Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Caleb knocks once. Then again.

Still no answer.

He frowns, glancing at the number on the door—0613. It's her apartment. The one she moved into when she decided to live independently here in Linkon. She’d seemed unsure when they last talked, hesitant even. But he insisted.

 "Come on, pipsqueak. I’ve got a week off and nowhere else I’d rather be."

So he waits a beat longer before muttering, “I’m letting myself in if you’re ghosting me again.”

The lock clicks. The door opens a crack. You peek out, eyes wide, breath shaky. Your lips part but no words come out. Caleb’s brows lift.

You're flushed. Sweat beads at your temples. You're wearing nothing but his DAA windbreaker—the black one with orange and cobalt blue accents at the sleeves and collar. The one he left behind half a year ago. The hem skimming dangerously high on your thighs and beneath it... no shorts in sight.

Only smooth skin.

Caleb swallows hard and forces his gaze back to your face – away from your legs, from the sliver of skin, from the very obvious lack of pants.

“Did you run a marathon or something?” he jokes, trying to distract himself. “I’ve been knocking forever.”

You blink. “I—I didn’t hear you. Sorry. I was… cleaning.”

He steps forward, arms automatically moving to hug you, but you jerk back.

“I haven’t taken a bath yet,” you blurt out. Your eyes flick down, and you clutch the collar of the jacket tighter, as if just realizing how little you’re wearing.

Caleb blinks. “Oh. Right. All good.”

You step aside, letting him in without another word. He brushes past you and is instantly hit by a scent in the air. Sweet. Heavy. Lavender and vanilla. It lingers like incense, clinging to the walls, curling in his lungs. It smells like you.

He blinks again and shakes it off.

Probably a new diffuser.

 His duffel drops by the couch with a thud. He stretches, denim jacket shifting over his shoulders. “Still the coziest apartment in Linkon,” he says, offering you a grin.

“You always say that,” you mutter, fidgeting with the sleeves of his jacket. You don’t meet his eyes.

“Because it’s true. You’ve turned it into a little cocoon.” He sniffs the air again, playfully wrinkling his nose. “Is that… lavender and vanilla? New diffuser?”

Your smile is thin, forced. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Caleb flops down onto your couch, arms spread wide. The windbreaker stretches over his torso, revealing the firm shape of his chest under the thermal undershirt. You sit across from him—on the opposite couch. Not next to him.

That’s weird.

You always curl up to him. Always curl up under his arm like it’s your rightful place. You’ve never sat this far from him unless you were upset or—

Are you sick? he wonders.
Is something wrong?

But he doesn’t ask. Not yet. He watches you quietly while you tug the windbreaker closer around you. You still look flushed. Your cheeks pink. Your lips slightly parted as if trying to catch your breath. There’s a slight tremble to your hands as you stand and excuse yourself to the kitchen.

“Trip back okay?” you ask, voice a little too breezy as you get up and head to the kitchen. You pretend to be busy, taking your time pouring him a glass of lemon juice – his favourite. Your movements are mechanical, fingers trembling around the juice carton.

You need to calm down. You’ve got days before your heat fully hits. You can manage this. Just lock yourself up when the fever peaks. He’ll never have to know.

Behind you, Caleb leans back, staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah. The tunnel was rough, but the new flight team’s solid. I’ve been looking forward to this break, honestly.” You hum something noncommittal, eyes flicking over your shoulder.

He’s still lounging, legs wide, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. You trace the way his muscles flex under the thermal top, the dip of his collarbone, the way his fingers tap absently on the armrest.

He’s your gege. Your Caleb.

But gods, he smells so good — smells like trouble . He smells like spiced woods, smoke-warmed skin, and something floral and faint, like tea leaves soaked in sun. And it lingers in the jacket hugging your body like a second skin. You press your thighs together.

This is just your instincts. Just hormones.
Calm down. He’s your brother. He’s a Beta. Nothing can happen.
He probably still sees you as his little meimei.
There’s no chance in hell he’d indulge you.

You stand on your kitched, eyes trained on the TV that isn’t even on, jaw tight. You just need to last one week. A week of pretending everything’s fine. You can just crawl into your nest and fall apart in peace – lock yourself up before you do something humiliating and something you’ll regret for the rest of your life. You’re lost in thought – hoping, praying from all the gods you could think of that he just leaves and gives you space and peace. 

Only… you know he won’t.
He never leaves you when you're like this.

Except… he’s never actually seen you like this. Not once. Not since your first heat at sixteen—when you presented and he held you as you cried through the fever. After that, every heat came and went in silence. He was always away. Skyhaven. The Academy. Then the Farspace Fleet. 

You got used to surviving them alone. 

Until now.

Caleb shifts again on the couch, denim creaking as he sits forward. “You okay?”

“Huh?” You blink, realizing you’ve been standing by the kitchen counter with the fridge still open, fingers gripping the juice carton like it might ground you.

“You’re being weird,” he says. “You’re never this quiet. Or jumpy.”

You turn to face him just as he gets up. Big mistake.

He walks over slowly, casually, like it’s nothing. But his scent rolls off him in waves—comforting, steady, grounding. You grip the edge of the counter behind you as he steps closer.

Too close.

“Caleb…”

”What’s wrong?” he asks again, voice softer now. His brows are drawn tight in that worried way that’s always gotten to you. “Are you okay? You’re all… fidgety.”

“I…” You look away. “I just caught a fever. I’ll drink paracetamol later.”

His eyes scan you. The flushed skin. The slight sheen of sweat at your collarbone. The way your thighs keep pressing together unconsciously. His voice drops.

“A fever?” he repeats, unconvinced. “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

You nod quickly, too quickly. “Y-yeah. Just been a little tired lately. I’ll be fine.”

He leans one hand against the counter beside your hip, boxing you in. Not fully touching. But not letting you escape either. His other hand reaches up—he’s about to press the back of it to your forehead.

You flinch.

He freezes.

“Hey…” his voice dips, quiet, coaxing. “I’ve seen you sick before, pipsqueak. This isn’t just a cold, is it?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Your heart’s pounding. You want to shrink away from him, and curl into him, all at once.

No. It’s worse. It’s humiliating.

You’re an omega in pre-heat and he’s standing so close and you want to press yourself to him like a feral little thing—

But he can’t know.

“I’m fine,” you lie, too softly.

He doesn’t move, but something shifts in his expression. His eyes flick briefly to the jacket you’re wearing—his—and linger on how tightly it clings to your hips. The way your chest rises and falls a little too fast. The way you're standing stiff, almost caged in your own skin.

There’s something off about you, yeah. But it doesn’t click.

He just thinks you look… tired. Flushed. Different.

He straightens, lips pressing together, and steps back. “Alright,” he says finally, voice unreadable. “If you say so.”

You release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

He’s still staring at you. But this time, there’s something unfamiliar in his eyes. Something unreadable.

Something restraint-shaped.

Then he turns away, back to the couch.

You stand there a moment longer, thighs clenched, breath shallow.

Just one week. Just lock yourself up when the fever hits. He won’t even know.

You swallow down the taste of him still lingering in your throat and go back to pouring the juice.

Chapter Text

Pheromones fill the air—sweet, thick, cloying.

If pheromones could speak, they wouldn’t whisper. They’d scream.

Fuck me. Fill me. Breed me.

And yet… your beta companion, asleep just down the hall, is dumbfully unaware. Oblivious. His Beta nose is as useless as his calm, grounded presence is comforting. He doesn’t sense it. He can’t.

You wake up soaking wet.

You don’t know if it’s sweat, slick, or both. Your body feels like it’s burning from the inside out, skin fevered, thighs slick, nerves drawn tight. The scent in the room is overwhelming—lavender and vanilla, so rich it’s sickening.

Your apartment in Linkon is fully saturated with your heat, and you cringe at the thought. Everything is coated in you . You ache—deep, hollow, and sharp—and the low throb between your legs pulses in sync with your heartbeat.

You stir, shifting inside your nest: a chaotic sprawl of blankets, pillows, and clothes you pulled together in desperation. Caleb’s clothes—his old high school basketball uniform, the hoodie he lent you when you slept over at his Skyhaven apartment, even that ratty white tank he sleeps in sometimes. The lining of your cocoon is him, and it only makes things worse.

You crawl out, sluggish and disoriented, fumbling your way past the tangle of cotton and static warmth toward the edge of the bed. You blink at the window.

Snow. Morning. Pale light through frostbitten glass.

Did I sleep for twenty-four hours?

You feel like shit. Hungry. Parched. Aching. Tired even though you’ve just woken up—and worst of all, still dripping with need . You think about curling back into the nest and letting the wave crash over you, like you always do during heat.

But then—footsteps. A soft clink of dishes. The dull scrape of a spoon against ceramic.

And suddenly, it hits you like ice water: Caleb.

You actually forgot he arrived yesterday. He set down his duffel, even cornered you in the kitchen countertop and poked at your “flu” (if only this was the flu) and then you climbed into your room after engulfing all that scent of his when he got too close and disappeared into heat—and now it’s morning, and he’s in your kitchen, blissfully unaware of your disgusting dilemma. You move toward your nightstand, reaching for the water pitcher. Only a few gulps left.

Beside it: your suppressants.

Small blister packs in a sealed box—omega heat suppressants and painkillers you ordered a week ago. They were supposed to keep this from happening. But the delivery came late—just an hour before Caleb arrived. You didn’t even get to take a single tablet.

You remember now: when the package came, you left it out in the open, right on the kitchen counter. You panicked. Ran to hide them. That’s why you were sweating and shaking when he arrived at your door. That’s why you couldn’t meet his eyes.

Too late now. There’s no point taking them mid-heat. They won’t work. It’s already started.

You clutch the glass of water and down it in a few desperate sips.

He’s a Beta, you remind yourself. It’s not like he’ll be affected. He can’t smell it. Can’t feel it. He probably thinks you just have the flu.

Still, you can’t come out like this. You stink of heat and desperation. You peel off the damp hoodie and shuffle to the mirror at the foot of your bed. What greets you is…

Pitiful.

Your skin is flushed, glowing almost. Hair stuck to your forehead. Lips swollen. There’s a kind of glassy, hazed-over look in your eyes that makes you feel like you’re watching someone else.

God. You look pathetic.

A bitch in heat. That’s what you are.

You head to the bathroom and turn the shower on. Lukewarm. You strip slowly, carefully—not because you’re trying to be gentle, but because your body is sore. Sensitive. You glance down at your soaked panties, hesitate.

Don’t think about it.
Don’t think about him.

But the thought slithers in anyway—uninvited, unwanted:

What would it feel like if he was the one pulling them off you? Mouth on your thighs. Voice low and gravelly.
“This what you needed, pipsqueak?”

You slap your own cheek.

“Gross,” you mutter. “You’re disgusting.”

You step into the shower. Let the water rinse the shame off your skin.

Let it burn away the image of your gege, Caleb—his hands, his voice, his presence. Let it melt your guilt and your hunger. Let it hush the ache between your thighs.

But it doesn’t.

You press your hands to the tiled wall, chest heaving.

Just hormones. Just biology. This isn’t real. You don’t want him.

Your hand drifts down your torso, slick with water and shame, and you bite your lip when your fingers slip between your thighs. Your hand moves on its own, you drag your fingers through your folds, gasping softly as they glide over your swollen clit. Your clit pulses as you rub it, gentle at first, but the pressure builds so fast it's dizzying.

You gasp, hips rocking against your hand.

Your wrist works faster. Circles. Pressure. Desperation. You're panting now, forehead pressed against the cool tile, mouth open, steam curling around your moans.

Caleb, Caleb, Caleb—

No.

No.

You clamp your teeth together, biting back his name like it's poison until you come with a broken moan, biting your own wrist to stay quiet. Your thighs trembling, knees threatening to give out.

Still, it’s not enough. The ache comes back the second your hand stops.

She handed him a cold glass of lemon juice and excused herself with a soft smile.

“I’ll take a quick shower,” she said. “Be out in a few.”

That was hours ago.

Caleb stared at her bedroom door, brow furrowed. He’d knocked once. Called her name.

“Pipsqueak?”

A muffled sound came back—just a groan. Sleepy. Distant. He waited for more. Nothing.

Maybe she just crashed. She’d looked flushed, tired, her eyes unfocused. Maybe she was fighting off a fever. Maybe she just needed to rest. Still, something about the way she looked at him before she disappeared lingered—like she was trying hard not to cry. Or to do something else he cannot decipher. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“She’s an adult. She’ll tell me when she’s ready,” he muttered to himself.

He let it go. 

The guest room was the same one he always stayed in when he visited Linkon. Familiar, small, a little cold—but it felt different this time. The moment he stepped in, it hit him. Not some biological warning or Alpha instinct—he had none of that. But the scent. Her shampoo. Her soap. The linen smelled like her conditioner—lavender, citrus, soft. The bed was rumpled. Pillows dented. Someone had clearly used it recently.

Did she sleep here sometimes? While I was gone?

His chest tightened. He showered. Changed. Slipped into one of his dark blue cotton shirts and his grey sweatpants. He sat on the edge of the mattress, hands on his knees. Did she ever wear one of his shirts, curled into the mattress, dreaming about anything but him? His jaw clenched. He lay down, closed his eyes, and tried to think of anything else.

Sleep found him eventually.

He was up before the sun.

Joggers on. Heat jacket zipped up. Sneakers laced. He went for a short run along the Linkon snowpaths, the cold air sobering him a little, grounding him. Then he hit the market. He came back with fresh eggs, spring onions, a little slab of pork belly, and the dried tofu she always liked. It felt normal. Like something an older brother would do.

Except every time he thought the word brother, it made his stomach twist. Now he stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, flicking scallions into a sizzling pan. The apartment was quiet—except for the sound of the shower running in the bathroom.

She’s up. Finally.

He glanced at the hallway. Water had been running for a while now. And then...

He heard it. Faint. Barely audible over the clatter of the stove. But unmistakable. A soft, breathy moan. He froze.

Ladle in hand. Shoulders tense. The kind of sound no sick person would make. The kind of sound that slid beneath the skin and nestled low in the belly. Another sound followed—this one higher, thinner. A gasp swallowed by the running water. His grip on the pan handle tightened.

A knot curled deep in his gut.

No.

She wouldn’t… She’s in the middle of a heat, isn’t she?

It all clicked. The sudden retreat into her room. The flushed face. The odd tension. 

She’s in heat. And she is touching herself. In the shower. Right now.

He should knock. Check on her. Offer to leave. But he doesn’t. Instead, a deep ache unfurled in his chest. Then lower. He steps back from the stove like a man possessed and walks toward the guest bedroom.

His bedroom and he shuts the door.

Stares at the bed— that bed —still unmade, the pillow still held a faint dent from where her cheek had pressed.

He sat down. The sound of her pleasure, the knowledge that she’s behind that door fingering herself , wet and whimpering — it sets every nerve in his body on fire. His joggers are tight. Unbearably so. Biting back a low, frustrated growl, “Goddammit,” he whispers.

You shouldn’t be thinking about her.
You shouldn’t be imagining her in that shower—panting, grinding into her own hand. 

But he is. And worse? He wants to help her. He wants to open that door, slide to his knees, and give her everything she's too embarrassed to ask for. His body didn’t care that he wasn’t an alpha. It didn’t care that she was in the shower right now, needy and hurting, and trying to get through it alone.

And it certainly didn’t care that she was his meimei — his pipsqueak, the one person he should never, ever think about this way. His hand twitched at his side. The urge to reach into his waistband, to relieve the pressure building low in his abdomen—it was right there. Begging.

But he didn’t.

Don’t you fucking dare.

He stood away from the bed like it might burn him. His breath came heavy, slow.

She’s vulnerable. You don’t get to make this about you. Not now.

He flexed his fingers, clenched them into fists, then forced them to relax. Walked over to the window. Looked out. Focused on the frost curling against the glass.

Cold. Cold. Think about something cold. He raised his hand to his dog tag, fingers curling around it like a lifeline. He brought it to his lips and pressed a quiet kiss to the metal, as if grounding himself.

He turned on his heel and left the room. He went straight to the kitchen, rummaged through the refrigerator and gulped down the entire pitcher of cold water—until the pulse in his groin dulled to something tolerable.

The kitchen was still warm from the pan. He picked up the ladle again, stirred the pork belly, flipped the eggs. Mechanically. His jaw was tight. His movements sharp. But his mind kept looping back to her—to that sound. Even after chugging the ice cold water like it might fix something.

It didn’t. The cold did nothing to cool the heat in his veins. Still, it helped him think.

She hasn’t eaten since last night.

His stomach clenched again—but this time, not from lust.

You idiot. She’s going through this alone, and you’re standing here thinking with your dick.

He turned the flame down and reached for the spring onions. Focus. Chop. Stir. Taste. Serve. That’s what he could do for her right now.

That’s what he should do.

He wasn’t sure why she didn’t tell him. Maybe she was ashamed. Maybe she thought he’d leave. Or maybe—hell—maybe she just didn’t want him to know.

But Caleb knew one thing for sure:

He wasn’t going anywhere.

You step out of the bathroom wrapped in warm steam and remnants of guilt. Your skin’s still damp, hair clinging to the nape of your neck, your favorite fluffy socks sliding slightly on the floor as you shuffle toward the kitchen.

The scent hits you before anything else—soy and garlic, sweet notes of caramelizing pork belly. A whisper of star anise. It makes your stomach growl before you even see him.

For a second, it’s like nothing changed. You remember a younger Caleb in your kitchen, sleeves rolled up, proudly claiming his braised wings could beat anyone’s recipe. You remember falling asleep at the table after eating too much, him covering you with his jacket, mumbling, "You’re such a lightweight, Pipsqueak."  It should’ve been a warm, easy moment.

But then—
You catch something else in the air.

Something too sweet. Powdery. Foreign. Your smile falters. You blink, nose twitching.

That’s not yours.

And it sure as hell isn’t his either.

Your eyes land on him.

Caleb, standing at the table, still in his workout clothes, with a glass of apple juice in hand as he sets it down the table, beside the platter of fried rice with fried pork belly and eggs, smiling at you like the sun just came up. His sweat from this morning errand or jog, you're not entirely sure, glistens from his arms, his skin. 

He looks happy to see you—soft in a way he only ever is with you.

But he’s wearing someone else’s scent.

The sweetness is faint—so faint he probably didn’t notice it himself. But your omega instincts hone in immediately. Like a siren blaring in your brain.

Alphas are territorial indeed, that’s their nature. You’re not an alpha, you’re an omega. But in heat. You know that saying, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”? Yeah, that’s what drove you to your instinctual primal fury. Your body acts before your thoughts do.

One second you’re smiling. The next—you're moving.

“Hey—” he starts, but you don’t let him finish.

You lunge.

Your fingers close around his wrist. It's not violent—but it's sudden, firm, and full of primal instinct. Caleb gasps, caught off guard—but before he can react, you’re already pushing him back. He stumbles, and you push him down, your grip never loosening, until he lands with a breathless grunt on the rug.

