"What's wrong with your bed?" María José asked, blinking slowly as if she hadn't heard me right. "You live here. Don't you have your own bed?"
She looked genuinely confused. Not just scandalized—I mean, yes, she was scandalized, but there was something so beautifully innocent about her expression that I almost laughed.
But I held it in, mostly because she still had that stubborn Omega fire in her eyes, and I didn't want her kicking me out before I got under those soft sheets.
"I do," I said, letting my voice drop low and lazy, like honey in a warm glass of wine. "But it's cold… empty. No scent. No light. I need your warmth, María José."
Her cheeks burned instantly. I mean, her whole face went red like she'd been slapped with a steaming tortilla.
She folded her arms across her chest and snapped. "That's not happening. You're not sleeping on my bed. Not even beside it. Not even near it."
