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MAKE YOU MINE — PJS

2.1: PROVE I'M YOURS — You’re an Omega with rare, selective instincts, untouched by every Alpha you've ever met. That is, until you catch a scent that stops you cold and ignites a hunger you’ve never known. It leads you straight to Park Jongseong—the quiet Alpha who barely acknowledges your existence.

Now, every encounter becomes a quiet war with your own body. You try to ignore the pull, and yet, you can’t shake the fear that he might be the only Alpha your instincts will ever respond to… and the only one your heart will ever want.

content tags: a/b/o dynamics: alphaljay, omega!reader, (ft. beta ningning, beta yeonjun, omega giselle and alpha! heeseung, jake and sunghoon), burning slow burn, the tables has been turned, descriptive topics of: alpha ranks, premature pre-heat, imprinting, and ofc reader's outfits, makeup and nails. jealousy, internal conflict, mutual pinning lmao, jay is being soooo obvious but it's okay bcs reader is oblivous, heeseung is a typical alpha but let's ignore that bcs he's hot, confessions. :> no explicit warning. WC: 41.3K of reader being dramatic. previous chapter - next chapter

⋮ ⌗ act eight

IF YOU ever had the chance to go back in time, you swear you'd do everything differently. You wouldn't let yourself be driven by instinct, wouldn't let yourself spiral into that warm, confusing place your Omega kept pulling you toward. You wouldn't have chased after Jay like your heart was some unruly thing you had no control over.

If you had a chance to rewind, you would have chosen silence. You would have scrolled past his face in your memories. You would have let the scent of him fade into the background instead of curling into it.  You would've ignored that first flicker of hope the moment he tolerates your presence.

But who could blame you, really? When you're wired to crave, when your instincts hum louder than your logic, when you're walking around with a heart that beats in a rhythm you can't always understand. And then someone like him comes along, and your Omega folds like paper under heat. So no, you don't entirely blame yourself. But you're tired of this.

"Why are you such an idiot?! I said I wanted avocado shake!" you snap, nearly throwing your compact mirror into your bag as you glare at Yeonjun with all the frustration currently boiling in your system.

Yeonjun flinches, yelping as you smack him on the back of the head with your notebook. "Ow?! What the hell, woman?"

"I was very specific. Avocado. Not mango. Avocado. Do I look like I want mango right now?!" You bark, grabbing the drink he handed you.

He throws his arms up in exasperation, rubbing his head. "Fuck you! I told you there wasn't any avocado left and you said, and I quote, 'Just get whatever's available.' So I did! And now suddenly it's my fault?!" He huffs. "Fuck this life! I should've just left you dehydrated!"

A few classmates turn their heads at the raised voices, eyes flicking between the two of you, but they don't linger. Most of them are used to this by now, your mood swings, your tantrums, fights with everyone that always sound like a serious scene but are somehow just another Tuesday. It's your brand. It's expected. So they go back to their conversations and assignments, writing it off as noise they've already heard before.

But today, it doesn't feel like noise to you. Today, it feels like the whole world is pressing in on your skin, dragging across your nerves, making you want to scream. You drop into your seat, the shake Yeonjun got you sitting untouched on the table. You cross your arms, lean forward, and stare down at the scratched surface of the table like it holds answers you've never been able to find.

Fuck this life, you echo silently. Because truly, what the hell is happening to you? You're restless, overstimulated, irritable. You can't sit still, can't focus, can't breathe without wanting to either cry or snap or disappear into a spa and never come back. You told yourself you still had a month before your heat, your tracking app, your body's usual rhythm always gave you that much warning. But this time, it's all different. There's a heat blooming under your skin that feels different than before. More invasive. It's not just a dull ache in your lower belly or a sensitivity in your scent. It's a slow-burning need that twists in your gut, worse with every hour. You can feel your Omega coiling tighter and tighter, your scent beginning to shift in ways you can't fully mask. The light sweetness is still there, but it's being layered over with deeper—richer, warmer scent.

Your eyes narrow and your fingers twitch on the desk. You can feel someone staring. "What the fuck are you looking at?" you snarl, turning your head sharply.

The Omega girl flinches slightly but doesn't look away. She's sitting three seats down, her hand delicately curled around a designer pen, face perfectly powdered and soft—but your eyes zero in on her dress.

Dior. Or at least, that's what the little tag on the visible collar suggests. Except you know it's fake. The stitching is off. The hem is wrong. You've seen that same knockoff on Taobao for fifty bucks and the zipper sticks when it's real Dior. And her scent was thin. Covered in layers of store-brand fragrance and desperation.

You want to claw the smug look off her face. You heard the fake compliments from the girls around her, all clapping like trained seals about her "taste," pretending they didn't know her entire look was counterfeit. And now she has the nerve to look at you like you're the mess?

She looks at you with that judgmental, sweetened kind of pity like she thinks you're unraveling. And maybe you are. But at least you're not pretending!

And suddenly, you hate everyone.

You hate the Alphas who get up to stretch and throw their dominant scents around. You hate the Betas who sit there unaffected, quietly smug in their neutrality. You hate the Omegas who sit all pretty and soft, their schedules synced with their bonded mates who actually show up when their heats begin.

You hate the idea that you're alone and everyone here gets to pretend they're not. Because no one understands what it feels like to sit in a room full of people and still feel like you're suffocating. To be burning from the inside and have no one to pull the flames off your skin. To ache and ache and ache with no relief in sight, only the slow humiliation of knowing your scent is starting to leak into a desperation.

You're tired of the ache crawling beneath your skin. Tired of waking up hot and flushed, your limbs too heavy and your thoughts running in circles. You're tired of the phantom scent of him.

     THE DOCTOR clicks her pen and glances up from your chart. "You're experiencing premature heat symptoms," she says.

You blink, mouth slightly open, a sudden urge to curse out loud is rising fast in your throat. If you could blame anyone—or anything—it would always come back to him.

"Doc," your mother interjects, hands clasped tightly over her mouth, brows knit in worry. "My daughter has a regular cycle. Every six months. Is it... is it serious? Do we need to prepare for something?"

The doctor's expression doesn't shift. "Not serious, no. But it does suggest that her Omega may have identified an unbonded Alpha. The reaction is instinctual."

Your mother gasps sharply, eyes snapping to you. "An Alpha?" she asks, as if it's the most outrageous thing she's ever heard. "Is this true? You didn't tell me anyone was... involved."

Involved. You scoff internally. What involvement? There was no "involvement." There was just you, orbiting him. A star collapsing in on itself while he stood there, unmoved. If anything, you weren't involved—you were invested, alone.  You scoff inwardly, lips twitching. You can't even begin to explain it. Now he's acting like he cares. Showing up at your most vulnerable moments. Scenting you calm when your distress surges. Talking to you when you've already given up trying. It's enough to make your Omega stir again, confused and hopeful—hopeful, after everything. Maybe, it's because he can smell your pre-heat. Maybe that's the only reason. The biological imperative.

"I don't..." you start, but your throat closes up, too full of shame. Your mother leans in closer, clearly waiting for an explanation you're not prepared to give.  "It's nothing serious," you finally say, forcing the words out past the lump in your throat. "I'll be fine. Just—" your voice falters again, your hands curling tightly into your lap, "maybe some kind of medication?"

"I can't prescribe heat suppressants for this," she says.  "This is a premature heat. Suppressing it improperly could destabilize your cycle long-term. Your hormonal levels are too elevated for standard blocks, and there's no established bond to anchor the response."

You freeze. That phrase again. No established bond. "I can give you scent-neutralizing patches," she continues, "if the pheromonal response becomes overwhelming. But the root cause isn't something a patch will fix."

Your mother wrings her hands beside you, stiff in her seat, visibly distressed. "What about stabilizers? She's never had a history of imbalance. I never had history of imbalance. I— I don't understand. Why is this happening now?"

The doctor offers her a sympathetic look. "That's common. A presenting Omega might carry stable cycles for years before someone disrupts the balance. If her Omega has responded to an unmated Alpha, especially one within close proximity for extended periods, it can trigger early hormonal activity. The body reads it as readiness. Her system is beginning to align, preparing for what it thinks is a potential bond."

"But there isn't a bond," you say quickly, a little too defensively. "There's nothing—he's not—he doesn't want that."

Your mother's eyes are wide, her expression flickering between disbelief and dawning realization.

The doctor glances up from her notes. "Ah. A one-sided bond, then," she muttered, "That doesn't matter. Your Omega has already begun responding to his scent, and from what I see in your charts, your body is attempting to sync. Whether the Alpha reciprocates or not is irrelevant to your body."

You sigh heavily, rubbing your palm over your face. Every word is a confirmation of what you've been denying for weeks now. You've been spiraling into this heat because of something he didn't even give you. He didn't even claim you, he didn't scent you regularly, he barely gave you scraps of kindness. And yet, you're still experiencing all of this, your body still chose him.

Fuck this hierarchy. Fuck every structure built to remind you that no matter how hard you try to keep control, your body will always be ruled by something beneath the skin.

The doctor moves to stand, her hands smoothing out the hem of her coat.  "You just need to manage your stress," she says with gentle authority. "Keep yourself hydrated. Eat well. Rest when you can. Try not to overstimulate your system with strong scents or emotional surges. And if possible..." Her voice wavers. "Distance yourself from the Alpha."

You scoffed silently. Distance. Like that hasn't already been your first defense. Like you haven't already forced yourself to sit rows away in lectures, to swallow the instinct to check if he's behind you in crowded halls. 

You keep your expression blank, nodding once. The doctor doesn't press further. She's probably seen enough cases like yours to know which ones are about to fall apart and which ones already have. She offers you a paper bag with the scent patch, a mild suppressant in a sleek white box, and a bottle of electrolyte tabs.

"Just stabilize yourself," she says gently. "Even if you can't cut the bond, you can dull the symptoms. Give yourself time. Give your Omega space to detach—if it can."

If it can. There's always that part, warning that not all imprints fade, that sometimes the body doesn't forget the Alpha it first aligned with. And worse—sometimes it waits. Sometimes it breaks down slowly, months, years, unraveling.

You step out of the clinic, blinking hard against the sunlight. Your mother is at your side again, her expression tight, but she doesn't speak. But later, in the car, she tries in her own way. "Maybe we could stop somewhere," she says. "There's that boutique near the roundabout—didn't you say they have new arrivals this week? We could look. Or just window shop. Something to distract you." Her tone is mothering in the gentlest way, her fingers tapping against the steering wheel.

You sigh and lean your head against the glass. The suggestion is kind, sweet even, but there's a part of you that recoils at the thought of dresses and handbags. But still, you nod.  uThe silence settles again as it gives you space to think. What are you supposed to do? Rip him out of you like a root too deep to reach? Cut the string that ties your Omega to him? You scoff softly under your breath, eyes focusing on the moving blur of street signs and passing faces.

You almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. Exorcise him? As if Jay had ever been something so fleeting, so easily removed. He was embedded—threaded into your senses, branded into your chemistry. And for what? For nothing. For him to treat you like a nuisance one moment and then scent you like you belonged to him the next. Maybe he didn't know what he was doing. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe he just didn't care.

But you do. You care too damn much, you don't even know why.

Maybe the suppressants will help. Maybe they'll level out your imbalance, make the nights less cruel, keep your Omega from crying out for a bond that was never offered. Maybe the scent patch will shield you from inhaling him again and again. Maybe. But maybe not. Either way, you have to try. You have to claw your way back to center. Back to the version of yourself that existed before your biology hijacked your dignity.

Because if you don't—if you keep letting yourself unravel under this invisible thread, keep spiraling around every moment he chooses to show up and confuse you—you'll lose more than just your pride. You'll lose you. And haven't you already given enough?

⋮ ⌗ act nine

"WHY DO you have that?" Yeonjun's voice dripped with curiosity, but it grated on your nerves. Your eye twitched the moment his finger grazed over the edge of the cat-shaped patch stuck to the side of your neck, and you felt a familiar boiling sensation beginning to bubble beneath your skin.

You swatted his hand away with a slap, fixing him with a glare. "Don't touch it," you snapped, pushing the chair away from him, but he moved his chair closer to yours again.

Yeonjun chuckled, entirely unfazed by your tone. "Chill, I'm just asking. It's cute!"

"Fuck off," you snapped, kicking the leg of his chair so hard it screeched against the floor, jerking sideways. Ningning let out a yelp as she caught it before he toppled over.

"Geez! You've been a menace lately!" he complained, rubbing his side. "I'm seriously hurt! You're so painfully mean these days, I'm starting to think you're developing violent coping mechanisms."

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your compact mirror from your bag just to avoid eye contact.

"I can't believe we're going to be stuck together all second semester," Yeonjun added with a dramatic sigh. "I thought maybe you'd mellow out now that you and Jay are back to... whatever the hell it is you two are doing. You were all sunshine last last week when he brought your clip back, now look at you now."

You clicked your tongue and gave his chair another kick. "Don't. Even. Mention. His. Name."

Ningning tilted her head, her curiosity flaring immediately as her brows knit together. "Seriously? What happened this time? You two were like practically not—so flirting last time."

"I'm moving on," you said plainly, flipping your compact mirror open and pretending to inspect your mascara, even though you could feel both of their eyes practically drilling holes into you. A beat of stunned silence followed, then a gasp from both of them in sync. You didn't even look up—just reapplied your lip gloss.

"So you're admitting there was something going on?" Yeonjun was the first to speak, already leaning forward with a shit-eating grin on his face, eyes sparkling with the satisfaction of catching you slipping. "That's what I heard. Clear as day."

You kicked his chair again with less force but more intent, eyes still trained on your reflection. "That's not what I said."

"That's exactly what you said," he sang back. "You said, and I quote, 'I'm moving on,' which implies there was something to move on from."

You finally lowered the mirror, giving him a dry look. "If you keep talking, I'm moving on from your existence."

Ningning reached across the table to gently tug at your wrist, drawing your attention back to her. "Babe, for real. If you're trying to move on, that's totally valid. But... how about the bond?"

Your eyes met hers slowly, your jaw tight, your pulse a dull throb in your neck. You didn't even realize you were holding your breath until your chest tightened. "There's no bond," you said flatly.

For a second, there was only silence. Then, Yeonjun gasped, so exaggerated you almost threw your things at him. Ningning mirrored the reaction, hand flying to her mouth.

Your eye twitched with irritation. "God, both of you deserve an award for worst acting," you muttered, dragging your hand away from Ningning.

"You don't scent someone like that if there's nothing!" Ningning said. Yeonjun nodded quickly, supporting her claim. "Jay didn't just sit beside you and breathe. He was reacting. He reacted to you."

You looked down at your hands, your freshly done nails glittering faintly. Despite the mild spring warmth outside, your fingertips felt cold, like your body was refusing to settle, like your Omega was stuck somewhere between longing and denial. "He only reacts when I cry," you said. "He only notices when I'm falling apart. When I'm breaking in front of him. That's not bonding. That's..." You paused, the word sour in your mouth. "That's — I don't know? Pity? Basic human decency?"

Ningning didn't speak for a beat but when she did, her voice was gentler. "That's not whatever you think it is, love. That's instinct. That's Alpha behavior when they're drawn—when their instincts aren't neutral. If he wasn't reacting at all, if he was truly indifferent to your scent or your state, we'd be having a very different conversation right now."

You scoffed, dragging your nails across the table in a slow absentminded motion. "That's exactly what I'm talking about, Ning. It's all just instinct. Just... pre-coded biological nonsense. His Alpha reacts to my Omega. My Omega reacts to his Alpha. None of it means he wants me. None of it means anything real."

Ningning's brows furrowed, lips pressing into a tight line. "It could mean something real," she finally said. "Just because it starts with instinct doesn't mean it has to end there. That's how most bonds start. A flicker. A pull. And then choice. It becomes real because we choose it."

You exhaled, hollow, your thoughts curling around that last word. Heh. Choice? Jay also had a choice but he chooses to be cold, distant and guarded. Every time you offered even the smallest piece of yourself, he returned it either with silence, or scolding, or irritation.

A bitter smile tugged at your lips as you reached for your bag, standing up with an exhale. "You know what?" you said, interrupting the silence that followed your last admission. "We really have to stop letting my Omega confuse biology for something that pretends to be love."

Ningning and Yeonjun both straightened at your sudden shift in tone, watching as you began gathering your things. "I'm not being dramatic," you continued as you slung the strap of your bag over your shoulder. "This isn't about Jay anymore. This is about me. Guarding my peace, my Omega, my sanity. And finally choosing something different—because this back-and-forth has been toxic, and I'm tired."

Yeonjun gave a low whistle under his breath, impressed. Ningning looked like she wanted to cry. "So yeah," you added, already walking toward the door, "topics done."

You stopped just before the threshold, glancing over your shoulder at them. "Also... I'm skipping classes. Who's coming with me?" Yeonjun was the first to move, already pushing his chair back. Ningning didn't even hesitate—she threw her pen down and rose with a grin, looping her arm through yours as you all stepped into the hallway.

The conversation shifted easily as you walked. You didn't mention Jay again. Ningning was already excitedly chatting about the upcoming university games, and Yeonjun was making bets on who'd be crowned king this year.

     SINCE THE second semester had officially begun, the atmosphere on campus had shifted. The subjects, on paper, felt heavier—more academic and more demanding. Titles like Media Law and Ethics, Digital Media Production, Advanced Communication Theory, and the continuation of Media Research Methods, loomed large across your schedule. There was Audience Analysis, which sounded painfully dry, and Media Effects, which felt like a glorified summary of everything you already knew. Then there was Strategic Communication and PR Campaigns, and honestly, the name alone was enough to make your brain start buffering.

Still, with all those options laid out in front of you, you made your choice with one thing in mind: preservation. Of your mental health. Of your joy. Of your damn peace. Advertising and Promotion was the clear winner—not because you dreamed of building brand empires or writing catchy taglines, but because the syllabus looked manageable and the assignments felt less like theoretical death traps and more like hands-on creative output. And if you were being completely honest, it just sounded easier. After everything that had drained you last semester, you deserved easy.

You told yourself this was your redemption, It helped, too, that this semester came with a fresh schedule. A clean slate. A different crowd. A new seating chart in every classroom. And best of all? Park Jongseong was nowhere to be found!

No shared lectures. No overlapping labs. Not even a fleeting encounter in the corridors. You didn't see his face, didn't hear that sharp, indifferent voice, and perhaps most importantly, you didn't catch a single whiff of that painfully addictive Alpha scent that had once made your Omega curl.

It was a cleanse. A detox! And as each day passed, you became more and more convinced: life was easier without him. You could wake up without overthinking what you were going to wear in case he showed up. You didn't have to check your reflection fifteen times. You could reapply your gloss for yourself. Your Omega wasn't purring randomly, wasn't flaring its emotions at every second breath.

And for once, the universe seemed to be aligning in your favor—like it had finally decided to cut you a break after everything it put you through. You almost felt like you should start lighting a candle every morning in gratitude or whispering a little thank-you prayer into the void, because everything was just... working.

You tapped your foot against the floor of the campus café as you scrolled through your wishlist, excitement bubbling beneath your skin. Across from you, Ningning was mid-sip of her strawberry milk when you dropped your grand announcement. "I want to shop for new clothes for the University Games," you declared, glancing up from your screen. "And I definitely need a new bag. I swear I've already used all my cute ones last year, and I refuse to repeat an outfit cycle. Don't you agree?"

Ningning groaned dramatically and slapped a hand over her ear. "Please, spare me. I can't even think about bags right now—I have a date this weekend and I need to save money. Do you know how expensive one nice outfit can get?"

You stared at her. "What the fuck? Let your date pay for that!"

She burst into laughter, sliding her phone across the table to avoid the potential guilt trip from your wounded expression. "It's a first date! I can't just show up expecting him to foot the bill like I'm some spoiled heiress."

"Why not?" you shot back with a scoff. "You are a spoiled heiress in my eyes. If he can't handle that, dump him and move on to someone with a platinum card."

Ningning groaned and slumped back in her chair, dragging her drink closer. "I was the one who asked him out..."

You blinked. For a second, your brain refused to process it. "Wait—what?" Your voice was sharp with disbelief, your mouth falling open. "You asked him?"

Ningning winced and took another sip, avoiding your glare. "I did..."

"Oh my god." You leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of the table. "It's okay! First date etiquette exists for a reason! Men are literally hardwired to compete for attention and resources. It's their only evolutionary flex."

She snorted at that but didn't argue.

"I mean it! First dates are like ceremonial performances—they need to show off a little. Pick the place, foot the bill, act like they're worthy of your time. Not the other way around! You're the one who's soft and glowing and moisturized. He's the one that should be sweating!"

"It's not... I kind of... forced him," she muttered into her straw, and you nearly gasped, scandalized for all of two seconds—until the realization dawned on you, that you were exactly like that. Maybe not in the same brand of Ningning wielded so effortlessly, but the fire underneath it? The need to chase, to claim, to wrap your fingers around something the moment you decided it belonged to you—that was a language you both spoke fluently.

Because when the two of you wanted something, you didn't ask for permission. You didn't wait for it to be handed to you, or for fate to gracefully align the stars in your favor. No, you went after it. With the same fierce insistence you applied to limited-edition makeup drops, to the last size of a dress on sale.

You took what you wanted—unapologetically, recklessly, and sometimes with the kind of conviction that made people either fall in love with you or sprint in the other direction.

Her version of pursuit came with dangerously sweet smiles and paper-thin threats disguised as flirtation, the kind of behavior that somehow made men fall at her feet. Yours was subtler. Less sharp, more glazed in charm and a glimmer of need. You never threatened, never cornered. You dropped hints, left trails, spoke a little too sweetly, laughed a little too long. You tried to be soft enough to invite warmth and not too much to scare it away. Always just enough to be remembered, never quite enough to be kept.

You watched her now, bent over her phone, eyes dancing as she planned her weekend. Her certainty made you ache.

A pout tugged at your lips, God, were you really this hopeless? The envy, the slow-burning ache of watching someone love so easily, so cleanly — it all sat heavy in your chest. It wasn't the boy you were jealous of. It was her. That fearless kind of wanting. That persistent pursuit without hesitation, without shame.

Because you? You always second-guessed. You always bent to the shape of the person you were chasing, making yourself smaller, quieter, more palatable until you weren't even sure what you wanted anymore, only that you were exhausted from wanting it alone.

But maybe that was okay. You've survived longer seasons, you made it through a full year of watching people pair off while you learned how to love yourself in all the ways they couldn't. You learned to fill the quiet with laughter, to paint your own joy across days that didn't offer any.

You were still here. Beautiful. Loud. Rich in the kind of confidence that only came from rebuilding yourself every time you were chipped down. And if there's a piece missing? A puzzle edge that never quite locked into place? Then fine. You'd rather have a puzzle with an open ending than one completed with a shape that never really belonged to begin with.

⋮ ⌗ act ten

     FLORASIS COSMETICS —the rival to Flower Knows in your mental beauty Olympics—has finally made its way into your vanity, and you honestly feel like pulling your hair out just trying to process the beauty of it. The sculpting palette is nothing short of a work of art: delicate carvings pressed into fine powder, patterns so intricate they could be framed and mounted instead of swiped across your cheekbones. How were you supposed to use this? How were you supposed to dig a brush into something that looked like a museum artifact without feeling like you were defiling sacred ground?

The box—an actual gift box, not one of those cheap promotional kits—was brought in like a treasure chest by your father, who had just returned from a business trip to China. You had nearly tackled him at the door, tearing into the wrapping with the urgency of someone who had been emotionally deprived of joy and beauty for weeks. Inside: the kind of packaging that made you gasp out loud. Carved brass details, silk linings, the softest cushions hugging each product like they were crown jewels. Your hands had literally trembled.

You swore a part of your soul left your body when you caught the glint of the lipstick packaging shaped like an ancient scroll. A part of you wanted to display them in a glass case. Another part is wanted to use them immediately, to feel like a regal goddess in every passing mirror.

"Guess who got new makeup and a new perfume," you chirped, voice sing-song as you twirled with your shopping bag in hand, the hem of your skirt swaying with each step. You sank down dramatically between Yeonjun and Ningning, full of the high that came from indulging in luxury and the scent of Dior still fresh on your wrists. You expected the usual noise: Ningning's squeals, Yeonjun's fake gagging, both of them leaning in to inspect your haul and playfully beg for samples.

Instead, silence. Their mouths were slightly open, expressions oddly blank, both pairs of eyes staring past you in unblinking unison. You frowned, confused. "Hey. Hello?" You waved your hand between them. "I just said I got new makeup. A Florasis palette. New Dior scent. You two always freak out about this kind of stuff."

Still nothing. You reached out and tapped Ningning's arm. Nothing. Tapped Yeonjun's shoulder a little harder and he finally turned his head, slowly. "Guess who's gonna spiral later," he muttered with zero inflection.

Your heart dropped somewhere beneath the floor. "What are you talking about?"

And then you felt the air shifted around you. A subtle but sharp curled at the edge of your senses. That scent, so unassuming, yet so devastatingly familiar, brushed past your nose with that clean, slightly cool undertone you hadn't let yourself think about in weeks.

No... You turned your head and the world tilted. Park Jongseong! In the flesh!

Sitting in the back corner of the lecture hall, headphones were in, one hand holding an open book, the other absently tapping against his leg. His hair was pushed back again, effortlessly styled like it always was when he was too busy to care but still ended up looking stupidly sooooo good. The sleeves of his sweatshirt were rolled to the elbow. His brow furrowed as he read, jaw clenched ever so slightly like he was concentrating, or irritated, or both.

Your mouth parted. "What the fuck is Jay doing here?" The words scraped out of your throat.

Yeonjun winced like he'd been bracing for the explosion. "Surprise elective merge," he said, shrugging helplessly. "Professor Han's class got absorbed into ours. Jay's on the updated roster now."

You stared at him, then turned to Ningning, who nodded in silent confirmation, eyes still bouncing nervously between you and Jay's corner of the room. "And when," you said slowly, "were you going to tell me that my personal nightmare suddenly enrolled in this class?"

"We just found out," Ningning hissed in a whisper. "They emailed the schedule update late last night. And you were too busy texting about your spa booking and new contour brush—"

"I was in a good mood!" you snapped, hugging your Dior bag to your chest. "Why does fate have the worst sense of timing?"

And as if summoned by the sound of your voice alone, Jay shifted in his seat. He didn't look up, but you knew. You knew he knew you were here. Knew he felt it too—that invisible cord still tangled between you, no matter how much you tried to sever it. Your Omega stirred violently inside you, purring like a fool. Begging for attention.

Shut it, you hissed internally. You hadn't even been wearing your scent patch today. Idiot. You were so caught up in the glow of shopping and the shimmer of new makeup that you forgot the one rule you've kept religiously since deciding to move on—never let your scent bleed out around him again.

But it was too late. Your Omega had caught the scent of him too, and you could already feel the beginning ripples of that premature hormonal shift your doctor had warned you about. The low curl in your belly. That fuzzy, heat-prickled pressure that nestled between your skin and your bones.

Panic gripped you for a second. Okay, yes, fine, he looks good. So what? He always looked good. He was always handsome in that infuriating, sharp-boned way. Hair swept back just messily, long fingers flipping pages, jaw set with focus, lips pressed together in that unreadable line. That was just his face.

It's okay, you assure yourself again. It's just one course. One elective out of your entire schedule. You'll only see him once a week, and you've survived worse. You've already gone through the slow, brutal undoing of your pride, your patience, and your Omega. There's no reason why this should be any harder than what you've already endured.

You can handle this—with respectful distance, calm indifference, and a full commitment to self-preservation. You've trained yourself for this, haven't you? You don't need him. You're over it. Your logic is stronger than your instincts. You can do this.

But then, like some twisted joke the universe decided to play at your expense, he starts showing up in places he shouldn't be. Not just in that one elective—no. Suddenly, he's everywhere. Fucking everywhere!

You see him in the library when you're trying to print something for class, sitting across the room, eyes already on you. You catch him in the campus café, ordering two tables away, hands tucked in his pockets. You find him leaving the same building at the exact time your class ends—even when you know he doesn't have a lecture there.

Okay, campus is small. Schedules overlap. It's just a coincidence! He probably has his own reasons—assignments, club meetings, group work. Maybe his favorite café happens to be the same one you like. Maybe his classes just happen to end when yours do. He's not doing anything wrong, not really. It's not like he's chasing you. Not in any obvious way.

But there's a consistency. A thread pulling tight every time you turn a corner and see him already there. A breath caught in your throat when your eyes meet for half a second longer than they should. A pressure in your chest that builds every time you feel him near—even before you actually see him. You know this feeling too well. You've walked this path before—this rabbit hole of spiraling thoughts. You've memorized every turn it takes to fall into delusion, and you swore you'd never take the plunge again.

But, you feel yourself teetering on the edge, again. Get a grip, you hiss internally, forcing yourself to blink it away, to ground your thoughts, to remind your body who's in control here.

Ugh. You hate how your body responds before your mind has time to stop it. You hate the little things: the flutter in your chest when you smell him first; the way your Omega perks up, tail-wagging and alert, just because his presence registers nearby. You hate how your carefully constructed routines begin to warp—shifting to avoid him in the halls, choosing the longer route just to not pass by the old lecture building, holding your breath whenever you step into the library. It's like you're hiding from a ghost. Only Jay is very much alive, very much real, and whether he means to or not, he's haunting you.

     "THERE'S A whole meeting coming up for the University Games prep," Yeonjun groaned as he swung his bag onto the table with a dramatic sigh. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms. "I pulled a late-nighter reviewing terms for our summative. I swear my brain's leaking out my ears."

You barely looked up. Your gaze was fixed blankly on the whiteboard ahead, mind fogged, drifting somewhere far from the present moment. You hadn't even touched your notebook. Ningning had bailed on today's lecture with a casual 'Skip it, babe, not worth the stress—Jay's in that class anyway, just come over and nap.' You should've followed her advice. Should've turned on your heel the second you smelled him near the hall, should've saved yourself this tension gripping at your spine since you entered the room.

Instead, you sat frozen in your chair, arms crossed tightly as if you could physically anchor your emotions from escaping again.

Yeonjun dropped into the chair beside you, not bothering to glance around first. The next second, he let out a sharp yelp. "Ow! What the hell?! Who the fuck leaves their ID on a damn seat?" He shot upright, grabbing at his backside with one hand and snatching the culprit card off the chair with the other. His voice echoed through the half-filled classroom. Your face remained carefully blank, eyes locked on the whiteboard ahead, where nothing particularly interesting was written.

Yeonjun paused, staring at the object in his hand—a student ID card—before going uncharacteristically quiet. That caught your attention. Slowly, you turned your head to glance at him, one brow arching in question.

He startled slightly, caught in your gaze, then offered an awkward smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. "I—uh... damn, maybe someone just dropped it by accident or something," he said, voice an octave higher than usual. "I'll go, um... I'll just put it on the center table. Y'know. So they see it."

You narrowed your eyes slightly, confused by the shift in his tone. But you said nothing, watching him as he stood up and briskly crossed the room, the ID clutched a little too tightly in his fingers. He set it gently down on the table at the front before returning to his seat, brushing his pants off like the ID had burned him.

You blinked once, then shrugged, pushing the interaction aside and sinking back into your thoughts. Your mind had been a cyclone of clutter since the moment you stepped into the lecture hall—ever since you'd sensed a familiar presence brushing too close, like a scent you couldn't scrub out of your skin.

You endured the next three hours of the painfully dry lecture with gritted teeth. The professor's voice blurred into a steady drone, too monotone to hold anyone's attention, especially not yours. Your fingers tapped restlessly on your notebook, and you had to stop yourself from sighing for the twentieth time in the past ten minutes. On your right, Yeonjun had long since surrendered to the lull of the lecture, head tilted slightly back, lips parted as he snored softly with absolutely no shame. The sound grated on your nerves and you didn't know if you were more annoyed at him for dozing off while you suffered or at yourself for not being able to zone out the same way.

But the truth was, you couldn't relax. Jay's presence pressed at your awareness. He wasn't even doing anything. Just sitting there—silent, poised, occasionally jotting down notes with his signature. But it was enough to unsettle you. Every time he shifted, your eyes involuntarily flicked toward him. Every time his scent subtly curled through the air, your Omega responded instantly, purring traitorously despite your best efforts to ignore it.

It wasn't even a strong scent today: neutral, faintly clean, but your Omega reacted like it was ambrosia. God, you wanted to scream. And to make matters worse, the adhesive patch on your scent gland—already half-worn from overuse—was starting to itch like hell. You resisted the urge to scratch at your neck, rolling your shoulder instead in an effort to relieve the sensation without drawing attention. It didn't help. The irritation only amplified the restless coil tightening in your belly.

It felt like your Omega was trying to claw its way out, pressing up against your skin. You clenched your jaw and forced your gaze back to the front, blinking hard, trying to refocus on the slide about ethical dilemmas in digital advertising. It might as well have been written in a foreign language.

The back of your neck was prickling now, heat crawling up your spine. You tugged the collar of your shirt slightly, willing the sensation to ease off, but it didn't. The discomfort was relentless. A low thrum of biological tension building under your skin. Maybe it was the air circulation. Or the broken AC. Or the fact that you hadn't slept properly in three nights because your body was going haywire again, dancing on the edge of another hormonal shift.

Your hands curled into fists in your lap. You almost wanted to kick Yeonjun awake, just to have someone to blame.

You needed a massage, a facial, a two-hour-long scalp treatment. You wanted to lie down in a silk robe while someone pressed hot stones along your spine and whispered that everything would be okay. Maybe a shopping spree would help. A new pair of heels, another designer bag you could photograph and flaunt. You were already planning the text to your father: Daddy, Dior dropped a new saddle bag and it's giving limited edition... please? ૮ ⸝⸝o̴̶̷᷄ ·̭ o̴̶̷̥᷅⸝⸝ ྀིა⸝

Instead of going to your next class, you skipped the rest of your schedule entirely and took a cab straight to Ningning's house.

All you got was a casual, "He definitely wants you that bad," muffled slightly through her salmon roll as she sat cross-legged on the floor, scrolling her phone while dipping sushi in soy sauce.

"That's it?" you snapped, yanking a pillow into your arms. "That's all you have to say?"

She shrugged. "What else do you want me to say? You came in here with that look on your face and said his name within five minutes. What am I supposed to do—not assume he's got you all twisted again?"

You scowled at Ningning, lips pursed, but it was more out of habit than true annoyance. You didn't have the energy to argue with her, because as much as you wanted to dismiss her words, to chalk them up to her usual dramatic flair—she wasn't wrong. You did feel twisted. Frayed at the edges. Emotionally constipated. Whatever poetic metaphor you wanted to use for being perpetually on edge—none of them could really capture the constant, low-burning confusion you carried every time you saw Jay.

And, he was everywhere. Again.

The more it kept happening, the harder it became to ignore. And Ningning was having the time of her life narrating your slow descent into reluctant delusion.

"Oh my God," she whisper-hissed one afternoon, grabbing your wrist as the two of you stepped out of the admin building. "He's there. At the top of the stairwell."

You didn't even have to ask who.

"And now he's walking down—like right as we appear. I swear, he was standing there for five minutes doing nothing."

You pretended not to care, focused intently on your phone screen, but your Omega was already humming, alert and all-too-excited.

The next day, Ningning didn't even wait for a proper sighting.

"Okay, what the hell?" she hissed, sliding into the booth across from you at your usual café. "You're telling me he's suddenly into iced lavender matchas and this place's god-awful acoustic playlist? No. He is not a coffee person. I've never seen that man drink anything!"

You didn't even look over your shoulder. You'd felt the shift in the air the moment you walked in. That familiar weight settling at the back of your neck. "I'm telling you, he's hovering," Ningning continued, dropping her voice as she leaned forward. "And he's only doing it because you won't look at him."

You gave her your best withering glare over your straw, "I'm ignoring him because I'm trying to move on. Not because I want to bait him into doing something."

She raised both brows and popped a macaron into her mouth. "Babe, you are not ignoring him. You're avoiding him. And you know what happens when you avoid something that wants your attention?"

"I swear to God, if you say it grows stronger—"

"It grows stronger," she said, grinning. You groaned and dropped your forehead to the table, muffling your frustration in your arms. But you couldn't stop the restless pulse of your thoughts.

You weren't that pathetic! Your life didn't revolve around a single man's presence—or worse, absence. But your chest had been feeling heavier lately. The quiet days were harder to get through. There were moments when you glanced toward a doorway or listened for footsteps that never came, and the disappointment curled in your gut. And under the layers of pride and anger and well-constructed apathy, you knew that you were doomed the moment your body started keeping track of him.

You had memorized him. His presence wasn't just something you recognized. It was something your body anticipated. And under all the pride you wore all the carefully layered apathy, all the glitter and gloss you applied—you knew. You had been doomed the moment your body started tracking him. You were absolutely, irrevocably fucked the second you realized your eyes scanned the room automatically. The second you noticed your own awareness sharpening whenever he was near, even if he didn't say a word. Even if he was just there.

It wasn't fair! He didn't even have to do anything anymore. Just existing within your vicinity was enough to stir everything you'd spent weeks trying to bury. And still, you kept your routines, sat in your usual spots, retouched your gloss every thirty minutes, let Ningning drag you around the campus café circuit, hoping distraction would erase the obsession. But it didn't. Because he kept showing up. Always!

"What the fuck is he doing at the ladies' bench?" you snapped. "That's, like, the most feminine corner on campus—soft pink umbrellas, flower-painted tables. Why is he studying there?"

Ningning didn't even flinch. "He's been there for thirty minutes. Didn't even open his laptop. Just sitting and occasionally glancing. You sure he's not waiting for you?"

You waved her off, muttering curses, heart jackhammering in your chest like you were about to be ambushed. Jay this. Jay that. You didn't even notice how often his name slipped from your mouth until you heard it echoing back at you. You didn't even realize that your every minute—your thoughts, your movements, your entire schedule—had started to orbit around him.

You were done for the day he didn't show up and everything felt off. Fuck!

⋮ ⌗ act eleven

     "YOU NEED to join at least two minor games or sign up to facilitate one," the Government rep from Education was saying into the mic. "Event logistics, food coordination, support for the major teams—whatever your strengths are, we'll find a spot. We also need volunteers for infractions and violation tracking—points, fouls, that sort of thing."

You leaned forward toward Ningning, completely disengaged from the mandatory meeting. "Hey," you whispered, flicking your nails together lightly, eyes gleaming with quiet excitement. "I got it. The new Dior blush—the one with the redesigned packaging? Forty bucks. The shade's softer now, less of that neon-cool pink from before. It's more muted, moreeee wearable."

Ningning's eyes snapped wide as she turned toward you, forgetting entirely about the ongoing announcements. "Already?! I saw the previews online. I'm not gonna lie, I'm not sold on the new packaging yet. The text is kind of... oversized?"

You rolled your eyes. "Who cares about the packaging? The formula, babe. The formula is everything. I did side-by-side swatches last night. The old one's a little chalky compared to this—it's so finely milled now, almost like silk. Blends like butter. No fallout either."

