The moment the lunch bell rang, signaling the end of the break, Dorian was on his feet. He grabbed his tray with rigid efficiency, put it back to where it belongs and moved swiftly toward the exit without so much as a glance back at Rhys or Talia. His heart pounded in his chest, though his face remained carefully composed. He could feel the weight of the conversation pressing down on him, each step toward the door feeling heavier than the last.
How could Rhys know?
The thought gnawed at him as he maneuvered through the cafeteria, narrowly avoiding the groups of students who were slowly making their way out. He could still hear Rhys' voice echoing in his mind, the lazy but cutting way he had unraveled Dorian's carefully guarded life. 'You're the perfect son, aren't you?'
Dorian clenched his fists at his sides, trying to push the memory away. It shouldn't have bothered him—Rhys was just an arrogant new student, an Omega with a talent for stirring up trouble. He didn't know anything. But the way Rhys had guessed, the way he had so easily seen through Dorian's defenses, left a bitter taste in his mouth.
As he stepped into the quieter hallway, the noise of the cafeteria fading behind him, Dorian exhaled sharply. He needed space, distance—anything to clear his head before his next class. His grip tightened on the strap of his satchel as he walked, his pace quickening with each step. The familiar order and routine of Haleworth Academy should have been comforting, but right now, it only made the pressure feel worse.
Dorian reached his locker and opened it with practiced precision, the cool metal handle a stark contrast to the heat that still simmered beneath his skin. He paused for a moment as he stared blankly at the neatly organized contents of his locker.
Perfection. Control. Order.
That's what his life had always been. He knew exactly what was expected of him—how to act, how to succeed, how to keep everything in line. He didn't question it, didn't allow himself to waver. Because if he slipped, if he allowed even the smallest crack to form, everything could come crashing down.
He slammed the locker door shut a little harder than he meant to, the sound echoing through the hallway.
What if you mess up? Ever thought about that?
Dorian's jaw clenched as Rhys' words replayed in his mind. It was ridiculous—he wasn't going to mess up. He had worked too hard, too long, to let anything slip. Yet somehow, Rhys had gotten under his skin in a way no one ever had before. Dorian couldn't figure out why. Maybe it was the way Rhys had spoken so casually, as if perfection was a burden instead of a goal. Maybe it was the way Rhys didn't seem to care about anything, like rules and expectations were things to be ignored.
Or maybe it was because, deep down, a part of Dorian was afraid that Rhys was right.
He shook his head, pushing the thought away. He didn't have time for this—not now. He had a class to get to, responsibilities to uphold. There was no room for self-doubt, no room for distractions. Especially not from someone like Rhys.
Straightening his jacket, Dorian turned and headed toward his next class, his footsteps quick and precise, each step carrying him further from the uneasy weight that had settled over him during lunch. He needed to focus, to get back into the rhythm of the day. Order would bring back the control he was starting to feel slip.
As he reached the classroom, the familiar quiet of the space greeted him. A small sense of relief washed over Dorian as he stepped inside. This class, at least, would be free from Rhys' presence. No careless smirks, no sharp words cutting at the seams of his perfect life. Just routine. Just the way it was supposed to be.
Dorian made his way to his seat, sliding into the chair with a quiet exhale. Calm down, he told himself. Get it together.
But despite the silence of the classroom and the comfort of routine, Rhys' voice lingered in the back of his mind.
'Nobody's perfect, no matter how hard you try.'
_
The afternoon passed in a blur of carefully structured lessons and routine tasks. Dorian moved from one class to the next, his focus sharpened as he threw himself into his work. Numbers, formulas, and historical dates filled his mind, pushing away the uncomfortable thoughts that had lingered after his encounter with Rhys.
It was easier to drown in his responsibilities—to lose himself in the precision of his notes and the rhythm of lectures. With each passing hour, Dorian felt the familiar sense of control return. Order was everything, and as long as he followed the structure, as long as he did everything perfectly, the unsettling tension from earlier would fade. It had to.
His mind stayed locked on the material, never straying too far from the lesson at hand. Class after class flowed smoothly, and by the time the bell rang, signaling the end of each period, Dorian felt as though he had finally reclaimed his balance. The hours passed in quiet efficiency, free from the distractions that had clouded his mind during lunch.
But when the final bell rang, marking the start of his last class of the day, Dorian hesitated.
The schedule, neatly written in his planner, stared back at him from his desk. His next class... was one he shared with Rhys.
Dorian exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the edge of his notebook. Of course. He should have known the day wouldn't end so easily. Rhys wasn't someone who could simply disappear after shaking everything up. Somehow, the Omega seemed to slip into every part of his life, whether Dorian wanted him there or not.
