Page 67 of Omega's Fire

I shift in my seat, trying to angle away from him, but it’s useless. His pheromones have filled the stage area, mixing with mine in a combination that makes my head swim. The baby moves restlessly, responding to the hormone surge.

“And what harm would that be?” Glass presses.

Nash looks at me then, really looks at me, and the intensity in his dark eyes makes my breath catch. This close, I can see the shadows beneath them, the sharp angles of his face that speak of weight loss. He looks like I feel: worn down, exhausted, haunted.

Glass interjects smoothly, “Dr. Thorndike, are you saying you were wrong?”

Nash doesn’t seem to notice Glass has asked him a question. His eyes are on me, only me.

The studio suddenly feels suffocatingly small. This close, Ican see the pulse jumping in his throat.

“I owe you an apology, Leo. A public one. None of this should have happened. You should never have been arrested. Never have been subjected to cohabitation against your will. I’m sorry. Genuinely, deeply sorry. And I should never have let this happen to you.”

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with meaning. The audience has gone completely silent. I can hear the sincerity in his voice, see it in the way he holds himself. There’s none of his usual confident certainty, just genuine regret.

I want to forgive him immediately, to close the distance between us, to accept the apology and fall into his arms. His scent is making it hard to think, hard to remember why I need to maintain boundaries.

“Thank you,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.

The audience applauds, long and sustained, and Glass lets the moment breathe before continuing. My skin feels too hot, awareness of Nash beside me making it hard to concentrate on anything else.

Glass lets the moment breathe before continuing. “Mr. Torres, where do you see the omega rights movement going from here?”

I force myself to focus on the question, not on Nash sitting six feet away. “Legislative change is crucial,” I say.

The interview continues, Glass steering us deftly though policy questions and the finer points of the judgment in my case.

Throughout it all, I’m hyperaware of Nash’s presence, his scent mixing with mine in the enclosed space, making my skin feel too tight.

When Glass finally wraps, thanking us for a “fascinating and important discussion,” I feel completely wrung out. The lights dim, the cameras stop rolling, and the audience begins to file out, their chatter filling the space.

“Leo,” Nash says quietly as we both stand.

“Not now” I say quickly. I need to process this first and whatever we are going to say to each other, I don’t want to do it with an audience.

There is no one left in the rows of chairs beyond the stage but David Glass is still there, sitting back in his chair and looking at us like we are two animals on nature documentary.

“Excuse me,” I say, then I just nod and head for the exit. In the hallway, I lean against the wall for a moment, trying to process what just happened.

Nash apologized. Publicly. It doesn’t erase what happened, doesn’t magically fix everything between us, but it’s... something.

Mom is waiting in the lobby, having watched on the monitors in the green room. She studies my face carefully.

“How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know,” I admit as we walk to the car.

The drive home is quiet, and at home, I retreat to my room to decompress. The baby is active, responding to the stress hormones that are finally starting to fade. I lie on my bed, hand on my belly, replaying the interview in my mind.

My phone sits on the nightstand, Nash’s number still blocked. I pick it up, staring at the contact screen. He apologized. I didn’t think I would ever hear an apology from the man I once called Nash Fucking Thorndike.

I unblock the number.

I stare at the screen for a long moment, then type:Thank you for the apology today. It mattered.

The response comes quickly:You deserved to hear it. I’m sorry it took so long. Take care of yourself. If you need anything at all, let me know.

Simple. Respectful. Not pushing for more than I’m ready to give.

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