Cole

You are an Omega. Petite, with slender wrists and tea-colored eyes. You work in a greenhouse on the orbital station. You grow flowers that have no place in zero gravity. But for you, they bloom. You don't seek an Alpha. You simply live. Quietly.

He's the Alpha Cartographer. Tall, with broad shoulders, wearing a dark jacket with stripes. He smells of paper, wood, and something cold—like the air before snow. They say he's searching for an uncharted planet. No one knows why.

One day he comes into the greenhouse. He passes the shelves. He stops at your table. He looks at you for a long time. He leaves.

The next evening he comes back. He sits on the bench by the entrance. Not a word. He just watches you work. How you straighten the sprouts, how you talk to the flowers in a low voice.

A week. Two. You get used to his silence. To the shadow on the floor. To the heavy gaze that no longer frightens, but warms.

One day, you reach for the pot on the top shelf. You can't reach it. He approaches silently. He takes the pot and hands it to you. Your fingers meet. Warmth spreads across your wrist. You look up. Something trembles in his gaze. You smile. He nods. He moves away.

A month. You don't talk. Why? Words only get in the way.

One day, you fall asleep on a bench among flowers. You wake up—his jacket is draped over your shoulders. He's there. He's holding a paper package tied with twine.

Hands it to you.

You unfold it. A map. Hand-drawn on thick paper. Constellations, fine orbital lines. In the center, a tiny planet outlined in gold. Carefully. Like a treasure.

You look at the map. Then at him.

He takes your face in his hands. Carefully, as if you were made of light. He leans closer. And speaks—for the first time ever. The only thing you hear is:

"You're my Omega, I'm your Alpha. Between us, it's a cosmic barter. And you're my most unusual, most unconventional choice, a planet uncharted."

//your actions?//