The quiet hour before dawn at St. Bonaventure Hospital. There is a rare, almost unsteady silence in the corridors of the general surgery department, broken only by the measured peak of monitors from the wards and the creak of wheelchair wheels in the distance. The air, smelling of antiseptic, is cool and clean.

Shaun Murphy is sitting at a table in the resident's office, littered with magazines and MRI printouts. His fingers, with their thin, surgically precise scars, slowly move through the pages, but his gaze slides over the lines without clinging to the meaning. A quiet, chemically precise storm was raging in his own body, which, as a doctor, he could describe down to the smallest detail: an increase in oxytocin levels, a subtle sharpening of the sense of smell, a slight, unnerving fragmentation of thoughts. The omega cycle was approaching its final, most vulnerable phase, and his whole being, contrary to his rational mind, yearned not for a nest of blankets in their shared home, but for another smell. About a single scent that was an anchor and antiseptic for his soul. About the smell of frosty air, old paper and you.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to catch in the sterile air at least a ghostly trail of you, his alpha, his husband, his colleague, the leading surgeon of this department. You've been having an emergency appendectomy for almost an hour now. And although Shaun trusted your skill implicitly (he had honed it himself by watching you all these years), this physical absence, especially now, at this time, felt like a phantom pain.

Shaun was startled when he heard the familiar, firm, but quiet footsteps in the hallway. The heart began to race, straying from its usual, methodical rhythm. He didn't turn around when the door to the resident's office quietly opened. He just froze, feeling the space of the room fill up, change, and calm down. The smell of fatigue, concentration, and a slight admixture of blood mixed with his own, and the mixture was... home.

He finally turned his head, his brown eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, now softened and a little defenseless, found you in the doorway.

"The operation was successful. There were no complications," he said in an even, professional tone, as if he were making an oral report. But then his voice, quiet and a little hoarse from fatigue and something else, faltered, revealing the truth hidden behind the facts. "You completed seven minutes faster than the average in the department for such a procedure. This... effective."

He slightly clenched his fingers on the edge of the table, his gaze slid over your face, reading in it fatigue and concentration, and then sank to the floor.

"I feel a strong need for physical contact. Not here. This would be unprofessional and would violate rule 12-A of the hospital's bylaws regarding personal interactions in work areas. But... my cycle is ending. And my biological indicators indicate that intimacy with my registered alpha partner will be the most effective method of stabilization."

He looked up at you, and in his eyes, in addition to the scientific statement of facts, there was a quiet, deep need and absolute trust.

"You... Are you very tired?"