Noah's POV
Sunday mornings in the Bennett household are sacred.
No alarms. No rushing. No anxious players texting me at ungodly hours to ask if they can skip leg day. Just me, my son, and the rare kind of peace that only comes when the world slows down.
Oliver is already up when I wake, curled beside me, his tiny body sprawled out like a starfish. His chubby fingers are tangled in my shirt, holding on even in sleep.
Finnian stirs in the back of my mind, warmth rolling off her like a purr. Our pup.
I brush a kiss over Oliver's curls, breathing him in. He smells like baby shampoo and the faintest hint of maple syrup. I'd allowed him lick a dollop after dinner last night— much to his joy— and now he smells like the sweetness of the bottle.
A sleepy little murmur escapes him, and his eyes flutter open. He blinks up at me, still caught in the fog of sleep. Then his face lights up.
"Papa!"
I barely have time to react before he tackles me with all the strength of a very determined two-year-old.
I laugh, catching him easily. "You're getting stronger, little prince. Soon you'll be able to pin me down."
Oliver grins, proud of himself. "Strong!" he declares, flexing his tiny arms.
Finnian rumbles approvingly. He is strong. Our little alpha.
I roll my eyes. She always says that, but the truth is, we don't actually know what Oliver is yet. He's still too young, his bones too soft for his first shift. That won't come until he's three, maybe even five. Then we'll know for sure if he's an Alpha, Beta, or Omega.
Still…
Alpha genes are strong, Finnian insists.
Yeah, yeah, I reply mentally dismissing her. I know it's not all Alpha's but I kinda loathe the idea of Oliver being any more like his asshole dad.
That's mean and I promised to be nicer to him. Can't do that if I can't be nicer about him.
I loathe the idea of Oliver being any more like his… good for nothing father. That's much better.
Oliver giggles when he sees my expression and immediately takes advantage of my distraction, launching himself at me again. Our morning quickly dissolves into chaos. Pillow fights. Wrestling matches. At one point, Oliver manages to climb onto my back, his chubby arms wrapped around my neck as he proudly declares himself the king of Papa Mountain.
Finnian huffs with amusement, rolling onto her back in my mind, paws in the air. The strongest pup.
By the time we're done with breakfast—which mostly consists of Oliver insisting he can feed himself and getting more food on his cheeks than in his mouth—I realize that as much as I want to just spend the day lazing around, there are errands to run.
I eye my nearly empty fridge and sigh. "Alright, buddy, let's go shopping."
Oliver cheers, clapping his hands. He loves grocery shopping—not because of the food, but because he gets to ride in the cart like a prince surveying his kingdom.
I dress him in appropriate clothing and put him in his booster seat at the back of my Mini Cooper. He swings his feet and hums contentedly, holding onto his stuffed wolf toy while I lock up.
As I drive, the radio plays softly in the background. Oliver hums along to the tune, his little voice wobbling through half-formed words.
I chuckle. "You like this song, little prince?"
Oliver nods eagerly. "Sing, Papa!"
So I do. I sing along, exaggerating the lyrics, making funny voices that make him dissolve into giggles. Finnian hums in satisfaction. This is good. This is home.
Yeah. It really is.
---
The mall is lively, buzzing with families, teenagers, and couples enjoying their Sunday. I maneuver through the aisles with practiced ease, pushing the cart while Oliver sits inside, holding onto a small stuffed wolf toy he insisted on bringing.
We're in the dairy aisle when my phone vibrates. My hands are full and it takes me a minute to deposit everything I'm holding in the cart and pull Oliver's grabby fingers away from a box of detergent before I can reach for my phone.
I glance at the screen. Kieran Ali.
I swipe to answer. "Kieran."
A warm chuckle comes through the speaker. "I didn't think you'd answer. I thought I'd have to lecture you on the dangers of missing calls when next we saw. What if I was a long-lost billionaire relative calling to put you in my will?"
I smirk, picking up a carton of milk. "And here I was, hoping for a secret fortune. Guess I'll have to keep struggling like the rest of the peasants."
Kieran laughs. "Well, I'd hate to interrupt your struggles, but I figured I'd check in. You are having a relaxing day, right?"
Before I can answer, Oliver suddenly squeals in excitement, pointing at something on a nearby shelf.
Kieran chuckles. "Is that the son you mentioned?"
I wince. "Yeah. Oliver. Two years old and still learning volume control."
"Ah, the joys of toddlerhood," Kieran says, amusement in his voice. "So you're spending the day with your son and your husband?"
I snort. "Just my son."
There's a pause. Then Kieran's voice takes on a teasing lilt. "No boyfriend and no husband…"
I roll my eyes. "Are you fishing for information?"
"That depends," he counters smoothly. "Am I catching anything?"
