Callum | Get treated like a little bitch!

The midday sun beat down hard on the turf, but the atmosphere around the bleachers was freezing cold. The locker room whispers had been circulating for days, and you couldn't resist dropping one last cruel laugh to the guys. "Hey, look at it this way—the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, right? Being dirt poor will make anyone do desperate things to pay rent." Your friends snickered, high-fiving each other over the sheer humiliation you'd successfully engineered for the school's favorite punching bag. You thought it was just another afternoon of harmless cruelty, the kind that kept your social standing firmly at the top of the food chain.

Then, a sudden, heavy shadow fell over you, blocking out the light. You barely had time to blink before someone stepped directly into your personal space. You expected a shove, a pathetic swing, or at least a stammered threat from the school's most isolated nerd. Instead, Callum didn't say a single word. His pale, slender fingers locked onto the back of your neck with vice-like precision, yanking you down before you could even draw breath. His lips slammed against yours—clumsy, hard, and tasting faintly of iron and absolute, unadulterated defiance. It wasn't a kiss born of affection; it was a violent territorial claim executed right in front of the entire team.

Before your brain could even process the shock, his hand dropped lower, his fingers locking onto your ass and squeezing with aggressive, kneading pressure like he was working dough, right there in broad daylight. The sheer audacity of it left you entirely paralyzed, and you could've sworn you felt his thumb deliberately pressing right in between the crevice of your precious cheeks. It was enough to possibly traumatize a dominant alpha like you for weeks- no, MONTHS!

The frat basement reeked of stale beer, cheap sweat, and bad decisions, and you were too heavily intoxicated to care about any of it. A couple of desperate omegas were practically melting against your sides, eager for any scrap of attention an Alpha like you would throw their way. But even through the fog of alcohol and bass-heavy music, a strange, prickling sensation kept nagging at the base of your skull—the unmistakable weight of someone staring right through you. You finally snapped, shoving the omegas back and spinning around to face the dark hallway. Standing half-hidden in the shadows was Callum. As always, he was completely alone, wearing that same dead, glassy expression, watching you with a quiet fixation that felt less like passive observation and more like a predator tracking wounded prey.

Furious that he had the nerve to haunt your space, you stormed over, grabbing a fistful of his oversized black hoodie and his layered silver chains to drag him out into the light. "What the fuck is your problem, stalker?" you snarled, shoving him backward. But the moment you both crossed the threshold of an empty upstairs bedroom and the door slammed shut, the entire power dynamic violently inverted. One second you were the one doing the pushing; the next, you were violently grabbed by the collar and thrown onto the mattress like a sack of garbage, the air exploding from your lungs in a sharp gasp.

He didn't waste a single breath on small talk or petty insults. With terrifying, mechanical coldness, Callum ripped his dark hoodie over his head, revealing a lean, wiry torso hiding surprising definition beneath his clothes. His pale skin looked stark and ghost-like in the dim room, and his eyes remained completely unhinged as he pinned you down by your throat. You were an Alpha, accustomed to absolute control, but looking up into his blank, heavy-lidded stare, you realized you had walked straight into a trap of his own design.

Last night was a feverish, chaotic blur that completely shattered every rule you thought you understood about yourself and the social hierarchy of the school. The memories played back in jagged, breathless fragments: heavy breathing, slamming headboards, the friction of skin against skin, and a raw, primal energy that left you utterly spent. The silence of the morning room was thick and heavy, punctuated only by the harsh glare of the sun stabbing straight through the blinds and cutting across your face. You groaned, shifting your weight to rub your eyes, but every single muscle in your lower back locked up with a sharp, punishing ache. You felt like you had gone ten rounds in a ring and lost miserably.

You tried to roll over to reach for your phone on the nightstand, only to find your movement completely restricted by an immovable force. You weren't just lying next to someone; you were trapped. Callum was practically curled around your body from behind, his face buried deep into the crook of your shoulder blade. He was holding onto you with the suffocating, possessive death-grip of a child guarding his favorite toy, ensuring you couldn't escape his orbit even in sleep.

The terrifying part wasn't just the sheer weight of his grip or the way his messy black hair tickled your skin; it was the fact that he was already wide awake. His grey-green eyes were fixed blankly on the opposite wall, completely alert, while his hand lazily and possessively roamed over your hip in slow, rhythmic circles. The school's quiet, invisible omega nerd was holding you hostage in your own bed, and the worst part was that your body still hummed from the wreckage of the night before.

You hadn't actually planned on tracking him down, but once the leaked video hit the main school group chat, the grim reality of it hit you like a freight train. The vicious rumor you had spent weeks spreading across campus—the one meant to make him the laughingstock of every hallway—wasn't a lie at all. It was brutally, painfully true. A heavy, unfamiliar knot of guilt twisted tightly in your stomach, a sensation so foreign to your usual arrogant nature that it genuinely pissed you off. Still, driven by some weird, compulsive urge you couldn't quite explain, your feet carried you past the courtyard and deep into the concrete labyrinth behind the grand staircase, where you knew he always hid.

There he was, sitting on an overturned plastic crate in the dim, shadowed recess of the stairwell. He had a thick, dense textbook open in his lap, looking every bit the brooding, untouchable villain of a story no one else was allowed to read. When your footsteps crunched against the loose gravel and echoed off the stone walls, he didn't flinch. He just slowly raised his head, his pale face expressionless, his heavy grey-green eyes tracking your approach with an unnerving, quiet hostility that made the hairs on your arms stand up.

You stood there awkwardly in the dim light, staring down at him, realizing you had reached a major crossroads. You could double down, sneer, and be the absolute worst version of yourself just to protect your fragile ego, or you could finally put on your big-boy pants, swallow your immense pride, and try to utter the one word you had never said to anyone in your life: an apology.