I trust Carson.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
But I do.
He tilts his head, watching me with sharp, assessing eyes, the kind that see way too much. He doesn’t rush me. Just lets me work through the twisting mess in my head.
Finally, he shrugs, a slow smile curling at the edge of his mouth. “I mean, technically, I should be tackling you to the floor for even considering it. But if you’re gonna see him anyway… well. You could do it my way.”
I narrow my eyes. “Your way?”
His smirk deepens. “Controlled. Safe,” he repeats.
My heart pounds. He must see my hesitation, because he leans in, just close enough that his heat bleeds into mine, making my already frayed nerves snap tighter.
“You don’t have to decide now, peaches,” he murmurs, his voice coaxing, warm, like I’m something delicate he’s luring in. Like he already knows I’ll say yes. “Just think about it.”
He pushes up from the couch, stretching in that way that makes his shirt ride up, flashing the hard lines of his stomach before he turns toward the kitchen as if he’s letting me contemplate his words.
I swallow against the tightness in my throat. I don’t think he’s lying to me.
I think he’s framing it just right so I won’t be mad later when I find out he never actually gave me a choice at all. But is that really any different than what I’d do in his place?
I exhale, rubbing my fingers over my temples.
Maybe I’m just as fucked up as the rest of them for even considering this.
Carson doesn’t press me for an answer. Doesn’t poke or prod like I expect him to. Instead, he just wanders into my kitchen, whistling under his breath as he starts pulling out ingredients.
Eggs. Bread. Butter. Some kind of fancy cheese he probably picked up from the expensive grocery store.
I blink. “What are you doing?”
“Making you breakfast.”
He says it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. As if it’s normal. As if he didn’t just offer to break every rule for me. He sets a pan on the stove, grabs a knife, and slices through cheese with the kind of focus that says it’s his duty to make sure I eat this morning.
“Since when do you cook?” I narrow my eyes, shifting on the couch.
Carson flashes a boyish grin but doesn’t look up from the counter. “Since always. I’m full of surprises, peaches.”
He hums while he works, moving through my kitchen as though it’s his. Every motion easy. Effortless. He belongs in this space, and I’m the bratty omega forgetting to appreciate the alpha who’s decided to provide for me.
The thought shakes me.
I fold my arms, watching him as he butters the bread, layering on the cheese. “You don’t have to do this.”
He finally looks up, his expression mock-offended. “Excuse me? Do you have any idea how tragic it would be if you skipped breakfast? That’s just irresponsible. What kind of bodyguard would I be if I let that happen?”
I snort. “One that actually listens to me, for once.”
He hums under his breath, clearly pleased with himself. He just flips the sandwich, pressing it down lightly with the spatula as the cheese melts and bubbles against the heat.
I hate how domestic this feels. How easy.
I hate that it feels good. Watching him move in my kitchen. The flex of muscle under his shirt when he reaches for a plate. The way he provides for me in a way only one other ever has.
I hate that he’s making it impossible for me to say no.
