Chapter 9 The Chase #2
I tighten my arm around her shoulders, pulling her slightly closer.
"Surviving is not shameful," I say quietly. "Doing whatever you had to do to make it through each day is not shameful. And accepting help from people who wanted to give it does not make you weak or pathetic or whatever other bullshit Rafe was implying."
She does not respond, but I feel some of the tension drain from her body.
"For what it is worth," I add, "he paid for it. Cal punched him in the gut right after you left."
Her head snaps up, surprise replacing the hurt in her expression.
"What?"
"Cal." I cannot help the small smile that tugs at my lips. "Punched him. Hard. Rafe was still wheezing when I left."
She frowns, confusion creasing her forehead.
"Why would Cal get mad? He barely knows me. He was one of the ones who bullied me back in the day. Why would he care if Rafe hurt my feelings?"
Because Cal understands. More than any of us realized.
I glance around at the students passing by, suddenly aware that we are standing in the middle of a hallway having a conversation that deserves more privacy than this.
"We have time before class," I say. "Do you want to go to my car? We can talk there without an audience."
She blinks at me, and for a moment I see a flash of that spark return to her eyes. That mischievous glint that makes my heart do stupid things.
"Well," she says slowly, her lips curving into a smirk that does not quite reach her red-rimmed eyes, "if this is your unique way of trying to get a make-out session from me, I should warn you that I need lip balm first. My lips are tragically dry."
Heat floods my face before I can stop it.
"I... what... that is not..." I sputter, completely losing my composure in a way that would be embarrassing if she did not look so pleased with herself for causing it.
She laughs.
Actually laughs, the sound surprised and genuine despite the tears still threatening at the edges of her eyes. It is a small laugh, barely more than a chuckle, but it loosens the knot of worry in my chest.
"You have the most intriguing responses," I manage, finally finding my voice again. "I never know what is going to come out of your mouth next."
"Keeps you on your toes."
"It keeps me in a constant state of cardiac arrest, is what it does."
She grins, and this time it almost reaches her eyes.
I take her hand before I can overthink it, threading my fingers through hers. Her skin is soft and warm, her grip tightening slightly around mine like she is not entirely sure she is allowed to hold on.
"Is the bagel enough for breakfast?" I ask as I start leading her toward the parking lot. "You did not get to finish eating before... everything."
She lifts the paper bag she has been clutching this whole time, showing me that the bagel is still inside, only slightly squished from being held so tightly.
"More than enough," she says. "It is not like I have been training or anything lately. My calorie needs are pretty minimal."
I frown, latching onto the word.
"Training? Training for what?"
She cringes, her steps faltering slightly.
Training. Athletes train. What was she training for?
"Nothing," she says quickly. Too quickly. "Just... ignore that. It is not important."
"Mae."
"It is really not..."
"Mae." I squeeze her hand gently. "You can tell me. Or you do not have to. But I would like to know, if you are willing to share."
She is quiet for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the pathway ahead. I can practically see the internal debate playing out behind her eyes. The fear of vulnerability warring with the desire to be known.
"Figure skating," she whispers finally, the words so soft I almost miss them. "I used to do figure skating. Before... everything. Before presenting late and getting disowned and having to give up anything that cost money."
Figure skating.
The pieces click into place like a puzzle I did not know I was solving. The grace in her movements that I noticed yesterday. The way she walks like she is always aware of her balance. The mention of the figure skating club during her tour of campus.
"You are a figure skater," I say, not a question.
"Was," she corrects, her voice tight. "Past tense. Very much past tense. I have not been on the ice in years. Cannot afford the rink time, the coaches, the equipment. It is just... a closed chapter. Nothing worth talking about."
But I can hear the longing underneath the dismissal. The loss she has not fully processed. The dream she had to abandon because survival took priority over passion.
She gave up everything. Not by choice, but by necessity. And she has been surviving in the margins ever since.
I do not push. Do not ask the questions I can see she is not ready to answer. I just squeeze her hand again and nod.
"Okay," I say simply. "Thank you for telling me."
She looks up at me, surprise flickering across her features.
"That is it? No follow-up questions? No demands for details?"
"Not unless you want to give them." I shrug. "Your story is yours to tell at your own pace. I am not going to interrogate you just because I am curious."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I cannot quite read the expression on her face. It is soft, though. Vulnerable in a way she does not usually allow herself to be.
"You are strange," she says finally.
"I prefer the term 'unique.'"
"Strange," she repeats, but there is warmth in her voice now. "In a good way, I think. Most Alphas I have met would have pushed. Would have demanded answers. Would have treated my trauma like entertainment."
"I am not most Alphas."
"No." She squeezes my hand. "You are not."
We reach the parking lot, and I lead her toward my car. It is nothing fancy, just a practical sedan that gets me from point A to point B, but it is mine. A space that belongs to me, where we can talk without the weight of our roommates' drama pressing down on us.
I unlock the doors and open the passenger side for her, watching as she slides inside with that unconscious grace I now recognize as years of athletic training.
I round the car and climb into the driver's seat, closing the door against the outside world.
Silence settles between us, but it is not uncomfortable. Just quiet. Peaceful in a way that the dorm never manages to be.
Mae unwraps her bagel, taking a bite and chewing slowly. Her eyes close briefly, savoring the taste like it is precious.
She savors food like someone who has not always had enough of it.
"So," she says after swallowing, "are you going to tell me why Cal punched Rafe? Because I still do not understand why he would care."
I take a sip of my coffee, gathering my thoughts.
"People are complicated," I say. "We all carry things that are not visible on the surface."
She looks at me, those hazel eyes searching my face.
"What do you carry?"
The question catches me off guard, but I find I do not want to deflect. Not with her. Not when she has been so honest about her own struggles.
"My brother," I admit. "The weight of never being good enough compared to Bastien. The years of being invisible, being overlooked, being the quiet one that nobody expected anything from."
She nods slowly, like she understands exactly what I mean.
"Sounds like we are both carrying more than our fair share."
"Sounds like it."
She smiles then, small but genuine, and takes another bite of her bagel.
"Well," she says around the food, "at least we can carry it together. For the next six weeks, anyway."
"At least," I agree.
And as I watch her eat breakfast in my car, her guard slowly lowering, her walls temporarily set aside, I think that maybe six weeks will not be enough.
Maybe I will want more time than that.
Maybe I already do.
But that is a problem for future Etienne to figure out. Present Etienne is just going to sit here, share this quiet moment with the most intriguing Omega he has ever met, and pretend his heart is not already in danger of falling.
I guess that is the morning plan.