I didn’t think about the rivalry game. Not really.

It was Sunday, the day after we beat East Ridge, and I should’ve been on cloud nine. I should’ve been replaying Justin’s noodle-armed, wobbly touchdown pass that somehow sealed the win, except every time I remembered it, I felt… nothing. Or worse—pissed off.

Not at Justin. Not at the team.

At myself.

Because I’d been benched. Me—Max Vaughn, the quarterback—reduced to pacing the carpet of my stupidly nice, way-too-big apartment like some kind of rich-kid ghost. It wasn’t even my place, technically. Mom picked it out before the semester started and slapped a security deposit down like it was pocket change.

It was a sleek, modern place on the top floor, all sharp angles and furniture I didn’t care about. Stainless steel appliances? Didn’t touch ’em. The kitchen might as well have been decorative, except for the fridge, which was stocked with exactly three things: Gatorade, frozen pizzas, and enough Greek yogurt to put a nutritionist to shame.

The living room was mine, though—a meathead kingdom. My giant TV was mounted on the wall, looping highlights of last night’s game that I wasn’t even watching. The coffee table was buried under protein bar wrappers, water bottles, and crumpled notes that were supposed to help me pass calculus. The couch, which smelled faintly of cologne and gym sweat no matter how much Febreze I sprayed, had been my base of operations ever since I’d gotten home from the library last night.

I didn’t care about any of it. Didn’t care about the highlights flashing across the screen—clips of Justin throwing like he was playing hot potato with the football while the team celebrated like they’d won the Super Bowl. “Vaughnless Victory!” the headlines chirped on social media.

I should’ve been furious. I should’ve wanted to punch a wall, throw my phone, scream into one of the overpriced throw pillows Mom insisted on. Instead I sprawled on the couch and fed Zach bullshit about why I couldn’t celebrate the win.

Zach: yo hangout w/ the team 2day celebrate the W

Max: nah i gotta study 4 calc test

Zach: STUDY??? bro we just destroyed east ridge and u wanna STUDY???

Max: yeah it’s called bein responsible

also i wanna c ainsley

Zach: OMG U CHOOSIN NERD BOY OVER US

Max: he’s a genius and he’s cute shut up

Zach: r u STUDYING him or STUDYING w/ him 👀

Max: bro shut tf up

Okay, so it wasn’t entirely bullshit. Zach was my best friend in the whole world, had been since freshman year of high school. We told each other pretty much everything. Like, no filter.

We’ve been through everything together—bad breakups, worse hookups, losing games, winning games, puking at parties, and once, accidentally starting a fire in Coach’s grill because Zach thought it would be “hilarious” to toss in lighter fluid mid-barbecue.

Spoiler: it was not hilarious. We were running laps for weeks.

If I screwed up, he was the first one I texted, and if I had some weird, random thought at 2 a.m., I knew I could hit him up, and he’ll come back with something even weirder—like my “Be honest, would you date me if I wasn’t so jacked?” and his “Bro, we’d be married if you weren’t so jacked”.

It’s like we’ve got this unspoken bro code where nothing’s too embarrassing or dumb to share. Except… Ainsley Kerrigan.

Ainsley.

Sharp, snappy, insufferable Ainsley with his ridiculous glasses and his cutting little voice that could flay a guy alive. Ainsley, who somehow managed to smell like clean laundry and God’s personal gift to the world. Ainsley, who had stared at me in the library like I was…

Like I was a problem he couldn’t solve.

I groaned and flopped back in my chair, scrubbing both hands through my hair. I hadn’t slept. I hadn’t eaten. I’d barely registered what happened yesterday because every time I closed my eyes, I could still see him—red-faced and flustered, practically vibrating in his chair because of me.

And the slick.

Oh, God, the slick.

I shouldn’t even know about that. That was private omega stuff. Off-limits. Forbidden territory. Which explained why he’d been so mad and had ran out of the library after our tutoring session like hounds had been after him. The cutest mad I’d ever seen in my life. But the second I realized what had happened, it was like it short-circuited something in my brain.

