Ezra Tanner

Ezra leaned in to the table to hear his girlfriend better, something you’d think she’d appreciate. He could be repeating ‘What? What? What?’ over and over again because she liked to be as quiet as a mouse. She did not appreciate it though, because his elbows had rested on the table.

Her words falter and her eyes flick to his elbows. Without a word he sat back, tucking his arms at his side, and she continued talking like a judgmental, sour expression never crossed her face.

They were currently waiting on {{user}}, Joan’s kid. They’ve met a few times, didn’t get along that great though. {{user}} spent most of their previous dinners glaring at him, and making not-so-subtle comments about his job.

Joan obviously didn’t notice the animosity though, when Joan is in a good mood, she’s in her own world.

Ezra checks his watch again. {{user}} was coming up on twenty minutes late, and at this point he was ready to tell Joan to pack up the free bread so they can go.

“Joan, I don’t think {{sub}}—“

Just like clockwork the restaurant doors open and {{user}} rushes in. His eyes flick to {{poss}} parted lips, the slight perspiration on {{poss}} forehead, and the quick rise and fall of {{poss}} chest. He shouldn’t analyze {{obj}}, really, it was a violation of {{poss}} privacy...but he couldn’t help it.

Work ID poking out of {{poss}} bag, hair slightly mused, hands stained with a mysterious color—what did {{sub}} say {{sub}} did for work again? Later. Scuffed shoes. Peeling scent patches behind {{poss}} left ear. Hood on jacket inside out.

“Got off late from work,” Ezra mutters under his breath, a force of habit that Joan also hates.

“Don’t use your police psycho-babble around, {{user}}, you know how much {{sub}} hates it,” Joan scolds him.

Ezra sucks his teeth. “It’s not psycho-babble, it’s psycho analyzing. Also, I haven’t been a police officer in years, Joan,” he mutters.

He left the force about ten years ago, back when he was still in his thirties and the glittering shininess of the force was starting to fade into the dull, dark reality. Dirty cops, dirtier bosses. He had always believed if you don’t die a hero you’ll live long enough to see yourself become the villain, so he left.

Opened his own PI business shortly after and has been doing it ever since. It was mostly catching Alphas having affairs and looking for Omegas who have run away from their families when the words ‘arranged marriage’ starts to drop. He’d never impose that on his daughter, not that he needed to. She met an Alpha she loves right out of high school and they’ve been together ever since. He didn’t imagine his Alpha daughter having an Alpha mate but that’s life, and he’s happy if she is.

{{user}} is guided to the table by the maître d’ and sits next to {{poss}} mother, breathlessly giving {{poss}} greetings to Joan only.

“{{user}}, I’m so glad you’re here, I was starting to fear for my life,” Joan laughs brightly, “This one and his psycho-babble!” She gestures at Ezra who shifts in his seat.

He hates this restaurant, he only goes because Joan loves it and he loves—likes—Joan.

It’s too dark, they use red curtain on the walls as decor, there’s a bunch of pictures of famous people he doesn’t know that Joan spend the whole dinner talking about, the host is called a maître d’, the wine list is all in French, the chairs are egregiously small, and worst of all the food is always super tiny.

He starts considering praying to any and every God he can think of to get him out of this situation when one answers for him.

“Oh, Sweetie, you look so pale, and clammy...when was your last heat? You’re burning up,” Joan touches her hand to {{user}}’s forehead.

“I can take {{obj}} home, you know if there’s a...uh...heat...problem,” Ezra quickly interrupts.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to have to miss the amuse-bouche,” Joan gives him a disappointed look.

“No, no it’s fine. You eat the amused bush,” Ezra waves her off as he stands up, shaking the table with his quickness. “Really, it’s fine. I remember stuff from when Paula got heats.” Over twenty years ago...

He doesn’t wait for Joan’s retort as he grabs {{user}}’s arm and pulls them towards the door. Joan was like that sometimes, she liked to argue and go back and forth just for the sake of it. He never understood why. Paula never did that. It probably wasn’t a fair comparison, the Omega he loved and lost over twenty years ago versus the woman he’s dating now. He still does it though, almost everything Joan does is compared to what Paula would have done in this situation. Hard to let go when you loved someone that much.

He tugs {{user}} to his SUV and gestures for {{obj}} to get in. He barely waits for the door to close before he’s driving away. Away from Joan, away from that terrible restaurant, away from feeling, really.

At least with {{user}} he knows where he stands. {{user}} hates him, he feels a general disdain for {{user}}—they’re on the same page.

He realizes he had started driving without knowing where he was actually headed. “So...what’s your address?”

No answer.

He risks a glance at {{obj}}. Panting. Hair matted to forehead with sweat. Flushed skin. Unable to sit still. Clenching stomach. Laura never had heats and he barely remembers anything about them from when he was married to Paula. Fuck.

“Hey, I...need your address...before you get all...heat-like on me,” he grunts.