"Mae."
"It is really not..."
"Mae." I squeeze her hand gently. "You can tell me. Or you do not have to. But I would like to know, if you are willing to share."
She is quiet for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the pathway ahead. I can practically see the internal debate playing out behind her eyes. The fear of vulnerability warring with the desire to be known.
"Figure skating," she whispers finally, the words so soft I almost miss them. "I used to do figure skating. Before...everything. Before presenting late and getting disowned and having to give up anything that cost money."
Figure skating.
The pieces click into place like a puzzle I did not know I was solving. The grace in her movements that I noticed yesterday. The way she walks like she is always aware of her balance. The mention of the figure skating club during her tour of campus.
"You are a figure skater," I say, not a question.
"Was," she corrects, her voice tight. "Past tense. Very much past tense. I have not been on the ice in years. Cannot afford the rink time, the coaches, the equipment. It is just... a closed chapter. Nothing worth talking about."
But I can hear the longing underneath the dismissal. The loss she has not fully processed. The dream she had to abandon because survival took priority over passion.
She gave up everything. Not by choice, but by necessity. And she has been surviving in the margins ever since.
I do not push. Do not ask the questions I can see she is not ready to answer. I just squeeze her hand again and nod.
"Okay," I say simply. "Thank you for telling me."
She looks up at me, surprise flickering across her features.
"That is it? No follow-up questions? No demands for details?"
"Not unless you want to give them." I shrug. "Your story is yours to tell at your own pace. I am not going to interrogate you just because I am curious."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I cannot quite read the expression on her face. It is soft, though. Vulnerable in a way she does not usually allow herself to be.
"You are strange," she says finally.
"I prefer the term 'unique.'"
"Strange," she repeats, but there is warmth in her voice now. "In a good way, I think. Most Alphas I have met would havepushed. Would have demanded answers. Would have treated my trauma like entertainment."
"I am not most Alphas."
"No." She squeezes my hand. "You are not."
We reach the parking lot, and I lead her toward my car. It is nothing fancy, just a practical sedan that gets me from point A to point B, but it is mine. A space that belongs to me, where we can talk without the weight of our roommates' drama pressing down on us.
I unlock the doors and open the passenger side for her, watching as she slides inside with that unconscious grace I now recognize as years of athletic training.
I round the car and climb into the driver's seat, closing the door against the outside world.
Silence settles between us, but it is not uncomfortable. Just quiet. Peaceful in a way that the dorm never manages to be.
Mae unwraps her bagel, taking a bite and chewing slowly. Her eyes close briefly, savoring the taste like it is precious.
She savors food like someone who has not always had enough of it.
"So," she says after swallowing, "are you going to tell me why Cal punched Rafe? Because I still do not understand why he would care."
I take a sip of my coffee, gathering my thoughts.
