The stone path levels beneath my feet. The earlier urgency has drained from my limbs, replaced by the lazy satisfaction of victory already tasted. Each step is slow, deliberate—the stride of soone who knows the ga is already over.
I won.
The room is close now. Close enough to see the carved wood of the door, the warm light bleeding through the curtains. Just a few more steps. Five, maybe. Four.
I stop.
Turn.
And look back the way I ca.
The path stretches behind , climbing upward into darkness. Fairy lights still glow between the trees—golden and trembling against the night. They line the trail like silent witnesses.
But there’s no movent. No shadow slipping from the deeper dark. No footsteps hurrying to catch up.
He was right there. Right behind . Three steps away. I could feel his breath. Now there’s nothing.
The wind brushes my face—cold and damp, carrying the sll of wet earth, crushed grass, and sothing sweeter that only blooms after dark. The trees stand still around .
Should I go back?
Check if he’s all right?
No.
I turn back toward the room.
He’s fine. He’s a grown man. He made his choice. He agreed to the chase, and he lost. That’s not my fault.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth—sharp and quietly satisfied.
Sleep well on the couch tonight.
He shouldn’t have agreed to the chase. He forgot what I am. An Alpha. And he’s just a Beta. A Beta could never outrun .
I walk to the door. My hand rises toward the handle. Before I can touch it—
A hand closes around my wrist. Not hard. Not painful. Just there. Cold fingers wrapped around bone and tendon, steady where my pulse suddenly isn’t.
I freeze.
Sothing presses softly against my back. Not enough to push. Just... there.
The fabric of his shirt brushes mine. I can feel the shape of him behind , close enough that his chin rests lightly against my shoulder. Tentative. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed.
His breath brushes the side of my neck—uneven from the run.
How?
I don’t move. I don’t push him away. I don’t know why.
He slls like sweat, cold air, and sothing clean beneath it. His fingers are still wrapped around my wrist. Pale. Slender. Colder than they should be.
He smiles.
I feel it before I see it—the slight press against my shoulder, the shift in his breathing.
I turn.
Slowly.
His chin lifts from my shoulder as I move, and suddenly we’re face to face in the dark, close enough to see the sweat still clinging to his temples, the flush spread across his cheeks, the uneven rise and fall of his breathing.
His damp hair falls across his forehead, darkened by sweat and night air. His eyes are bright. Not just bright. Shining. Like there’s sothing alive behind them.
That soft smile spreads across his lips—slow, certain, annoyingly pleased. Not gloating. Not triumphant.
Just... happy.
He tilts his head toward our hands.
I blink. Look down. His fingers are still wrapped around mine. And I’m still standing outside the door.
I lost.
How the hell—
"You didn’t win." My voice cos out flatter than I intended. "I was already here. I just thought you got lost sowhere in the dark."
He looks at for a long mont.
Then he releases my hand. Slowly. Reluctantly. He pulls his notebook from his pocket and writes sothing before handing it to .
I take the note.
But I caught you before you opened the door. So you can’t take back your words now.
I crumple the paper in my fist.
If I had stepped inside the mont I reached the door, none of this would’ve happened. "Fine." My voice cos out flat. "You take the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch."
I turn toward the door.
His hand catches my wrist again.
Not hard. Not desperate. Just there. A silent question against my wrist.
I stop and look back.
He writes another note. His fingers move quickly now—rushed, like he’s afraid the words will disappear before he can trap them on the page.
We agreed. If I won, we would share the bed. Together.
I blink. My voice sharpens.
"I rember exactly what I said. If you win, I’ll let you sleep on the bed. I never said anything about sharing it with you."
His grip tightens around the pencil. The tip digs into the paper hard enough to leave a mark.
He wants to write sothing else. Argue. Push back. Maybe even beg.
I can see it in the tension of his jaw. In the way his eyes stay fixed on the page a little too long.
Then—
He stops. The pencil stills. His hand falls to his side, the pencil hanging loosely between his fingers. His head lowers slightly. His shoulders curl inward. Sothing in him folds quietly, without complaint.
He nods.
Slowly.
Once.
Why does that feel worse than if he had argued?
I stand there longer than I an to.
His hair is still damp from the run. Sweat glistens faintly along his jaw. When he caught —when his fingers wrapped around my wrist—his eyes lit up like he’d won sothing far more important than a race.
What the hell was that look?
He writes one more note and offers it to without looking up. His hand trembles slightly—just enough for to notice.
I take the note.
You take the bed. The couch is uncomfortable. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.
He slips the notebook back into his pocket. The pencil follows, like he’s already accepted the conversation is over.
I crumple the note in my hand. Throw it aside.
"Fine."
The word leaves my mouth before I’ve fully decided to say it. It hangs between us—small, reluctant, heavier than it should be.
"We’ll share the bed."
He looks up. Quickly. His eyes widen slightly, like he wasn’t expecting those words from at all.
I turn, push the door open, and step inside. Warmth wraps around imdiately—woodsmoke, flowers, the faint scent of clean sheets. The petals on the bed remain untouched.
I stop at the threshold. Then glance back over my shoulder.
His silhouette fills the doorway, fairy lights glowing behind him, outlining the ss of his damp hair and the flush still lingering across his cheeks.
"But rember what I told you." My voice is quieter now. Not cold anymore. Just careful. "If I wake up tomorrow and find you clinging to again..."
I pause.
"I won’t push you off the bed."
Another pause.
"I’ll throw you off the hill."
His face lights up instantly. That soft smile returns—wider now, brighter, impossible to miss. He nods eagerly, like I’ve said sothing far kinder than a threat.
Why does he always agree to everything?
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