Page 36 of Heat Clickbait
My phone read 9:47 AM, the numbers glowing accusingly in the dim light filtering through the blackout curtains. Late for me, especially on a streaming day, but after my heat finally subsiding and the emotional marathon of yesterday's confrontation with my mother my body had demanded rest whether I wanted it ornot. My limbs still felt heavy, not from exhaustion but from the lingering effects of finally, finally letting my biology have what it had been craving for three years of chemical suppression.
I pulled on Ghost's hoodie, the one he'd left draped over the chair beside my nest like an offering. The soft black fabric still carried his winter pine scent despite multiple washes, that clean, protective smell that made my hindbrain purr with contentment. The sleeves hung past my fingertips, and I had to resist the urge to bury my nose in the collar as I padded toward the kitchen on bare feet, the hardwood cool against my skin.
The voices grew clearer as I approached, Nova's cultured British accent sharp enough to cut glass, a sure sign he'd been awake too long and had burned through his considerable reserves of diplomatic patience.
"—forty-eight hours was perhaps optimistic given the circumstances, but I hardly expected this level of sustained media attention?—"
"The circumstances being twenty-three news vans parked outside our house like we're running a drug cartel?" That was Blitz, his usual sunshine voice dimmed with exhaustion and something that might have been anger if he'd been capable of real rage. "Because that's what it looked like when I checked the window ten minutes ago. Twenty-three. I counted."
"The parking situation alone is becoming untenable," Nova continued, and I could hear the rustle of papers, probably printouts of whatever legal nightmare my mother's interview had spawned. "Mrs. Henderson from next door called to complain about reporters trampling her roses. Again."
I stopped in the doorway, taking them in. They looked wrecked. Beautiful, but wrecked in that particular way that spoke of too much caffeine and not enough sleep and the bone-deep stress that came from having your private life become public entertainment almost overnight.
Nova stood at the kitchen island like a general surveying a battlefield. His usually immaculate beard was approaching scruffy territory, and his dark hair stuck up at odd angles where he'd been running his fingers through it. He scrolled through what looked like thousands of notifications on his phone, his jaw tight with the kind of controlled fury that meant someone was going to get a very polite, very devastating phone call later.
Ghost sat beside him on one of the bar stools, typing silently on his tablet with focused intensity. The dark circles under his eyes made his pale skin look almost translucent, and his black hair hung in his face like a curtain he could hide behind. He'd changed into fresh clothes, black joggers and a hoodie, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he held himself like he was ready to either fight or flee at a moment's notice.
Milo moved between three different pots on the stove with the kind of manic energy that meant he'd been cooking for hours, his hands shaking slightly as he stirred something that had probably been perfect an hour ago but was now just a vehicle for his anxiety. His usually golden skin looked wan under the kitchen lights, and his wavy hair was pulled back in a messy bun secured with what looked like a rubber band from a bunch of green onions. He'd clearly been at this for a while since there were dirty bowls stacked in the sink, and the counter was dusted with flour or what might have been powdered sugar.
Crash drummed his fingers against the marble countertop in a rhythm that started as something recognizable, maybe the beat from one of his stream intro songs, but had devolved into pure nervous energy, the rapid-fire tapping that spoke of barely contained anxiety and too much caffeine. His purple and neon green hair was even more disheveled than usual, and he wore mismatched socks and a t-shirt that proclaimed him to be "Professional Chaos Coordinator" in rainbow letters. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he'd been up all night, probablydoom-scrolling through social media and working himself into a frenzy over every negative comment.
Blitz stood sentinel at the large window that overlooked the front of the house, tracking the media circus outside like they might storm the gates at any moment. His usually perfect hair hung limp, and his green eyes were rimmed with red. He'd changed into workout clothes, gray joggers and a tank top that showed off the sun tattoo on his shoulder, but his posture was all wrong, coiled tight instead of his usual easy confidence. Every few seconds, he'd shift his weight or crane his neck to get a better view of something, his jaw clenched with the effort of staying calm.
They all turned when I took that last step forward and actually entered the kitchen. They'd probably sensed me approaching, that pack awareness that had developed over the past few days even without formal bonds, but had been giving me time to acclimate.
