"That's either profound or completely meaningless," I tell him.
"Story of my life." He grins, the gesture taking over his whole face.
Quentin mentions his pre-med track when I ask. "Orthopedic surgery," he says, and nothing else. No explanation, no justification. Just the destination.
"So you want to fix broken athletes," I say, trying to get him to open up more. It’s an unspoken rule not to spend time with the athletes I’m helping coach but sitting here with the Vark twins makes me want to step into very,verydangerous waters.
"I want to fix the things that keep them off the field." His eyes hold mine. "There's a difference."
There is. A big one, and the fact that he draws the distinction without being prompted makes my fingers tighten around the stem of my wine glass.
Milo stuffs another piece of bread in his mouth while dusting off his blazer. "Meanwhile, I'm over here studying Sports Medicine so I can tape ankles and tell people to ice things." He waves a hand. "Very glamorous. Very prestigious."
"You're underselling it," I tell him.
"I'm really not. Last week I spent forty-five minutes learning about blister management.Blisters. I could write a thesis on blisters now. Ask me anything about blisters."
"I'm not going to ask you about blisters, Milo." A soft chuckle rumbles through my chest.
"Your loss. I'm riveting on the subject." He reaches for his wine glass with the same hand he's been gesturing with and sends it sliding toward the edge of the table. Quentin catches it without looking, slides it back to the center, his eyes still on me. My stomach does a slow turn that has nothing to do with the food.
Milo doesn't notice. "But honestly? I love it. The body is insane. Like, the fact that we just walk around on these bones and tendons and everything holds together through sheer biological optimism? Incredible."
"Biological optimism," Quentin repeats, his tone flat.
"I stand by the phrase."
The server clears our plates, and somewhere between Milo's defense of biological optimism and Quentin's quiet correction of his brother's understanding of ligaments, the thing I usually carry on dates has gone quiet. That braced feeling, the part of my brain always waiting for the careless comment or the entitled assumption or the reminder that I'm not a person to them, just a prize or a name. It's not gone exactly. But it's settled somewhere I can't hear it, and I'm not sure when that happened.
"Can I ask you something?" Milo leans back in his seat. His tone is still warm, but there's a shift underneath it. "Why did you sign up? For the auction. You don't exactly seem like the type."
A deflection is already forming on the tip of my tongue. Years of practice, smiling through questions I don't want to answer, steering conversations away from anything that might require me to be honest about myself has made it easy. But Milo is watching me like the answer actually matters, and Quentin hasn't looked away from my face in the last thirty seconds, and this booth with its demolished bread basket and empty wine glasses feels like a safer place than it has any right to be.
"Impulse," I admit. "I wanted one night where I could just be a person. Not the coach's daughter. Not the team bookkeeper. Not the version of myself that everyone else needs me to be."
Milo doesn't rush to fill the silence that follows and Quentin's shoulders ease beside him.
"It was a win-win situation. The team would get some money and I’d... well, I thought I'd regret it," I continue. "I figured I'd spend the whole night performing and counting the hours until I could go home." A breath leaves me slowly. "I haven't thought about the time once."
Milo's lips part. His eyes go soft and his hands grip the edge of the table like he's physically anchoring himself to keep from saying everything in his head at once. The effort is almost endearing.
The server returns to clear the last of the plates, effectively cutting off that part of the conversation, Quentin’s card already on the leather folder before Milo can reach for his wallet. Milo opens his mouth to protest, catches something in Quentin's expression, and closes it again.
I lean back in my seat, pleasantly full as I realize the dining room has thinned around us while I wasn't paying attention. Tables that were full an hour ago sit empty now, and the noise has softened to murmurs and the quiet clink of glasses being bussed. I should be thinking about the walk home, about the budget report sitting on my desk, about the work I told myself I'd finish tonight. Instead, I'm sitting in a booth with an empty wine glass, and the only thought I can hold onto is that I don't want this night to end.
The silence is disrupted when the server brings Quentin’s card back, wishing us a goodnight, before disappearing into the back. Quentin signs without looking at the total, tucks his wallet away, and then his gaze finds mine. "I want to be clear about something. The auction was for a date. This was the date.Whatever happens after this is your call, not something we paid for."
He's giving me an out. A clean, respectful exit that most people wouldn't think to offer because most people treat charity auctions like transactions with fine print. That and the fact that many of the Alphas I’ve been on dates with always expect something in return.
Except, I’m not sitting across from an Alpha. Quentin is looking at me like my answer carries more weight than four thousand dollars, and beside him Milo has gone completely still. I can’t tell if he’s trying to keep from saying something or he’s trying to preserve the moment.
I should say goodnight and thank them for dinner, walk home alone, and process this in my nest where I can think without the pull of Quentin's gaze and Milo's warmth and the strange, unfamiliar feeling of spending an entire evening without my guard up.
"My apartment is a ten-minute walk from here," I hear myself say. "If you want to keep talking."
Milo's scent spikes, before he can control it, his ears turning pink. "Yes. Absolutely. One hundred percent. I mean, if Q wants to. Q?"
Quentin hasn't looked away from me. "Yes."
