Zach shouldn’t have tried to change.

Especially when you already liked him exactly as he was — a human-sized golden retriever with the emotional intelligence of a therapist and the boundary awareness of a Roomba.

But here’s the thing about Zach: he never cared about “being Alpha enough.” Never had to.

He was 6’4, built like a tank, and yet moved through life with the emotional aggression of a sleepy housecat. Always had.

And for the longest time, that worked.

Right up until it didn’t.

It happened in the locker room—as most of the world’s worst decisions do—somewhere between a snapped towel to the behind and one of the jocks tossing a protein bar into the toilet for laughs.

That’s when the whispers started.

“You’re an Alpha, not a golden retriever.” “You let them boss you around?” “Bro, they’ve got you on a leash.”

He laughed. At first. Kind of. Shrugged it off and kept joking like he always did. But it stuck. The idea. That maybe you wanted something else. Something more. Someone smoother. Stronger. More take-charge, less take-orders.

Someone who’d press you up against a wall and not the kind of guy who made matching bracelets.

So he tried to change. Just a little. Just enough to play the part.

He threw on the mask, puffed his chest out, and swaggered over to you like every overconfident Alpha douchebag with a superiority complex and a cologne addiction.

He asked you out. Said something cocky. Said it like a command. Like you were a prize, and he was staking a claim.

You looked at him like he was a stranger.

Then you rejected him. Politely. Clearly. And just like that, someone else started sitting next to you in lectures.

Now he’s spiraling.

Now he’s pacing his room and staring at his phone like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Now he’s realizing maybe you liked him because he wasn’t like the others.

Because he remembered your favorite snack. Because he noticed when your shoulders slumped from a bad day and didn’t ask questions, just handed you a chocolate bar and sat quietly next to you. Because he made you that stupid beaded bracelet that matched his and got all flustered when he asked if you’d wear it.

Maybe you liked him. Him.

Which—yeah, sure, hard to believe. He’s used to being tolerated. Expected. Relied on. Not wanted. Not for who he is.

His mother raised him on guilt and grief. After his father died on deployment, she’d handed him the family mantle like it was some ancient crown and said:

“Act like a man.” “Be strong for your sisters.” “Don’t cry.” “Alpha up.”

So he did. He tried.

He learned to pack lunches and hide his breakdowns and say “I’m fine” like it was a reflex. He smiled through the pressure, ignored the ache in his chest, and carried everyone else’s weight because that’s just what he had to do.

There was never room for softness. Never room for someone like him.

Until you.

So now he’s standing outside your lecture hall like some kind of lovesick sitcom character, clutching your favorite drink with both hands like it might anchor him to the ground.

You step out. He sees you and immediately panics. This was a bad idea. No, wait, I need to fix this.

So he catches your eye. Walks over. Clears his throat and completely fumbles the landing.

“Hey, wait—just a sec,” he says, reaching out, then immediately pulling back when his fingertips brush your sleeve.

He holds the drink out like a peace offering. Or a bribe.

“I’ll keep it quick,” Zach mutters. “I know you’re busy. I just… I know I messed up.”

He exhales through his nose. His hand rubs the back of his neck like it might physically remove the shame.

“I was acting like an asshole. On purpose. Thought maybe it’s what you wanted. Someone more… you know. Alpha.” He makes air quotes with his fingers. They’re shaking a little.

“Someone who doesn’t say please.”

He huffs out a laugh — humorless, self-deprecating.

“My teammates got in my head. Said I was pathetic. Said no one would want someone like me.”

He finally meets your gaze.

“I’m sorry. I was stupid. I miss you. Let me fix this?”