"I was being strategic."
"You were being a coward."
He opens both eyes now, rolling to face me fully. He's focused on me like I'm the only data point in the room.
"I was being careful," he says quietly. "If I'd claimed you before you were ready, you would have hated me. You would have felt trapped."
I go still. He's right. If some random alpha had marched up to me freshman year, all chest-puffing and destiny-talk, I would have run so fast I'd have left a cartoon dust cloud. I wanted to be seen for my brain, not my biology.
"You let me fight you," I realize. "All those arguments. The library debates. The passive-aggressive grade competition. You were..."
"Letting you win?" He raises an eyebrow. "No. You won those because you're brilliant. I just gave you someone worth fighting."
"God, you're arrogant."
"I'm accurate."
He pulls me closer, eliminating the inch of space between us. I let him. I'm a weak, weak man.
He tastes like sleep and something that's justhim.
"Morning," he mumbles against my lips.
"Morning," I whisper back. "We have class in..." I crane my neck toward his desk clock. "Two hours."
"Plenty of time."
"Plenty of time for what?"
His hand slides from my hip, drifting lower. "Research."
"You—" I gasp as his fingers find a very sensitive spot. "You can't just—oh god—you can't just call it research every time you want to—"
"Practical application of theoretical knowledge," he says, way too coherently for someone whose hand is currently between my legs. "Very scientific. Very rigorous."
I grab the back of his neck and pull him down on top of me.
Dignity is overrated anyway.
An hour later, we're showered, dressed, and walking across campus toward Marcel's coffee cart. I'm wearing yesterday's jeans and one of Devan's black hoodies, which is gigantic on me and smells so strongly of pine that I keep getting distracted and walking into things.
Devan's hand is warm in mine. He hasn't let go since we left his dorm.
Forty-eight hours ago, I was stress-eating ramen and hate-reading his last essay. Now I'm wearing his clothes.
Life comes at you fast.
Marcel's cart is already swarming with morning caffeine addicts. His eyes go straight to my neck.
Right. The mark.
Devan's hoodie doesn't cover it completely. The bite is sitting right there, dark and obvious, like a neon sign that says THIS OMEGA HAS BEEN THOROUGHLY CLAIMED.
"Well, well," Marcel drawls, already pulling espresso shots. "Look what we have here."
My face goes nuclear. "Just a vanilla latte, please. Extra shot."
"Make it two," Devan says. His hand settles on the small of my back.
