Chapter Text
Tomoya had kissed people before.
Alphas, Betas, even the rare Omega who didn’t mind his sharp edges—he’d known the press of lips in dark corners, the rush of heat, the fleeting satisfaction of desire met and forgotten by morning. But this?
This was different.
Kissing Hyui was like drowning in slow motion.
Every brush of their lips was deliberate, every sigh between them a quiet surrender. Tomoya’s heart hammered against his ribs, a relentless drumbeat that threatened to crack his chest open. His hands, usually quick to roam, to claim, stayed anchored at Hyui’s waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if he could sear the memory of this warmth into his skin.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t want to.
For the first time in his life, Tomoya wanted an instant to last forever.
How pathetic.
The thought should have made him scoff, pull away, retreat into the cool detachment that came so easily to him. But Hyui’s fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer, and Tomoya’s breath stuttered. His lungs burned. His body was too hot, too tight, every nerve alights with the need to stay .
Hyui, who smelled faintly sweet—not the overwhelming saccharine of an Omega, but something quieter, softer. A scent that lingered just beneath the surface, subtle enough to be missed if you weren’t paying attention.
Tomoya was paying attention.
He always had.
Hyui, whose emotions were an open book in the curve of his smile, the crinkle of his eyes—yet whose true feelings remained frustratingly out of reach. A Beta who moved through the world like a ghost, unnoticed by most Alphas, untouched by the pull of pheromones the way Omegas were.
But Tomoya felt it.
Felt the way Hyui’s breath hitched when their lips parted, only to meet again, slow and searching. Felt the way his own pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything but the sound of Hyui’s quiet, breathless laughter.
He was smiling . Smiling while kissing him.
The realization sent a jolt through Tomoya’s veins, sharp and electric.
They were sprawled across the bed, Tomoya’s body caged between Hyui’s legs, the heat of him seeping through layers of clothing. He could have pushed. Could have taken. Could have let instinct override reason and chased the high of possession, the way Alphas were meant to.
But he didn’t.
Because this wasn’t just another kiss .
This was Hyui— Hyui —the sharp-witted Beta who rolled his eyes at Alpha posturing, who laughed too loud at terrible jokes, who somehow, impossibly, had become the only thing Tomoya could think about.
And maybe they were drunk. Maybe this was a mistake .
But when morning came, Tomoya would remember.
The taste of him. The weight of his hands in Tomoya’s hair. The way the world narrowed to this single, fragile moment, where nothing existed but the two of them.
Unforgettable.
And maybe Tomoya was the only one affected by this.
The thought slithered through his mind, cold and unwelcome, even as Hyui’s lips moved against his with a quiet, teasing confidence.
Maybe, for Hyui, this was just another mistake in a long line of drunken nights—something careless, meaningless, the kind of thing he’d laugh about tomorrow before brushing it off like dust from his shoulders.
Why would he kiss Tomoya, of all people?
The question burned.
Hyui could have anyone he wanted. That was the worst part.
He wasn’t an Omega, wasn’t bound by the feverish pull of pheromones that left Alphas weak-kneed and desperate.
No, Hyui was a Beta, sharp and self-possessed, moving through the world with a smile that disarmed and eyes that gave nothing away unless he wanted them to.
He knew how to soften his edges when it suited him, how to draw people in with a glance, a laugh, the tilt of his head. And just as easily, he could become untouchable—a flicker of distance in his gaze, a step back, a wall erected so smoothly no one even noticed it was there.
Tomoya hadn’t realized how closely he’d been watching him until now.
Until this .
Until Hyui’s fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, until the warmth of his mouth became the only thing that mattered.
How had they even ended up here?
Was it because Yuki had left early with Seita, muttering something about avoiding tomorrow’s headache?
Was it because their knees had brushed under the table one too many times, sending sparks up Tomoya’s spine each time?
Or was it simply because his rut was creeping closer, sharpening his senses until every glance, every breath, every shift in the air between them felt like a live wire under his skin?
He didn’t know.