And you're on him.

You're on top of him now, knees braced on either side of his waist, your weight pinning him to the floor. Both hands fist in his top's chest knuckles white with tension. He stares up at you, eyes wide, blinking rapidly.

"Wh—"

“Who the fuck scented you?” you snap.

His mouth opens, stunned.

You tighten your grip, not yanking, just trembling. Your heat already has you flushed and foggy, but this? This is instinct taking over. Not rational. Not logical.

Territorial.

Your body is hot with it. Your skin prickling. Your pupils blown wide. Caleb’s hands hover in the air beside your thighs—hesitant, not touching. “What are you talking about?”

“I smell her,” you snarl, and then immediately wince. You didn’t mean to sound so feral. But the words come out sharp anyway. “Another omega. On you. ”

He stares. Then his eyes flick toward his own shirt, realization dawning.

“The market,” he says slowly. “There was a girl—she asked for directions. Said I smelled like… She probably smelled you.” He blinks. “She just leaned in.”

You don’t say anything. You just breathe hard. Eyes pinned to the hollow of his throat where the scent clings faintly. Not visible. But undeniable.

“She touched you,” you whisper. “She marked you.”

“I didn’t know, Pipsqueak.” His voice is gentler now. “I didn’t even feel it. I’m not like—” He pauses. “I can’t smell like you do.”

Your lip trembles.

“I didn’t let her,” he says again, firmer. “You believe me, right?”

You stare at him.

Of course you do. It’s Caleb. He wouldn’t do that to you. But your body doesn’t care about logic right now.

It cares about claiming. Your stupid little omega primal instincts. Your fingers loosen slightly in his shirt.

“I was going to hug you,” you murmur, almost pouting. “I was going to tell you I missed you.”

Caleb’s throat bobs with a swallow. “I missed you too.”

He still hasn’t moved. Still hasn’t touched you. He’s waiting. Letting you feel it all. Letting you decide what this is.

Finally, you exhale shakily. Your fists uncurl, hands flattening against his chest—his heartbeat strong and steady under your palms. You don’t move off him. You don’t want to.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I believe you.”

He lets out a slow breath, relief relaxing his shoulders. Then, a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“…You always get this intense when someone brushes past me in public?”

“Whatever, ge. I'm sorry, it's just.. an omega thing I guess.” you mutter, cheeks warm.

He chuckles, hands still hovering near your thighs, respectful but tempted.

"I think it’s kinda cute. Didn’t know you're a feral little omega.”

You replied with a glare.

“Pretty sure you just claimed me through sheer force of will.” He jokingly replied.

Pulling yourself before you let yourself loose in this.. whatever this is, you narrow your eyes, but your voice is soft. “You complaining?”

Caleb grins, slow and fond. “Not even a little.”

“…You gonna let me up now?” he adds after a beat, though there’s no real urgency in it.

Then it hits you—how compromising this position actually is.

You lock eyes with him. His purple eyes, bright and focused, reflect the faint morning light that poured in through the window this morning when you woke. You think of sunrise. Of warmth. Of wanting.

You blink, cheeks burning, and you start to shift away.

But Caleb’s hand comes up. Gently, he catches your chin between his fingers, coaxing your gaze back to his.

“Are you done now?” he murmurs, his voice low and steady. “You can scent me all you want, Pipsqueak, if it eases your anger.”

You swallow the wave of guilt swelling in your chest—but instead of pulling away, you steady yourself.

Then, you bury your face into his neck.

And make a terrible mistake. Your hips shift forward—just slightly, instinctually—but it’s enough. Caleb’s breath hitches. A sharp grunt escapes him. A sound that's between a warning and a moan—it was music to your ears. 

You freeze.

Then you feel it: slick dripping through your panties.

“Do you want me to pass my self-restraint with flying colors, Pips,” he says, voice hoarse, “or fail miserably? I said you could scent me. Not… squirm awkwardly.”

He said with a halfhearted chuckle. Caleb huffs a little, lying back on the rug. His chest rises and falls under your palms.

“Oooookay,” he mutters, a bit breathless, “now that you’re done going full guard-dog on me…”

Before you can blink, his fingers are in your hair—warm, fond—and he ruffles it like he used to when you were younger. You squeak and swat half-heartedly at his chest, but the corners of his mouth curl up in that damnably gentle way.

And then, with a quiet breath, he lifts you.

Literally.

His Evol hums faintly in the air as gravity bends to his will. You feel yourself levitate just an inch, enough for him to rise and guide you safely back onto your feet.

You glance away, slightly embarrassed, arms crossing under your chest.

“Showoff,” you mutter.

He gives you that soft grin again—the one that always makes your stomach flutter. “You started it.”

His eyes roam down your figure for the first time—taking you in now that the omega standoff is over.

You’re wearing a white v-cut shirt that dips just low enough to tease, paired with loose grey sweatpants. Not exactly seductive. But the way your shirt clings to your chest, the way the curve of your neck is still flushed from the bath—

Caleb swallows hard and internally thanks the stars that you didn’t walk out in shorts or gods-forbid, one of his oversized tank tops. Still… the shirt isn’t doing him any favors either.

You step forward then, and wrap your arms around him. A proper hug this time. Your nose brushes against the underside of his jaw. You rub your palm along his neck. Your wrist grazes his sweaty collarbone and you just wanted to stay like that, for the rest of the week, hell for the rest of your life if God permitted.

Your face met the cold metal of his dog tag, the one you’ve gifted him twice. 

Scenting him.

It’s instinctive. You press yourself closer, wanting to smother every trace of that foreign omega’s scent with your own. Caleb doesn’t flinch—he melts. His eyes flutter shut as he nuzzles into your wrist, letting out a soft, barely-there hum.

Something stirs in your chest.

Butterflies.

Stupid, fluttery things that make your knees a little weaker and your throat a little tight. He pulls away eventually. Just enough to glance down at you.

“Feeling better now?”

You nod. “A little.”

The day rolls on quietly after that.

You help him plate the food. There’s laughter again in the kitchen—soft, honest. You tease him about his stubborn veggie-chopping habits; he flicks a drop of water at your cheek. He insists on giving you the larger egg. You roll your eyes and pretend it doesn’t make your heart squeeze.

You talk about his Farspace Fleet duties over lunch—how busy the last few months have been. You listen intently, sipping from your glass, chin in your hand.

“You sound exhausted,” you say at one point.

Caleb shrugs. “Comes with the rank. I’m lucky I got a whole week off.”

It’s past noon and Caleb has also taken a bath now, so the disgusting omega scent on him has dispersed already.

The sun outside has mellowed, golden and soft against the windows.

“We should go out later,” Caleb says, finishing off the last of his rice. “There’s a new path cleared in the park. It’ll look nice around sunset.”

You pause, then smile apologetically. “I actually have to do some paperwork for the Hunters’ Association… so I might not be able to go out.”

He nods easily, doesn’t push. “Alright. Another time.”

Later, the two of you settle on the couch.

Well— not exactly together. There’s still a whole cushion of space between you, like an invisible line neither of you is quite ready to cross. You watch a movie you both pretend to find boring, but stay glued to the screen anyway.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye.

He’s too pretty like this. Softened. Relaxed. His brown hair’s still a little messy from drying, and his joggers are riding a little low on his hips.

You shift in your seat.

And then it hits you.

Like a wave.

Heat.

Your body tenses. Your thighs press together. Your nails dig into the throw blanket. It rolls through you, fiery and sudden—twisting inside your core and spreading like molten lava. You suck in a sharp breath. Your eyes sting. Not now. Not again. You were doing so well.

“Pips?” Caleb turns to you, brows knit. “You okay?”

You shoot up from the couch.

“I—I’ll be right back.”

“Hey—wait, what—”

You’re already halfway down the hall, footsteps unsteady, pulse pounding in your ears. Your heart is in your throat. You slam the bedroom door shut behind you and practically collapse onto your nest—home where his scent is so strong and where you can shamelessly indulge in your own needs. 

Caleb stares after you from the couch, bewildered.

He leans forward, arms resting on his knees, trying to figure out what to do. 

Inside your room, you’re already burying yourself in the blankets, legs trembling, breath hitching with every pulse between your thighs.

It’s worse now. Hungrier. You thought you'd taken the edge off this morning.

But you didn’t.

Not really.

Not when he’s right here.

Not when you can still feel the ghost of his breath against your wrist.

Caleb followed her into the hallway, expecting to find her curled up in her bedroom. But when he pushed open her door, it was empty. Nest undisturbed. No sign of her. Then it hit him—like a bolt of clarity piercing through the haze.

She’d gone to the wrong room. His room.

He moved quickly, heart pounding in his chest as he stepped down the hall. The door to the guest room was ajar, and beyond it—he pushes the door open fully—and freezes.

His gaze drops—and what he sees knocks the breath from his chest.

You're curled up in the center of the bed, tangled in a messy cocoon of blankets, pillows, and his clothes.

His duffel bag lies open on the floor, half-emptied, like you’d dug through it in a frenzy. His worn shirts, gym shorts, and even the denim jacket he just wore yesterday are all around you. Your body, disheveled and desperate, had sought refuge in the wrong place—but perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t so wrong after all.

And your skin—glistening, flushed. Lips parted. Breath coming in soft, shallow pants.

Your eyes find his—and they’re hazy. Bleary. But they soften when you see him.

“Caleb?” you whisper, voice barely a thread. 

He takes a half-step back like he might. Like he should. Like something in him is warning him to leave before he does something unforgivable.

But he can’t move. He can only stare.

She’s in heat.

And she made her nest out of my clothes.

My scent.

He already knew, logically. The flushed cheeks. The sudden avoidance. The excuses.

But nothing could have prepared him for this—for the sight of you wrecked and waiting, surrounded by pieces of him like some desperate, unspoken confession.

“You really—” He swallows hard. “You really got into my bag, huh?”

You look guilty. Then you nod, slow and timid. “They smell like you.”

His throat works around something that doesn’t make it out. He drags a hand down his face, suddenly too hot in his own skin. His hoodie feels wrong. Everything does.

“Pips,” he breathes. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve—I don’t know, I could’ve left, or—”

“You would’ve left?” your voice cracks, raw and low. “I didn’t want you to go.”

Caleb grips the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “I just… I don’t know what to do. I’m not—” he laughs, bitter and dry, “—I’m not built for this, okay? I’m just a Beta. I’m not supposed to…”

He trails off when you shift, reaching for the edge of the blanket, pulling it higher around your shoulders like instinct.

Every protective instinct in him surged—he should cover her up, bring her water, soothe her pain, leave. But another part of him, darker and long-denied, roared to life in the silence between them. That part didn’t see his meimei. It saw a woman—ripe with need, unguarded, vulnerable not in weakness, but in trust. A woman who turned to him in the most intimate moment of suffering.

His throat tightened.

For years, he had drawn the line. Built walls. Told himself she was family. That his job was to shield her, not want her.

But seeing her there, wearing the ghost of his scent, clutching one of his shirts to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her sane—it cracked something open inside him.

The war in his head began.

To protect her like the brother she believed he was… or to answer the call of the woman she had become—the woman to whom all of his ugliest, unholiest fantasies had once belonged, and that he had buried deep.

Your voice broke the deafening silence. “Please, Caleb...” you murmur. “I just… need you.”

Chapter Text

Caleb remembers the day you first presented.

The afternoon sun spilled lazily into the Skyhaven dorms. Caleb had just returned from class, shrugging off his uniform and sinking into his chair, ready to review his notes—until Gideon opened his mouth.

Per usual.

Gideon was lounging on the upper bunk, legs dangling over the edge, swinging slightly as he talked a mile a minute. His voice was animated, his hands gesturing wildly as he recounted his walk across campus.

“Swear to God, Caleb—there was this omega in the art building? Floral dress. Real flowy. And her scent? Bro. She walked past and I forgot how to breathe. Like actually. And then there was this other one near the greenhouses—”

Caleb let him talk. He usually did.

Gideon was a classic alpha—loud, impulsive, enthralled by anything that smelled remotely like heat or softness. Caleb, on the other hand, wasn’t like him.

He was a beta.

He couldn’t smell the pheromones. Couldn’t sense the hormonal haze Gideon swore made the world tilt sideways. And maybe that was a blessing. Or maybe it just made him feel like the third wheel in a universe built for twos.

Still, he listened, amused. “Did you get either of their names this time?”

“Names?” Gideon scoffed. “That’s not the point, man. The point is the aura. The vibe. That kind of omega just—damn.”

Before Caleb could offer a snarky comeback, the dorm room door burst open.

Both boys turned at once. Gideon fell silent mid-rant. Caleb simply raised an eyebrow.

Timothy stood in the doorway, breathless, cheeks flushed. He looked like he’d sprinted across campus.

“Tim?” Caleb asked, sitting up straighter. “You okay?”

Timothy nodded quickly, then shook his head. “Your grandmother,” he said, panting. “She called the Dean’s office. Said she’s been trying to reach you. She sounded… urgent.”

Caleb’s stomach dropped. “What?”

“She said you weren’t answering your phone. That it’s important. Something about your—about her.”

Caleb didn’t need more than that. His bag was already in his hands, and he was digging for his phone. When he pulled it out, the screen lit up: Do Not Disturb still on. He unlocked it—and his blood ran cold.

12 missed calls. All from Gran.

“Shit,” he muttered, immediately dialing back. His hand was shaking slightly. Gideon sat up on the bunk, concerned now, watching him.

“Yo—what’s going on?”

Caleb didn’t answer. He pressed the phone to his ear. It rang once.

Twice.

Then—“Caleb,” Josephine’s voice came through, curt and serious.

“What happened?” he blurted, pacing immediately. His voice was low, but tense. “What’s going on?”

“She presented,” Josephine said without preamble. Her voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of worry there. “At school. Her teachers sent her home after the symptoms started. I’ve spoken to her already. She’s okay—for now.”

Caleb stopped dead in his tracks, hand tightening around the phone. His eyes locked on the window, unseeing. The world outside suddenly felt a thousand miles away.

“She—what?” His voice dropped. “Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?”

“I’ve been trying. The school called me first, and I tried to reach you. I know you’re planning to come home this weekend,” Josephine said gently, “but I think it’s better if you stay where you are for now. Give her space. She's overwhelmed.”

“Gran.” His voice was low, but urgent. “What kind of space does she need right now? She just presented and I’m not there.”

“She asked for time,” Josephine said. “She’s safe. She’s with me. But Caleb, listen—she’s confused. Emotional. Everything’s heightened right now. You showing up might complicate things.”

Caleb was already pulling his jacket back on.

“I’m not staying here.”

“Caleb—”

“I need to see her. I don’t care if she tells me to leave after. I need to make sure she’s okay. With my own eyes.”

Because no matter what anyone said—he was going home.

The front door creaked open under his hand, and the stillness that met him felt wrong.

No thudding footsteps on the stairs.

No voice yelling his name down the hall.

No collision of limbs and laughter at the threshold.

Just silence filled with change .

You presented. As an omega.

And to Caleb, it felt like being sucker-punched in the gut.

His little meimei. The one who used to curl up beside him when the storms rolled in. The one who would creep into the kitchen and steal whatever snack he was making, giggling like she’d gotten away with something huge. The one who slipped her hand into his when crowds got too loud or the world too big.

His girl. His .

And he wasn’t sure he was ready to let her go.

Josephine appeared from the hallway, her presence always sturdy, always composed. But there was a tightness around her mouth this time, an edge dulled by worry.

She looked at him, arms crossed gently—more tired than angry.

“I told you not to come home,” she said, her voice quiet but heavy with meaning.

He scanned the room, then looked up toward the staircase.

“Where is she?”

Josephine didn’t answer right away. She exhaled slowly, like the weight of everything was sitting right behind her ribs.

“Upstairs.  Hasn’t said much. Barely touched her food.”

Caleb’s eyes flicked toward the staircase again. He took a step forward.

Josephine’s voice stopped him gently. “Caleb...”

He paused.

Josephine studied him carefully. “You haven’t presented. You’re still a beta. And even if you’re not affected by her pheromones, she’s still in flux. Vulnerable. You being here—it might stir up feelings she doesn’t understand yet.”

“I’d never take advantage of that,” Caleb said, his voice firm. “You know I wouldn’t.”

“I’ll be careful,” he added. “I’ll just sit with her, if she lets me. I won’t cross a line. I’d never—”

“I know,” Josephine interrupted gently. She gave him a small nod, a reluctant surrender. “Go. But if she says no—”

“I’ll listen,” Caleb finished. “Every time.”

Josephine stepped aside, a silent permission in the way she moved.

He started up the stairs, heart pounding, his hand brushing the wall for balance. Everything felt uncertain. Fragile.

And when he reached your door, he knocked softly.

That was the first—and only—time he’d seen you like that: desperate, whiny, whimpering. Fragile in a way that made his chest ache.

Back then, you were sixteen—newly presented and trembling in a borrowed hoodie, clutching your own scent like a shield. He remembered thinking: She’s scared, and she needs someone who won’t take anything from her.

He’d sworn, “She comes first. Always.”

Now, years later, Caleb grips the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

He trails off as you shift in the nest, fingers curling around the blanket like it’s armor, your eyes soft and pleading.

“Please, Caleb...” you murmur. “I just… need you.”

And gods, how he wants to say yes. To cross the room. To give you everything.

But his fingers only dig deeper into the doorframe.

He stays rooted in place. Torn. Tempted.

Caleb is still by the door.

Unmoving. Silent. Like if he breathes too loud, something between you might shatter.

He’s looking at you—at your flushed face, your trembling fingers clinging to the edge of the blanket, the way your thighs twitch beneath the layers. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something buried in it: restraint, concern, and just beneath it, something raw. Something hungry.

You shift slightly in the nest. The pillows beneath your hips smell like him. You barely notice the way your body grinds down on instinct, but you do notice the whimper that slips from your lips. Heat surges back through your veins.

"Caleb?" your voice is barely a whisper, shaky and pleading. "Can you come here? Please?"

He hesitates for only a heartbeat before he moves—like he was summoned. Like he was waiting for a reason to close the gap. He kneels beside your nest and reaches for you, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead.

You catch it—fingers curling around his wrist, pulling his touch to your cheek instead.

"Caleb," you breathe. "Please. I just… need your warmth. Everything hurts."

He bites down on his bottom lip. You see the conflict in his eyes. The way he swallows thickly.

"Don’t do anything you’ll regret, pipsqueak,” he says quietly. “But… yeah. I’ll give you warmth."

Warmth.

That’s what you told yourself this was, right?

But everything you’d buried—every ache, every longing you tried to choke down these past years—is rising again like tidewater, slipping through you like the slick between your thighs. You try to blame your hormones, your heat. But you know better.

"I want to feel your skin, Caleb," you whisper.

He goes still. Blinked rapidly.

You see it in the way his jaw tenses. The way his throat bobs. He’s trying to convince himself this is just a fever dream. That he’s just a stand-in for your omega instincts, a placeholder for someone your biology craves.

