And my omega wants him nowhere near me.
The realization lands like something physical. I stare at my clipboard without seeing any of the words on it, my throat tight enough that swallowing hurts.
It’s not just any alpha.
It never was.
My omega wouldn’t accept any alpha. She wants them. With a specificity that biology alone cannot explain.
Which means…
The center won't work.
The clean, impersonal solution I've been clinging to was never really a solution at all.
Because somewhere along the way, this stopped being about managing a heat.
And started being about three specific people.
I spend the next hour moving through setups on autopilot, answering questions, solving problems, just doing my job theway I’ve always done it. Nobody comments on the change in my demeanor. Nobody notices that something fundamental has shifted beneath the surface, that the narrative I’ve been building since this started has just collapsed entirely.
Or almost nobody.
Nadia finds me during the afternoon break, cornering me near the craft services trailer where the crowd is thinner. She takes one look at my face and steers me toward the production office, her hand warm on my elbow, her expression doing that thing where she already knows exactly what’s happening and is just waiting for me to say it out loud.
The production office is empty. Everyone else is either on set or at lunch. Nadia closes the door behind us and leans against the edge of the desk, her arms crossed and her gaze fixed on mine.
“Talk,” she demands.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“You are very obviously not fine.” Her voice is gentle but firm, the particular tone she uses when she’s decided patience has run its course. “You’ve been spiraling since you got here. I can smell it on you. And before you tell me it’s just the blockers wearing off, or stress, or whatever else you’re planning to blame, I want you to know that I can smell three distinct alpha scents layered under yours. Which means something happened last night that you’re currently trying very hard not to think about.”
Heat floods my face. “Nothing happened. We watched movies. I fell asleep. Elias drove me home. That’s it.”
“Mmhmm.” She doesn’t believe me for a second. “And the fact that you’re currently vibrating out of your skin has nothing to do with the realization that your omega has very specific opinions about which alphas she wants in her life.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. Nothing comes out.
Nadia’s expression softens. She uncrosses her arms and reaches for me, her hand closing around mine with a warmth that makes something in my chest ache. "You keep doing this," she says firmly. "Separating yourself from her. Talking about your omega like she's some outside force instead of part of you. Like her feelings don't count unless you can explain them."
"It's not that simple."
"It really is." Her thumb brushes across my knuckles, the gesture familiar from twenty years of friendship. "You keep acting like your omega wants things you're being forced to tolerate. But half the time she's just getting to the truth before you do."
The words land with the particular weight of medical reality. I’ve been pushing the timeline to the back of my mind, treating it as something theoretical rather than imminent. Hearing it stated so plainly—days, not weeks—sends a fresh curl of anxiety through my stomach.
“I know,” I say. “I’ve been... thinking about options.”
“The center.” It’s not a question.
I nod.
She studies my face for a long moment, her dark eyes knowing. "And how did that actually feel?"
“Not good,” I admit. The words come out quiet.
“Because your omega doesn’t want neutral alphas.” Again, not a question. “She wants them. Specifically. In a way that has very little to do with designation and everything to do with who they are.”
