Chapter 32: The Morning After
The deep, dreamless sleep finally broke. Aurora swam up towards consciousness, not to an alarm or sunlight, but to the rhythm of another person’s breathing. Slow. Steady. A warm, solid weight against her back. The air in her room was different—used, intimate, thick with the scent of sex and skin and spent desire, the vanilla and lavender now just a ghost beneath it all.
She was sore in places she hadn’t known could be sore. A pleasant, heavy ache settled deep in her muscles and bones. When she shifted minutely, a twinge between her thighs made her breath catch. Evidence. The love bites on her neck and shoulders prickled under the blanket.
His arm, a tattooed band of muscle and ink, was draped over her waist. His hand rested possessively on her stomach. As she moved, his fingers flexed, pressing her back against him. A low, sleepy sound rumbled from his chest into her spine. Not quite a growl. More like a engine idling.
“Mmph.” His voice was blurred with sleep, his face buried in the mess of her hair. “Stop wiggling.”
She went perfectly still. “Sorry.”
He let out a long, slow breath, the heat of it spreading across her shoulder. His thumb began to move, a tiny, absent stroke against the soft cotton of her t-shirt. “S’okay. Just… comfortable.”
They lay there in silence for what felt like an age. The room came into focus piece by piece. The lavender curtains glowed with midday light. Her forgotten cup of tea on the nightstand looked like a relic from another life. Her stuffed rabbit on the armchair seemed to watch with its usual serene indifference.
“Rhys?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you okay?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then a soft, surprised chuckle vibrated through her. “I just had the best sleep of my fucking life, omega. I’m better than okay.” He lifted his head, and she felt his lips press against the juncture of her neck and shoulder, right over a tender mark. “You’re the one who got worked over. You okay?”
The blunt, caring question undid her. She nodded, then realizing he couldn’t see, whispered, “Yes. I feel… real.”
“Real.” He repeated the word like he was testing its weight. His hand slid up, his palm spreading over her ribs, just below her breast. He could probably feel her heart hammering. “Real is good.”
He shifted then, rolling onto his back. The loss of his warmth was immediate, a shock to her system. She turned to face him. He had one arm flung over his eyes again, but his mouth was relaxed, the harsh lines of his face softened by sleep and satisfaction. The sheet was down at his hips, revealing the stark landscape of his torso—the tattoos, the scars, the proof of a life lived with his hands.
She propped herself up on an elbow, her eyes tracing the silvery line across his ribs. Without thinking, she reached out and touched it, her fingertips light.
He flinched. Just a tiny, instinctive twitch. Then he went very still.
“How?” she asked.
He didn’t move his arm. “Angle grinder. Slipped. Six years ago.”
“It looks like it hurt.”
“Everything hurts if you do it wrong.” He finally lowered his arm and turned his head to look at her. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “You’re very touchy.”
She snatched her hand back, heat flooding her cheeks. “Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing for being curious.” He caught her wrist before she could retreat fully. He brought her hand back and pressed her palm flat over the old scar. His skin was warm. “See? Just skin. Just a reminder to pay the fuck attention.”
Her thumb stroked the ridge of it. “Do you have a lot of reminders?”
“A lifetime’s worth.” His gaze flicked over her face, down to her throat. “Now I guess I’ve got a new one.”
She touched her own neck, feeling the raised welt of a love bite. A flush, different from the heat, spread through her. A mark. His mark. However temporary.
His stomach chose that moment to emit a long, low growl that had nothing to do with dominance. He blinked, then grinned—a real, full, slightly crooked grin that transformed his entire face. “Right. Food. Actual food. Not saltines.”
“I could make something,” she offered, already moving to sit up.
He sat up faster, swinging his legs off the bed. “You’re not making anything. You’re wrecked. I saw your kitchen. I can manage eggs without burning the place down.” He stood, a tower of naked, unselfconscious muscle, and snagged his boxers from the floor.
The domesticity of it was staggering. An alpha in her kitchen. Making eggs. After.
She pulled the sheet up to her chin, watching him dress. He moved with an economical efficiency, pulling on his jeans, not bothering with a shirt. “You want coffee?” he called over his shoulder as he walked out.
“Yes, please.”
