You ever feel like you just won the freaking lottery? Like, not even the regular one—the mega one where you’re suddenly rich enough to buy an island and fill it with rescue dogs?
That was me.
Sitting there in that crappy lecture hall, staring down at my calculus test with a big, fat B on it, I felt like a goddamn genius. I hadn’t just passed, I’d thrived. It was a masterpiece. A miracle. I ignored my professor when he called it barely passing—dude was a hater—and practically floated out of the lecture hall, the scarf I’d snagged from Ainsley’s dorm stuffed in my jacket pocket.
It had spent a good deal of its life wrapped around his neck and if I held it close enough, I could detect his honeyed scent. Nothing like the real, fresh deal, but good enough to keep my brain braining. And my dick half-hard.
He was the first person I wanted to tell about my B. I wanted to hear that snarky-ass voice of his, all sharp and proper, telling me “congratulations” like I hadn’t just blown his mind less than twelve hours ago. He’d looked at me like I was a dumbass with two brain cells when we first met, but now? Now I wanted him to look at me like I’d leveled up. Like I’d impressed him. Like I’d made him proud.
And yeah, if we’re being honest, I wanted to see him. Just seeing him would’ve been enough to make my day better. But even better than that? I wanted to get my hands on him again. On all that attitude and sharp wit that had melted into something soft and desperate last night.
Last night.
Holy shit. Last night.
I’ve had sex before. Plenty of it. Good sex, great sex—the kind that gets you high-fives in the locker room and makes you strut around campus like you’re king of the world. I’ve hooked up in dorm rooms, back seats, even once in a sauna (pro tip: don’t). And ruts? Been there, done that. Usually just me, a sock, and some furious energy.
But last night? Last night wrecked me.
It wasn’t just sex. It was something primal. My brain had checked out completely, and my body had taken over, running on instincts I didn’t even know I had. Every growl, every thrust, every movement—it wasn’t me thinking; it was me knowing. Knowing he was mine. Knowing he was perfect.
His scent… Christ, his scent. It was everywhere, so thick and potent it was like my brain had been rewired on the spot. He’d totally given me control instead of fighting me. The way he clung to me, trembling and gasping like I was the only thing keeping him grounded—it was everything.
And don’t even get me started on his slick. It was everywhere. I couldn’t get enough of it, couldn’t get enough of him. It was like my rut was screaming at me: this is it. This is yours. Don’t let go. Every sound he made, every twitch of his body, every shiver and gasp—it all felt like it was made for me. Like he was made for me.
When he screamed my name—actually screamed it—like it was the only word he could say? Yeah, that’s burned into my brain forever. And his neck? Marked up like I’d claimed him for life. Which, now that I think about it… maybe I kinda had?
But it wasn’t just the sex. Okay, the sex was insane—like, championship-level, “better than any touchdown I’ve ever scored” kind of insane—but it was more than that. It was the way he felt. Not just under my hands, but next to me. The way his voice softened when he whispered my name, the way he touched me afterward, hesitant but lingering, like he didn’t want me to leave.
And that’s the craziest part. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay. I wanted to wake up next to him, drag him to some greasy diner, and make him roll his eyes at me over pancakes. I wanted all that stupid dating shit I’ve spent my whole life avoiding.
Maybe it was post-nut insanity, but I wanted it. Him. All of it. Zero to a million, want it now, give it to me.
But he wasn’t answering my texts.
My chest puffed up a little at first, thinking about how good last night had been, how into it he’d been. But the longer he stayed silent, the more doubt started creeping in. What if he didn’t want that? What if it was just the heat? What if it was just… nothing? Was it just biology? Or did it mean something more? What if he regretted it?
I pulled out my phone and stared at my phone, willing it to light up. Come on, Ainsley. Say something.
Swallowing a groan, I dialed his number, only to frown when it dialed forever before going to voicemail. Okay, maybe he was busy. He had that whole nerdy omega schedule of his, packed to the brim with classes and whatever else smart people did all day. I’d try again later. No big deal.
I’d texted him not long after I’d left his dorm. Just a quick “yo i hope ur not sore or w/e. that was insane. anyway goin to ace my calc test bc ur a genius nd also smell rly good just thought u shld know”. Nothing major. Real casual.
