Page 59 of Omega's Formula

A pause behind me, weighted with confusion. “I... yes? I told you that this morning.”

“Good.” I keep my back to him, staring at the water glass like it contains something fascinating. “Then our original agreement stands. I’ll sleep here for the remainder of the cohabitation period, and after that we can arrange separate living situations. The Bureau only requires periodic check-ins for the rest of the year.”

The silence that follows is so complete I can hear the refrigerator humming.

“Erik.” His voice is careful now. “What’s going on? This morning you were talking about breakfast and dinner and—”

“This morning was this morning.” I turn around, finally, and make sure my expression shows nothing of what I’m feeling. “The heat is over. We should both get back to our normal lives.”

He’s standing now, arms wrapped around himself like he’s cold, though the apartment is warm enough. His face has gone pale beneath the lingering flush of heat recovery.

“Did something happen? At the meeting?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“It obviously concerns me, since you left here this morning acting like—” He stops, swallows hard, tries again. “Like things were different. Like we were different. And now you’re looking at me like I’m a stranger you can’t wait to be rid of.”

I don’t answer. I don’t trust myself to answer without saying something that would reveal too much of the rage burning in my chest.

“Erik, please.” He takes a step toward me, and I take a step back, and the hurt that flashes across his face is almost enough to make me waver. “Whatever I did, whatever’s wrong, just tell me. We can figure it out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out.” I set down the water glass with deliberate care. “This always had clear terms and an expiration date. I suggest we both remember that going forward.”

For a long moment he just stares at me, searching my face for something—an explanation, a crack in my composure, anything that might help him understand what’s happening. I give him nothing.

Finally something in him seems to crumble, his shoulders dropping, his arms tightening around himself.

“Fine,” he says quietly. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

He nods once, a jerky motion that doesn’t quite hide the way his jaw is trembling, and retreats to the bedroom without another word. The door closes behind him—not a slam, just a soft click that somehow sounds worse.

I stand alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the lingering sweetness of his scent and the wreckage of everything I thought we were building, and I don’t let myself feel anything at all.

On the last night of cohabitation, I lie awake on the couch and listen to him move around the bedroom.

Tomorrow I’ll go back to the penthouse, back to my real life. I’ll bury whatever happened between us so deep that it might as well have never existed.

Through the wall, I hear a sound that stops my breath.

He’s crying. Soft, muffled sobs that he’s clearly trying to hide, but the apartment is small and the walls are thin and I can hear every hitched breath, every swallowed whimper.

I close my eyes and don’t move from the couch.

None of it was true, I remind myself, repeating it like a.He admitted it on that recording. He lied about everything.

The crying eventually stops, fading into silence or exhausted sleep, and I lie in the dark and listen to the absence of it until morning comes to set us both free.

15. Nolan

I stay in the bedroom and listen to him pack.

It’s a coward’s move and I know it. I should go out there, face him, demand answers about what the hell happened in that meeting that turned him from warm to ice. But every time I think about opening that door, I remember the way he looked at me afterward—like I was less than nothing—and I can’t make myself do it.

So I sit on the edge of the bed we shared during my heat and I listen to the sounds of Erik Nilsson erasing himself from my life.

He’s efficient about it, methodical, like packing up and leaving is just another task to be completed. There’s no wasted motion, no hesitation.