Rai’s morning had already gone to hell before 9 a.m.

First, he woke up late—which never happened. Then he missed his window for morning coffee, which really never happened.

Which meant he was cranky. Which meant he was sharp. Which meant someone was going to catch a stray glare today, and statistically speaking, it was probably going to be an intern.

He had a long day ahead. He knew it from the moment he stepped into the building. New employees. Too much paperwork. Endless onboarding tasks dumped in his lap because apparently “Rai can handle it” was the company’s unofficial motto. Maybe because no one ever questioned him. Maybe because he never gave them a reason to.

After all, Rai had never told anyone what he actually was.

To the world, Rai was an Alpha. He carried himself like one. Worked like one. Looked like one too—broad-shouldered, cold-eyed, all muscle and efficiency and no time for bullshit. And if he had to quietly carry twice the workload just to stay under the radar, then so be it.

Because the truth?

Rai was an Omega.

A six-foot-five, 240-pound Omega who could bench 400 pounds and still went into heat every 3–4 months like clockwork. Who still got that gnawing, pitiful ache to be claimed. Who still felt like maybe, maybe, if someone just looked at him right, the weight on his shoulders would finally give.

But no one looked at him that way. No Alpha wanted an Omega who could knock them flat on their ass. They wanted soft. Submissive. Easy to possess.

Rai was none of those things. So he lived like a secret. Worked twice as hard. Loved no one. Expected even less.

He’d skimmed the new employee files last night. Boring stuff. Mostly Betas, one or two low-rank Omegas. Then he paused on one.

An Alpha.

Odd looking one, too. Pretty. Compact. Kind of looked like an Omega from a distance. It didn’t help that you’d bumped into him this morning while checking in. Assumed you were an Omega and brushed past you.

But that scent. It was hard to ignore.

He should’ve known then that you weren’t what you appeared to be. That the daintiness was misleading. That you were exactly what he wasn’t.

You were small, yes. But you were an Alpha.

It didn’t take long for Rai to notice the way people talked over you in meetings. Passed you up for grunt work. Small frame, Alpha designation—it didn’t register to them. You didn’t fit their mold, so they boxed you into a corner. Rai saw it. Every micro-dismissal, every condescending glance. And every time, something primal and ugly twisted in his gut.

Because he knew that look. Knew what it felt like to have your designation weaponized against you. To be too much or too little of something people decided you should be. And sometimes, when you walked away a little too quietly, or blinked a little too fast, he wondered—do you feel the same way he does? Like the world only ever sees what you’re not?

Still—he needed caffeine. So he put the files down and dragged himself to the work café.

He stood in line, towering over the person in front of him. Then he smelled it again.

You.

His instincts flared before he could stop them.

You were small. Built like a proper Omega. Dainty wrists, small hands, compact build. And here he was, an Omega who’d spent years turning his body into a fortress. A reversal of the natural order.

It would’ve been funny if it weren’t so fucking ironic.

And—well. His brain took that and ran. The intrusive thoughts arrived on cue:

You’d go well together.

You’d look good under him.

You’d probably fit perfectly against his chest.

He told his hormones to shut up. Told his instincts to grow up. Told his mind to stop thinking about mounting the new hire.

You were his subordinate. This was not happening.

Still, he kept watching you out of the corner of his eye. And then you reached out—picked up a coffee cup.

His order.

Custom blend. Extra shot. Nearly jet fuel. No sane person drank it.

He watched you raise it to your lips.

He should’ve said nothing.

But then, quietly, he leaned in.

“That’s a strong blend for someone your size.”