And right now, he didn’t care.
All that mattered was the way Hyui arched slightly beneath him, the way his exhalation hitched when Tomoya’s teeth grazed his lower lip. The way he let him—no, the way he pulled him closer , as if he’d been waiting for this too.
Had he?
The possibility sent a dizzying rush through Tomoya’s veins.
He’d kissed plenty of people before—quick, hungry things, all heat and no heart. But this? This was different. This was Hyui .
The same Hyui who smirked when Tomoya got prickly, who never flinched at his sharp tongue, who somehow, without trying, had become the only person whose absence left the room feeling hollow.
And now he was here.
In Tomoya’s arms.
Breathing his name like a secret between kisses.
It should have been terrifying.
Instead, it just felt inevitable.
Then, they broke the kiss.
And when Tomoya looked into Hyui’s eyes— oh.
He was lost.
Absolutely, irrevocably lost.
Hyui’s eyes were always bright, always alive with some unspoken joke, but like this —dilated, glazed, his long lashes casting shadows over the faint freckles beneath them—they were devastating. Tomoya’s chest ached. His throat tightened.
He wanted to memorize the way the dim light caught the gold in Hyui’s irises, the way his lips were still slightly parted, still damp from him.
And then there was his scent.
Sweet, but not cloying. Warm, like sunlight on skin. It curled around Tomoya’s senses, dizzying, maddening , and before he could stop himself—before he could pretend he had any self-control left—he buried his face in the curve of Hyui’s neck.
Breathed in deep.
If this night couldn’t last forever, then he needed this. Needed to sear Hyui’s smell into his lungs, his bones, his soul , so that even when morning came and reality crashed back in, he’d have this to cling to.
Hyui laughed, soft and breathless, when Tomoya’s nose brushed against his pulse.
And then—
Then —
Hyui tilted his head to the side.
A quiet invitation.
A silent offering.
God .
Tomoya’s fingers dug into the sheets. His teeth ached with the need to mark, to claim , to press his mouth to that vulnerable stretch of skin and bite down until Hyui shuddered beneath him. But—
Hyui didn’t know.
He didn’t know what this meant—not really.
Didn’t know that for an Alpha, scenting someone like this wasn’t just intimacy. It was hunger . It was territory . It was the kind of thing that carved itself into your instincts and never let go.
And yet, Hyui had given it so easily.
So carelessly .
Because to him, it was just another moment. Just another laugh. Just another night.
Tomoya’s stomach twisted.
He wanted to hate him for it.
He wanted to keep him for it.
So, Tomoya couldn’t help but hugged him.
It was the only way he could stop himself from doing something reckless.
His teeth ached with the need to bite , to press his mouth against Hyui’s skin and leave behind something permanent—something that would make the world know this was his . His hands trembled with the urge to slide under Hyui’s shirt, to map every inch of him, to memorize him in ways that went beyond touch.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he wrapped his arms around Hyui’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest, burying his face in the soft mess of his hair. If he couldn’t mark him, couldn’t take what he truly wanted, then at least he could hold him . At least he could pretend, just for tonight, that Hyui was his to keep.
And Hyui—
Hyui just laughed.
A soft, breathless sound, warm against Tomoya’s collarbone. His arms looped around Tomoya’s neck, fingers tangling lazily in the hair at his nape, like this was nothing. Like this was easy . Like he didn’t realize he was unraveling Tomoya with every careless touch.
The sweetness of it burned.
Because no one else got to see Hyui like this—loose-limbed and pliant, his guard down, his smile unguarded. No one else got to feel the way he melted into an embrace, the way his breath hitched when Tomoya’s grip tightened just slightly.
What if someone else had?
The thought sent a sharp, possessive throb through Tomoya’s chest. His fingers flexed against Hyui’s back, pressing him closer, as if he could fuse them together through sheer will.
“Are you sober?” Tomoya murmured, his voice rough.
Hyui hummed, tilting his head back just enough to meet his eyes. His gaze was hazy, his cheeks flushed, and his lips— god , his lips were still kiss-swollen.