The idea that Ainsley Kerrigan—smart, controlled, borderline terrifying Ainsley—had reacted to me, to my scent, in a way he couldn’t hide or stop…

It had been buzzing in my head ever since, loud and insistent like a swarm of bees.

Does he want me?

I shoved the thought down, but it didn’t budge. Because no matter how much I told myself I was being weird—and I was definitely being weird—I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop picturing the way he’d stiffened up, the way his voice had wobbled when he told me to put my patch back on, like he wasn’t totally unaffected either.

I groaned again and let my head fall back against the chair. My sheets had been half off the bed this morning because I’d tossed and turned all night, every muscle in my body restless and aching. I was losing my mind. Absolutely, one-hundred percent losing it.

I couldn’t kid myself anymore. I mean, yeah, I still cared about getting unbenched, but this wasn’t about just tutoring anymore.

It was about Ainsley.

Somehow, he’d gotten his claws under my skin, and now I couldn’t think about anything else. I didn’t care about the team. Didn’t care about Justin’s wobbly passes or that I’d probably never live this game down. I didn’t care about anything except the fact that I wanted to see Ainsley Kerrigan again.

Needed to see him. Like, right now.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I tapped on his name from my contacts list and hit call.

“Vaughn.” Ainsley’s voice came through the speaker on the fifth ring, clipped and serious like he’d been waiting to deliver someone’s eulogy.

Warmth flooded me like fireworks, bright and strong, some of the tension fading from my muscles. I grinned immediately. “Geez, you answer the phone like you’re in the middle of solving world hunger. Lighten up, Kerrigan.”

“What the hell do you want, Vaughn? It’s Sunday.”

He sounds like he hates me. But I dig it.

“Aw, come on, you’re happy to hear from me.”

“I assure you, I’m not.”

I ignored that, sitting up straighter. “Listen, my calculus test is tomorrow. I need another study session. Tonight. At your place.”

It wasn’t like I was lying. The calculus test was tomorrow and I did need to study more. When I wasn’t thinking about Ainsley—which was pretty much all the time now—I was thinking about the test. It sat in my gut like a sick feeling, because I knew I was going to fail it.

Knew it deep in my bones the way you know when you’re about to drop a pass or screw up a snap—like this creeping dread that sat heavy on your shoulders and whispered, “You’re toast, bro.”

Ainsley made a noise of pure disbelief, like I’d just asked him to rob a bank. “It’s Sunday, Vaughn,” he repeated, as if I hadn’t heard him the first time. “I don’t tutor on Sundays. I get one day a week where I don’t have to deal with your ineptitude.”

“Yeah, but this is an emergency.” I sat forward, jiggling my knee. “Please, Kerrigan. You don’t understand. I’m freaking out over here. If I bomb this test, my mom’s gonna make me join her real estate team. Do you know what that means? I’ll be walking through mansions with marble floors and wine cellars I can’t afford to breathe in.”

“You’re an idiot,” he said flatly.

“You say that like it’s news.”

There was a long silence, punctuated by what sounded like an annoyed sigh. “Fine,” Ainsley said begrudgingly. “Come over at seven. But I swear to God, Vaughn, you’re going to behave yourself or I’m kicking you out. No funny business. Do you understand me?”

I grinned, already grabbing my hoodie. “Yes, sir. We’re torching the 2 a.m. gasoline tonight, Kerrigan. Let’s go.”

“…We’re what?”

----------------------------------------

Ainsley opened the door, and I swear to God, I forgot how to function as a human being.

I mean, I’ve seen him plenty of times—scowling at me across library tables, glaring at me during tutoring, rolling his eyes so hard I’m surprised they haven’t fallen out of his head. But this? This was different.

He wasn’t wearing his usual perfectly pressed shirts and sweater vests that scream “I am better than you”. No, he was standing there in an oversized sweater—huge, baggy, and swallowing him whole, the sleeves so long that his hands disappeared inside them. And his leggings—oh, God, his leggings—did the exact opposite of the sweater.

I’d like to say I didn’t stare. I’d like to say I was a gentleman. But my brain just… stopped. Full shutdown. They clung to him—like second skin, basically illegal. I’d always known Ainsley was small. He was sharp angles, snark, and righteous fury packed into a compact little frame, but the leggings made it obvious. His waist looked impossibly tiny, his legs long and lean. Adorable. Utterly, unfairly adorable.

