(First-Person POV)
By the time he returned that evening, the smell of roasted garlic filled the apartment.
I hadn't planned to cook — it just happened. Maybe it was guilt, or gratitude, or the simple need to make something warm in a space that always smelled faintly of smoke and leather.
He walked in, eyebrows raised slightly. "You cooked?"
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm not. Just… impressed. I didn't know Omegas could cook during heat recovery."
I gave him a look. "I didn't realize Alphas enjoyed stereotypes for dinner."
A smile tugged at his mouth. "Touché."
He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The sight of his bare forearms shouldn't have done anything to me, but it did — embarrassingly so.
"Sit," I said quickly, sliding a plate toward him. "Before it gets cold."
He obeyed, which was a rarity in itself.
For a few minutes, the only sounds were the clink of cutlery and the faint hum of the fridge. It was almost domestic — disturbingly so.
Then, halfway through his meal, he said quietly, "You're not afraid of me anymore."
The words froze me mid-bite.
"I—what?"
"You used to flinch when I walked into the room." His tone was calm, but his eyes were sharp. "Now you argue, you tease, you cook for me."
"I just… got used to you, I guess."
"That's dangerous."
"Why?"
"Because you shouldn't get used to someone like me."
There it was again — that flicker of something dark beneath his voice. A reminder that this man wasn't just Leonardo, the one who helped me plant tomatoes. He was Leonardo Ivankov, Alpha King, the most feared name in three regions.
But sitting here, under this dim light, he didn't look like a king. He looked tired. Human.
"Maybe I'm not afraid," I said slowly, "because you haven't given me a reason to be."
He stared at me then, as if the sentence itself unsettled him.
His hand twitched, like he was fighting the instinct to reach across the table.
"Careful," he murmured.
"With what?"
"With saying things I want to believe."
My heart stuttered.
For a moment, we just sat there — two damaged creatures pretending we weren't circling the same fire.
Then, mercifully, his phone buzzed.
He frowned, pulled it out, and whatever softness had been in his face vanished.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of voices.
Low. Tense.
Through the half-open door, I saw him standing in the living room, dressed in full black — tailored coat, insignia pin gleaming on his collar.
Two men knelt before him, their necks bared in submission. The air was thick with Alpha dominance, sharp enough to sting.
It wasn't the same man who'd crouched in the dirt beside me yesterday.This was the Alpha King.
"Yes, Your Majesty," one of the men said. "The council demands your presence at noon. They suspect the rebellion in Sector Nine is connected to—"
"Silence," Leonardo said softly.
The word was a command. A power. The air itself seemed to bend under it.
Both men fell quiet immediately.
He turned slightly — and for a heartbeat, his eyes found mine through the crack in the door.
I froze.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched me — expression unreadable, cold as winter stone.
Then, just as suddenly, he turned away.
"Wait outside," he told them.
They left without protest.
He stood there for a long moment before speaking, voice quieter now. "You shouldn't have seen that."
"I didn't mean to."
"I know." He loosened the cuffs on his sleeves, as if shedding the weight of authority itself. "But you did."
His gaze softened, almost regretful. "That's the part of me I wanted to keep from you."
"You don't have to."
He looked up, surprised.
"I already knew you were dangerous," I said, stepping closer. "But I also know you're the reason I'm still alive."
For once, he didn't know what to say.
The silence between us stretched — fragile, shimmering with something like understanding.
Then his phone buzzed again, breaking it.
Duty called.
He grabbed his coat, glanced back at me. "Lock the door behind me. Don't open it for anyone."
"Leonardo—"
He paused.
"Come back safe," I whispered.
His expression faltered for just a second before hardening again. "That depends on whether the world lets me."
And then he was gone.
The apartment felt emptier after that.
His scent still lingered in the air, faint and maddening. I pressed a hand over my heart and laughed quietly.
"Stupid," I told myself. "You're not supposed to care."
But it was too late.
Because somewhere between the garden soil and garlic dinner, I already did.