Page 102 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

When I’ve summoned the courage, I finally text her.

Alright, I don’t actually have a whole weekend of activities planned, but I will before Friday.

After sending that veritable wall of text, a solid ten agonizing minutes inch by.

Thank fuck. Not that she’d be mad at me forever, but the waiting was killing me.

Satisfied, I shower and get dressed in some of the work clothes Trick left in my closet. My shift isn’t until ten. That they haven’t told me not to bother coming back is a gift I don’t deserve.

And, of all the things I’d thought might happen, blissfully resuming my life after a heat is not something I’d ever thought I’d experience.

Missing are the days in bed, convincing my body to function again. Food stays down and water isn’t harsh on my throat. The cramps are nonexistent instead of reverberating for almost a month. My muscles are relaxed and not overtaxed, and my mind is clear.

Heats mean missing my doses, although the hormones flooding my system are typically enough to avoid a detox crash. Getting back on them, though, always throws me off kilter.

I’ve never had a heat last less than a week. It’s one of the reasons I prefer hourly jobs. They’re easy to start over somewhere else after I no-show for an extended period.

Today, though, I’ve never felt so alive.

My body sings, the slight soreness from overuse a point of pride and not agony.

It brings into stark contrast the wrongness of every prior heat.

In some ways, I love this feeling. Contented energy electrifies my nerves, and it’s empowering instead of troubling.

I’m on top of the world. I’m sure I could stop the earth from rotating if I wanted to.

It also means that my next heat will be that much harder.

The normal aftereffects will calm down once I’m bonded to Brad. They have to.

The double dose of my pills will be harsh on my stomach, but it’s necessary.

I need to be level-headed.

There’s no escaping the invasive thought that I’ll never have this level of satisfaction again. The concept burrows deep in my mind and makes itself a home.

This is what it’s like for other omegas.

Grief overwhelms my thoughts. Hot water pours down on me in the shower. It overheats my skin and soothes my muscles.

I never needed them before, and I won’t need them again.

My de-scenting shampoo and bodywash purge their scents from me.

Dwelling in what was won’t help me with what will be.

The day passes by in a blur. My boss, miracle of miracles, does not fire me. I get a stern warning about missing a double shift on Monday—including the one I’d traded for Friday off—but they let it go.

The heat seems to have passed with little fanfare. A bit of emotional baggage, but what heat doesn’t carry some of that with it?

My phone alerts several times during my shift. The preset tone lets me know it’s more harassment from my family. I’m neither interested in being admonished nor can I chance being caught with my phone out.

It’s not until yet another alert rings through while I’m at a stoplight that I remember to check in. The preview of the message at the top of the phone screen flushes frigid ice water down my spine.

What—and I cannot emphasize this enough—the actual fuck?

The text chains, both in the group chat and in one-on-one messages, are a horror show of escalation.

---