“I guess not,” he admitted, grinning. “The room seems a little blurry.”
Tomoya’s stomach twisted.
Because Hyui was drunk .
And that meant none of this was real.
None of it was his .
The kisses, the laughter, the way Hyui curled into him like he belonged there—it was all just alcohol and bad decisions. Tomorrow, Hyui would wake up, and this would be nothing more than a hazy memory. A mistake .
But Tomoya?
He’d remember everything .
Tomoya kissed him again.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Because if this wasn’t real—if this would vanish by morning, leaving only him with the memory—then he wanted to make sure he had no regrets .
His lips moved against Hyui’s with a tenderness that ached, each brush a silent confession he couldn’t voice aloud. He lingered, savoring the warmth, the softness, the way Hyui sighed into him like he was something precious. Something worth melting for.
And then he bit Hyui’s lower lip—just a teasing nip—earning a breathless laugh that vibrated between them.
“Cheeky,” Hyui murmured, his voice rough with amusement and something darker, something that sent heat curling low in Tomoya’s gut.
Tomoya grinned against his mouth. “You love it.”
And for a moment, just a moment, he let himself pretend.
Pretend that this was theirs. That the world had stopped for them, that the night stretched endlessly ahead, full of whispered promises and tangled limbs. That the way Hyui arched into him, the way his fingers clutched at Tomoya’s shoulders, meant something deeper than just alcohol and poor judgment.
Tomoya held him like he was his .
Like Hyui bore his mark, his teeth etched into the delicate skin of his neck, his name inked there in bold kanji for the world to see. Like they had years behind them—shared laughter, shared beds, shared lives. Like they had a home, a family, a future where mornings began just like this: with Hyui in his arms, drowsy and disheveled and his .
He held him like he could press his feelings into Hyui’s skin through touch alone. Like if he held him tightly enough, long enough, Hyui would sober up and realize —
Realize what?
That Tomoya was ruined for anyone else?
That every kiss, every laugh, every careless touch had carved itself into his ribs, leaving him hollow for anything less?
Hyui sighed against his collarbone, nuzzling closer, and Tomoya closed his eyes.
God.
He was so ruin.
The morning came too bright, too sharp, slicing through the hazy warmth of the night before.
Tomoya woke with an arm slung over empty sheets.
Gone.
The space beside him was cold. No rumpled blankets, no indentation in the pillow—just the faintest trace of Hyui’s scent clinging to the fabric, sweet and taunting.
He sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His mouth tasted like stale alcohol and something bitter.
Regret .
Downstairs, the clatter of dishes echoed from the kitchen. Tomoya’s pulse jumped. He should stay here. Should pretend to sleep. Shouldn’t chase after what was never his to begin with.
But his feet carried him forward anyway.
Hyui stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, humming under his breath as he scrubbed a pan. Sunlight caught the curve of his cheek, the slope of his neck— unmarked .
Of course.
Tomoya’s throat tightened. “You’re cleaning.”
Hyui glanced over his shoulder, smiling. “Someone has to.”
Do you remember?
The question lodged itself behind Tomoya’s ribs.
Did Hyui remember the way Tomoya had kissed him like he was starving? The way his hands had trembled when he held him? The way he’d begged without words for this to mean something— anything —more than a mistake?
Tomoya leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You left early.”
Hyui shrugged. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
Liar .
The word hung between them, silent and suffocating.
Tomoya studied him—the ease in his shoulders, the casual flick of his wrist as he dried the pan. No hesitation. No lingering glances. Nothing to suggest last night had been anything but forgettable.
“Hyui.”
“Hmm?”
Look at me. Really look at me.
Are we just not going to talk about it?”
Hyui paused. Then laughed, soft and airy. “Talk about what?”
And there it was.
The dismissal. The gentle letdown. The confirmation that Tomoya had been the only one drowning.
His nails bit into his palms. “Right. What, then?”
Hyui turned fully now, tilting his head. “What do you want me to say, Tomoya?”
I want you to say it meant something.
