"What if it's not enough?" The fear is still there, lurking beneath the surface. "What if I've already ruined everything?"
"You won't know until you try," Jason says bluntly. "But Nick, he knows you. He's seen you at your best and worst for nine years. If anyone can handle your bullshit while you figure out how to do this right, it's him."
He's right. Again. I've been thinking about this all wrong—focusing on my fear instead of what he needs. What he's always needed from me.
"I've been researching all day," I admit. "How to be a good alpha to a male omega. How to support someone through a newbond. Even..." I swallow hard. "Bond-breaking procedures. In case he wants out."
Jason's eyebrows rise. "You'd let him break the bond?"
"If that's what he needs to be happy? Yeah." The words hurt to say, but they're true. "I love him too much to trap him with me if he doesn't want to be here."
"And that," Jason says quietly, "is exactly why you're nothing like Dad. He never would have put anyone else's needs before his own."
The simple observation cuts through the tangle of guilt and fear I've been carrying all day. I'm not my father. I'm not perfect, but I'm trying to do right by him, even when it's hard.
"I need to go to him," I say, standing so abruptly that my chair scrapes against the concrete. The decision brings immediate relief, like setting down a weight I've been carrying all day. "I need to prove to him that I can do this right."
Jason smiles, standing to pull me into a quick, fierce hug. "Go get your omega, big brother. And this time, don't run."
The drive back to my apartment passes in a blur of traffic lights and mounting urgency. The bond pulls at me, stronger now that I've stopped fighting it, guiding me back to where I belong. To who I belong with.
I've been thinking about this all wrong. This isn't about whether I deserve him or whether I can be the perfect alpha. It's about showing up, doing the work, and proving that I'm not going anywhere. That I'll fight for us, for this bond, for him.
When I unlock my door and see him curled on my couch, pale and shivering despite the hoodie—my hoodie—he's wrapped in, everything else falls away. All the guilt, all the fear about whether I can do this right. None of it matters compared to the simple, undeniable truth: he's mine, and I'm his, and I'm never running from that again.
"Micah," I say, his name rough in my throat. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
We move toward each other like magnets finding their opposite pole, inevitable and natural. When my arms close around him, the bond-ache begins to subside, replaced by a warmth that spreads through my entire body. I press my face into his hair, breathing in his scent—that perfect smell that's pure him, now carrying notes of my own scent mixed with it. Marked. Claimed. Mine.
"I shouldn't have left," I murmur into his hair. "I thought...I thought I was protecting you from my panic, but all I did was make everything worse. But I'm not running anymore. I'm going to fight for us."
He pulls back slightly, his hazel eyes searching mine. "We need to talk," he says, his voice catching. "About what happened. About what it means."
He's right. We do need to talk. About everything—the bond, my fears, how I'm going to prove I can be what he needs. But looking at him, feeling the rightness of him in my arms, I already know the most important truth: whatever it takes to earn his forgiveness, to prove I can do this right, I'll do it. Because losing him isn't an option.
"Yeah," I agree, my voice low. "We do."
And for the first time since waking up this morning, I'm not afraid of that conversation. Because I finally understand what I should have known all along: love isn't about being perfect. It's about showing up, doing the work, and never giving up on the person who matters most.
I'm done running. Time to fight.
Micah
"You should eat something."
Nick slides a plate of toast across the kitchen island toward me. His voice is gentle but strained, like he's walking on eggshells. We've been doing this careful dance since he came home last night—both of us knowing we need to really talk but neither ready to dive into everything that's happened between us.
He slept on the couch last night. But I heard him get up three times during the night, pacing around the living room. The bond tugs between us even through the wall, protesting the distance.
"Thanks." I take a bite without tasting it, watching him move around his kitchen with the familiar efficiency of someone in their own space. The domesticity of it all—Nick making breakfast, me sitting at his counter—feels both achingly normal and completely foreign.
My neck throbs where his mark sits, a constant reminder of what's changed between us. I resist the urge to touch it, knowingthat will only draw his attention. Instead, I catalog how I'm feeling without the clinical detachment that usually helps: tired, achy, like I'm fighting off something. And underneath it all, this hollow pull in my chest whenever he moves too far away.
Nick's experiencing it too. I can see it in the tightness around his eyes, the slight pallor beneath his tan. But he hasn't complained once, hasn't used it as an excuse to get closer. Just stayed on his side of the kitchen, giving me the space he thinks I need.
"Do you work today?" he asks, leaning against the counter, coffee mug cradled in his hands. He's keeping his distance, and I try not to let that hurt even though I'm the one who asked for space.
"Yeah. Noon to eight." The thought of eight hours away from Nick sends anxiety racing through me, but I push it down. "It'll be fine. I need to get back to normal."