He nods once, not arguing. “That works.”
“Good.” I move past him, keeping distance between us. My apartment feels different with him in it—smaller somehow, the air thicker with his presence. I head for the hallway closet, pulling out the spare blanket I keep for when Nadia stays over. “There’s only one bathroom,” I continue, grabbing a pillow from the top shelf. “And you’re responsible for your own meals. I’m not cooking for you.”
“I didn’t expect you to,” he says, watching as I gather the items into my arms.
I pause, something in his tone making me look up. He stands exactly where I left him, his posture relaxed but his attention entirely on me, making no move to challenge the distance I’ve put between us.
“Bathroom’s there,” I say, nodding toward the door at the end of the hall. “Shower pressure’s not great, but the hot water lasts about fifteen minutes if you’re quick. Towel’s on the shelf.”
He takes the items from my arms without brushing against me. “Thank you.”
The words catch me off guard. They don’t sound calculated or strategic, just... genuine. And that does something I’m not prepared for, sending heat up the back of my neck and into my cheeks.
“I’m not doing this for you,” I say, the words coming out sharp. “I’m doing it because I’m tired and I need to sleep and I can’t do that with you standing in my hallway all night.”
“I know,” he says simply. “But you’re still letting me stay. That matters.”
Something in my chest tightens. I keep waiting for him to push back, to challenge the rules I’ve laid out. Instead, he accepts them without hesitation, and I don’t know what to do with the relief that follows.
I keep telling myself it's the omega.
“Whatever,” I mutter, turning away. “There‘s bottled water in the fridge if you’re thirsty.”
I move back to the living room, suddenly aware of how small my apartment really is. Normally, it’s just me—just my things, my routines, my space arranged exactly how I like it. Now it’s both of us, and the balance feels off. Different. In a way I’m not ready to examine too closely.
“Have you eaten?” Elias asks, following at a distance.
The question catches me off guard. I haven‘t, actually. Not since the protein bar I grabbed from craft services at lunch, hours ago. But admitting that feels dangerous. Too close to proving him right.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Not hungry.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “You need to eat,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact. “Especially with what’s happening. Your body’s burning energy faster than normal.”
“I said I‘m fine,” I repeat, moving toward the kitchen. “And I don’t need you to—“
But he’s already there, cutting smoothly past me to reach the refrigerator. He pulls it open, scanning the contents. “Eggs,” he says, reaching for the carton. “Bread. Cheese.” He glances back at me. “I can make a decent omelet if you‘ve got butter.”
I stare at him, the words dying in my throat.
He's giving me a choice. A real one.
And for the first time all day, I don't know why I want to say yes.
“I can make my own food,” I say, even though I know it’s not true. I can handle simple. Anything more than that usually means takeout.
“I know,” he says, reaching past me for the butter dish. “But I’m already here. And I’m hungry. So it makes sense for me to cook for both of us.”
It‘s such a simple, practical statement—devoid of manipulation or pressure—that I can‘t find a reason to argue. Or maybe I’m just too tired, the events of the day finally catching up to me now that the immediate crisis has passed.
“Fine,” I say, stepping back to give him room. “But I’m not doing the dishes.”
Something flashes in his eyes—not quite a smile, but close. “Deal.”
I sink onto one of the stools at my small kitchen island, watching as he moves through my space with surprising ease. He finds a bowl for the eggs without being told where to look, locates the whisk in the second drawer I point to, preheats the pan while the eggs are still mixing. It‘s like he’s been here before, like he‘s already mapped the layout in his head.
“Have you done this a lot?” I ask, the question coming out before I can stop it. “Stayed with omegas in pre-heat, I mean.”
He pauses, whisk halfway to the bowl. “No,” he says after a moment. “This is new for me too.”
