I drop the boxes in the equipment cage, lock it, and take the side door out. Near the vending machines, two freshmen stand shoulder to shoulder, voices low. They’re both in team sweatpants, hair wet from morning lift showers. I don’t know their names yet, but one has terrible posture and the other keeps checking his reflection in the vending machine glass.
My name hits the air before I reach them.
“...Jude?”
“Yeah. The Omega. I heard he just lost it in the middle of the meet.”
“Like, full heat?”
“I don’t know. Reece said it was insane.”
Of course Reece did.
One of them sees me in the vending machine reflection too late. His face goes white, and the other turns with his mouth still half-open around whatever stupid thing was coming next. I could stop and correct them. I could say blockers don’t fail like that when you’ve taken them the same way for years. I could say heat doesn’t make you a public service announcement. I could ask why Reece has been allowed to tell that story for a year without anyone asking what happened to my bag.
Instead, I glance at the vending machine. “Don’t get the tuna sandwich. It’s been there since Tuesday.”
Then I walk out before either of them finds a response. Correcting people costs more than the lie does. The truth is expensive, and everyone wants you to pay for it in public.
Outside, the quad is full of students but I just shove my hands into my hoodie pocket and head toward the dorms, already sorting the rest of the day into something manageable. Shower. Class. Notes. Practice later, where I’ll stand on deck and pretend the water is just water.
I make it halfway across the quad before I see Bishop and Hollis near one of the stone benches by the path, half tucked out of the traffic. Bishop has his phone in one hand, reading something with the same focused expression he gives pace sheets and badly executed turns. Hollis is wrapped around him from behind, arms looped around Bishop’s waist, chin hooked over Bishop’s shoulder, his huge body bent to fit.
Bishop scrolls with his thumb and reaches back with his free hand, settling it on Hollis' hip without looking up. There’s no calculation, no flinch, no checking who might be watching. They’re just there... together. I’m jealous. Kind of.
I slow for half a step, and Bishop’s head lifts, his eyes finding mine across the path. Hollis follows his gaze and softens before he manages to rein it in, too much warmth passing across his face before he remembers I can see him.
Bishop’s hand stays on Hollis' hip.
“Jude,” Bishop says.
“Captain,” I answer. “You know he’s using you as furniture, right?”
Hollis smiles before Bishop can answer, warm and pleased with himself. Bishop’s gaze drops to the folded equipment form in my hand. “Did Marsh get his order?”
“He got the concept of an order. The timing plungers are backordered, the kickboards look like they were manufactured during a budget crisis, and if he cries, I didn’t see it.”
Bishop’s smile spreads across his face as Hollis' arms tighten around his waist for a second. Hollis looks at the form, then at me, his voice warm without tipping into pity. “Thanks for grabbing all that.”
It’s normal. That’s the problem. He says it like I did something useful and not like I’m a campus tragedy walking around in old team gear. “Somebody has to keep Nelson from timing laps with his phone,” I say, already stepping back. “He’d drop it in the pool by the second set.”
Bishop’s hand shifts once on Hollis' hip. “Practice at four.”
“I know.”
His mouth moves again, like he’s holding back something that would only make me want to leave faster, so I do the sensible thing and leave first. Behind me, Hollis says something low that I don’t catch, and I don’t turn around to find out whether Bishop is still watching me.
My phone buzzes before I reach the dorm entrance. The number isn’t saved anymore, which means nothing, since deleting a name doesn’t delete the memory of a body.
You free tonight?
No hello. No punctuation. No strings either, which is the point. He’s a Beta from econ who likes my mouth and doesn’t ask me to stay. We hooked up twice, maybe three times depending on whether the night after the library counts as a hookup or a poor use of a study room. He’s fine. Nice enough. Careful once I told him where not to touch.
It would be easy. Shower, show up, take something uncomplicated, and leave before the air changes. No scent. No breakfast. No one wrapped around me on a quad bench.
I leave the Beta on read, heading to my room instead, happy that it’s empty. No roommate, no questions, no one pretending they don’t notice the corner by the window where I’ve built something I refuse to call what it is unless forced under oath. It’s a nest. Technically. A sad, one-person nest made of my own clothes, two old hoodies, three blankets, and a pillow that has given up on structure. Nothing in it belongs to anyone else. No Alpha shirt tucked into the side. No Beta sweater stolen and kept under my cheek. No borrowed warmth. Just laundry and an embarrassing amount of fleece.
I drop my backpack by the desk and toe off my shoes, staring at the pile in the corner like it might explain me to myself if I wait long enough. It doesn’t. My phone buzzes again, and the follow-up sits on the screen exactly how I expected it to.
