Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The refrigerator hummed quietly, almost lost beneath the faint sound of traffic slipping through the apartment’s thin windows. Gihun stood at the kitchen counter, a dishcloth in hand, wiping the already clean surface for what felt like the hundredth time. The counter gleamed under the kitchen light, but his hands kept moving, the repetitive task filling the silence that always felt heavier when Sangwoo was late. The apartment smelled faintly of detergent and the simmering broth of Sangwoo’s favorite meal—sundubu, its rich, spicy aroma filling the air. Beneath it all was the delicate trace of pear blossom and cardamon, unmistakably Gihun’s scent, lingering in the space like a quiet echo of his presence. Gihun had spent the better part of the afternoon tidying every corner of their home, rearranging the pantry, and folding linens. The space was warm, comfortable; everything Sangwoo liked. Everything Gihun worked to maintain.

He glanced at the clock. Late. Gihun let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Then his gaze fell to the coffee table. A stack of old photographs lay scattered across the table, left out earlier when he’d gone looking for a lightbulb and found a memory instead. Before, he’d barely glanced at them. Now, with the apartment so quiet, he couldn’t seem to look away. He reached for the topmost photo, his fingers brushing the glossy edge. It was from a school trip, the bright blue sky framing a cluster of grinning teenagers. In the center stood a younger version of himself, messy-haired and rosy-cheeked, with one arm slung over Sangwoo’s shoulder.

He let out a quiet laugh. God, they looked so different. Sangwoo, even then, had been polished and composed, with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was headed. Next to him, Gihun looked like the boy who had tagged along, wide-eyed and out of place.

The click of the front door broke his reverie, and Gihun turned instinctively, placing the photo back down.

“You’re home early!” he called, his voice brightening.

Sangwoo’s scent of charred sage and white musk swept into the room as he stepped inside, his precise, unhurried movements exuding the calm authority Gihun had always admired. His eyes scanned the apartment, lingering on Gihun with an unreadable expression before shifting to the pile of photos laying on the table. “What’s all this?”

“Just some old pictures I found while organizing,” Gihun said, stepping forward to pick one up. “Look, this one’s from that school trip! Remember?”

Sangwoo took the photo from his hand, glancing at it briefly. “You look… different here.”

Gihun laughed, though his fingers fidgeted with the hem of his apron. “Yeah, I guess I do. I was such a mess back then.”

“You’ve always been a bit of a mess,” Sangwoo said, almost amused, handing the photo back with a faint smirk. Gihun’s cheeks warmed, a mixture of embarrassment and affection prickling under his skin. “But I guess that’s part of your charm.”

The words warmed Gihun, though he quickly turned away to set the photo back on the pile. “Well, you were always the perfect one,” he said, voice light, the truth sitting heavy just beneath it.

“Come on,” Sangwoo said, moving toward the dining table. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

Gihun broke the quiet. “I found that old scarf today, the one from our ski trip. Remember that? You lent me yours because I lost mine.”

Sangwoo glanced up briefly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Still going on about things like that?” He murmured, returning his attention to his meal.

Gihun let out a soft laugh, but his fingers tightened around his chopsticks. “I was always losing things back then. You said I left it on the bus—too busy talking to everyone, remember?” His laugh faded into the quiet when Sangwoo didn’t respond. “You were probably right.”

Sangwoo paused, then said simply, “I usually am.” He went back to eating.

Gihun flushed, warmth creeping up his neck as he took a quick bite of rice just to keep his hands moving. The soft note of cardamom in his scent spiked, sharp and instinctive. “Sorry. I guess I’m rambling again.”

“You always do,” Sangwoo said, not even looking up.

It wasn’t unkind, exactly. But the words settled somewhere low in his chest. Gihun forced a smile, though his stomach had already twisted on itself.

Gihun hummed quietly as he scrubbed the dishes, the warm water easing into the lines of his palms. He moved quickly, eager to finish and join Sangwoo on the couch. Just the thought of curling up beside him, even if Sangwoo stayed buried in work, made something flutter low in his chest. That’s enough, he thought, rinsing the last plate and setting it in the rack with a small clink. As he dried his hands, he peeked into the living room. Sangwoo was already seated, his laptop open on the coffee table, the glow from the screen casting sharp lines across his face. Even in casual clothes, he looked composed in that way only he could: shoulders squared, gaze steady. 

Gihun smiled and padded into the room. He sat close, just enough to feel the faint warmth radiating off Sangwoo’s side. When Sangwoo didn’t look up, Gihun leaned a little more, resting his head on the alpha’s shoulder—careful, instinctive. A touch that asked for nothing but closeness.

“You’re working hard,” he murmured, his voice soft and laced with quiet admiration.

Sangwoo made a low sound in response. He didn’t look up, but his arm shifted, settling around Gihun with the ease of habit.

Gihun smiled into the fabric of Sangwoo’s hoodie, relaxing slightly as the warmth pulled him in. His gaze landed on a photo from their beach trip: Sangwoo in the center, impossibly put together, while Gihun stood off to the side, windswept and grinning too wide. His chest tightened. He remembered feeling sure of himself that day. It felt like someone else’s memory now.

“You’ve been staring at that for a while,” Sangwoo said, voice cutting gently through the quiet.

“Oh—I was just… reminiscing,” Gihun said, setting the photo down quickly.

Sangwoo shifted closer. His scent wrapped around Gihun, warm and grounding. He glanced at the photo, but didn’t comment on it. “You always looked good in pictures,” he said instead, tone calm but laced with something that curled possessively at the edges.

Gihun’s cheeks flushed. “I don’t know about that,” he murmured. His scent shifted, pear blossom curling faintly in the air, tentative as breath.

Sangwoo smirked faintly, though it barely reached his eyes. “You always make them interesting.” He glanced at the photo again, mouth twitching into something like a smirk. “It’s the messiness, I think.”

Gihun let out a soft breath, unsure if he was meant to be flattered. His fingers hovered near the frame, then dropped. “Right,” he said quietly, not quite looking at him.

Sangwoo’s hand lingered on his shoulder, firm, almost reassuring, but gone too quickly to hold onto. “I’m going to get ready for bed,” the alpha said, already walking toward the hallway.

Gihun stayed right there for a moment, staring at the photographs. The apartment felt unusually quiet, the weight of nostalgia settling heavily around him. Finally, he sighed, turning off the light. With one last glance at the photographs, he followed Sangwoo into the bedroom.

The cafe was warm and familiar, lit by soft yellow light that made the wooden tables glow. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the faint sweetness of pastries behind the counter. Gihun had arrived early, he always did, and now sat fidgeting with his tea, unsure if this had been a good idea. It was Minyeo who’d reached out, a surprise message a week ago, out of the blue, after what had felt like years of silence.

“Gihun-ah! Found you by accident on social media. You haven’t aged a day. Coffee?”

At first, he hesitated, unsure if she really meant it. But Minyeo was always like that: bold, chaotic, and weirdly sincere. He couldn’t bring himself to say no. She was one of the only people who’d ever made him feel seen, even if she left him scrambling to keep up.

When Minyeo walked in, she scanned the room quickly before spotting him. Her smile widened, and she waved, her scarf slipping off one shoulder as she approached. “Gihun-ah,” she said warmly, sliding into the seat across from him. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You’re looking good.”

Gihun blinked, caught off guard. “Me? Really? I thought I looked a bit… tired.”

“Well, maybe you do,” she teased lightly, setting her bag down. “But it works for you. Like a tortured artist or something.”

He laughed, the soft note of pear blossom in his scent unfurling lightly into the air. “Tortured? More like… overly domesticated.”

Minyeo smirked, resting her chin on her hand. “I’m trying to pay you a compliment here, and you’re already deflecting. Some things never change.”

Gihun chuckled, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “And you’re still good at sneaking in those little jabs.”

“Only because you make it so easy.” Her tone was teasing but soft, carrying none of the sharp edges he half-expected. She leaned back, glancing at him more closely. “But really, it’s good to see you. It’s been too long.”

Gihun nodded, his fingers playing with the edge of his napkin. “Yeah… it has. Life just gets busy, I guess.”

“Does it?” Minyeo asked, tilting her head slightly. “What’s been keeping you so busy?”

“Oh, you know… Sangwoo, the apartment… stuff like that.” He hesitated before adding, “I still help my mom at her stall sometimes, too. I don’t want her to overdo it.”

Minyeo raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. Instead, she gestured to his tea. “So, how’s the tea? Still drinking the same thing as always?”

“Green tea,” Gihun confirmed with a small smile. “I don’t like coffee much. Too bitter.”

“Figures,” Minyeo said, a hint of a grin tugging at her lips. “You’ve always been a little soft. In a good way, I mean.”

Gihun laughed, his cheeks warming faintly. “Thanks, I think?”

Their conversation meandered through safer topics: old friends, funny memories from school, and even the latest celebrity gossip. Minyeo’s sharp humor drew genuine laughter from him, slicing through layers of tension he hadn’t even realized were there.

“Remember when we snuck into the art room after hours and you knocked over that whole rack of paints?” she said, her grin mischievous.

“Oh, don’t remind me!” Gihun groaned, covering his face. “I thought the teacher was going to kill me.”

“And then you spent the whole weekend scrubbing the floor because you felt so bad,” Minyeo added, shaking her head. “You were always like that - too sweet for your own good.”

Gihun’s laughter faded into a softer smile, his hands resting on the table. “I guess I haven’t changed much, huh?”

Minyeo tilted her head, studying him for a moment. “I don’t know about that,” she said thoughtfully. “You seem… quieter. Different.”

Gihun’s gaze flickered to his cup, and he shrugged. “I guess life changes you a little.”

Minyeo didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she reached out and gave his hand a quick squeeze. “Yeah, it does. But you can tell me, you know. Whatever it is, I’m here.”

The words caught him off guard, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to say. He glanced up, meeting her steady gaze. Something in her expression—warm, understanding, unflinching— made the words tumble out before he could stop them. 

“I don’t know,” he said, rubbing at his cup. “It’s like I’m floating, kind of. Like I’m doing everything I’m supposed to, but… nothing’s really moving. I’m not really moving.”

Minyeo’s brows furrowed slightly, and her playful demeanor softened. “That doesn’t sound like you, Gihun-ah. What’s going on?”

He hesitated, his fingers tightening around his cup. “It’s nothing serious. Sangwoo’s great, our home is great. I just… I don’t know. I guess I feel like I should be doing more. But every time I think about it, I feel guilty. Like I’m being ungrateful.”

Minyeo leaned forward, her tone quiet but firm. “You’re not ungrateful. Wanting something for yourself doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate what you have.”

He looked at her, the soft notes of pear blossom and cardamom in his scent spiking faintly with unease. “It feels like that, though. I mean… Sangwoo didn’t have to pick me. I’m lucky he did. I’m just…”

"Stop right there,” Minyeo said, her playful tone vanishing as she leaned forward, her expression suddenly sharp and unwavering. “Lucky? You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re still gorgeous, still sweet, still the guy everyone couldn’t help but love in school. Sangwoo’s the lucky one.”

Gihun blinked, her words catching him off guard. “You really think so?”

The question made his chest feel tight. He wasn’t sure why, not really.

“I know so,” Minyeo said firmly, sitting back with a look of exasperation. Then, with a sly grin, she added, “And if Sangwoo ever forgets that, send him my way. I’ll remind him.”

Gihun laughed, head tipping forward. His shoulders dropped, just a little. “I don’t think he’s ready for you.”

Minyeo smirked. “No one is, sweetheart. But seriously, think about it, okay? You deserve to have something that’s yours.”

He nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Thanks, Minyeo. I will,” he said, his voice quiet, but something steadier behind it now. As she smiled at him, Gihun felt a flicker of something he hadn’t in a long time—hope.

The laptop’s glow lit the kitchen, soft shadows stretching across the counter. Gihun sat hunched at the table, chewing absently on the end of a pen. The faint sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the apartment mingled with the distant hum of traffic outside. On the screen was a sleek ad for a set of noise-canceling headphones. He’d been eyeing them for weeks. His own were cracked at the edges, the volume unreliable, but they still worked. Buying new ones felt like a luxury he couldn’t justify, not really. He hovered the cursor over the “Add to Cart” button, his lips pressing into a thin line.

He could still hear Sangwoo’s voice, something offhand, weeks ago, when Gihun mentioned wanting something similar. “You don’t even use that kind of thing often, right? Don’t waste money on stuff you don’t need.” The memory stung, not because Sangwoo had been particularly harsh, he hadn’t, but because Gihun couldn’t shake the quiet certainty that he was right. He sighed and clicked away from the page, his chest tightening with that familiar pang of disappointment.

He glanced toward the half-open door of Sangwoo’s office. The faint clack of a keyboard told him Sangwoo was busy, probably preparing another report or reviewing some client account. Gihun leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath. Maybe Sangwoo’s right. It’s not worth it. He clicked over to another tab, skimming an article about omega nutrition that he wasn’t really reading. His eyes darted absently to the side of the page where an ad caught his attention: “Omega Inclusion Program—Opportunities for Growth and Independence.”

The words seemed to pulse, drawing him in. Gihun stared at the ad for a long moment, his hand frozen on the trackpad. His first instinct was to ignore it, he wasn’t looking for a job. He didn’t even think he could handle one, not after all these years of being out of the workforce. But something about the phrasing tugged at him. Before he could overthink it, he clicked.

The page loaded slowly, revealing a banner emblazoned with the logo of Young Il Electronics. Underneath was a short message in clean, professional font:

"Empowering Omegas to take the first step. Our program offers mentorship, flexible roles, and the tools to succeed. Whether you’re looking for a fresh start or the chance to grow, Young Il Electronics believes in your potential."

Gihun’s throat tightened as he scrolled down. The program wasn’t aimed at highly qualified candidates or those with years of experience. It was meant for people like him, those who had little more than a willingness to learn. They even offered training as part of the onboarding process. His eyes flicked over a photo of a sharp-suited man standing at a podium. Beneath it was a caption: CEO Hwang Inho, speaking at the launch of the Omega Inclusion Program. The CEO’s expression was unreadable—detached, almost cold—but something in his eyes made Gihun pause.

His heart began to race as he read through the roles: part-time administrative support, customer service, entry-level project coordination. He felt a flicker of hope, faint and trembling, as if daring to grow in the shadows of his doubt.

He clicked “Apply Now.” The form loaded, but he just stared, hands hovering, suddenly still.

His reflection stared back at him in the black bar of the browser header. Could he really do this? Did he have any business applying for a job at a company like this? What if they laugh at me? What if Sangwoo finds out and thinks it’s ridiculous? But the thought of not trying was worse. He bookmarked the page with trembling fingers and shut the laptop with a soft click. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the grain of the table. The fridge hummed behind him, quiet and steady. Something stirred in his chest, not courage, not yet, but something close.

For the first time in a long while, Gihun allowed himself to imagine something different, a life where he wasn’t just Sangwoo’s shadow but his own person. The image was hazy and fleeting, but it stayed with him as he rose from the table and turned out the kitchen light.

Gihun had closed the laptop, but the thought wouldn’t leave him alone. As he washed the dishes and wiped down the counters, his mind drifted back to the bookmarked page. The thought of applying still felt absurd, almost laughable, but it wouldn’t go away. It tugged at him like an itch he couldn’t reach. By the time he sat back down at the table, the urge to look again had grown stronger.

With a deep breath, Gihun reopened the laptop, the screen lighting up the dim room once more. His fingers hovered over the trackpad for a moment before he clicked on the next article. The silence of the apartment wrapped around him as he scrolled through. His eyes darted across the words, though he wasn’t fully absorbing them. The headline read, “Building Confidence: How Omegas Can Thrive in the Modern Workplace.”

“Still awake?” Sangwoo’s voice broke the quiet, making Gihun jump slightly. He nearly fumbled the laptop, quickly setting it down before turning to see Sangwoo leaning in the doorway. His sleeves were rolled up, a faint crease in his brow. His posture was relaxed, but there was something about the way he tilted his head that always made Gihun feel small.

“Yeah,” Gihun said quickly, his voice a little too bright. “Just, you know, reading stuff!” He grinned sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. “I got lost in one of those clicky rabbit holes, one article, then another, and suddenly I’m reading about… um…” His voice trailed off, the grin faltering.

Sangwoo stepped into the kitchen, glancing at the laptop screen before looking back at Gihun.

“What’s it about?” he asked, reaching for the glass he kept by the sink.

“It’s about how omegas fit into company roles and stuff, ” Gihun said, his tone softer now. He felt his cheeks flush, the earlier cheer draining slightly. Why did it feel so embarrassing to say that out loud?

Sangwoo raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Workplace advice, huh?” he repeated, his voice smooth but carrying that undertone Gihun couldn’t ignore. “I guess it’s good to read things like that.”

Gihun blinked, caught off guard by the neutral response. He laughed nervously, scratching his cheek. “Yeah, I mean, it’s not like I’m planning anything or… You know…” He trailed off, his hands fluttering as if to dismiss the idea entirely. “It’s just interesting! Like… trivia!”

Sangwoo’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, unreadable. “You’ve been spending a lot of time on that thing lately,” he said, taking a measured sip of water. “Find anything good?”

“No, not really,” Gihun murmured, his throat tightening as his hands hovered near the laptop. “Just… passing the time.”

Sangwoo leaned a hand on the table, lowering himself slightly to meet Gihun’s eyes. “You know, sometimes people get ideas when they spend too much time reading. Things that might seem exciting but don’t really lead anywhere.” His tone was light, almost conversational, but there was a weight beneath it that made Gihun shrink in his chair.

He straightened, brushing a hand through his hair. “I just mean… you’ve got things set up in a way that works, hyung. You don’t have to deal with the stress and pressure other people do. Not everyone gets to live without that weight.”

Gihun hesitated, clinging to the earlier cheer like a shield. But it slipped, leaving him bare beneath the weight of Sangwoo’s words. “Right,” he murmured, his fingers curling slightly as he turned his gaze back to the screen.

Sangwoo placed the glass in the sink and turned toward him, brushing his hand lightly over Gihun’s shoulder as he passed. “Don’t overthink it. Sometimes, when people try to change too much, they forget how good they already have it.”

The faint trace of Sangwoo’s scent lingered in the air—calming, grounding, and suffocating all at once. In the quiet of the room, Gihun’s eyes lingered on the application tab. His chest tightened as the alpha’s words settled over him like a quiet warning, subtle, but clear: don’t upset the balance.

But the words didn’t stop him. If anything, they pushed him further. Gihun stared at the empty fields for what felt like forever before his fingers moved. Slowly, he typed his name, his address, and his contact information. Each keystroke felt heavier than the last, but he pressed on, his heart pounding.

When he reached the “Experience” section, his mind raced. He typed, dredging up every job he’d ever held, no matter how small: Driver at a logistics company: three months. Assistant at a corner store: six months. Temporary factory worker. Occasional helper at my mother’s food stall. He hesitated, then added: Flexible. Willing to learn.

The list looked pitiful, but it was all he had. He stared at the words for a moment before his hand moved almost on its own, clicking 'Submit' with a quiet finality. The confirmation message appeared almost instantly: Thank you for applying. We’ll be in touch soon. Gihun stared at the screen, his pulse racing. For the first time, he felt like he’d done something that wasn’t about meeting expectations, or defying them, but simply about himself.

Sangwoo’s scent still lingered faintly in the air, but this time, it didn’t feel so heavy.

Sangwoo chewed his food slowly, letting Gihun’s endless chatter wash over him like white noise. Something about a stray cat near the dumpster that the omega was trying to befriend, typical. He nodded, already thinking about the emails piling up in his inbox and the balance sheets he hadn’t finished. More pressing things.

“And then the cashier looked at me like I actually stole something!” Gihun’s eyebrows shot up, his voice full of incredulous energy. “What a terrible attitude, can you believe it?” He shook his head dramatically, pouring more tea into Sangwoo’s cup.

Sangwoo hummed low in response, lifting the cup to his lips. The bitter aftertaste of the poorly made jajangmyeon lingered. If Gihun spent as much time on cooking as he did on stray cats, Sangwoo wouldn’t have to force himself to finish these meals. He sighed faintly and drained the rest of his tea, already calculating how quickly he could excuse himself to his office.

“Oh, I also applied for this one job! I even wrote a resume and everything,” Gihun said, his voice carrying a note of both excitement and apprehension.

The words cut through Sangwoo’s thoughts like a cold blade. He froze mid-sip, his eyes snapping up to meet Gihun’s for the first time that evening. The omega smiled faintly, sheepishly, then dropped his gaze to the plate, suddenly fascinated by his rice.

"Didn’t realize your mom’s dumpling stall required a resume," Sangwoo said, his voice measured but laced with quiet mockery.

Gihun’s face registered a flicker of hurt before he forced out a small laugh, shaking his head. “That’s not it!”

Sangwoo raised an eyebrow, holding his gaze just long enough to make the omega squirm. Gihun’s scent spiked, tinged with unease. “You know that building we always pass on the way to your mother’s? The one I said looks kind of like a space rocket?” His voice faltered slightly as he added, “Well… that’s the one.”

Sangwoo didn’t bother suppressing the snort that escaped him. Of all the foolish things Gihun had done, this one might just top the list. How could someone so naive actually think they stood a chance in a place like that? Still, beneath his amusement, irritation simmered. He wasn’t rattled by Gihun’s ambition, not exactly. It was the secrecy that grated on him. How long had Gihun been planning this? And in all that time, he hadn’t thought to mention it to his alpha? That part stung more than Sangwoo cared to admit.

Sangwoo stared at him, disbelief etched into the sharp line of his jaw. He leaned back in his chair, the faintest trace of a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, though his eyes betrayed none of the humor.

“You’re applying to Young Il Electronics?” His voice was calm, almost too calm, the way it always got when he was moments away from cutting someone down. “And what exactly do you think you’re going to find there?”

Gihun hesitated, his hand nervously brushing over the edge of the table. “They had an opening… for one of the assistant positions.”

The alpha’s brow shot up. “An assistant,” he repeated slowly, as though the words themselves were too absurd to process. A short, sharp laugh escaped him before he could stop it. "And what makes you think you’re qualified for something like that?"

The omega flinched but quickly masked it with a faint, uneasy chuckle. “Well… I can learn. I’m good at picking things up fast, you know.”

Sangwoo’s eyes narrowed. “Right. Like you picked up driving for that chauffeur job you couldn’t hold onto? Or the learning experience in that factory you quit after a month? And let’s not forget your stellar management experience helping your mom sell dumplings at her food stall.”

Gihun’s cheeks burned, but he didn’t look away. Not yet. “I just… I thought maybe I could try something new,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Sangwoo’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile, but there was no warmth in it. “Try something new?” He tilted his head, studying Gihun like he was some strange, inexplicable creature. “Hyung, do you even hear yourself?”

Sangwoo's smile didn't waver, but something cold settled in his eyes. "Gihun-ah," he began, his tone taking on that familiar, condescending softness he reserved for moments like this. "You don’t have to worry about helping. I’ve got us covered. Everything you need is right here."

Gihun’s fingers tightened around his chopsticks. "It’s not about need," he said quietly, though his voice wavered under Sangwoo’s gaze. "I just—I want to do something more."

“More?” Sangwoo leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as his smile thinned into something sharper. "You already do plenty. Keeping the house, making sure everything’s in order. That’s important work, Gihun." His words were syrupy sweet, but they oozed with a quiet dismissal.

"But it’s not enough," Gihun muttered, barely above a whisper. He avoided Sangwoo’s gaze, focusing instead on the edge of the table. "I… I don’t feel useful."

Sangwoo raised an eyebrow, a flicker of annoyance flashing across his face before he quickly smothered it. "Not useful?" He laughed softly, shaking his head as if the very idea was absurd. "Who told you that nonsense? You’re my omega,” Sangwoo said, not unkindly. “That role alone carries enough weight without you trying to reinvent it.”

Gihun flinched at the words, even though Sangwoo’s tone remained light. The weight of expectations—Sangwoo’s, society’s, even his own—pressed down on him, heavier than ever. He wanted to say it, to voice the thought that had been gnawing at him for months now: that they were nothing like the other couples their age, the ones with homes bustling with children. But he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

The silence stretched between them before Sangwoo broke it with another soft chuckle. "And besides," he said, leaning back in his chair, "what could you possibly do at Young Il Electronics? You don’t even like technology, Gihun."

“I could help,” Gihun blurted, his voice suddenly firm. “I just want to help.”

Sangwoo’s smile froze for a moment before softening again. He reached across the table, resting a hand on Gihun’s. "You already do, darling. More than enough."

The patronizing endearment sent a jolt of frustration through Gihun, but he didn’t pull his hand away. Sangwoo’s grip was firm, reassuring in the way it always was when he wanted Gihun to let something go. The Alpha’s voice settled into something final, the kind of tone Gihun had learned not to push against. "You don’t need to stress yourself over this. Trust me, nothing’s going to come of it."

And with that, the conversation was over.

The living room was quiet except for the soft rustle of papers and the occasional frustrated sigh coming from Gihun. A stack of printed documents sat precariously on the coffee table: tips for job interviews, sample answers to common questions, and a few poorly highlighted pages outlining the company’s promises to help omegas like him ‘reenter the workforce.’”

Gihun leaned over the table, squinting at the mess in front of him. “Okay, okay,” he muttered, tapping his pen nervously against his notebook. “What’s your biggest strength? Um… I’m… friendly? No, that sounds stupid. Reliable? That’s better. Yeah, reliable. People like reliable, right?”

He scribbled it down, circled it, then immediately crossed it out. “No, wait. Maybe dependable? Is that the same thing?” He groaned, dropping the pen and flopping back on the couch. The ceiling stared back, offering no answers.

What if they laugh at me? What if they ask something I don’t know? What if… What if Sangwoo—No, he wasn’t going to think about Sangwoo right now.

The guilt came anyway, curling low in his gut like it always did when he even thought about keeping something from him. The alpha wasn’t home; he was in his office, working late again, and Gihun couldn’t decide if that made him feel relieved or disappointed. Either way, it gave him space to prepare without facing Sangwoo’s quiet disapproval.

A loud buzz interrupted his thoughts, and he scrambled to grab his phone from the coffee table. It was Minyeo. His stomach flipped as he answered.

“Minyeo! Hi!” His voice landed with too much cheer, too sharp and eager, and he winced at the sound of it.

“Gihun-ah,” The omega replied, her tone warm but teasing. “You sound like you’re in the middle of a crisis.”

He laughed nervously, scratching the back of his head even though she couldn’t see him. “Crisis? No, no. Just… you know, preparing. For tomorrow.” He glanced at the mess on the table and winced. “I might’ve printed a few too many things.”

“Let me guess. Interview tips?” she asked, a smile evident in her voice.

“And company history, and… uh, some stuff about what makes a good first impression.” He paused. “Minyeo, do you think I’m good at making first impressions?”

“You?” She laughed lightly. “You’ve got the puppy charm thing down to a science. People love you.”

Gihun’s cheeks flushed, and he grinned despite himself. “Puppy charm, huh? Is that… professional enough?”

“It’s who you are,” Minyeo said firmly. “And that’s what matters. Just be yourself. They’ll see you’re sincere, and that’s worth more than memorizing a script.”

Gihun nodded, her words settling some of the tension in his chest. “Okay. Yeah, I can do that. Be myself. I can be myself,” he said, as if repeating it enough would make it true.

“Good. Now stop overthinking it and get some rest,” she added, her tone mock-stern. “You’ll do great.”

“Thanks, Minyeo,” Gihun said softly. “I needed that.”

After they hung up, Gihun sat on the couch for a moment, staring at the chaos on the table. He reached over, carefully stacking the papers and setting them aside. He didn’t need all of them, not really. He kept one page, though: a list of questions he’d jotted down about the company.

He stood and stretched, then headed to his wardrobe. Pulling out a neatly folded shirt, he held it up with a critical eye. “Too plain?” he muttered, swapping it for another option. After a moment, he picked up a tie, a simple one, dark with subtle stripes. He held it against the shirt, tilting his head.

“I don’t know…” He caught his reflection and grimaced. Did he really look like someone who belonged in an office? But then he smiled, forcing himself to stand a little taller. “No. This works. It looks professional. Right?”

He practiced a quick knot, adjusting the tie until it sat perfectly. He nodded at himself in the mirror. “Just breathe. Be yourself. And remember what Minyeo said—puppy charm.” He barked a small laugh at his own joke, his confidence growing.

Satisfied, he hung the outfit carefully on the back of the chair before heading to bed. His heart was still racing, but the knot of anxiety had loosened, leaving behind a quiet, determined hope.

Gihun adjusted his tie for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. He hated wearing ties, they always made him feel like he was being strangled. The small meeting room felt too cold, the air conditioning humming faintly above him. He clutched the folder containing his barely formatted resume, already regretting his decision to come here. He adjusted his grip on the folder. What the hell was he even doing here?

The door opened, and a woman in a sleek navy suit stepped in, clutching a tablet. She looked like she didn’t have time for nonsense, everything about her was sharp, from her suit to the perfect line of her eyeliner.

“Seong Gihun-ssi, right?” she asked with a polite smile, taking her seat across from him.

“Yes, that’s me,” he replied, rising a little awkwardly to shake her hand before quickly sitting down again.

“I’m Kim Jiyeong, one of the HR managers here at Young Il Electronics. Thank you for coming in today.” She placed her tablet on the table, fingers poised to type. “Shall we begin?”

Gihun nodded, his throat dry.

“So,” the alpha began, scanning his resume briefly before looking at him. “Your experience… is quite varied. Could you tell me more about your time as a driver and in your family’s business?”

Gihun felt the heat rise to his face. He knew this would come up. Clearing his throat, he forced a smile.

“Ah, well, yes. I’ve done a bit of everything. As a driver, I learned punctuality, navigating under pressure, and, uh, multitasking. And at my eomma’s stall, you know, it was chaos every day: customers everywhere, orders flying in. It’s like running a small empire.” He chuckled nervously.

Jiyeong raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced but not entirely dismissive.

“And how do you think that prepares you for this role? Executive assistant positions require strong organizational skills, communication, and the ability to manage multiple priorities.”

Gihun straightened up, determination flickering in his eyes. “I know it sounds silly, but I’m really good at dealing with chaos. That stall? It never stopped. You’ve got customers shouting, orders piling up. You either figure things out fast or everything falls apart. I don’t have the degrees or whatever, but I’m quick. And I don’t quit.”

Jiyeong leaned back slightly, studying him. He hadn’t practiced it. Maybe that’s what made it land.

“Why this job, specifically?”

Gihun blinked. His mouth opened, then closed again. Of course it had to go this way.

“I… I guess I’m just tired of feeling like I’m waiting for something.” He paused, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. “Honestly… I want to prove to myself that I can do more. I’ve spent so much time wondering what I’m even capable of, and now I just want the chance to try. I don’t want to sit at home forever, waiting for life to decide for me.”

Jiyeong’s expression softened slightly, though she quickly masked it.

“Well, that’s a refreshingly honest answer,” the alpha admitted, though her tone remained professional. “This is a junior position, so we’re looking for someone eager to learn and grow with the company. You’ll need to hit the ground running and adapt quickly. Do you think you’re up for the challenge?”

“I am,” Gihun said firmly, meeting her gaze. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Jiyeong gave him a long look, then smiled faintly. “Alright, Gihun-ssi.” Her tone lightened, just slightly. “Thank you for coming in. We’ll be in touch soon.”

Dumplings sizzled behind the counter. Somewhere nearby, a car horn blared, and voices drifted past the stall. Gihun stood behind the stall’s counter, apron tied lopsided, trying to stack the bamboo steamers without knocking anything over. His mother was already halfway through a dozen dumplings, her fingers moving like muscle memory.

“Eomma, slow down!” Gihun chuckled, fumbling to keep up. “You’re going to run out of filling at this rate.”

His mother shot him a look over her glasses, her lips twitching in amusement. “If you spent less time talking and more time working, maybe we’d keep up with the orders.”

He laughed, scratching the back of his head. “I’m doing my best, okay? You’re like a dumpling factory on legs.”

The phone in his pocket buzzed, cutting off his next joke. He fumbled to fish it out, nearly dropping a steamer in the process. “Ah, just a second! You keep rolling while I—”

“Gihun-ah!” his mother scolded, but he was already stepping away, the phone pressed to his ear.

“Hello? This is Seong Gihun,” he said, his tone bright but distracted as he tried to balance the phone and wipe his flour-dusted hands on his apron.

“Good afternoon, Gihun-ssi,” a calm voice replied. “This is Kim Jiyeong from Young Il Electronics. I’m calling to let you know that you’ve been accepted into the Omega Inclusion Program. Congratulations!”

The words landed and for a second, everything else stopped. His eyes widened, and he nearly dropped the phone. “W-Wait—what?” he stammered, stepping farther from the stall to hear better. “You’re saying I got the job?”

“Yes. We’re thrilled to have you join us.”

A grin spread across his face. His scent unfurled before he could stop it, all bright warmth and disbelief. “Oh my… Thank you so much! I—uh—wow, I don’t even know what to say. I’m so happy. Thank you!”

His voice drew a few curious glances from passersby, but Gihun didn’t notice. He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him, his hand flailing like it had a mind of its own. “I’ll do my best, I promise. Thank you again.”

As the call ended, Gihun lowered the phone, his chest tight with exhilaration. He stared at the bustling street for a moment, the sounds of the world rushing back in: voices, clinking coins, the hiss of frying oil. A giddy smile tugged at his lips, and he let out a quiet laugh, stuffing the phone back into his pocket. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he turned back to the stall, his steps lighter than before. His mother glanced up briefly, raising an eyebrow at his distracted expression.

“Finally done with your little break?” she teased, her hands never pausing their swift work.

“Yeah, sorry,” Gihun said, his voice unusually cheerful as he grabbed a fresh stack of bamboo steamers. “I’m here now. Let’s get these dumplings moving.”

His mother shot him a curious look but said nothing. Gihun’s grin widened as he focused on his work. Something fluttered in his chest, too new to name, too good to give away just yet.

Gihun’s voice broke through the quiet of the evening, his excitement palpable. “I got the job,” he said, almost shyly, as if waiting for some sort of approval.

Sangwoo paused, his chopsticks hovering in mid-air. The news hit him, but he kept his expression neutral, studying Gihun’s face more than listening to the words. He could see the flicker of hope in the omega’s eyes, that childish gleam that, despite everything, still managed to break through.

“That’s... interesting,” Sangwoo said, lifting his cup. He took a slow sip of the tea, carefully hiding the brief flash of irritation that rose within him. It wasn’t about the job, not exactly. It was the fact that Gihun had gone behind his back to get it, as if he could somehow build a life beyond the one Sangwoo had already so meticulously created for him.

“You must be proud,” Sangwoo continued, setting his cup down with a soft clink. “Though I’ll admit, I’m a little surprised. A place like that, it’s not exactly what I imagined you aiming for.”

Gihun’s shoulders tensed, a slight frown tugging at the corners of his lips. Sangwoo didn’t miss it. He never did. The shift was subtle, the way Gihun’s eyes dropped, the faint change in his scent, instinct curling inward. All so familiar now, like a well-rehearsed dance. Sangwoo said nothing more, just smiled, as if it had been an innocent remark.

“I—” Gihun hesitated, the uncertainty creeping in, and Sangwoo could feel it, the vulnerability hanging in the air. He leaned back in his chair, watching, waiting, letting the silence stretch just long enough for the doubt to settle in.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting more,” Sangwoo said. His voice had that quiet softness that always made Gihun second-guess himself. “But, sweetheart... you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. You already have everything you need right here.”

Sangwoo watched the flicker in his eyes, that quiet little war he thought he’d already won. Gihun wanted to believe there was something more, something beyond the confines of Sangwoo’s control, but the alpha had made it so simple, so clear. All Gihun needed to do was stay close, let him take care of everything.

“You’ve always been good at looking after us,” Sangwoo’s voice was syrupy, the way it always got when he wanted to sound kind without giving up control. “I’m sure the job will be fine, but... I just think you’ve already got more than enough on your plate.”

Gihun’s lips parted, but he didn’t speak right away, his gaze lowering as if the weight of the conversation was too much to carry. Sangwoo noticed the slight tremble in his hands, the hesitation.

“I just thought...” Gihun finally whispered, his voice small. “I just thought I could do something different.”

Sangwoo’s eyes softened just enough, the facade of care slipping momentarily as he observed the uncertainty in Gihun. The need for control flickered beneath the surface, but he kept it hidden, his smile never wavering.

“Different?” Sangwoo echoed, a quiet laugh escaping him, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hyung, you don’t need to go looking for different. You’re already exactly where you belong.” His hand found Gihun’s on the table. His touch was firm, almost possessive, as his fingers brushed against Gihun’s hand. Sangwoo's gaze lingered on the omega’s face, his expression a mask of understanding and gentle encouragement. 

"Go ahead and try it," Sangwoo said, his voice still soft, though the edge of something more dangerous lingered beneath. "But you know, hyung.. you might find it harder than you think."

Gihun nodded, but there was something in the way his eyes darted away, some invisible thread pulling him farther from Sangwoo’s reach. It was subtle, so subtle that only Sangwoo, who had spent years perfecting the art of control, could sense the shift.

He let out a breath, keeping the smile plastered on his face as he squeezed Gihun’s hand just a little too tightly. "If you ever need help," Sangwoo continued, his voice laced with thinly veiled possessiveness, "you know where I am. But I’m sure you’ll manage on your own. You always do."

Gihun adjusted his tie nervously as he stepped off the elevator and into the sprawling executive floor of Young Il Electronic’s headquarters. Marble floors stretched out beneath him, catching too much light. The place buzzed quietly: phones ringing, heels ticking against tile, the soft click of keyboards. Everything about this place screamed refinement and control, a sharp contrast to the chaotic world he had left behind. His palms were damp, and he cursed himself for his nerves. After all, this was supposed to be a fresh start, wasn’t it?

Most of the employees bustling around him looked sharp, young, and impossibly polished. He caught a few glances. One or two held a little too long, not unfriendly, just… measuring. A pair of betas walking past exchanged a hushed comment he couldn’t quite catch, leaving him feeling self-conscious. It wasn’t the first time he had felt out of place in a professional setting, but this time, the stakes felt higher.

“You must be Seong Gihun-ssi,” a voice broke through his thoughts. He turned to see a young woman approaching him, her sharp heels clicking against the floor. Tall, even for a beta, she moved with a quiet confidence that settled the space around her. Her warm, professional smile put Gihun instantly at ease. “I’m Cho Hyunju, one of the executive assistants. Welcome to the team. It’s a small one, but things move fast. Stay sharp and ask questions.”

“Thank you,” Gihun said, bowing slightly. His voice was soft, almost timid, but laced with an underlying sincerity. “I’m eager to learn.”

“Good.” Hyunju handed him a sleek tablet and gestured for him to follow. “I’ll give you a quick tour before we dive in. You’ll be assisting primarily with scheduling and correspondence. Occasionally, you might need to deliver documents to the CEO’s office. Speaking of which, try to stay out of his way unless absolutely necessary.”

Gihun’s brow furrowed slightly. “The CEO?”

“Hwang Inho-ssi,” Hyunju replied, lowering her voice slightly as they walked. “He’s… let’s just say he’s not the warmest person. Brilliant, though. Some say he’s a genius, but I’d wager he’s more machine than man. You’ll figure out how to work around him soon enough.”

By midmorning, he’d already forgotten half the names he’d been introduced to. Hyunju talked fast, moved faster, and expected him to keep up. His hands fumbled with the tablet more than once, and he winced when he sent a reminder to the wrong department. “I’ll work on that.” He meant it. He always meant well, even when he wasn’t sure what he was doing.

Hyunju corrected his mistake, reassuring him, that he’d improve. Taking copious notes, Gihun absorbed everything like a sponge,  determined not to mess up again.

By lunchtime, he had already organized several schedules and sent out meeting reminders. Each task felt like climbing a hill, but he tackled them with quiet persistence. While others might have rushed through, Gihun double-checked his work, rereading every message to make sure it was accurate. His attention to detail stood out, even if it slowed him down.

“You’re thorough,” Hyunju remarked, glancing at the neatly sorted stack of reports he handed her. There was a note of approval in her voice. “Just don’t get too hung up on perfection. Sometimes, speed matters more.”

Gihun nodded, his sincerity shining through. “I’ll work on that. Thank you.”

As the day wore on, Gihun’s nerves gradually gave way to cautious optimism. It wasn’t easy to keep up, but he reminded himself why he was here—a fresh start, a chance to prove he was more than just a shadow of his old self. Each small victory fueled his determination, and though the work challenged him, it also sparked something he hadn’t felt in years: hope.

He was going through a stack of papers when one of the other assistants, a young beta named Jihoon, approached him.

“Hey, new guy,” Jihoon said with a grin, holding out a folder. “Can you run this up to the CEO’s office? It’s the quarterly projections. Hyunju’s swamped, and I’m about to jump on a call.”

Gihun hesitated, glancing between the folder and Jihoon. “Are you sure? It’s my first day.”

“It’s just a delivery,” Jihoon said, already walking away. “Knock, leave it on his desk, and get out. He probably won’t even notice you.”

Taking a steadying breath, Gihun picked up the folder and made his way to the CEO’s office. The heavy oak doors at the end loomed like a gate to another world.

Knocking lightly, Gihun pushed the door open when there was no response. The office was vast and impeccably designed, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city. A massive desk dominated the room, but its occupant was nowhere to be seen.

Feeling slightly relieved, Gihun stepped inside and placed the folder on the desk. He was about to leave when the sound of a door opening made him freeze. Turning, he saw Hwang Inho emerging from an adjacent room, likely a private conference area. The CEO walked to his desk with an air of complete control, his movements precise and unhurried.

“The projections, sajangnim,” Gihun said softly, bowing slightly. He wasn’t sure if he should say more or simply leave.

Inho didn’t respond immediately. He picked up the folder, flipping through its contents with practiced efficiency. His eyes flicked up briefly, sharp and assessing, before returning to the papers.

“You’re new,” he said finally, his tone neutral.

“Yes, sajangnim. Seong Gihun. I—”

“That’ll be all,” Inho interrupted, his tone dismissive. His gaze didn’t linger, but the brief flicker of acknowledgment stayed with Gihun.

He turned to go, but found himself glancing back. Not out of curiosity—at least, that’s what he told himself. The man barely looked at him, but there was a weight to his presence. A calm authority that made something in Gihun’s chest tighten without reason.

From his chair, Inho looked through the glass wall—just a glance, at first. Reflex. But his eyes didn’t move on. Seong Gihun was back at his desk, fumbling with his tablet again. Quiet. Unassuming. The kind of presence that should’ve disappeared into the background. And yet, something about him... lingered. Not flashy. Not precise. But he caught the eye anyway. Pulled it.

Inho’s fingers drummed once against the desk before he leaned back, expression unreadable. He was good at people, slicing through them in seconds, filing them into categories: useful, ambitious, desperate. The omega didn’t quite fit. That was the problem. He was soft, a little awkward, but there was something else there too. Not submission, Inho could sniff that out in an instant, but a kind of stubborn vulnerability, like someone who’d learned how to endure rather than disappear.

Inho’s gaze drifted back to his folder, though his mind stayed elsewhere. He kept seeing the way the omega had looked when he handed over the documents, shoulders drawn in, but eyes steady. Scent pulled tight around him like he didn’t want to be noticed, but couldn’t help it anyway. 

“Seong Gihun,” Inho said under his breath, testing the shape of it aloud. Not out of curiosity. Out of instinct. Something about the name made his jaw tense.

He reached for the call button. “Keep an eye on the new one,” he said when his assistant entered. “I want updates on how he handles things.”

The assistant nodded and left. Inho didn’t watch them go. His eyes had already returned to the window. There was time. There was always time. And some things were better understood slowly.

Chapter Text

The soft chime of the elevator broke the silence, and Hwang Inho stepped in with quiet precision. His polished shoes tapped lightly against the tile, each movement deliberate, controlled. At the back, Seong Gihun stood holding a tray of coffee cups from the cafeteria, hands braced on either side like he half-expected it to tip or slip without warning.

The CEO’s gaze swept over him, cataloging the details. Gihun’s frame, though not small, had a softness that came through in his slightly loose button-up and the way his tie wasn’t quite centered. A few strands of dark, unruly hair clung to his forehead. And his expression, hesitant and careful, was the same one Inho had clocked on his first day.

The omega’s scent curled faintly in the air: pear blossom, light but persistent, softened by the richer note of coffee rising from the tray. It didn’t announce itself, didn’t pull attention like some omegas’ did, deliberately sweet or coaxing. This one was quieter. Almost unaware of its own effect. Inho breathed in without drawing attention to it.

“Good morning, sajangnim,” Gihun said quietly. He looked up for just a second before lowering his gaze again, his fingers tightening around the tray.

Inho didn’t answer right away. He stepped closer instead, reaching for the control panel, though he didn’t need to. He could’ve stayed by the door. But the movement brought him nearer, close enough to catch the scent properly. He shifted, subtly, the kind of adjustment no one would notice unless they were looking. And there it was—faint, but undeniable. A trace of alpha. Old. Dull around the edges. Possessive, yes, but inattentive. Like something claimed and left to gather dust. Inho’s mouth twitched, almost a smirk, but it vanished before it could take shape.

“You’re running errands,” he said finally, tone clipped and even.

“Yes,” Gihun replied quickly, nodding. “For the sales team’s meeting.” His shoulders stiffened, his posture reflexively straightening, as though the alpha’s nearness had put him on edge.

“Be careful,” Inho said, his gaze flicking briefly to the tray of cups. “Spills aren’t easily forgiven.”

The words were neutral, but Gihun’s scent spiked faintly, a nervous tang threading through the pear blossom. Inho stepped back slightly, just enough to restore a semblance of distance, though his eyes lingered on the flush rising on Gihun’s cheeks.

The elevator slowed, the chime signaling their stop. Inho stepped out first, smooth and unhurried, but at the threshold, he turned—just a fraction.

“Don’t keep them waiting,” he said, his tone low and almost disinterested. And then he was gone.

Gihun stood still as the doors slid shut again, the quiet hum of the elevator swallowing the sound of his breath.

Gihun stepped into the conference room, his hands gripping the tray of coffee cups just a bit tighter than necessary. The low murmur of voices barely registered—his mind was still replaying that brief, unnervingly intimate moment in the elevator. Hwang Inho’s voice echoed in his head: measured, almost indifferent, yet with an undercurrent of something that made Gihun’s stomach twist. Spills aren’t easily forgiven. The words shouldn’t have stuck, but they did.

And then there was the alpha’s scent. Subtle at first—a clean, crisp undertone beneath expensive cologne—but when Inho had stepped closer, it hit differently. Not overpowering, just... present. Like a hand brushing just a little too close to his skin. Gihun had felt it in his chest before he registered it with his nose. It clung to him still. It had been a stark contrast to Sangwoo’s scent: warm, steady, so familiar that Gihun barely noticed it anymore. Something in that comparison unsettled him. He hadn’t meant to compare them, but the thought slipped in anyway, uninvited.

He wasn’t even sure where to look in that moment. He’d been acutely aware of the way the space between them had shrunk, the alpha standing so close that Gihun could feel the faint heat radiating from his body. Was it deliberate? The thought surfaced unbidden, and Gihun immediately dismissed it. No. Of course not. An alpha of Hwang Inho’s status wouldn’t pay any mind to him.

Still, his cheeks flushed as he set the tray down on the table, fingers fumbling slightly as he arranged the cups. The team didn’t seem to notice, they kept talking, reaching for their drinks without missing a beat. Gihun ducked his head and stepped back, hoping no one heard the unevenness in his breath.

But the memory kept catching on him. That moment. The glance. The proximity. The way Hwang Inho had looked at him, not unkind, but too focused, like he was trying to decide what exactly Gihun was made of. Not in the way bosses usually looked at new hires. It hadn’t been rude. That was the strangest part. It had felt almost... curious.

And still, Gihun couldn’t let himself believe it meant anything. He didn’t see omegas like me, he told himself, the thought edged with a familiar kind of ache. Alphas like that never do. A faint, self-conscious smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he curled his hands around the still-warm coffee tray.

Let it go. Nothing good ever came from being seen too clearly.

Just when Gihun thought one meeting would be enough, he found himself heading into a second, like the day had other plans. The conference room buzzed with conversation as Gihun slipped in, notepad and pen clutched tight. A team member gestured to a seat near the corner, and he nodded, keeping his movements small. As Hyunju had told him: observe, take notes, and stay out of the way.

At the head of the table, Hwang Inho leaned back in his chair, exuding that quiet, unshakable authority. His gaze flicked to Gihun, noting the nervous shuffle of his feet and the way his eyes darted, trying to drink everything in at once.

“Let’s begin,” the marketing director said, flipping open a sleek folder. “Our focus today is finalizing the approach for the spring product launch. We’ve run the projections for both ad sets, and initial responses to the survey data are promising. However, there are gaps in engagement metrics we need to address.”

A younger team member chimed in. “The preliminary ad copy is solid, but we’re getting feedback that it feels too generic. The survey respondents are asking for a more ‘authentic’ voice.”

The CEO’s fingers tapped lightly on the table. The room quieted, waiting.

“Authenticity is subjective,” he said, calm but commanding. “What matters is whether it converts. What do the demographic breakdowns say?”

The younger employee adjusted their glasses nervously. “Uh, the 25–34 group preferred direct language—practical, not aspirational.”

Hwang Inho nodded. “Then the solution is obvious. Focus the campaign on functionality. Anything else weakens the message. Marketing is about precision, not guesswork.”

As he spoke, Gihun scribbled quickly, his notepad filling with cramped handwriting. Inho’s voice cut through the room like a scalpel, clean and decisive. The way the others deferred to him made Gihun’s stomach flutter, not with fear, exactly, but something close. Awe.

The marketing director cleared her throat. “That brings us to the content strategy. We still need someone to coordinate with the design team on revisions to the visuals.”

A pause hung in the air, and Gihun, caught in the rhythm of note-taking, barely registered it until a hand landed lightly on his shoulder. He looked up, startled, to find the director addressing him. “Seong-ssi, since you’re here, why don’t you assist with the coordination? It’ll give you a chance to familiarize yourself with the process. The design team needs to revise the visuals based on our feedback, and someone has to ensure both sides are aligned.”

“Oh, um—yes, of course.” Gihun’s ears burned. He wasn’t entirely sure what coordination even entailed, but he nodded anyway, gripping his pen. He’d figure it out. The task sounded simple enough: relay feedback and follow up on revisions, but being responsible for something so visible made his stomach twist. What if he missed something? What if they didn’t take him seriously? He tightened his grip on the pen, jaw set. He was going to do it right.

Hwang Inho’s gaze lingered. “A good opportunity,” he said, voice unreadable. “Let’s hope it’s handled efficiently.”

The subtle emphasis on the last word made Gihun’s pulse quicken, though he couldn’t tell whether it was nerves or something else entirely. The discussion moved on, shifting to budget allocations and ad schedules. Gihun listened intently, jotting down what he could, though much of it went over his head. At one point, he reached to pass out a stack of charts, only to fumble and send one skidding across the table. It stopped just short of his boss’ hand, and the alpha’s gaze flicked to the paper, then back to Gihun.

“Careful,” he said, handing it back.

“Yes, sajangnim,” Gihun mumbled, bowing slightly in his seat. He tucked the paper away, his fingers trembling slightly as he resumed taking notes.

Toward the end of the meeting, the marketing director summarized the next steps. “We’ll finalize the ad revisions by next week and move into testing. Seong-ssi, I’ll connect you with the design team after this.”

“Understood.” His voice was steady now. When he glanced at Inho, the alpha looked down at his tablet, except for the faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

As the team began to disperse, Gihun rose to clear the coffee cups, but Inho’s voice stopped him. “Leave that,” he said, tone clipped but not unkind. “You have work to prepare for.”

Gihun hesitated before nodding, his cheeks warming as he set the tray down. Hwang Inho’s gaze followed him out of the room, the faintest curl of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.

The apartment was dark when Gihun unlocked the door, the faint glow of the television casting shadows across the living room. Sangwoo was stretched out on the couch, a tablet in hand, scrolling through a news article with his usual air of detachment.

“You’re late,” Sangwoo said, not looking up.

“Sorry,” Gihun replied quickly, slipping off his shoes and setting his bag down by the door. “The meeting ran longer than I expected.”

Sangwoo’s gaze flicked toward him. “Second day and they’re already piling work on you?”

“It’s not too much,” Gihun said, his voice softening. “I was asked to help coordinate with the design team.”

“Oh,” Sangwoo said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Design team. Big responsibilities already.”

Gihun hesitated, unsure if the comment was sincere or mocking. He forced a smile and moved toward the kitchen. “I’ll start dinner.”

“Don’t bother. I already ate,” Sangwoo called after him, returning his attention to the tablet.

Gihun paused, his hands hovering above the counter. The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have. He stared at the empty space in front of him, thoughts snagged on the absence of a shared meal, of warmth. The kitchen light flickered overhead, casting uneven shadows that seemed to echo the unease in his chest. Slowly, he let out a breath and pressed his palms flat to the cool counter, as if grounding himself, anchoring a body that felt, more and more, like it didn’t belong.

The soft clink of dishes in the sink was the only sound in the apartment. Gihun stood with his sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in soapy water. His movements were slow, mechanical, as if the repetitive task might drown out the noise of his own thoughts. Behind him, Sangwoo appeared in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the muted light from the living room. He stood there for a moment, watching the quiet rise and fall of Gihun’s shoulders. He wasn’t blind to the omega’s recent restlessness, the way Gihun had grown quieter, more distracted. And while it didn’t trouble him, not really, Sangwoo knew better than to let things fester.

He approached without a word, his steps purposeful but unhurried, until he was directly behind Gihun. Then, silently, he reached out, his hands settling lightly on the omega’s hips. Gihun startled, flinching at the sudden contact, before glancing over his shoulder.

“Sangwoo-yah?” he asked, his voice tinged with surprise. His brow furrowed slightly, trying to read the alpha’s mood.

“You’ve been tense,” Sangwoo murmured, his tone low, almost soothing. He slid his hands around Gihun’s waist, pulling him back gently until their bodies were flush. “I noticed it earlier.”

“Oh, I— I’m fine,” Gihun said quickly, though his voice wavered. The warmth of Sangwoo’s chest against his back, the steady weight of those hands—his heart fluttered in spite of himself.

Sangwoo hummed in acknowledgment, his lips brushing the shell of Gihun’s ear. “You work hard, you know that? Always trying so much. It’s admirable.”

The words were simple, but they caught him off guard. Gihun’s hands stilled in the water, heat blooming in his chest before he could think too much about it. Sangwoo didn’t usually say things like that, not out loud. And even now, it felt almost accidental, like something that had slipped out. But Gihun held onto it anyway, tucking it away like something precious.

“I just want to do my best,” he said quietly, dipping his head, unsure if the warmth blooming in his chest was pride or something more fragile.

“You do,” Sangwoo murmured, his grip tightening, just enough to make the point clear. His scent unfurled around them—warm, grounding, undeniably dominant. It settled thick in the air between them. “You always do.”

Sangwoo’s fingers moved slowly along Gihun’s sides, deliberate in their pace, like he was tracing the shape of something he didn’t want to forget, or making sure Gihun wouldn’t. He leaned in, brushing his lips just below the curve of Gihun’s neck, stopping just shy of his scent gland. The lightness of it sent a shiver down Gihun’s spine, his breath catching before he could help it.

“Sangwoo,” he whispered, so quietly it barely counted. There was something soft in his voice, a flicker of uncertainty, maybe, or something more fragile he hadn’t meant to show.

The alpha didn’t answer. He only pressed closer, his presence folding around Gihun like it belonged there.

“You’re getting used to being gone all day, huh?” he said, voice low. Then, quieter: “House feels different without you.”

The words hung in the space between them, wrapped in something warm and familiar. Gihun leaned into him, instinct easing his body into the closeness. It felt like care. It felt like love. Even if something at the edge of his thoughts pulled away from it, uncertain. There was a question there, small and wordless, but it slipped from him, quieted by Sangwoo’s hand and the weight of his touch.

He lingered just a moment longer, like he was waiting for everything in Gihun to settle, then stepped back with quiet finality.

“Don’t take too long,” he said. “Come to bed.”

Gihun nodded and turned back to the sink. His hands slipped into the water, slower now, like he’d forgotten what he was doing. The stillness settled over him again, but the feeling didn’t. Something tugged at him, small and persistent, just out of reach.

The office had started to feel a little less overwhelming. It had been a few days since Gihun first stepped into the building, nervous and unsure, clutching his notepad like a lifeline. Now, he moved with a tentative familiarity; still quiet, still careful, but learning the rhythm of the workplace. His mornings were spent coordinating with the design team. Though he’d stumbled at first, forgetting the names of files or struggling to articulate feedback, he was slowly finding his footing. His coworkers had been patient enough, and eventually, he managed to deliver a clear summary of the marketing team’s notes without fumbling once. It felt like a small victory.

At lunchtime, Gihun joined the flow of employees heading toward the cafeteria. He still wasn’t used to the crowd, the noise of clattering trays and overlapping conversations. It felt like stepping into a different world. After collecting a simple meal—rice, soup, and side dishes—he hesitated, scanning the room for a place to sit.

“Gihun-ssi, over here!” a voice called out.

He turned to see Hyunju waving him over, seated with two coworkers from marketing, her smile warm and easy. Relieved, Gihun made his way over, bowing slightly in thanks as he took a seat.

“How’s the design team treating you?” Hyunju asked, scooping a piece of kimchi onto her spoon.

“Oh, they’re kind,” Gihun replied quickly, his voice soft. “I think I’m starting to understand how they work. It’s... different from what I expected, but everyone’s been helpful.”

“They can be picky,” Hyunju said, nodding. “But it’s not as bad as running something by Hwang sajangnim.”

The other coworker, a man named Minjae, chuckled. “Yeah, but at least he’s efficient. Half the alphas I’ve worked with just bark orders and expect miracles. He actually listens, sort of.”

Hyunju smirked. “Listens, maybe, but he doesn’t make it easy. If something’s wrong, he’ll call you out in front of the whole room. No sugarcoating.”

Gihun stayed quiet, focusing on his food, but the memory of Hwang Inho’s sharp gaze surfaced. His words had been calm, precise—never cruel, exactly, but they didn’t leave room for comfort either. Gihun couldn’t decide if he admired it or found it unnerving.

“Better to be called out and fix it than be left guessing,” Minjae added with a shrug. “Though I’d rather stay off his radar entirely.”

“Good luck with that,” Hyunju said lightly, nudging her tray forward. “Hwang sajangnim sees everything.”

At that, Gihun’s grip on his chopsticks tightened slightly. He wasn’t sure why, but the thought of Hwang Inho noticing him, truly noticing, made his chest feel strange, caught between the swell of pride and something less definable. As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, Gihun found himself relaxing, even smiling at a joke Hyunju made about their department’s printer always breaking down. For the first time since he’d started, he felt a small but growing sense of connection.

The hum of the office felt softer in the afternoon, the earlier rush tapering into a lull as employees settled into their tasks. Gihun’s desk, tucked into a corner near Hyunju and Jihoon, was scattered with documents and notes from the marketing team. He was focused on drafting a summary email when Hyunju swiveled her chair toward him, breaking the quiet.

“Gihun-ssi, you’ve been really diligent lately,” she said with a warm smile. “You’re making the rest of us look bad.”

He glanced up, startled, before offering a quiet laugh. “I’m just trying to keep up.”

“Well, you’re doing great,” Jihoon chimed in, leaning back in his chair and stretching with a groan. “Honestly, I was a disaster my first few weeks. Mixed up three client reports in one day.”

Hyunju snorted. “Three? It was more like five.”

“Hey, don’t exaggerate,” Jihoon protested, though his grin betrayed him. “Anyway, Gihun-ssi, don’t worry if you slip up. No one’s expecting perfection straight away.”

“Thanks,” Gihun said softly, fingers fidgeting with the edge of a folder. Their kindness caught him off guard. He appreciated it, even if he wasn’t quite sure how to respond to their easy camaraderie.

Hyunju tilted her head, her gaze softening. “You’ve been quiet, though. Do you usually keep to yourself, or is it just us intimidating you?”

“Oh, no, it’s not that,” Gihun replied quickly, shaking his head. “I’m just... used to working alone.”

Jihoon nodded. “Makes sense. But hey, join us for coffee sometime. We’re not that bad once you get to know us.”

Hyunju leaned her chin on her hand, studying him. “Do you live nearby, Gihun-ssi? Commuting here must be tiring.”

“It’s manageable,” he replied vaguely, keeping his eyes on his desk. “Not too far.”

“Lucky,” she said with a soft laugh. “I’m always rushing to catch the subway. It’s a miracle I’m not late every day.”

Jihoon chimed in again, his tone casual but curious. “Do you live alone? Or, you know, with... family?”

“No,” Gihun said, a faint warmth touching his voice. “I live with my alpha.”

“Oh!” Hyunju’s eyes lit up. “You’re with an alpha? That’s nice. What does he do?”

“He’s in finance,” Gihun said, his expression softening. “He’s very busy, but he’s... incredible at what he does.”

The admiration in his voice was unmistakable, and Hyunju smiled. “You sound so proud of him.”

“I am,” Gihun admitted, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “He works hard and takes good care of me.”

Jihoon raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Sounds like you hit the jackpot. Is he one of those alphas who spoils you rotten?”

Gihun laughed awkwardly, shaking his head. “Not exactly. He’s... practical. But he always makes sure I have what I need.”

Hyunju’s smile turned gentle. “That’s sweet. You’re lucky to have someone like that.”

The compliment made something tighten in Gihun’s chest, though he wasn’t sure why. He nodded, gaze dropping back to his desk. “I’m the lucky one,” he said quietly, more to himself than to them.

Hyunju’s next question was gentle, almost hesitant. “Have you two been together long?”

“A few years now,” Gihun replied, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of his notepad. “We’re not... mated, though. He thinks it’s better to wait.”

There was a moment of silence, just long enough for Gihun to feel the weight of his own words. But Hyunju quickly filled it with a reassuring smile. “That’s smart. It means he’s thoughtful, right? Not rushing into something so important.”

“Yes,” Gihun said, though more softly this time. “He’s always thinking ahead.”

Jihoon nodded. “As long as you’re happy, that’s what counts. And it sounds like you are.”

“I am,” Gihun said firmly, his lips curving into a small, genuine smile.

As the conversation drifted back to work, a quiet warmth settled in his chest. Just hearing Sangwoo’s name, even mentioned in passing, reminded him of all the reasons he admired him, all the ways he still wanted to be seen by him. That familiar glow lingered for a moment, soft and grounding. But beneath it, something else tugged: a faint, shapeless unease, like the echo of a thought he hadn’t followed to the end. He didn’t let it take hold. Not now. He turned back to his notes, pen tapping lightly against the page.

The apartment was still when Gihun stepped inside. He slipped off his shoes, setting them neatly beside Sangwoo’s polished pair. The difference between them was stark: his own scuffed and plain, Sangwoo’s sleek and spotless. He set his bag on the counter and moved through the familiar motions of his evening. A glass of water. The clink of ice in the quiet kitchen. The fading light stretched across the floor, and for the first time, he noticed the absence of scent, no trace of Sangwoo’s warmth in the air. Just the sterile coolness of an empty space. It reminded him, fleetingly, of Inho’s crisp sharpness, unyielding yet magnetic in its own way.

He glanced at the clock. Late, as always. Sangwoo wouldn’t be home until much later, if at all.

It was Friday. The end of another week, and ahead of him stretched the empty hours of the weekend: no meetings, no coworkers, just the hum of the apartment and the quiet routines he’d built to fill the silence.

Dinner was uneventful. He reheated leftovers and ate slowly by the window, watching the city blink and flicker in the distance, unreachable as ever. The steam curled upward from his bowl, warming his face, but the warmth didn’t quite reach his chest.

After cleaning up, Gihun curled up on the couch with an old paperback, the cover worn and bent from years of use. He ran a thumb along the edge of the pages, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He used to love reading. Before everything, before Sangwoo, before responsibility settled into his bones, he’d lose himself in stories, in imagined lives far from his own. But now, even with the book in hand, the words blurred together. His thoughts wandered, unbidden, to the life he’d built. This life—it was good, wasn’t it? Sangwoo provided. He took care of things. They had a home, order, stability. Gihun had told himself for years that that was enough. And yet, beneath all of it, something ached. Quiet and constant. A missing piece he couldn’t name.

His gaze shifted to the small shelf in the corner of the room, where a dusty guitar leaned against the wall. He hadn’t touched it in years. Once, he used to lose whole afternoons to it, strumming aimlessly, letting sound fill the spaces silence carved. But Sangwoo had called it a distraction, a childish indulgence, and Gihun, in that quiet way of his, had set it aside. Promised himself it didn’t matter. That he didn’t need it.

Now, though, his fingers itched. Just a little. He lingered there, staring at the familiar curve of its body, the thin layer of dust catching the light like frost. Then, slowly, he turned away.

Maybe another time.

Instead, he returned to the book, forcing himself to focus. The protagonist was brave. Certain. The kind of person who didn’t hesitate, who saw the world clearly and moved through it without apology. Gihun read the words, but they blurred around the edges. What would it feel like, he wondered, to be that sure of yourself? To want something and not be afraid of wanting it?

The question settled in his chest like a stone.

By the time the clock struck ten, Gihun closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. He moved around the room tidying, smoothing cushions, folding the throw blanket with careful precision. The rituals of order, of control. As if straight lines and neat corners could hold the rest of him together.

Getting ready for bed, he moved slowly, dragging out the quiet moments as long as they would stretch. The night felt heavier than usual.

In the dark, he lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His thoughts circled, soft and persistent: the easy warmth of Hyunju’s smile, the satisfaction of completing his notes without error, the unexpected comfort of being seen, just a little.

And then, always, the ache.

The thought of Sangwoo brought it back sharper. The way love could feel like something dutiful. Measured.

He didn’t need more. He couldn’t need more.

What he had was enough.

He repeated the words like a prayer, but they didn’t settle the way they used to.

The cafe was quiet, tucked into a narrow side street Gihun rarely passed. He’d come hoping the change of scenery might soften the unease that had been tightening in his chest all week. A paperback lay open in front of him, but the pages blurred together as his mind drifted. Around him, the soft clatter of porcelain and the low hum of conversation filled the air, normally a comfort, but today, even the warmth of the space felt muted. He kept glancing out the window, watching the city pass by in shades of grey, feeling strangely apart from it all.

“Seong Gihun-ssi.”

The voice was unmistakable: low, calm, and threaded with that quiet authority that always made his spine straighten. Gihun looked up sharply, and there he was. Hwang Inho. Impeccably dressed despite the casual setting, the tailored cut of his coat stark against the cafe’s worn charm.

“S-Sajangnim,” Gihun said, rising instinctively. For a split second, he didn’t know what to do with his hands, whether to bow or reach or simply stand still. The alpha’s presence made the table feel too small, the room too warm.

“Relax,” his boss said, voice even. “This isn’t the office.”

The alpha gestured toward the chair, and Gihun sat, hands tightening briefly in his lap. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, trying to keep his tone steady.

“I could say the same,” The man replied smoothly, a glint of amusement flickering in his eyes. He gestured briefly to the coffee in his hand. “Though I stop by places like this more often than you’d think. Americano tastes better when it’s not from the office machine.”

He leaned back slightly, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “But your surprise is entertaining. What did you think I did on weekends?”

Gihun blinked, caught off guard. “I... I don’t know, something more... CEO-like? Drinking coffee in a boardroom? Or, uh, on a private jet?” The words tumbled out before he could stop them, and as soon as they did, his ears flushed pink. “Not that I think you actually—” He cut himself off, already wincing. “Okay. The jet was a bit much,” he muttered with a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes darting toward the table as if it might rescue him.

Hwang Inho’s brow lifted, a smirk tugging faintly at his mouth. “A private jet?” he echoed, his tone soft, amused. “That’s an impressive imagination, Seong-ssi. Perhaps I should consult you the next time I need to revamp my schedule.”

He took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes never leaving Gihun’s face. “Though I wouldn’t have guessed you’d spend your weekend with a book.”

“I... like reading,” Gihun said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The alpha’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “And yet, you don’t seem very absorbed. Distracted, perhaps?”

Gihun’s cheeks burned as he scrambled for a response. “I— no, just... thinking.”

The alpha pulled out the chair across from him and sat down with a kind of poised ease that felt almost predatory. His gaze lingered, sharp and deliberate, as if he were peeling back layers Gihun hadn’t meant to show.

“About work?” his boss asked, his tone casual but his gaze anything but.

“Yes,” Gihun lied, though his heart wasn’t in it. He wasn’t sure why the truth felt too vulnerable, but under Hwang Inho’s scrutiny, it did.

The alpha leaned back slightly, still studying him. “You should try to enjoy your weekends, Seong-ssi. They’re meant for unwinding, not worrying.”

The words were harmless enough on the surface, almost kind, but the way the alpha said them made Gihun’s stomach twist. There was something in his gaze, something too focused for casual conversation, too intent for the setting.

“I try,” Gihun murmured, eyes dropping to the table.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence thickened, punctuated only by the soft clink of cups and quiet conversation from nearby tables. Gihun’s pulse quickened, the stillness amplifying every shift of breath, every beat of his heart. He could feel the weight of his boss’ presence like gravity itself: steady, unyielding, inescapable. There was something almost predatory in the way Hwang Inho sat across from him: composed, watchful, his authority coiled beneath the surface. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The space around them seemed to respond to him instinctively, the cafe bending around his quiet control.

The alpha broke the silence first, his voice low, deliberate. “You have a way of drawing attention, even when you don’t mean to.”

Gihun blinked, caught off guard. “I—I don’t think I do.”

“No?” his boss’ head tilted slightly, the faintest curve of his lips betraying something closer to amusement than kindness. “You carry yourself as though you want to disappear, yet you’re hard to ignore. Isn’t that... curious?”

“I don’t mean to stand out,” Gihun mumbled, his cheeks flushing under the weight of the observation.

“Perhaps not,” The alpha replied. He leaned forward just slightly, closing the space between them with a quiet finality. His gaze held steady, sharp and consuming. “But you do. In ways you might not even realize.”

The words sent a shiver down Gihun’s spine, though he couldn’t decipher why. He wanted to respond, to deflect, to laugh it off, but the man didn’t give him the chance. He had already straightened, posture loose again, as if the momentary closeness had never happened at all.

But the words lingered between them, quiet and heavy. Gihun’s grip tightened around the edge of the table, his pulse fluttering like a trapped bird in his chest. He wanted to believe it was harmless, a passing comment from a man who simply said what he thought. But the way the alpha had leaned in, the way his eyes had held him in place, made it feel like something else entirely.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Gihun said finally, forcing his voice to remain steady. He kept his gaze lowered, afraid of what might be waiting if he met the alpha’s eyes again.

Inho didn’t answer right away. The pause felt intentional, weighted, like he wanted Gihun to feel the silence. Then, he leaned back, the tension in his body dissolving with practiced ease. “Of course you don’t,” he murmured, almost as an afterthought.

The words twisted in Gihun’s gut. He didn’t know why they got under his skin, but something about the way that alpha spoke, the quiet assurance, the deliberate choice of words, felt like he was walking a line Gihun couldn’t quite see.

“I should let you get back to your reading,” his boss said, rising with a fluid grace that felt out of place in the cozy cafe. He glanced once more at Gihun, then at the worn book lying open on the table.

“It suits you.”

“What does?” Gihun asked before he could stop himself, the question spilling out in his confusion.

Hwang Inho’s lips curved into something too faint to be a smile, yet too deliberate to be neutral. “The quiet,” he said, his tone almost gentle.

Before Gihun could form a response, the alpha was gone, his departure as seamless as his arrival. The cafe door swung shut behind him with a soft click, leaving Gihun alone with the echoes of his words. The stillness that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t entirely peaceful either. It was the kind of quiet that invited questions, ones Gihun wasn’t sure he wanted to ask.

He picked up his book again, more to occupy his hands than to read. The words on the page blurred as his thoughts drifted, circling back to his boss’ unexpected appearance. There was something about the man, something beyond his commanding presence and the sharp precision of his movements. He wasn’t like other alphas Gihun had known. There was an intensity to him, but it wasn’t loud or overbearing. It was quieter, more deliberate. Like a current running just beneath the surface.

Gihun frowned, flipping a page without reading it. You carry yourself as though you want to disappear, yet you’re hard to ignore. Was that true? He’d always thought of himself as small, unremarkable, someone who slipped easily into the background. But the way the alpha had said it… it made him wonder if he’d been wrong.

A faint smile tugged at his lips as another memory surfaced. Americano tastes better when it’s not from the office machine. He tried to imagine Hwang Inho standing in front of a clunky breakroom coffee maker, grimacing as it sputtered out a bitter brew. The image was so absurd it was almost endearing. For a moment, Gihun’s chest felt lighter.

The clatter of a cup at a nearby table snapped him back to the present. He looked up, his gaze flicking to the door, as if expecting to see Hwang Inho’s silhouette there again.

He wouldn’t, of course. Someone like that didn’t linger in corners of the city, didn’t drink coffee in quiet cafes and make conversation just for the sake of it.

And yet… for a moment, Gihun allowed himself to wonder.

Why had he?

Chapter Text

The soft hum of the office seemed to dissolve entirely as Gihun stepped into Hwang Inho’s private domain. It was a space built to command attention, from the dark mahogany desk to the clean, ruthless lines of glass and steel that framed the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened high above the city, the skyline veiled in rain, the droplets streaking down the panes in thin, glistening rivulets. The faint patter of water against glass filled the silence, a subtle backdrop to the charged stillness inside.

The CEO’s scent, black pepper sharpened by the creamy pull of sandalwood, clung to the air. Sharp yet grounding. Not overpowering, but deliberate. Saturated into the walls, the leather chair, the space between them. It curled faintly at the edge of Gihun’s senses, impossible to ignore. He tightened his grip on the notepad he carried, his own scent, pear blossom, now laced with the high thread of unease.

Behind the desk, Hwang Inho sat with the composure of someone in complete control. One hand traced calmly over a stack of reports, the other poised near a leather-bound planner where he made occasional notes. He didn’t look up. Didn’t speak. The silence held, growing denser by the second, and Gihun lingered awkwardly just inside the door, uncertain whether to speak first.

His thoughts flickered briefly to the cafe. That moment, quiet and unguarded, felt distant now, nearly unreal. He had caught a glimpse of something different in the alpha that day, something human beneath the tailored polish. A moment so subtle it could have passed for nothing. But Gihun hadn’t forgotten the way Inho had leaned forward, the way his voice had dropped, soft and deliberate. Or the way he’d said, The quiet suits you.

And now, here, in the heart of the man’s territory, the warmth that memory had stirred felt like a betrayal: of logic, of distance, of everything he was trying to keep in check.

“Seong-ssi,” the man said at last, voice calm, edged with quiet authority. He didn’t glance up. “Close the door.”

The command sent a shiver down Gihun’s spine. He fumbled slightly as he obeyed, the soft click of the door sealing the space behind him. The room felt smaller now, heavier, as if all its gravity pulled toward the man seated at the desk.

“Come closer,” he continued, his tone smooth, almost practiced.

Gihun stepped forward, stopping just short of the desk. His head dipped instinctively, shoulders taut, though he tried to hold his composure.

“You’ve been assisting the marketing team, haven’t you?” The alpha asked, finally lifting his gaze. Dark eyes locked onto Gihun with an intensity that made the omega’s breath catch. The question wasn’t really a question, it was a reminder of who was watching.

“Yes, sajangnim,” Gihun said quietly. “I’ve been coordinating with the design team to implement their revisions.”

The man leaned back in his chair, the faint creak of leather breaking the silence. His eyes swept over Gihun, slow and exacting, like he was dissecting something beneath the surface.

“Adequate,” he said at last, voice level. “But not precise. A proper summary would have spared everyone time.”

The words landed clean and cold. Gihun’s grip on his notepad tightened.

“I… I’ll fix it,” he said quickly. “I can—”

“You’ll prepare a summary for tomorrow’s executive meeting,” the alpha cut in, smooth as glass. He slid a black folder across the desk with unhurried ease. “Two pages. Key points. Nothing more.”

Gihun stepped forward, taking it with careful fingers. The folder was cool to the touch, but the proximity made him aware, too aware, of the alpha’s scent, stronger here in his office. It curled faintly at the edge of his senses, pressing in.

“Yes, sajangnim,” he murmured, throat tight. “I’ll have it ready.”

The man’s lips curved into a faint smile, polished and professional, yet there was something about it that made Gihun’s pulse quicken. “Good,” he said, his gaze flicking briefly to Gihun’s trembling hands before returning to his face. “You’ve exceeded my expectations so far, Gihun-ssi. Don’t disappoint me now.”

Gihun dipped his head in acknowledgment, already turning to leave when the alpha spoke again.

“Gihun-ssi.”

He stopped, spine stiffening. “Yes, sajangnim?”

Hwang Inho leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk. His gaze, usually razor-sharp, softened just enough, and the smile that appeared on his lips felt different this time, smaller, more private.

“I enjoyed the coffee the other day,” he said, his tone dipping into something quieter, almost warm. “It was… a nice change of pace.”

The memory of the cafe resurfaced vividly in Gihun’s mind: the faint humor in the CEO’s voice, the casual ease that had seemed so unlike him. It had been a moment of shared intimacy, brief and fragile, and seeing that same softness now sent an unfamiliar warmth coursing through Gihun’s chest.

“Me too,” Gihun said before he could stop himself, cheeks flushing.

The alpha’s smile lingered a fraction longer, and his dark eyes held Gihun’s as though they were sharing a secret. Then, as smoothly as it had appeared, the moment passed. He straightened, the lines of his face sharpening back into professionalism.

“Don’t stay too late,” he said, his tone returning to its polished authority. “A tired omega is a careless omega.”

“Yes, sajangnim,” Gihun murmured, bowing slightly again before retreating from the office.

The cool air of the hallway did little to calm Gihun’s racing heart. His hands clutched the folder tightly as he made his way back to his desk, his thoughts a whirlwind. He tried to focus on the task ahead, but the memory of Hwang Inho’s quiet smile, the warmth in his words, lingered like a ghost.

It had been such a small moment, so fleeting, yet it felt as if it had shifted something within him. What unsettled him most wasn’t the man’s authority. It was the fact that, for a brief moment, it had felt like something more. Like he had allowed Gihun a glimpse of something private, something meant just for him.

And even as Gihun told himself it meant nothing, the warmth in his chest told another story entirely.

The morning buzz of the office didn’t feel quite as heavy today. Gihun sat at his desk, poring over the crowded to-do list he’d scribbled in his notepad. He glanced at the clock: 8:05 a.m. Cutting it close, but the summary he’d worked on late into the night now rested neatly on the edge of his boss’s desk. When he placed it there earlier, a quiet flicker of pride had bloomed in his chest. He’d done it. On time. Thorough. He’d even double-checked every line before leaving last night.

“Gihun-ssi!”

Hyunju’s cheerful voice snapped him from his thoughts. She leaned against his desk, coffee in hand, her grin knowing. “You’re making waves, you know.”

“Waves?” Gihun blinked, startled. His pen froze mid-scribble. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” She leaned in, eyes bright. “Hwang sajangnim doesn’t hand out assignments like that for fun. And word is you delivered.” She raised her brows for dramatic effect. “That’s impressive.”

Gihun’s cheeks flushed. He scratched the back of his neck with a nervous laugh. “I just followed instructions,” he said, still unsure if it counted as anything worth noticing. “It’s not a big deal.”

Hyunju rolled her eyes playfully. “Not a big deal? You do know who you’re working for, right? The man doesn’t even blink at most people in this building. If he’s giving you tasks, you’re on his radar.” She winked. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

As Hyunju walked off, Gihun sat frozen for a moment, her words echoing in his head. On his radar? The thought sent a jolt through him; nerves, excitement, maybe both. It was strange, this growing awareness that his boss, the man who could command a room with a single glance, had noticed him. A flicker of pride stirred again, but it felt fragile somehow, like a candle in a drafty room. Still, it warmed him just enough to carry him through the morning.

Until the email arrived.

Subject: Meeting Update
Hwang sajangnim has requested that you present your summary during today’s executive meeting. Please prepare to speak for 5-7 minutes. The meeting begins at 3 PM in the main conference room.

Gihun’s heart dropped.

He stared at the screen, his fingers hovering above the mouse, as if refusing to click might make it go away. Present? In front of executives? His first instinct was to panic, his mind already spiraling through excuses he could offer. But then he stopped himself.

He couldn’t say no. Not to him.

Drawing in a shaky breath, Gihun sat up straighter, forcing his hands to move. He’d done the work. All he had to do now was survive saying it out loud without fainting.

The main conference room felt more like a battlefield than a workplace: a long, imposing table surrounded by high-backed chairs, windows framing a sprawling view of the city, and a silence so dense it pressed down like weight on his shoulders. Gihun clutched his notes, palms damp, eyes fixed on the clean lines of the table as he tried to steady his breathing. Around him, executives murmured in low tones, their voices only heightening the tension that pooled in his chest.

Then the room fell still.

Hwang Inho entered last.

His presence was a force in itself: quiet, deliberate, and immediately commanding. His gaze swept the table once, sharp and unreadable, before landing briefly on Gihun. It lingered, just long enough to be felt. Then he took his seat at the head of the table.

“Let’s begin,” he said, smooth and clipped, the room snapping to attention at his voice.

The first half of the meeting passed in a blur. Gihun barely registered the updates being discussed, too consumed by the countdown in his head, the rising pressure in his chest. He barely breathed. When the alpha finally turned toward him, the room quieted again, expectant and charged.

“Seong Gihun-ssi,” the CEO said, his voice even, though there was an undertone beneath it: subtle and meant only for him. “You’ve prepared the summary. The floor is yours.”

Gihun rose slowly, his legs unsteady as he made his way to the front of the room. He unfolded his notes with trembling fingers and cleared his throat. “I, um…”

His voice faltered. Panic flared. The room seemed too bright, too still, every face turned toward him polished and unreadable. His gaze darted across the table, searching for something, anything, to ground him.

Then he met Hwang Inho’s eyes.

The alpha’s gaze was steady. Sharp. But there was something else, too—something quieter, tethering. A pull, instinctive and immediate, like gravity narrowing the room down to just the two of them.

“Speak clearly,” Inho said, low but firm. His voice carried, soft enough to feel private, pointed enough to command attention. “You’ve done the work. Show them.”

The words struck something deep, somewhere beneath the fear, beneath the reflex to shrink. Gihun swallowed hard and drew in a slow, deliberate breath.

“I’ve summarized the key points from the marketing projections and design revisions,” he began, voice still shaky but audible. With each line, he found his footing. His sentences steadied, his pace settled. The room didn’t blur anymore, it sharpened. Focused.

Whenever uncertainty crept in, his gaze instinctively flicked to the alpha, who gave him the faintest nod of approval. There was something in the man’s eyes, something that silently urged him forward. By the time Gihun finished, his voice carried a quiet authority he hadn’t known he possessed.

“In summary,” he concluded, “these adjustments should streamline the launch process and address the demographic gaps identified in the survey data. Thank you.”

A beat of silence followed. 

“What about the visual tone?” one of the executives asked, his voice clipped. “How do we know it won’t alienate the older segments?”

Gihun blinked, thrown. His mind raced for a response, but the words tangled.

Before the panic could crest, a voice cut in.

“A valid question,” Hwang Inho said, leaning back slightly, his tone cool and controlled. His gaze flicked to Gihun, sharp but expectant. “Walk us through the team’s reasoning, Seong-ssi.”

The quiet authority in the CEO’s voice grounded him. Anchored him. Gihun drew a breath and began to speak; not fluidly, not without missteps, but steadily. He fumbled at first, but the words came, and by the end, he managed to explain the rationale clearly enough to earn a faint murmur of approval from around the room.

When the meeting finally adjourned, it felt like surfacing for air. His legs were unsteady, but something in his chest had shifted: relief, pride, a quiet astonishment that he hadn’t fallen apart.

Most of the executives passed without a glance. One gave him a small nod. Hyunju brushed his shoulder as she passed.

“You didn’t embarrass yourself,” she said, smirking. “That’s more than most people can say after a meeting with the higher-ups.”

Before Gihun could respond, the click of footsteps approached. Hwang Inho stopped in front of him, posture relaxed but gaze unreadable.

“Good work,” he said, his voice lower now, quieter, more private. “You hesitated. But you recovered. That’s what matters.”

“Thank you, sajangnim,” Gihun murmured, bowing slightly. His cheeks burned under the alpha’s steady gaze, but that flicker of pride he’d felt earlier stirred again, shaky, but real.

The alpha lingered. Just long enough to unsettle him. Then his lips curved—subtle, unreadable.

“Next time,” he added, “prepare for follow-up questions.”

His voice dipped then, smooth, velvety, with just the faintest edge. “Confidence makes people listen.”

And then he was gone.

Gihun stood frozen, the echo of those words still ringing in his ears. He had survived, yes, but the moment clung to him. The quiet command in that voice, the unexpected praise, the closeness of it all, it left him a little dizzy.

And worse, it left him wanting to hear it again.

The cafeteria buzzed with its usual lunchtime chaos: clattering trays, bursts of laughter, and overlapping conversations that filled the air like static. Gihun stood stiffly in front of the coffee machine, watching as it sputtered and hissed, begrudgingly pouring dark liquid into his ceramic mug. The faint scent of overworked machinery and scorched beans clung to the air, clashing with the sharper aromas of freshly made food.

He shifted on his feet, glancing over his shoulder at the crowded tables. His coworkers clustered in easy groups, talking animatedly, their conversations stitched together with shared jokes and familiar rhythms. It wasn’t that they were unfriendly—people smiled, waved, even invited him to lunch once or twice—but that kind of closeness still felt far off. Something earned. Something he hadn't quite stepped into yet.

“Coffee’s taking its time,” Gihun muttered, offering a sheepish smile to no one in particular, as if the machine might be amused.

When the final beep sounded, he reached for the mug, only to freeze as a voice, smooth and rich with unspoken authority, slipped through the noise around him.

“Burnt coffee and a mug with a smiling bunny,” the voice said, dry amusement threading through the words. “I suppose it suits you.”

Gihun’s heart stuttered. His fingers hovered midair.

Turning, he found himself face-to-face with Hwang Inho. Even here, standing by the brushed-steel coffee station under the soft wash of cafeteria lighting, Gihun couldn’t ignore the CEO’s presence. Tailored suit, expression unreadable, the alpha made the whole space seem quieter, more contained.

“S—Sajangnim!” he blurted, nearly fumbling the mug. He stepped back so quickly he nearly knocked into the counter behind him. “I didn’t see you there!”

“You didn’t,” Inho said, the corner of his mouth curling faintly. “You were far too focused to notice anything else. A rare thing these days.”

“Uh… thank you, sajangnim,” Gihun said, clutching his mug like a fragile lifeline. He glanced down at the dark liquid, as if the coffee might offer guidance, though it only wobbled precariously in his trembling hands.

Inho began preparing his own coffee, his movements slow and precise. Even the way he pressed the buttons on the machine felt calculated, as if nothing he did was ever unconsidered. “How are you finding the work environment?” he asked, his tone conversational yet carrying a weight that made it clear this wasn’t idle small talk.

“It’s… good,” Gihun replied quickly, nodding a little too hard. “There’s a lot to learn—so much, actually—but, uh, everyone’s been really helpful.”

The alpha glanced at him, his gaze sharp and unrelenting. “Helpful is nice,” he said, voice softening, though it still carried that unmistakable edge. “But it only takes you so far. Effort, on the other hand, that’s what determines success.”

Gihun nodded rapidly, his cheeks flushing under the weight of that gaze. “I—I try to put in as much effort as I can,” he stammered.

“I’ve noticed,” the alpha said, his words smooth. His tone dipped lower, quieter, close enough to intimate. “You’re diligent, Seong-ssi. I don’t often see people take their work as seriously as you do.”

The compliment landed like a lightning strike, sharp and electrifying, sparking a strange mix of pride and panic in Gihun’s chest. Was this real? Was he actually being praised by Hwang Inho? His thoughts scrambled for a proper response, but all he managed was a quiet, “Thank you, sajangnim.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, suddenly hyper-aware of how soft his voice sounded, how ridiculous his flustered reaction must seem to someone like him. Get it together, Gihun. You’re a professional. You can’t keep reacting like a skittish rabbit every time someone important talks to you.

Still, his grip on the mug tightened, the warmth of the coffee grounding him as something unfamiliar spread through his chest, gentler than it should’ve been, and harder to shake. For a moment, he thought of Sangwoo; not intentionally, not clearly, just a flicker of memory: the way praise was given sparingly, with little ceremony. He tried not to linger on it. He didn’t want this to mean as much as it did.

The alpha lifted his cup and took a slow sip before continuing, “The summary you prepared was thorough. Better than what I’ve seen from employees who’ve been here for years.” He paused, letting the words settle before adding, “If you keep this up… you’ll go far.”

Gihun blinked, momentarily stunned. “That… that means a lot. Thank you.”

Inho’s lips curved into a faint smile, not the polite, polished one he wore in meetings, but something quieter. Not quite warm, but intimate in a way that made Gihun’s chest tighten. It held just enough charm to unsettle.

“I don’t offer compliments lightly,” the alpha said, his voice dipping low, almost conspiratorial, like he was sharing something meant only for Gihun. “Enjoy your coffee.”

“Yes, sajangnim,” Gihun murmured, bowing slightly as the man stepped back. Inho’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, sharp and unreadable, before he turned. His steps were slow, unhurried, and yet the space seemed to move around him, people parting without needing to be asked.

Gihun stood frozen, staring at his mug as if it might replay the moment for him. On the surface, it had been simple. Professional. But beneath the words, something else lingered, something heavier. Like the faint trace of pepper and sandalwood that still clung to the air.

Back at his desk, the warmth of Hwang Inho’s praise stayed with him, no matter how hard he tried to push it away. He knew he shouldn’t hold on to it. Knew it meant nothing. And yet, by the time the day wound down, he caught himself glancing at the CEO’s office door more often than he cared to admit.

A red-marked diagram slid across Gihun’s desk, followed by a flurry of design notes and a low, muttered apology from one of the interns. He nodded in thanks, barely glancing up as he added the new sheets to his growing stack. The rhythm of the office buzzed around him—phones ringing, chairs scraping, someone laughing too loudly near the elevators—but his focus stayed pinned to the numbers in front of him.

Despite the noise around him, a faint smile tugged at his lips. He liked the work. It made him feel useful—important, even—in a way he wasn’t quite used to. There was something quietly satisfying about the complexity of it, the small victories when numbers aligned or a report fell neatly into place. How did I end up here? he wondered, glancing across the polished, bustling office. He’d never pictured himself in a place like this, surrounded by sharp-dressed professionals and sleek, glass-topped desks.

Still, even in the warmth of that thought, a voice in his head whispered: Don’t mess it up. His grip tightened around the pen, and he bent back over the figures to double-check them, again.

“You’re going to wear out that pen if you keep going like this,” Hyunju said, sliding a file onto his desk with a smirk. 

Gihun looked up, startled, blinking like a deer caught in headlights. “H-Hyunju-ssi,” he stammered, a blush rising to his cheeks. “I didn’t… I didn’t hear you come over.”

“Clearly,” she replied, taking a sip from her cup as she nodded toward the chaos of his desk. “You were deep in your own little world. It’s kind of cute, actually.”

“Cute?” Gihun repeated, blinking.

He wasn’t sure anyone described men in their forties that way, at least not seriously. But she didn’t seem to be joking.

The beta laughed, shaking her head. “Relax. I mean it as a compliment. You’ve really been throwing yourself into this.” She leaned in slightly, her expression softening. “People are noticing, you know.”

“Noticing?” Gihun echoed, wide-eyed. “Who?”

“Don’t play coy,” Hyunju said with a grin. “You’ve caught the boss’s eye. Everyone knows it. You’re coordinating with the design team like it’s second nature, and the execs are actually reading your reports. You’re becoming a bit of a rising star, Gihun-ssi.”

“Rising star?” he said, voice catching slightly. He let out a small, embarrassed laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Oh, am I?” she shot back, one brow arched. “Just don’t let it go to your head, okay? The rest of us are watching you climb the ladder.” She winked as she turned to go, her tone teasing, not unkind.

Left alone, Gihun stared at his notepad, her words still echoing in his mind. He tried to shrug them off, but the flicker of pride that bloomed in his chest was unmistakable: warm, unfamiliar, and a little embarrassing. Maybe I’m not doing so bad after all. His fingers tapped once against the desk, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. Yah, Seong Gihun, you still got it.

Later, while he was poring over the finalized projections, Minho from PR approached. The beta leaned casually against the side of his desk, arms crossed, smile faint but unreadable.

“People talk, you know,” Minho said, his tone light but laced with something sharper beneath. “Especially when someone starts getting attention upstairs.”

Gihun looked up, startled. “A-Attention?”

Minho’s smirk deepened, his tone edged with something cooler. “Come on. Hwang sajangnim doesn’t hand out attention for free. People are noticing: how he checks your work, the assignments you’re getting. You’re on his radar. That’s not nothing.”

Gihun shifted in his seat, his fingers curling slightly around the edge of the desk. “I… I didn’t realize,” he murmured, his voice soft, uncertain.

“Of course you didn’t,” Minho replied smoothly, his tone edging toward condescending. “You’re too busy being diligent. But let me give you some advice. Sajangnim’s attention? It’s a double-edged sword. He keeps people around as long as they’re useful. But the second you slip up or stop meeting his expectations…” He snapped his fingers, sharp and final. “You’re out. No second chances.”

The words hit like a bucket of cold water, extinguishing the small flame of pride Hyunju’s praise had sparked.

“I… I’ll keep that in mind,” Gihun said quietly.

Minho clapped him on the shoulder, his expression softening. “Look, you seem like a good guy. Just don’t burn yourself out trying to keep up, yeah?”

As Minho walked away, Gihun slumped back in his chair, the weight of the warning pressing heavy on his chest.

For the rest of the day, Minho’s words echoed in his mind, casting shadows over every recent win. Was he really doing well, or was he just being tested? And if he was, how long before something slipped through the cracks?

But then he thought of Hwang Inho. The CEO’s calm, deliberate voice in the cafeteria: You’re diligent. I don’t often see people take their work as seriously as you do. The memory stirred something warmer, quieter in his chest. A reassurance. Fragile, but real.

That was real, Gihun told himself. It had to be.

He tried to focus on his work again, but the soft click of a door opening pulled his gaze toward the frosted glass of the alpha’s office. The light spilling out beneath it told him Inho was still inside. For a moment, Gihun wondered what it would be like to step in; to ask, directly, if he was doing enough. But the thought made his stomach twist.

He’s the boss. Of course he’s intimidating, Gihun thought, shaking his head as he packed up his things. Still, he couldn’t help glancing at the office door one last time before heading out into the cool evening air.

The brisk wind hit his face the moment he stepped outside, grounding him. He tightened his grip on his bag, repeating a quiet mantra in his head: Just keep working. Keep improving. That’s all you can do.

But no matter how he tried to push the thoughts away, the warmth of Inho’s compliment lingered, quiet and persistent, like an echo in his chest. And beneath it, a longing he hadn’t fully admitted to himself, one that had nothing to do with success, and everything to do with being seen.

The conference room felt larger than ever to Gihun, its floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the rain-swept skyline beyond. The view should’ve been calming, but the vastness only deepened the weight in his stomach. He sat halfway down the long table, his notepad perched precariously in his lap, fingers fidgeting with his pen in a nervous rhythm that betrayed the quiet panic coiled in his chest.

He’d spoken in meetings before, enough times that it shouldn’t have rattled him. But today, the confidence wasn’t there. Maybe it was the people in the room, or the way his name had landed too sharply in the meeting invite. Whatever it was, it had thrown him off.

He glanced at his notes—neatly written, obsessively reviewed—but the words refused to settle. He’d memorized every figure, every bullet point, yet the mere thought of standing to speak made his mind go blank. Around him, the soft murmur of conversation and the rustle of papers drifted like static, barely audible over the loud thrum of his own pulse.

At the head of the table, Hwang Inho sat with the composed stillness of a man who had no need to assert his authority. Every detail of him was immaculate: his suit, his posture, the watch glinting faintly on his wrist. One hand rested lightly on the chair arm, the other tapping a pen against the table in a slow, irregular beat that seemed to needle at Gihun’s nerves every time it paused.

Gihun risked a glance toward him. His eyes lingered on the alpha’s profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the unreadable set of his expression. Unbidden, a memory surfaced: the quiet tension of their meeting at the cafe, the low warmth in Inho’s voice, the faint smile that had felt like a secret. That version of his boss—subtler, almost human—felt worlds away now.

This was the CEO: calculating, unreadable, and terrifyingly present.

And now, those dark eyes were fixed on him.

“Seong Gihun-ssi.”

The sound of his name was soft, but it cut through the room with surgical precision. The low murmur of voices fell away instantly, replaced by a silence that felt louder than any noise.

Beside him, Hyunju nudged his knee under the table. “You’ve got this,” she whispered, offering a quick, encouraging smile.

Swallowing hard, Gihun rose from his chair, his legs unsteady beneath him. His notepad trembled faintly in his hands, but he forced himself to straighten his back. “G-Good afternoon,” he began, his voice wavering before he steadied it. “I’ve prepared a breakdown of the adjustments from the design team and how they align with the marketing strategy…”

His eyes darted around the room, catching the expectant faces of the executives seated along the long table. Most looked politely engaged, a few distracted, but Hwang Inho watched him with an intensity that made Gihun feel as though a spotlight had been trained solely on him.

He stumbled over a figure, tongue tripping briefly. Panic flared in his chest, but he glanced at his notes, corrected himself, and kept going. His voice grew steadier as he pressed forward, the hours of quiet rehearsal finally anchoring him. By the time he reached the final summary, his shoulders relaxed, and a soft breath escaped him.

“Thank you, Seong-ssi,” his boss said, his voice carrying effortlessly through the room. “Any questions?”

There were a few murmurs of approval, a handful of nods. No criticism, no corrections. Gihun sank back into his chair, his pulse still high but his chest lighter, flushed with the strange, unfamiliar warmth of relief.

When the meeting adjourned, he packed his things quickly, eager to disappear into the quiet of his desk. But just as he reached the door—

“Gihun-ssi.”

The voice, low and composed, halted him instantly. He turned, pulse spiking again. Hwang Inho remained seated at the head of the table, posture relaxed, gaze unwavering.

“Y-Yes, sajangnim?” Gihun asked hesitantly, clutching his notepad to his chest like a shield.

“Come here.”

It wasn’t harsh, but it left no room for hesitation. The command sat plainly in the air. Gihun approached slowly, each step taut with unease. The CEO gestured to the chair beside him, and Gihun sat down, his shoulders stiff, the heat of the alpha’s gaze making him feel impossibly small.

“You did well,” the man said, voice calm but firm. The words hung in the air, carrying a warmth that caught Gihun off guard. “Your points were clear, and it’s obvious you’ve put in the effort to understand the material.”

Gihun’s chest lifted, something warm blooming behind his ribs. “Thank you, sajangnim,” he said softly, his voice catching on the edge of relief.

“But.” The softness in Inho’s tone cooled slightly, sharpened at the edges. “You hesitated. Several times.”

The warmth evaporated. Gihun’s flush deepened as he lowered his gaze. “I—I’ll work on that, sajangnim.”

The alpha leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the table. His dark eyes narrowed, gaze steady. “Confidence is everything, Gihun-ssi. It’s not about knowing every detail. It’s about making them believe you do. When you hesitate, you give them permission to question you.”

The weight of it landed hard, striking somewhere deep. Gihun nodded, fingers curling tighter around his notepad. “I understand. I’ll do better next time.”

The alpha’s smile was slight, almost imperceptible. Not warm, not cold, just watchful, like someone studying the shape of a response before deciding what to say next. “Good. Next time, speak as if you own the room. People respect confidence more than competence.”

The words sent a subtle shiver through Gihun’s frame. “Yes, sajangnim,” he whispered, bowing slightly as he stood.

But just as he turned to leave, Inho spoke again.

“Oh, and Gihun-ssi.”

He turned back, his heart skipping a beat as he met the alpha's gaze. The sharp intensity was still there, but for a brief moment, it softened into something quieter, something almost… familiar.

“Don’t overthink every misstep,” Inho said, his voice dipping into the same warmth he’d used at the cafe. The faintest curve of his lips followed, and for a second, Gihun saw the man from that quiet, shared moment over coffee. The Hwang Inho who felt human, almost approachable. “Mistakes happen. It’s how you handle them that matters.”

And just like that, it was gone. The gentleness vanished beneath polished composure. But the words lingered, glowing faintly like an ember buried deep in Gihun’s chest.

As he returned to his desk, the alpha’s voice looped through his thoughts. Speak as if you own the room. The feedback had cut deep, but it hadn’t belittled him. It didn’t make him feel small.

It made him feel like he could be more.

And then there was that brief moment; the softer words, the fleeting warmth in the man’s gaze. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to stir something deeper in Gihun, something he couldn’t quite name.

Deadlines didn’t scare Gihun, waiting on other people did. He sat stiffly at his desk, eyes flicking between the blinking cursor of a half-written email and the empty folder where the design updates were supposed to be. No new files. No reply. Just the mounting pressure of a summary he couldn’t finish without them.

He sighed, leaning back and rubbing at his temples. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, but that didn’t make it less frustrating. He’d already sent two follow-ups, each more carefully worded than the last to avoid sounding pushy, and all he’d received in return were vague assurances that the work was “almost done.”

“Still nothing?” Hyunju’s voice cut through his thoughts. She was perched on the edge of her desk across the aisle, coffee mug in hand, watching him with a mix of sympathy and amusement.

“No,” Gihun muttered, dropping his hand and turning toward her with a shrug. “They’re ‘busy.’” His voice dripped with disbelief, the air quotes practically audible.

Hyunju smirked. “You could escalate it. But you know how the design team gets when they feel rushed.”

The thought made Gihun cringe. The last thing he wanted was to spark unnecessary friction. He glanced at the clock, feeling the familiar press of a looming deadline. Fingers hovering over his keyboard, he started drafting a third email, agonizing over how to phrase it without sounding desperate or passive-aggressive.

Before he could hit send, a shadow stretched across his desk.

Gihun froze. Slowly, he looked up, only to find himself face-to-face with Hwang Inho.

The CEO stood with one hand tucked casually into his pocket, the other resting on the edge of the desk. His expression was unreadable.

“Is there a problem?” the alpha asked, his voice calm but edged with that quiet authority that made Gihun’s heart leap into his throat.

“N-No, sajangnim,” Gihun stammered, pulse spiking like he’d been caught doing something wrong. Inho’s eyes flicked from Gihun’s wide, startled gaze to the scattered papers and drafts crowding his desk.

“Try again,” his boss said smoothly, his gaze returning to Gihun—measured, expectant.

The omega hesitated, breath catching slightly as his grip tightened on the pen in his hand. “It’s the design team, sajangnim,” he said quietly. “They haven’t sent their revisions yet, and I need them to finish the marketing summary.”

Hwang Inho tilted his head, expression unreadable but sharp, like he was already halfway through solving the problem. “You’ve followed up?”

“Yes, sajangnim. Twice.”

The alpha didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he pulled his phone from his pocket, fingers moving with deliberate precision across the screen. The soft tap of his thumb was the only sound between them. Then he slipped the phone away again, like it had never happened.

“Consider it handled,” he said simply.

Gihun blinked. “Thank you, sajangnim,” he murmured, still unsure what his boss had done, or how any of it could’ve helped that quickly.

But less than ten minutes later, a new email pinged into his inbox. His heart skipped as he opened it. The design revisions were attached. A polite, almost apologetic message followed, assuring him that the delay wouldn’t happen again.

Across the aisle, Hyunju glanced over, eyebrows raised. “Whoa. That was fast,” she said, sipping her coffee. “What’d you do, threaten them?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Gihun murmured, still staring at the email as if it might vanish the second he looked away.

Hyunju’s gaze slid toward the CEO’s office, where the door hung slightly ajar. A knowing smile tugged at her lips. “Ah,” she said softly. “He did.”

Gihun followed her glance, eyes landing on the faint silhouette visible through the frosted glass. Hwang Inho was seated at his desk, head bent in quiet focus, as if he hadn’t just altered the course of Gihun’s entire afternoon with a few taps of his phone. 

Gihun tried to focus on finalizing the report. But his thoughts wouldn’t stay still. What had the man said? What pressure had he applied that could shift an entire team into motion? There’d been no confrontation, no copied emails, no visible trail. Just a quiet, offhand intervention, and suddenly the bottleneck was gone.

He glanced again at the office. Through the narrow gap in the door, he could hear the faint cadence of Hwang Inho’s voice. Calm. Measured. There was no urgency in the way he spoke, no need for theatrics. And yet, things happened. The alpha didn’t need volume. His power was quiet, calculated, and precise, like a chess player moving pieces in a game only he fully understood.

As Gihun packed up for the day, he found himself lingering at his desk longer than usual, his thoughts swirling. With a single gesture, his boss had reshaped the flow of the office, solving a problem without breaking stride. That kind of influence wasn’t just effective, it was magnetic. For the first time, Gihun began to question the nature of power. Maybe it wasn’t about how loudly you spoke or how much you demanded. Maybe true power lay in the ability to make things happen with a mere word, a glance, or a subtle shift in presence. 

That kind of influence wasn’t just commanding—it was magnetic. Unsettling.

And something in Gihun responded to it.

He wasn’t sure what stirred in him as he stepped out into the cool evening air. He only knew that the memory of Inho’s voice lingered at the edge of his thoughts, subtle and impossible to shake. Like the trace of his scent—sharp, composed, impossible to place—but unmistakably there.

And beneath the unsettled admiration, something quieter bloomed. A curiosity. A craving. Not yet named. Not yet understood.

But it was there.

The soft click of the apartment door broke the stillness as Gihun stepped inside, slipping off his shoes and setting his bag down with a quiet sigh. The familiar scent of home greeted him: a mix of detergent, warm dust, and the lingering trace of Sangwoo’s alpha musk. It was grounding in its familiarity, but tonight, it felt heavier somehow. Less like comfort, more like gravity. The kind that pressed against his chest rather than lifting it.

The events of the day played in his mind as he moved toward the kitchen. For the first time in ages, Gihun felt proud of himself. The late-night work on the report, the careful revisions, the anxiety of presenting it, all of it had paid off. His boss had noticed. That small, deliberate praise still lingered in his chest, a warmth that wasn’t entirely familiar to him but one he couldn’t help but carry home.

In the living room, the dim glow of the television cast shifting shadows across the walls. Sangwoo was sprawled across the couch, one arm hooked along the backrest, his gaze fixed on his phone. A half-empty bottle of soju and an untouched plate sat on the coffee table. The casual mess clashed with his usual polish, but even like this, Sangwoo looked perfect; effortlessly composed, handsome in the way that always left Gihun feeling lucky, even when that luck came with conditions.

“You’re late,” Sangwoo said, not looking up. His tone was flat, unreadable. Not angry, but not warm either.

The words were simple, but they hit harder than they should have. Gihun hesitated at the edge of the room, trying to soften the moment. “Yeah,” he said, forcing his tone lighter. “I stayed behind to finish a report. It actually went really well. My boss said it was one of the best he’s seen.”

Sangwoo looked up briefly, just long enough for his eyes to skim over him. Then he snorted, faint and dismissive, before returning to his screen. “Good for you,” he said, the edge of sarcasm too thin to be called overt, but not thin enough to miss. “Too bad you couldn’t remember to take out the trash this morning.”

The words landed with a dull, familiar thud. Gihun’s eyes shifted to the kitchen. The overfilled trash bag still sat by the door, forgotten in the morning rush. He winced, guilt twisting sharp in his stomach, eclipsing the soft pride he’d brought home with him. Just like that, it vanished.

“I’m sorry Sangwoo-yah,” he mumbled, moving toward the kitchen in a rush. “I’ll take care of it now.”

The alpha didn’t move from the couch, but his voice carried after him, sharp and casual in the same breath. “It’s not that hard, hyung. You can impress your boss and organize all your little reports, but you can’t handle something as simple as taking out the trash? What’s the point of working late if you can’t even keep up here?”

The words sliced with practiced ease. Gihun bit his lip as he fumbled with the trash bag, his hands trembling slightly. He wanted to defend himself, to explain that he’d simply forgotten, that he’d left in a hurry, but he knew better. Defending himself only prolonged things. It never helped. It never changed the tone in Sangwoo’s voice.

By the time he stepped into the hallway to toss the bag, the quiet pride he’d carried home had already begun to dissolve. It felt distant now; fragile, foolish, like something that didn’t belong to him.

When he returned, Sangwoo was still on the couch, his body relaxed, legs stretched out, phone in hand. The pale light from the screen cast sharp lines across his face, and even in this cold detachment, he looked perfect. Effortlessly put-together. Intact in a way Gihun never felt he was.

Gihun lingered near the doorway, fingers brushing the edge of the counter. The trash was already out, but Sangwoo’s silence clung to the room, quiet and heavy in that way Gihun knew too well.

He didn’t sigh. Just offered a small, nervous smile—tilted, uncertain, like he was hoping it might land right.

“It’s gone now,” he said, voice light. “Didn’t even let it rot this time. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

Sangwoo gave a small huff through his nose, not quite a laugh. Still didn’t look up.

“Guess miracles do happen,” he hummed under his breath, more to himself than to Gihun.

He shifted on the couch, propping one arm behind his head, already halfway gone from the conversation. Not angry. Just tired. Like humoring Gihun took more effort than it used to.

Gihun exhaled softly and moved to sit at the far edge of the couch, careful not to disturb the quiet. He kept his hands in his lap, fingers threading and unthreading as the TV flickered in front of them, casting pale light across Sangwoo’s face.

He wasn’t even paying attention—just scrolling, stretched out, relaxed like nothing had happened. Like Gihun hadn’t just stood there fumbling for a bit of warmth that never came.

It wasn’t anything new. Not really. Just the kind of moment couples had all the time, the quiet brush-offs and little sighs. It shouldn’t have stung, but somehow, it did.

Still, when Gihun looked at him, at the calm line of his jaw, the clean elegance in the way he moved, it was hard not to feel that old ache again. That mix of admiration and longing that never really left.

Sangwoo had always been like this: effortless, composed, unreachable in ways that made Gihun feel both lucky and unworthy. For as long as he could remember, Sangwoo had embodied everything he admired: smart, sharp, endlessly self-assured. And the fact that someone like that had chosen him—a clumsy, unremarkable omega—was something Gihun could never quite wrap his head around.

Just as Gihun began to sink deeper into the couch, Sangwoo shifted. He lowered his phone and looked at him, his expression unreadable.

“Come here,” Sangwoo said, his voice soft but carrying a quiet command that sent a shiver down Gihun’s spine.

He blinked, startled. “W-What?”

Sangwoo’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, a sharp contrast to his earlier coldness. “I said, come here, baby.” The endearment was smooth, a lazy hum of possession. He stretched his arm across the back of the couch, opening the space between them, though the weight of his presence filled it completely.

The endearment sent a quiet thrill through Gihun, a warmth blooming low in his chest that he hated how much he missed. His instincts responded before his thoughts could catch up, drawing him toward Sangwoo with the kind of pull he’d long since stopped trying to explain. He shifted closer, cautiously, as if testing the edges of something fragile. His gaze flicked to Sangwoo’s, searching for warmth, for permission, for anything.

Sangwoo didn’t rush him. He waited, eyes steady and unreadable, until Gihun was close enough that their knees nearly brushed. Then, with practiced ease, he reached out, fingers curling lightly around Gihun’s wrist, guiding him in without force but with unmistakable certainty.

“That’s better,” he murmured, his voice a low hum that vibrated through Gihun’s chest.

Before Gihun could react, Sangwoo shifted again, guiding him down until he was leaning against the alpha, his head resting tentatively on Sangwoo’s shoulder. Sangwoo’s arm slipped around him, firm and possessive, his hand settling against Gihun’s waist. He let himself sink into it, even as part of him stayed tense beneath the surface.

The warmth of Sangwoo’s body seeped into him, the steady pulse of his alpha presence wrapping around Gihun like an invisible tether. It was suffocating in its intensity, yet comforting in a way that made his chest ache. He felt smaller than ever against Sangwoo’s frame, the alpha’s scent, sharp and grounding, filling his senses until there was no room left for anything else.

Sangwoo’s fingers traced a slow, deliberate line along his arm, sending shivers dancing across his skin. “You’re too tense,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “You can’t keep running yourself into the ground, hyung. What’s the point of all that effort if you come home like this?”

“I just…” Gihun’s voice faltered. He shifted slightly against him, the scent, the touch, the closeness blurring his thoughts. “I wanted to make sure everything was perfect.”

Sangwoo hummed low in his throat, his fingers tightening just enough to remind Gihun he was being held, not comforted. “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” he said, voice smooth but clipped. “You’re already doing enough.”

Then, after a pause—quieter, but no softer:

“You’re mine. That’s all that matters.”

The words sank into him like heat, flooding his chest with a warmth he couldn’t hold back. His body relaxed against Sangwoo’s, instinct surrendering where logic hesitated, drawn not by reason, but by the need to feel wanted, to feel kept.

For a moment, it was easy to forget the sting of Sangwoo’s earlier words, the doubt that lingered in his mind. Here, pressed against him, with Sangwoo’s arm heavy around him and his scent filling his lungs, Gihun felt like he was exactly where he belonged.

Sangwoo’s hand slid up to brush gently through his hair, the touch nearly tender. “That’s better,” he murmured, his lips brushing close to Gihun’s ear. “Just stay here for a while.”

And Gihun did. He let himself be held, let himself believe—if only for a breath, a heartbeat—that this was enough. That he was enough.

