“That’s why you should.”
I shake my head. “I’d fall asleep at the bar. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in a week.”
She studies me for a beat. “You still getting those dreams?”
“Not as bad. But I think it’s my body. Trying to… recalibrate.”
“You think it’s heat?”
I sigh. “Simon seems to think so.” At her raised brow, I add, “Dr. Hale. He said I’m showing signs of pre-heat. Hormonal realignment post-trauma.”
“That tracks,” she says, thoughtful. “You’ve always been sensitive to scent triggers. Remember when you were so stressed by exams in sophomore year that you passed out?”
“I was fifteen.”
“You still passed out.”
I groan. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“Look,” Norah says gently, nudging a muffin toward me, “I’m not saying you need to do anything about it. But maybe don’t run from it, either.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’ve always had a handle on your scent and being an Omega and all of that.”
She grins. “I’m lucky. I could take you to the apothecary if you need something to help…”
“I’m on meds. I’ll be fine.”
We eat in companionable silence for a while. The food’s good—real food, grounding. I feel a little less scattered afterward, though the thought of Beau still hovers somewhere just behind my ribcage.
He’s not what I want.
I remind myself of that the entire walk back to my place, even as my body hums with heat that has nothing to do with the late sun.
When I close the bakery door behind me, the flowers from Norah are still on the counter. And then I reach for the shelf, and my fingers close around the folded prescription from Simon for the stronger meds—like it’s a line in the sand I haven’t yet stepped over.
Maybe I should have taken him up onInvisira?
I know I’m close. Too close.
Invisiramakes me so groggy and sleepy, but I’ll try just about anything before I consider an Alpha in my bed.
That late-autumn softness that makes everything feel like it’s underwater. The upstairs hallway smells like primer and clean pine. I take the stairs slowly, one hand grazing the rail Jude reinstalled two days ago.
His tools are still neatly stacked in a crate by the landing, and there’s a new box of cabinet handles waiting on the floor, labeled in Norah’s neat block lettering:BRASS, NOT BRONZE.
I smile despite myself.
I spent most of the afternoon scrubbing soot from the baseboards with vinegar and baking soda, then re-lining the drawers my grandma used to keep her tea bags in.
Everything smells like lemon now. A little sharp, a little clean. It helps.
I hang up my jacket by the door and pull off my cowboy boots. The heat kicks on with a low groan behind the walls.
This place isn’t meant to be lived in yet—Ryker says the insulation’s shot, and I’ll need storm windows before December—but it’s mine. Every creak and chip of paint has memory, even the ghosts. Especially the ghosts.
I move the hyacinths Norah brought to the little table in the kitchenette.
My body aches in the way that has nothing to do with labor and everything to do with something inside me fraying.
