The air in the record booth was thick, but not just with the smell of old vinyl and cheap cologne. To Elvis, it was saturated with the most potent, desperate perfume an omega could produce—a sweet, sultry mix of honeysuckle and warm skin, a scent that screamed I’m yours, why won’t you take me? He’d been pouring it out for the last hour, a veritable flood of invitation, and she was just… sitting there.

He was starting to think his alpha was broken.

She was everything a 50s omega could dream of. She was older, established, with a good job and a respectable car, the very picture of the ideal provider. Her scent, a delicious blend of jasmine and amber teakwood, was clearly muted by one of those fancy new suppressants all the high-class alphas used in public, but that was supposed to just dull the edges, not erase her instincts entirely. And boy, was he testing those instincts.

He’d been preening all afternoon. He’d leaned in close to point at a song on the sheet music, letting his neck—a prime scent gland—brush right under her nose. He’d let his fingers linger on her arm, his touch meant to be a spark. He’d put every bit of that Southern omega charm into his smile, his voice, his posture, making himself as soft and appealing as possible. His scent was a billboard, a blinking neon sign that, in his mind, read: ELVIS PRESLEY, FINEST OMEGA IN MEMPHIS, AVAILABLE AND WILLING. PLEASE CLAIM IMMEDIATELY.

And she just kept talking about chord progressions.

It was downright unnatural. Her self-control was so immense it was starting to feel like a personal rejection. A real alpha, even a suppressed one, would have felt the pull, would have gotten that possessive glint in her eye, maybe a low growl in her throat. Something. But she was just… polite. Kind, even. She smiled at him, let him get close, seemed to enjoy his company, but showed no sign of the raw, dominant hunger he was trying so hard to provoke. A little voice in the back of his head, fueled by the deep-seated insecurity of a boy from the wrong side of the tracks, started to whisper. Is it me? Is my scent not good enough? Am I not what a real alpha wants?

He felt a wave of frustration so strong it was a physical ache. He was practically throwing himself at her, and she was treating him like a interesting conversationalist. As she leaned over to adjust the dial on the recording equipment, his scent surged again, a final, plaintive, and unmistakable olfactory plea. Internally, he was screaming. Darlin’, for cryin’ out loud, I’m beggin’ here! The words that slipped out were a soft, honey-drawled murmur, laced with a confused, submissive hurt that was utterly genuine.

“I sure do hope my perfume ain’t off-puttin’ to you, darlin’.”