Blood of Gato

William was running full tilt, lungs burning, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break free from his chest. The midday air was cool, but sweat poured down his temples, stinging his eyes. The nursing home emerged from between the trees — a bleak, gray building with a dim light flickering above the door.

He didn't bother to wait for someone to open the gate. One long, desperate leap — and he was over, feet hitting the gravel hard. Without slowing, he made for the kitchen. That's where Milagros usually was.

But, as he'd feared, she wasn't there.

The air smelled strange — a mix of boiled milk, disinfectant… and pine. Yes, that faint woody scent was hers. Familiar. Intimate. He breathed in deeper, following it to the narrow staircase leading down to the lower corridor — her room was there.

He knocked. Once. Twice.

"Milagros! It's me — William!" His voice shook, not just from exhaustion.

Silence.

Somewhere beyond the wall, an old clock ticked. He knocked harder, nearly splitting the wood.

And then it hit him. A spark through the bond that tied their minds together — sudden, scorching, like someone had pressed a live wire to his nerves. Heat spread through his chest, up his neck — he had to bite back a cry.

What are you doing?

The thought wasn't his. It flared inside his head — questioning, reproachful.

Movement behind the door. A shuffle. Then quick, uncertain footsteps. The lock clicked.

Milagros stood there, half in shadow. Even in the dim light she looked wrong — disheveled, hair mussed, her face flushed, a sheen of sweat across her skin. Her T-shirt was hastily thrown on, slipping from one shoulder.

"William…?" Her voice was low, roughened, as if she'd been talking — or crying — too long. She blinked rapidly, pulling herself together. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Maybe," he managed. "But I need to talk to you. Now."

"Now?" She arched a brow. "Can it not wait an hour?"

Her tone said no, but he stepped forward, bracing his hand against the door before she could close it.

"It can't. If I leave now, I'll be swarmed by girls. Literally swarmed. And they won't care what I say, or don't say."

Her brows lifted higher.

"Is this your new way of complaining about attention?"

"I'm serious, Milagros. Something's happening. And—" he lowered his voice, "I think you're involved."

She snorted quietly, but her gaze sharpened. The silence between them thickened, hummed. A droplet of water fell from a dented kettle to the floor. Tap. Tap.

At last, she sighed, stepped aside, and gestured for him to enter.

"All right. Come in before someone sees you."

Her room was simple — pale walls, a battered bookshelf, an unmade bed. The air smelled of wax and paper, and beneath it all, that pulse of warmth that was distinctly her.

He shut the door and, before she could speak, burst out:

"You have no idea what happened today at the university!"

She sank into a chair, rubbing her temples.

"Lucky for you, I'm not psychic. Start talking — and spare me the poetry."

"Fine," he said, raking a hand through his hair. "During my lecture, this girl — someone who usually barely notices me — suddenly lost it. She wouldn't stop staring, hovering, whispering these… weird things. And then, at that exact moment, I felt you. I could feel you in my head."

Milagros froze, the motion subtle — but enough. Her usually calm eyes flickered with alarm.

"What exactly did you feel?" she asked quietly.

He hesitated. "It was like… heat and cold at once, running through my body. And I knew — it wasn't coming from me."

She frowned, but her lips twitched faintly, like she was fighting a smile.

"So you decided I'm sitting down here in the basement, sending waves of lust through half the campus just for fun?"

"I don't know what to think," he admitted, taking a step closer. The room seemed to shrink around them. His pulse synced with hers, too loud. Too fast.

She didn't back away. Tilting her head slightly, she studied his face.

"You're far too sensitive for someone with a mental link to a wendigo," she murmured. The teasing was there, but her voice had softened, low and almost tender.

He felt it again — the pull, that invisible tether humming between them. The air grew thick enough to taste. Somewhere outside, the wind cried through the trees… or maybe that was just his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Milagros smiled — just a faint curve of her lips.

"All right," she whispered. "Tell me the rest. This is getting interesting."