She heard cupboard doors open, the clatter of a pan, the faucet running. Normal sounds. They felt alien in her quiet space. She slowly extricated herself from the bed, every movement a symphony of pleasant aches. She found a clean pair of leggings and pulled them on, her t-shirt hanging almost to her knees. She padded out to the living area.
He was at her small stove, back to her, shoulders flexing as he cracked eggs into a bowl one-handed. The sight did something funny to her chest. He’d found her coffee press and grounds, and the rich, bitter scent was beginning to mix with the butter melting in the pan.
“You’re very… capable,” she said, leaning against the doorway.
He glanced over his shoulder. “It’s eggs, Aurora. Not a transmission rebuild.” He poured the eggs into the pan, and they sizzled. “Though, given the state of your toaster, I might be more qualified for the latter.”
“It’s a vintage toaster. It has character.”
“It has a death wish and faulty wiring.” He flipped an omelet with a quick jerk of the wrist. “I’ll fix it later.”
Later. The word hung in the air, sweet and dangerous. He said it so casually, as if it was a given.
They ate at her small breakfast nook, knees almost touching. The omelet was simple, perfectly cooked. The coffee was strong. He ate with a focused intensity, clearing his plate in minutes, then leaning back to sip his coffee, watching her pick at hers.
“You need to eat more than that,” he said, not unkindly.
“I’m not that hungry.”
“Your body’s running a marathon it wasn’t trained for. Fuel it.” He nudged the plate closer to her with one finger.
She took another bite under his watchful gaze. It felt good to be cared for, even in this stern, practical way.
His phone buzzed on the table, face-down. It vibrated again. And again. A series of short, insistent bursts.
His jaw tightened. He didn’t move to pick it up.
“You can get it,” she said softly.
“It’s my foreman. Wants to know when I’m coming back in.” He finally flipped the phone over, scanned the messages, and thumbed a quick reply. Soon. He set it back down, screen-side down again.
“You should go,” she said, the words tasting like ash. “Your business…”
“My business will survive. Your heat won’t.” He said it flatly, a fact. “It’s not over. You’re just in the eye of the storm. It’ll come back tonight, maybe stronger.”
The thought should have terrified her. It didn’t. It sent a curl of anticipation through her exhaustion. “Oh.”
“Yeah. ‘Oh.’” He finished his coffee. “So we’ve got a few hours. What do normally… omega virgins… do between heats?”
The question was so absurdly practical, so him, that a laugh bubbled out of her. It sounded strange to her own ears. “I don’t know. I’ve never had one. Watch a movie?”
He stared at her. Then he shook his head, a faint smile touching his lips. “A movie. Okay.” He stood, collecting the plates. “You pick. Something that doesn’t have talking cartoon animals.”
While he washed up, she scrolled through her streaming service, her mind blank. She finally chose an old, quiet documentary about deep-sea ecosystems, all muted colors and floating jellyfish.
He came over, drying his hands on a dish towel. He looked at the screen, then at her, one eyebrow raised. “Really?”
“It’s soothing.”
He grunted, dropping onto the far end of her small sofa. He was too big for it, his knees angled out. She curled up at the other end, pulling a blanket over herself. The narrator’s calm voice filled the room.
Five minutes in, she inched closer. Ten minutes in, her feet were tucked under his thigh for warmth. He didn’t move away. He just rested a heavy hand on her ankle, his thumb rubbing a slow circle over her bone.
By the time a bioluminescent squid drifted across the screen, she was asleep, her head pillowed against the sofa arm. She didn’t feel him move. She only felt the sudden, thrilling sense of weightlessness as he slid his arms under her and lifted her. She made a soft sound of protest, burying her face in his neck.
“Shhh. Bed’s better.” He carried her back to the bedroom, laid her down, and pulled the covers over her. He stood there for a long moment, looking down at her in the dim room.
He didn’t leave. He walked around to the other side of the bed, kicked off his jeans, and slid in beside her. He didn’t pull her to him immediately. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
She waited, holding her breath.
After a minute, his arm came around her. He hauled her across the sheets until her back was against his side, her head on his shoulder. He let out a long, slow exhale, his chin resting on top of her head.
“Just rest, omega,” he murmured, his voice already thick with approaching sleep. “Storm’s coming.”
And for the first time in her life, Aurora felt entirely ready for it.