The town was small, quiet, and tucked away like a secret between rolling hills. Morning air always carried a faint sweetness of jasmine, a scent that seemed to cling to the narrow streets and wooden houses. In the corner of Maple Street stood a little café, its windows always fogged with warmth.

Inside, by the window seat, sat Arin.

An omega with soft brown hair, round glasses that slid down his nose, and eyes that always seemed lost in some world of their own. He came here every afternoon, with a book in one hand and a small notebook in the other — a place where he could read, dream, and escape the stares that often followed omegas in town.

That day, rain tapped gently against the glass. The café was quiet, save for the low hum of the espresso machine. Arin had just tucked a strand of hair behind his ear when the bell over the door rang.

He looked up — and saw him.

Riven.

An alpha who didn’t quite fit the town’s idea of one. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his presence steady like the earth itself. But there was no arrogance in the way he carried himself. His expression was calm, his movements deliberate, almost careful, as though he was afraid to disturb the space he walked into.

Most alphas made Arin nervous. They were loud, sharp, always watching him as if waiting for him to stumble. But Riven’s gaze was different — not possessive, not demanding. Just… curious. Quiet.

The café owner greeted him warmly, and Riven ordered a black coffee. Instead of sitting at an empty table across the room, he chose the one nearest to Arin. Not beside him, but close enough to share the same patch of quiet.

Arin tried to hide behind his book, but the glass betrayed him: his reflection was right there, pink-cheeked and nervous. He could feel Riven glance at him once, maybe twice, before settling in silence.

Minutes passed like that — two strangers sharing a rainy afternoon.

Then, the unexpected happened.

A little girl ran into the café, drenched from the rain, searching for her mother. She slipped on the wet tiles — and before Arin could even move, Riven was already there, steady hands catching her before she hit the ground.

He crouched down, spoke softly to calm her, and guided her back to her worried mother. When he returned to his seat, Arin’s heart was still racing — not from fear, but from the sight of an alpha who could be so… gentle.

Riven noticed his gaze then. Their eyes met, briefly, quietly.

Arin looked away first, biting his lip, but the warmth lingered in his chest.

And so began their ritual.

Day after day, Riven would appear at the café, always taking the same seat near the window. Sometimes they exchanged small words — a comment about the rain, a quiet remark about books. Other times, they simply sat in silence, comfort growing in the spaces between.

Until one evening, when the café was closing and the town outside glowed with paper lanterns for the spring festival, Riven stayed behind. He didn’t leave immediately — instead, he stood by Arin’s table, hesitant but steady.

His voice, low and quiet, broke the silence.

“Arin… I think I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

The festival was already in full bloom when Arin stepped out of the café that evening. The air buzzed with laughter, the smell of sweet buns drifting from food stalls, and lanterns glowed softly along the streets. Children ran past him with sparklers, their tiny lights flickering like stars pulled down to earth.

Arin hugged his notebook to his chest. Crowds were never his favorite, but tonight something tugged at him — maybe the promise of seeing the lanterns rise, or maybe… the memory of Riven’s words earlier.

“I think I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

Those words still pulsed in his mind, fragile and terrifying. Omegas didn’t often hear things like that from alphas — usually it was about instincts, bonds, claims. But Riven had spoken it so softly, almost reverently, as if he wasn’t confessing desire but recognition.

Arin was still lost in thought when he heard the familiar low voice behind him.

“You came.”

He turned — and there was Riven, dressed simply, hands in his pockets, but his presence seemed to part the crowd without effort. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes held that same quiet warmth that always disarmed Arin.

“I… didn’t want to miss the lanterns,” Arin mumbled, adjusting his glasses.

Riven fell into step beside him, their shoulders almost brushing. “Then I’ll walk with you.”

It wasn’t a request. But it wasn’t a command either. Just a statement, calm and steady, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They moved together through the festival. Arin kept stealing glances at him — at the way children darted around Riven without fear, how vendors greeted him politely, how he seemed to fit in yet stand apart. There was something about him that softened the noise of the world, like being in his orbit dulled the sharp edges around Arin’s heart.

When they reached the riverbank, the crowd had already gathered, waiting for the lantern release. Hundreds of paper lanterns swayed gently in people’s hands, each one painted with wishes and dreams.

Arin clutched his own — a pale blue lantern he had bought on the way. On it, he had written just three words in careful handwriting: Please let me belong.

His fingers trembled as he held it. He didn’t realize Riven was watching until the alpha spoke.

“May I see?”

Arin stiffened, instinct flaring — omegas didn’t like showing their vulnerabilities so easily. But something in Riven’s voice made him nod. Slowly, he turned the lantern so the words were visible.

Riven read them quietly. His expression didn’t change, but his hands curled slightly, as though restraining himself from reaching out. Finally, he said, “You already do.”

Arin’s breath caught. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” Riven replied softly. “I know the way you sit by the window every day like the world outside is too heavy. I know how you smile at children when you think no one’s watching. I know you doodle in your notebook when you’re lost in thought. And I know… that every time I walk into that café, I feel like I’m finally where I’m supposed to be.”

Arin stared at him, stunned, his heart thudding against his ribs. No one had ever spoken to him like that. Not as an omega. Not as something fragile or useful. Just… as himself.

