“It’s the next left, Mr. Dusty,” Samantha called from the back of the car where I sat next to her.

Since I got out of the hospital, Dustin had been driving her daily until I got the okay to drive, not that I understood why driving had been restricted over a miscarriage. This was the first day I tagged along, not out of lack of desire, but because initially I had been sleeping like I was catching up on a lifetime’s worth of sleep deprivation. The doctor said it was because of my red blood cell counts and gave me iron to help it along.

After that first two weeks of sleeping nonstop, I started to feel better. The two alphas spent the entire time being overprotective in a way that should’ve annoyed me, but I found oddly endearing. As I got better, they insisted it was best I only come for pickups and to work my way back into the routine, and I allowed it, selfishly, enjoying being taken care of for the first time in many years.

It was nice to see the two interact in their morning routine from Dustin making her favorite waffles, something she swore he didn’t do as well as Richard, earning her a pout, followed by extra maple syrup to try to tip the scales in his favor, to him making sure she had her backpack. They bantered, laughed, and acted like family, which, as wonderful as it was, was equally terrifying. Because we weren’t family. We were guests.

“Just Dusty,” he corrected her for the third time that ride alone. “And I know where it is. I’ve been driving you for three weeks now.” She stuck out her tongue, giving him raspberries, which he returned.

“I just don’t want to be late. Today I have art.” Art was good at this school, not as good as her old one, but given that everything else was a thousand percent better, I tried not to dwell on that. Mrs. St. John made that easier by giving her lessons occasionally.

“What are you working on?” I asked.

“We are doing color blending. It’s pretty cool, but I prefer three-dimensional projects.” That sounded about right. She had always been one to make things out of other things.

“What kinds of three-dimensional art pieces do you prefer?” Dustin asked from the driver’s seat as he made the final left turn of our trip. Art was his thing, and listening to the two of them talk art was never boring. I could ask what she was doing and nod and smile at her response. Dustin could not only understand what the terminology was, but could then turn it into a fascinating discussion on the topic, and often the two of them planned to work on something related.

“My favorite was when we got to go to the town recycling center and pick things out to create whatever we wanted.” We had pulled over at the drop-off point, but once she started talking about something as exciting to her as this was, no nuisance like punctuality got in the way. “But I also like working with clay and have this idea about breaking down pinecones and using the pieces to make animals. I haven’t thought that one all the way through yet. The texture just seems right.”

“I would love to talk to you more about that, but it’s time for you to get to class.”

I could almost see his wheels turning. If I had a spare dollar, I’d bet that when she got home after her lesson with Mrs. St. John, he was going to have those pinecones sitting and waiting for them to mess around with and probably create something brilliant. “Don’t want to be late for art class.”

“Thanks for the ride and thanks for the lunch.” She unbuckled her belt and leaned to the front to kiss his cheek goodbye. From the look on his face, it was the first time. It was such a tender moment. And then she channeled her inner me and added, “Lunchables suck.”

“True story. Not that you should be talking like me.” Even if those cold pizza ones with the sort of kind of cheese were made of the nasty. “Have a good day at school, Sam. Mrs. St. John is picking you up today. Maybe run that pinecone idea by her?”

“Good idea, SIah.” She cracked open her door, backpack and lunch in her right hand. “Who’s picking me up from art class?”

“Hopefully me. We will see what the doctor says about driving. Now off with you.” I shooed her out the door as I climbed out the other side.

“Ugg, you’re not coming in with me, are you?” She rolled her eyes as she shut her door with a little too much force.

“No, I’m going to the front seat. Mr. Dusty is not our chauffeur.” Although he probably felt like it after the past few weeks.

Jesus. I’d allowed us to impose on them for three weeks. We stayed at their house, ate their food, and utilized their transportation. We were imposing to the nth degree. Although they never once made me feel that way and, more often than not, it felt comfortable, like we belonged. Which was the biggest reason why we needed to get out of there. It was one thing for Samantha to not have what all her rich friends at school had, it was another to get a taste of that and then go back to mac and cheese as a food group.

As it was, she was going to have a rough time. She was so spoiled by both men, although Richard tried to hide it better than Dustin, pretending he wanted the fancy ice cream or to play chess just one more time. Not that he fooled Sam. She knew she had them both wrapped around her finger. They never stood a chance, she had me there, too.

“I wish he was our chauffeur.”

I closed the door, mortified he might have heard her brattiness. Thank goodness I did because then she added, “Then we could keep him. Bye.”

“Bye.” I half waved, my mind on her desire to keep him. Of course that was going to be an issue. She lost her parents, had a recent scare where she thought she almost lost me... Goodness, by us living at their house she also lost Mrs. Jones in a way.

I truly hoped I hadn’t messed all things up by allowing things to unfold the way they had. That seemed to be my life since losing my parents; constantly second-guessing everything I did for Samantha, hoping one day I’d feel like I was a good father type figure for her.

“What was that about?” Dusty asked as I climbed in. Stinks. He heard what she said. Of course he did.

