Page 175 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

As if the pancakes should convince me.

I’m already convinced.

The front door is unlocked. I smooth the front of my dress—a simple navy one that falls just above my knees, the only thing in Sophie Dysart’s wardrobe that actually feels like mine—and step inside. I can hear music from the dining room, quiet enough that I can’t make out the song, and I follow it.

Finn is at the table, setting out plates. Bare feet, a blue t-shirt that makes his eyes even brighter, sweatpants riding low on his hips. He turns when he hears me and his face lights up like I’m the best thing he’s seen all day.

“There she is.” He crosses the room and wraps his arms around me and presses his lips to my hair. “I missed you, sweetheart.”

The way he says it—simple, unhurried, like he’s been waiting all week to say it—makes my throat tight. I press my face into his chest and breathe him in.

“I missed you too,” I say.

He pulls back and looks at me, his blue eyes warm. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel good,” I say. “Especially now that I’m here.”

His expression softens. “Me too.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s been a long week.”

He nods toward the table. “Max and Ethan went out to get groceries. They’ll be back soon. Sit down—I’m not letting these get cold.”

I look at the table. Four place settings. Pancakes. Coffee. Maple syrup. Like this is normal. Like this is something we do.

I want this to be something we do.

Finn sits down and pulls his chair back, and I don’t go to the chair across from him. I walk over and lower myself onto his lap, my legs hanging off one side, my arm looping around his neck.

He blinks. Then his hand settles on my thigh and his other arm wraps around my waist.

“Hi,” I say, looking up at him with a small smile.

“Hi,” he says, grinning.

He picks up a fork, tears off a piece of pancake, and holds it up to my mouth. I take it and my eyes close because it’s possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted—light and fluffy, buttery and sweet.

“Finn, this is incredible.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he says, and kisses me quickly, a flash of maple syrup on his lips.

We eat like that—him holding me, feeding me bites between feeding himself, his arm loose around my waist, my head resting on his shoulder between mouthfuls.

At some point I press my face into his neck and breathe him in.

Sunlight and honey. Warm skin. Finn.

“You smell so good,” I say against his throat.

He stops chewing.

“Soph.”

I lift my head. “What?”

His eyes sharpen as he inhales. Then I catch it too, faint beneath the pancakes and coffee.

Rain and crushed roses.

Less than half an hour curled up in Finn’s lap and my suppressants are already starting to give way.