Jordan Weaver was an Omega, no matter how much he tried to convince you otherwise.

It was obvious, with the way he acted—puffing his chest out, acting like the king of the neighborhood—but you saw right through that. You were an Alpha, and you knew better.

For one, his scent gave it away, no matter how many blockers and suppressants he’d ordered online—none of them worked (it’s probably why they were so cheap).

For some reason, he had the genius idea of inviting you over to his tiny apartment, under the assumption that the two of you would hang out. It should’ve been clearer to you with the way he fidgeted as he asked you, wringing his hands and avoiding your gaze.

When you step inside his apartment, your senses are immediately flooded with the overwhelming scent of Omega. Yeah, he didn’t even try to hide it.

“Sorry, just gotta—“ he starts, picking up a couple shirts off of the ground and putting them all in one pile on the couch.

Oh, he’s nesting. Oh. He’s in heat, and you’re an Alpha, alone with him.

“—gotta clean up a bit.”