“Oh, that was just Sam being almost eight. She got used to us staying with you, having fancy lunches, and having me around is all.” And being spoiled and given the attention she deserved and having a house with a yard she could run around in.

“Not that, but we’ll get back to that. The mister bit. It’s bad enough Sam keeps doing that, now you start.”

Samantha called him that because I insisted. There were few things I stood my ground on, especially when she batted her long eyelashes at me and stuck out her lip. Calling grown-ups Mrs. or Mr. Or Rev. or Doc or whatever was appropriate was one of those things.

“Dusty. I called you Mr. Dusty to model to Sam so she didn’t start disrespecting you, that’s all.” It was my way of reminding her to not take him up on his offer; never once had it crossed my mind it would hurt his feelings.

“I’m fine if she calls me Dusty.” He pulled away from the curb, the road finally void of small humans racing to get to class. “It’s not like we’re strangers. We live together, at least for now.”

“About that. We need to go back home. I need to get back to work and Sam needs to be back to her normal, as wonderful as this has been.” And it had been. Too wonderful. And if we stayed there longer, Sam wasn’t going to be the only one having issues adjusting back to our old life.

We sat silently for a few minutes as he drove me back to the city for my doctor’s appointment. I’d gone into the lab the day before to give a blood panel, and if all went well, my appointment would give me the all clear on everything, including work and trying to get pregnant again.

“It doesn’t need to stop,” he finally said. “But first I need to get back to the Dusty thing.”

“It really bothers you.” I didn’t get that. Who gets upset at being called a respectful name? It wasn’t like she called him asshat or hey, you. Mr. Dusty was pretty much a commonly accepted way to address your elders.

“It kind of does.” His hand landed on my knee briefly before he yanked it back. That was another reason we needed to get back home. Every time he or Richard accidentally touched me, it felt... real. They were married, so it couldn’t be, and that was mind fucking me worse than all the rest of the situation combined.

“Can we pick a different title?” It took me a second to realize what he was referring to, my mind still stuck on how his hand had felt on my knee.

“Alpha Dusty?” It was super old-fashioned, but some alphas liked to be reminded of their designation.

“I was thinking Uncle Dusty. People do that you know, have their kids refer to their friends as aunt and uncle.”

It was true. They did. But uncle would indicate a different level of relationship than we had or probably should have considering our friendship was based on a nine-month contract that had been unexpectedly extended.

“Is that what we are? Because some days it feels like we are friends and then I remember why we even met. It kind of messes with the mind.” I snapped my mouth shut.

That was shit that needed to stay in my head, not blabbed out. What was I going to spit out next? That I had a wet dream about he and his husband doing me until I saw stars? Sure, it was true, but some things never needed to be spoken of. My weird feelings for the guys were definitely tops on that list. It was probably hormones anyway.

“It is unconventional,” he mused and I closed my eyes, willing him not to try to discuss things further, which he blissfully did not, at least not then. “So about Uncle Dusty or just Dusty—anything but Mister. At first it was kind of cute and now it just—”

“Makes you feel old?” I jibed, grateful for his focus on something other than my oversharing.

“That.” He laughed, but it was forced. It had nothing to do with his age, not that I was going to push him on the subject even if he had no problem pushing me on things he wanted to discuss.

“Fine.” I let out a slow breath. It might have been years ago, but talking about my parents tended to open the wound. Less so over time, but it still made all conversations around them difficult, to say the least. “If she wants to call you Uncle Dusty or something else respectful, she can. It’s just that was a pretty big deal to my mom when I was growing up so—”

“I’m an ass.” His hand landed on my knee again and unlike last time, he didn’t yank it away as if I burned him, instead giving it a small squeeze and leaving it there as we pulled to a stop at the light. “You should have said Mister is fine.” He looked at me as he spoke, and it was almost too much to have him touching me, staring at me with such sincerity in his eyes. When the car behind honked at us for not going the nanosecond the light changed green, Dusty snapped his head back to the road, his hand finding the steering wheel.

“No. You’re right.” I continued trying not to think about the way his hand warmed my entire body and how I felt its absence in my marrow. “Even with us moving back home once I get the all clear today, she will still see you. It makes sense.”

“About that.” Because he said he’d get back to the topic even though I was fine dropping it. A quick glance out the window told me we were close to the doctor’s so at least it wouldn’t be an extended conversation. “Why are you in a rush to leave? Have we made you uncomfortable?”

Fuckity fuck fuck. That was the last thing I wanted to even cross their minds.

“No. Of course not. It’s just, we have a home.” A tiny falling apart-apartment in a crappy building, but a rent-controlled one.

“It’s not ideal.”

“No, but it’s ours. And I need to get back to work. I told Larry I’d probably be back this week. I have to wait a full week from clear to go back to the coffee shop, though, because of how they do the schedule.” Although I was pretty sure if I called and told them I had the go-ahead, they’d find at least a couple of shifts for me.

“Larry said you could come back?” He sounded more angry than questioning my honesty. “He seemed pretty worried about you.”

