Page 3 of His Best Friend’s Heat

Micah

M y hands are shaking as I grip the edge of Nick's couch.

I've been sitting here for the past two hours, pretending to watch whatever movie he's put on while my body completely goes haywire.

Every breath feels like swallowing fire.

The soft cotton of my t-shirt might as well be sandpaper against my skin.

And Nick's scent—God, his scent—it's everywhere, wrapping around me like a living thing, making it impossible to think about anything else.

"You want more water?" Nick asks, and I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of his voice.

"I'm good," I manage, though my throat feels like the Sahara. The truth is, I don't trust myself to reach for the glass without visibly trembling.

Nick gives me a sideways glance. "You sure you're okay? You've been quiet all morning."

"Just tired," I say, and we both know it's bullshit.

He doesn't look convinced, but mercifully doesn't push. Usually, I appreciate that Nick knows when to back off. Right now, part of me wishes he'd call me on it, force me to admit what I'm starting to suspect is happening.

Because this isn't just being tired or stressed. The burning heat under my skin, the way every little sound makes me flinch, the dull ache that's been building at the base of my spine…I know what this is. I just don't want to believe it.

My heat cycle is regular as clockwork. Predictable as sunrise. The next one isn't due for weeks.

Except breakthrough heats are a thing. Rare, but real. Usually triggered by...

No. Not going there.

"I was thinking we could grab lunch at that new place on Maple," Nick says, his attention back on the movie. "The one with the fancy burgers you were talking about last week."

The thought of food makes my stomach turn, but the idea of being in public—around other people, other scents—is even worse. What I should do is make an excuse and go home, lock myself in my apartment until this passes or until I can figure out what the hell is happening.

What I actually say is, "Sure, sounds good."

Because I'm an idiot who can't say no to Nick Keller, even when every rational thought I have is screaming at me to get away from him.

"Great," Nick grins. "Movie's almost over, we can head out after."

I nod, trying to focus on the screen, but all I can think about is how Nick's sitting less than two feet away from me.

Every time he shifts position, each small movement sends a fresh wave of his scent washing over me.

It's not just stronger than usual. It's like my brain is processing it completely differently, picking up notes that make my pulse race and my skin flush.

By the time the credits roll, I've worked myself into a state of near-panic.

I need to leave. I need to call my doctor.

I need to do literally anything except go to a public restaurant with the alpha I've been secretly in love with for years while my body seems determined to broadcast every suppressed instinct I've spent my adult life hiding.

"Ready?" Nick stands, stretching in a way that makes his t-shirt ride up, revealing a strip of tanned skin and the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband.

I look away quickly, heat flooding my face. "Yeah, just need to use the bathroom first."

In the safety of Nick's bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and immediately regret looking in the mirror. My pupils are dilated, my cheeks flushed. I look like I'm running a fever, which I probably am.

I pull out my phone, hands still shaking slightly, and check my heat tracking app. Last heat was exactly three months ago, right on schedule. Nothing unusual about my cycle, no missed doses of my suppressants. There's no reason for this to be happening.

Except...

A memory surfaces from nursing school. Our instructor explaining breakthrough heats, rare cases where an omega's body overrides suppressants due to prolonged exposure to a particularly compatible alpha.

No. That can't be it. I've been around Nick for years without this happening. We were roommates in college, for Christ's sake. If we were that kind of compatible, wouldn't I have known before now?

Unless something's changed. Unless years of proximity, of friendship, of slowly falling in love with him have somehow primed my body to recognize him as...

I can't even finish the thought.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. Maybe it's not a heat at all. Maybe I really am getting sick. Food poisoning. A virus. Anything but the one thing that would force me to confront feelings I've spent years carefully burying.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Nick is waiting by the door, keys in hand. He looks at me with that slightly furrowed brow that means he's worried but trying not to show it.

"We don't have to go out if you're not feeling well," he says. "We can order in."

For a second, I'm tempted. Staying in would be safer. But the apartment suddenly feels too small, too saturated with Nick's scent. Maybe being in public will help clear my head.

"No, I want to try this place," I insist. "Fresh air might do me good."

