Citrus Ghosts

My apartment smells like chamomile, old vinyl, and ambition that never sleeps. At 12:07 a.m. I lean against the door hoodie half-unzipped, adrenaline still tap-dancing under my skin and watch city lights blink through rain-streaked panes. The phone in my fist flashes the last thing I sent:

Noted. Good night.

Two words bland, diplomatic, borderline cold. Exactly the opposite of the confusion rattling around my skull.

Alessia Ryvenhart turned down an omega in heat.

No growling flirtation, no smug acceptance. She called security, for fate's sake. Then she'd offered me a ride politely. It felt as if the universe had rebooted and reinstalled an update I hadn't agreed to.

The kettle clicks on the counter, protesting yesterday's limescale. I drop my bag, kick off sneakers, and shrug out of the hoodie. Steam curls; the scent of peppermint fills the little kitchen-living-music-studio hybrid that passes for my sanctuary. Normally, a mug of tea and a lo-fi playlist settles everything.

Not tonight.

I thumb open Nova's contact, hit call. Three rings and she answers with the groggy cheer of a best friend who never sleeps before two.

"Tell me you're drunk on victory noodles," she says by way of hello.

"Half right. I'm drunk on confusion tea."

"Oooh." Sheets rustle. "What did the alpha do now assign you a corner office with a puppy and a trust fund?"

"Worse. She refused an omega. In public. Like, firmly refused."

Nova whistles. "Stop. My heart's not ready for miracles."

I flop onto the couch, swinging sock-clad feet onto the coffee table already cluttered with draft lyrics, empty ramen cup, and a lonely guitar pick. "You didn't smell it, Nova. The omega was basically spraying Eau de Mate-Now. Alessia's blocker held, she called security, and sent her home."

"Wait wait our playboy CEO used her words and boundaries?" Nova fakes a gasp. "Call the tabloids back, we've had a glitch in the simulation."

"That's the problem," I mutter, tracing a swirl of condensation on the mug. "What if it's all performance art? She signs my budget, threatens gossip rags, then rejects a random flirt maybe she's just building suspense before the grand finale."

Nova's typing noises clatter over the line probably searching Alpha-midlife-enlightenment or cult recruitment.

She sighs. "Babe, pattern recognition is your superpower, but sometimes a spade is just a shovel."

"Shovels bury bodies."

"Or plant gardens." She yawns. "Tell me exactly what happened."

I replay the scene: marble lobby, honeysuckle pheromones, Alessia's frost-tipped refusal, security escort, the way her jaw tensed when she saw me. "She looked… annoyed at herself. And tired. But when I challenged her, she didn't snap she just said she was trying."

Nova hums, thoughtful. "And you believed her?"

"No," I admit, staring at the ceiling crack shaped like Tasmania. "But I wanted to."

The confession dangles, vulnerable. Nova lets silence stretch, then fills it with soft honesty. "Not wanting to hate someone forever doesn't make you weak. It makes you exhausted."

"Same thing," I joke, weakly.

She clicks her tongue. "Okay, existential crisis aside, how do you feel about the project now that the board's in your pocket?"

A safer topic. I rattle off my rehearsal schedule, the three-week showcase timeline, my plan to add a stripped-down piano bridge. Nova asks incisive questions: lighting rig cost cap? Social-media teaser strategy? Have I eaten a vegetable today? (No.)

Fifteen minutes later, she circles back. "So, Alessia delivered resources, respected boundaries, and risked PR blowback telling pheromone girl to buzz off. Odds she's genuine?"

I blow across the mug, cooling steam. "Twenty percent."

"Progress," she chirps. "Last week it was negative infinity."

I roll my eyes, but a reluctant smile tugs. "She still terrifies HR."

"HR is terrified by ergonomic chairs."

Fair.

"Another thought," Nova adds, voice softer. "If she does mess up—like, actually cross a line—you'll know it's not your fault for giving her a chance."

Easy for you to say, I think, but I nod anyway, forgetting she can't see me. The distant city siren howls; the kettle clicks off again force of habit.

"Thanks," I murmur.

"Anytime. Now drink your confusion tea and get some sleep. Creative genius needs REM cycles."

We hang up. Quiet rushes in heavy but not suffocating.

I set the phone on the windowsill beside my fake succulent (real plants fear me). Outside, traffic smears into comets of red and gold. With the lights off, the glass becomes a mirror: a young omega in pajama shorts and eyeliner smudges, eyes too bright for midnight. Somewhere out there an alpha CEO probably paces a mansion floor, haunted by paperwork, bad take-out, and a 1.1 percent trust debit.

I tap the pane, as if I could reroute that energy. Because for the first time since I joined this company, the future doesn't look like a booby-trapped hallway. It looks maybe like a stage. My stage. Funded by a villain who's trying not to be one.

My brain, sabotaging calm, replays Alessia's offer: Need a ride? Sincere, if awkward. I'd said no, because her cologne still lived inside every nightmare prank she'd pulled. But tonight, her scent carried… restraint. Like winter pine dusted with caution.

I laugh into the emptiness. "I'm not writing a love song about that."

Still there's a tune humming under my ribs, restless, unresolved. I pad to my keyboard, switch on the smallest lamp the one shaped like an astronaut waving from a moon. Tiny light pools over the keys. I play a chord, minor-plus-add-something. Another. I hum. A lyric floats up:

Not every wolf bares teeth some learn to speak in softer keys…

Too on-the-nose, Lin. I delete the line in my head, change tempo. The melody threads through doubt and peppermint vapors. After a few bars, exhaustion plucks my eyelids.

I power down, crawl into bed beneath mismatched quilts. Phone face-down, blocker patch still secure, the city's heartbeat thrumming through walls.

Sleep teeters at the edge, but curiosity taps my brain one last time: Why did she apologize? Alessia didn't owe me that message. She could've ignored perception management. Instead, she typed eight words acknowledging I'd watched her say no.

Does a monster care what her prey thinks? Does a reformed monster worry about witnesses?

My thoughts kaleidoscope as dreams tiptoe in: stage lights, a grand piano, Alessia in the wings, expression unreadable but present. The chord I wrote hovers like a guardian until morning.