Chapter 38: The End of the Night
He didn’t move. The purr in her chest was a fragile, steady thing, and the weight of his arms around her felt like the only real anchor in the world.The numbers on the cable box glowed: 11:27.
“Rhys,” she murmured against his throat, the name a prayer.
“I know.” His voice was gravel. He squeezed her once, tight, a brief compression that made her breath catch, then loosened his hold.“But you said midnight. I’m gonna get you home.”
A small, rebellious part of her stirred.“It’s only a half hour more. The drive’s not that long, I could—”
He shifted her off his lap, his hands firm on her hips as he set her gently beside him on the couch. His expression was soft, but his eyes held a glint of unyielding certainty.“You set the time, sweetheart. That was your rule. You think I’m gonna be the alpha who ignores the first rule you give him?” He shook his head, a faint, fond smile touching his lips. “Not a chance.”
She pouted.It was involuntary, a childish push of her lower lip she hadn’t planned. It felt foreign on her face.He saw it.A low, surprised chuckle rumbled in his chest. He leaned in and kissed the pout right off her mouth. “Don’t do that,” he said, his words a warm brush against her lips. “That’s dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s cute. And it makes me want to give you things.” He stood, extending a hand to pull her up.“Come on.I packed you some food.”
He had. While she’d been in the bathroom, he’d filled a large, lidded container with the rest of the pasta and sauce, and a separate bag held a sealed bowl of salad, two fat, crusty rolls, and a smaller container she couldn’t identify.
“Rhys, this is… this is too much.”
“It’s not.” He was pulling on his boots by the door.“You live on protein bars and sad-looking yogurt. I checked your fridge last time.” He said it casually, as if he hadn’t just admitted to memorizing the contents of her kitchen during his one brief visit.Her cheeks flushed hot. “It’s efficient.”
“It’s shit.” He stood, grabbing his keys and her bag of food. “You need to eat real food. It’s not a discussion.”
The drive to her apartment was quiet, filled with a low jazz station and the comfortable silence between them. Her hand rested on the center console, and after a few minutes, his large, warm palm covered it completely, his thumb tracing idle circles on her knuckles.It felt more intimate than anything that had happened on the couch.
He insisted on walking her up.He insisted on carrying the food.
At her door, she fumbled with her keys, hyper-aware of him standing behind her, a solid, silent presence filling her narrow hallway. The lock clicked. She pushed the door open into the cool, faintly lavender-scented dark of her own space.He followed her in.Not waiting for an invitation. He went straight to her kitchen, a small alcove off the living room, and began unpacking the bag onto her counter. “You got room in here?” he asked, opening her fridge.
“Uh, yeah, just… move things around.”
He did. He rearranged her meager contents with efficient, military precision, making space for the containers.The pasta went on the top shelf.The salad beside it. The rolls in the bread box she never used.He held up the small, unlabeled container last. “This is for breakfast. Just heat it up.”
“What is it?”
“Steel-cut oats.With some cinnamon and brown sugar mixed in. Won’t take you a minute.” He placed it deliberately on the shelf at eye-level.A command. Then he closed the fridge door and turned to her.The kitchen was tiny.He was immense in it. The scent of him, sandalwood and male, overwhelmed the lingering trace of her lavender diffuser. It was his scent in her space now, marking it, and the omega part of her preened silently.He wasn’t staying. She could feel the decision in the way he planted his feet, in the finality of his movements. He’d done what he came to do.
“Thank you for dinner,” she said, her voice small in the dim light from the living room lamp.
“Thank you for coming over.” He stepped closer, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head. “You were perfect.”
He bent to kiss her goodbye.It was soft, achingly sweet. She rose on her toes, trying to deepen it, to taste him more fully, to pull him further in. A soft sound of protest escaped her when he kept it chaste.He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers. His breath was uneven.She could feel the tension coiled in the hand still cupping her skull. “None of that,” he murmured, amused. “You’re trying to get me in trouble.”
“Maybe.”
He kissed her forehead, a firm, damp press of his lips. “Sleep well, Aurora.I’ll text you.”
And then he was gone. The door clicked shut softly behind him.The sudden absence of his presence was a physical vacuum, leaving her apartment feeling hollow and too quiet.
She stood in the middle of her living room, listening to the fading sound of his footsteps in the hall.Her lips still tingled.Her skin hummed where he’d touched her. Her fridge, when she opened it just to look, was full of his food, neat and orderly and entirely his doing.She didn’t touch the oats in the morning. She stared at them, a strange lump in her throat.He’d thought of her breakfast. He’d made it for her.
A text came through just as she was pouring a protein shake she suddenly couldn’t stomach.Rhys: Did you eat?
She looked at the shake, then at the little container in her fridge.She put the shake back in the cupboard.She heated the oats.They were perfect. She took a picture of the steaming bowl and sent it to him.
Aurora: Yes.Aurora: Thank you.Three dots appeared, danced, then disappeared. They reappeared.Rhys: Good.Rhys: Tonight.My place. No curfew.A shiver, sharp and electric, raced down her spine. It wasn’t a question.It was a statement.An arrangement.Her thumb hovered over the screen. The part of her that was shy, that was scared of the vast, unknown territory of a full night with an alpha, screamed for caution. The omega in her, the part that had purred in his lap and pouted at his rules, stretched awake.
She typed her reply, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Aurora: Okay.