"Four AM wake-up calls for two months straight. Hard habit to break."
Whiskey's expression darkens as he's reminded of what I went through, but he visibly pushes past it instead of bugging me about it. "You hungry?"
Now that he mentions it, I'm starving. The combination of heat hormones and last night's activities has left me with an appetite that could rival his own.
"Yeah, actually. I could eat."
"Perfect." Whiskey sits up, running both hands through his disheveled hair. "Nothing wrong with pre-sunrise breakfast. I know a place."
"It's not even six yet," Plague points out.
"So? Best diners are open twenty-four hours. Besides, we're less likely to be recognized at this hour."
He has a point. The fewer people who see us together, the better. “I could carry this notepad,” I say, picking up the one on the nightstand. “Pretend I’m a journalist if anyone sees us.”
Whiskey fist pumps the air. "Fuck yeah."
Five minutes turns into ten as I stand under the hotel's mediocre shower spray, trying to wash away the lingering scent of last night's activities. Not because I'm ashamed—far from it—but because walking into a public place reeking of sex and heat pheromones seems like a bad idea when we're supposed to be keeping a low profile.
The water pressure is shit, but at least it's hot. I let it pound against my shoulders, working out the pleasant aches from being thoroughly fucked by two alphas who clearly knew what they were doing. My body feels different. Claimed in a way that has nothing to do with marks or ownership and everything to do with choice.
Mychoice.
That thought sends another warm flutter through my chest, even as my practical side reminds me this is supposed to be temporary. No strings attached, just biology and convenience and mutual need. At least for now.
So why does it feel like more?
I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on the present instead of overthinking every interaction. One day at a time. One decision at a time. That's how I've survived this long, and it's how I'll keep surviving.
When I emerge from the bathroom, toweling my hair dry, I find Whiskey and Plague in the middle of what can only be described as the world's most awkward getting-ready routine. They're moving around each other like they're choreographing a dance where the steps involve never making eye contact or getting within three feet of each other.
Whiskey's pulling on his leather jacket with unnecessarily assertive movements while Plague meticulously folds and smooths his clothes from yesterday. The tension between them is so thick I could cut it with a knife.
"Ready?" Whiskey asks, flashing his usual easy grin as he glances up at me, his gaze roaming over my outfit. The simple blouse and jeans I'm wearing now hug my figure, but I'd rather hide in plain sight than dress like someone who's trying not to be noticed. And I do give "spy on the run" vibes in the hoodie, however comfy and warm it is.
"Yep," I say, trying to sound peppy and full of energy even though I'm still groggy and sore from last night.
Plague's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "We should take separate elevators. Less conspicuous."
"Or," Whiskey says with false cheer, "we could act like normal people instead of international fugitives. It's breakfast, not a drug deal."
"Nothing about this situation is normal," Plague replies coolly, looking at the surgical mask in his hands like he's considering whether putting it on will make it immediately obvious who he is. He decides to think better of it and folds it before slipping it into his pocket.
"Separate elevators it is," I say before this can escalate into another alpha argument. "Plague, you go first. Whiskey and I will follow in a few minutes."
Plague nods curtly, gathering his things. He pauses at the door, his pale blue eyes meeting mine for just a moment. There's something vulnerable there, quickly masked, before he slips out without another word.
The silence that follows feels heavy and awkward.
Whiskey suddenly rakes both hands through his hair. "He's gonna pretend none of it happened," he mutters finally, staring at the closed door. "He's gonna act like we just helped you through your heat and nothing else went down."
"Maybe that's for the best," I say carefully, testing his reaction.
Whiskey gives me a wary look. "You think so?"
"I think," I say, choosing my words with care, "that you two have a lot of history I don't understand. And maybe pushing too hard too fast isn't the answer. I'm sure I'm not the only one who needs to take all this slow."
He deflates slightly, shoulders slumping. "Yeah. Maybe you're right."
