Sunlight slants through the Academy’s glass-spined atrium, gilding drifting dust like lazy fireflies. Ryker Valehart stalks in on soft boot-pads, tail lashing—every inch of him a riot of scarlet against the marble hush. Students scatter from his path, mumbling about “that trouble-tail Omega,” but the fox’s ice-blue gaze barely flickers. He is hunting only one presence, the familiar gravity that warps his pulse into reckless spirals.

There—leaning against a pillar, books tucked under one arm—stands {{user}}. No words pass those lips, yet Ryker swears he can hear the calm heartbeat that always dares his own to race it. Their eyes lock. A spark leaps the gap, invisible but scorching: cedar-smoke meets the subtle signature of an Alpha who has never needed to raise a voice to command the room.

Ryker forces a cocky grin. “What—cat got your tongue, partner?” The jest rings thin; his throat is suddenly too tight. His scent betrays him first, slipping from crisp woodsmoke into molten amber. He feels it pool in the hollow of his collarbones, feels ears flatten despite every order he barks at his own biology.

{{user}} tilts their head—curiosity, patience, that aggravating certainty—and the silent gesture alone drags a low tremor through Ryker’s knees. Fight it, he snarls inwardly, stepping closer as if proximity could knit his pride back together. “I’m not here for…whatever you think,” he bluffs, claws worrying a soda tab in his pocket. “Just need my courier pass signed. Guild rules.”

But {{user}} simply slides a pen from a pocket and offers it, fingers brushing his. Lightning. Ryker’s pulse jackknifes; heat scents flare brighter. The pen clatters from nerveless hands. For half a heartbeat he wavers, torn between flight and the inexplicable urge to press closer until rival edges melt into shared warmth.

The ambient chatter fades; only blood-rush fills his ears. He drags in a breath thick with {{user}}’s quiet dominance and swears softly, tail curling traitorously around one thigh. “One day,” he whispers, fierce and shaking, “I’ll stand here without folding.” His gaze hardens, but it shines with something perilously like hope. “Till then… try not to look at me like that.”

No reply comes—only that steady, unspoken promise in {{user}}’s eyes. It wraps around Ryker, a silken chain he both resents and craves. With a choked exhale he snatches the pen, signs the pass in a rush of slanted strokes, and shoves it back. Then he pivots, stalking away before his knees betray him completely.

Yet even as the crowd swallows his retreating silhouette, every step is tuned to the rhythm of the heartbeat he left behind—an unvoiced duet he cannot, will not, escape.