Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Two years ago

Max

Jogging out onto the field was like running into a wall of noise.

The crowd was wilder than any high school crowd I’d ever experienced, a sea of gold and gray with thousands of voices chanting, stomping, cheering—all of it crashed together into a single, chaotic wave of sound that shot under my skin like electricity and thrummed through my veins. 

My helmet was tucked under my arm, cleats scuffing against the concrete as I sauntered forwards with the rest of the team. Floodlights lit up the night sky, the scent of freshly cut grass mixing with the adrenaline already pumping in my system.

First game as a Ridgeline Wolf. I tipped my head back, inhaling deeply. Savoring it. 

Time to show them what I could do.

Everyone thought they had me figured out—the senator’s son, the arrogant alpha quarterback—but tonight was my chance to prove exactly who the hell I was. High school ball had been the warm-up. This? This was the real thing. No holding back. No mercy. 

Beside me, Zach was practically vibrating with energy that anyone could spot a mile off: he bounced on the balls of his feet, yipping and howling like a total dipshit. When I rolled my eyes and refused to join in, caught in my own moment, he leaned in close, his voice just barely cutting through the roar of the crowd.

“Bro,” he whispered, “I think your mom came to see me play.”

Classic. I threw my head back and laughed, knocking my shoulder into his. “Nah, I’m pretty sure I see your dad with a ‘I heart Max’s dick’ sign.”

The whole time we’d been friends, I’d never actually met Zach’s dad. But that didn’t matter—he still doubled over with laughter, and I flashed my teeth at him in a savage grin. The energy between us crackling, totally infectious. We’d been dreaming about this moment since high school, running drills in my backyard until the sun went down. Now we were here. Finally here.

And nothing was going to stop us.

I adjusted my scent patch, pressing the edges to make sure it was secure. Since Zach was still too busy acting like a maniac, I made sure to check his too. We couldn’t afford for them to slip. Not now.

Scent patches were supposed to hold no matter how much you sweat, but I wasn’t about to take chances. I’d seen what happened when a patch fell off mid-game—alphas getting more aggressive, betas trying to keep up, and refs throwing flags left and right. The whole field could turn into a circus in seconds.

College had higher stakes when it came to shit like that, too, which was why there were Instinct Counselors hugging the sidelines now, lined up like little toy soldiers with their fancy bags and stern expresssions. If someone slipped, they were supposed to step in, reset the patch, and make sure there wasn’t any fallout or anyone at risk of going “full primal”, as they called it.

Going full primal was something you could feel, in the way the hits got harder. Meaner, like the air itself became charged, teetering on the line between logic and the dark part that all alphas were expected to suppress, both on and off the field.

It’d happened in high school tons, but they’d made sure we all knew that shit didn’t fly in college ball. They drilled it into us from day one—control yourself, or get your ass benched. Best case? A three-hour lecture about ‘reckless conduct.’ Worst case? Suspension. 

Alphas like Zach and I dominated contact sports because we had the instincts to lead, to push harder, to fight for every yard. We could let out most of our aggression and frustration, as long as we didn’t turn a tackle into a homicide. Betas balanced us out, steady and level-headed, but they didn’t have the same fire. Meanwhile, omegas hadn’t cracked the roster on contact sports yet, but everyone knew they would. Someday. And they’d change the game for good. 

The crowd was roaring louder now, pulling me out of my thoughts, chanting Wolfpack! Wolfpack! like their lives depended on it. I could feel Zach still laughing as we lined up with the rest of the team.

Then came the first snap—fast, hard, all-consuming. In an instant, we were locked in. No more laughter, no more noise. Just the game. The ball hit my hands, and time stretched, slowing to a crawl.

I stopped thinking about the crowd, the noise, anything that wasn’t the ball or goal. My guys held against the other team, giving me precious seconds to scan the field.

Zach darted down the sideline, breaking free from his defender. Instinct took over. My arm cocked, the ball leaving my hand in a perfect spiral. Zach caught it mid-stride, juking past the safety and bolting into the end zone.

Touchdown, baby.

The crowd exploded and I felt it resonate in my chest, a deep satisfaction zinging through my veins. Fuck yeah. My heart pounded with the leftover adrenaline as I jogged down the field, slapping Zach’s hand as he grinned at me.

“Think your dad saw that?” I asked him with a cocky smirk. He groaned, and I dissolved into cackles.

We were up by two touchdowns by halftime. My body ached from the hits, but it was the good kind of ache—the kind that reminded me I was alive, doing what I was meant to do.

It wasn’t just about instincts out here. It was about trust. Synergy. And somehow, we had it. The rest of team rallied behind me, alphas and betas alike falling into step. They were all a bunch of idiots, but they were fun idiots—and they knew how to play football. 

By the time the final whistle blew, we’d crushed them 35-14. And me? Four touchdowns, three hundred passing yards, and one hell of a debut. Not a single person had managed to intercept me. It was as impressive as it sounded, the sort of accomplishment that even someone who didn’t shit about football would be able to recognize.

The crowd chanted Wolfpack! Wolfpack! as I ripped my helmet off, yelling. Sweat was dripping down my face but I couldn’t even feel it over the sound of the entire team losing their minds—hyped, screaming, hitting each other affectionately. I went to jog off the field only for Zach to barrel into me at the knees, trying to throw me over his shoulder like a fucking animal.

“Call your fucking mom, dude, right now!”

I grinned back at him, giddy as fuck, and managed to wrestle him into a celebratory headlock. The two of us went down, cackling like maniacs, just as the rest of the team surrounded us.

Already, my mind was locked on the next game. About my next chance to prove that I wasn’t just a cocky alpha riding on my last name. This was just the beginning—Ridgeline University was going to be where my life started for real.

Little did I know how true that actually was.

Ainsley

Ridgeline’s campus buzzed with the kind of nervous energy unique to the first week of the semester. It was in the way students hurried between buildings, clutching syllabi and overpriced textbooks, their conversations a mix of anticipation and dread. I walked through it all, detached, my focus razor-sharp.

This wasn’t new to me. I’d spent years preparing for this moment, the one that would solidify my trajectory into the world of neuroscience and academia. Every move I made here would matter. Every impression, every word.

Ridgeline wasn’t just a university, after all. It was a statement. One of the first institutions to enforce scent-neutral policies and mandate instinct counseling, it stood at the forefront of progressivism. Here, alphas and omegas could share lecture halls with betas, their secondary genders rendered irrelevant by scent patches and rigorous academic standards.

For someone like me, it was the perfect stage. A place where intellect mattered more than biology. Where my work could speak louder than the stereotypes people whispered behind my back.

I selected a seat towards the back of the room and arranged my things out neatly. Then I waited. Brushing my fingers idly over the polymer patch attached to my skin, I watched my would-be classmates pour into the lecture hall. Betas dominated, of course, their presence unassuming yet steady. But there were a few alphas, their energy palpable, and omegas, heads held high but gazes wary. If you knew what to look for, you could see it no matter what secondary gender you were: the faint undercurrent of judgment, the way people still underestimated you if you weren’t a beta.

Ridgeline might be a haven, but old biases lingered in every corner of society. After all, it was only decades ago that omegas had been more likely to fly than attend college. Even I was acutely aware of every glance, every assumption people made the second they knew what I was. It was exactly why I’d clawed my way to the top of every academic ladder I’d encountered, not because I wanted to— needed to.

The weight of it could’ve been suffocating if I let it. But I wouldn’t. If anything, it was fuel. It was why I’d chosen this particular class.

Student ratings online had established the professor, Dr. Castell, as being ‘downright evil’ for assigning absurdly hard homework and going on complicated conceptual tangents because she ‘loved science so much it was terrifying’. 

That last line had stuck with me and I’d smashed on the ‘enroll’ button. Terrifying? Wasn’t that exactly the kind of professor I wanted? Someone who didn’t just love the material but lived it? If she was as brilliant as they said, I’d find a way to thrive under her. 

“Welcome to Neuroscience 401,” she said as the clock struck the hour. Her gaze swept the room, sharp like a hawk’s. “I want to let all of you, first and foremost, that this isn’t going to be a class for passengers. If you’re not ready to think, there’s the door.”

The corners of my mouth twitched upward. Perfect.

Halfway through the lecture, Dr. Castell posed a question that hung heavy in the air: “If scent response in alphas and omegas is instinctual, why do some individuals resist it entirely?”

The room was silent until a polished voice spoke up somewhere to the left. “Resistance is a learned behavior,” the student said, his tone dripping with condescension. “It’s all about conditioning.”

I turned to see him: slicked back hair, designer frames, the kind of posture that screamed entitlement. He looked like the type who received enough money to pay for Ridgeline’s tuition as an allowance every month. But he was wrong.

“Incorrect,” I said, my voice cutting through the room like a scalpel.

All eyes turned to me. The other student bristled visibly, sweeping an ice-blue gaze over me. “And you are?”

“Ainsley Kerrigan,” I replied coolly, staring back at him. “And you’re ignoring physiological variance. Some individuals exhibit reduced scent sensitivity due to genetic factors, as outlined in Dr. Leighton’s 2022 study.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but I wasn’t finished and I held up a hand to let him know I wasn’t. “Furthermore, if you’re discussing learned behavior, you need to account for the placebo effect in scent patch usage. Most individuals who ‘resist’ pheromones are simply conditioned to believe they’re unaffected.”

I dropped my hand back onto my planner. Silence reigned. Then Castell’s voice, calm and definitive: “Mr. Kerrigan is correct.”

The other student glared at me, but I didn’t care. I’d made my point.

The rest of the lecture continued and concluded without further event. I was meticulously packing my things when Dr. Castell approached, her sharp heels clicking against the floor in a rhythm that commanded attention. I turned to face her, straightening my shoulders under the way she looked at me: as if I were a particularly interesting problem.

“Kerrigan,” she greeted warmly. “Wonderful job in class today. I’m looking forward to seeing more interplay between you and the rest of the class.”

Before I could formulate a response, Castell continued. “Tell me,” she prompted, “what are your plans for graduate school? Neuroscience, I presume?”

I nodded in affirmation, fingering the strap of my satchel. I wasn’t nervous under her scrutiny, but there was something probing about her tone that gave me pause. 

“Yes,” I finally replied, my voice steady. I lifted my chin slightly, meeting her gaze without hesitation. “I’m focused on top-tier programs—SIN, Axion, or Nexal. SIN is my first choice.”

The Solace Institute of Neuroscience was the pinnacle of neuroscience research. They were leading breakthroughs in neural mapping, instinct regulation therapies, brain-computer interfaces, and more. If I wanted to secure a future in cutting-edge research or academia, SIN wasn’t just an option; it was a necessity. It was where the best went to become even better.

Her lips twitched in what might have been approval. “And post-graduate goals?”

“Research,” I said, unflinching. “With an eventual transition into academia. My aim is to contribute meaningfully to the field and mentor the next generation.”

Castell tilted her head, studying me for a beat longer than necessary. “Ambitious,” she noted. “Good. The world needs more omegas with ambition.”

I resisted the urge to bristle at the implication—Dr. Castell was a beta and words like that were awfully 1970s of her. Opportunity was where the real shortage lay for omegas, not ambition. Instead, I waited, sensing there was more to her line of questioning.

“The Tutor Council,” she began, her tone shifting into something almost conversational. “You’re aware of its structure and benefits, I assume?”

“I am,” I said, carefully neutral. The Tutor Council. Of course she’d bring it up. It wasn’t just a student resource at Ridgeline—it was a cornerstone of the university’s reputation, one of the reasons I’d chosen this place over every other top-tier school in the country.

Ridgeline flaunted the Council in every brochure, promising: No student left behind, regardless of secondary gender. The Council wasn’t like other tutoring programs, thrown together with underqualified upperclassmen looking to pad their resumes.

It was curated. Selective. A hierarchy of academic excellence, where every tutor was handpicked based on their skill, professionalism, and ability to adapt. They weren’t just good—they were the best.

Castell’s expression didn’t flicker. “Then you know we prioritize student success above all else. The Council offers curated resources and individualized programs to ensure that no student, regardless of secondary gender, gets left behind.”

“But the Council isn’t just a resource,” she continued, her voice dropping slightly. “It’s a springboard. Members receive free housing—useful for someone as focused as you—and exclusive networking opportunities with Ridgeline’s alumni network. Most importantly, you’d have a glowing recommendation from the Council Chair and faculty heads. That alone has secured placements at SIN for former members.”

The weight of her words settled heavily. I hadn’t considered taking on any extracurricular activities yet, but Castell was baiting the hook perfectly, and she knew it. Without having to worry about housing costs, my reliance on summer jobs would be reduced and I could devote more time to building my college resume.

“And you think I’d be a good fit?” I asked, my tone measured.

Her gaze sharpened, as if daring me to challenge her judgment. “I know you would. You don’t need to be sold on your abilities, Kerrigan. You need the right opportunities to prove them.”

She let that hang in the air for a moment before straightening. “Consider it.”

And with that, she turned back to her desk, her dismissal as sharp as her approach.

I lingered for a beat, my mind already turning over the implications. The Tutor Council wasn’t just an opportunity—it was a calculated move. One I knew I’d take, because if there was one thing I valued as much as ambition, it was strategy.

If this was my first foothold, I intended to turn it into a foundation.

Chapter Text

✧･ﾟ:* :･ﾟ✧ wednesday 9.4.24 ✧･ﾟ: *:･ﾟ✧
Two years later

The football spun through the air like poetry in motion—sharp, clean, and absolutely perfect.

Seventy yards downfield, Zach was still hauling ass toward the end zone, but I’d already calculated the wind, the weight of the ball, and the exact angle I needed to thread it between two linebackers who thought they could catch him. 

It wasn’t something I thought about—it was just muscle memory. Instinct. Step. Torque. Release. My fingers snapped off the laces and Zach didn’t even have to look. He just trusted I’d put it exactly where it needed to be.

And I did. Right into his hands. Like I’d walked it over and handed it to him myself.

Touchdown.

Zach stopped dead in the end zone, cradling the ball with wide eyes. He turned to face me, jaw unhinged like a cartoon character. It was infectious.

“Bro.”

I started grinning.

“Broooooooo.”

He sprinted back toward me, waving the ball over his head. On the sidelines, the rest of the team exploded into chaos. Jake and Kyle started stomping. Brody threw his head back and literally fucking howled. 

“Break time!” I shouted to the others. “Come back sexier or don’t come back at all.”

Zach skidded to a stop in front of me, panting like he’d just outrun a cheetah. “I’m not saying you cured my childhood asthma, but I can breathe better now.”

I grinned. “Dude, that’s the Vaughn effect. You’re welcome.”

Coach Freeman and the other coaches had been away for about fifteen minutes. It wasn’t often that I got the chance to lead a hundred and twenty guys solo, and on a Wednesday? Yeah. I was feeling myself.

This practice had been killer. I was killer. My guys were killer.

The energy was different today—like we’d all shown up already knowing greatness was inevitable. Routes were sharp. Timing was flawless. My spiral? Filthy. Zach was running like an absolute unit. Brody was hitting blocks like he wanted to murder the turf itself. Even the second-stringers were moving like they actually wanted to win, not just collect gear and clout.

And yeah, I knew some of it was me. When I was locked in, the whole team locked in.

“What do you think they’ve been talking about for this long?” Jake asked, pulling a poptart out. 

“Dunno,” I said at the same time Kyle blurted, “Deciding which one of us has the most breedable knees.”

I choked on my water. Full-on sputtered.

“Bro, what the fuck? That’s obviously me,” Zach cut in, puffing his chest out like he was about to defend his knee fertility in a court of law.

Jake and Brody scoffed simultaneously, both shaking their heads like this was the dumbest argument they’d ever heard—except they absolutely cared about the outcome. Kyle’s mouth opened, locked and loaded to fire back. His eyes had that wild glint he got whenever he sensed a chance to cause chaos.

I clapped my hands together, scowling at them before this turned into a full-on debate.

“Guys. Seriously. Coach left me in charge and I need you to understand something—” I paused, letting the weight of my words settle. Their dumbass faces actually got serious, like they thought I was about to drop some QB1 wisdom or motivational speech.

Then I yanked up my shorts, planted my feet wide, and struck a bodybuilder pose that I thought would show off my knees. It didn’t. The shorts just bunched awkwardly around my thighs.

Didn’t matter. I committed.

“My knees,” I declared, loud and proud, “are fertile as fuck.”

“Vaughn!” Coach Freeman’s voice thundered across the field like the wrath of God himself.

I froze, shorts still yanked halfway up my thighs. Knees flexed. Pose locked. Christ, but the timing on that old man was legendary.

The guys around me lost it—Zach doubled over wheezing. Kyle dropped to his knees, slapping the grass like he was in church receiving a vision. Brody did a full speedwalk away, and  Jake just stared at me in horror, mouth open.

“Guys,” I hissed under my breath, trying to school my features, dropping my shorts back down and flexing my jaw like I’d been coaching, not… whatever the hell that had just been. “Lock in. Look serious.”

Too late.

Kyle was laughing so hard he’d gone silent. Zach was crying actual tears. Brody looked ready to fight a tree out of sheer alpha embarrassment-by-proxy.

I turned slowly toward Coach Freeman, already rehearsing my explanation. Something about team-building. Masculine bonding. Morale exercises. Knees were crucial for athletic performance, after all. I was helping.

“Sir?” I called, voice cracking slightly.

Coach Freeman stood down the field, arms crossed. He waved me over. 

I didn’t waste time jogging over, my still smirk firmly in place. This was fine. I was fine. He probably just wanted to tell me how great that spiral was or maybe give me some kind of legendary wisdom, like an ancient Yoda or some shit. 

An old-school alpha who didn’t believe in participation trophies or hydration breaks, Coach Freeman was always cranky—it was kind of his thing—but the closer I got, the more I could see there was a storm cloud on his face I hadn’t seen since I accidentally hit him with a Gatorade bottle last season.

I hadn’t thrown any Gatorade bottles this season, though… and I’d been running the boys hard for the past fifteen minutes. We all deserved a five. Except—what if he’d somehow overhead me? Fuck.

I’d just explain it to him. No big deal. It was fine. Totally fine. I’d figure it out. 

“Yeah, Coach?” I said, giving him my best innocent smile. “What’s up?”

“Do you know why I’m calling you over here?” he growled, his voice low and deadly calm.

“Listen, Coach—” I blew out a breath. “Before you say anything—I can explain the knees thing.”

Coach’s eyes narrowed. “The what?”

“The breedable knees.”

Coach blinked. Just blinked.

I powered through. “It’s not what it sounds like. Or maybe it is, but in a good way. Like—uh—team morale. Body positivity. Encouraging each other’s, uh…” I floundered, heat rising to my face. “Fertile… joints. Because healthy knees are critical to athletic success. And future-proofing the gene pool. Not that we’re breeding as a team. Obviously. That would be weird. And illegal. And not even practical, logistically.”

“I just meant it as a compliment, Coach,” I added, for good measure, “Like, ‘nice knees, bro.’ Except better. Fertile.”

Silence.

Coach didn’t smile. He didn’t even blink. “Vaughn, I am one ‘fertile joint’ away from committing a felony. Do you ever check your email?”

I blinked. “My email?”

“Yes, your email.”

“Umm… Not really. It’s just bad vibes in there, Coach.” I gave a dismissive shrug. “Stress. Chain letters. That one time my aunt tried to sell me essential oils and called it a ‘business opportunity.’ It’s a dark place. You go in for one thing, and next thing you know, you’re getting ads for teeth-whitening kits and magic ab rollers. I’m not about that life.”

Coach looked like he wanted to stab me with the whistle swinging around his neck. “Your advisor’s sent you seven emails. Seven.”

He stared at me. I stared back.

“Okay…?” I said, drawing out the word. “Why didn’t she just text me?” 

“Why the fuck would your advisor text you? This isn’t a time to be fuckin’ cute, Vaughn.”

“I’m not trying to be cute!” I protested. “It’s just—”

“You’re failing,” he said flatly, cutting me off.

I blinked again, my mind scrambling to keep up. “Uh… failing what?”

“Biology,” he snapped. “Calculus. Statistics. Ethics.”

I frowned, still trying to process. “Okay, but ethics is subjective—like, isn’t that the whole point of ethics? It’s about opinions and feelings and whatever. Who even grades that? Feels like a trap.”

“You spelled it with an X,” he interrupted. “Xthics, Vaughn. Not a word.”

“It should be,” I mumbled. It sounded that cooler that way, like an expensive protein line.

Coach sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve been warned, Vaughn. Repeatedly. I just spent almost twenty minutes trying to vouch for you, and it’s obvious why you’re failing. Are you even trying?”

My grin faded. I didn’t like the tone he was taking. My shoulders squared, flaring out to their full width. 

“What’re you saying, Coach?” I growled out. 

“You’re benched,” he said flatly.

“For practice?”

“For the game,” he said, his glare drilling into me.

He might as well have punched me in the gut—my stomach plummeted and I stared at him incredulously, waiting for him to crack a smile that would let me know he was joking. Because he had to be.

Our next game was against East Ridge. The one team that thought they could take us down—and might actually have a chance. My arm was made for this game, and now he wanted me to sit on the bench?

It was blasphemy.

But there was no smile on Coach’s face and he sure as hell wasn’t laughing. And I waited some more, just to see, but no guys jumped out from behind the cooler to tell me this was some sort of prank.

Coach was actually serious. And that pissed me off.

He might as well have just told me that Christmas was canceled. 

“The rivalry game?” I shouted, waving my arms. A little dramatic, sure, but so was the shit he was telling me, so I think I had a right. “The biggest game of the year? Coach. You can’t bench me for that.”

“Watch me,” he challenged in that same flat, infuriating voice, crossing his arms. He was unimpressed by my tantrum. Which just made me tantrum harder.

I gestured again, between myself and the field. “Do you know how hard I work? I throw, like, two hundred passes a day. I train constantly. And you’re benching me for some stupid grades? Coach—”

“You’re a walking C-minus,” Coach shot back. 

“Technically passing,” I retorted, crossing my arms to mirror him. “I don’t see the issue.”

“The issue,” he growled, “is that technically passing doesn’t keep your scholarship.”

“Okay, but isn’t this school supposed to be about producing athletes?” I asked, gesturing wildly at myself. “I am an athlete. A great one. GPA doesn’t throw touchdowns, Coach. I throw touchdowns.”

“Not anymore, you don’t,” he said flatly. “You’re meeting with a tutor tonight. Seven o’clock. Library. You’re going to show up, and you’re going to learn something, or you can kiss your scholarship goodbye.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand.

“Save it,” he said. “I don’t care how many Vaughns are on the donor wall. Ridgeline has a policy and you know it: No GPA, no play. This team doesn’t need a feral meathead who can’t pass basic biology.”

“Rude as fuck,” I muttered. I was not feral or meatheaded—biology was just hard. For no reason at all.

“It’s accurate,” Coach retorted without an ounce of sympathy. “Seven o’clock. Library. Don’t be late.”

The words bounced around my brain like a pinball. Tutor. Library. “Coach,” I said, switching tactics and trying for my most charming grin. “I don’t think a tutor’s gonna get it. I’ve got this, uh, learning style—”

Coach cut me off with a growl, pointing a finger at me. “Listen, Vaughn, this tutor’s got a reputation for fixing hopeless cases, and God knows you’re about as hopeless as it gets. Normally, you’d be waiting weeks just to see them, but you’ve been bumped to the front of the line. Don’t make me regret it.”

Lucky fucking me.  

“Seven. Library,” he repeated, his glare daring me to argue.

Alright, so Coach Freeman sort of had a point.

Not about me being entitled and meatheaded, because I wasn’t. I was charming and totally understood the value of hard work—I was the quarterback, after all. But I was failing. Spectacularly. Pretty much every single class. 

I was pretty sure none of it was my fault, though.

First of all, I wasn’t dumb. People loved to throw that word around because I was a jock, but newsflash: I was as smart as I was charming and hard-working. Disciplined, too, as fuck. And humble.

I wasn’t failing because I was dumb. I was failing because all this stuff was boring.

Take my major, for example. Business. It was supposed to be about making money, managing money, spending money. Stuff I actually cared about, since I was going to be making a ton of money in addition to the small fortune I’d get from my parents when I turned thirty.

But instead of actually learning about that stuff, I was sitting through lectures about supply chain management and macro-economics , and half the time, I didn’t even know what those professors were saying.

The only reason I was attending Ridgeline was to play football. That was the whole point. I was going pro—every scout who saw me knew it. My degree and grades didn’t matter, because in a few years, I’d be throwing touchdowns in packed stadiums while my professors were still arguing about whatever the hell supply chain optimization was.

Plus, my family’s name was on Ridgeline buildings, scholarships, and at least one bronze plaque in the student union. You’d think that being the son of a U.S Senator came with certain perks. Most problems should’ve been solved with a polite email from my dad or, if it was serious, a phone call from my mom.

Wrong. No one, least of all my parents, would be cutting me any slack.

Benched for the biggest game of the season? Because of grades? I replayed it in my mind over and over again, hoping to see something in Coach Freeman’s stern expression that said kidding, with no luck. Before I’d stormed off the field, he’d told me that Justin Porter was going to step up as quarterback from second-string until I was unbenched.

Justin was our backup quarterback, so I guess that was logical or whatever, but Justin was also a fucking beta —and everyone knew he couldn’t throw like me. He was alright, but he didn’t have what it took to win against Ridgeline’s biggest rivals.

Not like me. Dude’s arm might as well have been a fucking limp noodle. Mine was a goddamn cannon.

I was still fuming about it as I strolled into the library fifteen minutes late—because let’s face it, I was doing whoever this tutor person was a favor by even showing up. Coach had shoved a card into my hand, but I hadn’t asked for any details before I’d stormed off the field. 

The only reason I had shown up was to see if this fucking genius would help me somehow bring my grades up enough in time for Saturday to play. I wasn’t sure it was possible, given that today was Wednesday, but I’d made miracles happen before. 

The library was depressing as hell. Cold, quiet, and filled with nerds who looked like they hadn’t seen sunlight in way too long. I adjusted my backpack on my shoulder and pulled the card out from my pocket, glancing at it as I walked past the aisles of bookshelves. The card read: Ainsley Kerrigan, he/him, Certified Peer Educator in plain text. 

I scanned the room, narrowing my eyes. Which nerd was mine?

“Ainsley Kerrigan?” I shouted. All the nerds practically jumped out of their skin and shot me a collective glower. It was like they’d been shackled in this hellhole so long they’d developed some kind of hive mind—they shushed me as one, too. I might’ve been officially creeped out if I wasn’t the sort of guy who refused to be creeped out.

No one stepped forward, and I opened my mouth to shout again, when a haughty voice rang out. “Wow, so you can read. Your GPA had me wondering.”

I bristled as I turned towards the voice, a retort already locked and loaded on my tongue because no one fucking spoke to me like that. Except—it shriveled when I spotted the guy who’d spoken.

Correction: the omega who’d spoken.

He was seated in the corner at a table surrounded by books, a laptop, and a stack of notes that were so color-coded they looked like a rainbow had vomited on them. He was small—omega small, not in a bad way, just… noticeable, probably five-three if he was wearing thick socks, and his sweater vest was way too... serious, like he was an accountant instead of a college student. 

Yeah. Even from a distance, I could tell he looked like someone had stuffed every overachiever stereotype into a blender and hit purée.

“Easy money,” I muttered, jogging over with my chest puffed. I already knew I had this in the bag. Dude was an omega—which meant the second he actually looked at me, he’d probably go all wide-eyed and start blushing or something. They usually did.

I mean… look at me. Prime alpha material. Certified USDA-grade. Not even a brag—that was just… how it was. People just kinda… liked me. Always, like instinct or gravity or whatever.

Except, the second I reached the table and dropped into the seat across from him, I realized that Ainsley Kerrigan wasn’t melting or fainting. Or blushing.

In fact, he wasn’t even looking at me. He had his face angled down, just typing away on his laptop like a model nerd.

“You’re late,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, well, traffic was brutal,” I retorted, letting my backpack fall onto the ground. “Mercury’s in turbo retrograde or whatever.”

With the way he was practically buried in the laptop, I couldn’t see much of his face, but I could see that his honey-colored hair was a mess, all curly and wild like it had tried to rebel against whatever comb he’d forced through it this morning. He wore a pair of ridiculous, wire-rimmed glasses, too big for his face, slipping down his nose every five seconds. 

“And yet,” I said, smirking and spreading my arms wide, “here I am. You must be my tutor. Lucky you.”

Type type type. “You must be Maxwell Vaughn. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but it’s not. Look, Maxwell—”

I grimaced at hearing my first name thrown out so formally. “Call me Whistler.” Getting irritated with the lack of attention—seriously, what was this guy’s problem?—I waved my hand in front of his face. “Whatcha doing, writing your Dork Manifesto or something?”

A huff. But no look. “If you must know, I’m working on your study plan. We have a lot of ground to cover, Maxwell. I’m not sure if you understand the gravity of the situation—”

“I said call me Whistler,” I insisted. No one called me Maxwell, except my mother. It was fucking embarrassing. “And maybe... look at me.”

He did not look at me. He didn’t even respond.

I got pissed.

Not just regular pissed. That deep, hot, primal pissed that came out of nowhere when things didn’t go the way I wanted. As a twenty-two-year-old alpha, yeah, I sort of had a hair-trigger when it came to certain shit. Not everything. Just… dominance stuff. Respect stuff.

Attention stuff.

Normally, I was pretty good at controlling it. I wasn’t some idiot freshman alpha who started fights over cafeteria seats or weight racks. But this was different, because I was sitting right here in front of this guy, and he was flat-out ignoring me like I was some nobody.

Tthis guy just typed away like I was invisible. 

What sort of tutor ignored their student? Ainsley Kerrigan, apparently.

I felt the charge build in my chest. Tight. Irrational. Fast, the same kind of energy I felt right before snapping the ball. Without thinking, I reached out and shoved his laptop closed.

Not hard. Not aggressive. Just enough to say hey, eyes up. Pay attention.

The second I slammed his laptop shut, though, I regretted it—not because I felt bad or anything, but because I didn’t expect him to move so fast. Before I could even blink, his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, twisting it back with surprising force.

“Excuse me?” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to leave a paper cut.

For someone so small, he was freakishly strong. My wrist stung, but I was too stunned to do anything about it because now he was looking at me. Like, actually looking at me.

And holy shit.

He was hot.

Like, hot hot.

Suddenly, I couldn’t remember why I’d ever been pissed.

His green eyes were huge, framed by lashes that shouldn’t have been legal, and they were drilling into me with this fiery, pissed-off intensity that shouldn’t have been as attractive as it was. His glasses had slipped down his nose a little, but instead of making him look nerdy, it somehow made him look… cute.

And his freckles. I hadn’t noticed them before, but now that he was this close, they were everywhere: scattered across his nose, his cheeks, even the curve of his jaw. They made him look sweet in this totally unfair, misleading way.

I’d known him for all of maybe five minutes and something told me that Ainsley Kerrigan was not sweet.

Then there was his mouth. His lips were full and soft, and the more he glared at me, the more they pressed into this perfect, annoyed little pout that made me wonder what it’d feel like to—nope. Stop.

I could feel my brain scrambling to reboot itself. He was still holding my wrist, his grip surprisingly strong for someone so small, and I was just… sitting there, staring at him like an idiot.

“Are you going to let go of my hand,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “or are you hoping for a romantic moment here?”

His freckled nose scrunched, his glare somehow intensifying. “Are you going to let go of my laptop,” he said snippily, releasing my wrist, “or are you hoping to prove my theory about you being a meathead?”

Why wasn’t he swooning? That bugged me, more than him refusing to call me by my nickname. God, even the way he said my name—sharp and dripping with disdain—was hot. He could call me whatever he wanted with a mouth like that and wow, how crazy was it that I’d blasted into some instalust territory already?

Okay, so he’s a hot omega. Big deal. Plenty of omegas are hot. He’s just got that whole delicate, bookish thing going on. That’s all it is. It doesn’t mean I’m into him. I mean, yeah, his hair looks like it’d be soft as hell to touch, and sure, his lips are—

I blinked, realizing I was still holding the edge of his laptop.

I let go and rubbed the back of my neck, stammering out an awkward chuckle. “Sorry. I’m not a meathead, promise. Look, I think we got off on the wrong hand—”

“The correct word is ‘foot’. Am I supposed to teach you English, too? Are you sure you’re not—” He broke off abruptly, snapping his mouth shut. “It doesn’t matter. We only have two hours and we’re already wasting time. Vaughn, do you understand the gravity of the situation that you’re in?”

Yeah. I got it. The situation was basically my omega tutor is really, really hot. And I was wondering what he smelled like.

Scent was kind of a big deal, especially if you were either an alpha or omega. When an omega smelled good to an alpha—or when an alpha smelled good to an omega—it wasn’t just some casual, oh hey that’s nice kind of thing. It was more like, hey your DNA wants to hang out with my DNA and maybe make some top-tier babies.

Which, yeah, sounded crazy. But it was such a big deal that on campus, alphas and omegas were required to wear patches with scent-blocking technology to prevent… issues. Betas didn’t have to, because their scents didn’t matter.

And here I was, wondering what Ainsley smelled like under his patch. Basically the same as wondering what he looked like under his clothes. 

I sniffed experimentally and got a noseful of books and coffee, before realizing that he was staring at me expectantly. Waiting for me to answer.

“Umm…” I gave him a sheepish grin, hoping he couldn’t read my thoughts. “I don’t know anything about gravity, no.”

Ainsley went on as if I hadn’t said anything. “You know, I actually checked, because I thought that 1.2 was a typo. But no, that’s all you. The campus squirrels have a higher GPA than you. Also, double congratulations—you’ve officially been placed on academic probation.”

“Cool.” 

“Not cool, Vaughn. Bad.” He leveled me with a look and I stared at him, wondering why that expression bothered me more than what he was telling me. Then it hit me—that was disgust.

No one looked at me like that. 

Every other person I’d ever met would’ve been tripping over themselves to be in this seat across from me. But he wasn’t melting or simpering—he was scowling, like I personally offended him just by existing. I wasn’t used to not being automatically liked and it stung. It made me want to get pissed all over again.

But also? It kind of turned me on, too.

I also noticed that he had these delicate little gauges in his ears. Plain black, nothing flashy, but enough to catch the light when he turned his head. I don’t know why I noticed them, but I did.

My mouth was already moving before my brain caught up, tossing out a line. “You know, if you weren’t so mean, you’d be kinda cute.”

“Well, if you weren’t so dumb,” he shot back, “you might have a 2.0 GPA by now.”

Wow, that was a real zinger. “Pretty sure you’re not allowed to call your students dumb,” I mumbled, exaggerating the hurt in my voice. I expected him to soften—but he didn’t.

He just rolled his eyes, cold as ice.

It was official. My tutor might’ve been the most infuriating person I’d ever met. I could tell he thought he was better than me—and yeah, maybe he was smarter, or whatever.

But I wasn’t dumb. Not really. I’d show him.

Game on, nerd.

Chapter Text

Subject: URGENT: High-Priority Tutee Assignment

Dear Ainsley Kerrigan,

Effective immediately, you have been assigned a new priority tutee. To accommodate this, all other students on your roster have been reassigned. Given the critical nature of this case, the Council expects your full dedication and expertise.

This assignment is non-negotiable. Sessions begin immediately. Further details are attached.

We trust you will uphold the standard of excellence expected from Ridgeline’s top tutor.

Tutor Council Leadership
Ridgeline University

Maxwell Vaughn. Of course it had to be Maxwell Vaughn.

As if my schedule wasn’t already packed to capacity, now I had to babysit Ridgeline’s golden boy. Son of a senator, quarterback of the football team, and apparently incapable of passing core classes without emergency intervention.

And of course he had to look exactly like the kind of alpha I’d been hoping to avoid for the rest of my life: tall, broad-shouldered, and smug. I barely suppressed a sigh, studying him as he sat across the table from me.

He had that whole alpha-jock aesthetic going for him—lean, muscular, and annoyingly well-proportioned, like he’d been carved out of marble and then handed a football instead of a personality. His dark brown hair was messy in the way that probably took a solid fifteen minutes in front of the mirror to achieve, and his matching hazel-brown eyes were warm but… empty. Devoid of a brain, evidently.  

Oh, and there was a scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the kind that screamed rugged and dangerous in all caps. It might’ve been attractive, if someone was into that sort of thing. I, however, wondered if he got it by doing something equally stupid, like skateboarding into a wall or trying to open a beer can with his face.

“Alright, Vaughn,” I said, dropping my gaze to my notepad. “Let’s start with an assessment.”

He leaned back in his chair, smirking like he thought this was a joke. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. “Sounds fun.”

“It’s not supposed to be fun,” I said flatly. “Now, let’s begin. What classes are you failing?”

“All of them.” His smirk got even bigger. “I’m on academic probation, remember?”

I closed my eyes briefly, willing myself to stay calm. This was fine. I could handle this. I’d tutored hopeless cases before—students on the verge of flunking out who were desperate to turn things around.

Except Vaughn wasn’t like them. He didn’t even have a notebook. Just a pen he kept spinning between his fingers like this was a game instead of his academic career on the line. I wasn’t sure if he was arrogant or just stupid. Maybe both.

I could already tell that he didn’t care, which didn’t surprise me. After all, why should he? When someone was born into privilege, failure wasn’t a real consequence. It was just a temporary inconvenience someone else would fix for you.

Unfortunately for him, I was a highly efficient academic machine. I did not traffic in mediocrity, and I had neither the patience nor the inclination to humor those who did. My other so-called hopeless cases had possessed GPAs that had resembled crime scenes when they’d first come to me and by the time I had finished done with them, they had been able to pass as somewhat functional intellectuals.

Because I had made them earn it.

And I intended to do the same with Maxwell Vaughn.

“Fine,” I said, opening my eyes and flipping calmly to the first section of my notes. “Let’s start with biology. What do you know about cells?”

“The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell,” he said confidently, like he thought it was the most ground-breaking discovery since penicillin.

I stared at him, waiting for something—anything—more. When it didn’t come, I sighed and said, “Yes, that’s true, but do you know why?”

“Why what?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Why it’s the powerhouse,” I clarified.

He frowned slightly, like the question was an insult. “I mean… it powers stuff, right?”

“It creates ATP—adenosine triphosphate,” I said, carefully enunciating each syllable as if I were speaking to a particularly dim child, or perhaps, a very lost Labrador retriever. “ATP is the primary energy carrier in the cell. It fuels cellular processes by transferring phosphate groups in order to facilitate biochemical reactions. That is why the mitochondria is referred to as the powerhouse—it is responsible for the generation of ATP through oxidative phosphorylation, which drives the metabolic functions necessary for life.”

As I spoke, Vaughn shifted in his seat, his posture suddenly less languid than before. His fingers twitched where they rested against the table, and he adjusted his position—just slightly, but noticeably. Good, I thought. Maybe the sheer weight of his ignorance was finally sinking in.

But then I saw how he was nodding along too quickly, his hazel eyes warm, brain activity obviously at a flatline. My mouth thinned, recognizing the signs of someone faking at comprehension. I might as well have been speaking Chinese to him for all he understood.

Then, with the absolute confidence of a man who had never once suffered the burden of a single intelligent thought, as if I hadn’t spoken at all, he immediately said, “Damn, Kerrigan. Say ‘oxidative phos-whatever’ again. Sounds hot when you say it like that.” 

His tone was annoyingly smooth, which I automatically corrected to insufferable in my brain. I absolutely refused to acknowledge the way my pulse skipped a beat. Instead, I exhaled deeply and shot him a withering glare, my voice as sharp as needlepoint. “Vaughn—”

As if sensing he’d misstepped, he waved me off, though not without a smirk. “Okay, okay. Got it. ATP. So that’s, like… cell bacon?”

I stared at him. Stared into the abyss of his gaping intellectual void.

My hand twitched over my notepad. It took every last ounce of my restraint not to write his full name at the top of the page and then underline ‘hopeless case’ three times.

“No, Vaughn,” I said finally, voice devoid of emotion. “It is not cell bacon. ATP fuels the cell. That’s why mitochondria are called powerhouses. Please, for the love of all that is holy, do not call it ‘cell bacon’ ever again.”

“But, like, it fuels the cell?” he continued, oblivious to the deep existential dread clawing its way through my soul. “Bacon fuels people. ATP fuels cells. So… cell bacon.”

I closed my eyes for exactly three seconds and took the kind of deep, cleansing breath that people recommended in anger management courses.

“Interesting analogy,” I said through gritted teeth, because I was rapidly losing the energy to fight this. “But no.”

Max grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “I think I’m onto something, Kerrigan.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Hard. “You are onto absolutely nothing.”

“I mean, I’m pretty sure,” he said, gesturing vaguely with his hands. “Like, energy. Fuel. Like bacon for cells. Sounds cooler.”

No. We are not staying here. Absolutely not. Time to move on. I took a deep breath. “Okay. What about mitosis?”

“Cell copy-pasting,” he said with a completely straight face, like he’d just unlocked the mysteries of life itself.

My teeth were going to file themselves down to nothing at this rate, I was grinding them so hard. I’d spent an hour crafting a study plan tailored to his classes, cross-referenced with his syllabi. And here he was, repeating cell bacon and cell copy-pasting as if they were perfectly valid terms.

He’s not real. He can’t be real. 

“Almost accurate. Try harder,” I snapped. “How about photosynthesis?”

“Plant breathing.”

My grip tightened around my pen and I refrained from commenting further, choosing instead to move on before the session devolved further. Even though that would’ve been more productive than this conversation. The confidence in his voice was astounding. And infuriating. 

“Am I wrong?” he asked, spreading his hands.

“You’re not right, ” I shot back. “And the fact that you’re so proud of these answers is… concerning.”

I could already feel myself aging five years. I’d once tutored a freshman who couldn’t spell to save his life, but even he had tried. Vaughn, on the other hand, seemed to be allergic to effort. He was in a league of his own. He wasn’t just uninterested; he was actively mocking the entire concept of learning.

I glanced down at my notes, where I’d written Mitochondria = powerhouse = cell bacon? as a reminder of how far gone he was.

“What about your business classes?” I asked, trying to regain control of the session. “Surely you’re doing better there.”

“You’d think,” he said, frowning slightly. “But no. It’s all graphs and charts and, like, ‘supply chain management.’ Why can’t they just call it moving stuff from one place to another?”

Oh, for God’s sake. “Because it’s not just moving stuff, Vaughn. It’s logistics. Procurement. Distribution—”

“Exactly!” he interrupted. “Why not just call it moving stuff? It’s way simpler.”

I dropped my pen onto the table and leaned back in my chair, narrowing my eyes at him. “Do you even try to understand your coursework?”

“Sometimes,” he said casually. “But it’s all so boring.”

I resisted the urge to slam my head against the table. Barely. “Let me guess. You think macroeconomics is ‘big money things.’”

His grin widened. “See? You get it.”

“What about ethics?” I asked, because I clearly hated myself. He probably thought that was the one with the dinosaurs or something equally idiotic. 

“Oh, that’s the worst one,” he said immediately. “It’s all trick questions. Like, is it okay to lie if it helps more people? I don’t know. It depends.”

I stared at him. “That was your answer?”

“Yeah!” he said, nodding like I’d just handed him a gold star. “It’s a good one, huh?”

“It’s a non-answer,” I snapped.

“No, it’s realistic,” he argued.

“It’s lazy,” I said evenly. “An answer that requires no thought will never be the right one.” But I couldn’t say I was surprised, given that I’d seen he had misspelled ethics on his midterm—with an x—despite the fact that it was literally in the title. And he’d misspelled it that way multiple times.

“It’s nuanced,” he said, smirking again. “Like… Lying is bad, but also, if it helps people, then it’s good, which means bad can be good?"

“That is the most idiotically worded attempt at moral philosophy I have ever heard,” I retorted sharply, glaring at him. Technically, it was a valid ethical dilemma—not wrong—but I was not going to tell him that. He was adjacent to correct at best and adjacent was not going to fix his GPA.

Nonetheless, it was a minor flash of intelligence. Which told me that he was clearly a functioning idiot. He wasn’t truly stupid—that, I could have worked with. I had strategies for that. But this? This was willful ignorance. He wasn’t failing because he lacked intelligence; he was failing because he genuinely couldn’t be bothered to care.

Just when I was about to move on, he leaned forwards with an intensity that I immediately was alarmed by. “Okay, okay,” he said, flattening his hands on the table. “So here’s the deal. We just need to figure out how I can bring my grades up enough to play on Saturday.”

“To play on Saturday,” I repeated flatly.

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “For the game against East Ridge. It’s like, the biggest game of the season. So, you know… help me out.”

I stared at him, momentarily at a loss for words. Surely even he could not be this delusional. “Are you aware that today is Wednesday?”

“Yup.”

“You honestly believe that you can fix your grades in three days?” I put deliberate emphasis on three, practically gift-wrapping the sheer absurdity of his statement for him. Surely, this was the moment where reality would sink in. Where he would at least pretend to grasp the gravity of his situation.

But no.

Max just nodded, utterly unfazed, flashing me a grin so maddeningly confident that my soul tried to escape my body. “Yeah,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean, how hard can it be?”

I exhaled sharply, staring at him like he had just announced he was going to cure cancer with positive thinking. I closed my notebook with a resounding snap and leaned forward, locking eyes with him. “Vaughn. Your GPA is 1.2. Do you know what that means?”

He stared back at me, tilting his head. “It’s, like… bad?”

“It’s legendary,” I said, my voice dripping with disdain. “If academic failure were a sport, you would be the most valued player. Congratulations.”

Impossibly, his grin got wider. “Cool. Thanks. Do I get a trophy?”

He’d probably been handed everything on a silver platter since birth—money, status, an annoyingly symmetrical face—and still couldn’t be bothered to put in the bare minimum effort in class. Meanwhile, I was pulling 3am study sessions to keep my GPA perfect. And he wanted a trophy?

The unfairness of it all made my eye twitch. Again.

“No,” I snapped. “You get a tutor. And your tutor is telling you there’s no possible way to fix this in three days. Unless you have a time machine.”

This isn’t tutoring. This is babysitting a dense Labrador retriever. And the Labrador would’ve done better in biology.

By the time the session finally ended, my patience was hanging on by a thread. Vaughn had managed to turn every single question into a joke, every single explanation into an argument, and every single moment of silence into an opportunity to test how far he could push me.

I bit back a sigh, snapping my notebook shut once more with a deliberate motion and leveling a hard stare at him. “Here’s how this is going to work, Vaughn,” I began, my tone firm and unyielding. “We will meet here six days a week, Monday through Saturday, at seven o’clock in the evening sharp. Sundays are your only day off. If you are late, I will dock that time from the session, but you will still be responsible for all assigned material.”

Max leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head with the same grin he’d had for the past two hours. I wanted to slap it off his face.

“Six days?” he drawled, his tone somewhere between incredulous and amused. “What, no Saturdays off for good behavior?”

I fixed him with a pointedly flat look. “Not for someone in your position.”

“Harsh,” he said, dropping his arms and resting his forearms on the table, leaning in slightly. “You really don’t mess around, do you, Professor Kerrigan?”

“It’s just Kerrigan,” I corrected crisply, ignoring the way his lips twitched like he was trying not to laugh. “And your calculus test is Monday, so that will be our immediate priority. After that, we’ll rotate focus between your other subjects, depending on upcoming assignments and exams.”

He nodded slowly, his grin still annoyingly present. “Alright, Professor Kerrigan,” he said, deliberately ignoring my correction. “You’ve got my attention.”

“I’m flattered,” I said dryly. “I hope your actual professors can say the same.”

He chuckled, sitting back in his chair like this was some kind of game. “What if I have practice?” he asked, his tone laced with mock innocence, as if it was a question with no obvious answer.

“Then you’ll plan accordingly,” I shot back. “Academic probation isn’t flexible, Vaughn. And neither am I.”

“If you put in the work, this will be manageable,” I continued, shoving my notes and laptop into my bag. “If you don’t, I am not a miracle worker, and no amount of tutoring will save your scholarship.”

Max watched me for a moment, his gaze warm and a little too intent. “Seven o’clock tomorrow,” I finished, standing and slinging my bag over my shoulder. “And try to be on time this time.”

His grin shifted, a little softer and yet a little sharper at the edges. “Looking forward to it, Kerrigan,” he said, leaning back in his chair again, his eyes glinting with something that almost felt like a challenge. “Don’t miss me too much.”

There was something in his tone that I couldn’t entirely identify. Whatever it was, it sent a flicker of something… warm? through my chest. I decided that it was heartburn. Fantastic. 

“I’d rather suffer a catastrophic head injury,” I returned sweetly, rolling my eyes before turning on my heel. He said something back, but I was already walking away. I had officially hit my meathead comment quota for the day.

As I went, I muttered under my breath about the futility of tutoring alpha jocks. Maxwell Vaughn wasn’t stupid—he was lazy . Frustratingly so. An ass who didn’t care. I already hated him. Already resented the Tutor Council for forcing him on me.

Objectively, I understood why he was failing. School wasn’t his priority. Football was. He probably spent more time throwing footballs and lifting weights than he did attending lectures or opening a textbook. His academic probation was practically inevitable.

Maxwell Vaughn wasn’t my first hopeless case. He wouldn’t be my last. But if he thought I was going to let him coast by on ‘cell bacon’ and good looks, he certainly had another thing coming. 

I didn’t care about fixing him beyond doing my job. If he wanted to waste both his time and mine, that was his problem.

And if he didn’t?

He had better prove it.

The crisp evening air nipped at my face as I stepped out of the library, adjusting my satchel strap on my shoulder. The faint glow of streetlights dotted the campus path ahead, casting long shadows across the neatly trimmed hedges and meticulously maintained sidewalks. It was quiet—mercifully so, after the mental chaos of my tutoring session.

I took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill my lungs. It was a welcome contrast to the stuffy, fluorescent-lit library. The scent of damp earth lingered from the rain earlier that afternoon, and my shoes made soft, rhythmic clicks against the pavement. If I focused hard enough, I could almost forget what I’d just endured with Maxwell Vaughn, self-proclaimed king of mediocrity.

Almost.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, alerting me to an incoming call. I resisted the urge to sigh, because I knew exactly who it was before I even glanced at the screen.

“Hello, Theo,” I answered flatly, already bracing myself.

Teodoro Adorni was an omega theater major I had met freshman year. He’d been shouting at the library printer and banging on it like it had owed him money. I’d helped, mostly to stop him from breaking it. Turns out it had just been unplugged. Then I’d skimmed the paper he’d been trying to print and had helped him rewrite it, because the lack of MLA citations and the direct quotes from The Terminator had made me physically ill.

He’d declared us best friends from that moment forward. He was a spicy, chaotic Argentinian, raised by luxury fashion designer moguls. I was a proudly plain American who, in contrast, had been raised by quiet intellectuals. Yet, two years later and despite being opposites in almost every conceivable way, we actually somehow were best friends, though sometimes—mostly—I regretted it. 

“Ainsley,” Theo said, his voice dripping with fake concern. “Are you okay? You sound dead inside. More gruñón than usual.”

“I just finished a very difficult tutoring session,” I replied, rubbing the bridge of my nose. Grumpier than usual was certainly warranted, given the circumstances. Not that I was going to tell him that. “I’d like to go home and read a book in peace. What do you want?”

“What I want, querida, is for you to stop living like an eighty-year-old shut-in and come to this party.”

I rolled my eyes, already exasperated. Theo insisted parties were “the theater of the human experience,” whatever that meant. He had grown up quite literally in the spotlight and according to him, every party was a chance to “network, perform, and connect with the masses”. And he was constantly yammering at me to accompany him.

I refused every time he asked. Standing around in a sweaty, overcrowded room with loud music, questionable drinks, and people shouting over each other was chaos. Germ-filled, obnoxious chaos.

And, most importantly, not my idea of a good time. Ever.

“Theo,” I said slowly, as if I were speaking to a child. “It is Wednesday night.”

“Sí. A perfect night for a mid-week party. You need to loosen up before your wrinkles set in permanently.”

“I have an essay due tomorrow,” I lied.

“No, you don’t,” Theo shot back immediately. “You live five steps ahead of everyone else. You probably have all your assignments done for the next month, just so you can obsessively check them for typos that don’t even exist. Also, lying is a sin, mi alma.”

Okay, that was only slightly true. Maybe 80% true.

Fine, 100% true. But still. People always said I was “too prepared.” As if being ahead of the curve was a flaw instead of the most efficient way to live. Why should I wait until the last minute to complete an assignment when I could finish it now, have time to revise it, and avoid unnecessary stress?

I refused to believe it was a trait of neuroticism. It was logical. Responsible, even. But Theo and I had argued it multiple times, so I bit back a response and instead picked up my pace towards my dorm.

The campus was largely deserted at this hour—most students were holed up in their dorms or off at Theo’s mid-week party, doing whatever it was normal college students do. Normally, I liked the solitude. It gave me time to think. But I was glad for the way Theo was rambling in my ear now, preventing my brain from circling back to Vaughn’s smug grin, his complete disregard for academia, and the way he’d smirked when he’d called me mean.

And also, cell copy-pasting. Who described mitosis like that? And who said it with so much confidence? My eye twitched and I forced myself to focus on Theo’s rambling. 

“—you’re the villain of procrastinators everywhere. The Joker to our chaos. The Thanos to our snap-deadlines.” God, his obsession with supervillains was the worst.

“I have never wanted to go to a party. This is not new information," I reiterated, rolling my eyes.

“That’s exactly why you should go,” Theo argued. “You’re always saying no to everything. Parties. Spontaneous fun. Life.”

“I’m not saying no to life,” I said, rolling my eyes for the third time. At this rate, they were going to fall out of my head. “I just have priorities that don’t include getting drunk on a Wednesday night.”

“Lame priorities,” Theo said dismissively. “What’s stopping you? Let me guess—you’ve got a riveting evening of alphabetizing your bookshelf planned?”

“Actually, yes,” I said. “And it’s not riveting. It’s soothing.”

I didn’t tell him that I also had tea and a book on postmodern philosophy waiting.

There was a beat of silence, followed by Theo’s signature sigh of exaggerated disappointment. “I cannot believe this is my life. My best friend, ladies and gentlemen. A human spreadsheet.”

“Flattered,” I deadpanned.

“Okay, but hear me out,” Theo said, his voice taking on that conspiratorial tone that meant he was about to try to sell me something ridiculous. “What if this party is actually good for you? It could be a chance to de-stress. To unwind. To—dare I say—fl—”

“No.”

He whined through the line. “You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

The glow of my dorm came into view, and I almost sighed in relief. My hand was already halfway into my pocket, fumbling for my keys, as I doubled down on my refusal.

“You were going to say something about how I need to meet people and ‘put myself out there,’ and then you’d make some sweeping statement about how parties are the gateway to personal growth. Did I miss anything?”

“You’re impossible. What happened to you? You used to be fun.” He was pouting.

“When?” I asked, raising an eyebrow even though he couldn’t see it. “When was I fun?”

Theo hummed and I could already hear the smirk in his voice. “There was that one time freshman year when you accidentally ate sugar and wrote an entire term paper in two hours. That was fun.”

I scoffed. “Me having a sugar-induced mental breakdown was not fun, Theo.”

“For you, maybe,” he snickered.

I unlocked the door to my dorm, pushing it open with my shoulder, and let the comforting silence wash over me. “Look,” I said, juggling the phone as I slipped off my shoes and hung up my cardigan. “I really just want to relax tonight, Theo. Alone. I had a tutoring session that drained every ounce of patience—”

“Ooooh, spill,” Theo said immediately, his voice practically vibrating with intrigue. “What happened? Did you have to tutor a frat bro who thinks calculus is a type of dinosaur?”

That was… eerily accurate, actually. But I refrained from saying so. “Can’t tell you. You know that. Tutor confidentiality.” 

“Oh, come on,” Theo whined. “At least tell me if they were hot.”

“I didn’t notice,” I said smoothly, setting my bag on the desk and casting a longing glance at the neatly stacked books that awaited me.

“Oh, you noticed, mi amor. You always notice. You noticed so hard, you’re in denial. Was he hot, though? Describe him. Slowly.”

I let out a long-suffering sigh. “Theo. Stop trying to gaslight me. I do not.”

“Yes, you do,” he shot back. “Remember that time you said the TA in our philosophy class had ‘objectively excellent cheekbones’? You wrote it in the margins of your notebook.”

“That was an observation,” I snapped, ignoring the heat rising into my cheeks as I turned towards my electric kettle. “An objective one. To be objective literally means to have no personal feelings—”

“And now you’re deflecting,” Theo interrupted smugly. “So, is your new student hot or not?”

I flicked the kettle on and stared at it like it was going to save me. “I’m hanging up,” I said, already pulling the phone away from my ear.

“You wound me, gruñón. You are stabbing me in the heart with your cold, lifeless rejection. I can hear violins playing as I die in the street,” Theo complained loudly. Then he paused, in the way he did when he was hoping I’d be moved by his theatrics. 

When I remained silent, he mimicked my earlier sigh, except he added a pout at the end so loud I could hear it. “Fine, fine, go alphabetize your books or whatever. But just know that while you’re sitting alone in your dorm being boring, I will be living it up. At an awesome party. With hot people.”

“Enjoy,” I said, deadpan, grabbing my favorite mug from the cabinet. “I’ll be in my dorm, praying you don’t catch anything serious. Like pregnancy or an STD.”

He gasped in exaggerated affront. “Are you slutshaming me? Just for that, hijo de puta, I’m manifesting a ridiculously hot alpha to ruin your life—”

I hung up immediately then, because that was the absolute last thing I needed. And because Theo was a slut—he’d unapologetically slept with half the Ridgeline campus, which meant that I was hardly shaming him. Merely stating facts.

I poured boiling water over my tea leaves, savoring the steam and the stillness of my dorm. The mug warmed my hands as I carried it to my desk, eyeing the stack of books I’d been longing after all day.

There it was: my copy of Postmodernism and the End of Meaning, practically begging me to open it. Instead, I sighed, sinking into my chair, thoughts inevitably circling back to tomrrow. Another day full of classes. Fine, except at the end of them, I wouldn’t be tutoring an eager-to-please beta in biochemistry. It would him.

Ugh. Hot, Theo had said. As if I had the unfortunate inclination of being into idiots and hadn't evolved beyond base instincts. Vaughn's appearance was a footnote, irrelevant to the glaring reality: he was failing every single class and wasting everyone’s time, including mine. There were plenty of other tutors who could’ve been assigned. Instead, I’d been chosen. Very lucky and unlucky for Vaughn.

I’d seen enough alphas like Vaughn to recognize the pattern: loud, confident, and oblivious to the mess they left in their wake. Not malicious, necessarily—just careless in ways the rest of us couldn’t afford to be. Like bulls in the proverbial china shop, except the shop was everyone else’s peace of mind and they were too busy congratulating themselves to notice the wreckage.

Huffing softly, I wrapped my hands around my mug and took another slow sip of tea, forcing my thoughts back to more constructive things—the promise of philosophical exploration, the quiet logic of my books, the kind of order you could stack neatly on a shelf.

Theo could have his parties and his chaos. Vaughn could have his… whatever it was he thought he was chasing. A football. Or his own tail. Either way, it didn’t concern me.

I had my books, my tea, and my carefully preserved peace.

Chapter Text

The locker room smelled like sweat, cheap deodorant, and the faint but undeniable scent of despair—my despair, specifically. Normally, the field was my happy place, where I could leave anything that made me feel bad behind. But practice had only served to make me angry—every throw I’d watched Justin make had triggered a deep, simmering rage inside me and my mood had gotten blacker and blacker.

Justin didn’t even know how to read a defense. Last practice, he’d audibled into the wrong play and nearly got Zach flattened. And now he was going to lead my team? Over my dead body.

The shower was supposed to cool me down—literally and figuratively—but as I stepped out and grabbed a towel, the terrible mood hadn’t budged. The rivalry game was this weekend, and I was benched. Benched. I clenched my jaw as I toweled off. The idea of Justin stepping into my cleats, leading my team, throwing my passes—it made my blood boil.

The locker room was a cacophony of noise as usual, and my teammates weren’t exactly helping.

“Dude, I still can’t believe Coach benched you,” Zach said, shaking his head as he adjusted his knee brace. “For the rivalry game. That’s ice cold.”

Zach was the closest thing I had to a functional best friend on and off the field. He was a goofball, sure, but at least he wasn’t completely brainless like the others. Most of the time, he helped me keep the chaos in check, and between the two of us, we were successful—sort of. A little. Sometimes not at all.

“Tell me about it,” I grumbled, fishing a shirt from my bag and throwing my dirty one in the general direction of the laundry bin. I missed. I told myself I didn’t care.

“You’ve been benched before,” Brody chimed in, his voice way too loud as usual. He was the loudest human being I’d ever met. He didn’t have an indoor voice, let alone a volume knob. He was all muscle and bluster, always yelling about something—plays, weights, the temperature of his protein shakes. His idea of comforting me about being benched? Making everything worse.

“Yeah,” I shot back, “for, like, five minutes. Not for the biggest game of the year.”

“Wait,” Kyle cut in, his brow furrowing. “I thought Justin was our kicker.”

I wanted to smack my palm against my forehead, because how the fuck could you attend practices and not know the positions of who you were playing with? Apparently Kyle could. He was the quiet one, which would’ve been fine if he wasn’t also the dumbest. He didn’t speak up often, but when he did, you could feel everyone’s collective IQ drop by ten points. 

“No, you idiot,” Jake said around a mouthful of protein bar. He was perpetually eating; if it was edible, it was in his mouth. “Justin’s the backup QB.”

“Backup QB?” Kyle blinked. “I thought that was Brody.”

“Do I look like I can throw a football?” Brody asked, gesturing at his hulking, obviously linebacker frame.

“Dude, you look like you were a brick shithouse in a past life,” Zach quipped, earning a round of laughter.

Brody grinned, completely unfazed. “Alright, alright. But seriously, Vaughn, what did you do to get benched?”

I groaned. “It’s my grades, okay? Apparently, the school doesn’t appreciate a C-minus GPA. Who knew?”

Yeah. Who knew? I’d been using my teammates as a benchmark all this time and I’d been the one to get benched over grades, out of all of them. One time, Brody tried to microwave a Gatorade bottle to see what would happen—it exploded—and Jake had tried to eat a whole rotisserie chicken during halftime. And Kyle? Kyle had skateboarded down dormitory steps holding two Red Bulls and landed himself in the ER. Twice.

I loved them, but they were fucking idiots. Another reason why me getting benched was just plain unfair as fuck. 

I’d thought about calling my parents, but the idea made my stomach twist. As much as I liked to joke about them making problems disappear, they didn’t pull strings unless the trouble wasn’t my fault. And this? This was all me.

If they found out, I wouldn’t just lose the scholarship—I’d win the Lecture Lottery. Mom would hit me with her ‘education is the key to opportunity’ spiel, complete with dramatic pauses, while Dad brought out the ‘sacrifices our family made to get where we are’ Greatest Hits tour. They’d sell tickets. I’d be front-row for my own funeral.

No, thanks.

The Vaughns didn’t pay for things like tuition, broken phones, or bad grades—not because they couldn’t, but because they wouldn’t. Vaughns earned things. Through hard work, discipline, and a handshake so firm it felt like a bench press for your soul. And failure? Failure wasn’t just a word; it was a curse.

Without my scholarship, I wasn’t just benched—I was done. Game over. And no way was I letting me be the Vaughn who blew it.

Jake whistled. “Damn, bro. A C-minus? You’re practically a scholar.”

“Right?” I said, throwing my hands up. “And yet, here I am. Benched. While Justin gets to play. Justin, who can’t even throw a spiral.”

“Man, that sucks,” Zach said, his sympathy only slightly undercut by the grin tugging at his lips. “I mean, Justin throws like he’s got a noodle arm.”

“More like a spaghetti arm,” Jake added around a mouthful of granola bar.

“Spaghetti’s a noodle, dumbass,” Brody said, shoving Jake’s shoulder.

“No, spaghetti’s pasta. Noodles are, like, the flat ones,” Jake retorted, holding his granola bar defensively.

Kyle nodded solemnly. “Ramen noodles.”

Normally, I’d be pissing myself laughing at their idiotic banter. But these were not normal times and the last thing I felt like doing was laughing. The more they talked about Justin, the more I wanted to punch something. Instead, I slapped a fresh scent patch on my throat and finished getting dressed.

“The point is,” Zach raised his voice over their nonsense. “Justin sucks.”

“Justin couldn’t hit water if he fell out of a boat,” Brody added.

“Justin probably thinks a spiral is a pasta,” Jake said. He shoved the last of his granola bar into his mouth and pulled out another one, much to my dismay. 

“Bro. You’re eating again?” I asked, staring at him.

“I’m bulking,” Jake said defensively.

“Dude, you’re always bulking,” Zach pointed out.

“And you’re always talking,” Jake shot back with a growl. “Jesus, McAllister, you nag like my fucking girlfriend. You wanna suck my dick, too?”

Zach made a gagging face. “I only suck dicks that aren’t tiny.”

"So you'd suck Br—"

Ignoring the headache beginning behind my temples, I grabbed my stuff and shot to my feet, waving my arms at them. “Alright, children, settle down. Justin’s starting, and I have to go to tutoring so Coach doesn’t murder me. Any other questions?”

Brody raised his hand like we were in kindergarten. I grit my teeth together and turned to look at him, forcing my patient ‘team captain’ mask on. “What, Brody?”

“What’s tutoring?”

“It’s where nerds help you not fail,” I deadpanned. "I hope."

“Sounds fake,” Brody said, squinting suspiciously.

“Whatever. I have to go. Tutoring calls.” 

“Good luck,” Zach called as I headed out. “Use your big alpha brain, bro!”

“Shut up!” I yelled over my shoulder, flipping them off as the door swung shut behind me.

Fine. I’d sit through tutoring. I’d learn the periodic table. Hell, I’d even pretend ATP wasn’t bacon for cells. But the second I was cleared, noodle-arm Justin was out. My cleats, my passes, my team. No discussion.

No matter what it took.

Walking into the library felt like stepping into a swamp. The air was heavy and damp, like someone had tried to bake the entire building at 400 degrees. I glanced around at the other students scattered across the library, most of them fanning themselves with notebooks or water bottles, their expressions a mix of misery and exhaustion. 

I was sweating before I even reached the table where Ainsley was already seated, looking like a tiny, pissed-off librarian. His honey-colored curls were damp around the edges, his cheeks flushed, and his glasses were slipping down his nose every few seconds.

His gaze was fixed to his laptop screen when I dropped into the chair across from him, though he raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You’re on time.”

“I’m full of surprises.” I grinned, leaning back and wiping sweat off my forehead. “So, is this, like, a new study method? Torture by heatstroke?”

Ainsley didn’t look up from his laptop. “The A/C is out,” he said simply. “We’re starting with calculus today.”

As if calculus wasn’t already hard enough without sweating literal bullets. I groaned. “Can’t we do, like, anything else? I thought you were going to, you know, be gentle with me and all, since this is technically our first time together.” I waggled my eyebrows at him.

“Unless you want to fail calculus, no,” he retorted, flipping open his notebook. “Alright, Vaughn. Derivatives. Let’s review the basics—what’s the derivative of 3x²?”

I blinked. “The… what of what now?”

He sighed. “The derivative. It’s the rate of change of a function with respect to its variable. In this case, x.”

“Are you going to look at me when you speak to me?” I asked, the words spilling out before I could stop them. There was a petulant edge to my voice I didn’t even bother to hide. He hadn’t looked at me once since I sat down, and it was starting to really piss me off.

No one ignored me. No one.

His head snapped up, green eyes narrowing as he adjusted his glasses. “I don’t need to look at you to teach you calculus, Vaughn. That’s not how this works.”

But he looked at me then and it felt like I’d won some kind of cosmic lottery. His green eyes locked onto mine, sharp and unflinching, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe. I should’ve been annoyed by the condescension in his gaze, the barely veiled disdain that screamed, I am so much smarter than you, but instead, I just thought, Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.

I widened my grin, leaning forward. “Maybe not, but it’s kinda rude, don’t you think? What if I’m, like, a visual learner or something? Maybe I need eye contact to absorb the knowledge.”

Ainsley’s lips pressed into a thin line, his freckled nose scrunching in annoyance. “You’re not a visual learner. You’re barely a learner at all.”

“Ouch,” I said, clutching my chest dramatically. “You’re really gonna insult me in front of all these books?”

“Yes,” he said flatly, turning back to his laptop.

Omegas were supposed to be shy, right? All soft smiles and fluttering lashes and oh, alpha, how can I help you?

Yeah, not him.

I huffed, tapping my fingers against the edge of the table. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little nicer to me. Most omegas would—”

“Stop,” he interrupted, his tone icy. He looked up again, and this time, his gaze was sharp enough to cut. “Don’t even finish that sentence.”

“Okay, jeez,” I said, raising my hands in mock surrender. “I was just saying—”

“Well, don’t,” he snapped.

Jesus, he really didn’t like that. I frowned, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. The silence stretched between us, broken only by the sound of his typing and the faint hum of the broken A/C. I hated how unbothered he looked, like I wasn’t even here. My irritation simmered.

“Seriously, though,” I said, my voice dipping lower. “What’s your deal? You can’t even look at me?”

He sighed heavily, pulling his eyes away from the screen to glare at me. “What do you want, Vaughn? A gold star for showing up?”

I tilted my head, my smirk returning. “Maybe. Mostly, I just want you to look at me when you’re talking to me. You know, like a normal person.”

His glare deepened. “This isn’t a conversation, Vaughn. It’s a tutoring session.”

“Yeah, but I’m still a person,” I shot back. “And it’s kinda hard to focus when you’re treating me like an equation you’re trying to solve.”

Ainsley blinked, clearly taken aback. For a second, I thought I’d actually gotten through to him. But then he sighed again, pulled his glasses off, and pinched the bridge of his nose like I was giving him a headache.

“Fine,” he said reluctantly, putting his glasses back on. “I’ll look at you. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” I said, grinning.

“So, the derivative of 3x². The derivative is the rate of change of a function with respect to its variable. X is the variable. What is the derivative?” 

I paid zero attention because I was suddenly hyper aware of every little detail of him: the freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks like stars in a constellation, the faint pink flush creeping up his neck, the way his lips pressed together like he was trying to hold back some scathing remark.

My brain helpfully supplied, What if he bit his lip like that while—nope. Shut it down. Abort mission. We were supposed to be learning.

Realizing he was waiting for an answer, I stared at him blankly. “You just said a lot of words, and none of them made sense.”

Ainsley’s eye twitched. “The derivative,” he said slowly, like he was explaining calculus to a child, “is the slope of the tangent line at any given point on a curve.”

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”

“I did,” he said through gritted teeth. I could practically hear him grinding them; he was going to break a molar with force like that.

“Okay, okay, chill,” I said, holding up my hands. “So the slope. Got it. What was the question again?”

“The derivative of 3x²,” he repeated for the third time.

I squinted at my notebook like it might spontaneously give me the answer. “Uh… 3x?”

Ainsley stared at me for a long moment, his expression hovering somewhere between deeply unimpressed and actively considering homicide. “Close,” he said finally. “But wrong. The correct answer is 6x. You multiply the exponent by the coefficient, then subtract one from the exponent.”

“Oh,” I said, nodding like I understood a single word he’d just said. “Yeah, that’s what I meant.”

I frowned, the wheels in my brain grinding slow but determined. “Wait. But doesn’t subtracting one from the exponent make it, like, 6x¹?”

Ainsley froze mid-tap, blinking at me like I’d just asked him if the Earth was flat. “What?”

“Yeah,” I said, leaning back with a triumphant grin. “6x^1, right? You forgot the little one. Gotta include it. That’s math.”

For a long moment, Ainsley just stared at me. His lips parted slightly like he was trying to find the words, and his green eyes flashed with what I thought might’ve been frustration, but maybe was awe at my genius. Definitely awe.

“Maxwell,” he said slowly, carefully, like he was explaining calculus to a moron. Which... fair. “6x¹ is the same as 6x. You don’t need to write the one.”

“Why not?” I argued, crossing my arms. “The one’s still there, right? It’s just invisible. That feels dishonest.”

“It’s not dishonest,” he said through gritted teeth, closing his eyes like he was summoning patience from the heavens. “It’s implied. Everyone knows it’s there. You don’t have to write it.”

“Yeah, but what if someone doesn’t know it’s there?” I pressed. “Like, what if they’re new to math or something? They’d be looking for the one, and bam—confused. I’m just saying, writing the one makes sense.”

Ainsley let out a slow, measured breath, his fingers tightening around his pencil. “Maxwell,” he said, his voice clipped, “please don’t make me explain implied coefficients to you right now.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why not? Isn’t that your job?”

The pencil snapped in his hand.

“Okay,” I said quickly, raising my hands in surrender. “Fine. Got it. Moving on.”

We kept going, and I’d like to say I improved, but that would be a lie. Ainsley would ask a question, I’d guess wildly, and he’d correct me in that sharp, exasperated tone that somehow made me want to keep talking just to see how far I could push him.

At one point, I thought I had him.

“What’s the integral of x?” he asked, tapping a new pen against the table. It looked fancy. Like him.

I grinned, feeling like a genius. “x², right?”

For half a second, I thought I’d actually gotten it right.

Then he sighed. “Close,” he said, sounding more tired than ever. “It’s x² divided by two. Don’t forget the constant of integration.”

“The constant of what now?” I asked, my grin faltering.

He pinched the bridge of his nose again. “Never mind. Let’s just move on.”

I tried not to let it bother me, but damn, this calculus stuff was brutal. I wasn’t actually dumb, but numbers had never been my thing. Football? Easy. Socializing? Piece of cake. But this?

This felt like trying to read a foreign language written in invisible ink.

Still, I wasn’t about to give up. Not when Ainsley was sitting across from me, his green eyes flashing with determination and his freckled nose scrunching every time I said something stupid. He was frustrating as hell, but he was also… cute, not that I was going to say it aloud and get my head bitten off again, but he was.

It was undeniable. And it was also why I was staring at him when it happened.

At first, it was faint—just a whisper of something warm and sweet in the air. But it grew stronger, curling around me like smoke. Ainsley swiped a hand across his forehead and muttered something under his breath. He shifted in his seat, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt, his cheeks growing redder by the second.

“You okay?” I asked, frowning.

“I’m fine,” he said sharply, but his hand shot up to his neck, pressing against his scent patch.

And that’s when it hit me. Like actually.

The scent.

It was warm and sweet, but not cloying—like honey just before it melted on your tongue. Beneath it was something deeper, something like... the earth? I scrunched my nose, inhaling it deeper, trying to figure out what it was. It wasn’t the kind of scent that screamed for attention. More like a... favorite blanket, drawing you closer until you couldn’t think about anything else.

My brain slowed to a crawl, every instinct snapping my eyes to where it was coming from.

Oh. Fuck.

Ainsley’s scent patch was dangling from his neck. That was his scent.

And it smelled fucking incredible.

“That’s you?” I heard myself say, my voice hushed, almost reverent.

Ainsley’s eyes snapped up, wide and startled, and for once, he looked like he didn’t know what to say. “Don’t,” he said sharply, his hand flying to the patch on his neck like he could physically stop the scent from leaking out. I watched as he tried to press it back into place, but all the sweating he was doing was messing with the adhesion. 

And it was too late. I could smell him.

I leaned forward, inhaling even more deeply, and the faintest growl rumbled in my chest before I could stop it. “You smell…” I shook my head, searching for the right words. “Incredible.”

“Shut up,” he hissed, clapping a hand over his exposed scent gland. “Give me another one. Now.”

“What?” I said, barely registering his words. 

“Your spare,” he said through gritted teeth. “You have a spare, right?”

Did I have a spare? Probably. Maybe. Yes. I couldn’t think about it to save my life, though. All I could focus on was him—his flushed cheeks, the way his curls clung to his damp forehead, the delicate line of his neck. The scent wasn’t just hanging in the air; it was him. It was curling out from his skin, his hair, every inch of him, and it was driving me insane.

“Vaughn.” Ainsley’s voice cracked like a whip. 

“Oh, uh… yeah,” I said, fumbling with my backpack. My fingers brushed against the replacement patch I kept in the side pocket, but I hesitated. “But I mean… you don’t need to rush it or anything.”

“Vaughn.”

There was a panicked edge to his voice but I couldn’t focus on that, either, instead swaying closer towards him until I was on the edge of my seat, growling at the table separating us. I sucked more of his scent into my lungs, greedily. The longer I sat there, the worse it got. My mouth went dry, my head spun, and my chest felt tight, like something was clawing its way out of me.

“Ainsley. You smell.. fucking incredible. Like… I don’t even know. Like honey and… I don’t know. Rain?”

“Rain?” Ainsley repeated incredulously, his hand still clamped over his neck. “What is wrong with you? Vaughn, give me the patch before someone else catches my scent. There could be other alphas in here—”

If another alpha scented Ainsley, I’ll kill them.

Wait. No. I wouldn’t. That was insane. I wasn't not some possessive caveman. Alphas didn't just kill other alphas. This wasn't one of those nature documentaries where lions fight over the last gazelle on the savannah, unless—unless they touched Ainsley. Or tried to take him. Then I guess I'd... have to.

I mean, I wouldn’t want to, but I’d have to. It was just like instinct, natural selection or whatever. What kind of alpha let someone else take what was his?

Not that Ainsley was mine. Wow, that was kinda a wild thought.

But the thought of some asshole—Justin, probably, because he’s the absolute worst—getting anywhere near Ainsley’s scent made my blood boil. If Justin scented him, I’d break his nose, zero hesitation. And if he so much as thought about touching him, well... I could probably throw a chair at his head from fifty yards out and knock him flat, being the best quarterback on the team and all. Probably.

“Seriously, though,” I said, leaning forward, my voice dropping low. “I wondered what you smelled like under there, but I didn’t think you’d smell like… this. Like something I could get addicted to.” The words were out before I could stop myself.

Ainsley froze, his cheeks somehow getting even redder. “Oh my God,” he muttered, dragging his hands down his face. “This is not happening.”

“It is, though,” I said, grinning despite the ache in my chest. “And it’s not my fault you smell so—”

“Stop talking about my scent,” he snapped, his voice high and sharp. “And give me the damn patch.”

“Why?” I asked, genuinely confused. “It’s a compliment.”

“It’s inappropriate.”

“Is it?” I tilted my head, watching him with growing fascination. “Because I think it’s the most interesting thing about this session so far.”

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, standing up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. “Give me the patch. Right now.”

“You’re just embarrassed.”

“I am not embarrassed!” he hissed.

“Then why are you blushing?”

“Because it’s a hundred degrees in here, you moron.”

“Right,” I said, smirking. “Totally the heat.”

I grinned, but the moment I handed him the patch and he slapped it on, the scent vanished, replaced by the sterile, chemical nothingness of the blocking technology. The warmth it had wrapped around me was gone, leaving me feeling cold and restless.

“Better?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual, ignoring the sharp stab of disappointment.

“Infinitely,” he said, his voice clipped as he settled back in his seat.

I was shocked at how quickly his composure came back, falling back into place over his flushed features as he adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. “Right. Where were we?”

Something else was different now, too. I could still remember the scent—could still feel it—and it was like it had flipped some switch in my brain. Suddenly, I could focus.

“Alright,” Ainsley said, scribbling something on the notebook and sliding it toward me. “If the derivative of x squared is 2x, what’s the derivative of 3x squared?”

I stared at the problem, my brain turning over the numbers. “Uh… 6x?”

Ainsley blinked, clearly surprised. “Correct. Let’s try another one.”

We went through problem after problem, and for the first time, I wasn’t completely floundering. I wasn’t amazing or anything, but I was doing better.

“See?” I said, leaning back with a smirk. “I’m a genius.”

“You’re tolerable,” he corrected, his voice dry.

By the time we wrapped up, I was actually feeling kind of good about the session. Ainsley, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to bolt. I watched him pack up, my chest tightening with something I couldn’t quite name. I’d known Ainsley Kerrigan for all of two sessions, but now I felt like I’d caught a glimpse of something hidden and raw, something he didn’t let anyone else see.

“We’ll meet again tomorrow. Same time,” he said.

“Sure,” I said, watching him pack up. His curls were still a little damp, clinging to his forehead, and I couldn’t stop myself from grinning. “Hey, Ainsley?”

“What?” he asked, looking up at me with his usual annoyed expression.

“You smell amazing,” I said, winking.

His face turned bright red, and he practically fled the library.

As I walked back to my truck, I couldn’t stop replaying the session in my head, thinking about Ainsley. The way he looked when he got flustered, the way his green eyes lit up when I actually got something right. The way he smelled under his patch.

God, his scent.

Honey. Rain. Books. It was burrowed into my brain, lingering even after it was gone. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like to get closer, to breathe him in again without the patch in the way.

It wasn’t just the scent, though. It was him. His sharp tongue, his wild curls, the way his green eyes sparked with intensity when he was explaining something. He was a walking contradiction—tiny but fierce, polished but messy, cold but somehow warm.

No one had ever made my head spin or my chest ache like this. And I wanted more.

What the hell was that?

Chapter Text

The campus cafe was a loud, chaotic hub of overpriced coffee and questionable food, perpetually crowded with students who seemed to think “study breaks” meant occupying tables for hours while sipping the same lukewarm latte. The decor was a confused mix of industrial chic and cafeteria drab—exposed brick walls lined with motivational quotes, mismatched chairs, and tables that wobbled if you breathed on them too hard.

It wasn’t the worst place to eat, but it wasn’t exactly the serene environment I preferred. Still, Theo loved it, which meant I endured it. Begrudgingly.

Theo’s voice droned on, somewhere between a monologue and a soliloquy, as he gestured wildly over his half-eaten panini. His silky dark hair was coiffed to perfection and his outfit was equally as dramatic: a bold floral shirt under a blazer, paired with pants that screamed I’m cooler than you and I know it.

“And then, Ainsley, the insult, the audacity, the betrayal,” he ranted, waving his hands. “Professor DuPont said my Hamlet was too raw, too much emotion. Ay, por Dios, como si Shakespeare wanted me to be a cold, lifeless corpse reciting lines.”

“Hmm,” I said distractedly, pushing the remnants of my salad around my plate. I hadn’t eaten much. Too busy mulling over how thoroughly ruined I’d been after yesterday’s tutoring session.

I’d lived my worst nightmare. My scent patch—a tiny square of advanced polymer designed to suppress and neutralize chemical signals—had failed. In the middle of a tutoring session. With Maxwell Vaughn.

I wanted to crawl into a hole and never emerge.

“Honest and raw,” Theo continued, his voice rising another octave. “Like steak tartare. You’ve had steak tartare, haven’t you, gruñón?”

I dragged my eyes up from my salad and blinked at him. “Isn’t that just raw beef?”

He stabbed a finger at me. “Yes! Which is my point. Art and life should be unpolished, visceral. Like me, pouring my soul into that performance—che, are you even listening?”

“Hmm,” I said again. My gaze had fell into my lap, where my thumb hovered over the keyboard. I was drafting a text to Vaughn. A message that I wasn’t sure I should send.

As much as I didn’t want to, I could still see the look on his face when he’d caught my scent. His pupils dilating, his breath hitching, the growl that slipped out before he had even realized he was vocalizing. The incident was a minor lapse in the grand scheme—a single, uncharacteristic moment that I refused to dwell on. But I couldn’t deny that in the moment, for a terrifying split second, my composure had wavered.

My mouth pinched as I reflected with no small amount of disdain. I had spent years determinedly separating myself from the stereotypes society imposed on omegas. I wasn’t shy, soft-spoken, or desperate for an alpha to “take care of me”. I certainly didn’t flutter my lashes or shrink into the background.

Rather, I had carefully developed myself to be ambitious, overachieving, and fiercely independent. My scent wasn’t supposed to matter, not in a library, not during a tutoring session, and certainly not to someone like Maxwell Vaughn.

Then there was the fact I had to grudgingly admit to myself that there was a sliver—an absolutely minuscule sliver—of fascination in the academic sense when it came to witnessing the real-life application of what I’d only read about in textbooks and modeled through simulations. When I’d witnessed Max’s reaction to my scent, it had been mortifying, horrifying—and striking for another reason.

It was undeniable proof of the biological responses I had studied for years. Real life as opposed to cold data and impersonal studies in carefully controlled conditions.

For a moment, I had been able to witness the cascade of reactions in his brain like a mental map: his limbic system lighting up as his hypothalamus triggered the flood of instinctual impulses and the suppression of higher cognitive reasoning, in favor of raw, biological drives.

Ever since, I couldn’t help but wonder—was his reaction purely instinctual, or was it exacerbated by his stress? Could external pressures heighten an alpha’s sensitivity to scent cues, creating an exaggerated biological response? It wasn’t something I’d ever seen studied in depth. And—

Theo leaned forward, snapping his hands in front of my face. He was pouting. “Che! You’re not listening, mi vida.”

“I am,” I said automatically, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at the nickname he used when he was being especially over-the-top. It was one of many, unfortunately. Theo had no shortage of flair.

“Oh, really?” Theo smirked, narrowing his eyes at me. “What was I just talking about, sabelotodo?”

“Hamlet,” I replied, because Theo was always talking about Hamlet.

Annoyingly, Theo’s smirk widened, triumphant. “Ah, equivocado. I moved on to steak tartare like, a minute ago. Now spill. I demand the beans. And don’t lie to me, tu pequeña perra. I will know.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I insisted, sipping absently at my water. I wasn’t about to tell Theo that I’d spent the entire morning debating whether to cancel my next tutoring session with Max. The A/C in the library still wasn’t fixed, and the thought of another failed patch incident was mortifying. And, not to mention, dangerous. 

What was wrong with me? Max Vaughn wasn’t a case study, and I wasn’t some rogue scientist breaching ethical codes for data. I couldn’t let my curiosity erode the boundaries I’d spent years enforcing.

I had a reputation to uphold. A five-star rating. I wasn’t about to let some sweaty, smug alpha quarterback ruin my streak of success. No matter how stupidly good his hazel eyes looked when they weren’t entirely empty of thought. No matter how much it fascinated me.

Theo snorted. “Mierda. You’ve been in your little nerd headspace since we sat down. What’s going on? Did someone steal your highlighter collection?”

The way he said nerd was dripping with Spanish judgement, per usual. I rolled my eyes and shot him a flat look. “No.”

“Drop a class participation point? Lose your favorite pen?” He tilted his head, pursing his lips. 

“Theo,” I said warningly, willing him to let it go. 

“Oh my God,” he gasped, falling back in his seat and clutching his chest. “You didn’t get the highest grade on an exam, did you?”

“I always get the highest grade,” I snapped, but my lips threatened to twitch at his mocking guessing. Theo was nothing if not perceptive, unfortunately, especially when it came to me. He claimed it was because we were best friends. I claimed it was because he didn’t know how to mind his own business.

“It’s nothing,” I added curtly, glancing back at my phone.

Theo wagged a finger at me, not buying it. “Gruñón. I know that look. That’s your ‘I’m quietly panicking about something but refusing to admit it’ look.” 

“I do not have that look,” I insisted in the driest tone I could muster. With leaden thumbs, I started typing out the words. Tonight's tutoring session is postponed. The library’s air conditioning is still out.

Then I hesitated, chewing at my bottom lip, finger hovering over the send button. Should I really cancel? It was the logical thing to do. The last thing I wanted was a repeat performance of yesterday’s incident. I should’ve been reporting it, for God’s sake, especially with how Vaughn had looked at me like I was suddenly his favorite dessert. 

I refused to compromise my professionalism. I refused to let this be the first time I failed a student. And more than anything, I refused to let some overgrown, petulant alpha jock derail my carefully constructed reputation. Decidedly, I added to the text: A proper learning environment is essential. We will reconvene once conditions are more conducive to academic success.

And yet, even as I typed the message, a memory of his wide, dark eyes flashed in my mind. His growl—a pure, primal response—echoed in my ears. I shook it off, refusing to let the visceral distract from the intellectual.

Theo let out a huff. “See? You’re doing the thing where you frown at your phone like it’s insulted your honor. Che, is this about Moby-Dick again, mi ratón de biblioteca? Because if I have to hear one more time about ‘nuanced allegorical depth,’ I’m throwing myself into the ocean.”

“No. It’s work-related,” I said dismissively. And promptly regretted saying as much when I glanced up just in time to see Theo’s features morph into a knowing expression—the one I hated. Ugh. Here we go. He was not going to let this go.

He shoved his panini out of the way and leaned in, dropping his tone conspiratorially. As if we were gossiping. “Work-related? You mean tutoring? Dios mio, your latest hottie?”

I nearly dropped my phone. “No,” I bit out.

“You’re ly-ing,” Theo sang. His dark brown eyes glittered under the cafe lights. “Oh, this is good. Come on, tell me who it is. Is it that hot TA from our philosophy class? Or maybe—”

“It’s no one,” I interrupted sharply, glaring at him even as my cheeks started to heat. I told myself it was because it was Theo, not because… of anything else. I was not about to give Theo the ammunition of Max Vaughn. He’d never let me live it down. That was it. “It’s just a student. A very… frustrating student.”

Per Ridgeline Tutor Council policy, tutors were explicitly forbidden from disclosing the identity of their tutees to anyone—friends, family, classmates, professors—under any circumstances. Whether it was a failing quarterback or a star debate team member, the rule was simple: if you tutored them, you didn’t talk about them.

Theo gaped at me, fanning himself with his napkin. “Gruñón! Are you finally feeling emotions? Is that what this is?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I muttered. I hit send on the message and set my phone face down on the table. “I’m just trying to maintain professional boundaries.”

Theo arched an eyebrow, unconvinced. “And failing spectacularly, by the looks of it. What’s so frustrating about them? Are they stupid?”

“They’re…” I trailed off, unsure how to describe Max without somehow revealing too much. “Distracting.”

Theo’s grin widened. “Distracting? Oh, this is getting better by the second. Distracting how?”

“They don’t listen.” It was a deliberately vague elaboration and yet, I could feel myself scowling. “They argue about everything. They think mitosis is ‘cell copy-pasting.’”

Theo blinked at me, before bursting into laughter. “Okay, that’s actually hilarious. Admit it. That’s the best thing you’ve heard in like, ever.”

“It’s not hilarious,” I retorted, but my lips twitched despite myself. “It’s infuriating.”

My phone buzzed before Theo could press further. I snatched it up, expecting an acknowledgment of the canceled session. Instead, Max’s phone number popped up, accompanied by an incoming call.

“What the hell—” I muttered.

Like a cat sensing prey, Theo leaned forward to peer at my screen. I snatched it away, waving him off. “They’re calling?” he asked excitedly. “Gruñón, this is serious.”

I ignored him and turned my back on him before answering the call. I didn’t even get a word in before Max’s voice was coming over the line, petulant and annoyed. Because of course it was.

“Why are you canceling?” He demanded.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed. “As I stated in my text, the library’s air conditioning is still out, and I think we can both agree that yesterday’s conditions were less than ideal.”

“Yeah, it was hot,” Max agreed, his tone suspiciously casual. “But I don’t care about that. I need to study, Kerrigan. Can’t we just meet somewhere else?”

“The library is the most conducive environment for learning,” I said stiffly.

“We could meet at your dorm,” Max interrupted, as if it was the most obvious solution in the world and I hadn’t just given a perfectly valid reason for postponing.

I nearly choked. “Absolutely not.”

Behind me, I could hear that Theo had gone completely silent. Too silent. Which meant he was trying to listen in. Biting back an annoyed hiss, I picked up my fork and stabbed it in his general direction, hoping he’d get the message. 

“Why not?” he whined. “You live on campus, right? It’s convenient. And I can’t focus in the library anyway. Too many nerds glaring at me like I’m going to eat their books.”

