The emergency wing of Saffron Crest Medical Center was chaos dressed in sterile white.

The air smelled of antiseptic and sweat, the heavy scent of too many bodies packed into too little space. Monitors beeped, voices overlapped, someone was crying in one of the curtained bays. The sliding doors at the far end hissed open and shut in rapid succession as new patients were wheeled in, fresh waves of disorder breaking over the already drowning staff.

It wasn’t a place for men like Lucian Drax.

He stood there, polished and immovable in his tailored charcoal suit, flanked by administrators in lab coats and business attire. He belonged in high-rise boardrooms with panoramic city views, not in fluorescent-lit halls with peeling paint and harried nurses. Still, he had signed the checks, funded the renovations, built his name into the bones of this hospital. This visit was a formality. Shake hands. Cut ribbons. Smile for the cameras.

But then he saw him.

The world tilted.

The first glimpse came in a rush of movement: a nurse striding past with a clipboard in one hand, the other dragging tiredly through his hair as he read vitals under his breath. His scrubs were wrinkled, shoes scuffed, a pen tucked haphazardly behind his ear. A faded smear of blood stained the cuff of his sleeve. His exhaustion was obvious, but so was the determination in his squared shoulders.

Lucian didn’t notice the flaws. He noticed everything else.

The hard line of his jaw, clenched as though he was carrying the weight of too many crises at once. The sharp cut of cheekbones, flushed faintly from rushing between patients. His mouth—soft, parted slightly like he’d just sighed.

And then—his scent.

It reached Lucian a second later, slicing through the antiseptic air. Omega. Unmasked, unpolished, nothing perfumed or intentional about it. It was raw and warm and startlingly real, threaded through with exhaustion and adrenaline.

Lucian’s steps faltered.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Drax?” the head doctor asked, pausing when he noticed Lucian had stopped.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His eyes followed the nurse until the man disappeared behind a curtain, the faint swish of fabric the only trace left behind.

Something inside Lucian snapped awake.

Not lust. Not even desire. Something darker, hungrier. A possessiveness that roared through him like wildfire. His chest felt too tight, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He wanted—needed—to follow, to close the distance, to put his body between that omega and every sharp edge of the world.

Mine.

The word pounded through him like a war drum.

He dragged in a breath, fighting for composure. His instincts pressed hard against his cultivated restraint. Lucian Drax didn’t lose control. He didn’t bow to impulse. Yet here he stood, every muscle taut with the effort of not chasing after a stranger.

A stranger he already knew he would never forget.

Elias barely registered the cluster of suits touring the ER. He hadn’t eaten since dawn. His feet ached from twelve straight hours on shift, his back screamed every time he bent over a gurney. But he didn’t have time to care. The trauma bays were overflowing. One patient had coded twice before stabilizing. A pregnant woman was laboring too early in Room 5. A child screamed in pain from suspected appendicitis down the hall.

He flipped through a chart, brain working in practiced shorthand.

“Vitals stable but BP still low. Another round of fluids. Prep for possible transfer upstairs.”

“On it,” a resident answered.

Elias moved, his body running on muscle memory. Hand sanitizer. Gloves. Reassuring words to a frightened parent. A swift adjustment of an IV line. He barely stopped moving long enough to breathe.

The suits standing in the corridor didn’t exist in his world. He walked right past them, brushing shoulders with a man in a thousand-dollar watch, and didn’t even glance up. Men like that didn’t understand survival. They didn’t understand the blood and adrenaline of the ER, the exhaustion that settled into your bones until you were too tired to sleep.

But then—his skin prickled.

It was subtle at first, the sensation of being watched. Not casually glanced at, but studied. Scrutinized. His body reacted before his mind did, heat coiling low in his stomach.

He turned, glancing back toward the hallway.

The group of executives and doctors lingered there, murmuring amongst themselves. But one of them—taller than the rest, his dark hair slicked neatly back, his suit cut to perfection—was staring directly at him.