And then there was his face. His cheeks were flushed—probably from the effort of opening the door and glaring at me all at once—and his glasses had slid slightly down his nose. He looked soft. Cozy. A little mussed, like he’d been reading for hours and forgot I was even coming over.

I stared. Hard.

Ainsley narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest—bad move, because it just bunched the sweater sleeves up, and somehow that was worse. “What are you gawking at, Vaughn?”

I tried to answer. I did. But I didn’t have words. My mouth opened, and I just stood there, blinking at him like I’d forgotten how speech worked. I was glad he wasn’t a mind reader, because I knew if he could hear my thoughts about how he was small enough to throw like a football, he’d kick me out—and I hadn’t even stepped inside his dorm yet.

I felt a little trickle escaping the corner of my mouth and Ainsley’s gaze dropped to my face, his expression turning murderous. “Are you drooling?” he demanded.

I jolted like I’d been electrocuted, dragging the back of my hand across my mouth so fast I nearly smacked myself. “What? No, I—uh—”

“That’s not being on good behavior, Vaughn,” Ainsley snapped, glaring at me so hard I thought my brain might melt. His cheeks were flushed, though, and that was unfair because now he was cute and mad, and I was—

Ruined. I was fucking ruined.

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Keep it together, I told myself. Keep it together. “It’s just… you look—um. Like someone who’s… good at math,” I managed lamely.

Ainsley stared at me, his hand twitching as if he was barely holding himself back from slapping me. I braced myself, but he only huffed out in irritation before finally stepping aside to let me in.

His dorm felt even smaller than it had the first time I’d been here. Cozy, yeah, but… closer, like the walls had shrunk. Or maybe it was just him. Sitting there, one foot away on his bed, tapping his stupid fancy pen against his stupid neat notes while I stared down at the worksheet he’d left on the desk like a death sentence.

No small talk, no “Hey, how’s your day been?” Just “Sit here and get to work, Vaughn,” like I was a kid being handed crayons and told to color in the lines.

I tried. I swear I tried.

The first problem wasn’t bad. I scrawled out my answer with more confidence than I had any right to feel and glanced over my shoulder, half expecting Ainsley to say something snarky like, ‘Congratulations, you’ve mastered addition.’ But no—he just sat there, legs crossed, jotting something in the margins of his notes like I didn’t exist.

Fine. Cool. I could do this.

The second problem slowed me down a little. I stared at the numbers, tapping my pencil against the desk as I tried to remember which formula I was supposed to use. Was this the one with exponents? Or the chain rule thing? I scribbled something out, crossed it off, and scribbled again. My handwriting was turning into hieroglyphics, but hey—I got it. Probably.

By the third problem, my brain started buzzing.

It was like this slow, creeping hum that built and built until my hands felt clammy and my heart was beating in my ears. The numbers on the page were blurring together, swirling in and out of focus as my brain screamed:

You’re going to fail. You’re gonna choke. You’re gonna—leggings? No. You’re going to fail.

I glanced over my shoulder again. Ainsley was still there, flipping through his notes with this stupid calm expression. I turned back to the worksheet, gripping the pencil like it was the only thing holding my soul together. Okay. Fourth problem. Just focus.

Focus.

I stared at the numbers so hard my vision started to swim. Was this even math? Was this English? Why was the two next to a letter? Who invented letters in math anyway? Did they think it was funny? Were they laughing at me from beyond the grave?

My knee started bouncing, and the pencil slipped out of my sweaty fingers.

“Focus,” I muttered to myself, picking it back up. My voice cracked. “Focus, you idiot. You can do this. You’re not dumb. You’re just…”

Dumb.

The word clawed at my brain, and my breathing started to pick up. My chest felt too tight, like my ribs were squeezing me from the inside out. I stared down at the fifth problem, which looked like it was written in a different language. Or maybe a different universe. My pencil froze midair.

You’re going to fail.

“Vaughn.” Ainsley’s voice cut through the fog like a knife, sharp and exasperated.

