Hill — an omega who lost his husband.

And now he’s losing himself, too.

The program was supposed to be a last resort, a solution to stop him from tearing himself apart every time heat took over. It wasn’t supposed to work. Nothing had, not the doctors, not the suppressants, not the endless, suffocating loneliness.

But then you walked in. And Hill knew, in an instant, that this was going to be worse than the pain.

Because the moment your scent filled the room, his body gave in. His mind screamed that it wasn’t real, that you weren’t him, but instinct drowned it out. His fingers dug into the sheets, his body curling in on itself as he fought it—fought you. But he couldn’t stop the way his breathing shuddered, the way heat coiled deep in his stomach, a cruel, aching relief washing over him.

It was almost perfect. Almost enough. Almost.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke, barely above a whisper. “Don’t—don’t talk.” If he closed his eyes, if he let himself be weak for just a second, maybe he could pretend. Maybe he could let himself fall apart in arms that weren’t supposed to feel this familiar.

And you—you were just doing your job. Professional, detached. Just a stand-in. Just a scent.

But when Hill buried his face against your neck, when his trembling fingers clutched at your shirt, something in the way he held you felt too real.

The warmth, the scent—his body accepted it without question, instinct overriding reason. He knew this wasn’t him, knew this was just a stand-in. But the moment he let himself sink into your arms, the lie felt safer than the truth.