I'm standing in Tank's driveway. Tank, who lives alone except for his massive dog and his obsessive organizational systems. Tank, who hasn't brought anyone home in the entire year I've known him. Tank, whose house typically smells like nothing but his own scent and whatever single-serving meal he's prepared for himself.
And yet there's an omega's scent drifting from his front door like a beacon. Like an invitation. Like something I want to follow until I find its source.
I inhale again, slower this time, trying to parse the individual notes. The cinnamon is warm, baked-goods sweet. The coffee is rich and complex—not the cheap instant stuff but real beans, properly roasted. And there's something else underneath, something that's purely biological rather than perfume or product. Her natural scent, layered beneath everything else like a secret waiting to be discovered.
I want to know what that base note smells like up close. I want to press my nose to the curve of her neck and breathe in until my lungs are full of nothing but her.
Odd reaction. Very odd reaction.
I'm twenty-nine years old—still technically in my prime Alpha phase, still young enough that my instincts run a little hotter than Julian's or Tank's. I haven't hit the dreaded thirties yet, haven't entered that window where society starts looking at you sideways for being unbonded. But even accounting for hormones and biology and all the other excuses I could make, this reaction feels different.
Most omega scents are pleasant. Attractive, even. But they don't make me want to track them across a driveway at nine in the morning after a long shift. They don't make my Alpha instincts sit up and pay attention like a hunting dog catching a trail.
This one does.
I approach the front door with more suspicion than I'd usually bring to a casual visit. Tank and I have an open-door policy—literally. We're packmates, even if the bond isn't official. I have access to his house the same way he has access to mine. Walking in unannounced isn't unusual.
But walking in unannounced when there's clearly someone else inside? That requires a different approach.
I decide to announce myself verbally instead of just strolling in. If Tank's got company—if Tank's somehow managed to bring someone home for the first time in recorded history—I'd rather not interrupt anything intimate by appearing in the bedroom doorway like a firefighter-shaped ghost.
"You arealwaysso damn hard to reach, Tank," I call out as I push through the front door, keeping my voice loud enough to carry through the house. It's not untrue—the man has a pathological aversion to answering his phone. Half the time I end up driving over here just to confirm he's still alive because he's gone radio silent for twelve hours.
The scent intensifies the moment I step inside. It's everywhere now—not just drifting on the air but soaked into the atmosphere, mingling with Tank's familiar smoked leather in a way that makes my mouth water. Coffee is brewing somewhere, the rich aroma layering over everything else, and beneath that...
Bacon. Someone is cooking bacon.
Tank doesn't cook bacon. Tank barely cooks at all. His idea of a homemade breakfast is protein powder mixed with whatever fruit is about to go bad in his fridge.
My boots are loud on the hardwood as I round the corner into the kitchen, and?—
Holy shit.
There's an omega in Tank's kitchen. Standing at the stove with a spatula in hand, barefoot and wearing nothing but one of Tank's black t-shirts, which drapes over her frame like a dress. She's swaying slightly to music playing from her phone—something with a good beat that's got her hips moving in a way that makes it very difficult to look anywhere else.
And she is, without question, the hottest omega I've seen in a very, very long while.
Here's the thing about attraction: most Alphas around here have a "type." The approved aesthetic, if you want to be cynical about it. Skinny. Blue eyes. Blonde hair. Delicate features, delicate frame, delicate everything. The kind of omega who looks like she might break if you hold her too hard.
Nothing wrong with that, obviously. Beauty comes in all forms. But I figured out a long time ago that my type runs... different.
I want rebellion. I want someone who looks at societal expectations and decides they're more like suggestions than rules. I want confidence that doesn't come from fitting a mold but from breaking it. I wantreal—authentic and unapologetic and unafraid to take up space in the world.
That's the problem with most omegas in this town. They seem fake. Manufactured. Like they're playing a role rather than living a life. And who wants to deal with that?
This omega? She's all of that and more.
Her hair is dark—rich brown that falls in slightly messy waves past her shoulders, the kind of bedhead that looks intentional even though it's probably just evidence of a thorough night. Her eyes, when they finally land on me, are a striking hazel that seems to shift colors in the morning light. Her featuresare strong rather than delicate: defined cheekbones, a jaw with character, full lips that are currently parting in surprise.
And then there are the piercings.
Multiple studs climbing the curve of her ear—silver and black, arranged with deliberate asymmetry. A small hoop in her nose that catches the light when she moves. I'd bet money there are more hidden beneath Tank's oversized shirt—the kind of body art that tells a story, that marks a journey, that saysI am exactly who I choose to be.
Yeah. She's definitely my type.
Tank's shirt is comically large on her—the hem falls to mid-thigh, the shoulder seams hanging somewhere around her biceps. One shoulder has slipped free of the neckline entirely, exposing the graceful line of her collarbone and a hint of what might be more tattoos beneath. She looks like she raided a boyfriend's closet, which I suppose she technically did, and somehow the oversized fabric makes her look more attractive rather than less.
There's something about seeing an omega comfortable. Confident. Wearing someone else's clothes like armor rather than costume. It speaks to intimacy without performing it. To a connection that goes beyond surface-level attraction.
