Chapter Text
University of Ottawa - Tuesday, 9:47 AM
Luca Haas was lost.
Like literally, physically, hopelessly lost in a labyrinth of concrete buildings that all looked identical and yet somehow each managed to point him in the wrong direction. The Swiss exchange student stood at a crossroads of corridors, his course catalog clutched in one hand and his phone in the other, watching the blue dot on Google Maps spin in confused circles.
Left, the map said.
Luca turned left and found himself facing a loading dock.
He backtracked, adjusting the strap of his bag. The building smelled like coffee and floor wax, a scent so institutional that it triggered a wave of homesickness so sharp he had to stop and breathe through it. Back home in Zurich, university buildings smelled like wood polish and the lake.
Luca just turned twenty, an omega who presented at sixteen, and he smelled, in his mothers words, like wildflower honey with a note of something fruity. Apricot, she always said, though Luca thought that was generous. He thought he smelled like the anxiety sweat currently pooling at the base of his spine.
He'd been in Canada for five days. Five days of jet lag that wouldn't quit, of a roommate who spoke so fast Luca suspected he might actually be inventing new words, and of realizing that the english he'd spent years studying was about as useful here as his high school latin.
The problem wasn't the vocabulary. Luca knew words. He knew grammar. He could write an essay on economic theory in english that would make his professors weep with joy.
The problem was Canadian.
The speed. The slang. The way everyone seemed to start sentences in the middle and end them with questions that weren't actually questions. And Ottawa; bilingual, confusing and beautiful Ottawa, kept throwing french sounding english at him when he least expected it, a language he spoke passably but couldn't process when it came at him rapid-fire from a barista or a bus driver.
Luca turned another corner and found himself in a wide atrium, sun streaming through glass walls that made the space feel like a greenhouse. Students moved through it with the easy confidence of people who knew exactly where they were going. They laughed in groups, shouted across the space, their voices echoing in a cacophony of accents: Ontario flat, Quebec musical, something that sounded Maritime, and was that Newfoundland?
Luca pressed himself against a wall, trying to be small. His omega instincts, usually dormant during daylight hours, were stirring uneasily. Too many people. Too many scents moving through the space. Too many unknowns.
He needed to find his class Fixed Income Investments. It started in thirteen minutes, and he was fairly certain he was in the wrong building entirely.
That's when he saw the board.
It was a massive corkboard, positioned near the atrium's center like a shrine to student life. Papers layered over papers, flyers advertising clubs and lost textbooks and sublets and something called "poutine" that Luca kept seeing everywhere but couldn't identify. The board was a riot of color, neon yellows and pinks and greens screaming for attention.
Luca approached it slowly, drawn by the sheer visual noise. Maybe there was a map. Maybe someone had posted directions to the business building.
He scanned the flyers. Join the Debate Club! Yoga in the Park! Lost: One Blue Scarf, Sentimental Value! Roommate Needed, No Omegas Please (Luca skipped that one quickly, his chest tightening).
Then, tucked between a poster for a band called "The Plan of the Butterfly" (Luca made a mental note to look them up) and a notice about flu shots, when he saw it.
The paper was simple. White, with a clean blue border. The text was large, clear, professional:
INTERNATIONAL STUDENT SUPPORT PROGRAM
Volunteer mentors helping international students navigate university life in Canada
Free • Confidential • Friendly
Below the text was a photograph of diverse students smiling on what looked like a winter campus, and beneath that, a row of tear-off tabs with a phone number.
Luca stared at it.
He didn't need this. He was fine. His English was fine. He just needed time to adjust to the dialect. The french accent thing was throwing him, sure, but he'd figure it out. He was a business student. He was logical. He was capable.
He didn't need a babysitter, let alone a group.
Luca reached out and tore off one of the tabs.
He told himself it was just in case. Just a backup plan. He folded the small rectangle of paper carefully, precisely, and tucked it into his wallet behind his student ID. He'd probably throw it away later. He definitely wouldn't need it.
He had this.
Luca checked his phone. Eight minutes to class. He was going to be late, but maybe if he ran
He ran.
—-
10:23 AM
Luca didn't make it to class.
