Page 11 of Omega in Love
I glance at him when we stop at a red light, committing the image to memory: profile outlined against golden afternoon light, the elegant curve of his neck where it meets his shoulder, the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks. My fingers tighten imperceptibly on the steering wheel. My heart pounds to the beat of a song I refuse to name, refuse to acknowledge even to myself.
Protect him. That's my job. That's why Dez assigned me to him. Not to want. Not to need. Just to keep him safe from the people who hurt him, who would hurt him again if given half a chance. I've run the perimeter of these thoughts so many times I've worn a track into my consciousness.
As his scent fills the car, roses and something uniquely him, something that reminds me of early mornings and possibility. I know I've already failed. Failed in the most fundamental way. I want more than I should. Need more than I'm allowed to have. Feel more than regulations permit.
One day soon, I'll have to answer for it. To him. To myself.
Chapter 5
Brookes
Ilock the bedroom door and immediately wonder why. There's no danger here. No one's coming for me. Not in this house, not with Hero, Levi, and Dante stationed like sentinels outside every window and door. Still, my fingers twist the lock like muscle memory. Like maybe I need the barrier more than the protection. It's a reflex born from months of paranoia, from waking up in cold sweat convinced someone was watching, waiting, about to drag me back into that darkness.
It's not about safety. It's about space, I think as I press my back to the door, eyes closed, the air thick with my rose scent. It's too sweet, too sharp, and cloying with anxiety I can't scrub off. The scent lingers like perfume worn too long, soaked into the sheets, the pillows, the fibers of me. Even my skin feels foreign tonight, stretched too thin over bones that ache with remembered pain. I can almost taste the metallic tang of fear at the back of my throat.
Today was too much. It hit me harder than I cared to admit.
Therapy scraped something open I wasn't ready to look at. Dr. Kendrick says that's the point. That I've spent a year carefully placing bricks around my memories, polishing thefacade so no one can see the mess underneath. He sees it. He always does. The worst part of it all, he asks me to name it. Wants me to hold it up to the light and study it like a sculpture. Examine every jagged edge, every place where I've been broken and poorly mended. "Healing isn't linear," he said, as if that's supposed to comfort me when I'm drowning in memories I can't outrun.
Why the hell would I want to do that? Why would I willingly pry open the vault where I've locked away the worst night of my life? The night that stole not just my sense of safety, but my belief that I deserved anything good. The night that made me question every choice, every friendship, every moment of visibility I'd ever embraced. Dr. Kendrick doesn't understand what it costs to remember. He doesn't know how exhausting it is to keep smiling, keep modeling, keep pretending I'm the same Brookes who once lit up runways with unshakable confidence.
I cross the room in three strides and collapse onto the bed. My body sinks into the mattress, but my thoughts don't settle. They whirl like a hurricane, flinging jagged pieces of the day back at me: the low, measured hum of Kendrick's voice, the gentle but relentless prodding, the questions I dodged and the ones I couldn't. The way his eyes saw through every deflection. The way Dante looked at me after, in the alleyway, like I was something fragile and precious. Like I was worth protecting. Like I mattered.
His words come back unbidden, slipping past my defenses.
“You're my favorite part of the day.”
Seven simple words wrapped in honesty and devastation at the same time.
It should feel good. It should make me smile, should warm me from the inside out. Instead, it makes my chest tighten until breathing becomes a conscious effort. Makes me feel like I'mstanding on a crumbling ledge with nothing below but sharp rocks and no way down but through the fall.
I roll to my side and reach for the leather-bound journal Kendrick gave me weeks ago. The expensive kind with thick cream pages and a soft cover that feels like a promise I'm not sure I can keep. It's been collecting dust on my nightstand like a dare I've been avoiding. I flip it open, running my fingers over the blank page, tracing the emptiness I'm supposed to fill with truths I barely admit to myself.
I pick up the pen. Hesitate. The tip hovers over the paper for so long my hand starts to cramp. Then I scribble before I can talk myself out of it:
I think I care about them more than I want to. More than I planned to. More than I'm ready for. They're becoming something I can't afford to lose.
I stare at the sentences until the ink dries completely, watching the confession solidify on the page, echoing the uncomfortable weight in my chest. I don't write the L-word. That would be too much. Too dangerous. Too soon. Too honest about the way Hero's quiet presence steadies me, how Levi's smile makes me feel safe, how Dante's voice has become the sound I listen for first thing every morning.
This is already too much. My fragility sits on the page like an exposed nerve, and I can feel my pulse quickening beneath my skin. What was I thinking, putting those feelings down where they could be seen, touched, proven real?
I snap the journal shut like it's bitten me, the soft leather now feeling dangerous against my fingertips. I shove it deep under the pillow, burying the evidence of my weakness like a shameful secret. My hands are actually trembling. I feel pathetic as I press them flat against the mattress until the shaking stops.
Then I crawl beneath the covers, yanking them over my head like they might somehow muffle not just the world butthe thoughts racing through my mind. The Egyptian cotton feels cool against my feverish skin as I curl into myself, making my body as small as possible. Maybe sleep will come fast this time. Maybe the darkness will be merciful tonight. Maybe I won't dream of them, of warm hands and safer tomorrows that feel just out of reach.
Darkness drags me under before I can finish the thought.
It starts the same way it always does.
My mother called my name from the bottom of the stairs. Her voice brittle, too bright. I remember this day. Every second. Every breath. The way the dust motes danced in the morning sunlight. The faint smell of coffee from the kitchen. The weight of innocence I was about to lose.
I descended one step at a time, my fingertips trailing the smooth wood of the railing. I still had bedhead, my newly grown afro sticking up at odd angles. My pajama pants were twisted around my legs, slightly too short at the ankles. I was sixteen, gangly and uncertain in my own body. I thought it was a normal Saturday, just like any other in our pristine suburban home with its carefully curated family photos lining the walls. I didn’t know yet what had caused me to pass out at school yesterday. The sudden fever, the disorienting scents, and the way my skin had felt too hot. There was a blood test though, rushed and clinical, so I guessed my results had come overnight.
I didn’t know they’d already opened them. I didn’t know they'd already decided my fate.
My father was sitting in the kitchen, newspaper spread before him, coffee untouched. He didn’t look up when I entered, his knuckles white against the ceramic mug. My mother wouldn’t meet my eyes, busying herself with wiping down already clean counters. I felt it before they said anything. Thecold shift. That electric charge of something ending. The air felt different, charged with a tension that made my stomach clench.
"What. . .what is it?" I asked, voice smaller than I wanted it to be, already shrinking into myself.