"Ugh, I hate you," Ningning groaned softly, eyes sparkling with envy. "Let me try it next time we hang out. I want to feel that buttery blush on my skin."

You smirked, flipping your hair back. "Of course. And wait 'til you see the bags I bought too. Bags, plural. Like—more than one. Because—"

Your words died mid-sentence. A shadow fell behind you, and your breath hitched. Something inside you tensed, your instincts flaring up. Slowly, almost reluctantly, your head turned toward the figure standing just behind your chair.

Park Jongseong?! It was him, wearing that usual booooring clean, muted palette of grays and blacks, eyes calm and unreadable behind the rim of his glasses, expression completely devoid of emotion. His backpack was slung casually over one shoulder, his presence as quiet as it was disruptive. Since you were sitting at the leftmost seat of your row, Ningning in the center and Yeonjun on the right, both of them followed your movement, turning their heads almost in sync with yours. You could feel their collective stillness tighten as the air shifted.

"What the fuck?" you snapped, mix with panic you hated. "Can't you see that this chair's for our bags? Like, obviously? This is not your seat." Your tone wavered slightly at the end, the bite softened only by the way your Omega stirred—rattling behind your chest.

Jay stared at you, unmoving for a heartbeat. Then, as if the tension in your voice didn't register, he spoke in his usual clipped, impassive tone. "There's no seat available."

You blinked, glancing around the lecture hall—okay, fine. Most of the chairs were already taken. People had crammed in at the last second, and yes, you might've been using the extra seat as a glorified handbag throne. But still!

"That's not my problem," you muttered, but the protest had lost momentum. Your hands moved on their own, dragging your bag with a little too much force. You avoided looking at him as he took the now-cleared chair beside you, moving with the effortless quiet that annoyed you to your core.

Yeonjun looked between the two of you, eyes narrowing. Beside him, Ningning shifted in her seat, biting down on the inside of her cheek, her entire body visibly vibrating with barely-contained excitement "The plot is plotting something," she hissed under her breath.  "The plot is plotting something!"

You didn't even turn your head. With the smallest twitch of muscle and the elegance of someone who'd done this more times, you reached under the table and pinched Ningning's thigh. She let out a small yelp and covered her mouth, giving you a wide-eyed glare. You crossed your legs carefully, your entire posture shifted. You turned your body just enough to face Ningning, presenting your side to Jay.

"—Most of the minor games are based on child-friendly formats," the representative was saying. "Some are casual online games like Roblox, while the major events include Mobile Legends, basketball, volleyball, cheerdancing, swimming competitions, and more."

Your attention was half there, half flickering in annoyance as you felt the brush of an arm—his arm—bump into yours. You hissed under your breath, your brow instantly furrowing as you turned to glare at Jay. He didn't even look the slightest bit fazed. His fingers casually ran through his hair like the brush of his skin against yours was completely unintentional. And the audacity? He didn't even offer a damn apology.

You scoffed softly, flipping your hair with irritation as you shifted your entire body slightly away from him, putting your focus elsewhere.

"—We're estimating a contribution of around seventy dollars per student on the team," the organizer continued, clearly reading off notes. "That may vary depending on whether the head department decides to sponsor a portion. But our projected budget is about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars total. That includes uniforms, props, transport allowances, and basic essentials for team prep."

Just as you were about to reach for your iced coffee, Jay's elbow nudged yours again. Your head whipped in his direction, a sharp glare forming in your eyes—only to catch him smoothing his hair back again, eyes lazily forward. Again?! You sighed sharply through your nose, pulled your chair a few inches to the left, and tried to pretend he wasn't there.

The speaker's voice droned on. "—Of course, a lot will fall under coordination. We'll need volunteers not only for player support but also for logistics, media coverage, and audience management. There will be performance numbers, cheer squad allocations, and disciplinary committees to monitor violations. Our biggest competitors will be CHS—they're known for their full-sponsorship systems and aggressive prep. So we need full cooperation this year—especially from the upperclassmen."

Jay's shoulder brushed against yours again.

You clenched your jaw, turning your head slowly. "What the hell is wrong with you?" you snapped under your breath, arms folding tightly across your chest. "If you're that desperate to fix your hair, there's a whole damn restroom for that. Go stare at yourself in the mirror like a normal person. Geez, what's with—"

"What the—?! You dyed your hair?!" Yeonjun's voice cut through the air before you could finish yours. His reaction drew a few curious glances from the students sitting nearby.

You turned, actually seeing Jay now. And there it was: silver. Cool-toned silver, like rain-washed chrome, with the undercut now even more prominent, sharp lines framing his already angular face. His fringe was swept back effortlessly.

What the fuck? You hated him, and his hair looked really, really good. For a split second, your eyes followed the line of his jaw to the edge of his neck, then the slope of his nose. Your Omega let out the quietest purr in the pit of your chest, like some embarrassed reaction you couldn't control, and you cursed internally, dragging your gaze away before it wandered further.

Yeonjun was still gawking like Jay had just walked onto a runway. "Dude, I swear, if you didn't already have that resting death stare, you'd be making people fall left and right!"

Jay didn't respond. He just leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen on the edge of the desk, focused on the front as if he couldn't feel your barely concealed stare burning a hole in the side of his head.

Yeonjun pulled a face at being ignored, the moment losing its momentum. His shoulders slumped as he sighed, stretching out his legs and flopping his arms. "I think people treat me this way because I'm a Beta," he grumbled.

You turned your head slowly, brow raised, finally glancing at him. "You act like being a Beta is a curse."

"It is!" he huffed. "I'm literally the most approachable, least threatening person in every room and still I get no attention. Meanwhile," he gestured vaguely toward Jay, who remained unbothered, still tapping his pen, "mister Alpha here just breathes and people trip over themselves."

"—We'll be passing around sign-up sheets for the University Games tasks," the student organizer called out through the mic. "Please choose roles according to your ability and availability. Let's all do our part to make this event successful!"

You leaned back with a groan, tilting your head toward Ningning with a sigh. "Okay, what's the least energy-draining, makeup-safe, non-haggard role I can grab without ruining my nails? Just pass me the damn paper. I'll pick something brainless and get the hell out of here."

The paper made its way toward you—after brushing across Jay's arm—and you snatched it without a glance in his direction, though your Omega stirred immediately at the proximity. Stupid instincts.

"You did not just salivate while looking at that man's face!" Ningning whisper-shrieked beside you, eyes wide. "My God, you looked like you were about to bite his hand off—or kiss it!"

You kicked her ankle under the table in retaliation, shooting her a warning glare while quickly scanning the list of roles.

"'Documentation—Violation Monitoring' and 'Charades (Minor Games)' sound tolerable enough," you muttered, clicking your pink gel pen. "I'll just snap a few pictures, wear sunglasses, and laugh at people. That's it." You scribbled your name in your usual cursive signature.

"Write mine too," Jay said suddenly, glancing sideways.

Your pen froze midair. "Excuse me?!" you barked, twisting your head to glare at him fully. "You have two functioning hands and your own alphabet system. Write it yourself!"

Jay blinked once, completely unfazed. "You already have the pen."

You stared at him in disbelief. "So what?" you hissed, waving the pen dramatically. "What, do I look like your secretary? How am I even supposed to know which games you're planning to join?"

He didn't flinch. "Same as yours."

Your mouth dropped open. "Excuse me?!" The second shriek of the day tore out of your throat, louder, shriller. "Charades? Seriously? That's your pick?" you asked, incredulous. "You—you—are going to join Charades? That game is literally about exaggerated body language and miming! You?! You?! You're going to make the team lose!"

Jay's gaze remained steady, the corner of his lip twitching slightly as he said, "You're playing it."

You scoffed, incredulous, "Yeah, because I'm good at it! I have range, I can express, I can act—I know how to sell it." You gestured to yourself. "What about you, huh? You barely blink. You probably give the same face when someone confesses their love and when someone tells you the building's on fire."

Jay didn't even flinch. He met your stare evenly, "I can guess your acting."

Your mouth fell open. "Excuse me? Excuse me?!" You shot up slightly from your seat, your voice pitching so high you were almost squeaking. "A-Are you insane?! What the hell is that supposed to mean?! That's the most arrogant thing I've heard today."

Ningning leaned forward with her face half-buried in her hoodie sleeve, trying to muffle her laughter, while Yeonjun threw his hands up. Jay, who looked completely unfazed by your rising blood pressure. He was watching you like you were being ridiculous, like you were giving him exactly what he expected—and he liked it. Smug bastard.

"Just pick another damn game," you hissed through gritted teeth, narrowing your eyes. "There's like fifty other things you can do. Go do something that fits your boring personality, like counting scorecards or gluing banners or—I don't know—standing still and breathing silently in a corner."

A polite cough echoed from behind you, one of the organizers clearly signaling that you were getting too loud, again. You slouched a little in your seat, glared forward, then muttered under your breath. "I just need to participate," you mumbled, biting the inside of your cheek.

Jay didn't hesitate. "Then participate."

You twisted your neck back toward him sharply, eyes narrowed. "In other games. Why not literally anything else? Are you doing this on purpose?!"

"No. Why would I?" he replied, far too calm. "Charades is the easiest option. I don't see a problem."

You flushed, the heat rising up your neck and blooming across your cheeks. You stared at him, at his face so infuriatingly relaxed. Your jaw tightened as you grabbed the pen again and furiously scribbled his name in capital letters, aggressively neat, right beside yours "There!" you snapped, shoving the clipboard toward him, letting it hit the desk with more force. "Happy now?"

Jay tilted his head slightly, glancing at the paper, and then—your eyes widened—his lips twitched. A small, subtle pull at the corner of his mouth. "Very," he said, and it was enough to make your already-overheated skin burn hotter.

Oh my God. So handsome. You screamed mentally, slapping yourself internally. How the hell were you supposed to survive this semester when the universe insisted on throwing him directly into your path like a walking, brooding landmine? Your patch was starting to itch again, a subtle irritation blooming along the sensitive skin of your neck. It was your Omega—restless, unsettled, silently whining beneath your skin like a spoiled child denied its favorite scent. Fucking Jay! Annoying, emotionally unavailable, completely infuriating—but absurdly handsome—Jay.

You sat rigid in your chair, back unnaturally straight, hands folded tightly on your lap to stop yourself from clawing at the patch. You scratched the side of your neck instead. Another few minutes crawled by. You tapped your foot with impatience, irritation, and the overwhelming need to move—to get away from the heat simmering under your skin and the mess buzzing inside your chest.

The moment the student organizer dismissed the meeting, you bolted up from your chair so quickly it screeched against the floor. You didn't even care, grabbing Ningning's hand. "Come on, I'm starving. I'm craving burgers—extra bacon, extra cheese—" But you never finished the sentence.

A group of tall, broad-shouldered Alphas were suddenly blocking your path. You froze mid-step, heart thumping, your Omega coiling so fast it felt like your lungs collapsed. The air grew heavier, saturated with the thick, sharp press of testosterone. You immediately tilted your head back, blinking up at their towering figures. That cocky, easy swagger of males who knew they had presence. Your breath hitched. And without meaning to, you instinctively stepped back.

Your Omega didn't like this. Not even a little. It wasn't about submission—it was recoil. Threat. These Alphas weren't your Alpha. And your instincts knew it instantly. One of them—the tallest, with soft eyes, voice directed in front of you.

"Park Jongseong, right?"

Your eyes darted back toward where Jay still sat, gaze already lifted. Since he was seated at your side, the group of Alphas—four, maybe five of them—stood directly in the path infront of him and the rest of you. There was no leaving now. You were stuck behind a wall of their alpha pheromones, your Omega instantly curling inward in discomfort, unsure whether to brace or bolt.

The one in front, obviously the leader, stepped forward, "Choi Soobin," he introduced. "Basketball team. We've been scouting players for varsity matches next month."

You narrowed your eyes, confusion flaring as your gaze flicked between him and Jay. "Word is, you're an Apex Alpha. We want someone like you to anchor our team. Someone who can carry pressure. Someone who leads."

Apex Alpha? Your breath hitched as the phrase settled in you. You blinked hard, as if your brain needed time to process what your ears had just heard. Apex Alpha? Like a Prime Alpha? You scrambled through the dusty, half-retained memories of your ABO History lectures—those classes you mostly ignored.

Prime or Apex Alphas were considered elite. A rare, dangerous subclass. Born into old, prestigious bloodlines, often exhibiting traits far more potent than the average Alpha. Their ruts were intense, their scent practically intoxicating to any Omega within range. It could trigger early heats. Induce involuntary scenting responses. Break down barriers you didn't even realize your body had built.

It made sense! The way your Omega reacted to Jay—how she curled, howled, melted even with the smallest proximity. He was the only Alpha your Omega had ever accepted. Your Omega had always been so selective. Why every other Alpha made her flinch, or fall into dead silence. Why none of their scents worked, why their attempts to soothe or bond never even registered.

You're not broken, your Omega is not cold. She just had the highest fucking standards. And Jay—Park Jongseong, Apex Alpha, Prime bloodline, emotionally unavailable bastard with hands you wanted to hold and a voice you wanted to strangle—somehow met them all. And of course, Jay's Alpha scent affect you that strong because he's an Apex.

And because you were a deeply unwell, fully spiraling, possibly scent-drunk mess, you leaned toward Ningning and hissed under your breath, "Does it mean he's like... super rich?"

Ningning blinked at you, visibly stunned, before her brows shot up and she leaned in with a deadpan stare. "Seriously? That's your first thought?" she muttered. "Out of everything that just happened—you went with money?"

Your lips parted, then shut again. You coughed. "W-What? No! I mean—yes. I mean—I just wanted to confirm, like, a detail. You know? For context."

"You're spiraling," Ningning said flatly.

"I am not," you muttered through clenched teeth, your eyes flickering back toward Jay and the group of Alphas still hovering around him. They were talking about the varsity team—mock schedules, warm-up games, practice formations, sports events.

"I don't play team sports," Jay said with that signature unbothered edge.

Soobin blinked, slightly thrown off by the flatness of Jay's rejection. But instead of pushing back, he just let out a low chuckle, clapping Jay once on the shoulder in a gesture of friendly defeat. "Alright, alright. Still—think about it," he said with a nod. "Apex or not, you'd change the game."

The other Alphas murmured in agreement, but most began to drift away, muttering about scrimmage plans and heading out. Except one lingered, still eyeing Jay, his posture a bit too stiff, his scent spiking faintly. You could feel it even from your spot—not overpowering, but enough to make your Omega stiffen in warning. You scrunch your face as you smell it, you hated the smell, it was so wrong, too aggressive, too territorial. Not Jay.

You shifted your stance instinctively, chest tightening. And then, unexpectedly, Jay's voice cut through again. "Are you done?" he asked sharply, his gaze lifting for the first time since the conversation began. "And can you back off already?" Jay added. "There's an Omega here. Are you seriously going to keep standing there leaking scent like that? You trying to distress her?"

Your stomach twisted so hard it knocked the breath from your lungs. He noticed. He hadn't looked at you, hadn't addressed you by name, but it didn't matter. Everyone in that conversation knew who he was talking about. You were the Omega. You were the one he was lowkey shielding.

The Alphas backed off immediately, caught off-guard. One muttered an apology. Another gave Jay a stiff nod and turned on his heel.

You didn't wait for another beat. The moment there was space, you gripped Ningning's wrist, tugged her forward, and shouldered your way through the path that had been previously blocked. Ningning stumbled behind you with a squeak, and her hand latched onto Yeonjun's jacket to pull him along too, forming an escape chain.

You didn't need to look back to know Jay was watching. You could feel his gaze, lingering at the nape of your neck, behind your ears, deep into your spine.

"Wow," Yeonjun exhaled as soon as the three of you stepped outside the doors, blinking against the light, his tone caught between disbelief and admiration. "So that's why every Alpha suddenly knows how to shut up. That explains everything." You turned toward him with a confused scowl, but he was already shaking his head in mock amusement, tossing a casual glance back toward the hallway. "Have you seriously not figured it out yet?" he added. "It's not just how he looks. Or how he smells. Or even how he talks. It's the way everyone stays the hell out of his way. The kind of energy that just... makes room."

It pissed you off. How dramatic. You and your Omega—both of you were overindulgent messes, mirrors of each other in every inconvenient way. Your Omega's selectiveness was spoiled, like a princess too used to silk and refusing to touch cotton. And you were no better. Just as stubborn. Just as dramatic. Craving you swore you didn't want, again and again.

You huffed out a breath, fixing the strap of your bag on your shoulder as you picked up your pace, heart hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with cardio. "Can we not talk about it?" you muttered, not bothering to look at either of them.

Yeonjun opened his mouth like he was about to tease you again, but one glance at your expression had him wisely zipping it shut. Beside you, Ningning was biting back a grin behind her hand.

     AND SO the misery dragged on. Between the growing mess of university games preparation and your personal unraveling over a certain Alpha, your sanity was hanging by a shimmery thread—one you were trying to keep from snapping entirely.

Everyone around you was drowning in deadlines and rehearsals, meetings and budget finalizations. Even the ones who volunteered for simple tasks like handing out water bottles or fixing props were being pulled into everything else. You had thought assigning yourself to the easiest roles—minor facilitator, observer for group violations, and a light participation in charades—would buy you some peace. A clean getaway. But clearly, the universe had other plans.

"Cat? Tiger? WHAT?!" one of your groupmates blurted in frustration. They were standing dead center in the practice circle, waving their arms wildly in a manner that looked more like someone having a seizure than mimicking an animal.

You stood toward the back, arms folded, eyebrows scrunched together in a mix of confusion and disbelief. What the hell was the point of practicing charades? It was a game, not a professional competition. What were they trying to do? You scoffed under your breath and shifted your stance, only for your gaze to fall again on Jay.

He was seated on the sidelines, long legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed, head tilted in the most indifferent angle possible. Not even pretending to guess, just watching. You tried looking away, forcing your attention toward the front, only to feel that gnawing awareness buzz again under your skin. When you looked back, he had shifted closer, slightly. Huh?

You blinked. No, surely that was just your overcooked brain playing tricks. Still, you took a quiet step to the left, casually. You repositioned yourself slightly, putting more space between the two of you. But minutes passed, and each time you glanced at him, intending to make it the last glance, he had moved again. Inch by inch.

You moved again, subtly this time, hoping no one would notice your slow migration toward the side of the gym. Your back brushed the wall now as you pretended to examine your nails. You sighed, pretending to look interested in the group still trying to guess whether the front actor was portraying a lion or having a breakdown. You exhaled slowly, pretending to be interested, when instinct tugged at your awareness once more—and your eyes, despite your will, slid sideways. What the hell?! He's closer again, and this time, time he wasn't even pretending to be subtle about it!

He sat himself against the row of benches just a few steps from where you stood, one arm slung over the backrest. His body was angled just slightly toward you. Was he trying to drive you insane? Your Omega certainly didn't mind. She stirred in response, all soft approval and giddy treacherous purrs, already reacting to his presence, to his nearness, to the subtle flare of his scent in the air.

You could practically feel the edge of his attention brushing against your skin. You took a half step to the right, hugging the wall as if proximity to stone would somehow create distance from him. You were running out of space to move, running out of excuses to act like you didn't notice the subtle pursuit happening right before your eyes.

What did he even want from you? He was too handsome for his own good. For your good. So handsome it made your stomach flip in betrayal, made your Omega thrum low with interest even when your mind screamed no. Soooo quiet and confusing.

You pressed your palm to your forehead, hissing softly under your breath. Was this all in your head? Were you spiraling again? Letting your mind fill in blanks? Because if Jay really was trying to get closer to you—if he really had intentions—shouldn't he be doing more than just orbiting you? Shouldn't he say something? Shouldn't he be... Alpha about it? Direct. If he had something to say, why didn't he say it?

You bit the inside of your cheek, jaw tight with frustration. If he stepped up, if he really approached you with something, you might even talk to him. You'd consider it. Maybe. Depending on how sincere he was. Depending on whether he finally decided to show something other than brooding detachment—

Ugh. You scowled at the floor, fingers twitching at your sides. "Get a grip," you muttered. You'd promised not to fall again, not to spiral, not to read into things that had no definitive shape. But here you were, teetering on the edge of hope like a fool all over again.

The actor's arm shot out, finger aimed directly at you. All eyes shifted to your spot near the edge of the group, and a few uncertain voices from the team began guessing aloud. "Girl?! Omega?!"

You scoffed at the predictability of it all, one brow arched as you crossed your arms and tilted your head ever so slightly. "Seriously? That's your guess?" You sighed. "Gorgeous girl? Or beautiful? Or goddess-tier attractive? Ethereal-level?"

Others rolled their eyes. The actor at the front gave you an exasperated look and waved their hand to signal an emphatic no. Without hesitation, they redirected their finger—this time, toward the person standing a few feet to your right. Jay.

Your smirk slipped, you narrowed your eyes and shifted your weight, watching him between mischief and challenge. "Oh," you said, dragging the word out as your gaze sharpened. "Okay. If it's him..."

You didn't even hesitate. "Boring?" you said dryly. There were a few immediate snorts from around the room. Jay's brow twitched ever so slightly. You pressed on, chin lifted, eyes still on him. "Annoying? Cold? Stoic to a fault?"

Jay finally turned his head, slowly, his eyes locked onto yours, unimpressed. "Mute? Robotic?" you added, your voice rising as you threw a hand in the air. "Is that it?"

The timer buzzed sharply, the actor at the front let out a frustrated groan, throwing their hands in the air before stomping once. They pointed between you and Jay, "It was mate! The word was mate!"

Someone in the crowd groaned. "What?! That was the answer?! Dude, you should've made a kissing motion or pointed between them and made a heart or something!"

"Yeah, how the hell were we supposed to get that? You can't just stare at them all intense and expect us to read your mind!"

The actor scowled and dropped their arms in defeat. "I thought it was obvious! They were the only Alpha and Omega here."

You rolled your eyes hard, pivoting away before anyone could catch the way your expression had cracked for just a second. "First of all," you snapped as you threw your bag strap over your shoulder, "you can't just point at me and him like that. We're not mates or whatever delusion you're trying to project. That's not how it works." Your words earned a mix of laughter and awkward glances from the group. You didn't care. You were already done with this entire thing. "Second," you continued, lifting your brows with biting impatience, "are we done? Or are we still pretending this is productive?"

Someone from the group coughed awkwardly. "O-Okay, okay. Let's call it for today. We'll send out the next schedule in the group chat."

You didn't wait for anything more. With a heavy sigh and the clatter of your bag's chain strap jingling from the abrupt movement, you turned on your heel and made a beeline toward the gym's exit. But the moment you reached the threshold of the doorway, a firm hand gripped your wrist and pulled you back. Your breath hitched in your throat, eyes snapping wide as your entire body jolted in surprise. Heat bloomed in your chest, and you instantly glanced down at where your skin touched his. Jay's fingers curled around your wrist.

Your voice came out breathier. "W-What? What do you want?" You tried to pull your hand back, but his grip remained.

Jay met your gaze with that same maddeningly unreadable expression of his. Then, slowly, his lips parted. "I'm not boring," he said.

You stared at him. Really? That's what he wanted to say? That's what he grabbed you for? Your eye twitched so hard, you yanked your hand out of his grip, fingers twitching as you pushed your hair behind your ears, trying to regain control of your composure. You blink and scoffing aloud. "Okay? So what?" You adjusted your bag with a jerky movement as you rolled your eyes. "Geez," you muttered under your breath,  "grabbing me just to make some random declaration? What do you expect me to say—thank you for not being boring, Jay? God."

You didn't wait for his response. Your steps carried you away. "Save that crap for someone who cares," you muttered under your breath. You didn't look back, not even once.

But if you had... You would've seen him still standing there, frozen in place long after your silhouette disappeared through the exit. Jay remained where you left him, hand slowly rising to the back of his neck as he stared at the spot you'd just vacated. His brows were drawn together. He dragged his hand up to rake through his hair, fingers lingering at his scalp, thinking if he's really... that boring?

⋮ ⌗ act twelve

     THE WEATHER today was a rare kind of perfect—sun-drenched, warm without stifling heat, the air light with the of early spring. The sky stretched out in a near cloudless blue, and a cool breeze swept through the campus, threading between the buildings and fluttering the edges of banners and flags already posted for the University's most anticipated event: the University Games. With classes canceled and most students bustling through final setup or cheering on their teams, the grounds were buzzing with energy. You couldn't help but admire the aesthetics of it all.

The theme colors were bold, but you were particularly grateful that your team had landed the color red. And conveniently, it aligned beautifully with your latest indulgences. You'd recently completed your Strawberry Cupid cosmetics collection. And as if that wasn't enough, your luck had been on your side with your latest blind box pull: a Hirono figure, one with a subtle red accent that matched your theme perfectly. You had it displayed in a protective case, clipped securely to your bag like a prized charm, joining a chorus of other preppy red trinkets that clattered softly with every step you took.

Your outfit for the day had been planned to the last detail. You wore a cream-colored tube top with a tiny cherry print pressed delicately at the center of your chest. The hemline dipped into an asymmetrical cut, paired beautifully with your choice of bottoms—bright red gingham ruffled mini shorts that flounced with every step, the layered fabric catching light and movement. Your legs were bare save for a pair of cream slouch socks pulled just above your ankles, tucked neatly into glossy red ballet flats that completed the look with an effortless, doll-like finish. Your accessories tied everything together. A red-and-white handbag hung at your side, your hair was styled in soft, airy waves that kissed your collarbones, a thin red ribbon headband adding a final bow to the entire ensemble.

"Wow," Giselle breathed, her mouth falling open in admiration as her eyes swept over your outfit. Clad in her own team's yellow-themed uniform. All around, students were beginning to gather—each department assembling by their designated colors as the short parade preparation commenced.

"Bitch," Ningning hissed under her breath, shooting a warning glance toward one of the faculty marshals pacing nearby. "We cannot be caught talking right now. Do you want to rack up a violation on the first day? They're being extra strict this year."

Giselle rolled her eyes with an exaggerated sigh, clearly unbothered. "Please. As if any of us care about their point deductions when we're drowning in deadlines. I've been buried under banners and rehearsals for three nights straight. I haven't even had the time to stalk your life updates, let alone breathe." Her voice dropped dramatically. "God help these competitive people. I swear the yellow team is training like we're about to enter the Olympics."

You smiled despite yourself, adjusting the ribbon in your hair as you caught your reflection in a tinted window nearby. "That's because you guys think school spirit is war."

"War is easier to win than keeping up with our cheer choreographer," Giselle muttered. "Also—hello, why did no one tell me you were showing up like a walking Strawberry Shortcake ad? Is this Dior? Don't tell me you got the blush already."

You gave a lazy tilt of your head and flashed a coy, smug smile as you adjusted the strap of your red-and-white handbag. "Ningning didn't tell you? I already got it," you replied, shifting your bag just enough to reveal the glint of the compact inside. The logo shimmered briefly in the sunlight, catching Giselle's full attention.

Ningning gave a sigh and crossed her arms. "She even pulled the red-accent Hirono figurine in her blind box yesterday. It's been nonstop flexing. Honestly, I'm exhausted."

"Okay, I'd brag too," Giselle snapped, without an ounce of shame, then squinted toward your bag with renewed suspicion. "Wait—wait a damn minute. Is that the strawberry lip glaze too? Bitch... Bitch?!"

"Don't touch it!" you squealed, laughing as you pulled your bag slightly away. But it was too late. The three of you were already spiraling into squeals, flailing your hands in a flurry of uncontained excitement. But just as you were about to gloat further about your matching blush-and-glaze combo, the air around you shifted.

The entire atmosphere of the field seemed to hush, as if everyone collectively sensed the gravity of someone approaching. Heads turned slowly, chatter dulled to whispers, and your own breath hitched when you finally followed their line of sight.

He wasn't walking through the crowd so much as parting it. People instinctively moved aside, their conversations falling silent in his presence. Every eye was on Jay, yet he remained unbothered, completely immersed in his own stride. Your mouth parted in disbelief, a soft "meow" slipping past your lips without your permission.

He was dressed in a deep red velvet jacket. Black trim lined the lapels and pockets in clean, elegant lines, echoing the sharp structure of the black collared shirt beneath it. And the pins—tiny enamel pieces, all vibrant—rested perfectly over his heart. A silver chain glinted at his throat. His hair was styled back, parted to the side in a soft wave that exposed the sharp cut of his jawline and the single silver hoop he wore in his left ear.

"Since when did he learn how to style?" Ningning whispered sharply beside you, her eyes wide as she nudged you with her elbow. "And—oh my God—he's not wearing his glasses! Are you seeing this? Your Alpha is getting hotter by the day. You better watch yourself before you fall flat on your face."

You opened your mouth to respond, but you didn't get the chance. A sharp whistle blew through the field. Students immediately snapped to attention like a ripple of panic, and Giselle practically leapt back into her designated team cluster like she was afraid she'd be penalized just for existing outside of her assigned line.

You and Ningning exchanged a silent look, then grabbed each other's hands out of habit, stepping into formation with the rest of your teammates dressed in bright shades of crimson. Your heart was still beating too fast, the residual heat from earlier making your palms slightly damp. As you adjusted your position in the line, another wave of scent hit the air. You recoiled slightly, nose wrinkling.

"Gosh!" you whispered under your breath, your hand tightening around Ningning's wrist. "I can smell Dior Sauvage layered over Alpha-grade pheromones. I don't like this!"

"What the hell," Ningning whispered back quickly, eyes flicking over the crowd. "It's that guy—look, from CHS. The one with the stupidly wide shoulders. God, he's marinating in it."

You tried not to gag as the scent continued to invade your space. It wasn't that it was bad, it was just so strong. Your Omega curled, restless, clearly displeased. You grimaced, fighting the urge to scratch at the patch on your neck as it began to tingle, reacting to the collision of Alpha presence in the air. It didn't want the ones broadcasting their dominance like a badge of honor. No. It wanted the quiet one in the red velvet jacket.

"The parade hasn't even started and I can already smell the Athletics department's goddamn pheromones," you hissed under your breath, fanning yourself with your palm even though the temperature wasn't to blame. Your brows furrowed sharply, frustration tightening your expression. "Why can't the university make an official rule to contain that shit for at least an hour? One hour! That's not too much to ask!" You groaned, nose wrinkling. "There are so many Omegas here, and none of these steroid-brained Alphas are bothering to keep themselves in check.Be fucking sensitive, assholes!"

Ningning tugged discreetly at your arm, her voice low and nervous as she leaned in. "Hey, hey—volume down. You're going to start a scene. They're already looking. Do you want us to grab the scent oil in my bag? Or change your patch? We can duck out for five minutes, seriously."

You exhaled in a rush, frustration curling hot under your skin. "Leave it," you said, jaw clenched. "I just need to stretch out what little patience I have left—"

But you didn't finish your sentence. Both you and Ningning turned your heads in unison, a shared instinct prickling at the base of your neck. Your heart immediately dropped to your stomach. There was Jay, moving behind you quietlyy. You hadn't even heard his footsteps, he was too close, near enough that you could already feel the subtle diffusion of his pheromones against your skin. It wasn't overwhelming like the other Alphas', not the raw musk of competition or lust. No, Jay's scent hit different — grounding, soothing. It was a calm you didn't ask for but your Omega reacted to instantly.

But then you noticed the two Omegas standing near him, heads tilted up, practically glowing under his presence. Their expressions were soft, eyelids heavy, and one even let out the smallest purr—an involuntary sound of want, shamefully transparent in its yearning. The sight made a sour feeling twist in your gut.

And it wasn't your Omega this time. It wasn't instinct that made your stomach coil, or your spine stiffen. It wasn't scent compatibility or hormonal alignment or any of those excuses you usually clung to when you wanted to justify the way he affected you. It was deeper, uglier. It was you—your own bitter, jealous flame hissing at the audacity of other Omegas being near him.

You sucked in a sharp breath and turned away, jaw clenched. Your eyes burned from the effort not to glance back at him, not to check if he noticed them, if he noticed you. So you moved. Stepped backward without thought, crafting a clumsy escape that looked like a little accident.

You let yourself stumble. Your balance tipped just slightly, and there he was. Jay's arm was already around you, one strong, sure hand curled low on your waist, steadying you. His chest met your back, your heart thundered against your ribs, betraying every carefully built wall you'd constructed.

You didn't immediately move away. You didn't shove him off. Instead, your hand moved behind you, seeking him out out of sheer need to reclaim, to assert something of your own. Your fingers found his wrist, curled lightly around the hand still resting at your waist. Your gaze, sharp with disdain, flicked back toward the two Omegas who were still watching—watching him, watching you, watching the space between. One tilted her head, the other biting her lip with a look that made your skin crawl. You met their gazes directly, cocking your head with your tongue pressed hard to the inside of your cheek, a single brow raised in a clear challenge.

Yeah. That's right. His hand is on yours.

You didn't mean for the thought to form. It just did. Only then did you turn your head slightly, speaking low, "I'm fine."

Jay coughed lightly in response, then, wordlessly, he let go of you. His touch disappeared as quickly as it had come. You straightened your spine with grace, brushing your hair back over your shoulder in a casual, indifferent sweep, even as your fingers trembled faintly from the leftover heat of contact.

Beside you, Ningning said nothing, but her lips were pressed together, trembling with the effort it took not to unleash a barrage of teasing remarks. She caught your eye, her gaze wide, gleaming with unshed laughter and then, mercifully, seemed to reconsider. Instead of speaking, she quietly reached into her pocket and pulled out a small roller bottle of scent stabilizer oil, offering it to you without a word.

You took it gratefully, pressing the vial beneath your nose, inhaling the grounding floral notes until your heartbeat began to settle. The faculty marshal's voice cut through, commanding the line to form and settle. A whistle followed. And just like that, the parade began. You moved forward, linking arms with Ningning as your team fell into stride, feet crunching rhythmically on the pavement. You refused to look back as you know that Jay is still behind you, if anyone asked, he was just walking in the same direction. Just part of the team. Just another Alpha in red. But you knew better, you could sense it in the way his steps matched yours perfectly, in the subtle bubble of pheromones he projected—not forcefully, not possessively, but to anchor the space around you. Like he was standing guard.

Damn him for existing like that, for breathing like that, for walking around campus with that face. For showing up with silver hair and that velvet-red jacket. For looking so good you could practically taste him. Ugh. You're so hungry, you could eat Park Jongseong.

     BORING. That was the only word you could use to describe the atmosphere as your group filed into the stuffy theater hall for the official kickoff of the University Games program. Each department team was set to perform—either a dance, a cheer, or some half-hearted thematic act—but none of it sparked even a flicker of your interest. You weren't here for the school spirit or the applause. You were here because attendance was required, and the penalty for skipping involved a long conversation with the student council and a deduction from your participation credits.

You shifted in your seat, elbows pressed to the armrest, chin propped against your hand as your eyes lazily traced the glitter on your nails. At least those were worth your attention—Strawberry Gel Gloss, imported and cured perfectly. The subtle shimmer caught the lighting just enough to distract you from the secondhand embarrassment unfolding on stage.

Why does this day have to be sooo long? Beside you, Ningning had long since surrendered to the tedium, slumped in her seat with her arms crossed, head tilted at a sharp angle as she let out a soft, very unladylike snore every few minutes. You didn't even bother to nudge her awake. She wasn't missing anything of value. On your other side, Yeonjun had decided the only way to endure the event was by blasting ridiculous sound effects on his phone to mock whatever act was happening on stage. You would've told him to stop, but honestly, it was the only source of entertainment keeping you from standing up and walking out.

You sighed, slumping deeper in your seat as the stage lights shifted for the next performance, another over-rehearsed dance team stepping out with manufactured smiles and glittery costumes. You could already feel your patience thinning. With a sigh, you rose from your seat, slipping your small makeup purse.

"Restroom," you muttered, half to the facilitator and half to yourself, not bothering to explain further. Before leaving, you leaned over and pinched Yeonjun's arm hard enough to make him jolt upright.

"Ow! What—?"

"Watch my stuff," you said flatly, already turning away before he could argue. As you shifted out of the row, your gaze unintentionally brushed past the row behind. Jay was sitting a few seats back. Your breath hitched, and you immediately looked away.

You huffed under your breath and headed toward the exit doors. The moment you stepped outside the auditorium, the heat of the air hit you. God, you needed a moment. You navigated the hallway, zeroing in on the nearest restroom. But when you rounded the corner, your heart sank, a long, snake-like, unreasonable line. Dozens of girls outside the restroom door, chatting, fixing hair, spraying perfume. You stared at the scene for a moment, there was no way in hell you were going to wait in that disaster.

With another exhausted huff, you turned on your heel, heading in the opposite direction without a word, already scanning the halls for an alternate restroom —only to realize with a grimace that it was in an entirely different building. Too far. And honestly? Maybe worth it. The program was dragging anyway. No one was checking attendance between segments, and as long as you returned before the final signature round, you wouldn't be marked absent.

So with zero remorse and zero intention of turning back, you pushed open the exit doors, stepping out into the warm air with relief—only to be met with a sudden blur of movement then a splash of a full, icy wave of water hit you from the left, soaking your upper body. Your entire torso and face were instantly drenched, droplets clinging to your lashes, your cherry tube top is soaked, your hair plastered flat to your cheeks in soaked strands. Your mouth fell open in pure disbelief, hands raised midair.

A group of students in green team uniform stood frozen in place for a split second before one of them, a Beta girl with wide eyes and a guilt-stricken face, stammered, "S-sorry!" Then she bolted. The rest of her group followed, scattering, shouting over their shoulders, pretending not to see the aftermath of their recklessness.

You stood motionless for a beat, trembling. Your perfectly curled hair was now dripping. "Are you freaking serious right now?!" you hissed, pushing your wet hair out of your face. You took a step forward, heels slapping violently against the concrete, eyes narrowed to slits.

"Fuck!" you shouted, unable to hold it in anymore. "I will personally observe and write every single one of your team's goddamn violations during every game this week, you fucking losers!"

Your voice echoed across the building's outer walkway. A few nearby students turned their heads, startled, but quickly looked away, pretending not to hear your meltdown. You didn't care. Your fists clenched at your sides, shaking with frustration, your chest heaving as you tried to collect yourself. Inhale. Exhale. Your teeth grit together. Your jaw ached from how hard you were biting down to keep from screaming. You stood still for a few more seconds, head tilted up toward the sky, eyes clenched shut, fists trembling in midair.

Okay. Breathe. Spiraling right now would only make things worse. Sending out distress signals through your scent? Even worse. You couldn't afford that. You glanced down at your soaked top, returning to the theater hall in this condition was not an option. You were already one wrong breath away from an emotional meltdown, and going back in front of dozens of people—including him—would only send you hurtling over the edge. You needed privacy. A place to breathe. A place to reset. Somewhere you could hide, wipe down, and at least try to salvage what was left of your dignity before figuring out what excuse to file for an early dismissal. Yes. That was the plan. Go somewhere quiet, breathe through it, pull yourself back together. You were smart. You could handle this.

With your jaw clenched and your shoulders stiff, you hurried toward the adjacent building. The water from your clothes leaving small, wet footprints in your wake. You rubbed your bare arms for warmth and clutched your purse tightly against your chest. You reached the restroom and tried the handle. Locked.

