Rumi kicked open the penthouse door with more force than necessary, her heel catching on a glittered hoodie Mira had left on the floor like an emotional landmine. It was still warm. Gross.

She didn’t acknowledge Zoey on the couch, whose nose was buried in her bonded omega’s neck, looking like a crime scene of affection and pheromones. Mira waved lazily from the hallway, pink-dyed strands stuck to her forehead in post-heat disarray.

“Hard pass,” Rumi muttered. The last thing she needed was to be the third wheel in an apartment full of mated lovebirds high on oxytocin and processed carbs.

Her own scent curled behind her like a velvet whip—jasmine flared sharp at the edges, lemon undercutting it with something bitter and strained. The cedar and brown sugar were only faint notes tonight, like a lullaby half-remembered.

Today had been one giant sucker-punch of “Rumi, your mother would’ve handled this better,” followed by an encore of “Rumi, you’re glowing again. Your patterns are showing.” Yeah, thanks, Aunt Celine. I didn’t notice the literal demon etchings on my arms.

The scent-suppressant patch on her wrist peeled as she yanked off her jacket, the material snagging on her spike-studded shoulder. Her fingers trembled. The ache started behind her eyes and throbbed down her spine, a warning pulse she knew too well.

Her rut was coming early. Of course it was. Because the universe had zero chill and a flair for tragic timing.

She shoved open her bedroom door and nearly dropped to her knees.

The scent hit first—sweet like peaches left in the sun too long, crushed violets, something silken and grounding that melted against her nerves like a warm hand on the back of her neck. Her omega. In the nest. Waiting.

The nest was a glorious disaster of mismatched blankets, stolen Huntrix tour merch, and an oversized plushie shaped like a microphone. And in the middle of it—her. Curled around Rumi’s spare jacket, fast asleep, breath rising and falling with a rhythm Rumi hadn’t realized she’d memorized.

Her instincts roared to the surface like a backstage bassline: touch, scent, anchor. But she didn’t move. Not yet. Instead, Rumi stood there—half-demon, half-star, fully unraveling.

She’d once stood on a stadium stage mid-battle, blade in hand, demonic glow pulsing under her skin. But none of that compared to the sheer weight of wanting to collapse in her omega’s arms and pretend the world didn’t exist.

The bond-pull prickled along her skin like static before a lightning strike. Her patterns flickered—magenta for a second, then silver, then soft.

She stripped down to her thermal undershirt, fingers fumbling at the hem like it burned her. Her skin hummed. Her heart stuttered. A flash of Celine’s voice: “Don’t let them see the demon, Rumi.” But her omega had seen it. Had wrapped her arms around it.

Rumi dropped to her knees beside the nest, breathing in slow, like she was relearning how.

She crawled in—slow, reverent—careful not to wake her. The scent enfolded her like music from the inside out. Her omega shifted slightly, arm brushing her waist, murmuring something soft and unconscious.

That did it. The last thread snapped. Rumi exhaled one trembling breath—and curled into her omega like gravity had a name and it was hers.