Dean realized he had missed his heat in the most inconveniently flattering way possible.
The realization did not arrive dramatically. No physician announced it. No calendar was consulted with scholarly horror. No ancient omega instinct rose from the depths to whisper prophecy into his ear.
He was standing in his dressing room in a silk robe, one sleeve half on, staring at the date on his tablet while Boreas occupied the carpet behind him with the heavy, morally judgmental breathing of a creature who believed all human rituals should involve more biscuits.
Dean looked at the date.
Looked at it again.
Then slowly lowered the tablet.
"That," he said aloud to no one, "is absurd."
Boreas thumped his tail once against the rug, which Dean chose to interpret as support.
It had been a month.
