## Morning Light

The sun filtered through the worn curtains of the small bedroom, casting soft amber shadows across the walls. River stirred awake at 5:30 AM—not because of an alarm, but because his body had learned years ago that this was the only way to get everything done.

He lay there for a moment, listening to the quiet hum of the ceiling fan, before pushing back the thin blanket. His room was modest—a single bed, a small desk buried under university textbooks, and a worn dresser with a mirror that had a slight crack running through the corner. But it was home.

From down the hallway, he could already hear his nephew, Liam, stirring in his sleep. River smiled softly. The kid was five now, and when his sister had shown up three years ago and placed that baby in his arms, something fundamental had shifted inside River. He'd held Liam like the world depended on it. Because for that little boy, River *was* the world.

River moved quietly through their small house. The kitchen was cramped, with cabinets that didn't quite close properly, but it was clean. He made coffee—cheap instant stuff, but it was hot and bitter and necessary—and started preparing breakfast. Eggs, toast, and the fresh milk he'd bought yesterday. Liam loved milk.

He heard footsteps, small and quick, padding down the hallway.

"Uncle Riv?" Liam's voice was still sleepy, his blonde hair sticking up at odd angles. He was wearing the dinosaur pajamas River had saved up for his birthday three months ago.

"Morning, buddy," River said, scooping the kid up and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Liam giggled, wrapping his small arms around River's neck. "You sleep good?"

"Mm-hmm. I had a dream about dragons."

River set him at the small kitchen table, ruffling his hair. "Yeah? Were they nice dragons?"

"They were your friends, Uncle Riv. They protected us."

River's chest tightened. Even five-year-olds shouldn't need protection. But that was life, wasn't it? That was his life.

"That sounds perfect, baby," River murmured, setting breakfast in front of him. He ate quickly while Liam ate slower, distracted by his own thoughts. Then came the careful process of getting the kid ready for his grandmother's house—clothes, socks, backpack, lunch box. Their grandmother watched Liam while River was at university. She complained about her back and her knees, but River knew she adored the boy.

By 7:15 AM, River was walking Liam down the street toward the bus stop where his grandmother waited. The morning was cool, the sky still pale blue. River wore one of his oversized sweaters, even though the weather was getting warmer. The loose fit helped. It always did.

"I'll be back by six, okay, Nan?" he called out, hugging his grandmother quickly.

"Be careful," she said, patting his cheek. It was the same thing she said every morning. Be careful. As if the world cared about careful.

By 8:00 AM, River was stepping through the gates of one of the most prestigious universities in the world. Kingstone University. The campus was beautiful—manicured gardens, modern architecture, students everywhere in designer clothes laughing without worry. It was a different world from his, but he'd earned his place here. He was a second-year student with a full scholarship. He was *supposed* to be here.

That was what he told himself, anyway.

## Cold Precision

Across the city, in a mansion that occupied an entire city block, Ethan Kingstone was waking up to the soft ping of his phone.

6:00 AM. Right on schedule.

He didn't need an alarm clock anymore. His body had been conditioned over years to wake at exactly the right time—time to check the overnight reports from his gaming company, time to review university operations, time to perfect his mask before stepping out into the world.

Ethan moved through his morning routine with mechanical precision. Cold shower—always cold, to keep the blood flowing, to keep him sharp. He dressed in a black Balenciaga hoodie and designer jeans, the casual uniform of someone who had money but pretended not to care about it. Designer sneakers. A silver chain that caught the light.

His bedroom was sterile. King-sized bed with expensive linens he never enjoyed. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a view that probably cost more than most people's houses. Not that Ethan noticed the view anymore.

He sat at his desk—marble top, ergonomic chair worth thousands—and pulled up his company's overnight reports. The new game launch was tracking perfectly. Everything was always tracking perfectly. He'd built an empire before turning twenty, and no one even knew it.

The only person who knew was Kai, his best friend and the only person Ethan had ever truly trusted. Sometimes he wondered if that was even real trust, or just the exhaustion of trying to hide from everyone.

