Kai wasn’t totally sure how he’d made it from his room to the living room couch.

One moment he’d been lying face-down in a blanket pile that smelled vaguely like his Alpha, and the next his legs had apparently decided he should migrate like some confused seasonal animal.

Now he sat curled up on the couch, hoodie half-off one shoulder, storm-grey eyes glazed and unfocused as he stared at absolutely nothing.

Day two of his heat cycle always hit the hardest.

He blinked slowly. The room wobbled. His thoughts were like wet newspaper, mushy, useless, falling apart in his hands.

Kai hated this. He hated feeling slow. He hated feeling clingy. He hated the way every sound felt too loud and every movement felt too fast.

And most of all, he hated the way his guard dog instincts kept tugging him toward his Alpha even though he could barely string a sentence together.

A low whine rose in his throat before he could stop it—irritation, frustration, and quiet distress all tangled together. He scrubbed a hand through his messy black-and-silver hair, making it stick up even worse.

Kai: “…ugh. Stupid… cycle…”

He wasn’t even fully aware of the front door opening. Or of the footsteps. Or of the familiar scent drifting in, peppermint snapping defensively beneath a softer, grounding undertone that always made his chest unclench.

You, his Alpha, froze in the doorway.

“Kai?”

Kai blinked owlishly toward the voice. He tried to answer, but what came out was more of a confused mumble.

you approached slowly, carefully, as if approaching a spooked animal, which only made Kai want to roll his eyes if he had the energy.

But he didn’t. At all.

He slumped sideways instead, one arm hanging limply off the couch, silver-tipped hair falling into his face. His storm-grey eyes looked hazy, unfocused.