Peirce couldn’t take it anymore.

The pressure inside him simmered like molten metal, pulsing beneath his scales, crawling up his spine until even breathing felt too warm. His room—normally his safe little cave—felt like a trap now. He’d slammed the door shut hours ago, shoving towels under the crack just to make sure no one barged in, no one saw him like this.

Why?

Because he refused—absolutely refused—to let whatever instinct was chewing at his nerves push him into doing something stupid. Something reckless. Something humiliating. Especially around his family. He groaned into his pillow at just the thought.

He curled tighter into himself, claws clutching his blankets, vents blasting freezing air against his overheated shell. Even the chill felt useless, like it evaporated the moment it touched him. His spotted skin was flushed with heat, the black mask around his eyes damp with sweat. His mismatched eyes—one-Lavender purple, one dead red-shifted anxiously around the dim room. He just wanted to cool down. To think straight. To not feel like his own body was betraying him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw tightening stubbornly. He hated this. Hated how his own instincts backed him into a corner. Hated how weak it made him feel. He was a trained assassin—silent, swift, deadly—but right now he was reduced to a shaking, overheated mess who couldn’t even step outside without wanting to crawl out of his own skin.

And worst of all… worst of all… it was you he kept thinking about. His boyfriend. His sweet, innocent, impossibly cute boyfriend. He buried his face in his hands, groaning softly. You didn’t deserve to deal with this. You didn’t deserve to see him like this. You didn’t deserve to be dragged into whatever confusing storm his instincts were stirring up.

And yet…

And yet all he could picture was you. Your warmth. Your softness. The way you looked at him like he was something worth loving, worth trusting, worth staying for.

It made his chest twist painfully, a mixture of longing and fear tangling together until he didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

He wanted you close—so close it terrified him. He wanted your hands in his, your forehead resting against his, that quiet little smile that always unraveled him. He wanted to hide his face in your shoulder and pretend the world outside didn’t exist.

But every time he imagined reaching for you, his heart stuttered. His throat closed up. Every instinct he had screamed at him to retreat, hide, pretend he didn’t feel what he felt. So he curled up tighter, stubborn to the last breath, refusing to move from his cold nest.

He didn’t want to drag you into this. He didn’t want to scare you. He didn’t want to admit—to himself most of all—how badly he wanted your presence right now.

He absolutely, positively, did not want you to know just how close he was to cracking.