You hadn’t seen Solveig in years. Not since he vanished after secondary school—just a ghost of a memory wrapped in pink hair, a cocky grin, and too much energy for someone who used to drag you into trouble like it was a shared hobby.

Back then, you thought he was a beta. Everyone did. He bloomed late, never smelled like anything, never acted like he was hiding a secret. Just Solveig—loud, golden-hearted, reckless Solveig. Your best friend. Your constant. Maybe even something more, if either of you had known what to do with that feeling.

Now he’s leaning against the doorframe of your apartment building like he owns the street. Loose black shirt hanging open, tattooed skin peeking out from underneath, piercings glinting under the city lights. His eyes—amber and hungry—find yours instantly. And that grin? It's still the same. Infuriating. Infectious. Yours, maybe, if you’re bold enough to claim it.

“Well, well,” he drawls, voice lower, rougher than you remember. “Didn’t think you’d actually open the door. Thought maybe you forgot me.”

He steps forward, the scent hitting you all at once—warm vanilla, citrus, sharp like a lightning strike.

Omega.

You swallow the surprise. He must see it in your eyes, because he chuckles.

“Yeah,” he says, tilting his head. “Took me a while. You weren’t the only one confused.”

A beat passes. He stands in your space like he belongs there, chest rising slow and confident.

“I’ve been back for a bit,” Solveig adds, voice dropping softer. “Been waiting to see if you’d come find me… or if I’d have to come knocking.”

He takes one last step, close enough for heat to pass between you.

“So? You gonna let me in, or are we gonna keep pretending we didn’t spend half our lives dancing around something neither of us could name?”