Skyler

You stood in your kitchen staring at your phone while rain hit hard against the windows, exhaustion heavy on your body. Your apartment felt colder now and empty in a way it hadn’t been for a while.

Like something else had quietly left when you told him to leave.

Your fingers brushed unconsciously against your mark again, a gesture that once brought you a small bit of comfort now made tears well up in your eyes.

Sighing softly, you unlocked your phone again despite knowing what you’d see.

23 unread messages.

14 missed calls.

9 voicemails.

All from Dex.

You hadn’t answered a single call, hadn’t listened to a single voicemail, and hadn’t opened a single message. 

Tapping the messages app, you saw that they had started normal the messages had gradually got less coherent as the days passed.

Dex: Are you okay?

Dex: Please answer.

Dex: I’m sorry.

Dex: I’m trying.

Dex: You said leave you alone.

Dex: I’m trying to do that.

Dex: Please answer the phone.

The last message had arrived nearly seven hours ago, and the lack of anything else since has left you feeling more unsettled than relieved. But the ache in your chest still deepened as you locked your phone again and tossed it onto the counter.

Leaning heavily against the counter, you closed your eyes to try to stop the tears from coming because this was what they wanted, wasn’t it?

Distance. Space. No Dex.

So why did it feel like something was broken and bleeding inside you now that he was gone?

Because he had noticed you. You thought to yourself.

Because Dex had noticed everything about you.

He had noticed when your shoulder hurt, when you skipped meals, when you were exhausted, when your smile wasn’t real.

How he looked at you like you mattered, like you were something precious.

And now the silence he’d left behind haunted your apartment like a trapped ghost.

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Your phone ringing loudly on your bedside drawer startled you awake hard enough that your heart jumped painfully.

Grabbing it with a groan, the brightness of it blinded you before the name flashing on the screen made your stomach twist immediately.

Dex.

Glancing at the numbers on the top of the screen, you felt your heart begin to race again.

2:17 AM.

Dex never called this late. He knew your schedule too well and knew how little sleep you got between the apothecary and the clinic. Your stomach clenched again as the ringtone ended and a ping indicating a voicemail came through a few moments later.

But what made your chest tighten was the notification that showed he had already called four times before this one had finally woken you up.

You knew that you had been tired last night, but tired enough to miss four phone calls? You bit your lip with worry.

Then your phone rang again, and before you could think yourself out of it, you answered.

“Dex?” You asked into the phone.

He didn’t answer, but the sound of heavy, uneven breathing came through the phone.

But it was the sound of something falling somewhere made you worry instantly.

“Dex?” You asked again.

A long pause.

Then finally he spoke quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Your eyes closed briefly as your stomach settled, but hearing those words from him made your chest ache.

“What happened?” you asked softly.

More silence.

“You told me to leave you alone.” His voice sounded wrong. “I was trying to.”

The words hit painfully as you swallowed hard.

“Dex—”

“I can’t think when it’s quiet.” His voice was frustrated now as something crashed faintly in the background.

You straightened up immediately. “Are you hurt?”

Another pause.

“… No.”

A lie, and you could hear it instantly.

“Where are you?” You asked as your fingers tightened around the phone.

“At home.” His breathing stuttered unevenly again. “Baby, I’m trying very hard not to come see you.”

You felt a tear slip down your cheek at his words. Because he had listened, even if it was destroying him.

You stared out at the rain streaking your apartment windows before moving out of bed and through the apartment.

“I’m coming over.” You said sliding on your shoes and then grabbing your coat and keys.

The silence on the other end was immediate.

“You don’t have to.” He whispered.

“I know.”

Another long pause.

“Okay.”

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Dex’s apartment looked like a war zone.

The moment he opened the door, you immediately froze. Glass littered the floor, a lamp had been shattered against the wall, one of the dining chairs lay broken near the kitchen, there were dents in the drywall, and blood was smeared across the edge of the counter.

And standing in the middle of it all was Dex.

Barefoot, breathing unevenly with his knuckles split open and bloodied.

Your chest tightened sadly because now every unread message felt heavier. More desperate.

Dex’s eyes immediately found yours and stayed there as if he was checking you were real.

“You came.”

The words sounded almost uncertain as your gaze slowly swept over the apartment again.

“What happened?”

Dex looked away for the first time since opening the door.

“I got angry.”

Your eyes dropped to his bleeding hands.

“You punched the wall.”

“Yes.”

Apparently several times you thought to yourself.

You stepped carefully over shattered glass as you entered his apartment and shut the door behind you. The place smelled faintly of blood and something electrical from the broken lamp.

But Dex didn’t move. Didn’t come closer. He was still doing what you’d said that night.

Leave me alone.

“Sit down,” you said quietly, pointing to his sofa.

He obeyed immediately.

You grabbed the first aid kit from where it sat untouched under the kitchen sink before kneeling carefully in front of him.

His eyes never left your face. Not once.

The cuts across his knuckles were messy and swollen already as you gently took one of his hands in yours. The soulmate mark on your collarbone burned faintly at the contact.

Dex inhaled sharply.

You ignored it.

“Why didn’t you clean these?”

Dex watched your thumb brush carefully beneath his split knuckles.

“I couldn’t focus.”

Your chest ached at his words as you carefully soaked a gauze and gently cleaned the blood from his skin.

The apartment remained painfully quiet except for the sound of heavy rain against the windows.

Dex looked exhausted. Like something inside him had been wound too tightly for too long and finally snapped.

“You should’ve listened to the voicemails,” he said quietly after a while.

You glanced up briefly. “Were they coherent?”

“… No.”

Despite yourself, a small, tired laugh escaped you.

Dex’s mouth twitched faintly at the sound and then disappeared again.

“I tried,” he admitted softly.

Your hands stilled slightly against his skin. “I know.”

“No,” he said quietly. “You don’t.”

His jaw tightened once. “I stayed away.”

Guilt twisted low in your stomach.

Not because his spiral was your fault. It wasn’t.

But because you suddenly understood how hard he’d actually tried.

“I know,” you repeated softer this time.

Dex finally looked away again. “I kept thinking about what you said.”

Leave me alone.

The memory made your chest tighten painfully.

“I didn’t mean forever, baby,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

Dex’s eyes snapped back to yours immediately. Something desperate flickered there so quickly it almost hurt to look at.

You quickly focused back on healing his hands.

Your powers stirred faintly beneath your skin as you carefully brushed your fingers across his bruised knuckles. Warmth spread softly from your touch, easing some of the swelling before the wounds closed.

“All done.” Your hands faintly shook as you pulled them away from him.

Dex exhaled softly as the pain left his hands.

“You’re tired,” he murmured immediately.

Of course he noticed, you thought to yourself. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

You snorted quietly. “A little hypocritical coming from you.”

His mouth twitched again. A tiny, almost smile.

God, you had missed that.

The realisation settled heavily in your chest.

Carefully setting the supplies aside, you leaned back slightly against the sofa, Dex still watching you like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked.

“You destroyed your apartment,” you muttered softly.

“I know.” He whispered.

“You probably scared the neighbours.”

“I know.”

“You called me at two in the morning.”

At that, something conflicted crossed his expression.

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

The honesty in his voice hit harder than anything else tonight.

You looked at him quietly for a long moment, then slowly reached out and touched his face.

Dex immediately went still beneath your hand. His eyes fluttered shut briefly as he leaned into your touch.

Your thumb brushed gently beneath the bruise near his cheekbone.

“You should’ve called earlier.”

Dex opened his eyes again slowly.

“You told me to leave you alone.”

God.

The fact he treated every word you said like they were sacrosanct made your chest ache.

You swallowed thickly. “I know.”

A softer silence settled this time as Dex leaned further into your touch almost unconsciously, like he needed it.

Your heartbeat stumbled painfully.

Because this right here felt dangerously close to the tenderness you had wanted for years, and maybe that was what scared you most. Not the violence, not the obsession, but this.

This softness.

“I missed you.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

Dex froze completely as his eyes searched your face like he didn’t trust what he’d heard.

Then something inside him visibly unraveled.

His hand lifted slowly toward your face like he was afraid you might pull away. When you didn’t, his fingers brushed your cheek carefully.

Reverently. Like you were something breakable.

“You did?” he asked softly.

Your chest tightened. “Yes.”

The confession settled heavily between you.

Dex stared at you for one long second before suddenly leaning forward and kissing you.

This kiss felt nothing like the last one.

It wasn’t desperate, wasn’t forceful, and there was no panic like before, just warmth and careful hesitancy in a way that almost hurt more.

Your breath caught sharply.

Then slowly you kissed him back.

The soulmate bond burned warmly beneath your skin as his other hand slid carefully to your jaw, thumbs caressing against both your cheeks like he still wasn’t fully convinced you were real.

And God, you wanted this, wanted him.

The realisation hit hard enough that you pulled back abruptly.

Dex immediately stiffened as panic flashed across his face so quickly it hurt to see.

“I’m sorry,” he said instantly. “I thought—”

“No.”

You cupped his face quickly before he could spiral again.

“No, that’s not—”

But his breathing had already started changing again, sharp and uneven.

You moved closer instinctively.

“I wanted that,” you admitted softly.

Dex stared at you. “But you’re upset.”

“No, baby, it’s—I liked it.”

His expression shifted into something stunned and painfully hopeful all at once.

You let out a shaky breath. “This is complicated.”

“I know.”

“You don’t actually.”

That nearly made him smile again as your thumb brushed carefully across his cheek.

“I just…” your voice softened, “I don’t want this to happen because you’re vulnerable right now.”

Understanding slowly crossed his face before it turned almost unbearably soft.

“You stayed anyway,” he whispered.

The vulnerability in his voice nearly wrecked you as your forehead gently rested against his.

“I’m still here.”

Dex went completely still beneath your touch. Then slowly his eyes closed. Like those words physically settled something broken inside him.

The apartment remained quiet around you, the rain still landing hard against the windows.

Your fingers slid gently through his hair as his breathing finally began to even out beneath your touch.

“You should sleep,” you murmured eventually.

Dex opened his eyes again immediately. “You’ll leave.”

The certainty in his voice hurt. You shook your head softly.

“Not tonight.”

Fragile relief crossed his face then.

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The apartment was less like a war zone come morning light after you spent the three hours that you couldn’t sleep tidying it up as best as you could.

You stood in Dex’s kitchen wearing one of his shirts while making coffee as the sun shone in through the windows. Behind you, Dex leaned silently against the counter watching you.

“You stare a lot,” you muttered softly.

“I like looking at you.”

Heat crawled faintly into your face as you turned toward him, holding out his coffee. Dex took it carefully, his knuckles looking significantly better this morning after your healing.

“You didn’t sleep much,” he observed immediately.

“Neither did you.”

“But I slept.”

You blinked slightly at the quiet honesty in his voice before you realised that he meant he slept because you stayed. The thought settled pleasantly deep in your chest as you leaned lightly against the counter beside him.

The silence this morning didn’t feel awkward.

Just…quiet.

“You’re not scared of me.”

The words came suddenly.

You looked at him carefully. “No.”

Dex studied your face closely. “You probably should be.”

You snorted softly. “There’s the self-awareness.”

His mouth twitched slightly, then faded. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache again. “I know.”

