"Yeah."
"Congratulations. That's a significant achievement. De Scarzis rarely casts freshmen in lead roles, especially for the fallshowcase." He gestures to the coffee pot. "Broadway scouts will be there. This could be career-defining."
"I know." I pour myself a cup, staring out the kitchen window at the early morning light. Trying to feel something. Anything. "First rehearsal is Monday."
"With Ben Rosen as your leading man," Corvus observes, and there's something in his tone I can't quite read.
"Yep."
"That will be... complicated. Given the bonds. Given Dorian's current state." He takes a sip of his coffee. "You'll be spending significant time in intimate proximity with someone you're attracted to while your primary Alpha is having a psychological crisis. Statistically, that's a recipe for disaster."
"Everything's already a disaster." I take a sip, the bitter coffee matching my mood. "What's one more thing?"
Upstairs, Dorian's door opens. Footsteps in the hallway. The bathroom door closing. The shower turning on.
He's awake. Functional. Going through the motions of being alive.
But he's not here. Not really. And I have no idea how to bring him back.
Or if he even wants to come back at all.
thirty-eight
Vespera
Ineedtogetout of the house.
Yesterday I got the cast list—Hedda Gabler, the role I've been dreaming about—and Dorian didn't even acknowledge it. Didn't congratulate me, didn't look at me, stayed locked in his room with his father's scotch like I don't exist.
This morning was worse. I woke up in Oakley's bed again, unable to face sleeping alone when the bond aches this badly. Came downstairs hoping maybe today would be different, maybe Dorian would actually talk to me.
Instead, I found him in the kitchen making coffee with mechanical precision, and when I said "good morning" he nodded and left without a word.
So I'm done waiting. I grab my bag and leave before Oakley or Corvus can try to make it better with gentle concern and clinical observations.
Campus is bustling with the usual Monday morning chaos—students rushing to classes, gathering in groups, the constant hum of academic life. I head toward the student union, thinking I'll grab coffee and find a quiet corner to review my script before first rehearsal this afternoon.
The café is crowded, and I'm scanning for an empty table when I catch a familiar scent—vanilla and cedar, distinctly omega, achingly recognizable.
My breath catches.
Robbie Gao sits at a corner table by the window, books spread around him, a coffee cup at his elbow. He's wearing Northwood's uniform—perfectly pressed, impeccable as always—and he's studying what looks like a script, completely absorbed.
Relief floods through me. I haven't seen him since we got back from the lake house—different class schedules, him catching up on everything he missed, me dealing with Dorian's spiral. But seeing him now, solid and real and here, makes something tight in my chest ease.
Before I can decide whether to approach, Robbie looks up from his script.
Our eyes meet across the crowded café.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then his face breaks into a genuine smile—warm, familiar, everything I've been missing.
He gathers his things quickly and crosses the café, sliding into the seat across from me without hesitation.
"Vespera." His voice is warm, easy. "I was hoping I'd run into you. Haven't seen you around much since we got back."
"Different schedules," I say, already feeling steadier being near him. "And I've been... dealing with stuff at the house."
His expression shifts to concern. "Dorian?"
