My heart is skipping wildly in my chest as I look up at this firefighter with his stunning hazel-green eyes.
I'm trying not to hold my breath—trying and failing miserably—as I watch him bring the mug to his lips. The latte art I spent so much careful effort on is about to be destroyed by the first sip, and somehow that feels secondary to the anticipation coiling tight in my stomach.
What if he hates it? What if I got the ratios wrong? What if the caramelization was too dark or the cardamom too strong or?—
His scent is blanketing me, overwhelming in the best possible way. Woodsmoke and pine needles and that sweet honey-maple undertone that makes me want to lean closer and breathe deeper. His chest is lightly pressing against my back—I hadn't realized how close we were standing until this moment, his warmth seeping through the thin cotton of Tank's borrowed t-shirt like a wall of protection.
I should step away. I should put some distance between us, some professional boundary between the omega who made the coffee and the Alpha who's about to judge it. But I can't seem to make my feet move. Can't seem to convince my body that personal space is a concept worth respecting.
What is it with these men and their presence? Their ability to fill a room just by existing in it? To make the air feel thicker, heavier, charged with something electric?
He reminds me of the Alpha from the gym—the one who helped me when I was spiraling into that dark mental place, who noticed something was wrong before I even realized it myself. The one with the patchouli and vanilla and the kind green eyes that saw too much.
Different scent, different energy, but the same underlying quality. The same sense that here is an Alpha who pays attention. Who notices the small things. Who would never let someone struggle alone if he could help it.
The last three encounters with Alphas have been... intriguing, to say the least. Tank at the mixer. This firefighter, Elias, in the kitchen. And before that, the Alpha at the gym. Three men who've made me feel something I haven't felt in longer than I can remember:safe.Seen. Like maybe the world isn't entirely populated by people who want to use me or own me or trade me like property.
And now it turns out this firefighter knows Tank? Knows him well enough to walk into his house unannounced and tease him about never bringing anyone home?
What are the odds? What kind of cosmic game is fate playing right now?
Elias takes a sip.
I hold my breath.
He says nothing.
Oh no. Oh no, that's not good. Silence is never good. Silence means he's trying to figure out how to tell me it's terrible without hurting my feelings. Silence means I failed. Silence means?—
He takes another sip.
Then another.
He's drinking slowly, deliberately, like he's trying to catch every single note in the creation. The caramelized honey sweetness. The earthiness of the espresso. The way the cardamom adds that subtle exotic warmth that most people miss entirely. His eyes close as he swallows, and I watch his throat work, watch the way his expression shifts through something I can't quite identify.
Why isn't he saying anything? Is it that bad? Did I mess up the proportions? The cardamom can be overpowering if you're not careful, and maybe I was too confident, maybe I should have?—
Nervousness floods through me, sudden and unexpected. I'm usually confident with my creations. I've spent years perfecting my craft, learning the science and the art, understanding how flavors interact and complement each other. Competitions. Training programs. Hours spent practicing pours until my wrist ached and my eyes blurred. IknowI'm good at this.
But having him quiet for this long, having him just...drinkingwithout a single word of feedback... it's making me second-guess everything.
Maybe the honey burned too much. Maybe the oat milk wasn't frothed to the right consistency. Maybe the latte art was showing off when he just wanted a good cup of coffee.
He hates it. He definitely hates it. Why else would he be so quiet?
"Um..." I start, and my voice comes out stuttered, uncertain. So different from the confident challenge I threw at him justmoments ago. "If it's not to your liking, I can make another one?—"
His look makes me pause.
Because his eyes—those stunning hazel-green eyes that shift colors in the morning light—are glimmering. Shining with something wet and unmistakable.
Are those... tears?
"Oh my God!" I spin to face him fully, panic rising in my chest. "Are you crying? W-W-W-Why are you crying?!"
I've never seen an Alpha get teary-eyed.Never. In my entire life, through all the Alphas I've known—my father, my brothers, my ex-pack, the countless men who've crossed my path—not a single one has ever shown this kind of vulnerability. They're trained from birth to suppress it, to bury emotion beneath layers of machismo and dominance. Crying is weakness. Crying is unacceptable. Crying is something omegas do, not Alphas.
And yet this man—this firefighter chief with his easy smile and his warm scent and his ridiculous coffee order—is getting emotional. Overcoffee. Over somethingI made.
