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Concern: holy heck, this is real and my body is not asking permission.

Unhelpful desire note: Theo has an alpha knot.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I’ve always found knots fascinating in theory. The biology is elegant. The swelling, the lock, the way an omega’s body responds during heat—all of it is an astonishing example of secondary gender adaptation. I’ve taught reproductive health units with diagrams and a laser pointer and professional composure. Professional composure isn’t available while I’m wet between my thighs and trying not to cling to the man making me soup.

“Professor Vines,” Ezra says gently.

I open one eye.

He stands a few feet away, still solid, expression warm beneath the playful tilt of his mouth. “You went very red.”

“I was reflecting on science.”

“Dangerous discipline.”

“Historically very fraught.”

His gaze drops to my hand, which has curled into the blanket. “Do you want space?”

His question steadies me because it doesn’t make assumptions just because I’m perfuming like an oil diffuser. “I want space and also the exact opposite, which is inconvenient.”

Ezra’s humor softens. “It sounds like your heat is coming.”

“It feels like my body opened a committee meeting and invited every instinct.”

Theo returns with a tray before Ezra can answer. The soup smells bright and salty—chicken with lemon, rice, dill, and cracked pepper. He sets it across my lap, then places a spoon beside the bowl and my water bottle within reach.

“The soup should help,” he says.

I pick up the spoon. “You’re sweet.”

Theo stills, and his purr catches.

Ezra leans against the worktable. “He’ll be unbearable now.”

“I can live with that.” I take a bite and nearly sigh. The soup is warm, and salty enough that my instincts briefly forget about climbing anyone. “Oh, that is good.”

Theo watches me eat as if each swallow answers a private worry. His face stays solemn, but there’s tenderness in the set of his shoulders, in the way he keeps the tray balanced when my hands tremble, in the way his gaze checks my cheeks and the damp curls near my temples without making me feel inspected.

Town gossip has failed to mention that Cemetery Theo is endearing, which seems like a serious failure of community information sharing.

My phone vibrates inside my bag.

Ezra looks toward it. “I think it’s been doing that.”

“How long?”

“Since before you woke.”

I set the spoon down with care. “That will be Honey.”

Theo lifts my bag from the floor, waits for my nod, then opens the front pocket and passes me the phone without looking at the screen.

Seven missed calls. Sixteen texts. One voicemail from Honey that begins “You Better Be Breathing or I’ll Kill You.”

She answers before the first ring finishes. “Pepper Vines.”

“I’m breathing.”