EASTON
ThreedaysafterKitwalked out of my room I see him in the hallway outside the science building and my body does the thing it always does, the full-system lurch that starts in my chest and radiates outward and every step I take wants to angle toward him.
He's walking with Milo, his backpack slung over one shoulder, a coffee cup in his hand, and he's laughing at something the other Omega said. The laugh cuts off the second he sees me.
I wait for the instinct to kick in, the one that's carried me through six months of hallway encounters, the cruel comment already forming, the smirk sliding into place.
But it doesn't come. The instinct has been replaced by something else, the memory of Kit's face when he was in my bed, and I can't make my mouth form a taunt when it still remembers what he tasted like.
People have been whispering, wondering what happened that night and neither one of us has said anything more than ‘dinner at the cafeteria’, that I know. I’m sure at some point, someone will make the connection that Kit ended up in my dorm room but that’s a problem for later.
Right now… I have to figure out what to do.
I do nothing. I walk past him without a word. His scent sharpens in my wake, black cherry going bitter, and the absence of our usual exchange hangs in the air between us.
It happens again the next day. And the day after that. I see Kit in the dining hall, in the quad, in the corridor outside the library, and every time I keep walking. No shoulder-check. No comment. No manufactured excuse to be in his space.
Kit notices. I can see it in the way his posture changes when I pass without speaking, his shoulders pulling tighter, his chin lifting higher, his grip on whatever he's carrying going white-knuckled. He's reading my silence as confirmation that the night meant nothing, that I got what I wanted and moved on.
He couldn't be more wrong, but I don't know how to tell him that without making it worse.
Practice on Thursday is a disaster. Devon and Marcus are already running warmups when I get to the gym, Devon spinning a ball on his finger while Marcus stretches his calves against the bleachers. They've been insufferable all week, the auction giving them material they clearly intend to mine until graduation.
"There he is," Devon calls across the court, catching the ball and tucking it under his arm. "Knotlocke's most expensive date. How's married life treating you, East?"
"Hilarious."
"I'm serious. Three thousand five hundred dollars. That little Omega must really want you dead." He grins, jogging over. "Or really want you, period. Marcus and I have a bet going."
"There's no bet," Marcus calls from the bleachers, though his expression suggests there is absolutely a bet.
"Marcus thinks the Omega did it for revenge. I think he did it because he's in love with you and this is his psychotic little way of showing it." Devon bounces the ball between his hands, studying my face with more attention than I'd like. "You've been weird since that night, by the way. Quiet. You haven't messed with Kit in the halls all week and Terrell says you skipped the afterparty. What happened after you two left?"
"We got coffee. He made me carry his bag. It was boring." The lies come out so easily, it should bother me. "Can we run drills now?"
"Coffee?" Devon repeats, his tone making it clear he doesn't believe a syllable of that. "You left an auction afterparty with a guy who publicly hates your guts and all you did was get coffee."
"Devon." I pick up a ball and bounce it hard enough that the sound echoes through the gym. "Drop it."
He raises his hands in mock surrender, exchanging a look with Marcus that says they'll be continuing this conversation without me later. Coach Whitmore blows the whistle and we fall into formation, the familiar rhythm of full-court drills pulling my body into motion while my brain stays three buildings away.
I'm half a second behind on every rotation, my timing off, and my feet sluggish. Marcus feeds me a pass on the break and I bobble it, the ball slipping through my fingers and bouncing off my knee into the bleachers.
"Cole." Coach's voice cracks across the gym. "You want to join us today or should I put a pillow on the bench for you?"
"I'm here, Coach."
"Your body's here. Your head is somewhere else and it's costing us. Run the play again and this time act like you want to be on this court."
I run the play again, putting everything I'm feeling into it, my body slamming through screens, my feet cutting so hard my sneakers scream against the hardwood, my passes snapping off my fingers with enough force that Devon winces when he catches one.
Coach watches from the sideline and when practice ends he doesn't call me over, which means he's either satisfied or saving the conversation for when I'm less likely to put my fist through a locker.
I'm heading toward the showers when Marcus catches my arm. "Hey, you good? You played like you were trying to punish the floor."
"I'm fine."
"You've been weird since the auction. Did something happen with the kid who won your bid?" He's fishing and he's not subtle about it, his eyebrows doing the thing they do when he thinks he's being casual. "Devon said he saw you leave with that Omega. The one who's always going at you in the halls."
