He was tempted to drop everything to help June with the research. But June had banned him from experiments, and Dale had his own lectures to deal with.
The semester ended in four weeks. He had assignments to grade, exam papers to write. With his post-docs and grad students stepping up their research, they wouldn’t be able to help with his workload.
And the pregnancy would only make him more fatigued as the month drew on.
I’ll be there in five, Dale typed.
He made notes on the stacks of ungraded assignments, closed the laptop, then headed for the lab.
A week later, the nausea had only added to Dale’s growing fatigue. He was tired when he woke. Classes drained him faster than he expected. By midday, he was out of energy. When Greg visited for lunch at noon, Dale hardly wanted to move at all, and Greg would drag his chair over to Dale’s, feeding him bites of sandwich.
Dale’s fatigue was compounded by the nagging task he’d been putting off: doing research on his pregnancy.
He’d done the basics, of course. Finding out which foods he needed. Doing exercises. Looking up his symptoms and how to remedy them.
What he’d been avoiding was the one thing he couldn’t change: the risks of pregnancy at his age.
He was forty-two. The pregnancy had been too new, too surreal at first. And last week, when Dale had glimpsed Felix’s daughter at the bookstore, he’d remembered the burgeoning life in his own belly, and a slow, secret happiness had built in his throat. He hadn’t wanted to lose hope by doing research this soon.
But now... with the lights dimmed around them, and with Greg sleeping peacefully beside him in bed, Dale thought about Greg’s proposal again. Dale is my omega. I’m marrying him.
If Dale didn’t have a baby, Greg wouldn’t feel the need to propose. Without the responsibility of child-raising, Greg would be free to leave, and seek out his own future.
And Dale had been selfish all this time, wanting to keep him close. He really shouldn’t.
He held his breath and opened the email from Bernard Hastings, sent four days ago.
I have decided to arrange a dinner with my son and Penny Fleming. Penny mentioned that her parents will be out of town for the duration. Would you be interested in joining us as Penny’s reference instead?
Dale stared at the message, his breath caught in his throat. In the bluish glow of the screen, he admired the curl of Greg’s lashes, the point of his nose, the bow of his lips. Greg was beautiful. Clever. Full of potential. And he deserved so much more than what Dale could give him.
Dale switched out of the email app, typing, Pregnancy risk forty years old.
The search engine returned with an answer: In omegas older than 40, the incidence of miscarriage has been found to be 50%, but the risk may be greater, depending on the individual’s medical history.
Dale stopped breathing. Fifty percent?
His fingers shook as he tapped on the first website. Then the next website. And the website after that.
All of them gave the same answer: he had a one-in-two chance of losing the baby he carried.
Dale stared at the too-bright screen, his heart stumbling. He’d spent a month thinking about the baby he’d cradle in his arms. He could just as easily lose his child.
His throat closed, and his vision blurred. He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t lose his baby.
Dale sobbed, clapping his hand over his mouth. Behind him, Greg’s breathing remained steady; he was still asleep.
If Dale lost this baby... Greg would be free to go.
A soft, keening whine slipped from his throat. Dale bit hard into his palm, trying to stay silent. His chest ached. This was a precious child; Greg had given it to him, and he couldn’t possibly lose it.
Dale cradled his belly, burying his face in his pillow. I’ll keep you safe, he thought to his unborn child. You are loved.
But if the baby miscarried, Greg would be free to leave. He could bond with Penny, or some other omega younger and more fertile than Dale. Someone who had a brighter future. Dale bit his lip and breathed, turning the possibilities over in his head.
It was hours before he fell asleep.
Hours later, Dale woke to Greg gently shaking him. “Hey, it’s almost eight,” Greg murmured, frowning. “We gotta get up.”
Dale groaned, burying his face in the pillow. His eyes felt as though bits of sand had crusted in them, and he couldn’t pry them open at all. The sun stung when he squinted. “It’s too early.”
“What do you want for breakfast? I’ll make it for you,” Greg said, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I’ve been trying to wake you for the past hour.”
Dale peered at him, his limbs heavy as lead. Greg was already dressed, his hair brushed, his face shaved. “You look good,” Dale croaked. “Gods, my voice is terrible.”
“Thanks. Breakfast?” Greg scooped an arm behind Dale’s back, helping him sit up.
“Anything I won’t puke.”
“Bread and cheese?”
“Sounds good.” But his eyes ached with lack of sleep, and Dale flopped down onto his stomach, burying his head under the pillow. “Who invented mornings?”
“You tell me. You’re older.”
He was. Dale whined, pulling the pillow firmly over his head. “Don’t remind me.”
But his thoughts connected—he was older, he was tired because he was old, because he was pregnant, and there was a fifty percent chance that he’d lose his baby because of his age.
Dale froze, icy dread sliding into his stomach. Then he groaned, choking, and Greg’s hand settled on his back.
“What’s wrong?” Greg asked, concern in his voice.
Greg couldn’t know. Dale was already older than he was—he didn’t need Greg thinking less of him, all because he couldn’t carry his child to term. He couldn’t bear to tell Greg that his dream held such a huge chance of shattering.
“I’m fine,” Dale said, breathing through his mouth. He was just five weeks pregnant. Not eight months. “Make me breakfast, please.”
Greg rubbed his back, peeking
