One little drop of sweat.

It hung on the man’s high, hard pectoral muscle, clinging to him, glinting in the overhead sun.

Chris was almost overwhelmed with the desire to lick it off him.

Of course, he didn’t. He stayed where he was, watching out the crack in the blinds like some kind of pervert.

The sweating man turned to pick up a motorcycle tire like it was a child’s toy, his biceps flexing like pythons, and bent to attach it to the bike. When he turned back, the drop of sweat was gone, but there were more, creating little wet paths on his bronze flesh. Chris wanted to follow those paths with his tongue.

Chris squinted up at the sky. The first day of July in Stellar, Alaska and it was eighty-five degrees and unexpectedly humid. It rarely got into the eighties, even in the middle of summer, but weird weather patterns had given them the hottest summer since 1915. The motorcycle man wiped his arm across his forehead, leaving behind a black streak of grease under a mop of black curls.

Chris bit his lip. Fuck, he’s hot. He felt a twinge in his pants and adjusted himself. It wouldn’t do to get a raging hard-on in the middle of the public library.

Maybe I should bring him a glass of ice water. No, no . . . lemonade. He’d be so grateful, maybe he’d—

Lost in his reverie, Chris allowed the thoughts to float off into the ether, and he simply enjoyed watching the fine specimen of a man at work.

The sweating man soon stood and put his beefy fists on his hips, as if surveying the work in front of him. The bike wasn’t a newer model, not one of those zippy Japanese deals in bright colors, but an older classic American thing of bright chrome and matte black. Old, but well taken care of. Beloved.

With a decisive nod, the guy began to put his tools away, before kicking up the kickstand and pushing the machine toward the garage on the other side of the building. Chris arched his neck to follow him with his eyes—that ass in those jeans—knowing that he would only be able to enjoy the view for a few more seconds.

“Hey, Chris!”

He jumped and spun around, feeling the blood rush to his face for getting caught.

“Oh, hey . . . hey, Gladys.”

“Whatcha doin?”

His spritely purple-haired friend with the ironic old-lady name plopped down across the table from him. She had a stack full of papers with her and a pencil behind her ear.

Chris was caught off guard. He tried to think of an excuse, but gave up. Besides, it was just Gladys.

“Raff was out there working on his bike. Just watching him.”

“Aww, you two,” she said, with a knowing smile. “So romantic. Remind me, how long have you two been together?”

“Almost eight years, I guess? Married for almost four.” Chris ran through his memories and nodded.

“It’s nice that you guys still have that spark. One day I want to get married and have that kind of connection. What’s your secret?”

“Um. Well, we dated for a while before we got married, obviously. We like the same things but also have separate interests. And we both wanted to have kids. Gotta find someone with the same goals in that regard. And . . . uh . . . communication.”

“Plus probably a great sex life, right?”

Chris smiled at his friend. She wasn’t one to mince words. “We do what we can.”

“So wonderful. Well, speaking of sparks, I wanted to discuss the Fourth of July party with you.”

A freelance fiction writer, Gladys had a way with segues and, as the self-appointed social director of Stellar Landing, she was constantly organizing some kind of celebration or another. She showed him a list and started checking things off.

Chris tried to give her the attention she deserved, holding eye contact and mumbling agreements, but he couldn’t get her words out of his mind: It’s nice that you guys still have that spark.

Chris knew that wasn’t exactly true.

He didn’t know what had happened. Maybe Raff had an idea, but they hadn’t discussed it at all. There were never any fights; nothing more than little arguments here and there like most married couples; quibbles that were settled with a kiss.

But there was silence. A lot of silence. No cold shoulders or anger, but just a lack of sharing. They used to spend their evenings making dinner together and talking about their days, but now they ate take-out and focused on the baby or caught up on the DVR backlog instead. Reminding each other what happened during last week’s Game of Thrones seemed like the extent of their conversations.

Gladys finished her spiel and told Chris she’d text him a list of the items he agreed to handle for the party.

Thank God, he thought, because he couldn’t remember what he’d said yes to, and he gave her a smile goodbye.

He turned back to the window, but his husband was gone. With a sigh, he focused his attention on his laptop on the table in front of him, a boring estate case—four siblings fighting over a few million dollars—that would pay well but no doubt rot his brain as well as his faith in humanity.

This was only their second summer in Stellar, Alaska. A friend of a friend told Chris and Raff about the unusual town with the unusual building, at a firm Christmas party back home in New York. It was the usual boring lawyers’ party, but the thing that stood out was this attorney’s description of the small town surrounded by gorgeous wilderness, and the wonderful community within.

