Page 96 of Run Wild Omega

“I know.”

“Have you—” He stops. “Miles mentioned there might be factors that affect retention.”

I feel my face heat. “I looked it up.”

“And?”

“And the research says that scent transferred during sexual contact lasts significantly longer.”

The word “sexual” hangs in the air between us, heavy and electric.

I feel his thigh tense against mine—a microscopic tightening of muscle that tells me he heard me, he understood, and he’s choosing not to pursue it.

“We’ll figure something out,” he says. “Miles is working on a protocol.”

A protocol. Right. Because this is strategic. Because there’s a spreadsheet somewhere with my name on it and columns for scent retention intervals and optimization strategies.

I almost laugh. Almost.

His hand slides out of my hair, and the loss of it is a small, disorienting grief. He shifts back, creating distance between us, and his thigh withdraws from between mine. The space where he was pressing against me feels cold, empty.

“You and Miles have the hospital appointment later,” he says, and his voice is back to normal.

“Five o’clock.”

“He’ll pick you up here at four. Make sure you eat something before you go—they might keep you a while if the images show anything unexpected.”

“I will.”

“And text me when you’re done. Even if it’s late.”

“I will.”

He stands up from the couch and reaches for his jacket on the armchair. He shrugs it on, zips it, and pulls his beanie over his hair in a series of efficient movements that look like he’s assembling a suit of armor.

Then he stops. Turns back.

He crosses the space between us in two steps, leans down, and presses his lips to my forehead.

It’s not the scenting. It’s not strategic. It’s just a kiss, placed right above my eyebrows, where my headache has been throbbing since noon.

The touch undoes me more than anything he did on my neck.

“See you tomorrow,” he says.

“Tomorrow,” I manage.

He leaves. The door clicks shut behind him.

I sit on the couch for a long time, staring at the place where he was sitting. The leather cushion is still warm. The room still smells like him—woodsmoke and pine and that particular note of leather that I’ve come to associate with safety and terror in equal measure.

My body is humming. The ache between my legs is a living thing, demanding attention, and my hands are twitching in my lap with the urge to give it what it wants.

I think about Wyatt’s thigh between mine. The pressure. The heat. The way my body arched toward it without my permission.

I think about his mouth on my forehead. The gentleness of it. The way it felt like something real.

I pick up my clipboard and force myself to look at the scheduling matrix. The numbers blur. I blink, refocus. The numbers blur again.