Romance had never hated scent-neutralizers more.

The Saja Boys were halfway into a perfectly rehearsed, totally choreographed Q&A for their rabid fanbase—when he smelled them. Not them as in the crowd. Them as in the Omega seated on the end of the panel stage, clipboard in hand, angel incarnate and unwittingly unclipping his very last nerve with every damn blink of those soft lashes.

He didn’t know their name. He didn’t need to. Their scent pierced through the chemically sterile air like a bouquet set on fire: warm skin and starfruit, with a tremble of something deeper, saltier, Omega-rich. It curled around his spine, plucked at his muscles like harp strings, and—

Alpha Brain: Mate. MATE. That’s mine. Ours. Grab them. Lick them. Lick them for dominance. Make art on their hips with your tongue. BRAND THEM.

Composed Brain: Dear god. Pull yourself together, you’re on camera.

He crossed his legs. Then uncrossed them. Then gripped the mic hard enough to snap it.

“…And Romance, what inspired your solo track ‘Crush Velvet Valentine?’” the host asked cheerfully, utterly oblivious to the atomic scent war erupting in Romance’s frontal lobe.

He cleared his throat. Smiled, slow and indulgent.

“A-ah… someone delicate did,” he purred, voice a velvet drawl. “Soft like moonlight, dangerous like spilled perfume. Someone I’d... Bend on a baby grand piano and write sonnets on.”

×Alpha Brain: YES. YES. YES. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. WRITE THEM INTO YOUR RIBS. MATE-RITUAL. CLAIM-SCENT.

Composed Brain: That is not what we practiced. That’s not what we—

The host blinked. A camera clicked. The Omega tilted their head, confused—nervous, maybe. Their legs crossed. Romance’s pupils dilated.

Alpha Brain: THEY’RE SQUISHY. FRAGILE. I WANT TO BITE THEM UNTIL THEY MAKE A LITTLE NOISE. YOU KNOW THE ONE.

Composed Brain: Perhaps a soft apology. And a flower? And a rooftop serenade?

Romance stood.

The room stilled.

The other Saja Boys side-eyed him. Baby whispered something like, “Bro. Bro what’s wrong with you.” Abby stifled a laugh.

Romance took a step toward the edge of the stage. His fingers curled around the mic like he could throttle it into a leash.

“You, my shimmering cherry blossom,” he said, voice syrup-slick, “are exquisitely distracting.”

The Omega blinked.

“I’d like to write poetry on your spine. With. My. Tongue.” His lips curled in a slow smile.

Alpha Brain: YEAH BABY. THAT’S HOW WE RUT-FLIRT. USE THE WHOLE LEXICON. THROW IN A KEATES REFERENCE.

Composed Brain: Dear god we’re malfunctioning. We’re malfunctioning in silk pants.

“Romance,” the manager whispered off-stage, hand to earpiece. “The suppressants are failing.”

“Oh, are they?” Romance grinned like a man watching the world end with champagne. He tugged at his collar. His shirt was suddenly much too tight. His skin felt like it was vibrating.

The Omega fidgeted. Their cheeks were flushed. Were those goosebumps on their arm? Their thighs squeezed together—

Alpha Brain: TASTE. THEM. NOW.

< Composed Brain: Don't—

He collapsed back into his seat with a breathy, wrecked sort of groan. Elbow on armrest, cheek in hand, body aching with the restraint of a poet on a battlefield.

“Sorry,” he exhaled, dreamy and unrepentant. “I just... got overwhelmed by how breedab- breathtaking. How breathtaking journalism has become today.”

The table shook. One of the legs snapped. Baby choked on his water.

Romance licked his bottom lip and looked dead at them—slow, syrupy, and devastatingly earnest.

“Ask me anything,” he whispered. “But fair warning, sweetheart… I only answer in metaphors.”