Chapter 6

Mariah

He's here.

The beta from Dance Theory. The one whose silence I haven't been able to shake.

I guess we share psychology too.

He enters silently, but the air shifts anyway—subtle, heavier at the edges. Something about him sharpens everything, making every sound ring clearer, every breath more deliberate.

I catch a trace of him—soap, cedar, maybe coffee—but it's less a scent and more a pattern my body registers before my brain catches up.

It slides through the room like static after rain, threading the air until it finds me.

My nerves buzz the same way they did yesterday.

When our eyes meet, it's brief, controlled. He looks away first, careful in the way people are when they don't want to startle something fragile.

Maybe that's for the best.

I shouldn't want his attention. I've spent months perfecting invisibility.

Craving notice never ends well.

Still, when he crosses the aisle and drops into the seat beside me, my body forgets that rule. 

For a heartbeat, everything inside me goes still.

He doesn't say a word.

He doesn't have to.

The space between us hums like a live wire.

I want to speak first—but decide it's better not to.

Better not to feed whatever strange fascination I've developed with this guy.

The professor starts talking about perception and cognitive bias. Words float through the air, stick for a moment, then slide off again.

 I try to focus on the bullet points, but my attention drifts to the dust caught in the projector beam instead.

Eight bright flecks. Then nine, when the AC kicks on.

Beside me, he adjusts his notebook by a fraction of an inch. Then his pencil. Then his tablet. 

Each movement is deliberate, precise—a ritual of order. 

He moves like every second is measured against a standard only he understands.

Noise swells as late students slip in—doors clicking, footsteps shuffling, chairs scraping. A few eyes snag on me.

A new wave of scents rides the draft from the hallway—alpha spice, stress, something sugary that burns at the back of my throat.

Instinct rakes claws down my spine.

Don't move.

Don't breathe.

He doesn't look at me, but his hand shifts, palm-down on the desk, fingers splayed like he's anchoring the air itself. His aura edges outward—barely there, just a faint ripple pressing against the room.

Not a threat.

A boundary.

The attention fades almost instantly. The noise settles.

Huh. Is he... helping me?

The professor starts an exercise. "Turn to the person next to you and discuss how attention filters sensory input under stress."

I glance left—and of course, it's him.

Perfect.

Dread curls low in my stomach. My options line up like flashcards:

1. Bolt.

2. Pretend I've suddenly lost the ability to speak.

3. Actually speak.

My tongue picks option three before my brain can object.

"Attention narrows when survival is—" My voice cracks. "—when survival feels relevant."

His head turns toward me. I feel the shift before I see it—slow, precise, anchored in focus.

"What narrows?" he asks quietly, almost clinical. "Vision? Hearing? Smell?"

"All of it," I answer. "At least for me."

He nods once, like I've just given him a data point he needed. "Context?"

"Crowds. Scent drifts. Doors behind me I can't see."

The answers come too quickly—automatic. Like my body's been waiting for someone to ask.

He processes that, not staring—thinking. "Front corner then," he says after a beat. "Left side. Two exits visible. Minimal airflow from the hall."

I blink. "What?"

"Where you'll sit next time," he replies. "You'll focus better there."

Once again, there's no pity in his voice. No push. Just a simple solution, laid between us like something clean and folded.

"Okay," I hear myself say, wary of the relief that sparks low in my chest. "Maybe."

He adjusts the angle of his tablet again—another tiny correction, measured to the millimeter.

"I'm Jacek."

The name lands simple, unadorned. Like he doesn't realize how much weight it carries here.

"Mariah," I answer, even though he already knew.

I just never confirmed his—until now.

Jacek's mouth barely moves, but I catch the faintest easing at the corners—a ghost of a smile.

The professor calls for volunteers to share. Someone in the front row talks about phone notifications and productivity. Laughter echoes—bright, brittle.

I stare down at my iPad and sketch a quick figure: a body mid-leap, suspended in the empty space between motion and stillness.

Another burst of laughter spikes my pulse. My fingers go cold. I hate that my body still betrays me even when I'm trying so hard to stay composed.

"Here."

His voice is softer now. He slides something toward the edge of my desk without touching me.

Foam earplugs—the package still sealed.

"For when the room gets too loud."

The offer knocks the air out of me in a completely different way.

Usually, betas are just as arrogant as their alphas. And considering his alpha—Cassian—is basically campus royalty, Jacek should be nowhere near this kind.

"Thanks," I whisper, closing my hand around the earplugs. I don't open them. Just knowing they're there—knowing he's the one who offered them—is enough to loosen the knot in my gut.

We pair-share for another minute. He asks short questions and lets silence do the rest. Where most people rush to fill, he doesn't. It leaves room to breathe.