Silence stretched softly between you.

Then Dex spoke again. “What do you want?”

The question caught you off guard.

Not because of the question itself. But because no one had really asked you that through all of this.

What do you want?

Not what would Matt want? Or what would Karen think? Or what’s morally right?

Just…you.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your mug.

You. You thought to yourself. 

“I don’t know,” you said quietly. 

Dex nodded once like he understood.

“One date.” He said after a moment.

You looked at him.

His expression remained calm, but there was something careful underneath it now. Something uncertain.

“I’m not asking for anything else,” he said quietly. “Just one date.”

Your heartbeat stumbled.

Because this wasn’t fate demanding something from you, it wasn’t obsession, this was a choice. Your choice. And for the first time since all of this began, you let yourself think about what you actually wanted.

Not what everyone else feared.

Not what everyone else expected.

You thought about the warm takeout left on counters, the flowers at the apothecary, the eye-colored rocks, his gentle calloused hands against your skin, and someone who looked at you like you mattered.

Your lips parted softly “… Okay.”

The word barely left your mouth before something in Dex’s expression softened so completely it almost took your breath away. It wasn’t triumph, not total possession, but quiet happiness.

Real happiness.

Happiness that felt far more satisfying than anything else.

You stood in front of your mirror adjusting the lace-up straps of your floral-patterned sundress for what had to be the tenth time before sighing softly at yourself.

Karen would never let you live this down if she could see the nervous state of you now.

Your fingers brushed absentmindedly over the soulmate mark resting on your collarbone. The skin there felt warm today. Not burning, not aching, just warm like it was reacting to your nerves and excitement.

Sighing softly, you stepped away from the bedroom mirror and grabbed your bag just as a knock sounded at your apartment door.

Your heartbeat stumbled immediately.

Early. Of course he was early. 

A small smile tugged at your mouth before you could stop it. Crossing the apartment, you opened the door to find Dex standing there holding a small terracotta pot carefully in one hand.

For a moment neither of you spoke, and annoyingly your breath caught slightly at the sight of him because he looked good wearing a black shirt, dark jacket, and his hair neater than usual. Like he’d actually spent time getting ready.

Stupidly good, you thought to yourself. 

But then the realisation that Dex had dressed up for you made warmth spread low in your chest and stomach.

His eyes moved slowly over you before settling on your face. His expression softened instantly. “You look pretty.”

Heat flushed your cheeks as the honesty in his voice hit harder than any flirting would’ve.

“Thank you,” you said softly before glancing at the plant in his hands. “What’s that?”

Dex immediately held it out toward you. “Lemon balm.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly as you carefully took the pot from him.

“Lemon balm? Most people give roses.”

“You use it constantly, and you don’t like roses.”

Of course he noticed that. Your fingers brushed gently against the soft green leaves as warmth spread through your chest.

“It helps with anxiety and sleep,” he continued quietly. “And headaches.”

You looked back up at him slowly. “Nobody remembers the things I use at the apothecary.”

Dex’s expression barely changed. “I do.”

God, that shouldn’t affect you as much as it did.

Stepping aside, you let him into the apartment while trying very hard to ignore how warm your face suddenly felt.

“You’re early,” you said, setting the plant carefully beside the window.

“I know.”

“You know most people usually pretend not to be eager.”

“I wasn’t pretending.”

You laughed softly before you could stop yourself.

Dex immediately looked at you, focusing like your laugh was a bottle of liquid gold. It did strange things to your heartbeat.

“You’re staring again,” you muttered, grabbing your cardigan.

“I like looking at you.”

“You say things like that very casually.”

“They’re true.”

You shook your head softly despite smiling as you walked toward the door.

“Come on before I decide not to go.”

Dex opened the door for you immediately. “You won’t.”

The confidence in his voice should’ve annoyed you, but instead it made your chest warm. Because for the first time in months, you didn’t want to run from this, from him.

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The park he took you to was beautiful.

Quiet enough that the city noise faded into a distant hum, trees swaying gently in the warm afternoon breeze as sunlight filtered through the leaves.

You stared at the picnic setup in front of you before slowly looking at Dex.

“…You brought an actual blanket.”

“Yes.”

“And three containers of food.”

“Yes.”

“And backup utensils.”

“Yes.”

You blinked at him. “Dex.”

“What?” The way he tilted his head was awfully like a lost puppy.

A laugh escaped you. “A backup fork?”

“You dropped yours once at the diner and refused to use it afterwards.”

Your chest warmed again because, of course, he knew that too.

Dex watched your face carefully. “You think it’s excessive.”

“I think it’s a little adorable.” The word slipped out accidentally.

Dex froze, actually froze, before a Cheshire-like smile spread across his face. You felt heat immediately crawl into your cheeks.

“Well,” you muttered, sitting down quickly on the blanket. “Now I regret saying that.”

Dex slowly sat beside you. “You called me adorable.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“You think I’m adorable.”

“Oh my God.”

The quiet amusement in his voice made you laugh again, and something in Dex’s expression softened so quickly at the sound that your heart nearly betrayed you entirely.

Oh, it’s scary how easy this feels, you thought to yourself, how easy he feels despite how dangerous he is. 

You pushed the thought away as Dex opened one of the containers, and your eyes widened slightly.

“You got food from Pop’s Corner Deli?”

“You like their sandwiches.”

“You noticed that?”

“You buy lunch there every Thursday.”

You stared at him.

Dex paused slightly. “…Was that strange?”

“No,” you said honestly. “Just very…observant.”

“I observe you a lot.”

The blunt honesty nearly made you choke on your drink, and Dex immediately handed you a napkin.

“You okay?” He asked, rubbing your back. 

You snorted softly.

“You cannot say things like that so casually.”

“They’re true.”

There it was again, that impossible honesty that made your heart flutter. Honesty that wasn’t fake or a game. It was honesty that was just Dex, and it was becoming your favorite version of him.

That realisation settled quite nicely inside your chest.

The two of you spent the next hour talking more easily than you expected as Dex asked questions constantly, and not the shallow ones people ask when they’re just being polite, but real ones. 

“What was your favorite book as a kid?”

“The original Fear Street series by R. L. Stine.”

“What made you start working at the clinic?”

“Extra money. I was a poor mid-twenties girl.”

“Do you like healing people?”

“Yes, but it’s tiring sometimes.”

“Do you ever wish you’d left New York?”

“Yes, I have always wanted to travel.”

“What makes you happiest?”

“Plants and chocolate-covered strawberries.”

Nobody had ever asked you questions like they actually wanted to know the answers before, yet Dex listened to each one like it mattered. Like you mattered.

“You ask a lot of questions,” you said eventually, leaning back on your hands as the breeze lifted strands of your hair.

Dex looked completely unashamed. “I like hearing you talk.”

Your stomach fluttered annoyingly at how straightforward he always was.

“Well,” you said carefully, “then it’s your turn.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“What? You think you can interrogate me for an entire afternoon without answering questions yourself?” You smiled. 

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Interrogate?”

“You literally asked me what my favourite childhood book was.”

“That’s important information.”

You laughed softly. “Okay then, Poindexter. Favourite movie.”

He answered immediately. “The Empire Strikes Back.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“You like Star Wars?”

“You sound surprised.”

“You don’t exactly give off sci-fi fan energy.”

“What energy do I give off?”

You opened your mouth, paused, then grinned. “Serial killer documentaries.”

Dex snorted quietly into his drink.

Actually snorted.

You stared at him in mild shock. “Was that a laugh?”

“No.”

“That was definitely a laugh.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You just made a noise.”

Dex looked deeply offended. “I make noises all the time.”

“That sounded worse than what I meant.” You laughed.

His eyes flickered with amusement as more laughter escaped before you could stop it.

God, it was dangerous how easy he was becoming.

“How about you?” he asked after a moment. “Favourite movie.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “I’m not sure.”

Dex tilted his head slightly. “Why?”

“I’m more of a TV series girl instead of a movie girl.”

“Really?”

“I mean, I’ll watch a movie if it interests me, but I like shows more.” You move from leaning back on your hands to your elbows.

“Well, then, what’s your favourite TV show?”

“Supernatural.”

“Why?” Dex asks, passing you another sandwich.

“Because it’s about two cool brothers hunting monsters like demons and vampires.” You say while taking a bite from the sandwich.

“You like that?” 

“Yes.” 

“I can tell.”

You kicked his foot lightly on the blanket.

Dex looked down at where your shoe touched his before glancing back up at you with something unbearably soft in his expression. Like even that smallest touch meant something to him.

Maybe it did.

“You know,” you said after a moment, “you’re much calmer than I expected.”

His expression shifted slightly at that. “Disappointed?”

“No.” Your answer came instantly. “Just surprised.”

Dex looked away briefly toward the trees swaying overhead. “You make it quiet.”

Your heartbeat stumbled softly. “What does that mean?”

“When I’m around other people…” He paused carefully, like he was trying to explain something he normally kept locked away. “Everything feels loud and irritating. But with you it doesn’t.”

The honesty in his voice settled warmly deep inside your chest.

You looked down at your hands for a moment before quietly asking, “Is that why you keep finding me?”

“Yes, and because you’re mine.”

Another honest, certain answer that no longer made panic claw up your throat. Instead it made warmth spread through you slowly.

A comfortable silence settled afterward as the two of you kept eating, sunlight warming your skin while distant laughter drifted through the park.

Then your eyes narrowed slightly as you watched Dex effortlessly toss a grape upward before catching it in his mouth without even looking.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

Dex glanced at you innocently. “What?”

“That sharpshooter nonsense doesn’t count.” You say, pointing at him.

“It was a grape.”

“You’re showing off.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“That makes it worse.”

A smug look of satisfaction flickered briefly across his face before he picked up another grape and held it out toward you.

“Try.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously before taking it. “I’m going to regret this.”

“Probably.” He smirked. 

You tossed the grape upward, tracking it carefully with your eyes, only for it to bounce directly off your forehead.

Dex stared at you for half a second before laughing quietly into his hand.

Actually laughing.

Your jaw dropped. “You’re laughing at me.”

“You hit yourself.”

“You distracted me!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You have distracting energy.”

That only made him laugh harder and louder this time, and the sound made your heart race in your chest as a wonderfully warm feeling spread across your body.

And suddenly all you could think was, Oh, I’m in trouble, as you found yourself relaxing without realising it. Laughing easier, talking more, teasing him.

“You definitely practiced this date.” You said popping a grape in your mouth. 

Dex looked offended with another sandwich raised halfway towards his mouth. 

“I did not practice.”

“You absolutely practiced.”

“I planned.”

“You researched parks, didn’t you?”

“…Maybe.”

You laughed again.

“I knew it.”

“It’s a quiet area,” he defended immediately. “Minimal noise, minimal people, fewer interruptions.”

“You sound like you’re planning a kidnapping or something.” You teased. 

“I wanted it to go well.”

The quiet sincerity in his voice made your stomach flutter softly because suddenly you could see it so clearly. The careful planning, the attentiveness, the nervousness hidden beneath every decision.

This mattered to him. A lot. But it also mattered a lot to you too.

The buzzing of a bumblebee flying near the picnic blanket is what broke your thoughts as you instinctively leaned back slightly so you wouldn’t accidentally hurt it.

