Finch
Itold myself I wouldn’t come back.
Five months ago, I stood in the shower with the water cranked up way too hot, scrubbing at my skin until it was red and raw, just trying to get his scent off me. Spoiler: it didn’t work. Three days later, I could still smell him on my wrists when I rolled over in bed. That mix of dark honey and clove, and something else I can’t even name. Not really a smell, more like a feeling. Like being claimed, or just knowing you belong to someone before you even realize it.
I kept telling myself I was done in the weeks after, even when my hands shook during fourth period and I had to grip my desk just to stay upright. All it took was a memory of his scent and my knees would nearly give out in front of a bunch of eleven-year-olds. The first solo heat two months later was hell. My body had something to compare it to now, and it wouldn’t let me forget it. Toys didn’t help. My own hands didn’t help. Nothing worked because nothing was him, and my body knew it, loud and clear.
The second solo heat was even worse. I called in sick for three days. My coworker left soup outside my door, and I just lay there crying into a pillow that didn’t smell like anything. Just empty.
I kept telling myself I wasn’t going back. I didn’t need it. I didn’t need him. If it ever got that bad, any alpha would do. Not that it’s gotten that bad. I’m fine.
So now it’s eleven at night on a Thursday, and I’m standing outside Knot Club in pants that are already getting damp. Clearly, I’m not fine. I was never fine. The whole 'any alpha will do' thing? Biggest lie I’ve told myself since 'I can handle my heats alone.' I sat in my car for forty-five minutes arguing with myself about it, but let’s be real, my body always wins. I’m just the last one to admit it.
The beta at the door recognizes me. I can tell because she looks up from her clipboard and her eyes linger on me just a little too long, and her mouth almost smiles. She doesn’t say anything, though. No 'welcome back,' no 'long time no see.' That’s not how it works here. They just check you in, hand you a mask, and let you walk right back into the mess you swore you’d never touch again.
“Heat?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
She checks her list, taps something on her tablet, and hands me a mask. Matte black, full face, the elastic already stretched out. Same kind I wore last time. Same kind that let me hide my face while I begged some stranger to fuck me.
My hands shake as I pull the mask on. The elastic snaps against my head and suddenly I’m nobody again. Just another omega with slick on his thighs and a heat he can’t handle alone. I should feel free, right? Last time I did, for about thirty seconds, until everything went to shit.
The bass hits me first. It’s low and heavy, vibrating up through the floor and right into my chest. I’ve only been in this roomonce before, but my body remembers it. Not the layout, just the feeling. The air feels different here, heavy on my skin. Even before my eyes adjust, I’m already flushed, my nipples tight, cock thickening in my jeans, slick pooling between my legs all over again.
The floor is alive. It always is on heat night. That’s the whole point of this place. Knowing that and actually standing here are two different things, though. Blue and purple lights cut through the dark. Bodies everywhere, moving together, tangled up. The sounds hit me next—moans, skin slapping, a low growl that makes the hair on my arms stand up. The bass is still there, steady like a heartbeat. Beta staff just move through it all, calm and professional, like they’re stocking shelves or something. One with a shaved head is picking up empty glasses near the bar, stepping right over a puddle of slick without even looking down.
I don’t go any farther in. Not yet. I just hang out by the entrance, back against the wall, trying to breathe through my mouth so the pheromones don’t hit me so hard. Doesn’t help. The air is thick with scent—alpha musk, omega heat, sex, and something darker I can’t even name. Just a whole room full of people desperate enough to end up here. My heat reacts instantly, like someone hit a tuning fork inside me. Everything’s buzzing.
I scan the room. I’m not looking for him. Seriously, I’m not. I’m just looking for anyone—any alpha with a strong enough scent to drag me onto the floor and get me through this heat. Then I can go home, pretend I’m fine, and try to make it another five months without this shit.
There are alphas everywhere. One huge guy in the middle of the floor, shirtless and covered in tattoos, and his scent is so strong I can practically taste it—metallic and hot. Two more by the bar, both lean, both watching the room like they know exactly what they’re doing. In an alcove, an alpha and an omegaare already locked together, the omega’s legs wrapped tight around the alpha’s waist, mouth open against his neck, making noises that barely sound human. Near the stairs, another alpha is circling an omega who looks about ready to fall over, hands pressed to his thighs like he’s trying to keep himself together.
Any of them would do. Any alpha with a knot and a heartbeat could get me through this. My body doesn’t care about the details. It just wants to be full, knotted, held down, and—
No. That’s bullshit. My body knows exactly what it wants, and it’s been stuck on the same thing for five months. That’s the whole fucking problem.
I push off the wall and step farther in. The pheromones hit harder, and my heat cranks up another notch. I’m so slick now I can feel it on my thighs, hot and messy. An alpha by the bar turns my way. His scent hits me—pine, clean, sharp—and my body reacts like I’ve been dying of thirst and someone just handed me a glass of water. Good enough. Close enough. He steps toward me, I step toward him, and my body is screamingyes, this will work, this will get you through the night—
Then I smell it.
It’s not coming from in front of me. It’s behind me, off to the left, somewhere near the bar or the wall—somewhere I wasn’t looking, because I was trying so damn hard not to look for this. That same dark honey and clove, and that thing underneath I can’t name. The scent I’ve been catching on my own skin for five months, in the shower, on my pillow, on my wrists at three in the morning when I wake up hard and reaching for someone who isn’t there.
My whole body just stops.
Like someone yanked the power cord. The pine-scented alpha in front of me? Gone. The floor, the bass, everything else? Gone. Every scent in the room collapses into one, and my body justknows, like it’s always known, and I was an idiot for pretending otherwise:
Him.
The heat slams into me all at once. Not the slow build I’ve been fighting all night—just instant, full-body overload. My vision whites out at the edges. Slick pours out of me so fast it soaks through my jeans, hot and humiliating and impossible to stop. My cock gets hard so fast it hurts. My hole clenches on nothing, and my knees buckle. I reach for something to hold onto and miss.
I’m on my knees on the concrete floor at Knot Club, coming just from a scent.
It’s not even a real orgasm. Not like when you’re knotted, not that long, drawn-out thing. It’s just a wave—sharp, fast, ripping through me from the inside out. My cock jerks in my jeans and I come, not much, just enough to make the wet spot worse. My whole body shudders, and I let out this choked, desperate moan that bounces off the walls. And yeah, people definitely heard it. People are looking.
The beta with the shaved head appears beside me. She doesn’t touch me, just crouches to my eye level, and her voice is calm and professional.
“You okay? Can you stand?”