He'd found the right building, eventually, standing outside the door to Room 304 with his hand on the handle, only to realize through the narrow window that the lecture had already started and the professor was speaking at a speed that made Luca's brain short-circuit. He'd stood there for three minutes, hand frozen on the door, listening to the muffled stream of english that might as well have been Klingon for all he understood, before letting his hand drop and walking away.
It was fine. He'd get the notes. He'd catch up.
He was fine.
Luca found himself in the campus food court thirty minutes later, drawn by the smell of coffee and the need to be somewhere that didn't require him to speak or understand or perform competence. The space was loud, industrial espresso machines screaming, students shouting orders, chairs scraping against tile. Luca stood in the line for a place called "Tim Hortons" because it had the shortest queue, though he didn't actually know what they served.
When he reached the counter, the girl behind it smiled at him. She was maybe nineteen, with a nose ring and kind eyes.
"Hey! What can I get you?"
Luca had rehearsed this. He'd looked up how to order coffee in Canada. He knew what he wanted.
"Good morning," he said, his accent thicker than he wanted it to be. "I would like one... how you say... espresso? With cream?"
The girl blinked. "Sorry, what?"
"Espresso," Luca repeated, speaking slowly. "With cream. Cream of milk?"
"Like... a double-double?"
Luca didn't know what that meant. It sounded like a hamburger. "No. Just... coffee. Small coffee. Strong. With cream."
"So... a regular with cream?"
"Yes," Luca said, relieved. "Exactly. Thank you."
"Anything else?"
"No, thank you."
"That'll be two-fifty."
Luca paid, stepping aside to wait. He watched the girl work, her movements efficient and practiced. She handed him a paper cup that was larger than he'd expected. He lifted it to his nose, frowning. It didn't smell like espresso. It smelled like... caramel?
He found a table in the corner, one of those designed for four people, and sat alone with his back to the wall.
It was sweet. Very sweet. And milky. There was no espresso taste at all.
Luca stared into the cup. This was not what he'd wanted. This was... he checked the cup... a "French Vanilla" that tasted like dessert.
He should go back. He should explain the mistake. He should-
Luca watched the girl serve the next customer, laughing at something they said, moving with the ease of someone who belonged here. The line was longer now. The thought of going back, of trying to explain, of bothering her.
He took another sip. It was too sweet, but it was caffeine. He'd drink it. He'd sit here until his hands stopped shaking, and then he'd figure out where he was supposed to be for his next class.
Luca pulled out his phone and opened the notes app. He started a list: Things I Don't Understand About Canada.
1. Why is the regular coffee sweet?
2. Why does everyone say "eh" at the end of sentences?
3. What is a "double-double"?
4. Why are the buildings so confusing?
5. Why do I feel like I'm drowning?
He was staring at number five, his thumb hovering over the backspace key, when a shadow fell across his table.
"Hey, is this chair free?"
Luca looked up.
The guy standing there was tall, athletic, wearing a baseball cap and a hoodie with the university logo. He had kind eyes and was gesturing at one of the empty chairs at Luca's table.
Luca's heart leaped.
Yes, he thought. Yes, sit down. Talk to me. Be my friend.
"Yes," Luca said quickly, maybe too quickly, his voice coming out higher than intended. "Yes, please. You can sit."
The guy smiled. "Awesome, thanks man."
He grabbed the chair, the one closest to Luca, and walked away with it, dragging it across the floor to a table on the other side of the room where a group of four people were sitting. They high-fived him as he sat down, joining their conversation without a backward glance.
Luca sat frozen, his hand still extended slightly, as if he'd been reaching for something that was no longer there.
The coffee in his hand was cold now.
He looked around the food court. Everyone had groups. Everyone had somewhere to be, someone to talk to. The girl behind the counter was laughing with a coworker. The group with the chair were throwing French fries at each other playfully. A couple sat in the corner, sharing headphones, their knees touching under the table.
Luca was alone at a table for four, drinking coffee he didn't order, in a country he didn't understand, speaking a language that kept slipping through his fingers like water.
His eyes burned.
This is pathetic, he told himself. You're pathetic. It's a chair. It's just a chair.
But it wasn't just a chair. It was the culmination of five days of loneliness that had started the moment he stepped off the plane and realized that "fluent in English" and "functional in Canada" were two completely different things. It was the roommate who spoke too fast and never invited him anywhere. It was the professor whose accent turned lectures into white noise. It was the barista who'd given him liquid candy because he couldn't explain what he actually wanted.
