Page 164 of Roulette Rodeo
They fit better than expected, though the boxers are definitely snug if the way he adjusts himself is any indication.
I busy myself making coffee while he changes, using the expensive machine Mrs. Chen splurged on last year. Two sugars, one cream—not too much, just enough to cut the bitterness. I've watched him make his coffee every morning for a month, noticed how particular he is about the ratio, how he stirs counterclockwise exactly three times.
When I turn back with his mug, he's dressed and looking slightly more human, though his hair is still a wet mess.
"Sit," I command again, and this time he raises an eyebrow but complies.
I plug in the hair dryer and start working on his hair, using the comb to keep it from sticking up at weird angles. He goes completely still when I first touch his head, like he can't quite process what's happening.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks quietly, having to speak up over the dryer's noise.
"Because you're freezing and wet," I say simply, working through a particularly stubborn section. "And because you came to get me in a storm when you could have just waited it out."
"How do you know how I take my coffee?"
I concentrate on getting his part straight—he always parts it on the left, very precisely—before answering.
"I observe. You don't like others making it for you, so you always do it yourself. Two sugars, one cream, stirred counterclockwise three times. You tap the spoon on the rim twice before setting it in the sink."
He's quiet for a long moment, processing that I've been paying that much attention to his habits.
"I didn't know you noticed," he finally says.
"I notice everything," I admit, clicking off the dryer now that his hair is mostly dry and properly styled. "It's a survival skill that's hard to turn off."
He nods slowly, understanding in his eyes.
We're both observers, cataloguing details others miss, always watching for the angle, the threat, the escape route.
"We can go now," he says, standing and testing the feel of the borrowed clothes.
I nod, gathering my things—my book, my phone, the leftover coffee cake Mrs. Chen insisted I take home. I write a quick note on a napkin:
Borrowed clothes for emergency. Will bring fresh ones next week. Thank you! - Red
I leave it by the register with a twenty-dollar bill, even though I know Mrs. Chen will try to give it back.
I turn off the coffee machine, check that everything is locked properly, and head for the door where Rafe's waiting. Before I step outside, I turn to him.
"I appreciate you coming to pick me up," I say. "In this weather, with everything going on... thank you."
"It's my responsibility," he mutters, but there's something softer in his tone than usual. "Obviously."
I nod and reach for the door, but before I can open it, he gently pulls me back. His arm wraps around my waist from behind, and suddenly I'm pressed against his chest, his chin resting on top of my head.
I'm confused by the sudden display of affection—this is more touching than Rafe's initiated in the entire month I've been here. He takes a deep breath, his chest expanding against my back, then lets it out slowly like he's releasing more than just air.
"Thanks, Rowenna."
Just that. Nothing more. My real name, not Red, not omega, not any of the labels everyone else uses. My actual name, said with a weight that makes it feel like he's thanking me for more than just coffee and dry clothes.
For not judging him.
For not prying.
For letting him break apart and helping him put the pieces back together without making him feel weak for needing it.
The smile that spreads across my face is involuntary, warm and genuine. This is progress—real progress, not just the grudging acceptance he's been showing but actual connection.
