The carpet outside Darren's door has a worn path now from all my pacing. Seven days since we brought him home from the hospital, and I've probably walked miles just in this hallway, back and forth, trying to work up the courage to knock.
I raise my fist, then drop it again. This is the sixth time I've almost knocked today. But I can't just stand here forever, can I?
The doctors sent him home with pain meds for the concussion and a stack of pamphlets about "transitional biology" that he immediately threw in the trash. When Jax tried to fish them out, Darren nearly broke my wrist.
I take a deep breath, smelling the faint traces of woodsmoke that leak from under his door. It's strange how quickly I've come to associate that scent with Darren. Before his injury, he just smelled vaguely smoky. Now he smells like a campfire on a crisp fall night, warm and inviting.
My knuckles finally connect with the door. Three quick taps.
"Darren? You awake?"
Silence stretches so long I wonder if he's sleeping. Or ignoring me. Probably ignoring me.
"I know you're in there," I try again. "I, uh, just wanted to check if you need anything."
"I'm fine." His voice is rough, like he hasn't spoken in days. He probably hasn't. "Go away."
At least he responded. That's progress from yesterday.
"Jax and Dmitri went to practice. Zayn's at some photo shoot." I shift my weight, pressing my palm against the door. "I thought maybe you'd want to come out? Eat something that isn't from the mini-fridge?"
"I said I'm fine."
I should leave. He clearly wants to be alone. But I can't shake the memory of him taking that hit for me on the ice. If he hadn't jumped in front of that shot, we might have lost the game. I might have been the rookie goalie who let in the tying goal in the final seconds.
Instead, he's the beta defenseman who became an omega overnight.
"Coach asked about you," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "He's talking about putting you on injured reserve until... until things stabilize."
Something crashes against the wall inside his room.
"Great," Darren snarls, his voice closer now. "Tell him I'm having a wonderful time 'stabilizing.'"
"I didn't tell him anything," I say quickly. "None of us have. Besides us, only the hospital staff knows you're a… well, you know. We figured you'd want to?—"
The door yanks open so suddenly I almost fall forward.
Darren stands there, looking like hell warmed over. His hair sticks up in all directions, dark circles underline his bloodshot eyes, and several days' growth of stubble darkens his jaw. He's wearing sweatpants and a wrinkled T-shirt that he's been wearing for at least a couple of days. His scent is stronger on it, but not unpleasant.
Not by a long shot.
And that's a problem, no matter how much I'm trying to ignore it. Because I think ignoring it is exactly what he wants right now.
But it's what's behind him that makes my eyes widen.
His bed is covered in blankets. Not just normal sleep-under-them blankets, but a carefully constructed mound of them. Pillows, throws, what looks like every spare bedding item from the linen closet, all arranged in a circular pattern with a depression in the middle. Like a nest.
Darren follows my gaze, then slams the door three-quarters shut, blocking my view.
"What do you want?" he demands, glaring at me through the narrow opening. The scent of woodsmoke intensifies, but there's something sharper, too. Embarrassment, maybe, or anger.
"I, uh—" My brain short-circuits, trying to process what I just saw. Nesting. He's already nesting. Like omegas do before?—
Nope. Not thinking about that.
"I just wanted to see if you're okay," I manage. "We're all worried."
"I don't need your worry." He runs a hand through his messy hair, making it stand up even more. "I don't need anything from any of you."
