Page 49 of The Knotheads Next Door
"It's... sweeter. More defined." She wrinkles her nose, searching for words. "Like it's settling into something specific."
"Omega-specific," Avianna clarifies, ever the direct one.
I set down the scissors before I can accidentally stab myself in my panic. "That's... that can't be right. The blockers—"
"Aren't working as well anymore," Billie says apologetically. "It's normal, with emerging presentations. Your body is basically overriding the chemical barriers."
"Great," I mutter. "Just perfect. Exactly what I needed right now."
"It's not a bad thing," Lala insists, squeezing my arm. "Presenting is natural. Beautiful, even."
"There's nothing beautiful about losing control of your own body," I snap, then immediately regret it when her face falls. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... it's just a lot. And complicated."
"Because of the three alphas you live with?" Avianna asks, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.
I nod miserably. "I was supposed to be out of there in a month. Clean break, no complications. But now..."
"Now your body is recognizing potential mates," Billie finishes softly. "And responding to them."
"They're not potential mates," I protest, though the words sound hollow even to my own ears.
"They're my temporary roommates. That's it."
None of them look convinced.
"Look," I say, desperate to change the subject, "can we talk about literally anything else? Please? The festival, the weather,that weird rash Zeno from the coffee shop has been trying to hide?"
"It's poison ivy," Lala supplies immediately. "He claims he got it hiking, but everyone knows he was spying on my new bakery sign installation and fell into the bushes."
Just like that, the tension breaks, and they're off on a tangent about the ongoing bakery-versus-coffee-shop feud that's apparently been raging for the better part of a decade. I listen gratefully, letting their chatter wash over me without requiring much input.
But Lala's words echo in my mind. My scent is changing. Becoming more defined. More omega.
More me, maybe. But is that version of me someone I'm ready to be?
After work, I find myself wandering toward Noble Grounds Café, drawn by the siren call of caffeine and the desire to delay going back to the house for as long as possible. The coffee shop is nearly empty this late in the afternoon, with just a few people typing on laptops and—
Jasper.
He's hunched over a table in the corner, surrounded by what appears to be note papers, a scowl etched so deeply into his face that it's a wonder the table hasn't caught fire from the intensity of his glare.
I should leave. Turn around, go to the bakery instead, avoid another potentially charged interaction with one of my increasingly complicated roommates.
But something about the set of his shoulders, the tense line of his jaw, makes me pause. He looks... exhausted. Frustrated. And oddly vulnerable in a way I've never seen him before.
Before I can overthink it, I'm walking toward him.
"You look like you're plotting a murder," I say, sliding into the chair across from him.
"Architectural edition."
He startles, looking up with surprise that quickly morphs into his usual grumpy expression.
"What are you doing here?"
"Same as everyone else. Seeking caffeine and avoiding responsibility." I nod toward his tablet. "What's all this?"
He hesitates, as if debating whether to tell me to get lost, then sighs. "Henderson renovation. The specs aren't matching the actual structure, and now the custom cabinets don't fit."