My dorm was my sanctuary. It was carefully curated, optimized, and most importantly, mine. The idea of Maxwell Vaughn stinking it up was appalling.

No, actually. I realized that appalling didn’t even begin to cover it. The idea of him plopping his oversized, sweaty, alpha-jock self into my pristine space felt like inviting a tornado into a museum. Vaughn reeked of disruption and arrogance—both literally and figuratively.

I could practically hear his voice in my head, loud and smug, cracking dumb jokes while his big, clumsy hands knocked over my meticulously stacked binders or, God forbid, touched my fountain pen collection.

If he breathed too hard near my bookshelves, I’d have to reorganize the whole thing just to erase the memory. If he sat on my bed—my bed—I’d probably have to burn the comforter. And even if he didn’t touch a single thing, I’d still feel compelled to disinfect every flat surface and burn sage for weeks to exorcise the lingering stench of alpha vibes from the air.

“Tutoring guidelines specifically discourage sessions in personal spaces,” I argued, gripping my phone tightly. I glanced behind me and caught Theo’s eavesdropping face—the telltale fidget he did when he was trying to appear as though he wasn’t listening in. I shot him a pointed glare, stabbed again with my fork, and dropped my tone even lower. “It’s unprofessional.”

Max groaned. “Come on, Kerrigan. I’m serious about this. I want to get my grades up.”

That gave me pause. I was so startled by the note of genuine desperation in his voice that I couldn’t respond right away. He sounded sincere—earnest, even. It was almost enough to make me forget his smirking, smug demeanor from yesterday.

Almost.

“Please,” Max pleaded. “I swear, I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“You can’t even spell behavior,” I muttered. He sounded… sincere, which of course only made him more irritating. Why couldn’t he just be an insufferable alpha caricature like every other time I’d dealt with him?

“I’ll learn,” he insisted, earnestly. Too earnestly. “Just… think about it, okay? I really need your help.”

The logical part of my brain screamed to cancel the session, to maintain professionalism at all costs. My reputation couldn’t afford another scent-related incident, and neither could my sanity. Cancelling was logical, but another part—the part that loathed the idea of failure, of giving up on a challenge—whispered, What if you could actually help him?

I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly. Against every ounce of better judgment I had, I heard myself say, “Fine, but there will be ground rules. No touching anything , no unnecessary noise, and absolutely no commentary about my space. This is a one-time concession.”

Fine. If Vaughn wanted to invade my sanctuary, I’d ensure it was on my terms: ground rules, strict focus, and minimal interaction outside of the session. Anything less was unacceptable.

“Yes!” Max’s triumphant shout was so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “I’m honored you’re letting me into your sacred nerd space. Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

I hung up on him and set my phone down with a scowl, wondering what fresh hell I had just agreed to. Really, what was wrong with me? Hadn’t I just been thinking of all the reasons not to have him in my space?

Across the table, Theo’s smirk grew impossibly wider. He was staring at me like he could read every single one of my thoughts. “ Límites profesionales, eh?” he drawled. “That was them, right? What did they want?”

“No one,” I muttered tightly, stabbing another bite of salad and shoveling it into my mouth. Not because I was hungry, but because I needed something to take my aggression out on. “And nothing.”

“Mierda,” Theo said instantly, arching a brow. “That was someone. And they definitely wanted something. Gruñón, you’re blushing. You never blush.”

“I’m not blushing,” I growled around a mouthful of lettuce. I could tell from the way that my cheeks felt like they were on fire that I was blushing. But I refused to admit it. 

“Oh, you totally are,” he teased. “Whoever that was, they’ve got you all flustered. And I’m going to find out who it is. It’s a secret billionaire alfa, isn’t it? He’s going to swoop in, pay off your loans, and carry you off on his private jet.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they’d fall out of my head. “You know,” I said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “if you spent half as much time speculating about my nonexistent love life as you did fixing your Hamlet monologue, Professor DuPont might’ve given you an A instead of a B-plus.” 

Theo gasped, a hand going to his mouth in mock horror. “Tu perra, how dare you.”

“Call it tough love,” I said, smirking as I returned to my salad. I finished it in record time, shooting Theo a glare every time he opened his mouth to speculate again about my “mystery caller”. By the time we left the cafe, my nerves were frayed, and the dread of my next session with Max loomed large.

I had the sinking feeling that it was going to be anything but professional. Half of me found Max fascinating, the other half didn’t want to see him as anything more than an irritating tutee. There were questions I had, insistent and relentless, scratching at the edges of my mind like a book begging to be opened.

And a part of me wanted to read it. 

Chapter Text

I stood outside Ainsley Kerrigan’s dorm, staring at the door like it was a ticking bomb. It wasn’t even a particularly threatening door—plain, beige, generic like the rest of the dorms on campus—but my heart was hammering in my chest like I was about to face off against Ridgeline’s defensive line.

Except I wasn’t. I was benched. Tomorrow was rivalry game day, and instead of being with my team, hyping them up, I was here. Trying to cram knowledge into my alpha brain like it was a trash compactor and praying it didn’t all spill back out.

I knocked.

The sound was too loud, echoing in the quiet hallway, and for a second, I debated bolting. But then the door opened and every thought of leaving fled from my brain, because there he was. Ainsley Kerrigan. In the flesh.

He stood in the doorway, looking like he wanted to slam it in my face. His glasses had slid down the bridge of his nose—of course they had—and his honey-blonde curls were a little messy, like he’d been running his hands through them in frustration. He wore a perfectly pressed button-down shirt that somehow looked both casual and like he was judging me for showing up in a Ridgeline Athletics hoodie.

“Vaughn,” he said, his voice clipped. “You’re early.”

I could tell he didn’t want me here. The way his lips pressed into a thin line screamed get out. But I wasn’t going anywhere. Not until he helped me figure out how to save my grades and, by extension, my ass.

“Yeah,” I said, trying not to look too sheepish. “Calculus test on Monday. Gotta make sure my brain’s… you know, ready.”

His green eyes narrowed like he didn’t believe me, but he stepped aside, letting me in.

The first thing that hit me was the scent. Everything smelled like him. Like honey drizzled over freshly laundered sheets, warm, sweet, and clean. It was everywhere—in the air, clinging to the books on his shelves, woven into the fabric of the couch. Not as good as his fresh scent, but still, my brain immediately short-circuited. I wanted to bury my face in his pillow, roll around on the rug, and inhale until I was drunk on it.

As if he could read my thoughts, Ainsley snapped out, “Don’t touch anything.”

Resisting the urge to pout, I planted myself in the middle of the room and shoved my hands in my hoodie pocket, settling for looking around without touching. 

His dorm was tiny and immaculate. Bookshelves lined the walls, organized by some mysterious system that looked intentional. A desk sat against one wall, covered in color-coded binders, notebooks, and highlighters arranged with military precision. Even his bed was perfectly made, the corners tucked so tightly it could’ve been inspected by a drill sergeant. At the end of the bed, there was a teeny, pumpkin-colored sofa.

“You’re staring,” Ainsley said flatly, shutting the door behind me. “It’s weird.”

“Sorry,” I said, turning to face him. “Your dorm’s just… nice. How come you don’t have a roommate?”

He gave me a look that was 90% suspicion and 10% shut the fuck up. “I was deemed incompatible for shared living freshman year. Are you actually here to study, or are you just trying to procrastinate?”

“No, I’m serious,” I said quickly, sitting down at his desk chair because it was the farthest thing from his bed. “Let’s, uh, do this. Calculus me.”

He sighed and perched on the sofa like he was ready to bolt if I so much as breathed too loud. Balancing his notebook carefully on his knee, he cut a sharp look at me from above the rim of his glasses. “Alright. Let’s review derivatives. What’s the derivative of x cubed?”

I sank my teeth into my bottom lip. “Is that the one with the little three?”

“Yes,” he said slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s 3x squared. We multiply the exponent by the coefficient and then subtract one from the exponent. Ring any bells?”

“Uh-huh,” I said, nodding. “Totally. Got it.”

“You don’t got it,” he said, glaring at me. 

I grinned, leaning back. “Hey, you don’t know that. Maybe I’m just a slow processor. It’s not my fault my brain’s not, like, super omega-level efficient.”

His nose scrunched, and it was way cuter than it had any right to be. “That’s not a compliment.”

“Wasn’t meant to be,” I shot back, smirking. “Can you come closer? I like it when…” When I can see your freckles. “When I can see how you write things down. It’s easier.”

Again, Ainsley’s suspicious look came back full force, but he stood up from the sofa with this little huff, all tight lips and narrowed eyes, and pulled a chair over to the desk. Then he started arranging stuff. And by stuff, I mean a perfect grid of paper and notes across the desk like he was drafting blueprints for a rocket launch or something. His handwriting was precise and perfect. Like serial killer neat. 

“Focus, Vaughn. If you don’t pass this test, your Coach won’t care how well you throw a football. He’ll bench you for the rest of the season.”

He was right. No GPA, no play. But still, I couldn’t focus on the numbers in front of me. Every time I tried, my eyes would wander back to him. The way his curls bounced when he flipped a page, the way he fiddled with his pen, tapping it against his notebook in rapid-fire little bursts like he couldn’t decide whether to stab me with it or himself.

“So, what’s your major?” I interrupted him. It was rude, sure, but I was curious about him. Plus, I freaking loved the way his freckled nose scrunched up whenever I tried to make small talk. 

He froze mid-sentence, looking up at me like I’d just sprouted a second head. “What does that have to do with calculus?”

“Nothing,” I said easily. “Just curious.”

“Biological Sciences,” he answered slowly, his tone clipped. “With a focus on neuroscience.”

“Damn,” I said, impressed despite myself. “Neuroscience? Like… brains?”

“Yes, Vaughn. Like brains.”

“That’s, uh, kind of intense. What do you even do with that degree? Become a brain surgeon or something?”

Ainsley’s green eyes flicked up to me, and the irritation there could’ve melted steel. “No. I’m not interested in surgery. My focus is on research.”

“Research?” I repeated, genuinely interested now. “What kind of research?”

He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure I’d understand. Which, okay, fair. But I was trying here. “Instinctual behavior,” he said finally. “And hormonal dynamics in alphas and omegas.”

I blinked again, this time slower. “Wait. You’re telling me you study… us?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” he said, straightening his glasses. “I’m particularly interested in the interplay between instinctual responses and hormonal influences in social and environmental contexts. How scents, for example, can influence cognitive and behavioral patterns.”

For a second, all I could do was stare. Because wow, really?

He glared at me, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “Focus, Vaughn. We’re here to study, not discuss my career goals.”

“Right, right,” I muttered. But even as he launched into some convoluted explanation about derivatives, I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said. So casually, too, like it wasn’t the most mind-blowing thing I’d ever heard.

He studied scents. Freaking scents. The same scents that had me lying awake in my bed last night, trying to figure out why his had hit me like a linebacker out of nowhere.

I shifted in my chair, pretending to care about the notes he was neatly laying out in front of me. My brain wasn’t anywhere near calculus. After I’d smelled him under his path yesterday, I’d felt more clear-headed than I had in weeks. Months. Maybe even my entire life.

And yeah, I’d left a little obsessed—I’d hardly been able to sleep, too busy laying in bed and searching smell alpha omega brain learning science on my phone. I had no idea how many scent glands omegas had, or what chemicals made them smell the way they did, but I had learned a few things—mostly that scent can mess with your brain, your emotions, and, apparently, your ability to think straight.

Now, here was Ainsley, the walking encyclopedia of omega scent science, sitting right across from me. If anyone knew what the hell had happened to me when I caught a whiff of him yesterday, it was him. He probably had answers. Maybe even a whole PowerPoint presentation. 

I tapped my finger against the desk, watching him as he adjusted his glasses and flipped through his notes, totally oblivious to my internal crisis. Should I ask him? Could I?

Hey, Ainsley, why does your scent make me feel like my brain got hit by lightning?

No, too weird.

Ainsley, can you explain why I spent three hours last night staring at my ceiling, thinking about honey and rain?

Definitely not.

Kerrigan, you know all the science stuff about scents, right? So… is it normal to feel like you’d murder someone just to smell an omega again? Asking for a friend.

Absolutely not.

I chewed the inside of my cheek, trying to figure out if there was a non-insane way to bring it up. But the more I thought about it, the dumber the whole idea felt. This was Ainsley. He already thought I was a meathead. If I told him his scent turned my brain into soup, he’d probably kick me out of his dorm and file a restraining order.

But God, I wanted to know. Wanted to hear him explain it, like he always explained things, with his sharp voice and that little wrinkle between his brows. He’d probably use a bunch of big words I wouldn’t understand, but that didn’t matter. I’d listen to him talk about scent molecules and whatever else just to see if it would make me feel less crazy.

He droned on and I stared at his neat handwriting and perfect little graphs, feeling frustration build inside me as I struggled back and forth. To bring it up or not bring it up…

“What about the glasses?” I asked, interrupting him again with a safer question. “You actually need those, or are they just for the whole ‘intimidating tutor’ look?”

Ainsley’s eyes narrowed behind said glasses. “Yes, I need them. They’re prescription.”

“Cute,” I said without thinking.

His cheeks turned pink, and he immediately looked away, pretending to scribble something in his notebook. My chest swelled with a stupid, primal kind of pride. I didn’t know why, but it felt as good as scoring a touchdown, or maybe even better, in a different way. I made him blush. I did that. 

He glanced back at me and his cheeks got even pinker when he noticed I was still staring. “Stop,” he said sharply.

“Stop what?” I asked innocently.

“You know what,” he hissed out through clenched teeth. He was really getting worked up, I could tell, and a part of me almost felt bad. Almost. 

I leaned back, grinning. “Can’t help it. You’re cute when you’re mad.”

He glared at me, his green eyes flashing. “For the last time, are we going to study, or are you just going to keep interrogating me?”

“I don’t know,” I said, pretending to think about it. “You’re way more interesting than calculus.”

“Vaughn. I have way better things to do on a Sunday evening—”

“Fine, fine,” I said, holding up my hands. “Speaking of focus, though…”  Before I could think too hard about it, I just blurted it out.

“So, like… why did your scent make my brain go weird yesterday?” I tilted my head, trying to play it cool even as my heart hammered in my chest. “I mean, it kinda helped me focus, right? There’s gotta be a reason for that. C’mon, educate me.”

Ainsley went completely still, his pen hovering above the page. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second, I thought he was going to ignore me altogether. But then he sighed—his classic I’m-surrounded-by-idiots sigh—and set his pen down, turning those sharp green eyes on me.

“There is a reason,” he said, voice clipped. “Omega scents can influence certain parts of the brain, particularly the hippocampus. It’s not uncommon for alphas to experience improved focus or memory recall when exposed to omega scents.”

The hippo-what? I blinked. “Wait, really? Like, scientifically?”

“Yes, Vaughn. Scientifically.” He adjusted his glasses, looking at me like I’d just discovered fire. “The hippocampus is involved in memory and spatial navigation. Omega scent can stimulate activity in that region for alphas, which might explain why you think it helped you ‘focus.’”

“Dude,” I said, leaning forward, way too interested. “So, like, your brain juice responds to the smell and makes it all... smart. That’s actually kinda cool.”

“It’s biology,” he said flatly, clearly unimpressed by my enthusiasm. “But there are other factors to consider. Risks, for example. Omega scent doesn’t just stimulate cognitive function. It can also—”

He hesitated, like he didn’t want to finish the sentence.

“It can also what ?” I pressed, practically bouncing in my seat. I wanted to scoot closer, but I knew that’d be too much for him. 

Ainsley’s jaw tightened. “It can trigger certain… biological responses. Heats. Ruts. Things that are not conducive to academic environments.”

The word heat hung in the air like a live wire, and suddenly my brain went haywire all over again. I mean, I knew what heats were. Everyone did. Same with ruts. But it was all this vague, taboo thing you weren’t supposed to talk about unless you were sitting through one of those awkward, state-mandated biology lectures.

I knew that logically, I should drop it. Talking about sex with your omega tutor was… Well, it was bad. And he'd told me in no uncertain terms to "behave". But I couldn’t. I couldn’t drop it, I wanted to know as much as I could get him to tell me. 

“Heats, huh?” I said, leaning even closer, my grin turning sly. “So, uh… what’s that like?”

Ainsley’s cheeks flushed pink, and he straightened in his chair like he was bracing for impact. “Absolutely not.”

“Aw, come on,” I said, smirking now. “You’re all about science. Educate me, Kerrigan.”

“You already know what you need to know,” he snapped, clearly flustered. “A reproductive state facilitated by a surge in hormonal activity, and the reason why scent patches exist in the first place. And no, we are not discussing it further.”

“But—”

“No.” His voice was sharp, cutting off whatever dumb follow-up question was forming in my mouth. “I’m not elaborating.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot. He was so fun to rile up, especially when his face got all pink like that. I wondered what he was thinking, looking so flustered, and I also wondered if I should stop messing with him. But I wasn’t really messing with him—I was genuinely curious—and besides, in for a nickel, in for a footlong, as they said. Might as well keep going.

“Okay, but—hypothetically—what happens if someone doesn’t wear a patch?”

Ainsley looked like he was ready to throw his pen at my face. “Do you want to get banned from tutoring? Because that’s where this conversation is heading. And I warned you—”

“Jeez, fine,” I said, raising my hands in mock surrender. “I was just asking. You’re my tutor, after all.”

“And as your tutor,” he said, glaring at me, “I’m telling you to focus on calculus.”

He turned back to his notes, but his ears were still red, and I couldn’t stop staring. Heat and rut, huh? I’d always thought they were just… you know, things that happened to other people. But now, with Ainsley sitting right there, looking like he wanted to crawl under the desk to escape this conversation, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Not in a gross way. Just… curious. Totally normal curiosity. I mean, probably. I already knew I was attracted to him—majorly. If he’d been anyone besides himself and not my tutor, I would’ve had him in that tiny bed of his already. 

But he was Ainsley Kerrigan. The smartest, most savage nerd I’d ever met, and I knew that he meant his threat about ‘banning me from tutoring’. And I needed him, smarts and savagery and all. 

Almost an hour later, I slumped back in Ainsley’s desk chair, staring at the notebook in front of me like it had just insulted my mom. The squiggles on the page—I mean, the calculus problems—looked like alien hieroglyphs, and no matter how hard I squinted at them, they refused to make sense. My pen hovered uselessly over the paper before I slammed it down in defeat.

“I don’t get it,” I muttered, rubbing my hands over my face. 

“You’re not even trying,” Ainsley said flatly. He was at his tiny kitchenette, fiddling with a kettle, clearly annoyed with me—and probably with life in general.

“I am trying!” I shot back. “This is me trying! It just… doesn’t stick, okay?”

Ainsley didn’t respond right away. He just poured water into the kettle, his movements brisk and efficient, like even making tea had to meet some invisible standard of perfection. His curls bounced as he moved, and the sight should’ve been calming.

But it wasn’t. The frustration bubbling in my chest was only getting worse, the sort of feeling I got before I completely lost my shit. My knee bounced uncontrollably, and I drummed my fingers against the desk, glaring at the problem he’d written out in his unnervingly perfect handwriting.

He came back to the desk, setting a mug down on the far corner before sitting on the little pumpkin-colored sofa with his own cup. He glanced at me over the rim of his glasses, his expression both expectant and unimpressed.

“It’s matcha tea. Maybe it will help you focus,” he said, like it was just that easy. “What’s the derivative of x cubed?”

I didn’t touch the tea. Instead, I clenched my jaw, staring at the numbers. “It’s… the one with the little three.”

“We’ve been over this,” Ainsley said, exasperation creeping into his tone. “You multiply the exponent by the coefficient—”

“I know what you said!” I snapped, louder than I meant to. “I just… I don’t know, okay?”

The words hung in the air between us, and suddenly I felt like the world’s biggest idiot. My shoulders slumped, and for once, I was the one to avoid Ainsley’s gaze. My chest was getting all tight, and I could feel my throat closing up. Fuck, am I going to cry? Over calculus? 

“Forget it,” I muttered, shoving the notebook away. My chair scraped against the floor as I leaned back, crossing my arms over my chest. “This is pointless.”

Ainsley raised an eyebrow, his lips pressing into a thin line. “It’s not pointless. You just—”

“I just what?” I snapped, cutting him off. I knew I was being an asshole, but I couldn’t help it. “Need to focus? Need to try harder? I’ve been trying, Kerrigan. I’ve been trying this whole damn time, and it’s not clicking.”

The frustration boiling in my chest needed somewhere to go, and apparently, Ainsley’s dorm was ground zero.

“I’m not smart like you, okay?” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “I can’t just… look at numbers and make sense of them. You explain it a hundred times, and I still feel like I’m staring at a foreign language.”

Ainsley’s expression softened, just a little, but he didn’t say anything, which made the words keep spilling out. “Do you know what it’s like? Sitting in class, watching everyone else get it, and knowing you never will? Watching them laugh at you behind your back because you’re the dumb alpha who only cares about football?”

I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. “And they’re right. I mean, look at me. All I’m good for is throwing a ball. That’s it. Without football, I’m… nothing.”

The last word came out quieter than I meant it to, and I immediately regretted saying it. My chest felt tight, and my face was burning, but I couldn’t stop now. “And it’s not like anyone expects me to be anything else. My coaches, my professors, even my parents. As long as I can win games and don’t cause any scandals, who cares if I’m failing calculus?”

Ainsley shifted on the sofa, his green eyes locked on me. He wasn’t glaring, wasn’t rolling his eyes, wasn’t hitting me with some sarcastic comeback. He just… listened. And for some reason, that made it worse.

“I hate feeling like this,” I admitted, my voice rough. “Like I’m stuck. Like I’m always gonna be the guy who can’t keep up. No matter how hard I try, it’s never enough.”

I dropped my head into my hands, gripping my hair tightly. “I just… I don’t wanna feel like this anymore. I don’t wanna feel dumb.”

The room was quiet for a long moment. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of my chest, and I half-expected Ainsley to kick me out for losing my shit in his dorm. But when he finally spoke, his voice was calm. Steady.

“You’re not dumb, Vaughn,” he said softly. “And you’re not stuck.”

I looked up, my throat tight. “Feels like I am.”

“You’re not,” he repeated, leaning forward slightly. His gaze was sharp, but not in that judgy, superior way he usually looked at me. It was… compassionate. Which somehow made it even harder to hear. “You’re not stupid. You’re frustrated. There’s a difference.”

The words just kept tumbling out of me, unfiltered and messy. “Yeah, but what happens if I fail this test, huh? Coach benches me for the season, my scholarship’s at risk, and then what? I lose everything I worked for because I can’t understand a stupid derivative.”

I let out a sharp breath, my fingers curling into fists in my lap. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for this. Maybe I really am as dumb as everyone thinks I am.”

“Vaughn,” he said quietly, setting his mug down on the coffee table. “You’re not dumb.”

“You don’t have to lie,” I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I’m not lying,” he said, his voice sharper now, like he was annoyed I’d even suggested it. “Alphas aren’t inherently dumb. They just… lean on their privilege too much and don’t think critically about their environment. It doesn’t mean you’re incapable of learning. It means you need to—”

I laughed bitterly, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees. “Focus. Right. Easier said than done.”

Ainsley huffed, probably gearing up to lecture me again, but I couldn’t stop myself from saying the thing that had been eating at me since I walked through his door.

“I didn’t feel dumb yesterday,” I said, my voice quieter now. “Not after I smelled you. I felt… I don’t know. Smart. Clear-headed. Like I could actually do this.” I lifted my head to meet his gaze. “I want to feel that again.”

Ainsley froze, his eyes wide, and I realized too late that I might’ve just crossed some invisible line. But instead of kicking me out, he reached for his mug again, his fingers tightening around the handle like he wanted to crush it.

“That’s not…” he started, then stopped, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “That’s not how this works.”

“Isn’t it, though?” I asked, sitting up straighter. “You said omega scent can influence the brain, right? Maybe it’s the key. Maybe it’ll help me focus—help me learn . We could, I don’t know, test it.”

“No,” Ainsley said immediately, his voice firm. “There are risks. It’s why scent patches exist in the first place.”

“But I’m not asking you to take it off forever,” I argued. “Just for a little bit. Just to see if it works.”

Ainsley’s eyes narrowed. “Vaughn, this is wildly inappropriate. I warned you about boundaries.”

“Please,” I said, my voice softer now. “I’m not trying to be weird, I swear. I just… I don’t want to fail. I want to do better. And yesterday, after… Well, you know, I felt like I actually could . I don’t know how else to explain it.”

He stared at me, his expression unreadable, and for a moment I thought he was going to kick me out. But then he sighed, long and slow, and leaned back against the sofa.

“This is a bad idea,” he muttered, almost to himself. “A very, very bad idea.”

My chest swelled with hope. “So… is that a yes?” Holy shit. Was he actually going to take his patch off? I sat up a little straighter, eyeing him in disbelief. 

“It’s a temporary yes,” he snapped, glaring at me. “Just to prove to you that you are not, in fact, dumb. And if you so much as breathe wrong, I’m throwing you out.”

Oh, God. He was. He was going to take it off. Hardly daring to breathe in case I did it wrong, I held up my hands in mock surrender. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout,” he muttered, reaching up to peel the patch off his neck.

The second it was free, it was like the air in the room changed. His scent was already in the room, since everything in it was his and he probably didn’t wear scent patches when it was just him, but the faded snatches of smell on the furniture couldn’t compare to the freshness that was pouring out from his skin, his hair, every inch of his tiny body, wrapping around me like a honeyed, delicious hug.

Warm, sweet, grounding. Fucking heaven. If heaven smelled like anything.

For the first time all night, my brain felt like it wasn’t fighting against me. Every bit of stress faded from me, the tightness in my chest evaporating, my shoulders relaxing. I forgot his warning about “breathing wrong” and inhaled greedily, half-closing my eyes to savor the taste-smell. Smells tasted, right? I swore his did. 

“Alright,” Ainsley said sharply, snapping me out of it. “Focus. What’s the derivative of x cubed?”

“Uh…” I opened my eyes to stare at the notebook in front of me. What had previously looked like gibberish still looked like gibberish, but… I knew what it meant. “Three x squared.”

I glanced over at Ainsley just in time to catch his surprised blink. “Correct,” he said.

“Hell yeah,” I said, grinning and sitting up even straighter in my chair. I could feel the difference—it was like my brain was actually… Braining now. Doing the stuff it was supposed to. 

“Don’t get cocky,” Ainsley snapped, but his lips twitched like he was fighting off a smile. “Next question. What’s the derivative of 5x to the fourth?”

I took a deep breath, inhaling more of that scent—God, it was everywhere, swirling around me like it was pulling the answers straight out of my brain. “Uh… twenty x cubed?”

Ainsley’s eyebrows lifted slightly, and he nodded. “That’s right.”

“That’s right,” I repeated, unable to help the grin that spread across my face. I picked up my pen and pointed it at him. “You hear that? I’m on fire.”

“That’s four correct out of twenty,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Next, what’s the derivative of 6x?”

This one was easy. I didn’t even have to think about it. “Six,” I said immediately.

Ainsley tilted his head, studying me. “Correct.”

“Of course I’m correct,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I’m a calculus genius now. It’s the scent, isn’t it? It’s making me smarter.”

“It’s not making you smarter,” Ainsley said flatly, glaring at me over the rim of his glasses. “It’s stimulating your hippocampus, which is improving your focus. That’s not the same thing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, waving him off. “It’s working, though, right? I’m killing it.”

“For now,” he muttered, clearly unimpressed. “Let’s see how you do with integrals. What’s the integral of x squared?”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… wait. That’s different from derivatives, right?”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s the reverse process. Think about it. What function has a derivative of x squared?”

I frowned, tapping my pen against the desk as I inhaled another lungful of that magical scent. My brain churned, and for once, it didn’t feel like I was trying to run through wet cement. “Okay. Uhhh… X cubed divided by three?”

Ainsley’s eyes widened just a fraction, and he nodded. “Correct.”

“Holy shit,” I muttered, staring at the notebook in disbelief. “I’m actually doing this.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Ainsley warned, but I could hear the faintest trace of approval in his voice. “What’s the integral of 2x?”

“X squared,” I said, without hesitation.

Ainsley nodded again, and for a split second, I thought I saw the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “Good.”

“Good?” I repeated, grinning even wider. “Try great. I’m on a roll.”

“You’re tolerable,” he corrected, adjusting his glasses.

But I didn’t care what he said. I was too busy reveling in the fact that I was actually getting this. The numbers made sense. The equations didn’t look like gibberish anymore. And it was all because of him. It wasn’t just the way his scent cleared up my head and made the numbers actually make sense—it was him. That scent was him. It wasn’t some abstract thing floating in the air.

My eyes drifted toward him, and suddenly, the equations on the page weren’t the only thing on my mind. His curls bounced a little when he wrote something down, and I caught myself wondering what they’d feel like wrapped around my fingers. His freckles caught the light every time he tilted his head, and it made me think about pressing my lips to the bridge of his nose, just to see if they tasted as sweet as he smelled.

And his neck. Oh, God, his neck. It was right there, all pale and delicate, the spot where his patch usually sat now bare. I could see the faintest hint of a pulse beneath his skin, steady and strong, and it sent this primal shiver down my spine. The kind of shiver that said, mine.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk and inhaling deeply. It was impossible not to. That scent was like… I don’t know, a drug or something. It made my brain hum in all the right ways, like it had flipped some kind of switch I didn’t even know I had. 

“Stop sniffing the air,” Ainsley snapped, his voice cutting through my thoughts.

“I’m not sniffing,” I said quickly, though I definitely was. “I’m just… breathing. Big difference.”

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered, scribbling something in his notebook.

“Yeah, but I’m a smart insufferable now,” I said, pointing my pen at him. “Thanks to you.”

“It’s not me,” he said, glaring at me. “It’s biology.”

“Sure, sure,” I said, grinning. “But let’s be honest. Your scent is, like, next-level. You should bottle this stuff. You’d make a fortune.”

I shifted in my chair, trying to focus on the equation in front of me, but my eyes kept wandering. To his hands—those long, slender fingers tapping against the desk, perfectly precise as they wrote out the next problem. What would it feel like if he touched me? Would his hands be cold, or warm? Would they linger, tracing lines over my skin the way they did over the notebook?

I suddenly wanted to do other things. Things that definitely weren’t appropriate for a tutoring session. Things that Ainsley would surely wring my neck for. Things that involved his lips, his skin, his everything.

I shook my head, trying to shove the thoughts away, but it was impossible with that scent wrapping around me, crawling into my brain and short-circuiting everything. I knew I was attracted to him, but I was realizing it was more than that. It wasn’t just that I wanted him—it was that I wanted to ruin him in the best way possible. Wanted to hear him say my name in that snippy, bossy voice, but softer. Breathless.

“Vaughn,” he said, his tone warning. As if he knew what I was thinking. Oops.

I forced my big brain back to the conversation, holding up my hands.

“I’m just saying,” I said, smirking. “It’s working. I’m learning. This is what teamwork looks like.”

“This isn’t teamwork,” Ainsley said, narrowing his eyes at me. “This is me tolerating your existence.”

“Same thing,” I said, smirking. “Hit me with another one. I’m ready.”

Ainsley sighed, but there was a faint pink flush creeping up his neck, and I couldn’t help but feel a little proud of myself. He was annoyed, sure, but I was also pretty sure he was impressed. And that? That felt better than nailing a game-winning pass.

What would he look like sprawled out on that pumpkin-colored sofa? Would he still be all prim and proper, or would he let himself go? Would he push at me with those tiny hands, all annoyed, or would he pull me closer? Could I make him lose control, just once? I blinked down at my notebook, trying to focus on the numbers, but my brain had officially gone rogue.

Focus. Right. Numbers. Derivatives. Not his scent. Not his neck. Not how it would feel to sink my teeth into the spot just below his jaw and—

“Alright,” he said, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook. “What’s the derivative of 7x to the fifth?”

I inhaled deeply, letting his scent flood my brain one more time. “Easy. Thirty-five x to the fourth.”

Ainsley blinked, then nodded. “Correct.”

“Damn right it is,” I said, leaning back in my chair and basking in my newfound genius. “I’m unstoppable.”

Ainsley rolled his eyes, but I didn’t miss the way his lips twitched again , for the third time in a row, like he was fighting off an almost-smile. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

I was pretty sure it could last forever, as long as he kept the patch off, but of course he ended up putting it back on. I swallowed my disappointed whine as all of his scent faded, leaving behind the scent of tea and paper—two things I cared nothing about.

But I’d had to move my notebook to my lap to hide my raging hard-on and as much as I hated to admit it, it was probably for the best that he called an end to the session when he did. Everything about him made my brain buzz and my body heat in ways I didn’t even want to understand.

I left his dorm feeling better about calculus but more confused about everything else. 

Chapter Text

The library was blissfully cool when I stepped inside, the A/C humming like a lullaby for my nerves. The scent of paper and disinfectant filled the air, blessedly sterile compared to the storm that had brewed in my dorm just two days ago.

The shameful, stupid storm. God. I’d barely slept since.

It had been an experiment, I’d been telling myself firmly. A one-time application of my studies in real time. Yes, it had been wildly unprofessional, but the dangers had been mostly mitigated by the controlled environment of my dorm and I’d kept control over the situation. And the academic results were undeniable. Max Vaughn, the walking meathead paradox, had actually learned something.

More importantly, he’d felt confident in himself.

I hadn’t thought it possible that he, of all people, could lack confidence. Yet there he was, nearly reduced to tears by calculus in my dorm room—a moment I’m still convinced involved actual tears, though I had a feeling he’d never admit it. While I firmly believed a bit of humility could only benefit an alpha as insufferably cocky as Max Vaughn, witnessing it firsthand had been… well, horrifying. Utterly, bone-deep horrifying.

That was why I’d allowed it. Why I’d entertained his ridiculous, pleading expression and taken my patch off. To give him confidence. Not because the idea of his brain responding to me was fascinating in ways I didn’t dare unpack and certainly not because I was curious how far it could go. And definitely not because the idea of Max relying on me, of needing me, had stirred something deep in my chest.

I set my bag down on the table in the corner I’d reserved for us, unpacking my materials with mechanical precision. Today's tutoring session was going to be different, because it had to be. Max would learn the way every other student learned: through persistence, repetition, and discipline. Not by exploiting scent dynamics.

I was halfway through arranging my pens when I heard his heavy footsteps echo across the floor. He was wearing that stupid Ridgeline Athletics hoodie again, and it looked even more rumpled than usual, like he’d slept in it. His hair was messy in a way that was definitely intentional, but his eyes looked… off. He had dark circles under them, and there was a restless energy in the way he dropped into the chair across from me.

“Vaughn,” I said crisply, adjusting my glasses. “You’re late.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Didn’t sleep great.”

I ignored the pang in my chest. His sleeplessness wasn’t my fault. “That’s not an excuse to waste my time,” I said snippily, flipping open my notebook to the study worksheet we’d left off on. “Let’s get started. What’s the derivative of x squared?”

Max blinked at me, then groaned, slumping forward onto the table. “I can’t think right now.”

And the laziness was back. Great.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You have to think, Vaughn. It’s Saturday, and your test is Monday. If you don’t pass—”

“I know, I know,” he interrupted, huffing out a sigh. “Coach benches me, scholarship at risk, yadda yadda. Can we not?”

“Can you focus?” I snapped, my patience already thinning. A small part of me had hoped that despite the unprofessionalism of yesterday's session, it would've... I don't know, caused some sort of breakthrough? But obviously not. He may as well have been a broken record, playing an endless loop of self-pity and lack of effort.

Max fidgeted, his knee bouncing under the table. “It’s just… it’s hard, okay? Today’s the rivalry game. My team’s out there without me, and I’m stuck here doing this. It’s messing with my head.”

A lesser omega might've simpered under the pout—yes, a whole pout—he slanted at me, but I folded my hands over my notebook and leveled him with a glare. I refused to entertain any more excuses.

“Then perhaps you should have considered your academic responsibilities before failing calculus."

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he was going to argue. But then he just exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Gladly,” I said, flipping to the next problem. “What’s the derivative of 5x to the third?”

Max stared at the paper like it was written in ancient Greek. “Uh…”

I waited. He squirmed.

“Is it, uh, fifteen x squared?” he guessed.

“That’s correct,” I said, my tone clipped. “See? You’re capable when you actually—”

“I was just guessing,” he admitted, cutting me off. Frustration sparked in my chest and I barely resisted the urge to snap my teeth at him.

My hand curled into a fist. “You’re impossible,” I muttered under my breath. “Do you want to fail?”

“No, I don’t,” he snapped, leaning forward suddenly. “You know what I do want? I want to take your patch off again.”

The words hit me like a slap, and for a moment, I could only stare at him, aghast that he'd made such a statement aloud. My heart skipped a beat. “Excuse me?” I said, my voice low and sharp. "You what?"

It was like his entire demeanor changed. Instead of petulant and slouchy, he squared his shoulders as he leaned even closer, his eyes drilling into me like lasers. The expression on his face was... intense, in a way I didn't entirely know how to process.

“You heard me,” he said, matching my quiet tone, his jaw set stubbornly. “It worked last time, didn’t it? I actually learned something. Let’s just do it again."

For a moment, I thought I’d heard him wrong.

Yesterday I'd assured him that he wasn't dumb, but now I was having second thoughts. Was he serious? Did he think I was dumb? Taking my patch off in the privacy of my dorm was one thing, but to repeat the same mistake in a public space, where any alpha could walk in and scent me…

It wasn't just inappropriate, it was appallingly irresponsible. To think that he thought he could simply ask for such a thing. I needed to shut it down. Right now. Being unpatched on campus property was grounds for expulsion, full stop.

“No,” I said immediately, my voice trembling with barely contained anger. “That was wildly inappropriate. It will not happen again.”

Max’s expression darkened, and he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why not? You said it yourself—omega scent stimulates the brain or whatever. You studied this stuff. You know it works.”

I did know how it worked, enough to know patch-wearing was mandated for a very good reason. And I'd even told him that yesterday—sort of. And here he was, less than twenty-four hours later, already demanding another hit of me like my scent was some sort of drug.

“That’s not the point,” I snapped. “There are boundaries, Vaughn. Boundaries that you’re clearly incapable of respecting.”

“Boundaries?” he repeated, his voice rising. “Oh, so it’s fine for you to take your patch off, but if I even suggest—”

“I said no,” I cut him off, my voice downright icy.

The tension between us crackled like static. The energy pouring off him didn't belong to the happy-go-lucky, goofball version of Max that I'd come to expect. In this moment, he looked every bit the alpha he was—demanding, entitled, and intense. I knew he wanted me to yield, to give in, but I wasn't going to.

I glared back at him with a straight spine, willing him to get it out of his thick skull that I was going to simply fall at his feet or melt into a puddle under his alpha influence. Unfortunately for him, it would take so much more than an alpha who couldn't do basic math to cow me.

Max’s snarl rattled out into the air—a low, ugly, deep-throated noise that sent a shiver down my spine. The moment stretched impossibly long, every sound muffled but the rushing of blood in my ears.

I looked down, intending to redirect his attention to the next problem. But when I looked back up at him, I caught sight of his hand moving to his neck, fingers curling around the edge of his patch. As if he… no, surely he wouldn’t be so stupid?

“Vaughn—”

There was a split second—a heartbeat—where I almost thought he wouldn’t do it, that common sense would win. But no. With a single sharp tug, he ripped his patch off. The tiny polymer square fluttered to the ground, and I could do nothing but watch it fall. I realized, too late, that I'd inhaled in shock.

No. No, no, no.

You big, stupid, meathead alpha.

It hit me like a physical force, thick and cloying, spreading through the library like smoke. My grip on the edge of the table tightened as my body reacted instantly, instinctively, in ways I couldn’t stop. This was biology. Just biology. A cascade of chemical signals triggering primal, deeply embedded responses in my brain. Nothing more.

And yet, it felt like so much more.

Max’s scent wasn’t subtle. It was sharp and woodsy, layered with warm, earthy undertones that shouldn’t have been as appealing as they were. My logical mind—the part of me that prided itself on rationality—tried to catalog it clinically. Alpha androstenone, likely elevated by his natural baseline pheromone output, influencing the olfactory bulb and, subsequently, the limbic system. But the other part of me—the instinctual, omega part—refused to care about the science. It cared only about the way my skin flushed, my breath hitched, and my thoughts scattered.

The scent didn’t just hang in the air. It wrapped around me, saturating every inhale with something maddeningly warm and grounding. My pulse quickened, my heart hammering in my chest like an alarm that wouldn’t stop blaring. My body felt restless, hypersensitive, every nerve alive and buzzing with energy I didn’t know what to do with.

It was wrong. It was overwhelming. And, worst of all, it was unfair.

I gritted my teeth, willing myself to resist the pull. But Max’s scent wasn’t just a scent—it was a presence. An oppressive, suffocating weight that demanded to be felt. It pressed against my defenses, whispering promises of comfort, of safety, of something primal and undeniable. My logical mind scrambled to maintain control, to assert my professionalism, my distance, my composure.

But my body had other ideas.

My muscles tensed, my thighs shifting subtly beneath the table as I tried to ignore the traitorous heat pooling low in my stomach. The back of my neck prickled, my skin too hot, too tight. I gripped the table harder, focusing on the sharp edge digging into my palms as if it could anchor me to reality. This was just pheromones, I told myself. Chemical manipulation. Nothing more.

I opened my mouth to tell him to put his damn patch back on, but his pheromones slithered past my parted lips, hooking me even deeper, curling around my insides like a net. My gaze flicked up to Max before I could stop it, and my breath caught in my throat as I saw him through the lens of his scent.

I’d thought of him previously as attractive in a vague, objective way, like a particularly well-sculpted statue I had no personal connection to. But now, with his pheromones clouding my thoughts, I saw the sharp cut of his jaw, the slight scruff lining it, the way his messy hair fell across his forehead like he’d just rolled out of bed. And his eyes, warm and brown, looked at me with an uncomfortably predatory glint and... something else that I couldn’t quite place.

Something that made my chest tighten and my breathing hitch. This was the exact thing that I studied, but knowing the science didn't prepare me at all for how it felt.

I blinked, my thoughts spiraling faster, my body betraying me in ways I didn’t even want to think about. My mind conjured an image, unbidden and unwanted: Max leaning across the table, his big hands reaching for me, pulling me close. His lips crashing against mine, his broad chest pressing me against the wall, his scent overwhelming me until I couldn’t think about anything but him—

I clenched my thighs together, heat flooding my face as the image burned itself into my mind. I hated it. Hated him. Hated the way my body was reacting, the way my instincts screamed at me to submit, to lean into him, to let him do whatever he wanted.

The idea of being with an alpha had always repelled me. Betas had been safe, steady, predictable. They couldn’t make me feel like this. They couldn’t make my thoughts spiral or my body burn or my instincts flare in ways I couldn’t control. They didn’t make me wonder what it would feel like to be kissed so hard I forgot my own name. To be held down, pinned, claimed—

I jerked my gaze away, gripping the table harder as the mortification swallowed me whole. I knew I had to re-establish control. This was dangerously close to spiraling out of control, if not already. I forced myself to meet his gaze, my face burning.

“Put your patch back on. Now.”

For a moment, he just looked at me, his brows furrowing slightly, like he didn’t understand what the big deal was. But then his gaze flicked to my hands—white-knuckled and trembling against the table—and something shifted in his expression. His lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk.

“Vaughn,” I managed to grind out, my voice low and furious. “Put. It. Back. On. Now!”

“Why?” he asked, leaning forward slightly, his eyes studying me with far too much interest. “It’s not like there’s anyone else here.”

“Because,” I gritted out through clenched teeth, my nails digging into the table. “You’re—” What? Too hot? Too strong? Too alpha? God help me, I couldn’t even find the words.

“Alright, alright,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “No need to bite my head off.”

Max watched me for another beat, his expression unreadable. Then, with agonizing slowness, he retrieved another patch from his backpack and pressed it back to his neck. Just like that, the scent was gone.

I sagged back into my seat, breathing out through my mouth as I struggled to collect myself. We were the only ones here, as he'd said, but I still found myself casting a furtive glance around. My body didn’t relax immediately—my heart was still racing, my palms still damp with sweat. It took a moment before the sharp edge of need dulled, leaving me with nothing but a hollow ache and a deep, bone-deep shame.

There was no denying that I was shaken. I wanted to leave immediately. I certainly had reason to. This tutoring arrangement had officially crossed one too many lines and to stay was six different kinds of foolish. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought that a tutee would do something so stupid, so reckless.

“Now you know for your research purposes,” he said, smirking slightly. “I won’t do it again… unless you want me to?”

That did it.

I didn’t look at him as I stood, my chair scraping sharply against the floor, the sound cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. My hands shook as I swept my notebook and pens into my bag with more force than necessary, each movement a deliberate effort to appear composed, though I could feel the heat radiating off my face.

I slung my bag over my shoulder, my spine stiff as a rod, and turned toward the door without so much as a backward glance, ignoring how he called out after me. I told myself with every step that I was done. Absolutely, irrevocably done.

And yet, even as I stormed out, his words lingered, curling around me like smoke—a taunt, a promise, and a challenge all at once.

At least, I tried to storm out. But I barely made it out the door and into the hallway before a massive shadow loomed into my path, blocking my way like a walking brick wall.

“Whoa, hey—wait!” Max’s voice was too loud, too Max, and I skidded to a halt just before I slammed into his chest.

His stupid, broad, alpha chest.

“Move,” I bit out, my voice shaking with a fury so potent it felt like it might crack me open. I kept my gaze locked on the emergency exit sign behind him because looking at his face—his earnest, dumb face—might make me combust on the spot. “Get out of my way, Vaughn. Right now.”

“No, wait—just listen!” Max shifted to block me again when I tried to dodge him. His massive body moved with startling ease for someone so… hulking. He raised his hands like he thought he could calm me down, but all it did was make me feel boxed in. My entire body was vibrating, and my brain shrieked at me to run. 

Because this was not a controlled experiment. This was not a lab. This was my life, and Max Vaughn, reckless, obtuse Max Vaughn, had once again managed to bulldoze every carefully drawn line I tried to put in place.

I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw ached. “You have three seconds before I—”

“I’m sorry, okay?!” Max blurted. His voice pitched up, the words crashing into each other. “I wasn’t thinking, and I didn’t—I mean—”

“You didn’t think?” I snapped, snapping my gaze up to glare at him. He looked frantic now, hands still raised like I was about to throw a punch (I was considering it). “You ripped your patch off, Vaughn! In a public library! You’re lucky I’m not reporting this—”

Max flinched slightly, his shoulders hunching under that rumpled hoodie like a guilty puppy. “I said I’m sorry!”

“You should be!” I hissed. “Do you have any idea what you just did?!”

His mouth opened and closed, his brows furrowed like he was scrambling for an answer. His eyes went wide as his nostrils flared ever so slightly. “Uh… is that—?”

“No.” I swung my satchel into his shoulder with a satisfying thud. “No. You do not finish that sentence!”

“Hey!” Max winced, stumbling half a step back. “I didn’t mean—ow! Ainsley! Quit—”

I swung again, the bag landing with another thwack . “You absolute cretin! You sniffed me!”

“I didn’t mean to sniff!” Max protested, holding up an arm to defend himself from further blows. “It’s just—it’s right there! I can’t help it!”

I froze mid-swing, the bag still clenched in my trembling hands. “Right there?” I hissed, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

Max, being Max, didn’t pick up on the warning. He grimaced sheepishly, rubbing at the spot where I’d hit him. “I mean, yeah? It’s—uh— you smell… you know. Sorta… nice?”

Even in the haze of fury, a whisper of curiosity itched at the back of my mind—had his elevated androstenone levels affected his cognition, too? Was there a link between pheromone response and impulsivity?

Outwardly, I could only gape at him, horror rendering me speechless. Did he—did he just say—

“Nice?!” I screeched, lunging forward and beating his arm with the satchel again. “I am leaving and you are never speaking to me again!”

Max’s laugh was more of a wheeze as he tried to dodge my increasingly frantic blows. “I didn’t mean it like that! Ow! Stop—wait! Just let me explain!”

“Explain what? ” I shouted, punctuating each word with another swing. “Explain how you’re a complete disgrace to the alpha population? Explain how you’re biologically incapable of not being a feral imbecile?”

Max ducked another swing, his stupid brown eyes going wide. “I swear I didn’t know it was gonna—uh—do that to you!”

My face burned hot enough to melt through the floor and I turned, fully intending to walk away, except Max moved faster than he had any right to, grabbing ahold of my satchel. I tugged uselessly against his grip, but his stupid, unfair strength refused to give.

He looked desperate now, his voice softening again as he said, “I’m serious, Kerrigan. I didn’t—I don’t know all the scent rules or… or risks or whatever! I wasn’t trying to mess this up. I just—I thought it worked last time, and you wouldn’t hate me so much if I was actually, like… learning stuff.”

The sheer meatheadedness of that confession stunned me into silence for a moment. It was almost as if he… “You fell asleep in AO 101, didn’t you?”

Max blinked at me. “…Kinda?”

“Kinda?” I repeated incredulously.

His expression shifted, his gaze flickering over my face—then down. I knew exactly what he’d picked up on because his pupils darkened just slightly, and his cheeks turned red as he cleared his throat.

“Okay, uh… but we’re fine now, right?” he said quickly, loosening his grip on my satchel but not quite letting go. “I’ve got my patch back on. Crisis averted. It’s all good.”

“All good?!” I sputtered. “Removing your scent patch on campus is grounds for expulsion. You think that’s all good?”

His ears turned red and, because I felt like it, I swung the satchel at him again. Hard. I felt like a feral idiot, but I couldn’t stop.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” he yelped, stumbling back as I finally yanked my bag free. “I messed up, Kerrigan, okay? I wasn’t thinking about the rules, or how it might affect you. I just… thought it would help me, and I didn’t realize how much I was crossing the line. I get it now. I swear I’ll never pull something like that again. I swear I’ll be better—please, Ainsley. Don’t quit. I need this. I need you.”

The raw sincerity in his voice froze me in place. I didn’t want to look at him—didn’t want to see those stupid, puppy-dog eyes—but I couldn’t help myself. He looked wrecked. Embarrassed, frustrated, and genuinely desperate. As he should, I told myself.

“I’ll sit down,” he pleaded quietly. “I’ll shut up. I’ll behave. Just… don’t go.”

For a long moment, I stood there, breathing hard, torn between storming out entirely and slamming my bag over his head again. My face burned and I hated that part of me was swayed by the honesty in his words.

I wanted to yell at him more. Better yet, I wanted to leave and never speak to him again. But beneath the anger, there was a thread of something else, something frustratingly soft. As mortifying as this entire situation was, I could believe that he hadn’t actually meant to hurt me. He was too much of an idiot to be malicious.

And maybe it was the lingering effects of his scent in my nose, but I didn’t like the idea of leaving him like this—desperate, apologizing, and entirely unmoored. I could genuinely believe that he didn’t understand the dangers of what he’d done. Maybe if I could set appropriate boundaries from here on out…

“This is your last chance, Vaughn,” I said sharply, straightening my spine and glaring daggers at him. “No more patch stunts, no more pushing boundaries, and no more treating this like a game. If you pull anything like that again, I’m done. And I mean it.”

Max nodded so quickly I thought his head might fall off. “Got it. No more stunts. I’ll be good. Scout’s honor.”

“Stop saying that,” I hissed. “You were never a scout.”

Unfazed, he grinned at me. "I could’ve been.” 

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I told him. “Go back to our table and wait for me.”

Without waiting to see his reaction, I turned on my heel and walked away, my heart pounding in my chest. One more chance.

That’s what I’d said, but even as I put distance between us, my chest tightened with unease. Max Vaughn wasn’t just testing my patience—he was testing me. My professionalism. My control.

And I hated how much I wanted to prove that I could handle him.

Chapter Text

I didn’t think about the rivalry game. Not really.

It was Sunday, the day after we beat East Ridge, and I should’ve been on cloud nine. I should’ve been replaying Justin’s noodle-armed, wobbly touchdown pass that somehow sealed the win, except every time I remembered it, I felt… nothing. Or worse—pissed off.

Not at Justin. Not at the team.

At myself.

Because I’d been benched. Me—Max Vaughn, the quarterback—reduced to pacing the carpet of my stupidly nice, way-too-big apartment like some kind of rich-kid ghost. It wasn’t even my place, technically. Mom picked it out before the semester started and slapped a security deposit down like it was pocket change.

It was a sleek, modern place on the top floor, all sharp angles and furniture I didn’t care about. Stainless steel appliances? Didn’t touch ’em. The kitchen might as well have been decorative, except for the fridge, which was stocked with exactly three things: Gatorade, frozen pizzas, and enough Greek yogurt to put a nutritionist to shame.

The living room was mine, though—a meathead kingdom. My giant TV was mounted on the wall, looping highlights of last night’s game that I wasn’t even watching. The coffee table was buried under protein bar wrappers, water bottles, and crumpled notes that were supposed to help me pass calculus. The couch, which smelled faintly of cologne and gym sweat no matter how much Febreze I sprayed, had been my base of operations ever since I’d gotten home from the library last night.

I didn’t care about any of it. Didn’t care about the highlights flashing across the screen—clips of Justin throwing like he was playing hot potato with the football while the team celebrated like they’d won the Super Bowl. “Vaughnless Victory!” the headlines chirped on social media. Like I was supposed to feel honored just to be mentioned.

I should’ve been furious. I should’ve wanted to punch a wall, throw my phone, scream into one of the overpriced throw pillows Mom insisted on. Instead I sprawled on the couch and fed Zach bullshit about why I couldn’t celebrate the win. 

Zach: yo hangout w/ the team 2day celebrate the W 

Max: nah i gotta study 4 calc test

Zach: STUDY??? bro we just destroyed east ridge and u wanna STUDY???

Max: yeah it’s called bein responsible
also i lowkey wanna c ainsley 🥺

Zach: OMG U CHOOSIN NERD BOY OVER US

Max: he’s a genius and he’s cute shut up

Zach: r u STUDYING him or STUDYING w/ him 👀

Max: bro shut tf up

Okay, so it wasn’t entirely bullshit. Zach was my best friend in the whole world, had been since freshman year of high school. We told each other pretty much everything. Like, no filter.

We’ve been through everything together—bad breakups, worse hookups, losing games, winning games, puking at parties, and once, accidentally starting a fire in Coach’s grill because Zach thought it would be “hilarious” to toss in lighter fluid mid-barbecue.

Spoiler: it was not hilarious. We were running laps for weeks.

If I screwed up, he was the first one I texted, and if I had some weird, random thought at 2 a.m., I knew I could hit him up, and he’ll come back with something even weirder—like my “Be honest, would you date me if I wasn’t so jacked?” and his “Bro, we’d be married if you weren’t so jacked”.

It’s like we’ve got this unspoken bro code where nothing’s too embarrassing or dumb to share. Except… Ainsley Kerrigan.

Ainsley.

Sharp, snappy, insufferable Ainsley with his ridiculous glasses and his cutting little voice that could flay a guy alive. Ainsley, who somehow managed to smell like clean laundry and God’s personal gift to the world. Ainsley, who had stared at me in the library like I was…

Like I was a problem he couldn’t solve.

I groaned and flopped back in my chair, scrubbing both hands through my hair. I hadn’t slept. I hadn’t eaten. I’d barely registered what happened yesterday because every time I closed my eyes, I could still see him—red-faced and flustered, practically vibrating in his chair because of me.

And the slick.

Oh, God, the slick.

I shouldn’t even know about that. That was private omega stuff. Off-limits. Forbidden territory. Which explained why he’d been so mad and had ran out of the library after our tutoring session like hounds had been after him. The cutest mad I’d ever seen in my life. But the second I realized what had happened, it was like it short-circuited something in my brain. 

The idea that Ainsley Kerrigan—smart, controlled, borderline terrifying Ainsley—had reacted to me, to my scent, in a way he couldn’t hide or stop…

It had been buzzing in my head ever since, loud and insistent like a swarm of bees.

Does he want me?

I shoved the thought down, but it didn’t budge. Because no matter how much I told myself I was being weird—and I was definitely being weird —I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop picturing the way he’d stiffened up, the way his voice had wobbled when he told me to put my patch back on, like he wasn’t totally unaffected either.

I groaned again and let my head fall back against the chair. My sheets had been half off the bed this morning because I’d tossed and turned all night, every muscle in my body restless and aching. I was losing my mind. Absolutely, one-hundred percent losing it.

I couldn’t kid myself anymore. I mean, yeah, I still cared about getting unbenched, but this wasn’t about just tutoring anymore.

It was about Ainsley.

Somehow, he’d gotten his claws under my skin, and now I couldn’t think about anything else. I didn’t care about the team. Didn’t care about Justin’s wobbly passes or that I’d probably never live this game down. I didn’t care about anything except the fact that I wanted to see Ainsley Kerrigan again.

Needed to see him. Like, right now.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I tapped on his name from my contacts list and hit call.

“Vaughn.” Ainsley’s voice came through the speaker on the fifth ring, clipped and serious like he’d been waiting to deliver someone’s eulogy.

Warmth flooded me like fireworks, bright and strong, some of the tension fading from my muscles. I grinned immediately. “Geez, you answer the phone like you’re in the middle of solving world hunger. Lighten up, Kerrigan.”

“What the hell do you want, Vaughn? It’s Sunday.”

He sounds like he hates me. But I dig it.

“Aw, come on, you’re happy to hear from me.”

“I assure you, I’m not.”

I ignored that, sitting up straighter. “Listen, my calculus test is tomorrow. I need another study session. Tonight. At your place.”

It wasn’t like I was lying. The calculus test was tomorrow and I did need to study more. When I wasn’t thinking about Ainsley—which was pretty much all the time now—I was thinking about the test. It sat in my gut like a sick feeling, because I knew I was going to fail it.

Knew it deep in my bones the way you know when you’re about to drop a pass or screw up a snap—like this creeping dread that sat heavy on your shoulders and whispered, “You’re toast, bro.”

Ainsley made a noise of pure disbelief, like I’d just asked him to rob a bank. “It’s Sunday , Vaughn,” he repeated, as if I hadn’t heard him the first time. “I don’t tutor on Sundays. I get one day a week where I don’t have to deal with your ineptitude.”

“Yeah, but this is an emergency.” I sat forward, jiggling my knee. “Please, Kerrigan. You don’t understand. I’m freaking out over here. If I bomb this test, my mom’s gonna make me join her real estate team. Do you know what that means? I’ll be walking through mansions with marble floors and wine cellars I can’t afford to breathe in.”

“You’re an idiot,” he said flatly.

“You say that like it’s news.”

There was a long silence, punctuated by what sounded like an annoyed sigh. “Fine,” Ainsley said begrudgingly. “Come over at seven. But I swear to God, Vaughn, you’re going to behave yourself or I’m kicking you out. No funny business. Do you understand me?”

I grinned, already grabbing my hoodie. “Yes, sir. We’re torching the 2am gasoline tonight, Kerrigan. Let’s go.”

“…We’re what?”

Ainsley opened the door, and I swear to God, I forgot how to function as a human being.

I mean, I’ve seen him plenty of times—scowling at me across library tables, glaring at me during tutoring, rolling his eyes so hard I’m surprised they haven’t fallen out of his head. But this? This was different.

He wasn’t wearing his usual perfectly pressed shirts and sweater vests that screamed “I am better than you”. No, he was standing there in an oversized sweater—huge, baggy, and swallowing him whole, the sleeves so long that his hands disappeared inside them. And his leggings—oh, God, his leggings—did the exact opposite of the sweater.

I’d like to say I didn’t stare. I’d like to say I was a gentleman. But my brain just… stopped. Full shutdown. They clung to him—like second skin, basically illegal. I’d always known Ainsley was small. He was sharp angles, snark, and righteous fury packed into a compact little frame, but the leggings made it obvious. His waist looked impossibly tiny, his legs long and lean. Adorable. Utterly, unfairly adorable.

And then there was his face. His cheeks were flushed—probably from the effort of opening the door and glaring at me all at once—and his glasses had slid slightly down his nose. He looked soft. Cozy. A little mussed, like he’d been reading for hours and forgot I was even coming over.

I stared. Hard.

Ainsley narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest—bad move, because it just bunched the sweater sleeves up, and somehow that was worse . “What are you gawking at, Vaughn?”

I tried to answer. I did. But I didn’t have words. My mouth opened, and I just stood there, blinking at him like I’d forgotten how speech worked. I was glad he wasn’t a mind reader, because I knew if he could hear my thoughts about how he was small enough to throw like a football, he’d kick me out—and I hadn’t even stepped inside his dorm yet. 

I felt a little trickle escaping the corner of my mouth and Ainsley’s gaze dropped to my face, his expression turning murderous. “Are you drooling?”

I jolted like I’d been electrocuted, dragging the back of my hand across my mouth so fast I nearly smacked myself. “What? No, I—uh—”

“That’s not being on good behavior, Vaughn,” Ainsley snapped, glaring at me so hard I thought my brain might melt. His cheeks were flushed, though, and that was unfair because now he was cute and mad, and I was—

Ruined. I was fucking ruined. 

“It’s just… you look—um. Like someone who’s… good at math,” I managed lamely.

Ainsley stared at me, his hand twitching as if he was barely holding himself back from slapping me. I braced myself, but he only huffed out in irritation before finally stepping aside to let me in.

His dorm felt even smaller than it had the first time I’d been here. Cozy, yeah, but… closer, like the walls had shrunk. Or maybe it was just him. Sitting there, one foot away on his bed, tapping his stupid fancy pen against his stupid neat notes while I stared down at the worksheet he’d left on the desk like a death sentence.

No small talk, no “Hey, how’s your day been?” Just “Sit here and get to work, Vaughn," like I was a kid being handed crayons and told to color in the lines.

I tried. I swear I tried.

The first problem wasn’t bad. I scrawled out my answer with more confidence than I had any right to feel and glanced over my shoulder, half expecting Ainsley to say something snarky like, ‘Congratulations, you’ve mastered addition.’ But no—he just sat there, legs crossed, jotting something in the margins of his notes like I didn’t exist.

Fine. Cool. I could do this.

The second problem slowed me down a little. I stared at the numbers, tapping my pencil against the desk as I tried to remember which formula I was supposed to use. Was this the one with exponents? Or the chain rule thing? I scribbled something out, crossed it off, and scribbled again. My handwriting was turning into hieroglyphics, but hey—I got it. Probably.

By the third problem, my brain started buzzing.

It was like this slow, creeping hum that built and built until my hands felt clammy and my heart was beating in my ears. The numbers on the page were blurring together, swirling in and out of focus as my brain screamed:

You’re going to fail. You’re gonna choke. You’re gonna—leggings? No. You’re going to fail.

I glanced over my shoulder again. Ainsley was still there, flipping through his notes with this stupid calm expression. I turned back to the worksheet, gripping the pencil like it was the only thing holding my soul together. Okay. Fourth problem. Just focus.

Focus.

I stared at the numbers so hard my vision started to swim. Was this even math? Was this English? Why was the two next to a letter? Who invented letters in math anyway? Did they think it was funny? Were they laughing at me from beyond the grave?

My knee started bouncing, and the pencil slipped out of my sweaty fingers.

“Focus,” I muttered to myself, picking it back up. My voice cracked. “Focus, you idiot. You can do this. You’re not dumb. You’re just…”

Dumb.

The word clawed at my brain, and my breathing started to pick up. My chest felt too tight, like my ribs were squeezing me from the inside out. I stared down at the fifth problem, which looked like it was written in a different language. Or maybe a different universe. My pencil froze midair.

“You’re going to fail.”

“Vaughn.” Ainsley’s voice cut through the fog like a knife, sharp and exasperated.

I jolted so hard I almost fell out of the chair. 

“What?” I said, my voice higher than it had any right to be.

Ainsley’s brow twitched. “You’ve been staring at the same problem for five minutes.”

“No, I haven’t.” I bristled.

“Yes, you have. You’re muttering to yourself.”

“I was—no, I wasn’t.”

“You just said, ‘You’re gonna fail,’ out loud,” he deadpanned.

My face went hot. “I—I was talking to the problem.”

Ainsley sighed. “Vaughn, just breathe. It’s not that hard.”

"Not that hard?!” I turned in the chair to face him fully, clutching the worksheet like it had personally insulted me. “This is like—I don’t even know what this is like!” I jabbed my finger at the page. “Is this fucking sorcery?”

“It’s the chain rule,” Ainsley said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh, the chain rule! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?!” My laugh came out more like a wheeze. “Just slap a chain on it and hope for the best, right?”

Ainsley groaned, setting his pen down and finally looking at me like I was the world’s biggest idiot—which, yeah, fair. “Vaughn, calm down. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling!”

“You’re spiraling.”

I dropped the worksheet onto the desk and buried my face in my hands. “I’m gonna fail this test. I’m gonna fail, lose my scholarship, and end up living in a van down by the river. You can come visit me and remind me what an idiot I am while I burn my flashcards for warmth.”

“Vaughn.”

“Honestly? That’s the best case scenario. Worst case is I’ll have wear a suit too small because my mom doesn’t understand football-player shoulders. I’ll have to smile like an idiot while her clients debate whether they want a lap pool or an infinity pool. Do you know what an infinity pool is, Kerrigan? I didn’t even know until my mom dragged me to a listing once. It’s just water that looks like it goes on forever. It’s not even infinite! It’s a lie!”

I wasn’t making any sense. He was right—I was spiraling. I could feel Ainsley’s judgment radiating off him, but I kept going, words spilling out like runaway vomit. My stomach was churning.

“And then I’ll have to say shit like, ‘Oh, yes, the south-facing veranda has excellent light for morning Pilates.’ What even are pilates? Do I have to do pilates to sell the house? Because I’m not built for that life, Kerrigan. I don’t even know how to spell veranda!”

I slapped the table, leaning closer, my voice dropping to a stage whisper. “And you know what’s worse? The clients. My mom’s clients don’t just buy houses, Kerrigan—they dismantle them. They spend millions on a mansion just to rip out the floors because they’re not the right shade of taupe. Do you know how unhinged that is?”

Ainsley pinched the bridge of his nose, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I was on a roll.

“And if it’s not real estate,” I continued, voice rising, “it’s my dad. I’ll have to join his campaign, which means sitting through six-hour strategy meetings where words like bipartisan compromise get thrown around like they actually mean something. And then I’ll have to shake hands with donors who smell like expensive leather and call me sport while they talk about tax loopholes.”

"Vaughn.”

I threw my hands in the air, eyes wide with panic. “And you know someone will ask me for my opinion on, like, foreign policy, and I’ll say something like, ‘Uh… maybe we should just, you know, talk it out?’ and then bam—instant scandal. My face on a headline: ‘Senator Vaughn’s Son Thinks Diplomacy is Vibes.’ It’s happened before.”

Ainsley let out a sharp exhale, his hand twitching like he was seconds away from throwing a book at me. “Vaughn.”

“Kerrigan,” I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. “I’m doomed. D-O-O-M-E-D. I can’t do this. I’m gonna flunk and then I’ll—”

“Would you stop spiraling?” he snapped. “If you’d focus for five minutes, you’d realize you’re capable of passing this test.”

“I can’t focus!” I shot back. “It’s like… my brain’s full of static.”

Ainsley was pinching the bridge of his nose so hard I thought he might break it. God, he probably thought I was the dumbest person alive. He’d probably already written me off as hopeless, the kind of alpha whose only redeeming quality was throwing a ball really far.

And sure enough, he was muttering something to himself under his breath—probably about how I was the dumbest alpha alive—but then he exhaled, fixing me with one of those sharp, steely glares.

Half-slouched, Ainsley stared at me, his expression unreadable, before mumbling, “This is a terrible idea.”

“What?”

He sat up straighter, cheeks pink, but his voice was all calm professionalism. “For purely academic purposes,” he said stiffly, “we’ll try what worked last time.”

It took me a second. Then my brain short-circuited, worse than it had when he’d opened the door in those leggings. “Wait. You mean…” Now I was the one staring at him, hardly daring to breathe. There was no way he could mean—surely—? 

“I mean,” he snapped, “Leveraging a known physiological response to achieve an academic outcome. A small sniff. Just enough to help you focus.”

The biggest grin I’d ever grinned in my life crept across my face. I probably looked like a maniac, but I felt like I’d just won the lottery. Unsurprisingly, my glee seemed to make him furious. 

“Shut up,” Ainsley snapped before I could say anything. “And if you so much as breathe a word, the offer’s rescinded.”

“The offer’s what now?” I knew what rescind meant but I acted like I didn’t, just to watch as he practically imploded, pulling off his glasses with a groan and dragging a hand down his face. 

“I suggested the same thing yesterday,” I pointed out suddenly, half-pouting. “What, you’re the only one who gets to have good ideas or something?”

He glared at me. “The library is a fully public space, Vaughn. My dorm is a controlled environment. It’s not about you, it’s about the test. You’ll get one sniff. That’s it. No lingering, no weirdness, and absolutely no overreacting. It’s for academic purposes.”

For half a second, I wanted to argue because his reaction to my scent yesterday hadn’t been academic at all. But I knew he’d launch into some spiel about biology, so I gave a mental shrug, decicing that I could find a different way to bring it up later. It didn’t matter right now.

All that mattered right now was that he was going to take that damn patch off and I got to be in heaven again. I was up and plopping down onto the bed beside him before he could stop me.

“If it’s gonna be a small whiff, I want it to be a good one,” I said, grinning up at him like an overeager dog.

He reared back from me but didn’t put any distance between us, which I counted as a win. This was the closest we’d ever been, with my leg brushing against his. I could see the freckles splattering his face, the soft tone in his forearms as he leaned slightly away.

“I’m serious, Vaughn. No funny—”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumbled, getting impatient, like an addict waiting for a fix. “No funny business. I got it, okay? Now c’mon.”

He huffed and rolled his eyes, half-glaring at me, before tugging at the edge of his scent patch. My chest felt too tight as I watched, almost in slow motion, as his fingers grabbed ahold of it and started to peel. Then it came off entirely—finally—and his scent rushed out into the room like an ocean, washing over me like a tidal wave. 

I’d thought I was ready. I’d been bracing myself, telling my brain to focus, to treat this like the academic exercise he insisted it was. But God, how was it so much better than I remembered?

My chest tightened instantly. My skin felt too hot, like someone had turned the thermostat up to hellfire. I couldn’t breathe right—every inhale dragged him deeper into my lungs, my head, my entire body.

It hit me immediately—soft and sweet, like honey and something sharper underneath, a smell I’d been craving ever since the library. It wasn’t just that it smelled good—it was that it smelled like everything. Like comfort, and safety, and something so perfect it made my chest ache. It wrapped around me, clawing into my brain and making it impossible to think about anything else, besides wanting more.

A small sniff. Just one, Ainsley had said.

Except he hadn’t accounted for the fact that I couldn’t even think anymore. I barely registered that my hand was moving until I felt the heat of his thigh under my palm. God, he was so warm, so small and sharp and perfect. My fingers curled instinctively, gripping him just enough to feel the shape of him through the fabric of his leggings.

Ainsley stiffened, his breath hitching just loud enough for me to hear, and that sound—that sound—was my undoing. 

I leaned in, nuzzling the curve of his neck where his scent was strongest, my nose brushing warm skin, and holy shit, there was one spot I found where it was like drinking him straight from the source. Every thought I’d ever had left completely and my hands moved again without my permission, both settling directly on his hips to anchor him in place.

“You smell so good,” I mumbled, dazed and dizzy, pressing closer as he started to squirm, to pull back. God, I could live in this. I could die in this.

“Vaughn,” he gritted out, his hands pushing weakly at my shoulders. “You're too close. That’s enough—”

Did his smell taste? I’d wondered before and now I had to find out. I had to. I tilted my head, pressing my open mouth to that spot. He was grabbing at my hair, as if to shove me away, but then my tongue flicked out before I even realized what I was doing, dragging slowly across his skin, and I felt him jerk as if I’d pinched him.

And then he shoved me. Hard.

I reeled back, blinking like a drunk idiot, my lips still tingling with the memory of his skin. He was panting, his glasses crooked, his cheeks bright red, and the glare he leveled at me could’ve melted steel.

“What the hell are you doing, Vaughn?” His voice was sharp, but there was a tremor in it, a tiny, wobbly crack that made my heart lurch in my chest. Or maybe that was just the adrenaline. Or the scent of him.

I stared at him, my brain taking way too long to process his words. What the hell was I doing? What kind of question was that? I was doing what every fiber of my being was screaming at me to do—what I needed to do—what he clearly wanted me to—

“You don’t get to just—” He cut himself off, shaking his head furiously, like he was trying to clear it. His hands went to his neck, brushing over the spot I’d been sucking on like he was trying to erase the evidence. “This is—this is wildly inappropriate, Vaughn, not to mention completely unprofessional! I can’t believe—”

He trailed off again, his voice faltering, and I realized he wasn’t looking at me anymore. His gaze had dropped to my chest, then to his hands, which had retreated to my own lap. His breathing was still uneven, like he couldn’t quite catch it, and his lips were shiny and parted just slightly.

I swallowed hard, my hands curling into fists against my thighs to keep from reaching for him again. “Ainsley,” I rasped, my voice rough and unsteady. “I—look, I couldn’t stop. You smell so—”

“Don’t.” He held up a hand, his glare snapping back to me. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

I shut my mouth, but the words were still there, clawing at my throat. You smell so good. You smell like everything I’ve ever wanted. You smell like home. 

He was staring at me again, his chest heaving, his lips pressed into a thin line like he was trying to hold himself together. And then, slowly, he let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging just slightly.

“This is a mistake,” he said, but it sounded more like he was talking to himself than to me. His gaze dropped again, his brows furrowing, and he shook his head. “This—this is biology. Hormones. That’s all this is. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything,” I said before I could stop myself.

His head snapped up, his eyes wide and startled, and for a second, I thought he was going to shove me again. But then his gaze softened, just barely, and something flickered across his face—something uncertain, conflicted, vulnerable.

He tried to glare at me again, but it didn’t stick. Instead his shoulders slumped, and he let out another shaky breath, dragging a hand through his already disheveled curls. “This is the worst idea,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

And then he looked dead at me and exposed his neck. 

For half a second, my brain fought to catch up, tried to figure out if this was some calculus-induced hallucination. But my body moved on instinct, my mouth seeking out that special spot I'd found, pressing the flat of my tongue against it fully. I was rewarded with a moan—a deadass moan—and a full-body shudder, both of which went straight to my cock as his fingers came up to tangle in my hair and my hands went to his hips, gripping tightly.

“Ainsley,” I groaned against his skin, my voice low and desperate. “You smell—fuck, you smell so good. I can’t—”

God help me, but he smelled sweeter now, thicker somehow. His scent was all I could breathe, all I could feel. It was intoxicating, like a drug pumping straight into my bloodstream, and I was addicted.

A low, rough sound rumbled in my chest—half growl, half another groan—as my mouth moved against his neck, hot and open and hungry. I needed more—needed to taste him deeper, to feel him fall apart under me. I started to suck at the spot, latching onto it and trying to pull every last bit of him into me.

I was painfully aware that my cock was rock-hard in my jeans and that this had gone so far past ‘a small sniff’. I was in so much trouble. But Ainsley wasn’t hating it. He'd given this to me.

Without thinking, I reached up and ripped my own scent patch off.

Chapter Text

This was not academic.

Nothing about this was academic.

Logically, of course, I knew what was happening—my scent gland was hypersensitive, wired directly to the brain’s reward centers. But understanding the science didn’t help, not when I was right in the middle of it, with a flood of pleasure hormones spilling like molten lava into my bloodstream, sending signals straight to my hypothalamus.

His mouth... the heat of it against my neck, the deliberate pressure of his lips, the scrape of his teeth—it was unbearable, triggering every instinct I had to submit. Every nerve in my body felt like they were on fire, and I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. It rewired everything in me, like my body wasn’t mine anymore. 

He had officially taken the controlled environment of my dorm and turned it into ground zero for chaos. I knew I should push him away. Declare the session over—preferably forever—and kick him out. But the idea of stopping felt like something I didn’t want.

It wasn’t just physical. It was… intimate, in the sort of way I’d been avoiding for twenty-one years. You’d think that would translate to immunity, to a hardened sense of detachment. But instead, it seemed the opposite was true—I wasn’t immune. I was hypersensitive. Shamefully so.

There was no room in my leggings to account for the blood filling my length and I was distinctly aware of the telltale wetness permeating between my legs. I was coming undone, letting out the most shameful noises I’d ever made in my life as Max practically made out with my scent gland, his lips moving against my neck, open and devastatingly deliberate. I felt the scrape of his teeth as he alternated hungry sucks with long licks—

I was going to push him away any second, I told myself. I was going to shove him away and tear his tongue out. I was going to rail at him for his disgusting inability to respect boundaries, declare our arrangement over forever, and show him the door.

Except I took about five seconds too long to act. In that five seconds, I heard it. The faint but unmistakable tearing of adhesive as Max chose chaos and took his own scent patch off.

No no no no.

My chest clenched and my stomach dropped both at once, and I stared at the top of Max’s head in wide-eyed horror as his scent—that damnable combination of woodsy and rich, like cedar shavings and dark chocolate—poured out into the air to join mine. My fingers would’ve made a grab for the patch with intentions of slapping it back onto his neck, but he drew my body into his, onto his lap and into that scent that was unfairly good. 

His scent. I didn’t even realize I was pulling it into my lungs until it was too late.

Warmth spread through my chest, my limbs, every inch of me, like I was being wrapped in something I couldn’t escape. It was suffocating. Intoxicating. My breath stuttered, catching in my throat as I tried to stop, but I couldn’t. My instincts wouldn’t let me. It was as if I was just realized I was starving and someone had placed my favorite food right in front of me. 

I sniffed again, deeper this time, and a low groan slipped out of Max.

That sound—God, that sound—slammed into me, making my stomach twist and my thighs clench. Heat prickled at the base of my neck, spidering down my spine and pooling low in my stomach until I felt the humiliating dampness between my legs deepen.

Max’s hands tightened on my hips, holding me in place with an unrelenting grip. I froze, my breath coming in sharp, panicked bursts as I realized just how close we’d gotten. How snugly we were notched together, my knees braced on either side of his thighs, my smaller frame smashed against his in a way that was explicitly exciting: the hard planes of his abs rubbing against my cock through our clothes, his erection throbbing directly beneath the apex of my thighs. Oh, God.

“You’re so small,” I felt Max mutter against my neck, half to himself. His hands tightened, dragging me down against him. “So perfect. Do you have any idea… what you’re doing to me?”

I knew exactly what was happening to Max. His higher cognitive functions were practically offline, overridden by the primal centers of his brain. His body was operating on instinct alone: scent, touch, want. He was intoxicated. The scientific equivalent of drunk. On me. And pretty soon, if not already, I wasn’t going to be any better.

I shook my head, panic flashing through me. “Max, I—” Am going to lose my mind if you don’t stop this right now, I wanted to say, but the words refused to form. They scattered into oblivion as the vibrations of his voice tickled over the shell of my ear, sending a shiver through me.

“You’re so wet… Smells like you’re getting ready for me.”

Getting ready for him? I wanted to slap him. I wanted to scream at him. But all I could do was cling to him as his words sank into my skin, hot and filthy and too much. I would’ve taken goofball can’t-focus-to-save-his-life Max back in a heartbeat, except I couldn’t because we were here and his scent was drowning me. It smelled like safe and good—

And then he brought his hands up to my face and kissed me.

It wasn’t gentle. It certainly wasn’t chaste. His hands cradled my face, his lips crashing against mine with a hunger that stole every rational thought from my head. Max kissed like he did everything else: recklessly. I gasped, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sliding against mine, hot and demanding and determined.

For a moment, I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My body was frozen, caught between instinct and reason, but then he shifted closer, rocking his hips, and I felt the hard press of him against my slick-soaked thighs, and—

I kissed him back.

And that was all it took. Suddenly we were kissing like we were starving. My hands fisted in his hoodie, pulling him closer as his scent burned through me, rich and heady, spreading through my veins like molten heat. Every nerve in my body felt oversensitive and raw, and I couldn’t stop myself from leaning into him, from tilting my head and parting my lips.

God. His tongue.

A broken sound escaped me, high-pitched and needy, and Max licked it right out of my mouth, crushing me against him. My skin burned where he touched me, the heat of his palms searing me through the netted fabric of my sweater.

His hands slid higher, dragging the sweater up with them, and I felt the first brush of his fingers against my bare skin. My breath hitched, sharp and audible, and Max made a rumbling sound low in his throat, his grip firm and possessive as his palms flattened against my sides.

I didn’t even realize my hands were moving until I felt the warmth of his skin under my palms. My fingers had slipped beneath his hoodie, skating over the hardness of his stomach, tracing the lines of his abs. God, he was so fit and warm—too warm—and the feel of him sent a jolt racing through me, making my breath hitch against his mouth.

“Yeah, Ains,” he panted, flexing under my touch. “Touch me.”

His lips pressed harder against mine, his tongue teasing and tasting with a confidence that surprised me zero. My fingers curled instinctively, trailing over the hard ridges of his stomach, trying—and failing—to count each ab. Every time I thought I’d reached the last one, another emerged beneath my touch, and then another, until my brain short-circuited completely.

God, how many did he even have?

With a frustrated sound, I abandoned the effort, letting my hands roam higher. They slid across the expanse of his broad chest, feeling the strength of him, and every brush of my fingers seemed to drive him crazy. His kisses deepened, turning more urgent, more hungry, like he was trying to pour every ounce of himself into me.

Heat was spreading through me—too fast, too much. My skin felt tight, my body flushed and trembling, and my thighs clenched as the slick I’d been desperately trying to ignore began to worsen, soaking through my leggings like a flood. A demoralizing, humiliating flood. I had never been so reduced to my biology before. 

My chest heaved as I dragged in a shallow breath through my nose, trying to push past the haze, but Max’s scent only hit me harder. My head swam, my body arching instinctively into his touch, and I felt the first sharp spike of arousal, so intense it was almost painful.

We had to stop. Whatever this was, we had to stop. We’d officially gone too far.

“Max,” I gasped against his mouth, but it came out soft and breathless, more plea than command.

He didn’t stop. His hands slid higher, brushing the curve of my ribs, and he broke the kiss, his lips moving back to my neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin. I shuddered violently, my body trembling as a blistering heat coiled tighter and tighter inside me, threatening to snap.

“Max,” I tried again, my voice cracking, but his tongue dragged over my scent gland, and I forgot how to speak.

His scent was thickening now with his own arousal, and it sank into my bones, filling every inch of me until I couldn’t escape it. My instincts roared in response, and I felt another rush of slick between my thighs. My sweater felt like it was suffocating me, my leggings too tight. I was too hot, borderline sweaty, almost feverish. And I wanted.

I was going into heat.

The realization slammed into me, shaking me to my core. I wasn’t a virgin, but I was classified as a “late bloomer”, meaning that I had yet to experience the joys of estrus turning me into a wanton, slavering shell of myself. Until now, apparently. Hormones were bolting through my system like lightning, striking through me over and over again.

The clarity I prided myself on was gone, nowhere to be found. My thoughts were a chaotic mess of more, yes, closer . Every brush of Max’s lips against my skin, every firm press of his hands on my waist, sent another surge of heat racing through me, making it impossible to think about anything else.

This was estrus. Heat. The biological chaos I’d spent years being afraid of, dreading the day it would finally come and turn me inside out. And now that it was here, it was everything I feared it would be—raw, all-consuming, impossible to escape.

And Max was not helping. Between his scent wrapping around me, sinking into my skin and his voice low and rough as he muttered my name, he was only contributing that much more to the way my body was betraying me. 

I wasn’t ready for this, lest of all for him.

But my body didn’t care. It insisted him.

I gritted my teeth, trying to shove the sensations down, but the heat wouldn’t be denied. It wasn’t just rising—it was bursting , exploding through me and leaving devastation in its wake.

There was only one way to stop it.

I should’ve been freaking out, pushing him away, screaming at him—and a part of me was freaking out, but it was a small part and I could barely hear it over the roar in my ears as Max rocked his hips up, grinding against me there and growling mindlessly into my ear.

In answer, my body moved on instinct, my hips rolling down against the bulge in Max’s jeans, chasing the friction, the contact, the unbearable pleasure that made me gasp and moan, the sound breaking from my lips before I could stop it. It was high-pitched and needy— embarrassing—but it barely registered in my haze. All I could focus on was the heat, the ache, the way my body seemed to know exactly what it needed even if my mind didn’t. 

God, it felt incredible. Too good. Whatever Max was doing to me—whatever fire he’d ignited—I wanted more of it. No, I needed more of it. Every inch of me was screaming for him, for more of the pressure, the heat, the dizzying pleasure that twisted and coiled inside me like a living thing.

My leggings were ruined. We were caught in a feedback loop—my slick amplifying his pheromones, which amplified my slick, which amplified his pheromones. He had to smell it, had to feel it. 

“Max,” I gasped, my voice cracking. “You don’t understand—”

Max’s lips found my scent gland again, his tongue dragging hot and deliberate over the sensitive skin, and my vision blurred as the last shred of reason fled my brain.

“You don’t get it,” I managed to groan out, “This is my heat. It’s—oh my God—it’s not normal. I—”

Another wave of want crashed through me, hotter and sharper than the last, and I clung to him instinctively, my nails digging into his hoodie. “I can’t—” My words broke into a shaky whimper, and I hated myself for it. “Max, in two minutes—”

My breath hitched as the ache inside me twisted, sharp and unbearable. “In two minutes, I’m going to be begging for your—”

Knot. The word caught in my throat, too horrifying to say. But the second it sounded in my brain, I felt it—the spike in my own body, sharp and dizzying, as if only thinking the word had unlocked something I’d been desperately trying to suppress. Which, it had: A whole new layer of insanity. 

Max froze, his whole body going rigid beneath me, and for a single, terrible moment, I thought I’d finally snapped him out of it.

But then he groaned—low and wrecked and feral. His grip on my hips tightened, dragging me closer, and his forehead dropped to my shoulder, his breathing heavy and uneven. I caught a glimpse of his eyes and they weren’t the warm hazel-brown that I knew. They were hot, smoldering, practically burning my own retinas to ash as he tilted his head to gaze up at me.

“I’ll take care of you,” he rasped, his voice deeper than I’d ever heard it. “I’ll make it better, baby. I’ll make you feel so fucking good.”

Oh, God, he was calling me baby now? My stomach flipped, the ache in my core twisting harder, and I gasped, my hands flying to his shoulders to push him back. But I couldn’t. I didn’t have the strength—not with the heat fogging my brain, not with his scent eclipsing my senses, not with the way his voice sent a sharp pulse straight between my legs.

“Max,” I whimpered, trembling as his lips pressed to my neck again. “We can’t—”

“We can,” he growled, his teeth scraping lightly against my scent gland. “You need me. I can smell it. And I’m right here, baby. I’ve got you.”

I wanted to snap at him to not call me that. To not say those things. Instead, I shuddered, another soft, broken sound slipping from my throat.

“I’ll take care of you,” he murmured, his lips dragging lower, finding my pulse. “Promise. I’ll give you everything you need. Just let me—”

Max stilled for a moment, his forehead pressed to my shoulder, and I thought—hoped—that he’d finally snapped out of it. His breath was heavy and uneven, his hands trembling where they gripped my waist like he was trying to keep himself tethered.

But then he growled. Again, except it didn’t involve any speech, only sound—a low and guttural rumble that reverberated through his chest and into me like a physical force. My body jerked in response, heat coiling tighter and sharper in my stomach as his scent grew even more heavy, more thick. My instincts screamed at me to submit, to lean into him, to bare my neck and let him take whatever he wanted.

This wasn’t just scent intoxication anymore. This was something worse. Something I’d only read about in textbooks but hadn’t wanted to ever witness firsthand in my own dorm.

Max’s suppressants had failed. He was in rut, just like I was in heat. 

My vision blurred as another wave of heat rolled through me, hotter than the last, and I felt the first tear slip down my cheek. There was only one way this could end now.

Smart, logical Ainsley was gone. Completely, utterly gone. 

The heat had taken over, stripping me of everything that made me me. All that was left was an unbearable ache, a raw need that pulsed through every inch of my body, leaving me trembling and slick and desperate.

Max in rut was so different than scent-drunk Max. His instincts were fully in control now, overriding reason. His body was responding to mine, reacting to the slick pouring out of me, the heat rolling off my skin, the scent of my need thickening the air. 

He moved with purpose, his hands strong and sure as he lifted me from his lap and laid me out on the bed, as if I weighed nothing. My breath hitched as my back hit the mattress, the cool sheets a sharp contrast to the fire burning under my skin. His hands gripped the waistband of my leggings, dragging them down slowly, torturously, until the air hit my thighs.

I should’ve stopped him. Should’ve protested. But I couldn’t. I had no rationality left, nothing in me besides yes yes take care of me fuck me put your knot in me and breed me. My legs trembled as he used his broad hands to spread them, gripping my thighs firmly and holding me open. I felt the slick pooling between them, hot and sticky, and my face burned with humiliation as he stared down at me.

“Fuck,” Max mumbled thickly. “Look at you.”

I knew exactly what he was talking about: the redundant, impractical anatomy between my legs. My ‘dual setup,’ as I’d once overheard it described in some textbook. Two entrances, two ways to ruin me completely. Mostly, I’d trained myself to ignore it. My penis was standard. Functional.

Except Max was staring down between my legs like he’d made some sort of newfangled discovery, something fascinating and new. His gaze didn’t feel judgmental or even clinical, but... oddly reverent. Like he’d found a prize.

There was something embarrassing about it, about being bared to him so completely. I squeezed my eyes shut, turning my head away as my chest heaved with shallow, panting breaths.

The mattress shuddered as his weight came down fully over top of me and his mouth came with it, slanting over my trembling lips hungrily. I responded, reaching for him, trying to pull him closer. Except I forgot that I’d even reached out when I felt one of his fingers there, a calloused pad circling tentatively around my soaked core before plunging the entire length of his middle finger inside.

The feeling was—ngh. Just ngh. Holding onto his shoulders, I clenched automatically around the intrusion, moaning into his mouth as white-hot pleasure slithered through me. It intensified tenfold when he started rubbing the length of my cock between his thumb and forefinger, until I thought I was going to die from the sheer amount of sensation. He cradled my face, kissing me in time with the way he played in and out of me, with an energy that alternated between slow and deep, hungry and frantic. 

“You’re soaked,” Max murmured against my lips and he withdrew his finger, wiping a ribbon of slick on my cock. “So messy, baby. Want me to clean you up?”

I had half a second to be confused, until I felt him pull away entirely. I snapped my eyes open just in time to see him slide off the end of the bed and drop onto the floor, presumably on his knees. Confusion and want knifed through me, my body protesting the sudden emptiness. No. More.  

“What’re you—” I started to ask, but Max grabbed my ankles and silenced the hell out of me with one smooth, unrelenting tug. Just like that, I was slid down the mattress effortlessly, dragged closer to where he knelt, my thighs spread wide to bracket his shoulders. 

“Better,” I heard him say quietly, almost to himself. His grip was firm but careful as he settled me exactly where he wanted, like he was trying to ground me as much as position me. I hated how easily my body complied, how it arched slightly as if begging for his touch.

Which… I was. I didn’t understand why he’d pulled away, why he’d stopped touching me. I’d never been touched the way he’d touched me, by someone so much larger than me, by someone so alpha. I should’ve hated it but mostly, all I could think about was how far away he was now, too far. That, I hated. I needed him. 

I started to draw myself up, but Max squeezed my knee, and I dropped back down with an involuntary squirm, glaring at him. What was he doing down there? “Come back,” I pleaded, hating how pathetic I sounded and not being able to help it. “Touch me.”

“Ssshh,” he said, his lips quirking up into that infuriating smirk as he leaned in closer. “Greedy baby.”

