A Rogue For The Quadruplet Alpha's.

Maria.

The sun was already beginning to set when I finally stepped out of my room.

The golden light filtered faintly through the tall windows along the corridor, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The warmth of it barely touched me.

I hadn’t planned to leave.

I had told myself I would stay inside. That it was safer that way and easier.

Avoid everyone.

Avoid the whispers that trailed behind me whenever I walked through the courtyard.

Avoid the stares that followed me like I was no longer just a person, but a prize. A symbol. Something already half-won, half-owned, as if my name had been placed on a board beside someone else’s victory.

But the walls had started closing in on me.

The silence in my room had grown too loud. My thoughts are too restless. Every creak of the building had begun to sound like judgment.

So I walked.

The corridors were quieter now. The earlier energy from the competition, the cheers, the chanting, the tension, had dissolved into low murmurs drifting from distant corners of the pack house. The air felt heavier in the evening calm.

My feet moved without direction at first, left, right, down the familiar hallways I had walked a hundred times before. I told myself I was just stretching my legs. Just clearing my head.

Until they began leading me somewhere specific.

The realization came slowly.

And then all at once.

I slowed when I recognized the turn.

The carved wooden frame at the end of the hall.

Noah’s room.

My heart betrayed me instantly.

It picked up pace with each step, a steady thud that grew louder in my ears the closer I got. I could feel it in my chest. In my throat.

I told myself I was just walking.

Just passing by.

Just... checking.

That was all.

Checking to see if he was resting.

The closer I got, the more my stomach twisted. A tight, uneasy knot forming beneath my ribs.

What if he wasn’t there?

What if he had gone out again?

What if.....What if he was there?

What if he wasn’t alone?

I stopped a few feet away from his door.

It was slightly ajar.

Not wide enough to see clearly inside, but open enough for light to spill into the hallway. Voices drifted out softly, low, indistinct at first.

I should have kept walking, I should have respected the boundary of that door, I shouldn’t have listened.

But I did.

The words reached me clearly this time.

"Why don’t you just quit the competition?"

They weren’t too loud, but they cut through the quiet hallway with startling precision.

My breath caught mid-inhale.

I didn’t need to see inside to know who had spoken. I would recognize that voice anywhere, firm but laced with concern, controlled yet carrying something personal beneath it.

The question lingered in the air beyond the door, hanging there as though the walls themselves were waiting for an answer.

And suddenly, I couldn’t move.

My feet felt rooted to the floor, my fingers curling slightly against the stone behind me. The corridor seemed to narrow, the space around me tightening as anticipation pressed in from all sides.

I needed to hear what he would say, not what anyone assumed, not what pride demanded of him, not what silence tried to disguise.

His answer.

The truth in his voice when he wasn’t standing before a crowd.

So I stayed exactly where I was, just beyond the edge of the doorway. My back pressed lightly against the cool stone wall, the chill seeping through the thin fabric at my shoulders. It grounded me, but not enough to calm the erratic rhythm of my heart.

I held my breath without realizing it.

Listening.

Straining.

Every sound inside the room felt magnified, the faint shift of fabric, the subtle scrape of something being set down, the whisper of movement across the floorboards.

For a moment, there was only silence, one so thin it felt fragile.

Then his voice. "I’m fine."

Just two words, simple, steady and dismissive. There was no strain in his voice, no irritation, no defensiveness. Just that quiet, controlled finality.

I remained still, barely daring to breathe, waiting, hoping he might say more.

But nothing else came.

My chest tightened.

There was a pause afterward. A quiet stretch of silence that felt heavier than the words themselves. And suddenly, without meaning to, I imagined it.

Her standing close to him.

Anabel.

Close enough to touch. Close enough to see the bruises up close. Close enough to press cloth against his skin, to lean in, to worry over him in that quiet, intimate way that didn’t need to be loud to be meaningful.

The image formed too easily in my mind, her fingers brushing against his shoulder, her face tilted toward his.

The thought made something twist sharply inside my chest, so sudden and painful I had to press my palm against my ribs as if that would steady it.

I swallowed hard.

Footsteps.

Soft. Fading.

I recognized the sound immediately, heels against wood, measured and light.

Anabel was leaving.

Panic jolted through me before I could think. I moved quickly, stepping back and slipping into the narrow shadow beside the door two rooms down. My back pressed flat against the wall, heart hammering so loudly I was sure it would give me away.

She stepped out of his room moments later. Her posture was composed. Calm. Like nothing had unsettled her.

I watched from the corner as she walked down the hallway, her figure gradually blending into the dimming light until her back disappeared into the shadows at the far end.

Only when she was completely gone did I exhale. The air left my lungs shakily, I shouldn’t have been hiding.

I waited a few more seconds, just to be sure, before stepping out from the corner. My feet felt heavier now as I retraced the few steps back to his door.

I wanted to see him.

I needed to.

To confirm he was okay.

That was what I told myself.

I reached the doorway and shifted slightly, leaning just enough to glimpse inside.

The faint creak of the wooden floor beneath my shoe echoed louder than I expected in the quiet corridor.

My heart slammed violently against my ribs. For a second, I considered running, turning around, pretending I had never been there.

But before I could decide, the door opened wider and there he was.

Noah.

Standing in the doorway.

Shirtless.

A faint bandage wrapped securely around his arm. Another along his shoulder where the bruise had formed. His skin marked with the aftermath of the fall.

His hair was slightly disheveled, falling loosely across his forehead like he had run his hand through it too many times.

His face....still pale.

Our eyes locked.

And time seemed to stretch painfully thin between us.

"What do you want, Maria?" He asked, his face devoid of emotions.

"I..." I started, then stopped.

My throat felt dry.

What was with his attitude?