But he wants to believe otherwise. You feel it.

He exhales sharply, but there’s a smile there too. A pained one. He settles himself on the bed and scoots you over, your weight pressed against him. You snuggle cozily against this newfound comfort and solace.

“Would you do this with someone else, if I wasn’t here?”

That question—sharp and unexpected—somehow cuts through the haze in your brain. Just a little. But enough.

Would it be someone else?

Is this just your heat talking?

Or is it him—has it always been him?

It was never about someone. It was always about him. Always Caleb.

From the moment he first ruffled your hair, when you were little. When you watched him grow taller, stronger, kinder. When you cried at his funeral—only to cry harder when you infiltrated Farspace and found him still alive.

Your heart aches.

But you can’t say all that. You can’t say it, not without unraveling.

So instead, you press his hand to your cheek again and close your eyes tight, as if it might make the weight of this easier to bear.

And he lets you. He doesn’t pull away.

“I should be the only one who gets to see you like this,” Caleb murmurs it low, almost inaudibly. But you hear it clearly—every syllable soaked in hunger and something that sounds dangerously close to your own needs.

His voice is hoarse. Ragged.

And it’s your undoing.

Your eyes flutter open.

You move closer—slowly, testing. His hands hover at your sides like he’s scared to touch you too fast. Like you might break.

So you crawl into his lap instead.

You press your face to the crook of his neck and breathe him in. Your hands slide beneath his shirt, palms skimming over the heat of his torso. He sucks in a breath, his hands settling at your hips with restraint—too much restraint.

"Let me…" you whisper, lips brushing against the hollow of his throat, “just feel you.”

You can feel the heat of him through your clothes. Feel how careful he’s trying to be. Like he’s afraid one wrong move will make you shatter.

But you don’t want to be careful.

You want him.

You lean in and kiss the column of his throat—open-mouthed, hot, wet. He lets out a sound, low in his chest, something between a groan and a curse. You feel it vibrate against your lips as you trail kisses up his neck to his jaw, then across the curve of his collarbone where his shirt dips.

Your hand fists gently in his hair, tugging just enough to make him tilt his head back. His grip on your waist tightens, grounding, possessive.

Your hips begin to move.

Grinding against him. Slowly. Desperately. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, holding on like he’s the only thing anchoring you to this world. 

And he is.

Then you both moan—quiet, aching, as if the sound escaped from somewhere deep inside. His hands finally grip you, not to push you away, but to hold you steady. Your name leaves his mouth in a whisper, like a prayer.

And somewhere deep inside, you feel it:

He wants this. Wants you.

But whether he’ll let himself take it—that’s a different story.

You’ve never been this close. Never let yourself have this. You didn’t dare.

For years, you held yourself back. Told yourself your feelings were wrong. Selfish. Unworthy. You called it a phase. A chemical reaction. Nothing real.

But then he died.

You'd mourned him like a widow. You stopped eating for days. You couldn’t look at the sky–sunsets and sunrises that always reminded him of you. You stopped sleeping with the lights off.

And suddenly you were choking on all the things you never said. All the nights you pretended you didn’t need him. All the mornings you woke up wanting to run to him and couldn’t.

Now he’s here.

Now he’s real.

And if this is a sin, if this fragile thing between you is doomed from the start, then at least you want to feel it. Even for a moment.

Your thumb traces the curve of his lower lip

Caleb stills.

His eyes fly to yours—those purple eyes burning full of something raw and hungry and worshipful. He looks at you like he’s about to break. Like you just became everything he’s ever wanted and everything he’s ever feared.

Caleb’s hand finds your chin—gentle, careful—but there’s nothing calm about his eyes. They’re a storm. A tidal pull. And you’ve been drowning in him since forever.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do. Barely.

And then he leans in—slow, unsure, like a man who’s imagined this a thousand times but still can’t believe it’s real. His lips brush yours. Barely. Just a whisper.

It’s clumsy—like he’s not sure where to put his hands, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

But you don’t.

You lean into him. Press harder. Part your lips—and suddenly, everything tilts .

He groans low in his throat as you kiss him back with more fire, more need—years of longing condensed into seconds. Teeth and tongue and breathless sounds. You taste the years he held back, feel the ache in the way his hand fists the back of your shirt.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes..

You gasp into him and grab at his shirt, needy, shaking. “Off,” you breathe. “Please.”

His lips hover over yours. “Are you sure, pipsqueak?”

You nod.

God, yes.

His hands are warm when they pull the fabric over his head. The shirt hits the floor.

You stare—eyes raking over him. His chest rises and falls hard, like he’s holding back an avalanche. You climb back into his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, and he grips your waist—tight, like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

Before you can fully catch your breath, Caleb shifts—one arm curling under your thighs, the other bracing your back. With a sharp exhale, he activates his evol, and in a blink, you’re beneath him—his body blanketing yours, eyes blown wide with something hot and wild. The world spins, but his gaze doesn’t waver.

Fuck it, he thinks, jaw tight. If I’m going to hell for this, then let it be for answering her call. For giving her what she needs—even if I was never built for it.

He settles between your thighs like he belongs there, the ghost of your sweet nothings still echoing in his ears as he finally caves to them all.

Caleb’s body loomed above you, not in a way that threatened—but in a way that devoured. 

The heat between your thighs throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the tension coiling low in your belly as he looked down at you—eyes dark, unreadable.

Like he’s starved.
Like he’s wanted this for far too long.
Like the hunger you buried years ago has finally found its match in his eyes.

His hands move before his mouth does. He leans in, lips brushing the curve of your neck—dangerously close to your scent glands. The moment his breath grazes your skin, your toes curl and your back arches.

Please, gods. 

He hears your whimper—sharp and helpless—and his arms wind around your waist like he can anchor you in place. His other hand rests on your thigh, thumb moving in slow, calming circles. As if trying to soothe the ache he’s causing. As if holding himself back.

But you don’t want him to.

So you guide his hand down, fingers trembling as you slip his palm beneath the hem of your sweatpants. That’s all it takes.

Caleb pulls back slightly, panting. His eyes—sunset-hued, molten purple and deep gold—search your face.

He doesn’t speak. But his gaze asks the question you know by heart:

Are you sure?

You meant to kiss him for assurance. Really, you did.

But your heat-addled brain betrays you and your mouth lands off-center—lips brushing the corner of his instead. You freeze in embarrassment.

He laughs, a low, breathless rumble in his chest that makes your spine feel like melted wax. His fingers twitch against your skin, still hesitating.

"You're cute when you're desperate," he murmurs—just before he crashes his mouth onto yours.

And this time, there’s no hesitation.

His kiss is fire and teeth and tongue. It’s sinful and sweet and it’s everything you’ve ever wanted. You meet him with equal hunger, lips parting, matching the push of his mouth with a desperate rhythm of your own.

A low, unfiltered moan escapes him the moment your hand clutches the back of his hair. He fists your sweatpants in one hand and slides the other lower, breaching the last barrier between you.

“Pips, you really sure about this?” he murmured, voice low and husky.

You nodded, but he didn’t move.

“I need to hear you say it.” His thumb brushed your cheek, featherlight. “Not because your body’s asking. Not because the heat’s fogging you up. I need to know you want this.”

Your lips trembled. “I want this, Caleb.”

His jaw tightened. 

His fingertips graze the waistband of your panties.

You gasp, heartbeat pounding.

Then—completely unprompted—your heat-scattered brain chooses violence.

Wait. What panties am I wearing?

You blink against his mouth, distracted.

Are these the lacy ones from the drawer you promised yourself you'd only wear if you were dying? Or the soft cotton ones with the little apple on the hip? Oh no. What if they’re mismatched? What if—

Caleb stills.

“…What?” he asks against your lips, breathing hard. “Where’d you just go?”

You’re blushing furiously now. “I—I forgot what panties I’m wearing.”

Caleb stares at you.

And then he laughs. A full, breathless laugh—muffled against your collarbone as he drops his forehead against it.

“You’re unbelievable,” he groans. “You're literally burning up in heat, and you’re thinking about your underwear?”

You pout. “They don’t match.”

He lifts his head and looks at you, eyes molten with fondness and fire.

“I don’t care if you’re wearing polka dots or floral ones, Pipsqueak. I’m not here for your fashion sense.”

He kisses the hollow of your throat, your collarbone, the soft space beneath your ear. Places that felt like secrets. Places that made your spine arch and your breath catch.

“You’re burning up,” he muttered. “Every inch of you’s begging for something.”

You whimpered. He dragged the back of his knuckles down your stomach, slow, teasing, until they brushed just above the waistband of your underwear.

His eyes met yours.

And then— finally —his fingers slipped beneath the waistband, slow and reverent. You gasped when he touched you, his fingers trailing through your slick folds like he was learning you by heart.

“So wet,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You covered your face with one hand, embarrassment flooding through you—but he gently pulled your hand away, kissing your knuckles.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said. “Not here. Not now.”

His fingers moved again, slow at first. Then more deliberate, circling your most sensitive spot with maddening care. You squirmed beneath him, hips bucking up—but his other hand pressed to your stomach, grounding you.

“None of that now,” he murmured. “You take what I give you. I know what you need.”

Your breath caught. The pleasure was dizzying, his touch both gentle and sure. He was watching you like you were the only thing in the world—like every twitch, every gasp, was being memorized.

“Caleb—”

He dipped lower. One finger slid inside, and your whole body arched.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “God, you’re tight. You always this responsive, Pipsqueak?”

You whined, grabbing at his wrist, thighs trembling. He chuckled, and pressed a kiss just below your navel.

“Tell me what you want. Say it.”

“I want—” your voice broke, “—I want more. I want you .”

He groaned, low and wrecked. Another finger joined the first, and he worked them slowly, curling, coaxing, filling you just enough to edge you toward the brink. His thumb never stopped circling your clit, sending waves crashing over you.

But then, without a word, he abruptly stops.

Caleb instead shifts lower between your legs, eyes gleaming like molten amethyst.

You blink down at him, dazed. “W-what are you doing?”

He licks his fingers clean, slow and deliberate. “You taste good.”

You swallow.

“I’m not done,” he says, and then he lowers his mouth to your thighs and devours .

The first pass of his tongue was languid—slow and heavy, lapping through your folds like he was learning you. Worshipping you. You gasped, hips twitching.

He hummed softly against your heat, the vibrations traveling through your whole body. “You taste so sweet,” he murmured. “Been dreaming about this.”

His fingers joined in again—two of them this time, thick and warm, sliding in with practiced care as his tongue circled your clit. Your back arched.

“Oh—oh Caleb —”

“That’s it,” he whispered, mouth glistening. “Let me make it better.”

His fingers curled just right, dragging against that spot inside you while his mouth sealed over your clit, lips and tongue coaxing you open, unraveling you.

Your hands found his hair—gripping, trembling.

Your orgasm builds like a crashing wave, fierce and hot and devastating. Caleb reads every twitch of your body like scripture—adjusting, coaxing, never letting go.

“Come on,” he says, voice low and hypnotic. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

The way he said it—like a prayer, like a promise—was what finally tipped you over.

The pressure broke—white-hot and crashing—and you cried out, bucking against his mouth. He held you through it, hands steady on your hips, tongue still lapping gently even as your body trembled with aftershocks, whispering soft, praise-laced nonsense into your hair. “That’s it. That’s my girl. You did so good…”

Caleb crawled up beside you, pulled you into his arms, and cradled you like you were made of starlight and spun glass. 

You felt boneless. Boneless and dazed in Caleb’s arms. He whispers something low and soft you can’t make out through the haze.

"Breathe, pipsqueak," he says, brushing the hair from your face. "You did so well. So damn good."

But you’re already drifting. Sated. Spent. Drenched in the aftershocks of your orgasm, your thighs slick and trembling, your lips parted slightly as sleep begins to claim you.

Caleb just watches you.

For a long, suspended moment, he doesn't move. He just looks—at the way your lashes flutter, at the slight shiver that runs down your spine, at the dark patch of arousal soaking the fabric beneath you.

"You came so hard you passed out," he murmurs. There’s an edge of disbelief to his voice, and awe too. 

He sighs, then shifts, tucking the blanket around you gently. You curl into it instinctively, nuzzling against his scent still clinging to the fabric. His scent. Yours.

But gods—he’s so hard it aches.

Caleb stands slowly, the bedsprings groaning softly under his weight as he eases away from your warmth. He walks quietly, almost reverently, to the bathroom. Not for a shower. Not yet.

His eyes catch on something tossed haphazardly to the side.

Your panties.

Damp. Nearly translucent with how soaked they are. His throat tightens.

“Fuck,” he breathes, low and torn.

He picks them up. The fabric clings to his fingers, still warm. His cock twitches painfully against the waistband of his joggers. He doesn’t even think, not really.

The bathroom door shuts behind him.

Inside, it’s quiet. Dim. Safe.

He braces a hand against the sink, shoving his joggers just low enough to free himself—hard, flushed, already leaking. His gaze drops to the delicate scrap of fabric in his hand—cream-colored, soft, with a tiny red apple stitched at the center. He brings it to his face.

And breathes in.

Slow. Deep. Like prayer.

The scent isn't pheromonal—he can’t smell you like an alpha would—but it doesn’t matter. It’s you. You . Your slick. Your soaked-through desperation clinging to this flimsy thing he holds like it’s holy.

With a quiet exhale, he winds the panties around his fist—carefully, almost reverently—and begins to stroke himself. The fabric clings to him like a secret, slick with proof of your need.

It feels like worship. Like a sin he can’t stop repeating.

His forehead presses to the mirror, breath fogging the glass. His fist works faster. His hips jerk. Every stroke drives him deeper into memory—the tremble in your voice, the way your thighs had parted for him, the taste of you on his tongue. The little gasp when you’d whimpered his name.

“Caleb—”

He grunts, low and strangled.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, voice breaking. “I should be stronger than this.”

But his body doesn’t listen. It never does when it comes to you.

The tension snaps. He shudders, biting his lip hard enough to sting as he spills into the soft cotton of your panties. His other hand braces against the wall, palm spread wide as he pants through the aftershocks. He strokes himself through the last few pulses, slow and raw, holding back the noise with a bitten-off groan.

He restrained himself—barely—when all he wanted was to grind into you and hear you moan his name like a prayer. But, he also wanted you—fully there, fully aware. He wanted you to ask for it. Not because biology demanded it, but because your heart did.

But right now, this is all he has.

When it’s over, he stands still for a long moment, chest rising and falling, heart pounding far too fast.

Then he moves with trembling fingers. He rinses himself off, folds your panties as gently as he can manage, and places them beside the laundry bin—neatly, almost ceremonially.

He looks at his reflection in the mirror.

And he whispers, not to himself, but to you—though you can’t hear it, tucked away in bed.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll wait... until it’s you asking me next time.”

Caleb dampens a soft washcloth with warm water. He returns and crouches beside you, careful not to wake you.

She should sleep clean, he thinks. She deserves that much.

His touch is featherlight—sweeping between your thighs, along the curve of your inner thigh, wiping away the remnants of your slick and the heat that clung there. He moves slowly, respectfully, like he’s handling something sacred. When he’s done, he presses a gentle kiss to your temple and tucks the blankets around your bare legs again.

Then he moves to the kitchen.

Soft-boiled egg. Steamed rice. Sliced apples. A fresh thermos of ginger tea. He adds a folded towel and a small box of painkillers just in case the heat’s not fully passed.

He arranges everything on the tray.

When he returns to the room, you’re still asleep. Still warm. He puts the tray of your care package on the bedside table.

He crawls into the bed beside you, careful not to jostle your nest. One arm hovers. Then lowers. Wraps around your waist.

Sleep doesn’t come easy.

Hours pass.

Then: his phone buzzes. Loud. Urgent.

Caleb blinks awake and fumbles for it.

[PRIORITY OVERRIDE: FARSPACE FLEET HQ]
Colonel Caleb Xia: Immediate presence required. Confirm receipt.

 

Fuck.

He was supposed to have a full week. Time off. Rest. Just a moment to be with you, to figure this thing out. And now—

Duty calls. It always does.

Still shirtless, he moves through the room silently, grabbing the black undersuit of his uniform. Layers it with his coat. Smooths down his dog tag, lets it hang over his chest.

He glances back at you.

Still sleeping.

He crouches beside the bed again, brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead.

“Sleep well, Pipsqueak,” he murmurs.

And then, with one last look—and a quiet exhale he doesn’t quite know how to name—
he leaves.

The door clicks softly shut behind him.
And silence folds around the room like a blanket.

You jolt awake.

Chapter Text

You woke up alone.

At first, the morning was quiet.

No birdsong. No drifting scent of breakfast. No soft hum of another body moving through the apartment. Only the lingering ache between your thighs, the soreness of being held and touched and needed—and now, the sharp emptiness where Caleb had been.

Your nest still smelled like him, but the space he occupied was cold now. Blankets dented in the shape of his body, then abandoned.

Your eyes stung.

Not again.

It wasn’t the first time you'd woken to a world without him.

But that time... that time, there'd been no coffin, but there'd been a funeral. That time, there were months of silence. Not even a body to bury. Just the bitter sting of an abrupt goodbye. You'd mourned him the way people mourn soldiers and ghosts—too much, and never enough.

And now?

Now, there was no explosion. 

No war. 

No funeral.

Just an empty bed. And an omega in heat, left behind.

Last night had felt like something sacred.

Like reclaiming a part of yourself you thought was lost when he “died.” Like your body remembered him before your heart had caught up. The way his hands trembled when he touched you. The way he whispered your name like it meant more than stars, more than cosmos, more than the designations this world had wired onto everyone’s biological systems.

You buried your face into the mess of sheets, biting back the sound in your throat—a choked little cry, half whimper, half apology.

It wasn’t just hormones. It wasn’t just heat.

It was the loss.

Because in your mind, this wasn’t just Caleb leaving a room.

This was Caleb choosing to walk away from the aftermath of last night. From you.

And you hated that your first instinct was to blame yourself.

You reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and drank like it could drown the ache in your chest. Like it could quiet the memory of your own voice, whispering for his warmth, your trembling fingers clutching his hand and placing it against your cheek.

You didn’t even notice the tears until they dripped into the glass.

You throw the blankets off your body, your chest rising and falling too fast. You stumble out of the nest, dizzy and disoriented. His scent still clings to the room, burning through your lungs. 

You take a breath—sharp, shallow—and stumble toward the door.

Your knees buckle, hand gripping the wall. A sharp, involuntary sob breaks out from your chest before you can stop it. 

The floor feels too cold beneath your feet as you walk down the short hallway to the living room. You half-expect to hear him humming under his breath in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, some pan sizzling on the stove. You half-expect to catch a glimpse of his broad shoulders hunched over the counter, pouring tea. Waiting for you.

But the apartment is silent.

Still.

Too still.

The morning light filtering through the windows is soft, almost hazy with frost. You pause at the corner of the wall, peeking into the living room like maybe— maybe —he’s just out of sight.

