I roll enough to see his face. His blond hair is a disaster, flattened on one side where he slept on it. His eyes are puffy, the lines at the corners softened.
He looks younger like this. Less composed doctor, more the man who once tripped over his own feet trying to carry every grocery bag at once just because I mentioned not wanting to make two trips.
"You stayed."
"I said I would."
Alphas don't always do what they say. I know that too well. It still means something when one of mine does.
"Thank you," I murmur. "For last night."
His gaze searches my face. "For the moral support, the cuddling, or the other thing?"
"All of the above."
He brushes knuckles along my jaw. "You're not regretting it?"
"No." Maybe too quick. "No, I needed to feel like I still mattered. Like I wasn't charity."
"Hey." His hand cups my cheek now, warm and solid. "You are never charity. I didn't climb into this nest out of pity."
"What did you climb in for, then?"
His eyes shutter for a heartbeat. "Because I love you. And you were hurting. And I wanted you, and I wanted to be wanted by you. That's not complicated in my head. The rest of it is."
My throat tightens. "You can't say things like that when you're setting up someone else's room down the hall."
His mouth twists. "I can't stop loving you just because the universe threw a new variable at us."
The words land somewhere deep and fragile. I want to believe them. I do. But belief has sharp edges now.
"Come on," he says, dropping his hand. "If we don't get up, Drake will eat cereal for breakfast and claim he 'forgot' there's food in the house."
"I should cook. Before she tries to take over the kitchen."
His brows lift. "She doesn't cook."
"She will," I mutter. "They always do."
He sighs but doesn't argue.
I throw the blanket back and the cool air hits bare skin, making me shiver. "Turn around."
He obliges without protest, scooting to the nest's edge while I pull on leggings and an oversized shirt. Everythingfeels simultaneously too big and too small. When I catch myself in the mirror—tangled blonde hair, swollen lips, faint marks decorating my neck and chest—a petty surge of satisfaction warms my belly.
I look claimed, even if I'm not on paper.
Even if the ink is being saved for someone else.
I hope she sees.
The house is quieter than expected when we emerge. No clanking dishes, no laughter, no soft newcomer voice.
We pass her door on the way out of my room. Closed. The faintest hint of that sweet, floral scent seeps through—sugar and jasmine pressed against wood.
My own scent flares, staking what territory it can.
In the kitchen, the counters are mostly clear except for an abandoned cereal box on the island, bowl and spoon sitting uselessly beside it.
