Page 22 of His Best Friend’s Heat

Nick

T he drive back to my apartment is quiet, but it's not the tense silence from yesterday.

This is different—contemplative, almost peaceful.

Micah sits beside me, one hand resting lightly on his still-flat stomach, his scent a complex mixture of anxiety, wonder, and an entirely new note that must be our child.

Our child. The thought sends a surge of protectiveness through me so powerful I have to grip the steering wheel tighter.

"You okay?" Micah asks, always attuned to my reactions even before the bond.

"Yeah." I glance at him, unable to keep the smile from my face. "Just...processing. In a good way."

He nods, though I can feel his lingering uncertainty radiating between us.

He wants to believe me—wants to trust that my feelings are genuine—but nine years of friendship where I never acknowledged my feelings has left its mark.

I can't blame him for doubting. Words are easy; anyone can say what they think someone wants to hear.

But I've never been good with words anyway. I've always been better with actions.

By the time we reach my apartment, I know what I need to do. What I want to do. Not out of obligation or biology or even responsibility, but because it's the only thing that feels right.

"Do you want anything? Water? Tea?" I ask as we enter, shedding jackets and shoes by the door in our familiar routine.

"Water's good." Micah stands in the middle of my living room looking uncharacteristically uncertain, as if he's not sure where he belongs in this space he's inhabited countless times before.

I bring him a glass, our fingers brushing as I hand it to him. Even that small contact sends warmth pulsing between us, easing the constant ache that's been our companion since we separated this morning.

"Come here," I say softly, taking his free hand and leading him to the couch. When we're seated, facing each other, I take a deep breath. "I need to show you the truth about how I feel."

Micah's eyebrows lift slightly. "Okay?"

"But first—" I take the water glass from his hand, setting it on the coffee table, then take both his hands in mine. "I need you to hear me. Really hear me."

His pulse jumps under my fingers, but he nods, those beautiful hazel eyes locked on mine.

"I love you." The words come easily now, like they've been waiting just beneath the surface all this time. "Not because of the bond. Not because of the baby. I love you, Micah Bennett. I think I have for a long, long time."

His breath catches, but I press on, needing to get this all out.

"I didn't recognize it because I was too caught up in who I thought I was supposed to be.

The straight alpha, following the path everyone expected.

But the truth was right in front of me the whole time.

" I squeeze his hands gently. "It's why none of my relationships ever worked.

It's why Friday nights with you always felt more important than dates.

It's why I've built my life around you without even realizing it. "

His emotions shift through our connection—hope warring with doubt, longing with fear.

"The heat, the bond, the baby. They didn't create these feelings, Micah. They just forced me to finally see what was already there." I bring one of his hands to my lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "And I need you to believe that. Not just hear it, but believe it."

Micah's eyes shine with unshed tears. "I want to," he whispers. "But Nick, this is...it's everything I've wanted for so long. It's hard to trust that it's real and not just because of the circumstances."

"I know." I release his hands reluctantly. "That's why I need to show you what I've been doing. Come with me?"

Curiosity flickers across his face as he nods, following me as I stand and lead him toward my bedroom. At the doorway, I pause, suddenly nervous. What if he doesn't see it the way I do? What if it's not enough?

"Whatever it is, it can't be worse than the time you showed me your freshman year attempt at growing a mustache," Micah says, a hint of his usual dry humor returning.

I laugh, the tension breaking. "Low blow. That was a respectable attempt."

"It was three sad hairs and a lot of wishful thinking."

And there it is—that easy banter that's always been the foundation of us. Friendship first, then everything else building on that solid ground.

"Just...look," I say, opening the bedroom door and stepping aside so he can enter first.

My bedroom is exactly as I left it this morning—bed unmade, clothes draped over the chair, books stacked on the nightstand. But as I watch Micah take it in, I see it through his eyes for the first time. See what I've been doing unconsciously for weeks, maybe months.

His worn NYU hoodie hanging on the back of my desk chair, though he's never left it here overnight.

The spare toothbrush in the holder on my bathroom counter, visible through the open door.

The stack of his favorite fantasy novels on my nightstand, though I prefer non-fiction.

