Kyle
Sitting in our regular booth at Duke’s with my pathetic, useless lump of an arm pinned to my side is its own special form of torture.
The place is rammed, heaving with the usual soundtrack of nondescript rock music, clinking glasses and laughter.
Further down the table, Jed is talking loudly at a totally bemused Cassius while Aiden rolls his eyes fondly.
Dylan and Levi are sitting across from Max and me, and Levi is gesturing wildly with his drink in his hand, his clean scent flaring as he tears into some poor rival’s defensive technique.
Dylan is watching him with his usual quiet intensity, a hint of amusement behind his dark eyes.
Normally, I’d be right in the middle of it, talking shit and taking shots until the lights come up. In fact, that’s exactly why I came out tonight—desperate for a hint of normality after not being able to go to work or the gym for weeks on end, the two things that usually keep me grounded.
But instead, I’ve been reminded that I still can’t hold a glass with my left hand for more than thirty seconds at a time, the vibrations from the speakers make everything hurt, and even an hour of conversation makes me feel like I’ve run a marathon.
“Levi’s exaggerating,” Dylan says dryly. “His defense was solid, he was just inexperienced and didn’t expect you to come at him like you were on catnip.”
“Catnip?” Levi gasps, looking horrified. “It is called speed, mon cher. I keep them guessing, non? Just because you use the same combinations every time you fight…”
“The same combinations that had you cowering in the corner of the ring when we sparred earlier?” Dylan shoots back, a rare smirk teasing up his lips. Levi grins wickedly, his scent spiking combatively.
Max roars with laughter next to me, letting out a low whistle. “Ladies, ladies, save it for the ring! Or the bedroom. I never know with you guys.”
The conversation moves on, but I find my awareness drawn to Levi and Dyl more than usual.
They’ve never explicitly confirmed that they’re together, although it’s hardly a secret in the gym’s inner circle—we went to the housewarming for their one-bedroom apartment six months ago, for fuck’s sake—and I think they both enjoy the ambiguity of the whole thing, Levi especially.
But it’s not just the housewarming, or the fact that we’ve all walked in on them making out in the locker room at some point or another, that makes it obvious that they’re an item.
It’s the way they move around each other.
Even now, Dylan instinctively leans into Levi’s side in the booth, and Levi occasionally brings his hand up to rest against the nape of Dylan’s neck, just because.
I’ve never given it too much thought before.
Just like when Marcus and Alex announced they were dating.
I just thought: huh, two alphas. Good for them, but they must just be built differently to me, because I could never.
Sometimes I’ll get too close to another alpha while I’m waiting in line for a coffee, and their scent will get me so irritable I have to leave the coffee shop just to calm down.
But I’m straight, and they’re… not. In my head, that was all the explanation needed. Different strokes, and all that.
My eyes involuntarily flash to Max next to me. It never occurred to me before the last few weeks that I don’t react that way to him. Never have, despite him being one of the most alpha alphas I know.
He’s still chuckling, his broad shoulders relaxed and his ginger scent warming the air between us. My pulse skips, my heartbeat strange and unsteady as I force my gaze back down to my glass, swallowing past the sudden dryness in my throat.
A booming laugh floats across from elsewhere in the bar, someone slaps the table so hard it vibrates, and the music blaring through the speakers suddenly seems painfully loud in my ears.
Every noise and sudden movement sends a dull ache throbbing through my arm and up to my skull, the muscles in my neck locking up.
I roll my wrist and tuck my broken arm closer to my chest in a vain attempt to lessen the pain, leaning back into the leather.
I think I’m being slick, but Max catches on instantly, the humor leaving his face and his nostrils flaring as my scent starts to sour.
“Okay, that’s a wrap for us,” he announces, squeezing my knee firmly under the table, the warmth of his hand bringing me out of my pain for a few short seconds. “I’m totally beat. Early night for me.”
“Words that have never come out of Max’s mouth before,” Jed snickers, and Aiden swats him on the leg, shooting me a sympathetic look.
“So you can be up bright and early for a day of exciting business admin, I assume?” Marcus says with a sardonic smile.
“Exactly,” Max says. “Because I had definitely not forgotten that’s what we’re doing tomorrow. Because I’m totally a responsible business owner.”