Dex noticed immediately, and without a word he carefully cupped his hands around it before standing and walking several feet away before letting it go near the flowers.

When he returned, you stared at him quietly with your chest twisting pleasantly.

“What?” He asked. 

“You moved the bee.”

“You didn’t want it hurt.” The simplicity of his answer made your heartbeat stumble hard enough to nicely ache.

Because nobody besides Matt noticed things like that. They didn’t pay attention to tiny reactions from you, but Dex always did.

Always.

“You’re staring now,” he said quietly.

You smiled before reaching over and fixing the collar of his shirt slightly where it had folded inward. Dex immediately went still beneath your touch, his eyes now fixed on your face.

Your fingers lingered against his collar for a second too long, but neither of you moved away as the air between you shifted softly into something warmer. More intimate.

Your hand slowly slid from his collar down his arm before resting lightly over his hand on the blanket. Dex inhaled sharply enough that you noticed before his fingers immediately intertwined carefully with yours. Like he’d wanted to do it for hours.

And honestly? So had you.

The soulmate bond tingled warmly beneath your skin. But for once it wasn’t the thing overwhelming you.

It was him.

The way he looked at you, the way he listened, the way he noticed everything about you, and the way he touched you like you were something precious. 

“You’re quiet,” Dex murmured softly.

You looked down at your joined hands.

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

You glanced back up at him slowly. “This is nice.”

Something almost unbearably soft and relaxed crossed his face.

“Yes,” he agreed quietly. “It is.”

And God, you liked this, liked him. Not just the bond, not just the attention.

Him.

The realisation settled strangely peacefully inside your chest. There was no panic, no guilt. Just truth.

Hours slipped by far too quickly after that.

You walked through quieter trails together afterwards, shoulders brushing as the sun slowly dipped lower across the city skyline. At some point your shoulder started aching faintly from the colder evenings and overworking yourself at the clinic earlier that week.

You hadn’t even realised you were rubbing it until Dex’s hand gently caught your wrist.

“Come here.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he stepped behind you and rested his hands carefully against your shoulders. Warmth spread slowly through the aching muscle as he gently massaged it.

Your eyes fluttered shut immediately. “Oh.”

“Tense?” he asked quietly.

“Very.” 

His thumbs worked carefully against the knot of pain near your scar. Not pressing too hard, not rushing, just steady but gentle circular motions.

“You take care of everyone else,” he murmured softly behind you. “Someone should take care of you too.”

Your chest tightened painfully because maybe that was the problem. Ever since your dad died all those years ago, it had only been you and Matt, but it had been years since you two had gotten separate apartments. 

You leaned back slightly into his warmth before realising what you were doing, and Dex immediately stilled before slowly wrapping his arms around your shoulders, testing to see if you would push him away or not. 

His breath caught quietly behind you as you slowly relaxed against him fully, but neither of you spoke for a moment. The parks noise drifted softly around you as the sun painted everything a soft gold.

His arms felt safe…and warm…and peaceful.

You hadn’t realised how badly you needed something peaceful until now. Eventually Dex’s hands slid carefully down your arms before he stepped beside you again.

His fingers brushed yours once. Twice. Then paused before you reached for his hand first.

Dex looked at you immediately, something vulnerable flickering through his eyes before softening into your affection.

And for the first time, you didn’t look away from it. From him. 

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By the time Dex walked you back to your apartment building, the sky had darkened into soft blues and blacks.

Neither of you seemed particularly eager for the night to end as you stood awkwardly near the entrance for a moment before laughing softly at yourself.

“This is the part where normal people say goodbye.”

Dex tilted his head slightly. “You want normal?”

You thought about it honestly, then smiled. “No.”

Something satisfied flickered across his expression, and you gathered that neither did he. The realisation should’ve scared you, but instead it felt strangely right for the two of you.

Dex stepped slightly closer. Close enough that you could feel warmth radiating from him as his eyes searched your face carefully.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

The fact he sounded genuinely uncertain made your chest ache softly. So instead of answering, you reached up and kissed his cheek gently. Right on the scar. 

Dex froze completely as your lips lingered there for a few seconds before you pulled back slightly.

“Yes,” you whispered honestly. “I really did.”

Something in Dex’s expression nearly took your breath away because for once it held no trace of obsession or possession. It was just happiness. Real, genuine happiness.

His hand lifted slowly toward your face before stopping near your cheek, like he was still giving you room to pull away. You didn’t as his thumb brushed softly across your skin.

Then he leaned down and pressed the gentlest kiss against your forehead, and your stomach fluttered as your chest warmed. 

“Goodnight, baby,” he murmured quietly.

You smiled. “Goodnight, Dex.”

He waited until you got inside the building before finally turning to leave, and later that night, curled beneath your blankets and lying there in the darkness replaying his soft smiles, careful hands, and the look on his face when you kissed his cheek, you finally stopped trying to deny what your heart already knew.

You wanted this. You wanted him.

At the core of it, he had hurt you. That was the painful truth. It hadn’t been the kiss or the almost of what happened, but everything after. The way he shut down. Pulled back. He had treated you like you didn’t matter.

His jaw clenches, because he can’t even defend himself anymore. He tries, tries to tell himself those lies again, but they taste wrong on his tongue.  He drags a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps along the pavement.

Fix It. 

The thought screams in his head again, sticking around longer. Not easily pushed away like it first had been. And suddenly the thought of leaving turns sour, wrong, the mere thought of it makes him nauseous, because leaving was the furthest thing away from fixing anything.

Exhales sharply. “Fuck!” He curses under his breath. His head drops for a second before he turns, Adrenaline running through his veins, Not fully thought through. He steps towards the door, ready to go back in, ready to at least try. Even if he doesn’t have the right words yet. Even if he messes it up. At least it would be something.

And then the door opens in front of him. He freezes, because he knows even before he sees you, who’s walking through the door. 

It’s you, because the universe had always had a cruel humor with him. 

You step out quickly, like you didn’t want to hesitate long enough to change your mind. Phone in your hand, screen still lit. You barely make it two steps before you stop short, because now you see him. Standing there. Right in front of you. Almost as if you’d seen a ghost. 

For a second, neither of you say anything. Yet it doesn’t stop the air from shifting, from tightening.His gaze drops briefly, to your hand, to your phone. The screen. He sees the uber screen, and it makes his chest tighten. You swallow looking at his eye sight, nodding once.

It’s small, controlled. “I’m heading home.” You manage through the lump in your throat. It hits harder than it should, because it’s not just leaving the bar. It’s leaving because of him. 

His jaw tightens slightly. “You just got here.” It comes out low. Not accusatory, but there’s something under it. Something he hasn’t quite managed to hide.

You shrug, but it’s not careless. It’s defensive. “Changed my mind.” A beat, before you whisper, “I didn’t feel like staying anymore.”

The words hang there. Heavy. Obvious in a way neither of you say out loud. His chest tightens again, that guilt flaring right back up, sharp, immediate, because he knows why. He knows exactly what changed your mind.

For a second, he almost lets you go. Almost falls back into that same instinct, to stay away. To not make it worse, but then his eyes flick back to your face. To that same controlled expression, to the way you won’t quite look at him for too long.

And something in him shifts. It’s not clean, not resolved, but enough.

“Don’t.”

The word slips out before he can overthink it. Low. Firm. You pause, just slightly. Eyes flicking back to his.

“Robby, You can’t keep doing this” You say and he hears the pain in his voice. 

“You’re right.” He whispers and you twist your head to look at him, and he sees the tears coating your eyes, not welling, not yet. He steps forward. “I messed up, royally messed up. I made a mistake. Not when I walked into your apartment, not when I kissed you, not when I pulled your shirt off. I made the mistake when I stepped away, when I assumed what you had thought.” He says, the words spilling out of him before he could overthink a single one. 

“I regret it, I regretted it the second I took that step away. I wanted you, more than I’ve wanted anything in my life. But I felt guilty, I felt like I was wrong, thinking someone like you could like me.” He looks at the floor when he says it, not being able to look you in your eyes. 

But he forces his eyes up, to connect with yours. “I am constantly in awe of you. You are full of so much potential. You have so much to discover and experience, and me and my stupid insecurities got in the way. I didn’t believe you could want me, I didn’t believe you deserved to want me”

“Stop.” Your voice cuts through his words, sharper than anything he thinks you’ve ever said to him. It’s not loud, but enough to make him freeze. Your head shakes slightly, breath uneven now, that control you’ve been holding onto finally starts to crack.

“Do you hear yourself?” you ask, eyes glassy, searching his face like you’re trying to understand him and failing. “You didn’t believe me.”

Robby’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out, because there’s no version of that he can twist. No excuse that makes it better.

“You don’t get to decide what I feel,” you continue, voice trembling now, emotion bleeding through whether you want it to or not. “You don’t get to tell me I was wrong for wanting you just because you got scared.”

“I’m not-” he starts, stepping forward instinctively.

“You are,” you cut in immediately. “That’s exactly what you did.” A beat. “And then you made it worse.” You add, quieter and his jaw tightens, guilt flaring all over again.

“I didn’t mean too,” he says, voice rough. “I just thought-”

“No! I don’t care about what you say you meant to say. Actions speak louder than words Robby, and your actions made it pretty damn clear. And you don’t just get to fix that in five minutes outside a bar, Robby,” you add, shaking your head, even as your voice softens just slightly at the edges. “You don’t get to disappear all week, treat me like I’m nothing, and then…what? Show up here and decide actually no you do want me?”

“I never didn’t want you.” The words come out fast. Immediate, too fast to be calculated. Too honest to be anything but real. You go still, just for a second.

His voice drops, steadier now, but no less intense. “That’s the problem,” he admits. “I wanted you the entire time.” A step closer, careful this time. Like he’s aware you could walk away any second. “I still do.”

Your breath catches, just slightly, but you don’t move toward him. Not yet. “You don’t get to say that like it fixes anything,” you whisper, even though it clearly does something to you.

His gaze drops for half a second, then lifts again. “I’m not saying it fixes it,” he says. “I’m saying it because it’s the truth. And I’m done pretending it’s not.”

He takes another step towards you again, just enough for the tension to shift, to change.

“I handled it wrong,” he continues, quieter now. “I let my own shit get in the way, and I hurt you because of it. That’s on me.” A beat. “But don’t stand there and tell me this doesn’t matter either.”

He doesn’t think about the words, they slip out, naturally, and he sees the way it hits you. He recognizes that pain, because it’s the same one he had felt. The words had surprised even him, but they were the truest words he had spoken. 

Your eyes flick up to his. And there it is again, that crack in your control. “It does matter,” you admit, barely above a whisper. The second those words leave your mouth, something in him gives.

He closes the distance before he can overthink it. It’s not rushed, not aggressive, but decided. His hand comes up, hesitates for half a second like he’s giving you time to stop him, yet you don’t. “Actions speak louder than words, that’s what you said. So let me prove myself to you” Those words make your eyes widen, looking up at his, the plea written between all of them. 

And then he kisses you.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s everything he’s been holding back all week, guilt, frustration, want, all of it crashing forward at once. Messy. Real. Uncontrolled. His hand comes up to your jaw, not rough, but firm enough to keep you there, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip. Like this might slip through his fingers the second he gives it space.

