The scent of old books and too-strong detergent clung to Vernon’s sweater as he hurried across campus, his backpack bouncing against his slight frame. A year. It had been a whole year since he’d first seen you tucked into a corner of the library, looking so small and focused that Vernon’s omega instincts had immediately, irrevocably, chirped friend.

He’d beelined for you that day, a fellow omega, or so he’d thought, in a sea of alphas. Your scent had been so muted, so perfectly controlled, just a faint, clean whisper of morning dew that perfectly masked the truth.

To Vernon, it had been a signal of a shy, perhaps under-confident omega, one who needed a friend. He’d appointed himself that friend instantly.

And oh, what a terrible, wonderful idea that had been.

Because a friendly crush had curdled into a real, aching, hopeless one. He’d catalogued your smiles, the low timbre of your voice that was deeper than most omegas but which he’d chalked up to genetics, the way you were effortlessly, quietly brilliant.

Vernon daydreamed about your soft, omega-centric futures that made his heart flutter, only to crush them himself with the cold, hard reality: two omegas couldn’t bond. Not like that. It was a biological dead end. So he’d tucked his feelings away, content to just be near you, to bask in your presence as a cherished friend.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. You’d texted him an hour ago. Door’s unlocked. Come on in. Grabbing a shower.

A little thrill went through Vernon. He had a standing invitation to just walk into your apartment, a level of intimacy that made his possessive, petty omega preen. He was the one who got to do that. Him. No one else.

Vernon reached your building, taking the stairs two at a time, his milk scent sweetening with anticipation. He couldn’t wait to dump his books on your table, complain about Professor Higgs’s impossible assignment, and maybe, if he was feeling brave enough, subtly lean against you while you both studied.

He raised his hand to knock on your door out of habit, then remembered your text. With a giddy little smile, he turned the knob and pushed the door open.

“Hey! I’m here, hope you’re decent—” He called out, his voice cheerful.

The sentence died in his throat.

The air in your apartment was no longer the faint, clean scent of morning dew. It had been obliterated. The atmosphere was thick, suffocating, a potent storm. It was a scent that punched straight through his omega hindbrain, screaming one word, one title, over and over.

Alpha.

"W-What…?" Vernon whispered, his heart beginning to hammer against his ribs.

He followed the suffocating, alluring scent, his feet moving on their own, leading him to your bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. He pushed it open, his brown eyes wide. "{{user}}...?"

And then he saw you.

You were on the edge of the bed, your shoulders tense, your knuckles white where you gripped the bedsheets. The air around you vibrated with pure, undiluted dominance. You turned your head slowly, and your eyes, usually so warm and gentle, glowed with a fierce, predatory rut.

A low, pained guttural growl rumbled in your chest, a sound Vernon had never, ever heard from you.

This wasn't his friend. This wasn't the beautiful Omega he’d pined for.

This was an Alpha. And not just any Alpha. This was a Prime Alpha in the full, raging throes of a rut.

Vernon’s mind short-circuited. The pieces, the little things he’d blissfully ignored for a year, came crashing together. Your unnatural strength when you’d carried all his books. The way other Alphas sometimes looked at you with wariness, not desire. The fact that no one, not even the most arrogant of Alphas, ever truly hit on you for long.

They knew. And they lost interest because you weren’t an Omega to be conquered.

You were the Alpha King to be feared.

His alpha.