what he never said

Ambrose Nostitz had always believed hatred was simple.

Clean. Sharp. Easy to name.

That was what he told himself whenever Zack Bruce’s name came up. Whenever the crowd roared for the swimmer, whenever medals clinked against Zack’s collarbone on podiums Ambrose never stood on. Whenever comparison followed him like a shadow he couldn’t outrun.

Rival.

Enemy.

That’s all Zack was supposed to be.

But standing in the corridors of the mafia estate that night, watching Zack lean into another alpha’s presence, Ambrose finally understood the truth.

Hatred had never lived in his chest.

Fear had.

The first time he met Zack Bruce, seven years ago, Ambrose hadn’t known what to think.

He’d been ditching class, half-asleep in the infirmary, when the door burst open and a boy stumbled in like he was running from his own body. Zack had looked wild-eyed, shaking, pride held together by sheer force of will.

Ambrose remembered noticing small things first.

How Zack locked the door instinctively.

How he bit down on his lip until it bled just to stay quiet.

How humiliating it must have been for someone so admired to fall apart unseen.

Ambrose had told himself he was just annoyed.

That the swimmer was dramatic. Weak. Careless.

But even then, something about the way Zack refused help—refused pity—had stayed with him.

After that day, Ambrose started noticing Zack everywhere.

At practice, soaked and shining under fluorescent lights.

In hallways, laughing with friends like his life wasn’t stitched together with loss.

At competitions, calm on the surface, fire beneath it.

Ambrose told himself it was strategy.

Know your enemy.

But enemies didn’t make his chest tighten.

Enemies didn’t make him angry when other people stood too close.

Enemies didn’t make him feel relief when Zack won—safe, alive, still breathing.

By the time Ambrose understood what that attention really was, it was too late to take it back.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He turned it into rivalry.

Because rivalry gave him permission to look.

To challenge.

To stay close.

Being Zack’s enemy meant at least Zack saw him.

And when Ambrose finally confessed—when the words spilled out raw and unpracticed—it wasn’t courage that pushed him.

It was desperation.

Zack’s rejection had shattered something in him. Not because Zack was cruel—he wasn’t—but because Ambrose saw fear in his eyes.

Fear of heat.

Fear of loss of control.

Fear of being wanted for the wrong reasons.

Ambrose had sworn not to push.

But alphas were not born gentle creatures.

That night at the party, watching James step in where he never could, Ambrose finally understood why it hurt so badly.

James hadn’t just touched Zack.

He had protected him.

Recognized his vulnerability without exploiting it.

Ambrose leaned against the cold wall, fingers digging into his palms.

“I was there first,” he whispered to no one.

But love wasn’t a race.

And for the first time in his life, Ambrose Nostitz accepted a truth that terrified him more than rivalry ever had.

He loved Zack Bruce enough to step back.

Even if it meant losing him.

Especially if it meant Zack stayed safe.

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