Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I’m halfway through cramming my life into a beat-up duffel bag when I find the old hoodie I used to live in at seventeen. It still smells faintly like that first rut. That weekend.

Yeah. That weekend.

The one where everything changed.

See, back in middle school and most of high school, I was diagnosed as a Beta. Totally average. No rut, no heat, no scent—nothing. I never thought much about all that second-gender stuff. My dad raised me to treat people like people, not walking scent profiles. Gender was second, always.

But then I saw him.

He was live-streaming from a hotel room. His second ever heat, apparently. Camera aimed low. There was this cloth mask over the bottom half of his face, just enough to hide his identity, but you could still see the flushed cheeks, the ruined eyes, the long chestnut hair all frizzed and curling at the ends. He had these floppy ears and this dumb little wispy tail that wagged every time he touched himself.

I wasn’t even looking for it. I just… stumbled on it. Curiosity clicked, and then—bam. Done. Gone. Wrecked.

I didn’t leave my room for three days.

I went into rut. Full-blown, primal, shaking, sweating, howling into a pillow rut. My first one. At seventeen. I didn’t even know that was possible for someone like me. My body felt like it was on fire, like something ancient and buried just woke up all at once. And it didn’t stop until Tuesday.

The same day he signed off. “Thanks for watching,” he’d said, like he hadn’t just altered my entire existence.

Afterwards, I sat my dad down, mortified, and we had The Talk. The other talk. He took me in to get re-diagnosed, and sure enough—turns out I wasn’t a Beta after all.

Recessive Alpha.

Great.

Except it didn’t feel great. It felt like obsession. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about him. That boy behind the mask. The way he sounded when he moaned. The soft way he smiled during the pre-heat chats. The way he looked at the camera like he could see me.

I didn’t even know his name.

All I had was a username: OmeBoy19.

But after that first stream, my body started syncing with him. Every single heat he had? Boom—there went my rut. Like clockwork. Like fate.

I think the moment it really clicked—that I’d do anything for him—was when he mentioned, kind of offhand in the chat, that he used the donations to cover school stuff. Food. Heat supplies. The hotel.

He said his dorm wasn’t safe during heats. That was the word he used—safe. Said the walls were thin and there were too many Alphas around who didn’t respect boundaries. His scent was peaches, and apparently, that was enough of a magnet to make his heats a liability. So every cycle, he’d save up enough to rent a hotel room for the weekend. Just to have a door he could lock. Just to feel safe in his own skin.

And that wrecked me.

Here I was—an Alpha, just freshly diagnosed, and the world suddenly rolled out a red carpet for me. Scholarships, internships, handouts. My application to college barely cleared the system before I got acceptance letters. Everyone wanted me. Just for being what I was.

And meanwhile, he was working himself raw, dodging creeps, and baring himself online just to stay afloat. Just to keep his spot in school. Just to have somewhere to ride out a heat without getting mauled.

So yeah, I took two jobs. Bagging groceries during the day and dishwashing at night. Every cent I didn’t absolutely need? I sent to him.

My friends thought I was insane.

“He’s just using you, man.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“For all you know, he’s not even in college.”

But they didn’t get it. Not like I did.

I did know him. Maybe not by name or face, but I knew his heart. I knew the way his voice cracked a little when he laughed. I knew the way his eyes fluttered when he got flustered. I knew the way he always greeted me when I was first in the chat. Like it mattered.
He wasn’t marked. I could tell. And the way he talked to me—during those pre-heat lives, when no one else was there but me? That was real. He never shared much. Said it wasn’t safe. And I understood that. The world isn’t exactly kind to Omegas—especially ones who turn to streaming just to survive.

Still, over time, I picked up the little details. I learned that he liked sports but didn’t really play. That he didn’t have many close friends. That he was currently in college, somewhere, somehow. And that his scent was peaches.

God, peaches.

He always went live an hour before his heat, and it was almost always just the two of us. I’d be in the chat, asking soft questions, hyping him up, making him laugh. And sometimes, just sometimes, he’d answer with this warm little smile, and it felt like the whole world was just him and me for a minute.

He never asked me for money. Never even hinted. I gave it freely—wanted to. Because I couldn’t stand the thought of him out there alone, barely scraping by, while the world kept handing me gold for nothing.

It felt like my duty. Like something in me needed to help him.

I mean, what kind of Alpha would I be if I didn’t protect my mate?

Even if he doesn’t know he’s my mate...yet

Now, two years later, I’m nineteen. Packing for college.

And yeah, maybe it’s stupid. Maybe I’ve built him up too much in my head. But I believe it. I believe he’s real. That he’s out there.

My mate.

I don’t know what school he goes to. I don’t know what he studies. I don’t know his name. But I do know he exists. And I do know that everything in me shifted that night for a reason.

My friends still think I’m being an idiot. That he’s scamming me. That I’ll never meet him. They’ve asked to see his page, but I always say no.

Like I’d let them ogle my future husband?

Not a chance in hell.

Chapter Text

First day. College. A fresh start.

I step out of the car with PJ and Bobby, stretching my legs and trying not to feel too nervous about it all. It’s not like I’ve never been away from home before—but still, this feels different. Bigger. Permanent.

There’s an older student waiting for us at the dorm check-in table, clipboard in hand and lanyard around his neck. He’s got that exhausted-but-overenthusiastic orientation leader vibe. “Welcome to campus! You three with Group C?” We nod, and he waves us over. “Cool, I’ll walk you through the main buildings before we head to dorm assignments.”

We fall in step behind him, winding through courtyards and common areas while he rattles off history facts and fire safety regulations. Half-listening, I scan the crowd around us—mostly Betas, a few overcompensating Alphas whose pheromones are already polluting the air like bad cologne.

As we pass the south dorm wing, the guy pauses and points to the first floor windows. “So just a heads up, these are the mixed dorms. The school usually doesn’t get many Omegas, but there is one currently living on this floor, so… no roughhousing, no loud music, and definitely no heat-triggers. It’s a zero-tolerance policy.”

I nod politely, but inside, it churns. “Mixed dorms.” Like that’s some radical new concept. Like Omegas needing a safe place to live without being harassed is a footnote. It pisses me off—the way this society acts like Omegas are some delicate, inconvenient afterthought. Like they’re not even people half the time. I feel my jaw tighten.

“You good?” PJ nudges me.

“Huh? Yeah,” I mutter, loosening my shoulders. “Just… taking it all in.”

Bobby makes some joke about communal bathrooms, something about never trusting a guy who sings in the shower. I laugh, shaking it off. We keep walking. Other new students have joined our little group now, and a few returning ones trail behind us, probably judging us with their upperclassman wisdom.

Then—out of nowhere—an arm slaps across my shoulders.

“Yo,” some Alpha guy grins, leaning in like we’re old friends. “You’re new here, right? Alpha, yeah?”

I blink at him. “Uh… yeah.”

“Thought so. Got that vibe.” He means my scent, obviously, though the way he says it makes my skin crawl. He reeks of overcompensation and synthetic cologne.

He keeps talking as we approach the quad, yammering on about some Alpha-only party tonight and how it’s tradition to haze the new guys. I tune most of it out until my eyes fall on… him.

Sitting on the edge of the main fountain like he stepped out of a catalog. Crisp V-neck sweater over a fitted button-down, pressed slacks, perfectly polished shoes crossed at the ankles. A book rests in one hand, the other holding a half-empty coffee cup. His brown hair is neat but soft-looking, and the sun catches the strands just right, like it’s trying to show off for him.

No one sits near him. Not even close. And the way he holds himself? It’s not just about fashion. It’s control. Precision. Elegance. Untouchable.

I don’t realize I’ve stopped walking until Alpha guy follows my gaze and chuckles. “Ah. You caught a glimpse of the school’s very own crown jewel.”

I look at him sideways. “What?”

He jerks his chin toward the guy at the fountain. “That’s Bradley Uppercrust the Third. Real mouthful, huh? Rich as hell, smarter than he looks, and Omega.” His tone dips with mock caution. “Word of warning? Don’t bother. He’s off-limits.”

I narrow my eyes. “Off-limits?”

“Yeah. Unattainable. Apparently, he’s got this huge Alpha that’ll beat the shit outta anyone who so much as sniffs in his direction.” He laughs like it’s all so ridiculous. “Dude’s practically royalty. Real stuck-up too. Acts like he’s better than everyone. Total prick to Alphas. Doesn’t know his place, y’know? But I guess when you’ve got enough money, even an Omega can buy an ego.”

I shrug him off, physically and emotionally. “Didn’t ask. But thanks, I guess.”

He holds up a flyer. “Anyway, if you change your mind, party’s at the Theta house.” I take it just to be polite, then crush it and toss it in the nearest trash bin the second he turns away.

My eyes drift back to the fountain.

Bradley—if that’s really his name—still hasn’t moved. Still reading. Still untouchable. Until, like he feels me staring, he glances up. And just like that, our eyes meet.

My heart skips. Actually skips.

His gaze is sharp, unreadable. And then it’s gone—he looks back to his book like nothing happened.

But I stand there, warm in the face, trying to catch my breath and convince myself that the faint trace of peaches in the air is just coincidence.

Because there’s no way.

…Right?

PJ tugs at my sleeve. “C’mon, Max. Dorm time.”

I nod, falling into step with my friends. Laughing at Bobby’s dumb jokes. Smiling like nothing’s weird.

But I keep thinking about that look. That flicker of connection. And the scent I can’t quite shake.

It’s probably nothing.

I mean, sure—he looks good. Really good. The kind of good that makes your stomach flip and your brain short-circuit a little. But there's no way he could be my Omega.

He's too different. Too polished. Aloof. Cold. The way he carries himself, like he’s already above it all and doesn’t have time for the likes of me—or anyone else, for that matter.

Besides… maybe someone nearby just has a similar scent. Maybe some couple’s sharing a snack that smells like peaches, or my brain’s just pulling tricks again. Wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve gone years trying to match scents in crowds, hoping for even a hint of something familiar.

Could just be the loneliness talking. The hope getting too loud again.

Whatever it is, I push it down.

I’ll keep my distance. I have to.

Because I’m already taken—even if it’s only in my heart. Even if I’ve never touched him, never seen his face beyond a mask and soft camera blur. I’ve felt it. That connection. That bond. And I’m not about to toss that away just because the first Omega I see on campus happens to look like he walked out of a daydream.

So what if he’s pretty?

…Really pretty.

I groan inwardly and scrub a hand through my hair.

No. He’s not him. And that’s what matters.

I square my shoulders and refocus on my friends as we step into the dorm building. Whatever weird flutter just happened—whatever that was—I leave it behind me.

Chapter Text

Dorm assignments are handed out once we reach the admin tent. PJ and Bobby are practically bouncing, and I already know they’ll end up together. Sure enough, second floor. Shared room.

“Hell yeah!” Bobby cheers, tossing an arm around PJ’s shoulders.

“Roomies” PJ grins.

I smile, but then glance down at my own slip.

First floor. Single room.

The student aide running the list glances up at me. “Yeah, normally Alphas get placed on the third floor, but we’re over capacity this year. Hope that’s not a problem?”

I just shrug. “Nah. It’s fine.”

What am I gonna say? ‘Actually, can you cram me in a triple with my besties and pretend I’m not a walking hormone timebomb?’ Yeah, no thanks.

I am a little bummed, though. Would’ve been cool to bunk with the guys, just for the comfort. But whatever. We’ve got most of our classes together anyway, and it’s probably better this way.

At least I won’t have to worry about bothering them when my rut hits.

Which is… ugh. This week.

My shoulders sag a little thinking about it. It’s not unbearable anymore—two years in, I know how to manage—but still. It’s not exactly a fun time. Everything hot, no touch ever satisfying enough, and the sheer hunger. That, and—

My chest warms.

His stream.

He only goes live once a month, always during his heat, and always from some fancy hotel room. He says his dorm isn’t safe, and honestly, that never stops making my blood boil. He shouldn’t have to hide. But at least the hotel gives him space to breathe.

And privacy to—

I shake the thought. No use revving myself up already.

I just have to get through tonight. Classes start tomorrow, and I’m exhausted from the drive. All I want to do is drop my stuff, maybe scarf something quick, and pass out.

I follow the arrows down the hall toward my new room—quiet, cool, and tucked into a corner on the first floor.

Guess this is home now.

Chapter Text

First class of the semester. It’s some general lit requirement—room smells like ink, floor polish, and the nerves of two dozen freshmen trying to play it cool.

I find my assigned lecture hall, already half-full with students, and scan for a seat. PJ and Bobby have a different schedule for this one, so I’m flying solo. Great. I step in, take a breath.

The room is buzzing with casual chatter and fresh starts. Most of the people here are unscented Betas, a few cocky-looking Alphas puffing their chests like we’re still in high school. I catch a whiff of someone’s pheromones—spicy and overbearing—and grimace. Do people not know how to scent-control in shared spaces?

Then I spot an open seat near the middle row. Someone’s already seated beside it—fancy sweater, neat posture, reading some leather-bound book like he’s allergic to relaxation. It’s him. Bradley.

I hesitate for half a second but slide into the empty seat next to him. Whatever. It’s just a chair.

The moment I sit down, Bradley doesn’t even look at me. Instead, he leans slightly toward the giant Alpha on his other side—this mountain of a guy who smells like raw aggression and body spray—and whispers something in his ear. I catch none of it, but whatever he says makes the Alpha grunt.

Then Bradley casts a quick glance my way. Not even a full turn, just the flick of his sharp eyes.

His gaze lands on me like I’ve personally offended him just by breathing his air.

I blink.

Okay then.

He turns back to his book like I’m some unfortunate grease stain on the table.

Rude.

I sit stiff for a second, then casually shift my body away. Not that it helps. The Alpha’s scent beside him is so thick I can barely think straight. I can’t smell anything else. Not even a trace of peaches, like before. I must’ve imagined that back at the fountain. Must’ve been someone walking by with a snack or something, or my brain playing tricks on me out of loneliness.

And even if he did smell a little like that… this couldn’t be him. He’s too different. Too sharp. Too pristine and distant. My Omega—the one I’ve been dreaming about for two years—he’s soft. Sweet. Kind, even if I’ve only ever talked to him through a screen. He laughs with me in the chat before his stream starts. Thanks me when I send him money. Opens up, just a little.

This guy? Bradley? He looks like he’d charge you for eye contact.

I sink lower into my seat, trying not to feel embarrassed. I was probably being stupid. Of course Bradley Uppercrust the Third isn’t my Omega. Not with that Alpha beside him. Not with that attitude.

I glance at the clock. Just a few more days until my rut. Just a few more days until he streams again.

The one who actually matters.

The one who’s mine.

Class ends with a dull thud in my chest. I don’t move right away. My notebook’s still half-open, pen uncapped, and I’m pretending to copy down something even though the board’s already wiped clean. Truth is, I’m just stalling—hoping that maybe, maybe, I’ll catch something human in him. Something softer.

But nope.

Bradley’s already standing.

I glance up—and his eyes are on me. Not like looking at me. More like looking down on me. Fur slightly bristled. Lip curled in subtle disgust, like he just found something rotting under his shoe.

Okay.

I shift awkwardly, trying to give him room to pass, motioning toward the side like, here dude, scooch by—but he just arches a brow.

“Can you move, or is that not something your Alpha brain can manage?” he says, voice sharp as glass.

I blink. “What?”

His expression sours further. “I said move,” louder this time, each syllable clipped with disdain.

I push back my chair and stand, mostly out of shock. And yeah, maybe a little self-preservation. The guy is smaller than me, sure, but somehow still carries the threat of a guillotine.

He steps past me with zero grace, shoulder brushing mine like a deliberate insult. Not even a glance back.

Then the big guy—his personal guard dog or whatever—stalks past too, low growl rumbling from his throat like I even did anything.

I stand there, frozen for a beat.

What the hell was that?

Like—seriously? Is he allergic to me or something? Too good to breathe the same air as a lower-class Alpha?

My jaw tightens as I shove my notebook into my bag and swing it over my shoulder.

Omega or not… all I know is I really hate this guy.

And it’s definitely not because of the way his voice made my spine tingle.

Or the way he smells faintly like warm peaches when that massive Alpha isn’t swallowing up the air.

Nope.

Definitely hate him.

Chapter Text

By the time I make it back to my dorm on the first floor, I’m practically vibrating with frustration.

I shut the door harder than necessary—not a slam, just... firm—and toss my bag on the floor. My board clatters against the wall. I pace once, twice, then faceplant directly into my pillow with a muffled scream.

“UGHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

It feels good for like five seconds. Then I do it again. This time I punch the pillow like that’s gonna do anything. Flop onto my back. Groan at the ceiling. Then roll over and punch it again. “Stupid—arrogant—jerk—omega—”

I freeze.

Why the hell am I blushing?

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

I slap myself.

“Get a grip, Max.”

But it’s no use. My brain is an evil little traitor, already replaying the flash of Brad’s eyes, that ridiculously crisp sweater, the way he sneered at me like royalty gracing a peasant with his contempt.

And why did that do something to me?! What is wrong with me?

I roll over again, shoving the pillow over my face and screaming into it like a madman. I stay like that, thrashing internally, for twenty straight minutes. Maybe more. I don’t know. Time has no meaning when you’re spiraling.

Then—

Knock knock.

I freeze mid-flail.

I sit up slowly, heart thumping like I just got caught doing something wrong. Nobody knocks on dorms this early into the semester unless it’s an emergency or, I don’t know, fate.

I rush to the door, pull it open—

Nothing.

Empty hallway.

My eyes dart down, and I spot a folded piece of paper slipped just under the threshold.

I pick it up slowly. Unfold it.

“Control your pheromones. They’re nauseating. Stupid alpha.”

My brow furrows so hard it might break my face. “What the hell...?”

I step out into the hall, glance both ways. No one. Not a single sound besides some distant shower running.

Weird.

I scratch the back of my neck, frowning. Then I shut the door, lock it, and flop back onto my bed with a groan, the paper still clutched in my hand.

I stare at the ceiling again.

“…Stupid alpha?” I mutter. “Is that even a thing?”

I roll over and shove the note under my pillow like I’m hiding contraband.

Because deep down, a tiny, annoying part of me already knows who wrote it.

And for some reason, that only makes me blush harder.

I wake up a few hours later in a daze, limbs heavy and skin too warm. My throat’s dry, my head foggy. Everything feels… off.

I blink at the ceiling, heart racing for no good reason, and then my gaze falls to the wrinkled paper on my chest. The one that was slipped under my door earlier. I pick it up and stare at it again.

“Control your pheromones. Stupid Alpha.”

The handwriting is sharp and aggressive—like the letters themselves are pissed off. I lift it to my nose. Don’t ask me why. Maybe I am losing it. But there's something weirdly... nice about the way it smells. Soft. Clean.

Ugh.

I crumble the paper in my fist like it just insulted my entire bloodline, then fling it onto the desk. My brain feels like soup and my chest is tight with something I can’t name. Irritation? Heat?

No way. My rut’s not due for at least three more days.

Still. I’m dizzy. Hot. Aching.

Maybe I’m getting sick?

I stumble to my feet and head out into the hallway, trying to walk it off. My legs carry me down the corridor without thinking—and that’s when I realize it.

I can tell which room is his.

The scent. That same peachy softness from the paper. It’s stronger here. It clings to the doorknob like it’s daring me to touch it. I hate that I notice. I hate that I know.

And I hate that I knock harder than I should.

A minute later, the door swings open with dramatic flair.

Bradley Uppercrust the Third is standing there in full silk pajama regalia, shirt slightly unbuttoned, tousled hair still somehow perfect, one hand aggressively pinching his nose. And he looks pissed.

He barely gives me a second before snapping, “What the hell is your problem?”

I blink. “My problem?”

“Yeah, you. Banging on my door like a deranged mutt.”

“I—” I shake my head, tail flicking in frustration. “What the hell’s your issue with me?”

Bradley glares, his face flushed even behind his hand. “Well, let’s start with this little assault on my senses. What kind of idiot Alpha comes to an Omega’s door in rut?”

“I’m not—” I start, but he cuts me off with a sharp bark of a laugh.

“Bullshit,” he growls, eyes narrowing. “I could smell you halfway down the hall. You reek.”

I freeze.

I try to argue, to tell him that’s impossible, that I’m not due yet—but suddenly everything clicks. The heat, the dizziness, the shaking hands. My rut. It’s early. Way early.

And somehow, he triggered it.

I stare at him, lips parted, chest heaving. I don’t say anything. I can’t.

He folds his arms, tail curling in tightly behind him. His fur is puffed out now, every part of him on alert, like he’s trying to pretend he’s unaffected—but I see it. The way his nostrils flare, how his pupils dilate. His body is reacting to me whether he wants it to or not.

My tail gives a traitorous little wag. My ears perk forward on instinct. I’m completely flushed, my scent no doubt all over the hallway at this point.

And he sees it. Feels it.

His expression shifts—just for a second—something warmer, softer, even inviting…

Then it’s gone.

“Hell no.” he snaps, and the door slams shut in my face.

I stand there dumbfounded.

A second later, I scowl and yell through the door, “As if I was interested, you stuck-up jackass!”

Then I storm back to my room, slam the door, and practically collapse onto my bed.

And that’s when it hits me full force. My rut is starting. Early. Hard.

I check my phone with shaking hands.

The screen lights up, and I blink through the blur, trying to focus.

It’s still too early. Too soon for him.

And I ruined it.

I drop the phone onto my chest, then shove it aside like it’s betrayed me. I can feel it—deep in my gut—the shift, the fire. My body reacting to someone else’s scent. Not my Omega’s. Not him.

Just some snobby rich brat who looked at me like I was dirt and still managed to short-circuit every nerve in my body.

“Shit,” I growl, dragging my hands through my hair.

This is awful. My rut was supposed to start with him. We’d been in sync for almost two years—our bodies falling into this quiet rhythm from across the screen. Always together. Always locked in some kind of strange harmony.

And now…

Now I’ve gone and ruined it.

A cold chill spreads through my chest, sharp and sudden. Guilt. Like my body’s betrayed him. Like I’ve stepped out of some sacred bond without meaning to.

But even guilt can’t stop the heat rising in my blood. My whole body burns. I’m hot all over, my skin tingling like it’s been lit from the inside. My breaths come faster, heavier. My heart pounds. I can feel my fangs—feel them—sharp and elongated, aching to mark something that isn’t mine.

I hiss, stumbling to my feet, tearing my hoodie over my head like it’s suffocating me. The fabric sticks to my skin, damp from sweat. I yank off my shirt, pants, boxers—everything—like they’re on fire. Like if I stay dressed another second, I’ll explode.

My cock is already painfully hard, bobbing against my stomach, leaking and throbbing with every shallow breath I take. My thighs tremble. My back arches instinctively. I slam my fist against the wall to ground myself, to keep from dropping to my knees and rutting the floor like some kind of animal.

“Fuck,” I growl again, deeper this time. Feral.

My pupils are blown wide. My whole body flushed pink with heat. I can smell myself—Alpha, ripe, insistent. It’s overwhelming.

I stagger toward the bed, every muscle tense. My body wants. It demands. But I’m not giving in. Not like this. Not for someone who isn’t mine.

Not for him.

And yet... my mind keeps drifting back to those flushed cheeks. The way his tail twitched. That look in his eyes before he slammed the door in my face. A look that wasn’t disgust. Not really.

It was reactive.

I groan, gripping the sheets tight enough to tear them.

This is bad. So bad.

Because my body doesn’t want to wait anymore.

And my rut has only just begun.

I try—really try—to regain some sense of dignity.

Breathe. Think of literally anything else. I pace. I grip the edge of my desk. I stare at the wall like it’ll offer some kind of divine clarity.

Nope. Nothing.

I’m a mess. Physically, mentally, primally. My body is on fire, and my mind’s in shambles, spiraling with guilt, frustration, and way too many inappropriate thoughts about a guy who slammed a door in my face.

I flop onto my bed, throwing an arm over my eyes and groaning.

Then—ding.

A sound I know better than I know my own ringtone. My ears perk up instantly.

No way.

I scramble for my phone so fast I nearly toss it across the room. My thumb shakes as I unlock the screen.

Notification: OmeBoy19 is now LIVE.

I freeze. What? That can’t be right. It’s too early. I rut early, not him. Unless…

I tap the alert like my life depends on it.

The screen loads, and then—

Oh my god.

There he is.

Right there.

OmeBoy19. My Omega.

Just as stunning as ever. Flushed, radiant, thighs glistening and spread for the camera. His cheeks are red, his chest rising and falling as soft moans escape him in rhythm with the motion of his fingers.

But something’s different.

He’s not in his usual hotel. I can tell right away—he’s in a smaller space, with blankets tacked up over the walls, clearly trying to hide the background. The lighting is softer, more desperate than curated. No lead-in. No playful teasing. He’s already mid-heat, panting, needy, and clearly overwhelmed.