He checked his phone again. No new messages.

Then he pulled up the university calendar and saw River's course schedule for today.

He told himself it was coincidence. That he only knew because he passively kept track of the university's course distributions. That he wasn't *planning* to show up at the same lecture hall at 8:45 AM just so he could—

"Fuck," Ethan muttered to himself, closing the app.

He knew exactly why he was going to show up. He just couldn't admit it.

By 8:30 AM, Ethan was walking through the campus gates in his casual designer clothes, drawing eyes without seeming to notice. Students whispered. Girls blushed. He ignored all of it. He had one purpose, and it walked around this campus in an oversized sweater that didn't hide the sharp angles of his jaw or the delicate curve of his neck.

Ethan had known River was an omega since the first day of university. It was in the way he moved, the subtle scent he carried beneath whatever laundry detergent he used. River didn't know that Ethan knew. River thought his secret was safe.

Ethan had made sure it was. He'd buried the truth so deep that even the university's health records wouldn't show it. Male omegas were rare enough that most people assumed River was a beta. Ethan had paid very, very good money to keep it that way.

He had no idea why he'd done it. He told himself it was strategic. That keeping River's secret gave him leverage. But deep down, in the parts of himself Ethan never examined, he knew that wasn't true.

He did it because River's secret was precious. And precious things needed to be protected.

## First Blood

The lecture hall was crowded. Students shuffled in, taking their seats, loud and laughing and alive in the way Ethan could never quite manage.

River was already there, sitting in the middle row, his notebook open and his pen poised. He wore a dark green sweater today. Ethan's favorite color had been green for exactly two years. Two years ago, he'd been in the library doing research when River had walked past, his head down, and Ethan had caught the flash of his eyes—sharp, intelligent, a perfect forest green.

He'd never changed his favorite color back.

Ethan slid into the row behind him, three seats to the left. Close enough to hear the soft scratch of River's pen. Close enough to smell him—something warm, something real beneath the careful disguise of his oversized clothes.

The professor started speaking. Ethan didn't hear a word.

Ten minutes in, the professor asked a question. River's hand shot up. Of course it did. River always had the right answers. He was brilliant, annoyingly so.

"The psychological framework," River was saying, his voice confident, "suggests that—"

"That's such a boring way to look at it," Ethan interrupted smoothly, not bothering to raise his hand. "I mean, if you're going to reference something everyone already knows, at least make it interesting."

The professor blinked. River's jaw tightened.

"Excuse me?" River turned in his seat, eyes flashing. "Did you have an actual point, or are you just making noise again?"

"The point is you're reading from the textbook like a robot," Ethan said casually, pulling out his phone to check the time. "Mix it up a little. Think for yourself."

"Oh, coming from *you*, Mr. 'I Show Up To Class Just To Bother People.' At least I'm trying."

"You're trying too hard. It's painful to watch."

"Then don't watch," River snapped. "Better yet, don't come to class and spare us all the headache."

The other students were already pulling out their phones, recording. This was the morning entertainment.

"Can't do that," Ethan said, finally glancing at him with a slight smirk. "Someone needs to keep you humble."

"I have a newsflash for you, Kingstone. You're not that important."

"Yet here you are, giving me all your attention."

River's face flushed. "Professor, can we please continue without the interruptions?"

"Yes, yes, of course," the professor said weakly.

But as River turned back around, Ethan could see the slight curve of his lips. Almost like he wanted to smile. Almost like he'd enjoyed that.

Ethan certainly had.

## Canteen Clash

Ethan found River in the canteen at lunch, which was exactly where he'd known River would be. River always sat in the corner by the windows—the quiet spot, away from the main throng of students. Ethan grabbed a coffee he didn't want and sat directly across from him.

"Seriously?" River didn't even look up from his sandwich. "Are you following me now?"

"Interesting interpretation," Ethan said, opening his own lunch. "I call it coincidence."

"You call a lot of things coincidence. Like how you managed to be in four of my classes this semester."

