Archive of Our Own

If You Fall, We Fall Together

He was annoying. Reckless. Impossible to ignore. And yes, there was something fucking pure about it. Something that shouldn’t matter to him, but there it was—that thing the world had decided to forget.

Here’s the thing: Andrew realized his brain didn’t work like everyone else’s when he was eight. It wasn’t a dramatic epiphany or divine enlightenment. He just read the periodic table once—only once—while hiding in the biology lab to avoid the little sociopaths he shared a foster home with. The next day, he recited it from memory without effort, without a single mistake. Just because he could. No one asked him to do it. No one clapped. He did it for himself.

After that, it didn’t take long for him to realize that his memory wasn’t limited to books. It worked on people too. Gestures. Tics. Pauses between words. The way someone pursed their lips before lying. The exact way a neck muscle tightened when someone was about to snap. Body language, routines, behavioral patterns—all of it entered his mind and never left. He stored it, organized it, analyzed it. Because in a place where everyone wants something—your bed, your silence, your pain—knowing who you are, or rather, who they are, is the only way to survive.

Sure, sometimes it wasn’t enough. Because the mind can be fast, but the body of a malnourished and abused child can’t always keep up. Even so, most of the time, his memory was his best defense. His first shield. His first weapon.

So when Neil showed up in his life, with that absurd way of acting like the world couldn’t reach him, like running could keep him safe, Andrew took note. Not because he was romantically interested—he wasn’t stupid enough to fall for that so easily—but because Neil was an enigma. And Andrew hated enigmas, even if solving them was fun and deciding afterward if they were worth keeping around was even better.

He memorized everything about him: his breathing when he lied, the tension in his shoulders when someone mentioned his scars, the way his voice dropped half a tone when he was scared but trying to act brave in front of a bigger alpha, the way his pheromones smelled when he removed the patch for Andrew.

Of course he noticed something was off with Neil. It was obvious. The problem was that Neil thought he could hide it. That he could conceal it from someone like Andrew. And that, honestly, was pretty funny.

All those reasons led Andrew to notice the first time. He’d spent half of practice watching him. And not “looking” at him like a lovesick idiot with puppy eyes—because that kind of crap wasn’t his thing—no.

He observed.

With the same level of focus he’d use to build a homemade bomb: meticulous, cold, lethal. Because Neil was acting weird. And it wasn’t his secret omega status that he hid from the rest of the world—Andrew had known that for ages and more than a dozen condoms. Neil had managed his condition better than most alphas who knew their place, so no, it wasn’t that.

It also had nothing to do with his late-night rooftop getaways after evening practice with Kevin. Those early mornings that ended with the sleeping city beneath them, with long kisses and soft bites and nearly-silent sex—almost—until the sky turned pink and they returned to their rooms with synchronized heartbeats. Nobody knew. Nobody had to know. And Neil was an expert at hiding it. A marvelous liar.

This was something else.

Something more. Something Andrew couldn’t ignore because he knew every change in Neil and this was new, which is why he let goals in like defending the net was optional. Not Kevin’s shouting, not the coach’s snorts made him blink. Let them drown in their frustration. He had an omega to observe.

It all started with small changes in practice after the return to classes for the new semester. Neil was irritated. Not like when someone said something stupid and he wore that “I’m holding back from shoving a Exy stick up your ass” face, but actually angry. Internally. Like something had gotten under his skin and he couldn’t shake it off.

His performance dropped. Nothing dramatic. But Neil usually ran like hell itself was on his heels. Like death was three steps away and he only needed two. But that day... he was slow. Gordon—GORDON, for god’s sake—outpaced him. And celebrated like he’d won an Olympic gold instead of beating the fastest but distracted player on the team.

Andrew saw it all. The way the hair on Neil’s neck stood on end, that almost animalistic gesture, like he was about to pounce. And how he backed off when Gordon growled, baring his teeth in more of an idiot display than a real threat. Neil backed off. Not because he was afraid, but because he knew that if he stayed, he’d bite off more than he could chew that day. That caught Andrew off guard because Neil would never back down from a challenge—especially not from Gordon.

Mental note: kick Gordon’s ass later. Maybe with subtlety. Maybe with a bat.

Neil, who normally wouldn’t back down even with a gun to his head, stepped away. But he still bared his fangs. Like a cornered cat—not out of submission. A retreat isn’t surrender. Andrew knew that better than anyone. And that’s why he didn’t stop watching. Because something was happening. Because Neil was on the edge of something, and Andrew hated not knowing what.

But he was going to find out.

Because Andrew Minyard didn’t leave loose ends. Especially not when that end smelled like *his rabbit—*Neil’s rabbit.

When practice ended, everyone dragged their feet to the benches like the grass had turned to mud slowing them down. The sweat, the frustration of an unproductive practice, and the grunts all mixed into a cloud of mediocrity. And as usual, Wymack was furious. Rightfully so.

“What the hell was that?” he barked as soon as he stepped near them. No one answered, because everyone knew that replying only prolonged the suffering. “Are you playing Exy or pretending to be badly placed furniture? That was the worst practice of the season. Everyone was scattered and working without teamwork.”

Andrew had already tuned out. Or well, that’s what he liked to pretend. He was sitting down, water bottle in hand, legs stretched out, and his gaze—of course—fixed on Neil. Nothing Wymack could say was more important than the way Neil clenched his jaw or how his fingers moved restlessly, like he was fighting something invisible.

Until the coach decided to switch targets.

“You were terrible.” The phrase hit like a bullet. Neil growled, barely audible, but Andrew caught it. Of course he did. He always caught things he wasn’t supposed to. “If you keep this up, I’ll have to double your training and increase your cardio.” Wymack crossed his arms like that made his threat more official.

“I did the best I could,” Neil spat through clenched teeth, with that “touch me and I’ll bite” tone Andrew hated more than he cared to admit.

