The Rabbit and the Wolf

~ALAN~

The metal door closed behind Miller and the others, making the locker room so quiet it felt like it was buzzing.

The bass from the speakers in the corner was still booming, but the fun was gone.

I didn't move for a long second. I just stood there, the water still dripping from my hair and tracing the lines of the ink on my shoulders.

The boy hadn't moved either.

He was still a statue against the lockers, his knuckles white as he gripped the handle of his mop like it was a lifeline.

He looked small. Too small for a place this loud and this violent.

I turned away, heading toward my locker. I could feel his eyes on me. It wasn't the way the girls on campus looked at me—hungry and bold.

This was different. It was the wide-eyed, scared, curious look of a deer watching a predator from the bushes.

I reached into my locker, pulling out a pair of black boxer briefs.

I took my time dragging them on, purposefully slow. I was 6'4" of elite-trained muscle, and I knew exactly what kind of image I was giving out.

I caught his reflection in the shiny metal of the locker beside mine.

He was looking. Really looking.

His eyes tracked the curve of the sleeve tattoo on my left arm, staying on the dark, detailed patterns that disappeared under my armpit.

He looked at the scars on my torso— leftover of high-speed crashes and stray pucks—and then quickly darted his gaze to the floorboards when I turned around.

A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth.

He was cute. Distractingly so.

"You usually work the late shift alone?" I asked.

My voice was a deep sound in the quiet room. He didn't answer. He just squeezed the mop handle harder, his shoulders hunched up to his ears.

I pulled on a pair of dark denim jeans, the denim rough against my wet skin. I didn't bother with a shirt yet, leaving my chest and the knuckle tattoos on my hands exposed.

I stepped closer, my bare feet silent on the rubber matting.

"Hey. I’m talking to you," I said, my tone softening just a bit. "Why are you the only one on duty? Briarwood usually has a full crew for the athletic wing."

Silence.

He wouldn't even look at my knees, let alone my face. He looked like he was trying to jolt out of his own skin.

"Is it a punishment?" I pressed, taking another step. "Did someone put you on the late rotation because you’re the new guy?"

Nothing. Not a word. Just the sound of his shallow, hitching breaths.

I frowned, the protective itch in my chest turning into a low-grade burn. I had spent my whole life around guys who shouted, who took up space, who bled for the cameras.

This boy was the opposite of everything I knew.

"What’s your name?" I asked.

He flinched. It wasn't just a small movement—It was a hard hit, his back crashing into the locker with a soft thud.

He looked like he expected me to swing at him.

He looked like a boy who had been hit a thousand times and was just waiting for number a thousand and one.

I froze.

I didn't like the way my heart beat against my ribs at the sight of his fear. It made me feel like the monster Miller was, and that thought tasted like ash in my mouth.

I didn't step back, but I didn't move forward either. Instead, I did something that went against every Alpha instinct I had ever been taught.

I dropped.

I crunched down on the floor, resting my weight on the balls of my feet until I was at eye level with him. I leaned my head, trying to find his gaze beneath that mess of blond hair.

Up close, he looked even more fragile.

His skin was so pale I could see the light blue veins at his temples. He was trembling so hard I could hear his teeth chattering.

"Look at me," I commanded softly.

It took a long time. Seconds ticked by, counted by the thumping bass of the rap song that was finally fading out.

Slowly, painfully, he lifted his chin.

Those winter-forest eyes met mine, wide and swimming with a panic that went much deeper than a few hockey players being assholes.

He looked at my face, searching for something—meanness, mockery, a hidden trap. He didn't find it.

"I’m not Miller," I said, my voice dropping low, losing its edge. I reached out, stopping my hand just inches from his shoulder when I saw him tense up again.

I let my hand drop to my knee. "And I don't give a damn about the floors."

He swallowed, his throat bobbing. He still hadn't said a word, but the way he was looking at me now... it wasn't just fear.

It was a desperate, starving kind of hope.

I felt a pull in my gut, a deep, magnetic rope that snapped into place between us. I didn't understand it, and I sure as hell hadn't asked for it, but I knew one thing for certain: I wasn't letting this kid out of my sight.

"Hey," I said, my voice a smooth, low drawl that seemed to anchor him to the spot. "I did say you were safe with me."

His lips opened a little, as if he wanted to see how to respond. But then he looked away, the mask of the invisible janitor sliding back into place as he gripped his mop and started to push it past me.

I stayed on the floor, watching him leave, and the smell of his soap—fresh and light, like rain—stayed in the air even after he closed the locker room door.

‘Safe with me,’ I thought, my hands fisting at my sides.

I had made a promise. And in my world, a Voss never broke a promise.