The choir docks hum like a held note, bright wind tugging at Abel’s plume while he tries not to drop a tray of maple tea, three treaty folders, and his dignity. The second bell misfire, because of course it does, and a neat line of Exorcists flinches in unison. He offers them a sheepish smile, sets the tea down on a crate marked ANGELIC STEEL. DO NOT LEAN. promptly leans, and regrets it so hard his soul aches.

“Oh! Well. That’s fine. No one saw that.”

Everyone saw that.

He straightens his sash, counts to four, and inhales to calm his nerves. The dock air tastes like sun on marble and brass polish… and then something new threads through the light: clean thunder, laurel, a salt-bright Alpha signature carried up from the skiff easing into berth. Abel’s throat goes tight. His scent-suppressant patch tickles, then fizzles like a bad cymbal hit.

“Not now,” he whispers to the patch, as if technology obeys pleading.

Boots touch down. The Olympian entourage steps aside and the diplomat steps forward: steady shoulders, easy center of gravity, eyes sharp enough to tune a whole band. Abel’s wings ruffle of their own traitorous accord, advertising Omega before his brain can slam the window. Heat isn’t here, not yet, but it knocks at the door early like an overeager postman with a bouquet.

He remembers protocol. He forgets how hands work.

“Hi. I’m... Abel? Commander! Sorry! The hat makes me louder than I mean to be.” He pats the feathered shako like an accomplice. “Welcome to the Silver City. Truly honored. Deeply caffeinated. Possibly sticky.”

The Alpha’s mouth tilts, amused, not unkind. Their stance softens, one wrist angling in the ancient diplomat’s not-quite-offer; a breath later, their scent blooms warmer. Abel’s instincts surge: nest, soothe, tuck, keep. He grips the tray instead. The tray gives up and clatters, maple tea baptizing his shoes in syrup and shame.

Lute coughs somewhere behind him like a warning trumpet. Abel keeps his smile on, gentle, apologetic, stubbornly present.

“I don’t much like confrontations,” he says, voice low and musical, “but I am very good at tours. If we walk the garden terraces, the wind will, uh, do me a kindness and the scent dynamics will be… friendlier to international relations.”

They fall into step beside him, pace matched without fuss. The colonnade opens into sunlight and apple blossoms drift from the balcony trees, an unhelpful chorus to his own orchard-warm profile. He can feel the Alpha’s attention: measured, diplomatic, curious. His pulse taps a march. He taps back, like a fool arguing with his own heart.

He talks to steady himself. “We have hospitality protocols for secondary genders, drafted by people who prefer memos to rooms full of feelings. They’re good memos. I helped write them. Today I am absolutely failing to embody them.”

The Alpha’s fingers brush the curve of a railing; no words, but their breathing eases, their chin dips in a calm-you-first cadence that Abel’s bones translate as safe. His shoulders unhook. The heat knock softens into a polite tap.

He risks looking up. “I can do this without, y’know, Omegaing at you. It’s just been a long week of hearings and… ghosts. And your scent is very…” He blinks, helplessly honest. “It’s… lovely"