I'm sitting on the edge of my bed when the door finally opens.
Darian walks in without knocking properly, like he already knows I won't care. He shuts the door behind him slower than usual, and the first thing he does is look at me properly—not casually, not half-focused, but fully.
His brows knit slightly.
"Hey," he says. "What happened to you? You okay?"
I don't look up right away. My hands are loosely resting between my knees, still carrying the tension from earlier that I haven't managed to shake off yet.
"I'm fine," I say. Too fast. Too flat. I stand slightly like I can just move out of the conversation instead of answering it. "Just… go back to the cafeteria."
Darian doesn't move.
That's what makes me stop.
He just stands there, watching me for a second, then shakes his head once.
"No," he says simply. "I'm not going back without you."
That hits differently.
Not loud. Not emotional.
Just… real.
Like it's not a decision he's thinking about—it's already made.
I finally look at him properly.
And something in me shifts.
Because he's not looking at me like I'm an omega. Or like I don't belong here. Or like I'm supposed to justify anything.
He's just looking at me like I'm someone who left a seat empty.
That's it.
And I realize, maybe a little too late, that he's not treating me like anything other than a friend.
The thought sits in my chest in a way I didn't expect. Warm, slightly unfamiliar, but grounding at the same time.
It makes the earlier tension loosen just a little.
"…Thank you," I say quietly.
Darian shrugs immediately like I didn't just say something important. "Don't make it weird."
A pause.
Then he tilts his head toward the door. "Come on. Let's go out. Eat somewhere that doesn't taste like punishment."
I let out a small breath. "Yeah. Let's go."
⸻
The drive doesn't feel long, but it doesn't feel short either.
It settles somewhere in between, in that quiet space where time stops being something you actively notice and becomes something you just move through. The car interior is dim compared to the street outside, headlights sliding across the windshield in slow intervals as we pass under streetlamps. Darian drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely near the gear shift, relaxed in a way that doesn't match the tension I still haven't fully shaken off.
I sit beside him without saying much. The seatbelt presses lightly against my chest, grounding me in a way I don't entirely need but don't resist either. Outside, the city shifts between pockets of light and shadow—shops, apartments, people moving in small groups, all of it continuing like nothing earlier today ever happened.
We eventually pull into a small restaurant tucked between two taller buildings. It doesn't stand out much from the outside. Warm light spills through the front windows, reflecting off slightly smudged glass. There's a soft hum of conversation inside, low enough not to be overwhelming but constant enough to feel alive.
Darian parks, kills the engine, and exhales through his nose like he's been waiting to do that since we left the camp.
"Finally," he mutters, unbuckling his seatbelt.
I follow him out.
Inside, the temperature shifts immediately. Warmer. Softer. The smell of cooked food hits first—oil, spices, something grilled. Not clean like the camp. Not controlled. Just real.
We're seated quickly. Nothing fancy. A simple table near the middle, slightly worn edges, menus already placed down without ceremony. The chairs aren't perfectly aligned. One leg is slightly uneven, causing a faint shift when I sit.
Darian notices immediately and leans back once he's seated, glancing around the place.
"This is better than that place," he says casually, picking up the menu without really reading it.
I don't answer at first. I'm still adjusting to the shift away from the camp—like my body takes longer than it should to accept that I'm not inside that environment anymore.
We order. Something simple. Nothing worth overthinking.
⸻
For a few minutes, nothing really happens.
Not in a way that feels empty exactly—just in that quiet in-between where conversation stops needing to exist and time becomes something you pass through instead of notice. The restaurant hums steadily around us. Plates are carried from table to table. Someone laughs too loudly near the entrance, then immediately lowers their voice like they remembered where they are. A chair leg scrapes faintly against the floor somewhere behind me.
Darian is seated across from me, slightly slouched in his chair now, one elbow resting on the table while his other hand scrolls lazily on his phone. The glow of the screen reflects faintly against his fingers. He doesn't seem in a rush to speak. Neither of us does.
But then he stops.
The movement is small at first—his thumb stills on the screen, his phone tilts slightly downward, and his eyes lift. Not casually. Not distracted. He sets the phone down flat on the table, screen facing up but ignored now.
And then he looks at me properly.
It's different from how he was looking earlier. This isn't curiosity anymore. It's focus. The kind that signals he's decided something matters enough to stop pretending it doesn't.
"So," he says.
His voice is quieter than the room around us, but it cuts through it anyway.