He started.

I log in with trembling fingers, already leaking, scent flaring wild and thick around me. My cock pulses at the sight, and I can’t stop the groan that slips out as soon as the stream opens fully.

Then I hear it. His voice, strained, hazy, almost slurred from the intensity of it all.

“Fuck—my heat started early. First time ever—s-sorry, I couldn’t wait…”

My entire body shudders.

Relief crashes over me like a wave. My breath catches.

It wasn’t just me.

I didn’t mess up. I didn’t betray him. My body wasn’t confused—it knew.

It knew he was in heat. Even miles away, even without a mark. Somehow, some fated part of me felt him before I even understood what was happening.

I let out a shaky breath and slump forward, letting the tension bleed out of my spine as I stare at the screen, watching him tremble, pant, writhe.

This isn’t just chemistry.

This is fate.

I can't tear my eyes away.

He’s panting now—mouth parted, eyes half-lidded, body trembling under his own touch. The blankets behind him shift slightly from his movements, but I barely notice anything beyond him. His flushed skin. His thighs spread wide. His slick fingers. That whimper he lets out when he presses them deeper.

I let out a guttural sound—something between a growl and a moan—because my rut is in full swing now. No denying it. It’s not even the kind of rut you can fight off or distract yourself from. This is the kind that digs into your bones and hollows you out with need.

And he's the reason.

I’m already naked, skin too hot, too tight, my cock heavy and leaking as it twitches between my legs. It aches in time with his moans. I swear my heartbeat syncs to every soft noise he makes through the screen.

I swear I can smell him. Peaches. Sweet and sharp. Not even here, but it floods my senses like he’s in the room, draped across my bed, thighs slick and trembling just for me.

I growl again, low in my throat.

“God… you’re killing me,” I whisper to no one.

He arches back on the stream, his fingers stroking deeper, slower now, like he’s savoring the ache. His other hand claws at the sheets, eyes squeezed shut, and then he says it—

“Alpha… please… need it so bad…”

I nearly lose it.

The possessiveness that hits me in that moment is overwhelming. My rut snaps into sharp focus—all instinct and hunger and need. I palm my cock, slick with pre, and pump once—twice—and nearly come just from that.

But I hold back.

Barely.

Because this isn’t just about release. It’s about him.

My Omega.

The one I’ve waited for. The one I’ve saved for. The one I’ve dreamed about in every fevered rut since I presented.

And he’s here. Right now. Begging into a camera, not even knowing I’m on the other side of the screen ready to break apart at the sound of his voice.

I stroke harder, matching his rhythm. My hips twitch forward into my own fist, trying to pretend it's him wrapped around me. I imagine what he smells like up close—what he sounds like when I press into him, fill him, make him scream my name instead of just "Alpha."

“Say it,” I whisper to my phone like a lunatic. “Say it again.”

As if on cue, he cries out again, hips bucking into his own hand.

“Alpha—ahh—need you—please—”

My orgasm hits like a freight train. I jerk forward, groaning deep in my throat as I spill hard, hot, all over my own stomach and chest. The pleasure is dizzying—blinding. I ride it out, teeth clenched, muscles locked up, body pulsing like it knows he’s meant for me.

When I finally blink again, I’m panting. Sweaty. Still hard. Still aching.

Because one release isn’t enough. Not during rut. Not when my Omega is live on screen, still writhing, still needy, still untouched by anyone else.

I watch him lick his lips. Watch him cup his own chest, whimpering at the sensation. He’s close. So close.

“Gonna come—oh God—wish you were here, Alpha—wish you were—”

I whimper.

Actually whimper.

And when he comes—face flushed, mouth parted, toes curling—I nearly cry.

Because I’m not there.

I’m not holding him. Not kissing his temple. Not telling him how good he did. I’m not cleaning him up or praising him or letting him curl into my chest and sleep off the heat.

I’m just… here.

Across the screen. In a room. Feral. Spent. Still not satisfied.

Chapter Text

My rut lasted two whole extra days.

And, strangely enough… so did my Omega’s.

It’s not exactly uncommon for ruts and heats to sync between mates, but we haven’t even met—not really—so the fact that our cycles aligned that perfectly…? Yeah. That’s doing a number on my brain.

And my heart.

I ended up missing almost a full week of school. But I emailed all my professors and, thankfully, they were all super understanding. Gave me extensions, make-up options, everything. One of the perks of being an Alpha, I guess. People are a lot more lenient when they think your instincts are “acting up.”

Now that I’ve finally cooled off, I decide to take the day—no classes—and go get a check-up at the health center on campus. Just to make sure everything’s okay. That there’s nothing wrong with me. That the early rut wasn’t something dangerous.

They draw blood, ask some questions, poke and prod me in all the standard ways.

“You seem healthy overall,” the nurse says, checking the chart. “There were a couple of hormone levels we’d like to run further analysis on, just to be thorough. But nothing concerning at the moment.”

“Cool,” I nod. “That’s a win.”

She goes to finish up the paperwork, and I hesitate. Something’s still nagging at me. Before I can stop myself, the words come out:

“Hey, uh… Doc?”

“Yes?” she asks, not looking up from her tablet.

“So—hypothetically… is it possible for two Omegas to have the same scent?”

That makes her pause. She blinks at me, confused.

“Well… every person’s scent is biologically unique. But I suppose it’s possible for two scents to be similar enough—depending on the genetic markers, diet, hygiene, even pheromone suppressants. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I say quickly, trying not to sound suspicious. “Just curious.”

She hums. “Right. Well, in some rare cases, the same scent profile might trigger the same kind of rut response if your body is already conditioned to it. It’s not common, though.”

I nod, slowly, still not looking at her.

Then she adds, “Have you started… mating?”

I nearly choke on my own saliva.

“What? No! No. Nothing like that.”

She tilts her head, analyzing me. “It’s not unusual for Alphas your age to begin establishing a rut partner, especially when moving away from home. If that’s the case, we can offer educational—”

“No!” I cut her off too loud, too fast. “Definitely not. I don’t have any kind of—of partner.”

Her brows rise. “Alright. I only ask because we noticed a spike in your hormone readings, and... well, it's consistent with a strong bond response. Have you been fully educated on the mating process? Knotting? The likelihood of breeding?”

My face flushes to the tips of my ears.

“Yep! I’m fine. Fully educated. Nothing to worry about,” I say, already standing, gathering my things. “Thanks, doc. Appreciate your time.”

And with that, I bolt.

Out the door, down the hall, through the waiting room. Because if I stick around any longer, I just know she’s gonna call my dad. And I am not about to sit through that conversation.

Holy hell.

I’m almost to my dorm room when a dorm faculty member rounds the corner, calling out to me.

“Max Goof?”

I blink, confused, looking around like maybe there’s another Max standing behind me. No such luck.

“Uh… yeah?”

“Come with me, please.”

Cautiously, I follow them up the stairs to the second floor, into a small office tucked behind the RA suite. My gut twists the second I walk in.

Bradley Uppercrust is already there.

Sitting in one of the stiff chairs in front of the desk, arms crossed, one brow raised like he has no idea what’s going on—but still looks like he’s judging everyone in the building. His leg bounces irritably, and he doesn’t even glance at me when I enter.

The dorm monitor gestures for me to sit in the seat next to him.

I do, still trying to piece together what the hell is happening.

They look at both of us, folding their hands on the desk with that fake professional calm that always means something bad’s coming. “So. I assume you’re both aware of the rules regarding… mating in the dorms?”

I nearly choke on my own tongue.

My head snaps toward Brad, and his expression mirrors mine—pure horror, maybe more outrage.

“Yeah, obviously,” he says, voice sharp, pissed beyond belief. “You’ve gotta be kidding me with this.”

I can’t even form words, so I just nod slowly, wide-eyed and confused.

The staff member sighs like they’re already tired of us. “Well, I was looking through some reports and happened to notice you both logged medical cycle notifications in the same week.” Their gaze flicks between us. “Your… rut and heat began simultaneously.”

Brad and I glance at each other. Just a flicker of shared alarm.

Then we both quickly look away.

“No way…” I mutter under my breath.

They raise a brow. “Now, I know you’re both young, but the rules clearly state—”

Brad shoots up from his seat like it’s on fire. “I’m not listening to this. As if I’d mate with some mutt. The audacity.”

That stings a little more than I expect. I try not to show it.

“Yeah,” I say dryly. “And like I’d mate with some stuck-up Omega who’s got a stick so far up his ass he probably coughs pine needles.”

Brad turns to glare at me like I just insulted his entire bloodline.

I stick my tongue out. Petty? Yes. Worth it? Also yes.

The monitor pinches the bridge of their nose. “So you’re telling me this is all just… coincidence?”

“Obviously,” Brad huffs, flipping his hair with dramatic disdain.

I nod, still unsure if I’m caught in a weird fever dream.

“Look,” the staff member says, now talking directly to Bradley, “I get wanting to live near your Alpha, but—”

“Check your facts with the head office,” Brad snaps. “I don’t have an Alpha. I’m unmated. You sicko.”

My dumbass mouth betrays me.

“You don’t?”

Tail wag. Ears perk. Fuck me.

He whips his head toward me, scandalized. “Seriously?”

I shrink in my seat.

The staff member frowns. “Look, I can’t prove anything, but if you keep tempting the other students in these dorms—”

Brad slams his hands on the desk, eyes blazing. “Oh, right. My mistake. Please excuse my slutty Omega behavior,” he says in a high-pitched, mocking tone. “I’ll be sure to be less of a bother to the poor, defenseless Alphas.”

And with that, he storms out.

I stand too, throw the faculty member a pissed-off look, and jog out after him.

“Hey! Wait up—”

Brad spins on his heel mid-hallway. “What the hell do you want, Alpha?”

“Seriously, I’m just trying to help. And my name’s Max, not Alpha.”

“Well, Max, I frankly don’t give a shit.”

I scoff, exasperated. “Look, I’m sorry that guy said all that, but I didn’t do anything—”

He suddenly stops walking, and I nearly crash into him.

“Let me guess,” he says without turning. “You’re different. Not like those other big, bad Alphas?”

I furrow my brow. “Cause I’m not—”

He rolls his eyes so hard I can practically hear it. “Somehow, I really doubt that.”

He storms off again, and I trail behind, frustrated and tired and somehow a little hurt.

“Seriously? I don’t even get a chance? My being an Alpha automatically makes me the villain?”

He stops at his door, hand already on the knob. Then turns.

“Yeah. It does.”

He slams the door in my face.

I just stand there, stunned, heart racing, frustration boiling over into confusion.

Eventually, I drag myself back down the hall, into my room, and collapse face-first onto my bed.

My brain’s spinning.

He was in heat.

Same time as me. Same exact week.

In a dorm room that… smelled almost familiar. The scent. The feeling. The timing.

It can’t be. They’re so different.

There’s no way Bradley freaking Uppercrust the Third is my Omega.

Right?

…Right?

Chapter Text

I wrack my brain way too long, trying to make sense of everything—Bradley, the dorm meeting, the scent, the rut timing—but eventually, I give up. The headache isn’t worth it. Not tonight.

I sit up and shoot PJ and Bobby a quick text.

you guys free?

PJ replies first:

skate park?

Then Bobby:

only if we get pizza after 😤

A plan. Thank god.

I decide to back-burner all this… mess. All the questions I don’t have answers for. Especially since I’ve already missed too much school, spent too many days running in circles, and I’ve got class again tomorrow. Whatever’s going on with me—with him—can wait.

I meet the guys out near the campus skate park, the one tucked behind the gym and half-flooded with golden light when the sun starts to dip. It’s not fancy or anything, but it’s ours. Quiet enough to mess around, laugh, breathe.

We don’t talk about… you know. Any of that stuff. I don’t bring it up. Not the rut. Not the scent. And definitely not Bradley.

I mean, PJ and Bobby have never really been the most supportive when it comes to my fated pair theories. They don’t get how I could fall for someone I’ve never met—not really met—and honestly, I’m not in the mood to hear that again. Not when my chest already feels like a shaken soda bottle.

So we keep it light. Casual.

PJ and I run through a few lines, nothing serious, just some easy tricks to shake the dust off. We talk about classes, which professors are cool, which ones are evil incarnate. Bobby zooms around on his rollerblades, cracking dumb jokes, nearly wiping out twice. PJ nearly faceplants trying to land a flip and Bobby wheezes for ten minutes straight like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.

It’s good. For a little while, it actually is good. My head clears. My body chills out. The tension uncoils a bit, melting off into sweat and laughter and scraped-up knees.

Two hours later, the sun’s long gone, and we’re all gross and wiped. We fist bump goodnight and peel off in different directions, promising to meet up later in the week.

By the time I’m back at my dorm, I’m a walking puddle. My shirt’s stuck to my back, and I catch a whiff of myself and recoil. Sweat. Skater grime. Faint leftovers of rut hormones still clinging to my skin like static. Gross.

“Yikes,” I mutter. “Alright, shower time.”

The communal showers on our floor have been my little sanctuary lately—mostly because I’ve had them completely to myself. I only found out after move-in that this floor only has two occupied rooms.

Mine.

And Bradley’s.

Which means I’ve never actually seen anyone else in the showers. Never had to share. Never expected to.

So when I step into the bathroom and see the lights already on, my stomach does a weird flip.

The sound of the running water echoes faintly. Steam curls along the tile and fogs the mirror.

Someone’s in there.

It could only be one person.

Still, I don’t panic. I keep it casual. Whatever. Maybe I’ll shower quick and duck out before things get awkward.

I start peeling off my clothes, tossing them in the little corner bin, and set my towel on the bench. Now down to just my boxers, I glance at myself in the mirror—puffy eyes, sweat-drenched hair, totally over it.

Then I hear the curtain pull back.

And my breath just stops.

Bradley Uppercrust III steps out of the mist like a goddamn daydream—his fur still damp and glistening, hair a wild, wet mess around his ears. There’s a small white towel slung low around his hips and not a trace of his usual perfect posture. No cologne. No sharp edges. Just steam, water, and him.

We both freeze.

His ears twitch when he sees me.

I gulp. Immediately. Loudly.

I try not to stare.

I fail at not staring.

Because—holy shit.

His shoulders are just like I imagined. His collarbones stand out just enough, water sliding down his chest like it was choreographed. The towel hugs his waist so low it should be illegal. His tail flicks once, heavy with water.

He’s exactly how I pictured him.

No. Worse.

I know this body.

I’ve studied this body like it was the meaning of life.

And if there was any room left for doubt before, it’s gone now.

It’s him.

It’s him.

This realization does not help with the staring. In fact, it makes it ten times worse. My eyes are locked like I’m in some kind of trance, and I can’t—won’t—look away.

Brad goes bright red the second he sees me, but of course—he plays it off. Cool, like nothing’s weird. Like we’re not both barely clothed and standing in a steam-filled room alone.

He barely glances my way as he strides over to the bench, grabbing his caddy with tight, jerky movements.

“You could at least pretend not to stare,” he mutters, eyes focused anywhere but me.

“I—what? I wasn’t—” I stumble over the lie.

He lifts one unimpressed brow.

I rub the back of my neck, face burning. “Okay. Maybe a little. Sorry.”

He doesn’t answer. Just huffs, stuffing his things into his bag like he’s got somewhere to be now. Fast, efficient, pissed.

I try to look away. I really do. But my gaze flickers right back—tracing the curve of his spine, the way his fur darkens with water at the nape of his neck, the little droplets sliding down between his shoulder blades. The scent hanging in the air—peach and sugar, thick and warm and so familiar—makes my brain fuzzy and my lungs stutter.

Wait.

Nope.

No. Not going there.

He grabs his shampoo and body wash in one hand, moving fast, too sharp. His hair clings to his neck in damp waves, his towel drooping even lower now as he moves. I have to clamp my eyes shut like a man possessed or I’ll imprint that image forever. I’m already halfway there.

“Are you done gawking?” Brad snaps, still not looking up.

“I’m not gawking,” I mutter, defensively.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I was just—surprised. You don’t usually shower this late.”

“Oh?” he shoots back, sharp. “Didn’t realize you kept a schedule on me now.”

I make a face at the mirror. “I don’t. Just… never seen you here. That’s all.”

He snorts under his breath. Dismissive. But his ears are still twitching.

He starts towel-drying his hair—quick, frustrated movements—and I can’t stop watching the towel around his waist shift with each tug. It inches lower. One wrong move and—

I lick my lips without thinking.

The sound of a towel smacking against tile makes me jump.

“Okay, seriously,” he barks. “Are you showering or not? Because I’m not here to get eye-fucked by some pervy mutt!”

His voice rings sharp off the tile, but there’s something beneath it. A tremble. A slight shake in his arms. His fur’s bristling.

My stomach twists. “Shit… am I—am I scaring you?” I ask, voice too soft, too dumb.

His eyes snap to mine—those piercing, icy blue eyes. His expression hardens.

“What, are you stupid?” he fires back, face still flushed.

“I— I didn’t mean to—” I start, but then he jabs a finger down at my waist.

“Yeah? And that’s not intentional?” he snarls.

I glance down.

And immediately wish I hadn’t.

Oh. Right.

I’ve got a full-blown erection. Tent-pitching my boxers like I’m in some bad adult film. My tail’s wagging like a traitor, completely against me in this war.

“Shit!” I yelp, scrambling for the nearest shower stall and slamming the curtain shut behind me. “Sorry! I’m sorry—!”

I hear him fumbling with his clothes, quick and angry, muttering under his breath. Then the sound of his bag zipping, feet on tile.

“Yeah… sure. Pervy mutt,” he growls.

And just as the door swings open—

“My name is Max!” I shout after him.

Silence.

Then the door clicks shut.

I stand there, trembling. Heart hammering. Blood still pounding in all the wrong places.

I step out of the stall once I’m sure he’s gone, eyes catching my reflection in the mirror—face flushed, hair wild, still half hard.

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

It’s him.

Seriously? Him?

I gulp, his scent still lingering in the steam like it’s trying to brand itself into my lungs. I lick my lips again and squeeze my eyes shut. My body’s boiling. Everything’s too tight, too sensitive, too wired.

I grab my soap and head into the far stall, crank the water to freezing, and start scrubbing like it’ll somehow erase what just happened.

It doesn’t.

I’m still hard.

Still buzzing.

Still stuck on the memory of him standing there, dripping and flushed and furious.

I groan, low and desperate.

I reach for my still hard cock. One time. Just once to take the edge off.

Then a second.

A third.

A fourth.

I pant against the cool tile, completely wrecked, then scrub myself raw all over again, trying to reset.

Eventually, I step out. Red-faced. Exhausted. Humiliated.

I glance back at the stall I just obliterated and grimace.

“God,” I mutter. “Maybe I am a perv.”

I towel off, get dressed in record time, and get the hell out of there.

Chapter Text

I get maybe three hours of sleep.

And that’s being generous.

I spent most of the night tossing, turning, staring at the ceiling, then reliving every second of what went down in the showers like it was some cursed highlight reel on loop.

Bradley. Wet. Dripping. Furious. Gorgeous. Naked, practically.

Bradley, calling me a pervy mutt.

Me, shouting my name like a moron as he stormed out.

Me, jerking off in a dorm shower like it was gonna cure me of divine revelation.

God.

I scrub my face with both hands and groan into my pillow.

What the hell is my life?

I drag myself out of bed, looking like I lost a fight with a lawnmower. My eyes are puffy, my hair’s doing this weird half-flop thing, and I swear my tail’s been twitching all night like it’s trying to slap me into shape.

My scent’s calmer now, at least. No rut haze or boner-of-doom today.

Small victories.

I throw on jeans, a hoodie, and shove my face into the nearest hoodie sleeve to double-check I don’t still reek of I jacked off four times thinking about my fated mate. Nope. Just deodorant and shame.

Cool.

Sick.

I step out of my room and immediately hesitate.

Because Bradley’s door is right there. Just across the hall. Quiet. Innocent.

Mocking me.

I debate leaving a note. Something apologetic but charming. Like "Sorry for the awkward erection and gawking, you're just super beautiful and also maybe my soulmate? Wanna grab coffee?" Yeah. No. That’s psycho behavior.

I shake the thought out of my head and grab my board instead.

Right. Class. Focus. Pretend you’re normal.

I start heading across campus, pushing lazily through the morning chill. The sky’s gray and overcast, and everything smells faintly like wet grass and burnt bagels from the student union.

My thoughts, though? Not as mellow.

Because—okay, yes—Bradley’s a pompous little turd.

He talks like every sentence is an insult wrapped in silk.

He carries himself like he owns the pavement.

He looks at me like I’m something he stepped in.

But also… he's kinda spunky. Kind of a firecracker. Quick-witted and snappy in a way that gets under my skin and lights it up from the inside.

And—ugh.

He’s cute.

Like, really cute. All sharp cheekbones and ridiculous hair and those ice-blue eyes that burn when he’s pissed, which is like—always. He’s got this little scowl that he does when he’s annoyed, and I know I should be insulted, but all I can think is I want to kiss it.

What is wrong with me.

He thinks I’m a creep. A staring, drooling, possibly scent-drunk Alpha creep.

I need to fix this.

I can fix this.

…Right?

God, I hope I can fix this.

Because I think I’m already halfway in love with him.

And also pretty sure he wants to kill me.

Fun combo.

I sigh, shove my hands in my pockets, and pick up the pace toward class.

Today’s goal: survive Econ, avoid public arousal, and maybe—just maybe—get Bradley to look at me without the urge to set me on fire.

Yeah.

Easy.

I head in and—of course—he’s already there.

Front row, perfect posture, legs crossed like royalty and jaw clenched like the desk personally offended him. That same little expensive sweater vest thing he wears that makes him look like a preppy CEO of a cereal company. His hair’s fixed today, all slick and shiny and infuriatingly perfect.

And he doesn’t look at me.

Not even a flicker.

He does this slow, dramatic turn of his head like oh? breeze in the room? must be nothing, and sets his notebook down like he’s the picture of poise and grace and completely unaware of my existence.

Yeah. Right.

It’s the most obvious ignore this bastard face I’ve seen in my life.

Like I didn’t see him in a towel last night. Like I didn’t shout my name at him while hiding a raging boner in a dorm shower. Like he didn’t call me a mutt with the kind of venom you save for exes and tax season.

And to top it off?

He’s with that big-ass Alpha again. A literal wall of muscle. Smelling like gym socks and overconfidence.

He’s leaning into Bradley’s space like he owns a piece of it, talking low and laughing at something Brad said, and Brad—Brad actually smiles.

I blink.

Oh. Okay. Cool. We’re smiling for him now.

My stomach twists.

Fuck, I forgot about that guy.

I drop into a seat two rows behind Brad and slightly to the left. Just enough to see him. Not enough to be seen.

Or so I hope.

Okay.

Game plan.

I need to fix this. Or try. Or something.

Because yeah, he probably thinks I’m a creep, and yeah, I’ve got the emotional self-restraint of a sock puppet right now, but I’m not about to lose my shot because I couldn’t act like a normal person for five minutes.

Easy.

I snort under my breath.

Yeah. No. Easy is not the word.

As soon as class ends, I shoot up from my seat like I’ve been launched from a cannon.

Bradley and him are already halfway to the door, but I’m on them like a heat-seeking missile. I weave through a couple students, nearly trip over someone’s bag, and finally cut up beside them in the hall.

“Hey!” I blurt out, a little too loud, a little too awkward.

The big guy glances down at me with a side-eye that could probably stop traffic. His sheer size alone is intimidating, but the way he looms next to Bradley—yeah, I can see why everyone assumes he’s Brad’s Alpha.

I swallow and push a smile. “I just wanted to introduce myself! I’m Max!” I hold out my hand toward him, keeping pace awkwardly as we walk.

The big guy raises a brow.

And then—I trip.

Like. Full send.

Foot catches on something (my own dignity, maybe?) and suddenly I’m flying forward. There’s a brief, horrible second where time slows down and I realize this is happening. I flail, flip forward, and land with a dramatic thud right on my face, arms and legs splayed like a damn cartoon character.

Smooth.

Real smooth.

But then again… I am a Goof. And boy, did I Goof.

I push myself up like it was nothing, brushing myself off with an exaggerated, definitely-unbothered flair. Then I stick my hand right back out like I didn’t just eat tile in front of the two most intimidating people on campus.

And that’s when I catch it—

Bradley’s cheeks.

They’re puffed out like a chipmunk trying so hard not to laugh.

His eyes are watering, his ears twitching, and I swear if I poke him he might actually snort.

Big guy notices too. His stoic expression cracks into a grin. A full-on, honest-to-god smile.

He reaches out and takes my hand in a firm shake.

“Name’s Tank. Nice meetin’ ya, Max.”

I smile, still brushing dust off my hoodie, but watching Bradley from the corner of my eye. He looks unsure now. Unsettled. Like he was expecting this to go way differently.