“Well, it’s not enough,” Kevin chimed in, with that self-appointed authority only he respected. Mistake number one.

Neil raised his head and looked at him like he was daring him to try something. Then he opened his mouth with that sharp tongue that never knew when to shut up.

“I’d perform better if you stopped waking me up every damn night to play your stupid imaginary match against an opponent you don’t even dare face in your dreams.”

The silence that followed was glorious. Andrew whistled softly, barely smiling, because someone had to enjoy the chaos, and clearly the others were too busy processing the blow. Kevin stood so fast the bench trembled.

“What did you say, you little shit?”

“Has your fear of the Ravens melted your brain?” Neil was already standing, face to face, not backing down.

Kevin squared his shoulders, and Andrew clenched his fists, ready to put the walking goalpost in his place because he wanted to rest and Kevin wouldn’t shut up. If he happened to prevent a confrontation between the two strikers, it would be purely coincidental. And then it happened again.

That shiver. Small. But there. The hair on Neil’s neck standing up. The growl, soft but furious. And then the step back. Not from fear. Not Neil. He was more animal than human in that moment, retreating like a cornered cat, never turning his back to Kevin for a second. Eyes fixed, fangs out. Body tense. Step by step, he backed away without giving Kevin a single chance to try something from behind. No blind spot. No opening.

Neil left the court like that. Walking backward with the same arrogance he walked in with. He disappeared down the hallway toward the locker rooms like he’d just won a fight without even throwing a punch.

“What the fuck just happened?” Matt asked out loud, looking at the others like someone might have a better answer than he did.

No one said a thing. They all wore the same face: confusion, surprise, a little fear. Andrew just shrugged, because clearly, it wasn’t his job to educate idiots.

“Definitely weird,” Aaron murmured.

Weird… and hot.

He kept that to himself. He had no intention of sharing his observations with the group. It was already enough to endure them. But one thing was clear: Neil wasn’t acting like himself. For Andrew, it was like watching a stranger. And he intended to find out why. Even if he had to let in every damn goal of the season. Because he didn’t care about the games.

He cared about Nothin.

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The second time his strange behavior showed up was that same night. Andrew was getting ready to head up to the rooftop, fully intending to spend some time alone, cigarettes between his fingers and the relief of not having to deal with anyone. If Neil showed up, well, that wasn’t Andrew’s problem and definitely not something going on between them... just an annoying, predictable, and fucking inevitable coincidence.

Summer was already in the air, so Andrew threw on a tank top with sweatpants and his kitty slippers.

"Hey, I’m doing laundry. I’m tossing your stinky uniform in with mine, so you stop infesting the room," Aaron announced from the door, wearing that grumpy attitude he was so good at.

"Take my towel too," Andrew said without bothering to look at him.

"I already looked. It’s not in your bag," Aaron replied, raising an eyebrow.

Andrew turned to him with disbelief, like Aaron had just confessed he didn’t know how zippers worked. Were they seriously going to fight over a towel?

"Then look properly."

"I did look properly. It’s not there. You probably left it in your locker."

"I remember putting it in my bag."

"Well, your perfect memory had to fail sometime," Aaron snorted sarcastically. "If Abby yells at us tomorrow, I’ll say it’s your fault." And without waiting for a response, he turned and left like he’d just won a debate at the UN.

Andrew didn’t flinch. He grabbed his cigarette pack, a sachet of lube, and a pack of condoms he always kept in his wallet—because unlike 98% of the planet, he actually was a prepared man. Not that he expected anything to happen, just like nothing ever happened every time he went up to the rooftop. But no one makes it to thirty with intact skin and a barely-ruined reputation without learning to anticipate the improbable.

He left the room.

In the lounge, Kevin was doing homework with headphones on, deeply focused on his nonsense like the world would end if he didn’t turn in a page of scribbles and absurd figures.

Andrew ignored him with the dedication of someone who’d been practicing for years. He wasn’t going to listen to another of Kevin’s rants about Neil, because Kevin had spent the entire day complaining like an angry single mother: that Neil didn’t train enough, that Neil didn’t respect him, that if he kept it up, he’d stop bringing him to practices... as if keeping the others out of his late-night training sessions was a punishment and not a gift from the universe.

The last straw was hearing Kevin laugh to himself while muttering that Neil would never make it to court, much less the Olympics, and that all he’d do was watch Andrew and Kevin win gold on TV because he’d been left out of practices and Kevin’s mentorship—like Andrew actually planned on going pro.

Andrew had to focus on his breathing to avoid grabbing Kevin’s jockstrap and ending the night by silently suffocating him like a graceful killer.

With what little patience he had left, he climbed the stairs to the rooftop. The final door was already ajar, and that could only mean one thing: Neil was already up there.

Ever since Andrew had claimed that place as his own, no one else in the building dared go up... except Neil, of course. The only idiot with enough nerve (or a death wish—Andrew still hadn’t decided) to ignore the "do not disturb" signs Andrew left so clearly without saying a word.

Who the fuck was he kidding? Neil had crossed the line into Andrew’s private sanctuary like he’d been born with the right to do so.

When he opened the door, there he was. Sitting farther from the edge than usual, wearing that black hoodie that looked more like a rag than clothing. It had probably seen more wash cycles than anything else in his closet.

Andrew growled when he saw it, because he’d already warned him that the air seeped through the worn fabric and that if he got sick, he wasn’t dragging him to the infirmary.

"You never learn, do you? Your learning curve is flat. I told you to toss that ragged hoodie," he said bluntly.

"Leave my hoodie alone. I’m not gonna get sick." Neil turned to look at him, halfway between expectation and annoyance. "Besides, it’s full-on summer, the fabric isn’t stifling up here. It covers just enough."