"Enrollment is random."

River finally looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "You're telling me it's just pure chance that you keep showing up wherever I am?"

"What can I say?" Ethan shrugged, taking a bite of his food. "The universe has a sense of humor."

"The universe can go fuck itself," River muttered, returning to his sandwich.

Ethan watched him eat. The way he was careful with each bite, making the meal last. The way his eyes kept darting to the dessert display across the room before he looked away. Always denying himself something nice.

"You should get dessert," Ethan said suddenly.

River's head snapped up. "What?"

"You keep looking at the desserts. You want one. Get one."

"I don't want—" River started, but Ethan was already standing, walking to the dessert counter, and buying two chocolate eclairs. He came back and set one in front of River.

"I didn't ask for this," River said flatly.

"Consider it payment for tolerating my presence."

"I don't tolerate you. I endure you. There's a difference."

"Semantics." Ethan bit into his eclair, watching as River stared at his like it might bite back. "Are you seriously going to waste good chocolate out of spite?"

River's fingers twitched. Ethan could see the war happening behind his eyes—pride versus desire.

Desire won.

River picked up the eclair and took a careful bite. His eyes closed for just a moment, savoring it, and Ethan felt something twist in his chest. Such a small thing. A bite of chocolate. But River was treating it like a luxury.

"It's good," River admitted quietly.

"I know."

River opened his eyes and glared. "You're annoying."

"You're predictable."

"I'm not predictable. You're just—" River paused, searching for the word. "—intrusive."

"Same thing."

"It's really not."

They sat in silence for a moment, both eating their eclairs. Around them, students whispered. Another Kingstone-River moment. The dynamic everyone was obsessed with.

Ethan pulled out his phone and opened his notes app. He'd been writing there for two years. Observations. Small things.

*River's eyes get softer when he eats something sweet.*

*He thinks no one's watching when he smiles like that.*

*He should smile more.*

*Green sweater today. Fourth time this month. Does he know it makes his eyes stand out?*

*He pretended not to want the eclair. But he wanted it. He wants a lot of things he won't let himself have.*

*I wonder what else he's denying himself.*

He closed the app without finishing the thought.

"Stop staring at your phone and actually be present," River said. "It's rude."

"I'm multitasking."

"No, you're being evasive. You always do that when someone gets too close to figuring you out."

Ethan's fingers stilled. "There's nothing to figure out."

"Exactly. Which means you're either boring or you're hiding something. And you're definitely not boring."

It was closer to the truth than River knew. Ethan met his eyes across the table. Green. Just as he remembered. Just as he always saw them when he closed his eyes at night.

"Maybe I like the mystery," Ethan said quietly.

River held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary. "Maybe you do."

Then he looked away, finishing his eclair, and Ethan could breathe again.

## The Corridor

By 8:45 PM, the university was nearly empty. Most students had gone home or to parties or to their perfect lives. But Ethan was still here, in his office at the top of the administration building—an office that didn't officially exist because the university's official leadership didn't know that the owner of the university was a twenty-year-old college student.

He'd been reviewing reports for the past three hours. His gaming company had just hit a record high in earnings. Kingstone University was expanding into three new countries. Everything was perfect.

Everything was perfectly, devastatingly empty.

He was walking down the corridor toward the parking garage when he heard it.

A voice. Soft and clear and the most beautiful thing he'd heard all day.

River was singing.

The song was something sad, something haunting. Ethan couldn't quite place it, but he recognized the pain in it. He recognized that because he'd felt it—he *was* feeling it.

Without thinking, Ethan pulled out his phone and moved to the side of the corridor, standing behind a large marble pillar. River was standing by one of the tall windows, his silhouette backlit by the streetlights outside. He wasn't wearing his armor anymore—his oversized sweater was gone, and he was in a fitted black shirt, his fair skin almost luminescent in the darkness.

Ethan started recording.

He could see the curve of River's shoulders, the way he swayed slightly as he sang, the raw emotion in every note. This was River without his mask. This was the part of him he didn't let anyone see.

