I’ve witnessed her meticulousness, her dedication, her absolute refusal to be defined by her designation.
And now it’s all unraveling because of biology. Because of three fucking Alphas and a tropical storm.
I check my watch again. It’s been six minutes and forty-two seconds. Close enough.
A sound catches my attention—water running. Coming from the direction of Elle’s room. It’s been running for a while now, the sound just present enough to register as unusual.
My mind catalogs possibilities: shower (unlikely, it’s been too long), sink (possible, but why would she leave it running?), toilet (would have stopped by now).
I move toward her room before I can rationalize myself out of it. Concern overrides protocol. Something might be wrong. She might need help but be too stubborn to ask for it.
I knock on her door, three sharp raps. Precise. Controlled. “Elle? Is everything alright?”
Silence, then rustling. The door opens a crack, and I’m hit with her scent—stronger now, sweeter, like vanilla warmed in the sun. She’s applied more blockers, I can smell the chemical undertone, but they’re fighting a losing battle.
“I’m fine,” she says, but her usual composure is fractured. Her hair is slightly mussed, her blouse wrinkled. She never has wrinkles. Never.
“I heard water running,” I explain, forcing my eyes to stay on her face and not drift to the pulse point at her neck where her scent is strongest.
Her shoulders drop slightly. “The bathroom faucet won’t stop dripping. I’ve tried everything, but it’s just getting worse.”
Of course it is. Because we needed one more problem in this disaster of a situation. The universe apparently thinks trapping an Omega approaching heat with three Alphas isn’t quite entertaining enough.
“I can fix it,” I say immediately. Because I can fix things. It’s what I do. I solve problems. I maintain control. I make things work.
She hesitates, then steps back, opening the door wider. “If you’re sure it’s not an imposition...”
“It’s not.” I step into her room, keeping a careful distance. The space is immaculate despite her obvious distress—bed neatly made, clothes hung precisely, everything in its place. So very Elle.
The sound of running water grows louder as I approach her bathroom. Inside, I find the culprit—the cold water handle on the sink faucet, dripping steadily despite being turned to theoff position. I twist it fully closed, but the dripping continues, increasing to a thin stream.
“See? It’s getting worse,” Elle says from the doorway, keeping her distance. Smart. The bathroom is too small, too intimate a space for our current circumstances.
“It’s just a worn washer,” I explain, kneeling to examine the pipes beneath the sink. “Simple fix. I’ll take care of it.”
“Do you need tools?” she asks, her practical nature asserting itself even through her discomfort.
“Probably just a wrench and screwdriver. The resort must have maintenance supplies somewhere.”
“I’ll call the front desk,” she offers, already reaching for her phone.
“No,” I say, too quickly. The thought of some unknown Alpha maintenance worker entering her space, scenting her condition, makes something primitive and possessive rear up in my chest. “No need to bother them. I can handle it.”
She raises an eyebrow, almost smiling. “Are you a secret plumber in your spare time, Adrian?”
“I’m capable of basic household repairs,” I reply, slightly affronted. I’m Adrian Cole. I run a tech empire. I have three degrees. I can certainly fix a leaky faucet.
She steps back, gesturing toward the door. “I’ll let you work your magic, then.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m still kneeling on the bathroom floor, scrolling through a YouTube tutorial on my phone while water sprays in an increasingly concerning arc from the dismantledfaucet. This is... not going according to plan. The tutorial made it look simple. Remove the handle. Replace the washer. Reassemble. Done.
Except the handle required more force than anticipated. And the washer isn’t the standard size shown in the video. And water is now soaking the front of my shirt and the bathroom floor.
“How’s it going in there?” Elle calls from the bedroom.
“Fine,” I lie, because admitting defeat is not an option. “Just finishing up.”
I hear a knock at her bedroom door, followed by Caleb’s voice—of course it’s Caleb, because this situation wasn’t irritating enough already.
