Page 24

My phone hasn’t stopped ringing. I’ve set it so that only my contacts actually make a sound, but I can see the screen lighting up yet again as I drink my morning coffee.

I let it go to voicemail again as I stare at the headline spread across my laptop screen.

“Thorndike recants.”

I’ve gotten forty-seven calls since the apology aired. Colleagues who think I’ve lost my mind. Reporters who smell blood in the water. Rowe at the Bureau. I’ve spoken to one reporter, a contact I trust. We had a half hour interview that aired this morning. I’ve let everyone else go to voicemail.

My phone rings again, this time making a noise and I glance over at the screen. It’s Halvorsen.

“Morning.”

“What the fuck, Thorndike.”

His voice crackles through my phone speaker as I pace my apartment.

“You just publicly torpedoed your entire career on national television.”

“I apologized to Leo,”

I correct, pausing by the window.

“That doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned everything I believe.”

“—”

“I still believe prime matches are real, Ben, and that we need to support them. What needs to change is how they’re handled.”

I can practically hear him rolling his eyes through the phone.

“You’re omega-whipped.”

Then he bursts out laughing.

“Very funny.”

“It’s not. The Bureau doesn’t see it that way. Rowe left me three messages asking if you’ve had a mental breakdown.”

“Now that is funny. What did you tell her?”

“That I hadn’t spoken to you,”

Halvorsen sighs.

“Did you mean the apology or not?”

“Of course I meant it. Every word. It’s not a big thing. I can apologize if I’m wrong. And I’m not wrong about all of it.”

My phone buzzes with a text notification. Leo’s name on the screen makes my heart skip.

“Ben, I need to go.”

“Hot date?”

he asks dryly.

“Something like that.”

“Fine. Go. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when this all goes to hell.”

I end the call and open Leo’s message with embarrassing eagerness.

I have a prenatal breathing class at 10:30. Would you want to come?

I stare at the words, reading them three times to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Leo is inviting me. To a prenatal class. To prepare for our daughter’s birth.

My phone rings again. The Bureau’s HR department this time. I let it go to voicemail and type my response to Leo: Yes. Should I pick you up?

The response takes a few minutes: I’m at my mom’s house. He sends the address. Is 10:00 okay?

Perfect. I’ll be there.

I abandon my coffee and head to the shower. By the time that I’m out, I have twelve new voicemails. I grab my keys.

The drive to the Torres house takes thirty minutes through suburban streets. It’s a nice neighborhood—tree-lined and well-maintained.

I pull into the driveway of a two-story colonial with neat hedges.

Before I can get out, the front door opens. A woman appears: Leo’s mother, obviously, with the same sharp intelligence in her eyes though her hair is streaked with silver. Behind her, a teenage girl bounces on her toes, trying to see around her mother’s shoulder.

I exit the car and walk up the path, acutely aware of being assessed.

“Mrs. Torres,”

I say, extending my hand.

“I’m Thorndike.”

“I know who you are.”

Her handshake is firm, businesslike.

“I saw your apology.”

“Thank you for—”

“Though I notice you’re already backtracking.”

she interrupts.

“This morning’s interview was interesting.”

“You saw that?”

“Mom, stop interrogating him,”

Leo’s voice comes from behind her. He appears in the doorway, looking softer than he did at the studio. He’s wearing a blue sweater brings out his eyes.

“I’m not interrogating anyone,”

his mother says mildly.

“Just meeting the man who got my son pregnant.”

“Mom!”

The teenage girl laughs.

“I’m Fleur,”

she announces, squeezing past her mother.

“Leo’s told us absolutely nothing about you, which means you must be interesting.”

“We should go or we’ll be late,” Leo says.

“Drive safely,”

Mrs Torres says.

“Of course,”

I assure her.

Leo hugs his mother briefly, then his sister, before following me to the car. I open the passenger door for him automatically, earning an eye roll.

“I’m pregnant, not invalid,”

he says, but there’s no real heat in it.

“Humor me,”

I reply.

“I’m new at this.”

Once we’re both settled and I’m backing out of the driveway, Leo says.

“Sorry about my mom. She’s protective. She was really keen for me to say yes to you when we first matched, but we’ve only just reconciled. I think she’s trying to take my side on everything to keep the peace.”

“She should. I’d be more concerned if she wasn’t.”

I navigate through the suburban streets.

Leo fidgets with his seatbelt.

“What did you say in the interview this morning?”

I glance over at him.

“Meg texted me,”

he continues.

“She said you were still defending the prime match system.”

“That’s a fair summary.”

Leo snorts.

“You’re unbelievable. You apologize for the system one day and defend it the next.”

“I was apologizing to you,”

I clarify, as I slow the car and stop at a red light.

“And I’m saying biological compatibility exists. Those are different things.”

“Are they though?”

Leo shifts in his seat to face me better.

“Because it sounds like you’re saying ‘sorry I forced you into my car, but look how well we fit in the seats.’”

“That’s not—”

I stop, recognizing the trap.

“You’re oversimplifying.”

“And you’re overcomplicating.”

“The world isn’t that black and white, Leo.”

“It is when it comes to consent,”

he shoots back.

We’re still at the red light, and I take the opportunity to really look at him. The morning sun catches the gold in his hair, and his jaw is set in that stubborn line I’m beginning to recognize.

