Chapter 20
TWENTY
PHOENIX
The door opens without a knock, and Mason appears with his arms full of supplies. Bottled water. Protein bars. A pile of blankets so tall I can barely see his face above them. He moves into the room like a man on a mission, already scanning the space and cataloging what needs to be done.
“The curtains need to be heavier,” he says, setting everything down on the writing desk. “I’ll see if they have blackout panels somewhere. And we should adjust the thermostat, you’ll want the room cooler than this.”
He’s in full lieutenant mode, ready to handle anything and everything without batting so much as an eyelash.
I watch him move around the room, pulling curtains tighter, checking the windows for drafts, arranging the water bottles in a neat row on the bedside table. His movements are precise but slightly too quick, his jaw set at an angle I recognize as carefully controlled emotion.
“Mason.”
He dumps a pile of blankets on the bed. “The attached bathroom has a good tub. That will help when things get intense. I’ll make sure you have fresh towels and—“
“Mason.”
“—I can see if Judah has a mini fridge that we can stock, so you don’t have to leave the room—“
“Mason.”
He finally stops. His back is to me, hands frozen on the blanket he has unfolded and refolded twice. His shoulders rise and fall with a single deep breath.
“Yes?”
The itch under my skin has become too impossible to ignore. “I think I need to make a nest now.”
“Oh, shit. Right.”
Mason moves without hesitation, gathering every soft thing within reach.
Pillows from the window seat. The duvet from the bed, heavy and cloud-like.
Extra blankets from the pile he brought earlier.
He works with the efficiency of someone who’s done this before—or at least researched it thoroughly—stacking everything in the center of the mattress.
I grab the nearest blanket and start rearranging, following some primal blueprint I didn’t know I had. The softest materials go in the center. The heavier ones form walls around the edges. Every piece needs to be positioned just so, creating a cocoon that feels safe and enclosed and right.
But something’s still missing.
I pick up a throw pillow and press it to my nose. It smells like lavender and dust and nothing. Nothing that matters. Nothing that will anchor me through the waves about to crash over my body.
“Mason.” My voice comes out smaller than I intended. “Can you…would you mind handling some of these?”
He freezes in the process of reaching for more supplies. “What?”
“The pillows. The blankets.” I gesture vaguely at the growing nest, embarrassment heating my already flushed cheeks. “I want them to smell like you.”
The request hangs in the silence between us. We both know what I’m asking. Having his scent woven through my nest means something. Means I want him here, surrounding me, even when he can’t physically be present.
Mason’s throat bobs as he swallows. His hands curl and uncurl at his sides.
“Phoenix, I don’t think—“
“Please.” The word scrapes out of me, raw and desperate. “I know it’s a lot to ask. I know things are complicated. But I can’t—I don’t want to go through this surrounded by nothing. By strangers’ laundry detergent and century-old dust.”
He stares at me for a long moment. I can see the war playing out behind his eyes—the careful boundaries he’s maintained for years fighting against whatever just happened between us. Against the truth we finally admitted out loud.
Then he crosses to the bed and picks up a blanket.
He doesn’t just hold it. He presses it against his chest, his neck, runs the fabric between his hands. Deliberate. Thorough. Transferring as much of his scent as possible while I watch, transfixed, my mouth going dry.
When he sets it down, the chamomile and black pepper notes wrap around me like an embrace.
“More,” I breathe.
He works through the pile systematically. Pillow after pillow pressed against his body. Blankets dragged across his shoulders, his arms, his torso. The intimacy of it makes my chest ache—watching him mark these things for me, watching him claim them as ours without either of us saying the word.
By the time he finishes, the nest smells like him. Like us. Like something I never knew I needed until this exact moment.
I climb into the center and start the final arrangement. Pillows here. Blankets there. The heavy duvet forming a cave I can retreat into when the waves hit hardest. Mason’s scent surrounds me on all sides, and something deep in my hindbrain finally, finally settles.
“This is the best nest I’ve ever made,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
It’s not even a contest. Every other heat, I’ve thrown together whatever was available—hotel pillows, scratchy blankets, nothing that felt like home. This feels like safety. Like sanctuary. Like Mason built it with his own hands just for me.
