Page 6 of His Best Friend’s Heat

Micah

I can't stop shaking.

Nick's hands are gentle as he adjusts the cool cloth on my forehead, but even his careful touch feels like fire against my skin.

Everything is too much: the weight of the sheets, the sound of my own breathing, the way his scent wraps around me like a living thing, making me want to crawl closer even as it intensifies the ache building in my core.

This isn't like my other heats. Those were manageable, predictable, something I could handle with medication and careful planning. This is raw and overwhelming, stripping away every defense I've built until all that's left is pure need.

"Try to drink a little more," Nick says, his voice cutting through the haze that's wrapped around my brain. He holds a glass of water to my lips, and I sip obediently.

My skin feels like it's burning from the inside out.

Every muscle in my body is trembling, and there's a cramping in my abdomen that's getting worse by the minute.

The worst part, though, is the slick that's soaking through my underwear and probably onto Nick's sheets, evidence of exactly what my body wants.

"That's it," Nick encourages as I finish the water. His fingers brush my forehead, pushing sweat-dampened hair back from my face, and I can't help the small whimper that escapes me at the contact. "You're doing great."

I'm not doing great. I'm falling apart in my best friend's bed, my body betraying me in the most humiliating way possible.

Every touch of the sheets against my skin feels like sandpaper.

Every breath fills my lungs with Nick's alpha scent, making the cramping twist tighter.

And the slick—God, the slick is the most mortifying part of all.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, not for the first time. "This is so embarrassing."

"Stop apologizing," Nick says firmly. He places a fresh cool cloth on my forehead, and the temporary relief makes me sigh. "This isn't your fault."

But it is, isn't it? My body decided Nick was compatible. My body forced this situation. Years of carefully maintained friendship, ruined because my omega biology couldn't keep its opinions to itself.

A fresh wave of heat crashes through me, more intense than the last. I curl into myself, a groan escaping before I can stop it.

The cramping is getting worse, radiating outward from my core to my lower back, down my thighs.

It's like the worst menstrual cramps imaginable, multiplied by ten and paired with a fever that makes my thoughts swim.

"What can I do?" Nick asks, his voice tight with concern. "Tell me how to help."

"Just...keep doing what you're doing," I manage. "The cool cloths help."

Nick nods and refreshes the cloth, his movements efficient and careful.

He's being so good about this, so calm and supportive despite the bombshell I dropped on him.

He's beautiful in a way I've always tried not to notice too openly.

Strong jaw, blue eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles, dark hair that's just starting to show the first signs of silver at his temples. Premature grey, but it's sexy as hell.

My best friend. The straight alpha I've been in love with for longer than I care to admit.

And now he's seeing me like this—sweaty, needy, slowly losing control.

"Your temperature's still climbing," he says, his palm resting briefly against my cheek. "This is more intense than the heats you've described before, isn't it?"

I try to focus on the question, fighting through the haze of fever and need.

"Yes," I say, my voice strained. "A breakthrough heat is...it's nothing like the managed ones. Everything's amplified." I lose my train of thought as another cramp seizes me, stronger than before. "Fuck," I gasp, curling tighter.

Nick's hand finds my back, rubbing gentle circles that both soothe and inflame. "Breathe through it," he says. "That's it."

I follow his instruction, focusing on my breathing until the worst of the cramp passes.

"I'm going to make you something to eat," Nick says after a moment. "You need to keep your strength up."

The thought of food makes my stomach turn, but I know he's right. Heat takes a massive toll on the body's resources. Without proper nutrition and hydration, things could get dangerous.

"Something light," I suggest. "Toast maybe? Or soup?"

Nick nods. "I've got chicken noodle in the pantry. Will that work?"

"Perfect," I say, though I doubt I'll be able to eat much. "Thank you."

He hesitates, like he doesn't want to leave me alone, then stands. "I'll be quick. Call if you need anything, okay? I'll hear you."

I nod, relieved for a moment alone to collect myself. As soon as the bedroom door closes behind him, I let out a shaky breath and press my face into his pillow, inhaling deeply. Nick's scent is strongest here, and it both soothes and inflames the heat symptoms. A double-edged sword.

