Page 1 of His Best Friend’s Heat

Micah

T he unsettled feeling hits me before Nick even opens the door.

Usually, his apartment just smells like home.

Clean laundry, that sandalwood soap he uses, maybe whatever he's cooking for dinner.

Tonight, though, it's like someone has cranked up the volume on everything.

I pause on his doorstep, groceries weighing down my arms, trying to shake off the weird swooping in my stomach.

"I brought the stuff for carbonara," I announce as Nick swings the door open, his smile making my chest flutter the way it always does. "And that fancy parmesan you like that costs more than what I make in an hour."

Nick's laugh rumbles through me, and I have to look away. "The sacrifices you make for me." He takes the bag, his fingers brushing mine, and my breath stutters.

Okay, what the hell?

I've been Nick Keller's best friend forever.

I've gotten pretty good at ignoring the way my heart kicks up when he grins at me, at pretending the heat that climbs my neck when he casually slings an arm around my shoulders is totally normal friend stuff.

But this—this jolt from a simple touch—is new.

"You okay?" Nick's brow furrows as he studies my face. "You look flushed."

"Long shift," I lie, shrugging off my jacket too quickly. "Had a four-year-old with a broken arm who thought the best way to process his trauma was to kick me in the shin. Repeatedly."

Nick winces. "Jesus, kids are brutal."

"I love my job," I protest automatically, following him to the kitchen. It's true, I do love being a pediatric nurse. Kids are honest in their fear and pain in ways adults never are. They don't hide behind politeness or pretend they're fine when they're not.

Unlike me, apparently.

Nick's already unpacking the groceries, moving with the easy confidence that seems hardwired into his alpha DNA.

At 6'2" with broad shoulders and those ridiculous blue eyes, he's the walking definition of alpha male, but without the posturing bullshit I see in so many others.

Nick's strength has always felt like shelter, not intimidation.

Which is probably why I've been half in love with him since we were seventeen.

"Wine?" he asks, already reaching for glasses because he knows my answer.

"God, yes."

He pours us each a glass of the red we both like, and I take a grateful sip, hoping it might cool whatever's making me feel so overheated. When Nick turns to the stove, I find myself tracking the movement of his shoulders under his t-shirt, the way his jeans sit on his hips.

Stop it.

"So," he says, "how was your week? Besides being assaulted by tiny humans?"

I lean against the counter, trying to focus. "The usual chaos. You know how it is right before the weekend. Every parent suddenly notices their kid's had a fever for three days and decides Friday afternoon is the perfect time to bring them in."

Nick chuckles, and the sound does something warm and dangerous to my insides. "Sounds like my students' parents discovering their kid's failing right before report cards."

We fall into our comfortable rhythm, preparing dinner together in the kitchen that's become as familiar to me as my own apartment.

Nick's place isn't large, but the kitchen has always been my favorite part; warm lighting, enough counter space for us both, and a window that catches the evening light.

I measure pasta while Nick dices pancetta, moving around each other with the practiced choreography of people who know each other's habits by heart.

Except tonight, every time he passes behind me, my skin prickles with awareness. His scent seems stronger too: warm and masculine and making my mouth water in a way that has nothing to do with the carbonara.

"You sure you're feeling okay?" Nick asks again, pausing with the knife in his hand. "You keep zoning out."

"Just tired." I force what I hope looks like a normal smile. "Nothing a good meal and bad movie won't fix."

He studies me for a moment longer, probably seeing more than I want him to, before nodding. "Pasta cures all ills. It's science."

"Is that what you teach your P.E. students? The healing power of pasta?"

"Among other vital life lessons," he says solemnly, returning to his chopping.

I try to focus on whisking eggs and cheese together, but my hands are shaky.

My body temperature feels like it's all over the place.

One minute I'm perfectly fine, the next I'm fighting the urge to open a window despite the November chill outside.

Maybe I'm coming down with something. Great timing, immune system.

By the time we sit down to eat, I've convinced myself it's just a combination of exhaustion and the glass of wine on an empty stomach. The pasta is perfect, creamy and rich without being heavy, and Nick looks so pleased with himself that I can't help but smile.

"So," I say, twirling pasta around my fork, "how was your date Wednesday night? Sarah, right?"

