HOLLY
Caro’s Comfort Covesits wedged between a hardware store and a vintage clothing boutique on Main Street. From the outside, it’s almost disappointingly normal—weathered wooden siding, windows frosted just enough to obscure the goods inside, and a hand-painted sign reading.
Nothing about its exterior screams SEX TOYS SOLD HERE!
Which I suppose is the point.
I’ve been sitting in my car for fifteen minutes with the engine off, trying to work up the nerve to go inside. The digital clock on my dashboard flips to 7:45 PM, fifteen minutes until the store closes. I’ve wasted enough time, but I really want to be one of the last customers of the day and hopefully the only one in the store.
Just go in. Get what you need. Get out.
My inner pep talk falls flat as I push open my car door and step into the crisp mountain air. Each step toward the store entrance feels like wading through molasses. Heats are a normal and expected occurrence, and all sorts of people could have a valid reason for going to a heat supply store.
I reach for the door handle, hesitate, then steel myself with a deep breath. The door swings open, and a jaunty bell announces my arrival with an enthusiasm I definitely don’t share.
Ding-ding-Diiing!
I cringe at the sound of the electronic doorbell, freezing in the doorway as three sets of eyes swivel in my direction—two customers browsing shelves and a cashier arranging items behind the counter.
For one wild moment, I consider bolting back to my car.
Then they all turn back to what they were doing, and I can let out the breath I’m holding and actually take a good look around.
The store is not what I expected. Warm amber lighting casts a gentle glow over wooden shelves neatly stocked with colorfully packaged products. The space smells pleasantly of cedar and lavender, with soft instrumental music playing from hidden speakers. It’s less organized than a traditional sex store, but more tasteful than I expected.
And there are so many products.
Shelves upon shelves of items I’ve never seen before, let alone considered using. Herbal supplements in jewel-toned bottles. Scented oils in elegant glass containers. Plush fabrics and soft blankets in various textures and weights. Heat-specific nutrition bars and electrolyte drinks. Comfort items shaped to...well, comfort in ways I don’t let myself think about.
It isn’t as if I’m a virgin. Two beta boyfriends in college. A string of increasing disastrous heat-breaking sessions through a matchmaking agency because I needed a release valve over the last few years. If the anonymous alphas involved even noticed that I was on suppressants and very much not in heat, they didn’t bother to comment on it.
But looking at the various toys on the wall makes me wonder if I even know what sex is.
My stomach churns with anxiety as I realize how utterly unprepared I am for this. I’ve spent my entire adult life suppressing my designation, medicating away my biology. I know more about rare tropical diseases than I do about managing a natural omega heat.
“Can I help you find something?”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the voice beside me. A middle-aged woman with silver-streaked auburn hair and a gentle smile stands there, her name tag identifying her asCaroline - Owner.
“I’m just browsing,” I say automatically, my rehearsed excuse ready on my tongue. “I have an endocrine disorder that mimics some designation symptoms, and my doctor recommended I try some natural supplements.”
The lie sounds unbelievable even to me, but Caroline’s smile just widens.
“Interesting. We don’t get many betas in here, especially in the off season,” she observes, her tone conversational rather than suspicious. “Though that might be because we don’t have many betas to speak of, really. Especially not any your age. Heat Mountain has a higher percentage of omegas than most places.”
I force a casual smile, hoping it doesn’t look as strained as it feels. “So I’ve heard.”
“Oh yes. Nearly forty percent of our population identifies as omega, compared to the national average of twelve percent.” She gestures around the store. “Makes good business sense to have a well-stocked shop like this.”
I scan the shelves again, this time noticing how much of the inventory is specifically designed to mimic knots, most in improbable or even impossible sizes. The realization brings a flush of heat to my cheeks.
“I’m looking for something that might work similarly to Omegablock,” I say, naming my prescription suppressant. “Mydoctor thinks a natural alternative might help with the side effects I’ve been experiencing.”
Caroline’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Omegablock is pretty strong stuff.” Her gaze sharpens with professional interest. “You’re not seeing one of those wacko science denying health practitioners are you?”
“No, I’m…uh,” I consider prevaricating, but this is a small town. If she hasn’t heard of me already, she probably will soon. “I’m actually a medical doctor myself.”
“Oh, that’s a relief. You have no idea how many hippie types we get around here who think they can replace their vaccines with wormwood infusions.” She leads me toward another row of shelves lined with neat bottles of vitamins and supplements. “I assume you already know there are no natural formulations that can take the place of a prescription medication.”