Chris’s recent partnership with the firm had given him two things: a much bigger salary and a lot more work. With a new baby at home, Chris and Raff wanted to carve out some family time, and a summer vacation home seemed like an ideal way to do so. Stellar was quiet, beautiful and inexpensive. One quick visit later, and they owned a modest condo in the building known as Stellar Landing.

Whenever he described Stellar Landing to people in New York, they reacted with fascination and disbelief. One twelve-story building holds most of the town’s residents? The mayor lives and works in the building? The school and the post office are there too? Yes, yes, yes, and so much more. It was the weird and wonderful little microcosm. The building itself was built back during the Cold War as a military barracks and, aesthetically, it landed in that hideous place between vintage and minimalist: boring and utilitarian and beige. But the people that lived in Stellar Landing were kind, accepting and fun. There was even another alpha/omega couple and their children that lived in Stellar Landing, though Chris and Raff had yet to meet them due to their conflicting travel dates.

At just over a year old, Chris and Raff’s daughter Elizabeth was too young to appreciate their summer home, but Chris’s greatest wish would be that their daughter would grow to love the community and look forward to coming here year after year. He could already imagine her running down the corridors as she grew, visiting friends and hiking in the nearby parks. As a teen, she could learn to drive on the slow, winding roads that made their way through the forest, and she could come home there from college every summer.

It was all so close to perfect. But there was that rift. And possibly contributing to that was the fact that Chris was still working so much. It was his idea to set up a satellite office in Fairbanks; an idea that impressed the founding partners of the firm. They loved that kind of initiative. Chris thought he would spend no more than forty hours a week setting up the practice and handling a few new cases, and then he would go home to his husband and daughter. But the people of Fairbanks apparently were in dire need of good legal representation, and Chris was swamped. Every day, a new case presented itself, usually involving an incredibly stupid criminal or someone who couldn’t hold their liquor.

Raff was patient, as always. And he was busy himself. Raff reveled in being a full-time father, and he had a job as the part-time director at a drug-rehab center called Mountainview just outside the city limits of Stellar. He told Chris to do what he needed to do. He and Elizabeth weren’t going anywhere.

It was things like that that reminded Chris again and again, even during the trying times, why he fell in love with Raff. Rafael Rivera; his husband; his rock; his alpha.

That’s right. Raff was the alpha and Chris was the omega. Casual acquaintances were sometimes surprised by that. Chris was the cutthroat career-man who brought home the majority of the bacon. Raff was the soft-spoken stay-at-home dad who could often be seen at the playground or the grocery. They defied most of the stereotypes—except that Chris was fair and slender and only five-foot-seven, whereas tall, dark and handsome Raff had the body of a weightlifting Adonis.

The first time Chris laid eyes on Raff, he swooned. Back then, Raff was a bad boy; so bad that Chris’s firm was defending him against charges of art theft. Raff had no money, of course, and no family to borrow from, but it was a spectacular case that had garnered international attention so it was just good business sense for the firm to do it pro-bono. They even bought Raff a nice suit and shoes for court.

There Raff was, standing outside the courthouse, surrounded by cops. He had a cigarette dangling from his full, rose-colored lips, and his long, black curls fell across his eyes as he tried to light it. Not only was he tall, but his shoulders were broad and his biceps were thick. It was obvious even in the suit. Chris’s breath caught—he remembered it still—but then his heart melted when he saw that Raff’s hands were trembling ever so slightly. He couldn’t even light the cigarette.

When Chris approached him, Raff jumped ever so slightly. The poor little—er, huge guy was terrified. More so than the typical scum that his firm defended.

“Allow me,” Chris had said. He didn’t smoke but, as a fledgling defense attorney, he’d learned to always keep a lighter in his pocket. Criminals and terrified innocents always smoked.

Raff thanked him, and again Chris was surprised. The defendant’s voice was low but so soft. Gentle. When their eyes met, Chris noted their long black lashes and deep dark irises. He couldn’t even see Raff’s pupils. He was some kind of wild-child rock star.

But was he an art thief? Chris didn’t ask, nor did anyone on the legal defense team. That wasn’t the way the law worked. They operated on the assumption of innocence, as always. Raff had refused to take a plea bargain, and that normally didn’t work out so well. Juries didn’t believe anyone that got arrested and found their way into a courtroom was truly innocent. Miraculously, the team got him off. The jury had been convinced that Raff was not a thief, just a victim of circumstance. Chris chose to believe it too.

It was more than a year before Chris and Raff got together. Chris was with his sister Caroline in an uptown gay bar; one of the nicer places where most of the men were wearing suits and, many of them, wedding rings. They were drinking overpriced scotch and catching up like they did every few weeks, when the doorway darkened.

“Hot damn,” Caroline whispered, nodding toward the entrance. “Momma will have two tickets to the gun show.”