It was the terrifying, suffocating realization that he had at least twelve months of this ahead of him.
Luca reached into his wallet with a hand that trembled slightly. He found the small rectangle of paper he'd torn off what felt like hours ago. He smoothed it on the table, staring at the number.
International Student Support Program, it read. We're here to help.
Luca unlocked his phone. He opened his messaging app. He typed the number in carefully, checking it three times.
Then he typed:
Hello. I am Luca. I am Swiss student. This is my first week in Canada. I am sorry for my English. I am having... difficulties. I do not know if this is right number to text. I am sorry if I bother you.
He stared at the message for a long moment. His thumb hovered over the send button.
Pathetic, his brain supplied. You can't even order coffee. Now you're texting strangers?
Luca hit send.
He put his phone face-down on the table and picked up his cold, sweet coffee. He drank it in three large gulps, the sugar coating his throat, making him feel slightly sick.
The phone buzzed.
Luca jumped, nearly knocking the empty cup over. He grabbed the phone, heart hammering.
The message was from an unknown number.
Unknown
hey Luca. not a bother at all dude. this is cliff
i'm one of the volunteer coordinators
first week is always the hardest. u free thursday night?
Another buzz.
Unknown
we meet every thursday, 8pm, at the community center on campus ave
food, conversation, people who get it
u can meet the team, see how we can help
no pressure man. just show up if u want
Luca read the message three times. He read it a fourth time, his eyes lingering on the words "people who get it."
People who get it.
He typed back with shaking thumbs:
Me
Thank you. I will be there. Thank you very much.
The reply came quickly:
Cliff program
see u thursday Luca
and bud
ur english is fine. better than my swiss german for sure 🤣🤣
Luca stared at the message. He felt something loosen in his chest, a knot he hadn't realized was there.
He gathered his things slowly. His cold coffee was finished. His first class was missed. But he had somewhere to be on Thursday. He had a number in his phone that belonged to someone named Cliff who said "people who get it."
It wasn't much. But it was something.
Luca left the food court, navigating the corridors with slightly more confidence. He still didn't know where he was going, exactly. But for the first time in five days, he didn't feel like he was drowning quite so badly.
Luca had a plan for Thursday.
And for now, that was enough.
—
Thursday, 6:00 PM
The two days between Tuesday and Thursday passed like water through a sieve, there and then gone, leaving nothing behind but a slight dampness and a faint feeling of regret.
Luca's roommate, an omega named Tyler who communicated exclusively in grunts and sighs, had apparently decided that Luca was furniture. Quiet, occasionally in the way, and utterly unworthy of conversation. Tyler spent his nights at his boyfriend's dorm in the engineering building, returning only to change clothes and emit loud, judgmental exhales while Luca tried to study. On Wednesday morning, Luca had attempted a "good morning" that had been met with Tyler's back as the other omega walked out the door, phone already pressed to his ear, laughing at something someone else had said.
Luca had spent Wednesday in the library, hiding in a carrel on the fifth floor where the WiFi was spotty and the heating vents hissed like disapproving relatives. He'd tried to review his course material, but the words kept sliding off the page, replaced by the memory of the food court chair being dragged away from him. He'd eaten vending machine crackers for dinner and gone to bed at 5:30 PM, telling himself he was being strategic about jet lag.
Now it was Thursday. Six o'clock. Two hours until the meeting.
Luca stood in front of his closet wearing only his boxers and a towel around his shoulders, staring at four shirts like they held the secrets of the universe.
The blue one? Too formal. He'd look like he was trying too hard.
The gray sweater? Too casual. He'd look like he didn't care. It also had a strange-looking stain close to the neckline.
The white button-down? He'd spill something on it. He knew himself. He was a disaster.
The striped one? Stripes were cheerful, right? Welcoming? Or did they make him look like a convict?
"Oh my God," Luca whispered to no one, running his hands through his damp hair. "You're pathetic."
He checked his phone. 6:22 PM. He'd been standing there for twenty minutes.
They're going to know, his brain supplied helpfully. The second you walk in, they're going to smell it on you. Pathetic. Desperate. Lonely. They're going to take one look at you and wonder why you can't just make friends like a normal person. They're going to-
Luca put on the gray sweater. Took it off and then the white shirt underneath it, in case he got too hot. And then took off the blue shirt because now he looked like he was trying to church or something.
