The Alpha’s Pain

Chapter 11

Elena’s POV

After a long day of classes and acting normal, we still had to attend a meeting of the History Association. They spoke about an event the school was going to host, something held annually. It wasn’t long. Just a short, routine meeting. Michael and I remained vigilant and observant, careful not to give off the impression that we were tense.

Later that evening, I had just taken a shower and changed into shorts and a baggy shirt. I found Michael reading something casually while sipping on juice. I decided to grab some and join him.

That was until a knock came at the door.

Michael and I exchanged a quick glance. We weren’t expecting anyone.

He moved first, controlled and calm, while I stayed where I was.

When he opened the door, Jameson stood there. Casual. Hands in his pockets. Expression neutral.

“Evening,” he said.

Not overly friendly. Not overly familiar. Just… present.

“What do you want?” Michael asked, not rude, but not welcoming either.

Jameson’s gaze shifted briefly past him, landing on me for half a second before returning. “I was reviewing some of the archived minutes last night,” he said. “There’s something you both might want to see.”

My posture straightened slightly. “Why?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because you’re looking at the same inconsistencies I am. And if we keep pretending we’re not, we’ll just slow each other down.”

There was no arrogance in his tone. No attempt to impress. Just honesty.

Michael studied him carefully. “And why involve us?”

Jameson’s jaw tightened slightly, but his expression remained composed. “Because whatever they’re filtering isn’t random. And three people asking separate questions draw less attention than one person asking the right one.”

That made sense. Too much sense.

I stepped closer to the door. “What did you find?”

He pulled a folded document from inside his jacket and handed it to me. Our fingers brushed briefly. This time, he didn’t pull away immediately. Neither did I. It wasn’t deliberate. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a fraction of a second too long. Michael noticed. I could feel it.

I unfolded the document. It was a scan of an older campus map, not the public version. A structural overlay. Sections highlighted in faint markings beneath buildings currently labeled as “renovated.” But they didn’t look like renovations. They looked like sealed corridors.

“Where did you get this?” I asked quietly.

“It was misfiled,” he replied. “Or maybe it wasn’t supposed to be seen at all.”

Michael stepped closer to examine it. “This isn’t in the current archives.”

“I know,” Jameson said.

Silence settled between us. This was no longer casual curiosity. This was direction.

I lifted my gaze to meet his. “You moved us closer because of this.” It wasn’t a question.

He didn’t deny it. “It’s easier to compare findings when you don’t have to cross campus,” he said evenly.

Michael folded his arms. “And what exactly do you think we’re going to find?”

Jameson’s eyes flickered briefly to me before answering. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I think whatever happened years ago didn’t stay buried by accident.”

He then told us how he came across new information he noticed on a poster in the football locker room. The wording about a past renovation seemed strange. After digging further, he located the old structural map.

I was relieved, at least, that no one else appeared to have accessed it before us.

Being a semester ahead gave Jameson certain advantages. More clearance. More access. And clearly, he knew how to use it.

I folded the document carefully. “If we’re doing this,” I said calmly, “we do it strategically.”

A faint smile touched his lips. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

For a brief moment, the tension between us wasn’t suspicion. It was understanding, and that might have been more dangerous than anything else.

Soon after, it grew late without me realizing. Jameson stood to leave while I remained seated on the floor, papers scattered around me. I stared at the page where I had written my hypothesis, my mind tracing the connections again and again, trying to force clarity out of fragments.

He walked over quietly, his steps unhurried. “It’s a bit late, don’t you think?” His voice wasn’t teasing. It was softer than usual.

My eyes shifted to the small wall clock across the living room. The hands were dangerously close to midnight. I hadn’t even noticed.

I gave a small nod. “I didn’t realize.”

When I turned slightly, I noticed Michael wasn’t in the room anymore. The faint sound of a cabinet closing told me he had gone to the kitchen.

Jameson didn’t comment. He simply stood there, looking down at the papers beside me, not reading them, just observing.

“You think too much,” he said lightly.

“That’s the point,” I replied.

A faint smile touched his lips, subtle, unforced. Then he turned and walked toward the door. His movements were easy, almost familiar already, like he had stepped into this space more than once.

When he reached the door, he unlocked it and paused. Without fully turning, he said, almost casually, “Goodnight, neighbor.”

The word lingered longer than it should have.

Neighbor. Not researcher. Not partner. Not curiosity. Just neighbor.

Before I could respond, he stepped out and shut the door gently behind him. The click echoed softly in the quiet apartment.

I remained seated on the floor for a few seconds, staring at nothing in particular. Then I looked toward the door. It was strange how something as simple as a word could shift the air.

Michael walked back in from the kitchen, glancing at me. “He left?”

“Yes.”

He nodded and didn’t push further. But as I gathered the papers into a small stack, I couldn’t ignore the subtle warmth settling in my chest. Not overwhelming. Not distracting. Just present.

And for the first time since this entire situation began, I realized something quietly unsettling.

I didn’t mind that he came over.

And I didn’t mind that he left.

What unsettled me was that I noticed both.