Page 56 of Heat Clickbait
As we prepared to leave, Dr. Yates pulled me aside. "The test results also showed something else. Your heat cycles are stabilizing in an unusual pattern. With five Alphas, I'd expect more chaos, but your body is organizing them into something sustainable. It's like you're rewriting the biological rules through conscious choice."
Outside her office, the pack immediately surrounded me with questions and concern. But for the first time since the convention, I felt clear about what we were.
Not fake, not purely biological, not a betrayal of my independence. We were something different, a conscious choice to let biology and emotion work together instead of fighting them. The brain scans proved what I'd felt all along: I was still Callie Cross, independent Omega. I just had five Alphas who supported that independence rather than threatened it.
"So?" Nova asked as we reached the car. "What do we tell the audience?"
I thought about Dr. Yates' scans, the synchronized patterns that showed us choosing each other over and over. "The truth. That love isn't biology or choice. It's both, working together, creating something stronger than either could alone."
"That's not very clickable," Crash pointed out.
"No," I agreed, pulling them all closer. "But it's real. And that's what actually matters."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Milo
The kitchen smelled exactly how I'd planned it, cinnamon and brown butter, warmth and comfort wrapped into scent. I stood at the stove, monitoring three pans with the kind of focus most people reserved for complex equations, but this was my equation. Heat plus time plus care equals something that might make Callie smile.
I heard her footsteps on the stairs before her scent hit me. Sweet and spicy, but mellower now, relaxed. The meeting with Dr. Yates yesterday had been good for her, even if she had disappeared afterward. It was a lot to process, and none of us wanted to deny her any of the time she needed to do just that.
Callie's stomach growled loud enough that I turned with a grin already forming. "Hungry?" I couldn't help the way my smile went wide, the way it always did around her. "Good. I've been planning this all week."
And I had. Every detail. Real plates instead of paper. Napkins folded into shapes that were supposed to be swans but looked more like origami gone wrong. I wanted this to be special, to show her that she deserved effort, attention, care that wasn't driven by biology.
"You planned a breakfast date?" She slid onto a bar stool, and I tried not to let my hands shake as I plated the French toast I'd practiced three times this week. I also tried not to let my gaze linger on her body, tried not to notice how she wasn't wearing a bra under her t-shirt and how she was in either very short shorts or just panties.
"Technically brunch, since it's past noon." My scent spiked nervous despite my best efforts. After our last cooking attempt together, I'd decided some things were better left to professionals. "And after our last cooking attempt..."
"You mean when I nearly burned down your kitchen trying to boil water?"
I wanted to laugh and reassure her at the same time. "You didn't nearly burn it down. Just... lightly scorched it. And created a new form of charcoal that science hasn't classified yet."
The French toast came out perfect. After adding caramelized bananas, sea salt for contrast, and handmade whipped cream, because store-bought felt like cheating, I set it in front of her with more ceremony than it probably deserved, but I always wanted Callie to feel special.
"This is too pretty to eat," she said, though she was already reaching for her fork.
"Nothing's too pretty to eat." I leaned against the counter, watching her face instead of the food. This was the real meal for me, seeing her enjoy something I made. "Food's meant to be enjoyed, not just admired."
The sound she made when she took the first bite went straight through me, settling somewhere low and warm. My Alpha instincts purred with satisfaction, the ancient drive to provide and protect singing in my blood.
"Fuck, Milo. This is..."
"The least sexy thing you could be eating right now?" I grinned, feeling heat creep up my neck. Pride and want mixedtogether until I couldn't separate them. "I wanted to just cook for you. No pressure to learn, no risk of injury. Just... feeding you."
The words came out more honest than I'd planned. This wasn't about teaching or showing off. It was about the simple, profound satisfaction of nourishing someone I loved.
She kicked the stool next to her. "Sit. Eat with me."
I grabbed my plate and settled beside her, hyperaware of every point of contact. Our knees touched under the counter and it felt more intimate than it should have, my body remembering everything we'd shared in the nest while simultaneously craving more.
"Tell me about the restaurant," she said between bites. "Your parents' place."
My chest loosened at the question, the way it always did when I talked about home. I described Abuela's tiny kitchen, the way she'd swat my hands if I tried to measure instead of feel, the Sunday prep sessions with my whole loud, loving family talking over each other.
"You miss it," she observed.
"Every day." I turned to face her more fully, letting my thigh press against hers, grounding myself in her presence. "But this... having a pack, having you... it's worth it."
