Something flashes in his eyes—frustration, maybe, or understanding. “That’s not how it works for omegas during presentation.” he says.
“I’m not an omega,” I say, though we both know it’s not true. “And even if I were, that doesn’t mean I stop being a person. It doesn’t mean I stop making my own choices.”
“Of course not,” he says. “But it does mean your body has different needs and limits. Things you can’t push through, no matter how determined you are.”
The compassion in his voice makes something in my chest ache.
It has to be the omega.
But even as I think it, I know it’s not that simple. Because part of me—a part I’m not ready to name—wants him here. Wants his steadiness, his certainty, his calm in the face of everything that’s changing. Wants the way my body relaxes when he’s near, the way the tightness in my throat eases when he speaks.
I keep telling myself it’s the omega.
It’s the only explanation I’m willing to accept.
“You’re not going to leave, are you?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He meets my eyes steadily. “No.”
The word hangs between us. He’s not leaving. Not tonight, not while I’m in pre-heat, not until I’m safe. And something in me—something deeper than thought, more fundamental than choice—responds to that certainty with a wave of relief so strong it makes my knees weak.
He wasn't going anywhere.
I could keep standing in this hallway arguing until one of my neighbors complained, or I could take control of the parts of this situation that were still mine to decide.
If he insisted on staying, then he was doing it on my terms.
“Fine,” I say, the word coming out harder than I mean. “But this is my decision. Not yours. I’m letting you stay because I chooseto, not because you’ve backed me into a corner or manipulated me into it. And there are rules.”
A flicker of approval crosses his face. “What rules?”
“No following me at work,” I say, the list forming as I speak. “No telling people I’m in pre-heat or taking blockers or anything else about what’s happening to me. No making decisions about my life without asking me first. And the second this is over—the second my body settles and I’m not... whatever this is anymore—you go back to normal. To how things were before. No special treatment, no watching from the edges, no... whatever this is.”
He studies my face for a long moment. “Those are your conditions?”
I nod, once. “Take it or leave it.”
“Then I’ll take it,” he says. “On one addition.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You don't get to add conditions.”
“Then don't think of it as a condition,” he says. “Think of it as the reason I'm agreeing to yours.”
That makes me pause. “What addition?” I question cautiously.
“You tell me when the blockers start to wear off,” he says. “Before they do, not after. So I can help you before things get bad, not when they’re already falling apart.”
The worst part is that it makes sense. “Fine,” I say finally. “I can do that.”
He nods, once. “Then we have a deal.”
Just like that. There’s no argument, no pushback, and no attempt to manipulate or pressure me. Just acceptance, simple and clear.
It should make me feel better, like I’ve maintained some control over a situation that’s spiraling away from me.
It doesn’t.
“If I’m staying,” he says, breaking the moment, “I should grab my bag from my truck.”
