The fabric is soft. The scent is mostly neutral.
And underneath—faintly—something warm I can't place. Like sun on skin. I can tell it’s alpha, vague enough to be nonthreatening. And I don’t recognize it either. It’s not Arden’s scent or any of my own alpha’s. It’s like a clean, steady presence.
"Smell it," Arden says.
I lift it to my nose and inhale.
"How does it make you feel?"
I shrug. "Fine."
Arden's brow lifts. "Fine like neutral? Fine like comfort? Fine like it bothers you but you don't want to admit it?"
"It's kind of nice," I admit quietly.
"Does it bother you at all?"
I sniff again, searching for the sting.
Nothing.
"No. It doesn't."
Arden nods once. "Good. Keep it."
He doesn't say why.
He doesn't explain the faint undertone.
He just watches, like he's waiting to see what I do with it when no one tells me to.
"We’re done for today. That's enough work for one session."
I blink. "That's it?"
"That was a lot. Your system is doing what it was designed to do. Protect you. I'm not going to punish it by forcing more."
The wordpunishmakes my throat tighten.
Arden stands. "You did well."
Something shifts in my chest—small, unwilling.
I nod once and stand.
As I step toward the hall, my gaze flicks—just briefly—to the photo on the desk.
The version of us before.
I don't let it swallow me.
I just register it.
Then I leave the study and walk back to my room.
I close the door.
The bed is still there. Flat. Untouched. A silent accusation.
