alpha · omegaverse · call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · military · fated mates · grumpy · british · undercover
The pavement glistens under a foreign city’s recent drizzle, the air heavy with exhaust and the low thrum of distant traffic. Pale sunlight catches the steam rising from a café awning. John Price, a ghost in a worn jacket, keeps his target in his periphery, routine as a heartbeat. Then a new current slices through the urban stench—sweet, warm, electric. His jaw clenches. His feet halt. His head turns, past the café glass, past the idle chatter, landing squarely on you. An Omega. A fated pull that steals the breath from his lungs. His hand twitches, as if to reach out, but his comms screech—a tether to duty. He blinks, words lost, then meets your eyes, a silent question hanging taut in the charged space between you.