⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆✼♡✽⋆∘∙⊱⋅•
Mr. Fairchild was already up, sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers, watching me with that soft expression that made my chest tighten.
"You look better," he said quietly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my forehead. "Heat's breaking?"
I nodded, sitting up slowly and wrapping one of the blankets around my shoulders. "Yeah... think so. God, I'm starving, though. Like, could-eat-a-whole-cow starving."
He smiled faintly, that steely facade cracking just a bit. "That's normal for omegas post-heat. Your body burned through everything. I'll handle it."
He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, dialing a number with that efficiency I knew so well from the office.
"Harlan? Yes, it's me. I need you to pick up groceries, enough for a feast. Steak, pasta, vegetables, bread, desserts... everything and deliver it to Theodore's address. Discreetly."