But the space is empty.

Your heart sinks lower.

You take a step forward. Then another. Your breath fogs slightly in the air—it’s colder in this part of the apartment, despite the heater humming faintly through the vents. You wrap your arms around yourself. Your scent is all over this place now, sickly sweet and unmistakable. And yet the only thing you want to inhale is him .

That sharp note of woodsmoke and tea leaves. Sun-warmed skin. The soft, clean spice of his shampoo.

It lingers—but faintly. Too faintly.

Your eyes land on the counter.

A note.

You cross the room, heart thudding painfully as you recognize his handwriting—precise and steady, just like him.

Duty called. I didn’t want to wake you.
Rest well, Pipsqueak.
I’ll come back. —C.

You stare at the words. Then read them again. And again. As if they’ll rearrange themselves into something else. Something that doesn’t feel like a goodbye disguised as a promise.

“I’ll come back.” But when? And would he want you again once he’s come back? The note answered where he went. Not why he left like that.

You sink to the floor beside the counter, curling your knees to your chest as your body trembles, and you sob.

It wasn’t the silence that haunted you—it’s the truth that screams in this apartment and in your heart: It was the fear that he might never stay.

And it hurts in a way you can’t name.

You don’t remember the whole of your first heat—just fragments.

But what’s clearest now are those last few days, when it all came to a quiet, aching end.

The afternoon sun poured soft light through gauzy curtains, casting the room in a hazy golden warmth. You stirred from a nap tangled in the remains of your nest—a cocoon of Gran's knitted blanket, her sweaters, and most noticeably, Caleb's old shirts and basketball uniform. Your scent clung thick in the air: sweet, warm, a little dizzying. 

Your body was sore. Heavy. But the worst of your heat had passed—your fever no longer clawing through your limbs, your thoughts a little clearer. You were on the edge of it now. Still aching, but functional. Your throat was dry. Your stomach growled. Cravings gnawed at your insides—something sweet, something cold, something real. 

You peeled yourself from the nest and stumbled down the stairs, the wooden floor cool beneath your feet. 

A yellow note was stuck to the fridge door:

Went grocery shopping. Caleb’s at home if you need anything. — Gran

You blinked.

Your stomach growled again.

Inside the fridge: Cookies. Milk. 

Jackpot.

You poured yourself a tall glass and bit into the first cookie like it was your last meal. Crumbs clung to your lips as you tipped the glass and drank deep. Cold milk trailed down the corner of your mouth, slipped down your neck, and pooled at the dip of your collarbone. You shivered. Laughed quietly. Took another sip.

That’s when the bathroom door creaked open across the hall.

Footsteps.

You turned—just in time to see Caleb walk out, towel slung low on his hips, his chest damp and still dripping from the shower.

His eyes caught yours.

He stopped. “...Is this a snack raid or a crime scene?”

You turned slowly, lips glossy from milk, hair mussed, wearing nothing but a loose tank top and shorts that barely qualified as clothing.

He looked so casual. So Caleb . His hair messy. His dog tag clinging to his chest. Skin golden from the steam, abs taut and sharp enough to make your brain short-circuit.

Your stomach flipped—and not from hunger.

You swallowed.

Caleb tilted his head. One brow raised, amused.

“What?” he said, grinning. “My workout finally paying off or something? You look like you wanna take a bite out of me.”

You didn’t answer.

You just walked.

Slow. Barefoot. Deliberate.

His smile faltered slightly as you approached, something unreadable flickering in his gaze.

“You’re—” he started, but the words stopped when you reached him.

Your hand rose to his chest. You pressed your palm to his abs, feeling the solid heat of him beneath your fingers. Your eyes flicked up, meeting his.

You leaned in. Slowly. You inhaled. Not even hiding it.

He smelled like soap and damp towels and Caleb. Clean. Warm. Safe.

And still...

Wrong.

He caught your wrist, chuckling under his breath. His voice was rough. Unsteady.

“I can handle the check-up on that area myself, thanks.”

But he didn’t step away.

You stood there—bare inches between you. Breath mingling. Your scent curling around him like fog.

Caleb didn’t move. Didn’t step back. Didn’t push you away. Just stood there, blinking down at you—your hand still pressed to the hard plane of his stomach, your scent wrapping the both of you in something thick and warm and entirely wrong .

But gods, you wanted to taste him.

Your eyes locked, breaths synced. You felt the faintest tremble beneath your fingertips—like even he wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended to be.

Then his brow furrowed.

“I thought your heat’s over...?”

You tilted your head, licking the last trace of milk from your lips.

“And I thought betas don’t get affected by pheromones,” you murmured, voice low, teasing. Your hand drifted lower. “So why am I feeling something nudging me down here?”

He choked on a breath, eyes widening.

“Let's just say, you bumped into it by acci—” he started, tone warning, but you didn’t let him finish.

You stepped closer, toes brushing his, rising just slightly onto the balls of your feet. You reached up, curled your fingers around the cold metal of his dog tag, and pulled.

Your lips found his.

Sweet. Hungry. A little messy from the milk still on your mouth.

He froze—only for a second.

Then his fists tangled in your hair. Your body arched into his bare legs brushing his towel-wrapped thighs. His mouth was hungry, desperate, tasting of something you couldn’t name—like years of waiting collapsing into seconds.

A groan slipped into your mouth—deep, raw, wrecked.

He tasted you like he was starving. Like he shouldn’t . Like he didn’t care anymore.

Your back hit the kitchen counter with a soft thud, his towel loosening just slightly at his hips as he leaned into you, caging you in with the heat of his bare chest and the sharp edge of his restraint unraveling. You could feel the heat of him, the hardness pressing against your belly, and then lower.

One of his hands slid down your back, gripping your waist, anchoring you to him.

He pulled back just long enough to breathe—and to smirk.

“Cookies and milk?” he murmured against your lips. “Didn’t think I’d get dessert and a full-course meal.”

You swatted his shoulder, breathless.

“Shut up.”

“You kissed me .”

“You kissed me back .”

He leaned in again, nose brushing yours. His voice dipped lower.

“Yeah. I did.”

You kissed him again. Harder this time. Mouth open. Desperate. Feral. All scent and heat and instinct. He didn’t stop you. He angled your chin with rough fingertips and took .

Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, locking him in, keeping him there as you ground down into him and he rocked into you, slow and heavy, like he couldn't stop himself even if he wanted to.

His hand roamed then slipped to your chest—not lewd, not rushed—teasing, fingertips tracing your collarbone, against the spot where the milk had spilled earlier, where it had trailed down your collarbone and soaked through your thin tank top.

His fingers paused.

He pulled back just enough to look.

Then—without thinking—he dipped his head and dragged his tongue across the sticky path just above the hem of your top. He tasted the milk from your skin, warm and soft and still sweet.

You whimpered.

He smirked against your skin. “Guess I really did catch you in a snack raid.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Your hips rolled against his without meaning to. His hips met yours—again, and again, and again—until it felt like you were going to combust from the friction alone.

You didn’t know how long it went on—how long you dry-humped against each other like two people too afraid to go further, but too far gone to stop—locked together like that, half-dressed, half-mad with want. All you knew was the sound of your pulse, the thunder of his breathing, the taste of him mixed with the faint, lingering sweetness of cold milk.

Then—
A distant sound.
Gravel crunching. Tires squeaking into the driveway.

Caleb went still.

You both paused, panting, lips still parted. A car door slammed outside.

Gran.

Your heart dropped.

Caleb pulled away first—reluctantly. His hands slipped from your waist, jaw clenched tight. He didn’t look at you right away.

You swallowed. Adjusted your tank top. Tried not to tremble.

No words were said as he turned back toward the hallway, towel secured. No promises. No apologies.

And just like that…

It ended.

The memory faded like smoke.

You were back in your kitchen now. You looked around—quiet. Empty. The cold contradicts the warmth you remembered years ago—warmth as his mouth on yours that day. Or his hands. Or his unspoken hesitation when he let you go.

And now, as you stood in the silence he left behind…

You wondered.

He never brought it up again. And maybe you didn’t either… because you were scared he’d say it didn’t mean anything.

You don’t know how long you sat there.

Eventually, the sobs quieted. You rose—legs unsteady, throat raw—and made your way back to the bedroom. The nest called to you again, the way only a familiar place of warmth and memory could.

You reached the doorway. And stopped, there, on the bedside table.

A tray.

Your breath caught.

Soft-boiled egg. Steamed rice. Sliced apples. A thermos—still warm—of ginger tea. A folded towel. A small box of painkillers.

He left you a care package.

Your chest squeezed, tight with something you couldn’t name. Guilt, maybe. Hope. All tangled into a knot behind your sternum.

He didn’t just leave.

He thought of you.

You moved closer and sank to the edge of the bed. The egg was peeled. The rice still warm beneath the ceramic lid. The tea smelled faintly of honey.

A tiny note was tucked beside the thermos in his familiar handwriting:

In case you wake up sore. You always did crave apples after a crash. —C.

You pressed your hand to your chest. You took the pills with a sip of tea and tried to swallow down the lump in your throat. The ginger burned sweet and warm, and something inside you cracked open again.

He made you breakfast.
He remembered what you liked.
He tucked you in after he touched you like that.

You wanted to believe that maybe he didn’t regret it, that maybe, just a little maybe, he wanted you too.

But the absence still stung.

The ache returned—not just in your chest this time, but lower. Deep. Unrelenting. Your omega whimpered beneath your skin, still soft and sensitive. Still needing more than comfort food and unspoken promises.

You climbed back into your nest. You curled inward, cheeks flushed, thighs pressed together. But it wasn’t enough.

Your fingers clenched the pillow you’d used the night before—Caleb’s scent still lingered there, sharp and warm and him . You dragged it between your legs, body moving on its own. Rocking slow, desperate, searching for the same friction that had nearly undone you hours ago.

You gasped. Bit your lip. Eyes fluttering shut.

His scent. Your slick. His mouth on your throat, teeth grazing. His hands trembling as they cupped the back of your knees—gentle, reverent, like he was scared you might vanish if he gripped you any tighter.

You think, what a waste of pheromones.

Your body had already chosen him. Scented him. Saturated the whole apartment with need—your omega reaching out for him in the most primal way, seducing him with everything you were.

And he—he couldn’t even smell it.

Couldn’t feel the ache of it in his lungs. Couldn’t taste the plea beneath your scent.

Please, Caleb—

You came with a quiet whine, legs trembling from the high that crashed too fast, too soon.

It wasn’t enough.

Nothing was.

But for now, it would have to do.

You took a long shower—steam curling around your aching limbs, washing away the stickiness of your need and the ghosts of last night’s heat. You scrubbed yourself clean. Dressed in fresh clothes. Something soft. Familiar.

Still, the silence stretched on.

The day passed slowly. Every tick of the clock was a reminder that he hadn’t called. That he hadn’t messaged. That the little tray of food was the last echo of him you’d heard since he walked out that door.

The sun dipped low. The sky outside your window began to dim. Shadows lengthened across the floor.

Your phone sat on your nightstand, mocking you with its stillness.

You picked it up.

Called him.

Straight to voicemail.

You hung up. Called again.

Voicemail.

Again.

Your jaw tightened.

You got up. Crossed the room. Opened the drawer of your cabinet.

There—your last suppressant patch. You peeled off the adhesive backing and pressed it to your neck, flinching slightly at the cool sting of contact.

It wouldn’t stop and fully suppress the heat, but it would dampen it. Enough to find him. To make sense of what this is.

You grabbed your bag. Your keys.

Your heart.

And left.

Down the stairs. Through the lobby. Into the parking lot—where dusk had settled and the air buzzed faintly with winter air and something else, something not quite right.

You slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition.

The engine roared to life.

But just as your hand reached for the gearshift—

A presence.

The scent hit you a second later. Even with the windows rolled up, even through the layers of suppressant in your system, it clings to the air—sickly sweet. Heavy. With a strange bite of roasted coffee and burnt sugar.

Your body stilled.

Not Caleb.

Not yours.

It wrapped around you like a question, like a dare. Not overpowering, but unmistakably Alpha.

Your omega purred.

Instinct drawn to the scent. To the power. To the offer you weren’t asking for.

Not your heart. Not your mind.

Just your body—tired, sore, still slick with the echoes of heat.

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t Caleb. It wasn’t him.
But your biology didn’t care.

You gritted your teeth, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. 

Your heart pounded, your patch barely keeping your scent at bay as the remnants of heat still simmered under your skin.

Slowly, you turned your head.

And there he was, standing just a few feet away from your car.

Xavier.

Ash-blonde hair and blue eyes like the midnight sky.

The soft cardigan hanging off his frame didn’t hide the sharp edges of him. He looked like someone carved from steel and silk. Hands in his pockets. Hair slightly tousled like he’d just gotten up from bed or some complicated Xavier-thing you’d never asked about.

He stood by the front of your car, brow furrowed, eyes locked on you. Concern, maybe. Worry. But beneath that, something else—something primal, thinly veiled.

He walks over like he’s never unprepared for anything. Like control itself is stitched into his spine.

You roll down your window halfway. Not all the way. Just enough to speak.

But it’s too late.

His scent rolls in like steam under a door.

Your lips part. Your thighs press together, instinctively.

He halts a few feet away from your car, his jaw tightening the moment he gets a proper whiff of you.

Then—like a reflex—his shoulders lift and fall. His pheromones recedes. Controlled. Pulled back.

He’s suppressing it. Consciously.

A flicker of guilt rushes across his face, but it’s hidden almost instantly behind something steadier. Professional.

Still, when he speaks, his voice is a little lower than usual.

“You shouldn’t be out here.”

You tense, gripping the steering wheel. “I’m fine.”

“You’re in…” He winced—just slightly. The next word that nearly left his mouth. The one he almost said.

But you still saw it behind his eyes: heat.
He swallowed it down.

Your face burns. “It’s… it’s manageable.”

He narrows his eyes slightly. 

“I’m just—” you start, but your throat tightens. You try again. “I’m just going to the convenience store. For water.”

White lie.

Your fingers twitch over the steering wheel.

Xavier exhales, brushing a hand through his hair. “I’m actually on my way there,” he says, voice softer now. “I’ll go. You stay here.”

You shake your head. “No. I need air.”

“I’m not letting you go out like this.”

“Xavier—”

He steps closer to the driver’s side, hands still in his pockets, but his jaw clenched now.

“You’re an omega,” he says quietly, voice just a breath rougher. “You won’t make it five minutes out there with people around—or worse things could happen.”

He stepped closer. Still calm. Still controlled. But there was an edge creeping into his voice now. A protective note you’d only ever heard during joint missions.

“I’m fine,” you snap, but the words ring hollow.

His lips press into a thin line.

“Get out of the car,” he says. “I’ll carry you back if I have to. Don’t make me.”

You flinch—not from fear, but from the command behind his voice. The way it dips into something just Alpha enough to ripple through your system, even suppressed. Your omega stirs again, confused and wary. You look up at him—really look—and suddenly he doesn’t seem like your neighbor. Or your co-worker. Or even your friend.

His gaze softened. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to.” He murmured. “Please, come on, let me help you back inside.” 

You hesitated—then pushed your door open.

The chill hit you like a wall. And when you stood—too fast, too unsteady—your knees buckled.

“Shit—” you gasped, your balance tipping forward.

A pair of arms caught you mid-fall.

Xavier’s.

One arm wrapped around your waist. The other braced behind your shoulders. He held you like something precious, fragile—like he was afraid of what might happen if he touched you too long.

His thoughts were chaos.

His grip didn’t tighten. He didn’t lean in. But his breathing faltered.

“You’re not fine,” he said. Quiet. Not accusing—just factual.

“I just got dizzy,” you muttered, flustered.

He exhaled through his nose. “I’m taking you back to your apartment. Come on.”

“Xavier, you whispered, swaying. “I’m okay.” But your voice broke halfway through th elie.

His fingers flinched where they gripped your coat.

And just as he adjusted his hold on you—

The screech of tires cracked the air. Both your heads snapped toward the parking lot entrance.

A sleek Lamborghini Lanzador had just pulled in—fast, hard, deliberate. It parked without hesitation in the open space directly in front of your car. The door flung open before the engine even cooled.

And out stepped—

Caleb.

Boots hitting pavement. Shoulders squared. Eyes locked on the two of you.

His gaze dropped to Xavier’s arms.

Then to you.

Then back to Xavier.

And something inside him snapped .

The road to Skyhaven was still laced with snow, salt-burned at the edges, trees iced in white like a painting. Caleb kept one hand on the wheel, the other draped on the armrest, eyes focused—but his thoughts drifted.

You.

Back in your apartment. Sleeping. Still flushed from heat. Wrapped in a mess of blankets and the nest of him.

His fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel. He hadn’t wanted to leave. Not after that. Not after touching you like that—tasting you, feeling your pulse beneath his tongue. Not after hearing your voice crack on his name.

But the call had come in at dawn. Top priority—Skyhaven internal. Not a combat alert, thank the stars. But a contained anomaly: someone had rerouted access protocols to the Deepspace Tunnel Gate 3.0 without authorization. A code mismatch. A breach in personnel scheduling.

Bureaucratic. Tedious. But the signature used was his own.

Which meant only one thing:
A forged login.

He couldn’t let that stand. Not with his name on it. Not with the tunnel logs under his jurisdiction. So he drove through the sunrise and reported in. Liam, his adjutant, was already waiting when he arrived.

“Colonel,” the man nodded, holding out a slim case of tablet reports. “The breach logs and override attempts. Looks like someone tried to mask the trail through a dummy branch of Ops 6.”

“Who’s the lead on the duty roster this week?” Caleb asked, voice clipped.

“Lieutenant Jinu. But he’s already accounted for—his credentials were locked when it happened.”

Which meant someone inside . Caleb’s jaw tensed. “Start a trace route. I’ll authorize the lockout on Gate 3.0 and handle the system override myself.”

“Yes, sir.”

By the time the lockdown was restored and the digital ghost flushed from the system, it was already way past the afternoon. A total of five hours— nothing, in the grand scheme of Skyhaven ops. And the moment Caleb stepped out of the command room, he pulled out his comms and stared at the blank screen.

Several missed calls.

From you. He clutched his phone next to his chest: His mind is already on its way home—to Linkon, to you.

He hadn’t wanted to wake you. Not after last night. Not after seeing your body curl into his hand like you’d been waiting for him your whole life. He didn’t regret it. Not a single goddamn second.

What he regretted—what he feared —was that you might.

That maybe, you wouldn’t bring it up again.
That maybe it was just heat. Just hormones. Just biology, not him.

That you didn’t want him like he wanted you. Because you always looked at him like he was safety. Family. A warm coat on cold days.

Not someone you’d ever choose over an Alpha.

And yet—he’d kissed you. He’d touched you. And if he let himself believe otherwise—if he caved to the way you clung to him last night, or whispered "please, just your warmth,” —he knew he’d die in the arms of a false hope.