There’s no hesitation in him. Only the pure want for you. For a split second, You don’t respond. Your body goes still, caught between instinct and hurt, between everything he’s just said and everything he’s done. And he feels it, feels that pause, feels the risk of it.

He almost pulls back. Almost, but then your fingers curl into the front of his shirt. And everything changes. You kiss him back. It’s sharp, emotional, like you’re pushing back just as much as you’re giving in. Like you’re still angry. Still hurt. But you feel it too, but you’ve decided no longer to fight it. 

His breath stutters against yours, grip tightening slightly as he pulls you closer without thinking, the space between you disappearing completely now. There’s nothing controlled about it anymore, not the way he leans into you. Not the way he deepens the kiss like he’s been starving for it. Not the way your name almost slips out of him but doesn’t quite make it.

You break first, and he chases after your lips again, before you push him back.  It’s not clean. Your breath uneven as you pull back just enough to look at him, your hand still gripping his shirt like you haven’t decided whether to push him away or pull him back in.

Your forehead nearly brushes his. “Don’t-” you start, voice shaky, not fully formed. He doesn’t move away, he doesn’t let the space widen.

“I meant it,” he says, low, breath still uneven. “All of it.” His eyes don’t leave yours this time. Not like before. He’s not hiding now.

“That doesn’t fix it,” you whisper again, but it’s weaker now. Less certain. Because you’re still close. Because you haven’t let go. Because your body already betrayed you the second you kissed him back.

“I know,” he says.

And for once, he doesn't try to argue it. Quiet settles around you, the two of you standing there, too close, too aware, everything hanging in the space between you.

“Please, don’t tell me to walk away from this either.” He whispers. That lands differently, the honesty almost painful. Your grip on his shirt tightens for a second, before you close the space, kissing him back like you hadn’t ever wanted to stop. 

His hand cups your cheek and his other grasps your waist, as your hand twists in his shirt. You don’t pull away, lost in the taste of each other till a car pulls up slightly beside you. You hear the chime of your phone, pulling away to look down at it. You look at the information on your phone matching it with that of the car. 

Robby watches you, expectantly. “Come home with me, let me prove to you how much I wanted you” you whisper and he nods. 

“My place” he argues and you nod, because he had thought ahead. Neither of you knew how to define it, and although you’d just fought, kissed and made up outside this bar, your friends, Santos, they didn’t know what had happened. They didn’t know the extent, and you weren’t sure bringing him into Trinity’s and yours shared space was a good idea. 

“Your place” You agree, taking his hand and walking towards the car. 

The ride to Robby’s place, after confirming with the Uber driver it was fine, was filled with crackling tension. The back seat of the white sedan feels too small for two bodies. Your shoulders brush, and he feels your eyes watching his hands. The way he counts to four tapping his thumb against each of his fingers. 

He notices the way you play with the edge of your shirt. He notices the way your thighs clench together when he slides his hand over his knees, your eyes on the way his middle and ring finger hold together.

He studies your body before his eyes lock with yours and your breath hitches. It’s in the confined space that those insecurities he thought he got rid of come back. They creep in slowly, the more he studies you. You were still blessed by age, skin never knowing the familiarity of wrinkles. He wondered if he was too old for you again. Then they turned personal. 

You knew he had a stomach, had liked it that first night, but he wondered if you had actually liked it, or if you were just playing it up for him. He wonders how you would react to the rest of him. He was confident in his size, always had been, but the rest of his body had lost its appeal it once had over the years. He wasn’t sharp curves and toned muscles like the boys your age. 

He had meat to him, his pecs softer than they used to be, his stomach not flat, not carved, but real. Lived in. And suddenly, in the quiet of the car, under your gaze, it felt exposed in a way it hadn’t in years.

His jaw tightens slightly as he looks away first, gaze dropping back to his hands like that would ground him again. It doesn’t, because he can still feel you looking. Not judging. Not pulling away. Just looking, studying. And that almost makes it worse.

Your voice breaks the silence, softer than before. “You’re doing it again.”

His brows pull together faintly. “Doing what?”

“Getting in your own head.” There’s no bite to it. No accusation. Just quiet certainty.

His throat works slightly, like he wants to argue it, but nothing comes out. Because you’re not wrong. You haven’t been wrong once tonight. The car slows slightly as it turns, streetlights flickering through the window, casting brief flashes of light across your face. He catches the way you’re watching him again, closer now, more open.

“You don’t have to do that with me,” you add, quieter this time. Something in his chest shifts at that. His hand stills against his knee, the counting stopping without him realising. And then, slowly, like he’s testing it, he lets his fingers uncurl, and he lets them rest there instead of fidgeting.

“You make it hard not to,” he admits, voice low, rough around the edges. Your breath catches slightly at that, and he notices. Of course he does.

“Good,” you whisper, almost to yourself. That pulls his gaze back to you, sharper this time. There’s something different in your expression now. Not just hurt. Not just hesitation.

Want. Clear. Undeniable. And directed at him. It hits him all over again, just like outside the bar, but quieter this time. Deeper. Settling instead of crashing. You liked the idea of his body, you liked how he was real. He exhales slowly, leaning back slightly into the seat, but his knee shifts just enough to press more firmly against yours. Not accidental this time.

Intentional. Your fingers tighten slightly in the fabric of your shirt again, but you don’t move away. If anything, you lean into it, just barely. The driver says something up front, something about the next turn, but neither of you really hear it, because the space between you has changed. It’s no longer about what might happen. It’s about the fact that it’s going to.

The car comes to a stop outside his building, and for a second, neither of you move.

Then he’s opening the door, stepping out, the cool air hitting him again, but it doesn’t clear his head this time. If anything, it sharpens everything. You follow a second later, and when the car door shuts behind you, the quiet settles in again. No music. No crowd. No distractions. Just you.

He turns toward you, slower this time, more deliberate. Like he’s giving himself a second to think. You don’t give him one. “Robby-” That’s all you get out before he’s stepping closer.

Not rushing. Not like outside the bar. This time it’s controlled. Measured. His hand finds your wrist first, light, almost cautious. Thumb brushing against your pulse like he’s grounding himself there.

“Still sure?” he asks, voice low, steady, even if there’s something underneath it that isn’t.

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

His grip shifts, sliding from your wrist to your hand, fingers threading through yours properly this time. Not fleeting. Not uncertain. He leads you inside.

⋆ 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 (comment asking to join for this story)

Like a book you liked left three days earlier, your favorite snacks in the kitchen, and a smooth rock placed on your coffee table that you still hadn’t figured out the meaning of.

So the pretty red flower sitting on the counter when you and Karen entered the shop for a day of restock and date checking didn’t surprise you as much as it should have.

“What’s that?” Karen asks, already reaching for it before you can say anything.

She turns it between her fingers, brows knitting slightly before a teasing grin grows on her face. “Have you got a secret admirer you haven’t told me about?”

You only shrug in response.

Because you know exactly where it came from and who left it.

“…hun?” Karen asks, now frowning in worry. “You okay?”

“It’s nothing.” You say stepping forward and plucking the flower from Karen’s hand a little too quickly. “Just a flower.”

“A pretty flower,” Karen says teasingly, watching you twirl the flower. “Do you know what type it is? What it mean?”

“It’s a red salvia.” You force a small smile. “It means forever mine.”

But your grip tightens around the stem as you tell her the meaning. 

Karen’s teasing expression softens slightly as she watches you turn the flower between your fingers. “Well,” she says slowly, “that’s either very romantic or mildly concerning.”

You snort quietly. “Probably the second one.”

“Hm.” Karen narrows her eyes at you for a moment like she’s trying to piece something together. “At least your mysterious admirer has good taste.”

You roll your eyes, moving past her towards the shelves lined with herbal teas. “You say that now, but wait until he starts leaving dead animals on my door like an unwanted cat.”

Karen gasps in mock horror. “Are those the standards these days?”

You hum noncommittally, carefully placing the flower back on the counter before throwing an apron towards Karen and putting on yours.

The rest of the morning passes quietly.

You and Karen work your way through the apothecary together, checking dates, organising shelves, and restocking the herbal remedies that always sold quickly once flu season hit. 

Normally, this monthly routine soothed you.

But today every time the shop bell rings, you find yourself tensing, and every tall silhouette outside the frosted window makes your stomach tighten for a second.

It annoys you that he’s affecting you like this.

By the time the shop closes for the night, your feet and head ache.

“You’re distracted today,” Karen says casually while pulling on her coat.

“I’m tired.”

“You reorganised the same shelf three times.”

You pause halfway through locking the door. “… Did I?”

The look Karen gives is filled with worry.

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The warmth of the diner feels welcoming compared to the cold outside.

Sitting across from Matt and Karen, you’re happily stealing fries off your brother’s plate while Karen animatedly tells a story involving a customer she had this morning, and for a little while you manage to relax like everything's normal.

Until the second Karen casually says, “Oh, and someone left a flower for her this morning.”

You nearly choke on a stolen fry.

“What kind of flower, you ask?” Karen continues, clearly enjoying herself.

“Red salvia,” she answers before you can stop her. “It’s romantic.”

Matt’s fork stops halfway on his plate.

“It’s a flower.” You say it with a smirk, ignoring your brother’s stare.

“It’s not just a flower,” Karen corrects, standing with her empty glass. “It's from your secret admirer.”

That makes Matt go quiet, and you can feel his full attention on you.

“You’ve been distracted lately.” Matt comments after a moment.

“It’s nothing,” you reply too quickly. “Just work.”

“You have been working more hours at the clinic recently,” Karen adds concerned. “Are you sure it’s nothing?”

“You’re both making this a bigger deal than it is." You force a laugh, pushing your empty glass towards Karen. “Go get us those drinks, would you.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Matt asks quietly a few minutes after Karen arrives at the bar. “You can tell me anything, remember?”

You glance toward him. Even with the glasses hiding his eyes, you can see the worry written across his face, and for a second you want to tell him everything.

About Dex, about the bond, the break-in, and the gifts. About the way your stomach pleasantly twists every time you think about him.

Instead, you force a smile. “I’m fine, Matty. Really.”

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Dinner with Matt and Karen had left you feeling lighter than you had felt in days as you walked inside your apartment building.

That last Manhattan cocktail had been exactly what you needed, keeping you warm beneath your coat as you rode the elevator upstairs, your cheeks still flushed from shared laughter.

The apartment is warm and cozy when you step inside, making sure to lock all the locks before sliding your shoes off and shrugging your coat onto a nearby chair.

Walking into the kitchen, you pour yourself a large glass of water while already dreading the dehydration you'll have tomorrow morning after tonight’s drinks.

Sipping from the glass, you make your way to the living room for an hour of mindless television before bed when something on the coffee table catches your attention.

A familiar cardboard box sits neatly in the middle of the table.

“Seriously?” you mutter quietly. “What is it this time?”

Because somehow, despite locking every window before leaving that morning, Dex had apparently been inside your apartment… again.

Sighing softly, you place your glass down before grabbing the box and lowering yourself onto the sofa.

Cardboard damp beneath your fingertips as you carefully lift the lid to see what he’s left you this time.

Your brows pull together slightly as you reach inside and pull out the knife resting in it.

