Alex had been walking for hours. His legs ached and his breath came in uneven bursts. The cold night air nipped at his cheeks, and the wind tangled through his hair like a restless hand. He finally came to a stop, looking around with tired eyes. He didn't recognize the area at all.
Towering apartment buildings loomed around him in a semicircle, their many windows like darkened eyes, closed off to the world. A small park nestled between them offered a patch of green, where grass grew in uneven tufts and a couple of benches stood like silent sentinels. The dim glow of a flickering streetlamp cast jagged shadows across the pavement.
Alex pulled out his phone. The screen lit up his face with a cold blue light—10:52 PM. Almost eleven. No wonder everything was so quiet. The city was alive, yes, but this particular neighborhood seemed to be sleeping.
And so was he, almost.
He couldn't recall the route he'd taken to get here. His thoughts had been too heavy, too suffocating, to allow for practical things like direction or safety. He had just… wandered. Aimlessly. Blindly. Driven by the overwhelming need to get away. To breathe.
Looking around in hope of finding someone—anyone—he saw nothing but the empty windows and the bare trees lining the sidewalk like skeletons of their former selves. No pedestrians, no passing cars, not even the low hum of distant traffic.
His shoulders slumped as he made his way to the small park and sank down onto one of the benches. The cold metal seeped into his bones, but he didn't care. His entire body felt weighed down, not just by fatigue, but by everything else too—the memories, the emotions, the constant ache of everything that had happened. His arms curled around himself, a feeble attempt to retain warmth.
God, why had he lost control like that?
He wasn't someone who cried. Or yelled. Or fainted. He wasn't fragile. At least, he didn't use to be. But lately… everything made his emotions spin out of control. The argument with Damien had unraveled him completely, peeling back every protective layer he'd so carefully built over the years. He'd screamed, cried, and run like a teenager having their first heartbreak.
It wasn't just the fight. It was all of it.
He exhaled slowly, pressing a hand against his lower abdomen. His fingers moved in slow, soothing circles. The baby. That's what it was. Or maybe not just the baby, but everything his body was going through because of it. Dr. Addison had explained it—pregnancy in omegas who'd been suppressing their secondary gender traits wasn't an easy ride. Hormones, instincts, physical shifts… it was a storm inside him, and his mental health was at the mercy of its tides.
He closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head back against the bench, hand still lightly cradling the belly that still didn't show beneath his clothes. A quiet, broken sigh escaped his lips.
This little life inside him—it was the only thing keeping him anchored now. And, ironically, it existed because of Damien. Despite everything, despite the pain and the betrayal, Alex couldn't bring himself to hate Damien entirely. Not when their child existed. Not when this baby was the first thing in Alex's life that was truly, irrevocably his.
He couldn't pretend his life was so much better without Damien. He wasn't sure what to feel anymore.
The sudden crunch of gravel startled him.
He sat up quickly, blinking away the daze of exhaustion. A tall figure approached, casting a long shadow in the moonlight. Alex tensed, heart picking up pace, but then the figure stepped into the faint glow of the streetlamp.
Damien.
Of course.
Alex's mouth opened, then closed again. His eyes flicked down to the dark coat Damien held in his hands.
"Are you feeling better now?" Damien asked softly, his voice cautious, almost gentle.
Alex stared at him, caught between disbelief and irritation. "How did you find me?"
"I was following you," Damien admitted, gaze dropping to the ground. "From a distance. I didn't want to startle you."
"You didn't want to startle me?" Alex echoed bitterly. "You have a strange way of showing it."
Damien flinched but said nothing. Instead, he stepped forward and dropped the coat across Alex's lap. "It's cold. You shouldn't be sitting out here like this." He paused. "I called you a taxi. We're too far from the car to walk back."
Alex hesitated, but eventually draped the coat around himself. It smelled like Damien. Expensive cologne and something warm, something distinctly him. It made Alex's chest ache in a way he didn't want to examine.
"I'll wait here with you," Damien added. "Until the taxi comes."
There was no point arguing. Alex didn't have the energy left to fight. He simply turned his face away, watching the wind sway the branches of the trees. A silence settled between them, thick but not entirely uncomfortable.
The warmth of the coat crept in slowly, wrapping around his chilled frame like a blanket. His eyes, heavy from the emotional toll, began to droop. He wanted to stay awake, wanted to keep his guard up, but the weariness overpowered him. He felt his body growing heavier, his thoughts slower.
And then—darkness.
When Alex opened his eyes, it was morning. Sunlight streamed softly through his bedroom window. He sat up slowly, blinking against the brightness.
He was in his own bed.
His shoes were off. His jacket and belt too. He'd been carried home. By Damien.
"Fuck," Alex muttered, dragging a hand across his face. "That's just fucking embarrassing."
He hadn't meant to fall asleep like that, and definitely not to be carried home like some helpless damsel in distress by the same man he had argued with and run away from. The irony was cruel.
He sighed heavily and stumbled toward the bathroom, stripping out of his clothes on the way. The shower was hot, and the pressure was decent. Steam curled around him as he stood under the spray, letting it wash away the remnants of the night before. At least Damien had had the decency to make him somewhat comfortable before dumping him in bed.
After drying off, Alex pulled on a turtleneck sweater—dark green, warm, and most importantly, high-collared. The bite was almost healed now, but the mark remained visible, and he had no intention of letting anyone in this house see it. Not when the consequences could be disastrous.
The weather was cold enough that the layers didn't raise suspicion. If he played his cards right, he'd be gone before summer arrived and the heat forced him to dress differently. Until then, he'd stock up on turtlenecks and avoid close scrutiny.
Just as he finished dressing, a knock echoed from his door.
He froze.
Was it Damien?
But then a familiar voice came from the other side.
"Sir, the madam is asking you to join her for breakfast," the maid called gently.
Alex's stomach twisted. His mother never invited him to breakfast without a reason. She never did anything without a reason.
"I'll be there," he replied quietly.
He moved to close the door but paused when he saw the familiar takeout bag hanging from the knob. Of course. Damien. The man was consistent, if nothing else. Alex grabbed the bag and placed it on his desk. He'd eat later—after enduring whatever thinly veiled interrogation his mother had prepared for him.
He glanced at the mirror. His eyes were still a little puffy, but not terribly so. With a deep breath, he squared his shoulders.
Time to face the storm.