chapter 3: A gentle gravity

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.”

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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.

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