Page 31 of Citius

There was a box of tissues on the table beside me. I offered it to Alijah, but he looked down in confusion, oblivious to the sweat on his forehead.

I took a tissue and gestured to his face. “May I?”

Alijah gave a confused nod.

Resting my fingertips against his cheek, I encouraged him to lower his forehead until I could reachhis brow. He leaned into my personal space, hand resting on the tabletop, knuckles brushing against my hip, while I dabbed the sweat away.

Up close, his pheromones should have been obvious. Would be obvious to anyone else. Except me.

It’d been a long while since I’d truly resented being unable to scent another person, but a pang of disappointment hit me square in the chest as I studied the inviting planes of his broad nose. His scent had to be something fresh and sweet, like honeydew.

“You’re really not mad?” he asked quietly, eyes lingering on my chin. Not my lips. That would be ridiculous. “I can’t believe you’re not mad.”

“Oh, I was. Still am.” I stepped back, letting the tissue drop into the trash. “But I know how to pick my battles. Garvey isn’t worth it.”

“Never seen you lose your cool, not even a bit.”

“It’s called having a game face, Alijah. You can’t compete in the big leagues without one. It’s the first rule of getting inside your opponent’s head. Never let ‘em see you sweat.”

His usually cheerful laugh was deeper, softer, almost fluttery, brushing against tender spots I hadn’t realized I’d left unguarded. “I swear I’m ninety-nine percent sweat when it comes to you. No resistance whatsoever.”

His words beckoned an impossible thought, one so far-fetched I refused to acknowledge its existence.

Yes, he might make frequent visits during my working hours—but they weren’ttoofrequent, and he never tried to ply me with drinks or snacks. Never made innuendos or flirtatious comments. He’d never even texted me anything besides links to media coverage about PheroPass.

Alijah was an absolute darling who was nice to everyone—not just me. I wasn’t special to him.

The smirk on Joaquin’s face when he exposed the silvered mating bite on Alijah’s collarbone was nothing more than a boast. He wasn’t daring me to share Alijah with him or, even worse, to share myself between them.

Cheers echoed through the concrete hallway, punctuated by the distant rhythm of brass instruments and drumbeats. The marching band’s arrival heralded the start of the pre-game show. Alijah needed to be on the field to take photos, and I should to report to Dr. McEwen.

After putting on my sunglasses and securing my possessions in my assigned locker, I turned to Alijah. “Ready?”

He nodded, and I followed him through the cinder block labyrinth, the muffled sounds of the stadium growing louder with each step until we emerged onto the field.

The sidelines bustled with activity. Spectators filled about half the seats, tailgating in place with beer and concession snacks, cheering forthe approaching marching band.

Captain Tusker’s mammoth, freshly painted logo at midfieldlooked especially menacing.

Alijah raised his camera, capturing photos of students in the front row, wearing green and blue striped overalls and headbands with foam narwhal horns.

I admired the man at work. The smooth brown skin of his hands and wrists, the subtle flex of his biceps beneath his long-sleeved polo, and the movement of his shoulder blades as he adjusted the camera settings. He wore his shirt tucked into jeans, and a navy blue and white nautical stripe belt highlighted his trim waist.

Alijah looked over his shoulder, attention drawn by a clang of cymbals as the marching band approached the end zone gate, his neck straining against the fabric of his collar just enough to allow a hint of his fern leaf tattoo to peek through.

When he turned back toward the field—toward me—Alijah gave a small jump, surprised to find me looking at his neck. The first stirring of a blush deepened the warm hue of his cheeks.

“D-do you need to go?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh, good. I mean, you can stay as long as…” He gripped his camera tighter and looked down at his sneakers, visibly flustered. “I’m trying to say that I look forward to hanging out with you during games.”

“Same here.”

We moved further along the sidelines until we found an excellent vantage point to watch the pre-game marching band performance. The piercing sound of a drum major’s whistle made me recoil.

Alijah leaned closer so I could hear him over the growing din. “You okay?”

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