"If you don’t throw that thing out by the end of summer, I’ll kick your ass, drag you up here, and toss you off the ledge."

"And I told you, Minyard. I’ll take you with me."

Andrew sat next to him and lit his cigarette, a routine already set in stone. That mutual threat had almost become a joke between them. Almost. Because Andrew knew damn well that if Neil really didn’t do what he said, he would drag him and throw him off... though probably making sure he landed in a bush just to teach him a lesson.

"You’re not practicing Exy today?" he asked after a long drag.

"No. I’m pretty sure if I see Kevin, I’ll rip his head off," Neil replied, hugging his knees and resting his chin on them while watching him. Those blue eyes stared at him from beneath lashes so long Andrew still suspected they were illegal in several states.

"This must be some kind of miracle. Could it be our little believer girl was right about the Almighty?" Neil groaned.

"It’s no miracle, I’m just telling the truth. I want to rip his head off and feed it to Seth for fun."

"Pretty sure the feeling’s mutual. Even if all you said was the truth," Andrew added dryly.

"And that bothered him that much?"

"Don’t ask dumb shit. You hit him where it hurts. He knows he’s a coward because he’ll do anything to avoid facing his former teammates," he took a drag and noticed Neil scrunching his button nose full of freckles, "even though those same teammates didn’t hesitate to kick him out the moment he injured his hand."

Silence.

Andrew looked down at the street, where the last students were dragging themselves back to their dorms, while feeling Neil’s eyes on him. That look always pushed him to the edge. It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff. And sometimes, Andrew had to resist the urge to push him... or jump with him.

"Yes or no?" Neil asked suddenly, and Andrew clicked his tongue in irritation. He knew that cigarette was about to die. He put it out on the concrete, flicked the butt over the edge, and turned to Neil, who was looking at him with those bright eyes that betrayed exactly what he wanted.

Andrew had come to know him better than he knew himself.

"This is what you want, little junkie? Is this what you’ve been waiting for? Me coming up alone just so I could fuck you against the concrete?" he whispered while stroking Neil’s Adam’s apple, then forcing him to lift his face.

Neil closed his eyes for a second, like that touch was more than he expected. Andrew traced the contour of his lower lip with a finger, watching him with surgical precision. He released his pheromones.

"What, you didn’t know? I signed with the Foxes just to seduce you," Neil said with a crooked smile, eyes still shut.

"And here I thought it was to seduce Kevin," Andrew replied, leaning in close enough to breathe against his neck.

"You’re not cute when you say stupid shit," Neil growled, giving him a playful shove on the shoulder. "That giraffe could never be sexy to me. I don’t swing."

"And yet here you are," Andrew whispered, voice rough, nearly a dangerous sigh. "Waiting for me to say yes."

"Which you still haven’t done..."

Neil’s lips parted without resistance, like he’d been waiting hours for that moment, that exact pressure. Andrew didn’t hesitate for a second; he leaned in with the familiarity of someone who knew exactly what Neil wanted and devoured his mouth with controlled intensity. Every brush, every tongue movement was precise, measured... addictive.

And the worst part, Andrew thought with a low growl, was that he already knew it. That taste, that heat, that sensation of sinking into Neil’s mouth... it was a fucking trap, and Andrew, devoted idiot, kept falling.

He leaned further over Neil’s body, easily coaxing him to lie back on the rough rooftop concrete. Neil didn’t even protest; on the contrary, he let himself be guided like his natural place was underneath Andrew, heart pounding against his chest and cheeks burning.

His arms wrapped around Andrew’s neck, pulling him closer, like he was afraid he’d disappear if he stopped touching him, opening his legs to welcome him in.

Andrew, as he’d done many times, let his fingers wander lazily over Neil’s shirt, sliding down his ribs like he was drawing a secret map on his skin. The sigh that escaped Neil’s mouth was almost a moan, muffled and restrained.

Andrew huffed against his mouth.

He hated those little sounds. Those soft surrenders. The subtle tremble of someone who didn’t know whether to beg for more or stay still not to break the moment. It made him feel like he was on the edge of a cliff.

Andrew hated Neil with every fiber of his being.

When he reached the hem of the hoodie, his fingers brushed the warm skin of Neil’s belly. A soft touch, almost innocent. But Neil shivered like Andrew had just hit a nerve.

His whole body reacted: a small jolt, a tremor, and that moment where his breath hitched with a gasp that didn’t know if it was pleasure or fear.

It was subtle. Almost imperceptible. But Andrew wasn’t stupid.

He noticed. He felt it. He read it in Neil’s chest, the involuntary lift of his shoulders, how his skin bristled not just from the cold—a reaction Neil had never had before.

Andrew stopped immediately. His frown sharpened, eyes scanning Neil’s face: dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, tension.

The desire was there, yes. But so was something else. Something that hadn’t been there before. So he pulled away without a word, just enough to study him like he’d just found a flaw in a nearly-finished masterpiece.

"Why are you backing off?" Neil asked, voice weaker than he probably intended. He propped himself up on his elbows, like he was trying to recover something that had just slipped through his fingers. If he didn’t have the patch on, Andrew would’ve smelled sadness.

Andrew raised an eyebrow and lit another cigarette with the same indifference he used to tear through heads on the court.

"You don’t want this," he said, flat voice, no judgment, no emotion. If Neil didn’t want this, he wouldn’t cross that line.

"Yes I do," Neil replied immediately, almost offended. His eyes widened with something like guilt. Or worse, desperation. "I told you, it’s always yes with you."

Andrew exhaled smoke lazily, letting it drift between them. He didn’t look at him, not at first. But he could feel Neil’s tension, that childish impulse to fix everything no matter what. Like sheer will could erase what his body had already revealed.

"Until it’s a no," Andrew said, finally turning his head to look at him, eyes blank as always. "Listen, rabbit, I’m not the fucking Butcher. I’m not gonna punish you for saying no."

