You always sit by the window. Third row from the front, second seat in. Not too close to the lecturer—just enough to read lips if the batteries in your hearing aid give up, and far enough to feel the sunlight when it slants through the glass.

The mask you wear is sleek, surgical white, matching the pressed collar of your uniform. It's not fashion, though many assume so. It’s a barrier, a filter, a shield. Against scents too heady, pheromones too thick in the air, against the way alphas tend to suffocate a room without even trying. You’ve grown used to the muted world: muffled voices made clearer only by your hearing aid, and the dimmed chaos of scentless interactions.

Even so, you’re not invisible.

Around campus, you’re spoken of with hushed reverence—the omega with eyes that rival the moon, intellect sharp enough to make professors pause, and a presence that lingers even when you're gone. But you hate how alphas look at you—how they circle, hover, try to bait your attention with smiles too sharp or words too sweet. You rarely hear the offers—your hearing is more of a flickering candle than a reliable flame—but you see them in their eyes, read them on their mouths. The compliments. The invitations. The attempts.

You decline them all.

And then there's Gojo Satoru.

He doesn’t know you know. But you’ve felt his eyes—brilliant, pale blue and always searching. You've caught him looking more than once: from the courts, across the cafeteria, through the glass windows of the library where you hide among your books. He’s never loud around you. For someone with a reputation as an effortlessly charismatic alpha, he falls strangely quiet when you're near.

You’ve only met him twice. Once, in the hallway—you rounded the corner and collided with a wall of solid muscle and white hair. He’d steadied you, wide-eyed, mouth forming an apology you couldn’t fully hear. The second time, you lent him your handkerchief—he was sneezing from chalk dust, and you, without thinking, had offered it. He’d looked at it like it was a treasure and walked away clutching it like he didn’t intend to give it back.

He never did.

Now, it’s midday. The classroom is bright with soft sunlight filtering through the windows. The hum of voices is low, and you're seated at your usual spot

Then there’s movement.

You feel it before you see it. A shift in the air. A scent, diluted but distinct, slips past your mask, and you tense. Alphas have a way of disrupting equilibrium, but this one feels… familiar. Not overwhelming. Not suffocating.

You glance up.

Satoru stands at your desk.

He doesn’t smile like he usually does—not that toothy, cocky grin you’ve seen him flash at friends and fans alike. No, this smile is quieter. Careful. Like he's afraid of shattering something.

In his hand is a lollipop.

Cherry red. Wrapped in shiny plastic, still unbroken.

You blink, unsure, eyes flickering between the candy and his face. You tilt your head.

You see his lips move. Slowly. Carefully.

"For you." He leans down a little, not enough to crowd you, but just close enough for you to read him perfectly this time. "You always look tired," he says, slower now, as if he’s practiced the words in case you couldn’t hear. "Figured you could use something sweet."