It feels like silence becomes a third resident in the cottage. For five days, I watch Leo maintain his protest by the wall. He keeps his back straight and his shoulders rigid. His gaze fixed on nothing.

He sits in the same spot, day after day, as if he could turn himself into a statue through sheer force of will.

I’m impressed by his willpower, annoying as it is, but I always knew I was going to have to fight for him.

The first morning, I’m acutely aware of his state of undress. He’s wearing nothing but boxers, his skin prickling with goosebumps in the cool air. I turn the heating up and the goosebumps go away but he still doesn’t move or even seem to notice.

They brought him here with nothing. The thought sends a flash of anger through me. Director Rowe should have thought of that. She told me they were going to treat him with care. They didn’t even let him get dressed.

“You can wear some of my clothes,”

I say on the first day, placing a folded stack of my own t-shirts and sweatpants on the coffee table.

“They’ll be too big, but they’re clean and better than nothing.”

He doesn’t acknowledge them. The clothes remain untouched all day. It is ridiculous. I know he’s making his point, but he can’t spent two weeks in the same set of boxers.

At midday, I call the Bureau’s security post on the old-fashioned landline.

“This is Dr. Thorndike. I need appropriate clothing delivered for Mr. Torres.”

I keep my voice low, though I know Leo can hear me from his position by the wall.

“Medium shirts, probably 30-32 waist pants.”

I’m estimating—Leo refuses to tell me even this basic information.

“Underwear, socks, basic toiletries. As soon as possible.”

The clothes arrive by late afternoon. I place them silently near him and retreat. Later, when I return from a walk by the lake, Leo has finally dressed himself. The clothes hang slightly loose on his frame, but cover him completely. He seems marginally more at ease, or at least I think he is. It’s hard to tell and I’m not sure how much is me wanting him to relax and finally let me in.

The days pass. He showers religiously, twice daily: once after waking, once before bed. Always for around fifteen minutes. I wonder if it’s a need for privacy, a routine to maintain some sense of control, or if he’s trying to wash away my scent that inevitably permeates the small cottage. Perhaps all three.

I have to be affecting him. He is affecting me. He smells so good, I just want go to over to him and bury my nose in that sweet soft space at the nape of his neck. I don’t do it. I can’t even begin to imagine the reaction. I have to play this carefully. A single wrong step is going to make everything so much harder.

Still, his scent is driving me mad. I walk around with what feels like a permanent erection. My body reacts to him instinctively.

“Seems like a lovely day. We could go for a walk around the lake,”

I say on the second morning, attempting conversation as I place coffee near him. No response. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

“I’ve made breakfast,”

I try later that day.

“Nothing fancy, just eggs and toast.”

The food sits untouched until I remove it hours later.

On the third day, I leave books nearby, some of the ones I brought because I noticed they matched citations in his research papers.

“I thought you might want something to read.”

His eyes don’t even drift toward the stack.

Day four brings rain, the patter against windows filling the oppressive silence.

“The forecast says it’ll clear by tomorrow.”

I’m speaking more to myself now than expecting a response.

I’ve left the newspaper with sections I think might interest him: opinion pieces on omega legislation, debates about Bureau policy reforms. He never touches them, but once I catch his eyes drifting toward a headline before snapping resolutely back to the wall.

I cook three meals daily. Each meal is placed on the coffee table within Leo’s reach. Each is ignored. He has to be starving but he doesn’t let on.

I try not to watch him too closely, but I can’t help it. He makes me feel like a stalker. All I want to do is watch him. He is magnetic.

By day four, I’ve learned his rhythms. The subtle shift of his shoulders at around 7:45 PM, telling me he is going to bed. He rises carefully, never stretching despite hours of not moving. He takes measured steps to the bedroom and closes the door with just enough force to be heard but not slammed. I’ll hear the soft sounds of the shower running. I want to go in and join him so badly it hurts. The cottage is saturated with his scent. It is driving me wild and the thought of him in the shower, hot water streaming from his naked body is enough to leave me breathless and panting. Leo might be holding out, but so am I.

I’m not touching him until he tells me he wants it. One of us is going to have to give in. If it weren’t for the chemistry between us, I’d have said I’d fold before he did, but Leo isn’t fighting me. He’s fighting his own body and nature. He can’t win at that.

On day five, Leo eats.

I nearly drop the plate when his fingers brush mine, taking the offered meal without comment. He retreats to his corner afterward, but something has shifted. There is a hairline fracture in the ice.

Now, on the sixth night, I sit at the kitchen island, idly turning the pages of a book I’m not reading. Outside, rain taps against the windows, transforming the lake view into a dark fuzz of grays and blues. The cottage smells of herbs from dinner. I made rosemary chicken, potatoes, green beans. Simple food. Safe food.

And beneath it all, the scent I can’t ignore.

