"That sounds melodramatic."
"It looked true. And now you're telling me you're what, happily neutered?"
I grimace at the word. My shoulders tighten. "I'm telling you pack dynamics aren't for me. Plural. Dynamics. Packs. The whole thing. Not anymore."
He stares at me for a long beat. No pity. Just assessment. A flicker of irritation.
"That's a shame. You'd probably thrive with the right people."
"I'm sure that's what everyone thinks. Right before they file their 'we couldn't make it work' reports with the OPA."
"You'd need a box of pills to keep you from going feral. You think they'll sign off on that?"
"I think I could be an exception. I'm halfway there already."
He shakes his head slowly. "That's not a flex, little omega. That's a casualty report."
"I'm not your responsibility. You don't have to fix this."
His eyes narrow. "I don't like seeing good things wasted."
"Pretty sure the registry case worker would disagree with your assessment."
He snorts. "Registry case workers like paperwork more than outcomes."
"Tell me how you really feel."
He smiles again, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm serious. My offer at the zoo wasn't a line. My pack is searching for an omega. I know we don't know each other, but I think you'd be a good fit. If you get tired of being mishandled, you call me. You come meet my pack properly. You see if something in you wants to wake up again."
Something in my gut twists, sharp and reflexive.
I push it down. "I told you. I don't think packs are for me."
"You don't thinkthosealphas are for you. There's a difference."
"I'm not eager to repeat the experiment for a third time."
He grows serious. "That's a real shame. Your luck could always change. But anyway, you know how to find me. This place at night. Or use the number on the card I gave you."
"I don't have that card anymore. Ragon tore it up."
He gives me a look that says,clearly: you think I don't know what you keep in the back of your sock drawer.
"You remember the number. Little omegas remember exits even when they pretend they don't."
I don't confirm or deny. I do, embarrassingly, know the digits by heart.
He glances past me toward the front doors, where a familiar car just pulled up to the front. Eli's silhouette is visible through the glass, hands on the wheel, posture a tension line.
"Your babysitter's here."
"He's not—" I trail off, sigh. "Yeah. He's here."
Chase stands in one smooth movement, towel tossed over his shoulder.
"Glad you found something that makes you smile. Even if you look like you're trying very hard not to enjoy it too much."
"I liked the class. It was good."
