What concerns me is the wall above and around the fireplace. It’s big and uninterrupted. A large slab ofpristine white plaster. No mantel. No candlesticks or décor. And most notably, a blank space where the TV clearly should be.
I nurse my whiskey and surreptitiously eye every inch of the room, looking for a hidden lever, a switch, or something that could feasibly cause a large screen to drop from the ceiling.
I find nothing.
I know it’s too soon for me to complain, especially given that Branson is currently cooking for both of us—not to mention providing me with shelter during an absolute asshole of a snowstorm—but the TV situation is making me panic rather a lot.
When Jensen first mentioned the getaway, he said things about hiking, fresh air, and getting back to nature, and I said, “I’d rather die.”
And I meant it. From the plan’s inception, I fully intended for the rest of the group to do their own thing in the great outdoors, while I curled up and binge-watched episodes ofVampire Diaries. It’s a comfort watch for me. I’ve seen it so many times that I can fall asleep and doze through three or four episodes and still know exactly what’s happening when I wake up. It’s how I relax.
“No TV, huh?” I ask when the last of my third whiskey leaves me convinced it’s something I am obligated to mention.
“Nah.”
It’s a very short answer to a question I think deserves at least five or six words, but that’s Branson for you.
“Do you, like, not like TV?” I prompt.
He keeps his eyes on the meat he’s chasing around the pan with a pair of tongs. “I don’t mind it, but I come up here to get away from the noise.”
I’m not totally sure because the alcohol is jamming a bunch of my signals, but from the way he says it, I get the feeling I might be something Branson considers a tad noisy.
“Don’t worry,” I say, to put him at ease. “I’ll be super quiet while I’m here. I won’t talk a lot at all. In fact, I’ll mainly stay in my room and relax. You’ll hardly know I’m here. I love peace and quiet too. Good for the soul, don’t you think? Yeah…I love it. I’ve actually been thinking of checking myself into one of those silent retreats. You know, the ones where you meditate and shit, and don’t talk to anyone the whole time you’re there. You’re just like,quiet.”
“Mm-hmm,” he says.
“Like, you just find yourZen. I haven’t booked yet, but I’ve looked into it a lot. I think Zen could be a really good look on me, don’t you? I think I’d probably grow my hair out a little beforehand, and I’d definitely have to buy a lot more linen to make it work. I’m thinking boxy shirts and matching pants. Very neutral. Very laid-back, but not up my own ass, you know?”
Speaking of asses, I’m talking directly out of mine. I have no intention now, or ever, of going on a meditation retreat, much less a silent one. And as for linen? Hell no. That shit is itchy, and creases, and isn’t remotely flattering unless you’re well above average height.
Branson abandons his post at the stovetop and moves to the fire. There’s a loose swagger to his gait, a slight bow-leggedness that isn’t as noticeable when there are other people around. He crouches, back turned to me, and throws a few more logs on the fire. His movement is slow and considered. Almost graceful, but not quite.
As he moves his arm, the seam of his shirt pulls tightly across his shoulders. So tightly that the thread strains and almost gives.
His jeans are tight too. Not all the way down his legs, but they’re snug around his thighs.
And his ass.
Very snug.
He stands, and his clothes right themselves. Or they try to. They have their work cut out for them, dealing with his musculature, that’s for sure. His jeans especially. Denim isn’t very forgiving of a fuck ton of muscle. It lacks stretch. And give.
Gosh. I’m so lucky men like Branson don’t affect me the way they affect some omegas.
I’m so lucky this awful, trapped-in-the-middle-of-nowhere business is happening to me now, and not fifty years ago. Fifty years ago, it would have been unthinkable for an omega to be stranded somewhere with an unmated alpha. It would have been an absolutely life-altering, reputation-ruining disaster.
If we were even slightly compatible, the proximity alone would have brought on a heat.
God. What a nightmare.
I’m lucky I live in a time like this. I need to remember to be grateful for it. Maybe gratitude is something I should work on in my own time, instead of going on a ghastly retreat.#gratefuland#blessed, and all that. Might make that my new mantra.
Yes.
I’m so #grateful for Suppressetine. Blessed to have it in my life. Thank God for Suppressetine and miracle drugs like it, that have freed omegas from the constraints of ourbiology. Near-perfect drugs with negligible side effects. They really have changed our lives in so many ways. The Old Ways have fallen by the wayside, replaced by a new and improved way of life. Slut-shaming omegas and seeing us as nothing more than sex objects is a thing of the past. My generation is the most educated generation of omegas in history. We’ve always been highly intelligent, and we’re finally able to show it. We’re killing it academically, and not only that, we’re making the workplace our bitch too.
Finally, we’ve reached a time in history where we’re seen as men or women first, and omegas second.
