Page 6 of His Problem Alpha

Alex

M y vision blurs at the edges. It’s not Devon's usual sharp citrus and coffee scent hitting me—it’s something overwhelmingly sweet, like honey and overripe fruit left in the sun.

It’s thick with his panic, a cloying sweetness laced with the sharp, sour tang of fear.

It coats the back of my throat, a taste as much as a smell, and my alpha instincts don't just stir; they detonate.

Protect. Safe. Mine.

The thoughts slam into me, not my own, primal and overwhelming.

My body reacts instantly. My cock hardens painfully against my jeans, a possessive growl building in my chest that I have to physically swallow down.

I've never felt anything like this before—this need burning in my bones to claim him, shield him, fix everything.

"Devon," I manage to say, my voice a rough scrape I barely recognize. "You don't know what you're asking."

He's curled on the hallway floor, his body trembling violently, sweat soaking through his thin t-shirt.

His eyes are glassy, pupils blown so wide the warm brown is just a thin ring around bottomless black.

The sweet, honeyed scent of his heat is mixed with something sharper—fear, embarrassment, desperation.

"I know exactly what I'm asking," he gasps, another wave of heat visibly washing over him. His back arches, a broken sound escaping his throat. "I need—I can't—" His words dissolve into a whimper that hits me straight in the gut.

I can't leave him like this. I can't touch him. I can't think.

"We need to get you to a clinic," I say, the words automatic, distant. "There are places that handle this. Professional places. With people who aren't—who aren't me."

Devon shakes his head, the movement jerky and uncoordinated. "Can't. Too far. Can't even stand." His fingers clutch at the hardwood floor like he's trying to anchor himself to something solid. "Please, Alex. It hurts."

Fuck.

I'm moving before I can think, dropping down and scooping his trembling body into my arms. He weighs almost nothing, or maybe it’s just the adrenaline flooding my system.

My skin touches his and I nearly drop him—the contact like touching a live wire.

He's burning up, his skin so hot against mine it's like handling something fresh from the oven.

Devon makes a sound—half relief, half desperation—and turns his face into my chest, burying his nose against my shirt. He inhales deeply, his entire body shuddering.

"Alpha," he murmurs, the word muffled against my chest, and something in me breaks open, raw and terrifying.

I carry him to his bedroom. Every step is a battle.

Part of me screams to run. Another part roars to hold him closer, never let go.

This isn't the Devon I know—the sharp-tongued, prickly roommate who makes my life hell.

This is someone vulnerable, pliant, needing me in a way that feels too heavy, too important.

I've spent six years making sure no one needs me. Making sure I can't hurt anyone else.

His room smells like him, but stronger, sweeter, the heat pheromones saturating every surface. I lay him carefully on the bed, and he immediately curls in on himself, arms wrapped around his middle like he's trying to hold himself together.

"Don't leave," he gasps, reaching for me as I step back. "Please don't leave me."

"I'm not leaving," I say, even as every instinct screams at me to get out, to put as much distance between us as possible. "I'm just... thinking."

I pace his small room, running a hand through my hair. My thoughts are chaos, clouded by his heat scent and my desperate need to respond to it. There has to be another way. A way that doesn't involve me. A way that doesn't risk... everything.

"Devon, listen to me," I say, forcing my voice to remain steady. "I'm going to call someone. An ambulance. Or a heat clinic. They have staff for this—people who are trained to handle heats."

"No," he moans, the word sharp with panic. "No hospitals. No strangers. I can't—I can't let anyone see me like this."

"Then what about Lawson? Or Kole?" I suggest, grasping at straws. "They're your friends. They'd help."

His face crumples, a flash of such raw vulnerability crossing his features that it physically hurts to witness. "No," he whispers. "They can't—I'm supposed to be the one who has his shit together. The funny one. Not... this."

I understand that more than I want to admit. I’ve spent years making sure no one sees me crack. Making sure no one has to carry my weight.

"Okay," I say, my mind racing. "Okay, no friends. But there has to be someone else. A service, maybe? Professional heat partners?"

He lets out a broken laugh that turns into a moan as another wave hits him. "You think I can afford that? On my freelance salary?" His eyes squeeze shut, his body tensing. "Besides, it would take hours. I need—I need help now."