No response yet, but I texted him again.
ur scarf is like MAGIC my brain workd like BOOM genius mode. calc aint shit anymore. ur basically a wizard cos i got a B!!!! a B!!!!!!
wnna celbrate???
“Bro! How’d you do?”
I turned to spot Zach approaching me out of the line of students who’d exited the lecture hall. I hadn’t answered his last texts, but he was grinning, the same cocky grin he put on when he knew that he’d killed something. Zach was a Business major, too, but he was specializing in sports management—whatever the hell that meant. He was decent at calculus. Somehow.
I grinned back at him, wordlessly lifting the paper for his inspection. He snatched it from me and barked out an incredulous laugh. “Nice, dude. Doodled that F into a B real good.”
“Asshole.” My grin faded into a scowl. “That B is cisgender as fuck, I’ll have you know.”
He rolled his eyes, handing the paper back to me. “Whatever. You think Coach will think it’s real?”
“Dude, it is real,” I shot back, clutching the paper like it was a winning lottery ticket. “And I’m about to shove it in his face. He’s gonna unbench me on the spot. Watch.”
Zach snorted, falling into step beside me and slinging an arm over my shoulder as we headed toward the locker room. “I fucking hope so. I can’t take any more spaghetti on the field.”
“He will. He’s got to,” I insisted. “I mean, do you even know how hard I worked for this? Blood, sweat, and tears. Literal tears, dude. Kerrigan’s a savage.”
“Oh, the omega genius strikes again,” Zach said, his grin widening. “What’s his schedule like? You think he’d do a one-on-one study session with me? I could light some candles and bring snacks. You know, make it a whole vibe.”
“He’s booked.” The words came out automatically and I didn’t take them back. For some reason, the thought of Ainsley tutoring Zach made my hackles rise.
“Yeah? Not everyone needs to be the son of a senator to get some strings pulled. You forgetting that the Dean has the hots for me?”
The Dean of Ridgeline was an 82-year-old, happily married beta who, I was pretty sure, did not have the hots for Zach. She just really liked seeing him run in his uniform. She wouldn’t pull any strings for Zach, I was sure of it… would she?
“He’s booked,” I repeated, my voice dropping into a lower register. Zach either didn’t notice or didn’t care—both were likely. I’d told him about Ainsley, but not everything. I definitely hadn’t responded to his text asking me if I was studying or studying.
“You said his last name was Kerrigan, right? Pretty sure I’ve seen him around campus before. Tiny little thing with gauges and glasses—”
I don’t know why, but for a split second, I got pissed off. Like really pissed, more pissed than I’ve ever been in my entire life. Pissed enough to shove Zach into the nearest wall of lockers, so suddenly that he would’ve flattened two students if they hadn’t scrambled out of the way last minute.
“Dude, I already said he’s fucking booked,” I growled, my voice lower than I meant it to be as I glared at him, my jaw tight. “Stay the hell away from him.”
He straightened himself out, turning back to face me. For half a second, his cocky grin faltered into a hurt expression—which I knew was fake, because he’d taken harder hits on the field—before he raised his hands, palms out.
Other students had either edged away or scattered entirely, but I still scanned the hallway nervously, wondering if anyone had seen my outburst. I’d only shoved him, but I’d seen other alphas get hauled off to Instinct Counseling for less.
There were some alphas who liked violence and a lot of people assumed I did too because I played football, but I didn’t. I’d never been in a fight in my life. Even my trash talk was terrible.
Yet here I was, ready to shred my best friend at the thought of him being anywhere near Ainsley and him talking about him like he knew him.
I told myself it was because Zach didn’t actually know anything about Ainsley. He might’ve seen him around before, sure, but he didn’t know him. Didn’t know about the way he scrunched his nose when I gave a dumb answer or the way his voice softened when he got really into explaining something. Didn’t know about the way he smelled, like honey and books and something I couldn’t even put into words.
And he definitely didn’t know how Ainsley looked last night—hair a mess, cheeks flushed, all that sharp attitude melted away into little gasps and moans and begging…
I thought about shoving Zach again, harder. My hands twitched at my sides, but I forced myself to step back, my chest heaving. This wasn’t me. But the idea of Zach even thinking about Ainsley—
“Whoa, dude, what’s your problem?” he whined, his tone half-confused, half-amused. “I was just joking. It’s not like he’s your boyfriend or anything.”