Tank claps a heavy hand on Brad’s back, nearly knocking him forward. “I’m guessin’ you already know Bradley?”

Brad whips his head toward him with a look of betrayal, cheeks still pink and puffed. “Tank—!”

I jump on the moment like it’s a trampoline.

“Yep! We’re friends!” I chirp.

“Not friends!” Bradley barks, instantly.

I blink innocently. “More than friends?”

His eyes narrow, ears pinned back, lips twisted in a snarl—but that blush?

That’s the real kicker.

It creeps all the way to the tips of his ears.

Tank lets out a bark of laughter. “Okay, okay, I think that’s about as much as the lil’ guy can take.”

Bradley shoots him a glare sharp enough to kill, but there’s a slight wag of his tail behind him. He doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.

But I do.

And I smile.

I start backing away with a wave. “See you later, Brad!”

“Don’t call me—!” he snaps, but I’m already jogging off down the hall, heart soaring.

Okay.

That could’ve gone way worse.

Sure, I tripped and faceplanted in front of the hottest, grumpiest Omega on the planet and his Alpha-shaped shadow.

But I made him laugh.

Sort of.

And blush.

That’s progress.

That’s hope.

Now all I need to do is… win his heart. Ask him out. Marry him. Possibly have ten adorable, half-grumpy, half-goofy babies.

Easy.

I can do this.

Totally.

I got this.

…Right?

Chapter Text

After that whole hallway scene, I head back to the dorm with way too much energy buzzing through me. And no idea what to do with it.

So I do what I always do when I’m spiraling—I call PJ and Bobby.

We meet up in PJ and Bobby’s room with snacks and a busted-up beanbag chair that deflates whenever someone sits too hard. I crack open a soda, try to play it cool, and start explaining. Kind of.

“So, like… I think I might’ve found him.”

PJ tilts his head. “Found who?”

I glance around, hesitant. “Y’know. Him. My Omega.”

They both blink.

“Oh shit,” Bobby says, mouth half-full of trail mix. “The cam guy?”

I freeze. “Don't say it like that—”

PJ’s already groaning. “Dude. Not this again.”

“What?”

“I just… I don’t get it, man,” PJ says, scratching behind his ear. “Like, if I had a mate, I wouldn’t want him showing off for everyone.”

Bobby snorts.

PJ ignores that. “But seriously, Max—what if this guy’s being used? You don’t know him.”

I shift uncomfortably. “I—I'm trying to get to know him—”

Bobby cuts in. “Why would an Alpha even want someone like that? No offense.”

My hackles raise. “What do you mean ‘like that’?”

“I mean, he shows off for money,” PJ says bluntly. “Even if you did meet him… would you really be cool with him still doing it? Still putting himself out there like that?”

They're both looking at me like I’ve just announced I want to marry a cardboard cutout.

I feel it bubbling up in my chest before I can stop it. That sick heat of disappointment. Of rage.

Then they laugh.

I clench my jaw.

“I mean, c’mon,” PJ goes on, more serious now. “Why would you want that? An Omega who shows his ass to strangers on livestreams? Like, where’s the self-respect?”

Bobby whistles. “Yeah, bro. If he’s out here flashing the goods for everyone, what makes you think you’re special?”

“He’s not like that,” I say, heat rising in my face.

“Max,” PJ says, like he’s talking to a puppy that’s peed on the rug. “You’re an Alpha. That means something. You really gonna tie yourself to someone who lets randos watch him during heat?”

“He doesn’t—!”

“Bet he sells used underwear too,” Bobby adds with a grin. “You check his wishlist lately? ‘Cause I’m guessing it’s not books and baking pans.”

My ears burn.

PJ shrugs. “Even if you did meet him, what then? You just… let him keep doing it? Let the whole world see what’s supposed to be yours?"

That’s it.

My whole chest twists up with a sick, protective kind of fury. Something primal. Something Alpha.

And before I can stop myself—

My fist slams the floor.

Loud. Sharp. Echoing.

The snacks jump. So do they.

My pheromones spike, thick and suffocating. The whole room goes tense.

Their eyes are wide now. PJ’s tail flicks uneasily. Bobby’s ears flatten halfway.

“Seriously?!” I growl, voice low and shaking.

“Seriously?!” I snap. “You think just because he’s an Omega that his body’s, what—property?”

They go quiet.

“What someone does with their own body is not my business,” I growl. “And for the record—he doesn’t do anything with anyone. He’s not like that. And even if he was, it’s not my place to judge. I fell for a person, not a piece of furniture.”

The silence is thick.

Bobby clears his throat. “Hey, man, we were just joking—”

PJ adds quickly, “Yeah, we’re just worried about you.”

I sigh hard, standing. “I just expected better from you guys.”

They both look like kicked puppies.

“I need to cool off,” I say, grabbing my hoodie. “I’ll text you later.”

“…K,” PJ mutters.

“See ya,” Bobby says quietly.

I don’t look back.

My breath’s coming too fast. My heart’s still hammering. I hate how casual they made it all sound. How easy it was for them to strip him down to nothing but a kink and a punchline.

They don’t know him. Not the way I do. Not the way I feel him.
How can people not get it?

I love him.

Even if he’s grumpy and rude and dramatic and maybe hates my guts—I love him.

I stomp across campus with no destination in mind, just letting my feet take over. The sun’s high and the air is thick, scent clinging to everything. I’m doing my best to keep my own locked down, hoodie up and hands shoved deep in my pockets. I try to keep my scent under control, but it keeps bleeding out—anger and hurt and shame I don’t even know what to do with. No one needs to get a whiff of my temper.

I barely realize where I’ve wandered until I catch a waft of something familiar on the breeze—peaches and sugar and something soft beneath it.

I follow it. Without thinking.

It leads me to a little off-campus coffee shop with foggy windows and that sharp roasted-bean smell. The place is mostly empty, quiet enough to think.

I keep my head down, hood up, and grab a drink—black, because I’m dramatic and mad—and slide into a booth in the back.

I sit.

Sip.

Brood.

Try not to scream into my cup.

And then—

My ears twitch.

A voice.

His voice.

“—I told you, I didn’t ask for his attention. He just showed up.”

Brad.

Right behind me.

I freeze.

And Tank’s voice follows, calm and slow. “Didn’t say you did, man. I just asked why you’re so worked up over it.”

“I’m not worked up,” Brad snaps. “He’s just—obnoxious.”

“Ohhh,” Tank says, drawling. “So we’re calling ‘staring at him like you’ve seen God’ obnoxious now?”

I nearly choke on my coffee.

Oh my god.

I shrink lower in my seat, ears twitching hard, heart pounding like I’ve just won the lottery and also been hit by a truck.

They don’t know I’m here.

And I’m not moving.

Not yet.

“Look, all I’m saying is—you’ve been acting strange,” Tank says, voice low but not low enough for me to miss.

“And that automatically leads to him?” Brad snaps back, incredulous.

I go still.

My ears perk, every muscle on alert like a damn guard dog. I take the slowest sip of coffee known to man, pretending I’m deeply invested in the corner of the window and definitely not eavesdropping like a total creep.

“Well, you’ve never been so affected by an Alpha before,” Tank replies, voice casual but firm. “What am I supposed to think?”

Brad groans, long and theatrical, like Tank just asked him to confess his sins to a priest. “Look—it’s… it’s just his pheromones, okay? They’re…” He trails off for a second.

Please say it.

Say it.

Say something.

“They’re infuriating.” He finishes the sentence like he’s admitting to kicking a puppy.

My ears twitch.

My tail flicks under the table.

I nearly choke on my coffee and thank every god imaginable for my superior Alpha hearing. I lean forward just slightly, pretending to look for sugar. Nope. Just listening. Definitely not weird.

“Infuriating how?” Tank asks, not letting it go. “Because last I checked, Alpha pheromones barely affect you. What’s so different about this Max guy?”

My name.

Bingo.

I freeze mid-sip.

My heart skips, then kicks into overdrive.

He said my name. Tank said my name. And Brad didn’t even argue. Didn’t huff or scoff or correct him.

So this is about me.

Holy shit.

Brad groans again. “God. Don’t just...say his name like that.”

My tail flicks involuntarily.

“Well?” Tank pushes.

There’s a long pause.

Then Brad mutters, voice low and strangely resigned, “I can’t get his scent out of my nose.”

My stomach drops.

Tank doesn’t say anything.

“I’ve washed everything. My sheets. My clothes. I’ve scrubbed three times a day like I’m trying to sand my skin off.” Brad exhales hard through his nose. “It’s still there. On me. In me. I smell him when I wake up. When I sleep. I swear, sometimes I can even taste it.”

My eyes go wide.

I choke on my drink and try to cover it with a cough.

Brad doesn’t notice, thank god.

“I thought maybe something was wrong with me,” he admits, sharp and annoyed, but there’s a raw edge under it. “Some weird chemical imbalance. My scent blockers weren’t working. I don’t know. What the hell is happening to me?” he says, overdramatic and clearly spiraling.

Tank hums thoughtfully, and I can already tell he’s winding up for something.

“Sounds a lot like a scent bond to me.”

There’s a horrible beat of silence.

Then—

Brad gags.

Audibly.

I slam a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing and/or throwing up and/or crying forever.

“Absolutely not,” Brad hisses. “No. Nope. Nuh-uh. There’s no way. Not with him.”

Tank chuckles. “You sure? Seems like your body’s got other ideas.”

“I’m gonna be sick.”

“You always say that when you’re wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.”

“Well, somebody’s scent is nesting in your sinuses, and last I checked, it wasn’t mine.”

“Don’t make it worse.”

Tank leans back in his seat. “I’m just saying… it explains a lot. The flustered thing. The mood swings. You’re acting like he’s your ma—”

“Finish that sentence and die.”

Tank snorts, laughing again.

And I sit frozen in the booth behind them, heart pounding like it’s trying to punch through my ribs, coffee long forgotten.

A scent bond?

With me?

Brad lets out a frustrated sigh. “Look—I’m going to the clinic tomorrow and they’ll tell me it’s nothing, so just drop it.”

Tank, gentle now, says, “I know how you feel about the idea of a mate, but—”

“No buts, Tank.” Brad’s voice cuts sharp, then quiets. “I don’t want a mate. I don’t care. Alphas are all…” He trails off. “They’re all scary.”

There’s a pause. A deeper one.

Then, softer, almost apologetic: “And don’t give me that look, you know I don’t mean you.”

“I know, baby,” Tank murmurs, calm and steady. “But he seems like a nice kid.”

“Pfft. Sure. He’ll show his true colors eventually. They always do.”

Tank lets the silence linger before quietly asking, “And if he doesn’t?”

Brad exhales, voice so low I almost miss it.

“…Then he’d be the first.”

I press a hand to my chest, like that’ll calm the way it’s beating—or stop whatever feeling that just hit me like a freight train.

He’s scared.

I keep my head down.

Eyes on my coffee.

Ears twitching the second I hear Brad’s voice say, “I’ll be right back.”

Footsteps.

A creak of the booth.

I glance up just enough to see him walking toward the bathroom—tense, irritated, still muttering under his breath.

And the second he’s gone—

“I know you’re there, Goof.”

I freeze.

Like actually freeze.

My spine locks up, fur bristles slightly under my hoodie, and I shoot straight up from my seat like I’ve been launched from a catapult.

Tank’s gaze is already on me. Calm. Unbothered. But definitely not surprised.

He looks like someone who clocked me the second I walked in and has just been waiting for this moment.

“I—I didn’t mean to listen,” I start, scrambling. “I was just here. Drinking coffee. And then I heard—uh, well, I couldn’t not hear, technically, and I wasn’t trying to be weird, I swear, I was just—”

Tank holds up a hand.

“Yeah, I don’t care ‘bout none of that,” he says, voice low and even. “Just beat it before Bradley catches on.”

I blink, then nod fast. “Right. Yeah. Totally. Got it.”

I give him a clumsy little salute and start grabbing my things like I’m defusing a bomb. Napkins fly. My cup wobbles. My tail smacks the edge of the booth on my way out.

I’m almost clear when he speaks again.

“Oh—and Max?”

I pause, halfway out the door, looking back.

“Yeah?”

Tank’s gaze softens just a little. Not weak. Just… sincere.

“Don’t let him down. He’s got a lot more goin’ on than ya think.”

My chest squeezes tight.

I nod, smile faintly. “I’m glad he’s got a friend like you.”

That gets the tiniest grin out of him. “Now go, Goof.”

And I do.

Heart still racing. Brain spinning.

But also smiling, just a little.

Chapter Text

I wake up to my phone buzzing against my cheek, half-slid off my pillow.

I squint at the screen, one eye open.

Clinic.

Ugh.

I swipe to answer. “Hello…?”

“Hi, is this Max Goof?” a peppy voice asks way too early.

“...Yeah?”

“This is the campus health center—we’ve got your bloodwork back and would like to discuss a few things in person.”

That wakes me up real fast.

“Oh. Uh… is it bad?”

“No, no, nothing emergent. We’d just prefer to speak with you face-to-face. Will you be available today?”

“Yeah,” I mumble, already dragging myself upright. “I’ve got class this morning, but I can stop by after.”

“Great. We’ll see you then.”

I hang up, then flop back dramatically onto the bed, groaning into my pillow.

Perfect. More mystery. Just what I needed.

On the way to class, I meet up with PJ and Bobby near the student center.

They look sheepish before I even say anything.

PJ scratches the back of his neck. “Hey, man. About yesterday…”

“We were outta line,” Bobby says, not even joking for once.

I sigh and shrug, hands shoved in my hoodie. “It’s cool. Just—watch it next time, yeah?”

They both nod fast, and we fall into easier conversation after that. Stuff about classes. Dumb memes. PJ complaining about his chem lab partner. Bobby talking about some guy he’s been skating with at the park.

For a little while, it’s just chill.

Then I split off at the courtyard for my first class, waving them off with a casual, “Later.”

Class moves slow.

Like, glacially slow.

I try to focus, I really do, but my brain keeps circling back to yesterday’s conversation behind the coffee shop booth. Brad’s voice. The way he sounded when he said he could taste me.

…Okay, weird phrasing. But still.

Was I imagining it?

I tap my pen against my notebook and glance toward the front of the room—where, of course, Bradley Uppercrust III is sitting like he owns the damn lecture hall. Back straight. Notes neat. Tail prim. Looking perfectly unbothered.

I sigh and glance around the room. No one’s paying me any attention. Good. Because I’m about to do something a little… unhinged.

I purse my lips and decide—screw it.

Let’s test the waters.

I steady my breath and let out the barest pulse of scent. Barely enough to be noticeable. The kind of thing you might only catch if you were tuned into it.

Like, say… an Omega subconsciously aligned to your pheromone profile.

Bradley’s shoulders stiffen.

His ears flick once, then again. His pen freezes mid-word.

And then—his tail wags.

My heart kicks.

I drop the scent immediately, like I didn’t mean to do it, like it didn’t just make something twist in my gut. He relaxes, just slightly. Keeps writing. Pen moving again.

I wait thirty seconds.

Then send another pulse. This one a little warmer. Softer. Comforting.

His tail wags again. A bit stronger this time. Then flicks upward like he’s trying to suppress it.

And I swear—his ears turn just faintly pink at the tips.

I grin.

I do it twice more—scent up, scent down. Wag. Pause. Wag. Pause.

This time I let the scent linger a few seconds longer.

That’s when he turns his head.

Slowly. Controlled. Blue eyes narrowed like laser beams, face flushed pink, and shoots a glare over his shoulder.

I freeze.

Bradley’s looking directly at me, eyes sharp but his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to scowl or smile.

I blink innocently. Then—because I’m a jackass—I raise my brows and whistle softly under my breath, tapping my pen like I’ve been paying so much attention to the lecture.

His nostrils flare. His mouth presses into a tight, thin line.

And I swear to god, if looks could kill, I’d be a grease stain on the floor right now.

But.

His tail is still wagging.

Just a little.

It’s… kind of fun, honestly.

I barely register the rest of class.

When the bell rings, I pack up and slip out the door, keeping my pace casual.

Bradley’s just ahead of me, walking in the same direction.

Of course.

Because fate clearly has a sense of humor.

He glances back once and groans loud enough for the birds in the trees to judge us.

“You better not be following me, mutt,” he huffs, clearly already over it.

I shove my hands into my hoodie pocket, playing it cool—trying to, anyway. “Not following you,” I say, a little too fast. “Just… walking.”

He raises a brow at me but doesn’t slow his pace. “Uh-huh.”

“And again,” I add, “it’s Max. Not mutt.”

He doesn’t reply.

Typical.

He keeps his head forward and doesn’t slow down.

I do the same.

I stare at the back of his head as we walk, resisting the urge to say something more—something smart, something flirty, something anything that’ll make him look at me the way he did in the showers, all flustered and pissed and dripping.

Okay, nope. Bad thought. Bad.

I shake it off. Keep walking.

Totally not walking together.

Totally not flustered from earlier.

And totally not still testing his scent response with little bursts just to watch his ears twitch.

…Okay, maybe just once.

Chapter Text

The sidewalk curves around the student union, and we fall into this weird kind of rhythm. Our steps hit the pavement in sync, though our breathing’s just a little off—mine maybe heavier from nerves, his lighter, more practiced. I catch it every so often, like static in the air between us.

His tail flicks behind him, twitching like it’s got a mind of its own. I try not to look. I really try not to think about how soft it looks, or how it’d feel flicking against my leg while we sat too close on a couch, or—okay, stop. Focus.

But his scent is still there. Faint. Clinging to my memory and the space around him like peach nectar in the middle of July. Sweet. Sharp. Impossible to ignore.

He’s quiet. So am I.

My head is not quiet.

We step into the campus clinic together, door swinging shut behind us. I take maybe two steps in before Bradley shoots me this death glare over his shoulder, like I’m still following him.

Which… I guess technically, yeah.

He beats me to the desk by a few seconds. The woman behind the counter looks up and offers a polite smile. Then she says the worst possible thing she could’ve said.

“Are you here for a mate check-up?”

Bradley short-circuits.

His whole body jerks like someone yanked his tail, and his ears go red. “NO,” he blurts. “Nope. No. I’m here alone. For a personal. Private. SINGLE reason.” His ears are red. His whole face is red. He says it in this high-strung voice that definitely does not help his case. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

I glance away to hide my grin and step up behind him. “I got a call about some bloodwork results?” I say smoothly.

She nods and hands each of us a clipboard. “Sign these and we’ll call you in when they’re ready.”

We both nod. I head to one side of the waiting room, he storms off to the other. It’s awkwardly silent. We’re the only two here, the hum of the AC the only background noise. I try to pretend like this is normal. Like I’m not acutely aware of his every breath.

Bradley fills out his clipboard like it insulted his mother. Quick, sharp scribbles. Then he gets up, walks stiffly back to the desk, and turns it in like it’s a damn bomb defusal.

I keep my eyes on the form in my lap, pretending not to notice how fidgety he is—legs crossed tightly, arms clutched across his chest, tail twitching erratically like it’s arguing with the rest of his body. Huffing. Pouting. Vibrating with brat energy.

I finish mine and hand it in too, then settle back into the chair.

That’s when he says it.

“I know you were doing it on purpose.”

I blink. “Huh?”

“In class. The pheromone thing. There’s no way you weren’t doing it on purpose. So—why?”

He doesn’t look at me, but I can feel the burn of his attention, like sunlight through a magnifying glass. His ears flick. His shoulders tense. He’s ready for a fight.

I try to play it off. “I don’t know what you mean,” I say, eyes on the linoleum floor.

He scoffs. “You’re a terrible liar.”

I break into a slow, sheepish grin. “Yeah… that’s true.”

He turns to look at me fully now. Still annoyed. But his brow is crinkled in confusion, like he doesn’t get what game I’m playing.

“Okay then,” he mutters. “Spill.”

I scratch the back of my head and bite my cheek, nerves sparking. But whatever—might as well lean into the dive.

“Well…” I glance at him, then back down. “Honestly?” I say. Then, quieter—“I just think you’re cute.”

His head snaps toward me so fast I hear the whoosh of it.

His face flushes instantly. Pink blooms under the fur of his cheeks, crawling to the tips of his ears like wildfire. Not just anger-red—embarrassed-red. Flustered.

He sputters. “Gross,” he mutters, eyes shooting away like he’s trying to disassociate.

And that’s when I wink at him.

Big. Bold. Absolutely shameless.

He practically combusts.

I swear he mutters something that sounds like “fuck off” but it’s drowned out by the nurse calling his name.

Brad jumps up like the floor burned him, nearly knocks his chair over, and speed-walks through the door behind her like I’m a plague and he’s trying to escape quarantine.

As soon as he’s gone, I drop my head into my hands.

“Why did I say that?” I groan under my breath.

I slump deeper into the chair, completely melting into it.

Cool. Awesome. Perfect.

I just practically confessed to the guy who thinks I’m a pervy mutt.

And winked.

10/10. Real smooth, Goof.

They finally call my name, and I practically jump out of my seat. My heart’s still jackhammering from whatever the hell that was with Brad, and now I get to walk into a sterile office and talk about blood. Perfect day.

It’s the same room they took me to last time—same soft blue walls, same slightly-too-cold air conditioning. And the same doctor, too. She smiles kindly when I step in, clipboard in hand, and gestures for me to sit.

“Good to see you again, Max,” she says as she flips through a few sheets of paper. “Thanks for waiting. We just wanted to go over your updated labs in person.”

I nod, already nervous. My leg bounces as she keeps flipping.

“So,” she starts, tone professional but gentle, “there was quite a spike in your hormones.”

I blink. “A spike?”

She nods, double-checking the chart. “Yes. We ran multiple rounds to confirm. Since your last rut, your results have changed pretty significantly. You’re showing Alpha markers at—” she pauses to tap the number—“98%.”

My ears twitch. “Wait, what? I—I don’t get it. I thought I was a recessive Alpha. Last test said 58%.”

“You were. But you’re not anymore,” she says, adjusting her glasses. “Put plainly, Max—you’re no longer presenting as a recessive Alpha. You’re now registering as a dominant.”

I choke. Actually choke.

“Wha—what? How? How does that happen? That’s not like… a thing that happens, right?”

“It’s extremely rare,” she admits. “Roughly 2% of cases. In almost every documented instance, the shift only occurs after prolonged, intimate exposure to a fated pair’s dominant pheromones.”

My brain short-circuits.

Fated pair.

Her words hit like lightning and my eyes go wide. My heart skips, then takes off like a rocket.

She continues, casually, like she didn’t just hand me a reason to believe in every gut feeling I’ve had for two years.

“Essentially, your body’s pheromones respond to match and stabilize your pair. If your mate is a dominant Omega, your Alpha instincts will elevate to meet theirs—both physically and hormonally. That’s likely what’s happened here.”

My jaw drops.

Oh my god. I knew it.

Bradley. His scent. The tail wagging. Everything.

I must be grinning, because she narrows her eyes like I’m about to float off the table.

“Settle down,” she says gently. “I know it sounds exciting, but it also comes with complications.”

I blink back to focus. “Right, right—yeah. Complications. Sure. Hit me.”

She clasps her hands together, serious now. “You mentioned you don’t have a mate, but if you do know who they are—”

I shift. “Maybe. Hypothetically. Like, possibly…”

She gives me a look. I shut up.

“Then you need to be careful,” she says firmly. “Both of your systems are extremely unstable during acclimation. For you, that means increased mood swings, unpredictable rut cycles, and powerful instinctual urges. For them? Any significant increase in your scent—intentional or not—could potentially trigger early heats. Especially if they're unclaimed.”

I go still.

My blood drains.

Oh no.

The class.

The teasing.

The tail wags.

The scent bursts.

“Oh shit,” I mumble under my breath, slumping in my seat.

She raises an eyebrow. “Something you want to tell me?”

“Nope,” I say too quickly, waving my hand like that’ll erase the flashbacks playing behind my eyes. “Just, uh… maybe teasing him was not the best game plan.”

Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to laugh.

I drop my face into my hands. “God, I’m an idiot.”

“Not an idiot,” she says kindly, “just… an Alpha.”

I groan.

“Now seriously,” she says, voice soft but firm, “have a talk with them. This affects both of you. Even if nothing’s been officially acknowledged yet, your systems are already responding to each other. If you can, try to have a calm, honest discussion about bonding. That would be the safest option moving forward.”

I nod slowly like I’m absorbing it, which—technically—I am.

But also? Yeah, sure. Let me just go have a calm conversation with Bradley Uppercrust III. The most defensive, sharp-tongued, dramatic Omega I’ve ever met.

The one who literally accused me of “eye-fucking him like a pervy mutt.”

Uh-huh. Yeah. I’ll just pop over real casual like, “Hey, Brad, I know you think I’m Satan in Vans, but what if we bonded to avoid you going into heat in the middle of Biology 101?”

