And I felt nothing.
Not just nothing. I felt disgusted.
A visceral, bone-deep revulsion that had nothing to do with her as a person and everything to do with the wrongness of the situation. Like my body was physically rejecting the experience. Like every nerve ending was screaming at me to stop, pull back, get out.
So I stopped. Left her to go home. Made some excuse about not feeling well, which was not entirely a lie.
She called me cold feet afterward. Or whatever term Omegas use to degrade an Alpha who cannot perform when the moment presents itself. The rumor spread through the circles that mattered, adding another layer to the reputation I was already building as the lesser Laurent brother.
Defective. Broken. Incomplete.
Maybe that is when I knew there was a fundamental difference in my wiring. That the blueprint everyone expected me to follow was written for someone else.
But then…
But then Mabeline Mae Rose walked into a locker room covered in blue slushie, and my entire body came alive in a way it never had before.
Fuck.
I am trying to calm myself now, trying to regulate my breathing and my pulse and the traitorous reactions happening below my belt. Because my cock is twitching every single time she speaks. Every syllable, every laugh, every sharp-witted observation that tumbles from her lips sends a jolt of electricity straight through me that I am powerless to control.
And her scent.
God, her scent.
It is everywhere in my car now. Vanilla sugar and frosted roses have seeped into the cloth seats, woven themselves into the air vents, settled over every surface like a perfume I never want to wash away. The closed space has concentrated it, amplified it, turned the interior of my sedan into a greenhouse for pheromones that my body is absorbing with alarming enthusiasm.
I will never open my windows again if it means keeping this aroma right here. Every future drive, every commute to practice, every errand will be accompanied by the ghost of her presence, and I am perfectly fine with that arrangement.
You are spiraling. Stop spiraling. She asked you a question and you are sitting here having an internal crisis while she waits for an answer.
The silence stretches between us, growing heavier with each passing second.
And then her hand lands on my knee.
Warm. Deliberate. Grounding.
She leans in, closing the distance so that I have no choice but to turn and look directly into her hazel eyes. They are gold-flecked and serious, holding mine with a steadiness that makes my heart stutter.
"Etienne." Her voice is firm. No trace of laughter. No mockery hiding beneath the surface. "I am being serious. Are you?"
I stare into those eyes, searching for the judgment I am certain must be lurking there. The disgust. The pity. The dismissive amusement that every other person has shown when they discover the quiet Alpha cannot perform.
But it is not there.
She is genuinely asking. Open and honest and waiting for my answer with a patience that feels foreign.
Risk it. She has been honest with you about everything. She deserves the same.
I swallow hard, trying to ignore how fast my heart is hammering against my ribs.
"Yes," I whisper. "I am being serious."
The word hangs between us, fragile and exposed.
I look away, feeling the heat crawl up my neck and settle across my cheekbones.
"I have not... been with an Omega. I have never gotten that far." My voice drops lower, the admission costing more than I expected. "I tried once. It did not work. My body just rejected the whole experience."
