Page 34 of Run Wild Omega

I look at Wyatt. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t snap.

“You’re just trying to help,” Wyatt says, his voice low. “I know that.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway.” Dylan sighs, running a hand through his hair. “She’s not going to come. And honestly, I don’t blame her.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because she’s stubborn,” Dylan says. “And because I think she’s happier alone than she’s letting on.”

“She’s not happy alone,” Wyatt mutters, almost to himself.

“She’s safe,” Dylan counters. “To her, right now, those are the same thing.”

The air in the room gets heavy. We tread this ground often, skirting around the subject of Tess without ever really touching the wound. We talk around it because talking about it directly makes Wyatt retreat into a shell of silence and guilt.

I decide to shift the trajectory. Dylan needs to decompress, not be interrogated about his matchmaking attempts.

“Tell us about the rest of your day,” I say, pulling a chair around to face him. “The fire wasn’t the only thing.”

Dylan takes the beer, pops the cap, and takes a long swig. “You wouldn’t believe it. The rookie—kid named Matthews—forgot to close his valve on the engine. Sprayed foam all over the chief’s truck. The chief is about three seconds from apoplexy.”

I laugh, the image clear in my mind. The chief is a man who treats his truck like a holy relic. “Is he fired?”

“Worse. He’s on bathroom cleaning duty for a month.”

Wyatt leans back against the windowsill, crossing his arms. A small smile touches his lips. “Deserved.”

“Totally.” Dylan grins. “But before that, we did a drill at the old lumberyard. High-angle rescue. Kid almost fell off the roof. I had to grab him by the harness.”

“Adrenaline junkie,” I say.

“Yeah.” Dylan looks at the beer bottle in his hand. “I don’t know how you do it, Miles. The calculating part. I just run in. If I stopped to think about the physics of a burning building collapsing, I’d never move.”

“I trust the math,” I say simply. “The math doesn’t panic. The math doesn’t have ego.”

“I’d freeze,” Dylan admits. “If I had to look at a slope and calculate the fracture lines like you do, I’d freeze. I need the heat to push me.”

“You trust your instincts,” Wyatt says. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Maybe.” Dylan finishes the beer and sets the empty bottle aside. “But speaking of heat… I have steaks at my place. Thick cuts. Ribeyes.” He looks between us, a hopeful light in his eyes. “Come over? We can watch that documentary on the Everest ’96 disaster you wanted to see, Miles. I’ll cook.”

It’s a kind offer. A pack evening. Food, distraction, warmth. It’s exactly what we usually do to shake off the week.

“Sounds good,” I say.

Wyatt hesitates. He looks out the window again, at the darkening sky. “I don’t know, Dylan. There’s Pip. And the weather⁠—”

“Pip can come,” Dylan interrupts. “And the weather is just snow, Wyatt. It’s not a storm yet. Come on. You’re going to sit in the dark and brood if you go home.”

I see the struggle on Wyatt’s face. He wants to be with us, but he’s exhausted in a way sleep won’t fix.

“Come on,” I say gently. “Even heroes need steak.”

Wyatt exhales, a long breath that seems to deflate his shoulders. “Okay. Fine. One beer. Then I have to go.”

Dylan beams. “Deal. I’ll drive. My truck is already warmed up.”

He stands up, grabbing the rest of the beer.