7:08 PM.
He was going to be late. He hated being late. But he also hated being early, because then he'd have to stand there alone, and everyone would stare when they came in, and-
Luca grabbed his jacket and fled the room before his brain could generate another catastrophe.
—
7:45 PM
The community center on Campus Avenue looked like a converted church: red brick, stained glass windows that glowed amber in the evening light, and a heavy oak door.
Luca had been standing in the hallway outside that door for ten minutes.
He'd arrived at 7:35, which gave him exactly twenty-five minutes to change his mind, then change it back, then change it again. The hallway smelled like old books and floor wax, familiar now, comforting in its institutional sameness. There was a bulletin board next to him advertising yoga classes and grief counseling. Someone had drawn a mustache on the yoga instructor.
Luca stared at the mustache. He counted his breaths. In for four, hold for four, out for four.
You can still leave, he thought. You can go back to your room, order pizza, watch Netflix with bad subtitles. You don't need this. You're fine.
He wasn't fine.
The door opened.
Luca jumped, pressing himself against the bulletin board like he was trying to merge with it. A girl walked out: tall, pretty, with long dark hair and green eyes. She was laughing over her shoulder at something someone inside had said, and she smelled like… Luca couldn't place it, something sharp and clean, maybe like pine needles.
She didn't notice him. She walked past, still laughing, and disappeared down the hallway.
Luca watched her go. His hand found the door handle.
He didn't pull it.
"First time?"
The voice came from his right, deep and warm, with an accent that Luca that sounded something Eastern European, Croatian maybe? Luca felt his hindbrain perk up with interest before his frontal cortex had even processed the words.
Luca turned.
He had to look up.
The man standing next to him was... there was no other word for it. Beautiful. Six-foot-something of broad-shouldered, lean-muscled alpha, with messy blond curls that looked like he'd been running his hands through it, and cheekbones that could cut glass. He was wearing a worn hoodie with the university logo and adidas sweats that had seen better days, and he smelled like, Luca inhaled without meaning to, black tea. Strong, steeped black tea, the kind Luca's grandmother used to make, with something underneath it like cold air but fresh.
The alpha was looking at him with deep blue eyes, patient and kind and waiting for an answer.
"I- um- sorry?" Luca managed.
"Is it your first time at the meeting?" the alpha repeated, and his mouth did something unfair when he smiled, all crooked and soft at the edges. "I don't recognize you. I'd remember."
Luca's English evaporated. "I... yes. First. I am... Swiss. I talked to... Cliff?"
The alpha's smile widened. "You're Luca? Cliff mentioned you. Said you texted him on Tuesday."
"He... he told you?" Luca felt his face heat up. "About my... my message?"
"Just that we had a new Swiss kid joining us. Nothing else." The alpha extended a hand. "I'm Ilya. Ilya Rozanov. I'm one of the coordinators."
Luca took his hand. It was warm, calloused, and completely engulfed his own. "Luca. Haas. Luca Haas."
"Nice to meet you, Luca Haas." Ilya didn't let go immediately, and Luca felt something flutter in his chest. "You nervous?"
"Very," Luca admitted, because he couldn't lie to this man, not with those eyes looking at him like they actually saw him.
"Don't be," Ilya said, and his voice dropped lower, conspiratorial. "We're all disasters. That's kind of the point."
The door opened again.
"Roz! You coming in or what? We're starting without you and I'm eating your pepperoni!"
The voice was loud, cheerful, and attached to a man who filled the doorway like he was trying to escape it. He was almost as tall as Ilya, broad and muscular, with dark hair and a beard that was less a beard and more a very aggressive five-o'clock shadow. He had kind eyes and a nose that looked like it had been broken once, and when he smiled, Luca felt his knees threaten to give out.
Also beautiful, his hindbrain noted. This country is unfair.
"Marly," Ilya said, turning but not moving away from Luca. "This is Luca. The Swiss exchange student."
"Ah! The texter!" Cliff grinned, stepping forward and clapping Luca on the back with a hand that felt like a dinner plate. "Good to meet you, man. Glad you came."
And then Luca smelled him.
