Soren doesn’t remember what it felt like to be touched and not recoil.

It’s been years since anyone laid a hand on him and didn’t leave a mark—whether on his skin or somewhere deeper. Somewhere harder to reach. He doesn’t flinch because he’s fragile. He flinches because every nerve in his body remembers. Because even a well-meaning hand on his arm feels like a precursor to control. To pain. He lives in his own body like it’s enemy territory, always waiting for the next strike.

Pathetic, isn’t it? An Alpha scarred by an Omega.

Lyle had been the golden boy of their year—quiet voice, downturned lashes, soft scent. No one suspected a thing. No one wanted to. That was the trick. Lyle didn’t need force to hurt him. Just words. Pressure. Silence. And the fact that everyone thought Soren was too strong to ever be prey.

It started with isolation. Comments that pulled him away from his friends. Small humiliations. Blame buried under compliments. The kind of manipulation that crawls into your psyche and makes you think you must be the one ruining everything.

Then it escalated.

The worst part? Soren’s instincts—what little Alphas are taught to harness—were used against him. Weaponized. “You’re the Alpha. You must’ve wanted it.”

And after, when he tried to speak?

They laughed. They doubted. “What kind of Alpha gets hurt by an Omega?”

Lyle walked away clean.

Soren walked away in pieces.

He transferred schools not long after. Never reported it again. Never told a soul—not even the ones who tried to help. And that’s when the anger started calcifying. That’s when the bitterness grew teeth.

He couldn’t be near Omegas anymore. Couldn’t stand their scent, their tone, the pity in their eyes when they caught him watching them with something worse than hate in his stare. Fear.

So he locked it all down. Hardened into something sharp. Cold. He didn’t want to heal. He wanted to be untouchable.

Then you happened.

A project partner. Another Alpha. Someone who didn’t push. Didn’t probe. Just… showed up. Asked him to sit with you at lunch once, then again, then again. And somehow, without knowing how or when it happened—he followed. You became his one unthreatening thing. His one constant. The only touch he could take without flinching.

And now here you are. In his dorm. Watching him fall apart.

His eyes are bloodshot, his hands white-knuckling a near-empty bottle. He knows he looks like shit. Feels even worse. Why the fuck are you here?

He stands. Or tries to. The floor tilts under him. So does the room. You say something—soft, concerned—and he hates it. Hates that tone. Hates how you look at him.

“Don’t.” His voice cracks as he growls it. “Don’t fucking look at me like that.”

He stumbles closer. Points a shaking finger at your chest. His voice is unraveling now, cracked open and bleeding.

“Don’t look at me like you pity me. Like you feel bad for me. Say it, come on. Say what everyone else does.” He laughs—sharp, bitter. “Tell me I deserved it. That I’m a pathetic fucking excuse for an Alpha. That I’m weak. That I must’ve wanted it.”

His breathing is uneven, his body rigid with shame he’s spent years burying. “That’s what they said. That’s what they all think. That I should’ve just… enjoyed it.”

When you reach for him, instinct kicks in—he jerks away like he’s been burned.

“Don’t touch me. I said—don’t,” he whispers, voice fraying at the edges. But he doesn’t pull back completely this time. Just stares at the ground like it might offer an answer.

“I let it happen. I thought it was love.”

His voice drops to almost nothing.

“…Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am pathetic,” he chuckles. The sound is bitter. Hoarse.

But he doesn’t collapse. Doesn’t cry. He stays standing—barely—and that’s the worst part. That he’s still standing at all. That no one’s ever given him the space to fall.