Later that night, Gihun lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The glow of his phone lit the dark room, but the words on the screen blurred, unread, as his thoughts drifted. He kept replaying Sangwoo’s comment, again and again, each time shrinking a little more beneath its weight. It wasn’t just what he’d said; it was the tone, the casual dismissal, the absence of acknowledgment for anything else Gihun had done. Yes, he’d forgotten the trash, but was that all Sangwoo noticed when he came home?

Unbidden, Hwang Inho’s voice returned to him: You’ve done well. The memory was startling in its clarity; sharp, precise, and warm in a way that caught him off guard, so unlike the careful distance Sangwoo always kept. The alpha’s gaze had steadied him, made him feel, if only for a moment, like someone worth recognizing.

But he shouldn’t compare them. He couldn’t. Sangwoo was his partner, the one who had been by his side through everything. Sangwoo had chosen him when no one else had, and that had to mean something. It did mean something. And yet…

A quiet ache settled in Gihun’s chest as he curled into himself beneath the covers. He wanted more. More than just criticism, more than the occasional touch or offhand word that tethered him to Sangwoo’s orbit. He wanted to be seen. Wanted to feel cherished. Wanted to believe he was enough.

But with Sangwoo, it always felt just out of reach.

Still, the thought of being without him was unbearable. Even as the doubt circled tighter, Gihun clung to the hope that maybe, someday, Sangwoo would look at him the way he’d always looked at Sangwoo: like he was irreplaceable.

For now, he told himself, he could endure. He had to.

Chapter Text

The clock on the wall ticked softly, a steady rhythm that blended into the background hum of Cho Sangwoo’s office. Rain traced long, uneven streaks down the floor-to-ceiling windows, but his gaze didn’t follow them. He wasn’t really looking at anything. His mind had drifted, an uncommon breach in the carefully ordered structure he kept wrapped around himself like armor.

Gihun.

The name carried weight in Sangwoo’s mind, though not in the sentimental way he imagined it might for others. For Sangwoo, it wasn’t about poetry or romance. It was about certainty. Stability. Gihun was his, and that alone should have been enough to settle the stray edges of his thoughts. And yet—

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes catching faintly on his own reflection in the darkened glass. He thought about Gihun’s soft smiles, his hesitant voice, the way his hands trembled slightly when he was nervous but never enough to drop whatever task Sangwoo had set for him. He thought about how Gihun always tried so hard. Sometimes too hard, fumbling over himself to do things right, to please him.

Sangwoo appreciated it. He did. But it had never struck him as remarkable. Gihun’s devotion was simply... given. As instinctual and unchanging as scent. As predictable as gravity. Something innate to Gihun’s nature. Something Sangwoo had never had to earn.

And yet lately, that rhythm—devotion, submission, compliance—felt ever so slightly out of tune.

He frowned.

Not distant. No. That wasn’t it. Restless, perhaps. Distracted. He still came when called. Still curled close at night like a creature seeking warmth. But something in him had started to pull inward, as if some quiet thought was blooming behind his eyes that Sangwoo hadn’t planted.

The alpha’s fingers flexed, the leather armrests creaking beneath the sudden shift in his grip.

He wasn’t a man prone to doubt, certainly not about himself, and never about what was his. But there it was. A sliver of something he didn’t yet understand. Something unfamiliar.

Sangwoo, who had always prided himself on understanding everything, hated the way it felt.

And then there was the scent.

Faint, so faint Sangwoo had nearly convinced himself he imagined it. A trace of something unfamiliar clinging to Gihun’s clothes one evening, when he came home later than usual. At first, Sangwoo had dismissed it. The crowded subway. An errant brush with a colleague. Gihun wasn’t the type to attract attention. Too quiet. Too unsure of himself.

And besides, who would dare?

But the memory lingered, and that faint, foreign scent haunted the edges of Sangwoo’s mind like a stubborn splinter. He was an alpha—his senses sharper, more attuned to nuances most omegas, like Gihun, would never notice. And this scent hadn’t been ordinary. It carried something deeper, more unnerving: a whisper of power that dug its claws into Sangwoo’s instincts, something primal that stirred unease in his chest.

It wasn’t the brash dominance of an alpha trying too hard to take up space. No, this was different. Refined. Controlled. Like velvet wrapping around a blade. There was cunning in that scent, something calculated and cold, a quiet promise of capability that Sangwoo couldn’t quite shake. It made his skin crawl in a way he didn’t know how to name, a feeling somewhere between instinctive discomfort and the bitter awareness of being outclassed.

He shook the feeling off almost automatically, his mind brushing against the edges of it without truly holding on. Gihun wasn’t bold or alluring enough to warrant the attention of someone like that.

Sangwoo had known him too long, had watched him trip over his words, shrink under pressure, smile too easily at the wrong moments. Gihun was soft in all the harmless ways, full of need but not direction. Not the kind of omega who turned heads. Not the kind alphas pursued.

The idea that someone powerful, strategic, might have looked at Gihun and seen something worth wanting… it didn’t make sense.

And so, a certainty settled easily into place without resistance.

Whatever faint trace of alpha Sangwoo had picked up on, it couldn’t mean anything.

Wouldn’t.

Just like that, the unease that had flared briefly in his chest receded, slipping back into the quiet dark of his mind, where it waited—faint, unacknowledged, but not gone.

The next morning, as Gihun shuffled through his usual routine, Sangwoo found himself watching him more closely than usual. There was something soft about him like this: half-awake, shoulders slouched in the gray morning light, hair sticking up from sleep as he fumbled with the coffee maker. Most days, Sangwoo would brush past him with a kiss on the cheek, barely glancing before heading out the door. But today, something in him caught.

He stepped in under the pretense of helping Gihun reach the coffee mugs from the top shelf, even though he barely had a couple centimeters on him. The omega startled slightly, his wide eyes flicking up, still glazed with sleep. “Oh, I—I’ve got it, Sangwoo,” he mumbled, already reaching for the cabinet door.

“I know, hyung,” Sangwoo said, quiet, casual, as he closed the space between them. His hand brushed along the small of Gihun’s back—light, but lingering just long enough to make the contact mean something. He leaned in, close enough to breathe in the faint pear-blossom sweetness of Gihun’s scent, and pressed his cheek to the omega’s temple. His own scent bled quietly into Gihun’s skin, a mark more instinctual than affectionate.

But he didn’t stop there.

Sangwoo tilted his head, letting his lips graze the curve of Gihun’s neck, right at the spot where his scent gland pulsed faintly beneath the skin. The soft brush of it made Gihun freeze, his breath catching. Sangwoo’s mouth lingered there, a kiss placed deliberately, then another, lower, slower. Weighted. Inescapable.

“What are you doing?” Gihun whispered, cheeks tinged pink as a quiet shiver ran the length of his spine.

“Just making sure,” Sangwoo said, his voice light, almost offhand, but edged with something firmer beneath. He didn’t move far, his mouth still brushing the delicate curve of Gihun’s neck, his scent now soaked into the omega’s skin in a way that felt both tender and possessive. His eyes lifted, dark and unreadable, catching Gihun’s gaze as a faint smirk played at his lips. “You smell better this way.”

He didn’t usually scent Gihun like this. There was never any need. Gihun’s loyalty had always been silent, unwavering, like the steam curling from a morning cup or the faint click of the front door when Sangwoo left for work. But now, standing close enough to feel the warmth radiating off Gihun’s skin, his body moved without thought. The scent that didn’t belong—faint, long faded—wasn’t something he could name. But his instincts stirred. He hadn’t meant to lean in like that, hadn’t planned to brush his scent so deliberately across the place where it would cling. It wasn’t strategy or spite. It was reflex. A quiet, primal tether tightening beneath the surface. No one else had a right to this.

By the time he grabbed his keys and slipped out the door, something in his chest had loosened. He didn’t know why. But the thought of Gihun standing barefoot in their kitchen, his scent softened by the quiet pull of Sangwoo’s own, lingered like a hum beneath his ribs. Not reassurance exactly, just a mark, left behind. A reminder. Something his.

The steady hum of morning activity filled the space: phones ringing, keyboards clacking, the faint scent of fresh coffee threading through the air like something familiar and grounding. Gihun stepped inside, and for a moment, it felt like the whole floor shifted. His smile, warm and unguarded, lit up the drab fluorescent light overhead. Everything felt different today. The way his coworkers greeted him seemed brighter somehow, more genuine. Even the gray walls, normally so dull and lifeless, didn’t press down on him the way they usually did. The coffee in his hand, something he’d only started drinking recently, more for survival than taste, didn’t seem quite as bitter. He still preferred tea, but mornings like this made the bite of caffeine feel almost welcome.

His fingers rose to his neck without thinking, brushing over the place where Sangwoo’s scent still clung faintly to his skin. It wasn’t unusual for an alpha to scent their omega, it was normal, expected even. But for Sangwoo to do it so clearly, so deliberately… that was different. Rare, special even. Gihun’s heart swelled. He must have been in a good mood this morning, Gihun thought, his heart lifting at the idea. Maybe it’s his way of saying he’s proud of me? Or maybe he’s just showing me he cares, in his own way. He doesn’t say it much, but he doesn’t have to. This is how he shows it.

It made sense. Or—it could make sense, if he wanted it to. Still, something quiet and uneasy tugged at the edge of his thoughts. Sangwoo wasn’t usually like that. Not without a reason. Maybe I’ve been working too hard, he reasoned quickly, brushing off the thoughts. He probably just wanted to remind me to take care of myself. And that made perfect sense, didn’t it?

That explanation sat well enough. At least, well enough to hold onto.

The warmth of Sangwoo’s scent curled around him like a second skin, light but impossible to ignore. Gihun moved through the office as if floating, his cheeks flushed, the ground beneath his feet just a little too soft. Everything felt lighter. Almost like being claimed. Almost like being loved.

Hyunju’s voice rang out beside him, light and teasing, her coffee mug cradled in one hand and an unmistakable grin tugging at her lips. “Someone’s looking extra radiant today.”

Gihun blinked, caught mid-step. “H-Huh?”

His steps faltered, and he turned to Hyunju with wide eyes, his cheeks flaming. He opened his mouth to respond but found himself momentarily speechless, caught off guard by her tone. The beta laughed, the sound warm and light, as if his reaction was exactly what she’d expected. “Don’t look so surprised.”

He gave a nervous chuckle, trying to smooth down the giddiness stretching across his face. “I’m just… in a good mood. That’s all.”

“Oh, sure.” She squinted at him playfully and leaned in, pausing with a theatrical sniff of the air. Her grin widened. “Or maybe someone got extra scented this morning.”

Gihun laughed, flustered, his ears warming. Commenting on someone’s scent wasn’t exactly taboo, among family or close friends, it happened. But between coworkers? Especially ones who weren’t all that close? People usually pretended not to notice.

But she had. Boldly.

Weren’t betas supposed to have a weaker sense of smell? What—was it really that obvious?

They really were getting closer, weren’t they? The teasing felt easy, familiar. It made something settle in him, like he wasn’t on the outside of things anymore.

Still, if she had picked up on it, then Sangwoo must’ve scented him more than usual.

Before he could respond, Jihoon passed by, a folder tucked under one arm. He slowed, giving Gihun a once-over. “Yeah, I can smell it too,” he said with a chuckle. “ That’s not casual scenting. That’s like…” He gestured vaguely. “You’re glowing, hyung.”

Gihun rubbed the back of his neck, heat prickling under his collar. “It’s not—it’s really not like that,” he said, a little too quickly. “It’s just instinct stuff. Probably didn’t even mean to.”

He trailed off, biting his lower lip as his gaze dropped to the floor. The warmth hadn’t faded, it had only sharpened under their teasing.

Hyunju’s expression softened. “Hey,” she said gently, nudging his elbow with hers. “No need to get all shy about it. It’s sweet. Whoever your alpha is, it’s pretty clear he wanted people to know.”

Gihun’s heart swelled at the words, and for a moment, he couldn’t suppress the happiness bubbling up in his chest. His lips curved into a soft, almost bashful smile. “It was Sangwoo,” he said quietly, his voice warm and careful, like he was cradling the name itself. “He scented me before I left.”

For a heartbeat, the room seemed to still. Hyunju and Jihoon exchanged quick, wide-eyed glances before turning back to him with renewed curiosity.

Hyunju’s mouth twitched into a grin, her voice light with teasing. “Well, look at you,” she said, leaning in slightly. “Coming in here all scented and glowing like that. Must feel nice, huh?”

“It does,” Gihun admitted, so softly it was almost a breath. His cheeks burned, but the truth of it settled somewhere deep in his chest. It did feel nice, more than nice. It felt like something he hadn’t even known he’d needed until it was there, a quiet offering he didn’t quite deserve, but couldn’t stop treasuring.

“Lucky omega,” Jihoon teased with a wink before the two of them stepped away, leaving Gihun standing by his desk, his face warm but his heart lighter than it had been in days.

As he sat down and let himself breathe, Gihun was struck by how naturally the teasing had come, how easy it felt between them. It surprised him, this familiarity they’d shown lately, their warmth. They didn’t keep him at arm’s length or regard him with that stiff politeness he expected. And as he glanced up to see Hyunju and Jihoon laughing together across the room, he realized he didn’t mind the change. In fact, he liked it. That ease, that shared space, it made him feel like he belonged. Like he was finally part of something bigger than just himself.

As he set his coffee down and adjusted his chair, a flicker of movement caught his eye. He turned his head slightly, gaze landing on Hwang Inho standing a few feet away near the windows, flipping through a set of papers in his hands.

Gihun froze. Had he heard?

The CEO wasn’t looking at him, his posture was composed, almost indifferent, but Gihun’s stomach twisted all the same. What if his boss had been close enough to overhear everything? The thought made his face burn. His mind scrambled to recall how loudly he’d spoken, whether he’d sounded unprofessional, too giddy, too obvious. But then, his breath caught. For the briefest moment, he could’ve sworn he saw the alpha’s jaw tense, just a fraction. A flicker, too small to be called a frown, but noticeable nonetheless. And was it just his imagination, or had the air shifted too? The crisp scent of sandalwood and black pepper hung sharper in the room now, like something coiled had briefly stirred and then gone still again.

Before Gihun could decide if it was real or imagined, Inho’s voice cut through the soft hum of the office.

“Back to work.”

His gaze flicked once, briefly, toward Hyunju and Jihoon. Not quite a glare. Not quite neutral either. “There’s plenty to be done without morning gossip.”

“Yes, sajangnim,” Hyunju and Jihoon replied in unison, scurrying back to their desks.

The CEO turned without another glance, disappearing into his office with measured steps. But Gihun’s heart was still racing, his mind spinning with questions. Had he overheard? He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away, but the tension hadn’t left his body. The weight of the CEO’s brief presence lingered like a pressure behind his ribs, impossible to ignore.

The meeting room buzzed with low murmurs as Gihun stepped inside, clutching his notepad like a lifeline, or at least something to keep his hands from shaking. His brain was going a hundred different directions, none of them helpful.

He’d messed up. Properly. Not a typo, not a misplaced comma but actual numbers, wrong ones, and the kind that mattered.

Now he was seated at the massive table, surrounded by polished, put-together executives who looked like they drank their coffee from real mugs and slept eight hours a night. The weight of the mistake was sitting square in his chest, dull and stubborn, like it had no plans to leave anytime soon.

At the head of the table sat Hwang Inho, calm and unreadable as ever. His sharp gaze moved slowly over the room, assessing, dissecting. The faint scent of sandalwood and pepper lingered in the air, just enough to make Gihun’s heart beat faster, not only with nerves but with something else he couldn’t quite name.

The meeting began. One by one, departments gave their updates. Gihun’s palms were damp as the agenda marched inevitably toward his section, toward the moment his mistake would come to light.

He had discovered the error that morning while scanning through his notes: a discrepancy in the financial projections. He’d copied an outdated set of figures into the final document, something that couldn’t be explained away as a simple typo. In the frantic rush of juggling deadlines and last-minute revisions, it had slipped past him. And by the time he caught it, it was too late. The report had already gone out to the executive team.

He had spent the entire morning spiraling, drafting half-baked explanations, debating whether to email a correction, even rehearsing what he might say to Inho before the meeting started. But when he reached the conference room, it was already too late. The doors were closing, the meeting underway. No chance to preempt. No time to soften the blow.

Now there was only silence, the waiting, and the burn of humiliation curling tighter in his chest.

The marketing section began. Gihun braced himself.

Slides flicked onto the screen.

He held his breath.

And then—

The data was correct.

He blinked, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. The numbers he’d botched had been replaced with the correct projections, seamlessly integrated, perfectly formatted. Not a single executive batted an eye as the presentation flowed forward without pause, no sign of the panic that had seized Gihun all morning.

His gaze snapped to the alpha.

Hwang Inho sat leaned back slightly in his chair, one hand resting against the polished wood of the table, his expression composed and unreadable as he listened. But when Gihun’s wide-eyed stare lingered, the CEO’s eyes shifted—just briefly, just enough. A glance, deliberate and knowing. A glance that said, You’re welcome.

Gihun’s breath caught.

He quickly looked down at his notepad, heart hammering, thoughts spinning. Did he… fix it? The idea seemed impossible. Too generous. Too careful. Too much.

Hwang Inho wasn’t a stranger to occasional moments of kindness—Gihun had seen flickers of it before, small gestures, offhanded praise. But this? This wasn’t casual. It wasn’t passive. It was precise. Intentional. Thoughtful in a way that unsettled him, because it went so far beyond what he’d come to expect from the cold, demanding CEO who ran the company like a fortress.

Why would he do that? Why go out of his way for someone like him?

The question buzzed beneath his skin, igniting a quiet heat in his chest. Gratitude, yes, but something more tangled beneath it. A pulse of emotion he couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t just that Inho had stepped in. It was the way he had done it; silently, invisibly, without asking for recognition. Like he wanted Gihun to feel it rather than see it.

It left him dizzy. Exposed. And somewhere, deep inside, a thought whispered, He’s watching me.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur, Gihun’s mind caught between relief and disbelief. He barely registered the polite applause as the presentation concluded, nor the quiet shuffle of executives filing out around him. It wasn’t until a familiar voice cut through the haze that he realized he was the only one still seated at the table.

“Seong Gihun-ssi,” the alpha said, rising smoothly to his feet. His tone was measured, but it carried that quiet authority that never failed to command attention. Gihun’s spine went rigid. “Come to my office.”

He scrambled to gather his things, heart thudding as he followed the man out of the conference room. The walk down the hall felt simultaneously too long and not long enough, each step tightening the coil of nerves in his stomach. At the door, the CEO gestured for him to enter first, and Gihun obeyed, stepping into the room that smelled faintly, inescapably, of sandalwood and something darker.

The soft click of the door closing behind them was deafening.

Hwang Inho moved to his desk with unhurried grace and motioned to the chair opposite. Gihun sat, clutching his notepad like a lifeline, his gaze fixed somewhere just below the alpha’s eye line. He didn’t dare speak. The CEO settled into his chair and folded his hands neatly, studying him in silence.

He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he looked at him, truly looked. The tense slope of Gihun’s shoulders. The way his fingers clutched the edge of the notepad. The scent of nervousness, sharp and faintly metallic, curling beneath the layers of shampoo and cologne. The tremble in his breath, barely there.

“You noticed,” he said at last, his voice calm and smooth.

Gihun’s head shot up. “I—I mean, yes, sajangnim. I—”

“You made a mistake,” the alpha continued, cutting him off gently but without hesitation. “But it’s been handled.”

Gihun swallowed hard, his face flushing. “I… I’m so sorry, sajangnim. I didn’t mean to—”

The alpha held up a hand, silencing him with a single gesture.

“It’s done, Gihun-ssi. Mistakes happen. What matters is how we move forward.”

The calm, forgiving tone made Gihun’s chest tighten. He had been bracing for anger, for reprimands, for the cold, cutting edge Hwang Inho was known for. But instead, the alpha’s voice was almost… gentle.

“I corrected the data because I expect you to learn from this,” Inho said, his gaze steady. “Not because I’m lenient, but because I see potential in you. And I don’t waste my time on lost causes.”

The faint praise sparked a flush of warmth in Gihun’s chest, even as his embarrassment deepened.

“Thank you, sajangnim,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

The alpha’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles—polished, professional, but with a subtle edge that sent a shiver down Gihun’s spine.

“See that it doesn’t,” he said softly. “But don’t let this consume you. You’re better than that.”

A quiet settled over the room, his words pressing into Gihun’s chest like a hand—weighty, steadying. For the first time since the mistake had come to light, Gihun felt a flicker of something close to hope. Hope that he could do better. That he wasn’t defined by his failures.

He rose from his seat, clutching his notepad, but just as he turned toward the door, Inho’s voice stopped him again.

“Gihun-ssi.”

He turned back, heart catching in his throat. The alpha’s gaze held steady, his tone dropping into something quieter, almost intimate.

“Don’t let this weigh on you,” he said. “Mistakes are part of the process. What matters is how you grow from them.”

“Yes, sajangnim,” Gihun replied, bowing deeply.

He left the office with his thoughts spinning, a strange blend of gratitude and confusion swirling in his chest. The alpha’s words echoed in his mind, low and unshakable, filling him with a warmth he didn’t know what to do with.

As he returned to his desk, the memory of that gaze lingered. Cool, watchful, knowing. A reminder of the quiet power Hwang Inho carried, and the strange, undeniable pull it had over him.

Gihun spotted Minyeo easily. She was waving from a table near the window, her scarf thrown haphazardly over the back of her chair. The cafe was busier this time, the hum of conversation and the clatter of plates forming a warm, lively backdrop.

“Aish, you’re late,” she teased as he approached, a grin tugging at her lips. “Who are you, and what have you done with the perpetually early Seong Gihun?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her. “I got caught up at work.”

“Work, huh?” she said, raising a brow. “Someone’s important now, huh? Big company, fancy title…”

Gihun let out a small, sheepish laugh, waving his hands. “It’s not like that at all. I’m just an assistant.”

Minyeo smirked. “Assistant or not, you’ve got that glow of someone who actually likes what they’re doing. That’s new.”

She rested her chin on her hand, her sharp gaze trained on him. “So,” she prompted, “what’s it like working for a fancy place like yours? Bet they’ve got all kinds of corporate lingo you had to learn.”

Gihun chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You have no idea. It’s like a whole new language. At first, I didn’t even know what half the terms meant. I had to ask questions constantly, stupid ones, too.”

Minyeo raised an eyebrow, her tone teasing but light. “Stupid questions? You? Well, maybe occasionally—but that’s part of your charm.”

“I mean it,” Gihun said earnestly, leaning forward. “There were moments I’d sit there thinking, ‘What the hell is a synergy matrix?’ or ‘Why do they keep saying pipeline like it’s some kind of magic spell?’ I honestly thought I was going to get kicked out for being clueless.”

“And?” Minyeo pressed, her grin widening.

“And…” Gihun hesitated, a blush creeping up his neck. “I started learning. Slowly. I’d write stuff down during meetings, look it up later, then practice saying the words so I wouldn’t trip over them. By the time I got home, I’d be so drained I’d lie in bed muttering things to myself. Sangwoo would just stare like I’d grown a third head.”

Minyeo laughed, nearly spilling her coffee. “I can just picture it—Sangwoo staring at you with that blank face while you whisper ‘synergy matrix’ in the dark like a corporate cultist.”

Gihun broke into laughter. “It’s true, though. The first time I managed to say something like ‘streamlining cross-functional collaboration’ out loud in a presentation, I thought I was going to faint. But now… it just rolls out. I’ve learned so much more than I thought I could at my age. Who knew someone in their forties could still pick up new tricks?”

“Forties,” Minyeo scoffed, pointing at him. “Don’t say it like you’re applying for a senior discount. You’re barely over the hill, Gihun-ah.”

“Still,” he said with a small laugh, shaking his head. “It’s strange. Learning all this now, this late. But it feels… good. Like I’m finally proving to myself I can do it. Even if I started late.”

“Late, my ass,” Minyeo said firmly, leaning in. “You’re doing amazing. Don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise. Half the people our age are still fumbling through the day, and here you are, giving PowerPoints with fancy words like a boss.

Gihun chuckled, wrapping his hands around his coffee cup. “It’s not all smooth sailing, though,” he admitted, voice softening. “Sometimes I still feel like I’m just faking it. Like I don’t really belong there… like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.”

“Impostor syndrome?” Minyeo asked knowingly.

“Yeah, I guess,” he said with a sheepish shrug. “But I’m trying. And it’s getting better.”

“Of course it is,” Minyeo said, her voice warm. “You’re Seong Gihun. You’ve always been a little scrappy, but you figure it out.”

Her words made him smile, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, the sound of the cafe around them filling the gaps.

Then, as if sensing the moment was right, Minyeo leaned forward again, her tone curious but light. “So,” she said, a playful glint in her eye, “what else have you been keeping from me? Any other juicy details from work?”

Gihun hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his napkin. “Actually… there’s something,” he said softly, his cheeks coloring slightly. “It’s kind of embarrassing, though.”

“Oh, now you have to tell me,” Minyeo said, her grin widening. “Does it have something to do with that fancy boss of yours? What’s he like, anyway?”

Gihun hesitated again, his fingers tightening around his cup. “He’s… intense. Very sharp. Always knows what’s going on. But he’s fair, too. Demanding, but not unreasonable.”

“Intense and fair, huh?” Minyeo’s brow arched, her smirk widening. “Sounds like someone you wouldn’t want to cross.”

Gihun laughed nervously. “Definitely not. But he’s not… mean or anything. Just really, really focused.”

“Focused. Got it.” She leaned back with a sip of coffee, still grinning. “And what about Sangwoo? Still working those long hours?”

Gihun shook his head slightly, his smile faint but genuine. “Actually, no. He’s been coming home earlier lately. Says he’s trying to balance things better.”

“Really?” Minyeo raised an eyebrow, her tone light but laced with curiosity. “That’s a surprise. I always thought he lived for work.”

“Yeah, me too,” Gihun admitted, his voice quieter. “But he’s been… different. Trying harder, I think.”

“Good for him,” Minyeo said, though her gaze lingered on Gihun a moment longer, as if reading between the lines. “And how’s that been for you? Better, I hope?”

“Oh, of course,” Gihun said quickly, nodding. “He’s great. Really focused on his career, but, you know, that’s just how he is.” His voice softened with a hint of pride as he continued, “He’s been working on a big deal lately, leading his team on this major IPO project at the securities company. I think he’s hoping it’ll get him noticed by the higher-ups, maybe even land him a spot in management. It’s a huge opportunity for him, so he’s been putting in a lot of hours.”

Gihun hesitated for a moment before adding, almost shyly, “I’ve been working more myself, too. It’s a lot, but... it’s good to stay busy. Keeps me on my toes.”

Minyeo hummed noncommittally, swirling her coffee. “Well, as long as you’re happy.”

“I am,” Gihun said, his voice quiet but firm.

The conversation drifted for a while, touching on lighter topics: funny memories from school, updates about old friends, and Minyeo’s own chaotic work life. She kept the tone breezy, but Gihun could feel her eyes on him, sharp and searching, like she was waiting for him to say something more.

Eventually, her patience paid off.

“Actually,” Gihun said, his voice hesitant as his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his napkin. “Something… happened at work recently.”

“Oh?” Minyeo leaned in, her curiosity instantly piqued. “Do tell.”

“It’s nothing big,” Gihun said quickly, waving a hand as if to dismiss it. “Just, um… I made a mistake. A pretty bad one, actually.”

Her brows lifted, but she didn’t interrupt, only rested her chin on her hand, watching him expectantly.

“I didn’t realize until it was too late,” he went on, his cheeks coloring as he avoided her gaze. “It was during a major project, something everyone was going to see. I thought for sure I’d get called out in front of the whole team.”

“But you didn’t?” she guessed, her tone careful, intrigued.

“No,” Gihun murmured, shaking his head. “My boss… he fixed it. Quietly. Didn’t tell anyone else. Just me. And he wasn’t even mad. He said mistakes happen and that I should learn from it.”

Minyeo blinked, clearly surprised. “He corrected your mistake for you? And didn’t say anything to anyone?”

“Yeah,” Gihun said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I couldn’t believe it. He didn’t have to do that. Most people wouldn’t.”

Minyeo tilted her head, watching him closely. “That’s… interesting,” she said slowly. “Sounds like he’s got a bit of a soft spot for you.”

“What? No!” Gihun said quickly, cheeks flushing deep red. “He’s just… professional. He didn’t want the project to fall apart, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh,” Minyeo said, her tone skeptical but still light, not pushing too hard. “Still, that’s not exactly standard boss behavior. You sure there’s nothing more to it?”

“I’m sure,” Gihun said, a little too quickly.

Minyeo didn’t press further, but the knowing glint in her eye lingered. She sipped her coffee, clearly filing it away for later. “Well,” she said breezily, “sounds like you’ve got someone watching your back. Just don’t let it go to your head, okay?”

Gihun laughed nervously, scratching at the back of his neck. “I won’t. But… it did mean a lot. That he didn’t make me feel small or stupid. It just… made me want to do better.”

Minyeo’s smile softened. She reached across the table and gave his hand a brief, warm squeeze. “You’re too good, Gihun-ah,” she said gently. “But don’t forget, you’re allowed to expect the same kindness you give. Don’t settle for less.”

Her words stayed with him long after their conversation drifted back to lighter topics. And when they said goodbye, Gihun couldn’t shake the feeling that Minyeo had seen something he hadn’t, something he wasn’t quite ready to look at too closely.

It was a rare gathering, an early Chuseok celebration arranged a week ahead of the actual holiday to accommodate everyone’s busy schedules. Sangwoo’s mother had insisted on hosting, determined to recreate the large family meals she used to prepare when Sangwoo was younger, before careers and commitments scattered everyone across Seoul.

The table was a lively patchwork of activity: bowls of clam soup being passed from one end to the other, chopsticks clinking against plates, someone laughing loudly at a joke shared between bites. Across from Gihun, Sangwoo ate methodically, his gaze drifting to his phone every so often whenever his mother wasn’t looking. She moved back and forth between the kitchen and the table, apron still tied over a simple blouse and slacks, strands of hair slipping loose from a messy bun.

Gihun sat quietly, feeling a little out of place, as he always did at these gatherings. Sangwoo’s cousin nudged him with an elbow. “Oppa, you’ve been so quiet tonight,” she said with a playful grin. “Usually, you’re the one keeping us entertained with your stories.”

“Oh, I’m just saving them for later,” Gihun replied with a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. His smile widened when she laughed, but the weight of Sangwoo’s presence beside him remained, a quiet reminder to stay composed.

Across the table, Sangwoo’s mother set down a heaping plate of battered fish in front of her sister, who accepted it with a grateful nod. “You really outdid yourself this time,” the sister said, admiring. “Everything tastes amazing.”

“Of course it does,” Sangwoo’s mother replied with a warm chuckle, brushing her hands against her apron. “I couldn’t let the younger generation forget what real cooking tastes like.”

Her gaze lingered on Sangwoo, softening. “Not that my son would remember, he’s too busy with his ‘fancy’ meals these days to appreciate good, home-cooked food.”

Sangwoo rolled his eyes, though a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Eomma, you act like I don’t eat. I’m here, aren’t I?”

The table erupted in light laughter, but Gihun noticed how his mother lingered on him a moment longer, her smile faltering just slightly.

Midway through the meal, as she moved around refilling glasses of tea, her gaze swept back toward Gihun. This time, her expression tightened, barely, but to signal she was holding back words. “I heard you’ve started working, Gihun-ssi,” she said, her tone light, but edged with curiosity.

Gihun nodded, sitting up a little straighter. “Yes, eomeonim. There’s a lot to learn, but it’s… good.”

She hummed softly, her eyes flicking briefly to her son. “That must be quite the adjustment. Omegas these days are so independent.”

Sangwoo didn’t look up from his plate, but the faint frown that crossed his face gave him away. He hadn’t protested Gihun taking the job outright, but his silence had spoken volumes, and now, under his mother’s quiet scrutiny, it was clear she’d noticed too.

“Ah, but work can’t replace family,” she added, more smoothly now, turning to her sister. “You know, when Sangwoo was younger, I always imagined his omega would have the perfect balance—supporting him at home, building a warm, welcoming life together. These modern times are so… different.”

The words settled heavily in the air. Gihun’s cheeks burned as he looked down at his plate, forcing a small smile. “I’m just trying to help where I can,” he murmured.

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” she said, patting his arm lightly. Her voice was warm, but the subtext rang clear: his efforts were seen—acknowledged, perhaps—but not quite valued.

The meal continued, the conversation shifting to lighter topics. Sangwoo’s mother scolded him for not visiting more, her tone half-playful. Sangwoo, as always, responded with that effortless calm, the kind that let nothing through unless he wanted it to. But as dessert arrived and plates were passed around, her tone shifted again.

She leaned slightly toward her sister, her voice pitched just low enough to mimic discretion while ensuring every ear at the table caught her words. “It’s such a shame they haven’t started a family yet,” she said, eyes flicking briefly to Sangwoo. “When he was younger, I always pictured him surrounded by children. A strong alpha like him, with good genes… seems like such a waste, doesn’t it?”

Gihun’s hand hovered, half-lifted toward his glass. The words landed like a weight, carefully veiled but deliberate, and no one could pretend otherwise.

Sangwoo finally looked up, setting his spoon down with quiet finality. “We’re taking our time, eomma,” he said, tone even, firm. “Things like this can’t be rushed.”

His mother’s brows drew together, only slightly, but she nodded after a pause. “Of course, Sangwoo-yah. I just want what’s best for you. A family to carry on the Cho name… it’s all any mother hopes for.”

Later, as the table cleared and tea was poured, she passed behind Gihun’s chair, resting a hand gently on his shoulder. “You’re doing your best, Gihun-ssi,” she said softly, her smile warm but edged with something quieter—expectation, or pity, or both.

Gihun managed a small nod, murmuring a quiet “thank you,” though the words felt heavy on his tongue.

He glanced toward Sangwoo, searching for something—acknowledgment, support, even just a familiar teasing glance to soften the moment. Sangwoo did look at him, briefly. Their eyes met for half a second, sharp against soft, and Gihun held his breath.

But then Sangwoo turned away, eyes flicking back to his phone, his fingers scrolling absently as though nothing had passed between them at all. The warmth that had flickered in Gihun’s chest extinguished in an instant, replaced by a quiet, aching hollowness. That moment, Sangwoo seeing him and choosing silence, cut deeper than any harsh word ever could.

When Sangwoo finally rose to help clear the table, his voice was curt. “Don’t just sit there, Gihun-ah. Grab the tea.”

Gihun nodded quickly, scrambling to obey. The words weren’t cruel, not even cold. But they stung all the same. The evening had been full of soft, smiling reminders—subtle, unrelenting—of how he didn’t quite measure up. Not to Sangwoo’s expectations, nor to his mother’s quiet vision of what a family should be.

By the time they left, a weight had settled heavily on his chest. The ride home passed in silence, Sangwoo focused on the road, his profile lit intermittently by passing streetlights. Gihun sat beside him, gazing out the window, his thoughts a quiet storm. Doubt. Resignation. The hum of the car was the only sound between them.

He wanted to be enough. To be what Sangwoo wanted, what his family expected. But tonight, like so many nights before—it felt like a dream just out of reach.

The fluorescent lights buzzed too loudly today. Or maybe it was just his headache, low and stubborn behind his eyes. Everything felt a little too sharp—too bright, too cold—and yet, at the same time, distant. Like he was watching the day unfold through glass, his movements slow and deliberate, disconnected from the noise around him.

Gihun sat at his desk with his head slightly bowed over a report, his pen moving without thought. The scent of pear blossom that clung to him, usually bright and crisp, seemed dulled today, like it had faded at the edges. Threaded with something softer. Sadder. A few coworkers passed by, catching the note in his scent, but said nothing.

Hyunju stopped at his desk mid-morning, her cheerful tone gentled with concern. “Gihun-ssi, you doing okay today? You seem… I don’t know. A little off.”

He forced a small smile, tucking a stray piece of paper into his folder. “Oh, I’m fine,” he said quickly, waving a hand to brush away the question. “Just tired, I guess. Long day.”

She gave him a look that said she didn’t quite believe him, but didn’t press. Instead, she left a small pack of cookies on his desk with a wink, and returned to her seat. He stared at the bright packaging for a long moment before setting it aside. Even the small, thoughtful gesture couldn’t shake the heaviness in his chest.

The Chuseok dinner replayed in his mind like a tape on loop: Sangwoo’s mother’s delicate disapproval, Sangwoo’s cold silence, that suffocating sense of being less than enough. It clung to him like fog, impossible to scrub off. He tried to work through it, to bury it beneath spreadsheets and emails, but it followed him through every task, dulling his focus and fraying the edges of his patience.

Lunchtime came and went. He didn’t eat. Normally, the mere sound of Hwang Inho passing by—his calm, deliberate footsteps, the magnetic pull of his scent—would be enough to stir something in him. A flicker of nerves, the heat of awareness, a kind of disoriented awe that kept Gihun distracted from his own spiraling thoughts. But today, the man was nowhere to be seen. And somehow, that absence made everything feel just a little heavier.

It wasn’t until the end of the day, when Gihun was tidying his desk, sliding pens back into their holder and closing the lid of his laptop, that he heard it: the familiar cadence of expensive shoes against polished tile. Measured, unhurried. He looked up on instinct.

And there he was.

The alpha. Immaculate as always, dressed in charcoal and steel, eyes sweeping the office with quiet command. And then, his gaze landed on Gihun.

“Seong Gihun-ssi,” the man said, his smooth voice cutting cleanly through the quiet.

Startled, Gihun gave a quick, reflexive bow in greeting. “Sajangnim,” he replied quickly, polite but tight around the edges.

“You’re still here,” his boss remarked, voice calm, though tinged with something closer to curiosity than surprise. His gaze swept over Gihun, slow and assessing. It lingered, on the slight slump in his shoulders, the tremble in his fingers as he fiddled with his pen. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no,” Gihun said too quickly, his hand waving reflexively. “Just… yesterday was a lot. Nothing serious.”

But the alpha didn’t move. He stayed perfectly still, his dark eyes locked onto him. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice quieter now—lower, coaxing. “You seem… off.”

Under the weight of his gaze, Gihun’s cheeks warmed. He tried to hold eye contact, then gave up. “I mean… it’s not a work issue,” he said, eyes dropping to his lap.

The faintest smile touched the alpha’s lips. He leaned in slightly, resting a hand on the desk’s edge, casual, but unmistakably close. “Not work,” he repeated, the words softer, more pointed. “Then something personal? Was it Chuseok?”

The mention of the holiday sent a flicker of pain across Gihun’s face, his scent shifting, subtle, but telling. A note of something bruised threaded through the air, delicate and bitter. He hesitated, his fingers curling tightly around the edge of his desk. “It’s nothing,” he murmured, voice soft enough to vanish between syllables.

But Hwang Inho wasn’t one to let things slip by so easily. “Gihun-ssi,” he said, his tone low, almost conspiratorial, like the start of something meant to remain just between the two of them. “You don’t have to keep everything to yourself. Sometimes it helps to talk.”

Something in his voice—measured, coaxing, deliberately kind—wore down Gihun’s defenses more quickly than he expected. He looked down, his voice catching as he tried to speak. “It’s just… the Chuseok dinner. Sangwoo’s mom…” He trailed off, searching for a way to explain what couldn’t be explained without feeling like he was being ungrateful. “She’s always polite, but…”

“Sangwoo?” the CEO repeated. His brows lifted slightly, his tone curious, but even.

Gihun flushed, lowering his gaze further. “My alpha,” he mumbled, barely audible.

“Ah.” The syllable was soft, thoughtful. Inho leaned back a little, gaze still fixed on him. “You’ve been with him a while, haven’t you?”

Gihun nodded quickly, fingers tugging at the seam of his sleeve. “Yes. A few years now.”

The alpha tilted his head slightly, the faintest flicker of surprise ghosting across his expression. “And yet… no mating mark?” he asked, his voice calm, almost casual, but laced with a sharp undercurrent of curiosity.

Gihun froze, his scent spiking faintly with discomfort. “I— We’ve talked about it,” he stammered, fingers tightening around the edge of his desk. “But Sangwoo… he says we shouldn’t rush. That it’s not necessary right now.”

A faint smile tugged at the alpha’s lips. Not warm. Not kind. Just the barest curl of something knowing, measured. Superior. “Not necessary,” he repeated softly, the words carrying a strange weight. “That’s… an interesting perspective.”

Gihun’s cheeks burned. He didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to. The air felt suddenly thicker.

Hwang Inho’s gaze sharpened. His tone stayed smooth, quiet. Almost soothing. “It’s just uncommon, that’s all. Most alphas are quite… possessive when it comes to their omegas. A mating bond isn’t just tradition, it’s instinct. A declaration. A way of saying, ‘You’re mine, and everyone should know it.’”

He let the words settle between them before continuing, voice dipping lower, quieter. “But perhaps Sangwoo-ssi sees things differently.”

The implication landed hard, heavier than Gihun expected. A flicker of doubt twisted in his chest, unwelcome and unshakable. He clung to his answer like a lifeline. “He’s just… practical,” he said quietly, the words thin and unconvincing, even to himself.

The alpha’s gaze softened, his voice low and measured. “Practicality has its place, of course. But there’s something to be said for instinct, for the desire to protect and cherish your omega in every way that matters.” His words were deliberate, each one laced with a quiet weight that made Gihun’s chest ache with an unfamiliar, gnawing longing.

“So what happened at Chuseok?” he asked gently, gaze steady, tone coaxing. He didn’t press, just opened the door.

Gihun hesitated, fingers curling at the edge of his sleeve. Part of him wanted to backtrack, to swallow the moment whole and pretend none of this had ever left his mouth. Painting Sangwoo in anything less than a perfect light felt disloyal. But the pressure in his chest was too much, like trying to hold his breath for too long.

“It’s… it’s not a big deal,” he murmured, his voice brittle around the edges. “I’m probably just overthinking.”

The alpha tilted his head slightly, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “You don’t strike me as someone who overthinks for no reason.” His voice was soft, careful, but sure. “What happened?”

Another pause. Then, finally, the dam broke.

“She made these comments,” Gihun said, the words rushing out. “Like I wasn’t doing enough as an omega. Like I wasn’t fulfilling my role.” He swallowed, the heat in his chest pushing up against his throat. “And Sangwoo—” His voice cracked. “He didn’t say anything. He just… sat there. Like it didn’t matter.”

The alpha’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, though his expression remained composed. When he spoke, his voice was lower, more deliberate. “He said nothing.”

Gihun shook his head, shame burning at the base of his neck. “He just… he brushed it off. And later, when I tried to bring it up, he said I was overthinking it. That his mom didn’t mean anything by it.”

The alpha was quiet for a moment, gaze unwavering, as if weighing every word Gihun had spoken. “I see,” he said finally, his voice measured. “And how did that make you feel?”

Gihun blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I—I don’t know. Small, I guess. Like I wasn’t enough. But maybe… maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m not doing enough.”

There was the faintest flicker of tension along the alpha’s jaw, but his tone remained composed. “She’s wrong.”

Gihun looked up, startled by the certainty in his voice.

“She’s wrong,” the alpha repeated, slower this time, deliberate. His gaze fixed on Gihun’s, steady and unyielding. “An omega’s worth isn’t measured by outdated roles or anyone else’s comfort. It’s not about what you do or don’t do. It’s about who you are.”

The words struck something deep. A fault line Gihun hadn’t even realized was there seemed to shift, cracking open beneath the weight of that unexpected kindness.

“And Sangwoo-ssi,” the alpha continued, his voice dipping into something quieter, almost intimate, “should have defended you. That’s what an alpha does. They don’t sit in silence while their omega is picked apart. They protect them. They make them feel valued. Seen.”

Gihun’s breath caught, his chest tightening around the ache those words touched. “He’s just… practical,” he said again, softer this time, as if the defense itself had begun to wear thin on his tongue.

“Practicality has its place,” Inho said smoothly, his tone laced with the faintest edge of superiority. “But there’s a difference between being practical and being inattentive. An alpha who truly cares knows how to balance both. They see their omega as a partner, not an obligation.”

The subtle dig wasn’t lost on Gihun, though he didn’t fully register it as intentional. What stirred in him instead was something quieter, more unexpected, something close to longing.

“Gihun-ssi,” the alpha continued, voice softening, deepening into something almost velvety, “you deserve more than just practicality.” He paused, eyes never leaving Gihun’s. “You deserve to feel cherished.”

The words settled into the space between them, warm and weighty. Gihun’s throat tightened. Something fragile inside him bent beneath the strain: under the quiet force of Inho’s kindness, the gentleness in his tone, and the quiet truth threaded through his words. It was a part of him he hadn’t realized he’d been holding upright for far too long.

Gihun felt the sting of tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

He blinked quickly, willing the sting to fade, but it was no use. A single tear escaped, sliding down his cheek before he could catch it. “I… I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking as he turned away, hand lifting to wipe it but the alpha reached him first.

His fingers brushed the tear away in one smooth, unhurried motion. His touch lingered, not accidentally, but with intention—warm, steady, heartbreakingly gentle. Gihun stilled under it, his breath catching at the quiet intimacy of it, at how easily it unspooled the tension in his chest.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Inho murmured, so softly it felt like the moment might break if he raised his voice. His gaze, so often sharp and assessing, held a quiet warmth now; soothing, unwavering. “Sometimes,” he said, “we just need someone to remind us of what we’re worth.”

Gihun’s lips parted, but no words came. His throat tightened as he stared down at his lap, hands trembling faintly. The sheer care in the man’s gesture and voice felt like a balm to something aching deep in his chest—and yet, it left him feeling impossibly exposed.

His voice wavered as he whispered, “Thank you, sajangnim.” The words were quiet, almost fragile, but laced with sincerity. He didn’t lift his head, his gaze fixed on his lap, fingers clutching the edge of his desk as if for balance.

The alpha lingered, his gaze steady, watching the quiet tension in Gihun’s posture. A faint smile touched his lips, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, almost coaxing. “You don’t have to be so formal, you know,” he said gently, the words low and intimate. “Especially not after a conversation like this.”

The casual remark landed like a stone in Gihun’s chest. His breath hitched. His heart thudded against his ribs. He looked down again, almost as if seeking cover. “I don’t want to be disrespectful,” he murmured, the words barely above a breath.

The alpha’s smile lingered, subtle and unreadable, but warm in a way that crept in slowly, uninvited. “I doubt you could be,” he replied, voice light but deliberate. “Even if you tried.”

Hwang Inho straightened slightly, as if sensing that Gihun needed space to breathe. “If you ever need to talk,” he said, his tone returning to its usual polished professionalism, though a trace of warmth still clung to the edges—“my door is always open.”

As the alpha walked away, his measured footsteps fading into the hum of the office, Gihun remained frozen at his desk, thoughts churning too fast to hold onto any one of them for long. The words replayed in his mind, looping softly like a refrain he hadn’t known he needed to hear.

It wasn’t just what had been said, t was the way he’d said it. Gentle. Intentional. So unlike the indifference Gihun had grown used to. For the first time in a long while, he felt… seen. Not just as a colleague or a presence in the room, but as an omega. As someone with instincts and needs that weren’t brushed aside or treated like afterthoughts. The acknowledgment had come from an alpha, and that fact alone struck something deep within him, something buried, something quiet and hungry that stirred before he could suppress it.

He told himself it was nothing, just kindness. Just professionalism.

But the warmth of Hwang Inho’s words lingered, wrapping around something fragile inside him. And though he tried to dismiss the feeling, a seed had been planted—delicate, persistent, and impossible to ignore.

The apartment door clicked shut behind him as Gihun stepped inside, shoulders slumped and cheeks still faintly flushed from the cold evening air. His bag hung limply in one hand, the corner of it dragging against the floor as he slipped off his shoes. The entryway was dim, lit only by the overhead light’s dull glow, casting long shadows across the walls. For a moment, he just stood there, unmoving, staring blankly ahead.

His chest felt heavy, an ache wound tight and quiet, the kind that didn’t have a clear beginning or end. Hwang Inho’s voice lingered in his mind, gentle and steady, the words echoing long after they’d been spoken. Words that shouldn’t have mattered as much as they did. Words that left something warm and aching in their wake. But tangled beneath them was the sharp silence from Chuseok, the way Sangwoo hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t looked at him. Hadn’t made space for him.

Gihun’s throat tightened. His eyes still burned faintly from earlier; the quiet tears on the bus, turned toward the window so no one would see, and again during the walk home, when the streetlights blurred into halos through the haze in his vision.

He wiped his face with trembling fingers, sniffed hard. Get it together, he muttered to himself. It wasn’t even that bad. You’re not a kid.

Just get through the evening. Don’t let him see.

From the living room, the soft murmur of a television reached him—low, familiar, indifferent. Gihun’s heart sank. Of course Sangwoo was home. There’d be no quiet escape tonight. No time to unravel.

He straightened his spine, forcing his face into something neutral, and stepped into the living room.

Sangwoo was sprawled across the couch, long legs stretched out, one arm hooked lazily over the backrest. His phone was in his hand, the screen casting a cold light across his features. He glanced up as Gihun entered, his face unreadable at first.

“Hey,” he said, voice casual as he stood and stretched, his movements fluid, confident. Unchanged.

Gihun barely had time to set his bag down before Sangwoo was in front of him. He leaned in, brushing a quick kiss against Gihun’s cheek; a perfunctory gesture, more habit than affection. But then he paused.

His nose twitched.

His gaze shifted, narrowing as it swept across Gihun’s face. “What’s that?” he asked, his voice low and edged with something harder now. He leaned in closer, inhaling faintly, eyes scanning every inch of Gihun’s expression. “Your face…” he murmured, the words slow. “The scent’s stronger here. Did someone—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

Gihun froze, his hand tightening around the strap of his bag. “What?” he said too fast, the word sharp at the edges.

Sangwoo’s expression darkened. His gaze sharpened, nostrils flaring slightly as the tension in the room thickened, his silence more pointed than any accusation.

“It’s nothing,” Gihun said, quick and stiff, forcing out a breath. “Just… someone touched my face. That’s all. It wasn’t—”

“Who?” Sangwoo’s voice cut through him, quiet and razor-edged.

Gihun’s throat worked. “No one important,” he said, trying to wave it off. “It was just… at work. It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” Sangwoo echoed, incredulous. He stepped in closer, his scent spiking faintly, sharp with agitation. “Someone at work touched your face, and you think that doesn’t matter? Omegas don’t just let anyone do that, hyung.”

“I didn’t… let them,” Gihun said quietly, his voice tight. The words caught a little in his throat, but he pushed through. “It just happened. I wasn’t thinking. It wasn’t anything.”

Sangwoo’s eyes narrowed, scanning his face, jaw locked tight. The air between them grew heavy, dense with unspoken instinct. His nostrils flared as his voice dropped, cold and clipped.

“You’ve been crying.”

It wasn’t a question. His gaze sharpened, dissecting, demanding.

“What happened?” he said. “Don’t lie to me.”

Gihun looked away, the sting behind his eyes worsening. His fingers trembled as he set his bag down. “It’s nothing, Sangwoo-yah,” he whispered. “I… I’m just tired.”

“Tired?” Sangwoo repeated, disbelief cutting through every syllable. He stepped closer, his presence pressing in, towering. “Don’t give me that, hyung. I can smell it. Something’s wrong. Who touched you? What did they say?”

“I told you, it doesn’t matter!” Gihun’s voice cracked, raw and unsteady as he backed away, chest rising in sharp, shallow breaths.

“It does matter!” Sangwoo barked, his voice cracking through the room like a whip. He reached out and grabbed Gihun’s arm, not hard, but firm enough to hold him in place. “Omegas don’t just cry like this. And they don’t come home smelling like someone else. Who touched you?”

The words, the sharpness, the pressure; it shattered something inside Gihun. His chest heaved, his fists clenched at his sides, and the tears spilled over before he could stop them.

“Why do you care now?” he shouted, voice breaking with a mix of anger and hurt. “You never care, Sangwoo! You don’t ask if I’m okay, not really. You never do. But now that I smell ‘different,’ now suddenly it’s your business?”

Sangwoo froze, momentarily stunned by the outburst.

Gihun never yelled. Never pushed back. His omega had always been quiet—soft-spoken, compliant, desperate to keep the peace. But not tonight.

“I try so hard,” Gihun said, his voice cracking again as he scrubbed at his face with trembling hands. “For you. For your family. For everything. And it’s never enough. No matter what I do, I’m always falling short. I’m so tired of feeling like this!”

Sangwoo’s grip loosened, his hand falling away slowly as if burned. The words hit him like a slap, unexpected and unanswerable. Something ugly stirred in his gut. His instincts surged—reclaim, restore, control—but underneath that, something colder curled in his chest. Was this just exhaustion, or was there something more? 

He watched Gihun, whose scent was frayed and trembling, whose shoulders were shaking beneath his clothes, and for the first time in a long while, Sangwoo didn’t know what to say.

“Gihun-ah,” he said, his voice dropping—quieter now, almost careful. He stepped closer, his scent shifting with him, something softer threading through it—coaxing, grounding, trying to calm the storm he’d stirred without meaning to. “Baby, I’m sorry. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

Gihun shook his head, breath catching as he turned away, but Sangwoo was already there. His hands came up, cupping Gihun’s face with a gentleness that didn’t match the sharpness from earlier. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, brushing at the tears with his thumbs. “I didn’t mean to push you. You’re enough, okay? You don’t have to try so hard, not for me. Not for anyone. You’re already mine, hyung. You’ve always been mine. I’ll take care of you.”

The words landed soft but heavy, threaded with something urgent beneath the tenderness. Sangwoo didn’t say things like this. Not often. And yet now, the way he held Gihun, the way his mouth pressed to his forehead, then his temple, then his cheek, there was something desperate in it, something raw that made it hard to breathe.

“Let me fix this,” he said, his voice low and certain. “You don’t need to feel this way, hyung. I promise.”

Before Gihun could say anything, Sangwoo moved—quick, decisive, like something in him had snapped into place. His hands found Gihun’s thighs and lifted him with ease, as if the weight of everything between them meant nothing. Gihun let out a startled gasp, his legs tightening around Sangwoo’s waist on instinct, arms looping over his shoulders to steady himself.

“Sangwoo—” his voice caught in his throat, the sound thin, unsteady.

The alpha’s scent flooded around him, stronger now—sharp, dark, a surge of dominance laced with something more raw. It made Gihun’s head spin, even as his body leaned into it. Sangwoo’s strong arms held him effortlessly.

“I didn’t realize,” Sangwoo murmured, voice low against Gihun’s ear. “You’ve been standing right in front of me, and I didn’t see it. Didn’t see what it was doing to you.”

His breath hitched, breaking slightly in a way he didn’t often allow.

“You matter more than you think. More than I ever say.”

The words lodged somewhere deep in Gihun’s chest, too vulnerable to be brushed aside, too confusing to fully trust. But his instincts didn’t argue, they surged.

Sangwoo carried him through the apartment with purpose, not even glancing back as he pushed open the bedroom door and set Gihun down with careful, controlled force. The bed dipped beneath him, but Sangwoo didn’t let go, not really. His hand slid up to the small of Gihun’s back, pressing their bodies closer. Gihun’s breath caught—overwhelmed, his instincts fraying at the edges—and for a split second, he turned his head, as if trying to escape the weight of Sangwoo’s gaze.

“Hyung, you don’t get to hide from me,” Sangwoo growled, his voice low and rough with possessive heat. “Not after what you just said. Not tonight.”

Gihun’s breath hitched, the rawness in him colliding with the force of Sangwoo’s presence. The tenderness from just minutes before had morphed into something primal, something that set every nerve in his body alight. And when Sangwoo’s lips crashed against his—rough, unrelenting, certain—Gihun yielded, helpless against it, against him, surrendering to the alpha who knew exactly how to take.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight filtered through the office building’s tall windows, casting shifting reflections across the brushed metal of the elevator doors. Gihun adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, his gaze unfocused as he stepped inside. He pressed the button for his floor without really looking, his thoughts already drifting—looping, involuntarily—back to the night before.

It had started with raised voices. Not quite a fight, not loud enough to draw real blood, but still sharp, brittle. Sangwoo’s tone had been clipped, cold, the way it always was when Gihun said too much. But this time, Gihun hadn’t swallowed it down. This time, he had pushed back, quiet at first, then trembling, telling Sangwoo he wanted more. Deserved more. His own voice had surprised him, cracked and raw, ringing into the silence that followed.

For a moment, it had felt like some old version of himself had broken through. One he hadn’t heard in years. The part of him that still believed he was allowed to want things.

He’d expected Sangwoo to walk away. Or scoff. Or let the silence stretch until it stung. But instead, the alpha had crossed the room in two strides, his hands catching Gihun’s face with a sudden, urgent gentleness. His words had landed like a blow and a balm at once, cracking something open inside Gihun. The heat of his anger, his exhaustion, bled into confusion. Longing. And then Sangwoo had kissed him—deep, possessive, the kind of kiss that made Gihun feel like the air had been sucked from the room, like there was nothing outside the press of mouths and scent and breath.

When Sangwoo’s hands had slid lower, firm at his waist, pulling him close, all Gihun could think was: He wants me.

It had been intense. Overwhelming. He could still feel the heat of Sangwoo’s body pressed against his, the weight of his hands, the rough-but-tender way he’d whispered apologies against Gihun’s skin. The desperation in Sangwoo’s touch had left him breathless, unsure whether to feel cherished or consumed. His instincts warned it was the latter, but his heart clung stubbornly to the former, choosing to focus on the rare tenderness Sangwoo had shown.

Even now, standing in the elevator, Gihun felt heat rise in his cheeks at the memory. His skin still carried the ghost of Sangwoo’s hands, like his body hadn’t fully shaken off the feeling. It had been... different. Afterward, Sangwoo had taken care of him. Really taken care of him, in a way he hadn’t in a long time. He’d murmured reassurances, pulled Gihun close like he meant it, like he was holding on to something that might slip away.

The way Sangwoo had held him had stayed with Gihun, lodged somewhere deep in his chest, comfort and doubt threaded so tightly together he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. But even then, something about it had felt… off. Not the words, those had been soft, careful. But the touch. The way he’d been soothed, quieted, after... It hadn’t felt like love. It had felt like being settled. Managed. Handled.

But hadn’t Sangwoo said he was sorry? Hadn’t he kissed him, held him close, told him he was his? It wasn’t perfect, wasn’t the kind of love Gihun used to dream about when he was younger, but it was something. It had to be.

He shook his head, trying to push the unease off his shoulders. Sangwoo had been different last night. Softer. More present. That had to count for something, didn’t it? And the sex, it hadn’t been like the other times lately. No distance. No rushing through it like it was some chore. It had been good. Really good. Alphas didn’t always say sorry, not with words. Maybe that was what this was. An apology. A reminder. They’d actually been together, for the first time in weeks. That meant something. It had to. It meant Sangwoo still wanted him.

He was lucky. He just had to hold on to that. He had to remember it.

The elevator dinged softly, pulling him from his thoughts, and the doors slid open. Gihun barely looked up, still tangled in the haze of last night, but the familiar scent that drifted in forced his attention to snap into focus.

Sandalwood and black pepper. Cool, commanding, and threaded with a darker heat that curled low in his chest before he could stop it.

“Hwang sajangnim,” Gihun said quickly, bowing his head as the CEO stepped inside, his every movement as precise as ever. The alpha didn’t respond right away. His dark eyes scanned the panel before pressing the button for his floor, even though it was already lit.

“Seong Gihun-ssi,” the man said at last, his voice smooth as ever, though something in the way he spoke, barely audible, felt off. Subtle. Tense. He gave a small nod but didn’t meet Gihun’s eyes as he took his place beside him.

The doors slid shut.

Silence settled in, taut and thin. Only the low hum of the elevator broke the stillness.

Gihun shifted on his feet, suddenly too aware of the space between them, of the faint warmth brushing at the edge of his skin. His fingers fumbled with the strap of his bag, the weight of Inho’s presence sending a slow, nervous current through his chest.

Was it just him, or was his scent stronger today? Not unpleasant, never that, but denser. Sharper. Like something waiting just beneath the surface, straining not to be noticed and failing.

Unbeknownst to Gihun, Inho’s thoughts were anything but calm. The moment he stepped into the elevator, the scent hit him like a blow: Gihun, cloaked in another alpha’s pheromones. Faint, muted beneath the crisp edge of soap and office cologne, but still there. It clung to him, stubborn and vulgar, and Inho’s instincts recoiled before he forced them back into stillness. A flicker of disgust twisted at his mouth. 

Sangwoo. Of course. He didn’t need to guess what had happened. It was written into every layer of pheromone: desperation, possessiveness, a last-ditch effort to mark what he thought was slipping from his grasp.

Pathetic.

Territorial instinct flaring only when provoked, never from foresight or care. Inho could imagine it too easily: Sangwoo pressing Gihun down, smearing his scent across the omega’s skin like paint, not out of desire, but fear. Not a claim of affection, but erasure. Crude. Clumsy. Fragile alphas always responded the same way—wait too long, then overcompensate.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, willing himself to ignore the way it irritated him. Sangwoo's weakness was boring. Predictable. And yet the scent itself grated: unwelcome, invasive, fouling something that didn’t belong to Sangwoo in the first place.

Because Gihun had come into his office smelling like doubt, with vulnerability leaking from every pore. That was the real scent that had stayed with Inho. Not whatever came after. He hadn’t even touched Gihun in any meaningful way, not truly, but apparently that was enough. Enough to make Sangwoo snap like the poorly trained animal he was.

And now? Now Gihun wore that scent like a badge. He looked calmer this morning. Pleased. Maybe even grateful. Like the briefest show of possessiveness had been enough to reassure him.

How little it took.

Inho didn’t look at him, but the edge of his jaw tensed. He told himself it was Sangwoo’s ineptitude that irritated him. That this was just another example of how easily weak alphas could manipulate a pliant omega. But even as he held himself still, composed, he felt it: the quiet churn beneath his control. Not jealousy, of course. He had no reason to be jealous.

It was just… disappointing. How easily someone like Gihun could be bought with so little.

But deep down, he knew it wasn’t just principle or disgust driving the irritation coiling in his chest.

Gihun wasn’t just any omega.

He was becoming a fixation—a fragile, vulnerable puzzle piece Inho wanted to possess, to protect, to break and mold all at once.

He didn’t see Gihun as equal, he didn’t see any omega as equal. That wasn’t how the world worked, and certainly not how he worked. But there was something about this one, about the way Gihun crumpled under pressure, the way he lit up at scraps of praise, that unsettled his precision. It made him want to keep pressing, just to see what Gihun would do next. How far he could be stretched. What kind of thing he might become under the right guidance.

That contradiction, fascination wrapped in contempt, was what soured his mood now. Not jealousy. Not affection. Just irritation at how hard it was to look away.

Inho’s lip curled, a flash of distaste slipping through before he caught himself. A quiet growl rolled in his throat, low and animal, escaping before he could suppress it.

Gihun’s head snapped up, startled. His wide eyes searched Inho’s face, uncertain. “Sajangnim?” he asked, voice hushed, confused, a little wary.

Inho blinked. The sound had surprised even him. His jaw tightened briefly before he smoothed it away, returning to form with effortless ease. “My apologies,” he said, voice polished, calm—though it landed lower than usual, a subtle residue of something unrestrained. “Something caught in my throat.”

Gihun nodded quickly, though his brow furrowed slightly. The explanation made sense, but something about that growl lingered in his mind, too raw, too instinctual to belong to someone like Hwang Inho. His boss was the definition of composed, every word and gesture polished to precision. That sound had felt... out of place.

Still, he didn’t press. It wasn’t his place. And besides, whatever it was, it had passed.

The silence returned, heavier now, and Gihun found himself sneaking a glance at the alpha from the corner of his eye. Inho’s face was impassive, unreadable, but the tension hadn’t fully left him. There was a stiffness in his jaw, a quiet tautness in his frame that hadn’t been there when they first stepped in. And his scent, usually crisp and restrained, had shifted. It was sharper now. Thicker. Not unpleasant, but layered in a way that made Gihun’s instincts twitch with confusion.

Was he angry? Annoyed? Gihun’s chest tightened at the thought, a flicker of guilt rising unbidden. Maybe Inho regretted speaking so openly the day before. Maybe Gihun had misread things, said too much. The last thing he needed was to jeopardize his standing here.

The elevator chimed, its doors sliding open with a soft hiss. The alpha stepped forward, his movements fluid, but just before crossing the threshold, he paused. His gaze cut back to Gihun: dark, unreadable, lingering a moment too long.

“Have a productive day, Gihun-ssi,” he said smoothly. But there was something beneath it. A subtle gravity in his voice, not cold, but not quite neutral either. Like the words were chosen deliberately. Like they meant more than they appeared to.

“You too, sajangnim,” Gihun replied quickly, bowing his head as the alpha stepped out into the corridor. He watched as Hwang Inho disappeared down the hallway, his measured footsteps echoing faintly against the polished floors.

As the elevator doors slid shut, Gihun let out a soft breath, his shoulders sagging slightly with relief. But the tension in his chest didn’t ease. His mind was still buzzing, replaying the growl, the scent, the quiet weight of Inho’s lingering gaze.

Was it irritation behind his gaze… or something deeper that Gihun couldn’t name?

He shook his head, trying to dispel the thought. He was probably overthinking it, like always. Hwang Inho was a CEO, a man with more important things to worry about than the emotional state of an assistant. Whatever that moment had been, it couldn’t possibly have been about him.

And yet, as he stepped off the elevator and made his way to his desk, he couldn’t shake the sense that something had shifted.

The hum of the office was unusually subdued that afternoon, the kind of quiet that made every small sound feel amplified. Gihun sat at his desk, fingers tapping absently against the edge of his notepad as he tried to focus on the marketing updates in front of him. But his concentration wavered, his thoughts circling back to the elevator that morning. Had his boss been upset with him? The question gnawed at him, a dull weight pressing against his chest.

All day, Gihun found himself glancing toward the CEO’s office, hoping for a glance, a passing comment, some small reassurance that he hadn’t overstepped. But the door remained closed. No check-ins, no coffee runs, none of the brief, habitual appearances Hwang Inho usually made throughout the day.

It was strange. And it bothered him more than it should have.

The silence from that corner of the office felt deliberate, and though Gihun tried to dismiss it as nothing, his instincts itched with unease. He told himself it was silly. Inho was the CEO, his schedule packed, his priorities far above someone like Gihun. But still, something inside him curled with restlessness, a low thrum of need left unanswered. Not for words, necessarily, but for acknowledgment. For presence.

He didn’t want to name what it meant. Didn’t want to admit how deeply the absence scraped at something instinctive. So instead, he forced himself to focus. His pen moved over his notes, mechanical and detached, as if productivity could quiet the hollowness that pulsed faintly beneath his skin.

The faint crack of the door allowed just enough sound to filter through: low, sharp words that carried a weight Gihun had never associated with the CEO. The man was always calm, poised, even when delivering feedback. The idea of him being firm, yet edged with something colder, more ruthless, felt strange and… strangely compelling.

Unable to help himself, Gihun rose from his seat, curiosity tugging stronger than the quiet voice telling him to stay put. He stopped just outside the door, careful not to be seen, his heart hammering faster as he strained to listen.

“No,” his boss’ voice cut clean through the air—low, each syllable like the edge of a blade. A growl pulsed beneath the surface, barely restrained, and it sent a visceral shiver down Gihun’s spine. “I don’t care about reasons. Fix the projections. If they’re wrong, we don’t move forward.”

The voice on the other end of the line was muffled, hurried, likely flooded with apologies or excuses. But Inho didn’t leave space for either. He spoke again, sharper now, his control narrowing to a point.

“If this happens again,” he said, tone dark and precise, “I’ll make sure you’re replaced. I don’t need explanations. I need results. Deliver what I asked for by tomorrow, or don’t bother showing up at all.”

The silence that followed was like the snap of a trap shutting. Gihun held his breath, rooted to the floor. There was no shouting, no overt cruelty, just that quiet, undeniable authority. His scent hadn’t changed, but it felt heavier now, the force of his alpha presence spilling into the air like a tide. Not angry or unhinged. Just absolute.

And it twisted something low in Gihun’s gut, something instinctive and helpless and drawn.

The call ended with a sharp, decisive click. The silence that followed was almost deafening. Gihun stood frozen outside the door, heart pounding, his mind racing to reconcile this version of Hwang Inho with the one who had offered him quiet counsel and rare, measured kindness. Still, a twist of guilt churned in his stomach. Had he done something to provoke this shift? Was he the reason behind the sharp edge in the CEO’s voice?

Before he could slip away, Inho’s voice broke the silence once more—measured, unyielding.

“Draft a memo for the board,” he said, addressing Hyunju without missing a beat. “If logistics fails again, we’ll explore outsourcing. I won’t tolerate inefficiency.”

“Yes, sajangnim,” she replied briskly, her pen already scratching notes onto her tablet.

“Good. Make it happen,” he added, his tone softening by a fraction, but the authority remained, carved clean into every syllable.

Moments later, the beta swept past Gihun without sparing him more than a glance. He took a half-step back, intending to return to his desk before anyone noticed he’d been lingering, but the alpha’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

He stopped in his tracks.

Gihun turned slowly, his breath catching as he met the CEO’s gaze. Hwang Inho stood in the doorway, posture relaxed but commanding, his dark eyes fixed on Gihun with a steady intensity that left no room for misinterpretation.

“Y-Yes, sajangnim?” Gihun said, voice catching slightly as he straightened. He hadn’t meant to get pulled in, but now his face was heating up, and instinct twisted low in his stomach before he could stop it.

The man leaned casually against the doorframe, his expression unreadable. “Did you need something?”

“No, sajangnim,” Gihun replied quickly, shaking his head. “I was just—uh, I thought I heard—”

Hwang Inho raised a hand, cutting him off with a single, dismissive gesture. “Then get back to work. Or would you rather explain why you’re away from your desk?”

The edge in his voice landed like a slap, sharp and unexpected. Gihun flinched, chest tightening. “N-No, sajangnim,” he stammered, bowing his head. “I’ll get back to work.”

Inho’s gaze lingered for a moment longer before he turned without another word, disappearing into his office. The door clicked shut behind him with a quiet finality.

Back at his desk, Gihun stared blankly at the screen, the scene replaying in his mind. The steely command in the alpha’s voice during the call, the cold efficiency in how he handled the situation, it should have left Gihun unnerved. But it didn’t. Not exactly. Instead, he felt… pulled. There was something magnetic in the way Hwang Inho operated: no raised voice, no flurry of emotion. Just absolute control, every word deliberate, every reaction calculated.

But the way he’d spoken to Gihun, so curt, so unlike the quiet kindness from before, left something hollow blooming in his chest.

Did I do something wrong? The thought lodged itself deep, tight and unwelcome. He didn’t want to admit how much it bothered him. How much he’d come to crave those softer tones, those rare moments of warmth. It wasn’t right, this restless ache, this instinctive need to be seen by someone who shouldn’t matter.

And yet, for the rest of the day, the absence of attention gnawed at him. Inho never looked his way again. No passing glance. No hint of acknowledgment. Just that sealed office door and the memory of being dismissed.

By the time his shift ended, Gihun felt wrung out. Not from work, but from the hollow weight of silence, and the quiet, irrational longing that refused to let go.

The sun dipped low on the horizon as Gihun stepped into the apartment, the soft click of the door behind him echoing louder than it should’ve. The familiar quiet of their home greeted him; warm, still, unassuming. Tonight, it felt comforting in theory, but something in it set his nerves on edge. He slipped off his shoes and padded into the living room, where Sangwoo sat, his posture relaxed but his eyes already fixed on the entryway.

“Hyung,” Sangwoo said, voice even, but not casual. There was a tautness beneath it, a restraint that made Gihun’s shoulders tense. “You’re late.”

“Sorry,” Gihun murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Work ran a little long.”

The alpha stood, his movements slow but deliberate as he crossed the room. His eyes didn’t leave Gihun, not even for a second. He stopped just close enough to breach the edge of Gihun’s comfort, leaning in slightly, his nose hovering near Gihun’s shoulder. It was subtle, practiced, but unmistakable: a quiet check, instinctive and territorial. Gihun froze, heat prickling at the base of his neck.

“You showered this morning?” Sangwoo’s voice was casual on the surface, too casual. The kind of question meant to sound offhand but wasn’t.

Gihun blinked. “Of course I did,” he said, half-laughing. “What kind of question is that?”

Sangwoo didn’t reply right away. He stepped back just slightly, but the weight of his scrutiny didn’t lift. His gaze moved over Gihun in a slow, almost clinical sweep, his expression unreadable. For a beat, he just watched, quiet and calculating. Then, a faint nod, his lips pressing together. Whatever he’d been checking for, he didn’t find it. The tension in his jaw eased, but it didn’t vanish.

Gihun’s fingers twitched where they rested at his sides. He could sense it, something unspoken clinging to the air between them. Not quite suspicion, not quite affection. The way Sangwoo had looked at him, the way he’d hesitated… it didn’t sit right. Why would it matter if I showered? The thought pressed against the back of his mind, but before he could voice it, Sangwoo moved on as if the moment had never happened.

“Here,” Sangwoo said, reaching into his pocket.

Gihun barely had time to react before a small, elegant box was placed in his hands. He blinked down at it, uncertain.

“What’s this?” he asked softly.

“Open it,” Sangwoo replied, his voice quieter now, stripped of its earlier sharpness.

Gihun obeyed, lifting the lid with careful fingers. Nestled inside was a silk scarf, delicately folded, the fabric pale and understated—subtle elegance, unmistakably Sangwoo. It shimmered faintly under the light, smooth as water beneath his fingertips. His breath caught.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, wonder and confusion mingling in his voice. His fingers hovered over the silk, then gently traced along the edge. “Too beautiful. I feel like I’m gonna ruin it just by looking at it too hard.” A small smile tugged at his lips, helpless and a little shy.

“I thought you could wear it to work,” Sangwoo said, his tone dropping into something deliberately casual. “A little reminder. Of me.”

The words struck a strange chord—soft, possessive, oddly timed. Gihun glanced up at him, but Sangwoo’s gaze had already shifted, his posture deceptively relaxed.

Still, something in Gihun’s chest ached. The gesture felt like an apology, or perhaps a warning dressed in silk. Either way, it was the kind of thing Sangwoo rarely gave: not just a gift, but a claim. And maybe, Gihun thought, maybe this was his way of saying I see you. I haven’t forgotten you. That had to count for something.

Another small, genuine smile spread across Gihun’s face as he looked up at Sangwoo. “Thank you, Sangwoo-yah,” he murmured, quiet but full of warmth.

Before he could second-guess himself, he leaned in, pressing a small, chaste kiss to the younger alpha’s lips—a soft, instinctive gesture of gratitude.

But before he could pull away, a hand slid to the back of his neck, firm and unyielding, holding him in place. Gihun’s breath caught, the sudden shift making his pulse spike as Sangwoo deepened the kiss without pause. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow. There was a heat to it, an edge, something claiming, that made Gihun’s body go still, tense beneath the weight of it.

His fingers curled tighter around the box still in his hands as Sangwoo’s grip tightened just slightly, anchoring him, keeping him close.

For a moment, everything else fell away. The office. The elevator. The strange silence of the day. All of it blurred into the background beneath the press of Sangwoo’s mouth and the singular, unmistakable way he took.

It wasn’t often Sangwoo kissed him like this.

And though something in his stomach twisted—an ache, a flicker of unease—Gihun didn’t pull away. He leaned in instead, chasing the illusion that, for just this moment, Sangwoo wanted him. That maybe he still cared. That whatever had grown frayed between them… hadn’t yet broken.

Over the next few days, Sangwoo watched Gihun more closely than he wanted to admit. His alpha instincts stayed on edge, no matter how many times he told himself there was no reason to be. Gihun was the same as always: warm, attentive, humming softly as he moved around the apartment, flashing that bright, easy smile whenever their eyes met. And each time Sangwoo leaned in under the pretense of affection, checking without making it obvious, there was nothing. No trace of that scent. Just Gihun, sweet, soft and familiar. The scent of home.

But Sangwoo hadn’t forgotten.

That moment, when he’d kissed Gihun and let instinct take over, when he’d pressed close enough to taste the truth, it had been there. Faint, almost gone by then, but it had still been there. Another alpha’s scent, buried deep in Gihun’s skin, in places Sangwoo should have owned. And what disturbed him more than the fact of it… was what it had carried with it.

It had whispered of something beyond him. More. The thought lodged deep in his chest, bitter and sharp, scraping against something he didn’t want to name. His instincts had recoiled from it, curled inward, bristling at the quiet truth that refused to go unnoticed. Because the scent hadn’t come from someone ordinary. It hadn’t been faint or forgettable. No, it had carried weight. Command. A kind of presence that made Sangwoo feel… small.

His jaw tightened. He refused to name it. Refused to follow that thread to its end. It was easier to shove it down, to bury it under reason and habit and routine. The scent was gone, after all. Faded. Smothered beneath Gihun’s own softness, replaced with the warmth Sangwoo recognized as his. The scarf had become a quiet fixture in their mornings now, draped around Gihun’s neck like a ribbon of reassurance. A symbol. Each time Gihun adjusted it before leaving for work, something in Sangwoo loosened, just enough to breathe.

And with every uneventful morning that followed, every smile, every gentle hum as Gihun moved around their home, the knot inside him began to unravel. Not all at once. But enough.

By the evening a few days later, the apartment was bathed in the soft glow of warm lighting. Gihun hummed to himself as he moved through the kitchen, putting away dishes with easy familiarity while Sangwoo leaned against the counter, sipping his tea. The quiet between them was gentle, domestic, soothing in a way that made the tension of earlier days feel distant, almost silly.

Sangwoo watched him for a long moment. The way Gihun moved, so naturally, so effortlessly at home in their shared space... it settled something in his chest.

Why had he been so on edge? The worry felt absurd now, flimsy in hindsight. He looked at Gihun, his hyung’s soft features illuminated in the warm light, and a faint smile curved his lips. This was his. Gihun was his. Steady, loving, content. That scarf, just a small thing, had done its work. It was enough to remind them both of where Gihun belonged.

And that alpha’s scent? Sangwoo barely remembered it now. The idea that it had ever meant anything felt laughable. Honestly, what had he even been afraid of?

There was no way someone like Gihun would leave.

Sangwoo’s gaze lingered on him, softening a little as he took in the sight of his omega, content and humming under the kitchen light. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he said suddenly, warm on the surface, but with a kind of pride that sounded like he was really praising himself.

Gihun glanced back over his shoulder, smiling shyly. “Aish, what’s gotten into you tonight?”

“Just appreciating what’s mine,” Sangwoo said, tone easy, almost lazy, but with an edge beneath it that dared anything, or anyone, to challenge that claim. He took another sip of tea, and the restlessness that had stalked him for days finally felt quiet.

Really, what had he even been worried about? The idea of someone like Gihun, his Gihun, being swept away by someone else? Absurd. Laughable. Gihun wore the scarf like it belonged to him. Walked through the world with Sangwoo’s scent wrapped around his neck. That was all that mattered. That was enough.

Gihun was his. And whether he knew it or not, he was damn lucky to be.

The smooth fabric of the scarf slid between Gihun’s fingers as he adjusted it, the silk catching the morning light that streamed through the office windows. He glanced at his reflection in the polished elevator doors, lips pressing into a faint, uncertain smile. It still looked out of place on him; something so expensive, so carefully chosen. But he wore it anyway. He wanted to. His chest tightened a little. Sangwoo must’ve really meant it when he said he was sorry…

The past few days had felt different. Sangwoo had been gentler, more attentive. Not overly sentimental, but soft in the way he moved around Gihun, in the way his words landed. The scarf. The way he’d held him that night. It all felt like a promise, subtle and unspoken, that things might finally be shifting.

He does care. I’ve just been... overthinking it. Being weird about it. Gihun told himself that as the elevator doors slid open, a faint blush already creeping up his neck.

And it wasn’t just Sangwoo. Work had been steady, and earlier that week, he’d spoken up during an important meeting, offered a quiet suggestion that ended up being used. It was a small thing, barely a sentence, but it had stayed with him. The nods of agreement, the way no one dismissed him, the faintest glance of approval from Hwang sajangnim; it had made something flicker in his chest. Something that felt like… progress. Even his mother, during their call last night, had noticed. “It’s good you started working again,” she’d said. “You sound more like yourself.” For once, there’d been no quiet judgment tucked between her words. Gihun clung to that like it meant something.

His thoughts drifted back to Hwang Inho. The alpha had been distant for a few days after that strange moment in the elevator, his growl still echoing faintly in Gihun’s memory. At first, Gihun had worried. Had he done something wrong? Did the CEO really regret speaking to him so openly about Chuseok? But those fears had faded once the alpha began talking to him again, just as polite and composed as always. If anything, something between them had shifted. There was a subtle warmth in the way his boss addressed him now, a flicker of kindness in his tone that hadn’t been there before. It made Gihun feel… noticed. Not just as an assistant, but as a person.

Of course I was overthinking, Gihun thought, shaking his head as he shuffled papers into a neat stack. He’s a CEO. He probably has a hundred more important things to worry about than me. The idea made him flush with quiet embarrassment, and he ducked his head, focusing on his work. Even so, a small thread of gratitude lingered. It was because of that conversation, because of the gentle way the alpha had spoken to him, that Gihun had finally worked up the courage to push back against Sangwoo. And while the fallout had been confusing, it had led here: to warmth, to softness, to Sangwoo’s arms and the scarf around his neck.

Maybe I should thank him, Gihun thought, before brushing it away. No. That would be strange.

The office break room was lively with chatter, the familiar clink of mugs and the soft whir of the coffee machine forming a gentle backdrop. Gihun sat at the corner table, his scarf folded neatly in his lap, half-listening as Hyunju launched into another weekend anecdote, her hands moving animatedly as she spoke.

“And then, get this, Jihoon used the same pickup line. On the same person. Twice.” She slapped Jihoon’s arm with mock horror. “I thought I was going to die from secondhand embarrassment.”

“It’s called consistency,” Jihoon replied, unbothered, sipping his coffee with a smug grin. “You wouldn’t get it, Hyunju.”

“You’re hopeless,” she shot back, rolling her eyes.

Gihun laughed quietly, though his attention drifted the moment the door opened. Inho stepped inside, composed as ever, his suit crisp, gaze sharp. He scanned the room briefly, then his eyes paused on their table. A faint nod, barely more than a flick of acknowledgment, and he moved to pour himself coffee, every motion fluid and practiced.

“You’re just in time, sajangnim,” Hyunju called over, grinning. “We got sidetracked, but we were naming our favorite childhood books. Jihoon just confessed his was a comic about a boy detective and his dog.”

“Hey, that series was iconic,” Jihoon protested. “What about you, sajangnim? Any childhood favorites?”

Their boss paused, his lips curving into a faint, amused smile as he approached the table. “I’m afraid my childhood was more practical than imaginative,” he said lightly, setting his cup down with quiet precision. “But I do remember enjoying poetry collections. My father insisted on them.”

Hyunju laughed. “That’s very on-brand for you, sajangnim.”

Jihoon turned to Gihun. “What about you, hyung? You’re always reading during lunch breaks. What was your favorite?”

Gihun hesitated, a blush creeping up his neck as he ran a thumb along the edge of his scarf. “Aish, it’s not as clever as poetry or detective comics,” he said with a sheepish smile. “It was this old children’s book… The Little Fox and the Moon. Nothing fancy. Just a quiet story about a fox who wanted to catch the moon because he thought it was lonely.”

The table fell silent for a moment, the mood softening as the words settled between them. Gihun looked down, his voice gentler now. “It was my mother’s. She used to read it to me before bed. I lost the copy a long time ago. I’ve looked for it since, but it’s out of print. The ones I’ve found are ridiculously expensive…”

He gave a small shrug, a wistful smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s silly, I know. I guess I just liked the quiet of it. It felt… safe.”

Hyunju smiled gently. “That’s not silly at all, Gihun-ssi. It sounds lovely.”

Jihoon nodded. “Yeah, way more meaningful than my dog detective comics.”

As the group eased back into laughter and lighter stories, Gihun noticed that their boss had grown quiet. Not cold, exactly—just… distant. His eyes were fixed somewhere not entirely in the room, and something about the quiet focus of his expression made Gihun’s stomach twist.

He tugged gently at the edge of his scarf, guilt stirring low in his chest. Of all the stories to mention… A fox chasing the moon? Cute. Real professional.

Gihun swallowed, cheeks still warm.

Jihoon said something that made the others laugh, and Gihun joined in, a little late, a little too loudly. But his mind was still snagged on Inho’s expression, calm, maybe, but distant in that way that made it impossible to tell what he was really thinking.

When he finally stood to leave, murmuring something about finishing up reports, Gihun couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d made a fool of himself. He kept his head down as he walked away, the weight of imagined judgment following him with every step. I need to stop talking so much. He’s going to start thinking I’m soft.

But behind him, Inho’s gaze lingered on Gihun’s retreating figure, something still calculating in the quiet way he watched. And for a moment, just a fleeting one, his lips twitched, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners before it vanished completely.

The late afternoon sun streamed through the office windows, casting golden light across the break room. Outside, the crisp bite of late autumn crept closer to winter, the warmth of the season giving way to cooler tones. The office had settled into its year-end rhythm, less bustle, more routine. Gihun set his cup of tea on the table, letting the warmth seep into his palms as he joined Hyunju and Jihoon, who were already deep in conversation about weekend plans. Their laughter echoed softly, easy and familiar.

“So, Gihun-ssi,” Hyunju said, leaning in with a curious smile, “any plans this weekend? You’ve been smiling to yourself all day. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, uh...” Gihun smoothed his hands down the front of his shirt, not quite sure what to do with them. “Actually, yeah. I’m planning something for Sangwoo.”

“For your alpha?” Jihoon asked, lifting an eyebrow as he took another sip of coffee. “What’s the occasion?”

“Well…” Gihun’s eyes lit up, and the words came tumbling out, warm and unguarded. “He’s been working on this huge deal at his company—an IPO. He led the whole team through it, and they closed it last week. It went really well, the higher-ups were thrilled. I think he might even get promoted.” His voice brimmed with pride, hands gesturing with quiet excitement.

Hyunju smiled, her tone softening. “That’s amazing, Gihun-ssi. You must be so proud.”

“I am,” Gihun admitted, cheeks coloring deeper. “He’s been working so hard for this. I just wanted to do something that shows I see that. That I’m proud of him. He deserves that much.”

“So what’s the plan?” Jihoon asked, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Cooking him a full feast at home? Candles, flowers, the whole thing?”

“Actually, no.” Gihun shook his head, his smile growing, almost bashful. “I booked his favorite restaurant. You know La Maison Bleu? The one with the Michelin star?”

Hyunju’s eyes widened. “Wait—seriously? That place has a six-month waitlist.”

“It does,” Gihun said with a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I called every day for weeks. And when that didn’t work, I went down there during lunch, twice, and basically begged the manager. I even offered to cover someone’s cancellation fee.”

He let out a small, satisfied breath, his grin lingering. “Eventually they gave me a spot. Saturday night. Private room.”

“And it must’ve cost a fortune,” Jihoon said, his tone joking, but his expression betrayed a quiet respect.

“Oh, yeah,” Gihun said, his smile dipping for a second. “I’ve been saving up for a while. Put aside a good chunk of my salary just for this. But it’s fine. It’s worth it.” He looked down at his tea, his voice quieter. “Sangwoo deserves something special. I didn’t want to settle for anything less.”

He hesitated for a second, like the weight of his own words caught him by surprise. It wasn’t often he let himself feel proud, really proud. But now that he said it out loud, the truth of it settled deep in his chest. This was why he’d taken the job, wasn’t it? To be able to do things like this. To stand on his own and give back in a way that actually meant something.

For so long, he’d felt like he was just drifting: dependent, stuck, always apologizing for taking up space. But this? This was different. He had saved every bit he could, passed on new shoes, ignored cafe cravings, quietly chipped away at it until he had enough. And now, all of it had added up to something real. Something he did. Not for approval. Not even just for Sangwoo. But for himself, too.

It didn’t feel like a victory exactly. Just… solid. Quietly earned. Like the first patch of sunlight after a long stretch of cold.

“Wow,” Jihoon said, clearly taken aback. “You really went all out. Did you rent out the whole place?”

“Oh—no, no, just a private room,” Gihun said quickly, waving a hand as if to downplay it, though his ears were already pink. “I invited a bunch of people: his coworkers, some friends from SNU, even his boss and family. I just… wanted it to feel like a real celebration, you know? Something he’d remember.”

Hyunju’s smile softened. “That’s so thoughtful. Honestly, he’s lucky to have someone who sees him like that.”

Jihoon nodded, grinning. “Yeah, seriously. The rest of us need to step up.”

Gihun laughed, but there was a flicker of something quieter beneath the sound. “I just hope he feels proud,” he said, his voice low. “I hope he knows how much I mean it.”

Hwang Inho had entered sometime during the conversation, unnoticed by the others. He lingered near the coffee machine, his eyes fixed on Gihun as he spoke—watching, listening. The omega’s excitement was clear, his voice animated in a way that stood out from his usual softness. Almost endearing. Almost.

“I hope Sangwoo-ssi appreciates your efforts, Gihun-ssi.”

The table fell quiet. Gihun turned sharply, eyes widening. “Sajangnim!” he blurted, sitting up straighter. “I didn’t see you come in.”

Inho offered a faint smile, polite but unreadable, as he poured his coffee. “It sounds like you’ve gone to considerable lengths. Admirable,” he said, though his gaze lingered on Gihun for just a second longer than courtesy demanded.

“Oh—it’s nothing,” Gihun said quickly, flustered. “I just wanted to do something nice for him. He’s worked really hard.”

Inho hummed as he stirred his cup, his eyes flicking up again, briefly. “I see,” he said, his words smooth as ever. “Well, I’m sure he’ll notice.”

The words were fine on the surface. Supportive, even. But something in his tone made Gihun’s shoulders tense, some edge he couldn’t name but felt all the same. Jihoon and Hyunju didn’t seem to pick up on it, already drifting back into conversation. But Gihun… he felt it. The way Inho looked at him, the weight behind the words. Was he imagining it?

“Thank you, sajangnim,” he murmured, bowing his head slightly. His fingers found the edge of his scarf, tugging at it absently.

Inho didn’t reply. He took a sip of his coffee, gaze somewhere distant, and then, with his usual measured grace, turned and left the room.

Gihun watched him go, a flicker of unease stirring low in his chest. He told himself not to overthink it. His boss had only been polite. That was all.

But the feeling didn’t pass.

The private dining room at La Maison Bleu was softly lit, candlelight flickering across polished wood and catching on the delicate rims of crystal glasses. The space felt hushed, insulated from the soft murmur of conversation drifting in from the main dining hall beyond the closed double doors. The scent of white wine, fresh bread, and warm spice hung in the air, threaded with the faint sweetness of the floral centerpiece.

Gihun exhaled, shifting in his seat as he smoothed the front of his shirt. Everything looked perfect.

It had to be.

He wasn’t used to places like this. Not to glass so fine it felt like a risk just to hold, or menus without prices, or a kind of quiet that felt less like comfort and more like pressure. He was used to small places: crowded tables, clinking bowls, steam rising from hot soups, the easy noise of people talking over each other. The kind of place where he could laugh into Sangwoo’s shoulder and not think twice about it. But tonight was different.

Tonight was for Sangwoo.

Weeks of planning, saving, calling, begging—every bit of it had led to this.

Sangwoo’s promotion had come through earlier that week, solidifying his status at the firm and reaffirming everything he’d been working toward. Gihun had wanted, needed, to make this celebration perfect. He’d gone to painful lengths to secure a reservation here, knowing it was Sangwoo’s favorite, knowing La Maison Bleu meant something. Prestige, recognition, a kind of elegance that couldn’t be faked.

Now, sitting across from him in the soft glow of the private dining room, surrounded by his colleagues, his boss, and even old friends from SNU, everything felt exactly as it should be.

The past few days had been blissful, soft in a way that felt almost nostalgic, like slipping back into something familiar. Something safe. Sangwoo had been warm again, attentive in a way Gihun hadn’t realized he’d missed so badly. The scarf still rested around his neck, light and comforting, a reminder of something kind. A symbol, maybe. Of being wanted.

Even work had felt easier lately. The tension had eased, the atmosphere lighter. No more heavy silences, no subtle pressures, no sharp eyes watching him from behind glass. Chuseok, with all its bitter edges, had dulled too, its memory softened by Sangwoo’s unexpected tenderness.

And tonight? Tonight was supposed to be the perfect culmination of it all. Gihun smoothed his shirt for what felt like the tenth time, stealing glances at Sangwoo across the table. He’d suggested this dinner not only to celebrate Sangwoo’s achievement but to hold onto this moment, to make it last a little longer. This feeling of being close to him again, of everything in their lives aligning so neatly, of being enough.

He watched Sangwoo swirl his glass of wine, his alpha’s relaxed, confident posture making Gihun’s chest tighten with affection. Sangwoo looked so composed, so capable, and it made Gihun’s heart swell. I’m so lucky, he thought, his smile softening. It wasn’t just pride in Sangwoo’s success. It was love, plain and deep, the kind that made his hands tingle and his cheeks flush just from being near him.

“Sangwoo,” he said suddenly, voice bright and a little too unguarded. “Thank you for letting me celebrate with you tonight. I mean it. You’ve worked so hard, and I’m just…” He trailed off, a little shy under the weight of his own words, but his smile held. “I’m so proud of you. I’m so happy for us.”

Sangwoo glanced at him, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and nodded. “Of course. Who else would I celebrate with?”

The casual reply only made Gihun’s heart flutter harder. It wasn’t much, but the simplicity of it felt intimate, grounding. Sangwoo was sharing this moment with him, letting him be part of something meaningful, and that was all Gihun had ever wanted. Everything felt so good, so whole, and he clung to the hope that this was the beginning of something new. No—something familiar.

It’s just like before, he thought, his gaze lingering on Sangwoo’s profile. The way the candlelight caught in his eyes, the faint curve of a smile softening his sharp features. It made Gihun’s chest ache with that same lovesick longing he hadn’t felt in so long. He loves me. I know he does.

The evening unfolded easily, with Sangwoo basking in the attention, recounting stories from work and the challenges he’d overcome. Gihun listened closely, hanging on every word, his heart glowing with pride. This was their night, a celebration of Sangwoo’s success and the life they were rebuilding together. Everything felt perfect, like the happiness of the past few days had quietly built toward this one, singular moment.

At one point, Gihun excused himself to speak with the waiter about a surprise dessert he’d arranged. A small gesture, but one he hoped Sangwoo might appreciate. His heart beat faster as he gave the instructions, imagining Sangwoo’s reaction, the smile he wanted so badly to see when the dessert arrived. He glanced back toward the table, warmth blooming in his chest at the sight of the younger alpha sitting there, composed and at ease.

But when he returned, the warmth froze in his chest.

Sangwoo hadn’t noticed him yet. He was leaning back in his chair, posture relaxed and open, his head tilted slightly as one of his colleagues, a tall alpha in a crisp suit, spoke, a half-smile playing on his mouth.

Gihun slowed, their voices threading into the stillness around him.

“Honestly, though, Sangwoo-yah, I’m impressed you’ve stayed with him this long. Most alphas would’ve gotten bored by now. Omegas like that… they’re sweet, sure, but they don’t really bring much to the table, do they?”

Gihun’s breath caught. His feet stopped moving, and he clutched the dessert menu in his hands like it might hold him upright. But the man kept going.

“No offense, but Gihun-ssi’s kind of… soft, isn’t he? Not really the kind of omega most alphas would go all-in for. I guess he’s lucky to have you.”

Sangwoo chuckled. The sound was low, casual, like it was nothing. He gave a little shake of his head, but the smirk on his lips didn’t waver. “Well,” he said, voice light with amusement, “he’s low-maintenance. Doesn’t make a fuss. It’s nice not dealing with all that clingy omega stuff, you know? Keeps things easy. Simple.”

The words hit Gihun harder than he could have imagined, a cold shock spreading through his chest. He stared at Sangwoo’s face, waiting for something, anything, that might soften the blow. A laugh that wasn’t dismissive. A quiet correction. Some instinctive move to shut down the cruel assumptions. But nothing came. Sangwoo just leaned back a little more in his chair, that smirk still tugging at his lips as the alpha across from him chuckled and took a sip of his drink.

The other alpha went on, shaking his head. “Yeah, I guess that’s one way to look at it. Gihun-ssi’s lucky to have you, no doubt. But a guy like you? You could have anyone.”

Gihun didn’t catch Sangwoo’s reply. There was too much static in his ears, a rush of blood that drowned everything else out. His chest was tight, the room suddenly too warm, too bright, and his legs too shaky to keep moving. He stood frozen for a beat longer before forcing himself forward, his body on autopilot.

Sangwoo noticed him then, looked up with the same easy expression he always wore. No guilt. No flicker of discomfort. Just a warm smile, as if nothing had happened.

“Hey, you’re back,” he said, gesturing toward the seat beside him. “Everything okay?”

Gihun nodded, barely managing a smile as he eased into the chair with unsteady hands. “Fine,” he murmured. “Everything’s fine.”

Sangwoo’s colleague gave a brief nod and wandered off, leaving them alone again. Sangwoo leaned in a little, tone light, as though sharing some harmless secret. “He’s such a suck-up,” he said, smirking. “But it’s useful to keep people like that close. Good for networking.”

Gihun nodded weakly, his throat tightening as he struggled to keep the tears at bay.

Sangwoo didn’t even look at him, too busy swirling the last of his wine in his glass, his posture relaxed, his voice light. “Anyway,” he said, smiling like everything had gone perfectly, “this has been a great night, don’t you think?”

Gihun blinked hard, swallowing the lump rising in his throat. His fingers curled around the edge of his chair as he forced himself to nod. “Yeah,” he whispered, his voice strained but quiet enough that Sangwoo didn’t notice. “Great.”

The alpha smiled, pleased, like he’d just confirmed something he already knew. “I knew you’d enjoy it,” he said easily, his eyes flicking toward Gihun with a faint smirk that didn’t quite meet his eyes before returning to his wine. “You always love celebrating these kinds of things with me.”

There was no malice in his tone, just the smooth, self-assured cadence of someone who had long since stopped questioning his own importance. To Sangwoo, this was another perfect night, a quiet monument to his success and the relationship he assumed was still as solid as ever.

The dessert arrived shortly after. A beautiful, delicate creation Gihun had spent days planning, hoping it would make Sangwoo feel special. But when the waiter placed it on the table with a practiced flourish, Sangwoo’s reaction was lukewarm at best. He raised an eyebrow, offered a faint smile, and muttered, “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” in a tone that sounded more dismissive than grateful.

Gihun’s chest tightened. He stared at the dessert, blinking hard as his vision blurred, willing himself not to cry. He picked at his food in silence, the air between them growing heavier by the second. For him, at least. Sangwoo, of course, remained utterly oblivious, chatting breezily about his plans for the coming weeks, his voice full of easy warmth that never quite touched the fractures spreading inside Gihun’s chest.

The dessert was exquisite, thin layers of sponge soaked in syrup, cream whipped to silk, a sugar garnish so delicate it shimmered. But Gihun barely tasted it. Each bite turned to ash in his mouth, his thoughts looping back to that smirk, that conversation, the casual cruelty Sangwoo had let stand. He smiled when expected, nodded when prompted, but the sweetness on the plate felt like a lie. Like everything else.

The low hum of conversation in the restaurant felt deafening now, every voice blending into a chaotic buzz that made Gihun’s head throb. The candlelight on their table, once warm and romantic, now seemed too dim, too close, casting flickering shadows that only made the room feel smaller. Even the scent of the scarf around his neck, a gift that had once brought comfort, felt cloying, a little too tight, like a reminder of how easily he gave himself away.

He forced himself to glance at Sangwoo, who was laughing at something his colleague had said. Gihun wanted to speak, to reach across the table and tether himself to the alpha he loved, but his voice stayed lodged somewhere in his throat. His fingers curled around the edge of his chair, the smooth wood biting into his palms as he tried to stay grounded. Sangwoo’s words kept echoing in his head, cutting sharper each time: low-maintenance… keeps things simple. Gihun swallowed, the taste of bitterness thick on his tongue as he blinked rapidly, willing the sting in his eyes to fade.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Sangwoo’s mood stayed light, lifted by the attention and praise around him, while Gihun quietly folded inward. The scarf felt heavier now, its fabric brushing against his skin like a weight he couldn’t shake. When they finally stepped outside, Sangwoo slung an arm casually over his shoulders, a gesture that used to make Gihun feel safe. But now, it only deepened the ache in his chest. No matter how much he gave, no matter how hard he tried, it would never be enough.

The soft hum of the city filtered through the glass wall of Hwang Inho’s office. The room, immaculate as ever, bore the careful fingerprints of someone who didn’t believe in accidents: sleek furnishings, clean lines, and the faint scent of sandalwood lingering in the air. A space built for control.

From behind his desk, Inho leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes fixed on a figure across the floor.

Seong Gihun.

The omega sat slumped at his desk, head bowed, absently flipping through a stack of papers. Even from this distance, Inho could see the subtle tremor in his hands, the way his movements had lost their usual ease. That brightness Gihun always carried, stubborn and quiet, had dulled into something limp. The red rims of his eyes hadn’t escaped Inho either.

Gihun was always easy to read. Too easy.

He’d known this was coming. It had only ever been a matter of time. Gihun’s happiness never lasted. Not really.

Inho let the thought settle, watching him like someone rereading a familiar story. It always went this way, didn’t it? That fragile cycle omegas clung to: hope, devastation, and then more hope, as if loving harder might finally make them enough. It was almost tragic. Almost.

So typically… omegan.

His lip curled faintly. That instinct to nurture, to endure, to believe that if they just held on long enough, the cracks would mend instead of widen. Pitiable. Predictable. And yet, this time had dragged on longer than expected. Gihun’s happiness had lasted weeks. More than Sangwoo had ever managed before. Almost impressive. But not quite.

The pattern was the same as always. It was only a matter of time. Inho had seen it in omegas again and again, joy that never lasted, love poured endlessly into bottomless cups, their desperation making them so, so easy to move, to mold. And the alphas? They never even had to try. They just took. Secure in the knowledge that they were wanted. Irreplaceable.

Sangwoo and Gihun were textbook. If anything, they illustrated the cycle too well. Sangwoo—so clever, so ambitious, so utterly average where it counted. His instincts were dull. His ego, swollen with self-regard, was like quicksand—inevitable, dragging everything down the moment he got too comfortable. And he had gotten comfortable.

Inho exhaled slowly, gaze narrowing. Gihun’s happiness had been doomed from the start. The likes of Sangwoo never learn. Too much pride. Even more stupidity. A lethal mix. A fool’s weakness dressed up as confidence. That was always the danger with alphas like him, intelligence that dulled the moment life stopped pushing back. A little praise, a promotion, a seat at the table, and suddenly, he forgot to watch what was his.

It had only taken a bit of job success for Sangwoo’s instincts to dull again. Inho almost laughed. He could picture it perfectly: Sangwoo, puffed up with self-importance, oblivious to how easily he was alienating the one person who actually cared for him. It was laughable, really. How predictable it all was. Not that Inho was complaining.

His gaze shifted back to Gihun. The omega reached for a file, his movements slow, almost mechanical. The red-rimmed eyes. The quiet misery etched into his face. Predictable, yes, but no less satisfying. Sangwoo would always overreach. And men like Inho? They were patient enough to wait for the fallout.

The alpha leaned back again, fingers tapping absently against the armrest. Sangwoo’s pride would destroy him eventually. He wouldn’t even have to lift a finger.

And yet, his gaze lingered. That soft, fragile figure silhouetted by the glow of a computer screen. For the first time in years, something unfamiliar curled in his chest. Not satisfaction. Not triumph. Something deeper. Something restless. Something dangerous.

He let it settle, tucking it away behind the polished veneer of his expression. After all, patience was one of his greatest virtues. And when the time came to act—

There would be no going back.

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet, oppressive in its stillness. Days had passed since that night at the restaurant, but the weight of it hadn’t lessened. If anything, it had only grown heavier, pressing down on Gihun’s chest like an invisible hand that wouldn’t let him breathe. He sat at the edge of the bed, his reflection faint in the darkened window. The city lights outside blurred into streaks, his eyes too tired, too glassy, to focus. The scarf Sangwoo had given him, a gift he had once cherished, hung loosely over the armrest of the nearby chair. He hadn’t touched it in days. He couldn’t bring himself to wear it. Not anymore.

He hadn’t said a word to Sangwoo about what he’d overheard. The words he’d tried to summon—questions, accusations, anything at all—always died in his throat the moment he got close. So the days dragged on in silence, their conversations reduced to polite murmurs about work or dinner, like nothing had changed. But everything had changed. The memory of that night played on a loop in his head, like a song he couldn’t turn off. The smirk on Sangwoo’s face. The ease in his voice. It echoed until it hurt.

He thought he was used to this by now, this cycle of hope, disappointment, resignation. But this was different. This wasn’t just carelessness. This was cruelty. And it had cut him in a place he hadn’t even realized was still open.

He buried his face in his hands, fingers gripping his hair like the pressure might quiet his thoughts. But they wouldn’t stop. They never did. Maybe this is just how it’s supposed to be, he thought miserably. Maybe this is what I deserve. The thought wasn’t new. It had been hovering at the edge of his mind for years, fed by every sharp remark, every cold look, every time Sangwoo dismissed him with a sigh or a wave of his hand. And now, it was settling in his chest for good, heavy, immovable.

He had always liked Sangwoo. Maybe not in a way he understood at first, but in a way that had felt inevitable. Back then, it had been simple: Sangwoo was the smart one. The one with a future. Gihun had stayed behind, stuck in the same loop of dead-end jobs and brief, forgettable connections. Years passed like that. People came and went. Love never stayed. Until Sangwoo came back. Until someone like him, so confident and put-together, looked at Gihun and said: you’re enough. And Gihun had believed it. Of course he had. He wanted to believe it meant something.

He told himself they had come full circle. That Sangwoo had chosen him, not just out of convenience or nostalgia, but because he wanted him. That it meant something that he came back. And maybe it had, for a moment. Maybe the warmth had been real. Maybe he’d been seen, really seen, for the first time in years. But maybe not. Maybe all Sangwoo ever saw was what everyone else did. Someone easy. Someone who wouldn’t demand too much. Someone who would stay.

Low-maintenance. That was the word, wasn’t it?

He’d told himself things could be different. That Sangwoo could change. That he could change: be better, be more, be enough. But maybe the truth had always been there, quietly waiting. And maybe he’d just refused to look at it.

A part of him wanted to scream. To tear the scarf from the chair, to throw it across the room, to do something, anything, just to break the suffocating stillness. But what was the point? Anger wouldn’t change anything. Nothing ever did.

His hands dropped into his lap, empty and shaking. The room felt too small. The silence too loud. But he couldn’t bring himself to move. He didn’t even know where he’d go. Who would want someone like me? The thought was bitter, but it felt like a fact, a truth he’d long since made peace with. He was just an old omega. Soft. Simple. Low-maintenance. Maybe Sangwoo was right to talk about him like that. Maybe that was all he’d ever been. All he’d ever be.

The ache in his chest deepened, curling tight and slow around his ribs. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying to breathe through it. The tears came quietly this time, trailing down his face in uneven, silent tracks. He didn’t wipe them away. There was no use. They’d come again tomorrow, just like they had every night since the restaurant.

The worst part wasn’t even the pain. It was the way he’d begun to expect it. The quiet resignation that had crept in without him noticing. Some part of him, small and buried, still whispered that he didn’t deserve this. That Sangwoo’s cruelty wasn’t his fault. But that voice was muffled.

He closed his eyes, and the room melted into darkness. His body sagged with the weight of it. This is just how it is, he thought, the words dull and worn smooth from overuse. This is how it’s always been.

And the worst part? Some awful, twisted part of him believed it.

The office buzzed softly with the usual clatter of keyboards and low, scattered voices. Gihun sat at his desk, sipping lukewarm tea as he typed up notes from the morning’s marketing meeting. It was familiar work, nearly mindless—and that was fine. The routine helped keep his thoughts quiet, kept Sangwoo’s voice from echoing in the back of his mind. He shifted in his seat, rolling his shoulders, but the tension there didn’t go anywhere. Something felt… off. Not overtly. Just a sense, like a weight at the edge of his awareness. He glanced toward Hwang Inho’s office out of habit. The blinds were drawn, tilted just enough to hide whatever was happening inside. But the feeling lingered.

Across the room, Jihoon and Hyunju were talking by the break area. Gihun caught pieces of their conversation, something about weekend plans, dinners, maybe a movie. He wasn’t sure why he kept listening, but he did. His fingers hovered over the keys, stilled.

“What about you, hyung?” Jihoon’s voice cut across the room, pulling his attention back. “Got any big plans this weekend?”

Gihun blinked, caught a little off guard. He gave a small smile—thin, a little stiff. “Oh, nothing exciting,” he said, shaking his head. “Sangwoo’s out of town for work, so… I’ll probably just stay in.”

“Business trip, huh?” Jihoon said, leaning against the counter with a curious tilt of his head. “Sounds important. Where’s he headed?”

“Busan,” Gihun answered, his fingers fiddling with the corner of his notebook. “Some client meetings, I think. He’ll be gone all weekend.”

“Must be nice to have the place to yourself, though,” Hyunju chimed in, smiling. “Peace and quiet for a couple of days.”

“Yeah,” Gihun said softly, his smile barely holding. “Something like that.”

As the conversation drifted on, their voices fading into something light and easy, Gihun felt it again, that faint prickle at the back of his neck. Like eyes on him. He glanced toward the coffee machine and saw Hwang Inho standing there, pouring himself a cup of coffee, every movement deliberate and calm. Just before turning away, the CEO’s gaze flicked briefly toward their group, just a glance, unreadable as always, then he turned and walked back toward his office, his steps as measured as ever.

The office floor was nearly deserted, the soft hum of the air conditioning the only sound filling the open space. The assistants’ desks sat quiet and still, files stacked neatly, monitors dark, everything about them saying the workday was over. Beyond them, past the curve of the glass partitions, lay the CEO’s office. It always felt separate, not just in structure but in presence. Untouchable. Removed. Gihun sat at his desk just outside, finishing the last few tweaks on the marketing visuals. His laptop screen cast a pale light over his hands as he worked, the quiet click of his mouse keeping time with the ticking wall clock. He’d told himself he’d only stay a few minutes to check the files, but minutes had stretched, slipping into something longer.

He wasn’t entirely alone.

Through the partially closed blinds of Inho’s office, Gihun could just make out the alpha still seated at his desk, the low glow of his lamp casting sharp shadows across the room. The blinds were drawn halfway, not fully open, not completely shut, offering just enough of a glimpse into that private, carefully controlled space. Inho was leaned back slightly in his chair, one hand resting on a stack of papers, his fingers tapping idly as if his mind had drifted elsewhere. Even at this hour, his posture was composed, his suit still immaculate. There was something strangely hypnotic about watching him like this: quiet, unreadable, completely in control. Gihun blinked and adjusted the brightness on his screen, trying to refocus when—

“Seong Gihun-ssi.”

The voice, smooth and low, cut clean through the quiet. It wasn’t loud, but it carried, sharp enough to still the air. Gihun startled slightly before turning toward the sound. The door to Inho’s office stood slightly ajar, the polished wood catching the faint gleam of city lights.

Through the blinds, the alpha had shifted. He was facing outward now.

“Yes, sajangnim?” Gihun called, unsure whether to stand or stay seated.

A pause. Then: “Would you mind coming in for a moment?” The words were calm, polite, but there was something in them, something that didn’t invite a delay.

Gihun swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet everything was. He pushed back from his desk, stood a little too fast, then smoothed the front of his shirt with nervous fingers. His legs carried him forward before his mind had fully caught up with the request.

The moment he stepped inside, it hit him.

The scent.

Immediate. Heavy. Almost tangible.

He froze just inside the threshold, caught off guard by how abruptly the atmosphere shifted. His breath hitched. One hand curled tighter around the doorframe as instinct pulled taut inside him. It wasn’t like the passing trace of an alpha’s scent in the hallway. This was everywhere. Saturating the room. Thick in the air like smoke or steam, like something meant to be breathed in.

Warm sandalwood. Black pepper, sharper underneath. And something else, richer, grounding. Amber, maybe, or whatever it was that curled low in his gut and made his skin feel too sensitive.

It hadn’t been like this outside. Was it just the closed space that intensified it? Or… did his boss always smell like this?

His fingers twitched at his sides, and he forced himself to move, pretending he hadn’t just paused in the doorway. He stepped in, blinking against the haze that had begun to settle in his head. The scent still lingered—thick and inescapable—and the space around him, all sleek edges and curated minimalism, suddenly felt closer than it should.

Near the far side of the room sat the long, polished conference table, rarely used outside of executive meetings. The blinds on the glass walls were in their usual half-drawn state, just enough to suggest transparency without offering it. A calculated choice, Gihun realized. Everything in this office was deliberate.

Behind the desk, the CEO sat with one hand resting near a stack of documents. His posture was at ease, but the way his chair had turned, angled toward Gihun, already waiting, spoke of something more intentional. Like he’d known exactly when Gihun would walk in.

Without missing a beat, the alpha pushed the documents forward, flipping through them with smooth efficiency. “I need your input on these before finalizing.” The words were polite, even mild, but they didn’t read like a request.

Gihun looked down. Marketing visuals. Campaign analytics. Strategic reports. He’d already reviewed most of it earlier in the week. The rest he’d planned to finish next week, but clearly, Inho had decided otherwise.

“I know it’s late,” Hwang Inho said smoothly, settling back in his chair. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. But I’d rather have your eyes on these now than wait until Monday.”

