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By the second day, I start to notice weird changes. My skin feels super sensitive, like every nerve ending is buzzing more than usual. Scents seem way stronger and more intense. The coffee brewing in their kitchen suddenly has all these deeper notes I never noticed before, and the smell of printer ink and fresh paper from all our campaign work is so much richer and more comforting. When I shower in their guest bathroom, evenmy own shampoo smells different, sweeter somehow. It's kind of freaking me out, but also kind of amazing at the same time.

But it's the third day when everything goes totally fucking insane.

I wake up with this crazy overwhelming urge to clean their entire house. Not just the usual tidying up after campaign work, but like deep clean every goddamn thing. I spend four hours scrubbing baseboards that don't even need it, washing windows that were perfectly fine before, and reorganizing the campaign office according to some system that makes perfect sense right now but will probably confuse Felix next week.

By the time I collapse on their couch, completely wiped out but weirdly satisfied, I realize what's happening. The nesting thing. I've read about it before, studied it in those boring omega biology classes, but actually going through it is so different.

I don't even remember how many fucking days have passed. Why did I come up with this harebrained scheme? I inhale deeply, trying to think about the end game and not wanting to give up, but Jesus Christ, this is harder than I thought it would be.

The thought should probably alarm me more than it does.

"Belle?" Marcus's voice carries down the hallway, warm and concerned. "I brought lunch. Thought you might be hungry."

I look up from where I've been organizing the campaign file collection to find him standing in the living room doorway holding takeout bags from the little Italian place downtown, and the smell of garlic and herbs makes my mouth water immediately. But it's his scent that really gets to me, warm amber and something essentially masculine that makes my senses practically purr with appreciation.

"You didn't have to do that," I say, setting down the rolled up petition sheets I'd been sorting, and I can see him pause, his nostrils flaring slightly.

"Belle," he says slowly, "you smell different."

Heat floods my cheeks. Of course he'd notice. These are the alphas who managed to scent me even through heavy suppressants. Without them, I probably smell like a neon sign announcing my secondary gender.

"I stopped taking my suppressants," I tell him honestly, because I promised myself no more secrets. "Temporarily. I wanted to understand what I was feeling without chemical interference."

Marcus sets the food down on their kitchen counter but doesn't move away from me. Instead, he steps closer, his eyes dark with something that might be hunger or concern or both.

"How do you feel?" he asks, his voice rougher than usual.

"Different," I admit. "More... aware of everything. More aware of you."

The truth is that having Marcus in their space without suppressants is overwhelming in the best possible way. He smells like home and safety and something wild that makes my pulse race. I want to step closer, want to bury my face in his neck and breathe him in until his scent becomes part of me.

"Belle," Marcus says softly, reaching up to cup my cheek, "you're incredible. Do you know that?"

I lean into his touch without thinking, and the simple contact sends warmth shooting through my entire nervous system. "Marcus..."

"I know we're taking things slowly," he murmurs, his thumb stroking across my cheekbone. "I know you need time to adjust to all of this. But Belle, the way you smell right now, the way you're looking at me..."

"How am I looking at you?" I whisper.

"Like you want me to kiss you until you forget your own name."

He's not wrong. The urge to rise up on my toes and press my lips to his is so strong it's making me dizzy. But some rational part of my brain, the part that's still functioning despite the pheromone induced haze, reminds me that this is exactly the kind of decision I shouldn't make while my body is adjusting to life without suppressants.

"We should eat lunch," I say reluctantly, though I don't step away from his touch.

Marcus studies my face for a long moment, and I can see him weighing desire against respect for the boundaries we've established. Finally, he nods and drops his hand, though the loss of contact makes me want to whimper.

"Lunch," he agrees. "But Belle? When you're sure this is what you want without any chemical confusion, I'm going to kiss you until you forget your own name."

The promise in his voice makes my knees weak.

We eat lunch sitting at their kitchen table, talking about the courthouse campaign and library funding and everything except the sexual tension crackling between us. But I can't stop stealing glances at Marcus, can't stop noticing the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders when he reaches for his water glass, can't stop thinking about what it would feel like to have those strong hands on my skin instead of carefully maintaining respectful distance.

By the time he leaves for work, I'm wound so tight I spend the rest of the afternoon compulsively organizing their campaign supply collection and folding printed flyers that were already perfectly organized.

On the fifth day, I can feel the change happening in my body, and I want to fucking tear my hair out. I'm in the middle of rearranging their living room furniture, moving the coffee table for the third time because something about the current setup just feels wrong, when Felix gets home from work. The nestingurge has gotten so much worse overnight, and I've spent the entire morning building what basically amounts to a fort made of throw pillows and soft blankets in the corner near their big window. I can't even explain why I need to do this, but I can't stop myself either, and it's making me want to scream.

"Belle?" Felix's voice carries from the front door, tinged with amusement. "Are you redecorating in there?"