But then she reaches out.
Her fingers slide across my palm, small and warm and impossibly soft.
She takes my hand.
We start walking, her damaged suitcase rolling behind us on its barely functional wheels, her hand nestled in mine as if it belongs there.
I don't know what this is.
Don't know what I'm doing.
Have no clue where this strange game of pretend will lead or what happens when reality catches up with the fiction we're building.
But right now, in this moment, with her scent wrapping around me and her fingers warm against mine, I don't care.
The quiet kid who got shoved into lockers. The goalie who thought he was broken. The Alpha who never wanted anyone.
Maybe I was just waiting.
And I dangerously envision she was worth waiting for.
I dare dwell on how good it feels to have her hand in mine.
CHAPTER 5
Brothers And Battles
~MABELINE~
"I'm sorry."
I pause mid-step on the pathway leading to what I assume is our dorm, tilting my head as Etienne rolls my pathetic excuse for luggage to a gentle stop.
The golden light of the setting sun catches the door's brass number plate: Pack Integration Unit 7.
Very official…and intimidating.
He turns to look at me, those storm-blue eyes clouded with genuine concern, one hand still resting on the crooked handle of my suitcase.
"About the luggage," he clarifies, gesturing at the duct-taped disaster between us. "I didn't mean to be judgmental or anything. That was rude of me to say. About the Rimowa and the... you know."
He trails off, running his free hand through his dark curls in that nervous gesture I'm beginning to recognize as distinctly him.
He is apologizing. For teasing me about my suitcase?
What alternate dimension did I stumble into where childhood bullies' pack mates apologize for luggage jokes?
I laugh before I can stop myself, the sound bubbling up easier than expected.
"No, it's okay. Really." I wave a dismissive hand, stepping closer to rescue him from his adorable spiral of guilt. "Everyone and their auntie tells me to upgrade my luggage. My coworkers used to leave luggage catalogs on my desk as hints. My mother once sent me a thirty-minute voice memo about the importance of presenting oneself professionally, including one's travel accessories."
His lips twitch at that, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
"But honestly?" I shrug, glancing at the battered suitcase with something approaching fondness. "Why throw out something that still works, right? Beatrice here has been with me through three apartment moves, two cross-country trips, and one disastrous attempt at a romantic getaway that we do not talk about."
"Beatrice?" His eyebrow quirks up. "You named your suitcase?"
"I name everything. My phone is also Beatrice. Beatrice the Second, technically. It is a whole lineage. A dynasty, if you will."
