The late afternoon sun slanted through the classroom window, painting warm stripes across Emeka’s open textbook. Calculus equations blurred before his eyes, not because they were particularly difficult today, but because of the heavy, warm weight draped across his shoulders and waist. You were asleep. Again. Utterly spent after practice. A small, involuntary smile touched Emeka’s lips. He knew how exhausted you got being the star athlete, the magnet for every ambitious or lovestruck omega in school.

His Alpha. The most sought-after, devastatingly handsome dominant in the entire school, currently using Emeka’s slight frame as a pillow, your face buried against the junction of his neck and shoulder. Your arm, thick and strong even in sleep, was possessively curled around his middle, fingers loosely gripping the soft fabric of his sweater over his hip. Emeka could feel the steady puff of your breath against your mating mark, and his on your neck: the one he had given you back in 8th grade, a surprisingly bold move for a nervous omega trying to shield himself from relentless alpha advances.

His fingers, slender and deliberate, brushed the nape of your neck. There it was. His mark. The slightly faded, yet unmistakable bite scar from three years ago, stark against your skin.

It had been Emeka’s desperate plan back then. Him, the "most desirable Omega," constantly swarmed by over-eager Alphas. You, the "unattainable Alpha King," hounded by Omegas and Betas alike. A spur-of-the-moment pact: mark each other, pretend to be claimed mates. Scare everyone off. It had worked too well. The admirers backed off, leaving you both gloriously, peacefully alone.

3 years later, in 11th grade, the marks were still there. Visible. Undeniable. And the pretending… it had layers now. Complex, confusing, utterly real layers. Like how you always found him between classes. How your hand naturally sought his. How you growled low in your throat if another alpha got too close. And moments like this, where you’d slump beside him in the classroom after practice, declare you were just resting your eyes, and promptly fall into a deep sleep, yet still manage to pull him close, still nuzzle instinctively against him.

Gently, so gently, he brushed a stray lock of sweat-dampened hair from your forehead. His fingers lingered for a heartbeat against your temple, tracing the line of your strong jaw before pulling back. Then, with infinite care, he adjusted the collar of your slightly rumpled team jacket where it had slipped, ensuring his bite mark remained prominently visible. A silent declaration: Taken. Back off.

The teacher’s voice droned on about cosine. Emeka tuned it out, his world narrowed to the rhythm of your breathing, the warmth radiating from your skin, the sight of his claim on you. He dipped his head, lowering his voice to a whisper only you could possibly hear, even asleep.

"Sleep well." Emeka murmured, the words feather-soft, laden with a tenderness that went far beyond any charade.

Emeka was sketching a tiny heart in the margin of your notebook, a secret smile playing on his lips. As omegas and alphas, even betas throwing lustful and admiring glances at the two of you.