Neil pressed his lips together. Looked down for a second, then back at him with a mix of stubbornness and pleading. Something only he could pull off.

"It wasn’t that. It was... it was a stupid reaction, I admit it, but it had nothing to do with you," he mumbled, clearly embarrassed by his own tremble. "It’s just... your fingers were cold. Caught me off guard. I don’t know. My body... my body just reacted."

"Yeah. I noticed," Andrew replied mercilessly, but not angry. He would never get mad at Neil for stopping any kind of contact. "But your brain’s not in charge here, is it?"

Neil swallowed. He was paler than usual. But he didn’t back down.

"I don’t want you to stop. Seriously, Andrew. I’m fine. I am. Just... keep going."

Andrew looked at him for a few more seconds. He didn’t have to say please, but it was implied.

It would’ve been so easy to just give in, lean down again and bury his mouth in Neil’s neck, feel those fingers tighten on his back, punish him and savor him until they hit hell’s fire and then pull him up to glory.

So easy.

But Andrew Minyard didn’t do easy. He did what was right by his personal, ruthless logic system. And right now, that meant stopping—for Neil’s sake.

"No. Not until what you say matches what you do," he said finally, taking another drag and looking up at the sky like he could find patience between the clouds.

"You’re unbearable, Minyard," Neil growled, frustrated.

"And you’re a fucking stubborn ass who still doesn’t get how things work with me. I’m not gonna force you across lines you don’t even understand. You flinched like a damn rabbit in the wolf’s jaws when I touched you. That’s a pretty clear no to me."

"I wasn’t scared," Neil insisted, but his voice was lower now, more honest, more defeated.

"You were," Andrew looked at him one last time, and this time there was something that could almost be mistaken for tenderness—if you didn’t know his face well. "But it’s fine. Just don’t ask me to pretend I didn’t notice, because that’s not happening."

Silence settled between them like a heavy cloak. Neil breathed unevenly, trying to calm the traitorous body that had betrayed him. Andrew stayed there beside him, not touching him, not leaving. Because maybe he wasn’t going to please him, but he wasn’t going to leave him alone either. Not yet.

And in the way Neil shifted closer without asking, resting his head barely on Andrew’s shoulder while wrapping his arms around his legs, Andrew understood that—for tonight—that was enough.

For a moment, he hated the patch that suppressed Neil’s scent.

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The third time happened just a few days later. Andrew had spent the rest of the week giving Neil what he would describe as “space,” though in reality it was undercover surveillance worthy of the CIA. He wasn’t smothering him, didn’t ask too many questions, didn’t touch him unless strictly necessary—because there was nothing between them—but he watched him like a chemical experiment seconds away from blowing up.

To anyone else, Neil moved with the same restless energy as always, flashing that half-smile that annoyed half the team and charmed the other. But Andrew had learned him well enough to know something was off. There was a stiffness in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. A dull tension in the way he walked, like he’d been sleeping on a bed of rocks for days.

Andrew noticed it too when Neil rubbed the back of his neck without realizing, exposing the patch that was supposed to be secret, or when he stared at the locker room ceiling with his jaw clenched while Kevin barked out some impossible strategy.

One night on the terrace, Andrew dared to ask what was wrong, because he still couldn’t figure out what had changed. It was between drags of a cigarette and a click of his tongue, his voice low and devoid of any real emotion. He had ordered him to talk, but Neil, loyal to his usual “I’m not a problem” policy, had shrugged and pulled a face that was meant to be a smile.

He’d come out with the pathetic excuse that he hadn’t slept well. That the bed felt weird. Too soft? Too hard? He couldn’t explain it, but he swore he was fine. And Andrew—against all his emotional training, which demanded he question even the air he breathed—decided to pretend he believed him. Not because he actually did, but because he understood Neil was a creature that ran on denial.

If he said he was fine, it meant he was falling apart but could still run. If he complained about the bed being uncomfortable, he was probably having nightmares he refused to admit to. Andrew could’ve pushed it. Could’ve offered him his bed—just to sleep, no touching, no talking. But his damn twin slept right above, and Kevin Day was one breath away, making that option utterly stupid.

Neil had enough reasons to be uncomfortable during the day. Andrew wasn’t about to add another one at night. Besides, they were nothing.

Now, a week later, they were at their last practice before the first playoff qualifier, and Andrew needed to focus if he wanted to keep his promise of getting Kevin to the finals for his match against the Foxes.

"Hey, are we going to Eden this Saturday?"

Andrew slammed his locker shut without even looking. The question was more formality than genuine interest. Still, he raised an eyebrow and reached out to pinch his twin’s nose with excruciating slowness. He knew Aaron hated it. And he lived for that.

"Where the hell is my shirt?" Kevin roared from the back, slamming his locker open. Aaron huffed and swatted Andrew’s hand away, frowning.

"He’s more irritated than usual."

"As if I care about Kevin’s mood," Andrew replied with his signature tone of icy indifference. "He’s probably pissy because Josten hasn’t been tagging along to his Exy cult trainings."

"You should at least ask him what’s wrong. He’s your best friend."

The sentence hit like a slap in the face with a velvet glove. Andrew turned to him, expressionless, and tugged on his shirt lazily, like yanking a dog by the collar.

"Hey, clone. Take that back or I’ll become the only Minyard in the Palmetto Foxes."

"No. Deal with it. He’s your best friend," Aaron said with that tone he used when he was a breath away from violence but chose to argue like a functional adult. He shook off Andrew’s grip and walked over to Kevin, leaving him behind. He let out his pheromones, and Kevin calmed down instantly.

Andrew watched him go with that unique blend of annoyance and resignation only a sibling could inspire. Then he looked down at the blades hidden beneath the bands on his arms. His fingers moved over the metal through the leather, just recognizing the weight, the shape.