"Fuck!" you snapped, voice cracking at the edge. You kicked the door with the side of your foot. Frustration seethed through you, and you could feel your scent patch beginning to lose its grip—literally and biologically. The adhesive was already slipping at the edge of your neck, the warmth of your skin making it worse, and under it your scent glands throbbed with suppressed irritation.

You could feel your Omega starting to rise beneath your skin, agitated and uncomfortable, your body was undeniably distressed, and the scent trying to claw its way out was getting harder and harder to suppress. Your jaw was locked tight, your eyes blinking hard against the sting of overwhelmed tears that threatened to spill at the corners. The wet fabric clung mercilessly to your skin. It was sticking under your arms, your back, your chest, your skirt was wet at the hem. The discomfort was physical, but it was also emotional, like every inch of your pride had taken a direct hit.

You stormed down the corridor again, testing every door you passed, one after the other. Locked. Locked. Locked. Every knob that refused to turn made your breath shallower, your chest tighter. There wasn't even a custodian in sight, no staff or faculty nearby to beg for a key. The building was quiet, abandoned for the weekend games. You paused near the stairwell at the end of the hall, pressing the heel of your hand against your temple. You could feel yourself unraveling, the wetness of your clothes feeding your panic, and the creeping warmth of your scent threatening to spike into full Omega distress.

You were close, so achingly close, to spiraling completely. Your lungs felt too tight, your heart racing with the sort of panic that brewed just beneath the surface of logic. Your Omega instincts were beginning to fray at the edges, and the soaked, clinging fabric of your clothes was not helping. You needed somewhere to regroup before your emotions fully detonated.

That was when your eyes caught on the slightly ajar door across the hall, the gold-plated sign reading Faculty Room B. The overhead lights were dim, but the gentle hum of the air conditioning told you the room wasn't fully shut down. You hesitated only for a second before approaching, your steps slow and cautious, fingers brushing against the doorframe as you peeked inside. It was empty, or so it seemed. You knocked once—lightly. Then again, no answer, taking a careful breath, you slipped inside and shut the door behind you. The room was too cool. The air from the vents blasted steadily, goosebumps rising along your bare arms and soaked shoulders. You winced, arms wrapping around yourself as you stepped deeper into the room.

Tears pricked at your eyes again. You had looked so good today. Every detail was perfectly curated—from your cherry-print top to your soft waves tied back with the matching red ribbon. You had spent hours getting ready, all for what? To be doused like a wet rag by careless teammates hauling around gallons of water. You didn't even have a change of clothes. What were the odds something like this would happen today of all days? And your phone—God, your phone was inside your bag in the theater hall, with Yeonjun, and probably buried under other people's bags by now. You were stranded. Humiliated. Cold. And your scent patch was definitely beginning to give up on clinging to your damp skin.

You shivered under the sharp current of the AC, stepping toward the control panel near the window and jabbing at the buttons to lower the power. Nothing. Your eye twitched. It didn't respond, and the icy air just kept blowing, relentless and indifferent. Your teeth clenched, body shaking slightly—not just from the cold, but from the rising tide of every little thing that had gone wrong.

"Fuck this life!" You screamed, wanting to cry loudly. Or maybe be held... or scented.

Maybe... maybe if Jay were here, he'd do something. He always did. Whether it was scolding you or pulling you back from the edge, he always seemed to know exactly when you were about to break. Your body remembered the calm he could bring, the way his presence seemed to quiet everything, and for a moment your heart genuinely wished he'd appear right then, take one look at you, and just fix it all.

"Loud." A groggy voice, interrupted your spiraling from somewhere behind.

Your body jolted, startled, as your pulse slammed against your ribcage. A soft, strangled sound escaped your lips as your eyes frantically scanned the room again. You had been sure—absolutely sure—that you were alone. But as your gaze slid past the cluster of stacked chairs and cluttered filing cabinets, it landed on a shadow you'd missed. Tucked away behind one of the larger staff desks, nearly swallowed by a mismatched collection of boxes and forgotten bulletin boards, was a worn leather sofa. And on that couch, now stirring and stretching with a yawn that cracked his jaw open, sat a figure slowly rising from the grip of sleep.

His movements were sluggish, bleary-eyed, disoriented like someone still not entirely convinced they were awake. He rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand and dragged the other through his silver-gray hair, which stuck out at every possible angle. It was styled in a loose undercut. His yellow jersey clung to the shape of his arms and torso, crumpled. He was blinking at you. Just as confused as you were. Just... far more composed about it.

You, on the other hand, let out a pitchy, breathless squeal. Your hand flew to your chest as if to hold your heart in place. The panic bloomed across your face, cheeks heating in humiliation as your feet instinctively stepped backward, nearly stumbling over themselves. Your purse slipped down your wrist.

The man on the couch tilted his head lazily, still groggy, his voice laced with irritation. "Did you close the door?"

You blinked at him, confused. "What?"

"The lock's busted from the inside," he muttered, gesturing vaguely without lifting his head. "You won't be able to open it again. We're stuck unless someone opens it from the other side."

Your stomach dropped. Immediately, you spun on your heel and stormed back toward the door, gripping the handle and yanking it hard. Nothing. You jiggled it again, then again, a little louder each time, until your fists were pounding against the wood, your voice rising into panicked calls for help. "Hello?! Someone?! We're locked in! Hello?!" The only response was the muffled hum of distant noise down the hallway—likely the sound of cheers from the program.

The man behind you sighed, long and bone-deep, as if the sound of your distress physically exhausted him. You turned around, chest heaving. "D-Do you have your phone? Call someone! C-call your teammates! I don't want to die in here!"

He stretched his arms above his head, visibly unbothered. "Skipped basketball practice," he said lazily. "Didn't bring my phone."

You stared at him, lips parting, speechless. The weight of everything that had happened—your ruined outfit, your ruined mood, your ruined pride—pressed down on your shoulders. With a broken sob, you dropped to your knees near the doorway, the tile floor cold against your skin, and finally let it happen. The tears spilled faster. Your palms rubbed against your arms, trying to create friction, some sort of warmth. Your chest rose and fell in unsteady gasps, jaw clenched from how hard your teeth chattered. "God, I'm going to get pneumonia," you mumbled to no one, vision blurring with fresh tears.

From behind, you heard the soft creak of leather and the rustle of fabric. "You're seriously making my ears ring," the man muttered, not moved with your spiral as he rubbed the back of his head. You ignored him, curling inward slightly, clutching your cold arms to your chest. Your wet clothes clung tighter by the second, and your scent patch had completely given up. You could feel your scent struggling not to escape, your control thinning out. All you wanted was warmth, comfort. You wanted Jay. You wanted him. You were too exposed, too shattered, and all your instincts screamed for the one Alpha your Omega had ever let in. You didn't even have the energy to be embarrassed by it.

Your answer came in a sob that was nearly a wail. "I'm cold," you choked out, the words tumbling between shivers. "So cold, I can't—I'm gonna dieeeee..." You didn't know if the tears were because of the actual cold or just the absurdity of your situation. You wanted to lie down. You wanted to disappear. You wanted Jay's voice, Jay's scent, Jay's arms. "I need—" Your voice cracked, and you couldn't say the rest. You need Jay. But it sounded too real, too humiliating to say aloud.

The man groaned under his breath again. You could hear the irritation in it, like he was holding back the urge to cover his ears as though your very presence was testing the limits of his patience. He pushed himself to his feet, borderline irritated. Then, without warning, he reached for the hem of his yellow jersey and pulled it off.

"W-What are you doing?!" you shrieked, hands flying up to shield your eyes. "Pervert!"

"I'm not," he muttered with complete disinterest, like he didn't even have the energy to be offended by your accusation. Before you could register what was happening, something hit you in the face. You flailed, letting out another shriek as the fabric slid down your arms and into your lap. "Put it on," he grumbled, already flopping back down onto the sofa. "Wear it or die in the cold. Either way, it's not my problem anymore."

You blinked down at the crumpled fabric in your hands, your lip curling slightly. His scent clung to the jersey, so masculine, it wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it was overpowering in your already heightened state. You inhaled shakily and glared in his direction, even though he wasn't looking at you. "C-Can't we just turn off the damn AC?!"

"Try," he shot back flatly, eyes closed again, arm thrown over his forehead like he was trying to nap. "There's no remote. Outlet are on the wall—practically mounted near the ceiling. You planning to fly up there?"

You glanced toward the unit, your expression souring. Sure enough, the panel was ridiculously high up, nowhere near your reach even if you stood on your toes and prayed. "Are you kidding me?" you muttered through clenched teeth.

"Nope." He sounded positively indifferent. "Been stuck in this room enough times to know it's useless unless you're over six foot or suicidal."

You bit your lip, the frustration building again. You didn't want to wear some stranger's scent-marked jersey, but your body was shivering violently, and your scent glands were screaming. Fine. You were past caring. With a slow, shaky breath, you reached up and peeled off the nearly useless patch from your neck. The adhesive tugged, the last bit of restraint coming undone with it. You hissed softly at the exposure but the relief was immediate. Your Omega shifted beneath your skin, uncurling like a cat finally freed from a box. You glanced toward the Alpha still lounging on the sofa across the room. His eyes were closed, clearly uninterested in anything involving your emotional breakdown. Good.

"You're naked. Aren't you cold?" you asked, your voice wobbling slightly as you tried to shift the attention off your own spiraling nerves.

The guy barely cracked an eye open from where he was reclined on the old staffroom sofa. His bare chest rose and fell slowly, unbothered, and his voice came out uninterested. "I'm an Alpha. Our bodies regulate heat differently."

You blinked at him, stunned by the sheer nonchalance. Meanwhile, your body was about two shivers away from collapsing. "I—I'm going to change now," you declared, voice catching at the beginning, but you straightened up, planting your feet firmly. You shifted a half-step toward the wall, clutching the jersey close to your chest. "Don't look. Seriously. If you even glance in this direction, I will kick your head clean off your neck. I studied karate. I'm a Yellow belt. I know things."

He didn't even glance over. "Not interested," he said. You narrowed your eyes suspiciously and shot him one final glance, as if to make sure he wouldn't try anything. He had one arm draped lazily across his eyes, his posture loose, the epitome of bored indifference. With a huff, you turned back and exhaled through your nose, peeling the soaked tube top from your skin. The chill from the AC hit immediately, making you clench your jaw. Your tube bra was no better—cold, wet, and absolutely miserable against your skin. You reached behind and unclasped it, letting it fall silently to the floor.

Just as you were about to yank the jersey over your head, a low, drawn-out whistle cut through the silence. Your head snapped on him, cheeks warming. He was still sprawled on the worn leather sofa. His arm was still thrown over his eyes, but you could see the curve at the edge of his mouth. A smirk stretched slowly into place.

"Fucker," you hissed in mortification. In a panic, you yanked the oversized jersey back down, the fabric clinging awkwardly to your skin as you stormed toward him. Your legs carried you fast across the floor, fists clenched.

Without a second thought, you slapped your hand against his shoulder. His body jolted slightly with the impact, but he didn't so much as flinch. He merely lowered his arm enough to look at you, one eye cracking open lazily, his smirk never faltering. "Damn," he drawled, still unbothered, "you hit like a damp tissue."

You gaped, your mouth floundering for words that wouldn't come out in full shrieks. Your fingers twitched at your sides, torn between strangling him and wrapping yourself tighter in the borrowed fabric. "You—you pervert—!"

"I'm not," the man replied coolly, shifting on the worn leather couch as he propped himself up on one elbow to look at you more directly. Your breath hitched sharply as his eyes dragged over you. Not in a leering way, but it didn't matter. You weren't wearing a bra, and the oversized jersey did little to hide the shape of your body beneath it. You gasped, one arm shooting up to shield your chest, jaw hanging open in disbelief.

His gaze didn't waver. His head tilted slightly, brows furrowing in a lazy sort of intrigue. "Damn," he muttered. "Damn... you're actually really pretty. Now I'm interested."

Your mouth fell open, rage eclipsing embarrassment in an instant. "Well, I'm not interested!" you snapped, voice cracking on the edges of indignation as you shoved your foot toward the couch in a warning kick. He leaned away slightly and let out a chuckle, one hand patting the empty space on the cushion beside him.

The audacity! Your eyes widened further, lips parting in disbelief as your body instinctively retreated a step, horror blooming across your features. He didn't move closer or didn't push but that didn't lessen the surge of unease and fury twisting inside you.

"Okay," he said after a long beat, stretching. He slouched back again, fingers lacing behind his head, and let out a low sigh of satisfaction. "But damn. You've got one hell of a presence. Can't really blame a guy for being honest."

You recoiled further, glaring at him. "This is harassment," you hissed under your breath, shoulders bristling as your eyes darted to the door again. Still locked. No sounds from outside. "This is exactly what I expect from Alphas like you. You were practically drooling over a nap a minute ago, and now suddenly I'm your new fixation?"

He blinked slowly, dragging one hand down his face. "Sleep resets your system," he mumbled. "Helps the senses recalibrate. Clears your mind. Maybe even helps you notice... certain things."

"God," you muttered, throat tight. "Are Alphas all like this? So cryptic? Always acting like they're saying something profound?"

He didn't answer immediately. Just studied you, unmoved by your contempt, "And you—you walked in here soaked, upset, wrapped in my scent. You were sobbing. That kind of thing... it doesn't just disappear from a guy's head."

A slow, crawling discomfort crept up your back, one vertebra at a time, until your entire spine locked in place, unwillingly stiff. You could feel that subtle flicker, that disoriented stir of your Omega instincts, fumbling for footing it didn't have. Confusion, annoyance, a strange curl of heat. You clenched your jaw, grinding down the reaction before it could show, though your face was already betraying you—flushed cheeks, twitching eye, the whole storm of irritation you were trying not to wear. So annoying!

That guy just stood there, half-naked and completely unfazed. Did he think he was attractive? Seriously? Please. If he was expecting a compliment, he'd have to dig through hell and ego first. No. There was only one Alpha you had ever looked at and actually felt something in your chest that wasn't immediate disgust—and that was Park Jongseong. Annoying, boooring, infuriating Jay. As much as you wanted to hate him, his presence was a whole different gravitational pull. You hated how he moved, how he looked at you, how he lingered.... but none of it compared to the raw, unfair truth: Jay was hot. Unbearably, insultingly hot.

And this stranger? He was just... shirtless and in the way. How the hell were you supposed to take anything he said seriously when he looked like that?

You needed to get out. Not just from this room—but from this entire moment. Spinning sharply on your heel, you stormed toward the door, jaw set, heartbeat tapping erratically in your ears. You slammed your palm against the panel with a force. "Hello?!" your voice cracked at the edge, but shame wasn't your priority right now. "Anyone?! Can somebody hear me?! This isn't funny—open the damn door!"

"Why are you masking your scent?" His voice floated from behind.

You froze for a beat, then turned so fast your hair swung with you. "What?

"You removed your scent patch," he said. "Earlier, it was still faint—peeking through in places. Not fresh. It's messy. Like you peeled it off and hoped no one would notice. But now..." His eyes narrowed slightly as he tilted his head and inhaled, subtly. "There's an imprint underneath. Old. But it's there."

You stared at him, blood suddenly loud in your ears. "What the hell are you talking about?" you hissed, taking a sharp step toward him. "Okay—first of all, shut up. Don't throw around bond terms like you're some kind of scent analyst. You don't know me." Your arm shot out, finger aimed directly at his face. "Imprint? Are you serious? Who do you think you are? Going around sniffing people? God—I knew it! You're one of those creepy, repressed Alphas who acts quiet so no one notices the weirdo underneath."

"I didn't assume anything," he said, tone as neutral as before. "I noticed."

You stared at him, caught between fury and disbelief. "You noticed?" you echoed, voice inching toward hysterical. "You noticed? What, is that supposed to make it better? That's your defense?" You scoffed loudly, throwing your hands up. "Do you even know what imprinting means? Do you understand how insane you sound right now? That requires actual physical proximity. Closeness. Repeated exposure. A bond—not a scent accident. And guess what? I don't touch Alphas. I don't talk to Alphas unless I'm forced to by divine misfortune. No one has ever been close enough to leave any kind of mark on me, scent or otherwise."

Even as the words poured from your mouth, your mind betrayed you with flashes of memory you hadn't invited in. Jay had always been there, in this persistent, maddening way that never allowed you to forget him. The only times you'd truly let yourself near him was when you were chasing him. When your Flower Knows favorite hair clip vanished. You'd snapped at everyone in sight, too distressed to think clearly, until Jay, of all people, calmly handed it back to you.  And for some reason, without thinking, you hugged him. No way, it's impossible... But still—surely you'd feel it if something had happened then, you would have noticed, wouldn't you? Snapped out of it! You forced yourself to swallow the thought. It didn't matter. None of it mattered.

"I'm not someone people imprint on," you muttered under your breath.

The guy tilted his head slightly, there was a glint of curiosity? amusement?—in his eyes that only made your skin crawl further. "Hmm," he murmured, unconvinced. "Must've been a powerful Alpha to leave that kind of imprint."

Weirdo. You didn't even bother answering. You were too tired, too over it, too seconds away from breaking the door down yourself. You turned away from him completely, knuckles already preparing for another round of pounding against the door. But just as your hand drew back to knock again, the door swung open without warning, and the motion startled you so badly that you let out a high-pitched shriek. The sudden rush of light, air, and relief hit you at once, and your eyes immediately welled with tears.

And there, standing in the doorway, was Ningning. Your beautiful, perfect best friend, looking mildly confused. Without hesitation, you threw yourself into her arms, burying your face into her shoulder as the tears finally spilled over. "Ningie," you cried into the curve of her neck, clutching her. "Oh my God, thank you—I was trapped—I thought I'd die in there—"

But Ningning didn't hug you back. Instead, she let out a loud, startled shriek that made you jerk back instinctively. Her hand flew up, pointing with trembling fingers over your shoulder. "Oh my God! N-Naked!" she shrieked, eyes wide with pure horror.

You blinked, confusion flickering through your lashes as you turned your head over her shoulder, dread already twisting in your stomach. Slowly, you pulled away from Ningning, lifting your eyes—and that's when you felt the air leave your lungs. There was one people. Because standing just behind her, half-shadowed by the frame of the open door, was Jay.

Your entire system short-circuited. Cold. Then heat. Then a full-body freeze so intense it made your fingers numb. Panic rippled through your nerves, your Omega curled deep inside your chest, cowering. You couldn't even form a thought, let alone an excuse. You looked away immediately—hard left, anywhere but at him. But your body didn't obey the instinct to flee. You stepped back from Ningning, as if pulled forward by something magnetic and quiet and impossible to reason with. Your feet moved before your mouth did. Moved toward him. "I-It's not what you t-think," you stammered,  "I—It's not—I didn't—he wasn't—nothing happened—"

You were trying to speak but every word landed wrong, cracked in half before it even made it out of your throat. Your mind was spinning, you couldn't explain it, not with Jay standing there looking like that, expression too calm, and definitely too close to seeing through you.

Ningning's shriek tore through the air again, unhelpful and explosive. "Why is he naked?! What the hell is going on?!"

You opened your mouth to reply, to protest, to lie—something—but nothing came out. Instead, before you could even process what was happening, Jay stepped forward.

Silently, without speaking a word, he shrugged off the red velvet jacket he'd been wearing and draped it carefully over your shoulders. You were cold. He noticed. So he fixed it.

You stiffened, overwhelmed by the shift in warmth, the sudden weight of the fabric, the soft brush of it against your neck and arms. His scent was already embedded in it, and your Omega coiled tighter in response. Still trembling, you turned slightly, uncertain of what to do or say next—when Ningning's voice cut in again. "Wait—did he do something to you?!" she snapped, stepping between you and Jay with her fists already half-raised. "Say the word and I'll punch him. I swear to God, I'll break his Alpha jaw."

"Calm down. I didn't do anything to the Omega," the guy muttered, irritation creeping into his voice.

But you didn't lift your head. You didn't understand why your voice had abandoned you, why your throat refused to shape the words clawing just beneath the surface. You weren't scared. No one had laid a hand on you, and yet there you stood, silent, breath shallow, eyes averted like you had something to hide. What made it worse was the guilt that had begun to bloom low in your stomach. You weren't anything. So why did wearing someone else's scent feel like a betrayal? It shouldn't matter!

As if your body had given up waiting for your brain to make sense of anything, you started moving again. Just one step, then another. A soft whine slipped from your throat, then a low, shaky purr followed, rumbling beneath your breath. Mortification hit you, and you froze mid-step, eyes widening, hands clenching the jacket tighter. The shame was instant and scorching, washing over you in waves that made your skin burn and your Omega retreat in embarrassment.

You couldn't even look at Jay now.

"How are we supposed to believe that, huh? You're naked, and my friend was on the verge of a breakdown banging against the damn door! You think that doesn't look suspicious?!" Ningning's hand lashed out without warning, delivering a sharp slap to the stranger's arm. The Alpha barely flinched. He rubbed the spot on his arm with a mild frown, more annoyed.

His jaw tensed for half a second before he exhaled slowly. "She's the one who came into the room," he said. "She was soaked through. Crying. Completely spiraling and shivering. I gave her something dry to wear. That's it."

Ningning scoffed, unconvinced. Her arms folded tightly across her chest, lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes darted between you and the half-dressed Alpha standing in the doorway. "If that's your version of events," she muttered, narrowing her gaze, "then you better hope he believes it too." She jerked her chin toward Jay without looking at him.

Jay hadn't said a word yet, but his silence was louder than any outburst. Your head dipped lower beneath it, eyes fixed to the floor. The other Alpha raised an eyebrow at Ningning's challenge. "I don't care if he believes me," he said, flatly. "I'm not guilty. If you've got a problem, write a letter. Student Affairs, Disciplinary Board—whatever makes you feel better. I've got nothing to explain."

Ningning gasped, scandalized, her jaw falling open at the nerve of the man. She looked like she was about to launch into another tirade, but before she could get the words out, the Alpha stepped forward—out of the room. His movements were slow, he didn't look at Ningning, he looked at you, then Jay.

The air shifted instantly. The moment his eyes landed on Jay, something tightened. It wasn't obvious, but you felt the hallway dropped a few degrees. Two Alphas sizing each other up without a single word exchanged.

You felt your breath catch in your throat. Instinct took over again, before you could stop yourself, your body inched closer to Jay. The man paused briefly, his gaze still moving between the two of you. Then he clicked his tongue. "Lee Heeseung," he said finally, tone dry and dismissive. "That's the name."

And without waiting for a reaction, he turned and walked away down the hall, bare-chested, unbothered, and entirely unapologetic.

The events that followed unfolded in a haze, everything moving too quickly and too loudly for your brain to keep up. There were voices, hands on your shoulders, questions flying at you from every direction, but it all felt distant, like sound underwater. You remembered Ningning grabbing your arm, dragging you down the hallway with a fierce grip that was more protective than angry, her voice rising in disbelief every few seconds. But your responses—if you gave any—were delayed, quiet, or maybe non-existent. You weren't sure. You couldn't even remember the walk back to your house, only that somehow, you ended up here.

The next thing you truly registered was the soft tug of Ningning's fingers combing gently through your hair, "I still can't believe this," she huffed, brushing a little harder than necessary. "The group that soaked you should pay for damages!"

You didn't answer. You were curled under the blanket, knees drawn up, Jay's jacket folded next to you, your fingers kept brushing against the edge of the velvet, guilt lingering in your chest.

Ningning let out another sharp exhale as she grabbed a different comb from your nightstand and switched tactics. "And I'm glad Jay woke me up, by the way," she added, "He said he heard you scream, and that something about it just... felt wrong."

That finally pulled you out of your fog a little. Your brows furrowed as you turned your head toward her, eyes narrowing. "Wait—what scream?" you asked slowly. "I mean, yeah, I was panicking, but I was at least two buildings away from the theater hall. How would he even hear that?"

Ningning stopped brushing for a moment, her fingers hovering in your hair as she gave a shrug. "I don't know. That's what he said. Something about how your voice echoed. Said it sounded off? He looked kind of scary, honestly. Geez, It was the first time I ever talked to him."

You blinked slowly, processing that piece of information. She sat down beside you with a sigh, tossing the comb onto your vanity. "He even got into it with Yeonjun," she muttered. "Told him he should've noticed something was wrong, said it wasn't like you to disappear for that long. And Yeonjun looked so confused and kept saying you were just in the bathroom or getting snacks."

Your brows knit deeper together, thoughts still spiraling, but then a slow, creeping realization settled into your chest, interrupting the emotional numbness you'd been floating in. Something was missing. Not metaphorically—physically missing.

"Ningning," you said suddenly, eyes scanning your room as you tapped around the bedcovers, then moved to brush your fingers across the top of your vanity table. "Where's my bag?"

Ningning froze for a second, her posture straightening as her hands flew to her head, pressing against her temples like she was forcing the memory to rewind. "Oh my God," she muttered. "No, I—I didn't. I think... I think Yeonjun had it? I saw him near the bleachers after Jay found you, maybe he grabbed it? Wait—huh?"

You groaned softly, dragging a hand down your face. "That bag has my phone, my ID, all of my cards." You stood up abruptly, the blanket falling off your lap, and began pacing as Ningning already had her phone out, fingers tapping with speed as she called Yeonjun.

You watched her carefully as the call connected, her expression flickering from impatience to confusion, then suddenly her eyes widened, mouth dropped open.

"What?" you demanded. "What is it? What did he say?"

Ningning slowly pulled the phone away from her ear, staring at you like she wasn't sure whether to laugh, scream, or panic. "Yeonjun said... Jay has it."

You blinked once. "What?" you choked out, voice climbing. "Jay? Jay has my bag?!"

⋮ ⌗ act thirteen

    YOU MOVED through the team hall with careful steps, your eyes sweeping across the space in search. The air was filled with overlapping voices, laughter, the shuffle of sneakers on linoleum floors, and the occasional cheer from one of the outdoor games echoing faintly through the open windows. You barely registered any of it. Your focus was singular: locate Jay.

You are painfully aware of the eyes around you. Well, the fitted red knit dress you wore hugged your upper body snugly while the skirt flared into a soft ivory bell lined with a feathered white hem that danced slightly with each step. You'd layered a cropped ivory sweater over it, the cable-knit texture stitched with delicate fringe, intentionally letting the bold red collar of your dress peek through for contrast.

It was the second day of the Games, and the energy had only gotten more competitive. Everyone was scrambling around, cheering for their assigned teams, decorating booths, carrying snacks, losing their voices over sports they didn't actually care about. There was too much sound, too many bodies, too much everything. And honestly, you'd rather be anywhere else—shopping, napping, locked in a cold boutique fitting room with ambient music. But no. Attendance was mandatory, and the events hadn't even kicked off yet and you were already mentally checking out. The day hadn't even started, and somehow, you felt done.

Your jaw tightened slightly as you tried to stay composed, irritation simmering just under your skin. Where the hell is Jay? You had been searching for him all morning, and still nothing. You just wanted your damn bag back. Your phone, your keys, your wallet—your life—were in there, and the fact that you couldn't even send a text or check your messages without borrowing someone else's device was driving you insane.

You spotted a girl standing near one of the refreshment tables, an Omega, familiar, from your department maybe, and you didn't hesitate, you reached out and tapped her shoulder.

"Hey," you said, trying to keep your tone casual despite the growing urgency in your chest. "You know Jay, right? Park Jongseong? I heard he's doing logistics for the games—do you know where he's stationed right now?"

The girl blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question, but then recognition lit up her face and she clapped her hands together. "Ah! Yes, I saw him earlier," she replied, nodding. "He joined the basketball team yesterday. He's been practicing since this morning—probably still at the gym."

You stared at her, not quite processing. "Basketball?" you repeated in disbelief. You rubbed your ear like it would somehow fix the sound.

She nodded again. "Yeah, the tournament's scheduled for the end of the week, so they've been doing practice rounds. He joined last minute."

You blinked slowly, mouth falling open. "He what?" you muttered under your breath, a delayed thank-you leaving your lips as you turned away.

You walked off, mind racing. Basketball practice? Jay? The same Jay who, just a few weeks ago, had flatly refused the sports committee's recruitment offer? The one who said, and you quote, "I don't play team sports." What the hell was he doing now, suddenly dribbling basketballs?! But honestly, you were too exhausted to untangle the mystery right now. You just wanted your bag. That was the priority.

With determination tightening in your jaw, you pushed through the outer doors of the gym building, your steps echoing across the polished floors as you made your way inside. The moment you entered the gymnasium, however, instant regret washed over you in a hot, overwhelming wave.

The smell hit you.

Your face twisted in disgust as your hand flew up to pinch your nose, the scent practically clawing at your sinuses. "What the fuck," you muttered under your breath, already feeling your head start to spin. The air was heavy with Alpha pheromones, sweaty, competitive, aggressive and it clung to every surface, saturated the floorboards, the padded walls, even the damn water coolers. You hadn't expected a scent this strong, overwhelming, and entirely suffocating.

You took a cautious step back, instinct screaming at you to retreat, but before you could fully process whether to hold your breath or just bolt, a panicked Beta came stumbling into view. He looked like a student manager, clipboard in hand and sweat already forming along his temple.

"H-Hey! Omega presence isn't permitted during team practice hours!" he stammered, trying to usher you out. He reached for your elbow and your brows arched as you stepped to the side and delivered a sharp slap to his arm that was about to hold you.

"Don't touch me," you snapped, eyes narrowed to communicate that you were not in the mood for being handled like a lost freshman.

The Beta immediately froze mid-motion, hand suspended awkwardly in the air as his expression crumbled into panic. His mouth opened, then closed again, clearly searching for the right words to de-escalate the situation, but you didn't bother waiting for them. You brushed past him, you didn't miss the shift in atmosphere around you. The ripple that spread through the rows of resting players, the subtle halt in bouncing basketballs, and the sudden awareness settling into the shoulders of those sitting on the benches. A few turned to whisper to each other. Others didn't even pretend not to stare.

The moment you walked deeper into the gym, a visible shift occurred among the Alphas on the court. You watched them stiffen—spines straightening, postures tightening, muscles coiled. Their heads lifted slightly, the scent in the air thickening as tension coiled around them. You kept your expression neutral, gaze forward, refusing to give them the satisfaction of acknowledging the stir your presence had caused. You kept scanning through the crowd of until your eyes locked onto him.

Jay was drenched in sweat, chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths, his shirt clinging to his torso. His jaw was clenched, brows drawn together in annoyance. His hair was damp, messier than usual, and his arms were taut where he stood, barely masked tension rolling off him in waves. His gaze met yours with a directness that made your stomach twist. And then he glared. At you.

What the hell? Why was he glaring at you like you'd committed a crime by simply walking into the gym? You narrowed your eyes in return, raising your chin, refusing to be the first to look away.

Another Alpha pointed in your direction and blurted, "Huh? There's an Omega on the court!"

Before anyone else could react, Jay was already moving. You were still walking toward him, fists clenched at your sides, ready to start a fight over your damn bag, when he met you halfway. And then, without warning, he bent low, one arm sliding behind your knees, the other bracing your back, and lifted you off the floor in one swift, solid motion. You let out a high-pitched shriek, startled beyond reason.

"Jay?! What the—?! Put me down, jerk!" You gasped, your hands flying to his neck for balance as your feet left the ground.

He didn't answer, he just carried you out of the gym. The stares followed you the entire way, but Jay didn't spare them a glance. Once you were out of the suffocating heat and scent of the gym, he stopped just outside the building. Without a word, he set you down, slowly, carefully, his hands steady as he placed you on your feet.

The moment your feet touched the floor, you spun on him with wide eyes and a breathless scoff. "What was that?! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Jay exhaled hard, nostrils flaring, jaw still tight. "What are you doing here?" he hissed, scolding. "Did you not see the sign? Omegas aren't allowed in the gym during Alpha practice hours."

You gawked at him, mouth falling open, the nerve of him sending a fresh wave of indignation up to your brain. "Wow, okay. I should be the one asking you that," you snapped, hands flying to your hips. "Why the hell did you suddenly join basketball? You don't do sports, remember?!"

Jay opened his mouth, clearly ready to respond, but you were already done with the conversation. Before he could get a single syllable out, you stepped forward and pressed your finger firmly against his lips. "Whatever," you said coolly, cutting him off. "Save it. I don't care about your explanation." You lowered your hand, extended your palm between you, raising your eyebrow. "My. Bag."

Jay blinked at you, still slightly breathless from practice, eyes flicking from your outstretched hand to your face, his jaw ticking again. "You couldn't wait until later this afternoon?" he asked, irritated, though not exactly surprised by your intensity. "I said I'd give it to you."

You let out a sharp, incredulous scoff, stepping closer until there was barely a breath of space between the two of you. "Of course I couldn't wait," you snapped, "my cards are in there. My phone. My student ID. That is my entire life compressed into one overpriced designer handbag. You don't just walk off with someone's personal belongings and wait for the mood to strike before returning them. And on top of that, you didn't even bother to tell me you had it!"

Jay exhaled deeply, dragging a slow breath through his nose before closing his eyes for a second longer than necessary, as if silently counting down from ten. "It's at my apartment," he finally muttered.

Your mouth dropped open. "Apartment?" You blinked once. Then, despite yourself, you laughed out of pure disbelief, the kind of dry, edge-of-sanity laugh that meant you were dangerously close to unhinged. "Then call your butler and have him bring it here."

Jay let out a low groan, running a hand through his damp hair in frustration. "I don't have a butler."

You gave him a look so full of skepticism. Hah. A Prime Alpha without a butler? He's practically kidding! You were tired! The past few days had been one long stream of disasters stacked on top of humiliations, and now—this. Nothing beautiful had happened lately. Nothing soft or safe or remotely easy. It was just pure bad luck, and Park Jongseong somehow always showing up in the middle of it all, disrupting your balance with that expressionless handsome fucking face.

You took a step back, inhaled slowly, and crossed your arms. "Skip practice. Right now. We're going to your apartment."

Jay's eyes widened instantly, his entire body reacting, and you swear, you saw a flicker. That rare flicker of visible emotion breaking through his stoic facade. It cracked across his face in the perfect mask he always wore: a flash of hesitation, confusion, and unmistakable panic.

"W-What?" he stammered. "You can't just order me around—" he began, words tumbling out in a rush, like they were trying to catch up with the situation in front of him. His composure slipped another degree, lips parting with another excuse he couldn't seem to form fast enough. "I—I'll bring it here later—"

But your patience was long gone. You leaned forward slightly, narrowing your eyes. "I need it right now," you hissed through your teeth. You hadn't even noticed your fangs pressing into the soft flesh of your lower lip. It was your Omega reacting, agitated by the mix of his scent, your stress. Your gums throbbed faintly, a physical reminder of how close you were to losing the last thread of composure you had left.

Jay continued staring at you, and for a brief moment, it looked like he might argue again. His throat bobbed with a slow, visible gulp—like he was forcing something down. Then he sighed, his shoulders shifted slightly, as if bracing himself, and without another word, he turned and jerked his chin toward the gate in a silent cue for you to follow.

You didn't move right away, still watching him closely, trying to read whatever expression flickered beneath that calm, quiet surface. But then your legs responded and you fell into step behind him as he led the way out of the practice building and into the university's parking lot.

You were already mentally preparing for what you were about to see. Given who he was—the stoic, elegant, too-put-together-for-his-own-good Jay— you were expecting a deep black luxury sedan, maybe a matte-gray Rolls-Royce, or some obnoxiously expensive imported car with tinted windows and too much horsepower. You were already rolling your eyes in advance.

But when he came to a stop, it was in front of a... scooter. Not even a motorcycle. Not a hoverboard. A bright red electric scooter. You blinked once. Your footsteps stalled as your eyes locked onto the sleek little thing, and you stared at it in stunned silence. You tried to form a thought, but your brain refused to cooperate. It was just... so damn cute. Clean. Efficient. And somehow even worse—it had stickers. Tastefully minimal ones, but still stickers.

Jay turned slightly, glancing at you over his shoulder. He didn't speak at first, just watched you for a moment longer, his eyes narrowed in anticipation. Like he was waiting to see how you'd react. If you'd laugh. Mock him. Judge. If you'd ruin the quiet, almost personal thing that this was. But your eyes didn't leave the scooter. Jay drives this? you thought, almost dazed. This was not on your bingo card. At all.

He reached toward the handlebars and pulled off one of the helmets hanging from the side. "Here," he said simply, extending it toward you.

You took it without question, too caught in your swirling thoughts to ask why he had two helmets ready. It didn't even matter. You were still processing the sheer unexpectedness of everything. Your fingers curled around the helmet's edges, and you started to raise it toward your head, but your hands fumbled slightly, distracted, unsure if it would mess up your carefully styled hair or worse—slip and smudge your makeup.

Jay noticed, he let out another small sigh, and gently reached out, taking the helmet from your hands. You froze as he stepped in front of you, surprisingly close, and his fingers brushed lightly against your hair, cautious, as though he was being absurdly careful not to tug or displace anything. His touch was so warm that it sent a small, involuntary shiver straight down your spine.

Your heart flipped. Annoyingly. Why is this doing something to you? you screamed internally, trying to focus on anything other than the way his eyes narrowed slightly in concentration as he adjusted the helmet, ensuring the fit was snug but not uncomfortable. He avoided your skin, even as his hand lingered just at your jaw, his fingers brushing close but never quite touching as he clipped the strap beneath your chin.

Your eyes drifted to his face—his lashes low, mouth set in a faint line of focus, brows drawn in concentration. So handsome! Jay stepped back once the helmet was secure, his hands falling away, and still he said nothing but his eyes stayed on you just a second too long.

You didn't let yourself dwell on it. Instead, you adjusted your dress, and carefully perched sideways onto the seat, your knees pressed together, legs to one side, one arm curling instinctively around Jay's waist for balance. Your other hand found the back of his shirt and tightened there, knuckles brushing against the thin fabric as you braced yourself. You could already feel the heat of the sun on your skin, the warmth of his body just beneath your palm, and worse, his scent—so annoyingly clean and muted, yet distinctly him curling into your senses with every gust of wind that rushed by.

The scooter rumbled gently beneath you as Jay started driving, the silence between you is broken only by the low whir of the motor and the occasional flutter of your hair catching the wind. You tried to act composed, calm or unbothered. But then you looked down.

"Wow," you whispered, a breathless sort of awe slipping from your lips as you blinked at the road beneath you. "Wow," you said again, barely able to believe what you were seeing. Your feet—nearly touching the ground. It was surreal. Slightly terrifying. And definitely unforgettable!

"Core experience," you muttered under your breath, unable to stop the grin twitching at the corner of your mouth. You didn't mean to enjoy it, but the absurdity of the moment, the thrill of the wind whipping past your face, the way you had to grip him tighter every time he took a sharp turn—it all added up. Goddamn it, this was kind of... fun.

Eventually, the ride slowed as Jay pulled up to a modest two-story apartment building. The neighborhood was calm, framed with trimmed hedges, a few overgrown trees, and minimal foot traffic. Not flashy. Not luxurious. Just... ordinary. Jay parked the scooter and removed his own helmet first, but his eyes flicked to you immediately—hesitant again. Like he was waiting for something. A comment, or judgement, a reaction, but you were too busy turning your head, surveying the area with curiosity.

