By morning, the rumor had sharpened into a knife.
It wasn't just "Ayan can't stand near Kairo without trembling."
Now it was: "Did you hear? He lets him get close on purpose."
Laughter chased Ayan down the hall, light and poisonous. The kind that didn't sound cruel on the surface, but underneath, it bled.
He didn't react. Didn't flinch. Didn't give them the satisfaction.
But when he rounded the corner—Kairo was there, leaning against the lockers, arms folded like he'd been waiting all along.
"Careful, Omega," Kairo said with mock sweetness, his voice pitched just loud enough for the nearby stragglers to hear. "If you keep following me around, people might think you're obsessed."
The onlookers snickered.
The knife dug deeper.
Ayan's eyes didn't waver. His lips curved, just slightly—sharp, brittle. "Projection looks ugly on you, Alpha."
Kairo smirked, but it faltered for a flicker. Only Ayan noticed. Only Ayan always noticed.
Still, he pushed.
He had to.
He leaned in closer, enough that whispers immediately spiked behind them. "Admit it," Kairo murmured, low but not low enough. "You like this. You like me."
Ayan didn't blink. Didn't back down.
But inside—inside, the words burrowed like poison, threading between nerves and veins until his composure strained thin.
The bell rang, saving neither of them.
Kairo stepped back first, laughing under his breath as he walked away—like he'd won.
But his hands, hidden in his pockets, were clenched tight enough to draw blood.
Because the truth?
It wasn't just Ayan the rumors were cutting.
It was him too.
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