Chapter 2

Mariah

"What the fuck is wrong with this fan?" I mutter, staring up at it like it personally wronged me. The thing's spinning so fast it sounds ready to lift off. 

Across the room, Sky's still passed out—face mask on, headphones in, dead to the world.

Must be nice. 

I lost my AirPods somewhere between the bus and the dorm, so I'm stuck listening to Helicopter Simulator: Dorm Edition. 

My phone says it's 6:00 a.m. Between that noise and my nerves, I barely slept.

Whatever. I'm up. I'm here. Time to pretend I've got it together.

First class of the semester: Dance Theory.

I drag myself through my morning routine: brush teeth, splash water on my face, fail to look alive. The mirror isn't kind, but I'm too tired to care. Purple hoodie, black leggings, hair up in a messy bun that looks like it's one inhale from falling apart.

My bag's already packed from last night. I still check it twice, like maybe it'll give my hands something to do besides shake.

When I finally make it across the courtyard, the sun's barely up. The air smells like dew and overpriced espresso from the cafe across the quad.

Perfect.

It's early enough that no one's out to stare, sniff, or small talk.

The performing arts building is quiet, the sound of my sneakers echoing down the hall. My stomach knots tighter with every step until I stop in front of the door marked Dance Theory—8 a.m.

Deep breath.

Okay. Let's get this over with.

I push the door open.

The room's mostly empty. A few students spread out in the middle rows, voices low. Sunlight cuts through the tall windows, dust motes floating like tiny ghosts.

I scan for a seat—somewhere in the back. Somewhere I can disappear.

And that's when I see him.

Ash-brown hair falls forward as he leans over an iPad, completely focused. Not even glancing up as I walk in.

He's a beta. I can tell by his scent—steady, clean, no alpha bite or omega sweetness. Just... neutral.

Safe.

For a second, I wonder what pack he belongs to. Then I remember I don't care.

He doesn't look up when I stop at the empty seat beside him. 

"This seat free?" I ask cautiously. 

"Was."

His tone isn't rude, just factual. Like he's narrating the weather.

I guess that's close enough to a yes.

The professor starts talking about choreography as emotional expression, or something else that sounds really deep but mostly just makes my brain hurt this early.

I try to listen. I do. But the sound of his stylus dragging across glass keeps catching my attention—steady, rhythmic, exact.  

He's not a dancer. I'd bet my scholarship on that.

So why is he in this class?

I don't have the courage to ask, but that doesn't stop me from sneaking glances at him.

The way his face doesn't move, even when the teacher cracks a joke that makes half the room laugh. 

The steady rhythm of his breathing.

And his scent—cedar and clean soap. Grounding in a way that pisses me off. 

Halfway through, my pencil rolls off and hits the floor, because of course it does.

It bounces once, then slides toward him.

Before I can grab it, he picks it up and sets it back on my desk.

His fingers brush mine.

It's nothing.

It's everything. 

My heart stumbles.

"Your heart rate just spiked," he says softly, almost to himself.

I blink at him. "What?" 

He finally looks up, his eyes the palest blue I've ever seen—like winter skies stretched thin.

"You tensed when I touched you."

I swallow hard. "Yeah. I don't like being touched."

It comes out sharper than I mean it to. But it's true. My body remembers things I wish it didn't.

Heat creeps up my neck. Great. Now he probably thinks I'm weird.

And he wouldn't be wrong. 

Most people just don't get to see that until they get to know me.

He studies me for a second, then nods. "Then I won't."

That's it.

No pity. No awkward apology.

Just... understanding.

Something inside me loosens before I can stop it.

I turn back to the PowerPoint slides, pretending to care about the lecture. My hand aches from how tight I'm gripping my pencil.

Pain helps. It gives me something else to feel other than the pure panic that comes from remembering. 

The guy doesn't look at me again, but I can still feel him there. Calm. Steady. Like background music I didn't realize was on.

When class ends, I pack up fast, planning my escape.

"Mariah."

I freeze.

He's still sitting there, head down, packing up like he didn't just drop my name into the air like a tiny bomb.

I never told him my name.

How does he know it?

He doesn't look up. "You shouldn't sit near the window next time. The scent drift from outside throws your concentration off."

I blink. "How do you—"

He finally meets my eyes. "I notice things."

Then he's gone.

Just like that.

I stand there for a full minute, bag in hand, heart pounding like I just danced through fire.

By the time I step into the hallway, the air feels colder. Sharper.

I shouldn't care.

I don't even know him.

Still, his words echo. You shouldn't sit near the windows next time.

Like he could hear my pulse.

Weird... but not bad.

By the time I hit the main quad, the campus is fully awake. Packs cluster everywhere, laughing too loudly, smelling too strong.

I pull my hood up and keep walking.

The cafe on the corner smells like roasted beans and sugar—almost enough to drown out the dominance still clinging to the air.

I order a small latte and find a seat tucked in the corner, behind a pillar. Quiet. Safe enough to breathe.

For now—at least.

My schedule glows on my tablet: after this break, I have Ballet Foundations I and then conditioning this afternoon.

Just looking at it makes my chest tighten.

But this is what I wanted. Structure. Something to fill the hours so I don't have to think too much.

When my name's called, I grab my drink and head out.

A group of alphas passes me on the sidewalk, their scent strong enough to sting. My wolf bristles before I can stop her.

Breathe, Mariah.

They're not him.

By the time I reach the dorm, my coffee's gone and my pulse has finally leveled out.

Sky's sitting cross-legged on her bed, face mask on, scrolling through her phone. She lights up when she sees me.

"Hey, roomie! How was your first class?"

"Fine," I mutter.

She tilts her head, waiting for more, then shrugs. "There's a freshmen mixer tonight. You should come. It's gonna be super chill."

I nod, mostly to end the conversation. "Yeah. Maybe."

Translation: no fucking way.

When she turns her attention back to her phone, I crawl into bed and kick off my shoes. I've got about two hours before my next class—just enough time to lie here and pretend I'm resting.

The ceiling fan hums again. Always fucking humming.

I stare at it until my thoughts start to blur.

And then I think about him. 

The quiet beta who knew my name.

I hear his voice again, steady and sure. Then I won't.

The words replay until they're not just something he said—they're a feeling.

Quiet. Certain. Safe in a way that shouldn't feel safe at all.

I close my eyes and tell myself I'm not thinking about him. 

Spoiler: I totally am.