“Don’t,” I snapped.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t joke about him,” I clarified, my scowl deepening.
Zach tilted his head, his grin creeping back like he was starting to piece it together. “Wait a second,” he said, pointing at me. “This isn’t about tutoring, is it? Oh my God, you’ve got a thing for him. You into nerds, bro?”
A part of me wanted to tell him that hell yes, I had a thing for Ainsley. But I knew he’d just make it a joke about my dick and I knew I couldn’t handle getting chirped about my feelings just yet. To be fair, last night had involved so much sex I’d been worried my dick would fall off but still… I’d never felt this way about anyone I’d had sex with—like they were mine.
My jaw tightened. “Shut up.”
Zach laughed, his cocky confidence in full swing now. “No way. Whistler Vaughn, the king of one-night stands, is all twisted up over a tiny little nerd omega? Bro, that’s richer than your parents.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mumbled, but I could feel my face heat up.
“Oh, I don’t?” Zach said, raising an eyebrow. “The second I say he’s cute, you’re ready to throw hands. That’s not territorial at all.”
“It’s not,” I said through gritted teeth, though my voice didn’t exactly sell it.
Zach smirked, crossing his arms. “Yeah, sure. And I’m a fucking omega. Dude, it’s fine. You like him. Big deal. Just say it.”
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I shoved past him and started walking again, my pulse pounding in my ears. “Drop it, Zach.”
“Can’t.” He caught up to me, slinging his arm around my shoulder again. “I’m too invested now. This is my new favorite thing. Seriously, what kind of tutoring are you guys doing?”
I groaned and walked faster.
----------------------------------------
I figured I’d tell Coach about my B, he’d slap me on the back, call me a genius, and let me back on the team.
But that wasn’t what happened.
“Two semesters,” Coach said, his voice flat and final.
“What?” I blinked at him, sure I’d misheard.
“You’re benched for two semesters,” he repeated. The words hung in the air, all calm and detached, but they made no sense. None. Two semesters… How long was that again?
I started trying to do the math in my head, but it was like someone had poured motor oil into my brain. Focus, Vaughn. Okay, so one semester was like… four months? Or five? And there was fall, and then spring, and then—wait. Wait.
My stomach dropped as the numbers finally clicked into place. Two semesters meant the whole season. Not just a couple of games, not just the playoffs—the entire fucking season. And then spring training…
It was like getting blindsided on the field, only worse. At least when you get sacked, you know it’s coming. This? This was a straight-up sucker punch.
I stuttered out a nervous laugh and leaned forwards, tapping my calculus grade. “This is a B, Coach. I just made a B. See it? Need me to get your reading glasses?”
Coach didn’t look down at my grade. Instead he just stared at me, unimpressed. “Do you even know how GPAs work, Vaughn?”
“Of course I do," I lied.
“Then you’d know a 1.2 GPA doesn’t magically become a 2.0 because of one B,” Coach Freeman snapped, his frustration seeping through his usually steady tone. “Do you think I didn’t fight for you? As soon as I got you in with a tutor, I filed for an eligibility extension, arguing to the athletic department that you were finally turning things around. I told them you’d do better, that this semester would be different, but they weren’t buying it. They’ve been bending over backwards to keep you eligible for as long as possible, Max, and they’re fed up. They made it clear—if you didn’t hit the GPA requirement by the end of last semester, you’d be benched for two semesters, no exceptions.”
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I didn’t tell you right away because I was trying to buy you time. I thought maybe—just maybe—if you pulled off a miracle, I could get them to reconsider. But getting one good grade too late doesn’t fix this mess. You’re still on academic probation, and you’re not playing football until you’re off it. End of story.”
“But if you average it out with the other grades, doesn’t the B, like, pull the whole thing up? Like how if you mix a bad protein shake with a good one, it’s just okay?” I was whining at this point and I knew it, but I couldn’t stop myself. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t right. This was bullshit. There had to be a mistake or something.
This couldn’t be happening. I’d worked so hard. I’d gotten a damn B. What was the point of tutoring if I was still screwed? Did Coach not get how much it sucked to study instead of hitting the field?
