The room is quiet again.
Too quiet.
I last about thirty seconds before crunching another chip.
Ragon exhales through his nose.
"Do you know," he says dryly, without looking up, "it's genuinely impressive how much noise one tiny omega can make during what's supposed to be a quiet activity."
I blink.
Then lower my book slowly.
Something sharp and unexpected sparks in my chest—not fear, not shame, but irritation laced with humor. A version of myself I haven't heard from in a while clears her throat.
"If you wanted quiet," I say sweetly, "you should've picked Marie for your study buddy."
The words hang there, bold and reckless.
I freeze internally, bracing for the correction. The reprimand. The alpha authority snapping into place.
Ragon's pen stops mid-stroke.
For a heartbeat, the room holds its breath.
Then his lips twitch.
Just barely. A ghost of a smile, there and gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it—but I didn't. I know I didn't.
He exhales again, this time sounding suspiciously like amusement, and returns to his work without another word.
No reprimand. No warning. No tightening of control.
Just acceptance.
Something warm spreads through my chest, light and fragile and unexpected. I sink back into the couch, book resting forgotten against my stomach, a quiet smile tugging at my own lips.
For the first time in days, I feel like a nuisance again.
And judging by the way Ragon's shoulders remain just a little less rigid than before, he doesn't mind nearly as much as he pretends.
***
The kitchen table is still crowded with the remnants of our afternoon snack—crumbs scattered near the edge, a plate pushed half under a napkin, two mugs gone lukewarm.
Instead of cleaning, I'm playing cards with Jasper.
It's part of Arden's "experiments," technically. Exposure. Neutral interaction. A way to teach my body that not every alpha presence means pressure, control, or pain.
To me, it just feels like breathing in a room that doesn't demand anything from me.
Jasper sits across the table with his sleeves rolled up his forearms, posture relaxed but attentive. He watches me the way he always does—quietly, without heavy scrutiny, without that alpha sense of possession pressing at my throat. His scent is muted and composed, like he keeps it leashed on purpose.
It's why this works at all.
I shuffle the deck with practiced motions, letting the sound of cards snapping fill the small silence. The kitchen is warm from earlier cooking, sunlight slanting through the window.
Jasper's mouth curves as he watches my hands. "You're very focused."