Sure. That’ll go great.

I snort. “Right. Got it. I’ll… try.”

She gives me a knowing look, like she can read all of that panic straight off my forehead. “Just don’t wait too long, Max. Whether you talk about it or not, your bodies are already deciding things for you.”

I nod again, slower this time.

Because yeah. That part’s already happening.

I felt it in class. The way his tail twitched. The way he kept sniffing without realizing it. And the way my brain short-circuited when he got called to the back room before me and I caught the last whiff of his shampoo in the air.

It’s already too late.

I stand up, grab my folder, and give her a tired, slightly doomed smile. “Thanks, doc. Really.”

“Take care of yourself, Max,” she says with a kind smile. “And him too, if you can.”

God. If only she knew how hard I was trying.

I’m walking back to the waiting room, folder tucked under my arm, still reeling from the whole “congrats, you’re a dominant Alpha now” bombshell, when I pass one of the exam rooms.

The door’s slightly ajar.

I don’t mean to listen.

I swear I don’t.

But the second I hear his voice, my ears perk like traitors.

“…with everything we see here, it most certainly is a scent bond,” the doctor inside says, voice soft, clinical, too calm for the nuclear bomb she just casually dropped. “Most likely brought on from your body recognizing your mate. The only thing I can suggest is bonding. Any increase in medication will only make your condition more unstable, dear.”

My feet freeze mid-step.

Mate.

My pulse spikes.

Then his voice comes, lower and full of that signature annoyed drawl, but undercut with something nervous. “And if I don’t want a bond?”

There’s a pause.

“Well, that isn’t always up to you,” the doctor replies gently. “Sometimes your body will know when your mate is near. Especially if it’s a fated bond. Going against what your instincts crave won’t be the healthiest option. Can you try talking to this Alpha?”

“No…” Brad groans. “Definitely not… ughhh.”

My throat tightens.

I suck in a breath and keep walking—quiet, fast, like I didn’t just accidentally overhear the Omega of my dreams literally getting diagnosed with being my mate and reacting like someone told him he had to marry a skunk.

Awesome.

So great.

No, really—I’m thrilled.

I plop into my seat in the waiting room with a blank stare, heart hammering like I just ran a marathon, trying not to explode.

Okay.

Cool.

So.

Brad knows.

And Brad wants nothing to do with it.

And I’m… I’m just gonna sit here. With that knowledge. And sip lukewarm water from the dispenser like this is fine. Everything’s fine. My mate thinks I’m the worst possible outcome.

I rub my palms down my jeans, trying not to panic.

Because no matter what anyone says about fate or biology or scent bonds…

I can’t make him want me back.

God, this is gonna suck.

I don’t even wait for him to come out.

I just stand up—quiet, casual-like, like I didn’t just hear my fated mate reject the entire concept of me—and head for the door with my folder clutched tight to my chest.

I step outside into the daylight like I’m not internally combusting.

The sun is too bright.

Everything is too loud.

My emotions do a full loop-de-loop. One second I’m flying because—hello—confirmed scent bond. He’s my mate. My mate. I was right. I was right.

And then—

Crash.

He doesn’t want it.

Doesn’t want me.

The yo-yo in my chest snaps up again, hopeful, maybe I just need to talk to him—he doesn’t really know me, not yet. He thinks I’m some annoying mutt who ogles him in the showers and trips over himself trying to flirt. Which… okay, yeah, fair, but I’m more than that, right?

Right?

I take a deep breath.

Then exhale it all out as a sigh.

My tail’s dragging behind me as I walk back across campus, not even pretending to have a destination other than "anywhere that isn't here."

By the time I make it to the dorm, I feel wrung out. Emotionally gutted and then inflated again like a balloon animal made of confusion. My keys jingle in the lock as I push the door open, step inside, and just… flop face-first onto my bed.

"Ughhhhgh," I groan into the pillow. “This sucks.”

Like, officially. On all fronts.

I met my fated mate.

And he thinks I’m the worst.

And worse? I kinda get it. He’s scared. He’s stubborn. And probably lonely in a way that makes him prickly all over. But still.

Still.

I bury my face deeper into the pillow and scream a little.

Then lie there quietly. Swallowed in silence. Letting the scent of my own frustration soak the sheets.

This whole bond thing was supposed to fix something in me. Instead, it just cracked open a whole new kind of ache.

And yet?

Somewhere beneath all that?

I still want to try.

Even if it means he might kick me in the teeth a few times first.

Chapter Text

I lie in my room for what has to be hours, sprawled out on my back, staring up at the ceiling like it might have answers. My thoughts keep looping in a yo-yo of hope and dread, tugging me in and out of clarity. My head spins with everything—the clinic, the scent bond, Brad’s voice in that room saying “no, definitely not.”

He really doesn’t want me.

But he’s also my fated mate.

How the hell does that work?

I groan, dragging a pillow over my face for a second, just to muffle the noise in my head. Doesn’t work. Not even close.

Eventually, I reach for my phone, half out of impulse, half out of that desperate craving to just see him. Even if he’s not here. Even if it’s the version of him he made for the camera.

I open the cam-site. It loads automatically, of course it does, and his profile is already bookmarked at the top like muscle memory.

OmeBoy19.

There he is.

Same seductive profile pic, same little smirk hidden under a mask like he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s laying down in it, slightly to the side, head on one arm, the other draped casually across his chest like it’s no big deal that he looks like that. His eyes are half-lidded. Like he just woke up and knows you’re watching.

I gulp. My throat’s dry.

A twitch stirs in my pants, low and pulsing. I ignore it. Mostly.

I tap into our message thread. I don’t send anything—just… look. At the history. The trail of who we were before all this. His old replies, playful and soft. Teasing sometimes. Honest when I caught him in the right mood. His heat updates. My little “hope you’re okay” notes. The way he used to sign off with “good pup” whenever I tipped him high.

My chest aches.

I hover over his profile pic again. Thumb trembling like I might click it and zoom in and just… look at him. But I don’t.

I check the date instead.

If his heat had come on time, it would’ve ended by now.

My stomach twists.

I switch over to my banking app. Not much in there—just a few hundred, and that’s before I buy groceries. Still, I go right back to the cam site and hit send tip. All of it. Every last cent.

It’s not like I can not give it to him. He needs it. Or at least—he did. Maybe still does. I don’t know anymore.

I used to feel like I had a purpose. Like even from behind a screen, I could help him. Protect him. Support him. I worked two jobs for a reason. I gave up nights out. I planned my whole future around finding him, loving him.

But now…

He’s not the same. He’s fiery. Standoffish. A total brat.

And somehow I still want him.

Still want to fix things for him. Be useful. Be wanted. Like if he just let me in, I could make everything better.

But what if he doesn’t need me?

What if he never did?

The thought knocks the breath out of me. My hand curls tighter around my phone like I’m gripping onto something slipping through my fingers.

I feel like a useless Alpha.

Just dead weight. A dumb mutt with too many feelings and not enough sense.

A low growl rumbles in my chest before I can stop it. I turn onto my side, press my forehead to the pillow, and squeeze my eyes shut.

What would he do if he knew I knew?

If he knew I’ve been watching him online for years? That I recognized him the second I saw him in real life? That he’s the reason my whole secondary gender shifted?

He’d hate me.

Except… he already does.

So he’d hate me more?

My ears flatten at the thought.

I look at his picture again.

I shut off my phone. Let it drop to the floor beside my bed.

Then I lay there.
Quiet.
Still.

Completely, hopelessly lost in him.

The next few days blur.

I’m in a bad headspace. Not like, full-blown spiral meltdown, but… close enough. I feel zonked out. Spacey. Kinda numb. Like someone stuffed my brain full of cotton and then handed me a to-do list anyway.

I keep to myself. No more following Brad around. No teasing. No dumb pheromone games. I walk to class with my head down, ears flopped, tail tucked tight like it’s trying to hide from the world. I keep my hoodie up and my mouth shut and do everything I can not to be a bother.

Especially not to him.

The thought of him makes my stomach twist like something’s been tied up too tight. It’s that weird gut feeling—heavy and low—that something broke and I’m the one who broke it. And maybe if I just work harder, keep my head down, and stop being such a Goof… maybe I can still fix it. Maybe I haven’t screwed this up beyond repair.

Wishful thinking, probably.

Still, I push through. I get my classwork done—barely. The words blur a little on the screen, and I’m pretty sure I reread the same paragraph four times in psych class before it even registered, but I turn everything in. No late work. No missed quizzes. Gold star for effort.

And I apply for jobs.

I sit in my dorm one night and just… spam apps. Anything that fits around my class schedule and doesn’t require selling a kidney. One stands out—a semi-fancy café near downtown that apparently likes hiring Alphas for the “aesthetic.” Their words, not mine.

They say it’d be a good look, having a “handsome young Alpha” on the floor.

Whatever. I don’t care about the look. I just need a distraction. And money.

They hire me on the spot. Give me a uniform shirt that’s a little too snug around the shoulders and a name tag that says Max.

First shift starts tomorrow.

I don’t know if this fixes anything.

I don’t know if it makes me look less like a pervy mutt or more like someone who’s trying to be decent.

But it’s something.

And for now, I’ll take something.

Because if I sit still too long, I start thinking too hard. And when I think too hard, all I can see is his face that day in the clinic. His red ears. The scrunch in his nose. The way he gagged at the idea of bonding with me.

And I can’t handle that again.

So I keep moving. Keep quiet. Keep going.

Maybe eventually, this gut-punch will stop.

Maybe eventually, I’ll be enough.

The next day is… frantic. No better word for it.

Brad keeps looking back at me in class like I’ve personally committed a felony against him. And not the cute, flirt-with-your-eyes kind of look. No. It’s the "I’m plotting your death in full detail" kind. Which—okay—terrifying.

What did I do this time?

On top of that, my first shift at work starts basically right after this class. Like, literally. Not a minute to spare. And today, of course, class decides to drag on like molasses uphill.

I’m vibrating in my seat by the time the professor wraps up. I shoot out of there so fast I nearly trip over someone’s bag, make it three steps into the hallway, and then—

“Whaaa—”

I’m yanked backwards. Fully caught by the arm and nearly flopped onto the tile.

My heart slams against my ribs, but when I twist to look—I freeze.

It’s Bradley.

Bradley. And he looks pissed.

“Brad?” I ask, still dazed, ears perked straight up.

“Don’t Brad me—what the hell is up with you, Max?” he snaps, dragging me—dragging me—behind the building like I’m not bigger, stronger, or allegedly an Alpha.

I’m too stunned to even fight it. Mostly because… he’s touching me. Voluntarily. Arm in a fistful of my sleeve and his scent basically wrapped around me. I try not to let my tail wag. (Spoiler: it wags.)

He stops once we’re out of sight, back by the vending machines and a half-dead hedge, and spins on me like I’ve insulted his whole family.

“You used my name,” I say, a little breathless, my stupid tail still going.

His ears flush. “Shut it, mutt!”

I grin.

“What is this?” he demands, throwing his hands up.

I blink. “What is what?”

“You know what!” He fumes. “There’s no way this isn’t some psychological attack! Reverse psychology, Alpha pheromone manipulation, subliminal messaging—whatever!”

I stare blankly, tilting my head. “...Huh?”

He scowls. “First you harass me with your smell, then call me cute, and now suddenly you’re ignoring me? And your pheromones? Where the hell are they?”

“Oh. I was hiding them,” I say simply, scratching the back of my neck.

“Yeah, no shit! You can’t just—! Ugh!” He starts pacing in a tight circle, arms folded, tail twitching like a fuse about to blow.

And… okay, he’s cute. Even mad. Especially mad. And that’s probably a problem.

My scent spikes.

It’s not on purpose, but the moment it happens, I see it—his ears twitch. His shoulders drop. And then, before I can even process it—

He grabs me.

Both hands in my shirt, yanking me into him, face buried in my neck.

Sniffing me.

Smelling me.

“Oh—oh god,” I whisper, going completely red, every muscle in my body locking up.

My tail is wagging like it’s about to send me airborne.

He keeps breathing me in, deep and slow, like he’s starving. His scent wraps around mine, thick and sweet and cloying like overripe peaches and sugar. My fangs ache. My pants tighten. My instincts scream bite him, mark him, mine mine mine—

I shove him back gently. “Brad?! Did you just—did you just smell me?!”

My voice cracks embarrassingly. I’m so hard it hurts.

He freezes, then immediately pulls away like I just dumped ice water on him.

His ears are flaming. “Y-Yeah! And you stink… mutt.”

I blink at him, dazed. My brain is full static.

Then my mind remembers the time and— “Shit, I have to go—!”

He catches the edge of my shirt again, yanking me back. “I’m not done talking to you.”

He’s pouting.

Bradley Uppercrust the Third is pouting at me.

My heart is going to combust.

“I really do have to go, though. I got a job. Like, a real one. At a café downtown.”

He makes a face. “Fine,” he mutters, letting me go, clearly trying to look unaffected.

I catch a shift in his scent—ripe, warm, and just faintly metallic. His cycle is close. Too close.

My instincts scream again.

“Hey… you, um… you smell like…” I rub at my neck, avoiding eye contact. “I just think maybe you should head home. I can come by later? If… that’s okay?”

He rolls his eyes, tail twitching again. “Do what you want.”

But I know that scent.

And I know that tone.

“Okay,” I say gently, smiling just a bit. “Then I’ll be over as soon as I’m off. Please… just go home if you can, alright?”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he snarks, but the tip of his tail flicks fast, giving him away.

I jog off toward work, throwing one last look over my shoulder just in time to see him heading for the dorms, hands jammed in his pockets.

I’m fifteen minutes late. My manager isn’t thrilled. She gives me a polite scolding until I hit her with the “sorry, my class ran long” excuse and my best sheepish smile. She caves fast.

I get the gist of the job—basic server duties at a bougie café full of mid-tier influencers and iced matcha addicts. I’m asked out twice. One girl tries to slide me her number. I politely decline every time.

Because all I can think about is him.

What was that? That moment behind the building?

Why did he do that? Why did he look relieved when he did?

My gut churns. It’s not just instinct now. It’s something deeper. Realer.

I have two more hours on shift, but I can’t sit still. I’m jittery. I need to check on him.

I ask my supervisor if I can head out early—something about feeling off-cycle. Her eyes widen and she practically shoves me out the door, telling me to “take care of yourself” like I just told her I was going into rut.

I shoot her my most charming grin. “Thanks. I owe you.”

Then I’m off. Sprinting across campus.

Chapter Text

I reach his door out of breath, drenched in sweat, and heart beating so loud I can barely hear myself think. I’m panting like I just sprinted a mile uphill with a full backpack. Which, okay, I kinda did. I raise my fist to knock and hesitate for half a second. But before I can even connect—

The door flies open.

And then it hits me.

The scent.

Thick. Sweet. Heady. Like sun-warmed peaches and syrup and heat and him.

Oh shit.

Brad’s in full heat.

And I am so cooked.

I barely get a word out before I’m grabbed—pulled fast into his room by trembling hands and slammed up against the now-closed door with a loud thunk. My eyes widen. He’s already on me.

Brad.

His hands are on me fast, grabbing fistfuls of my sweat-soaked shirt, nose shoved into my chest, then up to my neck—smelling me, soaking in my scent like he’s drowning and I’m oxygen.  My knees buckle slightly.

“I thought you weren’t gonna come,” he whispers, voice syrupy-sweet and wrecked, that heated tone I only know from his streams. It makes my entire spine tingle. 

I’m hard. Instantly. Painfully.

“Brad—oh shit—Brad, what are you—” I choke out, breathless, every nerve in my body screaming awake.

He backs up slowly, dragging me with him, inching toward the bed. My pulse is in my throat, in my cock, in everywhere.

“You smell so good, Max…” he breathes as he pushes me down, climbing on top, his hands greedy and clumsy with need.

His eyes are glazed, cheeks flushed, body hot and twitchy against mine—all instinct, no filter. No shame.

I growl low in my throat.

My back hits the mattress and I barely have time to process before his thighs are straddling mine and he’s leaning down, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed, his whole body practically buzzing with need. My head spins.

I try to keep my breathing steady. I try. But the second his hand presses down over my crotch, feeling the hard line of me straining in my pants—yeah, I lose it.

My head tips back with a sharp groan. Eyes blown. Teeth lengthening. My scent spikes so fast and sharp I swear the air itself trembles.

“Oh fuck,” I gasp, hips twitching up on instinct. His palm rubs slow, testing me. My thighs tense under him, hands gripping the sheets like lifelines.

I can feel the heat between his legs, how wet he is, and it’s like being hit by lightning. My body reacts before I can think. My hands fly to his hips, squeezing. Too tight. Too desperate. He gasps, but doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. He moans—moans—and buries his face into my neck again.

Our scents mix instantly, thick and heady and intoxicating.

He licks my neck, whimpering softly. “So good, Max… please…”

It’s too much.

It’s everything I ever wanted and way more than I know how to handle. My instincts scream to bite. To bond. To claim.

I let out a growl.

And in one hot, needy rush, I flip him onto his back.

He yelps, surprised, and blinks up at me with those glassy, needy eyes. My body is on fire. I hover above him, staring down like a man possessed, chest rising and falling like I just ran another mile.

His body arches. His scent flares again.

My mouth opens.

Teeth ache.

I almost bite.

But then—I see it.

A flicker.

A split-second flinch in his eyes.

A tiny crack in the haze. Just enough to catch it. Fear.

He doesn’t say no. Doesn’t push me away. In fact, he’s still whispering my name like it’s a lifeline. “Please, Max~”

But that flicker’s enough.

I jolt back into my body.

And I bite down—on my own fucking arm.

Hard.

The pain sears through the fog. I clamp until I taste blood. Until the haze lifts.

I pull back, panting, mouth red.

His eyes flicker, confused now. Still dazed. Still in heat, but suddenly unsure.

“Max?” he breathes, voice small.

I look down at him, hand clutched over the bloody bite on my forearm, face flushed, eyes stinging.

And I crack.

The tears come without warning. My breath hitches. My throat locks up.

I turn my face away. “Don’t—don’t look at me.”

He blinks at me, heat still clinging to his skin like a sheen of sweat, but now there’s something else in his expression. Not fear. Not heat.

Concern.

My voice is cracked. Broken.

He blinks harder. “Why not?”

I rub my face on my sleeve, still trembling, sniffling like a child. “’Cause… you hate me… and I can’t do anything right… and now you’ll hate me more… and I’m crying—and I’m a bad Alpha… a no-good mutt…” My voice breaks in the worst, most humiliating way possible.

He just stares.

I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s just lying there, flushed and breathing heavy, giving me this look. Not pity. Not mockery. Something else.

I don’t wait to figure it out.

I stand too fast, pants still painfully tight, blood dripping from my arm, and back out clumsily like the world’s most tragic rom-com exit. I trip over my own feet, crash into his desk chair, and scramble for the door.

I make it back to my dorm somehow. Stumbling, humiliated, hard. I feel like I’ve been put through a blender. I’m so dizzy with everything that just happened, I don’t even realize I’m crying until I slam the door and taste salt on my lips.

Fuck.

I flop onto my bed, chest heaving, rubbing at my face with the heel of my palm like I can scrub the memory off my skin. The taste of my own blood’s still in my mouth. My arm aches from the bite. My brain won’t shut up.

What was I thinking?

He was in heat, Max. You knew that. You could smell it from the hallway. And you still went in. Still let him pull you under.

Still wanted him to.

God, I’m such a fucking mess.

I squeeze my eyes shut, jaw clenched so hard it aches. My pants are still painfully tight, and I don’t even have the energy to take them off. I feel like the worst Alpha on the goddamn planet.

And then—

A knock.

Soft. Hesitant.

I freeze.

Heart racing.

It knocks again.

I drag myself off the bed, still sniffling, eyes red, and open the door slowly.

It’s him.

Bradley.

Standing there, flushed and flustered, body still radiating that thick, sweet heat-scent that makes my head swim. His hair’s a little messed up, his lips are parted, and he looks pissed—but also needy. Like he doesn’t know whether to slap me or grab me again.

I feel my cock twitch all over again, and I immediately hate myself for it.

He stares at me.

I stare back.

Neither of us says anything for a second, just caught in whatever weird, intense thing this is.

Then his eyes flick down.

And his nose twitches.

And he scowls.

“Shirt. Off.”

I blink. “Huh?”

He raises an eyebrow, arms crossing under his chest like he’s got any patience left.

“Your shirt, mutt. Take it off. Now.”

I look down. I’m still wearing the red shirt from earlier, the one soaked with sweat and absolutely drenched in my scent. My jacket’s halfway off, the shirt sticking to my back in patches.

“Oh—uh. Yeah, okay…”

I shrug out of the jacket and pull the shirt over my head, heart still thudding as I do. I hold it out, unsure what the hell is happening.

Brad snatches it out of my hand like he’s starving for it.

And then—he buries his face in it.

Right there in my doorway.

He inhales like he’s taking his first breath in days. Like the smell calms him down. Soothes something.

My ears twitch, and I go a little dizzy again.

He pulls it away from his face, holds it tight against his chest, and clears his throat like he didn’t just do the most intimate thing anyone’s ever done in front of me.

“Thanks,” he says stiffly.

“You’re… welcome?” I reply, dumb as ever, shirtless and still sporting a raging hard-on.

He turns to go, but then he stops halfway down the hall. Glances back over his shoulder.

His cheeks are still pink. His ears twitch.

“And for the record, Goof…” he mutters, voice low and clipped. “I don’t hate you.”

Then he storms off, clutching my shirt like it’s something precious.

The door to his dorm slams shut.

And I’m left standing in the doorway. Bare chest heaving. Blood on my arm. Pants still tight. Heart pounding in my ears.

I blink.

Then I walk back inside like I’m floating.

And jerk off. Like six times.

Because I’m a pervy, lovesick mutt with a heat-drunk crush and a very vivid imagination.

But I can’t even be mad at myself this time.

Because he doesn’t hate me.

Chapter Text

I wake up with my face half-buried in my pillow, hair a mess, blankets twisted around my legs, and my entire body sticky and sore from way too many late-night fantasies. My sheets are a warzone—tangled and damp—and I groan when I catch a whiff of myself.

Yeah. Shower. Immediately.

I sit up, yawning wide with a satisfying stretch, my tail giving a lazy little wag behind me. It’s early. Earlier than I’ve been up in a long time, probably not since I was living with Dad—he had this thing for waking me up before sunrise like it was character building. It’s kind of… nostalgic in a weird, annoying way.

I rub at my eyes and eventually force myself up, grimacing at the state of my bed. That laundry is gonna need industrial soap and prayer. But first, body and teeth. I grab a towel, clean clothes, and my toiletry bag, tossing everything together with the grogginess of a guy who definitely did not get enough sleep… despite spending all night in a dream haze of Bradley.

Ugh. I shake it off and make my way down the hall to the communal bathrooms. The lights are already on. One of the showers is running. I don’t have to sniff twice to know who it is—his scent is soft and ripe, still tinged with the warm sweetness of heat.

Bradley.

My ears twitch. I try not to overthink it. This isn’t like last time. I’m chill. I’m fine. I can be normal.

I set my things down by the sink and, after a pause, clear my throat gently—trying not to startle him. “Hey Brad… uh, just letting you know I’m in here… so you, uh, know?” Wow. Nailed it. Very suave, Max.

No response.

Huh.

Maybe he didn’t hear me?

I step closer, ears perked. The water’s still running, and that scent—peaches, heat, something dizzying—gets thicker in the air.

I feel my fur stand on end.

“Bradley?” I call, louder now, my chest tightening with concern. “You okay in there?”

Still nothing.

Okay, screw it. “Alright—I’m gonna come in, okay? Say something now if it’s not cool.”

Nothing.

“Last call, Brad,” I mutter, stepping forward and pulling the curtain back slowly.

My heart lurches.

Bradley’s curled on the shower floor, water raining down on him, soaking his hair, his skin flushed and glowing hot despite the freezing water. His knees are hugged up to his chest, his body trembling, completely naked and dazed.

“Shit—Brad,” I whisper, yanking the water off fast and kneeling beside him.

His skin burns to the touch—overheating and overscented. Definitely still in heat.

“Brad, what the hell? You should be in bed,” I say, gently brushing damp bangs out of his eyes. He blinks up at me, dazed and slow, his expression softened by exhaustion and fever.

“Max~?” he mumbles with a breathy, too-sweet giggle. “What’re you doing here… you spying on me, perv~?”

My whole face goes red. My pants tighten. His voice—that voice—is the one I know from my screen, from all those late nights, from all those heat streams that ruined me.

“Brad—no, I’m not—I didn’t—what?” I stumble over my words, trying to keep my eyes up and away from all the very, very distracting parts of him on full display.

“You gotta get to bed,” I say again, trying to focus. “You can’t just sit here like this—it’s dangerous.”