With measured steps, Dorian made his way to the classroom, his mind already bracing for whatever chaos might unfold. He wouldn't let Rhys get to him again—not this time. He was prepared now. He had regained his composure.
As he approached the classroom, Dorian hesitated just outside the door. Through the narrow window, he saw the familiar sight of students settling into their seats, their voices a low hum of conversation as they waited for the lesson to begin. His eyes scanned the room automatically, landing on one familiar face.
Rhys Everen.
Rhys was already seated near the middle of the classroom, leaning back in his chair with his usual casual posture, one arm draped over the back of his seat. His dark auburn hair fell messily across his forehead, and that same lazy smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
As if sensing Dorian's presence, Rhys looked up.
Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Rhys' smile widened just a bit—an unspoken acknowledgment that he had noticed Dorian before Dorian had even walked through the door. It wasn't the same smug grin that had grated on Dorian's nerves earlier; it was lighter, almost amused, as though Rhys found their continued encounters inevitable.
Dorian bristled, but forced himself to remain composed. Rhys might be there, might even enjoy getting under his skin, but Dorian wouldn't let it bother him. Not this time.
He stepped into the classroom, his movements precise as always, heading toward his usual seat at the front. He didn't glance at Rhys again, though he could feel the Omega's gaze lingering on him, waiting for a reaction that Dorian refused to give.
As he settled into his chair, Dorian exhaled quietly, his mind focused solely on the lesson ahead. He would get through this class just like every other—efficiently, calmly, with no disruptions.
Rhys had seated himself near the middle of the room, far enough that Dorian wouldn't have to deal with him directly. But still... the tension lingered, like a shadow at the edge of his mind, a reminder that Rhys was there, watching, waiting.
And though Dorian didn't want to admit it, the thought of sharing the space with him—of knowing that Rhys was once again present in his perfectly ordered world—unnerved him more than he liked.
The final class of the day began, the teacher starting the lesson with a steady, measured tone. Dorian opened his notebook, his pen poised over the blank page, ready to take notes as he always did.
But for the first time in a long while, his attention wavered.
His thoughts kept drifting back to the earlier conversation, to the way Rhys had cut through the façade Dorian worked so hard to maintain. The words Rhys had spoken echoed faintly in the back of his mind, and despite Dorian's best efforts to push them aside, they lingered.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rhys leaning back in his seat, his expression relaxed, as if the tension between them didn't bother him at all. How could he always be so calm? So unaffected?
Dorian's pen scratched across the page, but the words felt hollow. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the feeling that Rhys was quietly challenging him, even from across the room.
You're not going to get to me, Dorian thought, forcing himself to focus on the lesson. Not this time.
But even as the teacher's voice droned on, and Dorian took notes with his usual precision, the faint smile that Rhys had given him when he walked into the room remained fixed in his mind.
_
The final minutes of class dragged on, each tick of the clock feeling slower than the last. Dorian was focused on his notes, scribbling down the last bits of information from the lecture, trying to tune out everything else. The day was almost over. Just a few more minutes, and he could escape to the quiet order of his own space, free from distractions.
But then, from behind him, he heard it.
"Psst. President."
The voice was low, insistent. Dorian tensed immediately, recognizing the sound without even needing to look.
Rhys.
Dorian kept his eyes trained on the front of the classroom, ignoring the whisper. He wasn't going to give Rhys the satisfaction of reacting. Not this time.
But the whispering didn't stop.
"Dorian."
The sound of his name, spoken so casually, grated on his nerves. Rhys' voice was light, teasing, as if this were some kind of game. Dorian clenched his jaw, gripping his pen a little too tightly as he tried to focus on the teacher's words.
"Hey, President. I'm talking to you."
A few of the students nearby had started to notice, their heads turning ever so slightly in Dorian's direction. The soft rustle of papers and quiet giggles reached his ears, but still, Dorian didn't respond. He refused to turn around, refused to acknowledge Rhys.
"Dorian."
Dorian's hand froze mid-sentence. He could feel the stares of the other students now, the whispers spreading through the room as more people noticed the exchange. His frustration was bubbling beneath the surface, but he kept it contained. Rhys wasn't worth the reaction. Not here, not in front of everyone.
But then, something soft hit him in the back of the head.
Dorian stiffened, his eyes widening in disbelief. He knew exactly what had happened—a crumpled ball of paper had landed squarely against his neck, rolling down onto his desk.
The room went deathly quiet for a moment as Dorian stared at the ball of paper, the white scrap sitting there, mocking him. His pulse quickened, the heat of embarrassment and anger rising in his chest. He could feel the weight of the other students' stares, their curiosity palpable as they waited to see what would happen next.
