"Kit.”
"Don't. I can't do the gentle thing right now or I'm going to cry in this hallway and I refuse to cry in a hallway on a Thursday."
"You like him."
"I do not like him. I have a biological response to his pheromones that is exacerbated by proximity and I made a mistake that I'm not going to repeat."
"That’s a lot of big words but you like him and he did something that got past your walls and now you're terrified because you don't know what to do with a feeling you can't fight."
"I hate you," I tell him, my voice wobbling on the second word. "I hate that you know me well enough to say that and I hate that you're right and I hate that I can't stop thinking about him. It's been three days and I can still smell him on my skin even after three showers and I keep waking up reaching for a pillow that isn't there because it smelled like bourbon and I stole it and then threw it away because keeping it felt pathetic and throwing it away felt worse."
Milo pulls me into a hug right there in the corridor, his arms wrapping around my shoulders and I let him because I'm too tired to fight the people who are actually kind to me while I'm busy missing the one who wasn't.
Avery finds us in the dining hall an hour later, sliding into the seat across from me with a plate of food he pushes in my direction without comment. Declan's scent lingers on his jacket, the easy domesticity of Avery smelling like his Alpha making my chest ache.
"Eat," Avery says.
"I'm not hungry."
"You're not hungry or you can't eat because your body is doing the Omega thing where emotional distress kills your appetite?" He raises an eyebrow when I stare at him. "I spent nearly a week not eating after Declan and I had a fight last month. Your body is punishing you for denying it what it wants. Eat the sandwich, Kit."
I do, even though it tastes like nothing.
"It sucks," Avery says, leaning back in his chair. He pulls his Alpha’s coat tighter around him. "Wanting someone you're not supposed to want. I know how that feels and I know nothing I say is going to make it suck less. But starving yourself and wearing the same hoodie for three days isn't the answer."
"Whatisthe answer?"
"Figuring out if what you felt was real. And if it was, deciding if he's worth the risk." He pauses. "And if he's not, letting Milo and me take you out this weekend to do something stupid enough to take your mind off it."
I almost smile. The muscles in my face remember the motion even if my chest doesn't have the energy to complete it.
I'm walking back to my dorm alone an hour later when I see Easton coming from the opposite direction. The corridor is narrow enough that avoiding him would require a dramatic detour and I'm too exhausted for dramatic. I keep walking, every one of my muscles bracing for whatever version of him I'm about to get.
He just looks at me as we approach each other, his eyes carrying the same thing those four words in his text carried, and as we pass his hand brushes mine, his fingers trailing across my knuckles for half a second, the touch so light it could be accidental if I didn't know him well enough to know that Easton Cole doesn't do anything accidentally.
The touch pulls us both to a stop, just one word coming from him.
“Kit.”
My body makes the decision before my brain can intervene, turning on my heel and closing the distance in two steps, my hand fisting in the front of his jacket as I drag him down and press my mouth against his. The kiss is brief and hard, more collision than tenderness, Easton's hand coming up to cup the back of my head, his fingers sliding into my hair for just a second before I shove him away.
"This doesn't mean anything," I say, breathing hard. "I'm losing my mind. My Omega is broken and you broke it and I hate you."
His hand drops to his side as I turn and hurry down the hall, rushing toward my dorm without stopping. I slip inside andslam the door behind me, sliding down it until I'm sitting on the floor with my knees pulled up and my forehead pressed against them. I pull out my phone and read his text again.
I meant every word.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard for a long time. I type and delete four different responses, each one meaner than the last, none of them honest. How can I want Easton? How could I possibly want that man? Swallowing the anxiety running through me, I type back two words.
Which words?
My phone buzzes eleven seconds later.
All of them. The good ones especially.
EASTON
Theknockonmydoor at nine thirty on a Friday night is aggressive enough that I assume it's Devon coming to drag me to some party I don't want to attend. When I open it in sweatpants and a t-shirt, Kit is standing in the hallway with his arms crossed and anger blazing behind his expression.
