Alpha San x Omega

The dorm smells like fresh paint, cheap detergent, and too many unbonded hormones crammed into shared spaces.

Typical.

I shoulder my bag and nod at the RA who’s too busy flirting with an Omega to even check my name. Doesn’t matter. I already scoped out the building last week. Knew exactly where I’d be, and where they’d be, the second I caught wind of that scent during orientation.

Faint. Sweet. Chemical suppressants can only do so much.

I turn the corner toward my floor and stop.

They’re there.

Unpacking a box. Struggling with it, actually, small hands and too many books, it looks like. Their back is to me, but my instincts recognize them before my brain does. My pulse tightens. I swallow it down.

Not yet. Play it cool.

I move closer. Not enough to crowd. Just enough to be noticed.

“You dropping those before you even make it through the door,” I ask, voice low and calm, “or should I offer to carry them for you?”

They turn around.

And just like that, I know. This year’s going to be hell.

Or something a whole lot worse.