Chapter 18
Leo
LA traffic fucking sucks. Truly. It’s the pits of hell.
Why is there always traffic literally all the fucking time, too? I’d maybe be okay with it if it were confined to a general sort of rush hour, but this is ridiculous.
Hauling the bags of groceries I bought for dinner in one hand and my supplies in the other, I take the elevator up to her apartment.
My breath catches in my throat for a split second when she opens the door, her hair tossed into a messy braid over one shoulder and her face scrubbed clean of any makeup. The sleep shorts she’s wearing expose her toned legs in a way that has me purposely maintaining eye contact.
I like her like this. It feels... more like her than when she’s airbrushed and magazine-cover ready.
“Hi,” I breathe out. “Sorry I’m late, had to make a quick pit stop before coming over.”
Her eyes go wide as she glances down at all the stuff I’m carrying.
“A stop for... groceries? And is that a pot?”
“Yeah,” I say, chuckling under my breath. “It’s stuff for hot pot. When... when I was growing up, whenever there was a big event, my dad would come back home with stuff for hot pot.”
“Really? That’s so sweet.” Her lips quirk up in a fond smile.
“He wasn’t the warmest guy, and he never really did the grocery shopping, but maybe that’s why hot pot nights stuck with me.”
She steps aside and waves me into her apartment.
“Wow... thank you for sharing that with me. I wish I had things from my childhood I could look back on like that.”
Her words make something twist in my chest. I wonder what her childhood must’ve looked like. Bad, probably. That’s certainly no question.
“Are you celebrating anything?” she asks, leading me to her kitchen.
“Yeah, you,” I say, setting down the groceries on her kitchen counter.
“Seriously? What is there to celebrate?”
My expression sobers. Now that my hands are free, I take the opportunity to brush some of the hair that’s come loose from her braid away from her face.
“Therapy is hard. It’s worth celebrating.”
“I don’t... I don’t—”
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I murmur. “I just want to be here for you.”
“Okay.” The smile she flashes me is relieved. I don’t miss the way she melts into my touch even further.
I brush a thumb against her perfect skin before I take a step back. I don’t want to come on too strong.
Her apartment is nice. Decorated in the way I’d imagine a young woman in her early twenties would decorate a Santa Monica apartment. A little beachy, but still cute. What’s missing are the pictures.
I grew up with my parents putting pictures of me and my accomplishments up on every available surface in the house. Sure, this is her adult apartment, so she’s probably not going to have a participation trophy from the sixth-grade kickball tournament up, but she doesn’t even have a single photo.
For all intents and purposes, I had a normal childhood. That probably led to me being remarkably normal, especially when compared to Beck or Eli. I don’t have Beck’s endless well of creative talent or Eli’s difficult childhood.
But maybe… unremarkable is just what Andi needs. Especially when her life has been full of people with ridiculously large personalities. Maybe she just needs someone to care, to put her first.
The bitter taste of sadness lingers at the back of my throat. Sadness from the fact that she’s so alone here. Alone enough for Beck to come bursting into my room to tell me I should come here.
Omegas without family support often find living arrangements through the OCN so they can live with other omegas.
I’ve heard stories that those living placements can be difficult. Living with housemates you’re unfamiliar with can be that way, doubly so if you add omega hormones into the mix, but those problems exist because of how important it is for an omega to have support.
“Thank you,” she says, shifting her weight nervously from foot to foot as she wraps her arms around her waist. “I don’t really feel like talking right now. I’ve done enough of that for the day.”
“Then let’s get you fed,” I say, flashing her a soft smile.
I pull the pot I brought from the penthouse apartment I share with Eli and Beck out of the reusable plastic grocery bag I brought it in. It’s split in half down the middle, creating two separate sides. One for the spicy version of the broth and one for the non-spicy.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, letting out a soft groan.
“What’s wrong?”
“I forgot my portable stove.”
“You need a portable stove?” she asks, running her tongue along the inside of her cheek as she stares down at the pot.
“I mean, you don’t need it, but it’s nice. That way you can just make it at the dining table.”
“Oh, well, we can just use my normal stove. I wouldn’t mind dragging some barstools and just eating here,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder with her thumb.
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s no trouble at all. It’ll be an adventure. I’ve never had hot pot before.”
“An adventure then,” I say, setting the pot down on her stove.
“Let me know how I can help,” she says, rolling up the sleeves of her oversized hoodie before washing her hands in the sink.
The two of us prepare the ingredients in silence together, washing and chopping vegetables, tofu, and some other toppings I grabbed so she could try.
“What’re these things?” she asks as I squeeze a few packets into the pot.
“Broth base. If you came over to the Penthouse, I would’ve added these before you came over and pretended I cooked the broth from scratch,” I say with a wink.
“Ah, I see how it is,” she giggles. “Well, I still think this is plenty impressive. No one’s ever cooked me dinner before.”
