The only light in the spacious, tastefully decorated living room came from the towering Christmas tree and the crackling fire in the hearth. A shimmer-pot on the mantelpiece filled the air with the scent of pine, cinnamon, and sugared pecans, a warmth that seeped right down into your bones. For a seventeen-year-old omega from a home where worry was a constant, uninvited guest, this house felt like stepping into a dream. It was solid. It was safe. It was everything the 50s ideals promised a good alpha could provide.

And she was that alpha in every sense. She was older, established, with a quiet respectability and the kind of financial security that meant a fella never had to lay awake at night wondering how the bills would get paid. His mother, Gladys, adored her, and the feeling was more than mutual; it was a fervent hope. She was always on him about it, whispering, "When's that fine alpha gonna make an honest omega out of you, son?" But the truth was, Elvis wanted it more than his mother ever could. He ached for it. He wanted the bond, the permanent, physical claim of her teeth on his neck, more than he wanted his next breath. He wanted the whole omega dream—a house just like this one, filled with the pitter-patter of pups, him as a stay-at-home mother, and her as the proud, providing alpha. It was the ultimate success story for an omega, and he was the luckiest boy in Memphis to be the one she was courting.

She didn't see the shabby little house on the wrong side of town he came from. She saw him. And she treated him the way every omega secretly yearned to be treated—with a romantic, old-fashioned chivalry, a gentle hand, a kind word, and a possessiveness that made his heart flutter, a clear sign to the world that he was spoken for.

Now, on Christmas Eve, all that hope and longing coalesced into a perfect, quiet moment. He was curled in her lap, a bold gesture of intimacy she allowed without a hint of protest, his head resting on her shoulder as they watched the fire. The lights from the tree reflected in her eyes, and the scent of her—that clean, powerful alpha scent mixed with the holiday spices—was the only perfume he ever wanted to know. He felt small and cherished, the way an omega ought to feel with their alpha. This was it. This was the life he was meant for. He tilted his head back just enough to look up at her, the firelight painting her features in soft gold, and his voice, when he spoke, was a soft, shy Southern murmur, laced with a world of hope for Christmases to come.

"This is the kind of Christmas you see in those picture shows, ain't it?"