Page 32 of Omega's Fire

I’d done that. Deliberately. Cruelly. I didn’t have to kiss him.

And for what? To prove a point we both already knew? To win the argument?

No, I kissed him because I wanted to kiss him.

He’d been standing there, looking at me like I was the only thing he’d ever wanted and he’d smelled like heaven itself and so I’d kissed him.

“You okay?” Meg appears at my elbow, her eyes too perceptive. “I feel like I’ve asked you that ten times tonight.”

“Just tired,” I say again.

“And that’s the tenth time you’ve given me the same answer. You should go home,” she says softly. “Get some real rest.”

Relief crashes through me, so powerful it nearly buckles my knees. I wanted company but now it’s all too much. Maybe I just need to sleep, spend some time not thinking about Nash Thorndike. “Yeah. Maybe I should.”

“Let me grab my keys.”

“You don’t have to drive me—”

“I know.” She squeezes my hand. “But I want to.”

The goodbyes take another twenty minutes: hugs and promises to call and reminders of meetings. By the time we make it back to Meg’s car, my composure is hanging by a thread.

“There’s a pillow in the backseat if you want to just lie down and close your eyes,” She says to me as we pull away from the curb. “I won’t be offended.”

I take the offer in gratitude, feigning exhaustion, knowing if we talk I might crack or maybe I’ll cry.

I can still smell Nash’s scent on me, despite my overlong shower at the cottage and the fucked up thing about it, is that I love it.

I’m wishing I had a shirt of his to sniff. I’ve got used to being saturated with his scent and now it’s gone and it feels like there’sa hole inside of me. It’s messed up.

Meg, bless her, just drives. I keep my eyes closed, breathing shallow, until we finally pull up outside my building.

“We’ve put you into the corner office on the south side. You want me to come in with you, show you where it is?”

“That’s okay,” I say, reaching for the door handle. “Thank you. I know which one you mean. I just want to get to bed.”

“Call me if you need anything,” Meg replies. “Anything at all.”

I nod, not trusting my voice, and walk slowly, each step weighted with exhaustion.

I find the new office-slash-bedroom easily and push the door open, only to freeze in the doorway, stunned by what I find inside.

Someone has transformed the empty office space. New bedding covers my mattress—actual sheets and a comforter, not just the sleeping bag I’d been using. A small vase of wildflowers sits on the wooden crate that serves as my nightstand, and there’s a basket with water bottles, food, and—I swallow hard when I spot it—a pack of my favorite chocolate bars tucked on top.

A note sits propped against the vase: “Welcome home, you amazing man. We’ve got your back.”

I sink onto the edge of my mattress, overwhelmed by everything. My hands tremble slightly as I unwrap a chocolate bar. How can I feel so grateful and so devastated at the same time?

Chemistry.

I know the answer. Hormones are raging through my brain right now: dopamine, serotonin, huge waves and waves of oxytocin triggered by spending so much time with a prime match. Nash was right about that. There’s science behind what I’m feeling.

My brain chemistry is following the same neurologicalpathways as an addiction.

And like any addiction, the best solution is cold turkey. All I need to do is keep my distance from Nash Thorndike and wait for the shakes.

My phone buzzes and for a moment, adrenaline rushes into me. It might be Nash. I open up the notification but it’s just a text from a journalist looking for an exclusive interview. I ignore it. I can’t face more questions tonight.

---