I watch Rex's hands.
Still steady.
Whatever Bells did on that roof—and I amnotthinking about what Bells did on that roof—it worked.
The alpha who couldn't let his mask be touched without dissociating is standing under lights letting his omega pull it off over and over while his manager watches from ten feet away.
And I don't think he evenknowsshe's his omega yet.
Click-click-click.
Off.
Click-click-click.
On.
Bells varies the tempo. Fast pulls, slow pulls. Angled approaches from the left, from below, even once from behind when she circles him.
Each time, the magnetic release fires clean.
Each time, Rex holds.
His breathing is audible. Steady, deliberate combat breathing. His shoulders are locked. But he'shere. Present. Not in the dark room, not dissociating, not fleeing or attacking anyone.
On the eighth or ninth pull—I lose count—Bells pauses with the mask in her hand.
"Good?" she asks quietly. Just for him.
Rex gives a single, stiff nod.
She puts it back one final time. The magnets engage with that soft triple click and the familiar silver-and-black mask settles over the prosthetic, seamless. Under the lights, you'd never know there was anything underneath at all.
Bells steps back half a pace. Her chin stays tilted up, those honey-gold eyes searching his face.
Then she rises on her tiptoes.
Her hand finds the front of his shirt for balance, fingers curling into the fabric, and she presses her lips to the exposed side of his mask.
In front of everyone.
Holy fucking shit.
Rex freezes.
His hand drifts up, hesitates, then cups her cheek. His lashes—still light because he doesn't dye those—flutter shut.
I stop breathing.
Raf's fingers dig into my thigh.
And someone fucking claps.
Carmine.
Bells drops flat on her heels and spins.
Rex's eye snaps open. His hand falls and the whole thing—whatever just lived in his face for those three seconds—is gone. A growl rolls through his chest.