The apartment was flooding. The bathtub. I forgot to pull the drain plug and left the water running for like an hourwhile I was soaking and the whole place was turning into a swimming pool. Water everywhere. Puddles spreading. The delivery guy mentioning my apartment was leaking.
I panicked. Spun around and ran to turn the tap off before the damage got worse. But I was moving too fast. Bare feet on wet hardwood floor. No traction. No chance.
I slipped. Felt my feet go out from under me. That split second of weightlessness where you know you're falling and there's nothing you can do to stop it. Arms windmilling uselessly. And then?—
Impact. Pain. Darkness.
I must have hit my head and passed out. Hence the migraine from hell and the wet cloth and Grayson looking like he's been through a war while I was unconscious. How long was I out? Minutes? Hours? It's dark outside but I have no idea what time it is.
I move as slowly as I possibly can, trying to sit up without jostling my head too much. Every movement sends little sparks of pain through my skull but it's manageable. Bearable.
I look around my tiny apartment, taking inventory of the situation.
Nash is on my armchair—the only other piece of furniture I own besides the couch and bookshelf. He's sprawled in it at an angle that looks deeply uncomfortable, his long legs hanging over one arm, his head tipped back against the cushion. And he's snoring. Not loud or obnoxious, but definitely snoring in this rhythmic pattern that somehow syncs perfectly with Grayson's softer snores.
They're having a snoring competition and they don't even know it. Back and forth like a gentle symphony. Grayson's soft whistling snore followed by Nash's deeper rumble. It's oddly satisfying to listen to. Soothing in a way that makes me want to smile despite the pounding in my head.
The floor is still damp in places—I can see dark patches on the hardwood where water hasn't fully dried. There are towels everywhere, scattered like someone did their best to clean up but ran out of energy halfway through. My bathroom door is wide open and I can see more towels inside, piled on the floor.
The damage is probably going to cost a fortune to fix. Water damage, potential mold, the floor warping. My landlord is going to kill me. I can't afford repairs like this. I can barely afford my rent. This is a disaster on top of all my other disasters.
My gaze continues sweeping the room until my half-open eyes land on the third figure.
Theo.
He's sitting in my desk chair—the cheap plastic one I got from a thrift store that wobbles if you lean back too far. But he's sitting perfectly still, perfectly upright. Alert. Watching me.
He's the only one awake.
We just stare at one another. Neither of us moving. Neither of us speaking. Just locked in this eye contact that feels like it lasts for eons even though it's probably only a few seconds.
His olive eyes are intense in the dim lighting from my one lamp that's still on. I can't read his expression. Can't tell if he's relieved I'm awake or worried about something or just tired. There's something guarded about the way he's looking at me. Something careful.
I wonder if I'm hallucinating. If maybe I'm still unconscious and this is all some fever dream brought on by head trauma. Because what are the odds that three Alphas are in my apartment watching over me like I'm something precious worth protecting?
But then he finally moves.
He presses a finger to his lips. The universal gesture for quiet. Shh. Don't wake the others.
Then he mouths at me, his lips forming the words clearly even without sound: "Are you okay?"
Am I okay? I mean, my head feels like someone's using it as a drum. I'm wearing Christmas pajamas I don't remember putting on. My apartment is flooded and probably damaged beyond repair. Three Alphas I barely know are sleeping in my living room like they belong here. But physically? Yeah, I guess I'm okay.
I nod slowly. Carefully. Don't want to make the headache worse.
He mouths another question: "Can you stand?"
Can I stand? Good question. I do a quick internal assessment. No dizziness when I moved to sit up. No nausea. No double vision or confusion beyond the normal 'why are there Alphas in my apartment' confusion. Just the migraine and general exhaustion. I think I can stand. Probably. Maybe.
I nod again.
He gets up from the chair with fluid grace that makes absolutely no sound. Like he's a ghost or a ninja or someone who's had extensive training in moving silently.
It's odd—surreal, actually—because it's so completely silent. He doesn't make a single sound as he walks across my apartment toward me. Like he knows every crack in the floorboard. Every spot that might creak. Every place where the damp wood might groan under weight.
Military training. Has to be. Nobody moves like that naturally. This is someone who's had to be quiet to survive. Who's learned that sound equals danger in certain situations.
I try not to think about how much repairing the floor is going to cost. Try not to spiral into anxiety about money I don't have and damages I can't afford and landlords who are going to evict me for flooding the apartment below mine. One crisis at a time, Reverie. One crisis at a time.
