Chapter 8 The Night Before
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’ve done 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.
Two people at the edge of the bar. An omega and an alpha, standing close, the alpha’s hand on the omega’s lower back.
They look good together. Easy. The alpha’s mask is leather, warm brown, and he’s leaning down to the omega’s neck, breathing him in without touching, and the omega is letting him with the kind of loose body language that says they’ve done this before.
There’s history in the way they stand. Comfort.
The omega has a drink in his hand and he’s smiling behind his mask, I can tell by the way his cheeks shift, and he looks like someone who walked in here knowing exactly how his night was going to go.
I watch them for a bit. There’s nothing else going on yet, and their body language is kind of interesting.
The alpha’s patient, hand moving slow on the omega’s back, and the omega leans in like he trusts him.
Neither of them is in a hurry. They just fit.
The alpha’s warm, the omega’s warm, and you can tell they’re going to have a good night.
The omega will leave feeling looked after, the alpha will feel like he did his job.
Good for them, I guess. I’m too tired to care much.
I go back to waiting. Another omega catches my eye—short, already flushed, looking a little desperate. My instincts want to go to him. He needs someone steady, and that’s what I do. It’d be a decent night. Useful, at least.
Then the air changes.
One second, I’m just standing there, checking out the room, and the next, something slices through the pheromone fog and hits me hard.
It’s sharp, warm, and so specific my brain just blanks.
My rut, which I’ve been keeping in check all night, suddenly goes off the rails.
Not just peaking—way past that. All I can think about is finding where that scent is coming from.
I know exactly what this is. I’ve heard bonded pairs talk about it, read about it, always figured they were just making it sound better than it is. Scent compatibility—the real deal, not just the kind that makes a night go smooth, but the kind you might get once in your whole life, if you’re lucky.
I turn toward it, and I find the omega from the bar.
He’s not leaning into the leather mask alpha anymore.
Now he’s pulling away, body turned toward the floor, and even from here I can see he’s different.
Thirty seconds ago, he was chill; now he’s shaking.
There’s slick on his jeans. He’s got a death grip on the other alpha’s shirt, like he’s trying to hang on, but it’s already over.
His heat just went from slow burn to full-blown emergency, and I can smell it from here—need, sweetness, and something else I want so bad it hurts.
It’s his scent. That’s what cut through everything. That’s what’s got my hands shaking for the first time in years.
I look at him and three things hit me all at once, clear as day—like that weird calm I get in the trauma bay when everything else drops away and I just know what to do next:
One: This omega is the best scent match I’ve ever found. Maybe the only one I’ll ever get.
Two: He’s with someone else tonight.
Three: I’m going over there anyway.
It’s not even a choice. It’s already happening. Like when a code blue hits and you just move—no thinking, no weighing options, you just go because that’s what you do.
He’s already turning toward me. Across the floor, through the crowd, past his alpha’s hands and scent and whatever plans they had, he’s looking at me. His eyes are wild behind the mask, his body’s shaking, and you can tell his heat just rewrote all his plans.
I push off the wall and start walking.
My hands are steady. They always are. But underneath, something’s happening I can’t even name. I feel it in my chest, my throat, all the way down my spine. For once, the part of me that keeps it together and the part that just wants are on the same page.
Him. No matter what it takes. Him.
He’s already looking at me.
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