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I tried not to get too angry. After all, they couldn’t be everywhere at once and the mugger hadn’t been seen in that location before so there was no way they were to know where they were needed to patrol.
Still, I felt myself getting surly and brusque as I watched my brave little omega try to save his bag and the alpha drag him along the ground. There was a moment, watching the CCTV, that I hadn’t even seen at the time. The way the mugger paused when I shouted.
I replayed the footage and saw it again, and again, until I was sure.
They’d kicked Waggoner. Their knee had jerked up and then down suddenly, and Waggoner had curled up reflexively.
Bile burned in my stomach at having to witness my sweet omega suffering.
And the way the mugger paused… I was sure they’d been about to kick him again. But they looked up and even though there was no sound on the footage, I knew the mugger had heard my shout. Sure enough, a second or so later, they turn to run and I appear on screen.
I couldn’t learn any more from the footage. The mugger had been lost down the alleyway and hadn’t been picked up by the scattered cameras around the campus. I couldn’t identify any more distinguishing marks, unfortunately.
I knew the police had probably looked at the footage already but I’d hoped I might see something, anything. A clue. Something that would help to catch the bastard.
I got nothing and I felt frustrated and angry and resigned as I made my way home.
It was only as I neared Waggoner’s apartment that my mood began to lift. I’d left him that morning looking deliciously rumpled from bed and my whole body had ached with the desire to be the one who made him look that rumpled. I’d had to take a really cold shower that morning to keep myself under control because a combination of morning wood and the sight of Waggoner in just boxers and a t-shirt was doing all kinds of things to me.
The first stirrings of arousal began to make themselves known in the pit of my stomach as I unlocked the front door with Waggoner’s spare key. This was something of a fantasy of mine. I’d imagined it so many times: coming home to my omega. He’d be busy working and wouldn’t look up until I walked over and planted a kiss on his cheek. Or he’d rush out to meet me and lean straight up for a kiss. Or he’d be in the kitchen, cooking dinner and wearing only an apron.
And, no, I wasn’t that old-fashioned that I wanted my omega to stay home and cook for me. I’d had an equal number of fantasies abouthimcoming home tome. I’d be making dinner and I’d hear his key in the lock and know I had just a few seconds to decide whether to rush to the front door and greet him or whether to let him wander into the kitchen and find me there.
Whichever way I played it, my fantasies usually turned X-rated after that.
It meant that my dick was waking up, thinking it was about to get some attention, and I had to try and will it down.
I went into the apartment and looked around. I followed the sound of low music to the lounge and found Waggoner there, sitting on the couch.
If I was properly living out my fantasies right now, then I’d go over, place a lingering kiss on his lips and ask him if he missed me. I tried not to feel too disappointed that I couldn’t do that.
I’d asked him if he missed me earlier when we were messaging but that had been mostly a joke. I couldn’t do it in real life and I realised I was going to get myself very muddled up if I stayed here, where the lines between my real life and my fantasy were so blurred.
“Hey,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
He looked over at me and there was something in his eyes as he did it that put me on alert. I couldn’t work out what it was but I focused harder.
“Much better, thank you. You must be tired, why don’t you sit down?”
“Yeah, sure.”
I dumped my bag by the doorway and walked over to the couch, where he was sitting. He’d patted the seat next to him and so I sat there. Normally, I’d have taken the opportunity to sit as close to him as I could but this felt wrong, for some reason.
As I sat, I realised that Waggoner was wearing a spicy scent and his beard had been neatly trimmed. He was also dressed. I wasn’t exactly surprised about that, but what he was dressed in seemed odd. I’d never seen him in jeans before and they were dark indigo and slim-fitting, which, sure, meant they moulded to his legs well and I was sure they’d display his ass perfectly but they weren’t quite… right.
He smiled at me as I settled beside him and the feeling of wrongness squirmed inside me again. That smile. It just wasn’t… right.
None of this was right.
“Would you like a drink?”
He gestured at the coffee table where there was a bottle of wine and two glasses, ready.
“You’re not allowed to drink on your painkillers,” I reminded him.
“I could have just one.”
I wanted to tell him that he couldn’t, but that wasn’t my call. I tried to steer us away from alcohol, though. The doctor had said no alcohol and I didn’t want to risk him not getting properly well again.
