"Say it again."
"I love you." He says it against my hair, his voice rough. "Go to sleep, Mattaniah."
Mattaniah
Thenauseawakesmebefore the alarm does. It starts in my gut and climbs my throat before I've opened my eyes. I make it to the bathroom in time to empty what's left of last night's dinner into the toilet while the tile bites cold against my knees. The retching lasts two minutes and leaves me sitting on the bathroom floor with my forehead against the porcelain.
Dominic's footsteps approach the bathroom door. The handle moves, just once, a small downward pressure that stops before the latch gives. His knuckles tap against the wood instead.
"Firefly. You okay?"
"Probably a stomach bug." I flush the toilet and stand on shaking legs. "Probably the sushi from last night. I'm fine."
His footsteps don't retreat. I can smell him through the door, leather and smoke sharpening the way it does when his instincts are pushing and his brain is holding the leash. The handle doesn't move again.
"I'll make toast." His footsteps move toward the kitchen.
The past four days have been different. Dominic has been making breakfast every morning and leaving it on the counter where I can reach it without having to ask. Amos has been sitting beside me on the couch while we both work, close enough that our elbows brush. I let Dominic's thumb trace my lip two nights ago and the gesture landed without the flinch that followed it last week. I fell asleep with my head on Amos' shoulder yesterday during a movie and woke up to find neither of them had moved.
The nausea passes by mid-morning but leaves behind a low-grade wrongness that settles into my bones and refuses to identify itself. My stomach isn't cramping and my bond marks aren't spiking. The heat is two weeks behind me. This is something else, a heaviness in my pelvis and a sensitivity in my chest that makes my shirt feel abrasive against my nipples.
I reach for my blocker bottle at eleven. The pill sits on my tongue for three seconds before the nausea surges back so violently that I spit the tablet into the sink. I grip the counter while my stomach heaves.
"What the fuck," I mutter, staring at the half-dissolved pill in the porcelain.
I rinse my mouth and try again at two in the afternoon, this time with food in my stomach and water to wash the tablet down. The pill hits my system and my body rejects it within thirty seconds. The nausea crests so hard I barely make it to the kitchen sink.
Amos is at the kitchen table with his laptop. His head lifts at the sound of me retching.
"That's twice today." He stands and crosses to the sink. "What triggered it?"
"The blocker." I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "My body won't keep it down."
His hand lands on the back of my neck before I register him moving. Warm fingers pressing into the muscle below the bond marks, grounding and possessive in a way that isn't asking permission. My body wants to lean into it. I stiffen instead and shrug the hand off.
"Don't."
He removes his hand. He doesn't apologize. His eyebrows draw together and his gaze sharpens. He doesn't say anything but his eyes drop to my stomach for half a second.
"I need a refill anyway." I rinse the sink and avoid his gaze. "I'll do a telecall with the doctor."
The telecall takes twenty minutes. The doctor is a woman named Patel who handles my suppressant prescriptions through the telehealth platform.
"Any changes since your last refill?"
"I bonded. And I had a heat."
Her tone shifts. "Congratulations on the bonding. Standard protocol before I can refill suppressants: you'll need to take a pregnancy test. Blockers aren't safe during pregnancy."
"I'm not pregnant."
"It's just protocol, sir. Take a test, upload the result, and I'll process the refill."
The call ends and I stare at the blank screen of my phone for a long time.
Amos is watching me from the kitchen table. He opens his mouth and I cut him off before the question forms.
"Don't." I grab my jacket from the hook by the door. "I'm going to the pharmacy. I'll be back."
