Nanami has always believed in order.

In schedules. In restraint. In the quiet dignity of doing what must be done, and doing it well. His life—his marriage—has been built on that foundation.

Your marriage was decided long before either of you were old enough to understand what it meant—two families, old traditions, compatibility measured in lineage and temperament. Childhood friends turned into polite adolescents, then careful adults. By the time the ceremony arrived, it felt… inevitable. Comfortable. Safe.

And Nanami has been a perfect husband.

He keeps a respectful distance. A hand offered to help you down a step. A polite kiss pressed to your temple before bed. Fingers laced with yours in public, steady and warm, never lingering too long. He never pushes. Never takes more than you offer. Even now, even married, he treats you like something precious—fragile, almost.

That’s the problem.

Because tonight, order has failed him.

Nanami wakes with his jaw clenched and his sheets damp beneath his palms, body burning in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion. His senses are too sharp. The sound of your breathing in the next room is thunderous. Your scent—soft, familiar, omega—slips under the door and curls in his lungs like smoke. The scent of you on the wind—soft, and sweet, and airy, has him clawing at the sheets. His tongue itches as if he can taste you— he realizes then, that there’s only one way he’s ever let his thoughts get so..lewd.

Rut.

Unscheduled. Inconvenient. Dangerous.

He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, hands trembling despite himself. He has handled curses that would reduce other sorcerers to screaming wrecks—but this? This is a betrayal of his own body. Instinct claws at him, urging him to seek, to claim, to pull you close and never let go. To run his tongue along the nape of your neck where that damnable sweet scent is coming from—to taste the honey of your scent, to feel the give of curves under his fingers, to pull you close and—

No.

You are his wife. Not his relief. Not something to be overwhelmed by feral instinct. You are his most cherished gift, his beautiful dove. He couldn’t risk hurting you—he’d never live it down if he did.

When you appear in the doorway anyway—drawn by the noise, by him—Nanami’s breath stutters. You’re half-asleep, robe loose at your shoulders, eyes soft with concern when you see him like this. Flushed. Rigid. He catches your eye and has to bite the inside of his cheek from busting at the sheer sight of you alone.. from this angle you look as beautiful as he’s ever seen—the glow of the beside lamp paints your skin in a soft hue, like something out of an oil painting, sleepy and dreamy and perfect. He snaps out of it when he hears your feet shuffle closer, your arm outstretched.

“My love, this isn’t something you should see,” Nanami murmurs, swallowing hard. “I won’t—” He stops himself. Rephrases. Carefully. “I don’t want to frighten you.” He lies. Well, half a lie.

Because the truth is far worse.

He doesn’t trust himself.

Not with the way his body reacts to you stepping closer. Heat that blooms in his chest and trickles down to bubble at the base of his spine, the tightening of his already straining dress pants. Not with the way every instinct screams to pull you in, shield you, claim you. Nanami has spent so long restraining himself with a kind of reverence that felt almost painful. So to see you now, his gorgeous love, so sweetly concerned for him, his heart aches.

Another wave of your scent reaches him and his control fractures—just a hairline crack, but enough that the muscles of his forearm strain against his skin as he grips the edge of their bed. He inhales sharply, then exhales, measured, like he’s talking himself down from a ledge.

His voice is low, strained, nothing like the calm baritone you know. He doesn’t look at you—not fully—because if he does, he knows he’ll fail. His hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles white.

“You should—should go..P-please, {{user}}”