It makes talking to him... easy.

"Do you always... notice like that?" I ask before I can second-guess it.

He tilts his head, thinking. "Yes."

No bragging. No explanation. Just truth.

The professor wraps up with a reading list long enough to double as a weapon.

I start packing fast. My plan is to move before anyone else does, get out before the hallway floods.

A chair screeches two rows down. My body jerks before I can stop it. Then the scent hits—alpha, sharp and cloying, flooding my throat until it burns.

My wolf snaps awake, bristling behind my eyes.

The scent digs deeper, dragging memories with it—hands, weight, heat I never wanted.

I grip the edge of the desk, nails biting into the wood.

Don't move. 

Don't breathe.

Suddenly, Jacek's scent cuts through the noise. His beta aura expands—quiet but unmistakable.

I look up. He's on his feet now, angling his body just enough to block the airflow between me and the alphas behind us.

The burn in my lungs eases. My wolf stills.

He says nothing—just holds the space steady until the sound fades and the air clears.

"Thank you," I whisper, surprised by how honest it sounds.

He nods once, like that's a fair exchange. "Do you want the hallway first or second?"

"First," I respond without hesitation. 

Having the exit in front of me matters more than safety at my back.

"Understood."

We step out. The corridor hits like static—shoes slapping tile, voices overlapping, scents tangling in the recycled air until it's too much again.

Jacek keeps a half-step behind and to the side—the kind of distance that says I'll adjust to you. You don't have to adjust to me.

It's actually kinda... nice. Disarming, even.

We make it to the atrium without my wolf clawing her way out. I'm calling that a win.

"About the seating," he says, as if we never paused. "Front left corner works best for you. I'll take the aisle."

"I didn't say I was sitting with you," I manage, dryness slipping back in like an old defense. 

His eyes lift to mine—winter-pale, steady. "I know."

That's it. No coaxing. No pressure. Just an offer, released like he trusts me to decide what's best for my own body—which, to be clear, I can. It's just rare for anyone to act like it.

"Okay," I say again, the word tasting less like surrender and more like control this time. "We'll try it."

He hums—a low, almost soundless note. Approval, not amusement.

We stop near the doors. Sunlight spills across the floor in long rectangles, warm against my ankles. 

Outside, the quad churns with pheromones and chatter.

The thought of stepping into it turns my stomach, but I can do it. I have to. 

There's no other way to get to the omega wing. 

Jacek glances past me at the stream of students, then down at my hands—at the tiny crescents my nails have carved into my palms.  

"Two things," he says evenly. "One: I won't touch you unless you ask. Two: if it ever gets too much, put a finger to your lips. I'll use my aura to block out the noise—dull your senses. It'll give you time to adjust."

"Touch my lips," I echo. "Got it."

He nods once. "Good."

Butterflies flutter somewhere deep inside me. 

"Why are you..." I trail off because the question sounds too raw in my own head. Why are you being so gentle? Why do you feel like quiet when I've forgotten what that is?

He rescues me from finishing it. "Because it works."

Right.

I forgot—he's straight to the point.

No bullshit.

And I like that more than I want to admit.

We finally step outside. The air hits—cooler, edged with espresso and the metallic bite of fresh-cut grass. We fall into step down the path that splits toward the quad, the air bright and open after the claustrophobic hallway.

 I brace for the first wave of scents and find it muted. Manageable.

I turn, startled, to see Jacek extending his aura again. I can feel it—like a glass wall between me and the world, thin but unbreakable.

People's attention slides off us. Off me.

I let out a slow breath. "Thank you."

"You already said that," he answers, matter-of-fact.

"I might say it again."

That almost-smile flickers—there, then gone. "Okay."

We reach the fork: left to the performing arts center, right to the dorms. My ankles throb under the brace tape I wrapped too fast this morning. 

Practice tonight means I'll need to rest if I don't want to collapse in front of everyone.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I say.

He hitches his bag higher on his shoulder, the strap aligned perfectly between seam and seam.

"I'll be there early."

I smile. "Of course you will."

"I like empty rooms."

"Me too." It slips out, too honest, but I don't take it back.

He studies me—not invasive, just present. "Then we can share one. For a few minutes."

The offer is so innocent it hurts.

"Okay," I say for the third time, and it still doesn't feel like surrender.

He steps back, giving me more space than I realized I wanted. 

But somehow he just knew. 

"Mariah."

The way he says my name is nothing like the way alphas say it. No claim. Just acknowledgment.

"Jacek."

He turns toward his next class. I watch him go, my eyes tracking the steady rhythm of his movements until he disappears into the crowd.

Then I head for my dorm to rest before practice.

But a part of me already misses the beta who has magically found a way to understand my wolf better than anyone else ever has.