It’s work.

Arthur’s never liked his career, even if he wanted it, strove for it, and bled for it. He’s an omega who’s figuratively scraped his way to the top with the same vigor a prison inmate uses to carve at a wall with a plastic spoon. He prides himself on this but, Christ, he hates his work.

The business meeting is slow-going and he jots down notes, squashes down the urge to roll his eyes, and maintains a professional air because he knows that one wrong move will have the whole assembly looking at him and making that ‘oh, it’s the omega’ face. There’s no other expression quite so infuriating as the side-quirked lip and the wrinkled nose. He would punch those that did that to him, if he could.

“My number,” and a wink. Great. This is work, not fun. He only asked for the alpha’s number for business reasons, which he specified. Prat.

Arthur texts the man, 'Here’s me.’

He assumes that’s the end of it.

He doesn’t at all realize that he has the wrong number.