Chapter 9 - Rhys
Rhys
It's three paragraphs. Professional. Measured.
She appreciates my disclosure. She acknowledges the transfer has already been processed.
She notes that a formal reprimand will be placed in my TA file for failure to disclose in a timely manner, but given the circumstances—fated mate bond, proactive transfer, voluntary admission—she sees no need for further disciplinary action.
She expects my continued professionalism for the remainder of the semester.
The last line: I trust this will not be an issue going forward, Calder.
I read it twice. Put my phone down. Pick up my coffee. Drink it while leaning against the counter and looking at the bedroom doorway where I can see one of Jude's feet sticking out of the nest, the rest of him buried in blankets that smell like both of us.
That's it. That's the whole thing. The crisis that almost cost me my mate, resolved in three paragraphs and a formal-but-fair email before I've finished my first cup of coffee.
I should feel more about this. Relief, maybe.
Vindication. Instead I just feel like an idiot for ever thinking this was the thing worth being afraid of.
Jude's foot twitches. He makes a grumbling noise from somewhere inside the blankets. "Why are you standing in the kitchen making loud thoughts. Come back to bed."
"Albright emailed."
The blankets shift. His face appears, puffy and squinting. "And?"
"Reprimand in my file. No further action. Transfer's done."
"So you're not fired."
"I'm not fired."
"Cool. Come back to bed."
I crawl back into the nest with my coffee and he immediately hooks his leg over mine and presses his face into my chest and falls back asleep. I drink my coffee one-handed and read the email a third time and feel the last knot of anxiety in my gut finally dissolve.
Later that night, I meet his friends.
Not the crisis version from yesterday morning, where I stood in their doorway unshowered and desperate.
The real version. The one where Jude says "We're going to Byrne's, you're coming, and if you embarrass me I'll bite you somewhere visible" and I put on a clean shirt and try to remember how to talk to people who aren't my advisor or my brother.
Byrne's is a dive bar about ten minutes from campus.
Sticky floors, dim lighting, a jukebox that someone has loaded with nothing but 90s R&B and early 2000s pop punk.
The kind of place where the booths are cracked leather and the drinks are strong and cheap and nobody cards too carefully.
It feels lived-in. Claimed. The Swipe Squad's territory.
Jude walks in like he owns the place. He probably does, emotionally. He waves at the bartender, a woman with short hair and a dry smile who waves back, and heads straight for a corner booth where four omegas are already packed in with drinks and opinions.
"Everyone, this is Rhys," Jude says, sliding into the booth and pulling me down next to him. "Rhys, this is everyone."
Four pairs of eyes land on me. I've faced dissertation committees that felt less evaluative.
"The TA," says the one with the undercut and the blue streak in his hair. Benji. I've heard about Benji.
"Former TA," I say. "I don't grade his papers anymore."
"But you did grade his papers while you were knotting him."
"Benji," says the soft one in the oversized sweater. Milo. He gives me a small, warm smile. "Hi. It's nice to actually meet you."
"You too. Jude talks about you a lot."
"He talks about all of us a lot," says the one next to Milo, sharp-eyed, arms crossed. Shay. I recognize him from the doorway yesterday. He's looking at me the same way he looked at me then, like he's deciding whether I'm worth the oxygen. "Mostly he talks about you though. Which is annoying."
"I do not talk about him that much," Jude says.
"You literally made a playlist called 'Rhys But Make It Filthy,'" says the quiet one at the end of the booth. Soren. He says it gently, like he's offering a fun fact, and Jude turns red in a way I've never seen before.
"That was private, Soren."
"You shared it to the group chat."
"By accident."
I'm trying very hard not to smile. "I'd like to hear this playlist."
"You will never hear this playlist."
"I'll send it to you," Benji says.
The bartender appears with a round. She sets a beer in front of me and gives me a look that's half-amused, half-appraising. "You're the alpha."
"I'm the alpha."
"Tessa," she says. "I've heard a lot about you. None of it was subtle." She glances at Jude. "Your usual booth, your usual order, and your usual volume. Try to keep it under a dull roar tonight, yeah?"
She leaves. I take a sip of beer and Jude's hand finds my thigh under the table and squeezes, just once, like he's checking I'm still here. I put my hand over his and leave it there.
