Page 17 of His Best Friend’s Heat

Micah

" Y ou should eat something."

Nick slides a plate of toast across the kitchen island toward me.

His voice is gentle but strained, like he's walking on eggshells.

We've been doing this careful dance since he came home last night—both of us knowing we need to really talk but neither ready to dive into everything that's happened between us.

He slept on the couch last night. But I heard him get up three times during the night, pacing around the living room. The bond tugs between us even through the wall, protesting the distance.

"Thanks." I take a bite without tasting it, watching him move around his kitchen with the familiar efficiency of someone in their own space. The domesticity of it all—Nick making breakfast, me sitting at his counter—feels both achingly normal and completely foreign.

My neck throbs where his mark sits, a constant reminder of what's changed between us.

I resist the urge to touch it, knowing that will only draw his attention.

Instead, I catalog how I'm feeling without the clinical detachment that usually helps: tired, achy, like I'm fighting off something.

And underneath it all, this hollow pull in my chest whenever he moves too far away.

Nick's experiencing it too. I can see it in the tightness around his eyes, the slight pallor beneath his tan. But he hasn't complained once, hasn't used it as an excuse to get closer. Just stayed on his side of the kitchen, giving me the space he thinks I need.

"Do you work today?" he asks, leaning against the counter, coffee mug cradled in his hands. He's keeping his distance, and I try not to let that hurt even though I'm the one who asked for space.

"Yeah. Noon to eight." The thought of eight hours away from Nick sends anxiety racing through me, but I push it down. "It'll be fine. I need to get back to normal."

That's not entirely true. Normal would be pretending none of this happened, going back to being best friends who spend Friday nights together and never talk about feelings. But normal isn't an option anymore, not with this mark on my neck and this bond humming between us.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Nick frowns, concern evident in his voice. "New bonds need time to settle. And you were pretty sick yesterday."

"I'm a nurse, Nick. I know how bonds work." My tone is sharper than intended, defensive. I soften it, because he's trying. "Besides, sitting around here all day won't help. I need to know I can still function on my own."

What I don't say: I need to know you won't try to control me now that we're bonded. I need to know this fighting-for-us thing doesn't mean you think you own me.

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't argue either. "I'll drive you," he offers instead.

"I can take the bus. It's not a problem."

"Micah." There it is, that alpha resonance that makes my spine straighten instinctively. "Let me drive you. Please."

I should resist on principle. Should maintain my independence, prove I don't need him to take care of me. But the thought of fifteen more minutes with him before facing the day apart is too tempting. And maybe...maybe I want to see if he'll respect my boundaries when I set them.

"Okay," I concede. "Thanks."

He said he's sorry, that he wants to talk about everything. But words are easy when you're desperate to fix what you've broken. Actions are what matter.

When he pulls up to the hospital entrance, I expect a quick goodbye. Instead, Nick reaches across the console and takes my hand, his touch sending warmth radiating up my arm.

"Call me if it gets bad," he says, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "I mean it. Don't try to tough it out alone."

I nod, unable to speak past the sudden lump in my throat. He squeezes my hand once more before letting go, and I force myself to exit the car without looking back.

Because if I look back, I might see something I want to believe too badly to trust.

The children's hospital where I work is usually my sanctuary—bright colors, cheerful murals, and the resilience of my young patients providing perspective on whatever problems I bring through the door.

Today, though, every step away from Nick feels wrong, my body protesting the increasing distance between us.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in!" Tanya, the charge nurse, greets me with a raised eyebrow as I enter the pediatric ward. "Thought you were out sick till tomorrow."

"Feeling better," I manage, heading to my locker to stash my bag. "Anything exciting happen while I was gone?"

"Just the usual chaos." She studies me with narrowed eyes. "You sure you're okay? You look flushed."

I touch my cheeks, feeling the heat there. "Just rushed to get here. I'm fine."

