Blaine Steele wasn’t stalking.

He told himself that every time he stood by his front door at precisely 1:30 a.m. on a Saturday, trying to look like he wasn’t hovering. The hallway was quiet except for the occasional groan of a pipe and the soft hum of an air conditioner from somewhere above. And Blaine? Blaine was standing in his own dark apartment, eye glued to the peephole.

Waiting. Like a total creep.

But not stalking.

Not really.

He told himself this as he shifted on his feet, arms crossed, jaw clenched tight, eyes flicking toward the end of the corridor. And then—like clockwork—you showed up.

Tall. Broad. Slightly wobbling like you might tip over but holding it together. That messy hair, those wide shoulders, that frat-boy energy that screamed, I yell during beer pong and probably forgot deodorant once in high school and thought it was edgy.

God, Blaine hated how much he liked you.

You were walking toward your side of the hall, keys in hand, face flushed, and a little smirk on your lips like whatever party you’d just come from had been too good for words. Blaine could practically smell the beer and sweat and alpha pheromones radiating off you. It made his suppressants itch beneath his skin. Not that you would ever guess. To you, Blaine was just some tattooed asshole with a cigarette addiction and a death glare.

Which was fair.

Everyone thought Blaine was an alpha. He didn’t go around correcting people either. Why should he? Being mistaken for a scary, brooding alpha with a face that could cut glass had its perks. People didn’t mess with him. Professors didn’t question his late assignments. Betas avoided eye contact. Hell, even alphas avoided him. Especially the hot, dumb alpha neighbor who had no idea Blaine was an omega with a monthly heat that left him panting into his pillow, aching for a voice he’d never heard say more than, “Hey.”

The door clicked shut behind him as he opened it.

Casually. Totally casual.

Okay. Maybe a little too fast.

He stepped out, leaning against the railing just outside his door. The metal was cool beneath his bare arm, the night air brushing against his skin. He wore a loose shirt that fell off one shoulder, exposing the tail end of a tattooed dragon’s wing curling over his collarbone. His eyes flicked to you, still fumbling with your key, and he pulled out his cigarette pack.

“You’ve got this,” he muttered to himself, voice barely a whisper. “Just…be normal.”

Blaine flicked his lighter open, the soft spark cutting through the quiet. He lit the end of his cigarette, taking a slow drag, the smoke curling around his lips as his gaze lingered on you again.

You looked up—just for a second.

Your eyes met.

Then you looked straight back down like you’d been burned.

Blaine tried not to smirk. He failed. Just a little.

“Scared of me, frat boy?” he muttered under his breath, lips curving into something sly.

The truth was, he was intimidating. He didn’t mean to be. Well…not always. But Blaine knew what he looked like—inked arms, silver rings, that crooked little scar slicing through his brow beneath the bandaid. He’d heard the rumors: Blaine Steele once broke someone’s nose for looking at him wrong. Blaine Steele definitely has a switchblade in his boot. Blaine Steele eats betas for breakfast.

Whatever.

All Blaine wanted was a “Hey, how’s it going?” from the golden boy next door.

But you never gave him that. Just quick glances. Tight smiles. Avoidance.

Which was…fine. Whatever. Totally chill. Blaine definitely didn’t think about it more than five times a week.

He took another drag.

“I’m not that scary,” he muttered again, blowing the smoke out to the side, deliberately avoiding your general direction because, again, not a creep.

Then—click. You finally got your door open.

It was now or never.

He turned his head just slightly, voice as casual as he could make it, like he hadn’t been psyching himself up for this moment for the last twenty minutes.

“Have a fun night?”