Dorian's patience snapped.
He whipped around in his seat, his voice louder than he intended. "What is your problem?!"
The entire class jolted in surprise, a few students gasping at Dorian's outburst. Even the teacher, who had been deeply engrossed in writing on the board, turned around, her expression one of immediate shock.
The classroom fell into a stunned silence as every eye turned toward Dorian and Rhys. Rhys, for his part, just grinned lazily, as if the outburst had been exactly what he was hoping for. He leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered by the sudden attention.
Before Dorian could speak again, the teacher's sharp voice cut through the silence.
"Dorian Vaelis!"
Dorian froze, the anger in his chest suddenly replaced by a cold dread. The teacher, known for her strictness and short temper, was staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. She blinked once, as if trying to comprehend the fact that Dorian Vaelis, the model student, had just shouted in the middle of her class.
"What is the meaning of this?" She demanded, her voice firm and quick to anger. "Disrupting my lesson in such a manner—this is completely unacceptable!"
Dorian opened his mouth to explain, his pulse racing. "But it wasn't me—" He started, his voice steady but strained. "Rhys—he was throwing things at me, and—"
The teacher's eyes narrowed. "I don't care what he was doing, Vaelis. You are responsible for your own behavior, and I expect better from you. You should know how to handle distractions without causing a scene."
Dorian's heart sank, the weight of the situation crashing down on him. He hadn't meant to lose control, hadn't meant to snap. But now, the teacher's gaze was fixed firmly on him, and there was no escaping the consequences.
"You will serve detention this afternoon," She declared, her voice cold and final.
Dorian's chest tightened, the humiliation burning through him. Detention? He had never been given detention in his entire life. The thought alone made his stomach churn. He had spent his entire time at Haleworth as the perfect student—the one who always followed the rules, always upheld the standards of the academy. And now... detention?
"But—" Dorian started to protest again, but the teacher cut him off with a sharp look.
"No arguments, Vaelis. You will serve detention. End of discussion."
The classroom was deathly silent, every student too stunned to speak or react. Dorian could feel their eyes on him, could feel the weight of their surprise, their shock that Dorian Vaelis had, for the first time, been pulled out of line.
And then, to make matters worse, the teacher's gaze shifted to Rhys.
"And you," She said sharply, her eyes narrowing as she pointed at Rhys. "If you've been throwing things and disturbing your fellow students, you'll be joining him in detention."
Rhys raised his eyebrows, his smirk never faltering. "Guess I'll see you there, President."
The teacher shot him a warning look, but Rhys just shrugged, clearly unfazed. The rest of the class sat in stunned silence, unsure of how to react to what had just happened.
Dorian, his heart still pounding, turned back around in his seat, his entire body stiff with anger and humiliation. His mind raced, trying to process the fact that he, of all people, had just been given detention. Because of Rhys.
And worst of all, he would have to spend that detention with him.
_
The moment the bell rang, signaling the end of class, Dorian shot out of his seat. He could feel the eyes of his classmates on him—silent, curious, stunned. Dorian Vaelis, the model student, heading to detention? It was unthinkable. But there he was, storming out of the classroom, his jaw clenched, his hands fisted at his sides.
The humiliation was unbearable. The teacher's harsh words still echoed in his mind, the sting of being scolded in front of everyone cutting deeper than he'd expected. Detention. He hadn't even known what the detention room looked like until today. The thought of sitting among the troublemakers of Haleworth, the students who never followed the rules, made his stomach churn.
And it was all because of Rhys.
The frustration simmered inside him as he made his way through the hallway, his pace quick and sharp. He needed to regain control, needed to get his mind back in order. There was no way he could focus on anything else while his thoughts still swirled with anger and humiliation.
Dorian turned toward the student council room, knowing he had to inform Talia about the meeting he would now miss. His shoes clicked loudly against the floor, the sound only amplifying his frustration. Everything about this day had gone wrong, and it had all started the moment Rhys Everen had walked into his life.
As he pushed open the door to the student council room, Talia looked up from her paperwork, her sharp eyes immediately narrowing in on Dorian's stiff posture and clenched jaw.
"Dorian," She said, standing from her seat. "You're back. I thought we had a meeting in a few minutes."
Dorian closed the door behind him, exhaling through his nose as he crossed the room. His voice was tight, controlled, though he could feel the humiliation burning just beneath the surface.
"I won't be able to attend the meeting this evening," He said, his words clipped and precise. "I'm going to... detention."
Talia blinked, her face shifting from confusion to surprise in an instant. "Detention?" She repeated, clearly not believing her ears. Dorian Vaelis, the perfect, disciplined student, the president of the student council—in detention?
