Page 125 of Run Wild Omega

Thursday evening, Dylan shows up at my parents’ door with a bag of takeout from the Bluejay and a tube of IcyHot.

“PT starts Monday,” he says, pushing past me into the living room like he owns the place. “But Dr. Patel said stretches now, so we’re doing stretches.”

“I was going to do them on my own.”

“You were going to forget and watch Netflix on the couch.” He drops the bag on the coffee table and turns to face me. “Sit.”

I sit.

He kneels in front of me, his hands warm and confident as he guides my good leg through a series of extensions and flexions. His grip is firm, his thumbs pressing into the tight bands of muscle along my calf, and every time I wince, he backs off just enough.

“You’re tight here,” he murmurs, his thumb digging into a knot behind my knee. “Hold it. Breathe.”

I breathe. He works the knot out with studied pressure, and the relief is so immediate that my eyes water.

“Better?”

“Much.”

He rolls my ankle in gentle circles, then moves to the cast, supporting the fiberglass while he manipulates the muscles above my knee. The proximity is punishing. His shoulders are broad enough to block out the lamplight, and his scent, woodsmoke and warm amber, is flooding my senses.

When he finishes, he sits back on his heels and looks at me. His eyes drop to my neck, where Wyatt’s marks are still visible above my collar.

“He scented you,” Dylan says.

“Yesterday.”

Dylan reaches up and traces one of the bruises with his thumb. His touch is lighter than Wyatt’s, more exploratory, and my skin pebbles under it.

“I should add mine,” he says. “Even the rotation.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“It’s what Miles is calling it. He made a spreadsheet.” He pauses. “I wish I was joking.”

I laugh, and the sound breaks something open between us. He leans in, his wrist pressing against the curve of my neck where Wyatt’s scent is strongest. The contact is brief, purposeful, a gesture of pack solidarity that shouldn’t make my stomach flip.

But his wrist lingers there, and his pulse is hammering against my skin, and his eyes are dark when he pulls back.

“Saturday,” he says.

“Saturday.”

He kisses my forehead and leaves. I sit on the couch with IcyHot on my leg and all three of their scents layered on my skin, and try to convince myself that I’m not losing my mind.

Miles arrives at nine on Friday morning with a printed PT schedule, a hydration tracker, and a thermos of green tea.

“This is excessive,” I say, flipping through the schedule. “You color-coded it.”

“Organization reduces recovery time by seventeen percent.”

“Did you make that statistic up?”

“I did not.” He sets the thermos on the kitchen counter and adjusts his glasses. “How’s the pain? Scale of one to ten.”

“Four.”

“Liar. It’s a six. I can see it in your gait.”