Page 69 of Almost Ours
I reach for it, my pulse still erratic as I unfold it with shaky fingers.
Didn’t want to wake you. Connor and I ran out to grab breakfast–be back soon. Get some more sleep if you can. I know you need it. -Ryan
My entire body deflates in relief.
They’re fine.
I sink back against the couch, exhaling as I press the note against my knee. My fingers tremble slightly, and it’s only now that I realize how hard my heart is still pounding.
I think back to last night–to the way Ryan held me when I cried.
No one’s ever done that for me before.
I don’t even remember the last time I cried in front of someone. If I ever let myself break in front of Reid, he would mock me. Laugh, roll his eyes, call meweakandemotionallike they were the worst things a person could be.
Ryan didn’t do that.
He didn’t tell me stop. Ryan didn’t try to brush it off or make me feel like I was overreacting. He just looked at me–really looked at me–and told me exactly what I needed to hear.
Then he held me, his arms steady and sure, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like I wasn’t too much.
A lump forms in my throat. A part of me feels embarrassed–what must he think of me now? That I’m a train wreck? A disaster?
He held me, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t thinking those things.
I stretch, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, then stand and take in the mess of blankets and pillows scattered around the living room.
Might as well tidy up.
I’m folding the last blanket when the front door swings open.
Connor bursts in first, my navy puffer jacket dusted with fresh snow is hanging slightly crooked on his small frame. His toque is pulled low over his ears, a few tufts of messy blond hair sticking out. His grin is so big it makes his eyes crinkle, pure excitement radiating off him.
Right behind him is Ryan, taller and broader in the doorway. His dark grey coat is unzipped just enough to reveal the navy flannel beneath. His hair is a little wild–like he’d run a hand through it on the walk over–and the bright blue of his eyes is even sharper against the cold flush in his cheeks. He’s got a takeout bag in one hand and two steaming coffees in the other, moving with that easy, steady stride that always seems to ground the room.
Connor’s eyes light up when he spots me, “Mom! We got pancakes!”
I smile, heart squeezing as I take in the sight of them–both safe, both here.
Ryan smirks as he kicks the door shut behind him. “And coffee. Thought you might need it.”
I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head as I move toward them.
Yeah. I definitely do. But what Ineedeven more?
This.
We sitaround the kitchen table, the smell of buttery pancakes and fresh coffee lingering in the air. The morning light filters through the frosted window above the sink, casting a pale gold glow over the scuffed wooden tabletop. Outside, fat snowflakes drift lazily down, blurring the line where the yard meets the frozen pond.
But something isn’t right.
Connor has barely touched his breakfast. The plate in front of him is still stacked with pancakes, steam curling upward, syrup pooling around the edges. He keeps flicking his gaze toward the window, then back to his plate, absently tearing off pieces of pancake and pressing them into syrup without eating them.
He’s quiet. Too quiet. The usual hum of morning chatter is missing, replaced by the faint tick of the clock above the stove and the distant muffled thump of snow sliding off the roof. And every motherly instinct in me is screaming that something’s wrong.
I set my mug down and lean forward. “Hey, bud. What’s up?”
Connor quickly shakes his head. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