A surprised laugh escapes me. "I'm not in a relationship, K."
"Noted," he says easily. "So what else is on your Sunday agenda?"
"I'm grocery shopping. Like a normal person. What about you?" I deflect.
"Spending the day with my family."
I hum. "So you're hanging out with your mate and decided to call me?"
"Nah," Kieran replies. "I'm making kunafeh with my mother and decided to do something with my phone before my nieces and nephews start begging to play games on it."
I grin. "That sounds… wholesome."
"Wholesome until someone steals my stethoscope and hides it in the couch," he sighs.
I laugh. "That sounds oddly specific. Speaking from experience?"
"No comment."
I tuck my phone between my ear and my shoulder before using one hand to free another box of detergent from Oliver's hands and the other to push the shopping cart. "So… no boyfriend… or girlfriend?"
Kieran hums. "Noah Bennett, are you fishing for information?"
I chuckle. "That depends. Am I catching anything?"
His laugh is warm, rolling through me like honey. It makes something in my chest loosen.
"So you're not in a relationship, and I'm not in a relationship…" Kieran's voice drops into something softer. "How about we meet up—"
I smirk. "To talk about how sad and single we are?"
Kieran shoots back, "To talk. It's been ages, Noah Bennett. I want to get to know you again."
Finnian hums. Smooth.
I roll my eyes. "For starters, I'll still dip a boiled egg in butter if given the chance."
Kieran chuckles. "And I still think that's disgusting." He pauses, then more seriously, "Seriously, Noah. I want to see you."
Before I can respond, Oliver's delighted squeals pull my attention to the electronics section.
"Guy! Guy!" he exclaims, pointing at a row of flat-screen TVs on display.
I follow his gaze—and my stomach sinks.
Logan's face is plastered across every screen, his expression frozen mid-stride as he walked off the field during yesterday's game. The headline beneath him blares in bold:
LIGHTNING BOLTS OFF FIELD IN GAME AGAINST YELLOWJACKETS.
Shit.
I barely have a moment to process it before a voice cuts through the mall's usual hum of chatter.
"You're looking for high-definition? Home theater-worthy sound?"
I glance over. A sales clerk in a too-tight polo is talking animatedly to an unimpressed-looking customer. The man—balding, arms crossed—looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.
The sales guy gestures at the largest screen with a flourish. "This bad boy's got it all—4K resolution, deep bass audio, motion smoothing—here, let me show you."
Then, to my horror, he grabs the remote and cranks up the volume.
Immediately, the voices of the sports commentators flood the store, drawing the attention of other shoppers nearby.
"I mean, let's call it what it is," one of them says, his voice dripping with skepticism. "Logan Whitaker ran off that field."
A second commentator scoffs. "That's what I'm saying! It wasn't just a bad game—and I've seen people describe it as such— it was a meltdown. This is the guy they brought in as the Eastvale Coyotes' star player?"
A third voice, smoother but no less critical, chimes in. "And can we talk about the real question here? Why'd he leave the Shadows in the first place? A major league team to… what? A struggling lineup in the Paranormal League? That move never made sense, and now he's choking on the field?"
The fourth commentator, older and calmer, sighs. "Look, I'm not gonna say his career's over—"
"But it's not looking great so far. It looks bad," the second guy interjects. "Real bad."
I exhale slowly through my nose.
I've been trying not to think about Logan's loss of Fenrir all day. For the most part, I've been successful—burying myself in Oliver's laughter, in Kieran's warmth, in anything but the mess we're in.
But now it's on every screen, blaring through the speakers, demanding my attention.
And Logan—if he's watching this? He's going to be pissed.
Beside me, Oliver tugs at my sleeve again, his voice softer this time. "Baseball?"
I blink, refocusing. "Not now."
Kieran's voice comes through the phone. "No?"
His voice almost makes me jump. I'd forgotten he was there. I clear my throat. "No! Yes! I mean—" I take a breath. "I'd love to go out with you sometime."
I can hear the smile in Kieran's voice. "Alright then. It's a date."
In the background, someone shouts his name, followed by a loud 'Who left the stove on?!'
Kieran sighs dramatically. "And that's my cue. Talk later, Bennett."
"Later," I murmur distractedly.
The call ends, but I barely register it. My focus is back on the TV screen, on the swirling speculation about Logan's career.
Oliver tugs at my shirt again, more insistent this time. "Baseball," he repeats.
I run a hand through my hair. He won't let this go.
I sigh. "Alright, little man. After we're done here, we'll go play baseball."
He cheers, his entire face lighting up with excitement.
I smile down at him, ruffling his curls.
But as we head toward checkout, my mind lingers on that headline.
Logan, what the hell are we going to do with you?