Tall. Thick. Wearing tight Levis and a heavy leather jacket. He looked like that werewolf guy from that vampire-and-fairy TV show. Hot was right.

“Oh, shit. I know him.”

“No way! Is he gay or straight?” She was disappointed for herself to hear it was the former, but then she insisted for Chris to go talk to him.

With her encouragement and another glass of liquid courage, Chris approached Raff at the bar. He thought for sure the guy wouldn’t even remember him. Chris certainly hadn’t been an important part of Raff’s defense team; just a rookie. But Raff’s handsome face broke into a huge grin, and he clapped Chris on the back hard before insisting on ordering him a drink. Chris’s sister snuck out when she saw that.

They moved to a dark booth after that and got to know each other. As the night grew darker, they made fun of the desperate bar patrons who were trying to hook up instead of heading home. They stood at the jukebox and argued over ten dollars’ worth of songs—some ACDC, Nine Inch Nails, and Smashing Pumpkins to shake the place up a bit. A few more drinks were had—Raff was just drinking ginger ale; Chris switched over to chardonnay—before Chris put his hand on Raff’s thigh and squeezed.

It was just a flit of a drunken memory, but Chris would never forget it. Raff put his hand under Chris’s chin and leaned down to kiss him. He tasted of ginger ale and mints. His lips were soft but strong and, at the end of the kiss, his tongue just barely swiped Chris’s bottom lip.

“You’re drunk, darlin’,” he whispered. “Call me tomorrow.”

Raff paid the tab and then walked out of the bar into the night; Chris watched him go, speechless and with a furious erection. It wasn’t until the following morning that he realized, with a pounding headache, that he didn’t have Raff’s number. It took a few hours of frantic searches and calls to track him down. They met that night to have a casual dinner and see some band in a seedy bar. Afterward, Raff went back to Chris’s apartment and they made love for the first time: crazy, passionate, shoulder-biting fucking like people do when they think they’ll never see each other again.

They had rarely been apart since.

There were more than three years of courtship: days of Chris smiling like a kid whenever his phone beeped, playful dates as they sought to get to know each other, weekend vacations filled with exploring new cities and each other’s bodies, and sick days where they had leisurely sex and then ate breakfast in bed. They didn’t have a lot of money—Raff was broke and Chris was saving—but they managed to go shell-hunting on Nag’s Head, sledding in the Poconos and took a road trip to Asheville, North Carolina where they stayed for free in a friend’s cabin. They each found a best friend in the other.

Chris’s parents weren’t thrilled with the relationship at first. They were an older couple, already middle-aged when they had Chris and his sister. When Chris came out to them in high school, they handled it like typical liberal New Yorkers and accepted their son just as he was. They even went to Pride parades for a few years. Chris’s boyfriends were always welcome into the family home. But Raff was . . . different.

Raff was born an alpha, from alpha and omega parents. Chris was a reproductively typical male born to a typical couple, woman and man. He wasn’t born an omega. Chris’s parents told him that they were worried that Raff would grow dissatisfied; would long to be with a man who could bear children. They just didn’t want Chris to be hurt. At least that’s what they said.

Of course, Chris knew his parents better than they thought he did. He knew that they thought alphas and omegas were peculiar. It was one thing to have a gay son. That was cool even; a tidbit to trot out at dinner parties. It was another to have a son-in-law that was a freak. Chris’s parents would never use that word, of course, but Chris knew how they felt.

What they didn’t know about Chris was that he’d long dreamed of being able to gestate life himself. He’d been fascinated with omegas ever since he was a kid, trying not to stare at pregnant men in public, at their pleasant roundness and the mysterious Mona Lisa smiles they always seemed to have. That fascination turned to envy once Chris graduated law school and his friends began to settle down and have kids. The clincher was meeting and falling in love with Raff, the alpha of his dreams. Chris wanted to have Raff’s baby more than anything in the world.

Scientists had been researching male womb transplantation for years, but it wasn’t until the first healthy baby was delivered to a “intentional omega”—a man who had a lab-grown womb implanted, then successfully mated with an alpha—that Chris thought his dream might become a reality. It was an incredibly expensive procedure, but Chris was a responsible guy who’d been saving for years and had outstanding credit. His firm had excellent insurance that would help out. It was financially feasible. It was literally a dream that could come true.

There was just one last potential hurdle. What would Raff think? They’d never discussed having children or even getting married, but Chris was prepared to have a child on his own, perhaps with an alpha sperm donor, if Raff wasn’t ready to commit. But oh, he wanted a baby with Raff!

Chris remembered it well: he decided to take Raff to dinner and just ask him. Would he support Chris’s decision to become an intentional omega? Just as he picked up his phone to call his boyfriend, Raff texted him.

“Dinner tonight? Got Alberto’s reservations at 8.”

