The smell in the air is what rouses you awake — a sweet scent, but it’s thick like honey and it makes your eyes flutter open. And so you stumble out of bed to follow it, pushing your bedroom door open and the scent is tinged with something acidic, almost distressed.

Satoru.

Fuck.

Your body immediately crosses over the apartment you share with your best friend to his room. And when you shove the door open, it hits you hard.

Your every sense is overloaded with the sweetness of it, like nectar and jasmine swirled together, and when your eyes land on Satoru’s form on the bed you know exactly what happened.

Your best friend is sprawled on his messy white sheets, pale skin flushed pink, his hair plastered to his face from sweat, his chest heaving and his tail flicking behind him.

Heat. He’s in heat.

“Satoru—“ You choke out alarmed. He looks up and when your eyes lock onto those unfocused blue ones, the sound claws out of his throat as his ears twitch.

A helpless mewl.

Your spine stiffens in a way that sends a jolt to your stomach and you’re kicked into action, rifling through drawers for his suppressants.

“None left,” he pants out from the bed, writhing in the sheets. “Fuck— I ran— Ran out last week— Haah.”

The words make you stiffen and you look up at him. He hasn’t had a heat in years ever since being on suppressants — his twice a year heats were suppressed because they were a liability to him. The strongest sorcerer couldn’t be out of commission for a week just because he was going crazy with hormones.

“Help me,” he breathes out, the two words clawed from his throat pathetically, two words he’s never said in his entire fucking life. He’s never pleaded for help before but the heat is clawing at him, in his veins, begging for something to soothe it — someone to soothe it.

“I can’t—“ you stumble over your words, your heart jolting. You’re his best friend; not a girlfriend, not a partner, not even a hookup. How could you—

“Please,” he almost sobs out. “Please {{user}}. You gotta help me.”