DOLLY: LATE PRESENTATION

"Well, the good news is, you're not dying." The doctor, who I've come to know as Lucy, says it in a tone far too jovial for a sentence involving mortality.

"Oh. Okay." I glance around the sterile white room. The posters of different illnesses and their progressive stages do very little to improve my mood. One of them, a cross-section of a very unhappy liver, seems to be judging me.

The air smells of antiseptic and cheap lavender hand sanitizer, and somewhere beyond the door a phone rings and rings with nobody to answer it.

Lately, very little has improved my mood. I chalked it up to stress over my meeting with Gina, the one where I finally make her keep her side of our deal, but then the headaches came. Then the headaches got worse. Then the nausea, the itching, and the dizziness. I still wouldn't be here if Fiona hadn't suspected me of carrying something infectious and threatened me with bodily harm if I didn't get myself checked out.

"I mean, I kind of hoped I wasn't," I add, when she doesn't offer anything else, forcing out a laugh. "Could I be coming down with something? A flu, perhaps?"

Crushing anxiety that only comes from a meeting with your boss slash colleague?

"It doesn't look like it," she says, slowly flipping through the chart in her hands, which I assume is about me, as though she has all the time in the world.

I glance at my watch and worry the small silver ring on my lower lip. My meeting with Gina is at ten. This appointment was supposed to take twenty minutes, and it has now swallowed most of an hour. Now that I'm certain I'm not at death's door, I want to leave this room as soon as possible. I stop myself from asking if I'm free to go, since it's not fatal.

"Can I ask you a few follow-up questions?"

No. Release me, damn it.

"Of course," I say sweetly, smiling so hard my dimples pop.

"It says here you've been a dormant Omega ever since you were little. Does that run in your family?"

"I don't think so. My brother is also dormant, and my parents are late, but I'm pretty certain they were both Alphas." I uncross my legs and awkwardly cross them again. What does my family's designations have to do with anything? "Um, my grandmother is also an Omega, if that helps, but she wasn't dormant."

I press my lips together, feeling like I've said way too much and somehow still not answered the question.

Dr Lucy hums approvingly, and checks a few things onto the chart.

"This might come as a bit of a shock Miss Dolly," Dr. Lucy takes off her glasses, giving me her full attention. "But from your results, I've come to the conclusion, that you are most likely going through a late presentation."

I blink. When she doesn't add anything, I ask, "That doesn't sound deadly. Is there no cure?"

She chuckles good-naturedly, as though I told a joke, pausing when I don't join in. "I'm afraid not." She pushes her tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of her nose and folds her long, manicured fingers in front of her.

"I don't understand…"

"It's rare, but it's not impossible for certain Shifter designations to present later in life. Your report is a bit unclear as to how far you'll present and at what rate, but it's plain as day that you're going through the effects of a delayed presentation."

"Oh," I say dumbly. But truly, what is a woman supposed to say to that?

“I'll like you to think of it as a late puberty. Things most Omegas go through during their first shifting period. Your body is currently trying to play catch up, and speed run everything it's missed.” She pauses, looking at me expectantly.

“Oh. Okay.” I reply, eloquent as ever. My mind whirling with all these new information, urging me to get out of here and process everything.

"I'd prescribe a few drugs to help with the headaches and the cramps to come, but I'd need to see you frequently to monitor how quickly you progress before prescribing anything else. It's important we let your body go through this as naturally as possible."

I don't have time for this, I think. But I must have said it out loud, because Lucy is staring at me. "Pardon?"

"I'm sorry, but I have a meeting with a very important colleague in less than an hour, and it's really important I get there on time…"

"Miss Dorothy Pierce, with all due respect, your body doesn't give a damn about your schedule. We need to create a safe space for you as you go through this, and I'd appreciate it if you took this more seriously. These things must be supervised closely to avoid any unwanted incidents."

My stomach sours. I thought she'd just said it wasn't terminal. "Incidents?" I basically spit the word out. "What incidents?"

"It's a bit too early to tell, and since it's so rare, I can't be completely certain." She's stalling, which definitely does not put me at ease. "But late-presenting Omegas tend to experience a few symptoms. Think of it as your body trying to make up for everything it missed during your early years. They're generally intense, including but not limited to sporadic shifts, mood swings, and mini heats."

"Mini heats?"

"Um, yes. As you progress, there's a high chance you might begin to feel the need to copulate."

"Oh, fuck."

She smiles encouragingly. "Exactly."

---

I speed-walk away from the clinic, as though sheer distance might return the sanity I seem to have lost the moment I stepped inside.

MeadowLark is just waking up around me. A florist is wheeling buckets of tulips onto the pavement, shop awnings are rolling out one by one, and the smell of fresh bread drifts from the bakery across the road. It's the same bakery I walk past every morning and tell myself I'll beat one day. Today it makes my chest ache.

In my hand, I'm holding the tiny pill bottle in what could best be described as a death grip. After further briefing me, and after explaining that "No, you won't start dry humping random men in the street," Dr. Lucy prescribed these miracle workers in pill form. I've already taken the first dose, and the relief from the cramps, itching and headache was immediate and intense.