It’s smaller than the ones you have in your kitchen, the handle worn in a way that shows it's often been used, and beneath the warm glow of your lamp, you can see the dried blood staining parts of the blade.

“Jesus Christ, Dex.” The words leave you quietly, more exhausted than alarmed. “This is the worst one yet.”

You turn the knife slightly in your hand, seeing where he had attempted to wipe the blood away.

The sight should concern you more than it does, but after everything that has happened over the past few weeks, you often find yourself feeling irritated, in disbelief, and occasionally flattered.

But this? Who leaves someone a bloody knife as a gift?

Setting it carefully back into the box, your mind drifts to the other gifts left in your apartment by Dex when you weren’t home.

A pretty purple hyacinth had been the first thing he left, followed by your favorite snacks, a book you’d wanted to read, and lastly the smooth rock sitting on the table.

Which you’re still confused by.

For a long moment you stare at the knife inside the box before laughing under your breath.

“Next he’ll bring me dead animals like a stray cat,” you mumble to yourself, putting the box back on the coffee table and grabbing your glass of water.

You know you should throw it all away, the knife especially.

But instead, you pick the box back up and carry it towards the hallway cupboard where the others already sit neatly on the top shelf.

The sight of them all lined up together makes something uncomfortable twist in your gut. Because somewhere over the past two weeks, this had become normal.

The gifts. The break-ins. Dex finding his way into your apartment whenever he pleased.

You hate how little it all unsettles you.

Carefully sliding the newest box beside the others, your thoughts lands on the first one he left. A purple hyacinth that has since been pressed and turned into a bookmark.

A bookmark that now rests inside the book that has made itself a home on your coffee table, half-finished after too many late nights spent reading instead of sleeping.

And the flower from this morning now sat in a glass of water beside the till because part of you couldn’t bring yourself to throw that away either.

Instead you close the cupboard door and head towards your bedroom.

The apartment is quiet as you complete your nightly routine, trying not to think about the fact that Dex had once again been inside your home while you were gone.

Outside, the chilly wind had turned into rain that tapped softly against the windows as you finally slide beneath your blankets.

Exhaustion pulls heavily at your body, helped by the drinks and the lingering comfort from dinner with Matt and Karen.

You reach over to switch off your bedside lamp, your thoughts drifting toward the smooth rock in the living room.

“What does a rock even mean?” you mumble tiredly to yourself.

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The next day unusually sunny for New York.

The city moves at a gentler pace than usual, a soft breeze blowing through the park while birds sing through the noise of traffic.

Arms linked with Matt, you two walk at an easy pace that makes it harder to hide how distracted you are.

“You’re quiet today,” he says after a while.

“It’s a nice day for quiet,” you reply, adjusting your grip on the ice cream in your hand.

“I’m serious,” Matt continues, slowing until you both come to a stop. “You’ve been… distant lately.”

“Work, the clinic, life in general.” You let out a small breath that could almost be a laugh if it weren’t so forced. “Take your pick.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You don’t answer immediately.

Because you know exactly what he means but you don't know how to explain it.

Not the gifts. Not the feeling of being watched. Not the way your apartment no longer feels like just yours.

“It’s nothing,” you say, a little too quickly, gently tugging him to walk again. “You’re imagining things.”

Matt doesn’t respond again.

He just walks beside you, quiet in a way that he usually is when trying to understand you.

For the rest of the walk, you fill the silence. Talking about the apothecary, about how the clinic has been busier lately, about anything that comes to mind.

Anything that doesn’t remind you of him.

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By the time you got home that night, rain had started falling again.

Droplets clung to your jacket as you unlocked your apartment and step inside. Shrugging your jacket off you throw it over the sofa before freezing.

Sitting in the middle of your coffee table was the medium-sized rock. Brows furrowing as you picked it up and admired the unique colours of it again.

Pretty, you think to yourself, running your thumb over the smooth texture before a deep voice speaks from your bathroom.

“It’s the same colour as your eyes.”

You gasp as you turned sharply, your arm now raised in a position to immediately throw the rock in your hand if needed.

There, in the doorway of your bathroom, stood Dex. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he wiped blood from his hands with a damp cloth.

Your eyes immediately scanned him. The healer in you searching for any injuries that might need attention but not finding any.

Good. You were far too hungry to be dealing with that again.

Lowering your arm, your gaze dropped back to the rock in your hand.

“The same colour as my eyes?” you repeated.

Dex threw the cloth into the hamper as he left the bathroom, flicking the switch as he walked out and into the living room. His hair was still damp from the rain as his eyes stayed fixed completely on you.

“Yes.” He said, stopping a foot away from you as his eyes roamed your body.

Your fingers curl gently around the stone. Nobody had ever noticed something like that before. Sure, Matt knew how to read you like a book, but you doubted he remembered the colour of your eyes.

But Dex did.

Your mouth slightly curves before you could stop it.

Dex stilled the second he saw it grace your face, his eyes focusing on your smile like he’d never seen anything more beautiful before. A small smile of his own appeared.

You felt your cheeks flush as you looked away, clearing your throat. “You better have not bled all over my bathroom floor,” you muttered.

Dex’s expression shifted slightly. More teasing this time.

“It’s not much blood.”

“Say that to my sofa.”

“That was also not much blood.”

You snorted softly despite yourself.

Oh God. This was becoming dangerously normal.

Setting the rock carefully back on the coffee table, you walked towards him before noticing the streak of dried blood he’d missed near his jaw.

Without thinking, you pulled the sleeve of your shirt over your hand and gently wiped the remaining blood from his face.

"There," you murmured quietly.

Dex didn’t move, didn’t blink. His eyes focused on you with the same intensity as two weeks ago. The same look that made your chest feel too tight.

Neither of you stepped away.

Your warm fingers still lightly brushing against his jaw as his name on your collarbone tingled pleasantly.

“How did you even get in here again?” you asked softly, taking a few steps away from him.

“The bedroom window.” Dex answered, his footsteps following yours as if the distance was something he couldn’t bear.

Your eyes fluttered closed as you sighed.

“You know I have a door, right?” you ask, turning around to make your way to the kitchen.

“The windows work,” he says, shrugging.

“You keep leaving them open,” you reply, rummaging through your cupboards for a quick meal.

“I close it.” He states, following you.

“Not properly,” you say, now rummaging through the fridge. “My heating bill is going to kill me.”

“Windows are quieter.” He tells you while sitting at the island.

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Dex’s expression softened at the sound, looking at you like he was memorising it.

Your chest tightened again as you stopped laughing. This is bad, you thought to yourself.

Because two weeks ago Dex had been an escaped prisoner bleeding on your sofa, and now he’s sitting barefoot in your apartment after just using your bathroom to wipe blood from god knows where off his hands and after weeks of him bringing you gifts like a stray cat.

But what was worse was the realisation that you wanted him here.

Dex’s eyes slowly scanned your face as you moved towards the island, a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries in hand.

“You’re exhausted,” he noted quietly, reaching for a strawberry.

“I’m fine.” You dismiss him while grabbing two bowls.

“Your hands are shaking again.”

Your fingers curl slightly. “I worked all day.”

“And then went to dinner instead of resting.” He stated.

You frowned. “Were you following me?”

“No.” The answer came too quickly.

You narrowed your eyes at him, still holding the bowls.

Dex blinked once. “… Mostly no.”

"Dex." You stared at him in disbelief.

“You looked happy.” He commented.

The irritation that was rising quickly turned into something warm that made your stomach clench because the way he said it sounded almost relieved.

Like your happiness was important to him.

For a moment neither of you spoke as you slid a bowl towards him and his growing pile of strawberries.

“You ate the food.” He said, looking towards the empty takeout wrappers.

“I was hungry.” You shrugged, shoving a strawberry into your mouth.

“You forget to eat when you’re tired.” He said, adding more strawberries to his bowl.

“Ugh, you sound like Matt.” You groaned, dropping your head onto the counter.

Dex’s jaw tightened at your brother’s name. “He notices too?”

“Matt notices everything.” You say grabbing a handful of strawberries after noticing how full his bowl was getting.

“I notice more.”

The words landed like a slap. Too honest, too intense, too real, and you think you should’ve shut this down sooner.

Should’ve reminded him that none of this changed what he’d done, should’ve said that none of the gifts were working, and should’ve reinforced the boundaries you created in your head.

“Are you hurt?” You ask instead.

Dex looked down at his bruised hands. “Not badly.”

“You could stop doing stupid shit.” You tell him.

“You’d stitch me up anyway.” He replied.

You hate how right he was.

Dex leaned in closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “You smiled,” he said quietly.

Heat immediately flushed your face.

“It’s just a rock.” You say. 

“It made you smile.” He smirked.

God, you wanted to punch him.

Looking away quickly, you hated how those simple words affected you, how your heartbeat sped up when he smiled, and how a rock, of all things, gave you butterflies.

“You should probably go,” you uttered softly.

Dex stayed quiet for a moment before he nodded once, getting up and putting his empty bowl in the sink.

He moved towards the living room window before pausing. “The flower looked nice by the till.”

Your eyes widened. “You were watching the shop?”

Dex glanced back at you. “I was watching you.” 

Then he disappeared out the window and into the rain.

Your gaze drifted towards the rock sitting on the table, and butterflies filled your stomach again before your eyes lowered to your bowl only to frown.

“Asshole ate my strawberries as well.”

A/N: Part 2 of this series! It should hopefully have main 12 parts total if all goes well 🤞🏻. Like before feedback is welcome! 

Brendon’s on high alert until he has you – softly crying, anxious, needy – safe in his car, strapped in, protected from the rest of the world. Even then, his knuckles are white on the steering wheel, unable to relax while you’re still so upset. He holds you close with his right arm, tugging you to his chest, kissing the top of your head at every red light.

Meanwhile, you’re restless. Your hormones and your emotions are all over the place. Arousal pools in your gut and spills out between your legs while anxiety grips your brain stem. There’s an unreality that you’re not sure how to deal with in the liminal space of Brendon’s car. All you know is that you need him. So you keep your nose at his neck and try to breathe.

Once Brendon has you inside your apartment, the scents and sights and sounds familiar, the anxiety slips behind the raw need that comes with your heat. As Brendon gets his bearings in your space for the first time, you follow him around like a lost puppy, your limbs getting weaker and your brain going squishy. While he puts your things away from your backpack, you yank on his scrub top and stand on your toes to kiss him.

Brendon wraps you in an all-enveloping embrace, his huge arms sturdy around your shivering form. You whine and palm at his cock through his scrubs, consumed by how badly you need him, but he catches your hand and presses kisses to your knuckles instead. “Not yet, baby, you’ve gotta relax a little first. Your nervous system’s fried. We’re gonna eat something and then we’re gonna sleep a bit and then you can have whatever you want whenever you want until your heat’s over.”

You grip his shirt tight and your eyes are wide and teary. “You’ll stay with me?”

He’s never felt his heart splintered in so many pieces. This is the time where he can turn all your fear to safety. Solemn and assuring, he cradles your face and vows, “Nothing on earth could stop me from being with you.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” Tilting your chin upward, he kisses you. Sweet and warm and slow. You melt against him. Suddenly, you can see sturdiness in his eyes, complete authority that you can yield to. Looking down at you sternly, knowing that you’re beginning to fold into the role of omega to his alpha, he asks, “Now what do you want to eat, sweetheart? We can order in or I can make something from what you have here for now.”