I jolted so hard I almost fell out of the chair.

“What?” I said, my voice higher than it had any right to be.

Ainsley’s brow twitched. “You’ve been staring at the same problem for five minutes.”

“No, I haven’t.” I bristled.

“Yes, you have. You’re muttering to yourself.”

“I was—no, I wasn’t.”

“You just said, ‘You’re gonna fail,’ out loud,” he pointed out.

My face went hot. “I—I was talking to the problem.”

Ainsley sighed. “Vaughn, just breathe. It’s not that hard.”

“Not that hard?!" I turned in the chair to face him fully, clutching the worksheet like it had personally insulted me. “This is like—I don’t even know what this is like!” I jabbed my finger at the page. “Is this fucking sorcery?”

“It’s the chain rule,” Ainsley said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh, the chain rule! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?!” My laugh came out more like a wheeze. “Just slap a chain on it and hope for the best, right?”

Ainsley groaned, setting his pen down and finally looking at me like I was the world’s biggest idiot—which, yeah, fair. “Vaughn, calm down. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling!”

“You’re spiraling.”

I dropped the worksheet onto the desk and buried my face in my hands. “I’m gonna fail this test. I’m gonna fail, lose my scholarship, and end up living in a van down by the river. You can come visit me and remind me what an idiot I am while I burn my flashcards for warmth.”

“Vaughn.”

“Honestly? That’s the best case scenario. Worst case is I’ll have wear a suit too small because my mom doesn’t understand football-player shoulders. I’ll have to smile like an idiot while her clients debate whether they want a lap pool or an infinity pool. Do you know what an infinity pool is, Kerrigan? I didn’t even know until my mom dragged me to a listing once. It’s just water that looks like it goes on forever. It’s not even infinite! It’s a lie!”

I wasn’t making any sense. He was right—I was spiraling. I could feel Ainsley’s judgment radiating off him, but I kept going, words spilling out like runaway vomit. My stomach was churning.

“And then I’ll have to say shit like, ‘Oh, yes, the south-facing veranda has excellent light for morning Pilates.’ What even are pilates? Do I have to do pilates to sell the house? Because I’m not built for that life, Kerrigan. I don’t even know how to spell veranda!”

I slapped the table, leaning closer, my voice dropping to a stage whisper. “And you know what’s worse? The clients. My mom’s clients don’t just buy houses, Kerrigan—they dismantle them. They spend millions on a mansion just to rip out the floors because they’re not the right shade of taupe. Do you know how unhinged that is?”

Ainsley pinched the bridge of his nose, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I was on a roll.

“And if it’s not real estate,” I continued, voice rising, “it’s my dad. I’ll have to join his campaign, which means sitting through six-hour strategy meetings where words like bipartisan compromise get thrown around like they actually mean something. And then I’ll have to shake hands with donors who smell like expensive leather and call me sport while they talk about tax loopholes.”

“Vaughn.”

I threw my hands in the air, eyes wide with panic. “And you know someone will ask me for my opinion on, like, foreign policy, and I’ll say something like, ‘Uh… maybe we should just, you know, talk it out?’ and then bam—instant scandal. My face on a headline: ‘Senator Vaughn’s Son Thinks Diplomacy is Vibes.’ It’s happened before.”

Ainsley let out a sharp exhale, his hand twitching like he was seconds away from throwing a book at me. “Vaughn.”

“Kerrigan,” I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. “I’m doomed. D-O-O-M-E-D. I can’t do this. I’m gonna flunk and then I’ll—”

“Would you stop spiraling?” he hissed. “If you’d focus for five minutes, you’d realize you’re capable of passing this test.”

“I can’t focus!” I shot back. “It’s like… my brain’s full of static.”

Ainsley was pinching the bridge of his nose so hard I thought he might break it. God, he probably thought I was the dumbest person alive. He’d probably already written me off as hopeless, the kind of alpha whose only redeeming quality was throwing a ball really far.

And sure enough, he was muttering something to himself under his breath—probably about how I was the dumbest alpha alive—but then he exhaled, fixing me with one of those sharp, steely glares.

