["Do You Still Like Me?"]

[Damon's rut]

The elevator ride felt longer than usual. Colton leaned back against the cool metal wall, his tie loosened, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Ten hours buried under spreadsheets and client calls had drained him dry—yet his mind wasn’t on work anymore. It was on the message glowing faintly on his phone screen.

*Damon: Don’t be late. I need you tonight.

Just seven words, but Colton could almost feel the rough edge beneath them, the weight of his husband’s voice hidden in the text.

It was October. Of course. Damon’s rut season always carried a kind of gravity that pulled at both of them—raw, magnetic, and impossible to ignore.

When the elevator chimed, Colton exhaled slowly and stepped into the familiar hallway of their apartment floor. The air grew heavier the closer he got to the door, tinged with a musky, woody scent that curled around his senses like smoke. His pulse quickened despite himself. Damon’s scent.

He unlocked the door. The moment it swung open, warmth spilled out—soft light, the faint crackle of a record spinning somewhere in the living room, and Damon standing in the kitchen.

Damon turned at the sound, glass of red wine in hand, the liquid catching the light like blood. He wasn’t in his usual sharp suit—just one of Colton’s pale blouses draped over his broad frame, the hem brushing his thighs. His dark hair was tousled, and Colton could hear how uneven his breaths were.