“I know what you were just.” Lorenzo chuckles as he pushes off the doorframe. “Upstairs. Both of you.”
“I can head out.” My throat feels thick, my lips still tasting Wilson on them.
Lorenzo arches an eyebrow. “Did I say head out?”
“No.”
“Then I didn’t mean head out.” He nods toward the stairs. “Move, Alpha.”
Wilson exhales beside me, starts to argue, but when Lorenzo’s shoulders square and his jaw sets, Wilson’s spine follows suit. His body answers Lorenzo’s command before his brain does.
I’m stepping toward the stairs before I even notice. Heat trails me up the steps as Wilson slides in beside me, his coffee-and-leather scent drifting through every breath. The apartment is warm and lived-in. Lorenzo clicks the door shut and the lock clicks into place.
A muffled whine drifts from the bedroom. “Zo? Why is everyone in the hallway and not in here with me?”
Oliver’s voice is thick with sleep, the Omega letting out a second whine that is most definitely a demand. I glance at Wilson as the corner of his mouth twitches upward.
“You’re laughing,” I whisper.
“I’m not.”
“Your face is.”
“My face is doing nothing.”
Lorenzo’s hand lands on Wilson’s lower back, steering him toward the guest room, and I feel the shift behind me. “Oliver will absorb both of you into the nest and none of us will sleep. Guest room.” His gaze finds mine over Wilson’s shoulder. “Nicholas.”
My name carries permission in it. Trust. I nod once, and Lorenzo turns back down the hall where Oliver’s whining has escalated into a full dramatic monologue about abandonment and cold feet and the injustice of an empty nest.
Wilson’s laugh is quiet enough that I almost miss it. It does something to my chest that five years of aching couldn’t have prepared me for. I take in the simplicity of the guest room: a bed with clean sheets, a nightstand, a window with the curtains drawn. Extra blankets are folded at the foot of the bed, and the pillow smells faintly of Oliver’s sweetness. Wilson stands in the doorway with his arms crossed, his weight on his back foot.
“You don’t have to stay in here with me.” His voice is flat, in that protective register. “I can… There’s the couch downstairs. Or the nest, Oliver would—”
“Will.” He stops himself. “Get in the bed.” His arms uncross. He moves past me and sits on the edge of the mattress, his hands braced on either side of his thighs. The lamp throws his face into warm light, the shadows under his eyes darker than they were an hour ago.
I hang my jacket on the chair, kick my shoes off by the door, and set my watch on the nightstand. Wilson tracks each motion with the careful focus of someone memorizing changes in a room, and I slow down to give him time with each one.
The mattress dips when I settle beside him, his breath hitching slightly.
“Fuck, relax. Will, lie down.” He lies back, his body rigid against the pillows, shoulders pressed into the mattress, his hands fisted at his sides. I move close enough that the warmth of me reaches his arm but I don’t push, knowing that he needs to adjust.
That even if my presence is helping him relax, dragging him into my arms after the confession downstairs won’t help anything.
A minute passes. Wilson’s breathing shallows, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Then his body rolls toward me. His forehead presses against my chest and his hand finds the front of my shirt.
I wrap my arm around his shoulders, smiling as the tension in his body eases in increments, his forehead pressing harder into my chest, his breathing deepening. His grip on my shirt loosens until his hand just rests there, fingers curled in the fabric.
And then his scent starts to soften, the bitter edge fading into something warmer beneath. I feel the exact moment sleep claims him, his body growing heavy against mine, his mouth parting slightly against my shirt.
Twenty minutes later, his hand tightens around my collar, the fabric tightening around my neck. His body goes rigid as his breathing kicks up, Wilson’s face contorting as if he’s fighting something in his sleep. And then a low, fractured sound pushes through his teeth.
His head twists against my chest. His arm swings out and strikes the mattress. His legs draw up, his body curling in on itself, and the sounds from his throat grow louder, half-formed words I can’t make out.
“Will.” I move my hand to his shoulder. “Wilson, wake up.”
His eyes fly open, his pupils blown, irises dissolve into nearly nothing. His gaze darts around the room, scanning the ceiling, the lamp, the window, the door, cataloguing exits before he’s fully conscious.
Then he sees me, and his whole body shudders.