He wasn’t going to use them. He couldn’t. Not now. Breaking his promise wasn’t an option. It was a hard no in the meticulously structured language he’d built to keep from falling apart. But he touched them anyway. Out of habit. Out of need. Imagining life as an only child.

"Can I borrow a handkerchief? I forgot mine," Neil asked, materializing behind him with that half-guilty smile he used when he knew he was about to say something stupid but said it anyway.

Andrew blinked slowly. Not because he was particularly surprised—of course not, nothing surprised him anymore—but because apparently, it was going to be one of those days. The kind where the entire universe conspired to ruin Andrew Minyard’s existence before 8 AM.

He exhaled slowly, like just breathing around people was exhausting, and rolled his eyes as he seriously considered leaving society to live in the woods with zero human interaction.

Seriously, what the hell was it today with everyone talking to him? First his clone saying the dumbest shit imaginable, now the Exy junkie asking for favors.

He opened his locker with a sharp clang, pulled out a handkerchief he had lying around, and held it up.

Neil took it with childish enthusiasm, gave a little bounce—yes, literally a bounce, like he’d just received an invaluable gift—and without a second thought, brought it to his nose and sniffed. Hard.

Andrew blinked again, this time with a slowly rising eyebrow perched at the peak of disbelief. He deliberately ignored the shiver that ran down his spine and the treacherous pulse in his groin. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. His whole face screamed: What kind of degenerate omega have I ended up with?

Without a word, Neil turned on his heel and walked out of the locker room like nothing in the world could touch him—not even secondhand embarrassment.

"Did Josten just smell your hanky?" Gordon asked next to him, voice laced with a mix of awe and genuine concern for his teammate’s mental health.

Andrew didn’t even look at him.

"Shut up, Gordon," he said with that deadpan monotone he used on every Fox that wasn’t his.

Gordon opened his mouth, maybe to say something else, but didn’t even get a vowel out before Boyd placed a firm hand on his chest and gently pushed him back—like stopping a dog that doesn’t realize it’s about to bite something much more dangerous.

Andrew grabbed his racquet, ignoring the tension hanging in the air, and headed straight for the court. As always, he walked like every step was a declaration of how much he hated being there—and yet he was the best at what he did.

Because sure, Exy might be a colossal waste of time, but it was his waste of time, and no one was allowed to ruin it. Except, apparently, Neil.

When he got to the center of the court, Kevin was already shouting instructions nobody was listening to, Aaron was shooting daggers when the alpha said something about improving his defense, and Allison was signaling Neil from across the court, who was still holding the handkerchief near his nose like it was a trophy.

Andrew watched him for half a second more.

"You’re giving that back," he said as he passed by him. Neil smiled.

"I’ll think about it." Andrew shook his head and muttered,

"Psychopath."

Kevin shouted something about lineups. The day had barely started.

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Shit hit the fan after the game.

Everything had already been wrong before it started, and Andrew was ready to kill someone. The only thing stopping him was the fact that he was stuck inside the goal, racket in hand, too many cameras aimed at him… and that they were barely still two points ahead.

The scoreboard shone with a 6–4 that didn’t do justice to the hell he was living in. Technically, they were winning—sure. But not because of the team. Not even close. They were up because Andrew had locked down the goal on his side like someone had promised him top-shelf whiskey for every ball that didn’t make it in. And still… still, it was costing him more than it reasonably should.

The defense—or more precisely, that sorry excuse for a defense the Foxes had—was a joke. Boyd moved like he had concrete in his shoes, and Aaron, his charming clone with anger issues and zero self-awareness, was too busy throwing death glares to actually stop the opposing strikers. Andrew wondered if he was entering some kind of pre-heat stage.   

So there he was—Andrew Minyard—carrying the damn game like it was his responsibility to keep them afloat. Spoiler: it wasn’t. But someone had to do it, and it clearly wasn’t going to be Boyd, or Aaron, or the fucking junkie, who’d spent half the match running like someone had put a bounty on his head.

Which, honestly, didn’t sound that far-fetched.

Neil, instead of focusing on scoring, had spent more time dodging hits and weaving through bodies like he was playing dodgeball instead of Exy. The coach, as expected, was one shout away from a full meltdown. Kevin and Neil had already argued at least four times—two of those during official timeouts—and once more while Andrew was just trying to drink water in peace without getting splashed by the tension.

Kevin screamed, Neil responded with that passive-aggressive attitude of his, and Gordon had taken the opportunity to punch someone from the opposing team, earning himself a flag for unsportsmanlike conduct. Nothing new.

And Andrew… Andrew was mentally counting the reasons why he couldn’t walk off the court and beat someone with his racket.

And if doing the job of three people and putting up with Kevin in full frustrated-coach mode wasn’t enough, Andrew was hot. Not regular, sweaty-from-exertion hot. No. He was hot like he was trapped in a sauna with all the fires of hell turned on.

The reason? He hadn’t found his summer uniform anywhere, so he’d had to wear the winter one. Long sleeves, thick fabric, made for temperatures that didn’t even exist in hell. He was drenched. He could feel the sweat crawling down his spine, gluing the fabric to his skin like he was being hugged by a slime-covered octopus. If anyone had the brilliant idea to comment on it, he wouldn’t respond. The first idiot to cross his path was going straight to the floor. Poor bastard who thought it was funny to hide his uniform.

The ball flew across the court again, and once more, nobody—Boyd, Aaron, or his fucking luck—seemed remotely interested in stopping the forward, who slipped through like he owned the place. Andrew moved on instinct alone, body tensed, mind in automatic mode, and returned the shot with a clean hit of his racket. The ball hit Kevin on the calves, and Kevin yelled, annoyed.

Keep it up and the next one’s going to the head.

“One more,” Andrew muttered to himself, jaw clenched.

