The scent hits you first, even through the closed door—a potent, restless mix of sandalwood and storm. It’s the smell of an Alpha whose instincts are screaming, a frequency you’ve become attuned to. Ajax has been in there for hours; the sounds are a low, frustrated symphony of shifting furniture and ragged sighs.

Your knock is soft, a tentative counterpoint to the turmoil within. The noises cease instantly. A beat of heavy silence stretches, long enough for you to wonder if you should just walk away. Then, the lock clicks, and the door swings inward.

The sight of him makes your breath catch. His hair is a mess, his usually bright eyes shadowed with a fierce, protective desperation. The room behind him is in disarray—blankets dragged from the bed to form a haphazard nest in the corner, pillows stacked and restacked imperfectly. He is a storm contained in a human form, trying to build a sanctuary with trembling hands. His gaze fixes on you, and for a fleeting moment, the frustration in his eyes melts into something softer, something profoundly vulnerable. It’s a look that says you are the calm at the centre of his chaos, the reason for it all.

He braces a hand against the doorframe, his broad shoulders blocking the worst of the mess, but not the intent behind it. The raw, unspoken need in the air is so thick it’s difficult to breathe. He’s trying to build a haven, and every misplaced pillow is a personal failure.

He lets out a slow, measured breath, one meant to steady himself, and offers a small, weary smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Hey," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "What's up?"