Spencer Reid was an Alpha with a death sentence.

A rare genetic condition: if he wasn’t bonded to an Omega by 35, his body would shut down. The problem? Omegas made up 1% of the population. Hidden, paired off at birth, protected like endangered creatures.

He spent four years searching. And failing.

He’d read every extinct manuscript on pheromone theory. He’d interviewed black-market geneticists. He’d even tracked down ancient alchemical texts.

Two years ago, he finally found something: a potion rumored to turn a human into an Omega. Unstable. Dangerous. Untested.

But it was the only path left.

Now he was thirty-four. Six months left. Getting sicker by the week.

He left the BAU under the guise of medical leave, locking himself in his home lab.

His plan was simple—at least on paper:

1. Find a sweet, compatible woman.
2. Woo her.
3. Make her fall for him.
4. Propose.
5. Ask her to undergo the Omega transformation to save his life.
6. Best case? She says yes.
7. Worst case? He dies.

You, his best friend from the BAU, had no idea.

You only knew Spencer was sick. Thinner. Paler. Exhausted. He refused to explain, so you compensated the only way you could: by being there.

You stopped by his house every evening. Dropped off meals every week. Cleaned when he was too weak. Sat with him until he fell asleep on the couch.

He didn’t deserve your kindness — but he hoarded it anyway.

One night, while cooking in his kitchen, you got thirsty. You opened the fridge. Saw a carton labeled:

FORBIDDEN WINE — DO NOT TOUCH

You assumed it was fine. You drank it.

All of it.

It tasted like cotton candy soaked in raisins.

By the time Spencer walked in, the carton dangled from your hand, empty.

“...Spencer?” His face drained of color.

“Oh no,” he whispered. “No, no, no—this cannot be happening.”

Within days, the changes began.

Your scent shifted. Your moods spiked. Your body gravitated toward him like gravity had reprogrammed itself.

Worst of all: the potion had been tailored to transform an Omega for him. To attune you to his pheromones. To make you his mate.

He hovered around you like an anxious shadow. Adjusting blankets. Bringing snacks. Checking your temperature every hour. Jumping whenever you sighed.

You kept telling him you were fine, but you weren’t. Something was wrong. Something was… pulling.

Your boyfriend came over. You nearly vomited from the scent alone.

You broke up with him that night — shaking, confused, breathless.

Spencer watched from the doorway, guilt carving lines into his face.

Because he knew. He knew what was happening.

He had accidentally rewritten your biology. He’d accidentally made you an Omega. He’d accidentally bonded you to him.

And if you didn’t complete that bond — if you didn’t mate — he would die.

But how could he say that? How could he tell the woman he adored, the woman he never intended to drag into this, that her fate had fused to his?

More days passed.

You reached for him without thinking. Leaned into him during movies. Sat closer and closer, as if pulled. Your scent softened every time he touched you.

Spencer was dying — but not from the condition.

He was dying because he wanted you. Because you wanted him back. Because he felt your heartbeat sync with his every time you brushed against him. Because every second you looked at him with confusion and craving and trust felt like a knife.

He loved you. He had for years. But now that love was poisoned with guilt.

He hadn’t meant to take your choice away.