His voice is calm.
Certain.
"But I'm not an Omega anymore."
The words land like stones dropped into still water, each one sending ripples through the careful quiet of the night.
I stare at him, my mind refusing to catch up. The sentence hangs in the air between us, foreign and impossible.
But I'm not an Omega anymore.
The words don't fit together. They can't. They're wrong. Too wrong.
My gaze drops to my lap, to my hands resting there, still and useless.
Not an Omega anymore.
It doesn't make sense. It can't make sense. I turn the words over in my mind, searching for the crack, the lie, the misunderstanding.
But the silence between us is too heavy. The weight of his certainty presses down on me, impossible to ignore.
My voice comes out quiet, low, like I'm speaking to myself.
"That's impossible. How could you...? Of course you're an Omega. You can't just—"
