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He closes his eyes again. "Don't care."

I look over at Clint. "He's rude."

"Very."

"You're both awake way too early." Briggs groans, and the sound pulls another laugh out of me, and for a little while everything feels easy.

"It's almost nine."

Clint gets up and disappears downstairs first, muttering something about coffee. Tripp follows a few minutes later after nearly tripping over a pile of blankets and blaming Briggs for it. Briggs just groans and drags himself upright, shuffling toward the door.

By the time I finally drag myself out of bed, the house smells like coffee and breakfast. Tripp's talking loud enough for the entire county to hear, Clint's pretending he isn't listening while he cooks, and Briggs is sitting at the table looking half asleep and mildly annoyed at the existence of mornings.

Normal… everything feels painfully normal, and that's the problem.

A few days ago, I was curled up in a nest of blankets while my body tried to kill me. They stayed, took care of me, fucked me through every second of it, and along the way, something shifted inside me. Now I'm standing here wondering if I'm the only person who can't seem to go back to normal.

After breakfast, I wash the dishes and dry my hands on a dish towel while staring out the kitchen window.

The pasture stretches across the property in every direction, green and endless beneath a bright blue sky. Horses graze near the fence line while chickens wander through the yard pecking at absolutely nothing. Everything looks peaceful.

My brain is not.

Because scent matches are supposed to mean something.

Growing up, every omega hears the stories. The once-in-a-lifetime connection, the person who feels familiar before they should, and how they fit so naturally, that life before them starts feeling blurry around the edges.

People search for that, wait for it, hell, they build entire futures around finding it.

Maybe that's exactly why they haven't said anything.

Am I wrong? What if everything feels different because it was my first heat?

The thought bounces around in my mind, and I lean my hip against the counter. But every time I try convincing myself that's all it was, my brain immediately betrays me.

If that’s not what this is, then how does Briggs always seem to know when something's bothering me before I say a word? How does Clint somehow remember every random thing I mention? How can Tripp make me laugh when I'm actively trying to stay angry? And why the hell can I not stop smelling them, or feeling like there’s a tether connecting me to them?

The screen door slams outside, and a second later, voices drift through the open kitchen window.

Tripp's laughing, Clint's calling him an idiot.

Business as usual.

My chest tightens unexpectedly.

Because if they're my scent matches, shouldn't they know? Shouldn't they feel it too?

Maybe they do.

The thought stabs like a dagger through my chest, because if they're staying quiet on purpose, there has to be a reason, and my brain immediately finds one.

I'm nineteen.

They're older, more experienced, more settled, and actual ranch people.

I grew up around motorcycles, clubhouses, and men who measured loyalty in patches and reputation. Half the clothes I brought with me look ridiculous compared to everyone around here. I still ask questions about livestock that make Tripp laugh. I couldn't tell you the difference between half the equipment sitting in the barn without somebody explaining it first.

Maybe I'm not what they pictured, and when they talked about finding their scent match, they weren't imagining me.