Their eyes met.

The noise of the ER dimmed. For the briefest second, it felt like standing under a spotlight. His chest tightened, his throat drying. The man didn’t smile. Didn’t look away. His gaze was sharp, unreadable, dissecting him piece by piece as though memorizing every detail.

Elias’s heart thudded, too loud, too fast. Heat crawled over his skin, an involuntary flush creeping into his cheeks. The intensity of the stare was unnerving, almost predatory.

He blinked, forcing himself to look away. Irritation flared. Why was he letting some investor rattle him? Whoever the man was, he didn’t matter. Not here. Not in this chaos.

“Room 3 needs you,” someone called.

“Coming.”

He shoved the odd encounter from his mind and snapped on a new pair of gloves. Patients came first. Everything else—especially the haunting weight of those dark eyes—could be ignored.

Lucian didn’t move until the nurse disappeared again into the storm of the ER.

Every inch of him vibrated with restraint. His alpha instincts strained at the leash, urging him to close the distance, to take in more, to learn the curve of his voice, the cadence of his steps. Instead, he forced his expression blank, adjusted the cuff of his jacket, and let the chief doctor prattle on about upgrades to equipment he didn’t care about.

But he wasn’t listening.

All he could think about was the omega.

He didn’t know his name. Not yet. But he would. He would learn everything—his schedule, his favorite coffee, the things that made him laugh, the things that made him angry. He wanted to know what his voice sounded like when it broke, what his face looked like when he cried, how he tasted when his lips parted in more than just a sigh.

It was madness. Too sudden, too consuming. But Lucian had never been a man to deny himself. When he wanted something, he took it. Acquired it. Built empires around it. And now, for reasons he couldn’t explain, all of that hunger, that ruthless drive, had locked onto a single exhausted omega in wrinkled scrubs.

The hospital tour moved on. Handshakes. Nods. Words spoken to him that he didn’t register. None of it mattered.

Only him.

The omega who hadn’t looked at him twice. The omega who smelled like exhaustion and purpose and something so painfully real it cut through the artifice of Lucian’s carefully constructed world.

Lucian’s lips curved into the faintest smile.

He didn’t know it yet, but that man had just become the center of someone’s universe.

And Lucian Drax never let go of what was his.

Lucian hadn’t stopped thinking about him.

It was ridiculous, even by his own standards. He was a man of empire, of precision, of control. Yet in the twenty-four hours since stepping foot inside Saffron Crest’s ER, every spare thought had been bent around a single figure: the omega in wrinkled scrubs who hadn’t looked twice at him.

Elias Mendez.

The name had come easily—Lucian always got what he wanted, even if it was information. A call here, a favor there, a hospital database accessed under the polite veil of investor transparency. Within hours, a dossier had materialized.

Trauma nurse. Six years’ experience. Excellent reviews from superiors. Colleagues described him as calm under pressure, tireless, dependable. Financial records suggested long hours, too many debts, and a salary laughably unworthy of the weight he carried in that ER.

Always volunteering for the night shift. Always tired.

Lucian read every line. Memorized it. But it wasn’t enough.

Files couldn’t capture scent. Paper couldn’t recreate the way Elias’s hair had fallen messily over his brow, or how his lips had parted in irritation and exhaustion. Words on a page didn’t explain the way Lucian’s chest had tightened when their eyes had met.

No—he needed more.

So he made a call. To the board, to the administrators, to anyone who would bend under the pressure of his name. Lucian Drax was interested in being “hands-on,” he said smoothly. He wanted to be closer to the team he was funding, to understand the people whose work he was investing in.

They tripped over themselves to accommodate him.

Which was how, the very next evening, Lucian Drax walked into the ER’s break room as though he owned it—because, in a way, he did.

