Page 84 of Omega's Formula

But I do. That’s exactly what I have to do.

Job hunting when you’re an omega stranger in a new city turns out to be exactly as fun as it sounds.

I apply at coffee shops first, because it’s what I know: three different places, all within walking distance of the house. Two of them take one look at me—unregistered omega, no local references, clearly desperate—and say they’ll “be in touch.”

The third is more direct. The manager, a beta woman with tired eyes, actually bothers to explain.

“Look, you seem fine, but I can’t take the risk. Unregistered omega, no alpha, no support system I can see—what happens when you go into heat and can’t work? What happens when some knothead customer decides you’re fair game because you’re not mated? I’ve got liability to think about.”

I want to argue. I want to tell her I’ve been managing my heats on my own for years, that I’m not going to cause problems, that I just need a chance.

Instead I just nod and leave.

I try restaurants next. Retail. A bookstore that’s hiring for part-time shelving. The responses range from polite rejection to barely concealed suspicion. By the end of the week, I’ve applied to seventeen places and gotten exactly zero callbacks.

The savings I thought would last four months start to look a lot more finite.

I’m sitting on the porch steps, staring at my phone and trying not to spiral, when one of my other housemates drops down beside me.

“You look like someone kicked your puppy.” He’s tall, lanky, with glasses that keep sliding down his nose and a messenger bag covered in academic conference pins. “I’m Dev, by the way. Third door on the right.”

“Nolan.”

“I know. Mich told us about the new guy.” He peers at me. “Job hunting?”

“That obvious?”

“You’ve got that look. The ‘please someone give me a chance’ look. I see it on undergrads all the time.” He pushes his glasses up. “What’s your field?”

“Most recently? Barista. Before that—” I hesitate. “Biochemistry research. But that was a while ago.”

Dev’s eyebrows shoot up. “No shit? I’m in ecology, but my roommate’s in biochem. The department’s always looking for tutors. Students will pay decent money for someone who can explain enzyme kinetics without putting them to sleep.”

Tutoring. I hadn’t thought of that. I used to do it in grad school, back before everything went sideways.

“You think they’d hire someone without a local track record?”

“For tutoring? They don’t care about track records. They care about whether you can actually explain the material.” He pulls out his phone. “Let me text my friend. She runs the peer tutoring program. If you can prove you know your stuff, she’ll put you on the list.”

Something loosens in my chest. It’s not much. It’s not a solution. But it’s something.

“That would be—yeah. That would be amazing. Thank you.”

Dev shrugs.

Two weeks later, I have a job.

Not the tutoring. That’s still ramping up, a few students here and there, cash under the table for helping them understand molecular biology or organic chemistry. It’s not enough to live on, but it helps.

The real job is at a dive bar three blocks from the house. It’s the kind of place with sticky floors and neon signs and a jukebox that only plays country. I’m washing dishes, mostly, but sometimes I bus tables or stock the bar when they’re short-staffed.

I got it because of Mich.

She works there two nights a week, tending bar while she finishes her master’s thesis. When she heard I was still struggling, she talked to the owner—a gruff beta who looks like a biker and has the softest heart of anyone I’ve ever met.

“You any good at keeping your head down and working hard?” he had asked during my “interview,” which consisted ofhim leaning against the bar while I stood there trying not to look desperate.

“Yes, sir.”