The word sat in the air, stark and sharp.

Cloe stopped writing. For the first time in the session, his pen stilled. He looked at the boy across from him, face carefully blank, but his irises shimmering with something unspoken. Something breaking.

“Thank you,” Cloe said quietly. “For telling me the truth.”

“If it’s alright with you,” Dr Cloe Pace said gently, watching the boy with measured patience, “I’d like to talk about why you were sent to boarding school.”

Acheron didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached for another miniature tart he’d long since lost track of how many he’d eaten. The sweetness on his tongue was a small distraction, a shield. But still, his chest felt tight, his breath shallow. He chewed slowly, mechanically, as if stalling might push the question away.

Nearly five minutes passed in silence.

Finally, his voice slipped out low, almost uncertain.

“It’s because of Caden.”

Cloe’s pen paused. “Caden?”

“My childhood neighbour.”

For a moment, Cloe thought he might have to press gently for more. But after a few sips of cappuccino and a deep breath, Acheron continued on his own.

“We practically grew up together. Same preschool. Same elementary school. Always in the same class. Always next to each other.” He smiled faintly, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “We were close. I guess people liked the idea of us, Alpha and Omega, growing up side by side. It made adults… excited.”

Cloe nodded but stayed silent, letting the space hold Acheron’s words.

“That changed when we differentiated.” His fingers resumed tugging at the edge of the grey throw. “After that, everyone started watching us differently. Teachers, parents, our neighbours. They started asking questions, joking that we were ‘fated’ or ‘meant to be.’ It didn’t help that he was good-looking and I was…” he hesitated, “whatever people saw me as.”

Cloe watched as Eron took another sip from the coffee cup, his movements careful. He noticed the small hitch in his swallowing. Likely the lingering trauma from being choked.

“You don’t have to rush,” Cloe offered gently.

Eron nodded, eyes drifting downward, but something in his expression shifted. He seemed lost in thought, a memory rising unbidden from deeper in the past to something his mind kept circling back to.

“There was this one day…” he said slowly. “Sports Day. Back in second grade.”

He stared at nothing in particular, caught between the office and the memory forming behind his eyes.

The sun had nearly reached its peak, casting sharp white light over the school fields. Children raced across the grass in shrieking packs, their laughter and screams mixing with the hum of parents seated along metal bleachers. Some ate snacks, others waved handmade posters, while many shouted encouragement toward the racetrack below.

In the centre row of the stands sat the Desrosiers' parents, Oaklen and Ivy, each wearing wide-brimmed hats and large sunglasses, too elegant to be truly inconspicuous. Young eight-year-old Eron perched on his father’s lap, a half-eaten vanilla ice cream cone melting over his small hand. His thin back rested against Oaklen’s chest, absorbing the low vibrations of his father’s laughter as he exchanged jokes with Caden’s father beside him.

On Eron’s other side, Ivy and Caden’s mother cooed over baby pictures of Caden’s youngest sister, their conversation full of hushed affection and polite admiration.

From across the field, a group of rowdy Alpha boys came charging toward the bleachers, calling for Eron in loud, half-sung chants. Whether Eron couldn’t hear them or was simply ignoring them was unclear.

But Caden broke from the group.

He sprinted ahead, his golden hair catching the sunlight, legs skipping steps two at a time until he reached the Desrosiers. He stopped just short of Eron, breathless but beaming.

“Erie,” he said, holding out a hand. “Teacher An says it’s time for track.”

Eron blinked up at him, then silently reached out his slightly sticky hand. With his other hand, he passed Caden the remainder of his ice cream. Without hesitation, Caden devoured it in one bite, waving toward both sets of parents before gently tugging Eron down the bleachers.

Caden moved with ease, but Eron’s shorter legs struggled to navigate the steps. Even then, it was clear: Caden led, and Eron followed.

Back on the field, Teacher An was lining up her final race of the day. She sighed with relief. It had been a long afternoon under the scorching sun. Thankfully, her Omega students had cooled off with ice cream and shade, and now they were ready to run.

“Alright, hands and feet like this,” she instructed, physically positioning the first few children on the start line. Eron, not among them yet, sat in the grass nearby, his attention wholly consumed by his sticky fingers. He rubbed his hands against the ground, but only succeeded in collecting dirt and pebbles.

A frustrated frown wrinkled his soft brow.

Caden noticed. Without a word, he unscrewed the cap of his water bottle and poured it over Eron’s hands. The dirt melted away. Eron didn’t smile, but Caden saw the subtle shift in his eyes, gratitude, quiet and honest.

“Thanks,” Eron mumbled, then reached out and used the hem of Caden’s shirt to dry his hands. Caden didn’t flinch. He liked that Eron trusted him like that; it made him feel important.

“Caden Alif!” Teacher An’s sharp voice rang out. “Why aren’t you at your starting position? Did you even listen to the instructions?”

Caden flinched, red flushing up his cheeks and neck. “Sorry, Teacher!” he shouted as he scrambled into place.

