We are standing on the sidewalk outside the shop, the January evening settling around us in shades of gray and amber, and Etienne is looking down at me with that quiet, patient expression that makes me feel like I am the only thing in his field of vision.
I look up at him.
And I cannot help it. My eyes fill.
Not dramatically. Not with the cinematic tears of a woman who cries beautifully on cue. With the messy, involuntary tears of someone who has been holding herself together with dental floss and determination for so long that a single act of genuine, no-strings-attached generosity is enough to unravel the entire construction.
I nod slowly.
He smiles. Soft. Knowing. He leans down and presses his lips to my forehead, the kiss lingering against my skin, his warmth seeping through the cold to settle in the space behind my eyes where the tears are gathering.
"You are not used to being pampered, are you?" he whispers against my hairline.
I try to smile.
But the effort only makes my eyes water faster, the tears blurring my vision until the streetlamps become smeared halos and his face dissolves into a warm, soft shape above me. I blink and one escapes, tracing a hot line down my cold cheek.
"I used to be," I whisper back, and my voice fractures on the last syllable like thin ice under too much weight. "When I was little. Before my designation presented. My parents treated me like I was precious. Like I was theirs. But it all ended just because I was an Omega."
The confession tastes like rust and old grief, dragged up from a place I keep locked and guarded and buried beneath layers of bravado and humor and the relentless forward motion of a girl who refuses to look backward because backward is where all the hurt lives.
Etienne nods.
The nod is not dismissal. It is recognition. The acknowledgment of a man who grew up invisible in his own family, who understands exactly what it means to have lovebecome conditional, to watch the people who are supposed to protect you decide you are not worth the investment.
He wipes the escaped tear from my cheek with his thumb, the pad of his finger tracing the damp trail with a gentleness that makes fresh tears threaten to follow. Then he leans in, pressing his lips to the spot where the tear was, kissing the salt from my skin with a reverence that turns a simple gesture into a vow.
"Well, you are not dealing with that anymore, understand?" he murmurs against my cheek, his breath warm, his cedar scent wrapping around me like armor. "From now on, you are going to have someone in your corner. And I will pamper you the way you deserve."
CHAPTER 26
From Zero To Six
~MABELINE~
Technology hates me.
I have been sitting on this couch for forty-five minutes, cross-legged in a jersey that falls past my thighs, squinting at a screen so crisp and responsive that every tap registers before my brain finishes deciding what I actually want to press. The new phone gleams in my hands like a weapon I have not been trained to wield, its rose gold surface reflecting the overhead light of the apartment in a way that makes me feel like I am holding a miniature sun rather than a communication device.
The tutorial video playing on the screen is explaining something about widget customization with the enthusiasm of a man who has never known a moment of technological confusion in his entire privileged existence.
"And then you simply long-press the home screen to access your layout options," he chirps.
I long-press the home screen.
The entire display rearranges itself into a grid I did not ask for, relocating my four downloaded apps to positions I cannot find and replacing my wallpaper with a stock image of a mountain range that I have no emotional connection to.
"No," I whisper, stabbing at the screen with my index finger. "No no no. Where did you go? I just put you there. I literally just organized you. We had an arrangement."
The phone does not respond to my distress. It sits in my palms, glowing, smug, aware that it is prettier and smarter than me and determined to prove it.
Beatrice would never.
Beatrice, rest her cracked soul, was predictable. Slow. Loyal in the way that only outdated technology can be, requiring three taps to open a text message and freezing during video calls with the reliability of a Swiss clock. I understood Beatrice. We had a rhythm. A mutual respect built on years of shared hardship and lowered expectations. This new phone is a thoroughbred racehorse and I am a woman who learned to ride on a donkey named Perseverance.
I am mid-crisis, hunched over the screen with the intensity of a surgeon performing a delicate operation, when the apartment door opens.
Cal walks in yawning.
