They don't flinch when I get too close. They don't care if I sit beside them and talk to myself. They don't ask if I've learned my place yet.
They just exist, unapologetically alive.
The first time a seedling breaks through the soil, tiny and fragile and absurdly brave, I stare at it for so long my knees go numb, this time by my own choice.
"You don't even know what you're growing into yet," I whisper. "You just decided, 'Okay, I'm doing this,' and went for it."
It doesn't answer.
It doesn't have to.
***
More weeks pass.
My world shrinks.
Morning: cook, bar stool, "yes, Alpha." Afternoon: clean, counters, maybe a book I can't focus on. Evening: chair, movie, sounds through the wall.
In between, I go outside and tend my little kingdom of things that cannot judge me.
I start talking less because it's easier than hearing my own voice bounce off walls that don't answer.
I start leaving rooms when laughter gets too loud.
I start thinking about registry forms the way some people think about vacations.
Maybe they'd let me request a placement in some quiet rural region. Or no placement at all. Maybe there's a box you can tick that saysI'm done. Stop trying.
Maybe I'll get to be something other than an omega if no one's around to see it.
The thought feels treasonous.
It also feels like relief.
One morning, Ragon finds me in the garden.
I don't hear him approach. Just feel his shadow fall across the bed I'm weeding.
My whole body goes tense.
"The garden looks good," he says.
I don't look up. "Thank you, Alpha."
"You've been spending a lot of time out here."
"It needed work."
He's quiet for a moment. I can feel him watching me. Assessing.
"You seem calmer," he says finally. "More settled."
Settled.
I want to laugh. Or scream. Maybe both.
Instead I say, "Yes, Alpha."
