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Belle's smile is radiant. "Thank you. I've always thought so, but apparently that's a minority opinion in Willowbrook."

As we continue examining the basement level, while checking foundation conditions, mechanical systems, and potential for below-grade expansion. I find myself increasingly drawn to Belle's combination of intelligence, enthusiasm, and genuine care for others. She asks detailed questions about structural requirements, space planning, and acoustic considerations that demonstrate real understanding of architectural complexity.

But more than that, she seems genuinely interested in me as a person. Not the mysterious member of the feared "Beast Pack," not the architect she's hired to solve her space problems, but Felix Romano the individual.

"How did you end up in Willowbrook?" she asks as we examine the foundation walls. "I mean, your work is incredible, and you could be designing major projects in Chicago or New York. What made you choose small-town restoration work?"

The question is personal but not invasive, asked with genuine curiosity rather than nosiness.

"Sometimes the most important work happens in places that don't make headlines," I reply, running my hand along the brick foundation to check for structural issues. "And there's something satisfying about preserving buildings that matter to communities, even if they're not architecturally famous."

"That's beautiful," Belle says softly. "The idea that all communities deserve beautiful, functional spaces regardless of their size or economic status."

"Exactly. Architecture should serve people, not just impress them."

"Is that why you three chose to settle here instead of staying in the city?"

The question touches on territory I'm not sure how to navigate. The truth is that we moved to Willowbrook because small towns are better hunting grounds for unmated omegas, because the anonymity of city life makes it harder to identify and approach potential mates.

But I can't exactly explain that our residential choice is based on reproductive strategy.

"We wanted a place where we could build something lasting," I say instead, which is true even if it's not the complete truth. "Somewhere we could put down roots and become part of a community."

"Have you? Become part of the community, I mean?"

Her tone is gentle, but there's real interest behind the question. Belle seems genuinely curious about our experience as outsiders in a small town.

"It's... complicated," I admit. "People here have strong opinions about newcomers, especially ones who don't fit expected social patterns."

"The 'Beast Pack' reputation," Belle says with obvious understanding. "That must be frustrating."

"Sometimes. But we knew what we were getting into when we moved here."

"Still, it can't be easy being constantly judged by people who don't actually know you."

There's empathy in her voice that surprises me. Belle seems to understand something about the isolation that comes with being different, with not fitting into expected social categories.

As we finish examining the basement and head back to the main floor, I realize that I've been in the library for nearly two hours and haven't once felt the usual social exhaustion that comes with extended interaction with strangers. Belle's questions and observations are engaging rather than draining, her enthusiasm is infectious rather than overwhelming.

I find myself wanting to keep talking to her, to learn more about her perspective on community and architecture and life in general. Which is both surprising and problematic, given that she's a client , and completely unavailable for the kind of relationship I'm supposedly looking for.

"I think I have enough information to start developing preliminary designs," I tell her as we return to the circulation desk, though part of me wants to extend the meeting indefinitely. "Would it be possible to schedule a follow-up meeting next week? I'd like to present some initial concepts and get your feedback before moving forward."

"That would be perfect," Belle agrees, pulling out a scheduling calendar. "Does Tuesday afternoon work for you? Around two o'clock?"

"Tuesday at two it is," I confirm, making a note in my own calendar while thinking that Tuesday suddenly can't arrive fast enough.

“Thank you for such a thorough consultation. Most architects want to see the space and leave. You actually listened to what we need."

The way she talks to me, with genuine warmth and appreciation, does something to my chest that I don't want to analyze too closely.

"Thank you for being so comprehensive about your needs and vision," I reply. "The best architecture comes from understanding how people actually use spaces."

As I gather my equipment and prepare to leave, I find myself reluctant to end this conversation. Belle Hartwell is intelligent, passionate, and beautiful in a way that grows more compelling the longer you look at her.

If only she were an omega.

The thought hits me again as I shake her hand goodbye, noting how her touch lingers just a moment longer than professional courtesy requires. There's something between us, an attraction, a compatibility that feels rare and valuable.