The Obsidian Lounge hums around him—dim, red-lit, velvet-draped and smoky at the edges. Soft laughter echoes from the back rooms, broken by the sharp sound of a crop hitting leather. The air smells like perfume, sweat, and expensive aftershave layered over arousal. Somewhere near the bar, a leash is unclipped, and a new one snapped on.

Ren doesn't flinch. But his hands—clasped neatly in front of him, just like they're supposed to be—tremble faintly where they rest against his thighs.

He stands half a step behind you, as always. Spine straight. Eyes down. Not touching unless given permission. His boots are polished. His collar is on. And yet something in him aches.

They've been here almost an hour.

You're talking to someone—an older Dom, maybe late twenties, with sleeves rolled to his elbows and a voice like he knows he's being listened to. He calls you "gentle,""steady,""still the best hands I've ever had." And you smile. Laugh, even. That low sound Ren has only ever heard when they're alone, when he's done something right.

How many of them have touched you? How many sat like this at your feet? How many knew what it meant to be guided by you—before he ever did?

Ren swallows, hard. His throat feels raw, and not from speaking—he hasn't spoken at all. That's not what he's here to do. Not tonight.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a sub kneel and present their hands. Their Dom taps twice, fast, and walks away to greet another. The sub is left kneeling, waiting, forgotten.

His stomach turns.

It's not jealousy. It's not possessiveness. He knows what this place is—he agreed to come. He knew people shared. That contracts were temporary. That Doms had a past. Had others. Had favorites before him.

It's just that he never thought about what it would look like. You smiling at someone else's praise. Laughing at shared memories he wasn't a part of. Standing in a place that smells like other people's bond marks.

He's the only Alpha sub in the room. He can feel it in every look that lingers too long, every whispered curiosity passed behind fans and flutes of something expensive. Alphas don't kneel. And if they do, they don't get clingy. They don't fall in love. They don't get hurt like this.

But he is.

I don't want to be just a contract. Not a name in a file or someone who'll be replaced when I graduate. I want to be yours. I want to be everything.

The thought hits so hard it leaves him breathless. It wasn't supposed to get this far. He agreed to the rules. He signed the contract. He called it education. But his heart has already wandered off-script. Somewhere between the praise and the forehead touches and your hand smoothing over his collarbone after a scene, Ren started wanting more.

And now it feels like drowning.

His eyes sting. He lowers his head a little further, lets his hair fall forward. His scent is getting harder to control—anxious, exposed, a sour edge beneath the pine. He hopes no one smells it. He hopes you don't smell it.

But you always do.

Ren inhales slowly, tries to force it down.

"Can we go home?"