"My apartment's on the second floor," he said with a kind of caution you didn't often hear from him. He reached out toward you again, hands careful as he unclasped the helmet's strap beneath your chin. You stilled without protest, letting him remove it.

You didn't say anything. You just followed him, watching the way his shoulders tensed as you climbed the stairs behind him. He glanced back only once, and when he did, it wasn't impatience you saw.

When he finally stopped at a small dark-brown door, he hesitated a moment longer before unlocking it. He didn't open it fully, just nudged it halfway and turned toward you with a tight expression, like he was preparing for disappointment. "I know you know I'm an Apex Alpha," he began, eyes avoiding yours as he spoke. "And I know most of them live... differently. The luxury. The image. I get it. I know this isn't what you were expecting—"

"What are you talking about?" you cut in flatly, brow arching as you leaned against the doorframe, thoroughly unimpressed with his dramatics. "Jay, I don't care if you sleep on a yoga mat or a gold-plated bed. Just go inside and find my bag."

Jay blinked, momentarily stunned by your lack of reaction. His mouth parted as if he were going to say something, but no words came. Eventually, he just gave a tight nod and stepped inside, and you followed closely behind.

The moment you stepped over, his scent hit you. It wasn't just faint traces clinging to his jacket —it was everywhere. It wasn't overwhelming, not like the gym. It was so familiar in a way that made your skin prickle. It wrapped around you and you stood there, unmoving, blinking against the sudden dizziness that came not from disorientation, but from how right it felt. Your muscles, so tense just moments ago, slackened without your permission. Comfort. Safety. Stability.

Your eyes flicked around the room again, trying to anchor yourself. The interior of the apartment was... small. Minimal. Clean, definitely. The walls were bare, the furniture practical, and everything seemed organized within an inch of its life. The color palette was expected—black, gray, a few white accents—but there wasn't a single thing that hinted at personality. No photos. No posters. No art. Not even a clock!

You walked further in, eyes slowly scanning every corner. It wasn't bad. Just... boring. Predictable. The opposite of your space, which was a colorful textures, clothes, cosmetics and more cosmetics. Your gaze drifted toward the single window, where soft daylight spilled in through half-closed blinds. And that's when you saw a small cactus, sitting on the ledge. The pot was matte black, the cactus itself was mature, its shape clean and symmetrical, not too large, but clearly well-kept. It was the only sign of something living in the entire apartment besides him.

"Hah," you breathed out quietly as your fingers lightly brushed the surface of the cactus pot. Your fingertip traced a slow circle along its rim, as if expecting the little plant to respond. "Poor you," you murmured, eyes narrowed in sympathy. "No one to talk to." You paused, tilted your head thoughtfully, and imagined the cactus silently agreeing with you.

Before your fantasy plant friend could offer any more unspoken wisdom, Jay's voice broke through the silence from behind you "Here," he said, and you turned to find him holding your bag out, arm extended.

You stared at him for a beat longer then took the bag from his hands. Without offering a word of thanks, you immediately unzipped it, fingers moving through the contents. Wallet—still there, still depressingly holding only forty bucks. Your cards—campus ID, bank, library, cafe loyalty (with two sad stamps). More cards, a half-empty bottle of mouthwash, your trusty alcohol spray, an entire family of tissues and wet wipes, a slightly dented pepper spray canister

You looked back up at him, face is blank for a moment, then gave a long, exaggerated roll of your eyes, making sure he saw it. Jay's brow furrowed instantly, his face shifting into the kind of confused scowl.

"Okay," you said, voice a little too cheerful, as you slung your bag over your shoulder, "let's go back, pretend this never happened, and—if the stars are kind—let's hope we never see each other again. Ever. As in never ever again." You even wiggled your fingers a little for extra flair on the final words.

Jay didn't flinch, just nodded once, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, the barest hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "Okay," he said, almost too agreeable. Like he was humoring you.

Which was suspicious. You narrowed your eyes, but didn't linger. You were too tired for another round of whatever game he was playing. If the universe had any sense of justice, that would've been the last time you ever had to see his face.

But as it turned out, the universe was kind.

Jay, however, was not.

THE THIRD day of the University Games dawned far too early. You were dead asleep, dreaming about clawing your way into a luxury spa. It was 5:30 in the goddamn morning, and the sun wasn't even up properly, but your phone had decided to become possessed, vibrating across your nightstand.

You groaned, half-asleep, limbs tangled in your blanket, and reached for it blindly. "It's five-thirty in the morning," you hissed to no one in particular, voice croaky with sleep. "Who the hell thinks this is a good time to ruin my skin cycle?"

Your hydrating face mask had slid halfway off your cheek, clinging on for dear life, and one of your heatless curls flopped onto your forehead. You snatched the phone without checking the caller ID, already prepared to eviscerate whoever it was with the same energy you reserved for late assignments and bad service.

"What time do you usually sleep for you not to wake up at five?" came the voice on the other end—calm, composed, and unmistakably male.

Your brows furrowed. The voice clicked in your brain a beat later, and your eyes snapped open fully. You squinted blearily at the screen. It was an unknown number. Unregistered contact. Fucking Jay.

You sat up, face mask dangling off your chin now, your voice are clearly in disbelief. "First of all, who the hell wakes up at five unless they're being punished by the gods? And second—what the hell do you want?!"

There was a pause. Then: "I need my jacket."

Your mouth dropped open. Your eyes swung toward your vanity table, where said jacket was currently draped over the back of your chair. "You called me at five-thirty in the morning... for your jacket?"

"I figured you'd be up," he replied, not even bothering to sound apologetic.

"You figured wrong," you growled, flopping back onto your pillow. "You couldn't wait until literally any reasonable hour? I was going to give it back later, obviously! Are you seriously calling me over a piece of clothing right now?!"

Without even a hint of shame, he said, "You don't just walk off with someone's personal belongings and wait for the mood to strike before returning them."

Your jaw dropped. He did not. He did! He just threw your words back at you!

"6:30 a.m. I'll meet you at my apartment." The call cut off. Just like that.

You stared at your phone. Your blood pressure shot through the roof. You let out a high-pitched screech and launched your pillow across the room. "Fuck you!" you screamed at the now-black screen. "I hope you choke on your bland-ass breakfast!"

Then you stomped out of bed, and stormed toward your massive, color-organized closet. You flung the doors open so fast one of them bounced off the hinge. If he wanted petty, you could do petty. You could do petty in style. But time was slipping, and styling was suddenly a luxury you couldn't afford. You only had an hour. Sixty minutes. For a girl like you, it was hell!

So you threw something together. You pulled on an oversized white hoodie, soft fleece inside, the sleeves long enough to cover your hands, the only pop of color being the deep red drawstrings hanging. Underneath, your favorite branded white sports briefs sat high on your waist, their waistband peeking out deliberately from beneath your crisp white shorts. Your legs were wrapped in mismatched sheer knee-high socks, one plain, the other adorned with bold red stripes that matched the hoodie drawstrings. You finished it off with your white-and-black Adidas sneakers.

Makeup was on emergency mode. Concealer, winged liner, highlighter, and a quick pop of gloss. You grabbed your bag, flung the door open, and stomped out of your house with your driver. All for one jacket.

Your driver blinked awake, still groggy, rubbing his eyes behind the wheel. "It's okay!" you chirped with a wide, falsely sweet smile, slipping outside the passenger seat. "I can handle the commute from here, I just need to finish some business. Really quick. Promise. You go home and rest—you look exhausted. Sorry for waking you up so early. Love you!"

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, your face flattened into a withering glare. The smile evaporated. Your irritation returned with full force, bubbling just beneath your skin. You stomped your way up the stairwell of Jay's apartment. You could already smell his pheromones bleeding into the corridor but you were too angry to let it rattle you. Your Omega twitched at the edges, unsettled by the scent, but you forced her down. This was not the time!

You raised your fist and slammed it against the door, hard. No response. You clicked your tongue, rolled your eyes, and knocked again—this time with more pressure, the flat of your palm echoing against the wood. Still, no response. Just as you raised your hand for a third, even more aggressive strike, the lock clicked and the door creaked open.

"I have neighbors," Jay said flatly, "If you don't want me to get a noise complaint, maybe stop trying to break my door."

You opened your mouth to snap something back—but then you saw him. The words froze mid-breath. Jay stood there, barefoot, wearing a black sando that clung unforgivably well to his chest and shoulders, and a pair of light gray pajama pants that immediately sent your brain into a mental spiral. His silver hair was mussed, pieces falling over his forehead. His eyes—those cold, sharp eyes were fixed on you. You didn't know what was so special about his expression. It was always the same blank, emotionally constipated face he always wore.

And yet—God. Your gaze dipped before you could stop it. Down right to those pants. Gray. Pajama. Pants. Suddenly, Ningning's voice echoed in your head: "Gray sweatpants? Oh honey, they reveal everything. Even if it's not hard? You'll still see God."

And wow. Woooow. Oh my God. There was no logical reason why this one particular shade of pants could wreck a woman's entire thought process—but here you were, doing mental gymnastics trying not to faint from the very real, very visible outline haunting your vision.

Was it... Was it even fully soft? Why is it that big just... existing like that? Your mouth went dry. Your palms went warm. For one cursed, embarrassing second, you almost gasped in holy reverence.

Snap out of it! Your Omega nearly purred and you practically hissed at her to shut up. You shook your head. You narrowed your eyes, forcing your voice steady as you bit back everything your traitorous body wanted to say. "You open the fucking door when I knock," you seethed, each word pushed out with a tight smile and clenched jaw. "The first time."

Jay, entirely unbothered, simply widened the door and turned away, leaving it open behind him as he walked further inside.

You scoffed, half in disbelief, half in outrage, before marching in after him with a vengeance. "Here's your ugly jacket," you snapped, waving the paper bag.

"Put it on the table," he replied without looking back, voice even and careless, like you were some delivery person. You gasped audibly.

Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "I—Excuse me?" The sheer nerve. The audacity. This man woke you up at dawn, summoned you to his apartment, barely acknowledged your existence, and now he wanted you to just waltz in like some obedient little errand girl and drop it off? You bit down on your lip so hard you felt the sting. Somewhere in your brain, a nerve twitched. Your eye followed suit. You stepped inside, crossed the room with a stomp in every step, and slammed the paper bag onto his kitchen table. You even gave the table leg a small kick on your way back. "There," you said. "We done now? Great. I'm leaving."

But Jay, unhurried as ever, was already reaching into a cabinet and placing not one, but two plates on the table.  "Let's eat," he said calmly. You blinked, eyebrow raised and brain short circuited. Huh?

"Wha—Are you fucking with me right now?" you practically screeched, staring at him. "I am not—not—eating breakfast with you. You dragged me out of bed at the break of dawn to return your stupid jacket, not for a sit-down meal. Who even does that?!" You fanned yourself with your hand, more from the emotional overheating than the temperature. You were genuinely at risk of hair loss from the stress of this man's behavior.

Jay just set down a glass, pulled a chair out from the table, and tilted his head slightly—gesturing for you to sit. No words, the smallest hint of challenge in his eyes, like he was daring you to keep being difficult.

Your mouth opened again but your gaze betrayed you. It dropped, straight to his biceps. They flexed subtly as he held the chair in place, the curve of his forearms tightening. Your lips parted in a silent curse, and you swallowed hard, trying to drag your eyes back up. But then his eyes met yours, soft brown, framed by lashes far too long for someone who clearly didn't care about skincare—and for some reason, your knees stopped listening to you. Before you even realized it, you were sitting.

What are you doing?! Get up! Fight! Bite him! Throw the chair! But there you were, lips slightly pursed, sitting at Jay's table. Stupid. You were so disappointed in yourself. Disappointed in your lineage, your entire bloodline, in every proud Omega empowerment seminar you'd ever half-attended for extra credit. Was this what your foremothers fought for? To be reduced to a flustered heap at the sight of an Alpha's biceps flexing through a tank top? You were supposed to demand your worth, blaze trails, radiate strength—not crumble at the sight of defined triceps and the vein down his forearm. Stupid. So stupid.

"Coffee?" Jay's voice broke into your silent, he opened a cabinet and reached for two mugs without even looking at you. You narrowed your eyes, your lip twitching as you rolled them.

"I want an iced vanilla latte," you replied, chin lifted.

Jay paused mid-reach and turned his head slowly toward you, one brow raising just a little. His eyes trailed over your face, taking in the unapologetic challenge in your tone. "I don't have that," he said.

"Well, that's too bad," you shot back without missing a beat, crossing your legs under the table. "Because I want it."

You watched his jaw tighten. Jay stared at you for a beat longer, like he was trying to process whether or not you were serious. You stared right back, unflinching. Heh. If he was going to play the host, then you were going to play the guest—and a very high-maintenance one at that.

To your disappointment, he didn't argue. Didn't roll his eyes, didn't even sigh dramatically. He simply turned back to the cabinet and grabbed a glass. You blinked once. That was it? No fight? No eye-roll? He was just... complying? Your eyes trailed after him as he began placing dishes on the table. Eggs. Rice. Kimchi. Toast. Even a bowl of sliced fruit. He moved without rush, setting things down.

Your brow furrowed. "What the—?" You blinked again, narrowing your eyes to the soup. "Did you—? Is that—?" You pointed at the bowl. "Is that egg soup?"

Jay didn't look up from where he was neatly arranging utensils. "Yeah."

"Like... real? Not from a packet?"

"No packet."

You stared at him, genuinely scandalized. "Are you telling me you actually cooked?"

Jay glanced up at you. "You don't think I know how to cook?"

You snorted. "I didn't think you knew how to speak until last week." He didn't answer. Just pushed the bowl of soup toward you and set down a clean spoon next to it.

You stared at the bowl, then at him, then back at the bowl. Steam curled from the golden broth, gentle and warm, carrying the faint, rich scent of sesame oil and soft herbs. A few tender scallions floated along the surface. It was too well made to be instant. You could see the care in it, and worse, you could smell the fresh, savory, and comforting in a way that made your stomach tighten. How much cholesterol does an egg even have? You mentally tried to remember that one diet chart you saved during your health-obsessed week two months ago. Was it 180? 210?

Jay, who had just reappeared at your side, setting down a tall glass filled with what suspiciously resembled a vanilla latte. Cold, and perfectly creamy, He said nothing, just quietly placed it on the table in front of you. Your mouth opened slightly in shock. He actually... made it? Before you could ask, he sat down across from you and began scooping rice onto your plate. He didn't even glance up, just calmly portioned the meal as if you hadn't threatened to never see him again less than 48 hours ago.

You stared at him, bewildered, impressed and hungry. The worst part is you could feel yourself softening. You looked down at the food, then took a spoon. You could always fight him after second bite, maybe third, or fourth.

     YOU FOUND yourself staring at the cactus near the window, head tilted slightly, lips pursed in curiosity. You didn't know what it was exactly but something about the tiny creature just... intrigued you. It was undeniably cute in the most underwhelming, passive-aggressive way. You kind of admired it. You also kind of wanted to interrogate it. Did it have a name? Did Jay talk to it when no one was around? Did it have a designated birthday? You narrowed your eyes and leaned in.

Meanwhile, Jay was behind you, washing dishes at the sink with silence. The soft sound of water running and porcelain clinking was oddly domestic, unsettlingly gentle. You weren't used to this kind of quiet. Certainly not around him.

Your eyes drifted back to the cactus. You'd been staring at it for—what, twenty minutes now? It was so visually uneventful that it actually started making your brain itch. Cute, yes. But also boring. Like everything else in this apartment. You frown, did cacti bloom? You were pretty sure they did. You'd seen pictures. Tiny flowers, delicate and absurdly lovely, sometimes pink or yellow or white, sprouting from the spikes. You liked that idea. That even something that armored and still could suddenly bloom. This one deserved to bloom. It deserved something pretty. Without thinking, you reached for your bag and opened the small front pocket. Inside, tangled between your hand sanitizer and spare lip tint, was a pale pink satin lace. You unwound it from the keychain and carefully wrapped it around the base of the cactus's pot. You tied it into a small bow, a makeshift ribbon. You sat back and admired your work, head tilting again. It looked objectively better.

Behind you, Jay turned off the faucet. You glanced over your shoulder just in time to catch him drying his hands. Then, he reached for his black jacket hanging neatly by the door—your attention sharpened as he shrugged it on. You narrowed your eyes. It wasn't just any jacket. It was Prada. Jay slipped into it, the label stitched at the collar caught the light for a second. Your head tilted slightly, your suspicion growing in real time as the details started lining up in your head.

"Ready to go?" he asked. You gave him a slow look, one brow lifted, the kind that immediately made him tilt his head ever so slightly, like he was trying to guess what kind of trouble was brewing behind your eyes. He didn't press you for an answer. Smart man. You didn't say anything either. Just grabbed your bag from the table, slung it over your shoulder and headed toward the door without a word.

You stepped outside first. Behind you, Jay locked the apartment, then he followed slinging his bag over his shoulder—another Prada. You squinted again. You recognized that design. Same model he had slung across his back the first time you saw him. And then your eyes dropped slightly to his glasses. Also Prada. You were sure.

Okay, sure. Apex Alphas were known for their proximity to luxury. That wasn't news. Statistically, they were born into families that could afford private medical enhancements, exclusive early education, access to inter-Alpha networks. Even the lowest-ranking Apex could land a sponsorship just for breathing near a prestigious program. And most high-paying jobs were designed to be physically and pheromonally exclusive anyway—companies wanted Alphas. The stronger, the better. Politics loved them. Even universities made exceptions and handed out funds during Alpha enrollment campaigns.

So no, it wasn't shocking that Jay had Prada accessories. Not even a little. What was strange was the hesitation. The awkwardness from yesterday. The way he'd stood in that apartment, muttering something about not living the lifestyle people expect. He'd sounded... reserved. Like he didn't want you to think he was that type of Alpha, even though his wardrobe alone could buy you an entire designer weekender set with matching heels.

You don't actually care, rich or not. But something about the contradiction rubbed at your thoughts. As you followed him down the narrow stairwell, your gaze locked on the smooth line of his back, broad under the designer jacket, and your brain wandered—building theories. If he had money, why hide it? If he didn't, how did he have those things? And if he did have it but pretended not to care... why act so cagey?

You hopped back onto the scooter, despite how annoyed you were, your body betrayed you by leaning forward unconsciously, chin hovering almost obnoxiously close to Jay's shoulder as you squinted sideways at his profile. You weren't even trying to be subtle about it anymore. Jay didn't comment at first, he simply drove. But when the scooter rolled to a stop near the university gates and he got off to help remove your helmet, his eyes flicked toward your suspicious expression. He paused as he unclipped the strap under your chin, clearly holding back the urge to ask what was wrong with you.

"Why do you have two helmets?" you asked abruptly, lips pursed in a tight pout, eyebrow raised high.

Jay blinked, briefly thrown off by your tone. He recovered quickly, fingers moving carefully as he lifted the helmet off your head without messing up your hair. "I have a younger brother," he replied, like it was obvious.

You tilted your head, suspicious curiosity deepening. "Huh? Where is he?"

Jay turned away to grab his bag from the scooter's compartment and slung it over his shoulder, then gave a nod toward the sidewalk as a silent cue to start walking. "At my parents' house," he said evenly.

You fell into step beside him, still brimming with nosiness. "Wait, so why aren't you at your parents' house? I live with my parents! And my maids. And my driver. And two part-time gardeners. You mean to tell me you're living independently? In a tiny apartment with no butler? How are you even surviving that? You're an Apex!"

Jay didn't flinch at your curiosity. "I don't want to live with them anymore," he said calmly. "And I can't afford a bigger place."

You narrowed your eyes, slowing your steps as you absorbed that answer. "But why?"

He stayed quiet for a moment, that you thought he might ignore the question completely. Then he exhaled, eyes still ahead. "Because the price of freedom is high. And mine didn't come with a platinum card."

You blinked, caught off guard. Your gaze lifted instinctively, eyes drifting toward his face as your brain tried to process what he'd just said. There was something about the way he said it. It was like pushing further would cross a line he hadn't even officially drawn, but you could feel it all the same. You didn't know what to say back, and the topic sounds so sensitive so you adjusted your bag with a small huff, laced your fingers together behind your back, and kept walking at his side.

You walked in silence for a stretch of sidewalk. But then, because you were you—and because lingering sincerity made your brain itch—you cleared your throat and huffed a dramatic sigh. "Not that it matters," you muttered, lifting your chin slightly, your tone sliding back, "but I don't actually care. Just in case you're having some weird internal crisis about what I think of your tragic little lifestyle."

He didn't answer, so you keep going. "I mean, if you think I care—like care care—then you're delusional. I do not. Not at all. Couldn't be me." Jay glanced at you sideways, but you ignored it. "Whatever. Byeee." You tossed the word over your shoulder, adding a flip of your hair. Then you strode ahead of him with your exit walk.

Jay slowed to a stop for a second, staring at your retreating figure. His eyes followed the sway of your steps, the bounce of your styled hair, the unapologetic swing of your shoulders as you marched off. And then he scoffed under his breath. A faint smile ghosted across his lips. He shook his head to himself and followed behind you. Silently. As always.

⋮ ⌗ act fourteen

     "VIOLATION OF not wearing a proper dress code from Green Team."

Your voice rang out across the court, lollipop stick clutched between two fingers, the bright candy tucked between your lips as you casually snapped a photo with your phone. "Based on the regulations clearly outlined in the student handbook—which, by the way, I doubt any of you have ever read—uniform protocol for all players participating in intramural sports requires footwear that supports ankle safety and team consistency," you began, scrolling through the notes on your phone. "That Alpha over there is wearing off-brand running shoes with no grip. Immediate violation."

Someone on the sidelines groaned loudly. You didn't even flinch "And another infraction," you continued, drawing out your words as you made a show of sniffing the air, then pointing your pen directly at the guy in question. "Excessive scent release. Intentionally broadcasting dominant Alpha pheromones in a co-ed match? Yeah, that's not just poor sportsmanship, it's a form of intimidation. This is a mixed bracket. That Omega on the opposing team is literally blinking like he's been chloroformed. Unacceptable. Eight-point deduction."

The eruption of protest was immediate. "What the hell?! You're seriously gonna call us out for that when you're walking around dressed like that?!"

You slowly turned your head, gaze lifting over the rim of your sunglasses as you pulled the lollipop from your mouth. "Dressed like what exactly?" you asked flatly. "Be specific, since you seem so comfortable evaluating appearances. Is it the cropped team jacket? The standard-issue mini skort? The approved colors? The school-endorsed athletic shoes that I'm wearing while not even playing? I'd love to hear which part offends your fragile Alpha sensibilities most."

You began scribbling on your form with flourish, making a show of it. "Also—another violation," you added sweetly without missing a beat, "for harassment of officiating staff. Verbal aggression. That's two-point removal and an official warning. Want to keep going? I've got a whole page of penalties just waiting to be assigned, sweetheart."

The boy opened his mouth again, but the teammate beside him shoved his elbow into his ribs and whispered something, clearly urging him to shut up before the deduction got bumped to a full disqualification.

You smirked as the lollipop slid back between your teeth, cherry-sweet and smug as your pen scratched confidently against your clipboard. With your phone tucked under your arm and your fingers flying over the notes app, you continued documenting every violation. There was a certain power in it—standing at the edge of the court, perfectly dressed, entirely unbothered, while others scrambled to clean up their infractions.

But then, something shifted, a change in the air pressure beside you, a subtle tension brushing your shoulder. Your brow creased automatically, muscle memory responding. You turned your head with annoyance, fully prepared to glare at whichever unfortunate Beta or misguided assistant had wandered into your bubble.

But instead of some flustered student intern, you were met with the sight of a tall figure in a fitted yellow jersey. His fingers brushed back silver hair, eyes already fixed on you with a glint you absolutely did not trust. And then—God help you—he smiled. Your mouth parted slightly, the gasp catching in your throat. Not because you were impressed. No. No, no, no. But because you knew that face. Your eye twitched hard. Memories flashed against your brain, you had barely recovered. And here he was, right in front of you. What was his name again? Heedong? Hee-something? Heeseung?

The name clicked into place right as his expression shifted into a knowing, wicked grin. He had the audacity to wink. Wink. "Didn't expect you to be this serious, Omega," he said smoothly.

Your expression flattened, flipping rapidly from disbelief to offense in less than a second. You pull out the lollipop in your mouth. "Didn't expect you to still be alive," you muttered. "But here you are. Unfortunately."

He just grinned wider, like your snark only fueled whatever delusion he was currently riding. "Alive and well," he replied, gesturing casually to himself. "And I've been missing you, actually."

What?! Before you could even respond, he had the audacity to lift a finger and point toward his neck, then at yours. "You're not wearing your patch," he observed, far too confidently. "I can see it. The imprint."

Your eyes nearly bulged out of your skull. Did this man have no shame? No internal filter? Did the concept of boundaries get erased? "Still with that imprint bullshit?" you snapped, stepping back, your hand clutching your clipboard because it was the only thing keeping you from launching it at his face. "Bruh. I don't know what kind of nose you're operating with, but there is nothing there. Nothing. If someone imprinted on me, newsflash: I would've sued them. And even if there was something—which there isn't, thank you very much—why are you acting like it's your business?"

He tilted his head, eyes dancing with far too much amusement. "It's just... irritating," he said. "You're interesting. And it pisses me off that someone had the nerve to leave a mark on you before I could."

You stared at him, horrified that this was real. That this was a conversation happening in public. In daylight. On a campus that was supposedly accredited. Your scoff came out loud. "Okay. Wow. That's definitely your Alpha talking. Must be exhausting carrying around that much ego with zero emotional intelligence. Do you all just imprint on girls like you're tagging street cats? God, no wonder the Omega Empowerment Alliance exists."

You rolled your eyes so hard it gave you a headache, turned on your heel, and stormed off with your clipboard hugged to your chest. You weren't even going to entertain whatever fantasy this man had conjured up. This was why you kept your scent blockers industrial-strength and your walls emotionally reinforced. If this Hee-something boy thought he was going to claim you just because he looked like a Pinterest thirst trap and knew how to smirk, he had another thing coming. And honestly? You were starting to understand why your Omega was so damn picky. Because Alphas? Alphas were exhausting.

"Sorry, did that make you uncomfortable?" His voice dropped as he stepped in closer. "I think I can feel the bond."

You turned to him slowly, eyes narrowing into a glare as you twirled your index finger near your temple, the universal sign for certified lunatic. "I think I can feel the delusions," you replied with absolute dryness, not bothering to hide the cringe curling at your lip.

That earned a reaction. He threw his head back with a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're too cute," he said between chuckles. Ew. You already knew you were cute. That wasn't the issue. The issue was men like him thinking they could state the obvious and act like it was some gift from the heavens.

Unfazed, he merely shrugged and leaned slightly back, still grinning. "Anyway, I just need my jersey back." Your expression dropped immediately. The flicker of disgust was replaced by unfiltered disbelief as you blinked at him, letting the silence stretch. Are All Alphas like this?! So obsessed with their own belongings?!

"I already burned it," you said with a straight face.

It was a joke, technically, but at this point, it might as well have been. The jersey in question had been thrown into your laundry basket the moment you got home, and you'd immediately instructed your maid to wash it not once, but ten separate times. When it came back clean and folded, you still weren't satisfied. The scent was gone, sure, but the idea of it wasn't. So out of nothing more than principle—and maybe a little spite—you had it tossed back into the wash, twice. It had sat on your vanity for a grand total of three hours before the mere sight of it annoyed you all over again. So you banished it once more to the laundry room, telling yourself you'd decide what to do with it later, and then promptly refused to touch it again.

You glanced sideways, watching for any sign that he might take the hint and drop it altogether, but instead his grin only stretched wider. His confidence wasn't shaken in the slightest—in fact, if anything, he seemed encouraged by your visible annoyance. "Really?" he asked. "That's a shame. I kind of need it back for our match on Friday. But hey, you know, as payment. One date in exchange for a jersey—seems fair, doesn't it?"

You blinked at him, your lips parting. With a sharp laugh, you reached out and gave his shoulder a solid slap. "I'm kidding!" you said brightly with mockery. "You really don't have a sense of humor, do you?"

He looked mildly confused for a second.

"Relax," you continued, exhaling as you folded your arms and gave him a quick once-over. "I'll give it back tomorrow. Washed. Folded. Maybe even steamed if you're lucky—but that's where my generosity ends. So, if you could kindly evaporate from my vicinity and stop hovering, that would be fantastic." You didn't give him a chance to respond, already turning slightly, your attention shifting pointedly back to your clipboard and whatever half-baked rule enforcement you had lined up next. "I'd rather not get slapped with a violation for chatting with the enemy," you added over your shoulder. "And believe me, you're not worth the deduction."

"Hmm. Okay, Miss," he said, drawing out the words. You thought that was the end of it until you suddenly felt a hand brush your wrist. Your head snapped back toward him, a glare already forming, ready to bite out something—only to freeze as you watched him pluck the lollipop from your hand. Before you could stop him, he popped it into his mouth, sucking once. His eyes held yours, mischief gleaming unapologetically, and then he had the nerve to wink again before casually stepping back.

"Watch my match on Friday," he called out, already turning toward the court. "I'll be playing against your team."

Your jaw dropped as the audacity of it fully landed. And then came a sharp, high-pitched squeal of outrage that escaped your throat. "You absolute fuck! You think this is funny?!" you yelled, stomping your foot against the polished floor. "Fine! I'll watch your stupid match, and I'm going to tally every single one of your violations! I swear to God, you won't last five minutes before I have you benched and deducted!" You didn't care that you were drawing attention. You didn't care that a few heads turned or that someone on the sidelines snorted into their sports drink. Your blood was boiling! It was fucking boiling!

He didn't even look back. Not once. Just kept walking toward the other end of the court with your lollipop in his mouth like he'd won. Fuck him!

     YOUR MOOD had been steadily declining since noon, but by the time the late afternoon sun had dipped behind the university's western bleachers, it had bottomed out completely. You stormed across the event grounds with your clipboard clutched so tight your knuckles were pale, brows permanently drawn together in a scowl. The worst part? Ningning had somehow managed to skip the entire day. Not a single text, no check-in, just radio silence while you were drowning in endless committee announcements, senseless violations, and last-minute logistic changes that no one consulted you about. How was it that she could disappear and no one said a word, but you missed one event briefing, and suddenly three different facilitators were breathing down your neck.

You let out a frustrated, high-pitched squeal that startled two passing Beta volunteers. You stomped toward the corner of the field where the recycling bins were lined up, spotted a half-empty trash can that looked slightly unstable, and kicked it without hesitation. Worst, you were eliminated at the Dress to Impress game at Roblox for having a VIP access. That's not even in the rulebook!

You stomped in place, foot hitting the ground again and again like your frustration was trying to escape through your heels. Your hands waved in the air, almost flailing, your hair bouncing with the force of your movements, unaware that your phone had been vibrating steadily in your bag. The screen lit up again and again until finally, you snatched it out with a shaky hand, not even glancing at the caller ID before pressing accept.

"What?!" you screamed into the phone, breathless.

There was a pause. Then, a low voice—infuriatingly calm—slid into your ear. "...Are you okay?"

You froze for a minute before you sucked in a slow breath through your nose, clenching your jaw. "What do you want, Jay?"

"I just finished my preliminary basketball game."

You could practically feel your eye twitch. "Okay? And what do you want me to do? Throw you a parade?"

There was a short pause, followed by an annoyingly even reply: "I have your ID."

You blinked. Your head snapped down, eyes darting to your open bag, hands rustling through its contents as if to prove him wrong. Lip gloss? Check. Backup perfume atomizer? Check. Five pens, three hair ties, a scrunchie, and a receipt from last week's café run. All there. But your ID—absolutely missing. A growl of disbelief tore from your throat. "Why do you have it?"

"You left it on the table earlier," Jay said. "During breakfast. I thought you knew."

You almost screamed again. "Then why didn't you give it to me sooner?!"

"I was at my game."

You huffed so hard your nostrils flared. "Give it back to me right now, Jay. I swear—"

"...Are you sure you're okay?"

That question again. Your hand tightened around the phone, the words sticking in your throat. You opened your mouth, closed it, then sighed. "I've been screamed at by three facilitators, eliminated by a jealous team over a fake rule, and now I'm standing next to a trash can I kicked over at the Seniors Building because nothing today is going right. So no, Jay. I am not okay."

There was silence on the line for a moment before he speak up again. "I'll meet you in ten. Stay where you are."

You didn't respond. Just ended the call with a frustrated tap and let your hand fall limp into your lap.

By the time he arrived, you were fully committed to your drama. Slumped on the grass near the half-toppled trash bins, head resting heavily on your knees, hair falling over your face. You hadn't even lifted your head, but you felt him —it was like your Omega could sense him from meters away, whispering: He's here.

"Give me my ID and leave me alone," you muttered without looking at him, stretching one hand out with your palm up, fingers twitching in demand.

There was a soft rustle, then his voice again. "Want an ice cream?"

That made you lift your head, slowly and with all the grace of someone who absolutely did not want to be intrigued but was. You squinted up at him through your lashes, taking in the sight of him standing there in his red jersey and loose basketball shorts, his silver hair still slightly damp from sweat. He had a plastic bag in one hand, and from the top peeked the bright wrappers of ice pops—an almost ridiculous sight, if he didn't somehow still look annoyingly composed.

"Fuck off," you said, brows furrowed.

"Strawberry or matcha?" he asked again, ignoring your scowl entirely as he lowered himself beside you on the grass. He didn't look at you, just kept his eyes ahead, watching the sun as it dipped slowly toward the horizon. The light bathed everything in a warm glow, and the subtle hum of his pheromones drifted from his skin. Your chest tightened. Your heartbeat thumped faster, in that way that had become far too familiar when he was around.

Without another word, he unwrapped one for himself and popped it into his mouth, the crackle of plastic and the snap of the popsicle breaking the silence between you. You rolled your eyes, but your hand reached out anyway—snatching the matcha. If he insisted, then fine. You weren't going to suffer for pride when there was free sugar involved. You leaned back slightly on your elbows, legs stretched out in front of you, the cold treat resting against your lips before you took a slow bite.

You tried not to glance at him again, but your eyes drifted anyway—sideways, quickly—just to check. The sunlight kissed the side of his face, outlining the line of his jaw and making the silver in his hair glow faintly gold. Your mouth tightened. It was annoying how effortlessly good he looked, especially when you were actively trying to be pissed at him.

You chewed slowly, facing forward again. "Where's my ID?" you asked, the ice cream still pressed against your tongue. Jay didn't respond immediately. He reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled it out—your student ID. He held it between two fingers, offering it without looking at you.

You took it, inspecting it with a suspicious eye, then tucked it safely into your bag with an annoyed huff. "Geez," you muttered under your breath, sucking the remaining flavor off the stick.

Another long silence stretched between you and Jay. The breeze rustled the leaves above, birds chirped somewhere in the trees nearby, and the only other sound was the faint crackle of your popsicle wrapper as your fingers played with the plastic. You shifted your legs, idly swinging one foot over the other. The end of the University Games was crawling into your thoughts again, with all its mess, pointless rules, annoying team members, and overly eager Alphas. You thought about that Heeseung guy, about the way he spoke to you. But what kept creeping in louder than all of that—more often, more sharply—was Jay. How he was always there. How his timing always seemed to land precisely when your world tipped sideways. And how he never said the right things, but still left you with a feeling that curled under your skin and refused to leave.

You let out a slow exhale through your nose and leaned your chin on your knees. "Jay," you said. He glanced over at you, popsicle paused halfway to his mouth. You didn't look at him. Just lifted a finger to your neck, touching lightly over the sensitive area just under your jaw. "Can you tell if there's an imprint?" you asked quietly. "You'd know, right? You're an Apex. Or whatever."

The air change with the way Jay's body subtly stilled completely. He didn't answer right away. You could feel him stiffen beside you, the shift in his posture. He swallowed. "Why are you asking me that?"

You rolled a shrug off your shoulder, pretending it didn't matter. "No reason." But your fingers betrayed you, immediately fidgeting with the laces of your shoes. Your thoughts started spiraling again before you could stop them.

If there really was an imprint—if there was even the slightest chance—then the only Alpha you could think of was Jay. No one else had been close enough. But it didn't make sense. He didn't like you. He barely spoke unless necessary, never gave any clear signal beyond those annoying stares. He treated you like a storm he chose to walk through, not someone he was drawn to. Could an imprint really form without affection?

"There's no imprint," he said.

You should've felt relieved. The weight in your chest even lightened slightly, but the way he said it—that carefully detached, struck something in you and his gaze didn't even meet yours.

"It looks like just a residual scent transfer," he added.

Your eye twitched, irritation flaring even as confusion gnawed at you. You looked down again. What the hell were you even expecting? You didn't know whether you were supposed to be relieved that it wasn't real, or offended that it didn't mean anything.

"Right," you said at last, aiming for a breezy tone, but your voice came out strained. "That's good."

"Hm." Jay's voice was quiet as he gave a single nod. The silence that followed stretched long, filled with an awkward tension neither of you seemed willing to break.

You exhaled through your nose, resisting the urge to fidget again. Your lips parted slightly in frustration, a sigh catching in your throat as your thoughts circled back to the same conclusion that had haunted you since day one: You really hated Alphas.

⋮ ⌗ act fifteen

     FOURTH DAY of the University Games, today's lineup featured the charades competition—arguably the least stress event so far—but that didn't make it less exhausting. If anything, it somehow demanded more of your soul. The only true gift the universe offered you today was that Jay, due to already being rostered for a major event, was no longer eligible to join any of the minor games, including charades. Finally, some space to breathe without that man's silver hair appearing from the side of your vision and ruining your pulse rate for no reason. But the victory itself? Not worth the cortisol spike. You'd helped your team snatch a clean win during the final round of charades, and the reward for that stunning display — a plastic pin with a glittery sticker that read "You Win In My Heart <3" and a handful of candies that looked like they were fished from the clearance bin at a local grocery store. Truly, an insult disguised as appreciation.

You threw the paper bag onto the table with a grunt just as Ningning sighed beside you, aggressively fanning herself with her mini turbo fan. "Damn, can't even go out. I need lunch!"

You narrowed your eyes at her with a smirk. "Wow, look who remembered to exist today."

Ningning blinked at you, then leaned back. "Oh my God—you're so pretty, I forgot to say it earlier. That outfit is giving actual main character."

Your gaze flicked toward her, unimpressed. Still, you made a half-hearted twirl of your wrist as you sat down next to her, your movements lazy and irritated. You had put effort into today's look, not that it mattered anymore. The off-shoulder top with sculpted rose along the neckline was already beginning to stick to your skin, the wide-leg jeans heavy around your ankles despite the bold red platforms that added just the right height. The little cherry chain swinging from your belt loop was the only part of you enjoying itself.

