Because last night didn’t feel like instinct or biology or any of the things I’ve been telling myself. It felt like choice. It felt like something I wanted, not something happening to me.
And that’s the part I can’t seem to breathe around.
My phone sits on the nightstand beside me, screen dark. I should text them. Bash asked me to let them know when I got home, and I never did. The thought sends another curl of unease through my stomach. I pick up the phone, thumb hovering over the screen, and then set it down again without unlocking it.
I’m not ready.
Not for their messages, not for whatever casual warmth they’ll offer, not for the way my omega will preen at even the smallest contact.
I need to think. Really think, without their scents filling my apartment or their hands reaching for mine or their presence pulling me out of my own head the way it does every time they’re close.
I need a plan.
The omega center.
The thought arrives fully formed, like it’s been waiting beneath the surface all along. Professional heat support. Neutral alphas trained to handle presentations without attachment. Structured arrangements with clear boundaries, medical oversight, rooms designed specifically for this purpose. No emotional entanglement. No working relationships complicated beyond repair. No waking up one morning to find I’ve built my entire lifearound three men I met on a film set because my body decided it wanted them before my brain caught up.
I could call today. Make an appointment. Get myself on a list. The centers have waiting periods, but first presentations usually get priority, especially for omegas with high-stress jobs. Nadia would help me navigate the paperwork. I could be in a neutral environment with trained professionals before my heat fully hits, handling this the way responsible adults are supposed to handle biological imperatives. Safely. Impersonally. Without risking everything I’ve built.
The plan holds together for about thirty seconds before the first fracture appears.
The centers work for most people. They’re designed to.
But they work for omegas who haven’t already responded to specific alphas.
Mine has.
I push the blankets aside before the thought can settle any deeper. The floor is cool beneath my feet as I cross to the bathroom. My reflection looks different this morning—less hollow around the eyes, less of the constant tension that’s been living in my jaw for days. I look like someone who actually slept. Someone who isn’t fighting herself every second of every hour.
Someone who might be starting to accept what’s happening to her.
I brush my teeth harder than I need to, focusing on the mint sting and the mechanical routine instead of the realization taking shape beneath it. By the time I finish, my jaw aches fromclenching, but at least the mint has burned everything else away for a few precious seconds.
The apartment smells like coffee when I step into the hallway.
Not the kind I make—weak, utilitarian, and barely worth drinking. This is something richer, something that fills the entire space with warmth the moment I cross the threshold. I follow it to the living room, drawn by scent, the way I’ve been drawn to everything in relation to these alphas since this started.
Elias stands at the kitchen counter, already showered and dressed in dark jeans and a gray Henley. He’s arranging muffins on a plate—the same blueberry ones from the bakery down the street. Two of them this time, instead of one.
He looks up when I appear in the doorway.
“Morning,” he says. His voice carries its usual evenness, nothing in it suggesting yesterday changed anything between us. “Coffee’s fresh. Muffins are still warm.”
Something inside me softens at the gesture. “You didn’t have to do that,” I say. “The muffins. You already got them yesterday.”
He shrugs once. “They’re good. And you need to eat before we head to set.” He pushes the plate toward me across the counter, then reaches for a mug. “Do you want cream?”
I nod, unable to look at him directly. “Please.”
He measures the cream without asking how much, which means he’s been paying attention to how I take my coffee. The realization lingers longer than it should.
I take the mug from his hand, our fingers brushing in the exchange. The contact lasts half a second and sends a jolt through me.
“Thanks,” I say softly.
He nods once, turning back to his own coffee. The silence between us feels comfortable in a way that would have been unimaginable two weeks ago. We move around the small kitchen without bumping into each other, familiar enough with each other’s patterns by now that the space feels shared instead of crowded.
I take a muffin from the plate and break it in half. The blueberries inside are still warm, the sugar on top catching the morning light. I eat standing at the counter because sitting down feels like admitting how normal this has become, and I’m not ready for that admission yet.
