Made the bed.
With me still handcuffed to it.
The logistics alone are mind-boggling.
She giggles at my expression—that high, bright sound I'm already learning to crave.
"You can't be looking at me like you want a feast," she says, padding toward the closet. "I have evening recital. Which I have no clue if it's legit or not, thanks to all the new rules, but I have three days to practice for the grand audition with Martinez."
I watch her move—can't look away, really—tracking the flex of muscle in her calves, the sway of her hips, the way her shoulders roll as she reaches for clothes.
"Martinez?" I ask, voice rougher than I intend.
"Violet Martinez." She pulls out what looks like a school uniform—pleated skirt, button-up shirt, some kind of blazer. "Former student of Hard Knot Academy. Current chair of the International Alliance of Contemporary Dance Excellence. Only person in the entire industry who might be willing to take a chance on a packless Omega with a reputation."
She says it matter-of-factly.
Like it's just information, not the desperate lifeline that sets off her emotions.
This audition matters to her.
Really matters.
The hope attached to it is almost painful—a sharp, fragile thing that she's clearly trying not to examine too closely in case it shatters.
I file the information away for later.
"What do you mean, legit or not?"
She steps into underwear—simple black cotton that shouldn't be as distracting as it is—before reaching for a bra.
"New rules." Her voice is deliberately light. "Packless Omegas are being restricted from all kinds of activities. Postal services. Performance spaces. Probably breathing, eventually, if they can figure out a way to monetize oxygen deprivation."
The bitterness underneath the joke is sharp.
I feel it echo through the bond—anger and hurt and the exhaustion of someone who's been fighting uphill battles so long they've forgotten what flat ground feels like.
I watch her dress.
Not in a predatory way—okay, maybe a little predatory—but more because I'm fascinated by the ritual of it. The care she takes with each piece. The deliberate movements, the counting I can see her doing under her breath as she buttons her shirt.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
She does everything in fours.
Even numbers.
The OCD patterns I noticed last night are even more obvious in the morning light. The way she adjusts each button exactly twice. The way she smooths the fabric four times before moving to the next section. The way her toe taps against the floor in sets of four while she's thinking.
It's not weakness.
It's armor.
The rituals keep the chaos contained, keep her functional, keep her from spiraling into the dark places her brain clearly wants to drag her.
I understand completely.