Ethan was stealing it. Recording his vulnerability and storing it away like a thief hoarding jewels.

The song ended. River stood in silence for a moment, then wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hand.

"Pathetic," River muttered to himself.

Ethan's chest clenched.

River gathered his bag and walked away, not knowing he'd been seen. Not knowing that Ethan Kingstone—cold, cruel, untouchable Ethan Kingstone—was standing in the shadows like a lovesick fool, watching him go.

Ethan looked down at his phone. At the video of River singing. At those three minutes and twenty seconds of beauty and pain.

He pressed save.

Then he walked to the empty house and played the video again, and again, and again until the sun came up.

By morning, he had transferred the file to seventeen different devices and encrypted it three ways. By morning, he had written the melody to a new song that no one would ever know was about River.

By morning, he'd convinced himself once again that what he felt wasn't love. It couldn't be. Love was soft and vulnerable and real, and Ethan Kingstone didn't do any of those things.

Love was what River deserved. And River would never love him.

So instead, they would fight. They would banter and annoy each other, dance around something neither of them could name, and Ethan would secretly protect him, and River would never know.

It was a perfect system.

It was absolute torture.

And Ethan wouldn't change a single thing.

---______

## RIVER'S POV - Morning

I hate Mondays. Actually, I hate most days, but Mondays especially. And you know what makes Mondays infinitely worse? Ethan fucking Kingstone.

I'm sitting in the library, actually trying to get some work done on my essay about social psychology, when I feel a presence. Not like a gentle awareness that someone's near me. No. I feel *him*—like a storm brewing, like electricity in the air before lightning strikes.

"Working hard, I see," a smooth voice says from behind me.

I don't even look up. "If you're here to waste my time, make it quick. Some of us have actual deadlines."

Ethan walks around and sits directly across from me, spreading out his own laptop and textbooks like he owns the entire table. Which, knowing him, he probably does own the building or something equally ridiculous.

"Didn't say I was here to waste your time," he says, eyes skimming over his screen. "Maybe I just wanted to study."

"In the two years I've known you, I have never once seen you actually study. You just show up, take exams, and somehow get perfect scores. So either you're cheating, or you're the most naturally gifted person alive, which is fucking annoying either way."

He glances at me over his laptop, and there's that infuriating smirk. That *look* that makes my blood boil. "Are you really that bothered by my presence? Because from where I'm sitting, it seems like you think about me a lot."

"I don't think about you," I snap. My voice is louder than I intended. A few students look over. I lower it. "You're just... always there. Like a cockroach. Impossible to ignore."

"A cockroach," he repeats, like he's testing the word. "That's new. Usually it's 'asshole' or 'arrogant prick.'"

"Don't give me ideas. I can add more to the list."

"I'm sure you could. You're very creative when you're angry."

There's something in the way he says it. Not mocking, exactly. More like... observational. Like he's genuinely interested in my anger, like it means something to him. Which is insane. Of course it doesn't mean anything. He probably just enjoys getting a rise out of people.

"Why are you even here?" I ask, closing my laptop. I can't concentrate now. My mind is too full of him, too full of frustration and irritation and something I don't want to name.

"Same reason you are. I'm a student."

"You're never in the library."

"Maybe I wanted a change of scenery."

"Bull. Shit."

He leans back in his chair, and I can see the slight curve of his lips. Like he's enjoying this. Like my anger is entertainment for him.

"You're cute when you're mad," he says casually.

That's it. I stand up so fast my chair nearly falls backward. Several people jump. "You know what? Fuck off, Kingstone. I don't have time for this."

"Running away now?"

"I'm removing myself from a toxic situation. There's a difference."

"Is there?" He's still sitting, still calm, still smirking. "Because it looks like you're leaving because you can't handle being around me."

"I can handle you just fine. I just choose not to."

"Yet you're still standing here, arguing with me instead of leaving."

He has a point. I hate that he has a point. I grab my things without another word and storm out of the library. Behind me, I can feel his eyes on me, and it makes my skin prickle with something I refuse to identify as anything other than anger.

