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His mouth shifts. “You ready for caffeine again?”
“Very. My water bottle is always full, which I appreciate deeply and romantically, but my heat is over and I would like to resume my normal morning requirement of either coffee with enough sugar to alarm a dentist or my mother’s tea steeped until it can see the future.”
Theo’s expression shifts with the solemn focus of a man receiving sacred instructions. “Coffee extra sweet or your mother’s tea. Got it.”
“Exactly.”
“Food?”
“Also yes. I’m a lover of all things breakfast.”
He comes up two steps, slowly enough to let me choose the rest of the distance. I meet him there. His hands settle at my waist.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says.
The words are plain, and somehow that makes them worse for my heart.
“I’m still scared,” I admit.
“Me too.”
“That doesn’t negate the fact that I still want breakfast and sugary caffeine.”
“Of course not.”
My laugh comes out small.
Theo bends and presses his mouth to my forehead. The kiss is soft enough to undo me, followed by another at my temple. Then he tucks his face into my curls and breathes in.
The deliberate drag of his scent over me is unmistakable. Theo smells like a leather jacket steeped in bourbon warmth and alpha comfort. He marks me with his alpha claim, though not the permanent kind. This is softer, a careful layer of scent placed at the edge of my hair. His cheek brushes mine as if he’s asking my body whether this is welcome.
My omega melts like butter on a biscuit, and I lean closer.
Theo’s arms come around me. “Is this okay?” he asks against my hair.
“Yes.” My voice turns softer than I intend. “Very okay.”
He holds me in the stairwell while rain taps the roof and the house settles around us.
By the time we reach the kitchen, Ezra is at the table with my full water bottle, the route stone, three printed photographs, and a plate of toast cut into triangles.
“Good morning,” he says. “I’ve got hydration and geometry.”
“Triangles are the best toast shape.”
“I suspected.”
Theo moves to the stove. “Tea or coffee?”
“Tea first. Coffee later if the world continues being itself.”
“Sweet for your tea too?”
“I take an embarrassing amount of honey or sugar.”
“Good.” He says it as if my tea preference is a secret worth savoring.
I sit beside Ezra, and he nudges the water bottle into my hand. His fingers are solid this morning, though the cuff of his sleeve blurs where sunlight doesn’t reach him.