“No,” Coach said flatly. That was it. Just no.
My jaw dropped. “But I worked my ass off! Blood, sweat, tears—literal tears, Coach. Do you know how hard it is to learn calculus when your brain’s not built for math?”
“I don’t care if you climbed Mount Everest for that B,” Coach shot back, his tone clipped. “You’re benched. Two semesters.”
My pulse pounded in my ears. Two semesters. Benched. My vision blurred with rage, and I felt my hands twitching at my sides, like they couldn’t decide whether to punch something or throw the damn test in his face.
“So who’s gonna be team captain now, huh? Let me guess—fucking Noodle Arms McGee,” I growled, already grinding my teeth just thinking about it. The idea of Justin strutting around with my patch made my blood boil.
Coach didn’t even flinch. “Actually,” he said, calm as ever, “I’m making McAllister the interim team captain.”
“What?” The word exploded out of me before I could stop it. “You’re kidding, right? You’re putting Zach in my spot? Zach?”
My voice was rising, and I could feel my fists clenching at my sides, but I didn’t care. Zach? My best friend? Wearing my patch? It felt like getting sacked by my own teammate—unexpected and way too personal.
Coach crossed his arms over his chest, staring me down. “McAllister’s the logical choice,” he said. “He’s been on the team just as long as you, he’s consistent, and the guys respect him.”
“Oh, so it’s just that easy, huh?” I snapped, my chest heaving. “I bust my ass for this team, and the second I’m out, you’re ready to hand it over to Zach like it’s nothing? What, did he ask for it?”
“Of course not,” Coach said, his tone sharp. “This isn’t about you, Vaughn. It’s about what’s best for the team.”
That hit harder than it should’ve. My jaw clenched, and I glared at the floor, trying to swallow down the lump rising in my throat.
“I thought I was what was best for the team,” I muttered, my voice low but tight with anger.
Coach’s eyes softened for a moment, but it only made me angrier. Pity? Really? Like I was some sad puppy that needed coddling? Screw that.
“Get your grades up, Vaughn,” he said finally, his tone firm. “This isn’t permanent. You’ll get your chance to lead again. But for now, McAllister’s stepping up. That’s the end of it.”
Zach. My best friend. Wearing my patch. Me. Benched. Two semesters.
Was this really happening?
“Also,” Coach added, his voice cold, “I heard about you shoving McAllister in the hallway. You’re spiraling, kid. Get it together, or your bench time will turn into retirement.”
“You might as fucking well!” I yelled before I could stop myself, jumping to my feet. I was pissed. My chest heaved as I glared at him, and before I could stop myself, I grabbed my calculus test and threw it at his face.
Except I forgot to crumple it, so it just kind of… floated to the ground.
Which made me more pissed.
“You don’t get it!” I shouted. “This is my life, Coach! Football is all I’ve got! You think GPAs matter when you’re throwing touchdowns? You think scouts are gonna care about calculus when I’m out there winning games?”
“Get it together, Vaughn,” Coach repeated, shaking his head. “Or don’t bother coming back.”
My chest tightened. My head spun. This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I turned and stormed out of the office. Or at least, I tried to. I banged my shin on the chair I’d been sitting in and ended up limping out, cursing up a storm while I could’ve sworn Coach was laughing under his breath. Stupid fucking chair.
Two semesters. A whole goddamn year. My life was over.
----------------------------------------
The cafeteria was a zoo. Pure, unfiltered, food-scented chaos. A weird, overwhelming mix of pizza, stale fries, mystery meat, and something vaguely sweet—probably cookies or donuts or something. It didn’t smell bad, but it didn’t smell good either.
And it was loud—a symphony of yelling, laughing, trays clattering, forks scraping against plates, and someone slamming down cards at one of the corner tables. A couple of guys were shouting over each other about some game they’d just played, while a group of sorority girls giggled way too loud near the salad bar. Somewhere behind me, someone screamed, “UNO!”
I’d tried calling Ainsley again, with no answer. And again. And a third time. No answer at all. I’d sent three—okay, six—more texts to him, because I didn’t know who else to talk to. I had so many questions. How did GPAs work? Could he talk to Coach and unbench me somehow? Did he hate me because I hadn’t said goodbye this morning? Were we dating now? Was he sore?