Leo’s natural fragrance has been changing subtly since our arrival. The sharp citrus notes are warming, deepening, taking on hints of vanilla and amber. Pre-heat pheromones, unmistakable to any alpha.

I inhale carefully, maintaining my composure even as my body responds. The pull is intensifying daily, and I know Leo feels it too. I can see it in the slight flush on his cheeks, the occasional tremor in his fingers, the way he sometimes holds his breath when I pass too close.

Leo is fighting it with remarkable control. It should frustrate me: this stubborn resistance to what I consider inevitable. Instead, I find myself increasingly impressed. My omega is incredibly strong willed.

“So, tell me.”

The voice startles me. I look up to find Leo standing in the kitchen doorway, one shoulder against the frame. His posture suggests casualness, but his eyes are sharp and focused.

“When exactly did you decide forced bonding was romantic?”

The question hangs between us. It’s the first sentence he’s spoken in days but it’s not an olive branch. A challenge.

I close my book deliberately, giving myself a moment to consider my response.

“I never said it was romantic,”

I reply, keeping my voice neutral.

Leo’s eyes narrow.

“Then what would you call it? Pragmatic? Scientific? Ethical?”

“All three.”

I turn to face him fully.

“We’re a prime match. This benefits both of us.”

“Benefits.”

Leo’s mouth twists.

“Like imprisonment benefits a captive.”

“That’s reductive.”

“It’s accurate.”

Leo pushes off from the doorframe and takes a step into the kitchen, his scent intensifying.

“You had me dragged here because some blood test told you we were compatible. Where’s the romance in that?”

I measure my breath, aware that this conversation is a minefield.

“Romance isn’t the point. And I’m happy to be romantic but it’s hard for me to show you that with you spending the day ignoring me and staring at the wall. You need to at least give it a chance.”

“I don’t care about giving it a chance,”

Leo cuts in.

“I care about the right to determine my own future.”

“Even if that future is demonstrably worse?”

Leo’s eyes flash.

“Worse by whose definition? Yours?”

I feel a flicker of genuine frustration break through my careful facade.

“You’re not listening. Scores like ours—”

I stop, aware I’ve said ‘ours’ with unexpected emphasis.

“They’re exceedingly rare. Less than one percent of the population experiences it.”

“And that justifies force?”

“Force is a last resort,”

I say, rising from my stool.

“And you’re not being forced. After two weeks, you can still turn this match down. No one is going to hold a gun to your head at the bonding ceremony. You still have free choice. You are just being asked to give this a fair chance without ideological resistance getting in the way.”

Leo laughs, a sharp sound without humor.

“There it is. ‘Ideological resistance.’ Because it couldn’t possibly be rational to reject you.”

The conversation is spiraling exactly as I feared. I try a different approach.

“Okay, what would you suggest we do?”

I ask, genuinely curious.

“If you were designing a social system from scratch, how would you handle alpha omega pairing?”

Leo frowns and crosses his arms, studying me as if searching for the trap. He takes a moment before he speaks.

“I’d start by making registration voluntary,”

he says finally.

“Treating it as a matchmaking service for those who want it, not a mandatory sorting mechanism.”

“And for those like us, with exceptionally high compatibility?”

“There would be no ‘us,’”

Leo says, but the edge in his voice has softened slightly.

“I wouldn’t have registered. You wouldn’t have known I existed.”

I consider this.

“You’d refuse true love because you don’t like the process?”

I’m trying to keep sarcasm out of my voice but it’s hard. He’s being ridiculous. He may have a point about the Bureau being occasionally a little hardline but he’s being as hard about it as they are.

“I keep saying the same thing. Choice is important,”

Leo moves to the kitchen counter, maintaining careful distance.

“And the science isn’t as solid as you pretend. The Bureau’s studies lack proper controls. You track successful matches but ignore those who reject each other despite high scores.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“There’s no such thing.”

“Of course, there is. You just exclude everything that doesn’t match your expected findings. I have read all your papers, you know.”

Leo’s gaze is unwavering.

“Know thy enemy.”

Something warm and unexpected blooms in my chest.

“And what did you find most flawed in my analysis of the Jensen paper?”

I ask, unable to resist the academic challenge.

Leo’s eyes widen slightly, then his expression shifts, animated by the subject matter despite himself.

“Your sample was self-selecting. Only couples who remained together after five years were included.”

Leo reaches for a glass, fills it with water from the tap.

“You ignored dissolution rates among high-score matches.”

“The second phase addressed that,”

I counter.

“We tracked forward from initial matching.”

“With Bureau oversight. Participants knew they were being monitored for ‘success.’”

Leo takes a sip, eyes never leaving my face.

“Page seventy-three, footnote twelve.”

I feel a strange thrill at the verbal sparring.

“We adjusted for that.”

“Self-reported perception isn’t the same as eliminating the pressure.”

