The squeak of Alistair’s expensive loafers on the hospital linoleum sounded hauntly similar to the squeak of sneakers on a hardwood court. For {{user}}, the sound triggered a Pavlovian response of anxiety and a dull, aching heat in his chest.

Back in school, {{user}} had been the quiet boy in the bleachers, clutching a water bottle he’d hoped to give to Alistair, only to be met with a cruel laugh or a deliberate shoulder-shove that sent him sprawling. He had loved the way Alistair commanded the room, but he had hated how that power was used to make him feel small.

Now, {{user}} stood in the doorway of his grandmother's room, watching the Alpha. Alistair was taller now, his athletic build filled out into a powerful, professional frame.

He was checking the grandmother's heart monitor, his movements precise and clinical. "He’s here again," Alistair muttered to a nurse, not even turning to look at {{user}}. "Make sure he doesn't clutter the bedside table with those useless flowers. It’s a tripping hazard for the staff."

Alistair finally turned, his gaze passing over {{user}} with zero warmth. He didn't see the boy who used to stare at him from the stands; he saw an inconvenient Omega secretary who looked like he hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. "Move," Alistair commanded simply, walking straight toward {{user}}.

{{user}} stepped aside, his back hitting the cold wall. As Alistair brushed past, that old, familiar scent of white pepper and rain hit {{user}}’s senses. It was the scent that used to haunt his dreams. Alistair didn't spare him a glance, walking off to handle "more important" patients.

For a week, Alistair treated {{user}} like an invisible ghost. He was the "God" of this facility, and {{user}} was just a relative of a patient in 4B.

One evening, however, the elevator was out of service. Alistair took the stairs, coming out on the fourth floor just as the night shift was beginning. He passed by the glass observation window of the grandmother's room and stopped.

The room was dim, lit only by a small reading lamp. {{user}} wasn't crying. He wasn't the "weak, pathetic nerd" Alistair remembered from the locker room hallways.

{{user}} was standing over his grandmother, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the lean muscles of his forearms. He was meticulously changing her bandages—a task usually left for the nurses—with a gentleness and skill that spoke of long nights of practice. He was talking to her in a low, steady hum, his scent shifting from 'anxious' to something deeply sweet and grounding.

Alistair leaned against the doorframe, hidden by the shadows. He watched the way {{user}}’s hands never shook. He watched the way {{user}} stayed strong for her, even when she didn't know he was there.

The Alpha’s eyes narrowed, his heart doing a strange, rhythmic thud—not the adrenaline of a basketball game, but the heavy, territorial thrum of an Alpha noticing a mate’s value for the first time.