He almost smiles.
Almost.
And I catch it. The fraction of a second where the mask slips and the person beneath it surfaces, and the person beneath it is someone who finds connection as rare and valuable as I do, and is equally unpracticed at accepting it when it arrives.
Three, Archie. Membership is three. But you don't know that yet, and I'm supposed to be pretending I'm not keeping count.
The moment fractures when Rafe Calder inserts his broad chest into the space between Archie's desk and Mae's proximity, his leather-and-cedar scent flooding the air with the dominant frequency of a man who considers every room his territory and every interaction in it his jurisdiction.
"Why the hell are you making friends?"
Mae blinks up at him. "Uh... are you stupid? Why would I not make friends?"
The argument escalates through the predictable trajectory of two people who fundamentally disagree about whether an Omega has the right to conduct her own social life, and concludes with Rafe confiscating Mae's bag off her desk and marching toward the exit like a man who believes theft is an appropriate conflict resolution strategy.
I fall into step beside Mae instantly. Jace flanks her opposite side. The formation is automatic, protective, the positioning of two people who have already established that this woman walks between us and anyone who wants to reach her comes through both of us first.
"It gives CHARACTER," I declare when Rafe holds the disintegrating bag aloft and challenges its structural integrity."That bag has been through the trenches. It has earned its battle scars."
Jace nods beside me. "And it still works and fits our girl's standards of practicality. Function over form. Very on brand for Mae."
The hallway fills with our growing procession: Mae chasing her confiscated property, Rafe examining it with unconcealed disgust, Cal and Étienne trailing, Jace and I providing commentary and moral support. The students we pass stare with the fascinated attention of an audience watching a parade they did not request but cannot look away from.
Rafe holds the bag aloft, swinging it with the careless force of a man who has never owned a single possession he could not replace within twenty-four hours.
"I can't even throw this thing away because it will totally tear by the?—"
The bag tears.
The remaining safety pins surrender simultaneously, the fabric splitting open with a death rattle that silences the corridor. Books, notebooks, pens, folders, and one crumpled schedule cascade onto the polished tile, the contents of Mae's academic life scattering across the floor like debris from an explosion detonated by an Alpha who treats other people's belongings with the gentleness of a wrecking ball.
The hallway freezes.
I inhale sharply. Jace mutters "oh shit" beneath his breath. Cal groans with the bone-deep weariness of a man who has watched Rafe destroy too many things to register surprise.
"Look what you just did," Cal says flatly.
Rafe holds the remnants. Just the strap and a sad flap of canvas, both safety pins on the floor. His face flickers with guilt so brief that anyone less observant would miss it entirely.
"This isn't even my fault."
The rage ignites in my chest like a match dropped into dry brush.
"It is ABSOLUTELY your fault!" I jab a finger at him with the prosecutorial force of a woman who has been watching Alphas destroy things that Omegas cannot afford to replace for her entire life. "You grabbed it! You swung it! You murdered an innocent bag in cold blood!"
"It was already dying!" Rafe fires back. "That thing was on life support! I just pulled the plug!"
"Euthanasia without consent is still a crime, Beaumont!"
"It is a BAG!"
We are shouting now, the volume escalating with each exchange, and I can feel the corridor audience growing as students pause mid-transit to watch the tomboy Omega scream at the hockey captain over a dead backpack. Part of me registers the spectacle we are creating. The rest of me does not care because Mae is on her knees on the floor gathering her scattered books with the careful, contained movements of a person who is trying very hard not to cry.
And I have seen that posture before.
On playground blacktop when the bullies took her things and scattered them. In hallways when someone knocked her books out of her arms and kept walking. In every space where a girl who owned too little had the little she owned taken from her by people who owned too much.
I was supposed to protect her from this.
