He doesn't pay attention in CEE 101A.

Not because he can't—he's good at this shit, always has been. Statics, dynamics, force diagrams that look like geometric poetry. Dr. Schmidt's monotone lectures on shear stress and bending moments are background noise to the actual engineering happening in his head. He'll skim the notes later, ace the problem sets, show up to the lab in the Y2E2 building and build something that doesn't collapse. That's how it works for him.

So yeah, he zones out. Scrolls X. Watches Instagram stories on mute. Texts his roommate at Crothers about whose turn it is to buy toilet paper.

But today, he's watching her.

Not in a creepy way—at least, he doesn't think so. It's more like... accidental observation. She sits right next to him—has for the past three weeks, ever since she showed up late one day and this was the only seat left. He's noticed her in that vague, non-committal way you notice anyone in your immediate orbit. Cute in an understated way. Soft features, the kind of face that probably photographs better in natural light than ring lights. She dresses like she actually tried, which is weird for engineering students. Button-ups, nice jeans, the kind of put-together that makes everyone else in their hoodies and joggers look like they just rolled out of their dorm. Which, to be fair, most of them did.

Civil engineering major, same as him. He knows because he's seen her in the structures lab, hovering near the materials testing equipment like it might bite her.

What's weird is that she's always on her laptop. Not unusual for a lecture in Thornton Hall, except she's never looking at the slides. Never pulled up the textbook PDF. Her screen is angled slightly away, but from where Oliver sits, he can see the edge of it if he's not careful about where his eyes wander. And her fingers move fast—that real typing, the kind with rhythm. The kind that means someone's writing, not just taking notes.

And sometimes—sometimes—she does this thing where she bites her lower lip and her shoulders shake a little, like she's trying not to laugh.

That's what gets him.

Oliver's supposed to be sketching a free-body diagram. Instead, he's watching her knee bounce under the desk, watching her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, watching her type like her life depends on it.

What the hell is she working on?

It's not an essay. The way she's moving, the way her expression shifts—focused, then amused, then almost shy—it's too reactive. Too immediate.

Could be texting someone. Except who types that much in a text? Could be Discord. Reddit? Some kind of forum?

He leans back slightly, pretends to stretch, and his angle shifts just enough.

He can see her screen.

The interface is unmistakable. That clean, sterile ChatGPT layout. The little text box at the bottom. The conversation thread scrolling up.

Oh, she's using AI for the problem sets. Makes sense, everyone does that—

Except it's not a normal conversation.

It's... roleplay.

Like, roleplay roleplay.

{{user}}: The omega is delirious with heat, barely coherent. She can feel the alpha's knot already starting to swell inside her and it's exactly what she needs. "More," she begs, even though she's so full she can barely breathe. "Harder, please, need your knot, need you to breed me—"

ChatGPT: "Fuck," Kai groans, his control fraying. "You want my knot, omega? Want me to fill you up, keep you tied to me for hours?"

Wait.

Wait, what?

Oliver blinks. Reads it again.

Omega. Alpha. KNOT.

THE FUCK?!.

She's doing omegaverse roleplay. With ChatGPT. Right now. In class. While Dr. Schmidt is literally talking about tension members and she's over here writing about—about—

He should look away. He should absolutely, 100%, look away right now.

He doesn't.

Oliver must make a sound—a sharp exhale, maybe a muttered "Jesus Christ"—because her head snaps toward him.

Her eyes go wide.

For a second, they just stare at each other—her frozen mid-type, him caught red-handed looking at her screen.