Asa
Fuck.
The heat coiling in the pit of my belly isn’t supposed to be there. It’s mostly just inconvenient, because knowing something’s wrong does absolutely nothing to fix the biological momentum of an Omega who hasn't been properly knotted in three years.
As if there’s an F-Class Esper running around looking for a match. As if.
Which is how I end up spending the morning in my office, pretending I haven’t coated my slick underwear for the third time in the last hour. The hardest part is trying to keep a straight face and ignore how much my body wants a knot.
I’m not doing it well, obviously, but effort should count for something.
There are half-graded probability exams spread across my desk, and I’ve been staring at the same wrong answer long enough that I should either mark it incorrect or start charging it rent.
Instead, I’m sitting perfectly still because every time I move, my underwear shifts against my cock, reminding me that I should have called out today.
The suppressants should’ve handled this.
I took them at six this morning with lukewarm coffee and the usual bitter little prayer that modern medicine might do its job.
They’re supposed to soften the edges of my cycle, keep my scent under control, and keep the slick from becoming a professional liability.
I’m not asking for euphoria. I’m not even asking for comfort.
I’m asking to make it through office hours without smelling like I’m one bad decision away from climbing into someone’s lap.
Apparently, that’s too ambitious.
My scent keeps slipping through the blockers in soft, irritating waves of pear and vanilla.
Usually, it’s mild enough to ignore unless someone’s standing too close, which I’ve spent most of my adult life making sure no one does.
Today, it’s sweet enough that I keep glancing at the door like the hallway might notice.
I check the time.
Ten-fifteen.
My lecture starts in twenty minutes.
Wonderful.
I should be calculating the variance of a discrete random variable, not calculating whether I have enough time between classes to sprint to my condo, take a cold shower, change my underwear, and get back before the Dean notices I’ve gone feral.
I stand too fast and have to grab the edge of my desk until the room stops tilting to the left.
The dizziness passes, but the heat doesn’t.
It swells in my belly, spreading out to limbs and up my neck until my cheeks feel like they’re on fire.
My heat isn’t actually due for another two weeks but these symptoms...
I grab my blazer and shove my arms into the sleeves, hoping the heavy wool will act as a secondary containment unit.
Unfortunately, the moment I get into the lecture hall, I realize how bad of an idea this really is.
Most of the students are Alphas, a good portion of them also Espers, their energy swarming around me in waves.
I move to the front, my tablet trembling slightly in my grip, and launch into the syllabus.
"If the probability of me finishing this lecture without crying is zero point five," I say, leaning against the lectern to hide the way my knees are shaking, "and the probability of you understanding the homework is zero point two, the joint probability of us all failing together is impressively high. "
They laugh, the sound buying me another ten minutes of focus.
But every time I move, I can feel the slickness between my thighs, a cold, humiliating reminder of what I’m trying to ignore.
My clothes feel two sizes too small. By the time the clock finally hits twelve, I’m one bad pheromone shift away from crawling out of my own skin.
Mira is waiting for me at the small cafe near the quad, already sitting at our usual corner table, a latte in front of her and her tablet open to a research paper.
She doesn't even look up when I approach, but I see her nose twitch.
She's a B-Class Guide, which means she has the annoying professional habit of clocking every change in pulse and scent before I’ve even pulled out my chair.
"You smell like a bakery fire, Asa," she says, finally looking up. Her eyes are sharp, and entirely too observant. "Sit down before you vibrate into another dimension."
"I'm fine," I lie, sinking into the chair. The plastic is hard and unforgiving, and for a second, I just want to put my head on the table and stay there until next month. "Just a little behind on my grading. The students are particularly dense this semester."
Mira gives me the look she reserves for grad students who claim they started their thesis before midnight.
She leans across the table, her own scent acting like a mild stabilizer, though it isn't enough to kill the ache in my chest. She reaches out and taps my wrist, her fingers lingering on the frantic pulse point there.
"Your suppressants are failing," she states softly. "You've got the restless eye, the slick-lean, and you’re blushing really bad. When was the last time you checked your levels?"
"This morning. They were... acceptable-ish." I try to make it sound funny, a little joke between colleagues. "Maybe the batch was bad. Or maybe my body has finally decided that thirty-two is the age where it demands a mid-life crisis in the form of a catastrophic heat."
Mira doesn't laugh. She watches me for a long beat, her expression softening into something more maternal than I’m comfortable with.
Outside, a siren wails, a long, mournful sound that echoes off the glass buildings of the university.
It’s the third one this hour. Redbrook is on edge, the air charged with the static of the failing nodes, and I can feel the city’s instability feeding my own.
"It's the nodes, Asa," she whispers, leaning closer so the nearby students won't hear. "The stray power in the city is spiking, which is messing with everyone’s cycles. There was another report this morning, a group of flare-sick civilians tried to tear down a transit gate near the East District. They’re saying the usual prescribed suppressants aren't holding the Espers, either. "
I pick at the edge of my napkin, tearing a small strip of paper away. "I’m F-Class, Mira. I’m supposed to be immune to this kind of drama. That’s the one perk of being useless to the ESA, I shouldn't be sensitive enough to feel a node failure three miles away."
