We both crouch down to clean it up, our heads bumping together with a soft thud.
“Sorry,” I say, automatically reaching out to touch her forehead. My fingers brush against her skin, and in this position, I can see it—the faint, crescent-shaped bite mark on her neck. The night she let me claim her.
My body stirs, a familiar heat pooling in my stomach, a reaction I have no business having.
“You should get a broom,” I say, pulling my hand back as if burned. “I’ll pick up the pieces.”
“Okay,” she says, standing up.
This position, me on the floor looking up at her, her long legs on display… it’s too much. I can feel my resolve weakening, the carefully constructed walls I’ve built around my heart starting to crumble.
She walks to a small closet near the kitchen, returning with a broom and dustpan. I carefully gather the larger pieces of glass, my eyes scanning the room for her trash can. That’s when I seeit—a small tin of aftercare tea, peeking out from under some crumpled tissues.
I hate how much I hate the thought of someone else touching her, of someone else being with her in that way.
“Got it,” she announces, returning with the cleaning supplies.
I toss the glass in the trash, making sure to bury the tin under other debris. More cleaning up, more silence. We wash our hands at the sink, standing side by side, the air thick with unspoken words.
“Will you drink something else?” she asks, drying her hands on a towel. “I might have some wine somewhere.”
I plan on asking if she has white or red wine, or that rosé she sometimes favors. Instead, I find myself asking, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
She looks taken aback, her eyes widening slightly. “No.”
I nod, my throat tight. “It’s late. I should head home.”
“Did something happen?” she asks, taking my hand. Her touch sends a jolt through me, a spark of electricity that has nothing to do with the Rift. “I thought we were okay,” she says, her eyes watching me, searching for answers I’m not sure I want to give.
I look down into those eyes and feel my whole body freeze. She’s so fucking pretty, even with her face blotchy from crying, even with the weight of the world on her shoulders.
“Talk to me,” she says.
“I saw the aftercare,” I say, the words out before I can stop them.
She blinks, processing. “Oh. That was a mistake. The last surge was bad, and it kind of threw my body for a loop.”
“So you fucked someone else,” I say, the accusation ugly in the quiet kitchen.
“Hey,” she says, pulling back. “You just told me about the girl you almost hooked up with just tonight.”
“That’s different.”
“How? How is that different? One thing you won’t do is slut-shame me, Griff. Not after all these years.”
I recall the scent she had the other day. Of course I knew she had been with someone else, but the Alpha in me is finding it hard to reconcile the fact that the Omega I once claimed fucked another Alpha.
“I would never call you a slut.”
“Sounds like you just did.”
Oh, she’s angry now, and honestly, she has every right to be.
“I’m fucking things up,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “I know.”
I can feel us falling back into the arguing phase of our relationship. This is what I hated most—the way we could go from tender to tense in seconds, the way old wounds would reopen with just a few words.
“It’s always like this with us,” she says, her voice shaking. “We can’t just have a conversation. It always has to be a fight.”