That you wanted him too. The way he’d wanted you for years.

And if he was wrong?

He’d break. Quietly. Completely.

He rubbed his jaw and stood again, shrugging on his coat. He didn’t bother staying. Not when the phantom of your touch still clung to his skin like static.

His knuckles flexed against the steering wheel as he took the turn toward your apartment complex. Familiar streets. Soft-lit dusk settling over the rooftops.

Then—

He saw it.

Your car.

Engine on. Headlights still lit.
And next to it, a man.

Tall. Blonde. Wearing a cardigan and a look that made Caleb’s gut twist.

Xavier. Your co-worker. You mentioned him to Caleb once—but he already knew who your co-worker was even before you told him about him. He always knew about your whereabouts even from Skyhaven. And he knew who surrounded you—omegas, betas and alphas.

And Xavier is an alpha.

And there you were.

Standing unsteady on your feet. Reaching for balance. And he —Xavier—stepped in.

Held you.

Held you.

He didn’t feel himself step on the gas. Didn’t remember pulling into the lot too fast, the engine growling in protest. He only registered the jolt of his boots hitting pavement. The sound of the car door slamming.

His eyes were on you.

Then on him.

Then back to you—your flushed cheeks, your dazed look.

Caleb locked eyes Xavier’s hands still curled around you.

Xavier didn’t drop his arms. Not right away. Caleb’s boots echoed across the pavement, his coat unzipped from the rush, steam curling off his breath in the cold.

You were in someone else’s arms.

And Xavier? Didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t look away. Just held your waist—steady, protective, like he had every right to.

And then—Caleb felt it. Not scent. He couldn’t smell that. But pressure. Xavier flared his pheromones out like a blade unsheathed—subtle at first, then unmistakably aggressive.

A territorial warning. The air thickened. Bitter-sweet. Dominant. Alpha .

Caleb didn’t blink. Didn’t even stop walking.

Your omega, on the other hand—betrayed you. 

You gasped. Instinct curling deep in your spine. Knees weakening. Breath hitching. The presence of an Alpha in full flare… It hurt to want. 

Your eyes glazed slightly. Still, your body dropped. Palms and knees to the ground—instinct overtaking reason, your body lowering into a submissive curl, your scent leaking out in soft, pliant waves—

You hated it. Hated how your spine yielded so easily. Not for Xavier. Not really. But because your body had nowhere else to go.

Until—

The gravity shifted.

A pulse. Invisible. Controlled.

Caleb.

Without touching you, he reached out with his Evol and pinned you still , mid-motion. Not with force—but with weight. The way a mountain says no to the wind. Your limbs locked. Your body halted. Then slowly, you felt yourself lifted. Upright. But it wasn’t Caleb who caught you.

Xavier had already reached out, cradling your elbows, holding you gently back up.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured, more to your trembling form than to Caleb. “It’s okay. I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to drop pheromones like a goddamn peacock?” Caleb said mildly, coming to a full stop two paces away.

Xavier’s eyes narrowed.

“And you are?” he asked, tone clipped. But he already knew.

Caleb’s voice stayed flat. “Caleb Xia. I’m with her.”

He then recognized him—that’s why the man hadn’t flinched. He’s not an alpha. 

Xavier squared his shoulders. “Then maybe don’t leave her alone, Xia. But I’m here now, so I let me take her back to her apartment. This isn’t your jurisdiction.”

Caleb’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Neither is she yours.”

Xavier’s pride snapped.

His palm flared—light evol sparking gold across his fingertips. Not an attack. Not yet. But a clear line was drawn.

“She’s clearly in distress,” Xavier said tightly. “And if you can’t sense that, maybe your beta instincts aren’t enough.”

Caleb’s jaw ticked once.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “But I can clearly see her. That’s why I’m here. I’ll take care of her.” 

And then—he moved towards you, about to take you from the Alpha but Xavier held you and held his ground. 

Caleb took your hand but Xavier pulled you back.

“That’s enough,” he said, voice low, almost conversational. “Back off.”

Xavier straightened, eyes narrowing. “Or what, beta ?”

The word landed like a slap.

Caleb didn’t flinch. “You think a designation makes you stronger?”

“I think it makes me better equipped to protect her,” Xavier snapped. “And from where I’m standing, she looks like she needed it.”

That did it.

In a blink, Caleb closed the distance—and Xavier swung. 

The punch cracked across Caleb’s cheek, snapping his face sideways.

But Caleb didn’t stagger.

Didn’t retreat.

Didn’t even touch the wound.

He raised his head slowly. Calm. Icy.

And then— light exploded.

Xavier’s palm flared—brilliant and golden, a burst of searing light slamming straight into Caleb’s vision.

He recoiled, eyes shutting instinctively, momentarily blinded.

Xavier moved fast.

Another swing—this time, aimed at Caleb’s jaw.

But Caleb ducked, barely flinching.

“Nice trick,” Caleb growled through clenched teeth. “Guess what?”

He caught Xavier’s arm mid-swing, twisted it behind his back, and shoved him forward—hard.

Xavier crashed against the hood of the car.

Metal rang out, the whole frame shaking from the impact. Frost scattered. Ice cracked.

Caleb’s arm pressed across his throat, Evol vibrating like a gravitational pulse held barely in check.

“I’m not a fucking alpha,” Caleb said, voice dark as the winter night. “But you don’t need pheromones to read a battlefield. Or a person.”

Xavier, pinned and breathless, still crackling with light, growled back:

“Maybe, next time you should learn how to read the room if you can’t sense pheromones. She’s clearly in distress and you still left her. Yet, you say you’re with her?”

Xavier bared his teeth, voice tight. “You call that taking care of her? She was falling to the ground and you were still five blocks away.”

Caleb didn’t move. Just leaned closer, his evol pressed the alpha, unrelenting.

“I’ve trained my whole damn life not to rely on instinct,” he hissed. “So don’t test mine.” He murmured next to Xavier’s ear, “And she wasn’t completely alone. I was truly with her, since last night if you’re so curious to know.”

Xavier’s grip faltered. Jaw clenched. Something behind his eyes cracked—but he held. Not because he couldn’t fight back. Because if he did, he wouldn’t stop. Not tonight. Not when your scent was still thick in the air. Not when the beta sounded so sure.

Gods, was this a fight or a territorial pissing contest? You were woozy, aching, and furious—and now this? You slammed your palm on the horn.

A shrill echo rang out over the empty lot, bouncing off asphalt and concrete. The sound pierced the standoff sharper than any word could.

“Enough!” you shouted, voice cracking as you stepped forward. “Stop this—both of you!”

This scenario is straight out of a book—one you’ve read years ago in your teenage bedroom in Linkon. What the fuck are they doing? Two men acting like kids on a playground fighting over a toy. 

Caleb’s arm dropped away from Xavier’s throat. He stepped back. Breathing hard. Xavier rolled his shoulders and slid off the car, chest rising and falling fast—but his Evol dimmed.

And just like that, the brawl died in the snow.

You stepped between them.

“You’re both adults. Both fucking adults and you had an omega in distress stop you from having a fucking brawl? Gods. You’re acting like goddamn children.” You said, clearly no longer in distress but in seething rage.

Then your voice steadied. “Xavier, I’m fine. I know him. He’s with me.”

You looked over your shoulder.

Xavier’s jaw twitched, blue eyes still sharp. His evol flared again—but you touched his chest with both palms.

“Enough,” you whispered. “Please.”

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then Xavier stepped back, his glow dimming. “You should’ve stayed inside,” he said, softly now. “This isn’t safe.”

You swallowed. “I know.”

Caleb’s hand found the small of your back. You shouldn’t have leaned into it. Should’ve stepped forward, away. But you didn’t. The heat of his palm burned through your coat, steadied your steps like it always had.

“Let’s go, Pipsqueak.”

This time, you didn’t hesitate.

You turned away from Xavier.

And held Caleb’s firm, strong hand.

Xavier didn’t move. Not when you stepped away. Not when Caleb slid an arm around your shoulders like he owned the right. But his hands were fists now. His breath came hard. And your scent—his scent, the one that had clung to you not a minute ago—was already fading, overwritten by someone else’s.  

He could’ve flared again. Could’ve roared the whole lot down.  

But what then? Burn it out of you? Fight a war you never asked for?  

No. Not now.  

He just stood there—seething, scent-hollow, and stunned.

Xavier remembered the smell of you: vanilla and lavender. Sweetened by heat, flooding the parking lot like a bloom in spring—it hit him like a freight train. It wasn’t want. It was need. Primal. Gut-deep. Evolution pressing teeth to your throat, whispering: Protect her. Claim her.

He watched as Caleb walked you toward his car.

Watched your head rest briefly against his shoulder. Watched Caleb open the passenger door with the kind of ease that screamed: This isn’t the first time.

This isn’t new.

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

“Where are you taking her?” Xavier’s voice was low, cold. “She clearly needs to rest.”

Caleb didn’t even slow down. Just glanced back over his shoulder, tone deceptively casual.

“Yeah, not bringing her back home just yet.”

 A pause. Then, with a pointed smirk:

“Not with a scent-dazed Alpha in the building. Don’t want anyone getting… tempted.”

That landed.

Xavier’s jaw tightened. “I’m in control.”

“Good,” Caleb said. “Let’s keep it that way.”

He watched the door close. Watched the way your head tilted toward Caleb’s shoulder. And for the first time, Xavier wondered if he’d already lost you—long before tonight.

Xavier couldn’t smell a damn thing on him.

He— a beta? 

Was he?

Just a faint undercurrent—barely there, but unmistakable now that he’d felt it.

His brows furrowed as he stared at the spot Caleb had just stood, the place where the air still vibrated from that controlled burst of gravity.

There was something off about him.

Something feral beneath the leash.

Chapter Text

The road ahead is empty. Just a long, dark stretch of highway and the quiet thump of snow against glass. You’ve been in Caleb’s car for a while now—maybe ten, fifteen minutes. Time slushes, uncounted.

Caleb gripped the wheel like it had wronged him. Knuckles white. Jaw tighter than the turn the car just took. He’d been driving nowhere—idling through Linkon’s outer highways with the heat turned low, engine humming like the only voice between you. The silence in the car was louder than either of you dared to admit.

You glance at the dashboard. Heated seats. Custom steering wheel. The kind of polished vehicle you’d expect a Farspace colonel to own. You cross your arms. Press your cheek to the window, letting the cold sting.

“Fancy car,” you mutter, breath fogging the glass.

Caleb doesn’t answer.

You keep your eyes out the window. “Your colonel salary must be treating you well. Makes sense. You and your work—always inseparable.”

He flinches—barely. But you catch it. The car slows to a crawl before pulling over on the shoulder of a desolate highway bridge. Snow scatters as the tires stop. The city sprawls below like stars shattered over black glass. He exhales through his nose, leans back in his seat like he’s been holding the weight of the sky on his spine. His hands don’t leave the wheel.

“So?” you say, finally turning to him. “You planning to drive us off the edge or are we actually going to talk?”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he says, voice low. “It was supposed to be quick. There was an anomaly in the logs—someone used my authorization while I was off duty. I had to report it, clear it before it got flagged. I thought I could be back before you even noticed.”

You don’t respond. He finally looks at you.

His voice softens. “Were you… hurt? Earlier. Did Xavier—did he do anything to you?”

You laugh—sharp, brittle. “Oh, now you’re worried?”

Caleb’s jaw ticks.

You shift in your seat, breath frosting the glass again. “You vanished. No message, no sign—just a shitty little post-it like you’d gone out for coffee. I thought you had a one-week leave. I thought—” You cut yourself off. He doesn’t deserve that kind of vulnerability.

His knuckles pale on the wheel.

“I left you a note,” he mutters.

You scoff. “You think a note is enough? I woke up wondering if last night meant anything. If I meant anything.”

He flinches again—but this time, he doesn’t look away. “All I thought about the entire day was you,” he murmurs. “I wanted to get back—to you— as soon as I could.”

“I called you,” you say, trying not to let your voice shake.

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t have my comms on me. I didn’t think it’d take long—I thought I’d be back before you woke. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

But you were worried. You were wrecked. And now, all that’s left is silence. You couldn’t speak. The words caught in your throat like thorns. So all that was left was silence—thick, suffocating, the kind that bruised from the inside out. Your chest ached with everything unsaid.

You wanted to ask him. Gods, you wanted to ask.

What do you feel when you look at me?

Do you regret last night—or do you crave it too?

Do I mean anything to you beyond duty, beyond heat, beyond whatever this mess is?

When you said I was all you thought about—

Was that guilt?

Or was that longing?

Because I thought of you too. All day. In every moment you were gone.

You glance over. That’s when you see his face—flushed from cold and fury, ears red, a grazed wound marking the high point of his cheekbone. You’d nearly forgotten they fought.

You hesitate. You shouldn’t care, not after this—
But still, you ask, “What about you? Did his punch hurt?”

“I wouldn’t call that a punch. But sure, he got an opening.” Caleb exhales, then adds, dry, “No need to worry about me, Pips. But you… gods, do I have to tie you to the bed just to get you to stay put?”

You blink. “Wow. Just a moment ago you were worried about me and now you bite back the second you get the chance?”

Caleb raises a brow, unbothered. “I’m still worried about you. But I think I also have the right to be a little pissed about the stunt you pulled. What would’ve happened if I didn’t arrive in time?”

“Nothing would’ve happened,” you snap. “I trust Xavier. He wouldn’t do anything reckless.”

“You say that while clinging to him.” He looks away, jaw clenched. But not before you catch the flicker of hurt in his eyes.

“He’s still an alpha. And you weren’t exactly in a clear-headed state. You’re an omega, still in heat, still unclaimed,” he adds, quieter now—like saying it hurts him more than hearing it.

“What?” you breathe.

He looks at you, gaze steady and breaking all at once.

“Would you have preferred to have him?”

“No. No, ge—” you stop yourself. The word feels wrong. It doesn’t belong anymore. Not after last night.

“Gege?” Caleb echoes, low and wounded.

“Is that what I still am to you? After everything? So it’s all just biology, then. Just like before.” He exhales. “Or have you already forgotten what happened back then?”

The slap comes before you even think.

A gasp. A pause.

“I—I’m sorry,” you whisper. “But fuck this, Caleb. I know I’m not— I know…” You falter. “I remember that time. I remember everything. I’ve never forgotten it. Not for six goddamn years. So don’t talk to me about biology. Don’t talk to me like I’m ruled by some fucking instinct.”

You’re shaking. Words crumbling out of you.

“All I ever wanted was—” But the tears cut you off. They fall before you can stop them. Caleb stares, shocked.

You swallow it down, breath trembling. You scrunch your face, turn away, open the door.

He turned to you fully now. But it was too late.

You shoved the door open and stepped out into the snow.

The wind hit you immediately—sharp, biting. Your shoes crunched against frost and salt. The city lay below, too far, too quiet. But the ache inside you was louder than anything else.

The snow swallowed the sound of your steps, but your boots still left imprints—hollow shapes that trailed behind you like a breadcrumb path through grief. You weren’t walking anywhere in particular, just away. Away from the heat inside that car. Away from the weight of everything you said. Everything you felt. The wind nipped at your cheeks, sharp and sobering. Your scarf barely held back the cold. But it wasn’t the air that made your chest ache.

It was the absence of him.

And just when you thought maybe he’d let you go—

Your feet left the ground.

A rush of weightlessness pulled the breath from your lungs as gravity flickered, bent gently upward. Caleb’s Evol—subtle, familiar, a pressure you knew by heart. The air shifted around you, like a memory lifting you from the frost. And then—

Arms wrapped around you from behind. Tight. Certain. Caleb’s body anchored to yours as if letting go would end him.

You gasped. “Caleb—”

“Don’t run,” he whispered, voice low in your ear, shaking with restraint. “Don’t walk away from me. Please. Not when… not after that.”

His arms stayed firm. Unmoving. Like the only thing in this world he’d sworn to hold onto was you.

He lowered you slowly to the ground again, but didn’t release you. If anything, he only pulled you closer. Pressed his chest to your back. His nose brushed the curve of your neck, cold lips grazing the place your nape hid beneath your scarf. His breath came out shaky, uneven.

He buried his face there for a moment, breathing deep.

Not scent. Not instinct. Just presence. Just you.

You stood there, trembling, snow clinging to your lashes. The city stretched out below the overpass—lights glittering like distant stars, a mirror of the sky above. You’d seen this skyline a thousand times. But never from inside his arms.

And when he spoke again, it cracked.

“I didn’t mean what I said back there,” Caleb said, almost breathless. “About instincts. About him. I was angry and scared and—fuck, I’m not good at this.”

You closed your eyes, a tear sliding down despite the cold.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he continued, voice barely above the snow and silence. “Not when we were teens. Not after the explosion. Not when we drifted apart. Not now.”

He placed a soft kiss to the top of your head, like it was something sacred.

“You think I forgot that day six years ago?” he whispered. “I haven’t. I remember everything.”

A pause. Then—

“The way you looked at me. The way I wanted to kiss you more, hold you a little longer. The way I wanted to crawl into your bed and never leave—but didn’t. I’ve lived with that moment longer than I should have. Punishing myself for wanting someone I thought I could never have.”

His breath hitched. He buried his face against your neck again.

“I should’ve told you then. I should’ve stayed.”

You closed your eyes.

“I love you,” he whispered, finally, like a confession peeled from the root of his soul. “I love you more than I ever had the words for. I love you more than I should. More than I’m allowed.”

You bit your lip, choking a sob. “Oh, Caleb. I —”

But he cut you off, whispering your name like a prayer to his religion, “I’ve loved you all my life,” he answered. “And I love you… a little more than you realize.”

You turned in his arms. Slowly. Like the movement itself could break you.

His eyes were glassy, dark with every year he couldn’t say it before. He looked at you—truly looked—and you saw it. The ache. The years. The longing.

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to want you. That I’d only ruin you. I thought being a beta meant you deserved more. But I should’ve known—I should’ve trusted what we had. What we are.”

You looked up at him, mouth trembling.

“All I ever wanted was you, Caleb,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Not any alpha. Not anyone. Just you. Since I can remember.”

Your breath hitched. You swallowed down the ache clawing up your throat.

“I was scared too. Scared of crossing the line because... what if you weren’t there to catch me if I jumped? What if you walked away and ran from me?”

You touched his face, just barely—like you were afraid he’d vanish. Your thumb brushed the bruise blooming on his cheek from earlier, the one Xavier had landed.

“I thought my feelings were wrong. That maybe I was just imagining it all.”

His expression shattered. Like your words were both a wound and a balm.

And then you smiled, watery and breathless.

“So it took an alpha’s flare and a slap to make you admit it?” you teased, breathless.

He exhaled, a sheepish smile blooming through tears. “Yeah. Apparently, I’m still an idiot.”

And when your lips met—it was soft. Aching. A kiss shaped by years of silence and nights spent wondering if the other one felt the same. Snow fell around you like confetti from heaven, each flake a quiet witness to a moment too big for words.

