Work Text:
Gigi Murin learned early on that scent could be a sanctuary or a sentence.
As an omega, she lived in a world where her presence was always announced before she spoke—soft notes of citrus and sunlight, a warmth that clung to the air like memory. Some days she liked it. Some days it made her want to peel herself out of her own skin and leave the scent behind like a coat she could forget on a hook.
Today was one of the latter.
She sat alone in the greenroom, knees tucked to her chest, fingers twisting the hem of her oversized hoodie until the fabric was thin with worry. The walls hummed faintly with the sound of the studio outside—muffled laughter, distant footsteps, the buzz of lights—but none of it reached her properly. Everything felt far away, like she was watching her own life through fogged glass.
Her suppressants had worn off faster than she’d expected.
It wasn’t dangerous. Not technically. But the subtle shift in her scent had been enough to draw looks earlier—quick glances, polite smiles held a fraction too long. Even betas noticed when an omega’s control slipped. And alphas… alphas always noticed.
Gigi pressed her face into her knees and breathed slowly, counting each inhale like it might anchor her. She hated this part. Hated the way her body betrayed her emotions, the way stress sharpened her scent until it felt loud, invasive. She wasn’t in heat. She wasn’t weak. She just needed a moment.
The door opened with a soft click.
Gigi stiffened instantly.
“Hey,” came a calm, familiar voice. Low and steady. Grounded.
Cecelia Immergreen stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame like she wasn’t sure if she should enter. Her presence filled the room—not aggressively, not in the way some alphas took up space—but undeniably. Forest and iron, like dew from leaves after fresh rain. A scent that spoke of strength without threat.
Cecelia’s eyes flicked up, then softened when she saw Gigi curled in on herself.
“…Mind if I come in?” she asked.
Gigi hesitated. Then she nodded, small.
Cecelia closed the door behind her carefully, like she was sealing the world out rather than trapping them in. She didn’t approach right away. Instead, she leaned against the wall a few steps away, arms crossed loosely, posture open.
“I heard you ducked out early,” Cecelia said gently. “Figured I’d check in.”
Gigi swallowed dryly. “I’m fine.”
The lie tasted bitter on her lips.
Cecelia didn’t call her on it. She never did. That was part of what made it worse—and better—at the same time.
“Okay,” Cecelia replied. “I’m here anyway.”
The silence stretched, but it wasn’t heavy. Cecelia’s presence settled like a blanket—warm without smothering. Gigi could feel her alpha scent at the edges of her awareness, steady and controlled, never pushing.
Her shoulders sagged before she could stop them.
“My suppressants didn’t hold,” Gigi admitted quietly. “I didn’t realize until… until people started looking at me like that.”
Cecelia’s jaw tightened—not in anger at Gigi, but at the world.
“That’s not your fault,” she said immediately.
Gigi let out a shaky laugh, sounding more tired than usual. “Doesn’t stop it from feeling like it is.”
She finally looked up, meeting Cecelia’s eyes. Green, sharp and kind in equal measure. A kind of presence that grounded her—yet at the same time—overwhelming. An alpha who chose gentleness every day, not because she had to—but because she wanted to.
“I hate being obvious,” Gigi whispered, her breath shaking slightly. “I hate that they can tell when I’m stressed or scared or just—having a bad day. I hate that my body tells on me.”
Cecelia pushed off the wall slowly, deliberately, giving Gigi time to pull back if she wanted. When Gigi didn’t, she crouched a few feet away, keeping her voice low.
“You don’t owe anyone invisibility,” Cecelia said. “And you don’t owe them comfort at the expense of your own.”
Gigi’s throat burned. “You say that like it’s easy.”
Cecelia smiled faintly. “I say it like it’s true. Easy comes later. Sometimes.” Cecelia brushes a off a stray hair covering part of Gigi's face, smiling lightly.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Gigi’s breathing evened out, her pulse slowly calming. The sharp edge of her scent softened, blending with the quiet air.
