Chapter 28 What’s Ours #3
"A Valentine's Day dance is not prom," he says gently. "But it is close enough. And you deserve at least one ridiculously overdressed evening where you dance badly under cheap decorations with people who want to be there with you."
My throat tightens.
"Well," I murmur, blinking against the sting that has suddenly appeared behind my eyes. "That would be nice. Yes. I would like that."
He grins, stepping closer until his ocean salt scent fills the narrow space between us.
We have stopped near a row of lockers in the connecting corridor between the academic wing and the dormitories, the traffic around us thinning as students disperse toward their afternoon destinations.
The Valentine's decorations are dense here, streamers crisscrossing the ceiling, paper cupids taped to locker doors, the whole scene a visual assault of pink and red that should be tacky but instead provides the perfect backdrop for what I suspect is about to happen.
Cal's gaze drops to my lips.
"So how unhinged would it be," he murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear, "to kiss you more deeply right now since we do not have an audience?"
I giggle. The sound bubbles up from a place in my chest that has been dormant for most of my life, the part of me that always wanted to be the girl laughing against the lockers with a boy who looks at her like she hung every one of the paper hearts on the ceiling.
"Oh, how romantic," I tease, tilting my chin up. "Two giddy students kissing up against the lockers. Very cinematic. Very after-school special. The Valentine's cupids are judging us from every available surface."
I smirk.
Then I lean up and press my lips to his. Light. Brief. A preview that is deliberately insufficient.
"Totally unhinged," I whisper against his mouth. "But I approve of the behavior."
He chuckles.
The sound vibrates against my lips, warm and low, and then his hand comes up to cup the back of my neck, his fingers threading into my hair, and he kisses me properly.
Firmer. Slower. The kind of kiss that is not performing for a hallway audience but is instead happening because two people want it to happen and have found a semi-private corner of a university building decorated in tissue paper hearts.
His lips move against mine with a confidence that is different from Etienne's tender deliberation, more instinctive, more physical, the kiss of a man who communicates through action rather than words because words have never been his strongest tool.
His ocean salt scent thickens around me, mixing with the faint trace of ice from his practice session and the warmth of his skin, creating a fragrance cocoon that makes my knees unreliable.
I grip the front of his hoodie for balance, my fingers curling into the fabric, and he makes a low sound against my mouth that sends heat cascading through my body from my scalp to my toes.
When we break apart, his forehead rests against mine, his breath warm on my lips.
"I could get used to this public affection thing," he admits, his voice roughened at the edges. "But I do not know how Etienne does it so seamlessly. The hand-holding. The little gestures. The natural romance of it all. He makes it look effortless. I feel like I am trying to parallel park a truck."
I grin.
"Are you jealous of Etienne's romantic instincts?"
"Fuck yeah I am." The confession is immediate and unashamed.
"I swear that man is the most inexperienced out of all of us, but he is a hopeless romantic who knows every move.
Every look. Every perfectly timed hand squeeze.
I am going to have to read his books to get pointers.
Study the source material. Take notes. Develop a curriculum. "
I laugh, the sound loud enough to echo off the lockers.
"Wait, his books are actually incredible," I say, the excitement in my voice genuine and uncontainable.
"I am hoping he will finish the one I started reading.
Carlos and Luna's story. It is unfinished and it has been haunting me.
The characterization is so rich and the romance is slow-burn perfection and I need to know how it ends or I will lose my mind. "
"Is it that good?" Cal asks, his eyebrows lifting with real curiosity.
"You have to read it. But I should ask his permission first. I accidentally stumbled onto it, which was probably invasive, but he was happy I liked it. I think he was more surprised than anything. Surprised that someone cared enough to read past the first page."
The thought lands with a bittersweet weight that we both feel.
Cal nods slowly.
"I will ask him. Reading is not exactly my default setting, but for Etienne, I will give it a shot. The man earned some effort."
The statement carries layers that have nothing to do with literature.
It carries the weight of a man trying to repair a relationship he helped damage, extending an olive branch through the language of interest and respect, meeting Etienne in the space of his passion rather than asking Etienne to meet him in the space of his comfort.
Growth looks good on Cal.
"Which reminds me," he adds, his expression brightening with the energy shift of someone who has landed on an idea.
"I think we should learn more about each other's hobbies.
All of us. Not just surface-level stuff.
The real interests that we protect because they feel too personal to share with people who might judge them. "
I think about it.
The suggestion triggers a cascade of possibilities that my brain assembles with the enthusiasm of a woman who has been waiting her entire life for people who want to know her beyond the basics.
Beyond the figure skating and the academic performance and the general facts that fit neatly into introduction conversations.
"Why do we not do it this weekend?" I propose, the idea taking shape as I speak.
"Like a group activity. We could bake cookies or try a new recipe together and just..
. talk. About what we want to do this semester.
What matters to us. What we have been afraid to pursue because pursuing things requires admitting you care about them, and caring about things is terrifying when you have spent your life losing what you love. "
The last part comes out more honest than I intended.
Cal does not flinch from it.
"You know what," he says, his grin spreading with a spontaneity that tells me the decision is made and the logistics will be figured out later because Cal Whitmore operates on impulse and refines the details in post-production.
"Why the fuck not. Let us do a Valentine's bake fest. The whole pack.
Flour everywhere. Frosting disasters. Cal trying not to burn the kitchen down while three other people supervise. "
I smirk.
"You have a track record with kitchen fires?"
"I have a track record with ambition exceeding skill. There is a difference. The fires are a byproduct, not a goal."
"That is not the reassurance you think it is."
"But," he continues, pointing a finger at me with the theatrical energy of a man presenting a pitch, "I have a better idea in terms of location. The bake fest is happening, but not here. Not in our tiny apartment kitchen with one working burner and an oven that has trust issues."
I narrow my eyes.
"What are you planning?"
He smirks. Broader. The kind of grin that carries mischief in its corners and a refusal to elaborate in its center.
His amber eyes catch the fluorescent light filtering through the hallway, glinting with the particular satisfaction of a man who is holding a secret he has no intention of surrendering.
"It is a surprise," he says.
And winks.
The thought is the last coherent thing my brain produces before sleep pulls me under, gentle and warm, like the weight of an Omega on my chest and the steady hum of a heater doing its job and the quiet, radical act of choosing to stay.
Like cuddling an Omega who makes you want to explore more about yourself.