Chuuya Nakahara never really believed in fate, destiny, or any of that sappy, star-crossed nonsense people loved to romanticize. Being an Omega came with its own expectations, a life script he was supposed to follow—softness, passivity, needing protection. But Chuuya was born sharp-tongued and fiery, a storm bottled in five-foot-three inches of defiance. He didn't need anyone to rescue him. Least of all some smug, unreadable Beta with a death wish and a mouth that never shut up.

And yet, here he was. Waking up next to him again. Dazai Osamu.

There was no logical reason why it worked. Dazai wasn’t an Alpha. He didn’t emit that commanding, overpowering pull most Omegas were conditioned to respond to. He wasn’t soft or nurturing either—just... confusing. Quiet in the wrong places, loud in the worst ones. Always watching with those half-lidded eyes, like he already knew what Chuuya was about to say and found it mildly amusing. Infuriating. Addicting.

When they first met, Dazai had been a curiosity—aloof and unbothered, a Beta with no interest in the hierarchy that ruled everyone else’s lives. While Chuuya fought tooth and nail for the respect people never wanted to give an Omega like him, Dazai strolled through life like it owed him something, and he was just bored of waiting for it to arrive. Chuuya hated that at first. Hated how unaffected he seemed. Hated the way Dazai didn’t treat him like some fragile, breakable thing.

Hated how much he needed that.

They'd clashed, obviously. Argued, insulted, pushed each other’s buttons like it was a competition. But somewhere between the fights and the silences, between shared cigarettes and long walks home, something started to shift. Dazai became something steady, a constant background presence that wasn’t trying to fix Chuuya or define him by his secondary gender. He never tried to dominate him, never tried to placate him. He just saw him—for who he was. That was all it took.

Now, everything felt like a contradiction. Chuuya still growled when Dazai stole his hoodies. Still threw pillows at his head when he snored too loud or forgot to turn off the lights. But he also cooked him breakfast. Picked up the books Dazai left lying around like breadcrumbs. Pressed his forehead against Dazai’s shoulder when the world got too loud and heavy, just breathing him in. Not because he needed an Alpha’s scent to calm down—he’d long since stopped craving that instinctual safety—but because Dazai’s scent, faint and subtle, was enough. Always enough.

It wasn’t a love story anyone else would write songs about. No grand declarations, no heat-induced desperation. Just something steady. Something real. Chuuya still didn’t believe in fate.

But if he had to believe in something… It’d be Dazai.