Chapter 18
Mistletoe & Medicine
~REVERIE~
"You're all clear."
Those three words make my entire body sag with relief so powerful I actually feel dizzy with it.
All clear. No brain damage. No internal bleeding. No catastrophic injury that's going to ruin my life more than it's already semi-ruined by poverty and bad decisions and terrible ex-packs.
I was so worried.
Spent the entire car ride here catastrophizing about worst-case scenarios. What if I had bleeding on the brain? What if I needed surgery I couldn't afford? What if there was permanent damage and I couldn't work and lost my apartment and ended up homeless?
But I'm okay. I'm actually okay.
The universe decided to cut me a break for once.
Dr. Eloise Chen smiles at me from behind her desk, her warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that makes you immediately trust someone.
She's in her forties, Omega based on her lavender-honey scent that's subtle and professional, with black hair pulled back in a neat bun that doesn't have a single strand out of place.
Her white coat is crisp and clean, somehow managing to look both authoritative and approachable at the same time—like she could discuss serious medical issues or your favorite TV show with equal ease.
Her office is surprisingly cozy for a medical space.
Soft lighting from desk lamps instead of harsh overhead fluorescents that make everyone look half-dead.
Comfortable cushioned chairs instead of those awful plastic ones that make your butt go numb after five minutes.
The walls are painted a warm cream color instead of institutional white, with framed degrees and certifications arranged tastefully between watercolor paintings of flowers.
There are Christmas decorations tastefully arranged on the shelves between medical textbooks with intimidating titles and anatomical models that look vaguely creepy.
A string of colored lights frames one bookshelf.
Small ornaments dangle from a decorative tree branch in a vase.
There's even a small potted Christmas tree in the corner—maybe two feet tall—with twinkling white lights and tiny silver ornaments.
It makes the space feel less clinical. Less scary. Like you're visiting a friend who happens to have a medical degree instead of going to the doctor which is always stressful even when nothing is wrong.
"Just continue to take the prescribed medicine for the migraines," she continues, writing something on a prescription pad.
"Anti-inflammatories twice daily with food.
And if you notice any changes in your personality, mood swings, confusion, sensitivity to light or sound—anything out of the ordinary—I want you to come back immediately. Head injuries can be tricky."
"Thank you," I say, grabbing my purse from the chair beside me. Relief is flooding through me so strongly I feel light-headed. "Thank you so much."
She hands me a small paper bag with the medication inside. "You're very welcome. You were lucky—the bump is significant but no concussion symptoms beyond the headache. Your vitals are strong. Just take it easy for a few days."
Take it easy. Right. I'll just tell my landlord that I need a few days off from worrying about the flooded apartment. I'll tell my bank account that bills can wait. I'll tell my boss that I can't work shifts this week because I need to rest. Sure. Easy.
But I don't say any of that. Just smile and nod like a normal person who doesn't have constant financial anxiety.
Dr. Chen leans back in her chair, studying me with a look that's too knowing for comfort. "I didn't know you had a pack, Reverie. You never mentioned it in your previous visits."
Previous visits. Right. I've been here before—for my yearly checkup, for prescriptions, for that time I had the flu and couldn't afford urgent care. But I've always been alone. Always just me filling out forms with 'no pack' checked in the appropriate box.
"Oh, um. It's... new?" I offer weakly, feeling heat creep up my neck.
Her smile turns knowing—maybe even a little amused. "They seem very protective of you." She gestures toward the window that looks out into the waiting room.
I slowly glance that direction through the window that looks out into the waiting room and immediately want to laugh at what I see.
The three of them are sitting in the waiting room like gargoyles guarding a medieval cathedral from invaders. Like they're personally responsible for the safety of every person in this building and taking that job very, very seriously.
Theo is leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his olive eyes tracking every person who walks past with military precision.
He looks like he's ready to fight anyone who comes too close to Dr. Chen's office door.
His posture screams 'trained killer on high alert' and I'm pretty sure he's made three separate people change their walking paths to avoid him.
