Chapter 8 Coffee And Complications #3
I sniff the air, wondering if I am imagining it. If my desperate brain has conjured a phantom scent to torment me in my hour of need.
But no.
It is real.
It is gloriously, miraculously, impossibly real.
I walk back to the kitchen living room space, following the aroma like a bloodhound on a trail, my feet moving faster than they have all morning.
And there, sitting on the small dining table like a gift from the universe itself, is a steaming cup of coffee.
Dark and beautiful and everything I have ever wanted in this moment.
Next to it is a wrapped cream cheese bagel, the kind you get from the campus cafe with the fancy paper and the little logo stamped on the wrapping.
I stare at it like it is the first time I have ever seen breakfast.
Like it is a mirage that might disappear if I blink too hard.
Like it is proof that magic exists in the world after all.
Etienne is leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping from an identical cup.
He is dressed now, thankfully, in the same navy blazer and white shirt that makes up the Valenridge uniform.
His dark curls are still slightly damp from his own shower, falling across his forehead in an artfully disheveled way that should be illegal.
He gestures toward the table with a head nod.
"Coffee and a bagel good? We have not gotten groceries or anything yet, so we are probably going to have to eat out until the weekend when we can do a proper shopping trip. I figured this would hold you over for now."
I gawk at him.
Actually gawk, my mouth hanging open in a way that is probably deeply unattractive and definitely not dignified.
"Wait." My voice comes out slightly strangled with disbelief. "You got me a bagel?"
"Yes."
"And coffee?"
"Yes."
"For me? Specifically for me?"
"That is typically what getting someone breakfast means, yes."
I blink rapidly, trying to process this information through my still-foggy brain.
"Um. Let me see if I have enough money." I start digging through my bag, searching for my wallet with fumbling fingers. "I do not know how much campus cafe stuff costs here, but I can probably cover it if I skip lunch or..."
"Mae." His voice is gentle but firm, cutting through my rambling. "I got it for you. Why would you have to pay me?"
I freeze, my hand still buried in my bag.
"Because... you bought it?"
"For you."
"Right. So I should pay you back. That is how it works."
"Not if I got it for you. As a gift."
I stare at him, genuinely confused by this logic.
People do not just buy you things. That is not how the world works. There is always a catch. Always an expectation. Always strings attached. Always a debt to be repaid in some way.
"Oh," I say slowly, cautiously. "So... it is mine? Like, actually mine? I do not owe you anything? No strings?"
He nods, those storm-blue eyes soft with concern. Or maybe sadness. Like he is realizing things about my life that he did not know before and does not like what he is learning about the world I come from.
"It is yours, ma belle. No strings attached. Just breakfast."
Ma belle.
My beautiful.
He called me ma belle again.
The dam breaks.
I rush forward and throw my arms around him, pulling him into a hug that is probably too tight and definitely too sudden and absolutely inappropriate for someone you have known for less than forty-eight hours.
My face presses against his chest, and I can smell his scent even through the fabric of his blazer. Evergreens and old books and kindness.
"Thank you," I mumble into his shirt, my voice muffled by fabric. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
He stiffens slightly at the unexpected contact, clearly not having anticipated a full-body embrace as a response to breakfast. But after a moment, his arms come up to wrap around me in return, one hand patting my back in a soothing rhythm that makes my eyes sting with more unshed tears.
I look up at him, my chin resting against his chest.
And watch his face flush a deep, gorgeous shade of pink that spreads from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.
He looks away, suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall to his left.
"You are welcome," he mumbles. "De rien, ma belle."
I grin, stepping back from the hug before I can make things any more awkward or start actually crying on his uniform. Then I practically skip to the table, sitting down and grabbing the coffee cup with both hands like it is a precious artifact that might be snatched away at any moment.
The first sip is transcendent.
Rich and bold and perfectly black, just like I asked.
It slides down my throat and spreads warmth through my entire body, chasing away the lingering fog of sleep deprivation and replacing it with blessed, beautiful alertness.
This is not leftover dregs from a communal pot.
This is real coffee, made fresh, purchased specifically for me.
