Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
The room feels dark and warm as I start to come to.
There’s a heavy weight over me, like I somehow found the strength to get out my weighted blanket from under the bed before I had fallen into a fever-like sleep.
I groan and snuggle into the weight. The grogginess weighs heavily on my body, and I fidget under the blanket to let my sore bones move in relief, when my elbow hits something. Hard.
There’s a deep holler, and pain shoots down my arm. “Oh my god,” I mumble, cradling my throbbing elbow. “Who’s there?”
“You elbowed me in the face,” someone grunts beside me.
That’s when I realize that the weight that’s grounding me can move, and I suddenly remember everything from before my nap with a startled yelp.
I sit up, my cheeks flushing a deep red as I reach over to turn on the lamp.
When the room illuminates, my eyes are a bit blurry from the small headache still present, but I turn to find Thatcher holding his hand over his eye.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry!” I whisper-yell at him and cringe at the fact that I forgot he was here. My body tenses at the memory of how he crawled under my blanket without any protest and gave me comfort when asked. I put my head in my hands in embarrassment. “Oh my gosh, Thatcher.”
He’s still holding his eye, but then he starts to laugh.
“The first time I cuddle someone in years, and I get hit in the face.” The sarcasm is said so quietly, I think he meant to keep it to himself, but then he pulls his hand away and looks at me, his gaze full of amusement.
At some point, his shirt came off, and I dart my gaze away from the bulging muscles lining his chest.
I shouldn’t admire him. If I do, I won’t be able to stop because he’s so huge.
I’ve already wondered what he has beneath his boring T-shirts and…
Yep, I knew his pecs were going to be the size of my head, that’s just fabulous.
My body curses me for my curiosity with a sharp spasm in my stomach.
If I weren’t on blockers, my room would smell like an explosion of flowers and fruit by now.
“Let me check you,” Thatcher says, and I’m not sure what he means by it until his hand goes to my forehead. “You still have a fever. Are your cramps still bothering you, too?”
I don’t trust my voice, so I just give a meek nod.
“Okay,” he says, getting up and leaving the room abruptly.
I stare after him, his back muscles burning in my mind as I blink repeatedly at the door.
When he comes back, he’s carrying something large and beige.
“A heating pad,” he says after accurately interpreting the confusion on my face.
He puts it on my stomach, one of his fingers brushing my side slightly before turning it on.
“I’m going to make you some soup so we can get your fever to go down. ”
When he leaves, I’m still staring blankly at the door, trying to figure out how I got myself into this mess.
Thankfully, he hasn’t asked any more questions since I told him not to, which I think is respectable. He could force me to tell him the truth about why I was being so weird about the pain meds, but he’s not. He’s just staying by my side, helping me in any way he can think of.
I wish I were strong enough to ask him to leave, but I’m not.
I’ve been taking care of myself during my flare-ups the entire time I’ve been diagnosed, and it’s nice to finally have help rather than worry or struggle to make sure I’m safe.
It’s scary how much I’m enjoying this, but I can’t bring myself to push him away.
For the first time in months, my omega is sated and resting in my chest. I can’t risk that because I am afraid of my feelings.
When Thatcher comes back in, he’s carrying a folding tray that’s covered with things. I spot a bowl of orange-looking soup with cream and garnishes, and a cup of something smoldering. The presentation of it alone does something to my insides.
“Wow… you really didn’t have to do this,” I start, but then quickly add on, “Thank you, Thatcher.”
He just grunts, but this one is a little bit happier than his past grumbles, so I let it go. He turns on the TV without saying another word and starts to go through the options.
“This is the streaming service you watch your anime on, right?” He points at the television with the remote. “It sounds like some kind of sushi.”
I huff out an involuntary laugh. “Yeah, that’s the right one.”
He puts on one of my favorite shows, which he must remember from the time we hung out on Valentine’s Day.
That fact by itself is enough to make my stomach twist, but then I taste the soup and barely contain the moan that wants to escape.
It’s so warm and comforting, like nothing I’ve ever had before.
“Did this really come from a can? What is this?”
He lets out a tiny chuckle. “No. I do meal prepping most weekends to help me get through the week. I had some butternut squash soup leftover. I know it’s a little weird. I can make you a normal tomato if that’s what you prefer.”
“No, this is fine.” Fine? This is more than fine. This is exquisite. It feels like a chilly day outside, and you’re in fluffy socks beside a firepit, warming your hands with the warmest cup of hot cocoa. It is by far the best soup I’ve ever eaten.
I don’t say that, though. I just gobble down as much as I can as we sit there in complete silence, letting the warmth settle in my belly as the cramps subside from the heating pad.
Everything about this moment is stamping itself on my psyche, making me feel things that I’d rather not feel in the slightest.
Finally, I can’t handle the intimate quiet between us. It’s so loud, sitting on my skin with something that feels too close to affection, so I say, “Can I ask you a question?”
He looks at me with a tickled expression. “Sure, what’s up?”
“Do you like Kit?”
His amusement falls, and I watch as some kind of mask goes up as he crosses his arms over his chest, protecting himself. “He’s my prime’s omega. Of course, I like him.”