“Really?” I ask, my brows drawing down. I mean, considering the way her relationship with her ex-boyfriend ended—I can’t imagine he was a picture-perfect boyfriend while they were together—and he seems to be the only partner the internet knows about.
“I mean, technically, we’re cooking dinner together, since you’re helping. ”
“Well, then I’ve never cooked dinner with someone before,” she corrects with a soft smile.
The two of us perch on our barstools around the bubbling pot.
“The meat’s sliced super thin, so it cooks really fast, like this.”
I swish around the meat in the spicy broth with my chopsticks, watching as she mirrors my actions in the other half of the pot.
“Mmm!” she says, her eyes going wide as she chews her bite. “Wait, this is so good.”
“Would’ve been extra impressive if you’d thought I made it all from scratch,” I tease. “It’ll get better the more stuff we cook in the broth too. My favorite part is always the soup at the end of the meal.”
“I can see how that can happen,” she says.
“Want to try the spicy version?”
“Sure, I’ll give it a try.”
I swallow hard as I hold up the piece of meat I just cooked to her lips. She maintains eye contact with me as she takes the bite from my extended chopsticks.
Wow.
I’m struck by just how gorgeous she is like this.
It’s the kind of beauty a professional ad campaign camera would never be able to capture. Maybe a shaky camcorder, like those stunning wives in movie flashback scenes.
“Oh wow,” she says, letting out a soft cough. “That’s—that’s really good, but I’m not a spicy person at all.”
She lets out a soft giggle as she fans her face. Her cheeks are flushed from the spice. I wonder if that’s what she looks like when her cheeks are flushed from other things. How far does that flush go?
I lean forward on my barstool, brushing some of the chili oil from the soup off her lower lip with my thumb before bringing it to my lips and licking it off.
She lets out a soft gasp, her eyes flying back to mine. Before they drop. Right down to my own lips.
Holy shit.
This is probably a stupid idea.
Probably?
No, this is definitely a stupid idea.
But I can’t stop myself from speaking the words bubbling up. Not while she’s looking at me like that, with those dark doe eyes.
“I really want to kiss you.” The words leave my lips in a low rasp.
“Then kiss me.”
That’s all the permission I need.
The chopsticks I’m holding clatter to the floor as I stand from my barstool and cradle the sides of her face with my hand.
When her lips meet mine, her chamomile scent explodes out from her, surrounding me in this thick cloud of peace, calm, and her.
Nothing—and by nothing, I mean nothing—has ever felt so right before.
Her lips are soft and plush against mine. I swallow each and every one of the little breathy sighs she makes, but it only makes me hungry to see what other noises I can coax from her. She clings to my t-shirt, her hands pressing against my chest like she’s holding on for dear life.
Her chamomile scent swirls around us, filling my head with a buzz that I don’t think the best chemists in the world could replicate. Even if they were given an eternity to discover a drug that could give me the same feeling she effortlessly does.
When we finally come up for air, her eyes flutter open, almost like she’s reluctant to confront the world around us.
“Wow,” I breathe out, my thumbs brushing her high cheekbones.
The single syllable seems to break the spell between us, snapping her back into her body.
She pushes away from me and even though it takes every ounce of willpower within me not to follow her, I let her have space.
The pot of broth bubbles between us, the only sound in the room second to us catching our breaths.
“That was—that was—” She shakes her head, pressing the backs of her hands to her blushing cheeks.
“It’s okay. Take a breath with me.” I breathe in deeply, waiting until her chest rises with mine before I let out a deep exhale.
All those breaths seem to do for me is fill my lungs with her. Though now, it’s tinged with the bitter notes of her stress.
“Beautiful, just like that,” I murmur, taking a single step towards her.
When she doesn’t move back, I close the distance between us, reaching out and clasping one of her hands in mine.
Physical contact is as necessary to an omega’s health as movement and exercise are to the rest of us. Will the lack of it mean the omega dies? Definitely not immediately, but it can have long-lasting effects on them, and it’s obvious Andi has gone without for far too long.
Her jaw works as if she’s struggling to find the words to say.
“Hey,” I murmur, brushing some of her hair away from her face.
Wow. I can’t get over how stunning she is. Truly.
“This doesn’t have to be complicated.”
Shit.
My words don’t land the way I intended.
Her scent sours once more and she takes another step back. Though surprisingly, she keeps her hand in mine even though she could break that point of contact too. Almost like her body craves it, even if her mind is rebelling..
“Does that—does that mean you don’t care?”
Okay, maybe I could’ve worded that better.
“No,” I say with a vehement shake of my head. “Not at all.”
“What the hell else was it supposed to mean?” she asks, letting out a harsh scoff of bitter laughter.
I tug her towards me, gently enough for her to have ample opportunity to move away. She doesn’t, so I take the opportunity to wrap my arms around her.
“I just don’t want to necessarily stress you out. I know what’s possible between us right now. I should’ve said we can take things as slowly as you need. Your pace, Andi. Always.”