Before he could reply, the call went out: “Release the lanterns!”

The crowd lifted their glowing wishes into the sky. One by one, lanterns drifted upward, painting the night with soft gold. Arin fumbled with his, almost missing the moment, until warm fingers brushed his.

Riven’s hand closed gently over his own, steadying the lantern. Their eyes met, close enough for Arin to see the reflection of the tiny flames in his gaze.

“Together?” Riven asked.

Arin swallowed, his voice barely a whisper. “Together.”

They released the lantern. It floated upward, joining the sea of dreams that lit the night. And as it rose higher, Arin realized his chest felt lighter, warmer, as though for the first time… he wasn’t carrying his wish alone.

When the crowd began to drift away, Riven stayed by his side. Neither of them spoke. But in the quiet, in the glow of fading lanterns, Arin thought he heard the unspoken promise in Riven’s silence:

You belong, with me.

The morning after the festival, Arin returned to the café as usual. The window seat was waiting, sunlight spilling across the wooden table, painting everything in soft gold. Normally, the quiet here soothed him. But today, his chest still carried the echo of last night — lanterns rising, Riven’s hand steady over his, and those impossible words: You already do.

He had barely opened his book when the bell chimed.

Riven.

Arin’s fingers tightened around the page. He hadn’t expected him to come so soon. Omegas weren’t supposed to linger on every glance, every word. But there was something about this alpha that bent the rules, that slipped past his walls.

“Good morning,” Riven greeted, voice low, calm as ever.

Arin managed a nod. “Morning.”

The alpha carried his coffee to their usual corner, but instead of settling at the neighboring table, he paused. His eyes flicked to the seat across from Arin’s — an unspoken question.

Arin’s throat went dry. Sharing space had become their quiet ritual, but this was different. This meant closer, this meant less air to hide in. His instincts trembled, that deep, buried part of him that whispered of bonds and belonging. Yet before he could overthink, he found himself nodding.

Riven sat.

For a while, they didn’t speak. The café hummed around them — clinking cups, the low hiss of steam. Arin tried to focus on his book, but the awareness of Riven’s presence was impossible to ignore. His scent, subtle yet grounding, drifted across the small table. Not sharp like most alphas — more like rain-soaked cedar, deep and steady. It wrapped around Arin’s senses, pulling at something inside him he hadn’t realized was starving.

Riven broke the silence first.

“You looked happy last night.”

Arin blinked, startled. “I… was?”

“Watching the lanterns,” Riven clarified, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It suited you.”

Arin ducked his head, heat crawling up his neck. Compliments usually made him wary — they often carried expectation. But from Riven, it felt different. Honest. Simple. No strings.

He toyed with his pen, then asked before he could stop himself, “Why do you keep sitting with me?”

Riven studied him for a long moment, not with intensity but with patience. “Because you make the world feel quieter. Lighter.” He leaned back, gaze softening. “Because every time I leave, I find myself wanting to come back.”

Arin’s heart stuttered. His instincts — that hidden part of him alphas often used against him — fluttered like a bird pressing against its cage. He swallowed hard, willing it down.

“You… don’t even know what I’m like outside this café,” Arin murmured.

Riven’s answer was quiet, steady. “Then show me.”

Arin’s pen slipped from his fingers. The words hung between them, daring and tender. No alpha had ever asked him that. They had always assumed, always demanded, never invited.

Arin looked up, and in Riven’s eyes, he saw no hunger, no push — just a gentle gravity, patient enough to wait.

Something in him softened.

“Maybe,” he said, his voice barely audible, “I will.”

---

The days that followed shifted subtly. Riven began appearing not only at the café, but in small corners of Arin’s life. One morning, Arin found him outside the bookstore, leaning against the lamppost with a paper bag of bread in hand. Another afternoon, he caught sight of him at the park, helping an elderly vendor carry crates.

Every time, Riven’s presence was steady, never intrusive. He didn’t press, didn’t chase. But he was there, and Arin’s world grew a little less lonely.

It was during one of those quiet afternoons that it happened.

Arin had spilled ink across his notebook in the café, frustration curling his lips. Riven reached across the table, taking the pen gently from his hand.

“Careful,” he murmured, his fingers brushing Arin’s.

The touch was nothing — fleeting, casual. But the effect was immediate.

Arin’s chest tightened, instincts flaring alive, warmth rushing through his veins. His scent — soft and usually hidden — spiked before he could stop it, a subtle trace of jasmine unfurling in the air.

His breath caught. Omegas learned early to control that, to mask, to hide. But with one accidental brush, his body had betrayed him.

Riven froze. Not because of dominance, not because of instinct — but because he noticed Arin’s sudden panic. Slowly, carefully, he withdrew his hand, giving him space.

“Arin,” he said softly, voice a low anchor, “you don’t have to hide from me.”

Arin’s lashes trembled. No alpha had ever said that. Most would have leaned in, claimed, taken advantage. But Riven… gave him back his breath.

For the first time in a long time, Arin didn’t feel like prey.

And deep inside, beneath fear and hesitation, something whispered: Maybe this is what belonging feels like.