Page 71 of Omega's Formula

I forgot how strong the pull is but my body knows his even from across a room.

He turns.

The impact is immediate and visceral, and then it shifts into something else entirely. Because he looks wrong.

The Nolan I know is sharp-edged and vital, all quick wit and defiant green eyes. This Nolan is a shadow of that person. His clothes hang loose on a frame that’s lost weight it couldn’t afford to lose and dark circles bruise the skin beneath his eyes. His complexion has gone grey and waxy, like someone fighting off a flu that won’t quite take hold.

What the hell?

Our eyes meet. Pain flickers across his face before his expression smooths into careful neutrality. He crosses the lobby toward me.

“Erik.” His voice is flat, professional. Giving nothing away.

“Nolan.”

We stand there for a moment, neither of us moving. The pull between us is almost audible, a low hum of chemistry that I feel in my teeth. I want to reach out and touch him. I want to demand to know why he hasn’t been taking care of himself.

He extends his hand. A handshake. The most impersonal greeting two people can exchange.

I take it.

The contact sends electricity crackling up my arm, and I see him flinch at the same moment I do.

His hand is ice-cold and touching him feels like pressing my palm against an open flame. I let go faster than I should, and he pulls away at the same time.

“You look well,” he says.

“You don’t.”

The words come out harsher than I intended. I didn’t mean to even say it. It just came out. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond.

“Mr. Nilsson? Mr. West?” Sun appears at the edge of my vision, clipboard in hand. “Thank you for being so prompt. If you’ll follow me please.”

We fall into step behind him, side by side but not touching, maintaining a careful distance that feels louder than any conversation. I keep stealing glances at him as we walk. The weight loss is more pronounced than I first thought. His cheekbones stand out sharply, and his wrists look fragile where they emerge from his sleeves. His scent has changed too. He doesn’t smell sick, but there is something different.

He catches me looking and frowns.

Sun leads us into a different meeting room to the one that we first met in. There’s a small glass number next to the door that simply says ‘9’. Sunlight streams through tall windows, castingpatterns across the polished floor. The conference table in the centre has twelve chairs and a large screen TV takes up the far end of the room.

“Apologies, the usual rooms were not available today,” Sun says. “Mr. Nilsson. Mr. West.” He gestures to the chairs across from him. “Please, sit. Make yourselves comfortable.”

We sit, leaving an empty chair between us.

“First, let me congratulate you both on completing the mandatory cohabitation period.” Sun settles into his own seat, folding his hands on the table. “That particular requirement can be... challenging for newly matched pairs. The fact that you fulfilled it successfully speaks well of your commitment to the process.”

Neither of us responds. The silence stretches.

“This follow-up meeting is simply an opportunity for the Bureau to assess how things are progressing,” Sun continues, seemingly unbothered by our lack of enthusiasm. “We’ll discuss communication, living arrangements, your plans for the coming months. Nothing too intensive. Think of it as a check-in.”

“Fine,” Nolan says. It’s the first word he’s spoken since we entered the room. I resist the urge to glance at him.

Sun opens a folder. “Let’s start with communication. How would you describe your interaction since the cohabitation ended?”

“Minimal,” I say.

“Nonexistent,” Nolan corrects.

Sun makes a note. “And is this by mutual agreement, or...?”