18. First Heat Approaching #4
I want to say something to defuse it, some joke about how the last time someone forbade me from sex it was an abstinence assembly in tenth grade, but the words stick in my throat. My hands turn restless, fingers drumming the table until they trip over each other. No one laughs, not even me.
The urge to confess is overwhelming. My body’s a disaster zone, a demolition site trying to grow new life in the rubble, and I want them to know—not just the embarrassing hormonal part but the actual, core-of-me part. That they make me feel like someone who could be loved, not just repaired.
Instead of saying any of this, I lock eyes with Cole, and the kitchen tilts slightly on its axis. It’s like we’re the only two people in the universe for a moment, the others reduced to background radiation.
He opens his mouth, then closes it. He’s waiting to see if I’ll say anything, and I’m waiting to see if I’ll survive the next minute without combusting.
And then, because reality is always stranger and hornier than fiction, Luna chooses this moment to crawl into the kitchen—an adorable eight-month-old in pink overalls, blue ribbons in her hair, and the kind of smile that could melt glaciers.
She shimmies determinedly across the tile, ignores the gathering of grownups, and settles right at my knees, grabbing my ankle with both chubby fists.
The spell breaks.
“Oh my god, she’s crawling?” I’m half out of my chair before I realize it.
“Started last week,” Austin says, voice soft and impossibly proud. “She likes coming into the kitchen to check on us. Or maybe she just likes the smells.”
“She’s a future chef,” adds River, his own voice returning to its usual mellow cadence. “Or a professional food thief.”
Maverick finally glances down, meets my gaze for just long enough to flash a crooked half-smile, and then looks away. “She’s got good instincts. Knows where the action is.”
I lean down and scoop Luna onto my lap, letting her tug on my fingers with surprising strength. It helps, grounding me in the present and making the charged air just a little easier to breathe.
“She’s perfect,” I murmur, and I’m not just talking about the baby.
Wendolyn swoops in, snapping a photo on her phone. “Look at you, already nesting!” she crows. “Told you it would come naturally.”
I want to roll my eyes at her, but I can’t. Not when she looks so genuinely happy for me, for all of us. There’s a lightness in the room now, the kind that only happens after something very heavy is admitted out loud.
I look up at the men—my men, if I’m honest with myself for once—and see that the tension has shifted. It’s not gone, but it’s changed flavor.
It’s hope, threaded with longing and a little fear. It’s the recognition of something rare and new.
I could get used to this.
The silence that follows is profound. Austin makes a sound like he's been punched. River turns back to the stove with movements too precise to be natural. Mavi stares at the ceiling like it holds the secrets of the universe.
And Cole... Cole's hands grip the back of my chair hard enough that the wood creaks.
"We can do that," Cole says finally, voice steady despite the white knuckles. "Whatever you need to be safe."
"It's not about what we want," River adds quietly, stirring with excessive focus. "Your health comes first."
"Even if what we want is..." Austin trails off, then physically shakes himself. "No. Medical restrictions are absolute. We've done harder things than keep our hands to ourselves for two days or as long as we need to."
"Have we though?" Mavi mutters, earning a dish towel to the face from River.
"The doctor was very clear," I manage, trying to ignore how my body responds to their struggle. How some primitive part of me preens at affecting them so strongly. "No scent marking, no prolonged contact, no..." I gesture vaguely, unable to say the words.
"No making you scream our names into pillows," Wendolyn supplies with unholy glee. "No finding out what other surfaces in this house can support two bodies. Or discovering if Willa's a biter when she comes."
"Jesus Christ," Mavi groans, covering his face.
"Wendolyn," Cole warns, but his voice catches on her name.
"What? We're all thinking it." She bites into an apple with a satisfied crunch. "The pheromones in here are thick enough to bottle. Could probably make an online business selling this stuff like aromatherapy perfume and become a millionaire faster than you lot get cracking on making my girl your Omega wife.” I’m choking on my own saliva, Luna looking at me with delight as she giggles at my coughing fit.
“Might as well acknowledge the four of you want to worship Willa like the goddess she is, but can't because modern medicine requires patience. "
Ugh.
She may be grilling us — or more so them — but at the end of the day, she’s hitting the center of the darting board.
"Not helping," Austin says through gritted teeth.
"I disagree," I find myself saying, surprising everyone, including myself. "Acknowledging it makes it... less. If we pretend the attraction isn't there, it gets bigger. But if we can laugh about it, maybe we can survive two days."
River turns from the stove, something soft and amazed in his expression.
"You're remarkable, you know that?"
His praise makes my head spin, but I try not to fully grasp how his pride makes me feel.
"For needing medical care?" I try to deflect, but he shakes his head.
"For facing it head-on. For trusting us to respect the boundaries. For being brave enough to admit what's between us, even when you can't act on it."
The words settle over me like a blanket, warm and encompassing.
Because he's right—I am trusting them.
Trusting them to honor my medical needs over their obvious desire. I trust them not to use my vulnerability against me. Trusting them to be the men I'm starting to believe they are.
"Lunch is ready," River announces, breaking the moment before it can get too heavy. "And everyone needs to eat, hormones or no hormones."
We settle around the table, careful to maintain space but unable to stop the lingering glances, the accidental brushes of fingers when passing dishes.
The meal is delicious—some kind of stir-fry that River apparently learned from his grandmother—but I barely taste it through the awareness thrumming in my veins.
Two days. Forty-eight hours of this exquisite torture, surrounded by men who look at me like I'm precious and untouchable in equal measure.
Men who respect my boundaries even as their bodies scream to cross them. Men who might—if I'm brave enough, if we're all brave enough—become something more than employers when those forty-eight hours are up.
"So," Wendolyn says around a mouthful of rice, "who wants to help plan Willa's first nesting experience? Because that's happening this weekend, medical restrictions or no medical restrictions."
And just like that, the tension breaks into something manageable. We're still aware—God, are we aware—but we're also a family of sorts, planning and teasing and existing in this space between what is and what might be.
Two days. I can survive two days.
Probably.