Page 104 of Run Wild Omega

I pull out my phone and open the group chat.

Miles: We need to accelerate the registration timeline. Rourke’s presence confirms the Ashfords are monitoring the situation closely. The two-week buffer is no longer viable.

Tess

“Another one,” Mara demands, slamming her shot glass onto the sticky wooden counter of the Bluejay.

The bartender doesn’t even hesitate, tilting the bottle of tequila over our glasses. The amber liquid sloshes to the brim, catching the neon pink light pulsing from the jukebox in the corner.

“To not being a delicate glass figurine!” I shout over the thumping bass of a country-pop remix, holding up my glass.

“To freedom!” Mara clinks her glass against mine, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed.

We knock them back in unison. The tequila burns like liquid fire all the way down my throat, making my nose run and my eyes water, but it’s the best thing I’ve felt in days.

For forty-eight hours, everyone in my life has treated me like I’m made of paper. Don’t lean too hard, Tess. Keep that leg elevated, Tess. Are you feeling tired, Tess? Do you need a blanket? I was losing my damn mind. So when Mara texted me earlier asking if I wanted to escape to the Bluejay for karaoke night, I couldn’t grab my crutches fast enough.

“My turn!” Mara squeals, grabbing my hand and tugging me toward the small raised wooden platform that serves as a stage.

The Bluejay is packed tonight. It’s a blur of flannel shirts, denim jackets, laughing locals, and the thick, comforting smell of stale beer and fried food. Nobody here is looking at me like I’m a tragic headline or a political pawn for high-society packs. Right now, I’m just a random girl making an absolute fool of herself.

I prop my crutches securely under my arms, balancing on my good leg as Mara grabs two wireless microphones. The intro music to a cheesy ’80s rock anthem blares through the speakers, and the crowd lets out a collective roar.

I don’t just sing—I belt it out. I swing my hips, toss my hair, and use one of my crutches as an air guitar while Mara hits the high notes with theatrical passion. By the time the song fades out, the whole bar is cheering and raising their glasses. Sweat slicking my hairline, my heart pounding in my chest, I feel alive. Not recovered, not safe—just alive.

As Mara leads us back toward the booth, my crutches thudding against the floorboards, a familiar tall silhouette catches my eye near the entrance.

I blink, clearing my hazy vision.

Miles is standing by the doorway, his coat unbuttoned, his glasses slightly askew as his eyes scan the chaotic bar. He looks utterly out of place amid the neon signs and sticky floors, like a brilliant academic who took a wrong turn into a saloon.

Then he spots us. His eyebrows shoot up behind his frames.

“Miles!” I yell, waving my microphone hand frantically. “Over here!”

He pushes through the crowd, making his way to our booth. “Tess? Mara? What on earth are you two doing here?”

“Living our best lives.” I grin, sliding into the booth and propping my cast up on the bench. “What are you doing here?”

“I just finished a late SAR data shift,” he says, taking off his glasses to wipe them on the hem of his shirt before slipping them back on. He looks at my flushed face, then at the empty shot glasses cluttering the table. “I came in to grab a takeout order. I certainly didn’t expect to find my patient downing tequila.”

“I am off the clock as a patient!” I laugh, pointing a finger at him. “Sit down. Drink with us. I’m ordering you a shot.”

“Tess, I really shouldn’t⁠—”

“Sit. Down,” Mara demands, sliding a chair over from an adjacent table and physically pushing him into it.

He sighs, but a reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He lets Mara order him a drink, and before long, he’s sipping a draft beer while Mara and I recount our legendary performance on stage. The analytical forecaster who tracks snowpack shifts is currently sitting in a dive bar booth, listening to us jabber about karaoke, and the contrast makes me giggle uncontrollably.

An hour later, the bar starts clearing out. Mara is practically asleep on her feet, leaning heavily against the table, and my head feels light, floating on a warm cloud of tequila and relief.

“All right,” Miles says, rising and retrieving his keys. “That’s enough for both of you. I’m driving you home.”

He helps us out to his clean, immaculately organized car. We drop Mara off at her place first, Miles making sure she stumbles safely through her front door before getting back into the driver’s seat.

The heavy quiet of the night settles into the car as he pulls away, the heater humming softly against the freezing air outside. The streetlights flick over the dashboard. I lean my head against the cold glass of the passenger window, watching the snow-dusted trees roll past, feeling the heavy buzz of the alcohol slowly shifting into fatigue.

I turn my head on the headrest, looking over at his profile illuminated by the green glow of the dashboard.