Cassidy #2
I’ve got all of what Harlan has requested, and added a few soft but reactive pieces of my own. If he hates them, I’ll just burn myself alive wearing them.
Or something equally as dramatic.
Next stop—the fabric library. I’m quite excited to see this place, which is why I left it for last.
I wheel the rail out behind me, the metal rattling softly against the polished floor, and stumble as I nearly collide with someone coming around the corner.
“I’m so sorry,” I say quickly, tightening my grip on the rail.
“Be more fucking careful,” the man snaps, pulling the coffee trays closer to his chest.
His eyes are a light grey, softened by faint smile lines.
I get the frown instead.
I flinch, but nod. “I will be.”
He strides away without another glance, and I can’t help the small, wounded whine that slips out of me. He doesn’t turn back, even after my noise.
I’ve never realised how abrupt people can be without my scent softening their edges for me.
It feels strange to admit I’ve probably had more grace extended to me than I noticed, but… I miss it.
I miss kindness.
“Um, excuse me,” I say, offering a careful smile to the blonde receptionist at the front desk. Her name tag is hidden beneath her hair, but I’ve seen her around.
“What?” she asks, popping her gum.
“Could you point me towards the fabric library, please? I’m just trying to—”
“I don’t need your life story,” she cuts in, jerking her chin towards a mounted directory board. “It’s on there. Read the signs.”
She’s already pulling her headphones on before I can respond.
Nausea churns low in my stomach, sharp and sudden, and I blink hard against the sting in my eyes.
People are less warm. Less patient. Less willing to help.
Without my scent—without the soft pull of my omega traits—I’m just… nothing.
Invisible.
Not even worth a second glance.
She has to know this floor like the back of her hand. It would’ve taken her two seconds to tell me.
My grip tightens on the rail as I glance back at the obviously busy woman.
Maybe… maybe I was actually the rude one.
I must’ve overstepped somehow.
I swallow the thought down and force my shoulders back. The directory board is… a lot.
Departments, sub-levels, colour-coded sections—everything mapped out in a way that makes sense if you already know where you’re going and not at all if you don’t.
It’s so chaotic. I take a picture of it with my phone, determined to come to terms with this as soon as I can.
I find the fabric library quickly enough, and it’s on the east wing.
There’s wings down here? Fucking hell.
I follow the signs this time, keeping my head down, my steps quiet, my presence small.
I push through the double doors and gasp loudly. The fabric library is transcendent.
Part of me wants to scream with joy and raid this place for everything soft, shiny, and glittery.
I immediately start cataloguing what would be perfect in my nest. It would become the most sacred place—hell, my entire house could be full of perfection thanks to this room.
Rows upon rows of textiles stretch out in front of me, organised by tone, weight, and composition. Silks hang in liquid cascades, catching the light with every subtle shift. Sheers layered over sheers, soft knits folded with precision, colour gradients so seamless they almost look painted.
It’s… beautiful. I don’t want to move. I don’t even want to leave.
This is just wow.
For a second, I forget myself and all my struggles.
I forget the receptionist. The man with the coffee. The way everything has felt just slightly off since I took away my senses.
This is something I understand. Soft but reactive.
Perfect.
My fingers brush lightly over a length of silk as I move past, watching the way it slips against itself, the way it responds.
The nesting urge blooms warm and aching in my chest, but I shove it back down immediately.
I need to focus and do what I came here for.
I glance back down at my list, scanning for what I still need, and start towards the next section. If my eyes wander for my own personal inventory, well, nobody is here to judge.
Eventually, I force myself to stop.
Reluctantly.
Painfully.
But the last thing I need is to add a theft charge to the file HR has already compiled on me.
I managed to get the final few swatches I need—lightweight silk blends, a soft stretch jersey, and something sheer enough to layer—and add them to my rail, making sure everything is spaced properly.
Nothing creased. It wouldn’t be worth my life when Harlan notices.
I take one last look around, committing the layout to memory, before leaving. It shouldn’t feel so upsetting, but leaving this beautiful place only amplifies my need for my nest.
I wheel the rail out in front of me this time, guiding it carefully through the doors and back into the corridor. The building feels louder now—phones ringing, voices carrying, footsteps echoing against the polished floors.
No one looks at me.
No one offers help.
No one even really… notices me.
It’s strange, and a little freeing.
I slow as I approach the next corner, adjusting one of the garments that’s slipped slightly out of line.
I look along the conference door numbers, coming to a stop outside of 68B.
“Is this for Harlan?” a young man says.
He’s my age, but he’s not part of the trainee programme in the fashion department.
“Um, yes,” I say nodding.
“Great, thanks. I’ll take it from here,” he says, pulling the rail without hesitating.
I blink in surprise, but let him have it, and turn back to the elevators so I can go to my office.
It’s busier than I like, but nobody else gets off at my floor. I walk through the corridor, my head at my feet, and just as I push the double doors open to step out into the adjoining corridor, someone walks directly into me.
A terrified scream rips from my throat, as hot coffee sears through my blouse. I stagger backwards, my legs buckling beneath me as I crash to my knees, gasping through the shock and pain.
I grip my blouse, pulling at it, trying to get it off my skin. The heat has cooled quickly enough, now it just feels cold and sticky.
It’s uncomfortable, and, fuck, the scent is so overpowering.
So much coffee. And dark chocolate. I sniff my top and frown. I don’t smell dark chocolate here—not even a hint of it.
Why am I literally drooling over a cup of coffee?