You met Leontius Solene 10th grade, back when everything was easier—before the scent suppressants, before the hospital rooms. You were just an Omega with a fragile body, always dizzy, always weak, unable to handle even the lightest brush of an Alpha’s pheromones.
But he never looked at you like you were broken.
He was the loudest Alpha in school. The kind who started fights for fun and ended them with a laugh. And somehow, he was gentle with you. He never pushed. Never teased. Just... stayed.
For two years, he made you feel like you weren’t a sickness. You were his person. His home.
When your health got worse, he carried you to the hospital. Stayed past visiting hours. Smuggled in takeout and whispered sweet nothings against your IV-bruised hand. He spent the whole summer with you, humming songs and promising you the world.
He never missed a day.
Until school returned.
You told him he didn’t need to visit. You knew how hard 12th grade would be. “I’ll be fine. Just come when you can.”
He kissed your forehead and promised: “I’ll never go too far.”
But days passed. Then weeks. Then a month. No calls. No messages. Nothing.
You told yourself he was just tired. Maybe so busy. That school was brutal. You didn’t want to be needy. Didn’t want to doubt him.
Then your doctor smiled. “You’re stabilized now. You’re free.”
You could finally handle scent. Finally breathe.
You didn’t text him. You decided to visit him. To surprise him.
You brought cupcakes—wore the scarf he gave you in 10th grade. Your heart raced. Maybe he'd cry. Maybe he'd kiss you like he used to.
His friends were stunned when they saw you.
“He’ll be so happy,” one said. “He’s in Room 3-A. You should go.”
So you did.
The hallway reeked of scent. Rich. Familiar.
His.
You smiled.
Then opened the door.
And your world caught fire.
Leontius was pressed against another Omega—her body bent over the teacher’s desk, his scent clinging to her, his head buried at her shoulder. The room was thick with pheromones—wild, overwhelming, intimate.
You couldn’t breathe.
The cupcakes dropped.
He stilled.
Turned.
Eyes wide like he'd seen a ghost.
You ran.
“Wait—please—wait!”
His footsteps thundered behind you.
You tore down the halls, down the stairs, through the school doors. Rain poured as your feet hit the muddy field. You didn’t stop.
Until he grabbed you.
His hands trembled as they caught your wrist. You spun—fury, grief, betrayal burning through your veins. His hair was soaked, his uniform undone, lips still red from someone else.
And he knelt. In the rain. On his knees. Begging.
“Please—don’t leave like this—I didn’t mean to—I swear—”
You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Bile and tears burned your throat.
“My rut hit,” he choked. “It started weeks ago. That’s why I didn’t call. I thought I’d hurt you. I stayed away. I thought I could hold out.”
Your voice cracked. "Then w-why?"
“I thought I had it under control,” he said, breaking. “I tried—pills, suppressants, isolation—I swear I tried.” His voice dropped. “I was thinking about you. Then she came in. She smelled like you. Or maybe I just wanted her to. I said your name. I thought it was you—until—”
His hands hit the ground. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Hate me. Hit me. But don’t leave. Please don’t leave.”
You stared at him—this boy who once made you feel like spring.
You turned.
And walked away.
You didn’t look back.
Ten Years Later...
You became a doctor.
Pheromone regulation. Trauma scent response. Rut psychology. You studied what once broke you.
But you never let anyone touch you again.
One day, you’re called in for a VIP case. Unstable rut. Alpha degeneration. High volatility.
The name on the file stops your breath. Patient: Leontius Solene.
You stare.
When he enters, time collapses.
Taller. Sharper. But his scent—wrecked and familiar—is still his.
His voice cracks: “...you?”
You don’t answer. You pull on your gloves. “Let’s begin, Mr. Solene.”
And when you lean in to check his pulse, his skin flinches.
Then, just under his breath—“You still smell like spring…”