Page 82 of Citius

He quickly cut across the quad, on the verge of stalking me like prey. And I wanted to be caught, pinned beneath his powerful body. To submit.

At the mercy of some primordial, animalistic urge, pupils blown, we drank each other in, locked together in the middle of an illusory boxwood hedge maze. My hand fisted the hem of his sweat-soaked tank, and we huffed each other’s scents, reveling in the strange, electric wonder of discovering the true depths of our attraction.

The need. That all-consuming need. I’d been so close to throwingmyself at him, wrapping my legs and arms around his solid frame, burying his face in my neck—where he belonged.

Until Ethan’s voice cut through the haze in an insidious stage whisper: “Punk’s a lot shorter than he looks on TV.”

The lowest fucking blow. Shattering the moment and any chance of verifying that fleeting sense of fate.

Wyatt went cold, his eyes shuttering as he mumbled something about heading to class and promised to call. Then, he forced himself to step back, severing that tenuous, covetous connection. A pain that had never truly healed.

Wyatt did call later that night—after I’d ripped Ethan a new one—but never mentioned how my pheromones affected him. Not then, not during any subsequent texts or conversations, either.

I finished applying for medical schools in July, and he turned twenty-one in August. We both had stellar gymnastics results heading into the world championships. My grades were excellent. His less so, but I tried to help where I could.

And yet, every time I hinted at my suspicions that our scents impacted each other to an unusual degree, Wyatt changed the subject.

It seemed like he wasn’t interested in me. That we were just good friends. Until one late-night call, when he asked in a breathy, heart-fluttering whisper, if I wanted to sneak out after the final night of worlds. Maybe we could get crepes, walk around Montreal, and actually see something of a competition host city for once.

For a few weeks, whenever I wasn’t focused on training or classes, I let myself dream. About having a boyfriend by the time I turned twenty-two at the end of October. My first real boyfriend.

Just imagine—celebrating a third individual world title with a gorgeous alpha by my side. It would have been perfect.

We would have been perfect.

But it wasn’t meant to be. I lost my title. Broke my brain. Never even celebrated turning twenty-two.

Because of the accident.

Why did everything always come back to that terrible moment—even now, as Wyatt’s initial delight at seeing me shifted, cooling into concern the closer he got.

“You all right?” Wyatt asked as he cut across the final stretch of sidewalk to reach me. “Saw the articles. Didn’t think there’d be so many.”

I took a subtle, steadying breath, grounding myself in the present. “It happens every year. People will forget by next week.”

He flashed a cheeky grin overloaded with dimples. “I don’t know.You were the hot topic during training. Pretty sure most of my team got lost in a rabbit hole of your career highlights last night. Lots of questions about whether your feet were unnaturally sticky because your landings were always so clean.”

“Because unlike you,” I said, giving him a mock glare over the tops of my glasses, “my coach made me run an extra lap for every step or hop.”

“She did not.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I’ve met Coach Hager enough times to know she adores you too much to make you suffer.”

“Ha. The only kind of affection she shows her gymnasts is tough love. At least until you retire.”

A mutual laugh soon faded out, both of us overly aware of the reasons behind my forced retirement. Not everyone got to go out on top, like Jacobi, or after reclaiming an elusive title, like Wyatt.

“Thank you for the gifts,” I said, breaking the silence.

“Did… Did I do alright?”

I looked at him in confusion. “Hm?”

“You…” He paused, glancing down as his fingers worried the strap of his duffel bag. “I do follow you on social media, you know. It’s not the same—not even close—but I do try to pay attention. You don’t post much, especially not about what you’re reading these days. I didn’t have a lot to go off.”

I hesitated, grappling with how to respond. The girl I used to be would have been beyond smitten. But the fractured version that survived didn’t know how to process men being nice to her.

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