Sunlight sliced through the gaps in his cheap apartment curtains, jarring Leon awake. He groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his head a dull throb from the previous night's drinking binge. The air in his small room was thick with a scent that was both familiar and intensely male—not his own subtle, ozone-like scent, but something spicier, stronger, and distinctly Alpha. It was Harry's scent.
Leon's eyes snapped open. He was in his own bed, which was a relief, but a large, warm weight next to him quickly clarified the situation. His breath caught in his throat as the fog of the previous night began to thin. The blurred images clicked into place: the grungy bar, the reckless number of whiskey shots, the stupid dare that led them back to Leon's place. And then the rest of it. The memory of skin, the rough feel of Harry's hands, the low groans, the raw, clumsy desperation of two drunk men completely losing their minds. His face flushed a deep, mortified red. He, the quiet enigma, the guy who kept his head down and his secrets buried, had just slept with Harry Peterson, the star quarterback and resident Alpha King. The guy who, just last week, had made a crass joke about "fucking fags" in the locker room. A wave of nausea, only partly due to the alcohol, rolled over Leon. What the hell had he done?
He carefully shifted his weight, his entire body feeling a little stiff. Beside him, Harry lay on his stomach, one arm thrown over a second pillow, his dark hair a messy tangle against the white pillowcase. Even in sleep, he exuded that undeniable Alpha presence, the natural arrogance that made him the golden boy of their college campus. Leon had always found Harry's type insufferable, a walking stereotype of privilege and dominance.
As quietly as possible, Leon untangled himself from the covers. He was wearing only his boxers—thankfully, they were his own, discarded on the floor next to Harry's scattered clothes. He fumbled for his jeans, pulling them on with trembling hands, his gaze fixed on Harry, praying he wouldn't wake up. The shame was a physical weight in his chest. Leon kept his distance precisely to avoid situations like this, to avoid the judgement and the potential violence that came with being different in a world ruled by Alphas like Harry.
He tiptoed across the bare floor, grabbed his hoodie from the chair near the door, and slipped out of the room, careful not to let the lock click too loudly. The apartment was silent. He made his escape down the hallway and out into the cool morning air. The sun was fully up now, mocking his misery. He walked towards his first class, the vibrant green of the campus lawn blurring past him, his mind racing. This couldn't happen. It was a mistake. A one-time, alcohol-fueled mistake. Harry hated gay men, and Leon hated complicated situations. He just had to pretend it never happened. He just had to hope Harry was drunk enough to forget too. But as he reached his first lecture hall, the scent of sandalwood still clinging to his hoodie, he knew that some things, once done, could never truly be undone. The lie had already begun.