Page 37 of Omega's Formula

“That’s... practical,” he says.

“I try to be.”

He takes another bite. I watch his mouth. The way his lips close around the fork, the way his tongue darts out to catch a drop of sauce at the corner of his mouth—

Stop staring at his mouth.

I look down at my plate and push pasta around with my fork, appetite gone. The silence stretches. Every nerve in my body is vibrating with awareness. I can smell him, even over the food. That devastating omega scent that makes my body light up withwant want want.

“The check-in ping could come anytime after six,” he says. “Random times.”

“I read the instructions.”

“Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

Same page. Right. We’re on completely different pages. Different books. Different libraries.

“About this morning—” I start.

“What about it?”

The question is mild. Curious. Like I might be about to discuss the weather or the traffic or anything other than the fact that I had my face between his thighs four hours ago.

“Nothing,” I finish lamely. “Never mind.”

“Okay.”

He returns to his pasta. I stare at my plate and wonder if it’s possible to die from frustration.

We finish eating. I wait for Nolan to stand, to clear the plates, to do what omegas do. My mother always handled the domestic side of things. Every omega I’ve ever known has done the same. It’s simply how things work.

Nolan pushes back from the table, stretches—his shirt rides up, just a flash of skin above his waistband, and I catch a glimpse of bruised hip before he tugs it down—and says: “Dishes are yours. I cooked.”

I stare at him. “Excuse me?”

“Dishes.” He gestures at the kitchen. “Standard division of labor. One person cooks, the other cleans. That’s fair, right?”

Fair. He’s framing it asfair. As logic rather than defiance. As simple practicality rather than a deliberate challenge to everything I expect.

“I—” I stop myself before I say something I’ll regret. But not fast enough. Nolan’s eyebrow lifts slightly.

“Problem?”

“No,” I grit out. “No problem.”

“Great.” He smiles—small, bland, infuriating—and collects his water glass. “I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”

He walks past me toward the couch. I catch a hint of his scent as he passes—clean soap and that omega undertone that makes my teeth ache—and my hands curl into fists at my sides.

I watch him settle onto the couch, tuck his feet up, pull out his phone. He looks completely at ease.

I know what his game is now. He’s going to be the ‘reasonable’ one. He’s going to rile me up by forcing me into doing things he knows I don’t want to do.

It’s only dishes, but it isn’t. He played it perfectly. I’d admire it if I wasn’t so annoyed, but it is a reminder of who he is. He’s a man who makes a living through charm and manipulation.

For a moment, I wonder if he planned that scene this morning knowing I’d not be able to resist him half naked. I don’t know how. I did tell him I was coming at noon, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t work it out somehow.

I turn to face the kitchen. There’s a pan on the stove, a cutting board with vegetable scraps, two plates, two forks, two knives, two water glasses