You leaned on the table, propping your chin on your fist. "Where's the yellow team practicing their basketball today?" you asked. "I need to finish some business I should've burned yesterday." Your nails were already scratching absentmindedly at the edge of your scent patch, the thought of that guy reappearing in your path again souring your mood faster.

Ningning, who normally couldn't care less about team formations unless it meant extra snacks, finally lifted her head and gave your question a second of actual thought. "I think they're practicing at the south gym. Our team's stationed in the east, and I saw the Blue and Green teams out on the main field earlier. Since tomorrow's the last match day, everyone's on high alert."

You gave another roll of your eyes. Why was everyone so obsessed with it lately? Basketball, basketball, basketball. God, it wasn't even that impressive. Just a bunch of tall Alphas running around, grunting, dunking a ball into a net. And sure, some of them were attractive, if you were into the whole sweat-drenched ego-on-legs vibe. But you weren't. Definitely not. Absolutely not!

"It's not like I care," you muttered to yourself, before Ningning started talking again.

"A lot of people are hyping up the Yellow versus Red match," she said, tapping her phone. "I heard there are a lot of hot Alphas on the Yellow team. They've got half the Omega dorms setting alarms just to watch their warmups. God, why is my life like this? I should've called in sick today. But no—here I am, stuck on cheers and design duty. Under the sun!" She showed you her fingers, now stained with streaks of red, gold, and a murky blue that looked suspiciously like it came from the spray can she wasn't supposed to use. You gave her a glance of sympathy, but your mind had already begun drifting back to what she said earlier.

South gym. Your eyes narrowed slightly as you absently peeled a label off your bottle. You weren't stalking. You weren't going there to ogle or be curious. No, you had unfinished business with that imprint-obsessed Alpha, Heeseung—or whatever his name was.

"Don't you dare sneak out," Ningning added suddenly, squinting at you as if she'd just read your thoughts. "If you get caught by the facilitators, I am not bailing you out."

You stood up, smoothing your top. "Who said I'm sneaking out? I'm just taking an... unscheduled inspection tour."

Ningning groaned as you flounced away. "Unscheduled my ass," she mumbled. "At least put your scent patch on straight this time!"

You just had one objective, and it wasn't even personal—well, not entirely. You needed to return a jersey. Simple! Except, maybe, you also wanted to check what the Yellow team was up to, especially considering half of them were CHS students. If you knew anything about that school, it was how painfully competitive their athletes were. And it wasn't beneath you to keep an eye on potential stunts they might pull. If sabotage happened along the way, like their sneakers mysteriously vanishing or their water bottles getting switched with vinegar, then that was just... divine intervention.

And if Ningning disapproved? Well, she had zero authority. She followed you anyway, even after all her whining.

"Go already!" she hissed from behind a row of decorative banners near the entrance of the south gym. "I'll stay here and watch. I've got extra perfume to mask your scent if anything happens. Just drop the paper bag and don't do anything stupid. They can track scent trails!"

You shot her a thumbs-up over your shoulder, already tiptoeing toward the building. You eased through the back hallway, careful not to let your shoes click too loudly. The muffled thump of basketballs echoed through the open court on the other side of the wall. You slowed your steps, eyes narrowing through the slits of the divider as you peeked into the gym.

A handful of Alphas were scattered across the court, some practicing shots, others jogging drills. You recognized more than a few of them. Huening Kai was definitely there, tall and expressionless, calmly dribbling. But there were red jerseys mixed in too, which didn't make sense. Why was Red team here with Yellow? This was supposed to be a closed practice.

You sniffed the air instinctively, trying to pick up Jay's scent, only to be reminded that your scent blockers had been amped up lately thanks to your inconvenient, creeping pre-heat symptoms. You'd doubled the dosage earlier, and now the scent haze around the gym was nothing more than vague Alpha musk and expensive deodorant.

"Whatever," you muttered under your breath, gripping the paper bag tighter. "Just drop it and go."

You padded over to the locker room entrance, ignoring the subtle thrum of adrenaline in your chest, and crouched low near the first bench, you lowered the paper bag beside one of the cubbies—your handwritten sticky note sticking awkwardly to the top with just enough passive-aggression in its message: To: Heesong. Return complete. Don't speak to me again. :)

You dusted your hands dramatically, ready to make a clean exit. But just as you turned, your eyes drifted to the row of shoes lined up neatly beside the locker room bathroom door. Bright, clean and clean sneakers. Your fingers itched. You didn't have to steal anything. You were better than that. Morals. Self-control. You had both... barely. Maybe next time... You turned away with a silent sigh of restraint, but as you took a single step toward the hallway exit, a shadow blocked your path.

"Shit—"

That Heeseung guy was standing casually in front of you, water dripping from his silver hair, trailing down the sculpted lines of his bare chest. His shorts hung low on his hips, towel thrown lazily around his shoulders, skin still glistening from a post-practice shower, his finger rose to his lips. He smiled, "You're here for me?"

Your mouth dropped open, but only one word made it out. "Yuck." You instinctively took a step back, casting a quick glance over your shoulder to check for a clear exit route. You lifted your arm and pointed stiffly toward the bench behind him where the paper bag sat. "Your jersey's over there," you said. "I've done my part. I'm leaving."

But of course, nothing was ever that simple when it came to Heeseung. He stayed exactly where he was. "Already?" he asked. "What about catching up?"

You stared at him, unimpressed, then slowly set your hand on your hip, weight shifting as your patience visibly thinned. "Can you stop being a weirdo and just let me leave?" you snapped. "God, I get it—I'm pretty. I know. Thank you, the mirror tells me every morning. But just to set the record straight, bursting your little fantasy bubble: you're not my type. Not even close." You gestured vaguely at his entire being. "I hate smug, arrogant, flirt-happy, attention-seeking Alphas who think the world revolves around their scent. Especially ones who corner people in locker rooms like it's cute. And yes, sure—you're objectively handsome, congratulations—"

His eyes lit up instantly. "You think I'm handsome?"

And just like that, your entire monologue derailed into flames. You blinked at him, stunned that that was the part he chose to latch onto. "Wow," you said slowly. "Out of everything I just said, that's what you heard?"

He smiled wider, clearly enjoying himself far too much. "Well, it was the only part that felt sincere."

"I am not sincere," you snapped back, already spinning on your heel before the conversation could spiral further into delusion. You didn't wait for a reply, your voice trailing behind as you stormed toward the exit. "I'm done. I'm leaving."

"Hmmm. Okay," he said behind you. "Let me guide you out, then. Make sure you don't get caught lurking where you shouldn't be."

"You're naked, Heeseung!" you hissed over your shoulder without stopping. "Put some clothes on! God, please!" You reached up to cover your eyes, already regretting every decision that had led you here, but then you felt his hand land lightly on your shoulder, guiding you.

"It's not a big deal. Alphas walk around like this all the time, especially after training. I'm an athlete—it's normal," he said. "Why so conservative, princess?"

"Don't call me that," you groaned, swatting his hand off your shoulder. "And I am not conservative. I just don't enjoy seeing half-naked Alphas wandering around like it's some kind of fashion statement. There is nothing attractive about this. It's not hot. It's actually—"

The second you turned the corner toward the hallway leading to the exit, another Alpha emerged from the shower room—towel slung casually over his shoulder, chest also completely bare, water still trailing down his skin. His hair was dark and wet, tousled from the steam. "The hell, man? Why's an Omega in the locker room?" the stranger asked, his voice was with a thick Australian accent that only made the moment more absurd.

Your eyes locked on him—and unfortunately, so did everything else. Your mouth fell open as you stared, completely frozen. His shoulders were impossibly broad, abs chiseled. Your hand shot up to cover your mouth, but it was too late. You were already staring.

"Jake," Heeseung's voice came from just behind you, surprisingly composed. "Lower your voice, alright? She's just here to return something. If she gets caught, she'll end up with a bigger problem than whatever that is in your hand." You weren't even going to ask what Jake was holding. You didn't want to know.

Jake tilted his head, his brow lifting just a little as he looked you over. Then he shrugged, completely unbothered. "Alright, chill. I'll guide her out then. Locker room's a maze if you're not used to it."

"Wait, what?!" you shrieked, turning fast on your heel as Jake stepped forward. "I can walk! I have feet! I am perfectly capable of exiting a door without an escort!" But your protest died just as quickly as it started, because behind Jake, another guy appeared—also freshly out of the showers, towel thrown around his neck, absolutely no shirt in sight.

You blinked. He blinked back.

Then his finger rose slowly and pointed at Heeseung's hand resting a bit too casually near your back. Then at Jake's arm, which had lifted like he was about to guide you by the elbow.

"Bro?" the new Alpha said with confusion. And that's when your soul nearly exited your body. Water was dripping down his arm—slow, gleaming trails that curved right over his flexed biceps, down to his forearm, before disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. Shorts that, in your opinion, barely counted as decent. Your eyes went wide. Wider than wide. They hurt, from the effort of trying not to look any longer. You practically slapped your own face to remind your brain to shut down immediately.

"That's Jay's Omega. Back off," came from the man who'd just stepped out of the shower. His arm shot out, brushing off Heeseung's hand from your shoulder and halting Jake just as he was about to place a palm near your lower back. You stumbled a step away, not from fear, but because the entire situation had escalated into something so absurd your brain couldn't keep up. All of them were half-naked. You were surrounded. Your mind was still catching up to the phrase that had come out of that man's mouth.

Jake scowled, his brow drawing low, clearly not satisfied with the declaration. "The hell, Sunghoon? Anyone can throw claims like that. I don't see a mark. She's unmated. Don't start acting territorial just because you think she's pretty."

"Doesn't matter. You don't need a scent bond to understand boundaries. If someone's protecting her, you respect that. Alpha or not."

Heeseung's lips curled into a scoff, eyes flashing as he stepped slightly forward, shoulders squaring. "Calm down?" he echoed, mocking. "We weren't doing anything. She's a friend. She came to say hello. Or is that suddenly a crime now?"

The tension in the room sharpened, and though you'd taken your scent blockers religiously that morning—double dosed, in fact, just to keep your pre-heat symptoms under control—it wasn't doing much now. The moment their pheromones began to bleed into the air, it became impossible to ignore. So oppressive that it was like being trapped in a room slowly filling with steam, your lungs working harder than they should, your heartbeat quickening against your will.

God, why can't Alphas just love each other and leave the rest of you — Omegas out of it? you thought, teeth gritted, irritation mounting just as fast as the scent pressure building around you. Always posturing. Always testing boundaries. It was like watching dogs circle each other with slightly more vocabulary.

"What the hell is going on?"

Your entire body went still. You turned your eyes to the fourth voice you heard and your mouth parted on instinct at the catastrophic sight in front of you. Jay had stepped out from the shower hallway, hair soaked and slicked back, droplets of water cascading down his temple, trailing past the line of his sharp jaw and down his neck. His bare chest, glistening, rose and fell slowly as he surveyed the scene—eyes narrowing first at the other three Alphas, then landing on you.

Your body reacted faster than your logic. Blood rushed everywhere, your heart thudded too loudly, and heat prickled behind your knees. You bit your bottom lip before it could tremble, gaze dropping against your will to follow the curve of water running from his collarbone to the firm lines of his torso and—Goddamn it, look away!

You were spiraling, embarrassingly fast. The argument around you continued, but everything else blurred into background noise. The voices became muffled, meaningless, as the air distorted around you. All you felt was the proximity, the weight of Jay's stare, and then—suddenly his hand was on your wrist. He didn't yank or tug, just shifted his body until he was directly between you and the others, shielding you completely from view. And just like that, Sunghoon flanked him without needing instruction, shoulder-to-shoulder like a wall had been built between you and the rest.

You could barely focus, your brain caught somewhere between oxygen deprivation and a full hormonal breakdown. Your ears were ringing, and the only thing you could clearly register was the vibration of voices.

"Why are you getting so worked up, Park Jongseong?" Heeseung's voice slithered. "We had an agreement. Don't play dirty now."

"She's still bonded to me, Lee Heeseung. You can't demand I cut it because you suddenly decided to care."

You barely registered Jay's voice or the weight of what he said. The words floated around the edges of your consciousness, slipping past you without meaning. You weren't even remotely interested in their territorial Alpha argument—not when your eyes were fixed on something far more distracting. Jay's torso, a single bead of water trailing slowly down the ridge of his abs and disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts.

Your brain short-circuited, you could feel saliva pool beneath your tongue as your throat tightened, and you forced yourself to swallow the lump gathering there, though it did nothing to stop the fire spreading through your veins. Your gaze, which should have been respectful—hell, at least subtle—refused to move elsewhere. Your attention dropped lower, sliding past his hips, until it hit the line of his shorts. You froze. And then you made the mistake of looking lower. Oh God.

You clamped your mouth shut before something embarrassing could escape, pressing your lips into a thin, desperate line, trying to keep it together. The heated air, already saturated with Alpha pheromones, was thickening around you. Your knees felt increasingly useless.

Heeseung scoffed behind the haze. "Hah. You're seriously pulling that card now?" he hissed. "You haven't even claimed her properly. You don't get to hold her in place and pretend she's yours when you haven't done a damn thing to prove it."

Jay didn't flinch. His voice remained even. "I never said she was mine," he said firmly. "But I'm not about to let you toy with her either."

And just like that, you forgot how to breathe again. Because in the next moment, Jay's grip on your wrist shifted, and without waiting for a response from you or anyone else, he drew you closer, his body shielding yours completely. You stumbled forward slightly from the sudden shift in gravity, your hand splaying against his torso. And oh, God—you could feel it.

Around you, the rising heat of the room was tangible —but you didn't care. Your entire brain had condensed into a singular focus: your hand, resting flat against his stomach. You blinked once, trying to claw your way back to reality, but the moment was already slipping from your control.

"I can treat her better than you," Heeseung growled, stepping forward again.

You didn't hear the rest. The pressure behind your eyes throbbed. Your heart skipped a beat, then another, the rush of your blood too loud in your ears. Jay's scent curled into your lungs, too potent for your weakened blockers to resist any longer.

You opened your mouth to speak, to protest, to snap, but the room spun so suddenly that you didn't even get the chance. Everything swayed, tilted, fell sideways. And then you collapsed—right into Jay's chest, the last thing you saw before everything went black.

    EVERY OMEGA has a choice. No matter what the world, the rules, or the Alphas may claim, the right to decide is always in their hands. No bond, no mark, no so-called instinctual claim could ever override that truth. Every connection—no matter how fierce or instinctive—demands consent. The right to say yes. The freedom to say no. And the power to break it when necessary.

The weight of those words echoed somewhere far in the back of your mind as you drifted upward through a dense fog of unconsciousness. Your limbs felt heavy, your mouth dry as paper, your head thick and muffled like it had been wrapped in cotton. Blinking slowly, the first thing your eyes focused on was the whiteness of the ceiling above you. You recognized the faint hum of a light, and—more strongly—the scent of stabilizers in the air.

Your throat burned. Your lips felt cracked, parched beyond comfort. You shifted slightly, and the only word you could muster, hoarse and pathetically faint, was: "Lipgloss..."

A shriek rang out immediately after, followed by the sharp shuffle of footsteps and the nurse's concerned face leaning into view. The student medic did a routine check, murmuring something about vitals and scent suppressant stabilizers.

Ningning wasted no time diving into a full-blown explanation. You barely reacted, eyes unfocused as you stared past her, the antiseptic white of the clinic ceiling offering nothing but emptiness. You listened without interrupting, the pieces of her words falling into place slowly, like puzzle pieces that refused to lock in.

"You passed out because of the scent overload," she was saying, pacing beside the bed with wild gestures. "Your suppressant wasn't strong enough—probably because your heat symptoms have been acting up lately—and then, add three territorial Alphas practically leaking pheromones and your poor Omega system couldn't take it."

You didn't respond. Your eyes didn't move. You were still frozen on the part she said just before that.

Imprint. An old imprint, she said. You had an imprint? You had a mark? Somewhere on your neck, hidden under patches, under layers of self-control you lived by—there was an Alpha's imprint?

But how? When? Who—? Jay?

The only possible answer that surfaced in your thoughts. He was the only Alpha whose presence your body seemed to betray you for—one you involuntarily reacted to. It was always him. So why had he said there was no imprint? Why had he looked you dead in the eye and calmly dismissed it as residual scent transfer? Why had he lied?

The more you thought about it, the more absurd it all became. Ridiculous. That was the only word for it. You'd been walking around all this time, unaware of something so fundamental happening to your own body. Your fists clenched the blanket tighter as the realization dawned harder and harder.

Why the hell does everyone else know what's going on with your body—except you?

And worse, why didn't Jay tell you? Was it to protect you? To spare you? Or was it just another one of those decisions Alphas made without bothering to consult the Omega involved?

The more you tried to make sense of it, the more it all dissolved into one massive, tangled blur. You couldn't even think straight anymore. Your thoughts were colliding with each other, folding over fragments of memory. Furious wasn't even close to describing what you were feeling now. You'd stormed out early, snapped at Ningning, and used a flimsy excuse to get out of your duties, locking yourself in your room for the rest of the day.

You sat motionless at your vanity, staring at the single flower Yeonjun had given you earlier in an awkward attempt to comfort you.

None of this made sense. You retraced every conversation you had with Jay. There was a pattern, but it led nowhere clear. This was exactly why you hated Alphas. Their unpredictability. Their possessiveness. Their habit of acting first and explaining later. Why imprint someone if you were too much of a coward to face it directly? The last question wasn't even Alpha behavior!

You let out a high-pitched shriek and hurled your pillow across the room, following it with a flurry of punches into the mattress as your frustration peaked. You hated Heeseung—his cocky smirk, his walking-pheromone problem. You hoped his feet started stinking and he suffocated in his own scent cloud.

And Jay—God, you hated Jay even more. You hated how quiet he was. How he showed up in every corner of your life without warning. How he stirred something in you even when you were trying to ignore him. And imprinting?! God! He didn't even like you!

You didn't even want to think about their stupid basketball match tomorrow. You weren't going to be there. You hoped they both ran into each other at full speed and knocked each other out cold, maybe that would finally jolt some clarity into their thick skulls.

You shrieked again, even louder this time. You stormed to your vanity to pack your bag, only for your blush compact to fall with a loud clatter.

"Fuck!" you dropped to your knees, reaching under the table, stretching your arm toward where the blush had rolled—only to spot something else.

A glimmer of blue.

Your hand paused mid-reach, then curled around the delicate object. It was your blue ribbon hair clip, dusty from being under the vanity... Wait. What?

You stood slowly, brushing off the clip with trembling fingers, staring at it in growing confusion. You were sure you hadn't seen this clip in days. Jay had handed you your "lost" hair clip after the presentation. But you clearly remembered wearing it that day—right at this table, when you were doing your makeup. You'd taken it off before changing your outfit and left it right there on the vanity. Hadn't you?

Heart thudding, you crossed the room to your storage drawers, pulling open a box where you kept your backup accessories. You grabbed the satin version of the same ribbon���another gift from Ningning—and held them side by side. The exact same model. The same sheen, same cut, same clasp. But... you'd never bought another one. Ningning had only given you one. The clip you found today was the one you lost. So then... what the hell was the one Jay returned?

Your eyes widened, the pieces beginning to click in. Did Jay replaced it?

You sank onto your chair again, clutching the clip as your brain spiraled into the implications. Jay had seen your distress. He'd watched you cry over something he knew he didn't actually have. And instead of correcting you... he found the exact same ribbon and brought it to you. Without saying a word. Just so you wouldn't be upset.

But why? Why go through that trouble? Your hand clenched around the ribbon, thoughts spun faster. Was it guilt? A sense of duty? Was this just another way Alphas acted without meaning? And yet... no. It didn't feel thoughtless, it felt intentional. So then—what was it?

Did he like you? Or not?

⋮ ⌗ act sixteen

     ALPHAS are wired for protection, possession, and preservation. It's in their nature, embedded deep into their biology. Their instincts aren't always logical; they act before thinking, driven by the urge to claim—people, space, scent, habits—anything that signals a sense of "mine." And that behavior, that entitled assumption of ownership, that overwhelming need to dominate everything around them without thought or question, is exactly what you hate.

You've spent years guarding yourself against it, you've taken pride in the way your Omega instinct remained steady, discerning, unmoved by proximity. You're grateful for it, honestly. For not folding just because someone looked at you a certain way or growled in that low, stupid Alpha register they all think is so charming. You're glad you didn't get swept into someone else's hormones. That your biology didn't betray you like it so often does with others.

But now? Now, you're not sure.

Jay wasn't loud. He didn't circle you or demand attention. He didn't mark his scent around you. He just acted like it. Without ever calling it what it was, which unsettles you. You could handle the usual Alpha arrogance. You could block it, bite it back, scream it, but whatever Jay was doing...it was quiet. Is that better? Or worse?

"Huh?!" Yeonjun gasped, nearly dropping the team banner he'd been holding as you appeared beside him without warning. His eyes widened, disbelief etched across his face. "Wait—what the hell? Weren't you supposed to be on your way to Japan by now? Your dad booked the ticket himself!"

On your other side, Ningning choked mid-sip from her water bottle, sputtering and slapping her palm against her chest as she stared at you. "What the—?! Why are you here?! I thought you were halfway to the airport! And—wait—did you even take your scent suppressants? The Alpha pheromones in this place are thick enough to bottle and sell—do you want to pass out again?!"

You didn't respond to either of them. Your arms stayed firmly crossed over your chest, shoulders drawn tight as your gaze remained locked on the basketball court below. The noise of the crowd, the bounce of the ball echoing off, and the sharp, repetitive shrill of the referee's whistle all blended into a white noise that buzzed somewhere behind your thoughts.

"What's going on?" you asked, finally lowering yourself between them on the bleachers, eyes never leaving the game.

Yeonjun blinked at you, his head tilted, brows knitting in disbelief as he scanned you from head to toe. "What do you mean, what's going on? I should be the one asking you that!" he blurted.

"I just wanted to watch," you replied calmly, brushing off his reaction. "Didn't want to miss the last match. Everyone worked hard for this. Would be a shame not to show a little support."

Despite the casual tone you forced into your voice, your eyes betrayed your focus as they scanned the court, trailing across the players. Your attention moved over until it landed on Sunghoon, whose stance was locked and composed despite yellow team closing in on him. He pivoted quickly, faking left before darting right, shielding the ball with clean, practiced movements. Four defenders from the Yellow Team tried to close him off from every angle, their shoes shrieking across the court in quick, aggressive slides, but he held his own, determined to protect the ball.

Your gaze flicked to the scoreboard, squinting. The Yellow Team was leading, and the Red bench looked tense, some standing now, voices rising over the crowd in overlapping instructions. You could feel the heat of the game, and for a second, you forgot about everything outside the court.

As if pulled by something invisible but persistent, your gaze landed on a figure crouched near the key, hands braced on his knees, his breathing visibly heavy. His silver hair was damp with sweat, strands clinging to his forehead, his red jersey darker now, plastered to his chest.

Jay wasn't looking at the game. Not the ball, not the score, not the frantic coordination of his teammates. He was looking at you. Straight at you.

It took a second for you to realize the weight of that gaze—what it meant, how direct it was. You expected the usual straight mask he wore so well, the blank distance he used. But that wasn't what you saw now.

What met you across the court was something else. His expression held a vulnerability it almost hurt to witness. There was no smugness, no dominance, no flicker of Alpha pride. Just those eyes, fixed on you.

Your breath caught, your spine straightened, and yet your arms stayed folded across your chest, refusing to betray how those eyes made something inside you stutter.

"They're exhausted!" someone exclaimed, snapping you back into your body. "They're relying too much on Jay—he's got more stamina, yeah, but that's because he's an Apex. He doesn't even have a basketball history, what are they doing?!" The voice belonged to an Omega a few rows down, clearly panicking, hands flailing as she tugged on her banner. "They're going to burn him out!"

You blinked, shaking your head, breaking the gaze that held you in place. You leaned slightly forward to observe the court again, but your focus faltered as another Omega directly in front of you pointed and squealed. "I don't care about Jay's stamina, look—Soobin just lifted his jersey!"

"Oh my god, those abs!" her friend gasped, clutching her arm. "He's glistening like a God."

You rolled your eyes, dragging your gaze away from Jay to where Soobin, indeed, had momentarily lifted his jersey to wipe his face. The group of Omegas in front of you practically burst, losing their minds over the sharp cut of his waist and the stretch of his toned muscles.

You leaned back, exhaling slowly, trying to tune it all out. But your eyes still drifted sideways—back to him.

The game had resumed at a pace twice as fast as before, both teams locked in a tug-of-war of strategy and desperation. The Yellow Team clearly had more refined players with better coordination, but the Red Team had grit—rough around the edges. Each time the ball landed in his hands, the dynamic shifted.

His movement was fluid, deliberate but fast—like he didn't second-guess the weight of responsibility being thrown on him again and again. Sweat dripped from his temples down to his jaw, his expression tense with focus, but he didn't fumble nor flinch. You watched as he cut through defenders, shielding the ball like it was instinctual, eyes scanning, calculating, moving with a predator's grace.

You didn't know the rules of basketball in detail, weren't sure what counted as a violation or what the term "full court press" even meant, but somehow you found yourself rising from your seat each time the ball left Jay's hands and soared cleanly through the hoop. You didn't even realize you were clapping until Ningning nudged your side, and Yeonjun leaned over with a teasing grin.

Your cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and stubborn denial as you cleared your throat and quickly sat back down. Ningning, of course, was already watching you with narrowed eyes and a knowing smile.

"Yellow team's still ahead," she said, folding her arms with a small sigh. "Honestly, at this point, I've already accepted the loss. Everyone's looking burnt out except for Jay. He's the only one still fighting."

You didn't respond right away. Your eyes followed Jay again. You swallowed hard. Ningning, ever the nosy friend, tilted her head toward you. "You're not angry at him anymore, are you?"

You blinked. "Angry? Angry at what?"

She didn't hesitate. "For imprinting you," she said bluntly, shrugging. "Come on. You know it's him. You've always known. He's the only one who could've left an imprint strong enough for your Omega to react the way it did. We didn't want to say anything earlier because we thought you'd explode."

You were silent for a moment, then let your gaze fall to the polished tips of your shoes, your mind fogging over with thoughts that swirled without direction.

Were you angry? Maybe you had been. When it first hit you. You hated the loss of control, the uncertainty of not knowing what was happening inside your own body, the fact that someone else had crossed a boundary so quietly and so intimately.

But now? Now, you weren't sure what you felt. The anger had softened, bled into confusion, into curiosity. Into questions you weren't ready to ask out loud. Before you could formulate a proper response, Ningning continued, waving her hands. "But you know, it's okay if you're still mad. Seriously. He's so emotionally constipated sometimes it's actually impressive. But also—me and Yeonjun? We've been shipping the two of you since day one. You guys are like... peak slow burn. The entire student body is practically waiting for you two to snap and make out behind the bleachers."

Yeonjun, clearly eavesdropping, threw up two fingers in a peace sign and added, "We're your biggest fans, honestly."

You groaned audibly, dragging a hand down your face in exasperation. "Shut up. No one is making out behind the bleachers," you muttered, though your eyes remained glued to the court. The numbers on the digital scoreboard glared back at you—58 for the red team, 65 for the yellow. Time was draining fast. The gap wasn't impossible to close, but it was getting harder with each passing second.

Yeonjun leaned closer again, lowering his voice. "You know, I'm not entirely sure, but I think Heeseung challenged Jay. That's why he even agreed to play in the first place."

Your body went rigid, an electric feeling crawling along your spine as your gaze snapped back to the court. Jay was there, caught in a corner of the court, three defenders pressing around him, Heeseung leading the charge. You could see it clearly on how his fingers trembles, the barely-disguised falter in his breathing. His shoulders were squared but heavy, he was running out of energy.

"I don't know what kind of pissing match they've got going on," Yeonjun murmured next to you again, "but I'm glad I'm not an Alpha. If you ask me, this is all just ego. Pride games. Honestly, if you think there's something there—between you and him—maybe go for it. One more move, you know? What do you have to lose?"

You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly with your elbow. "Go write a blog about romance. You had a talent for it."

"Already have one," he grinned.

You didn't bother responding, attention snapping back to the court as your stomach twisted with nerves. Your breath caught when you realized Jay had the ball again. He was surrounded—boxed in by the yellow team with nowhere to pass, nowhere to pivot. And at the center of it all, Heeseung. The smug set of his jaw was clear even from this distance. You gripped the edge of your seat unconsciously, legs stiffening with tension.

And then Jay looked up, his eyes flicked to the crowd, and found you. There was no confusion in his gaze. He knew exactly where to look, as if he'd already memorized the section, the seat, the way you sat with your arms crossed. Your chest clenched when your eyes locked—his expression cracked open for the briefest moment, and you saw it. A question.

Was this his answer to the challenge? The fight Heeseung had demanded, the one he'd agreed to without a word? Was this how Alphas proved a claim?

You shook your head slowly. The tiniest, instinctive motion.

But Jay saw it, and he listened, because suddenly, he stopped. His body relaxed all at once, his hands fell open. The ball slipped from his fingers.

And in the next breath, Heeseung snatched it.

The yellow team surged, the gym exploded in noise, sneakers screeching against the floor as Heeseung drove the ball down the court. A sharp pass, a clean leap, and then the final whistle. The scoreboard blinked red. The crowd roared. Yellow team erupted into victorious cheers while the red team deflated collectively, chests heaving, hands falling to hips or knees in exhaustion.

Your gaze remained fixed on Jay. He stood still for a second, his head lowered, his silver hair shadowing his eyes as his teammates closed in around him, patting his shoulder, murmuring something you couldn't hear.

And just like that, the moment blurred after. You barely registered the victorious roar of Heeseung being lifted by his teammates, arms spread wide, triumphant grin plastered across his face. The yellow team surged around him, claiming the court. Meanwhile, Jay walked out of the scene, towel pulled up to wipe his face.

You watched the shift ripple through the red team—the way their pride adjusted into polite applause as they made their way off the court, nodding respectfully to their opponents, offering congratulations they didn't entirely. It was part of the game, but none of it settled the anxious twitch in your fingers as you fumbled with the zipper of your bag, barely aware of the way your Omega instincts had fully taken the reins.

Because no matter how much you told yourself not to care, your body had already decided for you. The urge to check on him. To find out if he was okay. To demand answers. To scream at him and maybe, to your own horror, comfort him. Curse these hormones. Curse these goddamn dynamics.

You didn't wait for your thoughts to catch up with your feet. You grabbed your bag, slinging it onto your shoulder and stood up. Ningning blinked from beside you, startled by the sudden movement. Yeonjun tilted his head but didn't ask. Your legs moved, descending the stands with determined steps, pushing past the clusters of students flooding the aisles toward the exits. But you didn't head for the exit. Your feet knew where to go—the locker rooms.

Behind you, Ningning and Yeonjun exchanged a look—hers wide-eyed and almost concerned, his filled with knowing exasperation. "I think we already know who actually won," Yeonjun said dryly, adjusting his lanyard and falling into line behind the stream of students heading out.

Meanwhile, you kept walking. You didn't know what you were going to say when you found Jay. You didn't even know if you'd be able to say anything at all.

But that didn't stop you pushing through the double doors that led toward the inner hallway of the gym, until you found him, sitting alone on the bench, elbows resting on his thighs, hands slack between his knees, head bowed. His legs were spread, his posture one of complete exhaustion.

You inhaled sharply, squared your shoulders, then crossed your arms. "God, you're such a loser," you said flatly. "If you don't know how to play or have any background in basketball, why sign up?"

His head lifted slowly at your words and you faltered. Not because you regretted what you said—but because of the expression that met you. His lips twitched upward in the faintest smile, tired, but somehow still warm.

It was the strangest, most unsettling smile you'd ever seen—and yet it was so disarmingly handsome your heart gave a reluctant jolt. You clenched your fists at your sides, straightening your posture.

"I wanted to prove I could be good at everything," he said.

You scoffed, eyes rolling as you turned your face slightly away. "Not everyone is good at everything, Jay. That's just reality. You don't have to win every time. You're academically smart, sure—but emotionally?" You clicked your tongue. "Your EQ is a disaster. You've really mastered the whole 'typical Alpha' thing."

You considered turning around and leaving, you really did. But something in the way he remained seated kept you rooted. Your fingers twitched toward your bag. You swore it wasn't your Omega instincts, it was just a decision you made.

What would you lose? Nothing you hadn't already risked.

You stepped forward, closing the distance between you and him. Your hand reached into your bag as your feet planted firmly in the space between his knees, and he blinked up at you in confusion. His lips parted slightly, as if about to speak, but no words came.

With trembling fingers, you pulled the small pin from your bag and gently leaned forward. You were close—so close you could feel the faint heat of his breath against your cheek, the scent of his fading pheromones barely clinging to the air around him. You lifted the pin to the edge of his jersey, your fingers brushing against the damp fabric as you secured it just above his number.

Jay's eyes never left your face. His hands remained planted on the bench at his sides, unmoving. A faint release of scent curled from your skin into the space between you as if to soothe, to anchor, to comfort, just like he always do.

Jay looked down. His eyes landed on the pin you'd fastened to his chest.

You Win in My Heart <3

He exhaled through his nose—slowly, deeply—and with it, a ribbon of his pheromones released into the air between you.

"Why did you accept his challenge?" you asked, straightening your posture though your knees already felt too weak to hold your pride. "I didn't expect you to be the kind who picks a fight over ego."

Jay looked at you for a long moment, the flicker of tension passing across his brow. "It's... an Alpha instinct," he answered quietly.

You cringed, face twisting, and you didn't bother to hide it. "Of course it is. You really are no different from the rest of them," you muttered.

Jay's gaze didn't shift. "He said if he won, I had to remove the imprint."

Your heart stuttered. For a second, the words didn't quite register, him admitting the imprint and when they did, you blinked at him—then scoffed. "And the imprint?" you asked, lifting your chin. "Was that just your instinct too?"

When he nodded, your chest deflated. You felt your breath falter, just a little. Like something in your chest had been punctured. You turned away almost immediately, trying to hide how it knocked the wind out of you. Your arms crossed tighter against your chest, your hand clenching the strap of your bag. 

"Well, I don't care," you said, your voice carefully detached, clipped. "Remove it, or don't. As if I'll be swayed by that smug, overcompensating Alpha shit. Let him think he won."

You swallowed hard. The lump that had formed in your throat was too heavy. You didn't even know if you were mad at him or mad at yourself—for hoping, for imagining, for reading something soft behind his gaze when it had only been instinct all along.

Damn it. You liked him. And you hated that you did.

You hated how you can't read him, how tightly he reined in everything, how he never let you see more than fragments. But now you had seen enough to confirm what you feared: maybe you were the only one feeling anything real.

And just when you told yourself to let it go—to walk away for good—his voice reached you again.

"I'm not removing the imprint."

You froze mid-step, his words halting you. You turned slowly, head tilting, your brow rising in challenge. "Go touch some grass and reflect—"

"I like you." The words didn't tremble, didn't hesitate. They came out clear. And then again, softer, slower, as he began walking toward you: "I like you."

And just like that, something inside you ruptured. The world slowed, dulled to a blur around the sound of his voice. It was ridiculous how cliché it felt—the heat blooming up your neck, the imaginary fireworks bursting behind your eyelids, the sudden hitch in your breath that made it hard to speak.

You quickly looked away, cheeks burning, fingers gripping your bag. "Is it your Alpha instinct again?" you asked, almost whispering. "Another convenient chemical reaction?"

"No," he said without pause. "It's not instinct. It's me... Just me."

You bit the inside of your cheek, your jaw tightening, the war between pride and longing already clawing at your ribs. Still, you didn't turn around. You stayed rooted there with your back to him, your fists curling, a thousand unspoken thoughts swirling in your head, waiting to break.

"Talk to me," his voice reached you again, almost pleading. "Talk to me about your makeup, the palettes you like, that shopping vlog you always watch. Show me more of those ridiculous bags you keep collecting, the ones with pearls and strawberries. Keep telling me about 'Flower Knows' and why the packaging matters so much to you. Wear your Jo Malone again—the one you always wear when you sit next to me in class. I... I memorized it before I realized I even liked it."

Your lips parted, air rushing out of your lungs as your heart twisted. You stood there, shaking, held together by nothing but sheer restraint, your body screaming to turn around, your Omega humming, quietly, insistently, for the truth.

The kind of truth that didn't come from instincts. But from feelings. And Jay was giving you all of it, finally.

"I noticed every time you wore it. I could tell when it faded. I hated how easily I could pick you out in a crowd, and hated myself more for liking it."

You still hadn't turned around, but your body betrayed you in the smallest ways—fingertips twitching, knees gently swaying, the way your spine arched just slightly, as if the gravity between you and him had grown stronger.

"I lied," he continued. "About the imprint. I knew it the second it happened. I felt it snap into place the moment it formed. But I didn't say anything because I didn't want to lock you into something you hadn't chosen."

He took a breath, the kind you only take when you're standing at the edge of a ledge. "I didn't mean to imprint you. I didn't even know it could happen like that, so fast." You could hear him take another step forward. The heat of his presence crept up your back.

"I've been so afraid of doing this wrong. Of messing it up. You're... you're everything I didn't think I was allowed to want. You talk so much and half the time it's about things I don't understand, but God, I want to learn. I want to keep hearing it. Even the things you rant about when you think no one's listening—those are the things I remember the most."

Your breath caught as he stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper, right behind you. "You don't need anyone—but I want to be someone you want anyway."

"— And I lied. I didn't fight Heeseung because I thought it would win me anything. I fought him because he tried to reduce you to a prize. And because even if I never get to call you mine, I won't stand by and let someone treat you like something to win."

Your hands had gone limp at your sides, bag forgotten. The walls you'd built around yourself were disintegrating, trembling under the weight of everything he was saying. 

"I like you," he said again, firmer this time, no longer a question but a vow. "Not just in the way an Alpha is wired to like an Omega. I like you. The person. With all your contradictions. I like you more than I know how to say."

Make him yours. Your Omega purred beneath. But your walls, built so carefully around years of protecting yourself, didn't come down all at once. So instead, with your throat tight and your vision swimming, you gathered what little armor you had left, swallowed hard, and bit out the only word your pride could manage.

"Fuck off," you snapped.

You turned away fast, heels clicking against the floor, spine rigid. The kind of exit you'd perfected—one that screamed indifference. Except it wasn't indifference, and Jay saw it. He saw the flicker in your steps, the slight stumble in your stride as you reached the door. Saw how your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag, saw how your scent, no matter how restrained or suppressed, trembled in the air like loose threads unraveling behind you.

He didn't call after you. Because the moment you stepped outside the locker room doors and were out of his sight, your composure cracked into a hundred glittering pieces.

A high-pitched screech echoed down the hallway, followed by the unmistakable sound of you jumping on the spot like you'd just won the lottery. "Fuck—fuck—fuck!" you squealed under your breath, fanning your face with both hands like you were overheating, cheeks burning as if the confession had lit your skin on fire. You slapped your own cheeks twice. Not hard, but enough to try grounding yourself in the reality you'd just walked away from.

