A breeze kicks up, carrying his scent straight to me. Warm, sharp, intoxicating. My skin prickles. The park, the fountain, the people—it all drops away until it’s just him, me, and the six inches of wood between us.
“Nice park,” I offer.
“It’s terrible. Full of happy people.”
“The worst kind.”
A couple strolls past us, holding hands. The alpha leans over and nuzzles the omega’s neck right there in broad daylight. Benji glares at them like he wants to set them on fire with his mind.
“Disgusting,” he mutters.
“Really inconsiderate,” I agree.
His mouth twitches. He catches it instantly and looks away, but that tiny, aborted smirk does more to my dick than anything that happened in his hallway.
“Why the catfish?” I ask.
He shoots me a sideways glance. “Because you deserved it.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I did.”
That throws him. I can see it register in his eyes. He came here ready for an argument, ready for me to deflect and turn on the charm. He studies my face for a second, his brow furrowing.
“I wanted to see your face,” he says, his voice a fraction quieter. “When you realized.”
“How was it?”
“Satisfying.” He pauses. “For about three seconds before everything went sideways.”
“Everything went very sideways,” I agree.
He makes a sound that might actually be a laugh. Short, sharp, defensive. But the air between us shifts.
We talk. Not about the mate bond, or the sex, or the giant, gaping chasm of my fuck-up. Just regular shit. He complains about his design work and a band poster that’s fighting him. I tell him about the shop and the girl who cried through her butterfly tattoo. He asks about the ink on my forearm, I tell him the story, and he roasts me for it. I make fun of his anonymous meme account. He tells me about the most unhinged KnotMe profile he’s ever seen; I counter with the worst tattoo request I’ve ever gotten.
He laughs. A real one this time. I take that sound and lock it away in my chest.
“Your people from around here?” he asks casually, leaning back against the bench.
The phone call from last night presses against my ribs. I could tell him. I could tell him about my dad, the rehab program, the appointments, the way I suffocate in that house. But it’s too much for a park bench. It’s too heavy for the first real conversation we’ve had where he isn't actively trying to eviscerate me. I don’t want to watch his face change.
“Yeah, they’re local,” I say smoothly. “My mom’s a saint. Standard stuff.”
He doesn’t push. I’m grateful, and I fucking hate that I’m grateful.
Another couple passes. An alpha carrying an omega on his back, both of them giggling like idiots. We watch them go.
“That should be illegal,” Benji says.
“In public? Yeah.”
“Who does that? Just... carries someone around?”
“People who’ve lost all shame.”
“The bar scene too.” Benji crosses his arms tighter over his chest. “This city’s infested. Byrne’s used to be safe, but now Jude and Rhys are in there being domestic, and Milo brings Callum, and they all share a booth. It’s like sitting in someone else’s love story.”
“I don’t know who any of those people are, but I hate them on your behalf.”