A broad, muscular chest covered in a simple gray t-shirt, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of deep sleep. The fabric stretches across defined pectorals and shifts with each breath, and the scent emanating from this chest is familiar in a way that makes my stomach flip.
Storm clouds after rain. Fresh linen. The faint sweetness of old books.
Etienne.
My gaze travels upward, following the line of his neck to his jaw to the sleeping face that is approximately six inches from my own. His dark hair is disheveled against the pillow, falling across his forehead in messy waves. His lashes, dark and absurdly long for an Alpha, rest against his cheekbones in soft crescents. His lips are slightly parted, and a faint murmur escapes them, syllables that sound French and dreamy and completely incomprehensible.
I am in Etienne Laurent's arms.
In what appears to be Etienne Laurent's bed.
Wearing what I realize, upon glancing down, is still Cal's oversized hockey jersey and nothing else on my legs exceptmy underwear because someone apparently removed my sweatpants while I was unconscious.
What happened? How did I get here? The last thing I remember is the nurse's office and the examination and three Alphas standing around my bed like sentinels and then... nothing. Blank. A void where memories should be, filled with the fog of whatever sedative the nurse used to keep me docile during the examination.
Did I sleepwalk into Etienne's room? Did someone carry me here? Did I have a choice in the matter, or did my unconscious body simply gravitate toward the Alpha whose scent makes me feel safest?
The flush that spreads across my cheeks has nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the implications of my current position.
I need to escape.
Carefully, slowly, with the precision of someone defusing a bomb that might detonate if jostled, I begin the process of extracting myself from Etienne's embrace. His arm is heavy across my waist, his hand splayed against my lower back in a way that suggests he pulled me close in his sleep and intends to keep me there. Every time I try to slide out from under his grip, his fingers curl into the jersey fabric, holding on with unconscious determination.
He murmurs again.
"Ne pars pas..."
The French syllables are soft and slurred with sleep, carrying an ache that makes my chest tighten despite not fully understanding the words. He turns further onto his back as he speaks, his arm loosening just enough for me to slip free without waking him.
I wiggle out of his grasp, moving slowly until I am sitting upright on the edge of the mattress, my bare feet dangling above a floor I do not recognize.
This is definitely not my closet-sized room.
The bedroom is larger than mine but maintains a minimalist simplicity that feels intentional rather than sparse. The walls are a soft gray, the bedding is navy blue and white, and the furniture is arranged with the kind of thoughtful precision that suggests someone who values order in their personal space. A desk sits beneath the window, its surface covered with papers and sticky notes and what looks like a collection of journals stacked in careful piles. A bookshelf lines one wall, its shelves packed with volumes that range from hockey strategy guides to what appear to be classic literature titles in both English and French.
Hockey posters dot the walls, but they are tasteful. Professional photography rather than the garish promotional material that Rafe's room is probably plastered with. Action shots of players mid-game, frozen in moments of triumph or tension or the pure, unbridled joy of a scored goal.
I study the space, cataloging details the way I used to catalog the environments of every new shelter I landed in. Looking for clues. Looking for danger. Looking for the small things that would tell me who I was sharing space with and whether I could trust them.
Etienne's room tells me he is organized. Private. A reader. Someone who keeps journals, which suggests introspection and possibly writing habits that extend beyond academic requirements. Someone who cares about aesthetics but does not need to broadcast his personality through aggressive decoration.
The opposite of Rafe in almost every way.
My eyes land on the nightstand.
There is a book resting on its surface. Not a published novel with a glossy cover and printed spine, but a notebook. One ofthose hardcover journals with thick, cream-colored pages, the kind writers use for first drafts and poets use for verses they are not ready to share.
The cover catches my attention immediately.
It is illustrated. Hand-drawn, from the looks of it, with the careful detail of someone who spent hours on the image. A girl stands on the left side, her figure graceful and poised, dressed in a skating costume that catches imaginary light. Behind her, an ice rink stretches into the distance, flanked by shining lights and cameras and the silhouettes of an audience. She is mid-spin, her arms extended, her face turned away so only the line of her jaw and the cascade of her hair are visible.
On the right side stands a boy. A young man, really, with glasses perched on his nose and a stack of books clutched against his chest. He is surrounded by library shelves, by tables laden with papers, by the quiet, enclosed world of academia. His face is turned toward the girl, and even in the simple lines of the illustration, there is a longing in his posture that transcends the medium.
Between them, the two worlds overlap. The ice bleeds into the library. The books scatter across the rink. They stand on opposite sides of a divide that is clearly meant to represent more than physical distance.
I cannot stop myself.
My hand reaches out before my brain can remind me that this is not mine, that reading someone's private journal without permission is a violation of trust, that I should put it down and pretend I never saw it.
