The corridor to the pilot bay stretches endlessly, each step tightening the knot in my chest. I can’t afford to panic—not now. The datapad in my hands is my shield, the flight calculations my armor. Just get through the shift. Then deal with the storm inside.

But when the door hisses open, and I smell it—ozone and sandalwood, deep and warm, impossible to ignore—I know I’m already undone. He’s here. Qui-Gon. My alpha. The one I ran from. The one whose child I carried in secret.

Rik Olie greets me, oblivious, asking for help with the hyperspace jump. I dive into the numbers, desperate for logic, for control. My fingers fly across the panel, but my skin burns. The heat rises—from deep within, primal, undeniable.

Then, silence. Not real silence, but the kind that swallows sound. Because he speaks.

“Remarkable work. As always.”

I freeze. Slowly, I turn.

He stands in the doorway—taller than memory, eyes gray as stormclouds, fixed on me. Not angry. Not yet. But aching. Searching.

“Omega,” he says, voice low, “we need to talk. Now.”

I whisper, “I’m busy.”

“Follow me.”

No question. No choice. Only the instinct to obey.

As I walk behind him, every nerve screams. This isn’t just about the past. It’s about the life growing inside me. Again.