“Good.” I lift the lid on the slow cooker and stir the soup with more force than necessary. “Because there aren’t a lot of options this late at night.”
His laugh surprises me, genuine despite his injuries. “After today, I’m not in a position to be picky. Besides, it’s not like I’ll be able to taste much.”
The comment catches me off guard. There are different levels of scent-blindness, with some Alphas unable to detect pheromones, while others can’t pick up even everyday odors.
Curiosity gets the better of me. “Because of the busted nose? Or…?”
Confusion crinkles his eyes before it clears. “Oh,yeah, it’s because of the busted nose. Only my pheromone pathways are underdeveloped.”
His head drops. “I’ve been through a couple of surgeries to try to fix them, but nothing stuck.”
My teeth clench at the pain behind the words. I hate the word fix when it’s tied to a body that was never broken. “Who said you needed fixing? Doctors, or people who didn’t want to adjust to you?”
He shrugs with one shoulder, eyes on the water drops on the table. “Both.”
I set the ladle in the pot and turn back to him. “Don’t let others decide you’re broken just so their lives are simpler. You’re fine the way you are.”
His throat works. “It would make things easier for everyone else.”
“It makes things easier for people who never learned to pay attention.” I fill a bowl with soup and slide it in front of him, placing a spoon next to his hand. “Eat a few bites. Then we do the pills.”
When he lowers the ice pack to take a cautious bite, the towel’s soaked through, so I trade it for a dry one and guide it back to his face. Eating proves clumsy, but his fifteen minutes aren’t over yet.
“I can’t sense pheromones the way others do,” he admits, “so I miss the cues. I don’t want to be a problem.”
“You’re not a problem.” I fold a hand towel under his forearms so the edge of the table won’t aggravate his bruises. “If you want, I’ll tell you what the room is doing. I’ll tell you when your pheromones are spiking and when it’s safe. We can build different cues.”
Hope and wariness war on his young features. “You’d do that?”
“Eat,” I say, the tightness in my chest almost unbearable. “Then meds. Then bed.”
He obeys, and we eat in companionable silence until the timer beeps.
I gesture for him to remove the ice pack. “Fifteen minutes off now.”
He complies, setting it on the counter. The skin beneath is pale from the cold, but the tape is holding, and the swelling is ugly but stable.
“I’m sorry about the surgeries,” I say as I settle at the table with my own bowl of soup. “No one should have cut into you to make other people comfortable.”
He releases a long, shaky breath. “Thank you.”
I don’t tell him how part of me was relieved. He’s not a young Alpha overwhelmed by my pheromones, and I can never use them to manipulate or take advantage of him.
I also don’t tell him how part of me stung whenI learned he’d never read my scent the way others do.
When his bowl is empty, I take it and stand. “There’s more if you want it.”
He accepts with a nod, and I refill it, noticing the way his shoulders relax with each passing minute in the safety of my kitchen.
After we finish eating, I clear the bowls, scrubbing them clean in the sink and placing them in the drying rack. The quiet domesticity feels foreign with someone else watching.
Walking to the pill bottle I left on the counter, I count out a dose. “Here. Instructions say every six hours with food.”
He accepts them without question, swallowing with a wince.
I swap his ice pack for a fresh one and hold it out. “Fifteen more minutes with this. After that, we’ll get you settled.”
The medication works fast, his shoulders loosening as we wait. His posture softens, edges blurring as the pain recedes to manageable levels.