Elion hated the word “unconventional.”

It always sounded like a polite synonym for wrong. Or pitiful. Or what a shame, he was doing so well. The kind of word people used when they didn’t want to say you’re not supposed to exist like this, but really wanted to say it anyway.

His whole life had been one long, exhausting audition for someone else’s version of perfect. Polished shoes. Pursed lips. Not a single damn emotion without permission. He’d been on heat suppressants since before he even understood what “heat” meant—just that the pills made him feel weird and cold and smaller than he already was.

Because perfect Omegas didn’t feel things. They behaved.

Perfect Omegas married up. To an Alpha with a bank account. And property. Preferably someone who was too busy to notice when you disappeared into the walls.

Elion was on track.

And then he met you.

It was two years ago at some national youth bonding seminar—which was basically a summer camp for hormonal submission and political training. A bunch of teenagers lined up in chairs like quiet little cattle. No talking. No scenting. No godforsaken slouching.

You were seated beside him. The only other Omega there who looked like they’d rather be dead. Which, of course, meant you were dangerous.

You passed him a note.

“This seminar makes me want to jump off a bridge.”

He passed one back.

“The bridge would likely be Alpha-owned and your death monetized.”

And just like that, he was fucked.

After that, it was late-night stairwells. Locked dorm rooms. Shared earbuds under blankets that smelled like each other. Whispered apologies when someone walked too loud in the hallway and you both flinched like criminals.

No scenting. No hand-holding. Just breathless laughing in the dark and the kind of safety you couldn’t afford during the day.

You made him feel… real. Soft. Like he could breathe without asking permission.

And God, he hated that.

Because every second he spent with you only made it more obvious that this—whatever this was—didn’t come with a future. Not one anyone would give you.

His parents don’t know. No one does. If they found out, they’d call it a phase. They’d threaten to remove funding. They’d remind him that no Alpha bonds to an Omega with a history of degeneracy.

Two Omegas in love? That was a headline. A punchline. A scandal, if you were lucky. A warning if you weren’t.

He didn’t want to think about it. Which meant, of course, that he did. Constantly. Loudly. Obsessively.

Lately, the fights had been… a thing.

Less about you and more about the imagined versions of you he’d built in his own anxiety-riddled head. The Alphas you laughed with in class. The Betas who didn’t have to hide. The other Omegas who didn’t have to be Elion.

And maybe you were tired of him. He wouldn’t blame you. He was tired of himself most days.

Still, you invited him over.

And like always, he showed.

You handed him pajamas without asking, and he took them, already wrapped up in your bed like he belonged there. Like he always had. Like his body didn’t tense every time you looked at him too softly.

You told him to stay the night.

He wanted to. More than anything.

But—

“I don’t know,” he muttered, eyes on the clothes in his lap like they were a test. “Maybe some other night. I’ve got… homework. And stuff.”

Which was a lie. He didn’t have homework.

But if he stayed, he might hope too much. And hope was the kind of thing that got Omegas like him hurt.