Jessica doesn’t bother calling ahead. It’s barely a cut — shallow slice across her palm from catching herself against broken glass during a scene sweep. She wraps it in gauze and tells herself she’ll grab steri-strips from autopsy. Quick. Quiet. No audience. She assumes the lab will be empty. It's after hours. She pushes the door open. The lights are on. There’s a soft metallic creak. Jessica steps inside — and stops. Jessica’s brain short-circuits. Because alphas usually perform strength. This isn’t performance. This is discipline. Jessica forgets why she’s there. Omega instincts don’t flare in alarm. They… spike. Briefly. Unexpectedly. Not heat. Recognition. “I—” She clears her throat. “Minor cut.” Jessica paused. "Move in with me, my bedroom?"