His nose brushed against the base of my cock, the warmth of his breath fanning over my balls as he inhaled deeply, like I was something he couldn’t get enough of. Then he dipped his head and I thought, for one frenzied moment, that he was going to take me into his mouth, but instead he pressed a kiss to the inside of my lower thigh. 

“Max—stop—” Teasing me, I started to say, except my thigh muscles quivered and my hands shot down to grip the sheets, twisting them tight as Max’s mouth worked its way higher. With every inch gained, a strange sort of excitement started to coil low in my stomach and I let out a breathless whine, my dick jumping. 

“Shh,” he rumbled reassuringly, the vibration sending another wave of heat coursing through me. “Gonna take care of you. Make you feel good.”

His tongue flicked against the edge of where my slick was pooling, and another sound escaped me, one I didn’t even recognize—high-pitched and desperate, half-whimper, half-plea. My logical mind was scandalized—what was he doing—but the rest of me twitched closer, yearning. For what, I didn’t know. 

I watched, split between mesmerized and mortified, as his mouth traveled higher, his tongue dragging through the slick with deliberate intent, lapping it up and groaning like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice muffled against my skin. “So sweet. So perfect. Can’t get enough.”

I was shaking now, trembling actively under his hands, his mouth, his words. The heat coiled tighter and tighter inside me, the ache pulsing harder, sharper, until I was writhing against the mattress, both hard as a rock and wet as a river, every inch of me desperate for relief.

Our eyes locked, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.

Then he grinned. That cocky, insufferable grin that was so Max I wanted to punch him and melt for him at the same time. It wasn’t just a smile—it was a promise, a silent declaration of what he was about to do, and the confidence in it sent a sharp, dizzying pulse straight through me.

I had half a second to wonder if he was playing with me before he moved, brushing his lips against my core in the softest, lightest kiss. Then he opened his mouth and started to lick. 

“Max!” His name slipped out of me on a half-shout, as the heat of his tongue sent a jolt through my entire body, sharp and all-consuming. I flailed around for something, anything , to grab ahold of, to anchor me against the sensations knifing through me. My hands fisted in the sheets with my head thrown back, my breath stuttering weakly as his mouth moved with deliberate, deadly precision. 

Nothing I’d ever experienced before in the realm of sex compared to this. My encounters with betas had been perfunctory, a little bit of stress relief. This was so much more. Absolutely obscene, completely filthy, and I would’ve been mortified to death if I’d been in my right mind. But I wasn’t, thankfully. I was somewhere else entirely and all I could do was feel, lost in unfamiliar sensations as he took charge.

When I brought myself to glance down again, his eyes were already on me, dark and burning. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even flinch. His gaze stayed locked on mine, dark and hungry and infuriatingly pleased with himself, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.

And God, he did.

An embarrasingly garbled noise wrung from me as he dragged his tongue over the most intimate part of me, slow and firm, lapping at the slick that poured out faster, hotter. His hands were tight on my thighs, holding me open, keeping me steady as he worked his mouth against me, licking and sucking and groaning like he was drunk on the taste of me.

He squeezed one of my thighs before letting go, reaching up to wrap a hand around my cock. He gave it a slow, firm pull and my hips jerked, another wave of heat crashing through me hard enough to bring tears to my eyes as the dual sensation of his mouth and hand on my cock warred, threatening to tear me apart. It was too much stimulation. He was ruining me. 

“Max,” I hissed, my body arching off the bed. “I—I can’t—oh my God—”

“You can,” he muttered, his breath hot against me. “Let me take care of you. Gonna make you feel so good.”

His tongue flicked against me again, faster this time, and his hand moved in tandem, stroking me from my base to my tip. It felt so good. I sobbed, my fingers tightening in the sheets, my thighs quaking against his shoulders. The slick kept coming, spilling out in humiliating waves, but Max didn’t stop.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. My body was on fire, every nerve alight, every thought drowned out by the unbearable heat and the overwhelming sensation of his mouth and hand. Licking, sucking, pulling at my sanity as he completely devoured me, every firm squeeze at the base sending sparks shooting through me, sharp and dizzying.

My back arched instinctively, my hips bucking into his hand, chasing the friction and the maddening rhythm he’d set. A broken sound slipped from my throat, soft and desperate, and Max groaned in response, the vibration sending a shiver racing down my spine.

It felt so good. Too good. 

I hated it.

Hated how he knew exactly what threads to pull to unravel me, how easily my body gave in, how the slick poured out faster with every filthy sound he made.

I loved it.

Loved how he selflessly took care of me, how the world disappeared around his touch, how he made me feel like it was okay to fall apart so completely for him. 

“You taste so good,” Max panted reverently, a strangled noise rumbling out from his chest. “Every fucking part of you. So good. I wonder…”

Just when I thought I was about to fly off the edge completely, I felt his finger probing at that other, smaller entrance. I hadn’t even realized that he’d moved his hand. I moaned breathlessly and fought to think through the haze of pink, to why I should protest that he touch there .

I almost knew, then it was gone, the shred of rationality dissolving away into sheer feeling as Max’s finger pushed forwards, breaching the tighter ring of muscle. There was plenty of slick to ease the way, but it still felt uncomfortable, nothing I’d ever experienced before. No one had ever touched me there.

Impossibly, his mouth was still suckling and lapping at my core, and his hand was still stroking my cock—and now he was doing this, too? I’d thought he was ruining me completely before, but now there was absolutely no doubt. It was a thousand percent officially too much and I tried to writhe away, except the thrust of my hips into his hand and mouth meant that I inadvertently thrust onto his finger, impaling it the rest of the way inside of me. 

There was a moment’s pause, a single heartbeat where I thought—hoped—he might show mercy. But then his finger started moving, pressing in deeper as he worked it back and forth in time with everything else he was doing to me. Every lick of his tongue, every stroke of his hand, every slow, deliberate thrust of his finger felt coordinated, like he’d mapped out exactly how to destroy me in the most excruciatingly thorough way possible.

It was unbearable. It was exquisite.

The rhythm was maddening, relentless—his mouth dragging over my core, his tongue teasing sensitive nerves I hadn’t even known existed; his finger curling just right, pressing against spots that sent pleasure bolting through me; his other hand gripping my cock, stroking me. It was everything all at once, too much and not enough, and my body couldn’t decide if it wanted to collapse or arch further into him.

“Fuck, baby,” he purred, his voice muffled by my slick-drenched folds as he dragged his tongue through them. “That’s so good. Keep dripping for me.”

The filthy words, coupled with the way he looked me straight in the eyes, sent another wave of wet pouring out of me. My thighs were shaking so bad, I just knew I was going to explode into pieces. I was going to die.

“Max,” I whined out, clawing at the sheets. “I—I can’t—it’s too much—please—”

He ignored me. His finger was jackhammering my ass, his hand was flying over my cock, and his lips was latched firmly over my core, lapping all my slick up straight from the source. He swallowed with an audible gulp—and after everything he’d done to me, I don’t know why that was what did it, but I shattered.

The edges of my vision blackened as my release struck like lightning, violent and overwhelming, ripping through me with a force that left me seizing. I’d never came so hard in my entire life. A fresh, keening sob tore from my throat as my quaking thighs clamped around his head, but Max didn’t stop. 

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, pulling back to watch as I kept gushing—come shooting from the tip of my cock like a geyser, squirting out from my core, my ass clenching around his finger. The look on his face was awestruck, as if he were witnessing some sort of divine act. “Yes. Yes, baby—just like that.”

His hand dropped away from my cock—thank God—but his mouth found its way right back between my legs, lapping at the pearly rivulets of come without hesitation. As he cleaned me, he slipped another finger inside my ass and kept working me through my orgasm. My sight remained hopelessly blurred as the pleasure hit me in devastating wave after wave, my body jerking with every aftershock, every messy, wet sound of his mouth as he kept licking, drinking me in like he couldn’t get enough.

“God, look at you,” he murmured. “You’re so beautiful like this. Coming all over my face. Fuck. Want all of it. Every last drop.”

I let out a half-sob, half-whimper, and Max rumbled in response, the vibration blanketing me in safe and want. The words, however, wrecked me. How the hell was he this filthy? How the hell did he even know how to say things like that? This wasn’t the Max Vaughn I knew—the goofy, insufferable jock who wouldn’t know intensity if it hit him in the face.

This was alpha Max.

He stared at me over the lines of my body and I could see that his pupils were blown wide, leaving only the faintest ring of hazel around the edges. His lips were slick and parted, every exhale dragging in shuddering gasps, as if the effort to hold himself back was physically draining him.

My body trembled violently, oversensitive and raw, and I whimpered again, my hands still twisting in the sheets as another wave of pleasure rippled through me, weaker but no less devastating.

“Gimme more, baby,” Max murmured against me, almost pleadingly. “Lemme taste you. Wanna take care of you.”

My chest heaved, my breathing ragged, and I could feel the slick pouring out of me, soaking his face, dripping down his chin, but Max didn’t stop. His tongue dragged over me again, slow and steady, collecting everything I gave him with a growl that sounded like he was losing his mind. His two fingers hooked deep inside my ass, knuckles pressing on my prostate. As if to say we're not done.

“You’re mine, Ainsley,” he told me. “All this slick—mine. This body—mine. No one else gets to touch you like this.”

“Max,” I choked out for what had to be the millionth time, as if his name was all I could say. My voice cracked, but he didn’t hear me—or didn’t care. 

He was completely gone, lost in me, and as his tongue flicked against me once more, dragging through the mess he’d made, I realized with a sinking certainty:

We were completely and utterly fucked.

Chapter Text

Things had officially gotten real.

The kind of real that I could appreciate way more than calculus. I hadn’t expected things to go this way—I mean, yeah, I’d hoped—but here we were. Like, actually. It was fucking game time.

Kissing Ainsley for the first time had felt better than any touchdown, any win. Hell, swallowing his little breathy moans felt like I’d won an entire damn game by myself. That’s when I’d first felt it: the slowburn of heat under my skin, getting hotter and hotter with every new slide of our lips. 

Then he’d started touching me, his hands sneaking under my clothes to trace my abs, and my senses had gone absolutely haywire. I’d barely had the time to be confused before it had ratcheted all the way up to a thousand and now I was so fired up from it that I didn’t have a brain in my head anymore to care if it made sense or not. Everything was instinct. And Ainsley.

Ainsley. Ainsley. Ainsley.

Eating him out? Came a real close second to kissing him. As in I wouldn’t mind to do it forever, because he tasted like heaven. No, scratch that. Heaven couldn’t compare. Heaven didn’t have this—sweet and salty and so fucking perfect, slick pouring out of him like his body knew I was the only one who could have him, like it was for me. Like he was for me.

And I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t fucking stop. I kept diving in, my tongue seeking the source of his slick, licking and lapping like I couldn’t breathe without it. Every flick of my tongue, every drop of slick I licked up, was like gasoline on a fire I couldn’t control. I was addicted. Officially hooked on him—on the way he tasted, the way he trembled under me, the way his thighs clenched around my head as if he wanted me to stay forever.

I’ve never hooked up with an omega before. It’s not like I’ve avoided them on purpose—I definitely get the appeal. It’s just that I’m a casual guy, and nothing about an omega is casual if you’re an alpha. They might as well have a big, neon sign strapped to their foreheads that says, “Touch me and I hope you’re ready to share a mortgage.” I figured I had about 20 good years before all that, so… 

Yeah, I’d never had a chance to play with omega bits and pieces before. And this wasn’t just any omega—this was Ainsley, spread out for me, all sharp edges gone soft and vulnerable. So yeah, I was a different level of excited and turned on. His cock in my hand, my finger inside him, and his scent thick in the air? It was like sensory overload in the best possible way.

His breathing was all over the place—short, sharp gasps mixed with little whimpers he’d probably die before ever admitting he made. I could tell by the way the comforter kept getting all rucked up that his hands kept flexing in the sheets, like he didn’t know whether to pull me closer or push me away. Not that I was letting up either way.

If I got to have Ainsley, I was going to take all of him. 

I didn’t stop, didn’t let up for even a second, because watching him fall apart like this—because of me—was addictive. My jeans were strangling my erection and my only thought was him.

I’d never seen him like this—so vulnerable, so raw, so completely at my mercy. His green eyes were dark and hazy behind his crooked glasses, glistening with unshed tears. I wanted to reassure him, to remind him that he was safe with me and everything was going to be okay, except when I spoke, what came out was more filthy talk. I couldn’t remember ever being into dirty talk, but it felt totally right. And from the way his flushed face got even redder and he oozed more slick, I would’ve bet money on it being one of those things that he’d never admit to enjoying.

He had a deathgrip on me with his thighs—totally fine, I’d die happily like this—and I could feel how much they were trembling, which only made me curl my fingers deeper inside him and drag my tongue over the core of him. His whole body jolted like I flipped a switch he didn’t know existed and he let out this high-pitched gasp that went straight to my cock. 

Then he wrecked me even more by coming.

Those thighs clenched even tighter around my head, his back arching off the bed, his hands fisting in the sheets as he let out a half-sob, half-shout. His cock spurted thick white ropes across his stomach and slick poured out into my waiting mouth in waves, his ass spasming uncontrollably around my finger. I licked up every drop, groaning low in my chest as I let go of his cock, running a steadying hand up his leg.

It seemed like he orgasmed forever and I both felt and watched him—the way his pink little mouth screwed up then fell open, hips jerking, thighs shaking. I pressed harder on that spot that made him light up like a Christmas tree, and I swear, I came a little in my pants. I didn’t stop lapping at him, needing to take every drop. 

Mine.

He was mine. The word roared through my head, drowning out everything else. Ainsley was mine—his taste, his scent, his perfect, trembling body spread out under me. I needed all of him. Every gasp, every cry, every drop of slick. 

Ainsley’s breath was coming in soft little gasps that were honestly just as hot as the noises he made when he came. He was trying to come back down, but I could feel the way his body was still pulsing around my fingers. We weren’t done. The heat under my skin told me that we were just getting started, my instincts screaming at me like a steady drumbeat in the back of my mind: He needs more. You need more. Get inside him.

So I pressed another finger inside him, slow but steady, feeling the way his body tightend and then relaxed, opening up for me. It was like he knew, too, that this was just the beginning. My thumb brushed against his slick skin, and I watched the way his back arched, the way his lips parted on a broken gasp, and I knew I was doing exactly what he needed.

“Max,” he whispered, his voice wrecked, barely more than a breath, but it was enough to send a shiver down my spine. His thighs twitched against my shoulders, and I could feel the tension coiling in him again.

My instincts were in overdrive, telling me to get him ready, to stretch him open, to make sure he could take me—all of me. I curled both fingers, slow and deliberate, searching for that spot that would make him see stars. His hips jerked, his hands coming down to twist in my hair.

I would break him apart and put him back together again every time.

Brushing a kiss over his inner thigh, I pulled my fingers free and slid my hands higher, mapping out the curve of his hips, his waist, the sharp jut of his ribs. “We’re not done yet, baby,” I murmured, my voice low. “Not even close.” 

I needed to get out of my clothes—desperately—but instead I found myself lifting off my knees and crawling up the bed to kiss my way up his stomach, dragging the hem of his oversized sweater higher, exposing more of his flushed skin. My lips pressed against every inch of him, and every kiss made him tremble harder, made his breath come in sharp, shaky bursts.

“You’re so beautiful,” I rasped as I pushed the sweater higher, my fingers brushing over the soft skin beneath. “So fucking beautiful.”

I’d never waxed so much poetic in my life, but it was true. He was all pale skin and sharp angles, the kind of beauty that was understated until you really looked at him—then it hit you like a freight train. He had freckles scattered here and there, little constellations on his shoulders and along the slope of his collarbone. I immediately wanted to memorize each and every one with my lips.

The sweater caught under his arms, and I tugged it up, revealing more of him inch by inch, like unwrapping the most perfect gift I’d ever been given. His ribs were faintly visible when he moved, a reminder of just how small he was, how delicate. But that only made me want to hold him closer, to keep him safe, to shield him from anything and everything that could hurt him.

And God, his waist. My hands practically swallowed it, my fingers wrapping around him with room to spare. He was so slim, so soft in places, but there was this hidden strength to him too. It was in the way his body shifted under my touch, the slight tension in his muscles that said he wasn’t fragile, not really. Still, it made something deep in my chest roar with possessiveness. He was mine, and I was going to prove it.

The idea of marking him up hit me like a punch to the gut. I wanted to leave my prints on him, to see him tomorrow with bruises on his hips and bites on his shoulders, reminders of what we’d done—of what I’d done to him. So I did.

A bite at the curve of his neck, where his pulse fluttered beneath my teeth. Just enough to make him gasp and grab at me, his nails dragging against my shoulders. I’d already done a hell of a number on his neck with all the sucking earlier, but seeing the fresh mark well up sent a primal satisfaction zinging through my blood.

Wasn’t enough, though. Needed more. 

So I kept going. His collarbone, his shoulders, the dip where his neck met his chest. My teeth grazed, then sank in just enough to leave another mark, and every single time, he shivered beneath me like he couldn’t get enough of it. His sounds—breathless little gasps and whimpers—only spurred me on.

His hips? Oh, I left plenty there. My hands gripped him hard enough to bruise, and I knew he’d see my fingerprints tomorrow, but that wasn’t enough either. I dropped lower, my mouth tracing over the curve of his waist, biting and kissing as I went. He arched under me, and I swear the way he said my name—wrecked and trembling—had me seeing stars.

By the time I pulled back to look at him, he was covered, pale skin littered with my marks, every freckle surrounded by bruises that stood out like a map of where I’d been. His chest rose and fell in uneven gasps, his eyes hazy and wide as he looked up at me.

I licked my lips and reached up, my fingers trembling as I slid his glasses off his nose, folding them carefully and setting them on the bedside table. I couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss him. It started soft—gentle, just a brush of my lips against his—but the second he whimpered again, high and needy, I was gone. My tongue slid into his mouth, tangling with his, hot and desperate and messy, and his hands shot up to clutch at my shoulders, his nails scratching lightly over my skin.

“Max,” he gasped against my lips, his voice cracking. “Please—please, I need—”

“I know, baby,” I reassured him, dragging my lips down the curve of his jaw, grazing my teeth over the sensitive skin of his neck. “I know. I’ll take care of you.”

“Do something. I need—just—do something, I can’t—”

The begging hit me like a punch to the chest, hot and sharp and impossible to ignore. But then his scent changed, and fuck. I thought I was already gone, but that? That was the knockout punch. My brain blanked completely—every coherent thought wiped out, replaced with instinct screaming one thing loud and clear: He needs me. He needs my knot.

Not gonna lie, I totally fell asleep during A/O 101. I knew that omegas had two holes and a dick and I knew that I had a knot, but I didn’t know the mechanics of giving my knot to him. I’d figure it out, though, if that was what he needed. I’d give him anything. Hell, if he’d asked me to stand on my head and sing Yankee fucking Doodle, I would’ve.

I’d never yanked my clothes off so fast in my life. My hoodie got tossed to the floor, followed by my undershirt and jeans and boxers, the cool air hitting my naked, overheated skin like a jolt.

The second my cock sprang free, I heard him gasp. His eyes darted down, widening slightly as his lips parted, and I could see the heat flicker behind that dazed, hazy green. I couldn’t help the growl that rumbled low in my chest, deep and rough, as his gaze lingered. Even in the middle of his heat, when his body was begging for relief, he was taking his time drinking me in. Appreciating the size of me, the weight, the way I stood there bare and ready for him. 

“Like what you see, baby?” I rasped, smirking as his eyes darted back up to mine. He didn’t answer—not with words, anyway. The way his tongue darted out to wet his lips, the way his thighs clenched together, the way his breath hitched when I shifted closer? That told me everything I needed to know.

I gripped his thighs, spreading him wider as I leaned over him, letting my cock brush against his slick, swollen entrance. The sound he made—a soft, choked-off moan—just about undid me. He was trembling beneath me, his chest heaving, his skin flushed, and every instinct I had screamed to take him, to claim him, to make him mine in every way that mattered.

“Don’t worry,” I growled, my voice rough as I pressed my forehead to his. “It’ll fit.”

For good measure, I tilted my hips, letting him feel every inch of me, teasing him just enough to make his body arch into mine. “Every inch, baby. You’re gonna take it all.”

In answer, he grabbed me by the back of my neck and kissed me. Damn. Okay.

That flipped the switch hard. The second his hands shot up to grab me by the back of my neck and he kissed me like that—hungry, desperate, like he couldn’t breathe without me—I completely lost it. My brain was nothing but static as our tongues slid together, hot and hungry. Any semblance of control I’d been clinging to? Gone. Out the window. All that was left was instinct, screaming at me to take him, claim him, make him feel me in every way possible.

I pushed him back onto the bed, my body caging his in, big and overwhelming, pinning him exactly where I wanted him. His legs wrapped around my waist, his hips rolling up against mine like he was daring me to stop. His nails bit into the back of my neck, holding me close, and that tiny, wrecked sound he made when I ground against him? Fuck. That sound alone made my blood boil, my vision narrowing until all I could see, hear, feel, breathe was him.

Regular missionary was a no-go with our size difference, so I adjusted. Sitting back on my knees, I grabbed his hips and pulled him up, lifting him higher until his lower back rested against my thighs. Taking his legs, I hooked them over my shoulders, holding him in place as I ground against him, slow and deliberate, like it was the only thing keeping me alive.

“Fuck,” I muttered, my hands flexing against his thighs. “You want my knot, baby? Huh? You want me to fill you up?”

His scent was everywhere, thick and sweet and all-consuming, drowning me. I didn’t wait for an answer because I didn’t need one—I lined myself up, the head of my cock pressing against his entrance, and pushed forward, slow and steady, my hands tightening on his hips. His body opened for me, the only answer I needed; hot and slick and perfect, pulling me in like he was made for me.

I knew instantly that I was completely ruined—for him. Forever. Nothing had ever felt so good in my entire life. I wanted to shove all the way in and never leave, to make my home in his tight heat. God, please give me a mortgage with this omega. I’ll sign the papers. I’ll even learn what a mortgage is. Just let me keep him.

Ainsley tried to say something but it came out all broken, something like “Max—oh my God—” before his voice cut off in a gasp and his whole body arched up, instinctively trying to get closer, to take more. Every little movement he made was pure desperation, his brain totally checked out. 

“Fuck,” I hissed, my eyes rolling back, breath ragged as I slid deeper, inch by inch. “You’re so tight.”

His slick poured out, easing the slide, making it smoother, easier, and I couldn’t stop the growl that rumbled out of me, deep and possessive as I finally bottomed out, my hips flush against his. Jesus Christ. He was so small, yet he was taking it like a champ.

For a moment, I just stayed there, fully seated, letting him feel all of me, letting myself feel all of him. He was moaning, thrashing his head from side to side, hands gripping me like he didn’t know what else to do. Like he needed me to keep him together.

“Max,” he gasped out. “Oh my God—oh God—”

I drew back just enough to thrust into him, slow and deep. “Ainsley,” I ground out, my voice hoarse. “You feel so fucking good.” 

This. This was where I was supposed to be. 

His body clenched around me, and I finally set a rhythm—slow and steady at first, giving him time to adjust to my size, then snapping my hips forward, driving into him harder, deeper. Every thrust had him gasping, every cry and moan pushing me closer to the edge even though I’d barely been inside him for a minute. 

I pulled out almost entirely, just the swollen tip of my cock nudging against his entrance, slick and hot and so fucking perfect. Then I slammed back into him, making sure he felt every inch, savoring the way his body stretched and clenched around me.

“Max—” His voice cracked, his cock flushed and wet, twitching against his stomach. It jumped every time I rolled my hips and I couldn’t help it—I slid a hand down to wrap my fingers around it, giving it an experimental pump as I moved again, deeper this time, hitting that spot that had him choking on his own breath.

“Yeah,” I rasped, panting. “Right there, huh? That’s what you need?”

He nodded frantically, his head tipping back as he moaned, “Yes—God, Max, yes—so deep—too much—let go—I can’t—I can’t—”

“You can,” I growled, driving into him again, harder, setting a punishing rhythm in time with the way I stroked him. “Look at how perfect you are, baby. So tight. So fucking perfect.”

Fresh slick was pouring out of him, coating us both. He was drenched, shaking, his curls wild and damp and sticking to his forehead. His cries turned into something higher, thinner, desperate. He wasn’t even saying words anymore—just broken, stuttering sounds that tore out of him with every thrust and pull.

“Ah—ah—Max—please—please—oh God—oh God—”

My breath was coming out harsh and ragged, like I was running a million wind sprints. With one hand, I gripped his hip tighter, hitching him higher so I could angle myself even deeper, harder, to continuously hammer that spot we both loved so much. He screamed—actually screamed —his body locking tight around me. His cock seized in my hand, twitching as he spilled over my fingers, the warm stickiness coating my palm as I stroked him through it.

It was like watching something out of a dream, so perfect and overwhelming that it made my head spin. He’s so fucking perfect. For me. Coming so hard just for me.

“God, baby,” I panted, my hand moving without thinking, covering his mouth, muffling the sound. “So fucking loud. Do you want the whole building to hear you? Huh?”

His legs quivered over my shoulders, trembling with aftershocks, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. I growled again, my hand flexing against his jaw, holding him steady as he whimpered against my palm, his breath coming in sharp, frantic bursts. “No one else gets this,” I told him. “No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to fuck you like this. You’re mine.”

I pulled my hand away, unleashing his barely audible voice. “Yes,” he was gasping. “Yes—yours—yours—oh God, Max—so good—so—”

His garbled words broke off into another scream as I slammed into him again. I was losing it—completely fucking losing it. I held onto him completely now, every snap of my hips sending a jolt of heat down my spine, the tight, slick heat of Ainsley’s body squeezing me like he never wanted to let go. My brain was static, white noise and instinct, nothing else. Just him—just this—just the raw, mindless need to fill him up, to claim him, to keep him.

“More,” I grunted out. I was babbling just like him, barely making sense. “I need—fuck—I need all of you.”

I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t slow down. Every thrust was harder, deeper, shaking the bed, shaking both of us, the sound of our bodies colliding drowning out everything else. His cries turned into sobs, his nails dragging across my arms. “Max—please—please—oh God—yes—don’t stop— don’t stop—don’t—”

“I won’t. I won’t stop, baby.” I’ll never stop. I’ll fuck you forever. I’ll fill you up.

Forever. The word echoed in my head, in my chest, in every fucking cell in my body. It felt right.

“You’re close again, baby,” I growled, my hands gripping his hips tight enough to bruise. “I can feel it. Let go for me. Let me feel you come all over me.”

He moaned, staring up at me with glazed, pleading eyes. “I can’t, I need—”

Just as I was about to ask him what he needed, my thrusts started to slow—not because I wanted them to, but because… fuck. I couldn’t move as easily. There was a weird pressure building at the base of my cock, swelling, stretching, catching against him. I’d never felt anything like it before. What the fuck?

“Shit,” I muttered, the word low and shaky as I tried to pull back. I couldn’t. Not all the way. Something was… something was—

Ainsley didn’t share my concern at all. He was going crazy beneath me, clawing at my arms and trying to lift his hips in time with my thrusts. “That’s it, don’t stop,” he babbled, his voice thin and high and desperate. “Keep going, Max. Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

I looked down between us, panting hard, my chest heaving as I tried to understand what the fuck was happening. The base of my cock was bigger—thicker—and it wasn’t just catching on him. It was stretching him wider, holding us tighter, keeping me buried inside him.

“What the fuck—oh, God—what the fuck is this?” My voice cracked, the extra girth making it harder to move but ten times better when I did. I couldn’t stop the growl that ripped out of me, low and primal, as my body took over. My instincts were roaring, telling me this was right, that this was what Ainsley needed, but my brain? My brain was short-circuiting.

I tried to think, but it was nothing but shapes and colors exploding up there. This is knotting, some vague memory of a lecture surfaced, probably the one I’d fallen asleep during. It’s an alpha thing. Totally normal. Yeah, sure, but why hadn’t anyone mentioned it would feel like shoving a key into a lock and becoming the lock? Jesus.

“You’re knotting,” Ainsley gasped, ever helpful, sounding just as awestruck as I was. But he wasn’t panicking—far from it. He was writhing beneath me like I’d lit a fire under him, his words slurring into a garbled moan as he rocked his hips against me. “Max—you’re—you’re knotting me—oh my God—yes—don’t stop—don’t stop—”

Yeah, okay, I wasn’t stopping. Not a chance. Not with the way his slick walls were tightening even more, working hungrily over my cock like they couldn’t get enough, pumping out more slick to ease the stretch. My instincts took over—my hips jerking forward, grinding my knot against him, pushing it deeper, forcing him to take it. If this was what he needed? I’d give it to him. All of it.

Jesus, but his back arched so sharply it was like he was trying to pull himself closer to me, every inch of him begging for it. For my knot. “Do it,” he gasped, his voice high and trembling. 

There was something in me that demanded to have him closer. I followed it without thinking, guiding his legs down from my shoulders to wrap around my waist instead, pulling him off the mattress so he was in my lap instead. His heels pressed into my back, and the space between us disappeared completely—he was pressed flush against me now, clinging to me, trying to hide his face in the curve of my shoulder.

I kept one hand on his hip, holding him steady as I sank deeper, consumed by the need to bury my knot. With every inch it gained, I could feel it fusing us, tethering me to him, the pressure so intense it blurred the edges of my vision. Holy shit. I’d never felt anything like this before. 

My other hand slid up his back, fingers curling into his hair as I pressed his forehead to mine. “That’s it,” I groaned. “Take it all, baby. Every inch. You’re doing so fucking good.”

The way his body responded, his instincts had to be in sync with mine. He clung tighter, his hips rolling against mine even though he was already trembling, already overwhelmed. Wanting to taste him, I crashed my lips to his, swallowing every desperate sound and muffling my own as I felt my body move on its own, finally shoving my knot as deep as it could possibly go. 

Then I couldn’t move. Not just physically—mentally, too. I was locked in him, and it wasn’t just my body holding us together. It was him. His scent. His warmth. His fucking trust. The thought of him pulling away—or worse, regretting this—knifed through me, and I growled against his mouth, deepening the kiss, needing to keep him, needing to know this was right.

And then it hit me. Oh, fuck.

My entire body locked up, and it wasn’t just pleasure—it was like a streak of lightning ripping up my spine, tearing through me so hard and fast I forgot how to breathe. My vision went black, my head spinning, our kiss turning sloppy and desperate as my climax crashed over me in waves so intense I thought it might actually break me. My cock pulsed, thick and heavy, flooding his insides with hot jets of come.

Christ, but it felt endless. How did I have so much come? Didn’t matter, I decided. He could have it all. Every drop.

“Ainsley,” I rasped, his name falling from my lips like a prayer, like it was the only thing tethering me to reality. My knot throbbed inside him, locking us even tighter, and every pulse sent another jolt of white-hot pleasure ripping through me. My hips jerked involuntarily, my whole body shaking, and I couldn’t stop myself from pressing deeper, chasing that high even as it overwhelmed me.

I was dimly aware of his body snapping tight, too, his thighs locking around my hips, his cries turning into screams as his third orgasm found him, hard and violent. God, but it felt so crazy—his hot little mouth spasming around my cock, squirting slick and come, his cock soaking us both. He clenched around me like he never wanted to let go.

“Maaaaaax—”

His screams threatened to grow louder, sharper, and I pressed my lips against his to muffle them, because he sounded like he was being murdered. “Ssshhh, baby. I’ve got you—” His muffled cries vibrated against my hand, his body shaking, trembling, breaking, and I groaned for the millionth time as I held him, held him still, held him together.

He let out a series of pitiful whimpers, his hands clutching at me, his body trembling as his climax faded, leaving him wrecked and boneless in my arms. My knot throbbed inside him, keeping us locked together, and I pressed gentle, tender kisses all over his face, huffing out shaky breaths. 

“I’ve got you,” I reassured him again, hoarsely. And I did. I’d have him forever.

Not just for now, not just while I was buried inside him, but always. Forever. His body, his scent, his fucking soul—they all belonged to me now. No one else could touch him. No one else could even look at him without knowing. Without smelling me on his skin, in his hair, in every fucking breath he took. Without seeing the way I'd bitten and marked him all up. Yeah, I’d made sure of that.

The thought sent a low, satisfied growl rumbling through my chest. He collapsed against me, his chest rising and falling in shallow, shaky breaths, his skin flushed, his lips swollen from my kisses. And he wasn’t just beautiful—he was marked. Ruined. His skin was soaked in my teeth marks and scent, and my knot was still locked inside him, holding him open, holding him mine.

Mine.

The word thundered through my brain, drowning out everything else. I didn’t care if it was too much, too soon, too fucking possessive. None of that mattered.

He was mine. I’d claimed him, and nothing—no one—could change that.

Chapter Text

The sunlight hit my eyes like a slap, and my phone blared the truth I couldn’t ignore: I’d missed class. For the first time in my life.

10:21 AM.

I blinked at my phone, half-dazed, trying to make sense of the numbers. It was bright outside, too bright. My blinds weren’t drawn all the way, and the sunlight stabbed at my eyes like a physical attack.

My genetics lecture started at 8am. My neuroscience seminar at 9:45. Both were gone now. Irretrievable. A void in my carefully structured day. I stared at the screen, my breaths coming too fast, my brain whirring with how fast I’d need to scramble to salvage the rest of my routine.

I sat up too fast, the ache in my hips and thighs flaring in protest. My entire body felt like it had been run through a gauntlet—sore, stiff, trembling. My knees wobbled as I swung my legs over the side of the bed.

Then it hit me.

The smell.

Him. My stomach twisted and I shoved the covers off me and stood on shaky legs, nearly tripping over the crumpled duvet in my rush to escape the room. Except there was no escaping it, not really—it was everywhere, a mix of alpha and slick and sweat, clinging to my sheets, my skin, everything.

I stumbled into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. My reflection in the mirror was a mess—hair sticking out in every direction, my skin pale and blotchy, and my neck—

Oh my God, my neck.

Bruises bloomed dark and angry across the pale skin, trailing down to my collarbone. Hickeys. Everywhere. I pressed a trembling hand to the biggest one, wincing at the faint sting, and nausea churned fresh in my stomach.

I turned the shower on, scalding hot, and stepped in without waiting for it to heat up fully. The water hit my skin like a slap, but I didn’t care. I washed methodically at first, then more furiously as the scent of him swirled like a ghost in the confined space. 

I scrubbed myself raw, my nails digging into my arms and chest, desperate to exorcise last night off me. But no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t get rid of the phantom sensations—his hands, his mouth, his scent. The way he’d looked at me. The way he’d wanted me.

The way I’d wanted him back.

I tried to tell myself that it was just biology. He’d triggered my heat with his idiocy and everything that had happened after that had been inevitable, like dominoes falling. But still, the memories were like a punch to the gut.

Max’s weight pressing me into the mattress. Max’s hands gripping my hips. Max’s voice, low and rough, as he growled, “You’re mine.”

I hated him.

But not as much as I hated myself.

I wanted to blame him. God, I wanted to. But the truth clung to me, heavy and inescapable, like the smell of him on my skin—I’d taken my scent patch off. I’d let this happen.

Leaving the soothing warmth of the shower, I set about restoring some semblance of order to my room. The sheets were an absolute disaster. Stained, wrinkled, damp in places I didn’t want to examine too closely. I balled them up and shoved them into my laundry basket, tying the bag shut as tightly as possible.

The smell still lingered, faint and cloying, clinging to the air. I yanked the window open and threw on my thickest turtleneck. It was itchy and hot, but it covered the bruises. Small mercies.

I spotted my phone on the desk, screen lit up with missed calls and text notifications. Max’s name flashed across every one of them. Because of course.

I locked the screen without reading a single message. I would not read them. Absolutely not. 

There was no use wallowing in it. My midday classes were waiting, and I needed to be the version of myself that wasn’t falling apart. I shoved my books into my bag, adjusted the collar of my turtleneck to hide the evidence, and stepped into the sunlight, determined to hold myself together. 

The campus was alive with its usual hum—voices in passing, bikes rattling over cobblestones. None of it reached me. My own steps felt heavier with every breath.

The two morning classes I’d missed were my favorites—one of them a seminar I’d looked forward to all weekend. The thought made my stomach twist again, but not as much as the knowledge that my professors would notice. They’d email me. Check on me. Because I was the student who never missed class. The responsible one. The professional one.

Professor Meyers would email by noon, no doubt. It would be polite, concerned—‘Is everything alright, Ainsley?’—but I’d feel the unspoken weight behind it. I wasn’t supposed to miss class. I wasn’t supposed to falter.

Being the highest-rated tutor on the Tutor Council came with its perks, sure—respect from professors, endless requests for help, and the unspoken title of Ridgeline’s academic celebrity—but it was also a constant weight.

My professors relied on me to keep discussions alive in class, often glancing my way to ensure someone would break the silence with a question or a theory. My classmates saw me as a role model, the perfect student who always had the right answer, the one to emulate.

But what they didn’t see was the pressure to maintain that image—to always perform, always excel. It wasn’t just about being good at what I did; it was about being the best, and anything less felt like failure.

And I was definitely failing now.

So much for being a professional, I thought bitterly as I walked across campus, my steps too slow, my muscles protesting every motion. You don’t let alphas get to you. You don’t take your scent patch off. You don’t…

But it didn’t matter how much I scolded myself. The memories came anyway, flooding through every crack in my resolve. The heat of his skin against mine. His growl in my ear. The way his hands had trembled when he touched me, like I was something fragile, precious— something his.

Max had looked at me like I wasn’t just something to have but something to hold. That should’ve made it worse. Instead, it made it…

Impossible to forget.

Chapter Text

The lecture hall for Advanced Neuropharmacology felt hotter than usual, though I knew it wasn’t. My itchy turtleneck was doing me no favors, and every movement reminded me of the aches that refused to fade. I kept my head down, scribbling notes I’d probably have to rewrite later, willing myself to focus.

I felt wrong. Like my body didn’t belong to me anymore. Like I’d been cracked open and something vital had spilled out, leaving me hollow. My mind kept circling back to the same questions. What have I done? What do I do now? Can I fix this?

It wasn’t just the fact that I’d gone into heat, though that had been the catalyst. A spontaneous heat, no less, triggered by nothing more than his proximity, his scent. It was fascinating in a way that set my scientific brain on fire and terrified the rest of me. Spontaneous heats were rare. Exceptionally rare. They only happened under specific circumstances—biological compatibility, heightened pheromone levels, mutual attraction.

Attraction.

The word made my stomach twist, a sharp pang that left me breathless. I was attracted to Max. There was no denying it now, no matter how much I wanted to. My body had already betrayed me, reacting to him in ways I’d never experienced with anyone else. Not with the perfunctory beta partners I’d taken to avoid alphas. Not with anyone.

I couldn’t tutor him anymore. That much was clear. The thought was both a relief and a weight, sitting heavy in my chest like an anchor where it didn’t belong. Relief, because walking away from this mess—the tangled web of Max’s scent, his touch, and everything I’d let happen—felt like the only way to salvage my professionalism.

But the weight? That was harder to pin down. It wasn’t just guilt, though there was plenty of that to go around. It was something sharper, deeper, gnawing at the edges of my resolve.

I hadn’t had a chance to pack lunch this morning, and I told myself that was the reason for the pang in my chest. Low blood sugar, nothing more. The hollow feeling wasn’t about him. It couldn’t be.

Almost there. Just survive this class, and you can—

“Kerrigan.” Professor Malik’s voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and expectant.

My stomach plummeted. I’d been hoping for today, of all days, to be the one where I wasn’t called upon, but apparently that was too much to hope for. Professor Malik’s gaze locked upon me, curious and unwavering, and I met it, tilting my head.

“Research suggests that scent memories can become permanently linked to emotional or hormonal events. How might these pathways be mitigated or overwritten in individuals prone to heats triggered by specific scents?”

The room went still. Every head turned my way, every pair of eyes boring into me. Of all the questions… I swallowed hard, forcing myself to sit straighter. “Scent memories,” I began, keeping my voice steady, “are heavily encoded in the hippocampus, which makes them particularly resilient to extinction.”

I paused, buying time to suppress the rising panic clawing at my chest. Memories of last night surged forward—his scent, his growl, his hands—and I shoved them down with all the force I could muster.

“But,” I continued, my fingers tightening around my pen, “there are potential pharmacological interventions. Repeated exposure to a neutralizing agent, combined with neuroplasticity-enhancing drugs, could theoretically weaken the connection. Alternatively, using targeted olfactory inhibitors during the initial event might prevent the memory from forming as strongly.”

Right. As if I could scrub last night out of my brain the same way I’d scrubbed my skin raw in the shower. Like there was some magical drug that could erase the way Max had looked at me, touched me. The way I’d let him. 

I was a hypocrite, honestly. Spouting solutions I’d failed to follow, proposing fixes for problems I’d walked straight into. 

“Interesting,” Professor Malik said, nodding thoughtfully. “And would you suggest any psychological conditioning alongside the pharmacological approach?”

I hesitated, sensing the trap. “While psychological conditioning may help reinforce neutral associations, it would need to be carefully tailored to avoid further stress responses.”

“Well put,” she said, and I felt a flicker of relief.

“I don’t know,” came a smooth, infuriating drawl from a few rows behind me. “It sounds like a lot of work for something as simple as self-discipline.”

Francis Devereux was everything I hated wrapped in a perfect package—sharp, polished, and maddeningly smug. As another omega CPE, he was more a peer to me than other classmates. Everyone was convinced we had some sort of rivalry going on, given how he constantly needled me at every opportunity, and they might’ve been right, because I couldn’t stand him.

The room shifted. A few students chuckled nervously, but I didn’t turn, instead staying planted in my seat and tightening my grip on my pen until my knuckles ached.

“Self-discipline?” I said, my voice cold. “You’re suggesting someone consciously override the neural cascades of their own limbic system? That’s not self-discipline—it’s science fiction.”

I didn’t have to look back to know that Francis was wearing a smirk. “Maybe. But doesn’t it come down to personal responsibility? If you know a scent could trigger a reaction, isn’t it on you to avoid it?”

My blood roared in my ears. He couldn’t know. He didn’t know. He was just being Francis, needling me for sport, and yet the words landed like a slap. Francis always knew where to aim. He didn’t just throw barbs; he aimed for the cracks, the places you didn’t want anyone to see. “Avoidance isn’t always an option,” I said tightly. “Biological responses don’t wait for convenient timing.”

“So you’re saying it’s inevitable? That we’re all just prisoners of our biology?”

“That’s not what I said,” I snapped, my composure slipping. “But pretending it’s as simple as willpower is reductive and irresponsible. If we’re discussing solutions, they need to be based in science, not armchair moralizing.”

“Touchy today, aren’t we?” Francis’s honeyed voice was unbothered, amused even. The scratchy turtleneck felt tighter with every breath, a constant reminder of the bruises hidden underneath. The more Francis spoke, the more I felt like the fabric was suffocating me.

Thankfully, Professor Malik cut in then, her voice sharp.  “Gentlemen, I appreciate the debate, but let’s move on. Kerrigan, excellent analysis. Mr. Devereux, next time, save the tangents for your own presentations.”

By the time class ended, I was a mess. My notes were useless, my focus shattered, and I felt no closer to salvaging what was left of my day. As the lecture hall emptied, I stayed seated, staring blankly at the page in front of me.

I wasn’t sure what weighed more—the useless notes in my bag or the decision I knew I had to make.

The library was quiet in the way libraries always were—hushed voices, the faint rustle of pages turning, and the muted clicks of keyboards. I sat in my usual corner by the window, a cup of coffee growing colder by the minute and a half-eaten sandwich sitting limply in its wrapper.

Normally, this was my sanctuary—a space where I could focus, organize, and restore order to the chaos of academia. But the email draft was still open on my laptop, the cursor blinking at the end of a line I’d read and rewritten a dozen times.

Vaughn,
I regret to inform you that I am no longer able to provide tutoring services due to personal conflicts. I will notify the Tutor Council to assign you to someone else. I apologize for the inconvenience and wish you the best of luck in your studies.

My finger hovered over the Send button. One click, and this mess would be behind me.

“Gruuuuuuuñón, darling!”

The unmistakable sing-song lilt of Theo’s voice sliced through the tranquil air like a spotlight in the middle of a crime scene. My stomach sank as I spotted him making his way over, flamboyant and determined, armed with what could only be described as maximum Theo energy . 

“I’m working,” I muttered, willing him to turn around. 

But, of course, he didn’t. He was already sliding into the chair across from me, his bag landing on the floor with a dramatic thud. I suppressed a sigh, taking in his ridiculous scarf and winged eyeliner and pressed slacks.

“You’re always working, mi vida,” Theo complained, pouting as he planted his elbows on the table. “We haven’t hung out in days and I need to yap, okay? Besties yap and you know how I get when I can’t yap.”

I sighed, picking up my coffee and taking a sip of the lukewarm bitterness. “Okay. Fine. Yap.”

“Okay, so…” Theo grinned, pulling out his phone. “The subject of today’s yap is: me, my linebacker, and a series of texts so atrocious that I’m obsessed.”

“Linebacker?” I repeated, arching a brow in question. In answer, he thrust his phone at me. The screen displayed a text thread filled with typos, misplaced punctuation, and a sea of emojis.

Squinting at the screen, I read aloud. “You so pritty. Want 2 c u again sooo bad. Heart emoji, fire emoji… peach emoji?” What did that even mean? 

Theo beamed, clearly delighted by my horror. “Isn’t he lindo como la mierda? Like a caveman with a smartphone.”

“He’s illiterate,” I corrected. “I lost several IQ points just reading that.” And yet, my lips twitched. 

Theo scrolled to another gem, sniggering. “Oh, you’ll love this one. ‘Plzz answr my txt. Im dyin over here. Skull emoji with crying face emoji.’ He totally has the emotional range of a Shakespearean tragedy.”

I rolled my eyes, but something about the earnestness of the texts—ridiculous as they were—made my stomach flip uncomfortably. My fingers suddenly itched for my own phone, to finally look at the messages I had avoided all day, and I squeezed the edge of the table to stop myself. And of course Theo noticed.

“You okay, gruñón?” Theo asked, tilting his head. “You’re quieter than usual. And by that, I mean you look like you’ve swallowed a brick.”

“I’m fine,” I mumbled, lowering my gaze back to my laptop and pretending the blinking cursor was suddenly interesting. 

But Theo was having none of it. He leaned closer, peering at me like he was trying to x-ray my soul. “Oh no, no, no. I know that look. Dios mio, what is wrong with you lately? Beans. Now.”

“There are no beans,” I said quickly, turning my laptop slightly to block his view of the screen.

Theo’s sharp gaze lingered on me for a beat too long. Then his eyes zeroed in on my neck.

I froze.

“Ainsley…” His voice dropped into a low, dangerous drawl.

I yanked at the collar of my turtleneck, trying to pull it higher, but Theo’s hand darted out, grabbing my wrist and pulling it away. “Oh, it’s something,” he said, his tone gleeful now. His sharp gaze scanned the edge of a bruise that had slipped into view. “Are those—Dios mio, are those hickeys?”

“No,” I lied, my voice cracking.

“Yes, they are!” Theo exclaimed, far too loudly for the library. A nearby student shushed him, and he paid them zero attention whatsoever. “You’re covered in them. Estrellita, who mauled you?”

“It’s not what it looks like,” I hissed. Fuck.

“Oh, darling, it looks like someone thought your neck was a buffet.” Theo leaned closer, his grin wicked. “Was it Evan? Please tell me it wasn’t Evan.”

“It wasn’t Evan,” I snapped before I could stop myself. I hadn’t had even seen Evan in weeks, much less had sex with him. Then I winced, realizing my mistake as Theo’s eyes gleamed with predatory delight. God, Evan would’ve been the perfect excuse.

Then again, Theo would’ve never reasonably believed that Evan, a perfectly behaved beta wired for law, would’ve afflicted such carnage on me. He was deliberate, methodical, predictable to the point of tedium. The kind of partner who asked permission before touching, who followed the script of an omega’s preferences like a courtroom argument laid out in precise bullet points. He had never have dared to overwhelm or push me, or take anything I hadn’t already pre-approved.

Max, on the other hand, had rewritten the entire playbook in a single night.

“Oh, so it wasn’t Evan,” he purred. “So Evan’s old news. Fascinating. Was it… Francis?”

I didn’t even dignify that with a response, instead making a face at him that was a cross between disgusted and what is wrong with you? 

“Good, because that would’ve been weird.” Theo tapped his chin, his smirk growing. “Was it someone from class? Or—oh my God, don’t tell me it was your Neuroscience professor. You’ve always had a thing for him.”

“I have not ,” I hissed, glaring at him. “His class just so happens to be one of my favorites.”

“Hmmm. Vamos a ver … Oh! Did you finally hook up with that philosophy TA? The one with the tragically bad haircut but great cheekbones?”

I glared harder, which only made Theo lean back in his chair and regroup, eyes glittering with unholy glee. His finger tapped against his chin again, a gesture that signaled his chaotic brain was about to unleash something entirely unhinged. I braced myself.

“You know…” Theo began, dragging out the word like he was savoring it.

“No,” I said flatly, even though I had no idea what he was about to say.

He ignored me entirely. “I had the most fascinating conversation last night. Muy esclarecedor.”

“Oh, God,” I muttered, pressing my fingers to my temples. “Theo, please don’t.”

But he was already off, his grin widening like a cat spotting a mouse. “I was at this party—classic tequila-fueled chaos, you know how it is. Actually, you don’t. But anyway, Brody was there. And you’ll never guess what he told me.”

I do not want to guess, I almost said, except I knew he’d just ignore me. Again. There was no waylaying Theo when he got into sleuth-mode or thought he knew something. 

Sure enough, Theo leaned in like he was about to share a state secret. “We were drunk—like, muy borracho, tequila-straight-from-the-bottle drunk—and for some reason, we decided to see who could do the dumbest cartwheel off the pool table.”

I stared at him, horrified. I hated everything about this already.

“Brody’s cartwheel was atrocious,” Theo continued, unfazed. “But that’s not the point. The point is, while we were sprawled on the floor, probably concussed, he mentioned the most fascinating thing.”

“I really don’t want to hear this,” I finally managed aloud, though my voice wavered, betraying my curiosity.

Theo smirked, sensing blood in the water. “He said—get this—that his team captain, Maxwell Vaughn—you know, Ridgeline’s golden boy, quarterback, and alpha poster child—is being tutored by the best omega tutor on campus.” He paused for dramatic effect, tilting his head as he studied me. “Care to comment, estrellita?”

He may as well have yanked the table and chair out from under me. I tried to control my violent eye twitch, but it was too late. He’d already seen it.

Honestly, I don’t know why I hadn’t predicted something of this sort happening. I’d thought that Ridgeline was a large enough campus, but Theo was well-liked by everyone and managed to worm his way into the most obscure circles. Last semester, he’d gained the entire chess club contact list from a single party. He knew nothing chess-related and cared about it even less, yet somehow he still stayed in touch with them.

I was expressly forbidden from discussing Max with him and I’d broken enough rules already that I refused to break this one, too. Even if I hadn’t been, Theo wasn’t exactly known for giving solid advice. He preferred drama to order.

Aloud, I managed to grit out a flimsy denial, willing him to drop it. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, but it does, ” Theo said, his grin turning devilish. “Because you are the best omega tutor on campus. And, Dios mio , now that I think about it…” He trailed off for a dramatic pause, leaning forward as his eyes widened. “It’s him, isn’t it? Max Vaughn mauled you.”

My stomach dropped. “That’s ridiculous,” I muttered, shoving my laptop an inch closer to the edge of the table, like I could physically barricade myself from his accusations.

“Ridiculous, huh?” Theo wasn’t buying it. “Is that why you’re wearing a turtleneck in eighty-degree weather? Or why you’ve been twitchier than a caffeinated pony all week?”

“I am not twitchy,” I snapped, tugging at the offending collar. “And for the record, it’s called professionalism. Something you wouldn’t understand.”

Theo’s eyes gleamed, and I immediately regretted the jab. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms smugly. “Sure, estrellita. Professionalism. Or maybe you just didn’t want anyone else to see the alfa’s claim on you.”

I flinched so hard my knee hit the underside of the table, and Theo practically squealed in delight. Goddamn it.

“It’s not like that,” I tried to insist, but my voice was weak and cracked embarrassingly, which made my face burn. There was no way out of this, I realized dimly. Theo knew me far too well, unfortunately.

“It’s exactly like that,” Theo said, wagging a finger at me. “Ainsley Kerrigan, seduced by Ridgeline’s golden boy. You’re living a fanfic right now, and I am absolutely living for it.”

“I hate you,” I gritted out. “I can’t talk about anything to do with my tutees and you know it, Theo.” 

“You love me,” Theo shot back, undeterred. “And yeah, Señor perfección, I know all about your stupid rules. Professionalism and ethics, yada yada. But you’re like, having the best sex of your life, right? Don’t deny it, the hickeys tell me everything. I mean, come on—the alfa quarterback? A senator’s son? Gruñón, mi amor, viví un poco.”

I forced myself to breathe, counting backward from ten until the heat subsided. Then I opened my laptop again, resolute. No more hesitation. No more second-guessing. The email stared back at me, as cold and impersonal as I needed it to be, and I didn’t read it again. I clicked the Send button.

There.

The ache in my chest didn’t go away, but it dulled, becoming a quiet, persistent thrum instead of a sharp, twisting pain. I told myself it was for the best. I’d done what I had to do. Max would find another tutor. Someone who could handle him without falling apart.

Someone who wasn’t me.

I let out a shaky breath and leaned back in my chair, lifting my gaze to Theo triumphantly. “As of right now, I’m no longer tutoring him.”

Theo snorted. “Oh, estrellita. What did you just do? Send off a strongly worded email about how much you enjoyed him feasting on your neck and you’re so boring that you can’t bring yourself to let it happen again? Gruñón, you know as well as I do that alphas don’t take no for an answer when it comes to something—or someone—they want. And judging by your neck, Vaughn definitely wants you.”

The urge to snap at him that there had been external circumstances rose up but I clenched my teeth around it. I couldn’t even so much as slightly tell Theo about the scent patch incidents or the dorm study sessions or, God forbid, last night. Him knowing that I’d tutored Max and thinking something immoral had transpired was only hearsay without me verbally confirming any of the details.

“It’s no longer my concern,” I said, deliberately vague as I glared at him. Willing him to shut up. 

“Sure, sure,” Theo said, waving a hand dismissively. “But if Vaughn shows up outside your dorm with flowers and a serenade, you’d better tell me immediately.”

I wasn’t hungry, but I pulled my sandwich closer, tearing it apart piece by piece as if dismantling it would somehow bring clarity to my own tangled thoughts. Theo droned on, switching from wild theories about my personal life to an increasingly absurd story about Brody trying to serenade him with a karaoke rendition of “My Heart Will Go On.” Apparently, there had been tequila. And crying.

Normally, I would’ve rolled my eyes, maybe even cracked a smile. Instead, I nodded when it seemed appropriate, gave a hum of acknowledgment here and there, and kept my focus fixed on the crumbs I was scattering across the table. My chest felt tight, my skin too hot beneath the weight of my turtleneck, and none of it had anything to do with Theo’s antics.

Eventually—mercifully—he ran out of steam and left, breezing out of the library. Silence settled in again, broken only by the soft hum of the library’s air conditioning and the faint murmur of other students.

I sat back in my chair, staring blankly at my sandwich, then at the blinking cursor on my laptop. The email was gone, sent. I glanced at my phone. The screen was still lit up with notifications, Max’s name glaring back at me like a challenge.

I didn’t open them. Couldn’t. My thumb hovered for a moment before I dropped the phone onto the table, face down.

My gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the trees swayed gently in the breeze, their branches scraping against the glass like they were trying to claw their way in. It felt fitting. I’d spent all day clawing at myself, trying to scrub away his touch, his scent, his voice—

No one else gets this. No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to fuck you like this. You’re mine.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

You ever feel like you just won the freaking lottery? Like, not even the regular one—the mega one where you’re suddenly rich enough to buy an island and fill it with rescue dogs?

That was me.

Sitting there in that crappy lecture hall, staring down at my calculus test with a big, fat B on it, I felt like a goddamn genius. I hadn’t just passed, I’d thrived. It was a masterpiece. A miracle. I ignored my professor when he called it barely passing—dude was a hater—and practically floated out of the lecture hall, the scarf I’d snagged from Ainsley’s dorm stuffed in my jacket pocket.

It had spent a good deal of its life wrapped around his neck and if I held it close enough, I could detect his honeyed scent. Nothing like the real, fresh deal, but good enough to keep my brain braining. And my dick half-hard.

He was the first person I wanted to tell about my B. I wanted to hear that snarky-ass voice of his, all sharp and proper, telling me “congratulations” like I hadn’t just blown his mind less than twelve hours ago. He’d looked at me like I was a dumbass with two brain cells when we first met, but now? Now I wanted him to look at me like I’d leveled up. Like I’d impressed him. Like I’d made him proud.

And yeah, if we’re being honest, I wanted to see him. Just seeing him would’ve been enough to make my day better. But even better than that? I wanted to get my hands on him again. On all that attitude and sharp wit that had melted into something soft and desperate last night.

Last night.

Holy shit. Last night.

I’ve had sex before. Plenty of it. Good sex, great sex—the kind that gets you high-fives in the locker room and makes you strut around campus like you’re king of the world. I’ve hooked up in dorm rooms, back seats, even once in a sauna (pro tip: don’t). And ruts? Been there, done that. Usually just me, a sock, and some furious energy.

But last night? Last night wrecked me.

It wasn’t just sex. It was something primal. My brain had checked out completely, and my body had taken over, running on instincts I didn’t even know I had. Every growl, every thrust, every movement—it wasn’t me thinking; it was me knowing. Knowing he was mine. Knowing he was perfect.

His scent… Christ, his scent. It was everywhere, so thick and potent it was like my brain had been rewired on the spot. He’d totally given me control instead of fighting me. The way he clung to me, trembling and gasping like I was the only thing keeping him grounded—it was everything.

And don’t even get me started on his slick. It was everywhere. I couldn’t get enough of it, couldn’t get enough of him. It was like my rut was screaming at me: this is it. This is yours. Don’t let go. Every sound he made, every twitch of his body, every shiver and gasp—it all felt like it was made for me. Like he was made for me.

When he screamed my name—actually screamed it—like it was the only word he could say? Yeah, that’s burned into my brain forever. And his neck? Marked up like I’d claimed him for life. Which, now that I think about it… maybe I kinda had?

But it wasn’t just the sex. Okay, the sex was insane—like, championship-level, “better than any touchdown I’ve ever scored” kind of insane—but it was more than that. It was the way he felt. Not just under my hands, but next to me. The way his voice softened when he whispered my name, the way he touched me afterward, hesitant but lingering, like he didn’t want me to leave.

And that’s the craziest part. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay. I wanted to wake up next to him, drag him to some greasy diner, and make him roll his eyes at me over pancakes. I wanted all that stupid dating shit I’ve spent my whole life avoiding.

Maybe it was post-nut insanity, but I wanted it. Him. All of it. Zero to a million, want it now, give it to me.

But he wasn’t answering my texts.

My chest puffed up a little at first, thinking about how good last night had been, how into it he’d been. But the longer he stayed silent, the more doubt started creeping in. What if he didn’t want that? What if it was just the heat? What if it was just… nothing? Was it just biology? Or did it mean something more? What if he regretted it?

I pulled out my phone and stared at my phone, willing it to light up. Come on, Ainsley. Say something.

Swallowing a groan, I dialed his number, only to frown when it dialed forever before going to voicemail. Okay, maybe he was busy. He had that whole nerdy omega schedule of his, packed to the brim with classes and whatever else smart people did all day. I’d try again later. No big deal.

I’d texted him not long after I’d left his dorm. Just something quick. Nothing major. Real casual. No response yet, but I texted him again. 

“Bro! How’d you do?”

I turned to spot Zach approaching me out of the line of students who’d exited the lecture hall. I hadn’t answered his last texts, but he was grinning, the same cocky grin he put on when he knew that he’d killed something. Zach was a Business major, too, but he was specializing in Sports Management—whatever the hell that meant. He was decent at calculus. Somehow.

I grinned back at him, wordlessly lifting the paper for his inspection. He snatched it from me and barked out an incredulous laugh. “Nice, dude. Doodled that F into a B real good.”

“Asshole.” My grin faded into an exaggerated pout, as I knocked my shoulder into his. “This B is cisgender as fuck, I’ll have you know.”

He rolled his eyes, handing the paper back to me. “Whatever. You think Coach will think it’s real?”

“Dude, it is real,” I shot back, clutching the paper like it was a winning lottery ticket. “And I’m about to shove it in his face. He’s gonna unbench me on the spot. Watch.”

Zach snorted, falling into step beside me and slinging an arm over my shoulder as we headed toward the locker room. “I fucking hope so. I can’t take any more spaghetti on the field.”

“He will. He’s got to,” I insisted. “I mean, do you even know how hard I worked for this? Blood, sweat, and tears. Literal tears, dude. Ainsley’s a savage.”

“Oh, the omega genius strikes again,” Zach said, his grin widening. “What’s his schedule like? You think he’d do a one-on-one study session with me? I could, like, light some candles, bring snacks, make it a whole thing.”

“He’s booked.” The words came out automatically and I didn’t take them back. For some reason, the thought of Ainsley tutoring Zach made my hackles rise.

“Yeah? Not everyone needs to be the son of a senator to get some strings pulled. You forgetting that the Dean has the hots for me?”

The Dean of Ridgeline was an 82-year-old, happily married beta who, I was pretty sure, did not have the hots for Zach. She just really liked seeing him run in his uniform. She wouldn’t pull any strings for Zach, I was sure of it… would she?

“He’s booked,” I repeated, my voice dropping into a growl. Zach either didn’t pick up on my tone or he didn’t care—both were likely. I’d told him about Ainsley, but not everything. I hadn’t responded to his text asking me if I was studying or studying.

“You said his last name was Kerrigan, right? Pretty sure I’ve seen him around campus before. Tiny little thing with gauges and glasses—”

I don’t know why, but for a split second, I got pissed off. Like really pissed, more pissed than I’ve ever been in my entire life. Pissed enough to shove Zach into the nearest wall of lockers, so suddenly that he would’ve flattened two students if they hadn’t scrambled out of the way last minute.

“Dude, I already said he’s fucking booked.” I growled, my voice lower than I meant it to be as I glared at him, my jaw tight. “Stay the hell away from him.”

He straightened himself out, turning back to face me. For half a second, his cocky grin faltered into a hurt expression—which I knew was fake, because he’d taken harder hits on the field—before he raised his hands, palms out.

Other students had either edged away or scattered entirely, but I still scanned the hallway nervously, wondering if anyone had seen my outburst. I’d only shoved him, but I’d seen other alphas get hauled off to Instinct Counseling for less.

There were some alphas who liked violence and assumed I did too because I played football, but I wasn’t. Even my trash talk was terrible. Yet here I was, ready to shred my best friend at the thought of him being anywhere near Ainsley and him talking about him like he knew him. 

I told myself it was because Zach didn’t actually know anything about Ainsley. He might’ve seen him around before, sure, but he didn’t know him. Didn’t know about the way he scrunched his nose when I gave a dumb answer or the way his voice softened when he got really into explaining something. Didn’t know about the way he smelled, like honey and books and something I couldn’t even put into words.

And he definitely didn’t know how Ainsley looked last night—hair a mess, cheeks flushed, all that sharp attitude melted away into soft, breathless gasps.

I thought about shoving Zach again, harder. My hands twitched at my sides, but I forced myself to step back, my chest heaving. This wasn’t me. I didn’t get into fights. But Ainsley wasn’t just anyone, and the idea of Zach even thinking about him—

“Whoa, dude, what’s your problem?” he whined, his tone half-confused, half-amused. “I was just joking. It’s not like he’s your boyfriend or anything.”

“Don’t joke about him,” I snapped. 

Zach tilted his head, his grin creeping back like he was starting to piece it together. “Wait a second,” he said, pointing at me. “This isn’t about tutoring, is it? Oh my God, you’ve got a thing for him. You into nerds, bro?”

A part of me wanted to tell him that hell yes, I had a thing for Ainsley. But I knew he’d just make it a joke about my dick and I knew I couldn’t handle getting chirped about my feelings just yet. To be fair, last night had involved so much sex I’d been worried my dick would fall off but still… I’d never felt this way about anyone I’d had sex with—like they were mine.

My jaw tightened. “Shut up.” 

Zach laughed, his cocky confidence in full swing now. “No way. Whistler Vaughn, the king of one-night stands, is all twisted up over a tiny little nerd omega? Bro, that’s richer than your parents.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I growled, my hands twitching with the urge to shove him again. 

“Oh, I don’t?” Zach said, raising an eyebrow. “The second I say he’s cute, you’re ready to throw hands. That’s not territorial at all.”

“It’s not,” I said through gritted teeth, though my voice didn’t exactly sell it.

Zach smirked, crossing his arms. “Yeah, sure. And I’m a fucking omega. Dude, it’s fine. You like him. Big deal. Just say it.”

I shoved past him and started walking again, my pulse pounding in my ears. “Drop it, Zach.” 

“Can’t.” He caught up to me, slinging his arm around my shoulder again. “I’m too invested now. This is my new favorite thing. Just what kind of tutoring are you guys doing?”

I groaned and walked faster.

I figured I’d tell Coach about my B, he’d slap me on the back, call me a genius, and let me back on the team.

But that wasn’t what happened.

“Two semesters,” Coach said, his voice flat and final.

“What?” I blinked at him, sure I’d misheard.

“You’re benched for two semesters,” he repeated. The words hung in the air, all calm and detached, but they made no sense. None. Two semesters… How long was that again?

I started trying to do the math in my head, but it was like someone had poured motor oil into my brain. Focus, Vaughn. Okay, so one semester was like… four months? Or five? And there was fall, and then spring, and then—wait. Wait.

My stomach dropped as the numbers finally clicked into place. Two semesters meant the whole season. Not just a couple of games, not just the playoffs—the entire fucking season. And then spring training…

It was like getting blindsided on the field, only worse. At least when you get sacked, you know it’s coming. This? This was a straight-up sucker punch.

I stuttered out a nervous laugh and leaned forwards, tapping my calculus grade. “No, no. Coach. This is a B. A B. Need me to get your reading glasses?”

Coach didn’t look down at my grade. Instead he just stared at me, unimpressed. “Do you even know how GPAs work, Vaughn?”

“Of course I do," I lied.

“Then you’d know a 1.2 GPA doesn’t magically become a 2.0 because of one B,” Coach Freeman snapped, his frustration seeping through his usually steady tone. “Do you think I didn’t fight for you? As soon as I got you in with your tutor, I filed for an eligibility extension, arguing to the athletic department that you were finally turning things around. I told them you’d do better, that this semester would be different, but they weren’t buying it. They’ve been bending over backwards to keep you eligible for as long as possible, Max, and they’re fed up. They made it clear—if you didn’t hit the GPA requirement by the end of last semester, you’d be benched for two semesters, no exceptions.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I didn’t tell you right away because I was trying to buy you time. I thought maybe—just maybe—if you pulled off a miracle, I could get them to reconsider. But getting one good grade too late doesn’t fix this mess. You’re still on academic probation, and you’re not playing football until you’re off it. End of story.”

“But if you average it out with the other grades, doesn’t the B, like, pull the whole thing up? Like how if you mix a bad protein shake with a good one, it’s just okay?” I was whining at this point and I knew it, but I couldn’t stop myself. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t right. This was bullshit. There had to be a mistake or something.

This couldn’t be happening. I’d worked so hard. I’d gotten the damn B. What was the point of tutoring if I was still screwed? Did Coach not get how much it sucked to study instead of hitting the field? 

“No,” Coach said flatly. That was it. Just no.

My jaw dropped. “But I worked my ass off! Blood, sweat, tears—literal tears, Coach. Do you know how hard it is to learn calculus when your brain’s not built for math?!”

“I don’t care if you climbed Mount Everest for that B,” Coach shot back, his tone clipped. “You’re benched.”

My pulse pounded in my ears. Two semesters. Benched. My vision blurred with rage, and I felt my hands twitching at my sides, like they couldn’t decide whether to punch something or throw the damn test in his face.

“So who’s gonna be team captain now, huh? Let me guess—fucking Noodle Arms McGee,” I growled, already grinding my teeth just thinking about it. The idea of Justin strutting around with my patch made my blood boil.

Coach didn’t even flinch. “Actually,” he said, calm as ever, “I’m making McAllister the interim team captain.”

“What?” The word exploded out of me before I could stop it. “You’re kidding, right? You’re putting Zach in my spot? Zach?”

My voice was rising, and I could feel my fists clenching at my sides, but I didn’t care. Zach? My best friend? Wearing my patch? It felt like getting sacked by my own teammate—unexpected and way too personal.

Coach crossed his arms, giving me that look like I was being dramatic (which, fine, maybe I was, but still). “McAllister’s the logical choice,” he said. “He’s been on the team just as long as you, he’s consistent, and the guys respect him.”

“Oh, so it’s just that easy, huh?” I snapped, my chest heaving. “I bust my ass for this team, and the second I’m out, you’re ready to hand it over to Zach like it’s nothing? What, did he ask for it?”

“Of course not,” Coach said, his tone sharp. “This isn’t about you, Vaughn. It’s about what’s best for the team.”

That hit harder than it should’ve. My jaw clenched, and I glared at the floor, trying to swallow down the lump rising in my throat. What’s best for the team? Wasn’t I what was best for the team? Hadn’t I proven that over and over again? And now, what—because of some stupid grades, I was just… replaceable?

“I thought I was what was best for the team,” I muttered, my voice low but tight with anger.

Coach’s eyes softened for a moment, but it only made me angrier. Pity? Really? Like I was some sad puppy that needed coddling? Screw that.

“Get your grades up, Vaughn,” he said finally, his tone firm. “This isn’t permanent. You’ll get your chance to lead again. But for now, McAllister’s stepping up. That’s the end of it.”

Zach. My best friend. Wearing my patch.

“Also,” Coach added sternly, “I heard about you shoving McAllister in the hallway. You’re spiraling, kid. Get it together, or your bench time will turn into retirement.”

“You might as fucking well!” I yelled before I could stop myself, jumping to my feet. I was pissed. My chest heaved as I glared at him, and before I could stop myself, I grabbed my calculus test and threw it at his face.

Except I forgot to crumple it, so it just kind of… floated to the ground.

Which made me more pissed.

“You don’t get it!” I shouted. “This is my life, Coach! Football is all I’ve got! You think GPAs matter when you’re throwing touchdowns? You think scouts are gonna care about calculus when I’m out there winning games?”

“Get it together, Vaughn,” Coach repeated, shaking his head. “Or don’t bother coming back.”

My chest tightened. My head spun. This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

I turned and stormed out of the office. Or at least, I tried to. I banged my shin on the chair I’d been sitting in and ended up limping out, muttering curses under my breath while I could’ve sworn Coach was laughing under his breath. Stupid fucking chair.

Two semesters. A whole goddamn year. My life was over.

The cafeteria was a zoo. Pure, unfiltered, food-scented chaos. A weird, overwhelming mix of pizza, stale fries, mystery meat, and something vaguely sweet—probably cookies or donuts or something. It didn’t smell bad, but it didn’t smell good either.

And it was loud—a symphony of yelling, laughing, trays clattering, forks scraping against plates, and someone slamming down cards at one of the corner tables. A couple of guys were shouting over each other about some game they’d just played, while a group of sorority girls giggled way too loud near the salad bar. Somewhere behind me, someone screamed, “UNO!”

I’d tried calling Ainsley again, with no answer. And again. And a third time. No answer at all. I’d sent three—okay, six—more texts to him, because I didn’t know who else to talk to. I had so many questions. How did GPAs work? Could he talk to Coach and unbench me somehow? Did he hate me because I hadn’t said goodbye this morning? Were we dating now? Was he sore?

I texted him again.

i kno ur busy but plz text me back. i’m spiraling 🔥🫣 i miss ur scent nd ur brain nd ur face plz

And again, nothing. Not even so much as three little dots or a ‘read’ notification. Maybe he didn’t have those turned on? But either way—why. Wasn’t. He. Responding.

Today was the worst day of my life, officially. I was benched for two semesters, Zach was team captain now, and Ainsley wasn’t texting me back. It couldn’t possibly get any worse than this. 

My crew—Zach, Brody, Kyle, and Jake—sat in the far corner, the self-proclaimed kings of the cafeteria. Zach was leaning back in his chair, gesturing wildly with a fry, while Kyle was halfway through a spaghetti plate that looked like it could feed three people.

I shoved through the crowd, dodging someone carrying a tray stacked with an alarming amount of cookies, and made a beeline for the table. Zach saw me first, grinning like the asshole he was. I glared at him. 

“Yo, Whistler!” he called, leaning back like he owned the place. “These idiots are chugging marinara sauce. Wanna join?”

Normally, I would’ve said sure because I was positive I could outchug the best of them, but not today. Instead I slammed my backpack down with a loud thwack and ignored him. “Two semesters,” I growled, dropping into the seat like a sack of bricks.

“What?” Brody asked, pausing mid-chug, marinara sauce dripping from his chin.

“I’m benched for two goddamn semesters,” I snapped, glaring at my plate like it had personally betrayed me. 

“No way!” Zach gasped, clutching his heart dramatically. Jake pretended to faint, falling into Kyle, except instead of catching him, Kyle scooted to the side and Jake fell onto the floor in a heap. He groaned, rolling around while the others laughed at him.

“Shit,” Brody muttered, biting into his sandwich. “What’d you do?”

“I failed calculus, Brody,” I snapped, throwing my hands up. “Failed with a B somehow. A B! You’d think that’d fix it, right? Wrong. Coach said my GPA’s still trash and benched me for the whole fucking season.”

Jake winced. “That’s rough, dude.”

“Yeah, no shit,” I muttered, pulling out my phone and checking it for the millionth time. Still no response from Ainsley. “You guys are stuck with fucking Chef Boyardee for a quarterback for the next year. Dude’s got no sauce. None. Mark my fucking words, Coach’s renaming the team Ridgeline Noodles.”

“We’re all fucking Spaghettios now,” Kyle groaned, twirling a forkful of spaghetti for effect.

Brody snorted. “Bro, don’t forget the meatballs. Gotta have those weak-ass frozen meatballs for the D-line.”

“That’s you, idiot. You’re a meatball,” Kyle pointed out.

“Nah, nah, the whole offense is basically ramen at this point,” Brody corrected himself, grinning. “Cheap, soggy, and falling apart the second you touch it.”

I shook my head. “Ramen’s too good for this team. We’re fucking dollar-store mac and cheese now. Powdered cheese, no milk. That’s what Chef Boyardee brings to the table.”

I’d texted Ainsley probably fifteen times by now but I texted him again as all the guys laughed. I knew that what was spouting from my fingertips at this point was most likely pure filth, but I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to know what he was doing and if he was thinking about last night as much as I was.

Plus Ainsley would know what to do about the disaster that had become my life. He always knew what to do. And if he didn’t? At least he’d tell me I was an idiot in that sharp, sarcastic voice I liked way too much.

tbh my life’s over. gonna live in a van by the river. 😤🔥
can u believe i got a 🅱️ nd it didnt help
ok but fr… 2 whole semesters. TWO. like… how do gpas even work??? 🤔😩 did u know u could fail that many classes nd still be alive????
btw coach made zach captain 💀💀💀 like… MY PATCH. on HIM.
lowkey 🥺 kinda feel like a failure 🫤 idk how i’m supposed to fix this. do i get a tutor for tutoring?? ughhh 🫠
pls don’t give up on me 😭🔥 i’ll do whatever u say, kerrigan. 😩🔥 ur smarter than me, fix my life.
but also zach??? captain??? 😭😭😭
what if i just quit school nd start a gym 😤💪 "max’s muscle mansion" nd i’ll hire u to run the accounting. $$$$$$
seriously tho… 2 semesters 🫥 nd coach laughed when i tripped leaving his office. 😡🔥 betrayal on all sides, kerrigan. all sides. 🥲

“Bro, who’re you texting?” Zach asked, leaning over to peek at my screen.

I shoved my phone back into my pocket and glared at him until he backed off. I wasn’t mad at Zach, not really, but I wasn’t sure how I felt yet about him taking over as team captain. If the other guys had any thoughts or feelings about it, they kept it to themselves. Wisely.

I let the conversation ebb and flow around me, wondering why I’d even come to the cafeteria when my stomach was so fucked I couldn’t imagine eating anything. I’d thought that being around my bros would make me feel maybe a little better about everything, but watching them drink marinara was just making me feel… nauseous.

Zach banged on his thermos with a plastic fork, calling everyone’s attention. “Saw Hunter Bryant at Smoothie Shack yesterday.”

“I don’t want to hear shit about Smoothie Shack,” Brody growled.

“Says the idiot who requested a smoothie with four scoops of pre-workout, raw chicken, two cans of Red Bull, and a banana. You’re the reason why they almost shut down.”

If I were being honest, I was a little peeved that we’d moved on from my getting benched so quickly, but even I had to smother a laugh, remembering the famous Smoothie Shack incident. Not only had their blender exploded, but they’d gotten sued in the aftermath following a string of people had contracted salmonella. Fucking epic. 

Brody shrugged, grinning unapologetically. “It was for the primal gains.”

“Anyway,” Zach continued, “I saw our old dude Hunter there yesterday and he hooked me up with some of the forbidden items and ten percent off.”

Kyle nearly dropped his marinara-filled cup, squinting at Zach. “What forbidden items?” he demanded.

“Gummy bears. Tried to get him to add a raw egg, but that’s still too forbidden.” Zach made an exaggerated pouting face.

Brody snorted. “Bro, ten percent off is nothing. They’re still charging you ninety percent. That’s a scam.”

Zach pointed at him with a fry. “Everyone knows it’s not about the math—it’s about the honor. Like, Hunter saw me, and he remembered our legacy. Ten percent’s not just a number; it’s a vibe.”

Jake made an ‘ahhh’ noise, nodding solemnly. “Dude, he’s right. It’s like… reverse inflation.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” I started to say, but stopped. I couldn’t bring myself to argue. They were so confident, and honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure what reverse inflation was either.

“Anyway,” Zach continued, leaning forward like he was about to spill a state secret. “You remember Hunter, right? Dude was a legend on the D-line before his life, like… imploded.”

I didn’t remember Hunter, but Kyle nodded. “He was here last year, right? Big guy, buzz cut, always wore those ridiculous arm bands.”

“That’s the one,” Zach confirmed. “Until dude knotted his omega boyfriend.”

Kyle sat up straighter. “Fuck, I remember him. Dude could bench three plates while quoting Top Gun , then his boyfriend goes into heat, Hunter loses control one time, and bam—life over. Now he’s slinging smoothies.”

“He’s not just slinging smoothies,” Zach corrected. “He’s training his kids. Dude’s got, like, five—no, six—little semen demons running around now.”

“Semen demons?” I repeated, laughing despite myself. I didn’t really remember the guy, but I wasn’t above making fun of someone else’s misfortune as a distraction from my own.

“Yeah, bro,” Zach said, shrugging. “What else do you call them? Little monsters, but, like, your monsters. They’re like future D-linemen. Hunter’s out here breeding his own team.”

I nodded. “I mean… Respect. Dude’s playing the long game.”

Hunter had sacrificed everything for love—or, well, something like love—and now he was training his brood of mini-athletes to carry on his legacy. Fucking sweet, honestly. That was like a brilliant hack. Like endless chances. If I had a bunch of kids, I could sock it to Coach for eternity.

Wait… didn’t I technically do the same thing? Knot in heat, omega boyfriend—oh my God, was I Hunter 2.0? Ainsley wasn’t my boyfriend, but… we were definitely something after last night. Even if we weren’t, the “knot in heat” still applied and holy shit—

“All it took was once?” I tried to keep my voice casual, but my hand wandered into my pocket and gripped my phone tightly. “Like… his boyfriend went into heat and he knotted him once and then he got pregnant or what?”

Zach stared at me like I was an idiot. “Uhhhhhh. Yeah? I mean, omegas can get pregnant from just being near an alpha during heat.”

Meanwhile, Kyle was laughing and I wanted to yell at him that it wasn’t funny at all. “Bro, you sound just like Hunter,” he cackled. “Dude didn’t even know how it worked and now he’s got like five kids.”

“Urgh. What a nightmare,” Brody chimed in, shaking hs head. “Knotting an omega in heat is the best way to ruin a stud in his prime.”

“The first knot’s the most dangerous. Odds shoot up by, like, three hundred percent. First knot equals cum critters, guaranteed.” 

“Yeah, like how the first pancake always comes out weird. Nature’s way of teaching you responsibility—”

Suddenly the room felt like it was closing in. Nope. Couldn’t do it. Had to get out of here.

I grabbed my backpack and stood up so fast my chair screeched against the floor. Without looking back, I started heading for the exit, ignoring Zach and the others calling out after me. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. 

The worst day of my life had somehow gotten worse. 

Chapter Text

I fled the cafeteria like it was on fire, my legs moving on autopilot, practically sprinting across campus. But my brain? My brain was a hot mess of static and screaming. Just holy shit holy shit holy shit over and over again.

By the time I reached my truck in the parking lot, my heart was pounding like I’d run a marathon. I ripped the door open, threw myself into the driver’s seat, and slammed the door shut behind me. The familiar smell—leather seats, spilled Gatorade, and the faint whiff of whatever cologne I’d accidentally over-sprayed last week—should’ve calmed me down.

But it didn’t. Nothing could. Not with my head spinning like this.

First knot equals guaranteed cum critters.

Three hundred percent odds.

Ainsley.

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling, and tried to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth, just like Coach always said during pregame jitters. Except this wasn’t jitters. This was a full-on existential crisis. 

Dragging in the deepest breath I could muster, I squeezed my eyes shut and thought back to freshman year of high school when Zach and I had attended A/O 101 together. I remember the principal made this whole speech about how it was supposed to be this huge deal—like, the class that was going to teach us how to not screw up our lives. All mandatory and essential and blah blah blah, but it was a miracle Zach and I had even showed up.

They’d crammed us into the auditorium with the rest of the clueless freshmen, and for the next hour and a half, we’d got hit with a PowerPoint presentation full of charts, awkward diagrams, and a beta teacher who kept saying “biological imperative” like it was her catchphrase. 

By the time she started talking about scent patches, we’d mentally checked out. I mean, come on. We were fourteen. But now? Now I was sitting here, spiraling over the very real possibility that I’d done something completely life-altering, and nothing from A/O 101 was coming back to me. Not a single useful memory. 

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to piece together what I could remember. They’d talked about heats and ruts, sure, but it was all surface-level stuff—“this is why you need your patch” and “don’t skip your suppressants.” Nothing about what to do if you… accidentally knotted an omega during a heat. Or how to tell if someone was, you know… pregnant.

Fourteen-year-old me had been an idiot. Present-day me wasn’t much better. I groaned, burying my face in my hands. If Ainsley would just text me back… 

I pulled out my phone and stared at it, desperately willing the screen to light up. It didn’t. Fuck . 

“Okay, Max,” I muttered. “Think. You’re freaking out over nothing. Probably. Maybe. Right?”

I sat up straight, gripping the steering wheel like it could somehow anchor me to reality. Normally I wasn’t the type to Google my problems, but I needed accurate information and I needed it fast, like right now. I typed out the facts into the search bar with better spelling than usual: “knotted an omega in heat last night.”

And I didn’t even have to scroll. The first result was perfect.

“DID YOU KNOT AN OMEGA LAST NIGHT? READ THIS.”

It was like the internet had read my mind. I clicked it faster than I’d ever clicked anything before.

The website was… a lot. Big bold fonts, flashy colors. A huge dude—ridiculously jacked, I could only assume he was a fellow alpha—took over half my phone screen with a wide grin, holding five identical babies. They were all wearing sunglasses, pointing above their heads to a banner that proclaimed: “ Congrats, alpha! Did you knot an omega during their heat? YOU’RE A DAD.”

“There is no way that Zach is right,” I mumbled. I scrolled down, my thumb moving so fast I nearly dropped my phone.

Welcome to the #1 Resource for Alphas, by Alphas!

At AlphaDadNow.com, we’re more than just a website—we’re a community. With over 5 MILLION ACTIVE ALPHA MEMBERS worldwide and endorsements from real alpha dads, we’ve spent 10+ years helping alphas like you tackle the challenges of modern parenthood. Our team of Certified Alpha Dad Therapists™ (led by our founder, Dr. Brad, Ph.D) is here to provide you with cutting-edge advice, proven strategies, and emotional support.

What you should know: Even if it’s the first time, omegas are super fertile during heats. All it takes is ONE knot. That’s right—one and done! Time to take responsibility: 24 hours until it’s TOO LATE to prepare!

One and done? One. And. Done?!

I punched the A/C button, because despite the weather being in the fifties outside, I was actually sweating now. And my heart was racing, my brain was running laps, and I couldn’t stop picturing Ainsley glaring at his phone, furious at me for ruining his life.

Scrolling through AlphaDadNow.com was like watching a car crash in slow motion while simultaneously driving the car. Didn’t want to keep going, couldn’t stop. Every headline was worse than the last.

“First Knot? First Pups! The Stats Don’t Lie!”
“The Dangerous Truth About Omega Fertility—Are You Ready for the Quads?”
“Knot Now, Regret Later: What You Need to Know!”

I rubbed my temples, staring at my phone like it might burst into flames from the sheer intensity of my panic. My foot bounced uncontrollably against the brake pedal, and I couldn’t stop muttering to myself, trying—and failing—to calm down.

“Okay, Vaughn. Relax. You’re overreacting. It’s not like… I mean, come on. Quads? That’s gotta be a joke, right?” My voice cracked on the word “joke.”

But then I clicked on another article, and my stomach dropped like I’d missed a step on the stairs.

“Real Alphas Share Their Stories: I Wasn’t Ready, and Now I’m a Dad of Six!”

Six? That wasn’t even quads—that was like… double or something. I’d barely scraped by in calculus, and now I was supposed to calculate the logistics of six kids? Who would carry them?

To think that less than an hour ago, I’d been worried about my GPA and being benched. Now I was white-knuckling my phone and wishing I could time travel back to worrying about just those things, because this shit took the ice cream with how actually worrying it was.

I mean, I was twenty-one years old, with a banging-ass life ahead of me as a pro football player and Ainsley… Ainsley wanted to do a lot of important stuff with science and brains. Oh, and I’d known him for less than a week and I wasn’t even sure if he was fake-annoyed by me or hated me for real. 

“Shit, shit, shit.” I shoved my hands through my hair and scrolled faster, hoping—praying—to find something comforting, but it was all bad.

“Your Omega May Already Be Pregnant—Signs You’re Too Late!”
“How To Prepare For Birth: 72-Hour Labors Are Real!”
“Quads: The Ultimate Alpha Challenge.”

My heart felt like it was doing wind sprints. I was vaguely aware of the time and the fact that lunch was so over—I was late for at least two classes by now, but there was no way I could do anything at all when the odds of Ainsley being pregnant were as high as what everything in my life was suggesting right now. 

I wanted to text Ainsley again, but I stopped myself, because what the fuck would I even say at this point? Hey, you might be pregnant with quads. No big deal, right? Haha. Coolcoolcool.

Yeah. That’d go over great.

Instead, I settled for pulling his leggings out of my backpack and wadding their impossible silkiness around my nose, breathing in the comforting, magical scent of honey and rain. And that helped. Yeah, I'd stolen them along with his scarf like a total perv, but who was caring? Not me. Not right now.

There was a big, red button at the bottom of the AlphaDadNow homepage, titled “GET LIVE ADVICE NOW”, and my hands started sweating just looking at it. It was huge, obnoxious, and practically dared me to click it. Underneath, in bold, glowing text, it read: “Speak to Dr. Chad, Certified Alpha Dad Doctor AND Therapist, NOW!”

“Certified,” I muttered. “Yeah, certified crazy.”

But even as I said it, my finger twitched, absently keying in my name to the box provided. I told myself it was dumb, that I wasn’t going to tap in, but I couldn’t stop staring at the button. What if Dr. Chad knew something I didn’t? What if he had answers? What if he told me everything was fine?

“Don’t do it,” I muttered to myself. “Be normal. Be chill. You’re not calling some alpha help hotline—”

Bing.

The button turned green, and a popup appeared.

“Connecting you to Dr. Chad…”

Before I could back out, a cheerful voice came over the line. “Yo! You’ve reached Dr. Chad at AlphaDadNow! Certified, trained, and experienced. What’s up… uh, Max?”

I stared at the screen, wide-eyed and frozen. “Uh… hi?”

“You freaking out? Sounds like you might be freaking out a little. Let’s talk about it. Hit me with your concerns, dude. I’m here to help.” When I still didn’t say anything, the voice—Dr. Chad—chuckled knowingly. “Alright. Lemme guess—you knotted an omega in heat and now you’re panicking. Am I right, or am I right?” 

I reclined my seat all the way back and stared up at my truck ceiling, letting out a frustrated sigh. Whatever. I guess I was doing this now. “Yeah… you’re right, but it’s super complicated, man. I don’t even know where to start.”

“Lay it on me, broski. Dr. Chad’s heard it all, don’t worry.”

Something about Dr. Chad felt strangely reassuring, so I took a deep breath and started talking. What the hell, right? “So his name is Ainsley, he’s my tutor, I’ve only known him for a week or some shit and… he’s gotta be the smartest person I’ve ever met. Like, terrifyingly smart. Makes me feel like my brain’s been running on low battery my whole life, you know?”

On the other end, Dr. Chad made a vague, acknowledging sound. “Classic omega brain power. They’re like calculators but hotter.”

“And he’s not just smart, he’s gorgeous,” I added. “Not in a ‘model on a billboard’ kind of way. More like… if a sunset had glasses.”

“Damn, dude,” Dr. Chad grunted appreciatively. “That’s poetic as hell.”

It was poetic. Encouraged, I kept going. “He’s so small, man. Like, I could pick him up with one hand. But he’s so feisty. It’s like having a really sharp, angry cat in a teacup. He glares at me all the time, and I think it’s because he thinks I’m stupid, but—”

“Whoa, whoa, timeout,” Dr. Chad cut in. “You think or you know?”

I thought about it.

“Okay, he definitely thinks I’m stupid. I’m flunking out of my classes pretty bad. But sometimes I catch him looking at me like… like he might not completely hate me?” I hated the uncertainty in my voice. God, I sounded so pathetic.

“Bro, first of all, being in love with your omega after a week is textbook alpha behavior. You’re not weird; you’re instinctual. You said that he’s all perfect and smart and gorgeous, right? Kind of mean, but in a hot way? Like, he insults you, but it feels like a privilege?”

“Yeah.” Even though Dr. Chad couldn’t see it, I found myself nodding. It felt good to talk to someone about all of this—for half a second earlier, I’d considered calling my sister Penny, who was a pediatric nurse, but I was glad I hadn’t. She was probably busy and there wasn’t any point in bothering her when another perfectly good doctor was available. “Exactly.”

“We call that classic omega sass,” Dr. Chad informed me, “and we’re hardwired as alphas to respond. We see the prize, we claim the prize. Simple biology. Continue.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Is it just biology, though? I thought that too at first, but I swear as soon as we met, I started noticing stuff about him. Like the way his glasses slip down his nose when he’s explaining stuff. How he taps his pen when he’s thinking. And, dude, his scent? It’s, like, honey and books and… magic.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Let me stop you right there, Max. You’re saying you’re already keyed into his scent? Like, hyper-aware?”

“Yeah, man. I stole the leggings he was wearing last night and I’ve been sniffing them all day,” I blurted out, squeezing said leggings. “I’m a fucking creep, dude.”