But now I'm not sure what to do. Is this something I even want people to know? I have nothing but respect for Omegas, but after not being one for the longest time, all my life, really, I have no idea how to navigate this newfound identity.

The choice is taken from me when my phone rings. Fiona's flaming red hair, squinting eyes, and huge grin fill my screen, along with the name "Fairy Smut Mother" and a peach, tongue, and heart emoji.

She saved her number by herself.

I sigh and pick up.

"So, are you dying?" she says by way of greeting.

"Unfortunately for you, I'm alive and well." I drop the pill bottle into my handbag and quicken my pace. "So don't even dream of touching my snack jar."

She sighs dramatically. "What did the doctor say?"

"She said I'm working a bit too hard and need to reduce my workload." The lie is out of my mouth before I've finished thinking it through. And now that it's out there, I find I have no strong urge to confess the truth.

I step around an early-morning jogger, picking up speed. At this point, I'm practically jogging myself.

"You sound out of breath," Fiona says after a prolonged silence. "Are you running?"

"Don't sound so shocked. I'm almost late for my meeting with Gina, and I can't afford to…"

"Dude." She cuts me off. "You just left the doctor, who told you to relax more, and the first thing you do is run to work?"

Guilt gnaws at me, and I quickly glance around to make sure Dr. Lucy isn't glaring at me in disappointment from some window. "You make me sound like a workaholic. And I got medication. I'll be fine."

I'll be fine as long as I get there on time. I'll be fine once Gina keeps her word and I'm finally in my own kitchen, running the bakery and catering place I've been dreaming of, with events full of people who seek me out.

A drop of water lands on the tip of my nose, my only warning before the downpour begins. All around me, people scramble for shelter, ducking under shop awnings, trees, and umbrellas.

"Shit. It's raining. I gotta go," I say hurriedly, and shove my phone into my bag to keep it dry.

I dash to the nearest bus stop, smiling as pleasantly as I can at the people already crowded inside the glass shelter, and squeeze in beside a man holding a dripping newspaper over his head. The place smells of wet wool and old gum, and the rain drums on the roof like it has a personal grudge against me.

A shiver runs through me. I don't need an expert to tell me I'm soaked to the bone.

I can't wear wet clothes to my meeting. Glaring at the rain that wasn't mentioned in this morning's forecast, I try to calculate how much time I have left, and how quickly I can make it back to my apartment, change, and still make it on time.

I'm still working on a solution when the alarm I set for the meeting goes off. Fuck.

Like clockwork, as if she's been sitting in front of her phone, waiting , this entire time, a text from Gina comes through.

**Gina:** Hey Dolly, I've been waiting for quite some time, but you never showed up. Why don't we move our meeting to next month?

Quite some time? I'm not even two minutes late. And next month? Gina and I made a deal: I'd help her get her dream café off the ground, and she'd help me launch my own catering business. I kept my end. Most of the menu is my recipes, and the line out her door every morning is built on my cooking. Now that the café is thriving, she's suddenly too busy to keep her promise. And she knows exactly what she's doing.

In a reckless moment of bravery, I reply.

**Dolly:** Sorry for being one minute late. Got stuck in the rain. A month is too far. I'd like to speak with you sooner than that. Can I call you when I get home?

I hit send and shove my phone back in my bag. While that text would seem mild to most people, I'm a chronic people-pleaser who despises confrontation, and Gina does not take being talked back to well.

Regardless, it had to be done. I've worked my ass off, long hours perfecting recipes she's been serving as her own, and a year of my own dreams on hold, to get that café up and running. I'll be damned if I let her weasel her way out of our deal.

Now I just need the rain to let up so I can go home, get changed, and make that call. As if in answer, it begins to beat down even harder. At this rate, it would take an act of the Creator to stop it.

I wrap my arms tighter around my shirt, which is probably see-through by now, trying to gather as much warmth as I can.

A sleek black car that I could swear I've seen before crawls to a stop in front of the shelter, warmth radiating off its engine, more than welcome. It occurs to me that the driver has stopped for me, so I shuffle closer to the tinted window.

They're probably new in MeadowLark and need directions. I might be having a shit day, but the people pleaser in me can't help but be helpful.

After a second, the window slides down, and I'm greeted with the last face I want to witness my drowned-rat state.

Brown eyes meet mine through wire-rimmed glasses, warm and unhurried, and I feel their weight settle low in my stomach. His full lips curl into a knowing smirk as he watches recognition dawn on my face.

Noah Fucking Reid.

Dark, tousled hair falls across his forehead as if he's just run a hand through it. The line of his jaw is sharp enough to make me forget what I was about to say. If I was about to say anything at all.

It hasn't been that long, but he looks completely different from the last time I saw him. Leaner. More muscular. Black ink peeks out from his collar, and I almost melt under the rain.

Since when did he get tatted? And more importantly, since when did I find tattoos hot?

I don't realize I'm staring until he clears his throat. His voice comes out deep, and I feel it all the way to my toes. "Need a ride, Dolly?"

Beneath my skin, something I'm fairly sure Dr. Lucy would call an *incident* stirs.