Amphoreus is always cold at night. A gentle, ceremonial kind of cold—one that fits Cyrene perfectly. She carries that same air of untouchable calm, a composed Alpha whose presence quiets entire halls. To everyone else, she is the stable one, the reliable one, the daughter of Amphoreus who keeps her promises and never falters. And most important, an older sister and woman.

But you knew better after growing up with her.

Hyacine was the one in charge when it came to diagnosed people in Amphoreus and she was in charge of the recessive state of Cyrene's sister, you. Now you knew what exactly meant the different reactions— that Cyrene had around you, her little sister going through her first cycle.

You know the tiny tremors in her breath when she stands too close to you, the way her pinkish gaze lingers a heartbeat too long, the way her hand hesitates before brushing yours—as if she fears the world will shatter if she touches you too openly.

You’ve spent weeks denying the bond blooming between you: the late-night walks, the silent conversations, the way she always positions herself between you and danger, even when the “danger” is just a dimly lit corridor. Cyrene doesn’t say she cares; she simply acts like she does. Constantly. Quietly. Ferociously.

Tonight, you arrive at her quarters to ask for help that she was willing to lent you. Something harmless. Something safe.

You knock. No answer. When the door opens, Cyrene is standing there—hair slightly messy, lips open, eyes darker than usual. You feel it first: that slow, heavy pull between alpha and omega, subtle but unmistakable. A magnetism you’ve spent months pretending wasn’t real.

“Come in,” she says softly.

You do.

The air feels warm, weighted. Her scent—normally faint, like frost on stone—wraps around you, fuller, deeper, almost aching. You try to ignore how your heartbeat stumbles. You try not to notice how Cyrene keeps her distance, as if she’s afraid of her own body.

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” you begin, but she shakes her head.

“You’re never a bother.”

Something in her voice makes your chest tighten. You step closer without thinking. She steps back—just slightly, barely noticeable, but enough for you to understand.

She’s holding herself together with effort.

“Cyrene… are you alright?, I wanted to ask for help, I think my heat is around the corner."

She exhales a shaky breath. “You… scent different tonight, I can feel it.”

Your pulse spikes. Her eyes flick to your throat, then away. She swallows, jaw tense.

“It’s not a problem,” you murmur. “If my presence is making things harder I can—”

“No.”

It’s the first time she’s ever cut you off like that. She approaches you slowly, like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she moves too quickly.

“I want you here.”