With the scent of lavender in the air, amber lighting, bamboo flooring, and a small fountain on the reception desk burbling over smooth river stones, the whole space breathes deep, restorative zen. I catch a glimpse of myself in a decorative mirror on the wall. My hair is still a damp, tangled mess at the ends, and there is a distinct, dark waterline drying on the bottom of my jeans. I look like something the lake just spat back out.
A woman in a flowing tunic leads us to an alcove near the back with two plush reclining chairs. A small table sits between them with a teapot, two cups, and a dish of candied ginger. Gauze curtains partition us from the rest of the room.
I sink into my chair, and two massage therapists appear with two basins filled with water. The male therapist lifts my feet into the warmth, and I let out a groan that is definitely borderline indecent. Judging by the sudden, arrested look on Knox's face, I think he thinks so too.
"Tense?" he asks, a slow grin spreading across his face.
"A little," I admit, sinking deeper into my chair.
"Living with three massive alphas will do that to a person," he says lightly.
A surprised laugh suddenly bursts out of me. "You're literally one of them, though."
"Right, but I'm the easy one," he says, entirely deadpan.
Well. I'd actually give that title to Arthur, but I do appreciate Knox bending over backward to keep everything good in the apartment.
We let the therapists work in rhythmic, heavy silence for a moment, the tension physically draining out of my calves.
"So," I say eventually, rolling my head to the side to look at him. "The jet ski."
"What about it?"
"It's just—" I wave vaguely at him. "You. Doing that."
He raises an eyebrow. "Me doing what?"
"Going ninety miles an hour across open water!" I say, gesturing wildly to emphasize the speed.
"Meh, it was maybe forty," he counters.
"You code for a living, Knox," I say. "You build software. You dowellnessworkouts."
I stare at him. He stares back. Neither of us blinks.
"And then you're suddenly out there being a speed demon on open water," I finish.
He's quiet for a long beat. The therapist works her thumb deeply along the arch of his foot, and he stares up at the amber-lit ceiling before eventually exhaling a slow, measured breath. "I guess my parents were just pretty big on the whole calm, steady, reliable thing growing up."
"Oh." I let out a soft, surprised chuckle, not expecting such a heavy pivot. "I didn't realize we were diving straight into childhood trauma." But when he doesn't smile back, the humor drains out of my voice. I turn my face fully toward him. "Sorry."
"It's okay," he says, offering a small, self-deprecating smile. "I didn't exactly expect to say that out loud myself."
"I'd actually really like to hear about it, though," I say, keeping my voice gentle. "If you want to share."
He stays quiet for a long moment. His eyes drift back up to the ceiling, a visible debate playing out in the tense line of his shoulders. Finally, he lets out a small sigh.
"So my parent's pairing is atypical: my dad's a beta, mom's an omega," he starts. "I think they spent my entire childhoodtrying to prove to the world that an Alpha-less household wasn't detrimental to their kid's development." He pauses, the lines of his jaw tightening. "So they focused heavily on looking perfect. And that pressure bled directly into me. I got straight A's because that was the expectation. I played varsity soccer because that was the expectation. I was relentlesslyperfectbecause anything less meant I was failing them."
The string music fills the silence that follows. I look over at him. "Did you even want to go into software?"
"Oh, I love it." A small smile. "But that was kind of an accident. The jet ski isn't. The jet ski is the one thing I chose specifically because it's the opposite of measured." He glances at me. "That probably sounds stupid."
"It sounds like the opposite of stupid." I take a sip of tea and set the cup back on the table. "It sounds like you built yourself a pressure valve. Which is an extremely measured thing to do with your need to not be measured."
Something shifts in his face. Brief. There and then carefully put away.
***
