EMERY.

I stood on the porch of the small off-campus house, holding the last cardboard box of my things. My clothes inside were damp. My shoes were soaked. But the worst part was the heavy feeling in my chest.

Twenty-four hours ago, I had a plan.

I was supposed to be packing for my dream university, moving into a nice dorm with a full scholarship. I was supposed to be celebrating with Mason, my boyfriend since we were sixteen. I had my whole life mapped out on a little grid.

Then, the grid broke.

First came the email. A cold, polite message saying my scholarship was gone due to a "last-minute funding shift." Just like that, the school I worked four years to get into closed its doors to me.

When I went to Mason’s apartment looking for comfort, I found something else instead. I found his hockey jersey on the living room floor. Then I found my own roommate’s shoes outside his bedroom. The sounds coming from behind his door told me the rest.

I didn't scream. I just packed my bags, broke up with him via a sticky note on his mirror, and left.

Now, I was here.

I looked down at the crumpled lease agreement in my hand. The rent was dirt cheap, which was the only reason I could afford it on my own saving squished from part-time jobs. The landlord had said there was already one student living here. A hockey player from Linchester University. I hadn't cared about the details. I just needed a roof over my head where Mason couldn't find me.

I dropped my key into the lock, it turned with a loud click.

I pushed the door open, stepping into a small, warm living room. The smell of clean laundry hit me. It was nice. Cozy, even. For a second, I felt a tiny spark of hope. Maybe I could start over here. Maybe I could fix my life.

"You're late," a deep voice said.

The spark of hope died instantly.

I froze, my hands tightening around the cardboard box. I knew that voice.

I hated that voice.

It was a voice that had teased me at parties, mocked my boyfriend, and made my blood boil for the last two years.

I looked up.

Standing in the doorway of the kitchen was Atlas Vance.

He was wearing nothing but grey sweatpants. His chest was broad, covered in faint lines of muscle and a few bruises from the ice. His dark hair was messy, sticking up in every direction, and his jaw was shadowed with stubble. In his hand, he held a glass of water.

He stopped tracking the glass to his mouth when he saw me. His grey eyes went wide. For a fraction of a second, he looked completely shocked. Then, his face smoothed out into that familiar, arrogant smirk.

"Well, well," Atlas murmured, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. "Look what the storm dragged in."

"No," I whispered. My voice cracked. "No, this is a mistake."

"I don't think so, Vale," Atlas said. He took a slow sip of his water, his eyes never leaving my face. "Your name is on the lease. I checked this morning. I just didn't think it was you."

"I'm leaving," I said, spinning around toward the door.

"Go ahead," Atlas called out, his voice smooth and teasing. "But it's pouring out there. And correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you just dump Carter yesterday? Where are you going to go? Back to him?"

I stopped with my hand on the brass doorknob. The metal felt ice-cold against my palm. How did he know? How did he already know about Mason?

But of course he knew.

Atlas was the captain of the Linchester University hockey team and Mason was the star player for their biggest rival. They hated each other so bad that if Mason sneezed, Atlas probably heard about it. A breakup was front-page news to guys like him.

I turned back to face him, my chin lifted. I refused to let him see me break. "How I live my life is none of your business, Vance."

Atlas walked forward. He was tall over six feet of pure athlete and he seemed to take up the whole room. As he got closer, I could feel the heat radiating off his skin.

He stopped just a few feet away, looking down at me.

"Everything in this house is my business now," he said softly. He looked at the wet cardboard box in my arms, then up at my dripping hair. His smirk faded, replaced by something unreadable. "You look like a drowned rat."

"Thank you. You look like a jerk who needs to put a shirt on."

A small laugh left his lips. "Still got a bite, I see. Even when you're homeless."

"I am not homeless," I snapped, though my eyes burned with unshed tears. "I am your new roommate. Unfortunately."

Atlas looked at me for a long moment. His eyes traveled over my face, lingering on the dark circles under my eyes. For a second, just a second, his expression softened. It almost looked like... concern. But I knew better. Atlas Vance didn't care about anyone but himself.

