Blinking, I look around—really look—and realize thathe'sthe one standing directly behindme. In what is very clearly the omega side of the gym—the section with the softer lighting and the smaller equipment and the distinct lack of Alpha musk permeating every surface.
I pout. It's not my most mature response, but it happens before I can stop it.
"Unless you're transgender," I say, "I'm confused as to whyyou'rehere. This is the omega section."
"It's 5 AM." He says it like that explains everything. "The gym becomes Alpha territory at 5. Remember?"
What?
My eyes slide slowly—dreading the confirmation—toward the digital clock on the wall.
5:02 AM.
Shit. The small-town gym's shared space policy. From midnight to 5 AM, the space is omega-designated. After 5 AM, Alphas can use any section. I've been standing here zoning out for over fifteen minutes, apparently lost in my post-phone-call emotional spiral.
I roll my eyes, even though he's technically correct—the most annoying kind of correct.
"Oh, right," I say, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. "My existence is taking upsomuch space for you. How ever will you survive?"
His expression doesn't change. Not even a flicker. It's like arguing with a very expensive statue.
I huff—a sound of pure frustration—and grab my duffle bag, ready to make my dramatic exit. But before I can take a step, his hand presses against my back.
I freeze.
It's not aggressive—not really. His palm rests between my shoulder blades, steady and warm, like he's... bracing me? Supporting me? The touch is clinical, impersonal, but something about it makes my omega sit up and take notice in a way that's profoundly unhelpful.
"What—" I start, turning to frown at him.
"You have low iron or something."
It's not a question. It's a statement—a diagnosis delivered with all the warmth of a medical textbook.
I blink. "No?"
He huffs—the first sound he's made that registers as anything close to human—and removes his hand. The absence of his touch leaves a strange coolness against my skin.
"Correct your balance next time," he says. "You were swaying."
I was swaying? Was I swaying? I didn't feel like I was swaying. Maybe I was swaying. The panic attack that wasn't quite a panic attack probably didn't help.
I open my mouth to respond—to say something clever or cutting or at least moderately intelligent—but he's already turning away.
And that's when I see his back.
Holy shit.
The tattoo work stretching across his shoulders and down his spine is nothing short of a masterpiece. Fine-line and geometric, all clean edges and precise angles that mirror the man himself. There are hidden patterns within patterns—something that might be constellation maps, abstract shapes that resolve into meanings I can't quite parse, line work so detailed it must have taken countless hours in a chair. The ink is black and subtle, visible only because of how the overhead lights catch the slight sheen against his skin.
Control is a choice, I think. That's what this tattoo says. That everything about him—the precision, the coldness, the careful walls—is a deliberate decision, not an accident of nature.
I want to inspect it closer. Want to trace the lines with my fingers and ask about the meaning behind each element. Want to spend an unreasonable amount of time mapping the artwork across his skin.
What is wrong with me? I don't even know this man's name.
He turns back before I can do anything embarrassing like stare for an inappropriate length of time—though honestly, I probably already have—and tosses something in my direction.
I catch it on reflex, fingers closing around a small, elegant bottle. Looking down, I realize it's... gummies?
