Nothing

I am out longer than most. Long enough for the rush of the run to settle into something quieter. Long enough that, usually, I would feel looser afterwards. Cleaner, somehow. Excess energy burned off and replaced by the steady calm that comes after a shift well used. Instead, by the time I return to the cubicle, only my clothes remain. The strange feeling still sits in my chest as I pull on my torn polo and joggers. Not discomfort. Not pain. Pressure. Awareness. Something unfinished. I ignore it. Or try to. Calix is quieter than usual too, which I dislike more than I want to admit. You’re being unhelpful, I tell him. He does not rise to it. That, more than anything, leaves me uneasy. I head back towards the dormitory, towelling the last of the damp from my hair with one hand. Just before I pass the entrance to the common room, I pause. A scent catches first. Sweet perfume. Warm skin. Full moon restlessness. Kirsten. I turn my head slightly and find her before I properly mean to look. I see her. Just. Shrouded in the low light. Kirsten, I say to Calix. I feel her before I properly focus on her. A subtle pressure. Not the same as before. This is closer to heat than sound. Nearer the skin than the bone. Enough to draw attention. Enough that my body understands the possibility of her before my mind has fully caught up. But even in that first second, I know it is not the same thing that reached me during the howl. Even so, I step inside. “Joshua,” she says lightly. Carefully. She is sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, entirely at ease. As though she has every right to be here, waiting for me in an empty room in the middle of the night. I close the distance slowly, noting the lack of anyone else. The quiet. The dark windows. The low lamp burning in the corner. I glance at the clock. Just after two. This room was safe. “I knew you’d be later than everyone else,” she says softly. “And I knew you’d come for me.” “Perhaps I didn’t have much choice,” I reply dryly, watching her and wondering how much of this is me and how much of it… isn’t. Her brow lifts in amusement, and she gestures for me to sit. I do. The second I settle, she moves. In one smooth motion, she’s in my lap, knees on either side of my thighs, fitting herself there like it is the most natural thing in the world. Like I’m expected to accept it. Her hands come up to my face, holding me still. My heart is beating steadily, solid and present. Six months ago, I would’ve felt nothing. No anticipation. No heart racing… just emptiness. This is better. This is normal. This is how it’s meant to be, isn’t it? I’m meant to feel the rush of it. The anticipation. The sharp thrill of wanting. The easy slide into instinct that used to make moments like this almost mindless in the best way. She studies me for a moment, eyes dark and assessing, as though measuring the effect she’s having. Then her hand slips lower, sliding easily through the tear in my shirt. My hand catches her wrist before I can think. “Careful,” I mutter. She pauses and glances down. “Wow. Sentimental much?” she teases. “I could just tear it off you. Wouldn't be the first time I've done that.” I let go of her wrist and pull the shirt over my head myself. “No need.” Her gaze drifts over me, slow and appreciative. She gives a soft, pleased growl, the kind I’d grown used to hearing from girls who like what they see. “Mm. Alphas always keep themselves in the best shape,” she murmurs, fingertips tracing lightly over the lines of my stomach. Under any other circumstances, that would have been enough to tip the balance. It used to take very little. Attraction had never been difficult to access, never something I had to search for. Not with a willing girl on my lap. Not with heat in her gaze and her hands already roaming like she knew exactly what she was doing. Just the sight of her there should’ve been enough, and with the touch that should’ve been enough. She leans in and brushes her lips against mine. It’s a feeling I know. One I’ve chased before. The pause before the payoff. The moment where anticipation flips cleanly into wanting and everything else narrows out. Only this time, it doesn’t land. Her mouth moves against mine, confident and practised, her tongue sliding against mine with easy certainty. I follow automatically, hands settling at her waist, doing what I’ve done too many times to need to think about. She feels right in my hands. This looks right. And yet it somehow isn’t. There’s no spark of urgency. No instinctive surge. No satisfying loss of control. Only awareness. Too much of it. I shift, turning us and pressing her back onto the sofa beneath me, trying to fall into a rhythm that used to come without effort. Now I have to think about it. That’s the problem. The thought alone is enough to unsettle me. Was I just out of practice, or was something else wrong? She arches up into me, her heat pressing through the fabric between us, but even that feels strangely distant. Too familiar. Too rehearsed. Like I am moving through something I already know by memory alone, with none of the instinct that used to make it feel alive. A hand slides lower, tentative at first, then more deliberate. Still nothing. Cold unease starts to spread through me. Not because I don’t understand what she’s doing, but because I understand it perfectly and my body still isn’t answering the way it should. I’m suddenly aware of every second passing, every beat of hesitation, every tiny shift in her expression as she begins to notice it too. She stills, then tries again, firmer this time. Her grip almost painful. Her expression changes. "You alright?" she asks, narrowing her eyes. I exhale slowly, forcing the breath out. "Yeah. Just… give me a second." "You’ve had several." There’s no softness in her voice now. Only irritation. I frown, more at myself than at her. What’s wrong with me? I ask Calix. He doesn’t answer. Not confusion. Not surprise. Silence. Like he already knows. That sends a fresh thread of unease through me. Beneath me, she shifts, her interest already fading. "I’m still good in other ways," I say, quieter now, trying to salvage something from whatever this has become. The words leave a sour taste in my mouth the second they’re said. Too practised. Too familiar. A line from a version of myself that suddenly feels embarrassingly thin. Her expression hardens at once. "It wasn’t your mouth that I was interested in, Landry." She pushes me off and stands, straightening her clothes with brisk, annoyed movements. Whatever pull she managed to have over me all day — It’s gone. Completely. Gone so fast it leaves the whole thing feeling faintly ridiculous, like I had mistaken convenience and proximity for something far stronger. "I get it now," she says coolly. "I thought everyone was just talking. The new beta going for the nepobaby alpha — of course they’d have something to say. But maybe they were right. Maybe you really are boring." The words land harder than they should. “Bit disappointing, really,” she adds. “You’d think a Landry, of all people, would be worth the fuss.” Before I can think of a reply, she turns and walks out. I stay where I am, flat on my back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling and trying to work out what just happened. Or rather, what didn’t. The room feels too warm now. Too still. My pulse has settled into something heavy and irritated, not with her but with myself. Whatever pull she had managed to hold over me all day— Gone. Completely. So fast it makes the whole thing feel faintly ridiculous, as though I mistook convenience and proximity for something far stronger. Kirsten studies me for another second, and the warmth in her expression cools. "I get it now," she says. "I thought everyone was just talking. New beta goes for the golden-boy alpha, and of course people have something to say." Her mouth twists. "But maybe they were right. Maybe you really are boring." The words land harder than they should. "Bit disappointing, really," she adds. "You’d think a Landry, of all people, would be worth the fuss." Before I can think of a reply, she turns and walks out. I stay where I am, flat on my back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling and trying to work out what just happened. Or rather, what didn’t. The room feels too warm now. Too still. My pulse settles into something heavy and irritated. Not with her. With myself. Because whatever this was, it is gone. But the strange feeling in my chest from the howl— That is still there. I press a hand lightly against it, frowning. That wasn’t her, I tell Calix. He says nothing. And in the silence, I realise he already knew. Slowly, I sit up, unease seeping deeper now. Was I broken? Had something been done to me again? The thought lands ugly and immediate. If this was embarrassment, that would be one thing. If it was Kirsten, or timing, or stress, fine. Humiliating, but fine. But if it was not? I drag a hand over my face and stare into the empty room. Calix remains silent. Somehow, that is the worst part. Because he is not confused. He is waiting. And I have the horrible feeling that whatever answer he is holding back, I am not going to like it.