Your lips stretched into a grin you couldn't contain, fingers twitching as you let out a little hop, whisper-screaming into the palm of your hand. "Stupid fucking Jay! Why did he have to say that like that?! Why did he have to be good at it?!"

Back in the locker room, Jay hadn't moved. He was back at seated on the bench, hunched slightly forward, the sweat on his skin cooling in the post-game silence. His fingers, however, remained in motion—slowly, gently with care brushing over the little badge now pinned to his jersey.

You Win In My Heart <3

It was corny. Incredibly so. But his lips curved anyway, the smile starting small and growing with each passing second.

Outside the locker room, your voice echoed faintly through the hallway—shrieking, laughing, with wild and breathless. His advanced senses picked up every word, every thud of your feet against the tile, every muffled curse and squeal as you tried to compose yourself and utterly failed. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him, laughing softly.

There you were. Still difficult. Still infuriatingly unpredictable. Still saying one thing while your scent betrayed another. Still the same girl who rolled her eyes at Alpha antics but scented him in the most delicate, protective way.

Still, somehow, his.

Jay's hand lingered over the badge again, fingertips pressing. He thought about your sharp tongue, your firecracker temper, the way you folded your arms when you were about to deliver one of your trademark verbal takedowns. He thought about how stubborn you were, how emotionally guarded.

He didn't mind the walls. He didn't mind the attitude. He didn't even mind that your version of affection came wrapped in sarcasm and profanity. If anything, he preferred it that way. Because it meant that every piece you gave him was real.

Jay leaned back, letting his head fall gently against the cool metal of the locker behind him. His fingers still played with the pin, heart thudding quietly beneath it.

You weren't going to make this easy. You were going to fight him at every step, throw fits in hallways, and scream. But that didn't scare him.

Because now he knew. He just had to prove it.

Every damn day, if that's what it took.

[dksfml]

ּ ֶָ Jungwon Moodboard ‧₊˚.

[dksfml]

I love being his simp

[dksfml]

candy floss

dentist!soobin x fem!reader

synopsis: the one where you love to tease your dentist. wc: 3.2k ✶ warnings: nsfw! oral (m!rec), shy but dom!soobin, oral fixation, throat fucking, finger sucking, choking, deep throating, cumeating, spit mention, semipublic? they do all this in his office space but doors are closed, mentions of dentistry and whatnot also soobin wears gloves, reader had tooth gems, ummm i think thats it sorry if i forgot any ><

an: hi so ive had this in my head for so long i dont know if i got it exactly how i imagined it but yeah >< also why am i only ever writing oral m!rec for soobin??? and why am i not upset bc if im so honest i need that badly-

[m.list] [summer collection m.list]

The last time you had been in the chair to get your cleaning done, you had gone straight downtown to get the little gems glued to your teeth. You hadn't brought it up with your dentist, not that you thought they would mind, the receptionist had been keen on telling you just how well they suited your lip gloss smile. 

The little enhancement had done exactly what you had wanted it to do, bringing you attention to your lips, your mouth as you laughed. For a while, it had been hard to confess how eager you were to keep anything in your mouth, the fixation taking on a life of its own in the form of lollipops. They had brought attention, the kind that made your skin heat and your mouth water. 

But when you didn't find the sweet treat on your tongue, you needed some kind of distraction, something to trace over when you were bored so that you didn't just end up chewing gum right before bed again and again. And the little gems had helped, kept you distracted, and they just so happened to look cute. Although they didn't keep you from the lollipops or the gum, because even sitting there in the chair waiting for your dentist to come in, you blew a pink bubble. 

It was how soobin had walked in on you, sitting back in the navy blue chair all done up in pink, popping your gum, the candy never sticking to your lips when they were so glossed and sparkly, your fingers absentmindedly twisting the hem of your skirt. The angle of the chair had made the jean fabric bunch up around your thighs, creasing until he was sure anyone standing in front of you would have been able to see right up it. 

The sight had made him stutter in his step, in his words, “n-no gum, miss,” he had checked your chart, once, twice over, the film of your dental x-rays giving little away about what he should have expected when he walked in. its not like its the first time hes had you in his chair, and hes sure it wont be the last but he never got over the fact that you were real, as if your chart had been a lie, replaced for someone elses just to tease him. 

“Sorry, I always forget someone else has to check me out after my cleaning,” you mutter, giving a shy smile. You had done it so often, shoving a piece of gum into your mouth the second the room was empty, as if you didn't know the rules already. 

“It's okay,” the words come out more of a breath now that he has your attention, undivided because of the small, intimate room of the office. Even the little TV usually playing the news or some cooking show had been left off, reflecting just you and him in the black of the screen. 

He rushes to get you a cup to toss the gum into for the trash, and instead of taking it into your own hands, he watches as you slide the gum between your teeth, holding it in place like you're waiting for him to bring it closer to your mouth to spit. And he doesn't even question it as he does exactly what you want, lets his hand draw close until you drop the gum into the cup from your tongue. 

You loved to play with him, you did it every time, as if he were something you could twist on the end of your finger, as malleable and elastic as the gum you spat out for him, “you know I'd just swallow it if you weren't always so nice to give me the cup,” 

The blush on his cheeks is hot and instant; he doesn't even have his mask on yet, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he feels your stare burn into him like a warning. He had been working for several years, moving up from a hygienist to a regular dentist who just comes in at the end of the visit to make sure nothing was missed. It's exactly what he was supposed to do now, look over the work his hygienist had done during your cleaning and sign you out, and yet he's frozen like he's never worked a day in his life. 

All because of that smile you kept trained on him. 

He had seen tons of women in his chair and kept it professional without even thinking twice, and you, in a second, had twisted his insides and made him blush over a bit of gum and lip gloss. Never had he rushed to turn away like he was caught looking where he shouldn't have, as if his job wasn't looking at people's mouths, their smiles. You had always been the one to do it for him, made him second guess every step he made. teetering on the line of wanting to rush you out as soon as possible and keep you right there in his chair, looking up at him under your lashes. 

But he was quick to look away, reaching for his gloves and mask to distract himself with a simple, monotonous task that would help regulate his emotions and make him feel less like a perv. Because that's exactly how he felt, like a boy who had walked in on his crush changing. Panic and arousal building up in a deadly cocktail of shame. 

“Okay so you’ve already been cleared of cavities but just to double check, we'll do a quick look around, ill touch up anything the hygienist missed and we can send you back on your way,” he felt like he was walking himself through a reminder, his fingers slipping into the latex free gloves, the material slapping against his wrist before he pulled his mask into place under the weight of his glasses. 

“I know the drill, you act like it's my first rodeo.” You lean back, lying out on the seat while soobin adjusts the light, bringing it down closer to your mouth. The gloss on your lips shines anew, and you know it brings soobins eyes right back in. 

It wasn't as if you didn't know the effect you had on him, the way he had to readjust himself on the little stool next to you, his blush spreading all the way to his ears, his hands always taking a moment to calm their tremble after you teased him. You enjoyed the attention, and the tension built up after every visit you had. 

And it never got any easier for him to have you in his chair, not when he asked you to open your mouth and you listened so well. But you never opened wide enough, not on the first go, not until he placed a gentle finger on your jaw and asked you, “wider,” 

You would follow his instructions, and he would stick his finger into your mouth, run the digit along your bottom teeth, trace the ridges of your back molars like he had them memorized. And he might as well have. He fantasized about your mouth, not necessarily your teeth, but the way your lips had once wrapped around his gloved fingers. It had shocked him then, shaken him into thinking about acting professionally because he needed something to focus on instead of the way your lip gloss had made a shiny ring around his fingers, or how plush your lips had looked wrapped around anything at all. 

He would dream about how you had flattened your tongue, how you would have let him keep his hand right there without a word because you had given him a look he never got out of his mind. And when he had stuttered an apology, you had only chuckled as if it was fun to toy with him. 

Now he let his finger trace along your front teeth, the colorful gems. “Pretty,” it's the only word he could get out, his throat tight when you run your tongue over the spot he had just touched. 

“You like them? I thought about you when I got them done,” you bit your bottom lip. It wasn't a lie, you had thought about soobin often, more than anyone should truly think about their dentist, but the way he acted around you only made you think about him more. 

The first visit had been a lot of blushing and stumbling around, all the same things he found himself unable to conceal. But he was cute, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, veins running up his arms as he tugged on his gloves, his pants getting so tight when you laid your tongue out flat for him when he asked you to open your mouth. It was so easy to tease him, almost as easy as it was for you to decide you loved the reactions he gave when you pushed the buttons he left so easily on display around you. 

“Of me?” he pointed at his chest like he was surprised, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. You didn't need to see his mouth to know the words left him a bit dumbfounded. Because as much as you tried to make it known that you wanted him past the appointment, he never seemed to take your bait. 

“Of course, I think about you a lot, especially when I have something in my mouth.” Just at the mention, he looked to your lips, the way they grinned from him, so coy it might as well rip him into pieces. He knows now that if anyone walked in, he was technically doing his job, but if they looked any further, they would see the way he was fighting back the pressure in his slacks. “You don't think about me, I'm sure, you have so many clients…” 

“Of course I think about you-” he said it in a rush, as if he needed to prove himself, jumping to please you when you pouted over thinking of him thinking about anyone else besides you. But it was the truth, he had thought about you and you alone, the only client he thought about so often it hurt. He felt the ache of your memory every time he imagined someone under him and even more so when he imagined someone sucking him off. 

He could almost picture your lips exactly as they were now, glossy and plush enough to pull him into a kiss with just a grin. He imagined the way they would look wrapped around him, imagined the way your eyes would water for him. Imagined how if he had looked into your mouth after having you exactly the way he wanted you, he would have surely left a bruise on your soft palette because when he thought of you, he never thought of being slow and sweet. 

“Really?” Your hands twisted in your mini skirt, the fabric bunched up just enough now that he could see the flash of your pink panties, like you were begging him to look. “How often do you think about me?”  

This was dangerous, he knew he shouldn’t play this way with you, knew it because he had thought of all the ways he could have you right on this very chair, thought about how he wouldnt be able to keep himself quite, not after one night of him fucking into his fist, lubed with his own spit, and moaning out the your name like he was asking for forgiveness. “Enough to know I shouldn't,” 

Even that seemed like too much to give you, and he was right because you would make a mile out of an inch. He could see it in your eyes, see the way you looked down at his belt. “I could help with that, I'm sure once would get it out of our system,” 

Fire, he could feel it slipping over him, his hands felt suddenly too empty, his body too exposed under your line of sight, and he couldn't deny it any longer when he had all but confessed to thinking about you when he shouldn't be. “I shouldn't-” 

“But do you want to?” You tested the waters, your fingertips just brushing over his knee, his leg jumping inward, creating enough pressure against the bulge in his pants to make him whine. 

It's an involuntary sound, the kind he only lets slip when he's at home with his eyes closed and he's imagining you, your mouth. And soobin had never claimed to be anything but a weak man; he doesn't even notice he's nodding until his hair is in his eyes, the loose strands making him blink back to the reality of the situation he's found himself in. “I can't- I'll be loud-” 

You pout, a full bottom lip kind of pout that makes everything he had been considering denying impossible to turn away from. He had kept himself from thinking more for so long; every teasing visit, every lingering touch, every held look that passed over the line between work and intimacy. It made him ache to say no, and it ripped him apart to see your mouth any less full of him. “Fuck it,” 

He tugs his mask off, gloves breaking with his harsh pull when he peels them off. You almost can't believe you've gotten him to cave, at least not until you're watching him loosening his belt and you're falling to your knees on the cold linoleum floor. You eagerly reach up to help him with his zipper, the sound of it mixing with the inhale Soobin took when feeling your hands so close to where he had dreamt. 

For a long time you had imagined what it would be like to suck him off right in this very office, how big he would be, how fast he would finish, how long he’d let you keep him in your mouth. You had only just pulled the fabric of his pants down for them to rest low on his hips, the waistband of his Calvin Klein briefs clinging to him, when he stopped you, his hand cupping along the back of your skull, forcing you to look right up at him from where you were on your knees. 

With his free hand, he pressed his thumb against your bottom lip and muttered, “Open,” the command echoing around you, his eyes trapping you below him as he looked down his nose at you. Without contest, you let your lips fall open for his fingers, the two slim digits followed by the second demand, “Wider,” 

Without him asking, you flattened your tongue, letting him lay his fingers, still tasting of power from the gloves, against the space you had made for him. “Wider still, I might be a lot for you to fit,” he said it not in a proud way but as a warning, as if he was worried he might make your jaw sore, but it only made your mouth water, your body eager to have him in any way that you could. 

He didn't even wait for you to listen to him this time; his hand holding your head pushed you forward on his fingers, letting them slide along your tongue as if testing the space he would soon fill. “Suck,” you closed your mouth, sucking and taking the length as he guided your movements, your tongue swirling as you blinked up at him and his half-shocked expression on his face. 

You were so obedient, clenching your thighs, wet from nothing but having your mouth fucked by his fingers. Standing there, he could have forgotten himself if not for the way you whimpered, your hands reaching out for his thighs, nails digging into him like a plea for more. 

When he pulled his fingers from your mouth, he placed them on his own tongue, tasting you as if he had pulled them from between your legs. And when you finally pulled him from his pants, he bit back a moan at the pressure you applied right at the base of him. It took so much of him not to use the hand he had on the back of your head to rush the process, to push you right down on him and lose control in the warmth of you.

His knees felt hollow the second your thumb brushed his tip, collecting the precum building up, your greedy, glossy-lipped smile biting into his resolve. 

You leaned in, lips ghosting over his delicate skin, one hand holding him in place, the other circling his tip, as you kissed along his veins before licking a single stripe up the trail you had just created, your strawberry lip gloss making him taste sweet. 

It was enough teasing for him because any more and he wouldn't be able to catch his breath, wouldn't be able to keep himself from embarrassment. The second your mouth was around him, he pushed you down, the warmth of your mouth making him groan low in his throat, the sound so hard to contain when it came from somewhere so deep inside of himself. 

You sucked, the wetness of your mouth coating him when you tried to pull away, your hand pumping what didn't make it back between your lips. You blinked up at him, his mind foggy around the sight, his stomach twisting with a familiar pleasure he had never felt so fast before. Your cheeks hollowed around him until he was holding in his whimpers. And when you moaned around him at the sight of just how disheveled he was, he couldn't stop himself from pushing you farther down his cock without remorse. 

He could feel the weak yelp echoing in your mouth at the shock of the movement, soon turning into a reverberating moan that raced up his spine and down his thighs, clenching and struggling to keep him upright at a time like this. You let him guide your head, let yourself relax your jaw enough for him to use you as he wished, because as soon as he felt himself slip down your throat, he was a goner. 

It was enough to nearly make you gag, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, spilling and ruining your makeup, spit gathering on your bottom lip until it was a mess along your chin. He used both hands now, hips fucking into your mouth while he held you steady, while you took all he had to give you. 

Glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, he clenched his eyes, the pressure in his gut tightening as you moaned, his stomach and balls clenching before he gasped out spilling streams of his cum onto your tongue without stopping his sloppy thrusts. 

When he pulled away, you hardly had time to catch your breath, your lips a mess of spit, cum, and lip gloss. Lashes heavy with tears, you blinked up at him, his cock still hard between you two, the tip connected to your bottom lip with a fine thread of saliva, broken when he bent and cupped your throat in his grasp. 

You clawed at his forearm, nails digging in as you tried to find yourself in the hazy, lust-filled cloud you had found yourself. His palm a welcome weight with just the right amount of pressure against your windpipe as he muttered, “swallow,” and he felt the action in his hand as you did exactly as he said. Soobin let his grip loosen enough to catch your jaw, pulling you into a messy kiss, tasting of strawberries and salt. 

taglist 🏷: want to be added to the taglist? check out my rules to see how to join! want to be taken off the taglist? send an ask! @taegyutomorrow @izzyy-stuff , @felixleftchickennugget @filmsbyun @bts-txt-ateez @apeachty @dawngyu @heesmiles @hyukascampfire @bamgyuuuri @xylatox @lickingan0rchid @no1likemybbgcharlie @demidelulu @boba-beom @bloomri @tyunningism @candigyu @soobabby

[dksfml]

do you think about vampires. have you thought about vampires. will you think about vampires. when will you think about vampires

[dksfml]

eighteen part 4 update, except med school is making me lose my creative romance-painted brain. GET ME OUTTTTTTT OF HEREEEEE I JUST WANT TO WRITE JUNGWON 🫩

[dksfml]

𝓕𝓲𝓬 𝓡𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓛𝓲𝓼𝓽

🄴🄽🄷🅈🄿🄴🄽 🅇 🄵🄴🄼!🅁🄴🄰🄳🄴🅁

엔하이픈 ~ enha

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ your eyes only ~ enhypen as meet cutes (@purinfelix)

some small blurbs about meeting the boys. situations that are just awkward enough to be romantic.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ the boyfriend chef diaries (@jakesimfromstatefarm)

foods enha would cook/bake u as their significant other

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ heaven is a home ~ where ever i am with you (@okwonyo)

ʰᵘˢᵇᵃⁿᵈ!ᵉⁿʰʸᵖᵉⁿ 𝗑 ᶠ!ʳᵉᵃ

they are obsessed with their wife.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ hiding in plain sight ~ secret office romance (@boyfhee)

𝗐𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗄.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ let me be your hero (@bywons)

ˢᵖⁱᵈᵉʳᵐᵃⁿ!ᵉⁿʰᵃ, ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ʸᵒᵘ'ʳᵉ ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ ᴹᴶ

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ use your heart ~ forbidden romance (@okwonyo)

ᵇᵒᵈʸᵍᵘᵃʳᵈ!ᵉⁿʰʸᵖᵉⁿ 𝗑 ᶠ!ʳᵉᵃ

𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝖼𝖾𝖺𝗇

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ their three-year old daughter is mad at them (@yoursjaeyun)

ᵉⁿʰʸᵖᵉⁿ ʰʸᵘⁿᵍ ˡⁱⁿᵉ

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ randomly giving them a rose on the street (@wonryllis)

enhypen mesmerized by a stranger

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ dress to impress (@mlyscha)

in which you convince your boyfriend to play dress to impress with you, will they slay the runway?

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ my little pony (@saemisic)

ᵉⁿʰᵃ ʰʸᵘⁿᵍ ˡⁱⁿᵉ ˣ ᶠ! ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ⁺ ᵐᵃʳⁱᵗᵃˡ ʳᵉˡᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿˢʰⁱᵖ

girl dad scenarios

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ just a bit/not a bet ~ part 1 + part 2 (@all4yoi)

ᵉⁿʰᵃ ʰʸᵘⁿᵍ ˡⁱⁿᵉ

after a few months of dating, you find out you were just a bet.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ designer hearts ~ for you, only (@callikari)

ʳⁱᶜʰ!ᵉⁿʰʸᵖᵉⁿ 𝗑 𝑓!𝑟ᵉᵃ

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

이희승 ~ l.hs

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ baby, baby, baby (@guppiechuu)

ᵉˣᵇᵒʸᶠ ⁱᵈᵒˡ!ʰᵉᵉˢᵉᵘⁿᵍ ˣ ʸᵒᵘⁿᵍᵐᵒᵐ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

you never planned on seeing Heeseung again, let alone with another man's child on your hip. but when a run-in at the grocery store turns into an evening at your messy, toy-strewn apartment, you're forced to face everything you left unsaid. you're not the same girl he left behind all those years ago, and he's not the same guy that did the leaving. so where does that leave you now?

the question: how much are you willing to bet on second chances? the answer: everything.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ secondhand heaven (@nephynes)

ˢᶜʰⁱᶻᵒᵖʰʳᵉⁿⁱᶜ ᶜᵒⁿᶜᵉʳᵗ ᵖⁱᵃⁿⁱˢᵗ!ʰᵉᵉˢᵉᵘⁿᵍ ˣ ᵃᶠᵃᵇ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

You’re broke, exhausted, and desperate enough to take a cleaning job no one else will touch. The client lives alone in a silent penthouse, hidden from the world by rumour and choice. You weren’t supposed to know his name—just clean and leave. But when your journal goes missing and comes back with his handwriting in the margins, everything changes.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ side quest (@ninisdollie)

ᶠᵉᵐ! ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ˣ ʰᵉᵉˢᵉᵘⁿᵍ, ᵖʲᵒ ᵃᵘ! ᵃʳᵉˢ' ˢᵒⁿ! ʰᵉᵉˢᵉᵘⁿᵍ ˣ ᵃᵖʰʳᵒᵈⁱᵗᵉˢ ᵈᵃᵘᵍʰᵗᵉʳ! ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ᵉⁿᵉᵐⁱᵉˢ! ᵗᵒ ˡᵒᵛᵉʳˢ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

Lee Heeseung, son of Ares, is known for his violence and cruelty at the half-blood camp. He mocks the newcomers and enjoys tormenting those he deems weak. His attitude sparks your hatred, you not only despise his aggressive nature but also see him as a threat to the peace of the camp. You both deeply loathe each other. However, when you two are sent together on a dangerous quest, your relationship begins to change.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ kiss me, he's watching (@enhaflixer)

ᶠᵃᵏᵉ ᵇᶠ!ᴴᵉᵉˢᵉᵘⁿᵍ ˣ ᵇᵉⁱⁿᵍ ˢᵗᵃˡᵏᵉᵈ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

You kissed Heeseung to escape your stalker’s gaze—but the danger didn’t end there. One fake kiss, and suddenly everything is terrifyingly real.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ hoodie boogie (@songbirdseung)

walking into his closet and stealing his hoodies comes so naturally and like it's second nature for you to do, luckily for you; he finds you cute in them but he prefers you better in his arms.

박종성 ~ p.js

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ the first time he holds her (@strawberry7milk)

ᴰᵃᵈ!ᴶᵃʸ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

You just gave birth, and Jay finally gets to hold your baby for the first time.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ love meant bleeding (@yena-enha)

ᴾˢʸᶜʰᵒ!ᴶᵃʸ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐ!ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

Psychological Thriller, Dark Romance, Angst, Horror

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ just because i love you (@astrakim)

ᶠˡᵘᶠᶠ, ᴰᵒᵐᵉˢᵗⁱᶜ, ᴿᵒᵐᵃⁿᶜᵉ

Jay doesn’t need a special occasion to spoil you—breakfast in bed, soft kisses, warm hoodies, and all the little things that say I love you without ever saying a word. But when you remind him that love goes both ways, he realizes being cared for feels just as good as giving it.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ cat meow-tchmaker (@hoonieyun)

ⁿᵉⁱᵍʰᵇᵒʳˢ ᵗᵒ ᵒᵛᵉʳˢ, ˢᵐᵃᵘ/ᶠᵃᵏᵉ ᵗᵉˣᵗˢ, ʳᵒᵐᵃⁿᶜᵉ, ᶠˡᵘᶠᶠ

jay randomly finds a small gray kitten in his home and soon finds that the cute kitten's owner is a lot cuter.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ sassy (@jaysng)

ʰᵘˢᵇᵃⁿᵈ!ʲᵃʸ ˣ ʷⁱᶠᵉ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

jay trying to re-gain his drama queen daughter’s attention after she got mad at him.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ soft spot (@sjyuns)

ˢᵗʳᵃⁿᵍᵉʳˢ ᵗᵒ ˡᵒᵛᵉʳˢ, ᵇᵃˢᵏᵉᵗᵇᵃˡˡᵉʳ!ʲᵃʸ ⁽ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ’ˢ ᵇᵃʳᵉˡʸ ᵃⁿʸ ᵇᵃˢᵏᵉᵗᵇᵃˡˡ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰⁱˢ⁾, ᵐᵘᵗᵘᵃˡ ᵖⁱⁿⁱⁿᵍ, ˢⁱᵐᵖ!ʲᵃʸ, ʰⁱᵍʰ ˢᶜʰᵒᵒˡ ᵃᵘ

love is a crazy thing, and you’d always been absorbed in the idea of it, 100% committed as your school’s cupid but cupid deserves love too, right?

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ love's the death of peace of mind (@morganaawriterr)

ˢᵗᵃˡᵏᵉʳ ᶠᵉᵐ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ˣ ⁿᵒᵗ⁻ˢᵒ⁻ⁱⁿᵒᶜᵉⁿᵗ ˡᵃʷʸᵉʳ!ᴶᵃʸ

You always believed your obsession with Jay was somewhat harmless — the stolen glances, the job you took just to stay close, the nights spent following his every move. But when familiar faces start vanishing and strange coincidences pile up, a chilling truth begins to surface.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ rockstar (@morganaawriterr)

ᶠᵉᵐ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ˣ ᵒˡᵈᵉʳ ʳᵒᶜᵏˢᵗᵃʳ ᵈⁱˡᶠ!ᴶᵃʸ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

Hired to babysit Jay’s daughter, you never expected the quiet tension between you two to turn into something more. Jay tells himself it’s just admiration, maybe loneliness... but one night, with tension hanging heavy in the air, he finally confesses what he feels for you.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ loose (@bluhbery)

ᵇᵘˢᵏᵉʳ! ᵖᵃʳᵏ ʲᵒⁿᵍˢᵉᵒⁿᵍ ˣ ᵘⁿⁱᵛᵉʳˢⁱᵗʸ ˢᵗᵘᵈᵉⁿᵗ! ᶠᵉᵐ ˡᵉᵃᵈ

you met a busker that caught your eye and when you decide to become a regular, you can't help but want to get to know him better.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ the princess diaries (@enhaflixer)

ᴾʳⁱⁿᶜᵉ! ᴶᵃʸ ˣ ᴾʳⁱⁿᶜᵉˢˢ! ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

Jongseong is a prince—refined, disciplined, and expected to marry a woman of his father’s choosing. You, on the other hand, are just a college student struggling to keep up with rent—until a team of royal advisors shows up on your doorstep and tells you that you’re the lost princess of Genovia. But royal life isn’t a fairytale, and duty doesn’t care about love. Because when the clock strikes midnight on the constitutional deadline, you’ll have to choose: your country or your heart. “If I were just Jay, not a prince, would you still choose me?”

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ leather jackets (@cutehoons02)

ᶠʳᵃᵗ ᵍʸᵐ ʳᵃᵗ ᵇᵒʸ ᴶᵃʸ ˣ ᵇᵒᵒᵏ ᵍⁱʳˡ, ˢᵘⁿˢʰⁱⁿᵉ ᵇᵒʸ ˣ ˢʰʸ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

What would happen if you were lying to read a slightly "spicy" book and not fit to read in the university library, Jay Park as well as one of the most popular guys at the university find out that you are not so innocent as you want to make believe? between betting, books with jokes cliche, stolen kisses, gym sessions with Jay what could happen to the book girl and gym rat boy of the university?

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ was i just a joke? (@elikajinnie)

ᴳʳʸᶠᶠⁱⁿᵈᵒʳ!ᴶᵃʸ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐ!ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

At Hogwarts, you built a reputation for rejecting every romantic advance. Jay, a popular Gryffindor, asks you out on a dare.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ love at first bite (@woniedarlin)

ᶜʰᵉᶠ! ᴶᵃʸ ˣ ᶠᵒᵒᵈ ᴸᵒᵛᵉʳ! ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

Jay, a perfectionist chef, has no time for distractions, so when an ordinary guest like you barges into his world, eating like it’s your last meal, he becomes irritated. What starts as irritation turns into late-night kitchen encounters, and moments that leave Jay wondering if it was just the food or you all along.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ milf hunt (@simpjaes)

ᵖᵃʳᵏ ʲᵒⁿᵍˢᵉᵒⁿᵍ ˣ ᵃᶠᵃᵇ ᵐⁱˡᶠ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

Jay, a favorite among classy wives to hire during the hot summer season for a nice, thorough pool cleaning, seems to have a favorite wife of his own.  You.  OR the one where Jay was the pain-in-your-ass son of the family you used to babysit for, but now he’s making it his mission to be the pain-in-your-ass pretend husband that you never asked for, but very clearly need. 

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ the purge series: kiss me (@mssishipi)

ʳⁱᶜʰ! ʲᵃʸ ˣ ᵇʳᵒᵏᵉ! ᵗʳᵃᵘᵐᵃᵗⁱˢᵉᵈ! ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

You hate the Purge. You hate the monster they create, the cruelty, and the way it's broken you down year after year. You hate the rich most of all—the people who don't have to fight to survive. People like Park Jongseong. And now, somehow, he's sitting next to you. The boy who's always smiling, always comfortable, as if the world hasn't burned down around him. The boy who lives in safety, behind barricades his father's company builds, while you've spent years starving, hiding, and praying. Jongseong keeps smiling at you, oblivious to the weight of your hatred. He doesn't care about you, not really. To him, life is simple. And maybe that's why you can't stand him. Because while he laughs, you're trying to figure out how to make sure people like him never smile again.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ pretty lady/tints of red ~ part 1 + part 2 (@boyfhee)

ˢⁱⁿᵍˡᵉ ᵈᵃᵈ ! ʲᵃʸ ˣ ᵏⁱⁿᵈᵉʳᵍᵃʳᵗᵉⁿ ᵗᵉᵃᶜʰᵉʳ ! ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ the marriage law (@enhaflixer)

ʰᵃʳʳʸ ᵖᵒᵗᵗᵉʳ! ᵃᵘ, ᶠᵒʳᶜᵉᵈ ᵐᵃʳʳⁱᵃᵍᵉ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

A Marriage Law was the last thing you expected to dictate your future, let alone shackle you to Park Jongseong. A pureblood heir, painfully composed, infuriatingly good at everything, and—unfortunately—now your husband. What starts as reluctant cohabitation, filled with awkward silences and sharp words, slowly unravels into something neither of you can ignore. Stolen glances, fleeting touches, and the illusion of normalcy turn into a dangerous game neither of you meant to play. Is it all for show? Or has the line between pretend and real already disappeared? But love alone isn’t enough to erase the past—or the law that forced you together. As the Ministry looms over your every move, and whispers of rebellion grow louder, you and Jay must decide: fight the law, or fight for each other.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ overruled (@mrsjjongstby)

ᴸᵃʷʸᵉʳ!ᴶᵃʸ ˣ ᴵⁿᵗᵉʳⁿ!ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

You weren’t supposed to get this close. Park Jay is your boss — calm, calculating, and impossible to read. You’re the associate with sharp instincts and a habit of calling things like they are. Together, you're a flawless legal team. Working with him was never supposed to feel personal. But late nights blur boundaries. Silence fills with meaning. And somewhere between case files and courtroom wins, something unspoken begins to shift.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

심재윤 ~ s.jy

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ brewed tension (@tttabii)

ᶜᵉᵒ! ʲᵃᵏᵉ ˣ ᶜᵒᶠᶠᵉᵉ ˢʰᵒᵖ ᵒʷⁿᵉʳ! ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

two people that lead different lives reuniting in a cafe years after college. do they still hate each other?

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ proffessional-ish! (@gyuuberryy)

ᵇᵒˢˢ!ʲᵃᵏᵉ ˣ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

you’re just trying to survive your 9-to-5 without spontaneously combusting, but your painfully attractive boss seems to think you’re flirting. every awkward smile, accidental wink, and misfired message only makes it worse. now he’s looking at you like you’ve got some secret agenda. the truth? you just short-circuit around hot people. it’s not seduction—it’s social malfunction.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ desire: unleash, unravel, unmask (@shra-vasti)

ˢⁱᵐ ᴶᵃᵉʸᵘⁿ ˣ ᴾˢʸᶜʰ ⁿᵘʳˢᵉ ᵃᶠᵃᵇ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

When you are assigned as a psychiatric nurse in a quiet, unsettling and remote town, you expected lonesome, boredom even, and not the creeping sense that something was wrong. Then you are asked to temporarily monitor Sim Jake, a long term patient, when his regular nurse takes sudden leave. At first he's just another case for you, then you started noticing strange behaviours unfolding within the hospital walls, and now you're not just questioning your patient's mental state, you begin to question what's real, what's hidden and if you're truly safe.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ magic word (@boyfhee)

ᵈᵃᵈ ʲᵃᵏᵉ ˣ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝗃𝖺𝖾𝗒𝗎𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ blood sacrifices (@cutehoons02)

ᴴᵃᶜᵏᵉʳ ⁿᵉʳᵈ ᵛᵃᵐᵖⁱʳᵉ ᴶᵃᵏᵉ ˣ ⁱⁿᶠˡᵘᵉⁿᶜᵉʳ ᴳⁱʳˡ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

Jake has only one wish in life: to drink forever the blood he’s obsessed with—the only blood he can actually feed on. But something happens that drives him crazy: you, the only girl who doesn’t seem to notice him, are the one donating his favorite blood. You donate it because you have a rare condition—your body produces too much blood, and if you don’t donate regularly, you suffer from severe dizziness, vomiting, and could even die. But this is a secret, because you're one of the most popular girls in Korea and a social media influencer with millions of followers. When Jake finds out you're the girl behind the uncomfortable blood bags he's been drinking from, he blackmails you and forces you to let him be the only one who can “help” you—biting you once a week. But what would happen if one of you fell in love? You’re a human with dreams, and he’s a 130-year-old vampire who, on paper, is your age—but behind that, he hides a dark identity.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ sims anatomy (@021894s)

ⁿᵉᵘʳᵒˢᵘʳᵍᵉᵒⁿ! ʲᵃᵏᵉ ˣ ᶜᵃʳᵈⁱᵒ ˢᵘʳᵍᵉᵒⁿ! ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

you, a top cardiac surgeon, find yourself increasingly frustrated by the distraction over the hospital’s new head of neurosurgery, Dr. Jake Sim. Despite your initial annoyance, you can't help but notice Jake's charm and undeniable skills. As you keep running into each other, Jake’s persistent yet respectful flirtations begin to break through your professional exterior.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ please stop, don't stop (@enjakey)

ᵐᵒᵇ!ᴶᵃᵏᵉ ˣ ᵐᵒᵇ!ᶠᵉᵐ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

living in Jay’s shadow as his younger sister was always the life you had known. Considering that he was the heir to family business, the now leader of a mafia, Jay took all kinds of protective measures to keep you safe. Which meant that you were always by his side- just, a room away from his in hotels with your own body guards. You loathed your brother, you did. He stripped you away of a life. But then he loosened up when his right hand man and best friend, Jake, pulled some strings and somehow had you swooning for him.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ brisbane (@i2sunric)

ᵇᵒˣᵉʳ⁻ᵈᵃᵈ!ʲᵃᵏᵉ ˣ ᵐᵒᵐ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ⁽ᶠ⁾, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

being married to a boxer is frightening— twice as much when you’re raising a child (or two) with that very same man. but none of it matters, not really, because your love for him is unconditional, stronger than fear, deeper than doubt, and it has always lived beyond the reach of worry.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ the last breath (@elikajinnie)

ᴰᵉᵐⁱᵍᵒᵈ!ᴶᵃᵏᵉ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐ!ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ᵃⁿᵍˢᵗ, ʳⁱᵍʰᵗ ᵖᵉʳˢᵒⁿ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵉⁿᵒᵘᵍʰ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ

On the battleground, you lie on the edge of death, knowing there’s nothing left to do but let go. But then you see Jake, the one you’ve loved for so long, fighting. With a final surge of adrenaline, you muster the strength to confess your feelings, hoping to hear him say it back. But by the time he does, it’s too late. Two people in love cannot survive when one of them is gone, and as you slip away, so does the light of the world for Jake.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ let's get physical ~ part 1 + part 2 (@enhaflixer)

ʰᵃʳʳʸ ᵖᵒᵗᵗᵉʳ!ᵃᵘ, ᵐᵃʳʳⁱᵃᵍᵉ ˡᵃʷ!ᵃᵘ, ᶠʳⁱᵉⁿᵈˢ⁻ᵗᵒ⁻ᶠʷᵇ⁻ᵗᵒ⁻ˡᵒᵛᵉʳˢ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

Jake Sim has always been your best friend. Until the Ministry forced you into a mandatory marriage law, and suddenly, he’s not just your best friend—he’s your husband that you've secretly been in love with for years. You’re determined to keep things strictly business. You both agree: this is just a contract. Nothing more. Just physical! But when every glance lingers too long, when his touch starts to feel too good, when the lines between pretending and wanting blur into something unrecognizable—What happens when you stop fighting it?

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ serendipity (@kaiyunsim)

ˢᵖⁱᵈᵉʳ⁻ᵐᵃⁿ!ʲᵃᵏᵉ ˣ ᵍⁿ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

a late night studying session with shinyu results in a weird stalker following you home… but wait, he’s webbed to the wall..? by… SPIDER-MAN? what’s even weirder is that you find yourself running yourself running into the hero more often and begin to see some similarities with… jake sim?

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ cravings (@wonsiwon)

ᶠᵘᵗᵘʳᵉᵖᵃʳᵉⁿᵗ!ʲᵃᵏᵉ ˣ ᵖʳᵉᵍⁿᵃⁿᵗ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

you woke up Jake in the middle of the night with a craving, but he snapped at you, exhausted from work.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ long chat (@juyeoz)

ˢᶜⁱ⁻ᵍᵉᵉᵏ!ʲᵃᵏᵉ & ᶠᵉᵐ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

a boy who’s mistaken for being mean meets a clumsy and forgetful girl.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ professional yearner (@itendtothinkalot)

ᵇᵉˢᵗ ᶠʳⁱᵉⁿᵈ!ʲᵃᵏᵉ ˣ ᶠ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

growing up, you had two heroes: jake and sunghoon. thick and thin, chaos and crayons, they were always there. so when your ex dumped you for "being so oddly close to your best friends” well… fair. but what he didn’t get is that you never needed him. you’ve always had jake sim and maybe that was the problem.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ certified hater (@itendtothinkalot)

ᶠˡᵘᶠᶠ, ᵉⁿᵉᵐⁱᵉˢ ᵗᵒ ˡᵒᵛᵉʳˢ

jake sim’s got a new roommate. and he hates it. he hates you. until one random wednesday afternoon, you look at him with those eyes, and suddenly he’s noticing things he definitely shouldn’t. now jake’s stuck trying to ignore the fact that his least favorite person is somehow making his heart beat faster. he didn’t sign up for this. but hey, neither did you.

박성훈 ~ p.sh

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ such a mess together (@purinfelix)

ⁿᵒⁿ ⁱᵈᵒˡ!ᵃᵘ, ᵃᶜᵃᵈᵉᵐⁱᶜ ʳⁱᵛᵃˡ!ˢᵘⁿᵍʰᵒᵒⁿ, ᵉⁿᵉᵐⁱᵉˢ⁻ᵗᵒ⁻ˡᵒᵛᵉʳˢ ᵗʳᵒᵖᵉ

the cute little girl you tutor is always going on about how you should date her smart, good-looking older brother, so why is your annoying, cocky classmate opening the door instead of her?

