The campus cafe was a loud, chaotic hub of overpriced coffee and questionable food, perpetually crowded with students who seemed to think “study breaks” meant occupying tables for hours while sipping the same lukewarm latte. The decor was a confused mix of industrial chic and cafeteria drab—exposed brick walls lined with motivational quotes, mismatched chairs, and tables that wobbled if you breathed on them too hard.

It wasn’t the worst place to eat, but it wasn’t exactly the serene environment I preferred. Still, Theo loved it, which meant I endured it. Begrudgingly.

Theo’s voice droned on, somewhere between a monologue and a soliloquy, as he gestured wildly over his half-eaten panini. His auburn curls were styled to perfection—because of course they were—and his outfit was equally as dramatic: a bold floral shirt under a blazer, paired with pants that screamed I’m cooler than you and I know it.

“And then Professor DuPont was like, ‘Theater is about truth!’ And I was like, ‘If that’s the case, then why did you give me a B-plus on my Hamlet monologue? Because it was honest, Ainsley.’”

“Hmm,” I said distractedly, pushing the remnants of my salad around my plate. I hadn’t eaten much. Too busy mulling over how thoroughly ruined I’d been after yesterday’s tutoring session.

I’d lived my worst nightmare. My scent patch—a tiny square of advanced polymer designed to suppress and neutralize chemical signals—had failed. In the middle of a tutoring session. With Maxwell Vaughn.

I wanted to crawl into a hole and never emerge.

“Honest and raw,” Theo continued, his voice rising dramatically. “Like steak tartare. You’ve had steak tartare, haven’t you, Ainsley?”

I dragged my eyes up from my salad and blinked at him. “Isn’t that just raw beef?”

“Yes! Which is my point. Art and life should be unpolished, visceral. Like me, pouring my soul into that performance—are you even listening?”

“Hmm,” I said again. My gaze fell into my lap, where my thumb hovered over the keyboard. I was drafting a text to Maxwell Vaughn. A message that I wasn’t sure I could—or should—send.

I could still see the look on his face when he’d caught my scent. His pupils dilating, his breath hitching, that little growl that slipped out before he even realized what he was doing. The incident was a minor lapse in the grand scheme—a single, uncharacteristic moment that I refused to dwell on. But I couldn’t deny that in the moment, for a terrifying split second, my composure had wavered.

I’d spent years separating myself from the stereotypes society imposed on omegas. I wasn’t shy, soft-spoken, or desperate for an alpha to “take care of me”. I didn’t flutter my lashes or shrink into the background. I was ambitious, overachieving, and fiercely independent. My scent wasn’t supposed to matter, not in a library, not during a tutoring session, and certainly not to someone like Maxwell Vaughn.

Then there was the fact I had to grudgingly admit to myself that there was a sliver—an absolutely minuscule sliver—of fascination in the academic sense when it came to witnessing the real-life application of what I’d only read about in textbooks and modeled through simulations. When I’d witnessed Max’s reaction to my scent, it had been striking. Mortifying, yes. Horrifying, absolutely.

But also undeniable proof of the biological responses I’ve studied for years. Real life as opposed to cold data and impersonal studies in carefully controlled conditions.

For a moment, I had been able to witness the cascade of reactions in his brain like a mental map: the limbic system lighting up, the hypothalamus triggering the flood of instinctual impulses, the suppression of higher cognitive reasoning in favor of raw, biological drives…

I couldn’t help but wonder—was his reaction purely instinctual, or was it exacerbated by his stress? Could external pressures heighten an alpha’s sensitivity to scent cues, creating an exaggerated biological response? It wasn’t something I’d ever seen studied in depth.

Theo leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at me. “You’re not listening.”

“I am,” I said automatically.

“Oh, really?” Theo smirked. “What was I just talking about?”

“Hamlet,” I replied, because Theo was always talking about Hamlet.

Theo’s smirk widened, triumphant. “Wrong. I moved on to steak tartare like, a minute ago. Now spill—what’s on your mind? And don’t lie to me, Ainsley Kerrigan. I’ll know.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I insisted. I wasn’t about to tell Theo that I’d spent the entire morning debating whether to cancel my next tutoring session with Max. The A/C in the library still wasn’t fixed, and the thought of another failed patch incident was mortifying. And not to mention incredibly dangerous.

What was wrong with me? Max Vaughn wasn’t a case study, and I wasn’t some rogue scientist breaching ethical codes for data. I couldn’t let my curiosity erode the boundaries I’d spent years enforcing.

