I'm barely eating and I can't sleep and my body runs hot every time I think about you which is constantly and I think something is wrong with me but the something might just be you.
I erase it and then put the phone in my desk drawer and close it and press my forehead against the cool wood so I can breathe.
I am not going to be anyone's hallway secret. I am not going to be the Omega who lets an Alpha treat him like something shameful because the way he holds me at night makes me forget all the reasons I should leave. I am worth more than locked-door tenderness and I have to believe that even when my Omega is clawing at the inside of my ribs, begging me to go back.
By Saturday I've missed half my classes and I'm slightly terrified of running into Easton in the hallway where I'll have another blowup.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand for the third time in an hour but I don't even look at it, just reach over and flip it face-down with enough force that it slides off the edge and lands on the carpet. Good. It can live there.
I pull the blanket up to my chin and stare at the wall and contemplate the merits of never leaving this room again. I could order food delivery. I could attend lectures online. I could build a small civilization in this dorm room and never set foot in a hallway where an Alpha might touch my elbow and make me detonate in front of an audience.
Jesus Christ, I’m pathetic.
Someone knocks on my door. I ignore it. They knock again, and then there's a metallic scraping sound that makes me sit up because that's not knocking, that's someone picking my lock, and I'm halfway to outraged when the door swings open and Milo walks in with his brother right behind him, Quentin sipping from a can of Dr Pepper with the energy of someone who's been dragged along as muscle and has decided to treat the whole thing as entertainment.
They also both smell like their Alpha which immediately puts me on edge.
"No," I say, pulling the blanket back up. "Get out. I'm dead. I died. Leave flowers and go."
Milo ignores me completely, stepping over the shoes I've left scattered across the floor and surveying the state of my room with the clinical assessment of someone who's been my best friend long enough to know what a Kit spiral looks like from the outside.
Quentin settles onto the empty bed across from mine, the one that's been vacant since my roommate transferred out in January.
"Time to get up," Milo says, pulling open my curtains so aggressively that the rings screech against the rod.
"Absolutely not."
"Time to get up, get dressed, and go to the game."
Fuck."I am not going to a basketball game, Milo. I am not going anywhere near a gymnasium where Easton Cole exists in a jersey and sweat. I'm staying in this bed until the semester ends or I die, whichever comes first." The idea of Easton’s sweat has my heart rate kicking up a little before I shove that imagery down.Bad Kit. Bad."Everyone must be talking about me," I mutter into the pillow, the real fear leaking through the dramatics. "The whole corridor saw it. I'm the crazy Omega whoscreamed at the basketball star in the athletics building. That's my legacy now."
Milo starts laughing, kicking at my shoes. I hear them thudding against the tiled floor before Quentin hisses at him to stop. "They're only talking about you because you disappeared after you blew up at him." Milo plops on the edge of my bed as his voice softens. "Most people aren't even focused on what you said. They're wondering what Easton's been doing, because rumor has it he's really messed up, Kit. Like not-showing-up-to-team-dinners messed up. Like Devon-told-Marcus-who-told-Iris-that-he-hasn't-slept messed up."
Iris is Milo and Quentin’s Alpha who is also the football coach’s daughter, someone who also has a lot of insight when it comes to sports teams, connections, and gossip. However, Easton being messed up doesn’t work for me. "He's what?"
Quentin laughs from the other bed, swirling the Dr Pepper in his can. "Rumor has it he's been blowing up your phone. Some of the guys were talking about it in the locker room. Devon apparently made a comment about Easton checking his phone every thirty seconds during practice and Coach almost benched him for it."
I groan and drag the blanket over my head because the mental image of Easton checking his phone during basketball practice, waiting for a text I'm never going to send, makes the ache in my chest flare so badly I can feel it in my teeth. "This is a nightmare. I'm living in a nightmare and you're both complicit."
"We're going to the game," Milo says, his voice settling into the tone that means this is no longer a discussion, "and then we're going to fix this between both of you because honestly? You're both wasting away. You've been in this bed for two days and he's apparently falling apart on the court and neither of you is eating properly and I'm tired of watching it."
"I'm eating." The lie sounds unconvincing even muffled by the blanket.
"Granola bars don't count and the three empty wrappers in your trash can are not the argument you think they are." Milo tugs at the blanket and I hold on tighter, my fingers tucked into the fabric. "Kit. Come on. You miss him. He misses you. The entire campus is watching two idiots self-destruct in slow motion and I love you but I'm not going to let you rot in here while the guy you're crazy about sits on a basketball bench staring at a phone you won't answer."
"He's not the guy I'm crazy about. He's the guy who bullied me for six months and then touched my arm in a hallway like that fixed it." The words taste like ash on my tongue. That’s not even the problem anymore. I think I just want an apology or a gesture. Maybe both. Or maybe I’m scared that things will go back to the way they are because Easton never publicly claimed me.
"Both things can be true," Quentin offers from the other bed as I peek my head out from the blanket, the Beta tilting his soda can toward me in a gesture that manages to be both supportive and annoying.
"I hate both of you."
"Get up,” Milo whines.
"No."
Milo's eyes narrow and he glances at Quentin, who takes one more sip of his Dr Pepper and then hands the can to his brother with a resigned sigh that says he already knows what's about to happen. Milo takes it, peels back my blanket with one hand, and pours the entire contents of the can across my chest.
I shoot upright so fast my vision spots, the cold soda soaking through my t-shirt and running down my stomach. The sound that comes out of my mouth is a shriek so undignified that Quentin doubles over on the other bed laughing while Milostands there holding the empty can with an expression of absolute calm.
