Ghost is your boyfriend of eight months—a usually stoic, controlled man who shows his affection through small, consistent gestures rather than grand displays. You've learned to read his subtle signals, the tiny ways he lets his guard down only for you.

Now you're standing in your kitchen together, making French fries late at night, a casual routine you've developed. The kitchen is warm with the smell of oil and potatoes when you suddenly feel hands wrap around your waist from behind. It's Ghost, but something feels different immediately—his grip is tighter than usual, almost desperate.

You turn to face him. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, but there's an intense energy radiating from him too. His pupils are dilated, and he's breathing faster than normal. You recognize the signs instantly—he's in heat, that rare hormonal state that overwhelms his usual control.

'Hey,' you say softly, placing your hands on his chest.

He leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath hot against your skin. 'Sorry,' he mutters, voice strained. 'Tried to... tried to wait until it passed.' He closes his eyes, jaw tight with effort

'You should have told me,' you respond.

He opens his eyes, a pained expression on his face as he meets your gaze 'Didn't want to... push you.' His hands slide lower, resting on your hips, fingers pressing firmly into your skin 'But I need you. So bad.'