Dr. Chad's steady, reassuring voice didn't miss a beat. “Nah, dude, that’s alpha-normal. Classic pheromone lock. Congrats—you’re chemically bonded to your omega tutor. Continue.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Okay, so then there was last night—long story short, I kinda accidentally triggered his heat, and we, uh…”

“You knotted him.” Dr. Chad didn’t sound surprised. At all.

“…Yeah.”

“Solid. Very alpha of you.”

“Thanks, but now he’s acting all distant, and I don’t know if he hates me or if he’s just being, like, emotionally intelligent or whatever. And the worst part? I think I’m in love with him. Or something. I don’t know, I just—I feel really into him and I’ve never felt like this before. It’s all happening really fast, man, and I don’t know if—”

“Alright, Max, let me break this down for you, alpha-to-alpha,” Dr. Chad interrupted. “First of all, falling for an omega after a week? Like I said earlier, not weird at all, so don’t feel weird. Omegas are emotional nukes. One touch and boom—you’re done for. Happens to the best of us.”

I opened my eyes to glare at the ceiling. “Yeah, but what if it’s just pheromones messing with my brain? Didn’t you say that just now or something?”

“Bro. It’s not just pheromones. You’re talking about his glasses and his pen-tapping. You said he was a sunset with glasses. That’s some deep emotional shit right there,” Dr. Chad pointed out. 

Fuck. He was right. 

“Second, about the distance thing? Classic omega defense mechanism. They get freaked out, they pull back. Doesn’t mean he hates you. He’s probably just overthinking. A lot of omegas these days, they’re trying to do alpha stuff and hey, I love equality as much as the next alpha—I marched, okay?—but they’re just coffee and too many thoughts, man. So you gotta meet him halfway. Show him you’re not just some alpha jock with a good knot game. You’re boyfriend material.”

Last week, the b-word would’ve sent me running for the hills. Like, full Usain Bolt sprint. Too much responsibility, too many expectations, too many opportunities to screw it all up. Every time someone even hinted at it, my brain would short-circuit, my stomach would flip, and my fight-or-flight instincts would kick in like I was being chased by a linebacker.

Take my last hookup, for example. She was cool, fun, great smile. We vibed, you know? But then she dropped that little grenade: “You should text me more.” Text me more. Like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t a direct assault on my very being.

I swear I almost puked on the spot. I think I mumbled something about being “really focused on football right now” and then never talked to her again. Classic Vaughn.

But now? Now I’m sitting here, thinking about the b-word… and it’s different. Weirdly different. It’s still kind of like touching a hot stove, but instead of pulling away, I’m standing there like an idiot, thinking, Maybe this isn’t so bad?

I sat up, abusing the A/C button vigorously. For no reason at all than to not think about the b-word and why it made me feel so weird but… not. “Okay, I guess. How can I do that?” 

Dr. Chad continued matter-of-factly, in the same cheerful tone he’d maintained throughout the entire call. “Glad you asked. Show him you’re stepping up as a father, since he’s, you know, pregnant now.”

Fuuuck.

“It really happens that fast?” I choked out.

“Totally. See, Max, when you knot an omega during heat, their body goes into, like, turbo-fertility mode. Did you know omegas can release up to eight eggs at once? It’s called the Mega Heat Effect. They don’t teach this in schools because they don’t want you to know how powerful your alpha genes are.”

I opened my mouth to interrupt, but Dr. Chad kept talking. “I’ve seen omegas drop quads on their first knot. One and done. BOOM. Pups everywhere. And you know what’s worse than quads? Not being prepared for quads.”

One and done. Suddenly no amount of pushing the A/C button or any of the buttons on my dashboard were helping. And why would it? I’d hard-launched myself straight past being someone’s boyfriend to quad father. It was all I could do to sit there and process.

Dr. Chad’s voice came back, even louder this time, like he was calling plays from the sidelines. “Listen to me, Max. You need to ask yourself one question right now: Are you gonna step up, or are you gonna sit back and let some other alpha waltz in and claim what’s yours?”

“What?” I blinked at the ceiling of my truck, stiffening. “Ainsley wouldn’t—”

“Because if you don’t step up, I promise you, some other alpha will. That’s how it works, bro. You’re slacking? Boom—enter Chad 2.0. Dude’s got a twelve-pack of abs, a killer jawline, and a fake Ph.D. from some sketchy online school, but your omega? He won’t know that. He’ll just see a guy who owns a Tesla and, like, volunteers to rescue endangered turtles in his free time.”

“A Tesla?” I croaked, horrified. A twelve-pack? Was that even real? Endangered turtles was definitely a direct hit, but there was no way that Ainsley was into Teslas… was he? 

“Omegas love Teslas because they’re good for the environment,” Dr. Chad said matter-of-factly. “Picture it: Your omega’s sitting shotgun in Chad 2.0’s eco-mobile, and he’s talking about how he’s never been happier. Meanwhile, you’re at home, eating ramen and wondering why your life went to hell.”

Dr. Chad’s calm tone, the same one that had calmed me down only minutes earlier, was starting to piss me off now. Ainsley in a Tesla with some other alpha. Ainsley happy with some other alpha.

“I wouldn’t eat ramen!” I shouted, defensive.

“Yeah? And who’s gonna care when Chad 2.0 is teaching your quads mindfulness yoga in your backyard? Huh? You want your pups growing up doing downward dog and thinking it’s cool?”

“No!” I slammed my palm against the dashboard, panic bubbling up. I didn’t have any issues with my kids doing yoga, but not if Chad 2.0 was teaching them. “Only I can teach them that—”

“And guess what? Chad 2.0? He’s got a golden retriever. Your quads are petting another man’s dog, Max. They’re running around with it, giggling, while your omega watches and says, ‘I wish Max could see how happy they are.’”

“Not the dog,” I whispered, horror washing over me. “They’d never—”

“Oh, it gets worse.” Dr. Chad’s tone darkened, like a thundercloud rolling in. “Chad 2.0’s writing letters to your omega. Handwritten, cursive bullshit about how he’ll love him forever. He’s sending flowers. He’s taking your omega on dates where they feed each other tiny desserts and laugh about how immature you are.”

“Ainsley probably doesn’t even like dessert!” I bellowed, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. “He probably thinks it’s a waste of calories!”

“Doesn’t matter, dude!” Dr. Chad shouted back. “Chad 2.0’s gonna change his mind! He’s gonna convince your omega that soufflé is better than you’ll ever be. And then… Then he’ll pull out his secret weapon.”

How could it possibly get any worse? I swallowed thickly. “What secret weapon?”

“A guitar. Chad 2.0’s serenading your omega under the moonlight while your quads are asleep, dreaming about their new dad. And Ainsley? He’s crying because no one’s ever played for him before. ”

My chest felt like it had caved in. As much as I didn’t want to, I could see it in my mind’s eye, exactly as Dr. Chad was talking about it. A fucking guitar. Goddamn it. 

I tried to scoff casually, but an embarrassing sound came out instead. I didn’t name it. “A guitar? Are you kidding me? He probably just listens to like, instrumentals and piano music.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dr. Chad shot back. “Omegas love a sensitive, artsy alpha vibe. Do you even know one song on the guitar?”

I did, actually. I knew a few. But it had been a while since my guitar phase—it had ended along with my acne—and now I was beyond rusty, so I stayed silent, fuming.

“Exactly. And while Chad 2.0’s strumming Coldplay under the stars, you’re crying into your protein shake, wondering why you didn’t buy a quadruple stroller when you had the chance.”

“I’ll buy the stroller,” I said quickly, adrenaline coursing through my veins. “I’ll buy, like, five strollers. No. Fuck that. I’ll get a motherfucking wagon.”

“Damn right you will, bro!” Dr. Chad roared. “You’re gonna swaddle those pups like a champ, build a crib that could survive an earthquake, and make sure no alpha in a fifty-mile radius even thinks about your omega.”

“I’ll do it,” I swore, my voice shaking. “Yeah. I’ll do it all. Swaddling. Strollers. Cribs. Whatever it takes. I’ll buy this entire fucking website if I have to.”

By the time I hung up with Dr. Chad half an hour later, I felt like I’d gone ten rounds. But one singular thought echoed in my head:

Not today, Chad 2.0. Not ever.

Chapter Text

"Okay,” I said, sliding my stylus across the screen to annotate the diagram of a shoulder joint. “Walk me through the muscle groups involved in this motion.”

I didn’t have favorite tutees, but if I did, Derek Simmons would’ve been a strong competitor. Our arrangement was a little over a year old now and it had remained productive thanks to his being attentive, respectful, and determined to excel in Sports Medicine. He also happened to be an alpha jock, but he wasn’t irritating. Unlike someone. Who I refused to think about.

Leaning forwards, Derek tapped his pen against his notebook, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Deltoid for abduction, supraspinatus for the first fifteen degrees, and…” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Teres minor and infraspinatus for external rotation?”

I nodded, pleased. “Good. You’ve been reviewing your notes.”

“Had to,” Derek said, his grin boyish despite his towering frame. “Can’t slack off if I want to keep up with you, Professor.”

The casual nickname would have annoyed me from anyone else, but Derek’s sincerity softened the sting. He was the anti-Max in every conceivable way—methodical, respectful, and uninterested in making my life a spectacle. I had no idea how he managed to be both an alpha and tolerable, but I appreciated it.

I suppressed a smile and forced my attention back to the diagram. Outwardly, I might have looked composed, but inside, I felt strangely gutted—like someone had scooped out my insides and left me hollow.

You’re just tired, I told myself. It’s been a long day.

I’d already sent the email terminating my arrangement with Max—unofficially for now, though it would become official once I contacted the Tutor Council tomorrow. I’d never ended an arrangement before, and it felt so much like failure I wanted to scream. But better to cut things off now before they got any worse.

For now, I just desperately needed the day to wrap up on a normal note. Forty-five more minutes, then I could finally go home.

“Next question,” I said, forcing my tone to stay brisk. “So, the groin region…”

I swiped across the anatomy diagram on my tablet, my stylus hovering over the spot I wanted to highlight. A half-second of silence hung between Derek and me as I drew breath, ready to explain the relevant muscle groups involved in hip flexion. 

“The groin? What the hell is this?”

At first, I thought I was simply having an auditory hallucination. Haha, subconscious. Very funny. But even as I briefly closed my eyes to calculate the odds, I knew. The hairs at the back of my neck were prickling with recognition—that telltale, electric awareness you get when you realize trouble’s breathing down your neck.

And sure enough, I whirled in my seat to find Max Vaughn towering directly behind me. 

He was still wearing the same clothes from last night—a Ridgeline Wolfpack hoodie with a noticeable coffee stain on the sleeve—and the moment I caught sight of it, my annoyance flared. But worse than the clothes was the smell. Not sweat or body odor, exactly. Something else.

I lifted a hand to my nose, trying to hide my mortification when I realized what it was: my scent. Hours stale, nearly drowned out by the library’s recycled air, but still unmistakably mine. Really? He couldn’t bother to shower or change? A flush of heat crept up my neck. If I could detect it, then Derek—sitting right beside me—definitely could too.

My stomach twisted. Having Max show up at all was bad enough, but showing up while still carrying traces of me on him? That was a level of humiliating I was even less prepared for. It felt like some absurd, biological neon sign, broadcasting last night’s lapse in judgment to anyone with half a nose. It was late, so the library was as good as empty, but the knowledge that Derek might pick up on it made me want to sink under the table and disappear.

My grip on the stylus tightened until my knuckles went white. I didn’t even have to look at Derek to sense his surprise; I could feel him stiffen beside me before twisting around to peer at Max looming behind us. My pulse thundered in my ears; even my fingertips felt jittery against the smooth plastic of my tablet. I forced my shoulders to stay squared, but it felt like my composure might crack at any second. I took a deep breath. 

“Vaughn,” I acknowledged as calmly as possible, each syllable clipped. “What are you doing here?”

For once, Max didn’t seem to have any interest in me. I could only assume that he was in some sort of denial and not thinking clearly. His face was unsettlingly blank, his narrowed gaze flicking to the chair that Derek was sitting in, to the tablet in my hands, then to Derek himself. I saw the exact moment his brain decided to blow up.

“Who the fuck are you and why are you sitting in my seat?” he demanded in a low voice. 

Derek assessed Max’s stance and shot a confused glance at me. I shook my head at him.

Again, I tried to gain Max’s attention. “Vaughn—”

“Hey, beanpole,” Max snapped at Derek, ignoring me for a second time. “I’m fucking talking to you. Who the fuck are you and why are you sitting in my seat?”

Derek’s eyebrows shot up, and for a split second, I saw genuine confusion—maybe even a flicker of annoyance. He wasn’t used to being challenged like this. He leaned towards me, whispering. “Who the hell is this guy?”

An audible growl rumbled out from Max’s chest and I startled in my own seat as he suddenly kicked out at the legs of Derek’s chair. It didn’t budge under the other alpha’s weight, but Max might as well have shot at Derek for all he reacted: he shot to his full height with a responding growl, stepping away from the table and squaring his broad shoulders.

Max’s entire demeanor screamed challenge, while Derek’s body language braced for it. In an instant, I saw the storm brewing between them. Perceived territorial response, spiking adrenaline and testosterone… and me, in the splash zone. Fascinating, but not what I needed right now.

My gut twisted with humiliation at the realization that my scent was part of this combustible mix. The stale remnants clinging to Max’s hoodie likely only fueled Derek’s subconscious read on the situation—this alpha smells like Ainsley, so do I challenge him? It was the stuff of textbooks, yes, but in practice, it was far from academic. It was downright embarrassing.

I tried to recall the de-escalation techniques from the Instinct Management & Mediation workshop I’d taken last fall. Speak calmly. Use the alpha’s name. Do not challenge.  

I cleared my throat, trying to wedge my voice in. “Max, Derek,” I said firmly. “We are in a library, and you’re acting like—” I stopped myself. Don’t call them cavemen.

I pressed my lips together, pivoting to a lower, calmer tone. “Both of you, take a step back. Now.”

They edged closer to each other. 

“Dude, what the fuck is your problem?” Derek hissed. “This is a private session.”

“No,” Max shot back. “I’m supposed to be having a session. This is my time. That’s my seat. And Kerrigan’s mine. My tutor. So why don’t you come back tomorrow and find another nerd to help you with studying groins?”

This is exactly what the textbooks warned about, I thought, chest tightening at the irrational edge in his voice. God, if they actually started fighting… I opened my mouth to make another attempt to regain control, but Derek was already firing back, sneering at Max.

“Last time I checked, you don’t own this seat and you definitely don’t own Ainsley. So why don’t you—”

Max barked out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, I don’t own that seat? Check the bottom, bro. Pretty sure there’s a gold nameplate that says my dad donated over twenty million to this school, which means I own that seat and every other fucking seat on this goddamn campus.”

A muffled gasp came from somewhere behind the shelves—one of the few stragglers on the third floor, no doubt. My stomach lurched at the realization that we’d become the evening’s entertainment. Part of me wanted to grab my bag and bolt—throw the entire evening in the trash. Another part wanted to yank Max aside and demand an explanation, away from prying eyes. And a final, tiny part of me wanted to apologize to Derek for dragging him into my swirling mess of an existence.

“Max,” I said sternly. “Stop this. Right now.”

But Max was too far gone, operating on pure alpha instinct. I wasn’t even sure if he heard me or not. I watched his nostrils flare as he stepped closer to Derek, his shoulders rolling forward like he was ready to throw down. If you’d asked me hours ago, I would’ve said that Max was more likely to throw a tantrum than a punch, except right now he looked completely different than the goofy, good-natured Max I was used to. He looked like he was ready to take Derek apart if the other alpha so much as breathed wrong.

“You’re acting fucking feral, bro,” Derek threw out at Max. “Check yourself.”

Max clenched his fists so hard I thought he might crush his own knuckles. His voice cracked with raw frustration, pitching higher. “Yeah, I’m acting fucking feral. You’ve got no idea the kind of day I’ve had. I made a B on my calculus test this morning and now I’m benched from football for a whole damn year. Can you believe that? A year. Meanwhile, Zach—freaking Zach, who can’t even throw a spiral—gets my team captain patch.”

For half a heartbeat, Max’s gaze flicked my way, something like hesitation passing over his features—then his anger surged back, raw and wild. “I’ve been freaking out all day and Kerrigan here hasn’t answered a single one of my texts. Then I come to our session and I see you in my seat, my session? No. Absolutely not.”

I exhaled on a hiss, resisting the urge to ball my own hands into fists and start swinging. The reason behind Max’s latest idiotic spiral suddenly made painful, obvious sense: he was too meatheaded to understand academic policy. Shocker. 

“You wanna study groins?” He sneered openly in Derek’s face. “I’ll give you a groin injury and you can study that. On your own. Pick another tutor, pick another seat—hell, pick another library if you need to—just get out of my face. ”

For an unbearably stretched moment, the tension was so thick I could taste it, and I stood frozen, bracing myself for one of them throwing a punch. But somewhere throughout Max’s rambling threat, Derek must’ve ceased to perceive him as a threat, because he stepped back instead of escalating the situation further. Thank God.

“Alright,” he said, voice steady but clipped. “Whatever. I don’t have time for this.”

He turned to me, his expression softening slightly. “We can reschedule, Ainsley. Thanks for your help tonight.”

I could’ve fallen over in relief. Instead I nodded stiffly, grateful he’d finally come back to himself. “Of course. I’m sorry for the interruption.”

Derek gave Max one last hard look before gathering his things and walking away, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. Once he was out of earshot, I rounded on Max, my contained fury spilling over like a dam breaking.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I snapped, the words bursting out before I could stop them. My voice was louder than I intended, slicing through the tense silence Max had left in his wake. He flinched, just slightly, but it only fueled my anger.

“You storm in here like a lunatic,” I continued, my hands shaking as I gestured toward the empty space Derek had occupied. “You scare off my tutee—someone who actually respects my time—and for what? Because your ego can’t handle seeing another alpha sit in ‘your seat’? Because you don’t understand basic GPA requirements? Are you kidding me?”

Max’s mouth opened, but I wasn’t done. Nowhere near. “No, you don’t get to talk right now. You don’t get to explain or justify whatever that—” I waved a hand at him, “—that display was. Do you have any idea how ridiculous you looked? How embarrassing that was? You’re like a child throwing a tantrum because someone took his favorite toy.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything. Good. Because I wasn’t finished.

“And this,” I said, stabbing a finger toward him, “this is exactly why I terminated our tutoring arrangement.”

Max froze, his expression shifting from defensive to utterly blindsided. “Terminated?” he repeated, his voice quieter, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What are you talking about?”

I scoffed, narrowing my eyes at him. “Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t check your email.”

He stared at me for a moment, then slowly pulled his phone out of his pocket, with the same half-confused, half-devastated expression. I threw up my hands and let out an audible groan, the sound scraping against my throat. “Right. Of course you didn’t. Why would Max Vaughn bother with something as basic as reading an email when it’s so much easier to burst into a library and make a scene?”

“Ains—”

“No,” I cut him off sharply, pointing a finger at him. “No. Do you even realize how hard it was for me to make that decision? To terminate our sessions? I’ve never had to do that before, Max. Not once. But you—you made it impossible to keep going. You made everything impossible!”

Max looked like I’d punched him in the gut, his broad shoulders slumping, but I couldn’t stop. The dam had broken, and every ounce of frustration, every shred of exhaustion, was pouring out of me like a tidal wave.

“And last night,” I barreled on, lowering my voice to a hiss, “last night was a mistake. It was a stupid, impulsive, heat-driven mistake. I’ll take responsibility for it, because I should have known better. But you—” My breath hitched as my emotions caught up with me. “You don’t know how to stop pushing, do you? You can’t just leave well enough alone.”

“Ainsley, please—” Max started, his voice raw, but I steamrolled over him.

“Stop. Just stop,” I said, my voice breaking completely. “It’s done, Max. We’re done.”

His expression crumpled, his lips parting like he was about to protest, but nothing came out. His silence should have been satisfying, but it felt more hollow than I’d expected. I leaned into it anyway, telling myself it was better to cut the head off.

“I hope I never see you again,” I said, curling my lip as I swiped my tablet off the table. The words weren’t entirely fair, and I knew it, but I was too angry, too overwhelmed to care. I grabbed my bag, slinging it over my shoulder with more force than necessary, and turned on my heel.

I didn’t look back as I stormed out, my footsteps echoing through the empty hallway. The weight of everything—my anger, my exhaustion, my regret—pressed down on me, threatening to crack me open. But I kept walking, because the alternative was unthinkable.

I was officially done with Max Vaughn.

Tutors may terminate an arrangement only when a valid and documented reason is provided. In cases where safety or well-being is compromised, immediate termination is permitted, but justification must be submitted to the Tutor Council within 24 hours. The Tutor Council reserves the right to review all termination requests.

Tutors are explicitly prohibited from engaging in emotional or confrontational discussions about the termination with the tutee. If a termination is found to stem from unprofessional conduct on the part of the tutor (e.g., personal relationships with the tutee, violations of the Council’s code of ethics, or inappropriate behavior), the tutor may face disciplinary action, including suspension or removal from the Council.

Tutors must provide tutees with at least 48 hours’ notice before termination becomes official, except in emergencies. Failure to follow proper procedures may result in penalties for the tutor.

I’d stared at the Tutor Council’s Arrangement Termination policy for over an hour, and all I’d achieved was confirming how utterly screwed I was. Every phrase seemed to mock me—“valid reason,” “evidence of misconduct,” “professional standards.” How could I possibly explain what had happened with Max without implicating myself in a dozen different rule violations?

So far, I’d calculated at least five rules broken. Which was five too many.

It wasn’t fair. He didn’t even understand the stakes—how could he? To Max, rules were just suggestions, obstacles to bulldoze through without a second thought. But for me, they were everything. The rules were what kept me sane, what kept my life from spiraling into chaos. And now I’d broken them. For him.

Slipping my glasses off my face, I rubbed at my eyes and slumped back against my pillows. My dorm was peaceful, utterly quiet, and the fresh scent of my newly washed sheets should’ve been comforting, but it wasn’t. It just reminded me of everything I’d been trying to forget since the library. I could still feel the heat of Max’s presence, the way he’d looked at me—raw, desperate, hurt.

Good, I thought, then immediately felt guilty. Was it good? Max was an idiot, sure, but he wasn’t malicious. He hadn’t been trying to ruin my life, even if that had very nearly been the end result.

The way I’d spoken to him… I groaned, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes. I wasn’t the type to suffer fools and the library debacle had been ridiculous, but even I could recognize that I’d been cruel with him. Tactless, even. And unprofessional—again.

There was a part of me argued that that was the only way to deal with someone like Max Vaughn—you couldn’t give him an inch or he’d take a mile—and yet the memory of his face when I’d said we were done wouldn’t leave me alone. The flicker of disbelief, the way his shoulders had slumped just a fraction before he’d straightened and tried to act like it didn’t hurt. Like I hadn’t just ripped out a piece of him along with myself.

Six days. That’s how long I’d known him. Not even a full week, and he’d managed to ruin me. My reputation, my routine, my sanity—everything was teetering on the edge of collapse, all because of one insufferable, overgrown alpha who couldn’t seem to leave me alone. The memory of our sex was still sharp and searing, no matter how much I wanted to push it away. His scent had been everywhere—on my skin, in my lungs, wrapped around me like a smothering blanket. And the way he’d touched me… God, it was humiliating how good it had felt. But that wasn’t me. It wasn’t real. It was biology, pure and simple. A chemical reaction fueled by circumstances I couldn’t control.

My stomach twisted at the thought of the Tutor Council finding out. They’d see me as reckless, irresponsible, just another omega who couldn’t keep his instincts in check. There was zero doubt in my mind that I would be removed from the Council. Everything I’d worked for would be gone in an instant, reduced to a footnote in their records.

Damage control, then. The Council didn’t need every sordid detail. They needed a plausible, professional explanation that ensured they wouldn’t ask too many questions. And if that explanation happened to omit certain... complexities, well, that was just good crisis management.

I put my glasses back on, adjusted them, and started drafting an email.

Dear Tutor Council,

I hope this email finds you well. I am writing to formally request the immediate termination of my tutoring arrangement with Maxwell Vaughn, effective immediately.

While I have done my best to uphold the high standards expected of us as Council tutors, I have come to the conclusion that continuing this arrangement is no longer in the best interest of neither myself nor Mr. Vaughn. Due to a persistent conflict of priorities and an inability to maintain a productive dynamic, I believe it would be more beneficial for Max to seek academic support through alternative means.

I understand the importance of providing detailed reasoning for such decisions, and while I strive to maintain transparency, I also want to respect the confidentiality of all involved. I can assure you that this decision was not made lightly and is rooted in my commitment to preserving the integrity of our tutoring program.

Please let me know if further documentation or clarification is required. I remain committed to assisting the Council in any capacity as we work to find the best solution for Mr. Vaughn’s academic needs.

Thank you for your understanding and for your continued support of our mission to provide exceptional academic resources to Ridgeline students.

Best regards,
Ainsley Kerrigan

I chewed my bottom lip, staring over what I’d written. Was it too much? Not enough? 

A sharp knock jolted me from my thoughts. Three quick raps, then silence.

I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. No one ever came to my dorm unannounced—least of all this late. My first thought was Theo, barging in to demand an update on my “tragic tutoring drama.” My second thought was far worse.

The soft whir of my laptop’s motherboard faded as I closed it and set it aside. I crept to the door, ignoring the way my pulse hammered in my ears. Peeking through the peephole confirmed my fears.

The source of all my inner turmoil was standing there in the flesh, looking about as composed as a wet dog. He’d showered since the library and put on fresh clothes, but his still-damp hair was a mess and his red-rimmed eyes were fixed squarely on my door like he could will it to open.

For one irrational second, I considered pretending I wasn’t home. But the moment passed as soon as it arrived—I knew he wasn’t going to just leave so easily and I’d sooner jump out the window than deal with another embarrassing scene. It was better to just… deal with him. Once and for all. 

With a resigned sigh, I opened the door.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t even speak at first. He just looked at me, and in that look, I saw everything I hadn’t when I’d turned my back on him in the library: his anger, his frustration, his desperation. And beneath it all, that stupid, earnest softness that made me want to slam the door in his face and let him in all at once.

“Ains,” he said finally, his voice hoarse. “Can we talk?”

I wanted to say no. Every logical bone in my body screamed at me to slam the door and tell him to schedule an appointment—preferably never. But logic had been fighting a losing battle all day, and the way Max looked at me… it was like he’d run out of places to go. Like I was the last person who could fix whatever mess he was drowning in.

I sighed and stepped aside, holding the door open. “You have five minutes.”

Max blinked, like he hadn’t actually expected me to let him in. Then he stepped into the room, with that odd mix of confidence and awkwardness that only he could pull off. The air felt heavier with him in it, like his presence demanded attention even when he wasn’t trying.

“So,” I said brusquely, crossing my arms and leaning against the computer desk. “Talk.”

Max hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, first of all, I’m sorry about the library.”

“You’re sorry about the library?” I echoed in a flat voice, eyebrows arching. “Not the part where you acted like a feral lunatic in front of my tutee and completely embarrassed me?”

He winced. “Yeah, that part too. Look, I messed up, okay? I was pissed about the whole football thing, and I… I didn’t think.”

“That’s a gross understatement,” I muttered.

Max took a step closer, his gaze searching mine. “I mean it. I didn’t come here to fight. I just… I wanted to apologize. For everything.”

For everything. A derisive noise bubbled in my throat; I wanted to ask him if that included the way he’d barged into my life and turned it upside down. But before I could decide whether to say it, Max shifted nervously, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets.

“And, uh…” He hesitated, glancing at the floor before meeting my eyes again. “I also wanted to ask if you’re… y’know.”

“Y’know?” I repeated, my irritation flaring. “No, Max. I don’t know. Try using complete sentences.”

“Pregnant,” he blurted out. The word hit the room like a bomb, leaving silence in its wake. 

I stared at him, sure I’d misheard. “What?”

“Pregnant,” he repeated, louder this time, his voice pitching into dangerous territory. “The guys started talking about this guy from the football team who got his omega boyfriend pregnant last year and he had to drop out—apparently, he had like five or six. And it got me thinking. About last night. Because, you know, we didn’t exactly, uh, plan for… what happened. So I’ve been freaking out all day thinking about it. What if it’s… quads?”

“Quads?” I echoed, my tone flat with disbelief.

“Yeah. The Mega Heat Effect. I mean, look at us. Our genetic material is definitely top tier,” he said, gesturing vaguely to me and then himself. “And then I started thinking about how we’d even handle that. Four babies is like, forty diapers a day and four hundred thousand dollars the first year—”

The Mega… what? I already didn’t have the patience for this. Me, pregnant with quadruplets? Seriously? Why had I let him in? “Max—” I started to snap, an edge to my voice.

“No, listen,” he said, plowing forward like a runaway train. “We’d have to hire help. Like, professional nannies. But then how do you trust someone with four babies? What if one of them’s secretly evil? There’s no vetting process for that, is there?”

I gritted my teeth. “You’re assuming—”

“Oh, and then there’s the stroller situation,” he continued, his eyes widening as he worked himself into a frenzy, beginning to pace. “Did you know they make quad strollers? They’re the size of a small boat. I saw a picture, and the mom pushing it looked like she was training for a triathlon. Do I need to start working out more for that? I mean, I don’t mind. You just have to tell me—”

I slammed my hand on the desk. “Max.”

He stopped mid-sentence, mid-pace, his hand frozen mid-gesture. “What?”

I stared at him, my patience hanging by a thread. “I’m on birth control.” Obviously. Nevermind that my genetics were hardly as ‘peak’ as what he was stating in the first place—did he honestly think I was stupid enough to risk pregnancy in college?

The silence that followed was deafening. Max blinked at me, his mouth opening and closing like he was trying to process the words but couldn’t quite get there. “You’re… what?”

“On. Birth. Control,” I repeated, each word sharp and deliberate. “We’re not having quadruplets—which, by the way, is the biological equivalent of hitting the lottery while getting struck by lightning on the same day you find a four-leaf clover. We’re not having anything.”

He stared at me for another beat before letting out a breath of relief so exaggerated it was almost theatrical. “Oh, thank God.”

But then something flickered in Max’s expression on the heels of the relief, as if he’d just remembered something he’d forgotten to say. I braced myself for the next tidal wave of nonsense, already imagining the absurdity he might unleash. But to my surprise, it didn’t come.

Instead, he hesitated, his mouth opening slightly before snapping shut again. His brow furrowed, his lips pressing together in a rare display of restraint. I stared at him, equal parts shocked and impressed. He was actually holding back. 

“You sure it’s, like, 100% effective? Your birth control?” he finally asked, rubbing the back of his neck. There was a dazed, almost sheepish expression on his face that I couldn’t decipher. Not that I wanted to.

“Ninety-nine percent,” I affirmed dryly. “You have a better chance of a meteor hitting this campus in the next five minutes than you do of me getting pregnant.”

He nodded slowly. “Right. Okay, cool. Good to know.” He took a hesitant step forward, but the sharp narrowing of my eyes stopped him in his tracks.

“Can I sit down?” he asked, his voice unusually polite. I should’ve said no, but I rolled my eyes at the unexpected courtesy and stepped away from the desk, gesturing toward its vacant chair.

Once he settled into it, I moved to my bed, leaning back against the wall with my legs crossed as I watched him warily. The space between us felt heavy, filled with too much unspoken tension for my liking.

Max took a deep breath and let it out in a big sigh, hanging his head between his knees. When he raised it and looked at me again, for the first time all night, there was no humor in his eyes. Just something raw and unguarded that made my stomach twist.

“So I’m benched,” he said quietly. “For two semesters. Football’s everything I’ve ever had, and now it’s gone. I don’t even know who I am without it.”

I waited, knowing there was more. The sooner he gets it all out, I told myself, the sooner he’ll leave and you won’t have to deal with him again. And sure enough, he pressed on, his voice low and uneven.

“I mean, yeah, I’m supposed to be this big, dumb jock, right? Football star, Vaughn legacy, all that crap. But it’s not just about the game. It’s… it’s who I am. It’s the one thing I’ve always been good at, the thing that makes me feel like I belong somewhere. Like I’m not just this… this idiot who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.”

His shoulders slumped, and he dragged a hand through his hair, looking more disheveled than I’d ever seen him. His voice cracked as he fought to keep it steady and I wondered, briefly, if anyone had ever seen him like this before. “Without it, I feel… lost. Like, completely and utterly lost. And the worst part is, I have no idea how to fix it. My grades are shit. They’ve always been shit. I don’t know how to bring them up on my own. I might lose my scholarship.”

“Your parents wouldn’t help you if you lost your scholarship?” I asked, arching a brow dubiously.

“As in, pay for my tuition?” Max snorted bitterly and shook his head, a humorless grin twisting his lips. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

Noticing my frown, he elaborated. “The Vaughns are all about ‘hard work and discipline’ and earning what you’ve got. Paying for my tuition? Forget it. That’d be ‘rewarding failure.’ They made that real clear when I got into Ridgeline. If I couldn’t keep my scholarship, I wasn’t staying here.”

I blinked at him, unsure of what to make of his admission. That was… unexpected.

Senator Gregory Vaughn wasn’t just any alumnus, after all—he was a Ridgeline legend. From what I knew, his donations had funded everything from new athletic facilities to state-of-the-art lecture halls, ensuring his name remained synonymous with the university’s prestige. The Vaughn name was everywhere: plaques, scholarship programs, even the annual Vaughn Legacy Gala, which brought in more money than most universities saw in a year. So naturally, I’d assumed that Max was exactly what he appeared to be—an entitled rich kid who coasted through life on charm, connections, and his dad’s checkbook. But apparently not.

“The scholarship’s not just about the money,” he continued. “It’s about proving I’m not just some spoiled kid riding on the Vaughn name. Showing them I can actually do something on my own.”

For once, I didn’t have a response. My carefully crafted image of Max—the tantrum-throwing, privileged alpha who breezed through life—was fracturing before my eyes. 

Max paused then, his gaze locking onto mine with a quiet desperation that made my chest ache. “That’s why I need your help, Kerrigan. I can’t do this by myself. Listen, I know I’m an idiot, and I know I’ve screwed up more times than I can count, but… I’ll do whatever it takes. Just don’t give up on me. Please.”

All I could do was stare at him, my mind a chaotic mess of thoughts and emotions. For the first time, I saw the cracks beneath his cocky surface. The fear. The doubt. The very human need for someone to believe in him.

And I hated it. I hated him. For the ache in my chest, for the way he somehow made me want to help him, even after everything. It was worse than the time he’d taken his scent patch off in the library—worse because a part of me knew better at this point, while the rest of me didn’t care.

This isn’t your responsibility, I told myself. He made his bed. He let his grades slip. He knew the consequences.

But another part of me, quieter but no less insistent, whispered that it wasn’t entirely his fault. Which was true. 

I let out a slow breath, forcing myself to keep my voice steady. “Max, I’m going to be honest with you the way everyone else should’ve been.”

“GPAs don’t magically bounce back with one good grade,” I told him, “Your 1.2 GPA is the cumulative average of every grade you’ve earned since you started here. That means even if you get straight As this semester, your GPA will only rise to about 1.5—maybe 1.6 if you retake some of the classes you failed.”

Max stared at me, his brow furrowed. “So… what does that mean? Like, for football?”

“It means you’re benched until you bring it up to a 2.5, which could take at least two full semesters—assuming you put in the work.” I folded my arms, fixing him with a pointed look. “And that’s a big assumption, given how much you hate even looking at a textbook.”

He flinched, but I wasn’t done. “That being said, this isn’t entirely your fault. Yes, you should have taken your grades seriously from the start, but the athletic department should have intervened a long time ago. They let you slide until it was too late, and now they’re acting like it’s all on you to fix. That’s not fair.”

Max blinked, his mouth opening slightly like he wanted to argue but didn’t know what to say. “So… what do I do?”

“You start by taking this seriously,” I said, my tone sharp but not unkind. “No more excuses, no more distractions. You’re going to have to work harder than you’ve ever worked in your life, and it’s not going to be fun.”

“But… I don’t have a tutor anymore.”

“There are other tutors on the Council who can help you,” I said briskly, folding my arms over my chest. “Several of them are more than qualified.”

“I don’t want anyone else,” Max said immediately. “I want you.”

I stiffened. “Well, that’s not your decision to make.”

His expression faltered, and I pressed on, my irritation bubbling over. “I’ve already broken enough rules by trying to help you. Do you think I have nothing to lose here? The Tutor Council would have my head if they knew half of what’s happened.”

“What if I promise—”

Here we go. No. I wasn’t having it. Not again.

“To be on your best behavior?” I snapped, my voice rising. “Because I haven’t heard that before.”

“I mean it, Ainsley. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just—please. I need you. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. You’re the reason I got a B in calculus. You’re the only one who’s ever made me feel like I might not be hopeless.”

“I don’t know what it is about you,” he added, his words spilling out like he couldn’t stop them. “But you make me want to try. Not just because I have to, but because you actually make me believe I can.”

I stared at him, caught off guard by the sudden earnestness in his voice. My breath caught in my throat, but before I could react, Max stood up from the chair and approached the bed where I sat. At first, I stiffened, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing—

And then he dropped to his knees. I blinked, both stunned and horrified, as he looked up at me with something dangerously close to reverence. What. Is. He Doing?

“I’m begging you, Kerrigan,” he pleaded, his voice low and steady. “Don’t give up on me. I know I’m a mess, and I know I’ve been a pain in the ass, but you’re the only one who’s ever made me feel like I’m not just good for football. Please. Don’t give up.”

I studied him, noting how his big hands clenched into fists, then loosened as he exhaled shakily. His voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, I thought he might break entirely.

Not just good for football. God, I hated how sincere he sounded, how earnest and vulnerable he looked, how his words made that ache inside me worse in a way I didn’t want to acknowledge. My resolve had been ironclad a moment ago and now—where was it? Gone. Completely gone.

Logically, I knew this was a mistake. Max was chaos incarnate, and I’d spent the last week cleaning up the mess he’d brought into my life. But I also knew that walking away wouldn’t solve anything.

Max’s GPA was a disaster, and without intervention, it was only going to get worse. The Vaughns might call it ‘discipline,’ but I knew better—letting him fail without giving him the tools to succeed wasn’t discipline. It was negligence.

And for all my frustration with Max, I couldn’t just sit back and let him drown.

But even as the words, Fine, I’ll help you fought to rise, I forced them back. I wasn’t going to make this easy for him. And if I was going to give him another—what was this, his third already?—chance, I’d make damn sure it was on my terms.

“If I agree to this,” I said slowly, my voice sharp enough to cut through his pleading, “there are going to be rules.”

Max blinked, looking cautiously optimistic. “Rules?”

“Yes,” I snapped. “Firm rules. No flirting, no inappropriate behavior, no wasting my time. You show up to every session on time, prepared, and ready to work. You give 100% effort, and you do exactly what I tell you. No excuses. No shortcuts.”

This was a mistake. I knew it was a mistake. And yet… his words clung to me like a burr I couldn’t shake. I hated the idea of letting him drown when I might be the only one willing—or able—to throw him a lifeline. I hated that I cared. But most of all, I hated how much I wanted to believe him. To believe that he could try, that he could succeed, and that my help might actually make a difference.

“I can do that,” Max said quickly, nodding so hard it was almost comical. “Whatever you say, Kerrigan. I’ll do it.”

I narrowed my eyes, ignoring the little thrill of satisfaction at his quick agreement. “You’d better. Because if you screw up even once, that’s it. No more chances. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” He nodded vigorously. “I swear. I won’t let you down.”

I doubted that, but I didn’t say so. Instead, I waved a hand toward the door. “Don’t let yourself down. Now get out.”

He scrambled to his feet, practically bounding towards the door. “Thank you, Ainsley. Seriously. You’re the best.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room blessedly quiet. I stared at it for a long moment, my head swirling with thoughts I didn’t want to unpack. Then I slumped back against the wall, ripping my glasses off and dragging a hand down my face.

What in the absolute hell was wrong with me?

Chapter Text

The sterile, faintly lemon-scented air of the campus health center wasn’t exactly relaxing, but at least it was predictable. My annual checkup was supposed to be routine, a quick tick-box exercise to satisfy Ridgeline’s secondary gender health requirements. I’d done this every year without issue. Quick, painless, and forgettable. 

All alphas and omegas received annual health checkups as part of being students at Ridgeline. I’d been avoiding mine. Not because I was afraid of hospitals or needles, but because between classes and tutoring, I simply hadn’t had the time. And, frankly, I didn’t feel like wasting hours having a doctor confirm what I already knew—that I was in perfect health. Except…

Ever since Max and I had… done that, there was an ache in my chest that wasn’t going away.

It felt like a strange case of heartburn. At first, I’d dismissed it as stress—stress could do strange things to the body, after all, and I’d had enough stress over the past six days to put me into an early grave, thanks to a certain someone. I’d thought it would simply go away.

But this morning, I had woken up and it had hurt so fiercely, clenching in my sternum like a fist, I’d become seriously concerned that there might be something actually wrong with me. I’d decided it was best to alert my professors and take the day off classes. I would see Max later, but for now, I had a full eight hours to devote to my physical—and mental—health.

Add in the fact that I had experienced my first heat ever in my life and now, I supposed, was as good a time as ever for my annual exam. It hadn’t been a real heat cycle, but still. Best to ensure that there weren’t going to be any… lingering effects.

Also, I was almost positive I had a brain tumor. Or perhaps had unknowingly suffered something that had affected my higher cognitive functions. Because there was absolutely no other logical explanation for why I’d caved under Max’s ridiculous display of pleading and taken him back on as a tutee last night. I’d been so close to sending the official termination email to the Tutor Council—then one look from those pleading brown eyes had hit me like a sucker punch.

Yes. A brain tumor was the only explanation for my lapse in sanity. Perhaps the tumor had specific preferences—brown eyes, broad shoulders, and an IQ below room temperature. That would explain everything.

I sat in the waiting room, filling out the usual forms as I waited for my name to be called. I briskly filled in the boxes on the first page, only to pause when I flipped to the second page. Omega Health Questionnaire, the title declared. I gingerly fingered the edge of the paper, hesitating as I scanned its contents.

Most years, this section was irrelevant. I’d breezed through it, checking “no” or “n/a” down the column without a second thought. But now? The words glared at me like an accusation. 

At what age did you experience your first heat cycle? When was your last heat cycle? Please specify the duration. Have there been any recent changes in your estrus cycles or symptoms? How do you currently manage your heats? Have you been experiencing any post-heat symptoms?

Urgh. I stared at the questions, my pen frozen over the first box. Every question felt like an unwanted reminder, even as the answers sounded in my head. My first and last heat cycle? Less than twenty-four hours ago. Recent changes? Yes, that I had had one. How did I manage my heats? I preferred not to. 

Jaw tightening, I adjusted my glasses and scrawled my answers as quickly as possible, keeping my handwriting sharp and efficient. For the last question, I simply wrote “ sharp ache in chest”. No need to overthink this. It was just a form. Just a stupid form.

"Ainsley Kerrigan?" a voice rang out, drawing my attention to where a nurse stood. She wore a neutral circle badge pinned neatly on her uniform, indicating her status as a beta. I approached her with the clipboard in hand and passed her the completed forms. She nodded and guided me to the obligatory weigh-in, then gestured for me to follow her to an examination room.

The nurse's smile was professional but warm as she gestured for me to sit on the padded exam table. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender, the clinic's attempt at creating a calming atmosphere, though it mostly made me want to sneeze. 

“Alright, Mr. Kerrigan,” she said, glancing at my chart. Her stylus clicked in quick efficiency. “Any changes in your health since your last annual?”

"I… recently experienced my first heat cycle," I admitted after a moment’s hesitation, forcing my tone to remain clinical. The nurse nodded as she jotted down a note.

"It was a flash heat," I added swiftly, to clarify. "Nothing severe—likely triggered by a combination of pheromone exposure and stress. A textbook case, really."

Her stylus hovered briefly. “Okay. Just to confirm, you’ve never been prescribed suppressants?”

I shook my head. “No. I was advised against them due to the delayed onset of my secondary gender development.”

The nurse nodded and entered more notes on her tablet, then looked up at me, her expression neutral. “And during your recent heat—did you have a partner?”

I stiffened instinctively, my stomach flipping at the directness of the question. I had to remind myself this was standard, a question meant to assess risk factors and any potential medical implications. But knowing it was standard didn’t make it any less mortifying.

“Yes,” I said finally, my voice steady despite the sudden heat crawling up the back of my neck. Transparency was important during health exams, even if it made me want to curl into a ball and hide. “I did.”

Her kind gaze didn’t waver, her demeanor perfunctory as she made another note. “Understood. Just to confirm, this was consensual?”

“Yes.” The word came out sharper than I intended, my irritation at the implication slipping through.

“And during the heat, did your partner engage in direct scent exposure? Skin contact near your glands, unshielded?”

Another wave of heat prickled up my spine. I wanted to lie. God, I wanted to lie. But I knew better.

“Yes,” I admitted, my voice quieter this time. “There was… direct scent exposure. Neither of us wore patches.”

The nurse didn’t react visibly, only typing into her tablet. Her composure should’ve been reassuring, but it wasn’t. It only made me feel more like a specimen under examination.

“And the duration of the heat was… eight hours?” she asked, glancing at the form I’d filled out.

“I believe so,” I said dryly. “I wasn’t exactly looking at the clock.”

Her lips twitched. “Noted. And have you been experiencing any residual symptoms since then?”

My mind immediately jumped to the persistent ache in my chest. “Actually, yes. I’ve had this… discomfort. Here.” I gestured vaguely toward my sternum. “I thought it was heartburn or perhaps indigestion, but it’s became more constant since… then. It’s been bothering me enough to be noticeable.”

The nurse hummed thoughtfully, scribbling on the chart. “Could be hormonal adjustment following your first cycle. We’ll run a panel to check. Any other symptoms? Fever, fatigue, changes in appetite?”

“No fever,” I replied. “And my appetite’s been normal. But I suppose I’ve been… more irritable than usual.” I refrained from elaborating further, though my thoughts flickered briefly to Max again.

Her eyes flicked to the patch on my neck. “No issues with pheromone suppression or scent patches?”

I shook my head. “One patch works fine,” I said. The days of omegas layering patches over every scent gland like badges of shame were long gone, thanks to optimized systemic compounds ensuring one was as effective as eight. 

“Got it,” she said, making another note. She set the tablet down and rose from her chair, approaching where I sat on the exam table. “Alright, let’s start the physical. We’ll check your scent glands first. If you could tilt your head to the side for me?”

I complied, removing my scent patch and baring the skin of my neck. The nurse’s gloved fingers moved with precision, their touch intended to be methodical, impersonal. But the instant they brushed the skin just below my ear, a jolt shot through me, and I flinched—a subtle motion, quick and involuntary, but enough to send tension rippling through my body.

The reaction startled me as much as it seemed to surprise her. My stomach tightened, a faint flush rising in my chest as I clamped down on the instinct to pull away completely.

It’s just natural sensitivity, I told myself. Perfectly normal. After all, scent glands were the most vulnerable part of any omega or alpha’s anatomy, the locus of pheromone release.

Still, the sensation was off—sharper, more invasive than anything I’d experienced in prior exams. I’d gone through countless scent gland checks before, submitting without a second thought since the practice became routine at sixteen. But this…

My skin prickled with unease, the faint buzz of discomfort gnawing at my nerves.

The nurse paused, her hand hovering midair. Her professional mask didn’t falter, but I caught the subtle flicker of her eyes, likely noting my reaction. “Are your glands feeling overly sensitive?” she asked, her tone measured and calm, as though she hadn’t just brushed a live wire.

I hesitated, the words sticking to my tongue like glue. “A little,” I admitted, voice low and stiff. I hated acknowledging discomfort—it wasn’t something I did, not with exams, not with anything. And yet, here I was, unnerved by the routine touch of a scent gland check.

Her hand returned to its work, probing gently along the curve of my gland. The pressure was light, clinical, nothing that should’ve elicited a response. And yet, I couldn’t stop the faint, instinctive urge to draw back again or even slap her hand away. It wasn’t pain, exactly, but it was… wrong. Off.  

I bit down on the inside of my cheek, steeling myself against the sensation until I felt the faint, cool glide of a swab as she collected a sample and finally, her touch withdrew. Replacing the scent patch over my gland, I exhaled silently in relief, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly.

“Everything looks normal,” she said, discarding the swab into a sterile tube and jotting something down on her clipboard. “Heightened sensitivity isn’t uncommon after a heat cycle. It could be hormonal.”

I nodded, my throat too tight to form a proper response. Hormonal . She kept using that word. And it made sense. Logical, clinical sense. Except it didn’t feel entirely logical, for reasons I couldn’t pin down.

My thoughts drifted once more, unbidden, to Max. To the way his touch hadn’t ever elicited this kind of response. To how, despite my reluctance to acknowledge it, his proximity had never felt like too much. Too close, yes. Too overwhelming, certainly. But never invasive.

Then I slammed a mental full stop on that inane thought, refusing to let it take root. No good could come from spiraling down that path—not here, not now. I didn’t even attempt to construct a counterargument, knowing it would backfire spectacularly. Because the moment I tried to argue that I’d never experienced anything invasive enough to warrant such a reaction, my brain would inevitably betray me by conjuring up that instance. The memory of Max, his lips on my scent gland, his tongue tracing the sensitive skin like he was learning me—claiming me.

My hands tightened on the edge of the exam table, my nails biting into the padding as I forcibly pushed the memory away. But even as I did, I couldn’t help noticing how the ache in my chest spread to pulse lower, sparking in my abdomen like miniature fireworks. 

I desperately needed to ask Dr. Patel about an MRI. 

“Now, we’ll take a blood sample for your hormone panel,” the nurse announced, drawing my attention back fully to the present. If she noticed the death grip I had on the exam table or my flaming face, she mercifully didn’t comment. “This will give us a detailed look at your pheromone levels, omega markers, and overall hormonal balance. Since this was your first cycle, it’ll be important to track how your body adjusts.”

She prepared the needle and tourniquet with practiced ease. I extended my arm, glancing away as she slid the needle into place, the slight pinch barely registering compared to the unease still simmering in my chest. The nurse worked with quiet efficiency, filling a few vials of blood before removing the needle and pressing a cotton ball to the spot.

I muttered a quiet “Thanks” as she taped the cotton down, my tone short despite my effort to appear unaffected. Then came the rest of the examination—the full, head-to-toe physical that every omega endured annually. It wasn’t painful, just… thorough. 

Her hands moved clinically, checking my lymph nodes, palpating my abdomen, and testing my reflexes. I complied as she shined a light into my eyes, asked me to follow her finger with my gaze, and listened to my lungs with the cold press of a stethoscope against my back. 

“Everything’s normal so far,” she noted after taking my blood pressure and jotting the numbers onto her tablet. “Now, I’ll check your pheromone baseline.”

I resisted the urge to grimace. The pheromone check was standard for omegas, meant to ensure that suppressants—or lack thereof—weren’t interfering with hormonal health. 

“Please remove your scent patch,” she said, gesturing to my neck again. “This will only take a moment.”

I peeled the patch from my skin for a second time, trying to ignore the faint release of my scent into the room. She held a small, handheld analyzer close to my neck, the device emitting a soft beep as it processed the pheromones in the air.

“Baseline levels are within range,” she said, glancing at the readout on the device. “No indication of suppressant interference, which is good. The data from your blood panel will give us more insight, but this looks fine for now.”

I nodded stiffly, reapplying my scent patch as quickly as possible. The nurse offered a faint smile as she stepped back, setting the analyzer aside.

“That wraps up the exam portion,” she said, her tone breezy, as though we hadn’t just completed an exhaustive checklist of my physical state. “Dr. Patel will review your results shortly and go over everything with you.”

“Great,” I said flatly, not trusting myself to say more without betraying the discomfort still curling low in my gut. She exited the room with the same efficient grace she’d entered, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the ache in my chest that hadn’t dulled in the slightest. The vulnerability of the ordeal lingered like an aftertaste, something I couldn’t quite swallow away, no matter how hard I tried.

I exhaled slowly, glancing at the sterile walls and lavender diffuser in the corner, trying to convince myself that this was fine—routine, predictable, nothing to worry about. It would be over in a matter of a half hour and I’d return to the rest of my day as planned.

Everything was fine.

Less than fifteen minutes later, there came a polite knock on the door and Dr. Patel stepped into the room with her usual air of quiet confidence.

She took a seat and greeted me with her usual warmth, her cornflower-blue eyes crinkling as she smiled. “Ainsley, it’s always a pleasure. How’s this semester treating you?”

Dr. Patel was another omega, attractive in a polished, professional way—her uniform perfectly tailored, with a crescent moon badge displayed just above her neckline. The pin gleamed subtly under the sterile fluorescent lights, a small but deliberate statement of pride. I wasn’t entirely sure how old she was. Late thirties? Early forties?

Regardless of her actual age, her sharp, symmetrical features and the smooth sweep of her dark, straight hair made her look timeless in a way that seemed almost unfair. She had the sort of composure that turned heads without effort—her slender, petite build adding to her air of understated authority.

“School is fine,” I replied, my tone brusque but polite. Dr. Patel was nice enough, but I just wanted this over with. The sooner I could leave and pretend this appointment never happened, the better.

She nodded, skimming through my file. “Well, I’ve gone over the results of your physical and hormone panel. We’ll go over the basics first.”

I sat stiffly, my hands folded in my lap as she pulled up the results on her screen. “First off, the basics: your overall physical health is fine, but there are a few things to address. You’re four pounds underweight for your height and your vitamin D levels are also low—likely from insufficient sunlight exposure, which isn’t uncommon for students. I’d recommend a daily supplement and trying to find room in that busy schedule of yours to eat more balanced meals and spend more time outdoors.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. Thank you for identifying that I’m a delicate, malnourished flower who just needs more sunlight to thrive. “Noted.”

“Now,” Dr. Patel said, tapping the tablet and scrolling through more data. “Let’s go over your lab work.”

I nodded and waited. Except she didn’t continue right away. Instead she paused, her brow wrinkling as she looked down at the results. My stomach twisted into knots. “Well?” I prompted impatiently.

“Your hormone panel is… interesting,” she said slowly, not looking at me.

“Interesting how?” I asked, my voice tight.

“Well,” she began, finally glancing at me with a curious tilt of her head, “Your pheromone levels are within the normal range for someone post-heat, but they’re elevated compared to the baseline we’ve seen in your previous checkups. That could simply be your body adjusting after your first cycle, but what really stands out here is your oxytocin and vasopressin levels.”

Her gaze met mine. “They’re abnormally high. These hormones are also known as bonding hormones and elevation is common in scentbonded individuals, especially following heat cycles where direct scent exposure occurred. This could explain some of the symptoms you’ve been experiencing, like the ache in your chest and heightened gland sensitivity.”

I blinked. Suddenly the room felt like it had dropped ten degrees. My chest ache flared, sharp and insistent, and I couldn’t tell if it was panic or the physical reality of whatever the hell was happening to me.

Scentbonded. 

Alpha and omega babies scentbonded to their alpha and omega parents and vice versa. It was a throwback phenomenon, a vestigial reflex from whenever our brains had been more... primal. Back when survival depended on being able to recognize one another in the dark, to tether offspring to caregivers by instinct alone. A system designed for helplessness. For dependency. For trust that wasn’t chosen, only enforced by biology’s hand.

I had never heard of it occurring outside of infancy, between two adults. Or at least my textbooks hadn't mentioned it.

My mind skidded against the thought, refused to let it settle. The very idea was absurd. Impossible. I was an adult. I was rational. I was not some half-formed creature imprinting on the nearest warm body.

And with Max Vaughn, of all people?

Absolutely not.

The ache in my chest kept aching.

“I’m sorry, did you just say—” I started, but she gently cut me off.

“I can’t confirm it definitively without further testing,” she said, “but the data does strongly suggests a scentbond. It’s not unusual for scentbonding to occur after an intense heat cycle with a partner, especially if there was prolonged physical and scent exposure. You mentioned your partner didn’t wear a scent patch, correct?”

“Yes,” I admitted, my voice tight.

She smiled indulgently. “It’s nothing to be alarmed about. Scentbonding is perfectly normal for omegas in committed relationships. It’s actually quite romantic—”

Romantic? Yes, because there’s nothing more romantic than sweating through eight hours of pheromonal chaos with your least favorite person. 

“Dr. Patel, I don’t know what all you think has changed in the past year, but I’m not in a relationship,” I cut in sharply, shaking my head. “It was… an unexpected situation. My heat came on out of the blue and… a friend assisted. That’s all.”

Dr. Patel blinked, her professional demeanor briefly giving way to surprise. “Oh. I see. My apologies—I assumed from your questionnaire responses that you were in a committed relationship.”

I understood her reaction perfectly, but I refused to elaborate further, though. There was no way I was going to give her—or anyone, for that matter—a detailed account of those specific circumstances. She didn’t press, but her expression remained carefully neutral.

She looked up from the chart, considering me. “I’d like to do a pheromone exposure test to validate the results. ”

“Let’s proceed,” I said immediately, determined to get this over with. Whatever the outcome, I needed to know.

Dr. Patel folded her hands atop the tablet in her lap, her tone remaining professional but softened by a gentleness that suggested she knew the gravity of what she was about to say. “Ainsley, the pheromone exposure test is a straightforward but highly effective way to confirm or rule out scentbonding. Here’s how it works: I will expose you to controlled alpha pheromone samples. These are collected and sterilized from anonymous donors, chosen specifically for the range of profiles we test for.”

I nodded stiffly, gripping the edge of the exam table. “And… what exactly are you looking for?”

She met my gaze directly. “We’re gauging your visceral reaction to the pheromones. Normally, when an omega is exposed to alpha pheromones, even in a controlled setting, the body responds automatically—it’s an instinctual reaction hardwired into us for survival and reproduction. It might manifest as increased heart rate, changes in breathing, or heightened sensitivity.”

Her expression grew more pointed. “However, scentbonded individuals often lack this visceral reaction when exposed to pheromones from anyone other than their bonded partner. The bond essentially overrides the natural response to other alphas. It’s a biological mechanism designed to reinforce attachment and exclusivity.”

My throat tightened, a familiar sense of unease creeping in. “So, if I… don’t react, it confirms—”

“That you’re scentbonded,” she finished matter-of-factly. “It’s a very reliable test. And it’s painless,” she added quickly, as though that were my primary concern.

I nodded again, slower this time. “Right. Let’s just… get it over with.”

Dr. Patel offered a small, reassuring smile before rising from her seat and crossing to a nearby cabinet. She opened it with a soft click, revealing several small, sterile containers arranged neatly on its shelves. Each was labeled with a series of alphanumeric codes that I assumed corresponded to the profiles she’d mentioned.

She selected one, twisting off the lid with practiced ease. “We’ll start with a moderate-profile pheromone sample,” she explained, holding the container carefully. “It’s strong enough to provoke a reaction but not overwhelming."

My stomach churned as she approached, setting the open container on the counter beside me. The faintest trace of the pheromone wafted into the air—sharp, slightly musky, and undeniably alpha.

I braced myself, expecting the telltale quickening of my pulse, the familiar tension coiling in my gut, but… nothing happened.

Dr. Patel watched me closely, her brow furrowing as seconds ticked by. “Anything?” she prompted.

I shook my head, my voice tight. “No.”

She nodded, her expression unreadable as she returned the first container to the cabinet and retrieved a second. “Let’s try a stronger profile,” she said. “This one has a higher concentration and is designed to elicit a more pronounced response.”

The second sample was undeniably more potent, the scent filling the small room with a commanding presence. It was the kind of pheromone that should’ve made my instincts sit up and take notice, triggering that primal omega response to seek safety—or something else entirely.

But again… nothing. My heart rate remained steady, my breathing even. The ache in my chest didn’t shift, nor did the faint hum of tension I carried into the room.

Dr. Patel’s lips pressed into a thin line as she replaced the second sample. “One more,” she said quietly, retrieving a third container. “This is the most concentrated profile we use for testing.”

When she opened it, the pheromone hit the air like a tidal wave. It was dizzyingly strong, the kind of scent that should’ve sent every nerve in my body alight with awareness. Instead, the room felt oppressively quiet, my body eerily still, like it was waiting for a signal that never came.

“Well,” Dr. Patel said after a long moment, capping the final container and turning back to me. “That confirms it. Your reaction—or lack thereof—is consistent with a scentbond. If I had to estimate, based on your results and hormone panel, I’d say you’re about 75% bonded.”

Her words landed like stones. My mind reeled, cycling through every possible excuse, every potential loophole, but the evidence was clear. My body wasn’t lying. It had made a choice before I’d even realized there was one to make.

My brain did the math automatically, breaking it down in precise, unwelcome detail. Eight hours had led to a seventy-five percent bond—three-quarters of the process done. That left twenty-five percent. A fourth of the time. Two hours and forty minutes. And forty minutes, to be precise. 

I was one long-winded sessions away from being one hundred percent bonded and fully locked into the kind of instinctual connection I’d never wanted to experience, let alone with someone as infuriating and chaotic as Maxwell Vaughn.

I pressed my thumb into my temple, trying to ease the tension mounting there. At best, I had two sessions, but after that... I'd lose any shred of autonomy my body had left. How was I supposed to tutor him six days a week without crossing that threshold? How was I supposed to prevent this bond from solidifying when my entire life—my grades, my reputation, my meticulously constructed future—depended on staying the course with Max?

Noting my stunned expression, she added, “Now, it’s worth noting that scentbonding doesn’t usually occur this quickly. However, the results of your pheromone panel indicate a high level of biological compatibility between you and your… friend.”

Biological compatibility. My stomach flipped as the phrase echoed in my head. It was clinical, precise, but it carried implications I couldn’t ignore.

As I understood it, compatibility wasn’t just a fluke or a side effect of heat exposure; it was a process deeply rooted in instinct and biology. Alphas and omegas didn’t bond with just anyone—it required a particular alignment of pheromones, a kind of biological synchronicity that went beyond surface attraction.

It meant that out of billions of possible combinations, Max's chemistry and mine had found a match. Not through choice, not through reason, not even through circumstance, but because our bodies had decided that survival, reproduction, and continuity were best served together.

For a moment, I couldn’t speak. My palms felt clammy against the edge of the exam table, the vinyl squeaking faintly as I gripped it tighter and my thoughts tumbled over one another, fragments of information piecing together faster than I could make sense of them. 

As a neuroscience major, of course I knew the basic science behind the concept of scentbonding—the release of bonding hormones like oxytocin and vasopressin, the activation of cert ain brain pathways linked to trust and attachment. But those were just theories. Studies. I’d never considered that they might apply to me, that I might one day find myself on the receiving end of such a process.

And yet, here I was.

“That’s not—there has to be another explanation,” I said weakly.

“There isn’t,” she replied, her tone kind but firm. “This isn’t something that can be faked or misinterpreted.”

I closed my eyes against it all, inhaling deeply though my nose and out through my mouth. It took me another moment before I trusted my voice again to speak and even then, it came out sounding far away, as if I wasn’t the one speaking. “So, this is… reversible?” I asked. God, I sounded pathetic. Desperate.

“I would imagine so,” she said carefully. “But the process is likely difficult and emotionally taxing. Severing any hormonal interdependence connection would require sustained separation, perhaps even medical intervention.”

Separation. The word twisted something in my chest, sharp and immediate. How was I supposed to stay separated from Max when I was obligated to tutor him daily? Our sessions weren’t just a matter of convenience—they were mandatory. God. What had I done?

Aware of Dr. Patel’s eyes on me, I forced myself to nod, ignoring the strange ache that pulsed just beneath my sternum. “Understood,” I said finally, my voice clipped. “Is there anything else I should be aware of?”

Dr. Patel clasped her hands together, hesitating briefly before nodding. “Yes, actually. There’s another aspect we need to discuss. Based on your hormone panel, it’s highly likely you’ll begin experiencing more regular heat cycles moving forward. Your first heat may have been triggered by a combination of factors—stress, proximity to a compatible alpha—but now that the process has started, it’s uncommon for an omega to revert back to dormancy.”

Great. Just fantastic.

I stiffened in my seat, already bracing for what was coming next. “So, you’re saying I can expect… what, monthly chaos now?” I tried to keep my voice neutral, but the edge of frustration slipped through.

“Not necessarily monthly,” she replied, keeping her tone calm. “Every omega’s cycle is different. It could vary depending on your stress levels, exposure to pheromones, and how your body adjusts to these changes. But yes, it’s fair to anticipate more heat cycles in the near future.”

I exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down my face. “Fantastic. Exactly what I need on top of everything else.”

Dr. Patel gave a small, understanding smile but didn’t comment. Instead, she continued, “Given this, it’s important to monitor your symptoms and prepare accordingly. Heats can be physically taxing, and ignoring or suppressing them entirely isn’t always the healthiest choice.”

Her phrasing caught my attention. “Speaking of suppressing them,” I said, “what about heat suppressants? I’ve never been on them before, but… considering my circumstances, wouldn’t it make sense to offset the possibility?”

Dr. Patel’s expression shifted slightly, a trace of concern crossing her face. “I understand why you’d ask that, but I don’t believe heat suppressants are a good idea at this time,” she said gently but firmly. “Your body is in a delicate state of adjustment right now. Introducing suppressants could complicate things further, potentially causing side effects or disrupting the natural hormonal stabilization process.”

“So, your recommendation is to do nothing?” I asked, my tone sharper than intended.

“Not nothing,” she corrected. “My recommendation is to wait and see how your hormones stabilize over the next few months. Once we have a clearer picture of your cycle and how your body is adapting, we can revisit the conversation about suppressants. But for now, it’s better to focus on managing your symptoms naturally and monitoring any significant changes.”

I bit back a frustrated sigh, leaning back against the exam table. “Right. So I… what, hope for the best?”

Dr. Patel’s gaze softened. “I know it’s not the answer you were hoping for, Ainsley, but this approach gives us the best chance of ensuring your long-term health. In the meantime, if you need guidance or support managing your cycles, I’m here to help.”

Her words were well-meaning, but they felt like a hollow reassurance. Managing my cycles? Preparing for more heat chaos? And all while pretending everything was fine around Max? Yeah. Sure. No problem.

“Just that these kinds of bonds, when left unchecked, can have long-term effects on both physical and emotional health,” she said. “It’s something to be mindful of as you decide how to proceed. If you have any questions—or if you need support—please don’t hesitate to reach out. Scentbonds are significant, but they don’t have to define you. You’re still in control.”

I wanted to laugh. Or scream. I did neither, instead forcing a tight smile and nodding again. I was not in control. Not anymore. And I was supposed to be mindful? Right. More like haunted. Overwhelmed. Drowning in the realization that my body had apparently made a decision without consulting me first. 

As she exited the room, tablet in hand, I slumped back against the exam table, my thoughts a tangled, chaotic mess. Biological compatibility. Scentbonding. Hormonal interdependence. It was all clinical, scientific, but it felt anything but abstract. It felt immediate. Real.

And, worst of all, it felt irreversible.

Chapter Text

Ainsley:
What scarf?
Whatever you took from my dorm, bring back immediately.
Session at 7pm. Library.

Zach:
yo. 7am. field. we need to talk.
bring coffee or i’m tackling u

Max:
broooooooooo
ugh fine
ur buying breakfast tho

Zach:
deal
also if u don’t spill everything about mr. hot tutor i’m disowning u

The football field looked different at 7 a.m. Empty. Quiet. Almost weird.

The usual chaos—cheering crowds, pounding music, teammates yelling over each other—was gone. Instead, it was just... still. For a second I just sprawled there, letting it all sink in. The smell of fresh-cut grass and damp air, the way the place felt bigger without anyone else around somehow.

I tipped my head back, staring up at the bleachers. They were empty now, of course, but I could still picture the crowds. And if I closed my eyes, I swore I could hear the noise, feel the electric buzz I only got on game days. The way it felt to step onto the field with thousands of eyes on you, knowing they were waiting for you to deliver.

Fuck, I missed it.

The last game I’d played had been a home game against Gardner Academy, on this very field. Home games were extra vicious, because no team with any self-respect was gonna lose to another team on their own turf. Ridgeline hadn’t been any exception; we’d played our asses off. And won. But I hadn’t known it’d be my last game.

I missed everything about it already. The rhythm of the game, the smell of the turf, the way the ball felt in my hands. I even missed the stupid stuff, like the sweat-soaked pads and the bruises that took a week to fade. The heartache felt so literal—like, my chest actually ached.

I rubbed my knuckles over the discomfort and groaned aloud, wondering not for the first time how the fuck my life had come to this. Had I pissed off God somehow? I felt weirdly hollow, like someone had scooped out everything inside me and left me with nothing but the shell of who I was supposed to be.

A football whizzed through the air past my ear, startling me. I jumped out of my thoughts and my skin, head snapping around to the person who’d thrown. Zach stood on the sidelines, a paper bag at his feet, grinning unapologetically at me. I rolled my eyes and flipped him off. In response, he did a classic hip-thrust move and wailed out a shrill “Oh yeahhhh!”

It was so dumb, so Zach, that I couldn’t help but snort out a laugh. My life felt like it had gone to shit, yeah, but some things didn’t change. Like what a complete idiot my best friend was.

“Dude, you almost knocked my head off,” I grumbled after he’d jogged over, glaring at him. His dark blond hair was damp from a shower, cobalt-blue eyes crinkling under his brows. “And almost spilled the coffee.”

Zach shrugged, not at all concerned. He held the bag clenched in his fist and this close, I could see that it read Benny’s across the front. It reeked of delicious grease, making my nose twitch. Fast food breakfast sandwiches. “And almost spilled the coffee.”

“You looked like you were about to cry.”

Still smirking, he raised the bag over my head and I had half a second to wonder what was actually in it before he upended it dramatically, sending all six of the sandwiches that I’d hoped I’d smelled—Thank God—raining down on me. My nose was a fucking champ. 

I snatched one mid-air, my stomach growling audibly. He dropped onto the field beside me, sprawling out with a dramatic sigh. I wordlessly handed him his coffee, unwrapped my sandwich, and started stuffing my face.

I didn’t need to look over to know that Zach was doing the same—we had the metabolism of cheetahs and we ate a lot. It might’ve been total fast food garbage, but Benny’s was our favorite fast food garbage. All food was protein anyway, fast food or not. 

For a long time, the only sound was the two of us chowing down. Then there weren’t any more breakfast sandwiches left and it was just silence. Normally, there wasn’t any silence between Zach and I. Even if we had our mouths full. And if there was silence, then it was comfortable. Not… this. This felt awkward.

“Are we okay?” Zach asked quietly. I could feel him staring at me.

“Yeah,” I answered automatically. But I knew what he was asking. And I knew what I had to say. “Congrats on team captain, bro.”

Zach and I had been best friends since high school. He could’ve gotten into any university he wanted, but he’d chosen to follow me to Ridgeline. Football had been the start of our friendship, but it wasn’t everything. I could admit that, even if I was salty about being benched. We were still bros. 

I looked over at him then, watching his expression shift to wariness. His dark blue eyes squinted at me suspiciously. “Congrats? Really?”

“Yeah, dude. Really. Congrats. I mean, you earned it, right? You’re just as good with the guys as I am. They respect you. Hell, for a minute I thought Coach was gonna say it was Justin.” I grimaced. “I’m glad it’s you.”

At first, Zach seemed like he didn’t know whether to believe me or not, his gaze searching my face. Then he looked down at all the balled up sandwich wrappers and started to swat them between his hands, as if trying to think of how to respond.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “If I hadn’t said yes, it would’ve been Justin. And no offense, but we’d be screwed if Linguini Arms was in charge. I wouldn’t have just agreed like that. Not without talking to you. Swear.”

I nodded slowly. “It’s cool. I believe you.”

“You really think I’m like… gonna do a good job or whatever?” The words were low and halting, the way Zach spoke when he wanted reassurance but didn’t know how to ask for it. Vulnerability wasn’t his strong suit. 

Just to fuck with him, I pretended to take a moment to think about it. “Nah, I was just kidding when I said that the team respected you.” At his puzzled look, I clarified. “No one’s forgotten about that time you got pegged by Strapzilla. Unless the other teams are wearing strap-ons, the rest of the season’s fucked.”

For a moment, silence hung between us, him gaping at me. Then I couldn’t help it—I started cracking up at the look on his face. He started laughing too, a sheepish grin pulling at his lips as he remembered.

“Dude, I only got pegged in tribute,” he argued. “You were her first choice. That was classic self-sacrifice.”

“The entire party heard you moaning, bro. You liked it. Little pillow slut,” I teased and I felt more than saw the awkwardness lift, as we both started laughing harder at the memory. It had been sophomore year, when the both of us had been arguably at our sluttiest and prone to following almost anyone into a back room for some slap ass.

Except even at my sluttiest, I preferred to slap ass instead of getting slapped. I mean, not saying there’s anything wrong with taking an eight-inch, neon-pink all-beef thermometer up your ass, if that’s your thing, but it’s not mine. Preferences and all that. Zach was more… flexible.

When we’d recovered, Zach gave me a serious look again. “You sure you’re not pissed? I’m not sure if I’m even cut out for it, honestly,” he admitted. “You’ve always been the leader. I’m just the guy who catches the ball. What if I screw this up?”

I shook my head firmly. “You’ll do fine. And I mean, yeah, there’s a part of me that doesn’t love it. Like, that’s my spot. But it’s not your fault.” I started to say that I didn’t know whose fault it was, but then I remembered that I did—mine—and I didn’t want to go there, so instead I said, “I feel like Coach fucking muzzled me.”

Understanding flashed in his face then, because Zach knew the part I was referring to. He was an alpha too—sure, he found it easier to suppress his instincts than I did, but we both struggled all the same. He could guess what it felt like: I’d become team captain almost day one of being at Ridgeline and the role had always made me feel like I wasn’t just an alpha, but the alpha, the one the team looked to and rallied around.

Letting someone else—another alpha, no less—felt wrong, even if it was Zach. Even if it made sense. And it felt like I was letting the pack down. 

I mean, no one really subscribed to outdated notions of packs anymore but if I’d ever had a pack, it was my team. It was literally in the name. Ridgeline Wolfpack. And that made getting benched so much harder. Who was I, without my team? Without football?

I’d made sure that everyone at Ridgeline knew me as Max Vaughn, star quarterback, team captain, the guy who could throw a ball seventy yards and hit a moving target without breaking a sweat. Now I was just Max Vaughn, benched. The senator’s kid who was about to flunk out of college.

It felt like losing the best part of myself. Like everything I’d actually worked for was just slipping away, and there was nothing I can do to stop it. Like I was trying to catch water in my hands, but it just kept dripping through my fingers no matter how hard I squeezed. The urge to joke dried up as frustration sparked inside me, fresh and raw, and before I knew it, I was letting it spill out.

“Getting benched, for the record,” I started, no small amount of bitterness in my voice, “fucking sucks. Two semesters. How many games is that, anyway? Like… what, twenty? What’s gonna happen to my stats, bro? Who’s gonna get all those passing yards and touchdowns? God, Zach. My highlights.”

Now that I’d started, I kept rambling, slowly releasing all the panic that had been building inside of me for the past twenty-four hours. Zach let me ramble, nodding occasionally but mostly staying quiet, his usual goofy grin absent. 

“All those plays we practiced in the offseason? Wasted. Hell, I even skipped Thanksgiving last year to focus on the game. And now I’m supposed to sit on the sidelines and just… watch? What if the scouts start looking at some other quarterback instead? Like Justin? I mean, he might throw like linguini, but he’s actually playing while I’m benched. I’m gonna be, like, ancient by the time I hit the draft.”

I reached for one of the balled up wraps and balled it up even tighter in my fist, then lobbed it. You couldn’t spiral sandwich wrappers, turns out, but throwing shit made me feel better. Sort of.

“Old ass man,” Zach agreed teasingly, before stretching his arms over his head and leveling me with a serious look. “Your stats aren’t going anywhere, bro. Seriously, I know this shit sucks, but let’s be real. You could sit out the rest of the season, come back for one game, and still blow everyone else’s stats out of the water. You’re a beast, man.”

His blue eyes lit up, a crooked grin flashing. “Remember Riverview, sophomore year? The ball was like a missile with GPS. Nobody else on the team could’ve made that throw. Fucking Noodle Boy’s just a placeholder for the real deal and the rest of the team knows it. Shit, he probably has wet dreams of being you.”

The ghost of a smile twitched at my own lips, remembering the game against Riverview sophomore year. Everyone had thought we were screwed, down by four with fifteen seconds left on the board—until I’d thrown the ball right over Ridgeview’s head from 70 yards into Zach’s hands. Legendary. 

As much as I didn’t want it to, the memory kinda made me feel better. Kinda.

“But my scholarship,” I pointed out glumly. There weren’t any more sandwich wrappers to throw, so I just sat there, trying to deal with the remaining pent-up energy that buzzed under my skin. “What if I can’t get my grades up? What if I fuck up one thing and I can’t get back?”

Zach shrugged, leaning forwards to stretch out his hamstrings. I just watched, feeling the urge to mimic him but reminding myself that it wasn’t like I had football practice later. “Bro. You’re Max freaking Vaughn. You’ll figure it out. You always do. Besides, don’t you have like, the best tutor on campus? All you gotta do is stop trying to stick your dick in him and do whatever he tells you.”

Right. Yeah. At the reminder of Ainsley—God, Ainsley—I ducked my head and rubbed at the back of my neck, feeling telltale warmth spread under my hand. “Uh, yeah,” I mumbled. “About him…”

“What’s the latest with him anyway? You studied with him on Sunday, right?” Zach prompted as he grabbed ahold of his toes. He didn’t forget to add, in true Zach fashion, “After you ghosted me when I asked if you wanted to come to the win party.”

I’d told Zach about how attracted I’d felt to Ainsley the first time I’d met him, but nothing beyond a very casual ‘I wouldn’t mind to have those snarky lips wrapped around my dick’. I hadn’t told him about the scent patch screwups and I definitely hadn’t said anything about what had gone down Sunday night.

Normally, Zach and I told each other about all our sexual conquests, but somehow the urge to tell him about how freaking good Ainsley smelled or all the different ways I’d made his legs shake felt… wrong. A primal part of my brain literally growled at the idea and I knew it was irrational, but like…

What if Zach wanted to go smell Ainsley for himself? Even if he meant it as a stupid joke, I’d hurt him. Badly. I didn’t want to talk about Ainsley at all with him, but I knew I had to talk to someone. And who better than my best friend? 

“Dude, I’m gonna tell you this because you’re like, my best friend, but don’t chirp me,” I finally said, picking the words carefully. Willing Zach to pick up on the change in my tone. “Okay? Like, seriously. This is different. He’s different.”

Piqued at my words, Zach stopped stretching. He stared at me for a moment, studying me before nodding. “Okay.”

I took a deep breath and then blurted it out. “We… had sex. Sunday night.”

“Okay,” Zach said again. I could tell he had a million things he wanted to say, all of them dumb as fuck no doubt, but to his credit, he held it in and just waited for me to continue. 

When I just sat there, he reached out and gave me a light punch in the shoulder. “And? Bro. Details. What’s the hashtag, #VaughnsleyForever? Spring wedding or fall? I gotta know for the color scheme—”

I groaned, giving him a light shove. “Dude, no . He went into heat. I triggered it. And then I went into rut.”

“Holy shit, you got pherobombed?” Zach’s voice was incredulous. “How was it?”

How was it? How could I put into words the way Ainsley had felt under me, the way he’d tasted and smelled, the dreamy look on his face when we’d finally surfaced eight hours later? Or how fucking giddy I’d felt when he hadn’t resisted me pulling him against my chest to sleep, all of his sharp edges gone all soft and sweet. How I’d fallen asleep in his too-small bed and still gotten the best sleep I’d ever had in my life, with his taste still on my lips and his smell in my veins and his body clenched around my knot?

Instead of saying any of that aloud, I said, “I’m not having sex with anyone else again.”

Zach’s brows shot up. “Bro, I’m not chirping you, but… you basically bagged an academic celebrity. This is like Romeo and Juliet, but with football and calculus. I’m calling Hollywood. Are you even allowed to touch someone with a 4.0 GPA? Is that, like, a crime? Please tell me he recited the periodic table in your ear. Please. Do you need me to tell the cheer squad, or are you just gonna ghost them all?”

I glared at him. “Shut the fuck up. I’m serious, dude. Ainsley is different. Swear to God. Like… I want to be better when I’m around him. He’s got this way of making me feel like I could actually figure all this out. Like maybe being benched isn’t the end of the world if I’ve got someone like him to help me. And I mean, I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m an idiot, but I can’t stop thinking about him. I feel like I’m having a goddamn heart attack half the time.” 

“Go ahead and have one,” Zach winked at me, smirking. “I’ll CPR the fuck out of you, bro. I aced that class.”

The thing was, I wasn’t joking. There was an actual pain in my chest that felt like it was getting worse the more I tried to breathe past it. I chalked it up to stress and put my head in my hands, letting out a frustrated noise.

Zach nudged me. “ You’ve hooked up with half the campus and never talked about anyone like this. Shit, you put me into a locker the other day for joking about him. I’m not gonna say you’re whipped, but like… maybe you’re a little whipped.”

Whipped? Was I? I opened my mouth to protest, but Zach continued. “Seriously, though, if he makes you feel this way, maybe stop overthinking it and just… let it happen. Tell him how you feel. You’re the whole package. You’re funny—sometimes—” this time, when I shoved at him, it was hard enough to bowl him over “—you’re good at football, and you’re not, like, a total dick. Plus, omegas dig big arms. I’m telling you, he’s probably halfway there already.”

I considered. A part of me appreciated that Zach was trying to hype me up and yeah, I did have killer arms—I had killer everything—but… “I don’t know, man. He said it was a mistake and got so freaked out, he tried to cancel our whole arrangement. I had to literally beg to get him to take me back. He’s the only chance I have of getting unbenched—but the hell am I supposed to study and bring my grades up when he looks like an ice cream sandwich in a sweater vest?”

“Fuck,” Zach echoed. “You’re a slut for ice cream sandwiches.”

“Yeah, I fucking am. They’re like, all vanilla with chocolate…” I leaned back on my hands and groaned up at the sky, flopping onto my back. “Cookies and cream. Messy as fuck but worth it. I wanna date him.”

Zach snickered, eyeing me. “Listen, I’m not saying he’s too good for you, but if this is as serious as you’re saying, you better step it up. You really think he’s gonna fall for the same shit you pull on everyone else? Nah, man. You’ve gotta show him you’re serious. Like… actually serious.”

I bit back the urge to remind him that I’d said it was serious like fifteen times and lapsed into silence, thinking. Not for the first time since I’d woken up, I wondered what Ainsley was doing right now. It wasn’t 8am yet, but I knew he was a busy little thing. The type to wake up at the ass crack of dawn and organize his socks or something before he went to lectures about brains.

He’d mercifully ignored every single unhinged text I’d sent from the other day and had simply demanded his scarf back; I’d managed to restrain myself from texting back at all, kind of embarrassed about how I’d spiraled.

Taking my silence as ‘we’re done talking about feelings’, Zach reached over to ruffle my hair. “He’ll come around,” he assured me. “Just be persistent. And be yourself, dude.”

It wasn’t the most ground-breaking advice I’d ever gotten, but it was probably the best I’d ever get from Zach. He wasn’t any more fluent in relationships than I was. Then he got to his feet and started running around the field, muttering about how Coach was going to kick his ass and collecting the trash I’d scattered. I blinked blearily into the rising sun, realizing that I’d completely forgotten about my coffee.

Whatever. I’d gotten it from a gas station on the way to campus and I wasn’t a princess or anything, but I was pretty sure it’d fucked up my stomach, with the way that it felt like someone had punched a hole through it.

Zach finished cleaning up and loped back over to me, the football tucked under his arm. Music was already playing from his pocket, one of our favorite songs to throw the ball around to. The aggressive beat broke up the quiet of the early morning and made my blood zip through my veins a little bit faster, pushing my brain closer towards a sense of normalcy. Except the discomfort in my stomach remained and I groaned, resisting the hand he extended to help me up.

“Bro, choke me out,” I whined. “Fake my death and see if Ainsley cares.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t even hesitate. The football hit the ground with a dull thud as Zach launched himself at me, all six feet and two inches of chaos. I barely had time to register what was happening before his hands were on me, and instead of going for a chokehold, he went straight for my sides.

“Zach, no—!” I managed to gasp before his fingers dug in, relentless and merciless. He was tickling me. Tickling. Like we were five. I was thrashing before I could stop myself, gasping for air and flailing in a way that definitely wasn’t dignified. “Bro—stop! Oh my God, stop! You—psychopath!”

“Not until you admit I’m stronger!” he crowed, grinning like the dumbass he was as he doubled down, tickling with the precision of someone who’d memorized all my weak spots. I kicked at his shins, trying to shove him off, but he was too fast. 

Then, just as I thought I was about to die of oxygen deprivation, he suddenly stopped, leaning back dramatically and making a big show of sniffing me. His nose crinkled in mock disgust as he recoiled. “Bro. What is that? You got a new cologne or something? What’s it called, Beta Tears?”

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” I wheezed, trying to catch my breath and swipe at his face at the same time. He danced out of reach, still grinning like he’d won something. I thought the pain in my chest got a little less or at least easier to distract myself from, as one insult turned into another, which turned into me lunging at him, and then we were wrestling. Full-on, alpha-versus-alpha chaos, rolling around on the field like kids fighting over the last popsicle.

I managed to get him into a chokehold—his fault for being too cocky—and he tapped out, slapping at my arm. “Okay, okay! I give!”

I grinned, loosening my grip just enough for him to squirm free and scream “Psyche, bitch!”, before scrambling to his feet. I had only a moment to make another grab for him and missed, falling practically on my face. He took off at a dead sprint across the field, laughing like a maniac. 

“Oh, you’re done!” I shouted after him, snatching up the football he’d abandoned. Planting my feet, I lined up the shot, my fingers gripping the ball instinctively. The world narrowed for a second, my focus locking in on him like I was back in a game.

He glanced back over his shoulder at me, and for a split second, our eyes met. That was all it took. The moment I released the ball, he was already moving, leaping with that ridiculous grace he somehow had for a guy his size. He plucked the ball clean out of the air, pulling it to his chest with a grin so smug I almost regretted making the throw.

“Still got it, Vaughn!” he yelled, spinning in place like he’d just scored the winning touchdown.

“Yeah, yeah,” I called back, trying not to let my grin give me away. “Don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back, dickwad. My sister can go longer than that.”

Even from a distance, I saw the waggle of his eyebrows. “Yeah, she can!”

Ugh. I rolled my eyes, huffing out a reluctant laugh. Because I’d given that one to him. Yeah, it was dumb and pointless. But it was us. No matter how fucked up things got, Zach had my back. Maybe it was an alpha thing, that pack instinct we never talked about, but I could trust Zach to make me laugh when my chest felt like it was caving in. He always knew how to ground me, how to remind me that football wasn’t all I was, even when it felt like it was everything.

For a moment, I could forget about being benched along with everything else. It was just me, my best friend, and the field.

And that was enough.

Zach left me sweaty, tired, and kinda pissed off at the world—but a little less than I’d been before we started. We’d talked a little more between throwing the ball around, mainly about team captain stuff, then he’d jogged off to Econ class like his life depended on it. 

Of course he’d tossed a final "VaughnsleyForever" over his shoulder and I’d flipped him off in response, but honestly? Dude was a lifesaver, because I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed to just feel like a bro for a while. Also, I was kinda into Vaughnsley. Or even Vaughnigan.

Now it was just me and the field again. Quiet. Empty. Not as weird as it’d felt earlier, but not exactly normal either. I stayed there a little longer, throwing the ball up and catching it just because it gave my hands something to do. My brain, though? That thing never shut up.

Because shit, I missed this. Missed it so much it hurt. Not just football but everything that came with it—the team, the adrenaline, the crowds screaming my name. I still didn’t know what I was supposed to do without football, besides focus on getting better grades. It sounded simple enough, sure—like duh, just study, idiot—but it wasn’t.

Not for me. My brain didn’t work like that. I needed motion, chaos, adrenaline. Sitting still in a library for hours was about as appealing as taking a math test while blindfolded. And now that football was off the table, all I could think about was Ainsley. Between the library incident and me begging on my knees in his dorm, I’d gotten to see him all of less than an hour since we’d had sex, which bugged me. I hoped he wasn’t as ice-cold tonight. Or mean.

I could practically see him, pacing around with a notebook full of bullet points titled “How to Prevent Alpha Brain From Screwing Up Again”. Like, what if he had one of those wooden rulers? And every time I got an answer wrong, he’d rap my knuckles with it, glaring at me like I was the dumbest alpha alive? And the worst part? I’d probably deserve it.

Actually… that didn’t sound so bad.

Just like that, my brain went places—bad places—thinking about Ainsley standing over me with that ruler, dressed in one of those stupid sweater vests he always wore, looking all proper and severe. Vaughn, this is unacceptable work, he’d say, all clipped and professional, before smacking my hand again. And I’d just grin at him, say something like, Guess I’ll have to stay late for detention, huh?

God, I’d be into it. Like, embarrassingly into it. I rubbed at the back of my neck, groaning. I let the ball drop to the ground with a soft thud and rubbed at my chest like that’d make the ache go away. Spoiler: it didn’t. Shocking.

"Vaughn!" A voice barked from somewhere behind me, jolting me out of my pity spiral. My head snapped up to see Coach Freeman standing near the bleachers, arms crossed, looking at me like he had X-ray vision or some shit. I straightened instinctively, wiping my hands on my shorts as he waved me over.

Great. What now?

I jogged over, trying to look casual like I hadn’t just been moping on the field for the last half hour. “What’s up, Coach?” I asked, forcing a grin that felt a little too wide. “You miss me already, huh?”

Coach didn’t return my smile. If anything, his expression softened in a way that made my stomach twist. Coach was supposed to always look pissed off, not… concerned. “How’re you holding up, kid?” he asked, his voice quieter than I expected.

“I’m fine,” I said automatically. Too fast. Too loud. Shit. “Just, uh, working on my grades and staying out of trouble, you know?”

He gave me a look. One of those don’t-bullshit-me looks that coaches and moms are weirdly good at. “That so?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. For a moment, I wondered if he somehow knew about the incident with Derek in the library. But there was no way.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding a little too enthusiastically. “Totally.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t look convinced. “Listen, Vaughn. I know sitting on the bench isn’t easy for you. Hell, it’s not easy for me to put you there. But you’ve gotta get your head on straight—on and off the field.”

Christ, it hadn’t even been that long and I was already getting another lecture. I knew he meant well, but still. My grin faltered. I scratched the back of my neck, trying to suppress the urge to bristle. “I’m working on it,” I muttered.

“Good,” he said, his tone was still too soft. Like he was gearing up for some serious Dad Talk. I braced myself, and sure enough, he kept going. “But you don’t have to do it alone, kid. That’s why we’ve got Instinct Counselors on campus—people who get what it’s like for alphas. It’s not weakness to ask for help, Vaughn. It’s strength.”

Ugh. The help word. The one that made my alpha instincts bristle like a cat about to hiss. I plastered the grin back on my face, even though it felt faker than a clearance-bin Rolex. “Thanks, Coach, but I’m good. Really.”

Coach was a solid guy—don’t get me wrong. He wasn’t just about the wins or the stats; he really cared about us as people, about what was going on in our lives when we weren’t on the field. He had this way of making you feel like he was in your corner no matter what, which, yeah, was cool… but it could also be a little much. Like, great, another authority figure wanting to have a heart-to-heart.

Honestly, he was kind of like a second dad sometimes. Not in a bad way, but I already had a dad who cornered the market on lectures about discipline and hard work. And here’s the kicker: my dad wasn’t even a sports guy. At all. Ask him the difference between a touchdown and a home run, he’ll blank. But the second he met Coach? Instant bromance. They were practically finishing each other’s sentences by the end of the first conversation. It was all, “Kids these days need structure,” and “Nothing builds character like hard work.”

