31 - Fault Lines II

The silence the next morning was a different kind of cruel.

It clung to Sebastian like a second skin—cloying, heavy, damp with what hadn’t been said. He moved through the kitchen on autopilot, his scent muted under the artificial brightness of citrus dish soap and syrup.

The twins were a blur of sound and motion, but even their youthful Alpha energy didn’t stir him the way it usually did.

He poured juice, flipped pancakes, nodded when Camden demanded sprinkles. He laughed at Caleb’s knock-knock joke like he meant it. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

He didn’t even notice Ezra wasn’t there until Mia muttered, voice flat: “He left early again.”

Sebastian blinked. The absence slammed into him. No sandalwood. No spice. No warmth hovering behind him as he cooked. No possessive hand on his waist.

Just air. Stale, scentless air.

He cleared the plates before the boys had finished eating, letting the clatter of dishes cover the sound of his own breath hitching. He could smell his own lavender—faint and shaky—rising with his pulse.

By ten a.m., he was in his office, facing his first client—a quiet twelve-year-old girl with round glasses and a silence that mirrored his own. Her scent was nervous, uncertain—like rain hitting cold pavement.

He smiled gently. “You don’t have to talk right away, you know. We can just sit. That’s okay too.”

She shrugged, twisting the sleeves of her hoodie. He didn’t rush her. Let the scent of rain and lavender settle between them.

Finally, she whispered, “Sometimes I think no one really sees me.”

Sebastian didn’t flinch. “I know that feeling.”

“Do you?” she asked, squinting up at him, scent sharp with disbelief.

He gave her a small smile. “I live in a house with three pups and one very large Alpha who thinks he’s subtle when he’s not. And still… sometimes it’s like I’m the one making all the noise but no one’s listening.”

That earned a crooked smile. Barely there. But it counted.

He offered her a coloring sheet, then picked up a pencil and sketched beside her. “We’re not invisible. Even when it feels like we are.”

The rest of the day was a blur of scent and sound. A boy who reeked of fear and clung to his mother’s sleeve.

A girl who punched walls and smelled like burnt ozone. A woman whose scent was dry with exhaustion, crushed under the weight of motherhood.

Between sessions, Sebastian told small stories about the twins. Caleb’s new obsession with beetles. Camden demanding to eat his sandwich upside down “because gravity.” He smiled. He laughed. But he didn’t mention Ezra once.

By the time his last client left, his own scent was all wrong—twisted tight with fatigue and something unnameable. A dull ache settled between his ribs.

He was halfway to his car when his phone buzzed.

Ezra

> Can you pick up Mia from her friend’s place? Stuck at a site. Won’t make it back in time.

Sebastian

> On it.

No kiss emoji. No apology.

He stared at the screen longer than necessary, scent cooling around him.

That night, the house was quiet. Too quiet. Mia was in her room. The boys had passed out on the couch watching Bug Wars—again.

Sebastian stood at the sink, hands submerged in soapy water, trying not to notice how his own lavender clung too tightly to his skin. Like loneliness.

Then the door slammed.

Ezra came in dripping wet—hair plastered to his forehead, scent sharp with wet earth and something stormy.

He didn’t say a word. Just moved past Sebastian like he wasn’t there. Not a brush of fingers. Not a glance. Not a whiff of recognition.

Sebastian turned, hands still damp. “Ez—”

“Not now.”

His voice cut through the air like a blade.

Sebastian wiped his hands, heartbeat kicking up. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

Ezra stopped in the hallway. “Like what?”

“Like I’m some stranger in your damn house.”

Ezra turned sharply. His scent was wild now—anger and adrenaline undercutting that familiar spice. “You mean my house? The one I own? The one I—”

Sebastian recoiled. His own scent spiked with disbelief. “Wow. That’s where we are now?”

Ezra dragged both hands through his soaked hair. His eyes were red-rimmed, his chest heaving with breaths he didn’t want to release. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes, you did,” Sebastian said quietly. “You just don’t want to admit you said it out loud.”

Ezra turned away. Pacing. His scent was chaos—hot and unsteady, biting at Sebastian’s nose.

“It’s been a long day,” Ezra muttered.

“It’s been a long month.”

Ezra’s fists clenched. “Can you just—drop it, Seb?”

But Sebastian stepped closer, scent curling out—lavender dense and focused, steadying. He lowered his voice. “You think I haven’t noticed? The calls you take outside. The way you flinch when I say your name. The way you haven’t touched me in days.”

Ezra didn’t speak.

Sebastian took another step, standing close now. He could feel it—the heat between them. The hum of scent meeting scent.

Alpha and Omega. Storm and bloom.

“If there’s someone else—”

“There’s not,” Ezra snapped, stepping forward. “Don’t you dare.”

“Then what is it?” Sebastian’s voice trembled. “Why do you smell like guilt?”

Ezra opened his mouth. Closed it. His scent faltered—cracked.

“Don’t look for me. Stay away. I don’t believe you.”

Sebastian froze.

The words weren’t meant for him. He could tell by the way Ezra’s voice flattened. By the way his scent dulled as if retreating into memory.

“Who were you talking to today?”

Ezra didn’t answer.

And that silence—that familiar, echoing silence—told Sebastian everything.

“Don’t lie to me,” he whispered.

Ezra looked away. “I’m not ready.”

Sebastian’s chest compressed, lavender dimming to something crushed. “For what?”

Ezra said nothing.

So Sebastian walked away. His back straight, his heart thunderous. He didn’t look back.

Sunday morning arrived with the hiss of the shower and the bitter scent of black coffee. Sebastian moved quietly through the bedroom, reaching for his sweatshirt.

Ezra’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. Once. Then again. Then again.

It wasn’t curiosity. It was instinct.

The screen was still lit when he passed by. Just one glance. One heartbeat.

Clara.

Not a contact. Just a name.

> You can’t ignore me forever. We need to talk.

I’m sorry I scared you.

I’m not the enemy, Ezra.

Sebastian didn’t breathe. Her scent wasn’t even present, but the implication flooded him.

The water stopped.

He turned, left the room without touching the phone. Without touching Ezra.

Minutes later, Ezra stepped out—towel low on his hips, collarbone slick with droplets. The scent of clean skin and raw, damp Alpha heat filled the hallway.

Sebastian didn’t say a word.

Ezra paused, took him in. The distance. The silence. Then leaned in, slow. A kiss.

Sebastian let it happen. He kissed back. But his scent had changed—cool, composed, unreadable.

Ezra’s was questioning. Unsteady. Seeking.

Sebastian met it like smoke curling around flame.

Because this wasn’t comfort.

It was a test.

A question asked in the dark.

And Sebastian—pretending he didn’t already know the answer—kissed like maybe he didn’t smell the truth.

Like maybe, just maybe, he could forget.

But scent didn’t lie.

And neither did silence.