"What happened?" Talia asked, her voice sharp with curiosity.
Dorian's jaw tightened as he placed his satchel on the table, not meeting her eyes. "Rhys," He said, his voice cold with frustration. "He kept throwing things at me during class, and when I told him off, the teacher thought I was the one causing a disruption. We both got detention."
Talia raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "Rhys Everen again?" She exhaled, her tone softening with understanding. "You've had quite a day with him, haven't you?"
"You could say that," Dorian muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. "He's been a constant disruption since the moment he showed up."
Talia nodded, though her expression was thoughtful. "Still... detention? I never thought I'd hear those words coming from you."
Dorian gave her a tight-lipped smile. "Neither did I."
For a moment, Talia studied him, her sharp eyes catching the lingering frustration that simmered beneath his composed exterior. But she didn't press any further. Instead, she nodded, stepping forward to collect the documents on the table.
"I'll handle the meeting," She said smoothly. "Don't worry. We've already got everything planned out."
Dorian felt a wave of relief at her words. He trusted Talia completely—she was one of the few people who could step into his role and lead the council in his absence. "Thank you," He said quietly. "I appreciate it."
Talia gave him a small smile, her tone lightening. "I'll let the council know that the President is temporarily... out of commission."
Dorian rolled his eyes at the comment but couldn't suppress the small smile that tugged at his lips. Talia was good at diffusing tension, even when things felt overwhelming. But as soon as he turned toward the door, his mind snapped back to the task at hand.
Detention. The word itself felt foreign on his tongue, and the idea of stepping into that room—surrounded by students who had no regard for the rules—made his skin crawl.
He left the council room, his steps slow and measured as he made his way to the detention hall. It was located in the far wing of the academy, a place he had never had a reason to visit before. The closer he got, the more out of place he felt.
As he reached the door to the detention room, Dorian paused. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming a little too quickly as the reality of the situation sank in. This can't be happening.
He pushed the door open.
The detention room was small, with rows of worn desks and the faint smell of dust hanging in the air. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a harsh glow over the students who were already seated. Dorian's eyes quickly scanned the room, and what he saw only made the knot in his stomach tighten.
The room was filled with the types of students he had always tried to avoid—the ones who thrived on breaking rules, the ones who didn't care about order or discipline. They lounged in their chairs, slouched back with smug expressions, their eyes sharp and calculating. Some of them looked familiar—faces he had seen lingering at the edges of the academy's social structure, the ones who never seemed to care about the expectations placed on them.
And all of them were staring at him.
Dorian could feel the weight of their stares as he stepped inside, their eyes piercing through him like needles. He was an outsider here, a glaring contradiction to everything the detention room represented. He had never been one of them, had never broken the rules, had never even come close.
Until today.
He made his way toward the back of the room, his every step feeling awkward and out of place. The room felt claustrophobic, the silence oppressive as the troublemakers watched him with a mix of amusement and curiosity.
One of the boys near the front leaned over to his friend, whispering something that made the other snicker under his breath. Dorian clenched his fists at his sides, determined to ignore them, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't belong here. He wasn't supposed to be here.
But as he reached the back of the room, he caught a glimpse of Rhys seated near the center, leaning back in his chair with that same relaxed posture, as if the whole thing were a joke to him. Rhys met Dorian's gaze and gave him a quick wink, as if to say, Welcome to my world.
Dorian sat down stiffly, his muscles tensing as he tried to block out the whispers and the stares. His chest burned with frustration, humiliation, and anger, all tangled together in a knot that refused to loosen.
The whispers had died down, but he could still feel the lingering gazes of the other students, their curiosity palpable. He tried to ignore them, focusing on the slow, steady rhythm of his breath as he waited for the detention to officially begin.
The door creaked open, and in walked Mr. Porter, the academy's head of discipline. Known for his no-nonsense approach and strict enforcement of the rules, Mr. Porter was the type of teacher who rarely smiled and never hesitated to dole out punishment. His mere presence commanded silence, and the room fell into an uneasy hush as he entered, the troublemakers sitting up a little straighter in their chairs.
Dorian's heart sank as Mr. Porter stepped to the front of the room, his sharp eyes scanning the group of students. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and his face bore the stern, weathered look of someone who had seen more than enough rule-breaking in his time.
But then Mr. Porter's gaze landed on Dorian, and for a moment, his expression faltered.
"Vaelis?" Mr. Porter's voice was filled with a mixture of confusion and surprise as his eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?"
