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Living life this way means no OMB check-ins. No metaphorical leash, no alpha at home asking where I’ve been or why dinner’s not hot on the table.
I sleep with who I want, go where I want,dowhat I want. Yeah, there are times when I get kind of lonely, and sure, my bank account winces every time I tap my card, but at least I’mfree.
At least I’m not living out some alpha's fantasy of the Good Omega Wife.
Behind me, a pair of teenage betas argue about whose turn it is to buy snacks for their next shift. One of them cracks open a fluorescent orange energy drink that smells like syrup and chemicals and something vaguely citrus trying to be fun.
My stomach turns as the scent hits my nostrils, and I can't help but grimace in their direction.
“You want some?” one of them asks, catching me side-eyeing. “It’s radioactive. Tastes like victory.”
“Tempting, but I’m more of a black coffee kind of girl.”
He laughs, the sound quick and bright. “Hardcore. Respect.”
I check my phone: 4:45.
Right on time.
I roll the pill bottle out of my jacket sleeve with practiced ease, subtle as can be, tap two tablets into my palm, and dry swallow.
I don’t flinch at the taste anymore.
The Mask is what I call them. Not their official name - that one’s full of hyphens and clinical promises. ButThe Maskfits.
The bus hisses to a halt. I get off two stops early on purpose - I like the walk.
The streets are quieter here. A little rough around the edges, but honest in a way the glossy parts of the city never are.
It doesn’t take long before the welding shop comes into view, tucked behind a tangle of overhead cables and hand-painted signs. The smell hits before I even reach the stairs: scorched metal, motor oil, the faint hum of something electric being tamed.
Darren - the shop owner - is leaning against the doorway, talking with one of the other guys. They’re both in coveralls, grease-smeared and relaxed.
“Rhea!” he calls when he spots me, grinning widely. “You get prettier every time you walk by. It's rude, honestly.”
“Don’t lie before dinner,” I call back, smiling. “What’s the verdict on that clutch rebuild?”
“Halfway to hell and held together with spit. You want to come take a look?”
“I’ll pass. I like having eyebrows.”
The other guy - Scott - gives a low whistle. “She’s got jokes today.”
“I’vealwayshad jokes,” I fire back, heading toward the stairs. “You were just too distracted by your own tragic playlists to notice.”
“Hey!” Scott protests. “Nineties emo is timeless.”
“Tell that to your spark plugs,” I call over my shoulder.
Their laughter follows me up the stairs, where I unlock the door and step into my little haven.
Warmth greets me like a well-worn sweater.
It’s small - just one big open room, a kitchenette, and a bathroom that’s barely wide enough to stretch in - but it’smine.
My plants line the sill - ivy winding around the latch, a mess of succulents in mismatched mugs, and a peace lily that’s refused to bloom since the day I bought it.
I’ve stopped taking it personally. I think it’s just stubborn.
