Page 10 of His Best Friend’s Heat

The reverence in his voice makes my eyes sting. He sounds like he means it, like I'm not just convenient heat relief but something precious. I want to believe it so badly it hurts.

He slides back inside from this angle, deeper, hitting places that make me cry out. His hands grip my hips, not possessive like yesterday but careful, like he's afraid I'll disappear.

"Is this good?" he asks, his voice strained. "Tell me this is good for you."

"Yes," I gasp, pushing back against him. "God, Nick, yes."

He sets a rhythm that's intense but controlled, like he's holding something back. Each thrust is deliberate, focused on my pleasure rather than his own need.

"So perfect," he murmurs, one hand reaching around to stroke my cock. "You're so perfect, Micah. I wish I could...I wish..."

He doesn't finish, but I know what he wishes. That he could be different. That he could love me the way I love him. That this could be simple instead of impossibly complicated.

The knowledge that he's trying so hard to give me everything except the one thing I really want should hurt. And it does. But it also makes the physical pleasure more intense, like my body is trying to compensate for what my heart can't have.

"Nick," I gasp, getting close to the edge. "I'm going to—"

"Let go," he says, his voice rough with emotion I can't identify. "Let me take care of you. Let me give you this."

His hand on my cock, his voice in my ear, his length hitting my prostate—it's overwhelming. But it's the emotion in his voice that pushes me over. The desperation to give me something, anything, even if it's not love.

Pleasure crashes through me, intense enough to white out my vision. I'm vaguely aware of crying out, of my body clamping down around him, of Nick's answering groan as he follows me over the edge.

He collapses against my back, both of us breathing hard. His arms come around me, holding me close, and for a moment it feels like love. For a moment, I can pretend.

"Thank you," he whispers against my neck, and the words are so quiet I nearly miss them. "Thank you for letting me..."

He doesn't finish, but I understand. Thank you for letting me try to be enough. Thank you for not asking for more than I can give.

We stay like that until our breathing slows, until the immediate afterglow fades and reality starts to creep back in. When Nick gently withdraws and rolls us to our sides, I can feel the emotional distance returning, despite our physical closeness.

"You okay?" he asks, brushing sweat-dampened hair from my forehead. But his eyes are worried, searching my face for damage he might have caused.

I nod, too overwhelmed for words. The heat symptoms have receded temporarily, but the emotional ache remains. If anything, it's stronger now—this proof that we can be perfect physically while being impossible in every other way.

We lie in silence that feels different from yesterday's comfortable quiet. This silence has weight, filled with things we can't say. Nick's guilt. My resignation. The knowledge that this amazing physical compatibility can't fix what's really broken between us.

"I should get you some food," Nick says eventually, already starting to pull away. Always taking care of the practical things because he can't take care of the emotional ones.

"You don't have to wait on me," I say, even as I accept the water he hands me from the nightstand. "I know this is...complicated."

"It's not complicated," Nick says quickly, too quickly. "Taking care of you isn't complicated."

But everything else is. The words hang between us, unspoken but understood.

"Micah," he starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair. "I want you to know that this...what we just did...it's not just biology for me. It's not just helping a friend through heat."

My heart jumps despite my better judgment. "No?"

"No," he says firmly. "It's you. You specifically. I just...I need you to know that, even if I can't..."

He trails off again, unable to finish. Unable to say the words I need to hear.

"I know," I say softly, even though I'm not sure I do. "It's okay, Nick. I understand what this is."

His expression crumples slightly. "Do you? Because I'm not sure I do."

Before I can respond, another wave of heat starts to build. Not the overwhelming crash of before, but a steady warming that tells me the next surge isn't far off.

"How long until...?" Nick asks, noticing the change in my scent.

"Maybe an hour," I estimate. "You don't have to—"

"I want to," he interrupts. "I want to help you through this. All of it. However long it takes."

The intensity in his voice makes my chest tight. He means it—he wants to help me. But wanting to help and being able to love are two very different things.

As I settle back against his chest, breathing in his scent, I try to focus on what I can have instead of what I can't. His care, his attention, his body. The way he touches me like I'm precious even if he can't love me like I'm essential.

Maybe it will be enough. Maybe I can learn to be satisfied with this—with being wanted if not loved, cared for if not cherished.

Maybe the ache in my chest will fade, given time.

Maybe.