You walk into the shared kitchen to grab water. He’s already there—broad shoulders tense, jaw sharp, eyes flicking up as if he could smell you before you entered.

Your scent hits him like a punch. His grip on the glass tightens. He clears his throat and looks away sharply, pretending your presence doesn’t affect him, but his ears flush red and the vein in his neck jumps.

When you brush past him to reach the fridge, he steps back too fast and knocks into the counter, cursing under his breath.

He hates how his instincts surge around you. Hates how his pupils darken. Hates that the only thing he wants is to bury his nose in your neck.

But when you accidentally drop the bottle cap, he bends down faster than lightning, picking it up even though his face almost touches your thigh.

He freezes.

You freeze.

He stays crouched there a moment too long, breathing harder than he should, before standing and shoving the cap back into your hand like it offended him.

“Don’t drop stuff,” he mutters, ears burned crimson as he storms out.

He doesn’t come back for an hour—because he was outside trying to calm his scent down.