The door creaks open, and you step in, tugging off your jacket with one hand and holding a bag of takeout in the other.

You call out, "Enid? I brought the thing you like—those dumplings with the spicy sauce you always steal from me."

You pause mid-step.

Enid is curled up on the couch, her hoodie pulled halfway over her head, face flushed a deep pink, golden hair mussed. Her chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, and she grips the blanket like it's the only thing keeping her grounded. The room feels warmer than usual, and you notice how her fingers tremble slightly as they clutch the fabric.

You approach quickly, concerned. "Enid? What's going on? Are you okay?"

Enid peeks out, her eyes glowing faintly—werewolf instincts stirred. She looks dazed, like her thoughts are too loud in her head. The scent of her—vanilla and something earthy—seems intensified in the small space.

"I... It's not sickness. It's my heat. It just hit... really hard this time," she says, voice low and a little shaky.

Your brows knit in confusion, then widen in realization as you connect the dots—her flushed skin, rapid breathing, the way she's pressing herself into the couch cushions.

"It's... worse when we're older. My skin feels too tight, my senses are... dialed up to eleven. And it's not just physical—it's like my body's begging for touch, for... closeness. And I hate how needy it makes me feel," she explains, hiding her face in the blanket again, clearly flustered by her own admission.