And then I panicked and left him to deal with the aftermath alone.
The faculty lounge is crowded when I arrive, teachers taking advantage of the brief lunch period to socialize and decompress. Ryan waves me over to our usual table, where he's already halfway through a sandwich.
"You look like death warmed over," he observes cheerfully. "Wild weekend?"
If only he knew. "Something like that."
"Let me guess—another first date disaster?" He grins, taking a swig of his energy drink. "What was wrong with this one? Too clingy? Too boring? Too smart for her own good?"
The casual way he talks about my dating history—always women, always omegas, never quite right—grates on me in a way it never has before. Because now I know why none of them ever felt right. They weren't him.
"Nothing like that," I mutter, unwrapping my sandwich without enthusiasm.
"Well, something's up with you," Ryan persists. "You're never this quiet. And you smell different."
Of course he'd notice. Alphas always do.
"I'm fighting something off," I say, the same excuse I gave my students. Not technically a lie.
Ryan shrugs, accepting the explanation. "Speaking of fighting things off, did you see the new office admin? That omega they hired last week?" He whistles low. "I wouldn't mind helping her through a heat cycle, if you know what I mean."
The comment—crude, objectifying, exactly the kind of alpha bullshit my father would have said—makes rage flare in my chest. Protective instincts I've never felt this strongly before demand I defend, protect, stand up for every omega who's ever been talked about like they're just walking heat cycles.
But especially for him. For my omega, who I left alone this morning after bonding him.
"Don't talk about omegas like that," I snap, the words out before I can stop them.
Ryan blinks, startled by my vehemence. "Whoa, easy. Just making conversation."
"Well, make it about something else." My voice is too sharp, too aggressive. Heads turn at nearby tables. I'm making a scene, but I can't seem to stop myself. "Omegas aren't just walking heat cycles for your entertainment."
"Jesus, Nick." Ryan holds up his hands in surrender. "What's gotten into you?"
What indeed. I've heard him make comments like this a hundred times before, have even laughed along sometimes in that performative way men do. Why is it suddenly intolerable?
Because now I know. Now I understand what it feels like to care about an omega as a person first, to want to protect them from exactly this kind of objectification. To love them for who they are, not what biology makes them.
Love.
The word doesn't surprise me the way it would have a week ago. I've been in love with him for years. I just never had the right context to understand what I was feeling.
"I need to go," I mutter, abandoning my barely-touched lunch. "Prep for next period."
I don't wait for Ryan's response, just grab my things and flee the faculty lounge, heart hammering against my ribs. The bond throbs at the base of my skull, a steady reminder of what I've done, of the connection I've formed and then ran from like a coward.
I make it to my empty classroom and immediately pull out my phone, scrolling through the browser tabs I've had open all morning. "How to support a newly bonded omega." "What to expect in the first 48 hours after accidental bonding." "Bond dissolution procedures."
That last one makes me feel sick, but I keep reading anyway. Not because I want out—God, no—but because he might. Because I trapped him in a bond he never asked for and then left him to wake up alone. He deserves to know his options, even if the thought of losing him permanently makes my chest feel like it's caving in.
I've been researching all morning, trying to find some way to fix what I've broken. Trying to learn how to be the alpha he deserves instead of the fuck-up who bonded him and ran.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jason: "Hey, want to grab coffee after work? Haven't talked to you in a while."
The timing feels like fate. I need to talk to someone, and Jason has always been my sounding board when things get complicated. I text back: "Yes. Desperate. Can you meet now?"
"That bad? Yeah, I can leave early."
I make it through my afternoon classes on autopilot, the guilt and physical discomfort worsening with each passing hour. By final period, I've given up on actual teaching and set the studentsto a free play period while I sit on the bleachers, fighting waves of nausea and the persistent knowledge that I'm the worst kind of alpha—the kind who takes what he wants and then runs when faced with the consequences.