Page 146 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

I turn my head on the pillow and a wave of emotion hits me—relief and a tenderness so fierce it tightens my throat.

There’s a glass of water on the nightstand. Beside it, two white pills and a folded piece of paper. I reach for the note.

Take both before you get out of bed. They’ll need about 20 minutes.—E

I stare at it for a while. Ethan thought about this. Sometime while I was sleeping, he got the suppressants and wrote this note and left it where I’d see it first thing. He thought about my scent breaking through and what that would mean for me waking up in a house with three alphas, and he made sure I’d have the option to contain it before I had to face any of them.

I put the pills on my tongue and wash them down.

I shower and change into the t-shirt and sweatpants folded on the bathroom counter. They’re Ethan’s. I’ve seen him wear this shirt. The sweats are too long and I have to roll them at the ankles. By the time I go downstairs, I can feel the suppressants starting to kick in, my scent pulling back beneath my skin like a tide going out.

The kitchen smells faintly like butter and vanilla. Finn is at the stove in jeans and a faded blue t-shirt, a dish towel slung over one shoulder, making waffles with careful focus. There’s coffee already waiting on the counter, dark, no sugar.

He turns when he hears me, and there it is—that smile. The one that reaches his eyes before it reaches his mouth, the one that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room.

“Hi,” I say, and my voice comes out shy.

“Hey, Soph.” His eyes move over my face, taking me in. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah.” I sit down at the counter and wrap both hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my palms. “I did, actually.”

His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing out of them. “I’m glad.” He turns back to the stove. “Waffles will be ready in a minute. Did you take the suppressants Ethan left you?”

“I did. They’re starting to kick in.”

He nods, though we both know he can already tell.

I watch him cook. He moves around the kitchen with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times—reaching for the butter without looking, flipping the waffle iron at exactly the right moment, wiping the counter with a dish towel he keeps slung over his shoulder.

“You know,” he says, checking the waffle iron, “the first time I ever made these, I nearly burned down our apartment in college. Ethan had this ancient waffle maker he’d found at a yard sale—the cord was basically held together with tape—and I plugged it in and the whole thing started smoking.” He grins at the memory. “Ethan came running in with a fire extinguisher. Max just stood in the doorway eating cereal and watching like it was a TV show.”

I laugh, and I watch Finn’s face light up at the sound.

“That’s such a Max thing to do,” I say. “He’s not easily fazed, is he?”

“No. Not Max. Except for things that really matter to him,” he says softly, and he looks at me.

“Finn, I⁠—”

He waits, but the words don’t come. I don’t know how to say thank you for not leaving to the man who held my hand while I told him the worst things that ever happened to me. He just comes over and kisses my forehead. Like he’s done it a thousand times before.

He pulls back and turns to the waffle iron like nothing happened.

He slides a plate in front of me and sits down across the table.

“Eat,” he says gently.

We eat in silence, morning light falling through the window in long warm stripes across the table. The waffles are extraordinary, and I realize I can’t remember the last time someone else cooked for me in their home.

I tell him they’re good and he grins, clearly pleased. We don’t talk about last night. He just keeps making waffles and I keep eating them, and for a few minutes, the world is exactly this small.

His phone buzzes from the living room. “That’s probably Max,” he says, pushing back from the table. “One minute.”

I hear him answer in the hallway. “Yeah, I saw it... No, I think we push it to Thursday. Diana’s team needs at least another day on the projections...” He pauses. “Yeah, she’s up. She’s good.” There’s a longer pause, and then he says, “I know. Me too.”

I stare at my plate and wonder which part of that conversation was about me.

I get up to clear the dishes. I’m reaching for a glass on the top shelf when his arm reaches past mine, takes it down, and sets it on the counter in front of me.