Drake Morvane

I didn’t sleep. Not a single wink.

Every time I closed my eyes, my brain replayed the exact moment Rose Murphy burst into my apartment. I kept seeing the way her wide, hazel eyes had darted down my chest before scrambling back up to my face, her cheeks flushing a furious, beautiful shade of pink.

Beautiful? No. Annoying. She was a distraction, and distractions were a luxury I couldn't afford. Especially not with the scouts from Boston and Chicago hovering around our arena lately, watching my every move. I needed absolute focus.

At 5:00 AM, my alarm buzzed. I rolled out of bed, threw on my training gear, a gray sleeveless compression shirt and shorts, and cracked my neck. Time for my morning skate. The ice didn't care about housing glitches, and neither did I.

When I opened my bedroom door, the apartment was pitch-black except for the pale blue moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I walked into the living room, intending to grab my keys and leave without a sound.

But then my foot hit something soft.

"Oof," a muffled voice groaned from the floor.

I froze, looking down. Rose wasn’t on the couch. Apparently, at some point during the night, she had rolled completely off the expensive leather sofa and was now tangled in a chaotic ball of her own oversized gray hoodie and a flimsy, thin blanket she must have dug out of her duffel bag. Her messy brown hair was splayed across the hardwood floor, a few strands stuck to her lip.

She looked small. Vulnerable. Completely unlike the fiery girl who had called me the 'king of Canada' last night.

And she was shivering. The Toronto winter was brutal, and the draft from the old brick walls always hit the living room hardest.

I stood there for a full minute, my keys clutched in my hand, telling myself to walk out the door. Not my problem, I thought. She wanted to stay here. Let her freeze.

Instead, my feet moved on their own. I walked back to my room, grabbed the heavy, oversized navy-blue duvet from my bed—the one with the official Toronto Varsity Blues crest—and walked back out. I knelt down, trying to ignore the way my chest tightened when I got close to her, and carefully draped the heavy blanket over her shoulders.

Rose stirred, murmuring something incoherent under her breath, and immediately buried her face into the fabric, inhaling deeply. My scent, mint and cedarwood, was all over that blanket. The realization that she was wrapped in my smell made something strange and dangerously hot flare up in my gut.

"Get a grip, Morvane," I muttered to myself, standing up abruptly and heading out the door.

Three hours later, the ice hadn't cured my mood. If anything, I had skated harder, hit the plexiglass rougher, and pushed my body until my lungs burned. All to exhaust the thought of her out of my system.

When I finally unlocked the door to Apartment 4B again, I was fully prepared to deal with the administrative nightmare. I had even left a note on the counter earlier: Housing office at 8:30 AM. Don't be late. And don't touch my coffee maker.

I kicked the door open, my hockey bag slung over my shoulder, and the first thing I saw was Rose.

My breath caught in my throat.

She was standing by the kitchen island, nursing a mug of tea. She was wearing high-waisted jeans and a tight, cropped black turtleneck that clung to every single curve, her hair pulled up into a messy claw clip. The cold air from outside suddenly felt scorching. My eyes, entirely betraying my willpower, tracked her from her boots, up the tight denim of her jeans, and lingered on the exposed sliver of golden skin at her waist before finally meeting her eyes.

I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ground together. Control yourself, Thorne.

"You're dressed," I said, my voice rougher and deeper than usual from the freezing rink air.

"Good observation. I see those captain instincts are sharp," she replied, leaning against the counter and taking a slow, agonizingly deliberate sip of her tea. "Did you enjoy your little ice dance?"

"It’s called a morning skate, Rose," I murmured, my legs moving before I could stop them. I walked toward the kitchen, crossing the space between us until I was standing right on the other side of the island, terrifyingly close. I wanted to intimidate her. I wanted her to back down. But mostly, I just wanted to be near her. "And you're wearing my blanket."

"You left it on me," she countered, looking straight into my eyes without a hint of fear. "Which, by the way, was surprisingly human of you. I didn't think robots felt empathy."

I leaned forward, placing my hands on the edge of the counter, tilting my head to look down at her. "Don't get used to it, sweetheart. I just didn't want your ghost haunting my living room."