I texted him again.
i kno ur busy but plz text me back. i’m spiraling. i miss ur scent nd ur brain nd ur face plz
And again, nothing. Not even so much as three little dots or a ‘read’ notification. Maybe he didn’t have those turned on? But either way—why. Wasn’t. He. Responding.
Today was the worst day of my life, officially. I was benched for two semesters, Zach was team captain now, and Ainsley wasn’t texting me back. It couldn’t possibly get any worse than this.
My crew—Zach, Brody, Kyle, and Jake—sat in the far corner, the self-proclaimed kings of the cafeteria. Zach was leaning back in his chair, gesturing wildly with a fry, while Kyle was halfway through a spaghetti plate that looked like it could feed three people.
I shoved through the crowd, dodging someone carrying a tray stacked with an alarming amount of cookies, and made a beeline for the table. Zach saw me first, grinning like the asshole he was. I glared at him.
“Yo, Whistler!” he called, leaning back like he owned the place. “These idiots are chugging marinara sauce. Wanna join?”
Normally, I would’ve said sure because I was positive I could outchug the best of them, but not today. Instead I slammed my backpack down with a loud thwack and ignored him. “Two semesters,” I growled, dropping into the seat like a sack of bricks.
“What?” Brody asked, pausing mid-chug, marinara sauce dripping from his chin.
“I’m benched for two goddamn semesters,” I snapped, glaring at my plate like it had personally betrayed me.
“No way!” Zach gasped, clutching his heart dramatically. Jake pretended to faint, falling into Kyle, except instead of catching him, Kyle scooted to the side and Jake fell onto the floor in a heap. He groaned, rolling around while the others laughed at him.
“Shit,” Brody muttered, biting into his sandwich. “What’d you do?”
“I failed calculus, Brody,” I snapped, throwing my hands up. “Failed with a B somehow. A B! You’d think that’d fix it, right? Wrong. Coach said my GPA’s still trash and benched me for the whole fucking season.”
Jake winced. “That’s rough, dude.”
“Yeah, no shit,” I muttered, pulling out my phone and checking it for the millionth time. Still no response from Ainsley. “You guys are stuck with fucking Chef Boyardee for a quarterback for the next year. Dude’s got no sauce. None. Mark my fucking words, Coach’s renaming the team Ridgeline Noodles.”
“We’re all fucking Spaghettios now,” Kyle groaned, twirling a forkful of spaghetti for effect.
Brody snorted. “Bro, don’t forget the meatballs. Gotta have those weak-ass frozen meatballs for the D-line.”
“That’s you, idiot. You’re a meatball,” Kyle pointed out.
“Nah, nah, the whole offense is basically ramen at this point,” Brody corrected himself, grinning. “Cheap, soggy, and falling apart the second you touch it.”
I shook my head. “Ramen’s too good for this team. We’re fucking dollar-store mac and cheese now. Powdered cheese, no milk. That’s what Chef Boyardee brings to the table.”
I’d texted Ainsley probably fifteen times by now but I texted him again as all the guys laughed. I knew that what was spouting from my fingertips at this point was most likely pure filth, but I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to know what he was doing and if he was thinking about last night as much as I was.
Plus Ainsley would know what to do about the disaster that had become my life. He always knew what to do. And if he didn’t? At least he’d tell me I was an idiot in that sharp, sarcastic voice I liked way too much.
“Bro, who’re you texting?” Zach asked, leaning over to peek at my screen.
I shoved my phone back into my pocket and glared at him until he backed off. I wasn’t mad at Zach, not really, but I wasn’t sure how I felt yet about him taking over as team captain. If the other guys had any thoughts or feelings about it, they kept it to themselves. Wisely.
I let the conversation ebb and flow around me, wondering why I’d even come to the cafeteria when my stomach was so fucked I couldn’t imagine eating anything. I’d thought that being around my bros would make me feel maybe a little better about everything, but watching them drink marinara was just making me feel… nauseous.
Zach banged on his thermos with a plastic fork, calling everyone’s attention. “Saw Hunter Bryant at Smoothie Shack yesterday.”
“I don’t want to hear shit about Smoothie Shack,” Brody growled.
“Says the idiot who requested a smoothie with four scoops of pre-workout, raw chicken, two cans of Red Bull, and a banana. You’re the reason why they almost shut down.”