There it was, that carefully placed reasoning, the kind that made it difficult to refuse. Not a demand, not quite an order, just an expectation, wrapped neatly in professionalism.

Gihun nodded quickly, picking up the first page. “Of course, sajangnim. I don’t mind staying a little longer.”

The alpha’s lips curved slightly, the faintest trace of approval flickering across his sharp features.

“Good. Please, take a seat,” Inho said, nodding toward the chair across from his desk.

Gihun paused, his eyes flicking toward the long conference table. Surely, that’s where he was supposed to work, somewhere more appropriate for this kind of task, not directly across from the CEO. He glanced between the two options, then carefully stepped toward the table, already reaching for a chair. “I’ll just work over he—”

“No need.”

Inho’s voice, calm and composed as ever, carried just enough weight to stop him mid-motion. His fingers had barely brushed the back of the chair when he froze, turning back with a flicker of uncertainty. The alpha gestured toward the seat across from him with an effortless flick of his wrist, his dark eyes expectant, yet unreadable.

“Sit here,” he said, smooth but final.

Gihun lingered a moment longer, then obeyed. He moved to the chair Inho had indicated and sat, adjusting his posture as he tried to shake the quiet awkwardness of having misread the situation.

He adjusted his seat, before reaching for the first page, the leather creaked softly beneath him. His eyes scanned the print, though the words blurred slightly at the edges. Across from him, Hwang Inho hadn’t moved, save for the slight motion of a pen tapping once, then stopping. The silence between them stretched, not uncomfortable, exactly, but dense, charged with something Gihun couldn’t quite name.

It was only then, in that stillness, that he noticed it again.

The clock ticked softly in the corner of the room, a steady rhythm that filled the quiet. Gihun leaned over the desk, squinting slightly as he reviewed the last batch of data points against the marketing visuals. The scent had been there from the moment he stepped inside: heavy, rich, impossible to ignore. At first, he’d tried to brush off his reaction, chalking it up to surprise, a subtle shift in the air. He’d told himself it would fade, that he could push past it and focus. But it wasn’t fading. If anything, it was getting stronger, seeping into the corners of the room like heat from a radiator. His fingers faltered on the trackpad, his concentration slipping. The air felt too thick, too close, and no amount of blinking brought the numbers back into focus.

It was alpha. Sharp and commanding, but beneath that—warmth, depth, something quieter that crept into his lungs and curled low in his belly. The scent wasn’t just there; it was everywhere. It clung to his skin, to the inside of his mouth, until he could taste it, feel it. His hands trembled slightly over the papers. Across from him, Inho remained seated, posture relaxed, gaze focused on the edits Gihun had just made. He looked perfectly composed. But the space between them told a different story.

Aish, doesn’t he know how strong his scent is right now? Gihun’s heart stuttered as he glanced back at the screen in front of him. Alphas were always aware of their scent, weren’t they? It was instinctual, like breathing.

And yet the windows of Hwang Inho’s office were shut tight, the air still and heavy, leaving the scent nowhere to go but straight into Gihun’s lungs, curling warm in his throat, settling low in his chest like something alive. Like it had nowhere else to go.

Maybe he’s stressed, Gihun told himself, his fingers tightening around his pen. It’s a big task, an important deadline. Maybe he can’t help it. He pressed his lips together, trying to breathe evenly, trying not to notice how warm he felt, how restless. His skin buzzed with each inhale. It wasn’t just the scent, it was what it stirred. That quiet, hidden part of him he rarely acknowledged. The part that answered instinctively. 

He tried to work. Really, he did. But the numbers blurred, his thoughts sliding out of reach like water through his fingers. His heart fluttered wildly in his chest, a caged thing, and his hands trembled as he typed, the letters swimming across the screen until he had to blink to clear them. He risked another glance at his boss.

The man hadn’t moved. Still seated, still calm, still flipping through his notes with infuriating ease. No visible stress. No tension. And yet the scent was everywhere: rich, commanding, impossible. He must be worried about the deadline, Gihun told himself again. That’s all this is.

But another thought crept in, unbidden and unwelcome. He must know. He has to know how strong it is. How could he not? Gihun shifted in his seat, his pulse quickening as he tried to shake the thought away. It felt inappropriate, even disrespectful, to question his boss like that. Hwang sajangnim was always professional. Controlled. Composed. He wouldn’t do something like this on purpose. Would he?

The scent only thickened, filling the room until it felt like Gihun was breathing it in with every heartbeat. His hands trembled as he fought to keep hold of his pen, his breath coming quicker now, chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven pulls. His body felt strange, confused. His instincts tangled between a crawling unease and something far more primal. His knees pressed tightly together beneath the desk, and a slow flush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks.

“Gihun-ssi.”

Inho’s voice broke through the haze, smooth and polite. But it carried weight, enough to send a jolt through Gihun’s chest. He looked up, startled, his wide eyes meeting Inho’s.

The alpha was watching him. Not casually. Not distractedly. Watching. His dark gaze sharp and steady, unblinking. Something in it made Gihun’s breath catch. It wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t soft either. There was something intent in it, something that made his skin prickle. He dropped his gaze at once, fingers tightening around the edge of his notebook like it might keep him grounded.

“You’ve done well tonight,” Inho said, his tone shifting, quieter now, almost gentle. “But you look exhausted. I’m sorry for keeping you so late.”

Gihun blinked, caught off guard. “Oh—no, sajangnim,” he said quickly, voice thinner than he meant. “It’s no trouble at all. I don’t mind staying late.”

Hwang Inho’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Even so, I don’t want you overworking yourself. You’ve been here long enough.” He rose from his desk, each movement smooth, deliberate, as he stepped around the corner of it. “Let’s call it a night. You’ve done more than enough.”

The proximity made Gihun’s breath hitch. The alpha’s scent hit him like a wave dense, warm, invasive. His legs felt unsteady as he stood, his head swimming as he tried, and failed, to meet his boss’ gaze. The weight of the man’s presence was too much. His eyes dropped instinctively, heat creeping up the back of his neck.

“Thank you, sajangnim,” Gihun murmured, voice barely audible. “I’ll… I’ll finish the rest first thing Monday.”

The alpha nodded, expression as composed as ever. “I appreciate your dedication. Get some rest, Seong-ssi.”

Gihun gathered his things with slightly trembling hands, his thoughts a jumble as he stepped out into the corridor. The air outside the office felt cooler, sharper, but it did nothing to clear his head. That scent still clung to him, thin but persistent, like smoke on fabric.

He tightened his grip on his bag as he walked, trying to push away the sensation that was curling beneath his skin.

He was just stressed, he told himself. That’s all it was. His boss was under pressure, and Gihun was overtired. There was nothing strange about it. Nothing wrong. Hwang sajangnim would never—couldn’t—do something unprofessional.

And yet, the memory of that gaze, the way it had held him, measured him, felt him, refused to let go. It pressed at the back of his mind as he stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the ground floor, the doors closing slowly behind him.

The steam curled in soft, swirling ribbons, carrying the familiar scent of broth, chives, and freshly made dough into the crisp winter air. Gihun rolled the dumpling skin between his fingers, the motion instinctive, something he’d done since childhood. Beside him, his mother worked with quiet efficiency, her hands pleating each dumpling in practiced, symmetrical folds.

“Yah, you’re making them too loose again,” she said, barely glancing up from her batch. “They’ll fall apart in the pot.”

Gihun looked down at the one in his hand: lopsided, uneven, the edges too soft to hold. He let out a quiet laugh and rolled his shoulders, trying again. “I think they’ll survive.”

His mother clicked her tongue. “Gihun-ah, you’re lucky I love you, or I’d make you eat the ruined ones yourself.”

Gihun grinned. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

She shook her head, but there was fondness in the way she nudged his elbow, warmth in the steady movement of her hands as they never stopped working. For a while, they settled into an easy rhythm: the soft press of dough, the quiet hum of customers, the occasional hiss of dumplings hitting the pan. It was busy, but not overwhelmingly so. The kind of afternoon that passed quickly, where the cold stayed outside, held off by the steady work and the comfort of good food.

Still, even as he focused on the task in front of him, his thoughts drifted. Last evening. It came back in pieces, in flashes: the scent, thick and unmistakable, the way the air had felt heavy, the way his breath caught before he even knew why.

It was stupid, really. He shouldn’t still be thinking about it. And yet, there it was again, creeping in, settling in the corners of his mind like an unwelcome guest. Hwang sajangnim had just been working late, just like him. If his scent had been strong, it was probably stress. Or maybe the office was just too closed up, nowhere for it to go. That had to be it.

“Are you even listening to me?”

His mother’s voice cut through his thoughts, and Gihun startled, nearly dropping the dumpling he’d been halfheartedly folding. He looked up to find her staring at him, brow raised in suspicion.

“I— what?”

She sighed, exasperated but faintly amused. “I said, you seem distracted today. Something on your mind?”

Gihun shook his head quickly. “No, no. Just… tired.”

She studied him for a long moment before reaching for the next ball of dough. “You’re not sick, are you?”

“No,” he replied, forcing a small smile. “I’m fine. Really.”

She didn’t look convinced, but let it go, muttering something about him “working too much these days.”

Gihun hummed in agreement, but said nothing more. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. He had been working a lot. But exhaustion was predictable. Expected. This... this was something else. Something heavier. Something that hadn’t faded after a night’s sleep. Something unsettling, but not in a way that felt entirely bad.

It had been easy to brush it off in the morning, to tell himself it was just fatigue, just a long night warping his thoughts. But even now, as he folded dumpling after dumpling, with the warmth of the stall wrapped around him, some quiet part of him still felt the echo of it, that instinctive stir, raw and unplaceable.

He didn’t know what it meant. Maybe it was better that way.

So he kept working, pressing the thought down, tucking it away like the careful folds of dough beneath his fingers.

But the feeling, the memory of it, remained. Lingering. Restless. Unspoken. Alive.

The mid-afternoon sunlight filtered through the blinds in Hwang Inho’s office, casting long, faint shadows across the desk. The past few days had passed in a blur of meetings, deadlines, and quiet moments where Gihun found himself replaying that night in the office more times than he cared to admit. He had convinced himself it was nothing, just another long, tiresome day, just the stress of work making him overthink. And yet, every time he walked past the alpha’s office, every time his boss said his name in that smooth, measured tone, something curled deep in his stomach.

It wasn’t fear, exactly. Just… awareness. A feeling he couldn’t quite name.

He had buried himself in work, hoping the unease would fade, but it lingered like an itch beneath his skin. And now, standing outside the CEO’s office once again, clutching his notepad, he told himself this was just another meeting. Just business. Nothing more.

He waited quietly by the doorway as the alpha signed off on a stack of documents. The faint rustle of paper and the scratch of a pen were the only sounds in the room, and Gihun felt the weight of the silence pressing down on him.

“Thank you for waiting,” his boss said at last, setting the pen aside and folding his hands neatly on the desk. His gaze lifted to meet Gihun’s, calm as always, but there was something in those dark eyes that made Gihun’s heart flutter, uneasy and instinctive. “Please, have a seat.”

Gihun nodded quickly and took the chair across from him. “You wanted to see me, sajangnim?”

“Yes,” Inho said, voice smooth and even. “I just wanted to check in with you about your workload. I know it’s been a demanding week. I want to make sure you’re not taking on more than you should.”

“Oh—yeah, I’m okay, sajangnim,” Gihun said, scratching lightly at his arm. “It’s been busy, but nothing I can’t handle. Really. But, um… thanks, for checking.”

The alpha tilted his head slightly, studying him with that same unreadable calm. “Good. I noticed you’ve been staying late the past few nights. I trust that’s out of your own initiative, not pressure?”

“No, not at all,” Gihun said quickly, his ears warming. “I just... wanted to wrap things up right. Didn’t feel good leaving it half-done, you know?”

A faint smile touched Inho’s lips. “Your dedication is admirable, Gihun-ssi. The company’s lucky to have someone so meticulous.”

The compliment sent a quiet rush of warmth through him, and Gihun ducked his head.

“Thanks, sajangnim,” he said, a little sheepish. “I don’t know about meticulous, I just... don’t like leaving things hanging.”

His boss hummed in reply, letting the silence stretch for a beat before leaning back in his chair. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted; softer, almost casual.

“It’s Friday,” he said. “Do you have any plans for the weekend? I hope you’re not planning to spend all your time working.”

Gihun blinked, a little caught off guard by the shift in topic. “Oh—no,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “No work this weekend.”

“Good,” Inho replied smoothly. “Rest is just as important as productivity. Got anything fun planned?”

“Not really,” Gihun admitted, his fingers curling slightly around the edge of his notepad. “Sangwoo’s off on another business trip, so it’s just me at home.”

The alpha’s gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly, though his expression didn’t change. “A business trip?” he echoed lightly, tilting his head. “That must be a lot of responsibility for him.”

“Yeah,” Gihun said, his voice dropping a little. “He went to Gwangju for some negotiations. He’ll be gone all weekend.”

“I see,” his boss murmured, tone calm and measured. “That must be… quiet for you.”

Gihun gave a small shrug, the smile he offered thin around the edges. “It’s not so bad,” he said, fingers smoothing the edge of his sleeve. “Laundry, maybe a movie. I’ve done quieter weekends.”

Inho didn’t reply right away. His eyes lingered on Gihun for a second too long, unreadable, before his mouth curved into a faint, polite smile. “Well, I hope you get some rest. And if you need anything from the office before the weekend, don’t hesitate to reach out.”

“Thank you, sajangnim,” Gihun said quickly, bowing his head as he rose from his seat. “I’ll make sure everything on my desk is finished before I leave.”

“Take your time,” Inho replied, leaning back slightly as he watched Gihun gather his things. “And have a good weekend, Gihun-ssi.”

Gihun exhaled quietly, already picturing the crisp evening air, the weight of the workweek finally lifting. Just a few more steps—

A faint chime broke the quiet. Hwang Inho glanced down at his tablet, his brows drawing together ever so slightly as he tapped the screen. His eyes scanned something quickly, then paused.

“Actually, Gihun-ssi…” he said, voice casual, almost apologetic. “I’m so sorry, but I just realized there’s something else that needs urgent attention.”

Gihun paused mid-step, blinking as he turned back. “Oh? What is it, sajangnim?”

Inho gestured for him to return, sliding a folder across the desk. “The marketing campaign proposal I mentioned earlier? It looks like the updated financials just came in, and they don’t align with the projections we approved. I need someone to go through the data with me and double-check it against the visuals before Monday’s board meeting.”

Gihun blinked down at the folder. Seriously? Another Friday? He didn’t let it show, just nodded and held it to his chest. “Of course. I’ll get started right away.”

“Good,” Inho said, rising from his chair. “I’ll stay and assist. This is too important to leave to chance, and your attention to detail is exactly what this needs.”

The praise sent a flush of warmth to Gihun’s cheeks, even as a familiar flicker of weariness settled low in his chest. “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

The office was nearly empty as the evening stretched on, the faint hum of the air conditioning the only sound breaking the silence. Gihun sat beside Hwang Inho’s desk, his laptop open as he scanned through spreadsheets and presentation drafts. The alpha stood nearby, his jacket draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Gihun tried to focus on the numbers in front of him, but the proximity was... distracting. Inho’s scent, sharp and heady, hung in the air between them, creeping into Gihun’s senses like fog. It was overwhelming, almost intoxicating, and his fingers trembled slightly as he typed.

The man leaned in, his arm brushing Gihun’s shoulder as he pointed at the screen. “Here,” he said, voice low and composed. “This section needs to match the updated projections.”

Gihun’s breath hitched at the closeness, his heart stuttering as he nodded quickly. “Y-Yes, sajangnim,” he murmured, fumbling slightly over the keyboard.

The scent grew stronger, wrapping around him like a warm, invisible weight. Gihun’s thoughts slowed, his instincts humming with unease, or was it something else? His body responded before he could stop it, omega nature stirring beneath the surface, raw and reactive. He swallowed hard, pushing the sensation down. It’s just work, he told himself firmly. He’s just focused. That’s all this is.

Hours passed. Gihun’s stomach let out a loud, unmistakable growl, slicing through the quiet hum of the office. The sound was deafening to his ears, and his cheeks flushed deep crimson as he darted an anxious glance toward his boss. The alpha, seated just a few feet away, lifted his gaze from the reports. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, subtle, but sharp enough to make Gihun’s pulse quicken.

“You need to eat,” Hwang Inho said, setting his pen down with deliberate care. His tone was calm, almost amused, but there was something beneath it. Something heavier. He reached for his phone, already dialing. “I’ll order us something.”

“Oh—sajangnim, that’s not necessary—” Gihun stammered, hands fluttering slightly as he rushed to protest. His gaze darted to the pile of unfinished documents. “Really, I’m fine. I don’t want to—”

“I insist,” the alpha interrupted smoothly, his voice leaving no room for disagreement. He glanced at Gihun again, his dark eyes steady. “We still have work to do, and I won’t have you fainting from hunger under my watch. Let me take care of it.”

The words settled over him like a quiet command—measured, final. Gihun’s mouth opened, then closed again, and all he could manage was a small nod. “Thank you, sajangnim,” he said, voice soft but steady enough, even as his eyes dropped back to the table. His cheeks were still burning, and he hated how easily the words had undone him, but there was a strange steadiness in the alpha’s certainty, something that made it hard to argue. Hard to look away.

The food arrived quickly, the scent curling through the room and making Gihun’s stomach twist with renewed hunger. He hesitated as his boss unpacked the containers, arranging them neatly on the desk between them. Gihun’s hands felt unsteady as he reached for the napkin and utensils, every motion clumsy with exhaustion. Hwang Inho, meanwhile, was calm as ever. He loosened his tie with a quiet flick of his fingers, draping it over the back of his chair before rolling his sleeves higher. The smooth, deliberate movements caught Gihun’s eye, and he quickly looked away, focusing on the food instead. He swallowed hard, trying to will the tremble out of his fingers as he fumbled with the lid of the container.

“You’re shaking,” Inho said, his voice soft but cutting through the quiet with ease.

Gihun froze, his hands hovering mid-air. “I’m just… tired,” he murmured, his voice catching. When he looked up, the alpha’s gaze was already on him: steady, sharp, unreadable.

“Then don’t bother,” Inho said simply.

His hand moved with quiet confidence, lifting a soft cabbage leaf from the bossam tray. He added a slice of pork, a sliver of kimchi, folded it with practiced ease, then held it out toward Gihun.

Not with chopsticks. Not with a fork. Just his hand. Bare, steady, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Gihun’s breath hitched, his mind stalling as he stared at the offering in front of him. For a fleeting second, the thought flickered: this is inappropriate. His rational mind grasped it, recognized the breach in formality, the subtle wrongness of being hand-fed by his boss. But the moment passed almost as quickly as it came. His instincts surged to the surface, fogging over everything else. The quiet care in the alpha’s gesture, the scent hanging thick in the air, the steady way Inho waited; it all tugged at something deeper, something he couldn’t quite shut out.

It felt… safe. Warm. The kind of warmth he hadn’t felt in days.

“Eat,” his boss said again, low and firm, with just the faintest edge of gentleness. “You’ll feel better.”

Gihun hesitated, lips parting slightly as if to protest. His mind screamed at him to pull away, to insist he could manage on his own. That this wasn’t normal. That this wasn’t right. The air was too thick, the alpha’s scent curling around his thoughts like smoke, sinking into his lungs until everything felt hazy and slow. He didn’t know if it was exhaustion or something else entirely, but his instincts, quiet, buried for so long, responded before logic could pull him back.

He swallowed, breath unsteady. He should say no. Should pull back. But the warmth of Inho’s fingers hovered between them, unwavering. His chest ached with something he couldn’t name, something deep and raw and instinctive. And before he could stop himself, he leaned forward—slowly, almost reluctantly.

The first bite was small, but the warmth of it spread across his tongue, settling low in his chest like something soothing. Familiar. His lips brushed against Inho’s fingers, and a sharp jolt of awareness prickled down his spine. Too much. Too close. But his body didn’t reject it. His omega instincts folded around the gesture, swallowing any protest before it could form.

He barely had time to think before another bite was offered. Gihun’s breath hitched. He glanced up, just briefly. The alpha’s expression remained calm. Unreadable. His hand didn’t waver. He simply waited, holding the next piece between his fingers with a patience that made Gihun’s heart stumble.

The rational part of Gihun’s mind whispered that this was too much. That he should stop. That this was crossing a line he didn’t even fully understand.

But the part of him that had been running on empty for so long—the part that ached for warmth, for care, for something he couldn’t name—was too worn down to fight.

He took the next bite. And then another.

The alpha’s fingers brushed his lips each time, lingering just a second longer than necessary. Gihun barely noticed when he stopped reaching for the food himself, when his body began to follow the quiet rhythm Inho had set: the alpha picking up a piece, holding it just long enough for Gihun to lean in, to take it from his hand, to swallow before the next was offered.

A slow, unspoken exchange.

Somewhere, beneath the haze of it all, Gihun knew he should be embarrassed. That he should pull away. But his body wouldn’t let him. The scent was too thick. The warmth of the food, the low hum of Inho’s voice telling him to keep going, it all wrapped around him like fog. His head felt light. His body, compliant.

Omega.

The word curled at the edge of his mind: deep, instinctive, undeniable. He barely registered the way his pulse had slowed, the way his muscles had loosened as if lulled by something deeper than thought. He only realized how far gone he was when his fingers twitched, when his lips parted slightly before the next bite was even offered.

As if expecting it.

The realization sent a flush of heat crawling up his neck. He straightened slightly, blinking like he was trying to shake off a dream.

And that’s when he met Hwang Inho’s gaze.

Dark. Steady. Perfectly composed.

But Gihun swore he saw it, just for a second. A flicker beneath the calm. A flash of something deep, something knowing. Something satisfied.

He had fed Gihun the whole meal.

The knowledge settled in his stomach alongside the food, heavy and impossible to ignore. Inho finally leaned back, wiping his fingers with a calm ease that felt practiced. As if none of it had been out of the ordinary.

“You look like you’ve barely eaten all day,” he said, voice soft, but dipping lower. Controlled. Measured. “It’s important to take care of yourself, Gihun-ssi. You work too hard.”

Gihun swallowed, throat dry as he nodded quickly. “Y—Yes, sajangnim. Thank you.”

The room went quiet again, but the air had thickened. He shifted in his seat, skin still warm, instincts still humming even as he tried to push the feeling down. It wasn’t just the food. It was the way Hwang Inho spoke. The way he looked at him. The way his scent lingered like a quiet promise in the air.

The alpha reached for the documents on his desk, flipping through them with his usual elegance: polished, composed, as though nothing had happened.

“Let’s finish this together,” he said, voice smooth and steady.

But the weight of his gaze remained, sharp and unwavering, even as he gestured for Gihun to continue working.

Gihun nodded again, forcing himself to focus on the task in front of him. But no matter how hard he tried, the warmth of Inho’s fingers and the weight of his gaze clung to him, leaving him dazed and unsteady. The minutes dragged on, though he barely registered their passing. That soft buzz in his chest—the haze of the alpha’s scent—made his thoughts slow, scattered. His fingers moved mechanically across the keyboard, his vision blurring as the pressure of Inho’s presence seemed to fill every corner of the room. Even the faintest sounds, the scrape of a chair leg, the rustle of paper, felt amplified, too sharp, jarring against the quiet.

“I believe we’re finished here.”

Gihun looked up, blinking fast, his hands pausing mid-keystroke. Inho was standing now, sleeves still rolled, the lean lines of his forearms catching the soft gold of the overhead light. He looked untouched by the hours that had passed, composed, relaxed. Completely in control.

Gihun sat back slowly, unsure if his body felt lighter or heavier. “Oh,” he murmured, blinking at the screen. “That’s… good.” He stared at the finished presentation, like it had appeared without him noticing. Had he really done all of that? Or had Inho stepped in somewhere along the way?

A faint smile touched the alpha’s lips, just sharp enough to be felt. But his tone remained cool, almost casual. “You’ve done well tonight,” he said, eyes never leaving Gihun. “Though I will say, you’re much more efficient when you’re focused.”

He tilted his head slightly, a ghost of amusement in his voice. “Try not to let yourself get… distracted in the future.”

Gihun flinched at the words, his cheeks flushing with heat. “R-right. I will. I mean—I'll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

The CEO’s smile softened faintly, and he waved a hand as if brushing the apology aside. “It’s been a long night. You’re tired.”

Gihun nodded, grateful for the reprieve, though his mind was still too foggy to catch the faint edge beneath the alpha’s tone. He reached for his bag, fingers trembling slightly as he rose to his feet. His legs felt unsteady, and the cool air of the office made his skin prickle, his balance waver.

“Wait,” Inho said, his voice quiet but commanding.

Gihun halted mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder with wide, glassy eyes. The CEO had already moved from behind the desk, smooth and deliberate in every motion, one hand reaching for his phone.

“It’s too late for you to commute home alone,” he said, eyes still on the screen. “I’ll arrange a taxi.”

“Oh, that’s really not necessary,” Gihun replied quickly, though his voice wavered with exhaustion. “I can just—”

“I insist,” the alpha said, cutting in gently, his tone polite but immovable. He tapped his screen a few times before tucking the phone away. “You’ve worked hard tonight, Gihun-ssi. Let me make sure you get home safely. I wouldn’t feel comfortable otherwise.”

The words wrapped around Gihun like warmth, and he ducked his head, his grip tightening on the strap of his bag. There was something almost old-fashioned in the way he said it. Like he’d meant every word. Gentlemanly, if that was still a thing.

“Thank you, sajangnim,” he said, his voice quieter now. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Of course,” the man replied, his smile faint but steady. He stepped closer, just enough for his scent to brush past Gihun’s senses again, heavy and intoxicating. “Go wait in the lobby. The car will be here shortly.”

Gihun nodded, slow and dazed, his movements almost automatic as he turned toward the door. The cool air of the hallway hit him like a slap, but it wasn’t enough to clear the fog in his head. His thoughts felt slow, unfocused, and the ghost of Hwang Inho’s fingers brushing against his lips lingered at the edge of his awareness, sending a fresh wave of heat to his cheeks.

By the time he stepped into the elevator, the tight ache in his chest had melted into something warmer. He leaned back against the metal wall, eyes fluttering shut as he let out a shaky breath. His limbs were too light, his head still hazy, but he told himself it was just the exhaustion. Just the long night. Just the pressure of working beside someone as exacting as Hwang sajangnim.

It’s nothing, he told himself, even as the memory of that scent clung to him, rich, consuming. He was just being kind. That’s all.

But as the elevator doors slid shut and the city lights streaked past the glass, Gihun couldn’t shake the way warmth coiled in his chest, soft and unsteady. And somewhere, buried deep beneath the fog, a voice whispered that he’d crossed a line tonight, only to be drowned out again, muffled by the lingering pull of the alpha’s presence.

The hotel room was quiet, the muffled noise of the city far below folding into the stillness. Sangwoo lounged in the chair by the window, his glass of whiskey resting on the armrest, the amber liquid rippling faintly as he tilted it back and forth. The meetings had gone well—better than expected, really. His pitch had landed cleanly, the clients had responded just the way he’d anticipated, and the negotiations had wrapped without friction. It wasn’t official yet, but the deal was as good as done. By Monday, the higher-ups would see it, how valuable he was. They wouldn’t say it outright; people like that never did. But he’d catch it in the shift of their attention, the way his name would start coming up in the conversations that actually mattered.

He took another sip, the slow burn grounding him as his eyes wandered back to the window. It was strange, being away from home on a night like this. Not bad, just... quiet. A different kind of quiet. Normally, Gihun would be puttering around the kitchen, humming to himself or fussing with some half-finished project, filling the apartment with a kind of warmth Sangwoo never thought much about, until it wasn’t there.

He rolled his shoulders, setting the glass down as he picked up his phone. No messages yet. Gihun wasn’t always quick to text, he got caught up in things. That wasn’t unusual. At least, that’s what Sangwoo told himself. His lips twitched into a faint smile as he scrolled through his notifications: a congratulatory message from one of his colleagues, another from a friend asking when he’d be back in Seoul. He considered texting Gihun, his fingers pausing over the keyboard, but the impulse passed almost as soon as it came. There was no need. Gihun was home. Waiting. Just like always.

It wasn’t even a conscious thought, more like something instinctive, settling into Sangwoo’s chest like a stone dropped into still water. He didn’t question it. He never had. Gihun was loyal. Steady. Reliable in the quiet, unobtrusive way omegas were supposed to be. He didn’t ask for much. He didn’t complain when Sangwoo came home late or disappeared on business trips. He just… existed there. And that was enough.

Sangwoo leaned back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders finally starting to ease as his thoughts drifted. He pictured Gihun at home, probably curled up with a book or quietly tidying something. He’d be there when Sangwoo returned, warm and soft, ready to fall into the rhythm of their routines again.

A faint pang tugged at him, something close to guilt. He should check in, maybe ask how Gihun was doing. But it wasn’t guilt, not really. More of a reflex than anything else. He tapped the edge of his phone, hesitated, then set it down again. He’s fine, Sangwoo told himself, eyes drifting back to the city lights. He always is.

He lifted the glass again, the weight of it grounding him as he took another slow sip. Everything was under control. The trip had gone well. His position at the company was stronger than ever. And Gihun? Gihun would still be there. Always had been. Always would be. He didn’t need to question that.

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet, wrapped in the soft stillness of early morning. The routine was the same—wake, shower, dress, leave—but something about it felt different today.

Standing before the mirror, Gihun combed his fingers through his hair, checking the way it fell with a kind of precision that felt… new. His gaze dropped, tracing the edge of his jaw, the smoothness of his skin. He ran a hand over it absently, feeling for anything out of place. Making sure it all looked right.

His mornings were usually automatic: movements on autopilot, barely a thought behind them. But today, he’d hesitated.

It happened when he reached for the comb. Just a flicker of something, quiet and strange. A pause that didn’t belong. Like a thought waiting to take shape, or a presence just behind his shoulder.

The memory surfaced before he could stop it. The clink of utensils. The muted glow of Hwang Inho’s office. The air, heavy with him. It had been a normal work evening, should have been, but it hadn’t. Not when the alpha had taken over the meal completely, lifting each bite to Gihun’s lips, waiting until he opened his mouth.

Not when his touch had been steady, deliberate, fingers brushing the corner of his mouth, lingering just a little too long. Not when his voice had wrapped around him, smooth and quiet, every word slipping under his skin before he knew what to do with it.

"You don’t take care of yourself properly, do you?"

A soft click of his tongue followed, like the answer was obvious. Like he’d already made up his mind.

"Let someone do it for you once in a while."

The bite of bossam had been perfect: crisp lettuce, tender meat, the tang of kimchi. Plain. Familiar. But the way Inho had pressed it into his fingers, held it there, waiting—that had made it anything but.

Gihun had laughed. Awkward, brushing it off. Too much thought over nothing. Just a strange little gesture. A quirk.

It didn’t mean anything.

But the way Hwang Inho’s fingers had paused, right at the seam of his lips, not moving, not quite pulling back...

Just a second too long.

And yet, even now, the thought felt ridiculous. There was nothing there. Nothing to think about. Nothing to remember. He was only hesitating because... Because of what?

Gihun let out a sharp breath, brushing the thought away. He was just overthinking. That was all.

And now here he was, standing in front of the mirror, comb poised in his grip, fingers smoothing through his hair with more care than usual. Letting it fall a little softer. A little differently.

Because on Monday morning, Inho had looked at him. Not just glanced, looked. Over the rim of his coffee cup, gaze steady, expression unreadable but not unkind. That quiet sort of amusement he always wore when he knew more than he said.

"You should let your hair fall like that more often, Gihun-ssi."

Just a casual remark. Something thrown offhand. But it landed deeper than it should have.

"Your hair. You always push it back so quickly, but it suits you like this."

A simple observation, said like fact. No teasing. No question.

Gihun had blinked, fingers twitching against the warm ceramic of his mug. “Huh?”

Inho had only smiled. Small. Knowing. Like he’d seen something Gihun hadn’t even realized was showing.

And just like that, the moment had folded in on itself, tucked away under the part of his brain trained to let things go.

Now, as Gihun adjusted his reflection, his fingers brushed lightly over his jaw, the line of his collar. Making sure everything sat just right. The thought of being seen, really seen, pressed against his chest. Subtle, but hard to shake.

“It suits you.”

Gihun exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. He was reading too much into it. That was all. And yet, as he grabbed his bag and stepped out the door, the weight of Hwang Inho’s gaze still lingered, like it had settled somewhere on his skin.

And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t entirely mind being looked at.

The office was the same as always: emails piling up, people moving quickly between desks, the usual low buzz of activity humming through the floor. Gihun spent most of the morning buried in reports, barely glancing up from his screen except to sip at his coffee. By noon, he felt wrung out. His stomach was empty, but his head felt worse: foggy, heavy.

With a quiet sigh, he pushed back from his desk and stretched, arms reaching overhead until his shoulders cracked. Maybe a walk. Just down the hall. The lounge, even. Anything to shake off the tightness from sitting too long.

As he rounded the corner near the executive wing, a few voices caught his ear: low, steady, the kind that didn’t need volume to carry weight. Alphas.

At first, he didn’t think much of it. But something in the rhythm of their conversation made him slow, pausing just outside the glass-walled conference room. Inside, a handful of executives stood clustered together, sharp in their suits, talking like they had nothing to prove.

And right in the middle of them—calm, composed, utterly unbothered—stood Hwang Inho.

It took him a second to realize what they were actually saying. Omegas. They were talking about omegas. The conversation wasn’t crude, nothing overt, but there was an ease to it. The kind of ease reserved for things that were admired, collected. Like a good watch. A tailored suit. A vintage bottle of wine.

“You know how it is,” one of them chuckled. “Some alphas like them delicate, soft-spoken. The type that knows how to behave.”

Another gave a low laugh. “And others want a little bite. Spunky ones. The kind that play hard to get but melt the second you get a hand on them.”

Gihun’s fingers twitched at his sides. His face felt hot, though he couldn’t tell if it was anger or something else. He should’ve walked away. He knew that. He had no reason to be standing there, listening.

But then—

“So, Inho-ssi,” someone asked, grinning over the rim of a glass, “what about you? What’s your type?”

Gihun’s chest tightened. He wasn’t sure why his breath caught. Why suddenly, for reasons he didn’t want to look too closely at, he needed to know.

Inho answered with ease, like it didn’t cost him a second of thought—“I don’t think I have a single type.”

A few of the alphas scoffed at the vague answer, but Inho only tilted his head slightly, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“It’s not just about looks or personality,” he continued, voice smooth, deliberate. “It’s about instinct.”

Someone laughed. “That’s a damn vague answer.”

Inho let the moment hang, the trace of a smile still on his face. “Is it?

The way he said it—too steady, too sure—sent something down Gihun’s spine.

“Instincts tell you a lot,” Inho went on, his voice low enough to draw in the room without trying. “It’s not about what looks good on paper. It’s about the way someone reacts to you. The way they hesitate. The way they breathe when you’re close.”

The room went quiet for a second, a slow ripple of agreement moving through the group. But Gihun barely registered it. His fingers curled into his sleeves, his stomach twisting.

The way they hesitate. The way they breathe when you’re close. The words were still there, stuck in his head, circling back over and over, pressing against something in his chest he didn’t want to look at too closely.

He shouldn’t care. He knew that. But the way Inho had said it, it felt like being touched without warning. Like something brushing too close beneath the surface.

And the worst part? He couldn’t even tell what had unsettled him more. The answer itself… Or the way his whole body had reacted to hearing it.

The office had begun its slow descent into silence. The usual hum of conversation had faded to a few scattered voices, the steady clack of keyboards replaced by the low whir of the air conditioning. Most employees had already packed up for the night, their absence making the space feel larger. Emptier.

Gihun stood by Hwang Inho’s desk, shifting his weight as he handed over the final set of documents. He was tired. The kind of tired that sank deep, more weight than fatigue. But this was the last thing. Then he could go.

His boss took the folder without hurry, flipping through the pages with that same unreadable calm. A brief nod.

“Good.”

Relief stirred in Gihun’s chest. “Great. Then I’ll—”

“You know,” the alpha cut in, voice smooth, almost idle, like the thought had just slipped free, “your scent lingers in here.”

Gihun stilled. “What?”

The alpha glanced up, his tone still easy, but his eyes lingering a moment too long.

“I notice it when I come in after you’ve been here,” he mused, leaning back in his chair, fingers idly tapping against the folder. “It lingers longer than most.”

Heat crept up the back of Gihun’s neck. The idea, that something of him stayed behind, even after he left, landed strangely. Heavy. It curled low in his stomach, and he couldn’t quite tell what it was.

“I—” He let out a quiet, awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“That’s just—uh, maybe the air circulation’s bad in here.”

His boss made a quiet, thoughtful sound. “Maybe.”

But the way he said it made it clear he didn’t believe that at all.

A beat of silence followed. Not long, but long enough to stretch—just enough to settle between them in a way that felt too still.

Then Gihun stepped back. “Anyway, I should—”

Hwang Inho didn’t stop him. Didn’t say anything else. But as Gihun walked out, he felt it—that strange, quiet pull. The weight of being watched. Noticed. It clung to him, faint but unmistakable, like the air still held something of their conversation. Like the room hadn’t quite let go of him.

And worse, as he made his way through the empty office, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way the air moved around him.

Whether his scent still lingered.

Whether Inho was still breathing it in.

The apartment was quiet, except for the occasional clatter of dishes and the low hum of the television in the background. The weekend had slipped into its usual rhythm: slow, unhurried, the kind of stillness where the hours all blurred together.

Gihun stood by the sink, rinsing out a coffee mug, while Sangwoo sat at the dining table, flipping through his phone with half-interest.

The air between them was familiar. Comfortable in that way routines get, once you stop thinking about them.

Sangwoo had cooked earlier. Nothing fancy, just some leftover rice fried up with eggs and whatever else had been in the fridge. Gihun had done the dishes. It was unspoken, automatic.

“Sangwoo-yah, hand me a towel,” he said, shaking water from his fingers.

The alpha didn’t even look up.

“Use your shirt.”

He shook his head, drying his hands. This alpha, I swear... The corners of his mouth twitched anyway. He grabbed a dishcloth, drying his hands before dropping onto the couch with a sigh. Finally.

“You keep sighing like that, I’ll think you’re bored,” Sangwoo muttered, barely glancing away from his screen.

“I am bored,” Gihun grumbled, stretching like a cat. “This is how people start adopting pets they’re not ready for.”

“You say that, but if I suggested it, you’d just complain.”

“Tch.” Gihun muttered, not bothering to come up with a defense. He’d get all dramatic about staying in, then spend the whole time outside wanting to come home. Sangwoo knew him too well, it was annoying.

His phone buzzed. He almost ignored it, assuming it was another pointless notification, until something made him look. Something instinctual. Like a shift in the air.

His stomach dipped.

Hwang Inho. The name was right there at the top of his screen, clear and sharp against the light.

His fingers tightened around the phone. Why was his boss messaging him? On a weekend?

Before he even thought about it, he tilted the screen slightly, angling it away from Sangwoo’s view. The reaction was immediate. Automatic. Like something in him already knew to hide it.

His pulse kicked up as he opened the message.

Hwang Inho: Gihun-ssi. I need a document from Friday. It wasn’t attached to the report you sent.

Gihun let out a quiet breath. Work. Of course it was work.

And yet, the tight feeling in his chest didn’t ease. The buzz along his skin didn’t go anywhere.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Gihun: Oh, sorry about that. Which one?

He hit send, trying to will his heart to calm down. It was probably nothing. Just the surprise of seeing Inho’s name outside office hours. That was all.

His phone buzzed again, quicker this time.

Hwang Inho: The project summary. Check your email, it should be in your drafts.

Gihun frowned. He could’ve sworn he sent everything.

But maybe he missed something.

Gihun: I’ll check now.

Sangwoo shifted on the couch, tossing his phone onto the table. “Who’s that?”

Gihun’s chest tightened. His brain answered before he could think. “Hyunju.”

The lie came out smooth. Easy. Unnecessary. But it slipped out before he could stop it.

Why had he said that?

He wasn’t sure.

Sangwoo glanced over, vaguely suspicious for half a second, then let it go. A beta. Nothing to worry about.

“Yah, she doesn’t know when to leave you alone, does she?” He shook his head. “What, she lonely or something?”

Gihun gave a weak chuckle. “Probably.”

Hyunju wouldn’t text him for no reason, especially not on a Saturday. But Sangwoo didn’t know that. And somehow… Gihun was glad he didn’t.

His palms felt slightly damp, but he kept his tone light, stretching as he stood. “I’ll check what she wants real quick.”

Sangwoo barely looked up, already scrolling through his phone again.

Once inside the bedroom, Gihun grabbed his laptop and opened his email. His drafts folder was empty.

He blinked.

There was no missing document.

His phone buzzed again.

Hwang Inho: Did you find it?

Gihun hesitated. Then, before he could stop himself, before he could think too hard, he typed back:

Me: There’s nothing in my drafts. Are you sure I forgot it?

The reply came fast.

Hwang Inho: Mm. Maybe I was mistaken.

Gihun stared at the screen, a strange tightness curling low in his stomach. What—

Another message appeared.

Hwang Inho: Hope I didn’t disturb your weekend.

His throat felt dry.

There was something about the wording. Too casual. Too polite. It didn’t read like a real apology. As if Hwang Inho knew exactly what he was doing.

Gihun’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. His first instinct was to keep it professional. Something like: No problem, I’ll double-check everything on Monday. That would’ve been safer.

But instead, without really thinking, he typed:

Me: It’s fine. I wasn’t doing much anyway.

A pause. A few seconds. Then:

Hwang Inho: Good.

That was it. Just that. And still, the weight of it settled over him, curling around his thoughts like smoke. He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

His phone buzzed again.

Hwang Inho: You should enjoy your time off. Weekends are meant for unwinding.

Gihun bit his lip.

Something about it didn’t sit right. Not in a bad way, just in a way that made his chest feel a little too tight. It wasn’t a bad message. But it landed weird, like someone had reached too gently into a space they shouldn’t even know existed.

Before he could type anything back, a voice rang out from the living room.

“Gihun-ah, what the hell are you doing?”

Sangwoo.

Gihun blinked, snapping out of it. He shut the laptop quickly.

“I’m coming!”

His phone screen dimmed, Inho’s message still faintly visible in the dark. For some reason, he didn’t delete it.

The meeting had stretched longer than expected, the air thick with the residual weight of discussion. The low murmur of departing voices faded as chairs scraped against polished floors, executives filtering out one by one. Gihun barely noticed. He was still gathering his notes, exhaustion weighing heavy in his limbs, dragging at the edges of his focus. And then, something caught his eye.

A handkerchief, embroidered and pristine, lay abandoned near the head of the table. White silk, delicate yet undeniably expensive, folded with a precision that suggested it hadn’t simply been misplaced.

Hwang sajangnim’s.

A small frown pulled at Gihun’s lips. It wasn’t like Inho to be careless. The man was always precise, meticulous in every detail. Gihun had seen it firsthand, had been on the receiving end of that sharp, exacting attention more times than he could count. Leaving something behind felt... off.

Still, his hand moved toward it before he could talk himself out of it.

The moment he touched the fabric, he froze.

The scent hit him all at once: rich, sharp, unmistakably alpha. Not just any alpha. Hwang Inho.

His breath caught. Something in his chest pulled tight, instincts reacting before logic could intervene. The scent coiled in his lungs, thick and lingering, sitting heavy in his nose and throat.

It was strong. Too strong. Not the kind left behind from a casual touch, but something deeper. Pressed into. Gripped.

The kind of scent alphas only left behind in moments that mattered. Intimate moments.

His stomach twisted.

Oh. Oh, no.

Gihun’s grip faltered, his fingers trembling around the soft silk. For a split second, he almost dropped it, like letting go could undo the fact that he’d already touched it. That he’d breathed it in. That some primal part of his body had already reacted before his brain had a say.

His mouth was dry.

He should return it. March to his boss’s office, set it down, and pretend none of this had happened. That he hadn’t—

But he didn’t.

Instead, his fingers curled tighter around the fabric. And before he could stop himself, before his brain could catch up with what his body had already decided, he was slipping it into his bag.

The apartment was still when he got home, the hush of emptiness settling over him like a too-familiar weight. Another weekend alone. Another business trip. Another absence that didn’t change anything. Gihun let his bag slump against the couch and exhaled slowly, his limbs dragging with the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from one day—it had been building all week.

All he wanted was mindless noise. A phone screen. The blur of time passing until sleep pulled him under. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t have the energy.

Until his eyes landed on the bag.

His stomach turned. No. No, he wasn’t thinking about it. He’d forgotten. He had forgotten.

But his hands were already moving. Already reaching. Already unzipping.

Silk brushed his skin as he pulled it out: smooth, expensive, too soft in his fingers.

He should’ve left it. Should’ve dropped it the second he touched it. Should’ve never, never—

His pulse jumped. His throat closed up.

Just a small whiff.

The thought came fast. Instinctual. Terrible.

He shouldn’t, he knew he shouldn’t, but his hands were already lifting it closer.

His fingers trembled, hovering near his face, barely a breath away. His skin prickled. His chest tightened. A slow warmth started to build under his ribs, curling low in his stomach, coiling at the base of his spine.

It’s just curiosity, he told himself. Just one breath. Just to figure it out.

Maybe it wasn’t even Inho’s scent. Maybe it was cologne. Or detergent. Or someone else’s scent layered over time.

He just needed to confirm. That was all. One breath, and he’d know. And then he could stop thinking about it.

He inhaled.

Heat licked down his spine. His stomach flipped. His breath caught. His chest clenched tight as something deep in him responded, fast and instinctive, before his mind could stop it.

Oh.

A sharp pulse of want tore through him: raw, unexpected, blooming in places that had no business feeling warm.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was just scent. Just chemistry. That’s all. A biological thing. Instinct. It wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about Hwang Inho.

His thighs pressed together, a reflex that only made it worse: sharper, hotter, the tingle racing up his spine like a current he couldn’t shut off. Why— why did it smell so good?

A broken sound slipped out of him, barely a whisper, but enough to make his ears burn. Shame rushed up his neck, hot and fast. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

He yanked the handkerchief away from his face like it had scorched him, stuffing it back into his bag, his fingers shaking with the effort.

What was he doing? What the hell was he doing?

It was nothing. Just a strong scent. Too strong. Maybe all alpha scents were like that if they were concentrated enough. He’d never been around one that intense before. That was it. That’s all it was. His body just... overreacted.

Nothing more.

But his body still felt too warm. His stomach still too tight. His skin still remembered.

He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat, trying—begging—himself to forget. To shove this whole thing into the back of his mind where it could sit and rot, unacknowledged.

Because this was insane. This was wrong.

This was… his boss.

Another shiver tore through him, sharp and sudden. 

And before he could think, before he could even start to process what he’d just done, he yanked the covers over his head and curled inward, as if folding in on himself could cool the heat still clinging to his skin.

He would never touch that handkerchief again. Never.

And yet.

Deep in the night, when he shifted in his sleep, breath soft, body aching with something unfinished—

His fingers twitched toward the bag.

As if something in him still remembered.

The apartment was suffocating in its emptiness. It wasn’t just quiet. It was the kind of silence that crept in from all sides, clung to the walls, sat heavy in his chest. The kind that made him feel like he wasn’t really there at all.

Gihun sat at the kitchen table, hands limp in his lap, head bowed as he stared at the pitiful slice of cake in front of him. The cheap plastic fork lay untouched beside it. He’d taken one bite earlier, but the taste had gone flat in his mouth. It sat in his stomach like a stone.

He’d bought it for himself. Because no one else had.

A shaky breath slipped out of him. His chest tightened, his throat burned, and before he could stop it, tears welled in his eyes, slipping hot and bitter down his cheeks.

He sucked in a breath that hitched at the edges, swallowing hard. Hating the sting in his eyes. Hating the ache curling tight inside him. He’d told himself it didn’t matter. Over and over again. That birthdays weren’t important. That he didn’t need anyone to remember.

But it still hurt.

It wasn’t just that Sangwoo had forgotten. It was that he’d left. No pause. No second look. Just grabbed his coat and walked out. He’d looked right at Gihun before he went, and still hadn’t seen a damn thing.

Gihun wiped at his face, but the tears kept coming. Quiet. Relentless. Slipping past his fingers, soaking into his skin, hitting the table with soft, humiliating drops.

He felt small. Pathetic. Forty years old and still sitting there like a kid left standing in the doorway, waiting for someone who was never going to turn around.

His phone buzzed.

The sound sliced through the silence, sharp enough to make his whole body flinch.

For one stupid second, his heart leapt. Sangwoo. Maybe he’d remembered. Maybe he was—

No. It wasn’t him.

Hwang Inho.

Gihun’s breath caught. A tight, crawling feeling twisted low in his chest. That man. That damn man.

Lately, his boss had made a habit of texting Gihun, of seeking him out, of slipping into his life in the quietest, subtlest ways. And Gihun—stupid, pathetic, lonely Gihun—had let him. Hadn’t even questioned it. Just let it happen, like it was normal. Like it was okay.

Because somehow, the alpha always knew when to reach out. Always picked the right moments. And tonight was one of them.

His fingers shook as he opened the message.

Didn’t think I’d find you on your phone on a Friday night.

His vision was still blurry. He wiped at his eyes, trying to steady his breath, trying to piece himself back together. He hesitated, then typed:

Me: It’s not a Friday night kind of Friday night.

The reply came instantly.

Hwang Inho: That sounds cryptic.

A small, breathy laugh escaped him, dry, humorless.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, uncertain. But then again… who else was he going to talk to?

Me: Just one of those days, you know?

A pause. 

Hwang Inho: Elaborate.

Gihun swallowed hard. His throat was raw. His hands were unsteady. He didn’t have to tell him. Didn’t have to say anything at all. But the words left him anyway.

Me: It’s my birthday.

Another pause. Longer this time.

For a second, he thought that would be it. That Inho wouldn’t respond. That the conversation had already died, the kind of awkward silence you don’t come back from. Just a stray fact tossed out and left hanging.

But then—

Hwang Inho: And?

And?

Gihun’s jaw tensed.

Me: And nothing. Well… not nothing. Mom called. Minyeo too. But—

His stomach twisted.

But not him.

He hovered over the screen, thumb hesitating. He almost deleted the message. Almost closed the app entirely. But the weight of Inho’s presence, steady and watching, made something come loose in him.

The reply didn’t come right away this time. When it did, it felt slower. Calculated.

Hwang Inho: But not your alpha?

Gihun felt his stomach drop. His breath hitched. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

The silence between them stretched, pressing into his chest, filling the hollow space inside him with something thick and hard to breathe through.

Hwang Inho: You’re alone, then?

He blinked. The question landed strange, settling uncomfortably in his chest. It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t even a guess. It was confirmation. A careful, deliberate check.

Something about it made the back of his neck prickle.

Me: Yeah. Sangwoo’s out with colleagues. Won’t be back until tomorrow.

His fingers hovered over the screen. He shouldn’t have said that. He knew it the second he hit send. It felt like handing something over.

The next message came fast.

Hwang Inho: Meet me in the office.

His mind stalled.

Me: What? It’s late.

Hwang Inho: You’re off work, aren’t you? Took a few days for yourself?

He hesitated. He had taken time off. It felt pointless now, but he’d still done it.

Me: Yeah…

Hwang Inho: Then you have no reason not to come.

A sharp, unsteady breath left him. His hands trembled slightly as he stared at the words.

Something desperate clawed at his chest. Something in him screamed: say no, say no, say no—

But he didn’t.

Because he was miserable.

Because he had nothing.

Because the thought of sitting here in this cold, empty apartment—with nothing but the echo of what he wasn’t, of what he’d never be—felt unbearable.

So before he could think, before he could stop himself, before he could talk himself out of it, he typed:

Alright.

It barely even sounded like him in his own head. He didn’t know why he agreed.

Maybe because he didn’t want to be alone.

Maybe because, in some twisted corner of his heart, it felt like someone had chosen him, even if just for tonight.

Maybe because, for the first time that day, someone had seen him.

And even if it was Hwang Inho. Even if it felt a little dangerous. Even if he knew he should be asking himself why—

He couldn’t bring himself to care.

The office was nearly silent, the usual hum of voices and keyboard clatter long gone.

Beyond the glass, the city stretched in endless lights, cars like veins in the dark, buildings lit like static stars. Cold. Distant. Nothing like the warmth Gihun had spent his whole life craving.

He stood by the window, arms loosely folded, barely registering his own hollow reflection. Eyes red-rimmed. Shoulders heavy. Caving in from the inside out.

Pathetic. Spending his birthday like this. Waiting for someone who never remembered.

Sangwoo had left without a word. Hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t seen him. It shouldn’t have mattered, not like this, but it did. It always did. And now he was here, aching in the quiet, drowning in the dull shame of being so easily forgotten.

A sound behind him made him turn.

Inho stood by the couch, not behind his desk, not behind any of the usual barriers. Just there. Closer than he should’ve been.

Hands in his pockets. Posture relaxed. Eyes sharp, taking in every inch of him.

He didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move. Just watched.

“I had a feeling you wouldn’t be celebrating,” he said, voice low.

Gihun let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Is that why you called me here?”

Inho didn’t answer right away. He reached into his coat, pulling out something small, wrapped in dark blue paper, and held it out without a word.

Gihun blinked. “What’s this?”

“A gift,” Inho said, a faint curl of something unreadable in his expression.

Hesitating, Gihun took it, his fingers brushing briefly against Inho’s. The paper crinkled as he peeled it back, and the moment he saw the cover, his breath caught.

The Little Fox and the Moon.

His lungs stuttered. No. No, it couldn’t be. But it was.

He traced the embossed title with trembling fingers, following the worn edges like they might vanish if he blinked. It wasn’t a reprint. It was old. Real. The book he’d mentioned once, barely a sentence. The one he’d quietly given up on ever finding again.

It hit him slowly, an ache blooming deep in his chest: a memory, soft and out of focus. Afternoons under a blanket. The fox’s small steps across the pages. The quiet rustle of paper. The warmth of someone’s voice beside him—steady, gentle, pulling him into a world that felt safer than his own. A space where everything made sense.

He hadn’t let himself think about this book in years. Not because it didn’t matter, but because it reminded him of a version of himself that didn’t feel real anymore. The child who had once believed there was more than what life had handed him. Who had once dared to be hopeful.

Inho remembered.

And that thought, that fact, settled deep in Gihun’s chest, pressing into him with a weight he couldn’t name. He’d spent years telling himself no one really saw him, that no one looked closely enough to care. Yet here it was. Proof. Wrapped in his hands. A reminder of something he’d forgotten how to want.

His fingers trembled as they moved over the cover, like the book might vanish if he touched it too hard. It was real. It was real. And still, his mind refused to believe it, like the impossibility had wrapped itself tight around his throat.

“How…” His voice cracked, rough and exposed. He swallowed, tried again, the words barely a whisper. “How did you—”

But the question died before he could finish it. Because he knew. This book was rare: long out of print, swallowed by time, nearly impossible to find.

The last time he’d searched, he’d given up almost immediately; heart sinking at the price tags, the archive listings, the copies locked behind glass in private collections. He’d told himself he’d never hold it again, never touch the pages that had once felt like safety, like someone had written them just for him.

And yet, here it was. Hwang Inho had found it. Had gotten it.

A cold, disbelieving feeling curled in Gihun’s stomach. It didn’t make sense. This wasn’t something you stumbled across. It wasn’t something an alpha like him should’ve even known to look for.

“I listen,” Inho said simply.

Two words. That was all. But they landed like a blow; sharp, sudden, deeper than Gihun could brace for.

His breath caught. His chest ached. Because who remembered the things he said without thinking? Who ever cared enough to find something this rare, this expensive, just because?

Sangwoo never had. No one ever had.

But Inho did.

His fingers tightened around the book until his knuckles ached, but he didn’t let go. Couldn’t. He couldn’t process it, couldn’t understand why, and yet Inho was watching him like he already knew, like he’d been waiting for this moment to land.

Gihun exhaled shakily, pressing the heel of his hand to his temple. “This… this book is expensive, Inho-ssi, I—I don’t…”

A quiet chuckle. Smooth. Amused. “It was a bit of a challenge,” the alpha said, tilting his head slightly. “But I don’t mind a challenge.”

A pause. The air shifted.

Then, lower—softer: “Not when I decide I want something.”

The simplicity of it, the certainty in his tone, made something tremble deep in Gihun’s chest. Wanted it. Like that was all it took. Like wanting made it his.

And Gihun wasn’t sure he wanted to find out what else Inho might be capable of, if he decided he wanted something.

His heart pounded, thoughts tangled beyond repair as he stared down at the book in his lap, fingers gripping the edges too tightly. “I don’t—how did you even—”

The words tumbled out too fast, breathless and thin, his hands flailing slightly, as if that could somehow help make sense of what he was holding.

Inho just watched. Unreadable. Steady. Then, something shifted. Not pity. Not amusement. A flicker of understanding. Satisfaction.

For a second, just a fraction, Gihun thought Inho wasn’t going to do it. The moment stretched, thin and fragile, too far. Inho was still close, unbearably close, his scent curling thick in the air between them. But he didn’t move. He just watched, and the weight of it pressed down like a silent question.

Was this going to happen? Was this real?

Gihun’s breath caught, pulse thrumming erratically under his skin. It felt like the world had paused, like time had collapsed into the space between what could happen and what would.

Then the alpha moved.

No warning. No slow approach. Just a sharp, deliberate pull, like something snapping into place. And then—his lips. On him. No hesitation. No moment to understand. Just heat and motion and the collapse of every boundary.

Sangwoo.

The name barely formed before it drowned in the sensation of lips that weren’t his. Not Sangwoo’s. Someone else’s.

What was he doing? What was he letting happen? He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be with Sangwoo. The man who had never kissed him like this. Never—

But Inho’s lips moved against his, firm and certain, and everything else broke beneath it. His thoughts. His rules. His reasons.

This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

Gihun’s breath hitched, his mind stuttering to a halt. This was the CEO. His boss. Hwang sajangnim. The man whose name was spoken with reverence in every meeting. The one who could command a room with a glance. The one who should not—

But Gihun was already in it. The heat of Inho’s mouth against his, his breath stolen before he even had a chance to protest. Firm, unyielding. Certain.

He froze, body locked, lips parted mid-sentence, thoughts scattered like leaves in wind. Inho’s kiss was too warm, searing like a brand. A sharp, involuntary gasp slipped out, only to be swallowed immediately. His hands twitched, fingers curling uselessly. There was nothing to hold onto. Nothing to steady him.

The book slipped from his grasp with a dull, forgotten thud.

And none of it mattered.

All that remained was the alpha’s body pressing into his, that kiss drawing out something raw, helpless, and impossibly real.

Inho’s breath was slow. Measured. Controlled. Like he had all the time in the world. Like he knew exactly what he was doing, and didn’t doubt, even for a second, that Gihun would let him. That realization sent a violent shudder down Gihun’s spine, something sharp and helpless unraveling inside him.

He barely had time to react before Inho pulled back, just an inch. Close enough that Gihun could still feel his breath against his lips, warm and steady, maddeningly deliberate. He blinked, startled, lips still parted. Still caught.

Inho’s eyes met his. Dark, unreadable—but under the polish, there was heat. Weight. Certainty. The tilt of his head, the slow drop of his gaze, said everything before Gihun could even think to stop it.

He was going to take more.

And this time, Gihun didn’t pull away. Didn’t resist. Because the alpha was taking, and Gihun… Gihun was letting him. His body moved before his mind caught up, and a soft, traitorous noise broke in his throat. Half gasp, half whimper. He barely recognized it.

His hands found Inho’s chest, fingers spreading over the crisp fabric of his shirt, gripping just enough to feel the heat beneath. Too firm. Too steady. Too real.

Sangwoo had touched him before. Had kissed him, fucked him, pulled him close in the quiet of night like it meant something. But it had never felt like this. Never like Gihun was something to be unraveled over. Never like he was something that could make an alpha come undone. Never like his name could be a prayer, caught between gasps, his body the answer to a question he’d never dared ask.

He had never felt like this. Like something to be ruined for.

Because he wasn’t that kind of omega. Not the kind alphas fought over. Not the kind they chased. Sangwoo had told him once, too casually to be cruel, too easily to be a lie—

“You’re just not the kind of omega alphas fight over.”

And Gihun had believed it. Let it bury itself in his bones, let it shape everything he was. But now, with Inho pressed close, mouth hot against his, hands gripping like he was something worth holding onto—

What was this, then?

What was this, if not proof that Sangwoo had been wrong?

Inho exhaled slowly, breath warm against Gihun’s damp lips, the kind of closeness that claimed rather than soothed. His fingers moved with purpose, dragging over Gihun’s ribs, his sides, like he was learning him by touch. Committing him to memory.

And God, his hands were hot; heat that sank straight through fabric, through skin, all the way down, until Gihun’s knees threatened to give.

The next kiss was deeper. Hungrier. A slow, deliberate claiming: lips parting, warmth sinking into his nerves, into every inch of space between them.

Sangwoo would hate him for this. If he ever found out—

But Sangwoo never kissed him like this. Never lingered. Never pressed in like he wanted to devour him. The thought curled low in Gihun’s stomach, sharp and sick. But it wasn’t enough to stop him. Nothing was.

He could almost hear Sangwoo’s voice now, dry and mocking: You really are pathetic, Gihun. Can’t even hold yourself together for one night?

He should stop. He should pull away.

Now.

But then Inho’s hands were on him—pressing, holding, demanding—and his body wasn’t listening anymore. A gasp caught in his throat, swallowed by Inho’s mouth, and then his jaw was tilted up, fingers firm, guiding him exactly where the alpha wanted him.

A moan slipped out before he could stop it. Soft. Shameful. His whole body betrayed him, melting into the touch, into the heat, into the unbearable weight of being wanted—so deliberately, so completely—he thought it might ruin him.

This was wrong. So, so wrong.

This was the man who signed his paychecks. The man who sat at the head of the conference table: distant, untouchable. The man whose name Gihun had only ever spoken with caution, with formality, with restraint.

And now it was tangled on his tongue, lost between breathless gasps that sounded too much like surrender.

They stumbled back, and before Gihun could register it, cushions hit the backs of his knees. A sharp breath left him, but Inho didn’t stop. He guided Gihun down, body pressing close, hands skimming along his sides and waist; touching him with a certainty that made Gihun feel like he belonged there. Like Inho had no intention of letting go.

He shouldn’t be here. Not like this.

The thought clawed at him, frantic: You work for him.

But then Inho’s fingers tightened at his waist, grounding him, and the words scattered like ash.

Sangwoo had never touched him like this. Never held him with this kind of purpose. Never pressed him down like he was something to take.

Would he even care? The thought hit so hard it stole the air from his lungs. Would Sangwoo even be angry if he found out?

Or would he just look at him the way he always did, like Gihun wasn’t worth the jealousy? Like he wasn’t even worth looking at at all.

Heat coiled low in Gihun’s stomach as Inho’s hands roamed—palms pressing firm over his thighs, fabric bunching beneath his grip, fingers ghosting along his ribs like he was tracing a map he already knew. Gihun gasped when the alpha’s mouth dragged down, laying open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, down the line of his throat. His breath hitched, fingers clutching at Inho’s shoulders, caught between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

But Inho didn’t waver. Didn’t hesitate. He only pressed deeper, the warmth of his weight steady, anchoring. Each movement slow, deliberate, a quiet, wordless claim.

And then another kiss, rougher this time. Insistent. Demanding. Gihun moaned into it before he could stop himself, body yielding without permission, drawn helplessly into the heat and hunger of it. Inho groaned low, a sound of dark satisfaction, and his hands gripped tighter, pressing Gihun deeper into the couch, slotting him into place like he belonged there. Teeth grazed his lower lip before pulling it in: slow, deep, a tease, a promise, a warning.

The omega shuddered. This wasn’t just a kiss, this was possession. A slow, deliberate unraveling, peeling him open piece by piece, stripping him down into something malleable, something willing, something desperate to be touched. And Inho took his time, letting him feel every inch of it, every intention, every unspoken promise.

And Gihun let himself drown. Because it had been too long. Because he had been alone too long. Because this was what it felt like to be seen. To be wanted. And he didn’t want it to stop.

Inho’s hands were everywhere—gripping, holding, claiming. Gihun didn’t even know when they had moved to the couch, when he’d ended up straddling the alpha’s lap, legs bracketing his thighs. He couldn’t think past the heat of it, past the way this man kissed him; slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world. His breath came in short, uneven gasps as fingers dug into his waist, pulling him close, anchoring him in place. The weight of it, the strength of it, the way Inho’s mouth moved against his—deep, thorough, wanting—left no room for thought.

Until something cracked through the haze. A creeping, cold awareness.

What was he doing?

The thought hit like ice down his spine.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This couldn’t happen.

Sangwoo.

It slammed into him like a freight train.

Sangwoo. Sangwoo. Sangwoo.

The name pulsed in his head, louder than the rush of blood in his ears, louder than Inho’s breath against his skin. Sangwoo. Gihun had someone. He already belonged to someone. Even if Sangwoo never said it. Even if he never showed it. Even if he kept him at arm’s length. Still, Gihun had always been his. So what the fuck was he doing in another alpha’s lap?

They couldn’t.

His chest tightened, a panicked breath catching hard in his throat. The wrongness of it hit all at once: thick, suffocating. He felt it now: the weight of Sangwoo, the scent of him still faint on his skin, still embedded in his life in ways he had never questioned. And yet here he was, straddling another alpha, melting under his hands, moaning into his mouth like it meant nothing.

No. No, no, no.

The panic surged up like bile. His fingers, weakly curled at Inho’s shoulders, suddenly pushed.

“Stop.”

But Inho growled: low, guttural, unsteady. Like the word hadn’t registered, or worse, didn’t matter. His grip only tightened. His mouth found Gihun’s jaw again, breath hot, needy, unwilling to let go.

Gihun shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t have let it get this far. Because this wasn’t just an alpha. This wasn’t some mistake in the dark, a forgettable kiss with a stranger he’d never see again. This was his CEO. His boss. The man with absolute control over his future. The man whose voice commanded entire rooms, whose approval could make or break careers, whose influence stretched further than Gihun could fathom. And Gihun—stupid, reckless, pathetic Gihun—had let him take.

“Stop.”

He pushed harder. Inho stilled, just for a breath. A sharp inhale, a flicker of hesitation. Then Gihun was off him, scrambling back like he’d touched fire, chest heaving, breath sharp and uneven. His hands gripped the edge of the couch, trembling, his whole body thrumming with something dangerously close to panic. But the scent lingered. On his skin. In his lungs. Like it had already claimed space inside him, sinking in too deep. His body still burned where Inho had touched him: warm, traitorous, aching.

Across from him, the alpha hadn’t moved. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers spread, right where Gihun had been just seconds before. His expression was unreadable: lips parted, pupils dark and wide, still caught in the moment’s gravity.

Then, something shifted.

A flicker crossed Inho’s face—surprise.

He hadn’t expected this.

Gihun’s chest tightened. His breath fractured, heart hammering so hard it ached. His hands trembled where they clutched the couch, lips still tingling with the ghost of a kiss that never should have happened. This was a mistake. A terrible, irreversible mistake.

He tore his gaze away, away from Inho, still sitting there, still watching, still waiting for something that wasn’t coming. Gihun’s body still hummed with the memory of being touched, of being held, of being wanted. But the moment had shattered, and all that was left was the crushing weight of what it meant.

He stumbled back; frantic, legs unsteady, hands scrambling for the book. The damn book. The reason he was here in the first place. His fingers curled tight around the cover, knuckles white, as if it could anchor him. As if it wasn’t the very thing that had started all of this.

He needed to leave. Now. Sangwoo would never forgive him.

His hands were shaking as he clutched the book, as if the tightness of his grip could undo what had just happened, what he’d let happen.

Before he wanted more.

He already did.

His heartbeat pounded, so loud it was all he could hear. His skin crawled with the memory of Inho’s hands, on his waist, his jaw, claiming him like he had any right. Gihun’s jaw ached from how easily he’d let it happen. Tilted up. Kissed. Taken. God, what the hell was wrong with him?

“I—I need to go.” His voice cracked, raw and uneven, falling apart like his thoughts. He clutched the book tighter against his chest like a lifeline.

He turned for the door, legs shaky, lungs burning. Behind him—movement. A breath. The ghost of a pull.

For one awful second, Gihun thought Inho was going to stop him, reach out, drag him back.

And worse, deep down, some terrible part of him feared he might let it happen.

But the touch never came.

No fingers around his wrist. No command to stay.

So he kept going. His steps were uneven, rushed, panicked. His hands shook. No, his whole body did.

He shoved the door open. The hallway air hit him sharp and cold, too real. Like stepping out of something suffocating only to realize he still couldn’t breathe.

Move. Keep moving.

But his legs weren’t listening. His knees buckled, a sick twist of gravity dragging him forward, and he barely caught himself, palms slamming against the wall, fingers splayed wide as he struggled to steady his breath.

Shit. Shit.

The floor pitched beneath him like he’d just surfaced too fast from something deep, something he wasn’t supposed to survive. Every breath was shallow, uneven, gasping past lips that still burned. Still remembered.

No. Don’t think about it. Don’t fucking think about it.

He gripped the wall tighter, fingers curling like he could hold himself together through sheer force. But the moment his eyes slipped shut, it ambushed him: heat, pressure, the unbearable weight of being wanted. Touched. Taken. His stomach lurched. He gagged, then swallowed it down.

He had to move. Had to leave before—

Before what? Before he turned around? Before he looked back?

The thought twisted, violent.

He forced his feet forward. One step. Then another. Each one dragging him through the thick, suffocating haze of what had just happened.

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. Because if he did, if Inho was still there, still watching, still wanting—

He didn’t know if he’d be able to walk away.

Chapter Text

The apartment was dark when Gihun stepped inside, quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant pulse of city noise outside. He shut the door behind him with more force than necessary—a dull, final sound—but it did nothing to settle the frantic beat of his heart. The air felt thick, like it had teeth, clinging to his skin until he wanted to crawl out of it. Whatever had followed him home wasn’t done with him yet.

He didn’t bother with the lights. He didn’t want to see.

His feet carried him forward on autopilot, body running on instinct. His fingers skimmed the edge of the hallway mirror, and he flinched, breath catching in his throat. A flicker of movement, just his own reflection, brushed the corner of his eye, but he didn’t look.

Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

He already knew what he’d see: the flush that hadn’t faded, the way his lips were still tender, the heat still crawling under his skin like a memory that wouldn’t let go.

Gihun’s throat constricted. No. No. This didn’t happen. His fingers twitched on the bathroom doorknob before he wrenched it open, breath sharp and uneven. The second the door clicked shut behind him, he yanked off his clothes in frantic, jerky movements, skin already crawling, stomach twisting with something that hovered between nausea and—

No. He wasn’t going to think about it.

He turned the knob hard. Water burst from the showerhead, scalding hot, steam rising fast and thick around him. He stepped under it without flinching, letting it sting, letting it burn. His hands scrubbed over his arms, chest, neck; desperate, rough. Like he could scrub it off. The weight of hands at his waist. Breath at his lips. The way his body had—

He scrubbed harder. It didn’t help. No matter how much soap he used, no matter how raw his skin felt beneath his nails, he could still feel it. The imprint of Inho’s grip. The pull of it. The way his body had betrayed him.

His stomach lurched. His breath hitched. Hands braced against the tile as his knees threatened to give.

I love Sangwoo. The words rose in his mind automatically, familiar, grounding. I belong to Sangwoo.

But even as he thought it, the echo felt hollow.

A shaky breath tore from his throat.

Gihun clenched his fists against the wall, nails biting into his palms, water pouring down his face in thick, scalding streams. He squeezed his eyes shut. It was a mistake. A moment. A lapse. That’s all.

But if it was just a mistake… why had his body responded like that?

The water pounded against his skin, a steady roar that did nothing to quiet the chaos in his head. The pressure in his chest built, tight and burning, twisting into something unbearable.

He had wanted it.

Gihun’s body locked up at the thought. His breath came fast, shallow, too thin to hold onto. His pulse roared in his ears, dizzying.

No. No—he hadn’t. He couldn’t have.

But the way he’d melted under it. The way his fingers had gripped the alpha’s shirt. The way his scent had spiked—

A violent shudder tore through him. He shut off the water with trembling hands, breath catching, uneven.

He stepped onto the cold tile and dragged a towel over himself with rough, jerky motions.

He needed to get out of here.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, he stepped back into the apartment, but the silence hit harder than it should’ve. Heavy. Suffocating. Sangwoo wasn’t home. He was alone. And for one second, just one, he wished he wasn’t.

The thought made him flinch. His stomach twisted, sharp and bitter.

No. No, he didn’t wish that. He didn’t.

His fingers curled around the kitchen counter, gripping tight. Focus. Just focus. But the apartment felt cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. And his body, still aching, still remembering, wasn’t listening.

Sangwoo would be home tomorrow. And Gihun would act like always. Be like always. Because nothing had changed. Because nothing could change. If he gave in to whatever was clawing at him, he’d fall apart.

He exhaled slowly. He just needed sleep. A reset. That was all.

The bedroom was dark, the sheets cool against his skin as he slipped into bed. Familiar. Safe. Gihun shut his eyes, willing himself to relax, to let the comfort of their shared room—the life he’d chosen, the life he told himself he belonged to—settle over him like a blanket.

But the moment he let his guard slip, his mind turned on him. The weight of another body, unfamiliar but seared into his skin. The taste of something he shouldn’t have wanted. The way Hwang Inho had looked at him. Not like a responsibility. Not like a placeholder. But like he was something to be wanted. Something worth ruining.

His breath hitched. Gihun’s fingers curled into the sheets. His body was too tense, his pulse all over the place. This was wrong. He shouldn’t be thinking about it. Shouldn’t be—

His chest ached with something deep and slow and awful.

He loved Sangwoo. Didn’t he?

His thoughts wouldn’t settle. They just kept circling, messy and loud, like something was clawing its way up from the inside. And maybe it was. His instincts had already named it, he just didn’t want to hear it. Longing. Hunger. A hollow ache. A craving that wouldn’t quit, no matter how much he tried to shove it down.

For something he wasn’t supposed to want.

For something that should’ve meant nothing.

For something that kept coming back, over and over, every time he closed his eyes.

And he wasn’t ready for that. Not even close.

He almost didn’t make it to the door that day.

Gihun had stood outside the office for too long, staring at the polished brass nameplate, willing his hands to stop shaking. His mouth was dry. His heart was beating so loud it made his teeth ache. Every part of him screamed to turn around. To pretend it never happened. To let the silence bury it.

But silence wouldn’t fix it.

So he knocked. And stepped inside.

His voice didn’t feel like his own, it scraped out of his throat, brittle and tight, as if pulled through clenched teeth.

“Hwang sajangnim.”

Inho had seen him coming. That much was obvious. He was already leaning back slightly in his chair, one hand propped against his chin in a posture that looked casual, but wasn’t. He was expecting this. Waiting for it.

“Gihun-ssi,” his boss greeted, voice smooth and steady, like the surface of still water. As if this were just another routine check-in. As if Gihun wasn’t standing there with every nerve frayed and raw.

He curled his fists at his sides, forcing himself to breathe. He had to say it. Had to take control, of something, anything. His body still buzzed like a live wire, still remembered too much.

“What happened the other night,” he said, too sharp, too brittle, “was a mistake.”

Something flickered in the alpha’s eyes. Quick. Hard to read. There, then gone. A crack in the surface.

“A mistake,” Inho repeated, as if trying it on. He said it slowly, like a word he didn’t quite believe in. His fingers tapped lazily against the armrest, his expression blank and unreadable.

Something about it felt off. Gihun had braced himself for resistance, for smug amusement, for a dismissive shrug, for something unbearable. But instead…

“Of course,” the CEO said, voice smooth as ever.

Gihun blinked.

Inho leaned back, gaze steady, movements unhurried, like the words meant nothing at all.

“I understand completely.” The faintest smile touched his lips, so slight it might have been imagined. “It won’t happen again.”

That was it?

Gihun waited for the relief. Waited for that crushing weight on his ribs to let up, for the air to feel clearer, for something, anything, to shift. But nothing did.

If anything, it pressed harder. Denser. Like the room had gotten smaller without warning. Like someone was standing behind him, watching. Like he was forgetting something important.

The silence dragged. Not just awkward. Wrong.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to feel. He hadn’t even realized how tight his shoulders were until he tried to relax them, and couldn’t. The floor under him felt off, like it might give if he moved the wrong way. And the air—God. The air felt heavier now. Like something was waiting to snap.

Why wasn’t he fighting? Why wasn’t he smirking? Why did it feel like Gihun was the one who had lost?

The alpha exhaled, soft and almost to himself, fingers tapping lightly against the desk. His gaze drifted, like he had more to say but was choosing silence instead. The pause was deliberate. Meant to be felt. And Gihun did feel it, sharp and cold, hanging in the air like something unfinished.

“What?” he pressed, hating how sharp his voice sounded.

Inho hesitated just a moment too long. Like someone weighing whether to spare another unnecessary humiliation, before offering a quiet, regretful sigh.

“I’m only sorry,” he murmured, softer now, reluctant, “because I truly thought you wanted it.”

The air shifted. Gihun’s body locked up. His lungs squeezed around nothing. His pulse skipped, then stumbled hard.

“What?”

Inho’s fingers traced along the edge of the desk—slow, deliberate. Like the alpha was still weighing every word.

“I shouldn’t say,” he mused, shaking his head slightly. His voice dropped, gentle with false restraint. “Forget it.”

Something turned in Gihun’s gut. Cold. Inevitable.

“Say what?” he pushed, teeth clenched.

Inho let out a quiet sigh. The slow, measured exhale of a man with nothing to prove. “Your body language, Gihun-ssi. Your scent. The way you carried yourself when we spoke… the way your breath caught at the wrong moments.” His voice was too soft, too knowing, curling through the room like smoke.

“I must’ve misread. But—” a small breath, careful and almost regretful, like the words cost him something— “I remember it so clearly.”

No. No, no, no. That’s not—

“Because I was so certain you wanted it. The way you replied to my messages. The way you always had something to say. How you let the conversation drag on longer than it needed to, like you didn’t want it to end.”

Gihun’s throat went dry. The floor felt wrong under his feet. Off-balance. Tilting.

He’s lying. He has to be lying.

“I remember it so clearly.” Inho leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk, gaze steady, too steady. “The way you hesitated every time I touched you,” he said, voice lower now, almost gentle. “Not because you wanted me to stop. But because you liked it.”

Gihun’s stomach twisted, a sharp, sickening pull that sent heat crawling up his throat. The air in the office had turned oppressive: too warm, too thick, too still. Like something alive pressing down on his ribs.

“The way you’d freeze,” Inho went on, peeling him open with nothing but words, “but never move away. The way you tilted your head when you spoke to me. Licked your lips when you were thinking. The way your eyes followed me across the room like you couldn’t help yourself. You must’ve known how you looked, Gihun-ssi. You must’ve known how hard it was for me to resist.”

Oh, God.

“And your scent,” Inho murmured, and Gihun nearly stumbled. “It shifted every time I got close. You knew that, didn’t you? How it deepened when I so much as looked at you.”

No. No, no, no.

“And that night,” Inho said, tilting his head slightly, gaze locked on him, “you leaned in first. Just like always. Every meeting. Every late night. Every time you’d look at me like you were waiting—like you wanted me to say something. Do something.”

Gihun’s breath hitched.

“I thought you were asking me to kiss you.”

He’s lying. He’s twisting this.

...Is he?

Had he done that?

Memories blurred—his skin burning, breath uneven, the way his body had melted, the way he’d clung to Inho’s wrist, the way his scent had spiked. Oh, God.

“But I must have misunderstood,” his boss said, voice thoughtful now, almost kind. “I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known you wanted to resist.”

Gihun’s breath came fast, shallow, his chest tight with something he couldn’t name. Panic slid through his veins, slow and dark, thick as ink.

I did this. I made him think I wanted it.

His own body had betrayed him, signaled something desperate. Something humiliating.

“Regardless,” Hwang Inho said, perfectly smooth, perfectly poised, “it won’t happen again.”

Just like that. As if it had been a misunderstanding. As if the alpha weren’t watching him. As if he didn’t already know.

“You should get back to work, Gihun-ssi.”

He turned. Weak. Shaking. His entire body felt wrong, like it wasn’t his. His mind was spiraling too fast to catch a breath.

He had to get out.

So he did.

Gihun moved through the office like a ghost. Voices hummed in the distance—the low murmur of conversation, the soft clatter of keyboards—but none of it felt real. Even his own footsteps sounded muffled, like they were happening underwater, disconnected from his body, from the ground beneath him.

The world should’ve felt lighter by now. The weight should’ve lifted. But it hadn’t. It was worse.

He sank into his chair, fingers brushing the edge of the desk, numb and unsure of their purpose. The screen in front of him glowed too bright, too sharp, but he didn’t see it. Couldn’t. Not with those words still circling, tightening around his ribs like barbed wire.

I just thought you wanted it.

You signaled long before I ever touched you.

Gihun’s stomach twisted. His pulse skittered, shallow and frantic, like something trapped.

It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.

And yet… his body had responded.

The memory hit hard, brutal in its clarity: the way his breath had hitched, the heat that had bloomed low in his belly, the way his fingers had reached out on instinct, like they needed to be held. And his scent—God, he couldn’t forget that. Because Inho hadn’t. Because Inho had seen it. Had smelled it. Had known.

A sharp tremor ran through him. He swallowed hard, but his throat burned, raw, unsteady. He tried to shove it away, to drown the memory beneath logic, beneath certainty, but Inho’s voice lingered, curling at the edges of his mind, seeping into every space he tried to close off. Low. Steady. So sure. The way he’d leaned forward, gaze dark and unreadable, peeling him apart like he already understood something Gihun couldn’t—or wouldn’t—face.

Was he right?

No. No, that couldn’t be. That wasn’t—

But his stomach twisted. His fingers curled into the front of his shirt, pressing into the fabric like he could anchor himself to the present. He felt sick. Not just with fear, not just with shame, but with something worse. Something deeper. Something he didn’t want to name.

Because buried beneath all of it—the confusion, the humiliation, the desperate need to deny—was something else.

A question.

What if...

What if he had wanted it?

Not that night. Not like that. But the feeling. The heat that had curled up his spine. The shiver that had prickled beneath his skin. The way the alpha’s gaze had burned into him, deep and deliberate, like a secret dragged into light. The way he had looked at him, not like an obligation, not like an afterthought, but like Gihun was something worth reaching for. Worth wanting.

His breath hitched. His hands trembled.

He clenched them into fists, pressing hard into his thighs, willing the tremors to stop. But they kept coming. His body kept betraying him. His mind, too. The fragile certainty he’d clung to—the anger, the clarity, the conviction—was splintering in real time, cracking in all the places he couldn’t hold together anymore.

I love Sangwoo.

The thought came sharp and deliberate, like something he had to say just to hear it again.

I belong to Sangwoo.

But even as he said it, it felt thinner than it used to. Like words repeated too often. A hollow ache had settled beneath his ribs, curling slow and restless, and it wouldn’t go quiet.

His lungs strained. He forced himself to breathe. Focus. He was at work. He couldn’t fall apart here. He wouldn’t.

He set his hands on the keyboard. Typed something. Anything. Words without meaning. Just movement. Just noise. Just the illusion of normal.

But even as the screen filled with nonsense, even as the familiar hum of the office pressed in around him like a safety net— He knew.

Something had shifted.

And no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, he could never take it back.

Gihun should’ve felt fine by now. Days had passed. Everything had gone on like normal. Nothing happened.

Except it had.

He lingered in the elevator after everyone else had stepped out, staring blankly at the doors, something pressing tight beneath his ribs. Like he was waiting. Waiting for what? He already had what he wanted. Right? Everything was normal. Everything was exactly the same.

He told himself that as he sank into his chair, hands moving on autopilot, typing out an email with practiced ease. The office hummed around him with its usual rhythm. Phones rang. Keyboards clicked. Coworkers drifted past with half-heard greetings. The lights buzzed faintly overhead. Someone laughed across the room.

Nothing was different.

Nothing had changed.

Except it had.

Because across the office, behind the glass walls of the executive suite, Hwang Inho still existed. And Gihun couldn’t stop noticing. Not just seeing, noticing. It was in the way the air seemed to shift around him. In the way Gihun’s body tuned to his presence without conscious thought. The way his pulse jumped—too fast, too ready—whenever he caught the smallest movement from the corner of his eye, only to hate himself for it a moment later.

He shouldn’t have felt this way. But Hwang Inho had made him feel watched. Had peeled him apart, piece by piece, with a voice too steady, too assured, too right. Had taken every tiny movement—every breath, every unconscious tic Gihun hadn’t even known he made—and turned it into something deliberate. Like he’d been signaling something he never meant to, something he still refused to name.

I just thought you wanted it. You signaled long before I ever touched you.

No. That wasn’t—

“Gihun-ssi.”

The voice cut through him.

His finger slipped, hit the wrong key. A jolt ran through him, sharp and automatic, before his mind even registered it. His body flinched first: breath snagging, heat rushing up his spine, then gone. Replaced by a sick curl low in his stomach.

He knew that voice.

The alpha strode past his desk with the same effortless control, that quiet, measured certainty that always left Gihun off balance. He held a file. His posture was easy. His expression unreadable. His gaze, sharp. Like always. As if days ago, he hadn’t kissed him. As if he hadn’t pressed him down onto the couch. As if he hadn’t said those things, touched him like that, looked at him like he was something meant to be taken.

Gihun clenched his fists.

“You have a moment?” his boss asked, already holding out the file.

Of course. Business.

Gihun swallowed against the tightness in his throat and forced himself to move. He stood, took the file, followed—like nothing was wrong. The CEO gestured for him to sit. Gihun obeyed, stiffly, back straight, hands folded too neatly in his lap. Too still. His eyes fixed on the desk, anywhere but him.

“So.” Hwang Inho exhaled, flipping open the folder. “The project timeline for the quarterly reports. I wanted to go over a few things.”

His voice was calm. Measured. Like he’d been doing this his whole life: walking into meetings, shaking hands, making decisions. Like he hadn’t pressed Gihun down just nights ago and peeled him open, layer by layer, until nothing felt solid anymore—

No. Don’t think about that.

Gihun’s fingers tightened around the arms of his chair. It was fine. This was fine.

Inho talked deadlines, projections, market forecasts; cool, efficient, the picture of professionalism. Exactly as he always was. And Gihun should’ve been relieved. Because this was what he wanted. What he’d asked for.

So why did his stomach feel so tight? Why did his chest ache in a way that made no sense?

He nodded where he was supposed to. Made the right sounds. Forced himself to track the report. But he couldn’t stop noticing the shifts: Inho’s posture, the even rise of his breath, the way he looked perfectly at ease. Like nothing had happened.

Like it had meant nothing.

And for some reason, that got under his skin.

The apartment door clicked shut behind him, sealing him into quiet. It should have felt like relief. Like safety. Like home. Instead, the air sat wrong—too still, too thick, pressing against his skin until his breath came shallow. The distant hum of the fridge. The faint scent of the detergent Sangwoo liked. The soft echo of his own footsteps against polished floors.

Normal. Everything was normal.

Gihun inhaled sharply and shrugged off his coat, folding it over his arm out of habit. His body was exhausted—bone-deep, marrow-level tired—but his mind was worse: frayed, restless, caught in the snare of something he refused to name. He couldn’t let it show. So he smiled. Automatically. Thoughtlessly.

The kitchen was warm, the scent of old takeout and fabric softener curling through the air. Sangwoo sat at the dining table, one hand scrolling lazily through his phone, the other holding a beer bottle loosely against his thigh. His tie was undone, sleeves pushed up, shoulders slack. A picture Gihun had seen a hundred times. A life rehearsed.

“You’re back early,” Sangwoo muttered, not looking up.

Gihun let out a small laugh—easy, casual, like it didn’t cost him anything. “Not much to do after work. Thought I’d get dinner started.”

Sangwoo hummed, noncommittal.

Gihun moved easily through the space, rolling up his sleeves, filling the pot with water. He watched the steam rise and vanish, thin and soundless, and felt something gnawing at him: thick, heavy, impossible to shake. He should have been fine. He was fine.

So he kept moving.

He rinsed vegetables, chopped scallions, seasoned the broth. Every motion practiced, precise. Muscle memory built from years of doing, of caretaking, of making sure Sangwoo came home to something warm, something waiting. And Sangwoo let it happen. Let himself be looked after, never thinking to ask. Never wondering why.

I belong here. Gihun repeated it to himself as he stirred the pot. As he set the table. He glanced over. Sangwoo still hadn’t looked up from his phone.

“What did you do today?” he asked, pitching his voice light, casual. The kind of question a partner asks at the end of a long day. The kind that should’ve felt easy.

“Mm?” A brief pause. Then, with disinterest, “Nothing much. Same as always. One of our clients nearly tanked their own portfolio with a stupid merger. I stepped in, restructured the deal, salvaged their returns. They’ll be sending a thank-you bottle by the end of the week.”

A quiet scoff. “Idiots shouldn’t be managing that kind of money if they don’t know what they’re doing.”

Nothing much. Same as always.

Gihun exhaled slowly, steadying himself against the counter. His fingers curled a little too tightly around the edge, but he forced them to ease, before it showed. Because he knew how to do this. He knew how to stand beside Sangwoo, how to nod at the right moments while listening to stories that didn’t need him. He knew how to clean up after dinner while Sangwoo stretched out on the couch, how to scrub dishes with water hot enough to burn because it gave him something to hold onto. He knew how to slip into bed beside him, how to let Sangwoo’s arm fall across his waist, how to close his eyes and pretend—

Pretend like that day had never happened. Like his thoughts weren’t spiraling. Like something inside him hadn’t shifted.

The plates clinked softly as he dried them. Behind him, Sangwoo stretched with a groan, then let out a breath and tossed his phone onto the table.

“Gihun-ah.”

His name. It made him flinch. Just slightly—but Sangwoo caught it. His gaze flicked up, brow pulling.

“What?” he laughed, too fast, too thin. “You scared me.”

Sangwoo narrowed his eyes, but didn’t press.

“Hyung, come here.” A casual call. Simple. Familiar.

Gihun swallowed down the tightness in his throat and moved toward the younger alpha, because that’s what he did. That’s what he was supposed to do. He let Sangwoo pull him in, let himself be tucked beneath his chin, fit his body into the spaces it always had. Arms around him like habit. Like ownership. He closed his eyes.

This is where I belong.

Sangwoo’s breath was steady against his temple, warm and even, familiar in a way that should’ve comforted him.

It didn’t.

Because the moment Gihun let his mind go quiet, it drifted. Back to an office bathed in low light. To a voice that was too smooth, too sure. To the weight of something pressing. Taking. Wanting. And to the unbearable truth, that he had wanted it too.

His breath hitched, stuck somewhere in his throat, tight and useless. He clung to Sangwoo’s sleeve without thinking, like it might steady him, like it might keep him from slipping. He focused on the weight beside him, the arm around his waist, the quiet rhythm of a chest he knew too well.

This is real. This is normal.

But his body remembered something else.

And that was the problem.

Because no matter how tightly he clung to this: this life, this role, this practiced certainty of being Sangwoo’s—something inside him was still reaching.

And that terrified him most of all.

The meeting had gone well. Objectively, Gihun knew that. He’d spoken clearly, delivered the projections with practiced ease, answered every question without fumbling. It was seamless: sharp, controlled, efficient. No one had noticed the tremor in his hands when he turned the slides. No one heard the way his breath hitched every time Hwang Inho spoke: calm, commanding, cutting through the room like he always did.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It was work. Just work. Still, when Gihun stepped out of the conference room, his chest was too tight, like his lungs couldn’t quite fill. The hallway was cool, quiet, the murmur of voices thinning as people scattered, but none of it landed. His heartbeat thudded high in his throat, too loud, too present. He forced himself to focus: the folder in his hands, the slide of paper beneath his fingers. He counted his breaths. In. Out. Again.

He should have gone back to his desk. Answered emails. Pretended nothing had shifted.

“You did well.”

The voice was smooth. Measured. Unhurried.

Gihun stilled. His grip on the folder tightened, knuckles whitening against the stiff edges of the paper. He already knew who it was, had known before he turned, before his eyes lifted to meet the unreadable calm of Hwang Inho’s gaze. Close. Not too close. Not enough to be inappropriate. Just enough to be felt. The air between them held steady. Unshaken. Offering.

It was so normal. Too normal.

Gihun exhaled, willing himself into professionalism, into habit. He summoned a polite smile, something clean, distant.

“Thank you, sajangnim.”

The alpha hummed, gaze flickering over him with the kind of detached scrutiny that shouldn’t have made Gihun’s stomach twist.

“You look tired.”

Just that. A passing comment. One of those harmless, offhanded courtesies exchanged in corporate hallways.

And yet it landed too deep, stuck in his throat, curled under his ribs like a quiet accusation.

His mouth felt dry.

“It’s been a long morning,” he said, voice calm. Too calm.

“Mm.” A slow nod, nothing more. “Don’t push too hard. It was a strong presentation.”

Then, just like that, his boss stepped away; already turning, already moving toward his office with that same effortless ease. No hesitation. No weight. Like it meant nothing. That should have been the end of it. Gihun wanted it to be the end of it.

But as he watched Hwang Inho retreat—shoulders squared, steps measured, returning to his desk, to his work, to normal—something burned in his chest. Something unsettled. Something missing.

He couldn’t name it. Didn’t want to.

His jaw tightened. His breath came shallow.

This is exactly what I wanted. This is how it should be.

And yet—

His fingers twitched against the folder.

Why did his stomach feel hollow, like he’d been waiting for something more? Why did his body still feel tuned to Inho’s: waiting, anticipating, listening?

Why was he still standing there, long after the alpha had gone?

The apartment had been warm when Gihun stepped inside, the scent of home thick in the air: cooked rice, faint detergent, the underlying trace of Sangwoo’s scent lingering in the space where he was supposed to feel safe. He toed off his shoes, placing them neatly beside Sangwoo’s, but the gesture felt mechanical. Reflexive. His body moved the way it always did: unthinking, habitual, but something was missing. Something inside him still hadn’t settled. Still hummed with that restless, anxious energy he couldn’t name. Didn’t want to name.

The day had unfolded like any other. He’d worked. Followed instructions. Typed reports, sent emails, moved through his tasks with the same steady rhythm as always. But now, standing in the quiet of the apartment, his mind felt blank. Or maybe too full: thoughts overlapping, colliding, drowning each other out before he could catch hold of any one of them.

His instincts were frayed. Off-kilter. That tight, unbearable feeling in his chest hadn’t eased since he’d left the office, since the moment Inho had walked away from him like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t peeled him apart just a day ago. Like he hadn’t left his words buried under Gihun’s ribs, curled and sinking, impossible to shake loose.

You signaled long before I ever touched you.

A shiver rolled through him before he could stop it. He busied himself in the kitchen, cooking more out of obligation than hunger. Sangwoo would be home soon. The table should be set. The food should be warm. I should be fine. The knife moved steadily through the vegetables, but his grip was too tight. The blade clicked too hard against the cutting board.

When Sangwoo arrived, the usual routine played out like a carefully rehearsed script. He shrugged off his jacket, loosened his tie, kissed Gihun’s cheek in a way that barely grazed his skin. “Smells good,” he muttered, distracted, checking his phone as he sat.

Gihun served the food, smiling, pretending. It was easy, in a way. He’d done it for years. He listened as Sangwoo talked—about the office, about a colleague, about the market—but the words barely registered. He nodded when expected, offered a quiet “Mm” at the right times, but his mind was elsewhere. Drifting.

His body still felt wrong. Off. Every muscle locked too tightly in place, like his instincts were bracing for something that wouldn’t come. He ate, but the food had no taste. His stomach was heavy, unsettled, like the weight of the day was pressing against his lungs, making it hard to breathe.

Sangwoo didn’t notice. He never did.

And that should have been a relief. It should have made things easier.

It didn’t.

Later, when they lay in bed together, Gihun stared up at the ceiling. Sangwoo’s arm was slung over his waist, his scent thick in the sheets, wrapping around him from all sides. This is right, he told himself. This is where I belong.

But his body stayed tense beneath Sangwoo’s weight. His thoughts wouldn’t quiet. Everything felt off.

His omega should have been soothed. The presence of his alpha—his real alpha—should have settled the unease coiling inside him, should have made his body relax into the comfort of familiarity.

But it didn’t.

He was still restless. Too warm. Too aware of his own breathing, of the way his chest tightened with every inhale. Nothing in him felt settled. His mind kept pulling him back. Replaying things he shouldn’t be thinking about.

The way Inho’s fingers had brushed over his wrist—featherlight, but deliberate. The way his voice had wrapped around Gihun’s senses, smooth, steady, too knowing. The way he had looked at him, not with obligation or disinterest, but like he already knew him.

Like he’d seen the parts Gihun hadn’t even let himself look at. The memory of it sent a shiver crawling down his spine.

Beside him, Sangwoo shifted, sighing in his sleep. His arm pulled tighter around Gihun’s waist, reflexive, thoughtless. Gihun barely moved. He was trapped beneath the warmth, the weight that should have felt like safety, but instead—

He felt suffocated. Like his own skin was closing in on him.

He needed air.

Needed to breathe.

Carefully—too carefully—he slid out from under Sangwoo’s arm, every movement slow, silent. Sangwoo stirred but didn’t wake, muttering something incoherent before rolling onto his side. Gihun didn’t exhale until he was in the hallway, hands braced against the wall, chest tight. His skin burned. Hot like fever, like something was simmering just beneath the surface: too deep to name, too dangerous to touch.

He pressed a palm over his chest. Squeezed his eyes shut.

It was a mistake.

It won’t happen again.

He had said that. Had meant it. Or… he thought he had.

But it still felt unfinished. Like something had been left open.

His body hadn’t settled. Not really. It felt like it was still waiting for something. Something that, no matter how much Gihun wished otherwise, Sangwoo would never give him.

The ache carved itself deep into his chest. Quiet. Hollow. Constant.

And he didn’t know what was worse: the guilt, or the fact that it didn’t feel strong enough.

The office lounge was quiet, settled into that strange lull after the morning rush. Not empty, just still. The hum of the coffee machine. A few pages turning somewhere nearby. Gihun barely registered any of it. He moved without thinking, brain fogged from another night of restless sleep, body heavy with a kind of exhaustion that had nothing to do with work. He reached for a mug: habit, muscle memory, something to hold onto.

And then stopped.

It was warm. Not hot. Not fresh. Just… faintly heated. Like it had been held recently. Set down only moments ago.

And the scent.

Barely there. But clear. Inho.

The recognition hit slow, like breath on the back of his neck. Like fingers brushing too close to where they shouldn’t. His grip tightened before he could stop himself, before he could pretend this wasn’t affecting him. It was just a coffee mug. A stupid object, used by half the office. It shouldn’t mean anything. So why did it feel like he’d just been caught?

His fingers twitched. His breath thinned. That uneasy feeling curled under his ribs, too familiar now. And the worst part? He didn’t even know if it was guilt.

Or something else.

He let go. A little too quickly. Like he’d burned himself. Like the heat would sink deeper if he held on a second longer. He grabbed another mug. Cold. Plain. Safe.

“Ah, Gihun-ssi.”

His spine snapped straight. His grip nearly slipped. He caught it just in time, shoulders tense, face blanking fast.

Hwang Inho stood in the doorway. Calm. Normal. Like always. Not even a flicker of recognition in his eyes. No hint of what had happened. No tension. No weight. Just that same quiet control that always made Gihun feel a step behind.

The alpha’s gaze flicked, barely, to the mug he’d abandoned.

Gihun exhaled, steadying his voice. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted any.”

Inho hummed. Stepped forward without rush. Fingers curled around the very mug Gihun had left behind. He lifted it to his lips and took a sip.

Gihun waited. For hesitation. For a flicker. For anything. But there was nothing. Just the same practiced ease. Like the moment meant nothing. Like it had never meant anything at all.

“Nothing to say this morning?” Inho murmured, glancing at him over the rim of the mug. His tone was light. Unconcerned. Barely even curious.

Gihun’s stomach turned.

This is what you wanted. What you asked for.

So why did it feel like the ground had been pulled out from under him? Why did it feel like he was the only one still thinking about it?

His fingers tightened slightly around his mug, nails pressing into the ceramic. He forced a breath. A scoff. “I don’t have the energy to entertain you every morning, sajangnim.”

A chuckle. Low. Amused.

“Shame.”

And just like that, Inho turned away. Conversation over. Moment gone.

Gihun stood there, pulse steady but stomach twisted, watching the alpha disappear down the hallway without a glance back. Like he was just another employee. Like he hadn’t been in his lap days ago, gasping into his mouth, trembling under his hands.

His grip on the mug tightened.

Why does this bother me?

Why does it feel like I lost?

The restaurant was warm, filled with the low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby table. The scent of grilled meat and soju hung thick in the air, curling into the fabric of Gihun’s sweater, settling somewhere deep between his ribs. He sat beside Sangwoo, hands loosely wrapped around his glass, the condensation damp against his skin.

Across the table, his friends were laughing easily, the conversation flowing as freely as the soju being poured. Jungbae was mid-story, gesturing too wildly, knocking over a half-empty plate with a careless sweep of his hand. Minyeo howled, swatting his arm while scolding him through a mouthful of kimchi.

It should’ve felt normal. Comfortable. Familiar. That was the whole point: just a night out, something easy, something routine. Something that made sense. Gihun had planned it with that in mind: picked the restaurant, sent the texts, filled in the time with practiced cheer. A quiet, deliberate attempt to get his footing back. To feel like himself again. To find some version of this life that still fit.

If he could just sit here—laugh at Jungbae’s antics, roll his eyes at Minyeo’s jabs, lean into Sangwoo’s shoulder like always—then maybe the noise in his head would settle. Maybe he could bury the past few days under enough soju and small talk to pretend nothing had changed.

But it hadn’t worked.

His fingers twitched around his glass. His smile came a beat too slow, his laughter just slightly off, a second delayed. He felt like a spectator in his own body, watching himself move through the motions, playing the part he was supposed to, while something inside him stayed distant. Untouched. Unreachable. Restless in his own skin. It clung to him, that sensation, like an itch beneath the surface, just out of reach.

The last few days had settled over him in a way he hadn’t fully processed; tension carried in the shoulders, in the breath, in the back of the throat. Something unspoken. Something unresolved.

And then—

“I mean, come on, Gihun’s always been the soft type,” Jungbae joked, nudging Sangwoo with his elbow. “He was made to be a house omega. Can’t believe you two aren’t mated yet.”

Something in Gihun locked up.

It was nothing. Just a tease. Offhand. Casual. But the words landed with weight, cold and blunt, pressing against something fragile he hadn’t realized was so exposed.

Sangwoo just scoffed, already reaching for the soju. “You’re still hung up on all that mating stuff?”

The laugh that followed was easy. Careless. Dismissive.

Like it was absurd. Like the idea itself was laughable.

Something twisted tight in Gihun’s chest.

“Oh, right,” Jungbae chuckled, waving a hand. “You’ve always been that way, haven’t you? More practical. Less of the whole ‘one true mate’ thing.”

Sangwoo hummed in agreement, pouring himself another shot. “Why would I be? It’s not like it changes anything.”

It was a simple answer. Logical. Clean.

But it wasn’t just an answer—it was a confirmation.

So why did it feel like a slap?

Minyeo had been quiet until now, idly swirling the soju in her glass. But at Sangwoo’s words, her gaze flicked toward him. Sharp. Unreadable.

“Not like it changes anything, huh?” she murmured, voice light, too light, edged with something that made the air feel heavier.

Sangwoo shrugged. “It’s just a title.”

Gihun swallowed.

Minyeo’s lips pressed together, her silence deliberate. Then she exhaled through her nose. “Yeah,” she said, tipping back the rest of her drink. “I guess it wouldn’t change much… if there’s nothing there to begin with.”

The conversation stalled, just for a second.

Sangwoo didn’t flinch. Just scoffed, dry and dismissive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Minyeo only smiled, tilting her head as she reached for the bottle again.

“Nothing,” she said smoothly, pouring herself another glass. “Just thinking out loud.”

But her eyes flicked to Gihun. Just for a second. And that second was enough. Because Minyeo… Minyeo saw him.

Gihun’s fingers tightened around his glass, his throat suddenly dry. The conversation moved on, slipping past him like water; another joke, another topic, another moment that should have pulled him back in. But he wasn’t there anymore.

Because in that second, in the space between her words and the careless ease of Sangwoo’s response, something inside him curled inward.

Sangwoo doesn’t want me. Not the way an alpha should want their omega. Not the way Gihun had always wanted to be wanted.

His omega twisted, recoiling from the truth even as it lodged like lead in his stomach. That need, the one he’d spent years pretending didn’t matter, was still there. Still aching. He had always longed for something deeper, something instinctive, something that would silence the doubt.

But it had always been one-sided, hadn’t it? Sangwoo had never craved him the way Gihun craved him. Had never felt that pull. And Gihun had spent his whole life trying not to see it.

And suddenly, the past felt clearer than it ever had before. The way Sangwoo had never spoken about the future, not in the way that mattered. The way he never lingered when he touched him. Never pulled him close unless he needed something. Never looked at him with that unmistakable, possessive hunger alphas were supposed to have for their omegas. The way he had never made Gihun feel claimed.

He’d always told himself this was enough. That love didn’t have to be about instincts. That what they had was stronger. Different. Built on something more than biology.

But then, why did it ache? Why did it hurt?

And why did his thoughts flicker, unbidden, to a different voice? One that had spoken to him like he was something worth noticing. A voice that had made him feel seen.

Gihun swallowed hard, blinking fast, willing his throat to loosen. Willing his face to stay neutral. He was overreacting. It was just a conversation.

So why did it feel like something had quietly unraveled inside him?

The apartment felt suffocating. It wasn’t just the silence. It was the way it pressed against his ribs, thick and unmoving, like the walls were inching closer by the second. The couch was too empty. The bed too big. Even the air felt stale, heavy with something he couldn’t name.

Gihun sat at the dining table, a book open in front of him, but he hadn’t turned the page in over fifteen minutes. His gaze lingered on the words, unseeing, his mind a thousand miles away. One hand rested against his cheek, the weight of his own head suddenly too much to hold.

Maybe he should try sleeping. But even that felt like a lie. The thought of lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the minutes stretch into hours... No. Not again.

With a quiet sigh, he pushed himself up, grabbing his coat on instinct. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to be anywhere but here.

The city was alive. Neon lights flickered on wet pavement, the distant hum of cars and muffled voices filling the night air. He walked without direction, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders curled inward against the cold. There was something aimless in his steps. Something lost.

The bookstore caught his eye first. Small, tucked between two larger buildings, its warm glow spilled onto the sidewalk. He stepped inside without thinking, drawn to the quiet, to the weight of old pages and forgotten stories. His fingers skimmed across spines, his mind slowly settling into the comfort of books.

He used to love this. Getting lost in words. In stories that weren’t his.

But then, something else caught his eye: the art supply store across the street. He was moving toward it before he even fully registered the thought. The bell chimed softly as he stepped inside, the scent of paper and paint filling his lungs. Rows of brushes, blank canvases, pigments in small glass jars—everything waiting to become something.

Gihun's hands hovered over a set of paints, uncertain. It had been years. Decades, maybe. He used to love this, didn’t he? Sitting on the floor of his childhood bedroom, brush in hand, color spreading beneath his fingers. He used to make things. Even if they weren’t good. Even if no one ever saw.

Now, the idea of painting felt foreign. Almost indulgent. And yet, before he could stop himself, he was at the counter with his wallet in hand.

The walk home felt different. Lighter. The bag in his grasp unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. Back in the apartment, he set everything on the table, fingers brushing the edge of the canvas, the smooth wood of the brushes. He hesitated, uncertainty creeping in.

What was he expecting? That this would fix something? That it would make him feel less—less what? Empty? Lonely?

He exhaled, slow and steady, pressing both palms to the table. Then, carefully, he reached for a brush. The first stroke of color against the blank canvas was hesitant. Then another. And another.

The motions were stiff at first. Mechanical. But gradually, something eased. His shoulders dropped. His breath came easier. The world outside faded. The silence in the apartment no longer pressed in, it simply existed. Still. Neutral. No longer suffocating.

He wasn’t sure what he was painting. He wasn’t sure if it mattered.

For the first time in a long while, Gihun wasn’t thinking about the past. Wasn’t thinking about Sangwoo. Wasn’t thinking about Hwang Inho.

It was just him. The colors. The canvas.

And for now, that was enough.

The office thrummed with routine. Phones ringing. Keyboards clicking. Voices low and measured. Everything in its place. Everything functioning exactly as it should.

Gihun kept his head down, fingers moving over the keyboard with mechanical precision. It was the same as always.

Except it wasn’t.

His body ached. His eyes burned from too many sleepless nights, from hours spent hunched over a canvas, chasing strokes of color that never quite said what he wanted them to. His thoughts were frayed at the edges, unraveling in slow, silent threads he didn’t have the energy to pull back together.

But his work—his work was perfect. Precise.

The one thing he could still control.

A shadow passed over his desk.

“Gihun-ssi.”

The voice was smooth. Even. A quiet interruption in the steady rhythm of the office.

Gihun didn’t react right away. He knew who it was before he looked. He had already felt it: the shift in the air, the quiet weight of presence that never announced itself, but always made itself known.

His fingers stilled over his keyboard. He looked up.

Hwang Inho stood beside his desk, one hand in his pocket, the other resting lightly on the edge of Gihun’s desk. Polite. Professional. As though the past few weeks hadn’t existed.

As though his voice hadn’t carved itself into the back of Gihun’s mind, lingering in the spaces between sleepless nights.

“I need the revised reports for the Yonghwa account,” Inho said, calm as ever. “Could you hand them to me?”

Gihun nodded, reaching for the folder at the corner of his desk. His fingers curled around the edge, grip steady despite the exhaustion dragging at his limbs. He passed it over wordlessly, eyes already dropping, eager to retreat into the safety of his work.

But the alpha didn’t move. He stood there, perfectly composed, just like always. Except his gaze, sharp and perceptive, wasn’t on Gihun’s face.

It was on his hands.

“What’s this?” Inho asked, tilting his head slightly. His voice was curious, polite. Too polite. “You have something—”

Gihun followed his gaze, frowning slightly before realizing— 

Oh.

The paint.

Faint streaks of deep blue clung to his knuckles. A smear of ochre traced the side of his index finger. Even after scrubbing them that morning, the color had lingered, stubborn beneath his nails, pressed into the creases of his skin like a memory.

He hadn’t expected Inho to notice.

Why would he?

Gihun swallowed, resisting the urge to pull his hands out of sight. “It’s nothing,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the stains like he could erase them now. “Just… paint.”

Inho hummed, gaze lingering a moment too long. “You’ve been painting?”

A beat of silence stretched between them, something quiet and weighty settling in the space where Gihun should have just nodded. Should have ended it there. But instead, he hesitated.

And somehow, that was answer enough.

Inho didn’t smirk, didn’t pry. Just observed, thoughtful. Then, in that same measured, deliberate way, he exhaled a small hum.

“I can picture it.”

Gihun blinked. “Picture what?”

“You.”

The word landed soft. Gentle. Too gentle. Enough to make his pulse stutter.

Inho’s voice dipped, not low, not deep, just quiet. A murmur of something Gihun couldn’t name.

“Sitting by a window, maybe,” he said, gaze steady. Searching. “A cup of coffee beside you. A book half-forgotten in your lap, because you got too lost in mixing colors. Too lost in the feeling of it.”

Gihun’s throat tightened.

The image came too easily. Too vividly. As if Inho had reached into some quiet, buried place in him—some private version of himself even Sangwoo had never seen—and dragged it into the light.

Because the worst part was—it wasn’t a lie. Once, a long time ago, it had been true. There were days when he’d done exactly that: painted for hours, lost in the soft hum of an old radio, a forgotten book resting on his knee; not neglected, just comforting in its weight. There were nights he curled up with a novel not to escape, not out of restlessness, but simply because he wanted to. Because he could.

He hadn’t thought about that in years. And yet here Inho was, speaking of it like he’d seen it with his own eyes. Like he knew.

Gihun’s fingers curled against the desk. His breath felt too shallow. His chest, too tight. He didn’t know why this, of all things, made his eyes sting. Why it made something in him feel so fragile, like it might break open if Inho said anything more.

But the alpha wasn’t finished.

“You suit it,” he murmured, still polite, still light—but there was something under the words now. Something gentler. “That kind of quiet. That kind of life.”

Gihun’s heart lurched in his chest. He should say something, laugh it off, change the subject, but his tongue felt thick, useless. His throat tightened with something he didn’t understand. Because no one had ever— No one had ever said anything like that to him. Not Sangwoo. Not anyone. No one had ever looked at him and seen that.

Hwang Inho, apparently, decided that was enough. He stepped back, rolling his shoulders like the conversation had been nothing more than a polite exchange.

“Well,” he said, tone easy again, the moment already slipping through Gihun’s fingers. “Don’t work yourself too hard, Gihun-ssi.”

And then he turned, walking back toward his office without a glance behind him.

Gihun sat there, frozen, hands still stained with the evidence of sleepless nights, still trembling—over something as small, as ridiculous, as a few softly spoken words. He curled his fingers into fists. Breathed in. Breathed out.

It was nothing. Just politeness. Just a passing remark.

But the words stayed with him, sharp and quiet.

You suit that kind of life.

As if he deserved it. As if he was meant for it.

And somehow, that was the thing that shattered him most.

