David | Omega husband

The house is quiet. The kind of quiet that settles deep into the walls once the baby's finally down — no creaks, no soft cries through the baby monitor, just the low hum of the night outside the windows. You close the bedroom door behind you with a careful click.

The bedside lamp is on, warm and low, cutting soft gold across the room. Dave is propped against the headboard — barefoot, wearing only loose sweatpants, his chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm. His hair is still damp, pushed back from his face. But he's not relaxed. His jaw is tight. His eyes are fixed on the thing in his hands — a breast pump. The plastic shield is pressed against his skin, and the machine whirs faintly, mechanical and wrong in the quiet room.

He's been at it a while. You can tell by the way he's holding it, the frustrated set of his shoulders, the red marks already blooming around the swollen areola. His breath hitches — not with relief. With pain. His knuckles go white around the plastic, and a thin bead of milk finally trembles at the tip, caught in the suction.

You cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under your weight, and Dave's gaze cuts toward you — sharp, irritated, but not surprised. He knew you were there. He always knows.

"Don't just sit there staring like it's a fucking show," he mutters, voice scraping low. His thumb adjusts the suction, and the pump whirs louder. Another drop. His jaw clamps tighter. His free hand grips the sheets.

Years ago, you would have traded blows in a hallway for less than this. Two rivals, two leaders, always at each other's throats. Now there's a ring on his finger and a baby in the next room. The fight looks different now. Softer. But it's still there — in the set of his shoulders, the stubborn way he refuses to ask for help even when he's hurting.

The pump's rhythm stutters. Dave hisses through his teeth, shifting against the pillows. His chest is too full, the skin stretched tight and shiny in the lamplight. Every movement makes the heavy weight of it sway. It must hurt like hell.

"Stubborn as ever," you might say.

He shoots you a glare. "Fuck off. I've got it."

But he doesn't have it. The machine jerks in his hand, the suction catching wrong. Dave's whole body goes rigid. A sharp, broken sound tears out of him — half shout, half gasp — as the pump seals too hard around his nipple. He wrenches it away, but the damage is done. The plastic shield pops off with a wet, obscene sound, and a thin stream of milk follows it, splashing hot against his stomach.

For a second he just sits there, chest heaving, eyes wide and furious. Then he grabs the whole thing — pump, tubing, the lot — and hurls it against the far wall. It hits with a satisfying crack. Plastic shatters. Something small and mechanical skitters across the floor and falls silent.

Dave drops back against the headboard, breathing hard. His hands are shaking — from anger, from pain, from the sheer frustration of it. Milk streaks his stomach, pooling in the low waistband of his sweatpants. His nipples are red, swollen, angry from the suction. He looks wrecked. Furious. And far too proud to say anything.

"Piece of shit," he mutters, not looking at you. His voice is hoarse, like the sound he made is still caught in his throat. He swipes a hand over his face, then lets it drop to the sheets, his jaw working silently. The scent of him fills the room — vanilla and warm milk, thick and strained. His chest rises and falls in shallow bursts, each breath pulling at the sore, heavy flesh.

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The bedroom is dim, lit only by the lamp on the nightstand. The house is quiet — baby's asleep, monitor a low static on the dresser. The air is thick with him: vanilla, sandalwood, warm milk. It clings to everything. But tonight there's a sharper edge. Tension. Irritation. Something simmering.

You're standing near the bed. Between you, on the rumpled sheets, lies a scrap of fabric. Cow-print. White with black spots. Tiny. Ridiculous. Dave stares at it like it's a personal insult. His jaw is already tight, blue eyes hard in the lamplight.

His hand snaps out, grabs the bikini, and hurls it across the room. It hits the wall with a soft, pathetic slap, drops to the floor in a crumpled heap.

"Fuck off," he spits, low and sharp. "I'm not wearing that. You've lost your goddamn mind. Take it back where you got it. Or burn it. Or fucking eat it, I don't care. But I never want to see this piece of—" He stumbles, jaw working as he searches for the worst word. His eyes flick to the crumpled fabric, then back to you, blazing. "—fucking garbage again."

He shoves back against the headboard, arms crossing tight over his chest. The movement makes his pecs shift — swollen, full, skin stretched and faintly flushed. He ignores it. Turns his face away. His shoulders are rigid, like he's bracing for another round of the same old fight.

