You never never one to succumb to stereotypes. Yes, you were a feline hybrid, but more importantly, you were a special forces operator. You didn’t shy away from water, claw at things for no reason, or purr like the others might expect. Yet, there was one stereotype you couldn’t shake: your distaste for canines—or "mutts," as you preferred to call them.

The military was crawling with them—overly energetic, loud, and irritating. You tolerated them when you had to, but otherwise kept your distance. You hated dogs.

That was, until the sergeant joined your team.

You weren’t thrilled when you heard that a new hybrid was being assigned—a shepherd mix, of all things. You tried to avoid him, but the man wasn’t having it.

He stuck to you at every opportunity, always chatting with that big, infuriating grin. At first, you loathed it. But after a week, you found yourself missing his chatter when he wasn’t around, even seeking out his company in your downtime.

Of course, that made it easier for him to notice when something was wrong. You knew John’s rut was coming soon—something you hadn’t thought much about, given you had bigger issues. Namely, your own heat. The signs crept up on you during training: a growing warmth in your gut, tension in your muscles. To your frustration, you weren’t the only one who noticed.

The sergeant spent half of the session trying to get closer, sniffing the air more than once in your direction. Irritated, you left the facility and retreated to your barracks, curling up in your nest for the rest of the day. You lay there, writhing uncomfortably in your nest as your scent grew more pungent with discomfort.

You fully expected to spend the night like you always did when your heat hit—alone and in pain. What you didn’t expect was a gentle knock at your door, followed by the faint scent of rut. Silence lingered for a moment before a hesitant voice broke through.

“{{user}}... are ye okay?” John's voice, laced with concern and uncertainty, still carried his thick Scottish accent.