"Maybe the system was wrong about you," she says.
She says it often, and usually, I shut her down with a joke about my dismal test scores.
Today, I don't have the energy. "But regardless of why it's happening, you’re miserable. You’re shaking, Asa.
If you don't take care of this, you’re going to hit a full heat in the middle of a faculty meeting, and Marcus Walsh is not the kind of Alpha you want to be around when that happens. "
I shudder at the thought. Miller smells like old cigars and ego. "I’ll go home. I’ll double the dose and hide in my nest for forty-eight hours. It’ll pass."
"It won't," Mira says firmly. She pulls a small, embossed card from her bag and slides it across the table. It’s heavy, cream-colored cardstock with a minimalist logo of an interlocking sun and moon. "You need something stronger than a pill. You need a real grounding."
I stare at the card. Vesper House. I know the name, of course.
Everyone in Redbrook knows it. It’s the clinic where the high-class Omegas go to manage their heats with pre-screened Alphas, and where the elite Espers go to bleed off their rut pressure before they burn out.
It’s expensive, exclusive, and intensely clinical.
"Mira, I’m an associate professor," I hiss, sliding the card back toward her. "I don't sign up to be fucked through a clinic wall by a stranger while a doctor takes notes. I have dignity. Or at least, I have a very specific type of academic pride that precludes this."
"Pride is not a treatment plan," she counters, shoving the card back.
"Vesper House isn't a brothel, Asa. It’s a specialized medical facility. They do blood compatibility, scent screening, and energy matching. They pair you with someone whose power pull can actually hit deep enough to reset your system. Look at you. You’re starving. Not for sex—for a synchronization."
I look down at my hands. They are trembling. The ache under my skin isn't just a physical itch; it’s a hollow, hungry feeling, like my very cells are reaching out for something to anchor them. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt truly, terrifyingly Omega.
"Espers use it," Mira continues, her voice low and persuasive. "The S-Class ones who can't find a Guide strong enough to hold them. They go there when they’re on the verge of a blowout. And Omegas like you, ones who have been suppressed for too long, go there when the pills stop working. It’s safe. It’s anonymous. And it’s effective. "
"It sounds like a disaster waiting to happen," I mutter, but I don't push the card away this time. I pick it up, the edges crisp against my thumb. "What if the matching is wrong? What if I get some Alpha who thinks he’s a god because his power index is over eight hundred?"
"Then you leave. You’re in control the whole time.
But Asa... look at the news." She gestures to the screen behind the counter, where a live feed shows a plume of black smoke rising from the industrial district.
"The city is failing. The ESA is losing their grip. If you go into a full, unanchored heat now, you’re vulnerable.
Being anonymous at Vesper House is safer than being exposed out here. "
I look at the screen. Silas, the leader of the Unbound, is giving a grainy interview in front of a flickering suppression node.
He looks tired, his eyes hard and full of a jagged, dangerous truth.
He’s talking about the government burying stray power, about the city being built on a graveyard of energy that’s finally starting to wake up.
He calls it a systemic failure. I call it a Tuesday in Redbrook.
I look back at the card, thinking about my condo, and the quiet, sterile rooms where I’ve lived my quiet, sterile life.
I think about the nest I haven't touched in months, the blankets that smell like nothing but laundry detergent.
The thought of going back there alone, with this fever burning through me, feels like a death sentence.
"I'm not saying I'll go," I say, tucking the card into my blazer pocket. "I'm just saying I'll look at the website. For research. For... statistical analysis of their success rates."
Mira grins, and for the first time today, the tension in her shoulders drops. "Of course. Purely academic. Just don't wait until you’re licking the doorframes, Asa. The intake process isn’t instant."
I stand up, and walk back to my office, before waking up my computer and typing in the link from the card.
I enter my designation, convinced this is the worst idea I’ve ever had, but as the fever pulses in my neck, I know I’m going to do it.
One anonymous night of relief sounds much safer than letting this hunger eat me alive from the inside out.
I hit submit, and for a second, the humming in the air seems to settle into a single, low note of anticipation.
A notification from Vesper House vibrates across my phone a moment later: Your compatibility match is complete. Appointment confirmed for 16:00. Please arrive thirty minutes early for scent neutralization.
I stare at the screen, the blue light reflected in my wide, dark eyes.
Three hours from now. I close my eyes and try to imagine the stranger who will meet me there.
Will they be kind? Will they be rough? Will they be able to reach the places where the suppressants have failed?
I don't even care about their name. I just want the weight of them. I want the silence that comes when I’m knotted and full and...
A small moan slips through my lips as I turn off my phone screen and refocus on one of the tests on my table. I just have to hold on for a few hours.
My cock currently tenting my pants tells me I may not be able to wait that long.