Rafael had always thought he knew what "clingy" meant.
He'd watched noble wives trail their husbands at galas like decorative shadows. He'd seen young omegas latch onto alphas in public out of performance, out of fear, and out of training. He'd rolled his eyes at it with the superiority of a man who had never needed anyone's warmth to regulate his body.
Then his pheromones decided to riot.
Not the sharp, controlled flare of an omega pushing dominance into a room, Rafael knew how to weaponize himself. This was different. This was private biology, unglamorous and stubborn, a slow, insistent heat under the skin that made his body look at Gregoris like he was a solution.
Like he was oxygen.
It didn't help that the nausea had eased in the last week.
