You’re being ridiculous, I remind myself. You’ve studied designation biology in school. You know what happens during heat.
But knowing and experiencing are entirely different things.
I pace the small cabin, mentally calculating the odds. If I leave now, I might make it down the mountain before the roads become impassable. But what if I get stuck halfway? What if the heat hits full force while I’m driving? I might end up in heat and trapped in a car on the side of the road.
No, better to stay put. I have food, water, and heat. The cabin is secure. I can ride this out alone and deal with the aftermath when the storm passes.
You’re lying to yourself. You’re terrified.
And I have every right to be. I’ve spent my entire life suppressing this part of myself. My mother made sure of that, starting me on herbal supplements from China years before I even presented. The first sign of omega characteristics, and my mother was already mixing bitter teas, already teaching me how to hide.
“Never let them know,” she’d repeat while I choked down those disgusting concoctions. “They’ll never see you as anything else if they know. Just a breeder.”
So I learned to hide. I perfected the act of being a beta—confident but not aggressive, independent but not challenging. I built my entire identity around this lie, and now biology is about to tear it all down.
A sudden noise outside makes me jump. I press my face against the cold glass of the front window, scanning the darkness. An owl launches from a nearby branch, gliding silently into the thick foliage. The sight of it—so graceful, so free—hits me harder than it should. I’m alone on this mountain, truly alone, with a storm bearing down and my body betraying me.
Stop it. You’re overreacting.
But am I? The medical literature is clear. First heats after long-term suppression can be particularly severe. The body overcompensates, producing excess hormones to make up for lost time.
I feel it building already—the restlessness, the ache, the emptiness that no amount of self-care can fill. My skin feels too tight, like I’m about to burst out of it. The cabin suddenly seems stifling despite its size, the walls closing in around me.
What was I thinking, coming to a remote mountain town with a dwindling supply of suppressants? Pride. Stubborn, stupid pride. I thought I could handle anything, prove myself in one of the most challenging medical environments.
Now I might die here, alone in a cabin, a victim of my both my biology and arrogance.
You’re not going to die, idiot. Get a grip.
But the panic rises anyway, a tide I can’t push back. My breathing quickens, and I press a hand to my chest, feeling my heart hammer against my ribs. I need to calm down. Stress will only make it worse and accelerate the process.
I should prepare. For the stormandfor the heat that I’m not going to be able to fight for much longer.
I force myself to move, to focus on practical tasks. Check the food supplies. Make sure the woodpile is accessible. Fill containers with water in case the pipes freeze.
But even as I move through these motions, fragments of my past resurface. My mother’s obvious disappointment when I eventually presented as omega. The sacrifices she made to keep my designation hidden, to give me a chance at the life she thought I deserved.
“It’s for your own good,” she’d say. “The world isn’t fair to omegas. Especially not female ones.”
And maybe she was right. Would I be where I am now if everyone knew? Would I have been accepted to medical school? Would patients trust me with their care?
The weight of hiding crashes over me again, heavier than ever. For years, I’ve carried this secret and lived in constant fear of being found out, of losing everything I’ve worked for.
And now, trapped by a snowstorm with my suppressants failing, I might lose it all, anyway.
The irony is bitter enough that I can practically choke on it.
Movement outside catches my attention—distinct shadows moving near my door. Not animals. People.
My heart leaps into my throat, adrenaline surging through my system. Alphas. They must be alphas. Can they smell me already? Is my scent that strong, even through the cabin walls?
No, that’s impossible. The herbs are still in my system, muting my scent.
But what if I’m wrong? What if they can tell? What if they’ve come for me, drawn by instincts older than civilization?
I freeze, caught between the urge to hide and the need to prepare for whatever’s coming. My mind races with possibilities, none of them good. In my current state, I’m vulnerable in ways I’ve never been before.
The shadows move closer to my door.