I had a reputation to uphold. A five-star rating, thank you very much. I wasn’t about to let some sweaty, smug alpha quarterback ruin my streak of success. No matter how stupidly good his brown eyes looked when they weren’t entirely empty of thought. No matter how much it fascinated me.

Theo snorted. “Bullshit. You’ve been in your little nerdy headspace since we sat down. What’s going on? Did someone steal your highlighter collection?”

I shot him a flat look. “No.”

“Drop a class participation point? Lose your favorite pen?”

“Theo.”

“Oh my God,” he gasped, clutching his chest. “You didn’t get the highest grade on an exam, did you?”

“I always get the highest grade,” I snapped. Ugh. Theo was nothing if not perceptive, especially when it came to me. He claimed it was because we were best friends. I claimed it was because he didn’t know how to mind his own business.

“It’s nothing,” I added curtly, glancing back at my phone.

Theo’s eyes narrowed on me again, not buying it. “Ainsley. I know that look. That’s your ‘I’m quietly panicking about something but refusing to admit it’ look.”

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“I don’t have a look,” I grumbled, typing out the words. Tonight's tutoring session is postponed. The library’s air conditioning is still out.

Then I hesitated, finger hovering over the send button. Should I really cancel? It was the logical thing to do. The last thing I wanted was a repeat performance of yesterday’s incident. I should’ve been reporting it, for God’s sake. Vaughn had looked at me like I was his favorite dessert. I couldn’t let it happen again.

I refused to compromise my professionalism. I refused to let this be the first time I failed a student. And more than anything, I refused to let some overgrown, petulant alpha jock derail my carefully constructed reputation. Mulling, I added, A proper learning environment is essential. We’ll reconvene once conditions are more conducive to academic success.

And yet, even as I typed the message, a memory of his wide, dark eyes flashed in my mind. That growl—a pure, primal response—echoed in my ears. I shook it off, refusing to let the visceral distract from the intellectual.

Theo snorted. “See? You’re doing the thing where you frown at your phone like it’s insulted your honor. What’s wrong? Did someone leave a rude comment on your Goodreads review of Moby-Dick?”

“No,” I snapped, though the reminder of the one-star “pretentious” review still stung. “It’s work-related.”

I regretted saying as much when a knowing expression came onto Theo’s sharp features. “Work-related? You mean tutoring? Oh my God. Your latest hottie?”

I nearly dropped my phone. “No.”

“You’re lying,” Theo sang. “Oh, this is good. Come on, tell me who it is. Is it that hot TA from our philosophy class? Or maybe—”

“It’s no one!” I interrupted, my cheeks heating. I was not about to give Theo the ammunition of Max Vaughn. He’d never let me live it down. “It’s just a student. A very… frustrating student.”

Per Ridgeline Tutor Council policy, tutors were explicitly forbidden from disclosing the identity of their tutees to anyone—friends, family, classmates, professors—under any circumstances. Whether it was a failing quarterback or a star debate team member, the rule was simple: if you tutored them, you didn’t talk about them.

Theo gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Ainsley Kerrigan, are you finally feeling emotions? Is that what this is?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I muttered. I hit send on the message, setting my phone face down on the table. “I’m just trying to maintain professional boundaries.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “And failing spectacularly, by the looks of it. What’s so frustrating about them? Are they stupid?”

“They’re…” I trailed off, unsure how to describe Max without somehow revealing too much. “Distracting.”

Theo’s grin widened. “Distracting? Oh, this is getting better by the second. Distracting how?”

“They don’t listen,” I said quickly. “They argue about everything. They think mitosis is ‘cell copy-pasting.’”

Theo blinked at me, before bursting into laughter. “Okay, that’s actually hilarious.”

“It’s not hilarious,” I snapped, but my lips twitched despite myself. “It’s infuriating.”

My phone buzzed before Theo could press further. I snatched it up, expecting an acknowledgment of the canceled session. Instead, Max’s phone number popped up, accompanied by an incoming call.

“What the hell—” I muttered.

Theo leaned forward like a cat sensing prey. “They’re calling? Ainsley, this is serious.”

I ignored him, answering the call. I didn’t even get a word in before Max’s voice was coming over the line, petulant and annoyed.

“Why are you canceling?” He demanded.

I sighed. “As I stated in my text, the library’s air conditioning is still out, and I think we can both agree that yesterday’s conditions were less than ideal.”

“Yeah, it was hot,” Max agreed, his tone suspiciously casual. “But I don’t care about that. I need to study, Kerrigan. Can’t we just meet somewhere else?”

