I gather my belongings with efficient speed, shoving my notebook into my bag, slinging it over my shoulder, turning back to Mae with my hand extended.
"Let us go."
She takes my hand without hesitation.
Her palm is warm against mine, her fingers threading between my knuckles with a trust that makes my heart stutter. We walk out of the lecture hall together, hands linked, her excitement radiating off her in waves that I can practically feel against my skin.
The hallway is crowded with students leaving their own classes, the Friday afternoon exodus creating a flow of bodies that parts around us as we move toward the exit. I catch the stares from the corner of my eye. The whispers that follow our joined hands like shadows.
A group of hockey players near the water fountain stops mid-conversation to watch us pass.
"Is that Laurent?" one of them mutters, not quite quietly enough. "With the new girl?"
"The Omega from the ice demonstration? The one who beat Rafe in that race?"
"Are they dating? Since when does Laurent date anyone?"
I hear every word.
And for the first time in my life, I do not let them make me shrink.
Let them wonder. Let them whisper. Let them question whether the quiet goalie who has spent years hiding in the background is finally stepping into the light.
Mae squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back, and we push through the doors into the bright afternoon sun.
The warmth hits my face, chasing away the chill of the over-air-conditioned building, and Mae tilts her head back to soak in the light like a flower remembering how to photosynthesize. Her dark hair catches the sun, the strands gleaming with hidden auburn undertones I have never noticed before.
She is beautiful.
Not in the polished, cultivated way that Omegas like Vanessa are beautiful, all makeup and designer clothes and carefully constructed images. Mae is beautiful in the way that wild things are beautiful. Uncontrolled. Authentic. The kind of beauty that does not need enhancement because it comes from a place that cannot be manufactured.
I am going to be bold.
I am going to pursue this girl who makes me feel things I have never felt before, who reads my private writing and cries over my unfinished stories, who defended my dreams to an empty room when she thought no one was listening.
No more hiding.
No more waiting for permission to want things.
No more being in other people's shadows.
CHAPTER 24
Soft Serve & Sharp Edges
~MABELINE~
Imoan.
Not a subtle, delicate, lady-like moan. The kind that should be reserved for private moments behind closed doors where no one can judge you. A full-bodied, eyes-rolling-back, borderline inappropriate moan that escapes my lips the second the matcha strawberry ube soft serve touches my tongue, and I am not even a little bit sorry about it.
"I do not know how soft serve can taste so damn good in the middle of winter," I murmur around the bite, licking my lips with the reverence of a woman who has just discovered religion at the bottom of a waffle cone, "but this is blissful."
The cold January air nips at my cheeks, turning them pink in a way that probably matches the strawberry swirl melting against my tongue. The campus streets are dusted with a thin layer of frost that crunches beneath our shoes, lampposts casting warm circles of amber light against the early evening grey, and the temperature has no business being as low as it is. But this ice cream? This ice cream does not care about the weather. This ice cream transcends seasons. This ice cream is a spiritual experience disguised as a frozen dessert, and I will defend that statement to my grave.
I am on cloud nine right now.
Everything about this afternoon has been stitched together with the kind of effortless perfection that only happens when the universe decides to stop being a vindictive witch for five seconds and actually let you enjoy your life. The new restaurant on 6th that Etienne suggested, barely a ten-minute walk from campus, had opened its doors just last week, and he somehow knew about it before anyone else because Etienne Laurent has a sixth sense for hidden gems that borders on supernatural. The place was small and intimate, tucked between a vintage bookstore and a nail salon, with exposed brick walls and fairy lights strung along the ceiling like a Pinterest board brought to life.
