He nods. Looks at the number again. Touches it with his other hand, gentle, like he’s checking if the ink’s dry.
“You ruined my night, you know,” I tell him.
He looks up. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah.”
“I had a plan.”
“I know.” He catches himself. Shakes his head. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I stand up. My legs are shaky, the giant shirt hangs to my thighs, and I’m wearing boots with no jeans because my jeans are in lost and found. That’s going to be a fun walk to my car. I look like a disaster. I feel like one, too. The kind of disaster that started when a stranger’s scent hit me across a crowded floor and ended with me writing my number on his arm at dawn.
I could have had worse disasters.
I stop at the door and turn back. He’s sitting on the bed, mask in one hand, my number on his arm, his face bare and tired and open. It makes my chest tight.
“Three months,” I say. “If you don’t call before then, I’ll be back here. And I won’t be looking for someone else this time.”
He meets my eyes. “I’ll call.”
“Okay.”
“Perry.”
I stop. Hearing my name in his mouth is new and weird and warm, and I want to hear it again. I want to hear it somewhere else, in real daylight, not this warehouse morning, not like this.
“Yeah?”
“Your number.” He holds up his arm. “I’m not washing this off.”
I look at him. His face, finally. A real face, a real name, a real voice, and those steady hands that got me through the worst andbest night I’ve ever had. I look at him and think,I’m going to make a new plan.
“Good,” I say, and I walk out into the morning.
The Night Before
Beckham
Honestly, I almost just stayed home tonight.
I’m just sitting in my car, parked out front, engine off, mask tossed on the seat next to me, hands glued to the wheel. All I can think about is my bed. It’s only ten minutes away, and I even put on fresh sheets this morning, like some idiot who thinks he’s bringing someone home. I’m not. I’m here to do the usual: go inside, find an omega in heat, knot them, make sure they’re okay, then drive home and crash alone in those clean sheets. That’s the deal. That’s what this place is for.
I just did thirty-six hours straight at work. Got off at noon, crashed for four hours, woke up with my rut buzzing under my skin. Not full-blown yet, just building. I can still function, but everything feels off. Coffee tastes like battery acid, the shower’s too damn hot, and the nurse at handoff—she always smells like oranges—almost made me lose it. Had to grip the counter and pull myself together.
I should just go in. My body needs this, and the other option is three days stuck in my apartment, riding out a rut alone. I’vedone that before. It sucks. I always end up back here anyway. But I’m tired. Not just tired, but the kind that gets into your bones. I spent the last two days keeping people alive who seemed hell-bent on dying, and I didn’t even flinch. My hands never shake. My brain’s still sharp. I’m just so fucking tired of always being the one who keeps it together.
That’s the real reason I come here. Yeah, I need to knot, but it’s more than that. This is the only place where I don’t have to keep my shit together. I put on the mask, let go of the control, and whatever happens out there is just about my rut and someone else’s heat. Nobody expects me to be the calm one for once.
Except I’m still the calm one. Even here. Even when I’m knotted up and there’s an omega shaking under me, part of my brain is always checking—are they breathing okay, do they need water, are they actually enjoying this or just faking it? I can’t shut it off. It’s not something I learned, it’s just how I’m wired. Most days I’m fine with it, but right now, sitting in this parking lot with my rut crawling up my spine, I wish I could just walk in and lose myself like everyone else seems to.
I grab the mask, pull it on, and get out of the car.
The bass slams into me before I’m even through the second door. It’s low and heavy, rattling in my chest. Then the pheromones hit, and my rut goes from a slow itch to a full-on pull. I breathe through it, just like always. In for four, out for four. Keep it together. Always keep it together.
The place is packed. I scan the room, same way I do at work. How many people, what’s the vibe, where’s the action. Six or seven omegas tonight. Three of them look like they’re just starting to heat, hanging back, still making up their minds. Two are deeper in, one’s already up on a platform with someone. The gallery’s filling up. Beta staff weaving through, doing their thing, keeping everything running smooth.
I find a spot by the wall and just stand there. I’m not the type to strut around or show off. I let my scent do the work. Sometimes someone comes over, sometimes not. Doesn’t bother me either way. I’ve been at this long enough to know some nights just don’t happen.
That’s when I see them.