“Yes, of course!”
“Good boy,” I teased, earning me another lip-bitten smile. I opened the oven, getting a blast of heat right to the face, and slid the pan of lasagna onto the middle rack.
Closing it back up, I set the timer for an hour. “Now we wait. Let’s clean up, so we don’t have to deal with the mess later.”
“Okay,” he agreed, and we made quick work of the dirty countertops and dishes. Fletcher loaded everything into the dishwasher while I wiped down the stove and counter, and our gazes met.
I nodded. He smiled, obviously proud of himself. Then he wandered back over to the island, hopping back up on the barstool—and the art—that he’d abandoned.
Curious, I joined him. “Can I see what you were drawing?” I asked, reaching for the sketchpad. Fletcher simply smiled and pushed it towards me, and it touched my heart that he trusted me with it.
I’d bought him the sketchbook months ago, at the beginning of summer. That, and a set of nice drawing pencils, after I’d seen the ink scribblings on corners of napkins wadded up and tossed into the trash. I wanted him to feel a little more at home. When I’d handed the items to him, he’d lit up like a hundred-watt bulb.
I flipped through the textured pages, my gaze lingering on each and every drawing. Fletcher was good. These sketches were really good. They were messy and could probably be refined with a little work, but he had talent.
“What made you start drawing?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.
He shrugged. “It was a way to pass the time?” At my confused look, he continued. “Yeah, I know that sounds dumb, but it’s true. In the orphanage, I spent a lot of my time alone, so I drew on anything I could get my hands on. Books, newspapers, napkins, my arms and legs. Eventually they gave me cheap notebooks and a couple of pens.”
He rolled his lips together, scratching at an invisible itch behind his ear. The humor had all but left his face. “I could draw and daydream and pretend I wasn’t waiting for the perfect family to walk through those doors and adopt me, because deep down, I knew it was never gonna happen. I was too old tobe cute anymore. Too scarred. An Omega, when most parents wanted Alpha children. The Alphas always got adopted first. So I counted down the days till I turned eighteen on notebook pages filled with pictures of daydreams that would never come true. And here I am.”
He smiled, but his smile was sad, and my heart ached at the thought of younger-Fletcher, lonely and forgotten, sitting all alone waiting for someone to come along and give him the love he deserved.
I leaned in and cupped the Omega’s face in both of my hands, guiding his gaze to mine before nuzzling our noses together. “Well, I think you’re wonderful, Fletcher. Your art is beautiful, and so are you. I wish I could erase the bad things from your past…”
I gently touched the cigarette burns on his hand, then kissed his lips.
“But I can’t. I can only give you right now. I can only make right now good—and right now, we have lasagna cooking in the oven for oh, about an hour…if you catch my drift.” My lips quirked into a half-smirk.
Fletcher giggled and threw his arms around my neck. “I see. You think we can make magic happen in about an hour?” he asked, his brows lifting.
“I’d be willing to bet money on it.” I kissed him again, and Fletcher sank into my embrace with a happy sigh.
By the time the timer on the oven went off, we were both sweaty and spent, but grinning from ear to ear.
Using oven mitts, I carefully pulled the pan from the oven. Fletcher hovered nearby, his eyes bright and locked on the bubbling mozzarella cheese.
“Oh my god,” he uttered. “It looks so good. It smells amazing! I made this?”
“You did.” Pride swelled through me at the way my Omega beamed. And when Fletcher did a happy dance, giggling all the while, my chest ached in the best of ways with the adoration I felt for this man.
Just wait until he tasted it. He’d have his second little-death of the day.
24
ADAM
Spendingmy days and my nights with Fletcher, it was easy to forget where I ended and the Omega began—but my one single fuck-up had haunted the edges of my consciousness for weeks, and I needed to know the truth.
Was Fletcher pregnant?
He wasn’t showing any symptoms, but it was early enough that he probably wouldn’t. Not yet, anyway. Plus, every Omega was different. Mother didn’t seem to get sick at all when she was pregnant with my little sister, Jillian.
Still, neither of us had so much as spoken about the possibility of there being an oops-pregnancy since the day it came up. I don’t think either of us wanted to bring the truth to light, but I needed to know. Because if Fletcher was pregnant…
I would need to do a hell of a lot of preparation, in regards to my parents. Hell, in regards to my entire life.
So the next morning, before Fletcher even stirred, I quietly got dressed. I kissed him on the forehead and tugged the covers up over his shoulders, then slipped off down the hall.