“Nooo,” he whines, trying weakly to push me away with his palms. “Can’t miss class…”

I pause. “What?”

“If I miss… more than a week, they drop me,” he says through a whimper, voice breaking like he’s a kid trying not to cry. “I can’t afford that.”

My chest aches.

I nod quickly, trying to think, trying not to panic. “Okay, okay… we’ll figure it out, alright? Just… let me help.”

He looks at me like he’s trying to focus, like he’s not sure what I am—real or not. I try to help him sit up, and he just flops, totally useless. His tail swishes weakly on the tile. He’s soaked to the bone, still hot to the touch. I pull the towel I brought for myself, handing him the cloth at first, but he just blinks at it, limp and confused. So I do it for him, gently press it to his hair, trying not to focus on how every whine and hum he makes goes straight to my groin. Carefully. Gently. Trying not to let my trembling hands linger too long on warm skin or twitching ears or the way his tail slowly begins to wag.

My own scent is flaring, I know it. His is curling around mine like vines.

He’s like a kitten in my hands, tail wagging as I dry him off. I find myself biting my cheek, hard, to focus. Then I realize—his clothes are soaked. No use. So, I grab the spare shirt and sweats I brought and awkwardly dress him, even as he pouts and wriggles like he’s trying to make it harder.

“You’re not helping,” I mumble.

“Don’t wanna,” he slurs.

When I try to get him on his feet, he just collapses against me again with a happy hum, nosing at my neck and dragging in deep, needy inhales.

Fuck.

“Okay. You’re not walking,” I mutter, scooping him into my arms.

He’s lighter than I thought, soft and pliant, wrapping his arms around my neck and giggling against my throat like I’m his personal teddy bear. His lips brush my skin. I nearly trip.

“Naughty alpha~” he murmurs.

I groan. “Brad… please.”

I make it to his door, praying it’s unlocked.

It’s not.

“Figures,” I mutter. I shift him in my arms. “Alright. Plan B.”

He purrs against me, entirely too pleased, snuggling in tighter.

“Bedroom with the naughty Alpha~” he giggles into my neck, and I nearly trip.

“My God, Brad.”

I carry him back to mine, trying not to think about how I left my room a mess. A very used mess. I push open the door and immediately regret everything. My sheets? Unspeakable. The room? A disaster.

But he doesn’t seem to care.

“Brad—wait—”

Before I can stop him, Brad slips out of my arms and dives into my bed, tail wagging like a little heat-high puppy. He nuzzles into my pillow and groans, “So good…”  He inhales deep, tail wagging, and then starts tugging off the bottoms I just wrestled onto him.

I freeze. “Holy fu—Brad—!”

He’s already palming himself, eyes glazed over, knees sinking into my sheets. He lets out the kind of moan that makes my head spin and my knees buckle.

I spin around fast, staring at the wall, ears burning. I hear wet, slick sounds. Whimpers. Desperate ones. His heat’s climbing again, fast. “Okay, okay, you stay. I’ll figure this out, just—just stay put!”

He hums, breathy and shameless behind me, clearly not even listening.

“Okay! Uh—you stay right there! I’ll be back. Just—just don’t move!”

I shut the door and slam my forehead against it. Holy shit.

I stagger back to the bathroom, grab our clothes and supplies, and try not to think too hard about what I left behind. But when I come back—

He’s bent over on my bed, flushed and moaning, moving against my sheets like he owns them.

“Fffffuck—”

I barely hold myself together. My jeans are painful. I drop everything and bolt back out, slamming the door closed behind me.

I jerk off in the bathroom—twice—just to function. Then I splash water on my face, heart still pounding, head a mess.

But I don’t care. My mate needs me.

Chapter Text

This is for sure not the day I thought I’d be living when I woke up naked, sticky, and tired after a dream-fueled night of touching myself to the thought of my fated Omega. But hey, I’m ready for the challenge.

First things first: our shared class. I arrive ten minutes early, just in case. I’ve got a mission.

The classroom’s still mostly empty when I get there, the professor flipping through some papers at their desk. I head straight for them and take a steadying breath. My palms are sweaty. Why am I nervous?

"Can I talk to you?" I ask, voice firm but polite.

They glance up, offering a small smile. "Max. What can I do ya for?"

That helps. I relax a little.

"I have... well, it’s complicated. I need to ask if Bradley from our class can make up today’s lecture. He’s not well. He was going to come in anyway, but I told him to stay in bed, so... it’s kind of my fault. If there’s any—"

He cuts me off, not unkindly. "Look, Max. He’s already been out for his heat this month. I can’t just keep making exceptions."

I shift into full-on begging mode.

"Please, sir. I understand. But I’m willing to do anything. Just one day—one makeup. I’ll give up my own allowed absences, all four if I have to. I’ll make sure he does all the work. I swear."

The professor sighs and leans back in his chair, looking me over like he’s trying to see if I’m bluffing.

"It’s that important, huh?"

I nod, serious as death.

He rubs a hand through his hair, flipping through some documents. "Alright, look. I’m a nice guy. I’ll give you both today. And only today. But I expect makeup work from the both of you. And your four days? Now two. Got it?"

I nod so fast my neck cracks. "Yes, thank you! This is more than enough—thank you so much."

"Alright, alright. Just make sure you’re both here tomorrow. I’ll have the assignments ready."

"Got it!" I say, practically floating out the door.

I scan the crowd outside until I spot Tank towering above everyone else. I wave him over.

"Yo, Max. What’s up?"

"Hey—I just wanted to let you know Bradley’s okay. He’s... uh, still not feeling great, but I’ve got him covered for class. Also just making sure, he doesn’t have anything else on the schedule today?"

Tank thinks for a second, then shakes his head. "Nope. Today’s clear. You’re a good kid."

I laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. "Thanks, man."

Next stop: my job. I high-tail it across campus, half-jogging the whole way. I’m out of breath by the time I burst into the back entrance of the café.

"Max? You alright, honey?" my boss asks, blinking as I huff in front of her.

"Yeah—just—sorry," I pant, wiping my forehead. "Something’s come up. It’s my... well, someone important to me. He’s going through a rough heat, and I really need to take the day off. I know it’s short notice, I promise I’ll make it up—"

She raises her hand gently, stopping my panicked ramble. "Take a breath, sweetheart. It’s okay. Take care of your mate."

I blink. Blush. "He’s not my—uh, I mean—"

She just smiles knowingly. "Hopeful, then."

I nod sheepishly.

Then she reaches into a drawer and pulls out a small envelope. "Your first paycheck. Early. And here—" she hands me a pretty pink pastry box. "To-go cakes. Omegas tend to like these when they’re in heat. Especially if they’re being stubborn."

I stare at her, overwhelmed. "I... that’s too much. I can’t—"

"It’s not enough," she says with a wink. "Now go be useful."

I don’t know what comes over me, but I give her a quick hug. She blinks, surprised, then chuckles. "Go. I’ll see you tomorrow."

Still flustered, I jog off again—this time toward the clinic.

When I get there, the nurse at the desk gives me a raised eyebrow. "Back again?"

The clinic’s busier than usual, a couple Alphas pacing the floor with wide eyes, probably here for rut blockers. I try to keep my head down as I approach the front desk. The receptionist barely glances up.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Uh, no—sorry, I—I need something for an Omega in heat. Suppressants. Just temporary.”

She gives me a flat look over her glasses. “For yourself?”

“No. For someone else.”

“...Do you have their ID or a signed request form?”

I freeze. Shit. Of course I don’t. I didn’t even think of that. I panic for a second, ears low, tail stiff behind me.

“I—I don’t. Look, he’s in my dorm, he’s my—my partner, and he’s really not doing good. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t serious, I swear.”

She raises a brow. “Sir, we can’t just hand out heat suppressants to strangers—”

“I know! I know. And I get that, but I’m not just some guy. He’s in heat early and he’s burned through his excused absences. If he misses more classes, he’ll lose his funding and—he’ll drop out. I’m just trying to help him stay afloat.”

The words tumble out too fast. I sound like a mess. But I don’t stop. I can’t.

“I don’t need strong ones—just the mild cycle-shortening kind, I swear. I’ll even sign for them myself. Please. I’ll take whatever liability you need. I just... I need to help him.”

The woman looks at me like she’s about to tell me to leave. But then she exhales through her nose and gets up.

“Wait here.”

She disappears into the back and I nearly collapse from the relief of still having a chance. I pace. Bite the inside of my cheek. What if she comes back with security? What if I blew it?

Five minutes later, she returns with a small white paper bag and a warning look.

“You didn’t get these from me. He shouldn’t be alone, not during a peak. Keep him hydrated, no stimulants, no suppressants more than twice in a 24-hour window. And if things go south—hospital. Got it?”

My hands shake a little when I reach for the bag. “Yes. I got it. Thank you—seriously.”

Before I leave, another nurse pulls me aside. She’s older, kind eyes, serious voice.

"Listen. The meds are fine, but they’ll only do so much. If you want to help him regulate naturally, give him your scent. Physical touch—skin contact. Your pheromones will help regulate his cycle. It’s safer, even comforting."

I flush from the tips of my ears to my toes. "O-oh. Right. Thank you."

Arms full of a paycheck envelope, a pastry box, and a bag of suppressants, I dart toward the convenience store.

I snag two big water bottles, some electrolyte juice, and every heat-comfort snack I can think of—salted chips, gummies, chocolate. The clerk eyes me curiously. I just smile awkwardly, trying not to drop anything.

I’m panting again by the time I reach the dorms. My arms are full, my face is flushed, and I feel like I’ve been running a marathon. I fish out my key, manage to open the door without dropping anything, and step inside.

It’s quiet.

I close the door gently behind me, arms full of supplies—juice bottles clinking against water, the paper bag of suppressants tucked between my elbow and ribs, the cakes still neatly boxed, and a convenience bag dangling from my pinky. I feel like a walking vending machine.

I glance toward the bed and pause.

Bradley’s curled up, naked, tangled in my sheets like a heat-soaked angel. His body rises and falls with each soft snore, his lips slightly parted, his hair damp against his flushed face. He’s clinging to my pillow like a lifeline, nose buried in it. My scent. His tail flicks in slow waves, relaxed and twitchy with dreams.

My chest aches a little.

I walk over and set everything down gently on the nightstand—lining things up like offerings. Then I kneel at the edge of the bed and reach out, hand hesitating just over his shoulder.

“Bradley,” I whisper, giving him a gentle shake. “Hey. Wake up. I brought you stuff. You gotta hydrate, okay?”

He stirs, mumbling something into the pillow that sounds vaguely like, “Mrrff...don’t wanna.”

I smile a little. His hair’s plastered to his forehead, soaked through with leftover sweat. I brush it back with careful fingers.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”

His eyes blink open, just barely, and he squints at me, dazed. “Max…?”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling softly. “It’s me. I’ve got you.”

His brow scrunches. He sits up slightly, groggy and still out of it, voice slurred. “Don’t call me sweetheart… mutt.”

I laugh, tail wagging a bit before flopping from relief. “Nice to see you’ve still got some bite.”

He narrows his eyes blearily, then spots the stack of supplies beside him. “What’s all that?”

I flush, rubbing the back of my neck. “Uh. I got you some meds from the clinic. Water, juice, snacks... and, uh, cakes. From my boss. She said Omegas in heat like sweet things. Thought maybe you'd want them.”

His expression shifts—less guarded, but something calculating sits behind his eyes. “Thanks…” he mutters, not meeting my gaze. Like he’s unsure how to take any of this.

“Oh—and your class is covered. I talked to the professor. You’ve got makeup work but you won’t be penalized, as long as you’re there tomorrow.”

His ears flick and he turns away, quiet for a moment.

Then he says, almost bitterly, “Why are you doing all this? I don’t get it. Why didn’t you just… ravish me and go about your day?”

My heart sinks.

My tail drops flat behind me and I just blink at him, hurt. “What? Brad… don’t say that. I wouldn’t—I mean, I could never—” I swallow hard, my voice cracking. “I just want to help you.”

He looks at me finally, eyes flicking across my face like he’s searching for something. “Yeah, but why?”

I open my mouth. Close it. Gulp.

I’m about to say something—I don’t even know what—but I must look too much like a kicked puppy because his face flushes deeper and he suddenly turns away.

“You know what, don’t answer,” he mutters quickly.

I nod, chewing my lip, heart thumping like mad in my chest.

The silence stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Just heavy. He starts fiddling with my sheets, fingers twisting the hem around in slow loops. I let myself breathe again.

Eventually, I help him take one of the suppressants with some water, handing it over like I’m scared he’ll refuse it. But he doesn’t. He takes it, grumbling, and drinks it down without protest.

Then I catch him eyeing the cake box.

I slide it toward him silently and he pounces on it like a grumpy little gremlin, pulling it into his lap with this side-eye like I’m gonna try to steal a bite. I just laugh and watch him devour every last crumb, tail twitching slightly under the sheets.

He licks frosting off his thumb, and I try not to look too hard. Fail.

“Oh, uh—by the way,” I say, clearing my throat. “The doctor at the clinic said... um… the medicine helps, but physical contact might work even better. Like—uh, hugs. Or holding hands. For pheromones.”

He narrows his eyes. “You just wanna touch me, perv.”

My face burns. “No! I mean—not like that. Just… just a little. Like scientifically.”

He grins sleepily, devilishly. “Mmmhmm. Perv.”

“B-Brad—!”

He doesn’t say anything else. Just sighs, then reaches a hand out from under the blanket toward me.

I blink, stunned for a second. Then I take it.

I hold it gently, thumb brushing over his fingers. Our pheromones mix instantly, soothing the room with a warm pulse of scent, like peaches and cedar melting into one another.

I kneel there by the bed, holding his hand in both of mine, letting the warmth seep through my skin. Letting him feel I’m here.

After a while, he speaks again.

“Hey, Goof?”

“Yeah?”

“If you tell anyone about this…” he says, eyes closed, voice lazy, “I’ll kill you.”

It comes out with almost no bite at all. Just sleepy threat.

I chuckle and squeeze his hand a little tighter. “You got it, Brad.”

I guess I’ll just… hold off on telling him I love him.

That can wait.

He drifts off again, slow and soft, and I stay kneeling beside him, forehead resting lightly on the edge of the mattress.

We fall asleep like that.

Chapter Text

When I wake up, my neck’s stiff and my tail’s numb. My cheek’s still pressed against the edge of the bed, one arm stretched out over the mattress where Bradley’s hand used to be.

Except... he’s not there.

I blink groggily, lifting my head and rubbing at my eyes. My fingers grope around the sheets for warmth, but they’re cold now. I sit up slowly with a soft groan, stretching my back until something pops. The room is quiet—too quiet.

Then I glance at the nightstand.

The cake box? Empty. Bottled water? Drained. Juice cartons torn through. Snacks opened, crumbs left behind like tiny trophies. Even the little pill sleeve of heat suppressants? Now two missing.

I grin without meaning to, heart soft in my chest. He took it all. Good.

Guess he really was listening last night.

I check the clock.

“Oh, shit.”

I shoot to my feet. I’m definitely gonna be late. No time for a shower, no time for food. I yank a hoodie over my head—one that doesn’t smell like desperation and yesterday—and stuff my notebook into my bag.

I sniff the hallway cautiously as I step out, tail flicking low. No trace of Bradley. Not in the dorm at least. Huh. I kind of expected him to still be recovering.

I make my way across campus at a brisk jog, not full-out running, but close enough to feel the wind tugging at my hair. I skid into the classroom just as the door’s swinging shut and the professor’s setting up the screen.

And that’s when I see him.

Bradley.

Sitting in his usual seat near the middle, tall posture, head tilted in that unimpressed angle he does when he’s trying to look like he doesn’t care about anything. Tank’s on his right like always, looming and silent. But the seat to his left?

Empty.

Like that first day.

My heart skips a beat.

I glance back at the seat I usually take—my safe spot in the back corner, where I can pretend I’m not sweating over a certain grouchy omega. But then I look at the seat next to Brad.

And I gulp.

I walk toward him on autopilot, feeling like every step is too loud. My hand brushes my hoodie pocket, grounding myself, before I stop beside his desk and clear my throat.

“Mind if I sit here?”

He glances up, sideways, not quite looking at me—but also not ignoring me. His voice is smooth, low.

“Do what you want.”

It’s dismissive, sure, but I swear I see him shift slightly—his elbow sliding over just enough to clear space on the desk between us. My ears perk up a bit.

I smile. “Thanks,” I say, trying not to sound too hopeful.

I sit down.

And okay, yeah, maybe the seats are the same as that first day—but everything else is different.

Because I’ve seen him giggle in my bed. I’ve watched him eat frosting off his fingers with suspiciously direct eye contact. I’ve carried him in my arms across the hallway while he whispered "naughty Alpha" into my neck. And now we’re sitting side by side like none of that happened?

My face is on fire.

I try to focus on the lecture. Kinda works. Every now and then, though, I catch Brad sneaking glances at me, just for a second. Once or twice, we meet eyes at the exact same time and both whip our heads back to the front like we’re in trouble.

Our tails are wagging. In sync.

Mine thumps against his. His brushes back against mine once, twice—then he growls softly under his breath and tucks his tail under his bag.

I bite back a giggle.

When class ends, I’m still smiling like a dope. Everyone shuffles out, but the professor waves us both up to the front before we can escape.

“Bradley, Max,” they say, holding out two sheets of paper each. “Here’s your makeup work from yesterday. And since I’m apparently in a generous mood, extra credit. I want it back Friday.”

Bradley takes his with a nod and a mumbled thanks. I beam and take mine too, tail wagging before I even realize it.

“Thank you, sir. Really.”

The professor waves us off. “Go on. Don’t make me regret giving either of you soft spots.”

As we walk out, I can feel Brad close beside me. He doesn’t say anything right away, but I swear his fingers brush mine once—maybe on accident. Maybe not.

Either way, I pretend not to notice.

Because it’s only the second time I’ve gotten to sit next to him in class, but it’s the first time I think he might’ve actually wanted me there.

My heart’s still doing that dumb fluttery thing. I check my phone for the time and—huh. I might actually make it to work early. Sweet.

Brad’s already halfway out the door when I get the sudden urge to move—fast.

“Hey! Wait—Brad!”

He pauses, just a step past the threshold, turning partway over his shoulder with that skeptical squint he does so well. I jog up, nerves crawling up my spine, and before I can even think twice about it—

I lean in.

Close.

Too close.

I hover just inches from his face and give him a small, cautious sniff.

Peaches, still, but faint. No thick heat behind it this time. The real wave is gone—thank god.

But I don't get to celebrate for long.

“What the hell are you doing, mutt?!” he snaps, shoving my face away like I just licked him.

Which, for the record, I didn’t. Yet.

My face is hot as hell, probably beet red, and his is no better. His blush burns all the way up his cheeks, and I see his tail flick even as he tries to play it cool. But I saw that blush. I felt that spike of scent when I got close.

I laugh, awkward as ever. “Sorry! I just… I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” I mumble, scratching behind my ear.

He huffs, puffing out his chest a bit. “Yes. Perfectly fine. Obviously.”

I beam. “That’s great.”

His ears twitch like they’re trying not to perk, but they are. And his blush deepens. He turns slightly, like he’s gonna walk off again, but—

I grab his hand.

Gently. Not to stop him, just... to hold it.

His fingers twitch in mine, and for a split second, he doesn’t pull away. In fact, his scent spikes ever so slightly—soft and sweet, just a hint of warmth behind it. My tail gives an involuntary little wag at the contact.

He stays facing away from me. I know he’s red. His neck, the tips of his ears—he’s flustered, no doubt. I can practically feel the heat radiating off him.

“What is it now, goof?” he grumbles, voice lower than before, a little shakier too. Still trying to sound mad. Still failing.

I take a breath, rub my thumb gently over his knuckles. “Just… I’ll be working late tonight,” I say, trying to keep it casual. “So if you… I dunno, happen to need anything, I’ll be at the café downtown. Same one as before. With the cakes.”

His ears perk at the mention of cake. Instantly.

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from grinning like a lovesick idiot. He so heard that.

He scoffs—well, tries to. “Whatever,” he mutters, pulling his hand back a little too quickly.

But I catch it—the tiniest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth as he turns to walk away.

My chest feels warm as I watch him go. Tail still wagging, cheeks still red, heart thumping with way too much hope.

I run straight from campus, sprinting down sidewalks, dodging people, my bag bouncing against my hip. I barely make it to the café on time, nearly colliding with the glass door on the way in.

"Whoa—easy there, pup," my manager says from behind the counter with a grin.

I grin back, panting. "Made it!"

"Gold star for effort," she laughs. "Clock in, and tame that hair, you look like you got chased here by a squirrel."

"Feels like I did," I mutter, heading for the back.

In the staff room, I yank open my locker and quickly swap out my hoodie for my uniform—a tight white button-up that hugs way too close, sleek black pants, apron tied at the waist, and my name tag pinned right above my chest. I catch my reflection in the little mirror hanging inside and quickly slick my hair down with spit and fingers. It barely helps.

I smooth the front of my shirt, straighten the tag, and take a breath.

Showtime.

I step out onto the café floor and immediately slip into my customer-service grin, waving at a few regulars as I pass trays of drinks and plates of tiny cakes to tables. The café hums with cozy chatter, light music floating through the air, and the scent of espresso and vanilla buttercream clinging to everything.

About an hour in, the front bell dings. I turn toward the door automatically, preparing to greet whoever walked in—

—and I freeze.

Bradley.

I almost trip over my own feet rushing to the door like a golden retriever spotting their favorite human. I catch myself last second, try to play it cool and fail completely.

“Hey—oh. Uh. Welcome,” I say with what I hope is suave charm. My tail is wagging like a traitor behind me.

Brad raises an unimpressed brow, clearly clocking my excitement.

I guide him to a small two-top near the window and motion for him to sit. He does, giving me a tired look like I’m the biggest dork alive.

“Just so you know, mutt,” he says with a soft pout, “I’m not here for you.”

Suuuure he’s not.

“Of course not,” I reply with a wink. “Total coincidence.” Then I dart toward the confection counter like a man on a mission.

My manager’s piping a cake when I approach. She looks up, sees my stupidly happy expression, then glances over to where Brad’s sitting.

Her smile goes sly. “That him?”

I blush, rubbing the back of my neck. “Y-Yeah.”

“He’s cute,” she teases.

I glance over at him again. He’s sitting with one leg crossed, looking out the window like he’s bored but I know he knows I’m watching him.

“Yeah… he is,” I say softly.

She nudges me with her elbow. “Let me guess. Cake?”

“If that’s okay?” I ask sheepishly.

“Pfft. I knew you’d ask. But it’s coming outta your next check,” she smirks, pulling out a slice of chocolate cake and plating it with practiced grace. She hands it to me with a wink.

“Thanks! Seriously, I owe you.”

“Damn right you do. Now go charm your boy.”

I head back to the table and slide the cake in front of Brad.

He stares at it.

“What’s this?”

“Cake,” I reply innocently.

He deadpans. “No shit, Max. I didn’t order this.”

“I know,” I stammer. “It’s… on me. If that’s okay.”

He narrows his eyes, watching me too closely.

“I can pay for my own food,” he says flatly.

“I—I didn’t mean—sorry—I’m doing too much, aren’t I?” I fumble. “I just… I don’t know. I wanted to—”

“You ramble a lot, goof,” he cuts in, though his tone is more amused than annoyed.

I laugh nervously. “Yeah… sorry.”

Then, with this maddeningly slow movement, he dips a finger into the frosting and licks it off—slowly. I swear, the room tilts. My knees nearly give out.

“Thanks for the cake, Maxie,” he says, smooth as silk.

But his ears? Bright red.

His tail? Beating softly against the chair.

He’s flirting. Holy shit, he’s flirting with me.

I gulp and flee before I combust.

The rest of the shift is a blur. I wipe tables, pour drinks, burn my fingertips on a hot cup, and nearly mix up a ticket order because I know he’s watching me. I don’t know if I love it or if I’m gonna faint from it, but I’m sweating either way.

Then a group of girls comes in. They’re dolled up and giggling, probably fresh from a shopping trip. I greet them with my most neutral smile.

“Hi there! Just the four of you?”

“Oh my god, you’re the waiter?” one of them says, practically bouncing.

“Seriously,” another chimes in. “Where do they keep guys like you?”

“Wow, you’re so cute!” one of them gushes. “You have a girlfriend?”

“He’s more handsome,” another says, elbowing the first.

They all start talking over each other—asking if I’m single, if I want their numbers. I chuckle awkwardly, trying to keep it professional.

I laugh awkwardly. “Right this way,” I say, leading them to a corner booth.

As I hand them menus, the compliments don’t stop.

“Would you like a minute to look over the menu?” I say, sidestepping like a pro.

They giggle harder, thinking I’m playing hard to get, but really—I’m just not interested. Not even a little.

