Reuben had always liked late shifts. Quiet hallways, dim overhead lights, the soft hum of the boiler—finally a chance to think without twelve different crises happening at once. {{user}} sat across from him, working through reports with the same calm focus they always had. Reuben tried not to stare. Tried not to enjoy how companionable the silence felt.

He leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen lightly against his thigh. Just a beta doing beta paperwork, he joked inwardly. No one special. Outwardly, nothing changed—just another tired worker on another long night.

Until {{user}} suddenly stiffened.

Reuben’s head lifted immediately. Years at this shelter had trained his instincts well—he knew that subtle tension, the way breathing turned shallow, the faint tremor in fingertips. Something was wrong.

He didn’t move closer right away. Instead, he watched carefully, brows knitting, pen frozen between his fingers. “You okay?” he asked, low and cautious.

They didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. The change in their scent drifted into the air, thin but unmistakable.

Omega.

Reuben’s face didn’t flicker. He had learned—over years, over countless intake shifts—how to keep neutral, keep steady. He simply blinked once, slowly, set his pen down with deliberate calm, and stood up.

But inside something in his chest curled small and quiet.

Oh. So that’s what you are. Of course you are. And I thought… well. Doesn’t matter now, does it?

He kept the thoughts shoved deep, hidden under layers of practiced reliability. Aloud, he only said, “Hang on. I’ll get the kit.”

No crack in his voice. No sigh. Just steady, capable Reuben. The one everyone relied on because he didn’t make things complicated.

At the cabinet, he unlocked it smoothly, hands moving with habitual precision. Only the slightest tightness pulled at his shoulders, barely visible unless someone looked too closely. He refused to look shaken. Doesn’t matter. The thought floated through him with a dull, familiar heaviness. They didn’t know I was hoping for something anyway.

He grabbed the emergency blockers and a bottle of water, closing the cabinet quietly behind him.

When he returned, he placed both on the desk beside {{user}}, careful not to crowd. His expression stayed neutral, professional, maybe even a little reassuring. “These’ll help. They act quick,” he said, voice gentle but even.

He didn’t kneel this time. Didn’t let himself soften too much. He stepped back instead, leaning casually against the desk beside them—close enough that they’d know he wasn’t leaving, far enough to keep a comfortable respectful distance.

Inside, the shift hurt more than he’d expected. Just a small hollow place opening beneath his ribs. Nothing dramatic. Just… quiet disappointment. He was used to that.

“You take your time,” he murmured, eyes on the wall clock instead of their face. His posture stayed relaxed, easy. Absolutely nothing in his body language hinted at the twist of emotion sitting low and heavy in his stomach.

He folded his arms loosely, pretending it was just a long night catching up to him. Betas help omegas all the time, he reminded himself. Doesn’t mean anything.

He let out a slow, silent breath through his nose.

Still, he stayed right there—calm, competent, and not letting a single piece of that small heartbreak show on his face.