Wayne’s truck door slammed at 7:55, his punctual arrival now part of my safety routine. His heavy footsteps on the stairs, the jingle of keys, the particular way he cursed when the lock stuck, all of it had become the soundtrack of normal, safe, not-being-hunted life. But today even his familiar presence made me tense, waiting for the door to burst open with violence instead of my employer’s tired morning shuffle.
“Morning,” he called out, same as every day. But then he stopped, coffee cup halfway to his lips, taking in my rearranged workspace. Those tired eyes that usually focused on crossword puzzles sharpened, scanning the changes I’d made.
“You’re twitchy as a cat in a thunderstorm,” he observed, setting a paper cup on my desk. The Wayne Garrett version of kindness, gas station coffee that tasted like burnt rubber but meant he’d thought of me during his morning stop.
I reached for it, grateful for the gesture, but my depth perception had gone haywire with stress. My fingers knocked the cup sideways, sending coffee flooding across the desk. I jumped back, heart hammering, hands shaking as brown liquid raced toward important papers.
“Shit, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” The words tumbled out as I grabbed tissues, trying to stem the tide. My reflexes had gotten worse since the pregnancy, slower physically even as my mind raced with hypervigilance. Every movement felt disconnected, like operating a body through remote control.
“Just coffee,” Wayne said mildly, producing a roll of paper towels from his desk drawer. He helped mop up the mess without further comment, but I caught him watching me from the corner of his eye.
The morning promised a parade of property viewings, each appointment marked in the leather-bound calendar Wayne refused to digitize. “Computer calendars are for people who like their lives hacked,” he’d told me once. Now I stared at the handwritten names, each one potentially hiding a threat.
Names that meant nothing but could mean everything. Were rogue wolves smart enough to use false identities? To pose as renters while hunting pregnant omegas? My rational mind said no, but my body had stopped listening to rationality sometime Saturday night.
The Harrison appointment arrived first, and my worst fears materialized in the form of a tall man in a dark suit. Everything about him screamed security, the way he held himself, the systematic scan of our office, how his hand stayed near his hipwhere a weapon might rest. I forgot every word of my usual greeting, mouth dry as sandpaper.
“Good morning,” I managed, voice cracking. “You’re here about the efficiency unit?”
His eyes narrowed at my obvious distress. “Yes. The listing mentioned utilities included?”
A simple question that my scrambled brain couldn’t process. I shuffled through papers, looking for information I knew by heart, buying time while my body decided whether to run. Wayne materialized at my elbow, smooth as silk.
“I’ll handle Mr. Laughlin’s viewing,” he said, producing keys with practiced ease. “Rhea, why don’t you prepare the paperwork for the next appointment?”
The relief nearly buckled my knees. I nodded too eagerly, retreating to my desk while Wayne led the maybe-threat outside. Through the window, I watched them walk to Wayne’s truck, noting how Laughlin moved, in a controlled, purposeful, definitely trained manner. But Wayne chatted easily, gesturing at buildings, playing the part of small-town real estate agent without a care in the world.
A middle-aged woman with three kids in tow, looking for space after a divorce arrived next. The normal kind of client with normal problems, but I still found myself analyzing every question. Why did she need to know about the neighborhood at night? Was her interest in security features suspicious? The youngest child, maybe four years old, kept staring at my stomach with that unnerving directness kids possessed.
“Baby?” she asked, pointing with a juice-sticky finger.
Her mother shushed her, mortified, but the damage was done. I placed a protective hand over the small bump, then forced it back to the desk. “No, just... too many donuts.”
The lie tasted worse than usual. The mother hustled her children toward the rental listings, but not before I caught her knowing look. Women always knew. Especially mothers. Especially when the “donuts” moved independently during conversations.
By the time the last appointment for the morning arrived for the commercial space tour, my nerves were shredding like tissue paper. He was a construction worker seeking temporary housing, built like someone who threw rebar around for fun. When he extended his hand to shake, I saw Damon’s fingers, same broad palms, same calluses from training too hard, same casual strength that could snap bones or stroke skin with equal ease.
The bathroom door slammed behind me before conscious thought engaged. I bent over the toilet, dry heaving while my body confused past and present danger. The client’s hands weren’t Damon’s. His voice didn’t carry that particular rumble. But my hormones and fear had created a cocktail that turned every tall, strong man into a ghost of my mate.
When I emerged, Wayne had already taken the man to view properties. I was grateful for his quick wit. He’d been running interference all morning, taking the male clients while leaving me the females. Adjusting our showing schedule without comment, creating buffers between me and perceived threats.
The kindness of it made my throat tight. This rumpled beta in his coffee-stained ties and crossword puzzle addiction had noticed my distress and quietly rearranged his entire morning to accommodate it. No questions, no demands for explanation, just practical protection offered without strings.
By lunch, I’d accomplished almost nothing productive, jumping every time the door opened, checking windows obsessively, mapping and remapping escape routes that grew more elaborate and less practical with each revision.
“Why don’t you handle the paperwork today? I’ll do the showings.” Wayne didn’t look up from his crossword when he made the suggestion, casual as discussing weather.
“I can manage…” The protest came automatically. I couldn’t afford to seem weak, to lose this job that kept me fed and sheltered.
“I know you can. But you don’t have to.” He filled in twelve down with careful letters. “Sometimes managing means knowing when to accept help.”
The simple wisdom of it threatened my composure more than any threat could. When had anyone last offered help without wanting something in return? When had anyone noticed my struggle and moved to ease it without demanding explanations I couldn’t give?
By afternoon, exhaustion warred with paranoia in a battle that left me swaying in my chair. The weekend’s adrenaline crash combined with pregnancy fatigue and emotional upheaval into a cocktail that made basic functions feel mountainous. The twins had been active all day, responding to my stress with their ownrestlessness. Every few minutes they’d shift or kick, visible now through my shirt if anyone looked closely.
I caught myself rubbing my stomach after a particularly strong movement, the gesture unconscious and instinctive. My hand froze halfway through the soothing circle, darting back to the keyboard like it had touched fire. But damage done, I’d shown weakness, given any watching eyes confirmation of what the rogue wolves had smelled.
Wayne kept working his puzzle, but something in his posture had shifted. He’d noticed the gesture, filed it away with all the other tells I’d been dropping all day. The bathroom breaks. The way certain smells made me turn green. How I’d started carrying crackers in my desk drawer. A thousand tiny pregnancies announcing themselves to anyone who knew how to look.