He reached out and took the heavy box from my hands.

"Hey! Give that back," I demanded, reaching for it.

"Don't be too proud." he said, turning around and walking toward the short hallway. "Helping you reduces my rent. You can ask the landlord.”

I followed him, my wet shoes squeaking on the hardwood floor. "You're heartless."

"Clearly, I don't," he said over his shoulder. He kicked the bedroom door open with his foot and set the box down on a bare mattress. He turned around, crossing his arms over his chest. "Listen to me. We don't like each other. That’s a fact. I don't have a heart, but I'm alive, right?”

I stood in the doorway of my new room. It was small. Just a bed, a desk, and a window looking out at the rain. It felt real now. My old life was gone. This tiny room and the cruel man in front of me was all I had left.

A tear finally escaped my eye, rolling down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away with the back of my hand, hoping he didn't notice.

Atlas went completely still. His grey eyes locked onto my face. The playful, arrogant look vanished from his features.

He looked almost angry, his jaw clenching tight.

We stood there in silence. The only sound was the rain hitting the glass window. It was awkward and tight, the air between us thick with years of arguments and bad blood. He was my ex-boyfriend's enemy. He was the guy who always tried to ruin Mason's life on the ice. And now, he was the guy sharing my kitchen.

"There are rules," I said, breaking the silence. I needed to set boundaries. I needed to feel like I had some control over my life.

Atlas raised an eyebrow. "Rules?"

"Yes. Rule number one: we don't talk to each other unless we have to. Rule number two: you stay on your side of the house, I stay on mine. And rule number three: no hockey stuff in the living room."

Atlas let out a dry chuckle. He walked past me, stopping in the doorway. He was so close I could smell his sweat obviously from practice, and the mint masculine cologne.

"Alright, Vale," he whispered, leaning down slightly so his lips were near my ear. "We can play by your rules. For now."

I stepped back, my shoulder hitting the doorframe. The word “now” hung in the air, it almost sounded like a threat.

"Get some sleep," Atlas said, pulling back. "You look like you're about to pass out."

Before I could say anything else, he turned and walked down the hall, entering his own room and shutting the door.

I was left alone in the room.

I walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress.

My body felt heavy with exhaustion.

I looked at my single box of clothes then at the gray sky outside.

I was twenty years old and I had no scholarship, no boyfriend, and no idea what tomorrow would bring. All I knew was that I was trapped in a tiny house with a dangerous, arrogant hockey captain.

And for some reason, my heart wouldn't stop racing not from anything he did, but from anticipation and fear of what's going to come next.

EMERY POV

The smell of burning butter woke me up.

I blinked against the bright morning light hitting my face, confused for a second about where I was. Then the sight of the bare mattress and the single cardboard box brought everything rushing back. Linchester. The breakup. The lost scholarship.

Atlas.

I groaned and pulled my damp jacket over my head, but a sudden, loud cough from the kitchen made me sit up. A thick gray haze was slowly creeping under my bedroom door.

"What is he doing?" I muttered, throwing off my jacket.

I scrambled out of bed, still wearing the wrinkled leggings and t-shirt from yesterday. When I threw open my door, the hallway was a fog zone. I marched straight into the kitchen, coughing as the smoke hit my throat.

Atlas was standing by the stove, waving a blue dish towel frantically at the smoke detector. He had finally put on a shirt...a faded gray Linchester Hockey t-shirt that stretched tight across his shoulders but his hair was even messier than it had been last night.

"Open a window!" he yelled, squinting through the smoke.

I lunged for the small window above the sink, pushing it open with a hard shove. Cool, damp morning air rushed in, slowly clearing the room.

I turned around, crossing my arms as I looked at the disaster on the stove. There was a frying pan filled with what looked like charcoal hockey pucks.

"Are you trying to burn the house down?" I asked, my voice cracking slightly from sleep. "Because rule number two was staying on your side, and I'm pretty sure setting fire to my side violates that."

Atlas stopped waving the towel. He looked at the pan, then at me. Instead of snapping back, he just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was trying to make pancakes."

