It's such a small movement—barely a few degrees—but something about it makes my heart stutter. Like he's a predator who's just spotted something interesting.
Like I've become a puzzle, he's deciding whether to solve or devour.
His nostrils flare.
I watch it happen in slow motion: the subtle expansion of his chest as he draws in a deeper breath, the slight parting of his lips, the way his eyes darken almost imperceptibly as my scent hits him.
What does he smell?
Frosted sugar and cherry blossom, probably. That's my primary. Clean linen underneath, maybe that metallic edge that appears when I'm stressed.
And right now—right now I'm very stressed.
But he shows no reaction.
His expression remains perfectly, maddeningly calm. Like my existence hasn't bothered him in the slightest. Like catching panicking Omegas in post offices is just a regular Tuesday for him.
He leans in.
Close.
Too close.
His face hovers inches from mine, and I can feel the warmth radiating off his skin, can see the individual strands of pink hair falling across his forehead, can count the golden flecks in his green, green eyes?—
He inhales again.
Deeper this time.
Deliberate.
And when he speaks, his voice is like honey poured over gravel: smooth and rough and absolutely devastating.
"You smell like cotton candy."
I feel my face flush.
Heat spreads from my cheeks down my neck, across my chest, probably turning my pale skin an absolutely mortifying shade of pink that matches both our hair.
I never react this way.
Never.
I've killed people without flinching. I've danced in the blood of my enemies. I've looked death in the eye and laughed, because what's death compared to the nightmare I've already survived?
But this stranger—this pink-haired, vanilla-scented stranger with eyes like spring leaves—has reduced me to a blushing, squeaking mess in approximately three seconds flat.
It's embarrassing.
It's infuriating.
It's... confusing.
My lower lip juts out in a pout before I can stop it—an automatic response, a defense mechanism dressed up as petulance.
"You—" I start, then stop. Clear my throat. Try again. "You're still holding my wrist."
He is.