The desperation in his voice claws at something deep in my chest. I pull out my phone, scrolling frantically through search results for "emergency heat assistance" and finding a 24/7 omega health hotline.

It's not much, but it's something—a lifeline, a way to pass the responsibility to someone who knows what they're doing.

"I'm calling a medical hotline," I tell Devon, who's watching me through half-lidded eyes. "They'll know what to do."

He doesn't respond, just nods weakly, his breathing shallow and rapid. The call connects after two rings, and a calm, professional voice answers.

"Omega Health Assistance Line, this is Tara. How can I help you today?"

I step into the hallway, keeping Devon's door open so I can see him. "I need advice. My—" I hesitate, the word 'roommate' feeling inadequate, 'friend' a lie. "Someone I know is in unexpected heat. Severe. First full heat. His suppressants failed completely."

"I understand," Tara says, her voice steady. "Is the omega in distress? Are they experiencing any symptoms beyond standard heat presentation?"

I glance at Devon, who's writhing slightly on the bed, his face flushed, eyes glazed. "He's in a lot of pain. Feverish. He can barely stand. It came on suddenly—he was fine yesterday."

"That sounds like a suppressant crash," she says. "Sometimes when long-term suppressants fail, they fail catastrophically, resulting in an intense rebound heat. How long has he been on suppressants?"

"I don't know. Years, I think."

"And how long has he been showing symptoms?"

"A few hours, maybe? It's getting worse fast."

There's a pause, the sound of typing in the background. "Is the omega alone right now?"

I swallow hard. "No—I'm with him—I'm an alpha." I feel like I'm confessing a crime.

"I see." Her tone shifts slightly, becoming more direct. "In cases of suppressant crash, emergency suppressants are not recommended. They can cause a dangerous hormonal imbalance and potentially permanent damage to the omega's endocrine system."

My heart sinks. "So what are the options?"

"There are three standard protocols," Tara explains. "First, hospitalization with medical intervention to manage symptoms. This is invasive and can be traumatic, especially for a first-time heat, but it's sometimes necessary in severe cases."

I glance at Devon again. He's watching me, his eyes clearer for a moment, fear evident in his expression.

"Second option?" I ask.

"A supervised heat ward. The omega would be placed in a secure, private room to ride out the heat naturally.

Staff would provide hydration and basic care, but no direct intervention.

For a first-time heat after suppressant crash, this can be.

.. challenging. The isolation can increase stress, which intensifies symptoms and prolongs the heat. "

Devon is shaking his head frantically, his scent spiking with panic at the mere suggestion.

"And the third option?" I already know the answer, but I need to hear it from someone official, someone who isn't me.

"The third option is alpha assistance," Tara says matter-of-factly.

"A compatible alpha helping the omega through the heat.

This is typically the most effective approach biologically speaking, especially for intense heats.

The alpha's presence naturally regulates the omega's hormones and can significantly reduce the duration and severity of symptoms."

My throat tightens. "And if there's no... compatible alpha available?"

There's a slight pause. "Is that the case here?"

I look at Devon, who's watching me with an intensity that makes my skin burn. "No," I admit quietly. "I'm here. I'm... compatible."

"Then that would be my professional recommendation," Tara says. "Especially for a first heat of this intensity. The omega's body is already under extreme stress from the suppressant crash. Adding the trauma of hospitalization or isolation could have lasting psychological and physical consequences."

"I understand," I say, the words feeling heavy on my tongue.

"Do you have any other questions?" she asks. "About safety protocols or consent procedures?"

"No. Thank you." I end the call, staring at my phone for a long moment before turning back to Devon.

He's worse. In the few minutes I've been on the phone, his condition has deteriorated visibly. His skin is flushed red—like a bad sunburn—hair stuck to his forehead in dark, sweaty streaks. His heat scent has gotten stronger—thick, sweet, making my head spin.

"What did they say?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

I move back into the room, keeping a careful distance from the bed. "They said emergency suppressants aren't an option. They could make things worse."

"And the other options?" His eyes are clearer now, focused on me with an intensity that's almost painful.

"Hospital, heat ward, or..." I can't finish the sentence.

"Or you," Devon says, completing my thought. He pushes himself up on trembling arms, wincing with the effort. "I heard enough."

I run a hand through my hair, pacing again. "Devon, this is—this is serious. This isn't just... it's not just sex. It's—"