If I were being honest, I was a little peeved that we’d moved on from my getting benched so quickly, but even I had to smother a laugh, remembering the famous Smoothie Shack incident. Not only had their blender exploded, but they’d gotten sued in the aftermath following a string of people had contracted salmonella. Fucking epic.
Brody shrugged, grinning unapologetically. “It was for the primal gains.”
“Anyway,” Zach continued, “I saw our old dude Hunter there yesterday and he hooked me up with some of the forbidden items and ten percent off.”
Kyle nearly dropped his marinara-filled cup, squinting at Zach. “What forbidden items?” he demanded.
“Gummy bears. Tried to get him to add a raw egg, but that’s still too forbidden.” Zach made an exaggerated pouting face.
Brody snorted. “Bro, ten percent off is nothing. They’re still charging you ninety percent. That’s a scam.”
Zach pointed at him with a fry. “Everyone knows it’s not about the math—it’s about the honor. Like, Hunter saw me, and he remembered our legacy. Ten percent’s not just a number; it’s a vibe.”
Jake made an ‘ahhh’ noise, nodding solemnly. “Dude, he’s right. It’s like… reverse inflation.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” I started to say, but stopped. I couldn’t bring myself to argue. They were so confident, and honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure what reverse inflation was either.
“Anyway,” Zach continued, leaning forward like he was about to spill a state secret. “You remember Hunter, right? Dude was a legend on the D-line before his life, like… imploded.”
I didn’t remember Hunter, but Kyle nodded. “He was here last year, right? Big guy, buzz cut, always wore those ridiculous arm bands.”
“That’s the one,” Zach confirmed. “Until dude knotted his omega boyfriend.”
Kyle sat up straighter. “Fuck, I remember him. Dude could bench three plates while quoting Top Gun, then his boyfriend goes into heat, Hunter loses control one time, and bam—life over. Now he’s slinging smoothies.”
“He’s not just slinging smoothies,” Zach corrected. “He’s training his kids. Dude’s got, like, five—no, six—little semen demons running around now.”
“Semen demons?” I repeated, laughing despite myself. I didn’t really remember the guy, but I wasn’t above making fun of someone else’s misfortune as a distraction from my own.
“Yeah, bro,” Zach said, shrugging. “What else do you call them? Little monsters, but, like, your monsters. They’re like future D-linemen. Hunter’s out here breeding his own team.”
I nodded. “I mean… Respect. Dude’s playing the long game.”
Hunter had sacrificed everything for love—or, well, something like love—and now he was training his brood of mini-athletes to carry on his legacy. Fucking sweet, honestly. That was like a brilliant hack. Like endless chances. If I had a bunch of kids, I could sock it to Coach for eternity.
Wait… didn’t I technically do the same thing? Knot in heat, omega boyfriend—oh my God, was I Hunter 2.0? Ainsley wasn’t my boyfriend, but… we were definitely something after last night. Even if we weren’t, the “knot in heat” still applied and holy shit—
“All it took was once?” I tried to keep my voice casual, but my hand wandered into my pocket and gripped my phone tightly. “Like… his boyfriend went into heat and he knotted him once and then he got pregnant or what?”
Zach stared at me like I was an idiot. “Uhhhhhh. Yeah? I mean, omegas can get pregnant from just being near an alpha during heat.”
Meanwhile, Kyle was laughing and I wanted to yell at him that it wasn’t funny at all. “Bro, you sound just like Hunter,” he cackled. “Dude didn’t even know how it worked and now he’s got like five kids.”
“Urgh. What a nightmare,” Brody chimed in, shaking hs head. “Knotting an omega in heat is the best way to ruin a stud in his prime.”
“The first knot’s the most dangerous. Odds shoot up by, like, three hundred percent. First knot equals cum critters, guaranteed.”
“Yeah, like how the first pancake always comes out weird. Nature’s way of teaching you responsibility—”
Suddenly the room felt like it was closing in. Nope. Couldn’t do it. Had to get out of there.
I grabbed my backpack and stood up so fast my chair screeched against the floor. Without looking back, I started heading for the exit, ignoring Zach and the others calling out after me. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.
The worst day of my life had somehow gotten worse.