Rumi's POV

He should've never kissed him.

Rumi paced the empty locker room, his hands shaking despite every attempt to steady them. The familiar smell of chlorine mixed with leftover cologne hung in the air, but underneath it all was something else—Ezra's scent. It reminded him of pine smoke and the electric charge before a summer storm. And God, it seemed to have embedded itself in his skin.

The taste of Ezra still lingered on his tongue. Salt and something sweeter. Something he had no business knowing.

Idiot. He hadn't just crossed a line—he'd obliterated it. Whatever fragile control he'd maintained over his instincts had cracked wide open. The worst part? He didn't want to fix it.

Rumi pressed his back against the cold tile wall, fingers splayed against the surface. The talisman beneath his shirt pulsed with heat, its rhythm frantic and almost... accusatory.

"You should've stopped," he muttered under his breath. "Should've walked away the second you realized."

But Ezra had looked up at him with those wild eyes, all silver and defiance. That mouth that seemed designed for trouble. And when he'd whispered "Then don't," Rumi's resolve had crumbled.

When their lips finally met, something inside him had roared to life.

He didn't go home that night.

Instead, he found himself at the underground pool behind the gym, the one only he and Luke knew about. He stripped off his damp clothes and slipped into the heated water, letting it wrap around him like a cocoon. This was supposed to be his sanctuary, his place to think clearly.

But the talisman around his neck burned against his chest like it was trying to brand him.

Rumi pulled the chain forward and stared at the smooth obsidian stone. Luke had explained its purpose years ago—it was supposed to suppress the mate bond, forged with Guardian blood to keep him from losing himself completely. A leash on power. A lock on destiny.

Now it felt like it was fighting a losing battle.

He clenched his teeth and slammed his fist into the water, sending ripples across the surface. "Damn you, Ezra."

Part of him had suspected for weeks. That scent, that magnetic pull—it wasn't just attraction. It was something deeper, something that seemed to bypass his brain entirely and speak directly to his bones.

But why now? Why him?

He'd worked so hard to bury his past. The kingdom, the war, the blood he could never wash from his hands. He'd built a new life, a controlled life.

He couldn't afford to fall for the one person who might tear it all down.

And yet the thought of Ezra beneath him, gasping and desperate, made his chest tighten with want.

What are you doing to me?

Across campus, Ezra was having his own battle with sleep.

His sheets were tangled around his legs, his chest damp with sweat. The kiss played on repeat in his mind, dissolving any attempt at rational thought. The way Rumi had kissed him—like he was drowning and Ezra was air. The way those hands had pinned him against the wall, deliberate and possessive. And that moment afterward, when Rumi had pulled back with something like panic in his eyes.

Ezra touched his lips. He could still feel the ghost of that hunger.

"Fuck," he breathed, pressing his palm against his chest. His body ached, but not just from arousal—from something deeper, like a part of him had been awakened and now refused to go back to sleep.

His wolf was restless beneath his skin, pacing and alert.

Ezra's hand drifted lower.

He should stop. Should try to forget. But Rumi's voice echoed in his memory: "You smell like home."

The words sent a shiver through him. His body trembled as his hand moved with purpose, and he gave in to the need burning through him.

He imagined Rumi's hands replacing his own. That low growl vibrating against his ear. Those intense eyes watching every reaction, every surrender.

When release finally hit him, it was devastating. Not just physical—something deeper, like his soul recognizing a truth his mind wasn't ready to accept.

He lay there afterward, breathing hard in the darkness, his heart hammering against his ribs.

What the hell are we?

The next day, campus buzzed with swim team gossip, but Rumi kept his distance. His mouth was set in a hard line, his instructions clipped and professional.

Ezra tried not to watch him.

Failed miserably.

Rumi wouldn't even look at him, and that stung more than it should have. You kissed me. You touched me like I was the only thing that mattered. And now you're pretending I don't exist?

Fine. Two could play that game.

That evening, Ezra signed up for the swim team officially. He slid his name onto the roster without hesitation. When Rumi saw it, something flickered across his face—but he said nothing.

Ezra gave him a smile that could cut glass.

"If you're planning to ignore me, Coach," he said sweetly, "you better get used to seeing me in nothing but wet spandex."

Rumi's lips parted slightly.

For one heartbeat, his eyes traveled down Ezra's body—slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing every detail.

Then he turned and walked away without a word.

But Ezra caught the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched into fists.

Rumi was cracking.

And Ezra was going to be the one to finish the job.