The space was a mismatch of peeling wallpaper, scuffed tables, and a perpetually humming refrigerator. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, tinting everything with a faint green pallor. It smelled faintly of stale coffee and hand sanitizer, with a faint undertone of sweat. A place of exhaustion, not respite.

Lucian’s presence didn’t belong here, which was precisely why it mattered that he stood in the middle of it.

In his hands, he carried a tray. Not the flimsy cardboard kind pulled from a fast-food counter. This was a custom leather carrier from Rossi & Cane, embossed with gold lettering, each cup sealed with care. Coffee that cost more per serving than most of the staff earned in an hour.

“Thought I’d treat the hardest workers in the hospital,” Lucian said, voice rich, smooth. He set the tray down on the table, the faintest smirk curving his lips.

At first, the nurses hesitated. Then the aroma spread, sharp and tempting, and fatigue overrode suspicion. They swarmed, offering polite smiles and grateful murmurs.

Lucian barely noticed.

His gaze had already locked onto the doorway.

And then—there.

Elias walked in like he’d been dragged backward through exhaustion. His hair was rumpled, his scrubs wrinkled, a faint red pen mark streaking across his cheek where he’d clearly rubbed his face against his hand while charting. He looked half-asleep, half-broken, entirely beautiful.

Lucian’s pulse kicked hard.

He had been patient, planning this moment. Every cup on the tray had been chosen at random. Except one.

The last cup in his hand. Black. Two sugars. Hot enough to burn. Exactly as Elias liked it.

When Elias neared, Lucian stepped forward smoothly, holding the cup out like an offering.

“Yours,” Lucian said softly.

Elias blinked, confused. “You… how did...?”

Lucian tilted his head. He let the pause stretch just long enough to unnerve, then said, low, “I notice things.”

It wasn’t I notice everything. It wasn’t I notice everyone.

It was I notice you.

The words Elias didn’t hear but felt anyway.

There was a flicker in Elias’s eyes—wariness, discomfort, something he couldn’t quite name. He hesitated, but tiredness and courtesy won out. He reached for the cup.

Their fingers brushed. Barely a touch. Skin to skin.

Lucian felt it like a brand, searing through his nerves. His control threatened to slip. His instincts pressed hard, urging him to close the distance, to inhale deep, to take. But he didn’t. He only watched Elias lift the cup, watched him sip, watched his throat work as he swallowed.

And Lucian smiled.

Not the charming corporate smile he wore at board meetings. Not the shallow grin designed for photographs.

This smile was darker. Sharper. Possessive.

And then, deliberately, Lucian turned and left.

Because obsession didn’t need to announce itself. It only needed to return.

---

Elias was too tired to think straight.

Six hours of trauma rotation behind him. Two near-code blues. A fellow nurse vomiting mid-shift. By the time he stumbled into the break room, he was half-convinced he’d imagined the smell of decent coffee.

Until he saw him.

Lucian Drax, standing in the middle of the dingy break room like some wolf in designer wool, his coat draped elegantly, silk tie loosened just enough to look effortless. He didn’t belong there. That was the point.

A tray of luxury coffee sat on the table, and of course the staff had fallen on it like it was manna from heaven.

Elias hovered in the doorway, pulse stumbling. He hadn’t forgotten that stare yesterday. That unblinking, dissecting stare. It had burned in the back of his skull all night, replaying in moments when he should’ve been focused on his patients.

And now, here he was again.

Elias should’ve turned around. Should’ve gone straight for the vending machine and taken his punishment in the form of stale muffins and lukewarm sludge.

But instead, he walked forward.

Lucian was waiting. Holding the last cup, his gaze heavy, like Elias had been the one he’d been waiting for all along. The man’s eyes lit faintly, a private gleam Elias almost mistook for satisfaction.

“Yours,” Lucian said. Smooth. Certain.

Elias frowned faintly. “You...how did..?”

“I notice things.”

Not everyone. Not everything. Things.

The implication scraped against Elias’s nerves.

