Julien had been hoping—praying—that maybe Damien Santiago would forget about their project. That maybe the alpha would get too busy with his basketball practices, his endless circle of friends, his world that spun so brightly it was almost blinding.
But Damien didn't forget.
The very next morning, Julien found him leaning against his desk, arms crossed, grin lazy but eyes sharp.
"Afternoon, partner."
Julien sighed as he set his sketchbook down. "We're not in the afternoon yet."
"Details," Damien said with a shrug. "So, when are we starting?"
Julien stared at him. "…Starting what?"
"The project. Unless you want me to charm the teacher into an extension? I'm good at charming, in case you haven't noticed."
Julien did not dignify that with a response. He pulled out his notebook, pretending to focus on it. But Damien didn't budge from his spot. His presence was overwhelming—warm, broad-shouldered, with that faint scent of pine and something sharper, like smoke after a fire. Julien hated that his instincts noticed.
Finally, he muttered, "My place. After school. Don't be late."
The grin Damien gave him was infuriating. "See? You can be direct when you want to."
---
Julien regretted everything the moment he opened his front door later that day.
Damien stood there, still in his uniform, hair damp from practice, carrying an energy that seemed far too large for Julien's small, quiet house. His scent hit first—clean sweat, spice, something grounding. Even muted by deodorant and control, it still felt heavy in the air, like Julien's home itself recognized the presence of an alpha.
Julien stepped aside reluctantly. "Shoes off."
"Yes, ma'am," Damien teased, toeing his sneakers off and wandering inside like he owned the place. His eyes swept over the neat living room, the stacks of books, the sketchpads on the table. "So this is where you hide."
"I don't hide."
"Mm," Damien hummed, clearly unconvinced, before plopping onto the couch like it was his throne. "You draw a lot."
Julien stiffened. "Don't touch my things."
"Relax, partner," Damien said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I'm here for the project, not to raid your secrets." He leaned forward, eyes glinting. "Though now I'm curious."
Julien shoved a folder toward him to shut him up. "Here. Outline. We'll divide the work."
But Damien didn't take the folder right away. He was watching him again—really watching, in that way that made Julien's skin prickle. Most people ignored Julien unless they needed something. But Damien studied him like every flinch, every twitch, was worth cataloging.
Julien hated it.
And he hated that a part of him—small, traitorous—also liked it.
---
An hour passed. To Julien's surprise, Damien actually worked. He wasn't dumb, as Julien had assumed—he could analyze texts, throw out ideas, even make jokes that weren't completely unbearable.
But the problem was proximity.
Every time Damien leaned in, Julien's senses screamed. Even with blockers, his body recognized the alpha sitting next to him: the heat in his skin, the weight of his scent, the casual dominance in the way he stretched across the couch like he had no doubts about belonging there.
Julien's instincts were betraying him, whispering things he refused to hear. His chest was too tight.
Finally, he snapped the notebook shut. "That's enough for today."
Damien tilted his head. "We barely scratched the surface."
"I'll do my part on my own."
The alpha raised a brow. "You're really set on shaking me off, huh?"
"I just work better alone."
For a moment, silence stretched. Damien's expression didn't shift, but his scent did—sharper, pressing, like his instincts were pushing forward. Julien tensed automatically.
Then Damien leaned closer, voice dropping low. "What are you so afraid of, Julien?"
The use of his name was too much. Julien jerked to his feet, pulse racing. "I'm not afraid. I just don't want to waste time with someone who doesn't care."
Something flickered in Damien's eyes. Surprise? Amusement? No—something heavier.
"…You really think I don't care?"
Julien's throat tightened. He didn't answer. Couldn't.
Because if he admitted the truth—that Damien's attention terrified him precisely because it felt real—then everything would crumble.
So he just grabbed his sketchbook, clutching it like a shield. "Leave."
Damien stood slowly, straightening to his full height. He didn't argue. Didn't smirk. He just looked at Julien for a long, burning moment, before finally stepping toward the door.
At the threshold, he paused. His voice was calm, but it carried a weight that wrapped around Julien's chest.
"I don't know what you've been through, Julien. But don't mistake me for someone who doesn't give a damn."
And then he was gone, leaving the air too quiet, Julien's heart pounding, and his scent blockers suddenly feeling far too thin.