He finally rolled to the side, pulling me with him, so I ended up tucked against his chest. He stroked my hair, fingers gentle now. “You good?” he murmured.
I nodded, unable to speak.
He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “You’re perfect,” he said, and for once, I believed it.
We fell asleep like that, wrapped together under the horse blanket, the barn smelling of hay and sex and the ghost of lightning. For the first time, I didn’t feel invisible.
I felt real. I felt wanted.
And if this was what being an Omega meant, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.
There’s a hush that settles after a storm, a kind of negative sound, like the world is holding its breath. The only movement was the steady rise and fall of Macon’s chest under my cheek as I woke up, his arm draped heavy and protective around my shoulders.
I should have felt self-conscious—splayed naked and filthy on a barn mat, skin flushed and tacky with sweat and cum—but I didn’t. I felt claimed. I felt safe.
He pressed lazy kisses into my hair, lips lingering just above my ear. His beard scratched, but not enough to hurt. If anything, it just made everything feel more real. Like maybe I’d wake up and find this was all a weird, feverish daydream, except he was still here, solid as the beams overhead.
I traced the curve of his pectoral with one finger, following the line of a tattoo that vanished over his shoulder. He didn’t flinch or shy away, just grunted, low and content. He ran a hand down my back, then up again, fingers mapping every ridge of my spine like he was learning me by heart.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice soft enough for only me.
“Yeah,” I said. “More than okay.”
He squeezed me tighter, his palm warm against my ribs. “Didn’t scare you off?”
“Nope.” I grinned against his chest. “I’d let you do it again right now if you wanted.”
He barked a laugh, deep and surprised, then bit the top of my ear, not hard enough to hurt. “Careful what you wish for,” he said.
“I’m not careful,” I said, and the line sounded stupid and cocky, but he smiled anyway.
He shifted, rolling me onto my back, but kept our legs tangled. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at me for a long time, eyes roving over my face, my neck, down to my chest. It should have been invasive, but it wasn’t.
I wanted to be memorized.
He ran a thumb along my jaw. “Never met an omega like you.”
I swallowed. “Is that a good thing?”
He nodded, and the motion was almost shy. “Yeah. It’s a real good thing.” Then, quieter, “Didn’t think I’d get a chance to find out.”
The words hit somewhere deep and hollow in my chest. For a second, I wanted to laugh, or cry, or both. Instead, I just pulled his hand to my mouth and kissed the knuckles, one by one.
I wanted to ask what this meant, if it meant anything at all, or if I was just another body, another ghost in a long line of ghosts. But then he said, “Gonna take care of you, okay?” and it didn’t sound like a promise. It sounded like a vow.
“Okay,” I said, because anything else would have been a lie.
He bent down and kissed me again, slow and unhurried, and I let myself melt into it. There was nothing frantic about it this time—no desperation, just a warmth that filled every gap inside me.
Outside, the world was dripping, puddles pooling under the barn doors, the wind a tired sigh instead of a threat. The animals were asleep. The house was empty.
For once, I didn’t care.
We dozed, waking now and then to shift or kiss or just touch. At some point, he rolled over to the tack box, pulled out a canteen, and pressed it to my lips. “Hydrate,” he said, mock-serious, and I laughed, water spilling down my chin.
He wiped it with his thumb, then licked it clean. “You’re a mess,” he said, but the words were tender.
“So are you,” I shot back.
