“Am I interrupting?” I ask, aiming for cool professionalism but landing closer to strained politeness.
Adrian recovers first, straightening even more if that’s possible. “Elle. Good. We were just discussing logistics.”
“Logistics,” I repeat flatly, moving closer to the table despite my better judgment. My curiosity overrides my embarrassment. “What kind of logistics exactly?”
The three exchange glances, a wordless negotiation about who will explain. Eventually, Adrian sighs and turns his tablet toward me.
What I see makes my jaw literally drop.
It’s a color-coded schedule. A fucking color-coded schedule with time blocks, responsibility assignments, and detailed notes. The header reads “Heat Management Protocol” in Adrian’s preferred font (Helvetica Neue, because Arial is “pedestrian” and Times New Roman is “for people who’ve given up”).
My eyes scan the document, heat rising in my cheeks that has nothing to do with my approaching biological crisis. There are blocks for “Hydration Monitoring” (blue), “Temperature Management” (red), “Nutritional Support” (green), and—I nearly choke—“Emotional Stabilization” (purple).
Each time block has a primary and secondary responder assigned. There’s an entire section on “Communication Protocols” with bullet points like “Maintain professional tone” and “Respect privacy boundaries” and “No unsolicited physical contact.”
There’s even a fucking appendix with emergency procedures and a detailed inventory of supplies.
“What,” I manage, my voice strangled, “the actual fuck is this?”
Adrian straightens defensively. “It’s a care schedule. To ensure your comfort and safety as your condition progresses.”
“My condition,” I repeat, the words tasting bitter. “You mean my heat. The one that’s making me feel like I’m being slowly cooked from the inside out while three Alphas discuss my ‘management’ like I’m a project timeline?”
Miles sits back slightly, distancing himself from Adrian’s approach without actually abandoning it. Smart. Caleb fails to suppress a snort of laughter, earning a death glare from Adrian.
“I told him it was over the top,” Caleb says, hands raised in mock surrender. “But you know how he gets when he’s worried. Control freak’s gonna control freak.”
“I’m being thorough,” Adrian counters stiffly. “This situation requires structure.”
I grip the back of a chair, needing the support as another wave of heat pulses through me. It’s happening more frequently now, these surges of temperature and need that leave me dizzy and disoriented.
The three of them notice immediately—Miles straightening in his chair, Adrian half-rising from his, Caleb’s eyes darkening with concern rather than his usual flirtation.
“Sit,” Miles says simply, pulling out the chair beside him.
I sink into it gratefully, though I maintain a white-knuckled grip on my dignity. “I don’t need a care schedule,” I insist, even as my body betrays me with a visible shiver. “I’m perfectly capable of managing my own situation.”
“Of course you are,” Adrian says automatically, the same tone he uses when clients make suggestions he thinks are stupid but can’t say so directly. “This is just a contingency plan. In case you want assistance.”
“When,” Caleb corrects quietly. “Not if.”
Our eyes meet across the table, and for once, there’s no flirtation in his gaze, just honest concern. It disarms me more effectively than any of his charm offensives.
“The schedule isn’t about taking control away from you,” Miles explains, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. “It’s about having systems in place so you don’t have to make decisions when you’re not in a state to make them.”
I want to argue, to maintain the fiction that I’ll somehow power through this with professional detachment intact. But another pulse of heat washes through me, stronger than the last, and I have to grip the edge of the table to steady myself.
“Can I see it?” I ask finally, holding out my hand for Adrian’s tablet.
He passes it over, watching my face carefully as I scroll through his meticulously planned schedule. It’s ridiculous in its detail—5-minute blocks for specific tasks, nested subsections, contingency plans for contingency plans. So very Adrian.
And yet...
There’s something almost touching about the thoroughness. About the way he’s approached my impending vulnerability with the same meticulous care he brings to multi-million dollar product launches. Like my comfort matters as much as NovaDyne’s bottom line.
I pause on a section titled “Privacy Protocols” that includes detailed plans for ensuring I maintain dignity throughout the process.
There are notes about knock sequences to warn me before anyone enters my space, about leaving requested items outside my door rather than delivering them directly, about maintaining professional distance unless explicitly invited otherwise.
