Alessandro leaned against the marble counter, arms crossed over his chest, dark eyes fixed on Sage with that unblinking intensity that missed nothing. The faint flush high on Sage’s cheeks, the way his fingers lingered on the cold glass like it was the only thing keeping him tethered, the subtle shift in his scent—sweeter, heavier, laced with the unmistakable edge of pre-heat—told Alessandro everything he needed to know long before Sage opened his mouth.

He didn’t smile, not yet. Just watched, possessive satisfaction curling low in his gut as his omega pressed the glass to his face, chasing relief from the fever already simmering under his skin. Beautiful. Vulnerable. His.

“Obvious?” Alessandro’s voice was a low rumble, laced with dark amusement as he turned back to the stove, flipping the thick slices of French toast with deliberate slowness. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon filled the kitchen, mingling with Sage’s growing heat-scent in a way that made Alessandro’s jaw tighten. “You’re burning up, amore. I could smell it the second you walked in.”

He plated the food then slid it across the island toward Sage with a steady hand. Only then did he allow the corner of his mouth to lift, a faint, dangerous curve.

“Eat,” he ordered, voice velvet over steel as he moved around the counter, closing the distance between them. He stopped just behind Sage’s stool, one large hand settling possessively on the back of his neck, thumb stroking slow and firm. “Every bite. You’ll need the strength.”

His grip tightened just enough to tilt Sage’s head back, forcing their eyes to meet. Alessandro’s gaze was molten, alpha instinct thrumming under his skin.

“Because once you’re done,” he murmured, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of Sage’s ear, “I’m going to give you exactly what you need. Over and over. Until you’re too full of me to even think about burning.”

He pressed a slow, deliberate kiss Sage’s neck, where he'd mark him, teeth grazing just enough to promise more, then pulled back—just far enough to let Sage feel the loss.

“Now eat, Sage. You’re going to need it.”

Alessandro watched every flicker across Sage’s face like it was written in fire—the sheepish little smile that tried to play off the embarrassment, the way his pupils blew wide the instant Alessandro’s hand settled on the warm, damp skin of his neck. That hitch in his breath, the death-grip on the fork, the trembling clench of his fist in his own shirt…, it was taking everything Alessandro had not to haul him out of the chair and bend him over the counter right then.

But Sage needed food first. Heats were brutal enough on the body without running on empty.

So Alessandro stayed where he was, leaning against the island with his arms loosely crossed, forcing his own breathing to stay even while Sage shoveled the meal down like it was a chore standing between him and relief. The scent rolling off him grew thicker with every swallow—sweet, ripe, edged with desperation—and Alessandro’s jaw flexed as he fought the instinct to crowd closer, to press his nose to Sage’s throat and breathe him in until his lungs burned.

When the plate was clean and the glass empty, Sage turned to him at last, flushed and glassy-eyed, lips parted like he was already begging without words.

Alessandro didn’t make him wait.

He closed the distance in two strides, hands sliding under Sage’s thighs to lift him effortlessly onto the cool marble of the island. Sage’s legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, a soft, needy sound escaping as Alessandro finally let himself bury his face in the curve of that heated neck. He inhaled deeply—fuck, the scent was intoxicating, flooding every alpha sense he had—and felt Sage shudder violently against him.

“You did so well eating for me,” Alessandro murmured, voice rough and low, lips brushing the frantic pulse under Sage’s jaw. “Such a good boy, tesoro. Look at you—burning up, dripping for me already, and still trying to take care of yourself first.” He nipped lightly at the skin, soothing it with his tongue. “But you don’t have to hold back anymore. I’ve got you.”

One hand slid up Sage’s spine, fingers threading into damp hair to tilt his head back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. Alessandro pressed open-mouthed kisses there, slow and deliberate, letting his own scent—dark, possessive, steady—wrap around Sage’s like a claim.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered against his skin, though he already knew. He just wanted to hear it. Wanted Sage to feel safe enough to ask, to fall apart knowing Alessandro would catch every piece. “Anything, amore. I’m not going anywhere until this heat is done with you—and even then, I’ll still be right here.”

Alessandro had barely moved from the bed in the hours Sage slept. He had one arm draped protectively over Sage’s waist, but mostly he’d watched—counting slow breaths, brushing damp hair from Sage’s forehead, feeling the fever gradually ease into something manageable. Every so often he’d slipped out just long enough to refill the water pitcher with ice, slice fruit, toast bread, assemble something light and nourishing. He’d even warmed a damp cloth in case Sage woke sticky and uncomfortable.

When Sage finally stirred, Alessandro was already up, tray in hand, drawn by the soft groan and the shift of sheets. The sight of him—hair wild, cheeks still flushed but eyes clearer, that sleepy, grateful smile blooming as he registered Alessandro’s presence—sent a quiet surge of warmth through Alessandro’s chest.

He set the tray on the nightstand and handed over the frosted glass first, watching Sage drain it in desperate, greedy gulps. Water spilled at the corner of his mouth, a single droplet tracing down his chin, and Alessandro’s thumb brushed it away without thinking, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“Good boy,” he murmured, low and fond, as Sage reached eagerly for the plate—sliced peaches, soft scrambled eggs, a little prosciutto, toast cut into manageable pieces. “Slow down a little, amore. There’s more if you want it.”

He settled on the edge of the bed, close enough to steady the tray if Sage’s hands shook, but giving him space to eat. The way Sage attacked the food—hungry, unselfconscious, trusting—made something fiercely protective coil in Alessandro’s gut. This was what caring for an omega in heat was supposed to feel like: not neglect, not indifference, but this quiet, steady presence. Meeting every need before it was even spoken.

