Page 48 of Omega's Formula

“Of course. Erik—” She hesitates. “Is everything all right? You sound... distracted.”

“Fine,” I say. “Everything’s fine.”

I end the call and stand there for a moment, phone in hand, staring at nothing.

What if Nolan’s right?

The thought creeps in, unwelcome. What if Alistair did steal his research?

I push the thought away. I can’t afford to think like that. Not now. Not until I have more information. I need the actual data. I can’t make any decisions until that happens.

The apartment is too quiet. I can hear the clock ticking in the kitchen, the distant hum of traffic, my own breathing. There is no sound from the bedroom. Nolan could be sleeping or crying or staring at the ceiling. I have no way of knowing.

I make myself useful instead. I answer emails and review contracts. I do the work I’d normally do from my office, compressed into a laptop screen at my old kitchen table. It’s not ideal, but it’s something to focus on. Something to keep me from thinking about the man behind the closed door.

Hours pass. The light shifts from afternoon gold to evening grey. My stomach reminds me that we haven’t eaten since the trail mix I grabbed at the nature reserve parking lot.

It’s my turn to cook.

The thought is almost laughable. My cooking repertoire consists entirely of reservations and delivery apps. I could attempt something—there’s pasta in the pantry, I think, and vegetables in the fridge—but the memory of Nolan’s effortless competence last night makes me hesitate. Whatever I produce will be pathetic in comparison.

I order Thai food instead: pad thai, green curry, spring rolls. Enough for two, with leftovers.

The delivery arrives as the last of the daylight fades. I set out plates, transfer food from containers, try to make it look like I put in some effort. It’s a transparent fiction, but at least I’m not burning anything.

I knock on the bedroom door.

“Nolan? Dinner.”

Silence. Then footsteps, soft on the carpet. The door swings open.

The scent hits me first.

It’s Nolan, but more. Richer, deeper, with an undertone of something that makes my whole body go tight with sudden, overwhelming want. It’s like his usual scent has been distilled and concentrated, every note amplified until it’s almost overwhelming.

My vision tunnels. My hands curl into fists at my sides. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to move, to take, to—

I force myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Control. I have control.

Nolan stands in the doorway, looking wrecked. His hair is messy, shirt rumpled, eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused. He’s flushed—a delicate pink spreading across his cheekbones, down his neck, disappearing under his collar.

“Something smells good,” he says, and his voice is rough. Throatier than usual.

I can’t speak. I can barely think. That scent is everywhere, filling my lungs, coating the back of my throat, making it impossible to focus on anything except the omega in front of me and the primitive part of my brain that wants to pin him down and—

“Thai food,” I manage. “I ordered.”

“Thanks.” He moves past me toward the kitchen. Too close. His shoulder brushes my chest and the contact sends electricity sparking down my spine. “I’m starving.”

I follow him, keeping distance between us, trying to remember how to behave like a civilized person. He settles at the table and starts serving himself, movements slightly uncoordinated, like his body isn’t quite responding the way he expects it to.

I sit across from him and watch him eat. Watch his mouth close around the fork, watch his throat move when he swallows. The scent is stronger now, filling the small kitchen, impossible to escape.

“This is good,” he says. “Better than my pasta?”

“Different. Equally good.”

He laughs—a soft, slightly breathless sound—and something in my chest clenches.