"I'm not going to hurt him," I say, meeting both their gazes steadily. "I'm not exactly the type of omega that gets the vapors and flings herself onto the floor over a spider." I laugh a little. "We're not allthatfragile."
"We don't think you are," Plague says quickly, in full damage control mode now. He might think Whiskey doesn't have a way with words, but he isn't exactly eloquent when he's panicking, either.
Whiskey nods, apparently satisfied. "Cool. Sorry for being weird about it. It's just... Wraith doesn't let people in. Ever. And seeing him with you, it's like watching a completely different person. In a good way," he adds quickly. "A really good way. I've never seen him happy before."
That makes my chest ache in a way I'm not prepared for. The idea that Wraith—my gentle, protective giant who brings me soup and holds me through nightmares—hasn't been happy. That I might be changing that.
"Can we talk about something else?" I ask, suddenly feeling exposed under their scrutiny. "This is getting way too heavy for breakfast conversation."
"Thank fuck," Whiskey says, returning to his eggs with renewed enthusiasm. "I thought we were gonna have to have actual feelings and shit."
"You? Have feelings?" Plague's tone is dry as dust. "I'd need scientific proof of that phenomenon."
"I have plenty of feelings. I feel hungry. I feel tired. I feel like you're an asshole."
"Those aren't feelings, they're states of being."
"Your face is a state of being."
"That doesn't even make sense."
And just like that, we're back to normal. Or whatever passes for normal with these two. The tension from moments before dissolves as they fall back into their familiar pattern of bickering, and I find myself relaxing again.
But I can't stop thinking about what they said. About Wraith being "more than scarred." About how no one else has ever accepted him. It makes me want to get back to him even more, to show him that whatever he looks like under that mask, it doesn't change how I feel about him.
Because the truth is, I'm already falling in love with him. With his gentle touches and protective presence. With the way he signs my name like it's something beautiful. With how he makes me feel safe in a world that's been nothing but dangerous for so long.
Nothing else matters. Not the scarring, no matter how bad it is beneath his mask. Not the fact he’s mute, or even more feral than I am.
"We should probably head back soon," Plague says, checking his watch. "It's been a few hours."
"Yeah," I agree, though part of me doesn't want this to end. This bubble of normalcy we've created in a shitty diner at the ass crack of dawn.
Whiskey signals for the check, and Betty appears with it immediately. He throws down cash before Plague can object, adding a generous tip.
"I can pay for my own breakfast," I say.
"Nope." Whiskey stands, stretching. "Pack takes care of pack."
The casual way he includes me in that makes my throat tight. "Yeah, well, I'm not pack yet," I mutter.
"Yet?" Whiskey echoes, clearly latching onto that.
I sigh. "I might never be. I don't know right now. I have a lot to think about."
"A scent match does meansomething," Whiskey points out.
"And I'll need extra time to think about what it means if you bug me about it," I remind him, but the fact he's giving me overgrown golden retriever eyes makes me less annoyed than I would be if he were virtually anyone else.
"Got it. No bugging," he promises, backing off immediately with palms raised in a placating gesture.
We file out of the diner into the morning air. The sun's properly up now, painting everything gold. I'm not usually the city type, but it is pretty in the morning, and it's waking up around us. More cars on the road, more people on the sidewalks.
"We should take different routes back," Plague says, ever practical.
"Or," Whiskey counters, "we could act like regular people walking back from breakfast."
"Nothing about us is regular at all."
