I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed—which is really just a mattress on a low platform frame that barely fits in this shoebox of a studio—staring at the chaos around me with the kind of resigned horror usually reserved for true crime documentaries and tax season. Cardboard boxes are stacked against every available wall, some still taped shut from the move, others half-open and spilling their contents like wounded soldiers on a battlefield. Clothes hang from every surface that isn't actively being used for something else: the back of my single chair, the edge of my tiny kitchenette counter, the handle of the bathroom door.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I am a functioning adult who definitely has her life together.
The studio itself isn't terrible, objectively speaking. It's small—maybe four hundred square feet if you're being generous and counting the closet—but it has character. Exposed brick on one wall that I've convinced myself is "industrial chic" rather than "landlord too cheap to finish." A single window that overlooks the alley behind the bakery, which means I wake up to the smell of Mila's morning croissants instead of an alarm clock. Hardwood floors that creak in a way that's either charming or concerning depending on my mood.
The scent of the place is... complicated. Coffee grounds from the French press I refuse to give up, layered over the lingering vanilla of candles I burn to make the space feel less like a cardboard fortress. There's a hint of old wood from the floors, something vaguely floral from the laundry detergent I splurge on because it reminds me of my grandmother's house, and beneath it all, the stubborn undertone of a building that's been standing for probably a century and has absorbed the memories of everyone who's ever lived here.
At least it smells like me now. My scent has soaked into the walls, the sheets, the very air—cinnamon sugar and roasted coffee, dark vanilla and soft amber. This space is mine. Claimed. Safe.
Which is more than I can say for my last apartment.
I grimace at the memory, pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. The previous place had been nicer—bigger, certainly, with actual closet space and a kitchen that could fit more than one person at a time. The rent had been suspiciously reasonable for its size and location, which should have been my first red flag.
Never trust a deal that seems too good to be true. It usually means someone expects payment in forms other than cash.
The landlord had been an Alpha—older, the kind of man who thought his salt-and-pepper hair and business casual wardrobemade him "distinguished" rather than "desperately clinging to relevance." He'd started with small comments that could have been innocent if you squinted. Compliments on my appearance. Questions about my relationship status. Observations about howlonelyit must be for a young omega to live all by herself.
Then the comments evolved into suggestions. A "living arrangement with benefits," he'd called it, like he was offering a business partnership rather than propositioning his tenant. He'd reduce my rent—maybe eliminate it entirely—if I was willing to provide certain...services.
I'm sorry, did he think I was going to go down on my landlord for a roof over my head? Did he genuinely believe that my pussy was worth whatever discount he was offering on a two-bedroom in a mediocre neighborhood?
No thank you. Hard pass. Not if you paid ME.
I'd packed what I could salvage of my valuables—the really important stuff, the things money couldn't replace—and gotten out of there within a week. Left behind furniture I couldn't fit in my car, clothes that weren't worth the hassle, and any illusion that running away from my problems would be simple or comfortable.
Hence the current chaos. Hence the boxes stacked like Tetris blocks with no regard for logic or accessibility. Hence the fact that I can't find my favorite coffee mug because it's buried somewhere in a box labeled "KITCHEN STUFF???" with three question marks that past-me apparently felt were necessary.
Past-me was a mess. Present-me is also a mess. Future-me is probably going to be a mess too. At least I'm consistent.
I sigh, surveying the disaster zone with the kind of calculating gaze I usually reserve for complex coffee orders. There's a logical approach to this. Start with one box, empty it completely, find homes for everything inside, break down thecardboard, move to the next box. Systematic. Organized. The kind of methodical process that Marie Kondo would approve of.
Or I could continue sitting here, doing absolutely nothing productive, and spiral about things I can't control.
Option B it is.
Because the thing is—the thing that's been digging at me all morning like a splinter I can't quite reach—I can't stop thinking about the gym. Abouthim.
The Alpha with the green eyes and the expensive pullover and the back tattoos that looked like they held secrets I'd need a lifetime to decode. The one who'd appeared out of nowhere to tell me I was in his way, gave me gummies like I was some kind of deficient houseplant, and then disappeared before I could form a coherent thought.
What the hell was that about?
The interaction shouldn't have done anything to me. It was brief—maybe five minutes, if I'm being generous. He'd been cold, clinical, the kind of impersonal that usually makes me want to prove a point just to see if I can crack the facade. He'd barely looked at me like a person, more like an obstacle that needed to be moved.
And yet.
And yet I can't stop thinking about the way his hand felt on my back. The steadiness of it. The warmth seeping through my workout clothes. The way he'd noticed I was swaying before I'd even realized it myself.
I feel this odd longing when I think about him, which is weird asfuck. A hollow ache in my chest that has no business being there. A pull toward someone I don't know, will probably never see again, and couldn't pursue even if I wanted to.
I never felt this with Milo. Never felt it with Damien or Caden either—even in the beginning, when they were still pretending to be charming, still putting on the show thatconvinced my parents they'd be perfect for me. There was attraction, sure. Physical acknowledgment that they were conventionally handsome. But this bone-deep pull? This sense that something inside me recognized something inside him?
Never. Not once.
So why do I suddenly feel like that with a guy who's probably some rich tourist in town for the holidays? Some bored businessman slumming it in Oakridge Hollow because he has investments in the area or a vacation home he visits twice a year? Someone who'll be gone by next week, back to whatever high-powered life he came from, without a single thought spared for the omega he gave vitamins to in a small-town gym?
I shake my head, physically trying to dislodge the thoughts. My hair—still slightly damp from the shower I took after leaving the gym—falls across my face in dark waves, and I push it back with an irritated huff.
Stop it. Stop thinking about him. You don't need to be focusing on any Alphas right now.
