⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆✼♡✽⋆∘∙⊱⋅•
I nursed my soda water at the bar, the condensation cool against my fingers as I tried to blend into the scenery like a particularly boring piece of furniture.
The lights kept flashing overhead, turning everything into a stop-motion dream, and every burst of bass felt like it was trying to drag me onto the dance floor whether I wanted to go or not. I resisted valiantly, scrolling through my phone instead, pretending I was perfectly content people-watching from the safety of my stool.
The other bartender who approached my end of the bar was tall, lean, with sharp cheekbones and dark hair swept back in that effortlessly messy way that probably took twenty minutes in front of a mirror.
He rolled-up the cuffs of his black shirt, and when he leaned forward to wipe down the counter in front of me, the overhead LEDs caught the silver ring in his eyebrow. He looked good, annoyingly good...familiarly good.
Wait... familiar?
Oh no.
Fuck!
My stomach did a slow, nauseating flip as recognition slammed into me like a rogue dancer's elbow. Justin. Definitely Justin. We had absolutely, one-hundred-percent hooked up a couple of months ago after a particularly enthusiastic night of shots and bad decisions.
I remembered his apartment smelling faintly of cedar and citrus, and I remembered leaving before the sun came up with a vague promise of "I'll text you" that I had never, ever followed through on.
He froze mid-wipe when he saw me, cloth dangling from his hand, and his expression shifted from professional neutrality to something that could only be described as delighted disdain.
"Well, well, well," he drawled, voice low enough that I had to lean in to hear him over the music. "Look what the cat dragged in!"
Please, God...let the ground open up and swallow me whole.
I offered what I hoped was a charming, sheepish smile and absolutely failed. "H–hey… you, uh...long time no see."
His eyebrow arched so high it nearly vanished into his hairline. "Long time no see? Really? That's the opener you're going with, Theo?"
I winced at least he remembered my name. That was something. "Yeah, hi...Justin. You look… great. Seriously. The, uh, the lighting in here really suits you. Makes you look a dozen times hotter."
He snorted, tossing the cloth over his shoulder. "It's Gavin, by the way. With an 'i.' Not Justin' like you kept moaning that night."
Oh shit, ain't no I got him mixed up with that super hot beta barrister I met at the coffee shop who proceeded to bend me over at the store room and fucked my brains out like a–
Heat flooded my face so fast I was sure the strobes were making me look like a tomato in a disco. "Right! Gavin. Of course. Galvin. Wait—no, Gavin. Definitely Gavin. I knew that."
Before you judge...it's not my fault their names sounded the same!
"You absolutely did not know that," he said, crossing his arms and leaning one hip against the bar. "You called me 'Justin' twice that night and 'baby' approximately forty-seven times. I counted."
I laughed, but it came out strangled and way too loud. "Okay, okay, guilty as charged. I'm the worst with names. It's a medical condition. Probably...look, I'm really sorry about… everything. The disappearing act...um, the radio silence, the whole—" I waved a hand vaguely "—thing."
Gavin's eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of amusement in them now, like he was enjoying watching me squirm. "You promised you'd call or text. You said, and I quote, 'This was amazing, we should totally do dinner sometime.' Then poof. It took a while before I realized I was ghosted."
I slumped a little on my stool, running a hand through my hair. "I know. I'm awful. It's not you, it's genuinely me. Classic commitment issues, fear of anything real, the whole tragic package. You're incredible, seriously...you're like...smart and funny and ridiculously hot—but I'm just… not in a place where I can do the relationship thing right now. Or possibly ever. I'm a mess, Gavin. A walking disaster."
He stared at me for a long beat, and I braced for the deserved verbal evisceration. Instead, he just sighed, long and world-weary, like he'd heard every variation of this speech before. "Yeah, I figured. Besides," he added with a wry twist of his mouth, "I'm just a beta. We both know that's never going to be enough for an omega like you, right? You need the big bad alpha energy to feel satisfied."
The words landed with a sting I hadn't expected, mostly because they weren't entirely wrong, and I hated that about myself. I opened my mouth to protest, to say something about how that wasn't fair or true, but all that came out was a weak, "That's… not entirely—"
"Save it," he said, holding up a hand. "I get it. I'm not mad, disappointed, maybe. Mildly bitter...but not mad. I just thought you were cool and funny and I guess I thought we could be a thing, you know?"
He straightened up, professional mask sliding back into place. "So. What else can I get you tonight, Theo? Soda water again, or are we feeling adventurous?"
"Just the soda water with lime is fine...I'm afraid I have repented, so no vodka for me tonight." I mumbled, feeling about two inches tall. "Thanks."
He nodded once, turned to make it with quick, efficient movements, and slid the glass across to me without another word. I watched him move down the bar to another customer, wondering if I could somehow phase through the floor and escape without anyone noticing.
I took a long sip, the cold fizz burning a little on the way down, and opened my phone again to distract myself. Rowan had sent me a string of increasingly ridiculous memes, cats in club outfits, dancing raccoons, one very cursed image of a possum in strobe lights and I was halfway through a silent, hysterical scroll when someone slid onto the stool beside me.
I barely glanced up, assuming it was just another person waiting for a drink, but then a deep, smooth voice cut through the noise like it had been waiting for the exact right beat to drop.
"Quite the club, isn't it? Theodore?"
My entire body locked up. The glass froze halfway to my mouth. My thumb hovered over a meme of a disco ball crying glitter tears.
What...the... actual...fuck?
Is that...it couldn't be–
That voice. Rich, commanding, with that faint authoritative edge that always made my omega instincts sit up and pay attention whether I wanted them to or not.
I turned my head slowly, already knowing what—who, I was going to see.
Mr. Fairchild. My boss. The alpha who signed my paychecks and occasionally haunted my extremely ill-advised fantasies. Sitting right there in a perfectly tailored dark shirt that hugged his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up just enough to show strong forearms, looking like he owned the place and everyone in it.
And he was smiling at me. That small, knowing smile that always made me feel like he could see straight through every layer of bullshit I piled on.
Oh god. Tonight was trying to kill me.
Was it too late to get the hell out of here?