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 expressionunreadable 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 giveway 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?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. He retrieves the tray and sets it carefully in my lap. The soup is simple chicken noodle from a can, but the fact that he thought to make it, that he's taking care of me like this, makes fresh tears threaten.
"Small sips," he instructs, and I comply, forcing myself to take a few spoonfuls despite my lack of appetite. The warm broth soothes my throat, and I realize I'm thirstier than I thought.
Nick watches me eat. He's still fully dressed, sitting on the edge of the nest but not quite in it, maintaining a careful distance that I both appreciate and resent.
"Better?" he asks when I've managed about half the bowl.
"A little," I admit. "Thank you."
He takes the tray and sets it aside, then hesitates, clearly unsure what to do next. I can see the question in his eyes. How far is this going to go? What does he do when simply feeding me isn't enough anymore?
Another cramp answers that question for us both. This one is different, less pain, more...emptiness. A hollow ache deep inside me that I know Nick recognizes. I curl in on myself with a whimper that sounds embarrassingly close to a moan.
"Micah?" Nick's voice is rough now, his alpha instincts clearly responding to the shift in my scent. "The first stage is ending, isn't it?"