Benji goes first. "So. The TA who knotted our best friend in a hotel room before he knew his name. Walk us through your decision-making process there."
"Benji," Milo says.
"It's a fair question."
"There wasn't much decision-making involved," I say. "Biology doesn't really consult you first."
Benji considers this. "Acceptable answer. Follow-up: are you aware that if you hurt him again, I will make your life creatively unpleasant?"
"I'm aware."
"Good. Shay, your witness."
Shay doesn't ask anything. He just watches me over the rim of his drink for a while, which is somehow worse than Benji's questions.
Milo asks if I cook, which feels like a test I need to pass, and when I tell him about the green curry Jude and I have been ordering every week, he nods like I've submitted acceptable evidence.
Soren shows me a photo of a carved bird he found in his library carrel and asks if I know anything about woodworking, which I don't, but I promise to ask around.
Somewhere around the second round, the energy shifts.
Not a dramatic moment. Just Benji making a joke at my expense that isn't mean, and me laughing, and Shay's mouth twitching in a way that might be approval.
Milo starts asking about my apartment, whether I have a spare room for when Jude inevitably pisses him off and he needs somewhere to crash.
Jude pretends to be offended. Nobody believes him.
They're letting me in. Not all the way, not yet. But the door is open.
The owner comes by the booth at one point to collect empties.
He's tall, broad, dark hair going slightly silver at the temples.
He looks like the kind of guy who's carried enough kegs to not need a gym membership.
He nods at the group with easy familiarity, his gaze lingering on Shay for half a second longer than anyone else before he moves on.
Shay doesn't notice. Or pretends not to.
"That's Declan," Jude murmurs in my ear. "He owns the place. He's been our unofficial bar uncle since freshman year."
I watch Declan move back behind the bar, quiet and steady, and file that away.
Three rounds in. Jude is warm against my side, his hand still on my thigh, his cheeks flushed from the beer. He's been leaning into me more with each drink, his mouth getting closer to my ear, his voice getting lower.
"You know what I keep thinking about?" he says, just for me.
"Your playlist?"
"I keep thinking about the fact that there's a bathroom in the back of this bar and it has a lock on the door."
My hand tightens on his thigh. "We are not having sex in a bar bathroom."
"Why not?"
"Because we're adults."
"We're twenty-one and twenty-five. That's barely adults. That's adults with an asterisk." His lips brush my ear. "I'm so hard right now. Been hard since you let Benji roast you and just took it. Something about watching you sit there and take it for me is really doing it."
"Jude."
"There's a single-stall bathroom. It locks. I've checked."
"You've checked."
"I'm a planner."
His hand slides higher on my thigh and his fingers brush against my cock through my jeans, casual and deliberate and hidden by the table. I'm half hard already because his scent has been wrapping around me all night and his mouth has been inches from my neck.
"Two minutes," he says. "I'll go first. You follow."
He slides out of the booth, says something to Benji about getting another round, and disappears toward the back hallway. I sit there for about ninety seconds, trying to look like a person who isn't about to do something ill-advised, and then I excuse myself and follow him.
The bathroom is a single stall with a lock. Jude is leaning against the sink, arms crossed, grinning. "Took you long enough."
"I was trying to look casual."
"You looked constipated. Come here."
I lock the door behind me and he's on me.
Hands in my hair, mouth on mine, his body pressed against me.
He tastes like beer and lime and underneath that he tastes like mine, always mine.
I lift him onto the edge of the sink and he wraps his legs around my waist and grinds against me.
We're both laughing into the kiss because this is absurd.
This is a bar bathroom. There's graffiti on the wall behind his head and the lighting is terrible and someone has written "KnotMe ruined my life" in sharpie on the mirror.
This is the least romantic place we've ever been.
It's perfect.
"Fast," he says, undoing my belt. "We don't have time for the full experience."
"You're the one who chose a bathroom."
"And I'd choose it again. Pants down, alpha."
I shove my jeans down. He's already pulled his to his thighs and he's soaking, slick dripping down the inside of his legs, a wet patch spreading on the front of his briefs where his cock is straining. The sight of it in a fluorescent-lit bar bathroom is somehow the hottest thing I've ever seen.
"You weren't kidding," I say. "You're drenched."
"Been like this for an hour. Every time you laughed at something Benji said I got wetter. It's humiliating. Are you going to do something about it or just stare?"