Author's note (14 Aug): Very much edited from the original version as well. I thought it makes sense to catch a glimpse of Hector being flocked by fans, and how Blaise might react to it.

‘I am so sorry,’ Blaise says for the third time to Chelsea behind the counter.

‘It’s all right, love. Your pizza’s almost done,’ she says, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Free advertising, eh? Maybe we’ll see more customers in the next week.’

He makes a face. ‘Oh, please don’t become one of those places I need to book months in advance for a table! We Knead Pizza is supposed to be a neighbourhood secret.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t have brought him then,’ she laughs, the wrinkles on her weathered face deepening. ‘Some sort of movie star, is he?’

‘Movie star? Grandma, he is not just any movie star,’ June pops up next to her grandmother. ‘Bloody hell, he is only one of the most popular celebrities today! We watched one of his movies together, don’t you remember? The one with the Greek gods.’

Blaise wrinkles his nose. As a teenager, June has not quite gotten her alpha scent under control: billowing thick like too many flower wreaths at a funeral. She is whispering excitedly to Chelsea, but the raucous chatter in the tiny shop is loud enough that she need not have bothered.

It started with the shop’s patrons recognising Hector, when they came in, and once the crowd gathered, they attracted attention from the street through the shop’s large glass windows, and more people swarmed in, jamming the door open. The room is stuffy with too many bodies crammed in.

He knows Hector is famous—there is a bloody @HectorWestbrookDaily Twitter account run by fans for the sole purpose of keeping tabs on him for fuck’s sake—but it turns out that it is a whole other matter to watch the impact of his fame unfold.

People jostle and elbow each other to get closer to Hector, their mobiles held up high, the beady eyes of the many lenses capturing endless photos and videos. They put their faces close to Hector for selfies and demand another one when the first one turns out blurry.

In the midst of it, Hector smiles and nods and fields the questions like a consummate professional. The wattage of his smile does not flicker even when a fan throws his arm around him; he politely pushes the arm away, here, why don’t we do it like this instead?

Pinned against the counter at the back of the shop, Blaise is in awe, tempered with guilt; he was the one who brought them here after all, this tiny shop with one exit that is now pretty much a gauntlet. Hector looks up, giving him a brief look of apology. A few people follow his gaze, puzzled; all of them hastily avoid catching Blaise’s eye.

June grabs Blaise’s shoulder, her palm hot even through his jacket; she must be close to rut. ‘Hey, Blaise, how do you know him? Oh, oh, is it Thalia? They’ve just been cast in a new movie together, haven’t they?’

‘Yeah, Hollow City,’ he says, suppressing the urge to throw off her hand.

It baffles him that the toothy-grinned, pigtail-wearing preteen he first met has abruptly is the same kid as this gregarious, flirtatious football captain; he would usually have to fight her fans at the counter when she is working in the shop. First alpha in the family, Chelsea would say, glowing with pride, as June groans, Grand­ma, hissing under her breath, not in front of Thalia!

Hector’s scent washes over them—a bonfire leaping tall—and June releases Blaise’s shoulder with a wide-eyed look of surprise. Blaise turns to stare at the dark-eyed alpha incredulously, but coming up to the counter next to him, he is directing his shiniest celebrity billboard smile at Chelsea and June.

‘I am terribly sorry for the crush,’ he says; people continue to taptaptap photos behind him. ‘I have inconvenienced your other customers. I hope I haven’t driven anyone away!’

‘No, no, don’t be silly. My other customers are the ones pestering you, young man,’ Chelsea chuckles. ‘Oh, how timely, let me pack up your pizzas!’

June fumbles for her phone, her eyes bright and eager. ‘I’m a big fan, Mr Westbrook! Could we please take a photo together?’

Blaise holds his tongue as they make their way out of the pizza shop—sorry, mates, no more photos now, hot pizzas to deliver! Thank you, I love you too. Oh, this is lovely, thank you, thank you—and down the street, a number of fans following them, Blaise tamping down on the itch to flee the clamouring crowd. His hands are sweaty and he nearly drops the keys unlocking the door to the tattoo shop; Hector stands behind him, talking to the fans, saying over and over again, thank you, it was so nice meeting you, yes, have a good night now!

