This is what I chose. I chose the clean apartment and the silent evenings and the career that fills up all the space where otherthings are supposed to go. I chose it because the alternative—wanting things I can't have, letting people close enough to figure out what's wrong with me—is worse. I know it's worse. I've done the math.
I pour myself a glass of water and drink it standing at the sink, looking out at the city lights through my kitchen window. Somewhere out there, the alpha from the club is probably buying someone a drink. Somewhere, Garrett is telling his sister about the omega he met at dinner, the cold one, the one who probably won't call back. Somewhere, Ray Garcia is doing whatever Ray Garcia does on a Tuesday night—something fun, probably, something loud and effortless and full of people who are happy to see him.
I rinse my glass and set it in the drying rack.
I go through my nighttime routine on autopilot—wash my face, brush my teeth, check my email one last time. Then I open the medicine cabinet and pull out my suppressant case. The conference is next week. I count the pills, moving them from one compartment to another with my finger.
I count again.
I'm one short.
I stand there in my bathroom, in my boxers and my undershirt, staring at a plastic pill case, and my heart rate picks up. It's fine. I'll call the pharmacy tomorrow and get an early refill. Insurance might push back, but I can pay out of pocket if I have to. It's fine. It's manageable. People adjust their schedules all the time. I just need to make one phone call, and the timing will work out, and I'll have enough to get through the conference without my body deciding to betray me in front of a hundred lawyers and the one alpha whose scent already makes me lose my mind.
It's fine.
I close the case and put it back in the cabinet and brush my teeth again because I already forgot if I did it the first time. Then I get into bed, in my silent apartment, in my perfectly made bed, and I stare at the ceiling.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I pick it up because I always pick it up, because even after everything tonight—the dinner, the club, the suppressant math—I'm still the guy who checks his phone at eleven PM in case something needs handling.
It's a text from Ray.
Garcia:Hey boss, what's the dress code for the gala? Do I actually need a tux or can I get away with a suit?
I should not be smiling. I type back:
Me:It's Covington. And yes, you need a tux. Rent one. Don't get the cheapest option.
Three dots appear. Then:
Garcia:Aw, you care about how I look ??
I put my phone face-down on the nightstand and press my palms over my eyes.
The apartment is very quiet. I roll over and face the wall and try not to think about what it would feel like to not be so alone all the time.
Ray
Miles Covington in jeans is something I was not prepared for.
I'm standing outside the terminal with both our bags—mine, a beat-up duffle I've had since college, and his, a sleek black carry-on that's never had a scuff on it—when he walks up, and my brain just stops working. He's in dark jeans and a gray crewneck sweater that fits him in a way his suits never let me appreciate, and his hair is slightly different, less rigid, like he maybe didn't spend twenty minutes sculpting it into submission this morning. He looks younger and like a completely different person, and I'm staring. I need to stop staring.
"You're early," he says, which is his version of hello.
"You told me to be on time. I overcompensated." I pick up both bags and nod toward the doors. "Ready?"
"I can carry my own bag."
"I know you can. I'm being nice. It's this thing I do."
He gives me a look but doesn't take the bag, which I count as a win. We head inside and join the security line, and I'm trying very hard to act normal when nothing about this feels normal. I've only ever seen Miles behind a desk in his sharp suits and perfect ties, and I had a handle on the attraction. I did. It was manageable when he looked like a weapon. But this — the soft sweater and the glasses and the way his jeans fit — this is making me stupid.
"What are you looking at?" he says, eyes forward.
"Nothing. I've just never seen you in jeans before."
"I own jeans. I'm a person."
"Could've fooled me."