I blinked. "Pancakes. Out of charcoal?"

"The heat was too high," he muttered, looking genuinely annoyed with himself. "And I got distracted."

"By what? The concept of cooking?"

A tiny, familiar smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "No. By how loud you sleep, Vale. I could hear you snoring from across the hall."

"I do not snore," I snapped, feeling my cheeks flush hot.

"Best understatement of the year.” he said, dumping the burnt black discs into the trash can. He ran a hand through his messy hair, looking down at the empty pan. "Well, I care about my meals more than anything. I've got sport to play, so… get used to it.”

I froze. My defensive walls, which had been locked into place the second I woke up, cracked just a little. I looked from the trash can back to Atlas. His gray eyes weren't mocking me right now, they were telling me that I was less important than his burnt meals.

"I swear I hate you?" I said softly but painfully.

Atlas stiffened. For a second, he looked like he wanted to say something. His mouth opened, then closed.

He cleared his throat and looked away, grabbing a box of cereal from the pantry instead.

"You don't have to remind me that always. I know you hate me and I hate you more.” he said, his voice dropping back into that easy, careless tone. "And I don't do chores."

Right. Of course. It was just a joke to him.

"Well, keep your charcoal to yourself, Enemy.” I turned toward the fridge to see if there was anything I could grab before heading out. I needed to go to the campus admissions office today. I needed to fight for my life.

There was nothing in the fridge but a carton of eggs, three different types of hot sauce, and a gallon of milk.

"Don't bother," Atlas said, leaning against the counter as he poured a bowl of dry cereal. "I'm going to the store later. You can come with me if you want.”

"I can find my way around, Enemy Vance."

"Did I say you couldn't?" He raised an eyebrow, chewing slowly. "I said come with me. That's a privilege many girls like you would jump for. Unless you like walking a mile in the rain with plastic bags."

I hated that he was right. Linchester didn't have a grocery store near the student houses, and I didn't have a car.

Mason used to drive me everywhere, a tiny voice in my head reminded me. I pushed that thought down instantly, swallowing the bitter taste it left behind.

"Fine," I muttered. "You can have the girls follow you now.”

"Got it. Boring food for a boring girl."

I rolled my eyes and walked back to my room, slamming the door shut.

Two hours later, I was sitting in the waiting room of the Linchester University Admissions Office. The air smelled like paper and stale coffee.

My hands were shaking as I clutched my academic file.

I had spent the last four years maintaining a perfect GPA. I had volunteered. I had done everything right. Losing my scholarship because of a "funding shift" didn't make sense. Scholarships didn't just disappear twenty-four hours before move-in day.

"Emery Vale?" a woman called out.

I stood up quickly, smoothing down my jeans. I walked into a small office where a middle-aged woman with sharp glasses sat behind a massive desk. Her name tag read Director Higgins.

"Sit down, please," she said, not looking up from her computer.

I sat. "Thank you for seeing me, Director. I'm here about the elite academic scholarship. I received an email saying it was canceled, but I wanted to check if there was an error. My files—"

"There is no error, Miss Vale," she interrupted, finally looking at me. Her face was completely blank. "The donor who funds that specific program chose to redirect their capital to another candidate. It happens."

"But the deadline passed weeks ago," I argued, my voice rising in panic. "How can a donor just change their mind the day before classes start? Who is the other candidate?"

Director Higgins sighed, leaning back in her chair. "That information is private. All I can tell you is that the decision is final. If you cannot pay the tuition out of pocket, we will have to formally remove you from the semester roster."

The room felt like it was spinning. Pay out of pocket? My father's business was struggling, though he tried to hide it from me. I couldn't ask him for tens of thousands of dollars.

"Please," I whispered, gripping the edge of her desk. "There has to be something I can do. A loan? Another grant?"

"Everything is locked for the semester," she said, her voice cold. "I'm sorry."

I don't remember walking out of the building.

I just remember the feeling of the cold wind hitting my face as I stood on the concrete steps outside. The campus was alive with students. People were laughing, carrying boxes into dorms, holding hands. They had futures. They had a place here.

