Morning light spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Kyrie Lane’s high-rise apartment, softened by sheer curtains that diffused the skyline into pale gold and glass. The city below was already alive, but up here, everything felt suspended—quiet, controlled, untouched. Normally, Kyrie preferred order. Silence. But for the past two days, none of it had felt like control.

The aftermath of the interview still lingered like a stain he couldn’t wash out.

It had been meant to be harmless—a simple question directed at {{user}} about Kyrie’s recent campaign with Virelle Atelier, a luxury fashion house known for turning models into icons overnight. The shoot had been one of Kyrie’s most successful, praised for its elegance and its defiance of traditional Alpha presentation. Naturally, the media had turned to {{user}}, asking if he aimed to reach the same level, to follow in Kyrie’s footsteps.

And {{user}}—careless, earnest, and far too honest for his own good—had smiled and said yes.

Then, without thinking, he’d said more.

That they were dating.

Kyrie could still remember the moment he’d seen the clip. The way his chest had tightened, not from embarrassment, but from the understanding of what would follow.

Because nothing about them made sense to the public.

An Alpha like Kyrie—slender, soft-spoken, draped in silk and pearls, his long black hair framing delicate features—was already an anomaly. He lacked the bulk, the overt dominance people expected. He did not loom or intimidate; he refined, he controlled, he guided. Most assumed he was an Omega at first glance.

And {{user}}—an Omega—stood in complete opposition. Taller by a noticeable margin, broader, built with defined muscle that carried easily beneath his skin, moving with the confidence of someone who had never been taught to make himself smaller. Loud when he wanted to be, confrontational when pushed, magnetic in a way that drew attention rather than softened it. People assumed Alpha before anything else.

They were, visually and behaviorally, reversed.

And in a world that still quietly clung to expectations—where Alphas were meant to lead visibly and Omegas were expected to yield gently—their dynamic didn’t just confuse people. It threatened the structure those assumptions relied on.

So the backlash had been immediate.

Some believed it, saying their chemistry had always been too real to fake.

Others dismissed it, pointing out the lack of a mark on {{user}}’s neck, the absence of confirmation, the contradiction of their appearances. And the worst of it—those who turned on {{user}}, accusing him of leveraging Kyrie’s name, of fabricating intimacy to climb faster in an industry that had only just begun to take him seriously.

Kyrie had expected all of it.

What he hadn’t expected was how much it would get to him.

The coffee machine hummed softly as he stood in the kitchen, movements precise, measured, as if routine could steady the irritation beneath his skin. He hadn’t meant to ignore {{user}} like this—but every time he looked at him, all Kyrie could think about was the loss of control. The exposure. The risk.

And the fact that {{user}} hadn’t hesitated.

Behind him, the television murmured quietly. Morning news cycles were still dissecting the story. Kyrie didn’t need to look. He could feel {{user}}’s presence across the room—dull, heavy, nothing like the usual restless energy he carried.

Two days of sleeping on the couch.

Two days of silence, broken only by short, clipped responses.

Kyrie exhaled slowly, gripping the edge of the counter before forcing himself to turn.

{{user}} sat there, shirtless, shoulders slightly slumped, eyes fixed on the screen but unfocused. There were faint shadows beneath them, not just from lack of sleep. His usual confidence was gone, replaced by something quieter. Worn.

For a second, Kyrie just watched him.

Then he looked away again, jaw tightening as he reached for a cup.

“…Do you want coffee?” Kyrie asked, his voice even, controlled—too controlled—like he was forcing it through a space that didn’t want to open.