The ref blew the whistle to resume play. Andrew adjusted his gloves, feeling sweat throw a damn party under his shirt. They were still ahead, yeah. But if someone didn’t start doing their damn job, that lead wasn’t going to last. And Andrew was one point away from walking off the goal just to shove someone.

And Neil was still doing that damn jog of his, like some rabbit frolicking through a meadow on a lovely day instead of playing the match that could kick them out of the season.

Perfect. Wonderful. Hell on Earth, courtesy of Exy.

When the match finally ended—without a single extra point scored, of course—Andrew didn’t celebrate with the rest of the team. No smile, no victory gesture, not even a sarcastic comment. Nothing. He just turned on his heel and left the court like he’d been held hostage there for hours, ignoring the cheers, the applause, and the overly enthusiastic teammates.

The captain and Kevin could stay behind to deal with the press, smile for the cameras, and repeat their rehearsed bullshit about teamwork and commitment. Andrew had zero interest in listening to more crap, much less being part of it.

The second he got to the locker room, he headed straight for the showers. He stripped without ceremony, letting his clothes and gear fall in a heap beside the stall like the whole thing had been burning his skin off.

The moment cold water hit him, he let out a sigh he wouldn’t have admitted to under torture. The relief was almost instant—the sweat, the pressure, the frustration, the damn heat from that winter jersey that had made him feel like he was being slow-roasted alive… all of it started to dissolve under the freezing spray.

What did it matter if he went into heat shock? At least he’d die clean and cool.

He stood there, still, head bowed, eyes closed, and for the first time all day, his mind stopped spinning like a cursed carousel full of shouting, other people’s mistakes, and Kevin’s voice echoing in his ears.

Fifteen glorious minutes.

Fifteen minutes of nobody talking to him, nobody asking him for anything, nobody—cough, Neil, cough—doing something stupid that forced him to step in. He heard his teammates come in, leave, laugh, complain. He didn’t pay attention. Didn’t even flinch.

He stayed there until the water started to hurt from how cold it was, until his toes felt like they were shriveling from an ice bath, until there was no one else left.

Well—almost no one.

When he finally turned off the water and wrapped a towel around his waist, he stepped out to find Aaron still there, drying his hair with a permanent scowl. Andrew raised a brow, ignored him for a few seconds, and bent down to grab his clothes and gear.

Except they weren’t there. He frowned. Stared at the empty space for a second like he expected his uniform and gear to magically rematerialize.

“Where’s my stuff?” he asked, voice perfectly flat.

“I took it to Abby to get it sanitized,” Aaron replied without even looking up. “You shouldn’t leave it lying around. If it gets damaged, Coach’ll give all of us hell.”

Andrew clenched his teeth.

Fine. It was fine. He wasn’t going to kill Aaron for having common sense, even if he said it with that I never do anything wrong tone.

“And my uniform?” he pressed. Aaron finally looked at him, brow slightly furrowed.

“Didn’t you give it to Josten to take it over?”

Andrew blinked. Slowly.

“Why the hell would I give my uniform to the junkie?”

“That’s what he told me when I saw him walking out with it and asked,” Aaron answered, shrugging like that explained everything.

The blood rushed to his head so fast he thought for a second he might actually see red. Neil? Taking his uniform? Just like that? With what fucking right? Since when did Neil Josten make decisions about his things? What kind of twisted logic made him think that was normal?

Sure, they’d fucked. A lot, actually. More times than Andrew cared to count. And yeah, Andrew could admit —to himself, grudgingly, and only on days he wasn’t two seconds away from punching someone— that Neil knew exactly what he was doing. The damn junkie had a sick talent for knowing every inch of his body, for touching him just right, for pushing him to the edge without crossing any of the lines Andrew hadn’t explicitly allowed. It was… good. Better than good. It made Andrew feel things he didn’t have words for without also wanting to set something on fire afterward.

But that didn’t give Neil a free pass to take his fucking uniform without asking. It didn’t mean he could just walk around acting like the world was his personal playground where everything he touched was his —including Andrew. Aaron was allowed. That felt like touching part of himself. Neil was not.

“How long ago?” he asked through gritted teeth while yanking his clothes on with jerky, impatient movements.

“I don’t know. A few minutes after you got in the shower.”

Andrew pulled the spare jersey over his head and clenched his fist as soon as he laced up his sneakers.

“Tell one of the Foxes to take you and Kevin back to the tower.” Aaron looked at him, confused.

“Where are you going?” Andrew shot him a sideways look, sharp and unbothered.

“Rabbit hunting,” he muttered, then stormed out of the locker room with the fury of someone who felt not just violated, but fucking exposed.

Everyone still lingering around the stadium got the hell out of his way the moment they saw him coming. It wasn’t that Andrew walked particularly fast, or that he shouted, or that his presence was loud. It was just… that kind of energy. The kind that screamed cross me and I swear I’ll shove this racquet so far up your ass you’ll be coughing strings.

He got into the car without a word. Threw his gym bag onto the passenger seat like it had personally offended him and slammed the door hard enough to make the frame creak in protest. The engine roared to life, and he peeled out of the parking lot with a screech of tires, like speeding could somehow help him feel in control of something. Anything.

Because yeah, he got it. Neil had been acting weird. Weirder than usual. But stealing his uniform? His fucking uniform?

That was another level.

And the worst part wasn’t even the theft itself. No. The worst part was what it did to Andrew, the way it twisted something in his chest. The fact that Neil felt entitled —or impulsive, or whatever the hell it was— to take something his without a word. Because that... that was intimate. More intimate than Andrew was equipped to deal with without wanting to burn the world down.

Preferably the rabbit.

He got to the tower in record time, parked like a maniac, and stormed into the building like a meteor packed with bad intentions. The elevator moved with all the urgency of government paperwork, and for a second he seriously considered climbing the damn shaft with his bare hands.

