But still close enough to touch.
Just having him next to me is a comfort. My heats typically involve spending the weekend alone, alternating between hot yoga exercises and brief bouts with the only vibrator I have with a knot attachment.
I’ve never had someone with me during my heat, particularly not another omega. The pheromones I’m pumping into the air would have most alphas climbing the walls by now, but Mason just sits there, steady as always and ready to help me.
If I could spend the rest of my life in this moment, I would.
“Thank you,” I say. “For doing all this.”
“It’s my job.”
“It’s more than your job and we both know it.”
His jaw tightens. “Phoenix?—”
“I mean it.” The words come easier than they should, loosened by the heat building under my skin. Later, I’ll blamethe hormones. Right now, I just need him to understand. “You take care of me. Better than anyone ever has. Better than I deserve.”
“You deserve—” He stops himself, shakes his head. “Don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what?”
“This.” He gestures vaguely between us. “The heat is affecting your judgment. You’re going to say things you don’t mean. Then next week you’ll be mortified, and I’ll have to pretend I don’t remember any of it.”
“Okay, but what if I do mean them?”
“C’mon, Phoenix.”
“I don’t feel anything for you right now that I didn’t already feel yesterday. And the day before that. And—spoiler alert—most of the days before that, too.”
The words land hard enough that I can practically see his mind short circuit. Mason goes very, very quiet.
I shift closer on the bed, drawn by something I don’t fully understand. His scent wraps around me—chamomile and black pepper, familiar and strange all at once. I’ve been breathing this scent for three years without ever reallynoticingit. Now it fills my lungs like oxygen, essential and irreplaceable.
“You always deflect,” I say softly. “Every time I try to tell you what you mean to me, you change the subject or make a joke or find something else that needs to be handled.”
“Because you don’t mean it the way I need you to mean it.”
The confession slips out as if he didn’t actually intend to let it out. I watch his eyes widen, watch him realize what he’s said. His hand comes up like he wants to catch the words and shove them back into his mouth.
“Wait.” My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing. It means nothing.” He’s already standing, already putting distance between us. “The heat is affecting us both. I should go. I’ll make sure Atticus knows where everything is, and?—“
“What do youneedit to mean, Mason?”
He freezes with his back to me. I can see the tension in every line of his body—the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his hands have curled into fists at his sides.
The silence stretches.
I should let him go. Should let him retreat behind his professionalism, his careful boundaries. Should pretend I didn’t hear what he said, the way we’ve been pretending for three years that there’s nothing between us but schedules and contracts and the careful dance of employer and employee.
Instead, I stand.
My legs are unsteady—the heat stealing my coordination, making the room tilt and blur at the edges—but I manage to close the distance between us. My hand finds his arm, fingers curling around his wrist.
“Don’t go.” The words come out raw, desperate. “Please don’t go.”
Mason turns slowly to face me. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide in a way that has nothing to do with omega biology and everything to do with what’s happening between us right now.