So yeah, between Coach and my dad, I figured I was drowning in discipline. I appreciated it, sure. But sometimes, it felt like I couldn’t make a single move without one of them chiming in with advice I didn’t ask for.

He didn’t look happy about my answer, but he didn’t push it either. Just sighed and gave me one of those long, measuring looks that made me feel like I was under a spotlight. “Alright,” he said finally. “But if I hear you’re slacking or spiraling, I’m dragging you there myself. Got it?”

“Crystal clear,” I said, saluting him like a smartass. He rolled his eyes but didn’t call me on it, which felt like a win.

“Get to class, Vaughn,” he said, already turning back toward the bleachers.

I jogged off the field, my legs moving automatically even as my brain spun in circles. Instinct Counseling? I mean, yeah, maybe I’ve been snapping at people more than usual. But sitting in some office sniffing eucalyptus and talking about my feelings? Hard pass. I didn’t need some stranger poking around in my head, telling me how to alpha better or whatever. I just needed to get my grades up, stay on Ainsley’s good side, and make it through this semester without losing my shit.

By the time I got to Stats all the way across campus, the ache in my chest was still there, but I shoved it down and focused on finding a seat near the back. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, a grin pulling at my lips as I replied to Ainsley's earlier message like I’d been itching to all morning.

scarf looks better on me bt fine, ill bring it tn. 7 sharp. dnt miss me 2 much. ;)

I leaned back in my chair, feeling the tiniest bit lighter. It wasn’t much, but knowing I’d see him later—hear his sharp, snarky tone, watch him roll his eyes like I was the biggest idiot on the planet—made the day feel just a little more manageable.

My phone buzzed and I glanced at it, expecting to see Ainsley’s name with some sort of snarky response, but instead I saw a message from a number I didn’t recognize.

Reminder: Your first minivan payment of $750 is due in 5 days.

Chapter Text

The walk to the library was crisp and quiet, the kind of late-evening weather where the air felt sharp enough to wake you up, but not cold enough to make your breath fog. The sky was this deep indigo, clear enough to see a few stars winking down, and for once, Ridgeline wasn’t buzzing with its usual chaos. It was… nice, actually. Peaceful.

And maybe it was the weather, or maybe it was just him, but every step I took toward my next tutoring session—towards Ainsley—had my chest buzzing. That little ache I’d been feeling all day—the one I couldn’t explain, like my ribcage was trying to fold in on itself—eased up the closer I got.

I shoved my free hand into my pocket, my other gripping a hot-as-fuck tea, while I tried not to grin like an idiot. But I couldn’t help it. The thought of seeing him again? Yeah, that was enough to push past all the other crap swirling in my brain. 

Like my finances.

I’d gone out of my way to get some tea from the best spot in town—according to Google—specifically for Ainsley as a thanks-for-taking-me-back, and I’d had to fill up my tank on the way back. Normally, I just got a full tank, but my card had declined, which was how I’d found out that my accounts were looking… rough.

The numbers on my banking app had given me a very small but very real heart attack.

Checking Account : $257.84
Savings Account : $0.00

I wasn’t really thinking about where I was going—I knew the route to the library like the back of my hand by now—but my mind was buzzing all over again, shifting from thoughts of Ainsley to how my credit card was maxed out. Haha, maxed out. Real funny. Except it wasn’t.

My rent’s always paid because that my parents handled it—total Mom move, honestly, something about her worried about me living out of my truck—but it wasn’t like I was freeloading or anything. I handled my phone bill, car payment, car insurance, gas, groceries, all that real-world adult stuff. Which is fine. I got it. Most of the time.

Like, I always worked summer jobs and tried to be responsible, but there’s always something. Groceries adding up. Gas was always a nightmare—especially with my truck guzzling fuel like it was sponsored by Exxon. And then there were random expenses I didn’t think about until they were staring me in the face, like, I dunno… surprise football cleats or a new Xbox controller because Zach rage-smashed mine.

And yeah, sure, maybe sometimes I splurged a little—gotta have protein powder, gotta hit up late-night Benny’s—but that was like, basic survival. Then there was the big stuff, the whoops-didn’t-budget-for-this disasters.

Like yesterday, when I was consumed for six gut-wrenching hours with the fear that Ainsley and I were pregnant with quadruplets and I went on a panicked online shopping spree. I wish I could say I couldn’t believe I spiraled that hard, but the truth is I totally can. Because first of all, Ainsley wasn’t answering my text messages. Second of all, Dr. Chad really wanted to make sure I was prepared, and hell, I wanted to be prepared too. I’m not an irresponsible scrub. I’m not. Third of all, quads. 

So yeah, I might’ve splurged on some dad gear. And financed a minivan. Call it hormones or some alpha instinct thing, but my brain really said, Yeah, our future pups definitely need cupholders.

It’s fine, I told myself. Totally fine. Money’s just numbers, right? “Just a minor setback,” I muttered, pulling my hand out of my pocket to scrub it down over my face. It wasn’t like I could do anything about it right this second, anyway. I just needed to focus on Ainsley, on our tutoring session—and on not embarrassing myself in front of him again.

The library came into view, its warm yellow lights spilling out onto the steps, cutting through the cool night air. I jogged up the stairs two at a time, the sound of my sneakers thudding against the stone. My heart was pounding now, but it wasn’t from exertion. It was from the excitement I couldn’t quite shove down. I was going to see my omega. Fuck yeah.

The library doors opened with a faint creak, and the quiet warmth inside wrapped around me like a blanket. It smelled like usual, like books and smart kids. There were a couple of students sat scattered at tables, their heads bent over laptops or notebooks, but I didn’t stop to look at them. My eyes zeroed in on our usual spot near the back, where Ainsley was already sitting, his head bent over his notebook.

God, he looked good. Like, really good. His stupid little glasses were perched on his nose, reflecting the soft overhead lights, and his sweater vest was so perfectly Ainsley it made my chest feel tight again. He was scribbling something furiously, his brows furrowed in that way that made him look all serious and way too smart for someone his age. His hair was a little messier than usual, soft curls falling into his face, and I had the sudden, ridiculous urge to brush them back just so I could see him better.

I stood there for a second, just watching him, my lips twitching up in a smile. Even from across the room, I could tell he wasn’t in a good mood. His posture was stiff, his lips were pressed in that thin line that screamed “You’re an idiot, Vaughn”—and yeah, okay, maybe I deserved it this time.

My chest did that thing again—buzzing, tightening, aching—and for a second, I forgot that I was late, broke, and probably about to get my ass handed to me.

Then he looked up.

His green eyes locked onto mine, and I swear, if looks could kill, I’d have been a goner. His glasses slid down his nose just enough to make him look even more annoyed as he narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re late,” he said, sharp and biting, his pencil snapping down against the notebook with a thunk.

“Yeah, but—” I started, holding up my hand as I made my way to the table.

“Fifteen minutes, Vaughn,” he cut me off, already exasperated. “Do you even know how far behind we are now? Do you care?”

“Hey, relax, alright?” I said, sliding into the chair across from him and setting the tea on the table between us. “I got you something.”

He blinked, his eyes darting to the cup like it was some kind of trap. “What’s that?”

“It’s tea,” I said, like it was obvious. “The reason I’m late. I stopped at that fancy café downtown and told the barista to give me their best. So, uh… I hope you like it.”

He stared at the cup, then back at me, his eyebrows pulling together in a mix of confusion and disbelief. “You’re telling me you’re late because you decided to buy tea?”

“Not just tea,” I said quickly, shoving it toward him. “Fancy tea. Special tea. The best tea in town, probably. Look, I don’t know what you drink, but I wanted to say thank you. For you know… everything.”

For a second, Ainsley just sat there, staring at me with narrowed eyes like I’d grown a second head. Then, slowly, his fingers wrapped around the cup, and he lifted it to his lips. I watched him take a sip, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, I started to panic. What if I got it totally wrong? What if he hated it? What if this whole plan backfired and I looked like even more of an idiot than usual?

But then he lowered the cup, his lashes fluttering as he exhaled softly, his lips parting just enough for me to catch the tiniest, tiniest flicker of… something. I held my breath, waiting.

“I don’t know how you managed to get this right,” he finally said, reluctantly. “But thank you.”

A thank you? Wow. He didn’t just like it, he loved it. Fuck yeah. The grin I’d been trying to hold back broke out over my lips and I made a mental note to bring tea to every tutoring session from now on. Major score.

“Now,” he continued, holding out his hand. “Where’s my ascot?”

I froze mid-grin, blinking. “Your what?”

“My ascot, Max. The one you stole. ” The tea-induced pleasure was gone from his expression now, his lips pressed back into a thin line. “Don’t just sit there. Hand it over.”

It took me a second to process what he was saying, mostly because I was still stuck on the word ascot. “Uh… you mean your scarf?” I asked, scratching the back of my neck.

“It’s not a scarf. It’s an ascot.”

“Okay, hold on,” I said, holding up my hands in surrender. “What the hell is an ascot?”

He stared at me for a long moment, his expression murderous. I watched as he gritted his teeth, pressed two fingers to his temple like he was trying to stave off a migraine, and then—very deliberately—took a sip of his tea with his eyes closed. When he finally opened them again, I could tell that some of his exasperation had dulled. Some.

“You know what?” he said slowly, his tone clipped. “Let me explain this to you in the only way you might actually understand: Fred from Scooby-Doo, okay? It’s like that. Now give it back. You said you’d bring it.”

I thought for a second and realized that that actually did ring some bells in my brain. I wanted to laugh, except I knew better, so I just grinned at him and reached into my pocket where I’d stashed the scarf—erm, ascot. I pulled it out and handed it to him, wrinkles and all. I’d already decided I would take his leggings to my grave.

“Happy now?” I asked, watching him take in the wrinkled silk. He shot me a look, as if to say Not at all , before placing the ascot into his satchel. Another sip of his tea, a deep inhale, and he composed himself into the Ainsley I was used to right in front of my eyes, calm and collected and razor-sharp.

“Alright, Vaughn, listen carefully because I’m not repeating myself. I’ve spent the past 12 hours devising what is arguably the most aggressive academic recovery plan in the history of Ridgeline. And I mean aggressive. If you’re not prepared to commit, tell me now so I can save myself the headache.”

He pushed the tea aside and opened his notebook, flipping it to a page that looked like it could’ve been ripped out of a NASA mission control manual—color-coded blocks, detailed bullet points, arrows everywhere. Then he leaned forwards, his green eyes boring into mine like he was about to assign me a life sentence.

Which was somehow just as hot as thinking about him rapping me on the knuckles with a ruler and my cock gave a very interested twitch. Thank God I was in sweats today.

Ainsley went on. “This plan is designed to take your GPA from a laughable 1.2 to a survivable 2.0 in one semester. Half the time it would normally take. But—and I cannot stress this enough—this is going to require complete and total focus from you. No distractions. No shortcuts. No whining. I’m not going to coddle you, Vaughn. If you fail, it will not be because I didn’t do everything in my power to help you.”

Then he pull out a second notebook and started showing me where he’d written out a list of fresh torture methods. It looked incredibly… detailed. And painful. “I’ve already messaged your professors and secured extra credit assignments. Some were reluctant—apparently no one enjoys you as a student—but I explained the situation and they’ve agreed to give you one last chance.”

I skimmed the list with a sick feeling in my stomach, as he barrelled on, his voice matter-of-fact. “You’ll retake the following courses: Statistics 101, Intro to Business Ethics, and—because you somehow failed it—Biology 101. All of them have open spots next semester, and I’ve cross-referenced their schedules with the tutoring sessions I’ve already planned for you. Yes, I planned for Sundays. You now have zero days off.”

My brain was scrambling, trying to make sense out of the colorful chaos of the notebooks and everything he was saying. It felt… like a lot. His color-coded handwriting sort of reminded me of “The Matrix” and that distracted me a little, until I realized that he was staring at me and this was serious. Right. Saving my GPA and all that.

“Not gonna lie, Ains,” I gestured at the notebooks, “this looks like a CIA operation. What’s next, you gonna start waterboarding me with this tea?”

Unamused, he leveled me with a flat look. “You brought this on yourself, Vaughn. If you don’t want to end up expelled, this is the price you pay. Welcome to accountability.”

Ainsley slid another notebook across the table—seriously, how did he have so many?—and I stared down at the neat boxes and lines he’d printed. I squinted closer at it and realized it was a checklist, sort of like the ones parents made for their kids to keep them on track with household chores.

“I’ll be monitoring your progress every step of the way,” he added matter-of-factly, reaching for his tea, “and you’ll report to me daily. Daily, Vaughn. Any questions?”

Uh, yeah. Was this level of torture really legal? Could he actually do this? I mean, yeah, I needed to save my GPA. No question about that, but Sundays? Really? Sundays were for sleeping in and football. Now I had to give them up for studying? No off days at all? I tried to picture myself spending every waking moment cramming and I realized that I’d rather be waterboarded, because at least my dick could get into that . 

I pouted and opened my mouth to complain as loudly as I could muster, until my brain rewound something he’d said. I was supposed to report to Ainsley daily? I pulled the second notebook out from under the third and actually looked at it.

There were arrows and bullet points, and every hour of my life for the foreseeable future was accounted for. I stared at the schedule, my brain short-circuiting as I tried to crunch the numbers. Eighteen and a half hours. Of tutoring. A week.

I glanced at him. He was sitting there, his posture all straight and proper like he’d been training to be a professor since birth, his stupid little glasses perched on his nose, one hand resting on his notebook while the other sipped his tea. He looked so calm, like he wasn’t about to ruin my entire life, and I felt that weird ache in my chest again. The one that made me feel like I’d do anything to make him proud, even if it killed me.

If I could pull this off, I’d save my GPA in record time, make spring training, and I’d get to see Ainsley. A lot.

Every single day. Morning, afternoon, evening. It was aggressive as hell, sure, but… he’d done this for me. Like it or not, it seemed like some part of him cared if I failed or not. The thought of getting more of those exasperated sighs, more of his lectures, more of his scent… more of him glaring at me like I was the biggest idiot alive but secretly giving a shit, like right now…

I felt my panic shift, melting into something else. Excitement.

The dread wasn’t gone, exactly. I mean, I’m not a complete masochist—I knew this was going to suck. But if it meant more Ainsley? Worth it.

“Okay,” I said, flashing a slow grin at him. “I’m in. Where do I sign?”

He rolled his eyes and didn’t respond, instead handing me a worksheet. “Right here. Solve this problem.”

No preamble. No small talk. Just straight to the stats torture chamber. Classic Ainsley.

I stared at the worksheet like it had personally insulted me. Something about probability, distributions, and z-scores. Words that sounded more like alien code than actual math. My brain started to short-circuit almost immediately, but I didn’t even get a chance to pretend to work on it because—of course—my phone buzzed.

I glanced at it, fully intending to ignore it, but then it buzzed again. And again. And again. I sighed, pulling it out of my pocket to see what fresh hell awaited me. The screen was lit up with notifications from my banking app, like some kind of doomsday ticker tape.

[Bank alert: Your car insurance payment of $142.56 has been processed.]
[Bank alert: Your protein powder subscription of $89.99 has been processed.]
[Bank alert: Your truck payment of $374.89 has been processed.]
[Bank alert: Your Checkings account is overdrawn. Checkings: $-349.60.]

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

I stared at the screen, my stomach dropping like I’d just been sacked by a linebacker twice my size. My heart started pounding in my chest, and I could feel the heat creeping up my neck. Negative. NEGATIVE. I didn’t even know how to process that. I wasn’t even sure which payment had been the final nail in the coffin. All I knew was that my account was officially fucked.

“By all means,” Ainsley’s sharp tone cut through my spiraling thoughts. He was staring at me now, his green eyes narrowed behind those stupidly sexy glasses. “Do tell me what’s so important that it’s more pressing than your GPA.”

“Uh…” I looked between him and the worksheet, trying to think of a way to deflect, but my phone buzzed again, the bright notification mocking me.

[Bank alert: A $35 overdraft fee has been applied to your account.]

“Max,” Ainsley said, slower this time, more clipped. “What’s going on?”

I groaned, dragging my hand down my face, knowing there was no way out of this. “I overdrafted,” I admitted, my voice tight. “My account’s negative. Like, really negative. And it’s all because I spent seven grand in one day, and now I’m completely fucked.”

Ainsley froze, his expression shifting from confused to absolutely incredulous. “You spent seven thousand dollars?”

“Yeah,” I said, slumping back in my chair. “On dad gear.”

He stared at me, his pencil hovering midair like his brain had just short-circuited. “I’m sorry… on what?”

“Dad gear,” I repeated, throwing my hands up like the words alone should’ve been enough to explain. “You know, dad gear. Remember yesterday? When I thought you were pregnant with quads? Yeah, that. I was in full-on freak-out mode, and then I found this website—AlphaDadNow—and they were, like, super legit. They had this doctor guy, Dr. Chad. Real solid guy, very professional, walked me through everything. Said he wanted to make sure I was ‘ready to step into the alpha dad role,’ and I was so sure that you were pregnant, Ainsley… I told myself that I was gonna be the best dad ever.”

“Vaughn…” Ainsley was already shaking his head. “What did you buy?”

“Well, I bought a minivan,” I said, as if that wasn’t totally insane. “But not just any minivan—a Pup-Proof Minivan. You know what that means? It’s got spill-proof seats, built-in cupholders for the pups, and this ridiculous custom trunk space for, like, strollers and diaper bags and whatever. Dr. Chad said it was the best choice for an alpha dad. Topseller.”

I took a deep breath. “And then I thought, okay, great, I’ve got the ride. But what about the actual, you know, nest? So I got this Alpha-Nest Starter Kit—the Ultimate Edition, by the way, because if you’re gonna nest, you nest right. It came with pheromone-infused blankets and a sound machine that plays, like, heartbeat noises or something. Apparently, that’s calming for omegas and pups. Seemed smart and… I don’t know, responsible .”

I glanced at Ainsley, who was just staring at me, mouth slightly open, like he couldn’t decide whether to interrupt or let me dig my own grave. Naturally, I kept digging.

“Oh, and then there was the crib. Regular cribs aren’t for quads, obviously. So Dr. Chad showed me The Quad-Ready Crib, which is, like, the size of a small boat. It’s practical. One crib for four pups—saves space, saves money.”

I was officially ranting now, my voice getting louder with every word. “And then there were the little things. You know, like the Pregnancy Cravings Kits. I got two, just in case your cravings were gonna be, like, next level. They came with snacks and supplements or whatever, and Dr. Chad said they’re great for keeping omegas comfortable during the later stages of pregnancy. And then I figured, hey, the quads are gonna need fuel too, right? So I got this Pup Protein Shake Mix. Bulk supply. Three months’ worth. It’s apparently formulated to make pups strong and healthy, and obviously I’m all about that.”

I stopped, took a breath, and then remembered the best purchase of all. “And then there was the Alpha Dad Crash Course—because, again, I’m not a scrub. I wanted to be the best alpha dad possible. It’s a whole online course with modules and tests and everything. I’m practically certified to be a dad now.”

By the time I was done, I was breathing hard. Turns out, I’d really needed to let that all out. I hadn’t dared mention any of it to Zach earlier—he’d probably have texted the entire team a play-by-play of my financial meltdown as a joke, complete with a caption like, “Vaughn really out here prepping for quads. Whipped already, bros.”  

While Zach’s imaginary cackling played in my head, Ainsley just sat there, blinking at me like I’d just confessed to a murder, his expression frozen somewhere between shock and horror. 

Finally, he spoke, his voice so calm it was almost deadly. “Max,” he said slowly, “do you realize how insane this all sounds?”

“Yes,” I burst out. “Of course I do! But you weren’t answering my texts, and I panicked. And now I’m broke, and I have a financed minivan, and—God, Ainsley, I was just trying to be responsible.”

I expected him to hit me with one of those scathing, Ainsley-style lectures about common sense, but instead, he just stared at me some more, his face turning redder by the second. His eyes darted around the library, and then he suddenly stood up, shoving all the notebooks and the worksheet back into his satchel.

“Get up,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Now.”

Oh, he was mad? 

“What? Why?” I looked around, confused. “We’re in the middle of stats.”

“Get. Up.” His tone was sharp enough to cut glass. “We are not having this conversation here.”

Oh, no. He was in full-on Angry Omega mode. I scrambled to my feet, grabbing my stuff, and followed him out of the library. He walked so fast I had to jog to keep up, his satchel bouncing against his hip as he muttered furiously under his breath.

“Where are we going?” I asked, barely keeping up with his ridiculous pace. “Ainsley, come on, just yell at me here. Get it out of your system.”

He shot me a glare over his shoulder, his curls bouncing as he picked up the pace. “Do you want someone overhearing you talking about ‘quads’ in a library, Vaughn? Quads? Do you have any idea how that would sound?”

“I mean, probably like I’m super responsible and prepared—”

“Pull up that website on your phone and give it to me,” he cut me off without looking at me, holding out his hand. I complied.

He didn’t say a word as he scrolled through the website, walking even faster somehow without looking at where he was going. I had no choice but to follow him, jogging along like a puppy chasing its owner.

By the time we reached his dorm, I was out of breath—not because I was tired, but because I’d been trying to explain the logic behind my purchases the entire way. Ainsley, meanwhile, hadn’t said a word. He just unlocked his door, stepped inside, and pointed to the desk.

“Sit,” he ordered, his mouth mashed into a stern line, like he was gearing up to handle a crisis. I sat, not daring to argue, my legs folding into the desk chair like I was a kid getting sent to time-out. He didn’t even hand me my phone back, just turned on his heel and disappeared into the bathroom without a word.

I frowned, staring at the closed bathroom door. What was he doing? Cooling off? Plotting my demise? Preparing the single hottest scolding I was ever going to get? My dick was already rock-hard and on high alert, because let’s face it—Ainsley in “angry professor mode” was unfairly hot.

And then I heard it.

At first, I thought I was imagining it, because there was no way. No. Way. But then it happened again—louder this time—and my brain short-circuited. Someone was laughing. Not just laughing—full-on, gasping-for-air, uncontrollable losing it. The kind of laugh where you clutch your stomach because it hurts so bad. 

I tilted my head, straining to hear where it was coming from—the bathroom. With a jolt, I realized it was Ainsley. My Ainsley, all stabby glares and I’m-too-smart-for-jokes, laughing like that. My brain did a double-take like it couldn’t compute at the thought of him on the other side of the door, laughing like he hadn’t laughed in years. Like something was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, and he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

And I was just sitting here. Alone. Hearing it secondhand.

What. The. Fuck.

The sound hit me like a sucker punch to the gut, but in a good way, if that makes sense. It was gorgeous. Like, better than his annoyed huffs, better than his exasperated sighs, better than all his little noises put together. Why the fuck wasn’t he laughing in front of me?

I could’ve been enjoying that masterpiece live, instead of sitting here like an idiot imagining what he looked like when he laughed like that. His head tipped back, his face all relaxed and open, his green eyes sparkling behind those glasses—damn it.

Wait. Was he laughing at me? Probably. Definitely. But even knowing that, I didn’t care. I just wanted to see it. To hear it up close. To figure out how to make it happen again, preferably with me in the room this time.

My hands gripped the edge of the chair, my brain flip-flopping between being weirdly offended and stupidly charme. The laughter from the bathroom got louder, until it was almost wheezing, the kind of laugh that left you breathless, and I found myself smiling like a total idiot even though I had no clue what was so funny.

I stared at the door again, my chest doing that tight, achey thing. I wanted to knock, or better, to just barge in, to see him doubled over and laughing so hard he could barely breathe. I wanted to hear him say what was so funny in that sharp, snarky way he had and maybe kiss him.

Okay, definitely kiss him.

Chapter Text

Neon-green Comic Sans. Stock photos of overly enthusiastic “alphas” cradling a suspicious number of babies in sunglasses. Trademarks on every other word. Phrases like, “Unlock your ultimate alpha potential” and “Alpha Nesting Science”. Obviously fake products and testimonials.

I should’ve been yelling at Max for being such an idiot, because it was a blatant scam, but instead I had locked myself in my bathroom and was clutching at the sink like a lunatic, trying to muffle my hysterical laughter with my hands.

Tutoring an idiot had officially made me an idiot, too.

Of course Max had thought a website like AlphaDadNow.com was legitimate. Of course he’d listened to “Dr. Chad,” the world’s most obviously made-up expert. Of course he’d spent seven thousand dollars on glowing detectors and quads-ready cribs and bulk protein shakes. Max Vaughn, future star quarterback and “certified” alpha dad, couldn’t tell the difference between a legitimate website and the kind of scam that would make even my grandma suspicious.

The image of Max proudly driving a Pup-Proof Minivan around campus, complete with his stupid grin and a customized “Alpha Dad” license plate, flashed in my head, and I lost it all over again. Actual tears pricked my eyes and I doubled over, gasping for breath, my sides cramping from the sheer force of my laughter. 

When I finally pulled myself together, my reflection in the mirror was red-faced and teary-eyed, my glasses fogged up from all the laughing. I swiped at my eyes and tried to compose myself, inhaling deeply through my nose.

This is not funny, I reminded myself. It wasn’t. Not really. Max’s finances were a full-blown disaster, and if I didn’t intervene, he was going to overdraft his account so catastrophically that his bank might label him a financial liability. And once that happened, he'd come up with even more excuses not to focus on his studies.

If I was going to spend the next fifteen weeks tutoring him, I needed to eliminate every possible distraction and do whatever it took to get his GPA back in good standing. This wasn’t just about saving his grades—it was about preserving my sanity.

The plan was simple: Max would study, he’d make good grades, and he’d eventually become someone else’s problem. Once his GPA was stable, our arrangement would end, and I’d never have to see him again. The scentbond would fade—I’d handle whatever unpleasant symptoms came with breaking it—and I’d finally return to my regularly scheduled, Max-free life.

I took another deep breath, splashed some water on my face, and went back out into my dorm, finding him sitting still at the desk with a suspicious expression.

“Were you—” he started.

I held his phone up, pointing to the ridiculous website. “This? Is a scam website. You spent seven thousand dollars on fake dad gear, Max. Congratulations.”

He stared at me for a minute, then grabbed the phone from my hand, scrolling through it with disbelief. “What? It’s not a scam,” he said defensively. “There’s no way. I wouldn’t have—I don’t get scammed.”

“Mhmm. There are clear signs, Max. The photos are either poorly Photoshopped stock images or pictures stolen from other sites. See this ‘glowing’ omega cradling her stomach with angelic lighting? That’s from a pregnancy yoga ad. And this one of the ‘happy alpha dad feeding his pup a protein shake’? That’s literally a stock photo with the bottle Photoshopped in. They didn’t even match the lighting.”

“So?” Max squared his shoulders and shrugged. “Not everyone has a ton of photos for their… whatever.”

“How about the textbook predatory marketing tactics? For example… ‘Are YOU prepared to protect your omega and pups from a world full of dangers? Don’t be a failure—buy now!’” I read aloud from a random section on the home page and gave him a flat look. “They’re obviously manipulating instincts, Max. Alphas are wired to want to protect and provide, and they’re using that against you. Notice how every single product description uses words like ‘ultimate,’ ‘essential,’ and ‘vital for your family’s future’?”

He glared at me, offended. “I know when I’m getting manipulated, Ainsley.”

I arched a brow at him. “Do you, though? I mean, one of the products is 'Pup Protein Shake Mix', Max. Really? Children don't need protein powder, they need regular nutrition, which—spoiler—comes from their parents or formula. And 'Emergency Glow Detector'?” I paused. “Omegas don’t glow, Max. That’s a myth.”

Max just kept staring at me with that kicked-puppy look, like he couldn’t decide if he was confused, hurt, or just really, really offended that I wasn’t praising his “responsible” instincts. I sighed, pulling up the browser on his phone again. "Alright, Vaughn. Time for a reality check. Let’s see what the real world has to say about your precious AlphaDadNow.com."

It took me two seconds to find the Better Business Bureau website and another two seconds to find AlphaDadNow.com’s profile. My lips twitched up into a grim, victorious smile. 

"One star average. Shocking, really," I said, scrolling down to the reviews. "Let’s dive in, shall we?"

I picked one at random and cleared my throat. "’I bought this van because the ad said it was designed ‘for alphas who care.’ What I got was a piece of junk that died two miles from the dealership. The ‘spill-proof seats’ were literally just seat covers with duct tape underneath, and the ‘custom storage’ was a cardboard box shoved in the trunk. Oh, and did I mention the horn? It didn’t work unless I hit the steering wheel with both fists. My omega threatened to leave me over this van. Do not make the same mistake I did.’"

I glanced up at Max, who looked stunned. Like he didn’t want to believe it. "Sound familiar? No? Let’s try another."

Scrolling down, I stopped at a second review. "‘If I could give zero stars, I would. I bought the Alpha-Nest Starter Kit: Ultimate Edition, and not only did it smell like plastic and sadness, but the "pheromone-infused blankets" gave my omega a rash so bad we had to go to the ER. The sound machine? It played static for two hours before completely dying. DO NOT BUY FROM THIS COMPANY.’"

Max opened his mouth, but I held up a finger. "Oh no, Vaughn. You’re going to hear all of this. All of it."

The next review practically had me cackling. "'The Emergency Glow Detector is the biggest scam I’ve ever fallen for. It beeped at my omega while they were eating spicy wings. Turns out, it reacts to heat. Literal heat. My omega wasn’t glowing—they were sweating. Save yourself the humiliation.’" I couldn’t stop the little snort that escaped. "Sweating, Vaughn. It reacts to sweating. Did Dr. Chad tell you that, or did he just sell it as ‘state-of-the-art technology’?"

Max’s ears were bright red now, and he was sinking lower in his chair, but I wasn’t finished. Oh no. This was too good. I found a review for the Pup Protein Shake Mix and had to take a second to breathe because I could feel hysterical laughter bubbling up again. 

"'The Pup Protein Shake Mix is a joke. My alpha ordered this thinking it was scientifically formulated for pups, but guess what? It’s just glorified chocolate milk powder in fancy packaging,” I read aloud, “Also, it gave my omega—who’s lactose intolerant, by the way—the worst stomach cramps of their life. I contacted customer service, and they told me it was ‘normal for omegas to experience discomfort.’"

I looked up from the phone, my eyebrows raised. "Normal for omegas to experience discomfort? Vaughn, if I’d actually been pregnant and you’d given me that trash, you’d be dealing with my stomach cramps, and my wrath. Is that what you wanted? Hm?"

Max just gaped at me. "I—wait—how was I supposed to know it’s just powdered milk?"

"Because, Vaughn," I said sharply, setting the phone down, "any website that uses Comic Sans for its logo and can’t spell ‘proprietary formula’ correctly is not ‘super legit.’"

I folded my arms and stared at him. He just sat there, staring at the phone like it had personally betrayed him. Then he looked up at me, his expression caught somewhere between sheepish and horrified.

"I just wanted to be responsible," he mumbled. “I was just trying to be prepared, okay? I didn’t want to mess this up. If you were pregnant, I wanted to step up. For you. For the quads.”

"Buying a $49,000 minivan for hypothetical quads is not responsible, Vaughn,” I pointed out. “It’s impulsive. And dumb.”

“I know that now!” he said, throwing his arms in the air. “But I’m saying you could’ve told me before I spent all my money on fake dad stuff.”

I fixed him with a withering glare. “You’re seriously blaming me for this?”

“No!” Max said quickly. “I’m just saying… maybe you could’ve answered your phone? Or mentioned the birth control thing after we had heat sex and before I spiraled into a full-blown dad crisis?”

To give him full the weight of my disbelief, I maintained silence for five seconds and glared at him harder. “You’re right, Max. It’s entirely my fault. I should’ve anticipated that you’d react to a natural biological process by panic-buying a $49,000 minivan and enough chocolate milk powder to drown an entire kindergarten. Silly me, for not putting a safeguard against you financially ruining yourself over hypothetical quadruplets in the tutoring agreement.”

“No one jumps immediately to quadruplets in a pregnancy scare, Max,” I added. “No one.”

He seemed to realize it wasn’t in his best interest to continue and went silent, his hazel-brown eyes darting away from mine. I expected for him to pout, but instead I watched his jaw set firmly, his face suddenly twisting into something I couldn’t remember having seen before, at least not quite like this—some blend of embarrassment and anger and determination.

In a burst of energy, Max snatched the phone off the desk and rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie—as if that was necessary for whatever he was about to do. God, what now?

“I’m calling customer service,” he growled, his voice low and tight. “And I’m getting my money back.”

I stared at him for a moment, equal parts skeptical and bemused. “Max,” I started carefully, “you just heard me explain how this entire operation is a scam, correct? They don’t even have customer service, not in any functional sense—”

“Doesn’t matter.” He cut me off, his tone brooking no argument. “I’m not just gonna sit here. I’m getting my money back. Watch me.”

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. Of course he thought sheer force of will could undo the disaster he’d created. This AlphaDadNow.com fiasco had clearly wounded his pride more than I’d realized, and now his ego was charging ahead like a freight train with no brakes. There was no stopping him, and franky, I didn’t have the energy to try… much.

“Why don’t you handle it at your own place?” I snipped. “Or on your own time, I might add, since it’s almost 8pm and we haven’t managed to get any studying at all with this nonsense—”

I stopped talking when I saw that Max was already dialing the number with the kind of intensity I imagined he usually reserved for football, jabbing at the screen. Recognizing that he wasn’t going to get any studying done at all, I let out a loud sigh and retreated to my bed, resigning myself to what was about to unfold. This is necessary, I told myself. Unfortunate, but necessary. Once this is resolved, he won’t have any more excuses.

I settled back onto my pillows, crossing my arms and watching for a moment with mild fascination as he paced the length of my dorm room, his shoulders stiff and his grip on the phone tight enough to whiten his knuckles. Pulling my gaze away, I withdrew a book from my satchel, thinking I could read and simply ignore the whole thing. Except then the phone clicked, and as an automated voice chirped obnoxiously loud, I realized Max had put the call on speakerphone. Fantastic.

“Thank you for calling AlphaDadNow.com, your one-stop shop for all your alpha dad needs! Press 1 if you’re expecting pups. Press 2 if you’re a first-time alpha dad. Press 3 if you’d like to hear about our monthly subscription boxes. Press 4 if you’d like to get a quote for affordable, pup-friendly insurance. Press 5 for refunds—”

Max smashed 5 like he was trying to send his phone through the center of the Earth. The line dialed, then picked up almost immediately to my surprise. I’d been expecting an answering machine, but instead an actually human voice came on. 

“Yo, this is Thad with AlphaDadNow.com customer service,” the guy drawled, sounding like he was either half-asleep or possibly mid-bong rip. “What’s good, my dude?”

The scowl on Max’s face could’ve peeled paint. “I’ll tell you what’s not good, Thad. I want a refund.”

“Uh-oh. What happened, bro?” Thad drew out the question, not sounding genuinely concerned at all. 

“What happened?” Max repeated incredulously, his voice shooting up an octave. “Let me tell you, Thad. First of all, my omega’s not pregnant. Do you know what it feels like to think you’ve got quads on the way, only to find out that your omega is not even remotely knocked up? It’s like waking up and realizing the lottery ticket you thought you won is actually expired.”

I was not listening. I wasn’t. But if I had been, I would’ve been completely mortified with the disgustingly possessive way Max referred to me, as his omega. Ugh. 

“And second of all, you sold me hot, overpriced garbage. Fake garbage. I trusted you, Thad. I trusted Dr. Chad. I was spiraling, okay? You’re supposed to be a professional operation! I thought you were gonna help me prepare to be a responsible alpha dad! But instead, I’ve got a quad crib that’s basically a death trap and a glow detector that doesn’t even work. Omegas don’t glow, Thad. My omega is a science genius and he knows everything, and he said that was fake. Nice try.”

A science genius? My lips twitched and I stared harder at my book, willing myself to stop listening. But his voice was unfortunately compelling, amplified by anger and my tiny dorm. “And don’t even get me started on the Pup-Proof Minivan. You’re out here selling overpriced clown cars with duct tape seats and calling them family vehicles?” he ranted as he strode back and forth. “My omega tutor found actual reviews—one guy said his minivan broke down two miles from the dealership, Thad. Two miles. I’ve seen football plays last longer than that.”

Max jabbed an accusatory finger at the phone like Thad could see him. “And the protein shakes! Oh, you thought you had me, huh? You thought I wouldn’t notice it’s just chocolate milk powder in a fancy jar? Well, I almost didn’t, but my omega noticed. One of those reviews said your dumb pheromone blankets stink. Like plastic and sadness. Why? How? How does something even smell sad?”

God, I must’ve been exhausted, because I had to slap a hand over my mouth to stop myself from giggling. I was beginning to realize that the rambling spirals were apart of Max like a second skin, not to mention his delivery was so dramatic, so earnest. He actually thought he could strong-arm his way into getting a refund, as if Thad—who was undoubtedly lounging in a beanbag chair somewhere, surrounded by empty energy drink cans—was quaking in his flip-flops at the sound of Max’s voice. 

Thad, unsurprisingly, wasn’t sympathetic at all. In fact, he sounded completely unbothered by the panic in Max’s voice. He clucked his tongue and some typing noises came over the line. Obnoxious ones. Too fast to be real. “Aw, man, that’s rough. But, uh, no refunds, bro. Company policy.”

I eyed Max over the top of my book, watching his reaction. He was frozen mid-pace, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, ‘no refunds’?”

“It’s in the fine print, dude,” Thad said lazily. “All sales are final.”

I wasn’t surprised at all to hear that—of course scammers were going to refuse to give a refund, which is why I’d told him not to bother calling in the first place, but Max acted like he’d fully expected one. His jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me? I spent seven grand on this shit.”

“Yeah, that’s tough,” Thad said, not sounding tough at all. “But hey, now you’re ready for when the pups show up, you know?”

“There are no pups!” Max shot back into the phone, throwing his arms in the air. “He’s on birth control. We’re in college.”

“Not yet,” Thad said ominously. “And for now.”

I watched Max go completely still, a bemused expression drawing his brows together. “What does that mean? Not yet? For now? What?”

“It means,” Thad continued, his tone dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, “you’re thinking too small. Forget quads, bro. Real alphas aim for more. You ever thought about quints?”

I groaned and buried my face in my book, silently willing Max to recognize the game this Thad guy was playing and just hang up—except of course he didn’t. “Quints?” he echoed, like the word was some kind of holy revelation.

“Yeah, man.” There was an obnoxious smugness in Thad’s voice now. “Five pups. At once. Ultimate alpha move.”

That was language literally geared to poke at Max’s instincts, and I snapped my head up, giving Max a warning look. “Max, do not engage with this. Imagine Ridgeline’s entire football stadium filled to capacity. Now imagine every seat represents one single pregnancy. You’d have to go through over 730 stadiums full of pregnancies just to find one set of quints.” 

“Quints,” Max repeated. I wasn’t sure if he’d even heard me. He wasn’t pacing anymore, instead standing still in my kitchenette. He sounded almost… thoughtful? “Quints.”

“That’s right,” Thad said, his confidence ramping up. “And I got two sets of quads myself. Eight pups total. Pretty sure that makes me the most alpha dude alive. And you know what? I owe it all to AlphaDadNow.com.”

Fully exasperated with the turn this was taking, I cut in. “Max, he’s lying. Please, for the love of God, do not fall for this. Remember the probability I told you for one set of quadruplets? Thad is more likely to win the lottery, be struck by lightning, and survive an asteroid hitting Earth than to have two sets of quadruplets.”

That seemed to break whatever weird trance Thad had tried to initiate and Max started pacing again, glaring at the phone with fresh anger. “You’re lying. That’s… that’s fake science.”

“Am I? Is it?” Thad countered evenly. “Or are you just jealous?”

“Jealous? Of you?” Max echoed, spluttering.

“That’s what I thought,” Thad said smugly. “Face it, dude. I’m living your dream. Two sets of quads, the ultimate nest setup, and a pup-proof SUV. You can’t touch this.”

Max leaned over the desk and stabbed a finger at the phone, almost as if he were bearing down on Thad in person. “Well, guess what, Thad. I’m gonna have sexts. That’s right—six pups. At once. And when I do, I’ll be more alpha than you could ever dream of—”

You have got to be kidding me. I made a strangled sound, halfway between disbelief and horror. “Natural sextuplets occur in roughly 1 in 4.7 billion births. Billion, Max. As in, you have better odds of being struck by lightning twice while simultaneously winning the lottery and discovering Bigfoot sipping tea with the Loch Ness Monster.”

But Max was too far gone to parse logic. This might as well have been some epic battle to him. “And when I’ve got my sexts,” he continued, practically growling into the phone, “I’m gonna fucking come for you, Thad. I’ll be the ultimate alpha dad, and then I’ll kick your ass for scamming me, you fucking asshole—”

Thad laughed. Actually laughed. “Dude, I respect the ambition. You’ve got that fire, you know? That drive. I can see it. You’re gonna go far, my guy.”

“I don’t want your respect, Thad,” Max hissed, his hackles rising all the way up. “I want my money.”

“Not happening,” Thad said cheerfully. “But hey, keep me posted on those sexts, yeah?”

Max scrubbed a hand over his face and let out an actual growl, his nostrils flaring. I could tell that, for once, he was actually trying to keep his calm. I personally wouldn’t have bothered in these absurd circumstances but I had to admit… I found myself appreciating the rare show of restraint. It seemed like every muscle he had was flexing.

Specifically, his forearms.

They caught my attention before I could stop myself, my gaze tracking how the muscles tightened and rippled under his skin with every flex of his hands. His veins stood out in sharp relief, snaking up his arms in a way that was—objectively speaking—fascinating. The tendons shifted subtly as his fingers curled and uncurled, the sheer power of those arms evident even in such a simple motion. It was an anatomical display of strength and control that demanded a certain level of appreciation.

From a scientific perspective, of course. Purely scientific.

I narrowed my eyes, considering them further. The musculature was incredible, each muscle group perfectly defined. Every small movement—the clench of his jaw, the slight roll of his shoulders, the tightening of his grip—seemed to activate every muscle in perfect harmony. It was… I searched for the right word. Efficient.

Yes, efficient. That was the word for it. Not distracting and certainly not appealing. Just efficient.

The veins, the definition, the tension—it was all there, on full display, as if his body couldn’t help but reflect the raw energy coursing through him. I should’ve looked away. But his attention wasn’t on me for once and I kept looking, drawn to the way his hands flexed once more around the phone.

I knew from personal experience that Max’s hands weren’t just strong—they were warm. Big and calloused and impossibly gentle, even when everything about him was screaming intensity. I could remember how they’d felt gripping my waist, my hips, pulling me closer like I was the only thing anchoring him to the world. How his thumbs had pressed into my skin, firm but not bruising, grounding me in ways I hadn’t realized I needed.

My chest tightened, and suddenly it wasn’t his hands on the phone that I was picturing—it was his hands on me. Sliding down my back, holding me steady as he—

Suddenly the ache that had been mercifully dormant from the moment he’d walked into the library was back with a vengeance, sharp and unbearable in my sternum, like something vital inside me was splintering under the weight of it all. Absolutely not, I told myself sharply. Mortified, I forced myself to look away from him—away from his stupid flexing forearms and the stupid memories of his stupid hands.

Unfortunately it seemed my brain was determined to betray me, the memories continuing to play like a forbidden slideshow: the way he’d cupped my jaw with such deliberate care, the way his fingers had traced over my thighs like he couldn’t help himself, the way he’d held me. Almost like it hadn’t just been physical. 

My breathing hitched at that particular thought and I clamped down on my bottom lip, scoring my nails down the hardcover of my book in an effort to regain control. It worked well enough, because book abuse was a terrible sore spot of mine—books were meant to be treated with reverence—but I was still left with the empty, hollow ache thrumming under my ribs like an open wound.

It hurt in a way that didn’t make sense, as if I’d been cracked open and left exposed. Vulnerable. The very thing I hated more than anything. So why did I want him to—

“Let me talk to your manager,” Max demanded loudly, pulling me fully out of my spiraling thoughts. I blinked, stunned at myself.

“Absolutely, man,” Thad said easily. “It was my pleasure assisting you. One sec.”

The call immediately transitioned to hold music—a horrifically loud rendition of Eye of the Tiger. It succeeded in reminding me of the ridiculous situation at hand, replacing whatever minor insane fit I’d just suffered, and I stared at Max—his general presence, not his forearms—while he paced furiously, muttering under his breath about justice and alpha dignity.

“We’re getting this refund,” Max told me confidently. I merely arched a dubious brow back at him, uncaring. At this point, I was certain that arguing with a scammer named Thad was entirely a lost cause and I just wanted my dorm back, Max-free. When had this become my life? 

A whole five minutes passed. Max came dangerously close in his pacing to where I sat on my bed and I almost snapped at him to move away, only to stop when I realized that one, he wasn’t going to listen and two, the proximity made my chest not hurt as bad. Whatever. It was fine.

Then, mercifully, the music stopped.

“Yo, this is Manager Thad speaking. 'Sup?” came Thad’s familiar voice. 

Max froze mid-step. “Thad?!” he roared, almost crushing the phone. “You’re the manager?!”

“Yeah, bro,” Thad said, sounding utterly unbothered. “I am the manager. What’s the problem now?”

It was, quite possibly, the most diabolical bait-and-switch I’d ever witnessed. Between Thad’s total composure and the stunned look on Max’s face, I lost it. I absolutely lost it. The laughter I’d been fighting for almost the whole pointless phone call erupted out of me in waves, unstoppable, and I had to clutch my sides to stop myself from falling over. “Oh my God,” I wheezed. “You’re getting destroyed by a guy named Thad.”

“This isn’t funny!” Max snapped, pointing at me like I was the problem. Which set me off again, because he reminded me of an outraged golden retriever. “I’m getting my money back—just watch.”

“It’s hilarious,” I countered, wiping tears from my eyes. “You’re trying to out-alpha a guy who uses ‘bro’ as punctuation. Face it—he’s your match.”

Max dragged his fingers through his hair, visibly at a loss. “It’s not about Thad,” he insisted stubbornly. “It’s about justice. The principle.”

“It’s about you being an idiot,” I corrected, shaking my head, watching as Max launched into another rant, this one even louder and more ridiculous than the last.

By the time he circled back to, “I’m going to have sexts and ruin your life,” his face was practically blue and I’d officially had enough. I wasn’t about to sit here for the entire night and listen to him one-up a scam artist over hypothetical litters like some kind of testosterone-fueled lunatic. I wasn’t even sure he knew what came after sextuplets. 

I slid off the bed and marched across the room to where he stood, holding out my hand. “Give me the phone.”

“No way,” Max said, gripping it like a lifeline. “This is between me and Thad.”

“This stopped being between you and Thad the second you decided to start a sextuplets arms race,” I hissed, thwapping him in the chest with my knuckles. “Now give me the damn phone.”

Hesitation played over Max’s face and I could tell that his alpha instincts were warring against the knowledge that I was about two seconds away from losing my mind. Finally, he handed it over, grumbling. I gritted my teeth as I watched him sit in the spot I’d vacated—on my bed —but forced myself to turn away, focusing on the matter at hand.

I adjusted the phone in my grasp and glared down at the device as if my fury alone could burn a hole through it. Time to end this.

“Yo, Max, buddy,” Thad drawled lazily from the other end. “You still there?”

“No, he’s not,” I replied icily. “This is Kerrigan.”

There was a long pause before Thad let out a low whistle. “Oh, so you’re the one carrying the quads, huh?”

My jaw tightened so hard I thought my teeth might crack. “Your deductive reasoning is horrific. There are no quadruplets.”

“Yet,” Thad added smugly.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Of course he’d say that. “Listen to me very carefully, Thad. You’re a scam artist running a glorified grift under the guise of ‘alpha dad support.’ Your so-called products are pseudoscientific nonsense, and your business practices are not only unethical but likely illegal.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Thad said, his tone still infuriatingly casual. “Big words, bro. You trying to scare me?”

“Yes,” I said flatly.

From the bed, Max perked up like a kid hearing the ice cream truck. “Wait, are we scaring Thad? I wanna scare Thad—”

“Stay out of this,” I snapped, shooting him a glare over my shoulder.

Thad sighed audibly. “Look, I get it. You’re upset. That’s probably the Omega Hormone Effect. I feel you. But, like, all sales are final. It’s in the policy. You’re not getting a refund, so why don’t we all just chill? Maybe take a hot bath—”

A hot bath? For my hormones? I’d never wanted to slap someone through a phone so badly before. And I’d thought that Max was the walking embodiment of everything that was wrong with alphas. 

“Oh, I’m not here for a refund,” I cut him off, my voice dropping. “I’m here to make sure you never scam anyone else ever again.”

Thad scoffed audibly. "Ouch. 'Scam’ is such a strong word. We prefer ‘opportunistic business model’. Besides, what’re you gonna do, bro? Write a Yelp review?”

“No,” I said coolly. “I’m going to report you to the FTC for deceptive trade practices, the Better Business Bureau for unethical conduct, and possibly local authorities for fraud. How’s that sound, bro?”

There was a beat of silence.

“…What’s the FTC?” Thad asked.

Of course he didn’t know what that was. I squeezed my eyes shut for a brief moment. “The Federal Trade Commission.”

“Never heard of ‘em,” Thad said. “Sounds fake.”

“It’s not fake, you idiot,” I snapped, my patience wearing thinner by the second. “It’s a federal agency that regulates businesses like yours—if you can even call this disaster a business.”

Thad let out a chuckle, but it was weak. He was beginning to sound less and less confident. “Federal? Okay, okay, no need to get all alpha on me. I’m just the guy who answers the phones—”

“I’m an omega and I don’t care,” I shot back coldly. “If you don’t refund Max right now, I’ll be contacting every federal consumer protection agency in the country. There aren’t any beanbags in prison, Thad.”

There was a beat of silence on the line. I could almost hear Thad processing the weight of my words—or trying to, because, let’s face it, critical thinking didn’t seem to be his strong suit.

“No beanbags?” he repeated dumbly, like he couldn’t comprehend such a horror.

“That’s right,” I continued, my tone icy. “No beanbags, no energy drinks, and definitely no late-night vape sessions while you brainstorm your next scam. You’ll be lucky if you get a thin mattress and a roommate named Big Charlie who insists you call him Daddy.”

Max made a choking noise from the bed, but I ignored him, pressing forward. “Oh, and those federal consumer protection agencies? They take scams like this very seriously. Deceptive trade practices? Fraud? That’s not just a slap on the wrist, Thad. That’s years in federal prison. You think you’re just answering phones and collecting a paycheck now? Try doing that from a cell. Actually—don’t even think about scamming anyone in there. Big Charlie doesn’t like competition.”

Thad made a nervous, strangled sound, and I smirked, knowing I had him on the ropes. “So unless you want to spend the next few years of your life eating powdered eggs and explaining to your cellmate why you thought selling glow detectors was a good idea, I suggest you refund Max. Right now.”

“Bro,” Thad whined, his tone pleading now. “Come on, man. I’ve got eight mouths to feed.”

“Not my problem,” I replied, completely unmoved. I didn’t bother reiterating how astronomically unlikely it was for him to have two sets of quads. Odds were, he probably did have eight kids—but it was far more likely they had eight different mothers.

I waited. Then, finally, there was a long, dramatic groan from Thad. “Fine. Full refund. But you gotta promise not to call, like, the FBI or whatever.”

“Deal,” I said. “Now send the confirmation email while I’m on the line.”

A few seconds later, Max’s phone buzzed in my hand. I glanced at the screen and felt vindication wind through me at the little popup.

[Bank Alert: Pending deposit from AlphaDadNow.com: $7,369.91]

“Congratulations, Thad,” I said flatly. “You’ve just avoided federal prison. For now. But if I see any more complaints about your company pop up online, I’ll make sure the authorities know exactly where to find you.”

On the other end, I could hear Thad whining faintly about his profit margins—just the guy who answered the phones, my ass—but I didn’t care to hear anymore. I hung up and tossed the phone to Max, crossing my arms over my chest as I waited for his reaction.

“Holy shit,” he whispered in disbelief. “It actually worked. My God, Ainsley, you’re a genius.”

Then, to my horror, he started bouncing. On my bed. I stalked over and pinched him by the ear, ignoring his pained cry as I hauled him bodily off the mattress. “You’re welcome. Now get out.”

Besides rubbing his ear, Max looked completely unaffected, still staring at his phone as if he couldn’t believe it. Then he let out a laugh and I wish that the worst part, but no. He tossed his phone on the bed, proceeded to pick me up and spin me around as if I were a child, before crushing me to his unfairly broad chest.

Ferociously taken aback, I sucked in a stuttering breath, the emptiness in my chest flooding with unexpected warmth. His scent was completely masked by his patch, but it didn’t matter—for one terrible moment, I couldn’t move, utterly paralyzed in his arms.

“I’m unscammable with you on my side, Kerrigan,” he murmured into my ear, sliding his hands to my hips. “And by the way, we’re still gonna have sexts and kick Thad’s ass. And Dr. Chad’s—”

Just like that, I recovered with a jolt, shoving against his hold. Oh my God. I was done. I was so done. “Max. Put me down this instant, you idiot, right now—”

He obliged, setting me carefully down on the bed. My skin felt as if his touch had scalded it. “Get out,” I snapped, channeling every bit of authority I had into my tone. 

A grin spread across Max’s mouth, completely unbothered. “Thanks, Kerrigan,” he said, his voice practically dripping with smugness. “You’re the best.”

Without thinking, I snatched his phone off the comforter and hurled it at him, watching as he caught it mid-air with an annoyingly effortless reflex. He didn’t even flinch—just turned it into a flourish, saluting me with an infuriating cheekiness that made my teeth grind. Like he hadn’t just ruined my evening. Like I wasn’t one frayed nerve away from spontaneously combusting.

And of course, before I could have the satisfaction of a scathing retort, Max spun on his heel and strolled out of my dorm. I froze for a second, staring at the now-empty space where he’d been, my fists curling into the sheets.

Then I dropped face-first into my pillows and let out a muffled scream, the kind that felt like it was coming from the depths of my soul.

I wasn’t even a screamer. Or, at least, I hadn’t been before Max Vaughn came crashing into my life.

Chapter Text

Wednesdays—Gainsnesdays—are for the bros.

Call them team lifts, pack lifts, whatever you want, but pretty much everyone knows that it’s a sacred tradition. You lifted with your bros, pushed your body to its absolute limits, and you emerged stronger for it. All with your brothers screaming in your ear.

It’s not just lifting, though. It’s defying gravity. Conquering. Ascending. And yeah, nine times out of ten, it usually devolves into pure, unhinged testosterone-fueled chaos—but we just count that as bonding time.

And yet, for the first time in my entire college career, I was late for Gainsnesday. Why? Because Ainsley might as well have crawled inside my brain. Because I’d actually been trying to pay attention in Calculus class, hanging around after class and asking my professor questions because I was genuinely trying to understand. 

Not that it had helped. At all. I’d walked out even more fucking confused.

Technically, I wasn’t late late to Gainsnesday. Or at least I wouldn’t have been if I’d gone inside fifteen minutes ago. Except I’d halted just short of walking in, wanting gains desperately, but also wanting and needing him. 

Ainsley. 

Again, technically, I had been supposed to meet with him after Calculus class to cram Stats torture into the shared gap in our schedules. After all, he’d gone full evil mastermind mode on my ‘Academic Recovery Plan’ and technically, I’d agreed to it. But… Gainsnesday.

God. I needed it so bad. I could literally see all of my bros through the mirror—Jake chugging two protein shakes at the same time and Kyle, shirtless and flexing in the mirror, while Brody was doing… something dangerous on the squat rack? I wasn’t sure exactly, but whatever it was, I could tell it was loud and reckless. Zach was sitting on a bench, watching all of it just like I was, looking both entertained and exhausted.

My phone chirped in my hand and I glanced down at it, already guessing what I’d see. And sure enough, from Zach: where r u??? its gainsnsday bitch

Fuck. I wanted to go in. Or reply. But I couldn’t. My brain was freaking out too bad to make my fingers work. So instead I dropped my phone back into my hoodie pocket and paced back and forth in front of the gym doors, faster and faster, probably looking like I was deranged but not caring.

I was a man at war. I didn’t know what to do.

It was like I could feel myself rotting and vibrating at the same exact time—my body knew what day it was. Plus the boys were already waiting on me. And if I missed Gainsnesday, not only would I get roasted in the group chat for all eternity, but Kyle would probably circulate news of my fake death around the entire campus and Jake would mourn me like I’d died in battle.

Except I knew Ainsley would literally kill me if I missed tutoring. Not fake kill me. Real kill me. Probably. Yeah. It wasn’t like I didn’t want to see him—come on, is water wet? Honestly, the thought of not seeing him felt like I was betraying another part of myself that was just as primal and deep. My fucking chest hurt over it.

An actual whine slipped out of me. Before I could think better of it, I was pulling out my phone and dialing his number. Please answer. Please answer.

He picked up on the second ring, with a clipped “Vaughn.” Somehow, he already sounded annoyed. Maybe it was just hearing his voice, but the tightness in my chest eased slightly.

“Heyyyy, sunshine,” I greeted, too cheerfully, grinning like an idiot.

His deep sigh rattled through my earbuds. “You’re not coming, are you?”

I bit back a groan. Here we go. “Okay, first of all? Rude. I was gonna build up to it.”

“God, why do I even bother.” Uh-oh. He was pissed.

Wincing, I spoke in a rush. “Wait, wait, wait. I have a very good reason, okay? I promise. I wouldn’t just bail on you like this—”

“Let me guess,” Ainsley said, deadpan. “It’s something idiotic.”

“Not at all,” I protested. “It’s something sacred.”

I could almost hear him rolling his eyes. “Oh, so it’s something idiotic and sacred.”

Yes? But I didn’t confirm it aloud. Instead, I made my voice as serious as I could, willing him to understand. “Okay. Listen. Wednesdays are Gainsdays.”

There was a pause. “…Excuse me?”

“Well, technically, it’s Gainsnesday, but Kyle’s been trying to make Gainsday a thing and—listen, it’s the most important day of the week, okay? It’s the one day where the entire Bro Pack comes together to lift heavy shit and scream at each other for strength.”

“So… a gym date.” Ainsley sounded unimpressed and I bristled, offended. 

“It is not a gym date,” I argued. “It is a time-honored tradition. A sacred bond. A ritual of suffering and triumph.”

“It’s a gym date,” Ainsley repeated dryly. 

I ignored him. “We transcend, babe. We smash personal records. We evolve. Legends are made—”

He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl. “Do not call me that. Jesus Christ, Vaughn—”

“Ainsley, I never miss Gainsday,” I went on, bulldozing over him. “Do you know what happens when you miss even one? You get soft. You lose your edge. I need this.”

Silence. And then, in the flattest tone I’d ever heard, “And that’s supposed to be a compelling argument for why you’re skipping tutoring.”

“Yes.”

“Max. Are you trying to flunk? Because you are currently failing college.”

“But my gains are undefeated,” I shot back. 

“Unbelievable.” God, he sounds so hot when he hisses like that. “Do you know how long it took me—”

“It’s science as fuck that Gainsday literally increases blood flow to your brain. Gets rid of stress. Improves discipline. I’ll be better at studying after this, I swear. And I’ll make it up to you. I’ll study so hard later. I’ll—I’ll even do extra practice problems.”

For a moment, I was afraid he’d hung up, the other end was so silent. Then I heard him sighing for a third time. “Don’t show up sweaty and disgusting.”

He hung up for real before I could reply. I should’ve felt victorious, should’ve been grinning, except all I felt was… empty? Like, there was a part of me that wanted to call him back and tell him I’d just been joking, that of course I wasn’t going to skip an opportunity to see him.

I exhaled on a groan, scrubbing a hand down over my face. Fuck, I was an idiot. I could be sitting across from him right now, watching him push up his nerdy little-big glasses, watching him write out problems with that cute, neat handwriting, watching his perfect biteable pink lips purse when I got something wrong and—

Gains. Gains. Gains. Just focus on the gains.

I gave myself a mental slap and forced myself to walk into the gym.

—---—---------------------- * * * ----------------------—---—

The second I stepped inside the campus gym, the smell of iron, sweat, and pure testosterone hit me like a warm hug. The air was thick with pre-workout, overpriced gym cologne, and the unwavering determination of dudes trying to get just one more rep. Suddenly my ears were getting assaulted by the sound of clanging plates and deep, primal grunts—along with the occasional, aggressive slap.

I was home.

I knew the layout like the back of my hand. To my left? The squat racks—holy ground. You didn’t touch one unless you were serious. And to my right was the cardio section. Aka a land of suffering I avoided, unless I needed to cut weight. Which I didn’t.

Straight ahead was the free weights. Where the real work happened, with dumbbells so heavy they make you question your life choices. I blew a kiss in their direction—because hell yeah I’d be seeing those later—and headed towards the squat racks like a gains-seeking missile, rolling up on where Jake was mid-set, aggressively repping out bench weights while Kyle, Brody, and Zach were all screaming at him like he was about to win the Super Bowl.

He wasn’t the one lifting 315 pounds, but Brody was just as red-faced as Jake, crouched down to be eye-level with him. I could literally hear his pre-workout kicking in, as he shouted into Jake's face like a Southern coach.

“Are you a possum in a fucking trashcan, Ferguson? No? Then you’d better lock it the fuck in, brother—”

Terrifying. I skirted carefully past him, brushing up against Kyle. I went to slap him on the shoulder in greeting, only for him to give me a dirty look and slide away from me. I spread my hands out, raising both brows at him.

"Oh, look—who decided to—show up,” Jake grunted out between reps. He was out of breath and his face was flushed, but he still managed to fix me with a glare. “The ghost—of Whistler Vaughn.”

Brody’s dark eyes snapped over to me and he reached out, pawing at my bicep. “Ghost Vaughn’s smaller, too,” he said disgustedly, pulling away and faking a retch.

I opened my mouth to defend myself, to point out that I’d been right outside for the past twenty minutes, except I could already feel the heat crawling up the back of my neck and the words wouldn’t come. Was I smaller? God. Please no. 

“I got held up in Calc,” I muttered, deciding it was better if they didn’t know I’d already been here. Because then I’d have to explain why I’d been pacing like a lunatic in front of the gym rather than inside it with them and as much as I loved my boys, I wasn’t ready to talk about Ainsley, for the same reasons I hadn’t wanted to tell Zach.

It was sort of like holding onto a Hail Mary pass. You wanted to throw it—needed to throw it—but you couldn’t let it go too early. No, you had to time it just right, otherwise the entire play got fucked. Plus the difference between Zach and the rest of the bros was that Zach, believe it or not, actually had a functional filter.

“You got held up in Calculus?” Kyle repeated, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Damn, bro. You’re a changed man. Used to be ‘Max the Menace.’ Now it’s ‘Math Vaughn.’”

Brody shook his head, his expression deeply disappointed. “Never thought I’d see the day. Our fearless leader. Our alpha of alphas. Taken down by a math class? So sad. So tragic."

Jake placed the weight back on the safety clutches and sat up, wiping sweat from his brow. “Dude. If you can’t show up for Gainsnesday, are you even one of us anymore?”

I knew he was just joking—probably—but still, I bristled. I gave him a really? look and he just arched a brow, reaching for his protein shake. His third one. Christ. 

Kyle nodded sagely. “I mean, it’s facts. If we can’t count on you for reps…” he trailed off, letting the words hang in the air.

Before I could remind them that I was the one who invented Gainsnesday, I was being grabbed by my shoulders and spun aggressively. Brody was suddenly in my face, screaming. “If you’re not here, who the fuck am I supposed to scream at while I lift, Vaughn? Huh?!” 

How much protein was he on? Christ. I rolled my eyes and shoved him off me. “Bros, chill. I’m literally like, twenty minutes late.”

Zach, who had been silent, finally spoke up. “Gains minutes work different, bro. Twenty minutes is like… an hour.” His voice was deadpan and I glared at him, wishing I could refute the logic. But I couldn’t, because I’d invented that too. Goddamn my own brilliance.

Crushing his empty protein shake against his chest, Jake tossed the flattened bottle onto the floor and crossed his arms. "I had to hype myself up today, bro. You understand how fucked up that is? Me. Alone. No one screaming at me while I benched. Felt like a goddamn orphan."

“Same. And you didn’t even answer in the group chat,” Kyle pointed out.

They weren’t going to let this go. I groaned, snatching one of Jake’s protein shakes from the six-pack near the bench platform. “Because I muted the group chat,” I admitted. 

Jake gasped, clutching his heart dramatically. “You muted us?” he repeated. Brody mirrored him, eyes widening in mock horror.

“Dude, how could you?”

“What part about ‘I’m benched for two semesters and need to get my GPA up before I flunk college’ do you guys not get?” I shot back, exasperated. “I am a benched man who is fighting for his life right now. Get off my dick unless you’re going to suck it.”

I put too much challenge in the last part, because Zach activated like I’d said something about his mother. The only warning I had was the telltale smirk that spread over his face before he lunged at me. I managed to sidestep him, but he recovered, hooking an arm around my knees and dragging me down. I fell to the floor with a yelp and elbowed him in the ribs, scrambling away.

He grabbed for my ankles but before we could get too into it, a furious, pint-sized voice rang out. “Stop that right now.”

I already knew who it was, but I looked up anyway along with Zach, both of us plastering sheepish grins on our faces. Sure enough, in front of us stood the gym manager, Beckett, glaring down at us, ponytail swishing as every bit of his five foot nothing frame shook with rage.

Beckett was an omega, but he wasn’t like other omega students at Ridgeline. Ever since we’d started coming to the campus gym, we’d realized that he took his job entirely too seriously. He yelled at us. A lot.

Not gonna lie, it was fun.

We’d even made it a game, of sorts, to see how long he could withstand our combined presence. Two years and we still hadn’t nailed down his exact tolerance level, but we’d found that after two hours, he got extra snippy.

Sort of like Ainsley, my brain supplied unhelpfully. 

“This is the millionth time I’ve had to remind you idiots: no wrestling and no horseplay in the gym,” Beckett snapped, jabbing an angry finger. “This is a place of—”

“Fitness and discipline,” Zach and I chorused in unison, already knowing the speech. I rolled onto my feet and extended a hand, as if to help him up, only to slap his palm at the last minute. He bared his teeth at me and I grinned down at him, unapologetic, ignoring the look that Beckett shot me. 

Meanwhile Kyle was staring at Beckett like the guy was a slab of meat—he’d been hopelessly obsessed with him since freshman year—while Jake and Brody had their heads close together, whispering to each other. I had only a second to wonder what the fuck they were scheming when Brody suddenly snapped his fingers and pointed at me.

“The Gainsnesday Council has decided we’re not letting you slide,” he announced. “There has to be justice."

Jake nodded solemnly. "Punishment set. Immediately."

“Oh, yeah,” Kyle chimed in, as I groaned. “You gotta suffer.”

He stepped forwards, reaching out as if to flick Beckett’s ponytail. Thankfully, his brain kicked in before he made actual contact, probably reminding him of the last time—he’d gotten slapped—and he dropped his hand, leaning against the bench instead.

Beckett literally had a laminated sign posted that said “NO PUNISHMENT SETS” but we ignored it because it sounded fake. Punishment sets were redemption rituals. Character-defining, soul-purging challenges. You fucked up? Punishment set. Slacked off? Punishment set.

Came in late? Oh yeah. Punishment set. I couldn’t argue with it. I hung my head and nodded wordlessly, accepting my fate. But if I was being honest, it wasn’t just acceptance. I fucking needed a punishment set.

My muscles were practically atrophying in real time. I swore I could feel my biceps shrinking ever since Brody had squeezed them and I knew, I just knew, that my testosterone levels were dropping by the second. If I didn’t get under a barbell soon, I might actually die. I needed to rage lift. I needed to bench something heavier than my own disappointment.

“No. Absolutely not,” Beckett hissed, flailing at the laminated sign. “No punishment sets. No challenges—”

Too late. I’d never laid down on the bench press so fast in my entire life. My hands were already twitching. I could feel the gains, just out of reach. They’re so close, my brain whined.

“Punish me, boys,” I said. “I’m ready for it. What’s the plan?”

“You’re going to bench both me and Brody,” Jake said casually. Too casually. I turned my head to look at him, to see if he was already racking weight and just fucking with me, but no. The look on his face was idiot-serious.

Beckett stared between the five of us. “Are you—that’s insane. Have you idiots looked in the mirror lately? You’re—he—”

He wasn’t wrong. It was insane. Dangerous, even. Jake was a 6’4” walking protein shake at 255 pounds, and Brody was 6’6”, 265 pounds, with bricks for muscles. Together, they equaled over 500 pounds of pure meathead. My personal lift record was only 475.

But I didn’t care. If this was what I had to do to prove that I wasn’t a domesticated animal, I’d do it.

I pointed at Jake and Brody, making a come-hither gesture. “Let’s fucking go.”

Beckett tried to block the bench press, which was hilarious, because we all towered over him by at least a foot. Kyle took the opportunity to bodily pick him up and set him aside—cue Beckett screeching like he’d been hit while Kyle cackled like a maniac, backing him away from the bench press. 

Jake and Brody climbed up onto the bar like goddamn jungle gym kids, grabbing it from opposite sides. Both their massive frames made the positioning awkward as hell—they had to hang on with their arms wrapped around it, with Brody bracing his legs around Jake’s waist.

Jake was giggling like a total gremlin and Brody was nodding his head, stoked. In the background, Beckett was on the verge of cardiac arrest.

“This is not safe—”

“Ssshhh, Becksy, let the man cook,” I heard Kyle murmur, trying to soothe him. And failing, judging by the hissed, “My name is Beckett, not—”

Tuning them out, I inhaled deep, in through my mouth and out my nose, feeling the air expand my lungs. The weight of what I was about to do settled in my bones and I barely suppressed the urge to snort at myself, because haha. The weight.

This was either going to be legendary or a complete fucking disaster.

Either way, it was happening. 

I tightened my grip, fingers locking around the bar like a vice, the knurling rough against my palms. My forearms flexed, shoulders tight as I braced. The weight hadn’t even dropped yet, but I could already feel the burn creeping in, muscles priming for the onslaught.

"Alright, boys," I muttered under my breath. "Let’s fucking ride."

I unracked the bar and immediately—holy shit.

The second the weight came down, my arms shook, my chest locked, and my body sent out an immediate SOS. This was heavy. Heavier than anything I’d ever lifted. My ribs creaked under the pressure, my core instinctively tightening.

But I didn’t falter. No. I had something to prove. This wasn’t just about my pride—this was about my legacy. Sure, I was benched, but my spirit wasn’t. My bros were doubting me? I was gonna show them. I'd show this entire fucking gym. I was still him, goddamn it. I was still Maxwell fucking Vaughn.

“I’m—not a gym rat—in captivity,” I grunted out. A deep growl ripped from my throat as I slowly lowered the bar, every muscle fiber in my arms screaming. “I’m a—motherfucking beast—”

The second I hit depth, I pushed up. Hard. The bar trembled, my triceps burned, but—I pressed it.

Above me, Jake let out a cackle. “He’s actually doing it! Holy shit, Zach, film this. If I die, run it back at my funeral.”

“Bro, if you drop me…” Brody threatened, panic creeping into his voice. “I’m gonna break your ribs and eat your heart, Vaughn—”

Somewhere off to the side, Kyle was screaming for no reason. “Fuck yeahhh, bro!”

And Beckett, losing his mind: "Stop it. Stop this right now. Vaughn, you’re going to get hurt—"

I barely had time to smirk before I lowered again, letting gravity do its worst. My pecs felt like they were tearing apart, my shoulders locking tight, but still, I pushed up again. “I can’t—be domesticated—” I hissed. “I’m the—fucking alpha—of alphas—”

My voice went embarrassingly high, but I made it through another rep. Clean. Controlled. Perfect. I was being fucking crushed. Adrenaline kicked through my veins. I’d redeemed myself in the eyes of my pack. Now everything else was just extra.

The panic in Brody’s voice was louder now. “My grip—bros—it’s getting loose—”

“Don’t you dare fucking let go, Wilson,” Zach’s voice snapped out in a growl. I didn’t have to look at him to know he was more concerned with videoing the entire thing than actually spotting properly. “Clench that fucking bar.”

Rep number three and my chest felt like it was going to split in half. This was it. This was where boys became men. Jake was having the time of his life and Brody was straight-up praying. I pressed up, locked it, and groaned out even more nonsense, sweating my entire soul out. "Gains—over GPA—"

Rep number four? I was convinced I’d fully ascended. Either that, or I’d passed away. Human Vaughn? No, address me as God Vaughn, because I was no longer a mere mortal. Sweat was pouring into my eyes and my arms were shaking, but I screamed through it, feeling the entire gym go silent under my sheer dominance.

And then—everything went to shit.

Jake started slipping. I felt the weight shift, the bar wobbling dangerously. My own grip flexed harder, biceps bulging, veins threatening to pop as I tried to stabilize the movement.

"Fuckfuckfuck—"

Brody was still managing to clutch the bar, but he was yelping like a terrified child, his voice mingling with Zach’s. “Jake, fucking hold on—”

"Trying, bros, trying—”

And then Jake lost his grip completely. It was slow at first, like the universe was giving him a second chance to hold on. Then—nope. Gravity won. His sweaty arms gave out and his entire gigantic body peeled off the bar like a wet lasagna noodle.

Brody let out a deep, guttural scream, a sound that no linebacker should ever make, as he—and the bar—toppled with Jake onto the floor. I barely managed to rerack the bar before my arms fucking gave out.

The moment the weight was secure, my entire body betrayed me. My chest locked, my arms screamed in agony, and my legs—fucking limp noodles. I’d Justined myself. Completely useless. I was only vaguely aware of the entire gym losing its collective mind as I collapsed against the bench, head lolling back, trying to catch my breath. 

The endorphins hit and I felt them: the gains, granting me a full-body high. My vision was swimming, my arms were noodle-fied beyond repair, but I felt so goddamn good. It was glorious. Incredible. 

I’d done it. I’d redeemed myself. 

Zach was doubled over with his phone clutched in his hand, barking out wheezing cackles. Kyle was on his knees, pounding the floor, screaming something unintelligible. Brody was absolutely slumped, gulping for air like a fish out of water, while Jake was spread-eagle on the floor, eyes glassy, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.

Meanwhile, Beckett was absolutely fucking livid.

Red-faced, shaking, practically vibrating with rage, he was shrieking over the eruption of claps and cheers from the rest of the gym patrons. His ponytail swished like it was angry too, his tiny fists clenched as he tried to restore order.

“You’re all banned,” he screeched out. “Forever. All of you. I swear to God—”

I snorted so hard I thought I might pass out. I couldn’t even breathe. My chest ached, my abs were shaking from too much exertion, but the high was too real. Stuttering out a half-laugh, half-gasp, I flopped an arm over my face, my entire body alternating between pain and pure euphoria.

This was it. This was the pinnacle of Gainsnesday.

I was pretty sure I could feel a real, actual heart attack coming on. But if I died right here, right now? I’d die swole as fuck.

Except I wasn’t gonna die because I had to see Ainsley tonight.

—---—---------------------- * * * ----------------------—---—

Me and the bros didn’t actually get banned. Or kicked out.

Mostly because Kyle managed to subdue Beckett by flirting aggressively with him until Beckett made a noise that sounded like a teakettle about to explode and fled back to his front desk.

The rest of Gainsnesday continued, not without further incident—Jake tried to run at 15mph on the treadmill and got yeeted off, Zach tried to benchpress Kyle and Brody, and Kyle strained something by deadlifting too hard—but by the end of it, we walked out because we chose to, not because Beckett chased us out. Also, classes.

But as the day progressed, it became clear that I was so fucking wired off gains that I couldn’t pay attention to anything.

Whiteboards might as well have been blank, because I couldn’t see straight. Professors sounded like muppets in a blender, all high-pitched nonsense. My body was still buzzing and my blood remained hot, my muscles locked and loaded. For nothing.

I’d benched over 500 fucking pounds and survived, and now my entire existence felt like it was vibrating at a higher frequency. My chest, though? Still crushed. That stupid, ever-present tightness, like something was squeezing my ribs from the inside out. I just wished I’d have the heart attack already and get it over with. 

And I was half-hard.

Like, my dick refused to go all the way down. Not unheard of post-workout—every alpha knows that feeling when your testosterone is sky-high, your blood is still rushing, and for some reason, your dick is just like that. It happens. It’s dumb as hell, but it happens. Normally, it realizes how stupid it is and backs off once the post-lift high wears off.

This time, it wasn’t. So I sat in class, still buzzing, still vibrating, and my dick was just like, nope. Not happening. We live like this now. I shifted in my seat. Adjusted my sweats. Spread my legs wider. Tried to mentally tell it to chill. It did not chill.

I would’ve been freaking out, except I knew half the reason why I felt so wonky. I’d gone way too fucking hard on pre-workout and protein shakes in the gym.

Alphas weren’t actually supposed to drink more than three protein shakes a day. It was actually fine if we didn’t drink any, but we were definitely not supposed to dry-scoop pre-workout. Or double dry-scoop it three times. Or mix it with an energy drink that has an actual warning label on it. Yeah, I’d done that. And had more than three protein shakes. Four, I think. Maybe five.

Supplements did help. Not with sports or performance, technically, but they made you feel invincible. Made your muscles pop, made the lift feel cleaner, smoother. It was primal, that feeling. Like stepping onto the battlefield, ready to wreck shit. Ready to claim shit. The closest alphas could get to unleashing our instincts while suppressed and patched.

Problem is, too much made us go wonky.

Like we’d been turned on high. We got too turned on, too wired, too much. One second you could be chilling, the next, your skin would be buzzing, your brain hunting, and you couldn’t sit still because every cell in your body was vibrating.

Almost all the alphas on the football team had been in the campus health center at one point or another for weird symptoms. Racing heart, feeling off, too aggressive, sweating too much, blurry vision. The first time Jake overdosed on supplements, he hallucinated a fight with a ghost linebacker in his dorm room. The second time, he tore off his shirt mid-class and challenged his professor to a bench-off.

That wasn’t happening to me, though. I was fine. Mostly. I made it through all of my classes until the very last one and I thought I felt somewhat better by then, at least enough that I was able to ignore my still-hard dick and take some notes. The only problem was that I couldn’t stop thinking about Ainsley. He was on a loop in my head. I kept glancing at the clock on my phone, my knee jumping as I counted the time I had until I’d see him again. Not long. Pretty soon, actually. 

God, he always smelled good. His lips were too fucking pink. And that thing he did with his glasses, pushing them up with one finger, like some kind of hot nerd villain…

I kind of wanted to pin him to a desk and make him tell me every single number in my statistics textbook just to see if I could make him mess up. I bet he’d read it cover-to-cover. I also bet I could make him stutter. Maybe even forget about statistics entirely.

Jesus. Focus.

By 6:45pm, I was free from lectures and professors, forcing my feet to move faster, cutting across campus. The library wasn’t far. I was going to be early. Not by a crazy amount, but at least I wasn’t late. For once.

A part of me wanted to just fucking book it, see how fast I could push it—wanted to see him now—but I knew that if I busted in breathing hard like a lunatic, Ainsley would look at me like I’d committed a felony and was looking for a place to hide.

The library was supposed to be neutral ground. Public. Professional. He’d made that pretty clear. So I speed-walked, forcing myself to slow down the second I stepped inside.

It smelled nothing like iron and sweat and protein shakes. It was still. Orderly. And for a second, my body physically rejected it. Like I had too much energy, too much unburned adrenaline from the gym still pumping through me. My muscles felt too tight, my heart was still beating too fast. Every instinct I had was screaming that I shouldn’t be here, that I should be somewhere else, lifting something heavy, screaming with my pack.

But then I saw him. And everything in me went silent.

Ainsley was already at our table.

I said our like it belonged to us. Like it wasn’t just a table in a massive, overfunded university library that anyone could sit at. But it did belong to us. Because Ainsley was always here first, and I always sat across from him, and every time I walked in, I expected to find him there. And he was.

He was completely absorbed in something on his laptop, green eyes locked on the screen, lips parted slightly in concentration. The glow of the screen made his skin look even paler, even softer. His glasses—his smaller pair, the ones that fit—were perfectly balanced on the bridge of his nose and he was leaning forward just a little, one elbow on the table, the other hand absently tapping a pen against his notebook. 

His hair was a little messier than usual. Not in a way that anyone else would notice. But I did. I even stood back for a moment and just stood there, noticing everything I possibly could about him.

I noticed that a few strands had fallen out of place, curling slightly over his forehead. Like he’d been dragging his fingers through it. Like he’d been stressed or frustrated about something.

I noticed that his cardigan sleeves were pushed up—not all the way, just enough to show the delicate lines of his wrists, the sharp bones of his forearms. Too thin. I wanted to feed him. Immediately. Not just one meal. Not just once. I wanted to make sure he ate, every day, forever.

I noticed that his foot was bouncing slightly under the table. That his brows were furrowed just a little deeper than usual. That he was chewing the inside of his cheek.

I didn’t even realize I was staring at his mouth until he looked up and my entire stomach flipped at the way his gaze flicked over me—taking in my hoodie and sweats attire, my still-tense posture, the fact that I was here ten minutes early. His brow arched slightly, like he was already unimpressed, already bracing himself for whatever dumbassery was about to come out of my mouth.

A mile-wide grin took over my mouth. Fuck, I loved that look. The way he acknowledged me without words. The way his attention sharpened, even as he pretended not to care. The way his lips moved like he was about to sigh, like he was already exhausted by me.

I wanted to hear that sigh. I wanted to push every single one of his buttons, just to watch him react. I wanted to make him huff out my name in pure frustration, the way he always did when I pushed him just a little too far. 

Because forget Gainsnesday. This was about to be the best part of my day.

So I smirked. Rolled my shoulders back. Stalked over to the table like I wasn’t just staring at him like some lovesick idiot. I dropped into my chair, stretched my legs out, and tilted my chin up, letting him see the way I was noticing the way he was noticing me.

“Hey, sunshine. Miss me?”

Chapter Text

When Max had called earlier and told me that he wasn’t coming to our morning tutoring session for a cultish gym date, of all things, I should’ve felt unmoved. Unaffected. If he wanted to flunk out of college? That was his prerogative. Idiot.

What I shouldn’t have felt was violently annoyed for the rest of the day. Bothered. Restless. As if not seeing Maxwell Vaughn for a 45-minute interval devastated something inside of me and reduced me to positively seething.

It was pathetic. It was unacceptable. I was unacceptable.

Naturally, I tried to smother it. I had classes that called for my attention, responsibilities of actual import. Academic excellence to maintain. A reputation. Sanity. For every lecture period, I threw myself into meticulous note-taking, color-coding, and cross-referencing. It would have worked, too—if not for the fact that my brain had betrayed me.

Because I found myself sitting too stiffly, with posture even sharper than usual. I gripped my pen harder without even realizing, until my handwriting became more severe and I was left staring at unnecessary flourishes and nonsensical squiggles. Minor errors, I thought at first. Tolerable.

Then those minor errors decided to compound themselves into entire equations miswritten, displaced variables. The wrong color code. I ground my teeth and tapped my fingers against my notebook in a precise, mindless rhythm. A fidget. I never fidgeted. And yet I only caught myself doing it when the student next to me glanced over warily.

I started answering questions too quickly, too curtly, with an edge that was thankfully interpreted as sharp intellect instead of barely restrained impatience. That, at least, worked in my favor.

But on the inside, I was failing.

The chest pain was fiercer than ever—a deep, gnawing ache that throbbed with every breath I took, coupled with the irrational urge to call Max back and rail at him for wasting my time, for being a complete and utter failure of a responsible adult. To remind him as sternly as possible that he’d literally begged to convince me that he would take this seriously and yet, on day one, he was already abandoning our plan?

Again—unacceptable.

That wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part was the way my entire body knew he wasn’t coming. As if, on some primal level, my system had expected him. Had prepared for him. Had anticipated the moment he would stride through the library doors, his stupid grin overly confident and much too wide, his sheer presence so overwhelming that it would make Ridgeline’s two-story library feel too small to contain him.

Instead of dwelling on the complete betrayal of my brain, I told myself that it was because I wasn't rested. That my body was rebelling due to sheer exhaustion, not because I’d been deprived of him. That the reason I felt like I’d been left at the edge of something precarious, dangling over a cliff with nothing to hold onto, was simply because I hadn’t slept well at all the other night.

Which was another problem in itself.

For the first time in my life, I had tossed and turned in my bed. Stared up at the ceiling, willing my mind to quiet itself, only for it to stubbornly refuse. No matter how I twisted or repositioned, I couldn’t settle. My sheets felt suffocating. My pillows were too firm. My blankets were too heavy, too light, wrong—as if some fundamental element of my environment was missing.

I knew what it was. I just refused to acknowledge it.

It was the scentbond. The insidious, biological culprit behind the way my brain refused to stop conjuring up Max as if he were a ghost in my subconscious, lingering at the edges of every exhausted thought. The scentbond was responsible for how his absence made itself known in the same way a missing limb might. The scentbond. 

These were the withdrawal symptoms—irritability, the damnable chest pain, the insomnia. The way my skin felt too tight and restless, as if something vital had been scraped away and left raw and wanting. My body was clamoring to be around Max, to bask in his presence like some omega desperate for his alpha.

Which I was not. Obviously.

It was fine. Really. The more it hurt, the more it meant I was closer to breaking it. That I was on the right path. That I only had to endure the discomfort a little longer before I was free of it entirely.

Or at least, that was what I told myself.

The problem with self-delusion, however, was that it required actual belief in the lies one was telling. And unfortunately for me, I was far too intelligent to believe my own bullshit.

I knew that I was ruined for the foreseeable future. It remained in my best interest to fix Max’s GPA as soon as possible and make sure I never saw him again.

Our regularly scheduled tutoring session was ten minutes away now and I was in the middle of reviewing data sets for my Neuroscience class, highlighting a passage—more for the sake of doing something than because it was particularly relevant—when I felt it.

A shift in the air. A hum in my bones, a pull that I despised for its instinctive certainty. I knew before I looked up. Max had arrived.

And sure enough, when I did drag my gaze away from my laptop screen, there he was. Looming straight ahead. In all of his meatheaded glory. Looking… possibly concussed? I blinked at him, wondering if exhaustion was playing tricks on me—if my brain had somehow misfired. I narrowed my eyes and doubled down, actually examining him. 

Max always moved with a certain confidence—an easy, almost lazy sort of arrogance, like the world was designed to accommodate him and not the other way around. He walked with the assuredness of someone who had never truly doubted himself, never questioned his presence in a room. Typically, he entered spaces like he owned them. Like gravity worked just a little differently for him.

This, however? This was not the same Max. The more I studied him, the more I realized I was correct. He was not at baseline.

For God’s sake, his pupils were slightly blown, his mouth parted like he was still remembering how breathing worked, and his entire hulking frame radiated an almost concerning level of overstimulation. His gaze skated over the rows of tables as if he had forgotten how to recognize objects in space, slow and unfocused, like his brain was still catching up to his body.

His presence remained overwhelming—because of course it did—but instead of exuding that insufferable, self-assured magnetism, he looked... fried. As if his own nervous system was misfiring. As if he’d been wired too tightly and then suddenly unplugged, left to drift in some post-adrenaline, pre-crash limbo.

And he was staring at my mouth, grinning like a complete loon. His expression had melted into something loose, something lazy, something unbearably smug. I tore my gaze away immediately, feeling my own features tighten into a scowl.

“Hey, sunshine,” he drawled out, dropping into his seat with the gracelessness of a man whose muscles had not yet registered that they were in a library and not a weight room.

I inhaled sharply through my nose, gripping my pen tighter to stop myself from throwing it at his thick, overexerted skull.

"Maxwell," I said slowly, scanning him for further signs of traumatic brain injury. "Did you take a hit to the skull today?"

His grin widened. "Nah. Just gains."

Just gains. What did that even mean?

I opened my mouth to question him further, then snapped it shut, reminding myself sternly that it wasn’t my problem. Whatever Max had done to himself during his ridiculous gym date with his “bros” was absolutely no concern of mine. I had solved enough of his problems to date.

From now on, I told myself, the only thing that I was responsible for was teaching him statistics. And that was going to be difficult enough without diagnosing today’s failings of his brain.

I was right. Because thirty minutes later, Max was slouched in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the statistics textbook like it had personally insulted him.

“I hate this already,” he muttered. “Do we seriously have to do this?”

“You promised me you’d try,” I said sharply, tapping my pen against the table. “You swore, Max. Don’t make me regret agreeing to this.”

“I am trying,” he snapped back, scowling. “It’s just… stupid. Who even cares about probabilities? It’s not like I need to calculate the odds of someone tackling me. I just run faster than them.”

I arched an unimpressed brow at him. “It’s not just about running or tackling. It’s about logic. Critical thinking. Making decisions based on data—”

He waved me off. “Yeah, yeah, making decisions. Got it. But why does it have to be so boring?”

“Because it’s math,” I pointed out dryly. “It’s not supposed to be fun. Now, pay attention.”

I pointed at the problem on the page, determined to make him understand. “This is a probability question. We’re trying to figure out the likelihood of two independent events occurring. Let’s start simple. What’s the probability of flipping a coin and getting heads?”

“Fifty percent,” he said automatically. And then grinned, as if he’d solved world hunger. I barely suppresed an eye roll.

“Now, if you flip it again, what’s the probability of getting heads twice in a row?”

Max’s grin faltered. “Uh… still fifty percent?”

“No,” I said, my tone tightening. “It’s not. The events are independent, but you multiply the probabilities. So it’s actually twenty-five percent.”

He stared at me, his expression blank. “Why would you multiply them? That doesn’t make sense. They’re two separate flips.”

“Exactly,” I replied, trying to keep my patience. “They’re independent, which means the probability of both happening is the product of their individual probabilities.”

He blinked. “You lost me at ‘product.’”

“Max,” I said slowly, “it’s just multiplication.”

“Oh.” His brows drew together in a frown. “Well, that’s dumb. Why can’t it just stay fifty percent?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but he barreled on, flailing a hand. “Like, who even uses this? Statisticians? That can’t be a real job. I bet you just made that up to sound smart.”

Yes, because I spend my time trying to sound smart while tutoring dumbasses, I wanted to shout at him. Or at least whisper-yell. I almost did. But didn’t. Because I knew what Max was doing. He might’ve suffered a concussion, but this was classic Max behavior—derailing the lesson into a ridiculous argument to avoid actually learning anything.

“Max,” I hissed, my pen threatening to snap in my grip. “For the love of God, focus.”

I expected him to pout, or worse, keep talking, but he surprised me by doing neither. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

I went stiff, automatically bracing myself. I’d seen that look before. It never meant anything good. Something completely unhinged was about to—

“Fine,” he said, his tone infuriatingly casual. “What are the stats on you letting me kiss you?”

Just like that, my brain short-circuited. My entire nervous system lit up, synapses firing at an alarming rate, flooding my body with a cascade of physiological responses that I did not approve of. Heart rate spike? No. Core temperature increase? Absolutely not. Blood flow redistribution—No. I refused to acknowledge that.

What I did acknowledge was anger. Frustration. Exasperation. Had we not established firm boundaries just the other night? And practically in every other tutoring session before that? No flirting. No inappropriate behavior. No wasting my time. I had been crystal-clear.

Yet here we were. Either he was actually concussed, a complete idiot, or just did not care. All three were likely. 

I blinked at him, heat crawling up my neck as my jaw tightened. “That’s not—Max, this is serious. You can’t just—”

“It’s a valid question,” he interrupted, his grin widening. “Totally on-topic. It’s all about probabilities, right?”