Whilr I felt like my whole world was crumbling.

I walked for hours, my mind completely blank. By the time I made it back to the off-campus house, the sun was setting, casting shadows across the porch.

I pushed the front door open, feeling entirely defeated.

I walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water, but stopped when I saw the kitchen table.

There was a large paper grocery bag containing protein, powder, eggs, hot sauce and a bulk pack of chicken. Atlas's haul. A single apple rolled out to the edge, stopped near my feet.

Wrapped around the apple was a a small piece of lined paper. I pulled it out. Written in messy, handwriting were just a few words: “Survival kit for the homeless - A.

I stared at the note, my jaw right. The arrogant hockey captain who hated my guts did not only call me homeless but left me an apple to mock me.

I bite a huge chunk from the apple, the paper munching alongside but I don't care. The only thing I could feel was anger.

Atlas Vance had pushed me to the edge.

Before I could think about it any deeper, the front door clicked open.

I turned around just as Atlas walked in. He was carrying a massive black hockey bag over his shoulder, his stick held in his other hand. He looked exhausted, his hair damp from the post-practice shower, but the moment his eyes landed on me, he stopped.

Atlas dropped his hockey bag to the floor with a loud thud. Looked at my face with no expression. “You're blocking the fridge, Vale.” He stepped around me and grabbed a water bottle.

EMERY

I didn't answer him. I just stood in the center of the kitchen, chewing the bitter skin of the apple, glaring at him until my jaw hurt.

"What?" Atlas asked, taking a long swig from his water bottle. His dark gray eyes tracked my face with flat indifference. "You look like you're trying to set me on fire with your mind."

"You're a real jerk, Vance," I said, my voice steady despite the prickle of tears threatening my eyes from the day's total defeat. "I don't need your condescending charity."

Atlas scoffed, setting his bottle down on the counter with a dull click. "Charity? Vale, it's a dollar-fifty apple I bought so I wouldn't have to listen to your stomach growl while I'm trying to sleep. Don't flatter yourself."

"I didn't ask for it!" I threw the rest of the apple straight into the small trash can under the sink. "Keep your food, keep your comments, and keep out of my way."

"Gladly," he muttered, picking up his heavy hockey bag. "Just remember to pay your half of the electric bill on the first. I'm not covering anything, Carter's broke ex."

He turned on and disappeared down the walkway, slamming his bedroom door shut so hard that the small framed mirror on the hallway wall rattled.

I leaned back against the edge of the counter, shutting my eyes tightly. My chest felt hollow. I was entirely alone, broke, about to be kicked out of university, and sharing twenty square feet of floor space with a guy who made my blood boil every time he breathed.

My phone vibrated violently against the wood table.

I reached out, half-expecting a frantic text from Mason or a cold notification from the university registrar.

Instead, the screen illuminated with the word: DAD.

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to sound cheerful before pressing the green button. "Hi, Dad."

"Emery, sweetheart!" My father's loud, booming voice filled my ear. He sounded happier than he had in years a quiet, exhausted tone he usually carried back home in New York. "Are you settled into your new place at Linchester?"

"Yeah," I lied, staring at the peeling wallpaper above the sink. "It's... fine. Really quiet."

"Wonderful! Listen, Emmy, I'm calling because I have unbelievable news. The kind of news that changes everything for our family."

A strange, uneasy knot tightened in my stomach. "What news, Dad?"

"I'm getting married!" he announced proudly.

I froze. "Married? Dad... you haven't dated anyone since Mom passed. Who are you marrying?"

"Her name is Victoria Vance," my father said, his tone practically buzzing with excitement. "She's an incredible woman, Emmy. A real force in Boston and New York. We're throwing a small engagement dinner at the estate in Manhattan next weekend to celebrate."

The air completely left my lungs.

Vance.

"Emmy? Are you still there?"

"Did you... did you say, Vance?" I choked out, my fingers tightening around the phone until my knuckles turned stark white.

