Month 7. Est’s second heat since the wedding.

The estate staff knew. They brought him cold towels and soup. No alpha. Not allowed.

Est lay in his bed, sheets twisted, cherry scent so strong it filled the whole wing. Sweet cream turned sharp with need. He hated it. Hated being alone.

He reached under his mattress. Pulled out William’s last shirt. The one with the tear at the cuff from when William had clenched his fists too hard.

He pressed it to his nose. Inhaled. Vanilla + espresso. Stable. Warm. Safe.

“William,” he whispered. Not a call. A plea. His body wanted what the custom denied. He clutched the shirt and rode the waves the only way he could. With William’s scent. With William’s name on his lips.

Across the estate, William felt it. Alphas always did when their omega was in heat. It was biological cruelty.

His rut came that same week. He punched a wall until his knuckles bled. Threw his pillow. Snarled at servants who came too close.

At 3am he pulled out Est’s scarf. Cherry + sweet cream. He wrapped it around his wrist. Tied it tight. Let the scent ground him.

He wrote a letter at dawn, hand shaking:

My rut is unbearable without you. I want to mark you. I want you marked by me and only me. I count the days. 158 left. I’m not patient. I’m desperate. But I’ll be good. For you. - W

Est read it during the last day of his heat. He cried. Not from pain. From being wanted that badly.

He replied:

I’m counting too. 158 nights. I practice saying your name so I don’t forget how. William. William. William. I’m possessive of you. I don’t want anyone else to have you. Not even for a second. - E

That night, both of them fell asleep clutching cloth that smelled like the other.

Apart.

But not alone.