I want you to say you felt it too.
I want you to lie to me, if that’s all you can give.
Tomoya swallowed hard. “Nothing. Forget it.”
Hyui’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Okay.”
And just like that—
It was over.
He watched the way Hyui moved through the kitchen like he belonged there—opening cabinets without hesitation, fingers brushing familiar grooves in the countertop, humming a half-remembered tune under his breath. As if he’d done this a thousand times before.
As if he’d stay.
The thought was a knife twisting in Tomoya’s ribs.
But even through the ache, his treacherous mind wandered.
Somewhere, in another life, Hyui’s neck bore his mark—his kanji etched into sun-kissed skin, a declaration worn proudly for the world to see. Somewhere, Hyui would turn at the sound of Tomoya’s voice and light up , crossing the room in quick strides to kiss him before he’d even fully opened his eyes.
Somewhere, this wasn’t just a borrowed morning, but the first of thousands.
The kitchen was silent save for the clink of dishes.
Yet Tomoya smiled .
And his pheromones—warm and thick with unspoken affection—curled through the air like an embrace.
Hyui stilled.
Then, slowly, he turned.
His eyes met Tomoya’s, still sleep-soft and golden with morning light. For a heartbeat, neither breathed.
And then—
Hyui smiled back.
Small. Private. Just for him.
Tomoya’s chest cracked open.
Because this? This was enough.
(Even if it wasn’t forever.)
Tomoya stood.
His pulse roared in his ears—a chaotic rhythm of nerves and something darker, something primal , that coiled low in his gut. This wasn’t just curiosity. This wasn’t casual.
This was an Alpha needing .
He crossed the kitchen in three strides, flicking off the stove with a sharp twist of his wrist. The burner hissed into silence.
Hyui startled, shoulders tensing. “I was cooking for—”
Tomoya didn’t let him finish.
He caged Hyui against the counter, one hand braced beside his hip, the other already lifting to cradle the back of his neck. Then—slow, deliberate—he buried his nose in the curve where Hyui’s shoulder met his throat.
Breathed in deep.
Hyui jerked, a surprised gasp catching in his chest. But he didn’t push him away. Didn’t laugh it off. Just stood there, pulse fluttering wild under Tomoya’s lips, his body taut with something between tension and yielding .
Tomoya’s grip tightened.
Hyui was moving—shifting restlessly—and Tomoya couldn’t tell if it was protest or invitation. Couldn’t focus on anything but the scent clinging to Hyui’s skin, maddeningly faint beneath soap and sleep-warmth.
Needed more.
Without thinking, he caught Hyui’s wrists, guiding them up to press against the cabinets above. His thumb stroked the delicate skin there once, twice—a silent plea.
Stay. Let me.
And then—
Hyui arched.
Turned his head to the side, baring his throat further, the line of his neck a surrender that sent fire licking down Tomoya’s spine.
God .
Tomoya’s free hand slid under Hyui’s shirt, palm flattening against the quivering heat of his stomach. Fingertips circled idle, possessive patterns, reveling in the way Hyui’s breath fractured, the way his back pressed into Tomoya’s chest like he couldn’t help it.
Hyui’s head dropped back onto his shoulder, lips parted, lashes fluttering.
No words.
No resistance.
Just this —the hammer of Hyui’s heartbeat under Tomoya’s mouth, the way his body instinctively curved into every touch, the dizzying realization that he was letting him .
Tomoya’s teeth ached.
He wanted to bite.
Wanted to own .
Wanted to ruin them both so thoroughly there’d be no pretending tomorrow.
Instead, he dragged his lips up the column of Hyui’s throat—slow, savoring—and whispered against his ear:
“Mine.”
Tomoya kissed him like the world was ending.
Burning slow.
Every brush of their lips was deliberate, a study in lingering ruin. He mapped Hyui’s mouth like a man memorizing scripture—reverent, desperate, savoring each gasp as if it might be his last.
He was desperate.
