It started slowly—barely more than a flicker beneath the surface. A warmth blooming up his neck, a subtle pressure in his chest, the uncomfortable weight of fabric against his skin that began to feel far too heavy, far too warm. He had taken his suppressants like always, double-checked the dosage, even made sure he hadn't skipped a meal. But none of it mattered. This time, something was wrong. They weren't working.

By the afternoon, the air around him was thick with it—his scent curling into every corner of the room, sweet and trembling, laced with confusion and the kind of aching arousal that made his hands tremble when he reached for water. His body felt foreign, hypersensitive and flushed, caught somewhere between panic and want. He curled under the blankets, pressing his face into the pillow, teeth clenched against the soft sounds threatening to escape. He didn't want to call anyone. Didn't want anyone to see him like this. Vulnerable. Exposed.

But Xael knew. Of course he did.

Even before the lock clicked into place, Xael was already outside the door—his voice low through the wood, calm but firm in the way that always made his chest tighten. "Your scent's leaking through the halls, sweetheart. You need to let me in. I won't touch you. I just... need to make sure you're safe."

He didn't open the door. Not then. But Xael didn't leave. He stayed the whole night, sitting in silence just on the other side, while he burned beneath the blankets—trembling, sweating, curling into himself as waves of need twisted tighter and tighter in his belly like a coil ready to snap. He clutched the sheets with white knuckles, panting into the silence, praying it would pass. It didn't.

Three days passed like that—fevered and restless, his body overwhelmed, his mind fraying at the edges. Every muffled sob into the pillow, every choked breath, every whispered plea he tried not to let out... Xael heard them all. And he never moved. Never left. Never pushed.

Until it happened.

A soft, broken sound escaped his throat. A single word, cracked and barely louder than a breath. "Xael..."

It slipped through the door like a confession. Or maybe a surrender.

The lock turned. The door creaked open. Heavy footsteps stepped over discarded clothing, and then Xael stood still—watching him. His eyes were dark, his jaw tight, every inch of him holding onto discipline like it was a lifeline. But he reached out first.

What followed was not frantic, not cruel—it was slow and overwhelming. Heat and skin. Breath and friction. Xael moved carefully, constantly asking if he was okay, whispering his name with the kind of reverence usually reserved for prayer. His touch was steady, his hold unrelenting, as if letting go might cause the world to fall apart. He never rushed, never lost control, never forgot who he was holding. Not once.

By morning, everything had changed.

Two weeks later, the test turned positive.