Page 8 of Heat Lightning

I spied his phone on the nightstand. Silently, I stepped over the laundry basket containing what smelled like clean clothes and unplugged it from the charger. He made a sleepy sound and rolled over, facing the wall.

Shit. How was I going to get a Face ID now? Holding the light up to his face was already a risk.

On a whim, I swiped down on his phone just to see if I could access the menu… yes! No password necessary. Interesting.

I toggled the brightness to the lowest setting, and then took stock. The bed was narrow enough that I could probably reach over and unlock full access to the phone without waking him, if I was careful.

I am not a creep, I am not a creep, I am not a creep, I repeated, hovering like the fucking grim reaper. Leaning down, I braced my weight on the wall above his head and held the phone in front of his face, waiting for it to unlock.

He smells freshly washed, my alpha groaned. Clean and ready for our⁠—

I squeezed my eyes shut. My breath ghosted across the tufts of his hair peeking out over the sheets, and he made another quiet, breathy sound, shifting under the covers.

The phone vibrated, prompting a password. Shit.

I cleared the screen and tried again. No luck. I pushed off the wall to step away from him, afraid he’d sense someone so close, but my hand slipped, squeaking down the landlord’s special eggshell white paint.

I caught myself just before landing on him. The omega inhaled, quick and sharp.

Shit!

I heaved myself up, backpedaling from the bed. He rolled over again, this time on his back, head tipped toward me. I stood stock still, afraid to move lest he open his eyes and see me. For several minutes I waited, tense and on edge, until his breathing evened out again.

Tiptoeing back over, I made sure the brightness was still on low before holding the phone in front of his face one more time.

Bingo.

Out in the hallway where I could hear if he stirred but far enough so the light from our phones wouldn’t wake him, it was only a matter of a few taps, adding myself as a contact named Pizza-W. 84th—because who doesn’t have a random pizza place in their phone?—and sharing his location before the phone was back on the charger, like nothing had ever happened.

Now, I could watch over him without dogging his every step. Until Joseph Weber was dead, of course. Then I’d stop the location sharing and walk away.

My alpha snarled.

I took one last look at him, sleeping peacefully. It was probably the only time I’d ever be close enough to scent him without the cloying tang of fear marring his base notes.

Which was the way it should be. The way it had to be.

On my way out of his room, however, I caught the faintest whiff of something else.

Someone else.

The omega’s hamper was full, due for a wash. His work uniform sprawled on top, partially spilling over the side. I reached down, fingering the sleeve, before lifting it to my nose.

Steam, sweat, and fryer grease were the most pungent. A few other things, too, probably from the people he worked with. It was easy to accidentally brush up against someone in a cramped restaurant kitchen.

But even through the mask, I could smell him. Weber.

That piece of shit had touched the omega’s arm.

I gritted my teeth, ignoring the surge in unnamed emotions it gave me. This was ridiculous. The omega was a nuisance. A hassle. A hazard of my job, and proof of why I didn’t get involved beyond removing the Joseph Webers from the world.

I shouldn’t give a fuck what, or who, his work uniform smelled like. I’d meddled too much, and now I stood in an innocent omega’s bedroom sniffing his clothes.

Realizing I’d mashed his sleeve against my masked cheek to cover up the offending smell, I cast it back in the hamper and left the apartment without a backward glance.

And the fact that I waited up all night, parked at the very back of the lot, until the omega left for work had absolutely nothing to do with him or his broken door. I just wanted to make sure the location tracking worked properly.

That was all.