My eyes scanned her face, settling on a small smudge of charcoal on her cheek—probably from the art supplies I’d seen poking out of her bag. Without thinking, my hand reached across the small distance. My thumb brushed against her cheekbone. Her skin was incredibly soft, warm, and the contact felt like a sudden jolt of electricity straight to my chest.

Rose gasped softly, her breath catching.

I froze, my thumb lingering on her skin for a second too long. My gaze dropped to her mouth, watching her lips part. The tension between us was suffocating. I wanted to pull her across the counter. I wanted to tell her she wasn't going anywhere.

Fearing how close I was to losing my grip, I abruptly yanked my hand back as if I’d been burned.

"You have... dirt on your face," I muttered, turning around quickly to open the fridge just to hide the fact that my fingers were trembling. "Let's go. The housing office opens in ten minutes."

"I'm ready," she said, her voice carrying a quiet, knowing confidence that told me she knew exactly how much she affected me.

I grabbed my keys from the counter and reached for the doorknob. But before I could turn it, my phone, not my personal one, but the sleek, black burner phone I kept hidden in my hockey bag, vibrated violently against my hip.

I pulled it out, intending to ignore it, but the lock screen lit up with a text message from a restricted number.

My blood turned to pure ice.

It was a photo. A photo of Rose, taken through the kitchen window just a few seconds ago, holding her mug of tea. Underneath it was a single line of text:

“She looks good in your apartment, Thorne. Let’s see how she looks when we’re done with her. Sixty seconds to get her out, or we do it for you.”

"Drake?" Rose’s voice came from behind me, laced with sudden confusion as she noticed my rigid posture. "What's wrong?"

I didn't answer. Slowly, I looked up from the screen and stared at the front door. On the other side of the wood, I heard the faint, distinct sound of the doorknob beginning to turn.

ROSE

I knew Drake Morvane was a certified freak, but what happened at the apartment this morning was completely off the charts.

One second, he was touching my cheek, sending my stupid heart into a total tailspin, and the next, his whole body went rigid. He looked at his phone, his face turning as white as ice. And the exact moment the front doorknob started slowly jiggling from the outside, Drake moved like a predator.

He didn't open it. Instead, he yanked me by the arm, shoving me behind his massive frame, and threw three heavy-duty deadbolts into place in a matter of seconds. From the other side of the wood, I caught the faint sound of rushed footsteps hurrying away down the hall. Drake didn't chase after them.

He just stared at the door, chest heaving, before clutching that mysterious black burner phone and giving me a look that could kill.

"We’re going to the housing office. Right now," he’d growled, refusing to answer a single one of my questions.

And so, here we were.

The University of Toronto Housing Office smelled like damp winter coats and bureaucratic failure.

We’d been sitting in two incredibly uncomfortable plastic chairs for the last forty-five minutes. Well, I was sitting. Drake was pacing the small room like a caged panther, his massive six-foot-three frame practically sucking all the oxygen out of the space. Every single student who walked past the glass door stopped, stared, and did a double-take at the sight of the Varsity Blues hockey captain looming over the receptionist’s desk.

"What do you mean, system migration error?"

Drake’s voice didn’t rise, but it had this low, dangerous edge that made the poor middle-aged woman behind the desk visibly sweat. He leaned his hands on the counter, his broad shoulders tensing under his heavy team jacket.

"I mean exactly what I said, Mr. Morvane," she squeaked, nervously clicking her mouse. "The system double-booked Apartment 4B during the winter term transition. It’s an administrative glitch. But because it’s mid-semester, every single off-campus and on-campus housing unit is at one hundred percent capacity."

I sat up straight, my heart dropping straight into my stomach. "Wait. What does that mean? Where am I supposed to go?"

The woman looked at me with a mix of pity and utter helplessness. "Until a room opens up, which usually doesn't happen until spring graduation in three months—the university cannot reassign either of you. Technically, you both have legally binding, university-backed leases for the exact same space."

"No," Drake said flatly. "Absolutely not. Fix it."

"I can't fix a lack of physical space, Mr. Morvane," she said, her tone sharpening slightly as she finally found her bureaucratic courage. "You’ll both receive a twenty percent discount on your monthly rent for the inconvenience, but until someone drops out or graduates... you’re going to have to share."