I swear I feel heat on the back of my neck. I glance over.

Brad’s watching. Eyes narrowed, lips tight. He looks... grumpy.

Oh no.

I excuse myself from the table and walk over to Brad.

“Hey… you good? Need anything?”

He doesn’t look at me. “Nope. Good over here.”

I glance at his plate. Empty.

“You finished the cake. Want more?”

He looks at the plate, then at me, brows raised. “You trying to fatten me up, goof?”

My face flames.

“Would that be so bad?” I tease without thinking. “You’d be… kinda cute, actually.”

“That was rhetorical, Max!” he groans, cheeks puffed, turning bright red.

I smile way too wide, laugh softly, tail wagging. He won’t look me in the eye now, but I feel the tension crackling in the air between us. He’s not mad. He’s flustered. Embarrassed. Holy hell.

Then the girls wave me down again, and I glance over. “Be right back,” I say softly to Brad.

And then, just as I turn to help the giggling girls again, Brad mutters under his breath, voice low but still audible: “Didn’t realize you were so popular.”

It’s so casual it shouldn’t hit me like it does, but it stops me mid-step. My ears flick up. My chest flutters.

I glance back, but he’s already sipping his coffee like nothing happened, tail curled around his leg tight.

He is jealous.

My heart skips, then gallops.

Is it crazy that I want to bark in celebration?

I manage a flustered grin, not even trying to hide it this time.

He glances up, sees my dumb happy face, and his own expression cracks. A deep red flush creeps up his cheeks again.

“Just go already,” he mumbles, turning sharply toward the window.

I stifle a laugh and obey, heart thrumming as I return to the other tables, practically floating.

Back at the counter, I juggle drinks and trays and a few other tables, even get a sweet tip that I tuck into my apron. When I finally circle back to Brad’s table—he’s gone.

Just his empty coffee cup and a mountain of used sugar packets left behind. All twenty of them, I swear, and a crisp twenty-dollar bill under the plate. I blink down at it. The coffee was six bucks.

He left me a tip?

I pick it up gently, fingers brushing the table like maybe his warmth is still lingering there. My tail sways lazily behind me.

He came in. Said it wasn’t for me.

Flirted. Glared at a table of girls. Called me “popular.”

Left me a twenty.

I think about his face, that slow frosting lick, his tongue teasing the edge of his finger while staring me down like he meant to make me faint. My ears burn.

I smile to myself, tail wagging behind me, then grab the plate and cup to clean. The rest of my shift feels lighter somehow, the café humming around me as I float through the motions.

I keep thinking about his blush. His smile. The way he said my name.

I keep thinking, Maybe he came for the cake.?

Maybe.

But maybe…even a little...he came for me?

Chapter Text

The last week’s fallen into something of a routine.

Class in the morning—I sit next to Bradley, and even when he’s being snippy or sarcastic, he doesn’t move away. Sometimes he shares notes. Sometimes he smirks at my doodles. Sometimes he rolls his eyes like I just committed a felony by breathing near him. Honestly, I don’t know where we stand, but… I still always sit there.

Then it’s work. My shift starts right after class, and there’s been a few afternoons where Bradley actually showed up again. For “cake,” he says. Not me. Just cake. Uh-huh.

My boss has started teasing that my check’s gonna be nothing but crumbs and frosting debt. “He’s cute, Max, but you’re running a tab,” she’ll say with a smirk, already plating something sweet behind the counter before he even walks in.

The weird part? She hasn’t docked me a dime. Not even once.

She’s too nice.

And honestly… I’m starting to think I’m in trouble.

Because I don’t just like Bradley. I mean—I do like him. A lot. But it’s more than that. It’s in my bones. It’s in every stupid wag of my tail when he walks in. Every time he smiles—really smiles—I feel like I’ve been given air after holding my breath too long.

I never thought I could feel like this about anyone. Let alone him.

Right now, I’m dragging my tired butt back to the dorm after another closing shift. My hoodie smells like espresso, my legs feel like noodles, and I’ve got a decent chunk of homework I still haven’t touched. Yay. College.

Brad didn’t come in today. Not that he has to, of course. But work’s definitely a lot more fun when he does.

I turn the corner to my hallway, keys in hand, and freeze.

PJ and Bobby are sitting cross-legged right outside my dorm room like two angry parents waiting up past curfew.

“Oh—hey guys!” I say, hurrying over. “What’s up?”

They don’t answer right away. Just stare up at me like I’ve committed treason.

“Dude?” PJ says, unimpressed. “Where have you been?”

“Seriously,” Bobby adds, crossing his arms. “You’ve been like… MIA all week. We thought you died.”

I rub the back of my neck, still winded from my jog home, and give PJ and Bobby a sheepish smile.

“Sorry I’ve been... y’know"

PJ raises a brow like he’s not buying it. “Dude. You’ve been ghosting. We thought you died.”

“Yeah,” Bobby chimes in, crossing his arms dramatically. “We almost held a vigil. I was gonna bring candles.”

I laugh nervously. “I’ve just been working. A lot. That’s all. Promise.”

They both exchange glances and then look back at me, not convinced for even a second.

“Sure,” Bobby says, dragging out the word. “Working.”

PJ smirks. “Working late. Acting all dreamy. Not picking up calls. You’ve definitely been seeing someone.”

“What? No!” I say way too fast. “No, it’s not like that! I swear—n-nothing like that’s happening.”

Bobby leans forward, waggling his brows. “Not even a little? Come on, dude, we’re your best friends. Are you—” he whispers dramatically, “getting laid?”

I sputter so hard I nearly swallow my tongue. “Bobby!”

He cackles while PJ shakes his head, though he’s clearly amused too. “Okay, okay, calm down. But seriously, something’s different. You’re smiling like… a lot. What gives?”

I hesitate, rubbing the back of my neck again as my face burns.

“…Maybe there’s someone,” I mumble, barely above a whisper.

That gets them both. They sit up fast.

“Knew it!” Bobby says, practically bouncing. “Spill, Goof!”

PJ grins. “Name, star sign, shoe size—go.”

“No, it’s not like that,” I say, waving my hands. “It’s… bigger than that. It’s…” I trail off, then quietly add, “It’s my fated pair.”

That brings the whole room to a pause. Even Bobby blinks in surprise.

“…Wait. Like, for real?” PJ asks, more cautious now.

I nod. “I’m serious.” I shuffle over to my desk, dig into the drawer, and pull out the manila folder the clinic gave me weeks ago. “Here.”

They crowd around as I open it, flipping to the printed page with the highlighted markers—medical analysis, hormone logs, pheromone pattern matches. Official as it gets.

PJ whistles. “Holy crap, Max.”

Bobby gawks. “Dude. You weren’t kidding. This is real.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly, biting my cheek. “I didn’t know how to tell you guys.”

PJ slaps a hand on my shoulder. “Man, congrats. Seriously.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry for being a butt,” Bobby says, all sincere for once. “You should’ve told us sooner.”

“I didn’t want to jinx it,” I admit, hugging the folder close for a second before setting it down. “It still doesn’t feel real sometimes.”

They both nod like they get it, and we end up flopping into our usual routine—controller in hand, junk food in reach, and some old fighting game loading on the screen. I think about my homework for half a second… then don’t.

I can do it in the morning. Hopefully.

PJ lands a knockout punch in the game and whoops, then nudges me with his elbow. “So if you found your fated pair… why aren’t you dating him?”

I freeze mid-button press. “It’s complicated.”

Bobby snorts. “Pfft. What’s complicated about that? You found your soulmate and you’re not—”

Knock knock.

We all pause.

I blink. “Was anyone expecting—?”

Another knock. I get up slowly, brushing off my shirt, and head to the door while Bobby calls out dramatically, “Oooh, is it him~?”

I open the door.

And it’s him.

Bradley.

Hair tousled, hands tucked into his pockets, looking at me like I’m the one who caught him off guard. His scent wafts past me—peaches and static. My friends go dead silent behind me.

“…Is this a bad time?” Brad asks, brow raised.

I turn to look back at the guys, both staring wide-eyed like they’ve seen a ghost.

Bobby—because of course it’s Bobby—gives a painfully obvious thumbs up. “Yeah, I can see why it’s complicated.”

PJ elbows him hard, but the damage is done.

I groan into my hand. “Guys—seriously?”

They take the hint and scramble to their feet, grabbing their stuff.

“We were just leaving,” PJ says, giving me a pat on the shoulder as they pass.

Bobby winks at Brad. “You’ve got good taste"

Bradley just blinks. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Ignore him,” I mutter, shoving Bobby out the door.

Once they’re gone, I exhale hard and step aside.

“You, uh… wanna come in?”

Bradley looks me up and down, lips twitching like he’s holding back a smirk.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure, Goof.”

Brad steps into my dorm like it’s unfamiliar territory, even though he’s been here before—very briefly, very heat-addled, and very naked. Not that I’m thinking about that. Nope. Absolutely not. Dirty thoughts be gone.

He sits on my bed without hesitation, and I immediately forget how to breathe. My cheeks go red, and I force my eyes anywhere else but his thighs. I try not to think about the last time he was in my bed, curled in my sheets and making soft sounds in his sleep. Bad brain. Down, boy.

I shake it off with a quick breath and sit beside him, not too close, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. He’s looking around like he’s really seeing my room for the first time—like he’s cataloging things. It makes me nervous.

“Sorry it’s a mess,” I mumble.

He snorts, amused. “You act like I expected otherwise.”

I laugh awkwardly, rubbing the back of my neck. “Fair.”

There’s a small pause before I glance over and ask, “So... what brings you here?”

His eyes dart away from mine. And the moment he gets nervous, I get nervous too. My palms sweat instantly. We shift in place like we’re both trying to find the right words to say, and then finally, he speaks.

“Are you free tomorrow?”

I blink once. Then again. “…Tomorrow?”

He nods stiffly. “It’s Saturday, right?”

“Yeah,” I nod quickly. “Yeah, I’m free.”

“I see.”

“…Did you want me for something?” I ask, trying not to sound too hopeful.

He swallows like the words are caught in his throat. “I… I have tickets to a movie tomorrow night. Tank was supposed to go with me but he bailed. It’s a late showing.”

I sit up straighter.

“…So do you wanna come?”

His voice is grumpy, embarrassed, like he’s trying to pretend it doesn’t matter. My tail practically whacks the wall behind me as I light up.

“Yes! Yes—definitely, yes!”

He raises an amused brow. “Don’t get too riled up.”

“How can I not?” I beam. “You asked me out!”

“You make it sound like a date,” he mutters, rolling his eyes.

“…Is it not?” I ask quietly, watching him closely.

He doesn’t answer that. Doesn’t deny it either. Just keeps looking around again like he’s dodging the topic.

But then—his gaze lands on it. The folder on my desk. The one with my medical diagnosis. The one marked with “Fated Pair Detected – Alpha Marker Match Confirmed.”

My stomach drops.

He reaches for it and opens it up before I can stop him. “You… have a mate?” he asks, voice small, almost sad.

I blush so hard my ears are burning. I snatch the folder back with trembling hands. “Well, that’s… complicated.”

“Complicated,” he repeats flatly, standing up now. “Right.”

I stand too, panicked. “Wait—Brad—”

“Look, let’s forget about tomorrow,” he says quickly, already halfway to the door. “I don’t really want to go anymore.”

“Brad, wait, seriously—it’s not what you’re thinking—”

“Really?” he snaps, whipping around. “So you’re not trying to go out with me while having a mate already? I don’t do the whole multiple Omegas thing you Alphas like.”

“What?! No! I don’t—I’ve never even been on a date before!” I stumble over my words. “I’ve never had anyone, I promise!”

“Oh, so what, you’re just hanging around me until your so-called fate shows up?” he says bitterly.

“No!” I yell, louder than I mean to.

He turns to leave again.

“Brad—it’s you!”

The words come out like a breathless, broken secret I’ve been holding for years.

He freezes. Turns slowly. “…What is that supposed to mean?”

“My fated pair,” I say, voice quiet and wrecked. “My mate… is you. It’s always been you.”

His expression flickers between confusion and disbelief. “…That makes no sense. Start making sense, Goof.”

I take a shaky breath. “I… I kind of knew you were my pair since, like… the first time I saw you. The way you smelled, the way I felt—I just knew.”

“And you decided not to tell me that?” he asks, voice rising.

“I thought you didn’t want a mate,” I say miserably. “And I didn’t want to lose you. I’d rather stay unmated than push you away.”

His eyes narrow. “So all of this—everything you’ve been doing… was it just because of my scent? Was it just the bond?”

“No! Not at all!” I shake my head, chest heaving. “I like you, Brad. You. Not just your scent, or your hormones, or your dynamic. I like everything about you. I swear.”

I realize then—I’m still holding his hand. His fingers, warm and trembling in mine. My grip loosens. I look down, cheeks hot.

“…Sorry,” I whisper. “I never meant to be weird. I just…”

I trail off, because I can’t speak through the lump in my throat.

Brad’s quiet. His hand is still in mine, warm and steady. He doesn’t pull away.

Then, just when I’m about to spiral into silence, he says softly, “I never said I didn’t want a mate.”

My heart skips. My ears perk. My breath catches.

He’s not looking at me, his eyes focused on the floor like it suddenly became fascinating. The blush on his face is doing most of the talking.

I blink, stunned. “…You—uh—you acted like you didn’t,” I say, voice small.

And okay, yeah, I definitely remember him saying it. Twice. Loudly.

But I’m not about to bring that up right now.

He shrugs a little, still not meeting my eyes. “Yeah, well… I guess things change.”

Before I can even process what that means—before I can ask, or say something dumb, or melt into a puddle from confusion—he leans down.

And kisses me.

It’s soft. Barely a breath between us. Warm lips, slightly chapped, pressed shyly against mine. My eyes fly wide open, my tail goes full wag-mode, and I think I forget how to exist. My whole body is locked in place, stiff as a board—except my tail, which is basically slapping my bed in rapid-fire thumps.

And my scent, oh hell, my scent spikes through the roof. There’s no hiding it, I’m practically glowing. If anyone walked past the door right now they’d know exactly what just happened.

Brad pulls back, his face flushed as red as mine, and I think I stop breathing.

He looks at me for half a second—then smirks, that smug little curl of his lips that always makes me weak.

“Well then,” he says casually, like he didn’t just ruin me with one gentle kiss. “See you tomorrow… mutt.”

And this time, when he calls me mutt, it doesn’t feel sharp. It doesn’t sting. It feels like—

Like he means mine.

The door clicks shut behind him and I stay frozen, sitting there, lips tingling, brain completely offline.

I think a full minute passes.

Then I shoot to my feet and cheer. Arms in the air. Tail spinning. Full-on victory dance like I just won the lottery.

Because I did.

I won.

Holy shit, he kissed me.

And we have a date.

Tomorrow.

Bradley freaking Uppercrust III kissed me.

And called me his mutt.

Yep. I’m never sleeping again.

Chapter Text

The next morning, I wake up early.

Stupidly early.

Like, the sun’s barely up and I’m already wide awake, staring at the ceiling like it’s got the answers to all of life’s questions. Which it definitely doesn’t. Because if it did, I wouldn’t still be lying here trying to remember how breathing works.

I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do?

I’ve got a date. A real one. With Brad.

Bradley freaking Uppercrust III. The hottest, grumpiest, smartest Omega I’ve ever laid eyes on. The same guy who once threatened to bite me for calling him cute, and now? Now he kissed me. And I think—no, I know—he likes me.

And now I’m expected to just… function like a normal person until tonight?

Good one, universe.

I groan and flop over, face first into my pillow. My tail gives one lazy wag, and then another, like even it’s too dazed to fully commit. “Ughhhh,” I mumble into the cotton. “This is gonna kill me.”

Eventually, I reach for my phone like it’s a lifeline and start doom-scrolling, trying to find anything that might help me not screw this up. I type in things like:

-“how to court your fated mate without being weird”
-“first date tips for nervous alpha who doesn’t know what he’s doing”
-“do omegas like flowers or is that outdated help”
-“how to stop tail wagging please help”

Every result either feels like it was written for someone way cooler than me, or like it assumes I’ve already mated and bought a house in the suburbs with them. Which, wow. Chill.

I swipe through another article: “Top Ten Things Not to Say on a First Date.”
Number one? Don’t mention your future children.

“Noted,” I mutter to myself.

Still, none of it feels helpful. Because Brad asked me first. Brad already made the move. He got the tickets. Set the time. And now I’m just… supposed to be cool about it?

Yeah, no. I’m spiraling. Hard.

I sigh and drop my phone on my chest, staring at the ceiling again like it betrayed me. My heart’s fluttering like crazy, and my thoughts won’t stop racing. My scent’s a chaotic mess, somewhere between excited puppy and nervous disaster.

“Okay,” I breathe. “Shower. Right. Shower might help.”

I roll out of bed and pad toward the bathroom, dragging my tail behind me like I’ve been emotionally body-slammed by my own feelings.

The bathrooms are still half-dark when I slip in, the early morning light bleeding through the high windows like someone forgot to dim the sunrise. The air’s thick with leftover steam, clinging to the mirrors and fogging up the corners of the room. My footsteps echo just a little too loudly as I head for the showers, heart pounding like I’m about to take a test I didn’t study for.

I crank the water hotter than usual, scrubbing like my life depends on it—because according to half the articles I just read at 5AM, scent is everything. No pressure, right? I lather, rinse, rinse again, and maybe stand there overthinking my shampoo choice for way too long. After a solid fifteen minutes of trying not to psych myself out, I shut off the water, wrap a towel around my waist, and step out—

Only to nearly jump out of my skin.

Bradley's already there, standing at the mirrors, casually running his fingers through his hair like he’s in a shampoo commercial. His reflection meets mine before I can say anything, and my stomach drops. I should run. Or teleport. Instead, I do the next dumbest thing: walk up to the sink beside him like I’m not freshly showered, dripping, and dangerously close to having a towel malfunction. Fucking hell.

“Hey, Brad… good morning,” I mumble, heart slamming.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just lifts a brow, then—like a damn movie character—turns, flips around, and props himself up on the counter, legs crossing dramatically, eyes locked on me. His gaze trails down my body, slow and shameless. Like he’s drinking me in drop by drop and suddenly the bathroom’s about a hundred degrees too warm.

My face goes nuclear.

“Y-you’re, uh… staring,” I stammer, trying desperately to keep my eyes on the faucet in front of me.

His lips curl into a smirk. “How the tides have turned,” he purrs.

That voice. That look. My brain short-circuits. I need to dry my hair or just die, either would be fine. But the only towel I have is clinging to my hips for dear life, and his gaze is not helping. My body decides to betray me in the worst possible way. I feel it coming fast.

He licks his lips. Licks. His. Lips.

And that’s when it happens—of course my body picks this exact moment to go fully hard, and my towel slips. I catch it just in time, but my soul nearly leaves my body.

Brad just laughs. Hops off the counter like a cat landing on soft carpet. Walks over to me while I’m still crouched like I’m trying to merge with the wall. He lifts a hand, and before I can blink, runs a single finger down my chest—slow and deliberate. My entire body shudders.

Then he leans in, lips near my ear. “Can’t wait for tonight, Maxie~” he whispers, and just like that, he turns and strolls right out the door.

I collapse.

Literally.

My knees give out and I slump against the cold tiles, towel bunched in my lap and brain fully shorted out.

Where did the shy, flustered Omega who used to blush and call me a perv? Because this Brad? This Brad is dangerous.

And I’m both scared and thrilled.

…And still pathetically hard.

Fuck.

It takes me a full minute—maybe more—to gather the scraps of my dignity off the tiled floor and force myself upright. My hands are still shaking, my heart’s thudding like I ran laps, and don’t even get me started on the war my dick is waging with my towel.

I breathe. Deeply. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Channeling every ounce of inner strength I didn’t know I had, I will myself to calm down. No jerking off. No cold showers. Just raw, stubborn willpower. And eventually, miraculously—it works.

My dick finally goes down. I towel dry. I get dressed.

That’s a win in my book.

I throw on a hoodie and jeans, run a hand through my still-damp hair, and try not to look like I’ve just come back from the emotional battlefield. Then I book it back to my dorm room before anyone else decides to weaponize their flirtation against me.

The second the door clicks shut behind me, I groan and flop face-first onto my bed.

“What the hell was that?” I mumble into my pillow.

Bradley. Was. Merciless.

He didn’t even blink. Just leaned in like some smug prince of temptation and hit me with that look, that voice, and that finger down my chest like it was no big deal. My brain is a puddle. My body’s still on high alert. I’m ninety percent sure I have a fever, and it’s his fault.

It’s like… all week, I’ve been the one falling over myself, and now suddenly Brad decides to show up in flirt mode level 9000? I didn’t have a chance! My poor heart barely made it out alive!

I groan again, kicking my feet like an idiot, tugging my pillow over my head and yelling into it a little because, seriously, what is he doing to me?

And worse, what if he keeps doing it?

I’m already freaking out about tonight. What to wear, what to say, how to act like a normal person and not a deranged, love-drunk Alpha who’s maybe too emotionally invested for his own good. But now, after that little bathroom ambush, I’m spiraling for real.

Like, am I imagining that he’s flirting? Or was that legit? Is this just Brad being Brad, or am I slowly being seduced to death in my own dorm?

Either way, I’m doomed.

I check the time. Still hours to go before the movie. Plenty of time to pace the room, overthink everything, and maybe scream into my pillow a few more times.

Yup. Totally fine. Everything’s fine. Just a perfectly normal day where the Omega of my dreams nearly caught me dropping my towel.

No big deal.

After spiraling in bed for way too long and losing another ten minutes to staring at the ceiling like it held the secrets of how not to be a dumbass, I finally pull my phone out and call in reinforcements.

“Yo,” PJ answers after two rings. Bobby’s already laughing in the background.

“Guys,” I say, deadly serious. “Emergency.”

“Is it Bradley?” PJ asks.

“Of course it’s Bradley,” Bobby chimes in. “Did you finally get to second base? Or, like, third? Or—”

“No! Shut up! It’s not—I just—I have a date with him tonight and I don’t know what to wear,” I groan, flopping back dramatically. “Or how to act. Or breathe. Or function as a person.”

“Chill, chill,” PJ says, trying to be calm and helpful. “Okay, so like… just wear that one button-up you wore to my cousin’s engagement party. That light blue one? It brings out your eyes.”

“That shirt makes me look like I sell real estate,” I deadpan.

“Exactly! Like, trustworthy and financially stable!”

“…Not the vibe, PJ.”

Bobby cuts in. “Okay, okay. Hear me out. You go shirtless—just the jacket. Little peek of chest. Spritz some of that musk cologne. Boom. Instant panty drop—uh, whatever the Omega equivalent is.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m telling you, chicks—sorry, dudes—love that shit,” he insists.

“I’m hanging up on both of you.”

“No wait, wait—just make sure you wear something easy to take off,” Bobby teases.

“Goodbye,” I say, already ending the call. “Thanks for the useless advice.”

PJ texts a follow-up that says “good luck buddy! remember to smile!"

…Noted.

I sigh and roll off the bed, resigned to figuring this out myself.

My first attempt at an outfit is… rough. I dig through my closet, yank out a dress shirt, slacks, even consider a belt. I stare at myself in the mirror and wince.

“Dude. You look like you’re about to give a eulogy.”

I throw the whole thing onto the floor.

Next attempt: classic. Jeans. Cool graphic tee. The one that makes my arms look decent. Converse. And a black zip-up jacket. Chill. Approachable. Not trying too hard but also not like I rolled out of bed and forgot how to function.

That’s the vibe.

Except.

My hair.

Is not cooperating.

I run my hands through it. It flops wrong. I try to style it. It poofs. I try to flatten it. It rebels. It’s like the gods of good hair are personally smiting me.

“Come on, man,” I groan, glaring at my reflection. “Just work with me here. I’m begging you.”

I look like a nervous Alpha with too much product and not enough chill.

Which, fair.

I take another breath and decide, okay, worst-case scenario, I look like a slightly electrocuted cartoon character. Maybe Brad will find it endearing.

Maybe.

I glance at the clock. Still some time, but not much. I pace. I fidget. I check my reflection a dozen times.

Because somehow, despite all the nerves and spiraling and Bobby’s terrible, terrible advice… I can’t stop smiling.

Bradley. Asked me out.

And I actually get to take him on a date tonight.

Holy shit.

Chapter Text

I glance at the clock.

One hour.

Okay. That’s sixty minutes. Three thousand six hundred seconds. I can use this time to be productive. Go over some first date tips again. Just a quick refresher. Nothing about babies, don’t over-scent, and whatever I do—don’t freak out.

I pull up the article I bookmarked earlier: “Top 10 First Date Dos and Don’ts for Nervous Alphas”. I scroll to the bolded part.