Gasoline. Or diesel, something sharp and mechanical and industrial, like a garage or a workshop, with something warm underneath it like leather and sweat. It hit Luca like a wave, making his eyes water slightly, and he had to fight the urge to lean in and breathe deeper.
What is happening to me* Luca thought. I am logical. I do not sniff strangers.
"Come on," Cliff said, already turning back to the room. "Pizza's getting cold and JJ's already started his monologue about Quebec politics."
Ilya gestured for Luca to go ahead. "After you."
Luca walked through the door on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else.
—
The room was warm and smelled like food and people, coffee and salt and something floral and the sharp tang of mixed pheromones. There were chairs arranged in a loose circle, occupied by a collection of bodies that looked like they'd been assembled by a casting director with a very specific aesthetic: attractive but approachable.
Luca didn't let himself look too closely. He caught impressions: a man with dark curly hair and tattoos peeking out from his sleeves, laughing at something; a tall, broad-shouldered man with an easy smile and a dorky mustache; a woman with olive skin and dark hair pulled back in a severe bun.
"Luca," Cliff said, gesturing to the circle. "Grab a seat. Anywhere."
Luca hesitated. The circle was already formed, the gaps between chairs filled with bags and jackets and the easy intimacy of people who had known each other for a long time. He spotted an empty chair between the tattooed man, Bood, his brain supplied, he'd heard someone say it, and the athletic woman with green eyes from the hallway.
Jackie, someone called her.
Luca sat. The chair creaked. He tried to make himself small.
"Okay," Cliff said, settling into his own seat with the ease of a man who had never known self-consciousness. "Let's do this. Introductions for Luca, since he's new. I'm Cliff, I run this thing when Roz isn't being a control freak."
"Which is never," someone said with an accent that immediately identified him as Quebecois. He grinned at Luca, all teeth. "Je m'appell JJ. Don't worry, I won't make you parle français unless you want to practice. Though between us, it's the superior language."
"Wyatt," said the mustache guy, lifting his hand in a salute. He radiated a calm that made Luca's shoulders drop an inch. "Welcome."
"Zane or Bood," said the tattooed man, and his voice was softer than Luca expected, with a lilt that sounded slightly accented.
"Elena," said the queenly woman, and her voice was warm despite her severe expression.
"Jackie," said the green-eyed woman, and she leaned over to bump Luca's shoulder with her own. "First week?"
"Fifth day," Luca admitted.
"Oof," she said, but sympathetically. "The wall hits around day six. Prepare yourself."
"And you've met Roz," Cliff said, gesturing to Ilya, who had settled into a chair across the circle from Luca. "Our resident Russian pain in my ass."
"Pain in your ass?" Ilya raised one perfect eyebrow, and Luca watched the motion with embarrassing intensity. "I'm the reason half these people show up. It's my face. My beautiful, symmetrical face."
"He's not wrong," JJ said. "Half the freshmen join this program because they saw Roz at the orientation fair. We don't tell them he's taken."
"JJ," Ilya warned, but there was no heat in it. He looked pleased, actually, the ego stroked, the reputation acknowledged.
"Quoi? It's true. Got the looks, got the accent"
"And got hair," Zane added. "Seriously, what product do you use?"
"Russian genetics and suffering," Ilya said, running a hand through those golden curls, and Luca felt his mouth go dry. "Also, a leave-in conditioner JJ's mom sends from Montreal."
"Casse-toi," JJ laughed.
The conversation moved on, flowing around Luca like a river around a stone. He didn't contribute much at first, he was too busy processing, watching the way these people interacted with the ease of family. They finished each other's sentences. They had inside jokes about "the Tim´s incident of 2023" that made Bood groan and cover his face. They argued good-naturedly about whether the new bus route was a conspiracy to make students walk more.
Luca sat between Jackie and Zane, and slowly, incrementally, he felt himself relax. Jackie's shoulder kept bumping his when she laughed, and it wasn't aggressive, just friendly. Zane offered him a piece of gum and didn't make a big deal about it when Luca fumbled the wrapper.
"So," Cliff said, during a lull. "Luca. Business major, yeah? How's that going?"
Luca blinked. "I... I missed my first class. On Tuesday. I could not find the building."
"Classic," JJ said. "The Tabaret building is designed to confuse foreigners. It's a hazing ritual. Very Canadian passive-aggressive architecture."