The throw blanket he always wraps around himself during movie nights, now folded at the foot of my bed.

His favorite tea in the kitchen cabinet, his preferred cereal, the almond milk he drinks instead of regular.

I've been gathering pieces of him, bringing them into my space, creating a place for him in my life without even realizing what I was doing.

"Nick," Micah breathes, turning to me with wide eyes. "What is all this?"

"I didn't realize until just now," I admit, moving to stand beside him. "But I've been nesting. Not the way omegas do during heat, but...my version of it. Bringing you into my space. Making room for you in my life."

I pick up one of his books from my nightstand. "This showed up three weeks ago. You mentioned wanting to reread it, and the next day I found myself buying it. Not borrowing it from you—buying my own copy so it would be here when you visited."

I move to the closet, sliding open the door to reveal more evidence.

"Your favorite hoodie of mine, the gray one from college?

I stopped wearing it because it made me think of you.

And these—" I pull out a pair of sweatpants from the drawer.

"I bought these in your size two months ago.

Just in case you ever needed something comfortable to change into. "

His surprise gives way to understanding, then to warmth. "You've been preparing," he says softly. "Without even knowing it."

"For you. For us." I move closer, drawn by the pull that's always existed, long before the bond made it tangible. "My body knew what my brain was too stubborn to admit. That you're not just my friend. You're my home."

Micah reaches out, his fingers tracing my jaw with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. "I've loved you for so long," he whispers. "I never thought..."

"I know." I turn my face to press a kiss to his palm. "I'm sorry it took me so long to catch up. But I'm here now. Fully here."

Our connection hums with shared emotion, carrying feelings too complex for words. But beneath the biochemical awareness, there's what was there long before my teeth broke his skin and bound us together.

"I want to claim you," I say, the words emerging with quiet certainty. "Not in the heat of the moment, not driven by instinct or biology. I want to claim you because I choose to. Because I love you. Because I want to be yours as much as I want you to be mine."

Micah's breath catches, his pupils dilating slightly. "Nick..."

"We did this backwards," I continue, my hands finding his waist, drawing him closer. "Bond first, then understanding. I want to do it right this time. I want to claim you with full awareness of what I'm doing. What we're doing."

I feel his desire rising to meet mine, but there's hesitation too. "Are you sure? This isn't just alpha instinct talking? The pregnancy, the bond..."

"Look at me," I say, tilting his chin up gently. "Really look at me, Micah. What do you see?"

His eyes search mine, and I let him look—let him see past the alpha, past the friend, to the man beneath who's finally, finally being honest with himself and with him.

"I see you," he whispers. "Just you. Nick."

"And I see you," I reply, my voice rough with emotion. "Not just my omega. Not just the father of my child. I see Micah Bennett, the man who's been the center of my world for nine years without me even realizing it."

I lean down, pressing my forehead to his in that intimate gesture that's become ours. "Let me claim you properly. Let me make you mine by choice, not just by instinct."

His answer is to rise on his toes, closing the distance with a kiss that's both tender and certain. Unlike the desperate, heat-driven kisses we shared during his cycle, this is slow, deliberate—a conversation without words, a promise.

I lift him easily, his legs wrapping around my waist as I carry him to the bed. He weighs almost nothing in my arms, my alpha strength making the gesture effortless. When I lay him down, I take a moment just to look at him—my best friend, my omega, the person I want to build my life around.

"I've imagined this," he admits, his cheeks flushing. "So many times. You looking at me like this."

"How am I looking at you?" I ask, though I can feel what he feels through our connection.

"Like I'm everything." His voice breaks slightly on the words. "Like I'm yours."

"You are." I lower myself over him, bracing on my forearms to keep my weight off him. "You always have been. I was just too blind to see it."

"Let me see you," I murmur against his lips, my hands already tugging at his sweater. "Really see you this time."

He lifts his arms, helping me pull the fabric over his head, then his t-shirt. The sight of him—lean muscle and pale skin in the soft bedroom light—makes my mouth go dry. During his heat, everything was desperate, overwhelming. Now I can take my time.

"Fuck," I breathe, my fingers tracing the sharp line of his collarbone. "Look at you."