“Nope,” I tell myself. “Nope, nope, nope.”
I exhale, letting the nervous laugh die in my throat.
I force myself upright. Maybe I should call Amara. Or make actual food. Or research magical surges and physiological overload symptoms. Or Google “weird tingling everywhere not heat but kinda heat but also maybe magic.”
I rub my face.
Instead, I reach for my water bottle, chug half of it, and then flop back down.
I’ll figure this out. After a nap.
The buzzing hasn’t stopped, but exhaustion settles over me like a weighted blanket. I close my eyes, listening to Thistle purr somewhere near my feet. My body is still warm. My heartbeat still feels like it’s being pulled toward something I can’t name.
I let myself sink into the sheets anyway.
Maybe when I wake, the world will make sense again. Or at least stop vibrating.
I curl on my side, Thistle’s weight a small comfort against my calves.
The last thought drifting through my mind before sleep drags me under is simple, stupid, and impossible to shake?—
Something changed last night.
And whatever it is, it isn’t finished with me yet.
Thistle watches me with his big yellow-green eyes like he’s waiting for me to get my act together, but my body keeps pulling me under this molten fog. Every part of me feels stretched thin, too warm, too aware.
The room spins a little as I brace myself on the edge of the mattress. Breathing feels thick. My T-shirt clings to my skin in ways that make me twitch. My thighs brush, and the smallestfriction sends a pulse straight through me. It’s humiliating how fast it happens, how fast everything tightens low in my belly.
This can’t be real.
It can’t be a heat.
I had one real heat years ago, and Griffin helped me through it with the calm focus of someone who knew exactly what to do and exactly how much space to give. I’d been terrified then, but at least it made sense.
I was a teenager. My pheromones were still sorting themselves out.
My suppressants worked afterward. I’ve never skipped a dose. I’ve never even missed a refill.
So why do I feel like I’m dissolving from the inside out?
I crawl toward the kitchen because standing feels impossible, and Thistle pads along beside me like he’s escorting a wounded animal. The cool tile kisses my knees and makes me gasp, then sigh, then try to straighten because I can’t let myself melt into a puddle on the floor.
Thistle meows and nudges his bowl. Right. Food. His routine matters, even if my brain feels like it’s been put through a blender. I manage to scoop out his meal, though I’m shaking enough that some of it spills. He forgives me instantly and digs in, happy as ever.
I press my forehead to the cabinet just to feel something that isn’t heat. When I push myself upright, my palms slip a little. My skin is damp, but not from water. It feels like my body is begging, like every nerve is reaching for something.
My phone buzzes across the room. The sound rattles through me. I crawl again, partly because standing is too much and partly because the floor feels good, cooling me just enough to think.
I grab my phone and blink at the screen.
No calls from Amara. Great. She must still be asleep. Surges hit her harder than anyone I know. She always needs half a day just to return to herself.
But there are missed calls from June.
Panic slices through the haze.
Work. I forgot work.