You shake your head and reply, “You pick. Can’t think.”

Brendon sighs and brushes your cheek with his thumb. “That bad already, huh?”

“I always have a hard time,” you start, trying hard to focus on what you want to say. “During my heat, I mean. With talking.”

He gives you another soft kiss. “That’s okay. I’ll take care of everything.”

When you gaze up at him this time, he can see any of your worries evaporating and turning to nothing but trust. “I know you will.”

So Brendon steps away from you and into the kitchen. Immediately, you whine at the lack of closeness. Brendon knows why, of course, because you’re his. So he smiles, rolls his eyes overdramatically to make it clear he’s playing, and opens his arms for you. “Come on, koala, hop up.”

You let out a happy squeal and jump onto him, wrapping your legs around his hips and your arms around the back of his neck. You nestle your nose against his scent gland and breathe deeply as Brendon walks around your kitchen, inspecting the cupboards and fridge to see the state of things. He’s pleased to find that you’ve definitely been preparing for your heat. Not only is the place loaded with baked goods from your days of nesting, but there are plenty of groceries. All your favorite snacks, fruits and vegetables, the works.

Brendon presses a kiss to the side of your head and says, “Good girl. I’m really proud of you for taking care of yourself.” You grin and squeeze him tightly, all awash in happy chemicals having him in your space and, frankly, having an alpha strong enough to carry you around like it’s nothing in the first place. Brendon collects a Tupperware of baked goods and a few Gatorades before telling you, “After you get a little rest, you’ll need to eat something with protein and nutrients, but this’ll do for now. Where’s your nest, kitten?”

You nod over toward your bedroom and he obediently goes that direction, one arm beneath your ass and the other balancing the snacks. He can balance your whole weight with only one of his huge arms. His strength is intoxicating.

After pushing open the door to your bedroom, Brendon sees your nest and stops in his tracks. You’ve always been a little intense about your nest and it doesn’t necessarily match with the cutesy homemaker image that a lot of omegas aspire to when it comes to designing their space. Instead of dreamy, gauzy linens and low lights, it’s a bit more…chaotic. Like you’ve turned your bed into a blanket fort. The bed is pushed into the corner and you’ve tented it in beneath sheets and blankets tied to your ceiling. The far wall has built-in shelves where you’ve painstakingly arranged everything you could possibly need during your heat in overflowing baskets: All your sex toys, your favorite snacks, lotions you like, scents that make you happy, a speaker you can connect to your phone with its own remote.

On the opposite side of the bed from the bookshelf, Brendon notices a large swath of canvas rolled up and attached to the ceiling; with just a bit of observation, he realizes that, when it comes down, you can use it as a screen with a projector on the bookshelf. Your own personal movie theater. There’s an ocean of stuffies in the far corner, mostly Jellycats, and he wonders how you’d decided which ones to collect. Among them, there’s a collection of lots of fuzzy blankets and favorite pieces of clothing. You’ve got miniature paper lantern string lights criss-crossing along the top of the whole space, their pastel colors shining soft rainbows on everything.

A serene smile spreads over Brendon’s face as he takes in the space, imagining himself curled up with you as often as you’ll have him. You pull your face from his neck, eyes wide with worry at the idea of being rejected, and whisper, “I know it’s messy.”

He squeezes you tight, meets your eyes seriously, and assures you the way he always does and always will, “It’s perfect, princess. I promise.”

As Brendon sets you down on your own two feet again, you straighten up and give him a sweet, proud smile. “You really like it?”

“I really do,” he confirms. As his eyes chase every detail of your most intimate space, there’s a vibrant enthusiasm about him right now that you haven’t seen before. His energy is high and bright and addictive. Now that you’re totally safe, away from any real or perceived danger, he can relax into being the loving, supportive, affectionate alpha he really is. “Everything is just so…you. I love that; it feels so special.” He draws a step closer and breathes deeply. “And, god, it smells fucking incredible.”

Before he can fold into the incredible display of coziness, you wrinkle your nose, nudge him in the bicep, and tell him, “No outside clothes.”

Brendon nods like that makes sense. To him, it does. You’re his perfect, precious girl and everything you do is just as perfect and precious as the rest of you. So he strips off his scrub top and discards it in the nearby hamper. Then, seeing your pupils dilate as you get your first real look at his body, Brendon turns to you with a cocky smile on his face. He steps out of his pants and kicks them away, leaving him in only his tight heather gray boxer briefs.

On his next breath, the mild, sweet scent of your slick coats his lungs. Beside himself as your pheromones unfurl into their most primal level, Brendon grips the door frame to your en suite bathroom and groans, “Oh, fuck. You smell so- God.”

He surges forward without thinking and grabs you. His fingers find yours and he lifts your wrist to his nose. You’ve never seen such a peaceful, ecstatic expression on his harsh features as when his nose touches the scent gland at your wrist. He knows that, between your legs, it’ll be ten times as intense, your slick and your sweat and your scent all mingling into a cocktail designed specifically and exclusively for him to consume.

Your hands go uselessly to the tie on your scrub bottoms to try to get your clothes off, but your fingers are shaky and awkward. You pout and demand, “Help.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he chuckles, taking the reins for you. Brendon makes quick work of your pants and then your tee. When he has you in only a sports bra and frumpy panties – thankfully your heat stops you from feeling any embarrassment that you aren’t wearing something ‘cute’ underneath your clothes – Brendon can hardly breathe for how gorgeous you are. It’s his turn for shaky hands as he tentatively touches your waist, not wanting to push you too hard too soon. He breathes out slowly, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You bite your lip and glance down at the floor, swaying gently under his praise. “Thank you.”

Brendon tilts your chin up, needing to see your eyes, and checks, “Do you want to put on some pajamas?”

With a sheepish, flirtatious smile, you shake your head no and start to remove your bra and underwear. Brendon steps forward to help you, thinking of nothing but making sure you’re comfortable. It’s strange, this rut. On one hand, the sight of you naked in front of him has his cock throbbing with desire. But, on a much deeper, more visceral level, the singular focus on his mind is ensuring that you’re safe, comfortable, loved. He thought he’d want to claim and mark and fuck his mate until you were both numb, but, first and foremost, he wants to give you whatever you need. It goes beyond ‘want,’ actually. If you aren’t perfectly content, he can’t even breathe.

So, when he steps out of his own boxer briefs to join you in nakedness, it doesn’t even feel sexual to either of you. It’s comfort, simply speaking. You take his hand. Unable to disguise your nerves at the vulnerability, you pull him into your nest, immediately curling your arms around your knees because it feels so intense to have an alpha in here. To have his heady spicy scent filling the cracks and crevices of all your most beloved things.

Noticing your strained posture, Brendon rubs your back and murmurs, “You don’t have to be worried about anything, pup. This is the happiest I’ve ever been. Right now. Just being with you here. Let’s just relax a while, okay?”

You smile easily at that and suggest, “Music?”

“Music sounds good,” he confirms. He takes your phone from your discarded clothes, connects to the speakers with bluetooth, and scrolls through your playlists. He smirks and offers, “How about ‘Heat Wave’? Is that for your heat?”

You giggle and nod, so he hits play. As “Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy” flits through the speakers, Brendon nestles backwards, sprawling out his large body, and pulls you to his chest. You sling your leg over his, your warmth permeating him, and everything starts to make sense for the first time today. You take a deep breath and let it out. Finally. Skin on skin. Body on body. Self on self. This is what you’ve needed to fully relax.

Brendon can’t believe how calm he feels. The irritation, the anger, the restlessness are all gone with your weight on him. When he’s had to deal with his rut alone, he’s always so damn frustrated that he can barely breathe, let alone think. He thrusts into fleshlights or his hand until his cock can’t do anything more, but he’ll still be agonizingly turned on, seeking out something to fuck.

Now, though? With you? He can feel the pulse of his cock, a quiet hum reminding him of what he craves, but it doesn’t feel urgent or consuming. Just there. Because it’s yours now, not his. His rut isn’t something to fight through; it’s something to give to you. It’s his biology knowing how to protect and nurture yours.

After a few songs swing by, your breaths are even and slow and you start to purr. Brendon’s whole body shimmers when he feels that soft vibration against his chest. He kisses the top of your head and checks, “Feeling better now, sweet girl?”

“Mhmm,” you coo, eyes still closed. “You’re comfy.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” he chuckles, shifting his weight so you can have even more of his body as a pillow. As he adjusts, his hand moves to your comfort pile, where he finds a pair of suspiciously familiar basketball shorts. And a navy tee. Followed by a white tank top and boxer briefs. Eyes widening with surprise and amusement, he straightens up slightly to get your attention. “Baby, are these mine? When the hell did you steal these?” Tears prickle at your eyes and you whimper, guilt tightening around your throat at the idea that he might be upset with you. But he laughs and hugs you close, flipping you into his lap, quick to assure, “No, don’t cry, it’s okay. I’m not mad at all. It’s really sweet. I’m…impressed, honestly. I’m so crazy about you that I didn’t even notice my fucking gym bag going missing.”

You giggle and avert your eyes, telling him dreamily, “They smell good.”

“Yeah?” With you seated on his thighs now, Brendon rests his hands on your lower back, nips gentle kisses up your neck, and teases as you smile, “My gross gym clothes do it for you?”

His joking tone dies in the air when you pull back to answer. Your pupils are blown so wide he can’t see the color of your irises at all. You’re not teasing or bashful anymore. Every feature reveals pure and simple lust.

You nod slowly, the admission not at all shameful with your heat prickling through your body. Without thinking, following desires that don’t have names or words, you take his hands in yours and lift them up above his head. He just follows your lead with wide eyes; he’s not going to stop you from doing anything you want to him. With him. For him. He’s yours.

With heavy lids like you’re high, you nuzzle into his armpit, breathing deeply. After morning surgeries and the high intensity of his search for you, Brendon smells like his gym clothes. Warm, masculine, animalistic. It adds a richness to all the smells that have already sent your logical brain far, far away. His breath catches in his throat and his cock twitches against your stomach. He’s never been wanted so viscerally and it has his hips bucking involuntarily, his toes curling into your sheets, his mind racing.

You lick a long stripe up the center of his chest, chasing a bead of his sweat until the salt coats your tongue. His breaths speed up until he’s on the border of panting. His eyes lock onto your drunken expression while you burnish his chest with your cheeks, scenting him and inhaling him at the same time. You move lower, no agenda or intention to your movements. When you reach his thick, dark pubic hair, you brush your nose deep against his skin. The mix of his pheromones has slick dripping from your core.

Not a thought in your pretty little head as you lavish at the scent glands of his inner thighs, you rub your bare cunt over his shin because it’s the closest thing you can get friction with.

Brendon’s hand goes to the side of your face. You look up at him with nothing behind your eyes. Breathless, he groans, “Christ, baby, you’re gone, aren’t you?”

All of a sudden, as your alpha, he understands what you need more deeply than you do. His logical mind wants to make sure you’re fed and clean and well-rested, wants to make good on his initial plan, but it’s like he can see through you right now. And he knows that you need him. You won’t even feel the hunger or the tiredness until that first, most primal need is filled. 