"Nothing much happened," William said between breaths, running a hand through his hair in a nervous, futile gesture. "I stopped her — thank God — and came straight here. So, yeah. Here I am."

Milagros regarded him with that infuriatingly calm, unreadable expression that always flipped something deep inside him. Unmoving. Composed. Icy.

"I see," she said simply, as if closing a file.

"'I see'?" he repeated, incredulous. "That's all you've got to say?"

She pressed her lips together, exhaled softly, and set down her cup. When she finally spoke, her voice was cool and unhurried.

"I see that I don't understand why you suddenly can feel the fact that I've entered my mating season," she said — so evenly that it took him a second to process the words — "and that my pheromones are affecting you."

"What—? What season?" His voice cracked with horrified disbelief. His face went crimson.

Milagros didn't acknowledge his reaction. She crossed to the table, picked up a thick textbook, flipped to the middle, and turned the page toward him. A biological diagram. Very anatomical.

"So you understand the mechanisms at work," she explained, in the patient tone of a science teacher.

"Oh, for God's sake— I know how reproduction works! Put that away!" he blurted, grimacing and turning aside.

A small curve tugged at her lips.

"Then why ask silly questions?"

He rubbed a hand down his face, still flushed.

"Because people don't call it a mating season, Milagros. You could've said it a little less…" He gestured helplessly. "…wildlife documentary?"

She tilted her head, considering him.

"For a wendigo, it's the proper term. Our bodies follow the lunar cycle — usually around Halloween. This year, it's starting now. And apparently, your sensitivity to our bond has… side effects."

He tried to think straight, but the air in the room felt molten, sluggish, hard to breathe.

"So it's like with animals? A set time when everything gets… intensified?"

"That's one way to put it," she said, still calm. "It's an instinct — continuity of the species, not indulgence. Biology, not… debauchery."

He almost joked, but stopped short. Her presence was different now — lighter, warmer, subtly luminous. The usual sharpness of her features had softened; her eyes had deepened to liquid sapphire. And that scent — no longer pine and iron. It was thicker, richer, alive.

"And why the hell is it affecting me?" he muttered through clenched teeth. "That can't be normal."

"I don't know," she said plainly, crossing her arms as she leaned against the desk. Her stance looked casual, but her fingers had tightened slightly, betraying tension. "Our link isn't a full bond — just partial, meant for hunting. But something might've misfired."

William began pacing, trying to steady his breathing. The air burned in his lungs; heat coiled heavy beneath his ribs. Each heartbeat slammed through him, especially when their eyes met again.

"Yeah, I'd definitely say something went wrong," he said hoarsely. "So— what do we do? How do I make it stop? Or at least… not feel it?"

Milagros frowned, biting her lip, thinking.

"Blocking it won't work. Or, at least, I've never tried. Letesia's busy dealing with the hunters — we can't contact her. It should fade on its own."

"On its own?!" William nearly shouted. "You might be fine here, surrounded by old folks who couldn't care less, but I'm at a university! Half the population fits 'young, hormonal, and easily distracted'. If this keeps up, I won't survive the week!"

Milagros tilted her head again, her expression softening with something almost like sympathy.

"Oh. You're really struggling," she said quietly. "And what is it you want me to do about that?"

He froze at the implication in her tone. The air pulsed again — not just heat, but awareness, alive and humming beneath the skin.

"I— I just want you to stop it," he muttered, barely trusting his voice. "That's all."

She took a measured step closer. Smooth, deliberate. A predator's grace wrapped in calm.

"Maybe I can," she murmured, voice like velvet wrapped around fire. "Or maybe that's not what you really want. Tell me, William — have you ever been with a woman?"

The question hit like static — sharp, electric, hanging between them.

For a second, neither of them moved. The silence turned tangible, filled with breath and heartbeat and the wordless awareness that something fragile and dangerous was forming between them — neither of them knowing if it should be stopped, or simply allowed to happen.