## ETHAN'S POV - Library

I watch River leave, his shoulders tense beneath that oversized sweater—forest green today, my favorite—and I have to grip the edge of the table to stop myself from following him.

God, he's infuriating. And beautiful. And infuriating in a way that makes me want to push him further, make him angrier, just to see those green eyes flash with that specific kind of rage that only I seem to provoke.

He called me a cockroach. He's insulted me in approximately five hundred different ways over the past two years, and somehow that one lands differently. Cockroach. Like I'm a pest. Like I'm something he wants to crush under his heel.

I pull out my phone and open my notes app.

*He wore the green sweater again. He was angry the entire time we talked. His voice got that sharp edge it only gets around me. He said I was always there, like I'm unavoidable. I am. For him. I'm unavoidable.*

*He has a test in Environmental Science on Wednesday at 2 PM. He'll be in the science building. I'll find an excuse to be there too.*

*He hates when I call him cute. His face gets flushed. His hands clench. He looks like he wants to hit me. I would let him. I would let him do anything.*

I close the app and stare at his empty chair. The library suddenly feels too quiet without him. Too empty.

My phone buzzes. A text from Oliver, my secretary:

*The monthly transfer to River's account has been processed. Is there anything else you need?*

I don't respond. There's nothing else I can ask for. I've already done everything—arranged his scholarship, ensured his stipend, made sure he and Liam are safe and secure. He has no idea that every comfort he has is because I exist in his life, because I'm obsessed with making sure he never has to struggle the way he does.

And all he can do is hate me for it.

I gather my things and head to my office. The one that doesn't officially exist. The one where I run a billion-dollar gaming company while simultaneously being a college student. The one where I keep every piece of information about River that I can possibly obtain.

Somewhere between the university records and the gaming reports and the quarterly earnings projections, I've become a man who saves every photo River doesn't know was taken. Who records his voice without permission. Who changes his favorite color to match his eyes.

I should feel guilty about that. Probably, I should feel something other than this bone-deep need to keep him, protect him, possess him in every way except the one that matters.

But guilt isn't what I feel when I think about River.

## RIVER'S POV - After University

I'm still angry when I pick up Liam from Nan's house. He takes one look at my face and asks, "Uncle Riv, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, baby," I lie, ruffling his hair. But my jaw is clenched so tight it probably looks like I'm grinding my teeth. Which I probably am.

We take the bus home, and I try to focus on Liam's rambling about his day—something about dragons and treasure and a kid named Marcus who pushed him off the monkey bars. My protective instincts flare. "Did you tell your teacher?"

"I told Nan. She said Marcus is just being a boy."

I make a mental note to have a word with Nan about letting people push my nephew around. That's not "being a boy," that's being an asshole. And I should know. I'm around an asshole all day.

By the time we get home, I've managed to push Ethan to the back of my mind. Or at least, I've managed to pretend I have.

I make dinner—pasta with a simple tomato sauce—and eat with Liam at the small kitchen table. He talks more than he eats, which is fine. Food is secondary to time with him. I'd rather listen to him tell me about his dreams than have him finish his plate.

After dinner, I bathe him, brush his teeth, read him a story about a lonely wolf who finds a pack. He falls asleep halfway through, his small hand gripping my shirt.

I stay there for a while, just watching him sleep. This is why I do everything. This kid. This beautiful, innocent kid who depends on me completely.

I move to the kitchen and pull out my textbooks. I have an essay due on Thursday, a lab report due Friday, and a presentation due next Monday. My scholarship covers tuition, and the monthly stipend the university gives me—which is honestly more than I expected, but I'm not going to question it—covers rent and food and Liam's needs.

Still, I work part-time at a coffee shop on weekends just to have a buffer. Just in case something happens. Just because I'm paranoid about stability after a childhood of having nothing.

As I'm writing, my mind keeps drifting. To the library. To Ethan sitting across from me like he belonged there. To the way he said, "You're cute when you're angry."