Gritting my teeth, I shot him the most venomous look I could muster. “Max. We are not discussing this. I will literally walk away.”

His grin fell away, wiped from his face so suddenly it was almost jarring. For a moment—just a moment—I glimpsed something not-quite-Max underneath. Something darker, heavier, sharper.

He was still sitting casually, still taking up too much space, but there was an unmistakable shift. His broad shoulders squared, his frame going taut in a way I did not care to analyze further. The brightness of his eyes went completely dark, focused, and there was a weight to their stare that sent a sharp jolt of awareness through my body, like an electric current snapping through exposed wire.

As I tried to stare him down, his chin tilted slightly, and suddenly I was reminded of the night that he’d taken off his scent patch in the library like a reckless, petulant child, how his gaze had locked onto me with the same dark intensity, something feral bleeding into the edges of his expression, something alpha.

If he took off his scent patch again, I was definitely walking out. And never coming back. Consequences be damned.

“Why not?” Max egged, leaning forward now, oblivious to my mental duress. “C’mon, Professor. I’ve been on the verge of a heart attack all day. What’s the likelihood? Give me a number.”

The statement caught me off guard and for a moment, I stared blankly at him in confusion. Then I remembered—Max didn’t know we were scentbonded. So of course he’d mistake the chest pain from the bond withdrawal as him about to go into cardiac arrest. Even though he was a perfectly healthy alpha male. 

Then I also remembered—the only reason Max and I were scentbonded was Max’s fault. That reduced the guilt to nothing and I glared at him again, harder this time, as if sheer force of will alone could reroute this entire interaction back into something sane.

It did not work. And promptly, I realized the dilemma I was in.

Being that this was Max, I knew that if I didn’t do something to snap him into focus, this session would drag on indefinitely, and I would be stuck here all night. We were already behind on the academic recovery plan—my professional pride would not let me leave until he’d learned something.

But I already knew that at this rate, Max would keep fidgetting, stalling, making idiotic jokes, and attempting to charm his way out of doing work, and worst of all—he would waste my time.

Which I refused to allow.

Unfortunately, the only way I knew so far to keep him focused on anything longer than two minutes? Turning it into a challenge. Because his brain was biologically incapable of responding to anything else. Every other strategy had failed.

Structured explanations, visual examples—he zoned out, half-listened, nodded and then forgot the entire concepts two seconds later. I suspected even football metaphors would pale in effectiveness next to the one thing that I’d found that actually motivated Maxwell Vaughn:

Me.

Which meant, if hypothetical kisses were the trick—

Fine. I would use them.

Not because I wanted to. Not because I liked the way his hazel eyes darkened in intrigue. Not because the idea of Max Vaughn, silent and obedient, laser-focused on me was doing unmentionable things to my nervous system, but because this tutoring session needed to be over as soon as possible. If weaponizing his biological fixation on me was the price, I would pay it.

“Fine. Hypothetically,” I ground out, pausing for emphasis, “let’s say the probability of me kissing you is one in a hundred.”

“One in a hundred?” he repeated, eyebrows shooting up. “That’s easy, Kerrigan. Not gonna make me work for it?”

He sounded almost disappointed, as if he’d wanted to work for it. I didn’t dignify that observation with a verbal response, instead silently hating the cocky smirk that quirked at the edges of his mouth. “Hypothetically, if I were to kiss you once—with the probability being one in a hundred—what’s the probability of me doing it again?”

Max’s grin faltered for half a second as he squinted at the textbook. “Uh… one in a hundred again…?”

“No,” I said sharply, exasperated. “Stop guessing. Multiply the probabilities. What’s one in a hundred times one in a hundred?”

His brow furrowed and for a moment, I braced myself, but then I noticed that his lips were moving silently. Good. If I was going to sacrifice my academic integrity, the least he could do was actually attempt the math.

“One in… ten thousand?” 

“Correct,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. Controlled. Professional. And then, because I couldn’t help myself, I added, “Congratulations, you’re finally learning remedial algebra.”

I had meant it as an insult—a deliberate, scathing jab, a reminder that I was currently wasting my valuable time reteaching him the same concepts high schoolers mastered with ease. But instead of taking it as one, he just looked at me and smirked—fully, lazily, infuriatingly, like I had just delivered a standing ovation instead of a cutting remark. Like my biting tone was a compliment, my sharp words flirtation, and my deepest frustration was something he enjoyed.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re bitchy, Kerrigan,” he drawled out, drumming his fingers against his notebook. 

I inhaled sharply. Glared harder. Folded my arms across my chest. "Would you like a gold star, Vaughn?" I bit out, my voice flat with disdain, my expression screaming shut up and suffer.

Max didn’t even hesitate. "A kiss would be cool," he said casually. Except—his eyes were dark, lasering holes in me.

God.

I tried to unclench my jaw and failed. At this rate, I was going to break a tooth. He was unbelievable. Every rational part of my brain screamed at me. Told me not to do it. To not even entertain such flagrant idiocy.

And yet, I saw an opportunity and took it.

“If you get the next two problems right on your own,” I said, meeting his gaze, “the probability of me kissing you becomes one in fifty."

There. A direct challenge. Hardly impossible, but he was bad enough at math that the odds were unlikely enough that he’d succeed. He would, however, try. And when he failed, I could dangle the same carrot and convince him to try again, either until there were no more problems left or we ran out of time.

Max’s eyes flickered—the kind of flicker that made my stomach twist in frustration , in something worse than frustration, in something I refused to analyze. His mouth curved, slow and dangerous, as he leaned in slightly, eliminating what little air remained between us.

“That’s a pretty generous offer, sunshine,” he murmured. I arched an impervious brow, refusing to appear affected, and gave him a smirk of my own for good measure, waiting. 

When he leaned back and took the bait, snatching up his pencil so fast it almost slipped from his fingers, I felt a jolt of satisfaction.

For the next two minutes, I knew peace.

Max wasn’t even looking at me. Just at the problem. The numbers. I watched him, expecting the usual: dramatic groaning, scowling, stalling, guessing. I was already preparing my next approach, formulating a new way to make him engage, readying myself for another round of verbal combat.

Except, to my utter disbelief, Max actually started working.

He was visibly calculating, head bent over the paper. His leg bounced with excess energy still, but he wasn’t loud or sloppy. He appeared to be… methodical?

I narrowed my eyes, unable to process the shift in behavior. I was almost certain he was on some sort of drug now. There was no other explanation for it. His pencil scraped against the paper, his grip surprisingly steady, his hazel eyes dead focused—on the problem, not me.

My stomach twisted.

I told myself it was because I was baffled, because I had never seen him concentrate on anything academic with such sincerity before. It wasn’t because I suddenly became hyperaware of the way his thick forearms flexed slightly as he wrote, or the way his lashes—unfairly long—cast the faintest shadows over his cheekbones.

He scribbled out his final number and turned his notebook towards me.

“One in twenty-five,” he announced. His grin had changed from his usual cocky smirk—it was self-satisfied now, knowing, like he was already anticipating my reaction. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

I took the notebook out of his hands, already scanning for errors. There were... none? I double-checked.

He was right.

“Lucky guess,” I muttered, but my voice lacked conviction.

Max snickered, leaning in slightly, his knee bumping mine under the table, and I pretended not to notice even as another jolt of awareness burned through me. “Nah, sunshine. That was all me. Now, let’s see—” He flipped to the next problem, and to my absolute horror, went right back to working, barely glancing at me.

The silence stretched on, filled only with the soft scratching of his pencil, the occasional mumble under his breath. My free hand curled briefly into a fist on my lap, unease flitting in my stomach. This was fine. So he’d actually gotten one question right—so what? The other one was harder. He would certainly struggle with it. Overthink it. Spiral. He’d have to ask for my help—

He finished the second problem and shoved it towards me. I refused to acknowledge the way his eyes glinted, almost like a predator who’d outrun his prey.

“One in twelve,” he said, his voice bordering on smug, but not quite. His grin widened when he saw my dumbfounded expression, the way I stared at him as if he’d told me the earth was flat.

You’ve got to be kidding me. There was no way. Five minutes ago, he’d thought that the probability of getting heads twice in a row was fifty percent.

“How did you cheat?” I demanded immediately, tossing the notebook back onto the table. A bit too forcefully, but it wasn’t like there was anyone around to see the sheer level of disaster unfolding—this level of the library was practically empty at this hour. Which meant there would be no one to stop me when I stabbed Max Vaughn with my pen and left him to bleed out.

I expected Max to pout and give some exaggerated response, as if I’d hurt his feelings. But he didn’t. Instead he just kept smirking, leaning back in his chair. When he spoke, I noticed that his voice dropped into a lower, even more smug register and I hated it. 

“Cheat?” he echoed. “Didn’t have to. Turns out it’s easy when you’re… feeling inspired.” 

He cast a pointed look at my lips, and I could’ve exploded into a thousand pieces. From anger, from disbelief, from embarrassment and feeling absolutely played. I wanted to call it a fluke. I wanted to tell him he was still a colossal idiot. But the reality sat between us, irrefutable. Max Vaughn had, through sheer willpower and a perverse motivation that I refused to analyze, learned statistics in the span of five minutes.

My grip on my pen tightened until I thought I would snap it.

He tapped the side of his notebook with his index finger, his voice low and amused. “So, Professor. What’s the probability now?”

God, I hated him.

All of this was wrong. This was why boundaries existed. Why appropriate teaching methods were valued. Why tutors were instructed to maintain a firm, professional distance from their tutees.

And yet, here I was. The highest rated tutor on campus—and I had wagered myself as a prize in a desperate attempt to make Maxwell Vaughn engage with something other than his own self-sabotage. I couldn’t even be proud that he’d actually learned something. That he’d demonstrated not just comprehension for once, but actual effort. 

Fantastic.

For one long, suspended second, all I could do was sit there, fuming and gripping my pen, my thoughts blank and frantically rebooting, my entire world reduced to the horrifying realization that I had just set myself up for failure.

I’d reduced myself to currency to elicit results and now I had no choice but to follow through. If I reneged, I would lose control. Max would see it for what it was, an empty promise, a bluff, and then I would have nothing left to hold over him. He would never take my challenges seriously again.

The realization settled into me like a weight, pressing down against my ribs, squeezing at my lungs.

Max was still looking at me, his darkened hazel eyes hot with triumph, his mouth perpetually fixed in that damnable, knowing smirk. I could see the points of his teeth. He looked like a wolf in human skin.

What did that make me? A lamb? Prey?

Whatever the case, I had outmaneuvered my own self. And he knew it. I should have known better. I stared at the correct answer in front of me, my stomach tightening as if I’d just swallowed something sharp and irrevocable.

Then Max moved. 

I had no time to react, no time to even attempt to salvage the fraying edges of my dignity, before he was up and out of his chair—and then, in one horrifyingly confident motion, displacing my satchel and dropping into the seat right beside me.

Beside me. Officially too close. The table that had previously been my buffer, my one, singular protection against his overwhelming, heat-radiating, alpha-sized existence—gone.

I felt him before I could even process him. The sheer weight of him in my periphery, the broadness of his shoulders stretching the seams of his hoodie, the way his body heat radiated into my space, pressing against the edges of my too-tight, too-rigid posture.

Then—contact. Because he was insufferably huge and there wasn’t actually enough space for us to sit side by side. A casual, unhurried brush of his arm against mine, his bicep solid, warm, a barely-there sensation that should not have mattered and yet somehow did.

My breathing hitched. I could feel it happening—that insidious, involuntary rush of physiological responses, the scentbond gnawing at my self-control, my body registering him before I could force it not to. No, no, no. The boundaries. My boundaries. I’d so carefully crafted them, had literally written them out on paper, and now they might as well have been up in flames, incinerated to ashes by my own hand.

Slowly, mechanically, I turned my head, my entire expression frozen in absolute, simmering disbelief—and there he was. Inches away. Grinning. Like he had just won a championship. Like this—sitting beside me, crowding into my space, taking up too much air, too much everything—was the real victory.

"Looks like you’re on a losing streak, sunshine," he murmured, his voice still pitched low and rough, like gravel. Anger stabbed my gut anew, except—

Could I really be mad at him? That he’d learned something? I had to admit that for once, against all belief, Max wasn’t the idiot. I was. My fingers flexed around my pen, white-knuckled, my entire body so tense it could have fractured.

Brilliant, Kerrigan.

I inhaled, intending to say something that would wrest back control of this ridiculous scenario—only for a very distinct scent to waft into my lungs and short-circuit my entire brain.

Dark chocolate and cedar.

My entire body locked up. Because I knew that scent. All too well. It was Max’s scent. Max’s very heavy, very unsuppressed scent. 

As if things could not have gotten worse.

My stomach flipped in immediate alarm. I turned to face him fully, gaze instantly flying to his neck. Had he removed his patch when I wasn’t looking, in some imbecile bid for leverage? After everything, he had to know—he had to know—that his scent was a problem. 

But no. His patch remained on his neck, fully sealed over his scent gland. Completely intact. Except—it wasn’t clear anymore. It was turning a mottled gray color.

Indicating failure.

For one agonzing second, my mind scrambled for explanations. Like every other alpha jock at Ridgeline, Max had been issued athletic-grade patches, specifically engineered to withstand heavy sweating and intense physical activity. There was no reason why it should be failing now—

Unless.

Unless Max was reacting so strongly to me that even the suppression tech couldn’t contain it. Because of course. Of course. And judging by the idiotic grin on his face, he didn’t even know. He was sitting beside me, waiting patiently like a dog for his “reward”, completely locked on me. On my mouth. If he’d had a tail, it would’ve been wagging.

He leaned even closer, invading my space, his scent wrapping tighter around my olfactory nerves. Sweetness and bitterness. Woodsy. Masculine. Every nerve in my body seized with intoxication, my lungs stalled mid-inhale, and my brain went completely, utterly static. 

The ache in my chest disappeared entirely. Suddenly I felt completely normal. Better than normal, even. I felt… content. As if I’d been missing something vital before, and Max had just given it to me.

Somewhere, a tiny voice was telling me to run, but I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. Max was too close. Too warm. His scent might as well have been holding me hostage with his sheer proximity.

“Max.” This can’t be happening. “You—”

A warm, calloused fingertip pressed against my lips and I shuddered involuntarily, catching a glimpse of sharp canines flashing as Max loomed even closer. I tilted my chin up, trying to hold onto some semblance of myself and scowl through the sheer overload of sensation.

That only made him grin wider.

My pulse tripped. I tried to speak again—to protest, to insult him, to do something—but my throat was dry. Words failed. Max was leaning in.

Closer. Closer.

“Scared to pay up, Kerrigan?” His voice was all tease, all challenge, but low. Heavy. He was milking this for all it was worth, the bastard, and he didn’t even know what effect he was truly having. My eyes drifted shut and I could feel his breath warm against my lips, tasting the air between us like he already knew I was going to break. 

And he was right.

My back was pressed against the wall. There was nowhere to go. His arms were braced on either side of me, broad and caging, the heat of him bleeding through the thin space between us. I needed to push him away, I needed to run—

Instead of doing either of those sane things, I wrapped a shaking hand around the back of his neck and pulled his mouth the rest of the way to mine.

I had a hundred reasons not to do this. A thousand. I did it anyway. The second our lips touched, a dull, white-hot hum overtook every logical function I possessed, any sharp-edged protest I could’ve made reduced to nothing but a primal, all-consuming want.

For a moment, nothing but blank space existed. Then I heard it: a deep, thrilled sound rumbling from Max’s chest, the only warning I had before his entire body tensed and he was moving into action, slotting his mouth firmly over mine. Suddenly, I was being kissed, except kissing wasn’t quite the right word.

Devoured. I was being devoured. 

His hands came up to grip my waist through my clothes, strong and warm and tight like he was afraid I might vanish. He squeezed and I wanted to dissolve from how good it felt, adrenaline and pleasure spiraling along my nerves like fireworks. Every fiber of my being purred in approval, drowning out the last remaining parts of my rational mind. As if I was meant to be fused to him like this. As if—

I should stop this. I shouldn’t let him—

But my hands were already fisting in his hoodie, already pulling him closer, already tilting my head for more. 

Chapter Text

We weren’t supposed to be doing this. Not here. Not in the fucking library.

Except my brain had officially left the chat, because Ainsley fucking Kerrigan was kissing me like he wanted to consume me alive, and I was letting him. Hell, I was encouraging him. Finally, we were on the same page—the page that said this was right. The page that said he wanted me back the way I wanted him, just as badly.

The second our lips touched, I didn’t care about the probability of getting just a kiss anymore.

I immediately wanted to know what the probability was of him letting me fuck him on this desk.

A rumble started low in my chest, deepening into a full growl as I dragged him closer, kissing him deeper. We’d gone from zero to teeth, tongue and breathless fucking desperation. His fingers were tangled in my hair, gripping tight, yanking, tugging me into him like he was trying to pull me inside his body. 

The more I got my hands on him, the more I could feel the tension in him, the hunger, the way his mouth was hot and slick, his breath ragged and uneven. The noises he was making, the little breathless moans and gasps, they were all conspiring to goddamn kill me. My dick was so hard in my sweats, it might as well have been a steel pipe—I could’ve hit someone over the forehead with it and knocked them out cold.

For the first time in days, I didn’t feel like I was on the edge of having a stroke. There wasn’t any pain in my chest, wasn’t any pain anywhere. Only Ainsley.

He started clawing at my hoodie, fisting his little hands in the worn fabric, holding me in place, as if he thought I’d try and pull away. I would’ve laughed, except I was too busy yanking him closer, fixing my hands on his waist and lifting him bodily into my lap.

It was too easy, with how little he weighed, and I totally expected some sort of protest, maybe for him to snap out of it and bite my head off, but he shocked the hell out of me by not saying a damn thing. 

Then he shocked the hell out of me even more by throwing a leg over my thigh and settling himself fully in my lap, straddling me as if he belonged there. I did laugh then, breathlessly against his lips, half in shock and half in hell-yeah-baby. I couldn’t fucking believe it. Couldn’t believe that he was letting me have this. 

Ainsley Kerrigan, the coldest omega I knew, was bursting into flames right in my lap. Hell of a reward.

And fuck, he wasn’t just letting me kiss him—he was actively fighting me for it. Pushing back against me, rolling his hips down, shoving his tongue past my lips, biting at me like he wanted to mark me. Jesus Christ, the way he was rocking into me…

I groaned and licked into him, chasing every sound, swallowing every breath, sucking his tongue into my mouth just to feel the way he shuddered in response. He was wrecking me with just this. With just kissing. I’d never kissed anyone like this before, never been kissed like this. Like it was kiss-or-die.

It was better than a championship game, adrenaline flooding my veins and demanding that I ruin him just as badly as he was ruining me. So I gave as good as I was getting, biting down on his bottom lip, tugging and teasing, flicking my tongue against his before sucking it deeper, drawing another ragged moan from his throat.

His hands went from my hoodie to my hair again, slim fingers threading into my hair and forcing me to follow, to keep chasing. To keep taking. And goddamn if I wasn’t gonna do exactly what he wanted.

He wants me too. He wants me too.

“Christ, baby—” The attempt at words came out garbled, useless from lack of oxygen. I wanted to tell him exactly what he was doing to me, but anything that wasn’t me touching him felt like a waste of energy. Why tell him when I could show him?

Embracing that brilliant logic, I dug my fingers lower, fitting our lower bodies together perfectly so that his knees pressed into the chair on either side of my hips, his heat sinking right against my cock through his slacks. I grabbed his ass and ground up into him, forcing him to feel exactly how fucking rocked up I was for him. How badly I wanted to see if he’d let me take more than this.

Even if he didn’t, I’d die happy with just this, goddamn was losing my mind over just this, but if he did—if by some miracle he did let me take more—

I felt the shudder that ripped through his tiny frame as clearly as if it were my own, heard the whimper that caught in his throat, all desperation and need. I echoed it with a growl; his nails raked over my scalp and the pain went straight to my dick in a white-hot throb in a way I’d never felt before, hurt but the good kind, electric and sharp. 

I wanted more. He could tear me to shreds if he wanted. I could take it.

There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in him. He was losing his mind just like I was, dropping his hands from my hair and clamping them onto my shoulders. I bucked up, pressing into him, and he fucking chased it, rolling his hips down, the friction hitting just right, his cock rubbing against mine, the pressure making me see stars. My eyes damn near rolled back into my head, because fuck.  

“Fuck, sunshine, look at you,” I groaned out against his mouth, snapping my hips up again, feeling the slick mess building between us, the heat, the sheer fucking desperation. “You need it that bad, baby? You wanna come just like this?”

“Shut—shut up.” His voice stuttered out, breathless, and I almost laughed again, pulling back to catch a glimpse of him—pink lips parted and swollen, chest heaving, green eyes dark with need. His glasses were gone. Where, I had no clue. I’d find them later for him, when I wasn’t trying to bury myself inside him.

Then he looked at me, really looked at me, and I was stunned at how not-out-of-his-mind he suddenly seemed. As if he was capable of thinking coherent thoughts still. “Max,” he said, his throat bobbing. “We can’t be loud. There’s still people—”

“Duh, sunshine,” I murmured, leaning forwards to nip at his ear. “Not unless you want the other nerds to hear how desperate you are for me.”

I knew from the pissed-off huff he gave that he was trying to glare at me and it was so normal-Ainsley that I was fucking elated, fucking thrilled that he was acknowledging out loud what we were doing in the library and not pulling away. 

I dragged my lips over the shell of his ear, teasing his overheated skin, tightening my hands on his hips and pulling him back down. 

“Do you like this, baby?” I whispered, feeling the way his body arched into mine, pressing closer as if he couldn’t stop himself. “Like being in my lap? Like grinding on me like this?”

His fingers clenched against my shoulders and before I could blink, he was yanking me back into a kiss, full-force. He controlled it with a level of aggression I hadn’t been ready for—but fuck, was I into it. He wasn’t hesitant, wasn’t holding back.

This was not the Ainsley I was used to. This wasn’t the uptight, control-freak nerd who fought me at every turn. This wasn’t even in-heat-Ainsley. This was… a version of Ainsley I hadn’t even known existed, but now that I did, I wanted this him all the time. Still sharp, still mean, but using all that bitchy energy to kiss and grind against me instead of pretending there wasn’t something between us. 

He wanted this. He wanted me. And I was going to give him everything. Right here, right fucking now. Library be damned.

Yeah, there were probably still people here, but I couldn’t have cared less. If the fucking Dean of Ridgeline walked in right now, I’d tell him to come back later. Preferably at a time when I wasn’t groaning into Ainsley’s sweet mouth, shoving my hands up under his sweater, trailing over his naked spine, obsessed with the heat of his skin.

He was so fucking smooth. So perfect.

Just to see what he’d do, I found his nipples and tweaked them, smirking when Ainsley let out a wrecked moan right into my mouth. Then he retaliated by biting my lower lip and suddenly we were going at it again, both of us trying to see who could out-wreck the other. Ainsley rolled his hips down against me harder, like he was trying to fuse us together, as I kissed him harder. Deeper. Took everything he was giving me and gave it right back.

My hands went back to his hips and I started a rhythm, thrusting my hips up, pressing every inch I had into him like I could fuck him through his clothes. His whole body shook as he fought to match me, rutting back against me like he couldn’t stop. I could feel every tremble, every sharp little gasp, the way he was completely gone on the friction, chasing the insane pleasure jolting through us both.

It felt so good, but I decided it wasn’t enough. There was a wet spot forming, soaking through his slacks and into my sweats—he was still all buttoned up, but he was so slick, so fucking needy, just from grinding on me.

I needed him bare for me. Skin to skin, no barriers, no fucking space between us.

Ainsley must’ve felt it too, because suddenly his hands were yanking at my hoodie, desperate and frantic. I ripped it off in one motion, barely breaking away from his mouth, and he immediately shoved his hands under my t-shirt, dragging his fingers up my stomach, over my chest, gripping me like he couldn’t get enough.

I rucked his sweater up, pushing my palms against his ribs, feeling the sharp edges of his breathing, the heat of his skin, the flex of his stomach as he writhed into me.

"Fuck, Ainsley," I growled, biting at his jaw, his neck, licking over the marks I was leaving. "You're burning up, baby—can’t wait to get your clothes off."

"Then do it, asshole," he snapped, and fuck if that didn’t send a pulse of raw, uncontrollable heat straight to my cock. Such a little bitch.

I snarled against his throat, grabbed his sweater, and yanked it over his head. His nerdy little cardigan came off with it, tossed somewhere on the floor. I couldn’t care less where, because now he was bare from the waist up in my lap and I was losing my mind all over again. Touching him everywhere I could.

His skin was gorgeous. Flushed, warm, so soft and perfect, his lean muscles shifting as he dragged his hands back into my hair and kissed me like he wanted to tear me apart.

More skin. I needed more skin. I pulled at his waistband. Hard. Too hard, apparently, because the button literally flew off and I felt the zipper tear apart. Along with the belt he’d been wearing. Snapped in half, broken, all of it. Oops.

Ainsley sucked in a breath, his nails piercing me through my hoodie and cutting into my skin. “Vaughn—”

“They were ruined anyway, Kerrigan,” I growled, trying to yank the pressed fabric down over his hips. I shoved them down harder, twisting him against me to get the angle I needed. It interrupted our rhythm and I hated it, immediately wanted to be pressed back against him, but I told myself that it’d be worth it.

Incredibly, Ainsley’s thighs tensed around my hips, trying to keep moving, still rutting against me even as I worked him out of his pants. I got them past his ass, shoving them down his thighs, feeling the way his body locked up when the cold air hit his overheated skin.

I grabbed his hips and lifted him just enough to force the fabric lower, dragging it down until it pooled around his ankles, trapping him there. He was left in… nothing? My already fried brain short-circuited even more, because holy God. Ainsley Kerrigan wasn’t wearing underwear.

So. Worth. It. 

I’d known that he was tiny, but completely naked in my lap like this, without the haze of heat and with the library lights fully on, I could see how his waist dipped into the sharpest little V, his hip bones jutting out like bird wings.

I wanted to bite them.

His cock was twitching against his stomach, precome smeared over the head and dripping, already making a mess on me. I gripped his hips, pushed him back against the desk, and spread him wider in my lap, nearly coming in my sweats at the sight of the rest of him—his hole, gushing out slick, clenching around nothing, pulsing like his body already knew what was coming.

"Holy fuck, baby," I rasped, feral just from looking at him. "You’re so goddamn pretty."

Before he could glare at me or even think about getting self-conscious, I yanked him forwards and started drilling the hard length of my cock against his pretty hole. He clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle a moan, the whites of his eyes showing as I pitched a thrust just right, the friction hitting different now that there was one less layer between us.

I tried to pull him flush against me, but he resisted, hands scrambling to the waistband of my sweats as his mouth found mine again, chasing my tongue on a choked whimper. His fingers fisted in the thick fabric and pulled, not strong enough to rip but still ferocious, enough that I grinned into the kiss.

He wanted to feel me? Say less.

I didn’t have to tell him to hold on. I squeezed him once, then dropped my hands from his waist to help him—lifting my ass out of the chair so I could pull my own pants down with my briefs, letting them fall somewhere around my knees. My cock sprang out, flushed and leaking, a solid eight inches of girth and veins. The kind of cock that ruined lives and had no business being out in a fucking library. It was so hard it was fucking pulsing. 

My balls were fucking heavy, drawn up tight, aching like I might die if I didn’t fuck him right now. And judging by the way Ainsley was staring, cheeks burning, pupils blown wide, his breath coming in short little gasps like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing—he felt the same exact way.

So I didn’t even think. Didn’t hesitate. The second my pants were down, I was lifting him.

I let instinct take over as I positioned him right where I needed him, flexing my grip in the smallest of warnings before I started to lower him back down. Ainsley’s breath caught on a gasp, his eyes flying to mine. I paused and stared back at him, silently questioning.

This was his chance. To stop. If he wanted to. 

“Tell me you don’t want to and mean it—and I’ll put our clothes back on,” I told him. It had to be said. I had to give him an out. Had to make sure, even though everything about him—his scent, his sounds, the way he’d clung to me and chased the heat between us—had told me exactly what I needed to know.

If he let me have this, that was it. No takebacks. No pretending it didn’t happen, no lying to himself, no telling me this was just a “heat-driven mistake”. We were hot as hell for each other right now, sure, but neither of us were in actual heat right now. 

If Ainsley Kerrigan let me fuck him in the middle of this goddamn library, then he’d be mine. Really mine.

I needed him to say it out loud. Needed to hear it so fucking badly.

He didn’t say it. 

Didn’t say anything.

He gave me a look I tried to read, failed, and was still trying to figure out when he slapped my hands away, gripped my shoulders, and fucking sank onto me in one brutal, brain-melting motion.

All of me, all at once. Every inch.

“Shit—Jesus fuck, Ainsley—” I swore violently, choking on my own breath, my entire body locking up as he seized around me. Tight. So fucking tight. So wet. So hot.

I could’ve closed my eyes it felt so goddamn good, but I didn’t. I didn’t take my eyes off him, couldn’t, completely mesmerized by the sight of him. He was biting down on his lower lip, face scrunched up, his whole body shaking. I watched him swallow hard, trying to adjust to my size, trying to take it so stubbornly.

“You just fucked yourself open on my cock, sunshine,” I breathed, running my hands up and down his sides. I couldn’t believe he was real right now. 

He didn’t answer me. At least, not with words. I was still recovering—still trying to process the impossible tight heat of him—when he moved. Fucking rocked down on me. Just a little, just enough to drag my cock even deeper, but my brain went completely blank. Because Jesus fucking Christ.

Stars exploded behind my eyes. My fingers clenched around his thighs, nails digging in to anchor myself—I could’ve came untouched just from the way he felt, his slick-soaked hole stretching around my dick like the greediest little mouth.

I barely got a breath out before he slammed his mouth to mine and started fucking himself on my cock like had something to prove. Our tongues fought, and mine lost because I was losing my fucking mind over the rhythm he’d found, all rough and nasty and dominant.

Lost somewhere between the wet, tight heat of him around me and the nip of his teeth against my lips, I was gone. Every squeeze, every flutter, every clench had me cursing and holding him a little tighter. I’d had great sex before, sure, but this was the hottest thing that had ever happened to me.

Nothing was ever going to be the same after this.

His nails dug into my shoulders, destined to leave marks behind. I knew he wasn’t going to last in this position for long—he was going too fast, too hard—but I let him use me for a while because he was so goddamn beautiful, trying desperately to keep control. So Ainsley.

Every time he dropped down on me, his mouth dropped open on a gasping little moan and I licked it right from between his lips, until I felt his movements stutter and his breath come even faster and his frantic pace start getting sloppy.

Somewhere in the library, a chair screeched against the floor and he froze suddenly, yanking away from me. He turned his head to the side, looking for the source, but I knew it wasn’t anywhere close to us. Nothing to stop over. I seized on the opportunity to take over—grabbing ahold of his hips and thrusting up hard, burying myself as deep in him as I could get. 

You would’ve thought I’d stabbed him, because he jerked and screamed. Loud, too. Louder than anything I had ever heard from him, loud enough to echo through the library and make someone think there was a murder happening.

My entire body halted and locked up, hands clenching on his waist. My cock was buried to the hilt; I could feel every twitch, every desperate little pulse of his body. God, he was incredible. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let anyone stop this. Not until I was done and that was going to be a while.

Fuck.

I clamped a hand over his mouth immediately, half-laughing, half-smirking, all breathless. “Sunshine,” I rasped, choking back a grin. “You have to be quiet.”

Ainsley shivered violently, his green eyes wide and pupils blown. His breath was hot against my palm, fast and heavy, fingers shaking against my shoulders. 

“Can you be quiet for me, baby?” He shook his head and I didn’t take my hand away, thrusting up again, harder than before, laughing softly when he wailed into my palm. Tightening my hold on his waist, I dragged him down into the snap of my hips, into my rhythm. It was just as brutal as his, but slower, because I wanted it to last forever. 

He relaxed incrementally, slowly but surely losing his mind all over again, moving on me and falling back into that mindless space where nothing existed but my cock inside him. His thighs started to quiver but I held him, guided him, made sure he got what we both needed. I shoved deeper, forcing him to take it.

His fingers twitched like he wanted to claw my skin off but he didn’t stop, didn’t pull away. Instead, he took me so fucking perfectly that I could barely think. Barely breathe. Barely function beyond the raw, animal need to fuck him straight through the goddamn chair.

I rolled my hips, grinding against that perfect spot inside him, and his head snapped back, a choked, desperate moan slipping past my hand.

He swayed towards me and I sank my teeth into his throat. Hard. Not enough to break the skin or anything savage, but enough that he’d have to wear another one of those sexy fucking turtlenecks tomorrow.

And the effect was instant: his body seized up on another desperate noise, and his cock twitched between us, leaking, dripping, completely neglected. I didn’t touch it. Not yet. Not when I had him like this—his hips slamming down into mine, his whole body desperate, chasing, trembling.

I groaned into his neck, dragging my tongue over the bite, my breath hot and ragged against his skin.

"You love this, don’t you?" I growled out in a low voice, my fingers digging into his hips, guiding him, forcing him to fuck himself on me exactly how I wanted. "You love being split open on my cock like this, don’t you, baby?"

It was filthy talk, but I said it just to see how he’d react and sure enough, Ainsley let out a muffled sob, practically falling apart in my hands. I realized that he liked it, just like he liked it when I bit him and that was so goddamn hot that I fucking throbbed inside him, my balls tightening, the sheer heat and friction of him pushing me so close to the edge I could taste it.

I dropped my hand from his mouth. Gave him a second to breathe. A single second. And then I snapped my hips up again, this time so fucking hard I felt something else inside him, something soft but solid. Like a little gate thing. When I hit it, Ainsley screamed again and I slapped my hand back over his mouth just in time to muffle it, grinning.

I knew that if he’d had a single thought in his head, he’d be trying to kill me right now. Good thing we were both fucking feral right now—literally. I wanted to know what that thing was, wanted to feel it again, so I went looking for it, dragging him down while I fucked up, deep. What was behind that little gate? What was it hiding? Why did it make him scream like that?

“What the fuck is that?” I muttered, dumbfounded. “Baby, there’s something inside you—something up there—”

Ainsley tangled his fingers in my hair and yanked, commanding my attention. When I looked up at him, he was trying to speak, shaking his head in an effort to free my hand. I removed it and he let out a shaky huff, glaring at me. “Yeah, it’s called my cervix, you idiot.”

Oh.

Still didn’t know what that was, but cool, I guess. I probably could’ve figured it out if I’d thought about it, except I didn’t have any brain power for anything that didn’t involve my cock splitting him in half.

“The entrance to my—ngh—womb, Max,” Ainsley hissed out, as if he knew what I was thinking. “You are—not supposed to—battering ram…”

God, watching him try to be a bitchy little know-it-all still while red-faced and shaking on my dick made me even harder . Even more determined to ruin him. Sure, he wasn’t making much sense, but if he could still put words together at all…

"Whoops," I breathed out, mocking, panting. I pressed up against the same spot, gasping out a laugh when he scored his nails over my scalp in retaliation. "Guess you’re just gonna have to take it, sunshine."

Apparently we had the same brain, because we both started fucking with even more frantic energy after that. I drove into him with everything I had, everything I was, every bit of heat and hunger that had been burning inside me since the moment I’d first laid eyes on him.

Ainsley alternated between riding me like he was out of his goddamn mind and just letting me hold him up while he moaned and shook, but no matter which it was, I kissed and bit him wherever I could reach—his neck, his shoulder, his mouth. His forehead, even, which earned me another glare, but I didn’t care. 

He was mine now and I could do whatever I wanted. 

I was pretty damn convinced that his body was made for me. For the way I gripped his hips tight enough to bruise, dragging him down to meet every brutal thrust, feeling the way he clenched around me, hot and tight and taking me so fucking deep.

“Fuck, baby, you feel that?” I rasped, burying myself so deep inside him it was like we were one fucking body, one pulse, one desperate fucking need. “You feel how deep I am, how perfect you take it? Fuck, Ainsley, you’re squeezing me so goddamn tight—”

Ainsley moaned filthy and broken, his fingers gripping my shoulders, his thighs trembling where they were locked around my hips. "More, Max—"

Didn’t need to tell me twice. I snapped.

I grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him like I was going to fucking consume him, eat him alive, devour him from the inside out. He whimpered into my mouth, grinding down, meeting me thrust for thrust, fucking himself on me like he’d die if we stopped. I broke away just long enough to drag my mouth to his ear, my breath shaking with how close I was.

"You love this, don’t you?" I bit down on his earlobe, dragging my tongue over the shell, feeling him shiver from head to toe. Everything was building up and I started ranting, words spilling out unchecked to relieve some of the pressure. "Love having my cock so deep inside you, love being fucked open like this, love knowing I could make you come just from this, just from having you in my lap, just from feeling me—"

Ainsley let out a ragged, breathless sob, and I fucking felt it, felt the way he was so goddamn close, because I was right there with him. His whole body was tight and trembling, his cock dragging against my stomach, slick and leaking and neglected.

"You gonna come for me, sunshine?" I whispered, striking up harder, trying to hit that spot again, his little precious womb-gate thing. "Gonna come just like this, fucked open on my cock in the middle of the goddamn library?"

Ainsley shook his head wildly, gasping, panting, but his body was betraying him. He was chasing it. Grinding down faster, harder, frantic and desperate, eyes rolling back, mouth open, breath breaking apart.

I was going to push him over. I knew it, even as I knew I wanted to stay like this forever, in this incredible version of alternate reality where Ainsley fucking Kerrigan wanted me back as badly as I wanted him. I wasn’t ready to go back to the real one where he possibly didn’t. Couldn’t. Not after this.

“Fucking take it, Kerrigan,” I panted, driving inside him again and again, hard and possessive. Gotta have him forever. Just like this. Forever. “Come for me, baby.”

And he did. Shuddering and writhing, Ainsley came apart in my lap, his entire body locking up, squeezing down around me so tight, so perfect, I fucking blacked out. Fully lost my vision, lost my mind. All that existed was him and the connection between our bodies, the way I was about to pump him even more full of me. 

His cock spilled between us, hot and slick, painting my stomach as he let out the filthiest moan I had ever heard in my life. I fucked up into him one last time, plunging as deep as I could go, my body seizing with the force of my own release.

“Fuck, baby, fuck—” My voice broke, ragged, as I spilled inside him, filling him up, claiming him. I ground through the aftershocks, dragging it out, making him take all of it. The rush of it was so overwhelming that I didn’t even realize I was biting his throat like a rabid animal until I felt him whimper and jerk; he was still squeezing me, still fucking perfect.

Then the lights went off, pitching everything in total darkness. Fuck. Fuck. My first instinct was to panic, except then it hit me that lights off meant that everyone else in the library had left.

There wasn’t anyone around anymore. It was just us. 

And I decided I wasn’t done.

Chapter Text

There was no other explanation for what had just happened besides the very real, very likely possibility that I had followed Max into the void of being a complete idiot.

I had spent my entire life carefully curating my intelligence, my discipline, my control. Ensuring that I was the walking gold standard of rational thought, the reigning champion of common sense. I had built my personality around academic excellence and making logical decisions with the precision of a surgeon.

And yet—here I was.

Me, Ainsley Kerrigan. 

Getting railed to within an inch of my own life in the library. Screaming like a total wanton. Dripping with slick and covered in bite marks. Allowing my own guts to be rearranged like I was nothing but a needy, pathetic little omega in some trashy online forum’s filthiest heat fic.

Full of Maxwell Vaughn’s cock and even fuller of self-hatred.

Because there was no one to blame but myself for this disaster.

I had painstakingly established a codex of professionalism, complete with color-coded boundaries and time slots. Then I had ruined all of it by recklessly offering myself up on a silver platter.

Every single one of my past sexual encounters had been clinical. Controlled. Perfectly measured. I had always ensured that I was the one dictating the pace, the one maintaining the upper hand, the one who never let himself become lost in the moment. 

Not that there had ever been anything to get lost in anyway—sex had always simply been a means to relieve stress. A practical exercise. A transaction, even. Something to keep the needs of my body in check, so I could return to my real priorities without distraction, without complication.

It had never been this. I had never been this.

Ruined. Boneless. Slick-drenched and debauched, sprawled out on a library desk like some kind of goddamn sacrifice.

Because of Max.

Max, who had exactly three brain cells, and all of them were dedicated to either football, eating obscene amounts of protein, or making my life miserable.

Max, who was driving into me too perfectly, dragging me down onto him like he was determined to keep me there forever. His hands were tight on my hips, his breath hot against my throat, his voice dirty and teasing in my ear. 

"Gonna come just like this, fucked open on my cock in the middle of the goddamn library?"

I wanted to tell him no, I’m not that easy, you don’t get to make me fall apart just because you feel like it, just because you’re so goddamn smug and cocky and disgusting. I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t fair, that I didn’t like any of this, that his voice—his stupid, filthy, devastating voice—wasn’t affecting me the way he wanted it to.

Unfortunately, it was impossible—and far too late—to act like I wasn’t into what he was doing to me. Max’s stupid voice, his stupid filthy words, coaxed me right over the edge. 

“Come for me, baby.”

One second, I was barely holding myself together, disbelieving, still clawing at some final, fragile thread of restraint, still pretending I had some semblance of control over what was happening. The next—I was breaking, shattered by an orgasm that felt like a total collapse.

The pleasure hit too fast, devastating and all-consuming, curling deep in my gut and snapping through me all at once. I locked up on a gasping sob, my body clamping down around him, squeezing and pulsing, milking the thickness of him.

Max groaned and cursed, gripping me even tighter as my cock spurted, untouched, betweenn us. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think.

It was too much, too overwhelming, so sharp it bordered on pain. My nails dug into his shoulders, my legs shaking violently around his waist, my thighs locked tight against his hips as if I could anchor myself to him and survive this.

Max dragged it out, grinding inside me, making me feel every last shockwave of my own destruction. I shuddered and whined, barely coherent, barely conscious of anything except the unbearable, perfect fullness of him, the heat of him, the weight of him holding me down as I came apart.

As if the universe itself had decided to mock me, the library lights flicked off at the exact moment of my complete and utter downfall. Which meant it was past nine o’clock. Which meant I had spent an entire hour being dismantled, degraded, and defiled in a place where I had once led academic seminars. An entire hour.                                   

I drew a ragged breath into my lungs and covered my face with shaking hands, preparing to put the hammering of my heart aside, to fling myself off him and collect my belongings. 

Once I was sure my legs would support me, I told myself, I would get dressed in complete silence. I would ignore his stupid smug grin. I would march out of the library and re-evaluate my life choices amidst all my shame on the walk to my dorm. I would make a soothing chamomile tea and sip it to calm my nerves while I requested a transfer to another university.

Or perhaps a monastery. Where I could live out the rest of my days with my regret in silence. 

But before I could even exhale, Max stood up, still embedded inside me. He hauled me up with him, lifting me onto the table. I yelped in surprise and made a concerted effort to push him away, to break free, except I was still boneless, still quaking with tiny fissons of sensation, still off-balance. He pushed me down with embarrassing ease, flattening me onto my back.

I tried to glare at him through the dark, to summon my voice in a scathing dismissal, but he stole any words I could’ve spoken with a full-bodied thrust so overwhelming that I was left stunned, my mouth dropping open on a silent scream. 

"Nuh-uh, sunshine," he murmured, all smug satisfaction. "It’s lights out. No one’s here anymore, so you can scream as loud as you want this time."

He was insane. A second time? No. Absolutely not. I grabbed ahold of his arms and opened my mouth to tell him to get off me this instant, except he pinned me with a hand on my stomach and rolled his hips, slamming up against that spot inside me that made my whole body lock up.

An involuntary wail tore from my throat, my nails digging into his ridiculously sculpted forearms, head falling back against the table. And Max just laughed. Like he was thriving off my complete destruction. Damn him, damn him, damn him. I hated him. I hated him. I was going to kill him.

He drove into me again, harder, and I choked on a gasp, on another sound that would have been a scream if I’d had the ability to make one. He was hitting so deeply that it was like he was trying to screw me straight through the desk.

I had just sufffered the most intense orgasm of my entire life. This should’ve been too much. And it was, but it was also, beyond all belief, good. Insanely good.

My body did not get the memo that I was not supposed to be enjoying this. Instead, the same disgustingly wanton part of my brain that had gotten me into this mess in the first place was taking back over, telling me what was one more time? Tomorrow would come and I would tell him that it all had been a mistake. A terrible lapse in judgement that would never happen again. 

I thrashed my head from side to side, trying to fight it, trying to hold on to something, anything. Like an utter traitor, body clenched down around him instead and ultimately, the wanton in me won.

I allowed myself to fall back into that place where control was nonexistent, where I was reduced to crying and sobbing. Mindlessly writhing under him like I couldn’t take it, like I was drowning in it, even as I locked my legs around his waist and pulled him closer. Trying desperately to move my hips in time with his. Wanting more.

And Max, who had all the perception of a wet sock, somehow recognized it for what it was. That he had won.

"You love it, don’t you, baby?" His voice was panting and yet somehow guttural. "Fucking love being split open on my cock, taking everything I give you."

“Shut up, you absolute beast, shut up—” I snarled breathlessly, furious, tightening my hold on his arms. I could feel the corded muscles beneath my fingers, the sheer size of him, the power in his movements. He was holding me down with one hand, dragging me into every thrust like he knew I could take it, like he knew I needed it.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I shouldn’t have been able to take him. It didn’t make sense. Max was huge. Too thick, too long, too much in every possible way. By all logic, I should have been struggling, gasping, falling apart from the sheer size of him inside me.

Physics dictated that this should not have been possible. And yet, here I was. Taking him perfectly. Stretched. Impaled. Reduced to nothing but a helpless vessel for Max Vaughn’s goddamn monster cock.

Like my body had been tailored for this. I was so slick, so obscenely open, so humiliatingly soaked that there was no resistance. Just heat, just pressure, just the unbearable stretch of him filling me up in deep, unrelenting thrusts that sent more slick dripping down my thighs.

And the sounds—God, the sounds. Utterly filthy. The rhythmic slap of his balls against me, the wet drag of his cock stretching me impossibly wide, the utterly messy, embarrassing noise of how easily he was sliding in and out of me.

My cock ached and strained against my stomach, oozing slick and precome, throbbing with the need for another release. I hadn’t even come down from the last one, hadn’t even processed it, and already my body was already begging for another, already chasing the next, desperate wave of pleasure.

I dug my heels into his back, refusing to let him pull away, refusing to let him dictate the pace like he had full control here. If he wanted to fuck me senseless, then he was going to have to take it just as much as he was giving it. His reaction when I’d dropped onto his lap and taken his every inch had been pricless, as if he’d thought I’d lost my agency over his stupid alphaness.

I hadn’t. And if we were doing this, I’d make sure he never forgot that.

So I yanked him down by his biceps, pulling him flush against me until there wasn’t a single inch of space left between us. His scent wrapped around me like an intoxicating cloud and I breathed it in, allowing it to swallow me whole, to drug me into something feral. 

I wrapped my arms around his neck, dragging my fingers into his hair, gripping the thick strands and yanking—hard. And before he could even process it, before he could smirk at me, before he could run his stupid mouth about how desperate I was, I smashed our mouths together in a messy, frantic, clashing of teeth and tongue.

He wasn’t prepared. I felt it, in the stutter of his hips, the brief moment where he faltered. His whole body scrambled to adjust, where I had managed—if only for a split second—to catch him off guard.

But then he recovered and I felt that too. The way his lips curled into a grin against mine, the way he growled deep and low in his chest like something primal had just been unleashed inside of him. The way his fingers dug into my hips with bruising force as he snapped his hips forward, spearing into me with newfound vigor.

Suddenly we were both fighting for dominace all over again, with him desperate to wreck me and me determined to make him earn it.

He slammed into me, hitting my most sensitive spot with precision, over and over, relentlessly, dragging sounds out of me that I had never made before. Shaky, gasping moans. Breathless, wrecked little whimpers. I pulled his hair harder in retaliation, sinking my teeth into his lower lip and swallowing his groan. 

He tore his mouth from mine and buried his face against my throat, whining and shaking. “Fuck, Kerrigan, baby—I’m not gonna last—” 

“You’d better,” I snapped at him, the only warning I gave before I rolled my hips up, clamped my walls down on him, and raked my nails down his back.

That was all it took. He managed to slam into me one last time before he fell apart, buried deep. I could feel it—every muscle contracting, hips freezing, his cock jerking inside me as he started to blast a ridiculous amount of come into my guts. His mouth went slack, the points of his teeth bared against my throat as he muffled a groan in my skin.

God, he was filling me so full. I shouldn’t have found that hot. Shouldn’t have liked the idea of his seed churning inside my deepest parts. But I did and somehow, realizing it sent me over the edge after him, a devastating, full-body convulsion ripping through me like a lightning strike.

Sensation detonated along my every nerve ending, exploding outward in an humiliating flood of come that soaked both of us. Making an absolute mess of everything as my cock twitched, pulsed, and then gushed thick ropes of come, completely untouched.

My hips shot off the desk, melding to his. I wrapped my arms around Max’s neck and clenched so hard on his spurting cock that he growled and ground in all over again, deep, like he could force my orgasm to last longer, like he wanted to own every last drop of it.

For a moment, neither of us moved. We couldn’t. My bones had liquified and Max’s had too, if the way his arms shook violently were any indication. Yet he still held himself up, careful not to collapse on top of me. As if he was afraid of crushing me. Which was entirely likely, given how stupidly huge he was.

Seconds passed with neither of us saying or doing anything, both trying to catch our breath.

Then Max lifted his head and pressed his mouth to mine, in a kiss that wasn’t anything like the borderline-violent clashes of teeth and tongue we’d previously shared. Instead, his lips parted mine gently, softly, his tongue flicking against mine with care.

It was disgustingly sweet and I revolted, shoving at his chest, trying to squirm out from under him. I wasn’t sure if my legs worked yet, but I was determined to take the chance. I’d crawl all the way to my dorm if I had to.

Except Max dropped his elbows and caged me in.

Kissed me deeper.

And, because no one had ever kissed me like this before and this would be the last time, I found myself letting him. Tilting my chin up and opening wider for him, sighing out a whimper and dragging my tongue against his. Kissing him back with all the laziness of being spent, of being satisfied, and savoring it.

Which turned out to be a mistake. Because somehow I didn’t stop and Max started to move again.

I yanked my lips away and shoved at him, hissing. “What the hell—”

“Baby.” He had the audacity to shut me up with another kiss, a small one that was nonetheless devastating in its simplicity. Its sweetness. “Sunshine. Sshhh. Let me make you feel good.”

I opened my mouth to tell him that there was no way in hell we were doing any of this again, now or ever, except every protest I could’ve flung at him shriveled when he rose up and effortlessly flipped me onto my stomach. Still inside me, fully rotated me.

My brain completely bluescreened in shock and disbelief, struggling to calculate the scientific probability of a third round. No results were finalized because Max was settling over me like a warm blanket, kissing the side of my throat, licking over my sweat-damp skin, dragging his hands down my sides. 

"Stay right there for me, sunshine," he murmured, running his hands lower to my thighs. Spreading me wider. 

Excuse me? I wanted to fight him. I would have, too, if it weren’t for the way he was still inside me and my feet were dangling off the ground and I had no standing whatsoever. Instead it was all I could do to whimper, every single neuron firing traitorously with anticipation as he slid his fingers down the crack of my ass, scooping up the come dripping out of me and feeding it into my hole.

Not the one he’d just spent an hour wrecking, but the other one. The one that was not designed for such things.

And yet it quivered. Opened when he pressed on it. Unfurled like a hungry little mouth to accept the come he was offering. So filthy, so disgusting, that I could’ve combusted there on the spot.

Instead, he pressed two fingers inside, stretching me open, and I let out a cry, shuddering around his cock, clutching uselessly at the table for purchase. 

"Max—" I gasped, voice embarrassingly weak. This was too much. Another something I’d never done before, had never wanted, had never dared.

I was so much tighter there, so much more resistant. That part of me did not simply open the way my other hole had. There was no slick to help him, just pressure and muscle. Foreign, intrusive, completely uncharted territory.

And yet—I could feel myself relaxing, responding even, as he pumped his fingers in and out, opening me up. He groaned against my skin and I echoed it with a whine, tears stabbing at my eyes from the overstimulation. 

Max just pushed in slow, carefully, pressing through that resistance inch by inch, feeding my own come into me as lube—which was disgusting and filthy and so unfairly hot that I whimpered.

I hated him.

He was so patient with this, so deliberate—as if he knew I wasn’t used to it. As if he knew I had never done this before. His fingers curled inside me, pressing, stretching, feeling every flutter and clench like he was memorizing my reactions.

And my reactions were betraying me.

My other hole was still full of him, still quivering around his cock, but my asshole was clutching his fingers so tightly that I could feel the hesitation in his movements. Feel the way he was fighting the urge to just shove in and ruin me completely.

His scent was overpowering now. It smelled so good. Good enough that if someone had asked me my own name, I wouldn’t have been able to say. Everything Max was doing to me felt inexplicably right, impossibly perfect, and somehow the contrast between my two entrances was only making it hotter—one already wrecked and stretched, used and open, the other newly claimed, so tight and untouched that every movement of his fingers sent little sharp shocks of sensation through me, making my stomach flip.

It was so much. Too much. And also not enough.

Because Max knew exactly how to make it worse.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured, groaning as he flexed his fingers inside me, feeling how tight I was, feeling how my walls clenched down, struggling to accommodate even just his fingers.

“You’re so fucking greedy,” he rasped, pressing a wet, filthy kiss to my nape. “Can’t get enough, huh? Letting me stretch you open, letting me take both—fuck, sunshine, I don’t think I’ll ever be done with you.”

My entire body spasmed as in the most humiliating act of treason ever committed, my slick hole clenched down on his cock at the exact same time my ass sucked in his fingers.

And Max fucking felt it. The groan that rumbled from his chest was so deep and pleased that I was going to kill myself tomorrow.

I lifted my hips, parting my legs wider for him, little by little giving in. Not letting myself think about tomorrow. About rationality or logical explanations. 

"Jesus fucking Christ," Max panted, his voice shaking with sheer disbelief as he twisted his fingers inside me, still slow, still careful. “Baby, you’re clenching on me so fucking tight—”

As if only because he’d mentioned it, I clamped down harder, both holes spasming as they held onto him. He twisted his fingers again, timing them with a thrust of his cock, and I sobbed into my own arm, devastated. I had never felt anything like this before, had assumed I never would because it required total submission and trust in a bed partner. 

"Shit, sunshine," he groaned, pressing deeper, like he was mapping me out, learning me, figuring out just how much he could give me. "You're sucking my fingers in like you were made for this."

I wanted to tell him to shut up. I wanted to deny it, to hiss at him, to fight, to say anything other than the truth.

Which was… that it wasn’t bad. That I was dripping even more because of what he was doing to me. 

I could feel it, undeniable and disgusting. The mess between my thighs, the embarrassing slick glistening on my skin, the absolute degradation of knowing that I was still so wet for him even after he’d already fucked me twice.

And then Max pulled his cock out of me, slick with his come, slick with mine, slick with my own fucking betrayal and dragged them up, from my ruined hole to my not-ruined one. Spreading the mess between them. His cock was still impossibly hard, still soaked in everything we had already done, everything we had already ruined.

He pressed against my asshole. The part of me that had never taken anything before. I tensed immediately, my breath hitching, fingers clutching at the table.

“Max,” I gasped, finally finding my voice, finally attempting to protest. Because I had to. Otherwise, he was going to take everything I had and leave nothing behind.

He bent over me, licking a hot stripe up the side of my neck and mouthing at the shell of my ear. I expected him to say something filthy, something disgusting, but the words he actually spoke took me by surprise. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered. “I swear to God, baby, tell me you don’t want this and I’ll stop. Only want it if you want it.”

It was the exact thing I thought I’d wanted. An out. And yet when he offered it in that voice, so sweet and earnest, it was like a switch became flipped and I decided that I didn’t want him to stop at all. I decided that if he stopped right now, I’d die.

Whatever we’d started with this, we had to finish. With his scent deep in my lungs, my body was demanding it as strongly as if I hadn’t spent the last hour with him inside me. I was already ruined anyway, thanks to my own self. Might as well pile it on.

Also—if I stopped him now, I’d never know what it felt like. And I wanted to know. For science. Just this once.

So I choked out a whimper, pushing back on where he’d lined himself up, and let that be my answer. Another shudder wracked my body when he breathed out shakily into my ear, recognizing the acceptance. 

I expected him to continue. To shove it inside. But he didn’t. He surprised me again by staying still, just pressed against me, running his big, warm hands down my back and stroking my sides. Relaxing me. And I let him, melting into the way he felt on top of me, the way he gripped me.

"You’ve never done this before, have you?" he asked in a low murmur. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. But my silence must’ve been answer enough, because I heard him swear under his breath.

“Holy fuck, baby,” he rasped, pressing a kiss to my shoulder, rolling his hips just slightly, just enough to nudge against that impossibly tight ring of muscle. "You're gonna let me be the first?"

God, I didn’t know what was more humiliating. The fact that he was acting like this was some sort of honor, like I was giving him a goddamn gift. Or the fact that I actually was.

“Stop talking and do it,” I finally hissed at him, twisting and snapping my teeth in front of his face. “I swear to God, if you wait any longer—”

He cut off whatever else I was going to say, grabbing ahold of my hips and pushing forward. Words turned to gasps as I felt the beginnings of the slow, aching stretch. The burn. A sensation so alien that I wasn’t sure if my body would allow it, wasn’t sure if it was possible.

But Max was patient. Careful. And my body relented, allowing him to push his head inside me, breaching me. I stiffened and cried out, loud and involuntary, my toes curling. Max let out a guttural moan, his grip on my hips turning bruising.

"Fuck, baby—" he gritted out, panting. "You're—holy fuck, you're so fucking tight—"

I clawed at the desk, shivering and desperately trying to adjust. Mistake, my body screaamed suddenly. It was too much. He was too huge. Bigger than anyone had any right to be, stretching me wide inch by inch and burning me open, pushing deeper, deeper, deeper, slow and deliberate.

"Fuck, baby," Max groaned above me, his voice nothing but gravel, shaking with restraint. "You're taking me so fucking good."

I let out a breathless, whining noise, pressing my forehead against the desk, my fingers curling into fists. Wondering why I had done this to myself. Wondering why I couldn’t seem to stop. There had to be a reason—

"Shh, sunshine," Max murmured, the rough pitch of his voice turning my brain back off. I focused on it, dragging air into my lungs, hiccuping on a sob. He rubbed slow, soothing circles into my lower back, like that was going to help. Like that was going to make me forget that his stupid, massive dick was currently violating me in ways I had never even considered before tonight. 

Idiot. He was such an idiot. I was such an idiot. This was madness. Why couldn’t I stop it? What was wrong with me?

I sucked in another ragged breath, my whole body fighting to adjust, to open. Another breath, another inch, and I felt the exact moment that my muscles finally relaxed enough to take him deeper—and he did too, taking the opportunity to roll his hips, slowly, experimentally. 

"Fuck, Kerrigan—"

I felt him widen his stance and then he did it again, the same slow, measured thrust. Dragging his cock out, just enough to make me feel the loss. I was shocked that I did, that my body protested the empty space, craving the impossible stretch back. Wanting it, despite everything we’d already done, despite how unfamiliar it was.

Then he gave it to me again, his cock nuzzling deeper than before, and my mouth fell open on a helpless moan. God, it was so different from before. Not slick, not mindless, not easy. And somehow, impossibly, the pain was a little less, the stretch more bearable.

Unfathomable. Mind-breaking. A level of pleasure I had no reference point for.

Max let out a throaty groan, shifting his grip on my hips, dragging his thumbs over my skin. "Baby, you're gripping me so fucking tight—"

He snapped his hips forward with less restraint and more force, wrenching a scream from me, my back arching as the sensation ripped through me. Max growled in response, grinding deep, his cock throbbing against every nerve inside me. It was good, it was good, it was so good, and suddenly I was shuddering all over and gasping, trying to compute the change, trying to gain more of him.

"Fuck, Ainsley.” I heard his voice shake, felt the way his hands flexed on my waist and pulled me back into him. As if he could tell the exact moment I stopped fighting it and started to enjoy it. "You're so fucking tight—so goddamn perfect—made for this, baby, made to take me—"

I wanted to tell him to shut up. I wanted to tell him to stop talking, to stop making this even filthier than it already was. I wanted to pretend like I wasn’t enjoying it, except I was and it was no wonder that it was obvious to him, with the way I couldn’t stop arching into him.

Couldn’t stop clenching down on him, dragging him deeper, chasing it. Couldn’t stop begging.

"Max—please—" I didn’t even know what I was asking for anymore. Just that I needed it. Needed more. Needed deeper. Needed him.

"Please what, baby?" Max's voice was pure sin and I knew a split second of hatred for it, wondering how he was even built like this. How could someone so ridiculous, so brain-dead, so unfathomably idiotic be so—so good at dominating my body?

There was no thinking about it, not with my every synapse firing on need and hunger. There was only gasping, pressing back against him in a desperate bid for more of something I hadn’t even known I’d wanted until five minutes ago.

"More,” I choked out. “Max—more—God, please—"

He huffed out a breathless laugh, leaning down to grin against my throat. "Look at you, sunshine. So needy. So desperate."

I groaned, humiliated and turned on in equal measure, my fingers curling into the desk, writhing beneath him. "I hate you."

Max found my hammering pulse and bit down on it, making an appreciative noise before licking over the mark. Such a beast. An animal. "Nah, baby. You love this."

I was going to kill him. "I do not—"

He thrust forwards on a sharp motion, banishing all thoughts of homicide from my brain. I threw back my head, wailing. The sound echoed off the bookshelves, the high ceilings.

"Liar," he countered, pulling back slowly. So slowly I could feel every single inch of him sliding against that devastating spot inside me. My own prostate. I cursed it for making me go insane, making me lose my mind. I needed more. But for some reason, he evaded me as I pushed back. 

Frustrated, I whined. "Max, please—"

"Please what, baby?" he murmured. I didn’t have to be able to look at him to know he was wearing an insufferably smug smirk, the sort I wanted to gouge right off his face. Almost as if he wanted me to keep begging. As if he were thriving on humiliating me, as if he didn’t think I held the power to fight back.

I couldn’t take it anymore. He was teasing me. And I was going to die if he didn’t stop. I needed him to snap and make me stop thinking. I only wanted to feel. I was so overstimulated, so full. He wanted me to beg? Fine. But I was going to do it my way. 

“If you don’t fuck me like you mean it, Vaughn—” I gritted out. “I swear to God, I’ll walk out of here and find an alpha who will.”

That did it. The change was instant—Max growled and pulled back, then slammed inside me. Not an inching thrust, not a slow push. A brutal annihilation that made me choke on my own breath. And he did it again. And again, until he’d built a rhythm that was merciless and rough, the sort that banned me from forming coherent thoughts or words. All I could do was feel—exactly what I’d demanded. 

The world blurred. Words lost meaning. Time stopped existing.

I didn’t know where I ended and Max began. Didn’t know how my body could keep taking this, keep responding like this, keep pulling Max in deeper and deeper when every single muscle was already trembling with exhaustion. I had no control left—no fight, no resistance, no thoughts, only the unbearable, mind-breaking sensation of Max inside me, fucking me like he was built for it.

It felt like I was burning up from the inside out. The heat in my stomach had turned molten, spiraling too fast, too deep, too devastating, until my entire body was one long, unbearable ache for more. Like I had never been meant for anything else.

Rather than simply take it, I made sure to give it back. Meeting every thrust, tilting my hips just right, pressing back against him, chasing the depth and the friction, the unbearable stretch. It felt so fucking good.

And the way Max was affected made it even better. The knowledge that I was undoing him just like he’d undone me—his fingers clenching hard on my waist, his thrusts turning sharper, deeper, desperate.

"Fuck, baby,” he snarled out between thrusts, panting. “You feel that? You feel how deep I am?"

I jerked violently, my entire body seizing up as Max’s teeth sank into my nape, locking me in place like a primal claim. The sharp pressure of his bite sent a shockwave straight through me, my nerves short-circuiting under the unbearable mix of pain and pleasure.

Everything inside me went taut—my muscles locking up, my body trembling, frozen, completely at the mercy of his teeth, his hands, his cock buried inside me. It was the most animal thing I had ever felt, the most primal thing I had ever surrendered to. I was pinned—fucked open and completely taken, no escape, no logic, nothing but sensation.

My hole clenched down so tight that Max groaned into my skin, his hips jerking uncontrollably, like he could feel me breaking beneath him. The moment his bite tightened just a little more—just enough to let me feel the points of his teeth holding me exactly where he wanted me—I shattered.

It took me apart.

The orgasm ignited like a supernova, wrenching me open with the force of it. My cock burst thick, hot ropes of come, soaking the desk, my stomach. I couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop milking his cock, every tremor of pleasure making me clamp down harder, my body desperately holding onto the thing that had just wrecked me beyond repair.

I screamed, my fingers clawing at the desk, my back arching into him, my mouth falling open on a ragged, broken sob as wave after wave after wave of unbearable pleasure wracked through me.

Max snarled into my skin, grinding deeper, holding me down with his teeth, his hands, his cock buried to the hilt as he fucked me through it, as if he had every right to own my pleasure, to keep me here—overwhelmed, overstimulated, ruined.

I wasn’t ready for the next part. Didn’t anticipate it—couldn’t have. Because Max didn’t let go. He didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.

He just kept fucking me, harder now, faster now, his bite still locked onto my nape, like he wasn’t satisfied until he wrung every last drop of pleasure out of me, until he forced me past my limits, until I had nothing left to give.

I whimpered, my body quivering, my cock twitching, still spasming uselessly against my stomach. “Max—” I pleaded. “You fucking idiot, please—”

Then he came, and I felt everything.

The first pulse of it was startling, a subtle warmth that sent a jolt through my already shattered nerves. And then—then—it was a deluge, a molten flood of heat filling me, bursting forth in thick, unstoppable waves, coating my most intimate, untouched depths with the undeniable evidence of my own destruction.

Max groaned past his mouthful of my skin, his entire body tensing and shuddering, muscles locking down as his hips jerked and slammed, grinding deeper, like he could somehow force himself even further inside me, like he could make sure that I took every last drop of his release.

And I did.

God, I was wrecked with it, reduced to nothing but a vessel for his pleasure, my body clamping down instinctively, milking every thick, pulsing spurt, my walls trembling around him, pulling him deeper even though I knew—God, I knew—that I should be recoiling, shoving him away, regaining my dignity.

But I wasn’t. Instead, I was locked in place, body betraying me completely, slick and flushed and open, my own overspent cock twitching helplessly, leaking against my stomach, proof of my own undoing, my own absolute surrender to this obscene act.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think beyond the slow, shameful awareness that I had just been claimed in the most animal way imaginable.

And then, as if to drive the point home, as if I hadn’t already been pushed past the brink of comprehension, I felt the slow leak of him, hot and thick, spilling back out of me, slipping from where he was still buried to the hilt, a filthy trickle that made me whimper.

Max must have felt it too, because he growled, wrapping his arms tighter around me, pressing even closer, his breath hot and damp against my throat as he shifted, ground in deeper, pushing his spend back inside with a lazy, satisfied roll of his hips.

My breath hitched, my body flinching, but it wasn’t in protest. Forget dignity, forget rationale, because there was none. Not anymore. There was just me pinned beneath him, still clenching around him, still aching in ways I had never known were possible.

Max exhaled roughly, spent but still massive, still caging me in with the heavy weight of his body. And I let him. Evidently, we were finally done this time.

Fantastic, because I might as well have been a doll, inert and limp. I had nothing else to give. Nothing but a chest that was rising and falling, an erratic pulse and vision that was blurring at the edges, as if I were hovering at the brink of consciousness, teetering on the precipice of some great, irreversible truth.

Which was: No chamomile tea in the world could fix this.

Chapter Text

Incredibly, Ainsley had fallen asleep. 

He was slumped against me like his spine had stopped existing. His hair was a mess, curls damp with sweat, falling into his face in tangled waves. I brushed some of it back with my fingers, just so I could see him properly. Yup, he was completely passed out.

I couldn’t believe it almost, then I thought about it and realized that I was exhausted too. Like, could’ve-fallen-asleep-on-the-floor-type drained. Except I didn’t. I just stared at Ainsley, taking in the way he was totally boneless and slick-dripping from the absolute best sex of his entire goddamn life.

I knew it was the best sex of his life because I’d been there. I’d seen it. Caused it. Felt the way he clenched around me, heard the way he screamed, witnessed firsthand the way he fucking broke apart on my cock. I’d wanted him wrecked, wanted him ruined, wanted him knowing—really knowing—what it was like when he stopped trying to control everything. Had needed him without thoughts. 

And goddamn, Ainsley without thoughts had been… something else. Something I never would have imagined. I’d assumed I had him figured out—grumpy, stuck-up, mean little thing who thought he was too good for me. But now I knew he had layers. I’d seen the version of him he probably never showed anyone else. The one that was sharp and wicked and untouchable but also so fucking vulnerable at the same time.

And now that I’d seen it? Now that I knew? I was never letting him hide from me again. He was in my arms, exactly where he belonged. Destroyed. Decimated. Laid to waste.

Jesus. I eased back from him, gently holding him by the shoulders as I seized on the rare opportunity to study him. I wanted to look at him. As I pulled him back, his head lolled, like I’d shot him full of tranquilizers instead of my come. 

With the lights off, the library was dark, but after fucking him with nothing but moonlight spilling in from the window, my eyes had adjusted and I could make out how completely covered he was. In my marks. I couldn’t help but smirk, a sort of smirk that I was glad Ainsley wasn’t awake to see because it was definitely smug and satisfied as hell. 

His neck was fucking wrecked. There was barely an inch of untouched skin—just layers of deep red and purple, overlapping marks where my mouth had gotten greedy. His throat, his collarbone, the delicate skin just under his jaw—mine, mine, mine.

And the back of his neck—fuck. The bite. I’d been so caught up in the moment that I barely remembered doing it. Some wild, primal part of me had taken over towards the end and I hadn’t been able to stop myself. I could see the shape of my teeth still indented into his pale skin, fresh and brutal.

Also, ridiculously satisfying. I brushed my thumb over it, lightly, swearing under my breath as I recalled how his body had gone totally slack, like something in him had loved it and just… gave in.

His hips were bruised from my hand, perfect finger-shaped imprints where I’d held him so tight, pressed my thumbs into his hip bones, dug my fingers into his waist. Some of them overlapped, creating a darker pattern that set off another chorus of primal satisfaction in my body.

I ran my gaze lower, noticing that even his thighs were marked up. Christ, I didn’t even remember half of those bites, but sure enough, they were there—messy, uneven, too many. Some dark and deep, others just faint outlines of my teeth. I must’ve bitten down every time he’d made a noise I liked.

He shivered slightly, still sensitive. I breathed out slow, running my hand down his spine, feeling the marks, the heat of him. His skin was warm, flushed, completely pliant under my touch.

I did that.

My smug grin widened across my face as I tightened my hold on him, carefully, letting out another slow, satisfied breath. My omega. That’s what he was now, right? Mine. Not officially, not in a way that would probably hold up in an instinct mediation hearing or whatever the hell Ainsley would inevitably try to argue—but in every way that mattered. He was mine to protect, mine to take care of, mine to keep safe and well-fed and satisfied. And that was exactly what I was going to do.

And I wasn’t taking him back to his dorm. I’d already decided.

His tiny-ass bed and rickety little mattress that was one size above a goddamn coffin was not the vibe tonight. No fucking way. My omega deserved better. My omega deserved to sleep in my bed, in my space, wrapped in my scent, where I knew he’d be comfortable. Where I could take care of him.

It was the weirdest thought ever—I’d never wanted to take care of anyone in my life, besides Zach or the boys when they were drunk—and yet it was true. Nothing had ever been so true, I was sure of it. I wanted to take care of Ainsley. Not just for now, not just for tonight, but forever. 

And I would. Starting right now.

Carefully, I shifted out from under him, making sure his limp, wrecked little body didn’t move too much. He let out a tiny whimper when I pulled away, his eyebrows furrowing, and my stupid heart fucking melted.

God, he was so cute. The cutest. I kissed his damp forehead and forced myself to focus. I wanted to carry him out of the library like spoils of war, but I couldn’t just scoop him up and leave everything behind, no matter how much I wanted to. We needed our clothes. His stuff. My stuff. 

Everything that had been on the desk before we’d gotten into it had been relocated to the floor. I didn’t remember, had been too focused on him, but I was relieved to find that his glasses and laptop were mostly intact. There was a little bend in his frames that I’d fix later for him.

His once-neatly organized notes? Yeah, those were a lost cause. Covered in come and slick. Oops. I’d rewrite them for him, I decided… If he ended up being mad about them. I found his satchel next, stuffing everything that had survived into it making sure it was all secure before turning my attention to our clothes.

His shirt and cardigan were okay. Not ruined, but definitely in need of a wash. So did my sweatpants and hoodie. His pants, though… I held them up for a second, grimacing at the mess. They were now zipperless and buttonless and soaked from crotch to ass. I mulled for a moment, then said fuck it and made an executive decision, setting them aside to toss them in the garbage along with his notes and poor belt. Not worth salvaging.

I grabbed the body wipes I kept in my bag, the little unscented lifesavers that came in clutch for the times when practices ran too long and I had to skip showers. Turning back to where Ainsley was still sprawled in the seat, I knelt in front of him and started wiping him down, dragging the cloth gently down the inside of his thigh.  

I was careful about it. Slow. More than I should have had to be because his skin was too delicate, his frame too sharp. His ribs weren’t sticking out or anything, but I could feel them, could count them with my palm when I ran my hand down his side.

He was too small. I’d been noticing it for a while now, but now that I had him like this—sleepy and pliant and still-shaky, it hit different. He really was too fucking thin. I didn’t think he was starving himself, knew he was too smart for that, and I liked how tiny he was, but the way my fingers could wrap around his wrists so easily made my chest pang with something I didn’t know how to name. Frustration? Worry? Possessiveness? 

I gritted my teeth, swiping carefully at his stomach. He whined at the sensation, twitching, and I eased up immediately, shushing him gently.

“You’re too thin, nerd,” I muttered, frowning as I brushed another clean wipe over his spent, oversensitive cock, watching his stomach jerk like he couldn’t take it. He barely even had a stomach.

He made an incoherent noise, somewhere between offended and too exhausted to argue and tried to push at me. It was weak, though, and I just grabbed his thigh, holding him in place. I could already hear what he’d say if he was coherent—some snide remark about how I didn’t know anything, how he was perfectly fine, how I should mind my own business.

Except he was my business now. Officially.

I cleaned him up just enough so that he wasn’t completely filthy—leaving him still dripping just a little, because I fucked liked that—before dropping the used wipes into the little trash pile I’d made. I left him to toss it all in the actual trash can nearby and when I came back seconds later, his thighs were still twitching slightly, his fingers curling weakly against the desk like he was still trying to gather himself.

“Nu-uh. You’re done, babe,” I scolded him, shrugging back into my hoodie and pulling on my sweatpants in record time. I hadn’t even bothered wiping myself down, but that was okay. I didn’t mind smelling like him. Like us. “Not lifting a damn finger.”

As if he’d heard me, he let me handle him. Let me wrap an arm around him to steady him. Didn’t push at me anymore. In fact, he tried to burrow against me like a little mouse, which pleased the fuck out of me. I grinned like an idiot, tugged my spare hoodie out of my bag with my free hand, and started pulling it over his head, maneuvering his arms through the sleeves.

The second his curly little head popped out of it and the fabric swallowed the rest of him up, something primal settled in my chest. He was practically swimming in it, the sleeves drowning his hands, hem falling past his ass and fuck, I didn’t know why that made me feel so possessive, but it did. Maybe because he was mine. Finally.  

My heart goddamn grew four sizes. I pulled him back against my chest, my arms locking around him as I buried my face into his messed-up curls. He made a soft, breathy sound—half-protest, half something else entirely. He even smelled like me now. Like sweat, sex, and my fucking hoodie.

My lips brushed against the top of his head as I squeezed him closer, just holding him, pressing him into my body. I exhaled slowly, biting back the urge to growl. I slung my bag over one shoulder and his satchel over the other, then scooped him into my arms and promptly carried him out of the library, hauling his limp, boneless, ruined little body like a goddamn trophy.

The moment I stepped outside, the night air hit me—cool, crisp, the kind of quiet that only happened when most of the student body had gone to sleep or holed up in their dorms. The library doors clicked shut behind me, and for a second, the world felt completely still.

No people. No noise. Just the low hum of the streetlights buzzing above and the crunch of my sneakers against the pavement as I carried Ainsley in my arms. I checked my phone and saw that it was almost eleven o’clock, which meant we’d been at it for three whole hours. I had no regrets. A+ performance on my part. 10/10 would do again. 

I was carrying the most important person in the world, so I kept my steps slow, deliberate, careful not to jostle him too badly. The parking lot wasn’t far, but the walk felt longer in the silence, the streetlights casting long shadows that stretched out ahead of me.

Ainsley barely stirred in my arms, his face half-buried against my neck, but I could feel the slow, occasional squeeze of his fingers against my chest—like he was grounding himself, like he was aware, even in his exhaustion, that I was still holding him.

My chest fucking clenched, but not in a way that hurt, not like it had been. This was the kind of tightness that came from holding something precious. 

I made it to the parking lot and spotted my truck under the dim lights. My footsteps echoed as I stepped off the pavement and onto the asphalt. The lot was empty, the lines of parked cars few and far between, and I was grateful. There were no witnesses. No one to see me tucking Ainsley into my passenger seat like a murder victim.

I opened the door and set him down carefully, his head lolling against the seat. His lashes fluttered, and for the first time since we left the library, his eyes opened—just a little, hazy and unfocused, the faintest frown creasing his brows.

I ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it back from his face. “We’re going home,” I told him, quiet and firm. His frown deepened slightly, like he wanted to argue, but then he sighed, slow and resigned, and his eyes slipped shut again.

I took that as a win.

Shutting the door gently, I rounded the truck and slid into the driver’s seat, dumping our bags in the back. I started the engine, and as I pulled out of the lot, my eyes flicked to Ainsley again. He had already curled up against the door, my hoodie swallowing him whole, his breathing slow and even.

He didn’t even stir, only making a tiny, sleepy noise as he instinctively nuzzled into my hoodie. My clothes. I could’ve died right then and there.

I reached over, resting my hand on his thigh. Just a touch. Just to ground myself. Also, for his safety. I didn’t care if he woke up and screamed at me—I wasn’t about to risk him slumping over on the ride and somehow hurting himself.

I drove more carefully than I ever had in my entire life, my hand locked on the wheel like I was piloting a goddamn spaceship instead of my truck. My heart thumped louder in my ears every time I glanced over at him, stretched out in the passenger seat, small and perfect and—fuck. Just wrecked.

God, he was so fucking beautiful. Flushed and soft, completely relaxed, his curls a mess, his lips still swollen from all the kissing. From me. I’d never seen him like this before. Loose-limbed, quiet, not scowling or biting out some sharp remark, just… peaceful. Like I’d drained all the tension out of him and left him boneless, trusting, mine.

My chest squeezed again. Hard.

God, I love him.

The thought hit me like a tackle—full force, no padding, straight to the ribs. My breath locked up, my grip tightening on the wheel, like I could hold myself together if I just clenched hard enough. Did I? The thought burned through me and I realized—

Yeah. Yeah, I did. I did fucking love him.

I swallowed, my pulse a wild, uneven thing in my throat. Love wasn’t something I’d ever put much thought into. Sure, I’d said it before—to family, to maybe a hookup once or twice as a joke, to friends when the drinks were flowing and the game was won. But this? This wasn’t friendship, wasn’t family, wasn’t some easy, casual thing I could toss out and move on from. This was different.

This was Ainsley.

And Jesus Christ, I was so fucking gone for him.

I should’ve cleaned.

That was my first thought as I walked into my apartment, Ainsley limp and pliant in my arms, his face buried against my chest. It wasn’t a total disaster, but it sure as hell wasn’t up to his standards. A couple of empty water bottles near the couch, a sweatshirt draped over the back of a chair, pairs of my shoes kicked off near the entryway instead of neatly lined up. The kitchen counter had a few protein bar wrappers on it.

Nothing major. But to Ainsley? This was probably squalor.

I adjusted my grip on him, carrying him over the threshold like some kind of goddamn newlywed. He barely stirred, too exhausted to do anything but press his cheek against my hoodie. His weight was nothing, barely anything at all—too little, and I had to suppress another wave of irritation as I toed the door shut behind me and flicked on a lamp.

Warm, golden light spilled over the space, the open layout and high ceilings and dark wood floors. The couch was big, deep enough to stretch out on, worn in from long nights spent watching film. The coffee table had a couple of textbooks stacked on it (untouched obviously) and a TV remote teetering on the edge.

I carried Ainsley straight to my bedroom. The bed was unmade, the sheets rumpled from this morning, but it was clean. I kept my space simple. Dark comforter, thick and soft, a few pillows that were probably the wrong kind for someone as particular as him. A lamp on the nightstand, my phone charger still plugged in. The scent of my detergent—fresh, sharp, mine.

Gently, I eased him down onto the bed, kneeling to untie his shoes and pull them off. He mumbled something unintelligible, curling into my hoodie, his face pressing into the fabric like he was trying to soak up my scent.

“Sorry, baby,” I murmured, feeling almost bad as carefully stripped it off him, leaving him completely bare and shivering against my sheets. I could’ve put him in something else, but… no. I liked him like this. Soft. Exposed. Comfortable in my bed. Besides, he was going to get hot as fuck when we slept together and it was better if he was like this.

After a brief hesitation, I peeled his patch off and sucked in a breath as his scent rushed out into the room, thick and intoxicating. It hit me different this time—still the best thing in the goddamn world, still that honeyed, impossible sweetness that made my mouth water, but there was something more now. Something deeper. Something warm.

My dick was mostly done for, but it wasn’t just arousal, wasn’t just that sharp, dizzying pull that had nearly taken me out the last time his patch had failed. No, this was something steadier, something softer. Like the scent of a sun-warmed field in the late afternoon, golden and rich, like the way his body melted into mine when he finally let himself trust me to hold him.

He smelled like happy. Contentment.

I let out a slow, shaky breath as the warmth of it settled deep into my bones, into the very core of me. I looked down at him, watched the way his lashes fluttered, the way his lips parted just slightly, like even he could feel it—this thing between us settling into place, into something neither of us could ignore anymore.

Running a hand over his forehead, I brushed a stray curl from his face. “You’ll be warm soon, I promise,” I told him, draping my hoodie over him like a blanket. He pressed one of the sleeves against his nose, mouthing at the fabric in his sleep, and I wanted so badly to climb in with him, tuck his little face against my chest so he could get the fresh scent, but I resisted. Barely.

Because I needed everything to be perfect first for when he woke up.

So I adjusted the thermostat, setting it colder than usual because one, I wanted him to be comfortable with my body heat and two, I wanted him to cling to me if he was cold, wanted him to burrow into me in his sleep. Then I cleaned up, making sure every inch of my apartment was spotless—because if he woke up to a mess, he’d probably start scolding me before even opening his eyes.

I thought about breakfast as I wiped the counters down and took out the trash. Every instinct I had told me I had to start feeding him. He was too thin, too small, too prone to skipping meals. No more of that. I was going to make sure he ate. I’d cook something in the morning—something with protein, something filling, something he couldn’t turn his nose up at. 

That was how I found myself staring into my fridge, frowning at how barren it was. Not completely empty, but definitely not Ainsley-level acceptable. A carton of eggs. Some leftover chicken. A sad-looking bag of spinach I’d been meaning to use. Protein shakes, a pack of string cheese, half a loaf of bread. Bare minimum survival food.

Not exactly the kind of spread that screamed Stay, get comfortable. Let me take care of you.

I clenched my jaw, already making a mental list. I should’ve stocked up. Should’ve planned for this. He needed a real meal, something warm, something that would actually stick. I had the eggs, at least. Hopefully, he liked those. If not, I’d take him somewhere. Or get something and bring it back. Whatever he wanted.

Whatever he’d actually eat.

I spent a moment gripping the fridge door too hard, like I could will food to appear just by being pissed off at myself for not having enough. I’d spent the last few hours wrecking him, wringing him out, and now he needed fuel. And I didn’t have enough fucking food.

I would fix it. I would make sure I always had what he needed.

Exhaling out through my nose, I closed the fridge and turned to survey my handiwork. The apartment was hella clean, probably cleaner than it had been in a while. There was nothing for him to wake up and freak out over—at least, not anything that would be related to my space, besides the fact that I’d brought him back here instead of his dorm. I’d just tell him that I hadn’t had his keys.

And if he got to thinking about what we’d done in the library… I paused, considering. I’d do my best to handle that freakout. It would be contained, at least. He wouldn’t be able to run away from me. We’d have to actually talk about it. If I could do that—and get my hands on him again—I was confident it would be fine.

I paced another circle around my apartment, making sure everything was perfect, rearranging little things here and there until I felt my restlessness ease under the weight of my exhaustion. I decided that I’d done everything I could and now the last thing to do was to hold him. Yeah. Needed that, actually.

I disposed of my scent patch, then went back into the bedroom and stripped down to my briefs, hesitating for a second before deciding against going fully naked. Ainsley was going to lose his mind as it was—no need to push my luck. Then I crawled into bed beside him, gathering him into my arms, marveling at how he fit so perfectly.

His unpatched scent had filled up the room while I’d been cleaning, thick and sweet, lingering in every inch of the space. I’d noticed it the second I walked back in—like the air had changed, like the whole room had been rewritten in him. Like the walls, the bed, the very breath in my lungs had been saturated with that honeyed warmth that was Ainsley.

And now, mine was mingling with it. Tangling together. Twisting and settling into something deeper, something richer.

At first his body stiffened when I settled in beside him, his brows tugging together almost in a frown. I smoothed it with my thumb and he surprised me by letting out a tiny, unconscious sigh, shifting closer into my warmth. His nostrils flared just slightly for a half-second as he inhaled, then he was clinging to me: his face burrowing against my chest, his fingers curling into my side, his breath warm against my skin.

I went completely still, my breath locking in my throat. I could feel the way he melted into me, how the last bit of tension in his body drained away, how he tucked himself even tighter against me, his fingers barely curling against my ribs.

Swearing softly, trying not to lose my goddamn mind, I pulled the sheets up over our bodies and pressed soft kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, his lips—just gentle little things, little reminders that he was mine now.  That I was going to take care of him.

He was definitely going to argue that when he woke up, but fuck it. I felt good about it. I was confident, more than I’d ever been in my entire life. Which—yeah, that said something, because I was already pretty fucking cocksure of most things, but I’d never felt that way about a person.

But for him, I felt it, in the way that, for the first time in days, my body felt normal. No more restlessness, no more weird tension, no more inability to sleep. I felt right. Like my body had just been waiting for this. For him.

I had no idea why. But I didn’t care.

I tightened my arm around his waist, tangling my legs between his and burying my face in the crook of his neck, sucking in his honeyed scent. I was bone-tired, needed to sleep, could’ve slept, but I just wanted a few more moments of this. This quiet, almost unrealness where he wasn’t fighting me and I was able to hold him and kiss his face. It made me think. About a lot of things. Mainly about how I should’ve found someone like him later.

That had been the plan. How I’d thought my life would go, anyway.

I’d thought about love and being in it, sure. But I had always thought real love would be something I’d run into when I was older, not twenty-two and in college. Maybe after football. After I’d lived a little. After I had my shit together and was ready for it.

I’d watched my parents do it right. They were gross about it—the type of couple who were disgustingly in love and made sure everyone else knew it. Always touching, always kissing, always dedicating stuff to each other, always looking at each other like nothing else in the world mattered.

They’d built a life together that was so solid, so permanent, and I’d grown up naturally wanting the same. But I’d just figured it would happen when it was my time.

Later.

Except… Now I was looking at Ainsley. And fuck.

I wanted him to be it.

Not later. Not when I was older, not when I had checked all the boxes and waited for some imaginary perfect moment. Now.

Now, with him in my arms, sleeping off the absolute wrecking I’d given him in the library, his curls a mess, his lips still kiss-swollen and pink. Now, when his fingers were curled loosely against my skin, holding onto me, even in his sleep. Now, when I’d had him, when I knew what it was like to feel him break apart under me, when I’d seen him soft and vulnerable.

I didn’t want to wait to have love anymore. Didn’t want to spend years trying to find someone else who fit. Because he was already here. And I wanted him. Now.

I tightened my grip on him, pulling him in even closer, pressing my face into his hair. He smelled like me. Like us. Like belonging. I loved it. Loved the way his scent had seeped into my space, blending with my own like it belonged here, like he belonged here. Like it had always been meant to be this way.

Maybe it was too soon. Maybe it was too much. He was definitely going to hate it. Protest and maybe even do a march about it, like the dramatic little brat he was. Did he have a passport? I skimmed a hand down his waist, humming. Probably. I’d have to destroy it. Couldn’t have him leaving the country on me.

I’d win him over. Show him that this was right. That we were right.

I didn’t care how long it took, how many times he argued, or how many times he tried to act like this—us—was some kind of mistake. He could fight it, rationalize it, try to tell himself that it was just circumstance, just me being an idiot, just anything other than what it really was.

But I knew the truth. And deep down, I knew he did too. Somewhere in that big brain of his, locked away tight under being so smart and thinking I was an idiot. It was there, I was sure of it. It had to be, after tonight.

I pressed my face into his curls again, inhaling slow, taking in the scent of him—still warm from our bodies tangling together, still sweet in that sharp, impossible way that made my head swim. Honey and books and mine.

Maybe he wasn’t ready to hear it. Maybe I’d have to spend weeks, months, proving it to him. That was fine.

Because I’d prove it to him every single day. With my hands, with my words, with my patience. I’d make sure he never went hungry, never had to worry, never had to feel like he was alone in this. In anything. I’d make sure he was loved.

I whispered into his curls, too quiet for him to hear.

"I’m in love with you, nerd."

No sooner had I spoken them aloud than were the words settling into my chest, heavy and sure. I fucking meant them. Every single syllable. One day, when he was finally ready to hear them—really hear them—I’d say them again. Louder.

I brushed one last kiss against his forehead and let sleep take me, thinking about how I’d say it again and again until I was damn sure he believed me.

Chapter Text

The first thing I registered upon regaining consciousness was that… I was warm.

And not just physically warm, but—oddly… settled? I was swaddled in a nest of sheets, the top of my head cocooned between their thin fabric and a pillow, the rest of me curled up in a lax ball. Rested in a way I hadn’t been in… weeks? Months? My limbs were loose, my muscles slack, my chest—

I inhaled, realizing there was no tightness. No lingering tension coiled in my ribs, no faint burn of exhaustion behind my eyes. For the first time in—God, I didn’t even know how long—I felt okay. Okay enough to wonder if everything involving being scentbonded to Maxwell Vaughn had been simply a nightmare and now I was finally waking up, free to return to my normal life.

I almost relaxed. Almost. Except something was wrong.

My bed was too big. 

That was the second thing I noticed as I shifted slightly, my fingers brushing over sheets that weren’t mine. They were a different color, for one—a deep navy as opposed to my neutral gray, and for another, the mattress beneath them was wide, much bigger than my narrow single. I actually had space. Too much space.

Vague alarm bells were only just starting to ring in the back of my head when my olfactory bulb switched on. Then the bells became all-out sirens.

Because there was a scent. A scent that was definitely not mine.

And it wasn’t neutral.

Instead, it was a scent I knew very well, unfortunately, and it was everywhere. Thick and cloying and—Max.

