Shirtless.
Very shirtless.
Extremely, devastatingly, problematically shirtless.
My gaze drops from his face to his chest without my permission, taking in the lean muscle definition that goaliesapparently develop through years of explosive movements and split-second saves. The way his shoulders are broader than they look under hoodies, cutting a surprisingly impressive silhouette. The pale skin dotted with freckles that continue down from his face like a constellation map, like someone scattered stars across his collarbones just to torment me.
And the tattoos.
Oh.
Oh no.
There is one on his left pec, directly over his heart. Dark ink forming an intricate design I cannot quite make out in my current state of cognitive impairment, but the lines are beautiful. Artistic. The kind of work that someone put real thought and skill into.
More ink trails along his ribs, disappearing toward his back in patterns that suggest a larger piece I cannot fully see from this angle. Celtic knots maybe, or abstract geometric shapes. The black stands out starkly against his pale skin, drawing my eyes along the contours of his body in ways I should definitely not be allowing at seven forty-five in the morning.
When did he get tattoos? How did I not know about the tattoos? Why is no one warning innocent Omegas about the tattoos? This feels like information that should come with a disclaimer.
Why am I staring at his tattoos like a creep when I should be focusing on the coffee crisis? Get it together, Mae. Priorities.
His scent finally registers fully in my muddled brain, cutting through the confusion.
Evergreens. Old books. A hint of soap from a recent shower. Clean and warm and entirely too appealing.
Etienne.
Right. Etienne. My roommate. The one who asked me on a Valentine's Day date yesterday. The one who writes stories andlooks at me like I matter. The one who is currently standing shirtless in the kitchen while I have a mental breakdown over missing coffee.
I look up, finally making eye contact.
"The mini coffee machine is gone."
He blinks, confusion flickering across his features.
"Mini coffee machine?"
Rafe groans dramatically from somewhere behind me, the sound radiating with theatrical suffering.
"Great. So she is delusional in the mornings. Fantastic. Just what we needed to add to the list of complications. A roommate who hallucinates kitchen appliances."
Cal snickers from his position at the kitchen table. "Maybe she needs coffee to actually wake up and form coherent sentences. Revolutionary concept. Perhaps we should look into this theory."
Etienne ignores them both, his attention still focused entirely on me with a patience that feels almost supernatural at this hour.
I rub at my eyes with the heels of my hands, trying to force my brain into some semblance of functioning.
"The mini coffee machine," I repeat, slower this time, trying to translate my thoughts into words that make sense. "At my old place, the workers and other residents usually leave some in the communal coffee pot. Leftover dregs from the night before. Cold, usually. Sometimes burnt. Sometimes tasting like it was made three days ago and has been sitting there acquiring sentience. But coffee. I would drink whatever was left so I could function like a human being."
My shoulders sink as the reality of the situation settles over me like a wet blanket made of disappointment.
"But it is gone. There is no coffee machine here. There is no communal pot. There is nothing."
I can feel the despair building in my chest, pressing against my ribs.
This is bad. This is very bad. I did not sleep. I cannot function without coffee. Today is going to be a disaster. Everything is going to fall apart because of missing caffeine.
Etienne tilts his head, studying me with growing concern.