His rut loomed on the horizon, a feverish tide threatening to pull him under. Soon, his dreams would be drenched in Hyui—the scent of him, the feel of him—twisted into cruel fantasies his waking mind wouldn’t dare voice.
That’s why he needed this.
Needed his sheets to smell like Hyui’s skin. Needed his walls to hold the echo of his laughter. Needed something real to tether him when the rut’s delirium tried to convince him that more was possible.
Because if he didn’t—
If he let himself take Hyui now, in this fragile, sober moment—
He wouldn’t stop.
Not until his rut was spent. Not until Hyui was marked raw with it.
And that would be unforgivable.
So he kissed him like a dying man.
Like a sinner at the altar.
Hyui melted against him, pliant and sweet, his fingers tangling in Tomoya’s hair to drag him closer. A quiet noise escaped his throat—half protest, half plea—when Tomoya finally pulled back to breathe.
“Tomoya—”
He silenced him with another kiss, deeper this time, tongue sliding against Hyui’s in a slow, molten drag. He could feel the way Hyui’s knees buckled, the way his hips jerked forward, seeking friction.
God .
Tomoya’s hands shook where they gripped Hyui’s waist.
He wanted to devour him.
Wanted to peel him apart layer by layer and live inside the wreckage.
Instead, he gentled the kiss—soft, chaste presses now, as if he could pour every unsaid thing into the spaces between their lips.
I’ll dream of you.
I’ll ruin myself for you.
I’ll hate myself tomorrow for wanting this much.
Hyui’s breath hitched when Tomoya finally broke away, his forehead resting against his.
Neither spoke.
The kitchen was too quiet.
The absence of their mingled panting felt like a verdict.
Tomoya closed his eyes.
Remember this, please.
Tomoya forced the words past his teeth like shards of glass: “Go. It's late for you.”
The unspoken truth vibrated between them— It's not safe here. Not with me like this .
Hyui's phone lit up with Yuki's caller ID, the screen flashing against the dim kitchen like a warning. Tomoya's mouth curled into a bitter smile.
Of course . The pack house would be waiting—So Geon pacing by the door, Seita pretending not to watch the clock, Yuki's fingers drumming against his thigh with increasing agitation. Good, responsible packmates. The kind who noticed when someone was missing.
The kind Tomoya couldn't be right now.
Hyui opened his mouth—to protest? To stay?—but the ringing cut through the heavy air between them. Tomoya nodded toward the door before the ache in his chest could rewrite his resolve.
“See? Told you.” His voice came out rougher than intended, pheromones spiking with the effort of restraint.
He could already imagine the scene if Hyui stayed: The way his control would snap when the rut fully hit. How he'd pin Hyui against every available surface, teeth seeking that unmarked throat until Hyui's scent glands swelled with his claim. The terrified look in Hyui's eyes when he realized Tomoya wasn't stopping—couldn't stop—
His nails pricked at his own palms.
“Don't worry about me,” Tomoya lied, turning toward the abandoned pan on the stove. The eggs had congealed into something unrecognizable. “I'll manage."
Hyui hesitated at the threshold, fingers white-knuckled around his phone. The scent of his uncertainty—sweet lime and salt—twined with Tomoya's own burnt-amber distress.
“Are you… sure?”
Tomoya almost laughed. No. Never. His Alpha howled at the thought of letting him walk away, every cell in his body alight with the wrongness of it. Hyui should be here. Should be his . Should be—
“Take care,” Tomoya interrupted, the words a guillotine drop. He flashed fangs in something too sharp to be a smile. “Maybe we'll see each other when…” When I'm not a danger to you . “…when we're both free.”
Hyui's throat worked. For one suspended heartbeat, Tomoya thought—hoped—he might refuse. Might stride back in and—
But then the door clicked shut.
The silence left behind was deafening.
Tomoya's knees hit the tiles as the first true wave of rut-fever rolled through him. His last coherent thought before the haze took him: The sheets still smell like him.
The rut crashed over Tomoya like a riptide, dragging him under into a world where every breath tasted of Hyui .