"I got lost in the tunnels once for three hours," Wyatt admitted. "I ended up in the basement of the hospital. I still don't know how."
"Wyatt has no sense of direction," Elena explained to Luca. "He´d get lost on a straight road."
"Hey," Wyatt protested, but he was smiling.
"I can show you the shortcuts," Ilya said, and Luca looked up to find those blue eyes on him again, assessing, focused. "The tunnels are useful once you know them. Like a rat maze, but with better heating."
"Thank you," Luca said, and he meant it.
JJ stood up, stretching. "Okay, I'm starving. Pizza run, who's in for pepperoni and who wants to be wrong?"
"Get the veggie one too," Jackie called after him as he headed for the door. "Elena's pretending to be healthy this week."
"I am actually healthy," Elena protested.
"You ate a pint of ice cream for dinner yesterday," Zane pointed out.
"It was Greek yogurt ice cream. That counts. There were probiotics."
While JJ was gone, the circle broke down. People shifted chairs, stood up to stretch, formed smaller clusters. Luca stayed seated, not sure what to do with himself, until he felt a presence beside him and looked up to find Ilya settling into the chair Jackie had vacated.
"Doing okay?" Ilya asked, and his voice was lower now, intimate in a way that made Luca's stomach flip.
"Yes," Luca said, and was surprised to find it was true. "This is... nice. Very nice."
"We're glad you came," Ilya said, and he was close enough now that Luca could smell the black tea again, strong and comforting. "It varies, week to week. Sometimes there's ten of us, sometimes just three or four. It's casual. Just... a place to be, if you need it."
Luca nodded, not trusting his voice.
"I hope you'll come back," Ilya continued, and his eyes were so sincere, so warm, that Luca felt something crack in his chest. "I'd like to see you here again. Next Thursday. And the one after."
Luca felt his face heat up. "I... yes. I would like that. Very much."
Ilya smiled, and it was different from before, softer, somehow. "Good."
JJ returned then, carrying three pizza boxes and swearing creatively in French about the stairs and the door and his own life choices. The group descended on the food like wolves, and Luca found himself with a slice of pepperoni and a napkin he didn't remember accepting.
The circle reformed, looser now, people sitting on the floor, on tables, anywhere. Ilya stayed next to Luca, their shoulders almost touching, and Luca ate his pizza with trembling hands and tried not to think about how this was the best thing that had happened to him in five days.
"So," Ilya said, when Luca had finished eating. "Can I ask how it's really going? Beyond the lost classes and the confusing buildings?"
Luca looked down at his hands. "It is... hard," he admitted, the words coming slowly. "I thought my english was good. But here... it is different. And fast. And everyone speaks french sometimes, and I cannot... I do not..."
He trailed off, frustrated.
"You're doing great," Ilya said quietly. "Really. Your english is excellent. It's just... Canada is weird. We're weird. We speak in code. And the french thing" He rolled his eyes. "JJ does it to confuse Americans. He can't help himself."
Luca laughed, a small, wet sound. "Yes. Code. That is... good word."
"Have you made any friends? In your classes? Your dorm?"
Luca felt his throat tighten. He thought of Tyler, walking past him every morning without a word. He thought of the food court, the chair being dragged away. He thought of five days of silence and confusion and the crushing weight of being alone in a place where everyone else seemed to know the rules, where even the foreigners had been here longer than him.
"No," he whispered, and his eyes burned. "I have not. I cannot... I do not know how to talk to them. And my roommate..." He swallowed. "He does not like me. I think. He does not talk to me."
He felt pathetic saying it. Childish. I'm twenty years old and I'm crying because my roommate won't eat lunch with me.
But Ilya didn't laugh. He didn't pat Luca's shoulder and tell him to toughen up. Instead, he did something that made Luca's breath catch: he reached out with one arm; the one farthest from the group, hidden from view, and wrapped it around Luca's shoulders in a half-hug that was warm and solid.
"Hey," Ilya said softly, his russian accent thickening with emotion, his voice rumbling through his chest and into Luca's body. "Hey, it's okay. You're not alone, okay? You're here now. With us."
Luca nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He didn't lean into the touch, but he didn't pull away either. He let himself have it, just for a second, breathing in the scent of black tea and foreignness and kindness.
