"Thank you," I say. "For this. I was trying to figure out who to call and the options were getting complicated."
"You shouldn't have been in that situation."
I glance at him. He's still looking at the road.
"The car?—"
"I'll have it towed in the morning."
"You don't have to do that. A tow in this town is two hundred minimum and the car is barely worth?—"
"It'll be towed."
He says it the way certain people say things that have already been decided and are simply being announced—not unkindly, but with a finality that doesn't have space for the follow-up argument. The dark eyes move from the road to me briefly—one assessment, complete and unhurried—before returning forward.
"To your address, if that's more convenient. You need a reliable car. Especially at these hours."
Especially as an Omega.
He doesn't say it with emphasis, which is the only reason it lands without my back going up. It's not a restriction, it's a fact—the specific, practical fact of what the 4 AM road looks like for someone in my situation, in this world, with the specific vulnerabilities that the designation carries and that most Alphas either weaponize or ignore. He's doing neither. He's just noting the variable in the equation.
I face forward.
The rain is doing its worst now—the wipers at full speed and still not quite keeping the windscreen clear, the road ahead visible in intervals rather than continuous. The Cadillac handles it without any drama. The scent of black pepper and ink anddark chocolate sits in the climate-controlled air around us, neither demanding nor retreating.
I think about what a night this has been.
The shift at Hannigan's starting ordinary and then rerouting. The hour at Clancy's. The Penicillins and the Paper Plane and a business card in my apron pocket from a hospitality investor who said small-town bars with the right operator are a reasonable proposition right now. Finn Calloway on his knees on a bar floor with his phone out. And now this—a Cadillac on a wet road in a small town, being driven home by a stranger who got out in the rain to hold an umbrella so I wouldn't get wet.
Two Alphas in one evening, plus the one from the masquerade, all with distinct signatures that have arrived and done things to my baseline without asking permission.
The cedarwood-leather-Irish-whiskey from the masquerade.
The bourbon-orange-smoke from the bar.
And now this: black pepper and ink and dark chocolate, filling the car around me like the best kind of weather.
Either I'm going through something hormonal or the universe is making an argument.
Both are plausible. I'm not examining which tonight.
The navigation announces a street name I recognize—two minutes from the apartment, the turn onto my road coming up on the right.
"Next left," I say, "and then the building with the green door."
He takes the turn without comment.
The building appears through the rain—the green door distinguishable even at this hour, the light above it providing just enough visibility. He pulls up to the curb, the Cadillac settling to a stop with the same complete, unhurried precision that characterizes everything about how he operates.
I undo the seatbelt. Turn to him.
He's already looking forward, hands still on the wheel, the rain running down the window beside him.
"Thank you," I say. Properly this time, with the weight the situation deserves. "I mean it. You didn't have to stop."
"You were stopped in a storm at four in the morning."
"Other people drove past."