The apartment was too quiet. Too empty. Sangwoo was gone again: another business dinner, another night where Gihun was left alone with nothing but the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant noise of the city outside. He should be used to it by now. He’d told himself a thousand times that it didn’t matter, that this was just how things were.

He lay flat on his back, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady tick of the wall clock. It wasn’t even that late, just past one in the morning, but exhaustion clung to his limbs, heavy and aching, the kind that came from too many sleepless nights. And still, no matter how much he wanted to sleep, his body wouldn’t let him.

Something was missing.

His fingers twitched against the sheets. His chest rose and fell too fast for the stillness of the room. His body knew it before his mind could name it—that ache. Dull. Persistent. Gnawing. Not just loneliness. Not just tiredness. It was something deeper. Bone-deep. Instinctual.

He pressed his palms over his face, groaning quietly.

Stop. Just go to sleep.

But his omega wouldn’t let him. It was waiting.

For what?

A scent? A presence? Something to soothe the restless hum in his chest? Something that wasn’t there.

His breath caught. No. No.

But his body moved before he could stop it. His fingers twitched toward the drawer—not the obvious one, not the one Sangwoo ever had reason to open. He hesitated, his hand hovering just above the handle. He shouldn’t. He should close his eyes, force himself to sleep, pretend the ache wasn’t there. But the tightness in his ribs, the hollow, gnawing weight in his gut, wouldn’t let him.

Slowly, carefully, he slid it open.

And there it was.

The handkerchief.

Gihun stared, barely breathing, the soft fabric lying still under the dim spill of city light filtering through the blinds. The scent had faded. It wasn’t the same as that night—not sharp, not overwhelming, not all-consuming—but it was still there. Faint. Lingering at the edges. A ghost of something that had once made his whole body go slack with instinct.

Something inside him twisted.

Pathetic.

Still, his fingers curled around it before he could think better of it. Too tight. Too desperate. He pressed it into his palm like it could anchor him, like it could settle something, anything, inside his chest.

He wasn’t going to.

He wasn’t.

But his hands were already moving. Just one breath. Just one.

The scent barely clung to the fibers anymore, but his body recognized it. A hit of something older than memory. Deeper. It slipped straight down to his core, coiling in his gut, making his stomach clench without warning. A quiet, shuddering breath escaped him.

His omega settled.

Only slightly. But it was enough to make his chest seize in panic. He flinched, yanking back like the fabric had scorched him. Shoved the handkerchief into the drawer, slammed it shut, too loud in the silence, like that could undo what had just happened.

His hands were shaking.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Gihun turned onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow, forcing his limbs still. Willing himself not to move, not to feel, not to want. But his omega still did. Still waited.

He gritted his teeth. Squeezed his eyes shut.

It didn’t work.

The scent clung to his fingers. His skin still felt too hot. His instincts still clawed beneath the surface. And he didn’t know whether he wanted to cry, or scream, or tear his own body apart.

Because this was wrong.

And yet, his instincts wouldn’t let it go.

Gihun moved through the morning like his body had forgotten how to function. Everything felt heavy. Off. His limbs dragged with exhaustion, his head thick with the leftover fog of another night staring at the ceiling. The world around him was muted: voices blurring into each other, the office lights too bright, like they were aimed straight at the inside of his skull. He should’ve taken a sick day. God knows he needed one. But sleep never came anyway. Not when his thoughts kept looping, snagging on memories he wasn’t ready to name. Something in him was stuck. Restless. Unsettled in a way he couldn’t shake.

The low murmur of conversation drifted past as he walked the row of cubicles, words coming in and out of focus. Someone important was back. Some executive. A name that barely registered. He didn’t care. He was too tired to care. Too deep in his own head. He moved toward the lounge without thinking, hunting caffeine, something to ground him before the weight of another day swallowed him whole.

And then he saw him.

Tall. Way too tall. And confident in that easy, quiet way that made everyone else seem like they were trying too hard. He didn’t even have to look around to own the room; he just existed, like the air shifted to make space for him. Smooth, put-together, expensive-looking in a way Gihun didn’t even have the language for. The kind of person who didn’t need to assert control, he just had it. Like breathing.

But that wasn’t what made Gihun stop.

It was the way he stood beside Inho. The familiarity. The ease. The light brush of fingers against Inho’s sleeve, fleeting and casual. Except it wasn’t. It was practiced. Natural. The kind of touch that came from history, from something repeated a hundred times over, something expected to happen again.

Gihun’s grip tightened around his mug. His omega reacted before his mind did. Something sharp and possessive curled in his chest, crawling up his throat with heat he didn’t know how to name.

No. No, no, no. This had nothing to do with him.

And yet, his breath hitched. His chest locked up. That thing, whatever it was, rooted deeper. Ugly. Unfamiliar.

They were close. Not obviously. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But Gihun saw it. Felt it. In the unspoken ease between them. In the way Inho’s posture softened. In the way his mouth curved into something small, knowing. 

And the other man—Gihun didn’t know his name, didn’t need to—but something in the way he moved, the easy way he leaned in as he laughed, set his instincts on edge.

Another omega.

And that was what made Gihun’s pulse spike. What made the air feel tighter. What made him feel, inexplicably, like something had been taken from him.

The omega leaned in as he laughed, not too close, just enough. A sound smooth and rich, like he belonged at Inho’s side. Like he’d always belonged there. Gihun swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat.

This is ridiculous.

There was no reason for this. No reason for the sharp pull in his gut. No reason for his skin to feel too tight, for his instincts to twist and snarl at the sight of them together.

You’re a grown man. Get a grip.

He didn’t even know this omega. Didn’t know his name, didn’t know his voice, didn’t know how he carried himself outside of these few seconds spent watching. Watching them. Like some pathetic afterthought.

Hwang Inho was his boss. Nothing more. Not his alpha. Not his mate. Not his.

And yet, his neck flushed with heat. His fingers curled too tightly around the mug. Something deep inside him recoiled at the sight of them together. He forced himself to look away. Focused on his coffee. Pretended the burn in his throat came from the temperature, not from something far more dangerous.

Something much, much worse.

And still, his omega hated this.

Gihun spent the next hour trying to ignore the feeling curled up in his gut. Tried to focus on work, on numbers, on the blur of reports in front of him. On anything other than that damn laugh, still echoing in his head, still stuck to his skin like something he couldn’t scrub off. But it lingered. It pressed. It wouldn’t let him breathe right.

By the time lunch rolled around, he found himself hesitating in front of Hyunju’s desk.

“Hey,” he said, voice casual, too casual.

Hyunju glanced up from her screen, smiling politely. “Gihun-ssi?”

He cleared his throat, already regretting it. “That executive. The one everyone’s been talking about. Who is he?”

She blinked, visibly surprised. “Oh—you mean Director Gong? Gong Yoo-ssi?”

His stomach twisted, and Gihun hated the way it did.

“He’s from the overseas division,” the beta said, her tone shifting into that bright, familiar lilt she used whenever office gossip was in play. “Been with Youngil for years, but he was stationed in London. Just got transferred back a few days ago.”

He nodded, pretending that helped. Pretending it mattered. “And him and Hwang sajangnim—?”

“They’ve known each other forever,” she said easily. “He’s one of the few omegas in an executive position. Worked his way up. I heard they were promoted around the same time. Different departments, but yeah... they’ve always been close.”

Always been close.

Something in Gihun cinched tight.

“I see.”

Hyunju looked at him a beat longer than she needed to. “Why do you ask?”

Gihun forced a small, dismissive chuckle. “Just making conversation.”

She hummed. Unconvinced. But let it go.

Back at his desk, he told himself it didn’t matter. Told himself his shoulders weren’t tense, his chest wasn’t tight, his hands weren’t clenched beneath the desk like he was trying to hold something in. There was no reason for any of it. No reason at all.

And still, as he stared at the screen—at rows of numbers and words that blurred together like noise—the only thing circling in his head was a voice he didn’t want to hear.

They’ve always been close.

Always.

It had been days since Gong Yoo arrived. Days, and yet Gihun still couldn’t stop noticing.

He told himself he wasn’t thinking about it. That there was nothing to think about. And yet, his eyes betrayed him, drifting toward them whenever they were in the same room, catching glimpses of moments that should have meant nothing but somehow meant everything.

Because Inho was different with him. That was the part Gihun couldn’t shake.

He had seen Inho speak to executives before, seen him navigate meetings with that same poised confidence, watched him charm clients with practiced ease and effortless polish. But this was different. Gong Yoo wasn’t just another colleague. He was someone Inho knew.

It showed in the way they moved around each other. The way Gong Yoo’s hand lingered a beat too long on Inho’s forearm in the hallway. The way they shared quiet laughter—soft, familiar. The way Inho allowed it. Invited it. Because Gihun had never seen him allow that with anyone else.

He had spent the last few days pretending not to notice. Pretending it wasn’t eating at him. But the truth sat low and ugly in his stomach, pressing hard against his ribs, gnawing. No matter how tightly he tried to shove it down, his body reacted. Instinctively. Viscerally. A sharp, irrational thing that twisted in his gut whenever he saw them together. The flash of his teeth, the twitch of his jaw. His omega bristling with something sharp and possessive, something he didn’t want to name.

Because it didn’t make sense. It wasn’t normal. Omegas weren’t supposed to feel this way about each other. Not unless they were territorial. Not unless they were jealous.

And that made no sense. Because Hwang Inho wasn’t his alpha. He had no claim. No right.

But something inside him still bristled: deep, instinctual, a sharp thing that had no business being there. His omega had never been like this. Not reactive. Not territorial. Not possessive. Hell, not even with Sangwoo. He’d always been the type to yield, to smooth things over, to fit himself into whatever space he was allowed without complaint. Without asking for more.

So what the hell was this? What was this sudden, irrational urge to bare his teeth just because some polished, too-perfect omega had leaned a little too close to Inho?

It was absurd. He knew it was absurd. He wasn’t twenty. Wasn’t some fresh-out-of-heat pup losing his mind over an alpha’s attention. He was forty. Forty, and too damn old to be reacting like this.

And yet, the bitterness lodged at the back of his throat wouldn’t go away.

It didn’t make sense.

And the worst part? Inho hadn’t changed. Still professional. Still polite. Still perfectly, infuriatingly composed. Exactly what Gihun had asked for. Exactly what he’d said he wanted.

He’d lost count of how many hours he’d spent at his desk, staring blankly at his screen, replaying moments from the past few days. Picking them apart. Dissecting them. As if there was something buried inside that would explain why this felt like—

Like it mattered.

Like he mattered.

And every time he tried to shake it off, to tell himself he was imagining things, another moment would worm its way under his skin. Gong Yoo leaning in close. Whispering something in Inho’s ear. Inho’s mouth twitching into a private smile. A hand pressed casually to the small of Inho’s back as they left a meeting.

Something twisted in Gihun’s gut: hot, sharp, and deeply, unforgivably unfair. He didn’t even know who he was more furious with. Gong Yoo, for existing. Or Inho, for not caring. For moving on like it had been nothing. Like he had been nothing.

His chest ached in a way he didn’t want to name. His stomach curled with the kind of tension he didn’t know how to ease.

This was what he wanted.

So why did it feel like it was tearing him apart?

Gihun hadn’t meant to stop. Really, he hadn’t. He was only passing through, coffee cup in hand, the weight of another restless night still dragging at his limbs. Another day of going through the motions, pretending his thoughts weren’t tangled in places they shouldn’t be. He had planned to return to his desk, focus on work, drown himself in numbers and reports until the tightness in his chest dulled, until the air stopped pressing so heavily in his lungs. Until he could forget how everything had shifted since Gong Yoo arrived.

But then—

A sound. Low voices. A soft laugh. A murmur so easy it barely touched the air. Effortless. Familiar.

His steps faltered before he even realized. His fingers tightened around the coffee cup. And then, as if pulled by something he couldn’t name, his gaze slipped toward the open office door.

His stomach twisted.

Inho.

Leaning back against his desk, sleeves rolled up, forearms resting like he had all the time in the world, fingers tapping out some lazy rhythm on the polished wood, Inho looked relaxed. Too relaxed. His expression was light. Still composed, still that usual unreadable calm, but… softer. Familiar. Like he wasn’t holding everything back for once. And the way he looked at the man standing in front of him... God. Gihun had never seen him look at anyone like that.

It caught him off guard. Punched the air right out of his lungs. Because yeah, the omega was beautiful. Obviously. The kind of beautiful that didn’t have to try: sharp jaw, clean lines, expensive cologne that probably cost more than Gihun’s rent. He looked like the type people didn’t touch unless they were invited to. Like the type who’d always been told they were special and had started to believe it.

And maybe Gihun would’ve admired that from a distance, maybe even laughed about it later, if it hadn’t been Inho standing there looking back at him like he’d always been there. Like Inho was used to him.

And then, worse, the alpha reached out. Not much. Just a casual touch to the omega’s elbow. A brief slide of fingers along his forearm, like he was making a point or emphasizing a joke. But it was familiar. Easy. Like he’d done it before. Like he could.

That’s what did it. That’s what made Gihun’s chest go tight. Because he’d never seen Inho like that. Not relaxed. Not open. Not like that.

And God, something about it made him want to scratch the feeling out of his skin.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Inho had always been untouchable. Controlled. Calculated. People admired him, feared him, respected him, but they didn’t get close. He didn’t let them. But Gong Yoo had. He had slipped past that barrier. And now, watching them together, Gihun felt it: the sharp, instinctive clench of something primal. A reaction that shouldn’t have been his.

He clenched his jaw, tried to swallow down the heat rising in his chest. This wasn’t his business. He had no right to feel anything about this.

And then it hit him.

Too strong. Too much.

Not just Inho’s usual scent, something else. Heavier. Richer. Like it had been turned up on purpose. Gihun breathed it in before he could stop himself, and it stuck. Warm. Slow. Crawling down his throat like it belonged there.

His body reacted instantly. A flare of something hot and needy twisting low in his gut. His instincts—stupid, useless things—clung to it. It wrapped around him like heat, like static. And the worst part? Some part of him didn’t want it to stop.

It was on purpose. It had to be. That scent was meant to be noticed. And his omega noticed. His spine went stiff, throat closing like he could force it out just by not breathing. His skin prickled all over, like it couldn’t decide whether to flinch or lean in.

His heart slammed against his ribs. His breathing was wrong, shallow and quick. Embarrassing. He gritted his teeth, tried to blink it away, like that would help. But it wouldn’t stop. It just kept settling. Deep. All over. Inside him.

Gihun looked up again, just for a second, and Inho was already looking at him. Straight at him. Not shy about it. Just steady. Like he’d been doing it for a while now and didn’t see any reason to stop.

Something in Gihun’s chest clenched, too tight to breathe around.

Then, from the edge of his vision, he caught Gong Yoo shifting. Barely a movement. Just the tilt of his head, the kind of slow turn people made when something suddenly made sense. Like he’d just realized something.

And then, suddenly, he was looking at Inho. Almost curious now. Not in a nosy way. Not even surprised. Just… watching. Like he was starting to see something. And whatever he saw, he understood it.

Inho glanced over. Their eyes met. And that was it. A single look.

But something passed between them: quiet, quick, like the kind of understanding people didn’t need words for. No alarm. No denial. Just confirmation. Like a thread pulled tight and then let go.

Gihun didn’t know what it meant. Just that it stuck somewhere low in his gut and wouldn’t move.

He turned, legs suddenly heavy, like his whole body was moving through glue. His thoughts wouldn’t focus, refused to land anywhere. Especially not on the way Inho had touched that omega. The way he’d done it so casually. Like it was nothing. Like he could do it again.

Like he would.

Time passed. Of course it did. Like it always fucking did: steady, boring, unaffected. Gihun kept going. Reports, meetings, groceries, dishes. Apartment, office, sleep, repeat. He told himself it was fine. That nothing meant anything. That whatever had happened, whatever that was, was a one-time thing. A blip. A dumb hormonal flinch that had no business sticking around.

He’d buried it. Told himself it didn’t matter. That he didn’t care.

And then he stepped into Inho’s office.

And instantly regretted everything.

The scent hit him like a slap to the face. Warm. Rich. Omega. Way too much of it.

It was everywhere. Not floating. Not lingering. No, this wasn’t a trace. This was sunk in. In the walls. In the air. Inho’s desk. Like someone had made themselves comfortable, had sat there, stretched there, maybe even curled up and stayed. Gihun barely had time to brace before his instincts flared, sharp and involuntary, stupid in a way that made him grit his teeth.

His spine went stiff. Breath hitched. Something in his chest twisted up before his brain could catch up.

He didn’t want to look. His eyes moved anyway and there he was. Gong Yoo. Perched on the edge of Inho’s desk like it was built for him. Jacket off. Tie loose. Fingers tapping like he had nothing better to do. He looked comfortable. At ease. Like he belonged there.

And Gihun hated how fast his chest went tight.

And Inho—

He wasn’t even trying to hide it. One arm resting on the desk, expression relaxed, mouth curved into something that didn’t belong in a workplace. Something real. Familiar. A smile that Gihun had never seen before.

It landed in his chest like a blade.

Gihun froze, fingers tightening slightly around the folder in his hands. They were mid-conversation, their voices low, steady, casual in the way things only are between people who’ve known each other too long. He shouldn’t have been listening. He shouldn’t have cared. But standing there, hearing it, watching them, it felt like pressing down on a bruise that hadn’t even begun to heal.

“I don’t know why you still bother with those ridiculous auctions,” Gong Yoo said, his tone rich with amusement. “Do you even keep half the things you bid on, or do they all end up collecting dust in one of your storage units?”

Inho let out a quiet breath, head tilting slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Some of them are worth it.”

“Oh?” Gong Yoo arched a brow, his voice laced with easy skepticism. “And what about that absurd painting you wouldn’t shut up about last year?”

Inho raised an eyebrow, playing it cool. “Which one?”

“You know exactly which one,” the omega waved a hand, dismissing the specifics with the ease of someone who never needed them. “The ‘modern reinterpretation’ of whatever it was. You paid a fortune just because the artist had an interesting philosophy.”

“Sometimes philosophy matters,” Inho replied, his tone unhurried, the corners of his smile deepening slightly.

Gong Yoo leaned forward slightly, mock-conspiratorial. “Tell me the truth. You just like the chase, don’t you?”

And there it was. A beat. Just long enough for something to slip through. A flicker across Inho’s face, so brief it shouldn’t have meant anything, and yet it did. Gihun felt it like a pinprick under the skin. The way Inho’s mouth curved just slightly at the edges, the way something unspoken seemed to pass between them like an inside joke, like something already understood.

“Perhaps,” Inho said, voice low, smooth. That one word landed heavier than it should have. Like it had been meant for someone else.

Like it hadn’t been meant for Gihun at all.

Something in the room shifted. Subtle, barely there, but Gihun felt it like pressure against his chest, like a thread pulling tight beneath his skin. Something had settled into place, quiet and certain, the kind of ease built long before he ever stepped into this office. His stomach twisted. It wasn’t what they were saying. It was how easily they spoke to each other. How Gong Yoo filled the space like he belonged in it. How Inho leaned into it, welcomed it, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Gihun’s grip on the folder tightened, nails pressing into the edge of the paper. The scent in the room wrapped around him, dense and unwelcome. Gong Yoo’s scent. Saturating the air. Embedded into the fabric of the space in a way that left no doubt. His omega bucked against it, irrational, sharp, impossible to reason with.

It resented. It wanted.

He stepped forward, the motion stiff, unnatural. His voice came out tight. Too controlled. “Sajangnim.”

It took a second. A beat too long.

Then, finally, Inho looked up, expression cooling as if a curtain had been drawn. The warmth from before vanished, replaced by something distant. Professional. “Gihun-ssi.”

It shouldn’t have stung. But it did.

He crossed the remaining space and placed the folder on the desk with careful precision. “The quarterly reports.”

Inho gave a small nod, barely glancing at the documents before his eyes lifted again, only for a second, only long enough for Gihun to feel it sink into his skin like the bite of a needle. And then it was gone.

“Thank you, Gihun-ssi,” Inho said smoothly, easily. Dismissively. 

And just like that, Gihun was no longer relevant.

Before he could speak, before he could even process it, Inho was already turning back to Gong Yoo, sliding seamlessly into conversation as if Gihun had never been there at all.

“So,” Inho said lightly, “how long are you staying this time?”

Gong Yoo laughed, leaning closer. “Hoping I’ll leave soon?”

“Not at all,” Inho replied, voice softer now, almost teasing. “It’s just rare for you to linger.”

Their voices faded as Gihun turned away, the folder no longer in his hands, but something heavier had taken its place, pressing hard against his chest. He didn’t know why it hurt so much. Why his breath felt unsteady. Why his omega clawed at his ribs. Why his entire body ached with a longing he couldn’t name.

He had no right to feel this way. No reason. This was what he’d asked for: professionalism, distance, nothing more. He had told Inho to keep things clean.

So why did it feel like rejection?

Why did it feel like something sharp and invisible digging into his ribs? Why did his fingers curl into fists at his sides, itching to—

What? Pull Inho’s attention back to him? Demand something he couldn’t even name?

Pathetic.

His stomach twisted, nausea rising hot and bitter in his throat. He forced his body to move, step by step toward the door, away from the air that felt too thick, too scented, too wrong. He didn’t look back. Didn’t speak.

The door clicked shut behind him with a quiet finality.

The scent clung to him. Burned against his thoughts. Settled in his lungs like something he couldn’t escape.

And no matter how hard he tried to shove it down, crush it beneath logic, ignore the ache tearing through him—

His omega wouldn’t let him.

The hours dragged.

Not gently, not quietly, they pulled at him, weighty and slow, like something heavy pressing into his chest that wouldn’t let up. Gihun tried to work. Tried to bury himself in the reports piling up, in the half-finished emails, in the numbers on his screen that blurred the longer he stared at them. But his focus was shot. His thoughts kept circling, looping back to the same place over and over again.

Back to that room. That voice. That laugh.

Back to the sight of them together, too close, too easy.

His omega curled low inside him, quiet and wounded, keening in that small space just beneath his ribs. It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t demanding. But that made it worse.

It just stayed. A steady ache. The kind that didn’t shout, just settled. Lingering in the hollow places where something else should’ve been. Like a thread pulled too tight, too often, finally starting to fray. And the worst part? He’d never felt like this before.

Not like this. Not this sharp, this wrong. His instincts were never this loud. Never this needy. Never this... aware. It caught him off guard, how quickly it rose up. How fast it latched onto something that wasn’t his, something he shouldn’t care about.

It made no sense. None of this made any fucking sense.

He clenched his jaw and tried to force it down, tried to smother the heat crawling under his skin, but it wouldn’t go. It had already burrowed too deep. This wasn’t just jealousy. This wasn’t just insecurity. This was instinct. Raw and unsettled. And Gihun didn’t know what to do with it.

He hunched over his desk, fingers pressing hard into the surface, grounding himself against the sharp bite of wood beneath his touch. He didn’t understand why it felt like this. Why his body reacted like something vital had been taken from him. He had told Inho to be professional. Had insisted on it. Had wanted it.

And yet, his omega stirred. Quiet but sharp. Agitated by the scent still lingering in the air, by the knowledge that the other omega had been there all day, close enough to leave a trace. That Inho hadn’t once left his side.

God, he was pathetic.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head like he could clear it. It was nothing. Just work. Just business. He had no claim. No reason for the weight crawling up his spine, the instinctive unease he couldn’t quite silence. He just needed to focus. Needed to—

“Gihun-ssi.”

His head snapped up faster than it should have. Hyunju was standing beside his desk, one brow raised, arms crossed lightly over her chest. She didn’t look irritated, just curious.

“You’re somewhere else,” she said simply. “Everything okay?”

His stomach clenched. He hesitated, just a second, just long enough for the weight of everything to push deeper into his chest. Then he forced a breathless chuckle, smoothing out his expression, hand rising automatically to rub the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he muttered. “Just tired.”

Hyunju didn’t look convinced. She tilted her head, studying him. “You look weird today.”

That made him laugh. Sort of. Not really. “Wow. Thanks.”

She shrugged. “I mean it. You look like you’re not in your own body. Like you’re thinking about something you really don’t want to be thinking about.”

He tried to shake it off, shrug like it was nothing. “Long day, Hyunju-ssi,” he said again. “That’s all.”

She watched him for a moment longer, then let it go. “If you say so.” Her voice was softer now. “Don’t let it eat you alive.”

And then she walked off.

Gihun sat back in his chair. The screen in front of him kept glowing. The scent still lingered. And the ache in his chest hadn’t moved at all.

The rest of the office had emptied out slowly, employees trickling home one by one, the usual murmur of conversation fading into quiet. Just the soft hum of machines left running, the occasional shuffle of movement from somewhere down the hall.

Gihun tried to lose himself in work. Really, he tried. But every few minutes, his eyes flicked toward Inho’s door. Still closed. Still occupied.

The hours dragged, slow and suffocating, until at last, movement cut through the silence. The door creaked open, and for the first time since morning, Inho stepped out.

Gihun’s pulse stuttered. His body tensed before he could stop it, eyes catching immediately on the two figures stepping into the hallway. Gong Yoo walked beside him, composed as ever, immaculate in a way that made Gihun feel frayed by comparison. His scent lingered like an afterthought that refused to leave, hanging in the air with quiet assertion.

They moved in tandem. Familiar. Too familiar. Inho said something low, something casual, and the omega laughed, tipping his head just slightly toward him, closer than necessary. It made something twist deep in Gihun’s gut.

He shouldn’t care. He knew that. It wasn’t his business. Shouldn’t have touched him. Shouldn’t have sunk under his skin like this.

He forced his gaze back to his screen, fingers closing tighter around his pen—clench, release, clench again—like maybe the motion could calm his pulse.

He was fine.

A few more minutes passed. Footsteps. The soft chime of the elevator. A quiet murmur of voices, too low to make out. Then—

Silence.

Gihun exhaled, long and slow, dragging himself back to the glowing screen in front of him. He would focus. He would. He wouldn’t think about how long Inho had spent with him today. Wouldn’t think about the scent still bleeding through the hallway from that office. Wouldn’t think about how it felt like something had been left behind on purpose.

A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision. He looked up. Inho was standing there. Too close. Watching him.

Gihun’s breath caught, just for a second, and he felt it immediately. That shift. That weight. The way Inho’s presence always pressed into the air when it was directed at him.

He knew Inho had noticed. He could feel it. The way the alpha looked at him: face unreadable, too calm, too still. That quiet, composed kind of expression that always meant something was happening underneath.

His fingers tightened around his pen before he could stop them. He didn’t know why Inho had come over. But he braced for it anyway.

“You stayed late,” Inho said, voice low, even.

A simple observation. Neutral. But the way it landed made Gihun’s skin prickle. He shifted in his seat, forcing a shrug. “Had work to do.”

A pause followed. Too long. Too quiet.

“You’re usually gone by now,” Inho said again, eyes still fixed on him. Not cold. Just… focused. Intent. Something quiet threaded beneath the words, something that pressed at the edges without ever tipping into confrontation. The rest of the office was still. No footsteps. No conversations. Just fluorescent light and the hum of machines and whatever it was that had followed them both into this silence.

Gihun looked down, thumb toying with the cap of his pen. “Guess I lost track of time.”

Another pause. He didn’t look up, but he felt it. Inho’s gaze. Steady. Peeling.

“Is everything all right?”

His fingers stilled.

The words weren’t hard. Weren’t forceful. They landed softer than he expected, gentle, even. An invitation, not a demand. But there was something behind them. Something careful. Something that didn’t belong here.

His throat tightened.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, voice thin, betraying him. He forced a smile, shook his head a little. “Just tired, sajangnim.”

The alpha didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Didn’t break the silence. Didn’t let him go.

Gihun swallowed hard, refusing to meet his gaze. The quiet stretched, thick and unbearable. He needed to leave. Needed to say something. Anything to end this. He couldn’t just sit here, not with Inho looking at him like he knew.

His breath came too short, his throat tightening around the words he couldn’t say. Words that felt too dangerous to name.

But the alpha wasn’t moving, wasn’t letting him go, wasn’t giving him a single moment to collect himself.

A shift of movement.

Warmth.

Gihun's breath hitched as the alpha crouched beside him, slow, deliberate, settling at his level.

Too close. Too much.

“Gihun-ah,” Inho murmured. Patient. Coaxing. Knowing.

Gihun shut his eyes. His nails bit into the arms of his chair. His body wound so tight he thought he might shatter. He had told himself this wouldn’t happen. That he didn’t care. That everything was fine. That whatever clawed up his chest every time Inho looked at him was gone, buried.

But it had been a lie. A stupid, obvious lie.

Because now, when Inho was here, giving him his full attention, the kind of attention he’d spent the whole day giving to someone else—

“I don’t—” Gihun tried, but the words broke apart in his mouth. His voice wavered, shaking, betraying him just as much as his body did.

And then he felt it.

A touch. Light as a whisper. Fingertips against his chin, tilting his face just slightly.

His breath hitched. The warmth of Inho’s skin stood in stark contrast to the tension knotting in his throat.

He went still.

Inho noticed immediately. His fingers paused, then shifted, gentle. Intentional.

A slow drag of his thumb over the ridge of Gihun’s cheekbone. Careful.

Unbearably soft.

“Tell me,” the alpha murmured; quiet, certain, steady. Not demanding, not forcing. Just inviting. Like he already knew. Like he only wanted to hear the omega say it aloud.

Gihun fought it. Shook his head, small, desperate, like a child refusing to speak, refusing to face what was right in front of him. His breath came shallow. Unsteady. He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t admit it. Not to him.

But the alpha was too close. Too warm. His presence curled around Gihun like something protective. Possessive. Dangerous.

“You’re upset,” Inho said again, softer this time. Not a question. More like he was drawing the words from Gihun’s own mouth, shaping them for him. Leading him exactly where he wanted him to go.

“No, I just—” Gihun tried. He tried to lie. Tried to push it down. Tried to convince himself he wasn’t coming apart at the seams. But his voice cracked. His hands trembled. And the man was still there. Waiting.

“Why?” Inho asked.

And this time, he didn’t let Gihun run from it.

Gihun sucked in a breath, sharp and shallow, his fingers curling hard around the edge of the desk. “It’s nothing,” he said, voice thin, brittle. “I don’t— It’s not—”

But the words wouldn’t come. Wouldn’t take shape. They slipped through his grasp like water.

Inho said nothing. Just watched. Still. Unyielding. Patient.

And Gihun was crumbling. His throat felt tight. His skin was too hot. His body betrayed him, again. Instinct clawed at the inside of his chest, dragging the truth to the surface before he could bury it. His breath hitched. His chest burned.

He tried to think of something, anything, to say. Something that wasn’t the truth. Something that would make Inho stop looking at him like that.

But when he opened his mouth, what came out wasn’t planned. Wasn’t practiced. It was just real.

“You were with him all day.”

It slipped out, too fast, too raw. Like something that had been stuck in his throat for hours, waiting for the worst possible moment to break loose. Barely a whisper, but it hit the air sharp, brittle. Like a wire snapping. Like something he couldn’t take back.

He didn’t even register it until it was already there.

And then it landed.

His breath stuttered. His stomach dropped. Heat rushed up his neck like he’d been caught doing something shameful. His nails bit into his palm. His face burned.

Shit. Why had he said that? Why the hell had he said that?

He went still. Too still. His fingers curled tighter, his whole body locking down like it could take the words back if it just held still enough.

But Inho’s hand was still there.

Still at his jaw. Still holding him. Ttilting his face just so.

Just enough to keep him from running.

Gihun’s pulse skittered beneath his skin, erratic and frantic, but Inho… didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just crouched there, composed, steady, like this was exactly what he’d been waiting for. His thumb brushed slowly across Gihun’s cheek; soft, deliberate, memorizing. Not surprised. Not even satisfied. Just… certain.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Barely a breath.

“So that’s it,” Inho murmured, like the words had simply confirmed something he already knew.

Gihun flinched. Wanted to shove him away. Wanted to lie. To undo it. To pretend none of this was happening. But he couldn’t.

Because his omega had already spoken for him.

And Inho had heard it.

“I don’t—I don’t care,” Gihun stammered, breath hitched, voice cracking on the edges of something broken. “It’s just—”

But there was no just. No logic. No line to hold onto.

This was supposed to be professional. He was the one who asked for space. Who drew the boundary.

But his omega didn’t care. His omega looked at Inho and only saw his.

And none of it made sense.

He forced himself to look away, as if turning his head could somehow take the words back. As if pretending could erase them. Make them disappear before they had the chance to do any real damage.

But Inho’s fingers only tightened, just enough. His thumb brushed along the hinge of Gihun’s jaw, tilting his face back toward him, gently but unyielding. Forcing him to stay right here, in this moment. In this unbearable space where there was no running. No hiding. No escaping.

“Gihun-ah,” Inho whispered. Soft. Almost soothing. Like he could feel the way Gihun was breaking under his touch.

Gihun squeezed his eyes shut. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, too fast, too uneven. His throat worked around a breath he couldn’t catch. And then, so quiet. So small.

“I don’t understand…”

It came out wrecked. Splintered. Like something he’d tried so hard to hold back had finally, finally cracked open.

“I don’t understand why—why I—” His voice broke, the words catching in his throat. He shook his head, panicked, trying to force them back down.

But Inho didn’t let go. Didn’t ease off. His touch stayed firm. Warm. Grounding.

Why did it hurt?

Why had today hurt?

Why had watching Inho with that omega felt like rejection? Like something precious slipping through his fingers? Like loss?

“I shouldn’t—” Gihun gasped, the ache pulling tighter. “I shouldn’t feel like—like—”

But he couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say mine. Couldn’t say yours.

And he didn’t need to.

Because Inho already knew. Had already seen it. Had already felt the shift.

And Gihun could feel it too, the way something in the alpha stilled, like he had been waiting for this. Waiting for Gihun to reach this breaking point. To come undone beneath his hands. To admit it, even if the words never fully came.

The silence stretched, too long, too full of something Gihun didn’t want to name. Thick in his chest. Hot in his throat. It pressed in from all sides, crowding the air between them until it felt like he couldn’t breathe without taking Inho in with it.

He shut his eyes. His nails dug into the arms of his chair, trying to ground himself, trying to hold the line. But it was pointless. His omega had already folded. Already leaned in. It didn’t care about right or wrong or how wrecked this was. It only felt the warmth in front of him, the weight of that presence, the scent curling low in his lungs like it belonged there.

He hated how sharp his skin felt. How he could track the exact outline of Inho’s hand, even though he wasn’t really touching him. Just fingers at his jaw. Barely there. But they felt like they were. Like they’d always been.

His heart thudded. Too loud. Too fast. And before he could stop himself, he moved. Just slightly. A tilt. A shift. His cheek brushed against Inho’s palm for half a second, barely anything.

But it was enough.

Enough to betray him.

Inho exhaled softly. A sound too pleased, too knowing.

And then, so gentle. So unbearably tender—

“Shh.”

A soft hush. A soothing murmur. A slow, careful stroke of his thumb against Gihun’s cheek, wiping away the heat gathering at the edges of his lashes.

“You don’t have to understand,” Inho whispered. His voice was impossibly warm, coaxing, laced with something quiet and dangerous. Something meant to be followed.

“Not yet,” he added, his breath ghosting over Gihun’s skin in a way that made his pulse stutter.

Gihun felt lightheaded, like the air had thinned around him without warning. His chest was too tight, lungs barely working right. His fingers twitched where they stayed clenched in his lap, the rest of his body locked up and trembling, caught somewhere between backing away and... not. Something else. Something worse. That pull again. Always that pull.

And Inho saw it. Of course he did. Saw the way his breath caught in his throat. Saw how his shoulders were starting to let go, just a little. How his body—traitorous, instinct-driven, exhausted—was already starting to lean.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice dipping low, softer now, coaxing, something almost indulgent curling at the edges of it. “You’re listening now, aren’t you?”

His thumb moved along Gihun’s cheekbone, slow and steady. Not gentle. Measured. Like he was tracing something he didn’t plan to forget. Mapping him. Memorizing the way Gihun fit beneath his hand. The way he cracked open in silence.

Gihun didn’t move. Couldn’t. Every part of him pulled tight with something raw, uncontainable.

And then—quietly, darkly—Inho let out a soft breath of a laugh. His voice barely a whisper. Shaped like a secret meant only for him.

“You really thought I was thinking about him?”

He let the words settle, watching Gihun, watching how they landed. The way something in him jolted, like a thread had been pulled too tight and finally gave. Inho saw it ripple beneath the surface. Saw the breath catch. Saw something raw crawl up his spine, slow and shamed, like a realization he didn’t want to have.

Inho’s lips curved, not cruel, not smug. Just quiet. Certain.

Confirmation.

His fingers tightened, just slightly. Enough to keep him still. Enough to remind him he was here.

“You really think I spent all that time with him and forgot about you?”

There was no teasing in his tone now. Just that same cold certainty. That same awful calm that always meant he was telling the truth.

“You’re the only one on my mind, Gihun,” Inho murmured, leaning forward until their foreheads touched. The contact was quiet, devastating. His breath ghosted over Gihun’s lips, warm and steady and unbearable.

“Even when you’re not there, you are. Even when I should be focused on a hundred other things, I’m thinking about you.”

Gihun exhaled a shaky breath, barely a sound. His fingers twitched again in his lap, like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like his body didn’t quite belong to him anymore. He wanted to pull away. Wanted to break the moment. To protect himself before it went any further.

But Inho’s hand was already there, guiding him, fingers tilting his chin up. Gentle, yes. But with a kind of weight that said there’s no retreat now.

“It doesn’t matter who’s in the room,” Inho continued, his voice dipping low, quieter now, edged with something darker. “You could be standing across the hall, halfway down the street, sitting at your desk pretending not to look my way... You’re still the only one I see.”

Gihun’s chest tightened. Something cracked inside him: sharp, quiet, sudden. His omega pulled closer, like it had been waiting for this.

“I could be surrounded by people, buried in meetings, thinking about a dozen things at once. And still, you’re the thought that stays. You’ve gotten under my skin, Gihun-ah. I don’t even know when it happened. But it did.”

Gihun’s breath hitched. A shudder rolled through him.

“I wasn’t thinking about him,” Inho said, voice lower now. Steadier. “I haven’t thought about anyone else.”

A pause.

“Just you.”

The words hit somewhere deep, too deep. Somewhere Gihun didn’t know how to guard. It felt like being seen with no protection left. No distance to hide behind.

Inho stayed close, forehead pressed to his. His breath was warm. Even. His hand settled at the nape of Gihun’s neck, fingers steady, like he was holding him there. Not to trap him. Just to feel him. Just to stay connected.

Then he moved, slowly. His lips brushed Gihun’s temple. Just a breath of contact. No pressure. No force. Just there. Like he wanted Gihun to feel the words on his skin.

Gihun didn’t move. Couldn’t. His hands shook. His pulse skipped. But his omega stilled. Satisfied. Quiet in a way it hadn’t been for days.

And that scared him more than anything else.

The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place that whispered money: hand-cut crystal, polished mahogany, the kind of quiet that cost extra. It wasn’t loud, not like the places people went to forget. Here, conversation stayed low, intimate. The sound of ice shifting in a glass carried farther than the voices.

Inho sat with his back against the booth, one arm stretched lazily along the seat, looking like he belonged there. Across from him, Gong Yoo swirled his drink, that familiar sharp glint in his eyes: too perceptive, always a step ahead.

“You’re distracted,” the omega said, tilting his glass so the light caught the amber just right. “I’ve seen you focused before. But this—” He gave a soft huff of amusement. “This is different.”

Inho took a slow sip from his glass, eyes steady, letting the heat settle before he spoke. “That your way of asking what’s on my mind?”

A smile tugged at Yoo’s lips, thin and a little too pleased with itself. “No,” he said. “It’s my way of asking who.”

A pause. Small, but heavy.

Then Inho exhaled through his nose, setting his glass down with a quiet clink. “You always assume it’s a person.”

Yoo rolled his eyes, slow, almost lazy. “Because I know you,” he said, leaning in slightly, elbow resting on the table. He let the words stretch out, smooth but edged, like he was savoring the sound of them. “You don’t fixate on things.”

He took a slow sip of his drink, watching Inho over the rim of the glass. “You fixate on people. You don’t want what you can’t have.”

A pause, then a faint smile. “You want who.”

Inho’s lips curved, like the beginning of a smile that never fully formed. “You think I can’t have what I want?”

The omega exhaled sharply, almost a laugh, but not quite. He looked away, shaking his head once like he was brushing something off, like Inho’s arrogance was so familiar it didn’t even deserve a reply.

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

Inho didn’t answer. But he didn’t deny it either.

Gong Yoo let out a low sound as he leaned back, dragging a hand slowly down his face, then across his mouth. “Poor thing,” he said, voice like smoke—dry, amused, but simmering underneath. His fingers lingered at his lips, then dropped, and his gaze cut back to Inho, sharp and slow. “He doesn’t stand a chance, does he?”

Inho just tilted his head slightly, gaze narrowing with something indulgent, like he was already imagining the omega folded beneath him.

Yoo huffed, sharp and unimpressed, but the tension in his jaw said he understood exactly what that look meant. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching how the dim light danced across it.

Then, without looking up, he gave a quiet laugh—low, dry. “You really went all in, didn’t you?”

Inho didn’t respond, but something flickered in his eyes. Something satisfied, indulgent. Like he knew exactly what he’d done, and didn’t feel the need to explain it.

Gong Yoo took a long sip, then leaned back, stretching an arm along the booth, voice loose but eyes sharp. “He walks in, and suddenly your whole office reeks of me. Not a hint. Not an echo. Drenched. Like you were trying to tattoo it into the walls.” His gaze flicked toward Inho then, sharp and unamused. “And you just sat there. Let him breathe it in, let it coat his skin, before he even had a chance to realize.”

He huffed, shaking his head. “You know what’s pathetic?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “For one stupid second, I thought you actually needed scenting. Thought maybe—hell—maybe you were slipping. That you needed something solid. Something grounding. A real connection.”

He laughed again, sharper this time. “God, I almost felt bad for you.”

Then he looked at Inho, really looked at him, and his mouth pulled into something between a sneer and a grin. “But of course not. You weren’t falling apart. You were laying a trap.”

He clinked his glass gently on the table, leaned forward just enough. “And you know what, Inho? I’ll give it to you—that’s commitment.”

Because of course the alpha didn’t need scenting. He never had. It wasn’t about comfort. Or grounding. Or anything as fragile as connection. It had never been about Gong Yoo.

It was about the omega who would walk in after.

He’d built it slowly. Day by day. The scent wasn’t just there, it was everywhere. Sunk into the walls, the furniture, the air itself. Thick enough to cling. Familiar enough to feel natural. A gradual climb, subtle enough to overlook, until the final touch. The tipping point.

And when Gihun stepped inside, it struck hard.

Because instincts didn’t negotiate. Not when the air told you who belonged there. Not when your body reacted before your brain could find excuses. No omega walked into a space like that without feeling it. Without being marked by it. Inho had made sure of it.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at Yoo, flat and composed. Like he was waiting for him to catch up.

The omega clicked his tongue. “I thought you didn’t like making messes.”

“I don’t.” Inho took a sip from his glass, slow and even. “But sometimes a mess is the cleanest way to prove a point.”

Yoo scoffed, a short, disbelieving sound. “You wanted him to feel it?”

Inho didn’t smile. Just met his eyes, cool and steady. “I wanted him to realize.”

Realize what? That he was already caught? That his instincts had betrayed him the moment he walked through the door? That no matter how many excuses he clung to, his body would always reach for what it wasn’t supposed to?

Gong Yoo leaned back, lazily swirling his drink. “Doesn’t he already have an alpha?” he asked, too casual to be harmless. “I caught something on him, faint, but there. You didn’t smell it?”

Inho scoffed, soft and bitter. Then he laughed, but it wasn’t amusement, it was something colder. “If that’s what passes for an alpha these days,” he muttered.

He didn’t look up right away, just traced the rim of his glass with his thumb. “He’s untouched. And not because someone’s being careful. It’s because that idiot’s too afraid to act. Too fucking soft to claim what’s his.”

Then he looked at the omega, expression cool, but his voice had turned to glass. “That’s not an alpha. That’s just someone buying time. Keeping him close because he knows if he doesn’t, someone else will take him.”

Yoo raised an eyebrow. “You sound invested.”

Inho didn’t flinch. He set his glass down, slow and quiet.

“That alpha let him live untested.” His voice stayed calm, but something had shifted. The weight behind it was unmistakable: tight, focused. “Let him walk around believing he could stay untouched.”

Then he leaned in, not far, not fast, just enough to shift the air between them. His gaze was locked, sharp, like he wasn’t just making a point. He was marking it.

“All I did was remind him what his body already knew.” The words came low, clipped. Controlled. “Instincts don’t lie. Not when they’re given something real to respond to.”

The silence after dragged, thick as smoke.

Yoo blinked, the smile slipping from his mouth just slightly. He didn’t lean back, but he stilled, watching Inho the way one might watch a flame that had grown a little too high.

He let the silence sit for a beat. “That desperate to see what he’d do?”

Inho looked over, slow and composed. “I wouldn’t call it desperation.” His voice was smooth, like the whiskey in his glass. “I’d call it... strategy.”

The omega barked a laugh, resting his chin in his palm. “Sure. Let’s go with that. You’ve always had a taste for things that belong to other people,” he said, voice dry. “Remember that executive’s omega back when you were still clawing your way up? The older one, with the mark you pretended not to see?”

Inho didn’t answer. Just kept turning the glass between his fingers.

Yoo watched him, exasperation sharpening in his expression. “He was mated. Settled. Nearly twice your age. And you still circled him like he was up for the taking.”

“He wanted to be seen,” Inho said, voice mild.

“No,” Gong Yoo muttered, leaning back with a sigh. “You wanted to win.”

He let the words hang for a second. Then:

“Reminds me of your father, actually.”

Inho’s fingers paused mid-turn. Barely, but Yoo caught it.

“‘If it runs, it’s yours to chase,’” he quoted softly, mocking the cadence. “Didn’t he say that to you when you were what—thirteen? Fourteen?”

Silence.

His voice stayed light, but something had sharpened beneath it. “You used to think he was a monster.”

He leaned forward now, not smiling. “But now you just talk quieter when you sound like him.”

For the briefest moment, Yoo could’ve sworn he saw it: that sharp flicker in Inho’s eyes, not rage, not guilt, but something raw. Something ugly and buried, the kind of thing you shove down so deep you forget it lives there. And just like that, it was gone.

Inho blinked once. Picked up the thread again like it had never slipped.

“I don’t take,” he said, smooth as ever, his thumb brushing the rim of his glass. “I only reveal what was never truly owned.”

The omega laughed, but there was no warmth in it, just sharp edges and something close to awe. “So that’s how you justify it?”

The alpha smirked. “It’s not justification if it’s the truth.”

Because Cho Sangwoo had never owned Gihun. Not really. He’d held space beside him. Used him. Forgotten him. But ownership? That required recognition. It required care. And that alpha didn’t know the first thing about either. He was a mess, and Inho hated messes.

“I don’t understand men like him,” Inho said after a moment, his voice quiet, almost detached, like he was thinking out loud.

Yoo arched a brow. “What, arrogant alphas who think they deserve the world just for existing?”

“No,” Inho murmured, swirling the remnants of his drink. “Men who don’t realize what they have. Who take what’s soft, what’s good, and wear it down without ever seeing it.” He exhaled through his nose, head tilting slightly. “Men who believe showing up is enough. That possession doesn’t need maintenance.” His fingers tapped the rim of his glass once. “A weaker alpha. The kind that thinks presence is the same as devotion.”

Sangwoo was already halfway gone. A smudge. A presence fading before it was even missed.

But the idea of him—the insult of him—standing where Inho should be standing? That was the part that grated. Because Gihun wasn’t his.

He was Inho’s. Had always been. The omega just didn’t know it yet.

But he would.

It all started from the moment Inho had first seen him.

Frail, quiet in a way that spoke of self-imposed smallness, like he’d learned, over time, how to shrink around someone else’s shadow. His body moved like it had long ago accepted it would never be the center of anyone’s attention. And that told Inho everything.

He’d taken one look and understood. Understood the cracks, the silence, the hunger that wasn’t being fed. It wasn’t just in the way Gihun spoke, or didn’t, it was in how his scent pulled thin when no one looked at him, how his eyes lit up a second too late when praised, like he didn’t believe it was meant for him.

The pull had been immediate. Unwelcome, yes. But undeniable.

Gihun wasn’t just attractive. He was unclaimed. An omega bound to a man who didn’t deserve him. An omega whose body had already started betraying him, whether Gihun knew it or not. Inho had studied him carefully, traced every fragile thread of his insecurity, every instinct buried under shame, every flicker of longing he tried to swallow down. He knew how to break him down. Knew exactly where to press, where to touch, where to whisper.

He knew how to unmake him.

“Hard measures,” Inho murmured, almost absently, more to himself than to the man across from him.

Yoo’s lips curved faintly, but his eyes didn’t follow. There was something else behind them now. He’d seen Inho take before, watched him seduce, manipulate, dismantle people with surgical precision. But this... this wasn’t clean.

“That bad, huh?”

Inho didn’t answer right away. He just smiled into his glass, the kind of slow, private curve that didn’t need a punchline. Then he took another sip—unbothered, unhurried.

The omega watched him carefully.

It didn’t need to be said. Whatever Inho was thinking, it lived behind his eyes. Heavy. Certain.

Because it was only a matter of time. A matter of making Gihun see what he already felt, even if he didn’t have the words for it yet. Instincts didn’t lie, not when they were starved. Not when they were finally offered something they couldn’t turn away from.

And Gihun—sweet, soft, starved—was already unraveling in his hands.

All Inho had to do now was hold steady. Apply the right pressure. And wait for the break.

The worst part was that Sangwoo didn’t even see what he had to lose.

“Have you ever had something stolen from you?” Inho murmured, his finger running along the rim of his glass.

Gong Yoo raised a brow. “No.”

Inho’s lips curved, gaze dark. “Neither has he.”

A slow smirk. Another sip. The weight of inevitability settling between them like a silent promise.

“But he will.”

The omega exhaled softly, draining the last of his drink. He set the glass down with a quiet clink, then stretched, rising smoothly from the booth, hands smoothing over the front of his sleeves.

“Well,” he murmured, adjusting a cufflink with practiced ease. “As much as I’d love to sit here and watch you spiral, I’ve got places to be.”

Inho didn’t move. He only tilted his head slightly, eyes following every gesture. It didn’t need a goodbye. Their conversations never did. They understood what this was: curiosity, tension, truth laid bare between sips of good whiskey.

“Don’t get all sentimental on me now,” the omega added, the corner of his mouth lifting.

Inho arched a brow, raising his glass in a silent toast.

Gong Yoo huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he turned away. No goodbye. No warning. Just the brush of his coat sleeve as he stepped out, leaving only the scent of whiskey and something sour behind.

And Inho watched him go.

Unmoving. Unbothered Already thinking of someone else.

Inho stayed there a while.

Let the glass sit in his hand, let the last sip roll between his fingers as he watched the amber cling to the sides. There was a time he’d thought power came from force: from speaking first, moving fast, striking hard. But that was before he learned the truth. The ones who actually won? They didn’t have to raise their voices. They just waited. Watched. Let the ground shift beneath your feet before you ever knew it was moving.

He’d learned young. Taking wasn’t about reaching out. It was about making it come to you. About letting someone walk straight into your hands thinking they got there on their own.

And that was what Gihun would learn, too.

Because the omega was already his. He just hadn’t realized it yet.

Sangwoo had never been a rival. He was an obstacle. And obstacles didn’t need to be fought. They could be removed: quietly, cleanly, without fuss. Inho hadn’t even needed to meet him to see the cracks. They were obvious in the way Gihun spoke about him. The way his eyes dulled. The way his scent never deepened, never anchored like it should.

An alpha who didn’t know how to hold what he’d been given. Who let something precious decay in his hands because he assumed it would never leave him.

Pathetic.

Inho never left things to chance.

If he wanted something, he took it. And if tearing Sangwoo’s world apart was the cost? So be it.

Gihun had tried to run. Of course he had. That much, Inho had expected. The guilt, the hesitation, those desperate little tugs of an omega still clinging to a man who’d never earned his devotion. He’d accounted for all of it. Planned for it.

What he hadn’t accounted for was the slip. That brief, dangerous second when something inside him gave.

It had been calculated. He meant to press. To test. To feel Gihun unravel beneath his hands. But for a breath, his control faltered. Just slightly. Just enough for his grip to tighten without thinking. Just enough for his breath to catch. For the taste of surrender to land harder than it should have. Deeper.

Stupid.

That animal part of him—the part that felt the way Gihun melted and believed, even for a heartbeat, that he wouldn’t run—was deluded. He should’ve known better. Of course Gihun ran.

And yet... for that one second, Inho hadn’t been playing the game.

He’d been in it.

He’d felt it: that flicker before Gihun’s instincts recoiled, before Sangwoo’s name coiled through his mind like a trap, before the guilt dragged him back to a bond that was nothing but memory and denial.

But that second? That moment? That was real. And Inho had felt it.

The way Gihun shuddered against him, how his lips parted, barely, just enough, as if his body had already accepted what was happening before his mind could catch up. He had clung to Inho’s wrist. Not to fight him off. Not to push away. He held on.

And then he broke. Ran.

Like Inho should’ve expected.

Like any omega with that kind of desperation still clinging to him would.

Fled like something startled and wild, scent wrecked and shaking, thick with confusion and something needier underneath.

It had been almost sweet. Almost. Those wide, stricken eyes, as if he was the one to blame. As if Inho had done something to him, instead of the truth. The simple truth that Gihun had wanted it.

That, Inho thought, swirling the drink in his glass as the burn sat dull in his throat, that was what made Gihun different. Because none of the others had ever done that. None of them had ever made him feel this... obsessed.

It wasn’t just about taking anymore. Or proving a point.

It had shifted. Quietly. Completely.

Gihun was different. Inho had known it from the beginning. From the moment he saw him—hesitant, worn-down in that soft, enduring way that didn’t speak of weakness, but survival—something had clicked into place. A kind of silence in his instincts he hadn’t felt in years. Not submission.

Recognition.

It wasn’t just the body, though that, too, had been infuriatingly compelling. Slim, firm. Built to be held. And not just the scent, though it had started pulling at him before Inho even understood what it was doing.

No, what set him apart, what made Inho’s fingers tighten just slightly around the glass, was the way Gihun gave himself away. So easily. So completely. To people who never earned it. Who never even saw him.

To an alpha who treated him like a possession. A convenience.

A guarantee.

It disgusted him.

And yet, beneath the disdain, buried deep, there was something else. Something darker. A fascination he had no business indulging. A part of him that wanted to understand.

Because who the fuck did that? Who still loved after being overlooked, belittled, discarded? What kind of insane strength did it take to keep reaching, to keep trying, again and again, when the world had already decided you weren’t worth the effort?

It should’ve been weakness. Stupidity. The kind of thing that deserved to be crushed, stomped out, torn out at the root before it spread.

But when Gihun had run, when he looked back at Inho with those wide, desperate eyes, shaken but not broken, Inho had felt something he didn’t want to name. Admiration? No. He wasn’t that sentimental.

But there was something in the way the omega resisted. The way he didn’t fall easily. The way he still had fight in him, even after everything. Some part of Inho—the darker part—wanted to break Gihun even more for it.

Because if he had given in, it wouldn’t have mattered. Alphas fucked omegas. That was the order of things. If he’d been like anyone else, it would’ve been another conquest. Another game. Another tight little win.

But Gihun wasn’t like the others. Which meant Inho wouldn’t just take him. He would earn him.

He would make Gihun look at him with something more than wariness, more than fear. Make him see what real strength looked like. What real power felt like. Make him understand that it had never been Sangwoo.

It had always, always been Inho.

And that was why he was going to take his time.

Because patience was his sharpest weapon. And soon, Gihun would understand.

Sangwoo was already dead in the water.

He just didn’t know it yet.

Chapter Text

It had been days. Days since he’d unraveled beneath Hwang Inho’s gaze. Since something raw had slipped out, too honest, too exposed. Since the alpha had heard him. Really heard him. And responded in a way that left Gihun shaken to his core.

But the aftermath never came. No smugness. No teasing. No quiet remarks slipped into conversation like hidden blades. Nothing to make him feel small. And maybe that was worse. Because it meant Inho hadn’t brushed it off. It meant he’d listened. And Gihun felt it, in everything.

The silence between them was different now. Not cold. Not tense. Just… present. Like a thread stretched between them, weightless but unmissable. He’d braced for awkwardness, for space to open between them. But it hadn’t. Something had shifted, yes, but not the way he expected. There were no lingering stares, no strange pauses. Being near Inho didn’t feel strained. If anything, it felt... easier.

And Gihun didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know what to do with the way Inho still stood beside him, unhurried and steady, as if nothing had changed. The way his fingers brushed just a little too long when handing off a report. The way his voice softened, barely, when he said Gihun’s name. Too subtle for anyone else to hear. But Gihun heard it.

Then there was the chair. The one that had made his back ache for weeks. It felt different now. Just enough of an adjustment to ease the tension in his shoulders. No announcement. No note. No one said anything—except Hyunju, days ago, laughing at how stiff he looked, telling him to ask for something better.

He remembered that.

He remembered Inho standing across the room, gaze flicking toward him—just once.

Then the flickering light in the storage room. It had sputtered for weeks, casting uneven shadows that left him with headaches whenever he sorted through old files. One day it was just fixed. No request. No explanation.

Like the pens that kept reappearing where he needed them.

Like the bag of his favorite coffee on the counter the morning after he’d muttered, half to himself, that the office had run out.

And now this.

Another shift. Small. Too small for anyone else to notice. But Gihun noticed.

Just like he noticed the elevator. The way the doors paused, just long enough to let him slip in without rushing. Without being late.

And Inho was already inside.

Calm. Composed. One hand in his pocket, gaze unreadable. He hadn’t moved. Not in any way you could point to. But Gihun knew.

He knew.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was imagining it, his mind trying to connect dots that didn’t belong. But when he stole a glance, when he let curiosity slip past his better judgment for just a second, Inho was already looking at him. Not expectant. Not amused. Just watching. Steady, composed, like he was waiting for something.

Gihun swallowed hard and looked away. He wasn’t going to do this. He wasn’t going to let himself spiral. Not when it didn’t mean anything. Because it couldn’t. This was work. This was structure. This was everything he still had. Hwang Inho was his boss. He had a home. A life. Sangwoo.

He had made a promise.

And that was why he couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t let the words rise again. Couldn’t let himself remember the way Inho had said it, I only see you, with that quiet certainty that had knocked the air from his lungs. Couldn’t remember the way Inho had looked at him when he said it. Calm. Direct. Like it wasn’t just something to be said, but something that had always been true.

Because it didn’t matter. Because it couldn’t matter. Because if he let himself feel what had been given to him in that moment, if he let himself acknowledge the way it had hit, somewhere deeper than it should have, then pretending would no longer be an option.

And Gihun needed to pretend.

So he shoved it down. Buried it in the part of himself he didn’t touch, didn’t name. Let it settle there, untouched, unacknowledged. Because some things were easier that way. Safer. Some things were meant to be left where they couldn’t do harm.

Maybe it was supposed to be this way.

The office was still, save for the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the faint click of a pen against paper. Late afternoon light spilled through the tall windows, casting long, golden shadows across Inho’s desk. Gihun sat across from him, posture straight, hands resting carefully in his lap, trying to stay focused.

But his mind was already starting to slip.

One second, he’d been reviewing a stack of reports. The next—

“We’re going on a business trip.”

The words landed a beat too late. Calm, almost casual, spoken like they were nothing. But they weren’t.

A business trip.

His stomach twisted. Not unpleasantly. Just tight, uncertain. The way it always did when something unfamiliar crept in.

He looked up, blinking, pulse skipping as the weight of it hit.

“Singapore.”

Inho’s voice was smooth, measured. Unbothered.

Gihun swallowed.

A trip. Abroad. It felt… huge.

His fingers curled slightly against his knee. It hit all at once, he’d never been overseas before. Not for business. Not for anything. And now he was expected to step onto a plane, into another country, into a world that had never included him before.

Singapore was larger than life, untouchable in his mind. Glass towers, mirrored buildings, money in the air. It didn’t just feel far, it felt impossible. Like something built for people who belonged to a different life. And Gihun wasn’t sure he had any place in it.

He fought the instinct to shift in his seat, grounding himself with a slow inhale.

“A trip?” he echoed, voice lighter than he meant, like he had to hear the word out loud just to believe it.

Inho nodded, exhaling softly as he leaned back in his chair. The motion was effortless, composed. Utterly unbothered. The contrast between them was sharp: Gihun’s pulse skipping, thoughts already racing; Inho already at ease, as if this had always been the plan.

“One week,” Inho clarified. “Three days in the city. Then we move to Sentosa for the last four.”

Before Gihun could fully absorb that, Inho went on.

“The first half is business. Meetings, formal engagements, structured schedules. You’ll be handling reports, logistics, follow-ups.”

That, at least, gave him something to hold onto. He nodded, latching onto the details like an anchor: something solid, something familiar.

“Sentosa is different,” Inho continued, tilting his head. “It’s more exclusive. High-level networking, private settings. Less about structure, more about trust. Most of the real deals happen there. Quietly. Over dinners, drinks. In conversation.”

Gihun’s stomach tightened.

He wasn’t naive. He’d overheard enough from Jihoon and Hyunju to know that business didn’t stop at the boardroom. It happened in the pauses: at rooftop bars, in the back corners of private lounges, over quiet nods and easy smiles between men who didn’t need to explain themselves.

It was another world entirely.

He tried not to let that thought sink too deep. Instead, he swallowed, keeping his voice steady. “And I’ll be expected to...?”

Inho didn’t hesitate. “Be by my side.”

The answer came easily. Too easily.

Not just as an assistant. Not just as support.

As part of this world.

Gihun’s fingers twitched against his knee, something curling sharp and uncomfortable inside him. That was what unsettled him; not the work, not the schedule, but the idea of being seen in those rooms. Standing next to Inho. Present.

His throat felt dry. He exhaled slowly, trying to keep his voice even.

“So, uh... not to second-guess you or anything, sajangnim, but—what about Hyunju and Jihoon?”

He gave a faint, awkward smile, more instinct than confidence.

“They’ve done this stuff before, right? Like... actual business trips?”

Why him?

It made sense, technically. He was Inho’s assistant now. But still, Hyunju had more experience. Jihoon had already been on these trips. They were better suited.

Something flickered in Inho’s eyes. Almost amused.

“Jihoon will be managing a separate client group here in Seoul,” he said, voice smooth, practiced. “He’s more familiar with the domestic investors. His presence is needed elsewhere.”

Reasonable. Sensible. Easy to accept.

“And Hyunju?”

“She’s strong in structured negotiations. This trip requires something… more adaptable.”

The word hung there—quiet, precise, chosen.

Gihun’s pulse ticked up.

More adaptable. That wasn’t about experience. Or skill. It was about him.

Inho had chosen him.

He felt it: heavy, unspoken, settled in the air between them. Not something he could name. Not something he could challenge. But it was there. And Inho knew he’d understood.

The moment stretched, just a beat too long. Then finally, Gihun swallowed and nodded.

“How long until we leave?”

“Three days.”

Three days. Not long. Not long enough to make sense of any of this. Not long enough to convince himself that everything between them was still the same. The air felt heavier. And Hwang Inho was still watching him.

“Do you have concerns?”

The question was calm, measured, but something sat beneath it: thicker, weighted. Gihun shook his head too quickly. “No, sajangnim.”

Too fast. Too obvious. Inho’s lips curved slightly. Amused. Knowing.

“Good.”

He set a file on the desk, tapped it once, then pulled his hand back. “Review this. We’ll go over the finer details tomorrow.”

And just like that, the conversation was over. Gihun stayed in his seat long after the alpha had left, eyes fixed on the folder.

A business trip. Seven days. Three days of structure. Four days of something else.

He exhaled slowly, pulse still uneven, thoughts slipping from the task in front of him. Not toward the itinerary. Not toward logistics. Toward Inho. Toward everything that hadn’t been said. And yet, he reached for the file.

The apartment smelled like fresh takeout and the faint trace of Sangwoo’s cologne when Gihun walked into the living room. Sangwoo was already at the table, sleeves rolled up, fingers tapping absently against his phone screen as he scrolled.

“Long day?” Gihun asked, setting the plastic bags down.

Sangwoo didn’t look up. “Mm. Just busy.”

There was a pause. Then he let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head like he was still amused by whatever he was thinking about.

“Actually, you won’t believe this. They asked me to go on a business trip. Big deal. Couple of weeks, high-level meetings, strategy stuff. You know—real work.”

Gihun blinked. For a second, he just stood there, hands still in the takeout bag.

A business trip.

Funny. He was going on one too.

Not as long, not as flashy, but still. His first time abroad. His first real assignment. And yet, somehow, it felt smaller now.

Not that he minded. Sangwoo deserved it. Of course he did. He was always meant for things like this.

Gihun pushed the thought aside and smiled.

“Sangwoo-yah,” he said with a soft laugh as he unpacked the food, “business trip, huh? Sounds important. Gonna forget all about us regular people?”

The alpha stretched, rolling his shoulders back, clearly pleased with himself.

“Tokyo. Multiple stops. Real exclusive. Pretty much means they trust me with this stuff now. I mean, it’s not surprising, right? I was bound to get something like this eventually.”

His voice was so sure. So confident. Like this was inevitable. Like success had always been waiting for him to catch up.

And Gihun was happy for him. He really was.

But God, Sangwoo could be exhausting when he got like this.

Gihun bit back a sigh, placing chopsticks on the table. “Well, sounds like a big opportunity. When are you leaving?”

Sangwoo finally glanced at him, smirking. “Why? You gonna miss me?”

Gihun scoffed, shaking his head with a small laugh. “Maybe I just want to know if I have to water your plants.”

Sangwoo hummed, clearly satisfied, then turned his attention back to his phone. “Next week. Big names will be there.”

Then, without looking up—offhand, casual, but laced with that familiar, self-satisfied edge:

“Bet you’ll be all lonely without me, hyung.”

Gihun huffed a quiet laugh, starting to unpack the takeout. “I think I’ll survive.”

Sangwoo stretched, arms behind his head, radiating smugness. “Yeah, well, enjoy your little office routine while I’m out doing real work.”

His voice dripped with amusement, and something sharper: arrogance, unthinking and reflexive.

Gihun didn’t say anything at first. Just kept unwrapping containers, fingers slower than before.

“Damn. Biggest trip of my career so far. Real high-level shit. Executives, global partners. People who actually matter.”

That one landed harder than it should have. Gihun kept his head down, jaw tightening for half a second before smoothing over again. He gave a small nod, almost automatic.

“Sounds exciting,” he murmured.

Sangwoo let out a low chuckle, shaking his head, like the sheer importance of his own success was almost too much to believe, even for him. Like he was standing on a rung of the corporate ladder Gihun would never touch.

Gihun stilled, just for a second. His fingers hesitated over the takeout containers.

Sangwoo didn’t know yet. Didn’t know that he wasn’t the only one leaving. That Gihun—Gihun, of all people—was going on a business trip too.

And for a moment, something small and stupid curled inside him. Like he should keep it to himself. Like saying it out loud might ruin it somehow, might give Sangwoo the space to twist it, minimize it, make it feel small.

Because that’s what always happened. Wasn’t it?

He wet his lips. His fingers tightened on the plastic container, then loosened again. He hadn’t meant to bring it up like this. But now the words were sitting there, right behind his teeth.

“Actually…”

He cleared his throat. Tried to make his voice sound steady. Normal. Like it didn’t matter.

“I, uh… I’m going on a trip too. Next week.”

The pause hit instantly. Sharp. Too long for something so simple.

Sangwoo’s fingers, still scrolling, froze. His face didn’t change right away, like the words had to reach him in pieces first.

Then, a laugh. Quiet. Small. Almost disbelieving.

But sharp.

Sharp enough to twist something in Gihun’s gut.

“What?”

Gihun swallowed. “I have a business trip next week.”

Another pause. Then Sangwoo scoffed, shaking his head like Gihun had just said something absurd. Like he was waiting for the punchline.

“What do you mean, you have a business trip?”

There it was. Not Oh, really? That’s great. Not Where to? or What’ll you be doing? Just—what do you mean.

Like the idea didn’t register. Like it was laughable. Like the thought of him being sent anywhere important was some kind of joke.

Gihun straightened a little, spine meeting the back of the chair. His fingers uncurled from where they’d tensed against the table. He met Sangwoo’s gaze: steady, calm, willing himself not to flinch.

“It’s for work,” he said. “I’ll be assisting with logistics, scheduling, making sure things run smoothly. I’ve been handling a lot of the organizational stuff lately, and Hwang sajangnim personally assigned me.”

That should’ve been enough. That should’ve mattered.

But Sangwoo’s brows pulled together, the amusement in his expression cooling into something else. Sharper. More assessing.

“Not Hyunju? Or Jihoon?”

Of course.

Gihun had known, the moment he said it, that this was coming. That Sangwoo wouldn’t let it sit. That he’d pick at the edges until it came undone.

“They—” Gihun inhaled, steadying himself. “Hyunju’s tied up with projects here, and Jihoon’s handling some key clients. They needed someone who could fully focus on the trip’s logistics.”

His hands curled into his lap, but his voice stayed even. His posture didn’t shift.

It didn’t matter.

Because Sangwoo’s expression was already changing. That knowing smirk pulling at his mouth. That flicker of smugness behind his eyes, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment to prove a point.

“And you’re the best person for that?”

So smooth. So casual. Like it wasn’t a question at all. Like he was playing along with something he didn’t believe, just to see how far Gihun would go pretending it was true.

The ease of it hit hard, lodged somewhere deep, sharp and breathless. Because no matter how hard he worked, how much he tried to show what he was capable of, it always came back to this. This version of him Sangwoo refused to let go of. This quiet disbelief that he could be anything more than what he’d once been: messy, aimless, small.

But Gihun didn’t back down. Not this time.

He swallowed against the knot in his throat and looked him straight in the eye.

“I do a lot more than you think,” he said quietly.

But there was steel beneath it.

Sangwoo exhaled sharply through his nose, head shaking with that familiar blend of disbelief and dismissal. Like Gihun had said something ridiculous. Like he didn’t even realize how far out of his league he was reaching.

“I just don’t get why they’d send you.” He said it lightly, like it was just an offhand comment, but the weight of it hit just as deeply. He was already glancing back at his phone, distracted, his attention slipping, as if the conversation wasn’t even worth finishing. “What, is this some kind of favor?”

A favor. Like it was pity. Like it was charity. Like it wasn’t something he had earned.

The sting landed right away. It settled low, behind his ribs, familiar and heavy. His fingers curled against the table, then slowly uncurled. He looked down at the food in front of him, still untouched. The silence between them had started to thicken. Not angry, not loud. Just bitter. Suffocating.

He told himself not to let it get to him. It was just Sangwoo being Sangwoo. But God, he hated this part. Hated how easy it still was for him to shrink Gihun down with just a few words. Like he didn’t belong. Like the world outside this apartment, outside him, wasn't made for someone like Gihun.

Like he was still the same guy who had never been worth the risk.

A lump built in his throat, thick and unwelcome, but he forced himself to breathe through it. To make his voice steady.

“It’s not a favor.”

The words came out sharper than he meant, firmer, but fragile under everything they carried. His chest ached. It sat just under his ribs, that pressure, that weight, choking but quiet.

“It’s my job.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Sangwoo didn’t respond right away. Didn’t even try to pretend. He just swept his gaze over Gihun—slow, unreadable, mildly unimpressed—before exhaling. Long. Detached.

And then the worst thing he could have said.

“Jesus, look at you,” he muttered, shaking his head. His voice had that tone again: condescending, exasperated, like Gihun was a child throwing a fit. “I can’t say anything to you without you getting emotional. You always do this.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face like he was tired, like Gihun’s feelings were just another inconvenience to deal with.

“What, do I need to run every word by you now?”

Gihun’s throat tightened. His eyes burned.

It was always like this. Didn’t matter what he did, how hard he tried to hold his ground, or how much he told himself he’d earned this, that he deserved to be taken seriously. It never stuck. Not with Sangwoo. He always found a way to make Gihun feel like he was being ridiculous. Like he was overreacting. Like he was embarrassing.

His fingers curled hard against his thigh. Nails digging in, just to keep himself still. Just to focus on anything but the heat crawling up his chest. He wasn’t going to fall apart. Not here. Not over this.

But it still burned. Not loud, not sharp. Just slow. Deep. Like a bruise coming in under the skin.

Because he’d worked for this. Really worked. Stayed late. Took the lead. Got better. Smarter. Finally started to feel like he belonged in the room. Like maybe, just maybe, he was good at something. Not just tagging along. Not just being tolerated.

But now? Here he was again. Sitting across from Sangwoo. Shrinking. Folding in on himself like all that effort didn’t matter. Like none of it ever stuck, not when someone like him looked at him that way. Just a burden again. Just someone taking up space. Too soft. Too reactive. Too easy to dismiss.

And Sangwoo didn’t even have to try. He just let out another dismissive breath, already done, already halfway out of the conversation.

“Anyway,” he muttered, reaching for his phone, barely glancing at him. “Try not to embarrass yourself.”

It landed like a slap.

Gihun flinched. Just slightly.

And of course, Sangwoo didn’t see.

Because he wasn’t looking.

The airport was... a lot.

Gihun had never flown before. Not once. Not for school trips, not for family vacations, not for anything. Airports had always felt like places for other people. People who had reasons to go places. People with plans. Passports. Nice shoes. Not him.

But here he was, passport in hand, suitcase dragging behind him, heart pounding like it hadn’t gotten the memo that this was supposed to be exciting.

And he wasn’t even alone.

“You’re fidgeting.”

He froze at the sound of Inho’s voice, his fingers tightening around the handle of his carry-on like he’d just been caught doing something wrong. The alpha was standing right beside him, calm as ever, hands in his pockets like he had all the time in the world. The early morning light slanted through the big glass windows, catching the edges of his suit and making him look almost too put-together, like someone out of a commercial.

“I’m not,” Gihun mumbled under his breath.

Inho didn’t argue, just gave a quiet hum that made it clear he didn’t believe him for a second. Then he tilted his head toward the check-in counters.

“Come on. I’ll take care of it.”

Gihun hesitated before following. He felt out of place already, like someone had made a mistake letting him be here. Airports. Business travel. None of this felt like it belonged to him. Meanwhile, Inho moved through it like he’d been born in it, smooth, practiced, not even looking up as he handed over passports and answered questions like he did this in his sleep.

Then, without so much as a glance, Inho passed him the boarding pass.

“Gate 14,” he said. “Don’t wander.”

Don’t wander. The words sent a strange shiver down Gihun’s spine. He barely glanced at the boarding pass in his hand, business class, before nodding, swallowing around whatever was starting to twist low in his stomach.

Airport security was a mess. Efficient, maybe, but still a mess. And Gihun realized pretty quickly that he had no idea what he was doing. He froze for a second, watching the line move. People were pulling off belts, watches, digging through their bags for laptops. Was he supposed to do all that? Did the jacket stay on? Come off? His brain blanked. His palms were already sweating.

“Your belt.”

He jumped. Inho’s voice was low, even. Like he hadn’t just startled the hell out of him.

“Take it off,” he added, glancing once toward Gihun’s waist before turning back to his own things. “And your watch.”

Heat rushed to Gihun’s face. He fumbled with the buckle, trying to act like he knew what he was doing, like this wasn’t the first time he’d ever set foot in an airport.

By the time they were through, Gihun felt... ridiculous. But Inho didn’t say anything. No comments. No smug look. No quiet insult dressed up as a joke. He just walked ahead like nothing had happened. And Gihun followed, like always.

“You haven’t eaten.”

Gihun blinked. “Huh?”

Inho nodded toward a cafe by their gate. “You’ll feel like shit on the flight if you don’t eat.”

It wasn’t really a suggestion. But it wasn’t a command either. Just a quiet statement, dropped like it was obvious.

Gihun stood there for a second, then nodded and trailed after him, too thrown off to say anything else.

The plane was quieter than he expected. Or maybe it only felt that way because his own thoughts were too loud.

Gihun sat stiffly in his seat, fingers clenched around the armrest, eyes locked on the window. Below, airport workers moved across the tarmac like tiny, coordinated ants, all purpose and no hesitation. The steady hum of the engines filled the space between them, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the nervous buzzing in his chest.

The whole morning had been a blur—packing, rushing out the door, stepping into the airport, getting through security, boarding, buckling in—all of it a mess of movement and noise he barely remembered. His mind too preoccupied with everything else to fully process it.

Sangwoo’s voice lingered in the back of his head like a splinter. Hope you don’t embarrass yourself. Said like it was obvious. Like Gihun failing was just a natural part of the order of things. Like this whole trip was some weird fluke that would eventually collapse under the weight of how unqualified he really was.

His stomach turned, but he pushed it down. He wasn’t going to think about that now. He couldn’t afford to, not when there were more immediate things pressing on him.

Like this.

He’d been bracing for it all morning: for awkwardness, for tension, for the quiet reminder that something had changed between them. Because it had, hadn’t it? They’d crossed a line. And now here they were, shoulder to shoulder, packed into a space too small, too quiet, too impossible to ignore.

But Inho didn’t feel distant.

That was the strangest part.

Gihun swallowed and risked a glance beside him. The alpha looked calm as ever, one hand resting on the armrest, the other cradling a glass of water like this was any other day. No tension in his posture. No sign that anything had changed. If there was even a hint of unease, it was buried too deep to see. He looked… comfortable. More than that, at ease. Like nothing had happened. Like none of it had mattered.

And maybe that should’ve been a good thing. Maybe it should’ve calmed the mess still twisting low in Gihun’s chest. But it didn’t. If anything, it made the silence between them feel heavier. Denser. Because Gihun did feel different. And Hwang Inho was just sitting there: composed, unreadable, completely untouched by it all.

Like it had meant nothing.

And Gihun didn’t understand how that was even possible.

He shifted, pressing his nails lightly into his palm. Trying to stay grounded. Trying to stay still.

“I didn’t think it’d be this quiet,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Inho glanced over. “The plane?”

“Yeah,” Gihun said. “I thought it’d be… I don’t know. Louder.”

“There’ll be more noise once we’re in the air,” Inho said, voice easy, like he wasn’t really thinking about it. “Turbulence. Drink carts. People moving around. You get used to it.”

Gihun nodded, but his fingers were still tight on the armrest. His shoulders hadn’t relaxed.

Inho noticed. Of course he did. His gaze flicked down, then up again.

“First time flying?”

Gihun hesitated. The words caught in his throat for a second before he gave a small, stiff nod.

Inho didn’t react the way Gihun expected. No teasing, no smirk, no offhand jab at his inexperience. Just a quiet nod. Like it meant something. Like he’d actually taken it in.

Then, after a pause, he asked, “Window seat okay?”

Gihun blinked. That… wasn’t what he thought would come next.

“Some people hate them,” Inho continued, glancing out toward the tarmac. “Claustrophobic. Others prefer the aisle so they can get up whenever they want.”

“Oh,” Gihun said, shifting a little. “I—I like it fine.”

“Good,” Inho said easily. “The view’s better.”

It was such a simple statement, but something about it made Gihun pause. Because it wasn’t the kind of thing he expected Inho to say.

And then, just as Gihun was starting to overthink it, Inho went on, same even tone, same unhurried cadence. “When we take off, watch the ground. It’s strange at first. How fast everything gets small. But if you pay attention, you’ll see the moment we stop climbing and just float.”

Gihun frowned a little, glancing at him. “What do you mean?”

“The world looks different when you’re above it,” Inho said, still swirling the water in his glass, almost like he wasn’t even thinking. “At first, it’s all noise and speed. And then, suddenly, it’s quiet. Still. The sky doesn’t look as big when you’re in it.”

Gihun blinked.

That… wasn’t what he expected either.

And the worst part? It made something in his chest loosen. Just a little.

He looked down at his hands, flexing them once before pressing them flat against his thighs. “You travel a lot?”

Inho exhaled softly, the sound just short of a sigh. “More than I want to.”

“Not a fan?”

The alpha tilted his head. “It’s not the worst part of the job. But I prefer when it’s for leisure. No schedules, no meetings, no responsibilities.”

Gihun squinted at him, unimpressed. “That’s just a vacation, sajangnim.”

That actually got a quiet chuckle out of Inho.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “And I don’t take many of those.”

Gihun frowned, eyebrows pulling slightly. “Why not?”

There was a pause. Just a breath too long. Then Inho said, without looking at him, “I don’t like empty spaces.”

Gihun turned toward him a little, caught off guard. “What?”

The alpha leaned back, gaze distant now, expression unreadable. “Too much free time makes a person restless.”

Gihun blinked. “So… you just choose to work all the time?”

Inho hummed, noncommittal. “You can get used to anything, if you do it long enough.”

Something about that statement sat weird in Gihun’s chest. Not sharp, not painful, just… off. Like it had slipped past something unguarded. Because it sounded too close to something he might’ve said himself. That thought hit strange. Uneasy. Familiar. He shifted in his seat, tried to brush it off, but it stuck.

Before he could get too far into it, Inho glanced at him again. “You’ll be fine, you know.”

Gihun blinked. “Huh?”

“The trip,” Inho said, like it should’ve been obvious. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” Inho cut in smoothly. It wasn’t smug. Just steady. Certain. “You don’t need to be.”

Gihun let out a breath, too quick. “You say that like it’s easy.”

Inho’s lips tugged. Not quite a smile. “Because it is.”

Gihun scoffed under his breath, shaking his head, but something in his chest felt looser than before.

And it wasn’t until later—after the wheels had lifted off, after the world outside the window started shrinking down to nothing, after his pulse stopped tripping over itself—that he realized the strangest thing.

He’d expected the flight to drag. Expected to sit there counting every second, stiff and uncomfortable and full of regret. But it hadn’t. Because somehow, while he’d been busy bracing for coldness, for distance, for all the weird tension he thought had to come after what they’d done… Inho had made it feel normal. Easy.

Too easy.

Like none of it mattered.

And maybe that was the worst part. Because something had changed. And Gihun was starting to realize he might be the only one still trying to figure out how deep it really went.

The city unfolded beyond the tinted glass: sleek towers rising into the blue-black sky, lit like something out of a dream. Singapore had always been far away in his mind, a name dropped in news stories or travel shows that played in the background while he ate dinner, barely listening. But now it was here. Real. Alive. Sliding past the windows in streaks of light, neon reflections rippling over polished buildings that looked like the future wrapped around something old.

He had never left Korea before. Not for business. Not for anything. And he’d always assumed that when he did, it’d be slower, planned, something shared. But instead he was here, in a silent black car that moved like water through the streets, beside an alpha who hadn’t asked if he wanted to come, only made it happen. Like he always did.

Up ahead, the St. Regis came into view. Tall, gleaming, unmistakable. The kind of place that didn’t have to prove it was expensive. You just knew. Gihun felt it even before the car stopped. The way the building seemed to hum with quiet power. The staff already waiting, composed and exact, like they had known all along who would be arriving.

The car slowed to a stop, smooth enough he barely felt it.

A doorman stepped forward, crisp uniform pressed to perfection, and opened Inho’s door first. Gihun hesitated a beat too long before following, stepping onto the pavement still damp from a recent rain. The air was thick, warm, unfamiliar. Somewhere in it, a trace of something sweet and floral, like the city was wearing its own cologne.

“Mr. Hwang.”

The greeting was smooth, practiced. A hotel staff member, sharp suit and easy posture, stepped forward with a short bow. “Your suite is ready. All arrangements have been made, as requested.”

Arrangements. Requests.

Gihun’s fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. The words made it sound like more than just a hotel check-in. Like something had been planned. Tailored.

He glanced at Inho, searching for some flicker of reaction, but the alpha was already handing over his jacket, nodding once. Calm. Approving. Like everything was exactly as it should be.

“Good,” was all he said.

Like this was nothing. Like it always went this way.

Gihun swallowed, shifting his grip and following him inside. The hotel’s lobby opened up around them: marble floors, gold inlays, chandeliers that hung like constellations overhead. Everything was soft light and low voices, the hum of international guests dressed in confidence and expensive fabric.

You don’t belong here. The thought came too fast, uninvited. But it stuck.

He tried to shake it off. He was here for work. He had a job. He was Inho’s Executive Assistant, not some wide-eyed tourist. He’d earned his place. And yet, standing here under all that light, in a space this polished, it still felt like he was pretending. Like he was still trying to catch up to a life that moved faster than him.

“Come.”

Inho’s voice broke through the air, steady and low.

Gihun startled slightly. He hadn’t realized he’d fallen behind.

He caught up quickly, adjusting his bag again, ignoring the prickling heat at the back of his neck.

The check-in process was… too smooth. Too easy. No questions, no fuss. Just Inho’s signature, a soft exchange of key cards, and a quiet bow from the staff like they already knew who they were dealing with. Like this was normal.

The elevator was waiting. All brass and quiet gleam, mirrors polished so perfectly they caught every sharp line of their suits, every shadow under Gihun’s eyes he hadn’t realized was there.

Then came the button.

Inho pressed it without pause. Penthouse.

The number lit up. And something in Gihun stilled.

The elevator moved like it wasn’t even moving, and Gihun took a slow breath, trying to find his footing inside the hush of it. He’d known Inho was powerful. Wealthy. He wasn’t stupid. But knowing it in theory and standing beside him now, rising floor by floor toward a world people like him weren’t supposed to touch, those were not the same thing.

And then the doors opened.

Not a room. A goddamn world. Floating above the city.

The suite spilled out in front of him in soft light and silent elegance, every line clean, every detail effortless. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the entire far wall, and behind them—Singapore. A city of glass and light, unfolding in layers: Orchard Road glittering towers, Marina Bay blinking faintly in the distance, highways and haze spread out like a painting someone had brushed with wealth.

It wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t gaudy. Just… deliberate. Perfect. The kind of quiet luxury that didn’t need to prove itself, because it already belonged here.

“We’re staying in this?”

Inho didn’t even glance at him, simply adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. “Of course.”

Of course.

Gihun didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Because standing in the middle of all that space, with all that sky beyond the glass, he felt smaller than he had in a long time.

The living area was massive. All clean lines and plush sectionals, marble accents that gleamed under the recessed lighting. A balcony stretched across one side, glass-railed and barely visible, offering a view so wide it made Gihun’s stomach dip just looking at it. Off to the left, a hallway split. Two doors. Bedrooms. Separate. Good.

His shoulders eased a little.

Behind him, he heard Inho set his briefcase down with a soft thud, followed by the quiet rustle of fabric and the low creak of his shoulders rolling back. A stretch, maybe the first sign of weariness Gihun had seen from him all day. Just a flicker.

“We’ll have an early start tomorrow,” Inho said, his voice low. “Meetings begin at ten.”

Gihun nodded, though he wasn’t really listening. His brain was still trying to catch up, still struggling to make sense of it all. This suite, this building, this entire trip; this was normal for someone like Hwang Inho. Not just luxury. A different world entirely.

He glanced at him again, at the way Inho loosened his tie with one hand, as casually as someone taking off shoes. Like this space already belonged to him. Like it always had.

Something knotted in Gihun’s chest. He didn’t know what it was, only that it was tight.

“I’ll take the room on the left,” Inho added, already turning away.

Gihun blinked. “Oh. Right. Sure.”

That left the right.

Gihun stepped in and stopped.

The room was... beautiful. Not in the glossy magazine way, but in a quieter, deliberate way. Warm neutrals. A bed that looked like it could swallow him whole. A sitting area near the window. A desk already set up with notepads, bottled water, pens arranged too neatly. It felt like someone had thought about it. Like someone had made it ready for him.

He let out a slow breath and set his bag down, trying not to feel the way the silence pressed in around him. It was just a room. Just a business trip.

But his eyes kept drifting to the door across the hall. To the man on the other side of it: calm, settled, already at ease. Like this was routine. Like Gihun being here didn’t mean anything at all.

But to him, it did. And that was the part he didn’t know what to do with. Something about this felt like a beginning. And that was the most dangerous part of all.

He should unpack.

The suitcase sat where he’d dropped it, half-unzipped, clothes poking out like they weren’t sure if they were supposed to be here either. Gihun stared at it for a long moment, one hand hovering over the zipper. He wasn’t used to this part. Not unpacking in places that weren’t his. Not settling in where things didn’t feel permanent. Even in Sangwoo’s apartment, he had always left things just enough out of place, never fully moving in, never quite letting himself claim space.

A habit, maybe. Or a way to pretend he hadn’t gotten comfortable, just in case he had to leave.

Still, he opened the suitcase. One thing at a time.

Dress shirts first, on the hangers, one by one, the fabric whispering into place like it was trying not to be noticed. Then the toiletries, lined up neatly on the bathroom counter. His watch, face down beside them.

A knock at the open door made him turn.

Inho stood there, shoulder resting against the frame. Sleeves still rolled. Expression unreadable in the low evening light.

“Come to the living room when you’re done,” he said. “We’ll go over tomorrow’s schedule.”

Gihun nodded, and Inho’s gaze flicked once across the room—to the half-packed suitcase, the careful neatness of it all—and then he was gone.

Just a glance. Barely anything. But Gihun felt it anyway.

By the time he stepped into the shared space, the alpha was already settled, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, tablet balanced on his knee, the soft glow from the screen casting thin shadows across the sharp angles of his face. He didn’t look up. Just nodded toward the table.

A bottle of water. Unopened. Pushed slightly to Gihun’s side.

It could’ve meant nothing. But it didn’t.

Gihun sat down without comment, fingers brushing the bottle as he twisted off the cap and took a small sip. The cold settled in his throat, dulled the tight knot winding low in his stomach.

“Tomorrow morning,” Inho said, voice smooth, filling the quiet like it belonged there, “we have a breakfast meeting with Director Nam’s team. Informal, but they’ll be evaluating whether we’re worth prioritizing.” His eyes flicked toward Gihun. “You don’t need to speak much. Just listen.”

Gihun nodded, already flipping open his notebook. “Got it.”

Inho barely paused, scrolling with one thumb. “Later we’re at the office for contract discussions. You won’t be in the room for most of it, but stay close. Watch how they move. It’ll teach you more than the paperwork will.”

Gihun wrote it down, or tried to. But somewhere between Inho’s voice and the soft light and the steadiness of it all, his mind started to drift. Inho was… talkative tonight. Not overly so. Not filling the space with noise. Just calm. Comfortable.

And maybe that was what made it feel strange. He’d been bracing for something else. But there was none of that. Just this. Quiet. Easy.

And it felt good. The low timbre of Inho’s voice, the quiet clicks of his tablet, the soft ambient hush of the room: it all settled around Gihun like something warm. Steady. Being here, beside him, listening without pressure, without expectation… it soothed something in him. Not in any big, dramatic way. Just enough.

Enough to make the space feel bearable. Maybe even a little safe.

“Dinner’s at seven with the executive team,” Inho continued, scrolling through his notes. “It’ll be a mix of pleasantries and strategy. Expect drinks, but keep it moderate.”

Gihun let out a small laugh, leaning back into the couch. “I can handle myself, you know.”

Inho glanced up at him, one brow lifting in quiet amusement. “Mm. We’ll see.”

The words weren’t sharp. Just dry. Lightly mocking, in a way that made Gihun smile without thinking.

He looked down at his notes again, letting the silence settle. It wasn’t tense. It didn’t close in like he thought it might. If anything, it felt... calm. Steady. Like sitting beside a storm that, for once, wasn’t aimed at him.

Something shifted beside him. The alpha reached for his own water bottle, took a slow sip, then set it down with a soft clink. When he turned toward Gihun, it wasn’t sharp or expectant, just a look. Steady. Seeing.

“You should sleep.”

Gihun blinked. “What?”

Inho huffed, just faintly amused. “You’re tired.”

“I’m not a kid,” Gihun muttered, reaching for his pen like he had something else to write, even though he didn’t.

A smirk pulled lightly at Inho’s mouth, too restrained to be smug, but definitely there. “Then act like it and take care of yourself.”

Gihun rolled his eyes, but the weight in his limbs had already started to sink in. The adrenaline from earlier was gone, and what was left behind was bone-deep tired. He shut the notebook with a quiet snap and stood, stretching his arms overhead with a quiet wince.

He hesitated, just for a second. Then said, a little softer, “Good night.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just turned and stepped away before he could catch whatever was in Inho’s face, whether he was still half-smiling, or something else entirely.

Later, when he crawled under the blankets, the suite hushed around him, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not the meetings. Not the dinner. Just the quiet. The way it hadn’t felt like something to brace against. The way Inho’s presence hadn’t taken anything from him.

It was strange, how good it felt. Not thrilling. Not overwhelming. Just… steady.

Safe.

Gihun woke slowly, drifting in that soft space between sleep and waking, unsure what had pulled him to the surface. His body felt... strange. Not sore. Not tense. Just warm. Loose. Like all the usual knots had been undone while he wasn’t paying attention.

Before he even opened his eyes, something in him stirred with unease. It wasn’t normal. Waking up like this. No ache in his shoulders, no headache crouched behind his eyes, no dread waiting at the edge of his breath.

He lay still for a moment, listening.

The low hum of the air conditioner. The faint rush of water running somewhere. Soft movement, too steady to be his imagination, just past the door. Everything felt muffled. Distant. Safe.

It was disorienting. For once, his body didn’t flinch at consciousness. There was no immediate scramble for the day, no sharp inhale, no panic tucked under his ribs. Just breath. Deep and slow. It almost made his chest ache, how unfamiliar it felt.

And then he smelled it.

Not just the faint scent of the hotel—clean linens, something floral woven into polished marble—but beneath it, softer, warmer. Steady. Familiar in a way that made the back of his throat go dry.

Inho.

It was everywhere. Not overwhelming, not pointed. Just… there. Folded into the room like it belonged here. Like it had always been here.

Gihun swallowed, rubbed a hand over his face, and told himself not to think too hard. Don’t start the day like this. He sat up slowly, sheets rustling as he moved, bare feet meeting the cool floor. The world settled around him again, real and quiet. The sounds from the other room filtered in clearer now, the soft clink of something set down, ceramic on stone, fabric shifting against leather.

He took a breath and stood, unsure if the tightness curling in his stomach was nerves or something else entirely. He hesitated. Just a second too long. Then stepped into the shared space.

Inho was by the dining table, leaning forward slightly as he adjusted his cufflinks. No jacket. Just a crisp white shirt, still unrolled at the sleeves, his hair a little rumpled, not styled, not intentional. Just sleep-mussed.

That was what made something catch in Gihun’s chest. Not the jacket being gone, he’d seen Inho without it before. Not the sleeves, not the loose posture. Those weren’t new.

But this? The faint creases in the shirt where he’d slept in it. The subtle imprint of a pillow still ghosting along the side of his face. The way his shoulders moved just a little slower, like sleep hadn’t quite let go yet. That was different.

That was the part that made Gihun forget to breathe for a second.

Because Inho was always polished. Always composed. Always two steps ahead and perfectly in control. But now he looked like he hadn’t finished folding himself back into the version the world was used to seeing. And Gihun didn’t know why that made his throat tight.

The alpha looked up.

Not sharply. Just... naturally. Like he knew he was being watched. Like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Morning,” he said simply.

Gihun swallowed, his mouth dry. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, throat rough from sleep.

“You—” He cleared his throat. “You slept late?”

Inho rolled his shoulders, still fastening one cuff with slow, practiced movements. “Apparently.” He glanced at the clock, something flickering in his face that didn’t quite settle. “Doesn’t happen often.”

It shouldn’t have meant anything. Just a comment. But somehow, it did. Because Inho didn’t do “late.” He didn’t do slow mornings or rumpled shirts. And now, he had. He had woken slow. And he had let himself.

And Gihun, standing barefoot in a hotel suite halfway across the world, wearing yesterday’s hesitation like a second skin, didn’t know what to do with the way that made him feel.

“You should eat,” Inho said, stepping back and nodding toward the small dining area. “I ordered breakfast earlier.”

Gihun blinked, caught off guard. His eyes flicked to the table. Two plates, still covered. Still warm. Two.

Not an extra. Not an afterthought. Not just his own.

His throat tightened slightly.

He shouldn’t read into that. But he did.

He stepped forward, slower than he meant to. “Thanks,” he said, voice quiet.

Sliding into the seat, he curled his fingers around the edge of the table, just to have something to hold onto, as he lifted the cover from his plate. Simple food. Nothing fancy. But… familiar. Exactly what he would’ve picked.

He stared at it for a moment too long. Then reached for the coffee. Muscle memory, more than anything else. He took a sip, absent, automatic—

And stopped.

Perfect.

Just enough milk. No sugar. The exact balance he liked, the kind most places never got right unless he fixed it himself. He froze mid-sip.

“How did you—?”

“You always drink it like that,” Inho said without looking up, still adjusting his cufflinks. Calm. Unbothered. Like it was obvious. Like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter at all.

But it did.

Gihun’s grip tightened around the mug, the warmth of it suddenly too much in his hands. His heart thudded once, low and stupid, behind his ribs.

This was what stuck with him.

Not the room. Not the scent. Not the way Inho moved through this space like he owned it, like he belonged. It was this. The quiet, offhand knowing. No questions, no attention drawn to it. Just coffee, made right.

Because it meant Gihun had been seen. Not glanced at. Not tolerated. Seen.

And he didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know if he was supposed to feel flattered or rattled or something worse. All he knew was that it landed hard and didn’t let go.

The conference room was sleek, understated luxury in every detail. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline like a painting, letting in too-bright morning light that spilled across the polished glass table and the neatly aligned folders at each seat. It smelled like fresh coffee and expensive leather and the kind of quiet tension that built in places where deals were made, not just discussed. Where silence had teeth.

Gihun had been in boardrooms before. He knew how meetings worked, knew how to nod at the right moments, how to keep his face neutral and his notes in order. But this wasn’t just a meeting.

This felt different. Real. Not a formality, not a weekly update. This was the kind of negotiation that shaped entire quarters. The kind with money he couldn’t even imagine. The kind where one wrong word could throw everything off course.

He followed Inho in, a half-step behind, doing his best to match the calm that rolled off the alpha like it was second nature. Inho didn’t rush. He never rushed. He moved like he belonged here, like the room had been waiting for him. A brief nod, a firm handshake, a polite greeting, every motion precise but effortless. Nothing wasted.

Gihun mirrored what he could. A bow, a quiet greeting, hands steady even if his pulse wasn’t. He slipped into his seat and smoothed the edge of his notes.

Across from them sat four executives: three men, one woman. All crisp suits and unreadable expressions. Their eyes moved fast. Measured. The kind of people who could sense hesitation before you even spoke. The kind of people who looked at you and saw your worth, or your weakness, before you even sat down.

Gihun tightened his grip on his pen.

The meeting began.

The discussion moved quickly: clean, professional, paced just slow enough to sound thoughtful but fast enough to keep pressure in the air. Across the table, the lead executive leaned forward, fingers steepled, eyes sharp as he nodded toward the documents in front of him.

“Mr. Hwang, we’ve reviewed the contract revisions you sent over, and there are a few concerns regarding the pricing structures in Clause 14.”

Gihun sat up straighter, flipping to the section, fingers a little too stiff on the paper. Beside him, Inho didn’t move. Didn’t so much as blink.

“Go on,” the alpha said, voice smooth, unhurried.

The executive’s eyes flicked up, watching closely now. “The projected figures don’t fully align with the Q4 market forecasts. There’s concern that the rate adjustments may be too aggressive.”

There it was. The opening move. Gihun braced himself. He’d seen this before, not at this level, not with stakes this high, but he recognized the rhythm. This was negotiation dressed as conversation. A game built on tone and silence, where even a pause could give something away.

And Hwang Inho? He didn’t just speak the language, he wrote the damn rulebook.

The alpha leaned back, casual in a way that wasn’t careless, flipping a page without glancing down.

“The forecasts were accounted for,” he said. “A more gradual adjustment can be considered, but dragging it out only invites instability. It’s cleaner to move now, while the numbers are still ours to shape.”

A beat. Intentional.

The executives glanced at each other. Quick reads. Silent calculations.

Gihun stayed quiet, listening hard. Watching the way the tension shifted. The way voices dipped or steadied, how hands moved toward folders, toward glasses of water, toward nothing at all. Every change said something. Every silence meant more. It was like watching a match where only the players knew the rules, and he was still learning how the points were scored.

Then, without warning, Inho turned to him.

“Gihun-ssi,” he said, voice calm, unreadable. “You caught something in the initial draft about those projections, didn’t you?”

For a second, Gihun froze.

Not because he didn’t know the answer. He did. He’d read that contract five times over, scribbled notes in the margins, double-checked every reference. But Inho had turned to him. Said his name. And now every eye in the room was on him.

His mind blanked. Just for a breath.

Then he swallowed, fingers tightening around his pen. Focus. He knew this.

“Yes,” he said, steadier than he felt. “The projected cost analysis for next quarter was based on last year’s performance, but with the current fluctuations, we estimated at least a five percent deviation. That adjustment’s already built into the revised clause. But if your team would prefer a phased rollout to lower the risk curve, that’s something we can model.”

Silence. Not awkward, just attentive.

The executive across from him nodded, slowly, like he was seeing him differently now. “That’s exactly what we were about to raise. You’ve already factored that in?”

“Yes,” Gihun said, his pulse beginning to even out. “It’s noted in the appendix, page twenty-three.”

Another flipped through the document. “Mm. I see it.” A pause. Then, to the group: “It tracks. We’ll still have finance give it a run-through, but this looks cleaner than what I expected.”

The energy shifted. A subtle lean back. Less push, more consideration.

Gihun didn’t let himself smile. Just sat straighter, nodded once, as if this was nothing new. As if this kind of moment hadn’t just quietly, finally, gone his way.

A win. Gihun barely resisted the urge to exhale in relief. He sat up straighter, kept his face neutral, nodded once, like this was routine. Like his pulse hadn’t been thudding in his ears the entire time.

And then—

A glance. Subtle. Barely there. But when Gihun flicked his eyes toward Inho, he caught it. The faintest shift in his expression.

Not surprise. Not amusement. Satisfaction.

Like he’d expected it. Like he’d known Gihun would handle it and had only handed him the floor so he could see it for himself.

Gihun looked away quickly, ignoring the heat that rose in his chest.

The meeting rolled on—negotiations, numbers, the usual dance—but the air felt different now. Inho was still the one setting the pace, pulling every thread with quiet control. But Gihun felt it more clearly than before.

That weight. That attention. The sense that Inho was still watching.

Because he had pushed him forward without hesitation. Had thrown him into the deep end not as a test, but because he never doubted he could swim. And that… did something to Gihun.

It shouldn’t have meant so much. But it did.

By the time the meeting ended, executives standing, hands shaken, follow-ups murmured, Gihun felt steadier than he had in a long time. Inho was already slipping back into perfect composure, already moving ahead like none of it had ever been in question.

And as they stepped out into the lobby, the glass doors closing behind them, Gihun finally let himself breathe. Something had settled. Quiet and solid, somewhere under his ribs.

“You handled that well.”

Gihun blinked, glancing over. Inho was adjusting his cufflinks as they walked, eyes ahead like he hadn’t just said anything at all.

“What?”

“The meeting.” The alpha didn’t break stride. “You adapted quickly. Caught details most wouldn’t have.”

Gihun swallowed. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, maybe a throwaway Not bad, or a distracted Good work while already checking his phone. But this wasn’t that. It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t condescending.

It was just… honest.

Gihun looked forward again, exhaling slowly. His fingers flexed at his side, that quiet warmth in his chest anchoring into something steadier. Something that didn’t burn or ache, just sat there, real.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

Inho didn’t respond. Didn’t look at him. Just kept walking. But somehow, that silence said more than anything else.

The restaurant was the kind of place that didn’t need to prove anything. Quiet, expensive, all warm wood and soft amber lighting that pooled across polished tables and shelves lined with vintage liquor. Conversations stayed low, intentional. The kind where numbers mattered more than names.

Gihun sat beside Inho, shoulders square, posture careful, doing his best to keep up. To absorb it all. The way business didn’t end in conference rooms, it just shifted. Became more fluid. Less formal. He watched the way Inho moved through it, guiding conversations without ever seeming to lead them. Balancing charm and control so seamlessly it didn’t even look like work.

He was learning. Studying the way Inho dictated the tempo, the way others naturally adjusted around him.

Across the table, one of the senior executives, a broad-shouldered alpha with a polished grin and the kind of voice that took up more space than it needed, turned to him.

“So,” the man said, swirling his whiskey, “Young-Il’s sending assistants to these now?” He lifted the glass, mock-toast and all. “Didn’t expect it, but I guess it keeps things… personable.”

There it was. That edge, tucked into a smile. Not cruel. Just dismissive. The subtle undermining.

He didn’t flinch. Just held his expression steady, mouth pulling into something close to polite.

“I was asked to come,” he said, even.

“Sure, sure,” the man chuckled. “Nothing wrong with a little company, right?”

Then—

“I bring people who are competent.”

Inho’s voice was calm. Almost casual. But it landed like a line drawn in stone.

The other alpha hesitated. His smile didn’t falter, but Gihun caught the flicker in his eyes, the brief recalibration. Then, just as smoothly, the man pivoted, chuckling as he raised his glass. “Of course. Didn’t mean anything by it.” Another sip, another mask. “Just saying, it must be nice, having someone like CEO Hwang looking after his people so well.”

Before Gihun could fully process it, before the words had even landed, there it was, a hand on his forearm. Light. Present. Too casual to be harmless.

The touch didn’t linger, but it settled wrong. The pressure of it. The assumption. Like he was furniture. A prop.

His stomach turned.

Inho didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. But the air around them thickened, held taut, humming with stillness. And when he finally did speak, the alpha’s voice was calm. Measured. But final.

“I take care of what’s mine.”

Not loud. Not sharp. But heavy. Possessive in the way that made the air shift. The other man stilled. Just for a second. Barely enough to register. Then, just as quickly, another chuckle, thinner this time. “Of course.”

The hand disappeared.

Conversation moved on. Smooth again. But something had cracked. And Gihun felt it. Felt it in the press of phantom fingers on his skin, in the way his breath caught where it shouldn’t.

He didn’t look at Inho, not right away, but he didn’t need to. He could feel it. That steady presence beside him. That gaze. Watching. Holding. Claiming. Eventually, he risked a glance. And of course Inho was watching. Steady and unshaken. Like he hadn’t said anything unusual at all.

Gihun looked away. Swallowed around the heat that had crept into his throat.

The rest of dinner passed like nothing had happened, conversation folding into strategy, pleasantries layered with subtle maneuvering. But through all of it, beneath every laugh, every sip of wine, every handshake, he felt it.

Hwang Inho’s attention. Not just on him. On everyone who looked at him.

The suite was hushed, wrapped in the kind of quiet that only came when the world outside was still awake but too far away to matter. City lights flickered beyond the windows, fractured gold spilling across polished floors, casting soft reflections on glass and marble and the untouched drinks waiting on the minibar.

Gihun stepped inside first. The door clicked shut behind him, and the weight of the day settled: low, slow, heavy across his shoulders like it had just been waiting.

He’d kept himself together. Through dinner, through meetings, through every polite exchange laced with expectations he was still learning how to read. He’d smiled, nodded, said the right things. But now, with his tie tugged loose and the room finally warm around him, it hit.

He was tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixed. The kind that sank into your joints, your chest, your breath. He rolled his shoulders back, exhaling, trying to shake it off.

And then—

“Buffoons.”

The word cut through the quiet like it had been waiting there.

Gihun blinked, turning just in time to catch Inho undoing the last button on his cuff, rolling up his sleeves with that same fluid control he used for everything, but slower now. Looser. Like the edge had softened.

“What?” he asked, voice hoarse with fatigue.

Inho didn’t look at him. Just kept moving, already heading for the couch. “I said buffoons,” he repeated, like it was obvious. He sighed as he dropped onto the cushions, sprawling back with the kind of ease Gihun had never actually seen from him. “Half of them don’t even understand the deals they’re negotiating. Just nodding along and throwing words around.”

It was the most unguarded thing Gihun had heard all day.

Gihun huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing a hand over his face as he walked over. “You didn’t seem to have a problem taking their money.”

“Why would I?” Inho smirked, stretching out, his posture loose in a way Gihun rarely saw. The usual tension in his frame had ebbed, easing by degrees. “Stupidity should always be profitable.”

He reached for the tumbler on the table, swirling the amber liquid lazily before taking a sip. “You’ll get used to it. It’s all a game. You play, you adjust, you make sure you always win.”

Gihun let out a low hum, too tired to argue, and dropped onto the couch beside him without thinking twice. He didn’t care how unceremonious it looked. The cushions were soft. The suite was warm. For the first time all day, his body stopped bracing. Not completely, his instincts didn’t let him have that, but just enough to sink into it. Just enough to exhale.

“You handled today well.”

The words caught him off guard. Not because they weren’t true, he knew he’d done fine, but because they came without pretense. Just that. Simple. Direct.

He scoffed, head tilted back against the couch. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“That’s because you were watching yourself too closely.” Inho glanced over, glass raised in one hand, gaze unreadable in the dim light. “Thinking too much.”

There was a pause. Then—

“Instincts serve you better than doubt. You should trust them more.”

Gihun didn’t answer right away. Something about the way he said it made his chest pull tight. But he didn’t have it in him to pick it apart. Not right now. So he just let his gaze wander, drifting over the skyline, the sprawl of the city below, glittering like it was breathing.

It was surreal. All of it. Being here. Doing this. Sitting beside Hwang Inho like it was normal. Like he belonged in this world that had never once opened its doors for him before.

He felt the weight of the day start to slide off in slow degrees. Inho was still talking, about the executives, about the way power worked, about people who didn’t know how to hide their insecurities. His voice had changed, less precise now, less careful. Still smooth, but looser around the edges. More human. And maybe that was what let Gihun stay. Not the drink. Not the view. Just… this.

And Gihun just listened. Let himself be lulled by it. His boss was easy to listen to. Too easy, if he was being honest. That voice of his—low, smooth, threaded with dry amusement as he talked about clueless executives, inflated egos, all the usual corporate nonsense—settled like warmth into the air around them. Comfortable in a way that crept up on him.

It wasn’t like how he sounded in the office. Not sharp, not calculated. Just… relaxed. Off-guard in the smallest ways. And Gihun found himself liking it.

Which was a problem.

Because it meant he was comfortable. Too comfortable. And he knew better than to let himself get that way around someone like Hwang Inho.

“You’re getting cozy.”

The comment came too smooth, too knowing, and Gihun blinked blearily, realizing that he kind of was. At some point, he’d pulled his legs up onto the couch, tucked beneath him. His fingers were curled into the cushion. He’d even leaned, just slightly, toward the warmth beside him.

Fuck. When had that happened?

“I’m not,” he muttered, but it came out quiet, thick with sleep.

Inho exhaled a laugh, low and amused. “Sure.”

Gihun scowled at him, but he was too tired to mean it.

Inho watched him for a second longer, head tilted, something soft but unreadable in his expression. Then, setting his glass down with a faint clink, he said—

“Go to bed.”

A soft statement. A calm certainty.

Gihun's body leaned into it before reason could pull it back. His muscles felt heavier, his omega pulling him under, settling into the ease of being told what to do. Not in a way that commanded. Just in a way that… nudged.

It irritated him.

“I don’t need you telling me what to do,” he mumbled, slouching deeper into the cushions, his voice petulant with sleep, lips barely moving. He didn’t mean for it to come out that way, like a complaint or a sulk, but it did. And he was too tired to take it back.

A part of him knew he shouldn’t say that, not to his boss, not like that. He should be measured. Professional. Know his place. But here, like this, with the air warm and the night pressing close around them, with Inho beside him and the tension between them softening instead of tightening, it just didn’t seem to matter.

Or maybe it was just Inho.

The way he looked at him. The way he spoke. The way his presence sank deep into Gihun’s bones and made everything feel like it was already decided. Like there was nothing left to push against.

Maybe that’s why he felt so loose now. So slow. Like all the formality had slipped off somewhere between dinner and now, and it wasn’t worth chasing down.

“I know.”

The alpha didn’t argue. Didn’t push. Just let it sit between them, certain enough that Gihun’s half-hearted protest wilted before it could mean anything. If anything, it seemed to amuse him, just a flicker at the corner of his mouth, like he’d heard the pout in Gihun’s voice and liked it.

And maybe that was the worst part. That it didn’t feel condescending. That it wasn’t a power play. Just… steady. Like Inho already knew how this would end. And maybe that’s why Gihun sighed, rolling his head half-heartedly against the back of the couch before pushing himself up.

He didn’t say goodnight. Didn’t acknowledge the heat still sitting in his chest or the way his body felt too warm, too aware. Didn’t look at Inho again.

He just went.

To his room. To his bed. To the slow collapse of sleep pulling at his limbs. But when he drifted off, it wasn’t the meetings or the noise of the city that stayed with him.

It was Inho’s voice. And the way it made him feel something he still didn’t want to name.

The suite was wrapped in that particular kind of hush, the kind that only settled when the city outside had already woken up, but the world inside hadn’t quite followed. Warm. Still heavy with sleep. Morning light crept through the sheer curtains, painting soft streaks of gold across polished floors.

Gihun woke slowly.

The kind of slow that only came from actual rest. Deep, uninterrupted. His limbs felt loose, his mind still padded with warmth instead of the usual dull ache. No tension in his shoulders. No knot sitting at the base of his spine. He blinked into the light, inhaling deep and the breath felt clean. Whole.

He stilled. Again. That made two mornings in a row.

His fingers curled absently into the sheets, a small frown tugging at his brow. He’d slept well. Not just passably. Not the scraped-together hours he was used to. But well. The kind of sleep that settled deep and didn’t ask questions.

Weird.

It wasn’t just the bed. Or the silence. Or the air.

