The rain hasn’t stopped since I left my condo. It’s steady, cold, and soaking through every layer I have by the time Magnus opens the door.
He looks worse than I imagined. His eyes are bloodshot, hair wild, face drawn and pale. The hoodie he’s wearing is inside out, the seam visible across his collarbone. He’s barefoot.
“Alaric.” His voice cracks on my name. He’s holding the phone like he forgot to hang up.
I should be angry. I should tell him he scared the hell out of me, calling drunk in the middle of the night, saying he’s not enough for me, that he’d be fine being my secret. Instead, I look at him—at the mess of him—and all I can think is that he looks small. Not weak, not fragile, just… human.
I step inside. The apartment is dimly lit, the smell of whiskey hanging heavy in the air. There’s a half-empty bottle on the table, a hockey stick leaning against the wall, clothes scattered across the couch. It’s ordinary, lived-in, and for some reason, that makes my chest ache.
Magnus stares at me like I’m a hallucination. “You actually came.”
“I did.” I kick off my shoes, water pooling on his floor. “You didn’t sound good.”
He gives a humorless laugh. “You drove across the city because I didn’t sound good?”
“Because you sounded broken,” I say quietly.
He flinches. “Guess I’m worse at hiding it than I thought.”
“Guess I’m worse at pretending I don’t care,” I shoot back.
The silence between us is thick enough to choke on. He looks at me for a long moment before stepping aside to let me in fully. I move past him, the air in here warm and still compared to the rain outside.
It’s a small place—one bedroom, a galley kitchen, half the square footage of my condo—but it feels lived in. There’s a half-finished puzzle on the table, a few old game pucks lined up on a shelf, aplant by the window that’s somehow still alive. It’s messy but… him.
He’s watching me observe his place. I can feel the tension roll off him. “Not what you’re used to, huh?” he says, his tone sharp to cover the insecurity underneath.
“It’s nice,” I say.
“It’s small. Cramped. The bathroom door sticks. The heater’s loud.”
“Magnus.”
He stops.
I meet his eyes. “It’s home.”
He swallows, his throat working. “You’re dripping on my rug, Ice Prince.”
“Then hand me a towel instead of insulting me,” I mutter.
That makes him laugh and it’s such a relief I almost join in. He disappears into the bathroom, returns with an old towel that smells like detergent and cedar. I dry my hair with it, then toss it over a chair.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“Not really,” I say. “You?”
He shrugs, leaning against the counter, arms folded across his chest. The fabric of his hoodie stretches tight over his shoulders. “I’ve been worse.”
“I know.”
He studies me, eyes narrowing slightly. “How did you know where I live, Al?”
I hesitate before admitting, “I hired a PI to do some digging a few months ago.”
He blinks, then barks a short laugh. “You what?”
“I wasn’t going to let you know where I lived and not the other way around.”
