The nest room is exactly what I left this morning. The lamp glows in the corner, casting pale gold light over everything—the soft gray and cream blankets layered on the bed. The room's scent wraps around me the second I cross the threshold. Warm amber and cedar sit beneath everything, with Bash's dark spice worked into the blankets nearest the window and the familiar scent of Elias lingering in the heaviest one I always reach for first.
I do my usual bathroom routine, change into comfortable clothes, and slide beneath the blankets. Bash disappears into thebathroom after me. A few minutes later, he returns, settles into bed beside me, and lowers the lamp another degree. The room softens into shadow and pale gold light.
I roll onto my side to face him and find he's already looking at me.
His expression is different from what it was downstairs. The easy confidence he usually carries has softened into something more open. The blue of his eyes catches the low light as he reaches over and brushes a strand of hair away from my face, his fingers barely touching my temple before withdrawing.
Then his hand settles against my cheek.
His thumb moves once, slowly, across my cheekbone.
I sink a little deeper into the blankets, holding his gaze. Neither of us says anything for a moment.
“You've handled things really well,” he says. “I don't think you realize.”
I let out a small laugh. “I grabbed Adrian hard enough to wrinkle his shirt.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
His thumb traces my cheekbone again, so lightly I barely feel it.
“Everything. The production. Last night. All of it.” His eyes hold mine. “You keep moving forward. That's harder than people think.”
My throat feels tight.
“You don’t have to earn this,” he says. “You don’t have to earn being here, and you don’t have to earn any of us wanting you here. We’re not keeping score. There isn’t some point in the future where we decide you’ve finally proven yourself enough to stay.”
He says it simply, like it’s something I should already know.
“You already belong here, Maya.”
My omega pushes forward, and I move before I've fully decided to.
I close the small distance between us and kiss him.
His mouth meets mine, careful, like he’s asking a question he already knows the answer to. He holds still for one breath—one steady, drawn-out breath—and then he kisses me back, slow and certain, like he’s got all night and intends to use every minute of it.
His hand slides from my cheek to the side of my neck, his thumb settling along my jaw. He doesn’t pull me in. He stays exactly where he is, fingers resting against my skin, letting me set the pace, letting me choose how far and how fast. The faint smell of cedar and clean cotton on his shirt fills the space between us, and my fingers curl into the fabric without my permission.
When he finally draws back, it’s slow, unhurried, his forehead coming to rest against mine. His thumb strokes once more along my jaw, and I feel the curve of his smile before I see it.
“You should sleep,” he says, rough and low.
“Mm.” I don’t move. My fingers are still wound into his shirt like I’ve forgotten how hands work.
His thumb traces the line of my jaw again, slower this time.
“Your heat is two days out.” He says it slowly, like he's choosing each word with care.
“I don't want you pushing toward something tonight and waking up tomorrow wondering whether you only wanted it because your body was already running ahead of you.” He tilts his head slightly, enough that I can make out his eyes in the near-dark. “We have time. None of this has to happen tonight.”
My chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with heat symptoms.
He's right.
He's completely right, and the fact that he's the one saying it—while I can feel the restraint it costs him—means more than anything else he's said tonight.
“Okay,” I say.
