We both freeze. He’s still wet from the shower, a too-small towel around his waist that he has a death grip on. There are black smudges under his eyes, probably from the fight, maybe sleeplessness. Despite that, he looks good. He always looks good.
Now is not the time to jump his bones, Liam.
“Can I, uh, come in?” I ask after clearing my throat.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, like he’s snapping out of a daze. He steps back and lets me in. The huge king bed is still made. He just dumped his gear bag in a corner, and the overnight bag is spilling its contents all over the tiny desk.
He smells so fucking good, like Christmas morning with cinnamon rolls right out of the oven. Not that I have personal experience with that kind of activity. We were too poor growing up, and my alpha dads were too high to do Christmas. But with Beckett? We would put up a tree with gifts and everything. I’d have to make cinnamon rolls a new tradition.
And now we’re both just standing here in the most awkward silence to have ever existed.
“Here,” I say and put the bag on the bed.
Panic flares in Beckett’s eyes. I look at the bag. Shit. This looks kind of bad.
“I want you to come home. This isn’t like… You left the house without a change of clothes. I don’t even know if you have a toothbrush.”
“The hotel provides them.” His voice is strained.
I nod and unzip the bag and step back like it’s a bomb about to go off. Suddenly, this feels like an ending.
“Pierce is being a dick,” I blurt.
“You’re being a dick.”
That hurts. Because it’s true.
“You’re not going to tell me what’s going on, but you’ll bring me my toothbrush and clean underwear.” He sits on the corner of the bed, as far from the bag as possible. His split knuckles look extra red and raw. Probably from the shower.
I want to tell him everything. All the things we’ve kept from him. But I can’t, not just because I promised Pierce, but because I know Beckett will leave.
I stare at the bag. I want to pull out all the contents and show him. His favorite sweater. The one with the holes in the collar andfrayed cuffs. He likes wearing it after rough games because it’s soft on his skin. And the triple-thick socks that he got when the team did an expo in Iceland. I even brought an extra ziplock, just in case this win turns into a streak and he gets stuck in the superstition that he can’t wash his game-day socks. The jeans that make his ass look fantastic. The T-shirt from the last concert we went to. We drove all night to Dallas, and he made us stop at Buc-ee’s.
But instead, I say, “Please, just come home.”
The words linger in the air with all the other things I can’t say. There’s a knock at the door. Beckett sniffs and answers it.
“Your suit, Sir, and we have a table reserved for two. The front desk staff thought you might enjoy some cookies and milk.”
“You didn’t have to. Thank you so much. No, it’s okay. I got it. I can take it from here.”
They exchange a few more words before Beckett closes the door. He puts the tray of snacks on the dresser and lays the suit out on the bed. He hates wearing suits.
“I have a date tonight. With an omega.”
My breath hitches, but I stay locked on the suit. Very early on, Pierce made a big show of never dating omegas. We were starting businesses. Beckett traveled all the time. There wasn’t room in our lives for an omega. They were too complicated; they came with strings.
But that was a lie, too. Pierce knew this was all going to come crashing down one day, and we’d be dead or in jail or on the run. He didn’t want to ruin an innocent omega’s life just to get his knot wet. He teased Beckett ruthlessly about Marilyn playing matchmaker when he told us about it a few months ago. Pierce got him to agree that an omega wasn’t the right choice.
And me? I pushed all my feelings aside. Again. And completely sat out the conversation. Pierce is right, and what I want doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that all I fucking want, the only thing I’ve wanted, is an omega. Denning? Is that what they call it? Theopposite side of the nesting coin? Beckett and Pierce are my life, but there’s a big sucking black hole in the middle of it where a nest should be. When Beckett is traveling and I can’t sleep, I roam the nesting aisle at Target, jamming my fingers into all the pillows and blankets, testing the textures and softness up against some standard for an omega that doesn’t exist.
But I would never shop for our omega’s nest at Target. It would be custom all the way. Deep, soothing colors. Pillows so big you can get lost in them. Programmable mood lighting. Surround sound. A wet bar with the good ice and all her favorite snacks.
But I can’t have that. Especially now, with everything coming apart.
Beckett could, though. He could have all that and more. He could have the big pack house, omegas and nests and babies, if he wanted. He doesn’t have that because of us.
“Right, well, you’ve got your suit and cookies and everything you need. I’ll let you get ready.” I pass him on the way to the door. I feel his fingers graze my arm. Or maybe I imagined it.
