"So," I say, twirling pasta around my fork, "how was your date Wednesday night? Sarah, right?"
There it is. The weekly torture I put myself through. Nick dates female omegas exclusively. Years of hearing about them, offering advice, being the supportive best friend while burying any hint that I wish things were different. I'm a masochist, apparently.
Nick grimaces, taking a sip of wine. "Sophia. And not great."
My chest loosens slightly, which makes me a terrible friend. "What happened this time? Too clingy? Too independent? Wrong shoe size?"
He throws his napkin at me. "You make me sound so picky."
"If the designer shoe fits..."
"She was nice," he says, in that tone that means the opposite. "But there was zero chemistry. And she kept talking about her ex-alpha the entire time."
"Ah, the classic first date faux pas."
"It wasn't even subtle. 'This dinner reminds me of Antonio, he made the best caesar salad.' 'Antonio and I saw that movie.' 'Antonio breathed oxygen too, isn't that wild?'"
I laugh, and for a second, the weird tension in my body eases. "Maybe she's not over him?"
"You think?" Nick rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "I don't get it. Why is it so hard to find someone I actually connect with?"
Because you're looking in the wrong places,I don't say.Because you're so convinced you know exactly what you want that you can't see what's right in front of you.
Instead, I offer what he expects: "You're just picky. And busy. And slightly impossible to please."
"Says the guy who hasn't dated anyone in what, two years?"
"A year and eight months," I correct automatically. "And I have high standards."
"Impossibly high," Nick agrees. "You've turned down every guy I've tried to set you up with."
Because they're not you,I think but don't say.
We finish dinner talking about safer topics: his basketball team's chances this season, the ridiculous new hospital policy I'm dealing with, his brother Jason's latest art exhibition. It's easy and comfortable, like every Friday night we've spent together since college. The strange physical symptoms from earlier seem to have backed off, though I'm still weirdly tuned in to Nick's every movement across the table.
After dinner, we clean up together—Nick washing, me drying—and then move to the living room for our standard Friday movie night. Nick's place isn't fancy, but his couch is obscenely comfortable, deep enough that we can both stretch out with room to spare. He scrolls through options while I settle in, tucking my feet under me.
"Horror or comedy?" he asks, though we both know we'll end up watching whatever random action movie catches his eye first.
"Surprise me," I say, and he grins, selecting some sci-fi thriller I've never heard of.
As the movie starts, I try to focus on the plot, but that restless feeling is creeping back. My skin feels hypersensitive, and there'sa dull ache starting at the base of my spine. I shift position, trying to get comfortable, and Nick glances over.
"You keep fidgeting. You sure you're okay?"
"Just can't get comfortable," I mutter, which isn't entirely a lie. "Long week."
Without hesitation, he lifts his arm in invitation. "Come here, then."
My heart does this stupid fluttering thing. It's not unusual for us—we've spent countless movie nights with me using him as a human pillow—but tonight, the thought of being that close to him makes my pulse race.
Still, I scoot over, settling against his side, and his arm comes down around my shoulders, warm and secure.
The effect is immediate and confusing. On one hand, being close to him settles the restlessness that's been building all evening. On the other, his proximity makes me hyperaware of everything. The way he smells, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his skin.
I should move away. Whatever's happening to me tonight doesn't feel normal, and the logical part of my brain is trying to connect dots I'm deliberately ignoring.
But I'm so comfortable, and Nick is warm against me, and the movie is actually pretty good once I start paying attention. My eyelids grow heavy despite my best efforts. Nick's thumb traces absent circles on my shoulder, and each touch sends little sparks down my arm.