He leans forward slightly as he speaks, forearms now resting on the table, fingers loosely interlaced. His posture shifts the entire tone of the moment without him trying.
"What the hell happened back there?"
I already know what he means before he finishes the sentence.
Still, I let a fraction of silence sit between us.
Just long enough to make it feel like I'm choosing my answer instead of reacting to it.
"Which part?" I ask.
Darian doesn't even blink.
"The Ryland part," he says immediately. No hesitation. Like there was never going to be any other interpretation of the question. Then he adds, sharper now, "Don't dodge it."
My grip on the water glass tightens without me meaning it to. The condensation on the outside of it feels colder than it should. I realize my fingers have been holding it a little too long, so I loosen them slowly, deliberately.
I glance down at the table for a second before I answer.
The wood grain is slightly scratched near the edge. A fork mark. A small stain that was never fully cleaned.
"He sat next to me," I say.
Darian waits.
No interruption. Just watching.
I exhale through my nose once, low and controlled, before continuing.
"In the cafeteria," I add, because saying it without context feels wrong somehow. "He just walked over with Kieran and sat down like it was planned. Like there was no decision involved in it at all."
Darian shifts slightly in his seat. Not leaning back this time—just adjusting, like his body is trying to match how seriously he's listening now.
I continue, slower.
"Like he already knew where he was going to sit," I say.
That earns a faint narrowing of Darian's eyes, but he still doesn't interrupt.
"And then he stayed there," I add. "Didn't look around. Didn't hesitate. Just… acted like it was completely normal for him to be there."
Darian tilts his head slightly. "And?"
My jaw tightens a little before I even realize it's happening.
"And then," I say, voice flattening slightly as I replay it in my head, "I stood up to leave."
I pause.
Not because I forget.
Because I remember exactly how it felt.
"And he told me to sit down."
That changes the air between us.
Darian stops completely.
His brows lift slightly, the first real sign of disbelief.
"Hold on," he says, slower now. "He what?"
"He grabbed my wrist," I continue, keeping my voice even because if I don't, it starts sounding different. "Not hard. Just enough to stop me. And told me to sit down."
Darian stares at me for a second like he's trying to decide whether he misheard.
Then he leans forward again, elbows back on the table, voice dropping slightly.
"And you just… let him?"
I shake my head once.
"No," I say. "I pulled away."
A beat.
"I left."
Darian exhales slowly through his nose, leaning back again. His hand comes up briefly to his chin, rubbing it like he's trying to organize the information into something that makes sense.
"That's…" he starts, then stops, searching. "That's not normal."
I don't respond.
Because that's the only part I fully agree with.
The waiter arrives with our food at that moment, breaking the tension with practiced normality. Plates are placed down with soft thuds, utensils adjusted slightly, napkins set beside them. The routine of service continues as if nothing serious was just said at the table.
Darian waits until the waiter leaves before speaking again.
"Did he say anything else?" he asks.
I hesitate.
Not because I'm unsure.
Because I'm deciding how far back to go.
Then I nod once.
"In the locker room earlier," I say. "He came up behind me. Closed my locker door."
Darian's movement pauses mid-reach for his food.
His attention locks back in immediately.
"He just… closed your locker?" he repeats.
"And stood there," I add. "Right next to me."
Darian exhales, slower this time. "Okay. That's worse."
I continue anyway, because once I start, it's harder to leave things out.
"He called me 'the omega'," I say.
Darian's expression changes instantly.
Not dramatic.
Just sharper.
Focused.
"He actually said that?" he asks.
"Yes."
A pause.
"And what did he want?"
That's where I hesitate again.
Because the honest answer is still the same.
I don't know.
"I don't think he wanted anything," I say quietly. Then I correct myself slightly. "Or if he did, he didn't say it."
Darian leans back again, staring at the ceiling briefly like he's trying to find logic where there isn't any.
"That guy," he mutters finally, "has either got way too much confidence or way too much time to mess with people."
I don't respond.
Because neither option feels like it fits.
We eat after that, but the conversation loosens into quieter, less important things. It doesn't disappear completely, just steps back a little, like it's waiting.
Still, even while I eat, I feel it again.
Not something I can point to.
Not something I can explain.
Just a pressure at the edge of awareness that doesn't match the room.
I glance toward the window once.
Cars pass. People walk. A normal world moving exactly how it should.
Nothing is there.
But the feeling doesn't leave anyway.
And for some reason, that is starting to bother me more than anything that actually happened today.