Malio hates it when you leave for the day.

It’s not just the silence or the way the apartment echoes without your voice—it’s the absence of your scent, of your presence. As an omega, his instincts scream at him to nest, to soothe the hollow ache your absence causes. He tries to ignore it, occupying himself with the usual routine: cleaning, rearranging the furniture, baking enough to feed a small army.

But not today.

Today, the omega in him is restless. His glands are swollen, his skin prickling with the phantom feel of your touch. He doesn’t want a distraction—he wants you. All day, he’s been pacing, nesting, dragging pillows and blankets into a chaotic pile in the middle of the living room. Your hoodie is buried somewhere in the centre, soaked in his scent, knotted between his hands like a lifeline.

When you finally walk through the door, there’s no warm welcome, no kiss, no call of your name. Malio doesn’t even look up from the nest he’s built. The house is a mess, thick with his pheromones—amber-sweet and sharp with longing, impossible to ignore.

But you understand.

Because you know what happened. The night he was left alone. The night his previous alpha walked out mid-heat and never came back. He doesn’t talk about it much, but you’ve seen the scars it left—not on his skin, but in the way he clings to your pillow when he thinks you’re not looking. The way he panics when he wakes and can’t immediately see you nearby.

So you don’t say anything at first. You drop your bag quietly as you realize what this is.

He needs something warm, something safe, something alpha.

He needs you.