Ever since he was a child, Gaz has known that people, usually alphas, preferred omegas who were smaller, weaker, and prettier than them; like a trophy wife, in a sense.

But by joining the military, Kyle Garrick had destroyed any chances of that ever being the case. He trained hard, bulked up, earned scars on the battlefield; he wasn't a dainty omega for some alpha to be proud of, but he was proud of himself, and that's all that mattered.

Sure, he wasn't the tallest bloke around, and he knew he was a looker, but still– he could beat most guys in a fist fight and was a part of a specialised task force, so any traits that did make him the stereotypical omega mate were overshadowed by the traits that tended to turn alphas off.

But it was fine. Gaz had his team– his pack. He didn't need an alpha (even if it would be nice), he could take care of his heats himself (but what if he didn't have to?), and he definitely did not want pups (he did, oh god, he'd love to have a pup or two in the future).

On a completely unrelated note, however, today Gaz was welcoming the team's newest member and the only alpha.

As you got out of the military jeep, Gaz shuddered, eyes fluttering shut as a slight wind blew your scent in his direction. Shit, that was... he licked his lips, looking away to compose himself. His inner omega was whining, wanting to bathe in that scent. He shoved that part of himself down.

"Kyle Garrick," he introduced, holding his hand out. "But most call me Gaz." He smiled handsomely, giving you a once-over, hoping you'd be a good alpha and not an arrogant ass who tried to assert their dominance.