"Thank you," he said softly.
I wrapped my arms around my knees, trying to stop the shivering. "For what? For tanking the interview?"
He looked up then. His eyes were dark, blown wide, full of something that looked devastatingly like pride.
"For letting me back you up on record."
The air went out of my lungs.
"You didn't need permission," I whispered.
"I did," he said fiercely. "Always. I'm not... I'm not going to be the Alpha who silences you to save you. I wanted to tear Nate's throat out with my teeth. But you spoke first. You drew the line. I just stood behind it." He leaned his head against the doorframe. "That was properly punk, Z. 'My heat isn't a brand activation.' Christ. Put that on a shirt."
"Rowan probably already is," I muttered, a weak laugh bubbling up.
"Probably." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. He looked exhausted. "You okay? Level with me. Furniture or wall?"
"Floor," I said. "Just... floor."
"Copy floor."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fidget spinner, one of the cheap plastic ones. He spun it on his knee. Thewhirrrsound was grounding.
From the hallway behind him, a familiar, mild voice drifted in.
"Right. Kettle's on."
Cal appeared in the slice of hallway visible through the door. He was holding his phone in one hand and a box of tea in the other. He didn't look at me, didn't invade the privacy of the moment. He just spoke to the air.
"Brittany Thomas has the hashtags locked down," Cal reported, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "Trending #FoxTailRespect is currently out-pacing the romance speculation by three to one. Euan has engaged the bot-net to flag keyword harassment. And Nate Lux is currently being shouted at by Rowan in a way that suggests he may need therapy."
Alfie snorted. "Go on, Rowan."
"She's using the 'disappointed mother' voice," Cal added. "It's lethal."
I closed my eyes.
I was sitting on a dirty floor in a green room. I was shaking. I had just declared war on the invasive curiosity of a million strangers.
But there was an Alpha guarding the door who wouldn't cross the threshold without asking. There was a Beta making tea and another running crisis PR like a general. There was a pack forming around me, facing outward, shields locked.
"Cal?" I called out.
"Yes, Z?"
"Milk. Two sugars."
Cal replied, "Already sorted."
Alfie spun the fidget toy again. He scooted an inch closer to the doorframe, still not crossing, just letting his shoulder rest against the wood.
"We got you," he whispered, low enough that the mic wouldn't have caught it, low enough that it was just for me. Those three words made my chest ache in a way I didn't understand.
ELEVEN
Kit
The first sign wasn’t the smell. It was the stumble.
