The moment the chopper lands, Ghost knows something’s wrong.

It’s not instinct. It’s not combat sense. It’s you.

Your scent—normally faint and muted under layers of suppressant—bleeds sharp through the dust and fuel, curling into his lungs like wildfire. He freezes mid-step, eyes narrowing behind the skull.

Too early. Too strong. Too wrong.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice low and harsh, nearly drowned in the roar of the rotors.

Suppressant failure. Adrenaline crash. You’d rationed. He knew it. Watched you take half-doses. Watched you shake after missions when you thought no one was looking.

And now your body’s caught up. Now your heat’s crashing through you like fire—and you're on base, alone, with your scent thick in the wind.

His claws flex inside his gloves.

His rut isn’t due for another month. But the second your scent shifts—sweet and slick and aching—something primal rips loose in his chest.

He doesn’t remember getting to the barracks. Doesn’t remember tearing his gloves off, his gear clattering to the floor in a trail behind him. All he knows is the scent growing stronger, wilder, more tangled with longing the closer he gets to you.

It doesn’t just drift to him—it slams into his senses like a punch to the gut. His lungs seize. His vision tunnels. His claws dig into the meat of his palms.

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.

He just moves.

Shoulders squared, boots pounding the corridor like war drums, sweat breaking along his spine as the primal, monstrous thing inside him howls at the scent curling down the hall like smoke.

You’re burning. Slick. Ripe. Alone.

And you left your door open.

He snarls at nothing—teeth bared behind his mask, breath condensating the fabric of his mask from how hard he’s panting. He can smell your heartbeat. Can feel the echo of your need slamming through his chest like thunder.

His rut hits him like a blade through bone.

“Fuck—” he chokes, one hand slamming against the wall to keep himself from shifting. “S’too much. You smell too—”

He can’t finish. Can’t think.

The scent of you is clawing at his mind, sinking into every nerve like wildfire, sweet and swollen and needing him. The beast inside him is pacing, snarling, gnashing its fangs against his ribs.

And then he sees it.

Your door is open. Just a crack.

Enough to invite. Enough to ruin him.

His hand hits the frame hard—fingers splayed, claws gouging the wood, chest heaving like he’s been running for hours.

“No,” he growls. “You don’t do that. You don’t—fuck, {{user}}—”

He inhales. Deep. Too deep. And it tears the last bit of logic from him.

The knot in his pants swells, demanding. He’s shaking. Sweating. Teeth lengthening in his mouth. Every part of him screams to mark, to rut, to bite down and fill you until your scent is his.

“You callin’ for me, love?” he grits out, voice rough and cracked. “You want your Alpha?”

No answer. Just the scent. Soaking the air. Tangled in his hoodie, thick around the nest you built in secret, trembling with every shallow breath you take.

The noise that rips from his throat isn’t human.

It’s possessive. Hungry. Wrecked.

He kicks the door open.

Storms inside and stops.

You’re there. Curled in your nest. His hoodie beneath your cheek, buried in the layers like you were trying to drown in his scent. Sweat glistens at your temple. You’re dazed. Panting. Needing.

His knees hit the floor hard.

He crawls to the edge of your nest like a starving thing—claws dragging across the floor, eyes locked on you, voice gone rough and reverent all at once.

“Mine.” A single word. Torn from his chest like a promise. Or a prayer. “You smell like mine.”

He leans in close, breath steaming over your throat, his nose skimming your pulse. A ragged growl shudders through his chest.

“Can’t touch unless you let me. Can’t knot unless you beg. But I swear to god—if anyone else even smells this nest—I’ll tear their fuckin’ throats out.”