Page 35 of Omega's Fever

But then I don’t think mercy was what Melkham had in mind. I think he was just pissed off and doesn’t like either of us.

I work methodically to reduce our vulnerabilities. The kitchen knives go in the drawer under the silverware where they’ll be easier to reach in a hurry. I taken the decorative mirror down and prop it against the wall, so we can see movement if we’re in the bedroom. I unplug the lamps. Lamps make silhouettes.

By the time I’m done, the apartment looks like someone’s preparing for a siege. Maybe that’s exactly what I’m doing. I don’t know what Milo is going to make of this when he wakes up. Maybe that I’m paranoid.

That doesn’t matter. What matters is that he stays alive to think it.

Only then can I lie back down. The sofa bed still creaks, but now it’s positioned where I can see both the door and the hallway. I can protect what needs protecting.

Sleep comes in fragments filled with prison dreams and fighting dreams. In between those, I dream that Milo’s scent is everywhere and nowhere at once, and I’m drowning in want I can’t have.

The spike of omega panic yanks me from sleep like a fishhook through my brain.

I’m on my feet before my eyes fully open. My hands are already fisted, and my body automatically drops into a fighter’s stance.

Milo stands frozen in the hallway entrance. Pale blue pajamas hang loose on his too-thin frame. His hair sticks up on one side where he’s slept on it. Behind those crooked glasses, his pupils are blown wide with fear.

The panic scent intensifies, sharp and acidic and flooding my nostrils in a way that makes my stomach twist. My omega is afraid of me.

I force my hands to uncurl and my shoulders to drop, but the damage is already done. He’s trembling now, one hand gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

His gaze darts around the rearranged room, taking in the blocked windows, the barricaded door, and the furniture positioned like fortifications. His breathing turns shallow and too fast and I realize he has no idea what I’m doing and that is freaking him out. I knew he would freak out. I should have made sure to wake before him but I didn’t.

“It needs to be safe,” I say. The words come out rough.

He blinks at me and opens his mouth before closing it again. The silence stretches between us, broken only by his rapid breathing.

Then something shifts in his face. The panic smooths out, replaced by something I can’t read. He pushes his glasses up his nose with one finger.

“Would you like some breakfast?” His voice only shakes a little. “And coffee? I have... I can make coffee.”

I nod once.

He practically flees to the kitchen side of the open space, and I follow more slowly. He fumbles with the coffee machine, somechrome monstrosity that belongs in a spaceship.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know how you take it. Your coffee. I should have asked. I have regular milk and oat milk and there’s sugar or I might have some of that fake sweetener somewhere if you prefer...”

He’s babbling again, words tumbling over each other while his hands shake on the machine’s buttons. He does that when he’s nervous. He says sorry a lot too.

“Black is fine.”

“Right. Of course. Black.” He measures beans into the grinder with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb. “I’m sorry about the beans. They’re nothing special. Just what I usually... I should have gotten better ones. I can go out later and...”

More babbling. Another apology. I’ve been counting them since he woke up. That makes six in the two minutes since he saw me, seven if you count the way he apologized with his whole body when he found me ready to fight.

“I don’t have much for breakfast. Some eggs? Toast? I think there’s bacon but it might be old. I’m sorry, I don’t usually... I mean, living alone, I just grab something on the way to work most days.”

That makes sorrys eight and nine.

“I could make pancakes? Though I don’t have mix. From scratch, I mean. If you want. Sorry, I...” He breaks off.

Ten apologies in under three minutes.

The thought burns through me, unexpected and sharp: Who taught you to apologize for living?

Someone put that reflexive cringe into him. Someone made him feel like existing was an inconvenience he needed to constantly excuse.

My hands clench involuntarily. The anger must bleed into my scent because Milo goes rigid. The coffee cup in his hand rattles against the counter.