Beautiful.
The word surfaces before I can stop it, and I force my expression to remain neutral. Bored, even. Better that she think I'm cold and dismissive than that she see how thoroughly she's disrupted my equilibrium in the span of thirty seconds.
She blinks up at me—once, twice, three times—like she's trying to make me make sense. Taking in my face, my chest, my proximity. I watch her process my presence with the kind of stunned confusion that would be almost comical if it weren't doing dangerous things to my self-control.
Her lips are soft.That's what I notice next, and I immediately wish I hadn't. Full and perfectly shaped, slightly parted in surprise, the kind of lips that make you think about kissing even when you've sworn off such pointless distractions. She's not wearing makeup—or if she is, it's subtle enough to beinvisible—but her natural coloring is striking enough that she doesn't need it.
And then there are the piercings.
A small nose hoop catches the light, silver and delicate. An eyebrow ring adds an edge to her otherwise soft features. Both are unexpected on an omega—unconventional, almost rebellious. Most omegas I've encountered cultivate an aesthetic of softness, of approachability, of carefully maintained femininity designed to attract potential packs.
This one has apparently decided that conventional expectations can go fuck themselves.
Bold as fuck.That's what this is. An omega who's chosen to be a reflection of defiance rather than conformity. Who wears her rebellion in the ink and metal adorning her body rather than hiding it away.
Speaking of ink.
My eyes track down without my permission, taking in the sports bra and shorts that leave little to the imagination. She's clearly just finished an intense workout—her skin gleams with sweat, muscles still defined from exertion. And there, scattered along her ribs like secrets waiting to be discovered, fine-line butterflies dance across her skin.
Survival. Rebirth. Transformation. That's what butterflies mean in tattoo symbolism. This omega has marked herself with reminders that she's survived something. That she's chosen her own metamorphosis.
What did she survive?
The question burns in my mind, but I have no right to ask it. No right to know anything about this stranger except that she's blocking my path and smells like every fantasy I've never allowed myself to have.
"What?" she asks.
Her voice is slightly hoarse—from her workout, probably, or from whatever emotional storm she's been weathering. But there's steel beneath the roughness, a sharpness that tells me she's not the kind of omega who wilts under pressure.
Good. That's... good. Inexplicably satisfying.
"You're in my way," I say, because it's true and because anything else would reveal too much.
She stares at me like I've spoken in a foreign language. Then she looks around—finally taking in her surroundings, finally noticing that she's been standing in the middle of the omega section like she owns the place.
Her expression shifts to something that might be a pout. It's adorable in a way I refuse to acknowledge.
"Unless you're transgender," she says, and there's attitude in every syllable, "I'm confused as to whyyou'rehere. This is the omega section."
She has fire. This tiny omega with her butterfly tattoos and her rebellious piercings and her scent that's currently rewiring my brain chemistry—she has actual fire.
"It's 5 AM," I inform her, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "The gym becomes Alpha territory. Remember?"
I watch her eyes slide toward the clock on the wall. Watch the realization dawn across her features as she processes how much time she lost standing there, trapped in her own head.
Fifteen minutes. She was gone for fifteen minutes, and no one noticed. No one cared. Just like no one noticed when I used to spiral in boardrooms and business dinners, smiling through the chaos consuming me from within.
She rolls her eyes—actuallyrolls her eyesat me, which is both irritating and inexplicably charming—and grabs for her bag.
"Oh, right," she says, sarcasm coating every word like dark chocolate. "My existence is taking upsomuch space for you. How ever will you survive?"
Mouthy. She's mouthy. Most omegas I've encountered would be apologetic, accommodating, eager to avoid conflict with an Alpha. This one is throwing sarcasm like daggers and looking at me like I'm an inconvenience she's barely tolerating.
Why do I like that so much?
She moves to leave, but I see the sway in her stance before she takes two steps. Subtle—anyone else would miss it—but I've been watching her too closely to miss anything.
My hand finds her back again, steadying her before she can stumble.
