The matter-of-fact statement cuts through my thoughts. “Your bag?” I ask, confused. “You brought a bag?”
He nods. “Change of clothes. Toothbrush. The basics.”
I go very still. “You planned for this,” I say, the realization clicking into place. “You brought a bag because you thought I might let you stay. You had this whole... scenario worked out in your head.”
“Not a scenario,” he says. “A possibility. One of several. I’m always prepared, Maya. It’s what I do.”
The simple statement makes my stomach flip. He planned for this. Thought it through. Considered the angles, outcomes, and possibilities.
I should find that annoying.
Instead, it leaves me with the strange certainty that if something goes wrong, he’ll already have a plan for that too.
“Give me your key,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’ll lock up behind me while I get my things.”
I hesitate, then reach into my pocket, pulling out my key ring. Our fingers brush as I hand it over, the contact sending a jolt through me that has nothing to do with anger or frustration or any of the things I should be feeling.
He’s back five minutes later, a small duffel bag in one hand, my keys in the other. He pauses at the threshold, meeting my eyes with that same focused attention.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he says. “Once I cross this line, things get more complicated.”
I recognize what he’s doing. He’s giving me an out—a real one, not just words. A chance to step back from whatever this is becoming.
“I know,” I say. “I’m not changing it.”
He nods once, then steps across the threshold without hesitation.
Something tightens in my chest.
Five minutes ago, I was arguing with him in the hallway. Now he's standing in my apartment with an overnight bag by the door like this is the most natural thing in the world.
He sets his bag down by the door and hands me back my keys, our fingers brushing again. This time, the contact lasts a beat longer, his skin warm against mine.
“Thank you,” he says simply.
“For what?”
“Trusting me.” The words are quiet but certain. “It matters.”
Something in my chest twists—that same mix of confusion and warmth. “Don’t make me regret it,” I say, though we both know it’s too late for that.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he moves past me and into the apartment, his gaze sweeping over the space. I watch him, suddenly aware of how he changes the room just by being in it—how the air feels different, charged with a new energy. How every shift of his movement seems to pull at my attention, making it impossible not to track where he is.
I still want to blame it on the omega. It would be easier if I could.
But that explanation doesn't sit as comfortably as it used to.
Because part of me—a part I’m not ready to name—has been aware of him since the first time I noticed him watching from the edges of the set. Since I noticed how he always seems to know when something’s wrong before anyone says a word.
And that’s the part I’m not ready to face.
Chapter 9
Maya
I watch Elias cross my threshold. The air shifts with him, carrying that clean, grounding scent that makes something in my chest loosen just slightly.
“You’ll sleep on the couch,” I say, gesturing toward the small sectional that takes up most of my living room. “Not in my bed, not on the floor, not anywhere but exactly where I’m pointing.” My voice comes out steadier than I expect, the words firm despite the heat crawling up my neck.