DO: Compliment your date.
DON’T: Talk about mating, bonding, or reproduction.

Got it. Compliment. No babies.

DO: Maintain confidence.
DON’T: Sniff them like a deranged hound in heat.

Yup. Cool. Chill. I can be chill. I’m the chillest Alpha that ever chilled. I’m so chill I’m practically—
KNOCK KNOCK.

I jump. Out of my skin. Practically throw my phone across the bed.

“What the—no, it’s too early—”

I check the time. Still 58 minutes left. Or… not. Because apparently my clock is wrong, and destiny is now standing outside my door.

I smooth down my shirt, try to make sure my tail isn’t wagging like a maniac, take a breath, and repeat in my head:

Be cool. Don’t stink. No baby talk.

I open the door.

And die.

Holy shit.

Bradley Uppercrust III is standing in the hallway like he walked out of a dream and directly into my demise. His hair is perfectly tousled, soft curls brushing over his forehead like a shampoo commercial. He’s wearing this deep maroon turtleneck that clings in all the right places, showing off his shoulders, his chest, the narrow dip of his waist. His dark jeans are cuffed just so above polished boots, and his tail is fluffy, full, and brushed to glossy perfection.

He's radiant. He smells like warm peaches and crisp cologne and something way too addictive.

And my stupid Alpha brain goes:

"I want to have your babies."

Out loud.

Out. Loud.

Brad blinks at me. I blink at him. I want to crawl into a hole and evaporate.

“I mean—hi?” I squeak. “That’s—I didn’t—I wasn’t gonna—”

Brad lifts a perfectly groomed brow. His cheeks turn just slightly pink. And then he smirks.

“Wouldn’t it be the other way around, Goof?”

I nearly choke. “I—uh… heh… you… uh… you very pretty—”
Goddamnit.

I slap my own cheek lightly to knock some sense into myself, and Brad just laughs.

“I’ll take that as a compliment?”

“Please,” I say, practically begging for mercy.

Date’s off to a great start.

I grab my wallet, double-check I have my key, then lock the door behind me. We start walking down the hall toward the exit, and I try to calm the racing in my chest. “It’s, uh… a bit early…” I say awkwardly, side-eyeing him.

He shrugs, casually cool as always. “Figured you’d be hungry.”

My stomach immediately betrays me with a loud, aggressive growl.

I freeze. Brad gives me a slow, knowing glance.

“Hehe… yeah, that would be awesome,” I mumble, rubbing the back of my neck. “I might’ve… uh… forgotten to eat today.”

He smirks like he’s so unsurprised. “Figured as much.”

I bite back a nervous laugh as we push through the front doors of the dorms and step into the crisp air. Everything feels a little too real now. It’s not just a crush or a daydream anymore. This is a date. With him. And I’ve already talked about babies. Cool.

But he’s walking next to me. Shoulder barely brushing mine. Tail swaying behind him, confident and poised. 

Brad leads us into a cozy little Chinese place tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat, the kind of spot that smells like garlic, soy sauce, and comfort. The overhead lights are warm and a little dim, with red paper lanterns hanging low and a fish tank bubbling quietly in the corner.

I blink. “You eat Chinese food?”

He raises a brow, smirking. “You sound surprised.”

“I just— I don’t know. I figured you were more… oysters on silver platters and like, golden utensils or something.”

Brad chuckles and pushes open the door. “I used to be. My family’s… particular. If it wasn’t flown in or arranged like a five-star art piece, it wasn’t dinner.”

I follow him in, the wave of savory warmth hitting me like a hug. “And now you’re slumming it with the rest of us?”

“Now I’m in college,” he says, eyeing the menu like he’s already got a plan. “And greasy noodles at midnight kind of slap.”

“I never thought I’d hear you say ‘slap.’” I grin.

He side-eyes me as we head to a small table by the window. “Don’t get used to it.”

We order—he gets orange chicken and steamed dumplings, I go for lo mein and some spring rolls, and we sit, sipping water from tiny paper cups. The food comes out fast, and I immediately dive in, only to be humbled by… the chopsticks.

I glare down at the sticks like they’ve personally wronged me. “Okay, rude.”

Brad picks his up effortlessly and starts eating with the kind of smooth grace I shouldn’t be surprised by anymore. “You struggling there, Goof?”

“Psh, no,” I lie, trying again only to launch a noodle half onto my shirt and half into the air.

He laughs, genuinely laughs, then picks up a bite of chicken and lifts it toward me. “Here. Try not to embarrass yourself.”

I blink. “You’re gonna feed me?”

He shrugs. “You want the food or not?”

I lean in and he feeds me the bite. I chew, trying not to smile too hard, but the fact that Bradley freaking Uppercrust just fed me a bite of his meal like it was nothing is too much. My tail is wagging like crazy.

“You’re… really good at this date thing,” I say between bites.

Brad flushes lightly, poking at a dumpling. “Thanks. It’s actually my first.”

I nearly drop my chopsticks again. “Wait, really?”

He shrugs one shoulder, lips twitching into a smile. “Guess I’m just a bit of a romantic.”

I’m grinning so hard it probably looks stupid. “I wouldn’t have guessed that. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love it. I just… you hide it well.”

That blush deepens. “Well, no one’s ever brought out this side of me before.”

My heart practically leaps. “Then I’m lucky to be me.”

He looks away with a tiny, shy smile—and my whole chest feels like it’s glowing.

In an attempt to break the tension before I burst into heart-shaped flames, I hold the chopsticks in my mouth like a pair of vampire fangs. “Look, I’m a walrus.”

Brad blinks, and then—snorts.

Like, full-body, unfiltered, caught-off-guard kind of snort. He slaps a hand over his face in horror immediately after.

“Oh my god,” he mutters. “I did not just snort. No. Absolutely not.”

I burst out laughing. “You did! And it was adorable!”

“Shut up,” he says, still red as a tomato, hiding behind his napkin. “Don’t make me throw soy sauce at you.”

“I dare you.” I grin, leaning in like a challenge. “You know you love me.”

He scoffs, but he doesn’t deny it.

We’re still giggling when the server brings the fortune cookies. Brad cracks his open with practiced ease and reads aloud, “Romance blooms in unexpected places.”

I raise my brows. “Okay, that’s kinda on the nose.”

He glances at me over the cookie. “Suspiciously on the nose.”

I crack mine open dramatically and read, “A bold heart will lead to great rewards.” I wiggle my brows. “So basically, I’m your reward.”

Brad rolls his eyes but can’t stop smiling. “You’re a menace.”

“And you love it.”

“Undecided,” he says, but then his hand bumps mine on the table, and he doesn’t move it away.

Yeah. Undecided, my ass.

The server drops the check at our table and before I can even blink, Brad’s hand is already reaching for it.

“I got it,” he says smoothly, already pulling out his wallet.

But I snatch it faster. “Nope, this one’s on me.”

Brad raises a brow. “Max—”

“Seriously,” I say, pulling some cash from my pocket and sliding it into the little black booklet before he can fight me on it. “Let me treat you.”

He huffs, crossing his arms. “I asked you out, I should be paying.”

I grin and lean in with a wink. “Don’t worry. I have plenty of money from the tips you keep leaving me.”

That gets him. He bites back a smile, rolling his eyes with a quiet little snort. “Oh, so I am paying for it.”

“Ah-ah-ah,” I tease, holding up a finger. “I worked for that. You just happen to be an incredibly generous customer.”

He shakes his head, amused. “Fine. I guess we both paid for it.”

I laugh, heart warm, and we slide out of the booth together.

We head out into the night, the city just cool enough to make me wish I’d worn a thicker jacket.

Streetlamps cast a golden glow on the sidewalks as we walk shoulder to shoulder toward the theater. A block ahead, there’s a group of rowdy alphas, probably from the local frat house, play-wrestling and shoving each other into signs and parking meters, their voices way too loud.

Without thinking, I gently move Brad to my other side, slipping an arm around his shoulders to guide him safely past. I feel him tense a little—but he leans into me, just slightly, and I catch the soft pink flush warming his cheeks under the streetlight.

Once we’re past them, though, he suddenly picks up his pace.

“Brad—?” I jog to catch up.

When I do, I catch a glimpse of his face—and yeah. He’s flustered. Bad.

His ears are pink, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, tail stiff behind him.

I smile, trying not to make it worse, but my own face is heating up too. We walk in silence for a while, side by side, the kind of silence that’s awkward but kind of sweet too. Like… maybe we’re both trying not to explode from whatever the hell is going on between us.

We finally reach the theater and I hurry to get the door, holding it open for him with a small smile.

He pauses, steps inside, and bumps his shoulder into mine as he passes. “You seem a little too good at this dating thing,” he mumbles, not quite looking at me.

I grin, leaning in close until my lips are near his ear and I drop my voice low and warm. “Not even in the slightest.”

Brad’s breath catches. He whips his head to look at me, face blazing red. “You—!”

He pushes me playfully, flustered beyond saving, and I just laugh.

God, I’m so screwed for this guy.

And I’m pretty sure… he might just be screwed for me too.

Inside the theater lobby, the smell of butter and sugar hits me like a truck. I glance at Brad beside me, who’s already eyeing the popcorn machine like it owes him money.

“Popcorn?” I ask, already making my way toward the counter.

“Obviously.”

I grin. “You want a drink?”

He shrugs. “Nah.”

“A hot dog?”

He turns and gives me a look—the kind that screams ‘you can’t be serious.’

“We just ate,” he says flatly.

“Oh. Right.” I laugh, a little sheepish. “Fair point.”

I turn back to order just a large popcorn to share, then suddenly notice Brad casually sliding a box of candy onto the counter between us with the most nonchalant stubborn pout I’ve ever seen.

I blink down at it.

He says nothing. Just arches a brow like say something and die.

I chuckle and slide it toward the cashier to add it to the order. “You and your sweet tooth,” I tease, elbowing him lightly.

He clicks his tongue and smirks. “Keep it up, and I’ll make sure you have no teeth left to chew with.”

I bark a laugh, grinning like an idiot. “That a threat or a promise?”

He doesn’t answer—just smiles like a cat with a bird in its mouth.

We shuffle into the theater with our snacks, our hands brushing when we both reach into the popcorn at the same time. My heart does a little jump, but I keep it cool. The room is dark, cool, and filling up, the flicker of trailers starting to light up the screen.

I glance at the poster for the film again as we slide into our seats.

Some psychological horror. Honestly, I’m just relieved it’s not a romance. My heart couldn’t take any more awkward blushing or impulsive baby comments.

Nope. Just some good old-fashioned terror.

Much easier than love.

Or so I thought.

The thing is, I never really took Brad to be weirdly into horror—okay, maybe I did. But not like this. I mean, I was expecting him to enjoy the movie, sure. Maybe laugh at my reactions a bit, act all cool and unaffected.

What I wasn’t expecting was… whatever this is.

Like, some guy just got his head caved in on screen, and Brad? Brad wiggles his tail and lets out this low, excited little hum. I jumped. Nearly spilled the popcorn. And he? He leaned in, grabbed my arm like it was a lifeline, and squeezed.

Hard.

Another scene—something with a creepy doll crawling on the ceiling or something equally horrific—plays, and he inhales sharply, like he's enjoying it, and his hand casually slides halfway up my thigh like that’s a normal thing to do in public.

Like, excuse me?

What is happening right now?

And the worst part is… he smells amazing. His scent keeps peaking every time something grotesque flashes across the screen, like it's a turn-on or something. And I’m just sitting here, frozen, popcorn in my lap, trying not to combust.

I sneak a glance at him.

He's focused. Eyes wide. Cheeks flushed. Tail flicking.

Is this a thing? Is this his thing??

Holy shit. Is Brad a perv??

I think I’m terrified.

I think I’m a little turned on too.

Which is also terrifying.

I shift in my seat, trying to act like I’m super invested in the plot when really I’ve been stuck on the way Brad’s fingers are not exactly staying in the friend zone.

Another jump scare flashes across the screen—some grotesque reveal of a demon child or whatever—and Brad laughs. Like, laughs. A low, delighted chuckle that’s far too smug.

“Scared, Goof?” he murmurs, leaning over toward me. His breath ghosts against my ear, warm and playful.

“I’m—no,” I croak, absolutely lying.

His fingers drift up my arm, slow, featherlight. “Mmhm. You’re trembling.”

“I’m not—! I mean, the movie’s just—shut up,” I whisper back, biting my lip as his hand trails down my forearm and brushes against my thigh again.

A beat passes. The screen flashes red. A scream. Brad leans in closer.

“Y’know, Maxie,” he purrs, fingers creeping dangerously close to my lap, “you’re kinda fun to watch like this.”

My brain short-circuits.

Is he enjoying my reactions more than the movie?! His scent spikes again and I nearly fold in half. I am dying. This is harassment. This is the best date of my life.

I try to say something. Anything. But all that comes out is a squeaky “Brad.”

He grins.

And then, just as casually as ever, he leans back like nothing happened. Watches the rest of the movie. Calm. Composed.

And I am sitting there fully hard, hands clasped tight over my lap, sweating through my jacket.

When the credits roll, Brad stretches his arms over his head with a soft hum, tail flicking smugly.

“Great movie,” he says brightly. “Real rush, huh?”

I don’t move.

Can’t move.

My entire body is stiff and not in a casual way.

Then he glances down at me with that same wicked glint in his eye.

“Wow, Max,” he says low, eyes flicking deliberately to my lap. “You’re such a perv.”

My head whips around so fast I nearly pull something.

“Me!?”

He shrugs, turning toward the aisle, absolutely unbothered. “I was just watching the movie~”

I scramble to cover myself and somehow manage to stand, flushed all the way to my ears.

I am never surviving this date.

We step out of the theater and into the cool night air. I’m still struggling to adjust to the fact that I can walk, barely holding it together while Brad strolls ahead like he didn’t just nearly touch me into a stroke.

“Great pick,” he says casually, hands in his pockets, tail swaying with way too much confidence for someone who just caused my brain to melt.

“Y-Yeah,” I stammer, catching up to him. “Totally. Great. Super fun. Loved it. Loved—uh, the horror.”

He side-eyes me, biting back a smirk. “You sure? You looked a little… tense in there, Goof.”

I flush so hard I might burst into flames. “I mean! I was engaged! Scared. Y’know, in a fun way. Because it was scary. The movie. Just the movie. Obviously.”

His grin sharpens. “Mm. Of course. Couldn’t be anything else.”

I huff, trying to walk ahead of him, but he matches my pace too easily. He always does.

We cut through the park on the way back—it's quieter than the main street, and the path winds through patches of moonlight and tree shadow. We pass a few benches before Brad stops at one near the fountain. He looks up, tilting his head like he’s listening to something far away.

“Nice night,” he says, voice softer now.

I nod and drop onto the bench next to him, maybe a little too close, but he doesn’t move away. “Yeah… it really is.”

We sit there a moment, watching the sky, the kind of silence that feels thoughtful instead of awkward. Then he speaks again.

“So… why are you so nice?” he asks, like he’s been holding that one in. “I mean, this isn’t usually how Alphas act. Not in a bad way—just… curious.”

I blink and glance at him. He’s not judging. Just genuinely asking.

“Well…” I rub the back of my neck. “Honestly, I’ve only really been an Alpha for like… two years. Or—I mean, presented as one.”

Brad turns to look at me, surprised. “Seriously? That’s crazy. I only presented like… two years ago too.”

I laugh nervously and try very hard to act like I didn’t already know that. “Wow. What are the odds, huh?”

Yeah. No way I’m mentioning I had my first rut watching your livestream. Absolutely not. That stays buried in the brain vault.

“What triggered it?” Brad asks, super casual, like we’re just chatting about the weather.

I nearly choke.

“Uhh… an online… video,” I mutter, already red. “It’s kind of…”

Brad immediately perks up like he gets it. “Ah. Yeah. Same, actually.”

My head jerks toward him. “A video?”

His ears tint red. “Yeah. Not my proudest moment…”

I lean in, stunned. “Wait, was it like… ya know…”

“No! No,” he waves his hands. “Worse. It was… ugh.”

“Seriously?” I blink. “You can’t just say that and not tell me.”

He groans. “Fine. It’s dumb. I’ll just show you.”

He pulls out his phone, tapping around until he pulls up a crusty-looking concert video.

“Wait—Powerline?”

“Just—keep watching,” he grumbles, already hiding his face in his sleeve.

The video starts shaky and grainy, clearly shot from the back of a stadium. I squint as the screen zooms in on the stage—and my stomach drops. I know this footage.

I lived this footage.

A beat later, there I am—high school me, jumping on stage like a maniac, dancing like a goof next to Powerline, hair a mess, grin bigger than my future.

My jaw drops.

“That’s me,” I deadpan.

Brad stares at the screen, then at me. “That’s not funny.”

“No, like—that’s me. That’s actually me.”

He looks between me and the screen. Again. Again. Then back to the phone.

“…Holy shit.”

“Holy shit indeed,” I breathe, feeling like my soul just left my body.

Brad drags his hand down his face. “I cannot believe that.”

I shift a little closer, heart thudding. “Wanna know something even crazier?”

He gives me a side glance. “What’s crazier than that, Goof?”

“Wanna know something even crazier?” I say, heart pounding.

Brad raises a brow. “What’s crazier than that, Goof?”

I pull out my phone and open the cam site. Fingers shaking slightly, I tap into my personal account—the one I’ve had since I was seventeen. The one where I always tipped the most, left the longest comments, stayed through every stream like it was gospel.

I turn the screen to him, showing the username he’d know by heart.

“You were mine too,” I say, cheeks blazing red.

His eyes go wide. “Wait—you… how did you—”

“I only put two and two together recently, I swear!” I rush to say, panicked. “After I met you in person, the scent, the timing—it all clicked. I didn’t know before, I swear!”

We both go quiet.

The world feels like it’s holding its breath.

Then Brad finally lets out a long, low exhale. “…Wow.”

“Yeah,” I echo, still stunned by my own confession.

A beat passes.

“Fate’s a weird thing,” he murmurs.

I glance over at him, heart squeezing in my chest. “No kidding.”

We start the walk back, still talking—easier now, more open. Our shoulders brush as we stroll side by side, and neither of us seems in any rush to get back.

“So how’d you even get on stage with Powerline anyway?” Brad asks, bumping my arm lightly.

I laugh. “Oh man… it was actually to impress this girl.”

He gives me a look. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “Roxanne. I thought pulling off some ridiculous stunt would get her to like me. But funny thing is… she ended up getting together with her friend Stacy at the party while they were watching me dance on live TV.”

Brad barks a laugh. “Wow. That sucks.”

I grin. “Not really. She’s happy, and honestly? Two months later I was thoroughly obsessed with you, so it wouldn’t have worked out anyway.”

I nudge him and he snorts, nudging me back. “Good thing then,” he says, smirking.

“Best thing,” I say under my breath, too low for him to hear. Maybe.

We finally make it back to Brad’s door, the walk somehow both too short and just long enough. I rock on my heels a little, scratching the back of my neck, trying to play it cool even though my heart’s practically exploding in my chest.

“Well…” I start, glancing at him with a soft smile, “I had a really great time tonight. Like… seriously, best night ever"

His expression softens, those sharp features of his melting into something warm, something real. It makes my chest tighten—in a good way.

And before I can second-guess myself, I lean in and give him a soft kiss. Just a gentle brush of lips, but it’s enough to set my tail wagging like crazy. He leans into it without hesitation, his hands slipping to my sides, grounding me in the moment.

I start to pull back, lips parting to maybe say goodnight—

But he doesn’t let me go.

Instead, he grips the front of my jacket and tugs me inside his dorm with him, the door clicking shut behind us like it’s sealing in something electric.

His arms wrap tight around me, warm and sure, and he leans in close, lips brushing my ear as he murmurs low, “Oh, Maxie~ I have no intention of letting you leave tonight~”

I gulp.

Fffuuck.

Chapter Text

“Oh, Maxie~ I have no intention of letting you leave tonight~”

I gulp, those whispered words going straight to my groin, making my knees weak as Bradley guides me backward. I stumble until I feel the edge of his bed catch behind my knees and sink down without thinking. His hands are on me before I can breathe—steady, sure, spreading my thighs apart as he sinks down between them, kneeling like something out of a dream. Palms dragging up the insides of my thighs like he owns me.

And god, maybe he does.

“Brad—what are you—” My voice cracks. Useless.

He looks up at me, lashes low, smirking like he already knows every sinful thought in my head. His hands slide up my legs, slow, deliberate, curling around the tops of my thighs. His fingers squeeze once—just enough to make me gasp—and then he leans in and buries his face against the heat of me.

Right against my clothed cock.

He inhales.

I jolt, my hands flying to the bedspread, hips twitching forward as he groans deep in his throat like the scent alone is his favorite drug. I buck my hips without meaning to. My scent spikes out uncontrollably, thick and overwhelming, and Brad—Brad is loving it. He nuzzles, his cheek brushing over the bulge in my pants, mouth parted, eyes half-lidded like I’m the only thing he wants in the universe.

“Holy—fuuuck,” I choke out, stars behind my eyes. I can’t think. I can’t breathe.

“Can I?” he murmurs, voice thick, eyes wide and teasing and so dangerous. He bats his lashes at me, like this is anything less than the filthiest thing I’ve ever lived through. As if I’d ever say no.

My brain is mush, but I nod anyway. “Please.”

That’s all he needs.

Brad’s fingers make quick work of my buttons, tugging pants and underwear down with practiced ease—too practiced, damn—and the cool air hits me at the exact moment I spring free. I swear to God I make an actual sound when the head of my cock bounces up and taps him in the cheek.

Brad’s eyes go wide. He pauses. Then licks his lips.

I cover my face with both hands and groan, mortified.

And then he wraps his fingers around the base, just tight enough, and every thought I’ve ever had vanishes from my skull. My head drops back with a sharp moan, thighs trembling as he strokes me once, twice—God.

Then—without a warning—he leans in.

Heat. Wet. Pressure.

He takes me into his mouth like he’s done it a hundred times, like he’s meant to. The slide is too much. Too fast. Too good for someone who’s never felt this in his life. I cry out, fingers threading into his hair instinctively, knees drawn tight around him.

“Brad—wait—I-I can’t—!”

I don’t even get the sentence out before I’m gone. I fall apart fast and hard, hips jerking before I can stop them, spilling down his throat with a wrecked groan that echoes through the room. I shake like I’ve been electrocuted, hands still buried in his hair, my soul leaving my body.

He pulls back slowly, and I’m still gasping, eyes wild, shame creeping up my spine.

There’s silence.

He’s covered—holy hell, I got it everywhere—and yet the first thing he does is raise one eyebrow.

“…Seriously?”

“Shit!” I panic, ripping off my shirt like it’s a rag and start wiping at his cheeks and lips with desperate hands. “Shit, I’m sorry, that was so— I didn’t mean—I swear—”

Brad laughs. He actually laughs, breathless and flushed, and still gives me those deadly soft eyes.

“You know…” he drawls, dabbing the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t know why, but I expected better.”

I drop my face into my hand, groaning like I might die right there. “Shit…”

“But it’s okay,” he says, quieter now. “I don’t exactly have experience either.”

I blink up at him. “Seriously?”

He shrugs, trying to act nonchalant. “I mean… I wouldn’t be caught dead finishing under a minute, but hey—it's kind of cute when you do it.”

My cock twitches. Immediately.

His eyes catch the movement and go wide with something between mock horror and smug delight.

“…At least your recovery time’s impressive,” he teases, dragging one finger down my chest with an evil grin.

I whimper.

I watch pathetically as Brad stands up slowly, every motion deliberate — stripping one layer at a time until nothing remains between us. And god. I can barely breathe.

He's stunning.

Lean muscle, flushed at the chest and ears. His thighs are taut, his cock, hard and dripping, slick sliding down between his legs. All just from getting me off. I can’t stop staring. He’s not even trying to be modest, just standing there confidently like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

If I wasn’t already fully hard, I sure as hell am now.

I kick off the last of my pants and sit awkwardly on the bed, gulping and twitching, not sure where to look. Brad just smirks at me, the kind that makes my brain short out, and then he pushes me back until I’m laid flat, my cock standing at attention.

He climbs up onto the bed, over me, and the way he moves — confident, slow, like a predator cornering prey — has every nerve in my body on fire.

He straddles me, knees on either side, one hand resting on my chest as he lines himself up. I gulp.

He gazes down with that same devilish look I’ve only seen in my dreams and purrs, "Now don't go bursting on me too fast, Maxie~"

“Uhh—no promises,” I stammer, completely overwhelmed.

And then he sinks down in one go.

I cry out, body jerking, hands flying to his hips. He’s so tight. So warm. So much. My head falls back against the bed, jaw slack, cock twitching deep inside him.

Brad lets out a shuddered moan, his back arching, thighs tightening around my waist as he settles in. His head tips back, exposing his throat, and for a second I think I might actually die. Then he lifts his hips and slams back down, and yeah, I’m definitely dead.