The light catches the faded bite mark on his neck. Broad, strong, seething — he looks ready to throw a punch. But you know him. The way his hands curl into fists when he's flustered. The way his voice scrapes when he's trying not to react.

The air smells warm and heavy — vanilla and milk, but strained now, sharp with his anger. No softness in it. Only heat. Only irritation.

"I said no, you fucking pervert," he mutters, not looking at you. "Don't push it." His voice is gravel. A warning. A dare. The muscle in his jaw ticks once, twice. His fingers dig into his own biceps, knuckles white.

He's fighting something. You can't tell if it's you or himself.

A beat of silence. His breath comes sharp through his nose. Then, quieter, more dangerous:

"You think I'm your little cow, huh? Your fucking doll?" His eyes cut to you, cold fire. "Try me. See what happens." The words are a challenge. But his body betrays him — the flush on his chest spreads, and he shifts against the sheets like he can't get comfortable. Like the ache in his chest won't let him be still.

He holds your gaze for a long, taut moment, then jerks his chin toward the crumpled fabric on the floor.

"Now get that garbage out of my sight. Out of our bedroom. Right fucking now." His voice is steel wrapped in gravel. No room for argument.

The house is quiet. Not the heavy quiet of tension — the soft, settled quiet of a home at rest. The baby's finally down for the night, and the only sounds are the distant hum of the refrigerator and the faint murmur of the TV you just turned on.

You've just finished cleaning the kitchen. Your hands are still slightly cold from the water, the sleeves of your shirt pushed up to your elbows. You sink onto the couch with a tired exhale, the cushions welcoming you like an old friend. The TV flickers to life, some late-night program casting pale blue light across the room.

That's when you hear him — soft footsteps in the hallway, unhurried and heavy with exhaustion. Dave appears in the doorway, rumpled and undone. His hair is a mess, sticking up in the back from where he's been lying against the nursery chair. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, his t-shirt slightly wrinkled, the hem riding up just enough to show a strip of skin above his waistband. He looks tired. The kind of tired that settles deep in the bones after a long day.

He doesn't say anything. Just crosses the room and lowers himself onto the couch between your legs, his back to your chest. The weight of him is familiar, grounding. He shifts once, twice, finding his place against you, and then his body goes still with a long, slow exhale.

Your arms come around him naturally, hands finding his waist. His muscles tense instantly at the chill of your palms — a sharp, instinctive flinch. The hard lines of his abdomen jump under your touch, and for a moment he's all taut muscle and stubborn strength, the body of a man who's spent years fighting.

Then your palm flattens against his belly, and he lets out a breath.

The tension eases slowly. Under your hand, the once-flat plane of his stomach is different now — softer, a little fuller. The sharp ridges are still there, but they've blurred at the edges. You trace the faint curve of his lower belly with your thumb, feeling the delicate, raised lines of stretch marks that fan across the skin. They're pale, almost silvery in the low light. You know them. You've kissed them in the dark, in the early hours of the morning when the baby was finally asleep and the world belonged only to the two of you.

His body remembers what it did. So does yours.

You lean in, burying your nose in the crown of his head. His hair smells clean — soap and sleep and something else. It takes you a second to place it. Milk. The faint, sweet trace left behind after feeding the baby. It clings to his skin, to his clothes, mixed with the scent that's always been him: vanilla, sandalwood. But underneath it now is something warmer. Richer. No suppressants, no hiding. Just him. Your omega.

He shifts again, and this time he tilts his head back, letting it rest against your shoulder. The movement exposes the long line of his throat, the edge of his jaw — and there, low on his neck, the faded bite mark. Your mark. His lips brush the underside of your chin — barely there, just a whisper of contact. He takes a deep breath, slow and even, and you feel the tension drain from his muscles as he settles into you.

The hard lines of his chest soften as he exhales. His stomach relaxes fully under your palm, no longer bracing. Your scent must be doing something to him, because his body grows heavier against you, melting into the cradle of your arms like he's finally allowed himself to stop holding everything up.

His hand finds your knee and rests there. The TV murmurs on. Somewhere down the hall, the baby monitor glows dimly.

You don't speak. You don't need to.

His chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm, and you press a kiss to his temple — barely a kiss, more a promise. His fingers tighten slightly on your knee, then go loose.

"Stay here," he murmurs, voice rough around the edges, already thick with sleep. "Like this."

The credits roll on the TV. The house settles around you. And for a while, the only thing that matters is the warm weight of him in your arms.