“But… he’s your omega, too,” I supply. “What I meant is, do you have feelings for him?”
He shuffles slightly, his lips curving down as he tries to figure out what to say, before settling on, “No.”
“I don’t believe you.” The candid statement leaves my mouth like word vomit. For a second, I wish it were actual vomit as my hand goes to cover my mouth. I must be feeling worse than I thought.
“You don’t believe me,” he deadpans. He doesn’t look hurt by the statement, but the tilt in his head lets me know that he definitely isn’t happy either. “Why?”
I swallow roughly, my throat feeling like the Sahara despite the soup I just consumed. “I see the way you look at him. He doesn’t see it, but he’s determined to forget about the possibility of being with you because you don’t seem interested, but… You are, aren’t you?”
He looks stunned, like he isn’t used to anyone being able to see right through him. His eyes dart to the floor, his mind seeming to be in deep, frustrated thought. Just before I think he’s going to excuse himself, he says, “Feelings don’t happen for me the way they happen for other people.”
“What do you mean?”
He scowls slightly, but not toward me. “Just that… most people feel attraction, and that attraction is used as a beacon to know who might be right or wrong for them. I don’t feel that.
I don’t have any way of telling if I ever will feel that.
Just that it happens randomly, and after a long period of time. ”
It’s like a lightbulb flashes right in front of my face. “You’re asexual,” I state, coming to the realization.
His eyes flash as he nods, but then he shakes his head, obviously still conflicted. “Yes, I don’t feel desire the same way other people do. It’s only ever happened a few times, and once it was with a fictional character. That one really confused me.”
He laughs it off like it might ease the tension, but I can see that talking about this is still bothering him, so I meet his eyes. “That makes sense. Did you feel close or connected with this fictional character?”
He looks embarrassed, and his cheeks darken slightly in a bashful pink hue, but then he nods.
“So, you’re demisexual? Or do you not really want to go by any label? I understand that, too.”
He responds this time with a small smile. “I don’t mind the label. In fact, when Sam helped me figure this out and find the term, it felt like a weight lifted off my shoulders. So, I think the term is good.” He fiddles with his thumbs.
“I haven’t told Kit about my sexuality,” he confesses softly.
“He asked me once if I couldn’t reciprocate because I didn’t actually like men, and I told him that wasn’t it, but I didn’t elaborate.
I don’t know why… Now, he just thinks I don’t like him at all.
And that couldn’t be further from the truth. ”
I’m amazed by how many words this alpha is saying right now.
He’s like a whole new person, completely different from the closed-off grump that people know.
He’s reserved, a little bit timid, and it’s easy to guess why being hardened is easier than letting people see him in his natural, anxious state.
“So, if you do like him, why aren’t you trying to be with him?” I ask, and I hope it sounds kind, because I don’t mean it in a judgmental way at all.
He shrugs, his eyes glossy. “Opal, you’ve met Kit.
He’s the brightest light and a fantastic person.
He deserves someone who is sure, someone who can give him what he deserves.
” He pauses and shakes his head. “What if we started something and then I lose my feelings for him? Or I stop feeling attraction altogether? We’re pack, together for life, and I don’t want it to be awkward. ”
He’s so wrapped up in the confusion. Anguish is written all over his face as his thoughts spin. His mint scent continues to sour the further he gets into his head.
He continues, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“This would be a lot easier if he were my scent match, but he’s not.
I was hoping… that when Sam said he found his scent match, that we would meet and it would be easy.
That we would smell each other’s scents and jump each other’s bones, like every other scent matched pair does, but we’re not.
What if there’s a reason why we’re not?”
I take a chance and place my hand in his, squeezing to offer support.
He flinches, but then he wraps our hands closer, not letting me go.
His scent calms, still potent but also soothed.
“There’s no way to know if that would have been the case even if you were scent matches,” I tell him.
“Maybe that’s the problem, Thatcher. You feel all sorts of pressure to make things work with Kit because he’s your omega and he’s your chance at happiness.
You can’t build a connection or a proper foundation with that kind of pressure, much less so for someone like you that doesn’t feel attraction the same way your partner does.
” I scoot closer, offering comfort. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Kit these past few weeks, it’s that he is understanding.
I mean, look at me. He let another omega into his house because he knew how much I needed it.
That takes some strength. I think you should talk to him about what you’re feeling, and he may surprise you with his response. ”
He looks at me, almost like he’s seeing me for the first time. He’s so quiet, I almost can’t hear him when he whispers, “Thank you.”
“You both deserve to be happy,” I respond.
“Damn, Curly,” he jokes, wiping the moisture from his eyes. “You’re pretty insightful.”
I crack a smile. “And perhaps just the tiniest bit rude. I’m sorry if I overstepped.”
He shakes his head in response and waves off my apology. “Sometimes, you just need an outsider’s perspective.”
An outsider. The sentence shoots me in the heart. For a moment, I forgot the actual role I have in this house, but the brutal reminder is needed.
I’m on the outside, and I need to stop trying to swivel my way in.