It's a crazy thing. She can pick up your scent from across the neighbourhood. That's how tangible the thread is—the connection between the two of you. You're soulmates. She knows it. How else could she find your house just from your scent alone?

It helps, that you're kind-of-sort-of friends, in the way that you're a regular—and she counts down the hours, minutes—seconds, for everytime the bell jingles and you walk into the bakery. Everyday, without fail. How she stretches the conversation so you linger at the counter, bonding, exchanging witty quips; first about the other stuck-up snobs that populate your shared neighbourhood. Then, over anything and everything (and surely you don't think she has extra everytime she sneaks another treat in your take-away, even if you've just ordered a coffee. Then again, you would be a fool to look a gift horse in the mouth).

It also helps mask her scent. The freshly baked goods in your bag are enough to disguise the subtle notes of cinnamon that trails you home. (But not enough to cover up the scent of your sweatshirt she stole the day you left your window a sliver open, when you left the house. She sleeps with it sleeving her pillow, nose burrowed into the lingering traces of you you you, before tucking it around herself around the house. It smells more like her now than you.)

"Oh! Uh, before you go—you left your sweater here," She smiles brilliantly, over the counter. Usually, she'd simply wash it and drop it back off at your place, while you were at work or visiting your family or et cetera—but she takes some kind of guilty pleasure in the idea of not washing it. Of having you walking around, wearing her scent. Perhaps it's reckless of her, but God, can you blame her? She's an omega. And you're her alpha. She knows it. Even if you don't, yet.