BLUE
I’m having serious trouble focusing on Adams’s reports.
What’s been happening to me over the last few days doesn’t resemble anything I’ve experienced before.
Everything started with that stupid spitball incident, though in some ways it probably started even earlier, with the paint balloon.
While I stood there listening to Gabriel firmly demand punishment for the alpha who tried to spit on me, something strange happened, something extremely rare for me.
I got hard.
It’s not like that never happens at all.
Of course I get morning erections, I still have a human hormonal system even if my AO hormone levels are significantly lower than those of most omegas.
So yes, I possess a basic libido, but in my case it’s heavily suppressed—it’s psychological.
Ever since the accident, I’ve lived inside a sort of self-imposed block, consciously removing sexual fantasies from my thought process.
Whenever those kinds of thoughts try creeping into my head, especially late at night or early in the morning while I’m lying in bed, I push them away immediately.
But ever since Gabriel appeared in my life, it’s becoming harder and harder to suppress those absurd, intrusive thoughts.
Discreetly, I lift my eyes.
I look at Gabriel standing by the window, staring out over the city.
Whenever he isn’t attending online college classes, he usually spends his time either standing around deep in thought or subtly watching me, but today he seems especially absorbed in whatever’s outside that glass.
My gaze slowly drifts over him.
He’s at just the right angle for his hips to be turned slightly toward me.
And my eyes, completely against my own will, drop lower.
Right there.
Unbelievable.
Me, Blue Lowen, staring at what some alpha has between his legs…
One thing is certain, Gabriel seriously needs to invest in reinforced boxer briefs because no matter how he stands, there’s still an extremely noticeable bulge below his waist.
I already got a partial glimpse of that monster at the pool, and I just don’t understand how someone walks around carrying something like that all day. It probably weighs two pounds.
The most irritating part is that looking at his crotch makes me hard too, and naturally I fight it because obviously I do, but it’s becoming genuinely frustrating at this point, stubborn and persistent in a way I’m no longer used to handling.
A long time ago I gave up on the idea that I’d ever have a partner to share those kinds of experiences with, and technically I still stand by that decision, but whatever has started blooming inside my mind lately in this chaotic flood of increasingly vivid fantasies is… another matter entirely.
Maybe I should simply accept it without resisting so much. My life situation has changed radically, after all. It’s probably normal for my mind to start exploring unexpected scenarios and possibilities in a slightly disorganized way.
And once again my attention drifts there.
Gabriel.
My brain seems weirdly determined to conduct some kind of bizarre experiment.
Gabriel isn’t looking at me right now.
Taking advantage of the moment, I slowly slide my hand down to my crotch.
I never do this because there’s usually no reason to, but now something keeps pulling me toward it.
While looking at him, I brush my fingers lightly over the hard outline beneath my pants like some kind of pervert, and I almost want to laugh because that’s the last thing I am, and yet…
My own dick isn’t particularly impressive in size, let’s be realistic about that, but right now it’s painfully hard, solid as steel, and I find myself exploring this completely unfamiliar feeling of being turned on by a specific person.
In the past I occasionally had vague thoughts involving abstract situations and some faceless alpha, though I never let those fantasies develop very far, and surely never once did those thoughts revolve around an actual individual for one simple reason:
Nobody had ever managed to genuinely interest me before.
It was to such an extent, actually, that I’d started thinking of myself as practically asexual.
Of course I own the same kinds of toys many omegas do, things like dildos, but my attempts at experimenting with them never led to anything remotely spectacular. I simply felt nothing. It was mechanical, empty, an action without emotional response or satisfaction.
Which is exactly why all of this involving Gabriel feels so shocking.
And the intensity, as well as the frequency of these reactions, is becoming almost… unsettling. So much that I’m beginning to wonder whether Storm’s words might actually hold some truth.
Could Gabriel and I really possess unusually high genetic compatibility?
Technically, I could test it. I have access to an exam capable of classifying someone as incompatible, Low Mate, or Half Mate, though it wouldn’t detect anything above that threshold, not High Mate and certainly not True Mate.
So the question is whether there’s any point in checking at all.
But what if he actually was… my fated?
That would be a particularly strange joke from Fate.
My destined partner would be someone literally half my age? And on top of that, a man who originally built his activist life around hating everything I stand for?
Truly twisted.
There’s another strange thing I’ve noticed in my relationship with Gabriel.
I feel this odd pull toward simply talking to him.
Just talking. About nothing and everything.
Asking him questions about himself, what he thinks, what he feels, what he likes… It's so…not me.
I glance down at my phone as it vibrates softly against the desk.
Another text from my nephew, Sariel.
I’m almost certain he wants to know whether anything came out of my visit to the contract fair…
But I can’t. I’m simply not ready to have that conversation with him yet.
He warned me not to attend that fair.
And I went anyway, only to come back with a twenty-one-year-old criminal who also somehow keeps making me hard…
I barely stop myself from chuckling.
I honestly think Sariel’s brain would explode, so for now I set the phone aside and lift my gaze toward Gabriel again.
Can a person even be built more beautifully than him?
He’s muscular while still remaining lean, not bulky or heavy-looking, just beautifully athletic, broad shoulders, narrow waist, slim hips, flat stomach…
At the pool I get the chance to admire his body freely while pretending my head is underwater, secretly watching him through my goggles with quiet enjoyment.
I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to look away from the window.
Enough.
Enough, Blue.
You’re indulging yourself way too much, and you know perfectly well nothing could ever realistically come from this except disappointment.
But that doesn’t mean we can’t occasionally talk, right?
Conversation never hurt anybody.
I repeat that to myself with almost embarrassing naivety even though I know perfectly well that conversation is exactly how something deeper begins between people.
I return to answering emails.
Adams is still waiting for my response. I can’t let him down. He’s basically my right hand, unbelievably capable and reliable. I could safely leave the company entirely in his care.
I focus and type out a long email.
He’ll definitely be satisfied with it.
And the second I finish, my gaze lifts again and lands right back on Gabriel.
Dear Fate, this is becoming unbearable.