Sai
I’m still standing here with my keys in my hand, his gloss sticky on my mouth, the shape of his waist burned into my palms, and I can’t make myself move. One word from him and my hands moved before my brain even caught up. For three seconds, maybe four, everything went quiet. Perfectly, blissfully quiet.
Now it is the opposite of quiet.
The command is gone. Mavi is behind his door and I’m standing in a hallway that smells like honey and citrus and my own sandalwood twisted together into something new, and every single input is stacking at once: the kiss, the scent, the way he said good boy, the way my whole body shuddered when he said it, the Moreau dinner, the gallery, Alistair’s assistant, my mother saying wonderful, the shoot in two hours, the shirt I’m still wearing that smells like his mouth and his skin and the slick I felt through his pants when he pressed against me.
It takes a moment but I finally get the key in the door. The apartment looks exactly the way I left it, except the broken mug is still scattered across the kitchen floor because Koda said we weren’t cleaning it up. The sight of the ceramic shards adds one more thing to a stack that is already too high.
I need to change this shirt. I cannot show up to a professional set smelling like an Omega, smelling like this specific Omega. The scent is so strong on the silk that every Alpha in the building would know and every Beta would guess and the questions would start and the questions would reach the family.
I open the closet and pull out the white oxford. I hold it. Then I put it back. The grey comes out next. The buttons are mother-of-pearl and they will catch the studio lights and create lens flare. Unacceptable. The grey goes back. The black comes out. The black is too dark for tonight’s setup. I put it back.
Three shirts. Three options. My hands are still holding the hangers while my brain runs a calculation that will not resolve, because underneath the question of which shirt is the question of whether I can physically bring myself to take off the one I’m wearing. The answer is that I can’t. The answer is also that I have to.
The freeze hits like a circuit breaker tripping. One second, I’m standing in front of the closet with a hanger in each hand. The next I’m not making decisions anymore. Not about shirts. Notabout the shoot. Not about anything. I’m just standing here, unable to put them back, unable to put them on, unable to let go.
At some point I’m not standing anymore. My knees give out and I fold against the bathroom floor, the tile cold under my palms. My breathing kicks up as my fingers find the pattern they always find when the rest of me stops working.
Index. Middle. Ring. Pinky.
Both hands flat on the tile, tapping in sequence. A rhythm that means nothing but that my brain insists must be completed before any other function can resume. My phone buzzes in my pocket, buzzes again, and then a third time. I can’t physically dredge up the energy to pull it out but even if I could, answering means choosing and I... I can’t do that.
I try to focus on breathing, slowly falling to my side as the cold seeps into my skin. When my phone starts buzzing again, a short double buzz, a new source of panic flares in my chest.Koda.The one person who could help me is reaching out but I can’t... I just...
Index, middle, ring, pinky. Index, middle, ring, pinky.
Nobody comes. Nobody knows to come because I have spent my entire life making sure no one ever sees me like this. Except Koda. Even so, he wouldn’t know to show up at my door. Not yet, anyway.
The part I’m confused about is that I wanted to obey Mavi. That thought keeps catching in my brain while my fingers tap against the tile. I wanted it. I needed it. I craved more of it and then it was just gone.
Hollis Alphas aren’t supposed to want that.
But I do.
My fingers slowly stop their incessant rhythm, my body sagging against the tile incrementally until the chaos drains from my body. I can move again, but badly, and with the knowledge that something is very wrong.
The mirror shows me a Hollis Alpha with smeared gloss on his mouth, red-rimmed eyes, and a silk shirt that still smells like an Omega he obeyed in a hallway. The self-disgust is so total it is almost calm.
My feet carry me to the studio and I end up in front of the wall the way I always end up in front of the wall. His face looks back at me in all those different lights, my hand finding the favorite. I lift it to my mouth and press my lips against the photograph, gently, the way I would kiss something holy and terrible at the same time. Something I am grateful for and terrified of in the same breath.
“What are you doing to me, Doll?” The words come out cracked and barely audible against the print. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
My eyes dart to the open laptop on my desk, the sudden desire for more surging through me and past the shame. On unsteady legs, I walk over and drag the laptop onto the floor before sitting next to it, searching for the exact video where it feels like Mavi is talking to me.
Tonight, I don’t want his body. I wanthim.
An older video pops up, Mavi curled up on the couch in an oversized hoodie, his legs bare. The live comments now embedded mostly have to do with how beautiful he is, how soft he looks, how they want him to push up the fabric to show more of himself.
Tonight, though, I just stare at his face.
“Hey, there Alpha,” Mavi purrs, smiling at the screen. “It’s been a while since it’s just been us, hasn’t it?”
And just like that, everything else stops. A shuddering breath tears through me as I sag back against the wall, pulling the laptop with me.
“Look at me,” he tells the camera. “Right here. Do not look away.”
“I am looking, Doll.” My voice is wrecked, scraped down to nothing, and I am talking to a recording that cannot hear me and I do not care. “I see you. I always see you.” Tears gather in my eyes, blurring my vision. I’ve never had such a strong reaction to something not fitting into my routine. I don’t dare look for the time because I know I’ve missed more than I can make up for.
