Chapter 15
The lamp was on again. Same warm amber light from that first night, pooling over the same desk, same chair, same rug where I'd held my wrist out and he'd taken it.
I had asked him to come.
That was the difference. No knock I hadn't expected, no door opening before I was ready. I'd texted him after dinner, just one line: come over, same time, if you're still awake. He'd replied yeah, and then he'd waited until I said now before he walked up the sidewalk.
I sat on the edge of my bed and watched his hands. He didn't reach right away. He kept them on his knees, his left wrist turned just enough I could see the dark leather strap of his watch, gold bezel catching the light. My wrist was bare. No gauze, no bandage. The faint line was there, pale against my skin, thin as a hair where the cut had been.
"I kept thinking about what you said," I told him. "The first night."
He nodded, eyes on my face, then down to my wrist, then back up. He waited.
"You said, this wound wasn't treated right. Let me see." I took a breath and held my arm out, palm up, steady this time. "So. Let me see. On my terms."
For a second he didn't move, and I realized I'd been holding my breath the way I had that night, shallow and tight. Then he reached, slow enough I could pull back if I wanted to. I didn't. His fingers closed around my wrist, warm and careful, same grip but lighter. No urgency now.
"Okay?" he asked.
"Okay," I said.
He turned my hand slightly toward the lamp. The scar caught the light. He traced the air just above it without touching the line itself.
"It healed clean," he said. "Even without the extra help."
"Because I actually used the medicine this time," I said, and we both smiled a little. The pharmacy bottle was still on my dresser, cotton balls and ointment beside it. I'd changed the gauze myself every morning, washed it, let it air. No glow, just time.
He looked up at me through those thin gold-rimmed glasses. "You're good at taking care of it when you let yourself."
"I had to be," I said. "I'm an omega without a wolf spirit. That's not going away. The fast heal part helps, but not the way people think it does. It doesn't mean I don't need care. It just means I bleed and then I have to deal with it anyway."
He nodded like I'd said something he'd been waiting to hear me say out loud.
"You still whole," he said quietly. "With or without it."
I felt my eyes sting, but I didn't look away. "I needed to hear you say that and mean it. Not just you being nice after fixing me."
"I mean it," he said. "You were whole before I ever did anything."
The room was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and our breathing. His thumb rested lightly on the inside of my wrist, beside the scar, not on it.
"I want to ask something," he said. "And you can say no."
"Ask."
"The light," he said. "Do you want it? Not because you need it. Just if you want the scar softer. It'll always be there a little, but I can smooth it if you ask. I won't if you don't."
That was the other part I'd come to decide. For weeks I'd let his ability be the thing that defined us — he healed, I needed healing. The board had closed the report, the incident marked as resolved, the vest stayed in my closet with its crest facing the wall. I didn't want to be someone who only called him when I was hurt, and I didn't want him to feel like he had to offer to be worth anything.
"I don't want you drained again," I said. "Last time it took you two days to look normal after."
"I slept it off," he said. "It's okay when it's chosen. Not when it's panic."
I considered, then shook my head. "Not tonight. I want to keep it as is. It's faint already. It's mine. Medicine is enough. If I ever need the other, I'll ask. That's the deal, right? Medicine first, glow only if I ask."
"Medicine first," he said. "Glow only if you ask."
He didn't let go right away, and I didn't pull away. He just held my wrist in that warm lamp light the way he had that first night, except now it wasn't about stopping blood. His watch ticked softly. My breathing had evened out.
"So what now?" I asked.
"Now we go back to school tomorrow," he said. "Same hallways. You sit where you want. I sit where I want. If you want me next to you, I am. If you don't, I'm not far."
"Together but not dependent," I said, trying the words out.
"Yeah," he said. "Together but not dependent."
I looked down at our hands. His fingers around my wrist, the faint scar line between them, thin and silver in the amber light, catching just enough to remind me it had happened and that I'd chosen how it ended.
"You can let go when you're ready," I said.
May you like
He smiled. "I'm ready when you are."
We stayed like that another minute, breathing steady in that warmly lit room at night, before I turned my hand over and laced my fingers through his instead.
