Option 1: Attempt bond severance(high risk, potentially physically harmful to Holly)
Option 2: Maintain minimal contact(sustainable but uncomfortable for both parties)
Option 3: Establish professional boundaries while acknowledging the bond(complicated by my supervisory role)
Option 4: Embrace the connection fully(absolutely out of the question if I care about Holly’s future half as much as she does)
See? Logical. Straightforward. A problem with potential solutions.
Until I acknowledge to myself that only that last option comes close to soothing the itch under my skin. I don’t want to pretend that Holly’s heat—and its aftermath—never happened. And I sure as hell don’t want to send her away at the end of this rotation, only to be left with a gaping hole in the general shape of her left in my soul.
Except, giving into the urge to keep her will destroy her career. I saw the look on her face when Holly realized whatshe had done in the midst of her heat. She never wanted a permanent connection with me, not like this.
And I’ve already proven that I don’t have what it takes to protect an omega.
So that settles it, I think. I have to let Holly go for her own sake.
But then I’ll catch sight of her when she isn’t paying attention—the way her eyes light up when she makes a correct diagnosis, how she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating, the small smile she tries to hide when Kai says something ridiculous—and all my careful reasoning evaporates. In those moments, all I want is to press my lips to the curve of her neck, to find those hidden places where her omega scent lingers strongest, to claim what the bond tells me is already mine.
I reach the ridge and stop, catching my breath as I look out over the valley. Heat Mountain rises in the distance, the town nestled at its base like a child sleeping against its mother. Somewhere down there, Holly is going about her day, perhaps at the clinic, perhaps at Kai’s house—our house now, I suppose, though I’ve been sleeping in my car or at the clinic to avoid facing the reality of our situation.
A few yards ahead, the trail narrows dangerously, hugging the mountainside before opening to the small plateau where Jamie fell. I force myself forward, each step heavier than the last, until I reach the spot.
There’s nothing here to mark the tragedy—no cross, no plaque, no pile of memorial stones. Just an ordinary stretch of mountain with an extraordinary view. The authorities recovered her body, of course, but sometimes I imagine her spirit lingering here, watching me with disappointment.
I sink down onto a boulder, dropping my backpack beside me, and stare out at the horizon.
“I messed up, Jamie,” I say aloud, my voice sounding small against the vastness of the landscape. “Again.”
The wind rustles the pines in response. I’ve never been one for spiritual beliefs, but here, in this place, I can almost believe she’s listening.
“She bonded with me during her heat. An omega. A resident under my supervision.” I rub my hand over my face. “I should have been more careful. Should have recognized the signs earlier. Should have done more to keep control of the situation. Sounds familiar, huh?”
A hawk circles overhead, riding thermal currents with effortless grace. I envy that ability to up and fly away when the mood strikes.
“You’d like her,” I continue, surprising myself with the admission. “She’s brilliant. Dedicated. Stubborn as hell. Reminds me of you a bit, actually.”
The comparison brings a pang of guilt so sharp it’s almost physical. Jamie and I were never bonded—I made sure of that. When she wanted to deepen our relationship, to create something permanent, I refused. I wasn’t ready, I told her. I valued my independence too much. The truth was simpler and more cowardly: I was afraid of being needed that deeply by anyone.
And then she died on my watch, under my care, following my lead on a trail I insisted was safe despite the weather warnings.
“I promised myself I’d never be responsible for an omega again,” I tell the empty air. “And now here I am, bonded to one who didn’t even have a choice in the matter.”
That’s the crux of it, really. Holly didn’t actually choose this. It isn’t as if she’s been secretly pining after me since we met. She was in heat for the first time in her life, confused, vulnerable and desperate. The bond formed because of biology, not desire. Notlove. Just primitive instincts that have no place in our modern, professional lives.
But I want her. God help me, I want her with an intensity that frightens me.
Every time I feel her hurt and confusion filter through our connection, my guilt compounds. She doesn’t understand why I’m avoiding her, why I’m rejecting a bond that, to her omega instincts, should be celebrated. I can feel how much she wants me nearby, how the distance causes her physical discomfort.
She doesn’t seem to realize just how much my self-control is hanging on by the barest thread. That’s the part I can’t reconcile with my carefully constructed narrative of professional ethics and personal boundaries. I want her—not just physically, though there’s plenty of that—but in ways I haven’t wanted anyone since Jamie. And even more ways I’ve never wantedanyonelike this before.
I want to see her face light up when she solves a difficult case. I want to watch her confidence grow as she masters wilderness medicine. I want to be there when she finally stops hiding her designation and embraces her strength as both an omega and a physician.
I want things I have no right to want.
The sun has moved significantly across the sky while I’ve been lost in thought. It’s past noon now, the light harsh and direct. I should head back, return to the clinic, face the mess I’ve made instead of hiding on a mountainside talking to ghosts.
I stand, brushing dirt from my pants, and look once more at the spot where Jamie fell.
