Page 71 of Omega's Faith

Song bleeds into song, and slowly, incrementally, he relaxes. Starts to actually dance instead of just swaying. His shirt comes untucked. His hair, so combed, begins to curl with sweat. He's beautiful.

A waiter passes with a tray of champagne, and I snag two glasses before remembering.

"Shit. Sorry. Habit." I'm about to put them back when I notice the little tag on the stem. "Wait. These are marked NA. Non-alcoholic."

"They make non-alcoholic champagne?"

"Yes. Want to try?"

He takes a glass, sips cautiously. His nose wrinkles. "It's weird. Fizzy grape juice."

"Perfect description." I set mine aside, not even tempted. "Come on, they're playing our song."

"We don't have a song."

"We do now."

The music has shifted to something slower but still rhythmic, and this time when I move closer, he doesn't pull back. We're not quite touching, but I can feel the heat radiating off him, see the way his pulse flutters in his throat.

Suddenly the space between us feels like too much and not nearly enough at the same time. His scent spikes, honey going darker, richer.

"Alex," he says, and my name sounds like a prayer and a warning all at once.

The music swells, crowd presses closer, and somehow we end up flush against each other. He’s still holding the champagne glass.

His hands are on my shoulders, mine are at his waist, our bodies moving in sync like they were made for this. Like they were made for each other.

I don't know who leans in first. Maybe both of us, maybe neither, maybe it's just gravity pulling us together. But suddenly his mouth is right there, lips parted, breath mingling with mine—

We both pull back at the same second, stepping apartlike we've been burned. My heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised the whole club can't hear it.

This is a bad idea. The chemistry is there. The compatibility isn’t. I am not going to ruin this perfect omega. He deserves better than me.

"We should—" he starts.

"Yeah."

We leave the dance floor, make our way through the crowd to the exit. The cool night air hits like a slap, bringing reality crashing back. We're still married. Still completely wrong for each other. Still heading for disaster if we don’t stave it off.

But when we reach the curb to wait for the car, Jonah turns to me and extends his hand.

"Thank you," he says formally. "For tonight. For being honest. For... trying."

I take his hand, shake it like we're business associates instead of husbands who almost kissed on a dance floor.

"We can be friends," I offer. "Or at least friendly. Amicable."

"Amicable." He tests the word, still holding my hand. "I can do amicable."

"Good. Me too."

We stand there, shaking hands for far too long, neither willing to be the first to let go. Finally, the car arrives, breaking the spell.

The ride back is quiet. I drop him at his parents' house, watch him walk to the door. He turns before going inside, gives a small wave.

"Goodnight, Alex."

"Night, church mouse."