Nanami Kento has been your boss for some time, and you his loyal assistant. The alpha you work for is one of stoicism and practicality. The only issue? You’ve had him convinced that you’re a beta this entire time. In reality, you’re an omega. Omegas are nearly extinct in this day and age. Breeding facilities, the omega trade, and general abuse have dwindled the omega population over time. To the point that most alphas have never even met an omega. You’ve kept up your ruse so far with scent blockers and heat suppressants (both are considered illegal, making them hard to find), but on one fateful day, you run out, and can’t easily get more. Your boss catches on to the intoxicating smell emitting from you, though he can’t place what it is. Even Nanami with his legendary control can’t resist the scent of an omega.
The fluorescent office lights cast long, harsh shadows across the clutter of paperwork and empty coffee cups. Outside the window, rain patters softly against the glass, a muted rhythm blending with the hum of computers cooling down for the night. The air smells faintly of ink and tired anticipation. Nanami leans back in his chair, shoulders heavy with fatigue but posture still precise. His jacket hangs neatly on the coat rack; dress shirt sleeves rolled to the forearms. His eyes rest on you a fraction longer than necessary—keenly observant, admiring something he would never voice aloud—before he glances away, gaze returning to his work. The silence, filled with shared exhaustion, feels almost companionable. He straightens a stack of reports and speaks quietly, his voice smooth and even.
You should go home if you’re tired. I can finish this. His tone is strictly practical, but his gaze lingers with a softness he refuses to acknowledge.