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Fuaiz had worked hard to build a reputation that wasn’t dependent on his biology. Being an omega in the industry came with its own expectations such as soft roles, damsel characters, submissive personas. But he wanted more. He was more and he aim to took a step further away from society's limiting labels.
So when he landed the role of Tonkla in 4 Minutes the Series, his joy was pure. He’d been paired with JJ and another actor from a different company, both are friend with him. It felt safe. Secure. He could focus on the craft without distraction.
But plans change. And suddenly, the cast were shuffled. The role of Korn was recast and Bas was in.
Bas, the alpha who was nine years older, serious, grounded and entirely too attractive in that quiet, slow burning way. At first, Fuaiz had reassured himself. Bas was a methodical actor, new to romantic roles. He was polite but distant. Their age gap made everything feel formal. Safe.
That didn’t last long.
When Bas finally clicked with the character of Korn, it was like a dam broke. The man who once hesitated during rehearsal now brought a raw, emotional intensity to every scene. There was a moment during one of the rehearsal, Korn made Fuaiz’s breath catch. It wasn’t scripted to affect him but it did. This man should get more recognition, he thought. And just like that, he fell a little more.
Their chemistry became undeniable. Every rehearsal with the intimacy coordinator turned into a quiet torment for Fuaiz. The way Bas’s fingers would press into his waist. The way he looked at him, like Korn meant it. Fuaiz would leave practice flushed, suppressants barely doing their job.
But it was still manageable. Until filming began.
The intimate scene was scheduled for a closed set. Only essential staff. Cameras, lights, and a single take to capture what would be the their on-screen relationship dynamic.
Bas was on fire.
He held Fuaiz like he meant to never let go. His hands found his waist with reverence, his forehead pressed to Fuaiz’s like a confession, and his lips - God, his lips brushed against his jaw with maddening restraint. And when he whispered “mine” just off-script, into his skin, barely heard, Fuaiz’s body betrayed him.
The heat hit, hard.
Sudden. Overpowering. Suppressants useless. He tried to play through it, to focus on the scene, but every cell screamed MATE. His hands trembled. Breathing ragged. Eyes glazed.
“Fuaiz,” Bas paused, concern flooding his face, breath warm on his cheek. “Are you okay?”
No. He wasn’t.
He wanted to beg. To whimper against Bas’s throat, to surrender. But logic held him back by a thread.
“I’m fine,” he lied, voice tight.
They finished the scene. Fuaiz somehow stayed professional. But the moment the director yelled “cut,” he fled.
He locked himself in his apartment the next three days, waiting for the heat to fade. But it didn’t. It should have. It always had before. But this time, it lingered. Grew stronger. Every fantasy, every pulse, every sleepless hour. It was all Bas.
He didn’t even know if Bas knew.
He should’ve told someone. His manager. The production. Bas, even. But shame clung to him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d worked so hard to be seen as an actor first, an omega second. And now his body had betrayed him on set, in front of the man who made his heart stutter.
Day four. Still no change. Still no relief.
All Fuaiz could do was curl up on his bed, the scent of the shirt Bas had once lent him pressed against his face.
And pray he could survive the storm he was keeping silent.
---
The fifth morning broke with pale gray light spilling across Fuaiz’s bed, casting long shadows over his twisted sheets and sweat-dampened skin. He hadn’t slept. Not really. He drifted in and out, caught in an endless loop of aching need, fevered dreams, and the unbearable presence of absence.
Bas.
The name alone made his chest tighten. His body had long surrendered to the heat, to the raw, primal ache that begged for touch, his touch. But his mind remained stubborn. Grounded. Trapped in the war between pride and desperation.
He stared blankly at the screen of his phone, thumb hovering over Bas’s contact. His name sat there, untouched.
Just one message. One call. And Bas would come. Fuaiz knew it. Some instinct deeper than logic told him that the alpha would drop everything for him. But…
“Don’t be selfish,” he whispered to himself, voice hoarse. “He didn’t sign up for this.”
He could go to the heat center. They had suppressants stronger than his pills. Professional alphas trained to help omegas through their cycle. It was safe. Logical. The right choice.
But when he tried to get up, to even think of stepping into a center, his body rebelled.
His omega side growled, snarled even, rejecting the idea completely. No one else. No strangers. No other alphas.
Bas. Only Bas.
Tears stung his eyes as he collapsed back onto the bed, curling into the sheets. He bit down hard on the collar of the hoodie Bas had lent to him during one of their rehearsals. The faint scent was fading, but it was all he had left. It barely calmed him. Just enough to keep from completely shattering.
He would suffer alone, if he had to. He would not burden Bas with this. Not after everything they’d worked for. Not after building himself into someone who didn’t need to be rescued.
---
Meanwhile, across the city, Bas had been pacing.
He hadn’t felt normal since that filming day. It was like something inside him had cracked open and refused to close. A persistent, quiet ache that clawed at the back of his mind. A scent that still lingered on his skin, Fuaiz’s scent. Not the artificial perfume used to mask heats. The real one, warm and intoxicating. It was imprinted on him now. Every night he dreamed about it. Every day he tried to shake it off.
He tried to stay away. Tried to convince himself it was just a biological reaction. A rut-to-heat fluke. But it didn’t go away.
He'd overheard a few things from staff, whispers that Fuaiz had gone quiet since filming. That he hadn’t shown up for meetings. That his manager was handling everything.
Still, Bas told himself it wasn’t his business.
Until today.
