Connor
Idon’t leave with the others.
I pretend I forgot something and linger just long enough to watch Beau head down the hall. Coach follows a minute later, and then the others start to filter out, one by one, all moving toward the exit.
The Icebox empties out fast, and after a few more minutes, the echoes fade.
Good.
I head toward the PT room once I’m sure we’re alone.
Emery’s door is half closed, light spilling out into the hallway, and I slow as I approach—not because I’m hesitant, but because something hits me square in the chest before I even touch the handle.
My jaw tightens, and this time, I don’t bother knocking.
I push the door open and step inside, and thereheis: sitting on the bench, shirtless with his broad shoulders bare, skin still flushed from training and posture loose in a way I’ve neverseen on him. Emery stands in front of him, hands steady on his shoulder, working the joint with professional focus—calm and precise, like this is just another rehab session.
It’s… normal.
That’s the problem.
The room smells like omega and alpha and something settled. Not fresh heat, or chaos; but something deeper. Something claimed.
Somethinglived in.
Beau looks up when I enter, and his gaze locks onto mine immediately. The air physically shifts.
“You need something?” he asks evenly.
Emery freezes, then turns.
“Connor.”
Her voice is calm; almost as though she already knew this was coming.
Knowing her, she probably did.
“Thought you’d headed home,” I say to Beau.
His eyes flick briefly to Emery’s hands on his shoulder, then back to me.
“I’m in treatment.”
I scoff. “Lucky you.”
His jaw flexes, and I feel the way that his scent presses outward, the change completely deliberate. It’s meant as a warning rather than a threat, but those things mean the same to me anyway.
Emery sighs softly and steps back, putting herself between us without even thinking about it.
“Okay,” she says. “Nobody’s posturing in my room.”
I finally allow myself to look at her, and she looks…good. Grounded. Bright, even. There’s something different in her scent—not heat, or arousal, butconfidence, I think.
That rattles me more than anything else.
“You stayed late,” she comments.
“So did you,” I reply.