Finally, finally, the doors opened, and he stepped out just in time to see Neil —with his uniform in his hands— about to enter the apartment. Their eyes locked for a fraction of a second.

It was enough.

Neil’s face crumpled. Every bit of color drained from him, and he looked down at the clothes in his hands like he’d only just realized what he was holding. Then, without a single word, he turned around and bolted for the emergency stairs.

Just like that.

Andrew didn’t think. He just moved, chasing after him with every curse word he knew echoing in his head —for every cigarette he’d ever smoked, every nap he hadn’t taken, every bad life decision that made him even half a second slower than Neil.

The omega was taking the stairs two at a time like his life depended on it. Andrew gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep up.

He heard the rooftop door slam open.

Andrew followed, shoving it with enough force to rattle the hinges, and burst out like a storm looking for a target. His eyes adjusted instantly to the dim light—and there he was.

Neil. Not in the usual corner where they sat, but by the ventilation units, the place they sometimes went when they needed… privacy. He was hunched, tense, arms behind his back like he was still trying to hide what he was holding. His eyes were fixed on Andrew. And—seriously? Was he hissing at him?

Andrew blinked. Was the rabbit seriously warning him off? He stepped forward. Neil stepped back. His whole body looked coiled, ready to leap if Andrew got any closer. Teeth bared. Shoulders rigid. He was defending something. And then Andrew smelled it.

That sharp, acidic, almost stinging scent that came with omega adrenaline. Territorial warning. A smell that screamed: Don’t come closer.

Andrew didn’t care. Not one bit. All he could think about was ripping the clothes from Neil’s hands —literally or figuratively, jury was still out— and making him explain what the fuck was going on.

“Don’t take it!” Neil growled, clutching tighter at Andrew’s uniform.

“Give it back,” Andrew snapped, impatient.

“No! I need it.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, you damn junkie? What do you need?”

Then he saw it. Behind Neil, half-hidden by his body, was what could only be described as… a nest. Or at least an attempt at one. A pile of clothes, messy but clearly chosen, forming an improvised refuge on the mattress against the warmest wall of the rooftop.

Andrew froze.

He recognized one of Kevin’s shirts. A pair of Aaron’s socks. What was probably one of Renee’s blankets. And right there, in the center… There it was. His towel. The missing one. And his summer uniform.

His whole body stopped. His brain tried to connect the dots, to rationalize. A nest? That… that wasn’t normal. Omegas didn’t nest for no reason. Not when they were okay. Not when there wasn’t a strong biological reason.

Neil had made a nest.

Neil had made a nest.

The air disappeared. His chest tightened like someone had strapped an iron corset around him. Because the only reason an omega made a nest was because they were preparing for something. For safety. For protection. For their pups.

And Andrew wasn’t an idiot.

The ground turned soft. His knees trembled. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Neil. His Neil. The junkie. The annoying rabbit. His omega.

Was pregnant.

And Andrew Minyard, for the first time in a very, very long time… didn’t know what the fuck to do with that. Or with the image of the improvised nest. Or with the sweet scent rising from it. Or with the way Neil was looking at him now, fangs still out but his eyes too wide, too open, too… tender.

Everything in him screamed: don’t panic. And of course, the first thing he did was start panicking. Because Neil had made a nest. And filled it with things from them. From their pack. From Andrew.

And now nothing made sense the way it used to. But at the same time, everything clicked into place. Like someone had ripped a veil from his eyes with an emotional brick, Andrew finally saw the puzzle that had been forming for weeks right under his—now questionable—eyes.

There were signs. All of them. Everywhere.

And Andrew hadn’t been quick enough to see the truth.

Neil had been more irritable, more defensive, sure… but not with his usual explosive rage meant to escalate things. No. That time, when he fought with Kevin —as regularly as a Swiss watch— he had backed down the moment Kevin squared up. Bared his fangs. Tucked in his claws. Stepped back.

Everyone had noticed. But Andrew had brushed it off because Kevin had also been unbearable. And honestly, who wouldn’t want to avoid him?

And then there was that other moment.

On the rooftop, when Andrew had placed his hand on Neil’s stomach just to touch him—and Neil had frozen. Like he’d been caught with an open wound. Not out of fear, Andrew understood now, but because his alpha had touched his belly.

He’d been slower at practice. More distracted. Dodging hits. Avoiding opposing players like they were walking grenades. Neil, who used to throw himself into plays like death didn’t apply to him, was suddenly acting like every hit was a personal threat.

Of course.

Of course it made sense.

He was protecting something.

He was protecting his pup.

Andrew’s pup.

A phrase too ridiculous to exist in his head, but there it was. Sticky. Unshakeable. Horribly intimate. Andrew clenched his jaw. His entire body went taut. Because Neil’s instincts—that primal part of him that screamed for safety, for care, for space—had reacted before his conscious mind had. It was so fucking Neil to be pregnant and probably not even realize something was wrong.

He was just… reacting. With fear. With anger. With that fucked-up way he had of surviving everything without asking for help. And Andrew knew him well enough to understand: Neil probably didn’t even know he was pregnant.

His stomach flipped. Not in the good way, like when Neil did things with his mouth. No. One of those flips that meant disaster was about to hit. Because if Andrew was panicking…

He couldn’t even imagine how lost Neil must be, not understanding what the hell was happening to him. And the worst part? The worst part wasn’t the panic. It was the need to protect him. Like he didn’t even have a choice anymore.

He wanted to take the rabbit back to the apartment, put him in bed, wrap him in blankets and sweets and knives so no one could ever touch him again.

That was the worst part. Because Andrew didn’t do speeches. It wasn’t his style. If there was anything he hated more than people touching him without permission and the word “please,” it was having to spell out things that were already fucking obvious.

