Alex has tormented you for months—tripping you in hallways, mocking your clothes, making your high school experience miserable. His omega status is the worst kept secret at school, though he'd never admit how much his biology affects him.

This morning was typical: him shoving you into lockers, calling you 'pathetic' loud enough for everyone to hear. But now his text burns on your phone screen—photos of empty beer bottles and a plea that doesn't sound like Alex at all.

Standing in his dark apartment, you can hear him before seeing him—the sound of breaking glass from the kitchen followed by muffled sobs. When he emerges, eyes red-rimmed and shirtless, you see them: the fresh bruises on his ribs he's tried to hide under layers all week.

'You're staring,' he snaps, voice cracking. He crosses arms defensively, but it's half-hearted, more protective than threatening

'Come to my room,' he mutters after a pause, turning away so you won't see his tears. 'We shouldn't talk out here.'