Page 16 of Incompatible

Suddenly he says, "I’m Alex Strada. You?" His voice is pleasant, and it confirms what I thought before. Alex is smaller than the others, but not younger. His voice has gone through the change already, carrying a pleasant tenor tone with a slightly husky edge, no childish squeaky notes.

"Bay Nolan."

I don’t add anything else. The silence between us stretches, but I don’t care. I’m not in the mood for small talk, even though some part of me feels an odd curiosity about him.

Of course, it’s not romantic. That kind of thing is the last thing on my mind. After what happened to me, it’s buried even deeper.

But his look… there’s something fascinating about it. His hair color is hard to describe, strawberry blond, but that ‘strawberry’ part feels literal. There’s a pearl-pink shimmer to it, like he might have dyed it. Yet when I glance at his eyebrows, they’re dark brown with a faint reddish hue, as if that tint exists innately in his skin, coloring his lashes and hair. Maybe it really is natural.

It’s interesting because my brother Storm has burgundy hair too, and people always comment on the shade.

Combined with those amethyst eyes, the whole effect is striking. Alex’s huge eyes are framed by long lashes, glinting through the lenses of his glasses.

The fuck. What is it about him? I can’t stop looking. I try to fight it, to force my neck not to turn his way, but it keeps happening on its own, like some reflex I can’t control.

The problem with Alex is that his bangs and the waves falling across his cheeks make it hard toreallysee him. But if you’re patient enough, if you study him closely, you realize what’s hidden under that messy hair.

He’s… beautiful!

His face is delicate, almost porcelain, with soft features, long lashes, and full lips that look too sensual for a teenage boy. It pisses me off that I even notice. It doesn’t mean anything, it can’t mean anything, I’m damaged goods. But still, objectively, I can’t deny what I see.

Yet, I have to admit, Alex has done a decent job hiding his looks behind that curtain of hair, those huge glasses weighing down his face, and the braces that distract from it all. At a glance, anyone would think he’s just some awkward nerd.

There are a few red patches on his cheeks that look like eczema. Someone giving him only a quick look would probably see that first. But I’ve really studied him now, and he’s… the most beautiful omega I’ve ever seen.

Yep. So here’s that. Two days after being brutally assaulted, after my life’s turned into a nightmare and I’m barely holding myself together, I meet an omega who feels like perfection, the exact type I didn’t even know I had. Another cruel twist of Fate, torturing me with things now out of my reach? Teasing me with his unattainable beauty?

I grip my hands so tightly that my nails dig into my palms, trying to suppress the insane urge to stare at him again. I don’t understand this obsession.

It’s twisted. It’s wrong. It’s impossible.

So every time I feel the pull, I grab my stylus and press it sharply into my palm until it hurts.

Mr. Rivera walks into the classroom. At first, he doesn’t notice me, but when he sits behind his desk, he lowers his glasses and looks up.

"Bay Nolan? You weren’t here yesterday?"

"Yeah, I dropped off an excuse at the main office. I was sick."

He nods. "No worries, you didn’t miss much. The syllabus for this semester is on PowerSchool, check it when you can. I’ve got a printed copy somewhere here…" He rummages through his folder and pulls out a sheet. I get up, take it from him, and go back to my seat.

That’s when I realize it again, the pain’s gone. Completely. Not a trace left. Huh. Unexpected, but definitely good. Maybe it’ll help me forget, push the memories a little further down? Even a moment of relief feels like a blessing.

When I sit back down, I notice Alex watching me. Closely. He doesn’t seem particularly secretive about it, unlike me, who is fighting hard not to look at him openly again.

It’s amazing how tiny he is. Even sitting down, I can tell he can’t be taller than four foot eleven. I’m five eleven, so I tower over him by a whole foot, and that’s not even the end of it. My father’s six foot eight, so I’ve still got years of growing ahead.

During class, Alex sneezes several times, some quiet, some loud enough to make a few kids glance over with irritation. A couple of them snicker.

When Mr. Rivera steps out near the end of class, Alex suddenly turns to me.

"What do you have next?"

For some reason, the question flusters me. I’m not exactly the timid type, never have been, but heat creeps up my neck anyway.

I pull out the schedule the main office gave me and silently hand it to him.

His small hand, dotted with eczema, takes the paper. He studies it with a thoughtful pout that makes his lips look even softer.