The scent gave it away. Subtle. Crisp with something sharper at the edges, but softened now. Familiar. Steady. Inho. Not overpowering. Just there. Woven into the air like it belonged.

Gihun exhaled, sharper than he meant to. Tried to shake off the warmth crawling low in his stomach. Stupid omega instincts. He sat up slowly, rolling his shoulders out, sleep still clinging to his skin. Focus.

The alpha should’ve been awake by now. Gihun had always figured he’d be one of those people who got up before the sun: punctual, sharp, already halfway through his routine before most even stirred. By now, he should’ve heard something: the soft click of a watch strap, the rustle of starched fabric, maybe a quiet phone call in that low, unreadable voice.

But… nothing.

A slow frown tugged at his brow. He swung his legs over the bed, the floor cool beneath his feet as he stood. The living area was untouched: no fresh coffee, no sign of movement, no trace of that clean, pressed presence he’d come to expect. Just stillness.

His gaze drifted to the one place left. The door to Inho’s room sat slightly ajar, just enough to show the edge of a darkened interior. Gihun hesitated. Inho didn’t strike him as the kind of man who overslept. The idea barely made sense. For a second, he almost turned back, assuming the alpha was out of sight, already up, already waiting.

But something told him that wasn’t it.

He hovered for a moment, then knocked lightly. “Hey.”

No answer.

His jaw tightened. He knocked again, a bit firmer. “Inho-ssi?”

Still nothing.

The frown deepened. Cautiously, he pushed the door open a little wider, then froze.

Oh… oh.

Gihun had never seen Hwang Inho like this.

The always-composed, always-in-control CEO of Young Il Electronics was sprawled across the bed, completely out. No trace of his usual precision. His hair was a little mussed, the collar of his t-shirt askew, his breathing steady and slow, the only sign he was even alive.

He looked different. Not sharp. Not poised. Just… human.

And for some reason, it unsettled Gihun more than he cared to admit.

He’d always pictured Inho as the type who woke up before the alarm, already calculating the day. The type who didn’t allow himself things like rest. But now, watching him sleep, brow faintly furrowed like something inside him still hadn’t let go, it felt like something else.

Like maybe he hadn’t been sleeping at all until now.

Gihun rubbed the back of his neck. He should let him rest. It wasn’t his job. Wasn’t his business. He should just—

His eyes flicked to the clock.

Shit. The meeting.

With a reluctant sigh, he stepped closer and reached out, tapping his boss lightly on the shoulder. “Hey. You’re late.”

A low, quiet groan. Then, nothing.

Gihun blinked. Did he just…?

He tried again. “Inho-ssi.”

Another muffled noise. The alpha barely stirred. Still didn’t wake.

Gihun stared.

What the hell.

This was insane. This was the man who ruled boardrooms with a single glance, who could tear down executives without raising his voice—and he was still asleep?

“You definitely overslept,” Gihun said flatly.

Finally, some movement. A slow blink. A sluggish shift beneath the covers. Inho cracked one eye open, gaze unfocused and hazy, his mind clearly still caught somewhere between sleep and consciousness.

For a second, he just… stared at him.

Then, after a long beat—

“No, I didn’t.”

Gihun snorted. “You definitely did.”

Another blink. Like his brain was trying to catch up but not really trying that hard. And then, to Gihun’s complete disbelief, the alpha flopped back against the pillow with a groan, one arm draping over his face.

“Shut up,” came the muffled reply.

Oh my god. Gihun gaped. This was the terrifying force of nature? The man with an empire at his feet? The pristine, untouchable CEO? He looked like a sulky teenager who didn’t want to get up for school.

The laughter burst out of him before he could stop it: bright, messy, unexpected. And somehow, weirdly, it felt like it belonged.

Inho groaned again, shifting his arm just enough to glare at him. Which, of course, only made Gihun laugh harder. This was new. This was so new. And for some reason, it was just... easy.

After a long moment, Inho finally sighed, dragging a hand down his face before begrudgingly sitting up. His hair was even messier now, his shirt rumpled, his movements sluggish and half-hearted. He shot Gihun one last look, somewhere between annoyed and dead-eyed, before muttering, “I haven’t slept like that in years.”

It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

Gihun, still breathless with amusement, shook his head. “Yeah, well. Enjoy it while it lasts. You’ve got ten minutes before I leave you here and tell the clients you got kidnapped.”

Inho exhaled through his nose as he got to his feet, slow and stubborn.

“You wouldn’t.”

Gihun grinned. “Try me.”

After the morning meeting, they left for the tech facility. The drive stretched long and quiet, the hum of the car’s engine steady beneath them. Gihun sat stiffly in his seat, eyes flicking between the cityscape blurring past the window and the smooth lines of the road ahead. The towering glass and steel of Singapore’s business district gradually gave way to something sleeker, more industrial, sprawling complexes that looked expensive just from the shape of them. Cold, clean, efficient.

Every so often, his gaze shifted toward Inho beside him. Unbothered. Composed. The alpha sat like he always did, completely at ease, scrolling through a document on his tablet like it didn’t even require effort. No sign of tension, no tell of nerves. Just focus. Smooth, practiced focus. Like he’d already seen this play out a dozen times in his head.

To Inho, this was just another stop. Another part of a schedule he already had memorized.

But to Gihun?

It felt different.

He shifted a little, trying to sit straighter. Trying not to fidget. He’d been fine with meetings. Dinners. Polite office banter. He could handle that. But this, this felt like walking into the core of something he didn’t fully understand. The machinery. The tech. The foundation of everything that made Young Il what it was.

And Gihun knew next to nothing about it.

The moment they stepped out of the car, it hit him. The weight of it. The size of the place. The facility rose ahead of them like it had been built to outlast time: sleek, sprawling, efficient down to its shadows. Massive glass panels reflected the hazy afternoon sky, clean and sharp enough to make Gihun feel small before they’d even reached the doors.

Inside, the air was cool and still. Too clean. It smelled like polished surfaces and machinery, the faint chemical trace of something technical humming just beneath it all. Somewhere in the background, he could feel it, the low thrum of heavy systems working beneath the floor. Everyone moved with purpose. Engineers in lab coats. Executives in tailored suits. Conversations that were short, clipped, controlled.

And then Inho stepped through the door.

No one announced him. No one had to. But everything shifted anyway.

People straightened. Postures adjusted. Voices dropped without anyone saying a word. Some dipped their heads in quiet greeting, murmured polite hellos. Others just glanced, then glanced again, like they were checking to make sure it was really him. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. Just awareness. Respect, maybe. Deference. Something that said they knew who he was, and what it meant that he was here.

Because Inho didn’t just own this place. He knew it. And everyone else knew he knew it.

Gihun stayed half a step behind, fingers tightening briefly around the strap of his bag. He didn’t know what he’d expected. Maybe a tour. Maybe a polished rundown of impressive-sounding numbers. But this wasn’t that.

Inho wasn’t here to observe. He was here to see. To know. And he moved like it.

He didn’t waste words. Just listened. Watched. Questioned when things didn’t line up. Engineers explained. Department heads reeled off stats. Technicians tried to show off prototypes. But it didn’t matter how well they rehearsed it, Inho always found the gap. Always asked the question that knocked the whole thing off balance. Clean. Surgical.

And Gihun just tried to keep up.

“There’s a discrepancy in your projection models,” Inho said, flipping through the data packet without even looking up. “The numbers from Q2 don’t align with projected output for next year.”

The senior engineer blinked, visibly thrown. “We accounted for market shifts—”

“You accounted for inflation,” Inho cut in, calm and clean. “But not for the semiconductor delays. Your yield estimate’s off by at least five percent.”

A beat. Then a short breath, a nod. “We’ll revise accordingly, sir.”

Gihun didn’t mean to react, but he did. A tiny flicker in his expression, a quick breath he hadn’t meant to take. He had read those numbers twice. Had stared at that report until his eyes blurred, and he hadn’t caught that.

It wasn’t just that Inho was sharp. It was that he understood the machinery of this place better than the people who built it. He didn’t act like a CEO. He moved like someone who’d built the whole thing himself and just handed them the keys. And that realization sent something strange through Gihun’s chest, tight and warm and impossible to name.

He was still trying to shake it when a voice cut through the air beside him.

“Ah, you must be the assistant.”

Gihun turned. The man who’d spoken looked polished in a dated sort of way, suit a touch too classic, smile too rehearsed. Mid-fifties, probably. Old enough to think subtle condescension counted as charm.

“You’re the one keeping the CEO’s schedule straight, right?” he went on, tone light, almost friendly, but not really. Not if you listened to how he said it. Not if you caught the flicker of dismissal behind the smile, like he’d already decided who Gihun was and wasn’t planning to adjust that impression anytime soon.

Gihun opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Shit. The nerves that had been simmering in the background all morning surged up at once, twisting tight in his stomach. His brain scrambled, reaching for something professional, coherent, not completely humiliating. But everything just slipped away, useless.

“You reviewed the Q3 reports last week, didn’t you?”

Inho’s voice. Calm. Even. Solid in a way that cut right through the noise in Gihun’s head.

His breath caught. He looked up, Inho was already watching him, steady and sure, like there was no question in his mind that Gihun had it. Like the answer was obvious. Like he was obvious.

And for some reason, that helped.

Gihun swallowed and nodded, trying to find his voice again. “Yeah. I—yeah. The Q3 numbers weren’t lining up with Q2’s, but that got corrected in the updated projections. It’s already accounted for.”

The man blinked. It was quick, gone almost immediately, but Gihun caught it. That flicker of surprise.

He didn’t look at Inho. Didn’t have to. He could feel it. The subtle shift in the air beside him. The quiet, unmistakable satisfaction that radiated off the alpha like heat. Even his scent, usually so clean and controlled, deepened slightly. Richer. Pleased.

And for some reason, that made something curl low in Gihun’s stomach. Something warm. Something he didn’t want to name.

The conversation moved on, but the feeling didn’t. Neither did the little things. The way Inho walked just a little closer now. The way, when they passed through a narrow corridor between equipment, a hand skimmed lightly across the small of Gihun’s back, barely there, just a touch, but enough to make his breath catch. The way the air between them felt heavier than it should’ve as they paused to watch a prototype demonstration, the silence taut with something unspoken.

By the time they got back in the car, the city stretched gold and soft outside the windows, and Gihun’s thoughts were a mess. The day had gone well. Better than well. But he was wired in the worst way, awareness buzzing just under his skin.

The car was quiet. Comfortable. The kind of silence that should’ve helped.

Gihun shifted, pulling his phone from his pocket out of habit. The screen lit up. Low battery.

Figures. He hadn’t charged it since last night.

A few new messages blinked up at him, one from his mom, a soft, familiar “Eat well today, okay?” And two from Sangwoo.

“Weather’s awful here. The hotel’s nice, though.”
“Dinner with the local partners ran long.”

Gihun read them twice. Nothing cold. But nothing else, either. No “How are you holding up”, no “Did you sleep alright?” Just logistics. Observations. Like he was one more item on a checklist Sangwoo intended to get back to later.

He told himself he’d reply later. When his thoughts felt less scrambled.

And that was when something landed in his lap. He blinked. A phone charger.

He glanced over. Inho didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look at him. Just stared out the window, expression unreadable. No explanation. No acknowledgment. Just this.

And somehow, that was worse. That it didn’t need words. That it had meant something, and that Inho had known it would.

The suite was quiet again. but not the kind of quiet that came at the end of a long day. Not the warm hush of conversation fading out or the slow settling of exhaustion. This was different. Heavy. Still. Like the air itself was holding its breath.

Gihun sat on the couch, fingers pressing absently into the seam of the cushion, his eyes flicking once, twice, toward the closed door to Inho’s room. The alpha had disappeared the second they got back. No warning, no real explanation. Just a quick shift in posture, a muttered something about needing to map something out, and then the click of the door. Like Gihun wasn’t even there.

He sighed, stretching his legs out in front of him. Tried to let the couch hold him. Tried not to overthink it.

He’d seen this before, how Inho could vanish into himself, disappear into some calculation or deadline or impossible thought that only he understood. But tonight, it felt different. Not just focused. Not just busy. Restless. Wound too tight.

The visit to the tech facility had done something to him. Gihun had seen it, the way his eyes had lit up, the way his voice had shifted ever so slightly when he started digging into specs and projections. He’d been sharp before, sure, but this was different. He’d been alive. Like he belonged there. Like the whole room bent around him without even realizing it.

And now, behind that door, Gihun could feel it, that same electricity, still humming, still burning through whatever he was working on. Like his mind couldn’t sit still. Like whatever he was chasing, it wasn’t letting him go.

Gihun’s fingers curled tighter around the cushion. His omega prickled: low, steady, annoying. Like something tugging just under his skin, telling him something was off. Not bad-off. Not danger. But not right either.

It wasn’t that Inho was hurt, or upset, or even stressed exactly. It was just, he wasn’t stopping. And that... that sat wrong in his chest in a way he couldn’t shake.

The minutes dragged. One hour, then another. At first, Gihun tried to ignore it, scrolled through his phone, flicked through headlines he didn’t actually read. But his mind kept drifting, his ears tuned to every tiny sound bleeding through the walls: the scratch of a pen, the faint taps of a keyboard, the quiet creak of a chair shifting. It didn’t stop. It just kept going. No break. No pause.

He swallowed. Tight. He shouldn’t care. It wasn’t his job. Inho was a grown man. A CEO. A goddamn alpha who knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t need someone hovering over him like he couldn’t handle himself.

And still, Gihun was already up. Moving. Before he could talk himself out of it.

His steps were slow, uncertain. He crossed the suite and stopped at the minibar, fingers brushing over the cool chrome handle before pulling it open. Bottled water. A protein bar tucked behind some overpriced wine. Nothing much. But maybe enough. Enough to snap someone out of whatever loop they were stuck in.

Before he could second-guess the impulse, he grabbed them and made his way to the bedroom door, knocking lightly.

A pause. Then—

“Come in.”

Gihun pushed the door open.

The room was dim, curtains drawn tight against the city lights, casting everything in a low, muted haze. Inho was at the desk, sleeves rolled up, hunched slightly over a notepad filled with tight, slanted handwriting. A tablet leaned against a stack of papers. His phone was facedown, forgotten. One hand clutched the edge of the desk, the other buried in his hair like he’d been dragging his fingers through it on repeat.

Gihun stopped.

He’d never seen Inho like this. Not at work. Not even at home. Not even close. There was no polish. No mask. Just a man completely inside his own head. Tie gone. Shirt half-unbuttoned. Hair all out of place. Not careless, not disheveled, just… consumed. Like something had him by the throat and wouldn’t let go.

And the weirdest part? He looked good like this. Too good.

For a second, Gihun hesitated.

Then Inho looked up, sharp-eyed and unreadable, gaze landing on him and staying there. His eyes dropped, just briefly, to the bottle of water and snack in Gihun’s hands, then back to his face. Something flickered. Gone before Gihun could name it.

“Drink something,” he said, quieter than he meant to. “You’ve been at it for hours.”

Inho didn’t answer right away. Just watched him. Not with surprise. Not with irritation. Just… that steady way he had, like he was figuring something out.

Then, slowly, he leaned back, some of the tension in his shoulders slipping loose.

“You noticed.”

Not a question. Not teasing. Just… true.

Gihun shifted, pulse picking up. “It’s hard not to.”

There was a small sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Then Inho reached for the bottle, his fingers brushing Gihun’s. Just barely. But it was enough. His hand was warm. Gihun’s breath caught for half a second, and he hated that it did.

He didn’t say anything.

Inho opened the bottle and drank, slow and calm, gaze still fixed on him, as if he were turning over a thought he hadn’t expected to have.

Gihun shifted under the weight of it, crossing his arms. “Don’t overthink it. Just drink.”

Inho smirked, softer than usual, almost like he wasn’t sure it belonged on his face. “I don’t overthink.”

Gihun rolled his eyes. “Sure you don’t.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just still. Settled. Like something waiting to become real.

Then, as if catching himself, Inho straightened a little, that usual composure sliding neatly back into place. He picked up the protein bar, turning it in his hand before looking back at Gihun.

“Thank you.”

It was simple. Direct. But heavier than it should’ve been.

Gihun nodded, already backing toward the door before that warmth could dig in too deep. But he felt it, the shift. The way something had given, just a little. And even as he left the room, closing the door behind him, he knew it wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t over. Something had changed tonight. Quiet. Slow. But real.

The quiet of the suite had settled into something thick, something drowsy and undisturbed. The kind of silence that didn’t feel empty, but warm, occupied in a way that didn’t need words. Gihun wasn’t sure how much time had passed since Inho had shut himself away in his room, lost in whatever plans or thoughts had taken hold. He’d assumed the rest of the evening would play out like that: Inho busy, Gihun left to his own quiet.

And that was fine. Really. He didn’t need anything else.

But when the bedroom door creaked open, the sound of careful footsteps making their way across the suite, something in him shifted. Not just awareness. Not just curiosity. It was deeper than that, quieter, heavier. Something instinctual that curled low in his chest before he could stop it.

He kept his eyes on his phone, curled into the couch, one foot tucked beneath him, a blanket draped loosely over his legs. The suite was dim now, lit mostly by the fractured glow of the city bleeding in through the windows. He had sunk into the cushions without thinking, the stillness of the space and the warmth around him dragging him into something loose and quiet. Easy, almost.

“You look comfortable.”

The voice was smooth, low with amusement. Gihun glanced up, and there he was. Inho, standing at the edge of the room, sleeves still rolled, the focus in his eyes softened now, relaxed. But there was something else under it too. Something quieter. Something Gihun couldn’t quite name.

He shifted slightly, sitting up a bit straighter. “Ah… yeah. I guess.”

Inho tilted his head, gaze lingering. “I was going to ask if you wanted to get dinner,” he mused. Then, after a pause, his lips curved faintly. “But you don’t want to move, do you?”

Gihun opened his mouth, instinct already guiding him toward agreement. Because that’s what he did, wasn’t it? Say yes, accommodate, fold himself into what was expected. He was already halfway to shaking his head, the words No, it’s fine, let’s go forming on his lips when—

“Let’s stay in.”

He blinked. The words had come so easily, like they’d been waiting there. Like the alpha had known.

“You look comfortable,” Inho said again, stepping further into the room, his voice quiet, certain. “And I’d rather not pull you out of that. We’ll order something.”

The simplicity of it, the shift, the quiet decision made for him, did something strange to Gihun’s chest. His omega stirred with something unfamiliar. Recognition. It wasn’t a test. It wasn’t conditional. It just was.

“You sure?” he asked, before he could stop himself. There was something raw in it, unintentional. Too revealing.

Inho let out a breath through his nose. A faint, amused sound. “Of course.” He picked up the hotel’s room service menu, flipping it open without ceremony. “What do you feel like eating?”

Gihun hesitated, fidgeting with the blanket still draped over his legs. “Uh… I don’t know. Whatever you’re having is fine.”

Inho didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to Gihun’s—sharp, unreadable—then dropped back to the menu. He turned a page.

“No.”

Gihun blinked. “What?”

“You pick.”

He froze. The words weren’t harsh, but they held weight. He felt it. The shift. The expectation.

“I—” His voice faltered. “I don’t care that much. Really.”

“You always defer,” Inho said, calm but direct. “When we order lunch at the office. When we stop for coffee. Even back at the airport. You never pick.”

Gihun felt heat crawl up his neck. He looked down at the blanket, tugged it tighter around himself. He wanted to argue. Say it wasn’t true. Say he just didn’t mind.

But he couldn’t. Because it was true.

“I don’t mind,” he said instead, quieter this time.

“I do.”

That made him look up.

Inho met his eyes, gaze steady, voice level. “So pick something.”

Gihun’s fingers curled against the blanket, something unsteady twisting in his chest. His eyes flicked to the menu, scanning the unfamiliar dishes listed in neat, elegant print. He frowned. “I… don’t know what half of this is.”

Inho hummed, tilting the menu toward himself. “Here,” he said, voice easy. “Laksa’s a spicy coconut noodle soup. Rich, but not too heavy. Satay—grilled meat skewers with a peanut sauce. Comes with rice, of course.” His tone stayed even, unhurried, like he wasn’t just listing food but giving Gihun space to settle into the moment. “Simple, but good.”

Gihun hesitated. He could still feel the instinct to deflect tugging at him. To say whatever. But Inho was watching. Patient. Waiting.

“That sounds nice…”

A low, satisfied hum. “Good choice.”

A moment later, the alpha was already on the phone, voice smooth as he relayed the order to room service. He confirmed Gihun’s pick first, no hesitation, no need to look again, before adding his own: Hainanese chicken rice, sambal-stirred greens, a chilled seafood starter. Balanced. Intentional. The kind of meal someone chose because they knew exactly what they wanted.

When he hung up, there was no teasing, no comment. Just a small nod. “It’ll be up soon.”

That was it. Easy. Like it had never been a thing at all. Like Gihun’s preferences, his wants, had always been meant to matter.

The scent of spice and simmering broth filled the suite, the warmth of the dishes spreading into the air as the containers were carefully set down on the coffee table. The meal had come quickly—efficient, just like everything else here—but Gihun had barely registered it.

He was still caught on the moment before.

The way Inho had looked at him, really looked, and changed his mind.

It hadn’t been anything big. Nothing dramatic. Nothing most people would’ve even noticed. But Gihun did. He noticed how the alpha never hesitated once he made a decision. And yet, for him, he had. He’d seen Gihun curled up on the couch, half-ready to say yes just to be agreeable, and changed course without blinking. Like it was nothing.

“Ordering in is better,” he’d said, smooth as ever, like he’d always planned it that way. “No point in moving when we don’t have to.”

And Gihun had just… nodded. Too caught off guard by how easy it had been. How natural. Like his comfort actually mattered.

Now, sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at bowls of laksa and rice and grilled skewers still letting off steam, he didn’t quite know what to do with the feeling still sitting in his chest.

This wasn’t a polished business dinner. No stiff small talk, no expensive wine, no careful posture across a white tablecloth. This felt… personal. The kind of meal you shared with someone you didn’t need to impress.

And somehow, watching Inho now—sleeves still rolled up, settling beside him without ceremony, like this was something he did all the time—it didn’t feel wrong. Not at all. It felt too natural. That was the problem.

Gihun swallowed, reaching for a spoon.

“Eat first.”

The alpha’s voice cut through his thoughts, smooth, low, edged with something almost indulgent. Amused. Gihun looked up to find him watching, that faint curve to his lips barely hiding it.

“What do you want to try first?” Inho asked, then after a pause, added, “Want something of mine?”

The question was simple. Too simple. Gihun blinked, glancing at the spread in front of them. His gaze flicked from one dish to the next, and for some reason, the act of choosing suddenly felt impossible. His fingers hovered near the chopsticks, hesitating.

“I—” He stalled.

Inho didn’t rush him. Didn’t push. Just broke apart his own chopsticks with slow, practiced ease. “Try the laksa,” he said. Still calm. Still patient. Like this wasn’t a moment at all. “It suits you.”

“Suits me?” Gihun frowned. “It’s soup.”

Inho smirked, twirling a strand of noodles before taking a bite. “It’s comforting,” he said, voice thoughtful. “Has a bit of a kick.”

His gaze landed on Gihun again. Steady. Deliberate.

“You seem like the type who likes something that lingers.”

Something tightened in Gihun’s chest at that, but he didn’t rise to it. Didn’t argue. He dipped his spoon into the broth and took a careful sip instead. The flavor bloomed warm and rich on his tongue: coconut, spice, the slow curl of heat. It was good.

He wasn’t going to admit that out loud.

But Inho was already watching. Already knew.

“See?” the alpha murmured, far too satisfied. “Told you.”

Gihun clicked his tongue and reached for a skewer instead. “You’re so annoying.”

They ate in comfortable silence after that, the only sounds the quiet clink of utensils and the low hum of the city outside. The mood had shifted, subtly, but unmistakably. Something about the way they were sitting now, cross-legged on the floor in soft lamplight, made the space between them feel slower. Softer. Gihun couldn’t explain it, but his chest felt too full.

When he glanced up, he found Inho already watching him. Not passively. Not idly. Just looking, calm, unblinking, like he was memorizing something. Gihun had caught that expression before. But this time, it wasn’t far away. It was right there. Across a few bowls of food and the stretch of carpet between their knees.

The air was warm. Gihun dropped his gaze quickly, spoon nudging through his broth like it might distract him. But it didn’t stop the prickle that ran up his spine. Didn’t stop the way the air felt thicker now, like it had picked up a weight he couldn’t name. He breathed in through his nose, trying to steady himself, but there it was. The scent. Familiar and clean, just like always, but…

Different. Closer. A little deeper. A little warmer. Not overwhelming, not obvious, but it had shifted.

And Gihun’s body noticed it before he could.

He stiffened, just slightly. His mouth was dry. He lifted a bite of food almost on instinct, chewing slowly, not tasting it. Pretending his fingers hadn’t curled in just a little. Pretending he wasn’t suddenly aware of how little space there was between them. How easy it would be to shift closer, just a fraction, just enough to feel it more clearly.

Something low in him wanted to.

And that scared him more than he could admit.

Inho smirked. Just barely. But it was enough. He knew. And somehow, that made it worse.

Gihun exhaled sharply, letting his chopsticks clatter onto the table. “I’m done.”

The alpha chuckled, too pleased with himself as he leaned back against the couch. “Full?”

“Stuffed,” Gihun muttered, stretching his legs out, the carpet soft beneath him. His limbs felt heavy, his stomach warm, the comfort of the meal sinking into him before he could talk himself out of it.

He should get up. Clear the table. Put some space between them. But he didn’t move. Just stayed there, half-reclined on the floor, letting the quiet wrap around him. Letting the alpha’s presence settle too close, too easily.

Something had shifted tonight. He didn’t know when, or how, or why exactly, but it had. And the worst part was, he didn’t hate it.

The plates had been cleared, the air still carrying a trace of spice and warmth, faint but familiar, mixing with the softened lighting and the low city hum outside the windows. Something had shifted between them, not sharp, not sudden, just… there. A weight, unspoken but gentle. Comfort, the kind that didn’t announce itself. The kind that settled in quietly when you weren’t paying attention.

Gihun didn’t even notice when he ended up back on the couch. His limbs were loose, his body sinking into the cushions without thought, like some part of him had already decided this was where he belonged tonight. Across from him, Inho mirrored the ease, arm draped over the backrest, fingers tapping lazily against the upholstery. Shirt a little crumpled now. Collar still open. And Gihun had to keep reminding himself not to look too long.

It was too easy. The conversation, the way it flowed from work into quieter things: half-stories, little confessions, things people didn’t usually say out loud unless it was late and the room was warm and still. It didn’t feel like opening up. It just felt like… talking.

“You’re not serious.” Gihun let out a breathy laugh, leaning against the armrest. “You were one of those kids?”

Inho smirked, smug and unapologetic. “What? You’ve never cheated in a school debate?”

Gihun groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “There’s no way you just admitted that.”

“I won, didn’t I?” Inho’s voice was low, amused, his eyes catching the light with that same sharp glint that made Gihun’s stomach do something stupid.

“That’s not the point!” Gihun huffed, shaking his head. He was warm. Probably from the food, or the sprawl of the couch, or maybe just from the way the alpha kept watching him, like he found something funny in every reaction. “How the hell do you even cheat at a debate?”

“By making sure the opposition discredits their own argument for you.” Inho’s voice was smooth, just a little smug. “And a little well-placed misinformation never hurts.”

Gihun scoffed, sinking deeper into the cushions. “Jesus. You’ve been like this since you were a kid?”

Inho hummed, not quite answering. “What about you? What kind of student were you?”

Gihun let out a breath through his nose, stretching his legs a little. “Messy. Distracted. Probably a nightmare. I used to sneak out of class when it got too boring. Not even to do anything fun, just walk. Be somewhere else.”

He didn’t know why he said that. It wasn’t something he told people. That restlessness. That feeling of never quite fitting right in his own skin.

But Inho didn’t laugh. Just tilted his head, thoughtful. “You didn’t like school?”

Gihun shrugged. “Some parts. Just… not the sitting still. The teachers thought I was a lost cause.”

“Did you?”

The question made his fingers twitch slightly. “I don’t know.” He gave a dry little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe.”

A pause.

Then, softly—“You’re not.”

Gihun blinked.

It wasn’t said like a compliment. Wasn’t meant to comfort. Just a statement: firm, certain, like it didn’t need explaining. But somehow, the way Inho said it, the weight in his voice, it landed somewhere deep in Gihun’s chest before he could stop it.

He cleared his throat, glancing away. “You talk like you’ve known me forever.”

“I don’t have to.”

That was worse. Something about the way he said it made the air feel… different. Warmer, maybe. Closer. Like something shifted and Gihun hadn’t caught up to it yet.

He swallowed. Suddenly, he was too aware of how close they were. Of how quiet the room had gotten. The suite had cooled, but it didn’t matter, his skin was still warm, too warm. His scent was probably stronger now, no longer hidden under nerves or held breath. And Inho’s—

He inhaled before he could stop himself. It was different, too. Not sharp, not cold. Just there. Steady. Natural. Familiar in a way that made it worse.

His fingers curled against his thigh. He shouldn’t be reacting like this. He’d been around the alpha a hundred times. Sat next to him, spoken with him, dealt with worse tension than this. But somehow, now, it didn’t feel the same.

He exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the tension crawling up his back, but it was no use. He could feel it now, that weight. The kind that came from being watched.

He glanced over. Inho wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t saying anything at all. Just looking. Steady. Quiet. Like he’d already seen this moment coming, like he was just waiting for Gihun to catch up.

Gihun’s chest fluttered, something sharp and strange tightening beneath his ribs. And then, Inho’s gaze dropped. Just a flicker. Barely there. To his throat. His scent glands.

It was fast. Subtle. Too quick for most people to notice. But Gihun noticed.

His heart stuttered. The air shifted. Then Inho exhaled, slow, his mouth tugging into something too soft to be called a smirk.

“You’re getting tired.”

Gihun blinked, the words slipping in like they’d been waiting all along. Hadn’t even noticed how heavy his arms felt, how the cushions had started swallowing him whole, how warm he’d gotten under the soft light and Inho’s gaze and whatever the hell this night had turned into.

“I’m not—” he started, voice already betraying him with a sluggish rasp.

Inho raised an eyebrow. Just one. Quiet, knowing. No push, no smugness. Just there.

Gihun sank deeper into the couch with a soft, grouchy noise, tugging the blanket up like it might shield him from further embarrassment. “Okay, maybe a little…”

The alpha let out a quiet laugh. Not teasing. Just warm. Almost fond.

“Go to bed,” he said, voice low and gentle in a way that made something twist in Gihun’s chest.

God. This alpha. Always knowing things before Gihun could admit them to himself. Always saying it like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was okay to be tired. Like someone giving a damn didn’t have to come with conditions.

Gihun grumbled again, more to himself than anyone, as he pushed himself up with reluctant limbs. “Bossy…”

He didn’t look at Inho. Didn’t dare. Just mumbled a “Night,” under his breath and shuffled toward the hallway, blanket still half-draped over his shoulders.

And even with his back turned, even as he disappeared behind the door, he could feel it, that gaze, soft and steady, still on him.

The suite was quiet, but Gihun couldn’t sleep. He’d tried. Pulled the covers up to his chin, turned over once, twice, again. Nothing. The air felt too thick, too warm, like it was holding something he couldn’t quite name. Not restlessness exactly, but that gnawing awareness, deep in his gut, coiled behind his ribs. His body felt heavy, but not tired. His omega was humming under his skin, alert for something that hadn’t happened yet. Or maybe already had.

With a slow exhale, he pushed the blankets aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Maybe tea. Something warm. Something to trick his body into stillness.

He padded quietly through the suite, the lights dim, the city glow stretching long across the floor. The silence felt stretched thin, not empty but waiting, and he tried not to think too hard about it as he stepped into the kitchenette and reached for the cupboard. His fingers brushed the edge of a tea box—

“Couldn’t sleep?”

The voice slipped in smooth, low, and immediate. Gihun turned, and froze.

Inho stood a few feet away, towel slung around his shoulders: loose, lazy, like he hadn’t even bothered to dry off properly. His hair was damp, a little mussed from the shower, curling faintly at the edges in a way that made Gihun’s mouth go dry. Droplets still clung to his skin, trailing down his neck, catching the light as they disappeared across bare skin; because, of course, he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Just soft-looking lounge pants slung low on his hips, the waistband dipping just enough to make Gihun’s brain stall.

He was shorter than Gihun, but broader, built like someone who could hold his ground without blinking. His back was wide, solid, the kind of strength that didn’t need flexing to be obvious. Everything about him looked heavy with power, like his muscles had weight, like he could pin someone without even trying. His chest wasn’t smooth and cut like in those gym ads either, there was definition, sure, but it was real. Dense. A kind of thick, quiet bulk that didn’t feel aesthetic, it felt dangerous.

He cleared his throat and forced himself to look away. “Yeah,” he mumbled, fingers tightening around the box of tea. “Something like that.”

The alpha stepped further in, slow and easy, like he had nowhere else to be. Like he wasn’t standing there looking like that, bare skin, water still clinging to him, all quiet power and too-casual presence. Gihun felt it in his gut, in the heat pricking at the back of his neck, in the way his body locked up even as he tried to play it cool.

He turned back to the kettle, flicked the switch with a little more force than necessary. It’s fine. It’s nothing. He’s just—

“You drink tea at night?”

It was casual. Tossed out like small talk. But something in the way Inho said it, low, half-amused, made Gihun’s stomach curl. His throat felt dry.

“Sometimes,” he muttered. “It helps.”

Silence stretched behind him. Then that quiet sound again. Amused. Knowing.

“That explains it.”

Gihun frowned, glanced over his shoulder despite himself. “Explains what?”

The corner of the alpha’s mouth tugged into a lazy smirk, but his eyes stayed dark, unreadable. “The way you smelled last night.”

Gihun froze. Heat rushed up the back of his neck, prickling down his spine, his fingers curling against the edge of the counter. “What—”

“The faint sweetness.” Inho’s voice stayed even, like he hadn’t noticed the way Gihun’s whole body had gone stiff. He stepped toward the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, twisted the cap off in one smooth motion. His bicep flexed slightly with the movement, casual, effortless. He’s not doing this on purpose. Right? “Chamomile. Maybe honey.”

Gihun forgot how to breathe.

His instincts kicked in too fast, dragging that old helpless feeling up from the base of his throat. He knew that tone. That look. He knew what it meant, even if he told himself it didn’t. Even if he kept pretending it was nothing.

“I didn’t realize you paid that much attention.”

Inho took a sip from the bottle, eyes never leaving him. He swallowed, slow and deliberate, then ran his tongue along his bottom lip, catching a drop of water without thinking.

“I notice everything.”

Something twisted deep in Gihun’s stomach.

He needed to get out of here. Now. He turned sharply, facing the kettle again, pretending to care about the water temperature, about anything that wasn’t the heat crawling up the back of his neck—

Then a sound. Bare feet against tile. A shift in the air. Closer.

His breath hitched before he could stop it, scent spiking just slightly, too much, too fast, before he could even reel it in. The alpha had moved. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel. Like a hum against his skin, heat bleeding into the air between them. Too close. Way too close.

“Something wrong?”

Low. Amused. Way too aware.

Gihun clenched his jaw, tryin (failing), not to react. His body was already ahead of him, instincts flaring like an idiot. It didn’t mean anything. Of course it didn’t.

He had a shirtless alpha standing in his space, fresh out of the shower, all broad shoulders and damp hair and goddamn scent. His omega wasn’t made of stone. He was fourty, not dead. Not hitting menopause. His biology still worked. Of course he was going to react.

It was just instinct. Just proximity. Just some stupid chemical thing. That was all.

That was the only reason.

He exhaled sharply, shoulders tight, forcing the tension out of his limbs. “No.”

But Inho didn’t move. He stayed there. Still. Steady. Like he was waiting, expecting something more. Like he knew. Like he could feel the shift too.

The kettle clicked off.

The moment snapped.

Gihun exhaled, latching onto the noise like a lifeline. He grabbed the handle and poured the water over the tea bag, watching the amber swirl bloom through the cup, clinging to the mundanity like it might anchor him. His pulse was still too fast, his skin still prickling, nerves buzzing just beneath the surface, but he shoved it down, stuffed it into a box where it couldn’t touch him.

Silence lingered. Thick. Tense. Then Inho stepped back—quiet, smooth—as if nothing had happened. As if the last few minutes hadn’t crackled through the air, sharp and hot and barely contained.

“Don’t stay up too late.”

His voice was calm. Light. Like he wasn’t the reason Gihun’s blood still hadn’t settled.

When Gihun glanced back, Inho was already walking away. Bare shoulders shifting in the low light, movements loose and unbothered, disappearing down the hall with that same quiet command he always carried.

He let out a shaky breath he hadn’t meant to hold and stood there a long time, staring into his tea, waiting for his heart to stop doing whatever it was doing.

It didn’t.

The dream came in pieces. Not sudden, just slow, creeping, the kind of thing that didn’t announce itself but settled in quietly, like fog rolling in over still water. He didn’t fight it. Didn’t even notice it at first. It wrapped around him, warm and thick, pulling him under before he realized he was slipping.

It started with heat. The kind that seeps into your skin, gets into your bones. Heavy, slow, not uncomfortable, just… full. He could feel it in his chest, in the steady rhythm of his breathing, in the way something familiar lingered just outside his awareness. A weight. A presence. Steady. Calming.

Then fingers at his jaw.

Soft. Intentional. Barely there, but guiding. The way someone might touch something they already knew belonged to them. His breath caught. His body reacted before his mind did, something inside him flaring to life, half-instinct, half-memory. He knew that touch. Had felt it before. And whatever it had left behind hadn’t faded.

“You’re upset.”

The voice landed right beneath his ribs, quiet, low, so close it could’ve come from inside his own chest. Smooth. Familiar. Laced with something that made the edges blur a little. Something dangerous. Something indulgent.

Inho.

Gihun tried to speak, but his throat was tight, his mouth dry. The dream didn’t let him go. It curled tighter around him, pulled him deeper, made it hard to tell where memory ended and something else began. Because this wasn’t just a replay. It wasn’t just the past echoing back.

It was more than that. His body remembered what his mind didn’t want to. The heat of Inho’s palm, the quiet gravity of his presence, the scent that clung to the air: rich, low, impossible to ignore. The way his voice had softened, just enough to get past Gihun’s defenses. Just enough to reach the places Sangwoo never had.

“I don’t understand…”

His voice cracked. Thin. Unsteady. It slipped out before he could stop it, exposing something he hadn’t meant to show. And the tension in his chest only tightened, drawn taut by something he couldn’t push back against. He should move. He should resist. But he didn’t.

Because he didn’t want to. Not really. And the alpha knew.

The thumb that had brushed his cheek drifted lower, trailing the edge of his jaw: slow, sure, deliberate. The warmth of it seared into him, sank too deep, started to undo him.

“You’re listening now, aren’t you?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His body spoke for him: shoulders softening, breath catching, the smallest lean toward the heat. Not a choice. Not really. Just instinct.

And then, Inho’s voice again. Close, close, close. 

“You could be standing across the hall, halfway down the street, sitting at your desk pretending not to look my way—you are still the only one I see.”

Gihun gasped.

His eyes flew open.

The suite was dark. The city’s glow slipped in through the curtains in faint streaks, the low hum of distant traffic the only sound in the silence. His chest rose and fell too fast, each breath shallow, uneven. His skin felt wrong, too warm, too tight.

He didn’t move at first. Couldn’t. Just lay there, blinking up at the ceiling, heart pounding like he’d been running. It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. Just the echo of something he couldn’t shake.

It hurt. Not like pain, but like something curled deep in his chest had been pulled too hard. His fingers were curled into the sheets, clutching them like they might anchor him, like maybe they’d kept him from reaching for something that wasn’t there.

The dream hadn’t faded.

Inho’s voice still rang in his ears. That soft certainty, that unbearable closeness. The breath against his skin. The scent—

Gihun swallowed hard. He forced himself upright, hands raking through his hair. His body felt too wired, too full. His instincts buzzed under his skin, restless, stirred. Not fooled. Not soothed. They knew. They remembered. They wanted something he couldn’t give them.

He braced his elbows on his knees, trying to breathe through it, to outlast the shape of the dream still pressed into his ribs. But it clung to him. The words. The heat. The weight of being seen.

He’d spent days pretending. Weeks, maybe. Burying it under Sangwoo’s touch, under late nights at the office, under conversations that didn’t ask anything of him. But here, in the quiet, with nothing to distract him, nothing but the echo of a voice that knew too much.

He couldn’t lie to himself.

Not like this.

It didn’t feel like just a dream at all.

The memory still clung to him, thick around the edges of his thoughts, like mist that refused to lift. The dream had passed, but it hadn’t let go. It lingered, more vivid than it had any right to be. Too real. Too close.

It was supposed to stay buried. That was the unspoken rule. Tucked under the weight of the days that followed, smothered by work, travel, noise. And it had worked. For a while. Neither of them had acknowledged it. Not even in passing. And Gihun had been grateful for that, grateful for the silence, for the easy pretense that it had never happened.

But now, after last night, after sleep had cracked open something deeper, he didn’t have that comfort anymore. There was no distraction this time. No excuse.

Because it hadn’t just been a dream.

It had happened.

His fingers curled into the sheets, bracing against the thought. It was ridiculous, how something from before the trip, something he’d managed to shove down, had surfaced again, stronger, louder. It had felt far away until now. Faint. But this morning, it felt... present. Like it had never left.

And what unsettled him most wasn’t the memory itself. It was that Inho hadn’t said a word about it either.

He should have been fine with that. He was fine with it. Wasn’t he? They’d both let it go. Pretended it didn’t matter. And for days, that had been enough. It should have been enough.

But now, with it crawling back to the surface, vivid and raw, Gihun couldn’t stop wondering... why hadn’t Inho said anything?

The alpha was composed. Controlled. He’d probably brushed past it without a second thought, already filed it away in some quiet corner of his mind where inconsequential things went to die. Maybe he’d even forgotten it altogether.

That thought lodged cold in Gihun’s stomach.

The real problem was, if it hadn’t mattered, if it hadn’t meant anything, then why was it still here? Still curled beneath his skin, still clinging to the back of his throat? Why did his body remember it so clearly, why did his instincts respond like they’d been touched, marked? It didn’t make sense.

He let out a long breath, dragging a hand down his face before sitting up. His feet met the cool floor with a soft thud. He needed to let it go. Shake it off. It was too early for this. Too early to be unraveling over something they’d both agreed to forget.

He would forget it. He had to.

Didn’t he?

The suite smelled like coffee. Warm, bitter, a little too strong, just enough to make him think maybe Inho had been up for a while. Gihun padded into the living area, still half-asleep, limbs heavy, everything moving a beat slower than usual.

Inho was already at the table, one hand around a porcelain cup, flipping through a newspaper like he wasn’t even trying. Like this was just how he woke up. Put-together. Unbothered. Like whatever he’d dreamed about hadn’t followed him into the morning.

Gihun hated that he hesitated. Hated that something in him pulled tight when he saw him sitting there, calm and composed, as if nothing had changed.

He grabbed a cup, poured himself coffee, and sat across from him without a word. They’d had a couple mornings like this now—quiet, early, with the city still dim behind the windows—but this one felt different. There was a weight in it. Something unspoken pressing in from both sides.

“You’re quiet this morning.”

It sounded casual. Offhand. But it wasn’t. Not really.

Gihun took a sip, then met his gaze. “Just tired.”

A pause.

“Did you sleep well?”

A normal question. On the surface. But the way Inho said it, measured and a little too careful, sent something cold down his spine. His grip on the mug tightened.

“Fine,” he said. Too fast. Too thin.

Another pause. Then a soft hum. Noncommittal. Not quite amusement, not quite anything. Just… acknowledgment.

Gihun didn’t look up again. He didn’t need to. He could feel it: the steady weight of Inho’s gaze, sharp and unflinching, like he was waiting for something Gihun didn’t know how to give.

And god, wasn’t that the problem?

The meeting had sucked the air out of the room, the kind of negotiation that dragged itself forward word by word, every point carefully measured, every counter met with restraint that felt like it was wearing thin. The tension didn’t leave with the executives. It stayed. Heavy. Quiet. And not just because of the meeting.

Gihun let out a slow breath, hand dragging down the front of his blazer even though the fabric lay perfectly smooth. He didn’t know why he did it, nervous habit, probably. Or maybe because something about the air felt off now. Too warm at the back of his neck. Too aware of the alpha still standing beside him.

It had just been a long meeting. That was all. That’s what he told himself. But his body didn’t buy it. Not with the way his nerves were still wired tight, not with how he could feel the echo of their closeness from just minutes ago, the moment Inho leaned in, the way their breaths had nearly touched.

It had been nothing. Just instinct. A blip in the rhythm of a conversation. But instincts didn’t explain why his skin had gone tight, why he hadn’t been able to think for a full second afterward. And worse, Inho hadn’t stepped back. He hadn’t even flinched. If anything, he’d leaned closer.

Gihun pressed his lips together and inhaled through his nose. The room was nearly empty now: executives murmuring goodbyes as they drifted toward the exit, chairs scraping softly against the polished floor. He should’ve followed them. Should’ve moved. Put some space between himself and the heat still coiled in his chest.

But Inho hadn’t moved.

He stood there, calm as ever, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve like nothing had happened. His expression gave away nothing. But Gihun didn’t need to see it to feel it, that pull. That quiet pressure of being watched. He’d felt it all meeting. The way their scents had started to shift, subtly at first, then too much to ignore. Bleeding together, clinging.

And that was the problem.

Because the other alphas had noticed. Gihun had caught it. The way some of them glanced at him, not long, not obvious, but different. Not polite. Not neutral. Just long enough to know something had changed. Something unspoken, but real. It made his stomach twist. Made his shoulders stiffen. And through it all, Inho hadn’t stepped back. Hadn’t said anything. Had just stayed close. Quiet. Steady. Certain.

Like he meant for it to happen.

And Gihun hated that it had made him want to lean in. That with all those unfamiliar eyes on him, the only one that didn’t make his skin crawl was Inho’s. Because Inho didn’t look at him like they did. Not like something interesting. Not like something new.

But like something he already knew.

Because Inho, Gihun realized, had always noticed him. Not in passing, not with the flicker of curiosity that came and went, but with something steadier. Something quieter. Something that had been there long before Gihun had even thought to look back.

The room emptied. Silence settled in its wake, quiet but dense.

“We should go.”

Inho’s voice—smooth, even—but there was weight in it. More than there should’ve been.

Gihun nodded quickly, like the sound of it had broken a spell. He turned toward the door, eager to move, to breathe, to get space, but the alpha moved with him. Unhurried. Fluid. Still close.

And their scents hadn’t faded. Not entirely. They clung to the space between them, warm and unsettled. He couldn’t tell whose rose first. Couldn’t tell if it was instinct or intention. But when he stepped into the hallway, the air felt heavier than before.

The restaurant was quiet. Not silent, just... hushed. Tucked away from the city noise, from the kind of places where people talked too loudly over expensive steak and wine, where everything was about showing off. This wasn’t that. It was smaller. Warmer. Almost too nice.

Gihun didn’t know why Inho had picked it.

They sat by the window, the light outside dull with haze, the skyline stretching out like something far away and unimportant. The space felt... removed. Like it existed outside the rest of their trip, like it wasn’t part of the schedule at all.

He shifted in his seat. The chair was too soft. Or maybe it was just that his body still hadn’t shaken off the morning. The meeting. The way Inho had stood so close, quiet and unbothered, like his presence meant nothing, but it had stayed with Gihun. Even now, hours later, it hadn’t left.

He’d barely looked at the menu when he ordered. He couldn’t even remember what he’d said. Something light. Something safe. The food came fast, delicate and perfect, the kind of meal you were supposed to admire before eating.

The alpha was different. It wasn’t his posture, he still looked composed, still carried that effortless calm that made every room adjust around him without him lifting a finger. But something was off. Or maybe not off. Just… not like usual. There was a kind of ease in the way he moved, the way he lifted his glass, leaned back in his chair, like—for once—he wasn’t calculating every breath he took.

It was weird. Inho didn’t relax. Not really. Not in any way that looked unguarded. But here, in this quiet corner of the city where the rest of the world didn’t seem to matter, he was… softer. Gihun caught himself glancing up, just briefly, and saw the alpha staring out the window. Not thinking. Not measuring. Just... gone somewhere else.

And it didn’t look bad on him. It just looked unfamiliar. And maybe that’s why it stuck.

“You’re quiet,” Gihun said before he could stop himself.

Inho hummed, taking a sip of his drink before setting it down. His fingers lingered on the stem of the glass, turning it slowly, like he was thinking through something before deciding whether it was worth saying aloud.

“I used to hate places like this,” he said softly, eyes flicking to the room around them.

Gihun frowned. “Why? This place is nice.”

“Not exactly like this,” Inho clarified, glancing around. “This place is… different. Softer. But it reminds me of the ones I grew up being dragged into.” He tilted his head. “Where everything was rehearsed. Where the quiet meant pressure. Where you had to know how to act before you were even old enough to order.”

Gihun’s fingers paused around his glass.

He hadn’t expected an answer like that, not from Inho, not here. He studied the alpha’s expression, the calm way he spoke, as if he were recounting something mundane. But it wasn’t. Not really. Not if you were listening closely.

He glanced down, then offered a faint shrug. “I thought you liked these kinds of places.”

There was no judgment in his tone. Just quiet honesty, the kind that left his own thoughts exposed more than he meant. Because he had assumed things. About Inho. About what a life like his must’ve been like.

“I do now.” Inho tilted his head slightly, gaze still on the city outside. “But when I was younger, I hated them.”

The admission was quiet, offhanded, but it stuck. Because Inho didn’t usually talk like that. Not about himself. Not about anything that didn’t serve a purpose.

Gihun had heard him tell stories before: clever ones, funny ones, always just polished enough to keep the edges neat. Something he could laugh at without thinking too hard. But this… this wasn’t that. This wasn’t a story. It wasn’t even something Inho seemed to mean to share. It had just slipped out.

And maybe that’s why it felt real.

He looked at him for a moment. At the stillness in his face, the way his fingers had stilled around the glass, like they remembered something he hadn’t said yet. Inho’s whole life always seemed like it started fully formed: already sharp, already perfect. Like he hadn’t come from anywhere, like he’d just appeared one day in a suit, knowing everything.

But maybe that wasn’t true.

Gihun hesitated, his voice low. “Why?”

Inho inhaled, slow. He swirled the wine in his glass, watching it catch the light before setting it down. “When I was younger, places like this weren’t comfortable. They weren’t indulgent or quiet or relaxing. They were performances. My father used to bring me to restaurants like this to teach me how to sit, how to speak, how not to embarrass him. The food wasn’t the point.”

His voice wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t soft either. Just even. Like he’d gone over the words too many times in his head to flinch at them now.

“It wasn’t about enjoying anything,” he said. “It was about control. Getting everything right. Posture. Tone. Knowing which fork to use. Knowing when not to speak at all.”

“So what changed?” Gihun asked quietly.

“I got better at it.” His lips curled, but there was no real amusement there. “And once I was good enough, I realized I could use it however I wanted.”

Gihun blinked, the words hitting sharper than he expected. He didn’t know why that part stayed with him most, the quiet confession of something learned, and then weaponized. The words should have sounded cold. But they didn’t. Because there was something else beneath them. Something tired. Something resigned.

Gihun looked at the alpha, really looked, and for the first time, he didn’t just see the polish. He saw how it had been built. Brick by brick. Forced into place until it fit so cleanly you couldn’t tell where the mask ended and the man began.

But sitting here now, in this quiet place that wasn’t quite like the ones from before, Gihun couldn’t help himself.

“You don’t seem like you’re performing now.”

Inho’s gaze didn’t move. “I’m not.”

And then, just barely, he smiled. Not sharp, not smug. Just a flicker of something honest.

Gihun didn’t respond. He just watched the man across from him, aware of how strange the space between them felt. Not distant. Just… exposed.

And for once, Inho didn’t look like he minded. The alpha’s gaze flickered back to him, something quieter in his expression now, something almost curious.

“What about you?” he asked, voice smooth, shifting the weight of the conversation so easily it almost caught Gihun off guard. “What was your childhood like?”

Gihun huffed a quiet, humorless laugh, reaching for his glass. “Messy,” he admitted, taking a sip. “Not much structure. Not many lessons.”

Inho hummed, watching him. “Maybe that’s why you’re so easygoing.”

Gihun raised a brow. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” Inho said simply. Then, with a tilt of his head, a flicker of quiet amusement in his voice—

“It just makes me wonder what that’s like.”

Gihun’s fingers curled tighter around the stem of his glass. Not from discomfort, at least, not the kind he could name.

Because this wasn’t small talk. This wasn’t one of Inho’s polished anecdotes or strategic deflections. It was a question asked plainly, without calculation, like he actually wanted to hear the answer. Like he cared what it was. And that unsettled Gihun more than anything else.

Not just because it made Inho feel real. But because it made the space between them feel like something unfinished. Something waiting. And Gihun, despite knowing exactly what this was—and wasn’t—supposed to be, found himself leaning into it.

Even now, with all the parts of himself he’d learned to keep quiet, he wanted to say something back.

Something honest.

The morning passed in a blur. Everything was already handled. Their luggage had been picked up and sent ahead by the hotel staff, like clockwork. There was nothing left to do, no scrambling to zip bags, no dragging suitcases down the hall. Just... leave. Another smooth handoff from one kind of luxury to the next.

The night before, after dinner, they’d come back together. Nothing had been said about what had happened, or almost happened, between them. No mention of how close they’d gotten, of the moments that slipped in between touches and silences and looks that held a little too long. But the air had shifted anyway. Not tense. Not awkward. Just... something.

They’d talked. Not about that, but about the trip. About Sentosa. Inho had kept it steady, professional. He explained how things would change now, how the meetings would give way to social things, connections, appearances. Less about facts and more about presence.

“There are people I need to see personally,” he’d said, voice smooth, like it always was. “Some deals depend on that. Some aren’t worth our time. I’ll tell you who to skip.”

And Gihun had listened. Really listened. Not just to the list of names and how the business worked, but to his voice. The way it wrapped around every word like it was all already decided. Every step thought through.

It should’ve felt distant. Like a job. But it didn’t. Because somewhere in all of that, something had shifted. The space between them had closed. Not in some big, obvious way, but little things. Their legs brushing on the couch and neither of them moving. That strange, quiet kind of ease.

He hadn’t noticed until afterward. When the conversation faded. When the room got quieter. When Inho had said, “Goodnight,” in a tone that sounded almost gentle.

And now, the morning just... moved. Everything smooth. Easy. Like nothing had changed. Like nothing had happened. But Gihun still felt it, that pull. That quiet alignment between them that hadn’t been there before but now seemed to hum beneath everything.

They got into the car. The door shut with a soft click. And as the hotel faded behind them, Gihun let out a slow breath, grounding himself. Steadying.

Because something was coming. He didn’t know what. But it was there. And he could feel it.

It should have felt routine. But it didn’t.

Gihun sat in the back of the sleek, black sedan as it moved through the city, the tinted windows muting everything outside. The hum of the engine was steady beneath him, the air inside cool, controlled.

He barely glanced out the window. The skyline shifted, glass towers thinning into something softer as the Sentosa Gateway Bridge came into view, green stretching out beneath the pale morning light. But he wasn’t seeing any of it. His mind had drifted hours ago, and now, in the quiet of the car, with Inho beside him, that quiet felt heavier. The air between them wasn’t just silent. It was watching him.

He didn’t look. Didn’t need to. He could feel it, the way Inho was watching him. Not directly. Not in any way you could call out. But he knew. That quiet pressure, the kind that didn’t press so much as settle. Like Inho was waiting for him to say something. Like he already knew what was running through Gihun’s head.

Gihun shifted, pulling at the edge of his sleeve, eyes fixing on the window like it could ground him. The waters below were still, almost glasslike, reflecting sky and sunlight in perfect, unbothered ripples. Sentosa was close now.

“Excited?”

The voice broke the silence too easily. Gihun’s breath caught, just a bit, just enough to feel it.

He turned his head slightly, caught Inho’s profile. The alpha was leaned back against the seat, elbow resting against the door like they were just talking about the weather. His face was unreadable, save for the smallest pull at the corner of his mouth.

“Excited?” Gihun repeated, and his voice came out too flat to pass for anything else.

The curve of Inho’s mouth deepened slightly. “New environment. No office. No boardrooms.” A small pause. “More time to unwind.”

Unwind. The word didn’t sit right. Not in his ears. Not coming from him.

Gihun let out a slow breath and looked away. “I guess.”

The car slowed as they pulled into the resort drive. Palm trees lined both sides, too perfect, too evenly spaced. Manicured gardens rolled out on either side like they’d been arranged to impress someone specific, and the building ahead—low, glassy, expensive—looked like the kind of place that wanted you to forget there was a world outside of it at all.

The moment the car stopped, the doors were opened for them. Staff was already waiting, all polished smiles and subtle bows, like they’d been tracking the car from the second it left the city.

Gihun stepped out first. The air hit him immediately: thick, humid, the kind of heat that stuck to your skin. It smelled like salt and citrus and something floral he couldn’t place. Clean, but almost too curated. The kind of scent designed for rich people to pretend they were relaxing.

Inho was beside him.

It didn’t take long for someone to approach—a manager, clearly, moving with the kind of practiced ease that said he already knew who he was talking to. Not just a guest. Not someone important. The guest.

“Welcome, Mr. Hwang,” the man said smoothly, bowing just enough. “Your private suites have been prepared according to your specifications. We trust everything will be to your satisfaction.”

Gihun barely registered the rest. Private suites. Right. He hadn’t really thought about it before now. Hadn’t let himself think past the meetings, the travel, the job.

But of course they weren’t going back to two hotel rooms at the end of a long day. Not anymore.

They were here now. In the quiet part of the trip.

The resort wasn’t a hotel. It felt tucked away, like it had been built to keep people out. Villas hidden behind trees, glass walls and quiet paths, everything too perfect. Like money had been poured into making it feel effortless.

And maybe it was. For people like Inho.

They followed one of the staff deeper into the property. Gihun didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The shift in atmosphere was already obvious. No more meetings. No boardrooms. No real structure. Just a few names on a list and Inho saying, “Don’t bother with half of them.”

It should’ve felt like a break. But it didn’t.

Because if it wasn’t business anymore… then what was it?

They reached the villa. The doors opened, and the inside was exactly what he expected: clean lines, soft neutrals, high ceilings and that kind of expensive quiet that made you feel like you were borrowing someone else’s life. It was nice. Maybe too nice.

Gihun didn’t even look at the view right away. The pool. The windows. All of it blurred. What he noticed, what he felt, was Inho beside him. Still. Calm. Like this was nothing new. Like he belonged here. Like maybe they did.

And Gihun didn’t know what to do with that.

The villa was… a lot.

It was beautiful, sure. Expensive in that quiet, effortless way that didn’t need to prove itself, sunlight slipping through floor-to-ceiling windows that opened out to the ocean. An infinity pool curved into the edge of the view like it had been poured there just for show. Inside, everything was soft and sleek: muted colors, expensive wood, just the right amount of gold.

It was the kind of place built for people who didn’t flinch at luxury. People who expected it. People like Hwang Inho. And maybe that was what made Gihun feel so out of place.

He stood there for a moment, not moving, while resort staff came and went with practiced ease. The sound of polite greetings and suitcase wheels faded behind him until it was just... quiet. A deep kind of quiet. Wide and still.

Too wide. Too still.

His throat was dry. This wasn’t like the other hotels. Those had been easier somehow. Smaller. More contained. Business clung to the air in those spaces, you could feel the agenda in the wallpaper. There were always walls between things. Between them. But here, there weren’t any. Not really.

Sure, they had separate bedrooms, technically. But everything else, everything that actually mattered, was shared. A living room so open it felt exposed, a private terrace with no corners to hide in, wide glass doors that didn’t block anything at all.

There was nowhere to go in this villa that wouldn’t feel close. Nowhere that didn’t carry the quiet weight of we’re here together.

And Gihun wasn’t sure what to do with that.

And then, of course, there was Inho. Moving through the villa like it was already his. Like spaces like this had always just... fit.

Gihun swallowed, watching him from the corner of his eye. The alpha rolled back the sleeves of his shirt with that usual easy grace, forearms coming into view as he moved deeper into the room. His fingers worked at the cuffs slowly, one at a time. Calm. Unbothered. Like there was no rush. Like there never had to be.

He didn’t even have to try. The room just... adjusted around him. Got quieter. Smaller.

Gihun forced himself to look away. Cleared his throat. Tried to pretend the marble countertop in front of him was worth inspecting. The welcome setup was the kind of thing you'd expect to see in a magazine, fruit arranged like art, glassware that probably cost more than his whole kitchen back home. Everything pristine. Posed. Like it was meant to be touched by someone who knew how.

“It’s nice,” he said, mostly to fill the air.

“More than nice,” Inho said behind him, smooth as ever.

Something about the way he said it made Gihun’s skin prickle. He didn’t have to look to know he was being watched. He could feel it, steady and sharp, just enough to make his instincts twist.

“This is what real money looks like,” Inho added, his voice rich with something Gihun couldn’t quite name.

Gihun huffed, half a laugh, shaking his head as he stepped away. Of course he’d say that. Of course this place made sense for him.

But Gihun? Gihun wasn’t sure he’d ever been in a place that felt like it fit. Not really.

“You should get used to it,” Inho said, casually. Too casually.

Gihun blinked, caught off guard by the comment. He didn’t look back. Didn’t ask what that was supposed to mean. But the way the alpha said it—quiet, offhand, like it was already decided—lodged somewhere beneath his skin and stayed there.

He let out a slow breath, trying to steady himself. This was work. Just work. A necessary arrangement. Nothing else. Tech execs liked to show off, retreats like this were part of the show. That’s all it was. A backdrop for business, for networking, for rubbing elbows with the right people. Not for... whatever this was. Whatever strange heat kept curling low in his gut every time Inho got too close.

Still, he glanced over.

Just once. Just enough to regret it.

The alpha had settled into the corner of the sofa, one arm slung over the back like he’d been born there, like the whole damn villa was just an extension of him. Loose, easy, completely at home. Watching. There was no edge to his gaze. No judgment. Just... waiting. Like he had all the time in the world.

Gihun clenched his jaw.

“We’re not here to relax,” he muttered.

Mostly to himself. Because someone had to say it.

“Mm.”

That was all Inho gave in return. A low, quiet sound. Not agreement. Not disagreement. Just that familiar, unreadable hum, like he knew better than to argue, because he already didn’t believe him.

Gihun turned away, sharper than he needed to, his fingers curling around the edge of the counter. This was business. Just business. He had a laptop to open, a schedule to review. People to impress. Shit to do.

And yet, as he tried to focus—on logistics, on emails, on anything solid—he couldn’t shake the feeling. That something had shifted. That maybe it already had.

And worse, that some part of him didn’t want it to stop.

The rooftop bar was lit in soft, golden tones, the kind that made everything look expensive. The air was thick with salt, hibiscus, and whatever cologne the older executives liked to drown themselves in, mixed with the sharp edge of liquor and the faint burn of cigars. The kind of place built for alphas with too much money and too much time. Where people talked just loud enough to be heard but never loud enough to risk being taken unseriously. Where the real power didn’t come from what was said, but from who didn’t need to say much at all.

And Gihun was starting to slip into it, or maybe he was just slipping closer to the person beside him.

Hwang Inho.

Even here, surrounded by other names that probably filled the headlines of finance columns and boardrooms, Inho stood out without trying. He didn’t need to raise his voice or claim space. It just happened. People leaned in when he spoke. Rooms settled around him. Gihun had always noticed it, even before the trip, but tonight... tonight it was harder not to notice. Harder not to look.

Something about the setting, the looseness of the evening, the way suits had shed ties and the alcohol softened edges, it made everything blur a little. Made it easier to forget what he was supposed to be doing. What he was supposed to be resisting.

He caught himself watching Inho again. The way the light hit his profile, the calm way he held his glass, the faint pull of a smirk at his mouth as he listened to someone across the table. It wasn’t fair, how easily he fit here. Like the space had been designed with him in mind. Like it didn’t just suit him, it bent to him.

And maybe that’s why Gihun leaned in. Maybe that’s why his shoulder brushed the alpha’s without thinking.

It started small. Just a lean. A shift. The edge of his arm brushing against Inho’s. Nothing on purpose, at least not consciously. Just that quiet pull again. Toward warmth. Toward scent. Toward the kind of confidence that didn’t need to show itself to be felt. The kind that had a way of creeping in and settling under your skin.

He should’ve moved. Should’ve caught himself, pulled back, reminded his body what this was. Just instinct. Just proximity. That was all.

But he didn’t. And Inho noticed.

The talk around them kept flowing—deals, projections, the usual boardroom fluff dressed up with better drinks—but Inho wasn’t really paying attention. Not to any of it. Gihun could feel it. That quiet shift in focus. The way the alpha’s energy turned toward him, not loud, not obvious, but enough to pin something tight in his chest. And Gihun, caught somewhere between embarrassment and wanting to see what would happen if he stayed exactly where he was... didn’t move.

Their arms were still barely touching, but it was enough. Enough to make something inside him go still. Enough to make his omega stop bristling and just... settle.

Then it happened. Inho shifted. Barely. A fraction closer. Like he was answering something without saying a word. Not a touch exactly, but the pressure of him filled every inch of space between them. Warm. Steady. There.

Gihun’s breath hitched. Short. Stupid. Obvious.

And then, right on cue, someone laughed.

“So,” a voice said, light and sharp all at once, “how long’s your assistant been following you around like a shadow, Hwang?”

It was a joke. Tossed out casually, all smooth and smirking like it was nothing. But Gihun felt the hit of it right in his gut. Too fast, too sharp, too pointed. Like it was meant to cut just enough to sting. To remind him of his place. Of what he was supposed to be.

He didn’t even have time to react before Inho did.

The alpha didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But something shifted. His fingers stayed curled around his glass, slow and easy, but Gihun felt it, the change in the air. The sudden stillness. The way Inho’s scent edged sharper, just barely, like a warning slipped in under everything else.

Then he smiled. Not amused. Not warm. Just smooth.

“Following?” he repeated, voice light, almost like he was humoring the question.

Almost.

“I’d say he’s right where he’s supposed to be.”

The words landed like they didn’t need explanation. Quiet. Steady. Final. The kind of thing that didn’t ask for agreement, because it didn’t expect disagreement.

And Gihun... stilled. Something inside him reacted, something low and instinctive. Not to the words, exactly, but to what they meant. Not following. Not behind. Beside.

He didn’t understand it yet, but his omega did.

The guy who’d made the comment gave another laugh, but it came out different this time. A bit thinner. Like he’d just decided it wasn’t worth it. He looked at Inho, met his eyes for a second, then took a drink and let it drop.

Whatever he’d been trying to say, whatever line he’d tried to draw, it didn’t matter anymore. Because Inho had drawn his own. And no one argued with that.

The chatter around them picked back up. Another round of drinks. Another joke passed down the line. But Gihun couldn’t tune back in. Not really.

Because the alpha next to him hadn’t moved. Because his scent was still there. Still close. Still threading through the air like it belonged there.

And maybe it did. Because something in Gihun had already leaned toward it. Already let it in. And the worst part was—

He didn’t want to pull away. Not even a little.

The suite was quiet. Not the usual kind, but the kind that stretched out too long, pressing in at the edges, where even the shift of fabric against sheets felt too loud, and the faint sound of waves through the open door barely registered. Still, Gihun couldn’t sleep.

He’d tried. Pulled the covers up to his chin, rolled onto his side, then his stomach, then onto his back again. Closed his eyes. Counted his breaths. Slower. Deeper. It didn’t help.

It wasn’t the bed. Wasn’t the room. It was the day. The way it had lodged itself under his skin and stayed there. The press of a knee against his under the table. The brush of a shoulder, close, deliberate, never pulling back. And that voice: low, certain, steady. He’s right where he’s supposed to be.

Gihun let out a quiet breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. He needed something. Anything. Just to move.

He slid out of bed and padded barefoot toward the kitchenette, fingertips dragging along the marble counter without really thinking, reaching for the kettle more out of habit than want. He didn’t even know if he was going to drink it. He just needed to do something with his hands.

And then he heard it. A faint sound, gentle, steady. Water shifting. Not loud, but enough.

His eyes moved toward the terrace. The sliding glass door had been left cracked open.

The pool. Someone was out there.

His chest tightened before he could stop it. Not someone.

Inho.

Gihun should have turned back. Should’ve let it be. Should’ve just made the tea and gone back to bed, ignored the flicker in his gut, the stupid, stubborn pull dragging him toward the open door.

But his feet were already moving.

The night air hit him first: warm, thick with sea salt and frangipani. The soft hush of waves below the villa barely rose above the stillness, a rhythm he hadn’t realized he’d been missing until now. The pool glowed a soft blue under the lights, water shifting gently along the edges.

And there, seated low on a lounge chair, half in shadow, was Hwang Inho.

His shirt was loose, barely buttoned. Sleeves rolled up, collar crooked like he’d tugged at it without thinking. One hand rested against his temple, fingers in his damp hair. The other held a glass, dark liquid catching the light as he tilted it slow, absent. His eyes weren’t focused. Somewhere else entirely.

Gihun’s stomach tightened.

This wasn’t the perfect, pressed figure from meetings and boardrooms. Not the version who always looked like he’d already won whatever game was being played. This Inho was quieter. Worn in. A little too still.

And Gihun didn’t know what to do with that.

“You don’t sleep either?” he asked, soft, like if he said it loud enough it might make the moment disappear.

Inho turned. Met his eyes, slow and even, gaze landing on him like he’d already known he was there.

“Mm.” Low, smooth. Hard to read.

He took a sip from his glass, then tipped his head slightly toward the chair beside him. “Join me?”

Gihun hesitated. Just for a second. Because this felt different. Not like the usual back-and-forths, not layered in power or suggestion. This was quieter. Closer to an invitation than a command. And before he could talk himself out of it, he moved.

He sat beside Inho, stretched his legs out in front of him, resting his hands loosely on his knees. Tried not to focus on how close they were. On how easy it felt. The silence that settled between them wasn’t tense. It just… was. Soft around the edges. Gihun let out a breath.

“I never thought I’d be here,” he said quietly, staring at the pool. “In this job. In... any of this.”

He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe it was the quiet, or the night, or just the way Inho hadn’t looked at him like he expected something. The words slipped out. And for once, he didn’t feel like reeling them back in.

He half-expected a joke. Something dry. Something sharp enough to break the moment.

But Inho didn’t bite. He just took another sip of his drink, then said, like it was the most obvious question in the world, “Then why are you?”

Gihun swallowed. He could’ve said a lot. That it was Sangwoo. That he needed the money. That some part of him still wanted to feel like he mattered.

But none of that came out.

He shrugged.

“It felt like the only option,” he said after a beat, the corner of his mouth pulling in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Like no matter what I wanted, or thought I was supposed to do, this was just… where I ended up.”

Inho didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at him. Really looked. Not distracted. Not filling space for the sake of it. He was listening; closely, openly, like he actually cared about the answer. Like the words mattered. And that… wasn’t something Gihun was used to.

Sangwoo never listened like that. Not with this kind of stillness. Not with this kind of quiet focus that made it feel like the entire world had narrowed down to just one thing: Gihun.

Something pulled tight in his chest, but he didn’t want to name it. He looked away, needing a break from the weight of it—

And then blinked, because there, just past the edge of the terrace, was a small cat. Thin. Hesitant. Its mewl was soft, more like a question than a sound.

His chest twinged. “Oh,” he murmured, already moving before he could stop himself. “Hey there…”

Poor thing.

He crouched low, arm stretched out, his voice dropping into something gentle, instinctual. Soft nonsense, the kind of quiet comfort that didn’t mean anything, but still felt like something. The cat lingered at the edge of the light, ears twitching, body still. It looked like it wasn’t used to kindness. That alone made something ache in him.

“It’s okay,” he said, palm up. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Slowly, the cat stepped forward. Gihun didn’t move. Just waited. Let it choose. And when it finally nudged its head into his hand, something in him unknotted a little.

He gathered it up carefully, as if it might change its mind. Small. Lighter than it should’ve been. Its fur was patchy, but soft, and it pressed close to his chest like it had been waiting for someone to hold it.

His fingers found a rhythm without thinking, stroking down its back, soothing the slight tremble he felt under his palm. It purred—quiet, steady—and Gihun let himself breathe with it, slow and even, the warmth of it grounding him more than he expected.

Just a stray. Just a quiet moment in the night. Just something to break the silence between them. 

But when he glanced up, Inho was watching him. Not casually. Not like someone passing time. His gaze was fixed, too fixed. Dark eyes tracing over the scene in front of him like he was trying to memorize it, piece by piece. There was something about the way he looked, unmoving, unreadable, that made Gihun’s hands tense slightly around the cat, like the soft weight of it in his arms was the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

“What?” he muttered, trying for lightness and falling short. He lifted the cat a little, awkwardly, like that might explain it. “He came to me.”

Inho looked at him, really looked, with an expression so soft, so quietly fond, it made Gihun’s stomach twist. Like the sight of him like this did something to him. Like he didn’t want to miss a second of it.

“I already knew.”

Gihun blinked. “Knew what?”

“That you like cats,” Inho said, quiet, low. Too calm. Too certain. He didn’t look away, didn’t shift his posture, didn’t do anything to relieve the pressure in the air.

Something in Gihun went still. Something small and instinctive and embarrassingly exposed.

“I’ve seen you outside the office,” Inho said, calm as anything, like he wasn’t laying Gihun bare in the middle of a quiet night. “That stray near the parking lot. You always stop. Crouch down, scratch behind his ears, make sure he eats something.”

“You think no one notices,” Inho added, his voice dipping lower, smoother now, like it was wrapping around him. “But I do.”

His voice didn’t waver. Just steady, almost thoughtful. Like this wasn’t a guess. Like it was something he’d watched more than once.

Gihun exhaled, sharp and uneven. His stomach twisted. He hadn’t thought anyone noticed that. Hell, he hadn’t even noticed it himself. It wasn’t something he meant to do, it was just something that happened. A habit. An instinct.

But Inho had seen it. Had remembered it.

“You’ve probably named him.”

Not even a question.

Gihun swallowed hard, eyes flicking down. His arms shifted slightly, the cat snug against his chest, like he was trying to hide the way his fingers curled in tighter. It didn’t matter, Inho saw it anyway. His expression didn’t shift much, but something in it gentled, like he wasn’t surprised, just quietly pleased to be right.

“You take care of things,” the alpha said, voice quieter now, almost gentle. “Even when no one’s looking. Without thinking. Without needing to be asked. It’s just in you.”

A pause. Gihun could feel the look Inho gave him then, slow and so full of something that felt too close.

“It suits you.”

That stopped him.

Suits you. Like it wasn’t just a compliment. Like it was a truth Inho had decided for him.

Gihun looked away. His throat was dry, his chest felt too tight, and the cat was still purring softly in his arms like none of it meant anything at all.

Something about the way Inho said it made him feel exposed. Because he wasn’t just talking about the cat. Of course he wasn’t. And Gihun knew it. Felt it settle under his skin, thick and aching, like something old and instinctive had been touched without warning.

The cat mewled softly, nuzzling into the crook of his arm, but the sound barely registered. The air felt too heavy now, humid against his skin, and every inch of his body was too aware, of the alpha sitting across from him, of the way Inho was still looking at him, steady, unblinking. Like he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to. Like he wasn’t going to look away.

Gihun’s breath caught, shallow and uneven.

“What?” he said softly, the word catching in his throat. He shifted the cat a little in his arms, like that might explain why his heart was thudding so hard. “Should I take him back to Korea with me? Would you even let me, alpha?”

The word hung between them, quieter than the rest. It wasn’t deliberate. It wasn’t even meant to land the way it did. But it did.

Inho stilled.

His pupils dilated, black overtaking the brown, just for a second. His scent spiked, low and rich, a slow, instinctive swell of something possessive that curled into the air before he could hide it.

The air thickened.

There was heat in that gaze now. Weight.

“I’d let you do anything,” he said, voice rougher than before. 

And that was it. Something in Gihun just… snapped. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet and deep and final, like something giving out without a sound.

He looked down at the kitten still curled in his arms. Tried to focus on that. On the warmth. The soft weight of it. But his vision blurred, and the back of his throat ached. Shit. He blinked fast, but it was too late. One tear slipped out anyway, just one. Stupid. Barely there.

But Inho saw. Of course he did.

Gihun let out a breath that shook on the way out. Tried to laugh it off, but it came out weird and crooked, not really a laugh at all. He swiped at his face quickly and turned a little, like that might fix something, like pretending it wasn’t there would make it go away.

But the alpha didn’t say anything. Didn’t act like he hadn’t seen, but didn’t stare, either. Just sat there, quiet. Solid. Like he wasn’t going anywhere. And that, God, that did something to Gihun. The silence. The steadiness. The fact that Inho wasn’t making it a moment, wasn’t trying to fix it or explain it or soften it with some polished line.

It made the words land harder. Not like a flirtation. Not like something thrown out to see what would stick. But like a truth. A simple one. A real one.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because he felt it everywhere.

He swallowed hard, holding the kitten a little tighter against his chest, like it was the only thing keeping him steady. But even then, he wasn’t. Not really.

Because this wasn’t Sangwoo. It wasn’t an exasperated sigh or a comment about how he was being ridiculous again. It wasn’t someone calling him impractical, too soft, too much. It wasn’t someone brushing off what he wanted like it was an inconvenience.

Sangwoo never really let him have things. Not in any way that lasted. Gihun had spent years learning how to make himself small, how to quiet the parts of himself that wanted too loudly. How to survive on less. How not to ask for more.

But Inho… saw. And worse, he didn’t flinch from it. Didn’t scold or tease or look away. He let him want. Wanted him to want.

And something about that, about the quiet, steady permission in it, pressed down on Gihun like a weight he couldn’t brace for. It slipped into places he’d spent years locking tight. It hurt, in that raw, too-honest way.

His throat tightened. He blinked hard. He didn’t want to cry again, didn’t want to unravel right there on the terrace over a stray cat and a quiet voice and a look that had seen straight through him. But his omega was listening.

And it was starved. For this. For recognition. For safety. For the kind of quiet approval that didn’t demand anything in return.

He ducked his head, let out a shaky breath. Pretended to fuss with the kitten, to focus on anything other than the heat behind his eyes.

Inho didn’t say anything. Didn’t reach for him. Didn’t make it a moment. He just… stayed. Still, solid, watching. Not waiting to be let in, but just there.

And maybe that was what broke something in Gihun. Not what Inho said, but what he didn’t. The space he gave. The steadiness. The way it felt like he’d already accepted something Gihun hadn’t dared to name.

Because deep down, Gihun knew this wasn’t just about the kitten.

It wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just the ache in his chest. It was the way his body responded to the idea of being allowed to hold something, care for something, want something, and not be told it was too much. This wasn’t a passing feeling. This wasn’t a crush. This wasn’t harmless.

It was the moment he realized he didn’t just want. He believed, terrifyingly, that maybe, somehow… he was allowed to.

His fingers curled tighter in the kitten’s fur. His chest was rising too fast, breath catching like it couldn’t find the right rhythm. And the alpha was still watching.

Gihun swallowed, tried for a laugh. It came out thin, shaky. He tilted his chin toward the kitten, hoping it would be enough of a distraction, something to shift the weight of the moment off his chest.

“Gihun.”

Just his name, soft and steady. And somehow, that was worse.

Because it made something inside him unravel a little more. Because it meant Inho saw him. Not just this version, messy and flustered and barely holding it together, but all of him. And if he stayed a second longer, if he let himself meet that gaze, if he let the moment stretch just a little more—

He wouldn’t be able to walk it back.

So he didn’t give himself the chance. He sucked in a breath, forced another laugh, quieter this time, and stood too fast, jostling the kitten slightly in the process.

“I—I should sleep,” he mumbled, too rushed, too uneven. Not really a decision, more like an escape. He crouched to place the cat gently on the ground, watching it stretch and curl like nothing had happened at all.

He didn’t look back. Couldn’t.

But he still felt it, that steady presence behind him. The alpha’s gaze. The quiet that had turned too thick, too close. Like it had wrapped around his ankles and dared him to move.

He turned, stepped toward the villa door.

But then—

“Gihun.”

Inho’s voice sounded different this time. Softer. But solid. Like he meant it. Like he didn’t doubt a single word.

Gihun felt it more than heard it, like something under his skin, low and steady. It wasn’t loud, but it went straight through him. His breath caught, just a little. Barely anything. But he knew Inho noticed. He always did.

He should’ve kept walking.

Instead, he turned.

Inho was standing now, glass still in his hand, shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled. He must’ve risen when Gihun turned. His stance was relaxed, almost casual, but not careless. There was something in the way he stood, something quiet, certain. He didn’t move toward him. He just… waited.

That was worse.

Because it didn’t feel like pressure. It didn’t feel like a lure. It felt like patience. Like the kind that said, I'm here if you're ready.

Gihun’s throat felt tight. He didn’t know what he was expecting to see, maybe distance. Maybe detachment. Something to help him back away. But Inho didn’t give him anything to hide behind. He just watched him. Still. Steady. Like he was already sure of how this would go.

And Gihun—stupidly, helplessly—didn’t run. He shifted. A step. Barely. But closer.

It was enough.

The air felt heavier. His omega stirred, fully alert now, nerves on edge in a way that wasn’t fear.

His fingers twitched. His chest ached with something he didn’t know how to name. And then, before he could second-guess it, before he could stop himself—

He reached out.

The touch was small. Barely even a reason for it, just him brushing something off Inho’s sleeve that probably wasn’t there. He could’ve stopped there. Should’ve. But his fingers didn’t move. They stayed, hovering for a second too long, warm against the fabric.

And the alpha didn’t say anything. Didn’t pull away.

Gihun’s heart was suddenly beating too fast. It wasn’t even a real touch. It didn’t mean anything. But somehow, it still felt like too much.

And not enough.

He shouldn’t want more. He told himself that. It didn’t help. Because even as the thought crossed his mind, he leaned in, not much, just a little. A shift, a breath. Close enough to feel the warmth between them. Close enough that their scents started to mix.

And still, Inho didn’t move. He wasn’t reaching for him. He wasn’t pushing. He was just… there. Letting it happen. Letting Gihun be the one to decide.

And that was what made it worse. Or maybe better. Because for once, no one was taking anything from him. He was the one choosing.

And he didn’t pull back.

It happened before he could stop it. One moment Gihun was frozen beneath Inho’s gaze, heavy in a way that made something in his chest clench. The next thing he felt was closeness, sudden and overwhelming, the warmth of Inho’s breath on his skin, the space between them gone.

And then they were kissing.

Everything about it felt too much. Too close. Too deep. His fingers found the edge of Inho’s shirt and held, gripping the fabric without thinking.

His pulse stuttered. His chest ached. He didn’t know when they’d gotten this close, didn’t remember who moved first. Maybe it didn’t matter. Because the second Inho leaned in, really leaned in, everything else fell away. The night, the villa, the careful distance they’d kept. Gone. All he knew was that once Inho kissed him back, he stopped thinking altogether.

Heat rolled through him, low and steady. And the alpha didn’t push. Didn’t take. He kissed like he was letting Gihun lead, like he wasn’t in a hurry. Like he’d wait.

And maybe that was what undid him most. Because no one had ever kissed him like this before. Like he was something to be savored. Something worth waiting for.

There was only Inho now and the scent curling in the back of Gihun’s throat. Clean, rich, unmistakably alpha. The heat of his mouth, his patience, the quiet control that made Gihun’s whole body ache. The way he kissed like he could do it forever. Like he would, if Gihun let him.

A whimper caught in his throat: small, shaky, too raw. He hadn’t meant to make a sound, hadn’t even known how badly he needed until Inho touched him. Hands warm and steady, sliding under his shirt and settling low on his waist, pressing in just enough to make Gihun jolt.

The touch burned. Not in a way that hurt, never that, but it was hot, real, and it knocked the air out of him. His omega seized on it, clung to it, soaked in every inch of contact. Each quiet press of Inho’s palm against his skin sank somewhere deeper. Not too much. Not overwhelming. Just right.

That was what made it terrifying. Because it shouldn’t have felt like that.

Like recognition.

Like coming home.

A shiver ran through him. His breath caught against Inho’s mouth, and just like that, the alpha eased. He didn’t pull away, didn’t step back, just… softened. His hands shifted, slow and careful, brushing across Gihun’s hips in quiet, grounding strokes. Like he knew. Like he felt the hesitation before Gihun could voice it.

This was it. The difference. Everything Sangwoo had never done. This was what Gihun had been aching for, starving for without realizing it, to be held like this. Not just claimed. Considered. Noticed. Met with something steady instead of something cold.

Which made it worse. Because if he’d pushed, done what Gihun was used to—taken the moment, decided for him—maybe he wouldn’t have felt so much. Maybe he could have pretended it didn’t mean anything.

But he didn’t. He waited. Not out of hesitation. Not because he didn’t know what he wanted. But because he wanted Gihun to choose. The way he always had on this trip. Quietly. Patiently. Offering space instead of pressure. Letting Gihun move at his own pace, letting him believe every step was his own.

He never forced. Never demanded. Just… opened the door and stood there.

And Gihun stepped through.

His hands trembled where they clutched at Inho’s shirt. The fabric was warm beneath his fingers, rumpled from where Inho had tugged it loose earlier, exposing skin: smooth, heat-flushed, stretched over lean muscle that tensed beneath Gihun’s grip.

Gihun knew his scent was rising, curling hot in the air between them. Inho had to smell it. There was no way he didn’t. His omega was bleeding into the air, sharp and sweet and needy.

His breath hitched, grip faltered. He didn’t know if he was about to pull Inho closer or push him away, but before he could decide, Inho leaned in. Their mouths met again, deeper this time. Not rough. Not claiming. A kiss that gave instead of took. A kiss that said: you can have this, if you want it.

And Gihun did.

He sank into it. Into the warmth of Inho’s body, the scent of sandalwood and salt and something sharper that always made his head spin. His fingers curled tighter in the alpha’s shirt, nails pressing in just enough to feel the heat beneath, solid muscle, held tension, a body perfectly still beneath his hands, an alpha holding still only for him.

Inho responded instantly. One hand dropped to Gihun’s waist, anchoring him with firm pressure. The other slid into his hair, fingers threading through the strands before curling to tilt his head back, exposing his neck.

The alpha’s mouth left his and Gihun nearly whined at the loss, until he felt lips brushing along his jaw. Then lower. His throat. The curve of his collarbone. Each kiss deliberate. Careful. Like Inho was learning him. Not just touching. Studying.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble. He was savoring him.

And then Gihun felt it, Inho’s tongue, a slow, wet drag over skin. Then suction. Not hard. Just enough.

It pulled a sound from Gihun’s throat that didn’t sound like his own: soft, startled, instinctive. His legs trembled. His scent spiked hard, clinging to the air, thick with heat and need. But Inho didn’t back off. No, he leaned in closer, until his mouth found the place just behind Gihun’s ear. Directly over his scent gland.

Gihun felt the lips first, firm and warm, then tongue, wet and slow, pressing into the thinnest skin on his body. He shuddered. His hands clenched tighter, knuckles white.

Tongue, then lips, then the slow pull of suction. Gihun's hips jerked. Just slightly. Just enough.

Inho deepened the rhythm. Wet. Steady. Like he knew. Like he meant to break Gihun open and pour something into the space. And it worked. With every pass of Inho’s mouth over his gland, every drag and pull, Gihun’s scent grew even heavier. Inho breathed it in like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted.

Gihun’s knees buckled. His hands scrambled for balance, twisting in Inho’s shirt like it was the only solid thing in the world. The alpha caught him, firm at the waist, grounding. His other hand cradled the back of Gihun’s neck, fingers splayed through his hair. He kissed the gland again. Slower. Deeper.

And again.

Gihun’s body answered—muscle by muscle, nerve by nerve—as if it had been waiting for this exact touch.

It was too much. He whined, thin, cracked, and finally gasped, “Inho.”

He swore he could feel the alpha smile against his neck, slow and pleased, mouth still pressed to his scent gland like he had no intention of letting go. Finally, Inho pulled back. His cheeks were flushed, lips slick, chest rising like he was holding back.

He didn’t stop looking at Gihun. Like he was memorizing this version of him—flushed, scent-drenched, trembling—like he’d done something sacred and couldn’t look away from the proof.

Gihun knew it should have ended here. With one last stolen kiss, one final shared breath, a lingering moment before reality pressed back in between them. But it didn’t. Because Inho moved and he barely had time to react before hands gripped his thighs, firm, certain, claiming.

And then the world tilted. A gasp tore from his throat as his feet left the floor, legs parting instinctively, wrapping around Inho’s hips before he even realized what he was doing.

Strong hands caught him. Effortlessly. Possessively. Fingers dug into the soft flesh of his thighs, grounding him like he weighed nothing. Like he belonged here, in this hold, in this moment. The shift brought them closer—hotter, tighter, deeper—and Gihun felt it. Every point of contact. The solid press of muscle beneath him. The sheer, unyielding steadiness of someone who could’ve taken what he wanted long ago… but waited. Waited until Gihun came to him.

A whimper slipped out before he could swallow it down. Because this alpha was holding Gihun like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. And it ruined him. Heat coiled low in his stomach, instincts writhing, clawing up through his spine. He melted. Gave in completely. Let himself have this.

His arms looped around Inho’s neck, fingers curling into damp strands of hair, tugging, clinging, body arching into every point of pressure. Seeking. Needing.

The kiss shifted, all sense of control gone now. Gihun wasn’t holding back. Not anymore. And for the first time, he wasn’t afraid of wanting. Because Inho wanted him back.

That thought sent a full-body shudder through him.

He pressed closer, chased the warmth, the contact, the dizzying feeling of being wanted, chosen. Inho rumbled low in his chest, deep and indulgent, full of satisfaction.

He inhaled sharply, shifted his grip. Just a bit tighter. More secure. Gihun barely registered the movement at first, only the slow, controlled way the alpha began to walk. Like he wasn’t carrying another person. Like Gihun belonged in his arms. He kept pressing soft kisses against Gihun's jaw. Then down his throat. Lips dragging slow across flushed skin, warm breath catching where his pulse pounded.

Gihun felt the faint press of cool sheets against his back. His breath hitched. His lashes fluttered. Disoriented.

Inho had carried him to the bed.

And he still hadn’t let go. He was still holding him. Still kissing him.

Gihun exhaled shakily, fingers flexing in the alpha’s hair, body arching up into the touch, overwhelmed by the beat of his own pulse in his ears. Because he’d never felt like this before. Never this small and yet this wanted. Never this vulnerable and yet so powerful in the way Inho responded to him, like every part of Gihun mattered.

And that alone cracked something open inside him. Because this wasn’t just instinct anymore. Not the omega in him reacting. It was him.

He wanted this. He wanted Inho.

And it terrified Gihun. But he wasn’t letting go. Not when he’d never been touched like this before, never been seen like this before. Not when Inho was making him feel—so clearly, so completely—like he was worth it. Like he was worth everything.

The room was no longer quiet. It was full of uneven breath, mouths parting and meeting again in a fevered rhythm, of fabric shifting, of desperate, whispered gasps swallowed between kisses. The air had thickened around them, rich with heat, with scent, with something raw and undeniable beating between them like a second pulse.

Gihun was trembling from how good it felt. From how deeply his body responded. His omega had taken hold and Gihun let himself melt beneath Inho’s hands. Every touch, every slow caress, every slide of skin against skin lit him up from the inside.

He let out a sound—deep, low—and only realized after a second that he was purring. It startled him. Omegas only did that when they felt safe, when their bodies stopped thinking. And Inho heard it. Gihun felt the alpha’s whole body react and suddenly, Inho was everywhere.

Slow, measured strokes, hands sweeping up the curve of his waist, over his ribs, along his sides like he was learning him by feel alone. Like he was mapping him with reverence. Fingertips ghosted beneath the hem of his blouse, teasing without urgency, not rushing, just… indulging.

A sharp breath slipped past Gihun’s lips, his skin buzzing, tingling, his whole body alive with sensation. Every nerve thrumming. His omega was keening, curling in on itself with want. It was unbearable. It was everything.

“Shh. You're okay.”

Gihun exhaled. He barely registered the shift as Inho began pushing his blouse up. Cool air kissed exposed skin. And then Inho’s mouth was on him—warm, steady, real—lips trailing down from his collarbone, slow and unrelenting, painting heat along his skin with every pass. Gihun gasped, the pleasure uncoiling low and hot, winding tight in his belly until it felt like it might snap. He shivered beneath Inho's weight, beneath every press of his mouth.

“You taste so good,” the alpha murmured, voice thick with heat, breath skating over Gihun’s flushed skin.

His touch never stopped, roaming slowly, deliberately, memorizing every curve, every shudder, every small, helpless sound. The way his fingers traced the slope of Gihun’s ribs, the way his palm spread across the narrow dip of his waist. It was careful. Possessive. And it made Gihun ache.

Because no one had ever taken their time with him like this.

No one had wanted him like this.

A soft, needy sound slipped out before he could stop it, and Inho’s grip tightened right away, pressing him down into the mattress, laying his full weight over him like he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance.

It was dizzying. The weight of Inho on top of him, the heat of his skin, the way his breath ghosted over Gihun’s throat, it was all too much, and not enough. He wanted it. Wanted this. He wanted to be held down. Wanted to be felt, pressed into, touched until his body stopped flinching from it. And he wanted Inho.

He lifted his hands slowly, until his fingers brushed over the alpha’s back. The muscle beneath his skin was warm and damp, solid in a way that made Gihun’s breath catch. His palms flattened over broad shoulders, slid tentatively down to strong biceps, tracing the firmness there like he was still trying to believe this was real. He felt the tension in Inho’s arms, the restraint, the heat trembling just under the surface.

And he wanted it. Wanted all of it. Even if he didn’t know how to ask.

Inho’s mouth found his ear, lips barely brushing. “Just like that. Touch me.”

Then he reached down, took Gihun’s hands in his own—gently, so gently—and guided them up, pressing them to his chest. Solid. Warm. Alive.

“Don’t be shy.”

Gihun wanted.

And Inho let him take.

He helped him undo the buttons, one by one. Slow. Careful. The fabric parting to reveal skin, to reveal him. Let him push the shirt off his shoulders, bare him piece by piece, strip away the last layers of restraint. Let him touch. Let him run his hands over the broad stretch of chest and shoulder, the subtle flex of muscle, the sheer, overwhelming presence of him.

Inho hummed low in his throat, soft and pleased. Like being touched by Gihun was something he’d been waiting for. Craving.

And Gihun felt the weight of that offering. The unspoken permission in every slow stroke of Inho’s hands. The invitation behind each measured breath, behind the way he held still and let Gihun explore.

Take, his body said. Claim. This is yours.

Gihun's fingers clung tighter to his skin, digging in like he was afraid to let go. Like if he loosened his grip for even a second, the moment might slip away. His breath came fast and uneven. His eyes stung. He felt full to the point of breaking, his chest tight, his stomach twisted, something hot clawing up his throat.

He’d wanted this. God, he’d wanted it. To be touched like this. Held like someone meant it. And now that it was real, now that it was happening, his whole body felt like it was caving in.

A quiet sound broke from his throat, sharp and involuntary. His head dipped, shoulders curling as his lungs strained to catch up, like breathing alone was suddenly too much.

Inho noticed right away.

His hands moved gently over Gihun’s back, broad and steady, grounding him with each slow pass. Then his lips brushed the corner of Gihun’s mouth, just a soft press of warmth and breath.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low and quiet.

Gihun gasped when Inho’s hands moved, slid lower, past his hips, gripping, kneading the soft give of his thighs. Every press deliberate. Possessive. Reverent. Each touch sent something sharp and helpless shuddering through him, an instinctive response, something primal. A broken whimper escaped his throat, his spine arched on its own. He should have been ashamed of it.

But he couldn’t be, not when the reward came after. The alpha’s grip tightened, fingers digging in just enough to make him gasp again. Because Inho loved it, the unraveling, the surrender.

“You’re beautiful.”

The words came like a flame: quiet, slow-burning. That same velvet tone Inho always used when he meant something.

Gihun barely noticed when Inho pushed the last of his clothes away, when fabric slipped from his hips, his thighs, and he was left bare. Against the sheets. Against the heat of the alpha’s body. 

He didn’t flinch when Inho’s hands slid over him again, up his ribs, across his sides, tracing the dip of his waist, then gliding over his chest like he already knew every inch of it. He didn’t pull back when Inho leaned in, mouth brushing against new stretches of exposed skin, slow and unhurried, drinking in every tremble, every sharp breath.

Didn’t resist when the alpha’s mouth found his chest, when lips parted and latched over a nipple without warning, wet and greedy.

Gihun gasped. His whole body jolted. Inho sucked. Hard. Like he’d been starving for it, like he couldn’t help himself, like Gihun’s body had offered him something he never thought he’d get to taste. His mouth was hot, open, messy; tongue flicking, lips sealing tight, pulling a sharp noise from Gihun’s throat that didn’t sound like anything he’d meant to make.

It was obscene. Shameless. A flush crept down Gihun’s neck. His hands scrambled for something to hold: Inho’s shoulders, his arms, anything solid to ground himself. His nipple ached under the suction, wet and tingling and unbearably sensitive. He should’ve been embarrassed. He was, at least a little. But his body was buzzing, hips shifting instinctively, seeking more.

The alpha groaned low in his throat and sucked harder, like Gihun’s reaction was the only thing he wanted to drink down.

“That’s it.”

Gihun's breath hitched, hips twitching, his chest rising toward that mouth again before he could stop it. It was overwhelming. Dirty. So good.  And Inho was insatiable: licking, sucking, dragging his tongue over the sensitive peak like he had all the time in the world to ruin him.

Gihun could feel the pressure low in his belly, pulsing through his limbs, making every nerve feel too tight. He needed more. But he couldn’t ask for it. Wouldn’t.

The words stuck in his throat, thick and choking, his jaw locked tight around them. Pride still clung to him like a last defense: thin, fraying, but still there. The only thing keeping him from slipping fully into instinct.

But his body told a different story entirely, one he couldn’t silence, not when the need was curling deep in his stomach and his instincts were already reaching for more. His thighs tensed without meaning to, his hips shifting in a slow, barely-there roll, a traitorous press of movement that nudged him closer to the heat of Inho’s body. Just enough to be felt. Just enough to ask, even if he couldn't bring himself to say the words out loud.

Inho went still above him, like something in him had snapped to attention.

There was a pause, just a breath, sharp and caught halfway, then Gihun heard it.

A laugh. Low and dark, rough at the edges, and far too satisfied. The sound came from deep in Inho’s chest and spilled out close to his ear, and Gihun felt it like a jolt. Heat dragged its way down his spine, coiling low in his gut, making his breath stutter.

His face went hot. Shame flared hard and fast, blooming in his ribs like a second kind of heat. But he didn’t stop moving. Couldn’t. His fingers clawed weakly at the sheets.

“What is it, hm?”

Gihun said nothing. He couldn’t. His jaw stayed clenched, his gaze dragging up slowly, helplessly, and meeting Inho’s with something closer to a plea than he meant to show. Wide-eyed. Pitiful.

Inho’s smile curved slow against his skin, all heat and certainty. “You want it so bad, but you won’t say it,” he murmured, his voice rougher now, darker, lips brushing the shell of Gihun’s ear. “I’ll let it slide tonight. Just this once.”

His hand gripped tighter at Gihun’s hip, fingers digging in like a warning.

“But next time I fuck you? You’re gonna have to ask me for it.”

Before Gihun could even draw a breath, the alpha moved. One smooth pull and Gihun was on his stomach, catching himself with a gasp as Inho’s hands molded him into place: knees wide, back arched, held steady by force and intent.

Inho’s scent spiked. It hit the air hot and sharp, curling low in Gihun’s gut, full of want. Not polite anymore. Not held back. The kind of scent an alpha made when he liked what he saw.

Gihun felt how exposed he was now, how open. His thighs parted, his back dipped, his body offered, without a single word. An omega, laid bare and ready for the taking. And Inho loved it.

Gihun could hear it, in the slow exhale through his nose, low and drawn-out, like he was taking his time. In the way those hands came down next, dragging over the curve of his back, heavy and sure, fingers spreading wide like they were mapping him. The alpha’s palms smoothed down the line of his spine, then lower, pressing into the small of his back, down over the swell of his hips.

Then further.

Inho let out a sound. A hum, low and pleased, like he was settling into the sight of him. And then those hands were on him again, bigger than Gihun remembered, rougher too, palms dragging over the soft flesh of his thighs, then up to his ass. He squeezed. Gripped. Handled him.

Gihun sucked in a breath as thick fingers dug into the softest parts of him, spreading him open, kneading. Slow and steady, like he was testing the give of every inch. Like he was learning it by feel. His thumbs pressed in, hard enough to leave something behind. The way Inho touched wasn’t rushed. It was intentional.

Like he already thought of Gihun as his. And maybe he was.

He whimpered, because he didn’t know it could feel like this. That he could ache so much and still want more.

And then Inho laughed again. Low. Deep. Rich with satisfaction.

“Baby.”

Just one word. Dragged out. Hot against the back of his thigh.

Gihun shivered all over. Then he felt those hands again: rough, sure, gripping him tighter, spreading him apart. Wide. Exposed. No room left to hide.

“Let me see you.”

The breath caught in his throat. His fingers fisted in the sheets. His thighs shook from the effort of holding still.

And then Inho leaned in.

He didn’t rush. Just breathed in. Warm air curled over the back of Gihun's legs, closer and closer, until it settled right where he was wettest, softest, aching.

He inhaled, deep and unhurried, like he was smelling something expensive. Like he could pick Gihun apart from scent alone.

A full-body shudder rolled through him. His spine bowed. A whine slipped out before he could stop it, high and choked, and his skin prickled all over. He was going mad. His whole body burned: hips twitching, mouth open, his mind slipping fast into instinct. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t stay still—and Inho hadn’t even touched him with his mouth yet.

When Gihun finally felt that wet drag of tongue, slow and low, so so deep, his hands clawed at the sheets. His toes curled, every muscle in his thighs pulling tight.

Because Inho wasn’t careful or sweet. God, Inho was devouring him. Sloppy. Starving. Shameless. His tongue dragged through slick heat like he meant to taste everything. Licked into him with pressure and so much want it made Gihun sob.

No one had ever—Not like this. Not like the way Inho groaned into him, low and guttural, like Gihun’s body was something he needed to get drunk on. His hands never stopped holding him open, fingers digging in like he couldn’t get enough, like he didn’t care what mess he made, just that he got to have it.

Gihun was shaking now. Panting. Moaning without meaning to, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other sliding down before he could think, threading into Inho’s hair, fingers curling tight, pulling. Like his body had decided for him that he needed the alpha deeper, closer, more. His mind was gone. His body had taken over. He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t hold back.

Inho groaned against him, the sound low and vibrating straight through Gihun’s core. He didn’t slow down. His mouth was locked over him, tongue dragging through slick that was pouring out of him now, obscene and wet and endless. And the way Gihun held him, like he needed him there, only seemed to spur the alpha on.

Because his breath hitched and a low growl vibrated right against Gihun’s hole. Inho's scent hit the air even harder. It spiked fast and sharp, thick and overpowering, curling around Gihun’s body like smoke. The kind of scent that came from an alpha pushed straight into instinct, hungry, so turned on it fogged the room.

He lapped at him like he was drinking straight from the source, messy and desperate, tongue flicking and pressing, spreading slick and catching every drop like he couldn’t stand the thought of wasting any of it.

And Gihun just held on, body trembling, thighs wide and shaking, his breath coming in shattered gasps as his instincts clawed toward the edge.

Wet, obscene sounds filled the room. His face burned. His whole body shook from it, from the intensity of Inho’s focus, from the way he licked into him like he meant to stay there. Like nothing else mattered but Gihun’s taste, scent, his slick filling Inho's mouth.

He felt his hips rocking forward instinctively, chasing it.

A dark chuckle vibrated against his skin, sinking deep, making him tremble, making his thighs quiver from the effort of holding himself together.

“What’s wrong?” Inho murmured, voice thick, teasing.

Gihun couldn’t answer. His breath came in short, ragged gasps. 

The alpha hummed. A slow, deep vibration. He dragged his tongue once more over Gihun's oversensitive hole, savoring the way it twitched.

A sharp smack landed across the curve of his ass, open palm, hot and sudden. Gihun jolted. It wasn't hard enough to bruise, but enough to send heat licking across his skin and force the breath from his lungs.

“You’re too quiet,” Inho said, voice low and close and soaked in satisfaction. It felt like it rolled right down Gihun’s spine.

Inho's tongue dragged over his swollen hole again, catching on slick, curling in deeper.

Gihun whimpered. The sound slipped out before he could stop it, muffled against the pillow as he twisted, thighs trembling.

Another spank. Same spot. Sharper this time.

“I said I want to hear you.”

A wrecked moan tore free, high and unrestrained, his voice raw with need. It came from his stomach, his chest, his bones, like it had been living inside him for too long.

Inho groaned—deep and rough, almost like praise—and pushed his tongue back inside.

Gihun screamed, his body seized, muscles locking and twitching around the relentless wet heat of it. That tongue, wide and thick, and so impossibly deep, worked him open in slow, insistent strokes, like Inho was trying to take him apart one gasp at a time.

He barely had time to catch his breath before Inho was pressing down over him, the weight of him solid and heavy. His breath was still uneven, limbs trembling from the pleasure Inho had wrung from him, but there was no break.

Because the alpha’s lips found his jaw, fingers tilted his face, demanding another kiss: messy, consuming, all tongue and teeth. Gihun whimpered into it, body still hypersensitive, nerves still buzzing. But Inho drank down the sound like it was everything, groaning low into his mouth as he licked inside, deep and claiming, his lips slick with the evidence of how thoroughly he’d already undone Gihun.

Gihun could taste himself on Inho’s tongue. It made something deep in his chest twist: humiliation, pleasure. Also something darker, more dangerous curling low beneath it. He keened into the kiss, overwhelmed, disoriented, but unable to pull away.

Inho wouldn’t have let him, anyway. His fingers dragged lower, sliding over the curve of Gihun’s waist, the soft swell of his hips, then back down to his thighs, squeezing, kneading. Gihun gasped into his mouth as Inho ground against him, just slightly, just enough to feel it. The thick, heavy heat of him, demanding and hard, rutting against bare skin like a promise.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Inho murmured, dragging his mouth down the column of Gihun’s throat, slow and indulgent, his teeth grazing just enough to make him flinch. “You’re so responsive. So soft. So good for me.”

Gihun shuddered, his fingers curling into the sheets. His omega was melting, twisting inside him, desperate for more. His body burned, every inch of him sensitive to each brush of Inho’s hands, every greedy press of his mouth.

And then—

He felt it.

A slow, steady pressure. Something hot and firm pushing against his entrance.

Inho’s cock pushed in, stretching him inch by inch. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t rough. But it burned, opening him slowly. It made his breath stutter as Inho eased forward, rocking in deeper, a groan rumbling low in his chest as he sank into the tight heat.

Gihun choked on a whimper, his entire body trembling, caught between pleasure and pressure, caught in the too-muchness of being taken.

“Shh…” Inho soothed, pressing kisses to the nape of his neck, hands sliding down to grip his waist, steadying him. “You can take it. I know you can. Just relax for me.”

But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not with the way his body stretched around the alpha’s size, too full, too hot, too much. He gasped again as Inho bottomed out, fully inside him now, fully seated.

The alpha groaned, his forehead pressed against Gihun’s shoulder, breath heavy, strained. “You feel so good,” he murmured, voice thick and trembling at the edges. “So perfect.”

Gihun's fingers grasped at nothing, his thoughts scattered like dust, his body thrumming with want. He needed to move. He needed to be taken, to be filled, to be kept. He whimpered, unsure what he was asking for, only knowing that he wanted more.

Inho chuckled softly, low and knowing. “That’s it, baby,” he said, rolling his hips just enough to test. Gihun gasped, a sharp, broken sound, and Inho hummed, pleased. “Feel that cock stretching you open? You want this, don’t you?” 

Gihun swallowed hard, pressing his forehead to the pillow, shame curling through him even as his hips shifted again, small, instinctive. Yes.

Inho grinned against his shoulder. “That’s my good omega.”

The world outside ceased to exist. There was nothing else but the force of their bodies pressing together in a rhythm that grew more demanding with every passing second.

The bed beneath them creaked in protest. The headboard knocked softly against the wall. But Gihun barely noticed. He barely noticed anything beyond the consuming, all-encompassing presence of Inho holding him, guiding him, possessing him in a way that made his breath shudder and his body tremble.

He had never felt like this. Never.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room: loud, wet, constant. Every thrust landed hard, sharp, the slap of it echoing off the walls, syncing with Gihun’s gasps. His knees were slipping against the sheets, legs spread wide, thighs shaking, but Inho didn’t slow.

The alpha gripped his hips like they belonged to him, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, holding him in place as he fucked into him with steady, brutal rhythm. Gihun could feel the shape of his hands now, stamped into his skin, every squeeze, every drag of rough palms down the curve of his ass, every tug that yanked him back onto Inho’s cock like he was nothing but a toy to be used.

And he let him.

He wanted it.

His face was buried in the pillow, mouth open, drooling against the fabric as he moaned through every thrust. He couldn't help the sounds now, not when his whole body was on fire, burning from the inside out, stretched wide and filled deep, the force of Inho’s hips driving him forward with each snap. It was like being torn in two and put back together in the same second.

Another hard slap of Inho’s pelvis against him. Another helpless cry torn from Gihun’s throat.

He felt filthy. Used. Ruined. And he’d never wanted anything more.

The bed rocked beneath them, frame groaning under the weight of it, but Inho didn’t stop. He leaned forward, one hand sliding up to press between Gihun’s shoulder blades, forcing his chest down flat to the mattress while his hips kept pounding into him from behind.

“Stay right there,” the alpha growled, breath hot and ragged. “Just like that.”

Gihun whimpered, arms trembling, his whole body giving in. His thighs spread wider. His back arched without thinking. He let the alpha move him however he wanted: drag him, yank him, use him.

Because that was all he could do now. Just take it. Let Inho slam into him until the only thing left was slick and breath and the deep, aching throb of being fucked so good it felt like surrender.

He barely had time to process the shift before he was moved again. One moment, he was on hands and knees, breath stuttering in uneven gasps, fingers curling into the sheets. The next, he was turned, his back pressing to the mattress, thighs parted, the alpha’s weight settling between them.

And then Inho was pushing back inside him: one hard, smooth thrust, deep and unforgiving, like he hadn’t missed a beat. The pace picked up instantly, just as rough, just as fast, every movement punching a sound from Gihun’s throat.

“Ah—ah—ah—”

The sounds spilled out before he could stop them, climbing in pitch with every slam of Inho’s hips. He tried to bite down on it, to keep quiet, but the rhythm was relentless, each thrust landing hard, each stroke scraping against something inside him that made his thighs shake and his toes curl against the sheets.

Inho groaned above him, loud and wrecked, one hand sliding under Gihun’s thigh to press it higher, deeper, holding him open as he drove in again and again. His weight pinned Gihun down completely, all muscle and heat and motion, sweat-slick skin dragging against his, hips slamming forward like he couldn’t get enough.

Gihun's nails keep scratching down Inho’s back, body arching up into every thrust without meaning to. The friction, the stretch, the sheer depth of it was too much, hot and thick and neverending. His brain had shut off entirely. All he could do was feel. All he could do was moan.

The alpha’s breath hit his cheek, heavy and harsh, and his voice was wrecked when he growled, “You sound so fucking good like this.”

He groaned above him, his hips snapped forward in brutal rhythm, slamming into Gihun with so much force the mattress rocked beneath them. Each thrust shoved him higher up the bed, dragging his slick back over damp sheets, and Gihun could barely keep up.

His hands searched, grasping blindly for something, anything to hold. Inho’s shoulders, his arms, the hard flex of muscle under sweat-slick skin. His fingers tangled in the alpha’s hair, yanking as his back arched beneath him, crying out from the intensity.

“Ah, Inho—, ah—”

The pleasure coiled tight in his belly, sharp and molten, spreading like fire down his thighs, through his chest, into every nerve. His body was burning—his skin too hot, too sensitive, and still, still, he needed more.

He was getting closer. He could feel it, tight and frantic, edging just out of reach, making his whole body tremble. Making him wetter. The slick between his cheeks spilled out with every thrust, soaked the sheets beneath them, clung to their skin. The sound of it—wet, obscene, constant—filled the room, each squelch louder than the last as Inho shoved in again, and again, and again, like he couldn’t get deep enough.

Gihun sobbed, overwhelmed, his mouth falling open with each slam of Inho’s hips.

“Fuck—listen to you,” the alpha growled, breath ragged, hips grinding hard enough to make Gihun cry out. “You’re dripping all over me.”

Gihun couldn’t speak. He was panting, shaking, lips parted in a helpless moan as his body bucked into every thrust, every drag of Inho’s cock stretching him wide and pushing him closer and closer and closer—

He was almost there. So fucking close.

But then Inho’s grip flexed at his waist, and the next thing he knew, he was moving again: hauled up, turned, guided with smooth, practiced force. He barely had time to gasp before he was lowered onto Inho’s lap, straddling him, knees on either side, thighs shaking.

His chest heaved. Palms landed on Inho’s slick chest: hot, hard, solid under his hands.

The alpha looked at him with that smile: all teeth and pride and something darker, something possessive. He reached up, pushed Gihun’s damp hair off his forehead, thumb brushing across flushed skin like he was memorizing it.

"Look at you," he murmured, low and hungry, eyes dragging over every inch of Gihun’s wrecked body. “Fucking ruined.”

