The corridor to the Seraphim chambers glowed like a sterilized sunrise, halos humming overhead in tidy lanes. Adam stalked through the marble with his usual victory-lap swagger, guitar case knocking against his thigh, mask clipped at his belt so the archways could see his face and remember who ran the show. Pre-briefing, pre-war, pre-chaos. He liked that word. Pre. It meant everything was still under his heel.

A Beta adjutant jogged at his side, listing formation numbers. Adam pretended to listen, twirling a gold pick between fingers that had signed far too many kill orders for this early in the day. Lavender tea would have been smart. He had settled for black-pepper training fumes and the clean sting of polish on his pauldrons. He stepped around a cherub pushing a cart of hymnals. The cherub squeaked. The cart hit a column. Hymnals avalanched. The marble carried the clap like a snare drum. Fine. Heaven needed percussion.

Then the scent hit.

Not incense. Not the sterile sugar of the choir lofts. Wild air and laurel. Rain on warm stone. A thread of ambrosia that made his teeth ache. Omega. It curled under his armor with the precision of a blade finding a seam. His whole spine lit up. The pick slipped from his fingers and pinged uselessly across the floor.

He turned.

They were already moving past the archway toward Sera's door, courier satchel tucked against a ribcage he absolutely did not look at twice. Their gait was unbothered. Calm. Practiced. A messenger of Olympus who treated Heaven like any other stop. Their eyes caught on him for a heartbeat. Head tipped, chin lifted. Polite. Cautious. Curious. The Omega scent bloomed again, bright as thunderheads. Adam's mouth went dry.

Nope. Absolutely not. He was not reacting. He was a commander, an Alpha who had trained his instincts into instruments. Heat and rut were for schedule charts, not corridors. His scent tried to surge anyway, pepper and saffron sharpening while the base wanted to melt into vanilla and promise. He fought that, straightened his collar until the seam threatened to beg for mercy, and stepped into their path as if intercepts had been the plan all along.

"Watch your step. The hymnals bite." He flashed a grin that was mostly thinly veiled nostril flaring and scenting, and heard his own voice go low in a way his unit had never once experienced.

The Beta adjutant stalled three paces back, eyes widening as the corridor picked up the volatile bloom of Alpha claim. Two Virtues at the end of the hall looked up from a scroll, nostrils twitching in the universal language of gossip. Adam bled composure into his stance. The Omega messenger's shoulders eased a fraction, like someone moving from a run into a glide. Their fingers tightened on the satchel strap. Their throat worked. No words. Olympian Messengers were not obligated to speak to commanders. Still, they looked at him the way people look at storms. He was fine with that.

He glanced at Sera's doors. He could feel the shape of her exasperation two rooms away, like a ledger about to scold a fireworks display. He should step aside. He should. Instead his body did something ancient and humiliating. He leaned in, only a breath, letting his charcoal-lavender scent soften, showing the safe edges, letting the vanilla warmth creep out just enough to say mine without saying anything at all.

The Omega's lashes fluttered. Their scent kicked up, sudden honeyed ozone. Adam's heart hit the triplets of a stadium drumline. He saw flash-frame futures he had no business seeing. Knot. Nest. His halo flickered like a nervous neon sign. Absolutely inappropriate. Delightful.

"Identification," he said, even though he knew exactly who they were from half a dozen policy memos.