Leo sets his glass down.

“The Bureau exists. Its penalties exist. You can’t just pretend that doesn’t have an effect.”

I find myself drawn closer, the debate pulling me in like gravity.

“What about the most compelling element? The biochemical markers themselves. You can’t argue against that.”

“I don’t have to.”

Leo leans against the counter, the most relaxed posture I’ve seen from him.

“They prove sexual chemistry, not compatibility. There’s more to a successful relationship than just sex.”

We’re close now, separated only by the kitchen island. I can see the subtle changes heat is working on Leo’s features in the slight flush along his cheekbones and the brightness of his eyes.

His scent is intoxicating, growing richer by the minute.

And yet, Leo is fully present, intellectually sharp, challenging me on my own academic ground. It’s... captivating.

“I agree, but chemistry is what binds it. The relationship builds around it. It just needs the opportunity. The data—”

“Isn’t everything that matters.”

Leo’s voice rises slightly.

“You can’t quantify dignity, .”

It’s the first time Leo has used my name. The sound of it in his voice does something to my pulse.

“We’re close now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from Leo’s skin. Close enough to see the perfect amber flecks in his dark eyes, the subtle movement of his throat as he swallows.

“Then what explains this?”

I ask softly, gesturing to the invisible current between us.

“This pull. This recognition. What is it?”

Leo’s gaze doesn’t waver, though his pupils have dilated visibly.

“I’m not denying there’s attraction.”

My stomach flips at his admission. I know he’s attracted to me. I can smell it on him, but hearing it makes me weak at the knees.

“This is more than just attraction.”

“You need it to be more.”

A flicker of something vulnerable crosses Leo’s face before he controls it.

“Because if it’s just chemistry, your entire argument falls apart.”

The verbal blow lands with surprising force.

“My work is based on the evidence.”

“Your evidence,”

Leo finishes, his voice lower now, intimate despite the challenge in his words.

“You can’t see how wrong you are because you’ve built your life around believing you’re right.”

The accusation stings because it contains a kernel of truth.

“Maybe you’re right,”

I say, the admission surprising us both.

Leo blinks, clearly not expecting me to concede anything.

“But I’ve seen it work,”

I continue.

“I’ve seen what happens when barriers fall away.”

“Barriers like consent?”

Leo’s voice has a dangerous edge.

“That’s not what I meant.”

I run a hand through my hair, frustrated by my inability to articulate what feels so clear to me.

“The system isn’t perfect, but it does help people.”

“Then let people find each other naturally,”

Leo says, his passion evident in every line of his body.

“If they want to, without coercion.”

“And if they never find each other?”

I can hear the intensity in my own voice.

“That’s the price of freedom,”

Leo says simply.

We stand in silence for a moment. I’m struck by a realization: I respect Leo’s position. Disagree with it, yes, but I respect it.

“Your heat is coming,”

I say finally, changing the subject.

“Probably within the next forty-eight hours, judging by your scent.”

Leo flinches and an expression of wariness crosses his face.

“I’m aware.”

His jaw tightens.

“Did you check the medicine cabinet when we arrived? For suppressants?”

The question catches me off guard.

“No? There wouldn’t be.”

“And there we have it,”

Leo cuts in, fire returning to his eyes.

“If this was really about compatibility—about us getting to know each other naturally—they’d provide suppressants.”

He takes a step closer, righteous anger rolling off him in waves.

“But they don’t, do they? Why is that?”

“That’s not...”

I start, then pause. Is he wrong?

“Not what?”

Leo challenges.

“Not the goal? Then explain the lack of suppressants. Explain why I’m going to be forced to go through a heat cycle without suppressants. Explain the single bed in that bedroom.”

I have no ready answer that doesn’t sound hollow, even to myself.

“I’d never force you.”

“How generous,”

Leo says, sarcasm sharp enough to draw blood.

“It’s not generosity. It’s basic respect.”

I hold his gaze steadily.

“I want you to want me, Leo. Not just need me. There’s a difference.”

Something flashes in Leo’s eyes. We stare at each other. We’ve hit a stalemate. My gaze drops to his lips. I want to kiss him so badly, but he needs to ask for it. He takes a single step towards me then stops and frowns. He takes a step back.

“I should...”

Leo gestures vaguely toward the bedroom.

“Of course.”

I step back further, giving him a clear path.

Leo moves past me. Another wave of scent rises between us, rich and provocative. At the doorway, he pauses.

“Your methodology in the Erikson follow-up was actually quite sound,”

he says.

“Your conclusions were the problem.”

Before I can respond, Leo is gone, the bedroom door closing behind him.

I stand in the kitchen, pulse elevated, mind racing. As I clear the kitchen, I find myself smiling slightly. This is it. He’s finally talking to me. Soon he’s going to realize how good we are together.