I handed it over. He didn’t bother with pretense—just ripped the envelope open, checked the amount, and slid it into his back pocket. Then he patted me down, quick and efficient, like frisking a suspect. Wallet, phone, nothing else.
“Gotta watch you, little brother. I know how you omegas like to stash your tip money.” He grinned, all teeth and no warmth.
I mumbled something noncommittal, keeping my eyes on the dirt. If you didn’t look at him, sometimes he’d get bored faster.
We drove home in silence, save for the radio and the scrape of his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. He didn’t ask about my day, but I felt the words crowding at the back of his throat, ready to explode as soon as I gave him an excuse. So I didn’t. Gave him nothing.
When we got to the house, he let me go first. I ducked into my room, locked the door, and only then exhaled.
Back in the present, I rubbed my wrist, fingers tracing the darkening bruise where Dennis’s thumb had dug in. I’d covered it with a hoodie, but it ached every time I moved. I wondered, not for the first time, if I should report him. But to who? The sheriff was the father of his high school buddy, and Mom’s new boyfriend was barely home, let alone present enough to intervene.
The last time I’d tried to get help, Dennis spent a week making sure I knew exactly how helpless I really was.
I let the thoughts run their course, then let them go.
No point in spiraling.
The spreadsheet auto-filled, neat as a row of soldiers, but I couldn’t remember a single variable I’d entered. I opened thenext tab: a forum for queer omega students, most of whom lived hundreds of miles from the nearest actual alpha.
There was a new thread at the top:“Ever been scent-stuck?”I clicked it, more out of habit than hope.
The posts were familiar. Omegas describing the first time they caught an alpha’s scent and how it short-circuited every other thought. Most said it went away after a few hours. Some, the unlucky ones, said it lasted for days. One user posted:“I dreamed about him for a week. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Just wanted to crawl inside his shirt and stay there.”I snorted. Amateurs.
I checked my phone again. Still no messages, but the number was there, burning a hole in my contact list. What would happen if I texted? Would Burke respond, or would he be one of those guys who needed to win every interaction, then lost interest once he got your number? Would he be kind? Would he care?
A phantom memory of his hand, rough but careful, ghosted over mine. Our skin touching, the warm zing of contact. I’d wanted more. Wanted him to keep holding on.
Pathetic.
I typed a message, deleted it, typed it again. This time I left it on the screen:Hey, it’s Danny from the garden center. Thanks for the help earlier.
I read it ten times, trying to decide if I sounded desperate. Then I deleted “thanks for the help,” left the rest.
No point in over-sharing.
I sat with my thumb hovering over send. In the silence, the house creaked—a footstep above me, a muffled cough. Dennis, prowling for a midnight snack or just making sure I wasn’t sneaking out. I stayed very still until the footsteps faded.
A car passed on the street outside, headlights strobing through my window. For a second, I saw myself reflected in theglass: pale, thin, eyes too big in my face. Omega, through and through. Dennis was right about that, at least.
I thought about Burke, the way he’d looked at me. Not like prey. Not like a project. Like a mystery he actually wanted to solve. Maybe that was worse—maybe it meant he’d stick around long enough to see the broken parts, then bail. Or maybe, just maybe, he’d be different.
I wasn’t sure if I could survive being wrong again, but I was even less sure I could ignore the itch under my skin, the way my body hummed at the thought of him.
I closed my eyes, counted to ten, then hit send.
No going back now.
I dropped the phone onto my bed, afraid to look at the screen in case he answered, or worse, didn’t. I turned back to the code, forced my focus onto the shifting patterns of logic and syntax. But it was no use.
The only variable I couldn’t solve for was Burke.
And I was pretty sure he’d be on my mind until I saw him again.
* * * *
The Monday shift at Harmon’s was as predictable as sunrise, and that was how I liked it. You learned to appreciate the small stuff: the whirr of the receipt printer, the whine of the ancient label-maker, the hush-hush of seed packets as you rotated the display.
By nine a.m. I’d already helped two retired teachers with their spring bulbs and explained—twice, patiently—that yes, you really did need the right kind of caulk for windows, unless you wanted your heating bill to triple.
