Page 48 of The Rust in Her Hair

On the other side of the room, Nico and Adrian wrestle a flimsy little folding table open between them. Nico says something low that makes Adrian snort.

"C'mon, you." The blond alpha hauls Owen up off the couch by the hand, towing him toward the table. "Sit and eat at something before you fall over."

Owen lets himself be pulled along, and the two of them drop into chairs at the little table. The blond man flips the lid off a pink box, reaches in, and pulls out a fat donut dripping with maple frosting. Instead of eating it, he just drops it onto Owen's napkin.

Owen looks up at him, and his whole tired face goes soft as Nico reaches over and smooths his hand over Owen’s back.

I stand there in the dark of the hall, watching them, and something aches under my ribs.

Owen sits with his husband and two friends, each one of them talking and smiling at Owen like they're desperately trying to make him feel better. It's so sweet, and I'm so happy that my friend is surrounded by people that clearly love him.

I can't help but wonder what that must feel like, to have people look at you like they're glad you exist. It must be nice.

For some reason, my heart aches at the sight, and all at once the exhaustion drops over me like a weight. I press both hands to my face and drag them down, and when I let them fall, I hear his voice.

"Hey."

I look up, and Owen's watching me from the table, his eyes already on mine. Whatever he sees on my face makes his smile fade at the edges. "You look dead on your feet." He pushes up from the table and crosses to me before I can arrange my face.

Smile, I tell myself. Don’t be more of a burden than you already are.

"I'm okay," I say, but the words come out thin enough that nobody believes them, least of all me.

"You need to eat something." Owen stops in front of me, ducking a little to catch my eyes. "Or you can lie down. Your choice. But you're not going to keep standing there swaying, so pick one."

I open my mouth to say I’d love to sit with them. After all, it's the polite thing, but my body is so heavy it's a fight just to stay upright.

"I’m not tired," I lie, forcing myself to smile as I look up at Owen.

He doesn't buy it for a second. His brow creases and his mouth pulls down at one corner. His hazel eyes search my face from behind his glasses. Even with those deep worry lines, he's so handsome. The concern softens everything about him, and I have to look away from it before I say something I’ll regret.

"Lyra." Owen steps in closer. "Sleep," he says, low, just for me. "The donuts will keep. Go lie down."

And the permission undoes something in me.

"Okay," I whisper.

Relief loosens his shoulders, and those worried lines between his brows smooth out. "Good girl," he says softly, and the small, approving smile he gives me is enough to make my face heat. "Come on." He sets a hand light at my back, and steers me back down the hall, away from the low murmur of the others.

I love that he’s touching me. It feels so comforting and sweet, making my bones somewhat looser.

"You can sleep in my room." Owen pushes open a door at the far end of the little hall, revealing the primary bedroom.

A big bed sits in the center of the room with the covers dragged up rough. There’s a long dresser with a TV perched crooked on top, and both nightstands buried under stacks of books.

And the whole room smells like them.

"Let's get you settled." Owen pulls the covers back for me.

"Thank you." I hover at the edge of the bed, twisting my fingers together. "And I'm sorry. For not sitting with everyone. It's terribly rude, showing up in someone's home and then disappearing before I've so much as had breakfast with them. My mother would be mortified." I roll my eyes, thinking about the lecture she’d give me.

"Lyra," Owen says, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. "It's really not a big deal. You're exhausted and you've been through something awful. Missing breakfast is the last thing anyone's thinking about."

He reaches out and runs his palm slowly down my upper arm, warm even through the sleeve. The small smile fades, and his eyes go soft and serious behind his glasses, that worried crease settling back between his brows.

"How are you doing?" he asks softly.

The gentleness in his words goes straight past all my careful armor and pulls at the back of my throat.