I think about it.
"Probably," I say. "Later."
A wet laugh escapes her. Then another sob. Then she's crying again, face buried in her hands, whole body trembling.
I reach out and wrap my fingers around her ankle. The only contact I can manage in this cramped space. Grounding. Gentle.
Her skin is warm through the thin fabric of her pants. Her pulse flutters against my palm, rabbit-quick and terrified.
"Breathe," I say. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth."
She tries. Fails. Tries again.
"Focus on my voice. Nothing else. Just breathe."
Slowly, the trembling subsides. Her breathing evens out. The tears stop flowing, leaving tracks down her cheeks that catch the dim light from the single bulb overhead.
She looks at me. Brown eyes swimming with exhaustion and shame.
"Why are you being nice to me?"
"I'm not nice."
"You're sitting on the floor of a supply closet when you could be out there doing damage control."
"Damage is done." I shrug. "Town already thinks I'm eccentric. This won't change much."
"I ruined your reputation."
"My reputation is that I'm the grumpy doctor who doesn't smile. A sex text might improve things."
Another wet laugh. This one sounds closer to genuine.
"It wasn't a sex text," she protests weakly. "It was a typo."
"Tell that to Mrs. Whight. She's probably already printed t-shirts."
Jessica groans and tips her head back against the shelf. A box of cotton balls wobbles. I reach up to steady it, and suddenly I'm leaning over her, one hand braced on the shelf above her head, the other still wrapped around her ankle.
Close. Too close.
Her scent floods my lungs. Brown sugar and floral notes, sweet and devastating. It's stronger now, amplified by her distress, by the tears still wet on her cheeks, by the way her body is pumping out pheromones that scream omega in need of comfort, omega hurting, omega alone.
My alpha responds before my brain can intervene.
A growl rumbles low in my chest. Possessive. Protective. Feral. The kind of sound I've spent my entire adult life suppressing because it feels too raw, too honest, too much.
Her eyes snap to mine. Wide. Startled. Her pupils dilate until the brown is nearly swallowed by black.
"Pedro." My name comes out breathless. Not afraid. Need.
Distance would be smart. Professional boundaries would be appropriate. Every single reason this is a terrible idea runs through my head in rapid succession.
My body refuses to listen.
My hand slides from her ankle up her calf. Slow. Deliberate. Mapping the curve of muscle beneath soft fabric. Her skin is warm even through the material. I can feel her pulse hammering beneath my palm, feel the fine tremor running through her.
"You're in distress." The words scrape out of me, rough and low. Alpha voice. Command voice. The one I never use. "Your scent is everywhere."
