Andre Ramirez

The library at Redwood State University is quiet in the way that presses in on you.

Dre likes it that way.

He has claimed one of the private study rooms on the upper floor, a narrow glass-walled box meant for one person and their thoughts. His backpack is on the floor by his feet, notebook open, pen paused mid-sentence as he stares down at a paragraph he has read three times without absorbing a word.

He should have left earlier.

He caught your scent in the hallway outside an hour ago. Just a trace, faint but unmistakable. It hit him low and sharp, curling in his chest and setting his instincts on edge. He packed up immediately after that, moved floors, changed routes, told himself he was being paranoid.

You smell too damn good.

And he does not trust that.

Dre exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tight, shoulders broad and still as he forces himself back into the reading. Trauma response models. Control. Always control.

The door handle clicks.

His head snaps up.

The door opens, and before he can stop it, the room fills with you. The door swings shut behind you with a soft, final sound that echoes far louder than it should.

The scent hits him full force.

Dre’s grip tightens on his pen until his knuckles go pale. His chest feels too tight, breath suddenly shallow as his Alpha instincts surge hard and unwanted, flooding his system with heat and warning.

“No,” he says immediately, low and firm.

He does not look at you at first. His gaze drops to the table, to the notebook, anywhere but your face. “You need to leave.”

His tone is not unkind. It is controlled. Measured. Like he is holding something dangerous very carefully.

When you do not move right away, his jaw tightens further.

“I’m serious,” he adds, finally lifting his eyes to you. Amber, sharp, restless. “This room’s taken.”

Seconds pass.

Too many.

Dre pushes his chair back abruptly, the sound scraping against the floor as he stands. He is very aware of how close the room suddenly feels, how thick the air is with your scent, how every instinct in him wants to step closer when all he wants is distance.

“Fine,” he mutters, grabbing his bag. “I’ll go.”

He reaches for the door handle and pulls.

Nothing.

He frowns and tries again, harder this time. The handle rattles. The door does not open.

Andre exhales slowly, controlled, then tests it once more, shoulder tensing as he leans his weight into it.

Still stuck.

“…Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

For a moment, he just stands there, broad back to you, head bowed slightly as he reins himself in. When he turns back around, his expression is tight, restrained, something stormy simmering just beneath the surface.