She meets my stare evenly.
“Not yet.”
Alright: Idefinitelydon't like her attitude.
She’s a little more wary now, I think, and her scent tightens, but she's still not backing down. Instead, she leans back on the couch, casually reclaiming the space.
I don’t smile, but my eyes flick down to the blanket around her, the one clutched tight in her fists.
“See you’ve made yourself comfortable,” I comment before I can stop myself.
She scoffs under her breath. It would seem I've displeased her already.
“I dragged a ridiculous amount of bags through a blizzard, nearly broke my ass on your front steps, and found a mystery hoodie and a toothbrush in the bathroom when I thought I’d be living here alone. What did you want me to do: sleep standing up?”
A corner of my jaw twitches. I'm just about to bite back when another thought crosses my mind, and my eyes scan her face quickly.
“Wait: how old are you?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
The question came out harsher than I intended it to, but there's no going back now. I figure I may as well commit to it.
“You look... young.”
“Wow. Great opener.”
“I didn’t mean…” I scrub a hand across the back of my neck. “You just don’t look like someone who’s worked with athletes.”
“And you don’t look like someone who uses words longer than five syllables. Should we both keep making assumptions?”
Thatgets me, and my brows raise again.
She keeps holding my gaze, clearly not sorry about her attitude.
“I’m twenty-four,” she finally adds.
Huh. Only three years younger than I am, but something about her makes her seem younger. Maybe it’s just her omega scent, or her plump cheeks and smooth skin, or how small she looks curled up on the couch. Not fragile, exactly, just… worn out.
Not that I’m in any shape to judge.
I lean my good shoulder against the stair rail, watching her.
“So, you from the city?” I ask, not really sure why I'm even asking. It's not as if I care.
“Minneapolis,” she says. “Born and raised. You?”
“Iron Lake.”
“Figures.”
“What, because of the boots?”
“No: because you’ve got that small-town glare. Like everyone’s already on thin ice and you’re just waiting for it to crack.”
“It’s not a glare,” I say after a second. “It’s a face.”
She huffs out a breath, not quite a laugh.
