Page 10 of Omega in Love
"Is that what we're calling it now?" He glances at me, one eyebrow arched over his sunglasses, challenge written in every line of his body.
"Protocol."
"Protocol says you need to stare at my mouth?" His tone is teasing, but there's something else there too, a current underneath, a tension that wasn't there before.
Okay, so he caught me there. Busted by my own lack of subtlety. "Protocol says I need to anticipate threats. You with sugar is definitely a threat." I let my gaze drop deliberately to his mouth again, no longer pretending it's anything but what it is, desire, pure and simple.
He snorts, but I catch the slight flush creeping up his neck, that rose-petal pink beneath golden brown skin. It's these little tells that fascinate me. How he can command a runway and face down paparazzi without flinching, but genuine compliments make him squirm. I file away these contradictions like treasures, the public swagger and the private vulnerability, how differently he exists in both worlds.
"Dr. Kendrick wants me to start journaling again," he says after a while, changing the subject with practiced ease. His fingers trace invisible patterns on the table between us. "Says I need to 'process' instead of compartmentalizing."
I nod. "Makes sense."
"Does it? Because it sounds like bullshit." There's a sharp edge to his words now, that defensive bite I've come to recognize. "What am I supposed to write? 'Dear Diary, today I remembered how it felt when they’—"
"Hey." I cut him off, my voice softer than intended, gentler than the man my father raised me to be. "You don't have to say it out loud."
His knuckles go white around the gelato cup, fingers clenching so tight I wonder if he even feels the cold. There's something raw in his expression, something unguarded that puts me on high alert. "But I'm supposed to write it down? Make it real again?"
I take the crushed cup from his hand before he can spill it, my fingers brushing against his for just a moment. Even that brief contact feels significant. "The point isn't to relive it. The point is to acknowledge it happened, then put it somewhere it can't ambush you anymore." I know something about compartmentalizing, about shoving down memories until they become landmines waiting to detonate at the worst moments.
"That's. . .surprisingly insightful," he says, arching his masterfully threaded brow at me, the gesture elegant and practiced. His eyes search mine, like he's recalibrating something, adjusting some internal assessment of who I am.
"I'm not just a pretty face." I smile, letting warmth reach my eyes, offering him this small piece of myself.
The tension in his shoulders loosens slightly, that invisible armor he wears easing just a fraction. "Debatable,” he mutters, but there's a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and I count it as another victory.
We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes. I scan the street out of habit. I check faces, note every potential exit point, catalog the couple arguing three benches down, clock the barista taking her smoke break by the alleyway, mentally mark the bluesedan that's been parked too long. All old habits, but necessary ones. Lifesaving ones, but my attention keeps drifting back to him like a compass finding true north, pulled by some force I can't explain and don't try to fight anymore.
"I can't remember what my life was like before all this sometimes," he admits quietly, tracing the rim of his near empty gelato cup with one perfectly manicured finger. "Before the kidnapping. Before you three showed up to babysit me." His voice carries a practiced lightness that doesn't reach his eyes.
"We don't babysit you." The words come out sharper than I meant them to, an exposed nerve I didn't realize was raw until he touched it.
He looks startled, those brown eyes widening slightly. "I was just?—"
"I know what you were doing. Making it smaller, safer if you need to. Joke about it so it doesn't hurt as much." I turn to face him fully, my knee almost brushing his on the narrow bench. "We're not your babysitters, Brookes. We're your security detail because you survived something terrible and the people who did it are still out there." My hand tightens involuntarily on my thigh, knuckles whitening at the thought of those men walking free. Hopefully, Dez and Trigger have found and eradicated the rest of the bastards who were at that warehouse that night.
His expression shutters, that familiar wall coming down so fast I can almost hear it slam into place. The roses in his scent turn bitter, thorny. "Thanks for the reminder."
Shit. I'm fucking this up. "That's not what I—" I exhale slowly, trying again, gentling my voice the way I would approach a spooked animal. "You're not a job to us. Not to me."
The words hang between us, too honest for the middle of the day on a public bench with the sun beating down and strangers walking past. His scent shifts slightly, like roses warming in sunlight, rich and fragrant and impossible to resist, and I haveto force myself not to lean closer, not to breathe him in until my lungs are full of nothing but him. Being around him is like standing at the edge of a cliff, constantly aware that one wrong step could send me plummeting into territory I can't come back from.
"What am I to you, then?" he asks, so softly I almost miss it. His eyes hold mine, unblinking.
Everything. The word sits on my tongue, dangerous and true. I swallow it back, feel it lodge in my throat like a stone.
"Someone worth protecting," I say instead. It's a safe choice, considering, but still honest. What I don't say: someone worth dying for. Someone worth living for. Someone who's rewritten everything I thought I knew about duty and desire.
He studies me for a long moment, those brown eyes searching mine like he's looking for the lie, for the careful wall I've constructed for my own protection. There's an intelligence in his gaze that strips away pretense. The same penetrating focus that makes him electric in front of cameras, though he doesn't realize how much power that look holds. Then he nods once, finishing the last of his gelato with a delicate scrape of plastic against paper.
"We should head back before Hero sends out a search party," he says, standing.
I follow him to the car, letting the moment pass, cataloging the slight swing in his hips that wasn't there before our talk. I want to sigh, but I hold it back. That's how it goes with us. A glimpse of something deeper, then retreat. Honesty followed by deflection. Two steps forward, one step back, a dance neither of us acknowledges we're performing. I'm patient. Years of training have taught me how to wait, how to observe, how to anticipate. I can wait.
As we drive, he leans his head against the window, the tension from therapy slowly draining out of him. His shouldersdrop a half-inch. His fingers uncurl from the tight fists they've been making since we left Dr. Kendrick's office. I drive the long way back, taking the scenic route past the beach even though it adds twenty minutes to the trip. He doesn't comment, just watches the waves with a small, peaceful smile that transforms his entire face, softening lines I hadn't realized were there.
Worth it.