You melted into each other.

And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

Just you and him.

Your back hit the car door before you could think. Caleb’s hands were everywhere—at your waist, in your hair, cupping your jaw like he could hold together every broken thing inside you if he just touched you hard enough. As if the snow might sweep you away again if he loosened his grip.

The kiss you’d shared moments ago—tender, tear-wet, confessional—had cracked open something inside him. And now, that fragile thing had shattered completely. What filled the cracks now was heat. Raw. Desperate.

His mouth claimed yours again, deeper this time. Starved. Like he needed you to anchor him, like you were the only thing keeping him from unraveling in the cold.

“Do you even realize what you’re doing to me?” he rasped between kisses, his voice hoarse and fraying. His grip on your waist tightened. “I’ll never let you go. Not again. Not after this.”

His hand slid to your chin, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look away. Couldn’t hide.

“Caleb…” you breathed, voice barely audible.

But he silenced you with another kiss—softer this time, but no less consuming. Like a vow. Like a brand.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, voice laced with a possessiveness that throbbed like a second heartbeat. “No one else’s. I don’t care if I’m a beta. I’ll still leave my mark. You’ll feel me on your skin long after this night ends.”

And then—his fingers moved to your scarf.

Delicate. Careful. He pulled it loose with a slow, reverent touch, like he was unwrapping something sacred. The fabric slid down your shoulders, baring your neck to the cold—and to him.

He inhaled sharply, jaw tightening. His mouth descended to your throat, kissing a path down to the curve of your neck. He didn’t bite—couldn’t. But his lips suckled, claiming the hollow beneath your ear with a heated kiss that bloomed into a bruise. Then another. And another. A constellation of hickeys. His version of a claim.

Marks that would speak in his stead.

Without warning, Caleb surged forward, capturing your lips again in a kiss that left no room for air. His arm curled around your back, yanking you flush against him, while the other tangled at the nape of your neck.

Then—the click of the car door behind you, and everything spun.

He guided you back inside—not gently. Desperately. Years of restraint crashed into the leather seat with you. The door slammed shut. The outside world vanished.

Windows fogged instantly. Body heat swirled like smoke, thick with breath and want and something more ancient than both.

He hovered above you now—knees braced, eyes blazing. He shrugged off his fleet coat in one smooth motion and tossed it aside, the heavy fabric hitting the dash with a muffled thud. Then his lips were at your jaw. Your collarbone. Your pulse point. Kissing, claiming, breathing in the shape of you.

And just when his teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your neck—he stopped.

Not out of hesitation.

But because he needed you to want this too.

Caleb stilled, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath ragged. His Evol buzzed faintly beneath your skin, the gravity of his restraint almost stronger than the pull of his need.

“I…” he murmured, voice shaking with the effort to hold himself back, “Do you want to keep going?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze.

Sunset eyes, burning.

“Because we can still stop. Right now. If you’re not sure… just say it, and I swear I’ll—”

But you silenced him the only way that mattered.

You kissed him—hard, fierce, a tidal wave crashing into him. One hand fisting in his undersuit, the other guiding his fingers beneath the hem of your coat.

You weren’t stopping. Not now. Not after everything.

After you guide his hand beneath your coat, Caleb moves like a dam breaking—no longer tentative, no longer gentle. But still careful. So careful. Like he’s cradling the divine and the forbidden in one trembling touch.

His palms find the warmth of your skin beneath your clothes—silken-soft and undeniably yours. He groans against your mouth the moment his fingers trace the curve of your waist, then slide lower, dragging your shirt up inch by inch until he’s cupping bare flesh, his thumbs brushing beneath the soft rise of your ribs like he’s mapping constellations there.

Your legs part instinctively, knees bent as you sink deeper into the leather seat, and he shifts between them with the sound of his breath hitching against your cheek. The pressure of him—hard, hot, achingly there—presses against your core through the barrier of clothing. You roll your hips once, testing, teasing, and the growl that rumbles from deep in his chest makes your walls flutter around nothing.

“Shit,” he curses, pulling back just enough to look at you. His lips are kiss-bruised. His pupils blown wide. “You’re so—fuck, I need to feel you.”

The seat reclines with a jolt as he adjusts the lever, easing you back with trembling urgency. Outside, snow continues to tap against the windshield in soft, rhythmless patterns. Inside, the air thickens—breath and body heat fogging every inch of glass.

He peels your coat off with care, like it’s the last layer separating him from something holy. Your top rides up, baring the soft curve of your chest. And when he sees your bra—black, lacy, delicate against flushed skin—he stills.

You both do.

Because this is the first time you’ve truly been bare like this in front of him. Last night had been fever-drenched, hazy, your mind lost to instinct. But now? Now you’re sober. Now you feel it.

Caleb looks at your face, then down at your chest.

He brushes his knuckles along the edge of your bra, his touch featherlight. “Black,” he murmurs, eyes darkening. “Did you… prepare for this?”

Your face burns. You drape your arm across your eyes. “Maybe. But…”

Your voice falters to a whisper. “I haven’t done this before. I always rode through my heats alone.”

Something inside him breaks . The storm behind his eyes settles just slightly, tempered by something tender and raw.

You pause. Breath shivering.

“Have you… done this before?” The question slips out before you can stop it, quiet and almost childlike. You weren’t sure what answer you were hoping for. But the idea of him doing this with someone else—

His hands still. Caleb lifts his head.

And something softens in his eyes. Something ancient and aching.

“No,” he breathes, voice thick. “Never.”

He swallows, like he’s peeling truth from the root of his throat.
“There was… no one else. Not after you. Not when all I ever wanted was you.”

He kisses your temple. “I didn’t want anyone else to touch me. Or to know me. Not like this.”

He leans down and presses his forehead to yours. Then kisses you again. Hard. Desperate. Tongue sliding against yours like he needs it—needs you—to tether him back to earth.

His hands return to your chest, fingers kneading your breasts through the lace, slow and reverent, until you whimper beneath him. He rips his mouth from yours, panting, his voice ragged.

“You drive me insane ,” he says, lips trembling against your cheek. “Makes me want to ruin you.”

And then—he gives in.

The bra strap snaps. The lace tears.

He rips it clean off.

You gasp as the chill hits your skin, nipples pebbling under his heated gaze. His pupils dilate as he stares—like a man witnessing divinity. Like you’re more than just a want—you’re a hunger.

“Gods,” he whispers hoarsely. “I can’t believe this is real.”

“Caleb…” you breathe. “Please…”

That’s all it takes.

He dives forward, mouth latching onto one of your nipples, sucking hard enough to make you cry out. His other hand pinches and rolls the other, and your back arches instinctively, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Caleb—!”

He alternates between licks, nips, and open-mouthed kisses, lavishing your breasts until they’re flushed and damp with his mouth, every nerve lit like wildfire. Your omega preens beneath him, drenched in instinct, trembling from the sheer overwhelm of being seen and devoured .

“Please…” you gasp. “I need—”

His hips grind against yours in reply, the friction sharp and perfect even through the layers between you. His cock strains hard beneath his pants, and you feel it with every roll of his hips—thick, unforgiving, right there.

Then—he goes lower.

One button. Then the next.

His eyes never leave yours as he undoes your jeans. “Lift your hips,” he murmurs, his voice gone low and rough.

You obey.

He strips your pants down in one smooth motion, and as the cool air kisses your thighs, you shiver, flushed and bare beneath him.

With a soft grunt, he adjusts your position with his Evol—gently maneuvering you toward the back of the car as the front seats fold and slide forward, creating space. You land atop the reclined leather, half-curled like an offering.

He presses a single, open-mouthed kiss to your navel. Then trails lower.

You suck in a breath the moment his mouth hovers over your clothed center—black lace stretched damp over your slick, soaked folds.

“You’re wearing lace, Pipsqueak?” he says with a low chuckle. “What—did you buy these just for me?”

“Maybe…” you whisper.

He noses at the fabric. Breathes you in.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice guttural. “You smell like heaven.”

And then—he licks you .

Long and slow, tongue dragging up the center of your panties. Your hips buck, a soft cry escaping as pleasure cracks down your spine.

“Caleb—!”

He doesn’t answer—just groans into your heat, mouth moving over the lace again and again, tasting you through the soaked fabric.

Then—he slides them off.

Slowly.

Your thighs tremble as your panties peel away, the air cool against slick skin. Caleb stares for a breathless second.

You’re glistening. Swollen. Slick-slick-slick.

“Fuck…” he rasps. “You’re dripping.”

He brushes his thumb over your folds, smearing your wetness in lazy circles. Then he leans down, and finally—finally—he parts you open with his fingers and devours you.

Tongue flat and firm. A deep groan rolling from his chest. He licks through you like he’s starving, like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out. Your thighs quake. Your hands fist in his hair.

He moans against your cunt—vibrating—and you choke on a sob.

“More—Caleb, please—”

He flattens his tongue and strokes over your clit with practiced precision, circling, teasing, then sucking hard. Your whole body bows off the seat, your mind splintering in every direction.

And the way he groans when you fall apart beneath his mouth?

It’s filthy. It’s worship.

And it’s only just begun.

The car was filled with obscene music—wet, messy sounds of his mouth working you open, his lips smacking, his tongue lapping, delving again and again into your slick folds like he was starved for it. Each stroke was a worship, a claim, and a ruin. His fingers bruised into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you steady, anchoring you down as he devoured you with wild, unrelenting abandon.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging hard at the messy strands as pleasure coiled tight, molten, inside you. Caleb groaned against your cunt—low, wrecked, ravenous—and the sound vibrated straight through your core.

His hands slid up your thighs, firm and unrelenting, pushing them farther apart like he was claiming space, like he wanted more. And then he buried his face between your legs, mouth pressed hot and wet to your dripping folds, nose nudging your clit as his tongue drove into your entrance—again and again—with maddening, rhythmic strokes.

Fuck.

You were soaked—slick and flushed and shaking. Your arousal smeared his chin, glistening in the low light as he devoured you with single-minded focus, as if you were his only need. Your hips rolled up to meet his mouth, desperate to grind your aching core against the heat of him. Every lick sent you higher. Every suck, every swirl of his tongue had your spine arching off the leather seat, your body chasing the edge with fevered need.

And then—
You felt them.

Two long fingers pressing into your slick heat, slow and deliberate, stretching you open in one smooth, devastating thrust. You cried out, back bowing, as he fucked you with his fingers—deep, precise, curling just right.

He found that spot inside you—the one that made your thighs shake and your voice break—and he didn’t let up. Not for a second. His mouth stayed on your clit, sucking and licking in time with every thrust, every wet pump of his fingers plunging into your walls.

The dual rhythm.
The friction.
The pressure.

It was too much.

You were spiraling, clenching around his fingers so tightly it felt like your body was trying to keep him there—drag him deeper, anchor him to the fire building in your core.

“I—Caleb—” Your voice cracked into a cry as you came.

Pleasure hit you like lightning—white-hot and all-consuming. Your whole body seized, then shattered, trembling with the force of it as wave after wave of ecstasy pulsed through you. Your cunt gushed around his fingers, slick pouring down onto the seat as he kept going, kept working you through it—fingers curling, tongue lapping, relentless.

Your thighs quivered around his head. Your hands fisted in his hair, holding him there like you couldn’t bear for it to end.

You gasped his name again—barely breath, barely sound—and the car filled with the scent of sex, of sweat and slick and something sacred.

Your orgasm dragged on, blinding and brutal, until finally, your body gave out—boneless, trembling, undone beneath him.

Your chest rose and fell in rapid waves, your skin damp and flushed, thighs still trembling around Caleb’s shoulders as he kissed his way up the inside of your leg—slow, reverent, savoring. His mouth hovered just above your hip, breath shaky. You could feel it—him—everywhere. The heat of his body between your thighs. The weight of his gaze, still heavy-lidded and wrecked with need.

Your fingers slipped into his hair again, this time gentler, brushing damp strands back from his face.

He looked up at you, lips swollen, jaw slick with your release. His eyes were molten.

“I told you I’d take care of you,” he whispered, voice hoarse with want. “But I’m not done. Not even close.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

Neither were you.

You sat up, the movement slow, liquid, as you pulled him closer by the collar of his undersuit. You kissed him—open-mouthed, hungry—tasting yourself on his tongue, tasting how ruined he’d become from nothing but your body.

“I want more,” you whispered against his mouth.

He inhaled sharply, his entire body stiffening beneath your touch.

You worked open the buckle, your fingers steady despite the tremble in your belly. Then the button. Then the zipper. And when your hand slipped beneath the waistband of his pants and into his briefs—

Your breath caught.

He was big.

Long, thick, hot, and already straining against the fabric, his cock curved heavy into your palm. You wrapped your fingers around him carefully—reverently—and he twitched in your grip, groaning low in his throat like the sound had been ripped straight from his chest.

Gods.

Your heart skipped.

How the hell is this going to fit? You bit your lip.

Is this... normal? 

Because Caleb was anything but average. You could feel the weight of him, the pulse, the sheer heat radiating off his skin. And suddenly, that sharp glint of possessiveness in his eyes made more sense. There was something about the way he held you, the way he growled your name—like he’d been holding back for years.

You looked up at him, cheeks flushed.

He was watching you. Watching the way your hand moved over him, slow and unsure at first, then more confidently when he throbbed in your palm.

His voice came out rough, almost broken. “Baby… if you keep doing that I’m gonna—fuck—” he clenched his jaw, the veins in his neck standing out.

You leaned forward, lips brushing against his ear.

“Then don’t hold back,” you whispered.

And oh, he wouldn’t.

Not anymore.

Your hand worked him in slow, steady strokes—slick now with his precum, your palm gliding effortlessly over his length. Caleb’s head tipped back against the car seat, throat bared, breath ragged and uneven. His jaw clenched like he was holding on to the last thread of sanity.

“Fuck—baby—” he groaned, hips jerking up into your hand despite himself. “I’m not… I’m not gonna last if you keep—”

But you didn’t stop.

You stroked him again, firmer this time, your thumb teasing the flushed head of his cock. A drop of slick heat gathered at the tip, and your fingers spread it down his shaft like you were learning him—committing every inch to memory.

Caleb’s entire body tensed. His hands flew to your wrist, halting your movements. Not rough. Not demanding. Just desperate.

He looked at you—eyes wild, pupils blown so wide they nearly swallowed the soft amethyst ring around them.

“Please,” he whispered, voice broken. “I need to be inside you. I—shit—please , let me feel you.”

The raw want in his voice punched the breath from your lungs.

He wasn’t just asking.

He was begging.

And gods, the thought of it—this war-hardened colonel, this beta who moved through life with quiet restraint—reduced to a trembling man on the edge of ruin, begging to be buried in your heat—

It undid something in you. You reached up, cupping his cheek—the one Xavier had grazed earlier in that almost-fight. The bruise was faint, blooming just beneath the skin. Your thumb brushed it, tender and reverent.

He looks so good, even like this, you thought. Especially like this.

You nodded once. Silent. Breathless.

That was all he needed. He exhales like he just survived a war. “Good girl,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “My good fucking girl.”

His hands were on you instantly—pulling you into his lap, guiding your thighs around his hips, his cock heavy and hot pressed against your soaked core. He hissed through his teeth, forehead pressed to yours as you both trembled in anticipation.

“I’ll go slow,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint. “You tell me if it’s too much.”

And with one hand braced on the curve of your ass, the other guiding himself, Caleb eased the thick head of his cock against your entrance—

And started to push in.

Your back arched, spine taut with tension as Caleb pushed deeper, stretching you around his length inch by devastating inch. Your walls clenched, fluttering helplessly, trying to accommodate the thickness of him. It felt like too much—too full, too deep—and yet not nearly enough.

He didn’t stop until he was fully sheathed, buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush against yours, heavy and hot and there. You could feel the weight of him, the pulse of his cock throbbing deep inside your core, and the ache of the stretch that made your thighs quake.

You gasped—soft and trembling. “Oh…”

The sound was half-breath, half-whimper.

Caleb stilled. His hands cradled your hips, grounding you with his touch as he leaned over you, peppering your cheeks with gentle kisses—soft, reverent, shaking at the edges.

“Breathe,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

His voice, rough with restraint, melted against your skin. “You feel like heaven, baby. So warm, so tight—fuck, you’re perfect.”

He nuzzled your temple, one hand slipping beneath your knee to hook your leg around his waist, opening you even more to him.

“You’re taking me so well,” he murmured, awe woven into every syllable. “All of me… wrapped around me like you were made for this.”

The uncomfortable stretch didn’t last long, your body slowly adjusting as the tension turned into something else entirely. The yearning grew, your thoughts clouded by need. Every second he stilled inside you felt unbearable. You needed him to move.

“You can move now…” You whispered, breath hitching. Caleb obeyed, slowly at first—drawing back just enough for you to feel the sweet friction of separation, your walls clinging greedily to his length. Then he sank back in with a groan, one that trembled against your skin and echoed in your bones. The drag of his cock was maddening—slow, deliberate, sparking every nerve ending alight. And then he thrust harder, deeper, a rhythm blooming from restraint into hunger.

You gasped, fingers clawing at his back, hips lifting to meet his. It wasn’t just sensation—it was worship. Every thrust carved his presence deeper inside you, every slide a prayer to the god of need. He was everywhere—in your skin, your breath, your spine.

A moan broke from your lips, raw and choked as pleasure eclipsed pain, sweeping over you in dizzying waves “Hah, Caleb–”.

“That’s it, baby. You feel unreal.” He kissed along your jaw, down your throat—each press of his lips a vow. “You’re doing so good,” he murmured, voice thick and laced with love and lust. “My good girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He felt you begin to move with him, hips syncing in tandem to his own. Encouraged, he rocked into you again—deeper, harder. The sound of your bodies meeting was slick, obscene, and orchestral. Beneath it all, your breathless cries and the way he whispered your name like a man begging for salvation.

“I’m so deep inside you. Filling you up.” One hand slid down, fingers trailing between your bodies. He cupped you there, touching where you were joined, the soft press of his fingertips feeling the way your folds stretched to accommodate him.

You whined, parted lips quivering. His words burned into your skin, scattering your thoughts. He was hilted fully inside, his cock pulsing, his heavy balls cradled against you. You’d never felt so full. So utterly wrecked. And it still wasn’t enough.

A broken groan tore from his throat, his restraint hanging by a thread. “Wait, I need to feel…” he breathed, like he might explode. “I need to feel more of you…”

A soft, helpless mewl escaped your lips. “More..?” you echoed, voice trembling.

Snow continued to fall in soft percussion outside the fogged windows, but inside the car, only the wet rhythm of skin meeting skin and your stuttering moans filled the space.

He kissed your cheek, gentle in contrast to the grip that tightened around your thighs. He lifted them—easily, reverently—his strength coiling around you as he pushed your legs up and back, folding you nearly in half. Your knees met your chest, ankles hooked behind his neck, calves draped over his broad shoulders. 

