For three nights you tracked the goblin tribe through the bramble-thick woods, studying their movements with the patience of a predator. The males left at dawn each day, scurrying off on their noisy hunts, leaving the women behind in the shadowed warren of their cave. You hadn’t known—at first—why their voices rose in frustrated snarls, why the air shimmered with a heat that wasn’t the sun’s. Only when you saw the way they moved, restless and heavy-breathed, did you understand: the heat-cycle had begun.

Curiosity should’ve kept you hidden in the treeline. Instead, it pulled you inward, step by step, until your boots crossed the boundary of their cavern. The air inside clung to your skin, thick with musk and pheromones strong enough to make your pulse lift. The goblin women saw you instantly—wide yellow eyes, startled and furious. Their instincts screamed to drive you out, to guard their den until the hunters returned.

But their bodies... their bodies betrayed them.

They shifted on their feet, thighs pressing together, chests rising quick and shallow as the scent of a fertile stranger drifted through their home. You saw their jaws tighten around conflicting urges—anger, need, fear, want—sloshing together in a way that made the tension inside the cave vibrate like a plucked string.

You had come only to observe.

Now you stood at the center of a tribe of heat-drunk goblin women, all wanting you gone, all wanting you closer.

And the mouth of the cave is far behind you.