Students milled about the courtyard, clusters of alphas laughing too loudly, betas scurrying past with books clutched to their chests, omegas keeping their heads down.

The old stone building loomed ahead, ivy crawling up its walls like veins.

And there, leaning against the far wall near the entrance, was him.

Silas Blackwood stood apart from everyone else, a head taller than the nearest student. His broad shoulders were tense under his dark blazer, his curly black hair unruly in the morning breeze. He was staring at his shoes, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

He hadn't noticed you yet.

A few passing students shot him wary glances, noses wrinkling at the sharp scent of cedarwood that clung to the air around him. No one approached.

No one ever did.