"It is not that good," he mumbles, his gaze dropping to the journal in his hands.
"Who said that?"
The question comes out sharper than I intended, but I do not soften it.
His jaw tightens. His fingers flex against the journal's cover. For a long moment, he does not answer, and I can see the internal battle playing out across his features. The instinct to deflect warring with something deeper that wants to be honest.
"Rafe," he finally says.
The name lands like a stone in still water.
"Rafe said writing is not for men with balls. He said I should be focusing on my goalie career, not wasting time on stories that will never pay my bills. He found the journal once, read the first few pages, and told me it was soft. Weak. The kind of thing Omegas read to feel things because they do not have anything real going on in their lives."
The anger that rises in my chest is immediate and incandescent.
"That is a bunch of bullshit!"
I practically shout the words, loud enough that Etienne flinches, his eyes going wide at my volume.
"You can do both!" I continue, my hands gesturing wildly. "You can be a goalie AND a writer! You can play hockey AND tell stories! One does not invalidate the other! The idea that men cannot be creative, cannot have feelings, cannot put emotions on a page without compromising their masculinity is the most toxic, damaging, prehistoric garbage that keeps getting recycled by insecure people who are terrified that someone else's vulnerability will expose their own emptiness!"
I am breathing hard again, my chest heaving with the force of my conviction.
Etienne stares at me.
And slowly, carefully, a smile spreads across his face.
Not the guarded smile he wore when I first met him. Not the polite expression he uses when Cal is making jokes or Rafe isbeing insufferable. This smile is real. It reaches his storm-blue eyes and makes them bright, makes the silver flecks in his irises catch the morning light streaming through the window.
"You actually read it," he repeats, his voice soft with wonder. "All of it. And you liked it."
"I loved it," I correct fiercely. "There is a difference. Liking is what you do with pleasant things that pass through your life without leaving a mark. Loving is what you do with stories that climb inside your chest and refuse to leave. Your book is the second kind, Etienne. It is the kind that makes people cry on bed edges and demand endings from authors who have not finished writing them."
His smile widens.
"I love to read," I continue, the words tumbling out before I can organize them. "Have since I was a kid. Books were the one constant, you know? No matter where I ended up, no matter how unstable things got, libraries were free. Stories were free. I could escape into other worlds whenever the real one became too heavy to carry."
I pause, realizing I have been rambling, but Etienne's expression encourages me to continue.
"I used to edit for authors, actually. A side gig to make money when I was living in communal housing. Did it for a fraction of the industry rate because I know how hard it is to succeed in publishing. The hidden expenses nobody talks about. The five to ten thousand dollars it costs to properly produce a book that might sell twenty copies if you are lucky. The rejections and the setbacks and the moments when you question whether any of it is worth it."
I look down at my hands, folded in my lap.
"The money from editing helped me survive when my parents cut me off financially. After I presented late. After Ibecame the disappointment they never wanted to admit they were afraid of."
Etienne's expression shifts.
"That was not very nice of your parents," he says quietly, and there is a gentle anger in his voice that surprises me. Not the explosive rage that Rafe would display, all bravado and bluster. A softer fury. The kind that comes from empathy rather than ego.
I laugh, but the sound is hollow.
"They mean well. In their odd way, I guess." I shrug, attempting casual but landing somewhere closer to resigned. "They are just scared when you think about it. Like Charlos's father in your story. He pressures Charlos to be like his older brother because he is afraid. Afraid his son will end up like him, trapped in a career he does not love, struggling in an economy that does not reward passion, watching dreams die slow deaths under the weight of practicality."
I sigh, the sound carrying years of thoughts I have never spoken aloud.
"My Dad wanted me to leave because he said I would not grow if I stayed home. I was angry at him for so long. Furious that he agreed with my mother when she decided a late-blooming Omega was too much of a burden to support. But a part of him was right, I think. I would have been stuck in a standstill if I had remained. Maybe that was even why I was a late bloomer, you know? Maybe my body knew that I needed to leave before it would let me become what I was supposed to be."
Etienne listens without interrupting. His storm-blue eyes are fixed on my face with the attentive focus of someone who is actually hearing what you say, not just waiting for their turn to speak.
