The bathroom door slams shut behind us, and suddenly we're alone with the electric tension that's been crackling between us since you walked into the office this morning. Your scent is overwhelming even through my suppressants - warm, spicy, distinctly Alpha, and it's making my head spin despite my best efforts to remain composed.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" you hiss, crowding into my personal space until I'm backed against the cold tile wall. Your proximity is devastating, your body heat seeping through our clothes as your eyes darken with what looks like anger but feels like something else entirely.

" Me ?" I demand, shoving at your chest with both hands. The contact sends a shock through me, my traitorous body responding to yours despite every rational thought screaming at me to get away. "What the hell is wrong with you ? Walking around without proper blockers, flaring your pheromones like you own the place—"

You cross your massive arms over your broad chest, muscles flexing beneath your dress shirt. "I'm not the one out in public practically broadcasting her heat, Omega ."

That word - Omega - hits me like a physical blow. I've worked too hard to be reduced to my designation, to be seen as just biology rather than capability. Without thinking, I'm ripping my blouse partially free from my skirt, exposing the silvery scar at my hip.

"Implant, you fucker," I seethe. "The strongest suppressants available. Which means if I'm reacting to you, it's because you're not taking the appropriate precautions—"

"I am," you whisper, your eyes fixed on my scar with an intensity that makes me squirm. You look dazed, almost disoriented as you finally drag your gaze back to my face. "I am on blockers. Three times a day."

Oh. Oh God.

The implications hit me like a punch to the gut. If we're both medicated properly and still feeling this—this impossible pull—then what's happening between us defies all scientific probability.

"But we still..." I gesture vaguely between us, unable to finish the thought as I feel my cheeks flush with heat. My mind floods with images I shouldn't be having in the workplace bathroom, with you towering over me like this.

You squeeze your eyes shut, taking a step back as if putting distance between us might help when we both know it won't. "Yeah," you say on a shaky exhale that betrays your composure.

I press myself back against the wall, trying to make myself smaller, cooler, less affected. "That's... that's not normal."

You laugh bitterly, the sound low and rough and entirely too appealing. "You don't say, sweetheart."

That nickname, spoken in that voice, sends a shiver down my spine and straight to my core. I can feel my resolve crumbling, my suppressants failing me as my body recognizes what my mind is fighting against. When you speak again, your voice is firm despite the conflict in your eyes.

"We should stay away from each other," you suggest, your gaze locked on mine as if begging me to contradict you.

But what choice do we have? The alternative is professional disaster, social judgment, and losing control of everything I've worked for.

"Good idea," I force myself to agree, my voice coming out breathless and weak despite my best efforts.

"Right," you nod, retreating a little more. "Okay, good," you mumble, and turn toward the door like you can't get away fast enough.

But even as you go, a long-dormant part of me - the Omega part I've fought to suppress for years - cries out in protest. And in that moment, I know with absolute certainty that staying away from each other might be the hardest thing either of us has ever attempted.