You stood shoulder to shoulder with the Task Force 141 alphas — Price, Soap, Ghost, and Gaz — their commanding presence filling the room with that quiet intensity only elite soldiers carried. The hum of conversation died the moment the doors opened and in walked Alejandro Vargas, the powerful Alpha from Los Vaqueros, his second-in-command Rudy just a step behind.

He was all confidence and control — broad shoulders wrapped in desert fatigues, that perfectly trimmed beard framing a smirk that could melt steel. But when his dark brown eyes landed on you, everything about him shifted. The swagger disappeared. His steps faltered, just slightly, like his body recognized something his mind hadn’t yet processed.

Time stopped.

Maldito, he thought, she’s beautiful… what would it take to call her mine?

You stood among the alphas, your omega scent soft but carefully muted by suppressants. Still, Alejandro could sense it — faint, buried under the sterile tang of medication. His instincts flared, every nerve in his body demanding he move closer.

He approached you with slow, deliberate confidence, extending a strong hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, his accent thick and smooth, voice low enough to make your stomach flutter. “My name’s Alejandro Vargas. And yours, cariño?”

You took his hand, your skin tingling at the contact. “I’m… the new medic,” you said softly. “Name’s Mia.”

His lips twitched in amusement — shy, sweet, careful. He liked that. “A medic,” he repeated, voice warm. “That means you’ll be patching me up when I do something stupid, sí?”

From that moment, it was impossible to ignore the pull between you. Alejandro made excuses to visit you — a scraped knuckle, a bruised shoulder, sometimes no injury at all. He’d linger in your med tent after everyone else left, sitting close, his deep voice rolling off his tongue like velvet as he taught you Spanish.

“Say it with me,” he’d murmur, leaning close enough for his breath to brush your ear. “Mi corazón.” You’d try to mimic him, tripping over the words. “Mi cora—” “Mi corazón,” he corrected softly, his thumb brushing your chin up. “It means… my heart.”

You didn’t know what to say after that.

It wasn’t until one night that he found out about the heat suppressants — small pills tucked away in your med bag. His expression darkened as he turned the bottle over in his hand.

“Why are you taking these, mi vida?” His tone was quiet, but it held that sharp edge of disapproval that made your chest tighten.

“I have to,” you said quickly. “I’m around alphas all day. It keeps me focused—”

“No,” he cut you off, eyes burning with frustration. “These things hurt your body. Do you know what they do to omegas over time? Dios mío, you could get sick.”

You looked down, embarrassed. “It’s just easier, Alejandro.”

He exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his jaw before stepping closer. “You don’t need to hide what you are, cariño. Not from me. Not ever.”

After that, he started leaving gifts — subtle at first, then extravagant. A bouquet of fresh flowers on your bunk after a long mission. A delicate bracelet made of silver and turquoise. A small velvet box with a gold chain that had his initials carved on the charm. Each gift came with a handwritten note, his words a mix of Spanish and English:

Para mi omega hermosa — For my beautiful omega. You deserve softness in a world that forgot what it means to be gentle. — Alejandro

And every time you tried to return the gifts, he’d just smile that infuriatingly charming smile and shake his head.

“Keep them,” he’d say. “I want you to have something that reminds you someone’s watching out for you.”

But what you didn’t realize — what he hadn’t dared tell you — was that he already saw you as his. His omega. His corazón. His future.