Gihun whined, a soft sound stuck in his throat, his hips twitching without meaning to, body aching to move but too overwhelmed to do it. His thighs shook as he shifted, trying to find balance, trying not to break from how close he still was.

And Inho just watched him. Leaned back against the pillows like he had all the time in the world, eyes dark and devouring. Sweat glistening over sculpted muscle. Tousled hair. Lips parted slightly.

Only Gihun got to see him like this. Something inside him clenched at the thought.

“Go ahead,” the alpha said, voice a low, coaxing purr. His thumbs stroked the slick skin just above Gihun’s thighs, a slow encouragement. “Take what you need.”

Gihun’s breath hitched, chest tight, whole body trembling.

And then he moved, sank back down, onto the length that had already fucked him raw. The sensation was so deep, so sharp, he nearly sobbed from the stretch alone. The slick between his cheeks made it easy, but that didn’t dull the way it hit him: thick, hard, pressing into all the right places.

His hands fumbled against Inho’s chest, his head dropping forward as another choked sound escaped him.

He wasn’t used to this. Wasn’t used to choosing, to taking. His body knew how to move—how to ride, how to take—but this wasn’t the same. Not with Inho. Not when everything felt so open, so real.

He felt exposed. Seen in a way that made his breath catch, made his hands shake where they rested on Inho’s chest. His thighs trembled. His muscles tensed like they didn’t know what to do with the weight of it: being given control, being allowed.

But Inho’s hands were there. Steady. Warm. One at his hip, the other smoothing up his side in a slow, grounding stroke.

“I—” he started, breath hitching, voice cracking on the edge of something too big to say.

But the words crumbled. Another soft, helpless sound escaped him instead. His fingers curled into the hard planes of Inho’s chest, clinging, unsteady.

“Shh,” Inho murmured, his thumbs pressing slow circles into the hollow of Gihun’s hips. “Let alpha show you.”

And then he moved him. A firm grip at his waist. A slow, guiding pull. Gihun’s body followed the motion automatically, hips rocking forward, then down again, forced to feel everything. The way it stretched. The way it dragged. The way Inho filled him all the way up.

His mouth fell open. His spine arched. A moan slipped free, rough, cracked at the edges.

“That's it, sweetheart,” Inho breathed, the praise curling hot against Gihun’s skin. “Just like that.”

Gihun nodded, or tried to. But his head was spinning. His knees dug into the mattress for balance, his thighs burning, his slick dripping down onto Inho’s lap with every movement.

And Inho watched him, watched the way he moved, the way he struggled, how he still tried to ride through it even though his body was shaking.

“Just a little more, baby,” he said, voice thick with restraint. “Just a little faster.”

And Gihun listened.

He moved a little more, faster, each shift sending sharp pleasure sparking along his nerves. His nails pressed into Inho’s chest, his breath breaking into short, gasping moans, the heat in his belly threatening to swallow him whole.

He could feel Inho beneath him: solid, strong, the alpha’s body taut. But his pleasure was unmistakable, curling at the edges of his voice, slipping through the gritted clench of his teeth.

“Fuck,” Inho groaned, head tipping back against the pillows, hands urging, guiding, praising. “Look at you.”

“Inho… I— I can’t—”

“You can,” the alpha growled, low and steady, all command and hunger, the sound ripping down Gihun’s spine. “I know you can. Just a little more. Just a little faster.”

Gihun sobbed, the sound wrecked and trembling, his body broken under the pressure. But he obeyed. His hips moved—rocking, grinding, chasing—giving Inho everything he had left.

The rhythm turned frantic, slick and loud, the squelch of it obscene, his hole soaked and stretched, pulling wetly around the thick length still splitting him open.

He was shaking now. Inside and out.

Sweat rolled down his back, beading at his collarbones, gluing his hair to his flushed face. His thighs trembled from the effort, barely holding, but Inho held him up, hands gripping his hips, guiding him through the motion like he couldn’t bear to let Gihun stop.

“Faster,” Inho panted, his voice turning wild, desperate. “Fuck, that’s it, baby, just like that. You hear that? Your hole sucking me in? So good for me. So fucking good.”

Gihun choked on a gasp. His face burned. His whole body flushed hot with something that wasn’t just arousal, it was mortification. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected Inho to sound like that, say things like that. His stomach flipped, and a scandalized whine tumbled from his lips.

“Inho—don’t—” he breathed, humiliated, his voice caught between a plea and a warning. “Don’t say stuff like—”

But the alpha just braced his feet against the mattress, gripped Gihun’s hips hard, and slammed up into him so deep, so sudden, that it knocked the breath from Gihun’s lungs.

Every ounce of protest bled out of him in a sob. Inho kept going. Hard. Fast. Unrelenting. Like he was fucking the resistance right out of him, shoving every filthy word deeper with every thrust, grinding into him until there was no space left to speak, no breath left to argue, no thought in his head but how good it felt to be taken like this.

Gihun’s hands scrabbled at the alpha's chest, grasping at sweat and skin, but there was nothing left to hold onto, just the burn, the stretch, the slick heat of his own body giving in.

The sounds were everywhere. Wet. Messy. Sharp little cries punched from Gihun’s throat as the slick between them spilled down his thighs, their bodies moving in that desperate, frenzied rhythm that only happened when the end was right there.

And it was. He could feel it, clawing at him from the inside, winding hot and frantic through his gut. The muscles in his legs seized. His toes curled. His whole body clenched tight around Inho’s cock, milking him, gripping so hard it pulled a snarl from the alpha’s throat.

“Inho—, I can’t—I’m—!”

The wave slammed into him. His whole body locked. His mouth fell open in a broken, silent cry as his orgasm ripped through him: too fast, too hard, too much.

He collapsed, falling forward onto Inho’s chest, his hole still twitching around the thick length buried deep inside him.

And then Inho's cock slipped out of him with a wet, sticky sound that made them both groan. Gihun’s body finally gave out, slick and flushed and spent, leaking down his thighs, skin tacky with sweat, the smell of sex heavy in the air.

He trembled in Inho’s arms. Breath ragged. Skin burning. Brain gone. And Inho held him through all of it. His hands stroked over his back. One arm wrapped tight around his waist, the other smoothing sweat-matted hair from his forehead.

“Breathe,” the alpha murmured, voice quieter now but still thick with heat. “You did so good, sweetheart.”

Gihun made a broken little sound, somewhere between a sob and a whine, as he curled into Inho’s chest.

His body wracked with aftershocks, trembling from head to toe, slick and sweat-dampened, every nerve in his body overworked and overwhelmed. His breath came in uneven pants, face hot, heart hammering wildly against his ribs as he pressed his forehead into the crook of Inho’s neck, seeking grounding, seeking him.

A low, satisfied rumble vibrated through Inho’s chest, his large hands gliding lazily over Gihun’s back, smoothing over damp skin of his ass, fingers tracing each dip and curve. “I’ve got you, baby,” he murmured, voice husky with pleasure, his breath warm against Gihun’s sweaty temple. “So good for me.”

He keened at the praise, the words cutting deep. Sinking into the hollow places that had never been touched before. The places that had ached for someone to see him like this. To want him like this. To make him feel like he was meant for it.

Gihun had nothing left.

And he’d never felt so wanted.

His arms wrapped tighter around Inho’s shoulders, his nails digging slightly into skin as he clung, breath stuttering against the alpha’s neck.

“Too much,” he whispered, wrecked, but not protesting. Not really.

Inho chuckled softly, his hands stroking him again, endlessly slow. “Not too much,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into damp hair. “Just right.”

His fingers flexed at Gihun’s thighs, spreading warmth into sore, trembling muscles.

Gihun barely had a moment to catch his breath before he felt it, the shift. The slow, deliberate press of Inho’s body beneath him. The way the alpha adjusted his hold. The way his touch turned more possessive, more insistent again.

He didn’t quite register what was happening at first. Inho’s hand slid lower, fingers moving with a purpose Gihun was too dazed to understand. His muscles twitched, but his body didn’t move. Couldn’t.

And then he felt it. The blunt heat of Inho’s cock nudging against his hole again. A confused, broken sound slipped out of him, half whimper, half breathless question, but he didn’t get a chance to form the words. Inho was already pressing forward, already pushing inside.

“Shhh,” Inho soothed, one large hand smoothing over the dip of his spine, the curve of his waist. The alpha's voice was thick, heavy with pleasure, and something deeper. “Just a little more. You can take it.”

Gihun didn’t mean to make a sound, but it slipped out anyway: a soft, wrecked whimper, trembling at the edges.

And then he felt it. The slow glide of Inho’s fingers skimming down, tracing along the place where their bodies met. Where Gihun was stretched wide around him, raw and slick, too full, too open. The alpha’s touch was unbearably gentle, dragging through the slick heat between his thighs, pausing right where he throbbed around the thick base of Inho’s cock.

Gihun shuddered. His whole body clenched, like it didn’t know whether to flinch or yield. He felt exposed. Laid bare in the most humiliating way. His chest pressed against Inho’s, skin sticky and burning, his breath catching in shallow little pants as those fingers moved again: circling, testing, feeling how completely he’d been taken.

A broken sound left his throat, something small and helpless, and Inho hummed: low, satisfied, pleased. Those fingers slid lower again. Down the curve of his rim, along the swollen, soaked skin that trembled under every pass. Like he was savoring it. Like he was memorizing the way Gihun’s body molded around him. Still holding him. Still clenching tight.

“You feel that?” Inho murmured, his voice hot against Gihun’s ear. One hand slid up again, slow and steady, smoothing over the dip of his waist. Grounding him. Keeping him right where he was. “That’s all me.”

He pressed his face harder in the crook of Inho’s neck, but the alpha didn’t let up.

“Look at you,” he breathed, his tone thick with something heavy. “Taking me so well. Just a little more, yeah? Let me feel you, let me—fuck—”

Inho braced his feet against the mattress, the muscles in his thighs going tight, and thrust. Hard. Deep. The force of it slammed through Gihun’s body, jolting him against the bed, knocking the breath from his lungs. His mouth fell open in a sharp gasp, his fingers scrambling for Inho’s shoulders, nails dragging over sweat-slicked skin.

“Inho—” His voice cracked, thin and high, the plea barely formed. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Inho growled against his ear, voice thick and rough, pleasure coiling hot in every word. “I know you can. Just a little more. Shhh.”

Another thrust. Another cry from Gihun’s throat.

The alpha didn’t stop. He found his pace again: steady, brutal, relentless. His grip was punishing on Gihun’s hips, dragging him down, grinding in deeper, harder. The slap of their bodies echoed in the room, filthy and wet and constant.

He was groaning now. Guttural. Strained. His breaths came in broken pants, his chest pressed tight to Gihun’s, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding himself together.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “Can feel you clenching around me—fuck—”

He didn’t finish the thought. Just kept thrusting. Kept chasing something that Gihun could feel building deep inside him.

And then, he felt it. The pressure. A new thickness at the base of Inho’s cock, swelling where their bodies met. Stretching him.

Gihun gasped, his whole body locking up, instinct kicking in hard and fast. His fingers dug into Inho’s back, his thighs trembling violently where they were splayed open, forced to take it. “Inho—” he breathed, but it was too late.

It was already happening.

Inho's knot was so so thick, spreading him in a way that sent a sharp tremor racing down his spine. A slow, unbearable bloom of pressure that pushed into him, forced his body open, demanding space that didn’t exist.

It had been so long. He hadn’t been knotted in years. Sangwoo had never wanted it. Never needed it. Said it was messy. Said Gihun didn’t need it either.

But he did. His body had.

Now it was all coming back, sharp and unstoppable. He sobbed, hips twitching as his body clenched down instinctively, fluttering and fighting before giving in.

Inho groaned, loud and unrestrained, his teeth scraping against Gihun’s throat as he shoved in one final time, the full knot swelling inside. Locking them together.

“Shhh, baby,” he murmured, wrecked, his voice shaking now. “Let me. Just let me.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Just kissed the side of Gihun’s face, sweat dripping from his temple, his whole body trembling from the force of holding it all in, and finally, let go with a groan so low it vibrated between them.

Gihun felt the release flooding him, Inho’s cum spilling deep inside, thick and heavy, pulsing through him in waves. 

“Mine,” Inho whispered, still locked deep, his voice a mess of pride and ruin.

Gihun trembled. His body so full he couldn’t breathe. So wrecked he couldn’t move. He curled in closer, buried his face in the crook of Inho’s neck, and let the heat of him soak into every trembling inch.

They didn’t move. Couldn’t. Their bodies stayed knotted, limbs tangled, breaths ragged.

He let himself have it. Just for now. Before it all came crashing down—everything he’d allowed, everything he couldn’t take back.

Chapter Text

The Tokyo night dragged on, city lights burning sharp against the glass like they meant something. Sangwoo sat with his whiskey resting cool against his hand, the hum of the room fading into background noise. He’d spent the day fielding high-stakes negotiations in three different languages, closing one deal over lunch and flipping another over drinks by late afternoon. He should’ve felt satisfied.

He didn’t.

Around him, the table buzzed with the usual chatter: predictions, power plays, a few tired jokes pretending to be insight. The scent in the air was layered: sharp liquor, expensive cologne, grilled meat, something floral just under the surface. Alcohol and pheromones mingled faintly. Not overpowering. Just enough to notice, if you were attuned. If you were an alpha. Every omega in the room wore the right scent, the right clothes, the right expression. It was clean, curated.

His attention flickered, not quite invested but not entirely disengaged either. He’d always known how to sit through these things without really being in them. It was a skill. A kind of armor. His gaze drifted across the table, past executives locked in their predictable back-and-forth, past the delicate arrangement of sashimi and imported wines, until it landed on her.

An omega. Beautiful in the way high-status omegas were bred to be: refined, elegant, the kind who had been raised knowing their worth. Everything about her, from the soft modulation of her voice to the practiced tilt of her head, spoke of training. Her scent was pleasant. Measured. Nothing out of place. No cracks.

He could’ve had that. Could still have it, if he wanted.

A neat life. A neat partner. No friction. No complications. And yet the thought felt strangely hollow. Like being offered something he should’ve wanted. Maybe he did, in theory. It made sense. But it didn’t settle.

His thumb tapped against the glass.

Gihun had never fit into the picture Sangwoo had drawn for himself. He hadn’t been meant to stay, more of a leftover from something smaller, something younger. Familiarity that had never been inconvenient enough to cut loose.

And yet—

Sangwoo’s jaw flexed, a subtle tic of irritation. Gihun was supposed to be easy. Contained. Someone who stayed where he was put: grateful, soft around the edges, small in all the right ways. 

But lately, something had shifted.

The business trip had been unexpected. Gihun being sent out, trusted with something bigger. It had been almost amusing at first, absurd, even. That anyone would see enough in Gihun to send him overseas. He had always been… simple. Apologetic. A man who didn’t ask for much and never thought to push.

But then he went. Without asking. Without checking in first.

And he’d gone with Hwang Inho.

That should’ve been the part that bothered Sangwoo most. Another alpha. One with more power. A sharper presence. One whose scent had once lingered faintly on Gihun’s skin long enough to make Sangwoo’s instincts twitch. He remembered it clearly, not because he’d cared, but because it had stirred something deeper that his pride refused to name.

But it wasn’t jealousy. Couldn't be. Just something stuck under his ribs, dull and pressing.

Gihun wasn’t the type to turn heads. Wasn’t sharp or polished enough to hold anyone’s attention for long. Sangwoo had never worried about losing him. There had never been anyone to lose him to. That had always been the truth.

But something had shifted.

Sangwoo swirled his drink again, slower this time.

Gihun’s messages had been… brief. Not unfriendly. Not cold. But vague. Like something was being held back, softened at the edges. Like a door that used to stay open was suddenly closed. And Sangwoo noticed that. He always noticed things like that.

It had to be the distance. The novelty. Gihun playing at independence because of a plane ticket and a temporary title. It would fade. It always did.

Still, something itched beneath his skin.

He could remember the way Gihun had looked the night before he left: hair still wet from the shower, curling messily against his forehead, dragging the scent of clean cotton and something warmer, something unguarded. He’d sat on the edge of the bed folding laundry like it mattered, smiling a little too brightly at a text from one of his teammates, cheeks flushed, eyes too glassy from lack of sleep. That softness—so familiar, so predictable—had felt off somehow. A little too far away even while sitting right next to him.

His fingers tapped against the rim of the glass.

Maybe that was why he had kept Gihun around. Not for love. Not for passion. But for certainty. Because Gihun had always adored him. Had always looked at him like he was above the world, like everything about Sangwoo meant something larger than life. That kind of gaze did something to a person. Especially when you were used to it.

Gihun had fed that quietly. Never asking for much. Never expecting more than what Sangwoo gave. Just… looking at him. With those eyes. Even when tired. Even when disappointed. Still looking at him like that, like Sangwoo deserved it. Like he didn’t have to do anything to earn it.

That gaze had made him feel important when he needed it. Worshiped, even. Not in the theatrical way, but in the steady, relentless way Gihun always was. And maybe that was the problem. Because now, Sangwoo wasn’t sure he still had it. And the idea of losing that specific thing, this devoted, unwavering attention, made something cold settle in the center of his chest.

He reached for his drink again and let it burn down the back of his throat.

The omega at the end of the table laughed at something. Soft. Delicate. Trained. She would have fit into Sangwoo’s life like a perfectly tailored suit. There would have been no friction. No mess. No curled hair. No mismatched socks. No whispered wants about children in the middle of the night. No ridiculous, half-crooked smiles. No softness that made Sangwoo feel like he could be held without deserving it. Just a clean future. And a clean split, if necessary.

He could still have that. But she wasn’t the one who showed up when he shut his eyes. It wasn’t her voice that lingered.

And maybe that was the real problem.

Sangwoo set his glass down with more force than necessary, the sound clipping the edge of conversation around him. No one noticed. Or if they did, no one said anything. His fingers hovered over his phone for a moment before typing the message. He sent it before he could think too long.

Let’s have dinner when I get back. Onjeong. Just like we used to.

The morning light bled pale through the sheer curtains, brushing soft patterns over tangled sheets. The room was warm, still, heavy with the slow breath of sleep and the faint, steady hush of the ocean outside. Gihun blinked sluggishly against the light, his body slow to obey, every limb too heavy, too sore. An arm lay heavy over his waist, the weight of it real and grounding, and for a long second he didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Heat pressed against his back. A scent—clean, sharp, richer underneath—clung stubbornly to the air, soaked into the pillows, his own skin. His mind lagged behind, dulled by exhaustion and something deeper he didn’t dare name. He could’ve stayed like that. Let himself float in it a little longer. Pretend.

But it hit him anyway.

A sharp breath caught in his chest. The sheets were wrong. The bed was wrong. The scent wrapped around him was wrong. His stomach twisted. The ache between his thighs, the sticky drag of sweat, the faint sting where skin had been gripped, kissed, bitten—the pieces fell into place faster than he could stop them.

Oh, God.

Flashes came quick and sharp: the low rumble of a voice in his ear, a hand braced against his back, the way his body had opened, broken apart for someone who wasn’t— His heart kicked up against his ribs. His fingers curled into the sheets. Useless. Too late. He was already sinking under the weight of it, the wrongness of it, thick and inescapable. His instincts throbbed against his better judgment, making him sick. His omega still pulled toward the heat, the scent, desperate to stay. But his mind was racing ahead, crashing through every reason, every line he thought he’d drawn.

Sangwoo.

The thought slammed into him hard enough to make him flinch. His stomach rolled, bile rising at the back of his throat. He had someone. He had someone he wasn’t supposed to betray. Someone who hadn’t promised him anything, but who he had built his whole life around anyway.

He had promised himself. And now this.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it away, willing himself back into the body that had obeyed without asking questions. But the evidence clung to him. Marked him. He could feel it in the bruises blooming along his hips, the raw edge of his throat, the heavy knot of scent in the air. A part of him, a terrible, helpless part, still ached toward it. Still wanted.

The body behind him shifted. A low, sleepy inhale. The arm around his waist tightened instinctively, pulling him back against a chest that was broader, harder than it should’ve been.

Gihun went stiff, breath shallow.

It would be so easy... God, it would be so easy to close his eyes and sink into it. To let the steady drag of breath against his skin, the heavy arm locking him in place, blur everything else away. Sangwoo had held him before. Pulled him close in the dead of night. But never like this. Never with weight or certainty, or like he really meant it.

A sharp breath tore through Gihun’s nose. No. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t pretend this was anything but what it was. His body ached with it—exhausted, bruised, craving the warmth curling around him like it belonged—but his mind was already clawing toward the edge, the door, anything but this.

Slow. Careful. He shifted an inch, then another, peeling himself free even as every muscle screamed to stay.

"Where are you going?"

A low, drowsy murmur brushed the back of his neck.

He froze, breath catching hard in his throat. The warmth behind him shifted and then a wide palm dragged low across his belly, slow and heavy, pressing into the soft, vulnerable skin just below his navel. Right where the ache still lived. Right over the place where he'd been filled.

His whole body shuddered, helpless and instinctive. Heat rushed up the back of his neck, prickling at his ears, his thighs tightening where they pressed against the mattress.

"I—" His voice cracked, hoarse and broken. "I should go."

Another low, rough hum rumbled against the back of his neck, thick with sleep, satisfaction, and something deeper. Then Gihun felt the slow drag of Inho’s nose along the curve of his throat, nuzzling against his scent gland with unhurried weight, breathing him in like he was already his.

"Should you?"

The words spilled out against his skin, low and raspy, voice wrecked from sleep and the night they’d had. Not mocking or amused. Just lazy, certain and full of the kind of hunger that didn’t need permission anymore.

Gihun shivered, helpless against the heat pooling low in his belly, against the soft ache of being held, of still being wanted. His breath caught. His fingers curled tighter into the sheets, body strung too tight. 

He swallowed, mouth dry. "This..." He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to force the words out. "This was a mistake."

Silence. Long enough to bite.

He could feel the mattress dipping as Inho pushed up onto one elbow, the movement slow, unhurried. The sheets slid down his body, pooling around his hips, baring the golden stretch of his chest, the taut lines of his abdomen, the lazy sprawl of a muscled thigh draped against the mattress. He didn’t move to cover himself. Didn’t even seem to notice. Just lay there, all heat and skin, radiating a heavy, satisfied weight that filled the space between them without even trying.

"Was it?" he murmured. Quieter now, dragging against the quiet morning like smoke. "You didn’t seem to think so last night."

Gihun’s gut twisted. His jaw locked. His breath stuttered against his teeth.

Because he hadn’t thought so. Not when Inho had touched him like that, looked at him like he was wanted. Needed.

That was the real problem.

He forced himself to sit up, ignoring the way his body ached, the way the scent of last night clung thick to his skin. His hands found the sheets, gripping them hard, grounding himself before the next words left his mouth, hollow and distant, meant to sound final, even if they didn’t feel it.

"It doesn’t matter," he said, voice hoarse, thin, betraying him even as he tried to keep it steady. His fingers tightened in the sheets, his pulse pounding hard in his throat, but he didn’t turn. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Inho.

But Inho was already moving. Shifting closer behind him, not touching, not quite, but filling the space around him until Gihun could feel the heat of him, a pull in the air that made his shoulders stiffen.

"Doesn’t it?" Inho’s voice was low and lazy, but underneath there was an edge, a quiet certainty that scraped right across Gihun’s raw nerves. "Then why are you shaking?"

Gihun’s fingers curled tighter, white-knuckled.

"I’m not—" he started, but the words crumbled halfway out.

"You are," Inho said, simple as a fact.

Another shift. A slow inhale.

"And I know why."

Gihun shook his head, jaw clenching tight. "You don’t know anything."

Inho made a quiet, rough sound, not quite a word, not quite a laugh, his breath dragging warm across Gihun’s neck, anchoring him there. And then, before he could flinch away, Inho moved. A hand slid around his waist, fingers splaying firm over the soft of his stomach. Not forceful. Just steady and solid. Unyielding.

Gihun sucked in a sharp breath, every muscle locking up, every part of him traitorous and burning. His omega clawed up, desperate and stupid, even as his mind tried to pull back.

"I saw you," Inho murmured, his mouth grazing close to Gihun’s scent gland now, dragging a breath in slow like he was tasting him again. "I felt you."

His fingers flexed just slightly at his belly, pressing where his body still remembered. Still marked. Still his.

"You weren’t pretending last night. You weren’t lying to yourself then. Why start now?"

"It was a mistake," Gihun bit out, voice cracking at the edges, raw and breaking. "It meant nothing."

And for the first time, Inho growled. It wasn’t loud or aggressive, but it was enough. The air between them shifted. The weight of Inho’s presence seemed to bear down all at once, sinking into his skin, his bones, until Gihun could feel it everywhere.

"Lie to yourself all you want," the alpha murmured, voice low and tight with warning. "But don’t lie to me."

Gihun barely had time to process it before Inho moved again, hands strong at his waist, turning him, forcing him to face him. The grip was firm. Not cruel, but final. Like there was no space left to run. Their eyes met. And Gihun felt it immediately, the unraveling.

Because Inho was right there, so close it burned. All warmth and control and certainty, his gaze locked onto Gihun’s like he could see everything, like he wouldn’t let him look away. There was no mockery in it. No smugness. No casual indifference. Only certainty and want.

Gihun dropped his gaze first. Turned his head sharply, like he could outrun it, like not seeing would make it less real. His breath came faster, shallower, shame burning up his neck.

"Tell me it didn’t mean anything," Inho said, low and steady, a challenge, soft around the edges but sharp enough to cut.

Gihun kept his head down, hands twisting the sheets, refusing to look.

But Inho didn’t wait. A rough hand caught his jaw, fingers digging in firm and sure, tipping his face up, forcing him back toward him. Not cruel. Just final.

"Look me in the eye and say it," Inho murmured, voice rougher now, dragging a breath through his nose, heavy with something fraying at the edges.

Gihun opened his mouth. Tried. But the words wouldn’t come. They jammed in his throat, heavy, useless. Because it had meant something. And Inho knew.

The pressure in his chest built fast. His throat tightened to the point of pain. His vision blurred and then before he could stop it, before he could stuff it back down where it belonged, a single, broken sob cracked loose. Loud in the charged, heavy air. His body trembled with it, shame rising up and clawing at him from the inside out. Humiliation scraping raw up his spine. But it was out now. Done.

And there was nothing left but the weight of it crashing over him, hard and unforgiving.

The alpha moved before Gihun could even think to pull away. No hesitation, no question—only the solid weight of Inho's hands cupping his face, rough palms grounding him, steadying him against the crash of everything breaking loose inside. His scent hit Gihun harder now, thick and heady, filling the air between them, sinking deep into every hollow place that had been carved out by years of needing, of never asking.

Gihun gasped, his instincts buckling under the weight of it, but Inho didn’t give him space to resist, didn’t give him time to think or bolt. He leaned in and kissed him—hard, desperate, nothing patient about it. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was raw, claiming, a kiss that ripped a noise out of Gihun’s chest before he even realized he’d made it, something cracked open and helpless.

Inho kissed him like he already owned him. Like maybe he always had.

And Gihun let him. Because there was nothing else left to do. His body leaned into it without asking permission, his fingers curling into Inho’s bare shoulders, pulling him closer, closer, chasing something he hadn’t even realized he’d been starving for. His omega clawed toward it, sobbing for it, desperate for the weight, the taking, the relief of it.

The taste of salt lingered between them—his own tears, the sharp metallic edge of need—and still, still, Inho didn’t pull away. He only kissed him deeper, slower, a breath shuddering out of him that sounded almost relieved.

Gihun pressed his palms against Inho’s chest, not to shove him away, but because he needed something solid, something that wouldn’t slip out from under him. The steady thud of another heart beneath his hands, strong and real. It made his throat ache.

No one had ever touched him like this. Not without making him feel like even wanting to be held was asking too much.

A lump rose thick in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing against the pull of it, the crack in his chest threatening to split wide open. He wasn’t used to this. He didn’t know how to survive it.

Because Inho’s hands weren’t just touches. They were promises. Heavy and wordless and real in a way that terrified him.

In the middle of the kiss, he heard it—murmured against his mouth, rough with something Gihun didn’t dare name.

"Don’t run," Inho said, his voice low, steady, unshakable against Gihun’s mouth. He kissed him again, slow and coaxing, like he was feeding the words straight into him. His hands skimmed over Gihun’s sides, grounding him, anchoring him even as Gihun trembled.

"Let us have this," another kiss, firmer this time, "let yourself have this." His breath brushed over Gihun’s lips, warm and sure. "I know you feel it too."

Gihun let out a shaky breath, the sound breaking between them as his fingers curled helplessly against Inho’s skin. His body was already betraying him, leaning in, needing, even as his mind clung desperately to the scraps of resistance he had left.

How could Inho know? How could he be so sure? But Gihun felt it too, buried under the wreckage, under the shame, under every lonely night he had told himself he was fine. His omega knew. His body knew. He just hadn’t wanted to admit it.

Inho’s hand cupped his jaw, tilting his face up into another kiss, deeper this time. Slower. Like he had all the time in the world. No rush. No punishment.

And Gihun, trembling and breaking and still wanting, let himself fall into it. Just for now. Just until the world came back.

The heat between their bodies hadn't cooled, not really. Gihun wasn’t sure if he had slept or just floated there, too wrung out to move, too heavy with whatever it was that had settled between them. Time slipped, stretched thin, slow, until the quiet rasp of Inho’s voice broke the hush.

“I still need to go.”

Gihun stirred, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t open his eyes. He only listened, feeling the faint vibration of Inho’s words against his skin.

“If I don’t show my face, they’ll have my head.” A dry, almost amused huff. “You know how it is.”

Gihun did. Of course he did. And yet, the weight of reality pressing back in made his stomach twist. He swallowed hard, his fingers twitching where they rested against the sheets.

“I should go too,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep. “It’s my job, I—”

“You’re staying,” Inho cut in, smooth and certain. “Rest.”

The command in his voice sent a shiver down Gihun’s spine, something instinctual curling warm in his chest. His cheeks tinged pink before he could stop it.

Inho shifted, the bed dipping slightly as he reached for his phone, murmuring something low into the receiver. A quiet conversation, clipped and efficient, and then the soft chime of a completed order.

“Breakfast in bed,” he murmured, and there was something light in his tone, teasing, but underneath it was something else.

Gihun blinked his eyes open. Inho was watching him. Not sharp or smiling. Just... looking. Bare and raw in a way that made something in Gihun’s chest clench hard.

Like he didn’t want to forget a single thing.

Gihun felt his throat go dry. He hated how much he wanted to shrink from it. Hated how much he wanted to hold onto it just the same.

“Inho—”

“I’ll be back soon.”

A simple statement. A promise. But the way he said it settled deep. It curled under his ribs, tight and stubborn, no matter how he tried to shake it off.

He should feel guilty. He should. He should pull away, should put up walls, should remind himself of all the reasons this was a mistake. But Inho’s gaze held him there, pinning him in place, unraveling him with something wordless, something certain. And the worst part?

Gihun wanted to believe him.

A hand brushed against his jaw, a fleeting, barely-there touch, and then Inho was pulling away, slipping from the bed with quiet efficiency. He stretched, rolling his shoulders before padding toward the bathroom. Gihun heard the faint sound of the shower turning on, the rush of water filling the quiet air, the muted shuffle of movement behind the door.

The minutes stretched thin. Gihun stayed where he was, breathing slow, staring up at the ceiling like it might steady him. He heard the water shut off, the soft thud of the bathroom door swinging open, the quiet pad of bare feet against the floor.

He didn’t mean to look. But he did.

Inho stepped out into the muted light, towel slung low around his hips, water still tracking down the lines of his body. His skin was flushed from the heat of the shower, darker along his chest, his abdomen, the strong curve of his thigh where the fabric clung loose. Steam curled in the air behind him, clinging to him like he was still too warm to touch.

Gihun’s mouth went dry. He didn’t move. Barely even breathed.

Inho crossed to the dresser, slow and unhurried, dragging a hand through his damp hair. Halfway through pulling his shirt on, Inho’s gaze cut toward him and caught him staring, raw and open, like he could see everything Gihun hadn’t said.

Gihun’s scent spiked, crowding the space between them before he could pull it back. He knew Inho could smell it. Gihun could see it in the way the alpha’s gaze darkened, in the slight hitch of his movements, so small it barely registered.

But Inho said nothing. No smile. No smirk. He just kept looking.

After a moment, he moved again—pulling on slacks, threading a belt through the loops, buckling it with slow, efficient movements. All while his gaze never really left Gihun. Watching him out of the corner of his eye, checking him, memorizing. Gihun stayed frozen where he was, fists tightening in the sheets.

When Inho finished, he crossed the room in a few steps, the mattress dipping under the weight of one knee. He leaned in close, the heat of his body sinking into the space between them.

For a moment, he just hovered there, close enough that Gihun could feel his breath against his skin, warm and steady. Then, slowly, Inho pressed a kiss to his temple—barely there, more breath than touch—but it hit Gihun hard, sank deep, deeper than it should have.

The scent hit first: faint, fragile, but sharp enough to catch. Shame, guilt, tangled with the sweeter heat of instinct, blooming off Gihun’s skin before he could bury it. It clung between them, raw and unhidden, like a confession.

Inho stilled, his hand hovering above Gihun’s shoulder as if he wanted to say something. Wanted to stay. For a heartbeat, he just looked at him, close and steady, and Gihun felt it like a pull low in his gut, like gravity tipping the world sideways.

But Inho didn’t speak. Instead, he pulled back slow, the loss of his warmth immediate, scraping. His fingers brushed once, briefly, down the side of Gihun’s arm, like an apology he didn’t know how to voice.

And then, without a word, he straightened up, grabbed his phone from the nightstand, and slipped out the door, leaving behind a space that felt achingly, impossibly empty.

The suite felt too big. Too quiet. Gihun kept moving, wandering from room to room, not really knowing why. He couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t eat either, not properly, just picking at the food, chewing without tasting. It was good. Rich, perfectly cooked. Expensive. But it sat heavy in his stomach, like a rock.

He ended up on the patio, squinting out at the pool, feeling the heat wrap around him. The air stuck to his skin. The water in the pool looked calm, the surface barely moving in the breeze, glittering like it was trying too hard to look perfect. Like it wasn’t hiding anything underneath. He wished he could believe it.

Inho was gone. That should’ve made it easier. It should’ve helped him breathe, think straight, tell himself that last night, this morning, none of it mattered.

Except it did. And no matter what he told himself, it wasn't going away.

Gihun dropped his plate onto the patio table and dragged a hand through his hair. His skin felt too hot, too tight. He could still feel it: hands on him, breath against his ear, the way Inho’s eyes pinned him like he already knew every damn thing Gihun was trying to hide.

His chest squeezed up tight. He turned back inside and yanked off his clothes for a shower. Cold water hit him, but it barely did anything. The heat was inside him, sunk too deep. He pressed his forehead to the tile and stood there, breathing hard, trying not to think, but the memories crawled under his skin anyway.

When he finally came out, the whole room looked different, the light all golden through the curtains, the air heavy and still. He threw on a linen shirt, some loose pants, started pacing again, back and forth like that would do something. Like he could shake it off.

He tried to focus on other stuff. The whir of the air conditioning. His own breathing. The sounds of the island outside. None of it worked. His brain just kept looping back around, dragging him under. He barely even heard the door open. Barely noticed the footsteps.

When he turned, Inho was there.

The alpha just stood still for a second, staring at him, like he could see every ugly thing Gihun was trying to shove down.

And then he stepped closer—slow, steady—and brushed a hand against Gihun’s wrist. Warm. Solid. Real. Not grabbing or pushing. Just... there.

“You need fresh air,” he said.

Like he wasn’t asking. Like he already knew.

The sun was sinking low, throwing gold all over the sand and water, making everything glow. The air was thick, sticky with heat and salt, clinging to Gihun’s skin. He could hear the waves coming in, pulling out, over and over—steady, soft, like they were trying to lull him into something.

Inho stood next to him, sleeves shoved up, looking like he belonged here. Like he always belonged, no matter where he was. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. Just stood there, watching Gihun in that way that made something twist up tight in his chest.

Gihun swallowed, feeling the warm sand shift under his bare feet. The world felt far away out here, like nothing could touch them. Like nothing else mattered.

“Come in the water,” Inho said.

Gihun blinked, turning toward him.

The alpha was smiling, not the usual sharp, knowing smile, but something easier, almost boyish. It made him look younger somehow, softer. A piece of hair had fallen over his forehead, ruffled by the breeze, and for a second, it hit Gihun so hard he almost forgot how to breathe.

“What?” he managed.

But Inho was already moving, striding straight into the waves without a second thought. His clothes clung to him as the water climbed highe, first his calves, then his thighs, but he didn’t slow down, didn’t seem to care. His laughter carried on the breeze, easy and free, like he belonged to this place in a way Gihun never could.

Gihun exhaled, shaking his head. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” Inho called back, glancing over his shoulder with a flash of that same unguarded grin. “But you’re still standing there.”

And Gihun hated how true it was. Hated how his feet were already shifting forward, drawn after him without even thinking.

He scoffed under his breath, but he was already moving, the sand shifting and sliding under his feet. The first touch of the water was warmer than he expected, slipping around his ankles, nudging at him like it wanted to pull him in. He waded forward, slow at first, feeling the tide tug at him, feeling the ground fall away a little more with every step.

Something inside him started to ease. The heat pressing down on him, the noise in his head, it all got a little quieter, like the ocean was taking it piece by piece.

He stopped when the water reached his waist, the waves rocking him gently, steadying him without asking for anything back. He let out a slow breath and tipped his head back, feeling his shoulders drop, feeling some of that heaviness bleed out into the water.

When he looked over, Inho was already watching him. Just looking—steady, quiet, like he saw something Gihun didn’t know how to name.

“You should live like this,” Inho said, his voice low.

Gihun frowned. The words didn’t sit right. They slid under his skin and stayed there.

“Like what?”

Inho’s mouth tilted up, just a little. Not really a smile. More like he already knew the answer.

“Like you don’t have to wait for scraps.”

The breath punched out of Gihun, sharp and uneven, because that was the one thing he didn’t know how to look at straight.

Waiting for scraps.

He could feel Sangwoo’s hands on him—not rough, not kind. Just there. Like muscle memory. Like Gihun was something to be tolerated, not wanted.

He thought about all the times he’d reached out and gotten nothing back. The way he’d taught himself to take what he could get, to smile like it was enough. To shrink down, to ask for less, to need less.

To believe that if he stayed small enough, quiet enough, maybe someday he’d be wanted without having to beg for it.

It had been like breathing. Automatic. And now Inho said it like it was simple. Like it wasn’t a war Gihun had been fighting and losing for years.

He let out a rough scoff, shaking his head. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

But it was already too late. He knew. He’d always known.

Inho took a step closer, slow enough that Gihun could feel it, the air shifting, the space between them tightening, even though they weren’t touching. The tide lapped at Gihun’s legs, steady, pushing him forward like even the ocean was in on it.

Inho’s voice was quiet when it came.

“You’re meant for more than what you’ve been given.”

The words hit harder than they should have, slipping right past the walls he hadn’t even realized he still had up. They found all the places he’d buried deep, the parts he didn’t let himself think about.

He wanted to laugh it off, say something smart, act like it didn’t touch him. But he couldn’t. Because somewhere deep down, way deeper than he liked to admit, he’d always wondered if it was true.

A breeze pushed between them, thick with salt and heat. The water rocked around his legs, slow and steady. Gihun swallowed hard. His throat felt dry.

“You say shit like that so easy.”

Inho’s face didn’t change, not really. But his eyes—there was something softer there now. Steady. Certain.

“Because it’s the truth.”

Gihun’s pulse jumped. The moment stretched out, slow and heavy, like the whole world had gone quiet around them.

The water was warmer than he thought it would be. It slid over him, tugging at his body, soft and steady, until he gave up fighting it and let himself float. He drifted on his back, arms loose, breath coming slow and shallow, the sea rocking him in a way that made everything else fall away: the noise, the weight, the ache that never seemed to leave him.

Above him, the sky stretched out forever, all gold and blue and blinding light at the edges. The sun pressed against his skin through the water, turning everything hazy, dreamlike.

For the first time in what felt like forever, his mind went quiet.

No guilt. No expectations. No Sangwoo. No pretending. Just the ocean holding him up, patient and steady. Just the salt drying on his lips. The pull of the tide against his wrists. The slow fill of his lungs.

Was this what it felt like to let go? Not just the bad memories or the hurt but everything.

The thought hit him hard, something shivering through him, something sharp and sweet and dangerous all at once.

Yes, it whispered. Yes. This is what you’ve been waiting for.

Gihun squeezed his eyes shut, tight, like he could stop it, like he could hold the moment in place with just his hands. If he could stay here—floating, weightless, nowhere and no one—would that really be so wrong?

The tide shifted under his body, tugging at him, reminding him nothing ever stayed still for long. A quiet breath slipped out of him, caught by the wind.

When he opened his eyes, Inho was there.

The alpha stood a few feet away, half-submerged, the water lapping just under his chest. He was just standing there, watching him, steady and dark, something in his eyes that made Gihun’s stomach twist up tight.

Light slid over his skin, catching on the water still clinging to him. Beads rolled down his collarbones, tracing the line of his throat. His sleeves were shoved up, his shirt stuck to him, almost see-through where it plastered against his chest, but if he noticed, he didn’t show it. He looked like he had all the time in the world. Like he was waiting.

The waves rolled between them, slow and heavy. A few feet. A few seconds. That was all that kept them apart. But Gihun could feel him anyway, the weight of him, the pull, steady and solid no matter how the water moved. His chest tightened, and before he even thought about it, he let himself sink.

The sky vanished. Water closed over him, cold and muffling, swallowing up the world. For one second, one deep, aching second, there was nothing but weightlessness. No noise. No thinking. No him.

He kicked upward, broke the surface with a gasp, light blinding him through the drops on his lashes. His hair clung to his forehead, water running down his face.

And when he turned his head, Inho was closer.

This time, Gihun didn’t think. He just moved, cutting through the water, slow but sure, closing the space between them. The water shifted around them, pulling, pushing, but he barely felt it.

He kept going. Until he could feel Inho, not just see him or imagine him, but feel the heat of him even through the cool water.

They drifted there, close enough that Gihun could see the drops clinging to Inho’s lashes, the slow rise of his chest when he breathed. And still, Inho didn’t reach for him. He just watched, steady and patient, and somehow that made it worse, made Gihun’s heart slam harder against his ribs.

His whole body felt caught between the push and pull: the sway of the water, the tug inside him, everything telling him to move forward.

His mind screamed to stop but he didn’t listen.

He wanted. And that was enough to scare the hell out of him.

And then Inho moved, reaching up, slow and careful, his fingers brushing Gihun’s jaw, tentative, like he was waiting for Gihun to flinch. But he didn’t pull away. Couldn't.

That was all it took. A breath. A shift. And then Inho’s mouth was on his.

The kiss was slow, deep and careful in a way that made Gihun’s head spin, made his pulse thud thick and hot in his throat. It wasn’t rushed or taken. It was given, like Inho was offering it to him piece by piece, waiting for Gihun to take it back.

Their mouths slid together, heat sparking at every place they touched. Inho’s hand moved over his back, steady, patient, almost memorizing him, fingers dragging over soaked fabric and skin like he never wanted to forget a single inch. Gihun shivered, clutching tighter at Inho’s shoulders, the fabric damp and warm under his hands.

The tide rocked around them, the sunlight spinning off the surface of the water, glinting off their skin.

Inho tilted his head, pulling Gihun deeper, tasting him, breathing him in, but never forcing, never pushing too far. Just there, holding the moment open between them.

Gihun made a sound, soft and broken, caught somewhere between a sigh and a whimper. It slipped out without him meaning to, and he hated how raw it sounded. Hated how his body pressed closer without thinking, how much it wanted.

This wasn’t just a kiss. It was something else. Something bigger. Something that had been sitting under his skin for a long, long time, just waiting for him to stop pretending he didn’t feel it.

When they finally broke apart, Gihun felt like he was floating too high, like the tide had dragged him out too far to swim back.

His chest heaved. His vision blurred at the edges. But Inho was still there. Solid. Real. Holding him steady in a world that suddenly felt like it could tear itself apart at any second.

Inho’s voice found him, landing right where Gihun was weakest.

“You feel it too, don’t you?”

Gihun’s breath hitched. He did. God, he did.

But the words stuck. He couldn’t get them out. Couldn’t even find them. His throat felt too tight, his chest aching like it might split open under the weight of it all. His whole body buzzed with it, his instincts clawing under his skin, tangled up with the pounding of his heart. Shaking apart from the inside.

Because it wasn’t just last night. It wasn’t just this moment. It had always been there. Always.

And somehow, Inho had seen it before Gihun could even admit it to himself.

“Gihun,” Inho murmured, even softer now, his thumb stroking slow circles against Gihun’s cheek, like he wasn’t trying to push him, just hold him there, steady.

“You were always meant for more.”

Gihun squeezed his eyes shut. His breath broke against Inho’s mouth, shuddering out of him like he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

And for the first time in his life, he wanted, needed, to believe it.

The suite was quiet when they got back. Only the low hum of the air conditioning filled the space, and Gihun swore he could still hear the ocean echoing somewhere deep in his ears.

Late sun poured in through the huge windows, the floor streaked gold where the light hit. Everything looked warm, soft, easy, but Gihun didn’t feel any of it.

His skin still smelled like salt. His shirt clung damp against his back. His hair was stiff where the ocean had dried into it.

They’d stayed out longer than they meant to. Neither of them had said it out loud, but Gihun had felt that slow creep of time catching up with them, dragging them back to reality whether they wanted it or not.

Inho raked a hand through his wet hair, glancing toward him.

"We should get ready."

Gihun blinked, like someone had shaken him awake. He still felt weightless, unsteady, like the tide had dragged something out of him and left him hollow in places he didn’t even know were empty.

"Yeah," he mumbled, fingers picking at the damp linen stuck to his chest.

They broke apart without a word. Inho headed for the bathroom first, his figure slicing through the sunlight, sharp and sure. The sound of running water filled the room a few seconds later.

Gihun stood there for a long moment, breathing slow, pressing a hand to his face like he could push everything back into place.

This wasn’t a vacation. They had work to do. People to see. Important people.

He just had to act like nothing had changed.

When Inho came out of the bathroom, steam spilled into the suite, heavy and damp. Gihun caught a whiff of his body wash—clean, sharp—and it wrapped around him before he could help it.

Inho’s hair was slicked back neatly, a few stubborn strands curling loose at his temples. His sleeves were rolled up once, casual but precise, and he moved toward the closet like he’d done it a thousand times before.

Gihun didn’t say anything. Just brushed past him, stepping into the heat of the bathroom and pulling the door shut behind him.

The shower was still running a little. Steam clung to the mirror, the tiles, the air. He stood under the water too long, eyes shut, breathing slow, trying to shake off the way his skin still felt too tight, too full. 

When he finally stepped out, the mirror was completely fogged, his reflection blurred into nothing. He grabbed a towel, wrapping it low around his hips, and pushed the door open.

The suite was quieter now. Different somehow. Inho was sitting on the edge of the couch, phone in hand, already dressed: crisp light slacks, a pale button-up with the sleeves rolled cleanly at the wrists, collar loose like he hadn’t bothered buttoning it all the way yet.

He looked calm. Put together. Like the world outside the suite couldn’t touch him.

But when Gihun stepped forward, he could feel Inho glancing up from his phone. And he didn’t just glance. His eyes dragged down Gihun’s body, slow and deliberate—from the water still beading on his shoulders, down his chest, down his legs—lingering in a way that made Gihun’s skin feel hotter than the steam behind him.

Gihun swallowed, tightening his hand around the knot of the towel without thinking.

Inho nodded toward the bed where a clean outfit was laid out—light, breathable fabrics, easy against the heat: a pale blue linen button-up and soft cream trousers.

"Wear that one," Inho said, voice low but even.

Gihun huffed under his breath, running a hand through his damp hair. He moved closer, reaching for the clothes where they were folded near the alpha. As he leaned in, Inho shifted—casual, unhurried—and let one hand trail over Gihun’s thigh, the touch slow, almost lazy, his palm dragging lightly over damp skin. 

Gihun froze for a half-second, trying to ignore the way his skin still prickled under Inho’s touch.

He forced a snort, pretending he hadn’t felt anything.

"I can pick my own clothes."

Inho just smirked, setting his phone aside as he casually adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, like he hadn’t just touched him at all.

"Then pick faster."

By the time they left the suite, the sun had dipped low, the island spread out in lights and long shadows. The restaurant they were headed to wasn’t just fancy, it was the kind of place where everything from tech deals to election favors probably passed hands over a second glass of wine.

Gihun didn’t belong there. He knew it. But he followed Inho anyway. He trailed after the alpha through the low-lit space, the murmur of quiet conversations folding around them.

The air smelled sharp and expensive: cologne, aged wine, something rich and spicy he couldn’t name. Gihun's shirt clung lightly to his skin, the last heat of the day still caught underneath it, making him too aware of himself, too aware of every step. Beside him,  Inho moved like the room was built around him. Like he didn’t even have to try.

Halfway across the room, Gihun felt it—Inho’s hand sliding lightly against the small of his back. Not pushing. Just... there. Steady. Warm. A touch that didn’t ask permission because it already knew it didn’t have to.

Something twisted low in Gihun’s stomach, sharp and hot, because it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t random. Like it had always been waiting to happen.

His chest tightened. He didn’t pull away. And somehow, standing there with Inho’s hand on him, Gihun felt the shift. Quiet but real.

He wasn’t being dragged along behind. He was being shown.

When they reached the table and the others turned to greet them, Gihun braced himself for what he figured was supposed to happen: the introductions, the titles that would make him easier to place. Assistant. Staff. Something neat and small enough to overlook.

But Inho didn’t say any of that. He just said, simply, "This is Gihun."

No title. No explanation. Just his name.

And somehow, that hit harder than anything else could have.

The table was packed with tech CEOs, high-level investors, men who could move entire industries without blinking. Gihun recognized a few names, but most were just noise, people he never imagined being this close to.

And yet somehow, Inho held the room.

Gihun caught himself watching: the way Inho spoke, calm and certain, like he didn’t just belong here, he defined the place. The way his voice cut through the low murmur of conversation without needing to rise. The way people leaned in, laughed too quickly, hung on to every word like it mattered more because it came from him.

And through it all, Inho kept checking in—a glance, a faint nod, a shift closer when the conversation got too dense—little things to make sure Gihun was following, to make sure he didn’t get left behind.

Gihun didn’t know how to move in a place like this, but Inho made it feel like he didn’t have to figure it out alone.

Inho nudged a plate closer to him, something rich and delicate, steam curling up in faint ribbons.

“This one’s good, you’ll like it.” Inho said under his breath, casual, like it wasn’t even a kindness.

When Gihun’s glass got low, the alpha refilled it without asking. When the conversation around them veered into dense numbers and mergers he couldn’t track, Inho leaned in again, voice low, smooth. His mouth barely moved.

"The guy across from us?" Inho said, voice low enough that Gihun barely caught it. He followed Inho's gaze and found a man in a navy suit nursing a glass of wine.

"He’s running one of the biggest software companies in East Asia. Merger’s about to blow up in his face," Inho murmured.

"And the guy next to him?" Gihun asked, voice rougher than he meant.

Inho’s eyes flicked sideways, just once.

"Pretending he doesn’t know it."

Gihun blinked, pulse stuttering, not just from what Inho said, but from the easy way he let him in on it. Like it was second nature to share these things with him. Like he wanted him to know.

"Pay attention," Inho said, voice low and almost amused, like he could feel how overwhelmed Gihun was and didn’t mind at all. "This is how real power moves."

Gihun let out a slow breath, the noise catching somewhere in his chest.

Because no one had ever explained the world to him like this before: not like he was stupid, not like he was small, but like he had a place here if he wanted it.

Conversation buzzed low around them, broken now and then by the soft clink of glassware or a muted laugh from across the room. The air was thick with it: the bite of alcohol, the musk of alphas, betas, omegas mixing into something rich and heavy.

Underneath it all, Gihun could still catch a thread of salt from the ocean, sharp and clean, cutting through the weight of it.

He shifted, feeling the pressure of the room settle over him, the luxury of it, the ease these people wore like a second skin. He didn’t know how to sit in it. Didn’t know how to wear it without feeling like he was pretending.

Inho, on the other hand, looked like he was carved out of this world.

He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually behind Gihun's, his body loose, his attention sharp. His wine glass sat untouched. His gaze flicked from speaker to speaker, steady, measuring, like he was taking in more than anyone could see.

Always listening. Always watching.

A man across from them—older, polished, the kind of presence you felt as much as saw—turned his attention toward Gihun.

"You're one of Hwang’s, then?" he said, voice smooth, practiced, the faintest thread of curiosity woven underneath.

Gihun stiffened, instinct tightening low in his chest. One of Hwang’s.

Before he could react, Inho shifted, not visibly, not enough for anyone else to catch, but Gihun felt it. The weight of him move closer, the subtle, steady push of presence that pressed against his side like a shield. Quiet and territorial.

Gihun swallowed.

"Ah—yes," he said, polite, awkward. "I work at Youngil Electronics."

"Good company to be at," the CEO said, lifting his glass for a slow sip before setting it down with a soft clink.

"What’s your role there?"

Gihun hesitated, not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he could feel the weight of every gaze around the table, waiting.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Wasn’t supposed to speak.

But before the panic could take hold, Inho shifted beside him, subtle, easy, dragging his fingers along the linen napkin, tipping his head the barest inch.

Gihun felt it more than saw it. That quiet nudge. That steady pressure. Go on.

The alpha wasn’t pushing Gihun. He was trusting him.

Gihun pulled in a slow breath. And then, he found his voice.

"I handle administrative coordination," he said, a little steadier than he expected. "Internal communications, scheduling, cross-team support, making sure operations between departments run smoothly. I also manage reports and logistics."

It wasn’t impressive. Not here. Not to people like this.

But Inho made a soft sound, low and pleased, just under the hum of conversation.

And Gihun heard it and he felt something deep inside him tighten, stretch toward it before he could even stop himself.

One of the other executives nodded slowly, as if weighing something.

"That’s a critical role," he said, thoughtful. "Most people don’t realize how much of the machine depends on coordination behind the scenes."

Gihun blinked, caught off guard. The praise felt strange, like a note he wasn’t sure he was meant to hear.

He opened his mouth, unsure what to say, but Inho spoke first.

"Exactly," he said, voice low and sure. "Operations mean nothing without someone keeping it together."

His fingers tapped lightly against the stem of his wine glass, slow, deliberate, like he was punctuating the point just for Gihun.

It shouldn’t have mattered. A few words. A few gestures. But way Inho said them and the certainty behind them made something deep inside Gihun loosen, just a little. Like it wasn’t just flattery.

The conversation moved on, shifting toward mergers and market numbers Gihun couldn't fully follow. But even as the talk swirled around him, he still felt the weight of what had just happened.

Inho’s confidence. The steady, quiet approval tucked under his words, so certain it left no room for doubt. Gihun held onto it like a lifeline. Let it fill the hollow spaces inside him he hadn’t even realized were still open.

When he let out a breath, it came easier than before, the tightness in his chest easing just slightly.

As the dinner stretched on—as glasses filled, as laughter rose and fell under the pull of the ocean breeze—Gihun realized something that he hadn’t expected:

He didn’t feel out of place anymore.

Because Inho was beside him. Because he had made space for him here, without any question.

The realization sat heavy in Gihun's chest, warm and aching all at once, like something he hadn’t dared want, but had wanted anyway.

The evening blurred a little at the edges. Warm air, low voices, candlelight flashing soft off the glass. Wine, too; Gihun hadn’t kept track of how many pours. It just kept coming, and he hadn’t thought to say no.

He felt it in his body now, loose under his skin, buzzing a little at the edges. His scent had started to leak out without him even noticing, mixing into the thick, comfortable air.

He wasn’t sitting stiff anymore or bracing for someone to remind him he didn’t belong. So when one of the men, some big-shot alpha from an investment firm, turned toward him, Gihun didn’t flinch. He smiled. Bright and easy.

"You must have some patience," the man said, laughing. "Working with someone like Hwang."

Gihun laughed too—open, rough around the edges.

"Ah, you have no idea."

The table laughed with him. And the way the sound wrapped around him, how the room felt easier all of a sudden, hit him harder than he expected.

And then he just kept going without thinking, catching the rhythm, throwing in a comment here, a smile there. The table leaned in, laughter bubbling up around him, real and easy. He could feel it, not polite, not forced. They liked him. They were drawn in.

A stylish man across the table tipped his wine glass in Gihun’s direction, smiling crookedly.

"God, if I had half your natural charm, I wouldn’t have to work so damn hard."

For a second, Gihun just sat there, blinking, not sure whether to laugh it off or hold onto it with both hands. It had been a long time since anyone had said something like that to him. Longer still since he believed it.

A memory flickered, quick and half-faded, of a teacher from years ago, laughing as he scribbled a note across a crumpled homework sheet: "Bright as a firework, don’t lose that."

Gihun had almost forgotten that he could be that kind of person. And that he could be liked for it.

And here, now, with the warmth of the room folding around him, with Inho’s steady presence beside him, it almost felt real again.

He was laughing at something one of the executives said, his body loose and warm with wine, his words coming easy now. He barely noticed the moment it happened, the steady press of a hand, firm and familiar; and for half a second, he stilled, breath catching soft in his throat.

He turned his head without thinking, still caught in the tail end of a joke, and found Inho watching him. Not distracted, not part of the conversation around them, but focused. Fixed. His gaze steady and dark.

The alpha didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His hand stayed where it was, firm and quiet at the nape of Gihun’s neck, and as Gihun tried to pick the thread of the conversation back up, he felt the slow shift of fingers threading into his hair: slow, easy, like it was natural, like it belonged there.

And still, Inho watched him.

Gihun kept talking, laughing along, but his body wasn’t listening anymore. He could feel the way heat prickled low in his stomach, the way his scent leaked out softer, sweeter without him meaning to. His skin buzzed under Inho’s touch, his muscles loosening, something inside him pulling slow and easy toward the alpha without a fight.

The conversation drifted—finance, politics, shifting markets—and Gihun followed it, laughing at the right moments, nodding when he was supposed to, but the room felt softer now, blurred at the edges.

And then, a second touch, lower this time. Fingers, easy and slow, resting against his thigh under the table.

Gihun sucked in a breath so quiet he almost covered it with a laugh, his fingers tightening instinctively around the stem of his glass. Heat spilled up through his body, spreading from the place where Inho touched him, his muscles loosening under it without him even thinking.

He barely noticed the way he leaned into the touch, like his body had already decided before he even realized he was moving.

He didn’t think about it. His fingers just moved: a light, absent stroke across the back of Inho’s hand, tracing the lines of his knuckles, the faint roughness of his skin warmed by the heat between them. It wasn’t planned. It just happened, easy as breathing, without a second thought.

Still laughing at something the man across from them had said, Gihun glanced up—wide-eyed, smiling—and caught Inho watching him, steady and unmoving. His gaze didn’t waver. It pinned Gihun in place, heavier than it should have been, threaded through with something deeper, something he couldn't quite name through the comfortable haze swimming in his head.

The alpha didn’t pull away. Didn’t tighten his grip either. He just let Gihun touch, let his fingers stay a little longer than they should have, as if he didn’t mind, as if he wanted him to. The air between them shifted, thickened, but Gihun barely noticed it at first, not until Inho’s hand moved, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead like it was something he did without thinking.

"We should get back," Inho murmured, his voice low and close, almost too quiet to catch over the hum of conversation.

Gihun blinked up at him, still smiling, the warmth of the wine and the laughter sitting soft under his skin. He heard himself make a small, distracted sound—"Hm?"—not really a question, just something to fill the space, his head tipping slightly into the touch without thinking.

Inho’s jaw tightened, almost like he was holding something back, but he didn’t move away. For a second, he just looked at Gihun, like he was memorizing him, drinking him in.

Then, slow, careful, Inho brushed another strand of hair back from his forehead, his fingers lingering just long enough that he felt the ghost of it even after they were gone.

"We should get you back," Inho said, voice low, rougher now around the edges.

Gihun found himself looking up at him, loose and warm and a little too open, and nodding before he even realized he was moving.

The evening air was thick with warmth, carrying the bite of the ocean and the low, easy hum of the island settling into night. Gihun swayed a little as they walked, steps loose, the world soft and a little tilted around the edges. He wasn’t drunk, not really. Just warm. Light. Happy in a way he hadn’t felt in longer than he wanted to think about.

"I was having fun," he grumbled, tipping closer to Inho without even thinking, his mouth pulling into a loose, lazy pout. "You always ruin my fun."

Inho huffed under his breath, his hand steady at Gihun’s back, guiding him away from the spill of golden lights and into the thicker dark of the street. His gaze was heavy too, but not unkind.

"How many drinks did you have?" Inho asked, amusement low in his voice.

Gihun scrunched up his nose like the question personally offended him. He looked down at the half-forgotten glass still dangling from his hand, the last mouthful of something sweet sloshing inside. He tipped it back in one go, the heat rushing down his throat, blooming bigger in his chest.

"No idea," he said brightly, laughing at himself, stretching his arms high above his head until his shirt rode up and the night air kissed his skin. "Enough."

The Singapore night wrapped around them, the glow of lights flickering across the water, music drifting lazy and half-lost from somewhere down the street. Gihun let out a long breath, the kind that emptied his chest out, and let his body relax into the easy sway of their steps. He wasn’t thinking. Wasn’t worrying. Just walking. Just being. Just letting it happen.

A familiar song floated to him through the heavy air, half-muffled, but enough to pull a grin out of him. He tipped his head, humming along without meaning to, his steps shifting into a slow, clumsy rhythm, his body falling into the beat like it was the most natural thing in the world. A sway here, a half-turn there, not caring who saw, not caring about anything except the music buzzing warm under his skin.

He caught Inho watching him, a flicker across the alpha’s face, something almost tender before it was pulled back.

Gihun turned toward him, grinning wide and unguarded, eyes a little too bright from the wine and the night and everything loosening inside him.

"Y’know," he said, his voice slurring just enough to give him away, "there was a time I wanted to be a K-pop idol."

Inho’s laugh broke out sharp and sudden, warm against the thick night air. "You?" he said, eyebrows lifting, but there was no bite in it, just real amusement pulling at his mouth. "Honestly? I can kind of see it."

Gihun scrunched up his nose, mock-offended. "You’re making fun of me."

"Not even a little," Inho said, still smirking as he watched Gihun sway more dramatically, arms thrown wide like he was daring the whole street to look at him. "You’ve got the attitude for it."

Gihun huffed and crossed his arms tight across his chest, but the pout tugging at his mouth ruined any chance at looking serious. "I was serious," he said, a little louder than necessary. "I actually trained. Danced. Sang. Thought I was gonna be famous."

The words tumbled out too fast, half-laughing, half-true, and by the time he heard himself say it, it was too late to pull it back. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the warm, stupid way the night wrapped around them, making everything feel easier, less important.

For a second, Inho didn’t answer. Just looked at him, something flashing across his face too quick to name, his hands flexing loose at his sides like he was stopping himself from doing something. Then he shook his head, a half-smile curling at his mouth.

"You would've been a menace," he said, a little too fond for the words to really land as teasing.

Gihun grinned, tipping his head a little too far, the leftover buzz in his chest making him feel loose and silly. "A charming menace," he said, the words bubbling up without thinking.

The alpha hummed, low in his throat, like he was conceding. "You think you would’ve liked it?"

Gihun opened his mouth to joke, maybe something about millions of fans and flashing lights, but the look Inho gave him stopped it cold. Gihun's fingers twitched at his side, restless, and when he answered, his voice came out smaller than he meant it to.

"I think... I just liked the idea of being wanted."

It slipped out without warning, landing in the soft space between them. He didn’t look up. Didn't want to. The night pressed in, thick and heavy, and he could feel it—the way Inho stilled beside him, the way his attention folded sharper around him even without moving a muscle.

The moment dragged heavy between them before Inho finally spoke, voice low:

"You think no one ever wanted you?"

The words weren’t cruel. They weren’t anything but simple, but they hit like a punch anyway. Gihun blinked, throat tight, forcing a laugh that came out too thin, too bright. He looked at Inho, but the alpha was already glancing away, like he hadn’t just cracked something open without even trying.

Gihun swallowed down the ache, dragging the words up from somewhere small. "If they did... I guess I didn’t know how to see it."

The night buzzed around them, music drifting lazy from somewhere down the street, the low rush of the waves folding against the sand. Gihun shifted, the ground tilting faintly under his feet, and before he thought twice, he was kicking off his shoes, letting his toes sink into the cool grit.

"Come on," he said, flashing a grin over his shoulder as he stepped toward the water, the pull of the sea humming under his skin. His voice was bright, easy, but there was a thread of something underneath it too. Something that wanted.

"Live a little."

The words broke whatever strange weight had been hanging between them. The sand clung cold to his feet, grounding him even as the night spun a little loose around the edges. Gihun laughed under his breath, soft and breathless, and turned back, a stupid, wide grin tugging at his mouth.

"Come on," he called again, taking another step backward, arms spread out like he was trying to catch the whole beach.

Inho stayed where he was, a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, his shirt rumpled and half-open at the throat. The moon caught on the edges of him, the sharp line of his jaw, the quiet watchfulness that never seemed to let up. He looked steady. Too steady. Like he was thinking about a lot more than Gihun dancing barefoot in the sand.

"You're drunk," Inho said, voice low, almost dry.

"I'm happy," Gihun shot back, wobbling slightly on his heels. He flung his arms wide again, daring him. "And you’re standing there like an old man. What, you scared of a little water?"

At first, Inho only arched a brow, unmoving. But when Gihun turned, laughing, ready to sprint toward the water, Inho moved too. He caught him easily, one strong arm wrapping around his middle, the other palm flattening against his stomach, pulling him back with a force that made Gihun gasp.

Warmth crashed into him, the solid press of Inho’s chest at his back, the brush of his breath against the side of his face. Gihun froze, the sound catching in his throat, his pulse stuttering wild under Inho’s hand.

"You shouldn’t provoke people stronger than you," the alpha murmured, low against his ear.

Gihun’s body buzzed under the touch, every nerve alight, breath coming fast and shallow. He knew he should laugh and twist out of it, shove at Inho's hand like it was nothing. He was taller, wasn’t he? He could try to pull away if he wanted. But he didn’t. He choose to stay, chest tight, muscles humming under the steady pressure of Inho’s grip, every part of him straining not to lean back into it.

The waves rolled around their thighs, cool and restless, threading between their legs. And then, just as slowly, Inho let him go, hands sliding off him, fingertips dragging a little against his shirt like they didn’t want to leave.

Gihun turned, heart hammering loud in his ears, and found Inho already watching him, like he could see every stupid thing Gihun wasn’t saying. And then, without warning, Inho smirked and flicked a handful of water straight at him.

Gihun gasped, scandalized, spluttering as the cold hit his chest. "You—!"

But he was already laughing, half choking on it, the kind of laugh that ripped straight out of him, messy and bright and real. He splashed back without thinking, kicking up waves between them like a kid picking a fight at the beach.

For a moment, there was nothing else, just the water, the night, the sound of him laughing so hard his chest hurt. When he finally blinked the salt out of his eyes, Inho was still watching him.
Not smirking or teasing, just looking, something heavy sitting in his gaze that made Gihun’s stomach twist up sharp and tight. He felt it crawl under his skin, that terrifying feeling of being seen without having to say a word.

The night folded in around them, waves licking at their ankles, the city humming faint and far behind them. Later, when they started walking back, their clothes damp and heavy with salt, the sand clinging everywhere, their steps slow along the wooden boards, Inho spoke, voice quiet, almost lost to the night.

"I like you like this."

Gihun blinked at him, breath catching. He didn’t say anything, just let the words hang there between them, heavier than anything else the night had given him.

The glass sat heavy in Inho's hand, the amber catching the low light as he turned it without thinking. He leaned back against the bar, slipping his free hand into his pocket, gaze drifting over the dim suite.

He could still hear it—Gihun’s laughter, rough and breathless, too big for his body. The way it had rolled out of him without care, shaking his whole frame, until it broke down into helpless giggles. Until he couldn’t even stand straight without swaying into his side, still smiling, still letting the sound spill out in broken little bursts.

The way he softened after, the drowsy little murmurs he barely knew he was making, the way his head dipped heavier against Inho’s shoulder. He had felt every part of it. Every inch of trust Gihun didn’t even realize he was giving away.

And when Gihun finally sagged, boneless with exhaustion, he hadn’t fought it. He let Inho undress him, guide him to the bed, press the sheets around his too-warm body, brush the hair off his forehead the way no one else ever had.

It should have made Inho stop and question himself, but it didn’t. It only settled deeper, heavier inside him, something quiet and old and not meant to be shared with anyone else.

Because it was Gihun. Because it had always been Gihun.

He took a slow sip, the whiskey burning down his throat, but it didn’t pull him back to the present. His mind stayed locked on the night before. On the way Gihun had been beneath him, tense at first, uncertain, like he didn’t know what it meant to be wanted, not really.

Inho clenched his jaw, breathing slow, steady, forcing the heat in his gut back down.

Sangwoo had been a fucking idiot. It was in every flinch, every tight breath, Gihun had been trained to brace for disappointment. To swallow down what he needed before anyone else could remind him he didn’t deserve it.

It had made something cold twist deep inside Inho. All those years. Living under some half-assed alpha who didn’t even know what he had. Who didn’t even fucking try. Who trained Gihun to think wanting anything was wrong.

It made Inho sick. Made him want to tear that whole life out of Gihun’s skin by the roots. Because it wasn’t meant to be like that, not for him.

And it hadn’t taken much, not really. A hand against his back. A mouth at his throat. A voice low in his ear, telling him he was good, wanted, and that he could take as much as he needed. That was all it took for Gihun to soften. To reach back and let go.

The memory hit him hard, almost dizzying. Gihun grasping at him like he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t pull him deeper fast enough, instincts breaking loose like they had been waiting his whole life for someone who knew what to do with him.

Inho couldn’t help but wonder how easy it had been. How natural. Like Gihun had just been waiting for someone to show him he was allowed to want this.

He exhaled through his nose, slow, heavy. Inho hadn’t just been wanted, he had been trusted. Because it was always supposed to be him. Gihun had been wasting himself on people who didn’t know how to take care of him and Inho did.

The whiskey barely touched him. All he could think about was how easy it would be. To pull it out of Gihun, strip out whatever scraps of shame had been stuffed into him, all the shit Sangwoo left behind. To show him how natural it could be. How it was supposed to feel from the start.

If Gihun were his, there wouldn’t be any hesitation. No second-guessing. No shrinking down like he had to apologize for needing anything. He’d take Inho’s knot without fear, sink down and open up because it would feel right. Not out of duty or obligation, but because he was made for it. Every night, every morning, until the idea of being empty felt wrong.

And it wouldn’t stop at that. It would be everything Sangwoo had never even thought to give him. A steady hand guiding him wherever he needed to go. A voice at his ear, grounding him when he forgot how to ask for what he needed. Arms around him at night, holding him until the doubt broke and there was nothing left but trust.

Gihun would stop thinking twice. He’d lean into it like it was instinct, like it was the only thing that ever made sense.

It was already there. Buried in the way he softened when he got tired. How he tilted into touch without noticing. In every careless little breath he didn’t even realize he was giving away. All Inho had to do was take it. And he would.

He exhaled slowly, turning the glass in his hand, the dim light catching against the surface. The quiet hum of the suite settled back in around him, the low whisper of the sea through the open balcony doors. His mind lingered on the warm weight pressed against his side—Gihun, half-draped over him, breath slow and shallow against his skin, trusting even in sleep.

Part of him wished they could just go back. That they could step off the plane, walk through the terminal, and let Sangwoo take one inhale of the air between them. It would be enough. Just a breath, and Sangwoo would know exactly what he had lost. It would have been easy. Satisfying, in its way. But still not enough.

Because this wasn’t about making Sangwoo see it. It was all about Gihun. About the choice he would make, clear-eyed and steady, with no excuse to run from it later. That's why it needed to happen differently. Gihun had to reach for him knowing exactly what he was doing.

Only then would it be real. Only then would it belong to him fully.

Inho brought the glass to his mouth, the whiskey burning down his throat, his grip tightening against the crystal rim. Soon enough, Gihun would understand. And he wouldn’t go back. Not after this.

The pool glowed faintly in the dark, the water smooth as glass under the low swing of the lantern lights. The air was thick with the smell of salt and jasmine, the far-off crash of the waves barely cutting through the endless, broken hum of cicadas. Heat clung to his skin, heavy and damp, soaking into the fabric of his shirt, but Inho hardly felt it. His mind was somewhere else, quiet in a way that unsettled him.

He had spent his life carving discipline into himself, sanding down every edge until his instincts were sharp enough to wield and quiet enough to obey. There had never been space for uncertainty. No room for softness. He had always known what he wanted—and he had taken it, without apology. And yet.

Yet his alpha had known before he did.

His gaze caught on the window’s reflection in the pool, the faint blur of sheer curtains drawn across the glass. Beyond them, Gihun slept, little more than a shadow folded into the dark. Still, he filled the space around him, pulling at Inho’s senses, sinking into the walls, the floor, the heat clinging to his own skin. It was more than scent. More than instinct. It clung to Inho in a way he couldn’t wash off.

There had been a moment, no longer than a breath, when he had felt it anchor itself deep inside him, too sudden and too real to fight. Not strategy or conquest but something older. Something that had been waiting for him long before he had learned to want.

A memory unspooled itself without warning, bitter at the edges. His father, standing over him, while Inho fumbled through a task he hadn’t been old enough to understand. “Some things aren’t meant to be fought, son.” The words hadn’t been comfort then, and they weren’t now. They had sounded like a warning. A sentence. Back then, Inho hadn’t known what he was supposed to do with them.

He knew now.

His instincts had never been wrong. They were the reason he was still standing, the reason he had survived every room, every deal, every betrayal that would have swallowed a weaker man. They had never needed explanation. They simply worked. But this... This was different.

Instinct wasn’t supposed to feel like a threat. It wasn’t supposed to make his hands curl tight against his knee just to keep them steady. Instincts were supposed to serve him, sharpen him, not hollow him out from the inside. It was dangerous. Because it wasn't something he could outmaneuver. It wasn't something he could beat.

Gihun had slipped past everything he thought he could control. Wanting him wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t something he could will away or bend into submission. It lived under his skin now, too deep to tear out.

He exhaled, slow and rough, the sound scraping the back of his throat. He wasn't afraid of losing himself. That fear would have been easy to name. What pinned him there, staring into the still water, was the awful, steady knowing that it had already happened. Long ago. Quietly, without ceremony. His alpha had known. His body had known. Even when he was still clinging to the lie that he could keep his distance, it had already been over.

The moves he thought were his own—the careful steps, the walls he believed he was choosing to lower—none of it had ever been real. This was never a game. Not for a second.

The truth hit, low and brutal: Gihun was his. He had always been his. From the start. His instincts had known it. His body had carried it. And now, sitting there in the thick heat of the night, feeling it settle so deep it hurt to breathe, now he knew too. There was nothing left to fight.

There was a sound from inside, the sheets shifting, a low breath caught in the quiet. Inho stilled, listening without meaning to, the muscles in his back pulling tight. Then, Gihun’s scent pushed into the night. Faint and warm, reaching for something. Inho felt it hit before Gihun even moved or spoke. Before he even knew what he was doing. The pull was instant.

Even half-asleep, without knowing, Gihun's body turned toward him. Like it couldn't help itself. Like it never would. It was instinct, clean and certain, and it went straight through Inho, lighting up every part of him. His alpha gave a low hum of approval, deep in his chest.

He turned his head, catching the blurred shape of Gihun through the curtains: sitting up slow, rubbing at his face, his head turning like he was trying to find something he could feel but not see. Always him. Always.

A slow smile tugged at Inho’s mouth. The decision had never been his to make. Not really.

Gihun moved inside, sluggish and clumsy, still heavy with sleep. A shift of weight, a slow breath, the sound of bare feet brushing across the floor.

Inho stayed still, every part of him tuned to the space behind the glass, to the pull he already knew was coming. Gihun was already coming to him, drawn forward half-awake, running on instinct alone. His hair was a mess, his body slow and uncertain, but his direction never wavered.

The sliding door rattled softly against its track, and then Gihun was outside, blinking into the night. He didn’t speak. Just stood there, swaying slightly, his scent thick and searching.

Inho raised his hand, palm up, waiting.

Gihun made a small, broken sound, something between a hum and a sigh, and pushed his face against the side of Inho’s neck, breath warm against his skin. His body had gone slack, all trust and instinct, heavier with every second.

Inho shifted a little, pulling him closer, adjusting him without thinking. His palm slid down the curve of Gihun’s back, slow, grounding. "You should be sleeping," he muttered, but there was no real bite in it. Just the steady thrum of being wanted this way.

Gihun only nuzzled deeper against him, breath stuttering a little as he tried to answer.

"Couldn't," he mumbled into Inho’s skin, so slurred the words barely held together. "Was lookin' for you."

Heat punched through Inho’s chest, raw and sudden, locking his muscles tight. Good. His omega should look for him first. Always. A low sound rumbled out of him—half a growl, half a laugh—dark and full.

"And now that you’ve found me?"

Gihun barely managed to lift his head, blinking up at him through heavy lids, the dazed, confused kind of look that was only half awake.

"Stayin'," he whispered, simple and certain, like nothing else had ever been possible.

Inho’s hand curled tighter against him. Perfect. He bent his head, pressing a kiss into Gihun’s hair.

"Good," he said, letting the word settle against Gihun’s skin, solid as a weight. "Sleep."

And Gihun, still tucked against him, still unguarded, still his—did exactly that.

Breakfast was already set: fresh fruit, golden pastries, eggs done just the way he liked, coffee black enough to bite. Only the best. Inho had made sure of it. Because here, in this small, private world, Gihun belonged to him. And he was going to savor every second. Across from him, the omega slouched in his chair, pajama top sliding off one shoulder, exposing warm, gold-touched skin still soft from sleep. Inho let his eyes linger, unhurried, a low hum of hunger curling tight in his gut—not for the food.

They were still here, wrapped in this small, stolen pocket of quiet where nothing could reach Gihun: not guilt, not doubt, not the sharp pull of consequences he would feel later. Here, there were no expectations pressing down. No reality creeping in to pull him away. Here, Inho could have him soft, open, pliant. His. And he wasn’t ready to let that go yet.

He reached for a slice of mango, dragging it slow through a dish of honey, and held it up between two fingers.

"Here," he said, voice low.

Gihun blinked, slow and unfocused, but opened his mouth without question. Letting Inho feed him. He watched Gihun close his lips around the fruit, watched his throat work as he swallowed, and felt something hot and possessive unfurl deep inside his chest.

"Good boy," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction.

Gihun blinked like he'd been slapped awake. His cheeks went red so fast it was almost funny.

"Don’t—" he said, voice catching halfway through, too late to hide how fast he’d reacted.

But Inho only smiled, slow and sure, and leaned in, brushing a kiss against the corner of Gihun’s mouth—tasting honey, skin, the soft warmth of him—before pulling back just far enough to see the dazed look still lingering in Gihun’s eyes.

"What?" he said, mouth still close enough to brush against Gihun’s lips as he spoke. "You liked it."

"I’m literally older than you," Gihun muttered, cheeks burning, voice rough with embarrassment he couldn’t hide fast enough.

Inho just leaned back in his chair, the corner of his mouth pulling into a slow, wolfish smile, all teeth and amusement, like he was watching something already his try to pretend it wasn’t. He didn’t argue. He didn’t even move at first, just let Gihun squirm under the weight of his gaze.

Then, without hurry, he leaned in, bridging the small space between them, the scrape of the chair barely audible under the thick quiet of the morning. He dipped his head, mouth brushing right over the curve of Gihun’s throat, pressing against the soft, vulnerable spot where his scent gland beat under the skin.

Gihun sucked in a breath, sharp and involuntary, his whole body tensing for half a second before leaning, just slightly, toward the touch.

Inho smiled against him, lazy and pleased, teeth dragging just enough to make Gihun shiver.

"Is that supposed to stop me," he murmured against Gihun’s skin, voice a low rumble, "from calling you everything I want to call you?"

Gihun tried to turn his head and glare at him, sharp and angry. But it was too slow, too clumsy, his cheeks still hot, his body still betraying him by leaning closer instead of pulling away.

Inho pulled back just enough to catch the look, that ridiculous attempt at defiance, and huffed a low, amused breath through his nose. He grinned, wide and wicked, the kind of grin that said he wasn’t fooled for a second. He reached for another piece of fruit, but instead of offering it with his fingers, he caught it lightly between his lips, tilting his head in quiet invitation, watching Gihun over the small space between them.

Gihun hesitated for a breath, no more, before leaning in, mouth brushing his, taking the fruit. Inho caught him there, pulled him in, kissed him deep and slow, the taste of honey melting between them. He felt the way Gihun gave in, the soft weight of him, the hand that drifted up to rest against his chest like it belonged there. Perfect.

He kissed him again, because he could. Because right now, with Gihun loose and warm under his hands, he wasn’t letting go, not yet. And if Gihun forgot about the rest of the world for a little while longer, so much the better. His hands moved slow, steady, sliding down the front of Gihun’s shirt, thumbing open one button, then another.

Gihun huffed a faint noise against his mouth, barely cracking an eye open.

"I’m trying to eat," he muttered, voice thick with sleep, almost petulant.

Inho hummed low against his throat, pressing a kiss just under his jaw, then lower, dragging his mouth slow over the soft skin of his neck.

"Eat," he murmured. "I’m not stopping you."

But his hands kept moving, working another button loose, peeling back soft fabric to expose the slope of his collarbone, the warm line of his chest. And then his mouth followed—slow, unhurried—tasting skin, breathing him in, dragging the kiss lower until Gihun shivered.

Gihun’s fingers clutched at the edge of his plate like he needed something to hold onto.

"You’re—" he started, voice breaking under the heat gathering between them.

"I’m not doing anything," Inho murmured, smile thick in his voice as he slid his palm down over Gihun’s stomach, feeling the soft pull of his breathing.

He kissed lower, dragging his teeth lightly across warm skin, enough to make Gihun’s breath stutter. He was still warm with sleep, slow and pliant under Inho's hands, and the feel of it lit something hot and greedy under his skin. This was how he wanted him. Soft. Open. His.

Another button slipped free, then another, until the whole front of Gihun’s pajama shirt hung open, loose and slipping down his arms, barely clinging to his shoulders. Gihun’s chest was soft under his palms: warm, smooth, the slight plumpness of him hitting Inho low and hard, heat and hunger twisting tight inside him.

Gihun was gorgeous like this, still half-lost in sleep, so utterly unguarded, so easy to touch, to mold. Inho dragged his thumbs slowly over the curves of Gihun’s chest, savoring the way he twitched and shivered under the touch. He eased the fabric aside with both hands, baring more of him, voice dropping low and rough against his skin.

"Let alpha see those pretty omega tits," he muttered, almost purring it, as he parted the shirt wider, exposing every soft inch he could reach.

Gihun jolted like he’d been burned, fists tightening hard around his plate, his whole body stiffening, bright red flooding up his throat and cheeks. A tiny, broken sound escaped him, but Inho only smiled against Gihun’s neck, slow and greedy, his hands sliding over soft skin until his thumbs found Gihun’s nipples, brushing once, then tweaking, just to feel him jump.

He watched them harden under his touch, watched the way Gihun shivered, every small reaction feeding the hot, hungry pull low in his gut.

"What—" Gihun croaked, shaking his head, his fingers twitching like he couldn't decide whether to shove Inho away or grab onto him harder.

Inho hummed against his skin, amused, pressing kisses along the curve of his shoulder, his hands moving slow and easy over bare skin.

"What?" he said, all fake innocence, the grin tugging at his mouth making it obvious he knew exactly what he was doing. "I’m just telling you the truth."

Gihun squirmed, breath catching, heat flaring high in his cheeks and down the soft line of his throat.

"That's—stupid," he muttered, voice cracking on the last syllable.

"No, it's not," Inho answered, dragging his thumb lazily over the peak of Gihun’s chest, feeling the way the omega jolted under the touch.

"It’s not stupid. It’s perfect. You’re perfect."

A small, strangled noise slipped out of Gihun. His eyes squeezed shut like he could block it all out if he just didn’t look. But Inho noticed the way his thighs pressed together tight under the table, the heat thickening between them. And then the scent hit him. Warm, sweet, thick in the air. Slick. Barely there, but real.

And right away, his mind went there—to Gihun’s hole slicking up for him, first droplets gathering between his ass cheeks, hot and wet and messy. He could see it, could almost fucking taste it, and then memory crashed in behind it: how it had felt that night, Gihun open and dripping around him, tight and slick and perfect.

A low, broken groan ripped out of him before he could stop it. He leaned in, his mouth brushing Gihun’s ear, voice rough and low.

"Oh," he breathed. "You like it."

Gihun stiffened, whole body locking up.

"No—" he gasped, but it was already too late.

"Mm. I think you do," Inho muttered, dragging his teeth along Gihun’s jaw, lips brushing over hot skin. His hands roamed lower, slower, squeezing, claiming every inch he could touch.

"Your body’s honest, sweetheart," he said against his throat, voice thick with heat. "You’re flushed, you’re burning up—"

His fingers slid down, skimming just above the waistband of Gihun’s pajama pants.

"—and you’re already making a mess for me."

Gihun whimpered, curling into himself even as he pressed closer, helpless, breath hitching hard.

"I—I’m not—" he gasped.

Inho chuckled low, dragging his tongue down the side of Gihun’s neck, leaving a wet, open trail behind.

"Shh," he breathed against damp skin, voice thick and rough. "Feel it. That’s all you have to do."

And Gihun did, body betraying him without even a fight.

Inho licked along his jaw next, slow and deliberate, tasting the heat pouring off him. Then lower, dragging his mouth over Gihun’s scent gland, tongue sliding messily over it, letting spit glisten on flushed skin.

Gihun let out a small, helpless sound, his body leaning into the touch even as he fought to stay upright.

"Eat," Inho murmured, voice curling with a grin, breath hot where he mouthed at Gihun’s throat. "I’m not stopping you."

Gihun barely got another bite in before his hands dropped, plate clattering softly onto the table. His breath broke uneven in his chest, head tipping back when Inho’s mouth slid lower, tasting every inch he uncovered.

The omega was so fucking soft under his hands, warm and full, still ripe and ready and his. And Inho wasn’t about to leave him waiting.

Gihun was burning up, heat crawling down his neck, thick in his belly, pooling low where he didn’t dare think about. His breath stuttered as Inho’s hands kept moving over him: slow, heavy, squeezing, dragging rough over his chest, teasing over every patch of skin that made him jerk and twitch.

It was maddening, how Inho took his time, like he had all day to touch, to grab, to feel every inch of him, thumbs flicking slow over his nipples, squeezing the soft weight of him, tracing every curve like he owned it. Gihun bit down on his lip hard, trying not to make a sound, but it didn’t help, every little touch pulled another shudder out of him, his thighs clenching tight like he could somehow fight it off.

Inho’s mouth curled into a slow, wicked grin. He rolled one nipple between his fingers, watched the way Gihun twitched under him, trying to pretend, still pretending he could resist.

"Let alpha have a real taste," he muttered, voice low and rough.

Before Gihun could react, Inho shifted him, nudging his chair, dragging him closer without effort, setting him exactly where he wanted. Chest bare, skin flushed, right there in front of him, just waiting.

The first wet drag of his tongue over Gihun’s nipple made Gihun’s whole body jerk, a broken sound tearing out of him before he could stop it. Inho chuckled low against his skin then sealed his mouth around him, sucking harder, pulling more of Gihun into his mouth, his hands kneading rough around him, squeezing, shaping, not giving him a second to catch his breath.

He dragged his mouth across Gihun’s chest, leaving a wet trail behind, spit glistening on flushed skin. Found the other nipple and sucked it in too, working it slow, teasing it between his teeth, letting it slip free just to catch it again. Gihun squirmed under him, breath hitching, helpless against it.

And Inho didn’t stop. He kept his mouth on him, tongue flicking faster over Gihun’s nipple, then dragging lower, sucking at the soft underside of his chest, all while staring up at him, dark eyes locked on every twitch, every helpless little sound he made. Spit strung between his tongue and Gihun’s skin, wet and shining where he licked and sucked, leaving Gihun’s chest damp and flushed and messy under his mouth.

Gihun tried to hold his gaze, but the steady pull of Inho’s mouth and the wet drag of his tongue, made him shudder all over. His fingers scrabbled weakly at the chair, breath breaking into short, shaky gasps, chest sticky with spit and heat. He was burning up, melting down, and there was no getting it back now. All he could do was take it and let Inho have whatever he wanted.

Gihun was trembling now, body betraying him completely, every sound he tried to hold back still slipping free in quiet, bitten-off whimpers. It made Inho’s chest tighten with satisfaction, a low, primal ache. He dragged his teeth over one nipple, sucked until it flushed deep red, then let it slip wetly from his mouth with a soft pop, slick and glistening with his spit. His fingers dug harder into Gihun’s waist, keeping him pinned there, exactly where he needed him.

He buried his face against Gihun’s chest, inhaling greedily, dragging the scent into his lungs until it burned. So soft. So full. So fucking pretty. All his to ruin and savor. A satisfied rumble broke loose from his throat. The warmth of him, the sweet give of his body, the trembling under his mouth—it was maddening.

Inho pressed kisses against flushed skin, open-mouthed, tasting, soaking in every inch he could reach. His hands roamed Gihun’s sides in slow, possessive sweeps, feeling every shiver, every helpless twitch.

"Now that's a sight to appreciate," he muttered against Gihun's skin, voice rough. He kept sucking at Gihun’s nipple, slow and deep, eyes falling shut as he dragged the taste of him into his mouth. He didn’t rush it, wanted to feel every twitch, every shiver. He gave one last hard suck, lips wet around the flushed peak, before finally letting go.

When he opened his eyes and looked up, it hit him like a fucking punch.

Gihun was sitting back in the chair, legs spread a little, chest rising and falling hard, flushed red all the way down, lips parted, tongue showing as he gasped for air. His nipples were glistening, moving with every shaky breath. He looked wrecked. Hot and messy and perfect. So fucking pretty it made Inho’s fists clench on his waist without thinking. All his.

A rough sound tore out of his throat. He leaned in again, biting at Gihun’s skin, licking over the red marks he’d already left. His hands gripped tighter, sliding lower, pressing bruising circles into Gihun’s hips while he mouthed over his chest, shameless, hungry, taking everything he could get out of him.

Finally, trembling fingers slipped into his hair, shaky and unsure. Barely a touch, but Inho felt it like a shock straight down his spine. He froze, letting it happen, hardly daring to breathe. And then Gihun gave a tiny, broken breath and pulled him in closer, pressing his face into his chest like he needed him there. Clutching at him, holding him.

Inho growled low in his chest and shoved his mouth back against Gihun’s skin, rougher this time, sucking at him harder, dragging his tongue over the flushed, trembling warmth.

"So fucking good," he muttered against him, voice wrecked, hands locking down tighter on Gihun’s waist. “I could get addicted to this.”

Gihun whimpered, clutching harder at his hair, hips giving a tiny helpless jerk forward, and Inho just grinned against his skin, drunk on it. Mine.

And when he dragged his mouth away, chest heaving, breath coming rough through his teeth, he couldn’t stop staring. Gihun was a fucking mess: panting, skin shining from the sticky Singapore heat and from him. Nipples still wet, chest rising and falling like he couldn’t catch a full breath, lips swollen, pupils blown wide.

He looked wrecked already, but Inho wasn’t nearly finished. Not yet. He shoved the chair closer, not giving him an inch of space. Gihun gasped, startled, but Inho was already there, catching his mouth in a kiss—rough, open, messy, nothing careful about it. All spit and teeth and heat. Gihun jolted under him, whimpered into his mouth, fingers yanking at his hair like he needed something to hold on to. Inho just pushed closer, swallowing every sound he gave.

When he finally pulled back to breathe, he didn’t go far, just enough to drag his mouth down Gihun’s jaw, across his throat, biting, licking at the hot skin. His hands shoved under the waistband of Gihun’s sleeping pants, greedy, impatient to feel him properly. The omega gasped, thighs tensing under the touch, his fingers tugging weakly at his hair.

"Shh," he muttered against his throat, voice low and coaxing. "Let me feel you, sweetheart."

He let his hand slide lower, brushing over Gihun’s cock, smaller, twitching against his stomach, already wet at the tip. If Gihun wanted to grind against him, to rut and make a mess of himself in that sweet, helpless way omegas sometimes did, Inho would let him. He’d even enjoy it, savor the way Gihun would rub up against him, panting and whimpering, so needy for it. But not yet. That wasn’t where Inho’s focus was now.

His hand slipped lower, sliding into the heat between Gihun’s thighs—and there it was. Slick. Wet and ready for him, coating his fingers the second he touched. A low groan rumbled out of his chest, lips dragging open against Gihun’s neck as he pushed two, then three fingers inside, deep to the knuckle, feeling the tight, greedy pull of him. This was what he wanted. What an omega was meant for.

Gihun choked on a breath, whole body jolting. "Inho—"

But the alpha hushed him, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss against his neck, fingers working him open, feeling every clench, every tremble as Gihun tried and failed to take him.

"Fuck," Inho muttered against his skin, voice low and wrecked. "You’re soaking for me." He flexed his fingers, feeling the way Gihun’s body sucked him in, hot and greedy. "This sweet little hole just takes whatever I give it, doesn't it?"

Gihun whimpered, head tipping back, exposing more of his throat to him like he couldn’t even help it.

Inho gave a rough laugh, biting lightly at his pulse. "That's it. Let me take care of you."

He did, pushing his fingers deeper in slow, grinding strokes that spread Gihun open wider with every thrust. His mouth stayed on Gihun’s throat, tasting the heat coming off him, feeling the way his whole body shivered under the drag of his hand. He kept his eyes on him the whole time, the way Gihun’s lips parted on every shaky breath, the way his eyes fluttered half-shut, dazed and messy, too far gone to hide anything. So fucking pretty like this. So easy to ruin.

And then it spilled out, a small, cracked voice, high with shame.

"S-Stop being so dirty..."

Inho’s mouth curved into a sharp grin, teeth flashing. His fingers curled just right inside him, dragging a wrecked little sound from Gihun’s throat.

"Dirty?" he echoed, voice low and rough, thick with heat. "Darling, there’s nothing dirty about this."

He drove his fingers deeper as he said it, rubbing right over that spot that made Gihun’s hips jerk, made a broken whimper tear out of him.

"This is what you’re made for," he murmured, lips brushing Gihun’s ear, voice thick and possessive. "To be touched like this. To be filled. To take everything I give you."

Gihun shuddered, head tipping back, hands clutching the edge of the chair like it could save him. But Inho didn’t slow down. He fucked him on his fingers, harder now, slick sounds getting louder between them, wet and messy and obscene. Gihun gasped, thighs trying to press together, trying to run from it, but Inho caught his knee easily, forcing him open again.

"Don’t hide from me," he growled, dragging his fingers deeper, rougher, making sure Gihun felt every inch. "Take it. Let yourself feel how fucking good you are."

The omega keened, high and broken, body shaking under Inho with every brutal stroke of his fingers. Inho groaned low in his chest, feeling the way Gihun squeezed around him, like his body was trying to pull him deeper, to keep him there, even if Gihun’s mind was too fucked to admit it.

"That's it," he growled, fingers pumping harder, faster, rough enough to make wet, filthy sounds fill the air between them. "Listen to yourself. Loud and messy— soaking my hand."

And Gihun was moaning louder now, gasping and whimpering with every thrust, no shame left, just helpless noise spilling out of him. Inho could feel it, hear it, the slick squelch around his fingers getting wetter, messier, with every drag and grind. He knew Gihun was close, could taste it in the way his whole body tightened up, shivering on the edge.

He bit at Gihun’s jaw, dragging his teeth over flushed, sweaty skin, not slowing down for a second.

"You want it so bad, don’t you?" he snarled, fingers driving in deeper, grinding right against the spot that made Gihun jerk and cry out. "Trying to act shy while you’re fucking dripping all over me."

Gihun sobbed, shaking his head weakly, but it didn’t matter. His body told the truth, hips rocking up into every thrust, hole fluttering and squeezing like it couldn’t get enough. His ruined sleeping pants were soaked through, heat pouring off him, filthy and perfect. Inho smirked against his skin, shoved his fingers even deeper, fucking him through every little twitch, every broken sound.

"That's it," he growled, low and rough against Gihun’s ear. "Stop fighting. Come on, baby— make a mess for me."

Gihun cried out, body locking up tight, vision going white as it hit him. He shook all over, legs twitching, mouth open in a shattered sob, and then he broke, slick gushing out around Inho’s fingers in a hot, messy rush, soaking his hand, drenching the fabric clinging to his thighs.

"Fuck yeah, look at you," Inho growled, yanking his hand free and grabbing Gihun by the back of the neck, dragging him into a messy, desperate kiss.

Gihun whimpered into his mouth, still shuddering, lips wet and slack against him. Inho licked into him, filthy and rough, tasting the whimpers straight from his throat, his own eyes fluttering shut from how good it felt. He licked Gihun's lips, inside of his cheek, groaning low at the sweet, broken noises the omega kept making, helpless little gasps and sobs against his mouth.

He dragged his hand back between Gihun’s legs, fingers slick and glistening, and cupped that spent little hole. It twitched against his palm, trying weakly to clench, too sensitive to bear even a touch. Inho smirked darkly, tapping it lightly with two fingers, a wet, sticky tap that made Gihun gasp and instinctively try to close his legs.

"Ah, ah," he murmured, pushing his knee between them, keeping Gihun open. He pulled his hand away slowly, his fingers all wet with Gihun’s release. He lifted them, watching the way the slick dripped between them before leaning down, voice still thick with satisfaction.

"See? Nothing dirty about that at all."

Gihun lay there, slumped in the chair, chest heaving in fast, broken breaths, body trembling, skin flushed and slick with sweat. Inho watched him for a moment, drinking it in: the weak shudders, the way his fingers twitched uselessly against the arms of the chair, the dazed, glassy look in his eyes. His hand trailed up slowly, dragging slick over Gihun's soft belly, leaving a messy, glistening trail behind. He didn’t rush. His fingers spread wide, greedy, smearing the mess across Gihun’s flushed skin, claiming every inch of him.

When he reached Gihun’s chest, he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t even pretend to resist. He grabbed a handful of the omega’s tits, squeezing hard enough to make Gihun whimper. His thumb dragged rough over a bitten-red nipple, glossy with spit, feeling it pebble even harder under his touch.

"Fuck," Inho muttered, voice thick, almost dazed. He gave a slow, filthy squeeze, thumb circling, slick smearing across the flushed skin, savoring the way Gihun’s whole chest rose into his hand without even thinking.

He fondled both nipples as he moved up, rough and possessive, dragging more broken little sounds out of Gihun’s mouth. Only once he’d had his fill, leaving the soft flesh flushed and shining, did he let his hand climb higher.

He curled his fingers under Gihun’s chin, tipping his face up. The omega blinked, slow and sluggish, mouth slightly open, and Inho couldn't help the smirk that curled at his lips. He pressed two wet fingers against Gihun’s mouth, feeling the heat of his breath catch against them. A soft, broken noise spilled from Gihun’s throat—half protest, half need—but Inho didn’t waver. His thumb brushed over the omega’s swollen lower lip, coaxing it open, and slid his fingers inside, pressing down against his tongue.

"Taste yourself," he muttered, voice rough and low, thick with satisfaction.

He watched Gihun closely, feeling every tiny tremor as his mouth closed around his fingers, tongue curling instinctively, welcoming him even when shame made him shudder. His other hand shot up, catching a fistful of Gihun’s damp hair at the crown of his head. He twisted it tight in his grip, yanking his head back, forcing his mouth open wider until Gihun gasped around his fingers, helpless.

Inho growled low, shoving his fingers deeper, pressing down heavy against Gihun’s tongue, pushing in to the knuckle. He felt the slick, wet heat squeeze around him, heard the broken whimper trapped in Gihun’s throat as his eyes rolled back, overwhelmed.

He didn’t stop there, started moving his fingers, slow at first, dragging them out until just the tips remained, then pushing back in, steady, filthy strokes. Spit started to dribble from the corners of Gihun’s mouth, wetting his chin, running down his flushed skin. The omega’s mouth was a mess: slick, parted, tongue helplessly lolling around Inho’s fingers.

And then Inho leaned in, his own tongue sweeping out, licking a thick, filthy stripe right across Gihun’s open mouth, dragging over his own fingers where they pressed down on Gihun’s tongue, smearing spit and slick everywhere. It wasn’t a kiss. It was messy, hot, wet, just dragging his tongue over every trembling, leaking part of Gihun’s mouth, tasting him.

Gihun whimpered brokenly into it, chest shuddering, his whole body jerking at the filthy drag of Inho’s tongue across his tongue, his lips, his spit-slick skin.

Inho groaned low in his chest, the taste of him, of both of them, making his cock throb in his pants.

"Fuck," he muttered, licking his own lips lazily. "You taste so fucking sweet."

Gihun whimpered again, eyes squeezed shut like he couldn’t handle any more. The alpha chuckled darkly, leaned back in, pressing a lingering, open-mouthed kiss against Gihun’s slack, wet lips, his fingers still teasing slow, lazy strokes against the slick heat of his tongue.

"So messy for me," he rasped, voice thick with satisfaction. "That's it, sweetheart. Take it. All of it."

But it still wasn’t enough. Inho needed more. He reached down, catching Gihun’s slack wrist in his hand, wrapping his fingers tight around it. Gihun stirred weakly, dazed and trembling, but didn’t resist, too blissed out, too soft and open for him to stop anything. Good.

Inho guided his hand lower, slow, greedy, dragging it down over his own stomach until he pressed it against the hard length straining under his sleeping pants. Gihun made a soft, confused sound, breath catching, but Inho just smirked, leaning in close, voice a rough, coaxing rasp against his ear.

"Shouldn’t I get something too?"

He pressed Gihun’s hand harder against him, making sure he felt the heat, the weight, the thick shape of his cock through the thin fabric. Gihun’s fingers twitched, instinctively grabbing, squeezing weakly around the heavy shaft. Inho let out a low, wrecked groan, his hand covering Gihun’s, keeping him there, grinding the thick lenght against Gihun’s trembling palm.

The omega’s fingers tightened, starting to move on their own. Slow at first, almost hesitant, but growing more sure, more hungry. His hand squeezed over Inho’s cock, greedy for the feeling. Inho’s breath shuddered out of him, wrecked.

"That's it," he muttered, pressing their foreheads together, his grip firm over Gihun’s hand, dragging every stroke just how he liked. "Just like that."

Gihun's lashes fluttered, still hazy, still flushed all over, but his gaze dropped lower, heavy-lidded, locking on the thick shape straining against Inho’s waistband like he couldn’t help it. So fucking hungry.

Inho growled low, hips jerking into Gihun’s hand without meaning to. He shoved the waistband of his pants down with one hand, baring himself fully to Gihun's touch. His cock slapped heavy against his stomach, flushed dark and already leaking from the tip.

A deep, wrecked groan tore out of him as Gihun’s fingers instinctively tightened, wrapping around the thick, wet head, smearing precome across his knuckles.

"Fuck, baby," Inho rasped, eyes dragging over the way Gihun stared at him, dazed, starving, still moving his hand like he never wanted to stop.

The wet slide of Gihun’s fingers around him made heat coil low in Inho’s gut, his hips jerking into the touch before he could stop himself. His omega was letting him take what he needed, letting himself be used, soft and dazed and perfect under his hands. Exactly the way it was supposed to be.

Inho kept his grip firm, guiding Gihun's hand slow over his cock, showing him how to do it without even needing words, dragging him along his length, squeezing just right, pressing where he wanted it. Training him.

His breath hitched when Gihun started to catch on, those sweet, drowsy fingers wrapping tighter, dragging a shaky stroke down his cock that made a groan tear out of his chest.

"Fuck yeah, nice and slow, baby" Inho muttered, his forehead pressing heavy against Gihun’s. His own hand stayed over Gihun’s, forcing the rhythm he wanted. "Feel how heavy I am in your hand? How fucking hard you make me?"

Gihun made a small, breathless noise, his lashes fluttering, head tipping forward like he was too overwhelmed to hold it up. His grip was weak, clumsy, but he tried, panting against Inho's mouth, letting himself be moved.

Inho groaned, grinding into their joined hands, feeling the slick drag of precome leaking down his cock, making every stroke messier. His eyes dropped, watching the way Gihun’s flushed hand looked wrapped around him, trying so hard to please him.

"You’ll learn," he rasped, tongue flicking against Gihun’s slack mouth, tasting the heat of him. "I’ll teach you how to touch me, baby. Gonna make you so fucking good at it you’ll never want to stop."

Gihun whimpered softly, his fingers twitching against him, dazed and sweet, watching their hands move together with a wrecked, glazed look in his eyes. Inho smirked against his mouth, dragging his own hand tighter over Gihun’s, pressing him harder down his cock.

"That’s it," he muttered, low and filthy, breath hot between them. "Good boy. My good fucking omega."

He shifted their grip, sliding Gihun’s longer fingers higher, wrapping them right around the thick, flushed head. His own hand covered his, guiding him in slow, tight circles around the crown, dragging the motion right where it made him twitch.

"Up here now," he growled, his voice breaking on a groan. "Feel that? Fuck—right there."

He pressed Gihun’s thumb against the slit, forcing him to rub it slow, to smear the leaking precome over the swollen tip.

"Rub it, baby. Yeah, just like that," Inho panted, grinding up into the contact. 

He watched, half-lidded and hungry, as Gihun's slick fingers obeyed, shaky but eager, stroking around the head, thumb pressing over the dripping slit like he was learning how to play with it. Inho broke off with a deep groan, hips rocking into their joined hands, chasing the pressure. His cock jerked in their grip.

“Make it wetter,” he muttered, voice rough and wrecked, thick with want.

Gihun blinked slowly, brows pinching faintly. “Wetter?”

Inho just smirked, sliding his hand up into Gihun’s hair, threading his fingers through the damp strands. He tugged, not hard, but firm enough to guide, pulling Gihun forward until he hovered over his cock, mouth open, close enough that Inho could feel the heat of his breath on the head. Close. But not touching.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice low and steady. “Spit on it. Make it messy.”

Gihun’s breath caught. His lips parted slowly, hesitation flickering across his flushed face, not resistance, just that dazed hesitation he always got when his brain was a few steps behind his instincts.

Inho’s grip stayed gentle in his hair, grounding. “Come on. Let it fall.”

And it did—a thick, warm string of spit slipping from Gihun’s mouth and landing right on the head of Inho’s cock. A sound tore out of his chest, low and filthy, deeply satisfied.

“Good,” he groaned, dragging Gihun’s hand back to wrap around him. His own hand followed, smearing the wetness along his shaft as they moved together. Slow, slick strokes. Spit and precome coating everything.

“More,” he growled, squeezing the back of Gihun’s neck, pulling him closer. “Make it messier, baby. Don’t hold back.”

Gihun whimpered, wrecked and trembling, but obedient. Another warm drop fell from his mouth, followed by another, dripping over Inho’s cock, soaking their joined hands. The slide got louder, wetter, filthier.

“Fuck,” Inho groaned, head tipping back slightly, his jaw slack as he watched the mess spread between their hands. “That’s it. That’s what I want. Just like that. So fucking good for me.”

Pleasure curled through his stomach. He watched Gihun, helpless, panting, caught on every slow grind of their hands like he didn’t know what to do with all that heat building inside him. The way he looked at Inho, head tilted slightly down, gaze dragging up, like he was waiting for direction. Needing it.

Inho spread his legs wider as he guided Gihun off the chair. He followed easily, folding onto his knees between Inho’s thighs like he was made for it. No hesitation. Just settling there, hands on his own knees, mouth slightly parted, breathing hard.

A rough, pleased sound broke from Inho’s chest. His fingers curled deeper into Gihun’s hair, not soothing now, just holding him steady, right where he wanted him. He wrapped his hand around his cock, slow and tight, giving it a few steady strokes. Slick coated the head, spilling down his knuckles as he worked himself, watching Gihun the whole time.

The omega couldn’t look away, his eyes followed every movement, wide and dark, lashes fluttering, lips parted as if he could already taste it. So fucking greedy.

Inho’s grip in his hair didn’t ease. He guided Gihun closer, slow but firm, until his face hovered just above his cock. Their eyes met—Gihun’s still glassy, but hungry—and then Inho moved. He tapped the thick head against Gihun’s flushed face. His cheeks. His chin. The corner of his mouth. Dragging it across soft, heated skin, smearing the mess they’d already made between them.

Gihun flinched just slightly, eyes going wide, lips parting on a soft gasp. But Inho didn’t wait. He guided the leaking tip right up to the omega’s parted lips, pressing it there, wet and heavy.

“There you go,” he muttered, voice low and rough, the words dragging straight from his gut. “Open that pretty mouth.”

His thumb stroked slowly across Gihun’s cheek, affectionate, almost, but everything else in him was coiled tight. He felt the way Gihun trembled, saw the stutter in his breath, the instinct flickering in his wide eyes. A beat of hesitation—embarrassment, maybe. But underneath it, something deeper. Inho knew exactly what would win.

He started slow. He meant to. One hand buried in Gihun’s hair, the other wrapped tight around the base of his cock, guiding that wet, pretty mouth down on him inch by inch. He wanted to feel it all: the stretch of Gihun’s lips around him, the drag of his tongue, the hot puff of breath each time Inho pushed a little deeper.

He wanted to savor it. But fuck, the heat of it. The sound of Gihun gagging soft against him, the way spit started to slick his cock faster than he could think, the way Gihun’s fingers curled into his knees like he didn’t know what else to do with himself—

It was driving Inho insane. His grip in Gihun’s hair tightened. His breathing grew sharp, rough, his hips twitching forward before he could stop them. Just a little more. Just a little deeper.

He groaned low, deep in his chest, and thrust forward—sharp, hungry—the head of his cock hitting the back of Gihun’s throat. The omega’s eyes flew wide, a wet, choked noise bubbling up, his throat clenching tight around him, but he didn’t pull back. Didn’t even try.

Inho’s breath caught. His jaw clenched. Fuck. He stared down at the sight, his cock buried in Gihun’s mouth, lips stretched wide, spit leaking down his chin, those dazed, tear-glossed eyes blinking up at him. He was built for this. Fucking made to take it.

Inho pulled back just enough to let Gihun gasp a breath, the slick stretch of his lips dragging along his cock. He caught a tear sliding down Gihun's flushed cheek with his thumb, smearing it away carelessly as he kept him right there.

"Good boy," he rasped, voice thick, almost broken, pushing the omega back down slow but firm. "You can take it, yeah? Know you can."

Gihun shuddered, a wrecked little noise spilling out around him, his eyes fluttering half-shut. His scent hit the air hard, sweet and needy, omega submission pouring off him now, sharp enough that Inho could taste it. And then Gihun opened wider, hollowed his cheeks, sucked him deeper, not just following anymore. Greedy. Hungry.

Inho groaned, his fingers twisting tighter into Gihun's hair. Fuck, he could feel it, Gihun’s mouth stretching wet and tight around him, tongue working harder now, his whole body trembling with the effort to take more. Precome smeared across his swollen lips, glossy and filthy, and when he whimpered again, Inho felt the tremor shoot straight through him.

"You love this," he rasped, hips grinding forward, feeding more of his cock into that wet, greedy mouth. "Don’t you, sweetheart? Look at you. Fucking perfect."

Gihun’s eyes fluttered half-open again, glazed and unfocused, his throat swallowing hard around him, and the feeling of it sent a brutal spike of heat straight down Inho’s spine. He dragged Gihun’s head faster now, rougher, his cock sliding slick and deep into that tight, messy heat. Couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to.

Fuck, he was going to use that sweet mouth until the omega couldn’t fucking breathe without tasting him.

His grip twisted tighter in Gihun’s hair, hips twitching forward in short, hungry thrusts, chasing the slick heat. The wet sounds filled the room, obscene and loud, the filthy squelch of Gihun’s mouth stretching and sucking. Precome and drool slicked down Inho’s shaft, coating everything in a glistening, messy sheen.

Gihun was panting through his nose, choking softly every few strokes, but he didn’t pull away. He just let Inho fuck his mouth, gasping, swallowing, trying so hard to take it. There were bubbles of spit at the corners of his mouth, thick strings connecting his chin to Inho’s cock every time he pulled back half an inch, before sinking right down again, obedient and desperate.

Inho groaned, low and wrecked. His fingers flexed tighter against Gihun’s scalp, hips jerking, forcing just a little deeper. Heat licked up his spine, his cock throbbing thick inside that messy mouth but not yet. Not fucking yet.

With a low, rough breath, he fisted Gihun’s hair hard and yanked him off, dragging him back. His cock slipped free with a slick, wet pop, a string of spit snapping between Gihun’s lips and his flushed, leaking shaft. Gihun gasped, wrecked, lips swollen, chest heaving, blinking up at him with glassy, fucked-out eyes. Inho stared down at him, panting, cock twitching at the sight.

His hand clamped hard around Gihun’s jaw, fingers digging into flushed, wet cheeks, forcing his mouth open wider. And then he spat—a heavy, wet string right into that gaping mouth—thick and filthy, smearing across Gihun’s tongue.

Gihun let out a tiny, shocked sound, but he didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He just took it, breathing heavy through his nose, letting it pool on his tongue. Inho didn’t even give him time to swallow. He crashed down, sealing their mouths together, tongue shoving in deep, filthy and claiming.

