Etienne's footsteps are quieter. Softer. Moving across the living room with the careful tread of someone who has learned to occupy space without disturbing it. I hear the muffled sound of a book being set down, the rustle of pages, and I wonder if he is reading or writing or simply staring at the journal I held in my hands last night.
And then there is Raphael.
His voice carries through the walls in a steady stream of French, the cadence rising and falling with the unmistakable rhythm of a phone conversation. I cannot understand the words, but the tone is professional. Businesslike. The voice of someone who is accustomed to handling logistics and making arrangements while other people are still rubbing sleep from their eyes.
I frown, listening to the unfamiliar layer he adds to the apartment's soundscape.
He just arrived yesterday. He kissed me in a nurse's office, declared himself my scent match, and apparently moved into this dorm without bothering to bring his luggage first. And now he is conducting business calls in French while the rest of us are barely conscious.
Who does that?
The absence is more notable than the presence.
Rafe did not come back last night.
I noticed when I returned from Etienne's room in the early hours, tiptoeing through the dark apartment to my closet with my heart still racing from the question he had asked. Rafe's door was open, his room empty, his bed untouched. No arrogant Alpha sprawled across rumpled sheets, no leather and burnt cedar scent drifting through the hallway, no hostile energy radiating through the walls.
The apartment felt lighter without him.
I do not know where he went. Do not particularly care, if I am being honest with myself. But my brain, trained by years of survival instincts to track potential threats, fills in the possibilities without my permission.
He is probably with Vanessa. The figure skating princess with the jasmine perfume and the territorial glares. The Omegawho has been on his arm at every public event and whose eyes shot daggers at me from across the ice yesterday.
Or maybe another Omega entirely. Someone who strokes his ego and tells him he is the best and does not beat him in races he challenged her to.
The thought does not make me angry.
It should, maybe. An Alpha abandoning his pack to spend the night with another Omega is a statement, a declaration of priority that most packmates would find hurtful. But I am not his packmate. I am a temporary roommate with a rapidly approaching expiration date, and his absence feels less like rejection and more like relief.
He is focused on himself. On his ego. On being the center of a universe that does not include the people who are supposed to matter to him.
That tells me everything I need to know about whether I want him in my pack, temporary or otherwise.
What intrigues me more is how seamlessly Raphael seems to have stepped into a leadership role.
He arrived yesterday. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he was a stranger who materialized on the ice and caught me mid-crash. And now he is conducting morning phone calls, navigating university systems, organizing logistics for a pack he technically has no authority over.
Cal and Etienne do not seem bothered by it.
If anything, they seem relieved. Like a weight they have been carrying without acknowledging has suddenly been distributed across broader shoulders. Like someone finally showed up who knows how to manage the chaos that Rafe has been creating and they have been struggling to contain.
Interesting dynamics. Very interesting dynamics.
I push off the blanket and sit up, wincing as my left knee protests the movement. The anti-inflammatory cream from thenurse has helped, but the joint is still stiff and sore, reminding me with every bend that I pushed it too far yesterday.
Getting dressed is a careful process. I pull on leggings that are gentle against my wrapped knee, a loose sweater that hangs off one shoulder, and the thick socks that I have been living in since the weather turned cold. My hair is a disaster, tangled from sleep, and I gather it into a messy bun that will have to suffice because I am too hungry and too curious to spend time on appearance.
I open my door and step into the living room.
The apartment is bathed in soft morning light, the kind that makes everything look slightly more beautiful than it is. Cal is visible through the kitchen doorway, standing at the stove with a spatula in one hand, his blond hair still messy from sleep. The scent of bacon and coffee fills the air, mixing with his warm caramel and autumn spice in a way that makes my stomach growl audibly.
Etienne is on the couch, exactly as I imagined, a book open in his lap though his eyes are not focused on the pages. He looks up when I enter, and his expression shifts into the quiet, hopeful uncertainty of someone who asked a question and is waiting for an answer he is afraid to hear.
Raphael is standing near the window, phone pressed to his ear, speaking French in rapid, fluid sentences that sound like instructions being delivered to someone who is taking notes. His dark auburn hair is still damp from what must have been an early shower, and he is dressed in clothes that look suspiciously like they were borrowed from the apartment's existing wardrobe, a plain white t-shirt that might be Cal's and dark jeans that fit too well to be accidental.
He notices me first.
His gray eyes find mine across the room, and a small smile curves his lips before he returns his attention to the phone call.The acknowledgment is brief but warm, and it sends a flutter through my chest that I firmly attribute to hunger rather than his scent, which is already curling through the apartment like it owns the space.
