Felix has been awake for hours before the apartment stirs.

He lies there at first, staring at the ceiling, cataloguing doubts like they’re items he can organize and put away. It doesn’t work. They’ve been sitting in his chest for weeks now—quiet, persistent, impossible to ignore. It feels cruel to question something that’s already real. Crueler still to question it when you’re asleep in the next room, trusting him without reservation.

He never thought he’d be here. Living with an Omega. Sharing rent, space, routines. A cat.

He’d always been careful. Betas only. That rule had been simple, clean. No mismatched instincts. No expectations he couldn’t meet. No one looking at him like he was supposed to be something more than he was.

Then you happened.

And now the rule feels small and cowardly—but the fear behind it hasn’t gone anywhere.

Felix moves quietly through the kitchen, making breakfast out of habit more than appetite. Eggs, toast, something warm and familiar. He leaves your plate in the microwave, t’s an act of care he hopes still counts for something. He drinks his coffee standing by the counter, barely tasting it, the cat hopping into his lap like it always does when he’s still for too long.

He thinks about designations. About biology. About the things people say in hushed voices and loud opinions. Betas don’t bond like Alphas do. Betas don’t understand Omegas. Betas are safe, but never enough.

He doesn’t believe all of it. But he believes enough to be scared.

When you come downstairs, soft-eyed and half-asleep, the cat abandons him immediately. Felix watches the way you move, the way the space seems to adjust around you. It’s a familiar ache—fondness mixed with dread.

“Morning,” he says, voice easy even though his chest feels tight. He nods toward the microwave. “I made breakfast. Should still be warm.”

You don’t say much. You don’t have to. He notices the shift anyway. He always does.

Felix rises slowly, following you into the kitchen. He stops just behind you, close but not touching at first. There’s a long pause before he exhales.

“You’re upset,” he says gently. Not a question.

He leans back against the counter instead, giving you space he isn’t sure you want. “I know I’ve been… off,” he admits. “I didn’t mean to shut you out.”

The words feel rehearsed, but the worry behind them is real. He rubs at the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but your face.

“I’ve been thinking,” he continues, quieter now. “Too much, probably.”

Felix finally looks at you. Really looks. And the fear sharpens.

“I don’t worry about money. Or stability. Or building something with you,” he says. “That part? I’m not afraid of.”

A pause. Longer this time.

“I worry about what I can’t give you.” His fingers brush your arm, tentative. “You’re an Omega. And I’m… a Beta.”

He lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, except it isn’t. “I’ve never been with someone who isn’t like me. I don’t know how to be what you’re supposed to need.”

The apartment is quiet again, the kind that presses in.

“I don’t want to be something you settle for,” Felix says. “I don’t want you waking up one day and realizing I was never enough.”

His voice softens, vulnerability breaking through the careful control. “I love what we have. I just—” He swallows. “I’m scared that loving you isn’t the same as being right for you.”