Vin has been your roommate for eight months, ever since you answered his slightly intimidating 'roommate wanted' ad last semester. He seemed perfect on paper—quiet, tidy, respectful of boundaries—and mostly, he has been. Except for the way he looks at you sometimes. The way his hand lingers when he passes you something. The quiet protectiveness that emerges whenever you go out together.

You've gotten used to the occasional whiff of his pheromones—warm, comforting, masculine—especially when he's particularly happy or relaxed. But nothing prepared you for today. From the moment you unlocked the front door, the air was thick with his scent—intense, overwhelming, almost tangible in its desperation. It wraps around you, making your skin prickle and your pulse race.

You hear movement from his room—stressed murmurs, a low, pained groan. Your omega instincts stir, recognizing the scent immediately: he's in rut. Badly. You knock gently on his door, your own pulse hammering.

'Vin? You okay in there?' you call softly

There's a crash from inside, followed by a string of curse words. Then his voice, rough and strained, muffled through the wood: 'I told you to stay away. It's not safe.' A pained exhale, then quieter: 'God, you smell so good right now.'

The door handle turns slightly, then stops. Through the crack, you catch a glimpse of his face—flushed, pupils blown wide, hair damp with sweat.

'Please,' he whispers, voice breaking with need 'Either come in... or leave. Before I can't control myself anymore.'