"The offer permanently stands."
She nods, fiddling with the crumpled bagel wrapper in her lap.
"Fair exchange for the honesty then. I should tell you that I have not really enjoyed any dating or romantic experiences myself. It has just been thrilling one-night situations to keep the hormones at bay. Scratch the itch, get through the cycle, move on. Nothing that lasted. Nothing that meant a damn thing."
She says it casually, but I can hear the hollowness underneath. The loneliness of physical intimacy without emotional connection.
"What about your heats?" I ask carefully. "If you do not mind sharing."
She shrugs, completely unbothered by the question.
"Irregular. And way shorter than the standard. Instead of a week of madness like most Omegas deal with, mine are just one to two days. My doctor said they might get longer once my body adjusts to having Alphas consistently present during cycles." She picks at the edge of the wrapper. "Apparently I am in fight-or-flight mode all the time, which suppresses the full hormonal response. My body does not trust enough to let go completely."
Fight or flight. Constantly. For years.
Her biology adapted to protect her because no one else would.
"I can handle it," she adds quickly, like she can sense my concern building. "The short heats, the irregularity, the whole mess. I have been managing on my own for years. Not ideal, but functional."
She turns to look at me, and a mischievous glint enters those hazel eyes.
"But if I really need help..." She winks. "I know who to call."
I huff out a breath that is half laugh and half cardiac arrest, heat rushing to places that are deeply inappropriate for a pre-class conversation.
"You are a cocky one, you know that?"
She grins, wide and unapologetic, showing teeth.
"Nah. Only on the ice. That is when you will see I am a bit of a competitive bitch. I am pretty fast too." Her grin dims slightly into a more honest expression. "Probably rusty as hell, though. It has been years since I have done anything serious on the ice."
I laugh, the sound genuine and easy in a way my laughter rarely is around anyone.
"If you can beat Rafe in a race on the ice," I say, a plan forming in my head that makes me grin, "I will treat you to a full shopping spree."
Her eyes light up like I have just offered her the keys to a kingdom.
"A shopping spree?"
"A real one. Whatever you want. However much you want."
I lean in closer, dropping my voice to a whisper that brushes against the shell of her ear.
"Including that Rimowa."
Her breath catches. I can hear it, that tiny hitch, and I can see the blush spreading across her cheekbones like a sunrise painting the horizon.
She recovers quickly, because she always does. Leans in to match my proximity, close enough that I can count the gold flecks in her hazel irises, and whispers back.
"Pink, Monsieur."
The French catches me completely off guard.
Heat floods my face so fast I am certain I have turned the exact shade of the suitcase she just requested. My brain short-circuits for a solid three seconds, every thought scattered by the sound of that word in her voice, in that language, directed at me with that devastating smirk.
Monsieur.
She called me Monsieur.