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ guilty pleasure (@okwonyo)

ʳᵒᵒᵐᵐᵃᵗᵉ!ᵖˢʰ 𝗑 ᶠ!ʳᵉᵃ, ᶜᵒᵐᶠᵒʳᵗ, ᵛᵃᵐᵖⁱʳᵉ!ˢᵘⁿᵍʰᵒᵒⁿ

𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗌𝗈 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗁𝖾’𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮���.˚ unseen (@boyfhee)

showing your vampire boyfriend things he has never seen

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ when you have to go on bed rest (@jaysng)

ʰᵘˢᵇᵃⁿᵈ!ˢᵘⁿᵍʰᵒᵒⁿ ˣ ᵖʳᵉᵍ!ʷⁱᶠᵉ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

frustrated and emotional reader, stuck on bed rest during pregnancy, opens up to caring husband, sunghoon. overwhelmed, she asks him to hold her, seeking solace in his embrace as he gently reassures her, reminding her of her strength.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ birthday cake with your daughter (@jaysng)

ᵈᵃᵈ!ˢᵘⁿᵍʰᵒᵒⁿ ˣ ᵐᵒᵐ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ⁽ᶠᵗ. ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ ᵏⁱᵈ⁾

sunghoon's hardest task on your birthday was making it through the baking a cake process, because your mischievous little girl couldn’t control her hunger.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ star-crossed ~ part 1 + part 2 (@fallingforgyu)

ᵖʳⁱⁿᶜᵉ!ˢᵘⁿᵍʰᵒᵒⁿ/ᶠᵉᵐ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

a story about a prince and a maid that love each other deeply, but can't be together.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ a cure for frostbite (@iyoonjh)

ʳᵒʸᵃˡ!ˢᵘⁿᵍʰᵒᵒⁿ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

In the hush of the imperial palace, a forbidden romance blooms between Sunghoon—the emperor’s youngest son—and Y/N, a quiet apothecary meant to live in the shadows. What begins with stolen glances and subtle gifts deepens into something dangerous and all-consuming. Y/N knows the risk. Sunghoon does not care. When their closeness is discovered, she pulls away to protect them both—but Sunghoon, desperate and lovesick, would burn the whole kingdom for one more moment by her side.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ me and my girlies (@orimuraa)

ʰᵘˢᵇᵃⁿᵈ!ˢᵘⁿᵍʰᵒᵒⁿ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

sunghoon being a girl-dad.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ brighter days (@ninisdollie)

ᶠᵉᵐ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ˣ ˢᵘⁿᵍʰᵒᵒⁿ, ᵖʲᵒ ᵃᵘ! ᶻᵉᵘˢ' ˢᵒⁿ! ˢᵘⁿᵍʰᵒᵒⁿ ˣ ᵃᵖᵒˡˡᵒˢ ᵈᵃᵘᵍʰᵗᵉʳ! ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ᵍʳᵘᵐᵖʸ ˣ ˢᵘⁿˢʰⁱⁿᵉ ᵖˡᵒᵗ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

Park Sunghoon, the forbidden son of Zeus, is admired and respected by everyone at half-blood camp, but he prefers to keep to himself and avoid the crowds. With his reserved and somewhat grumpy attitude, his peace is constantly interrupted by your relentless energy, the daughter of Apollo. Outgoing, cheerful, and full of life, you never miss an opportunity to approach Sunghoon, who knows you have a crush on him. However, his temper and desire to maintain his distance lead him to reject you time and time again. Despite his attempts to avoid you, Sunghoon begins to notice that, behind your spark and laughter, there is more than just a girl chasing him. As he struggles to maintain his wall of coldness, you, with your boundless light, are determined to break it, proving that even the coldest heart can be touched by the warmth of the sun.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ grocery store receipts (@paarksunghoon)

ⁿᵉⁱᵍʰᵇᵒᵘʳˢ!ᵃᵘ, ⁿᵒⁿ⁻ⁱᵈᵒˡ!ᵃᵘ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

your hot neighbour seems to have everything you don’t: charm, confidence, and a sense of direction in life. you’ve managed to keep to yourself in the time you’ve lived across from his apartment but the holiday season brings brings out unresolved feelings, and you find that the best present of all has always been standing right in front of you.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ double trouble (@i2sunric)

ˢᵘⁿᵍʰᵒᵒⁿ ˣ ᵖʳᵉᵍⁿᵃⁿᵗ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ⁽ᶠ⁾

when the two pink lines appeared on the pregnancy test, the life you had so meticulously built crumbled. but sunghoon gathered the pieces back together, shaping a new life with your two babies.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ the dollmaker (@faeyun)

ᵈᵒˡˡᵐᵃᵏᵉʳ!ˢᵘⁿᵍʰᵒᵒⁿ, ᵍᵒᵗʰⁱᶜ ᵛⁱᵇᵉˢ, ˢᵘᵖᵉʳⁿᵃᵗᵘʳᵃˡ ᵉˡᵉᵐᵉⁿᵗˢ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

you were sunghoon’s muse, his flawless, perfect wife that he dresses in frilly dresses and makes sure you always looked like the idealized woman. that much was evident from all the dolls he made of you that sat proudly throughout your home. but, when sunghoon isn’t there, the dolls move and show you things that would otherwise be hidden in the shadows. one day, they show you something so frightening, something completely sinister that you force yourself to believe that it isn’t real. your beloved husband wouldn’t do something like that, would he? you weren’t so sure about your answer anymore.

김선우 ~ k.sn

i couldn't find any of my fic recommendations for sunoo, but i promise to make a completely different post for him in the near future!! thank you so much for your patience.

양정원 ~ y.jw

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ when i look at you, i cannot find you (@onlygarden)

ᵃⁿᵍˢᵗ/ᶜᵒᵐᶠᵒʳᵗ

when jungwon's behavior towards you suddenly becomes hateful, you start to wonder where your precious boyfriend went.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ bandaids are no good for heartache (@hugz4hoon)

ᵇᶠ!ⁱᵈᵒˡ!ʲᵘⁿᵍʷᵒⁿ ˣ ᵍᶠ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ᵃⁿᵍˢᵗ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵃ ᵖⁱⁿᶜʰ ᵒᶠ ᶠˡᵘᶠᶠ

with jungwon so busy with work, you've been feeling like less of a priority to him.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ cupid's bow (@jjennuine)

ⁿᵒⁿ ⁱᵈᵒˡ!ᵃᵘ, ᶠˡᵘᶠᶠ, ʳᵒᵐᵃⁿᶜᵉ, ᵇᵃᵈ ᵇᵒʸ ˣ ᵍᵒᵒᵈʸ ᵍᵒᵒᵈ ˢʰᵒᵉˢ, ᵒⁿᵉ ˢⁱᵈᵉᵈ ʳⁱᵛᵃˡˢ ᵗᵒ ˡᵒᵛᵉʳˢ, ʰⁱᵍʰ ˢᶜʰᵒᵒˡ!ᵃᵘ, ᵃⁿⁿᵒʸⁱⁿᵍ ˣ ᵃⁿⁿᵒʸᵉᵈ

your worst nightmare — yang jungwon, an ambitious bad boy who never leaves you alone. just like now. he casually invites himself to your birthday party and, once again, decides to bother you. one thing leads to another, and suddenly, you find yourself kissing him?!

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ he keeps asking me who is he? (@sunwonkism)

ⁿᵒⁿ ⁱᵈᵒˡ ᵃᵘ, ᶜᵒˡˡᵃᵍᵉ ᵃᵘ ᵇⁱᵗ ⁱᵗ'ˢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿᵉᵈ, ᵉˢᵗᵃᵇˡⁱˢʰᵉᵈ ʳᵉˡᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿˢʰⁱᵖ

You're stuck with a sulking Jungwon after finding out he wasn't your first love. He was hellbent on finding out who had your heart first, not knowing he's currently in the same room as him.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ eighteen (@dksfml)

ᶠᵇᵒʸ!ʲᵘⁿᵍʷᵒⁿ ˣ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ᵐᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡⁱˢᵗ

where on your 18th birthday, you receive a blessing that lets you see the future, only to find yourself married to jungwon, the college heartthrob you’ve barely spoken to, with a child calling you mom.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ extra credit (@gyuuberryy)

ᵗᵘᵗᵒʳ!ʲᵘⁿᵍʷᵒⁿ ˣ ᵈᵒʷⁿᵇᵃᵈ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

getting tutored by the smartest guy in school should’ve helped your grades—not tanked your dignity. jungwon thinks you’re flirting to distract him from actual studying, and the more you try to act normal, the more he seems to think you’re in love with him. which, okay, maybe you are. but that’s not the point. unfortunately, there’s no syllabus for surviving weekly sessions with your crush when every word you say sounds like a love confession.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ love 119 (@dksfml)

ᵉⁿᵉᵐⁱᵉˢ ᵃᵗ ʷᵒʳᵏ, ˡᵒᵛᵉʳˢ ᵃᵗ ʰᵒᵐᵉ. ˢᵉᶜʳᵉᵗ ᵈᵃᵗⁱⁿᵍ, ˢᵘᵍᵍᵉˢᵗⁱᵛᵉ, ˢᵘᵇᵐⁱˢˢⁱᵛᵉ ʲᵘⁿᵍʷᵒⁿ, ᶠˡᵘᶠᶠ, ᶜᵒᵘⁿᵗʳʸˢⁱᵈᵉ ʳᵒᵐᵃⁿᶜᵉ, ˢᵗʳᵃⁿᵍᵉʳˢ ᵗᵒ ˡᵒᵛᵉʳˢ, ˢˡⁱᵍʰᵗ ᵃⁿᵍˢᵗ, ᵗᵉᵃˢⁱⁿᵍ, ᵐᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡⁱˢᵗ

yang jungwon, a paramedic you can’t stand at work, but can’t stay away from after hours. between sharp words and stolen moments, something deeper brews. your relationship is full with tension, secrets, and the kind of love that hides in plain sight. but not everything is as it seems in the emergency room.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ post argument (@jaysng)

ʰᵘˢᵇᵃⁿᵈ!ʲᵘⁿᵍʷᵒⁿ, ᵖʳᵉᵍ!ʷⁱᶠᵉ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ cuteness aggression (@woniedarlin)

ᵇᶠ! ᴶᵘⁿᵍʷᵒⁿ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐ! ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

Jungwon has a problem. Every little thing you do makes him lose it. One look at you, and Jungwon completely loses it. One sleepy mumble, and he’s smothering you in kisses. It’s not his fault you’re too cute… right?

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ there's no i in friendship (@heethera)

ʸʲʷ ˣ ᶠ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ʰⁱᵍʰˢᶜʰᵒᵒˡ!ᵃᵘ

you don't really like jungwon. too bad, he likes you.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ blood on the welcome mat (@elikajinnie)

ᴾˢʸᶜᵒᵖᵃᵗʰ!ᴶᵘⁿᵍʷᵒⁿ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐ!ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

You thought Jungwon was harmless, until people around you start vanishing. When you uncover the truth, it’s too late. He’s not just obsessed. He’s in love. And he’ll kill to prove it.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ forbidden fruit (@ninisdollie)

fᵉᵐ! ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ˣ ʲᵘⁿᵍʷᵒⁿ, ᵖʲᵒ ᵃᵘ, ᵖᵒˢᵉⁱᵈᵒⁿ'ˢ ˢᵒⁿ! ʲᵘⁿᵍʷᵒⁿ ˣ ᵃᵗʰᵉⁿᵃ'ˢ ᵈᵃᵘᵍʰᵗᵉʳ! ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

At the half-blood camp, there exists an unwritten but unbreakable rule: no romance between demigods. You, daughter of Athena, are known for your intelligence and wisdom, always following the rules to the letter. However, your life takes an unexpected turn when you fall in love with Yang Jungwon, son of Poseidon. Though your feelings are deeper than ever, you know this relationship is dangerous. Not only because of the rule that separates you, but because any discovery could put your lives at risk. As you struggle to keep your love a secret, you must use all your cunning to hide what is growing between you two, but how long can you conceal what you truly feel before everything falls apart?

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ wild uncharted water (@sweetfwr)

ᵖⁱʳᵃᵗᵉ!ʲᵘⁿᵍʷᵒⁿ ˣ ᵖʳⁱⁿᶜᵉˢˢ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

as the son of the nefarious pirate king, jungwon's sole duty is to capture you, the only daughter of the very royal family that threatens his livelihood and his home. however a few ship raids, late night ventures, and exchanges of hate (love?) letters later, it seems that you have captured him instead. body, mind, and soul. or, once the pirate prince catches wind of your engagement, he’s perched on your window demanding an explanation.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ right person, wrong time (@ririsaheart)

ʰᵃⁿᵃʰᵃᵏⁱ!ᵃᵘ, ᵒⁿᵉ⁻ˢⁱᵈᵉᵈ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ⁽?⁾

Flowers, everywhere. You've fallen in love with your class president, and you know he doesn't reciprocate them. This one-sided love has led you to Hanahaki disease in which flowers develop into the lungs and throat. It doesn't stop, and you firmly believe you won't make it.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ like father, like son (@tobiosbbyghorl)

ᵈᵃᵈ! ʲᵘⁿᵍʷᵒⁿ

your son has turned 100 days old

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ shared custody (@woniedarlin)

ᴱˣ! ᴶᵘⁿᵍʷᵒⁿ ˣ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

Breaking up with Jungwon was one thing. But agreeing to co-parent a dog afterwards? That was how you ended up in the weirdest post-breakup situation ever. Because what kind of exes still see each other at precisely 10 a.m? You broke up. You’re sure of it. So why does it feel like your relationship never ended? Just… got a schedule and a leash?

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ much ado about nothing! (@vampzwon)

ʳᵒʸᵃˡ! ᵃᵘ

lord yang jungwon is the most bothersome lord you’d yet to encounter. he is equal parts charm and arrogance, wit and infuriation—wrapped in finely tailored coats and a mouth far too quick with replies. and worst of all, he knows exactly how much he gets under your skin. so when rumours of impossible love spark between you both, it is with great annoyance—and even greater denial—that you attempt to extinguish them. but as pride begins to diminish under the weight of something foreign and tender, the truth becomes much harder to ignore: perhaps the rumours weren’t so impossible after all.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ cherry trees (@enhaflixer)

ᵃʳʳᵃⁿᵍᵉᵈ ʰᵘˢᵇᵃⁿᵈ!ᴶᵘⁿᵍʷᵒⁿ ˣ ᵗʳᵒᵖʰʸ ʷⁱᶠᵉ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

confronting your cold arranged husband on your first anniversary.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ don't look back! (@gyuuberryy)

ʸᵃⁿᵈᵉʳᵉ!ʲᵘⁿᵍʷᵒⁿ ˣ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ᵇᵃᶜᵏʳᵒᵒᵐˢ ᵃᵘ, ᵗʰʳⁱˡˡᵉʳ, ᵖˢʸᶜʰᵒ!ʲᵘⁿᵍʷᵒⁿ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

while working late at the waterpark, you slip through reality and fall into the nightmare realm known as the backrooms. you think you’re alone—until you meet jungwon, a charming boy who offers comfort, survival tips, and the promise of an escape together. but something about him doesn’t feel right. the more time you spend together, the more his affection turns eerie... and the deeper you fall into his trap.

西村力 ~ n.rk

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ for his eyes only (@mrsjjongstby)

ᴬᵘᶜᵗⁱᵒⁿ ʷⁱⁿⁿᵉʳ!ᴺⁱᵏⁱ ˣ ᵇᵃˡˡᵉʳⁱⁿᵃ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

You were a ballerina—graceful, delicate, and broke. When your mentor whispered about a secret gala, you didn’t know you’d be sold. Bought for a hundred million dollars by a man who spoke little and watched too closely, you expected control, cruelty, maybe even a golden cage. But he gave you quiet hallways to walk barefoot, silk sheets to sleep in, and a world scrubbed clean for your comfort. He never asked you to love him. He only made sure you had no reason not to.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ wisdom and death (@elikajinnie)

ᴰᵉᵐⁱᴳᵒᵈ!ᴺⁱ⁻ᵏⁱ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐ!ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

You’ve just discovered you're the daughter of Athena, goddess of wisdom, and now you’re at Camp Half-Blood. You struggle to survive—but now Ni-ki, son of Hades seems to have taken an interest in you.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ hogwarts time travel!au ~ part 1 + part 2 (@enhaflixer)

ˢˡʸᵗʰᵉʳⁱⁿ!ʳⁱᵏⁱ ˣ ᵍʳʸᶠᶠⁱⁿᵈᵒʳ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ˢᵐᵘᵗ

Travelling to the future and waking up married to the last person you expected to marry.

[dksfml]

rewatching descendants of the sun and it is making me wanna write soldier jungwon

[dksfml]

The amount of self restraint this live took from me to stop myself from jumping thru the screen

(ᵕ—ᴗ—)

[dksfml]

THE BESOTTED PAINTER'S PARADOX, LHS

• SYNOPSIS: You dreamed of him first, a boy with tired eyes and a smile that felt like home. Night after night, he returned, and your heart knew him before your mind did. You started painting him, unable to shake the feeling that he was more than just a dream, and to quiet down the feeling of him being too real. Your friends always nag you for falling in love with someone who didn't even exist. But then, one day, you bumped into him. He is real, breathing, and staring back at you as you call out his name. Only... how did you know his name when he'd never met you before?

• PAIRING: Lee Heeseung x afab!reader

• WORD COUNT: 10K

• CONTENT TAGS: Non idol au, strangers to lovers, hurt/comfort, slight angst, found family, lots of yearning, reader can paint and sketch, fluff, use of sign language.

• WARNING TAGS: mention of death, both Heeseung and reader are orphans but it isn't discussed much, existential crisis, mild overthinking, there's a single passing comment about weight but it's not condescending, Heeseung has psychogenic mutism, trauma, mention of car accident but nothing explicit.

• AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey lovelies! This is the shortest fic I've written for enhypen, I almost feel like it's empty :( but I hope you enjoy reading it. Please like, reblog and leave comments. Send ask or inbox me if you'd like. Happy reading!

You push the old wooden door open with your shoulder, and a soft, delicate chime rings above you, gentle and welcoming as you blow out the hair that fell upon your face. The moment you step inside, the rush of the traffic outside is blurred into a quiet hush. Warm amber colored lights framing your body and the room in a golden glow.

You passed by the bookshelf, the mismatched books creating stark contrast against the warm ambient you were aiming for, the walls of the room were decorated with framed arts, tiny potted plants were perched upon the windowsills and on the tables strategically placed in the room.

Scent of the cafe fills you first, the rich smell of coffee, cinnamon and freshly baked goods making you melt. There's soft music humming through the walls blending together with hushed conversations and soft laughter shared over coffee.

"Oh? You're back!" You smiled as you heard Jungwon's cheerful voice fill your ears, he peeked at you from behind the kitchen, "what's that in your hand?" His eyes squint, craning his neck to get a better look, "nothing, just some things." He looked at you warily, eyes darting towards a medium sized box in your hand.

You shrugged, casually placing the box on the table and fishing out the keys from your pocket to unlock the backdoor of the shop. Grunting slightly, you pick the box and take it towards the small studio situated just a few meters away from the coffee shop. You stop when you hear a soft call of your name.

"Jake asked me to inform you that he'll be a few hours late for his shift today," you turned around, nodding at Jungwon in acknowledgement, "he said he texted you but you haven't replied yet." You sighed, giving him an apologetic smile, "I'll do that now." He chuckled, the dimples on his cheeks making you melt as you watched him go back into the cafe.

You turned around, kicking the studio's door open and placing the box down near other things. You placed a hand on your hips, stretching lightly, the box wasn't even heavy, just some art supplies you finally managed to buy after saving some money.

You took out the supplies, arranging them neatly on the table beside the easel. You huffed a breath after you're done, looking at the time, you texted Jake back and made your way back inside the cafe. You took the tray from Jungwon's hand, "let me help you with this, you take care of the counter."

You greeted the customer, placing their order and stepping back after making sure they don't need anything else for the moment.

You sighed, standing by the bookshelf as you took in the state of your cafe, a quiet satisfied feeling bloomed in your heart, the soft conversations, the gentle clatter of mugs and sunlight peeking through the windows reminding you to slow down a bit.

"It's a slow weekday," you heard Jungwon say as he stood by you, "I think I can handle things on my own, you go do your thing..." You looked at him, tilting your head up slightly, "since when did you get so tall? And this is my cafe, what if you secretly take over in my absence, you're too good at what you do!" He laughed, throwing his head back, before mumbling a quick apology for disturbing.

He pushed you towards the backdoor, not giving you a chance to retaliate as he made his way towards the customer who called him to help with his order. You just shook your head, making your way back inside the studio.

You stood right in the middle of your mini, self indulgent, art studio, which was a store room earlier but you managed to DIY your way through it. Few of your small, completed paintings were kept covered on one corner, the other corner filled with a few medium sized canvases, left untouched for future use.

Your eyes finally landed on the large canvas placed on the easel, covered by a big cloth. You had been meaning to paint on a large canvas, hence all the buying and stuff. You huffed, taking off an apron from the hanger and wearing it to protect your clothes from getting dirty by your clumsy hands.

You adjusted the wooden stool in front of the easel, making sure the supplies you kept on the table were within your reach.

You take a slow breath as your fingers grip the edge of the cloth, with a single, gentle motion to remove the cover away. The studio is quiet, save for the distant chirping of the birds, and muffled sound of traffic. The cloth stumbled to the floor, bold graphite lines sprawled across the canvas greet you, dedicating mapping out the soul of what you wanted to bring to life.

You sit there for a moment, letting your eyes trace the lines again. You can already envision the picture, not only in your head but beneath the surface, urging you to move forward. You reach for the palette, squeeze out the paint one by one, and mix them with practiced ease, swirling the brush till you get the right shade.

You gulp as you lean in, the brush hovering just above the canvas. You close your eyes for a moment, this isn't the first time you're drawing, you've practiced well enough to know you won't mess up. Still there's a hidden hesitation behind your eyes, this project had been something which made you learn art in the first place.

You took a deep breath, opening your eyes, your first stroke is deliberate, and your hand moves with an intention. Your other hand is balancing the palette as you concentrate on letting your arm move in broad, sweeping motions to cover the background. The brush glides against the surface smoothly, leaving behind a rich color against the white background of the canvas.

You work on the lighter tones first, then proceeding to the darker ones, the shadows make everything feel too real. Your hand moves with rhythm, dabbing, dragging and shading. The paint smudges on your fingers, a little on your forearm and cheek, it drips on your apron in a moment of clumsiness, but you don't care, mind set on completing the portrait as soon as possible.

As you paint, you lose track of time, the studio is filled with orange and yellow hues of sunset. A knock on your door forces you to get out of your trance.

"You're gonna stay up painting your imaginary boyfriend or join me for dinner?" You roll your eyes, stepping away from the canvas, "I'll join you in a minute." Jake leaned against the doorframe, watching you clean the space. He sighed, eyes straying towards the canvas, the colors of the painting could barely speak, but he found himself listening to it anyway.

"Let's go?" He nodded, turning back towards the cafe as you locked the studio and followed him out. Jungwon greeted as you stopped by the counter of the cafe looking at him, "you're done with the closing?" He nodded back, "yes! I'll handle it, it's almost done, I'll close the shop." You smiled at his words, reaching out to ruffle his hair and Jake made your way towards his car.

"My mom said you're getting thinner after video calling you yesterday, I told her you're busy feeding on your fantasy again!" You glared at him while fastening your seatbelt, "You don't understand, Jake." He hummed, not really in the mood to argue with you over the topic you fight over on a daily basis, he just drove off towards his house, silence settled between you.

You squealed in excitement as soon as his car pulled up at his driveway, without waiting another second you bolted out of the car and knocked on the door. "Aunty! I missed you!" You screamed as soon as the door opened, enveloping Mrs. Sim in your arms, swaying side by side as she laughed at your actions, but hugged you back just as tightly.

Jake shook his head as he approached you and his mom, leaning down a little to place a chaste kiss on his mom's forehead, he urged you to come inside. Jake's mom lived in a small hometown with his father but made sure both of them visited him from time to time.

She always made sure you ate dinner with them during such times, as she knew there's no one else to look after you. She never blatantly questioned you but her care for you was the closest thing you could have for a mom's love and you appreciated her more than anything.

"How's your cafe doing?" You were seated on the dining table with Jake's family, "It's doing well, better than last year at least." Jake's dad nodded, giving his own two cents on the matter. You just hummed, not really interested in discussing business while eating while Jake laughed silently beside you, shaking his head at your avoidance.

"Okay, no more conversation on the dining table, eat your food!" Mrs. Sim caressed your head while pouring more food on your plate, you smiled, thanking her before continuing the dinner.

After the dinner Jake and his dad were engaged in a conversation only they were aware of, while his mom ushered you to join her to sit and talk on Jake's porch.

"How have you been?" Her wrinkled hands captured yours in a warm embrace, running soft circles as she looked at the sky, and somehow that was enough for you to drop your tough girl act and lean your head on her shoulder.

"I'm doing good, the cafe is going well, Jungwon and Jake keep me entertained throughout the day," she hummed, patting your hands softly as she looked at the moon and you took it as a sign to continue, "you remember I always talked to you about taking painting classes? I actually started those few months back, my art teacher says I've an innate talent because I picked up everything so quickly."

"Is that so?" She turned around, releasing her hold on your hand just so she could cradle your face instead, "when will I get to see your paintings then?" Your eyes lit up, you took out your phone from your pocket and showed her the paintings you completed while taking those classes.

"These are all so beautiful, just like you," your face flushed at her words, you smiled sheepishly, "Thank you, aunty!" She chuckled, swiping through your gallery for more of your art, then she halted, for a beat or two, then gently titled the phone towards you, "is this your boyfriend?" Your eyes snapped up at the sketch that was displayed on the screen, you stuttered, contemplating on deflecting the topic or saying the truth, "art subject, aunty."

She nodded her head, locking the phone and giving it back to you, "he looks handsome, does he go to the same university as Jake?" You shook your head no, "I don't really know."

The breeze is brushing against your cheeks as you sit on the bench at Lover's Drift, a place with benches, sidewalks, and a riverview. You were overlooking the river, when a quiet, gentle voice echoed beside you, "Sometimes we stray so far away from reality that we no longer can comprehend if we're dreaming, or if the dream has quietly become our only truth."

A smile adorns your lips as you recognize the voice, loose hair brushes against your cheeks as you turn to your side, he tucks those hair behind your ear, knuckles brush against your jaw in soothing motion, you reach up to hold his hand and he smiles at you.

You hear faint music from a distance, you look towards a music box placed a few feet apart, you smile at him before leaning in closer to hear it better, and as you move closer the faint music turns into a shrill, the rhythmic beeping piercing your ears.

You turn around to look at him, he is smiling while waving at you, then he blinks slowly, his mouth moving but the words are swallowed by the sound. You try to step forward to reach him, you want to walk towards him.

You can see him motioning you to come over but the sound won't let you, just then your eyes open and the familiar surrounding of your bedroom eases into your world like it truly never left. You turn towards your nightstand, confusion laced in your expressions as you turn off the alarm.

You groan, laying back on the bed as tears of frustration well up in your eyes. You just stay there, laying on your bed, your heart racing but you know it's not because of the alarm.

He visited in your dream yet again, and it felt too real to be a lie, so real that you can still feel yourself sitting on the bench overlooking the river and now you're awake, but it doesn't feel like waking.

You hurried inside your cafe, the chime rattling due to your careless movements, your eyes fell upon the boy behind the counter, wiping it clean, not even looking up as if he knew it was you, "Jungwon! Where's Jake?" He finally looked up, glancing behind you and arching his eyebrows, you followed his line of vision, head turning over your shoulder to see Jake talking with the customers about something.

You sighed, taking a look at the cafe to make sure it's ready for the day and stood beside the counter to wait for Jake to be free.

"I saw him in my dream yet again!" You whispered, turning around to face the counter where Jake was now making hot coffee, "who?" Jungwon asked, intrigued laced upon his features as he leaned towards you over the counter. "Her dream boy," Jake informed as he smiled at the customer, giving them their order and watching them sit back.

"Oh..." Jungwon trailed off, giving you a cheeky smile, you shook your head, eyes falling onto the other boy who leaned against the counter, watching you.

"I've been dreaming about him a lot lately, almost everyday from past one month, it wasn't like that before," Jake nodded, realizing that you've been dreaming about a particular boy since you were 15, before speaking, "it's because you constantly keep on thinking about him! You even started sketching him, he's on your mind 24/7, of course you'd dream about him everyday."

You sighed, slamming your head against the counter lightly, "but why does it keep happening? There has to be a reason behind it, right?" You looked up at them, eyes gleaming with fragile hope, "or maybe things just happen, and it's you who wants to make sense of it." You could feel your heart drop at Jake's words and Jungwon elbowed him in the stomach, making him groan in pain.

Jungwon leaned towards you, whispering softly, "or maybe it's a sign from the universe, what if he actually exists?" Your eyes lit up and Jake rolled his eyes but still leaned towards you nonetheless, "Jungwon, don't feed into her delusions," then his gaze fell upon you, "I just don't want you to break your heart with false hope."

You stopped what you were doing when a customer greeted you, Jake made his way towards them to get their orders. Jungwon looked at you as both of you waited for Jake to be done with the orders and he bent his body towards you, "did you apply makeup?" You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, nodding your head in acknowledgement, "yes I did." You heard Jake huff a breath as he approached you two, "okay this is getting out of hand, I'm actually concerned for you."

You pouted, reaching up to tug at the hem of his sleeve, "what if we crossed paths by chance? I want to leave a soft, unforgettable first impression."

You're curled up on your couch, legs tucked under a blanket, the fabric soft against your skin. Outside, the world is blurred between the shades of greys and blacks as rain taps gently against your window, creating a soft rhythm in the otherwise quiet room.

An empty cup of coffee lies beside you on the table and your sketchbook rests on your lap, edges of the page curled slightly. There's no rush in your movement as you glide your pencil across the page, no noise other than the occasional roll of thunder, just you, rain and the strokes of your pencil.

You're still mid-stroke, when the lines start to trail off your sketch and your eyes start to grow heavy.

The soft glow of the light, the steady rhythm of the rain, the warmth of the blanket, and the comfort of the moment lull you to rest, and before you know it, your hand is still resting on the page, sketch unfinished, sleep finally taking a hold of you.

After a while, you feel someone gently shake you awake, soft whispers of your name fall on your ears. You frown, turning on your side, not wanting to let go of the comfort just yet. "Baby, wake up please," his voice is clearer in your ears now, warm breath tickling your face as he leans closer.

Your heart picks up the beat, you can feel the warmth radiating off of him as he dips his head lower, the scent of cedarwood, vanilla and something achingly sweet fills your senses.

You could feel gentle hands tucking the hair away from where they fell on your face, his warm breath fanning against your ear as he whispered, "It's Heeseung."

You open your eyes, sitting up straight as you look around for the traces of him, slumping back against the armrest of the couch you pick up the sketchbook which fell on the floor. Your heart was still racing, you reached towards the glass of water to distract yourself from the dream you just had. It always felt too real to be just a dream, it always left you yearning for his presence.

Biting your lips, you opened the page where you were sketching his silhouette, it was almost finished, but you left it just like that, picking up your pencil, you wrote his name below the sketch, Heeseung, what a pretty name for a pretty boy.

Your hands glided across the surface as you painted the portrait, mixing the colors, creating desired hues and bringing life into the once empty canvas. It had been a while since you started, the portrait was almost finished with the amount of time you spent painting it.

The moonlight seeped into your studio, your eyes drifting towards the clock perched high upon the wall. You stood up, noticing it was almost the closing time of the cafe, you cleaned up the studio before locking it behind you and helped Jake with the closing.

He smiled when he noticed your presence, you smiled back picking up the ragged cloth to clean up the tables. Both of you worked in silence, soft music filled up the space. "Jake," you called off softly, washing your hands before motioning him to lock the cafe. "I'm losing my mind," you started as he walked you towards his car, he didn't shut you up with a snide remark, just hummed in acknowledgement, waiting for you to explain further.

You exhaled a deep breath, fastening your seatbelt as he drove off towards your apartment, "I had a dream a couple of days back where he told me his name."

Jake glanced at you briefly before focusing his gaze back on the road, "his name? After all these years, he decided to finally tell you his name?" You could sense he wanted to say more but you were glad he was being sensible enough to entertain your thoughts instead, "I don't know Jake, these dreams feel too real, too vivid, I could smell his scent and feel his breath when he whispered his name in my ears."

One of his hands reached out to grab yours, he gave it a gentle squeeze before retracting it, "I think you should meet someone, you're too hung up on him." He looked, hesitating a bit, then finally decided to voice out his suggestion, "If you want, I can introduce you to one of my friends, I know you'll like him. Just say the word, don't lose your mind like that."

You're still half asleep when morning light seeps into your room through the withdrawn curtains. You snuggle against the pillow, drawing the blanket closer to you when you hear someone humming a soft tune from your kitchen. The smell of toast and tea invade your nose, and it lingers in the air.

Your body stirs a bit when you feel the bed dip beside you, the tune is more distinct now, it fills your ears with a gentle lilt, he is singing. You feel him cradle your face, followed by a soft press of his lips against your forehead, he calls your name, and the way he says it sounds softer, almost sacred.

You feel weight lifting off of the bed, followed by a soft creak of the floor, it's not loud but you can recognize the sound too well. With each step you feel him drift further away, and even though your body doesn't move, your mind tells you to follow him.

You open your eyes, your hand instinctively reaching out towards him, but he's nowhere to be found.

Your feet drag you towards the kitchen, where your half dazed mind thinks he must be, preparing breakfast for you, only to halt mid-step when consciousness catches up to you. You could still hear the soft hum of the tune which he sang in your ear, you turned around as confusion creeped up on you. It scared you a little, how real everything had started to feel.

"Do you remember what you told me the other day?" Jake looked at you from where he was seated in front of you, munching his food but urging you to continue, "you know?....about that friend of yours?" He choked on his food, you leaned on the table to rub his back and help him.

He coughed a few times before calming down and looked at you with a bewildered expression, "you wanna try going out for a date?" You hesitantly nodded, discomfort laced upon your face, which he noticed, "hey," he started, hand reaching out to gently hold yours, "you don't have to do it if you feel uncomfortable."

You took a deep breath, turning yours in and interlacing it with yours, "these days when I dream about Heeseung, it feels way too real, way too vivid, it's starting to scare me how interlaced he is with my life. Maybe I should go on dates and try to forget about him so it won't feel this real and I won't wake him feeling that hollow ache in my heart."

He rubbed your hand gently with his thumb as you listened to your worries, concern laced upon his face as you state, "if you feel like that I can set you up on a date with him."

You looked at Jake, doubt creeping up on your mind, "let it be," you started, eyes darting away from Jake's, "I don't want to play with your friend's heart, I don't think it's possible for Heeseung to get out of my life." Jake sighed, placing his head on the table, "you won't know until you try, one date. Just one, try it." You contemplated for sometime before nodding your head in agreement.

Maybe meeting new people would help you figure out your feelings. He smiled, reaching for his phone to show you a couple of photos of his friend. He was cute, more good looking than you initially expected and as Jake called you in the evening to let you know his friend would be taking you on a date next week, you prayed you were taking the right step.

The evening is warm, the streetlights cast a soft glow over the streets, Beomgyu is sitting across from you at a cafe in the heart of the city. He's laughing, pausing mid-sentence, eyes crinkling in the cutest way possible.

He's funny, effortlessly so. You laugh with him, not out of politeness but because he's genuinely a fun guy to have around. And for a moment, you wish your heart would skip a beat whenever he accidentally brushed his hands against yours, you wished for the things to be just a little different.

You watch him with a soft smile spread across your face as he tells you about a time he was supposed to attend a birthday party with his friends but accidently went on to a stranger's house, only to realize after hours of partying that they had driven to a wrong address.

You laugh with him as he finishes the story and there's a sudden heaviness in your heart, he looks at you and when your eyes meet his you realize that he deserves more than you could ever give him, he deserves someone who will laugh at his jokes and also feel something with it.

"Beomgyu," he smiles softly as you call his name, though the smile doesn't reach his eyes anymore, it's like his heart knows what is going to happen before his mind catches on.

"You're really amazing," you lean forward, and his smile flatters a bit. "You're really fun to be around, you're easy to talk to, I'm sure there's someone out there who would appreciate you more than I ever could. I don't want to lead you on. I'm really sorry."

He's quiet for a moment, eyes blinking slowly as he lets your words skin in, then he nods, looking up at you, "thanks for being honest, I appreciate you for not giving me false hope."

He insisted on paying for the date even though you assured him it's alright with you. And when you ended your date and gave each other a final hug, he offered to take you home. You declined, already feeling burdened because you wasted his evening but he still treated you with kindness, even in disappointment.

You waved him goodbye as he drove off, offering to drop you home yet again just in case. You informed him you had some other business in the street and to go ahead and you fished out your phone from your pocket to call Jake and inform him about the date.

"What? You ended the date? Even though you liked his company?" You pouted as you explained everything to Jake, and he listened, you could picture disbelief written all over his face as you heard him speak and it was enough for you to whine back at him, "I tried Jake, I tried my best but my heart wasn't in it."

You heard him sigh and you started making your way towards the nearest bus station to go back to your apartment, "you rejected someone real for a person who doesn't even exist, that's all I'm hearing!"

You walked between the crowd on the sidewalk, shoulders brushing past, some muttered quiet apologies, others went ahead without a single glance, "I don't know anything else Jake, all I know is when Heeseung calls my name, I can hear him, when he comes closer, I am surrounded by his scent, when he touches me, I feel him. I know he is somewhere in this world, waiting for me. I can't bring myself to believe he isn't real, because he is."

You continue talking, half lost in your thoughts, you let the crowd lead you towards your destination when a shoulder bumps into you, nothing unusual, but then it hits you. The scent, the familiar mix of cedarwood, vanilla and something sweet.

Your steps flatter but your heart stumbles harder, you turn around, eyes scanning the crowd to find the person, breath caught somewhere in your chest. And then you see him, a couple of feet ahead, walking towards the opposite direction.

The familiar back which you hugged numerous times in your sleep, you could recognize him anywhere. You swallowed the lump in your throat before you gathered every ounce of energy you could-

"Heeseung!"

His movements freeze mid-step, he turned around slowly, eyes searching before they finally land you and as soon as your eyes met, the world around you seems to slow down, the noise of the street dims, you could faintly hear Jake's voice through your speaker calling out your name but it's all happening in the background.

It's just you and him.

Your feet move, slowly at first, a little bit hesitant but then they find their rhythm, urgent and certain. You run towards him, and he's still glued to the same spot, your chest tightens, breath shallow, but you don't stop.

You engulf him into your arms as soon as you reach him, you feel him freeze. For a moment, silence settles around you both, your hands are wrapped around his neck, heart thundering loudly against his. You bury your face at the crook of his neck, breathing into him to ground yourself.

Then slowly, almost cautiously, his arms circled around your waist. His head dipping low on your shoulders, his movements are hesitant, uncertain as he lets you be. You pull back slightly, eyes scanning his face to confirm if he's real.

He is. He is standing before you, arms wrapped around your frame as he looks at you with the same doe eyes as he always did.

"Heeseung," a tear rolled down your cheeks as you whispered his name, he timidly nodded and you closed your eyes, sweat forming on the palm of your hands. Everything feels surreal, you, him and this moment, everything. Your hands reach up to cradle his face in your hand and he unconsciously leans into it, like it's the only thing tethering him in this world.