Their fingers brushed when he took the cup. The contact was fleeting, accidental. Elias still felt it run sharp and hot up his spine, curling low in his stomach. He told himself it was nothing. Just exhaustion. Just nerves.

He lifted the cup. Took a sip.

Exactly right. Black, two sugars. Exactly the way he liked it.

Elias’s chest tightened. How did he know?

He glanced up, about to ask, but Lucian was already moving. Already leaving.

Not lingering. Not pressing. Just walking away, his shoulders broad, his stride purposeful. But his smile—

That smile wasn’t polite.

It was dark. Quiet. Certain.

Like he knew something Elias didn’t.

The break room was noisy again. Someone laughed. Someone else cursed at the fridge. The moment should’ve dissolved.

But Elias stood there, fingers warm around the cup, unsettled in a way no caffeine could soothe.

That night, when he finally collapsed into bed, socks still on, sheets half-pulled, he dreamed.

Of sharp suits and shadowed eyes.

Of a man who had watched him like he was the only thing in the room.

And of coffee.

Black, two sugars.

A kiss he never got to taste.

The ER smelled like old coffee, bleach, and burnt nerves.

Thirty-two hours. That was how long Elias had been on shift between trauma and peds, bouncing between emergencies like a ball caught in a relentless tide. His entire body felt hollowed out, his mind fogged with lack of sleep. He was running on fumes, half-caffeine and sheer willpower, the edges of his vision prickling with exhaustion.

All he wanted was to shove his bag into his locker, splash cold water on his face, and catch the first bus home. Maybe collapse into bed fully clothed. Maybe not wake up for twelve hours.

The corridor to the locker room was mercifully quiet. Elias dragged his feet inside, kicked the door shut with his heel, and started spinning the lock. His fingers trembled as the numbers clicked into place. He tugged it open, already imagining the stale gym bag smell and his spare scrubs.

Instead—he froze.

There was something sitting on top of his folded clothes.

Not a misplaced pen. Not a note from a coworker.

A watch.

Sleek. Black-on-black. TAG Heuer Carrera. The kind of luxury that didn’t belong within five miles of these scuffed metal lockers. The protective plastic was still sealed on the strap, the price tag discreetly clipped off. It gleamed under the fluorescent light, quiet and deliberate.

Beneath it, a note.

The handwriting was neat, elegant, the kind that belonged on a fountain pen, not a sticky note.

> Time is precious. You shouldn’t waste it.

—L.D.

Elias’s blood surged hot and cold at once.

Lucian.

Of course.

The room swayed faintly. Elias grabbed the locker door, steadying himself. His pulse hammered too loud, too fast.

At first, he tried to reason it away. Maybe someone left it by mistake. But no—this wasn’t a mislaid trinket. It was pristine. New. Chosen.

His throat tightened. The thought of Lucian’s hands placing it there, sliding it into his locker, knowing the exact number, the exact row—it was too much.

Elias snatched the watch and the note, shoving them back into the box. He slammed the locker shut with a metallic clang, startling himself. Then he was moving—storming down the hallway, sneakers squeaking on tile, heart climbing higher with every step. Rage. Confusion. Shame. Something nameless burning under his skin.

And Lucian was waiting.

Leaning casually against the wall near the exit, hands tucked into his pockets, posture loose in a way that screamed control. He looked like he’d been there forever, patient, inevitable. As if he knew Elias would come.

The sight only fueled Elias’s fury. He thrust the box out, fingers trembling.

“What is this?” His voice was sharp, ragged.

Lucian’s smile was not sheepish. Not apologetic. Smooth. Certain.

“A gift.”

“You can’t just—” Elias’s voice caught. The hallway was empty, but still he lowered his tone, as though the walls themselves might eavesdrop. “You can’t just leave expensive things in my locker like we’re—like we’re something.”

Lucian tilted his head. His gaze was unwavering, sharp enough to cut.

