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Summary
Nagi Seishirou doesn’t seem like an omega. Not with his 6’3’’ stature. Not with his deadpan, unmotivated, lazy, can’t-be-bothered attitude. But Isagi’s nose isn’t wrong and Nagi isn’t correcting him. Their faces are still inches from each other. The hand bunching his hair together doesn’t twitch. Nothing on Nagi’s stoic face gives him away.
“You’re an omega,” Isagi repeats. He takes another sniff and his face warms. “And you’re in heat.”
All Nagi says, without an ounce of care, not a single shift in his toneless and unaffected voice, is an infuriating short and simple, “So?”