I wake slowly, awareness returning in fragments, and my body registers a change before my mind fully catches up. The constant tension that’s been living under my skin for days has settled into something I can finally breathe through.
I keep my eyes closed, focusing on the shift in my body. The tightness in my chest has eased to a manageable level. The heat under my skin burns at a lower temperature. The constant awareness of scents—my own and others—has dulled to a background hum rather than the overwhelming wave that’s been drowning me since this started.
It’s not fixed. Not even close. But it’s... better. The herbal blockers I took last night are definitely working, at least somewhat. Enough that I can function and move through my day without the world feeling like it’s pressing in on me from all sides.
I stretch cautiously, testing the limits of this new ease. My muscles still hold tension, but less of the sharp, restless energy that’s been keeping me awake at night. For the first time in days, it feels like I can take a full breath without fighting for it.
The truth is impossible to ignore. Having Elias here is helping in a way my blockers can’t. I push myself up against my headboard, keenly aware of how attuned I am to the distance between us.
I throw back the covers, suddenly unable to stay still. I need to move. To do something, anything besides lie here thinking about how my body’s betraying me in ways I can’t control.
I pull on the sweatpants I dropped on the floor last night, then grab a clean t-shirt from the drawer. The clothes feel strange against my skin, like my body has become too aware of every seam, every brush of fabric against overheated nerves. Just another reminder that my body is changing faster than I can keep up with. I complete my morning routine before padding to my door where I pause with my hand on the knob. I should probably try to put some distance between Elias and myself. But I don’t. Instead, I open the door and step into the hallway.
I tell myself I'm just checking on him. Making sure he's awake. Making sure he didn't leave while I was sleeping.
The excuse falls apart almost immediately.
I already know he's there.
I just want to see him for myself.
Elias is there when I reach the doorway, settled off to one side of the couch rather than in the middle, where I usually sit. Like he’s leaving space for me naturally. The TV is on, volume low—some nature documentary about ocean life playing across the screen. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a gray henley that somehow makes his broad shoulders even more noticeable, the look effortless in a way that feels distinctly Elias.
He looks up when I appear, his expression softening the second he sees me. “Hey,” he says, his voice still rough from sleep. “You’re up.”
I nod, suddenly aware of how I must look—hair a mess and sleep still clinging to the edges of my consciousness. “Yeah,” I say. “I couldn’t sleep anymore.”
He doesn’t pry. His expression shifts like he knows there’s more behind the words, but he lets it go. “There’s coffee,” he says, nodding toward the kitchen. “I just made it. And I picked up some muffins from the place down the street.”
My body reacts to the care before my mind does, and the realization hits hard when I feel the beginnings of a purr building low in my chest. All he did was make coffee and pick up breakfast. And somehow it feels like something more.
“Thanks,” I say, glancing toward the kitchen. “I‘ll grab some in a minute.”
But I don’t move. I stand in the doorway, suddenly uncertain. I should get coffee and eat something. I should at least attempt to start my day the way I normally would. Instead, I stand at the threshold between rooms, caught between what I should do and what the omega wants.
Elias shifts slightly, reaching for the blanket folded over the back of the couch. It’s one of mine—the soft, worn one I keep for chilly nights—but it smells like him now. That familiar scent of rain-soaked stone and dark musk that cuts through the chaos of my thoughts. He holds it out to me without comment.
“I’m not cold,” I say automatically, though we both know that’s not why he’s offering the blanket.
“I know,” he says simply. “But it might help.”
I keep my gaze locked on his as the realization hits me. He knows my omega craves his scent. Of course, he knows. He saw what was happening to me, even when I was working so hard to hide it and manage it on my own.
I should refuse and at least try to pretend I’m still in charge of what’s happening to me.
But I don’t. Instead, I cross the room and take the blanket from his hand. “Thanks,” I say, as I gather the blanket to my chest.
He nods once and turns back toward the TV, giving me room to settle beside him on my own terms. I sink onto the couch beside him and drape the blanket across my lap. My omega responds before my conscious mind can catch up, relaxing into the cushions with a relief so profound it makes my breath catch.
I force my attention toward the TV—the slow movement of fish through coral, the low murmur of the narrator—anything to avoid thinking about how intensely aware I am of him beside me.
Time passes quickly. Elias doesn’t push for conversation, or try to fill the silence with meaningless chatter. At some point, he rises from the couch and returns with coffee and a blueberry muffin, setting them within my reach before settling back beside me again.
I keep waiting for the awkwardness to arrive. But it doesn’t. This feels... normal.
The documentary shifts to a new segment—whales now, massive bodies moving through deep blue water. I stare at the screen without really seeing it, suddenly aware of a gradual change within me. The calm I felt earlier starts to wane. Heat beneathmy skin is returning in a slow, creeping build. My omega is restless, wanting something more.
I shift on the couch, suddenly unable to get comfortable. The blanket that felt so right an hour ago now seems too warm against my skin. I push the blanket aside and pull my knees up to my chest.