"Share?" Drake echoed, a dark, disbelieving laugh escaping his lips. He turned around, his icy blue eyes locking onto me with an intensity that made my breath hitch. "You expect me to share my space with a stranger during the most critical month of the season?"

"Unless one of you wants to voluntarily break the lease and forfeit your deposit, yes," she replied, already looking past us to the next student in line. "Next, please."

I stood up, my mind racing. I couldn't leave. I didn't have the cash to rent a hotel, let alone find a new apartment in Toronto’s brutal housing market on twenty-four hours' notice. Besides, after that creepy incident with the doorknob... my gut told me Drake was hiding something massive.

Drake grabbed his hockey bag from the floor, throwing the strap over his shoulder with enough force to make the heavy leather snap. He didn't even look at me. He just stormed out of the office, his long strides leaving me scrambling to keep up.

"Hey! Wait up!" I jogged after him, my boots clicking loudly against the tiled hallway floor. "Morvane! Stop walking like you're trying to outrun a literal blizzard!"

He stopped so abruptly at the exit doors that I almost slammed face-first into his back again. He turned around, his jaw clenched tightly, his eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and raw frustration.

"Three months, Rose," he growled, stepping right into my space until I was forced to crane my neck just to look at him. "Ninety days. That’s how long we’re stuck together. But let me make one thing perfectly clear to you right now: I am not your friend. I am not your landlord. I am your roommate by legal force, and that is exactly where it ends."

My chest tightened at how harshly he drew the line, but I swallowed the lump in my throat. If he wanted to play the grumpy, untouchable captain to push me away, two could play that game. I wasn't going to let him see me flinch.

"Fine by me," I snapped back, crossing my arms defensively over my black turtleneck. "I didn't come to Toronto looking for a giant, moody hockey player to babysit anyway. We divide everything. Half the fridge, half the living room, and a strict schedule for the bathroom."

"Done," he said, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper as he leaned down just an inch closer. "And one more thing. No one at the arena, no one on my team, and no one on this damn campus finds out about this. If the media or the coaches think I have a distraction living under my roof, it ruins everything I've worked for. You don't know me, and I don't know you. Deal?"

Looking into those freezing blue eyes, I realized this arrangement was a lot heavier than just sharing a kitchen. But I nodded anyway.

"Deal."

He could talk a big game all he wanted, but I caught the sudden shift in his eyes. For a split second, he looked almost regretful, or worried about what had just gone down. But just as fast, the wall went right back up, and he drew that strict line between us all over again

Drake Morvane

I lied.

I told her I wasn't her friend, that I didn't care, that she was just a glitch in the system. But three hours later, as I sat in the locker room staring at my skates while the rest of the team laughed and shouted around me, I couldn't get her out of my head.

More specifically, I couldn't get the feel of her skin out of my mind.

My thumb still burned from where I had brushed that stray piece of charcoal off her cheekbone. I could still see the way her hazel eyes had widened, the soft, breathless gasp that had escaped her lips when I touched her. She was tiny compared to me, but she had this fierce, unapologetic spark that made it impossible to look away.

"Hey, Cap! Earth to Morvane!"

A sweaty hockey glove smacked against my shoulder, breaking my trance. I blinked, looking up to see Marcus, my assistant captain, grinning down at me.

"You're slacking today, man," Marcus said, sitting on the bench next to me and unlacing his skates. "Coach noticed it during drills. You missed two easy passes. What’s going on? You still stressed about that apartment situation?"

"It's fine," I muttered, leaning forward to grab my water bottle. "Just a roommate issue."

"Did Vance finally stick some nerdy freshman in your loft?" Marcus laughed, shaking his head. "Man, I'd pay to see some poor kid try to survive living with you. You're like a drill sergeant when you're in game mode. Just ignore them, lock your door, and focus on Friday's game against McGill. We need this win."

"Yeah," I said quietly, taking a long drink of water. "Focus."

But when I got back to the apartment later that afternoon, my carefully constructed focus shattered into a million pieces.

I unlocked the door, expecting the heavy silence I had grown to love over the past two years. Instead, the loft was filled with the warm, rich sound of indie-pop music drifting from a small Bluetooth speaker. The scent of cinnamon and fresh coffee air hit me the second I stepped inside.

And there she was.

