A blond Alpha in Mae's row leans forward, his amber eyes shifting between Jace and me with the open curiosity of a territorial animal assessing new arrivals in his environment. Cal Knox. I recognize him from the campus gossip circuit, one of Mae's unfortunate roommates, the dimpled follower with the cinnamon-roll scent.
"You know them?" he asks Mae.
"This is Sage and Jace. My friends. We met during orientation."
Cal gives Jace a once-over with the evaluative scrutiny of an Alpha measuring potential competition, which is adorable given that Jace possesses approximately zero interest in competing for anything that does not involve a controller or a scoreboard.
"And why are you in the dynamic?" Cal's voice carries that territorial edge I have heard from every Alpha who encounters a male presence near a female Omega and immediately begins calculating threat matrices.
Jace laughs, unbothered in the way that only someone who has spent his entire life being underestimated by Alphas can achieve.
"Aww. Not even a full day and you're fawning over our best friend already? Wild." He shakes his head. "She's not that easy, Graham Knox. Trust me. We've been trying."
Cal huffs, his posture stiffening.
"Did I show interest? No. She's our roommate. Or whatever. I'm just being protective of the living arrangement."
"Protective." I draw the word out, stretching it like taffy, letting each syllable drip with the specific sarcasm I reserve for Alphas who disguise possessiveness as concern. "Sure. We'll go with that."
Before Cal can formulate a rebuttal, another of Mae's roommates turns toward her with an expression so deliberately casual it might as well be wearing a sign that reads PREMEDITATED.
Étienne Laurent. The quiet goalie with storm-blue eyes and a scent profile that half the Omega population has been discussing in reverent whispers since his arrival. I have catalogued his presence in Mae's orbit with the same attention I apply to all Alphas who position themselves near people I care about: closely, skeptically, and with a mental file ready for cross-referencing.
"So," he says, those blue eyes meeting Mae's with a warmth that makes my protective instincts prickle. "What should we do for our first date?"
Mae shrugs, a blush climbing her neck.
"I have no idea. What's cool around here? I haven't exactly had time to explore the local entertainment options between the crying over coffee and the kicking people in the groin."
"WAIT A DAMN MINUTE!"
The words explode from Cal, Jace, and me simultaneously, a three-voice detonation of identical volume and matching horror that briefly converts the classroom into a surround-sound system for collective disbelief.
"Repeat that." I point between Étienne and Mae, my finger oscillating like a metronome tracking a scandal. "Repeat what I just heard. Right now. Because I SWORE I just heard Étienne Laurent ask Mabeline Mae Rose on a date."
"A date," Cal echoes, his voice climbing. "He asked you on a DATE? When? How? WHY?"
"This morning." Jace supplies the intelligence with helpful efficiency. "In the parking lot. I saw them walking in together holding hands."
"YOU WERE HOLDING HANDS?" The shriek exits me at a frequency that could shatter laboratory equipment.
Mae has been at this school for less than forty-eight hours and she already has an Alpha asking her on dates. Meanwhile, I have been here for a week and my most significant romantic development is an unwashed tank top draped over my couch.
The universe distributes affection with the same fairness it distributes ice time: unevenly and with a bias toward people who are not me.
A voice cuts through our collective meltdown from two rows over, sharp enough to slice through the chaos like a blade through warm butter.
"He did ask her out, you deaf fools. And us smart people need to study after class, so if you could take this circus elsewhere, that would be appreciated."
I know the voice before I turn.
Archie.
My head swivels toward the source, and there he is. Sitting with perfect posture behind a fortress of textbooks and color-coded notes, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, hisexpression radiating the precise irritation of a man whose carefully structured study environment has been invaded by people who insist on having social lives in his proximity.
Pretend you don't know me.
The instruction he delivered at my bedroom door echoes through my memory, and I honor it with a performance that deserves its own award category. My face registers nothing. No recognition. No flash of the morning we spent on the ice together, the bet, the locker room, the way his teeth tugged my lower lip while my spine pressed against cold metal. My expression communicates only the mild annoyance of a student being shushed by someone she has never meaningfully interacted with.