"This is the best black coffee ever," I announce to the room with complete sincerity. "I mean it. This is genuinely the best coffee I have ever tasted in my entire life. I might cry again but for good reasons this time."
Cal is sitting in one of the side chairs, fully dressed now and looking marginally more awake than he did earlier. His amber eyes are fixed on me with an expression I cannot quite read.
"What do you normally eat for breakfast?" he asks. "Like, at your old place. Before here."
I unwrap the bagel, taking a moment to appreciate the cream cheese spread, thick and perfect, before answering.
"Um. Leftover coffee, usually. Whatever was in the communal pot from the night before.
Cold, mostly. Sometimes I would microwave it if the machine was working.
" I take a bite of the bagel, practically moaning at the taste.
Real food. Actual real food that someone bought specifically for me.
"And cereal if there was any left. Maybe oatmeal if someone left some in the cupboards that had not expired.
Once a month the building does this staff appreciation thing for everyone, so there are leftover donuts and pastries for a few days after. Those are the good weeks."
Cal's frown deepens into concern.
Etienne sets down his coffee cup, his expression shifting into that look I am starting to recognize as his worried face.
"Mae," he says slowly. "If you do not mind me asking... where did you used to live? Before coming here?"
I pause mid-bite, considering the question.
Do I tell them? Do I explain the whole pathetic situation? The late bloomer rejection, the disownment, the years of scraping by on nothing while my mother pretends I do not exist except when she needs to marry me off?
They are going to find out eventually. Might as well rip off the bandage and see how they react.
"It was like a communal space," I say, setting down the bagel.
"Not a hostel exactly. More like housing specifically for Omegas who are late bloomers and have been rejected, I guess.
By society. By their families. By everyone who was supposed to care about them but decided they were not worth the investment. "
I shrug, trying to make it sound more casual than it feels, like I am describing the weather instead of years of struggle.
"You know how it is. Present late, and suddenly you are damaged goods.
Not worth the investment of a proper upbringing.
My parents decided I was not worth keeping around until I presented at twenty-one, so I got shipped off to fend for myself until they could figure out what to do with me.
The communal housing was cheap. The other Omegas there were in similar situations.
We looked out for each other when we could.
Shared food when we had extra. Covered each other when rent was due. "
Cal and Etienne are both frowning now, identical expressions of concern and quiet anger on their faces. The kind of anger that is not directed at me but at the situation, at the world that created it.
Heavy footsteps announce Rafe's arrival before he appears in the kitchen doorway, freshly showered and dressed in his uniform. His dark hair is still damp, pushed back from his face in a way that makes his features look sharper. More severe. More judgmental.
"Well, that is stupid," he says flatly, having clearly caught the tail end of the conversation.
I look up at him, waiting for elaboration.
"Living in some communal dump for rejected Omegas." He crosses his arms, his storm-gray eyes dismissive and cold. "Might as well have been homeless. At least then you would have had your dignity instead of taking handouts from people who pity you."
The words land like a slap across the face.
Cal curses under his breath, sharp and angry.
"Come on, Rafe. Do not be an ass this morning. She does not need your commentary on her living situation. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
But the damage is done.
I stare at Rafe, feeling the warmth from Etienne's kindness drain away like water through cupped hands. Replaced by cold, familiar hurt. The same hurt I have carried for years. The same shame that whispers I am not enough, have never been enough, will never be enough for anyone.
Might as well have been homeless.
At least then you would have had your dignity.
Taking handouts from people who pity you.
Is that what Etienne's breakfast was? Pity? Another handout from someone who feels sorry for the pathetic Omega who cannot take care of herself?
I do not say anything.
There is nothing to say.
Nothing I could say would make a difference. Nothing would change his opinion or erase the truth in his words. I was living on pity. I was surviving on scraps. And no amount of defensive justification will change that.
I pick up my coffee. Pick up my bagel. Grab my bag from where I dropped it by the table.
"Mae?" Etienne's voice is concerned, worried, reaching toward me like a hand I cannot take. "Where are you going? You did not finish eating."
I do not answer.
I do not look at any of them.
I just walk to the door, open it, and step through into the hallway.
The click of it closing behind me is my only response.