“The library is the most conducive environment for learning,” I said stiffly.

“We could meet at your dorm,” Max interrupted, as if it was the most obvious solution in the world and I hadn’t just given a perfectly valid reason for postponing.

I nearly choked. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” he whined. “You live on campus, right? It’s convenient. And I can’t focus in the library anyway. Too many nerds glaring at me like I’m going to eat their books.”

My dorm was my sanctuary. It was carefully curated, optimized, and most importantly, mine. The idea of Maxwell Vaughn stinking it up was appalling.

No, appalling didn’t even begin to cover it. The idea of him plopping his oversized, sweaty, alpha-jock self into my pristine space felt like inviting a tornado into a museum. Vaughn reeked of disruption and arrogance—both literally and figuratively. I could practically hear his voice in my head, loud and smug, cracking dumb jokes while his big, clumsy hands knocked over my meticulously stacked binders or, God forbid, touched my fountain pen collection.

If he breathed too hard near my bookshelves, I’d have to reorganize the whole thing just to erase the memory. If he sat on my bed—my bed—I’d probably have to burn the comforter. And even if he didn’t touch a single thing, I’d still feel compelled to disinfect every flat surface and burn sage for weeks to exorcise the lingering stench of alpha vibes from the air.

“Tutoring guidelines specifically discourage sessions in personal spaces,” I argued, gripping my phone tightly. I was aware of Theo’s eavesdropping face—the telltale fidget he did when he was trying to appear as though he wasn’t listening in. “It’s unprofessional.”

Max groaned. “Come on, Kerrigan. I’m serious about this. I want to get my grades up.”

That gave me pause. I was so startled by the note of genuine desperation in his voice that I couldn’t respond right away. He sounded sincere—earnest, even. It was almost enough to make me forget his smirking, smug demeanor from yesterday.

Almost.

“Please,” Max pleaded. “I swear, I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“You can’t even spell behavior,” I muttered. He sounded sincere, which only made him more irritating. Why couldn’t he just be an insufferable alpha caricature like every other time I’d dealt with him?

“I’ll learn,” he insisted. “Just… think about it, okay? I really need your help.”

The logical part of my brain screamed to cancel the session, to maintain professionalism at all costs. My reputation couldn’t afford another scent-related incident, and neither could my sanity. Cancelling was logical, but another part—the part that loathed the idea of failure, of giving up on a challenge—whispered, What if you could actually help him?

I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly. Against every ounce of better judgment I had, I heard myself say, “Fine, but there will be ground rules. No touching anything, no unnecessary noise, and absolutely no commentary about my space. This is a one-time concession, Vaughn.”

If Vaughn wanted to invade my sanctuary, I’d ensure it was on my terms: ground rules, strict focus, and minimal interaction outside of the session. Anything less was unacceptable.

“Yes!” Max’s triumphant shout was so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “I’ll see you tonight.”

The line went dead before I could change my mind. I set my phone down with a sigh, wondering what fresh hell I had just agreed to. What was wrong with me?

Across the table, Theo’s smirk grew impossibly wider. He was staring at me like he could read every single one of my thoughts. “That was them, right? What did they want?”

“No one,” I said, grabbing my fork and shoveling a bite of salad into my mouth. “And nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Theo said, leaning forward. “That was someone. And they definitely wanted something. Ainsley, you’re blushing. You never blush.”

“I’m not blushing,” I growled around a mouthful of lettuce. I could tell from the way that my cheeks felt like they were on fire that I was blushing. But I refused to admit it.

“Oh, you totally are,” he teased. “Whoever that was, they’ve got you all flustered. And I’m going to find out who it is. It’s a secret billionaire alpha, isn’t it? He’s going to swoop in, pay off your loans, and carry you off on his private jet.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they’d fall out of my head. “You know,” I said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “if you spent half as much time speculating about my nonexistent love life as you did fixing your Hamlet monologue, Professor DuPont might’ve given you an A instead of a B-plus.”

Theo gasped, a hand going to his mouth in mock horror. “How dare you.”

“Call it tough love,” I said, smirking as I returned to my salad. I finished it in record time, shooting Theo a glare every time he opened his mouth to speculate again about my mystery caller. By the time we left the cafe, my nerves were frayed, and the dread of my next session with Max loomed large.

I had the sinking feeling that it was going to be anything but professional. Half of me found Max fascinating, the other half didn’t want to see him as anything more than an irritating tutee. There were questions I had, insistent and relentless, scratching at the edges of my mind like a book begging to be opened.

And a part of me wanted to read it.