Cassidy
Iknow something’s wrong before I even open my eyes.
Everything hurts.
Not enough to make me panic that I’m dying.
But enough that everything feels wrong.
I’m too warm. My muscles too tight.
I groan into the pillow, burrowing deeper beneath the blankets, chasing the cool patch of pillow from where nobody has been lying on them for a little while.
The sheets are warm beneath me, the duvet feels unbearably heavy, and even the soft cotton of my pyjamas seems to cling to me in all the wrong places.
This is horrible. Maybe I’m coming down with something.
That would be typical for me.
The campaign launches, everyone survives the fallout of the leak, and it’s now our first day off for a few weeks for my upcoming heat.
What a perfect time for me to get ill.
I crack one eye open, squinting at the soft winter light creeping around the curtains, and can’t help the whine that slips free.
It’s too bright for my fuzzy head.
I rub my face with both hands before pushing myself upright, immediately regretting it as a wave of heat rolls through me so quickly I think I’m going to throw up.
“What’s going on, shortcake?” Isaac asks, propping himself up on one elbow, sleep still softening his features.
I crack an eye open, seeing him lazing in the bed, looking very relaxed and healthy.
I have no right to be jealous.
“I’m okay,” I lie, my voice sounding rough and dry. “I just need a minute.”
My throat doesn’t hurt. My nose isn’t blocked. No symptoms of a cold, other than the aching muscles.
Am I warm? Am I hot, even? I’ll need to find a thermometer.
I throw the duvet off with considerably more force than necessary, only to shiver a second later as the cooler air brushes my skin.
Oh, I hate this part of being poorly.
I sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, elbows on my knees, waiting for my body to decide what it’s doing.
“You’re worrying me, shortcake.” Isaac moves towards me, rubbing my back in a soothing pattern.
Something warm unfurls beneath my skin, lower this time, in my core.
I squeeze my eyes shut as the feeling intensifies, the pain coming along with it.
“Do you feel sick?” Isaac asks. “You’re burning up. Do you want to try moving through to the bathroom? I can run a cold shower and get you some—”
“Why would I want a cold shower when I’m sick?” I interrupt.
I feel his confusion slam into me, and it causes another wave of nausea to roll through me.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to calm my annoying body down.
“Isn’t this… Cass, love, you do know this is just a heat flare-up, right?” Isaac says carefully.
“No,” I whisper. “This is me being poorly after a very stressful few weeks. Now that we’ve stopped, everything is just catching up to me.”
“I see,” he says carefully.
I force myself to my feet, even though standing doesn’t help.
I sway as another wave of heat crashes through me. My skin prickles with sweat, and I grip the edge of the mattress.
“Cassidy,” Isaac’s voice is soft but insistent. “Let’s not try to fight against this, okay? Your heat is due tomorrow. It makes sense that this is just an early onset. Your body knows what’s coming.”
I shake my head, my damp hair clinging to my flushed cheeks. “It’s too early. I’m due tomorrow. It never starts early. This is just a sickness, okay?”
Isaac stands, moving to face me. His expression holds no judgement, just patient understanding that makes me want to scream.
My pyjama top brushes against my waist as I move, and I tug it away with a frown. Why is everything touching me? Why is it so uncomfortable?
Isaac steps closer, and his scent hits me like a wave—warm, familiar, safe. I breathe him in before I even realise I’m doing it, a deep ache settling between my thighs that I try desperately to ignore.
“Do you need the bathroom or anything?” Isaac asks, and there’s an edge of concern in his voice. “If not, we can go downstairs. Have some food.”
He’s acting like I’m a wounded animal. Like I might break apart if he says the wrong thing. I hate it.
I hate how much I hate it.
“I’m fine,” I snap, pushing past him towards the door. My legs feel like they belong to someone else, heavy and uncoordinated. “I just need to move. Get some air.”
I grimace, padding barefoot into the en-suite, chasing somewhere cooler. The tiles are blissfully cool beneath my feet, and I’m tempted to lay down and press my entire body into the chill.
I stand there for a moment longer than I probably should, letting the chill seep into my soles before I lean over the sink and splash cold water across my face.
The water is shockingly cold against my overheated skin, and I gasp, gripping the porcelain sink. My reflection stares back at me—flushed cheeks, dark circles under my eyes, hair plastered to my forehead with sweat.
See? I’m perfectly—oh, fuck.
The relief lasts all of three seconds before the warmth blooms again beneath my skin, chasing the cold away as though it had never been there.
