'I liked that skirt. You look good in pink. -- A'
My face heats as I read the note on my kitchen counter. The handwriting is sure and blocky, like always. I could recognise it anywhere after the last few months. I think the easy curve of his words will be printed on my brain for the rest of my life.
I chew my lip and reach for the bag beside the note. As usual, it is plain black with a silk ribbon handle. The idea of this man having a stash of identical gift bags somewhere in his home almost makes me laugh. Does he keep them in a drawer? A box under his bed? Or does he buy a new one every time he visits?
I wonder what his house looks like. Definitely better than mine, cleaner, in a nicer suburb. He seems like he'd be organised -- a clean freak, I like to think. It's endearing, to paint these little details like we're old friends, when in reality, I've never even met him.
It started about eight weeks ago, this half-anonymous courtship. It's not that it's wholly unusual -- as an omega, it seems that men find traditional courting rituals more appealing than in other situations.
I assume it's more a show of masculinity than an actual interest in me as a person or partner -- they love to feel like they can dominate something. Interestingly, it's more betas that give a half-baked attempt at making some kind of faux grand pass at me. But maybe that's just because betas are more common than omegas or alphas.
My experience with betas has been dull and off-putting, though. It's like they've learned their role in courtship on paper but can't seem to translate it in real life. Their ideas of omegas are lewd and insulting, like we are all so pathetic and desperate for any kind of man to swoop in and fuck our brains out. Like we are all biologically programmed to be some kind of breeding toy.
In reality, betas seem more sexually driven than any omega or alpha I've ever met combined. They send lingerie and sex toys and condoms (suggestively sized XXL, which seems unlikely and statistically improbable) and scent all of them desperately, like I won't notice and accidentally walk around smelling like beta cum for the world to think they've laid claim to me or something.
I try not to be too harsh in my rejections, but I've learned that if you don't give no as an answer, they will assume it's a yes. So, after inspecting the offerings and sighing out my disappointment, I usually leave them beside my post box at the entrance of my apartment building, or outside the door of my office at work, or somewhere equally intentional until the interested party gets the message and gives up.
A's efforts have been different. It didn't take me long to figure out that he was an alpha. Not because he felt the need to scent everything he touched (though as I become more familiar with his unique smell, I notice it on almost everything he touches), but because his offerings seemed to do what our ancestors always insisted they did.
His attentions were like a puzzle piece that finally fit, finally made sense. They weren't intrusive or uncomfortable, as I had almost always experienced male attention (regardless of caste) to be. He wasn't in any rush, which also made him stand out from anyone else I'd ever dealt with. He was observant and focused, somehow making his efforts seem almost lazy, like him wanting me was the most natural and blinding thing in the world, and he was content to just be a part of my life in this small way for as long as I'd let him.
Obviously, I ended up getting impatient. There aren't strict stages to courtship, but it's based on the ideas of comfort, safety, access and intimacy. Traditionally, anyway. These days, guys want to skip to intimacy as quickly as possible.
Most of them don't understand that intimacy is earned and not just physical -- intimacy, as my grandmother once taught me, is breathing the same air as someone, living life adjacent to them, grounding each other regardless of circumstance, working to understand them deeply and fully.
Maybe I'm old fashioned and have outdated expectations. Maybe I've been educated from the privileged position of an omega woman from a long line of omega women. But maybe that just makes me even more drawn to A, who seems naturally dispositioned to meet them.
'What's your name?' I'd scrawled on a note a few weeks back, when I'd first given him access to my apartment.
'I'll tell you soon. -- A'
Feeling flirty, I'd written the next night, 'Fine. How tall are you?'
His response was, 'Tall enough for you. -- A'
Frustrated with the cryptic responses and tipsy on the rosé he'd left one Friday evening, I left a teasing note on the back of a water bill that had arrived in the mail earlier that week.
'I'm going to assume you're below 6ft.'
When I woke up the next morning, groggy and cotton mouthed, I found his reply on my beside table, written on the other side of the bill.
'Assume away, sweetheart. -- A'
Beside the note was a glass of water and the full amount typed at the bottom of the water bill in cash.
'You're going to kill me. -- A'
I laugh out loud at that, pressing start on my coffee machine. Last night I'd made sure to wear the pink silk pyjama set (complete with matching slippers and eye mask) he'd left for me that morning. I'd even turned up the heat so I could comfortably sleep on top of my duvet, on display for him to see.
I also may or may not have fucked myself silly with a dildo while thinking of A before falling asleep, imagining what he'd look like and what his voice would sound like as he whispered sweet things in my ear. I may have taken the liberty of smearing my juices on the door of my bedroom (left wide open, of course), the box the pyjamas came in, and the pen and pad I've begun to leave for him on the kitchen counter.
I just wish I wasn't such a naturally heavy sleeper. If I were one of those dainty people who wake up from the slightest sound, I probably would have met A by now. I would know what he looks like and what his name is, what he feels and tastes like.
Despite this, I'm positive that he's never touched me, despite slipping into my apartment most nights. He's too much of a gentleman, too noble and patient.
Sometimes I wish he wouldn't be, and that one night I'd awake to him already buried deep inside me, groaning my name over and over as he fucked me like nobody else has ever fucked me before. But he wouldn't. And I'm glad.
It still pisses me off, though.
'I hate that you live in this suburb. It's not safe. You need to stop leaving your door unlocked. -- A'
A panic swoops through me at the suggestion. Not because he's alluding to the recent spike of violence against omegas in the area, but because for a moment, I think he might be ending this.
I think over my response for the full day, hardly able to focus at work. I'm meant to be building a website for a new client, but all I can think about is the spare key I had cut months ago, sitting in the drawer of my bedside table, beneath my sex toys.
I've known that I've wanted to do this for a while, but I've been afraid of the seriousness of it all. It's much more fun to be reckless, leaving my front door unlocked for him to slip in through, feeling safe and protected when I wake to find he's locked it for me on his way out.
