His hands squeeze my waist once, reflexive, grounding himself.
"I felt like this was my punishment for being an ass, you know? That the discomfort I feel around Etienne, the guilt that flares every time he is kind to me despite everything, is the universe's way of holding me accountable. So I took some tutoring gigs. Picked up shifts. Anything to stay busy and distract myself from sitting with the full weight of who I used to be."
He lifts his gaze to mine.
"But I do want to get close to you, Mae. Not simply because of attraction, though I would be lying if I pretended that is nota factor, and it is incredibly hard to concentrate on emotional vulnerability when you are wearing my jersey with nothing underneath."
"Underwear!" I interject. "I am wearing underwear! I made this very clear!"
"The underwear disclaimer does not diminish the visual impact, MaeBell."
I smirk, and his expression softens with a fondness that makes my stomach flip.
"This pack arrangement is serious for you," he continues, his tone settling into sincerity. "You are on a deadline. Valentine's Day is not some romantic concept for you, it is a finish line, and if you do not cross it with a pack intact, the consequences are real. I understand that. And I want to participate. I want to support the process, contribute to what we are building, be present in a way I have never been present for anyone."
He pauses, choosing his next words with visible care.
"But I also want to see if this can be legitimate. Not just an arrangement of convenience or a contractual obligation we maintain until the deadline passes and we evaluate our options. I want to know if the feelings I am developing are real and reciprocated and sustainable beyond February fourteenth." A nervous laugh escapes him. "Which is weird, I know. I do not have a blueprint for this. I have never navigated emotional territory without a playbook or a coach drawing Xs and Os on a whiteboard."
His eyes search mine.
"But you are genuinely the first Omega I can tolerate."
I raise my eyebrows.
"Tolerate," I repeat flatly. "What a sweep-me-off-my-feet proclamation. Alert the romance novelists. Callahan Whitmore can tolerate me. I am swooning."
"You know what I mean." His blush deepens, spreading from his ears across his cheekbones. "You are not perky. You are not fake. You do not pitch your voice three octaves higher around Alphas or flutter your eyelashes like you are trying to generate a small breeze or strategize about which compliments will extract the most financial benefit. You are just... you. Blunt and weird and stubborn and real, and it is refreshing in a way that makes me want to take care of you."
His voice drops to a murmur.
"To spoil you. To help you reach your goals. That is a first for me. Admitting out loud that another person's happiness has become tied to my own sense of purpose." He exhales, the breath shaky with the effort of sustained vulnerability. "But yeah. I want us to enjoy the next few weeks exploring ourselves and each other. Figuring out who we are individually and who we could be collectively. Without the pressure of performing for anyone or pretending we have it all figured out."
I study him.
This blond, amber-eyed, glasses-wearing Alpha kneeling before me in a wrinkled button-down with his tie discarded on the coffee table, confessing that he wants to take care of an Omega he spent years enabling the torment of. The irony is not lost on me. The complication is not lost on me. The risk of trusting someone whose track record includes silent endorsement of cruelty directed at my face, my body, my intelligence, my worth.
But people are not static creatures. They are not the worst things they have done, frozen in the amber of their poorest choices. People grow. People examine the wreckage their behavior created and decide, with whatever courage they can muster, to build differently.
Cal is building differently. Clumsily, awkwardly, without the instruction manual he wishes existed, but building nonetheless.
"Oh," I say, letting a grin spread across my face with deliberate slowness. "So Callahan is admitting he likes me?"
His blush intensifies to a shade I did not know human skin could produce.
"Ugh." He drops his forehead against my knee, the contact warm through the jersey fabric. "Do not make me beg, Mabeline. I just poured my guts out on this floor and you are turning it into a bit."
"It is a very entertaining bit."
"You are insufferable."
"And yet you just said you want to take care of me, so it seems like that is a you problem."
He groans against my knee, and the vibration of it makes me laugh, bright and genuine, the sound filling the apartment with a warmth that the heating system has been failing to provide.
I lean forward.
Tilt his chin up with my fingers until his amber eyes meet mine from below, the glasses slightly askew from pressing his face into my leg, the vulnerability in his expression so unguarded it makes my chest constrict.