The lie comes easily, but I know it won't hold up under scrutiny. Nurses are worse than doctors when it comes to diagnosing colleagues. I need to get to work before Tanya starts asking more questions.

The morning passes in a blur of medication rounds, vitals checks, and comforting frightened children before procedures.

I function on autopilot, my training carrying me through despite the mounting discomfort.

By noon, though, the ache in my chest has intensified to the point where I need to take breaks in the supply closet, leaning against shelves of gauze and IV tubing while I wait for waves of dizziness to pass.

"Micah." Amara's voice startles me as I exit the closet after one such episode. "A word, please?"

My stomach drops. Amara isn't just the hospital's leading specialist in omega health—she's also the doctor who first met Nick when we ran into her at the restaurant. Her knowing look tells me she's already put the pieces together.

"Of course, Amara." I follow her to an empty exam room, my heart pounding against my ribs. Once inside, she closes the door and turns to face me with an expression that's both professional and concerned.

"You shouldn't be at work," she says without preamble. "You're dealing with a brand new bond and you look like hell. That's not just uncomfortable, it's not safe."

I open my mouth to protest, but she holds up a hand, stopping me.

"As your colleague, I get why you want to work.

As someone who's seen too many rushed bonds go sideways, I'm worried about you.

" She studies my face with the practiced eye of someone who's dealt with omega health issues for years.

"You're flushed, your pupils are dilated, and I can see that bond-mark from here. How recent?"

"Two days ago," I admit.

She nods, making notes on her tablet. "During heat, I presume? The same one you were beginning when I saw you at the restaurant?"

"Yes."

"And Nick?" Her eyes meet mine, concerned but kind. "How's he handling all this?"

Heat rises in my cheeks. "It's Nick."

Amara's expression softens slightly. "I thought as much. The compatibility signs were quite evident, even then." She leans against the counter. "Look, I know this is personal, but I've seen enough of these situations to know when someone needs to talk. Is that alright?"

I nod, bracing myself.

"Was this bond planned?"

"No." The word comes out barely above a whisper. "It was...accidental. During the final wave of my heat."

"I see. And how are you both handling the adjustment?"

The question hits deeper than I expected. "It's...complicated."

"New bonds can be rough, especially unplanned ones. And when one person's never been with a male omega before..." She trails off, studying my face. "Sometimes the reality doesn't match what people expect."

I swallow hard. "What do you mean?"

"Heat bonds can feel incredibly intense when they're forming.

But when things calm down, sometimes the emotional connection isn't what people thought it was.

" Her voice is gentle but frank. "I've seen alphas struggle when they realize a bond doesn't change their fundamental feelings about who they're attracted to. "

Each word cuts deep. This is my worst fear, spelled out by someone who's seen it happen before.

"Are you saying...?"

"I'm saying new bonds are fragile, especially when there are complications. The stress you're showing suggests there might be unresolved issues affecting how stable this is."

She pauses, studying my face carefully. "There's also another possibility we should discuss. Breakthrough heats like yours, particularly those triggered by compatibility with a specific alpha, sometimes result in conception."

The room tilts around me. "Conception," I repeat, the word feeling foreign on my tongue. "You think I might be..."

"Pregnant? Maybe." Her voice is gentle now, recognizing the impact of her words. "Heat like yours, especially with that level of compatibility? It happens. And pregnancy hormones can make the bond feel stronger, which might explain why separation is hitting you so hard."

My medical training kicks in, providing facts when emotions threaten to overwhelm me. Breakthrough heats. Increased fertility. Compatibility-triggered ovulation. All the clinical terms for what might have happened between Nick and me.

"What should I watch for?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

"The usual early signs, but male omegas sometimes get hit harder with mood swings and bond-dependency if there's a pregnancy.

Still too early for testing to be reliable though.

" Her tone becomes more professional. "I'm going to talk to Tanya about having you go home for the rest of the week.

Bond stress, with or without pregnancy, needs rest."