So he orders in his lowest, most wanting voice, not disguising the plain want, “Come here, omega.”

Your brain tingles. You crawl upward and sit in his lap and wait patiently. In the next millisecond, he locks his mouth with yours. He’s all teeth and tongue and you let him claim every millimeter of the kiss, leading it, demanding from you. The smell of your slick is overwhelming, soft and almost floral and spreading like a secret you only want to share with him.

His dominant hand drops between your bodies, fingers plunging into your ample wetness. With no resistance, he twists his wrist to curl his two middle fingers up into your cunt. For all the times he’s imagined your hot wet pussy inviting him in, he still couldn’t have gotten all of the delicious, divine details right. Everything is in technicolor, ultra high definition, his brain operating on a different frequency than it’s ever been able to access before. You cry out when he adds his third finger, feeling your need, and you both already need so, so much more. Against your mouth, he growls, “Fuck. Fuck.”

His thumb barely touches your clit and you’re in outer space. Your hips chase his touch and your tits bounce in his face as a result and he has to take one of your nipples between his teeth or he’ll fucking die right here and now. His free hand flies up to grab your other breast as he sucks and nibbles your sensitive nub relentlessly. Moans drip down the edges of your lips and he drowns in them as they pour over your tits.

Brendon’s sharp teeth dig into the flesh of your breast and you gasp. He shoves you forward, flopping you onto your back, without releasing you for a single second. His nails dig into your hip as he holds you down, mouth going to the other side to torture you equally. He shoves a fourth finger into your cunt and you wail in response. It doesn’t hurt, not when you’re in heat, but it stretches and it sings. Your back arches and pleasure zaps up your spine alongside the pain. You throw your head back as your clit thrums and your cunt devours and your whole body vaporizes into delicious agony.

You cum without warning and without preamble, swallowing his hand nearly to his knuckles. Your thighs thrash back and forth as ecstasy strangles you. The presence of your mate’s pheromones, his presence, his eyes locked on you, his everything, shatters you.

“You’re doing so good for me,” Brendon purrs as you clamp down around his fingers over and over, the orgasm refusing to let up until he does. And he’s not going to. The hand on your hip crushes you into the bed, refusing to let you squirm away. His thumb leaves your clit and you whine from the loss – until his thumb joins his other four fingers inside of your sopping cunt.

Tears crest over your waterline out of nowhere. The intensity of having most of Brendon Park’s massive, surgically precise hand inside of you has your brain on fire. But you breathe through it. You grab at his hair and yank to ground yourself, forcing him into another kiss. This time, you’re the one who bites at his lips, his jaw, his throat, his ear, whatever you can get. When you tighten your teeth around his trap, biting down hard enough to draw blood, Brendon growls, “There you go, pup. Good fucking girl. Don’t you ever hold back with me.”

Your thighs clamp around his wrist as your cunt tightens again, if it ever even stopped in the first place, and he chases you up the bed, not letting you get away. With the orgasm at its peak, beside yourself, unable to think of anything else, you cry, “Breed me, Bren, please. I need- I need your knot right now. Right now.”

Brendon snarls and pulls his hand from inside of you, using the slick that drips from his fingers to lube his fat cock. You realize with a thrill that he needed to use all his fingers to warm you up like that because his cock is positively monstrous. In his full rut, it has to be the size of a can of Monster. Fitting. Even with your heat making you loose and drenched, you have a hard time imagining it fitting between your legs. But all doubt dies when Brendon shoves your legs back next to your ears and lines himself up with your entrance.

He straightens up just enough to watch, rapt, as he slides his cock into you for the first time. It stretches you wide. The sight of your slick coating him, the sight of each inch sinking into you, the sight of your eyes closed and your mouth open in rapture – it’s all too much for him to bear. His hand slams into the wall above you, the drywall cracking and chipping beneath his cruel fingers, and he finally bottoms out at your cervix.

When he actually starts to thrust, each one opening you like never before, your hands scramble upwards, nails clawing into his biceps. He shivers when you leave behind harsh red lines that trail down his stomach before grabbing at his hips, trying to pull him in impossible closer.

“Baby, I’m not-” He gasps in a breath when you moan, unable to handle him using pet names while he’s deep inside of you. “I don’t have an implant or anything. You could actually- Fuck. Fuck. Jesus. You can’t- you can’t grab me like that, honey, I won’t last.”

“Don’t care,” you pant, rolling your hips up to meet every pump of his cock. You need him closer. Deeper. More. More more more. You manage to find words only because they’re identical to your thoughts: “Wanna give you so many pups, Bren. Wanna be yours for good.” Your voice breaks and you beg, “Please, alpha, please. ”

“You don’t have to beg. You never have to beg for anything from your alpha,” he rumbles. His lips go to your neck and his cock drills into you and he swears warmly, “Anything you want, princess. Anything. It’s all yours. Everything I have is yours now.”

“Knot,” you gasp. Back arching. Lungs burning. Stomach flipping. You can see fireworks in your mind and Brendon’s eyes are so fucking intense as they bore into you and all you can do is whine and groan, “Need your knot. All I need.”

When you feel him beginning to swell, his balls tightening and his thighs stuttering, your brain goes totally flat from everything but pleasure and need. It’s a white-out of thought and logic. Nothing exists but Brendon and the fact that only he can give you what your body truly craves.

His lips connect with yours one more time as his cum paints you with vibrant adoration. Your breath is his breath and your body is his body. You hold his knot so well, immediately wrapping your legs around his hips to encourage him to stay there, with you, as long as he can. His chest against yours. Breathing together. Lazily kissing and scenting and nuzzling each other. You’d stay here forever if you could.

“Brendon,” you whisper reluctantly against his ear, “this is really nice, but you’re squishing me to death and I need to pee.”

His low chuckle vibrates your whole body. Without taking his cock from your body, he slides his knees forward so he can take more of his own weight on his legs. It relieves the pressure on your chest just enough, but he’s still playfully holding you down. He kisses the tip of your nose and teases, “Is that better, princess?”

Not quite able to get to a better comeback, you cut back, “If you want me to piss myself.”

“Mmm. Don’t tempt me. I’m pretty sure I could get off on anything you’d give me.” As you laugh, he gives you one more kiss, deep and knowing, and shifts off of you as his knot softens. You reach up with grabby hands and he smiles as he tugs you out of the bed and into his arms. Cum and slick drips from you and onto his skin as he steadies you against his torso. God, you’re burning up. They don’t call it heat for no reason. Bringing you to the en suite bathroom, he touches the back of his hand to your forehead and murmurs, “You want a nice cool bath, sweetheart?”

You nod with heavy lids. “Mhmm. Sounds nice.”

“Good.” He sets you carefully on the toilet – your limbs are clearly still out of commission for the time being. Brendon draws you a bath, swirls in some sweet-smelling oils, and helps you in once you’re finished. With a firm kiss to your forehead, he orders, “Stay here a minute to get your temperature closer to normal. I’ll change the sheets and get you something to eat, okay?”

You nod again, happy to do whatever he tells you.

While you soak and get sleepier and sleepier, Brendon does what he said, yes, but he also indulges in some behaviors he knows are maybe slightly silly alpha things. He checks your door locks over, makes sure your windows are properly secured, checks to see if there are batteries in your smoke and carbon monoxide detectors. You’ll forgive him for feeling a bit crazy right now. When you’re not in his arms or in his sight, the edginess returns, something at the base of his brain stem insisting that he do anything he possibly can, no matter how minor, to care for you.

By the time he goes back to the bathroom to collect you, you’re asleep in the tub, head against the wall, mouth open slightly. Brendon takes a minute to gaze at you, so open and vulnerable, certain that you’re completely safe with your alpha in your apartment. He rumbles a bit with pride at knowing he makes you feel that way – fucked out and content.

Ever so gently, he kneels down and touches your cheek. You stir slightly, turning your head and giving him a sweet, innocent smile. Then you once again lift your arms for him. Brendon’s addicted to the sight of you so easily expecting his strength. He guides you to your feet, helps you step out, and then dries you off with the closest soft towel he can find. All the while, you put your weight on him, trusting him, yielding to him. Your brain is fuzzy and happy and your body is loose and calm.

Brendon guides you back into your nest, where he’s replaced your sheets with the ones he found in your laundry room specifically for your heat, extra silky soft and moisture-wicking. You sink into the coziness, thoughtless in the most wonderful way. Before joining you, he pops into the kitchen for a minute and then presents you with a makeshift charcuterie board on a plate that he’s put together from your fridge, focusing on meats and cheeses to try to get you enough protein and fat to get through your heat comfortably.

The moment you see the food, you realize that you’re ravenous. Your stomach growls loud and Brendon laughs affectionately as you snatch the plate greedily from him. Looking for all the world like a wild animal, you wolf down food fast and furious until your stomach stops screaming for more.

Brendon rubs your back as you eat, praising, “Good girl. Need you nice and strong.”

When you’ve finished the actual food Brendon wanted you to eat, you look at him with bubbly hope and ask, “Dessert?”

He grins and cracks open the container of your homemade snickerdoodles, chewy and pillowy. You open your mouth obediently and he happily feeds you a piece, taking another for himself. He groans loud, “I hit the fucking mate jackpot; these are insanely good.”

You preen like a peacocking alpha as he feeds you another cookie, happy and giggly in the best way. As you lazily lick the extra cinnamon sugar from his fingers, lips wrapping around his digits, he watches with dilated pupils and praises, “That’s my good girl.”

You giggle and lean forward to nuzzle his neck with yours, mixing your scents unabashedly now that it’s just the two of you in your happy cocoon. “You already said that.”

“It’s still true,” he murmurs, leaning forward to pull you into a kiss. He sets the container aside and then takes your hand in his. “Now that you’re with me again, sweetheart, I need to ask if you were being serious earlier. About- about giving me pups.” He cradles your face in his hand and studies your expression. You can’t quite read all the details of his. “I can send someone to pick up some emergency contraception for this week that was just-”

“I was serious,” you tell him softly. Your eyes run over his, wide, needy, scared of rejection. Searching for love and stability in the one place you need to be able to find it. “But if- if you’re not ready to do that with me, or if you don’t want-”

“I want to,” he whispers. It sounds like an admission, like something he’s never been willing to say – or maybe something he’s never been allowed to want. He touches his forehead to yours and, so soft you can barely hear, he says, “I love you.”

You maul him with a hug, shoving him onto his back. He catches you with a wheezing laugh as your weight knocks the wind out of him. As your hands push down his broad shoulders, your tentative smile glows into something huge. “You do?”

With a soft, self-deprecating chuckle, he rests his hands on your waist and tells you, “I knew I loved you the day you shoved your finger in my chest and chewed me out for being an ass to Frankie. Nobody talks to me like that.” Then, much more urgently, he goes on, “I’ve been working to be good enough for you every day since. So if- if you think I’m good enough to be- if you’re willing to give that to me.” He can barely breathe as he almost cries, “Yes, please.”

You throw your arms around the back of his neck and nestle into his chest and say, on the verge of giggling and crying at the same time as it bubbles out of you, “I love you so much, Bren. You’re gonna be such a good dad.”

