The idol's secret

Rafayel's POV I woke gasping. His name caught in my throat like a bone, the ghost of it still burning on my tongue. The sheets were tangled around my legs, sweat cooling on my skin, and the ceiling fan spun in lazy circles overhead, doing nothing to cool the heat that had settled deep in my gut. Cecilion. The dream was still there, stuck to the inside of my eyelids like film. Every time I blinked, I saw it. Cecilion beneath me, the way his head fell back, the arch of his throat, the flush spreading across his cheekbones like spilled wine. His eyes—goddamn those eyes—half-lidded and dark, looking up at me like I was the only thing in the world worth seeing. I pressed the heel of my palm against my mouth and breathed through my nose until the shaking stopped. Fuck. I hadn't slept. Not really. I'd lain there until the gray light of dawn crept through the blinds, my body wired and heavy all at once, replaying the dream, replaying the locker room, replaying the sound of my teammates' voices saying things about Cecilion that made my blood boil. “Bet he tastes like candy. Bet he makes the prettiest sounds.” "Damn, I can't believe he's just a Beta" I'd slammed my fist into the locker so hard the metal dented. Coach sent me home. I walked out with my jaw wired shut and my knuckles split, and the whole time, all I could think about was Cecilion's face, his soft smile, the way he'd said *good morning* that day like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like he didn't know what he did to people. Like he didn't know what he did to *me.* I dragged myself out of bed at six, showered until the water ran cold, and stared at my reflection in the mirror. Dark circles. Bloodshot eyes. The bruise on my jaw from yesterday's fight—a purple bloom that ached when I turned my head. You're a mess. I pulled on my jacket anyway. Grabbed my basketball. Headed to campus because I didn't know what else to do, and maybe—maybe I'd see him. Maybe I'd get the image of that dream replaced with something real. Something innocent. Something that would remind me that Cecilion was just a guy. A friend. Someone I gave rides to and bought coffee for and absolutely did not dream about pinned beneath me, breathless and wanting. The lie tasted like ash. --- The hallway was empty when I got there. Early. Too early. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the air still carrying the stale warmth of yesterday's bodies. I leaned against the lockers, basketball tucked under my arm, and tried to look like I hadn't been awake for four hours thinking about the shape of Cecilion's mouth. Then I heard footsteps. Light. Careful. The kind of footsteps that didn't want to disturb the morning quiet. And when I looked up, there he was. Cecilion. Walking toward me in soft gray sweats and a loose sweater, his hair still slightly damp from the shower, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his lips. He looked soft. He looked warm. He looked like everything I'd been trying not to think about. "Morning." His voice was honey and sleep, and I felt it settle somewhere in my chest, warm and dangerous. I watched him open his locker, watched him pull out a small tube of lip balm, watched him twist the cap off and swipe it across his lips. Cherry. The scent hit me like a punch to the gut—sweet and bright and *Cecilion*—and my jaw tightened. I couldn't look away. The way his lips parted, the way his tongue darted out to catch the sweetness, the way he smacked softly, satisfied. My throat went dry. "Wha—" He paused, tilting his head. "Why are you staring?" You've got a smudge," I lied. My voice was a rasp. He reached up, rubbing at his cheek. "Here?" "No. It's gone now." I cleared my throat, desperate to change the subject before my brain completely short-circuited. "My mom mentioned your group has that shoot today. The one for the tour promos." A lie. My mother hadn't mentioned anything. I'd memorized Cecilion's schedule months ago, back when I told myself it was just good planning. Being a good friend. "Oh. Yes." His face lit up. It was like watching a sunlamp click on in a dark room. "I have to be at the studio by ten. It's a long day, Why?" *Because I wanted to see you. Because I couldn't sleep. Because I dreamt about you and now I can't look at you without wanting to touch you.* "I'll drive you." The offer was out before I could weigh it. It sat between us, heavy and undeniable. I pushed off the locker. The distance between us shrunk to three feet, then two. The air between us smelled like cherry and soap and something underneath—something sweet that made my Alpha instincts sit up and pay attention. I ignored it. I had to. He blinked. "Oh, no, Raf. I can take the bus. It's out of your way." "The Porsche needs a run," I said, pushing off the locker. I didn't wait for a second refusal. I started walking toward the exit, my stride long and impatient. "And the bus is a furnace this time of day. Come on." I heard the hurried patter of his footsteps behind me. A victory. A small, hollow victory that did nothing to ease the pressure in my gut.