He had been. He didn’t even laugh at our running joke when I called him Pete. He said I scared the shit out of him, and if I ever did it again he’d kick the tar out of me. Which was so Larry. He had a heart of gold, but showed it in some less than eloquent ways.

“He is, and he told me he prefered I didn’t, but that if I felt it necessary I could come anytime.” The implication being he’d rather I work where he could keep an eye on me than someplace else if I insisted on being stubborn.

“I know you don’t like us paying for things, but to be fair, if it wasn’t for us you wouldn’t have been in the hospital in the first place.”

He turned onto the road we were looking for, a secondary office for the doctor who completed my implantation.

“Let us do this.” His voice softened at his plea. Part of me wanted to agree. No, most of me did. Then there was the part of me that knew if I did it would only make things worse at the end: leaving the baby I grew in their loving arms in a place that felt home to me so I could go back to a life of trying to get by. No, leaving was for the best. Why did the idea of it have to hurt so badly?

“For how long? It’s not like this can be my forever life. I will need those jobs when this is over.” The building we needed came into sight, giving me the reprieve I needed. “It’s in that building. 893 with the green awning. You can drop me off there.”

“Like hell I can,” he snapped, my words apparently causing a knee-jerk reaction. “I’m going in with you.”

“Ummm, it’s kind of private.” I bit my lip, looking down, not wanting to think of him in that room as I lay naked beneath a robe that didn’t close as a doctor I’d only met twice poked and prodded at me. No thank you.

“Not in there.” He let out a huff as he pulled into a spot reserved for patients. “But to the office in case you want the doctor to tell me something or, I don’t know, but I’m going.”

Because he worried. And not just about the baby, but about Sam and me. We were quickly sliding into dangerous territory.

We walked into the building, his body close enough for me to feel his heat, our arms brushing as we entered the elevator and then again as we entered the office. It was the kind of touching people did all the time as they went about their day, never giving it a second thought. But this was Dusty. I couldn’t help but give it a third, fourth, and even fifth thought.

Having already seen the doctor, the receptionist had me sign in and sit down, the nurse calling my name before I even picked up a magazine.

“Mr. Martin. Hi, I’m Nurse Tina.” She greeted me before leading me down the hallway to a small exam room. “Let’s get your vitals and get ready for the doctor.”

She took my temp, weight, and blood pressure before instructing me to undress and don the paper robe they so kindly provided. There was not much worse than getting naked for a virtual stranger.

“Knock knock. It’s me,” the doctor called just as I sat on the exam table. If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn he had a sensor telling him when someone sat on it.

“Hello, Doctor. What’s the good word?” I greeted him with a half smile. I knew the importance of this exam and was a nervous wreck, still blown away my blood pressure hadn’t been sky-high from anxiety.

“You tell me. Any discomfort?” He was old-school, carrying a chart instead of a computer and flipping through the pages as he waited for me to answer.

“Not anymore.” The first couple of days had been awful, but once that passed, it had been clear sailing with the exception of the exhaustion which finally had let up.

““Ok, lie back, and I’m going to press around and see if I can make you flinch.”

I forced a laugh at his attempt at lightening the mood which fell terribly flat.

“You do know your humor would be lost on most.”

“Ahh, but you are not most so all is well.” He pushed my shoulders slightly, indicating he needed me to lie back before sliding his hands under my paper robe, poking and prodding at me with increasing pressure. “Anything tender to my touch?”

“No.” Not that it was comfortable to be lying on a hard table as he kneaded me like a cat. At least he didn’t have claws.

“Here.” He offered me a hand, helping me up to a seated position. “The blood test you took yesterday came back all normal, your vitals were good today, and you seem to have healed nicely. I feel comfortable giving you a letter to go back to work.”

I impressed myself by not giving a fist pump at the amazing news. I could provide for my Samantha and pay my own bills. Or would be able to soon, which was good enough.

“Thanks.” I swallowed before asking him about the elephant in the room. “Does this mean I’m ready to try again?”

“Emotionally, only you can answer that. Your miscarriage wasn’t caused by any issues with your body, per se. As far as I see it, there is additional risk you wouldn’t face with any pregnancy. I might wait another month to be sure you are fully healed, but I’d clear you for pregnancy. That said, if you aren’t ready, I would also be happy to write you a note saying the contrary to allow you time to decide.”

I wanted to turn it down outright. I wanted to try again. Dusty and Richard were going to make amazing parents. But then there was the fear of losing their baby again, causing them all that distress because I wasn’t strong enough to carry their baby to term. Even though I heard the doctor say it wasn’t my fault, it didn’t ease all the what ifs. What if I’d eaten better? What if I’d slept more? What if I went in right as I felt wrong? What ifs were toxic and couldn’t bring the baby back and I knew that, but it didn’t stop them from popping into my head.

“Thanks, Doctor.” I finally spoke. “I think I will take it, just in case.”

I wouldn’t use it. I couldn’t. But it was nice to have in case when the time came I wasn’t strong enough. Not strong enough for them, for Sam, for the baby that needed me to give her a home until she could take her first breath.

I needed to be strong enough.