Altair was seething.
He'd taken his sweet time walking home, ignoring the chatter of classmates as though their words were beneath his ears. He'd dragged his feet up the stairs, slammed his door, and thrown himself onto his bed with a groan that could have toppled mountains.
All because of Cassian.
That smug, infuriating alpha.
Every glance, every word, every maddeningly calm smile replayed in Altair's head like a cursed song he couldn't shake off. He pressed a pillow over his face. It didn't help.
"Unbearable," he hissed into the fabric. "Absolutely unbearable."
And still—there was the image of Cassian blocking his shot, Cassian brushing sweat off his brow, Cassian saying tragic for whom? with that low, steady voice.
Altair kicked the pillow across the room.
The stars would be his refuge. He cracked his window open, letting the cool night air soothe his overheated mind. He leaned his elbows on the sill, glaring at the glittering sky as though the constellations had personally offended him.
"Stupid. Arrogant. Annoying. Handsome—no, not handsome. Hideous. Horrid. Hideously horrid."
Knock.
Altair froze.
He turned, ever so slowly, and there it was: the sound again, soft, deliberate, against the glass.
Across the narrow gap between their houses, Cassian leaned out his own window. Knocking, as though this was the most natural thing in the world.
"What—what do you think you're doing?" Altair snapped, voice pitching higher than intended.
Cassian rested his chin on his palm, eyes dark and amused. "Saying good evening."
"No one knocks on windows to say good evening!"
"I just did."
Altair's jaw clenched. "You—! You—! Do you ever tire of provoking me?"
Cassian tilted his head, pretending to think. "No."
Altair sputtered. "You're insufferable!"
"Probably," Cassian said, unbothered. "But you talk to me anyway."
Altair's face burned. "I do not! This is not talking. This is—this is me scolding you! Expressing my disgust!"
"Ah," Cassian nodded gravely, "so this is your disgust voice. Very passionate."
Altair grabbed the nearest object—a small cushion—and hurled it at the window. It bounced off harmlessly, falling into the garden below. Cassian chuckled, low and warm, and Altair's chest tightened against his will.
"You're laughing at me!" Altair accused.
"I'm listening," Cassian corrected, eyes steady. "Keep going."
Altair blinked. Then, realizing he'd been baited, scowled harder. "Fine! If you insist—"
And so he began.
A tirade, sharp and relentless, every word tumbling out like arrows loosed from a bow. About how Cassian thought he was so perfect, striding into school like he owned the place. About how infuriating it was that everyone liked him instantly, showering him with gifts, with pheromone-soaked food, as though he needed any of it. About how smug he was on the court, how irritatingly clever in class, how he never lost his composure no matter what Altair threw at him.
"And then," Altair ranted, hands flailing, "you go and knock on my window as if we're—what? As if we're childhood friends? As if we're—neighbors who—who—" He faltered, heat rising in his cheeks. "Who care about each other's evenings! It's preposterous!"
Cassian leaned back slightly, a rare smile tugging at his lips. "So what you're saying is… I get under your skin."
Altair slammed his fists against the windowsill. "You infest my skin!"
Cassian chuckled, and Altair wanted to scream.
But the more he railed, the less his words sounded like venom and the more they sounded like—like confessions. His grievances spilled into observations: Cassian's calm way of speaking, his infuriating patience, his ability to always have the last word.
"You're like—like a wall!" Altair groaned. "A very tall, handsome wall that refuses to fall no matter how many times I hurl myself against it!"
"…handsome?" Cassian murmured, arching a brow.
Altair went scarlet. "I SAID HIDEOUS! Hideously—wall-like!"
"Mm." Cassian looked unconvinced, and far too amused.
Altair dragged his hands down his face. "Why am I even explaining myself to you?"
"Because," Cassian said softly, "you trust me to listen."
Altair's heart jolted, sharp and painful. He snapped his gaze away, staring furiously at the stars. "Ridiculous. I trust no one."
"You're trusting me right now."
"That's not trust," Altair hissed. "That's—venting. Ranting. Monologuing in your general direction. A fox needs an audience, and you're unfortunately in range."
Cassian's gaze lingered on him, unreadable, as though weighing words he would not yet say. "If that's what you need, I'll stay in range."
Altair's throat went dry. He wanted to spit out another retort, something biting and clever, but the words tangled in his chest. Instead, he folded his arms and glared, though his face felt traitorously warm.
"Unbelievable," he muttered. "You argue with me, you mock me, and now you claim to… listen. You're the most contradictory person I've ever met."
Cassian smiled faintly. "Says the fox who complains about me every night but keeps the window open."
Altair's breath hitched. He had opened the window, hadn't he?
For the stars, he told himself. Not for—
"Close your window," he blurted, flustered. "I can't stand your face another second."
Cassian's smile deepened, but he inclined his head. "Good night, Altair."
Altair slammed his own window shut with unnecessary force, chest heaving as though he'd run a marathon.
And yet—beneath his irritation, beneath the fire in his cheeks, was something softer. Something warm.
He buried himself under his blankets, cursing Cassian's name with every breath.
But sleep found him easier that night.