Max helps me up from the booth, letting me carry my own weight across the bar, but as soon as the door has swung closed behind us and we’re out of sight of the guys, he quietly slips an arm around my waist. I all but collapse into him, suddenly totally overcome with exhaustion.
“I can walk,” I mutter stubbornly. “I didn’t break my legs.”
“Who says I’m helping you walk?” Max says, his voice low but close to my ear. “Maybe I just wanted to check how these ribs are healing up.”
He swipes a thumb over my side, the touch sending a shiver through me even through my clothes. If he notices, he doesn’t mention it.
“I really thought I could handle a few drinks out with the guys,” I say bitterly, taking a lungful of the cold outside air as Max props me up against a wall so he can call a cab.
“And you did,” he says as he dials the number and presses his phone against his ear. “You just started turning gray, so I thought tapping out early was the safest option. You’ll get there, Ky. Small steps.”
Max doesn’t take his hand off my leg the entire time we’re in the cab home, and I don’t fight him when he slides my jacket off, bends down to carefully untie my shoes, and helps me get ready for bed before crashing on my couch.
—
I thought once my sprain was mostly healed and I could drop some of the painkillers, my insomnia would vanish along with it.
I was wrong.
My back aches. I’m restless. My mind is running at a thousand miles an hour, and I’d give anything to be able to lie on my right side.
I don’t think I ever slept on my right side before the accident, but as soon as I wasn’t able to do it because of my broken arm, it became the fucking holy grail of sleeping positions in my mind.
Like if I could just turn onto my right side, every locked-up muscle in my broken body would relax all at once.
I let out a frustrated groan and swing my legs out of bed, not even wincing at the shooting pain that runs up my arm and into my neck. At least I have the use of one of my arms now—god knows I’ll never take it for granted again.
The kitchen’s dark when I step through the door, but I only use the flashlight on my phone to light my way to the sink, not wanting to force myself any further from sleep by switching the light on.
I pour myself a glass of water with one hand and gulp it back hastily, rolling my neck to try to work out some of the tension.
I nearly jump out of my skin when a tall, dark shadow appears in the doorway, before Max’s familiar, spicy ginger scents hits my nose.
“Jesus Christ, I nearly threw my glass at your head,” I whisper, even though there’s no reason to be quiet. “I thought you were asleep on the sofa.”
Max whisper-laughs, also keeping quiet for no discernible reason. “You’re the one stalking around in the dark like a creeper.”
I get a sudden, aching jolt of nostalgia. We used to have a lot of whispered late-night talks in the kitchen when we shared an apartment; we’d go in to get a glass of water before bed, and still be there an hour or two later, talking about… god knows. Everything. Nothing at all.
Max went through an insomniac phase in our mid-twenties, so sometimes I’d find him pacing the apartment at 2 a.m., and I’d stay up just to keep him company.
I used to perch on the window ledge in our old kitchen and smoke out the open window, back before Max finally succeeded in his mission to make me quit.
He would sit at the tiny kitchen table and talk shit with me even though he hated the smell.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, putting my empty glass in the sink.
“Me neither,” he says, and I notice in the gloom that he’s clutching his bare arms. “Temperature’s dropped, I’m fucking freezing. Got any spare blankets?”
I notice that the kitchen floor is colder than usual against my bare feet, and hum in agreement. I rack my brains trying to think where I put the spare comforter my mom bought me when I moved into this place, but I don’t have the will or the mental capacity to figure it out.
I walk toward him, grabbing the hem of his t-shirt in the darkness and tugging him behind me. “I have no idea.”
“Where are we going, then?” Max whispers, following me.
“To bed,” I say. “It’s big enough for the both of us.”
When I flip back the covers, Max crawls in right after me, and it hits me again how little of a reaction his scent gets out of me.
Another alpha rubbing his scent all over my sheets should make me feel aggressively territorial at best, but here I am pushing him onto the warm side of the bed and covering both of us with the same duvet.
If anything, having his scent this close makes me feel calmer, the ache in my muscles suddenly not so bad.
“Thanks, Ky,” Max whispers, turning to face me.
“You’ve looked after me enough for a few lifetimes,” I say. “I’m not gonna let you freeze on my sofa.”
His foot bumps against mine under the covers, and it’s like kicking an ice block. “Jesus, you really are cold,” I mumble.