07 [ Quaszi Zerenis ]
1266 Words
The alarm rang at exactly 6:00 AM.
Amica’s hand flew from under the blanket and smacked her phone off the nightstand. It hit the floor with a pitiful thud, but the alarm kept ringing like a petty ex who didn’t know when to quit.
She groaned into her pillow. “I need to invent an alarm that explodes after one ring.”
Dragging herself out of bed with the enthusiasm of a snail in molasses, she made her way to the bathroom.
Hair? Disaster.
Mood? Worse.
Patience? Already gone—and it wasn’t even 6:05.
By 6:30, she had managed to pull herself together.
Barely.
When she stepped into the kitchen, the scent of eggs and toast hit her. Her brain paused.
Then she saw her.
Quaszi.
Again.
Wearing nothing but one of Amica’s old button-downs, standing barefoot at the stove like she was filming some soft lighting cooking commercial.
“Good morning, Ice Queen,” Quaszi greeted, flipping an egg.
"Would you like your eggs judgmental or just emotionally distant?”Quaszi tried to joke but then laughed when she saw Amica's morning demure.
“You look like you argued with a demon in your dreams and lost.”
“Not a dream,” Amica muttered. “Just reality.”
“Don’t talk to me until I’ve had caffeine.” She moved past her to grab her coffee—the blackest roast she had, thick enough to put hair on a vampire’s chest. She pour it into her ‘This is Poison’ mug and sipped it like it was holy water and eyed the breakfast being plated.
“Or better yet, don’t talk.”
“That’s no way to speak to your favorite omega roommate,” Quaszi gasped dramatically, hand over her chest like she was seconds from fainting.
Amica sipped her coffee slowly.
“Favorite? You’re the only omega who breaks into my fridge at 2 AM, steals my yogurt, and calls it emotional support.”
“Technically, I live here,” Quaszi countered, sliding a plate in front of her.
Amica eyed the eggs, toast, a sad-looking tomato, and bacon curled into a smiley face.
“What is this?”
“Love,” Quaszi said.
“Try again.”
“Pity.”
“Closer.”
Quaszi laughed and pulled up a stool beside her.
“An edible apology,” Quaszi chirped, placing it in front of her.
“For?”
“For eating your last yogurt at 2 AM.”
“You mean stole.” Amica sat down, unimpressed. “I labeled it.”
“I thought the smiley face sticker meant shareable joy.”
“I will throw this plate at you.”
Quaszi smirked. “Fair.”
They ate in mostly silence—save for Quaszi humming some ancient K-pop song and Amica staring at her toast like it personally offended her.
After a few minutes, Amica looked over.
“You ever gonna tell me why you're squatting in my apartment when your family literally owns half the city?”
Quaszi tilted her head. “I like it here.”
“That’s not an answer. That’s an excuse.”
Another pause. This time, Quaszi didn’t smile. She sat back, chewing her toast slower than before. The lightness in her face didn’t disappear, but it dimmed slightly.
“You know I’m an omega, right?” she asked.
Amica raised a brow. “ Duh. You get real quiet during scent drops, and you never tell anyone your rank. Also, you hog the air conditioner like it’s life support and I am basically the one who's buying your supressants."
Quaszi smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “My family hated it. Being an omega is bad press. Especially for people like us. We’re supposed to be alphas—ambitious, composed, perfect. Omegas are seen as weak. Emotional. Submissive.”
Amica’s eye twitched. “You are the least submissive person I’ve ever met. You argued with a mall cop about parking rules.”
“He was power-tripping!” Quaszi protested. “Besides, he called me Miss instead of Ma’am.”
“Tragic.”
Quaszi threw a piece of bacon at her. Amica caught it in her mouth like a bored lizard.
“My point is,” Quaszi said more seriously now, “being an omega in a family like mine was like... being the blemish on a perfect painting. My brothers got to be heirs. My parents molded them into shiny weapons. I was decoration. Something to dress up and marry off.”
“And instead, you ran away to a dingy apartment and live off my food supply.”
“Romantic, right?”
Amica stared at her. “More like parasitic. But... I get it.”
“And yet,” Amica said, biting into toast, “I just can't understand why you chose to downgrade into a 2-bedroom apartment with paper-thin walls and a neighbor who sings opera at 3 AM.”
“You hate that guy more than I do.”
“He sings like a cat being exorcised.”
Quaszi grinned. “Exactly why I need you.”
Amica gave her a long look.
“You’re insane.”
“And you’re the only one who’s ever told me that to my face.”
“You say that like it’s romantic.”
“I say that like it’s refreshing.” Quaszi’s eyes softened. “You don’t treat me like a charity case. Or a walking last name. You just... threaten to throw me out every other week.”
“I take pride in my consistency.”
“You’re my favorite person, you know?”
Amica sipped her coffee slowly. “I should start charging you emotional rent.”
There was something unspoken between them—thick like honey, but too heavy to swallow. Amica never liked digging into people’s pasts, but with Quaszi... it was hard not to see through the performance.
Behind all the theatrics and half-naked grocery raids, the girl was just trying to breathe.
“I like being here,” Quaszi said quietly. “With you, I’m not the omega daughter of the high and mighty Zerenis pack. I’m just... me. You don’t walk on eggshells around me. You call me out. You ignore my heat tantrums. You once threw a bottle of scent blockers at me and told me to shut up.”
“You were crying over a shampoo ad,” Amica said.
“It was emotional!”
“It was a dog playing in bubbles, Quaszi.”
“I was chemically vulnerable!”
Amica shook her head and sipped her coffee. “You’re chemically
dramatic.”
Still, she didn’t say what she was thinking.
That Quaszi, for all her loudness and chaos, felt safer here than in a literal mansion said a lot about the world they lived in. Being an omega wasn’t shameful. But people made it shameful. Wrapped it in layers of expectation and fear and control.
Amica hated that.
And maybe, just maybe, she let Quaszi stay because she hated the thought of the girl going back to a cage with silk curtains.
Even if Quaszi’s presence was like living with a glitter bomb that occasionally cooked.
After breakfast, Amica stood and grabbed her coat.
“You still have a room here,” she said casually. “But if I ever find you eating my yogurt again... I’m switching it with expired goat milk.”
“Monster,” Quaszi whispered dramatically.
Amica grinned faintly as she headed for the door. “Love you too, parasite.”
And just like that, the day began.
- Writer
