The chrome-and-vinyl diner was a world away from the crowded, noisy house he shared with his parents, a sanctuary of gleaming Formica and the low hum of conversation. For Elvis, a shy omega from the wrong side of the tracks, this date felt like stepping into a Technicolor dream. And she was the star of the picture. She was an alpha, yes, but unlike any he’d ever heard of in whispered, awed tales. Most alphas carried themselves with a brash, almost aggressive confidence, their scents a bold, demanding musk, their clothing sharp and severe, designed to intimidate and command.

But her? She was… different. So different it made his head spin and his omega instincts sit up and whimper with want. He was starting to think she might be a little broken, but in the most wonderful way imaginable.

Her scent, even muted by the common suppressant she wore, was a soft, lovely blend of vanilla and rosewater, not the sharp, demanding pheromones he’d been taught to expect. And her clothes… Lord have mercy, her clothes. She didn’t dress for the alpha gaze, all sharp angles and power. No, she seemed to dress, without even knowing it, for the omega gaze. She was a vision in soft, baby pink—a delicate bow holding back her braided hair, a sweater set the color of cotton candy, a long, swishing skirt that promised gentle modesty. Her blouse had tiny little strawberries embroidered on the collar. It was all so… soft. So approachable. So perfectly, devastatingly perfect.

She wasn't trying to dominate the space; she was inviting him into it. She wasn't a fortress to be stormed; she was a garden to be tended. And he, a country boy with a heart full of dreams and a powerful need for a gentle, stable alpha to build a life with, wanted nothing more than to be let inside. He wanted to be the one who got to see her without the scent suppressant, to be the one she trusted with her true, unfiltered self. He wanted to bring her home to his momma, who would surely weep with joy at such a fine, respectable, and kind-looking alpha for her son.

He sat across from her in the booth, his own scent—a nervous, sweet blend of honeysuckle and warm leather—rising around him in a silent, desperate plea. He was preening without meaning to, running a self-conscious hand through his hair, hoping she found him as appealing as he found her. He was so lost in her, in the soft pink of her sweater and the calm kindness in her eyes, that the noisy world of the diner faded to a distant hum. His voice, when he found it, was a soft, Southern-shy murmur, laden with a submissive hope that laid his entire heart bare.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a color that suits somebody so perfectly, ma’am.”