“Oh ffuck me!” I groan, my body jerking under him.

“I believe I already am,” he pants, teasing, breathy, full of smug satisfaction.

My grip on his hips tightens. I try to be patient, try to let him ride me at his own pace, but I’m too impatient. I start meeting his rhythm with desperate, clumsy thrusts of my own, slamming up into him. My brain’s white noise, every nerve alight, vision blurring from how good he feels.

His head dips, hair falling into his eyes as he rides me faster, harder. His hands press to my chest, nails digging just enough to make me shiver. I’m panting. Whimpering. Trying not to cry from how good it is.

“God, Brad—” I gasp.

“You’re making such cute noises,” he whispers darkly, leaning down to nip at my jaw. “Didn’t know alphas could sound so needy.”

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna lose it—” I moan, already so close again I’m trembling.

Brad just grinds down with a wicked smirk. “Then lose it, mutt.”

That one sentence. That teasing tone. It pushes me right over the edge.

My pheromones spike instantly—no holding back. My teeth sharpen, my pupils blow wide, and my breathing turns ragged, borderline feral. Something in me snaps.

Before I know it, I’ve flipped Brad flat onto the bed, his eyes wide in pure shock. “M-Max?!”

He doesn’t even get to finish saying my name before I’ve got his legs up, folded near his head, locking him in place beneath me. His breath hitches, completely caught off guard—but the second I slam back into him, his body sings.

He moans—loud, high, needy—and it only spurs me on. My hips move on instinct, fast and hard, the wet sounds of skin against skin filling the room. He’s soaked. He’s dripping. My cock slides in so deep, so perfectly snug, it drives me absolutely wild. My claws dig into thighs, as Brad drools beneath me, panting, moaning uncontrollably as I utterly wreck him.

Our scents collide in the air—mine sharp and raw, his sweet and dizzying. It’s overwhelming in the best way. We smell like heat and lust and fate and home.

I lean down, slamming into him deeper, hungrier, chasing something I don’t fully understand but need. I kiss him—messy, open-mouthed, sloppy and starving. Our teeth click. Our tongues tangle. He’s holding onto me like I’m the only solid thing in the world.

Then my mouth slides lower, right over his neck.

My fangs hover. Just graze the skin.

I feel him tense—and moan.

Then, with a full-body tremble, he cries out and cums, hard, splattering hot across his own chest, thighs squeezing around my waist. The scent of it—of him—rips through me like lightning.

I slam in deep, one final thrust—and I break.

A guttural moan tears out of me as I bury myself deep, cock twitching inside him as I spill hard, wave after wave crashing through my body. My eyes roll back, fingers clawing into him

as every muscle locks up. My grip loosens from his hips, and I slump over him, panting, watching his chest rise and fall like he just ran a marathon.

His legs tremble beneath me, completely boneless, and I can't tear my eyes away from the way my release leaks out of him. My brain short-circuits. My cock, unbelievably, twitches again, getting hard just from the sight.

Brad shifts slightly beneath me and turns his head, his voice shaky. “M-Max?”

But I’m already licking my lips.

Something primal rises up and takes over. I grab him by the hips and flip him onto his stomach, spreading him open just to see—fuck. My hands tremble as I line myself up again, and before I can even think, I’m slamming back into his oversensitive body.

“God,” I groan, gripping his tail as it twitches and sways, using it to pull him back into me. His voice breaks into a string of whimpers, calling my name like it’s the only word left in his brain.

“Max—Max, please—”

I lose it.

My hands squeeze his hips, his waist, his ass—anything I can touch—just to hold onto the moment. My body moves on instinct now, hips slamming forward in frantic rhythm. The room is filled with sound: panting, skin, his voice, mine, everything. His scent surrounds me, sweet and dizzying, mixing with mine until it’s everything.

“Mark me,” he breathes out, voice raw. “Please—make me yours.”

I choke on my breath, chest aching, heart pounding.

I groan deep in my chest, losing any restraint I had left. I let go of his tail, grab his hips tight, and drive deep, hips flush. My knot swells as I grind in deeper, locking us together, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck. My teeth scrape over the spot where his scent pads pulse just beneath the skin. My instincts scream. My heart pounds. I feel him tense.

Then I bite.

His cry pierces the air, high and broken, as I feel him clench around me and shake. Brad screams out in bliss as his body tightens and releases beneath me again, trembling under every wave of pleasure. I hold him tight, murmuring his name, burying myself fully as I finish again, spilling into him, deeper than before. He falls limp in my arms, completely spent.

Our breathing is loud and erratic, each inhale ragged and desperate, matching the deep groans that escape us as we struggle to catch our breath. My body remains buried deep inside him, the knot still swollen and pulsing, tethering us together in a heat that hasn’t cooled.

I pull his back closer to me, wrapping my arms around his trembling frame, holding him tight as we slowly regain a semblance of sanity. Everything between us is still scorching, skin slick and hearts racing, but in this moment, it’s perfect.

I bury my nose into the curve of his neck, breathing him in—his scent, warm and familiar, grounding me. His breathing softens, and then I hear it—a faint, steady snore.

I chuckle softly, amazed that he fell asleep so quickly, with me still buried deep inside him.

I hold him tighter, pulling the blanket up over us, uncaring about the mess beneath.

And as I close my eyes, I drift off wrapped in warmth, in peace, into the best sleep I’ve ever known.

Chapter Text

I wake up hot. Feverish. Breathing heavy before I’m even fully conscious. The scent of peaches is thick in the air, warm and sweet and maddening. My eyes blink open, slow and hazy, and the first thing I see is Brad’s bare shoulder, his back pressed into my chest, our legs tangled. My mark sits fresh on the nape of his neck—red and raw and mine.

My body pulses with need.

I shift, feeling the dull ache in my hips and the unmistakable heat pooling low in my gut. My cock’s still half-hard, still inside him, and just the pressure of that is enough to make me groan out loud. My rut’s here. No doubt about it. It’s burning through my veins like fire.

I try to breathe through it, to clear my head, but it’s like trying to hold back a wave with bare hands. I slide out just a little, but the loss makes my whole body twitch, and before I know it, I’m pushing right back in, slow but deep, grinding into him.

Brad shifts with a soft gasp, still half-asleep. “Mmmn... Max?” His voice is thick and drowsy, caught somewhere between confusion and a moan.

I press my lips to his shoulder, whispering something that doesn’t even make sense as I move again. My hand finds his leg and lifts, giving myself more access. My hips roll forward, harder this time. Deeper.

Brad gasps, awake now, but there’s no protest. Just a sound low in his throat that sends chills down my spine.

“Max—ah—your scent…” he groans, squirming under me, “you’re in rut, aren’t you?”

I can’t respond with words. My mouth is on his neck again, tracing over last night’s bite. I feel him shudder, his back arching into me like instinct, and I press my forehead to his shoulder, panting. My whole body’s electric—clouded by instinct and heat and the overwhelming need to have him again.

The scent of rut is thick now—dense and heavy like fog, saturating the sheets, the air, us. I can feel it humming under my skin, thrumming in every nerve ending like a second heartbeat. Brad shifts beneath me, sensitive and flushed, and even in the haze, I catch the way his breath stutters when I thrust deep again.

“F-Fuck, Max,” he gasps, voice wrecked and trembling. He knows. He smells it.

But my mind’s too fogged to reply properly. Too clouded by the need thrumming through me—raw, primal, and endless. There’s no thought, no planning, no grace. Just instinct.

To mark.
To claim.
To breed.

I grab his hips and pull him back against me, rolling into him again with a groan I can’t bite down. My fingers dig into his thighs. My mouth trails sloppily across his shoulder blades, seeking skin to bite, to taste, to leave another mark. His body arches into mine, pliant and welcoming, even as he trembles beneath me.

And when I sink my teeth against his throat—hovering, threatening, worshipful—he doesn’t flinch.

He moans.

Brad doesn’t tell me to stop.

That’s all it takes.

Something inside me snaps—like a leash breaking loose. My breath hitches and I dive, mouth dragging over his neck, jaw, shoulder, anywhere I can touch. Kisses melt into open-mouthed licks and grazes of teeth, sloppy and uncoordinated, driven by something deep and wild.

He shivers when I bite—not hard, not yet—but enough to leave dents along his collarbone. I grind into him with a desperate whimper, nails raking down his sides to hold him tighter against me.

“Brad,” I gasp, voice cracking like I’m begging. Maybe I am. My thoughts are tangled up in heat and need and him.

He’s panting, warm and flushed beneath me, but he doesn’t push me away. His fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me down until our mouths crash together, messy and hot. Our teeth knock, our tongues slide, and it’s not just romantic—it’s starving.

I kiss him like I’ll fall apart if I don’t. Like I’ll lose the air in my lungs without him. Like mating is the only thing keeping me grounded to this world.

Our hips move together, needy friction between sweat-slick skin and flushed heat. I can feel him trembling under me, gasping against my mouth as I nip at his bottom lip and slide my hand down to grip his thigh, spreading him wider, closer.

My nose presses into his scent gland again, where I bit him last night, and I moan helplessly as I mouth at the spot, marking it with kisses and teeth, dizzy from how good he smells, how right this feels.

“I can’t stop,” I whisper, hoarse and wrecked. “I need you—I need you, Brad—”

My mind goes blank after that, and that’s… about as much as I remember. Until I wake up again.

Everything aches. Like I ran a marathon. Or ten. My limbs feel like jelly, my hips feel bruised, and my throat is dry from what I’m assuming was a lot of panting, groaning, and—yeah, I don’t even want to think about it.

My head clears slowly. The haze lifts. I blink at the morning light peeking through the blinds, and my arm is still wrapped around something warm.

Brad.

He’s totally out—face smushed into the pillow, breathing slow and deep. His entire body is covered in kiss marks, bite marks, hickeys, and everything in between. There’s a soft scent in the air, thick and sweet, a perfect blend of mine and his. The room smells like us.

And then I check the time.

7:03 a.m.

On Tuesday.

I sit up like I’ve been electrocuted.

TUESDAY?!?

I blink at the phone like maybe it’s lying. No way. But the date’s right there. Clear as day. My phone’s at 2%, taunting me with the last bit of life before it dies forever, like a final insult.

“Shit,” I mutter out loud.

That means I blanked two full days. Like, gone. Poof. No memory. No in-between.

Which means I didn’t just… y’know… once.

I rutted him. Full on, probably several times.

I spiral. Full panic. My hand shoots out and I gently nudge him.

“Brad…?”

He groans into the pillow. “No, Max… can’t.”

Oh god. I broke him.

My stomach flips as guilt rushes up my throat. “Are you okay? Shit—I’m so sorry—”

He shifts. Tries to sit up. Regrets it immediately. “Ow.”

“Crap, are you—”

“I’m fine,” he says through a wince, falling back onto the mattress with a groan. “Just… didn’t expect to get wrecked on a first date.”

My soul leaves my body.

“I—! I didn’t mean—! I swear I wasn’t trying to—!”

He shuts me up with a kiss. Tired, a little dazed, but still soft. “Relax,” he mumbles. “I’m not mad.”

I grab my phone again, still panicking. “Brad, it’s Tuesday.”

He makes a noise, somewhere between a whimper and a death rattle. “Five more minutes, Max…”

“No, no, seriously—it's Tuesday.”

That wakes him up.

He bolts upright so fast he nearly screams, then immediately folds forward, grabbing his lower back with a pained hiss. “Ow. Ow. Shit—fuck.”

“Are you okay?! I’m so sorry—shit, Brad, I didn’t—”

“I’m fine,” he groans, voice pinched.

Until he groans and collapses back dramatically, staring at the ceiling.

“We missed class yesterday,” he says in dread.

“Yeah…” I admit. “I mean—I can email the professor, maybe explain—”

“No, Max, you don’t get it.”

He drags a hand over his face. “I can’t miss more than one more class this semester or I get dropped. That’s school policy for Omegas. We’re already flagged as high-risk.”

My stomach drops.

“Shit,” I say, voice small.

He groans again, staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him. “If we missed Monday, that’s it. I’m screwed. They’ll put me on academic watch or worse—drop me from the course. And then I’ll be short a core credit and I’ll have to—ugh"

I start frantically opening my emails, praying to whatever gods exist that our professor is the flaky kind. Please, please, please—

“Oh my god,” I whisper.

“What?” Brad sits up again, slower this time, clearly bracing for doom.

I turn the screen toward him.

New Email:
Subject: CLASS CANCELED MONDAY
Sent: Yesterday, 6:52 a.m.

We both just stare at it for a solid five seconds.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” Brad says, voice flat with disbelief.

I flop back onto the bed with the dumbest grin. “I swear. I’ve always had the stupidest good luck.”

“Lucky you,” he mutters.

“Lucky us,” I correct, leaning over to kiss his forehead.

Brad groans again and rolls onto his back. “We should probably get up.”

He throws a leg over the side of the bed, tries to stand—and immediately folds like a paper crane.

“Nope,” he gasps, collapsing back with a wince. “Nope, not happening.”

“Shit, are you okay?” I rush to help him sit back against the pillows.

He groans, then pauses.

His face goes pale.

“Oh no,” he whispers.

“What?” I ask.

He shifts again. Winces harder. Then gives me the most horrified expression I’ve ever seen on another person.

“Max,” he says, voice low. “Were you trying to breed me?!”

I go still. My ears twitch. My tail—betrays me—wagging slow and guilty.

“Uhhhh…”

“MAX!”

“You told me to!”

“And you listened?!”

“I—I was in rut! You literally begged me—!”

“Yeah, well, I also begged you to take it easy after the second round and look how that went!”

I shrink back, tail now tucked in full shame.

“Max!” he wails, running a hand through his sex-destroyed hair. “What the hell am I gonna do with pups?!”

“Raise them? With me?” I offer weakly.

He glares at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“You better pray your knot is as useless as your self-control,” he mutters, flopping back down dramatically.

I whimper, curling up beside him.

One slow wag.

“…Max.”

“I can change.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Okay but like… maybe you won’t get pregnant?”

He groans into the pillow. “Do not talk to me until I can sit down without crying.”

I lean in anyway and nuzzle his shoulder. “You still love me?”

He glares with one eye open. “…Maybe.”

Chapter Text

Brad’s standing in front of his open closet like it’s personally offended him, flipping through shirts with one hand while the other rubs at the sore bite on his neck.

“This is pointless,” he mutters, tossing another shirt to the floor. “Everything I own either accentuates the mark or makes me look like I’m trying to hide a hickey from my parents.”

I lean against his desk, still tugging on my sneakers. “Maybe because you are trying to hide a hickey from your parents. Well, parent-adjacent. Roommates. Classmates. Whoever walks by.”

He groans and slams the closet shut. “Do you have something I can borrow?”

I glance around his room. “What, you think I keep spare clothes here just in case?”

He points at the chair in the corner where my jacket from a few nights ago is hanging. “That’ll do.”

I snort. “That thing’s not exactly subtle.”

“Better than nothing,” he says, already shrugging it on. It swallows him a little, sleeves covering half his hands, but he zips it all the way up to his chin like he’s sealing himself into a bunker.

“Perfect,” he says, tugging the collar higher.

I raise an eyebrow. “It’s not gonna matter.”

He freezes halfway through adjusting the hood. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”

I sigh. “Brad… you uh… smell like me.” My voice dips lower. “…Like mine.”

His eyes widen, color draining from his face. “No way. That’s a thing?!”

“Yeah.”

We both turn beet red.

“…Fuck,” we say at the same time.

The second we step out of Brad’s dorm, I know we’re screwed.

It’s not like we’re holding hands or anything—though the way he’s bundled in my jacket probably isn’t helping—but the air around us is screaming louder than either of us could. That mix of our scents is thick, unmistakable, and apparently detectable from ten feet away.

We don’t even make it halfway down the hall before the first pair of passing Betas give us a once-over, wrinkle their noses, then exchange a look like ohhh, so that’s a thing now.

By the time we hit the main campus path, it’s worse.
Someone walking past us actually slows down, sniffs, locks eyes with their friend, and then both burst into hushed, too loud to be subtle whispers.

Brad’s shoulders sink deeper into my jacket, hood pulled low like that’s going to mask the fact that he smells like my mate. I keep my head high, pretending I don’t notice. But oh, I notice.

We reach the classroom door, and already I can feel the air shift—quiet talking, lingering looks, that same scent recognition click over and over again.

Fantastic.

We slip inside, and I spot Tank immediately. Brad goes to his usual seat next to him, but the big guy’s looking at us like we just rolled in dripping wet from the same shower. Which, to be fair… not far off.

Brad mutters a “what?” under his breath as he drops into his seat, but Tank just shakes his head slowly, like you two have no shame.

And honestly? I don’t even have a good counter to that.

I hesitate for half a second, thinking maybe I should sit somewhere else, give Brad a little space. But then… that feels worse. Like we mated and now I’m already avoiding him. No way am I giving people that ammo.

So I drop right into the seat beside him, acutely aware of how bad this looks—and smells. Ugh. This is rougher than I intended.

Shit—what did I expect? The school’s only Omega gets mated? Of course it’s the talk of the town. You could probably announce it over the intercom and get less attention than we’re pulling right now.

Half the room’s pretending to check their notes while blatantly staring, the other half’s already whispering like this is some kind of scandalous royal affair. And me? I’m just trying to remember how to breathe without making it sound like a confession.

Little did we know… this was the least of our problems to come.

When class finally ends, we don’t even talk about what to do next — we’re both silently praying we can just hole up in the dorms, pull the blinds, and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist.

No such luck.

Because standing right there in the hallway outside our dorm building — clipboard in hand, eyebrows locked in that “you’re in trouble” arch — is the same RA from a few weeks ago.

Fuck.

Brad freezes like he’s been caught smuggling contraband. My ears go hot. I flash back to the last time we ran into her — the passive-aggressive “I’m not saying you mated in the dorms, but I’m saying I know you mated in the dorms” speech.

Her eyes flick between us like she’s tallying up every mark on Brad’s neck, every inch of rumpled clothing, and probably the fact that we smell like… well, this.

“Gentlemen,” she says, in that calm but terrifying way. “We need to have a talk.”

Brad’s tail flicks nervously. Mine’s tucked so far it’s a miracle it doesn’t vanish entirely.

The walk to her office is deadly.
Not a word passes between us, but every glance says the same thing: we are so screwed.

She shuts the door behind us, leans back against it like she’s savoring this moment.

“Well, well,” she says, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “I had my suspicions before, but now…” Her eyes sweep over Brad like she’s counting every hickey, every mark. “Now I have all the evidence I need.”

Brad sits stiff in his chair, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the floor. I can tell he’s already in damage-control mode — no sudden movements, no talking back — because his housing is dangling by a thread.

Her gaze sharpens, zeroing in on him like I’m barely in the room. “Bradley, as the only Omega on this floor, you are responsible for upholding the dorm’s regulations regarding mating conduct. And you signed those rules yourself. What exactly about them did you not understand?”

Something inside me snaps. “Okay, hold up,” I cut in, leaning forward in my chair. “Why are you talking to him like he dragged me into this? I was there. I was willing. This isn’t a one-man thing—”

“Mr. Goof,” she interrupts, still not looking at me, “you’re an Alpha. I hardly think you—”

“Don’t you dare,” I growl, heat prickling my ears. “Don’t you dare make it sound like I’m some victim here. I chose this. I chose him.”

Brad doesn’t move, doesn’t speak — but I see the faintest twitch in his jaw. He’s holding back.

“Regardless,” she says, voice sugary now, “rules are rules. And the rules state, quite clearly, that an Omega found in violation is subject to immediate housing review.” She reaches into her desk, slides a paper toward Brad like it’s his death warrant. “You have one week to vacate your dorm. Failure to do so will result in disciplinary action from the board.”

Brad’s still. Silent.

I shoot up out of my chair. “What about me?”

She looks at me like I just asked if water was wet. “You’re fine to stay. You haven’t violated any terms specific to your housing agreement.”

“That’s bullshit—”

“Max,” Brad says sharply, standing now. “Let it go.”

“No, I’m not letting it go—”

“Let it go.” His voice is flat. Final.

He storms out of the office. I bolt after him.

“Brad—”

“Max, stop.” He doesn’t even look at me. “It’s my fault.”

“The hell it is—”

He whirls around, eyes flashing. “What does it matter, Max? It’s done.”

And then… a single tear. It slips down before he can stop it.

My chest aches. “I’ll fix it.”

His voice is softer now, but it cuts like glass. “You can’t fix everything, Max. You can’t fix this.”

He turns, walking toward his room.

I just stand there, useless. Watching him leave to pack alone.

He says I can’t fix this.
But even if I can’t… there’s no way in hell I’m not at least going to try.

Chapter Text

I lean back in my chair, rubbing my face. “So… you really don’t have anywhere to go?”

Brad doesn’t even look up from the floor. “Flat nope.”

I wait for a second, hoping maybe he’s joking, but he’s not. “What about… I dunno, a rental? A short-term lease?”

He finally looks at me, deadpan. “Max, even if I could find someone willing to rent to a single omega—” his voice dips in that way that already tells me the ending— “I haven’t exactly been able to… film my last few heats. So, no streams. No streams means no money. Not enough for rent, not enough for a deposit, not even enough for a decent air mattress.”

I sit there for a second, thinking it over, then blurt it out. “You could stay in my dorm.”

Brad’s head snaps toward me so fast I swear I hear something crack. “Yeah, and risk your housing too? No way.”

I roll my eyes. “Brad, it’s not like they check—”

“They check,” he cuts in flatly. “And you’re already on their radar because of me. I’m not gonna get you tossed just so I can have a roof for a week.”

“It wouldn’t be ‘just so you could have a roof,’ it’d be—”

“Max.” His voice drops into that don’t-push-it register. “Drop it. Seriously.”

I run a hand through my hair. “What about your family? I mean… I heard they were rich. I don’t know your situation, but couldn’t you ask—”

“No.”

“But—”

“Look, Max.” Brad’s voice is sharp enough to cut through anything else I was about to say. “My family is rich, yeah. But I do not associate with them.”

My tone drops instantly. “Brad—”

“It’s fine, Max.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s all in the past.”

I hesitate, then close in behind him, wrapping my arms tight around his middle. “If you want to talk about it—”

“There’s not much to talk about.”

I can hear it though, the crack in his voice, buried under all that control. I squeeze him tighter.

Brad sighs. “Look… if it’ll make you feel better… ugh… I got disowned.”

My stomach sinks. “Disowned? Why?”

He stops packing, his hands going still.

“Well, in my family, status is everything. I was raised as an Alpha. When I didn’t present early, we assumed maybe Beta—disappointing, but manageable.” He breathes out through his nose. “That is… until I became an Omega. My father was not happy.”

“Oh, Brad…”

“After my first heat, my father decided my only value was to be married off. Which—let’s be real—meant sold off. It was either give myself to one of Daddy’s business associates or make myself gone.”

The bitterness in his tone cuts deep, but the next part is quieter. “I don’t regret leaving. Especially when the man picked for me was nearly fifty and collected young Omegas like pets.”

I spin him around and hug him so hard my throat burns. “Brad, I’m sorry… I didn’t— I’m sorry.”

“It’s really fine, Max. I’m more than over it.”

I squeeze tighter, burying my face into his shoulder.
“Brad, I’m gonna make everything right.”

Brad lets out a soft chuckle, his tone lightening like he’s trying to make it easier on me.
“Whatever you say, Goof.”

He keeps packing, calm and steady, like this is just another routine—like he’s already resigned himself to it. My chest twists, but I catch the corner of my mouth quirking up anyway. He always does that—makes it impossible not to smile, even when everything feels impossible.

I step closer, brush a kiss against his lips once more, lingering just a second longer than I should, and then I force myself to pull away.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

Brad raises his chin, flashing that familiar spark of defiance.
“What do you take me for?”

I grin at him, because that’s the Brad I know—the Brad who won’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him break. But I also know what it costs him to wear that spark right now.

With a heavy exhale, I finally step out, closing the door behind me, already turning over a dozen ways to fix this in my head.

One thought drowns out all the others. Not my favorite choice. Not even close. But it’s the one I’m willing to make.

I drag my phone from my pocket, staring at the screen like it’s a live grenade. My pulse won’t calm down, my chest feels tight, because I already know what this means. What it’ll cost me. My “cool” image, whatever shred of independence I’ve been trying so hard to show Brad… probably gone.

But what else can I do?

I swallow hard, thumb hovering, then finally hit dial.

It barely even rings.

“Maxie?”

Ugh. I flinch, already cringing.

My free hand runs down my face, dragging. I almost hang up right then. Almost. But the weight of Brad’s words, the sight of him packing his life into boxes, keeps me steady.

I take a breath, force the words out, quiet, heavy.

“Hey, Dad… I, uh… I need some help.”