Rose was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room rug, surrounded by a chaotic sea of sketchbooks, charcoal pencils, and massive sheets of watercolor paper.

She had changed into an absurdly oversized, faded vintage band t-shirt that hung completely off one of her delicate shoulders, exposing a devastating expanse of smooth, golden skin and the sharp curve of her collarbone. Her hair was piled into a messy bun held together by a single pencil.

She was completely lost in her own world, her fingers stained with black charcoal as she fiercely sketched something on the paper in front of her. She was humming along to the music, totally unaware of how the afternoon sunlight caught the golden flecks in her hair, or how the hem of that t-shirt rode up dangerously high on her thighs.

I stood by the door, frozen, my hockey bag suddenly feeling heavy in my hand.

I had spent my entire life surrounded by the loud, aggressive, hyper-masculine world of hockey. My dad's house was a shrine to trophies and cold efficiency. My dorms had been sterile. My arena was ice and steel.

But this? This was color. This was warmth. This was pure, unadulterated temptation invading my black-and-white sanctuary.

Rose suddenly stopped humming, her head snapping up as if she finally sensed my presence. Her eyes met mine, and she immediately went still, her lips parting slightly.

"You're back early," she said, her voice softer than it had been this morning, lacking the sharp defense mechanism she usually wore like armor.

"Practice ended," I choked out, my throat suddenly feeling incredibly dry.

I took off my jacket, trying to act normal, but my eyes kept drifting back to the bare skin of her shoulder, to the messy strands of hair framing her face, to the way she looked so incredibly right sitting on my floor.

I walked over to the kitchen island, intending to just grab some water and hide in my room like I promised. But as I passed her, my curiosity won. I glanced down at the massive sketchbook she was working on.

I expected a landscape. A flower. Some abstract art major stuff.

Instead, my heart stopped.

Sketched in stunning, hyper-realistic charcoal was the silhouette of a hockey player on the ice, his jersey flowing, his posture aggressive and powerful, frozen mid-shot. And stitched perfectly onto the back of the jersey, detailed with intricate shading, was the number 17.

She had been drawing me.

Rose noticed where I was looking, and her face instantly turned a violent, bright shade of crimson. She scrambled forward, desperately trying to flip the sketchbook closed, but her foot caught on the edge of the rug. With a small cry, she lost her balance, slipping sideways toward the sharp edge of the coffee table.

Inertia. My body moved before my brain could process the risk.

I dropped my bag, lunged forward, and caught her by the waist just inches before she hit the wood. The force of my movement pulled her flush against my chest, and we both went down onto the soft rug, with her securely pinned beneath me.

The music played softly in the background, but all I could hear was the frantic, rapid thudding of her heart against my ribs. Her hands were pressed against my chest, her fingers curling into my shirt, while my large hands were firmly locked around her waist, my fingers sinking into the soft flesh above her hips.

God, she was tiny. And she fit perfectly under me.

The oversized shirt had ridden up even further, and the heat of her bare thigh was pressed right against the rough fabric of my jeans. Up close, she smelled intoxicating, like vanilla, paper, and a hint of the mint body wash she’d stolen from my bathroom. She was staring up at me, her hazel eyes wide, dilated, and dark with a mixture of shock and something heavy, dangerous, and completely mutual.

My gaze dropped down to her lips. They were parted, her breath fanning hot and shallow against my neck. Every time her chest rose, it brushed right against mine, sending a jolt of pure electricity straight to my gut.

"Are you okay?" I growled, my voice dropping into a register so deep it was practically a purr. My chest rose and fell heavily against hers, refusing to give her an inch of breathing room.

"I..." Rose swallowed hard, her pulse fluttering wildly at the base of her throat. Her gaze dropped to my mouth, lingering there for a long, agonizing second before snapping back to my eyes. "Yeah. I'm okay. Thanks."

I knew I should get up. I knew I should break the touch, apologize, and walk away. But looking down at her, seeing her cheeks flushed, feeling the heat of her body radiating against mine, and knowing that I was the one making her breath hitch like that...

I realized I had just broken my own rule.

My grip on her waist tightened, pulling her just a fraction of an inch higher against my body, letting her feel the heavy, uneven thud of my own heart. I didn't move. I didn't let go.

And the worst part? I wanted to see exactly how far she’d let me push it.