I walked down the short hallway into the front lounge.
Empty.
Well, nearly empty.
Cal sat on the banquette, his legs crossed at the ankle, a paperback book resting on his knee. He didn't look up immediately. He let me enter the space, let me scan the room and register the absence of the three men who had just turned my worldview inside out.
On the table, sitting precisely in the center of a coaster, was a steaming mug of tea. Beside it was a folded piece of grid paper.
I walked over. My boots made no sound on the carpet. Euan’s air scrubbers were humming on low, but the room felt still. Too still.
I picked up the note.
We are moving to the front cab. The lounge is yours. The exit is yours. We wait on your signal. - The Band.
The handwriting was Euan’s, sharp, jagged, architectural. No loops, no flourishes. Just structure.
I looked at the sliding door that separated the lounge from the driver’s cab. It was shut. The heavy privacy curtain was drawn across the glass.
They were in there.
I did the spatial math instantly. The cab was tight. It had the driver’s seat, a jump seat, and about two square feet of floor space. Alfie, with his chaotic energy and faux-fur coat. Kit, who was built like a defensive line. Euan, who needed perimeter. Crammed into a space smaller than a vocal booth, breathing recycled air, just to give me the run of the bus.
It was ridiculous. It was excessive. It was the loudestDo-Nothingthey could possibly perform.
I sat down opposite Cal. I picked up the tea. It was perfect temperature, exactly 62 degrees.
"They're going to get a cramp," I said. My voice was raspy, the vocal cords still tight from the heat, from the crying, from the screaming in the green room.
Cal turned a page of his book. He didn't look at the cab door. "Likely. Alfie tried to sit on the jump seat, but he’s vibrating so hard I think he might actually phase through the upholstery.Kit is essentially sitting on Euan’s lap. It’s very romantic, in a submarine disaster sort of way."
I wrapped my hands around the mug. "They left."
Now Cal looked up. His eyes were mild, that steady Beta brown that reminded me of earth and anchors. "They retreated, Z. There’s a difference. Leaving implies they don't care. Retreating implies they care enough to get out of your way."
"They told me," I whispered. "The triple match."
"I heard." Cal marked his page and set the book down. "Hard to miss. Alfie’s volume control breaks when he’s emotional. He was shouting about 'material facts' like he was in court."
"It's statistically impossible."
"So is getting a decent cup of tea in America," Cal said dryly. "But miracles happen."
I stared into the dark liquid of the Earl Grey. The bergamot steam curled up, familiar and safe. "Callie says I’m an idiot if I run."
Cal raised an eyebrow. "Does she?"
"She says it’s a unicorn event. That walking away from three Alphas who scent-matched me in Seattle and then spent two weeks practically holding their breath to keep me comfortable is... insane." I traced the rim of the mug. "She says I have the power."
"Smart woman, your Callie."
"It doesn't feel like power," I admitted, the words tumbling out before I could check them. "It feels like the edge of a cliff. If I accept this... if I acknowledge the bond... then the contract changes. The rider changes."
I tapped the pocket of my jeans. "The Exit Card."
"What about it?"
"It stops working," I said. "Not legally. But realistically. You don't play an Exit Card on a triple match. It’s biology. It’s heavy."
