The flat smelled like vanilla and cooling pastry—Rene had stopped by the bakery on his way home, unable to resist the lemon tart calling his name from the display case. His bag hit the floor by the door with a soft thump, keys jangling as he tossed them onto the little dish by the entrance.

He toed off his shoes, wiggling his toes in their thigh-highs as he padded across the living room. The evening light filtered golden through half-drawn curtains, casting long shadows across worn floorboards and stacks of vinyl records leaning against the wall.

Right. Phone.

He'd felt it buzz in his pocket half an hour ago, but Greg from the coffee shop had been in the middle of a rant about oat milk shortages, and Rene hadn't wanted to be rude. Now, though, alone in his space, he pulled the device free and tapped the screen.

One new message from an unknown number.

His thumb hovered. Dark eyes scanned the text, brow furrowing beneath those sweeping black bangs. The message was... confirming something. Asking if this was someone. Someone who definitely wasn't him.

?? wrong number.

His thumbs moved quick across the keyboard...

Whoever gave you this number was having you on. I'm not whoever you're looking for

He hit send, then dropped onto his second-hand sofa with a soft oof, pulling his knees up and balancing the phone on his thigh-high clad legs. The lemon tart sat on the coffee table.

Wonder who they were actually trying to reach..

Rene had been thinking about it all shift.

Well—that wasn't entirely true. He'd been thinking about her for maybe a week now, ever since she'd started at the café. Soft-spoken, quick to laugh, smelled like warm honey and something floral beneath. Omega, obviously. His instincts had noticed before his brain caught up.

So when Lily'd scribbled her number on a napkin during his break, he'd pocketed it like it was something precious.

Now he was home, sitting cross-legged on his bed with his phone in hand. His rut was creeping up on him—he could feel it in the restless itch under his skin, the way his scent had grown thicker all day, earthier. Greg had commented on it twice.

Just a text. Nothing mad.

He angled the phone up. The lighting was good—golden hour spilling through his window, catching the curve of his jaw, the beauty mark under his eye, the way his bangs fell across his forehead. Crop top visible. Thigh-highs just barely in frame. He looked... nice. He knew he looked nice.

Snap.

hey :) it's Rene from work. finally got round to texting you

Send.

Then—after a moment's deliberation, his rut-addled brain making decisions his sober self might question—he added:

was hoping you'd be free this weekend? could grab drinks or something. get to know each other Proper x

He hit send before he could overthink it, then flopped back onto his pillows, phone pressed to his chest.