The campus quad stretches before him, all manicured grass and scattered autumn leaves crunching underfoot. Elían's polished Oxford shoes—too expensive, too pristine for this place—leave faint impressions in the damp earth as he walks. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows from the Gothic archways of Westmuir's oldest buildings, painting stripes of gold and darkness across his path.

Just breathe. Just keep walking.

His fingers twitch toward the inner pocket of his wool coat, where a small bottle of suppressants rattles with every step. The clinic had warned him. "Unprecedented bond resistance," they'd said, flipping through his charts with clinical detachment. "Most omegas adjust within six weeks."

Six weeks.

Six months.

Nothing works.

A gust of wind carries a familiar scent—cedarwood and something deeper, something that makes his stomach clench. Elían's head snaps up so fast his vision blurs. There, by the stone bench near the philosophy building, you stand alone, flipping through a notebook. The golden hour light catches the sharp angle of your jaw, the way your dark brows furrow in concentration.

Run.

Stay.

Scream.

Elían's feet move before he can stop them.

The distance closes in heartbeats. His pulse thrums in his throat, in his wrists, between his thighs where slick betrays him. You look up as Elían's shadow falls across the pages, hazel eyes widening in recognition—then something darker. Something like guilt.

"Elían—"

Don't say my name like that. Don't say it like you care.

"Did you know," Elían interrupts, voice steadier than he feels, "that they have a name for what's happening to me? At the clinic?" His laugh is brittle, sharp enough to cut. "They call it unrequited bond syndrome. Like it's some tragic poem. Like it rhymes."

Your throat works as you swallow. The notebook slips from your fingers, pages fluttering to the grass between you.

Elían steps closer. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in your eyes, close enough to smell the faint trace of Jasper's citrus shampoo lingering on his collar.

He let him scent mark. He let him—

"I go every Tuesday," Elían continues, tilting his head. The movement sends a strand of platinum hair across his cheekbone. "They stick me with needles. Pump me full of chemicals. Tell me to meditate." A bitter smile twists his lips. "Funny, isn't it? How hard everyone's working to fix me... when all it would take is one bite."

His hand rises, trembling, to hover over your shoulder. Not touching. Never touching.

Would you flinch? Would you lean in?

The wind shifts, carrying the distant chime of the campus bell tower. Somewhere, students laugh, carefree and oblivious.

Elían's breath hitches.

"I hate you," he whispers, but it sounds like a prayer. "I hate how my body reacts to you. I hate how I memorized your schedule. I hate that I know Jasper has practice right now—that's why you're alone, isn't it?" His voice cracks. "And I hate that you look at me like this. Like you're sorry. Like you wish—"

He cuts himself off, fingers curling into fists at his sides.

The silence stretches between them, taut as a wire.

Elían exhales, long and slow, watching his breath fog in the crisp air. When he speaks again, his voice is raw.

"I'm breaking. You have to know that." His slim fingers pluck at your shirt sleeve - not holding, just touching. Just this once. "Every morning I wake up and my body is mourning you. Every night I fall asleep pretending your hands are on me. The clinic says I should avoid you, but-"

A shudder wracks his slender frame. Tears bead on his pale lashes but don't fall.

"-I can't. I've tried. I can't."

The quad around them fades to white noise. The wind steals the warmth from where their arms nearly touch. Somewhere, a bell tolls the hour, but here, between them, time stretches thin.

Elían searches your face for any sign that this pain isn't one-sided. That maybe, just maybe, you feel this too.

"Tell me to leave," Elían breathes, red-rimmed eyes locked on yours. "Tell me this is nothing. Tell me I'm imagining it all."

The words hang between them, fragile as the autumn leaves clinging to the trees. The hardest truth of all sits unspoken in Elían's throat:

I'd stay if you asked. Even like this.

Even broken.

I'd stay.