The warmth under my skin flares higher without warning.
One second I’m admiring my handiwork. The next, every inch of my body feels like it’s been set on fire.
My shirt is suddenly unbearable—too tight, too rough, too much against skin that’s gone hypersensitive.
I claw at the hem without thinking, yanking the fabric over my head and tossing it somewhere that isn’t touching me.
Cool air hits my bare stomach and I gasp with relief.
“Phoenix.” Mason’s voice comes from somewhere to my left, carefully controlled. “I’m going to turn around now.”
“Don’t leave.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “Please don’t leave me alone.”
A pause. Then: “I’m not leaving. I’m just… giving you privacy.”
I hear him shift, his back now facing me. Staying. Keeping his promise. Present without demanding anything in return.
Exactly like he always has been.
“Come here.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he turns to face me. His gray-blue eyes are carefully neutral, but there’s tension in the set of his mouth, the furrow between his brows.
“You should be resting,” he says. “The first wave will hit hardest and probably within less than an hour. It’ll be better if everything is ready.”
“Tell me what’s going on with you.”
He blinks. “Nothing is going on with me.”
“Bullshit.”
I watch his mask of calm flicker—just for a second—before it settles back into place.
“Phoenix, now isn’t the time—“
“Now is the only time.” I pat the bed beside me, ignoring the way my hand trembles slightly. “Sit.”
He hesitates. I can see the war playing out behind his eyes—the professional instinct to maintain boundaries fighting against something deeper. Something that’s been building between us for years, unacknowledged and unnamed.
Finally, he crosses to the bed and lowers himself onto the edge, keeping a careful distance between us.
But still close enough to touch.
Just having him next to me is a comfort. My heats typically involve spending the weekend alone, alternating between hot yoga exercises and brief bouts with the only vibrator I have with a knot attachment.
I’ve never had someone with me during my heat, particularly not another omega. The pheromones I’m pumping into the air would have most alphas climbing the walls by now, but Mason just sits there, steady as always and ready to help me.
If I could spend the rest of my life in this moment, I would.
“Thank you,” I say. “For doing all this.”
“It’s my job.”
“It’s more than your job and we both know it.”
His jaw tightens. “Phoenix—”
“I mean it.” The words come easier than they should, loosened by the heat building under my skin. Later, I’ll blame the hormones. Right now, I just need him to understand. “You take care of me. Better than anyone ever has. Better than I deserve.”
“You deserve—” He stops himself, shakes his head. “Don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what?”
“This.” He gestures vaguely between us. “The heat is affecting your judgment. You’re going to say things you don’t mean. Then next week you’ll be mortified, and I’ll have to pretend I don’t remember any of it.”
“Okay, but what if I do mean them?”
“C’mon, Phoenix.”
“I don’t feel anything for you right now that I didn’t already feel yesterday. And the day before that. And—spoiler alert—most of the days before that, too.”
The words land hard enough that I can practically see his mind short circuit. Mason goes very, very quiet.
I shift closer on the bed, drawn by something I don’t fully understand.
His scent wraps around me—chamomile and black pepper, familiar and strange all at once.
I’ve been breathing this scent for three years without ever really noticing it.
Now it fills my lungs like oxygen, essential and irreplaceable.
“You always deflect,” I say softly. “Every time I try to tell you what you mean to me, you change the subject or make a joke or find something else that needs to be handled.”
“Because you don’t mean it the way I need you to mean it.”
The confession slips out as if he didn’t actually intend to let it out. I watch his eyes widen, watch him realize what he’s said. His hand comes up like he wants to catch the words and shove them back into his mouth.
“Wait.” My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing. It means nothing.” He’s already standing, already putting distance between us. “The heat is affecting us both. I should go. I’ll make sure Atticus knows where everything is, and—“
“What do you need it to mean, Mason?”
He freezes with his back to me. I can see the tension in every line of his body—the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his hands have curled into fists at his sides.
The silence stretches.
I should let him go. Should let him retreat behind his professionalism, his careful boundaries. Should pretend I didn’t hear what he said, the way we’ve been pretending for three years that there’s nothing between us but schedules and contracts and the careful dance of employer and employee.
Instead, I stand.