Caleb leaned down, bracing himself on his elbows, caging you in with his body, then began to thrust again—deep, hard, unrelenting. Each drive of his hips forced the breath from your lungs as he slammed into you, cock kissing your cervix with every perfect, devastating plunge.

Your body was trembling, split open beneath him, legs hooked over his shoulders as Caleb pounded into you with devastating precision. The car rocked with every thrust, windows fogged beyond visibility, coated in the breathless heat between your bodies. His cock dragged against every nerve-ending inside you, deep and thick and relentless—like he was trying to etch himself into your very soul.

He leaned in and captured your lips in a kiss that melted—slow and deep, his tongue brushing against yours in a tender rhythm that spoke more of reverence than hunger. Your hands slid into his hair, holding him close, as if the world outside could wait just a little longer.

“Fuck—so good,” he gasped, watching your breasts bounce with every snap of his hips. “You’re perfect. So fucking perfect, baby.”

You couldn’t speak—your mouth open, panting, eyes glassy with tears that hadn’t even fallen yet. The stretch was divine. His weight over you, the pressure, the closeness—gods, it was too much and not enough at once.

His hands cupped the back of your thighs, keeping you folded, keeping you vulnerable. You felt completely taken, completely claimed—even if no mark was there. But that didn’t stop him.

Caleb’s mouth descended to your chest again, this time not just to worship, but to leave proof. His lips latched onto the soft curve of your breast, sucking hard until he pulled a cry from your throat.

Then another, just below your collarbone.

Then again—this time on your neck, dangerously close to where a claiming bite should go.

“Mine,” he rasped, voice dark and low and trembling as he kissed and sucked another mark onto your skin. “Even if it doesn’t show. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

You gasped as he rocked his hips harder, deeper, angling up just right so every thrust battered your sweetest spot. “C-Caleb—!” Your voice broke as the coil inside you threatened to snap again.

“I know, baby.” His lips brushed your jaw. “You’re gonna come for me again, aren’t you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He slammed his hips against yours with a renewed fervor, while his finger found your swollen clit circling it fast and tight. You cried out, bucking beneath him your legs shaking violently around his shoulders. 

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come on. Come for me again. I want to feel you fall apart.”

And fall apart you did.

Your world shattered as your orgasm tore through you—your walls clenching around him in rhythmic spasms. A strangled cry left your lips, and your nails raked down his back, painting red trails across his skin as you held on for dear life. The pleasure drowned you, wave after wave crashing through your nerves in blissful ruin.

But Caleb didn’t stop.

Even as you trembled through the aftershocks, he kept moving—his thrusts relentless, chasing the high he hadn’t yet reached. The slick, wet sound of your overstimulated cunt echoed in the cramped space, each lewd slap of skin on skin an obscene symphony. You felt everything—his cock still dragging along your fluttering walls, each thrust maddening in your oversensitive state.

“I—can’t,” you whimpered, breath hitched. “It’s too much…” Your hands pushed weakly at his chest, trembling with effort, but you didn’t really want him to stop. You were overwhelmed—but not unwilling.

“Shh. I’ve got you,” Caleb murmured, his voice thick with need yet soft with care. His pace faltered slightly, not in desperation but devotion, as he leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours, grounding you in his heat, his breath, his presence.

“I need to fill you up,” he whispered hoarsely, trembling. “Let me take care of you.”

You let out a soft, broken moan—your omega keening in pleasure despite your trembling, overstimulated cunt. Every nerve was lit with fire, but it was his fire—and you wanted to burn in it.

Caleb’s thrusts grew messy now, urgent, every stroke staking a claim. His lips trailed open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, branding you with his mouth. Each kiss whispered devotion, each thrust declared you his.

“You’re mine,” he breathed raggedly, the words a sacred vow, heavy and shaking. “Just mine. I love you so much.”

Eyes brimming, you clung to him, arms around his neck as if the only thing tethering you to the earth was him.

“I’m yours, Caleb,” you whispered, voice cracking. “And I love you more.”

The moment shattered him.

“F-Fuck, I’m not gonna last—” he gasped, voice torn, hips slamming into you one final time.

And then, with your name gritted through his teeth like a prayer to the gods, Caleb came—hard.

You felt it—a sudden bloom of heat flooding inside you, his cock twitching as he pulsed deep within, his release spilling in long, aching waves. Each surge sent a shiver through your body, and your own breath caught in your throat as you clung to him—every shudder, every tremble, shared like a secret only the two of you could understand.

His whole body collapsing into you not out of weakness, but reverence. Like his soul had just spilled along with his seed.

Then—softness.

Caleb kissed you. Not with lust, but with love. Slow, tender, as if he were afraid you’d dissolve beneath his lips. As if he still couldn’t believe you were real and warm and his.

Gently, he lowered your legs from his shoulders, his hands never rough, never rushed. He eased them down with almost sacred care, like he was tucking away something precious. His breathing was still uneven as he braced himself above you, arms trembling slightly, trying not to press his weight into your trembling frame.

You could see it in his eyes—the lingering daze of release, yes, but also a wonder, raw and stunned, like he’d just witnessed the birth of a new universe inside you.

He stayed close. Not moving. Not speaking. Just breathing in tandem with you in the afterglow. The air was thick with warmth—the mingled heat of your bodies mixing with the low hum of the car’s heater and the rhythm of your hearts.

Outside, the snow still fell, tapping against the windows in soft, muted patterns.

Inside, the world had narrowed to just the two of you.

He curled into your side, pulling you against his chest. One arm coiled protectively around your waist, the other reaching up to brush slow, soothing circles along your shoulder—grounding you, cherishing you.

You could feel his lips press one last kiss to your temple.

And for the first time in what felt like forever… you were safe. Held. Loved.

You woke up sore in places you didn’t know could ache—deep in your thighs, the base of your spine, even the delicate muscles behind your knees. But it wasn’t pain, not really. It was a warm, humming ache. The kind that lingers after being thoroughly loved.

And there he was.

Caleb, shirtless, his back turned to you as he pulled on a pair of loose sweatpants low on his hips. Your nest of him you piled up in his bedroom the few days before had migrated into your room at some point—his Fleet-issued coat draped over your chair, his worn hoodie now doubling as your blanket. 

His scent was everywhere now. Soothing. Anchoring. Yours. Familiar and comforting, yet—somehow different this morning. There was something new layered beneath the familiar comfort of wood and tea leaves. Something warmer. Wilder. You couldn’t place it, and maybe that’s why it lingered.

“Morning, girlfriend,” he murmured when he caught you peeking at him through heavy lashes. He smirked, soft and boyish. “You’re staring.”

You groaned, stretching with a wince. “Can you blame me? I get to call this fine piece mine now.”

That earned you a laugh—and then a kiss. He leaned over, brushing his lips over your forehead, then your nose, before finally catching your mouth in a lazy morning kiss. You tasted sleep and Caleb’s warmth and a promise unspoken.

And it hit you then. Girlfriend. Boyfriend.

He wasn’t just your gege anymore, the boy who always walked two steps ahead and ruffled your hair like you were something too soft to touch.

And you weren’t just his little meimei anymore, the girl he had to protect from everything—including himself.

“You love wearing my shirt, don’t you?” he whispered against your lips, breaking you from your thoughts as a hand dipped beneath the hem to palm your waist. “Not that I’m complaining. You look better in my clothes anyway.”

You buried your face into his chest with a giggle, half-hiding your flustered grin. “It’s comfy. And smells like you.”

He hummed, pleased, then pressed another kiss into your temple. “Stay in bed. I’ll make you breakfast.”

Which he did.

Clumsily, adorably, he padded around your kitchen in only his pants and your apron—cracking eggs with one hand, balancing toast with the other. The coffee pot sputtered in the background while sunlight streamed through the curtains, painting gold into the strands of his tousled hair.

When he returned with a tray—scrambled eggs, burnt toast, and fresh-cut fruit—you laughed.

“Are you applying for a new job now? Be my househusband?”

He gave you a mock-serious nod. “Only if it comes with unlimited access to your bed and an exclusive kissing contract.”

You snorted and pulled him down by his shoulder for a kiss. 

That afternoon , after he’d convinced you to stay in bed a little longer (and several more kisses), he coaxed you into lying back down. Caleb sat at the edge of the mattress, gently kneading your sore thighs with his thumbs. You moaned, half in pain and half in pleasure as he worked through the knots he’d put there.

“Ugh, this is embarrassing,” you muttered, biting your knuckle.

“Why?” he asked, grinning like the bastard he was. “You did such a good job last night. You deserve the royal treatment.”

You flicked his forehead. “You’re such a smug little punk.”

He winked. “A smug little punk who made you walk funny.”

Your pillow hit his face, but he caught it easily—then tossed it aside just to pull you into his lap again.

Later that night , the snow fell endlessly outside the window. And inside the quiet hush of your bedroom, the two of you sprawled in bed, bare-chested and soft with sleep and afterglow. His fingers traced idle lines across your back while your cheek rested against his chest, the slow thump of his heartbeat matching yours.

Your neck and collarbones bloomed with hickeys, faint bruises painted across your skin like constellations.

He traced one with the pad of his thumb, guilty. “Sorry. Got a little carried away.”

You smiled. “I liked it. They remind me that you were here.” You looked up at him, eyes soft, voice shy. “Can I… give you one too?”

His brows lifted. “You want to?”

You nodded, a gentle blush crawling up your neck. “I just… want you to have a piece of me too.”

A quiet pause.

Then he leaned back against the pillows, tilting his head slightly in invitation. “Yours,” he said softly.

You shifted on top of him, straddling his hips gently. With careful fingers, you brushed your lips over his chest, trailing down the curve of his sternum. You kissed along his collarbone, lips brushing his flushed skin, drunk on the feeling of him—of being loved like this, of being wanted.

Then, with a mischievous little grin, you pressed your mouth to his chest and sucked gently, planting a bruise just beneath his collarbone.

Caleb shivered.

“There,” you whispered, admiring your handiwork. “Since betas can’t do bite marks... I’m painting you with hickeys instead.”

Your fingers traced lazy circles along his sternum, your voice light and teasing. “Blue and purple look good on you, Colonel.”

Caleb chuckled beneath you, breath warm against your temple. “Blue and purple look good on me, huh?”

“Very,” you whispered. “Like battle scars from your girlfriend.”

His gaze onto you suddenly shifted—darkened. And the next thing you knew, he’d shifted—swift and smooth. You gasped softly as he flipped you gently onto your stomach, his hands bracketing your hips, his chest pressed to your back. The weight of him was grounding. Heavy. Warm. Arousing.

“Caleb?” you murmured, glancing back over your shoulder.

He didn’t answer—not immediately.

Instead, he buried his nose in your hair, drawing in a deep breath like he couldn’t get enough of you. He nuzzled down, his lips grazing the curve of your neck, then lower. His breath hitched as he pressed his mouth to your scent gland. He lingered there. Breathing you in. Like it soothed something restless inside him. Or fed it.

Then—he licked it.

His tongue was hot and flat against your skin, dragging up your neck with a slow, possessive lap—like a cat marking you as his.

Your body shuddered.

“Caleb…?” you whispered, uncertain now. “Are you okay? What are you doing?”

He froze. Just for a second.

Then he blinked like he was waking from a trance and slowly eased you back to face him.

“I don’t know,” he murmured hoarsely, brushing a hand down your side, as if grounding himself. “I’m sorry. I just… I needed to feel you.”

You stared up at him, heartbeat thudding in your throat.

But he didn’t pull away.

He kissed you instead—deep and slow. No rush, no fear, only hunger veiled in devotion. The kind of kiss that undoes you with its quiet desperation. You melted against him, sighing into his mouth as his hands roamed back down, anchoring you once more.

And whatever it was—whatever strange new current hummed beneath his skin—neither of you questioned it.

Not tonight.

Not when the night was still young. Not when his body fit so perfectly against yours. And so you let him guide you back beneath the sheets, where the quiet hours blurred into each other—an endless haze of mouths, whispered 'I love you's' and tangled limbs, over and over until your legs were trembling again and the stars outside had long since faded into dawn.

Chapter Text

The screen of your terminal blinked back at you, lines of data scrolling in neat precision, but your attention strayed every few minutes to the quiet vibration of your phone tucked against your thigh. Caleb had been messaging since early morning, as if the miles of distance between you were unbearable.

Caleb: Did you eat breakfast? Don’t tell me coffee counts.
You: …guilty.
Caleb: Princess, you’ll be running on fumes. You’ll collapse before noon.
You: And then you’d get to sweep me up dramatically in your arms. Sounds like a win for you, Colonel.
Caleb: You know I’d do it without hesitation.

Your lips curled despite yourself. He wasn’t in front of you, yet the warmth of his tone bled through the sterile white glow of your office. Still, your body betrayed you; soreness lingered in your thighs, a faint heaviness under your skin that made you shift uncomfortably in your chair.

A sharp knock on your desk jolted you. Tara leaned in, eyes sharp and mischievous as ever. “Well, well. Someone’s glowing today.”

You raised a brow. “Glowing? I look half-dead.”

She smirked, leaning closer, her nose crinkling. “Don’t play innocent. You reek of something.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, don’t act clueless. That’s not your usual scent, bestie. It’s… thicker.” Tara tapped her chin, feigning deep thought. “Heavy. Like someone’s been rolling around with you all night.”

You  groaned and covered your face with your hands. “You’re imagining things.”

She cackled, dropping into the chair beside you. “Imagining? Please. If you didn’t want people to notice, maybe you shouldn’t come in looking like your legs gave out halfway up the stairs.”

You  swatted at her arm, laughing despite the prickling in your chest. “Shut up, Tara.”

“Mm-hm,” she sang, standing again. “Whoever he is… lucky bastard.” She winked and left you stewing in my embarrassment.

The vibration against your leg pulled my gaze downward again. Caleb.

Caleb: Everything alright? You went quiet.
You: Just Tara being… Tara. Don’t worry.
Caleb: Is she giving you a hard time?  You: Relax, Colonel. She’s harmless.
Caleb: So you say. I don’t like the idea of anyone bothering you.

Your chest squeezed at his protectiveness, ridiculous as it was. He had no idea how obvious his care was, even when hidden behind clipped words.

You tucked your phone away just as the meeting reminder chimed across your terminal. With a sigh, you gathered your files and strode down the hall toward the hunters’ briefing room. The moment you  rounded the corner, you nearly collided with a solid chest. Strong hands steadied you by the shoulders.

“Watch your step,” Xavier said, voice low, his sharp brows furrowing as he took me in.

“I’m fine,” you assured quickly, stepping back. His gaze, however, lingered too long.

He tilted his head, nostrils flaring slightly. “You smell…” His words trailed into a frown, suspicion darkening his eyes. “Different. What happened to you?”

Panic fluttered in your chest, but you forced a laugh. “Nothing happened. Maybe I’m just… still recovering from you know... You know how it is.”

His frown deepened. “If you’re unwell, you should have rested more. Forcing yourself only makes things worse.”

“I said I’m fine, Xavier.” Your tone sharpened, a wall between you. “I can handle myself.”

He searched your face for a moment longer, but finally stepped aside with a clipped nod. “Don’t push it too far.” Xavier knew, or rather had an inkling as to what’s brewing underneath that bravado of yours.

You brushed past him, heart thudding. The weight of his suspicion clung like a shadow. You try to erase from your memory the awkward tension that you encountered with him, mere days prior, with Caleb and him like pit-fighting cocks in the parking lot. Maybe you'll deal with that next time. 

Inside the briefing room, Captain Jenna’s voice rang clear and commanding as she rattled off assignments. You sat, head bent over your notes, trying to disappear into the background. Your hand lifted automatically, twisting your hair into a bun at the nape of your neck. A sharp gasp beside you made your pen still. Your seatmate—one of the newer recruits—was staring at you, wide-eyed, mouth parted.

“What?” You whispered, but your voice trembled.

They only shook their head quickly, glancing away. Heat spiked through you. You dropped your hands, letting your hair fall back down to cover the nape of your neck, forcing your attention to the captain’s words though your pulse roared in your ears.

As soon as the meeting ended, you bolted for the bathroom.

The bathroom was mercifully empty, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly against the hush of running water from a distant sink. Cold tile reflected the sterile glow, and the sting of disinfectant filled your lungs with every breath. You stumbled to the mirror, hands gripping the porcelain sink until your knuckles whitened. Your hair fell forward, curtain-like, shielding you as you dared to tug it away from your neck.

At first, you saw nothing but pale skin flushed from your rush. Then, slowly, the mark came into focus—dark, mottled, swelling faintly at the edges.

A bite.

Your stomach lurched. Trembling fingers brushed the bruise, tracing shallow impressions where teeth had broken skin but not deep enough to seal. Not clean, not complete, but unmistakable.

Your throat tightened. “No… no, no, no.” The whisper clawed out of you before you could stop it.

You shut your eyes, willing it to fade, to disappear. Maybe it was just a bruise. Maybe Caleb had—had bitten too hard in the heat of the moment, nothing more.

But the ache beneath your skin throbbed differently. Alive. Almost as if it pulsed in time with your heartbeat.

A flash of his mouth against your neck lit behind your eyelids, his low voice tangled with your own cries. He hadn’t meant it, you’d asked for it—

Your nails dug into the porcelain, breath coming shallow. “But he’s… he’s a beta. Wasn’t he?”

The fluorescent light hummed overhead, deaf to your panic. You stared at your reflection—wild-eyed, hair tumbling loose around your face, lips parted on a gasp that felt like it might split you in two. The bite burned beneath your fingertips, stubborn, defiant.

And no matter how hard you pressed, it did not vanish.

The first rays of morning light filtered through the curtains, soft amber spilling across the room. It was that golden hour where everything felt suspended in warmth, where the world seemed to pause just for you. Today was your last day of sick leave, and the thought of Caleb returning to Skyhaven tonight made your heart flutter. 

You stretched beneath the blankets, tangled in soft sheets, a lazy yawn escaping. Caleb shifted beside you, the familiar warmth of him brushing against your shoulder.

“Morning,” he murmured, lips brushing the top of your shoulder.

“Morning,” you replied, reaching up to play with the short strands of hair falling across his forehead.

“Movie marathon today,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “Blankets, snacks, my cooking… chicken wings included.”

Your lips curved into a smile. “Your wings? Best in the world.”

He chuckled, dragging a hand down your arm, squeezing gently. “Then they’re yours today. All of them.”

“And movies?” you asked, mock-serious.

“You pick,” he said, kissing your temple. “I’m only here for you.”

The morning stretched in cozy contentment—soft touches, laughter, shared blankets, whispered confessions. You leaned into him whenever he passed close, savoring a warmth that felt entirely yours.

Later, steam curled around the bath like mist. You perched on the vanity table, robe loose, while Caleb stood behind you, towel low on his hips. He dried your hair with patient care, his breath warm with your shampoo’s scent and his faint cologne.

