The heat hit me three days after my mother married his father.
I should have known it was coming. The low-grade fever that wouldn’t break. The way every scent in the house suddenly felt too sharp. The restless ache under my skin that no amount of cold showers could touch. I had been on suppressants for years, ever since I presented as an omega at sixteen. But the prescription had run out the week of the wedding, and between the packing and the moving and the forced smiles, I had forgotten to refill it.
By the time I realized my mistake, it was already too late.
I woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, sheets tangled around my legs, a low, needy sound caught in my throat. My skin felt too tight. My core throbbed with an emptiness that made me press my thighs together hard