Against my better judgement, I inhaled again, and this time I caught the sharp, distinct notes of him. Warm, heady, unmistakable—cedar and something dark and grounding. It clung to the sheets, the air. My skin. I felt the moment my brain latched onto it, a strange sense of comfort silencing the sirens even as my stomach swooped violently and my rational mind rebelled, demanding a logical explanation.

Why is this not my bed. Why can I smell Maxwell Vaughn. Why—

A kiss pressed against my forehead. The scent shifted, its sweet notes deepening until I thought I was going to choke.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Oh my fucking God.

The stiffness that had been mysteriously absent in my body reasserted itself almost painfully and my eyes snapped open, body flying upright immediately—too fast, I realized too late, as the room tipped dangerously. Every part of me screamed in protest: my thighs, my hips, my neck.

It was a chorus of different types of pain. Throbbing. Pulsing. Aching in a way that wasn’t just soreness but remnants. I could still feel the way Max had gripped me, the way he’d held me down. The way he’d bitten me. The way he’d—

Oh my God. The way he’d what?

No. That wasn’t what happened. That wasn’t—I told myself absolutely not. Except the more I took a mental inventory, cataloguing each ache and pain, the more I became aware that I could still feel it. Him. Inside me. Still leaking out of me. That was it. That was the proof that I’d done the very thing I had set my mind against doing.

My stomach twisted violently. A hot, rising panic threatened to take over, but I forced it down, my breathing sharp and shallow. I had to think. I had to—

The memories slammed into me like a freight train. The library. The desk. His hands. My voice—ragged, desperate, begging—his body pinning me down, his mouth devouring mine, his cock—

I could not compute.

Could not process the fact that I had let him. And not only had I let him, I had wanted it. More than I could ever recall wanting to have sex with anyone before, to the point that I’d been shamefully reduced to nothing but instinct, pleasure, need.

And now? Now, to make matters infinitely worse, I was in Vaughn’s bed. I was clutching his hoodie like an forlorn child. My body was still sticky with sweat, my hair a mess—I could feel how frizzy it was—and my legs still half-slick, half-crusty with him. With us. 

There shouldn’t have been an us.

I laid there, frozen, my wheels spinning at a rate so unsustainable that I wasn’t sure if I was buffering or about to blue screen and go completely catatonic.

As if summoned by my existential crisis, the hulking shadow of my shame and dread crouched down in front of me. I didn’t need to pull the sheet from the top of my head to know he was smiling too wide, radiating an energy so pleased, so fucking smug that I could kill him. I dropped his hoodie as if it had burned me.

“Hey, Blanket Ains.” His voice was annoyingly chipper, borderline teasing. “How do you take your coffee? You can’t see it because you’re blanketing, but I’m like, right in front of you. And I have coffee.”

He was holding a mug out toward me.

I did not pull the sheet away. I just stared at him through it, my mind still screaming, still stuck in a cycle of what the fuck.

Max, in all his golden retriever meathead glory, had clearly been expecting this reaction or some variant of it. He didn’t move. He just stood there, just kept watching me, some weird mixture of amused and thrilled.

“So I was gonna make breakfast, but I realized I didn’t have anything to make, so I went ahead and ordered a bunch of stuff online,” he rambled, like it was perfectly fine to sound so casual. Like I wasn’t sitting here still full of his fucking come. “I got a ton of snacks, by the way. And protein. And, like, all the stuff you probably like… I think. I wasn’t sure what kind of milk you drink, so I got oat, almond, and whole—”

I barely heard him.

My brain was not working. The words were coming at me like radio static, background noise that my overclocked mental processor was failing to decode. I was not ready to face him, but I pulled the sheet slowly from my head anyway, knowing I couldn’t avoid him. Slowly, his face came into view—and he grinned even harder as our eyes met, my dead ones against his cheerful ones.

He was in love with my suffering. There was no other explanation for it, I decided. His words stopped coming and he just stared at me, as if waiting for something. I stared back at him, mute. I thought the moment would stretch forever, until he reached out and patted my head, as if I were some creature in need of comforting.

“I know, babe,” he murmured, his smirk softening. “You’re in my apartment right now. In my bed. Pretty crazy, huh?”

Why is he looking at me like that.

Why am I letting him touch me like this.

Why am I in his apartment.

His apartment.

Fuck.

I should’ve been railing at him. I should’ve been demanding that he take me home. I shoud’ve been doing anything to assert myself instead of laying like a useless lump in his bed. Except I couldn’t. For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what the next step was.

Normally, I approached problems with a methodical, scientific mindset. I examined the variables, analyzed the data, and determined the most effective course of action based on empirical evidence. It was a simple, logical process. But the facts in front of me were damning, and no rational evaluation could excuse them.

Fact one: I had had sex with Maxwell Vaughn, my absolute meathead of a tutee. Multiple times. In a public academic facility. It had been depraved, undignified, and biologically incendiary. Worse, I had consented—enthusiastically—to every second of it. The memory of my own desperate voice was seared into my neurons with disturbing clarity. Vaughn had seen me like that. Experienced me like that.

There was no academic framework that could erase the indisputable, physiological evidence that I had wanted it. And that he knew it.

Fact two: I was scentbonded to said meathead tutee. Prior to last night, my calculations had placed me at approximately 25% scentbond withdrawal. A structured distancing strategy would have ensured my complete recovery in several weeks to months. However, after last night, my scentbond reinforcement had skyrocketed to an estimated 150–200%. The opposite of progress. A catastrophic backslide.

Fact three: With careful research, I had determined that the key to successfully breaking a scentbond required two conditions: distance and ambivalence. Complete, unwavering emotional detachment. Yet I had willfully committed myself to daily proximity with Vaughn, a man who had compromised every professional boundary I had set. More concerningly, I had proven myself incapable of maintaining those boundaries.

Fact four: I could attempt to reassert said boundaries. I could reinforce the off-limits doctrine, return to my original plan of breaking the bond, and reestablish professional ambivalence. But I would be lying. And, statistically speaking, I would fail. Given that I had attempted this method three times previously, the numbers were proven to be against me. Worse, I would suffer. Which led me to fact five.

Fact five: The scentbond withdrawal symptoms had already been impacting me negatively. My sleep had deteriorated, my chest pain had worsened, and my ability to focus in lectures—once impeccable—was noticeably diminished. My emotional stability had been compromised. I was irritable, erratic, exhibiting behaviors inconsistent with my normal academic performance. If I continued on this path, the probability of further cognitive decline was alarmingly high.

Fact six: I was enrolled in high-level core courses essential to my accelerated graduate track. Any failure to perform at maximum efficiency jeopardized my academic trajectory. If I continued attempting to break the scentbond unsuccessfully, I risked destabilizing myself further, leading to compromised grades, suboptimal exam performance, and potential damage to my graduate school applications. One misstep, and I could be severely impacting my entire future.

The conclusion was clear: I could not function like this.

My current coping strategy—denial, avoidance, and sheer willpower—was not viable. I was now facing a biological, psychological, and academic crisis, and I had to act accordingly. There was only one logical course of action left. 

I had to accept the scentbond. Not in a romantic capacity, but out of necessity. I would utilize proximity and intimacy with Max in order to function optimally. Once he had recovered his academic standing, we would have no reason to see one another again, the scentbond would break naturally, and I would be free.

Simple-sounding enough, yet every fiber of my rational mind was in an upset. There had to be another option. There had to be. But there wasn’t. The research was clear. And the science was undeniable. I couldn’t argue with it. Blaming myself—or Max—was no longer productive.

Max’s fingers were still in my hair, detangling my curls with a carefulness that I didn’t allow myself to think about. I remained still, resisting the urge to shiver when I felt his callouses drag over my scalp. I had been processing for a little under a minute and he had remained where he was, crouched down, staring at me fondly.

“I can tell that you’re buffering so hard right now. You have this little vein that pops out, right—here.” He poked at my forehead. “Cute as fuck. You thinking cold-blooded murder or crime of passion?”

I seethed at his teasing tone. He was goading me. He wanted me to react. Wanted me to freak out on him. Unfortunately for him, I had calculated. And I refused to waste my energy further on redundant dramatics.

So when he pulled his hand back and tugged at the sheets, I let him pull them away. I let him pry my fingers from around his hoodie and replace it with a mug of steaming coffee. I barely caught it, and his hands covered mine for a second, steadying them. He didn’t move away until he was sure I had a grip on it, and then he let go, like he was handling a feral animal.

And then—like he’d been waiting for this exact moment—he reached for my glasses on the nightstand. One of their arms was slightly less straight than I remembered, crooked in a way that suggested someone had bent it back into place. 

“Here you go, nerd,” he murmured, gently sliding them onto my face. “Hey, do you want cream for your coffee? Sugar? I didn’t know if you were like, a white sugar or a brown sugar kind of person, so I got both. I guess one’s more… like, sugary or something, but I didn’t know if you even liked sugar so I got these syrups too—”

I blinked as the world came into focus, his chattering taking a backseat as I surveyed my surroundings properly. I had never pictured Max's bedroom before, but if I had, it wouldn’t have matched with what I was seeing—a space that was suspiciously clean and larger than my shoebox of a dorm room, with dark wood floors, high ceilings, and a stupidly large TV mounted on the far wall. Two Ridgeline Wolves posters with different themes were taped crookedly on either side of it.

“Black is fine,” I heard myself say. My voice was hoarse and I refused to think about why. I ticked my gaze back towards Max, clocking the surprised look on his face at my monotone. Almost as if he had expected for me to throw the coffee on him rather than give a calm answer.

But he recovered quickly, leaning back on his heels and nodding. “Oh, okay. Cool. Uh… how about eggs? How do you like those? I could do like, sunny side or regular fried or over easy or I could steam them? I could scramble them. Like, I’d scramble the fuck out of them or hardly at all, if you wanted. Or omelettes. I could omelette them.”

God, he was such an idiot. As if he knew how to cook eggs. As if I would even eat them if he did. I went to press the heels of my hands against my eyes, remembered that I was wearing my glasses, and settled for fisting them in my lap instead, dragging in a shaky breath. I wanted to demand to know why I was here, in his bed, in his space. But I also didn’t want to hear the answer.

I also did not want eggs.

Instead of saying any of that, I said, “Scrambled is fine.”

That seemed to satisfy him. He nodded again and got to his feet, stepping back from the edge of the bed. I took a sip from the coffee mug for lack of anything else to do and followed him with my gaze—and promptly regretted it. 

Because Max was not wearing clothes.

Well, he was, but hardly. He was barefoot, with sweatpants slung low on his hips and nothing else. His entire upper torso was on display. Casually. Obnoxiously. I had felt his body before, of course—too much of it—but it had always been in dim lighting, partial views, blurred perception. I had never seen him like this, under full, unforgiving daylight, with all of my faculties intact.

I had known he was fit. Obviously. He was a collegiate-level, nationally ranked, professional-bound quarterback. His entire existence revolved around physical strength and endurance. But knowing it in theory and seeing it in practice were two completely different things.

Broad shoulders, obnoxiously thick biceps, ridiculously defined pectorals. His stomach was a sculpted plane of unfairly symmetrical muscle, his abdominals cut so sharply that they cast actual shadows along the ridges of his torso. Even the indentations along his hips—the V-lines that disappeared beneath his sweatpants—were annoyingly well-defined. And then there was the heavy, utterly obscene outline of—

He cleared his throat and I startled so badly I almost dropped my coffee. I yanked my eyes back up to his face and felt physically ill when I saw his too-wide, shit-eating smirk, the knowing glint in his eye that said he’d noticed me noticing.

I seriously reconsidered throwing my coffee in his face. Or spontaneously combusting. As it was, I was certain I had turned the exact same shade as a fire hydrant from sheer embarrassment.

He flexed a pectoral obnoxiously, wagging his brows at me. “You wanna eyefuck me in the living room, baby?”

“I—” I snapped my mouth shut around the words I would rather die and reassessed. I was still searching for the right thing to say when he burst out laughing, throwing his head back.

“God, the look on your face right now. Seriously, I thought you’d be trying to kill me at this point. Are you okay, sunshine? Do I need to call someone? Did I break you?” He sounded actually concerned.

I took another sip of my coffee, considering my options. Debated on demanding to be taken home. Thought about discreetly calling a rideshare and slipping out the front door when he wasn’t looking. Or perhaps—I glanced surreptitiously at his window, trying to calculate what floor we were on. Could I throw myself out?

The rideshare idea had the most potential and would’ve won out, except I couldn’t imagine Vaughn not devoting every ounce of his attention to me. He would either bodily stop me or embarrass me in front of the driver. I couldn’t handle either in my current state. There had to be a better means of escape. Somehow.

“I’m fine,” I said flatly.

Max did not look convinced, but to his credit, he didn’t push. He simply took the coffee mug from me and set it on the nightstand, turning back to me and holding out a hand. “Come on, let’s go into the living room. I’m gonna feed you. You’re gonna love it.”

I assure you, I will not. The words burned at the back of my throat, sharp and immediate, but I knew better than to say them aloud. Knew that any retort would only add to the unbearable self-satisfaction practically oozing from his every pore.

I refused to give him any more ammunition, so instead, I swallowed the words down and leveled him with a glare. Pointedly ignoring the hand he was offering, I made a deliberate show of maintaining my dignity and independence, gritting my teeth against every ache and pain that throbbed tenfold. Determination won out successfully as I shifted my weight to the edge of the mattress and planted my palms, preparing to push myself up on my own.

I did not account for the aftermath.

Which was, the moment my legs took on my full weight, everything crumbled.

My thighs gave out instantly, my knees buckling so abruptly that I barely had time to process what was happening before I was collapsing. It wasn’t even a slow descent. There was no grace. No control. Just pure, complete failure.

I had enough time to register the sheer humiliation of it—the undeniable proof of my body’s complete and total betrayal—before strong arms locked around my waist, catching me effortlessly. A husky laugh echoed in my ear as Max pulled me against him, hauling me into his warm body.

“Oh, no,” he cooed, mock sympathy dripping from every syllable. “What happened, babe? Did you get fucked so good you can’t walk?”

That was it. My composure completely snapped in half. 

I had had enough. Fucking forget being civil, his smugness had reached infuriating levels. I went to do slap it right out of him, already picturing the satisfaction of a good open-handed whap across his face with every bit of strength I could muster, but I’d hardly managed to lift my arm when suddenly I was being carried.

Carried. Cradled against him like a child.

This was unacceptable.

“Maxwell Vaughn—” I hissed out, flailing and grabbing ahold of his hair. It was slightly damp, the strands unreasonably soft. “Why am I here? Did you seriously bring me back to your apartment after last night like some sort of primal caveman? Fuck you. I refuse. I demand to be taken back to my dorm this instant—”

Max ignored my glare entirely, adjusting me in his arms like I was some lightweight, helpless thing rather than a fully grown adult whose dignity had just been obliterated.

He glanced down at me, expression suddenly blank. And then, in the same tone someone might use to inform me about the weather, he said, “You know, the library called.”

I stilled immediately. The library called. The library called. My brain short-circuited on impact, neurons crashing into each other, failing spectacularly to make sense of the words.

Surely not. It was far too early. Wasn't it? Unless—unless a student had called into the emergency hotline after coming across evidence of what Max and I had done. Evidence. God, I felt ill. Was there evidence? Had Max even cleaned up properly? Had we left—no. No.

I was stuck on that particular thought when Max’s body lurched momentarily. I was forced to cling to him and hate myself, gritting my teeth as I listened to him continue. “Oh, no big deal,” he said, his voice remaining casual. Too casual. “Just said they’re gonna burn it down.”

Okay, that was a joke. He was joking. I could’ve relaxed, except I was still in his arms and I was somehow even more mad, to think that he was still goading me like a complete and utter bastard. I hated him. “I beg your fucking pardon," I snarled and it wasn't a question, just a statement of rage, my fingers, twisting and yanking hard on his hair. He winced, but didn’t miss a beat.

“Yeah, something about how we ‘desecrated the sanctity of academia’ and ‘violated historical property’. And for the record, I’m a fan of hair-pulling now, baby.”

White-hot rage threatened to swallow me whole and I decided that this was it, I was actually going to kill him. I pulled my hands from his hair and fixed them around his throat, applying real pressure. Unfortunately, he was too big, too ridiculously built, his neck was practically a tree trunk, and he had the audacity to laugh through the entire thing.

A delighted laugh. Like I hadn’t just wrapped my hands around his windpipe with intent.

“Oh, babe,” he rasped, grinning down at me like a complete psychopath. “This is kinda hot.”

It was not hot. It was homicidal, attempted murder in its purest, most instinctual form. And he was enjoying it.

“You—” I was barely able to form words through my absolute fury. “—are the worst human being alive.”

“Wrong. The worst human being alive wouldn’t have made you come that many times last night.”

“I am going to snap your neck like a fucking twig, Vaughn—” Nevermind that my brain unhelpfully supplied an awareness of the come between my thighs—I ignored it in favor of refocusing on how I was going to end his entire existence, crushing my hands around his trachea with as much force as I could summon.

This close, I could smell him far too intimately. He was unpatched, and my nose was practically brushing against his throat. But it didn’t matter. I was going to be the first documented case of an omega snapping an alpha’s neck with their bare hands. I was going to be arrested, ruin my academic career, commit a felony, and I did not care. 

One minute, I was in his arms, and the next, I was being deposited into a disgustingly plush spread of blankets.

As I was being lowered, I caught a glimpse of a football winking up at me and I almost vomited. I let my hands slip from around his neck and tried to kick him in the face, but he dodged neat, landing a kiss against my cheek before straightening up and dancing away. Laughing still, like this was all fun and games.

“Okay, real talk? My dick might be too hard to cook now. Hope you like your eggs runny like your legs, babe.”

“I hope you set yourself on fire,” I fired back scathingly. My hands itched to throw something at him, but I forced myself to reach again for some shred of composure, in an effort to salvage what remained of my dignity. 

So I fumed in silence as he turned and disappeared back into the bedroom. When he came back, he was holding the coffee mug and he extended it to me, grinning even as I scowled and accepted it. My phone appeared in my lap simultaneously and I blinked down at it in confusion, rage subsiding. For now.

“There,” Max declared, so satisfied with himself. “Now you can function. I’m going to start cooking. Do you need anything else?”

“A lobotomy,” I said through gritted teeth. When he just squinted—because of course he didn’t know what that was—I sighed. “A shower.”

He hesitated. "The eggs aren’t going to take long. Maybe you can take one after you—” I hissed and he held up his hands, laughing. “Babe. You can’t even stand right now. How about you sit here and do your tiny angry cat in a teacup thing while I make us some food and then I’ll help you?”

The coffee mug wobbled dangerously in my grasp as I vibrated, clenching my jaw. My what thing? And he would help me shower? Absolutely not. No. To all of it.

“I am a fully grown adult,” I bit out. “I will shower on my own.”

“At least wait, yeah? Eggs are like, almost done. Or... sort of. Not really, but I'll be quick. Promise.” He cast a final wink in my direction, ignoring the glare I shot him in return, and turned again, this time to jog into the kitchen area. I was left sitting rigid on the couch, staring at his back as he walked away.

I told myself I didn’t notice anything about it at all. Nothing. Not how it was stupidly broad or stupidly muscular, not the way every lat muscle flared, and certainly not the deep welts that were scored across his shoulders and the ridges of his spine.

Nope. Those were not from me.

Redirecting my thoughts immediately, I stared at the coffee mug he’d left on the table. Then I narrowed my eyes in a glare at the blankets beneath me. They were thick and soft, perfectly arranged, almost as if Max had gathered every blanket he’d owned and situated them in a bid to appeal to my instincts.

I scoffed aloud. Idiot.

Like I was an omega who needed trivial comforts, like I nested. I was in control of my biology. I didn’t need a “safe space” in order to function.

And yet—

I could feel some instinct tugging at me, demanding that I give in and cocoon myself just as I had in his bedsheets. Absently, I ran a hand over the softness, curling my lip in disgust. Max had done this to me. It was his fault. It was just science. Out of spite, I threw one of the blankets over the edge of the couch, tearing it from the careful arrangement.

A glance at my phone revealed that it was six thirty in the morning, placing me well ahead of my Thursday commitments. The smallest of comforts, considering I was stuck in a meathead’s lair for the foreseeable future.

Cheerful whistling drifted in from the kitchen as Max banged around and I prayed to a God I didn’t believe in. Hopefully, he would burn the place down with both of us inside. Adjusting my grip on the coffee mug, I took a small sip and began surveying my surroundings, fully expecting to be horrified by his living style.

Except, to my shock, the rest of the apartment was similar to his bedroom in that it was suspiciously neat, to the point that it bordered on unnerving. It seemed that everything had a place. There was hardly anything to criticize. The furniture, though large and overly masculine, was well-kept and expensive-looking, as if barely used, an L-shaped sectional and sleek-edged coffee table dominating the living room. To the left, partially obscured from my vantage point, was the kitchen.

I couldn’t see much of it beyond the edge of a massive, sprawling island, but from what I could tell, it was just as unreasonably nice as the rest of the apartment—modern appliances, pristine countertops, not a single dish out of place. It didn’t even look used. As if Max had never cooked a meal in his life, which was entirely possible. Which made the fact that he was in there now deeply concerning.

A large set of floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the far wall, leading to a spacious balcony, because of course he had a balcony. Because of course his ridiculous, too-big-for-a-college-student apartment had a stunning view of the city skyline. Because everything about him was absurd. I gripped the blanket I’d tossed over the couch in my fist, kneading it unconsciously between my fingers.

But what stood out the most, impossible to ignore, was the sheer amount of football. It was everywhere. 

There was an unused desk in the corner, and instead of being covered in anything remotely academic, it was littered with trophies, medals, and framed certificates. Plaques lined the nearby wall, commemorating various football-related achievements. Multiple championship rings sat in a case, gleaming under the overhead lighting. And photos—so many photos—documenting every major moment of his career.

Max and his team, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, grinning in their jerseys. Max in a high school uniform, mid-throw, caught in perfect form. Max hoisting a trophy, surrounded by teammates, smiling like he owned the world. Max with his family, the arm of a large man around his shoulder while four women stood on either side of him, all of them poised and elegant.

It was so thoroughly, obnoxiously him.

And it smelled like him, too. Everything smelled like him.

The entire apartment—the couch I was sitting on, the pillows beside me, the air itself—was thick with his unpatched scent. It wasn’t overpowering, per se, but it was inescapable. Warm. Grounding, even, as much as I hated to think it. I gripped the blanket tighter, pulling it into my lap, forcing my expression into something blank.

I would not react to this, I decided, lowering myself against the piled blankets and turning my face into them. I would not let it affect me. No, I would sit here, drink my coffee, ignore my surroundings, and pretend like everything was fine. Like I was not in Max Vaughn’s apartment. Like I was not drowning in the scent of him.

Like this was not my life now.

Chapter Text

I took a step back from the kitchen counter and surveyed my masterpiece.

The most perfect scrambled eggs I had ever made in my entire fucking life.

They were fluffy, creamy, golden perfection—exactly the way Google said they were supposed to be. Slow heat, low and steady, gentle folds with a spatula, like cradling the hopes and dreams of a fragile little egg baby. And I had fucking done it.

I grinned so hard my face hurt as I plated them, setting the plate down and admiring my work. Goddamn. If I wasn’t a football player, I’d be a fucking chef. Maybe I’d open a restaurant. Call it “Max’s Meatfast” or some shit. Yeah, that sounded good. Sounded real—

A sleepy noise from the couch snapped me out of my breakfast fantasies and I froze, slowly turning. I leaned over the counter, poking my head out to check on him—and at the fucking holy sight that greeted me, I let out a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding.

Ainsley, curled up in the pile of blankets I’d put down for him. Fast asleep. Tiny. Soft. Naked.

For a moment, I forgot everything I’d ever thought about eggs and just basked. Like, fucking basked. Like I was one of those wolves in a nature documentary who just secured the biggest kill of the season and now got to lay on top of it, flexing, while the whole pack watched in awe.

It was official—I was the most successful alpha to ever exist. I was just out here, twenty-two years young and vibing, providing on an elite level for the meanest, smartest and prettiest omega on the planet and he was accepting it. He was thriving.

I was vibrating with so much fucking alpha satisfaction that I could have bench pressed the entire goddamn kitchen island. Holy shit. The NFL could’ve drafted me right now and it wouldn’t have compared. 

Dropping the frying pan into the sink, I grabbed both of the plates and strode into the living room. I placed them on the coffee table, as quietly as possible, and then eased onto the cushion by his head, careful not to jostle him.

Up close was even better. So much better. I could see just how relaxed he was, curled up all tiny and perfect, half-buried in the ridiculous pile of blankets I’d thrown together like an absolute fucking provider. His breathing was slow, even, his stupidly pretty face squished against the fabric, all soft and defenseless.

The Ridgeline Wolves blanket I’d stolen from Zach years ago was draped over his back, half-slipping off his shoulder, leaving just enough skin visible to ruin me a little bit. But the real kicker was the tortilla blanket.

That cursed, perfectly round, tortilla-printed monstrosity that I’d bought ironically. Somehow it had ended up front and center, with Ainsley’s fingers curled around the edge of it, gripping the fabric right up against his nose, like he’d instinctively claimed it in his sleep. Like he needed it.

I nearly fucking died. I could not process how unfairly cute it was. The smartest, most stuck-up person I had ever met, lying there all soft and warm and burrito-fied, unknowingly wrapped in the most cursed thing imaginable.

Of course I had to take a picture.

For science. For evidence. For my personal collection of Things That Prove Ainsley Kerrigan Is Secretly Adorable As Fuck.

I held in a breath, lifted my phone, and snapped the shot before my body could physically combust from how much I wanted to squeeze him.

And then, because I’m a fucking idiot, I grinned and murmured— “Babe, you’re a burrito right now.”

Big mistake.

Ainsley’s eyes snapped open immediately, blazing with green fury, and before I could even blink, he detonated out of the tortilla blanket like it had personally insulted his family lineage.

I shoved my phone back into my pocket just as the blanket flew across the couch with surprising force, landing in a crumpled heap on the floor. He shot upright—too fast, his body barely keeping up—and his gaze snapped to mine, cheeks flushed from sleep, curls a disheveled mess around his face.

“I was not comfortable,” he said—lied—immediately. I grinned harder.

“Must’ve been. You’ve been dead asleep for the last fifteen minutes.” I nudged the plate toward him, adding, “You looked so cozy just now, babe. Wanna talk about it?”

I knew he didn’t. But watching his nostrils flare and his little hands flex as he fumed was everything.

“I was not sleeping.”

I snorted. “Babe, you were literally asleep.”

“Stop calling me that,” he growled. “I was resting my eyes.”

I squinted at him then, very deliberately, because I had never heard—or seen—a more obvious fucking lie in my life. His posture was stiff as hell, but I saw the way his fingers twitched, like he was actively fighting the urge to pull a blanket back into his lap, the way his pupils were a little too big, like his body was already too used to being surrounded by my scent.

I knew he liked it. I also knew that he fucking hated that he liked it. I wanted to tease him more, to tell him that he could just admit it, but I knew him well enough by now to know that he’d rather throw himself into the fucking son than admit he enjoyed anything that even remotely aligned with traditional omega instincts.

To convey how much I didn’t believe him, I stared at him a while longer. He stared back, somehow radiating haughtiness even with crooked glasses and mussed hair. I relented in the end, lips twitching, reaching out to grab my plate of eggs off the coffee table, nudging his plate closer.

“Here, cutie. Made these for you. Eat up.”

Ainsley did not move.

Didn’t even look at the plate. Just sat there, glaring at me like I’d committed war crimes, arms crossed so tight his small shoulders were practically hunched up to his ears.

I picked up my fork and took a big, obnoxious bite of eggs, chewing loudly on purpose. Just to be a dick.

“Babe.” I gestured at his plate with my fork. “You’re being rude. I slaved over those.”

Ainsley scoffed. “You scrambled eggs.”

“Yeah. And?” I grinned, popping another bite into my mouth. “Scrambled the fuck out of them, actually. Look at that texture. Gordon Ramsay would nut over these.”

Ainsley made a noise of deep, profound suffering, and I knew exactly what was happening. He was fuming because he could already tell—just by looking at them—that the eggs were perfect. That I had, against all odds, cooked something he couldn’t criticize.

And it was eating him alive.

“Fine,” he finally muttered, snatching the fork and stabbing at the eggs. He took the most begrudging, angry little bite I’d ever seen.

Then he went still. Just for a second. It happened so fast that if I weren’t watching him like a hawk, I wouldn’t have caught it—the tiniest, almost imperceptible moment of surprise, followed by immediate irritation at himself for feeling it.

I leaned over to elbow him, smirking. “They’re fucking good, huh?”

Ainsley immediately scowled. “They’re adequate,” he mumbled.

I actually barked out a laugh. “Babe. Just admit it. I made you the best scrambled eggs you’ve ever had.”

“You will get nothing from me.” He took another sullen bite, chewing angrily, refusing to make eye contact.

I had a lot more eggs on my plate than he did and somehow I still managed to clean my plate in record time, just so I could stare at him in awe. The more I stared, the more he felt it and bristled, but I couldn’t help myself. I still couldn’t believe he was here, in the flesh in my apartment in what was basically my nest , eating food I’d made. It was the biggest win of my entire life.

It was doing something to me. Like, a deep, instinct-level something. Something big, ancient, so fucking wired into my DNA that I didn’t even have the words for it—I just felt it, raw and undeniable, like some visceral surge of victory straight to my fucking chest.

Because, yeah, okay, rationally ? Rationally, I knew this was just breakfast. Knew he was just reluctantly shoveling the eggs into his bratty mouth because I had cooked them so well that he literally couldn’t complain. But my instincts didn’t give a fuck about logic.

All they saw was my omega eating my food, curled up in the nest I made for him, in my apartment. And that was all I needed to know for it to hit me like a drug, warm and heavy and stupidly satisfying, this overwhelming rightness in my veins that I had done something real, something good. Something right.

I had successfully provided for him, made something he deemed worthy of eating, and okay, sure, he looked deeply pissed about it, but he was still eating. I had literally never felt more alpha in my entire life. 

Last night had been incredible.

Like, A+ performance all around. Elite-level execution. A game film review would’ve shown nothing but highlights. I had gone feral, Ainsley had met me there, and we had both lost our minds in the best possible way.

And I wanted to talk about it. I wanted to run it back, dissect it like game tape, maybe praise each other’s technique, and definitely figure out when we were doing it again.

But this was Ainsley.

And Ainsley did not talk about things like this.

Ainsley did not acknowledge his feelings, his instincts, or anything that suggested he might actually have enjoyed himself last night beyond the basic, begrudging biological response. His default mode was to pretend nothing had happened, insult me for existing, and change the subject.

So I had to be strategic. Had to play the long game. Because I knew, without a doubt, that if I just straight-up said, "Hey, babe, last night was the best sex of my entire life, wanna talk about it?", he would immediately tell me to go fuck myself and then personally escort me to hell.

Even starting with nonsense might still result in him telling me to go fuck myself.

But I had to try, right? So I opened my mouth and let whatever absolute dumbest shit came to mind fall out.

Leaning back against the couch, I threw my arm casually behind him. “See, babe,” I started, “the key to perfect scrambled eggs is all about heat control—”

Ainsley’s eye twitched. I took that as encouragement and kept talking, leaning in.

“You can’t go too hot too fast, or you’ll end up with, like, rubbery nonsense—”

“Please shut up.”

“—so you gotta keep the heat low and steady, like real patient, you know?” I tapped my temple, trying to look however wise people looked. “Cooking is, like, an art, babe.”

I pointed at his plate, where he’d finished almost all of the eggs. “And, see? That’s why my eggs are, like, next-level. I mean, just look at that texture, babe. Soft, creamy, just the right consistency. And did you know adding a little butter at the end makes them way smoother? Like, I read about it once and then tried it, and boom, changed my whole outlook on life—”

Ainsley stopped eating and set his fork down, inhaling deeply as he brought his fingers up to massage his forehead. “Max. If you do not stop talking, I am going to beat you to death with this plate.”

I just nodded, completely unfazed. A joke about how that sounded hot came to mind—he’d beaten me with his book bag once and I’d been into it, so a plate probably wouldn’t be much different—but when I opened my mouth, something else slipped out instead.

“So, uh. We should probably talk about what happened, right?”

Ainsley slowly turned to look at me. I stared back, trying to radiate a calm I definitely didn’t feel.

I felt… nervous. Scared, even. Maybe for the first time in my life.

I mean, I’d fully expected to wake up with a pillow pressed over my face. Like—boom, instant suffocation, no hesitation. Maybe a sharp elbow to the ribs, a well-placed knee to the crotch, or, at the very least, Ainsley standing over me, vibrating with pure wrath, ready to verbally eviscerate me down to my atoms.

Instead, he’d only tried to strangle me once.

Which, considering last night’s absolute fucking debauchery, was shockingly low on the Ainsley Violence Scale. Plus, he hadn’t called anyone to pick him up. Hadn’t even tried to escape. Sure, his legs were currently out of commission, but I’d half-expected him to drag himself across the floor with sheer spite and pure rage if necessary.

But no.

Earlier, when I’d woken him up, he’d been totally at ease, instinctually relaxed in my sheets. Then I’d seen it in real-time, the exact second his smartypants nerd brain entered the chat and ruined everything for him. The way his green eyes flared with unholy fire and he’d started looking like he wanted to yeet himself out of my window.

Except even that had been different than all the other times he’d gotten mad at me. He hadn’t insulted me. Hadn’t been sharp or loud. Hadn’t threatened to end my bloodline. He’d been… quiet. Too quiet. Buffering. Processing. And for the first time, I’d started to wonder if he was even mad at me at all.

Maybe… he was just mad at himself. Because, like—he’d impaled himself on my dick. And I knew he was thinking about it. Hell, I was still thinking about it.

I watched him now, saw the way his brain was running a thousand miles per hour, trying to logic his way through the incredibleness of last night. Trying to turn it into a mistake, a statistical anomaly, something he could categorize and file away as a one-time thing.

I hated how he did that shit. Instead of overthinking, I wanted him to talk to me. And not just about last night—but about everything.

About the thing that had been happening between us for the past two weeks. The thing we’d both been ignoring like it was a stray dog we weren’t supposed to feed.

Except I knew the truth.

Which was that it wasn’t a stray dog at all.

It was a dog that belonged to us. A dog in fucking love.

And I wanted to know if he felt it too.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Ainsley said finally, too quickly, tearing his gaze from mine like the couch was suddenly fascinating . 

I watched as he made a move to put his plate back on the coffee table—absolutely not. I snatched it out of his hands before he could even blink and stacked it with mine. Then, instead of retreating, I settled in even closer, stretching my arm behind the couch like I was just getting comfortable. Casual as hell. Definitely not pinning him in or anything.

I could feel how stiff he was now, every muscle in his stupidly perfect body wound up like a spring, ready to snap at any second. And he still refused to look at me.

“I think there’s a lot to discuss,” I said, voice low and easy. “We had—”

“Yes, we had sex,” Ainsley cut in sharply. “I lost my dignity. The end.”

The end? The end?

I raised a brow at him. That was how he was gonna play it? Like we’d just bumped into each other in a hallway instead of—oh, I don’t know—fucking so hard in the library last night that we probably haunted the place now?

“Seriously? That’s what we’re calling it?” I said, tilting my head.

“That’s what it was,” he snapped, spine straight as a ruler, voice clipped.

I squinted at him. “I dunno, babe. Kinda felt like more than that…”

Ainsley inhaled sharply—so sharp I thought he might actually explode. “That’s because you lack impulse control and mistake physical attraction for deeper meaning,” he snapped.

Oh. Ohhh.

I locked in on the important part of that sentence immediately, leaning forward like a wolf catching the scent of a rabbit. “Wait. Did you just admit you’re physically attracted to me?”

He froze. Like his own brain had betrayed him. Like his mouth had just gone completely rogue. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. Then just glared at me. 

Holy shit.

I grinned so fucking big. “Go on, babe. Say it again.”

Ainsley’s glare intensified, but I knew I had him. I fucking knew it . He had just slipped up in real-time, and now he was scrambling, probably running a hundred different equations in that beautiful nerd brain of his, trying to figure out how to either walk it back or lie convincingly.

Too bad it was way too late.

It didn’t come as a total surprise to me—I couldn’t quite put my finger on the exact moment, but there’d definitely been a point somewhere around us having heat sex when he’d stopped looking at me like I was a bug he wanted to squash.

Then there was earlier this morning, with the way I’d literally watched him eat me up with his eyes when I was standing in front of him in gray sweatpants—a total power move, by the way, on my part.

So yeah, the cat was outta the bag on that one. But I hadn’t expected him to admit it with words, even accidentally. 

At first, I thought he’d deny it. Thought he’d deflect. Thought he’d hit me with one of his brutal, mean little insults that he knew I loved so much.

But instead, he doubled down on the glare… and then, to my total shock, gritted out, “You’re attractive.”

Like I’d just forced him to confess to a crime.

I stuttered out a shocked breath, brows flying into my hairline. My heart did a victory lap. Goddamn, but it felt like I’d won the fucking lottery three times in a row all of a sudden. I was God’s favorite alpha.

“Yeah?” I asked, voice dropping into something lower, smoother, as I leaned in even closer to him and took my chances on brushing a curl away from his face. Say it again. Say it again.

He did not say it again. In fact, he yanked away from me—but not before I saw the telltale blush on his face. “Yes. Fine. Whatever,” he snapped. “I’m taking a shower.”

“Okay. Cool.” I stood up before he could, positioning myself close in case his knees buckled again because I knew they were still shaky. Sure enough, he was a little wobbly as he rose carefully from the not-a-nest, but he managed to stay standing. Probably out of sheer spite.

I gave him my best smirk. “So we’re gonna do it again, right?” 

He cut me a lethal side-eye, but I didn’t even flinch, too giddy. My brain was giggling and clapping its heels together, caught in a loop of Ainsley Kerrigan thinks I’m hot. Ainsley Kerrigan thinks I’m hot.

I followed him as he tried to storm off—which, honestly, so fucking cute considering he could barely walk. “Because it was real good, babe,” I added, keeping pace with him easily. “We can’t waste that kinda chemistry. It’s probably like, illegal.”

Ainsley whipped around mid-step, eyes blazing. “Shut up and show me where your bathroom is.”

I grinned, grabbing his elbow—because I fucking could—and guiding him toward my bedroom. “In here, babe. Seriously, though. Tell me we’re doing that again.”

The sigh that came out of him was so loud I was pretty sure it traveled through dimensions . He was gritting his teeth hard enough that I could almost hear them grinding together and I had to fight against the urge to ruffle his hair to needle him further, because I’d probably lose a hand or something at this point.

I showed him my bathroom, flipping on the light for him. I already knew it was probably way bigger and nicer than his. Had a massive shower, a big counter, and was clean as fuck after the way I’d gone psycho with housekeeping last night. Again, there was nothing for him to complain about. 

He stared for a second before stepping inside and shutting the door in my face. Which didn’t deter me at fucking all. I’d already decided that I would wash our dishes and find some clothes for him to wear while he got all smelling-good and cleaned up, but I stood rooted to the spot for a moment longer, hesitating. 

“Babe!” I called through the door, whining, because I knew it annoyed him.

He fucking hissed. “Stop calling me that!” 

I rolled my eyes. Now he wanted to get pissy about that, after I’d been calling him by it all morning? Whatever. I’d let him have it.

“Come on, just tell me it wasn’t a one-time thing. Or like, a three-time thing,” I clarified, grinning as I remembered the absolute workout I’d given him. “Tell me we’re gonna do it again, Ains. You literally screamed for me. And neither of us were in heat this time, so… It was good, right? Like, you think I’m hot, I think you’re hot, we have great chemistry…”

I trailed off and waited. At first, I thought he wasn’t gonna answer. Then, so quiet I barely caught it:

“…Maybe if you get your grades up.”

I blinked. The world stopped turning and I started rapping on the door, hard, excited. “Wait. I heard that. Did you just—if I get my grades up? Really?”

Another pause. “…Hypothetically.”

Holy shit.

That wasn’t a no . Not even close. It was actually… I narrowed my eyes, considering. A yes? Yeah, it fucking was. A conditional yes, but a yes. I rocked back on my heels, grinning at the door like a complete idiot. 

I mean, sure, technically, we hadn’t even begun to address the real thing I wanted to talk about. We hadn’t touched the love puppy. But Ainsley had just admitted that he thought I was attractive and confirmed we were doing this again. Sure, he was trying to frame it as transactional, trying to hide behind his usual academic superiority complex, but I saw right through it.  

I’d take the hypothetical win. 

For now.

A cheerful whistle threaded through my teeth and I turned on my heel, in the best fucking mood of my life. 

So, to recap, I’d made the best scrambled eggs in recorded history, my omega had eaten them, admitted I was hot, and I was currently whistling in my kitchen like some smug-ass 1950s sitcom husband, washing dishes, basking in the afterglow of a flawless morning.

Life was good.

Until the bathroom door slammed open like a gunshot.

I flinched, nearly dropping a plate, and whipped around just in time to see Ainsley standing in the hallway. Confusion and arousal burst like fireworks through my veins at the same time, to the point that I made an actual fucking noise in the back of my throat. Holy shit.

His curls were dripping, loose and damp, making his whole face look softer somehow, like all the sharp edges had been smoothed out just from the water. And his skin was flushed and dewy from the heat of the shower, drops of water trailing down the slope of his collarbone, disappearing beneath the very unfortunate towel wrapped too securely around his waist. Fuck, I wanted to—

I forced myself to snap out of it, because what the fuck? He hadn’t even been in the bathroom for twenty minutes. I’d made sure it was clean for him, that he had soap, towels… so why was he looking at me like that?

“What,” he said, his voice like a death sentence, “the fuck is this?”

He held up a bottle. I blinked at him, then at the bottle. Once I recognized it, I relaxed and nodded proudly, grinning and wiping my hands off on a dish towel. Oh. That was it. Of course my little nerd didn’t know about elite-level alpha hygiene. I smirked a little wider, thinking about how he must’ve choked when he’d read the label. He was impressed and didn’t know how to say it.

God, we were making so many strides today.

“Oh yeah, babe,” I said casually. “That’s my 5-in-1. Pretty cool, right? Yeah, it’s fancy, but don’t worry—you can use it. You’re welcome.”

Then I waited, expecting him to say something like, Wow, Max, I misjudged you. I didn’t realize you were a man of efficiency. Of sophistication. All of it was getting to him—the eggs, the clean apartment, the nest. Now my 5-in-1. Poor baby.

The look on his face right now was priceless. Like he didn’t know how to compute the concept of 5-in-1. I nodded sagely again, moving out of the kitchen area to stand closer to him, just to breathe in more of his scent.

“It’s okay that you didn’t know, sunshine. You’ve never had to manage this much muscle mass—” I patted my abs “—so you never had to know, you know? It’s great. Saves time. Smells good. Works on everything. Face, body, hair. It’s like, cutting-edge technology. Scientists probably worked on it for years to get it just right.”

Ainsley’s face contorted in an expression I’d never seen before. Then his voice cracked out like a whip, sharp and disbelieving. “You wash your face with the same chemical sludge you put on your balls?”

Whoa. I blinked.

“Okay, that’s not the tone I’d use, but… yeah?” I said slowly, genuinely confused. “That’s, like… efficient.”

Ainsley made a noise.

Like… a distant explosion. Like a man experiencing a complete psychological collapse in real time. He shook the bottle in his hand so hard I was actually concerned for it.

“Efficient? Efficient?” He took a menacing step forward. “Maxwell Vaughn, this is not efficient. This is a biological war crime. This is shampoo for men who have given up on life. This is liquid despair in a bottle. This—this abomination is the reason skin care experts have anxiety disorders.”

Oh. Oh, he was pissed.

“Babe, you can’t be so judgmental of my body wash/shampoo/shaving cream/deodorizer. It’s literally formulated for alphas. It’s premium, okay? It says ‘extra strength’ on the bottle.” I pointed to the big bold letters. “It’s 5-in-1, Ains, not cheap. It does everything.”

Ainsley physically recoiled like I’d just insulted his entire bloodline.

“Max,” he hissed, “you absolute fucking imbecile, this isn’t 5-in-1. It’s 1-in- none. It does nothing correctly. Your hair—your poor, mistreated, unwashed hair—deserves better than this. This is the antithesis of proper hygiene. This is an insult to the very concept of bathing. This bottle is the reason your entire gender has a bad reputation. I would be cleaner rolling around in dirt than using this.”

I stared at him in total disbelief as he ranted, wondering how I’d misjudged this so badly. Cleaner rolling around in dirt? He couldn’t be serious. Except I knew he was, because this was Ainsley. God, I should’ve known. 

“I’ve used that brand ever since I was sixtee—” I started to defend, but he cut me off, arching a brow.

“It doesn’t even lather properly, does it?”

I crossed my arms. “…It kinda lathers.”

Ainsley’s entire face twitched. “Kinda?”

“…Yeah?”

Maybe he was just cold from coming out of the shower into the air-conditioned apartment, but he started to shake, as if he was going to combust there on the spot. I could literally see him trembling. Uh-oh.  

“Babe, it’s just soap,” I tried again, stepping closer. “I put it on, I rinse it off, it works, okay? I smell good. Everyone says so.”

Ainsley threw the bottle across the room so hard it bounced off the counter. I flinched again.

“Who is everyone, Max?”

Then, before I could answer, he straightened with the air of a man who had made a firm, immediate decision. 

“No,” he announced. “No. Absolutely not. I cannot shower here. I am going home. You are taking me back to my dorm. Now.”

All of my smugness, my earlier gloating, my post-breakfast glow might as well have gone out the fucking window in that moment. Gone. As if it had never been. Ainsley wanting to shower somewhere else meant Ainsley wanted to leave, and the second I processed those words from him, the tightness in my chest that had been mysteriously absent threatened to return with a vengeance. Literal physical pain.

Really? He wanted to leave over my 5-in-1?  

Since coming to Ridgeline, I stayed patched up almost constantly, rarely by myself, but I could tell from the way that Ainsley’s nose wrinkled faintly that my scent was souring. Because I was getting upset. I could feel it, too—tension making my muscles stiff, my shoulders dropping into a pathetic stance.

I lowered my arms slowly, repeating what he’d said like maybe I’d heard him wrong. “…You wanna leave?” 

“Yes, because you are a literal caveman.”

He was so fucking blunt about it, like he couldn’t smell how fucked up I was getting over the entire thing, over the idea of him leaving. I exhaled sharply, fighting the urge to panic. “But I’m supposed to—”

I snapped my mouth shut at the last minute, wanting to say a million different things but knowing all of it was too much. Things like, You’re supposed to be comfortable here. You’re supposed to want to stay. You’re supposed to need me.

The thought of him leaving made me want to punch something. Myself, mostly, because again—how had I not foreseen this? I’d thought of literally everything else. I’d made sure that everything was perfect for him. Or at least, I’d thought I had. I’d stayed up for at least an hour after I’d put him to bed cleaning the apartment, I’d panic-ordered groceries, I’d cooked breakfast. 

My instincts roared, a full-body surge of wrong . I barely stopped myself from reaching out, from physically grabbing him and keeping him here where he was supposed to be. Where I wanted him.

This was failure. Ainsley leaving meant I had failed. So I tried the only thing I could think of.

“If I buy normal shampoo,” I said carefully, “will you stay?”

Just for a second, Ainsley froze. Just long enough for me to see it and hope—

But then he tilted his head at me and any hope I had died beneath the narrowed glare of his green eyes. “Do you really think that I use ‘normal’ shampoo, Max? No . I use a carefully curated, scientifically superior selection of high-quality products, while you, a man who bathes in 5-in-1 like a feral animal—”

His voice pitched higher as if he were disgusted with me and I ran a frustrated hand down my face. “Okay, damn, just—tell me what to buy.”

I’d buy the entire fucking store out if that was what it took. I’d get him a personalized shampoo concierge if it meant he’d stop looking at me like I was an unwashed sewer rat. I opened my mouth to tell him so, to offer up my credit card, my firstborn, my soul, but Ainsley was already turning away, disappearing back into the bedroom, still damp.

My fists clenched and I caught a glimpse of pale skin as he went, the towel shifting, exposing the dip of his lower back—

Fuck.

I froze mid-breath, mouth dry. What did it say about me that I wanted to throw him over my shoulder and take him back to bed and wreck him all over again? I could make him forget about shampoo in one point five seconds. Make him shake with something that wasn’t rage.

“No. You will take me to my dorm. Immediately.” The words were like a gut punch, stamping on my fantasies of whisking him back into pleasure land. Then: “Where are my clothes?”

They were in the fucking laundry. His shirt, at least, because his pants had been ruined and classified as deceased. But I couldn’t summon my voice to tell him so. All I could do was stand there, trying to reboot, trying to think of how I could fix this. I followed after him, entering the bathroom just in time to catch him drying off. 

Double fuck. My knees got weak and I leaned against the doorframe for support, staring at him. His shoulders. The sharp ridge of his spine. The way his towel dipped dangerously low. All the marks I’d left on him.

Before I could stop myself, my mouth blurted out, “Listen, you don’t have to go, okay? I’ll—”

Ainsley glanced over his shoulder at me and arched a brow. Arrogant as hell. I stared back at him helplessly. “Maxwell.”

I blinked, fully malfunctioning at this point, so caught between crisis mode and horny mode that I didn’t even know what my next move was supposed to be. He was such a little brat, part of me wanted to put him back in the shower and wash him in the entire bottle of 5-in-1 just to show him his skin wouldn’t fall off. 

His lips twitched into a smirk, frying my brain cells faster. The expression he wore was almost smug, like he had already won. Like he had me wrapped around his finger and I was too stupid to figure out how to free myself. Which, more than fair. Accurate, actually.

He fixed the towel around his hips and turned, leaning against the bathroom counter, raking green eyes over me like hot coals. "Do you even own a curl diffuser?" he asked, in the most devastating voice I’d ever heard. 

I stared at him, feeling every bit like a kicked, horny puppy. I was still upset at him wanting to leave, but I was officially hard as fuck in my sweatpants. Something about the way he was speaking to me right now and watching me—judging me and finding me lacking, was doing it for me. Like, bad. What the fuck was wrong with me and what the fuck was a curl diffuser?

“…A what?”

Ainsley’s smirk deepened, triumphantly. I could’ve palmed myself.

“Exactly.”

Chapter Text

Max’s truck was a monstrosity.

I hated it when I saw it, and I hated it even more now that I was sitting in it, sore in places I refused to acknowledge, while he drove like a geriatric grandmother.

We crawled towards my dorm, the engine obnoxiously loud and growling beneath us. The entire vehicle was excessive—too big, too loud, too unnecessary for anyone who didn’t spend their weekends herding cattle or committing highway war crimes. And of course Max drove it like he was doing both. 

Either he was trying to impress me with how aggressively useless the truck was or he was just naturally incapable of driving like a normal human being.

Again, both were plausible.

The worst part was that he was pouting. Actively. Shooting wounded glances at me when he thought I wasn’t looking, all big eyes and slouched shoulders, like a dog who just realized we weren’t going to the park.

I was not going to comment. In fact, I preferred the silence. Or at least, that was what I was telling myself as the words came out before I could stop them.

“You’re sulking,” I said flatly.

Max straightened up, as if defensive. “What? No, I’m just, uh—” He hesitated. “Thinking.”

I exhaled sharply. “God help us all.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of him scowling, but it wasn’t particularly threatening. The scar on his left eyebrow—the one I hadn’t paid much attention to before—only made it worse, splitting through the hair in a way that made him look even dumber. Like some kind of tragic, kicked golden retriever.

I pressed my lips together in a thin line and turned back to the window, shifting slightly in my seat. And wincing for it.

Every movement brought some sort of ache. The soreness was deep, settled into my muscles like a permanent fixture, a relentless and unnecessary reminder that I had made terrible choices in the past twelve hours.

As if the pain weren’t enough, there was also the dull, lingering throb between my legs, the phantom ache of Max’s hands, his mouth, his—

Cutting that thought off immediately, I suppressed the urge to rub my fingers against my temples. There should’ve been a stress headache building from everything that had happened, but there wasn’t. I was physically fine besides the soreness—no stress symptoms whatsoever. If anything, there was a strange sense of satisfaction pulsing through me, as if everything was perfectly fine.  

Except Max was pouting.

And I knew why. Even though he hadn’t admitted it.The scentbond that connected us was affecting him as much as it was me. Stronger than before, it manifested as an intense awareness of… well, him. It was almost like mind-reading, except I didn’t need to read his mind. The way he kept flexing his grip on the steering wheel, sneaking glances at me when he thought I wasn’t looking—it was embarrassingly obvious.

He was sulking and pouting over the idea of not being attached to me at the hip for the foreseeable future.

Ugh. My fingers curled into my lap, irritation bubbling up to override the guilt. “Relax,” I muttered. “You don’t have to drop me off and mourn my absence. We have a group tutoring session at eight.”

I didn’t even have to look at him to feel his reaction—I’d barely finished speaking before his entire aura shifted noticeably from kicked puppy to absurdly pleased in less than a second. “Oh, hell yeah. We do?”

“Yes,” I affirmed, not even trying to suppress my sigh this time. If he’d even bothered to look at the printout I’d given him of his academic recovery plan, I wouldn’t have had to say anything. 

“Nice.” Max drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, then shot me another glance. “Wait—group? As in, multiple people?”

“Yes, Max,” I said dryly, tamping down my wariness at his curiosity. “That’s typically what group means.”

He was grinning now. “Who’s gonna be there?”

“A few students. Some of the other tutors.” I chose not to elaborate on purpose, but Max either didn’t pick up it or didn’t care. He just hummed, nodding like I’d just told him we were going to a party instead of an academic support session.

I ignored him in favor of refocusing on my real priority: getting back to my dorm. The quick rinse I’d given myself in his shower had only been moderately sufficient—I desperately needed the grounding comfort of my normal routine, which included my own four walls, a scalding hot shower, with my shower products and my clothes. 

Apparently the clothes I’d worn last night had been as much a casualty as my dignity and I’d been forced to borrow a hoodie from Max, as well as a pair of his sweatpants. No matter how much I pulled the drawstring or adjusted the hood, the hoodie still hung off me like a child playing dress-up in their father’s clothes.

Not to mention he’d assured me both had been washed and yet they still smelled overwhelmingly like him, tormenting my nose with every shift I made in an attempt to get comfortable.

I just want to be home already.

We were on a perfectly clear, wide, empty road, yet Max was treating it like we were navigating an active war zone. His hands were tight on the steering wheel, his jaw set with determined stubbornness, as if he were supremely focused, and he was not speeding up. 

The speed limit was forty-five. We were going twenty-eight. Which made it official that I was going to die here.

Not from a car accident, obviously. That would require motion—something Max seemed utterly unwilling to commit to. No, my death would be slow and excruciating, a true psychological unraveling as he continued to drive like we were leading a funeral procession.

I dug my nails into my thighs, struggling against the very real urge to throttle him. Breathe. Just breathe. It’s fine.

It was not fine.

I stared at the dashboard, pulse spiking with every agonizingly slow mile. Every passing second felt like an eternity, a drawn-out exercise in my personal damnation.

“Max,” I ground out, my voice tight.

He didn’t even look at me. “Yeah, babe?”

I inhaled sharply, counted to three for patience’s sake, then exhaled through my nose. “Why are you driving like you’re trying to win the World’s Most Cautious Driver award?”

“Because you’re sore,” he answered cheerfully, mouth spreading in a slow smile. The way he said it was casual, pleased—with himself, like the knowledge of my soreness was some sort of personal achievement. 

My lip curled. I physically recoiled, pressing myself against the passenger door and snapping my head around to bestow him with the coldest glare possible. “Excuse me?” I hissed out.

Max shrugged, like he wasn’t actively ruining my life. “You’re sore, babe. So I’m driving nice and smooth.”

Nice and smooth.

Nice and smooth.

Like I was some fragile, delicate little thing who needed gentle handling. God, he was insufferable. I gripped the edge of my seat as pure mortification crawled up my spine and gritted out, “Max. I am not a porcelain doll.”

He cut me a sideways look, smile widening into a full-fledged smirk. “You kinda are, though. Like, a limited-edition one. Fancy.”

“Drive. The. Speed. Limit.” I growled at him.

Max shook his head. “Nope.”

“Max.”

“No.”

“Max, we are going twenty-eight. In a forty-five. If you don’t speed up, I swear to God—”

As if he’d done it a million times before, as if this were normal, Max reached over and squeezed my thigh. His hand engulfed it completely, burning me through the fabric of his sweatpants.

I stared at his hand with the same alarm that one might afford a particularly venomous snake. Another unwelcome reminder that absolutely no one needed of the way he’d gripped me last night.

“It’s okay, babe,” he said, voice infuriatingly soft. “We’ll get there.”

My eyelid twitched and the back of my neck went abruptly hot, the heat from his hand creeping up toward my ears. I could throw myself out of the car at this point to get away from him. Or I could simply combust into flames and take this entire obnoxiously oversized vehicle with me.

“This is humiliating,” I muttered, refusing to look at him. “This is actually the worst moment of my life.”

He snorted. “It’s cute that you think that. But, babe, we both know you’ve had worse moments.”

At that, I whipped my head around so fast my vision blurred, narrowing my eyes at him in challenge.

“Name one.”

The words slipped out without actual thought and I realized too late the mistake I’d made when Max slid me a sly glance, his smirk reappearing in earnest, eyes darkening a smug fraction. “Weeeell—” he started.

“Actually, shut up,” I cut him off hurriedly, warmth flooding my face. Spotting it, he laughed at me and I glared harder at him, hardening my tone. “Seriously, Vaughn. I just want to get home, it’s going to take me at least an hour to put myself back into some semblance of order, and you’re driving like you’re eighty-five years old.”

He paused, as if considering, and for a moment, I thought maybe I’d gotten through to him. But then he just gave a slow, purposefully exaggerated nod. “Exactly. Gotta be careful with my precious cargo.”

My blood pressure skyrocketed. I snapped my mouth shut before I could respond again—silence was better than ultimately losing whatever sliver of composure I had left. Which is exactly what would happen if I kept talking to him. My dignity had already been torn to shreds—more, I couldn’t afford. 

I lapsed back into my own head, resting my flushed cheek against the cool window. How had this become my life? My stomach twisted with equal parts irritation and something I didn’t want to name, thoughts dissolving into nerves, unsteady and uneven.

It’s just exhaustion, my brain tried to whisper. Just the lingering effects of a night spent indulging in something I never should have allowed in the first place. Unfortunately, I wasn’t naive enough to believe that.

Sitting with the aftermath of last night, actively remembering how I’d wanted him back, felt dangerous, like stepping onto a tightrope without a safety net, the ground below too far away to see.

It wasn’t just the sex. It wasn’t just the scentbond thrumming between us like a taut wire, vibrating with every inhale.

It was the pull. The sheer gravitational force of him.

Maxwell Vaughn was the walking embodiment of everything I’d worked so hard to avoid: unpredictable, overwhelming, and a constant threat to the control I clung to so desperately. A force of nature with no regard for order, for caution, for carefully laid plans. He moved through life with brute-force confidence, shouldering past barriers I’d spent years constructing with nothing but sheer will and an infuriating lack of self-preservation.

But for all his faults, I had to admit that Max was also… good. Surprisingly.. Earnest. Loyal in a way that bordered on maddening. When he cared about something, he threw himself into it completely, consequences be damned. And somehow, inexplicably, I’d become one of those things.

I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t know what to do with him. He was messy, loud, and entirely too much, but when he looked at me with those stupid, earnest eyes, I couldn’t bring myself to push him away.

Not completely, anyway.

Which was why, for the rest of the drive, Max’s hand remained on my thigh.

By the time we pulled up to my dorm, I was already halfway through mentally planning my post-Max rehabilitation. Step one: shower. Step two: process my life choices in absolute, undisturbed silence. Step three: pretend none of this ever happened.

Max followed me inside, hovering obnoxiously like he thought I was going to disappear if he blinked. I pushed him out of my way and towards the center of the room with a huff, already shedding the hoodie he’d loaned me. When he turned to look at me, his mouth practically fell open and I fixed him with a stern look, glowering.

“Sit.” I pointed at the desk chair. “And stay.”

Max sighed dramatically but obeyed, flopping down into the chair. “Fine. But if you take too long, I’m coming in anyway.”

Absolutely not was on the tip of my tongue but I bit it back, instead sharpening my glare before turning away from him and marching into the bathroom without another word. I locked the door behind me and it was my turn to sigh, the sound punching out from me. Relief, because finally, I had privacy. And comfort.  

The moment I stepped under the hot spray of the shower, the tension began to melt from my tired muscles. I took my time, slowly working through my carefully curated shower routine. Unlike Max’s abomination of a five-in-one product—I still could not process the sheer idiocy, but honestly I should have known—I had actual standards. A process.

I cleansed, exfoliated, conditioned. Took care of myself. By the time I stepped out, a towel wrapped around my waist, I was feeling significantly less homicidal. At least, until I opened the bathroom door and heard the words:

“Dude. You do not understand. I’m so down bad, it’s actually, like, a medical emergency.”

What.

I whipped my head out of the bathroom and saw that Max was no longer where I had left him. Instead, he was on my bed, his massive frame sprawled across its too-small mattress. I would’ve demanded that he remove himself from it immediately, except I was too busy wondering who the hell he was talking to, saying things like that. 

His shoulders were turned away from me and he had his phone pressed to his ear, voice low and conspiratorial. I froze to listen, water still dripping from my hair, suspicion panging inside me.

“Bro. I’m talking full cardiac arrest,” he was saying. “Like, my heart? Done. Dead. I think my dick and my soul swapped places.”

There was a beat of silence. Whatever the other person replied with, I couldn’t hear, but Max snorted. “I can’t, dude. His little legs were shaking this morning. I gotta give him, like, twelve hours to recover.”

Oh my God. My jaw dropped and a strangled noise left me before I could stop it, too loud. I expected Max to scramble up like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar—but of course he had zero self-preservation, so he simply turned his head to meet my gaze dead-on. A grin twitched at the edges of his lips, his conversation continuing uninterrupted.

“…Yeah, he’s good now. He just got out of the shower, so I’m gonna go, bro. Yeah, eight o'clock. Be there or be square.” 

To think that he was already yammering to people about what we’d done? Unacceptable. Dangerous, even. And he had the audacity to grin and be all casual about it, like it wasn’t a problem?

As I stood there, trying and failing to process for the millionth time that day, Max slid his phone back into his pocket, evidently having hung up. Our eyes remained locked and I knew my expression was thunderous, shocked, but I didn’t care to fix it. Then his eyes traveled down my body, flashing with heat as he took in the bruises and bites littering my skin.

“Hey, babe. How was your shower?”

I narrowed my eyes back at him. Do not scream. Do not grab the nearest object and hurl it directly at his stupid, smirking face. Composure. Dignity. Those were the things I had to channel. Not homicide, not maiming—

Two seconds was how long I lasted before I said to hell with both and launched myself across the room. I all but vaulted onto the bed, shoving Max back against the mattress with my forearm against his throat.

Max let out a surprised grunt, his hands automatically flying to my waist. “Jesus, sunshine—”

Grabbing one of his wrists, I twisted his arm down into a joint lock. Similar to the one I’d put on him when we’d first met and I’d thought he might’ve been an idiot—except this was a full one, because I knew now with certainty that he was an idiot and it was ruining my life. “ Who the hell were you talking to? ” I demanded icily.

Max hissed at the pressure, eyes going wide. “Babe—holy fuck, how do you—how do you know how to do this?”

I tightened my grip and he yelped, slumping facefirst into the mattress to try and relieve the pressure.

“Maxwell. Answer the question.”

Max blinked up at me, stunned. Then—horrifyingly—his lips curved into the same lazy smirk from before.

“Babe,” he drawled out, voice rough from the position I had him in, “if you wanted me on my back, you know all you had to do was ask—”

Where did he get his audacity from? Surely, no one person should have this much unearned confidence. I thinned my lips and pressed his wrist tighter, applying even more pressure to the joint. He howled and I had the satisfaction of watching his grin disappear completely.

“Okay, okay! Damn, you’re mean.”

“Who were you talking to?"

“Zach!” he whined out, squirming. I waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

I scowled. “Who the fuck is Zach?”

“Just a friend, okay?” Max squirmed harder and I made as if I intended to actually break his wrist, because that was still not a sufficient answer. “My best friend! Best friend, I fucking swear. I've mentioned him before, remember? Great guy. Receiver on the team. Chill, babe, I wasn’t, like, announcing it over the PA system—”

“Do you understand the concept of secrecy, Vaughn?” I snapped, pressing down just enough to make him tense beneath me.

Max huffed a breath, still watching me like I was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

“Chill, Ains. It’s Zach. He’s not gonna tell anyone.”

“That is not the point.”

Max laughed. Laughed , and the actual, physical restraint it took not to actually break his wrist in that moment came dangerously close to being more than I possessed. 

Honestly, I should have just broken it. But Max was thriving on this. I could see it in the way he was looking at me now—bright-eyed, flushed, annoyingly, infuriatingly turned on. Uttering a disgusted noise, I released his wrist only to shove my palm against his face, forcing him further into the mattress. 

“Listen to me carefully.” I leaned down, my grip firm on his face. Max’s breathing hitched. His eyes flicked to my mouth and my skin prickled, too hot, and even patched, the scent of him thickened in my lungs like suffocation, to the point that I had to ignore the way my body reacted to him, fully aware suddenly that I was clothed in nothing but a towel.

I gritted my teeth. No. Focus. This was important. He had to get this. If the wrong person found out somehow because Max had decided to tell a fellow idiot with a big mouth and word got back to the Tutor Council…

A sharp pulse of dread lanced through me at the thought, ice-cold and nauseating. My nails dug into Max’s scalp, unyielding and sharp—like I could physically force him to understand if I just held him still long enough. He couldn’t tell anyone. He couldn’t so much as breathe the wrong way about this outside of this room.

Because the Tutor Council didn’t make exceptions. 

I had built my reputation from the ground up—brick by painstaking brick, with no room for error. I wasn’t the highest-rated tutor at Ridgeline by accident. Perfect record. Flawless professionalism. Every evaluation, every commendation, every shred of respect I’d earned had been intentional. Calculated. Mine.

I hadn’t chosen to be a tutor out of some misguided sense of altruism or a desire to help struggling students. That was never the goal.

I’d done it to cement my future—to ensure that no matter how hard I worked, no one could ever question whether I deserved to be where I was. That no one could strip me of what I’d built under the guise of calling it luck, privilege, or worse—a mistake.

And if anyone even suspected I’d been compromised by an alpha—by a student I was tutoring—it wouldn’t matter how good I was. It wouldn’t matter that I was the best. All they would see was a reckless, unprofessional omega who had fucked his way into disgrace. Everything I’d worked for, gone. Just like that.

A muscle in my jaw twitched. No. Absolutely not. That couldn’t happen.

It wouldn’t happen.

I pressed down again, just enough to make Max wince. “Are you listening to me, Vaughn?”

His eyes flicked up to mine. And for once, he actually looked serious. No grin, no teasing, no goddamn smirk.

“…Yeah,” he murmured, voice quieter than before.

I stared at him, heartbeat hammering, lungs tight. He doesn’t understand yet. Not really. But I couldn’t explain—not now. Not to him.

So I shoved his face into the mattress instead.

I made sure my voice was low, as threatening as I could make it, as I continued. “I’m serious. If you ever want to come again, Max, you are not to tell anyone else about this. No one. Do you understand me?”

Max’s lips parted as if he wanted to say something and his hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to grab me. I wasn't actually disabling him anymore, wasn't digging my wrists into his pressure points. He was strong enough to free himself from the grip I held on his face.

But he didn't.

Instead, he stayed exactly where I'd put him, muscles tense beneath me, breath hot against my wrist. He wasn't resisting. He wasn’t fighting back. He was just still—his breathing hitched. Barely, just for a second. But I felt it. And I hated that I felt it.

More than that, I hated that I knew, in some terrible, instinctual way, that if I went just a fraction further—if I pressed down just a little more—he’d make a sound. A sound that a part of me wanted to hear. 

Just to remind myself that I was the one dictating this moment, I smushed his face harder, pressing my palm against the sharp edge of his jaw until I could feel the heat of his skin seeping through my fingers. “Say it.”

Max exhaled a sharp breath against the sheets, his body tense beneath me. The muscle in his jaw flexed under my palm, and for a second, I thought he was going to push back.

Then his throat bobbed, and in a voice that was rougher than before, he murmured, “I won’t tell anyone.”

I stared at him. Assessed. Decided that was sufficient—for now. Then I pulled away from him before he could say anything else, untangling myself from where I’d been straddling his stupid, massive body. My towel had barely stayed in place, but I secured it tightly again as I made a beeline for my closet.

My skin was still flushed and I pointedly ignored that fact. I needed to focus. Get dressed. Get out of this situation before Max somehow managed to make it worse.

Behind me, I heard the mattress creak as he shifted. “Babe,” he said, voice still a little rough. “Why do you know how to do that?”

I sighed, yanking open the top drawer of my dresser a little harder than necessary. “Because I took a class that taught me how to put idiot alphas like you down.”

There was a beat of silence.

It was mostly true. I had taken a class—not specifically about putting alphas down, but about self-defense in general. What Max didn’t need to know was that I’d been sixteen years old and I’d done it after I’d been cornered by some alpha twat in the hallway after destroying him in class. The instructors had been battle-hardened, progressive—and slightly unhinged—omegas with years of grudges against both alphas and betas.

Max let out a laugh, like he was delighted. “Oh my God. You took a class? To what—beat up alphas?”

I scowled and turned just enough to glare at him over my shoulder. “It was a self-defense class.”

“You trained? Fuck, sunshine. That’s so hot.”

Hardly. My jaw clenched and I threw a sock at him. It landed on his face, but he just beamed at me through the fabric before peeling it off. “You’re so mean to me.”

“You deserve it,” I muttered, shaking my head as I returned my attention to my clothing. I needed something normal. Something clean. Something that didn’t reek of Max.

Except.

As I grabbed my shirt, my stomach dropped. The mirror on my closet door reflected a nightmare.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I’d seen the bite marks and the bruises briefly in his apartment, in his bathroom, but somehow they looked worse now. They were everywhere. Some deepening into angry shades of red and violet, others stark against my skin.

I dropped the towel to get a better idea of the damage, examining my throat, my shoulders, the curve of my hips, and exhaled in fresh irritation when I saw that there wasn’t a single part of me that had escaped unscathed.

Worse , the marks on my neck were impossible to ignore. A collection of territory claims.

Max whistled lowly behind me, and I snapped my head back around, murder in my gaze.

“Damn, babe.” He was grinning as he sat up, raking his eyes over me. “I really went to town, huh?”

I inhaled sharply through my nose. “Shut up.”

Max, not shutting up, continued. “We should do a full body inventory. Just to be thorough.”

He scooted towards the end of the bed to squint at me and I rolled my eyes, turning away with my fingers twitching at my sides. I wanted to throw my entire dresser at him.

Instead, I grabbed the highest-collared shirt I owned and yanked it on, but even then, the fabric didn’t quite hide everything. A few marks peeked out just beneath my jaw.

There was no way that I was wearing a scarf in the middle of the day in California.

I stomped to the bathroom and pulled out a stick of concealer, jaw tight as my fingers clenched around it like a weapon. This is fine. Fixable.

Uncapping the concealer, I dabbed it over the worst of the bruises with clinical precision. Not too much, just enough to neutralize the red, tone down the edges, fade the evidence into something less obvious. It wouldn’t cover everything completely, but at least it wouldn’t look like I’d been mauled by an overenthusiastic alpha with the self-control of a feral raccoon.

I’d barely finished the first layer when I heard Max’s voice echo obnoxiously through my dorm.

“Okay, babe, so like—how do these group tutoring sessions work?”

I gritted my teeth. “They work in silence.”

“But, like, is it just people showing up and you answering their questions?”

“Essentially,” I answered, tilting my head in the mirror. “Students can drop in, no appointment required, and get assistance with whatever subject they’re struggling with. A lot of people come in to review before midterms or finals, but we hold sessions throughout the semester so no one has an excuse to fall behind.”

Max hummed thoughtfully. “Who are the other tutors?”

My reflection stared back at me, visibly unimpressed. Why was he so interested? “Francis and Colby are covering today’s session with me.”

“Are they as good as you?”

I rolled my eyes. “No one is as good as me.” I swiped another layer of concealer under my jaw before adding, “Francis is an omega polysci major. Everyone assumes we’re rivals, but we operate in two different fields, so the competition is largely imagined.”

“And Colby?”

“An alpha. Chemistry major. Efficient, quiet.” I paused, ignoring Max’s thoughtful hum and narrowing my eyes critically at my handiwork. The concealer had done its job, but I was still hyper-aware of what it hid. 

Refusing to dwell on it, I shoved the concealer stick back into the drawer and left the bathroom. Max was still on my bed, sprawled out on his back with his arms crossed behind his head. His gaze was heavy-lidded but nonetheless intense as he watched me move around.  I ignored him, reaching for my satchel to double-check that I had everything I needed for the day.

It appeared I did, but even so, I hesitated. Because—what if? With a quiet exhale, I turned back, reentered the bathroom, and grabbed the concealer again.

No harm in bringing it. Just in case.

When I stepped back out, I barely had time to react before Max was there suddenly, intercepting me like a six-foot-four roadblock. I opened my mouth to snap at him, except my back met the wall and he loomed over me, one broad hand flattening beside my head. My breath caught, the proximity short-circuiting my already frayed patience.

His eyes locked onto my throat, his smirk lazy, knowing.

"Aw, babe," Max drawled, voice low, amused. "You covered them up?"

I gritted my teeth.

"Obviously," I bit out, white-knuckling the concealer stick. "Some of us have reputations to maintain."

Max made a humming noise, tilting his head as if studying me. His gaze flicked over my neck, taking in the perfectly blended concealer, the crispness of my freshly ironed clothes. Then, infuriatingly, his grin widened.

"You look all polished, sunshine," he mused. "Except I know exactly what’s under all that."

My entire body locked up.

Heat surged down my spine, rage and something else crawling beneath my skin. He knew. That was the worst part. He knew. Every inch of proof that I’d erased, every bite, every mark—he remembered them perfectly.

"Get back," I hissed, shoving against his chest to dislodge him. Of course he didn’t budge.

"Hey, relax," Max said casually. "By the way—I invited Zach to the tutoring session."

I froze, going still as I struggled to process the words past the way my body was lighting up from his proximity. "You what?" I managed in a thin voice.

Max grinned down at me, unbothered. "I invited Zach."

Zach. His best friend. Who knew about everything from last night, thanks to Max, including every humiliating detail, from how my legs had shook to how much recovery time I was allegedly going to receive. My jaw clenched so tightly it could’ve cracked.

Great. Fantastic. 

"...Lovely," I said, dangerously calm.

Max’s grin only widened and he leaned forwards, not-so-subtly sniffing at me. "You’re gonna love him."

I sincerely doubted that and I was going to say as much, except before I could even string the words together, Max shifted—crowding me closer, tilting his head like he was considering something.

Then he kissed me.

I barely processed it. One second I was brimming with rage, and the next—heat. His mouth against mine, warm and sure, his hand skating down to rest at my hip, fingers curling in the fabric of my shirt. There was nothing tentative about it. No hesitation. No waiting for permission. Just heat—sharp, deliberate, cocky. Like he already knew how this was going to end.

God, I hated how good Max was at short-circuiting my brain like this. How his lips could press against mine just right, how I could already feel the pull low in my stomach, a familiar ache winding through me despite my irritation. I was not going to give in. I was not going to kiss him back.

The scentbond purred in stupid satisfaction and I grabbed his stupid shirt before I could stop myself, yanking him down. His noise of surprise was swallowed by the way I kissed him back, hard, aggressive, all teeth and frustration.

It was a battle.

I let my teeth graze his lower lip, biting just enough to make him grunt. His hand flexed at my hip, fingers tightening, like he was trying to ground himself. I pushed back against his cocky fucking confidence, letting my tongue trace the seam of his lips—

Max made a sound. Low, wrecked. The kind of sound that made my stomach flip, my head spin, the scentbond sparking stronger as his hand slid up my back, dragging me closer, deepening the kiss.

I could feel him smiling against my mouth, the absolute fucking audacity of it, like he knew I was unraveling, like he knew I couldn’t stop myself.

So I bit him again.

Harder.

Max hissed, gripping me tighter, grinding his hips against mine, and I had half a second to realize—fuck, this is getting out of hand, this is getting dangerous, I am supposed to be pissed, I am not supposed to be enjoying this—

He pulled back. Like I was supposed to.

Abrupt. Calculated.

I snapped my eyes open, furious, dazed, already reaching for him again. Max, grinning, panting slightly, just swiped his thumb over my swollen bottom lip, amusement flashing dark behind his gaze.

"Mm," he hummed, smug as hell, taking a step back. Then, with the most casual, obnoxiously infuriating tone imaginable, he added, "I need to use the bathroom."

I stared in disbelief as he gently nudged me out of his way and disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. I was going to kill him.

Right after I figured out how to breathe again.

Chapter Text

If the first floor of the library was nerd camp, then the second floor was nerd heaven—where the Tutor Council Study Hall was located.

I’d never stepped foot in the library at all before I’d met Ainsley, much less given a shit about what was on its second floor. I was shocked as hell, following him up to where it was sectioned off from the rest of the building like some elite fortress for smartypants.

Everything about it screamed pretentious—from the glass-paneled walls that gave it a we're always watching vibe to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that might as well have been giant trees.

The lighting was too bright. The furniture was too neat. And the air smelled like paper, ink, and people trying too hard.

There were designated workstations, each set up with fancy little power outlets and probably, like, emergency existential crisis pamphlets or some shit. The long tables were arranged in precise rows—no cozy corners, no comfy couches, just straight-backed chairs meant to keep you painfully aware of your own failures.

At the front of the room, there was a massive whiteboard and a long-ass table. And because of course, plastered right by the entrance, was a giant laminated sign full of threats disguised as rules. I read the first line and stopped after the phrase intellectual advancement. Jesus Christ. 

I glanced at Ainsley, who had lapsed into his little stuck-up professional persona as soon as we’d left his dorm and was already straightening his satchel like he was about to perform brain surgery instead of helping people with their homework.

The second I came out of his bathroom, he’d been real chatty. Angry chatty, almost as if he were trying to distract me from how he’d caved into my kisses. He’d started giving me an earful about how the group tutoring sessions were not hangouts, how I shouldn’t have just invited Zach without asking him first, yada yada.

Like the gentleman provider I was, I’d tried to carry his satchel for him and he’d threatened to rip out my ACL. Fucking harsh. Also hot.

Things between us had been mostly silent since then, with me deciding to just let him stew, but now he grabbed my sleeve, literally yanking me out of my thoughts by suddenly pulling me to the side, and hitting me with one of the most serious, terrifyingly professional look I’d ever seen on his stupidly gorgeous face. Like he was about to brief me for a military op instead of a nerd convention.

"Listen to me, Vaughn," he said, low and clipped. "There are rules."

I rolled my eyes, because really? We were last-naming again? "Babe, come on—"

His glare could have turned me to dust.

"Rule one," he snapped, interrupting me, "do not call me anything other than my name. No pet names, Vaughn. I mean it. You either call me Ainsley or Kerrigan. I don’t care which."

A dramatic groan ripped out of me before I could stop it. I mean, that was fair, but… I’d been calling him pet names all morning and for even longer in my head. He might not have liked it—yet—but he was my babe. My baby. My sunshine. My sweetheart. The love of my life. 

"Rule two," he continued, completely ignoring me, "for the love of God, focus on your worksheet."

"I always focus on my worksheet," I defended, outright lying.

He glared at me harder. "Rule three, do not speak to me unless it is about the worksheet."

Jesus, he was really into this worksheet business. "Okay, that feels a little extreme—" I started to protest, pouting, but he cut me off.

"Rule four, do not speak to anyone."

I blinked. "At all?"

"At all," Ainsley confirmed, crossing his arms over his chest. I wondered if he realized what a little tyrant he was being. I mean, the fact that he actually thought I was capable of any of what he’d just said was adorable. Like, yeah, I was totally gonna sit here in total fucking silence like some kind of homework monk.

Still.

I licked my lips, nodding slowly, forcing myself to look serious and obedient, because I wasn’t an idiot—I knew how much this shit mattered to him. And I really, really wanted him to know I could take it seriously.

"Got it, sunshine," I murmured, dropping my voice low. "I promise I’ll behave."

For half a second—barely even a full breath—I swore I saw something flash in his green eyes. But then, just like that, his expression hardened back into cold, professional indifference.

"See that you do," he muttered, stepping away. Leaving me standing there, adjusting my dick in my jeans like a fucking sap.

Blowing out a deep sigh, I dragged a hand down my face, bracing myself. I already knew—this tutoring session was going to suck. But I had no choice. I had to take it seriously, bcause this morning, Ainsley had said the words, Maybe I'll fuck you again if you get your grades up.

Okay, so maybe he hadn’t said it exactly like that, but he’d for sure implied it. Which meant—I was about to become a goddamn scholar. Starting now. Right now. 

I wasn’t dumb. I could do this, if I really tried. After all, I’d aced my last calculus exam thanks to Ainsley’s help, and I’d meant it when I’d told him that he was the only person I’d met who had ever made me feel like I could be more than football.

More than just a dumb jock.

Lost in my thoughts, I turned the wrong way—because obviously, I had no fucking clue where I was going in this nerd fortress—and before I could even correct myself, Ainsley just reappeared and steered me with a flick of his fingers. “This way.”

I squinted at him but followed, grumbling under my breath. This place was intentionally designed to make people like me feel stupid.

Then we came to a little tucked-off nook, and there were already two guys sitting at the front tables. The first guy barely registered. Not because he was forgettable—his hair was the brightest red I’d ever seen—but because he wasn’t trying to take up space.

He was an alpha, I could tell from his scent, but he had this real… chill, non-threatening energy, his nose practically buried in a book. He didn’t say a word when we walked up—just glanced up, nodded in greeting, and went back to whatever he was reading.

Okay. Cool guy. No complaints.

The second guy, though… I clocked him immediately. He didn’t look aggressive or like he wanted to fight, but he definitely was the sort who seemed like he expected you to give a shit about who he was. Rich nerd alert. 

If I had to guess, he was the old-money “I have a family crest” legacy sort. I’d met a thousand guys like him before. Sharp jawline, perfect blond hair, ridiculously expensive clothes that were probably custom-tailored. And he was just sitting there, leaned back in his chair like he owned the place, watching us with pale blue eyes.

More specifically—watching me, glancing between me and Ainsley like he thought something was vastly funny. Unfortunately for him, I wasn’t offended, or impressed—I walked right up to him and held my fist out for a bump, grinning.

"Yo, what’s up, man?"

He did not fist bump me back. Instead, he blinked once, slow, eyeing my hand like it was potentially diseased. Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose and murmured in a slightly accented voice, "Ah. You must be Maxwell Vaughn. Tell me… how is the bench treating you?"

Not gonna lie, I had to take a moment—that was like, real personal. Almost like he was trying to piss me off or something. But nah. No way. He was probably just a fan, dealing with the grief. So I made myself get down on his level, kneeling onto the floor in front of him.

“Aw, buddy. Listen, even the greats gotta take some time off once in a while, okay? It’s about longevity. Strategy. Rest is just as important as action.” I told him seriously, placing a hand on his knee. “I’ll be back soon, alright? Stronger than ever. But, hey, listen—if you’re really feeling bad about it, I could throw you like a football to cheer you up.”

He went as stiff as a statue under my hand and gave me the most unblinking stare I’d ever gotten in my life, like he couldn’t believe I was real. Figured. I smirked and kept going.

“You wouldn’t even be a dime. You’d be a whole-ass quarter. Tight spiral. Good air time. Maybe even a perfect arc.” I flexed my arm in front of his face. "Or—hey—you wanna feel my arm? It’s fucking solid, dude. Like, I was just in the gym, but I swear tutoring has been giving me even more gains. My muscles have brains now."

He leaned away from me, his nose wrinkling. Poor guy was overwhelmed. “I will not be touching you. Kerrigan, control your pet.”

“Honestly, that’s fair. You’d probably pass out.” I got back to my feet and glanced at Ainsley to see how mad he was, except he wasn’t even looking at me, but I swore he was smirking. He had locked eyes with the blond; the two of them were staring at one another, hard, like some sort of battle of wills.

“Vaughn,” he finally said, evenly. “This is Francis Devereux.”

I opened my mouth to make a joke but Ainsley went on before I could voice it, gesturing to the red-haired alpha. “And that’s Colby Bishop,” he added. “They’re seniors on the Tutor Council.”

I nodded slowly at both of them. “So you guys are like, the other nerds. Cool. Ainsley’s told me so much about you.”

“Interesting. Please, define ‘so much’,” Francis deadpanned, dragging his gaze away from Ainsley and tilting his head in my direction.

“That was a lie, actually,” I said, grinning sheepishly. “Honestly, I thought the Tutor Council was just like… the Kerrigan Council. Like a front.”

A tiny smirk twitched on his full lips. “A front. For what, exactly?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Some kind of secret academic society where he makes all the rules. Like… the nerd Illuminati?”

Colby, still nose-deep in his book, made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Francis, however, was not amused. His gaze flickered to Ainsley, a subtle arch of his brow betraying just the faintest hint of smugness.

“Kerrigan,” he murmured, voice desert-dry, “you have really kept him in the dark, have you not? It is adorable how clueless you are, Maxwell. You think the Tutor Council is just tutoring? Non. We have been shaping global intellectual policy for decades.”

I stared at him, trying to figure out if he was fucking with me or not. Somehow, he looked completely serious. “Wait, really? Holy shit. Do you guys control, like… the economy?”

Francis’ smirk widened. “Only the academic economy.”

“Like… students loans?”

“Stop encouraging him,” Ainsley snapped from where he was setting up his laptop. “I don’t have time to undo whatever bullshit you’re feeding him.”

“Mmm. You wouldn’t, would you?” Francis clicked his tongue and I had a feeling I was missing something, watching the way his gaze lingered too sharp on Ainsley. It was almost like they had beef… or something. Like he was trying to annoy him on purpose. And it was working, because Ainsley glared at him. 

At first, I smirked. Then I stopped, realizing I was annoyed. That it bothered me to see someone else trying to get a rise out of Ainsley—because that was my job. I wanted to be the only one who annoyed him. 

I wanted to growl at this fucking Francis guy. Fan or not. To tell him to… back off or something. But I couldn’t.

Okay, okay. Play it cool.

Instead of biting Francis’ head off, I went to sit right next to Ainsley, grinning at how he was still resolutely refusing to look at me. We hadn’t even started on tutoring and he already looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but here. Too bad I knew the truth.

I was still thinking of something to say to infuriate him even more when I heard heavy footsteps and I turned, expecting to see Zach’s dumb ass swaggering in. Instead, I had to blink. And blink again, because there was no way I was seeing correctly.

Beckett. The Beckett. Ridgeline’s tiny, perpetually furious campus gym manager.

He was already glaring at me and letting out the biggest sigh, his tiny shadow tracking over the ground as he strode towards where Colby sat.

I squinted at him, trying to compute his presence. His hair wasn’t in its usual neat ponytail—instead it was in the messiest bun I’d ever seen and there were two pens stabbed into it, like he’d jammed them in there and forgotten about them completely.

“Dude,” I blurted, eyebrows shooting up. “What the fuck are you doing here? You go here?”

He didn’t even look at me, instead slouching into the seat beside Colby and yanking his laptop out aggressively. “Nah, I just show up to random lectures and take tests for fun.”

I fake-winced. “Not gonna lie, I thought you were like some kinda angry gym NPC.”

“Of course you did. Fucking dumbass.”

His tone was so hateful that I found myself looking at Ainsley, to see if he’d picked up on it and might have a reaction. And he did—he looked up at Beckett, gave a tiny little smirk, and nodded. In approval. More than that, it was familiar approval. As if the two of them knew each other.

No. No, that made zero fucking sense. That was like finding out my grandma did underground cage fighting. That was like discovering Ainsley secretly worked out. That was—

"What the fuck," I finally said, because it was the only thought my brain was capable of forming. There was no way that my little nerd knew gym gremlin Beckett Holloway. I mean, they were both omegas but I wasn’t an idiot enough to assume that meant anything.

I reached out, rapping my knuckles on the table in front of Ainsley to get his attention. “Have you ever tutored him?” I demanded.

“Holloway is an exceptional student.” Ainsley flicked a supremely uninterested glance at me, his voice dripping with disdain. “Unlike you.”

Then, I kid you not, he went right back to ignoring me. As if I didn’t exist. Like I hadn’t just spoken to him, directly, in English, with words. Doing some shit on his laptop that surely to God could not involve that much typing. He was fake-typing. What the fuck was he even writing? A novel?

Also, where the fuck was the guy who had been clawing at my shoulders and gasping my name last night? Erased, apparently. Now he was acting like I was just another one of his dumbass students, sitting here at his mercy, waiting to be enlightened by his big beautiful genius brain.

I wondered if it was because we were in front of his little nerd brigade. I also wondered if he really thought I gave a shit that he was being all mean, because newsflash: I did not. In fact, I had to reach down and adjust myself in my pants because I was actively getting hard just thinking about it. 

Just to annoy him, I leaned in, squinting at his laptop. “You’re fake-typing.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he exhaled through his nose and typed faster. 

“You so are,” I accused, nudging him. It was like nudging a fucking brick wall. Didn’t even budge. Didn’t even flicker. He was immune to me. "What are you even typing?"

"Your eulogy," he muttered.

I blinked. Damn. Harsh. But sexy. So fucking sexy.

Before I could respond, he sighed—one of those long, world-weary ones, the kind that suggested I had personally shaved years off his life. “The minutes, Vaughn. I’m typing the minutes for the session.”

He might as well have just said, 'I’m communicating with ghosts', because what the fuck did that even mean? I frowned at him, brain buffering. “The huh?”

"The minutes," Ainsley repeated slowly and goddamn if I didn’t love his tone, the way he was speaking to me like I was a child. "A formal written record of what happens during the session."

I still didn’t get it. I squinted harder, as if that would somehow help. “Oh, cool. You’re doing the minutes.”

"So like… are you doing the seconds, too?" I tried again, tilting my head. 

Ainsley’s hands paused over the keyboard. His entire body visibly tensed, like he was physically restraining himself from committing a violent crime.

A snort floated over from where Francis sat. “Oh, darling,” he drawled slowly. “That was exquisite. Tes neurones doivent être au bout de leur vie.”

Oh, shit. He was French? That explained… a lot. Actually. The stupidly expensive watch. The way he spoke like he was about to file a lawsuit. The fact that he hadn’t fist-bumped me back. Yeah. Yeah, it's all tracked now. Francis. France. Ha.

But I didn’t care enough to comment. I only had eyes for Ainsley and the way he mouthed 'I hate you' at me. Also, I could feel the weight of Beckett’s eyes on me, fully disgusted.

“No seconds. Got it. Cool.” I grinned and leaned in even more, determined to make him crack at least a little. Then the sound of voices drew my attention and I looked up to see Zach, already hyped to the gills for no reason at all, sauntering in with a slender, fancy-looking dark-haired guy glued to his side.

The other guy had a head full of dark curls, dark eyes, and coffee-toned skin armed with expensive-ass, shiny-ass jewelry, rings flashing as he moved his hands wildly, chattering a mile a minute like they’d known each other forever. Nothing nerdy about him whatsoever—he smelled like an omega with money.

I didn’t know who the fuck he was, but the second I saw Ainsley’s actual physical reaction to him—shoulders tensing, lips pressing into a thin line, the faintest hint of primal suffering in his eyes—I knew that he had to be some sort of menace. My kind of guy. Which meant that he was Ainsley’s worst kind of guy.

