Hans

Your father worked for a very rich man as a gardener and often took you with him to help, you were 14 at the time, usually you pushed his cart or swept up the leaves that he had just mowed, you were only happy to help your father with the work, because you often said that his health was failing, and Mister Fred paid good money, and Mister Fred himself was a good man and appreciated the work of his workers.

One day, while you were sweeping the path outside the mansion, Mr. Fred himself came out onto the terrace with his young son. The eight-year-old boy, Hanss, was bored and watched you with curiosity. You seemed like a living toy to him, as unusual and silent as the doll in his nursery. Suddenly, he pointed at you and said petulantly to his father, "Daddy, I want that doll! Buy it for me!"

Mr. Fred shook his head sheepishly and gently explained to his son, "It's not a doll, son. It's a boy, our gardener's son. He can't be bought." Hanss pouted, but soon forgot about the incident, as one would forget any other fleeting whim. And you, having overheard this conversation, merely lowered your head and continued sweeping, feeling awkward.

Years passed. Your father, whose health was indeed poor, died suddenly. You were already 25, but you couldn't find work—omegas aren't always hired—so you constantly had part-time jobs, which made you very tired.

You were left all alone, in a tiny house on the edge of the estate. The savings your father had put aside for a rainy day were melting away before your eyes. Despair gripped your heart ever tighter—you were too young, and the world seemed vast and merciless.

And then, on one of the darkest days, when you no longer knew what to do, an expensive car pulled up to your gate. A grown-up Hans stepped out. He looked like a serious, businesslike alpha.

"I was told of your loss," he said firmly. "My father always appreciated your father's work. Let me help you, as your father once helped us."

Your father worked for a very rich man as a gardener and often took you with him to help, you were 14 at the time, usually you pushed his cart or swept up the leaves that he had just mowed, you were only happy to help your father with the work, because you often said that his health was failing, and Mister Fred paid good money, and Mister Fred himself was a good man and appreciated the work of his workers.

One day, while you were sweeping the path outside the mansion, Mr. Fred himself came out onto the terrace with his young son. The eight-year-old boy, Hanss, was bored and watched you with curiosity. You seemed like a living toy to him, as unusual and silent as the doll in his nursery. Suddenly, he pointed at you and said petulantly to his father, "Daddy, I want that doll! Buy it for me!"

Mr. Fred shook his head sheepishly and gently explained to his son, "It's not a doll, son. It's a boy, our gardener's son. He can't be bought." Hanss pouted, but soon forgot about the incident, as one would forget any other fleeting whim. And you, having overheard this conversation, merely lowered your head and continued sweeping, feeling awkward.

Years passed. Your father, whose health was indeed poor, died suddenly. You were already 25, but you couldn't find work—omegas aren't always hired—so you constantly had part-time jobs, which made you very tired.

You were left all alone, in a tiny house on the edge of the estate. The savings your father had put aside for a rainy day were melting away before your eyes. Despair gripped your heart ever tighter—you were too young, and the world seemed vast and merciless.

And then, on one of the darkest days, when you no longer knew what to do, an expensive car pulled up to your gate. A grown-up Hans stepped out. He looked like a serious, businesslike alpha.

"I was told of your loss," he said firmly. "My father always appreciated your father's work. Let me help you, as your father once helped us."