I should be terrified by the possibility. Should be backing away, making excuses, calling that service Micah mentioned.
Instead, I find myself moving closer, drawn by some instinct older than rational thought.
"I understand," I say, though I'm not sure I do—not fully. All I know is that Micah needs me, and every fiber of my being is responding to that need. "We'll be careful."
Micah lets out a sound that's half laugh, half sob. "Careful might not be enough. I've been suppressing my heats for years. When this one hits fully, it's going to be...I might not be able to control myself."
"Then we'll both lose control," I say, the words surprising me even as they leave my mouth. "Together."
Micah's expression shifts. He reaches out, his fingers trembling as they brush against my arm.
"Thank you," he says softly. "For not freaking out. For not leaving."
"I would never leave you," I tell him, and I mean it more than I've ever meant anything. "Not when you need me."
Another wave of discomfort passes over his features, and he curls in on himself again, a small whimper escaping his lips. The sound triggers something deep and protective in me. I move without thinking, gathering him against my chest, one hand cradling the back of his head.
"I've got you," I murmur against his hair. "Whatever you need, I've got you."
Micah tenses for a moment, then melts against me, his face pressed into my neck. I feel him inhale deeply, taking in my scent the way I've been taking in his.
"Your scent helps," he admits, his voice muffled against my skin. "Makes the pain less."
We stay like that for a long moment, Micah's breathing gradually steadying against me. His body is still too hot, still trembling with the effort of fighting his approaching heat, but he seems calmer in my arms.
I know we should talk more. About boundaries, about expectations, about what all of this means for our friendship. But right now, holding Micah as he shakes against me, feeling his heart race in time with mine, all I can think is that I need to keep him safe. Whatever this means for us, whatever it changes, that's tomorrow's problem.
But even as I hold him, I can feel his temperature climbing again. His breathing is getting shallower, more labored, and there's a tension in his muscles that wasn't there before.
"Nick," he whispers against my neck, and there's something desperate in his voice that makes my chest tighten. "It's getting worse."
I pull back to look at him, and what I see makes my stomach drop. His pupils are almost fully dilated now, his skin flushed and damp with sweat. The scent coming off him is intensifying by the minute, becoming richer, more complex, more impossible to ignore.
"How long?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.
"Not long," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe an hour. Less."
An hour. Maybe less.
I've committed to helping him through this, but I have no idea what that really means. All I know is that my best friend is falling apart in my arms, and every instinct I have is screaming at me to fix it, protect him, make it better.
Even if I don't know how.
Even if it changes everything between us forever.
Micah
Ican'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."