I laugh, short and flat. “I’m not here for therapy, Doc.”
“No,” he agrees. “But you might need it.”
That lands hard. I look away.
Because the truth is? He’s not wrong. My body might be walking around as if nothing happened, but my brain’s still backin that house, choking on smoke, wondering if I made a mistake coming back.
And deeper than that, there’s this awful, creeping thought that maybe someone wanted me gone. That maybe this town still hates me enough to light a match and watch me burn.
But I can’t say that. Not out loud. Not yet.
“Thanks for the checkup,” I say instead, hopping off the table too fast. “Let me know if I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying,” he says gently. “You’re just not alright.”
I pause at the door.
God, why does everyone keep saying that like it’s something I don’t already know?
I shove open the clinic door with more force than necessary, the jingle of the bell overhead cutting sharp through the quiet. My boots hit the sidewalk hard.
The blanket’s gone, ditched somewhere back in the exam room. All I’ve got now is the chill in the air and the pressure of everything I didn’t say pressing tight against my ribs. My skin’s too constrictive, like it’s trying to hold everything inside.
The sharp tang of smoke still clings to me, mixing with the distinct, sweet scent of my own emotions. Burnt sugar, rotting peaches, and something darker beneath it all that smells like fear in the making.
I hate how my scent betrays me. I try to breathe deep, but it’s shallow, like I can’t catch my breath fully. And I know it’s not just the smoke anymore, it’s everything I’ve been holding back. Every fear, every cracked piece of me that’s threatening to spill out. The overwhelming weight of my past, of my parents, of the fire.
It’s all too much.
I feel my scent changing and shifting with every thought that threatens to break through my defenses. It’s an Omega thing. My emotions are too loud and too messy sometimes. And right now,I’m a walking storm, holding back the rains about to pour out of me.
I make it halfway down the front steps before I hear it.
“Lo?”
I stop. Just for a second. Long enough to close my eyes and pray it’s just some weird auditory hallucination brought on by too much adrenaline and not enough sleep.
It’s not.
I turn, and there he is.
Toby Winslow.
Another high school alum staring at me like I’m a puzzle he never managed to finish. There’s a question burning behind his eyes that doesn’t quite hide how long he’s held onto something. Some mix of hope, bitterness, and that old obsessive crush that never quite faded, just simmered quietly, waiting for a reason to bubble up.
Same wiry frame. Same windblown hair, like he lost a fight with a leaf blower. Tool belt slung low around his hips like he’s auditioning for a small-town thirst trap calendar that no one asked for. And that look, tight worry with something sharper under it.
It reads less “are you okay?” and more “why are you even here again?”
Great.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. Not warm. Not cold. Just… beige. “Didn’t know you were still working this side of town.”
He steps closer, fidgeting with the worn leather strap of his belt like it might give him something to hold onto.
“Yeah, well. Ford’s got me doing some repairs up on Harrow Lane.” He pauses, squints at me. “Heard about the fire.”
I nod slowly, trying not to flinch at the sound of Ford’s name. But it hits like a wire snapping inside my chest, and suddenlyI’m too warm and too aware of the air against my skin; of the memory pressing down.
