I crossed the room and sank down beside him, thecushions dipping slightly beneath us. He climbed into my lap immediately, pressing close with that same unwavering certainty he’d had since the moment he chose me.
My hand moved over his back automatically.
Steady.
Familiar.
Grounding.
Tomorrow I’d walk into that room. I’d sit across from Char. I’d answer every question. I’d hold my ground. I’d be exactly what I trained myself to be.
And whatever happened after that—at least it would be real.
I leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling as Bento’s purr settled into a low, steady rhythm against my chest.
Northbend didn’t feel temporary.
It felt like something just beginning.
CHAPTER 7
BEA
The cold didn’t settle—it bit. Sharp enough to slip under the collar of my coat and linger there. My breath ghosted faintly in front of me as I crossed the last stretch of pavement, dissolving the second I stepped inside and the doors sealed behind me.
Outside, the trees lining the parking lot had been halfway stripped bare, dull gold leaves clinging in stubborn patches that looked like they’d forgotten how to let go. The sky had been that thin, washed-out gray that promised winter without committing to it yet.
Inside, it disappeared.
The glass doors of Talon Arena whispered open. Warm air wrapped around me, carrying the scent of burnt coffee, industrial cleaner, and something deeper—rubber, sweat, the lived-in edge of a hockey building that no amount of maintenance could erase. It settled into my lungs differently than the cold had.
I paused just inside the lobby, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder, letting my eyes take inventory.
The space was quieter than I expected. Not empty—butmuted. Conversations stayed low, contained, like no one wanted their voice to carry further than necessary. Footsteps were purposeful without being rushed, tension tucked neatly beneath routine.
A TV mounted above the reception desk played a morning sports segment with the volume down, captions scrolling in sharp white lines across the bottom.
I checked my watch—8:43 a.m.—two minutes before I told myself I’d arrive. Enough time to settle. To breathe. To remind myself that I knew how to do this.
I smoothed my hands over the front of my blouse, the crisp cotton cool against my palms. My coat still held a trace of the outside chill, the fabric colder than the air around me, like it hadn’t fully decided which world it belonged to yet.
“Morning.” The voice came from my left, easy and familiar in tone, like we’d spoken before.
I turned, already preparing to introduce myself, to anchor the interaction in something predictable—but the woman behind the reception desk was already smiling at me in a way that suggested I didn’t need to.
“There’s coffee in the conference room,” she added, nodding toward the hallway behind her. “You’ll want it.”
Not:Can I help you?
Not:Who are you here to see?
My fingers tightened slightly around the strap of my bag. “Thank you,” I stammered anyway, because politeness cost nothing, and because I didn’t know what else to say.
She nodded once, already looking past me, already moving on.
The hallway beyond the lobby was brighter, lined with framed photographs—players mid-stride, ice spraying in sharp arcs beneath their skates, faces caught in that split-second between effort and impact. The Frosthawks logoappeared repeatedly, stamped into corners, stitched into jerseys, burned into the identity of the place.
Fire in the cold.