“Can I…?” Cecelia began, then stopped herself. “Would it help if I stayed closer?”
The question alone nearly broke her.
“Yes,” Gigi said. “Please.”
Cecelia shifted forward, sitting on the floor instead of the chair, close enough that Gigi could feel her warmth but not close enough to overwhelm. Their shoulders brushed—just barely.
The contact sent a shiver through Gigi, not of fear, but of relief. The kind of contact where you don't know whether to embrace or push away.
Alphas were taught restraint. Omegas were taught caution. What no one taught them was how healing simple presence could be when it was chosen, not imposed.
Cecelia adjusted her breathing to match Gigi’s without even thinking about it. She’d learned long ago that grounding herself helped others do the same. Her scent remained controlled, a quiet promise rather than a command.
“You’re safe,” Cecelia murmured. “I’ve got you.”
The words settled deep, sinking into places Gigi hadn’t realized were aching.
She leaned in fully this time, resting her head against Cecelia’s shoulder. Cecelia stiffened for half a second—instinct, awareness—then relaxed, lifting an arm slowly, carefully, until it rested around Gigi’s back.
“Tell me what happened,” Cecelia said.
Gigi exhaled. “It’s stupid.”
“It’s not.”
“I messed up during rehearsal,” Gigi said. “Just a small thing. Missed a cue. But I could feel everyone noticing, and then my scent started spiking, and I knew—*I knew*—that I was becoming a problem.”
Cecelia’s hold tightened just a fraction. “You’re not a problem.”
“I felt like one,” Gigi said. “Like I always do when this happens. Like no matter how hard I work, I’ll always be ‘the omega who needs managing.’”
Cecelia’s voice dropped, edged with something fierce and protective. “Anyone who sees you that way isn’t really seeing you.”
Gigi laughed weakly. “Easy for an alpha to say.”
Cecelia didn’t flinch. “You think I don’t notice how people underestimate you? Or how they expect me to take charge just because I can?”
She leaned her forehead lightly against Gigi’s temple. “The system hurts all of us. Just not in the same places.”
Gigi closed her eyes.
Cecelia smelled like rain-soaked earth, like something solid and real. The kind of scent that didn’t erase Gigi’s own, but made space for it. Their scents mingled quietly, neither dominating the other.
“I wish I could turn it off,” Gigi whispered. “Just for one day.”
Cecelia was quiet for a long moment.
“Do you know what your scent reminds me of?” she asked softly.
Gigi tensed. “You don’t have to—”
“Sunlight through leaves, like freshly plucked oranges in season, with hints of wood, ” Cecelia continued. “That moment when the world feels still, like it’s holding its breath. It doesn’t demand attention. It just… exists. Comforting. Honest.”
Gigi’s breath hitched.
“I think,” Cecelia added, “that the world would be poorer without it.”
Tears slipped free, soaking into Cecelia’s sleeve.
Cecelia held her without hesitation. Arms immediately tangling around Gigi's waist, holding her like fragile glass.
They stayed like that for a long time. Long enough for the studio noise to fade, for the worst of Gigi’s anxiety to ebb, for her scent to settle into something softer and calmer.
Their scents tangled with eachother—dew after rain and citrus in the morning—creating a small bubble where it was just them.
When Gigi finally pulled back, her eyes were red but clearer.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Cecelia smiled. “Anytime.”
Gigi hesitated, then leaned in again—not collapsing this time, but choosing the closeness. Cecelia responded in kind, their foreheads touching.
There was something intimate in that—not romantic in a way that demanded anything, but deeply personal. Trust, given and received.
“Hey, Cecelia?” Gigi asked.
“Yeah?”
“Would you… walk me back out there?”
Cecelia stood, offering her hand without a second thought. “Of course.”
Gigi took it.
As they stepped back into the world, their scents lingered together in the room they left behind—proof of something gentle, something real.
Your name, etched in my scent, Gigi thought—not as a mark of ownership, but as a reminder.
That she wasn’t alone.
And she never had to be.