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The logo freezes and the app crashes. I open it again and am met with the same spinning logo. A headache brews between my brows. I kept all our communication within the app per the safety terms of service, but I should have considered that if the app went down, I’d have no way to contact him. I could have at least given him my number.

I leave the app open on the counter and step under the water, wincing as icy droplets pelt my body. Instead of cooling me down, it puts me more on edge. I scrub the salt and sand from my hair and body like I can wash away my anxiety and the way Ty makes me feel.

My phone pings again. I switch off the water, grab my phone, then nearly drop it from my slippery hand.

Heat Seekers App:

@Elliott: secure text message

But the app still won’t load. I try uninstalling and reinstalling it. I try on my laptop, but the website is down.

Why? It defies logic. How can the app work just enough to tell me I received a message, but not let me open it? What if Elliott’s lost or hurt?

It’s far more likely he’s calling to cancel, but I can’t suppress the alpha urge to worry about him, even if he’s not my omega yet. Even if he never is.

My phone pings again, but it’s not Elliott.

Andy Nguyen

Hey, man. Heat Seekers users are reporting a system-wide outage, but I’m on it. Good luck with your date!

Great.

3 ELLIOTT

On a good day, my curls are even more fussy and dramatic than I am, but an unexpected heat spike on top of a heat wave really fucked up the ethereal sex faerie aesthetic I was going for. Now I feel more like a perimenopausal omega than a ripe fruit for alpha cock to plunder.

Oh my god.

Alpha cock to plunder? I can’t wait for my thoughts to switch from high on ecstasy to something more like me.

It’s really inconvenient to be one of the unlucky few omegas cursed with a metabolism that chews through suppressants. Not only do I have to suffer through heats more frequently than the average omega, but I have no idea when a heat will come on, except that it will be at the worst possible time—like minutes before my first date with my dream alpha when I’m on deadline for this week’s Omega on the Street. I don’t think my lifestyles editor is going to accept erotica in lieu of dating advice.

The voice on my phone advises me that Thousand Steps Beach should be on my right. I almost miss the small brown sign spackled with stickers beside a narrow walkway between two houses. I slow to a crawl until I spot an empty space on the curb.

A horn bleats behind me.

“Sorry,” I call with a wave of my fingers, then fail to parallel park three times before finally managing it, much to the anger of the cars behind me.

I’m such a mess. A hot mess, but not in a cute manic pixie gay sort of way.

I pull out my phone and open the Heat Seekers app, but the same perpetually rotating omega logo greets me before the app crashes again, just like each of my previous attempts at every stoplight I got stuck at on the way over.

HEAT SEEKERS IS DOWN FOR MAINTENANCE. WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.

Honestly, this is probably exactly what I deserve for going on a date with an alpha I only met because I’m writing a review on the app for my Omega on the Street column.

A barely there cramp twinges deep inside my center. Well, that’s not great. I have no way to contact Alden and can’t remember the name of the taco place we were supposed to meet at.

I’d probably be able to remember if my brain wasn’t melting under the ninety-degree heat combined with my impending heat. I’m lucky I even remembered the name of the beach Alden suggested we walk to after lunch.

The back of my shirt is damp with sweat and stuck to the seat. Even with all the windows down, the heat inside my car is oppressive. It has to be better outside. Maybe then I’ll be able to think.

I climb out of my car with as much grace as someone in my “condition” can and dig through my bag for the keys to lock my car.

My favorite top, a thrifted white tee speckled with tiny daisies, is wrinkled and nearly translucent from sweat saturating the neckline. Usually, this outfit makes me feel playful and charming, but now I fear I look eccentric in a bad way.

I huff an exhale at the droplet of sweat above my cupid’s bow, and grip the front of my shirt, giving it a little shake. Dopamine churning through my body makes the air against my nipples practically orgasmic, but along with it comes that hollow emptiness, that promise of worse things to come if I don’t find an alpha and soon.