Rosemarie's voice drifts through the changing room door, muffled slightly by the thick velvet curtain that separates us. I smirk, leaning against the wall across from her stall, arms crossed over my chest as I wait for her to emerge in whatever creation she's trying on next.
The boutique we've landed in is nothing like the usual spots most people flock to when they need new clothes. No fluorescent lighting, no overwhelming crowds, no racks crammed so close together you can barely breathe. Instead, Velvet & Vintage is a cozy little shop tucked into a corner of Main Street, with exposed brick walls and soft Edison bulbs casting warm amber light across an eclectic collection of clothing. Antique mirrors hang at strategic angles throughout the space, making the small boutique feel larger than it actually is.
I was kind of impressed when she bypassed all the trendy shops—the ones where everyone and their auntie goes because Instagram told them it was fashionable—and made a beeline for this place instead. There's something refreshing about a woman who knows what she wants and doesn't need validation from social media to feel good about her choices.
When I'd asked why she chose this spot over the more popular options, she'd admitted that crowds make her anxious. Something about being crammed one inch away from random strangers who have no concept of personal space—people who breathe down your neck and jostle your elbows and make you feel like a sardine in a tin can. I could respect that. Why subject yourself to chaos when you don't have to be?
So here we are, in this cute vintage spot with a variety that ranges from flirty sundresses to sophisticated cocktail numbers to pieces that look like they belong in a Victorian gothic novel. The air smells like aged fabric and lavender sachets and something faintly floral—probably from the dried roses arranged in antique vases throughout the shop. Old vinyl records line one wall as decoration, and the cash register is an actual antique brass piece that probably belonged to someone's great-grandmother.
But the real reason I was intrigued by this little shopping expedition? I wanted to see what her style was. Clothes say a lot about a person—what they value, how they want to be perceived, what parts of themselves they're trying to express or hide.
And Rosemarie's choices have been... fascinating.
She'd gravitated toward some typical girlie pieces at first—soft pastels, delicate florals, the kind of feminine things you'd expect from an Omega. But then her eyes had lit up when she spotted the gothic section, and suddenly she was pulling black lace dresses off the rack like a kid in a candy store. Baggy pantswith chains hanging from the belt loops. Crop tops with intricate cutouts. A leather jacket that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget but looked like it was made specifically for her.
The variety gave her a rebellious edge. Matched with the various piercings climbing up her ears—and that eyebrow piercing I'd noticed back at Tank's house, a small silver barbell that catches the light when she moves—she painted a picture of someone who preferred to exist outside of the box rather than squeezed inside it.
She's a woman who's made deliberate choices about how she presents herself to the world. Every piercing, every gothic dress, every chain on those baggy pants—they're all declarations of independence. Statements of identity. 'This is who I am, and if you don't like it, that's your problem.'
Which is interesting, given what I know about her background. High society usually looks down on anything outside of the norm. Anything that deviates from the carefully curated image of perfection they demand from their members. Piercings, tattoos, alternative fashion—those things get you whispered about at galas and excluded from guest lists.
Not that I'd know personally. I didn't grow up in that world—not by any stretch of imagination. Small town kid, public schools, parents who loved each other's money more than they loved each other. My childhood was messy and loud and nothing like the polished perfection Julian describes when he talks about his upbringing.
I'm thankful for the small town life I got the privilege of enjoying. Because now that I've known Julian for a few years, I can tell the high society lifestyle wouldn't be for me. Perfection every single day, no matter if you're having the best or worst day of your life, just to uphold an appearance that's normally fake and judged by people who are just as fake—if not worse?
Fuck. That.
It seems like Rosemarie was running from a society that never wanted to accept her to begin with. Running from people who probably tried to mold her into something she wasn't, who looked at her piercings and her gothic preferences and her independent spirit and saw defects to be corrected rather than personality to be celebrated.
But she still wanted to enjoy the bits of luxury that a small town can't always provide. Like being able to chase your dreams. Like having access to resources and opportunities that require money and connections. Like being able to build something of your own without starting from absolute zero.
She's a contradiction wrapped in an enigma wrapped in really excellent coffee-making skills. And I'm increasingly fascinated by every layer I uncover.
I realize she's still waiting for my answer, so I call back through the curtain: "That depends on if you want the clean or dirty version."
Her laugh is immediate—bright and genuine and slightly mischievous. "Dirty, hands down! I wanna know if you were a playboy in college!"
Well, well, well. Our sweet little Omega has a curious streak. Good to know.
"Now, now," I say, unable to stop the grin spreading across my face. "Don't go promising a good storytelling session unless you're letting me know how many men you had wrapped around your finger."
She giggles—actually giggles, and the sound does something warm to my chest. "Actually, I'm rather loyal. Two years minimum per guy or pack." There's a pause, and when she continues, her voice has taken on a slightly harder edge. "Ex-pack is lucky I even lasted as long as I did with them. Seems my tolerance has gotten shorter lately."
Two years minimum. That's... significant. Most Omegas in the modern dating world cycle through relationships like they're trying on shoes. But Rosemarie commits. She invests. She stays, even when things get hard—until they become unbearable.
I whistle low. "We can't be having that. Gotta break that streak and make ours a trial for forever."
She whistles back—the sound surprisingly melodic, almost musical—and I can hear her humming softly as fabric rustles behind the curtain. "Now who's promising who a good time?"
The curtain parts slightly, and her head pokes through the gap. Her dark hair is slightly mussed from pulling clothes on and off, and her hazel eyes are bright with amusement. But her expression shifts into the cutest pout I've ever seen as she admits:
"And I need help."
God, that face. That expression. She looks like a kitten who's gotten tangled in yarn and is too proud to admit she can't get herself out.
My expression softens, and I bow halfway—a dramatic, theatrical gesture that makes her roll her eyes even as her lips twitch with suppressed laughter. "At your service, Sweet Rebel."
Her pout intensifies. "I'mnotrebellious! And what's with the nicknames?" She huffs, crossing her arms over the portion of the dress she's managing to hold up. "First, 'Sweet Ditzy' from Julian, and now you with 'Sweet Rebel.' What is this, a nickname convention?"