Half-slouched, Ainsley stared at me, his expression unreadable, before mumbling, “This is a terrible idea.”

“What?”

He sat up straighter, cheeks pink, but his voice was all calm professionalism. “For purely academic purposes,” he said stiffly, “we’ll try what worked last time.”

It took me a second. Then my brain short-circuited, worse than it had when he’d opened the door in those leggings. “Wait. You mean…” Now I was the one staring at him, hardly daring to breathe. There was no way he could mean—surely—?

“I mean,” he snapped, “Leveraging a known physiological response to achieve an academic outcome. A small sniff. Just enough to help you focus.”

The biggest grin I’d ever grinned in my life crept across my face. I probably looked like a maniac, but I felt like I’d just won the lottery. Unsurprisingly, my glee seemed to make him furious.

“Shut up,” Ainsley snapped before I could say anything. “And if you so much as breathe a word, the offer’s rescinded.”

“The offer’s what now?” I knew what rescind meant but I acted like I didn’t, just to watch as he practically imploded, pulling off his glasses with a groan and dragging a hand down his face.

“I suggested the same thing yesterday,” I pointed out suddenly, half-pouting. “What, you’re the only one who gets to have good ideas or something?”

He glared at me. “The library is a fully public space, Vaughn. My dorm is a controlled environment. It’s not about you, it’s about the test. You’ll get one sniff. That’s it. No lingering, no weirdness, and absolutely no overreacting. It’s for academic purposes.”

For half a second, I wanted to argue because his reaction to my scent yesterday hadn’t been academic at all. But I knew he’d launch into some spiel about biology, so I gave a mental shrug, decicing that I could find a different way to bring it up later. It didn’t matter right now.

All that mattered right now was that he was going to take that damn patch off and I got to be in heaven again. I was up and plopping down onto the bed beside him before he could stop me.

“If it’s gonna be a small whiff, I want it to be a good one,” I said, grinning up at him like an overeager dog.

He reared back from me but didn’t put any distance between us, which I counted as a win. This was the closest we’d ever been, with my leg brushing against his. I could see the freckles splattering his face, the soft tone in his forearms as he leaned slightly away.

“I’m serious, Vaughn. No funny—”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumbled, getting impatient, like an addict waiting for a fix. “No funny business. I got it, okay? Now c’mon.”

He huffed and rolled his eyes, half-glaring at me, before tugging at the edge of his scent patch. My chest felt too tight as I watched, almost in slow motion, as his fingers grabbed ahold of it and started to peel. Then it came off entirely—finally—and his scent flooded out into the room like an ocean, washing over me like a tidal wave.

I’d thought I was ready. I’d been bracing myself, telling my brain to focus, to treat this like the academic exercise he insisted it was. But God, how was it so much better than I remembered?

My chest tightened instantly. My skin felt too hot, like someone had turned the thermostat up to hellfire. I couldn’t breathe right—every inhale dragged him deeper into my lungs, my head, my entire body.

It hit me immediately—soft and sweet, like honey and something sharper underneath, a smell I’d been craving ever since the library. It wasn’t just that it smelled good—it was that it smelled like everything. Like comfort, and safety, and something so perfect it made my chest ache. It wrapped around me, clawing into my brain and making it impossible to think about anything else, besides wanting more.

A small sniff. Just one, Ainsley had said.

Except he hadn’t accounted for the fact that I couldn’t even think anymore. I barely registered that my hand was moving until I felt the heat of his thigh under my palm. God, he was so warm, so small and sharp and perfect. My fingers curled instinctively, gripping him just enough to feel the shape of him through the fabric of his leggings.

Ainsley stiffened, his breath hitching just loud enough for me to hear, and that sound—that sound—was my undoing.

I leaned in, nuzzling the curve of his neck where his scent was strongest, my nose brushing warm skin, and holy shit, there was one spot I found where it was like drinking him straight from the source. Every thought I’d ever had left completely and my hands moved again without my permission, both settling directly on his hips to anchor him in place.

“You smell so good,” I mumbled, dazed and dizzy, pressing closer as he started to squirm, to pull back. God, I could live in this. I could die in this.

