Is he blushing? The big, tough military Alpha is blushing about ripping my pantyhose? This is possibly the cutest thing I've ever seen.
There's a hint of warmth in his cheeks—subtle, but definitely there. He's trying to maintain his composure, trying to keep that military bearing, but I can see the cracks. The emotion bleedingthrough the carefully constructed walls he's built around himself.
He hasn't felt emotions like this in a long time, I realize. Maybe since before he enlisted. When he was younger, kinder, less... hardened by whatever he's seen and done overseas. When he could still blush and apologize without feeling like it was a sign of weakness.
"I get turned on by the oddest things," he admits, his voice rough with embarrassment and something that sounds like vulnerability. "And, well, blade play is apparently one of them. I guess. Which is probably weird and slightly concerning from a psychological standpoint, but what can you do? Military training rewires your brain in strange ways."
I grin—can't help it. The absolute absurdity of this gorgeous, confident Alpha apologizing for giving me the best sex of my life and worrying about his kinks is too much. Too endearing. Too human.
"You should totally get into it more," I say, surprising even myself with the enthusiasm and certainty in my voice. "Like, seriously. That was hot. I'm pretty sure I developed a knife kink tonight that I didn't know I had. So thanks for that awakening."
His eyes widen slightly. Surprised that I'm encouraging this instead of being horrified.
I reach down and pat his cock—still sensitive, probably, but I keep the touch gentle and playful. Like patting a dog who's done a good job. "Good work, soldier. You've served your country—and me—admirably."
I help him tuck himself back into his boxers, the intimacy of the gesture somehow more affecting than the sex itself. There's something tender about aftercare. About taking care of each other when the desperation has faded and reality returns.
"I'm gonna go clean up," I announce, stepping back and trying to assess the damage. My Mrs. Claus dress is wrinkled butsalvageable. My wig is slightly askew. My makeup is definitely smeared.
Eight minutes. I can work with eight minutes. I've done full costume changes in less time during fashion show chaos.
But before I can reach for the door handle, Theo's hand wraps around my wrist. Gentle but firm.
"What's your number?"
I freeze. Turn back to look at him. "What? Why?"
Is this the part where he pretends he wants to see me again? Where he asks for my number and then never calls? The classic one-night-stand brush-off disguised as interest?
But his expression is serious. Earnest. "I don't want this to be the end. Even if it's just us being friends. I want to stay in touch."
Oh. He's... he's actually serious. This isn't a line. He genuinely wants my number.
I'm genuinely intrigued. Cautiously hopeful. Trying not to let myself believe too much because hope is dangerous and disappointment hurts.
But I nod slowly, pulling out my phone—miraculously still in my dress pocket instead of lost somewhere in the supply closet chaos, which is where I shoved it before my shift started hours ago. "Okay. Yeah. Here."
I rattle off my number while he pulls out his own phone from his jeans pocket, typing it in with military precision that suggests he's done this a thousand times. Each digit entered carefully, double-checked, and probably committed to memory in case something happens to his phone. The attention to detail is both impressive and slightly intimidating.
A nervous laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. "Don't go searching me online, though. Seriously. I make cringe content. Like Jasper and his posse of douches said. Dancing around in my apartment, talking about books nobody cares about, being toohappy about stupid stuff. It's embarrassing. My whole brand is basically 'aggressively cheerful Omega does things.'"
Why did I say that? Why am I pre-apologizing for my content before he even sees it? Why am I letting Kael's voice—Jasper's voice—live rent-free in my head?
I turn toward the door again, ready to escape before he can say something that will either make me fall for him or confirm that this was just a one-time thing.
"Reverie."
I look back at him. He's zipping up his jeans, adjusting his henley, making himself presentable. But his eyes are on me—intense, focused.
"For an Omega to stand on her own and have the boldness to make something of herself—especially on a platform as cruel as social media where people tear each other apart for entertainment—you're doing what many probably wish they had the guts to do. Building a following, creating content, putting yourself out there knowing that trolls and assholes will judge you."
What? Where is this coming from? Why is he saying these things? Does he actually mean them or is this just post-sex sweetness that will fade once the endorphins wear off?
"So it's not cringe," he continues, his voice firm. Absolute. Like he's stating an undeniable fact instead of an opinion that could be challenged. "You had the confidence to get out of a situation that didn't serve you—that was actively harming you. And now you're building yourself up without riding any Alpha's coattails to do it. Without asking for permission or approval from people who don't matter. That's inspiring."
He pauses, his green-gold eyes never leaving mine. "And if that's looked down upon, then those who are mocking yousimply wish they had the same confidence to do what you're doing. They're jealous. Bitter. Probably stuck in their own shitty situations and taking it out on someone who had the courage to leave."
I... I don't know what to say. No one's ever put it like that before. Hazel supports me, obviously. But this? From an Alpha I just met? Who has no reason to build me up or make me feel good about myself?