“You’re right,”

I say quietly.

“About consent, you’re absolutely right. That part is black and white. What I did was wrong, full stop.”

“But?”

“But that doesn’t mean the science behind scent matching is wrong. Just how we’ve used it.”

Leo’s quiet for a long moment.

“Sometimes I hate how reasonable you sound.”

“Only sometimes?”

“Don’t push it.”

But there’s a hint of smile in his voice.

“I won’t. I’ve learned my lesson on pushing it.”

I say as I turn into the parking lot.

“I’m trying,”

I say quietly.

“I’m probably going to screw up again but I am trying.”

Something in Leo’s expression softens slightly. “Yeah,”

he says. “I know.”

We sit in the parked car for a moment, neither moving. The space between us feels charged.

“My phone’s been going crazy too,”

Leo admits.

“Reporters wanting soundbites.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Nothing yet. I’m still processing.”

He absently rubs his belly.

“She’s been active all morning.”

“Can I?”

I gesture toward his stomach.

Leo hesitates, then nods. I reach across the console, placing my hand gently on the swell. Almost immediately, I feel movement—a flutter, then a more definitive kick.

“Strong girl,” I murmur.

“Like her dad,”

Leo says, then blushes. “I mean—”

“I knew what you meant.”

I reluctantly withdraw my hand.

“We should go in.”

The community center is warm, welcoming. Leo signs us in at the front desk, and I notice he write.

“L. Torres and N. Thorndike”

on the participant list. The casual acknowledgment that we’re here together makes something warm bloom in my chest.

The class itself is held in a small room with yoga mats arranged in a circle. Five other couples are already there, chatting quietly. They all look comfortable with each other, hands intertwined or resting on bellies, the easy intimacy of established pairs.

Leo and I are not that. We sit carefully on our mat, not too far apart and not too close.

“Welcome, everyone,”

the instructor says. She’s a warm, maternal beta named Susan who immediately puts the room at ease.

“Today we’ll be practicing positions and breathing techniques for labor. Partners, your job is to provide physical support and encouragement.”

She demonstrates various positions, and then it’s time to practice. Leo struggles to his feet, one hand pressed to his lower back.

“Here,”

I say, offering my hand.

He takes it, and the contact sends the familiar electricity through me. His scent is as intoxicating as it’s always been.

“The wall position first,”

Susan instructs.

“Partners, apply counter-pressure to the lower back.”

Leo braces against the wall and I position myself behind him, hands carefully placed on his lower back. Through his sweater, I can feel the tension in his muscles.

“Too much pressure?”

I ask, moderating my strength.

“No, it’s... it’s good.”

His voice sounds strained, but not from pain.

I work my thumbs in slow circles, finding the knots and gently working them loose. Leo’s breathing changes, deepening, and I catch the shift in his scent that means he’s affected by my touch.

We move to the next position—squatting, with me supporting Leo’s weight from behind. It’s intimate, his back pressed against my chest, my arms wrapped around him.

“Breathe through it,”

I murmur, not entirely sure if I’m talking about the pretend contraction or the chemistry between us.

“Trying,”

he whispers back.

“Why did you invite me?”

I ask as we hold the position.

Leo’s quiet for so long I think he won’t answer. Then.

“Because she’s your daughter too. Because despite everything, you’ve been trying. Because...”

He trails off.

“Because?”

“Because I’m tired of being angry,”

he admits.

“It’s exhausting, and it’s not good for her.”

We shift to hands and knees, and I kneel beside him, rubbing circles on his lower back as Susan instructs.

“Good,”

Leo says quietly, so only I can hear.

“This is good.”

“Yeah,”

I agree, breathing in his scent. “It is.”

“I’m still not ready to forgive everything,” he warns.

“I’m not asking you to.”

“And I still think you’re wrong about the science justifying any of this.”

“Noted.”

“And my mom’s probably going to interrogate you every time she sees you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

Leo turns his head slightly, meeting my eyes.

“But maybe... maybe we can figure out how to be parents together. Find some middle ground.”

“I’d like that,”

I say softly.

“Very much.”

Susan’s voice breaks the moment.

“Wonderful work, everyone.”

After class, we pack up slowly. The other couples filter out, leaving us alone with our awkwardness.

“Thank you,”

Leo says as we walk to the car.

“For coming.”

“You don’t have to thank me for wanting to be involved.”

“I know, I just—”

He stops suddenly, face contorting. “Oh.”

“Leo?”

He grabs my arm, grip tight.

“I think... oh god, I think something’s happening.”

“Braxton Hicks?”

I suggest, though I can already smell the change in his scent.

“No, I’ve been having those. This is—”

He gasps, doubling over.

“, this is different.”

My heart rate spikes as I recognize what’s happening. The pheromone shift, the way he’s breathing, the intensity of his grip.

“How long have you been having contractions?”

I ask, keeping my voice calm despite the panic rising in my chest.

“Since this morning,”

he admits.

“But they weren’t bad, just uncomfortable. I thought—”

Another contraction cuts him off.

“We need to get you to the hospital,”

I say, already supporting his weight.

“Can you walk?”

Leo nods, but he’s leaning heavily on me as we make our way towards my car. This is happening. Our daughter is coming, six weeks early, and we’re about to become parents whether we’re ready or not.