Chapter 5: Nightshift

Chapter Five: Night Shift

Jax didn’t sleep.

He tried. Curled on the couch beneath a thin throw, lights off, TV muted on some late-night sports recap he wasn’t watching. The screen washed the ceiling in flickering blue. Every few minutes the cramps eased just enough to let him think maybe it was breaking then rolled back in stronger, like a tide that refused to recede.

By 3:30 a.m., the blanket lay kicked on the floor. Too hot. Too scratchy. Too much. He peeled off the hoodie and lay there in sweats, skin feverish and damp. The apartment air felt thick, stale. He cracked a window, but the city noise distant sirens, a lone car horn only made the silence inside louder.

His phone stayed dark after that one text to Kane.

Good.

Let the asshole stew. Jax didn’t need pity checks from the guy whose hit had triggered this mess.

Except the mess wasn’t going anywhere.

Another wave hit around four. This one wasn’t a warning flutter. It started deep, like a muscle locking hard, then spread hot, insistent pooling low in his belly until he was rocking his hips against the couch cushion without meaning to. Slick soaked through the sweats in seconds. He pressed a hand between his legs not to stroke, just to hold pressure, to quiet the hollow ache clawing at him from the inside.

It didn’t help.

He bit into the inside of his wrist to keep quiet, even though no one could hear. The gland on his neck burned swollen, leaking steadily his scent filling the room so thick he could taste it. Sweet. Desperate. Nothing like the muted, controlled beta smell he’d worn for years.

He rolled onto his stomach, face buried in the arm of the couch, hips lifted on instinct. The position eased the cramping for a heartbeat gave his body what it wanted without giving in.

Then the need shifted again, sharper, demanding more.

Nothing was enough.

“Fuck this,” he growled into the cushion.

He pushed up and staggered to the kitchen. Gulped water from the tap. Metallic. Useless. He opened the fridge; cold air slapped his bare chest. Grabbed a beer, popped it, took one swallow and immediately regretted it. The alcohol burned wrong, spiking the heat instead of dulling it.

He set the can down hard and leaned on the counter, breathing. In through the nose bad idea. Another ghost of Kane’s scent clung to his own skin from the hit. Out through the mouth.

His phone buzzed once.

He ignored it.

It buzzed again. Then again. Persistent.

Jax snatched it up.

Same unknown number.

Kane: You’re not answering.

Kane: I can smell you from here.

Kane: That’s not normal. Even for me.

His thumb hovered over block.

Another message came in.

Kane: League called me in tomorrow. More questions. They’re asking about you too. If you need anything medical, whatever say it.

Jax’s laugh came out hoarse. “Anything.” Like what? A knot? A claim? A way to muzzle his own body?

He typed before he could stop himself.

Jax: I need you to stay the fuck away.

Sent.

A full minute passed. Then:

Kane: Okay.

One word.

Jax stared at it. Something twisted in his chest relief, maybe. Or disappointment. He didn’t want to examine it.

He tossed the phone onto the counter and paced the living room. The cramps were constant now, rolling every ten minutes instead of twenty. Each wave left him shaking, slick dripping down his legs, cock aching even after he’d tried again in the dark quick, brutal, coming dry with barely any relief.

Eventually he slid down onto the bathroom floor, back against the tub, knees drawn up, forehead resting on his arms. The tile was cool against overheated skin. He stayed there, breathing shallow, counting the seconds between waves like contractions.

Five minutes.

Seven.

Four.

Closer.

He knew the pattern from locker-room stories heats told like war tales. The build. The peak. The crash. Omegas who rode it out alone ended up wrecked for days. Suppressants helped if you caught it early. Late bloomers?

Hit harder. No warning. No mercy.

He hadn’t caught it early.

Jax pressed the heel of his hand hard against his gland, trying to dull the throb. It only made it pulse faster. A small, humiliating sound slipped out. He clamped his teeth shut.

This wasn’t him.

He was the guy who dropped gloves without blinking. Who took hits that sent other players into the boards. Who never asked for help.

But right now curled on cold tile at four something in the morning, body betraying him in ways he couldn’t fight he felt small. Breakable.

And the worst part?

Every time the ache peaked, his mind went straight to Kane. That steady gray stare. The low voice—Not unless you ask. The way Kane’s hand had flexed like he was already imagining the grip.

Jax squeezed his eyes shut.

He wasn’t asking.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

But when the next wave hit harder than the last for the first time, he wasn’t sure he believed it.