“No more work talk tonight,” I tell him, setting a bowl in front of him. “Eat, breathe, and remember that a world exists outside of Pinecrest Academy.”
His fingers curl around the spoon, knuckles white with tension before relaxing. “I’ll try.”
We eat in silence, Leif swaying in his seat as he slow-blinks.
When he finishes, I stand and offer my hand. His fingers slip into mine, cool and dry despite the kitchen’s warmth, and I guide him toward the living room.
The living room welcomes us with a deeper warmth than the kitchen’s heat. Here, the fireplace crackles with fresh-split cedar, casting dancing shadows across the walls and filling the air with sweet resin.
A black streak zooms from beneath the coffee table, and Mixie weaves figure-eights between our legs, her sleek fur brushing our calves. Her purr vibrates through the floorboards, rising from her small body. Leif pauses mid-step, hand tightening in mine as he waits for the cat to finish her greeting ritual.
Mixie stretches up on her hind feet, front paws reaching toward his knee, demanding attention that would require him to bend or sit.
I settle onto the couch, the cushions yielding beneath my weight, and pat the space beside me. The crocheted throw blanket I made last winter drapes over the armrest, its blue and green pattern catching the firelight. Leif stands frozen between the archway and the coffee table, Mixie now winding around his ankles with increased determination.
“Sit.” I pat the cushion again. “You’ve been burning the candle at both ends.”
His fingers twitch at his sides, attention pulled toward the kitchen where his papers and laptop wait. Tension gathers in him as duty wars with exhaustion, responsibility battling need.
Then his shoulders drop a fraction, and he steps forward. The couch dips as he lowers himself beside me, his hands settling in his lap, fingers laced together and his posture rigid, as if he’s forgotten how to relax.
He focuses on the flames. “The fire’s nice.”
I don’t push for conversation, don’t demand explanations for the tension radiating from him in waves that my Alpha senses detect through the crushed clover of my own pheromones. Instead, I reach for the remote to switch on the stereo, and soft piano music fills the air.
The clock on the mantel ticks through five minutes, then ten. Leif’s body relaxes little by little, the rigid line of his spine yielding to gravity as he sinks deeper into the cushions. His fingers unlock from each other, palms resting on his thighs. With each measured breath, the cedar notes of his scent strengthen, pushing back the sour edge of stress.
Jared’s footsteps sound from down the hall, heavier than his usual tread to warn us of his approach. He pauses in the doorway, taking everything in with a quick sweep of sea-glass eyes. Without comment, he crosses to the sideboard and pours amber liquid into two tumblers.
“You look like you might need this,” he says, placing the drinks on the coffee table before retreating to the armchair in the corner. The leather creaks as he settles in, picking up a book from the side table and opening to a marked page.
Leif reaches for one of the glasses, condensation beading on his fingertips. The whiskey catches the firelight as he takes a small sip, throat working as he swallows. A sigh escapes him, soft with appreciation.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, the word directed at both of us.
Another five minutes pass. The ice in our glasses clinks as it melts. Outside, wind rushes through the pines, and the constant shushing underscores the piano notes. Mixie jumps onto thecouch, circling three times before settling beside Leif’s thigh, her black fur stark next to his gray slacks.
His hand moves to stroke her, fingers threading through silky fur. The repetitive motion seems to help more than the whiskey, each pass of his hand across Mixie’s back loosening another knot of tension in his body.
Slowly, Leif leans toward me, the space between us shrinking millimeter by millimeter until our shoulders touch. Sometimes, I think of him like a wary cat, slow to trust, so I wait for him to come to me on his own terms.
The contact sends a current of awareness through me, but I keep my movements casual, not wanting to startle him. “You can lie down if you want. You look exhausted.”
For a heartbeat, he stiffens again, but deeper exhaustion wins out. With careful movements, he shifts position, lowering his head to rest in my lap. Mixie adjusts without complaint, relocating to curl at his stomach. Leif’s body forms a question mark on the couch, legs tucked up, one arm cradled to his chest while the other drapes over Mixie.
My fingers find their way into his hair, carding through the mauve strands with gentle pressure. The silky texture snags on my callused fingertips, the contrast reminding me of all the ways we differ yet fit together. His breath catches at the first contact and releases in a long exhale that carries away another fraction of his tension.
Jared turns a page, the paper rustling. At the sound, Leif jolts as if startled before his lashes begin to drift down. The weight of his head grows heavier in my lap as his muscles surrender to gravity and trust.
Across the room, Jared lifts his head from his book, meeting my eyes over the top of Leif’s head. In the brief exchange, I read a mirror of my own concern.
What is happening to Leif when he’s not here? How much is he giving away to keep everyone else satisfied?
A protective instinct thrums beneath my breastbone, and I begin to purr, soothing my Omega.
Leif’s breathing deepens, each exhale carrying the scent of cedar and honey-whiskey. His eyelids flutter, fighting the pull of sleep even as his body succumbs to it. My fingers continue their slow path through his hair, fingernails scratching his scalp lightly, drawing a sound of pleasure from his throat.
Leif relaxes in sleep, the vertical line between his brows smoothing out, the tight corners of his mouth relaxing. His deep pink lashes cast feathered shadows on his cheeks in the firelight, and the subtle flutter beneath his eyelids suggests dreams have found him already.