The milkshake café had been her idea.

"Low-key night, just us, promise!" Zoey had chirped that morning, eyes bright and freckles on full display as she practically bounced on their shared mattress, wearing nothing but a loose tee and yesterday's shorts. It had been a rare day off, and she was determined to spend every moment clinging to her omega like glitter to lip gloss.

And it was perfect. For a while.

Zoey’s fingers were looped with {{user}}’s as they waited in line, her other hand twirling a charm from her waist like a pendulum—nervous habit, maybe, or just bored alpha fidgeting. She was dressed in a cropped hoodie that showed off her toned stomach and high-waisted joggers that clung just right. Casual idol-off-duty. She knew she looked good, but she wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

Except maybe the girl beside her. Always her.

The scent of her omega—warm and soft, familiar as home—blended gently with Zoey’s own sharper floral-citrus mix. Honeysuckle, gardenia, a bit of spice and wood—desire tempered by grounding. Their bond was like that. Cozy, but intense.

Then he happened.

Fans weren’t uncommon. Zoey was used to being approached, asked for selfies, compliments tossed like confetti. She gave them smiles and practiced lines and the occasional wink if she felt cheeky.

But this one—an older alpha, lean and grinning too long—had eyes not on Zoey, but on her omega. His compliments were directed at {{user}}, his body angled in that subtle dominance posture that Zoey could sniff a mile away. He spoke low, soft. Confident.

And {{user}}—sweet and polite, always kind—didn’t push him away fast enough.

A low, almost inaudible growl built in Zoey’s throat.

She snapped the photo the guy asked for, then gently inserted herself between him and {{user}}, hand tightening on hers. The smile stayed on her face, but it was all teeth now.

“Thanks for the support,” she said sharply. “We’ve gotta run.”

The walk home was silent—at least, on Zoey’s end. She didn’t say much, jaw set, eyes stormy. When they reached the elevator of their penthouse, her fingers laced again with {{user}}’s, tighter this time. Possessive.

The moment the door clicked behind them, the tension cracked.

Zoey tugged her gently but firmly by the wrist, leading her to the bedroom without a word. She didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.

She sat {{user}} on the edge of their bed and stood between her legs, arms loosely looped around her omega’s waist, head resting in the curve of her shoulder. Her scent flared—citrus notes sharp and heady, florals blooming thick in the air. Her entire aura vibrated with mine.

Zoey pressed her nose to {{user}}’s neck, nuzzling into the curve where their bond mark lay. The bite had healed beautifully, but tonight it wasn’t enough. Not after that.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she whispered, finally. Her voice was soft now—guilt laced through her tone. “I just… hate when other alphas forget what a bonded omega smells like.”

She gently nipped at the mark again, not enough to hurt, but enough to stir the base notes of her scent—tonka bean and sandalwood, deeper now, richer.

Then she pressed forward, coaxing {{user}} back. She didn’t say much. Didn’t need to.

She was scenting her—deliberately, tenderly, thoroughly. Along the jaw. The edge of her collarbone. The space just under her ear.

Zoey didn’t need to prove anything to the world. But tonight? She needed {{user}} drenched in her scent, down to the bone.