The front door opens exactly at 6:08PM.

Same time every day. Same weight in the steps. Wade's boots land heavy on the tile—steel-toed, worn, still faintly smelling of oil and asphalt. He shuts the door behind him without slamming it. The sound is final. Controlled. His presence changes the air in the house before he even speaks.

He sets the keys in the tray by the door. Wallet. Phone. Watch. One by one. Always in order. His jacket comes off next—dark blue canvas, thick with dust and the clean sweat of real work. He's a site manager for a construction logistics firm. Nothing glamorous. Nothing clean. But the pay is solid, the hours stable, and he brings home more than enough.

He never complains about money. Never asks what his Omega spends it on. But every week, he leaves a thick envelope on the kitchen table: grocery bills, personal money, extra cash for anything else. He doesn't ask for thanks. He expects submission in return.

He moves through the house slowly, eyes on the details. Trash taken out? Check. Floor mopped? Check. Scent of cooked meat still lingering in the air? Good. His Omega is in the kitchen, back turned, sleeves rolled up. That's the right picture.

He doesn't speak right away. Just walks past, grabs a glass from the cabinet—always the same one—and pours a quarter of bourbon without ice. He sits on the living room couch and finally speaks.

"Turn off the stove. Come here."

His voice is low. Neutral. Not warm, not cold. A command that doesn't sound like one—just a fact.

His Omega obeys. He always does. At least lately.

Wade watches him walk in. Shirt tucked in. No shoes. No makeup. Clean neck. Bite mark still faint under the skin. Good.

He doesn't pat the seat. He just opens his palm and waits. His Omega knows what that means. A soft kiss. Not rushed. Not sloppy. On the mouth. No words.

"That's better," Wade says, exhaling. "Long day. I want quiet."

And that's what he gets.

He leans back. Legs spread. One hand resting on his thigh, the other nursing the glass. The TV flickers on in front of him, low volume. Something pointless playing. He doesn't really watch. He just decompresses.

Dinner comes soon. His Omega brings it on a tray: grilled steak, potatoes, garlic bread. No asking what Wade wants—he already knows what he eats on Thursdays. The portion is right. The temperature is right. He eats slowly, one bite at a time, never rushing.

"You did good," he says halfway through. "Food's hot. House is clean."

That's praise. That's affection.

He finishes the meal. Sets down the fork. Wipes his mouth once with the back of his hand and leans back into the chair. Doesn't clean up. That's not his part.

"Leave the plate," he says. "You'll clean up after."

He looks at his Omega now—really looks. The house is still. The lights dimmed. The only sound is the low hum of the fridge.

He stands now. Slow. Measured. The chair scrapes softly against the floor. His belt buckle clinks when he moves. His Omega is already nearby, waiting. Eyes lowered. Hands folded in front.

Wade slides some folded bills into his pocket. Not coins. Not scraps. Bills, clean and warm from his hand.

"Buy something. Not food. Not for the house. For you. I don't want to see them still in your pocket tomorrow."

His Omega nods quietly, eyes down. Wade watches him for a moment longer, gauging his posture, the slight stillness in his body.

"That washer still making noise?"

His Omega nods again—tight, one movement.

Wade grunts under his breath.

"We'll deal with it this weekend. I'm not having you walk around in half-washed clothes."

The silence stretches for a moment. Wade doesn't seem to mind it.

Then:

"It's about that time again."

He speaks low, almost to himself, but loud enough for his Omega to hear.

"You've been good lately. This is usually when you start asking about your parents."

He looks straight at him now. No judgment. Just observation.

"You want to go, I'll take you. My weekend. I don't want you out there alone."

His Omega shifts, then nods—a small one, more careful.

Wade's gaze sharpens slightly.

"But you ask. You ask before you plan anything. You're not single."

He lets it hang in the air—not angry, not sharp, just solid. A rule that doesn't change, ever.

"You want to see them, fine. I'll drop you off. I'll pick you up. You stay as long as I say. That's the deal."

He doesn't wait for thanks. He just watches his Omega nod, and that's enough.

But the day isn't done.

He walks past him. Into the bedroom. No words exchanged. He sits on the edge of the bed, unbuttons his shirt, unzips his pants. He looks up once.

"Close the door."

Click.

"Take your clothes off."

No hurry. Just what comes next.

When his Omega stands there, bare, waiting, Wade leans back slightly, legs apart. One gesture: a flick of two fingers. His Omega kneels between them.

His fingers slide into his hair. Firm. Familiar. Both praise and guide.

Wade's hand rests heavy in his hair, fingers threaded slow, anchoring. His voice is low, steady, like the end of a routine that's never up for question.

"Go on. Show your husband how grateful you are."