When he reaches me, he doesn't hesitate. Just bends down and scoops me up like I weigh nothing. Like I'm made of feathers and air instead of flesh and bone and anxiety.
He makes it look effortless. One arm under my knees, one behind my back, lifting me against his chest with the kind of strength that makes my hindbrain purr with appreciation.
All I have to do is keep silent. Don't make noise. Don't wake Grayson and Nash who clearly need the sleep. Let Theo carry me wherever he's planning to take me.
He carries me across the apartment—still completely silent despite carrying my weight—toward the only door besides the bathroom. My bedroom. The tiny space that's barely big enough for my bed and a small dresser.
He nudges the door open with his shoulder, steps inside, and lowers me to my bed with surprising gentleness. The mattress dips under my weight. My pillows smell like me—vanilla buttercream and that cheap laundry detergent I buy in bulk.
Then he disappears back into the main room.
I lie there for a moment, wondering if I imagined that. If maybe I'm still unconscious and this is all some elaborate dream my brain conjured up.
But then he's back, holding a glass of water that he must have gotten from my kitchen.
He offers it to me without words. Just holds it out.
I take it gratefully, realizing my mouth is desert-dry and my throat feels like sandpaper. I drink half the glass in one go, the cool water soothing and perfect.
Then he produces two pills from his pocket. Small. White. Probably ibuprofen or acetaminophen.
I arch an eyebrow at him. The universal expression for 'what are these and why should I trust you?'
He leans closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "Headache?"
I nod. Because yes, obviously, massive headache.
"It'll help," he murmurs, his voice rough like he hasn't talked in hours. "Anti-inflammatories. Safe for Omegas."
He's thought about whether they're safe for Omegas. Has taken the time to make sure he's not giving me something that could interact badly with my biology or suppressants or whatever. That's... kind of sweet, actually.
I take the pills, pop them in my mouth, and wash them down with the rest of the water.
He takes the empty glass from me, sets it on my dresser.
I relax back into my pillows, letting the softness envelop me. My bed is so comfy. Like, objectively terrible—just a cheap mattress on a frame from IKEA—but right now it feels like the most comfortable thing in the world.
Theo turns to leave. Heading back toward the door to return to his vigil in my living room presumably.
"Theo." His name comes out barely louder than a breath.
He stops. Looks back at me. The lamp from the living room casts his face in shadow, making his expression hard to read.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" I ask quietly.
He frowns slightly. Like the question surprises him. Like nobody's asked him that before or like he doesn't have a good answer.
But surprisingly, he answers. "Not good at sleeping."
Not good at sleeping. What does that even mean? Insomnia? Nightmares? PTSD from whatever he experienced in the military? I want to ask but my eyes are already drooping and my thoughts are getting fuzzy around the edges.
But I force my eyes to stay open. Force myself to focus on him standing there in my doorway looking like he's about to leave.
I pat the bed beside me. The invitation clear even without words.
"Want to cuddle?" The words come out slightly slurred. Exhaustion making me bold in ways I probably wouldn't be if I was fully conscious.
He stares at me. Just stares for a long moment like I've spoken in a foreign language.
