Page 27 of My Freshman Mate
It makes sense. It has to work. It's over.
I leave the note on the kitchen counter and shoulder my bag. My hand hesitates on the doorknob. This is it. One turn, and I’m gone. I can go back to my dorm. Go home. Disappear until after the hearing, until it’s too late for Wes to stop me.
Just do it. Turn the knob.
I take a shaky breath, my fingers closing around the cool metal—
The lock clicks from the other side. The door swings inward.
Wes stands there, framed in the doorway, still in his workout gear. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead, his hair is damp, and his chest is heaving slightly. His eyes go from my face, to the packed bag on my shoulder, to the pathetic note on the counter. I watch his expression shift in a horrifying kaleidoscope of emotion—first confusion, then dawning realization, then araw, physical hurt that makes him stagger back a step. And then, finally, something colder. Scarier.
Fury.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" His voice is a low, deadly whisper.
I stumble back, my throat tight. "I—I was just—"
"Running away?" He steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him with a deafening slam that makes me flinch. "You were just going to leave? A fucking note?"
"I heard you!" I blurt out, the words tumbling over each other in a frantic rush. "On the phone with your coach. The hearing, the suspension—I know you're going to lose everything, Wes. It’s all my fault."
He just stares at me, his jaw so tight I can see a muscle twitching violently in his cheek. "And your brilliant plan was to pack your shit and vanish?"
"They can't punish you if I'm not here!" I’m sobbing now, fat, hot tears I can’t stop. "I'm trying to save you!"
Something inside him breaks. He crosses the room in two long strides, his alpha scent flooding the air—ozone and rage. He backs me against the wall, not touching me, just caging me in with his body, his arms braced on either side of my head. His eyes are wild, desperate.
"Save me?" he roars, his voice echoing in the small space. I flinch, trying to make myself smaller. "You think running away saves me? That NFL bullshit was the static. YOU'RE THE SONG. There is no future without you in it, you fucking idiot!"
I flinch at the pain in his voice, feeling it like he's actually hit me. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Everything I thought made sense—my whole plan—it all falls apart when I hear him say that.
"But your career," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Your scholarship. Everything—"
"Fuck my career!" He slams his palm flat against the wall next to my head. The impact shudders through my whole body. "Fuck the scholarship! Fuck all of it! None of it means a goddamn thing without you. Do you get that? None of it."
"But Nash—"
"Nash is a piece of shit who was always going to come for me. This isn't about you. You just gave him a new weapon to use."
I shake my head, dizzy with confusion. "But if I wasn't here—"
"If you weren't here? If you weren't mine?" His voice cracks on the last word, the rage in his eyes suddenly replaced by a devastating, bottomless hurt. "Is that what you want, Braiden? To not be mine anymore?"
"No!" The word rips from my throat, a raw, desperate denial. "God, no! I just want to fix this!"
"Then fix itwithme," he says, his voice dropping, pleading. "Not by running awayfromme."
I break. Just completely break. All the fear and guilt and need to fix everything hits me at once, and I'm sobbing so hard I can barely stand. My knees give out, and Wes catches me before I hit the floor, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me tight against his chest.
"I'm sorry," I choke out, burying my face in his sweaty practice shirt. "So sorry. I just thought—I thought—"
"Shh." His arms tighten around me, his lips pressing into my hair. "I know what you thought. But you're wrong. You're so fucking wrong." He doesn't let me go. Instead, his grip shifts, and he nudges my head to the side. It's not a demand; it's a desperate plea. "Let me smell you," he growls, his voice thick. "Need to know you're here."
He buries his face in my neck, inhaling deeply, a shudder running through his big frame. His nose traces the line of my jaw, my throat, breathing me in like a drowning man finding air. He licks over his own claiming mark, a gentle, soothing motionthat's the complete opposite of the furious claiming after the library. This isn't about erasing Nash; it's about reaffirming us. The simple, possessive act settles the frantic terror in my chest, replacing it with a bone-deep certainty. I am his. And I'm not going anywhere.
We sink to the floor together, my face buried in his neck, his arms so tight around me I can barely breathe, but I don’t want him to let go. I breathe him in—sweat and grass and that clean, lightning scent that's uniquely him. The warmth of his skin against my tear-wet cheeks. My alpha. My home.
"I was so scared," I whisper against his skin. "When I heard what was going to happen—"