Five sets of eyes tracked my movement with an intensity that should have been overwhelming but instead felt like coming home. I knew without them saying anything that they were cataloguing everything from my bare feet to the way I'd wrapped my arms around myself, to the fact that I was wearing Ghost's hoodie instead of my own clothes.
"Morning," I said, my voice still rough from sleep and deeper than usual, carrying the husky undertones that always appeared after my heat.
The single word broke whatever spell had been holding them in this tableau of controlled panic. Milo immediately moved to get me tea, his hands already reaching for the chamomile before I'd even taken two full steps into the kitchen.
Ghost shifted on his stool to make room beside him, patting the marble surface in invitation. The gesture brought a smile to my face and I moved in his direction.
Nova's shoulders dropped from where they'd been hovering somewhere near his ears, and the tight line of his mouth softened fractionally. Crash's drumming shifted from frantic to merely energetic, and Blitz finally stepped away from the window, turning his full attention to me instead of the vultures outside.
"You should have woken me," I said, accepting the mug of chamomile and honey that Milo pressed into my hands. It was the perfect temperature and he'd remembered exactly how I liked it, one sugar cube, stirred counterclockwise (it matters, I don't know why), the cup warmed first so the ceramic wouldn't suck the heat from the drink.
"You needed rest." Nova's tone brooked no argument, but I could see the strain around his dark eyes, the way his usually perfect posture had developed a slight slump. "After yesterday, after your heat, after everything your body has been through?—"
"After yesterday, we're supposed to be facing this together." I moved to the island, noting the disaster of phones, tablets, and laptops spread across the marble surface like the remnants of a digital war zone. There were printed articles, legal documents, what looked like a hand-drawn flowchart in Crash's chaotic handwriting, and at least three different laptops running various monitoring software. "Show me how bad it is."
They exchanged glances, that wordless communication that should have made me feel excluded but instead just made me want to be part of it. The way Ghost's eyebrows shifted almost imperceptibly, how Nova's fingers tightened on his phone, the subtle tilt of Milo's head toward Blitz, they were having an entire conversation without words, and I found myself cataloguing the micro-expressions like I was learning a new language.
Ghost turned his tablet toward me, and I had to brace myself. Whatever app he was looking at was a war zone of comments, threads, and trending topics. #CalliePack had been trendingfor twelve hours straight, accompanied by #FakePackGate, #OmegaRights, and unfortunately, #BiologyVsChoice. The video of my mother's interview had been remixed, memed, and dissected by every corner of the internet with surgical precision. Someone had made a compilation of every time she'd used the word "natural" like a weapon. Another person had created a shot-by-shot analysis of my facial expressions from StreamCon.
But more interesting were the response videos, dozens of them. Other Omegas sharing their own stories of abandonment, of choosing their packs over their birth families, of defying biological determinism while still honoring their nature. A few Alphas talking about consent and choice. Even some Betas weighing in on the complexity of dynamics in the modern world.
"It's not all bad," Crash said, showing me his phone with the enthusiasm of someone desperate to find silver linings in a hurricane. "Look, even Kara posted support. And that big gaming pack from Australia. Oh, and that Omega rights lawyer with the blue hair, she did like a ten-minute breakdown of why your mother's argument is legally and ethically fucked."
The message from Kara was pinned at the top of his screen, simple but powerful in the way that only true friends could manage.
Choice and biology aren't enemies. They're dance partners. Proud of you for showing the world what that looks like. We're here if you need us. @CalliesCrossed
I felt something ease in my chest reading it. Kara understood what it was like to navigate the space between nature and choice, between what your body wanted and what your mind decided. She'd walked this path before me, and knowing she was still standing on the other side made the journey feel less impossible.
But for every supportive message, there was vitriol that made my stomach clench.
There were Alphas calling me a sellout who was giving "real" Omegas a bad name. Omegas saying I'd betrayed the independence movement by "giving in" to biology. Betas commenting on dynamics that weren't their business, as if they could understand the complexity of scent-matching and heat cycles from the outside.