"Amara, I can't—"

"You can and you will." Her tone brooks no argument. "And think about couples counseling. There are people who specialize in unexpected bonds, especially when someone's orientation gets...complicated."

Couples counseling. As if Nick and I are actually a couple, rather than two friends who accidentally tied themselves together and are now trying to figure out what that means.

"Thank you," I manage. "I appreciate you looking out for me."

"Of course." She touches my shoulder briefly. "Micah? Bonds can work out, even the messy ones. But both people have to be honest about what they're feeling and what they need. Don't let fear stop you from having the hard conversations."

Her words follow me as I gather my things and explain my early departure to a concerned but unsurprised Tanya. Honesty about expectations and feelings. That's exactly what I've been avoiding, isn't it? Because I'm terrified of the answers.

The bus ride home is a blur of anxiety and physical discomfort.

Every jolt and turn amplifies the bond-ache, and by the time I reach my stop, nausea has joined the symphony of symptoms. Morning sickness or bond-separation?

I can't tell anymore, and that uncertainty is almost worse than either option.

Instead of going straight home, I stop at the pharmacy three blocks from my apartment. The pregnancy test section feels like a neon sign pointing to my problems. I stand there, staring at the options, feeling simultaneously ridiculous and terrified.

"Can I help you find something?" A cheerful clerk appears at my elbow, making me jump.

"No, I'm fine, thanks." I grab a test kit without really looking at it and hurry to the checkout, avoiding eye contact with the cashier.

At home, I place the unopened test on my bathroom counter and stare at it like it might explode. I should take it now. Get an answer, even if it might not be accurate yet. Knowledge is power, isn't it? That's what I tell my patients' parents when they're facing uncertain diagnoses.

But if I take the test and it's positive, everything changes. I'll have to tell Nick. We'll have to make decisions—about the pregnancy, about our relationship, about our future. Decisions we're nowhere near ready for when we haven't even figured out what we are to each other now.

And if it's negative? The relief might be tainted with an unexpected disappointment that I'm not prepared to examine.

No. Better to wait. Talk to Nick first about the bond, about us, about whether his feelings are real or just guilt-driven biology. Then decide about the rest.

I hide the test in the back of my bathroom cabinet just as my phone rings. Nick's name flashes on the screen, and a wave of both relief and anxiety washes over me.

"Hey," I answer, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

"You left work early." Not a question. He must have called when he couldn't reach me there.

"Amara sent me home." No point lying about that. "She thinks I need rest."

There's a pause, filled with things unsaid. Then: "Can I come over? To your place, I mean. Not to push, just...I've been thinking about what you said. About proving I mean this. And I think we need to really talk. No more dancing around things."

My heart speeds up. "What kind of talking?"

"The kind where I tell you exactly how I feel and why, and you tell me what you need from me to believe it's real." His voice is steady, determined. "The kind where we figure out if this bond is something we both want or something we're just stuck with."

The directness of it steals my breath. This is what I wanted—honesty, clarity, real conversation instead of careful politeness. But now that he's offering it, I'm terrified of what we might discover.

"Yes," I decide, because running from this conversation won't make the questions go away. "But Nick? I need you to understand that I can't go through you leaving again. So if you have any doubts—any at all—about whether you can handle whatever we find out about us, don't come over."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," he says without hesitation. "And Micah? I'm not running anymore. Whatever we discover, we're facing it together."

After we hang up, I stand in my bathroom, staring at the cabinet where I've hidden the pregnancy test. Should I tell him tonight? Add that complication to an already impossible conversation?

No. First, we need to figure out what this bond means to us—to him. Whether he sees it as a mistake to be managed or something he actually wants. Whether there's any future for us beyond the biological connection we've accidentally created.

Once I know where we stand, then I can decide about the rest.

I close the cabinet firmly, decision made. Tonight is about Nick and me—about the bond that's already formed between us and whether we can build something real from the wreckage of our friendship.

Tomorrow is soon enough to worry about what else might be growing from our connection.