Another cramp rolls through me, and I bite the pillow to keep from crying out. They're coming faster now, more intense. The early stage is ending. Soon, very soon, I'll be in full heat, and the non-sexual comfort measures won't be enough anymore.

What happens then? Will Nick still want to help when "help" means something much more intimate?

The questions swirl in my fever-addled brain as I shift uncomfortably on the bed. My clothes feel wrong. Too rough, too confining. Acting on instinct, I pull off my t-shirt, sighing at the momentary relief of cool air against my overheated skin.

Better, but not enough. I need...I need...

My gaze falls on Nick's closet, partially open.

Before I can question what I'm doing, I'm on my feet, swaying slightly as I make my way across the room.

Nick's scent gets stronger as I open the closet door fully.

Rows of neatly hung shirts, a laundry basket in the corner with worn clothes waiting to be washed.

I reach for one of the shirts—a soft flannel he wears on weekends—and bring it to my face, inhaling deeply.

The effect is immediate and powerful. The tension in my body eases, replaced by a warm, floaty feeling that dulls the edge of the cramps.

My omega brain recognizes his scent as safe, as right.

Without conscious thought, I gather the flannel and a few more items from his closet: a hoodie he wears to the gym, a t- shirt from the laundry basket that smells strongly of him. I carry my bounty back to the bed, arranging the items around the edges of the mattress.

Not enough. I need more.

I strip the comforter off and begin rearranging the blankets and pillows, adding Nick's clothes at strategic points.

My movements become more purposeful, driven by an instinct older than rational thought.

I'm creating a space, a safe space that smells like Nick, that will hold his scent close to me.

I'm building a nest.

The realization breaks through the haze, and I freeze, my hands clutching one of his hoodies. Oh God. I'm nesting. Using Nick's things. In Nick's bed.

This is a whole new level of embarrassing.

I should stop. Put everything back before he returns.

But another wave of heat overwhelms me, and instead of stopping, I curl into the center of my half-formed nest, clutching Nick's hoodie to my chest. The relief is immediate and powerful—not enough to stop the cramping completely, but enough to make it bearable.

Just for a minute, I tell myself. I'll fix everything before he comes back.

But the minute stretches as the nest soothes primal instincts in me, and I lose track of time in a haze of Nick's scent and mounting heat symptoms. I'm vaguely aware of removing my pants, leaving me in just my underwear, which is soaked through with slick.

I should be embarrassed, but the fever is burning away my capacity for shame.

I don't hear the door open. Don't realize Nick has returned until his voice breaks the silence.

"Micah?"

I jerk upright, clutching the hoodie to my chest like a shield. Nick stands in the doorway, a tray in his hands, his expression unreadable as he takes in the scene: me, nearly naked in the middle of a nest made from his belongings.

"I—" My voice cracks. "I'm sorry. I don't know what—I didn't mean to—"

The words won't come. Humiliation washes over me, momentarily stronger than the heat symptoms. I've crossed a line. Nesting is intimate. It's what omegas do when they've chosen a mate, when they're preparing for bonding. It's a declaration of intent that I had no right to make.

Nick sets the tray down carefully on the dresser, his movements deliberate. "You made a nest," he says, his voice neutral.

"I'm sorry," I say again, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. "I'll put everything back. I don't know what came over me."

Another cramp seizes me before I can start dismantling the nest, this one so intense that I double over, a pained sound escaping me. Through the haze of discomfort, I feel the bed dip as Nick sits on the edge.

"Hey," he says softly. "It's okay. You don't have to apologize."

I can't look at him, too ashamed of my loss of control. "It's not okay. I took your things without asking. I'm making a mess of your bed."

"I don't care about that." His hand finds my shoulder, warm and steady. "If it helps, you can nest all you want."

The simple permission breaks me. A sob escapes, then another, tears spilling down my cheeks. "I don't know what's happening to me," I admit, my voice cracking. "This has never been like this before."

"I know," Nick says, his thumb tracing gentle circles on my shoulder. "You said it would be intense."

That's putting it mildly. This heat is stripping away every defense I've built, leaving me raw and exposed. And the worst part is still coming, the part where the cramping and fever give way to a desperate, all-consuming need that can only be satisfied one way.

Nick's hand moves to my face, wiping away tears with a gentleness that makes my heart ache. "The soup's getting cold," he says. "Think you can eat a little?"