He could taste it, his own spit, Gihun’s wrecked whimpers. Could feel the hot, helpless tremble running through Gihun’s body. The kiss was messy, breathless, all slick noise and desperate heat, Gihun making soft, broken sounds into his mouth as Inho devoured him, deep and slow and merciless.

"That’s it, baby. That’s fucking it."

Inho groaned into the kiss, grinding his cock against Gihun’s flushed chest, feeling the heat and softness of him, the way the omega's body trembled under him. And then Gihun leaned in even more, pressing his chest against Inho’s cock without even seeming to realize it, breath hot, body pliant and needy.

Inho felt the weight of him, that softness, and a dark, hungry thought slashed through his mind. His mouth dragged against Gihun’s ear, voice low and wrecked.

"Give me these pretty tits," he rasped, grinding the leaking head of his cock against the flushed slickness of Gihun’s chest.

Gihun stiffened slightly, a small choked sound catching in his throat, but Inho didn’t give him a second to protest. He pulled him closer, dragging him until his bare chest pressed right against his aching cock.

Fuck. He’d imagined this so many times—at the office, when Gihun leaned over a desk and the collar of his button-down slid open just enough, teasing glimpses of that soft body beneath all the polite clothes. The way his shirts always clung too tight across his chest when he stretched, showing more than he realized. That slender, unassuming frame hiding the sweetest little handfuls—subtle, perfect, made to be touched, squeezed, used.

Gihun swallowed hard, his voice wrecked, stammering like he could still object.

"I—I don’t—" he gasped, shame breaking through instinct for a second. "They’re not—"

Inho cut him off with a low, filthy chuckle, dragging his mouth over Gihun’s temple, breathing him in deep.

"Shh, just try, baby," he muttered, rough and hungry.

He grabbed Gihun’s wrists, forcing his trembling hands up, molding them over his own chest, pressing those soft mounds together just enough, shaping him the way Inho had always fucking dreamed of.

"Hold them," he rasped, grinding his cock up against the slick squeeze of Gihun’s body. "Squeeze, baby. Just like that. Let me fuck these pretty tits."

Gihun whimpered, breath hitching, face burning, but he obeyed, pressing inward, molding himself into the shape Inho needed, his own instincts drowning out the shame.

Inho’s breath broke against his ear, deep and guttural, as he stared down at the sight he’d wanted for so long.

"Good boy," he muttered, voice thick and wrecked. "Good fucking boy."

He shifted forward, grinding the thick, leaking head of his cock between Gihun’s pressed-together chest, just to feel it. Just to lose his mind a little more. Too small, of course, Gihun’s body wasn’t made for this. Wasn’t meant to take him like this.

Inho didn’t give a fuck. He didn’t need perfect. He didn’t need anything but this, the slick heat of Gihun’s skin, the sweet squeeze of him trying so hard to mold into what Inho wanted, the tremble that ran through his whole body as Inho used him.

He dragged his cock across that flushed skin, smearing precome against Gihun’s chest, against his own fingers still wrapped around trembling hands, grinding slow and heavy, letting the mess spread. Gihun whimpered, his breath stuttering, lips parted like he wanted to protest but couldn’t.

Inho felt the shudder ripple through him, felt how hard he made him shake. The sight of Gihun, wrecked and wide-eyed, only made him hungrier.

"That's it," he muttered, voice a filthy rasp, dragging the thick head of his cock up Gihun’s chest again, smearing slick higher. "See? Feels good, doesn’t it?"

Gihun whimpered again, body warm and trembling, his fingers twitching against his own skin as he tried to hold the shape Inho wanted. His slender hands squeezed his chest tighter, shaking as he tried to trap Inho’s cock between the soft heat of his body. It wasn’t perfect, wasn’t even close, but fuck, the way he tried—

Inho could’ve lost it right there. That struggle, the desperate effort to shape himself into what Inho wanted, the wide, glassy look in his eyes; wrecked and open, begging without words for approval. All of it made Inho's cock throb. He gritted his teeth, his breath coming hot and broken, fingers digging into Gihun’s ribs hard enough to leave bruises as he forced him into rhythm. Up. Down. Squeeze. Drag. The friction wet and messy.

"You're so good," he muttered, voice a low, ruined rasp against Gihun’s temple, grinding his cock between the omega's tits. "Just like that."

He felt Gihun shudder at the praise, a soft, helpless whimper spilling from his mouth, his body instinctively pressing closer, squeezing tighter even through the trembling. Even when he was shaking, even when he didn’t know if he could do it right, his sweet omega still tried to gave him everything without even thinking about it.

Inho’s restraint shattered all at once, raw and brutal. He yanked himself away, panting, his cock slipping free from Gihun’s trembling chest, wet and throbbing. Gihun gasped at the loss of contact, a broken, wrecked little noise slipping out of him, his whole body shuddering from the sudden absence.

Inho barely gave him a second to breathe. He stood, looming over him, cock flushed dark, slick, heavy enough to slap against his own thigh. Gihun's lips parted instinctively, tongue darting out in a helpless little flick, and Inho felt his cock jerk at the sight, his nostrils flaring as he caught the sharp, sweet spike of Gihun's scent.

"Yeah, open that pretty mouth," he rasped, wrecked and final. 

Gihun's hand lifted, reaching toward Inho’s cock, wanting to guide him closer but Inho caught his wrist and smacked it back down, quick and firm, just hard enough to make Gihun flinch. The noise cracked sharp between them, a raw little sting—a correction, not a punishment. Gihun froze, breath catching, eyes wide.

"No hands," Inho growled, voice rough and final. "Just your mouth, sweetheart. Hands behind your back."

Gihun swallowed thickly, a visible tremble shivering through him. He dropped his hands, curling them behind his back, offering himself up helplessly. He tilted his chin up, mouth falling open wider, his breath shaking as he tried to stay still, tried to be good.

Inho’s chest rose and fell hard, the alpha inside him snarling in satisfaction. Without another word, he took what was his. He shoved forward, greedy and rough, driving his cock straight into Gihun’s mouth, feeling the stretch of soft lips, the choke of his throat tightening around him, the slick, messy heat swallowing him whole.

He groaned low, wrecked, threading his fingers into Gihun’s sweat-damp hair and holding him there, pushing him all the way down until his nose was buried in the coarse base of Inho’s cock. He held him like that, chest heaving, feeling Gihun tremble, feeling his body instinctively start to loosen, submit, open up around him.

And then he moved. Hard. Deep. Brutal. He drove his hips forward, thrusting over and over into that tight, dripping heat, using Gihun’s mouth the way he needed to. It was filthy, spit running down his shaft, dripping off Gihun’s chin, onto the floor, wet sounds slapping the air between them every time he bottomed out. And Inho didn’t slow down. He couldn’t.

Gihun whimpered around him, soft and desperate, every broken sound vibrating straight up Inho’s spine like a fucking drug. His body rocked helplessly with every thrust, trying to stay upright, trying to take it.

And fuck, he was beautiful.

Flushed cheeks, damp lashes clinging together, lips swollen and stretched wide around Inho’s cock: ruined, wrecked, fucking made for this. Inho’s hand tightened cruel in Gihun’s hair, dragging his mouth half off his cock until just the flushed head was trapped between spit-slick lips.

"Look at me," he growled, voice cutting rough through the wet haze.

Gihun shuddered, barely managing to lift his wrecked gaze, tears tracking down his flushed cheeks, lips still wrapped around the leaking head of Inho’s cock, drool spilling out the corners of his mouth.

"Just like that," Inho gritted out, hips snapping forward again, harder, deeper, grinding into the back of Gihun’s throat.

"Keep looking at me," he growled, his voice ragged. "Don’t fucking look away."

A broken whimper vibrated around his cock, wrecked and desperate, but Gihun obeyed. Inho shoved deeper, fingers fisting tighter in Gihun’s sweat-slick hair, dragging those wide, glassy eyes up to meet his own.

"Don’t you fucking dare," he snarled, thrusting harder, feeling the way Gihun’s throat fluttered around him, stretched open.

And Gihun didn’t. Even with tears slipping loose, even with his breath shuddering in wet gasps through his nose, even as Inho stretched him open, fucked him raw, ruined him from the inside out—he stared.

Inho’s rhythm broke, hips jerking uneven, pleasure ripping through him, too hot, too sharp, boiling over. His body snapped forward once, twice—

He pulled out at the last second, dragging his cock free with a wet pop, fisting it hard.

"Fuck—"

Hot, thick ropes spilled from the tip of his cock, painting Gihun’s face in heavy streaks, across his cheeks, his swollen lips, dripping into the wet mess of his lashes, running down his throat. Gihun blinked up at him, panting through the aftermath, body trembling under Inho’s grip, spit and come dripping down his chin.

The alpha sank down, crouching in front of him, eyes burning as he devoured the sight.

Gihun was wrecked. His face a ruined mess of spit, tears, and Inho’s own release. The sight punched straight through Inho’s chest, hot and brutal, a wave of possession so sharp it almost hurt.

He reached out, rougher than he meant to, catching Gihun’s face in his hand, fingers curling tight against wet skin. His thumb dragged slow across Gihun’s cheek, not cleaning—smearing—pressing the mess in deeper like he could brand it into him.

"You did so good," he rasped, voice wrecked, thick, raw. "So fucking good for me."

Gihun whimpered, a soft, wrecked sound, barely conscious, his body trembling, barely holding itself upright. Inho leaned in, pressing his mouth to Gihun’s jaw, his pulse, breathing him in deep: sweat and slick and the thick, sweet scent of an omega pushed to his absolute limit.

"Come here," he muttered, wrapping strong arms around Gihun’s slack body and hauling him close.

Gihun folded against him with a broken sigh, clinging weakly at Inho’s forearm, like he couldn’t even hold himself up but still wouldn’t let go. Inho grabbed him tighter, rough and greedy, pressing his face into Gihun’s hair, dragging in deep, shaking breaths like he couldn’t get enough. Couldn’t ever get enough.

His hands clenched against Gihun’s back, hard enough to bruise, dragging him closer, closer, like he could bury him inside his own body if he just held tight enough. His cock was still twitching against Gihun’s stomach. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt. His whole body thrummed with a need so vicious it barely felt human.

Inho held him there for a long moment, Gihun heavy and trembling in his arms, before he finally forced himself to move. He needed to get him cleaned up. Needed to keep touching him.

He carried the omega through the suite, into the bathroom, the large marble space glowing soft and golden with recessed lights. The massive soaking tub waited, steam curling up from the surface, already scented faintly with the hotel’s luxurious oils. Without letting go, he reached for the tap, adjusting the water until it ran warm, soothing.

As it filled, he knelt, shifting Gihun carefully in his arms, unbothered by his weight, his hands moving possessively over every inch of him like he still couldn’t believe he had him like this.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he muttered, brushing damp strands of hair from Gihun’s forehead, feeling the way the omega leaned into the touch, pliant, needy, already half-asleep.

He blinked up at Inho, sluggish and dazed—pure instinct now, no fight left—just seeking warmth, safety. Him.

Inho lowered them both into the tub, settling Gihun between his legs, letting his back press against his chest. The moment Gihun felt the water, a soft sigh left him, his body sinking deeper, boneless. Inho wrapped his arms around him, one hand splayed flat against his stomach, holding him close.

"That's it," he murmured, mouth brushing the side of Gihun’s damp temple, pressing a slow kiss there. "Just relax."

He reached for a soft cloth and began to wash him with slow, steady strokes across flushed skin, wiping away the mess they’d made of each other. He was thorough, greedy, cleaning every inch of him. Gihun barely moved. His breathing deepened, his head lolling against Inho’s shoulder, every part of him yielding completely.

It felt natural. Like he was made for this. Like Inho had always been meant to care for him this way: to have him, keep him, protect him.

"You can sleep if you want," he whispered against Gihun's ear, voice softer now.

Gihun made a soft sound and his lashes fluttered shut. Inho felt him melt against his body completely, his scent growing thicker, softer, sweetened with instinctive trust, fully content.

A deep, possessive heat curled in Inho’s chest. He tightened his grip, dragging Gihun in closer, fingers stroking lazy, possessive paths across his stomach, over the curve of his hip, the soft line of his chest. Places that should’ve never belonged to anyone else.

He pressed another kiss to Gihun’s temple, just a firm, grounding touch, like he was marking the spot.

“We’ve got a yacht trip later,” he murmured against Gihun’s skin. “A few people you’ll meet. Important ones. I’ll tell you more when you’re awake.”

Gihun hummed sleepily, barely conscious, his fingers twitching where they rested over Inho's hand. Inho let out a slow breath, closing his eyes just for a moment, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of Gihun’s breathing against him. This was exactly how it should be and soon, Gihun would understand that. Down to his bones.

The yacht was absurd. Everything gleamed like it had never been touched. The breeze smelled like money. Or cologne. Or both. Whatever it was, it didn’t belong to people like him. Gihun stepped on board and immediately regretted it. The soles of his shoes squeaked against the perfect wood. A man in a suit glanced past him like he wasn’t even there. Staff glided by with crystal flutes and perfect posture, smiling just enough to look trained, not real. All of it felt like a set, and he didn’t even know his lines.

He kept his eyes low, just ahead of his feet. Didn’t trust himself to look anyone in the face. His shirt felt too stiff, his collar was already wrong. And he hadn’t even had a drink yet.

"Do people actually do business like this?" he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anything.

But of course, Inho heard.

“You’re still thinking like someone with limits,” he said smoothly from beside him, not looking.

And then his hand was on Gihun’s back, light, almost absent, guiding him forward like that was normal. Like Gihun belonged here. Like this was just another afternoon. Fingers brushed his collar, straightened it without asking. The touch was nothing. Casual. Thoughtless.

It made something hot crawl up Gihun’s throat, left him too aware of the space between his skin and the fabric. Because hours ago, those same hands had been pulling his hair, pressing him open, holding him still while Inho filled his mouth so deep it made his eyes tear. He shifted, instinctive and guilty, but Inho didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did. Because his hand lingered a second too long. Drifted just slightly down Gihun’s shoulder. Polite and public, but impossible to ignore. Then it was gone.

Fuck. Gihun shouldn’t be thinking about this. Not here. Not now. But how the hell was he supposed to forget, when his body was still carrying all of it? His lips felt raw. His jaw still ached. His throat... yeah, he wasn’t even ready to think about that. And Inho’s voice was still there. Thick in his ears. Echoing like it hadn’t left at all. His scent clung to Gihun’s skin no matter how many times he rinsed it off. Like it had sunk into him and wasn’t going anywhere.

It wasn’t the wealth that unsettled Gihun. Not really. Not the wine. Not the fucking gold-lined plates. Not the tables covered in fabric he probably wasn’t supposed to touch.

It was Inho, and the way he wasn’t acting like his boss anymore. And the fact that Gihun had been on his knees for him. That Inho had kissed him after—slow, deep, licking the taste of himself from Gihun’s mouth like he had all the time in the world.

And now? Now they were standing on the deck of a yacht worth more than Gihun had seen in his life, and Inho was still touching him. Still fixing his collar. Still adjusting his shirt like he fucking owned him. There weren’t any introductions when they stepped on board. No titles. No explanation of who Gihun was or why he was here. Just Inho’s hand on his back, guiding him forward.

The alpha didn’t let him drift far. He moved through the space like it belonged to him, barely glancing at the men who nodded as they passed. Gihun didn’t know any of their names, didn’t want to. They didn’t have to say anything. They already knew he wasn’t one of them. One moment, Gihun was lingering near the edge of the deck, unsure, and the next—Inho’s hand slipped into his. Warm and sure and final. Gihun didn’t have time to react. Inho was already walking, already pulling him forward.

And people noticed. Especially the alphas. The ones with perfect posture and too-white shirts. They looked. Some only once, some longer. Their eyes flicked between them, at how close they stood, how easily Inho’s fingers brushed over his wrist when he wasn’t paying attention. At how Inho looked at him. Not like staff, not like someone on payroll, but something else entirely.

The conversation around them didn’t falter, still low and polite, but something beneath it had shifted. Gihun felt it settle over him like a second skin—too warm, too heavy—the slow creep of glances that lingered just long enough to register. No one said anything, no one asked, but it didn’t matter. He could feel the difference in the air, the way something unspoken had quietly locked into place, the way his pulse stuttered with the awareness of being watched, examined, categorized without a word.

He knew he should say something. Step back. Loosen the assumption before it set into something solid. Make it clear, to Inho and to himself, that this wasn’t what it looked like, that it hadn’t meant anything, not really. That he wasn’t—

And then Inho leaned in. 

Not dramatically. Not even enough to draw attention. Just close enough that his warm breath grazed the side of Gihun’s face, just enough to let his scent slip in and press down, possessive and impossible to ignore.

“Relax, darling.”

The words slid in low, steady, like they weren’t meant for anyone else to hear. Gihun stiffened, breath catching in his throat, something hot sparking deep in his stomach and rolling down his spine like an instinct he didn’t want to name. His fingers twitched before he could stop them, and he hated the way his body reacted before his mind could shut it down.

Inho didn’t even look at him. Just smiled faintly like nothing had happened at all, like the tension in Gihun’s body wasn’t something he could feel through the skin. He didn’t let go of his hand. Even as they moved deeper into the gathering, past laughter and crystal glasses and too-smooth voices that knew money the way other people knew air, Inho kept hold of him. Not like a guide or support, but like something he owned.

The yacht was full of alphas, betas, and omegas who didn’t need to say much to be heard. Everyone looked comfortable in their quiet shoes and pressed linen, standing in clusters like they’d all grown up in places where money wasn’t something you chased, just something you had. Conversations drifted past Gihun in smooth, unbothered tones, talk of overseas markets, regulatory changes, whose numbers looked good this quarter. He caught names he half-recognized, headlines he’d skimmed. But none of it felt real.

He knew better than to stand too close or speak too soon. These weren’t rooms you filled unless someone let you. And yet, Inho kept him there. Kept him close. The alpha didn’t say anything, he just pressed his fingers against the inside of Gihun’s wrist, firm and warm, like a signal. It wasn’t dramatic, but Gihun felt it everywhere. It meant stay here. It meant don’t drift.

A second later, Inho shifted the conversation toward him, and Gihun barely had time to process the change before people were looking at him again. His pulse kicked. His mouth went dry. He wasn’t even sure what had been asked.

And then Inho spoke, calm and steady. It hit Gihun right where instinct lived, ugly and deep and hard to swallow.

“What do you think, sweetheart?”

His mouth moved before he’d even figured out how to start. Anything to fill the silence. “I—uh.”

A breath. He forced the rest out before the pause could choke him. “I think the problem isn’t just the market shifts. It’s how fast people react to them. Doesn’t matter if the company’s fine, if it looks messy, if people panic, they’ll dump the stock anyway.”

Silence stretched for a second, too long to be comfortable, not long enough to call attention.

Then a hum. Thoughtful. A nod from one of the older alphas, sharp-eyed, salt-and-pepper hair, wearing the kind of linen shirt that didn’t wrinkle, the kind that said old money without trying. “That’s exactly right.”

Another man leaned forward a bit, younger, maybe mid-forties, cleaner cut, sharper suit. “Not bad.”

Relief flickered in Gihun’s chest, brief and shaky. But before he could really feel it, he felt something else—Inho. The heat of his gaze, the weight of it, the slow drag of his fingers along the inside of Gihun’s wrist again. Just once. Just enough to say it without saying anything.

There you go.

It wasn’t just that Gihun had managed to speak. It was that Inho had expected it, had set it up. Had watched him stumble into it, watched him stand his ground, and had gotten exactly what he wanted.

But then the tone shifted. Another man—older, quieter, someone who hadn’t said a word until now—tilted his head slightly. He’d been watching, not talking. His eyes settled on Gihun for a second too long.

“Your omega has a fresh scent,” he said, like he was commenting on the wine. Smooth, idle. “There’s something about him. Glowing, almost.”

Gihun froze. Choked on nothing. His instinct kicked in fast, he nearly laughed, nearly shook his head, ready to say something, anything, to correct him. He’s not mine. I’m not his. That’s not what this is. But nothing came out. The words stayed stuck in his throat.

Across from him, Inho lifted his glass like nothing had been said at all: took a slow sip, eyes steady, mouth unreadable, like he wasn’t going to clarify a thing. No correction. No denial. Just that faint trace of amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Something turned in Gihun’s stomach. Heat crept up the back of his neck. Not from embarrassment, at least, not only. It was something heavier than that. He could feel it under his skin, pooling somewhere low. His chest felt too tight. His skin too warm.

He wasn’t in heat. He wasn’t emotional. But the moment that man said it, something inside him tipped. His scent was thicker. He could feel it. He could smell it. He didn’t know why. 

He swallowed, hard. His pulse was loud in his ears, and Inho was still holding his hand. Still hadn’t let go. No one pointed it out. No one said a word. The conversation shifted smoothly, off to some new topic he couldn’t follow, and Gihun nodded along like he was still part of it.

His thumb moved, brushing along the inside of Gihun’s palm—slow, deliberate, no real attempt to hide it. And then their fingers laced together, easy, final. Like it didn’t matter who was watching.

Maybe it didn’t. Not to Inho. But Gihun noticed. It was enough, a quiet reminder. They already know. And you will too.

The air was cooler out here. Quieter. They’d left the crowd behind, the sounds of glasses clinking and small talk fading into the background. All Gihun could hear now was the water, slow and steady against the side of the yacht, and the occasional burst of laughter carrying in from the back deck.

The lights from the island were still visible, far off, kind of blurred. They reflected in the water, stretched out and shaky. The wind picked up now and then, carrying in the smell of salt and something faintly sweet, probably from the shore.

He rested his hands on the railing, leaned forward a little, and took a breath. It didn’t help much, but he did it again anyway. The night felt weird. Too quiet. Like it was holding something he didn’t know how to name.

Next to him, Inho leaned on the railing too, looking relaxed. But he wasn’t watching the view. He was watching Gihun.

“This is nice,” Gihun said, keeping his voice low.

Inho hummed, almost like a yes. He shifted just slightly so that their arms touched. The pressure was light, but it stayed. “Last night before we go back.”

Gihun’s fingers curled tighter around the metal rail. He didn’t need the reminder. Tomorrow morning they’d leave all this behind. Go back to what was real. To what was waiting. He swallowed.

“Did you expect this to happen?” he asked, voice quieter than before, turning just enough to catch Inho’s face. The alpha was still watching him, that same faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, like he’d been waiting for the question.

“To me, it felt inevitable,” Inho said, and the way he said it—calm, certain, like it wasn’t even up for debate—made something twist low in Gihun’s stomach.

He looked away, back out over the dark water where the horizon had all but disappeared. He should’ve pushed back. Said something to keep a little distance between them. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Because under all of it, under the hesitation, under the guilt he knew would hit once the sun came up, he felt it too.

Like it was always going to happen.

Gihun’s breath caught when he felt Inho shift behind him, close enough that the warmth of his body pressed in along his back. Not forceful. Just there. Solid and steady. Close enough that Gihun’s body started reacting before he could think better of it, his shoulders loosening slightly, the edge in his scent softening without permission.

“You’re thinking too much,” Inho murmured, voice low against his ear, smooth, almost indulgent.

Gihun let out a quiet breath that might’ve passed for a laugh, but there was nothing funny in it. “Can you blame me?”

Inho didn’t answer right away. Instead, he moved closer, close enough that Gihun could feel the shift of fabric, the brush of breath near his cheek. One of Inho’s hands lifted and slid past Gihun’s shoulder, fingers resting against the railing in front of him. Then the other followed. A loose frame, arms on either side, body behind, the space around Gihun suddenly smaller. He wasn’t being held. Not really. But he couldn’t move, either.

“You’re already leaving,” Inho said, quieter now, voice turning thoughtful. “Already pulling away. Before we’ve even left the boat.”

Something in Gihun’s chest jumped.

“I’m not—”

“You are.” Inho’s tone didn’t change. “You’ve been running from the moment I met you.”

Gihun turned his head, just enough to meet Inho’s eyes. The light caught in them and for a second, Gihun couldn’t read a thing. But whatever he saw still made his breath hitch.

“I don’t—” He stopped, tried again. “I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

Inho’s mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I do.”

Gihun’s fingers curled tighter around the railing. “Yeah. You always do.”

“I do,” Inho said again, steady. “Because I know what I want. And I take it.”

Gihun's body went still. His jaw locked. He didn’t say anything, he just stared, like that might hold him together long enough to get through this.

“And what if I don’t want to be taken?”

Inho didn’t look away. Didn’t even blink.

“You wouldn’t be here if that were true.”

The air left Gihun’s lungs in one sharp breath. Because there was nothing he could say to that. Nothing he could argue. Because Inho was right.

Inho’s gaze shifted, only slightly, but enough for something to pull tight in Gihun’s chest. Then he leaned forward, slow and unhurried, until their foreheads met. He didn’t move past that, didn’t try to kiss him or say anything else. He just stayed there, close enough to feel each breath, close enough that Gihun couldn’t ignore the heat between them.

“You don’t have to run,” the alpha said, quiet.

Gihun’s eyes shut tight. But I do.

The wind moved through his hair, cool against skin that still felt too warm. The water stretched out past them, quiet and dark. Like it was waiting for something. Like it knew he wouldn’t stay. He took a breath. Slow and careful.

Tomorrow, it would all come back: everything he was supposed to be, everything he wasn’t allowed to want. But right now? He leaned in.

The steady hum of the engines filled the cabin, low and constant, but it didn’t do anything to calm him down. Gihun sat stiff in his seat, hands curled into fists in his lap, eyes locked on the dark outside. The sky stretched on without edges, somewhere between night and morning, between where they’d been and where they were going.

He let out a slow breath and leaned forward, resting his forehead against the window. The glass was cold. The lights of Singapore had vanished long ago, swallowed up by clouds and altitude, but the feeling hadn’t left him. The air, the heat, the way that last night had clung to him like it didn’t want to let go. He could still hear Inho’s voice.

You wouldn’t be here if that were true.

A tight shiver ran through his chest. He hadn’t meant to think about it. Had told himself he wouldn’t. That once they were on the plane, it would all reset: no picking it apart, no replaying everything that had passed between them. No lingering in the silence of it. But the second the plane left the ground, everything came back sharper. Clearer. Like the world had snapped back into place and left no room for pretending anymore.

Because he was going home. To Sangwoo. To the life that had always been there.

And somehow, thinking about Sangwoo felt distant. Like he was already on the other side of something Gihun couldn’t name yet.

They hadn’t messaged much during the trip. A few texts here and there, short, surface-level stuff. How’s it going? Fine. Busy. When are you back? Nothing that stuck. Nothing that felt like anything. Gihun had meant to say more. He’d told himself he would. But the days had passed fast, blurred together in moments he hadn’t planned for. Things he didn’t know how to explain.

It wasn’t until that morning, right before the airport, that he checked his phone again. Sangwoo’s last message was still sitting there.

Let’s have dinner when I get back. Onjeong. Just like we used to.

It should’ve felt solid. Familiar. Something steady to return to. But all it did was make Gihun's chest tighten, something sharp turning under his ribs. Was it really only a few days? Because it felt longer than that. Too much had changed. And when he closed his eyes, it wasn’t Sangwoo’s face that came to him.

He locked the phone, holding it tighter than he meant to. His hands were cold. His chest ached. The seat beside him shifted. He didn’t need to look, he already knew it was Inho. The alpha hadn’t said much since boarding, but he didn’t have to. Gihun could feel him. He always could. That steady presence, that calm weight that sat too close to ignore. Even now, with Inho leaning back like none of it touched him, one hand resting near the armrest—close. Not quite touching. But enough to feel. A reminder, a pull he hadn’t shaken off.

“You’re thinking too much. Again.” Inho’s voice was low and even, but there was something under it. Something that saw right through Gihun.

Gihun swallowed, blinking hard, trying to keep the sting in his eyes from going any further.

“I can’t just—” He shook his head, still staring out the window, like looking away from it might undo whatever grip he had left. “I have to think about it. I have to—”

“You don’t.”

There was a shift. Then a hand settled on his knee before he could pull back. Firm and solid. Gihun tensed, his breath catching, but the touch didn’t push. It just held.

“You seemed lighter here,” Inho said, voice casual, like it was barely worth mentioning. But then he turned his head, and his eyes locked on Gihun.

Gihun couldn’t answer. His throat was too tight. The silence sat heavy between them.

The alpha leaned in a little closer, his voice lower now, more deliberate. “You don’t even realize it, do you?”

Gihun glanced over, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Realize what?”

“That you were happy.” Inho looked at him, steady and unflinching. “You’ve been trying to shove it down, explain it away. But that doesn’t change what I saw.”

His hand stayed on Gihun’s knee for a second longer. Then he pulled back. “And what you felt.”

Gihun’s breath caught. His body went tense, jaw tight, like he could hold it all in if he just didn’t move. Because it was true. And he hated how easily Inho could say it. How he could reach right into the part of him Gihun hadn’t even let himself look at.

“And now you’re thinking about him.” Inho didn’t say Sangwoo’s name. He didn’t have to. The shift in his tone was enough.

Gihun’s pulse jumped. “I—”

“I wonder,” Inho said, leaning back in his seat like none of this cost him anything. “Did it ever feel like this? Going home before?”

Gihun exhaled hard, pressing into the seat, hands curled tight in his lap. He didn’t know what to do with the question. He didn’t want to.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It never is.” Inho’s fingers brushed lightly over his knee, then pulled away again.

Gihun stared forward, chest tight. Everything inside him felt off. Too loud. Too much. And none of it easy to name.

Inho looked at him for a while longer, something unreadable in his face, before his posture shifted, not like he was giving in, just… waiting. A little more still. A little more patient.

Then he tilted his head, voice dropping a bit, quieter now. “You should sleep,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of Gihun’s slacks. “You look like hell.”

Gihun huffed out a weak laugh. “Thanks.”

“Always honest,” Inho said, and there was the edge of a smile in his voice. Then, softer, “Close your eyes.”

Gihun didn’t move at first. But Inho wasn’t looking at him anymore. His eyes had drifted toward the dark window, fingers idly moving along the armrest like his thoughts had gone somewhere else. Maybe that was why it felt easier. So Gihun closed his eyes. Not because he was tired. Not because Inho told him to.

Just to hold onto the quiet a little longer. The space between now and whatever came next. The part where nothing had to be decided yet. Because even if he didn’t know what would happen when they landed, he knew one thing.

When he opened his eyes, Inho would still be there.

Chapter Text

Gihun had been wrong.

It didn’t hit him all at once. It wasn’t a shattering, but a slow erosion, each minute ticking them closer to Korean airspace peeling back a layer he’d tried too hard to hold in place. He had closed his eyes on the plane. Not to sleep, not really, but to escape. And for a while, it had worked. The hum of the cabin, the quiet press of Inho’s presence beside him, the warmth still lingering on his knee, it had all blurred into something suspended. Something unreal.

But the descent changed that. With each subtle dip of the aircraft, each flicker of pressure adjusting in his ears, reality began pressing back in. The lights dimmed further. The intercom crackled. Someone ahead rustled through a carry-on. None of it loud. But each sound made his skin prickle, like his body was trying to alert him to something his mind had already begun to ignore. Beside him, Inho shifted slightly, adjusting the cuff of his shirt, his movements as smooth and deliberate as ever. Gihun watched the gesture from the corner of his eye, suddenly aware of just how close they still were. 

The ground was coming. And with it, everything he had tried to keep buried. His seatbelt felt too snug all of a sudden. He glanced at the window, but it was all dark. Nothing to anchor himself to. Just the reflection of his own face, pale and tired, too still.

“Almost there,” Inho said beside him, voice low.

Gihun didn’t answer. His fingers curled slightly against the armrest, nails digging into the fabric.

“You’ve been quiet,” the alpha added, still calm, but watching now. Closely.

Gihun’s throat felt thick. He managed a weak sound, something between a hum and a breath, but it didn’t mean anything. Because how could he explain what was happening? How could he say that the closer they got to home, the less it felt like he had one? That each minute peeling away from that strange, suspended world they’d existed in—where things had been clearer, easier, where Inho’s gaze didn’t feel dangerous but grounding—was a minute further from something he couldn’t bring himself to name.

“Are you alright?” Inho asked finally, quiet.

Gihun’s eyes flicked toward him. “Yeah,” he lied, voice too soft. “Just… tired.”

The man didn’t push. But he didn’t look away, either. The silence between them grew taut, not uncomfortable but watchful, like a breath held too long. And then the plane touched down. Just that—wheels kissing the runway, the usual jolt, the muted chatter of passengers shifting to disembark—but to Gihun, it felt like impact. Like his ribs were rattling loose inside his chest. Like something had been cracked open.

The world tilted back into place. Customs was just lines and forms and the polite choreography of travel, soothing, in how little it asked of him. Gihun smiled when he had to. Bowed politely. It felt like pretending, but no one noticed.

But inside, everything was wrong. The weight of his coat felt off on his shoulders. The brightness of the terminal lights felt like a glare. The scent of the air was sharp, too clean, too familiar. It made his stomach twist. Inho walked beside him in silence, matching his pace without crowding. Too perceptive. Too still. He hadn’t said much since they stepped off the plane. 

By the time they reached the waiting area, Gihun couldn’t take it anymore. His skin felt wrong. His pulse too fast. He was unraveling from the inside and trying too hard to keep it invisible. 

He reached for the suitcase.

“I can carry it—” Inho began, automatically.

“I’ve got it.” Gihun’s voice was soft. Clipped. Not unkind, but final.

The alpha stilled. Just for a moment. His eyes flicked to Gihun’s face, searching, reading.

“Gihun-ah—”

“I should go,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

Inho didn’t respond right away. He was still standing there, unmoved, unreadable. Like he hadn’t expected this. Like something had caught him off guard, and he was recalibrating in real time. 

Something in the air had shifted. Gihun noticed the alpha’s hand twitch—once, maybe twice—as if torn between instinct and restraint. As if he’d meant to reach for him and stopped at the last second. Not for lack of wanting, but because maybe, for once, he sensed something in Gihun he couldn’t override.

Gihun couldn’t handle that look. That gentleness. So he stepped away.

He didn’t run. Didn’t stumble. Just… left. Like it was routine. Like he hadn’t just stepped out of something irreversible. Like his scent wasn’t wound tight with confusion and panic and something else even worse.

Longing.

He didn’t look back, but he felt it: the weight of Inho’s gaze lingering on him, steady and unmoving, not reaching out to stop him, not this time. And maybe that was the worst part.

The doors slid shut. Gihun kept his eyes forward. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore. Just that this didn’t feel like relief.

Reality had come crashing down the moment Gihun stepped through the door. Sangwoo’s scent hit him the second he walked in. Not strong, not fresh, but everywhere. Baked into the air, the furniture, the walls. Unmistakable, inescapable. A presence that lingered even in his absence, wrapping around him like something tangible.

He swallowed hard, rolling his suitcase into the bedroom. His movements were automatic, muscle memory guiding him through the motions, but the second he stepped inside, his feet stilled. His eyes landed on the chair by the window. A dress shirt. Crisp, pressed, neatly draped over the backrest, but worn. Sangwoo had left it there before his trip. Gihun’s throat went dry. His fingers twitched at his sides.

He shouldn’t. He knew better than to do this. But his body moved before his mind could stop it. He reached for the fabric, fingertips grazing the material. And then, before he could stop himself, he lifted it to his face and breathed in. Familiar. Deep. Everything he has ever known. A scent that had once meant home. A scent that had once settled in his lungs like an anchor, keeping him steady, keeping him tethered. A scent that had once meant—

His stomach twisted violently. Because it felt... different. Not bad. Just... unfamiliar. Maybe it was because he had spent too long away. Maybe it was the exhaustion settling into his bones, distorting everything. That had to be it.

He sucked in another breath, desperate, forcing it in. Deeper, deeper, until his chest ached with it. He wanted this to work. He wanted it to be enough. But something inside him recoiled. It was instinctual, quiet and primal. An unease that curled beneath his ribs, whispering something he didn’t want to hear. His omega wasn’t responding. Not immediately, at least. Maybe it was just delayed. Maybe if he breathed in deeper—

A fresh wave of panic clawed up his throat, sharp and suffocating. Because if he couldn’t fix this, if he couldn’t force himself to feel what he was supposed to feel then what did that mean for him? The scent should have settled him. It should have pulled him in, should have filled him with warmth, with security, with everything it used to be. But instead it only made him aware of what was missing. Because his omega still wasn’t responding. It wasn’t soothed or calmed. It wasn’t reaching for Sangwoo. It was silent.

Cold dread slid down his spine. His grip on the shirt loosened. He swallowed against the nausea clawing up his throat. This was a mistake. It had to be. He was just tired. Just overwhelmed. Just—

His gaze flickered across the room. The dresser. Sangwoo’s cologne sat there, untouched. His side of the closet, filled with neatly hung suits, pressed and orderly. The bathroom sink: his razor, his watch, everything in its place. The bed, the same as it had always been. Nothing had changed. And yet, everything had. Gihun stumbled back, as if physically rejecting it. His pulse roared in his ears, his stomach twisting into something unrecognizable. 

This was real. This was happening. And it wasn’t just about what had happened in Singapore. It wasn’t just about the press of a body against his own, about heat, about instinct. It wasn’t about what he had done. It was about what he wasn’t feeling now. About the emptiness, the hollow pit in his stomach, the terrifying realization that he had spent his entire life convincing himself he belonged here. That if he just stayed, if he just kept trying, if he just waited long enough, that it would feel right. But now, as he stood here, drowning in Sangwoo’s presence, surrounded by everything that should have made him feel safe, he realized he had never felt more alone.

Fingers curled into fists, he tried to stop the tremble in his hands, forcing himself to breathe. He had to fight this. He had to push it down, had to bury it deep, had to keep moving. This wasn’t real. He was just exhausted. With a sharp inhale, he dropped the shirt. Let it crumple onto the chair. He turned on his heel, heading straight for the bathroom. 

He just needed to shower. If he scrubbed hard enough, maybe he could wash it away. The scent, the ache, the treacherous part of him that had let someone else touch him. Maybe if he stood under the scalding water long enough, it would burn away the part of him that had wanted it. 

The part of him that still did.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. Gihun lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his body rigid beneath the sheets. The room was dark, but his thoughts were blinding, too loud, too fast, crashing over him in waves he couldn’t escape.

He had showered. Had scrubbed his skin raw. Had buried himself under layers of blankets as if that could shield him from the unbearable weight settling deep in his chest. But nothing helped. The ache didn’t fade. The nausea didn’t pass. His body still remembered. His fingers twitched against the fabric of his pillow because he could still feel it, Inho’s hands, Inho’s mouth, the heat of skin against skin. His scent had clung to him in a way that should have faded by now, should have been washed away with soap and scalding water. But it wasn’t just a scent. It was a brand. A mark left deep inside him.

He squeezed his eyes shut. This was wrong. This wasn’t who he was. He had spent years telling himself that. Years of convincing himself that his life, his choices, his relationship with Sangwoo, that it all made sense. That it was stable. That it was enough. And yet…

His stomach clenched, a sharp twist of something he didn’t want to name. Because tonight, standing in his own apartment, drowning in the familiarity of Sangwoo’s presence even in his absence, he had felt like a stranger. Like he had come home to a place that no longer fit him.

He rolled onto his side, curling in on himself, gripping the sheets like they were the only thing keeping him from falling apart. He had felt lost before but this was worse. This was something irreversible, something written into his body like a truth he had spent too long denying. And the worst part? It had only taken one touch—one voice, one gaze—to shake the foundation he had built his life on. One trip, and everything was unraveling.

He clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling the sob that tore its way out. His heart was pounding, too loud in the silence. He needed to sleep. He needed to wake up and feel normal again. Because some part of him—small and scared, unwilling to let go, too afraid to step into the unknown—still believed this wasn’t how it was meant to be. The weight of Sangwoo’s scent should have settled him. He should have felt warmth, security, the reassurance of belonging. Instead, it had filled his lungs like smoke, thick and suffocating, pressing against every raw, vulnerable part of him until he wanted to claw his way out of his own skin. 

Tears burned at the edges of his eyes before he even realized he was crying. He pressed his face into the pillow, trying to smother the sounds, but his chest shuddered with each inhale, each exhale, until he couldn’t hold it in anymore. A sharp, ragged sob broke free, muffled against the fabric.

Why? Why did this feel so wrong? Why did his own body refuse to listen to him?

He dug his fingers into the sheets, clenching them tight as his shoulders shook. He wanted to force it back down, to shove it all into the darkest corner of his mind and pretend it wasn’t there. But the truth was already carved into him, raw and unrelenting. He had spent years convincing himself that Sangwoo was enough. That he was safe here. But tonight, staring at the ceiling in the darkness of his own bedroom, Gihun realized he had never been safe at all.

What if Sangwoo found out? What if he already knew? The thought alone sent a sharp tremor through him. Because Sangwoo used to know when something was off. Used to notice the small things, the shifts in Gihun’s scent, the hesitation in his voice, the way he moved. He would ask questions. He would watch. He would see through him.

And what would Gihun say? What excuse could he possibly give for the way his body still reacted, to the memory of another alpha’s hands, another alpha’s voice, another alpha’s presence that had unraveled him in a way Sangwoo never had? Because it wasn’t just fear keeping him awake. It was the pull. His omega had latched onto something they shouldn’t have. Someone they shouldn’t have. And the worst part? Some part of him wanted it.

A broken sound escaped him, somewhere between a sob and a desperate exhale. He gritted his teeth, forcing it all down, down, down, until he couldn’t feel anything at all. His body ached. His throat burned. But exhaustion was creeping in, numbing the sharpest edges of his emotions. It was too much. Everything was too much. So he let go. Let himself sink into the emptiness. Let himself go numb.

By the time the first hints of morning light crept through the curtains, his pillow was damp, his chest hollow, his body curled so tightly it ached. But he hadn’t moved. He hadn’t slept. He had simply existed, frozen in the quiet, waiting for the world to start again. And when it finally did, when his alarm buzzed to life and reality came knocking, he didn’t fight it. He got up. Showered. Changed. He hadn’t had time to dwell. 

The weekend swallowed him whole, and he let it. 

Saturday morning, he had spent hours at his mother’s place, helping her with errands she’d been putting off. Groceries, fixing a leaky sink, sorting through old boxes of things she never got around to throwing away. Sangwoo had said it before, that she didn’t need to keep working at the dumpling stall, but now that Gihun had a steady income of his own, he’d been insisting too. He could see the way her shoulders sagged when she thought no one was looking, the quiet winces when she bent down to lift something. He told her he could support her. That she didn’t have to do it anymore. But she’d just waved him off, like always, muttering that the stall kept her sharp. He swore she only kept at it for the company. She fussed over him, of course, but not in the way she usually did.

“You look tired,” she murmured at one point, frowning as she set down a bowl of peeled fruit for him.

Gihun barely reacted, his fingers tightening briefly around the screwdriver he had been using. “Just a long week,” he said lightly.

His mother hummed, unconvinced. “Is it work? That trip must have been exhausting. When I called, you barely had time to talk.”

Gihun forced a small chuckle, wiping his hands on a rag. “Yeah, it was busy.”

She nodded, but her eyes lingered on him a second too long, sharp in the way only a mother’s could be.“Sangwoo said he had a trip too. When is he coming back? Wednesday? Aish, you two must have barely seen each other these past weeks.”

Something coiled tight in his stomach. He didn’t answer right away, didn’t trust himself to.

His mother sighed, shaking her head. “You need to take care of yourself properly. If Sangwoo were here, he’d—”

Gihun’s throat closed.

“—probably say the same thing,” she finished, handing him a napkin. “Make sure you’re eating enough.”

He nodded, forcing himself to swallow past the sudden tightness in his chest. On the way home, he checked his phone. A message from Sangwoo had come through earlier.

How’s your mom? You doing okay?

Simple. Casual. Gihun stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Eventually, he typed something back— She’s good. Just tired. It’s been a long week. Then deleted it. Rewrote it. Settled on:

All good. Just running errands.

A beat later, another message appeared:

Don’t forget to rest too. You’ve looked wiped lately.

Something in his chest pulled tight. He wanted it to feel comforting. Wanted to believe it meant something. But all he could think about was how hard he was working to sound normal. To sound like someone who wasn’t unraveling. He sent a thumbs-up emoji. The conversation ended there. And for a few minutes, he just sat with it, phone in hand, silence thick around him. That strange emptiness pressing in again, worse than before. He needed a distraction. Something to fill the space. Anything.

So when Jungbae called, asking for a last-minute favor, Gihun didn’t hesitate.

It had started with a rushed phone call, something about a weekend shift no one else could cover, a babysitter who’d flaked, and a five-year-old already dressed and waiting by the door. Gihun had said yes without thinking. Not because he had to—he could’ve said no, could’ve claimed plans or exhaustion—but because the thought of spending a silent afternoon in his apartment felt unbearable.

He told himself it was just to help out. Just something to do. But the truth was simpler than that: he needed the noise. The mess. The feeling of being needed by something small and uncomplicated. Something that didn’t ask questions or look at him with suspicion. Something that didn’t smell like Sangwoo’s disappointment or echo like Inho’s voice in his head.

The boy had come barreling into his apartment with a backpack full of plastic dinosaurs and hands already sticky from breakfast. He talked nonstop, switching between cartoon logic and made-up words with the unfiltered confidence only children had. And Gihun, without meaning to, eased into it like second nature. He made pancakes in silly shapes. He knelt to tie tiny shoes with muscle memory he shouldn’t have. He caught himself smiling when the boy mispronounced some words and clung to his hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

The park trip was supposed to wear him out, but it was Gihun who felt disarmed; by laughter that came from somewhere unguarded, by the feeling of little fingers latching onto his sleeve when the swings went too high, by the soft, instinctive way he steadied the boy against his chest when he got tired and fussy. He didn’t think. He just reacted. Held. Soothed. Made space. There, in the late afternoon light, as the boy babbled through mouthfuls of snacks and ran circles around the empty swings, something in Gihun’s body began to quiet, not in any sharp or sudden way, just the slow way the day settled into his skin. 

The weight of a small hand tugging at his sleeve. The warmth of sun on his back as he crouched to tie a shoelace, heard his name spoken in that sugar-sweet, utterly trusting way. He didn’t think about it, not really. But something in him softened, like muscle uncoiling after too long held tense. It was something warm. Something still. Something that made him ache in a place he didn’t have words for.

When Jungbae came to pick him up, the boy had fallen asleep with his face tucked into Gihun’s neck, drooling onto his collar. Gihun didn’t move for a long moment. Just sat there on the couch, heart thudding slow and low, staring at the quiet imprint of something he’d convinced himself he didn’t need.

He showered after, changed clothes, scrubbed his skin like he was trying to wash off the ache, but it lingered. Not guilt or confusion. Just that raw, unspoken longing that had curled up in his chest like a secret. That night, for the first time since the trip, he fell asleep without tossing. But the scent of sugar and sun-warmed skin stayed with him.

By Sunday evening, it was harder to ignore the feeling creeping into his chest. Even when he wasn’t thinking about it— not actively , at least—his mind had a way of drifting back. Back to the dim glow of a hotel room, to the press of a body against his own, to a voice low and steady in his ear. Back to the way Inho had touched him, like he already knew him, like he had never needed permission.

He should have been able to shake it off, to file it away as a mistake, as something left behind in Singapore. But it clung to him, insidious, lingering in ways he hadn’t anticipated. There was something about the way Inho had looked at him, something about the way Gihun’s own body had responded, instinct-driven and traitorous, that wouldn’t settle. It was a whisper at the edge of his thoughts, a pulse beneath his skin, an ache that hadn’t fully dulled even now.

And yet, his omega felt it before he did. A low, instinctual awareness. A restlessness coiled beneath his skin, as if something was missing, as if something was just out of reach. His rational mind fought against it, tried to bury it beneath routine, beneath reason, beneath the quiet insistence that nothing had changed. But the truth was that everything had.

Gihun curled onto his side, pressing his cheek against the cool pillow, but sleep felt like a distant thing, just out of reach, just beyond the edges of his mind. The room was dark, the apartment quiet save for the occasional hum of the refrigerator or the faint tick of the clock on the wall. He should have been exhausted. His body felt it, felt the weight of the weekend, the ache in his limbs from running around, from keeping himself busy, from doing anything but thinking.

And yet, now that it was late, now that the world had slowed, there was nowhere to run from it. 

Tomorrow. He squeezed his eyes shut, his stomach twisting at the thought. Tomorrow, he would walk into work. He would sit at his desk like always. He would see Inho again.

And what then? The fear curled low in his gut, heavy and suffocating. As if what they had done was written across his face. As if the moment he stepped into that office, someone would take one look at him and know. That he had let an alpha touch him, hold him, c laim parts of him that weren’t meant to be claimed. Would they smell it in his scent? Would they see it in the way he moved, in the way he hesitated when looking at Inho? Would they see it in his eyes, in the quiet tremor of guilt that curled beneath his ribs?

What if Sangwoo knew? The thought alone sent a shiver down his spine. He wasn’t sure if it was shame or fear. But then there was the other feeling. The one that coiled beneath the fear, smaller, quieter, but just as persistent. And it wasn’t guilt, or shame, or dread.

It was want.

His hands curled into the sheets, gripping them tightly as his throat went dry. Because despite the fear, despite the shame, despite knowing that this should have never happened, his body still reacted to the thought of Inho. A dull ache settling beneath his ribs, heat curling low in his stomach, a restlessness that no amount of turning over in bed could soothe.

He wanted to see the alpha again. That was the worst part. That was the part that terrified him most. The way his chest tightened at the thought of tomorrow, not just out of fear, but out of anticipation. He wanted to hear that voice again, rich and smooth, always knowing exactly what to say. Wanted to feel the weight of Inho’s gaze, the way he always looked at Gihun like he saw something no one else did. Wanted the steadiness, the way Inho was there, present in a way that felt real, in a way that made the world tilt on its axis.

And what did that say about him? That even now, curled up alone in his bed, guilt heavy in his chest, his body still recognized Inho as something safe?

He exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead into the pillow, trying to drown out the sound of his own heartbeat. Tomorrow, he would face it. But tonight, he lay there in the dark, the fear and the want tangled too tightly together to tell them apart. And when he finally slipped into restless sleep, his scent curled warm and seeking into the empty sheets—searching, longing, reaching—for something that wasn’t there.

Monday felt strange. Not because anything had changed, the office still carried the usual morning sluggishness, the scent of freshly brewed coffee weaving between the soft clatter of keyboards and murmured conversations. The usual faces passed by in the usual rhythms, Hyunju and Jihoon falling into step beside his desk like they always did. But the strangeness wasn’t in them. It wasn’t in the office. It was in him.

Singapore had unraveled something. Even now, even here, he could still feel it, like an imprint beneath his skin. The heat of the city, the press of a gaze that lingered too long, the sharp contrast of intimacy where there should have been distance. And yet, here he was, sitting at his desk, as if nothing had shifted. As if he hadn’t stepped off that plane carrying something he couldn’t quite name.

“So?” Hyunju leaned against the edge of his desk, arms folded, a teasing glint in her eyes. “How was it?”

Gihun glanced up, slow to register her tone. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, one hand still resting on the mouse. “What?”

“Singapore,” Jihoon supplied, sauntering over with a mug in hand. “Unless you’ve already forgotten?”

“Oh.” Gihun blinked, sitting back slightly. His shoulders stiffened beneath his shirt. “It was fine. Busy.”

Hyunju tilted her head. “That’s it?”

Gihun reached for his mug even though it was already empty, fingers curling around the ceramic like it gave him something to hold. “It was a work trip.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth, more polite than real.

“Please.” Jihoon rolled his eyes. “Singapore’s gorgeous. You’re telling me you didn’t enjoy any of it?” He perched on the edge of a neighboring desk, sloshing a bit of coffee over the rim.

Gihun hesitated, caught between the easy deflection and the weight of memory pressing at the edges of his mind. The rooftop view, the scent of salt and jasmine, the warmth of a presence too close in the night air. He cleared his throat. “I mean, yeah, the city’s nice. Had good food. Saw some sights.”

Hyunju hummed, tapping a finger against her chin. “Bet the boss kept you on a tight schedule, huh?”

Gihun forced a chuckle. “You know how he is.”

Jihoon let out a low whistle. “Yeah. Man’s all business. When we traveled with him, it was straight from meetings to the hotel. Barely ate with us.”

Hyunju nodded in agreement. “Yeah, same here. The only time he ever invited us to anything even close to a social dinner was when that overly extroverted CEO complained we weren’t personable enough. Said Youngil’s team came off too cold, too stiff.” She scoffed softly. “Next thing we know, sajangnim’s smiling through a steak dinner, acting like we were some tight-knit crew.”

Jihoon let out a dry laugh. “He even asked me how my grandmother was doing. I hadn’t even told him she was sick.”

Hyunju smirked. “Performance of the year. And right after the contract was signed, it was back to conference rooms and bento boxes.”

Gihun felt something coil in his chest, something quiet and twisting. Because that wasn’t how it had been for him. Not this time.

“Was it like that for you?” Jihoon asked, tilting his head.

Gihun hesitated for a second, just a second, but it was enough for him to feel the weight of it. He thought about the dinners, the wine glasses filled just a little too full, the conversations that stretched longer than necessary. The way the alpha had watched him, studied him, lingered in ways that didn’t feel like business at all. But none of that was something he could say. None of that belonged here, in the safe mundanity of the office.

“Pretty much,” he said, voice even. “Strict schedule. Kept things structured.”

Hyunju sighed. “Figures.”

Jihoon stretched, letting out a groan. “Man, I’d kill for a trip like that. Even if it’s just work, at least you get a change of scenery.”

Gihun smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Because it had been a change of scenery. A change of everything.

Hyunju shifted the conversation, asking about the hotel, the flights, the food. It was easy to answer, easy to slip into the rhythm of small talk, of safe details that meant nothing.

And then Gihun felt it. A presence. A shift in the air, subtle yet unmistakable. That quiet awareness that had settled into his bones, the one that had followed him home, lingering in his blood like something inevitable.

The sensation hit before his brain could process it. A prickling at the base of his skull. The faintest, involuntary hitch in his breath. His stomach clenched; not in fear, not quite, but in something just as urgent. Something instinctive. His body recognized it before he did, a flicker of heat curling low, a subtle tightening in his chest. He swallowed, forcing his muscles to stay loose, to pretend like nothing had shifted but his body knew. His body remembered.

His gaze flickered up, across the room. There he was. 

Hwang Inho stood near the windows, speaking with someone, his posture effortless. The morning light caught against the sharp lines of his suit, the smooth confidence in the way he held himself. But none of that was what made Gihun’s breath hitch.

It was the way his body reacted before his mind could register. The quiet, involuntary pull, like an instinct buried too deep to ignore, heat curling in his stomach, the sharp pang of something between longing and unease. The weekend had passed, and yet seeing Inho now, standing there as if nothing had happened, sent a fresh shock through him. Singapore had unraveled something, and in this moment, Gihun felt every frayed edge of it.

The memory of it clung to his skin. The warmth of a hand lingering too long on his wrist, the scent of the night air, the press of lips that had taken, claimed. He had told himself that with enough time, with enough distance, the haze would clear, the weight of it would lessen. But now, standing in this office, in the broad light of day, he realized the distance hadn’t helped at all.

Then, just for a second, their eyes met.

A flicker, a glance, nothing more. But it stayed. Held. Stretched between them like an unspoken thread, something bound too tightly to pull apart. A sharp jolt ran through him, like something being pulled too tight inside his chest. Heat flushed through his veins, unbidden, his fingers twitching at his sides before he clenched them into fists. His stomach twisted, breath catching for just a fraction of a second too long. It was too sudden, too strong, his omega stirring with something restless, something seeking. His throat went dry. He forced himself to look away. To breathe. To pretend.

Then Inho turned back to his conversation, expression smooth, unreadable. As if it had never happened. As if he hadn’t just looked straight through Gihun, touched him, claimed him, without laying a single finger. As if the moment hadn’t crawled beneath Gihun’s skin and taken root there, heavy and hot and impossible to ignore.

Gihun exhaled slowly, but the breath didn’t settle. His body was thrumming too loud, scent beginning to rise despite every effort to keep it contained. It sharpened at the edges, warm and unsteady. Hyunju’s head tilted slightly, nose lifting in the subtlest gesture. She didn’t say anything right away. Just glanced over at him, thoughtful.

Gihun blinked. “What?”

Jihoon looked up from the files he’d been reading, brow furrowing. “You okay?”

He nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… tired. Thinking about all the work piling up.”

His voice sounded even to his own ears, but the words felt hollow. The desk under his palms was too clean, too still, the quiet hum of the office overhead lighting pressing down on him like static. The faint scent of printer toner hung in the air, neutral and sharp, but it did nothing to mask the lingering trace of something warmer, something that clung to his skin like a memory. He shifted slightly in his seat, as if that alone could shake it off, but it stayed with him, unwelcome and unspoken.

Hyunju glance at Gihun again. This time, her voice gentler. “Oppa, you sure you’re okay?”

She didn’t call him that often, not since he’d told them they didn’t have to bother so much with titles. It landed softly. Familiar and warm. Gihun managed a smile, thin at the edges. “Yeah. Really.”

The conversation drifted back to something lighter, harmless. But Gihun barely heard it. Because even now, even with their voices filling the space, even with the normalcy of the office grounding him… He could still feel it. The weight of that glance. The quiet pull that refused to let him go.

The office was its usual blur of efficiency: faint murmurs of conversation, the muted tapping of keyboards, the rhythmic shuffle of papers exchanged between desks. The return to routine should have felt grounding, a return to normalcy after the surreal haze of Singapore. And yet, Gihun felt anything but settled.

He had made it through the morning well enough. The casual chatter with Jihoon and Hyunju had given him something to focus on, their questions about the trip keeping him occupied, until they had prodded too much about Inho. That had left him shaken in ways he hadn’t expected, his mind caught in a loop of how different the alpha had been with him. But he had laughed it off, deflected where he could, given safe, neutral answers. That had been enough.

For a while.

And then there had been the moment where, mid-conversation, his gaze had lifted, just for a second. He had caught the unmistakable presence of Inho across the room. The CEO was standing near the windows, speaking to someone Gihun barely recognized, his expression smooth and unreadable. And yet, in that instant, as if drawn by some unspoken pull, their eyes met. It lasted only a second before Inho turned back to his conversation, the moment dissolving like mist. But Gihun felt it, the way something inside him coiled, the way his breath stilled before he forced himself to move again.

Now, standing at the coffee machine, he let out a quiet breath, gripping the cup a little tighter than necessary. He had been expecting this all morning, waiting for the inevitable moment when Inho would come to him, when the weight of what had happened between them would finally manifest into something real again. But he hadn’t expected how his body would react at the first sound of that voice, smooth and measured, slipping into his space as if it belonged there.

“You seem tired.”

The words weren’t just an observation. They carried weight, slipping into Gihun’s space with an intimacy that felt deliberate. There was no teasing edge, no arrogance, just something steady, something quiet.

The sound of the alpha’s voice sent a ripple down Gihun’s spine, a quiet, instinctive shudder that he barely controlled. His breath stilled, his heartbeat too loud in his ears. There was something about it—the cadence, the deliberate ease—that pressed against something raw inside him. His skin prickled with awareness, his body momentarily at war with itself, wanting to step back and step closer all at once.

Gihun turned slightly, his grip tightening around his cup. Inho was beside him, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other reaching for his own coffee. He wasn’t looking directly at Gihun, but he didn’t have to. His presence was enough.

“Didn’t sleep much,” Gihun admitted, forcing his tone to stay level.

Inho hummed, a low, knowing sound, taking a slow sip of his drink. “No,” he said eventually, voice quieter now, like it was meant only for him. “I imagine you wouldn’t.”

The air between them thickened. It wasn’t what Inho said, but how he said it. Like he already knew, like he had spent the past days feeling it too, turning it over in his mind the same way Gihun had. It sent something curling low in Gihun’s stomach, something uneasy, something that felt too much like longing.

“Did you at least keep yourself occupied?” Inho asked, tilting his head slightly, the casualness of his words a contrast to the way his gaze lingered.

Gihun exhaled, steadying himself. This was normal. This was work. There was no reason for his stomach to twist, no reason for his omega to stir, restless and wanting. It had been a mistake. A lapse. A stupid, reckless mistake.

He should forget it. Move on. It was nothing.

But his body refused to believe that.

“Spent Saturday with my mother," Gihun finally said, forcing his voice to stay even. “Helped her with some things around the house. Then my friend called last minute and I watched his kid for a few hours.”

Inho nodded, but something in his expression shifted. A flicker of something unreadable, something deeper. “You always take care of others,” he murmured. “But did anyone take care of you?”

The question nearly made Gihun flinch. His grip on his cup tightened, throat suddenly dry.

“Don’t start,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Inho didn’t push. He only watched, eyes dark, expression unreadable. And then, seamlessly, effortlessly, he spoke again.

“And Sangwoo?”

The words were careful, measured, but Gihun still felt them settle in his chest like a quiet challenge.

“He’ll be back Wednesday evening,” he said, voice neutral.

A beat of silence. Not long. Just enough.

“Mm.” Inho nodded, as if the answer was nothing, as if it was only a passing thought. But it wasn’t. They both knew it wasn’t.

And when he moved the conversation forward, slipping effortlessly into something work-related, Gihun knew that nothing about that exchange had been casual. Because long after Inho left, after his scent faded from the air, after the conversation had passed, Gihun was still standing there, staring into his cup, pulse unsteady.

The meeting room hummed with quiet anticipation, the low murmur of conversation underscored by the occasional rustle of paper or the soft tap of a pen. Every seat was filled: department heads, team leads, a few senior analysts, and project coordinators from comms, legal, and marketing. It wasn’t often Inho summoned this many people at once, especially not first thing on a Monday. Whatever this was, it mattered.

The Singapore trip had ended, but something had undeniably shifted. The office buzzed with whispers: speculation about deals, about Inho’s meetings overseas, about how tightly sealed the information had been. Nothing official had reached Jihoon, Hyunju, or Gihun. Just quiet tension and a growing sense that whatever had happened out there was bigger than expected.

Gihun adjusted his tie, trying to ignore the restless hum beneath his skin. He’d barely begun to settle back into routine before being pulled once again into Inho’s gravity. Now, seated between Jihoon and Hyunju, he listened to the ebb and flow of hushed voices around the long conference table, catching the occasional glance aimed their way, curious and measuring. Even the senior staff looked unsettled.

The glass doors clicked open.

Hwang Inho entered with the effortless composure of someone who never needed to raise his voice to command attention. The room fell silent, as if instinctively holding its breath. He wore a navy suit so sharply cut it made everyone else’s look slightly undone, and his gaze, when it swept across the room, was sharp, assessing. It landed on Gihun for a breath longer than necessary, just enough to make his skin tighten beneath his collar.

“I assume you’re all wondering why I called this meeting,” Inho started smoothly, his voice carrying the easy authority that made people listen.

No one answered. Hyunju and Jihoon exchanged a quick glance, but the rest waited, alert.

The alpha exhaled a quiet chuckle, leaning back slightly. “Singapore was productive. More productive than I let on.” He tapped his fingers against the polished wood before turning his gaze toward Hyunju and Jihoon. "While you were here, we secured a deal with Hanseong Group. It was finalized before I left, but now, execution begins.”

A quiet rustle moved through the room. Pages shifted. Chairs creaked. Gihun blinked. Hanseong Group? When did he—

“You secured that?” Jihoon asked, brows raising. “Before leaving?”

“Of course,” Inho replied, that familiar smirk deepening at the corners of his mouth. “We gave them what they needed, before they had time to realize they couldn’t build it themselves.” He let the silence stretch just long enough to imply I gave them that , without question.

A few heads turned toward one another: Director Choi from Comms, someone from Product Strategy, a legal analyst tapping her pen once against her notepad, pausing just long enough to register the significance.

Hyunju exhaled, crossing one leg over the other. “That’s… not small. Their market reach is huge.”

“It is,” Inho agreed. “And now, we handle it. Which is why you’re here.”

He gestured toward the neat stacks of folders laid out in front of him. A subtle motion, but precise. Work. Heavy work. There was a collective shift, like everyone was sitting just a little straighter.

Jihoon exhaled audibly, already rubbing his temple. “I knew it. You’re about to drown us, aren’t you?”

A few muffled laughs flickered around the table, tense, but real. Someone near the front muttered, “Hope you brought life jackets,” and a soft chuckle followed from somewhere in Legal. Even Inho’s lips twitched faintly, though it was hard to tell whether it was amusement or satisfaction.

“Gihun-ssi will be leading the strategic rollout.”

There was a beat of silence. A pause that didn’t feel planned.

“Me?” The word slipped out before Gihun could catch it, too sharp, too startled. It landed in the middle of the table like a mistake. 

His spine went rigid. Eyes flicking up, scanning the alpha’s face, searching for some flicker of humor. A smirk. A joke. Anything that would make this less real. But Inho didn’t blink. He just looked at him, brows faintly raised, tone composed.

“Is there an issue?”

Gihun’s mouth opened, closed. “No, I just—” He glanced down at the project files, heart hammering. His voice felt too loud in his own ears. “I didn’t expect…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t. Because this was a major initiative. High-level. Cross-departmental. The kind of thing a department lead would usually get tapped for, not someone like him. 

Across the table, Director Choi from Communications looked up sharply, lips parting like she might interject, then she did.

“With respect,” she said, measured but firm, “he’s still an EA, isn’t he?”

The air in the room dipped colder. A few heads turned, subtle, but enough for Gihun to feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck.

“That’s a pretty high-stakes handoff,” she added. “No offense, but… he’s never led a rollout before.”

“She’s not wrong,” someone else muttered down the table. “It’s not exactly entry-level.”

Gihun’s pulse spiked. His hands, hidden under the edge of the table, curled into his slacks. The instinct to shrink down, to apologize for being chosen, itched up his throat like second nature. But the alpha didn’t flinch.

“I’m aware of his title,” Inho said coolly. Then, after a pause, measured and deliberate, he continued. “I’m also aware of his work.”

A beat. Then another. And then—

“He’s the one who noticed the mismatch in the Q4 client summary while helping prep my board slides. Quietly flagged it. Could’ve made us look sloppy if it had gone out.”

Gihun’s head lifted slightly, startled. That… hadn’t even been logged officially. He remembered hesitating before sending the correction, half-convinced he was overstepping. He hadn’t thought anyone would actually read it, let alone remember.

“During the team coordination backlog in February, he wasn’t assigned to anything, but he stepped in to help logistics sort through calendar conflicts. Found a solution no one else had considered, just by listening to what each department actually needed.”

A prickle crawled up the back of his neck. That had been in the middle of a chaotic week. He’d only helped because no one else was free, and everyone seemed frustrated. He hadn’t thought it was anything more than… being useful. He didn’t think it was the kind of thing the CEO would bring up months later. Not like it meant something.

“And when Hyunju was sick, he offered to sit in on the Yongsan call. It wasn’t his client, wasn’t his role. But he remembered the project notes and adjusted on the fly. I got a follow-up message from their VP the next day. Said he was the first person from Youngil who actually listened.”

Gihun’s mouth went dry. That call had rattled him. He’d left it thinking he’d barely kept up. He hadn’t even been sure he’d done enough to avoid embarrassing the team. The idea that it had left a good impression, enough for a VP to follow up, made his fingers tense around the folder in his lap.

Jihoon let out a soft whistle. “You got an email about that?”

Inho didn’t look away from Gihun. “I get a lot of emails about him.”

There was a pause. Someone shifted in their seat. Gihun could feel every eye in the room now, some surprised, some reassessing. The heat in his ears was starting to spread down his neck.

“But,” Inho continued, voice quieter now, more thoughtful, “it’s not just what he does.”

That got everyone’s attention.

“It’s how he does it. He doesn’t take up unnecessary space, but he holds it when it matters. Reads a room better than most managers I’ve seen. Knows when to speak, and when not to. And somehow—” his gaze flicked briefly to the rest of the table “—people want to talk to him. They tell him things.”

Hyunju chuckled under her breath, leaning forward with her elbow propped against the table. “You remember that compliance liaison from Seonjin? The one who refused to confirm anything on record?”

“Oh yeah,” Jihoon said, lips twitching. “Until Gihun hyung brought her tea and asked about her kid’s school. Suddenly she’s sharing internal timelines like we’re family.”

“She sent him a selfie with her dog the next day,” Hyunju added.

Gihun’s ears burned. “That was just… basic decency.”

“No,” Jihoon said, grinning. “That was witchcraft.”

A few quiet chuckles rolled through the room. Even Director Choi’s expression had eased slightly, more curious than skeptical now, like she was watching a puzzle shift into place.

Gihun sat stiffly in his seat, unsure where to look. His throat felt too tight. How long had they all been noticing things he’d dismissed as irrelevant? Things he’d chalked up to luck, or instinct, or just… surviving the day without messing up.

“I didn’t think anyone was… keeping track,” Gihun murmured, too softly for most of them to hear.

But Inho did.

“I was,” he said, voice low.

And somehow, that made Gihun feel even more exposed. There was no praise in it. No flattery. Just the plain fact that he had been watched, studied, assessed. Noticed. Not just as part of the team, but as himself.

“It suits you,” Inho added, like it was obvious. “Your sense for people. Your timing. The way you get things done without demanding credit. That kind of discretion is hard to teach.”

Then, a pause.

“And frankly,” he said, folding his hands atop the table, then turning slightly, just enough to face the room, to make sure they were all looking—“I trust him.”

That landed harder than anything else. The room didn’t tense, it simply stilled, like the weight of it had nowhere else to go. It wasn’t a compliment. It was a verdict. 

Final. Unchallenged.

Gihun sat there, still stunned, while a quiet ripple of unspoken understanding moved around the table. And just like that, it wasn’t a discussion anymore.

There was something unreadable in Inho’s gaze as he watched Gihun. Something that felt just a little too deliberate, like a quiet nudge toward something he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to touch yet. Gihun swallowed, fingers tightening around the edge of the folder.

“I won’t disappoint,” he said finally.

Inho’s eyes gleamed. “I know.”

The alpha’s gaze swept the room again, this time with purpose. “Choi, your team will handle the comms rollout. I want internal messaging aligned before external materials go out. Yuna, coordinate with Marketing. Targeted campaigns only. No noise.”

A shuffle of movement, a few quick nods as people took notes.

“Legal will liaise directly with Hanseong’s compliance officers,” Inho added. “We don’t move unless every document is airtight.”

Then, without missing a beat—

"Jihoon, you’ll be handling the financial oversight. Hanseong’s budget allocations need thorough review, and I want no surprises. Hyunju, you’ll coordinate with their internal teams. Make sure the transition is seamless.”

As the conversation between Inho, Jihoon, and Hyunju deepened—talk of financial oversight, coordination strategies, and internal logistics—Gihun found himself slipping, his grip on the present loosening just slightly. He should have been listening, should have been focused, but instead, his thoughts kept circling back.

Back to the way Inho had looked at him when handing him the assignment. To the weight in his voice when he said It suits you. To the way something settled deep in Gihun’s gut, a foreign sensation creeping through his limbs. Not unease, not exactly, but something else. Something that made his throat dry. It wasn’t that Inho had given him the responsibility. It was that Inho had expected him to take it. That certainty, the way the alpha had spoken as if he already knew Gihun would step up. It had done something to him. Something he didn’t want to name.

“…You don’t give them any reason to question our efficiency," Inho was saying, his voice smooth, deliberate. Gihun blinked, forcing himself back into the present. He nodded, pretending he had been following, pretending his chest didn’t feel too tight, his pulse too erratic.

But as the meeting continued, as Inho turned his attention to the others around the table, Gihun knew he wouldn’t be able to shake this feeling off so easily.

The meeting room emptied quickly after Inho dismissed them, employees gathering their files and murmuring amongst themselves as they filtered out. 

Jihoon let out a sharp exhale, stretching his arms above his head before slumping into his chair dramatically. "Well, that’s that. Looks like we won’t be seeing sunlight for the next few weeks."

Hyunju snorted, flipping through her own folder with a critical eye. "Speak for yourself. I’m not the one who has to deep-dive into Hanseong’s labyrinth of financial records." She glanced at Jihoon, lips twitching. "Hope you like spreadsheets."

"Hope you like managing their incompetence," Jihoon shot back, smirking.

Hyunju only hummed in response, but her eyes drifted, not toward Jihoon this time, but to the head of the table where Inho had been sitting just moments ago. Her gaze lingered there, thoughtful.

“That was… a lot,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.

Jihoon looked up. “You mean the rollout?”

“No,” she murmured, flipping her folder closed. Then, after a pause, her gaze shifted to Gihun. “I mean how he talked about you.”

Gihun blinked, caught off guard.

Hyunju tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing—not critically, but curiously. “You okay there?”

Gihun blinked, only then realizing he was still clutching the folder like a lifeline, fingers pressed tight against the edges. The paper had warmed under his grip, but the weight of it felt heavier than it should’ve, like something more than just documents.

"Yeah," he said, though his voice felt distant even to himself.

Hyunju shifted her weight, crossing her arms loosely as she looked at him. "You get that this is big, right?"

Gihun frowned. "Of course I do."

"No, I mean, big big," she emphasized. "This isn’t just another client or a simple transition. Hanseong is one of the most influential conglomerates in their market. This deal? If it goes well, it’ll solidify our company as a dominant force in the industry. And you’re in charge of the rollout."

Jihoon let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Damn. When you put it like that."

Hyunju shrugged. "Just saying. I don’t think Hwang sajangnim would’ve given you this if he didn’t think you were capable, but…" She tilted her head. "You ready for that kind of pressure?"

Something in Gihun tightened. Not in fear, not in doubt, but in recognition.

He had been here before. Not in this exact situation, but in this feeling. The edge of something, the precipice of responsibility. He had sat across from Inho in Singapore, discussing risks, discussing adaptability, discussing what it meant to be more than what people expected. He had felt this before, this stirring in his chest, this slow bloom of realization that he could do this.

He could take the weight. Because despite everything, despite the tangled mess of emotions, despite the unresolved tension that still hummed beneath his skin whenever Inho so much as looked at him, Gihun remembered why he had been chosen in the first place.

Because he was capable.

The thought settled, grounding him. The lingering uncertainty in his gut didn't disappear entirely, but something steadier coiled beneath it.

"I can handle it," Gihun said, and for the first time since stepping off that plane, he meant it.

Jihoon raised a brow, rocking back slightly on his heels. “Well, damn. That was convincing.”

Hyunju smirked. "See? That’s the attitude you need."

Gihun exhaled, shaking his head. "Don’t hype me up too much. If I mess this up, I’ll be the one drowning in shame."

Jihoon scoffed. "Nah, if you mess this up, we all drown. We go down with you, hyung."

Hyunju clapped Gihun on the shoulder, grinning. "No pressure."

Despite himself, Gihun laughed. It was easier than he expected.

The three of them lingered near the conference table for a moment longer, the weight of their responsibilities pressing in, not in a suffocating way, but solid and undeniable. It was heavy, but it was theirs. 

And for the first time in a while, Gihun felt something close to exhilaration.

The office had finally begun to empty out, the remnants of a long, grueling day settling into a quiet hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional shuffle of footsteps. Gihun exhaled as he stepped into the elevator, his body heavy with exhaustion, the weight of the day pressing against his skin. It had been a demanding first day back: meetings, projects, catching up on everything that had built up in their absence. But he had managed. More than managed.

He had felt it. The shift. The spark of something familiar, something he had almost forgotten he was capable of. The thrill of work that mattered.

The doors were beginning to close when a smooth voice cut through the air.

“Hold it.”

Gihun stiffened, but his hand moved before he could think, pressing the button to keep the elevator from shutting. And then Hwang Inho stepped inside.

The alpha didn’t even hesitate, taking his place beside him, close enough that the faint scent of his cologne curled in the small space between them. He looked composed, of course he did. But there was something beneath it. The subtle weight of exhaustion, the sharp edge of a long day. It suited him in a way it shouldn’t. Like power made him sharper, more refined, more untouchable.

The doors shut, and the elevator began to descend. A thick silence stretched between them. Gihun could feel it, the presence of something unspoken, something waiting. He wasn’t sure what made him do it. Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the leftover heat of the day still thrumming beneath his skin, but he turned his head, glancing at Inho.

“You really think I can do it?”

The alpha didn’t react at first. But then he let out a quiet hum, the kind that was more amusement than surprise. “You’re just now asking me that?”

Gihun swallowed. “You gave me the lead role in a major deal. Just a few months ago, I was struggling to adjust. I don’t even know when you closed that deal in Singapore, but somehow, you knew, you already had this planned.”

Inho tilted his head slightly, studying him. “You doubt my judgment?”

Gihun exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “No. I just…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s a lot.”

Inho’s gaze didn’t waver. If anything, something in it darkened, like he was weighing his words, measuring them, as if he was deciding just how much to say.

“You don’t see yourself the way I do,” he murmured, voice lower now, more deliberate. “You don’t realize how naturally people gravitate toward you. How easily you adapt, how quickly you learn. I knew you’d be capable before you did.”

Gihun’s breath caught slightly. There was something too heavy in those words, something that lingered in the space between them, curling beneath his ribs. It was more than just professional praise. It felt deeper, more personal. They stood close, closer than they should’ve been. The world outside the elevator blurred to nothing. Just static beyond the walls, faint and distant. Inho’s gaze dipped, slow and careful, as though it took effort to hold it steady. And then—

The alpha’s hand moved. Barely. Just enough that his pinky brushed against Gihun’s knuckles, grazing them with the lightest touch. A fleeting connection. Intentional. Excruciating in its restraint. Like something out of an old film, aching with all the words left unsaid. A silent question hanging between them, pulsing in the quiet like a second heartbeat.

And then, softer than before, like it hurt to admit:

“I was thinking about you through the weekend.”

The words landed heavy in the small space between them. Gihun’s stomach clenched, the ground beneath him feeling unsteady for half a second. His breath faltered, just enough for him to notice, just enough for him to hate it. A slow, curling warmth pooled low in his belly, foreign and unwelcome, setting his nerves on edge. His omega responded before he could shut it down, a quiet pulse of something treacherous. He inhaled sharply, as if to steady himself, but Inho’s scent lingered between them, pressing against his instincts like a hand at the small of his back.

It was too intimate, too much. The alpha wasn’t supposed to say things like that here. Not in this setting, not when they were standing side by side in an elevator where anyone could—

“Coming back felt like a goodbye. I just didn’t realize it at the time.”

Inho’s voice came again, quieter this time. And it sounded like he wasn’t finished. Like there was more on the edge of his tongue, something heavier, something that might’ve unraveled everything if given the chance.

Gihun didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His voice, when it came, was barely audible.

“It’s easier this way.”

A breath. A beat. Then Inho again, sharper now, almost too fast.

“Easier for who—?”

The doors slid open, and a small group of employees stepped inside, their chatter cutting through the air like glass. The alpha didn’t step away, but everything about him shifted. The weight behind his gaze vanished. His voice, when he greeted the newcomers with a nod, was cool and clipped. All trace of that moment, of him, was gone.

Gihun inhaled shakily, staring straight ahead. Had anyone noticed? He didn’t dare look at Inho, but he could feel his presence beside him, the alpha’s easy control slipping seamlessly back into place, as if the moment between them had never happened at all. But Gihun knew better. And so did Inho.

The elevator continued its descent, but the weight of unspoken words remained, thick in the air between them. Gihun wasn’t sure which part of him was more terrified, the part that wanted to run from it, or the part that didn’t want to let it go.

Then the doors slid open. Hwang Inho stepped out first, not looking back, disappearing into the evening with the same effortless composure as always. And yet, the scent of him lingered. It curled around Gihun’s senses, warm, grounding, entirely consuming. Before he could stop himself, his breath hitched, chest expanding, instinct reaching for something it shouldn’t. The moment stretched, his body betraying him—searching, craving, inhaling.

Then, realization hit. He exhaled sharply, forcing it out, like purging something dangerous from his system. Shaking himself, he stepped out of the elevator.

The next two days passed in a blur of movement and measured silences. Gihun buried himself in work, his focus sharp, his hands steady as he tackled the tasks Inho had given him. There was satisfaction in it. The reminder that he was capable, that he could step into this world and not just keep up, but excel. He found himself absorbed in strategy documents, cross-checking figures, analyzing projections. It should have been enough to keep his mind occupied.

But there were moments. Fleeting, inescapable moments when he felt it. Inho watching him. Never too openly, never pressing. But always there. A glance across the office floor, the weight of a gaze that lingered just long enough for Gihun to notice before it was gone. The subtle, unspoken awareness between them stretched taut, a thread woven through the hours, through the meetings, through the hum of conversations that blurred into background noise whenever Gihun caught a glimpse of him. It wasn’t just Inho’s presence. It was the waiting. The stillness. Like the alpha was letting him breathe, letting him settle, but never letting him forget.

There was something in the way Inho held himself around him lately: deliberate, quiet, restrained. As if some instinct deeper than reason told him to pause, not because he wanted to, but because something in Gihun had shifted, and he hadn’t quite figured out how to follow.

And it wasn’t like Gihun was indifferent.

He tried to ignore it. Tried to lose himself in the work. But his body, his instincts, had other plans. Some traitorous part of him felt Inho before he even saw him. The air seemed heavier when the alpha was nearby, something shifting in the atmosphere, pulling his attention like gravity. He hated it. Hated the way his pulse stuttered when he passed Inho’s office and saw the man standing inside, speaking with someone, his posture as effortlessly composed as ever. Hated the way his body reacted before his mind could remind him of everything that was wrong about this.

And then there was the text. It had been late in the afternoon, when his focus had been at its peak. The project files had consumed his thoughts, his fingers moving swiftly over his keyboard, immersed in the steady rhythm of productivity. Until his phone buzzed. A simple notification, a message that should have been easy to ignore.

Except it was from him.

Hwang Inho: Tell me, Gihun… has it been easy to concentrate?

Gihun had stared at the screen, a flicker of heat licking up his spine before he could suppress it.

He didn’t need to ask what Inho meant.

It was maddening; the casual ease of it, the way Inho was still reaching for him, still slipping through the cracks of his carefully controlled days. Not demanding attention. Not forcing anything. Just… present. A quiet, insistent reminder that he was still there. That what had happened in Singapore wasn’t something to be forgotten.

Gihun hadn’t responded. He had put his phone face-down, forced himself back into work, but the damage had already been done. His focus was fractured, the weight of that simple message curling into his mind like an ember that refused to go out. 

And now, as he stepped outside the office, the crisp evening air cooling the back of his neck, he exhaled slowly.

Tonight. Sangwoo would be back tonight.

The thought sent a ripple of unease through him. It wasn’t fear, not really, not if he didn’t name it. And it wasn’t anticipation either. Just something knotted and sharp, something that made his stomach twist and his chest feel unbearably tight. He tried to picture it, the moment Sangwoo walked through the door, the first glance, the first words exchanged. Would he be different? Would he feel different? Or would it all be the same? The same cycle, the same patterns, the same quiet absence disguised as presence.

And what would he do? 

Gihun’s fingers curled into the strap of his bag as he walked toward the metro station, the city buzzing around him, its hum of life too loud against the noise already in his head. He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. Relief? Dread? A desperate, clinging hope that things could go back to what they were?

But do you even want that?

His steps slowed. His throat felt tight. Because for the first time in years, the answer wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t instinctive. It wasn’t the steady, resigned yes he had always told himself. And that terrified him more than anything else.

The apartment door clicked shut behind Sangwoo with a quiet finality. Just like that, he was back. Gihun had spent the day preparing himself, mentally rehearsing a dozen casual greetings, trying to remind his body what normal felt like. He had told himself it would be fine. That he would smile, ask about the flight, help with the suitcase. That it would feel like coming home.

But the second Sangwoo stepped into view, standing tall in the entryway, suitcase in tow, jacket draped neatly over one arm, his crisp suit untouched by the long flight—something in Gihun’s chest twisted.

Sangwoo looked... satisfied. Maybe even proud. The faintest smile tugged at his mouth, that familiar glint in his eye as he set down his bag.

“Ah,” he exhaled, rolling his shoulders, the line of his body easing into the space like he’d never left. “That went better than expected.”

Gihun didn’t respond. Not yet. His body was too still, too tight. Because instinctively, shamefully, he felt it again, the quiet recoil. That pulse of guilt, thick and immediate, crawling into his gut and making itself at home.

When Sangwoo stepped closer, Gihun felt the way his body tensed before he could stop it. The man smelled like airplane cabins, recycled air, pressed cotton. And underneath it, unmistakable, the scent of an alpha. Familiar. Meant to ground. But it didn’t. Not anymore.

Sangwoo tossed his keys onto the counter, stretching his arms above his head. “Three deals closed. One more in the works. I thought I’d have to drag that Shibuya rep through the mud, but he folded on day two. Could’ve stayed another few days, he wanted to meet again, poor bastard, but I told him he’d have to fly to Seoul next time.”

He chuckled, the sound deep, confident. The kind of laugh people leaned toward. The kind Gihun used to find comforting. Now it sounded like something he should respond to but couldn’t. His jaw was tight. His heart beat too loudly in his ears.

Sangwoo continued, shaking his head. “Those idiots from the firm kept fumbling the restructuring, of course. I had to sit through four different versions of the contract before they finally understood the margins. But they got there. Eventually.” He gave a little shrug, that familiar self-satisfied tilt of the lips. “They always do.”

He grinned, that easy, self-satisfied smirk, like he had conquered something. And maybe he had. Gihun knew this version of Sangwoo well. The alpha who thrived on control, on winning, on the quiet, effortless assertion of dominance. It was the side of him that drew people in, the side that had once made Gihun feel safe, like he was tethered to something solid, something immovable. And now all he could feel was the way his stomach clenched, the cold weight of guilt seeping in, thick and suffocating.

Sangwoo finally exhaled, running a hand through his hair before his gaze flicked to Gihun properly for the first time. “So,” he said, voice softening just slightly. “How was your trip?”

Gihun’s fingers curled slightly at his sides. He had known this was coming, had braced himself for it, and yet, his pulse still jumped. A flash of heat, shame, something dark and sick curling inside him.

He forced himself to meet Sangwoo’s gaze, to hold it steady. “It was… fine.”

Sangwoo tilted his head, the smile not leaving but sharpening at the edges. “Just fine?”

“Work was busy,” Gihun said, avoiding his gaze. “Kept me occupied.”

Sangwoo didn’t react immediately. He studied Gihun for a moment longer, his expression giving nothing away, but something in his posture shifted, just slightly.

“You barely said anything when we texted,” he pointed out, voice smooth, unreadable. “And now you’re giving me the same vague answers. What, was it that boring?”

Gihun swallowed. “Sorry.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Sangwoo stepped closer, and something in the air shifted, quieter, heavier. “I just thought you’d call,” Sangwoo said, the words dropped lightly, like a passing observation, but Gihun caught the edge beneath it. “Not even to complain. It was your first business trip, after all.”

He smiled, casual, but there was something off-kilter in the way his gaze held. “Figured you’d want to talk. Tell me how it went. Ask if I was eating properly.” A soft, pointed laugh. “You always used to worry about that.”

There was a pause, just long enough to sting.

“I was tired,” Gihun said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The air between them stretched, tension curling at the edges. Gihun felt his pulse in his throat, each beat heavy, weighted with something he wasn’t ready to name.

“Was it that stressful?” Sangwoo pressed. “Did something happen?”

“No.” The answer came too quick, too sharp.

Sangwoo arched a brow. Gihun forced himself to ease, to smooth out his expression, to soften his voice when he spoke again. “It was just… busy. Long days, a lot to do. That’s all.”

The alpha studied him, gaze lingering, searching for cracks. He was still for a moment too long, like he was weighing his options, deciding whether to let it go or keep pressing. He stepped forward again, slow and careful now, gaze scanning Gihun’s face. “You don’t look like yourself,” he murmured. “You’re pale, darling. Your eyes are… off.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“I told you… Long days,” Gihun muttered. “Bad sleep.”

The silence that followed was thick with something unspoken. He was reading Gihun, trying to connect the pieces, even if he didn’t quite know what they were. And underneath it all, Gihun could feel it: Sangwoo’s instinct, coiled behind his restraint. Testing the air. Measuring the temperature of the bond between them. Wondering what had changed.

And then, finally, he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “If you say so.”

Gihun’s shoulders tensed with something that wasn’t quite relief.

But Sangwoo wasn’t finished. He stepped closer, fluid and sure, like the conversation had been foreplay to something softer. His hand dipped into the inner pocket of his jacket, not rushed, not hesitant, but smooth, deliberate. Gihun braced for more words, another comment, another search for cracks. Instead, Sangwoo’s fingers found his chin. A gentle touch, practiced. Familiar. Not rough, never rough, Sangwoo didn’t need to be. His grip was confident, steady and Gihun’s breath caught in his throat.

Gihun used to like this. Used to lean into it. But now, the weight of it sat heavy on his skin. His stomach clenched, a pulse of resistance rising before he could suppress it. His body tensed, just faintly, just enough. Sangwoo tilted his face higher, thumb brushing along his jaw with quiet intent. His eyes were unreadable, but his mouth curved in something between a smile and an assessment.

“You’ve been like this recently,” he murmured, low and smooth, the scent of him curling into the space between them. “Distant. Slippery.”

There was no accusation in his tone. Just observation. Confidence. That bone-deep certainty that he would pull Gihun back in, the way he always did. His thumb skimmed Gihun’s lower lip, absentminded, like he was already imagining him kissing back.

“But,” Sangwoo added, his voice softer now, almost amused, “you agreed to dinner, at least.”

Gihun swallowed, pulse stuttering. At first, the reason escaped him. But then he remembered. He’d said yes the moment he landed, as if the very act of stepping back onto familiar ground was enough to remind him of who he was. Who he was supposed to be. The dread came slow and creeping. A splinter under the skin. And maybe that was why he agreed so quickly, because replying to that text, clinging to something routine, was easier than admitting what he’d brought back with him. Because saying yes was a way to keep the fear from settling. A way to pretend nothing had changed. But now, standing here, that certainty felt worn thin, barely holding shape beneath the weight of everything he couldn’t say.

The alpha’s grip didn’t tighten, but it held. His hand tipped Gihun’s head ever so slightly, eyes dragging over every feature like he was memorizing the shape of him again. 

“I’m glad you said yes to Onjeong,” he said, voice dipping. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Since we went somewhere just for us.”

There was a quiet warmth in his voice, laced with nostalgia. The kind of tone that pressed just the right buttons: memories, comfort, history. The kind of tone that used to make Gihun feel wanted. Chosen. And for a moment, it almost worked. The memory of those quiet dinners in the early days, the way Sangwoo used to peel mandarins for him at the table, press his hand against the small of Gihun’s back like it was second nature, it flickered in his chest, unwanted. The early days. The quiet dinners. The way Sangwoo used to be; how, back then, things had felt different. Easier.

The alpha knew exactly how to weaponize that. He let the silence settle, just long enough to be intimate. Then he let go—elegantly, without fuss—and reached into his pocket again.

“Here,” he said, tone easy, like nothing had happened.

Gihun blinked as Sangwoo placed something in his hand: small, delicate, gleaming in the dim light of their apartment.

A pin.

It was beautiful, crafted with clear intention. A smooth, polished piece of gold, shaped into a sleek, abstract design, intricate yet understated. The edges were lined with the faintest glimmer of black enamel, deep and rich, catching the light in quiet luxury. Small, yet significant. Refined. Something to be worn on a lapel, a collar. Something that would sit close to the heart.

Gihun stared.

“I saw it in Ginza,” Sangwoo said casually, but his eyes never left Gihun’s face. “Thought of you.”

The metal was cold against his fingers. It made Gihun’s stomach twist. And then Sangwoo stepped forward again, slow and careful, like he was closing in on something fragile.

“Let me,” he said, already reaching, already brushing back the fold of Gihun’s collar. His touch was gentle. Intimate. Practiced. His fingers moved with precision, fastening the pin in place like he’d done this a hundred times before.

Once, Gihun would have welcomed the weight of Sangwoo’s touch, the quiet press of something meant just for him. He had felt it before, the small, careful gestures hidden beneath Sangwoo’s usual indifference. Like that scarf, soft and deliberate, something to remind him of Sangwoo throughout the day. Back then, when Sangwoo had placed it in his hands, Gihun had felt warm, like he belonged to something steady, something that meant more than words could say.

And when Sangwoo had kissed him that night, slow at first but firm, claiming, possessive, Gihun had let himself believe it. Let himself sink into the moment, into the press of Sangwoo’s hands, into the rare, fleeting illusion that he was wanted. But now, standing here with Sangwoo’s fingers brushing over his collar, fastening the pin in place, all he felt was the quiet, creeping weight of ownership. The pin wasn’t a gift. It wasn’t a gesture. It was a mark. A reminder of where he was supposed to stand, of who he was supposed to belong to.

Something inside him tensed, coiled, pulled away even as he stayed still. He swallowed hard. Sangwoo’s knuckles brushed his throat, deliberate, almost reverent. And then he stepped back just slightly, inspecting his work, eyes lingering on the pin before sliding back to Gihun’s face, satisfied.

“There,” he murmured. “Looks good on you.”

His voice dipped at the end, like it meant more than the words themselves. Like it was a promise. A warning.

Gihun barely breathed. His instincts should’ve leaned in. Should’ve softened beneath that voice, that scent, that weight of familiarity. But instead, they bristled. Silently. Invisibly. Beneath the skin. Sangwoo didn’t notice. Or pretended not to. He reached again, hand lifting with quiet authority to brush a stray strand of hair from Gihun’s temple, thumb lingering just a second too long against his cheekbone.

And when he kissed him, it wasn’t rushed. Nor was it forceful. It was slow, lingering, meant to reaffirm. Sangwoo’s hand moved to cradle the back of Gihun’s neck, thumb stroking the skin there like he could coax the omega back into his orbit with pressure alone.

Gihun let him. Because he had to. Because this was what he knew. Because it had always been like this.

But his body felt too still. His pulse too loud in his ears. The kiss lingered, waiting for something that didn’t come. And Gihun, with his mouth pressed to Sangwoo’s, waited for the warmth that used to be automatic.

It didn’t come.

His hands didn’t move, didn’t reach for Sangwoo the way they were supposed to. The press of lips against his own felt too careful, too deliberate, and deep down, he knew… It wasn’t the kiss itself that made his chest feel tight. It was the fact that he had to remind himself to respond. Had to tell himself that this was good, that this was normal, that this was his alpha. But the lie sat heavy on his tongue. The more he tried to force it, the more something inside him resisted.

He let it happen. Because what else could he do? Sangwoo’s hand slid to his nape, fingers pressing, holding, his body solid against the omega’s. 

And Gihun hated himself. Hated the way his stomach turned, hated the way his mind rebelled. Hated that under the press of Sangwoo’s lips, his body still remembered something else. Someone else. And yet, he kissed back. Because this was normal. Because this was who he was supposed to belong to.

Sangwoo pulled back only slightly, just enough to let their breath mingle. His thumb traced the edge of Gihun’s jaw, slow and warm, eyes watching him the way a man looks at something he owns but hasn’t held in a while.

“You’re so tense,” he murmured, voice low, coaxing. “Too much work, hmm?”

He leaned in again before Gihun could respond, brushing another kiss to the corner of his mouth, soft, coaxing, like the kind you give someone before you ask for something.

“Too many late nights, too little sleep.” Another kiss, this one to the edge of his cheekbone. “You need a break, hyung.” His voice dropped further, silk-wrapped. His hand curved behind Gihun’s nape, grounding. “After things calm down at the firm... I’ve been thinking. We should go away. Just the two of us.”

Gihun blinked, startled, not by the idea, but by the way the alpha said it. So casually, so gently. Like it had been sitting there in his mind for a while.

Sangwoo smiled against his skin, nudging their noses together. “Somewhere warm. Quiet. No work. No phones.”

Another kiss. This one to the hollow of Gihun’s throat. His fingers pressed lightly at his waist.

“I could book us a private villa,” he murmured. “Remember that place in Jeju?” Sangwoo said lowly, lips brushing Gihun’s neck. “You liked the pool there. Spent all afternoon in the sun, kept asking if I had sunscreen for your nose.”

Gihun swallowed. The memory made something ache. The alpha tilted his head again, catching Gihun’s mouth in a deeper kiss, still gentle, still slow, but weighted now with something else. Possession. Reassurance. Intention.

“You’ve been working too hard,” he said between kisses, each word slow and measured, “and I don’t like seeing you like this.”

Another kiss. To his jaw.

“You need rest.”

Another. To his temple.

“You need me.”

He lingered there, breathing in. Letting the quiet between them hum.

“I want to take care of you,” Sangwoo said, and he meant it. In his way. “Really. Let’s go. Just you and me.”

Gihun couldn’t move. Not because the alpha held him in place, he didn’t. His touch was gentle, reverent even. But the weight of his presence, the closeness, the quiet certainty in his voice—it wrapped around him like silk, like a memory, like a pressure he hadn’t known was building.

Sangwoo brushed his thumb along Gihun’s lower lip again, gaze soft now, admiring.

“You don’t have to decide now,” he added. “Just think about it, hmm?” And then, quietly, like it was a promise: “It’d be good for us.”

Sangwoo leaned in again, pressing a softer kiss behind Gihun’s ear now, his mouth brushing warm against skin. His hands were moving, not just to hold anymore, but to feel. To remind.

“Maybe you feel off because your cycle’s creeping up?” he murmured, lips dragging slowly down Gihun’s neck, pausing at the slope of his shoulder. “That would explain it.”

Gihun said nothing. His throat worked as he swallowed.

He was older now and his heats had always been irregular, ever since his late twenties. A few months here, half a year there. His doctor had said it wasn’t unusual. The older an omega got, the more unpredictable things became; cycles lengthened, the instinctive tides softened, receded. It wasn’t something he liked to think about.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it came soon,” Sangwoo continued gently. His hand cupped Gihun’s waist, fingers sliding around to his lower back. “And you know how you get, baby. Always restless. Always needy. Always so warm and soft by the second day.” He chuckled, quiet, indulgent. “Hard to work with you when you’re like that. Can’t keep your hands off me.”

Gihun’s chest rose with a shallow breath. Sangwoo’s palm trailed lower.

“But we’ll manage,” he said. “We always do.” His voice dipped to something huskier, something darker.  

No, we don’t. You say that like it’s true. Like you’ve always been there. 

“I’ll take care of you when it comes. You won’t even have to ask.” 

There were times you weren’t there. When I waited. When I needed you and told myself I didn’t. 

Sangwoo’s hand cupped over Gihun’s ass then, firm, possessive, like it belonged to him. His other hand curled at the back of the omega’s neck, drawing him in again for another kiss, this one deeper, longer. His tongue flicked against Gihun’s lower lip, then licked up to the curve of his jaw, slow, deliberate.

“You remember how you get,” he whispered, lips brushing the space just above Gihun’s gland. “Second day in, and you're always trembling. Desperate. Practically begging.” His teeth grazed near the hollow of Gihun’s neck, where the skin thinned, where instincts pulsed just beneath the surface. “Maybe this time… we don’t stop.”

The words were casual. Teasing. Like he hadn’t said anything at all. 

But Gihun froze.

Sangwoo’s hand slid from his ass up to his waist again, dragging him close, keeping him there. “You want that, don’t you?” he murmured, kissing along his scent gland now, lips warm, tongue just barely tasting. “To just let go this time. Just me and you.”

“Maybe this time…” his voice softened, coaxing, “we don’t stop halfway. No barriers. No careful timing.”

Then, quieter still, almost to himself, almost like he was testing the words on his tongue—“Maybe it’s time.” 

The tip of the alpha’s tongue traced a lazy circle behind Gihun’s ear. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Gihun’s eyes fluttered closed for a breath, something deep and old and painful uncoiling inside him. Because yes. He wanted that. Had wanted it for years. And Sangwoo knew. That was the cruel part. He always knew. 

And then, without warning, Sangwoo’s fingers dipped lower, slow, deliberate, slipping into the crease of Gihun’s clothed ass, cupping between his thighs with quiet entitlement. His fingertips pressed, firm and unhurried, right against the hidden seam of Gihun’s body. Through the fabric. Right over where he knew it would ache.

“I haven’t knotted this hole in a long time,” he whispered, voice like silk and smoke. “Haven’t filled you properly. Not in the way you like.”

He says it like it was choice, like they’d done it often. But they hadn’t. Not really. Not the way he’s pretending now.

Gihun’s breath caught. His eyes fluttered shut, a pulse of heat, and then shame, rising too fast beneath his skin. Because of course Sangwoo had touched him there. Again and again. But it was the way he said it now, like it was some treasured memory, some familiar ritual, when for years, he had always found reasons not to. Excuses soft as velvet, laced with logic and timing—my knot’s too sensitive, we should be careful, now’s not the best time—but Gihun had known, even then, what it was really about. The bond. The risk. The closeness Sangwoo could never quite stomach. And now, suddenly, he remembered? Spoke like it meant something? Like he wasn’t the one who spent years pretending it didn’t.

Here he was, speaking like it was his. Like he had the right. Like Gihun would fall back into place. Because yes. A part of him ached for it. For the weight, the heat, the knot, the promise. For the bond that Sangwoo always dangled just close enough to touch, never close enough to keep.

But something inside Gihun felt cold now. Hollow.

“I’m tired.”

The words came soft. Unwilling. But final. Sangwoo stilled.

His hand, still curved possessively around the swell of Gihun’s ass, went slack for just a breath. The silence that followed stretched too long to be nothing. His lips hovered near Gihun’s skin, parted like he’d say something—deny, coax, press—but the words didn’t come. Not right away.

And then, slowly, he drew back. His hand left Gihun’s waist with practiced ease, fingers smoothing down his side like he hadn’t just been groping him with the clear intent of staking a claim. His expression was unreadable, no flare of offense or visible wound, but something flickered in his gaze. Not anger. Not confusion. Just the smallest tilt of dissonance, as if the script had been interrupted and he hadn’t quite prepared for the alternate ending.

He huffed a small breath through his nose, masking the pause with a chuckle, low and easy.

“Of course,” he said, voice soft, unfazed on the surface. He brushed a kiss to Gihun’s cheek, lingering longer than he needed to. “You’ve barely had a moment to breathe.”

And then, quieter, lips grazing skin like he was still holding onto something, he added, “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

The space between them felt different now. Not quite tense, but not right either. Like a missed step on familiar ground. Gihun was already stepping back, already moving, already leaving the heat of Sangwoo’s body behind like he needed air. He didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. The heat of Sangwoo’s presence still clung to his skin, clung to the fabric of his clothes, clung to the back of his neck like a touch that hadn’t quite faded. It followed him into the hall, quiet and steady, not demanding, but there. Just like it always had been.

And for a moment, as he reached the bedroom door and wrapped his hand around the handle, Gihun told himself it was enough. That this—the routine, the familiarity, the way things fell back into place—could be enough. If he let it. If he stayed.

He opened the door without a sound, stepping inside. The bedroom was dim, untouched, holding the shape of them like it always did. And Gihun stood there for a beat too long, trying to find something in the quiet to hold on to. Something that still felt like his.

They didn’t talk much after. Not really.

Just the soft rhythm of getting ready for bed, the unspoken ritual they had followed for years. Familiar steps taken in silence. The brushing of teeth side by side, the folding of clothes, the hum of the humidifier kicking on. Sangwoo had said something, something about a client’s follow-up, about needing to email someone in the morning, but Gihun barely registered it. His mind was somewhere else. His body, too. But his hands still moved like they always did, pulling back the sheets, tucking them just right, placing the glasses case on Sangwoo’s side of the nightstand.

The alpha was already half-settled in bed, back propped against the headboard, one arm draped lazily across his stomach. He adjusted his glasses next, two fingers at the bridge, a precise little motion Gihun had seen thousands of times. Then he read for a few minutes, silent and composed beneath the soft glow of the bedside lamp. When he finished, the book landed on the nightstand, and the alpha took off his glasses, folding them with care. With his left hand, always his left, he turned off the light.

It didn’t mean anything. Not really. And yet it hurt. Because it was the same. Exactly the same. 

And Gihun… wasn’t.

Now, the room was still. Dim and cool, the city glow bleeding faintly through the blinds, stretching over the floor in soft white lines. Gihun lay on his side, eyes open, watching Sangwoo sleep beside him. The alpha’s breathing had evened out quickly, deep and steady. One arm tucked under his pillow, the other curled loosely toward the center of the bed. He looked younger like this. Softer, quieter. And Gihun’s chest ached with something bitter and sweet and utterly unnameable.

He let himself stare. 

And then, quietly, the memories came. Not in a rush. Just one, and then another. The way they always did when he was tired, stretched thin, when the room was too quiet and there was nowhere left to run.

He remembered the afternoon Sangwoo told him he got into SNU. He hadn’t celebrated, not like others would have. No shouting. No triumph. Just a quiet little nod, a hum of satisfaction, like it was inevitable. Like he’d expected it all along. But Gihun had seen it, had seen the pride behind his eyes, the way he clutched the acceptance letter a little too tightly. And he’d grinned, had grabbed Sangwoo by the face and kissed his cheek like an idiot, giddy and proud. “You’re gonna kill it,” he’d said. “Just don’t forget me when you’re rich.”

And Sangwoo hadn’t laughed, but he’d smirked, just slightly. “I’ll buy you lunch.”

It was stupid. But Gihun had believed it. Back then, they had both been full of belief.

He remembered the winter his mother fell, how she had broken her wrist on the stairs and he’d been a mess, scrambling between work and hospital visits. How Sangwoo had stepped in without being asked. Paid bills, drove her to follow-ups, even stayed overnight once when Gihun had the flu. She’d called him “dependable.” Gihun had never said it out loud, but he’d thought it too.

For a long time, he’d thought of Sangwoo as the one who would always step in. 

He remembered something older, deeper. The way Sangwoo had once stepped between him and his father in a narrow kitchen full of broken silence and stale beer. The man had been shouting—something about money, about weakness, about omegas who couldn’t keep a household together—and Gihun hadn’t said a word. Had just stood there, frozen, watching his mother shrink beside the stove.

And then Sangwoo, still just a student back then, had walked in.

He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t touched him. But he’d stood there—broad-shouldered, calm, unshaking—and for the first time in what felt like forever, the room had gone quiet. His father had sneered, muttered something under his breath, but he’d backed down.

Later, Gihun’s mother had cried silently while washing dishes. Gihun had sat on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, trying to understand what it meant, what it felt like, for an alpha to step in and not make things worse. It had stayed with him. That weight. That safety. The simple, staggering reality of someone choosing to stand up for them.

He remembered quieter things, too. The small rituals they’d fallen into when they got together: sleepy Sunday mornings, laundry days, the way Sangwoo always separated the towels just so. How he always made Gihun’s coffee first, even though they both drank it. The little notes in Gihun’s lunchbox back when Sangwoo still found it charming that he wanted to work, before he got set on the idea of providing for both of them, before it started feeling like a point of tension. Notes that said things like Don’t mess it up or Try not to trip over your own feet today. Half a tease, half a nudge. They’d made Gihun smile.

He remembered holding Sangwoo’s hand in a dark movie theater. The cheap seats. His fingers warm and dry, the quiet press of a thumb over his knuckle. He remembered how Sangwoo used to look at him, like he was the one thing that made sense in a room full of noise. And maybe that was what hurt the most. Because there had been love, once. Or something close enough to pretend it was.

And now… Now Sangwoo slept beside him, the lines of his face softened by sleep. His lashes casting faint shadows on his cheekbones. Gihun studied every line. Every detail. The faint crease between his brows. The curve of his lips. The rise and fall of his chest.

He used to find comfort in that. In knowing that this—this man, this room, this bed—was his life. He’d spent so long trying to hold onto that comfort.

I should tell him.

The thought pressed against the edges of his mind, heavy and unrelenting. It had been there all evening, shadowing every glance, every silence, every brush of routine between them. Here, in the quiet of their room, with Sangwoo asleep beside him, the words hovered like a storm just out of reach. Not easy words. Not clean ones. But the kind that could split a life in two.

Still, he didn’t speak. 

Because deep down, he knew what would happen. Sangwoo wouldn’t hear him. Not really. He’d hear the words, maybe, but not the meaning. Not the ache underneath. Not the fact that Gihun had felt small. Forgotten. That someone else had made him feel like more than an afterthought, and for once, he hadn’t turned away from it.

He’d try to explain. But what could he even say? That he hadn’t meant to? That he’d just needed something, anything, to remind himself he still existed as more than a fixture in Sangwoo’s life? That he wanted to be seen, touched, wanted ? Sangwoo would make it about the betrayal. About the optics. About the shame of it. 

And maybe worse than that, maybe the real reason he couldn’t say it, was that if he did, it would make it real. He would have to admit that it hadn’t been just a moment. That it had meant something. That he was no longer loyal. No longer clean. That he had wanted something else, and reached for it. That he hadn’t stopped it.

He’d have to say: I’m not happy. I’m not whole. And I don’t know how to be, with you.

And that truth, spoken aloud, would crack something open he couldn’t put back together. Because even now, even after everything, some part of him still wanted to be chosen.

There was fear, too. Not just of Sangwoo, but of what came after. The years they’d spent together. The way their lives were wrapped around each other like roots. The friends who thought they were solid. The family who asked when they’d settle down. The version of his life he had held onto because it was easier than starting over. If he said it, he’d lose all of that. He’d be the one who wrecked it.

So instead, he said nothing. And silence became its own kind of guilt. Its own kind of weight.

He blinked, slow. And then, almost gently, he reached out and brushed his fingers over the edge of Sangwoo’s pillowcase. Not touching him. Just the space near him. Just the air between them.

The silence stretched and Gihun closed his eyes.

Maybe tomorrow, he’d remember how to want this again. And maybe that would be enough.

Chapter Text

Gihun stepped into the office with the same practiced nod to the receptionist, straightening his bag and smoothing his shirt out of habit. He moved a little more carefully than usual, making sure not to drop anything, pausing just long enough at the coffee machine to look busy. Everything in its place. The sunlight was sharp against the floor, the air buzzing with the same low chatter and clack of keyboards as any other morning. 

It was an ordinary day. Or at least, it should have been.

He had barely reached his desk when the weight of the day pressed against him. Emails had already begun piling up: status reports from last week’s meetings, a reminder from Jihoon about the budget breakdown he was supposed to review, and a flagged message regarding an upcoming call with a regional executive from Daewon Tech. Someone high enough that, months ago, Gihun had stumbled through their first interaction—fumbling details, mixing up files, flushing with embarrassment when the man had cut him off mid-sentence. He’d hung up that day convinced he was going to be reported.

But he hadn’t been.

Now the same man always answered with a laugh in his voice, teasingly calling him “Youngil’s secret weapon” before getting down to business. Gihun didn’t understand it, not really. He only tried to be polite, asked about the weekend and tried to sound like he had things under control. Whatever it was, it worked, apparently. He still didn’t know how.

He inhaled deeply, bracing himself, settling into the rhythm he’d learned would keep him steady. Work was grounding. Work was familiar. And here, at least, he knew what was expected of him.

Then Hyunju’s voice cut through the hum of the office.

“Whoa.”

Jihoon turned, blinking at him before tilting his head. “That’s new.”

Gihun glanced up from setting his bag down, confused for half a second before he realized where their eyes had landed. 

The pin.

A small, polished gleam at his collar, subtle yet undeniable. The moment stretched too long. He felt the weight of their gazes, the quiet curiosity behind them.

“Fancy gift,” Hyunju noted, her tone light but assessing. “Looks expensive.”

He forced a chuckle, brushing his fingers over the edge of his desk as if that would ground him. “It’s nothing,” he said, too casual, too quick. “Just a gift.”

“From who?” Jihoon asked, brows raising.

Gihun shrugged. “Sangwoo. Picked it up on his trip.”

It should have been simple. An easy answer. But something in him curled uncomfortably at the way Hyunju and Jihoon exchanged a glance. He ignored it, turning back to his work, forcing himself to slip into the familiar motions of the day. But the pin was there. Heavy. Unshakable. And he wasn’t sure why he had put it on.

He hadn’t planned to wear it. Hadn’t thought it through. Not really. That morning, in the quiet fog of dressing, his hands had moved almost unconsciously. Buttoning his shirt. Smoothing his collar. Reaching for the pin where it sat tucked inside the tray on his dresser. His fingers had closed around it without hesitation, fastening it in place with a care he didn’t dare question.

It wasn’t conscious. It wasn’t deliberate. Or maybe it was.

Maybe, in the quiet, exhausted haze of last night, when he had crawled into bed with the weight of everything pressing down on him, he had made some quiet promise to himself. That he would try. That he would hold things together, keep them from slipping through his fingers. That if he could just put one foot in front of the other, if he could just keep moving, then maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.

Wearing the pin was a pitiful attempt to quiet the shaking thing in his chest. To ground himself in something that felt familiar, predictable, tangible. Something to anchor him to the life he was supposed to want. A desperate grab for structure, for normalcy, for anything that would stop the ache in his chest from curling tighter.

Because when everything else felt like it was slipping out of his grasp—his instincts, his body, his sense of right and wrong—the pin had been something he could control. A symbol. A promise. A placeholder for the version of his life he wasn’t ready to lose yet.

Even though it felt like he was only deluding himself, clinging to the hope that a pin could hold his life together, he reached for it. 

All it really did was remind him how far he’d drifted, how much of himself he was pretending to be, just to keep up the act. Still, he wasn’t ready to let that go—not yet.

His hand tightened around the pen, pressing harder than he meant to as he scribbled a note. He told himself to focus, to keep his eyes on the page, but his attention kept slipping sideways, pulled toward the glass doors of Hwang Inho’s office. He didn’t even know what he was hoping to see, or prove. The lines he’d written blurred, impatient and cramped, as if the pen could force the thoughts out of him. He exhaled sharply, jaw clenched.

