“Among other things.”
She laughs, and the sound warms me from the inside. This is real. She’s here. She’s ours.
Not just mine—ours. But for tonight, she’s in my arms, and that’s enough.
We endup watching some movie neither of us pays attention to, her head on my chest, my hand tracing patterns on her bare back. The quiet feels earned now—intimate in a way it wasn’t before.
I have Lucas and Nate. I’m not alone. But this—an omega in my arms,ouromega—this is what’s been missing. Having her here, warm against my side, makes the last ten years feel like holding my breath.
“Tell me something,” she murmurs. “Something I don’t know.”
“Like what?”
“Anything. Something from the years I missed. Something that matters.”
“I have a tradition,” I say after a moment. “Every spring, when the first seedlings sprout, I talk to them. Tell them about my day, what’s happening in my life. Old Mr. Henderson used todo it—said plants grow better when you pay attention to them. I thought he was crazy until I tried it myself.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“It’s weird.”
“It’s beautiful and weird.” She tilts her head to look at me. “What do you tell them?”
“Depends on the day. Sometimes it’s work stuff—problems with drainage or pest control. Sometimes it’s about Lucas being annoying or Nate being impossible to read.” I pause. “Sometimes it’s about you.”
“Me?”
“I’d tell them about the girl I used to know. How she laughed at everything, even when it wasn’t funny. What her smile looked like when she was proud of something. How I still thought about her even though I tried not to. How I’d see someone with auburn hair on the street and my heart would stop for a second before I remembered.” My voice drops. “They’ve been hearing about you for a decade, Cara. You’re very famous among my tomato plants.”
She laughs, but there’s something wet in her eyes. “Theo...”
“I know. It’s pathetic.”
“It’s not pathetic.” She kisses me—soft, quick, tender. “It’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever told me.”
“Including the stuff in your books?”
“I wrote those books. I made that up.” She settles back against my chest. “This is real. Real is always better.”
We stay like that for a long time. Breathing together. Existing together. The TV murmurs in the background, and outside the window, snow has started to fall again, soft and quiet.
“I should probably go,” she says eventually. “Before Grandma sends a search party.”
“Probably.”
Neither of us moves.
“Five more minutes,” she murmurs.
“Okay.”
“And then five more after that.”
“Whatever you want.” I press a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I driveher home at ten, the roads slick with fresh snow. She sits close—closer than the bench seat requires—her hand on my knee while I navigate the familiar turns. Every few minutes, her thumb strokes back and forth, and I have to remind myself to focus on the road.
“You’re distracting,” I tell her.