"Yes! Victoria Vance," my father continued, completely oblivious to the silent chaos unfolding on my end of the line. "In fact, her son goes to Linchester, too! He's a senior. Plays hockey, I think. Do you happen to know him?"

The small room seemed to tilt sideways. The floorboards felt unstable beneath my sneakers.

"Emery?"

"Yeah," I whispered, my throat feeling like it was packed with sand. "Yeah, Dad. I know him."

"Fantastic! Victoria mentioned he lives off-campus. You two will practically be family soon. Isn't that great?"

Family. The word struck me like a physical blow.

"I... I have to go, Dad," I rasped out, my vision blurring. "I'll call you back later."

I ended the call and dropped the phone onto the table.

My father was marrying Victoria Vance. The socialite whose last name belonged to the infuriating, arrogant giant currently sitting twenty feet away in the master bedroom. The guy who had spent two years mocking my relationship, taking low shots at Mason on the ice, and treating me like an inconvenient stain on his living room rug.

A wave of pure, unfiltered anger wiped away my exhaustion.

I didn't knock. I marched down the short, dim hallway, grabbed the brass handle of Atlas's bedroom door, and shoved it open with everything I had.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" I yelled.

Atlas was sitting on the edge of his unmade mattress, bare-chested, midway through pulling a clean black t-shirt over his head. He froze, his head snapping toward me, his gray eyes flashing with instant, lethal irritation.

"Ever heard of knocking, Vale?" he barked, yanking the shirt down over his broad shoulder. "Get the hell out of my room."

"Did you know?!" I demanded, stepping further into his space, completely ignoring his warning. "Did you know about this whole sick joke?!"

Atlas stood up slowly, towering over me as his jaw clenched tight. "What are you rambling about?"

"My dad just called me!" I practically shouted, my hands shaking at my sides. "He's marrying Victoria Vance! Next weekend! Did you plan this?! Is this some twisted game you and your mom are playing?!"

Atlas went completely still. For a second, the cold, arrogant composure on his face cracked, replaced by genuine, unfiltered shock.

"What did you just say?" his voice dropped, turning sharp as broken glass.

"Your mother is marrying my father!" I cried, tears of rage finally spilling over my eyelashes. "We're going to be step-siblings, Atlas! Did you know about this when I signed that lease?!"

"Shut your mouth," Atlas growled, taking two fast, heavy steps toward me.

He didn't soften. He didn't offer a hand or a comforting word. Instead, he crowded into my personal space until I was forced to step back, my spine hitting the cold wooden doorframe of his bedroom.

He slammed his hand against the wall right beside my head, the wood shuddering under the impact.

"I don't control who my mother dates," Atlas spat out, his dark gray eyes pitch-black with rage, his face inches from mine. "And if I had known she was touching a Vale, I would have dragged her out of New York myself months ago."

"You really didn't know?" I pressed, refusing to let him see me shrink back, even as my heart hammered violently against my ribs.

"No, I didn't damn well know!" he sneered, pulling back and running both hands through his messy dark hair in sheer frustration. "You think I want you as family?! You think I want my mother tied to your broke, chaotic disaster of a life?!"

"Don't you dare talk about my family!" I hissed, taking a step forward and shoving his chest with both hands.

He barely moved an inch, but his eyes locked onto mine with a dark, dangerous intensity. He grabbed my wrist in mid-air, his grip firm and unyielding, freezing me in place.

"Don't touch me," he warned in a low, rasp. "Listen to me closely, Emery. We are not family. We will never be family. You stay on your side of this house, you keep your mouth shut at that dinner next weekend, and you stay out of my way."

"Gladly," I yanked my wrist out of his hold, glaring up at him with every ounce of hatred I possessed. "Because living with you is bad enough. Finding out our parents are engaged makes me want to throw up."

"Then pack your bags and leave," Atlas said flatly, pointing a finger toward the front door. "Nobody is holding a gun to your head, Vale. You want out? The door isn't locked."

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood He knew I couldn't leave. He knew I had nowhere else to go, no money, and no safety net.

"I'm not leaving," I whispered through gritted teeth. "I paid my deposit."