Oh no no no.
"Jessica." Pedro's voice has dropped an octave. His eyes are dark when they meet mine. "How long has this been going on?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The nest."
"That's not a nest. That's just. Laundry. Disorganized laundry. I was going to fold it."
"You were going to fold four different hoodies, two flannels, and a jersey into a circular pattern on your bed?"
"I'm an unconventional folder."
He crosses the room in three strides. I scramble to my feet, backing up until my shoulders hit the wall. He stops a foot away, I can see the individual droplets of water still clinging to his hair.
"Your scent." He's breathing through his mouth, jaw tight. "It's stronger."
"I showered this morning."
"That's not what I mean." He leans closer. His nose brushes my temple. I feel his inhale against my skin and shiver. "Peaches and honey. But sweeter. Thicker. Like it's building toward something."
My heart is pounding so hard he can probably hear it.
"Pedro."
"Your heat is close." He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. "Days, not weeks. I'd estimate three or four based on your scent markers."
The words land like ice water.
"That's not possible. You said two weeks. At my appointment. You said I had two weeks."
"Bodies don't follow schedules. Especially not bodies that have been suppressed for years." His hand comes up to cup my jaw. His palm is warm. Calloused. I want to turn my face into it and never move. "Your omega is waking up fast. Trying to make up for lost time."
"I'm not ready."
"I know."
"I don't have a plan. I don't have. I don't know who. I mean, there are options but I haven't decided and I can't just."
"Breathe."
I try. It comes out shaky.
"Breathe," he says again, softer this time. His thumb strokes across my cheekbone. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. That's it. Good."
I follow his rhythm. In. Out. In. Out. The panic recedes slightly, replaced by something warm and liquid that starts in my belly and spreads outward.
His scent is everywhere. Pine and mint flooding my lungs with every inhale. My omega is doing backflips, screaming at me to get closer, to press my body against his, to find out what sounds he'd make if I put my mouth on his neck.
I grip the hem of my stolen jersey and hold on.
"What do I do?" My voice comes out small. Scared.
"You have options." He drops his hand from my face. Steps back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Heat companions. Professional services. All consensual, all safe."
"Strangers."
“What?”
