The Alpha & the Ice Princess

STUDY SESSION

Georgia

His hands did all the things his voice wouldn't let itself do.

We meet in the library at nine, which is later than either of us should probably be starting a study session. Between his hockey practice, my ice time, and the general nightmare of finding a free hour in both our schedules, nine on a Thursday is what we manage. I almost canceled twice, telling myself I had better things to do than sit across a table from someone who unsettles me this much. Both times, I found myself getting ready anyway.

The library is almost empty when I arrive. A few students are scattered around the reading room, heads bent over laptops and textbooks, oblivious to everything but their own work. The overhead lights have been dimmed, leaving the room warmer and quieter than it feels during the day, the kind of hush that makes every small sound - a page turning, a chair creaking - feel louder than it should.

I choose the table in the corner near the window. Deliberately. I tell myself it's because it's quieter over here. I don't think too hard about why I don't want to sit somewhere more public, or why some part of me wants to be tucked away where no one can watch us together.

Puck is already there. Of course he is. His books are spread across the table, along with a legal pad covered in handwriting so neat it could almost pass for typed notes. He looks up when I sit down, and for a second, something crosses his face - something unguarded, almost relieved. I can't quite catch it before he puts the usual careful expression back in place, like a door quietly shutting.

"You're late," he murmurs, mock accusation edging into his voice.

"Six minutes," I point out, biting back a smile. "I think we'll survive."

His mouth twitches. Barely. Then he looks back down at his notes, and I let myself study him for a moment longer than necessary before doing the same.

We start with the short story we've been arguing over for weeks, trading notes and flipping between pages as we work through the symbolism and structure. It doesn't take long for us to fall into our usual rhythm. We argue. He makes a point. I challenge it. He challenges me right back, and something about the familiarity of it settles the nervous energy that's been humming under my skin since I walked in.

"The water imagery isn't just about cleansing," he argues, tapping his pen against the page. His tone is clipped, confident. "Everyone reads it that way because it's obvious. But look at where it actually appears. It's always right before something breaks."

I scan the paragraph again, trying to focus on the words instead of the low certainty in his voice.

"It's not purification," he continues, leaning back slightly. "It's pressure building before a fracture."

"That's a stretch," I counter, lifting an eyebrow.

"Is it?" he challenges, finally looking up. There's a sharp little spark in his eyes now, and I know I've gotten exactly the reaction he wanted. "Prove me wrong."

I flip through the pages, searching for the counterexample I know is somewhere in there, refusing to let him win this easily.

"Here," I say, pointing to a passage. "This one."

He leans closer, close enough that I catch the faint scent of cedar clinging to his jacket. I explain my argument, watching him listen with the kind of stillness that makes me feel like I'm the only thing in the room. Then he dismantles it in about thirty seconds, methodical and infuriatingly calm.

I stare at him.

"You're annoying," I mutter.

His smile is small and entirely too pleased with itself. "I've been told."

It should irritate me. Instead, I have to fight a smile of my own, some traitorous warmth spreading through my chest that I refuse to examine too closely. He's smart without making a production out of it. He doesn't need anyone else in the room to know he's right. He just follows an idea until he gets wherever it's going, then waits for me to catch up, patient in a way that feels almost intimate.

I like arguing with him. More than I should.

Somewhere in the middle of our discussion, I realize I'm watching his hands instead of listening to what he's saying. Great. His fingers move when he talks, quick and deliberate. He taps the page when he wants to emphasize a point, traces a line of text when he's explaining something, and rolls the pen between his fingers whenever he's thinking. There's something hypnotic about the economy of his movements, like he's never once in his life fidgeted without purpose.

I look at his mouth. That is worse. I have no idea what he's saying anymore, and the realization sends a fresh wave of heat up my neck. I drag my eyes back to my notebook, willing myself to focus, to be normal, to stop cataloging him like he's something I need to memorize.

Heat creeps up the back of my neck. Fantastic.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

I glance up. He's watching me, his gaze steady in a way that makes it hard to lie convincingly.

"Fine," I answer too quickly. "Just thinking."

"About the symbolism?" he asks, amusement threading through his voice.

"Sure." I clear my throat. "The symbolism."

