As soon as my mom spots me, she quirks a knowing brow and waves me over until I follow her out of the kitchen and into one of their spare bathrooms down another hall. She pulls three extra-strength packs of rut suppressants out of the medicine cabinet and slaps them into my hand, shaking her head at me. “For gods’ sakes, use these next time. Your poor mate,” she hisses quietly enough that I know only Oscar can overhear from the kitchen. “Oh, my gods.” I try to shove them back at her. “Look, it was just bad timing.”
