It was a Tuesday. The kind of Tuesday that felt like it had been chewed up and spat out by a particularly grumpy cat. The air in the 1-A common room was thick with the smell of burnt toast and teenage angst.

And there you were, Y/n, sitting on the couch, staring at your phone like it had personally insulted your grandmother. The screen glowed with a message you’d read a hundred times already.

I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. It’s always been Ochako. I hope you understand.

Understand. Right. Because that made total sense. Your boyfriend of two years, the one who’d promised you a bond, a nest, a future—he’d just decided to dip because his "true mate" was apparently a gravity-defying brunette with a smile that could power a small city.

And now your pre-heat was starting. You could feel it. The warmth creeping up your spine, the ache in your bones, the stupid, primal part of your brain that was already trying to build a nest out of the throw pillows.

You were so screwed.

It made your stupid omega brain purr.