faded florals and geometric patterns that somehow worked together.
Loubie Lou sat cross-legged on the braided rug in the center of the room, her precious bunny clutched against her chest while she waited with the particular intensity that only three-year-olds could bring to anticipated stories. Around her, the other children had arranged themselves in a loose semicircle—Tomas with his worn blanket, Dylan still moving carefully after his recent illness, and the others creating a small audience hungry for the comfort that came with our bedtime stories.
I settled onto the floor beside them, pulling the book we'd been reading from its place on the bookshelf. The leather cover was soft with handling; the pages yellowed at the edges from countless bedtime sessions that had preceded this one. But as I opened to our bookmark, heavy footsteps on the stairs announced another arrival.
Angus filled the doorway like a friendly giant, his massive frame softened by the gentle smile he reserved for moments like these.
"Room for one more?" he asked, his Scottish accent already warming toward the exaggerated tones he used for storytelling. "I heard there might be dragons needin' proper voicin' tonight."
Loubie Lou clapped her hands together, bouncing with excitement. "Angus! You can be the scary dragon!"
"Scary?" He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, settling his bulk onto the floor with surprising grace. "I'll haveye know I'm the finest dragon voice in all of Scotland. Terrifying, but with proper dramatic flair."
I smiled despite the emotional exhaustion that still clung to me like morning fog, grateful for his presence in ways I couldn't articulate. These moments of normalcy felt precious beyond measure, small pockets of joy carved out of circumstances that seemed determined to steal everything we held dear.
The story unfolded with familiar magic, my voice weaving through descriptions of brave knights and enchanted forests while Angus provided sound effects that made the children giggle with delight. When the dragon appeared on page twelve, he transformed his voice into a rumbling growl that was fierce enough to thrill, but gentle enough not to frighten the smallest listeners.
"Ye cannae pass through my forest!" he declared in a dragon voice, gesturing with a theatrical grandeur that made Dylan laugh so hard he snorted. "Not unless ye can answer my riddle!"
"What's the riddle?" Tomas asked, leaning forward with engagement that warmed my heart. His selective mutism had been improving since the men had visited regularly, as if their steady presence had convinced him that some adults could be trusted with his voice.
I turned the page, preparing to read the dragon's challenge, when something made my nose wrinkle with concern. An acrid smell, sharp and wrong, cut through the room's comfortable atmosphere.
Smoke.