Nash is sprawled in his chair with deceptive casualness—one ankle crossed over his knee, arms folded across his chest—but his eyes are locked on the hallway like he's tracking every movement with laser focus.
He's doing that thing where he looks relaxed but is actually coiled to spring into action.
I've seen guard dogs with less intense protective energy.
Grayson is trying to look casual and failing spectacularly.
He's sitting in the corner with a magazine—one of those generic waiting room magazines about gardening or home improvement—but he's holding it upside down and hasn't turned a page in the five minutes I've been watching.
His knee is bouncing with nervous energy and he keeps glancing at Dr. Chen's door like he's seriously considering just barging in to check on me.
They're absolutely making everyone in this office uncomfortable.
I can see it in the body language of the other patients.
The way people are giving them extremely wide berth.
The way the receptionist keeps glancing at them nervously and typing faster like she's trying very hard to look busy and non-threatening.
There's probably enough intimidating Alpha pheromones saturating that waiting room to make a Beta pass out from the sheer testosterone overload.
And they've only been here for like twenty minutes. Poor receptionist. Poor other patients. This is probably the most excitement this medical office has seen in months.
"Do you get that a lot?" I ask, turning back to Dr. Chen. "Overprotective Alphas in your waiting room?"
She laughs—a warm, genuine sound. "All the time.
It's Alpha nature to be overprotective assholes.
" She says it fondly, like she's dealt with this exact situation hundreds of times.
"But it's fine. Especially during the holiday season.
I'm sure they're worried about not ruining Christmas with injuries like slip-ups in the living room. "
I groan, covering my face with my hands. "Yeah. Slip-ups while practically naked."
The memory comes back in vivid detail. Standing in my doorway in nothing but a towel. Water everywhere. Three Alphas staring. Then running toward the bathroom and eating floor. Not my finest moment.
Dr. Chen laughs harder. "That's pretty spicy. But I'm glad you're okay. Head injuries are no joke."
She pulls up something on her computer, typing quickly with the efficient movements of someone who does this hundreds of times a day. "While you're here, I wanted to discuss your heat suppressants. I see your prescription lapsed about two weeks ago."
Oh. Right. My prescription that I can't afford to refill because I had to choose between suppressants and rent and rent won.
The one that ran out at literally the worst possible time and probably contributed to my recklessness at the bar.
To the way Theo's scent hit me so hard. To the impulsive decision to fuck him in a supply closet.
Not that I regret that decision. The supply closet thing was amazing. But it was definitely more impulsive than usual for me.
"Are you planning to continue them?" she asks, her tone carefully neutral in that way doctors have when they're trying not to influence your answer but definitely have an opinion.
"I—" I hesitate, fidgeting with the medicine bag in my hands. The paper crinkles loudly in the quiet office. "Honestly? I'm just waiting for my paycheck to pick up more. Money's been tight."
Way to sound pathetic, Reverie. Nothing says 'I'm a functioning adult' like admitting you can't afford basic medication that most Omegas take for granted. Let's just lay out all my financial struggles for the nice doctor to judge.
But actually, money has been really tight. Beyond tight.
I'm working double shifts at the bar when I can get them.
Picking up freelance social media work that doesn't pay well but pays something.
Eating ramen more nights than not. My bank account has been in double digits for weeks.
The suppressants cost eighty dollars a month and that's with insurance.
Without insurance they're over two hundred.
Eighty dollars doesn't sound like much. But when you're choosing between that and groceries, between that and the electric bill, between that and having enough gas money to get to work? It's everything.
It's the difference between scraping by and complete disaster.
But Dr. Chen doesn't judge. Doesn't give me that pitying look I've gotten from other medical professionals when discussing my financial situation. Just nods thoughtfully like I've said something completely normal. "What would you say if I told you I don't recommend refilling them right now?"
I blink at her, confused. "Really? Why not?"
Heat suppressants are standard for most Omegas. Especially ones without packs. They're how we function in society without going into Heat every three months and becoming vulnerable and needy and completely dependent on Alphas. Why would she not recommend them?