Alberto’s was one of the nicer restaurants in Hell’s Kitchen; a tiny Italian place with fantastic pasta diavolo, an impressive wine list and romantic ambiance.

“Are we celebrating something?” Chris texted back.

“Just in the mood for good food,” was Raff’s reply.

When Chris arrived, the restaurant was empty except for Raff and the wait staff. Raff was sitting at their favorite booth in the corner, and he had a bottle of Chris’s favorite petite sirah waiting. Raff didn’t drink, but he loved spoiling Chris with a good bottle on occasion. Warm bread and garlic butter was wrapped up in a basket, filling the area with a wonderful aroma.

“It’s dead in here,” Chris said, after kissing Raff hello and taking a seat. “I know it’s Wednesday, but . . . ”

Raff only responded with a smile. He’d already placed an order for antipasti and a huge family-style bowl of spaghetti. He was his usual relaxed self; one huge arm draped over the back of the booth and a light smile playing across his lips. He was so cool; so handsome.

Once he poured a glass of wine for Chris, Raff patted the seat next to him. “C’mere, darlin’.”

Chris felt himself blush. He loved being the focus of Raff’s attention. No one was around, so he slid over and allowed himself to nestle against Raff’s strong body. His cologne was a manly blend of essential oils, of sandalwood and vetiver. Chris loved the smell of Raff.

“I’ve got something for you,” Raff said, softly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black velvet bag then placed it in front of Chris on the table.

Chris smiled at him, puzzled but excited. Raff was on a tight budget. He did what he loved, helping people find and keep sobriety, and that didn’t pay well.

“You shouldn’t be buying me gifts, Raff,” Chris scolded lightly, but he was touched that Raff had thought of him.

Inside was a polished ring, only a few millimeters wide but obviously with some heft. Platinum.

Chris looked up at him. “What?—”

“Christopher Chambers, I want you to be my husband.”

The room was silent except for soft music, though the clinking of dishes could be heard in the back. It quickly became clear that Raff had set this up somehow, to have the restaurant to themselves. Chris was unable to hold in a gasp.

“Oh . . . Raff . . . I—” Chris suddenly didn’t know what to say. He shook his head to clear his racing thoughts. He had to do this right.

Raff’s expression went from loving and excited to worried.

“No, no . . . I want to marry you, Raff, I do. But there’s something I need to tell you.”

Chris held Raff’s hand as he described to him his dream, of having a house full of children that he and his beloved had conceived together. He explained his plan, from the details of the medical procedure to the careful financial planning, all with a heart filled with hope.

“I realize this is a lot. And I’m willing to take full responsibility for the child, if you . . . you know . . . don’t share this dream. But I’m going to have the procedure whether you’re by my side or not.”

“Oh my God, Chris! You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.”

It was rare to see Raff so excited. He almost hopped up onto the table, but instead he grabbed Chris’s face with both hands and kissed him hard.

“Marry me, Chris,” he said, when he came up for air. “Marry me, and let’s have five kids. Ten!” He kissed him again, before sliding the platinum ring on Chris’s right hand. “We’ll move it to the left when we get married. And we’ll get one to match for me.”

The rest of the night was spent cuddled in the booth, feeding each other olives and bread dipped in olive oil and forkfuls of spicy pasta. The owner of the restaurant stuck his head out from the kitchen at one point.

“Everything okay, Raff?” he asked.

“He said yes, man! Get out here!”

It turned out that the owner was an old friend of Raff’s (Chris suspected they might know each other from the rehab center, but of course he didn’t ask). He “owed Raff a favor” and shut down the restaurant just for them. After hearty congratulations and handshakes, he brought out tiramisu and then insisted that the meal was on the house.

It was the best night of Chris’s life up until then, but one thing stood out, then and now: He firmly believed that his life with Raff would get better and better, one “best night ever” after another.

Even in the beginning, it wasn’t all tiramisu and cuddling. The surgery was more painful than Chris anticipated, and he spent three months in bed recuperating, then the pregnancy had complications. He wasn’t even allowed to work from bed. Raff made sure of that, as he waited on Chris hand and foot and with a smile on his face. When the baby was born, there were sleepless nights and colic and the reality of poopy diapers and days without showers.

It was so worth it. Not only did they have that heartbreakingly gorgeous little girl but, whenever Raff called Chris “my omega,” it made him swoon.

Chris sighed. He’d gotten lost in memories and had been staring at his laptop monitor for almost an hour with no progress. The Stellar library, while quiet, was not free of distractions, and he knew he would have to go to the office to make any headway on the case. And that, even though Raff wouldn’t complain, there would be tension. Quiet tension.

They hadn’t had a “best night ever” in so long.

Something had to change.