Longing

Zander's POV

Tonight is a big night for Ivan.

His first time walking such a major runway.

I wouldn't miss this for the world.

I try to keep a low profile, though at this point, it's pointless. Thanks to recent events, my face is everywhere. The once-elusive Zander Vale—a man who used to dominate headlines only in the shadows—has been thrust into the spotlight, thanks to my very public, very obvious obsession with a certain Omega.

If you had told me a year ago that I'd be standing here, lost in the crowd, waiting to see one person walk down the runway, I would've punched you in the face.

But here I am.

And then, he appears.

The moment Ivan steps onto the runway, the world around me disappears.

He's flawless.

The lights catch in his hair, making the golden strands shimmer like sunlight spun into silk. His sharp green eyes are focused, his movements fluid and effortless. Every step is a statement, every glance a challenge to look away.

I can't.

For thirty minutes, I watch him—entranced.

When the show ends, the designer takes his bow, and we're ushered toward the after-party.

I follow.

I keep to the edges, lurking in the shadows, a spectator in a world that used to bore me.

But now, Ivan is here.

And everything is different.

I watch him from across the room, hidden, as he moves through the crowd with an easy confidence that sets my chest on fire. He laughs, tipping his head back, eyes alight with amusement.

This is the first time in months three months, one week and two days to be exact since we've been in the same room, breathing the same air, standing under the same lights.

And he hasn't looked for me once.

I clench my glass, fighting the impulse to pull him to me, to remind him that even in this sea of people, even with the world at his feet, he is still mine.

"Mr. Vale."

I want to snap at the interruption. My gaze doesn't waver from Ivan as I turn slightly toward the voice.

The designer. The host.

I have to be cordial.

"Yes." I answer, my voice clipped, still not looking away.

"Clearly the tabloids weren't exaggerating when they said you were smitten," he muses, watching me carefully.

I don't dignify it with a response—just a slight shrug. Let them talk. Let them speculate.

"May I take advantage of your affections?" he continues, his tone calculating. "There's something you might be interested in. Rumors have it you have a particular eye for fashion when it comes to Omegas."

That gets my attention.

I finally look at him, and he produces a tablet.

For a moment, I don't care. Until, after a few taps, he turns the screen toward me.

The air leaves my lungs.

I can't stop my gasp, even if I tried.

Ivan.

Ivan in lingerie.

Ivan in silks and lace, barely-there fabrics that cling to his skin, drape over his hips, highlight his throat, his collarbones, the delicate dips and curves of his body.

His eyes smolder, lips parted just enough to drive me insane.

I grip the tablet, my jaw tight, my body betraying me in ways I refuse to acknowledge.

I can't look at this here. Not in public. Not with this man watching me, waiting for my reaction like some damn merchant dangling treasure before a king.

I close the tablet with a sharp motion, my voice barely under control as I say, "Email them to me."

Then, without another word, I walk away.

I need air.

I need to get the fuck out before I embarrass myself.

I grab a glass of wine from a passing waiter and down it in one go, the burn barely registering.

I push open the balcony doors, stepping out into the cool night air, watching the city lights flicker below. The cars move in a rhythm, a pulse to the world that doesn't care about the war waging inside me.

I press my hands against the railing, exhaling heavily.

"What am I even doing?"

The door to the balcony opens behind me.

I don't turn. I don't need to.

"Just give me a few moments. I need to be alone, please," I say, my voice calmer than I feel.

A pause.

Then—

"Me too?"

I freeze.

That voice.

I would recognize it anywhere.

Slowly, I turn, my breath catching as I come face-to-face with Ivan.

The only person who has ever made me feel completely and utterly unhinged.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

The night air swirls between us, tangible, electric, thick with all the things left unsaid.

His green eyes flicker over me, assessing, unreadable.

He's so close.

Too close.

Not close enough.

I don't move. I don't dare.

Because if I do, if I reach for him, if I let myself touch him, I won't stop.

"Big night," I say, my voice rough, my throat dry.

He tilts his head slightly, lips curving just enough to make my pulse hammer.

"You noticed?" he murmurs.

"I notice everything about you."

It slips out before I can stop it. A truth too raw, too deep, too obvious.

He knows it. He sees it in my face, hears it in my voice, feels it in the space between us.

Ivan steps forward, just a fraction.

The scent of him—warm, familiar, intoxicating—hits me all at once, and I almost lose myself.

"You've been watching me all night," he says, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

I don't deny it. I never could.

"I always watch you."

Silence.

The city roars below us, but here—on this balcony, in this moment—it's just us.

Ivan looks at me then, really looks at me.

And for the first time in months, I see something flicker in his gaze that isn't just distance or caution.

Something like hesitation.

Something like undeniable, aching longing.