At twenty-four weeks, his belly had grown heavy. It stretched most of the shirts Ian had, and he was starting to wish he hadn’t given away his pregnancy clothes after Gwen’s birth.
The bus trundled away on the street behind him, leaving silence and a handful of other passengers. Ian wiped off the sweat from the warm summer air, glancing at the dim apartment building in the distance. It was tucked away behind newer buildings; in the day, the building looked decrepit, gray and dusty. With Gwen to care for, Ian had been reluctant to live there.
Now, though, there was only him. All he needed was a place to sleep, somewhere to shelter for the night.
It took long minutes of walking to get there. By the time Ian reached the grungy front door, his clothes were damp, and he was panting. He skirted around the alphas crouched by the corner of the building, ducking through the drab entryway.
A couple of times, he had to ease around ripped couches on the stairs, or bags of junk that no one had bothered to clear. Ian held his breath at the musty air, unlocking the door to his new home.
It was a joke of an apartment, really—a thin mattress, paint peeling off the walls, a stove and sink and some shelves crammed together on one side of the room. There was hardly space to move; Ian kicked off his shoes, walked the few steps to his bed, and sank down onto it.
He turned and buried his face into Brad’s pillow, cradling his belly.
Three weeks after the breakup, Brad’s scent was gone. The only item that smelled like Brad was Ian’s shirt from last week—Ian couldn’t bear to wash it, for fear of losing that walnut scent.
Brad had looked handsome then, his touch filled with care. Ian’s throat grew tight. He closed his eyes, pretending Brad’s hands were dragging down his belly, Brad’s lips feather-light on his shoulder. Brad had smiled at Ian once upon a time, and he’d said, I love you.
Ian’s heart squeezed. He’d had it all, and he’d given up everything he had.
Why can’t I do anything right?
He unlocked his phone, rereading the messages Gwen had sent today. Then he opened his voicemail—there was only one he’d kept on his phone. Ian hit Play.
“Hey, Brad said on the recording, his voice tinny. “I miss you. Nothing’s the same without you around. I tried texting but you didn’t answer. I’m sorry, okay? I wish you were back. I wish I were better for you. I just—I don’t know. Will you give me a second chance?”
“You need to move on,” Ian told the recording. “Otherwise you’ll end up spending another hundred grand on me.”
His stomach twisted with guilt. Despite his new job, he wasn’t making quite enough to pay off his debt. The wages from the college had been decent enough, and that was five times what he made at the childcare center now.
If Ian managed to keep this job... it would take another two decades to pay off the debt. Probably more, with the new baby on the way.
What if Xavier needed special care, too?
Ian bit his lip, his throat tight. He’d found a pack of razors last night, and he’d escaped into the pain. If Brad found out... he’d be disappointed.
Brad wouldn’t find out, though. Ian would make sure he wouldn’t. He reached for the razors again.
Somewhere further down the corridor, someone yelled. A man yelled back. Then a volley of insults followed, and it reminded him far too much of his mother.
“Useless omega,” someone spat.
Ian winced, pulling Brad’s pillow over his head. He didn’t need to hear that.
The walls were thin, though, and the argument grew, angry voices that he hoped didn’t pass through his belly. Ian curled up on himself, huddling around his baby. His heart pounded. I’m not useless.
When the voices didn’t fade and his fingers weren’t enough to shut out the sounds, Ian fumbled for Brad’s iPod. He plugged the earbuds into his ear, and hit Play.
The violin’s song glided into his ears, slow and calming, bright notes that reminded him of the spring sunshine, and fawns frolicking in a meadow. He thought about Xavier’s smile and Gwen’s laughter, and between them, Brad playing on his violin, his lips curved in a slow smirk, his eyes warm.
Ian relaxed, and fell asleep.
He dreamed of Gwen building sandcastles in the sunshine, Brad on his knees helping her. Then the sun grew warmer and warmer, until it was sweltering, and the heat almost bowled him over.
Ian woke to high-pitched screaming, his clothes too tight, damp with sweat. The air burned through his nose.
The front door was on fire, bright orange flames that licked up the walls. Smoke billowed above him.
At first, he thought it was a nightmare. Then the flames leaped at him, scorching his feet. Ice-cold panic set in. Ian whimpered, scrambling away from the door. How bad was the fire down the corridor? Was it a path of flames?
The only other escape was the window; he lived on the third story.
Can I jump out and still survive? He looked down at his round belly, then at the fire creeping across his walls, devouring dry wood. The noxious paint fumes choked him. Ian staggered to the window, throwing it open.
The ground was such a long ways down.
Smoke seeped out through the window. Eyes watering, Ian crawled to the sink. He wet a dishcloth, holding it to his nose. Then he crawled back to the mattress where his phone and iPod were.
He didn’t have anything important—just his phone with all his pictures of Gwen and Brad, and his wallet. And there was Xavier, too. I don’t want either of us to die.
He looked out through the window, his eyes watering, his lungs burning. Couldn’t risk jumping down, couldn’t run out through the door, either. But the flames were only yards away, and Ian’s skin stung, too hot from the sheer heat.
Afraid of closing his eyes, he clutched his phone to