I pull my notebook closer, using it as a shield against whatever he might read on my face. He studies me for another second, long enough that I can feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing. I pretend to be fascinated by my own handwriting.

Eventually, he looks away. I notice his jaw tighten. Just slightly. He does that sometimes, almost as if he's biting back words before they can escape, like there's an entire conversation happening behind his eyes that he refuses to let me hear. I don't ask. I've learned that questions rarely get me anywhere with him, and pushing only makes the walls go up faster.

We keep working. The banter comes easier now, but there's an edge underneath it that wasn't there when we first started meeting weeks ago. Neither of us acknowledges it. We don't have to. It sits between us anyway, quiet and undeniable, threading through every exchange.

When he leans across the table to point something out in my notebook, his arm brushes mine. My breath catches. It's barely a touch, gone almost as soon as it happens. Still, I notice. I notice everything about him when he's this close. The clean scent of cedar and cold air clings to his clothes, grounding and unfamiliar all at once. His shoulder is only inches from mine. His voice drops when he talks, probably because we're in a library, but I feel it more than I hear it, low and warm against my skin.

His pen stops moving.

"Your heart's racing," he observes quietly.

I freeze, my pulse stuttering as if to prove him right.

"How would you even know that?" I ask, barely above a breath.

He doesn't answer. Something changes in his expression, some flicker of hesitation that makes me lean in without meaning to. For half a second, I get the feeling he's about to tell me, that whatever he's holding back might finally slip free.

Then the door closes again.

"Lucky guess," he says finally.

The lie is so obvious I almost laugh. I don't. Instead, I sit there trying to figure out how he could possibly know something I can barely feel myself, turning the moment over like a puzzle piece that doesn't fit anywhere I understand yet.

I look back at my notebook. "Right."

A minute later, I'm halfway through arguing my point about the ending when his pen snaps. Clean in two, like something inside it simply gave out. I stop talking. Ink spreads across his fingers, dark and sudden. He swears under his breath and reaches into his bag for a tissue.

I watch him wipe the ink away, my mind already racing ahead of the moment. This is the second pen. The second time I've seen him do that. I don't mention it. I've stopped expecting explanations from him, though the not-knowing gnaws at me more than I'd like to admit. Instead, I tuck the observation away with everything else I've been collecting lately. Another question. Another unanswered thing added to a list that keeps growing longer than I know what to do with.

We work for another hour. By the time we finish our outline for the week, the library is almost completely empty. The room has gone so quiet that I can hear the faint hum of the lights overhead, and somewhere beneath that, the soft rhythm of his breathing beside me.

Neither of us seems in much of a hurry to leave.

Eventually, I close my notebook. "I think we're done," I say, sliding it into my bag.

"Unfortunately," he replies, his voice dry, though something underneath the dryness sounds almost sincere.

I look at him. He's already looking at me, and for a moment neither of us moves, caught in that strange suspended space between goodbye and something else.

I stand and sling my bag over my shoulder. That's when he speaks. Quietly. Almost as if the words slipped out before he could stop them.

"You should probably stay away from me," he warns.

I stop, my hand still gripping the strap of my bag.

"Why?" I ask, confusion tightening my voice.

He doesn't answer. He just looks at me, and the silence stretches long enough to feel like its own kind of answer. There's want in his expression. And warning. They're tangled together so tightly I can't separate one from the other, and it terrifies me how badly I want to close the distance anyway.

I wait. One second. Then another. He still doesn't say anything, his jaw working like he's fighting down every word he actually wants to say.

So I leave. I don't say goodbye. I don't look back, though it costs me more than I expect to keep walking.

The walk to my dorm is quiet, the campus mostly dark around me. My footsteps echo against the pavement, and every few minutes I catch myself thinking about how close he was at the table. The way his voice sounded when he told me to stay away. The way he'd looked at me when he said it, like the warning cost him something too.

I press my palm against my ribs. My pulse is still too fast. I stand there for a second, feeling it beat beneath my hand, as if I'm collecting evidence for a case I don't know how to solve yet, one more piece of a pattern I can feel but can't name.

By the time I reach my dorm, I've already made the decision. I pull out my notebook. I write the entry before I can talk myself out of it, my handwriting tighter than usual, like even the words are bracing for impact.

Stay away from me. Third warning. Still no reason given.