There it is. The weekly torture I put myself through. Nick dates female omegas exclusively. Years of hearing about them, offering advice, being the supportive best friend while burying any hint that I wish things were different. I'm a masochist, apparently.

Nick grimaces, taking a sip of wine. "Sophia. And not great."

My chest loosens slightly, which makes me a terrible friend. "What happened this time? Too clingy? Too independent? Wrong shoe size?"

He throws his napkin at me. "You make me sound so picky."

"If the designer shoe fits..."

"She was nice," he says, in that tone that means the opposite. "But there was zero chemistry. And she kept talking about her ex-alpha the entire time."

"Ah, the classic first date faux pas."

"It wasn't even subtle. 'This dinner reminds me of Antonio, he made the best caesar salad.' 'Antonio and I saw that movie.' 'Antonio breathed oxygen too, isn't that wild?'"

I laugh, and for a second, the weird tension in my body eases. "Maybe she's not over him?"

"You think?" Nick rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "I don't get it. Why is it so hard to find someone I actually connect with?"

Because you're looking in the wrong places, I don't say. Because you're so convinced you know exactly what you want that you can't see what's right in front of you.

Instead, I offer what he expects: "You're just picky. And busy. And slightly impossible to please."

"Says the guy who hasn't dated anyone in what, two years?"

"A year and eight months," I correct automatically. "And I have high standards."

"Impossibly high," Nick agrees. "You've turned down every guy I've tried to set you up with."

Because they're not you, I think but don't say.

We finish dinner talking about safer topics: his basketball team's chances this season, the ridiculous new hospital policy I'm dealing with, his brother Jason's latest art exhibition.

It's easy and comfortable, like every Friday night we've spent together since college.

The strange physical symptoms from earlier seem to have backed off, though I'm still weirdly tuned in to Nick's every movement across the table.

After dinner, we clean up together—Nick washing, me drying—and then move to the living room for our standard Friday movie night.

Nick's place isn't fancy, but his couch is obscenely comfortable, deep enough that we can both stretch out with room to spare.

He scrolls through options while I settle in, tucking my feet under me.

"Horror or comedy?" he asks, though we both know we'll end up watching whatever random action movie catches his eye first.

"Surprise me," I say, and he grins, selecting some sci-fi thriller I've never heard of.

As the movie starts, I try to focus on the plot, but that restless feeling is creeping back. My skin feels hypersensitive, and there's a dull ache starting at the base of my spine. I shift position, trying to get comfortable, and Nick glances over.

"You keep fidgeting. You sure you're okay?"

"Just can't get comfortable," I mutter, which isn't entirely a lie. "Long week."

Without hesitation, he lifts his arm in invitation. "Come here, then."

My heart does this stupid fluttering thing. It's not unusual for us—we've spent countless movie nights with me using him as a human pillow—but tonight, the thought of being that close to him makes my pulse race.

Still, I scoot over, settling against his side, and his arm comes down around my shoulders, warm and secure.

The effect is immediate and confusing. On one hand, being close to him settles the restlessness that's been building all evening. On the other, his proximity makes me hyperaware of everything. The way he smells, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his skin.

I should move away. Whatever's happening to me tonight doesn't feel normal, and the logical part of my brain is trying to connect dots I'm deliberately ignoring.

But I'm so comfortable, and Nick is warm against me, and the movie is actually pretty good once I start paying attention. My eyelids grow heavy despite my best efforts. Nick's thumb traces absent circles on my shoulder, and each touch sends little sparks down my arm.

"Your hair's getting long," Nick murmurs, his voice a rumble I can feel through his chest.

"Mm," I manage, too drowsy and too content to form actual words. "Haircut...eventually."

"I like it," he says, and his fingers brush against the nape of my neck, sending an unexpected shiver down my spine.

I should definitely move now. The touch feels too good, and I'm too tired to maintain my usual careful boundaries. But Nick doesn't seem to notice anything unusual, his attention back on the movie, and I'm selfish enough to stay exactly where I am, soaking in his warmth.

My last coherent thought before drifting off is that something feels different tonight, like the standard routine we've built over nine years is shifting into something else entirely.

But that's a problem for tomorrow's Micah.

Right now, I'm exactly where I want to be, even if it's not in the way I wish it could be.

Safe in the arms of my best friend, letting myself pretend, just for these few stolen hours, that this could be something more.