His sheets reeked of antiseptic now—he'd scrubbed them raw after that morning, trying to erase the lingering sweetness of Hyui's scent. But in the delirium of fever, his mind reconstructed it perfectly: that delicate balance of green tea and honey, the salt of his skin when Tomoya had pressed his mouth to his neck—
“God—”
Tomoya's phone lay discarded on the floor, screen cracked from when he'd nearly called Hyui for the third time that hour. The rational part of him knew this was poison—knew letting Hyui near him now would end with bite marks and regrets—but his Alpha didn't care. It paced his skull like a caged beast, howling mine mine mine with every hammer of his heart.
In his dreams, Hyui came to him willingly.
In his dreams, Hyui bared his throat with a smile.
In his dreams, Tomoya didn't stop at scenting.
Yu found him like that—curled around a stolen hoodie (when had he taken it? God, when? ), teeth sunk into the fabric where the collar would brush Hyui's scent glands. The other Alpha froze in the doorway, nostrils flaring at the pheromone-thick air.
“Christ, Tomo.” Yu kicked the door shut with his heel, juggling grocery bags. “You're worse than I thought.”
Tomoya growled low in his throat, the sound more animal than human. Every instinct screamed at the intrusion, but deeper still ran the shameful knowledge: Yu had come because he knew . Knew Tomoya wouldn't ask for help. Knew he'd burn alive before admitting how far gone he was.
“Shut up,” Tomoya rasped, throat raw from phantom pleas. He watched through slitted eyes as Yu moved through the apartment—opening windows, swapping out water bottles, deliberately avoiding the nest of blankets in the corner where Hyui's scent clung strongest.
Yu didn't mention the hoodie. Didn't mention how Tomoya's pupils blew wide whenever the fabric brushed his nose. Just pressed an ice pack to the back of his neck and said, voice carefully flat: “He's not here.”
As if Tomoya didn't know.
As if every cell in his body wasn't aching with Hyui's absence.
The fever crested. Tomoya's vision whited out—and suddenly Hyui was there, straddling his lap, fingers carding through his sweat-damp hair. “ You called for me ,” dream-Hyui murmured, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “ Say it again .”
Tomoya woke, choking on a sob.
Yu was gone. The hoodie was gone. Only the scent of snow mint and steel remained—another Alpha's claim on this space, another Alpha's hands on his things—
On Hyui's things.
The realization hit like a bucket of ice water: Yu had taken the hoodie. Yu had smelled it. Yu knew—
Yu returned at dusk, arms laden with bundled fabric.
Tomoya barely lifted his head from the nest of ruined sheets, his body still thrumming with residual fever. But then—
Scent.
Not just one, but many —woven together in the threads of the hoodies Yu dumped unceremoniously onto the bed.
“Figured your Alpha might chill the hell out if it recognized pack,” Yu muttered, avoiding Tomoya's gaze as he sorted through them. “Seita's gym shirt, Yuki's scarf, So Geon's…” He held up a faded black hoodie with obvious distaste. “ Whatever this is.”
And then—
Hyui's.
Two of them. Folded discreetly beneath the others, but Tomoya's nose zeroed in instantly. His throat clicked as he swallowed back a whine.
Yu pretended not to notice. “Rotate them. That way…” He gestured vaguely. “It's not obvious.”
That way, no one questions why you're drowning in one Beta's scent.
Tomoya's fingers trembled as he reached for the nearest fabric—Yuki's scarf, crisp linen and bergamot. He pressed it to his face, letting the familiar pack-scent soothe the jagged edges of his instincts. For the first time in days, his shoulders loosened.
“Yu.”“ His voice came out wrecked.
The other Alpha waved him off, already heading for the kitchen. “Save it. Just don't make me explain to Hyui why his laundry's gone missing.”
Something sharp twisted in Tomoya's chest.
Because this —this careful, unspoken understanding—was why Yu was the best of them. The ideal Alpha. The kind who brought salvation wrapped in plausible deniability, who could walk into a den of rut-madness and not flinch.