I brush my teeth, mostly because routine feels reassuring, and because if I keep moving then maybe I won’t notice whatever strange hormonal nonsense my body has decided to throw at me this morning.
The toothpaste tastes wrong. Too minty. Too sharp. I spit it out and rinse my mouth, trying to ignore the way my hand trembles as I set the toothbrush back in its holder.
I can’t cope with this being my morning.
I need it to get better. I need this illness to disappear quickly.
When I straighten, another wave of heat crashes through me, and I grip the sink edge harder, knuckles turning white. My body is betraying me, and I can’t make it stop.
“Cassidy?” Isaac’s voice comes from the doorway, soft and hesitant.
“I’m fine,” I snap, though the words come out strained. “Just give me a minute.”
The ache between my thighs intensifies as I get a hint of his scent, and my mouth goes dry. My body is responding to him in ways I can’t control, and it’s humiliating.
I let out a huff of air and move out of the bathroom. Isaac’s hovering on the other side of the door, but I can’t acknowledge him right now.
Not when I’m looking around this too big bedroom with none of my things. I’m not ready for this to be here, not in this state. This isn’t my space. Not yet. Not properly.
“Cassidy,” Isaac says again, following me as I move toward the door. “Where are you going?”
“My nesting room,” I mutter, not even thinking about the words until they’re already out of my mouth. “This is awful in here.”
“Okay. Do you… do you want me to come with you?” he asks, keeping his voice soft and non-threatening.
I hesitate at the doorway, my hand gripping the frame. My nesting room—the one I prepared weeks ago, the one that’s going to be where I spend my heat is perfect. It’s full of soft things and has perfect lighting and the scents are all mine to control.
I need to get there. Now.
“Cassidy?” Isaac’s voice is gentle but insistent.
I turn back, my vision blurring slightly. “Yes. Come with me. But only if you’re going to help.”
I don’t wait for his answer, moving down the hallway on unsteady legs. There’s an urge pulling me down the corridor, uncaring about how I feel.
The nesting room door is slightly ajar when I reach it, and I push it open with trembling fingers. Morning light spills softly across the blankets I’d spent weeks arranging.
The scent hits me first, and my shoulders loosen before I can stop them—a rich tapestry woven from dark-roast coffee and the sweet, buttery crumble of a strawberry tart just pulled from the oven.
Fuck, I need them all here.
I need my alphas. I need Isaac. I need to get inside my nest.
But looking at it now, I know it’s not ready for my heat. I need to make some adjustments, prepare it properly for the time we’re going to spend in here.
I need it to be perfect.
“Cassidy,” Isaac says softly, hovering in the doorway behind me. “Let me help you.”
I turn to face him, my body trembling with a need I can’t name. “The blankets need to be changed. These are too soft.”
I tug at them, pulling them away from the carefully arranged nest in the corner of the room. My fingers feel clumsy, desperate.
“These are the wrong ones,” I say, voice tight. “I need the blue ones from the basket. The ones with the… with the…”
I can’t remember what texture I want, only that these aren’t right.
That if these are what I have to have my heat with, it’ll be a terrible heat.
Isaac moves towards the basket in the corner, crouching beside the neatly stacked blankets, his movements calm and unhurried. I hate how composed he looks when everything inside me is fracturing.
“The blue ones with the satin edging?” he asks, holding one up for my inspection.
“No,” I snap, grabbing it from his hands. The texture is all wrong. Can’t he see? “This is all wrong.”
I throw the blanket aside and move closer to the basket myself. My fingers are trembling as I dig through it, searching for something perfect.
Isaac stands beside me, his movements deliberate and careful as he reaches up and grabs something off the shelf. “What about this one?”
Relief fills me.
“That’s it,” I breathe, snatching the soft cream-coloured throw from his hands.
The texture is exactly right—not too smooth, not too rough, just heavy enough to quiet something restless inside me. My fingers curl into the fabric as I bring it to my face, inhaling deeply.
“This one is perfect,” I whisper, tears filling my eyes as I look back up at Isaac. “I’m so sorry that I’ve been so rude. I love you, Isa. I love you so much.”
Isaac’s expression softens, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I know, shortcake. I know you do. I’m not upset. You’re not being rude. You’re just struggling.”
Struggling.
Struggling.
The word hits me like a physical blow. I’m not struggling. I’m just… preparing.
This is what omegas do before a heat. Everything has to be perfect.
I turn away from Isaac, clutching the perfect blanket to my chest as I move towards my nest. He helps me arrange the blanket in the nest, his movements careful and precise.