“You’ve been quiet,” he murmured, brushing your nape.

“I… I was thinking about the other night,” you admitted softly, tilting your head to give him better access.

His fingers paused, brushing absentmindedly over your neck. “I… didn’t know what happened either,” he said honestly, voice low. “I just…” His hands slid to your shoulders, massaging tension away with firm, careful pressure.

A soft moan slipped from you, unplanned and urgent.

Caleb’s lips twitched into a grin. “Oh? That good?”

“You know it is,” you murmured, closing your eyes. The sensation of his hands, the heat radiating from his towel-covered hips, the faint scrape of fabric against your skin—it was too much to ignore.

Before you could respond, he slid the bathrobe from your shoulders.

“Hey—what’s this?” you teased, catching the edge of the fabric as if it could slow him down. “We just… finished bathing, didn’t we?”

“I love hearing you,” he murmured, lips brushing your neck. “And since I’m leaving tonight, I need more than echoes.”

Caleb bent down, set aside the hair dryer and traced kisses down your collarbone, feather-light and deliberate. Laughter caught in your throat before his mouth claimed yours, teeth grazing, tongues tangling, the world melting away into heat and want.

In a swift motion, he lifted you onto the counter, stepping between your thighs.

Moans spilled between kisses, raw and unrestrained. One hand tangled in your hair, the other slid beneath your robe, pressing against your slick heat. You clutched his towel, already aware of the hardness straining beneath.

“All that kissing already making you hard?” you teased breathlessly.

“And I could say the same about you,” his voice hoarse, hungry, filled with want. "You're soaked." He added teasingly.

“Well, you know how I am and my current state, do you?” you countered with a soft, teasing chuckle, “so, naturally, I’m… reactive. That’s just slick, Caleb.” You kissed him again, pressing into him.

This time he wasted no moments. The robe slipped from your shoulders entirely, and your head fell back as he worshiped you—kissing, nipping, trailing from your jaw, down your neck, across your collarbone. His mouth found your nipples, sucking and teasing while his hands groped and explored the other, mapping your body with hungry reverence.

One leg lifted, your folds glistening beneath his touch, he slipped a digit inside, moving slow, and intoxicating. Your body clenched instantly, hips pressing against him as he continued, fingers teasing, mouth devouring. Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more, craving every touch.

“Caleb… enough with the foreplay,” you gasped, voice tight with desire.

“Always impatient, pipsqueak,” he teased, eyes dark and smoldering, but you simply raised an eyebrow, defiance and want mixing in your gaze. Freeing him from the towel, you guided him to your wet cunt.

A shared gasp, a moan, and then you melted together.

Caleb carried you off from the vanity and turned you around, all the while he's inside you. 

You press your hands against the cool vanity, chest thrust forward, back arched. Caleb stands close behind you, body flush against yours—one hand gripping your hip to steady you, the other roaming over your curves. His lips capture yours in a deep, hungry kiss. As you tilt your head slightly, you catch your reflection in the mirror; doubled the heat rising in your chest.

Tongues tangle and teeth graze softly, breath hot against your skin. One hand slides between you, fingers brushing and pressing your glistening clit as he thrusts slowly, deep and deliberate. His other hand cups your breast, thumb circling the nipple, making every motion a delicious torment.

“You’re so turned on,” he murmured, voice teasing in your ear. “Didn’t know you liked watching…”

A shiver coursed through you. His thrusts grew deeper, each one stealing breath. His other hand cupped your breast, thumb circling the nipple in perfect counterpoint to the rolling of his hips.

“Caleb… harder…” you gasp, voice trembling. His hand continues teasing, fingers stroking your sensitive folds in time with his movements, while your other hand curls around his shoulder, pulling him closer, craving every inch.

He chuckled low. “Greedy little omega. All mine.”

The rhythm intensified, heat rising with every precise thrust.

“I… want… bite…” you begged, voice breaking. “Please… Caleb…”

His hand tightens on your hip, knuckles whitening. There’s a brief flicker in his eyes—hesitation—but only for a fraction. Teeth graze the tender skin of your neck, teasing, testing, and your body shivers violently at the sensation.

Then, with a low growl, he sank his teeth in—sharp, unrelenting. Fire ripped through you, pain and pleasure colliding. His thrusts grew rougher, urgent, as he held you tight against him, keeping you upright, neck bared to his bite.

You cried out, vision swimming, body shaking as the bite anchored you to him. His weight, his teeth, the relentless drive inside you sent you spiraling.

“K-Keep… going…” you whine, voice shaking, fingers gripping the edge of the counter, begging for more.

Caleb groaned, chest vibrating against your back, jaw locked around your skin as he pounded deeper. His release broke first, a guttural roar as he spilled into you, thrusts erratic but unyielding.

The climax tore through you in tandem, convulsions wracking your body, heat flooding every nerve. The bite seared into your neck, woven into the waves of your orgasm, leaving you utterly lost in him.

The kaleidoscope of sensation fades, leaving only the pulse of his bite imprinted on your skin, raw and tender, throbbing with every heartbeat. You remember the warmth of his body collapsing against yours, the way his breath had shaken, the way his arms had cradled you as if you were the only anchor holding him steady.

But now—standing in the fluorescent glow of the bathroom, the cool tiles under your palms—your reflection tells a different story.

You lean closer to the mirror, breath uneven. The spot on your nape is swollen, dark, bruised with the unmistakable impression of teeth. Not fading. Not healing the way it should.

Your hand trembles as you trace it, the edges raised, almost tender enough to sting at your touch. A gasp claws its way out of your throat before you can stop it.

“He’s… a beta,” you whisper to yourself, voice breaking. “That shouldn’t… this isn’t possible…”

The memory crashes over you again—the heat of his growl, the sharpness of his bite, the way your body had unraveled in perfect sync with his. Horror and longing twist in your chest, an ache so deep it threatens to split you open.

You stumble back from the mirror, fingers clutching at the collar of your uniform as if you could shield the bruise from sight. Your heart hammers against your ribs, each beat echoing louder in your ears, thoughts tangling into a snare of fear and disbelief.

You barely remembered shoving papers into your bag. Jenna’s voice still carried across the conference table, mid-sentence about deployments, when you got to your chair.

“I—sorry, I need to leave. Emergency.”

The room hushed. Dozens of eyes followed you as Jenna blinked, confusion flickering in her gaze. You didn’t stop to explain. Your legs moved before your mind caught up, heels clicking hard against the sterile corridor, every step fueled by the phantom burn of teeth on your skin. The drive was endless. Streetlights smeared into pale streaks across the windshield. Your grip locked white-knuckled on the wheel. Every stoplight, every crawl of traffic stretched the ache in your chest tighter, your breath shallow as if the mark itself strangled the air out of you. By the time you reached the hospital, your nerves were frayed raw.

The clinic smelled of antiseptic and silence. You sat stiffly on the edge of the exam bed, hunter’s jacket still buttoned to your throat as though the stiff collar could shield what lay beneath. The fabric scratched against swollen skin, every brush reminding you of the bruise you hadn’t dared uncover.

The beta doctor’s fingers were impersonal, clinical, when they pressed the mark. The touch stung, sharp and real. He frowned, leaning closer under the harsh fluorescent light.

“This… is interesting,” he said at last. “The wound pattern resembles a mating bite.”

You froze. “That’s impossible. He’s—he’s a beta.”

The doctor adjusted his glasses, his expression measured. “Or perhaps not anymore. It isn’t common, but there are cases of late-blooming alphas. Sometimes all they need is… the right trigger.”

The words hit like cold water, sinking into you with merciless clarity.

A late bloomer. A trigger.

Heat clawed at your throat.

He shifted the lamp to illuminate the mark further, the yellowed edges still darkly bruised. “Yours, however, is incomplete. See here—the teeth didn’t lock down fully, which means the bond wasn’t properly sealed. That can lead to complications. You may feel phantom aches, disrupted pheromone regulation, or even psychosomatic cravings for your partner’s presence until the bond is resolved one way or another.”

Your throat tightened. “Resolved?”

“In layman’s terms,” he said gently, “either the bite must be completed, or it will fade into a scar—but the side effects may linger. Irritability, restless sleep, even heat irregularities in omegas. Some report anxiety-like symptoms or a… hollow sensation, as if something is perpetually unfinished.”

The nurse stepped forward, discreetly setting a tri-fold pamphlet into your hands. On the cover, clinical text blared: Late-Blooming Alphas & Incomplete Bonds: What You Need to Know.

You could barely register the neat diagrams and bullet points inside—lists of warning signs, treatment options, clinical notes about rare cases when alphas awakened after intimacy with an omega in heat.

The doctor’s voice cut through the haze. “When an alpha engages with an omega in heat, the pheromonal saturation can act as a catalyst. If your partner spent a prolonged period with you under those conditions, it’s not surprising that his instincts awakened.”

Your hands trembled in your lap. Memories swarmed—his week at your side, every shared breath, every kiss that left you boneless. His bite. The way your body had answered it like it belonged there.

Your stomach dropped. The doctor’s words echoed, relentless: not a beta anymore.

You barely remembered leaving the exam room, boots striking the tiled floor too fast, too loud. The collar of your hunter’s jacket cut into your throat as if it could hide the truth burning beneath.

The drive blurred, headlights bleeding into a smear until silver rails gleamed under the floodlights of the station. The Coelum Express hissed as its doors opened, and you stepped aboard.

The world narrowed to the train’s low hum beneath your boots, the phantom throb at your neck, and the single thought that drowned everything else.

Caleb. What have we done?

Everything about him is changing—his scent, his body, the very architecture of his instincts. For all his intellect, all his tactical foresight, this was the one thing Caleb Xia never saw coming. He always thought himself inadequate, unworthy, a poor mismatch for the omega he kept tucked in his heart. But now—now the gravity had shifted.

The colonel has been volatile, restless. Liam absorbs the brunt of his clipped words and sharp tone; the officers whisper in hushed voices the moment he leaves the room. They notice too—how his scent has sharpened, deepened, layered with something stronger than the quiet beta musk they were accustomed to. Something heavier, darker, simmering beneath his skin.

By the time the last meeting ends, his patience is threadbare. His adjutant hesitates at the door, uncertain, but Caleb dismisses him with a single look. The office door closes. Silence presses in.

And that’s when it hits him hardest.

The distance. The absence of you.

Caleb dropped into his chair, forearms braced against the desk, breath catching like he’d been struck. He could command armies, navigate the shifting lines of the deepspace, but he couldn’t command this—this ache that burrowed into his chest, raw and relentless.

He didn’t blame you. Never you. He blamed Skyhaven, blamed the kilometers of steel and sky that stretched between his post and your arms. He blamed the way your laughter had clung to him like sunlight, the way your warmth had seeped into his bones only to be ripped away again.

His uniform still carried the faintest ghost of your scent. It was maddening. Sweet, elusive, never enough. The memory of your mouth on his, the whimper you made when his teeth grazed your throat—fuck. His cock throbbed against the fabric of his pants, insistent, demanding.

He loosened his collar, but the heat stayed trapped beneath his skin. His body felt like it was burning alive, simmering from the inside out. The reports on his desk blurred, meaningless under the glare of the lamp. His eyes dragged to the window where Skyhaven’s towers glowed against the dark. And still—he felt nothing but the hollow in his chest where you should’ve been.

It had only been days since you left, but already the lack of you gnawed at him, clawed until it frayed every nerve. Every night without you stretched like a campaign fought against himself, a war of restraint he was steadily losing.

And for the first time in his life, Caleb Xia—Colonel of the Farspace Fleet, tactical genius, the man who could read a battlefield like a second language—gave in to something entirely primal.

Caleb sank back into his chair, the leather creaking beneath him as though it too strained to contain him. His gloves were long gone, tossed aside, and his trembling fingers tore at his belt until the buckle clattered against the desk. He cursed under his breath, yanking his trousers down just far enough to free himself.

His cock sprang free, flushed and heavy, already leaking at the tip. The cool air bit at him, but not nearly as much as the picture in his head—you, spread out beneath him, legs shaking, cunt dripping for him alone.

“Fuck…” he hissed, wrapping his hand tight around his length. Just the first stroke had his head falling back against the chair, breath catching sharp in his throat.

He saw you so vividly he almost smelled it—your slick soaking his thighs, your moans breaking raw against his ear as you arched to take him deeper. His fist pumped harder, precum smearing slick across his palm.

He imagined your nipples pebbling under his tongue, the little gasp you made when he scraped his teeth across them. He wanted to suck until you writhed, to mark every inch of you until you couldn’t hide who you belonged to. The thought made him throb painfully in his grip, his strokes turning frantic.

“You’d drive me insane if you were here,” he groaned, voice cracking with want. His thumb circled his tip the way he pictured your tongue teasing him—slow, cruel, until he snapped and fucked you like he meant to break you.

The lamp on his desk flickered, casting harsh light across sweat beading on his temple. Papers slid when his other hand slammed the desk for leverage, knuckles white as he jerked faster. The obscene sound of wet skin filled the office, echoing his ragged breath.

He pictured your body pinned beneath him, begging, slick clinging to him as he thrust so deep you’d scream his name. He wanted to ruin you, to fuck you until your legs gave out, until you were marked and wrecked and wholly his. 

Every thought tangled into one instinct: to bite, to own, to brand you as his in a way the whole fleet would smell on you.

The thought alone broke him. With a guttural snarl, he spilled hot over his hand, thick stripes streaking across his fist and desk. His chest heaved, abs locking tight as his climax wracked through him, leaving his thighs trembling.

For a long moment, only his ragged breathing remained. Papers lay scattered, some stained with the mess he’d made. He dragged a hand over his mouth, half in shame, half in disbelief at how badly he needed you.

But the aftershocks still twitched through his cock, demanding more. The hunger didn’t fade—it sharpened, coiling low in his gut. Even as his pulse slowed, his cock twitched stubbornly in his fist. He shouldn’t still be hard. He shouldn’t want this again soon. Something was happening to him, something he couldn’t control.

Because it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough until it was you beneath him—wet, ruined, begging—for him and no one else.

The next day came with no relief. If anything, the hunger gnawed sharper, burrowing under his skin until every word he spoke came out like a bark. Liam shadowed him, steady as ever, but the others—officers, cadets, staff—they had started whispering openly now. Not about his temper. About his scent.

He caught it in their faces: the twitch of nostrils, the way omegas stiffened when he passed, even betas giving him sidelong glances like they didn’t know what to do with the storm rolling off him. Caleb noticed, too—noticed everything. New notes of musk, salt, sweetness that had never reached him before. It was disorienting, like hearing a language he’d never studied but somehow understood.

And still, none of it mattered. None of it was yours.

By evening, the reports landed on command’s desk, and Caleb found himself sitting stiff on the infirmary stool, a sterile desk cutting him off from the man in the white coat.

The doctor—beta, neutral, steady—flipped through his chart without flinching. But his nurse, an omega, kept her mask fixed high on her face. Even so, her nose scrunched, sharp and involuntary, as if the very act of breathing near him was unbearable. Caleb’s new senses picked it up instantly, the sour recoil to her scent.

Not mine. Not my omega. 

The thought was alien, unfamiliar—yet it fit, snug and inevitable, like a lock finally snapping around a key. 

His fingers flexed against his knees, the leather of his gloves creaking.

“Well, according to the reports,” the doctor said at last, tone calm, clinical. “The irritability. The pheromonal shift. The heightened senses. None of this is pathology, Colonel. It is an adaptation.”

Caleb’s jaw tightened.

“You were registered beta,” the doctor went on. “But your system shows all the hallmarks of a late alpha bloom. It’s rare, but not unprecedented. A dormant genome triggered, instincts restructured. The body reorganizes itself under the right… conditions.” He tapped his pen against the chart, once, twice. “The most common trigger is prolonged, intimate exposure to an omega in heat. Especially one you’ve bonded with—formally or not.” 

The words landed like iron. Caleb’s throat clicked, dry.

The doctor did not soften. “This is not simply about classification. It is about consequence. Alphas are governed by cycle. Colonel—you are entering rut.”

The nurse shifted by the wall, eyes lowered, knuckles white around her clipboard. Caleb smelled her unease as plainly as ink on a page. Bitter. Wrong.

The doctor leaned forward, voice lower, more deliberate. “Understand me: ruts are not elective. The hypothalamus overrides higher reasoning. You may suppress with medication, but suppression worsens volatility. Isolation is an option, though the physical toll is… extreme. Or—” his gaze flickered, clinical but edged with caution—“you can resolve with an omega. It is what your body is building toward. Every hour you deny it, the pressure compounds. The hunger sharpens. Until control is no longer guaranteed.”

Heat crawled beneath Caleb’s uniform, sharper now that the words gave it shape. He forced his gaze down, away from the doctor, away from the nurse, away from anyone who wasn’t you.

Caleb stormed out of the infirmary without a word. The corridors parted for him, officers flattening against the walls, noses wrinkling as he passed. He didn’t see them—didn’t care. All he knew was the molten pressure in his veins, the pounding heat that made every step a battle against himself.

By the time he reached his quarters, the lock hissed shut behind him, and the mask shattered. His gloves were the first to go, then his belt, his jacket, each barrier stripped with a snarl as though fabric itself conspired against him.

The room grew thick with his scent, sharp and relentless, a storm of alpha musk he could no longer cage. Caleb collapsed onto the edge of the bed, cock already hard, throbbing as if mocking him. He cursed under his breath, wrapping his fist around himself like a man clinging to a lifeline.

One stroke. Two. Then nothing else existed but the fever in his blood and the phantom image of you—the only balm to his ruin.

Hours blurred. Maybe longer. Every release came like lightning, harsh, unsatisfying, wrung from him with brutal force. His thighs ached, sheets ruined, breath ragged as if he’d fought a war with his own body. And still it wasn’t enough. Never enough. The hunger only sharpened, growing crueler, darker, whispering what he already knew: no hand could sate him. Not unless it was yours.

At some point, exhaustion dragged him under. He slept fitful and fevered, the taste of your skin still burning the back of his tongue.

And then—

A shift. A drift in the air.

His lashes fluttered open. Breath hitched.

Because there it was.

That scent. Sweet, familiar, you.

It cut through the haze like sunlight through smoke, so achingly clear he thought he was dreaming. Caleb’s heart thundered in his chest, every nerve strung taut as he lifted his head, lungs straining, greedy, desperate.

Caleb jolted upright, tangled naked in sheets dampened with his sweat and seed. His muscles coiled, trembling, chest heaving as he dragged in breath after desperate breath. The blanket slipped from his hips, baring the hard line of his body but he didn't care. He couldn't care. 

A growl ripped out of him as his hands shot to the iron bedframe on the head of his bed as he helped himself stand. His knuckles blanched, veins straining, as if anchoring himself to the metal was the only thing keeping him from tearing the room apart in search of you. 

His nostrils flared, drinking it in. Drinking you in. That scent. That omega scent.

His omega. 

No—this wasn't a memory. This wasn’t fantasy.

You're here.