The walk to the restaurant is only twenty minutes, but it feels like an eternity.

Each step jostles my increasingly sensitive body.

The cool November air provides momentary relief against my overheated skin, but does nothing to dampen my awareness of Nick beside me.

He walks close—closer than usual, I think—and occasionally his arm brushes against mine, sending little electric shocks through my system.

"You're really warm," he comments when our hands accidentally touch. "You sure you're not coming down with something?"

"Maybe a slight fever," I admit, which isn't exactly a lie. "Nothing serious."

Nick frowns. "We should get you home after lunch. You need rest."

I make a noncommittal sound, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. The restaurant appears ahead, a modern building with large windows and a small queue outside. Saturday lunch rush.

The hostess seats us at a small table near the window. The restaurant is busy, filled with weekend diners, and the cacophony of scents—food, people, cleaning products—momentarily overwhelms my heightened senses. I grip the edge of the table, trying to ground myself.

"Micah?" Nick's voice breaks through the sensory overload. "You okay? You went pale all of a sudden."

"Fine," I say, though I'm clearly not. "Just...a lot of people."

Nick's expression shifts, his alpha instincts clearly registering my distress even if he doesn't understand the cause. "We can leave if you want. Find somewhere quieter."

"No, it's fine. Really." I pick up the menu, using it as a shield. "Let's just order."

The waiter comes by, and Nick orders for both of us after a quick glance confirms I'm okay with his choices.

It's something he does sometimes when he senses I'm overwhelmed.

Usually, I find it endearing. Today, the simple act of him taking charge sends a shiver of something primal through me, a reaction so visceral it leaves me breathless.

"Nick?" A female voice interrupts my internal crisis. "I thought that was you."

I look up to see Amara, the omega specialist I sometimes work with at the hospital. She's smiling at Nick, but when her gaze shifts to me, her expression changes. Her nostrils flare slightly—a discreet scent check—and her eyes widen.

Oh shit.

"Hi," Nick says, standing to greet her. They know each other through me, having met a few times. "Nice to see you."

"You too," she says warmly, but her eyes keep darting to me with increasing concern. "Micah, are you okay?"

The emphasis she puts on the question makes it clear she's not just making small talk. She can smell what's happening to me.

"I'm fine," I say, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears. "Just grabbing lunch."

Amara gives me a look that says she's not buying it for a second. "Actually, could I borrow you for a moment? I have a quick question about one of our shared patients."

It's a transparent excuse, but I'm grateful for it. "Sure," I say, already standing. To Nick, I add, "Be right back."

Nick looks between us, clearly sensing something's off, but nods. "Take your time."

Amara leads me toward the restrooms, away from the main dining area. As soon as we're out of earshot, she turns to me.

"Honey, you're going into heat," she says without preamble. "Today. Please tell me you know what's happening."

The direct statement breaks through my last defenses. "I...I think so. But it doesn't make sense. My cycle's not due for weeks, and I haven't missed any suppressants."

She guides me into the single-occupancy family restroom, closing the door behind us. In the fluorescent lighting, I can see my reflection again—flushed, pupils dilated, a thin sheen of sweat on my forehead despite the restaurant's air conditioning.

"How long have you been feeling like this?" she asks.

"Since last night. Subtle at first, just feeling warm, more aware of...things. It's gotten progressively worse."

She nods. "And you've been with Nick this entire time?"

"Yes. We had our usual Friday movie night, and I stayed over. On the couch," I add hastily.

"Micah," she says gently, "are you familiar with compatibility-triggered heats?"

And there it is. Confirmation of what I've been trying not to think about. "They're rare," I say weakly. "Usually only happen with extremely compatible pairs..."

"Who've had prolonged exposure without acknowledging their compatibility," she finishes. "Sometimes the body takes matters into its own hands."

I lean against the sink, suddenly lightheaded. "But Nick and I have known each other forever. Why would this happen now?"

Amara's expression softens. "The human body is complex, especially when it comes to dynamics. Sometimes it takes years for compatibility to fully manifest. Other times, it's triggered by emotional shifts, stress, even just the right combination of circumstances."