116 – Harry POV
I look at the TV, and of course, they're talking about Ivan's engagement.
It's everywhere. Every channel, every social post, every headline.
"Confirmed: Ivan Reyes and Zander Vale, engaged and thriving—sources say the ring is worth nearly 1.3 million —"
"From controversy to couture: fashion icon Ivan and corporate heir Zander continue to shatter tradition—"
The screen flashes images of the two of them—Zander in a dark tailored suit, hand gently resting on Ivan's back as they walked into some gala. Ivan in gold, shining like something divine, grinning that smug, radiant smile he wears like armor.
They look… happy. Whole.
And it does something strange to my chest.
Not jealousy, not really.
But seeing him there—unapologetically loved, loudly claimed, soft and wild and radiant in a way the world once tried to crush out of him—it stirs something.
Because I want that.
Not the ring, not the spotlight. Just… that look on his face. That ease. That safety. That certainty that someone is fighting for you, standing beside you, and not asking you to shrink to fit their expectations.
I want what Ivan has.
I mute the TV.
The silence in Mason's apartment wraps around me, soft and warm. He's in the kitchen, humming something under his breath as he makes tea. I can smell it from here—chamomile and honey. Calming. Like him.
Ivan offered me a place. A beautiful one, probably. Top floor, sleek, safe, a doorman who wouldn't look twice at an omega walking in late at night. A whole apartment just for me.
But I didn't want to live alone.
Not yet.
Not after everything.
And Mason—he didn't hesitate. Didn't make it weird. Just handed me a key like it was the most natural thing in the world and said, "Stayas long as you want."
I feel oddly safe living with Mason.
It's strange, how easily the fear quiets around him. How the edges of everything stop feeling so sharp. He's amazing company—kind without being overbearing, funny without trying too hard, and, most importantly, he doesn't mind that I've permanently borrowed a shirt or two. Or a hoodie. Or… okay, maybe three hoodies.
Whatever.
They smell like him—warm cotton, cedar, and that little trace of orange peel from his shampoo—and wearing them makes it easier to sleep.
He brings me the tea with that usual soft smile, and I thank him even though I've already lost count of how many times he's done this. We sit on the couch together, legs tucked under us like we're in some slice-of-life drama. The TV is on, volume low, but neither of us is really watching.
Instead, we talk. About the dumbest things. Whether aliens would like chamomile tea. Whether cats understand sarcasm. Whether he could beat me in a pillow fight if I had the high ground. I tell him absolutely not. He says we'll test that one day.
And in moments like this—when the air is soft, and the silence between us isn't heavy—I just want to lean over and kiss him.
The thought hits me like a whisper and settles low in my chest.
It's not the first time. It won't be the last. Every time he laughs, every time he passes me a mug like I'm something precious, every time he looks at me like I'm not a burden—I think about it.
But I don't move.
Because my therapist says I'm in the red.
She says I'm vulnerable. Unsteady. Still healing. That anything I feel right now might not be real—it might just be relief wrapped in skin. That I'm not ready to know the difference between love and safety yet.
And maybe she's right.
Still… doesn't mean I have to like it.
When he looks at me, there's no pity in it. No hero complex. Just patience. Just… care.
And maybe that's the danger. Maybe I've gone so long without being treated like a human being that I don't know what affection without strings is supposed to look like.
Still… I want to kiss him.
I want to close the distance and see if the heat between us means anything.
But I don't.
Because if he really likes me… like my therapist says… he'll wait.
And for now, just sitting here—safe, warm, halfway healed—that's enough.