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The worst part is, he’s not wrong.

It feels unfair somehow, not because they’re attractive.

Well…partly because of that.

Mostly because I’m starting to notice the quiet stuff now, too. The way Clint always double-checks the gates, the way Tripp checks the water line, or how Briggs pretends not to care, while somehow always noticing when I’ve gone too long without eating.

The problem is, my body is still acting up in a way I can’t explain away anymore. At first, I could blame coming here, chores, rodeo exhaustion, bar stupidity, whatever.

Except now my shirt feels too warm, sticking to my skin until I’m tugging at the fabric every few minutes, and my stomach feels crampy.

A gate slams somewhere behind me and I jump hard enough to swear.

“Jesus Christ.”

“You okay?”

I glance up to find Clint watching me from a few feet away, brow pulled slightly while concern settles onto his face so naturally it almost catches me off guard.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Mom.”

His mouth twitches. “You seem off.”

“I’m tired,” I mutter finally.

Clint glances toward the house, then back at me. “You slept half the afternoon.”

“Thank you,” I deadpan. “That helps.”

That earns me the corner of a smile before he nudges a water bottle toward me.

“Drink.”

“You’re bossy.”

“You’re dramatic.”

I take the water, because my throat suddenly feels dry.

Definitely not because the alpha told me to.

By dinner, I feel like I could explode at any second. Every noise and movement has me irritated and wanting to yell. Even the smell of dinner feels overwhelming, mixing with coffee and vanilla when Clint moves around behind me, key lime when Tripp drops into the chair beside me, banana cream settling in when Briggs brushes past close enough that my skin prickles.

Too much; everything feels like too much.

I poke at my food more than eat it.

Tripp notices first. “You dying?”

I look up slowly. “Little dramatic.”

“You’ve been weird all day.”

“I’m always weird.”