SCARRED OMEGA

Chapter 5.

Harrison stood frozen, the fabric pressed to his nose. His wolf surged beneath his skin, hackles rising.

His jaw tightened. His hand closed around the torn cloth.

He knew that scent.

Cole watched him, waiting. "Harrison? Who is it?"

Harrison didn't answer. He just stared at the dorms in the distance, his eyes hard.

Then his shoulders dropped. The fire in his face faded into something heavier.

He looked down at the torn fabric in his hand. Blue cotton. Blood on the edge. It could have been from anything.

But Harrison knew.

He tucked the fabric into his pocket and turned away from the dorms.

"Harrison?" Cole called after him. "Where are you going?"

Harrison kept walking. His footsteps were slow, heavy.

"Nowhere," he said, his voice flat. "Call it off."

Cole stood there, confused. "But the dorms—"

"I said call it off."

Harrison didn't look back. His hands were shoved in his pockets. His head was down.

He knew Isaac had something to do with it. He could feel it in his bones. But he had no proof. Just a bad feeling.

And Peach was already in bed. Whispering Isaac's name.

There was nothing Harrison could do. Not yet.

Days passed. Peach stayed inside. Isaac came and went, bringing food, changing bandages, holding her.

But something shifted.

He walked in one afternoon and found her mopping the kitchen floor. Slow. Methodical. Back and forth, back and forth.

"Hey," he said, setting down his bag. "You're up."

She didn't look at him. Just kept pushing the mop across the already clean floor.

"Just wanted to do something," she said quietly.

He shrugged it off. It was good she was moving.

But the next day, she was mopping again. Same floor. Same slow strokes.

Isaac frowned. "Peach. The floor is clean."

She paused, her grip tight on the handle. "It doesn't feel clean."

She kept going.

The day after that, he found her in the bathroom, mopping the tiles, her scars hidden behind a curtain of hair.

"Peach, what are you doing?"

She didn't stop. Her hands moved in small, tight circles.

"I can't get it right," she mumbled. "It's never right."

Isaac watched her for a long moment. Her shoulders were tense. Her breathing was shallow. The mop, the cleaning, it wasn't about the floor anymore.

"Peach." He put his hand over hers, stilling it. "Look at me."

She lifted her head. Her eyes were glassy, distant.

"You're mopping a clean floor," he said gently.

She stared at him. Then at the tile. Then back at him.

Isaac pulled her into his arms, holding her.

She didn't cry. She just sat down, limp and tired.

"I used to mop when I was upset," she said quietly, her voice muffled against his chest. "Back home. When things felt too loud or too messy in my head."

Isaac's hand moved slowly on her back. "Yeah?"

She nodded. "It was therapeutic for me, the floor was like my mind. All dirty and scattered. And every time I pushed the mop, I felt like I was wiping it clean. Making it smooth. Making it make sense."

She pulled back just enough to look at the wet tiles. Her eyes were glassy.

"But now," she continued, her voice barely a whisper, "I keep mopping and mopping and nothing gets clean. The floor looks the same. My head feels the same."

She looked up at him. Her bottom lip trembled.

"I can't wipe it away anymore, Isaac. The fear. The pictures. The way people looked at me. The way I look at myself." Her hand touched her scarred face, then dropped. "None of it goes away."

Isaac cupped her face, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones.

"It will," he said softly. "With time."

She shook her head. "I don't believe that."

She looked back at the mop.

"I used to know how to fix things," she said. "My feelings. My life. I just mopped, and it all felt better."

A single tear slid down her cheek, tracing the edge of a scar.

"Now I don't know how to fix anything.”

Isaac looked at her, really looked at her. Her hands were raw from gripping the mop too tight. Her eyes were empty. The scars on her face were still pink and raised.

He thought it was weird. Mopping to fix your feelings? Scrubbing a clean floor until your knuckles hurt? He didn't get it. He had never needed to clean anything to feel better. When he was upset, he ran. He shifted. He hunted.

But he didn't say that.

He pulled her closer, his hand cradling the back of her head.

"Okay," he said softly. "Then we find a new way."

She blinked up at him. "What?"

"A new way to fix things." He smoothed her hair down, tucking it behind her ear. "The mop worked before. But that was before. Before all of this."

He tilted her chin up so she had to look at him.

