***
A few days later, I keep practicing: I become a moving gap.
I set coffee on, slide plates to places, and orbit the table at a calm distance. When Eli reaches toward my waist as I pass behind his chair, I step neatly out of range, murmurexcuse me, and keep going. The motion is smooth enough to look like choreography rather than rejection.
Drake leans in when I bring the fruit—cheek tilted for a kiss the way he's leaned into me for a hundred breakfasts. I redirect by setting the bowl down with both hands and asking if he wants more strawberries. He blinks, recalibrates. "Uh. Sure."
Ragon's gaze hooks on every pivot. His scent runs tight but he doesn't say anything.
I eat standing up at the counter. The food sits. I don't need anyone's scent to push it down.
Between loads of laundry I make my own tea. I do stretches on my bedroom floor and count my breaths—inhale four, hold two, exhale six—until my lungs stop trying to convince my heart I should be curling into someone. When my brain loops toward Eli's lap or Ragon's chair, I make my own nest on the rug with a folded throw and lie there until it passes.
It always does now.
I think,so this is what betas feel like—quiet inside, no tide dragging you by the spine.
Jasper crossespaths with me around noon, tablet under his arm. "Can I borrow that?"
He glances at it, then at me. "For how long?"
"An hour. Less if I get bored."
He hands it over. "Password is the same as last week." Then, after a beat, "If you're shopping for registries, aim for incognito."
"I'm shopping for hobbies. Not homes."
A fractional nod. He melts away.
I sit at the kitchen table and open a dozen tabs. Gardening club, cooking meet-ups, a beekeeping course. An hour later, I find it: a fitness dance class at Pulse Gym, five miles away—"CardioGroove." Beginner-friendly, high-energy, no partner required. The pictures look like joy. Bodies in motion, hair flying, someone laughing mid-spin.
My chest does a small, startled lift.
I go find Ragon.
He's in the study again. I knock once and step inside when he says my name.
"You have a minute?"
"For you, yes."
Ragon's hair falls loose around his shoulders today—unusual for him. He typically keeps it pulled back in a tight knot, practical and controlled. There was a time when I treasured those rare moments it came undone, when I'd wind it between my fingers in the aftermath of our entanglement, that intimate reminder of his claim over me still warm inside. Now I simply notice the dark strands framing his face with the detached interest of someone observing a changed routine, nothing more.
I set the tablet on the desk and turn it so the screen faces him. "I found a fitness class I'm interested in. A dance one. Twice a week in the evenings. Safe neighborhood. They scan IDs and keep doors locked after start time."
His eyes flick to the screen, then my face. "A gym."
"I like movement. And music. And not being here for an hour would be nice."
He sits back. The alpha in him gets prickly with objections. Stares. Strangers. Unbonded omega.
"I can send you the waiver and safety policy. If it's a no, it's a no."
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't like it."
"Okay."
"I don't like thinking about you leaving the house at night to go sweat in a room with people I can't vet. Especially a gym. It’s probably teeming with alphas. The kind that don’t form packs with betas."
