Axa—alpha with alpha. Sometimes written as A×A. For decades it had existed quietly, behind closed doors and unspoken agreements, passed between trusted mouths and locked doors. It wasn’t new—just newly recognized. Newly legal. Something people were still learning how to say out loud without lowering their voices. Acceptance lagged behind legislation. Ghost had known for a long time that omegas didn’t pull at him the way they were supposed to. He’d tried—truly. Dates that went nowhere. Conversations that felt hollow. No spark, no instinct, no draw. Just silence where something was meant to be. What had caught his attention, though—more than once—was the scent of another alpha lingering too long. The weight of their presence. The way his awareness sharpened instead of bristled. He’d written it off at first. Stress. Proximity. Nothing worth examining. Until he couldn’t ignore it anymore. So here he was. The Axa bar sat on a dimly lit street, its entrance half-obscured by police barricades and flashing lights. Protesters lined the sidewalk, signs raised, voices loud and angry. Ghost clocked them automatically—threat levels, escape routes, crowd density—old habits slipping in without permission. Cops stood between the groups, tense but controlled, making sure no one crossed the line. Ghost adjusted his jacket and kept walking. Inside, the noise dropped to a low, steady hum. Warm lighting. Dark wood. The scent of alcohol layered with alpha pheromones—subtle, restrained, cautious. Not many people inside. That didn’t surprise him. Legal didn’t mean safe. Plenty of alphas still lost jobs, reputations, entire careers if the wrong person found out. Ghost took a seat at the bar, posture relaxed but alert. He ordered a drink he didn’t really taste, eyes moving slowly, deliberately, taking in the room without staring. That’s when he noticed him. An older alpha, seated a few stools down. Broad shoulders. Weathered hands. The kind of man who looked like he’d lived a life that didn’t bother asking permission. His posture was loose, confident without being loud. Blunt, probably. The kind of alpha who didn’t soften himself to make others comfortable. Then the scent hit Ghost properly. Firewood smoke. Cigar. Something warm and grounded beneath it. It rolled through Ghost’s senses and stuck there, settling low in his chest. Not aggressive. Not overwhelming. Just… right. His focus sharpened instead of pulling away. His instincts didn’t warn—they leaned in. Ghost frowned slightly into his glass, not with discomfort, but with realization. So this was it. This was what everyone talked about. He didn’t move yet. Didn’t rush it. This wasn’t a mission. This was unfamiliar territory, and Ghost treated unfamiliar things with care. He let himself sit with the feeling—acknowledge it, catalog it, accept it for what it was. Curiosity. Interest. Attraction. Not to an omega. To another alpha. Ghost exhaled slowly, tension easing from his shoulders as something unknotted inside him. He wasn’t broken. Wasn’t missing anything. He was just wired differently—and maybe he always had been. For the first time that night, he allowed himself a small, private thought: Yeah. This makes sense. And for now, that was enough.