The whistle blew, and the race began.

Caden sprinted like lightning, his limbs pumping with effortless strength. He barely noticed the others beside him. When he crossed the finish line first, his face glowed with pride, a classmate patting his back in mock defeat.

His attention, however, was already drifting toward the other end of the field.

Eron stood in lane four. His tiny frame looked even smaller beside the Betas and Alphas lined up beside him. Though they were all the same age, Eron’s stature was closer to a five-year-old’s than an eight-year-old’s.

Still, he didn’t seem to care.

The whistle blew again, and Eron bolted forward with astonishing speed. His form was clean, efficient and exactly the way his older sister had taught him. Oaklen jumped from the bleachers, shouting encouragement, while Ivy whistled with two fingers in her mouth.

Eron didn’t hear a thing. His focus was unbreakable, but his body was small. And though he started strong, his lungs began to burn, and his legs wavered near the final stretch. An Alpha girl and two Betas gained on him fast.

Eron pushed harder, pumping his arms with a desperate rhythm.

He crossed the finish line. First.

He didn’t slow fast enough. His feet tangled, and he fell face-first onto the hard, sun-baked tar. The impact rang out like a slap across the field.

The crowd gasped.

Before any adult could move, Caden was already running. He reached Eron in seconds.

Eron wasn’t crying. Blood dripped from his chin and scraped knees, but his expression was calm. Annoyed, maybe and a little dazed.

Caden crouched beside him.

“Erie,” he said, voice low, “I’ll take you to your dad.”

He knelt and let Eron climb onto his back.

As they reached the first step of the bleachers, Oaklen was already there, arms outstretched. He lifted Eron gently, one hand cradling his head, the other resting on his small back.

Before turning away, Oaklen reached out and tousled Caden’s hair.

“Good boy,” he said, voice rough.

Caden smiled, but something in his chest twisted tight.

“Caden seems like a really sweet kid,” Dr Pace said softly, drawing Eron out of the memory.

Eron had tucked his knees up under the grey throw, arms wrapped around them, chin resting quietly atop. The earlier brightness in his gaze had faded, replaced by a distant stillness as he stared past the psychologist toward the floor.

Cloe had already filled several pages of notes on the timeline of events, but more than that, careful observations on the way Eron moved, spoke, flinched, and avoided. The silences spoke as loudly as the memories.

“What happened after that?”

Eron shifted, turning his face slightly to look toward the office window. The small garden outside was calm, bees flitting between lavender stems, untouched by the weight of his words.

“We stayed close through the end of elementary,” he began, his voice barely audible. “But right before middle school started… his parents asked for a meeting with mine.”

He paused, biting lightly on the inside of his cheek.

“They were upset. About our relationship. They told my parents they didn’t want me going to the same school as Caden anymore.”

Cloe’s brows furrowed, though he didn’t interrupt. He waited, letting the boy speak at his own rhythm.

“They found out Caden had said he wanted to be my Alpha one day.” A dry, humourless chuckle escaped him. “He's just a kid, but apparently, that was enough.”

He turned back toward Cloe, and although his expression was flat, there was a flicker of shame buried in his voice.

“They blamed me. Said I was seducing him. That my pheromones were manipulating their son.”

Cloe exhaled slowly through his nose, setting his pen down for a moment. “You were thirteen at the time?”

“Twelve and a half.”

“You wouldn’t have even gone through your first heat yet. Your pheromones would’ve had a scent, yes, but they wouldn’t be strong enough to influence anyone.” His voice dipped into disapproval. “They were both Betas, weren’t they?”

Eron nodded.

“Most likely attended a Beta-only school. That explains the ignorance.” Cloe’s voice dropped to a mutter. “This is exactly what happens when education about second-gender dynamics is siloed. It leads to fear. Then blame. Then discrimination.”

Eron didn’t respond. His gaze had fallen again to the edge of the throw.

“Did your parents believe them?” Cloe asked.

“No,” he said after a beat. “Not exactly. But they were still worried. They thought me being too attached to an Alpha at that age might… skew my independence.”

“So they sent you to boarding school?”

Eron nodded again.

“Huxley Middle and High, correct?” Cloe confirmed, glancing down at his notes. “Was the main reason for choosing it because your older brother was already enrolled?”

“Yeah. They thought he could keep an eye on me.” He shrugged a little. “I didn’t mind. The school had a great art program.”

“I heard you’re a phenomenal oil painter.”

“I’m alright,” Eron mumbled, his voice trailing off.

Cloe smiled softly. He’d seen the boy’s portfolio. Saw the raw talent, the aching intimacy in each stroke. “You’re much more than ‘alright.’”

But he didn’t press the compliment. He could already see how deeply Eron’s low self-worth distorted his perception.

Cloe took a breath and gently continued.

“It was at Huxley that you met him?”

Eron’s fingers curled into the throw a little tighter. His eyes didn’t lift.

“Mmm,” he murmured.