Tomoya buried his face in So Geon's hoodie to hide the wetness in his eyes.
Maybe in another life—if he weren't an Alpha, if his heart weren't already claimed by someone who'd never know—he could have loved Yu.
But here, now?
All he could offer was a hoarse, “Thank you,” as Yu tossed him a water bottle with exaggerated annoyance.
Yu's answering grin was all teeth. “You're buying me drinks for a month.”
Yu took care of him for the entire week.
Not out of obligation, not out of duty—but because that was simply who Yu was .
He brought water before Tomoya’s throat could croak out a request. He cooked meals timed perfectly to Tomoya’s fleeting moments of clarity—rich stews when the fever broke, light broths when nausea clawed at him. He even endured Tomoya’s rut-driven snarls and territorial posturing without complaint, rolling his eyes as he tossed a pillow at his head.
“Childish,” Yu would mutter, but his hands were gentle when he wiped the sweat from Tomoya’s brow.
And as the fever ebbed, as Tomoya’s mind began to clear, Yu did something dangerous—
He doted on him.
Playful fingers ruffled through Tomoya’s hair as he passed by. Extra servings of his favorite dishes appeared at his bedside. Even the TV was left on his preferred channel, volume low, as if Yu had memorized every one of his preferences without being told.
It was unbearable.
Because Tomoya knew —
They were lucky to have Yu.
Lucky to have an Alpha who stepped back to let Tomoya lead, even though he was older. Lucky to have someone who loved their packmates fiercely and equally, who took care of them all without expecting praise.
And in another life, where his Alpha hadn’t imprinted on Hyui’s laugh, on the way his eyes crinkled when he teased, on the sweetness of his scent—
Tomoya could have loved him.
Really loved him.
On the last day, when the rut had finally loosened its grip, Tomoya leaned his forehead against Yu’s shoulder, nose brushing the junction of his neck.
“I know I don’t say it often,” he murmured, voice rough with disuse, “but thank you.”
A pause. Then, quieter:
“I’ll help you during your rut next time.”
Yu stiffened for only a second before huffing out a laugh. His hand came up to cradle the back of Tomoya’s head, fingers tangling briefly in his hair— affectionate , but fleeting.
“You don’t have to,” he said, pulling away with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Really.”
And Tomoya understood.
Yu didn’t need his help.
Just like he didn’t need Tomoya’s love.
Because Yu had already given his heart to the pack—wholly, selflessly—without asking for anything in return.
After the rut, Tomoya slipped back into his old skin like it had never left.
He was loud again. Playful. The kind of Alpha who draped himself over So Geon’s shoulders just to annoy him, who stole bites of Haru’s snacks with a wolfish grin, who flicked Yu’s forehead every time he scolded him—just to see his eye twitch.
Normal .
Or so it seemed.
Because now, there were eyes on him.
Hyui’s eyes.
Tomoya felt them like a physical touch—lingering a second too long when he laughed, narrowing slightly when he leaned into someone’s space, tracking his movements across the room with quiet, unsettling focus.
And the worst part?
Hyui thought he was subtle.
He’d glance away the moment Tomoya turned, pretending to be engrossed in his phone or a conversation with Yuki. But Tomoya knew . He’d always been hyperaware of Hyui—the shift of his weight when he was nervous, the way his thumb tapped against his cup when he was thinking, the faintest changes in his scent.
And right now?
Hyui smelled like curiosity .
Like he was piecing together a puzzle, one that started with stolen hoodies and ended with Tomoya’s rut-addled confession into the dark.
But Tomoya played along.
He had to.
So he tugged Haru into a headlock just to hear him squawk. He let So Geon shove him off with an exasperated sigh. He even let Yu flick him back, grinning through the sting.
All while pretending not to notice the weight of Hyui’s gaze.
Pretending his heart didn’t race every time their eyes almost met.
Pretending he didn’t ache .
Because if Hyui was watching him now—
Did that mean he remembered ?
Did that mean he knew ?
Tomoya swallowed the questions like glass and laughed louder.