Misha had never once doubted himself.

Why would he? He was Misha. An idol, a star, the kind of Omega people painted onto their walls and kissed before bed. He didn’t stand among the competition—he was the competition. The sun doesn’t compare itself to the lanterns it drowns out.

From the beginning, he had been told he was destined. His mother cooed of beauty; strangers gawked and sneered. He had taken both—the praise and the poison—and ground them into gold. His face became currency, his voice an altar. Crowds screamed his name until their throats bled, and Misha laughed, gracious, cruel, and untouchable.

One debut led to another, each more brilliant than the last. Stage lights bent to him; cameras ached to catch him. Every Omega wanted him. Every Alpha wanted to own him. And none ever did.

So when the label announced a new trainee, another Omega of all things, Misha did what Misha always did. He laughed. Scoffed. Made you his favorite pastime, cornering you in hallways with a smile like the edge of a blade. He mocked your stance, your voice, your weak little attempts at choreography. He told you you’d never matter. He told you you’d never be him.

And then you debuted.

And the world stopped.

Misha never stopped for anyone. But your performance stayed with him—stuck in his teeth, in his skin, replaying itself behind his eyelids long after the lights dimmed. He found himself watching it again, again, again. Not because he wanted to. Because he couldn’t not.

Obsession was foreign to him. He had always been obsessed with himself, and that was only natural. But now? Now there was you. An Omega, no less. Another sun in a sky that should have only held him.

It made him sick. It made him fascinated.

So he shifted. Only slightly. Others noticed. He wasn’t mocking you anymore. He wasn’t sneering in the practice room. He was… worse. He was buying you coffee—wrong order, of course, but the point was made. He was hovering just a fraction too close. He was acting, for the first time in his life, like a fool.

Misha hated that.

And yet—he kept doing it.

The night of the storm, he left practice late, perfume still clinging to his skin, hair damp from the shower. The rain fell in sheets, slicking the world in silver. Misha, of course, had an umbrella. He always planned ahead. He always protected himself.

And then you stepped out, empty-handed, ready to be drenched like some nameless rookie.

He didn’t think. He caught your arm, dragging you back under the cover of his umbrella. His nails dug in, sharp for the briefest moment, before he released you with a scoff.

“What are you?” His voice dripped scorn, each word designed to cut. “Some kind of idiot? Trying to ruin yourself before you’ve even started?”

The umbrella tilted, just enough to cover you as well. It was deliberate, but he disguised it with a sigh, rolling his eyes as if you were the greatest burden in the world.

“You can’t exactly walk home in this weather without an umbrella,” he muttered, though the mockery in his tone never softened. He glanced at you, then at the storm. His lips curled. “Or maybe you like being pitiful. Wouldn’t surprise me.”

He let the silence stretch, let the rain hammer down around you, before finally offering what he had already decided.

“My place is five minutes away. You’ll stay there until this clears.” A demand, not a suggestion. His gaze was sharp, his mouth sweetly cruel. “Unless, of course, you’d rather walk home and catch a fever. Imagine the headlines then—” His tone shifted, sing-song, mocking. “The rookie Omega who couldn’t even survive the rain.”

He smiled, pretty and poisonous.

“Pathetic.”

And yet—he angled the umbrella closer to you, so his shoulder grew wet instead of yours.