"We have another program," Ilya said, when Luca had composed himself. "Beyond these meetings. It's like... tutoring, but for life. We assign you a volunteer, like a mentor, who checks in with you. Helps you navigate stuff. Someone you can text when you're having a bad day, or when you need to know which professor to avoid, or when you just need someone to eat lunch with."
Luca looked up at him. "Someone to eat lunch with?"
"Yeah," Ilya said, and his smile was gentle, lacking the ego of before, just genuine. "Someone who gets it. Who's been there. We try to match people up, omegas with omegas, sometimes, or alphas who are chill, or betas who know all the shortcuts. Someone you can count on."
Luca's heart was hammering in his chest. "I... I would like that. Very much."
Ilya's arm tightened slightly around his shoulders. "Would you feel comfortable," he asked carefully, "if I were that person? I know I'm an alpha, and I know that can be... intense, for some omegas. But I'd like to help. If you'd let me."
Luca stared at him. At those eyes, the golden curls, the mouth that smiled like it meant it. He thought of the smell of black tea, of the way Ilya's voice had been the first kind thing he'd heard in five days, of the ego that somehow made him more approachable, not less- because you knew exactly where you stood with someone who knew their own worth.
"Yes," Luca said, and his voice didn't shake. "I would like that. I would be... comfortable. With you."
Ilya's smile was blinding. "Good. That's... good, Luca."
They sat like that for a moment, Ilya's arm around his shoulders, the sounds of the group fading into background noise. Luca felt something settle in his chest, something that had been knotted and tight since he'd stepped off the plane.
"Thank you," Luca said, and he meant it for everything: the pizza, the chair, the kindness, the warmth. "This is... this is the best day. Since I left Switzerland. The best day."
Ilya's expression softened into something that looked almost like pain. "I'm glad," he said quietly. "I'm really glad, Luca."
—
The meeting ended slowly, people drifting out in ones and twos, making plans for next week, complaining about homework. Luca said goodbye to Cliff, who clapped him on the back again, filling his nose with that sharp, mechanical scent, and to Jackie, who pressed a piece of paper into his hand with her number scrawled on it ("Text me if you get lost again, I'll draw you a map that actually makes sense").
Ilya walked him to the door of the building, then outside, into the cool October night. The air smelled like autumn and distant rain, and Luca shivered in his sweater.
"You have a jacket?" Ilya asked.
"Yes. In my bag."
"Put it on. Canadian weather will betray you. I learned this the hard way my first winter here. I thought I knew cold, I am Russian, after all, but Canadian cold is different. Sneaky."
Luca obeyed, pulling on his jacket while Ilya watched.
"I'll text you," Ilya said. "Tomorrow. Check in. See how you're doing."
"Okay," Luca said.
"And Thursday next week. You'll come?"
"Yes."
"Good." Ilya hesitated, then reached out and adjusted Luca's collar, which had gotten twisted in the jacket. His fingers brushed Luca's neck, warm and brief, and Luca stopped breathing. "Have a good night, Luca. And... welcome to Canada. For real this time."
"Good night, Ilya," Luca managed.
He walked away, down the path toward his dorm, and when he was far enough that he knew Ilya couldn't see him anymore, he stopped and pressed his hands to his face and laughed. Small and surprised.
Luca walked the rest of the way to his dorm in a daze, his feet barely touching the ground. He passed Tyler in the hallway, Tyler who looked up, surprised to see Luca smiling, and actually said "hey" before disappearing into his room, and Luca didn't even care that his roommate was weird, because he had Ilya's number in his phone now, and Ilya was going to text him tomorrow, and Ilya smelled like black tea and looked like a sun god and had asked to be his mentor.
Luca fell onto his bed without taking off his shoes. He stared at the ceiling. His stomach felt strange: fluttery, unsettled, like he'd swallowed something alive that was trying to escape.
Butterflies, he thought, remembering the word from english class. I have butterflies.
He did. He absolutely did. Big, fat, Russian butterflies with blonde curls and cheekbones and egos the size of the Kremlin, who smelled like tea and wanted to see him next Thursday.
Luca rolled onto his side, burying his face in his pillow, and allowed himself, just for a moment, to imagine what it might be like to have a friend. A real one. One who looked at him like he mattered.
He fell asleep with his phone clutched in his hand, waiting for tomorrow's text, and for the first time since he'd arrived in Canada, he didn't feel like he was drowning.