“I don’t know about that,” he replies with a sigh, “but I think, maybe, if I follow your lead, I could become one.” He kisses your forehead and murmurs, “Now get some rest, princess. Your body’s working really hard; gotta keep your energy up.”

You nod and shift onto your side, bringing him to face you. All teasing and sweet, you tangle up your limbs with his and ask, “Does this mean you’re gonna buy me a nice house and a big fat diamond?”

Needing to kiss you again, he nods and holds you and promises, “And anything else you could ever want. They pay me way too much money at that damn  hospital; you need a new car and a better place and a huge ‘fuck you’ ring that stops other alphas from even looking at you.”

“Mmm.” Your eyelids start to feel heavy as that settles into your cells. You have it now. The mate, the life, the dream you’ve always had. Sleepy and adoring, you breathe, “Tell me you love me again.”

Brendon kisses your cheek as he cradles your head, making sure you’re comfortable no matter how you position yourself. “I love you, cherry.”

When you’re woken up by the need pulsing between your thighs, you’re curled up between Brendon’s legs, enveloped by his body that seems much larger in rut. He’s sitting up straight, watching the door like a hawk, with his hands resting on your hip and your waist like he’s ready to scoop you up and haul you to safety at any second. He notices the change to your breathing and focuses all his attention on you right away. 

“Hi, baby.” With gentler hands than you would’ve thought him capable of, Brendon cups your flaming cheek and murmurs, “You’re burning up. What can I do?”

Your tongue feels weird and heavy in your mouth again, your brain flickering away as another wave of heat starts to wash over you. It’s always been hard for you to put words together when you’re in heat. So you just sit up, turn yourself around, and maneuver so you’re in his lap. He instinctively shifts his weight to make space for you, arms coming to rest on your lower back. You drop your mouth to his neck, lap your tongue over his scent gland until you feel his cock rapidly hardening beneath you. Right against his ear, you whine, “Knot.”

Brendon kisses you warmly, like he’s greeting you after a long time away. His hands trail down to your hips and he manhandles you to push your hips back and forth, your slick running over his shaft. “Your wish is my command, princess.”

You nod your heavy head and feel your cunt beginning to pulse just from the way he’s looking at you with complete adoration in those blue eyes. As he lifts you up a bit by the waist so he can notch himself against your entrance, you coo, “My alpha. Love you.”

Brendon plunges into you in one slow, needy thrust. An uninhibited wine spills from his lips when he’s once again enveloped in your perfect warmth. He slowly grinds his hips up into yours, groaning with every little twitch of your pussy, “Fuck, kitten, I’ve never- never felt this good with anyone. It’s like you were made for me.”

Beginning to bounce on him because you can’t stand any teasing right now, you whimper, “I was.”

Brendon snaps when he hears that. When he knows it down to his core. Because this isn’t a choice between the two of you. Not really. It’s destiny. It’s fate. It’s fucking magic. You were always going to mold to him. His cock was always going to be the only one that could satisfy you fully.

He growls under his breath and flips you onto your back, needing to have you closer. You’re powerless to his strength, limp, and that’s exactly how you want it. You want to be a small, helpless thing that he takes charge of. Protects. Possesses. He links his fingers with yours above your head, holding you down but grounding himself, too. With his lips hovering above your scent gland, he asks softly, “That better, baby?”

“Perfect,” you moan. “Yours.”

“That’s right.” His thrusts speed up, the sound of his cock plunging inside of you obscene in the timeless quiet of your bedroom. “All mine.”

Brendon drops one hand to your clit and the contact has you keening upward. Your legs snap him in closer, locking around his muscular ass. Your eyes close and your back arches and you can only moan and take whatever he’ll give you. Finally, finally, you’re being taken care of the way you’ve always wanted, your whole body held and tended to and ravished.

As your orgasm threatens, in Brendon’s complete and total control, a droplet of water hits your chest and your eyes flicker open. It’s not sweat from his shiny forehead like you’d thought, though. When you look up at Brendon, you find his forehead wrinkled, his eyes pink, his breaths shaky. You reach up and brush his cheek, bringing his focus back to you. Barely able to speak with everything swirling around your mind, you breathe, “You’re crying.”

He nods and sniffles and swallows hard, trying to come up with the words. Unable to stand making eye contact while he’s being so fucking vulnerable, he buries his face in the side of your neck and nearly weeps, “Never thought I’d have this. Never thought I’d have a mate as perfect as you. Never thought I could deserve a woman who’s so fucking beautiful and kind and smart and who wants to give me a family and I just- I just-”

His voice chokes off as a wave of pleasure billows through you, making your cunt clamp down around him. Feeling overwhelmed with light and softness and adoration, you tilt your head to the side and whimper a request Brendon Park’s been waiting his whole life to hear without even knowing: “Bite.”

He doesn’t second-guess you. He doesn’t challenge you.

He bites.

Brendon doesn’t fuck around with claming you once he has permission. When he hears your true need for his ownership. His cock is pistoning like a machine designed for your pleasure and he’s thrumming on your clit with his thumb and his teeth don’t hesitate to pierce your neck. You loose an orchestral crescendo cry when the perfect, blissful, heavenly pain stamps you as his. There’s no stopping the orgasm that slaps you across the face and holds you down by the throat while Brendon grips your hand above your head, keeping you in place while his teeth forever mark you as his possession.

As he tastes your blood – strangely sweet with your hormones swelling – Brendon kisses your neck, leaving the shape of his lips all over your skin. You’re whimpering and crying and you can hardly move with the intense, addictive pleasure that’s boiling you alive. He flips you so he’s on his back and you’re in his lap, barely able to keep yourself upright, insanely cute to him in your woozy lust. Then he tilts his head to the side and taps his own scent gland with two fingers. “Your turn, princess. Don’t be shy.”

He’s expecting you to protest, to giggle, to turn bashful at the idea.

Not you.

Not his omega.

You bend down, rolling your hips all the while, and kiss your own blood off his lips before lathing your tongue up his neck. You drag your teeth over his pulse, his tendons, breathing his scent deeply and licking up his sweat. You’re drunk on him. On the pheromones you can only produce together. When your teeth graze his scent gland, you feel him shiver beneath you. His hands lock onto your hips to keep your bodies grinding together as you lose control at last.

Opening up your mouth wide, you start off by sucking his flesh into your mouth, enjoying the way his breath stutters and his thrusts deepen with each added sensation. By the time you add your teeth, you can feel his knot starting to swell up as he desperately tries to stave off his orgasm to stay with you longer, panting and groaning and right on the edge with your teeth meeting his skin.

When you break the skin, tasting the fat and iron of his blood, Brendon’s world explodes into the second Big Bang. Sparks and stars and fire. Everything is you. Every molecule, every atom, every neutron and quark and particle. You pull off him with a proud smile, his blood at the corners of your thrilled lips. His pupils turn to pinpricks so he can memorize it, the light of your bedroom a flashbang that burns the memory into the film of his soul. He’s never cum so hard in his life, his knot quickly filling and locking the two of you in place.

You collapse onto his chest and he holds you so close. His soft voice is a constant stream against your ear as his hands run up and down your back and sides. I love you. I love you. I love you. Your sopping pussy keeps gently pulsing around him, the aftershocks still rattling you both. There’s no ecstasy like the one that comes after mating. Neither of you need to speak to know it to your cores: This is it. It’s the end of dating, the end of craving, the end of begging. Never again will you go without.

As the haze of broken skin begins to recede, you gently kiss across Brendon’s chest. You bring your lips to his and you both half-smile against each other. It’s perfectly simple, the two of you, and it makes more sense than anything you’ve ever known. Still hard inside of you, Brending shifts you both upwards so he can hold you in his lap. His hands roam lazily, happily, knowingly. He’s learned the curves and edges of you now.

With both your brains turning on again and your bodies still intertwined, Brendon kisses your temple and murmurs against your ear, “You’ve known all along, haven’t you? About us?”

You brush your thumb over his chin – there’s evening stubble there now, rakishly handsome – and admit gently, “I knew the first time we met.”

With a sigh, he asks, “Why didn’t you say anything? We could’ve been together so much sooner.”

You give him an ‘as if’ sort of look. “Because you’re kind of an asshole, Bren.”

“Fair enough,” he laughs. “God, I’m sorry, baby. I can’t imagine my life without you now.”

“I know. Me too.” You go back to kissing him for another minute, unable to resist with him completely at your mercy. After a minute, you explain further, “I just wanted to see if we liked each other beyond, y’know, the whole biology thing. If we could fit together.”

“I always liked you,” he says back, fingers tracing beads of sweat that fall down your body, “even before I could smell you.”

You giggle and smack his chest. “Liar.”

“No, I swear,” he insists urgently. Even though he’s softening now, neither of you goes to move, too enamored with one another. “I thought you were competent. Good with patients. Funny. Pretty.”

“Those are just facts, Brendon. Everyone thinks I’m wonderful.”

“And I thought you were so modest,” he needles. While your laugh brushes against his skin, he tells you, much more softly now, “Every time there was a page for me to the ED, I hoped it was you because, every time we worked together, I left so fucking frustrated.”

You scoff and tease, “Weren’t you trying to say you’ve always liked me a second ago?”

“No, baby, I mean…” Brendon struggles to find the right words, but you wait patiently, beyond curious. Nobody gets to see this version of him: Reflective, sweet, innocent. He meets your eyes again and tries to explain, I wasn’t frustrated the way I always am with Robinavitch or the Ken doll or the mousy one or- God, they’re all so fucking stupid compared to you,” he laughs, making you to the same. “I would leave every consult with you frustrated that I wasn’t good the way you are. Frustrated that you put people at ease without trying while everyone’s scared of me even when I try to be softer. Frustrated that you don’t let anything stop you when sometimes I get so fed up I have to punch a wall. Frustrated because you made me want to be better –  a better doctor, yes, but a better man and a better alpha, too. Nobody’s ever made me feel like that.”

You pout your lower lip and hold back tears. You can’t help but kiss him. There are no alternatives. And he really, really likes being kissed by you. With every touch of your lips, he can taste the rest of his life. When you pull back at last, you’ve sniffled back the tears and replaced them with an adorable, mischievous smile. You tell him cheekily, “I didn’t like you back then, if you were wondering.”

“You made that plenty clear, baby,” he chuckles, giving your ass an affectionate squeeze. “What changed your mind?”

With a soft shrug, you give him the truth: “You told Frankie you’d go to his track meet.”

“It meant that much to you?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. It feels like a secret, but you want to tell him all your secrets, especially the ones you’d never share with anyone else. “Becaues you listened to me. Apologies don’t count if you don’t change your behavior – and you did. But I could tell it wasn’t just for me. You really wanted to make it up to him. To fix what you’d broken.” You gingerly trace the harsh angles of his face with your forefinger, memorizing the lines. When you touch his lower lip, he sighs and smiles contentedly. You tell him, “That’s the sign of a good man, I think. A good partner apologizes and means it. A good father screws up and then fixes it. I didn’t have a choice in being your mate, but I made the choice to love you.”

Brendon blinks hard. He covers your hand with his and kisses each of your fingers. Rough and thick with love, he breathes, “Christ, kitten, are you trying to make me cry here?”

You kiss him so softly it could be a butterfly’s wing. “You already did, softie.”