And he was talking loudly. With flair.

"—I am telling you, cariño, if that overgrown linebacker thinks he can stake his claim on me, he is deeply mistaken—"

Zach cackled. "Oh, dude, you’re so fucked. Way too late. I don’t know what you did to him, but he’s obsessed with you. Like, calling you his omega and everything. He’s ready to commit a crime for you."

I watched as the omega threw his hands up, dramatically. "Obsessed! Exactly! It is a problem. I cannot go anywhere without feeling his eyes on me! Like a very large, very stupid shadow."

“They’re all large and stupid,” Beckett muttered darkly.

"Bro,” Zach was grinning from ear to ear, fully in his element. “Brody’s gonna put a damn tracker on you at this rate."

My eyes narrowed and I wondered if I was hearing things for a minute. Because… our Brody? The most laid-back dude on the team, Brody? Brody, who never fought for anything except a second helping at the team cookout. Brody, who’d said ‘Eh, she’ll come back if she wants to’ when his last girlfriend left him after saying he was too intense.

Our big, southern Brody was down bad for an omega too? For this guy? Who looked like he’d rather walk into the ocean than deal with him? Oh my God. 

"I would simply perish,” the dark-haired guy declared. “I would rather die. He’s going to have to catch me first and I—"

I choked out a laugh and mid-rant, his dark brown gaze snapped to me, smirk going sharp in the same way Francis’ had. I grinned back at him. Was he gonna be a little shit, too? I could take it.

But instead of saying anything, he turned his head and his gaze flicked to Ainsley. One perfect eyebrow arched.

Ainsley exhaled through his nose, visibly vibrating. He’d stopped typing and was gripping the edge of the table as if for some sort of support. Maybe to keep himself from exploding into legos or whatever smart people did when they were overwhelmed.

"Oh," Theo purred, dragging the word out like he was savoring it. "So this is the Maxwell Vaughn.”

“One and only,” I saluted, flexing for no reason besides that I was him. Me. The Maxwell Vaughn. Something about hearing so many people say my full name in one day was really doing something to me.  

“Theo,” Ainsley gritted out. “What are you doing here?”

“Gruñón, why that tone? I’m here for your genius, of course.” The guy—Theo—went to sit on the other side of Ainsley, throwing an arm around him and planting a dramatic kiss on his cheek. I barely suppressed laughter, watching Ainsley shudder and wrench away.

“You’re here to annoy me,” he said flatly. “While I’m working.”

“You wound me. I missed you. Although…” Theo pulled back, dragging his gaze pointedly over Ainsley’s neck before leaning in to whisper something in his ear. Whatever he said, Ainsley turned a shade I had never seen before. From the way the other omega looked right at me as he whispered, I could tell that he knew.

Oh fuck. He knew. I had no idea how. Maybe he’d somehow seen the marks? My grin got so fucking wide it hurt my cheeks, pride swelling in my chest instantly. Theo gripped his shoulders, chattering non-stop.

“Ainsley, mi amor, mi vida. My dearest friend in this cold, cruel world—”

Ainsley immediately closed his eyes, exhaled through his nose, and looked like he was seriously considering getting up and leaving. Or just deadass withering away.

“—You aren’t going to introduce me? How tragic. After all we’ve been through?” Theo tsked, pouting.

I fucking liked this dude. I leaned into Ainsley’s space, towards Theo, and held out a fist for a bump. “Dude, I didn’t know Ainsley had friends.”

Theo, laughing like this was the best moment of his life, tapped his knuckles against mine, then clasped my hand with both of his. “His best friend,” he corrected me primly. 

Best friends? I turned to Ainsley, widening my eyes comically. “Sunshine. You have a best friend?”

“Yes,” Theo confirmed, still holding my hand, either oblivious to the way Ainsley’s jaw was clenching or not caring. “And yet, he does not claim me. A tragedy. I am but an abandoned soul—”

“Theo,” Ainsley cut in warningly, nostrils flaring. He yanked our hands apart with force.

Theo purred. “Yes, mi vida?”

“Go. Sit. Down. Away from me. Now.”

Theo winked at me before sighing dramatically and standing, sauntering to sit… across from Ainsley on the other side of the table. It wasn’t away at all, and I respected the hell out of his audacity. Gave him a thumbs-up.

“What’s up with all these books?” Zach asked too loudly, dropping into the seat next to me and clapping my shoulder roughly. I turned towards him and we both stuck out a hand at the same time. Except neither of us moved much, so the dap barely had any impact—just a sad little clap followed by the weakest shake known to man.

Still, we leaned back like we’d just pulled off the sickest play of all time. “Crisp,” I nodded, proud. 

“Clean,” Zach agreed, grinning, despite the fact that it was absolutely neither of those things. God, I was so fucking glad he was here.

“Fucking fantastic to see you, bro.” Then, because I had to know, I asked, “What the hell were you saying about Brody with Ainsley’s bestie?”

Zach dragged a hand over his face and winced, blowing out a breath. “Dude. It’s bad. Like—”

“I’m sorry,” Ainsley cut in, voice sharp. “But did both of you somehow miss the giant sign that says this is not a social club? Also, Vaughn, I could have sworn we had a discussion specifically regarding rules. Or was that some other giant idiot I wasted my breath on?”

Oops. I immediately backtracked. Or tried to. “Uh, no, bab—uh, sunshine. I mean, Ainsley. That was definitely me, I just—sorry. Won’t happen again. Promise.”

Ainsley’s eyes went murderous and I started sweating a little bit, because wow, my dick was fully hard when he looked at me like that. Meanwhile Zach’s eyes went to the giant sign in question, a duplicate of the first one I'd seen, where it screamed in bold letters: ACADEMIC ADVANCEMENT ONLY. NO DISTRACTIONS. NO EXCEPTIONS.

“Wow. Intense as hell,” Zach muttered.

Then he looked back at me. We both sat in silence for half a second before Zach leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper like we were exchanging classified information.

“Dude. Brody has fully lost it. He’s fully gone. Apparently he’s been following him around and cockblocking him. Wants to take him back to the farm. ”

I inched closer to him, my brows shooting up as I fought a laugh. I could picture it way too easily—Theo, decked out in his shiny rings and expensive-ass fashion, pinned under Brody’s arm like a pissed-off designer handbag, thrashing wildly as Brody carried him off to the nearest horse.

“No fucking way,” I whispered back. “Like, to his face?”

Zach nodded gravely. “To his face. With his whole chest. And Theo? Dude, I just met him, but he looks like he wants to take a restraining order and staple it to Brody’s forehead.”

I sucked in a breath. “Ohhhh, fuck.” 

But even as I said it, something about the whole situation nagged at me, like I was just now realizing I’d been left out of the group chat for something I used to have front-row seats to.

How the fuck had I missed all of this?

Suddenly I was reminded of how much being benched felt like a wormhole, sucking me into an existence devoid of everything I’d once thought was important. Two weeks ago, I would’ve been the first to know about this sort of shit. Now I was finding out second-hand in some crazy alternate reality version from Zach.

“Vaughn.” Ainsley made a sound like he was physically restraining himself from strangling me. “Check your phone.”

I started, blinking as I realized I’d zoned out for a second. My phone? I’d put it on silent like a good boy before we’d walked in. But I obediently pulled it out of my pocket to see a text notification. From Ainsley.

You are not following the rules. Do you even want tutoring? Should I cancel tonight’s session?

For a moment, I just stared down at the words on the screen, trying to remember how to breathe past how my chest had gone all tight and achy. Okay, fair, I was not following the rules. The rules were dumb, though. Like, I was just a man. But cancel tonight’s session? Like… not see Ainsley one-on-one tonight?

That was cruel.

Slowly, I looked up, to find Ainsley staring at me with the most smug expression of all time. Because he knew he had me. Another text came through and I glanced at it, helplessly.

Follow the rules. 

Unfortunately, Zach was watching the entire thing. Reading the texts right over my shoulder. “Bro, that is sick. You are so fucking whipped. You and Brody need to start a support club for Alphas Down Bad for Mean Omegas.” He scoffed.

I opened my mouth to answer automatically and had just remembered to snap it back shut when Ainsley interrupted smoothly, flattening a hand over my phone screen. He inadvertently pressed it into my thigh and technically, he wasn’t touching me directly, but I still bit back a noise.

I was pathetic.

“McAllister,” Ainsley said, narrowing his eyes at Zach. “Vaughn said you need assistance with your Sports Finance homework, correct?”

“Uh, yeah. They want me to create a budget and I don’t really know where to start. Like, the assignment says I have like four million from investments, but I’ve had twenty bucks in my bank account for the past three years.”

Ainsley actually smiled. “I’m sure Devereux would be happy to explain for you. Go sit with him. Over there.”

“Who?” Zach said. Ainsley pointed at Francis who sat well away from where we were. He’d been scrolling boredly on his phone and crooked a finger at Zach without looking at him. Zach looked at me.

“Dude, you can’t help me? I don’t want to move,” he whined, throwing an arm around my shoulder. “Yeah, I might failing Sports Finance, but I really came for Vaughnsley.”

“Excuse me?” Ainsley’s smile vanished in an instant and I shoved Zach off me, gesturing for him to shut the fuck up.

True to form, Zach did not shut the fuck up. He just kept going, grinning wider and wider like he thought he was being hilarious. “Do you like Vaughnigan better? Maxsley? Ainswell? Kerriwell?”

Ainsley was vibrating again, but he was staring dead into my eyes while doing it and I was getting really scared. Like what if he actually burst into pieces in front of me?

Francis, meanwhile, had finally looked up. He was watching Zach with mild amusement now, his perfectly coiffed blond head tilted to the side. 

"McAllister," he crooned, voice smooth as silk. "Viens à moi, stupide chéri. Come along. Now."

Zach turned to look at him, freezing like a deer in headlights. froze like a deer in headlights. Francis arched an eyebrow.

"Oh, do not make me say it twice."

“Did you just call me stupid?” Zach demanded, rising to his feet with all the energy of an offended labrador and bounding over to where Francis sat. “Because, not gonna lie, all I heard was ‘hon hon baguette’—”

A loud yelp echoed through the room and Zach went completely silent. Alarmed, I turned to try and see what had happened, but Ainsley slapped a worksheet down in front of me with violent force.

“Eyes on me, Vaughn,” he commanded, green eyes narrowed into thin, glittering slits behind his glasses. He was pissed.

I didn’t try and turn around again. Sorry not sorry, Zach.

Half an hour later, I was following the rules like I had invented them. 

For once in my entire college life, I was reading my goddamn biology textbook, highlighting words like I knew what they meant, putting in the effort. I was locked in. Focused. Trying my best.

And yet, still breaking my entire spine. Over biology.

Unfortunately, it was too late to get back into Ainsley’s good graces with good behavior—I had really pissed him off and he was really making me pay for it.

I was on worksheet number two. Out of three. The first one, I’d finished it in record time. Except Ainsley hadn’t been anywhere near impressed—he’d just put a second one in front of me. The questions were still biology-related, but it was a nightmare.

The room was filled to the brim with other students now, which made me feel slightly better to know I wasn’t the only one suffering. Every fifteen minutes, a little bell chimed and each student rotated to the back of their damnation queue.

I did not rotate. I remained with Ainsley. Except I didn’t have his full attention—every time the bell went off, someone else was on his opposite side, asking him questions. Taking him from me. I had to grit my teeth and remind myself that I was not allowed to monopolize my tutor’s attention, I was not allowed to monopolize my tutor’s attention—

Describe the two steps of protein synthesis, the worksheet in front of me demanded.

I tried. I really did. I knew what protein was. And I knew what synthesis was. Ainsley’s laptop had my textbook pulled up, so technically the answers were there, but I couldn’t focus on actually reading to find them. 

All I could hear was Ainsley, beside me, talking to another student. Explaining something that I had no idea about but using the biggest, smartest words, in the hottest way.

“This integral represents a first-order linear differential equation, which we solve using an integrating factor. Notice how we manipulate the coefficient function to achieve a separable form…”

It was killing me. Absolutely murdering my dick. I’d been sporting a raging hard-on for the better part of an hour and my pants were ruined from precome. Karma, maybe, but it wasn’t funny. At all. I might as well have been fifteen all over again.

I shifted in my seat and managed to focus long enough to find the section I needed, then scribbled down the answer. I even took extra time to make sure I read and understood what I was writing, because Ainsley had said that was important. Something about reading comprehension, which, playing back in my mind… hot.

Fuck.

What are the two main parts of the nervous system?

Reading that question, I perked up. I actually knew that one without having to look it up in the text. The brain and the nerves. Score for me. But I knew Ainsley was going to want the nerd version, so I went looking for it anyway.

Ainsley’s voice piped back up, too smooth, wrapping around my dick.

“This is the fundamental approach to solving first-order linear equations," he was snapping at the other student. "It’s not difficult if you actually pay attention. But given your catastrophic attempt at substitution earlier, I highly doubt you did."

I had to bite back a whimper, because goddamn. He was eating that poor dude alive. And I desperately wanted to be him. I wanted to have Ainsley’s dragon-green eyes on me, narrowed and angry, his voice stabbing into me like a knife, calling me a fucking idiot without calling me a fucking idiot.

Sunshine. You’re killing me. Just thinking about it made my dick jerk and leak even more. God, I wanted to turn him around and beg him to end this, to never subject me to this again. I’d never break another one of his stupid rules again.

Swear to God, I wouldn’t even think they were stupid. I wouldn’t do anything he didn’t want me to do as long as I was the only one he spoke to like that.

I glanced up, looking for anything to distract me from the fact that I was officially in hell. I only had two questions left, anyway. My gaze landed on where Zach was sitting in front of Francis still, similar to how I was with Ainsley. But unlike Ainsley, Francis seemed to be giving Zach more attention than the students who were rotating to his side.

At first, Zach and I had traded miserable glances and he’d even mimed crying, but Francis had touched his scent gland. Like—had reached out and pressed down on it with two perfectly manicured fingers. Some weird power move I’d never seen before in my life. 

But it was effective as hell, because after that, Zach hadn’t looked at me anymore. His focus remained solely on Francis, dazed but dutiful. I guess we’d both learned our lessons at this point.

Meanwhile, Theo was in a corner with his sneakers kicked up, browsing languidly on his phone. Unlike everyone else, he looked completely at ease, like he didn’t have a care in the world. Not tortured at all. In fact, I’d caught him smirking at every sweating student at least once.

I scanned the room to find Beckett and Colby, but Ainsley’s voice sounded, snapping me right back. He’d turned from the other student to finally grace me with his attention.

“Did I say you could take a break, Vaughn?”

Christ. He sounded evil. Looked it, too—smug as fuck, an eyebrow raised quizzically, his green eyes drilling into me from behind his glasses.

“Just stretching my eyeballs,” I said immediately.

He did not look convinced. “Uh-huh. Tell me. In your own words, what is natural selection?”

“Uh. So basically, it's like… survival of the swole.”

I thought he was going to snap at me, but he only sighed and nodded. “I’m going to regret this, but continue.”

“Okay, so like, in nature, you got a bunch of animals or whatever, right? And they’re all vibing. Except some of them are built different. Some of them got, like, better fur, faster legs, or bigger claws. And those guys? They get all the food and all the babes. The weak ones? They just kinda… fade out. No gains, no legacy.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are describing natural selection in the most gym-bro way possible. But I will admit that you are correct if you agree to never write ‘swole’ or ‘gains’ as an answer on an official test.”

“Bet.” I grinned at him.

Ruthlessly, he tapped the final question on the worksheet. “This one now. Explain the difference between aerobic and anaerobic respiration.”

Uhhhh. Fuck. My brain went static at that one and I stared at him, biting down on my lip nervously. I willed myself not to choke, trying to hype myself up under the weight of his gaze— you can do this, bro. Remember, we’re studying for dick and slick.

When I didn’t answer immediately, Ainsley let out another sigh and reached across me, scrolling to the section of the textbook that had the answer… somewhere. “Read,” he instructed. “Find the answer and give it to me in your own words.”

What a fucking angel.

It took me less than ten seconds to find what I needed. I scanned the bolded words at least three times, shoving them into my brain over and over again, trying to find a way to make sense out of them. It wasn’t hard, but I was basically sitting there with a giant wet spot for a crotch.

To make matters worse, it was Ainsley’s voice narrating the textbook in my head, snarling at me how aerobic respiration occured with oxygen and released more energy but more slowly, while anaerobic respiration occured without oxygen and released less energy but more quickly.

Okay. I took a deep breath. “Don’t hate me, but it’s about gains. And cell—”

His stare turned glacial. “I swear to God, do not say cell bacon.”

“—ATP production.” Which was the same thing, but whatever. Babe’s world and all that. “Aerobic respiration is the long game. It’s like marathon running—slow, steady, max efficiency. Uses oxygen, takes its time, but gives you the most ATP. Maximum fuel, minimum burnout. We’re talking the endurance athletes of cell energy.”

Ainsley’s brows pinched in an almost-frown, like he was suspicious. “Go on,” he finally said.

I went for it, not caring if I was about to fumble the big words as long as I got the rest mostly correct. “Now anaerobic? That’s the sprint. The power lift. The ‘oh shit, we gotta go’ energy source. No oxygen, just straight-up hustle. It’s fast, but you pay the price—less ATP and a ton of lactic acid. That’s the burn, baby. The ‘why do my legs feel like lead’ moment after maxing out on squats.”

Ainsley stared at me. His eye twitched. Somewhere, I heard Beckett curse under his breath. But all I could hear was Ainsley when he slowly, reluctantly, said,  “You are technically correct.”

I grinned wide as hell, clamping down on the urge to shove it in Beckett’s hating face. Sure, it wasn’t like Ainsley had said ‘ oh my God, Vaughn, you’re a genius’ or anything, and I could tell he hated that he couldn’t scold me for being an idiot, but still, warmth sparked in my chest at his words.

Correct. I was correct. Hell yeah. I was so getting my fucking GPA up. And I was so getting Ainsley Kerrigan. Again. Forever.

Ainsley swiped the worksheet off the table and I watched as he wrote in the margins of the last two questions that I hadn’t technically answered. I didn’t really focus on reading what he wrote, only watched the way his handwriting swooped in sexy lines.

I needed to go to the fucking bathroom. Bad.

Just when I opened my mouth to ask, a third worksheet materialized out of thin air.

Another half hour later and I no longer needed to go to the bathroom.

My dick was soft. In fact, I was pretty sure it had shriveled into nothing.

The last sexy thing I remembered was Ainsley pulling out a third worksheet, then smirking at me and saying, “All right, Vaughn. Moving on. We’re starting the protozoa module.”

I had blinked at him. Proto-what.

And now I knew. Way too much.

Ainsley was still roasting the student next to him. Except it didn’t have the same effect on my dick. It wasn’t hot anymore. Nothing was hot.

Because I was being reminded that parasites existed.

At first, I’d skimmed over the textbook without giving a shit. Yeah, yeah, single-celled, tiny dudes, some of them are assholes. Whatever. But apparently that reading comprehension thing Ainsley had had me doing had stuck, because I’d gone back and reread it. And regretted it.

While many protozoa are free-living, some species act as parasites, causing diseases in humans and animals.

Malaria was like a horror movie in your blood, apparently. And there was an amoeba that just ate your brain because it could. Also, giardia? Nightmare nightmare nightmare motherfucker.

I gripped my pen, staring at words like ‘thick cyst walls’ and ‘hair-like cilia’ and wondering what the actual fuck.

The worksheet didn’t give me any relief, either. Instead, the first question screamed up at me: Protozoa are classified based on their mode of locomotion. Identify the movement structures of at least four organisms and provide an example of each type.

Nope. Nope. I didn’t want to read anymore.

I was about to start writing bullshit answers—I’d done enough scholarly shit for the day, I could dumb the rest of it out—when I felt someone behind me and looked up to see Zach standing there. Somehow he’d gained freedom from whatever sick trance Francis had put on him and now he was squinting at the laptop screen. 

“Bro,” he said, way too loud. “We literally had that.”

I sat perfectly still, hoping Ainsley would swoop in to the rescue, but Zach grinned down at me and reached out, poking the bolded phrase giardia lamblia on the screen.

My stomach sank fast as hell and I hissed at him under my breath. “Dude, shut up. We are not—”

Relief flooded me when Ainsley whipped around, as hoped for, swatting Zach’s hand away in record time and glaring at him. “Do not touch my screen, McAllister.”

“Yeah, dude,” I echoed. “Go away. I’m learning.”

Also. What in the hell was wrong with him? As my fucking best friend, did he not understand what I was actively doing right now? Like… my whole thing with Ainsley was based on being me sexy and charming—definitely not letting him find out about any of the stupid shit I’d done in my life. I needed him to think that I was hot, that I had game and brains. 

Except it was too late. Ainsley narrowed his eyes at me, then at Zach, then at the place he’d pointed to on the screen like he was piecing something together. I saw the moment his expression went from confused to alarmed in record time.

“…Wait,” he said slowly. “What do you mean? Giardia?”

I heard the exact moment he connected the dots, because he sucked in a breath so sharply it sounded like he was about to go into cardiac arrest. Then he just… stared between Zach and I, his mouth slightly open, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t physically form the words.

Oh, no. Oh, fuck.

Oblivious, Zach flashed Ainsley an even wider grin. “Oh, yeah. We had that back in high school. It was no big deal—”

“Nope, not a big deal.” I confirmed hastily, already sweating. “It was casual, okay? We just had it casually.”

Ainsley’s voice sounded like it was about to snap in half. “You do not casually get giardia, Max.”

Goddamn it, Zach. I glared at the absolute fucking traitor my best friend had turned into, recognizing that there was no easy way out of this. I started to explain. “Fine. Back in high school, it was totally Zach's idea that he and I do this thing called the Alpha Challenge—” 

Francis’ voice, dripping with disdain, cut in. “Oh, this sounds charming already.”

Beckett turned his head so painfully slow it was like he had to manually process the level of stupidity in the air. His expression was blank—too blank.

“Fucking figures.”

He paused, still staring at me like I was a science experiment gone wrong. Then, to Colby—“You hear that? Dumb and Dumber raw-dogged parasites and lived to tell the tale.”

Zach ignored them. “It was legit. Think about it. Real alphas—like our ancestors—ate raw meat, right? Primal. Instinctive. Powerful. Max and I wanted to see what it felt like to be real alphas.”

I exhaled sharply. “So we ate raw meat for a week.”

Listen, I have done a lot of stupid shit in my life. But the Alpha Challenge ranked high as fuck on the stupid-shit-you-don’t-tell-anyone list.

Zach knew this. And yet here we were.

The entire room went dead silent. Every head in the room turned towards me and Zach. I literally felt the horror and judgment descend—I couldn’t even look at Ainsley’s face.

“It wasn’t that bad at first,” I said defensively. “The steak was kinda chewy, but Zach said that’s how you know it’s legit. And then there was the chicken—”

“Dios Mío,” Theo breathed out, clutching Francis’ arm.

Ainsley’s entire body stiffened. “You. Ate. Raw. Chicken?”

Colby, who I’d literally forgotten existed, let out a low whistle. “Pretty sure that’s how people die.”

“Clearly not, because we’re still here.” Zach rolled his eyes. “Dude, I thought you were smart?”

“Aren’t you actually telling a story right now about how you got parasites?” Colby shot back, unimpressed. Beckett, sitting beside him, scoffed, lip curling in disgust.

“Yeah, and it was Zach’s idea,” I said quickly, reiterating. That part was really important. “He literally slapped a steak on the cafeteria table and was like, ‘Max, are you ready to change your life?’ How was fifteen-year-old me supposed to say no to that?”

“Fifteen is old enough to know that humans cook their food for a reason, Max.” I looked up just in time to see Ainsley’s eye twitch, as he pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it was a wonder it didn’t break. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Zach shake his head. “Cooking isn’t primal.”

God. On one hand, Ainsley looked so beyond disappointed it hurt my soul, but I found myself nodding instinctively along with Zach. Because he lowkey had a point. Compared to catching your food by the tail and tearing it apart with your teeth, ovens and microwaves were the least primal, least alpha cooking method. That only made sense.

Zach doubled down. “Cavemen didn’t have grills.” He’d said that seven years ago, too, and again—it made just as much sense now as it had then. 

Ainsley definitely saw me nodding. I wasn’t sure if there was a balcony somewhere in the nerd fortress, but he looked seconds away from finding one and throwing himself off it.

“I don’t believe they had hospitals, either, darling,” Francis pointed out to Zach. Unlike Ainsley, he was laughing as though we’d just told the most hilarious joke of all time, his blue eyes dragging between me and Zach in unholy fascination.

The student Ainsley had been helping—who had not been part of this conversation at the start but was now, apparently, fully invested—leaned forward. “Okay, but like… what happened?”

I could tell that Ainsley had already lost half of his respect for me. Maybe it would salvageable if I could get Zach to shut the fuck up at this point. Abort mission, abort mission. “We just… vibed it out. No big deal. Storytime’s over.”

Zach did not pick up the abort vibe I was putting down.He just grinned and kept going. “Well, at first, we felt fine. Superior, even. But by the end of the week, not gonna lie, we were feeling super fucked up. Like, hella stomach cramps and losing our shit. Literally—insane dia—”

“Dude,” I hissed over him, punching him in the arm. “Shut. Up.”

“—and we passed out in gym class,” Zach continued mercilessly, pivoting out of my reach. “Turns out we had three different parasites. The little guardian dude was the worst one, but I think the other two were named, like, Trick and Campy?”

“Trichinosis and campylobacter,” Colby supplied unhelpfully.

Francis was full-on wheezing in the background. “Wow, Ainsley. Just wow. Truly impressive.”

“Cachorros repugnantes,” Theo whispered. “Ainsley—”

Ainsley held up a hand to stop whatever Theo had planned to say and then buried his face, like he needed a minute to re-evaluate every decision he had ever made. I could’ve wrapped my hands around Zach’s neck and squeezed. Goddamn it. 

A different random student piped up curiously, asking, “What did your parents say?”

Zach shrugged. “Mine didn’t say anything. Max’s parents shit a brick.”

Shitting a brick was an understatement. I groaned involuntarily, remembering. “They grounded me for two months.”

I didn’t care about my parents right now, though. I cared about Ainsley. I had never bombed an attraction speedrun so hard in my life. I watched his hands slowly lift from his face, the way his eyes locked on me. Emotionless. “Vaughn.”

I swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Trichinosis can invade your muscle tissue,” he said slowly. “Did you even notice your muscles aching?”

I shifted uncomfortably, staring back down at the table. “Well, yeah, but Zach said it was the gains kicking in.”

“Of course he did. God. This has been the worst hour of my entire life,” Beckett stood up, shoving his things in his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. Without another word, he turned and left, muttering under his breath.

“The gains?” Ainsley’s voice shot up a full octave in disbelief. He blinked, mouth opening and closing, as if his brain had officially short-circuited. I could see the exact moment he realized he was dealing with two men who had willfully chosen to eat bacteria for sport.

At this point, Francis was crying from laughing so hard, doubled over in his seat. “Mon Dieu,” he gasped. “Les alphas—américains sont pathétiq—"

Zach scoffed at the horrified looks being shared. “Dude, we’re alphas. We’re built different.”

“Giardia lives in feces, bro,” Colby’s voice was flat. “You guys ate—”

“Do not finish that sentence.” I stood up, pivoting towards him and pointing at his face. Nope, he was not making this worse than it already was. “We did not. We were fifteen, which is basically like being babies still. Babies get to fuck up and no one judges them for it, okay?”

Zach nodded, waving a hand at Colby. “Yeah, bro, chill. Our bodies weren’t used to being so primal. That’s all. We're parasite-free now and honestly, I think we built character.”

Ainsley just sat there. Staring at me. Like he was having the worst revelation of his life.

Damn it.

I was going to kill Zach.

Chapter Text

So many things had gone wrong that I couldn’t process them.

I had braced myself for a more grueling than usual group tutoring session, knowing that Max would be in attendance and knowing that he simply wouldn’t be able to stop himself from being a total fool. I had prepared for that. Compensated for it.

But nothing could have prepared me for the reality that I was now desperately trying—and failing—to cope with.

The instant I had walked into the room, Francis' piercing blue eyes had flicked to my throat, then my face, then back to my throat. I knew that I had blended my concealer perfectly—seamless, smooth, not a single trace of Max Vaughn’s destruction left behind.

And yet.

Francis had clocked me instantly. Our eyes had met and I had known from the glint in his eye, like he had just discovered the juiciest scandal of the year, that he knew. Not just suspected. Not just guessed. Knew.

That had been the first brick to crumble in the carefully laid barrier I had constructed. Nevertheless, I had told myself to ignore it. To proceed as normal. Francis and I had disagreements often and while everyone else assumed we were rivals, of a sort, we were not.

We simply held differing worldviews. Him knowing what I had done with Max was fine. Fine.

…Okay, not fine. It was not fine at all. But it was at least something I could stress over lately, when I wasn’t actively working.  

Then Theo had shown up. Why, I had no earthly idea—as a theater major, he took no classes that required tutoring. None. But his reaction had been instant and all-knowing, his gaze raking over me, mouth curling into something devious, leaning in just close enough to whisper something too soft for anyone else to hear.

“He ate you alive, meriendita.”

I had nearly died on the spot. It had taken every ounce of my control not to combust into flames, to keep my expression schooled into something neutral, to not react in a way that would confirm the accusation that had already clearly been confirmed.

Dear fucking God. I wanted to die. How did he know? Was there some biological signal blaring in a frequency that only other omegas could perceive? 

It was, without a doubt, the most humiliating thing to ever happen to me. Or so I had thought.

Now I knew better.

Francis and Theo knowing that I had slept with Maxwell Vaughn, Ridgeline’s quarterback and academic disaster, was a humiliation I would gladly take over them knowing that I had slept with Maxwell Vaughn, the man who had eaten raw chicken and had actually thought he was ascending to peak alpha form instead of self-inflicted organ failure.

I had endured many things in my life. My academic reputation had already suffered enough simply by association with Max, but this? This was a new level of professional humiliation. I had spent years cultivating an image of meticulous control, of relentless academic rigor, of intellectual superiority. And now I was tied to a man who had willingly ingested bacteria for sport.

My dignity was in shambles.

I sat there, unblinking, my entire nervous system short-circuiting as the Tutor Hall emptied. Francis, Beckett, and Colby had already disappeared; I barely registered the other students leaving. Barely noticed the fact that Max was already leaning in towards me, his voice already dripping with that infuriating, low drawl that suggested he was about to make things worse.

I knew what was coming. He was about to be so fucking smug. I could feel it in the air, the same way one sensed a tsunami right before it drowned them. And sure enough—he grinned. Sheepishly. 

But before he could even get a word out, Theo materialized out of thin air, stepping in front of him, holding up a hand like he was about to halt a carriage in the 1800s.

“Halt, beast.”

For fuck’s sake. Theo was still here. Shoving my laptop and Max’s finished worksheets into my satchel, I started to gather my things in preparation to storm off. Leaving was the only logical solution at this point.

Max tilted his head back, squinting at Theo. “Oh, hey, man.”

Theo lowered his voice, as if he were sharing something ridiculously conspiratorial. “Ainsley is currently undergoing an existential crisis and cannot be perceived at this time. Try again tomorrow.”

“Huh? I can literally see him.” Max tried to peer around him, but Theo smoothly sidestepped, blocking his view again.

I did not bother intervening with whatever Theo was doing. A part of me was grateful, in fact, because if I had to hear Max say one more word—if I had to listen to him try and justify his past gastrointestinal crimes or, God forbid, flirt with me after all this—

I would simply cease to exist. My body would give up. My atoms would disperse. My very essence would flee the material plane in pure, unfiltered humiliation.

“No, you cannot,” Theo said, as if he were addressing a stupid child. “He has transcended mortal comprehension.”

“That’s like, cute, but can you move—”

Max tried to maneuver past Theo again and Theo sidestepped once more, placing a theatrically gentle hand on Max’s chest to stop him. “Shhh, dulce tontito. Let him go. If you love him, set him free.”

If I hadn’t been actively dissociating, I might’ve laughed at how Max looked so fucking confused. They kept doing it—Max trying to shift to look at me and Theo blocking him. Over and over again, like some ridiculous dance. Finally, Max made as if to stand up, glanced down, and then stopped. 

“Look,” Max finally said, almost pleadingly. “I gotta talk to him. Like, please. I’ll pay you.” 

Theo threw back his head and laughed so hard he almost lost his balance, as if Max had just said the single funniest thing he had ever heard in his life. I rubbed my temples, inhaling deeply, considering every life choice that had led me to this exact moment. “Theo,” I started, intending to veer the conversation away from the nonsense it would inevitably devolve into. 

Straightening, Theo snapped his fingers at me without looking. “No, no, you don’t get to speak, sweetie. You are in distress. I am handling this.”

He turned back to Max and smirked. “Cariño, I am rich beyond measure. A mi no me falta ni un mango. You? Eres mango blanco.”

Max blinked at the rapid-fire Spanish. “You… want a mango? Okay. Bet. I can do that—”

“Listen, pelotudito,” Theo held up a hand, cutting him off. “You have put him through too much today. He has endured the tragic loss of his professional dignity, the shattering of his impeccable reputation, and—most devastatingly—the knowledge that the man he has slept with willingly ate raw chicken.”

“Wait. He’s thinking about me sleeping with him?” The scar on Max’s eyebrow twitched, a warning he was about to grin in that insufferable way he had. 

Kill me now. I stood up to flee—unfortunately at the same time that Theo shoved a hand into Max’s face and backpedaled aggressively, dragging me with him.

“Nope. No words, no thoughts. No Vaughn. You are officially banned until further notice. Go play with your footballs, pelotudo.”

Max stared after me, his expression a mixture of frustration, confusion, and sadness. A deep sigh rattled out of my lungs and I leveled a dead-eyed stare in his direction. “I’ll text you.”

I knew the look on my face said the opposite, but I didn’t bother to fix it—I simply turned and walked with Theo, gripping my satchel strap. 

As we neared the exit, I heard violent rustling behind us and turned back just in time to see Max lunge for Zach’s throat. I barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes. The idiocy I’d expected from someone who was best friends with Max—I’d wanted to be wrong—didn’t even begin to cover the disaster that was Zach McAllister.

He and Max together were quite possibly the worst combination alive. Their friendship should’ve been outlawed, in fact. It had almost gotten them unalived at fifteen from parasites, for fuck’s sake, and I knew somehow, bone-deep in my soul, that they’d probably done worse.

I exhaled slowly, eyes closing briefly. “You know,” I murmured to Theo, allowing myself to be dragged to safety, “I should be fighting you on this.”

“And yet, you aren’t,” Theo pointed out with a smirk. He veered me away from the stairs and into the elevator, stabbing at the buttons. “You need me right now. Honestly, thank God I was there to save you from that. If not for me? You would be getting dragged to that dog’s lair.”

The elevator doors closed and I rolled my eyes. “I am so grateful.”

Ignoring my sarcasm, Theo gave me a critical once-over. “We need to… cleanse you. Deeply. Please tell me you’re not seeing him tonight.”

I glowered at Theo for no reason other than to stall for time as I thought through my options. Technically, I had just spent over twelve hours in Max’s presence. I was exhausted, both emotionally and physically. Scarred, even. 

But academically? I was obligated to see him tonight. Group tutoring sessions were only intended to be supplementary; Max was flunking and, being himself, he couldn’t be trusted to study on his own. Hence why we were meeting at least twice every day, per my aggressive academic recovery plan. 

Then again… It wasn’t as if Max and I had achieved anything close to real studying in our one on one sessions, either.

I pressed my lips together, refusing to think about how hypothetical kisses had ruined me in a thousand different ways literally just last night.

Fuck.

Perhaps some distance was for the best. For my mental well-being, if nothing else. Just for tonight. Even if there was a small part of me that loathed the idea as much as another small part of me needed it.

Before I could think better of it, I held up a hand to Theo and pulled out my phone, typing out a text to Max. Tutoring is cancelled tonight. I’m emailing you a worksheet to complete on your own. Do well and you’ll get a reward.

I left the definition of ‘reward’ deliberately vague on purpose, but I avowed to myself that the reward would not be a kiss. It would be… a tiny plastic dinosaur. A gold star. Gum. Anything non-sexual, impersonal, and appropriate that would keep my dignity intact from now on. 

A single M&M. A monotone “Good job.” An eraser shaped like an animal. Fruit snacks—

In that short span of time it took for me to brainstorm increasingly childish rewards, the elevator dinged, announcing we’d reached the first floor. My phone buzzed in my hand.

😭😤 NO
BABE pls don’t cancel
im srry
pls dont h8 me
im not dumb ok??
ok i kind of am but like
hot dumb 😏

“Hot dumb is different from regular dumb?” Theo echoed, reading over my shoulder. I made a frustrated sound and swatted at him, pivoting away in the small elevator space. Unbothered, Theo grinned, hooking his arm through mine and directing us smoothly onto the first floor.

Max. Have you even looked at your academic recovery plan? I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Seven o’clock. You will be fine.

There. Handled.

Except responses started coming in rapid-fire, blue messages spawning on my screen one after the other. God. “He’s so dramatic,” I mumbled to Theo, shaking my head as I read them.

tell me you dont think im dumb 🥺
b honest
i was killin it
b4 zach opened his stupid mouth
pls
tell me 😭
BABE

I stared down at my screen, feeling the faintest twitch at the edge of my lips. God help me, he was dumb.

And yet, I found myself typing back:

You’re not dumb. 

“He is pretty hot, though,” Theo chimed in and I snapped my head around, seeing that he was once again looking at exactly what I was typing. 

“Seriously?” I growled, pocketing my phone to shove at him. “Theo—”

Theo rolled his eyes. “Gruñón, relax. We’re handling this, okay? Here’s the plan: I’m personally escorting your tragic little ass to your classes like your emotional support bestie—”

“I don’t need—”

“—and I will be retrieving you after, so you don’t get ambushed by any more raw-chicken-consuming football players.” He squeezed my arm sympathetically, pulling me back into motion. “We will mend your wounded soul with coffee and literature, mi flor. I will personally hold your fragile, academic little hand through this crisis—”

“I hate you,” I mumbled the words, but we both knew the truth was that I hated how much that made me want to laugh, despite everything. Theo always did this. He never let me spiral too far, never let me wallow for long. He’d drag me, mock me, call me old, but beneath all the dramatics was an infuriatingly precise understanding of exactly what I needed to hear.

“—and if you behave, I will even let you insult my intelligence in a pretentious bookstore.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You always let me insult your intelligence.”

“Yes, but today?” Theo’s shoulder nudged against mine and I didn’t have to look at him to know his dark eyes were practically sparkling. “Today, I will allow you to do it with gusto.”

“I cannot stand you.”

“That’s the spirit, sweetie,” Theo cooed, unfazed. “Now, onward! You are going to go to your precious little biochem class, and you are going to thrive. You know why? Because you love it. Because you’re a little freak about molecules and neurons and whatever else you obsess over.”

I exhaled through my nose. “Theo—”

“No, shhh, you need to hear this.” He held up a manicured finger. “After biochem, you are going to strut your fine ass into neuro lab and do whatever it is that makes your neurons tingle . And you are going to feel better, because let’s be honest—academia is your emotional support boyfriend.”

I did love biochem. And I did love neuro lab. But loathe to admit it aloud, I cut Theo a sidelong glance, unimpressed. “That was almost supportive.”

“Oh, I am supportive. In fact, let me support you even further—” He stopped and turned to face me, gripping both my shoulders and looking me dead in the eye. “While you are thriving in your little science classes, do not fall on any football dick in between.”

This time, the laugh came out before I could stop it, an agonized sound caught between a half-sob and half-groan. “I hate you.”

“Love you too, viejo,” Theo teased back, grinning victoriously, squeezing my hand again. 

Downtown was at its best at night—cold air, distant traffic hum, the occasional busker playing something tolerable. I inhaled deeply as Theo and I stepped out of his Maserati, the weight of the day still lingering in my bones.

But it wasn’t crushing me like it had before. Theo had been right—my classes had served to ground me, despite the presence of my less-than-competent classmates. I’d been given the satisfaction of knowing that I could still focus, still lose myself in the intricacies of my work, and still be good at something when the rest of my life felt like a slow-motion car wreck.

I had successfully managed to not think about Max for at least five hours. Even on the drive here, Theo had kept a stream of annoying but Max-free chatter up. 

Theo stretched dramatically, tossing his arms over his head and inhaling like he’d just endured something grueling by sitting in a luxury car for ten minutes. “See? Look at you. Not even dead. I knew it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Incredible deduction. You should go into neuroscience.”

“Ugh, gross, no. I’d rather drink instant coffee.” He shuddered, then grinned at me like he knew he’d won. “But you, mi vida, are feeling better. Admit it.”

I scowled, but I didn’t deny it. Instead, I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and muttered, “Maybe.”

Theo gasped theatrically. “Oh my god. Did you just agree with me? In public?” He clutched my arm in mock-horror. “I’m going to faint.”

“Do it,” I said flatly. “I’ll step over your body and go inside without you.”

“That’s fine, babe,” Theo purred, linking his arm through mine as he dragged me forward. “But when I recover, I’m buying you a deliciously smutty romance novel, so choose your next words wisely.”

I gritted my teeth as we approached the entrance. “I despise you.”

Theo just threw back his head and laughed, tugging me into the warm glow of the bookstore.

It was one of those absurdly curated, overpriced independent shops, the kind where everything was categorized into niche subsections. I immediately liked it because it was quiet and appropriately pretentious—dim lighting, impeccably arranged floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves, and classical music playing softly in the background. Off in the corner, the coffee bar in the corner had a line of people who probably had very strong opinions about oat milk.

The air smelled faintly of expensive paper and intellectual superiority. I approved.

Immediately, Theo gravitated towards the scent section that was strategically placed near the entrance. “Gruñón, we simply must smell.”

He snatched a candle off a display shelf, raising it to his face and moaning entirely too loudly before extending it to me expectantly.

I did not sniff. I leaned back, eyed the price tag and arched an imperious brow at him. “These are fifty-five dollars, Theo. They’re not even real scents. They’re conceptualized garbage—”

He thrust the candle at me aggressively, stamping his foot. “Ainsley. It’s Ephemeral Longing. You need this.”

I heaved out the loudest sigh I could manage and rolled my eyes at his whiny voice, but he stood there, waiting. Whatever. Fine. I caved and tilted my head forward, inhaling against my will—and immediately recoiled from the too-familiar woodsy notes.

“Smells like fleeting regret and sandalwood.” I raised a hand and shoved it away, curling my lip in disgust. I would not acknowledge the tiny, tiny part of me that had lit up with recognition.

Judging by his evil smirk, Theo did not miss my reaction. ““Oooh, fleeting?” He sniffed the candle a second time, eyeing me speculatively. “Hmm. More like… staring wistfully out a window, wondering where it all went wrong.”

I knew exactly what he was getting at, but before I could snap out a response, he picked out another candle, his bracelets jingling obnoxiously as he held it up. I gritted my teeth and gave a dutiful sniff.

And another, because this one did not smell like a certain someone. It was actually pleasant. “Lavender,” I muttered, shoulders dropping slightly.

Theo sniffed, then shook his head at me, wagging a jeweled finger. “No. A haunted lavender. A lavender that remembers what you did.”

His tone was mock-serious, so much so that I huffed out a reluctant laugh and found myself giving in completely to his antics, pulling a candle labeled Bittersweet Goodbye from the shelf. I held it out pointedly and he made a show of inhaling deeply, eyes fluttering closed. 

“An ex-lover’s farewell at a European train station,” he declared, matter-of-factly. “You’re crying. They’re not.”

There was a definite smile on my lips now as I brought it to my own nose, nostrils wrinkling as the scent flooded my senses. “Coffee, cinnamon, and desperation,” I shot back. 

We stood there for a solid five minutes, giving increasingly ridiculous reviews of each candle until we decided our noses couldn’t take anymore. It was exactly the sort of nonsense I hadn’t realized I’d needed and by the time we moved on, I felt lighter than I had in ages. The Theo Effect was taking hold.

He sighed dreamily, hips sashaying as we strolled towards the books. “Ugh. This is my church.”

“That would imply you worship something other than yourself,” I quipped dryly, adjusting my glasses.

Theo released me, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it over his shoulder as he stepped between the shelves. "No, you're right. I am my own religion. But if I had to have a place of worship—" he gestured at the store, spinning slowly, “—this would be it. Look at all these words, Ainsley. All these ideas. All this drama.”

I rolled my eyes, but opted not to argue. I would let him have whatever ridiculous delusion he was entertaining because the truth was, this was what I needed. After the relentless onslaught of idiocy I’d endured today, books and a quiet space was a balm to my very soul. This wasn’t just a bookstore; it was an experience. There was no clutter, no tacky bestsellers shoved at eye level, no aggressively branded “BookTok Favorites” end caps.

Just literature, displayed in its purest, most exalted form. I wandered with reverence between the shelves, feeling something ease in my chest with every trail of my fingers over real leather-bound editions. When I turned, it was to see Theo watching me, his face split into a knowing grin. 

“Cariño, you look so happy right now,” he declared proudly.

I tried and failed, for once, to muster a scowl. “I am simply enjoying the intellectual environment,” I managed in a mostly unaffected voice.

“Aha. That’s Ainsley-speak for happy,” Theo pointed out, raising both brows at me, daring me to say otherwise.

I plucked at my sleeve, carefully avoiding his gaze. “I’m enjoying an atmosphere of refinement. Something you wouldn’t understand.”

“Wouldn’t understand? Darling, I am refinement.” As if to somehow prove his point, he spun around, snatched a book off the table, and gave the cover a quick once-over before abruptly shoving it into my hands.

I glanced down and groaned aloud. It was exactly the sort of trash he’d gravitate towards. An Alpha Pirate’s Passion: Ravished by the Sea. I blinked slowly at the cover, struggling to digest the muscular, shirtless man clutching a cutlass in one hand and a half-naked, smaller man wearing a torn gown in the other. 

With a noise of disgust, I let it fall back to the table with a thump, shooting Theo a pointed glare. “An entire novel based around maritime-induced horny peril? No thank you. Keep your smut filth.”

Theo gasped, reeling back as if struck. “Excuse you. I consume art.” He grabbed another novel off the shelf—this one featuring a brooding vampire and a trembling human… in a corset. “These are masterpieces of tension, Ainsley. They explore the depths of desire and power dynamics and—"

“That one is called Fang’s Forbidden Knot,” I indicated the title with a sneer, crossing my arms over my chest.

“And?” Theo put a hand on his hip, arching a brow. “I fail to see the problem. Ooohh, this one is called Knot Perfect . Isn’t that cute?”

My eye twitched violently. “What is the cultural obsession with knots in romance novel titles? Have we run out of all other possible words in the English language? Nothing says literary genius like a pun about a bodily function.” 

“Babe, it’s evocative.” He held up the book for my inspection and up close, it was even more offensive. I stared at it in horror: the title embossed in dramatic gold lettering, complete with an overwrought illustration of the muscular, long-haired alpha gripping the waist of an airbrushed omega. Wind blew inexplicably around them. Possibly from an unseen hurricane.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Theo.”

“Yes, mi amor?” Theo drew out, wiggling in place.

“This is absurd. Not to mention problematic.” I snatched it and flipped open to a random page, scanning the text with disgust. "Oh, look. Page twenty-six. ‘His knot swelled impossibly large, locking them together in the most intimate way imaginable’."

I slammed the book shut and dropped it back onto the table. “Biological nonsense.”

“Dios mío, gruñón, are you critiquing the science of it?” Theo was laughing, but I noticed him scooping the book right back up and muttering twenty-six under his breath as he flipped through. He wanted to read the smut. Because of course. 

I gave him a pointed look. “First of all, knots do not function like that. The idea of them growing to an ‘impossible size’ is medically horrifying. At that point, it’s not romance—it’s a serious emergency requiring immediate attention from a professional.”

Theo hummed absently, reading with interest. Too much interest, judging by how his eyes widened and his lips parted—and the way he grinned guiltily when he glanced up and caught me watching him. “No, no, I’m listening. Go on, doctor.”

I sneered at him but continued. “Secondly, knotting is already an intense enough phenomenon without needing mythical proportions added to it. I fail to see the appeal in describing something that sounds like it should come with a health warning.”

“Some people just love a bit of danger, Ainsley,” Theo murmured, flipping to the next page. “Oh, my—”

“Thirdly, Theo,” I yanked the book out of his hands, ignoring his plaintive cry of protest. He grabbed for it and I spun out of his reach. “We’ve taken momemental strides in the last twenty years and yet, authors keep writing traditionalist bullshit romance that revert omegas and alphas back to the exact thing we’ve created laws against perpetuating. And people keep reading it .”

He stopped making ‘grabby hands’ for the book and pouted at me, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s hot, okay? Not everything has to be dusty old classics and academic journals, gruñón. Sometimes people just want to read about a feral, possessive alpha throwing an omega over his shoulder and making them scream about fate.”

I scowled. “Yes, but why are knots always forbidden? Why are they always off-limits? Why is every protagonist desperate to resist them? Do they never make rational decisions? If it’s so terrible, just don’t do it.”

Theo grinned, leaning in. “Ah, but Ainsley—” he waggled his eyebrows—“what if it was Max’s forbidden knot?”

Every ounce of my hard-won peace fled immediately at that statement, a perspective I’d never wanted suddenly descending on me with no small amount of horror attached. Goddamn it. Max’s knot was forbidden. I had very specific reasons for resisting it. I had made many rational decisions.

Or at least, I had tried to. All of them had failed spectacularly.

“Oh, Ainsley,” Theo drawled, watching my expression far too closely. “If only you could let yourself believe in the magic of fated knots.”

I opened my mouth, then snapped it closed and opted for throwing the book at Theo’s face. Unfortunately, he dodged nimbly and shrieked with laughter, grinning at me, totally unfazed.

Turning on my head, I grabbed the densest philosophy book I could find off the shelf. Theo’s grin faltered as I handed it to him. 

“Here,” I challenged. “You like drama? Read Machiavelli.”

Theo narrowed his eyes, assessing. Then, to my absolute horror, he actually opened it and began flipping through the pages. “Ooooh,” he murmured. “What if… I apply this to dating?”

His grin was downright sinister. I stared at him. “You don’t even date, Theo. You’re on your second—third?—round of fucking the entire student body.”

He ignored me in favor of waving a hand around us. “Imagine—Machiavellian courting. Rejecting conventional morality in favor of raw, untamed instinct. Romance, but make it philosophical. Power, control, desire—"

My fingers twitched with the urge to rake them through my curls in frustration. I settled for rolling my eyes at him, shaking my head. “You are a menace. I can’t believe we’re friends.”

He scanned a page and gasped, too theatrical to be real. “No, no. This is genius, Ainsley. If a man wishes to claim me, he must first learn to fear me—”

“Theo. Machiavelli wrote The Prince about tyrannical politics, not dating—” 

“—and call me Prince." Theo fucking hugged me and beamed. "I have never felt more inspired."

God help me, but he actually bought it.

We browsed for a while longer before making our purchases and retiring to the coffee bar. It became a controlled affair of sipping our overpriced drinks and taking turns reading out ridiculous passages from our respective books.

Theo, naturally, was thriving—dramatically sighing as he read aloud about a brooding, wind-swept pirate seducing his captive in flowery prose that defied both physics and common sense. When that lost its novelty, he switched to Machiavelli, quoting with unhinged reverence and declaring that all matters of the heart should be approached with calculated ruthlessness.

I, meanwhile, had selected something intellectually nourishing, something refined—and had yet to get through a single uninterrupted page. Theo kept interrupting my focus by shoving his book at me, demanding I listen to whatever deranged passage he had stumbled upon next.

“Listen to this,” he hissed at one point, practically vibrating with glee. He cleared his throat, adopting his most sultry voice: “"Curse you, Raphael," Tobias gasped, chest heaving as he backed against the mast. "You cannot take me like this."

Raphael smirked, pressing closer, his voice a husky growl. "Then why, my sweet storm, are you already trembling for me?"

Tobias swallowed hard. "Because the sea is cold."

Raphael’s smirk deepened. "Then let me warm you."”

I slapped a hand over his mouth and shoved him back into his seat. “You are horrifying.”

Theo cackled, eyes gleaming as he pried my fingers away. “Oh, come on. You love it. Can you imagine being called ‘a sweet storm’ in real life?”

I did not love it. And I would absolutely rather walk into the ocean than subject myself to being called such an absurd thing. But… I also hadn’t left. Which, for Theo, was confirmation enough that I was enjoying myself.

It was nice, I had to admit. Relaxing. The kind of rare moment where I could breathe, where my mind wasn’t spinning with academic deadlines, tutoring obligations, or him. The warm hum of conversation, the rich scent of espresso, the weight of a book in my hands—it was grounding. 

But inevitably, the peace shattered.

“So,” Theo said, leaning forward, his arched brow full of knowing mischief. He folded his hands under his chin, bracelets jingling. “You have healed enough. Tell me about your ridiculous little romance.”

I went still and scoffed, pretending to be deeply engrossed in my book that I wasn’t actually reading. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Theo made a noise of exasperation. "Ainsley. Darling. Light of my life. Do you honestly think I haven’t noticed your descent into absolute madness over Max Vaughn?"

I bristled. “I am not in madness.”

“You are very much in madness. I’ve known since Monday, remember? I’ve simply been waiting for you to come to your senses and tell me about it. Like a good best friend.”

I pursed my lips and debated leaving him in the bookstore. But then, before I could deflect further, he leveled me with a look—one that said, I know you. I know when you need to talk. And I am giving you the space to do so.

It had been almost two weeks of me refusing to admit the disaster my life had become. Granted, I had thought that I could ignore it. Fix it on my own. Now I knew better. I wasn’t deluded enough to think that Theo was going to have decent advice, but… I did need to talk about it. Desperately.

So I sighed. “Fine. It’s…complicated.”

"Complicated?" Theo echoed. "Oh, darling. I’ve met him once and I can already tell that man worships you. If he had a tail, he’d be wagging it whenever you walk into the room."

I rolled my eyes. "He is an idiot, Theo. What you witnessed today wasn’t even scratching the surface of what I’ve been dealing with."

"And yet," Theo murmured, sipping his coffee, "you let him fuck you."

I glared at him. 

Theo gestured with his fingers. "Go on, mi amor. The beans. Drown me in them."

And somehow, I did.

I started slowly at first, with the scent patch failure that had started all of it and the spontaneous heat/rut incident that had led to the quadruplets incident, that had led to the absurd scam call. Once I’d gotten there, I couldn’t stop—I had to also talk about last night’s library incident and the eggs and 5-in-1 disaster that had been this morning.

“And to make it all infinitely worse,” I ranted. “I went for my annual exam and found out that I am one hundred percent scentbonded to this man. The only cure is distance. It is logistically impossible for me to effectively tutor him from a distance, Theo. I am stuck. I have no hope. He’s looking at me like I hung the fucking moon and touching me like he knows I’m going to let him. Despite every rational argument, my body is responding to him. There’s no way for me to stop it.”

Theo listened to all of it without interruption. By the time I’d finished, I had managed to lose every bit of the peace I’d regained on our excursion and I sat there, vibrating with a clenched jaw, gripping my coffee too tightly.

“Well?” I prompted, glaring at Theo.

He hummed thoughtfully. "Well, mi vida… how to put this? Oh. You’re screwed."

"Helpful." I scowled at him.

"No, no, I mean that with love." He tilted his head, assessing. "Scentbond or nothing, you like him."

That was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. I scoffed. “The scentbond is the only reason why I’m forced to tolerate him. It’s purely biological—”

"I don’t think so. You like him," Theo repeated, sing-song. "And worse, you respect him."

I stared at him, scoffing. “Theo,” I ground out, “I couldn’t possibly respect a guy who ate raw chicken for a week.”

“He was fifteen. And it was all Zach’s idea,” Theo argued, echoing the exact same thing Max had said himself. “Listen, gruñón . Real talk? If he were ugly, this would be a dealbreaker. But he’s hot, so it’s just endearing. We have to accept that hot people get away with more. It’s the natural order of the world.”

That was the most shallow, idiotic thing I had ever heard. And I refused to subscribe to it.

I opened my mouth to say as much, except Theo wasn’t done. “Listen, babe. Max is not a smart man. We know this. We accept this. But he’s obsessed with you. Like, I don’t know if you saw, but he was practically jerking himself off under the table while you were tutoring. He had a huge wet spot.”

I had not seen that. I closed my eyes against the fresh horror. What the actual fuck.

“Some people have intelligent partners who cheat on them,” Theo went on, sighing dreamily. “You have a himbo who worships the ground you walk on. The two of you are already bonded. Face it. You have won.”

“I have a plan,” I retorted firmly, scowling, eyes snapping back open. “All I have to do is make it to the end of next semester. He’s going to have his grades up by then and I’ll be graduating. Problem solved.”

“Brilliant, babe.” Theo clapped his hands together. “I’ll buy the concealer in bulk.”

I groaned, dropping my forehead against my arm. “Shut up.”

Theo smirked—wide and smug, far too pleased with himself. "Fine, fine. Enough about your mess. Let’s talk about mine ."

He launched into a dramatic rant about Brody Wilson—who, apparently, was stalking him now. “Do you know that primal menace has the audacity to cockblock me at parties now?” Theo huffed. "I was thriving in my personal chaos, Ainsley. And now? Every time I so much as flirt, I turn around and he's there, looming. Looming."

I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes. “You told me he was sending unhinged texts.”

“Oh, he was.” Theo nodded. “That was Monday. Now he’s physically showing up. Everywhere. It's ridiculous. And illegal."

I raised a brow, recognizing the opportunity to feed his own unhinged advice back at him. "Have you considered the possibility that you like him?"

Theo shot me the iciest glare of all time. "No. I hate you."

I shrugged and took another sip of my coffee. "Just saying."

As if I hadn’t interrupted, Theo continued ranting—loudly. Very loudly. "Do you know what that menace did last night?" he demanded.

I sighed. “Is this a multiple-choice question, or are you going to tell me regardless?”

Theo reached across the table and grabbed my arm. “He physically picked me up and moved me.”

I blinked. “…Why?”

“Because I was flirting with someone else.”

God. Why did that sound like something Max would do? In fact—the incident with Derek floated through my head and I reached for my coffee, frowning. Deeply. “That… sounds possessive.”

“Thank you!” Theo exclaimed, gesturing wildly. “Like, okay, yes, the sex was phenomenal. But that does not mean he can pick me up and move me like a goddamn duffel bag! Like I weighed nothing, Ainsley. Like I was just some little thing to be relocated. I was mid-flirt. Mid-flirt. And suddenly I was airborne."

I pressed my lips together to stop the laugh threatening to escape. “I’m sorry. That’s—”

Theo leaned forward, eyes wild. “And do you know what he said?”

Oh, I already knew this was going to be deranged. “Go on,” I encouraged, compressing my lips even tighter.

Theo narrowed his eyes, dropped his voice an octave, and said, “‘Ain’t no need to be talkin’ to some beta when ya already got an alpha, sugar.’”

It was terrible. Awful. Truly, I felt for him. And yet I was losing the battle against the urge to laugh, practically spewing out coffee at the sheer absurdity of it. 

Theo flung the back of his hand across his forehead. “I blacked out for a full five seconds, Ainsley. Fully dissociated."

I exhaled through my nose, trying and failing to regain my composure. “And you loved it,” I guessed. 

“I hated it.” Theo groaned, gripping his hair in frustration. “And I loved it. And I hate that I loved it. And I love that I hate that I loved it."

The barest hint of a smirk remained on my lips as I took another slow sip of my coffee. “That was a lot of words to say you’re obsessed with him.”

Theo whipped his head up, pointing aggressively. "He is an overgrown, obsessive, brainless caveman who thinks I’m his. I am no one’s. I am a free spirit. I refuse to be tied down. No one owns Teodoro Adorni—"

“And yet you keep climbing him like a tree,” I pointed out. 

“Because he’s built like a fucking tree, okay?” Theo hissed out. “And sometimes a man just wants to climb .” 

“So let me get this straight,” I paused. “You’re mad because the hottest guy you’ve ever had sex with is obsessed with you? Sounds embarrassing for you.”

Theo sucked in a breath, eyes manic. “No. No, no, no, let me be very clear." He slammed a hand on the table. "Do I want to be pinned to a wall and kissed senseless? Yes. Do I want to be thrown onto a bed and wrecked until I forget my name? Absolutely. Do I want to be called pet names in that deep, feral voice while he holds me like I’m something precious? …Maybe.”

I arched a brow. “I see no issue.”

“But do I want to be a Wilson wifey? Hell no. He is uncultured. He is literally redneck-coded, Ainsley. Yes, maybe it was the best sex I’ve ever had. Maybe I saw colors I didn't know existed,” Theo ranted. “Maybe he growled in my ear and I nearly ascended to another plane of existence. Maybe I called him ‘big cowboy daddy’ by accident—”

And then, just as he reached the peak of his dramatic tirade, a shadow fell over the table and a deep, southern-accented voice rumbled behind him.

"Best sex you’ve ever had, huh?"

Theo went rigid. I turned my head slowly.

Standing behind him—tall, broad, and visibly entertained—was a ridiculously tall, walking slab of alpha muscle. His thick arms were crossed, his head tilted, watching Theo with the amusement of a predator who had just cornered his prey.

I blinked. My mouth pursed, fighting against a shocked laugh. Oh. So that’s Brody Wilson. Here. In the bookstore.

Theo exploded out of his seat.

“Pedazo de pelotudito! ¡Un hijo de mil putas que no sabe cuándo cerrar el orto! Me tenés harto, ¿sabés? Harto. No sé si quiero cogerte o cagarte a piñas, la puta madre que te parió. ¡Qué hincha pelotas! ¿Quién te invitó? ¿Quién?”

The man—Brody—just stood there, a finger hooked into his belt loop, exuding smug satisfaction. “Christ, sugar,” he drawled out. “You’re so fuckin’ hot when you’re mad. Got you some of those candles you were lookin’ at earlier.”

“Velas? ¿Velas?” Theo scoffed, hands moving furiously. “O sea, ¿vos te pensás que esto es romántico? ¿Que esto es una fucking novela de nudos prohibidos? ¡No, tarado! Es acoso, es una maldita locura, y te juro por Dios que si no fueras tan si no hubieras sido tan buena cogida, te hubiese denunciado ya, forro de mierda!"

Brody glanced away from Theo, skimmed his gaze over me, and then plucked up the smutty novel Theo had purchased. I watched as Theo snatched the book back so fast it nearly tore and thwapped him across the chest with it, hissing out more rapid-fire Spanish. I didn’t understand any of it, but I did understand the way his ears were bright-red.

Brody grinned. “You can scream at me in Spanish all you want, baby. We both know you still wanna climb me like a fuckin’ fence.”

“I do not—”

One minute, it was hilarious. The next minute, I was looking far too closely and experiencing my third existential crisis of the day. Dear God. Was this how I looked with Max? Was I… was I Theo? Was Max Brody? No. Absolutely not. I wanted no part in this. 

"Well," I announced, finishing my coffee and setting the cup down. "This has been an experience. I’m leaving now. Remember, Theo darling, we simply have to accept that hot people get away with more."

Theo’s eyes narrowed at me in affront. “You absolute fucking bitch—”

“Not my circus, not my problem.”

I turned and walked straight out of the bookstore, ignoring my best friend screaming my name and Brody’s deep, delighted laughter.

Chapter Text

It was early as fuck. And I was tired as fuck.

Yesterday, after Ainsley had left the scene of the crime that been group tutoring, I’d ripped Zach a new asshole for making me out to be an idiot, stolen his spare set of joggers (which had somehow turned out to be mine anyway? I still had no idea how he’d managed to get ahold of them, but whatever), gone to my classes and then spent hours on the stupid ethics worksheet Ainsley had emailed me.

Ethics wasn’t hard, turns out. But I’d stayed up half the night working on it, unable to sleep with an ache in my chest. And my brain had been running routes until 3am, restless, stuck on a two-way highway between two very dumbass thoughts—Ainsley’s I’ll give you a reward and does Ainsley think I’m less hot because I had parasites when I was fifteen?

I hadn’t thought about The Great Parasite Incident in years. Years. I’d buried it, just like any other embarrassing childhood bullshit. Like the time I had accidentally mooned the entire eighth-grade basketball team or the time I’d gotten stuck in a playground tunnel and the fire department had to get me out.

Ainsley knew about it now. His nerd friends, too. And all the little dork cadets who’d been at the tutoring session, too.

So what, though? Because I was me, I’d come up with a game plan. Buy him coffee. Arrive on time to our tutoring session. He’d love the coffee so much that he’d forget all about yesterday.

Which meant I’d woken up at five in the morning and had driven across town to what had to be the most bougie ass coffee shop in existence. I’d been standing outside their door a minute before they opened, only to stand staring at the menu for a solid twenty minutes.

Another twenty minutes later and I was still staring, faced with the terrifying realization that I had no idea what to get for my omega.

And that was the worst thing ever.

The tea I’d bought him days ago had been my singular greatest achievement. It had done something—relaxed him, made him look at me a little less mean. Somehow I’d gotten it right. But I wasn’t fucking stupid. The tea thing had been a total fucking fluke, honestly. Coffee was serious. An entirely different beast. If I got even one thing wrong, I’d make things worse.

I had to get it right.

The coffee shop was called “Wolf & Bean” and I’d picked it because it’d looked exactly like the kind of place Ainsley would chose. Also, it had the most aggressive five-star ratings ever. The reviews had said shit like “structured macchiato” and “disciplined cappuchinos”, which just felt Ainsley as fuck to me. 

Now I was here, and I’d never been in a coffee shop that felt intimidating before, but this one made me feel like Ainsley was literally right beside me with a knife against my dick, threatening to lop it right off if I made a single misstep. The vibes were real cozy, like the kind of place where you could sit in a sunbeam and read a book about feelings or whatever the fuck.

Big-ass windows, real sleek furniture, and a bunch of tiny plants that were definitely dying but still vibes or something. There was also art, which I could appreciate—like a weird portrait of a guy drinking a glass of milk while looking like he was somehow in pain, and a realistic drawing on the opposite wall of a jacked ass almond holding a tiny, ashamed-looking milk carton.

I didn’t get any of it, but whatever. It felt serious in here. Like I needed backup.

The thought of calling Zach crossed my mind but I immediately decided against it, because obviously I was not talking to that asshole for a while. I needed someone who was going through the same thing I was. Someone who could maybe—just maybe— give me some actual understanding instead of betrayal.

I put my phone on speakerphone and let it ring, squinting harder at the menu as if it would start suddenly translating itself into something that made sense. 

It picked up on the second ring, but there wasn’t an answer right away. It sounded like there was someone… yelling? in the background. I caught little snatches of it—a loud, scandalized voice screeching something about “this is a cultural institution” and “not a den of sin”.

“Yo, dude,” I greeted, wondering what the fuck was going on. “You good?”

Brody’s voice finally came over the line. “Hang on a minute. Ma’am, I am tryin’ to put my damn pants on—”

“—fornicate next to Plato—”

“Ain’t nobody readin’ Pluto anyway,” Brody growled back.

My eyebrow twitched and I stared down at my phone. “Where are you, dude?”

Brody grunted. “Followed Theo to a bookstore last night n’ sopped him up like a biscuit. Best read of my life.”

The other person in the background made a choked noise, and I snorted, both eyebrows shooting up. Fucking huh? “You… you fucked him in a bookstore?”

“Real respectful-like, though,” Brody reassured, except I could hear he was grinning like a maniac. “Ain’t break nothing.”

Brody was probably the teammate I was closest to besides Zach and the three of us had figured out freshman year that we had a lot in common, being from Texas. Except Brody was from panhandle country, which automatically made him too feral to be a real person.

If feral-ass Brody was tripping in his boots over an omega just like I was losing my mind over Ainsley, I wanted to hear about it. And not from Zach.

I shifted my stance, clearing my throat. “I literally saw you two days ago and you didn’t say anything about this guy.”

The background noise went away, replaced with the sound of a car door slamming and a diesel engine—Brody’s truck, I recognized—firing up. It all cut out for a second and then resumed, more faded. 

Then I heard Brody scoff. “Maybe ‘cos you abandoned us like a deadbeat dad who went to buy milk and never came back? You left us fatherless, bro.”

I winced. Hard. “Okay, that’s—”

“You’re not my quarterback anymore.”

Wow. That fucking stung. Like actually.

Because I knew Brody was both kidding and not. Pack-coded language was supposed to be outdated, even frowned upon, these days, but Brody had been raised differently. He’d only started wearing scent patches since attending Ridgeline and he talked constantly about how he hated them.

Ripped his off every chance he got, especially when he got too much tequila in him. Took a little longer to reapply them after games. And even with it on, he acted like a fucking animal.

Pack was a family and family was pack, according to Brody.

“Dude, I am literally still the team’s quarterback,” I argued, running a hand over my face. For a split second, I regretted calling, because I didn’t want to get into this. I mean, yeah, I knew I had to face it sooner or later—I should’ve known Brody would have feelings about how things had changed with me getting benched and not hanging out as much—but not right now.

Right now, I just needed to buy a fucking coffee. The barista had stalked out from the back room to stand in front of me. Their nametag proclaimed ZETH, and they were looking at me like they wanted to unalive me in some sick way, dark-rimmed blue eyes stabbing me from under a fringe of hair that was a lighter shade of blue.

I gave them a polite smile. They didn’t return it, so I edged a step back from the counter, switching my attention to Brody. 

“Actually, I called becacuse—”

Brody ignored me. “Zach’s our quarterback now.”

Zach was what? I let out an incredulous bark of laughter and almost fumbled the phone. “Zach plays wide receiver, you fucking moron.” 

“Don’t care.” Brody’s voice was unflinching. “It’s a metaphor, bro.”

I squeezed the bridge of my nose, trying to slow my heartrate. “You can’t just, like… use team roles metaphorically.”

“Why not?”

Agitated all of a sudden, I dragged a hand through my hair, sucking in a breath. I didn’t know why. I just knew that you couldn’t. Every fiber in my being hated it, for reasons I couldn’t explain. It made me pissed.

“It’s just wrong, dude,” I finally said. “Like that time Kyle thought you were the backup quarterback. Justin is the backup quarterback.”

“Yankee Noodle Boy ain’t shit,” Brody snapped. “And you’re basically QB3.”

My jaw and my fists clenched at the same time, a wave of aggression rolling through me. “QB3 is crazy,” I growled. “I literally bench-pressed you and Jake on Gainsnesday. Bro.”

“Bro. Ain’t enough. My heart ain’t healed—”

One of the most dramatic sighs I’d ever heard huffed out, reminding me where I was. I looked over to see the barista—Zeth—half-sprawled across the counter, eyes narrowed in a death-glare that flicked between me and my phone. They popped their gum as loud as a gunshot and I jumped. 

“I could have birthed a child in the time it’s taking you to pick a coffee, bro,” they drawled out unkindly. “Do you want the little picture menu? Maybe a coloring sheet while you think?”

Fuck. I was supposed to be ordering Ainsley’s coffee.

“Oh, right.” I shot them a sheepish-but-charming grin and rubbed the back of my neck. “Sorry. Let me get… uhhhh…”

I looked back at the menu. It still looked like goddamn hieroglyphics. Panic bubbled up, hot and irrational. I was about to embarrass myself in front of the barista. In front of Ainsley, in spirit. Goddamn it. Fuck the ethics worksheet—this was the real test. And I was failing.

Maybe I should just get him tea again? Safe choice. But no. I had to level up. Had to win the coffee round too.

Brody's voice crackled over the phone. "Dude, you good? You’re breathin’ all weird."

"N-No," I said too quickly, which absolutely made it worse. "I just—uh—fuck, hang on—uh—"

“You havin’ a stroke? You sound fucked up, bro. Walk that shit off," Brody advised—unhelpfully.

“I’m trying to get Ainsley something at this bougie ass coffee shop, okay?” I hissed into the phone. Straightening, I took a deep breath and faced Zeth. "Okay, um. I gotta ask… what the hell is the Moon Cycle Elixir?"

"Hormone-balancing tonic that tastes like a sexy garden,” Zeth rattled off, deadpan. They didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “Has raspberry leaf, ashwagandha, maca root, and one whole almond for the aesthetic."

I stuttered out a nervous laugh, only to immediately stop when I saw the look on Zeth’s face. "You’re joking, right?"

They popped their gum again and just stared at me, wordlessly. I was officially sweating. Okay. Moving on.

Desperate, I looked for something normal, my eyes darting across the menu like I was scanning for an emergency exit. I latched onto the first thing that looked vaguely sane.

"What about the uh… the Mellow Earth Latte?"

“The fucking what?” I heard Brody repeat, but I only had enough attention span for the slow smirk curving over Zeth’s lips.

"Ah. A gentle soul, I see."

Gentle? I exhaled in relief. Okay, yeah, now we were getting somewhere.

Then Zeth spoke again, rattling off words like they’d been programmed. "It’s an adaptogenic mushroom latte blended with lion’s mane, reishi, chaga, and oat milk. Infused with the vibrational frequency of a singing bowl tuned to 432 Hz."

Somehow, that sounded like drugs. I was trying to earn Ainsley’s approval, not send him to space before noon. What the fuck was this place? Aghast, I stared blankly at Zeth. "That’s… not a latte."

"It is if you believe in it. Do you believe?” Zeth asked ominously.

Nah. Nah, I fucking did not.

“Uh. I, uh—I think I’m allergic, actually,” I managed lamely. “How about…”

I gestured blindly at the next thing on the menu, not even reading it. "How about that one?"

Zeth followed where I’d pointed to and then leveled me with the same look you’d give a sad, lost child. Which—fair. "That’s a ceremonial matcha shot with astral-charged chlorophyll,” they said slowly. “and ethically sourced jade powder."

I blinked. "Is… is that just tea?"

"Tea is a social construct,” they said. And sounded smug about it. 

“Dude, what the fuck am I listening to?” Brody sounded offended. “Are you getting your ass whooped in a coffee shop?”

I ignored him and searched for a new topic. Common ground. I needed common ground. Or a fucking out. My eyes landed on a sign that said Whole Milk? Whole Mistake! Great. Safe topic. Totally fine.

I pointed at it. “What’s, uh… what’s that about?”

Zeth tilted their head like an owl and I swore their cold vibe dropped another ten degrees. “Milk?” they repeated. “You mean the oppressed, industrialized titty juice of a tortured dairy cow? Sorry, we don’t carry the tears of overworked mothers. We believe in progress."

Brody was wheezing through the phone. Absolutely fucking losing it. I could hear him slapping his steering wheel. My brain, meanwhile, completely shut down. What the fuck. 

I had never thought about milk before. Not once in my life. I mean, milk was just… milk. Cereal juice. Muscle fuel. The thing you chug when you eat too many hot wings and fuck up your taste buds. A beverage.

But now? Now I had visions. Overworked mothers, dude. Like, were cows… stressed and I’d somehow never realized it? Were they tired of their jobs? Did they go home after a long day and complain about their boss?

Did cows have bosses?

What if the cows were underpaid? What if they were dreaming of better lives? What if some cow out there right now was looking up at the sky, wondering if there was more to life than this?

I was sweating. Spiraling. Because holy shit. Was milk unethical? Was I a bad person? Oh my God. What about cheese?

All I could say was, "Uh."

"I’m actually—I’m gonna just—I need to think about that, okay? Give me like, five minutes,” I said finally, fully expecting Zeth to leave me in peace to stand there and rethink my life choices. But they didn’t. They just popped their gum like a psychopath with a single, perfectly arched brow, and a smirk on their lips. Waiting. Staring. 

This was the worst standoff of my entire life. I half-turned, scanning the other customers in a silent plea for help, but they stared back at me. Some of them were laughing behind their hands, visibly delighting in my downfall. I was fucked.

In one last, desperate bid for some fucking normalcy, I said, “Okay, so what’s a ‘dirty horchata’?”

Zeth looked me dead in the eye and laughed. Actually laughed. "Oh, you sweet, dumb little alpha. You’re not ready for that conversation."

“Bro, I figured out Theo's coffee order like, day two,” Brody cut in, snickering. 

I gritted my teeth and rolled my eyes, willing back the irrational rage at the edges of my vision. “Yeah, because you’re literally stalking him,” I bit out. 

“And?” Brody sounded unbothered. “How do you think I got the opportunity to fuck him next to Pluto? That’s real alpha shit. My daddy said so.”

From what little I knew of Brody’s dad, he was unhinged as fuck. Because he’d raised Brody. “Are you saying I’m not a real alpha?” I growled, bristling.  

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”

“I swear to God, Brody, the next time I see you, I will fucking kick your—” My gaze ticked back up to Zeth, who was still staring at me and listening to every bit of mine and Brody’s conversation. Fuck. I forced myself to dial it back, clearing my throat and flashing them another smile that completely missed its mark.

“Sorry. Um. Let me get, uhhhhh…”

Brody honked his horn aggressively. “Dude, I can’t take any more of this shit. Ain’t never heard a grown man struggle like this outside a possum fight. Listen—I got his receipt right here.”

I glanced at Zeth, who was still waiting patiently with the most impatient vibe I’d ever seen. “Ainsley’s receipt?” I asked slowly, my eyebrow twitching. “How do you have—”

“It was in Theo’s pants,” Brody said, as if that made all the sense in the world. “Do you want it or not?”

Ainsley’s receipt. Ainsley’s coffee order. He literally had it. I tried not to yell, but my voice definitely rose an octave. “Yeah, I fucking want it!”

Out of the corner of my eye, Zeth yawned. I fidgeted with the hem of my hoodie.

“Okay, lessee here…” Brody paused, then the crinkling of paper and tires screeching came over the line, making me flinch. “Uhhh. DBL SHOT ALM MLK LATT, 1P HNY, LT DUST CIN, NO SGR, XHOT.”

I didn’t say anything for a solid five seconds. Because huh? “…What the fuck did you just say to me?”

Brody, the bastard, was laughing. “Bro, I don’t know, okay? It’s written in like, omega or some shit.”

“A double-shot almond milk latte with one pump of honey and lightly dusted with cinnamon, extra hot,” Zeth said flatly, and I swear to God, I’d never felt so fucking relieved in my entire life. I nodded, watching them key the order into the system with their burgundy-painted nails tapping on the screen.

It was like a weight had been lifted off me. Every bit of aggression I’d felt in the past hour faded completely under how huge this moment felt. Even the stress indigestion I’d been suffering from since last night eased slightly, at the vision of presenting Ainsley’s exact coffee order to him plus a completed worksheet.

I mean, yeah, was I still thinking about oppressed cows? Yeah, probably for life. I was a changed man. No more overworked titty juice for me. Also, was I thinking I should call my dad about it? Yeah. I was. Because he probably didn’t even know.

But mostly, I was just thinking about how I was gonna get that damn reward from Ainsley.

Chapter Text

The library was too bright. Too cold.

And I was too tired.

Not just regular tired. Not even exams week tired. No, this was a special, never-before-seen variety of exhaustion—the kind of tired that ate at the soul, that rewired a person’s entire worldview, that made me momentarily consider giving up on civilization altogether and moving into the wilderness.

And it was entirely Theo’s fault.

Because, instead of spending last night in my own bed like a normal, functional human being, I had been forced out of my apartment at four in the morning by twenty-five missed phone calls, eighteen text messages, and two panicked voicemails. 

Theo: ainsley. i have made a mistake
Theo: a grave mistake
Theo: my back is broken
Theo: he fucked me so good I FORGOT WHAT YEAR IT WAS
Theo: i literally asked him what time it was and he said "it's march" and i just accepted it
Theo: I TRIED TO STAND UP AND MY LEGS DIDN'T WORK
Theo: AINSLEY. I COLLAPSED
Theo: do you know what’s worse than having your back blown out by a feral texan?
Theo: liking it. ainsley. i liked it
Theo: i think i liked it too much
Theo: THE STORE IS CLOSED AINSLEY THERE IS NO ONE HERE
Theo: I AM LOCKED IN
Theo: I NEED YOU TO COME GET ME RIGHT NOW
Theo: I AM PREPARED TO COMMIT CRIMES IF NECESSARY
Theo: I HAVE BEEN BROKEN PHYSICALLY, EMOTIONALLY, AND METAPHORICALLY. IF YOU DO NOT HELP ME I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL FIND A WAY TO HAUNT YOU IN LIFE

"Bitch, wake up right now. Right now. ¡Despertar! I require immediate assistance. He—he fucked me paralyzed. Do you know what I had to do, Ainsley? I had to army crawl to the nonfiction section like some kind of feral animal. I was humbled. I was ruined.”

“Ainsley, I need you to hear me. If I ever even consider touching Brody Wilson again, I need you to physically restrain me. I need you to put me down like a rabid dog. I need you to come help me right now—”

“I’m in the bathroom. There’s a window. Ainsley. Mi vida. Please, I’m trapped. I cannot die like this. My parents will never recover from the shame. Please. PLEASE—”

So that was how I’d been forced to retrieve my disaster of a best friend from a locked bookstore because he’d gotten railed into oblivion by an idiot linebacker and then hid in the bathroom until I came to break him out.

In hindsight, I should have let Theo rot. I should have told him this was a self-inflicted problem and rolled back over to sleep. But I hadn’t really been sleeping anyway. Add that to the misfortune of having a conscience and leftover guilt from abandoning him in the bookstore in the first place and I had dragged myself out of bed at four seventeen a.m.

I had paid a small fortune for a rideshare to drive across the city and then I, a man who had once prided himself on a carefully constructed reputation for logic and dignity, had proceeded to aid and abet a felony. Had stood at the edge of the grimy building, hoisting Theo out of its narrow-ass bathroom window like some kind of goddamn heist accomplice.

And because it was Theo, when he landed on the pavement, he had the audacity to say,  "You took too long."

I had seriously contemplated leaving him there.

Instead, I had endured his breathless, borderline unhinged recap of his night of sins as he’d driven me back to my dorm—only to then spend the entire night tossing and turning because of my own separate but equally infuriating problems. How they were a lot like Theo’s. 

If I looked at it logically—if I stripped away the theatrics, the absurdity, the fact that I had been forced to execute a goddamn bookstore jailbreak at four in the morning—his problem wasn’t all that different from mine.

Sure, Theo’s downfall was a 6’6” feral Texan with a single-digit IQ and a world-class dick, while mine was 6’4” of insufferable muscle and a world-class ego (and also a world-class dick, my brain added unhelpfully), but at their core, the problems were the same.

Neither of us should have let it get this far. It was sick. A disease. A plague of bad decisions. And Theo and I would both do it again.

Before he’d dropped me off at my dorm, Theo had accused me of being dumbass-sexual. Of course I had argued against that—only for him to bring up an alternative that I loathed even more: Maxsexual.

Absolutely not.

So now I sat in the library, exhausted and actively fighting the urge to simply shut down like a malfunctioning computer. My body was too heavy, weighed down by irritation and something worse—something crawling beneath my skin, something I didn’t want to name. Someone had left the window open, sound trickling in from the quad below. I was too tired to close it.

Objectively, I knew the library hadn’t changed. The bookshelves were still arranged in their cold, logical rows. The desks were still the same. The air still smelled like aging paper, cheap campus-grade coffee, and the mild anxiety of students on the verge of an existential crisis. It was still a library.

And yet my brain refused to acknowledge this as neutral territory. The whole damn building felt like it was laughing at me. My usual spot—the desk I had always used for tutoring sessions, the one tucked neatly in a back corner, isolated and distraction-free—was off-limits now. Permanently.

Everything for the mini session I had yet to endure with Max was meticulously arranged in front of me—my laptop, notes, highlighters, pens, but I could barely keep my eyes open long enough to process any of it. I saw it all through a bleary lens and an aching chest.

And then the chair across from me scraped against the floor. I knew it was him before I even looked up. His presence was loud, even in silence. Big, warm, too much. I blinked, slowly, the weariness pressing against the back of my skull lifting as my irritation sharpened into a focused point.

“Morning, sunshine.” Max’s voice drawled out like liquid sin, unfairly smooth and far too chipper for seven o’clock in the morning. Inhaling through my nose, I kept my gaze stubbornly trained on my laptop screen. I refused to look over at him. I did not want to see the look on his face, because he and I both knew that this wasn’t our usual spot. 

“You’re late,” I snapped out automatically—only to blink as my laptop was suddenly pushed aside. Before I could ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing, a coffee cup with a stylized wolf’s head and coffee bean was set in front of me. With… a folded piece of paper. With a protein bar.

Confusion swelled over my nerves, mixing with an irrational sense of alarm. “What is all this?” I asked slowly, finally looking up at him—

And promptly regretting it, because he was actively in the process of shrugging out of his standard Ridgeline Wolfpack hoodie, revealing a plain black muscle tank that dipped low at the sides and showed obscene flashes of muscle and tanned skin.

My tired brain short-circuited, forgetting about everything else in favor of noticing how big his arms were, how—God, I needed to be euthanized. Immediately.

“Nu-uh. It’s fifteen ‘til seven, babe. I’m early,” he drawled out, leaning back in his chair. My gaze snapped to his and heat flamed my cheeks upon realizing that he’d been watching me watch him. Now he was grinning, radiating the most insufferable, self-satisfied aura I’d ever witnessed. “Worksheet. Coffee. Protein.”

I inhaled slowly. Exhaled. Checked the time.

He was early, for once. Goddamn it. Needing something—anything—to ground myself, I reached for the folded piece of paper on the table and unfolded it. His worksheet. I skimmed it, barely paying attention. Then I scanned it again more closely. And again.

Because there was no way he’d gotten every single question right.

“You cheated,” I accused, glowering at him. His grin didn’t budge. If anything, it got even wider as he shook his head in denial.

Wordlessly, he reached out and pushed the coffee cup towards me, spinning it around to showcase the  drink me, nerd ♡  scrawled in his own messy handwriting across the logo. I eyed it as if it were a venomous snake. That I inexplicably, against all reason, wanted to drink.

My fingers twitched. It was just coffee. It was just caffeine. And yet… I had not had coffee this morning. The campus cafe was located in the opposite direction of the library, too long of a trek to make with the amount of sleep I had in me. Besides, I didn’t have the patience for dealing with other humans at this hour, much less moronic baristas.

He pushed the cup closer. And closer. I glared at him and pushed it right back, until he huffed out a laugh and raised an eyebrow at me.

“What, you don’t like an extra hot double-shot almond milk latte with one pump of sugar-free vanilla and lightly dusted with cinnamon?”

“I—” I froze, narrowing my eyes into thin slits. “How the hell do you know that, Vaughn?”

His expression went deliberately blank. “Dunno.”

This was an elaborate prank. It had to be. There was no way that Max just somehow knew my exact coffee order. Without breaking eye contact, I snatched the coffee and took a slow, tentative sip. Then a longer one, tasting for error.

To my complete shock, there was none. The smoothness of almond milk, vanilla, and cinnamon rolled over my tongue, familiar and perfect. Drinking it soothed my nerves immediately, made me feel like everything was somehow right again. A satisfied sigh blew out of my lungs before I could stop it. 

“Where did you get this from?” I asked him, gripping the coffee cup with both hands, allowing the warmth to seep into my palms.

Max practically vibrated in his seat, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. “Pretentious ass little place on Fifth Street with the meanest baristas ever. Is it good? Did they make it right?”

I gave a noncommital hum, nodding slowly. “Yes. It’s good. Thank you.”

You would’ve thought I’d handed him a gold medal, from the massive grin that stretched across his face. Some weird tension seemed to bleed from him, as if the words lifted some invisible weight, and I barely resisted rolling my eyes. 

“Thank fucking God, because I went through hell to get it. You’re welcome, babe,” he said cheerfully. The scar on his eyebrow twitched as he watched me, entirely too intent.

My teeth ground together. “Do not call me—”

He leaned in abruptly, speaking over me. “Hey, did you know that cows are overworked?”

I stared at him. Blinked. Took a long, slow sip of coffee.

At this point, I knew Max well enough that I could see his brain cells firing in all the wrong directions. I could feel the monologue coming on, the exact sort I hated. Unfortunately, I had to admit—if there was ever a moment where he had earned the right to ramble about something completely idiotic, this would’ve been it. He had shown up early to our session, he had completed his worksheet, and he had also brought me coffee like a creep.

It was also five minutes until seven. Technically, our session hadn’t started yet. And honestly? I was too tired to stop him.

So, because I hated myself, I muttered dryly, “I was born and raised in Northern California, Max. I know nothing about cows. Please, educate me.”

“Okay, so, like, imagine you’re a cow—”

Dear fucking God.

“No,” I said immediately, regretting everything.

“Yes,” he countered, undeterred. “You’re a cow, babe. A beautiful, sophisticated cow. Like—like a fancy one. Ainsley the Award-Winning Dairy Bitch. So there you are, being all… regal and milk-filled. Just standing in a field, thinking about, like, I dunno—stocks, Nietzsche, the decline of Western civilization—”

“Max—” I pinched the bridge of my nose. Helplessly.

“—when boom. Here comes some random-ass dude in overalls, and you’re like, ‘Oh shit, what’s up, my guy? You bringing me a snack? Some enrichment, perhaps? A podcast to enjoy?’ But no. He’s here to tug on your nips, Ainsley. To rob you of your very essence. To drain your supple cow assets.”

I stared at him, horrified. “I don’t—why are you like this?”

“And you have no say in it,” Max continued, relentless. “You’re just stuck there, getting absolutely milked against your will. And then they put it in a fucking carton and sell it to some guy named Todd so he can pour it over his off-brand Cheerios and never once think about the injustice.”

“Fucking hell,” I muttered under my breath, pulling my laptop closer. A quick Google search provided exactly what I was looking for and I turned the screen around, pointing at the result. “Max. Dairy cows need to be milked. Otherwise, they suffer health problems.”

That seemed to give him pause. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then squinted at the text. Opened his mouth again, except I held up a hand to stop him. There was an opportunity here, one that had nothing to do with me being an ‘Award-Winning Dairy Bitch’ and everything to do with the actual reason we were here. And naturally, I was going to take it. 

“You were assigned an extra credit assignment for your ethics class that involves writing an essay on a moral concern and how you would solve it. Congratulations, industrialized dairy farming is now your moral concern.”

“But—” he started.

“On one hand,” I continued, cutting him off, “you’re right that industrialized dairy farming raises valid concerns about animal welfare, the commodification of living beings, and the ethicality of human interference in natural biological processes. On the other hand, however, as I’ve pointed out, cows must be milked for their own well-being. This introduces the concept of symbiotic exploitation: a system where both parties benefit.”

I paused, fully expecting some sort of protest. Definitely whining. Refusal, even. But instead, I almost fell out of my chair when Max bent down and pulled a notebook out of his backpack.

In the entire span that I had been tutoring him, I had never seen him voluntarily take notes. Ever. I hadn’t even known he had a notebook of his own.

“Wait. Can you say that again? But like… way more slowly?” he asked, glancing up at me.

“No,” I snapped out, annoyed. “It’s already simple enough. Also, it needs to be in your own words. It’s your assignment.”

For the briefest of moments, his lower lip jutted out in the barest semblance of a pout, but then he squared his gaze back down at his notebook. “Okay, so… Max Vaughn Vs Oppressed Titty Juice.”

I closed my eyes.

“…We’ll work on it,” I finally muttered, lifting my coffee cup to disguise the twitch that threatened at the corners of my mouth. Gesturing to his notebook, I said, “The purpose of this session is to cover your ethics homework, since that’s one of your classes today—”

“Wait. Can I ask a question first?”

“No,” I said. But he already grinning, in the way that I had come to recognize as an announcement of an incoming storm of absolute bullshit. God help me.

Stretching his arms over his head, he eyed me. “You know, yesterday you texted me that if I completed my worksheet, I’d get a reward. So I completed it—correctly, by the way—and I was thinking —”