I grab her chart from my desk. The intake form is sparse. Name. Date of birth. Emergency contact listed as Dorothy Delacroix. Reason for visit: omega transition symptoms.
That's it. No medical history from wherever she's been living. No records transferred. Just a woman who showed up in her mother's borrowed clothes needing help.
I push open the door of exam room two.
She's sitting on the exam table, hands folded in her lap, feet dangling above the floor because she's not tall enough for them to reach. The paper covering crinkles as she shifts her weight. The fluorescent light is harsh, washing out her skin, making the dark circles under her eyes look like bruises.
And then her scent hits me.
I have to grip the doorframe to stay upright.
Peaches and honey. Sweet and warm and so distinctly omega that my whole body goes rigid. My alpha surges, demanding I get closer, touch her, claim her, protect her. I shove it down with brutal force.
But underneath the sweet omega scent, there's stress hormones sharp as broken glass. Fear that makes my chest ache. And the building pressure of a body in transition, like a storm gathering strength before it breaks.
I've been a doctor for years. I've treated hundreds of omegas. I'm professionally detached. Clinically competent.
But right now, standing in this room with Jessica Delacroix looking at me with those wide hazel eyes, I'm just a man who's been half in love with her since the first time she laughed at one of Carlos's terrible jokes and made our whole packhouse feel like home.
Her eyes lift to meet mine. Hazel eyes, wide and uncertain, ringed with exhaustion. The same eyes that used to crinkle at the corners when she laughed. They're not crinkling now.
"Jessica."
My voice comes out rougher than I intended. Gravel and smoke and want.
"Pedro."
My name sounds different in her voice. Softer. Hesitant. Like she's not sure she's allowed to say it anymore.
And hearing it, hearing her say my name after six years of silence, does something to me. Something that makes my jaw clench and my hands curl into fists at my sides.
"It's been a while," I manage.
"Six years."
"Right."
Silence. The clock on the wall ticks. The fluorescent light hums. From the waiting room, I can hear Betty Crawford complaining loudly about the magazines being out of date.
I should say something professional. Something doctorly. Ask her what brings her in today, even though I already know. Even though the answer is written all over her face and flooding from her pores and making my alpha instincts scream at me to protect, comfort, claim.
Instead I just stand there like an idiot, clipboard clutched in my hands so tight I'm probably leaving dents in the metal, staring at the woman I've been in love with for eight years.
She bites her lower lip. Nervous. The same nervous habit she's always had, and I remember thinking it was cute back then. Now it's torture. Now I'm noticing the way her teeth press into the soft pink flesh, the way her lip goes pale under the pressure, the way she releases it and it blooms back to color.
I want to kiss that lip. Want to soothe it with my tongue. Want to make her bite it for entirely different reasons.
"You look..." I start.
Terrible. Beautiful. Like a dream and a nightmare combined. Like everything I've ever wanted and everything I can't have.
"Like hell," she finishes for me, then smiles. Small and sad and self-deprecating. "I know. You don't have to be polite."
"I wasn't going to be."
That gets a real smile. Still small, still fragile, but real. Something loosens in my chest.
"There's the Pedro I remember. Grumpy as ever."