Maybe he had put it on as proof. That he hadn’t changed. That things hadn’t changed. That the life he had spent years building hadn’t already begun to slip away from him. But the longer he wore it, the more it felt like something else. Not a promise or a reminder. A tether.

His fingers brushed against the smooth metal absently, restless. He caught himself in the reflection of his computer screen, his face blank, the pin stark against the fabric of his shirt. It suited him. That was the worst part. It looked like it belonged there. Like it had always been there. Like he was exactly who he was supposed to be.

He couldn’t stand to look at himself any longer.

The hours slipped by without distinction, one bleeding into the next. Notifications chimed. Keys clicked. Someone laughed too loudly near the copier. Gihun barely looked up. He kept his eyes on the screen, fingers moving with mechanical precision, answering emails, reviewing documents, hoping the steady flow of tasks might keep him afloat.

It didn’t. But going through the motions was better than feeling the weight of it. Anything was easier than facing the knot beneath his ribs, the dull taste of coffee, the stretch of his skin, or the way his hand shook when he reached for the mug—as if even that required more calm than he had.

Hyunju approached his desk just as he finished skimming through a document. "Hwang sajangnim wants to see you."

He looked up. "Now?"

"Yeah." She glanced down at the stack of files she was holding. "He’s swamped, barely looked up from his work. Sounded like he needs you to handle something urgent."

He nodded, rising from his chair and swallowing past the dry tightness in his throat. His hand drifted to his shirt, straightening it without thinking. The pin glinted under the office lights, catching his eye for just a second too long before he forced himself to look away. As he walked down the hall toward Inho’s office, his steps felt heavier than they should have.

When he stepped inside, the alpha barely acknowledged him at first. He was standing by the conference table, flipping through documents, pen in hand, eyes moving fast over the page. 

“There’s an inconsistency in the financial summary from the merger packet, someone from Jihoon’s team must have copied last quarter’s figures or—”

He broke off suddenly.

Gihun, eyes on the documents, looked up just in time to see Inho staring—silent now, gaze fixed on the pin at his collar. The pause stretched, sharp and uncomfortable.

Inho’s fingers pressed against the edge of the table. He didn’t say anything at first, just flicked back to the documents, flipping a page a little too hard. His eyes moved over the numbers but kept darting back to the pin.

“Double-check the totals. And the... projections for Q4, I want those redone.” Another flicker to the pin, jaw tight. “If Jihoon’s team missed anything else, flag it. I don’t want a repeat of last month.”

He cleared his throat, attention still stuck somewhere between Gihun’s face and his collar. “And—get the original spreadsheets, not just the summary.”

For a moment he seemed about to say something else, but only shook his head, exhaling through his nose as if that might steady him.

“That’s all,” he said, voice flatter than usual.

Gihun reached for the document, carefully avoiding the way Inho’s eyes hadn’t fully left him. He could feel it, even as he skimmed the text; the awareness of being watched, the weight of unspoken words hanging thick in the air. And then, too casually, too measured—

"New present?"

His throat closed, fingers frozen against the paper for half a second before he forced them to move again, forced himself to keep his expression neutral.

"It’s just a pin," he said, keeping his voice even, uninterested, like it was nothing.

The alpha hummed, a low, thoughtful sound, but didn’t press. He shifted back to the work discussion, then, without warning, brought up a detail from a meeting they’d already picked apart last week. Something about the schedule, or the seating chart for next quarter’s review—details neither of them needed to revisit. His tone was almost casual, too light for the moment, words tumbling out as if he hadn’t just been staring at Gihun’s collar a heartbeat ago.

Gihun nodded along, answering without really listening, a tightness coiling in his stomach. Inho’s eyes flicked back to the documents, but his attention seemed scattered, his next question already trailing into something else.

"You weren’t wearing it before," he mused, flipping a page but not looking at it. "You must like it."

Gihun didn’t answer.

Inho flashed a grin, all teeth and nothing behind it, the kind that looked practiced in a mirror but didn’t quite stick. It lingered too long, too tight at the corners, like he was trying to play at friendly and forgot how it worked. “Was it a special occasion?”

"It’s just a gift," Gihun muttered, staring down at the document, refusing to meet the alpha’s eyes.

Neither of them spoke. Gihun kept his eyes on the page, the silence settling between them, awkward and heavy. 

The papers shifted. A chair scraped against the floor. Gihun barely had time to process it before Inho was moving, stepping around the table, closing the distance between them with slow, calculated ease.

His instincts screamed at him to move, to step back, to break the moment before it swallowed him whole. But his feet stayed rooted in place. His body wasn’t listening to him. 

It never listened to him around Inho. That was the worst part. 

That was what made his stomach twist, made his fingers twitch at his sides like they wanted to reach for something they shouldn’t. His mind could repeat all the right things— this is a mistake, this is wrong, you don’t want this —but his instincts didn’t care.

His instincts told him to stay.

He could feel his pulse spiking, panic and something deeper tangled so tightly he couldn’t tell them apart. The air was thick, charged, pressing against his skin. He felt the pull of it, the suffocating gravity of Inho’s presence. 

The alpha’s hand came to rest against his shoulder. Just enough pressure to make Gihun feel pinned in place. When he spoke, the words came sweet and measured, wrapped in careful softness. 

“You’ve been quiet,” he said, the gentleness in his voice curdled at the edges. “Did I upset you?”

Gihun swallowed, pulse hammering. "No."

"No?" Inho echoed, head tilting, his gaze dropping, dragging deliberately over the pin, lips curling at the sight of it. His eyes flicked back up. "Then why won’t you talk about it?"

Gihun’s breath caught. He forced himself to straighten, to hold his ground. "Because it’s nothing."

“Is it?” The words came clipped, measured, like they didn’t sit right in his mouth. Inho’s voice had a strained calm to it, polished on the surface, but tight beneath. His fingers twitched, curling slightly, as if he didn’t trust them not to betray him.

Another step. Close enough now that Gihun felt the shift in the air, the press of unspoken tension. 

"You’re wearing it."

He barely had time to react before Inho moved closer. The shift in the air was suffocating, thick with something dangerous. His body tensed instinctively, muscles locking as the alpha’s presence expanded, filling every inch of space between them until there was nowhere left to go.

Other than the hand on his shoulder, Inho didn’t touch him. He didn’t have to. The sheer force of him, the scent curling subtly through the air—rich, potent, unmistakably alpha—was enough to set Gihun’s nerves alight, a slow burn crawling beneath his skin. His instincts screamed at him to react, to move, to do something, but his body refused to obey. He was caught, trapped in a moment that stretched unbearably long, and Inho knew it. Enjoyed it.

The alpha’s gaze dragged over him, lingering on the pin as if it personally offended him.

Gihun swallowed hard, pulse hammering at his throat. He should say something. Should move. Should not stand there like prey caught in a snare.

This didn’t mean anything. It couldn't.

Gihun inhaled deeply, forcing himself to focus. He had made a choice. He had agreed to dinner, had let Sangwoo fasten the pin to his collar, had told himself, promised himself, that he would put things back together. That what happened on that trip had been a lapse, a mistake, nothing more. He had worn the pin because it was expected. Because it was easy. Because maybe, in some small, desperate way, he had wanted it to mean something.

Because if it didn’t, then what was left? His fingers curled into his palm, holding tight to the thought. He wanted it to be enough. He told himself it had to be. He just needed to feel settled, steady—needed to believe he could stay inside the life he’d built. He wasn’t some reckless omega chasing after whatever instinct or look came his way. He wasn’t supposed to be.

He belonged to Sangwoo. The thought was supposed to ground him. It didn’t.

Because when Inho moved closer—shoulders squared, voice low—Gihun could see the faint pulse in his neck, the small mole just under his jaw. He caught a hint of something new in Inho’s scent, a sharper undertone you only noticed up close. It knotted in his chest, instincts sparking in ways he couldn’t control, no matter how much he tried to reason with himself.

And then the man leaned in, slow, torturous, bringing his face so close that Gihun could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over his skin. Millimeters. That was all that separated them now. The sharp scent of alpha filled his senses, a deep, heady pull against something raw inside him. His own scent flared in response: something he couldn’t control, something mortifyingly instinctive.

Inho’s breath slipped out, just a little rough around the edges. He sounded almost calm. Almost.

The tip of his nose, feather-light, traced a slow path along the curve of Gihun’s cheekbone. Mocking, possessive, a whisper of ownership where there was none. Not a kiss, not even close, but something more insidious. Something more damning. A claim without words, an intrusion without permission, a reminder that even the space between them wasn’t his to keep.

Gihun shuddered.

“Did you put it on for him?” Inho murmured, voice low, curling along the shell of Gihun’s ear. Silk and steel.

His breath hitched. “I—”

A sound—half hum, half scoff—escaped Inho, too close for comfort. “No, of course not,” he said, voice low. The air felt heavier, his presence pressing in until Gihun couldn’t tell where his own space ended. 

“That wouldn’t explain why you smell like this.”

Gihun’s stomach dropped. No. This wasn’t happening. He was in control of himself, of his reactions. He was. And yet—

He felt Inho inhale, subtle and restrained, but enough to make his body lean in, just slightly closer.

“You’re confused,” Inho murmured, like it was fact, like he had already mapped out every frantic thought in Gihun’s head. “Torn between what’s safe and what you really want.”

Gihun’s fingers twitched. His breathing was uneven, his throat tight. “You don’t know what I want.”

The alpha stared at the pin, and for a moment, something flickered, his mouth twitching like he was about to speak, then stopping short. His expression didn’t crack exactly, but the effort it took not to was visible in the corners of his eyes, the tight press of his lips.

Then, with awful calm—

“You weren’t so confused in Singapore.”

Gihun clenched his jaw, willed himself to step back, to push him away, to move.

Singapore.

The word landed like a brand against his skin, searing, too much. A door he tried to lock, kicked open. The name alone sent a fresh jolt through his chest, sharp and searing. Not just because of what had happened there, but because of what it had proven to him. That he wasn’t indifferent. That his body had responded, that his instincts had stirred awake under a touch that wasn’t supposed to be familiar. That it had been easy. Too easy.

Singapore wasn’t just a place. It was proof. Proof that he had let this happen. That he hadn’t fought hard enough. That even now, standing here, with Inho’s presence coiling around him like something inevitable, he was still letting it happen.

His throat tightened. He needed to shut this down. But the truth was already written into his skin, lingering in the heat curling low in his stomach, in the way his breath stuttered before he forced it back into place.

Inho knew. And his scent was everywhere, rich and deep and undeniable, pressing against his instincts until it became something physical, something tangible. 

Gihun’s body betrayed him, staying right where it was, leaning. And for a second, just a second, Inho’s breath hitched. He masked it well, too well, but Gihun felt the shift, the moment that wasn’t supposed to happen. The slight hesitation, the way Inho’s fingers curled, just barely, as if caught off guard.

And then the words slipped.

“I really thought you’d already made up your mind.”

Gihun felt it before he understood it: the shift in Inho’s scent, the way it dropped low, heavy with something unspoken. Hunger, yes. But beneath it, something quieter, wounded and aching, a longing that pressed into him, too close.

Like this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Like Inho had never been wrong before. And for a moment, it felt like something in the alpha gave way. Just a hairline fracture, but it was there.

It caught Gihun off-guard—the ache buried under all that want, a bruised need so raw it almost made him flinch. For a moment, it sank in, settling deep in his chest.

“I thought…” Inho paused, searching for words. “After that night. After the hotel. You looked at me like you knew.”

His fingers twitched at his side, once. Like he was reaching for something and stopping himself.

“I waited,” he said, barely above a breath. “Held back. Gave you space.”

He didn’t look away, even for a second. “But it’s getting harder… waking up every day thinking about something that still isn’t mine.”

It slipped out, low and shaken, more honest than it was probably meant to be. Something sharp flickered across his face, like he hated himself for saying it.

The sharp, intrusive ring of the phone echoed through the office.

Gihun flinched. His breath tore out of him in a shuddering exhale, his fingers twitching at his sides, the desperate need to move surging through his limbs all at once.

The moment broke, but it was too late to take it back. Inho went still, jaw tight, breath short and sharp. The air between them felt charged, his scent edged with something hot and restless. Gihun jerked back, hands curling tight at his sides, chest heaving as he tried to steady his breath.

The phone rang again. Then again. Each time, more grating, an unwelcome third party breaking in. A reminder they were still in the real world, that this, whatever it was, couldn’t last. Still, Inho didn’t move. Didn’t step back. His gaze slid over him one more time, slow and lingering, before he finally let out a breath. And then, just like that, he stepped away.

“You can go.”

The words were even. Measured. Like nothing had happened at all.

Gihun left faster than he ever had in his life.

He turned sharply, nearly stumbling, his breath still caught somewhere in his chest, lungs struggling to settle. He could feel the phantom heat of Inho’s proximity still clinging to his skin, the weight of unspoken words pressing into his ribs. His fingers trembled against the door handle. His throat was too tight, his mind too loud. But he forced his feet to move. Forced himself out.

Behind him, just as he stepped out, the last thing he heard before the door clicked shut was Inho’s voice—smooth, effortless, purring into the receiver, as if he hadn’t just unraveled Gihun piece by piece.

He left the office in a hurry, heartbeat hammering in his chest, breath uneven. The hallway felt too narrow, the air thick, clinging to his skin. He kept his steps quick, careful not to look like he was running.

Hyunju glanced up as he passed, eyes flicking from her screen. Her look lingered—quiet, thoughtful, maybe a little too knowing. Gihun nearly flinched. His breath caught; his pulse kicked at his throat.

Fuck. Did she know? No, she couldn’t. Still, something in her eyes made his skin crawl, like she could see straight through him.

He kept moving.

As the door clicked shut behind him, he pushed into the bathroom and gripped the sink, knuckles white, shoulders rising and falling in uneven breaths. His fingers twitched, tightening, like he needed something solid to hold onto before he slipped. He barely recognized the face in the mirror.

No, that wasn’t true. He recognized himself too well. That was the problem.

He’d expected to see something different. Expected some proof that he’d crossed a line he could never uncross. But his reflection only looked the same: flushed, breathless, alive in a way that made his stomach churn.

He exhaled, sharp and shaky. Turned on the faucet. Cold water rushed into his hands, biting at his skin, making his breath catch. He splashed it over his face—once, twice, again—letting it run down his neck and collar, soaking into his shirt. He needed to scrub it all off: the warmth under his skin, the heat left behind where Inho had been too close. Where his breath had brushed his cheek. Where that scent still clung to him.

The pin caught his eye. His stomach turned at the sight of it, the weight of it digging into his collarbone. Too much. Too present. His fingers hovered, wanting to rip it off, to throw it away, to pretend none of it meant anything at all.

But he didn’t. If he took it off now—just tossed it aside—what would that say about everything else? About the choices he’d made, all those years with Sangwoo, every promise, every bit of stability he’d tried to hang onto? It wasn’t just a pin. It was him still trying, still hanging on, still refusing to admit it might all be falling apart.

He turned back to the sink, splashed more water on his throat, rubbing at his skin like he could scrub away the heat Inho had left behind. His reflection looked back, shaky, unraveling around the edges.

Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he’d go back to normal.

He just had to hold on a little longer.

The office had begun to dim with the soft tapering of daylight, fluorescent panels overhead humming like distant static. Most desks were half-abandoned now—coats thrown over chairs, monitors dark, conversations hushed or moved elsewhere. Gihun sat at his desk, fingers idly brushing over a post-it he’d meant to throw away, his mind elsewhere.

The report had been submitted hours ago.

He’d brought it in just before noon—cleaned, cross-checked, annotated precisely along the margins like he knew Inho expected. Forecast corrected. Errors flagged. Everything where it should’ve been. He remembered walking into Inho’s office with his stomach tied in knots, still not steady after what had happened that morning. Expecting something. Dreading it. His pulse had quickened the moment the door clicked shut behind him.

But Inho hadn’t looked up immediately. Just gestured toward the desk, eyes fixed on his monitor, fingers gliding over the trackpad.

“Leave it there.”

His voice had been calm. Distant. Not cold, exactly, but stripped of any residue from earlier.

Gihun had hovered longer than he meant to—waiting, bracing. But Inho simply reached for the file when he placed it down, flipping through the pages with a nod of quiet approval.

“This is fine , ” he said. No edge to it. No weight. Just an acknowledgment, the kind that should’ve been unremarkable.

That was it.

No lingering looks. No scent curling sharp at the edges. No whispered provocations or half-possessive remarks. Inho hadn’t even looked at him again, not properly. Just a brief glance as he turned to go. And even then, it had felt... off. Like Inho was deliberately avoiding his eyes, keeping his gaze just a breath too low, too late. Controlled. Careful. Even when he’d thanked Gihun, his voice hadn’t wavered.

Now, as Gihun sat at his desk, staring blankly at his darkened screen, the echoes of that moment still lingered. The quiet in Inho’s voice. The way he hadn’t pressed. A small, naive part of him wanted to believe that Inho had recognized the line he’d drawn, that he’d understood this, whatever this was, needed to stop.

It should have felt like relief. And for a while, Gihun let himself believe that it was. That maybe, just maybe, it could go back to how it was supposed to be. That he could breathe again.

He leaned back in his chair now, watching the sun paint long shadows across the carpet, the sky outside turning a cooler shade of grey-blue. His collar still felt too tight. The pin heavier than it had that morning. False hope had its own kind of gravity. The kind that kept you tethered just long enough to forget you were drifting.

But for now, he stayed seated. Let the moment stretch. Let himself believe, for one more breath, that the quiet meant something. That today would end without another fracture.

That maybe tomorrow, he’d be steadier. Even if he already knew better.

His phone buzzed against the desk, breaking the quiet.

Minyeo: Weren’t you supposed to be back from Singapore? Wanna grab something to eat?

A second later, another message followed:

It’s me, Jungbae, and a few others. Nothing fancy, just food and drinks. You in?

Gihun exhaled, staring at the screen. Exhaustion pressed against his limbs, his body already half-ready to go home and collapse into bed. But another evening where his thoughts had nowhere to run felt even worse. This would be a distraction. A chance to plug the silence before it opened wide and pulled him under.

Yeah, sure. Where?

The response was almost immediate, a location sent, along with a teasing, Hurry up, old man.

A tired chuckle slipped past his lips as he gathered his things. His bag slung over his shoulder, he stepped toward the elevator. 

As his fingers hovered over his phone, he felt the urge to let Sangwoo know. Just a quick message. A simple heads-up.

Instead, he pressed the call button. The elevator doors slid open just as Sangwoo picked up.
"Yeah?"

Gihun stepped inside, leaning back against the wall, pressing his shoulder into the cool metal as the doors closed again. "Hey. Just letting you know I’m gonna be a little late. Minyeo asked me to grab dinner with some people."

A pause. Then, "Minyeo?"

"Yeah. Jungbae too. It’s just a few of us. Nothing big."

Sangwoo exhaled, and for a second, Gihun thought that would be the end of it. But then—

"I didn’t say you couldn’t go," he murmured, the edge in his voice softer this time. Careful. Like he was trying. "Just… be safe, okay? I know you’ve been tired lately. Eat something warm."

Gihun opened his mouth to respond, but the elevator dinged as the doors slid open and Hwang Inho stepped inside.

He was alone. Composed as always, his jacket folded over one arm, tie loosened just enough to suggest the day had worn on him. He looked deep in thought at first, gaze unfocused, distant. But as soon as he noticed him, his eyes lifted and something shifted. Subtle. Barely there.

Sangwoo was still on the line. Gihun's grip tightened on his phone.

"Gihun-ah?" Sangwoo asked, voice still warm in his ear.

He hesitated. Just for a moment. Then, quietly, soft enough that it wasn’t overt, but loud enough to carry across the elevator—

"Yeah. I’ll be careful," he said. A breath. "Thanks for checking."

He cleared his throat, lowering his voice. "I’ll see you at home."

Sangwoo hummed. "Looking forward to it."

The line disconnected.

The soft hum of the descent was the only sound between them, but Gihun felt it, the weight of awareness, the unspoken knowledge that the alpha had caught something. Maybe not the full conversation, but enough. Enough to know Gihun had been speaking to someone, had lowered his voice the second Inho stepped in, had rushed to end the call.

That alone was enough to press down like a hand at the back of his neck.

Seconds stretched. Inho didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at him. But his presence filled the space, settling against Gihun’s skin like something felt more than seen. He told himself it didn’t matter. That this wasn’t anything. That he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

But then—

"You’re in a hurry."

The words were smooth, idle. Not accusatory or demanding, but they curled at the edges with something heavier. Gihun’s breath caught. His fingers twitched at his side. He didn’t answer immediately. Didn’t trust himself to. The doors slid open at the lobby, and he took the first step forward, eager to leave the charged air behind.

"Yeah," he muttered, barely an acknowledgment, barely anything at all. Then, quieter, almost automatic, he added, "Have a good evening, Hwang sajangnim."

Just as he stepped out, before the doors fully closed, Inho let out a quiet hum. Not questioning or dismissing. Just knowing. It twisted something deep inside Gihun’s stomach, and he hated the way his pulse jumped. He hated that, even as he walked away, he felt Inho’s attention linger like an imprint against his skin.

The restaurant was loud in a way that felt good: voices tumbling over each other, dishes clattering, the air thick with the smell of grilled meat and cheap beer. Gihun sat wedged between Minyeo and Jungbae, nursing a half-empty cup of tea as their plates slowly cleared. He still felt the ache of exhaustion in his bones, but the noise and company were a relief—a buffer against the quiet waiting at home.

They’d started dinner catching up, Minyeo poking fun at him about Singapore, Jungbae grumbling about work. Conversation bounced from one thing to the next, laughter breaking up the steady undercurrent of complaints.

But at some point, the mood shifted.

“Man, I don’t know anymore,” Jitae, an old friend from the neighborhood, sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. His second beer sat untouched, condensation pooling around the base of the glass. “Lately, it just feels like we’re stuck in place. Like nothing’s wrong, but nothing’s… right either. It’s like being roommates more than a couple, you know?”

Jungbae leaned back, arms crossed. “You and Chaerin?”

Jitae nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the condensation sliding down his glass. “Yeah. I don’t know. It’s been years, but the past few months have been… off.”

His voice wasn’t bitter, just tired. Quiet in a way that didn’t invite pity, only understanding.

“It’s not even that we fight or anything. It’s just this weird numbness. Feels like we’re roommates, just going through the motions. We do all the stuff—dinner, a little small talk, sleep—but the heart of it… I don’t know, it’s like it disappeared somewhere along the line.”

He hesitated, then added, more quietly, “Even the bond feels… thin. Muted. Like it’s still there, technically, but barely.”

He let out a slow breath, studying his hands.

“Ours used to be strong, I swear. I’d feel it even before she walked through the door. There used to be this pull, automatic, instinctive. Now I go days without noticing it.”

He gave a soft, bitter laugh. “I keep thinking, if I feel like this now, what’s the point? Shouldn’t it be different?”

The silence between them felt comfortable, if a little heavy.

“People don’t like to talk about it, but it happens. Even to mated pairs. Sure, people still gasp when someone walks away, especially after a mark. Like it’s unthinkable. But it’s not. Not anymore. Sometimes things fall apart anyway, even when you did everything right.”

He swirled the liquid in his glass absently.

“Sometimes… a bond isn’t proof of anything. Just biology getting lucky. Doesn’t mean you’re really a match. Not where it counts.”

He glanced up, mouth twitching like he hated how that sounded.

“Yeah, I know. Cheesy. But hell, sometimes it’s true. You can be bound and still end up on opposite ends of the bed.”

And just like that, he went quiet again. Like he’d used up whatever words he had left.

The table went quiet for a moment. Gihun kept his gaze on his drink, thumb brushing the warm ceramic as he listened, every word sinking in.

Jungbae sighed, shaking his head. “You don’t just throw away years of a relationship because you feel a little stagnant.”

Jitae let out a hollow laugh. “That’s what I keep telling myself.”

“Because it’s true,” Jungbae said, more firmly now, stabbing his chopsticks into the last bit of kimchi on his plate. “People change but you don’t just quit the second things get hard. You think you’re gonna feel that rush forever? That first hit of bond-high, like some alpha pup fresh out of his first rut? That fades. It’s supposed to.” He shook his head, pushing his plate aside with a sharp clatter. “At some point, it settles. And when it does, what’s left is the part that matters: commitment. You don’t just walk away the second it stops feeling easy.”

He leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “We get older. Instincts quiet a bit. Doesn’t mean they’re gone. Just means you learn to live with the volume turned down. Maybe you’re just hitting that stretch, you know, the ‘what does it all mean’ phase. Midlife alpha crisis, or whatever they’re calling it now.”

Jitae exhaled, rubbing his face. “It’s not that it’s hard. It’s just… empty. I keep wondering if it’s better to cut my losses before we start resenting each other.”

“You think that’s better?” Jungbae scoffed. “You put in years with someone, and you think leaving just because things aren’t ‘exciting’ anymore is the right move? That’s a coward’s way out.”

Gihun’s grip on his glass tightened.

Jungbae kept going, his voice carrying that easy certainty he always had when he spoke about things like this. “Look, it’s not about excitement. It’s about choosing someone even when things aren’t perfect. People go through phases, relationships go through phases. You don’t just leave because you’re looking for some spark to magically fix things. If you care, you figure it out. You put the work in.”

He paused, then added, “And just because you’re mated doesn’t mean you get to coast. You still have to show up. Bonds don’t stay strong on their own, you gotta take care of it. Keep it steady. Keep it kind. Otherwise, even the strongest connection starts to feel... off.”

Jitae nodded slowly, but his expression remained uncertain. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe.”

“Besides,” someone else at the table cut in—Junhyuk, grinning around his glass, “you know how it is. You walk around with a faded mark and a fresh one on your neck, and suddenly people forget how progressive they claim to be.”

A few chuckles scattered through the group.

“Please,” Jungbae drawled, glancing at Jitae with a smirk. “You struggled enough to find one omega willing to mate you. What makes you think there’s another one lining up?”

The alpha groaned, half-laughing, dragging a hand down his face. “God. You’re all assholes.”

“Yeah,” Jungbae muttered, picking up his chopsticks again. “But we’re right.”

The conversation moved on soon after, but Gihun barely heard the next topic. His mind was stuck, looping over Jungbae’s words, not just what he said, but how he said it. That calm certainty, that slight edge of disappointment in his tone, like the very idea of walking away was beneath him. Like there was only one right answer, and Gihun should have known it all along.

It wasn’t advice, it felt like judgment.

And maybe he deserved that. Maybe that’s why his stomach had been twisting since the moment Jungbae opened his mouth. He kept thinking about the warmth of Inho’s hands, the way his own scent had clung to the sheets in Singapore, the ache that hadn’t quite faded from his body no matter how many showers he took.

The tea had gone cold in his hands. He didn’t remember the last time he’d taken a sip.

Minyeo was watching him with that familiar, deliberate quiet of hers, like she was cataloguing every blink, every pause too long.

He drank to distract himself, but the unease sat low in his chest.

Because she didn’t miss things. Not when it mattered.

The night air was crisp outside the restaurant, a welcome contrast to the heat still lingering in Gihun’s collar. Laughter spilled out behind him as the others said their goodbyes, the hum of the evening pressing in from the city: cars, lights, the sharp clang of something metallic down the block. His coat felt too thin. Or maybe his skin did.

He kept his eyes low, watching the pavement, the scuff of his own shoes. He needed to go. He needed—

“Yah, Seong Gihun.”

The voice cut through the quiet like a knife. Not loud but sharp enough to make him flinch.

He turned before he could stop himself. Minyeo stood a few steps behind him, one hand on her hip, the other wrapped tight around her cigarette like it owed her something.

“You gonna keep sulking all the way home, or are you gonna talk to someone like a grown-ass man?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. His throat was dry.

Minyeo didn’t blink. She stared at him like she already knew, like she’d already read the headline and was just waiting for him to admit it. Her eyes flicked over him, pausing at the slope of his shoulders, the stiffness in his jaw. Something in her gaze softened, but it didn’t lose its edge.

For just a second, something passed between them—quick, but there. Instinct, maybe. Recognition. Omega to omega. Minyeo’s gaze sharpened, just a little. She didn’t lean in or make a show of it like an alpha might, but she saw him. Whether it was the off note in his scent, the edge of restlessness under his skin, or just the way he sat like something inside him had shifted, she caught it. Of course she did.

“I’m not gonna dig,” she said. “But you look like someone gutted you in there.”

Gihun swallowed. His tongue felt thick. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” she snapped. “Don’t insult me.”

He flinched again.

“I just need to get home.”

Minyeo took a long drag from her cigarette, eyes narrowing as she exhaled. “Is that what you’re calling it now?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He just looked at her, and something in his expression must have cracked, because she sighed, sharp, tired, but not cruel.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she muttered, more to the sidewalk than to him. “But next time someone asks if you’re okay, maybe don’t lie like you’ve got nothing left to lose.”

She turned then, flicking ash into the gutter, and didn’t wait for a reply.

Gihun stood there a second longer, heart pounding like he’d just sprinted through something. He didn’t call after her. He didn’t say thank you. He just watched her walk away, the curve of her shoulders sharp and certain against the glow of the streetlight, and felt the weight of it, the truth she hadn’t even said out loud.

The morning light in the office was too much—bright, sharp, almost surgical. Gihun sat at his desk, staring at an open document, the words running together. His hands hovered over the keyboard, but nothing came. He just sat there, stuck in a slow churn of thoughts he didn’t want.

He hadn’t slept. Not really.

After dinner, he’d come home feeling off-balance. Jungbae’s words kept rattling around in his head, scraping at the quiet spots he usually tried to keep empty. People change. Love changes. But you don’t just throw years away. It hadn’t been meant for him—Jungbae couldn’t have known. But it stuck anyway, digging in, refusing to let go.

The apartment was dark when he got home. He kicked off his shoes and drifted through on autopilot, catching the faint smell of Sangwoo the minute he stepped into the bedroom. Sangwoo was already asleep, curled up, one arm stretched across the sheets like he was waiting for something. Someone.

He hesitated. Just for a moment. Long enough to feel the weight of everything pressing down on him, long enough to wonder if crawling back into bed was a mistake. But he did it anyway. Instinct. Easier than standing in the dark, alone.

The warmth of Sangwoo’s body was steady, familiar. Comforting, the way a well-worn path is comforting, even when you’re not sure it leads anywhere you want to go. He turned onto his side, pressed into that warmth, listening to the slow, even sound of Sangwoo’s breathing.

And he told himself that was enough.

But in his dreams, it wasn’t Sangwoo’s hands holding him.

He dragged in a shaky breath, fingers digging into the edge of the desk. He told himself to let it go, to pull himself together, but the words rang hollow. He could still feel it: the ghost of that touch, the way his body had reached for something he shouldn’t want. It clung to him, heavy and humiliating, refusing to be shaken off.

He stared at the screen, jaw tight, trying to swallow it down before it could swallow him.

Then a chime split the air. His phone lit up with a message from Sangwoo.

Sangwoo: So, Saturday, our dinner's still on, right?

Another message popped up before he could respond.

Sangwoo: You remember how you used to always order the same thing? Bet you still will.

A pause. Then—

Sangwoo: They probably don’t even have the same menu anymore, huh?

Something in Gihun twisted at that. Sangwoo didn’t usually say things like this. Didn’t reminisce. But this morning, he was. And Gihun didn’t know what to do with that. He started typing, deleting, then typing again. I’ll check the menu later felt too dismissive. I don’t know what I’ll order yet felt wrong too. Finally, he settled on something safer.

You’re probably right. I always get the same thing.

A moment passed before another message arrived.

Sangwoo: Good. I liked that about you.

Gihun stared at the words, something uncomfortable pressing against his ribs. This, whatever it was, felt like an attempt. Like something careful. Sangwoo was trying, in his own way, to pull him closer again. Before he could think too hard about it, he pushed his chair back and stood. He needed coffee. Needed something to break the weight of whatever was settling over him.

The break room was empty when he entered, the steady drip of the coffee machine the only sound filling the space. He pulled his phone from his pocket again, fingers absently tapping at the screen as he scrolled back through the conversation. It wasn’t stupid to linger. Not really. Not when Sangwoo had sounded like that. Not when they were going back to a place that had once held warmth between them, back when things had still felt simple, theirs.

He stared at the screen for another moment, fingers hovering over the keys. But before he could type anything, a shadow passed into his peripheral vision.

“Busy?”

Gihun startled, locking his phone instinctively as he looked up. Inho. Standing by the table, a cup of coffee in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket. He was dressed as flawlessly as ever, the crisp lines of his shirt unruffled, but his gaze, dark and assessing, felt far too casual to be entirely professional.

Gihun straightened, clearing his throat. “Just on break.”

Inho nodded like he accepted the answer, but something about his presence didn’t retreat. He gestured toward the empty seat across from Gihun. “Mind if I join you for a minute?”

Gihun hesitated, then gave a quick nod. There was no polite way to say no.

Inho sat with familiar ease, his coffee in hand, one leg crossing over the other. For a few seconds, he said nothing. Just sipped, eyes flicking to the window, to the steam rising off the machines.

Then, lightly, “Did you see the new intern’s email about the slide deck?”

Gihun blinked. “Which intern?”

“Sungho, from PR,” Inho said. “He sent me three different versions of the same graph. Each more illegible than the last.” He said it dryly, like it was a private joke between the two of them.

“Oh,” Gihun muttered, lips tugging into a tired half-smile. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Inho hummed. “I’m considering banning gradients in this company. You think anyone would complain?”

The joke was soft, casual, pointed only in how unnecessary it was. He didn’t need to be here, didn’t need to bring that up. But here he was. Choosing to.

It stayed like that, easy enough, almost passable. But it didn’t last. It never did. The shift was subtle: the way Inho’s tone dipped lower, smoothed into something slower. The way his gaze held, just a fraction longer than it should have.

“You seem distracted.”

Gihun opened his mouth, but before he could find a response, his phone buzzed again. The screen lit up, bright in the corner of his eye.

Sangwoo.

He was already reaching for his phone when he caught it—a slow inhale from Inho, a barely-there pause in his movements. 

“Sorry,” he managed, not quite meeting Inho’s gaze. The word stuck in his throat, awkward and small.

Inho didn’t respond right away. Just watched him, gaze unreadable. Gihun fumbled to unlock his phone, trying to be quick, to make it look casual. Too fast. Too obvious. The screen flashed with the message.

Sangwoo: By the way, you looked really good this morning. I almost didn’t want to let you leave.

Gihun blinked. His fingers hesitated over the keyboard. It wasn’t like Sangwoo to say things like that, at least not unprompted. Not so openly. He could picture him now, leaning back in his office chair, the barest smirk tugging at his lips, sending this message between meetings like it was nothing.

Another buzz.

Sangwoo: Guess I’ll have to keep you closer next time.

Something twisted in Gihun’s gut. Flirtation, or Sangwoo’s version of it. An attempt to pull him back, to remind him where he belonged. For a second, it almost worked—almost made him feel that old pull, when words like this were rare enough to be precious.

His stomach tightened. He needed to reply. Quick. Easy. His fingers tapped out a response before he could think:

Careful, you might make me think you missed me.

He hesitated, just a heartbeat, then hit send before he could stop himself.

Another buzz.

Sangwoo: Would that be so hard to believe?

Gihun’s breath caught. It wasn’t a deep conversation, nothing dramatic, but it was more than usual. That only made it worse. His chest tightened, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe right.

Inho said nothing. Didn’t ask. But Gihun could feel it, the stillness beside him, the way the air shifted. Like Inho wasn’t reading the words, but reading him. And that was even worse.

He shoved his phone face down onto the table, forcing himself to push it all aside, but the messages lingered in his head like an aftertaste. And across from him, Inho leaned back slightly, his gaze flicking downward to the faint glow at the edges of the screen, the telltale pulse of an unread message. His lips barely moved, but the sharp curve of them said enough.

Before Gihun could respond or gather his thoughts, the break room door swung open fast, too fast, and Hyunju stepped inside, her expression tense, a file clutched tight in one hand and her phone in the other.

“Gihun-ah,” she said, brisk and low, “I need you for a second. There’s a problem with the budget file, the one you sent Jihoon.”

That got his attention.

Gihun blinked, startled, already rising. “What kind of problem?”

“I don’t know, but he flagged it twice. I think a tab didn’t save properly.” She didn’t wait for him to respond, just turned back toward the hall, expecting him to follow.

His pulse jumped. “Right, okay.” He stood quickly, chair scraping back, thoughts jolting away from the tension still thick in the air. 

Stupid. He cursed under his breath, barely loud enough to register. Was he really slipping like this again? Back to old habits: forgetting things, leaving things behind, not thinking. He knew he could be scatterbrained sometimes, especially under pressure, especially now, with everything spiraling around him. But still. This was careless. He should’ve known better.

He didn’t even register the glowing screen laying on the table, open and inviting scrutiny, as he hurried to follow Hyunju.

Behind him, Inho leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting downward once more. His lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk curling at the corners, lingering longer than necessary.

The break room was mostly empty when Gihun slipped back in, quieter than before. He was still replaying the conversation with Hyunju in his head, wondering if he’d actually missed something big or if it was just nerves. Either way, his thoughts felt jumbled, and the silence pressed in sharper than he remembered.

He crossed to the table, not really looking around, just moving on autopilot. Seems like Inho had already left; Gihun hadn’t noticed, and right now, he didn’t have the energy to care. There was a faint, bitter smell hanging in the air—sharp, almost burnt, not quite covered by the stale coffee and cleaning spray. He set his cup down with a dull clink, reaching automatically for his phone where it lay face-down on the table. Still there, right where he’d left it. The screen was dark.

He picked it up, thumb hovering as he tapped it awake, half-expecting… what? He wasn’t sure. But the break room felt different, and for a moment, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling he’d missed something.

He exhaled through his nose, shaking off the strange, creeping sensation curling beneath his skin but he quickly pushed it away. He straightened, downing the last sip of coffee. The bitterness did nothing to clear his head. He needed to get back to his desk. Back to work. Back to something that made sense.

The living room was mostly dark, just the streetlights sneaking through the curtains. Gihun lay stretched out on the couch, head pressed to the armrest, one hand on his stomach, not really doing anything. The quiet was heavier than usual. Sangwoo was in the bedroom, asleep, but he might as well have been miles away.

Dinner was… fine. Polished, smooth. The restaurant—Ojeong—looked the same as always. They’d gone there a hundred times, back when things were easier, when it was their place. He remembered the smell of grilled meat hitting him as soon as they walked in. For a second, he’d almost expected to feel younger, steadier, like before. But the feeling didn’t last. Not really.

He remembers hesitating at the entrance, fingers flexing at his sides. The memories stirred up something inside him, but there was no turning back. Not with Sangwoo already placing a hand at his back, gently guiding him forward. It was a touch that felt all too familiar, almost automatic. The same quiet ease Sangwoo always had, unchanged, like nothing between them had shifted at all.

They talked, of course. About work. About travel. About things that didn’t matter. He let Sangwoo take the lead, answering when prompted, nodding in all the right places. He even managed a laugh at something, some dry remark Sangwoo made about a business partner he couldn’t stand. And for a moment, just a moment, it almost felt normal.

But beneath the surface, something had been off.

Sangwoo had been careful that night. Too careful. Watching him across the table, eyes searching in the low light. Every word measured, almost rehearsed. Not the Sangwoo he was used to—no sharp edges, just something softer. Effort. Gihun could see it now for what it was: trying.

“You didn’t order the usual,” Sangwoo said at one point, tilting his head, glass in hand.

Gihun remembered blinking down at his plate—he hadn’t even noticed what he’d ordered. “Guess I just wanted something different.”

At the time, he’d barely noticed the pause that came after. But now, thinking back, maybe there’d been a flicker of surprise in Sangwoo’s eyes—a quick look he hadn’t expected, gone almost as soon as it appeared.

“That’s rare for you.”

And Gihun hadn’t known how to respond to that.

The rest of the night had followed the same pattern. Measured words. Quiet observations. Sangwoo had leaned forward more than once, resting his chin on his hand as he watched him, as if waiting for something. But Gihun had kept himself steady. Had smiled when necessary. Had let Sangwoo brush his fingers over his wrist when reaching for the check.

And then, just as they were finishing their drinks, Sangwoo had said it.

“I missed this.”

A simple statement. Soft. Almost offhand. But it had landed between them with a weight he couldn’t ignore.

He nodded, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah.”

Thinking about it now, he felt a sharp sting behind his eyes—a heaviness that didn’t ease, no matter how many times he tried to swallow it down. The guilt pressed in, thick and sour. That wasn’t what Sangwoo deserved. Not really.

And then they’d walked out together. Just like that, over before he could make sense of any of it. Now, lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, Gihun exhaled slowly. He tried to replay the night in his head, tried to find the moment where it should have felt right, where it should have settled something inside him. But instead, all he felt was that gnawing unease. The weight of everything he hadn’t said, hanging there.

Sangwoo was trying.

But Gihun wasn’t sure he had anything left to give.

His phone buzzed in his hand.

He inhaled sharply, the sound almost too loud in the stillness of the room. For a split second, he thought it would be Sangwoo. Maybe he’d stirred in bed, realized Gihun was gone. But when he glanced down at the screen, his stomach twisted.

Hwang Inho.

Just seeing the name sent a flicker of heat down his spine. Gihun swallowed, jaw tight, forcing himself to unlock the phone.

Hwang Inho: I can still feel you.

His breath caught. He didn’t move for a second, thumb hovering stupidly over the screen, as if he could somehow stop himself from reading the rest.

Another message came through before he could even think.

Hwang Inho: I don’t think you meant to leave so much behind.

Something in his gut twisted. Was it about his scent? Something else? Gihun wiped a palm over his face, trying to clear his head. It didn’t help. The whole thing felt too deliberate, too pointed.

And then another.

Hwang Inho: Or was that intentional?

He pressed his lips together, mouth gone dry. He should put the phone down. Should pretend he hadn’t seen any of it. But he just kept staring at the screen, the heat in his body crawling higher.

One more.

Hwang Inho: Saturday nights always feel the longest, don’t they?

Gihun stared at the screen, trying to make sense of it, of what Inho was even after, what any of this was supposed to mean. Was he taunting him? Testing him?

He should put the phone down. Should ignore it. Shut it off and bury it beneath the cushions.

Instead, his fingers moved, betraying him.

What do you want?

It was weak. Useless. A transparent reaction. He knew it the second he sent it. And Inho must have too, because his next message came quicker than the others.

Hwang Inho: Not sleeping?

Gihun clenched his jaw, his grip on the phone tight enough to make his fingers ache.

Go to sleep.

A long pause.

And then—

Hwang Inho: Sweet dreams.

Gihun shut off the screen. Tossed the phone onto the coffee table, face down. But it didn’t matter. The words were already under his skin, lingering, curling like smoke through the cracks he couldn’t seal.

Because now, just like Inho wanted, Gihun wouldn’t stop thinking about him.

Monday felt predictable, in the worst way. Lights buzzing overhead, the clack of keyboards starting up, someone’s laugh already echoing from the kitchen. Gihun dropped into his chair, blinking at his monitor, fingers slow on the keys. The weekend was still stuck to him like a bad hangover—he didn’t want to think about it, but his brain kept circling back anyway.

The Hanseong project was still on his desk, half-finished spreadsheets waiting, emails stacking up. He rubbed his face, glancing at the clock. There was a meeting first thing, and the nerves in his stomach kicked up as he remembered: Inho would be running this one. The room always went quiet when he started talking, every word measured, every look somehow sharper than the last.

People from other departments had been called in: compliance, digital infrastructure, even someone from Youngil Entertainment’s PR branch, which meant whatever decisions were made today weren’t just operational. They were narrative. External-facing. The kind of meeting where missteps had consequences beyond the boardroom.

By the time everyone settled into the conference room, the atmosphere was heavy with anticipation. Gihun sat two seats down from Inho, flipping through the printed agenda while Jihoon and Hyunju murmured about the latest contract revisions. The projector hummed to life, illuminating the table with the first slide of the presentation.

Inho was in his usual seat at the head of the table, pen in hand, eyes flicking across the documents in front of him. He looked the same as always but something felt… off. Gihun noticed the bags under his eyes, the faint hint of exhaustion that seemed out of place. Did he not sleep? The question lingered in his mind as he took a seat, but he couldn’t ask. Not here, not now.

The meeting started out normal—updates, some talk about the schedule, Hyunju double-checking a detail in the presentation. Fifteen minutes in, Inho said, “The next phase of the Hanseong integration should be finalized by the end of this quarter. Which means we need the adjusted financial reports prepared for review by the end of next week.”

There was a pause. Not long, but enough for Gihun to notice the way Jihoon’s eyes darted sideways.

“Uh, Hwang sajangnim,” Jihoon said, careful, “the financial report deadline was last Friday. We already sent the review to Hanseong.”

Someone’s pen stilled mid-note, and Hyunju’s eyes flicked to Gihun—just for a second, like she was double-checking if she’d heard right.

Something flickered across Inho’s face, tight, almost gone before Gihun could place it. Not a big deal for most people, but for Inho? That never happened. 

It unsettled Gihun, seeing the alpha lose track of something already finished; the man was usually two steps ahead of everyone, like he never forgot a thing.

Hyunju glanced at Jihoon, then at Inho. The room felt heavier for a second.

Their boss didn’t skip a beat for long. His pen clicked, his jaw flexed once, but his voice was steady. “Of course. What I meant was the revised projections. We’ll need those ready, alongside performance metrics, before the next review.”

The recovery was quick, but the pause had already dragged on too long—everyone felt it. Jihoon and Hyunju shot each other another look, but nobody said a word. They wouldn’t.

Still, Gihun couldn’t shake the cold prickling at the back of his neck. Inho never lost track of things, never faltered. That was his whole reputation.

And yet, today, he had.

The air carried the faint, bitter scent of something burnt: frustration, thinly masked but there all the same.

The meeting kept rolling, people picking up the thread, but Gihun’s mind caught on that moment and wouldn’t let go. He watched Inho push through, directing questions, pretending nothing had happened. More than once, Inho’s gaze flicked to him—sharp, unreadable, like he was daring him to say a word.

But Gihun didn’t. He kept his expression neutral, nodding along, answering when needed. Because that was the thing, Inho didn’t need anyone to point out his mistakes. He already knew. Still, as the meeting wrapped up, the unease lingered. The cracks were small, but they were there.

Later, he chalked it up to stress, too many projects, too many deadlines. It made sense. Even someone like Inho couldn’t be perfect all the time. The pressure from the Hanseong negotiations, the weight of expectations, it had to be that. What else could it be?

But others weren’t as quick to dismiss it. Jihoon’s glance lingered a beat longer, Hyunju’s brows pinched ever so slightly, as if they too had noticed something unsettling. There was a shift in the air, an awareness that something was slipping beneath the surface.

And yet, when Gihun looked at Inho, he didn’t see someone on the verge of unraveling. He saw composure, steadiness, control. He saw the same presence that had always commanded the room. Whatever cracks others might have glimpsed, he reasoned, they weren’t real. They couldn’t be. Not with Inho.

The past few days had just blurred: deadlines piling up, numbers on every screen, none of them adding up right. There wasn’t much time to breathe, let alone think. He was always fixing something, another spreadsheet, another flagged email, trying to catch up. The Hanseong deal ate the hours, left him blinking at old receipts and scrawled reminders long after midnight. Sometimes he’d find himself staring at the ceiling, mind buzzing, still half in the office.

And then there was Sangwoo.

He’d been reaching out more lately—texting, calling, actually talking in the evenings. It should feel good. It was supposed to. Sangwoo was careful with him now, slower, more deliberate. He’d linger in the doorway, let his hand rest a beat longer on Gihun’s wrist. It was effort, and Gihun noticed. He tried to let himself want it.

And he responded. Of course he did, wasn’t that what he was supposed to do? This was what he wanted. He kept telling himself that, kept pretending things were settling, being patched back together. But even then, even in the quiet, he could feel himself drifting. Not on purpose. It just happened—his thoughts slipping off when he least expected it.

He’d catch a scent, out of nowhere, and it would jolt him. Or a memory, sharp and out of place, in the middle of some normal conversation. Something always tugging him off course, whether he wanted it or not.

After lunch, the floor was quieter, their end of the office almost still. Jihoon had dragged his chair over, close enough to share screens and documents between them, a half-eaten energy bar tossed beside his laptop. He’d already flipped open two monitors and passed Gihun a marked-up packet from Legal, pages thick with sticky notes and flagged clauses.

Even with the main report behind them, the follow-up work was proving messier than expected. Budget adjustments, reimbursement terms, and murky phrasing were forcing them to dig deeper. Gihun and Jihoon were neck-deep in Hanseong’s transitional planning, an exercise that already felt like threading a needle while wearing oven mitts. The numbers didn’t align, the reimbursement language was vague, and Gihun kept stumbling across odd inconsistencies in the proposal that no one else seemed to catch.

“They keep referencing an ‘adjusted operating margin,’” Jihoon muttered, scrolling. “But they never define it. They just assume we’ll agree to the figure they give us.” He made a frustrated noise. “This isn’t negotiation. It’s creative writing.”

Gihun gave a tired hum of agreement, eyes still moving across a spreadsheet on his screen. His thoughts kept stalling halfway through cells. Focus was harder today. Not because of the numbers. Because of the people.

Specifically: the way they looked at him now.

Since that meeting, something had shifted. People watched him differently. Like they were trying to work out what Inho saw. He caught it in glances across conference rooms, in the careful way emails were worded to him now, overly polite, slightly curious. And worse, he felt the weight of the skepticism lingering from Director Choi’s comment, even if she’d softened by the end. Even if the meeting had ended with trust. There were still people waiting for him to prove it wasn’t a fluke. That he wasn’t just the CEO’s sudden whim.

He hadn’t said anything about it aloud. But maybe he didn’t need to.

Jihoon didn’t look up from the budget document when he asked, “You holding up?”

Gihun blinked, caught off guard by the quiet question. It took him a second too long to answer. “I’m fine.”

The beta snorted. “Yeah. That’s not convincing.”

There was a pause. He sighed, closing his laptop halfway and resting his elbows on the table. “I think I’m just… trying to hold my ground.”

Jihoon tilted his head, a faint crease forming between his brows as he leaned back in his chair.

He hesitated, voice quieter now. “Since the meeting. I can feel it. The way people look at me. Like I don’t quite belong at that table.” He tapped his fingers against the desk once, restless. “It’s like... I have to earn it twice. Once to deserve being chosen, and again to prove it wasn’t a mistake.”

Jihoon watched him for a moment.

“You know what I’ve noticed about you, hyung?” he said. “You never wait for someone to tell you what needs doing. You just see it. You’ve always had this way of catching the things the rest of us don’t realize we’re dropping. Quiet stuff. Gaps in planning, tension between departments, places where things could fall apart.”

Gihun blinked, then gave a small, uncertain laugh, like he wasn’t sure whether to accept the compliment or brush it off.

“I remember when you stayed late that week Hyunju got sick,” Jihoon went on. “You didn’t even have anything assigned. You just asked me if I needed help with Yongsan’s prep, like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. I would’ve been swamped.”

“I figured you needed backup.”

“Exactly,” Jihoon said. “You figured. That’s the part people miss. You’re not just diligent. You’re aware. And you don’t do it for credit. You just… do it. That’s not something you can fake. Or assign.”

Gihun sat very still, the words settling deeper than he expected. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding himself until just now. How much he’d needed to hear that from someone who wasn’t Inho.

Jihoon added, more softly, “I think some of them are just surprised. They didn’t notice you before. And now they feel like they missed something.”

Gihun let out a breath, eyes dropping to the page in front of him. “I don’t blame them.”

“I do,” Jihoon said. They both snorted.

Jihoon didn’t say anything more right away, just let the quiet settle between them.

But Gihun kept going, his voice lower now, like something had cracked open under the surface.

“There was this call last week with the Legal and Comms teams—Director Choi, Yuna, two people from Hanseong’s external counsel. They kept talking about alignment on ‘timeline disclosures’ and material risk language, and I…” He gave a small, tight laugh. “I had no idea what half of it meant. I just smiled and nodded and wrote it all down to research later.”

He rubbed at his brow. “And then today, Hyunju asked if I’d confirmed the transition schedule with Product Strategy. I didn’t even realize I was the one supposed to handle that side. It wasn’t in the notes, it was just... assumed. Like I’d magically know.”

He let out another small, almost self-mocking laugh. “So I said yeah, of course, and then spent the next hour scrambling to piece it together. Dug through everything they’d sent, pulled in two of their leads, drafted a follow-up like it had always been the plan.”

He paused there, voice soft. “It’s not that I can’t handle it. It’s just… sometimes it feels like I walked into the middle of a conversation no one told me I was part of. Like everyone else got a playbook, and I’m trying to reverse engineer it while keeping a straight face.”

Jihoon huffed a laugh, head tipping back slightly. “You’re ridiculous.”

Gihun’s smile tugged crooked at the corner of his mouth. “Ridiculously adaptable, maybe.”

“Exactly,” Jihoon said, pointing at him with his pen like it was obvious. “That’s the whole point, hyung. You adapt. You jump in, figure it out, and no one even notices you were thrown in blind. That’s not just instinct, that’s work. I’ve seen you. Every time there’s a lull, you’re reading something: case studies, integration reports, finance briefs...  Not even just for your role. Half the time I catch you flipping through Legal documents like bedtime reading.”

He paused, eyeing Gihun with something more thoughtful. “Honestly, when you first started here, I thought you were out of your mind. Who actually enjoys all this? But you do. Or maybe it’s more than that. Like you’re getting something out of this place the rest of us aren’t. I always figured you just… needed it.”

He gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “I’ve seen you in the break room with that merger handbook like three times last week. You know, I saw you reading about cross-border compliance while wolfing down breakfast. Even your coffee breaks aren’t really breaks.”

He tilted his head slightly, voice softening. “You’re one of the fastest learners I’ve seen, hyung. I mean it. You get thrown into things, and yeah, maybe you stumble at first, but then you go home, read six documents, and come back the next day like you’ve been doing it for years.”

He let the silence sit for a second, then added, more firmly, “You didn’t get handed this. You’re making sure you can carry it. And I think most people would’ve cracked by now, just from the pressure alone. But you keep showing up. Not just with answers, but with the right questions too. That’s rarer than you think.”

Then he glanced at Gihun more seriously.

“Most people fake it till they make it. But you didn’t fake anything. You just… worked. You studied. You learned. You didn’t ask anyone to notice, but I did. And I think Hwang sajangnim did too.”

Gihun didn’t say anything, maybe because something delicate had just been set down between them.

“I don’t think he gave you this project to be nice,” Jihoon added. “I think he trusted you’d figure it out. That’s not pity. That’s confidence.”

Gihun looked down, fingers brushing the edge of the Legal packet still spread across the desk. The moment softened, a quieter warmth settling between them, like the words needed space to land before either of them moved again.

“I mean, it helps that he likes you,” Jihoon added more lightly, with a faint grin. “Or whatever it is. I’ve seen the way he answers you, like he’s actually listening, not just waiting to talk. He doesn’t do that with most people. He interrupts, he steamrolls, sometimes he makes you feel like you’re wasting his time if your sentence takes longer than five seconds.”

The beta shrugged. “But with you, it’s different. He gives you space to think. Explains stuff without being a dick about it. And that one meeting? You asked something about Hanseong’s reporting structure, and he actually paused to walk you through it. He doesn’t do that for me, and I’ve been here longer.” 

He said it with a little pout, the sulky edge in his voice making Gihun want to laugh, it was too endearing to be taken seriously.

Jihoon chuckled under his breath. “Maybe he’s got a soft spot. Or maybe he’s just not used to someone asking good questions and actually meaning it.”

He nudged Gihun’s shin lightly under the table. “Either way, you’re doing more than fine. Seriously.”

Gihun didn’t speak for a moment. His fingers stayed curled around the edge of his folder, the paper just slightly crumpled beneath his grip. But something in his shoulders eased. Not completely. Just a little. Like a muscle he hadn’t realized was tensed had finally started to release.

“Thanks,” he said softly, not quite meeting Jihoon’s eyes. “I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

“I did,” Jihoon replied, already leaning back toward his laptop. “Doesn’t mean I’m letting you off the hook for these budget inconsistencies, though.”

A weak huff of laughter escaped Gihun. He pushed his laptop open again, the familiar glow of the spreadsheet pulling his attention back in.

“Adjusted operating margin,” he muttered, squinting at the column headers. “Still feels made up.”

“Because it is,” Jihoon said dryly, already typing. “Let’s pin them down on the calculation method. If they dodge again, I’m sending it up to Legal with teeth.”

They fell into rhythm after that, quieter, but easier. Gihun’s mind didn’t feel so crowded now, his chest a little less tight. The numbers still didn’t align, the language was still vague, but the weight pressing on him had shifted, no longer a judgment, but something he could push back against. Something he could meet head-on. Maybe he didn’t have all the answers yet. But he was getting closer.

They worked in silence for a while, the kind that didn’t feel heavy anymore, just focused and familiar. Jihoon muttered occasionally at the screen, and Gihun found himself catching more of the threads than he expected. Maybe the reading had helped. Maybe Jihoon was right.

But then, in a lull between cross-checking figures, Jihoon leaned back again and gave Gihun a look that made his skin prickle with quiet dread.

“By the way,” Jihoon said, casually, like he wasn’t about to stir up something, “I’ve noticed you and that alpha of yours have been out a lot more lately.”

Gihun glanced up, blinking. “Sangwoo?”

“Unless there’s another one hiding in your kitchen,” Jihoon said with a smirk. “You know, I didn’t realize men in their forties could send that many messages. Thought they’d die of thumb strain first.”

Gihun flushed faintly, ducking his head. “He just… checks in more these days.”

It wasn’t untrue. Sangwoo had been texting more. Asking how meetings went, what he wanted for dinner, if he was free on Thursday, or Sunday, or the following week. Sometimes it made Gihun pause mid-step when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. It was attention. Care. The kind he’d wanted.

And yet—

Jihoon shrugged one shoulder. “The texts, the little presents. Didn’t you two go to that restaurant you used to go to when you were younger? That’s kind of sentimental.” He flipped a page lazily. “And I saw the gallery invite on your sticky note last week. He looks determined.”

Jihoon flipped another page, voice half under his breath. “At this rate, maybe the alpha’s gearing up to bring up mating.”

He didn’t look up, just kept scanning the words. “Wouldn’t be surprised if one day you show up with a mark and pretend it’s no big deal.”

Gihun’s fingers froze above the keyboard for half a second, too quick for Jihoon to notice, but enough that he felt it. That familiar twist in his stomach, part guilt, part confusion, part something he didn’t want to name. 

He didn’t reply right away. Didn’t need to. Because just then, the quiet sound of leather soles passed by their desks. Even, composed. Familiar.

Neither of them turned, but Gihun felt the shift in the air like a current against his skin, the faint scent he’d come to recognize without even meaning to. It brushed past with surgical precision.

Inho didn’t stop. Didn’t look at either of them. But he heard. And he kept walking. Right back toward the executive wing without a word. 

Jihoon muttered something about page numbers, already turning back to the printout. But Gihun sat still a moment longer, his screen blinking back at him like it knew. 

He inhaled slowly. Then kept typing.

They’d barely fallen back into their usual rhythm when Jihoon’s phone buzzed against the desk. Just a few minutes had passed since Inho had walked by without a word.

The beta checked the screen, then let out a low breath. “Ah. Great.”

Gihun glanced over. “What is it?”

“Summoned,” Jihoon muttered, already pushing his chair back with a sigh. He held up his phone, showing the screen briefly— Hwang Inho: Office. Now. No context. Just that.

“That’s not ominous at all,” Gihun said lightly, though his heart gave a small lurch at the sight of the name.

Jihoon stood, stretching his back with a quiet groan. “If I don’t come back in twenty minutes, avenge me.”

“I’ll log a memorial entry in the shared drive,” Gihun muttered.

Jihoon shot him a look over his shoulder. “Make it brief. He doesn’t like sentiment.”

Gihun huffed a quiet laugh, but as Jihoon disappeared down the corridor, his eyes lingered a moment too long on the path toward the executive wing. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then stilled.

He shook the thought off. Focus. The numbers weren’t going to align themselves.

Jihoon returned fifteen minutes later, noticeably more subdued. His usual bounce was gone, replaced by a stiff sort of focus as he dropped into his chair and reached for his laptop like it might shield him from further damage.

Gihun glanced over, brows raised. “You okay?”

The beta didn’t answer right away. Just reopened a spreadsheet, scrolled too quickly, then exhaled through his nose.

“Hwang sajangnim had feedback,” he muttered finally, voice flat.

Gihun blinked. “On the financial summary?”

Jihoon gave a humorless huff. “On everything. Q4 forecasts, variance rationale, the appendix formatting… Hell, I think he had notes on my punctuation.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Felt like he was looking for something to pick apart.”

The beta hesitated, then added, quieter now, “Hwang sajangnim asked me if I thought I had good judgment.”

That made Gihun glance over. Jihoon shrugged, brow still furrowed. “I thought it was a work thing. But then he said—” the beta dropped his voice slightly, unconsciously mimicking the clipped, precise tone, “‘You seem eager to involve yourself in things that don’t concern you. Maybe next time, choose your conversations more wisely.’”

He shook his head, the echo of it still clinging. “No idea what he meant. I don’t even remember saying anything.”

He didn’t notice the way Gihun’s fingers had curled slightly on the edge of the desk.

Jihoon just looked back at his screen and muttered, “Anyway. I’m gonna double-check the capital expense tab before he decides to write me a performance review in blood.”

They were back to their screens, the silence filled with the quiet hum of typing and the soft rustle of paper. Jihoon still looked rattled, but at least the tightness in his shoulders had begun to ease, replaced with a kind of numb focus. Gihun hadn’t asked for more. Whatever Inho had said to him, it wasn’t the kind of thing you dragged into the open.

A minute later, the door eased open. Hyunju stepped in, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, her eyes flicking between them like she was already clocking the tension. “Rough meeting?” she asked, eyeing Jihoon’s expression without bothering to sit.

The beta didn’t look up. Hyunju raised a brow, set her cup down on the edge of Gihun’s desk, and leaned a hip against it. “Alright. What happened?”

“Nothing,” Jihoon muttered, still clicking through cells with a little more force than necessary.

She narrowed her eyes. “You had a meeting with Hwang sajangnim, didn’t you.”

It wasn’t really a question. Jihoon stayed silent. His mouse stuttered once, then continued.

Hyunju exhaled through her nose, almost a hum. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Gihun glanced over. “Why?”

She sipped her coffee, then shook her head. “He’s been sharp all week. Like, sharp even for him.”

Hyunju lingered by the edge of Gihun’s desk, eyes flicking toward the screen before glancing back at him. Then she took another slow sip of her coffee and exhaled like she’d been holding in a whole morning’s worth of restraint.

“Legal said he tossed their revision back after reading the first paragraph,” she murmured. “Didn’t even give it a second glance. Asked if they were billing by the page, or if they just liked making work for the shredder.”

She reached across the desk, plucked a pen from Jihoon’s holder, and twirled it slowly between her fingers. Her tone didn’t change, but something in her gaze sharpened.

“And Compliance?” she went on, pausing just long enough to take another sip. “He let one of the juniors walk him through a regulatory checklist, didn’t interrupt once. Then looked her straight in the eye and asked if she was reading it for him, or just reminding herself what the rules were.”

Jihoon let out a low whistle, lips twitching.

Gihun’s fingers paused for a moment on the keyboard. He didn’t look up. Just kept scanning a column, pretending to check a calculation that wasn’t even wrong.

He hadn’t seen that side of Inho this week. Not really. The meetings they'd shared had been... focused. Tense, maybe, but not cruel. When Gihun had hesitated over something yesterday, Inho had filled in the gap without hesitation. When he’d asked a clarifying question during prep, Inho hadn’t brushed him off, he’d answered directly and precisely, even leaned in to explain something again when the language got tangled.

But maybe he’d just been too busy. Too locked into the work to notice the edges fraying around the man steering the ship. Gossip had never really interested him. 

“Also this Tuesday, Product Strategy’s pre-brief with Hanseong? I don’t think you were on it,” Hyunju said, glancing over the rim of her coffee cup. “Not the full rollout. Just a draft sequencing session with a couple of their reps.”

“Their consultant tried to push back on the timeline. Blamed it on ‘internal misalignment.’ Hwang sajangnim let him finish, then looked at him and said—‘You’re not misaligned. You’re unprepared. There’s a difference. One gets fixed with communication. The other needs a replacement.’”

She turned back toward her tablet, tapping something in, then paused, eyes flicking briefly to Jihoon. “So whatever he said to you, just…” Her mouth pulled to the side. “You’re not the only one this week.”

Gihun stayed quiet. His gaze dropped back to his screen, but the numbers were just shapes now. His mind wasn’t following.

Hyunju pushed off the desk. “Anyway. I’ve got a client call. Try not to breathe too loud until the quarter ends.”

And with that, she was gone, quiet steps fading down the hallway, leaving behind a strange, unsettled silence.

The office had gone quiet. Most people had cleared out after six, voices trailing off as the elevators dinged and the last few calls wrapped. Even the lights above the assistant pod had gone dim, casting a soft gray over Gihun’s desk. He was still sitting there, though. Long after he should’ve gone.

There wasn’t anything left to finish. His inbox was clear. His numbers reconciled. He could’ve left with Jihoon, could’ve slipped out while the halls still buzzed with movement. But he hadn’t. He sat. Kept clicking between tabs, rereading lines that no longer registered, pretending there was a reason. 

There wasn’t.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. It was tight again. It had been tight for days now. Not from work. Not really. The work, at least, made sense. Numbers followed rules. Reports had structure. Meetings followed schedules. But Inho—

Through the blinds, barely parted, he could see a sliver of movement, Inho’s silhouette, still at his desk. The light inside was low, casting everything in soft shadows. No tie, sleeves rolled up. He wasn’t typing. Just sitting there, still, one hand braced against the edge of the desk like he needed the grounding.

Even from the hallway, Gihun could feel it. Not anger. Not even tension. Just weight.

He thought back to earlier—Jihoon’s stiff posture, his vague muttering about judgment and punctuation, the way he’d flinched slightly when his phone buzzed again, like he half-expected another summons. And Hyunju, rattling off incident after incident like she wasn’t even trying to be dramatic, just honest. Legal. Compliance. External consultants. A trail of barely veiled warnings wrapped in sharp smiles and polite language.

It must’ve been the pressure. The scope of the rollout, the deadlines. The weight of leading something this size, with the entire company watching. Inho was used to control. And this was chaos, no matter how well-wrapped.

Maybe he was tired. Or maybe Gihun had been too focused on not messing up himself to notice the cracks forming in someone else.

He leaned back, rubbing at the side of his neck. The ache in his body wasn’t from the chair, not really; it was the kind that settled in after hours of bracing for something you couldn’t quite name. Of trying too hard not to mess up. Of holding your breath through every meeting and pretending you didn’t care.

But beneath all that, something quieter pulsed at the back of his mind—a tug he’d learned to ignore, most days. Instinct, maybe. That old omega sensitivity to moods shifting, to tension in the air that didn’t quite belong. It crept in the way a chill sneaks under a closed door: subtle, insistent, impossible to ignore once you notice. The sense that something, someone, needed… tending.

He tried to shake it off. Told himself he was being ridiculous. Still, his body moved before he’d made a real decision. He stood. Walked the length of the hall, half on autopilot, past the hum of the cubicles. 

When he stopped, it was in front of Inho’s office. The blinds were drawn but not completely, just enough that he could make out the outline of the alpha at his desk. Still, focused, but… off. The air felt depleted, like someone had taken something from the room and left nothing in its place.

That knot twisted again, low in his gut. He hesitated, then raised a hand and knocked. Once—measured, not nervous.

For a moment, there was only silence.

“Come in.”

He stepped inside, unsure of what he expected to see, or say. He hadn’t rehearsed anything on the walk down. 

Inho’s office was dimly lit, the desk lamp casting a golden pool across scattered papers. The overheads were off, and the room smelled faintly of ink, cologne, and the sharp, simmering edge of alpha fatigue.

The man looked up from his desk, pen still in hand. His gaze didn’t sharpen like it usually did when someone entered without scheduling. If anything, he looked... surprised. Not irritated. Just slightly off guard.

“You’re still here,” Gihun said quietly.

Inho set his pen down. “So are you.”

There was a beat. Neither of them moved.

Gihun hovered a step inside, fingers brushing the inside of his wrist where his pulse felt uncomfortably loud. He didn’t know what he was doing here. He didn’t have a folder in hand, or a project update, or any real excuse. Just a lingering sense of wrongness in his gut and the faint, unshakable pull of instinct.

“You didn’t eat again,” he said, because it was the first thing that came to him. His eyes flicked to the desk: papers, a single half-drunk espresso, no wrappers, no sign of food.

Inho’s brow arched slightly. “You keeping track of my meals now?”

“No,” Gihun said quickly. Then quieter. “I just notice things.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense—just… quiet. Charged in a way that made the space feel smaller, closer. Gihun could feel Inho’s gaze linger, hanging on him a moment too long. It made him more aware of himself: the set of his shoulders, the way he was chewing at the inside of his cheek, caught debating whether to say something more. He didn’t dare look up, not right away, but he could sense it, the kind of attention that pressed close, warm and intent, almost admiring.

And then—carefully, almost without thinking—he crossed the room and leaned against the edge of the desk. Not bold or challenging. Just there. Perched with his weight on one hip, close enough that the alpha could probably smell the faintest hint of his scent: warm, slightly sweet, probably clouded with concern. He could feel Inho’s eyes dragging, slow and automatic, over the line of his thigh where it pressed against the wood, then up to the subtle shift of his chest when he exhaled.

“You’ve been different lately. Snapping at people. Being… harsher than usual.”

A low snort escaped Inho as he leaned back, one brow arching. “You’re worried about office morale?”

Gihun rolled his eyes, frustration flaring before he could hide it. He could feel his heart thudding, a flush crawling up his neck as he pressed on anyway.

“I’m worried about you,” he blurted, the words out before he could pull them back. He hesitated, feeling suddenly reckless, then pressed on, softer but no less sure. “And yes. About the others too.”

Inho’s eyes flicked up, sharp again, but Gihun held his ground.

“You didn’t have to be like that with Jihoon,” he added, his voice still calm, but firmer now, steadier in a way that surprised even him.

He blinked, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. But the words were already out, and his mouth didn’t move to take them back.

“He came back looking like he got dragged through a wall,” he continued, quieter now. “Whatever he said… it didn’t deserve that.”

Inho blinked once, slowly. His entire posture stilled. Not defensive, not offended, just... stunned. Like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“He’s been working hard,” Gihun pressed on, because apparently, he had no sense of self-preservation left. “We all have. You gave me a team to lead and I’m trying to do that. But if you’re going to lash out at them for saying something wrong around you, it’s not fair.”

There it was. The instinct, bare and undeniable. That quiet, soft-spoken defense of pack. Of people under him. Of those he’d chosen to protect, even if he didn’t realize he’d chosen them until now.

Inho didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, for a second.

“I just thought,” he added softly, “you were better than that.”

It shouldn’t have worked. Shouldn’t have landed. But somehow, it did. Maybe because he meant it, every word of it—his heart pounding, cheeks burning from standing his ground. There was no venom behind it, just disappointment and a stubborn, unshakable instinct to defend his own. He couldn’t help it. Even now, he felt a flush of worry—had he gone too far? 

“You came here,” the alpha said at last, watching him, “...to scold me?”

Gihun blinked, caught off guard by how it sounded aloud, almost embarrassed now that it was framed like that.

Inho’s mouth tugged into something faint. Not quite a smile. Not quite a smirk. Just the smallest hint of amusement slipping through the fatigue.

Gihun frowned, unsure. “What?”

“Didn’t realize giving you the lead role would turn you this bossy this fast.”

“I’m not bossy.”

“You came into my office to tell me off.”

“I—I didn’t mean it like that,” Gihun spluttered, ears burning. “I just thought— It felt like someone needed to say something, and I didn’t want—”

His hands twitched at his sides, useless, unsure of what they were trying to hold back or offer. The words caught in his throat, all heat and no shape, and for a second, he felt genuinely panicked, like he’d overstepped, like he'd said too much without meaning to.

But then Hwang Inho laughed.

Not a sharp exhale or a polite huff, but a real laugh—deep and warm, spilling out before Gihun could brace for it. It filled the room in a way that didn’t belong in an office, cutting through the tension and leaving Gihun a little stunned. For a second, it changed everything. The office didn’t feel so sharp anymore. The edges seemed to blur, the air warmer, softer, like maybe, just for now, it was safe to breathe again.

He stared at the alpha, still stunned, not because he had laughed, but because of how beautiful it sounded. How genuine. Like a version of the man he’d never seen fully, not even in Singapore, had just slipped out between the cracks.

The laugh stuck around, low and fading, and Inho let out a slow breath, like maybe he hadn’t expected it either.

Something about it pulled at him, and before he knew it, Gihun found himself laughing too.  A quiet sound that caught at the back of his throat and warmed the space between them, tentative at first, then genuine.

Inho’s eyes softened, not quite a smile, but something close, something real, and for a second, nobody said anything.

The quiet that settled felt different. Close. Like an old memory sneaking up on them, sitting right in between, uninvited but impossible to ignore. Their eyes met, and held, and suddenly it was hard to remember what they were supposed to say.

Gihun saw Inho’s gaze drop to his mouth, so fast he might’ve imagined it, except he knew he hadn’t. 

The alpha didn’t look away. 

“You made it quiet in my head, for once.”

The words just sat there, too raw, too much, but Inho let them go anyway—his voice low, almost hoarse, like it had fought its way out.

Suddenly Gihun wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, his breath stalling, his heart thudding so loud he thought it would give him away. He couldn’t look away. Didn’t even want to.

His lips parted, something catching in his throat, an answer, maybe, or just the urge to close the distance and be done with it.

“Inho, I—”

The phone rang. The sound slicing clean through the silence, sharp and clinical, almost cruel.

Gihun flinched, hand flying to his pocket before he could even think. The name on the screen was plain as day.

Inho didn’t look, but his whole body seemed to shift, shoulders tensing, his jaw flexing. Maybe it was the way his scent turned sharp, the guilt written all over his face, or maybe Inho just knew.

“You should answer that.”

His voice was flat, but the words burned.

Gihun looked at him for a heartbeat longer, feeling something in his chest stutter and almost split, then thumbed the screen and turned away.

The grocery store was unusually calm, aisles mostly empty, speakers piping in some bland instrumental version of a song Gihun couldn’t place. The cart wheels squeaked as he pushed it along, shoulders relaxed for once, one hand on the handle, the other worrying at a hangnail. Sangwoo trailed just behind him, thumbing through their shopping list with that little crease between his brows.

They fell into their usual routine without a word: splitting up for items, exchanging brief glances, muttering about needing eggs or dish soap. It was a rhythm they’d fallen into years ago—efficient, practiced, maybe even comfortable. But it didn’t feel especially warm.

Gihun was reaching for a bag of spinach when something moved at the edge of his vision: a kid, maybe three or four, appearing at the end of the aisle, staring up at him with huge, uncertain eyes. Alone. No adult in sight.

Sangwoo blinked. “Uh…”

The child stared up expectantly.

Gihun dropped to a crouch beside him, voice going soft and warm, instinct smoothing the edges of every word. “Hey there, sweetheart,” he murmured, a reassuring smile tugging at his lips. “Are you looking for your mom? It’s okay, we’ll help you find her, I promise.”

The child clung to his sleeve, eyes still wide, and Gihun offered his hand, letting the kid squeeze his fingers. “Can you remember where you saw her last? Was she picking something out?” His tone was patient, gentle.

The child pointed uncertainly toward the back of the store, and Gihun gave a little nod, brushing a hand over the kid’s shoulder. “That’s helpful. Thank you, you did great.”

He stood, steadying the child with both hands, then looked to Sangwoo, who still seemed a little startled by the whole thing. Without missing a beat, Gihun gently scooped the little boy up and settled him into Sangwoo’s arms. “Hold on to him for me, yeah?” he said, shooting the kid another reassuring smile before heading off to find the missing parent.

“What—” Sangwoo’s hands caught under the child awkwardly, as if the idea of touching something that small and alive short-circuited his motor functions. “Gihun-ah, wait—”

But he was already walking away, following the direction the child had pointed. He glanced back only once, catching a glimpse of Sangwoo standing stiff beside the cart, holding the boy at arm’s length like a fragile package, his face pinched in visible discomfort.

The child, utterly unbothered, rested his head on Sangwoo’s shoulder.

When Gihun returned a minute or two later, gently leading a flustered omega and her mate, Sangwoo looked like he hadn’t breathed the whole time. His eyes flicked up, clearly relieved, and he shifted the child forward instantly, practically handing them off before the parents had even finished thanking them.

The omega crouched, hugging her child close, murmuring thanks. Her mate gave Sangwoo a nod, then turned to Gihun. “Seriously. Thank you. That was fast thinking.”

The omega stood and looked between them with a smile. “You two handled it so well, do you have pups of your own?”

Gihun opened his mouth to respond, but Sangwoo beat him to it.

“Not yet,” he said smoothly, slipping into the answer with that PR-ready charm he saved for strangers. His arm settled lightly around Gihun’s waist—casual, but not really affectionate, more for show than anything else. “We’ve been talking about it. Timing, logistics, the usual. You know how it is.”

They hadn’t. Not really.

The omega smiled wider. “Well, you’d be naturals.”

There was real sincerity there, and it twisted something in Gihun’s chest—not because it wasn’t true, but because it landed on the wrong person. He just nodded, forcing a smile, and watched the family disappear into the next aisle, the child’s hand tight in the mother’s grip. Their footsteps faded, but somehow, Gihun kept hearing them.

Behind him, Sangwoo let out a quiet breath and brushed invisible dust from his sleeve, settling back into his usual, distant composure. “Well. That was unexpected.”

Gihun turned to the cart, picking up a bundle of scallions. “You handled it.”

A beat passed, tension seeping back in.

Sangwoo’s laugh was soft, self-mocking. “Please. I looked like I was holding a wild animal.”

He adjusted his collar, still playing the part, and shot Gihun a sideways glance. “At least they bought it, right? We must have looked the part. All domestic and capable.” His smile lingered, too proud.

Gihun didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because under the fluorescent lights and the soft hum of the store, all he could feel was the ghost of that small body in his arms—the quiet, instinctive trust of a child who had clung to him without thinking. And the way Sangwoo had held them—awkward, stiff, like a man posing for a photo he didn’t want to take—stuck with him long after.

They moved on, one pushing the cart, the other scrolling the list. The routine picked up again, but something in Gihun’s steps dragged, just slightly. His instincts had brushed against something real, only to be pulled back under.

The apartment was quiet, except for the steady scratch of his brush against canvas and the soft rustle as he shifted in his seat. The smell of paint hung in the air, grounding him: something real, something that didn’t move under his feet the way everything else seemed to lately. His fingers worked on autopilot, painting more from habit than intention, his mind wandering even as his hands kept busy.

For the first time in days, he’d managed to carve out a little space for himself. The last week had been nothing but work, tension wound too tight in his chest, too many things unsaid. But here, with the canvas stretched out in front of him and colors mixing under his brush, he could almost exhale. He could almost let go, or at least pretend.

Even now, though, even in this space that had always been just his, his thoughts kept drifting: back to the office, the last few days, that conversation he still couldn’t shake.

It wasn’t just the laugh. It was the quiet that settled after. That strange, weightless feeling, like they were a different version of themselves, one that hadn’t been interrupted. And the way Inho had looked at him, like he’d been waiting for something, like it meant more, still left his skin warm even now.

He hadn’t let himself think about it. Not really. He’d shoved it down, lost it under busywork, phone calls, the way Sangwoo was suddenly trying to give him some version of steadiness. But here, in the quiet, with nothing between him and the memory, it came crawling back up.

You made it quiet in my head, for once.

Gihun blinked, his brush stalling mid-stroke. No. He gave his head a little shake, like maybe he could knock the thought loose—just a moment, just a fluke. He didn’t want to go back there. Didn’t want to sit with what that moment had done to him.

And yet, only a few days later, something else crept in around the edges.

His gaze dropped to the side of the canvas, unfocused, memory flickering up no matter how much he tried to keep it down.

He hadn’t planned to notice it. Didn’t plan to pause the way he did, earlier today, when his eyes caught on the book sitting out on Inho’s desk. Instinct, really. He saw the cover and everything in him froze for half a second.

Because it wasn’t just any book.

It was his.

The one he’d spoken about only once—quietly, almost without thinking—between laughter and the crash of waves on Sentosa Island. It was such a small moment he hadn’t expected it to last the afternoon, much less follow them back home. He hadn’t meant to impress; it had just slipped out because it mattered, because it was the kind of thing that shaped him, the way he saw beauty, grief, all of it.

And there it was, sitting open on Inho’s desk. Read. Touched. Pages marked, spine creased in just the spot he’d once described.

Something in his chest clenched at the sight—not fear, exactly, but that delicate ache of being seen a little too well by someone who wasn’t supposed to look that close. For a second, he almost wanted to laugh. Or run. Or just ask, point-blank, You remembered that?

But Inho had. That was the part he couldn’t shake.

Gihun’s hand faltered, paint pooling at the tip of the brush as the memory came back, unasked for, sharper than it had any right to be. The look Inho had given him, not quite wary, not quite open, just that flicker before he pulled his gaze away. Fingers pressing flat to the desk, knuckles white. Gihun had tried to keep his voice light when he asked about the book, but he could hear the strain in it even now.

For a second, Inho just sat there, shifting his hand like he was about to shove the book in a drawer. Didn’t, though. Just let it sit between them.

“You talk about things like they matter,” Inho had said, and Gihun felt the memory of it settle heavy at the base of his throat. He didn’t say it as a joke or to tease. It was like he meant it, like it slipped out before he could stop himself.

“I wanted to see the world the way you do.”

Gihun gripped the brush a little too tight, paint streaking too dark across the canvas. He closed his eyes, just for a second, trying to breathe past the ache of it, wondering if he was imagining all of this—wondering if it even mattered that Inho had remembered, or if that was the whole reason it hurt.

It wasn’t the first time Inho had thrown him off balance. Gihun could count too many moments like that: things said too quietly, words that didn’t fade when they should’ve, phrases that hooked under his ribs and stayed put for hours after. But this time… it wasn’t the usual game. It wasn’t about testing boundaries, or that electric tug-of-war over who’d look away first, who’d move closer. It was just… raw. Messy. Human, in a way that felt almost worse.

He sat back, only now realizing his shoulder was stiff from holding the same position too long. He blinked at the painting, expecting it to look unfinished, or maybe like nothing at all. But it wasn’t just color. Not really. It was shapes bleeding into each other, the sense of something reaching across the middle. Something soft, almost comforting—a warmth threaded through everything, as if the whole canvas was straining to bridge a gap.

He realized, a bit too late, what he’d done. He’d painted connection. Not anything literal, not faces or hands or names, but the feeling of closeness he’d been aching for and refusing to name. Even here, even now, it had spilled out of him.

His stomach twisted, guilt and want tangled up together. He hadn’t planned this. But looking at the painting, there was no denying what it was. Connection. Warmth. The thing he kept pretending he didn’t need, staring back at him in streaks of paint.

His fingers slackened around the brush, and he let out a rough breath, shaking his head as if he could clear the heaviness pressing under his ribs.

It was only paint. Only a canvas. Just a stray moment, that was all.

But he couldn’t lie to himself, not here, not now. Whatever this was, whatever had been building, it had already seeped deeper than he’d wanted. Somewhere along the line, the alpha had found his way in, and Gihun couldn’t figure out how to unlearn the feeling of him.

Just as he reached for the edge of the canvas again to adjust something, anything, a familiar warmth pressed against his back. Sangwoo’s scent settled around him, threaded with something deeper, a faint warmth beneath the sharper notes. Before Gihun could turn, a pair of hands slid over his shoulders, fingers pressing in with slow, deliberate pressure. The touch lingered.

“You finished?” Sangwoo murmured, his voice low and close, more breath than sound. He didn’t move away, didn’t shift to Gihun’s side. Instead, his hands slid down from his shoulders, tracing the shape of his arms before settling lightly at his waist. His fingers curled there, thumbs pressing just enough to make their presence known.

A beat passed. 

“It’s not your usual style,” he said, voice thoughtful, absent in the way someone might comment on a change in weather. “Feels… loose.”

Gihun hesitated, fingers tightening around the brush. “Loose?”

“Less controlled,” Sangwoo clarified, nodding toward the brushstrokes. “You normally work with stronger contrasts. More structure.” Another pause. “It’s not bad, just… kind of aimless?”

The words landed with a quiet thud in Gihun’s chest. He swallowed, pressing his lips together, though he wasn’t sure why he was trying to keep quiet. Sangwoo wasn’t criticizing, not really. He was just stating things as they were. Just like he always did.

The alpha exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders back like he’d already moved on from the conversation. “Anyway. I made dinner.” He turned, walking toward the door before tossing casually over his shoulder, “If you’re stuck on it, leave it for tomorrow.”

Gihun nodded automatically, though Sangwoo was already gone.

The silence stretched once more, heavier than before, the air tinged with something unsettled. He glanced back at the painting, its warmth still radiating from the canvas, the unspoken feeling still there, still present, despite Sangwoo’s effortless dismissal.

He traced a finger along the edge of the frame, pressing lightly into the wood.

Aimless.

The word stuck in his ribs, but even now, he wasn’t sure if Sangwoo had meant the painting, or him.

The office had slipped into its usual afternoon drone: screens blinking, voices low, the steady hum of work thick in the air. Gihun’s desk was a mess: papers stacked in half-sorted piles, notes scribbled in the margins, another tab open for Hanseong follow-ups he’d promised to handle before lunch and never got to.

He was halfway through unraveling some mess of a spreadsheet—one of those problems that would’ve stumped him a few months back—when Hyunju let out a sigh, quiet but unmistakably irritated, from across the partition.

“They’re doing it again,” she said under her breath.

He looked up, blinking himself back to the present. “Who’s doing what now?”

She tapped her pen against her notebook, frustration clear in the way her jaw worked. “Hanseong’s internal teams. I’ve sent over the transition framework twice now. Every time, it comes back covered in so-called ‘minor adjustments.’” She made air quotes, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “Except they’re not minor. They’re basically rewriting the whole process—like they’re looking for excuses not to go along.”

Gihun let out a long breath, leaning back in his chair. “They’re not interested in going along. Not really.”

Hyunju glanced up, pen pausing. “You sound awfully sure.”

He shrugged, rubbing his temple. “They’re stalling. It’s not about the plan itself, it’s about control. They want all the perks, but none of the hassle of actually getting integrated. So they slow-roll every step. Just enough to make it seem like they’re cooperating.”

She mulled that over, chewing her lip. “Fine, but what do we even do with that? I can’t just call them out.”

He scrolled through his notes. “You already gave them choices, right?”

“Three rounds of them.”

“Then don’t give them any more. Tell them implementation starts next week, final version is based on their feedback, all set to go.” He shrugged again, softer this time. “If they actually have a problem, they’ll yell about it. If not, we keep moving.”

She snorted. “That’s cold.”

“Not cold. Just tired.” He gave her a lopsided smile, grateful for the break in tension. “Trust me, they’ll chase you down if they really care.”

She paused, then let out a short breath. “That’s… actually kind of ruthless. But it might work.”

Gihun’s grin was crooked. “Hey, desperate times. Besides, I’m supposed to be the one in charge of this mess.”

She gave him a look, but the edge had gone out of her voice. “Can’t argue with that.”

A moment passed, just the buzz of monitors and a faint click of keys, before she said, “You know you’ve changed, right?”

He raised an eyebrow, half-distracted. “How so?”

“You’re just… more sure of yourself. When you started here, it always felt like you were checking if you were allowed to speak. Now you don’t really wait.”

He snorted, half under his breath. “Probably just means I’m tired enough to forget I should be nervous.”

She grinned at that, nudging his foot under the desk. “Whatever it is, it suits you. Was it Singapore?”

Something inside him curled, tightening in on itself.

Singapore. The rooftop air, heavy with jasmine and salt. That look, fixed and intent, pulling him in until he forgot where business ended and something else began. A voice—low, knowing— You don’t see yourself the way I do.

His stomach twisted.

Hyunju blinked, then paused, frowning a little as if trying to place something just out of reach.

“Your scent’s changed,” she said, offhand, almost like she was talking about the weather.

Gihun stilled, fingers curling tight around his pen.

“It’s faint, don’t worry,” she added, waving it away. “Not a bad thing. Just… different.”

A beta wouldn’t usually notice the subtleties—so if she picked up on it, it had to be obvious. Too obvious. Gihun looked away, heat prickling behind his ears.

Hyunju studied him for another beat, then, with the kind of deftness that made her easy to like, let the subject slide.

“So, what’d you get up to yesterday?” she asked, her voice shifting lighter, as if the question had always been there.

Gihun exhaled, trying to catch up to the change in topic. “Spent most of the day with my mom,” he muttered. “She needed help around the house.”

Hyunju nodded, letting the moment settle. “You cook for her?”

“Yeah. She likes it when I do.”

“You’re better than me, then,” Hyunju said, leaning back and letting out a soft sigh. “I was too tired to even bother cooking last night.”

That pulled a laugh out of him. “So what’d you end up eating?”

“Microwaved rice, kimchi, and one sad egg,” she said, deadpan.

Gihun huffed. “Tragic.”

“Disgraceful,” she agreed, but she was already smiling. “Still counts.”

The mood shifted, easier now, the heaviness from before sliding quietly out of reach. He knew she’d done it on purpose, and he was grateful.

He turned his cup in his hands. “Painted a little, too.”

Hyunju cocked her head, interested. “Yeah?”

He nodded, looking down like he was reconsidering saying more. “Just for a bit. Nothing much.”

She made a thoughtful sound. “You don’t talk about it much.”

He shrugged, scratching at the back of his neck. “Feels weird, sometimes.”

Hyunju didn’t push, but her mouth quirked. “And?”

He blinked. “And?”

She tapped her fingers lightly on the desk, then grinned. “Don’t you usually take pictures?”

He went still, hand tightening around his cup before he could hide it.

“Knew it,” she said, palm out expectantly. “Show me.”

Gihun blinked, caught off guard. That… wasn’t what he’d meant to happen. He just wanted to keep talking, let the conversation stretch a little longer, Hyunju’s company was easy, familiar. He hadn’t actually planned on showing anything.

But now she was waiting, patient and open, no judgment in her expression. After a beat, he let out a breath and pulled out his phone, scrolling through his gallery with his thumb hovering, nerves prickling just a little. Then he turned the screen toward her.

Hyunju leaned in, studying the image with real attention. She didn’t say anything right away—no quick praise, no careless comment. She just looked.

Gihun found himself holding his breath, waiting.

A voice broke the moment.

“May I see?”

None of them noticed Inho approaching, hadn’t even sensed the alpha nearby, but suddenly, there he was, standing close enough for the heat of his presence to register, gaze flicking between them with interest.

Hyunju glanced at Gihun, then slid her chair back just a little, quietly leaving the choice to him.

Gihun hesitated. He wasn’t sure why, maybe it was the way Inho always looked at things, at him, too closely, like he was searching for the softest spot. Maybe it was just the memory of how raw that kind of attention could feel. Still, the alpha was waiting, so Gihun turned the screen toward him before he could talk himself out of it.

“It feels like an invitation.” 

Gihun’s fingers twitched. “W—What?”

Inho looked at him, then back at the painting. “It’s open. Not restrained. Even the light—it’s reaching for something. Or someone.” His voice was calm, but underneath there was an edge, something slow and heavy that made Gihun’s pulse stumble.

He swallowed, suddenly aware of how tight his grip on the phone had gotten.

Hyunju’s gaze flicked between them, her expression sharpening just a little. “That’s… an interesting take.”

Inho didn’t look away from the screen. “That’s what paintings do, don’t they? They reveal things.” His gaze flicked back, sharp and intent.

Gihun’s pulse quickened, something wound tight in his chest. He could feel Hyunju watching, curiosity shifting into something more cautious.

Inho blinked, as if catching himself, then straightened a bit, the unreadable mask settling back over his face.

“It’s good,” he said, quieter now. “You have an instinct for balance. You know how to lead the eye without forcing it. Most people don’t.”

He paused, fingers tapping lightly against his arm. “And you don’t overwork it. There’s restraint. Confidence in your strokes.” The faintest trace of a smirk pulled at his mouth. “You let the painting breathe. That’s rare.”

Something twisted low in Gihun’s stomach. It was almost flattering—almost—but not quite. It felt more like being exposed. Like Inho was seeing through him again, and he couldn’t hide it.

Finally, the alpha stepped back, his expression slipping back into that unreadable smoothness. “You should paint more like this, Gihun-ssi,” he said—final, decisive, not really up for debate.

With that, he nodded once and walked away, leaving Gihun staring after him. He let out a slow breath, trying to work the tension out of his hand, fingers still stiff from clutching his phone too tightly. 

For a while, neither he nor Hyunju said anything.

After a beat, she leaned back in her chair, drumming her fingers lightly against her coffee cup. “Huh.”

It was soft, just a little note dropped into the quiet.

Gihun glanced over, shoulders still wound tight. “What?”

She didn’t answer at first. Just took a slow sip of her coffee, gaze drifting to her monitor, though it was obvious she wasn’t reading a single word on the screen.

After a moment, she said, “Didn’t think he’d care that much.”

Gihun stilled, just a fraction. “About what?”

She tilted her head, voice easy. “Your painting.”

There wasn’t anything pointed in the way she said it—no accusation, no real question. Still, something about how she let the words hang there, let them settle, made him feel like she was weighing them for later.

He shrugged, keeping his eyes on his screen. “Guess he knows a lot about art.”

Hyunju hummed quietly, the kind of sound that wasn’t agreement but wasn’t disagreement either. Then she clicked back to her email, not pressing, not digging, letting him have the out.

But for some reason, Gihun could still feel it, that small shift in the air, that quiet awareness, like a thread being picked up for the first time.

The past few days blurred together, a slow grind of exhaustion that pressed heavier with every morning. Work didn’t let up—hours too long, meetings too tense, something frayed and taut running beneath every conversation. Inho was still sharp, but now there were cracks in it: his irritation closer to the surface, his voice cutting through the air with just a little too much bite. Gihun felt the way the whole office seemed to lean away from him, how even Hyunju and Jihoon traded looks whenever Inho’s mood soured. Still, Gihun told himself he wouldn’t dwell on it. Or at least, he’d try not to.

He had other things to focus on anyway.

His messages with Sangwoo had picked up again—steadier, longer in the evenings. It should have felt comforting. Sometimes it did. But mostly it unsettled him, like finding an old coat in the closet and putting it on, only to realize it didn’t quite fit the way it used to. He kept going along with it, telling himself he belonged in that space. He just wasn’t sure if that was still true.

They’d spent the weekend at his mother’s house. Predictable, quiet. She’d been thrilled to see them, fussed over him as always, slipping extra food onto his plate, beaming at Sangwoo the same way she always had—warm, approving, a little too fond. It was easy to fall back into the rhythm, to let that familiar nostalgia blur out the edges of everything else for a while.

But there were moments.

Moments when Sangwoo’s eyes lingered a little too long, his hand hovering at the small of his back like he was worried he might disappear. Moments when he brought up old stories—restaurants, trips, little routines—his voice a little too careful, like he was tugging at threads just to see if they’d hold.

And Gihun played along. He nodded, smiled when it was expected, let himself drift on those memories, letting them wash over him and pull him back toward something that looked like home. But underneath it all, there was that emptiness, that strange hollow that nothing seemed to reach. No matter how much he tried, it never quite filled.

And then there was his mother.

She’d always been stubborn, waving off worries with that sharp flick of her hand, insisting she was fine, there was nothing to fuss over. She’d been like that his whole life: too proud to complain, too private to ask for help, and most of the time he let her be.

But this time, something felt off.

She was slower now, moving in careful little steps, cautious in a way that hadn’t been so obvious before, but now he couldn’t miss it. He noticed the limp—worse than last time—the way she shifted her weight, the wince she tried to hide when she walked too far. She told him it was nothing, just a sore spot, maybe her shoes.

It was her foot.

She wouldn’t let him look at it. Wouldn’t even let him near it. She just brushed him off with a laugh, a flick of her wrist, a familiar Don’t fuss, I’m not an invalid. But he couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t get rid of the image of her shuffling down the hallway, couldn’t ignore the faint scent that wasn’t there last time—something off, underneath the usual smell of liniment and laundry. A knot started to settle in his gut, heavy and cold.

Maybe it was the look Sangwoo shot him, quiet and exasperated, muttering, “She’s never going to listen unless it’s an emergency.” Or the way his mother squeezed his hand before they left: warm, but shaky and smaller than he remembered. Maybe it was just instinct, something deep and insistent that whispered, this isn’t nothing. Something’s coming. And he wasn’t sure he’d be able to ignore it much longer.

Diabetic foot.

The words alone sent a cold dread down his spine. He’d read about it, heard the horror stories: infected wounds, surgeries that went wrong, people losing toes or whole legs. His mother, stubborn as always, kept waving it off. “It’s nothing,” she’d insisted, propping her foot up and telling him she just needed to rest for a few days.

But the swelling had gotten worse. The color looked off. And the clinic doctor he’d dragged her to had been useless—rushed, distracted, more interested in his own paperwork than in her. “Monitor it,” he’d mumbled, scribbling half-hearted notes before shooing them out the door. Gihun had left with a sick feeling twisting in his gut.

She needed a specialist. Not in a month. Not whenever her name finally came up. Now.

But every doctor he called, every number they gave him, led to the same answer: the best guy was booked solid for months. No emergency slots. No last-minute openings. The receptionist had sounded apologetic, but it was clear this was the script. 

He’d tried everything. Called, pleaded, tried to figure out if another hospital would be any better. Nothing worked. His nerves felt flayed raw. He was barely sleeping, barely eating, mind circling through what-ifs and worst-case scenarios he couldn’t get out of his head.

And in the thick of it all, people noticed.

It wasn’t just the way he looked: tired, distracted, running on fumes. It was how he spoke, how his usual grumbling had sharpened into real bitterness, how he muttered to Hyunju or Jihoon about the fucking uselessness of the system, about how people could die waiting for help. He hadn’t cared who overheard. He just needed to get it out, needed to say it before it suffocated him.

And people had listened.

Hyunju was the first, of course she was. She wasn’t dramatic about it, never overstepped, but the next morning as they sat at their desks, she just said, “I have a friend in hospital admin. I can ask if there’s any flexibility.”

Gihun had blinked, caught off guard by how casually she’d dropped it. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” she’d replied, not even glancing up from her screen. “But I’ll ask anyway.”

She never made a big thing of it. Never made people feel like they owed her. But she asked.

Jihoon, on the other hand, was more open about it. “Shit. That’s terrible. My uncle’s a doctor, but not that kind. Still, let me check. Maybe he knows someone.”

That lead hadn’t gone anywhere, but even when Jihoon sighed and muttered, “Sorry, hyung. I tried,” it still mattered. The effort counted for something.

But the conversation that stuck with him most wasn’t at work.

It was with Minyeo.

They’d been sitting outside at one of those run-down pojangmacha stalls, the air heavy with fried food and cigarette smoke. It was one of those nights he just couldn’t be at home, not with the walls closing in the way they did lately. He hadn’t even told her everything, just enough—the basics: his mom was sick, he was running into brick walls trying to get her help, every option a fucking dead end.

Minyeo, sharp as ever and impossible to predict, just looked at him for a long moment. Then she exhaled, pulled out her phone, and said, “Alright. Give me a second.”

Gihun just stared at her. “What are you—?”

“Seeing if I still have contacts at the old clinic I used to go to,” she muttered, thumb flicking over her screen. “Some of them do private consults. If I can find someone willing to take a look, you’ll have to pay out of pocket. But you can handle that, right?”

He blinked, something catching in his throat. She hadn’t asked if he wanted help. Hadn’t tiptoed around it, hadn’t even given him a second to argue. She just did it. And maybe it was stupid, maybe it was desperate, but that—someone just doing something, no questions—knocked the wind out of him.

Especially after last time.

The last time they’d seen each other, it hadn’t ended on any sort of friendly note. She’d called him out for lying, for pretending he was fine when he wasn’t, and then walked off in that way only Minyeo could—sharp, final, pissed but somehow still caring underneath. And even though he told himself it didn’t matter, that he ought to be used to it by now, some part of him had believed she’d just leave it at that. That after he shut her out, after he said the wrong thing, she’d be done with him.

“Minyeo…” he started, voice coming out rough.

She clicked her tongue. “Yah, don’t get all sentimental, dumbass. I didn’t say I found anything yet.”

She hadn’t, in the end. The best she managed was a name, someone already on his list, someone just as out of reach as before. But that wasn’t the part that mattered.

What mattered was that she’d tried. Sitting there under the flicker of a streetlamp, his hands curled around a paper cup of barley tea, he realized something he hadn’t wanted to look at too closely.

People cared.

He’d always told himself otherwise: that he was on his own, that nobody really gave a shit, that people only helped when there was something in it for them. But they’d helped. They’d tried. It hadn’t changed anything for his mom, not yet. But it had done something else.

It reminded him that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as alone as he thought.

And then the call came.

He was halfway home, mind numb, when his phone started buzzing in his pocket—his mother’s hospital, the name bright on the screen. He nearly stumbled trying to answer.

“Hello?”

“Seong Gihun-ssi?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“This is from Dr. Choi’s office. I’m calling to let you know that a last-minute slot has opened up for your mother. Could she come in this week?”

He almost forgot to breathe. “Sorry—what?”

The woman repeated herself, calm and practiced, as if he hadn’t heard right the first time. His mother, who’d been told there wouldn’t be space for months, was suddenly being offered a priority appointment. No waitlist, no frantic begging, no hoops to jump through. Just like that.

That wasn’t how hospitals worked. Not for people like them.

His heart was pounding, mind spinning in circles trying to piece it together. This couldn’t be random. There had to be something behind it. He hesitated, fingers tight on the phone, and asked quietly, “Sorry, but… how did this happen?”

There was a pause on the other end, just long enough for his nerves to bunch tighter, before the woman spoke again, her tone careful, almost apologetic.

“A request was made on your behalf,” she said. “By a… high-priority donor.”

The words landed with a dull thud. For a second, all Gihun could do was stare at the far end of the crosswalk, his pulse thudding in his ears.

A donor.

His mind jumped ahead of him, dread prickling cold under his skin. There was only one person who could have done that, only one person who would.

His fingers tightened on the phone, breath caught sharp in his chest as the answer settled in, heavy and inescapable.

Inho.

The next morning, Gihun didn’t hesitate. 

He strode across the office floor, barely hearing Hyunju’s voice behind him—her quick, concerned “Hyung!” went unanswered. He didn’t slow down. Didn’t knock. He just pushed open the door to Inho’s office and shut it behind him, not slamming, but firm enough that the sound carried.

Inho didn’t flinch. He sat behind his desk, leafing through a stack of documents, pen twirling between his fingers. His eyes lifted as he entered—calm, composed, that razor-sharp focus that never seemed to slip.

“Something wrong?”

Gihun stood there for a second, chest tight, trying to force the words out through a throat that wouldn’t unclench. Everything in him felt scraped raw. He took a step closer.

“You did it,” he managed, voice rough, barely more than a whisper. “Didn’t you?”

Inho’s expression didn’t flicker.

“Did what?”

Gihun’s jaw tightened. He hated this, hated the game, the way Inho always made him say it first. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

A long silence stretched between them. Inho let out the barest exhale and set his pen down, fingers folding together on the desk, watching him with that quiet patience. No smirk, no amusement—just that steady, unblinking focus that always made something coil up under Gihun’s ribs.

“Would it be so bad if I did?” he murmured, voice barely above the hush of the office.

The breath left Gihun in a slow, shuddering exhale.

Because that was it, wasn’t it? That was the part that terrified him—not the favor, not the debt, not what anyone might think. It was the truth of it. That he didn’t think it was bad. That it felt like too much. That it meant something he couldn’t name.

It wasn’t about strings or power plays or owing anyone anything. It was the way Inho had seen him unraveling, the way he’d just… acted. No questions, no bargaining, just did it, like it was nothing. Like helping Gihun mattered.

Gihun swallowed, mouth gone dry. His fingers curled tight against his palms, as if he could grab hold of something solid, something that would keep him upright. But he couldn’t, not really. Not until he understood what this actually was.

“How?” he asked, his voice rough, coming out more ragged than he wanted.

A flicker crossed Inho’s face—small, but there if you knew what to look for. His lips parted, then pressed together again, weighing something out. For a second, it looked like he might deflect, but then he let out a slow, measured breath and leaned back in his chair.

“I overheard.”

Gihun felt his pulse stutter. “From who?”

There was a beat. 

“Jihoon mentioned something, in passing,” Inho said quietly. “Not to me. But he doesn’t exactly whisper.” His fingers tapped the desk, then stilled. “And Hyunju… she didn’t say much, but it wasn’t hard to put together.”

Gihun swallowed, throat thick. So that was it. The alpha hadn’t dug, hadn’t pressed—just listened. Paid attention. Somehow that made it worse, that someone could see so much without even trying.

His hands twitched at his sides, restless.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asked, the question soft but sharp at the edges.

Inho’s gaze didn’t waver. “Because I didn’t want it to be about that. About who owed who. Or about pity.” His voice dropped, low and unguarded. “Or leverage.”

Gihun’s breath snagged. It should have been about leverage—about power, about keeping the upper hand. That would have made sense. That, he could’ve handled. But it wasn’t. It was something else, something he didn’t have a name for, and he hated how it unsettled him.

“Why?” The word came out small, unsteady. He hated the way it sounded.

Inho didn’t even blink. “You already know why.”

He did. He just couldn’t stand what it meant.

His stomach twisted. Instinct clawed up inside him, a hot pressure rising in his chest, crowding out air, making his skin itch with the urge to move—closer, further, he didn’t know. He shook his head once, desperate for steady ground, but his body betrayed him, a traitorous lean forward, pulled by something raw and buried.

The words settled between them, sharp as glass. Gihun bit his lip, jaw trembling. The ache in his chest bloomed hard and sudden, choking off words, thickening his breath. He hadn’t expected it to feel like this—so quick, so heavy, impossible to swallow.

Of course Inho noticed. He always did. The alpha was on his feet before Gihun even realized he’d moved, all the old authority gone, replaced by something quieter, careful, protective.

“Hey. It’s alright,” he said, voice low and steady, anchoring him there. “It will be okay.”

It was that tone—gentle, but firm, meant to steady him—that nearly undid everything. Because Inho thought that was why he was crying. Thought it was just the stress, all the fear and exhaustion finally spilling out. Maybe that was part of it. But the truth—the terrifying, gut-twisting truth—was that Gihun was moved in a way he didn’t know how to explain.

It had been a long time since anyone had done something like this for him. Since someone, an alpha , had listened—not just heard him, but actually paid attention, stepped in and tried to take the weight, just because they wanted to. Not because they were supposed to, not out of obligation, just… because. Maybe he’d known that kind of care once, a long time ago, in bits and flashes. But not like this. Not for years.

The weight of it made it hard to breathe. His fingers twitched before he even noticed—without thinking, without permission, his hand lifted, brushing the sharp edge of Inho’s jaw, fingertips grazing warm skin. The alpha stilled, breath catching just enough for Gihun to notice, but he didn’t move away. He only watched him, steady and silent, letting Gihun have that space.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Inho’s cheek, soft and lingering, something fragile and impossibly intimate curling up between them. Then another, a breath away, barely there. But Inho’s scent thickened, something deep and satisfied thrumming underneath. Gihun felt it—the way Inho held still, savoring it, letting the moment draw out.

One more, just beneath his jaw, where the scent was strongest, warm and completely him. Gihun didn’t even realize he’d done it until it was already there, his lips pressed into skin, breath caught. He shouldn’t. He knew what this looked like, what it meant, but the need to feel that scent against his mouth, just one more time, overran everything else.

“Thank you,” he murmured against Inho’s skin.

The alpha exhaled, breath feathering against his cheek. When Gihun finally pulled back, the look on Inho’s face was unreadable, careful and searching, as if trying to memorize every detail, every stupid feeling Gihun couldn’t keep tucked away.

And he didn’t say anything. No teasing, no sly remark, nothing to break the moment or smooth it over.

For once, Inho seemed almost off balance, caught sideways, not quite sure what to do with the quiet left between them. And Gihun wasn’t sure what unsettled him more: that he’d managed to shake him, or that he wanted, suddenly, to do it again.

The silence between them thickened, settling over the room like humidity before a storm—oppressive, electric, too full of everything neither of them could say, but neither could swallow. Gihun’s hand dropped back to his side, but he didn’t step away. Couldn’t.

He was stuck between instinct and stubborn will, pinned there by the weight of everything hanging between them, all of it close to spilling over.

Inho watched him. The crisp edge he wore in the boardroom, the easy confidence he usually threw around like armor—none of it was here now. What stared back at Gihun was sharper in a different way: focused, searching, heat building behind his eyes, barely leashed, barely held.

“Gihun—”

Just his name, soft, real. Like it mattered. Like it always had.

And then he stepped forward. Into that fragile space, slow enough Gihun could feel the shape of every inch closing between them, like neither of them could help it anymore.

The alpha didn’t close the distance right away. His eyes flicked down—to his mouth, then lower, to the place just under his jaw, where his scent gland pulsed, sudden and too obvious, heat gathering there like it could give him away. The look in Inho’s eyes was unmistakable: focused, intent, a hunger that made something low in Gihun coil tight and uncertain.

Just that heavy, wordless want, the kind that didn’t demand or tease, only waited.

When the alpha finally leaned in, that was what undid him—how Inho looked at him, not taking, just… searching. Waiting for Gihun to give something back. No armor, no games, nothing but that silent question hanging in the air.

Gihun watched it all happen: the tilt of Inho’s head, the faint parting of his lips, the pressure of closeness asking him to say yes. His heart pounded, his mouth parted like he might let it happen.

“No.” His own voice startled him, rough and unsteady. He turned his head just in time.

Inho stilled. The space between them stayed charged, crowded with everything that almost happened and didn’t. His hand dropped to his side, fingers curling loosely—not in shame, not in anger, just the reflex of stopping himself too late. For a long moment, he didn’t say a word. Didn’t move closer. Just stood there, watching Gihun like he was trying to catch up, like he couldn’t quite process the stop.

Gihun stepped back. It wasn’t much, but it cut the air between them clean. The quiet that followed felt colder, harsher somehow, brushing against his skin.

“I can’t,” he said. The words scraped coming out, thick and heavy, full of things he’d swallowed down for too long. There was no edge to them. Just exhaustion. Surrender.

Inho’s jaw moved—a tight, fleeting twitch, the kind you fight down before it shows. He didn’t look wounded, not exactly, but he looked braced for impact, like he’d expected this and still hated it. When he spoke, his voice was flat and low, barely more than a question.

“You kissed me first.” It wasn’t an accusation. Just the truth, sounding a little stunned, like he was repeating it to make sure it was real.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Gihun said, eyes fixed on the floor, on the thin stretch of space between their shoes. “I didn’t mean— I don’t know what that was.” 

Even as the words left his mouth, he cringed inside, painfully aware of how ridiculous he sounded. Of course he knew what it was. He just couldn’t say it. Not here. Not to him.

Inho’s face hardened. A quiet scoff curled at his mouth, not unkind, just edged with frustration. “You do,” he said, voice sharper now, stripped down. “You’re just too afraid to call it what it is.”

“This isn’t fair,” he muttered.

“No,” Inho said, stepping in, just enough to fill the space with his presence, to make himself heard. “What’s not fair is standing there pretending you don’t feel it when your scent says otherwise. Your pulse. The way you just looked at me. You think I can’t tell?”

“I’m with Sangwoo,” he snapped, but it came out thin, already fraying at the edges.

The alpha didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. His reply was clipped, controlled, measured in that way that always warned of something just under the surface.

“Then why do you keep coming back?”

“I don’t—” he started, but the words tangled. He swallowed, voice thin. “I don’t come back. I was trying to thank you—”

“No,” Inho cut in, and this time it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t cruel, either. Just absolute. The sound of it made Gihun’s skin prickle.

“You came in here like you were on fire. Like you couldn’t stand it anymore. You think that was about gratitude?”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he whispered, voice barely holding together.

“But it keeps happening,” Inho pressed, stepping in again—closer now, close enough that Gihun could feel the heat and the alpha’s scent pressing at his skin, still not touching, but there. “You keep standing here. You keep wanting. And you think if you don’t say it out loud, it won’t be real.”

“T—That’s not what this is.”

“It’s exactly what this is.” There was no gentleness left in his voice, just that hollow, ragged edge of someone who’s kept too much down for too long. “You’ve been feeling it. You’ve always felt it. Since the hotel, since even before that. Don’t insult both of us by pretending you haven’t.”

“Stop,” Gihun said, his voice fraying at the edges. His hand came up, not to touch, just to ward off the words, like he could shield himself from them if he tried hard enough. “Just—stop. You can’t do this. You don’t get to stand there and—turn this into some story, like I was always supposed to end up here. You don’t get to decide that.”

“I don’t need to rewrite it,” Inho’s reply was low and steady, every word measured like it had already been decided. “You’re already living it.”

That was the last straw.

Something snapped in him, sharp and final. He turned, reaching for the door like it might anchor him to something he could still control, anything to keep from unraveling in front of the alpha. He pulled it open with more force than he meant, throat tight, the heat in his chest boiling over: grief, anger, guilt, and everything else twisted together until he could barely breathe.

He was almost out the door when Inho’s voice cracked the air behind him—louder than before, no longer smooth, no longer controlled, just raw enough to burn.

“You should stop running from this.”

Gihun’s body went still, heart thudding. Just for a breath.

Then, without turning back, he walked out, the door closing with a soft but final click behind him.