Page 41 of The Knotheads Next Door
"What would you prefer? 'Hormonal fluctuation'? 'Biological episode'?"
A reluctant smile tugs at her lips. "How about 'my body's dramatic betrayal'?"
"Catchy, but medically imprecise." I sit beside her on the bench, careful to leave space between us. "How bad was it this time?"
She sighs, letting her guard down slightly. "Pretty bad. I got really hot, then lightheaded. Then Crystal found me sitting on the floor among a pile of knocked-over lilies. Not my finest moment."
"Has it been getting worse? More frequent?"
She hesitates, then nods. "It used to be just at night. Now it's... unpredictable."
This isn't good. If her spikes are increasing in frequency and intensity, she could be approaching a full heat. An unprepared first heat at her age could be dangerous, even traumatic.
"May I?" I ask, holding out my hand.
She eyes it suspiciously. "May you what?"
"Check your pulse. I want to see if your heart rate is elevated."
After a moment's hesitation, she extends her wrist. I take it gently, hyper-conscious of the last time I touched her—the scent-marking I still haven't apologized for. Her skin is warm beneath my fingers, her pulse racing.
"Your heart's beating fast," I observe, keeping my touch clinical despite the way my body wants to respond to her.
"Yeah, well, that happens when your body decides to randomly impersonate a furnace in public," she mutters.
I smile despite the seriousness of the situation. Even in distress, her dry humor remains intact.
"Rowan," I say, still holding her wrist, "I think you know what's happening. And I think you're scared. But denying it won't make it go away."
She pulls her hand back, wrapping her arms around herself. "I'm not denying anything. I'm just... processing."
"Processing what, exactly?"
For a moment, I think she might actually tell me—might open up about her fears, her confusion, her reluctance to accept what her body is telling her. Her eyes meet mine, vulnerable and uncertain in a way that makes my chest ache.
"I..." she starts, then stops, her gaze dropping. "Nothing. It's nothing. Can we just go home? I'm tired."
I swallow my disappointment. "Of course."
We walk to my car in silence, but it's a different quality of silence than this morning—less awkward, more contemplative. As I open the passenger door for her, she pauses, looking up at me.
"Thank you," she says softly. "For coming to get me. For not... pushing."
She's close enough that I can see the faint freckles across her nose, the deep tones in her brown eyes, the slight chapping of her pink lower lip where she's been worrying it with her teeth. Close enough that if I leaned down just a few inches, I could...
No. I won't cross another line. Not when she's vulnerable, not when she's still processing whatever internal struggle has her so conflicted.
But something in my expression must give me away, because her eyes widen slightly, her pupils dilating as her gaze drops to my mouth. Her scent spikes, sweet and inviting, and for a heartbeat, I think she might close the distance between us.
Instead, she takes a sudden step back, nearly tripping over the curb in her haste.
"I should—I need to—Gerald probably needs feeding," she stammers, sliding into the passenger seat with unusual clumsiness.
I close the door carefully, giving us both a moment to compose ourselves. As I walk around to the driver's side, I take a deep breath of fresh air, trying to clear my head of her scent.
It doesn't work.
The drive home is quiet, tense with unspoken words and untaken actions. When we arrive, Rowan mumbles a quick thanks before hurrying inside and up to her room.