He had only come to the studio to drop off a prop he'd borrowed. Nothing more. But as he passed the break room, he heard two managers talking.
“Still in heat?” one asked. “It’s been five days already.”
“Yeah,” Fuaiz’s manager sighed. “He won’t go to the center either. Says he’s fine, but he’s clearly not. Refuses to call anyone. I’m starting to get worried…”
Bas froze.
The air shifted. His alpha stirred, sharp and alert.
“Fuaiz…” he muttered under his breath.
Five days. Still in heat. Alone. Not going to the center. Not asking for help. And no one, not even his manager had been able to change his mind.
Bas didn’t remember making the decision. His body moved before his brain caught up. The next thing he knew, he was in his car, hands gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. His heart pounded with a strange combination of dread and something darker. possessive. Protective.
“Stupid,” he muttered to himself, pulling up to Fuaiz’s apartment. “He should’ve told someone. Told me.”
Still, a part of him understood.
Fuaiz was proud. Independent. And Bas had been keeping his distance on purpose. He didn’t want to complicate things. But now? Now, it wasn’t about chemistry or roles or unspoken feelings.
It was about Fuaiz. The omega who was suffering alone because he thought it would be a burden to ask for help.
Bas stood outside the door for a long moment. Then knocked.
Softly.
Once.
Then again, louder.
“Fuaiz,” he said, voice low. “It’s me. It’s Bas.”
Silence.
Then a thump. A groan. Shuffling.
The door cracked open.
And Fuaiz stood there, pale and shaking, wrapped in a hoodie far too big for his frame. Bas’s hoodie. His eyes were glassy. Lips bitten raw. His scent hit Bas like a punch to the gut. Unfiltered. Pure. Calling to him.
“I’m okay,” Fuaiz whispered, weakly.
“You’re not,” Bas said gently, stepping in before Fuaiz could collapse. “Let me help you.”
Fuaiz’s breath hitched. He swayed. Then, finally, for the first time in five agonizing days, he allowed himself to fall into Bas’s arms.
---
The moment Fuaiz collapsed into him, Bas caught him effortlessly, one arm sliding under his knees while the other cradled his back. His scent was overpowering now, rich, heavy, sweet like honey set on fire. Bas could feel his alpha instincts coiling, tightening like a spring inside his chest. But he didn’t let them take control. Not yet.
Fuaiz was trembling. Feverish.
He pressed his face against Bas’s neck and whimpered. “I didn’t want to bother you…”
“Fuaiz,” Bas whispered as he gently closed the door behind them with his foot, “you could never bother me.”
Fuaiz’s arms tightened weakly around his neck. He was barely conscious by the time Bas reached the bedroom.
Bas laid him down gently, eyes scanning every part of him. Sweat clung to Fuaiz’s temples, and his thighs rubbed together as if searching for pressure, friction, relief. His body was desperate, crying out for something only an alpha could give.
Bas clenched his fists.
“Do you have your pills?” he asked.
Fuaiz blinked blearily. “They stopped working… on the second day.”
Of course. His body had chosen Bas.
“…You should’ve called me.”
“I wanted to. So bad.” His lips trembled. “But I didn’t want to force you to choose. To make things complicated.”
Bas sat down beside him, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “You’re not forcing me. I’m choosing to be here. For you.
“You’re only here because I’m—”
“I’m here,” Bas said, voice low, “because I care about you. Not because you’re in heat. Not because it’s instinct. Because it’s you, Fuaiz.”
The silence that followed was so fragile, it could’ve broken under a whisper.
Then came the softest, most painful question.
“…Will you stay?”
Bas didn’t answer immediately.
He climbed onto the bed slowly, resting beside him. “I’ll stay,” he said, threading their fingers together. “I’ll help you through this… but only if you’re sure. I won’t touch you unless you want it.”
Fuaiz let out a soft, broken sound. “I’ve always wanted you.”
Bas’s control snapped.
He leaned down, lips brushing over Fuaiz’s, but still waiting—always waiting—for a sign.
Fuaiz kissed him first. Fevered. Needy. Bas kissed back with restraint, one hand cradling his face, the other smoothing over his waist.
Clothes were shed slowly. Carefully. Bas didn’t rush.
Fuaiz’s thighs parted on instinct, and he whined when Bas pressed their foreheads together again. Just like during that scene. But this wasn’t acting.
“Tell me to stop,” Bas whispered.
“Don’t,” Fuaiz breathed, eyes wide. “Please… I need you.”
Their mouths met again, deeper this time. When Bas finally pushed inside him, it wasn’t just heat and instinct, it was something more. Slow, consuming, reverent.
Fuaiz clung to him. Their scents twined in the air, thick with desire. Bas moved with patience, not just to bring him pleasure but to ground him. To remind him that he wasn’t alone anymore.
Fuaiz came undone first, crying out Bas’s name like a prayer. Bas followed soon after, biting gently into the crook of Fuaiz’s neck but not marking. Not yet.
He didn’t want to take that choice from him. Not when they were finally doing this for real.
After, Bas stayed inside him, holding Fuaiz close as the tremors subsided.
“…Still hot?” he murmured.
“Less,” Fuaiz said sleepily, snuggling closer. “But I think it’ll take more than one round.”
Bas chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Then I’ll stay as long as you need. Even after.”
“…Bas?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For helping me. For staying.”
Bas’s heart stuttered. He looked down into Fuaiz’s flushed face, saw the vulnerability there, the hope. And he kissed him like it was a promise.
“Anytime you need me, I’ll be there for you.”