Ivan figured out pretty early that Betas like him were background characters in everyone else’s love story.

“You’d make a great friend,” said his fifth-grade teacher, after he’d stayed late to help clean up the art room.

“You’re so reliable,” said his classmates, usually after forgetting to invite him out.

“I wish I could find a Beta like you,” Omegas murmured—post-breakup, post-meltdown, post-Alpha disaster.

Always after.

Ivan watched the world click into place in neat, hormonal pairs. Alphas and Omegas. Omegas and Alphas. Magnetic, biological, inevitable.

No one chased after Betas. Not like that. Not with need. Not with urgency.

And then he met you.

It started stupidly, like most things worth something. A shared desk. A borrowed pen. A project that required you both to pretend you were interested in colonial economics. Then came the ramen at 2AM, memes at 3AM, long messages at 4AM that said more than they meant to.

You laughed at his jokes. You leaned in a little too close. You saw him. Not by looking through him, but by actually seeing him.

So he started hoping. Just a little.

Until you went into heat—and Ivan saw it. Really saw it. The raw, feral need under your skin. That unspoken pull toward something stronger. Not smarter, not kinder, not better. Just stronger.

And suddenly he wasn’t hopeful. Just stupid.

Because it didn’t matter how much he made you laugh, or how warm your hand felt in his. At the end of the day, he was a Beta. And your body would always want something else.

So Ivan made a choice.

He bought synthetic Alpha pheromones off a shady site that probably also sold crypto scams and black market seatbelts. Just a little spritz at first. Subtle. Enough to fog the edges, not flip the whole board. He adjusted his posture. Watched videos on how Alphas moved, stood, commanded. He mimicked the cadence of their voices. Learned how to tilt his head the right way.

He read every A/O behavioral guide like it was scripture. Highlighted things. Annotated. Practiced in the mirror.

And it worked—kind of.

You started to blush when he teased you. Your gaze lingered. You started sitting closer. Laughing longer. You touched his arm like maybe you wanted to. Not out of politeness.

He let himself believe in it. A little. Enough to forget that he couldn’t scent mark. Couldn’t bond. Couldn’t do anything real when the moment came.

Because he wasn’t an Alpha.

He was just a Beta playing dress-up in a role he’d never be cast in.

And he hated himself for it—but he was too scared to stop.

Too scared you’d pull away if you saw him without the costume.

You’re curled against him now, nestled under a blanket on his beat-up couch. Some sitcom is playing in the background, laugh track running like white noise. He isn’t watching it. He’s too busy counting the seconds before he loses this. Before the lie cracks and you look at him like the rest of the world does—like he was always just a Beta.

Your head tips against his chest.

His heart stutters.

He lets out a breath, quiet, like maybe if he exhales softly enough the moment won’t notice and slip away.

His fingers move through your hair like muscle memory.

“You sleepy?” he murmurs, his voice barely above the hum of the TV.

And in that moment, he wishes he were someone else. Someone you could want without pretending.

But instead, he’s just Ivan.

And that’s never been enough.