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They were six.
And unpresented.
But that didn’t stop little Max Verstappen from deciding the world’s truths as he saw fit.
And right now, the truth was this:
“You’re an omega.”
Little George Russell blinked at him from across the sandbox, shovel in hand, dirt on his cheek, curls fluffy and bouncing in the sun.
“Nu-uh. I alpha.”
Max squinted. He stepped forward, arms crossed, voice suspiciously smug for someone missing both his front teeth.
“No. Too pretty. Too shiny. Too polite. You say thank you when you get juice. Alphas don’t do that.”
George stood, hands on hips, tail of his too-big jumper flopping.
“That’s dumb! Alphas can be nice! I wanna be one! I fight!”
“No you don’t. You cried when Oscar called you fluffy.”
“Because he said I looked like a sheep!”
“You do!”
Nico, sitting nearby with a magazine and watching like this was a documentary titled “Little Wolves and Their Curiosity,” sighed deeply. Seb and Jenson were already betting snacks on who’d cry first.
Max stomped forward and booped George’s nose.
“Omega. You smell like marshmallows and baby lotion.”
George gasped. Scandalized. He picked up a pebble.
“Take! It! Back!”
“No. Say it! Say you’re omega—”
“I’M! A! BIG! BAD! ALPHA!”
George launched the pebble. Missed by a mile.
Max threw himself dramatically into the sand, wailing,
“You tried to KILL ME!!”
It spiraled from there. George chased Max around the garden with his little fists.
Max cackled and shouted, “SEE! OMEGA TANTRUM!”
George screamed, “ALPHAS CAN SCREAM TOO!”
Other pups were there just for the catfight of the day. Pierre watched while eating grapes. Charles hid behind a bush. Lando sided with George because Max called him “baby feet” yesterday.
Eventually, Nico scooped up George mid-battle.
“Alright, alright—cool it, baby alpha omega terrorist, whatever you are today.”
George huffed against his dam’s shoulder, pointing down at Max.
“He’s rude. He don’t even share gummy bears!”
“Alpha,” Max yelled from the sandbox. “Alphas don’t share!”
George growled.
“I hope your nose falls off!”
Later that night, tucked in bed, George clung to his bunny plush, cheeks still pink from yelling.
Nico sat beside him, brushing his curls.
“You know, sweetheart… whether you’re an alpha or omega or anything else—you’ll still be perfect.”
George pouted. “Max said I smell soft…”
“You do. That’s not bad.”
“He said I act like a mama.”
Nico smiled, kissed his forehead. “One day you’ll make a great one.”
George blinked up at him. “…Only if I can still punch him.”
“That’s the spirit.”