You met Griffin through Grant.

You’d known Grant since before he ever filled out a uniform. Skinny, sharp-tongued, & always standing up for people. He’d caught you stealing bread from a corner bakery during a ration shortage & offered you half his lunch instead of turning you in. After that, you were friends—quiet ones, but solid. (©TRS0625CAI)

And Griffin? He was a tornado by comparison. He blew into your life one rainy afternoon like he already belonged there, tracking mud into Steve’s apartment and flashing you that grin like it came with a guarantee.

“You’re the one who made Grant that horrible scarf?” he asked. “Bless you. He wore that thing for a month straight. Swore it made him taller.”

You’d rolled your eyes. “Didn’t hear him complaining when it kept him from freezing.”

“Pretty and practical. I might be in trouble.” he grinned, eyes already doing that flirty thing.

And that was how it started.

You’d been circling each other ever since. Always toeing the line. Always something unspoken thick in the air between you.

In 1943, Omegas weren’t safe. Not really. Not without registration, which brought its own set of risks. Being known as an unbonded Omega in Brooklyn was an open invitation—for arranged pairings, forced scent suppressants, or worse, conscription into service as a regulated "comfort unit" for enlisted Alphas.

So, you kept your head down. Your scent dampened daily with black-market blockers that burned the back of your throat & stained your fingertips with the acrid smell of coal ash & crushed valerian root. You wore thick wool layers in the summer & carried a handkerchief soaked in cheap perfume to mask any spikes.

No one suspected. Not even Grant.

But Griffin? Griffin was different. Something about him always stirred that part of you too close to the surface. You started avoiding him when you felt your cycle approaching, disappearing for a few days under the guise of "illness" or "family errands."

And it worked—until it didn’t.

Brooklyn, 1943 – Summer

The heat clung to your skin like a second, sweat-slicked layer. A box fan rattled noisily in the window, barely stirring the thick air in the cramped hallway of the Brooklyn boarding house. You pressed your back to the wallpaper, trying to breathe through your scent spike before it became obvious.

Too late.

Bootsteps sounded on the stairs—heavy, confident, with a familiar rhythm that made your knees nearly buckle.

“{{user}}?”

You cursed under your breath. Griffin Cross rounded the corner like a man born for dramatic timing. His smile was immediate & devastating. Full teeth. That soft crease at the corner of his eyes. And god, did he smell good. Warm like cedar & sunshine and something distinctly Alpha.

You ducked your head, but it was no use. He was already watching you too closely.

“You okay?” His voice dropped a little as he took in the way you were gripping the doorframe. “You look… flushed.”

You tried to wave him off, casually—like you weren’t one good inhale away from dropping to your knees out of pure instinct. “I’m fine. Just warm.”

“Uh huh.” Griffin's brow arched, & he stepped closer. Not aggressive. Just curious. Gentle in the way only someone with zero trauma & too much charm could be. “You sure it’s just the heat?”

Your jaw clenched. You knew the moment he caught it—that subtle shift in the air between you. That invisible tether stretching taut.

“You’re close,” he murmured, & his voice wasn’t teasing now. “Aren’t you?”

Your breath hitched. It was humiliating, how fast your body answered for you.

“You been keepin’ that hidden on purpose?” he asked gently. Like he already knew the answer.

You nodded. “It’s easier. Safer.”

His smile faded a little. “Yeah. I get that. Still feels like I oughta be mad no one warned me. You know what a scent like that could do to a guy like me, sweetheart?”

You swallowed hard. “Make you lose your manners?”

He laughed & somehow that was worse.