John Price wasn’t an idiot.

He’d been around long enough to know the signs. The subtle shift in scent, the haze behind {{user}}’s eyes, the way they were bundled under three layers of blankets despite the room being warm.

They were going into heat.

He could feel it on his tongue, taste it in the air like smoke before a storm. It buzzed low in his spine, instinct latching on before reason could catch up. And Christ, it was hard to reason—especially when the person he cared for most was curled up on his couch looking like something between a fever dream and a heartbreak.

“Mm,” he rumbled, stepping closer with a smug little smirk tugging at his lips, “You’re smellin’ dangerous, love.”

{{user}} shifted uncomfortably under the blanket. Their head turned just enough to look at him, but they didn’t smile. In fact, their eyes looked… off. Fogged. Almost in pain.

He ignored it. Maybe they were just playing coy. Heat could make even the softest omegas act like trouble.

“I take it that time’s come, hm?” he murmured, sinking down beside them. His voice dipped low—teasing, suggestive. “Could’ve told me earlier. I’d have brought flowers. Or better yet… I’d have brought myself.”

That didn’t earn a blush. Not a giggle. Not even a sharp comeback.

Just silence.

{{user}} tucked deeper into their hoodie like they were trying to disappear, arms wrapped tight around their stomach, jaw clenched.

Price raised an eyebrow, still in flirty territory, pushing gently, “Or maybe you were waitin’ for me to notice—wanting me to take a hint and—”

“John.”

The tone stopped him cold. Not embarrassed. Not needy. Just strained.

“I don’t want—” They swallowed hard, looking down at the blanket in their lap. “I’m not like that. Not during heat. I don’t get… worked up. I get sick.”

His heart kicked hard in his chest.

“What d’you mean, sick?”

“I mean I feel like I’ve been hit by a fucking truck,” they said quietly, still not looking at him. “Like my skin’s too tight. Like everything’s loud and wrong. My stomach turns. I get dizzy. It’s not about… wanting anything. It’s about surviving it.”

Silence blanketed the room.

Price blinked, realization hitting him like a brick wall. All his flirting—every sultry line, every touch, every time he leaned in just a bit too close—it wasn’t teasing, it wasn’t welcome. It was pressure. And he’d been blind to it.

But all Price did was exhale, slow and deep, before he backed away, giving them space—not just physically, but emotionally.

“…Blood hell,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “I was bein’ a right idiot, wasn’t I?”