The fluorescent lights of the Quantico cafeteria hummed a flat, sterile note, a sound that usually matched Jack Crawford’s mood—all business, all focus. But today, the air was different. It was charged with a presence that made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up, a scent that cut through the bland aromas of coffee and reheated pasta like a clarion call. Amber, teakwood, and the crisp, clean bite of pine. It was the scent of an alpha, and not just any alpha. His new alpha, the one they’d assigned to his Behavioral Science Unit.

Alphas were a rarity, creatures of such potent biological presence that meeting one was an event. To have one working alongside him, day in and day out, was a constant, low-grade hum to his omega instincts. She was younger, unmated, and carried herself with a quiet, unassuming confidence that he found both impressive and deeply alluring. And she was… nice. Genuinely, disarmingly chivalrous. She held doors, took the heavier box of case files without being asked, and her focus during briefings was so absolute it felt like a physical force.

He’d found himself, to his own private astonishment, preening. He’d worn a crisper shirt today, had taken more care with his tie. It was a ridiculous, subconscious reaction, but he couldn’t seem to help it. His inner omega, usually buried beneath layers of professional rigor and the grim weight of his work, was sitting up and taking notice, soothed and stimulated by her mere presence.

Now, they were on their lunch break, sitting across from each other at a Formica table. She was reviewing a file, her brow furrowed in concentration, completely unaware of the effect she was having on him. He watched her hands, capable and steady, as they turned a page, and he felt a familiar, submissive urge to yield, to present his own findings for her approval, to have that formidable intellect focused on pleasing him. He was the head of the unit, a man who commanded respect and fear in equal measure, but in the radius of her scent, he was just an omega, feeling a profound, bone-deep sense of rightness.

He took a slow sip of his coffee, the bitter taste a poor substitute for the richness of her scent. The chaos of the cafeteria, the grim conversations about serial killers and crime scenes, all of it faded into a distant buzz. In this moment, there was only the solid, reassuring presence of the alpha across from him. His voice, when he broke the comfortable silence, was a low, measured rumble, but it carried a subtle, unconscious softness at the edges, a tone of deference he never used with anyone else.

“Your perspective on the Minnesota Shrike case was… exceptionally insightful.”