Cecilia
Grapes.
Oh God—the damn grapes.
I bolted toward the door like my apartment was on fire, only to freeze halfway there when I realized I was wearing nothing but a tank top and a whole lot of bad decisions.
I spun back around, nearly tripping over my own feet, and yanked on the first oversized button-down I could find—bonus points for it being inside-out.
By the time I opened the door, I was breathless and lightly sweating, like I’d just run a 5K through social anxiety.
And of course, Alpha Sebastian was standing there like he’d been plucked straight from a Calvin Klein ad—leaning against my doorframe, eyebrow arched, expression halfway between amusement and suspicion.
“Were you... working out?” he asked, lips twitching.
“Yes!” I said, way too fast. “Exercise