No. No, I'm not doing this. I'm not thinking about him outside of the university. That's my rule. At school, I have to deal with him. But at home, in my space, with Liam sleeping peacefully down the hall, I don't have to think about Ethan Kingstone at all.

I force myself to focus on my essay. It's about attachment theory and how early childhood abandonment affects adult relationships. Ironic, considering my own life, but whatever. Academia doesn't care about irony.

By the time I finish, it's past midnight. I'm exhausted in a way that goes beyond physical. Emotionally drained. Spiritually bankrupt. Just tired of fighting so hard all the time.

I collapse into bed and dream of green eyes and infuriating smirks and a voice that says, "You're cute when you're angry."

I wake up angry at myself for dreaming about him at all.

## ETHAN'S POV - Night

I'm in my penthouse by 8 PM, which is early for me. Usually, I stay at the university until late, reviewing reports, handling business, making sure everything is running perfectly. But tonight, after the library, I couldn't stay there.

I couldn't stay anywhere that wasn't here, in this empty mansion, alone with my thoughts and my obsession.

The view from my floor-to-ceiling windows is spectacular. The city lights spread out like stars, and I'm up here, looking down at it all like a god. Except I feel nothing like a god. I feel like a lonely twenty-year-old who's running an empire and a university while the only person he cares about hates him.

I pour myself a drink—expensive scotch that tastes like nothing—and sit on my couch. The place is all steel and glass and leather. Designed by someone famous. Decorated to impress people I'll never invite here.

On the wall, I have a painting. It's abstract, supposedly worth a fortune. But what people don't know is that the artist used colors that match River's eyes. I paid triple the asking price for it, and the artist probably thought I was insane.

They're not wrong.

My phone buzzes. It's Kai.

*You coming to the party Friday?*

I type back: *No.*

*Why not? There's going to be—*

I don't let him finish. *Not interested.*

He doesn't respond, probably because he knows exactly why I'm not interested. Kai knows that my entire social life has contracted to a single person, and that person can't stand me.

I open my laptop and pull up the security footage from the library. Yes, I have security cameras everywhere. Yes, I use them to watch River when he's on campus. Yes, that's probably illegal and definitely unhinged.

I don't care.

I watch the moment when he stood up, when his chair nearly fell backward, when his eyes flashed with pure rage at me. He was beautiful. Absolutely, achingly beautiful.

I rewind it and watch again. And again.

Then I open my notes app and write:

*He called me a cockroach today. A pest. I wonder if he knows that I'm drawn to him like a disease. Like I'm infected with the need to be near him, to exist in his space, to breathe the same air. He thinks I'm annoying. He has no idea that I'm obsessed. That I've been obsessed since the moment I smelled his scent in the hallway two years ago and realized what he was. What he is.*

*An omega. My omega. Except he's not mine. He'll never be mine if he doesn't stop hating me. And if he stops hating me, I'll lose the only reason I have to keep existing in his orbit.*

*So I'll keep antagonizing him. Keep making him angry. Because angry River is better than no River at all.*

*Even if it destroys us both.*

I delete that last thought. It hits too close to something real.

My parrot, a beautiful green bird named Solomon—yes, I named him after River's eyes—ruffles his feathers in his cage.

"River," the bird squawks, because I've taught him to say that name approximately ten thousand times.

"I know, buddy," I say to the empty penthouse. "I know."

I finish my scotch and pour another. Then I go to my bedroom—the same sterile, empty bedroom I woke up in this morning—and pull up my phone.

There's a folder labeled "Private" that contains video files. Audio files. Photos. Everything River has ever done that I've managed to document.

I shouldn't watch them. I should delete them. I should stop this right now, before I become a complete monster.

Instead, I press play on the recording of him singing in the corridor. The one from last week where he didn't know I was there.

"River," Solomon squawks again from the other room.

"Yeah," I whisper to the darkness. "River."

And I fall asleep to the sound of his voice, wondering if this obsession is love or if I'm just broken in a way that can never be fixed.