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.

DRAKE

Two seconds. Three seconds at most. That’s the socially acceptable time limit for a guy to find himself pinned on top of his roommate before things get... weird.

We’d crossed that line about ten seconds ago.

Rose’s heart was hammering like a trapped bird beneath my palm, which was still firmly clasped around her waist. Damn, she was tiny.

Her exposed skin beneath that oversized, slipping T-shirt felt impossibly warm, and the sweet scent of vanilla mixed with the raw smell of charcoal paper was slowly, systematically scrambling my brain.

“Morvane,” Rose whispered, her voice hoarse and trembling slightly against my collarbone. “Could you please… get your hundred-kilo, human-ice-block body off of me? I can’t breathe.”

Sarcasm. Of course. The girl's defense mechanism always flared up at the most inopportune moments.

I cleared my throat, instantly releasing my grip and pulling myself up in one swift, athletic motion. I turned my back to her, pretending to be intensely focused on straightening my team jacket, which wasn’t even wrinkled, just to hide the fact that my chest was heaving as if I’d just survived a brutal three-period sprint.

“I don’t weigh a hundred kilos,” I grumbled, my voice dropping into a rougher, lower register than usual. “It’s pure muscle. And you should be thanking my captain’s reflexes for saving your skull from cracking open against the coffee table.”

Rose pushed herself up on the rug, hurriedly yanking her shirt back up to cover her collarbone. Her face was still flushed a violent, beautiful shade of crimson, but her hazel eyes glared at me with that familiar spark of pure defiance.

“Oh, thank you so much, Your Majesty,” Rose sneered, quickly snatching her sketchbook and clutching it to her chest like a bulletproof shield. “Your reflexes are elite. But next time, give a girl a warning before you slide over here like a damn penguin on ice.”

A penguin? Did this girl really just compare the top NHL draft prospect to a fat, flightless bird?

I spun around, narrowing my eyes as I stepped back into her space. “You were drawing me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a cold, hard fact.

Rose immediately stiffened. Her gaze darted to the industrial ceiling, then toward the kitchen island—anywhere but my face. “I wasn’t drawing you. I was working on an anatomy assignment for my illustration class. It just so happens the model is a hockey player. And it just so happens his jersey number is seventeen. That’s… my lucky number. Yeah. That’s it.”

“Your lucky number?” I took another step forward, deliberately looming over her until she was completely engulfed by my shadow. “In Toronto, number seventeen belongs to me, Rose. You drew me. In exact, agonizing detail. Right down to the curve of my shoulder when I grip the stick.”

Rose swallowed hard, but she refused to back down. She stood up, forcing me to tilt my head down to maintain eye contact, making the stark height difference between us painfully obvious again.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Morvane. Your ego already takes up half the square footage in this loft,” she snapped, her voice shaking just enough to betray her nerves. “If I were actually trying to draw you, I’d make sure to add horns to your head.”

She lifted her hand, her index finger, stained black with charcoal soot—pressing firmly into the center of my chest to push me back. It barely budged me, but it left a distinct dark mark right over my heart. Without another word, she swept past me, her shoulder brushing mine as she retreated toward her bedroom.

The moment her door clicked shut, I finally exhaled the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

I looked down at the black smudge on my black T-shirt. My fingers traced the spot where her finger had just been, before wandering up to brush against my own lower lip.

Damn it. This was wrong. This was so incredibly wrong.

I wasn’t interested in her. No way. She was messy, loud, ruined the clean aesthetics of my apartment with her chaotic art supplies, and she didn’t even know what an offside trap was.

She was just a girl who accidentally got caught up in a housing glitch with me. The electric jolt in my veins just now? Pure adrenaline because I’d almost witnessed a bad accident. Yeah. Just a routine athlete’s reaction.

I was a professional. I was the captain. I wasn't going to let a girl who barely reached my chin mess up my championship season.

I walked over to the kitchen island to grab my phone, intending to text Marcus about tomorrow's practice. But as my eyes swept across the counter, I froze.

In her rush to escape, Rose had left her phone face-up on the granite surface.

And right there on the screen, a new text message preview from a contact named 'Leo 🕊️' popped up, shattering the quiet apartment.

Leo: Hey Rosie, I know you just moved, but my flight to Toronto just landed. Can I sleep in your bed tonight?

My eyes locked onto the screen, the glowing letters burning straight into my retinas.

Leo. With a dove emoji. And he wanted to sleep in her bed. Tonight.

A sudden, violent wave of heat rushed up my neck, completely overriding the cold logic I’d been trying so hard to force into my brain. My jaw clenched until it ached, my fingers tightening around the edge of the granite counter so hard my knuckles turned white.

Who the hell was Leo? A boyfriend? An ex? Some guy from her hometown who thought he could just roll into Toronto and claim a stake in my apartment?

The sheer absurdity of my anger should have alarmed me. I had known Rose Murphy for less than twenty-four hours. I didn't want a roommate, I didn't want a distraction, and yet, the mere thought of another man walking through my front door, putting his boots on my floor, and crawling into a bed under my roof made me want to put someone through a glass partition.

It's about security, I lied to myself, my heart hammering a chaotic, furious rhythm against my ribs. Yeah, that's it. I'm the captain of this space. I can't have random, unverified guys crashing on my turf during the season. It’s a liability.

But as I stared at her closed bedroom door, the image of Rose smiling at her phone, texting this Leo guy, and letting him get close enough to share a bed filled me with a toxic, unfamiliar bitterness.

I picked up her phone, my thumb hovering over the screen, every protective—no, possessive, instinct in my body screaming at me to read the rest of the thread.

Just as I was about to put it down, the doorknob to her room rattled.

I barely had time to slide the phone back onto the counter before the door swung open, and Rose stepped out, her hazel eyes scanning the floor.

"Hey, did I leave my—" She stopped, her eyes dropping to the phone right in front of me, and then snapping up to my face.

She froze, noticing the rigid line of my shoulders and the absolute ice in my stare. The air in the loft instantly turned volatile again, but this time, it wasn't just tension.

It was war.