Page 67 of Omega's Formula

“Thanks. You look great.” I drop into the chair beside her bed, the one I’ve worn a permanent groove into over the past year. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than you, apparently.” She’s watching me with that particular expression she gets when she’s about to push. “Have you eaten today?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Food.”

“Nolan.”

“I had coffee. And a muffin. Blueberry.”

“A muffin isn’t breakfast.” She crosses her arms, which shouldn’t look intimidating coming from someone who weighs maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, but somehow manages anyway. “When’s the last time you had an actual meal? With protein and vegetables and things that aren’t made primarily of sugar?”

I try to remember. Yesterday? The day before? There was definitely something at some point. Probably.

“I’ve been busy,” I say, which isn’t exactly a lie. “Extra shifts at the coffee shop. Job applications. The usual.”

“The usual doesn’t make you lose ten pounds in three weeks.”

“I haven’t lost ten pounds.”

“Your face is thinner. Your clothes are hanging off you. And you’ve got bags under your eyes that could carry groceries.” She reaches over and grabs my hand, her fingers thin but warm. “Nolan. What’s going on?”

Everything. Nothing. I’m living in an apartment that smells like the man who broke my heart for reasons I still don’t understand. I can’t sleep. I can barely eat. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face—not the cold version from the last three days of cohabitation, but the other one, the one that looked at me like I was something precious.

I can’t stop thinking about him. That’s the worst part. I should hate him. I do hate him. But I also miss him with an ache that doesn’t fade no matter how many days pass, and I don’t know how to make it stop.

I also know exactly what is happening to my body. I’m a biochemist. That’s my background. I’m in deep withdrawal. Those stupid prime match biochemical markers are screwing with my body. That’s what the cohabitation was all about. It was about getting me addicted to Erik’s hormones and it worked. Well, the addiction worked. The relationship didn’t.

I need to do what every drug addict needs to do. I need to go cold turkey and stay cold turkey. At least I will after the meeting at the Bureau that’s coming up. All I need is to wait until he leaves my system.

“I’m fine,” I say, because that’s what I always say. “Just tired. The cohabitation threw off my whole routine, and I’m still adjusting.”

“It’s been three weeks.”

“Adjustment takes time.”

Ellie doesn’t look convinced. She holds my gaze for a long moment.

“Have you heard from him?” she asks finally.

“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “And I don’t expect to. We have a Bureau meeting in a few weeks. Other than that, there’s no reason for us to have any contact.”

“You were married to him. You went through a heat together.”

““Can we talk about something else?” I pull my hand away from hers, standing up to pace the small room because I can’t sit still anymore. “Tell me about your treatment.”

Ellie lets me redirect, but I can feel her eyes on me as I move. She’s not buying it. She knows me too well, has spent too many years reading the things I don’t say out loud. But she doesn’t push, and for that I’m grateful.

We spend an hour talking about her recovery, her plans for when she gets out, the college courses she’s been taking online to keep her brain occupied. She’s thinking about going back to school properly once she’s strong enough. Biology, maybe. Or biochemistry.

I encourage her. I ask questions. I make all the right noises in all the right places and the whole time, part of me is somewhere else entirely, trapped in a loop of memory and regret that I can’t seem to break free from.

When visiting hours end, Ellie pulls me into a hug that lasts longer than usual.

“Take care of yourself,” she says against my shoulder. “I mean it. You spent so long taking care of me, you forgot how to take care of you.”