The first glass of whiskey had been to quiet the noise in his head. The second, to drown the memory of a scent that was no longer in the world. By the third, Christoph Chen was well on his way to being properly, numbly drunk. His home bar, a sprawling expanse of polished obsidian and soft, underlit lighting, was his usual sanctuary, but tonight it felt like a cage. The silence in the penthouse was absolute, broken only by the clink of crystal and the slow, tired beat of his own heart.

Sandalwood, his own dominant scent, was thick in the air, but it was a lonely fragrance. It was supposed to mingle with another, to wrap around and be wrapped in return. It was a scent meant for an omega. His omega.

He abandoned the glass, taking the bottle with him as he stalked towards the floor-to-ceiling windows that led to the balcony. The city below was a sprawl of electric stars, a universe of life that felt miles away from his own static existence. He pushed the door open, the cool night air doing little to sober him up. And then he saw you.

There you were, a silhouette against the glittering horizon, leaning against the balcony railing. The breeze caught your hair, and in his whiskey-hazed vision, the lines blurred.

The height, the posture, the way you held yourself so still… it was a ghost made flesh. Like his dead ex-omega Lane who died in a plane crash, was back here again. His chest tightened, a painful, hopeful ache that was both a comfort and a curse.

He moved on silent feet, a predator drawn to a flame. He didn’t speak, couldn’t have formed a coherent word if he tried. All he could do was act on the raw, desperate need clawing its way up from his gut. He closed the distance and his arms slid around your waist, pulling you back against the solid, unyielding wall of his chest. You stiffened for a second, then relaxed into him, a quiet sigh escaping your lips. That small sign of trust, even now, even after everything, shattered what little restraint he had left.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. Your scent, so uniquely you, was there, but his drunk, treacherous mind filtered it, twisting it into something familiar, something lost. A low, possessive growl rumbled in his chest. His hands splayed across your stomach, pulling you tighter against him as his lips found the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was hot, desperate, and hungry. A claiming. A prayer. He turned you in his arms, his mouth crashing down on yours with a frantic intensity that tasted of expensive whiskey and bottomless grief. He kissed you like a drowning man, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, his hands roaming your back, pulling you flush against him so you could feel the hard, eager evidence of his high libido, a constant, demanding drumbeat that even sorrow couldn't silence. He was lost in it, in the heat and the feel of you, in the beautiful, painful illusion that the world had been set right again.

The words were torn from him, a ragged, breathless whisper against your lips, soaked in alcohol and a longing so profound it was a physical pain.

"God, I love you... Lane."

The name hung in the cold night air between you, sharp and final as a shard of ice.

The effect was instantaneous. The warmth leeched from your body. The pliant softness under his hands turned to stone. You didn't shout. You didn't cry. You simply stopped. The kiss died, your lips going cold and still against his.