The crowd only dissipates when they disappear into the pantry, and Blaise collapses onto the couch with a groan. Hector sets the pizzas down on the rickety table in the middle of the narrow room crammed with their boot sale furniture.

‘Sorry,’ the alpha grimaces, smelling of acrid embarrassment. ‘I should always have accounted for the fans, even if the paps aren’t around.’

Blaise grunts, a hand on his forehead. Their fifteen-minute pizza run had turned into a forty-five minute nightmare. It will be odd seeing himself and We Knead Pizza and Ironworks Ink in the photos of Hector that are most definitely spreading across the Internet right now. Is this what it’ll be like with Thalia in the future too? He supposes this should be good practice.

Will paps come into the shop tomorrow, asking what was Hector Westbrook doing going into a closed shop alone with that scary-looking bloke with all that ink? Maybe Hector really should get a tattoo for a more believable excuse than well, we’re friends.

‘I’m sorry,’ Hector repeats. ‘I’ll see what I can do to keep the paps away from the shop.’

Blaise looks at him in surprise. ‘No, it’s fine. They won’t trouble us, I don’t think. Talon would scare them away. I’m thinking more about what you would say to them, if they asked.’

‘Oh.’ Hector blinks. ‘You were thinking for me?’ He huffs a laugh, sitting down heavily on a chair at the table. ‘You don’t need to. My people have a pretty tight grip on the paps, they don’t ask questions I don’t want to answer, and it wouldn’t be breaking the law, would it, to get a tattoo. Let them think that—it should keep them amused for a while, imagining what kind of tattoo I would get.’

Blaise snorts with laughter. ‘Shit, I can imagine the bloody headlines. Top ten floral designs Hector Westbrook would love! Hear what this expert has to say on how Hector Westbrook’s tattoo signals the start of the star’s road to irrelevance!’

He grabs beer from the fridge, tossing one to Hector, and joins him at the table. ‘Well, come on, I’m bloody starving. We Knead Pizza’s Diavola is the best I’ve ever had, I swear. Chelsea spent like ten years in Rome before she came home and met her omega wife. It’s good, isn’t it?’

Hector has stuffed half a slice into his mouth, and eyes fluttering shut, makes an absolutely indecent moan that sends a thrill flickering beneath Blaise’s skin like wildfire. He freezes, staring at Hector’s throat convulsing, muscles shifting beneath rich copper skin, as he swallows his bite. Fuck is the only thought he manages. The alpha opens his eyes, his gaze knowing, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips.

Flushing, Blaise looks down and takes a vicious bite of his own slice. He needs to figure out a way to get his scent under control: but how, when no one else can smell him anyway?

‘Oh, I almost forgot! You realise that June is a literal child? She’s still learning to control her scent! What did you go and challenge her for?’ Blaise asks, shaking his head.

Is it an alpha thing—or an actor thing? How soft Hector’s ego appears to be, and his need to dominate in all scenarios. The man at least has the decency to look chagrined, not meeting Blaise’s eyes.

‘It was only a little nudge. You didn’t like it when she touched you, did you? I only wanted to help you … She wouldn’t have been to tell it was me anyway; it was her subconscious reacting to my scent. No one has been able to tell when I … use my scent like that.’

Blaise frowns, puzzled. Everyone uses their scent to manipulate people—it is as natural as breathing, for they are creatures of scent—but he has not met or heard anyone describe using their scent with something like precision. He would not be able to tell if Hector is lying or not anyway: his scent always flares like a clarion call to him.

‘Do you think I would suit a floral tattoo then?’ Hector asks now, a blatant change in subject.

Blaise scoffs, shaking his head again, but catching the stormy look in Hector’s dark eyes, he sighs and obliges. Hector is after all, a new friend, and a celebrity: how honest could he be with a friend like this, truly?