Dorian stiffened under the teacher's scrutiny, his chest tightening with embarrassment. He could feel the eyes of the other students flickering between him and Mr. Porter, the tension thickening in the room. It wasn't often that the model student, the head of the student council, ended up in detention, and Mr. Porter clearly didn't know what to make of it.
Dorian swallowed, keeping his voice steady. "I... was given detention, sir."
Mr. Porter raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. He glanced down at the clipboard in his hand, scanning the list of names before nodding slowly. "So you were," He muttered, clearly still surprised. "Didn't expect to see you here."
The statement, simple as it was, only made the knot of humiliation in Dorian's chest tighten further. The fact that he didn't belong here—that he wasn't supposed to be here—felt even more obvious now that Mr. Porter had acknowledged it.
But Mr. Porter didn't dwell on Dorian's presence for long. He turned his attention to the rest of the room, his voice sharp and commanding as he addressed the group. "For today's detention, you'll be doing something a little different. The academy is hosting an event later this week, and the gardens need to be cleaned and prepared. You'll be spending the next hour working out there, making sure everything is in order."
A few groans rippled through the room, but Mr. Porter's stern glare quickly silenced any complaints.
"You'll be supervised," He continued, his voice brooking no argument. "I expect you all to follow the instructions given and complete your tasks without causing any further trouble. Understood?"
The students muttered their agreement, and Dorian felt his stomach drop at the thought of spending the next hour doing physical labor. It wasn't that he was afraid of hard work—it was the sheer indignity of the situation. He had never been assigned a task like this before, and the idea of working alongside students who openly defied the rules felt like a punishment far worse than cleaning a garden.
"Let's go," Mr. Porter barked, waving his hand toward the door.
The students rose from their seats, some shuffling lazily while others moved with visible annoyance. Dorian stood up slowly, feeling out of place among them, the knot of frustration still lodged firmly in his chest. As he walked toward the door, he could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on him, a reminder that today had gone completely off the rails.
And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rhys.
Rhys was grinning, of course. He stood casually near the front of the room, his hands stuffed into his pockets, that familiar spark of amusement dancing in his eyes. When Dorian passed him, Rhys leaned in just enough to whisper, "Looks like we're in this together, President."
Dorian's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond. He had no intention of engaging with Rhys any further—not after everything that had happened.
The group of students followed Mr. Porter outside, stepping into the crisp afternoon air. The academy's gardens stretched out ahead of them, a sprawling expanse of neatly trimmed hedges, flowerbeds, and manicured paths. It was beautiful, even to Dorian, but the sight of it only deepened his frustration. This wasn't where he was supposed to be—he should have been in the council room, leading the meeting, maintaining order, not here doing grunt work with a group of rule-breakers.
Mr. Porter wasted no time assigning tasks. Each student was given a section of the garden to clean, whether it was trimming the hedges, clearing the paths, or pulling weeds from the flowerbeds. Dorian was assigned to work near the fountain, where fallen leaves had gathered in the small stone pools at its base.
He knelt down, his fingers tightening around the small rake he had been handed. The work was simple enough, but the humiliation of it all hung over him like a heavy cloud. As he pulled leaves from the fountain, he could feel the other students casting occasional glances his way, their curiosity still lingering.
It wasn't long before Rhys strolled past, a smug grin still plastered on his face as he carried a pair of clippers in his hand. He was working on trimming the hedges, though it was clear from his relaxed posture that he wasn't taking the task particularly seriously.
"Enjoying yourself, President?" Rhys asked casually, though there was a clear undercurrent of amusement in his voice.
Dorian didn't look up. "Just leave me alone, Rhys."
Rhys chuckled, shaking his head. "You know, I think you're handling this better than I expected. I thought you'd be more... upset."
Dorian's hand tightened around the rake, but he kept his focus on his task. "I'm not here for your entertainment."
"Oh, but you kind of are," Rhys replied, his tone light and teasing. "I never thought I'd see the day when Dorian Vaelis was scrubbing leaves out of a fountain with the rest of us."
Dorian clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remain calm. Ignore him. Don't let him get to you again.
Rhys lingered for a moment longer, clearly enjoying the sight of Dorian working alongside the other troublemakers, before moving on to his own section of the garden. Dorian exhaled slowly, his anger simmering just below the surface.
The next hour stretched on, each moment feeling like an eternity as Dorian worked in the garden. The physical task was mindless, repetitive, and though the cool air helped clear his head, he couldn't shake the feeling of being out of place—completely and utterly wrong.
By the time Mr. Porter called them back inside, Dorian was exhausted—physically and mentally. He had survived detention, but the day had left him more unsettled than ever.
And worst of all, Rhys seemed to be enjoying every second of it.