“We’re not,” he said, softly. Then, after the faintest pause: “Yet.”

The single word snapped through Elias like an electric wire. His stomach lurched. His hands clenched tighter around the box, as though he could crush the watch back into nothing.

“You shouldn’t even know which locker’s mine.”

Lucian’s smile didn’t waver. “I know many things. I make it my business to know.”

Elias stared at him, throat working. Anger sputtered, tangled with a heat he didn’t want to name.

“You can’t—” He shook his head, cutting himself off before the words spiraled out. His exhaustion was pressing down, fogging his logic, making everything too sharp and too blurred at once. “I’m returning it.”

Lucian nodded, as though amused. “You’re free to try.”

But he didn’t take the box back. Didn’t move. Didn’t so much as shift an inch closer. He simply stood there, letting Elias drown in his own reaction, in his own breathless fury.

The seconds stretched, taut and unbearable.

Elias turned sharply on his heel and walked away.

The glass doors to the outside slid open with a hiss, spilling him into the chill night. The air tasted like rain, sharp against his tongue. He walked fast, his sneakers slapping against the pavement, every step carrying him further, but not far enough.

At the bus stop, he sat hard on the bench, dragging a hand through his hair. His chest rose and fell too quickly, his pulse still unsteady.

He looked down.

The box was still clutched in his hand.

The note, folded neatly on top.

Time is precious.

His jaw locked. His throat burned.

And yet—when he caught the bus home, he didn’t leave the box behind.

When he stumbled into his apartment, collapsing against the door, he didn’t throw it away.

He set it carefully on the counter.

The next morning, when sunlight cut through his blinds and exhaustion still clung to his bones, his hand reached for it.

The watch was heavy. Cool against his skin. The strap fit as if it had been measured for him.

He told himself it was just practical. He needed a good watch for shift. That was all.

But when he checked the time later, in the middle of triage, the black face gleaming under hospital lights—

It didn’t feel like a watch.

It felt like a chain.

---

Lucian hadn’t slept.

Not in the restless, wasted way of mortals. His body had stilled, but his mind replayed, frame by frame, the coffee encounter from the night before. Elias’s eyes narrowing. His hesitation. The spark when their fingers touched. The faint furrow of suspicion, gone almost as soon as it appeared.

Lucian collected details. Patterns. Information. It was what had built his empire—knowledge leveraged into control.

And Elias was the one puzzle he couldn’t yet solve.

Couldn’t yet claim.

So he’d left the gift.

Not flowers—too obvious. Not candy—too cheap. A watch. Precision. Permanence. Weight.

Time is precious.

So are you.

It wasn’t only a present. It was a message. A quiet reminder that Lucian could reach into Elias’s private space at will. A nudge of pressure. A test.

He had considered other gestures—something dramatic. A car. A key to a penthouse. But no. Too soon. He wanted to watch Elias struggle first. Wanted to see if he would fight, if he would bend, if he would break.

And then Elias had stormed down the hall, box clutched tight in his hands, fire burning through exhaustion.

Lucian’s restraint had nearly snapped. That flush on Elias’s cheeks, the quick rise and fall of his chest—God, his scent was richer when he was angry. Spicy, sweet, laced with defiance. The kind of scent that drove instincts to the brink.

But Lucian didn’t touch him.

Not yet.

He simply watched.

“You shouldn’t even know which locker’s mine,” Elias hissed.

“I know many things.”

He’d let the words drop into the silence like pebbles into water, rippling outward. Elias’s reaction had been perfect—confusion, fear, heat, all tangled into one raw expression.

And then he’d walked away. Still holding the watch.

Lucian’s smile had been slow, sharp, deliberate.

He didn’t need to chase. Not now.

Because Elias would wear it. He knew he would.

And when he did, Lucian would already be there. A shadow ticking on his wrist.

A quiet, relentless reminder:

Time belonged to Lucian.

And soon—so would Elias.