Chapter 33: The Aftermath
The storm did come back. It crashed over her in the deep silence of the night, a fever that burned away the last vestiges of her rational mind. This time, there was no shyness, no hesitant exploration. There was only need, a raw, desperate pull that had her climbing over him, pleading into the dark, her words dissolving into sobs.
He met it with a fierce, focused calm. He handled her like something both fragile and wild, anchoring her thrashing body, giving her exactly what she craved until the world blurred into a haze of sensation and release. When he finally knotted, the shock of it—the overwhelming, impossible fullness—made her scream into the pillow. He covered her mouth with his hand, not to silence her, but to absorb the sound, his own groan hot against her ear. They were locked together for an eternity, trembling, sweat-slicked, utterly joined.
When it was over, she passed out before he even softened.
She woke to the smell of bacon.
For a disoriented moment, she thought she was dreaming. Then she moved, and every muscle protested. She felt used, thoroughly and completely. The marks on her skin were darker. The ache was deeper. The scent of him was in her sheets, on her skin, in her very lungs.
She managed to sit up. She was wearing one of his t-shirts, a soft, washed-out grey thing that swallowed her whole. He must have put it on her after she’d fallen unconscious. The thought made her face warm.
The bedroom door was ajar. Cautiously, she swung her legs out. Her knees held. She shuffled out into the living area, following the sounds and smells.
Rhys was at the stove again, his back to her. He wore only his jeans, low on his hips. The tattoos on his back and shoulders shifted as he moved a spatula. The little kitchen table was set for two, with orange juice poured, and her vintage toaster—now sporting a neatly replaced cord—sat proudly in the center.
“You fixed it,” she said, her voice raspy.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Took five minutes. It was a death trap.” His eyes swept over her, a quick, assessing glance. “You look like you got run over by a truck.”
“I feel like it.”
“Good.” He turned back to the bacon. “That means it was real. Sit. Before you fall over.”
She didn’t argue. She pulled out a chair and sank into it, her body grateful for the support. He brought over two plates heaped with scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. He sat opposite her, his frame making the small chair look comical.
“Eat. All of it.”
She picked up her fork. The first bite of eggs was divine. She hadn’t realized how starved she was. They ate in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the clink of cutlery and the distant chirp of birds outside.
“So,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You work at that little plant nursery on Elmwood.”
She blinked, surprised he remembered a throwaway comment from the haze of the previous day. “Yes. How did you…?”
“You mentioned it. You said you liked the ferns.” He took a long drink of juice. “Do you like it?”
“I love it.” A flicker of passion lit her up from the inside. “It’s quiet. Everything has a name and a purpose. You learn how to care for things, and they… they thrive. It’s simple.”
He watched her talk, his expression unreadable. “Simple’s underrated.”
“What’s… what’s your shop like?” she asked, braving a question of her own.
“Loud. Greasy. Smells like gasoline and cheap coffee. Three mechanics, including me. We do good work.” He shrugged a massive shoulder. “It pays the bills. Lets me build things sometimes, restore old cars.”
“You build things?”
“When I have time. Got a ’69 Mustang in the back I’ve been chipping away at for two years.” A faint note of pride entered his voice. “It’s a wreck. But the engine’s almost there.”
She tried to picture him bent over an engine block, focused, competent. It was an easy picture to form. “That sounds wonderful.”
“It’s a money pit is what it sounds like.” He leaned back, studying her. “You live alone. You work with plants. You watch documentaries about jellyfish. Your friends are all alphas, but you’ve never…” He trailed off, not needing to finish.
She looked down at her plate, pushing a piece of bacon around. “I’m not very interesting.”
“You’re the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in a year,” he said, so matter-of-factly it stole her breath.
She looked up. He wasn’t smiling. He was just stating a fact.
“I don’t know what to do with that,” she whispered.
“You don’t have to do anything with it.” He finished his last piece of toast. “But I want to take you out.”
The fork nearly slipped from her fingers. “Out?”
“Yeah. Out. In public. Where there’s other people and lighting. A date, Aurora.” He said the word like it was a foreign concept he was testing. “Dinner. Maybe a movie, though your taste is questionable. A walk. The boring, normal stuff people do.”
Her heart was doing a frantic, fluttering dance against her ribs. “A date,” she echoed, the word feeling strange in her mouth.
“That’s the idea. Think you can handle that, omega? Without your heat as an excuse?”
The question was a challenge, but his eyes were soft. He was giving her an out, a way to say this was just a biological inevitability and nothing more. She could take it. He’d probably respect it.
She thought of the empty, quiet years. The longing that had been a constant hum in her blood, long before her first heat. She thought of his hand on her ankle while jellyfish drifted across the screen. Of him fixing her toaster. Of the way he’d asked about her ferns.
“Yes,” she said, the word firmer than she expected. “I can handle it.”
A slow, real grin spread across his face. It transformed him completely, carving lines around his eyes and making him look younger, lighter. “Okay then. Good.”
He stood and collected their plates. “Your heat’s broken. You’ll be sore, but you’re clear. I should get to my shop.” He walked to the sink, his movements easy. “I’ll pick you up Friday. Seven. Wear something… I don’t know. Wear whatever you want.”
He washed the dishes with the same efficiency he did everything. She just sat there, wrapped in his t-shirt, watching him. Her alpha. He’d just called it a date. He’d just promised her Friday.
He dried his hands and walked over to her. He didn’t kiss her. He just put a hand on the top of her head, his fingers sliding through her messy hair in a gesture that was startlingly affectionate. “Eat the rest of your bacon. Lock the door after I leave.”
And then he was gathering his things, pulling on his boots, shrugging into his jacket. At the door, he paused and looked back at her.
“Hey,” he said. “It’s just dinner.”
She nodded, clutching the fabric of his shirt at her chest.
He gave her one last, lingering look, then the door clicked shut behind him.
The apartment was suddenly, profoundly silent. The golden light seemed too bright. The scent of bacon and him began to slowly fade, replaced by the familiar lavender and quiet.
Aurora sat perfectly still for a long time. Then she looked down at her half-eaten plate. She picked up the last strip of bacon and took a small, deliberate bite.
A date.
She finished the bacon. She stood, her body protesting but functional. She walked to the door, turned the lock with a solid click. She leaned her forehead against the cool wood.
A stupid, hopeful smile spread across her face, and for once, she didn’t try to hide it.