"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."
Emotional shifts. Like realizing I'm hopelessly in love with my best friend?
"How long do I have?" I ask.
"Based on your current symptoms, I'd say twelve to twenty-four hours before full heat onset. But given how quickly it's progressing, possibly less." She pauses, choosing her next words carefully. "Do you have someone who can help you through this? A heat this intense—and it will be intense, breaking through suppressants like this—isn't something you should handle alone."
The implication is clear, and my face burns hotter. "I...I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead."
That's a lie. There's only one person I want, and he's sitting at a table outside this bathroom, completely unaware that his best friend is about to go into a heat that might very well have been triggered by years of suppressed wanting.
"You need to make arrangements," Amara says firmly. "Either a professional companion, or someone you trust. But you can't wait much longer. You shouldn't be in public, and you definitely shouldn't be alone tonight."
The reality crashes down on me all at once. This is happening. I'm going into heat, possibly the most intense one of my life, and my options are either to ask my straight best friend to help methrough it or to somehow find a professional companion in the next few hours.
"I can't tell Nick," I say, panic rising. "He doesn't—we're not—he's straight. He dates female omegas."
Amara gives me a look I can't quite interpret. "I'm not going to presume to know your personal situation. But as your colleague, I need to emphasize that your safety is the priority here. A breakthrough heat can be dangerous if not properly managed."
"I know," I say, because I do. I've treated omegas with heat complications. Dehydration. Fever. Neurological complications. When things go wrong, they go wrong fast.
"Do you want me to call someone for you? A family member who could help you get home safely?"
I shake my head. "No, I...I need to talk to Nick. He should know what's happening, at least. He can help me get home."
She nods. "Alright. But don't wait too long. And call me if you need medical advice." She pulls a card from her wallet, scribbling her personal number on the back. "Anytime, day or night."
"Thank you," I say, taking the card with trembling fingers.
She gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. "Take care of yourself. And remember, there's nothing shameful about what's happening. It's biology, not a character flaw."
After she leaves, I stay in the bathroom, staring at my reflection. My hazel eyes look almost green against my flushed skin, my pupils so dilated there's only a thin ring of color visible. I look exactly like what I am, an omega on the verge of heat.
How am I supposed to tell Nick? What words could possibly explain that my body has apparently decided he's my ideal mate? That I need his help with the most intimate, vulnerable experience an omega can have?
And even if I could find the words, how could I ask that of him? Nick, who has only ever shown interest in female omegas.Nick, who values our friendship above almost everything. Nick, who would probably agree to help me out of loyalty and concern, even if the idea repulses him.
I splash more cold water on my face, trying to clear my head. One step at a time. First, I need to get out of this restaurant. Then I need to get home. Then I can figure out...everything else.
When I finally emerge from the bathroom, our food has arrived. Nick looks up, relief washing over his face.
"There you are. I was about to send a search party." His attempt at humor falls flat when he gets a good look at me. "You look terrible. What's going on?"
I slide into my seat, avoiding his gaze. "I need to go home."
"What did Amara want? Is everything okay?"
"Not really," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm...I'm not feeling well."