“There’s a task-force thread that was already running before this. My partner is handling that side. The lead went cold, and I came here expecting the same-old, same-old I was used to. But in the past few days, I’m beginning to think this mysterious man isn’t just random.”
Emrys hums. “But why me?”
“I wish I knew and I don’t have enough evidence to answer that.” I start a ramble of my own, giving Emrys pieces of the case, while leaving out anything Kade mentioned and his possible connection to the man in the hoodie. To my own ears, it sounds more like conspiracy than investigation.
Emrys’ eyes lose focus halfway through the last word. He tips against the couch back, then catches himself with a small, embarrassed inhale. “Sorry. I’m listening.”
“You’re not,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Sleep, Emrys.”
He looks like he might argue, but the energy never reaches his mouth. His eyes close. For a few minutes, he stays on his end of the couch, curled into the hoodie with his breathing shallow but steady. I grab my tea and take a sip before returning my attention to my laptop, not really trusting myself to look at him too long.
Then he moves, his body shifting first toward the middle cushion, then farther, drawn by warmth and scent. His hand brushes my thigh, and every muscle in me locks up. He settles with his head against my leg, exhales once, the sound small enough to hurt.
Vanilla rises around us as my laptop screen dims while my hands hover uselessly above the keyboard. I shut it with care, moving slowly enough not to jostle him. For a moment, that is all it is. His head on my lap, one hand loose near my knee, his breathing evening out because some part of him has decided this is safe.
Then he shifts again. He moves closer in a slow, sleeping search for the right shape as I place the laptop off to the side. His head slides from my lap to my stomach, his shoulder presses against my chest, and by the time he settles again, I have an armful of Omega curled against me with his cheek on my shirt and one hand caught in the fabric near my ribs.
I pause for several seconds, staring at the precious bundle in my arms before I give in, wrapping myself around him. The silence is broken by a soft buzz, my gaze dipping to the armrest.
Reyes name pops up.
Are you home and horizontal, or am I filing a missing-person report on your common sense?
I look down at Emrys asleep against me, his fingers still curled in my shirt.
Something like that, I type.
Reyes replies almost immediately.
That’s not an answer.
I glance at the laptop, the cooling tea, and the sleeping Omega tucked against me like he has known me longer than three days.
It’s the only one I’ve got right now.
I silence the phone and set it facedown. His vanilla scent settles warm against my throat, and Emrys breathes like he finally has somewhere to put himself. Strangely, it feels like I’ve finally found a place for myself too.
Emrys
I wake up with my cheek against Skylar Grayson’s shirt and my hand curled near his ribs like I put it there on purpose.
For a minute, I stay still. Morning has softened the apartment into gray light, and Skylar’s breathing moves slow beneath my ear, steady enough that my body doesn’t rush straight into panic. His arm rests loose around my back, the blanket he must have covered us with slipped low around my shoulder, his scent coating every inch of me.
He stayed.
I should move. I know that. I also know I’ve slept better against him than I have anywhere else since the alley, and that makes something in my chest soften.
Amber and sandalwood are quieter on him asleep, warmer without the edge he carries when he’s awake and working. His mouth is relaxed, his dark hair messy, and he looks less like the detective who walked into the station and more like a man who forgot to keep himself braced for a few hours.
I ease back slowly. His arm slips from my back before pulling the blanket over him and tucking it around his shoulder where it had fallen. His hand shifts open against the couch cushion, and I look away before I do something ridiculous with how badly I want to touch it.
The kitchen gives me somewhere to put my hands. Eggs, toast, coffee. I crack the eggs into a bowl, add salt, pepper, and a splash of milk, then cut thick slices from yesterday’s cardamom honey loaf. The coffee machine sputters like it resents being asked to work before sunrise, but it gets there eventually. By the time the eggs are in the pan, the apartment smells like butter, toast, coffee, and warm bread.
Skylar wakes while I’m plating everything. He shifts first, then inhales like he’s surfacing too fast. His eyes open and sharpen on the room, moving to the door, the window, the hall, then me by the stove.
“I’m here,” I say before he can ask. “The door’s locked. Nothing happened. I made breakfast.”
His shoulders lower as he looks at the blanket, then the laptop, then me. “I fell asleep.”