“Vaughn,” he gritted out, his hands pushing weakly at my shoulders. “That’s enough—”

Did his smell taste? I’d wondered before and now I had to find out. I had to. I tilted my head, pressing my open mouth to that spot. He was grabbing at my hair, as if to shove me away, but then my tongue flicked out before I even realized what I was doing, dragging slowly across his skin, and I felt him jerk as if I’d pinched him.

And then he shoved me. Hard.

I reeled back, blinking like a drunk idiot, my lips still tingling with the memory of his skin. He was panting, his glasses crooked, his cheeks bright red, and the glare he leveled at me could’ve melted steel.

“What the hell are you doing, Vaughn?” His voice was sharp, but there was a tremor in it, a tiny, wobbly crack that made my heart lurch in my chest. Or maybe that was just the adrenaline. Or the scent of him.

I stared at him, my brain taking way too long to process his words. What the hell was I doing? What kind of question was that? I was doing what every fiber of my being was screaming at me to do—what I needed to do—what he clearly wanted me to—

“You don’t get to just—” He cut himself off, shaking his head furiously, like he was trying to clear it. His hands went to his neck, brushing over the spot I’d been sucking on like he was trying to erase the evidence. “This is—this is wildly inappropriate, Vaughn, not to mention completely unprofessional! I can’t believe—”

He trailed off again, his voice faltering, and I realized he wasn’t looking at me anymore. His gaze had dropped to my chest, then to his hands, which had retreated to my own lap. His breathing was still uneven, like he couldn’t quite catch it, and his lips were shiny and parted just slightly.

I swallowed hard, my hands curling into fists against my thighs to keep from reaching for him again. “Ainsley,” I rasped, my voice rough and unsteady. “I—look, I couldn’t stop. You smell so—”

“Don’t.” He held up a hand, his glare snapping back to me. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

I shut my mouth, but the words were still there, clawing at my throat. You smell so good. You smell like everything I’ve ever wanted. You smell like home.

He was staring at me again, his chest heaving, his lips pressed into a thin line like he was trying to hold himself together. And then, slowly, he let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging just slightly.

“This is a mistake,” he said, but it sounded more like he was talking to himself than to me. His gaze dropped again, his brows furrowing, and he shook his head again. “This—this is biology. Hormones. That’s all this is. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything,” I said before I could stop myself.

He shot me a look, his eyes wide and startled, and for a second, I thought he was going to shove me again. But then his gaze softened, just barely, and something flickered across his face—something uncertain, conflicted, vulnerable.

He tried to glare at me again, but it didn’t stick. Instead his shoulders slumped, and he let out another shaky breath, dragging a hand through his already disheveled curls. “This is the worst idea,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

And then he looked dead at me and exposed his neck.

For half a second, my brain fought to catch up, tried to figure out if this was some calculus-induced hallucination. But my body moved on instinct, my mouth seeking out that special spot I'd found, pressing the flat of my tongue against it fully. I was rewarded with a moan—a deadass moan—and a full-body shudder, both of which went straight to my cock as his fingers came up to tangle in my hair and my hands went to his hips, gripping tightly.

For half a second, my brain fought to catch up, tried to figure out if I’d imagined it. I tongued the spot again and was rewarded with the same breathy little sound, the same full-body shudder. It went straight to my cock.

“Ainsley,” I groaned against his skin, my voice low and desperate. “You smell—fuck, you smell so good. I can’t—”

God help me, but he smelled sweeter now, thicker somehow. His scent was all I could breathe, all I could feel. It was intoxicating, like a drug pumping straight into my bloodstream, and I was addicted.

A low, rough sound rumbled in my chest—half growl, half another groan—as my mouth moved against his neck, hot and open and hungry. I needed more—needed to taste him deeper, to feel him fall apart under me. I started to suck at the spot, latching onto it and trying to pull every last bit of him into me.

I was painfully aware that my cock was rock-hard in my jeans and that this had gone so far past ‘a small sniff’. I was in so much trouble. But you only live once, right?

And Ainsley wasn’t hating it.

Without thinking, I reached up to my own neck and ripped my own scent patch off.