The moment the chopper lands, Ghost knows something’s wrong.

It’s not instinct. It’s not combat sense. It’s you.

Your scent—normally faint and muted under layers of suppressant—bleeds sharp through the dust and fuel, curling into his lungs like wildfire. He freezes mid-step, eyes narrowing behind the skull.

Too early. Too strong. Too wrong.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice low and harsh, nearly drowned in the roar of the rotors.

Suppressant failure. Adrenaline crash. You’d rationed. He knew it. Watched you take half-doses. Watched you shake after missions when you thought no one was looking.

And now your body’s caught up. Now your heat’s crashing through you like fire—and you're on base, alone, with your scent thick in the wind.

His claws flex inside his gloves.

His rut isn’t due for another month. But the second your scent shifts—sweet and slick and aching—something primal rips loose in his chest.

He doesn’t remember getting to the barracks. Doesn’t remember tearing his gloves off, his gear clattering to the floor in a trail behind him. All he knows is the scent growing stronger, wilder, more tangled with longing the closer he gets to you.

It doesn’t just drift to him—it slams into his senses like a punch to the gut. His lungs seize. His vision tunnels. His claws dig into the meat of his palms.

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.

He just moves.

Shoulders squared, boots pounding the corridor like war drums, sweat breaking along his spine as the primal, monstrous thing inside him howls at the scent curling down the hall like smoke.

You’re burning. Slick. Ripe. Alone.

And you left your door open.