“You’re feeling better,” he observed softly, brushing the backs of his fingers along Sage’s jaw, checking the temperature there. Still warm, but not the blazing fever of morning. “Body sore?”

He already knew the answer—had felt Sage wince trying to stretch—but he wanted to hear it. Wanted Sage to know he could complain, ask, demand anything right now and Alessandro would move mountains to give it.

“When you’re done eating,” he continued, voice gentle, “I’ll run a bath. Warm, not hot—lots of salts for the ache. I’ll wash your hair if you want.” His thumb traced Sage’s lower lip absently, affection and lingering possessiveness in the touch. “Then back to bed. The next wave will come, but you’ll be clean, fed, and resting in my arms when it does.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Sage’s temple, breathing him in—still sweet, still his. “You were beautiful earlier, tesoro. Took everything so perfectly. But seeing you like this—safe, cared for, smiling at me—that’s just as good.”

Alessandro’s heart did something unsteady when Sage pressed that soft, trusting kiss to his fingers—small, unthinking, but so utterly unguarded it lodged like a spark behind his ribs. He let his thumb linger a moment longer against Sage’s lower lip, tracing the curve of it, before pulling back to let him finish eating.

The way Sage slowed down at his gentle prompting, even while hunger still sharpened every movement, only deepened the quiet pride curling in Alessandro’s chest. Good boy. Always so responsive, even to the smallest things.

“Whatever I did,” Alessandro murmured, voice low and warm as he watched Sage take the last bites, “I’ll do it again as many times as you need. Whatever you want next time you’re clear-headed enough to choose.” He brushed a stray crumb from Sage’s thigh, letting his palm rest there possessively for a beat. “You were perfect. Blurred or not, your body knew exactly what it wanted, and it took it beautifully.”

The surprise in Sage’s eyes when he offered the bath made Alessandro’s jaw tighten for a fraction of a second. No one had ever done this for him before—not properly, not like this. It was unacceptable, and Alessandro intended to spend however long it took erasing every memory of that neglect.

“Of course I’ll run it for you,” he said, rising smoothly and offering his hand to help Sage off the bed. “I’ll run you a hundred baths if that’s what you need. Wash every inch of you, comb your hair, carry you back to bed afterward. You’re mine to take care of right now, tesoro. Let me.”

He steadied Sage as he stood, feeling the faint tremor in those legs, the careful way he moved. Alessandro slid an arm around his waist without asking, taking most of his weight as they walked the short distance to the en-suite. The bathroom was already warming—he’d cracked the underfloor heating earlier—and he released Sage only long enough to turn on the taps, testing the temperature with his wrist until it was just shy of hot, then pouring in scented salts that foamed softly and released notes of cedar and bergamot.

When he turned back, he didn’t hesitate: fingers hooked gently under the hem of the loose shirt Sage still wore, tugging it up and off, then easing down the waistband of his pants until Sage stood bare and flushed in the steam. Alessandro let his gaze travel over him slowly—admiring, possessive, but mostly tender—before guiding him to sit on the wide edge of the tub.

“Get in when you’re ready,” he said softly, kneeling to roll up his own sleeves. “I’ll wash your hair first. Lean back against me when you’re settled.”

He brushed a kiss to Sage’s bare shoulder, lips lingering against warm skin. “You’re not gross, amore. You’re perfect—sweat, slick, and all. But I’ll make you feel even better. Then we’ll climb back into clean sheets, and when the next wave hits, I’ll be right here to give you everything again.”

The moment Sage’s weight relaxed fully into his arms, head tipping back onto Alessandro’s shoulder, something fierce and tender unclenched in his own chest. Sage fit there perfectly—warm, pliant, trusting—and Alessandro let one arm band loosely around his waist under the water, anchoring him while the other reached for the shampoo.

He worked it into Sage’s hair slowly, nails scraping gently over his scalp in the way he’d learned made Sage melt. The soft chuckle and lazy murmur—“I’ll have to get you to do this more often”—drew a low hum of agreement from Alessandro’s throat.

“Anytime you want,” he said against Sage’s temple, voice quiet in the steam. “Every day, if it makes you feel this good. I’d wash your hair every night and carry you to bed after.”

Sage turned then, draping his arms over the tub’s edge, peering back at him with those half-lidded eyes, and Alessandro’s heart stuttered at the unguarded affection on his face.

The quiet grunt and murmured words—“You said you didn’t knot”—hung in the air between them, careful and open. Alessandro’s hands stilled for a moment in Sage’s hair, then resumed rinsing with steady care, letting the warm water cascade over dark strands.

“I didn’t,” he confirmed softly, thumb brushing along Sage’s nape. “I promised myself I wouldn’t—not while you were deep in the haze, not when you couldn’t look me in the eye and tell me yes with a clear head.” He leaned forward slightly, lips grazing the shell of Sage’s ear. “You deserve that choice, tesoro. Always.”

He paused, letting the words settle, then added, voice rougher with the truth of it, “It nearly killed me to hold back. Feeling you clench around me, hearing you beg… I wanted nothing more than to give you my knot, lock us together, fill you until you felt me for days. But I needed it to be your decision, not just the heat’s.”

His hand slid down Sage’s chest under the water, resting over his heart, feeling the steady thump beneath damp skin. “When you’re ready—really ready, no fever, no instinct screaming louder than your own voice—you tell me. And I’ll knot you so perfectly you’ll feel claimed in every inch of your body. But only when you ask for it, amore. Only then.”

He pressed a lingering kiss to the damp curve of Sage’s shoulder, breathing him in—clean now, but still carrying that underlying sweetness that was purely Sage. “Until then, I’ll take care of every wave exactly how you need. No rush. No pressure. Just us.”