@tropehoarder
enemies to lovers, only one bed, touch her and die. i collect them all.
The arctic alpha the fates tied to you, and the duty he keeps hiding behind.
Number nine. Untouchable on the field and off. He already decided you are better off far from him.
Engine trouble put you down hundreds of miles from any radio. One tent. One sleeping bag. A whiteout coming. And a man who swears he's fine sleeping in the snow, right up until he isn't.
The city's whole outlaw circuit holds its breath when his engine turns over, but the only thing that makes his hands unsteady is you in the passenger seat.
You left for the city ten years ago. He stayed, ran the family vineyard, and never got rid of the initials you carved in the cellar beam. He has a question he has been saving the whole time.
The bond chose you the moment she pulled you out of the snare. Pack law says she can't have you. Her wolf has never once cared what the law says.
You needed a room fast; they had one. Rule one, said as a joke your first night — hands off the roommate. Three weeks in, none of them are laughing.
The curator hired you to catalogue a private gallery no living soul has seen. By the third canvas you find a face you recognize, in a portrait dated four hundred years ago. It is theirs, exactly. They watch you notice, and they do not look away.
He works alone. He has always worked alone. A month at sea in one shared cabin with a far-too-cheerful visiting lecturer is about to teach him that he sleeps better when someone else is breathing in the dark.
She hasn't taken on help in years and she likes it that way. Then a bad harvest forced her hand, and now there's a relentlessly cheerful market manager reorganizing her aging cave and refusing to be scowled away.