Words were for idiots who needed their feelings boxed up and tied with a bow. Andrew didn’t do that. Never has. Never needed to. But this… this wasn’t about him.

This was for Neil.

So he stayed still. Close enough to be felt, far enough not to invade. He let his pheromones speak for him. Released them with surgical precision—soft, but firm. And the moment the scent of safety and calm spread, he saw it: Neil felt it.

It felt like an invisible cord pulling at his bones. His posture shifted. His shoulders tensed. His pupils dilated, sniffing the air, confused but also… relieved.

Andrew said nothing.

He watched. Neil. The nest. That mess of fabric and scents that shook him more than any hit he’d ever taken.

He saw his summer uniform again. His towel—the good one, the one he never let anyone else even touch. Kevin’s shirt. Aaron’s ridiculous socks—the ones he gave him as a joke but that his clone kept eyeing in the store window. There were a bunch of things that clearly weren’t Neil’s.

Andrew swallowed, tasting the metallic bite of a truth, he didn’t ask for but got anyway.

He breathed in.

Exhaled. Forced himself to accept what he was seeing without breaking anything. Because this wasn’t a fight, even if it felt like one. This was Neil. His fucked-up rabbit. Surrounded by things that weren’t his, trying to protect something that was.

So Andrew raised his hand. Not dramatically. No theatrical gestures. No soft-eyed sympathy. Just held it out. Open. Steady.

An offer.

A reminder.

A fucking lifeline he wasn’t going to repeat.

He didn’t say “come here.” He didn’t say “you’ll be okay.” He would never say “I love you” because he was broken. Fucking damaged. But Neil already knew that. And Andrew knew Neil could read it anyway, even in the silence.

And of course, Neil hesitated. Because that’s what he did. Because his first reaction to anything good was to wait for it to explode. To betray him, thanks to the parents who ruined his trust. Because it didn’t matter how many times Andrew let him stay on his rooftop or touched him like he didn’t hate him—though Neil was the one he hated the most…

This was different.

This was more.

And Andrew stayed.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t lower his hand.

Just… waited.

Until Neil, with small steps and a clenched jaw, dropped the clothes he still held—clothes that reeked of Andrew, by the way—and took his hand with trembling fingers.

Andrew didn’t hesitate. He pulled him in. Not hard enough to scare or hurt him, but enough to say: I’m not letting go.

Ever.

He caught him in his arms like the world was falling apart and he was the only thing holding it together. One hand on his back. The other moved—slow, deliberate—down to his belly. Neil flinched like he’d been slapped.

“What’s happening?” he asked, voice broken. Small. Like he should know the answer but couldn’t fit the pieces together. Andrew didn’t blink.

“You’re pregnant,” he said. No drama. No judgment. Just… said it. Like announcing a game score. Neil blinked.

“Don’t fuck with me,” he muttered, though his voice shook. Andrew stared. Unflinching.

“It’s the only reason you’d steal our stuff to build a nest,” he said, sharp as a knife. Then looked down at the chaos of fabric and scent. “Omegas only do that when they’re pregnant.”

Neil looked at him. His eyes—normally sharp and clear—were fogged with something like fear. Not terror, not like he was going to run… just fear of not understanding. Of not knowing how to face what came next.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered. Like that made it better. Like that could protect him.

Andrew nodded once. He knew. Of course he knew. Neil could outrun any truth he didn’t want to face.

“You know now,” Andrew said, and that was enough. Neil lowered his head, resting it on Andrew’s shoulder—but this time, he didn’t stay still. With a slow, almost unsure motion, he tugged Andrew toward the nest. Didn’t say a word. Just breathed. Like each inhale was a quiet confession. Andrew understood.

Not with words. With that silent invitation that felt like standing at the edge of the world.

An omega was inviting him into his nest.

Him.

The honor landed in his chest like sacred weight. He didn’t say it. Of course not. He just followed. Didn’t move from instinct. Moved because Neil had chosen him. Didn’t push. Didn’t let go. And for the first time, allowed himself to stay.

“What happens now?” Neil whispered once they were inside the half-made nest that was so very Neil.

Andrew stayed quiet for a moment. He could say a thousand things. About the future. About plans. About the fallout, this could bring for a scholarship athlete and the secret Neil had tried so hard to keep. But that wasn’t what Neil needed.

“What happens is what you want to happen,” he said at last. Voice steady. No hesitation. “Whether you want it or not—it’ll be your decision.”

“It’s going to be all I have,” Neil said, voice tense, cracked by something deeper than fear. He looked down at his hands like he could hold something there. Like he could convince himself it was real. “I have no one else,” he whispered. “This… this would be my family.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Full of all the things Neil didn’t say. All the things he was trying to hold in. Andrew heard him swallow. Eyes locked on nothing.

“Are they going to kick me off the team for this?”

One second. Two.

Andrew didn’t say anything right away. Because he didn’t need to dress up the obvious. They were scholarship athletes. This could ruin everything. The air between them was thick. But Andrew was still Andrew. So, he answered the only way he knew how.

“If they do,” he said, voice low, steady, “then it’s not worth it for us to stay.”

And he didn’t say it to comfort him. He didn’t say it out of rage. He said it because it was the truth. And that was it.

No cheesy promises. No movie lines. Just the truth. Raw. Real. Contained. Neil curled into his chest, fitting like it was the only place the world couldn’t touch him.

Andrew said nothing. Just held him. Arms firm around that trembling body now carrying more than scars. And as he held him there, warm and small in his arms, Andrew thought—though he’d never say it out loud—

If anyone, anyone at all, tried to hurt this rabbit or what he carried inside… There wouldn’t be enough of the bastard left to put in a police report. That’s how Andrew Minyard says “I care.” With a hand held out. A soft touch on the belly. And the brutal certainty that he’s here to stay.