Actuallylaughs—a warm, genuine sound that fills the dark space and does something complicated to my chest.
It's not mocking. Not cruel. Just... delighted.
Like, I'm the most entertaining thing he's encountered in years.
"What?" I demand, narrowing my eyes at him. "Never had someone talk back to their AI assistant before?"
"Never had an Omega bring me to her home and immediately start arguing with her smart home about whether I'm an intruder." He tilts his head, that predatory curiosity I remember from the post office returning. "Do you do this often? Bring Alphas home?"
My pout deepens.
"No."
"No?"
"No." I lift my chin, trying for defiance and probably landing somewhere around petulance. "I've never had anyone over. Ever. So forgive me if I don't know the properprotocolsfor entertaining guests in my secret lair."
Something shifts in his expression.
The amusement doesn't disappear, but it softens—tempered by something else. Something that might be understanding, or tenderness, or the recognition of one lonely person by another.
"Never?" he asks quietly.
I shake my head. The wet hair plastered to my face swings with the motion.
"This is my sanctuary," I admit. "My... the only place that's mine. I don't share it. Ihaven'tshared it. With anyone."
The weight of that statement hangs between us.
Years of isolation.
Years of fighting to keep this space, of earning it through violence and favors I don't let myself think about, of protecting it like the precious thing it is.
And I just let him walk right in.
Like it was nothing.
Likehewas nothing.
Except he's not nothing.
He's everything.
He's the letters I wrote and the words I received and the only thread of hope I've clung to for half a decade.
He steps closer.
Slowly. Deliberately. Giving me time to retreat if I want to.
I don't retreat.
His hand rises, reaching for my face—and I track the motion with wary eyes, every muscle in my body tensing instinctively because touch means danger, touch means vulnerability, touch means?—
His fingers are gentle.
So fuckinggentleas they brush the wet hair from my forehead, tucking the soaked strands behind my ear with a tenderness that makes my throat tight.
"First thing," he murmurs, "is getting warm. Don't you think?"