"You're not broken, Peach. You're just... different now. And different needs new tools."

Her eyes searched his face. "Like what?"

He smiled, small and gentle. "I don't know yet. But we'll figure it out. Together."

She let out a shaky breath and leaned her head against his shoulder.

"You really think so?"

"I know so," he said, even though he wasn't sure. But she needed to hear it. She needed something to hold onto.

His arms wrapped around her tighter. His chin rested on top of her head.

Behind her back, his smile faded. His eyes went to the mop on the floor.

Weird, he thought again. But whatever kept her inside. Whatever kept her leaning on him.

That was what mattered.

She leaned against him for a long moment, her breath slow and shaky against his neck. His hand kept moving on her back, steady and patient.

Then she pulled back just enough.

Her hair fell across her face, hiding the scars. But her eyes found his through the strands.

Isaac watched her, curious.

Her hands slid from his chest down to his thighs. Slow. Almost shy. Then back up again, her fingers tracing the fabric of his shirt, the curve of his shoulders, until they reached the back of his neck.

He didn't move.

She pulled him in.

Her lips found his. Soft at first, almost like she wasn't sure at first.

Then deeper.

Isaac's eyes stayed open for a second, surprised. Then they closed. His hand slid from her back into her hair, tangling in the strands.

She kissed him like she was trying to remember how. Like she was trying to feel something other than the pain and the fear and the empty.

When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against his. Her breath was warm on his lips.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For staying."

Isaac's thumb traced her jaw, light as a feather.

"I told you," he said softly. "I'm not going anywhere."

She closed her eyes and leaned into him again, her body slack with exhaustion and something that felt like hope.

Then an idea came to him.

He pulled back just enough to look at her face. Her eyes were still closed, her lashes dark against her scarred cheeks.

"Hey," he said softly.

She opened her eyes.

"I saw something online," he said. "A show. About hypnotism."

She blinked at him. "Hypnotism?"

"Yeah." He shrugged, trying to sound casual. "They bring people on stage and make them do funny stuff. Dance like chickens. Forget their own names. That kind of thing."

A small crease formed between her brows. "That sounds... weird."

"It's fun," he said. "People laugh. No one takes it seriously."

She looked down at her hands, still wrapped around the mop handle.

"I don't know, Isaac. I haven't been outside in..."

"I know." He tilted her chin up with one finger. "That's why we should go. Just for a couple hours. No pressure. If you hate it, we leave."

She bit her lip, thinking.

"I look like this," she mumbled, touching her scars.

"You look like you," he said simply. "And no one's going to care. It's dark in those theaters anyway."

She was quiet for a moment. Then she let out a slow breath.

"Okay," she whispered.

Isaac smiled. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She almost smiled back. Almost. "Let's do it."

He pulled her into a hug, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"Good," he said. "I'll get the tickets."

Isaac stood up and pulled out his phone, scrolling for the tickets. Peach watched him from the bed, her knees pulled up to her chest.

"Got them," he said, holding up the screen. "Tomorrow night."

She nodded, a small, uncertain smile on her face.

He put the phone down and looked at her. She was still sitting on the edge of the mattress, her hair messy, her eyes tired. The scars on her face caught the dim light.

"You should rest," he said softly.

She shook her head. "I don't want to be alone."

"You're not."

He walked over and sat down next to her. Then he lay back on the bed, pulling her down with him.

She let out a small breath as her body settled against his. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand on her back, the other in her hair.

She tucked her face into his neck, her nose cold against his skin.

She curled into him, her leg sliding between his, her hand pressed flat against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat under her palm. Steady. Strong.

She sighed, her body melting into his.

His hand moved down her back, slow and warm, tracing the curve of her spine. She shivered.

"You're cold," he said.

"A little."

He pulled the blanket up over both of them, tucking it around her shoulders. She snuggled deeper into his chest, her breath warm against his collarbone.

They lay like that for a long time, tangled together in the quiet room.

She tilted her head up and looked at him. His eyes were half-closed, calm.

"I'm not going anywhere, Peach," he said. "Ever.

She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to his.

Then she kissed him. Soft. Slow and sweet.

He kissed her back, his hand sliding into her hair, pulling her closer.

When they broke apart, she rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes.

His arms stayed wrapped around her, strong and warm.

They fell asleep like that, tangled together in the quiet dark.