Page 39 of Omega's Formula

I shake my head. There’s no way I’m sitting that close to him. I drag the armchair, moving it onto the far side of the couch. It completely messes up the layout of the room.

He watches me with a curl to his lip like I’m doing something he finds funny. I want to tell him to fuck off but I’m not giving into this. It’s what he wants.

He turns the TV on and we watch in silence. The emperor penguins on screen might as well be static for all the attention I’m paying.

The compliance ping shatters the moment.

We both jump, reaching for our phones. The app notification blinks on both screens:VERIFICATION REQUIRED. 15 MINUTES TO COMPLY.

“Hallway,” Nolan says, already standing. “Better lighting.”

We move to the narrow space between bedroom and bathroom—the same hallway where this morning happened—and try to figure out the logistics. Both faces visible. Both phones. GPS verified.

We end up close, not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body. We’re close enough that his scent wraps around me.

He holds up his phone. I do the same.

Our eyes meet through the screen, and for one moment the mask slips. I see it—the same want I’m choking on, the same furious attraction neither of us asked for. His lips part slightly. His breath catches.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

I watch his mouth form the words. Watch him swallow. Watch the pulse jump in his throat.

The camera clicks.

“Got it,” he says, but he doesn’t step back immediately. We stand there, phones lowered, inches apart in the dim hallway.

“Nolan—”

“Don’t.” His voice is quiet but firm. “Whatever you’re going to say. Just don’t.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“I don’t care.” He turns his back on me and the bedroom door closes between us.

I set up on the couch with a blanket from the hall closet. I lived here for almost three years. Built my company from this kitchen table. First place I ever owned.

It’s never felt less like mine. Everything smells like him.

The 3am ping drags me from a half-doze.

I stumble to the bedroom door, knock twice. Nolan emerges rumpled and bleary-eyed, hair a mess, shirt twisted and riding up on one side.

I see the bruise.

It’s on his hip. Finger-shaped. Purple and livid against his skin.

I put that there. I grabbed him hard enough to bruise while I was shoving him against the wall, while I was taking him apart with my mouth, while I was—

Nolan catches me looking. His hand moves to tug his shirt down, but it’s too late. I’ve seen the evidence of what I did, marked into his skin.

I’ve never left bruises on anyone before. I have more control than that. It’s not who I am.

“Sorry about that,” I say, nodding. “It wasn’t intentional.”

“Okay.” He says it the same way, neutral, agreeable. “Can we take the photo now? I’m tired.”

He holds up his phone. After a moment, I do the same.