Page 135 of Citius

Wyatt was a different story. How could we rebuild our prior degree of trust when I didn’t know what I’d said to destroy it in the first place?

“Face it, Morgan.” Jacobi tried his best to appear sympathetic despite the smug set of his mouth. “It’s a date—whether you like it or not.”

***

The worddateflashed through my mind whenever I bumped into Wyatt or Owen in the elevator. It flickered softly when Alijah peered into my exam room with a tenuous smile. And it blared like neon red warning lights when Joaquin slunk through the front door, helping Kelsey carry in a load of groceries.

No, the fall gala wasn’t a date. It couldn’t be.

I made this decision while sitting beside Cal on his surprisingly comfortable couch. He idly rubbed my feet while watching the Narwhals dominate their away game on his giant television. The soothing rhythm of his touch made it impossible to focus on my emails.

The gala was an event—and a considerable risk.

Dates were low-stakes affairs, marked by throw pillows and takeout, even if they came with stark white walls and a lack of window dressing.

And yet, the word continued to burrow deeper into my mind throughout the week, until it’d eaten at me so much that sleep became elusive Thursday night.

Rather than toss and turn, I curled up in my library nest, surrounded by my dragon’s hoard of soft furnishings, and basked in the firelight.

I was trying to finish my weekly clinical observation report. Trying and failing.

My attention kept drifting to my work inbox, where Owen was methodically replying to his backlog of emails. First, he offered feedback on a slide Cal approved three days ago. Then, he verified a figure Talia had already double-checked. Meaning he was choosing to ignore my urgent email from this morning.

Had they performed quality assurance testing on the PheroPass sensors or not?

The more I examined the data, the more pheromone spikes I found—an alarming discovery, no matter the cause. If the sensors were faulty, it was a fixable oversight, though it would cast doubt on the validity of the data. But if they weren’t… It meant someone was deliberately targeting players. A much more significant and pressing problem.

Shooting daggers through the wall toward the former omega suite in unit 602, where Owen was holed up at this very moment, typing away, I willed him to respond to my question.

Come on,come on.

A new email notification popped up…and it was copious feedback on the latest vibration therapy proposal. Fabulous. Almost timely. But it wasn’t what I needed.

Grabbing my phone, I fired off a brief text, unconcerned about the late hour.

Sensor QA—yes or no?

But still, no response.

“Asshole,” I muttered, punching a nearby pillow in frustration. Slumping down, I stared at the ceiling, weighing my options.

Either I submitted the report with a footnote stating that more information from Redwing was required to determine if the spikes were a fluke, or I could take action. The answer was obvious.

And that’s why Owen opened his front door Friday morning to find me waiting in the hallway.

“You owe me a reply.”

“Do I?” Owen stood in the doorway, as impeccable as ever, wearing a gray suit beneath his black overcoat, a travel mug in hand. Clean-shaven, without a single hair out of place, and glasses gleaming as though freshly polished. A sleek and annoyingly perfect package of professional arrogance.

“PheroPass quality assurance testing. I need it for my weekly report.”

“It won’t make a difference.”

He moved toward the elevator with measured, deliberate steps, his voice carrying that familiar blend of condescension and indifference that rubbed the PheroPass executives the wrong way. And me too, I realized, fingernails digging into my palms.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If the coaching staff hasn’t taken action by now,” he said, pressing the call button, “then the university isn’t planning to address the issue.”

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