Page 21 of His Best Friend’s Heat

"How...how far along?" I manage, my nursing background providing the right questions when my emotions threaten to overwhelm everything else.

"Based on hormone levels and your timeline, approximately one week." Amara's voice is gentle but clinical. "Very early, but the levels are strong and clear. Your compatibility with Nick has likely contributed to the rapid hormone development."

Nick's hand tightens around mine, and through the bond comes a wave of emotion so powerful it makes me gasp—joy, wonder, protectiveness all tangled together in a surge that leaves me dizzy.

"Our compatibility?" Nick asks, his voice steadier than I expected. "What does that mean, exactly?"

Amara turns to her computer, pulling up what looks like a chart.

"When I first saw you together at the restaurant, I noticed signs of alpha-omega biological compatibility.

It's relatively rare—only about 15% of alpha-omega pairs exhibit these markers.

It manifests in complementary pheromone profiles, synchronized hormone responses, and, in your case, an unusually strong bonding reaction. "

She gestures to another set of numbers on the screen. "The strength of your bond, measured by hormone levels and reported symptoms, is in the top percentile of cases I've seen. This suggests your bodies recognized each other as optimal matches long before conscious awareness."

"Like fated mates," Nick says, surprising me with the use of the romantic term from old omega folk tales.

Amara's smile is small but genuine. "I prefer 'biological compatibility,' but yes, the concept is similar. Your bodies recognized each other as uniquely suited partners. The heat simply catalyzed a connection that was already forming on a biochemical level."

I try to wrap my mind around this—the idea that Nick and I were always meant to find each other, that our bodies knew what our minds were too stubborn to accept. It feels like both science and magic, as if the universe conspired to bring us together despite our best efforts to stay just friends.

"The bond strength also explains the severity of your separation symptoms," Amara continues. "And it likely contributed to the pregnancy. Compatible pairs have higher conception rates, even with protection."

"What happens now?" I ask, my voice smaller than I intended. "With the pregnancy, I mean."

"Now we monitor carefully," Amara says, shifting into full professional mode.

"Male omega pregnancies require specialized care, especially in the first trimester.

I'll want to see you weekly for the next month, then biweekly after that if all progresses normally.

You'll need to adjust your work schedule to minimize stress and exposure to illness. "

She turns to Nick. "And you'll need to maintain regular physical contact to support the bond. Separation will become increasingly uncomfortable as the pregnancy progresses, particularly for Micah."

Nick nods, his expression serious. "Whatever he needs. Whatever they both need."

The simple declaration, delivered with such certainty, makes my chest ache with nine years of longing finally finding its answer. Nine years of loving this man from a distance, and now he's sitting beside me, claiming responsibility for our child with unwavering determination.

Amara provides more information—prenatal vitamins, dietary recommendations, warning signs to watch for—but I absorb it all through an emotional haze.

Pregnant. I'm pregnant with Nick's child.

We created a life together in that moment of perfect connection, when biology and emotion aligned in a way neither of us expected.

The reality of it hits me in waves—the baby growing inside me, the permanent connection to Nick, the future we'll have to build together. It's overwhelming and terrifying and somehow exactly right all at once.

By the time we leave Amara's office, night has fallen completely, the parking lot illuminated only by streetlights that cast Nick's face in shadows as he opens the car door for me.

"Are you okay?" he asks once we're both inside, the question gentle in the darkness.

"I don't know," I answer honestly. "It's a lot. To process."

Nick starts the car but doesn't put it in drive. Instead, he turns to face me, his expression serious in the dashboard light. "Come home with me. Not for anything...just to be together. To figure this out. I don't think either of us should be alone tonight."

The invitation—simple, direct, without pressure or expectation—breaks through the wall I've been building around my heart.

For nine years, I've protected myself from the pain of wanting what I couldn't have.

I've maintained careful boundaries, hidden my feelings, accepted the scraps of Nick's attention while convincing myself it was enough.

But now, with his child growing inside me and his emotions flowing freely through our bond, those old defenses feel not just unnecessary but actively harmful.

If I'm going to do this—have this baby, build a life with Nick—I need to stop hiding.

Stop protecting myself from the very thing I've always wanted.

"Okay," I say, the word small but significant. "I'll come home with you."

Nick's relief flows through the bond, genuine and overwhelming.

He reaches across the console to take my hand, and as his fingers intertwine with mine, I feel the first real shift toward trust. Trust that maybe, just maybe, this unexpected path might lead somewhere I've always wanted to go but never believed I could reach.

As we drive through the quiet streets toward Nick's apartment—toward what might become our home—I rest my free hand on my stomach, still flat and unchanged.

There's nothing to feel yet, no physical evidence of the life growing inside me.

But knowing it's there, knowing it's part of Nick and part of me, makes everything both terrifyingly real and strangely right.

Whatever happens next—however we navigate this unexpected journey—we'll do it together. Not just as friends, not just as alpha and omega bound by biology, but as two people who've spent nine years finding their way to each other, one Friday night at a time.