Matchmaker,matchmaker…
Don’t make me a match.
I stared at the unfamiliar hands resting in my lap—my hands. Once upon a time, my veins were faintest blue against my sun-deprived paleness. Now, the purple veins mapped my skin like rivers on alabaster even though I’d gotten more sun in the past weeks than I had in my entire life. I should have gained a little color, instead I was still paler than paper.
Still though, a month at the Eros Institute had worked miracles that Moab’s Brightfield never could. Yet today, despite my body's steady revival, I felt weak and apprehensive. Anxiety gnawed at my insides; worse than any symptom I'd experienced in a lifetime of illness.
"Today's the day, Lucy," I whispered to myself, flexing my fingers. They moved without the stiffness that had plagued mefor as long as I could remember. My legs felt strong, my knees moved like someone had thoroughly oiled the hinges. My back didn’t ache even if I sat for hours reading. I could almost jog without my lungs screaming and my heart racing.
My morning routine had become almost normal, if anything could be considered normal when your entire life had been spent in medical isolation. I showered standing up now, instead of sitting on the plastic chair they'd kept in my Moab bathroom. I dried and brushed my long silver-white hair myself instead of having a nurse in a hazmat suit do it for me because my arms tired out too fast. I even applied tinted lip balm, a small luxury that would have been unthinkable before. No makeup. No frivolity. Just surviving from day to day.
They’d added some things to my room as I got healthier. Plants—actual living plants—sat in three ceramic pots by the windows. I’d named them Keanu Leaves, Orlando’s Bloom, and Edgar Allen Aloe. Doctor Swann told me caring for something else would help me recover faster. Maybe she was right. As they grew and sprouted, I felt like I was growing and sprouting too. Our fates felt intertwined.
I crossed to the expansive windows that made up one wall of my suite. Wintery Seattle sprawled before me, a maze of buildings, streets, and distant water that still felt like a view from someone else's life. In Moab, my tiny window had faced the garden and the mountains beyond—beautiful but untouchable. Here, I was able to watch a city that was serving as my salvation. I placed both palms against the glass and leaned my forehead against the coolness. I knew it must be far colder outside, but inside everything was carefully regulated. Seventy degrees. Filtered air. Mineral water.
How soon would I have to leave Eros?
Where would tomorrow take me?
I shouldn’t fear scent sampling, not after all the poking and prodding and tests I’d been through over the years.
My hands trembled slightly as I pulled away from the window. I'd spent the past four weeks taking specialized pills and injections, some the same as Brightfield, others new and offering side effects like sweating, vomiting, and even a twenty-four-hour period when my skin turned lavender. On top of the drugs, I’d been subjected to a series of therapies meant to stimulate my dormant Omega glands. Doctor Swann had explained that my body was making up for lost time, producing hormones and pheromones that had been suppressed by my disease. She called it ‘induced secondary gender delayed puberty’. I called it yet another torture.
"It's a remarkable recovery," she'd told me last week during my checkup. "Your data will pave the way for so many infirm Omegas, Lucy."
I hadn’t know what to say to that.
Especially since remarkable recovery meant today's appointment. It meant entering the Eros Institute's matchmaking database. It meant being paired with an Alpha or pack who would want me simply because of how I smelled to them. I didn’t even know how that worked. I had no experience. I’d been around so few Alphas, and most of them over the years had been my nurses and doctors. Ages older than me, not even one attractive in that way. And my body had never worked the way it naturally should either. My Omega scent was barely a whisper most days. I’d never had a heat. A remarkable recovery, yet I was still broken in some ways.
I tried to stay optimistic.
What if I was scent-matched and it turned out amazing? What if I was seen as a partner instead of a patient?
God, what would that be like? To be wanted after a lifetime of being avoided? To have someone look at me with desire instead of pity or clinical interest?
I approached the full-length mirror mounted on my closet door. The girl—woman—who stared back was still strange to me. My hair hung longer and straighter, the strange silvery-white strands gleaming under the room's soft lighting. My eyes had become a brighter green with golden flecks around the pupils, and they seemed too large for my face, but Doctor Swann said that was just because I was still regaining weight. I’d been thin before all of this began, but the initial treatments and nonstop drugs had caused me to almost waste away.
"You're beautiful," she'd insisted during one of our sessions. "Your appearance is quite striking, Lucy. Alphas will find you very appealing."
I wasn't convinced. My frame remained small, though less fragile than before. The hospital gown had been replaced with real clothes—today, a simple white blouse and navy pants provided by the Institute. They hung a bit loose, but not as dramatically as they would have four weeks ago.
It didn’t matter how healthy I got though, I could gain a bit of muscle and a bit of fat, but I would still be me. Naïve, sheltered Lucy.
I remembered the day Doctor Swann had first brought up the scent sampling, just a week after my arrival. I’d known it was coming, so why had it caught me off guard?
"Once your bodyhas stabilized and your Omega markers are at normal levels, we'll need to register your unique scent profile," she'd explained, her voice gentle but matter of fact. "It's a simple procedure. We'll collect samples from both Maxima and both Minora glands and enter them into our database for matching. We’ll also rerun bloodwork and check again for any problematic genetic markers, screening you for any potential mating issues."
"And then what?" I'd asked, still weak enough that speaking felt like an effort. Voicing the question was also an exercise in futility—I hoped the answer would change, but I knew it wouldn’t.
"Well, then our algorithm finds compatible Alphas. I’m sure they explained this to you when you signed onto the treatment.” She cleared her throat, looking a little uncomfortable. Strange to see her that way; she was always perfect and poised.
“Well, I was pretty desperate to stay alive. The details weren’t all that important.” I shrugged, slumping down in the chair. Waves of exhaustion came without warning the last few days.
“The matching is quite precise. As of late, we’ve even made amazing updates to our algorithms and now we can ensure full compatibility for pack clients. In the past, there’d always be one Alpha who had a stronger scent match aptitude. That was thanks to an Omega like you, Lucy. Not sick but lost in her own way. She had remarkable samples. Because of her, Omegas are finding their truly perfect mates. Because of you, Omegas will live to have that chance." Her smile widened.
“What if they hate me,” I murmured.
"You won't be thrown to the wolves, Lucy. We create careful, scientifically backed matches. Your match or matches will love you beyond measure. Instantly, irrevocably, and incessantly.” She patted me on the knee with one gloved hand.
