My fingers tighten on the laptop edge.
She hugs him back. Brief, but genuine. When they separate, they're both smiling.
I pull up a document on my screen. Might as well look busy while conducting surveillance. Professional stalking requires proper cover.
They sit. He says something that makes her laugh—through the window, that full-body laugh she does when something genuinely amuses her. The one we rarely get. The one I've been cataloging in my mental database of "Vespera responses that indicate actual happiness."
He orders for both of them—knows her coffee order, apparently—and I add that to the growing list of reasons this Beta is a threat.
Not that I'm keeping a list.
(I'm absolutely keeping a list.)
When the drinks arrive, she pulls her sweater sleeves over her hands. Nervous gesture. I've documented this response 47 times in various contexts. Usually indicates she's about to have a difficult conversation.
Good. She's going to tell him. About us. About the bonds. About how she's permanently claimed by three Alphas who don't deserve her but refuse to let her go anyway.
Her mouth moves, presumably explaining. Ben's expression shifts from happy to confused to... hurt? Understanding? It's hard to tell from this distance.
He reaches across the table. Takes her hand.
My vision actually blurs red.
I force myself to breathe. To think. To not immediately exit the vehicle and make a scene that would prove to Vespera that I learned absolutely nothing from the past month.
Clinical observation. That's all this is.
Observation 1:Subject Beta is touching Subject Omega's hand without permission.Observation 2:Subject Omega has not withdrawn her hand.Observation 3:I am experiencing physiological responses consistent with territorial aggression despite having no logical claim to—
No. Stop. This isn't helping.
I pull up another window. Ben Rosen's class schedule, which I definitely obtained through legitimate means and not by hacking the registrar's database.
Theater 201: Introduction to Performance. Meets Tuesday/Thursday, 2-4 PM. Same building as Vespera's Movement class.
Creative Writing 301: Intermediate Fiction. Monday/Wednesday, 10-12 PM. Conflicts with her Voice class, so at least they won't have that together.
But Theater History 101? Friday afternoons. Same class. Same room. Sitting next to each other, probably. Sharing notes. Study groups. Coffee after class.
I'm spiraling. The clinical detachment cracking under the weight of irrational jealousy.
Through the window, Vespera pulls her hand back. Says something with her expression serious. Ben nods, looking disappointed but accepting.
She's setting boundaries. Establishing that whatever they had in Columbus is over. That she's pack now, claimed, unavailable.
The relief should be stronger than the jealousy. Should be.
Isn't.
Because it's in his face—he's not giving up. He's accepting the situation for now, but he's going to wait. Going to be her friend. Going to be there, constant and kind and everything we spent months proving we weren't.
He's playing the long game. And Betas are patient.
My phone buzzes. Dorian.
Dorian:Where are you?
Fuck. He knows. Of course he knows.
