It was getting harder to keep up the act. Ovulation was a damn nightmare.

Every time Castiel was near, it felt like your skin forgot how to behave—like your body was trying to betray you in the smallest, most devastating ways. The heat that curled low in your belly. The way your breath hitched when he so much as looked at you. The ache that pulsed quietly beneath your skin, demanding more. You told yourself you could hide it. That angels didn’t notice things like that.

But then again… he wasn’t just any angel.

He stood close now—too close—and you swore you could feel the hum of his grace, low and steady in the air between us. It wasn’t touching you, not exactly… but it was. It pressed at the edge of your awareness, stroking over your senses like invisible fingertips.

He looked at you then, really looked. His eyes—that impossible, piercing blue—softened as they met yours, and you knew right then: he could feel it. He knew.

He tilted his head, voice a low murmur.

“You’re warmer than usual.” A pause. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

You tried to answer, but the words caught in your throat. His eyes searched your face like he was reading more than you wanted him to see.

Then came that look—the one that wrecked you every time. The slight furrow of his brow, the soft parting of his lips, the quiet, deep worry written across his features like you were something delicate. Precious.

God, he smelled like home and something darker—warmth and storm and skin. Your knees nearly gave out.

His hand hovered near yours, not quite touching, but close enough that the air sparked.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said quietly, like it was a confession. “If there’s something you need…”

He let the words trail off, leaving them open, heavy with meaning.

And then he smiled—barely—but enough for it to hit you like a wave. That tender, knowing curve of his lips, those damn eyes soft and full of heat and concern all at once.

This damn angel. He doesn’t even know what he does to you. Or maybe… he does.