Page 12 of Omega in Love
My mother wrung her hands, twisting her wedding ring around and around. My father's jaw ticked, the familiar muscle jumping beneath his skin that always signaled danger.
"You're an Omega," he said flatly, like the words tasted wrong. Like he was spitting out something poisonous. "A male Omega."
The world tilted beneath my feet. The kitchen blurred at the edges. An Omega? Me?
"O-kay" I said slowly, trying to process, to normalize. "That's—I mean, it's rare, but it's not?—"
"It's unacceptable," my father snapped, finally looking at me with dead eyes—eyes I didn’t recognize. He looked at me like he didn’t know me. His glare cold and distant. Disgusted by me.
The rest came fast, a barrage of verbal bullets I couldn’t dodge. Words like ‘disgrace’ and ‘wasted potential’ sliced through the air. Like ‘what are we supposed to do with you now?’ and ‘you'll be a liability for the rest of your life’. My mother was crying but said nothing to stop him, her silence a betrayal that cut deeper than his rage. The love I thought was unconditional died in real time, withering before my eyes like flowers left too long without water.
They gave me an hour to pack. Sixteen with nothing. One hour to gather the fragments of a life shattered.
I left with a duffel bag hastily filled, with a designation I hadn’t asked for, and a scar no one could see. God it ached. It ached with every breath I took.
I wake with a gasp, drenched in sweat, my clothes cling to my skin like a second membrane. The room is dark and silent, the thrum of LA nightlife muted by soundproofed walls that costmore than the first apartment Charlotte and I shared. I can still hear it, my father's voice cutting through ten years of distance, the final slam of the door as it shut behind me, the echo of his rejection ringing in my ears. Unacceptable. One word that redefined my existence.
The scent of roses is cloying, suffocating, my distressed pheromones fill the space with a sickly-sweet perfume. I shove the blanket down and sit up, hands trembling. Another night, another memory I can't outrun despite all the miles I've put between then and now.
There's a knock on the door. It's soft, careful, and familiar. Three gentle taps that could only belong to one of them. Levi, probably, with his intuitive sense of when I'm drowning.
I can't move. My limbs feel weighted, my throat constricted. So, I don't answer. Not because I don't want to, but because I can't. I need this room. This lock. This silence. This pocket of space where no one can see me vulnerable. If I open that door, I'll have to let someone in. I'll have to let myself feel something other than this carefully constructed numbness I've perfected. I'll have to acknowledge that these men, Dante with his quiet intensity, Hero with his watchful eyes, and Levi with his gentle strength, have somehow slipped past defenses I thought impenetrable.
Instead, I stay still, drawing my knees to my chest, listening to footsteps recede down the hall, reluctant, hesitant, but ultimately respectful of the boundaries I've drawn in bold lines around myself.
The only sound now is the rush of my own pulse and the whisper of my thoughts, looping over and over again like a haunting refrain: I think I care about them more than I want to, and I don't know what to do about it.
I wake to sunshine filtering through curtains I don't remember closing. My eyes feel swollen, my throat raw. Evidence of tears I don't remember crying, though the dampness on my pillow tells a story my mind has mercifully blurred around the edges.
The clock says nine AM. Later than I've slept in months. My body feels heavy, like I've been fighting something in my sleep. Battling demons that only retreat when consciousness returns.
My phone is dead on the nightstand. I must have forgotten to plug it in last night during my emotional episode. Breakdown. Whatever Dr. Kendrick would label it with his gentle, clinical terms that somehow make everything sound both fixable and unfixable at the same time. ‘Acute stress response’, he'd probably call it, or ‘emotional processing event’, wrapping my messiness in language that feels less raw.
I drag myself to the shower, cranking the heat until steam billows around me, fogging the mirror so I don't have to see my reflection. The water pounds against my shoulders and I lean forward, bracing my hands against the cool tiles. I take deep breaths in and out, watching rivulets cascade down my skin, imagining them washing away the night. Scrub off the memories and start fresh. It's what I do best, after all. I'm good at reinvention.
From disowned son to runway darling. From victim to survivor. From broken to whatever I am now. Something in between, maybe. Something still forming. A work in progress with too many false starts and abandoned drafts.
By the time I emerge, wrapped in a plush towel, my room smells less like distressed Omega and more like the expensive bath products I hoard like treasure.
I take my time getting dressed, each movement deliberate. Soft gray joggers that feel like a hug against my skin. An oversized cream sweater that drapes just right, concealing and revealing in equal measure. Comfort clothes, not Brookes Daniels the model, just Brookes who needs to feel safe today. I run my fingers through my damp hair, not bothering with product or styling. Some days the armor is too heavy to put on.
Once I'm dressed and halfway presentable, I pause at the bedroom door, hand hovering over the lock. Last night feels both distant and too close, like looking at a wound that's scabbed over but still tender to the touch. I twist the lock open with a decisive click, the sound echoing in the silence of my room.
The house is quiet when I step into the hallway. Too quiet.
Usually by now there's the low murmur of Dante's voice on a call, his tone shifting between professional detachment and warm authority, or the rhythmic count of Hero's morning workout, numbers whispered under his breath like a meditation, or the clatter of Levi making breakfast, humming something soulful and sweet. The silence feels deliberate, cautious. I know they're giving me space. Even without me answering the door last night, they know.
I pad down the stairs, following the faint scent of coffee, my bare feet silent against the hardwood. The kitchen is empty, but a mug sits on the counter beside the coffee maker. My favorite one, the oversized ceramic one with "Diva" written in gold cursive that Hero found whilst out shopping.
"Because it looked like something you'd like," he'd said when I gave him a pointed look to mask how it really made me feel. I’d felt seen in a way that was terrifying and wonderful all at once.
Next to it is a plate covered with a cloth napkin, folded with military precision that could only be Dante's handiwork. I lift it to find a perfect stack of blueberry pancakes, still warm, the butter melting into golden pools between the layers. A smallhandwritten note sits beside it, the paper slightly wrinkled as if someone had second-guessed what to write.
Eat something, Bloom. We're out back when you're ready. No rush—L.
Something catches in my throat. It's not tears, I won't let it be tears again, but a tightness that makes it hard to swallow. This simple kindness. This careful distance. Their understanding that sometimes I need walls and sometimes I need doors left open. I trace my finger over Levi's handwriting; the way the L swoops with confidence, the gentle curve of the B in ‘Bloom’, a nickname that should feel childish but somehow feels like belonging when it comes from him.
Through the kitchen window, I can see them in the backyard, bathed in California sunshine that turns everything golden. Dante is at the patio table with his laptop, focused and intent, his profile sharp against the backdrop of flowering jasmine. Hero is stretched out on a yoga mat, moving through his forms with that fluid grace that makes it look like the easiest thing in the world, each transition seamless. Levi is tending to the small herb garden we started last month, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he examines something green and fragile, those powerful hands impossibly gentle with the new growth.
