Vanilla buttercream. That's the first thing my brain registers—sweet and rich, the kind of vanilla that makes you think of birthday cakes and celebrations and things that taste too good to be real. But underneath it is caramel, warm and golden like it's been heating on the stove, mixed with spun sugar that's delicate and airy. There's citrus too—bright and sharp like lemon zest cut with winter snow, crisp and clean.
It's the kind of scent that hits you in the hindbrain, the primal part that recognizesOmegaand immediately wants to know more. Wants to bury your face in the crook of her neck and breathe deep. Wants to figure out what makes that scent spike with happiness or arousal or?—
Stop. Focus. She's a stranger who just crashed into you. Get it together.
But the scent is familiar. Teasing my nostrils before my brain catches up to match the aroma to the individual.
I look down, and?—
Yeah. I know this Omega.
Honey-gold hair with those distinctive orange tips, currently pulled into a messy bun that's coming loose from the impact. Big eyes—somewhere between blue and grey, wide with surprise and embarrassment. A face that's all delicate features and expressive emotions, the kind of face that probably can't hide a damn thing it's feeling.
The Omega from the self-defense class. The one who showed up with bruises hidden under long sleeves and a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. The one who worked so hard to learn the moves, who asked questions and took notes and thanked me like I'd given her something precious instead of just teaching her how to throw a punch.
The same Omega I ran into—literally—when I was helping someone move furniture. She'd been carrying a box too big for her, determination written all over her face even as she struggled with the weight.
Three times now. Three unexpected coincidences. This being another one to add to the list.
I take her in slowly, giving myself a second to process. She's dressed professionally today—a cream-colored sweater dress that hugs her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry, thick tights with tiny snowflakes on them, brown ankle boots. There's minimal makeup enhancing features that don't need enhancing, and dangly earrings that catch the light when she moves.
She looks beautiful. Put-together and professional and completely flustered.
And my cock is absolutely taking notice, twitching with interest despite the fact that we're in a goddamn elevator and I have no business reacting to her like this.
I have no clue why this Omega in particular makes me buzz with need and excitement. It's not like I can't have any Omega I want—I'm an Alpha in decent shape, I've got my shit together,I'm not hideous to look at. But something about her just... hits different. Makes me want to figure out what's underneath all that bubbly energy and determination.
"I'm so sorry!" she squeaks, her face flushing the most appealing shade of pink. "I wasn't watching where I was going, I was having an existential crisis about life choices, and I just—wait."
She squints at me, recognition dawning in those expressive eyes.
"You're... Nash, wasn't it? The hot self-defense mechanic!"
Hot. She called me hot. Out loud. Without any filter. The blush on her face deepens, and I can smell the embarrassment mixing with her scent, making it sweeter somehow.
I can't help the smirk that curves my mouth. "Glad to know my attractiveness is still ranking on the scale of hotness."
She looks like she wants the elevator to swallow her whole. It's adorable. Fuck, when did I start finding anything adorable?
She steps back hastily, putting distance between us, and I let my arm drop from her waist. The loss of contact feels wrong, but I ignore it.
"Right, yes, so—" She bends down quickly to grab her scattered papers and purse, moving with jerky, nervous energy. "What are you even doing here? Unless you're a plumber too and this place needs you for the leaking tap they were talking about in the elevator before I arrived here?"
A leaking tap. She thinks I'm here to fix a leaking tap. The mental image of me showing up to a professional building with a wrench and a toolbox makes me want to laugh.
I chuckle, low in my throat. "I'm glad you think of me as handy, but no. I'm actually here for some lawyer business."
Her eyes widen, that blush deepening even further. "Right! Yes! Lawyer! I knew that! I just—how many side hustles do you have?"
More than I should. More than I want to, honestly. But that's what happens when you live in a small town and refuse to leave despite the lack of opportunities.
I lean against the elevator wall, crossing my arms over my chest. "A few. I guess we all have to do a bunch of jobs to survive in a small town. So much to do but also feels like there's so little to progress with, you know?"
She sighs, and something in her expression shifts—like she understands that feeling all too well. "Yeah. I know exactly what you mean."
There's a story there. Something heavy underneath all that brightness. I want to ask about it, want to know what put that look in her eyes, but she's already moving on.
"Oh my god, you probably need to leave. I'm so sorry—I'm holding you up."
