Pursuing My Rejected Luna by Cara Anderson novel Chapter 192

Chapter 192

Jaxon

Skye tells Nicolai about our conversation almost as soon as I leave her office. I’m not surprised. This is the dynamic now–she tells both of us everything, because she is the person who connects us and she does it honestly.

I’m in my room, gathering some files to send to Noah, when he comes to find me. He stands in the doorway watching me for a minute, even though I invited him in as soon as he arrived. His demeanor isn’t hostile. Just the quiet of someone who received news they’d been preparing for and is deciding what to do with it.

“I know what you’re giving up for her,” he states flatly.

“I assumed she would tell you about our conversation.” I reply.

“She did. She tells me everything.” There’s a slight edge to the last word, which I suspect means she told him about the kiss as well. “And you’re sure?”

“Yes.” I don’t elaborate. It’s all he needs to hear.

He’s quiet. The silence hangs between us, doing something I don’t have a word for-it’s not comfortable, it’s not hostile, it’s just two people in a room with the weight of something significant.

“Then it should cost something equal.” He announces.

He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t expand. Just says it, and looks at me, and leaves. And I sit there turning those words over, trying to make sense of them. With absolutely no success.

Benji is in the nursery when I get back so I sit on the floor with him. He’s still in his building block era, dutifully stacking them then knocking then down before stacking them all over again.

He hands me a block, an offer to join his building and demolition project. I accept it. We work on stacking and demolishing together for a while. Then Benji grabs the crib rail.

This is new-he’s not just grabbing. He’s hauling. Getting his feet under him with the specific face of someone who has decided today is the day.

He stands. Wobbles. But he doesn’t fall.

And then he says something.Not mama. Not dada. A sound that is unmistakably a word-intentional, directed, pointed at something specific.

I stare at my son. Benji is looking at the door. And he makes the sound again: “Ni.”

Clear. Deliberate, Pointed. From the hallway, the particular sound of footsteps I’ve learned to distinguish. Nicolai, moving through the house toward whatever’s next on his schedule.

“Ni,” Benji says again. His whole arm goes out, pointing. “Ni. Ni.”

I look at my son. At the door. At the life that’s been assembling itself, improbably, in this house.

Something breaks through everything else I’m thinking about-the call to Noah and what comes next and the big shape of decisions being made-and what’s left, underneath, is this:

Benji is eleven months old. His first word is not mama or dada. His first word is a version of the name of the man who gets up at 3 AM for him without being asked, who learned the difference between his cries, who took care of his mother before Benji existed outside of her body.

1/2

+15

That’s who got his first word. And he deserves to know.

Woolf,” I call toward the hallway. “You should come in here.”

Footsteps. A pause outside the door. Nicolai appears. He looks at me. At Benji, who is still standing at the crib rail, now with the expression of someone who has accomplished a great deal and is ready for acknowledgment.

“Ni,” Benji says. The arm extends again.

Nicolai crosses the nursery, a stoic look on his face but I see the moisture in his eyes. He picks Benji up-smooth practiced, the easy competence of someone who has done this hundreds of times, Benji grabs his collar with the force of someone who has found exactly what they were looking for and is extremely excited about it.

Nicolai looks at me over Benji’s head. Not the controlled version of his face. Not the Alpha versión. Not the man who controls rooms and ends arguments with tone alone.

Just a man holding a child he loves, looking at the child’s biological father with an expression that says thank you for sharing this with me. I know you didn’t have to.

He nods. Looks back at Benji, then back at me. “He said my name first,” Nicolai observes.

“Don’t get smug about it.” I grumble back.

“I’m not smug. I’m-” He stops. “He has taste.” It’s not a joke exactly. But it’s the closest we’ve come.

I look at my son in the other man’s arms. At the improbable shape of what’s being built here.

“Yeah,” I say. “He does.”

It’s not friendship. Maybe it won’t be friendship, ever-maybe what we are is something that doesn’t have a name yet, like several things in this life I’m building.

But it’s something. We both know it. We don’t need to say it.

Benji says “Ni” again, with satisfaction, as though he’s been trying to make this point for months and is pleased someone finally listened.

The nursery is quiet except for him.

And the three of us-two men and our son-have found a way to exist in it together.

Cara Anderson Author

Thank you for reading!

Comments

Support

Share

2/2

།

+15 Bonus