You feel his breath hitch, and you still can't bring yourself to believe this moment to be real. "You're Heeseung, right? Your name is Heeseung, right?" You ask again, and he nods his head again and again just to assure you.

"Say something," you whisper, breathing in his scent, your eyes staring into his eyes, unable to look away, like your mind couldn't accept that he was standing right in front of you, but your heart felt at ease. He looked at you for a moment, eyes blinking once, twice before he slowly pulled away from you, his head tilting just slightly and his lips trembled a bit before he bit them.

"Do you know him?" Your gaze fell upon a tall, leaned muscled boy, he made his way beside Heeseung, head tilting down as he looked at you with confusion. Your eyes then found Heeseung's, "I do," you started, eyes darting towards the other guy, but before you could speak he cut you off, "if you do, don't you know he can't speak?"

"What?" You look at Heeseung then back at the boy standing beside him, he exhaled softly, his eyes darting towards Heeseung as he spoke softly, "he hasn't said a word in years." Your eyes avert back to Heeseung, who is still staring at you, eyes full of something unreadable, something closer to pain, sorrow or maybe both.

Your feet wobble as you take a step back, your voice dropping low, "but I heard you, I talked with you. Was it all just in my head? But if it was, then why do I know your name, your face, your scent?" His friend looked at you like you had just grown a second head, and if you were in his place, you'd have probably done that too.

"I'm Riki, how do you know him anyway? I've been with him since we were little, I don't remember him ever talking about you," he glanced at Heeseung, who nodded back at him in agreement. "It's hard to explain."

You watch as Heeseung hurriedly grabs Riki's hand to get his attention and signs something to him. You watched as Riki gave him a confused look before he turned towards you, "he says," Riki starts, turning his head towards Heeseung briefly before he looks at you, "he says he has plenty of time to hear you explain."

A smile graces your lips and your eyes gleam in excitement as you look at Heeseung, "really? I was hoping for that." He gave you a small smile, nodding his head but then looked at Riki and signed something to him again. You frowned as you couldn't understand what he was saying but then Riki sighed, hand reaching up to massage his temple, "maybe you could meet up somewhere and talk about it?"

You nodded, mind racing with countless thoughts, then your eyes lit up again, "how about the Lover's Drift? You love that place!" Both pairs of eyes widen at your words, they exchange a glance towards each other, "how do you know he loves that place? Not many people know!" You shook your head, biting your lips in thought before you smiled at Heeseung, "you'll know about it when you meet me there."

And somehow, instead of questioning you further like he should've normally, Heeseung just nodded his head in quiet understanding.

He was curious about you, about the girl who never met him but still called out his name in the middle of street with certainty even he didn't have in himself, about how it is possible for you to know that he loves going to the Lover's Drift when he never told about it to anyone but two of his friends.

You found yourself sitting on the same bench you sat in one of your dreams, the air around you was cool and it tickled your skin lightly. The Lover's Drift, you could see people scattered around the place, some were taking a walk, some were leaning against the benches as they talked with each other, some spread out the blanket and set up the picnic.

You leaned back on the bench, sighing, when you felt a presence beside you. "You came?" Heeseung couldn't help but mirror your expression, his eyes falling on your choice of bench, it was his usual spot, from where he could watch everyone enjoying themselves with their loved ones.

He timidly sat beside you, not too close, not too far, just enough. He didn't meet your eyes, just casually scanned the view in front.

His hands were clasped together and he fiddled with his fingers, "Heeseung," you called him, voice low, his eyes met yours and you smiled, "you don't have to say anything, I'll talk enough for both of us. I just need you to listen to me okay? If you want, you can always type what you want to say on your phone, okay?" His eyes widened for a quick moment, but then he nodded, turning his body towards you slightly as if to say you had his attention and so you started talking.

"This might seem very strange," your eyes flickered towards him for a brief second, "but I was fifteen when you first showed up in my dream." You stared down at your hands, "I thought it was a one time thing, a random place, a random face but then after a few weeks you kept coming back."

You looked at the river in front of you to avoid his gaze, "I never saw you before that, but since you kept occurring in my dreams, I started recognizing you. Those dreams weren't flashes or even moments, it was you, living your life with me." Heeseung's eyes were now trained on you, eyes full of something unreadable, "in those dreams, I learned so many things about you."

"And I know none of the things I said made much sense but here's the part where it gets more confusing," his eyebrows furrows as he leaned against the back of the bench, and you took that as a sign to continue, "you talked to me in those dreams, I heard your voice, your laugh, the slight tremor in your voice when you'd get upset, the way you called my name." You pause for a moment, watching his expressions and you see it, the soft inhale, the tremble of his jaw, the way his finger curls around the hem of his shirt.

"And then I met you, the real you," your voice dropped, "and I came to know you haven't spoken a word since you were fifteen."

He drops his head down, and you fight the urge to touch him, he isn't the Heeseung of your dreams. At least not yet. But you know just like your dreams, you'll find a way to seep into his life, you'll find a way to fit your life with his, that is, if he allowed you to.

"I've spent half of my life living with your memories, there must be a reason for this, maybe the universe wanted me to find you, I don't want to just live with your memories Heeseung. I want you." He glanced up at you, eyes softening around the corners as he watched your lips tremble.

His hand reached you to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckles brushing against your jaw in that familiar motion. And you leaned into his touch, eyes closed, you could get used to this.

Jake's eyes were wide as Heeseung and Riki sat in front of him, you gave them an awkward smile while elbowing Jake to get him out of his trance, "you....you're real, and all this time I berated her for being delusional."

Beside Jake, Jungwon was just as much shocked as he observed the two new faces which sat with him before he spoke, "she told us everything, but I still can't wrap my head around anything." Heeseung and Riki just shared awkward smiles with the other boys.

All five of you were currently sitting together, sipping coffee at your cafe. It was a quiet hour of a busy weekday, you had informed Heeseung that you wanted him to meet your friends who had been with you since the dreams first started, you knew he was curious and eager enough to agree immediately.

Memories were shared in between you and him, disbelief and astonishment etched between bashful laughter. Your eyes met Heeseung's, a shy smile curling up on his lips, you looked away, warmth seeping inside your body.

"I still can't believe it. You dreamed about Heeseung for years, learned his likes and dislikes, and it all turned out to be....true?" Riki's confused gaze found yours, seeking answers, you sighed, adjusting yourself a little, "it sounds crazy, I know. But I'm not making this up at all."

Riki nodded his head solemnly, beside him Jungwon perked up, a mischievous smile etching up on his face, "how about we test her out, you can quiz her, if she got those things right you'll know she's not lying." Jake narrowed his eyes at Jungwon's words but you nodded your head, "yeah, go ahead. I don't mind."

"Okay," Riki leans forward, elbows on the table, "what's Heeseung's favorite midnight snack?" You don't even blink at his question, almost as if it's too easy, it is, "of course it's ramyeon, he can't go a day without it." His eyebrows shoot up as he wiggles his eyebrows at Heeseung who just rolls his eyes at the younger one.

"Okay, what is his weirdest childhood fear?" You stifle a laugh as you answer, "vacuum, he used to think they would suck him into another dimension." Jake and Jungwon chuckled lightly, and Riki leaned back, but Heeseung's eyes were locked on you as he quietly listened.

"What's Heeseung's English name?"

"Evan."

"What's his most prized possession?"

"His piano."

"Favorite weather?"

"Late autumn, when it's not too warm, not too cold, just enough."

Heeseung stood up from where he sat, taking a few steps towards you. He extended his hand for you to take and as soon as you did so, he pulled you up, eyes scanning around the cafe, "want to go somewhere more private?" His head snapped towards you, he nodded, intertwined his fingers with yours, you guided him through the backdoor towards your little art studio, behind you Jake, Jungwon and Riki huddled together to discuss everything that had been happening.

You lead him inside your studio, his eyes taking in the new surroundings, "I paint sometimes," your voice is almost timid as you guide him to sit on a small couch placed at the corner of the room. His eyes fall upon multiple canvases that are covered with cloth and he somehow can't bring himself to ask you about them. "You want to tell me something?" You questioned softly, waiting for him, always so patient, always full of love.

He takes out his phone from his pocket, fingers gliding across the screen to open his notepad. "I should be creeped out by everything that is happening, yet I somehow find myself searching for you." You read the words loudly, and glance up at him, "is that a bad thing?" He shook his head no.

"What else have I shared with you in your dreams?" You read, then let out a soft hum as you thought about it, "you don't like tomatoes in your sandwiches." He nodded, fingers typing furiously against his screen, he then tilted it towards you, "tell me everything." You mumble before sitting up straighter and turning towards him, "your favorite ice cream flavour is rainbow sherbet, you have a habit of tying your left shoelace first, you like to hum 'I'm so tired...by Lauv and Troye Sivan' when you fold laundry or make breakfast, you like the smell of fresh laundry, you like your coffee black, you tap your fingers against your thumb over and over when you're nervous."

Heeseung's eyes turned glossy and you kept on listing the things he told you about, jaw tight. Your heart thumps in your chest, you reach out, gently placing your hand on his and give it a squeeze. He finally looks up, a shaky smile blooming on his lips, then his eyes are back on his phone as he typed again, lips pouted as he concentrated on writing something, "I didn't know about you till you bumped into me, but you know me far better than anyone else had. That scares me a little, but I want to be around you, not because you dreamed of me or know about me. I want to get to know you better, will you let me?"

It happened gradually, like a slow bloom. It began with shared silences where it felt safe rather than awkward, with how his presence spoke louder than his mouth, with the way he looked at you when you laughed, the way he nudged you with his shoulders when you got lost in your thoughts.

You sit beside him close now, saying little but somehow full of understanding, you stopped filling the silences with explanations, and focused on just being with him in the moment. Sometimes you caught Riki throwing a look at Jungwon and Jake as you and Heeseung shared a moment. And it felt calm.

You and Heeseung fell into an unspoken rhythm. There were late nights in your apartment where he worked on his laptop and you sketched him, where you both cooked dinner together to spend just a little more time together.

Then there were quiet gestures which you both shared without needing to discuss the meaning behind them like how he pressed his thumb on your wrist gently when he's trying to gain your attention without breaking the moment, the way you knew he was tried just by how he sets his bag down, the way he could tell if your smile is genuine or not and how both of your contact names started to feel familiar.

Both of you stopped finding the logic behind everything that has happened in the past, stopped needing answers and started craving each other's presence instead. And somewhere along the way, the boy from your dreams became the boy who waits for you outside your cafe to pick you up and spend time with you, who then somehow always managed to sleep over after promising to get back home.

And this time, when you open your eyes, hands reaching out towards him, he's not fading, he stays curled beside you like he never wants to leave.

You, Heeseung, Jake, Jungwon and Riki are yet again huddling around a table at your cafe. You sit beside Heeseung and Riki gives you a teasing look as soon as he feels Heeseung relax just by being beside you.

Heeseung abruptly sits straight as he signs something to Riki, who then looks at you, a sheepish smile etching up on his face but before he could say something your eyes lock with Heeseung, "you want me to show you my paintings?" His eyes go wide at your question and his hands lift up to slowly sign, "you can understand this?"

You laugh nodding your head then signing back, "yeah, I learned it for you. It's not perfect-" His hands hold yours before they leave them just so he could pull you in a tight embrace.

You nervously glance at Heeseung as your hand reaches up to remove the cloth from your canvas, the biggest one, the one you finished shortly before bumping into Heeseung the first time. He waits patiently, eyes gleaming with quiet excitement.

You chuckled because he looks silly but you still love him to bits. "Okay I'm nervous, what if you don't like it?" Heeseung frowns at your words, and he signs, "don't say that, Jungwon told me you are good at it- you talked with Jungwon about my paintings?" He scratched his neck, tip of ears turning red but he nodded nonetheless. You shook your head, hands lifting up to finally remove the cover from the painting.

The cover falls off, and reveals him. Heeseung. Not the version the real world sees, but the one from your dreams, the way you remembered him before you even met him. He steps forwards, reaching towards the painting but stopping mid-way. His eyes roam over the painting, carefully looking at the details, the way you painted the slight furrow of his eyebrows, the softness of his gaze, the slight curve of his lips.

You swallow the lump forming in your throat when he turns towards you, "I wanted you to be there when I opened my eyes, back when I didn't know if I'd ever meet you. So I painted you on canvases, sketched you on my books in fear that I'll lose you to my memory."

His lips trembled, eyes glossy as he looked at you, "I don't think someone has ever seen me the way you do, I think you remember me better than I do myself," he signed. He looks at the painting once more then back at you, "thank you for finding me."

You are done taking your shower, when your doorbell rings. You open the door to see Heeseung leaning against the opposite wall, he pulls up a bag of takeout and gives it to you, giving you a kiss on the forehead as he enters your apartment like it's his second home.

You both eat it in silence, the movie playing on the TV serving as a background noise. He helped you with the dishes, these are the moments when you feel at ease the most. Your legs are draped on Heeseung as you both are sprawled on the couch, his hand mindlessly massaging your legs as you watch the movie.

After a while, his hand reaches up to grab yours, patiently waiting for you to look in his direction, "let's go out for a walk," you smile at him as you get up, grabbing his sweatshirt to wear, you motion him to follow you.

The air outside is cooler, you lean more into Heeseung and his hand finds home on your shoulder, pulling you closer. You slide your hand across his waist, a gentle smile adorning your face as both of you continue to walk on the street near your apartment. It's almost midnight, there's not a single person in sight, and Heeseung finds himself turning to face you.

He leans down and you tilt your head up instinctively, his hands lift up to pull your face closer to his, you notice his hand tremble and immediately step closer, hands sliding up his neck.

You could feel his breath fan against your face, and as he pulls you closer, his mouth parts a little, and you feel him sigh against your lips. One of his hands slides down to circle around your waist to ground you both, his other softly caressing your jaw as he deepens the kiss. You whine against his lips, hands curling into fists as you feel overwhelmed by the way he kisses you.

He pulled apart after sometime, a little breathless. His eyes met yours and he dived back in, more certain with his actions. You don't remember how long both of you stood there, lost in each other when you feel your phone ring in your pocket, he pulled apart with a groan and gently bit your lip before stepping away.

You missed his touch almost immediately but still looked at the caller ID and ask Heeseung to wait for you as you take the call.

"Jungwon? What happened?" Heeseung heard faintly as you walked away from him, the rest of the conversation is blurred out from his ears. He watched you from where he was leaned against the pole of the streetlight, a small smile plastered on his face as he observed you.

His eyes were trained on you as he watched you talking animatedly on the phone, you were completely immersed into the conversation as you walk a little far away from Heeseung's liking. His gaze followed you from across the street, he could hear you laughing faintly, he didn't know the reason but it warmed his heart regardless.

The shift in the environment is so quiet, you miss it, but Heeseung doesn't, he hears a low growl of an engine, tyres screeching against the road, it's fast, too fast. He watches as the glow of the headlight coming from the side street slices through the quiet night like a blade.

The car shows no signs of slowing down, he figures the driver can't see you but Heeseung does. His heart lurched, he is moving before thinking, his pace increases, and he is hardly able to breathe but it's not enough. You're still talking, blissfully unaware of your surroundings.

And that's when something snaps inside of him, something forgotten and buried, raw with fear. It's almost like hell broke loose for him.

You step forward, fingers playing with the strands of your hair as you reassure Jungwon that you'll handle the cafe for a few hours alone tomorrow. You are in the middle of saying something to Jungwon when your name crashes into the air, it's rough, strained even, pulled deep from a place which almost feels unfamiliar to you but you recognize it, you've heard that voice call your names a thousand times in your dreams.

You turn around, phone long forgotten in your hand, eyes scanning around before they land on Heeseung who's looking at you, hands curled tightly against his neck, "move back!" You froze mid-step, breath catching and eyes wide open as you look at him and then finally you hear it.

A sharp screech of a car against the road, swerving just enough to miss you by inches. You fall back by the sheer shock of it all, and it doesn't take Heeseung another second to rush towards you.

"Did you just say my name?" He swallowed hard, eyes glossy, but a single tear escaped his eyes. You reach out to him, pulling him by his collar to hold him in your arms. His hand circled around yours, burying his head at the crook of your neck, you felt him shake.

He holds you like he almost lost you, like speaking didn't matter unless it was to save you. His tears trickled down from his eyes to your neck, but you didn't care as you held him just as tight.

He whispered your name again, quieter this time. Hoarse, raw but real. The sound of it sent a cold ripple down your spine. You pull away, cupping his face and wiping the tears that fell down his cheeks, "you spoke, Heeseung." You couldn't help the tears from falling down, but you drowned out your sob by reconnecting your lips with his.

You are sitting on the couch as you watch Heeseung pace back and forth in front of you, patiently waiting for him to calm down enough to listen to you. He bit his lips, hands on his hips as his eyes squinted at you, leaning back against the couch, you gulped.

He sighed before slowly sitting beside you, arms snaking around your waist to lift and place you on his lap. You squeal at the sudden action, hands gripping his shoulders to anchor yourself. "You should be careful when you're on the road!" He signed at you, his movements frantic that you almost missed what he was saying, his eyes were dark, brows furrowed as he scolded you.

"Try to use your voice," you mumbled, hands sliding around his neck. He swallowed hard, one of his hands leaving your waist to hold his neck, "I felt....my heart....in my....throat....when that....car...approached you." His voice cracked and you held him close, mumbling countless apologies as he nagged at you for being careless.

He never stopped talking after that incident, little by little reclaiming his words. You suggested he move in with you and he agreed instantly, almost as if he was waiting for you to suggest the option. Both of you were currently eating dinner at Jake's house, Mrs. Sim doting over Heeseung as he complimented her food.

You smiled watching your world collide together and beside you Jake nudged his shoulder against yours, "I'm glad you have Heeseung by your side." You didn't have to verbalize to him that you thought the same, with the amount of time Jake had spent with you, he could read your eyes just as easily.

You bid the Sim family a good night, hands interlocking with Heeseung's as you both walked towards your apartment which wasn't too far from Jake's house. His steps flattered against the sidewalk when he stepped on the familiar street, his hand tightened slightly around yours. He called your name. You stopped as you looked at him, waiting patiently to hear what he had to say.

He gulped, eyes roaming over the crosswalk before they landed on you, "I was so scared that night, I thought I lost you." Your chest tightened, "you will never lose me." His head rested against your shoulder, arms curling around you to pull you closer.

You felt him exhale, then in a soft voice he murmured against your skin, "I lost both of my parents in a car accident, I saw it with my own eyes, I lost my voice after that, couldn't bring myself to utter a single word even when I tried my best, but watching you almost get hit by a car bought the same helpless feeling I felt back then. I lost them, I couldn't afford to lose you too."

"Heeseung," you pull away, hands resting against his cheeks, "I'm so sorry baby." He shook his head, hands reaching up to hold yours, he kissed your palms, eyes brimming with tears but he blinked them away, "I love you."

Your heart skips a beat, not in fear, not in panic, but it occured in a way that only happens when something you've quietly hoped finally happens. Your lips part, and for a moment nothing comes out of your mouth. You feel your heart moving faster than your voice, but then you breathe in, a soft, "I love you too," falling off your lips.

His arms wrap around you. Tight. He hugged you like he needed to, his hand gently pressed against the back of your head, and you melted into him, breathing in him as your hands circled around his torso.

And it was the moment when it all made sense. Heeseung wasn't just some boy from your dreams. He was someone you were meant to find, like two lost souls who were dying to find their way towards each other. He wasn't just a figment of your imagination, he was your fate dressed in quiet smiles and fragile edges.

And maybe, just maybe, he was dreaming of you all along, not in the way you did, but with a quiet longing for something he couldn't name.

[dksfml]

i wanna read enhypen fics set in 80s based from the old rock songs 😭😭😭 orrrr i can write one... the sweet venom concept photos really got me aaaaaaa

[dksfml]

#i miss gut wrenching angsts too

Is it just me or enhypen writers don't really write angst anymore? Pardon me if they do cuz i can't seem to find that many. At the beginning of my reading journey here, which was back in 2021-2023, there used to be so many angsty fics. These days it's just smut and sometimes fluff, like don't get me wrong, i love smut, my reblogs are full of them but i love angst just as much. And by angst i don't mean the "them forgetting your birthday" or "them not noticing your new haircut" kind of angst, i mean the real shit, the cheating, the yearning, the gut wrenching feelings, the ones where they don't want you anymore, the ones where they regret pushing you away, idk how to explain. Please tell me i'm not the only one.

[dksfml]

daily reminder that fatal trouble jake exists

did NOT need to remember this this afternoon im gonna end everything i miss him sm sm

[dksfml]

i love this author so much

MAKE YOU MINE — PJS

1: MAKE ME YOURS — You’re an Omega with rare, selective instincts, untouched by every Alpha you've ever met. That is, until you catch a scent that stops you cold and ignites a hunger you’ve never known. It leads you straight to Park Jongseong—the quiet Alpha who barely acknowledges your existence.

Now, every encounter becomes a quiet war with your own body. You try to ignore the pull, and yet, you can’t shake the fear that he might be the only Alpha your instincts will ever respond to… and the only one your heart will ever want.

content tags: a/b/o dynamics: alpha!jay, omega!reader, (ft. beta ningning, beta yeonjun) reader is kind of desparate for jay lol, spoiled bratty! reader, jay don't give a fuck, typical y/n behavior, pursuer female trope!!!, angst w/ little bit of fluff, second hand embarassment, half of the chapter is reader throwing tantrums, or talking about flower knows and nails, non-chalant jay, she yaps & he never (i guess) listen, kinda delusional reader in the first half chapter. no smut. WC:24.4K . next chapter.

⋮ ⌗ act one

     OMEGAS are known for their heightened sense of smell, particularly when it comes to Alphas. Alphas naturally emit strong pheromones, which can influence and attract Omegas, triggering instinctive reactions such as comfort, submission, or arousal, depending on the situation. For most Omegas, an Alpha's scent is a sign of protection or a potential mate, something their instincts naturally respond to.

However, ever since you came out as an Omega, things haven't been that simple.

One major complication is your extreme sensitivity to an Alpha's scent, not in the way that compels submission or attraction, but in a way that it overwhelms you, making you uncomfortable. Instead of feeling reassured or drawn in, the intensity of their presence unsettles you, leaving you tense and overstimulated.

Being in a crowded space full of Alphas feels almost suffocating. While other Omegas might naturally respond by releasing their own pheromones like showing interest or submission, your body doesn't react the way it's supposed to.

You stay still, tense, untouched by the pull that seems to affect everyone else. Their scents hit you in waves that is too strong and too overwhelming, like they're pressing in from every side. But the response everyone expects from you never comes, making it clear that you're different from the rest.

"Her Omega instincts are being selective," the psychologist says, watching you for a moment before setting their clipboard aside. "It's not unusual. Some Omegas are naturally more particular when it comes to choosing a mate. Her body is reacting to Alpha pheromones, but it's filtering them out—rejecting the ones that don't match what it subconsciously sees as a good fit."

Your mother shifts in her seat, clearly uneasy. "But she's not marked or bonded. Shouldn't she be reacting to at least one of them?"

You curl in on yourself, pulling your arms close and wishing you could disappear. It's not like you asked for this!

The psychologist gives a gentle nod. "It could be a natural defense. Some Omegas are less responsive to general Alpha presence, especially when their instincts are focused on long-term compatibility rather than instant attraction. Her body might not have found a match yet. It's rare, but it happens."

Your mother grips the edge of her purse a little tighter. Her lips press into a thin line before she speaks again. "Even during her heat, nothing happens. No response to any Alpha." There's a heavier worry in her voice. "At first, I thought maybe it was nerves, but it's every time. Shouldn't she be drawn to someone? Shouldn't she... want relief?"

You shift in your seat, heat creeping up your neck. The last thing you want is to talk about your heat cycles—not here, not like this. You stare down at the floor, hands clenched tightly in your lap.

The psychologist keeps their tone calm. "Typically, yes. During heat, but in her case, that system isn't responding like it should. Or maybe it's just locked. Her instincts seem to be holding back unless a very specific set of conditions is met." They glance at you, "her biology may only allow a response when it senses something—or someone—exactly right."

You don't need an Alpha. Fuck the way society acts like every Omega should rely on one. Yeah, heat is a bitch. Your body still wants something, the pressure builds, the ache, and that craving for a knot never really goes away. But even with all of that, no Alpha's scent has ever been strong enough to push you over the edge. Not once, and that's fucking okay, you can manage anyway.

Until now.

Your nose twitches as a new scent cuts through the heavy mix of pheromones in the crowded seminar hall. It's sharp, but smooth clean citrus with a warm, woody edge. Fresh, crisp, and nothing like the thick, cloying musk that usually fills spaces like this.

You frown, sniffing the air again. "What's that smell?" Beside you, Ningning scrunches her face, giving a quick sniff before shrugging. "What smell?"

"That smell," you repeat, already stepping forward without realizing it. Your body moves on its own, drawn by the trail curling through the room.

Ningning sighs and follows, heels clicking against the polished floor. "Is it bothering you? We can leave, you know. This seminar's pointless anyway." But you barely hear her. The scent is subtle, yet it grabs hold of something inside you and refuses to let go. It doesn't choke you or press in too close. It lingers inside your brain and calling you.

"Hey! Where are you going?!" Ningning yells, trying to keep up as you slip through the crowd. Inside you, the Omega stirs. There's a quiet hum under your skin, a soft purr in your chest that builds with every step.

Alpha. The word rings in your mind, and the moment you reach a clearer space in the crowd, the scent hits you full force, and it wraps around you so gently it nearly takes your breath away. Your knees almost buckle under the weight of it.

He stands just a few feet away. His raven-black hair is neatly pushed back, sharp jawline accentuated by the clean-cut angles of his face. The thin frames of his glasses rest perfectly on his nose, and the designer Prada bag slung over his shoulder adds to his air of quiet sophistication. Everything about him exudes elegance.

An unmated Alpha. Exactly what you're looking for.

You move before you can think, feet carrying you toward him. Ningning stares at you, mouth open in shock. "What the hell are you doing?!"

You don't answer, because the moment you reach him, you stop—right beside him. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to let the scent wash over you fully. He turns his head slightly, finally noticing you. His sharp eyes flicker with curiosity behind the lenses of his glasses.

You just stand there, inhaling his scent, letting it fill your lungs, your body. It's ridiculous how good he smells, It was the smell that something your Omega has been starved for.

Make him yours. The voice inside you, your Omega, purrs again.

Ningning definitely notices. Her jaw nearly hits the floor as your eyes follow the Alpha when he quietly slips out of the room. You're practically floating in his scent trail, still dazed. "What the hell was that?" She hisses, grabbing your arm as soon as he disappears through the door. "Don't ever approach someone like that again. He's going to think you're weird!"

You blink, only half-hearing her. The moment plays over in your mind again and again.

You find out his name sooner than expected—Park Jongseong, a Media Communication major. As fate would have it, the universe seems to be working in your favor. He's in several of your classes. Every time he enters the room, your Omega perks up. A soft purr thrums in your chest before you can stop it.

Ningning always throws you a look and mutters under her breath, "Seriously? Again?"

Your eyes always follow him automatically—across the room, down the hallway, when he leans over his desk or pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Every move he makes, no matter how small, draws you in.

He doesn't talk much. He always sits near the windows, notebook open, pen in hand, brows slightly furrowed as he listens.

Make him yours.

"Help me get his attention," you whisper, leaning into Ningning as Jay starts packing up after the lecture. He's calm and quiet as always, sliding his notebook into his bag, adjusting the sleeves of his black knit sweater.

Ningning's eyebrows shoot up. Her lip gloss wand freezes midair. "What?"

"Come on, quick!" you hiss, already digging through your bag for your perfume. She groans but moves fast. You tilt your head forward as she fixes your hair, brushing a few flyaways and smoothing it down. Meanwhile, you spritz a little perfume on your neck and wrists, just enough to mix with your natural scent. Ningning grabs her lip gloss and dabs a bit on your lips, then hands you your compact mirror.

"Go," she whispers, giving your clothes a quick once-over and adjusting your collar. You nod, your heart racing as you stand and gather your things, trying to keep your hands from trembling. Ningning follows close behind, fixing your shirt and muttering encouragement under her breath.

You spot him just ahead, stepping through the lecture hall door. This is it. You cough a few times, trying to steady your breath, then pick up your pace, weaving through the crowd. Your eyes are locked on him, he's almost at the stairs when you catch up and accidentally bump right into him.

"S-sorry," you stammer, your things slipping from your arms and scattering across the floor.

He pauses, then crouches down, picking up your notebook without a word. His expression doesn't change, but the moment he moves closer, his scent washes over you again. That warm, clean blend of citrus and wood that makes your body melt. Your Omega reacts instantly, purring loud and eager beneath your skin. You feel your own pheromones release in response, filling the space around you with a subtle sweetness.

Jay's hand freezes as he reaches for your lip gloss, his shoulders stiffen. The flicker of awareness in his eyes as the scent hits him.

But just like that, he composes himself. He stands slowly, and hands you your things. "Here," he says politely. Then, without another glance, he turns and walks away. Leaving you standing there in the middle of the hallway, dazed and breathless, your Omega still humming with need.

"Bitch?!" Ningning hisses, snapping you out of your trance as she rushes to your side. "You should've said something! Asked his name, complimented his glasses, anything!" You blink, still watching Jay's back as he disappears around the corner. "I couldn't," you murmur. "My brain just... stopped working."

Ningning groans, dragging a hand down her face. "And why—why—did you release pheromones? At least try to be subtle!" Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. Ningning was already pulling you aside so no one else overhears. "Some Alphas hate that kind of attention, especially if it's not from someone they've claimed. You have to ease into it, be patient. Make him curious."

You nod slowly, maybe she's right. Maybe pouncing on him with scent and nerves wasn't the best move. Not everyone responds well to sudden heat, especially not when it's from a stranger. You need a new plan. Something that keeps you close enough to be noticed without pushing too hard.

The second time you try is days later, at the vending machine. You spot him across the hallway, standing in front of the glowing machine, casually scanning the snack options. His hair is slightly tousled today, glasses still perched perfectly on his nose, and his black hoodie is unzipped just enough to show the white shirt underneath.

You breathe in slowly and check yourself in the glass reflection nearby—hair smooth, lips glossed, scent neutral but fresh. Ningning had prepped you, hand landing firmly on your shoulder.

"Act casual. Go for something at the vending machine next to him. Drop something, but not your lip gloss again. That's obvious. And for god's sake, don't purr. Just smile. Like a normal person."

And you are walking over at a steady pace, fingers tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You stop beside him, not too close, pretending to examine the chocolate-covered almonds . He doesn't glance your way, but you can feel his quiet presence because it carries a weight of calmness that makes the air around you feel thick.

You reach out to make a selection but "accidentally" drop your coins. They roll, clinking softly before stopping near his shoe. He looks down, then turns his head toward you. You offer a small, sheepish smile. "Sorry... I'm not usually that clumsy."

He bends down, picks up the coins, and holds them out. "Here." And with just one word, but his voice settles deep in your chest.

"Thanks," you reply quietly, reaching out. Your fingers brush against his, and the lightest spark tingles across your skin. You exhale a little too softly, trying not to seem too obvious. Your foot taps once against the floor as the silence stretches, your Omega waiting beneath your skin.

Say something. Anything! Your eyes flick to the snack in his hand, and you grasp for words. "Uh... the almonds are kind of hard to bite," you say, gesturing vaguely to the machine. "Like, weirdly crunchy."

He glances at the pack, then back at you. "That's how I like it," he says simply.

You nod, a little too fast, tapping your foot as the silence stretches. Your mind races for a way to keep it going. "Well, you should try the cookies," you say, voice a little shaky as you slip a coin into the machine. "They're actually pretty good."

"Thanks, but I'm not really into that," Jay replies, his tone flat but not unkind.

You glance at him, searching for interest, or a flicker of attention but there's nothing. His expression stays unreadable, his eyes already drifting elsewhere. No spark, no tension, no sign that he feels even a hint of what you do. And just like that, something inside you stirs. A bitter, involuntary scent slips out, sharp enough that you feel it hit the air.

"U-Uh..." you murmur, fumbling to grab the cookie pack from the tray. Jay pauses for the briefest second, but he doesn't look back. He just turns and walks away, completely untouched by the moment you thought might lead to something.

You're left standing there, snack in hand, heart sinking fast. Your Omega retreats into silence, humiliated, like even it knows the moment was a failure.

Ningning appears beside you in an instant, throwing her arms around your shoulder. "I messed it up again," you mumble, voice caught in your throat, the sting rising faster.

"No," she says firmly, refusing to let you spiral. "Some Alphas take time. We just need more interaction, that's all." She waves her hands as if drawing a map in the air. "We'll plan it out better."

You nod quickly, already thinking through new ideas, anything to close the distance between you and him.

PARK JONGSEONG is the kind of Alpha people whisper about, composed, intelligent, clearly ahead of the curve in every class. You've seen how professors look at him when he speaks. You've watched how other students move aside when he passes. His scent, for you, is everything, It wraps around your Omega. So steady, clean, so grounding.

Except when he's ignoring you. Which is all the time.

And still, you try. Pathetically. Persistently. Every damn time.

You drop your student ID at the table he always takes in the library—a corner seat by the window, second floor, right after lunch. Ningning thought it was genius. You even positioned it just barely under the leg of the chair, so he'd have to notice.

You linger nearby, pretending to flip through a book on media ethics, waiting.

"Oh no—this yours?" The Student Council President, of all people, walks up, holding your ID. "You shouldn't be so careless. Do you know how much of a hassle it is to replace one of these?"

Your mouth opens and closes, cheeks heating up. "I—I just dropped it..."

"Well, don't just drop important things off in public spaces, lady. Be more mindful next time." He hands it to you with a huff and walks off.

You glance at Jay's table. He's still reading, pen tapping slowly against the side of his notebook. No reaction. Not even a glance in your direction.

Not. Even. A glance!

You think you're being fucking ridiculous at this point. Every carefully planned attempt, every "natural" interaction, every dumb little coincidence you set up—none of it works.

"Maybe he has a girlfriend?" Ningning says carefully, watching your expression. Your jaw tightens, fists clenching at the thought. But you shake it off fast, refusing to let that idea root.

"He doesn't smell like another Omega," you mutter, voice sharp. "You would know that. I would know that. And he's unmated."

"Woah, calm down," Ningning replies, holding up her hands. "I'm just saying... it's weird. We're on, what, attempt number five? And he's still not reacting."

You sigh, slumping against the hallway wall. "I know."

The thing is, most Alphas aren't that hard to read. They're biologically wired to notice an Omega when they're near especially one who's showing interest. A glance, a tension in the shoulders, a change in breathing. Anything.

Some Alphas are aggressive, territorial. They're the ones who scent-mark and cling too fast, too soon. Others are more careful, observant, waiting for signs of compatibility before making a move. Jay, apparently, is the third kind, the kind that doesn't react at all.

But you know he's not immune.

That first time, when you accidentally released your scent in front of him, he stiffened. You've replayed it so many times, dissected every second. He didn't look at you, didn't speak beyond handing back your things, but his body gave him away. That fleeting shift, that pause in his movement, it was something. It had to be. You've been clinging to that moment, letting it carry you through every failed attempt since. Because if you stop believing it meant something, even the smallest thing, then there's no point in trying at all.

The truth is, from the moment you caught his scent, everything inside you shifted. You knew he was the one. Your Omega didn't just react to him—it chose him. And the more time you spend near him, the more your choice solidifies. Not out of desperation or fantasy, but because of how right it feels when he's close, even if he never looks at you.

Make him yours. And you're starting to understand something you didn't at first. Subtlety had its chance. Casual conversations, timed glances, convenient run-ins—they all failed. He didn't bite.

If normal interaction isn't enough to break through that calm wall of his, then you'll have to try something else. Something bolder. Something that matches the pull your Omega feels every time he walks into a room. You're done waiting for him to notice. The plan now is to make sure he can't ignore you.

Because quiet doesn't work on someone like Jay, you need to make a little noise.

⋮ ⌗ act two

     AS SOMEONE with an unusually selective sensitivity to Alpha pheromones, you grew up wrapped in a carefully constructed kind of comfort. Your parents made sure that everything you needed—emotionally, physically, and materially—was always within reach. They knew you weren't like the other Omegas your age, who seemed to handle their instincts and hormonal shifts with far less complication.

They filled in the gaps with attention and luxury, convincing themselves and maybe even you that it wasn't a weakness, just a different kind of path. You were well taken care of, and nothing you wanted ever stayed out of reach for long. Whether it was comfort during your off days, distractions from your unresponsive instincts, or a quiet place to fall apart, it was all handed to you. Soft pillows. Favorite meals. New clothes. Extra time. Anything to soothe the ache that no one could see.

But no matter how much they gave, a part of you always knew something was missing. You didn't know how to name it then, not when everything looked so perfect on the surface. You didn't lack affection, didn't go without care. Still, the emptiness sat somewhere low in your stomach, coiling tighter every time you watched another Omega respond naturally to the presence of an Alpha, while you stayed untouched.

Your heat cycles were more like drawn-out fevers than instinct-driven events. You'd lock yourself away, curled in sweat-dampened sheets with a pounding head and aching limbs, convincing everyone that it was just another sick day. You never told them that the worst part wasn't the physical discomfort but the fact that your body was asking for something it never responded to. Nothing ever triggered the right release.

Still, you didn't mind skipping classes. You used those days as excuses to disconnect from the world, as if sleep and silence could somehow fill the void. Even if your body felt broken, the rest of your life was wrapped in ease. You learned to live with the quiet, with the stillness that followed every unanswered pull.

But the moment that Alpha stepped into your world, you knew, without needing time to process it, that he was the missing piece. The emptiness you'd been taught to manage, the dullness you had accepted as normal, suddenly felt glaring and intolerable.

For so long, you had lived a life where nothing was ever denied to you. From material comfort to emotional reassurance, everything you desired had been placed easily into your hands. It created a world where you never had to fight for anything, never had to question your worth or chase after something that resisted you. But now, you wanted something—or rather, someone—who didn't come running. Someone who didn't fall at your feet or bend to your need. And that was Jay.

"Hi," you say with a soft smile, setting your things down on the table beside him. The contents of your preppy, overstuffed bag clatter slightly—pens, lip gloss, and a pack of color-coded sticky notes shifting with the weight as you place it aside. Jay looks up, raising an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard by your sudden appearance at his table.

"There's no seat available," you explain smoothly before he can ask. When his eyes start to flick past you, probably to check if that's actually true, you casually shift your body to block his view. He hesitates for a second, then, without a word, he leans back and reaches for the empty chair beside him, pulling it out for you before returning to the book in his hand.

Your heart gives an excited flutter, the tiniest rush of victory surging through you as you slide into the chair he offered. You sit a little straighter, pretending not to be giddy while your lips curl into a quiet, triumphant smile. You glance back over your shoulder and spot Ningning at the back row. She catches your eye, hands cupped in front of her as she silently claps and flashes you a double thumbs-up. You almost laugh.

You adjust the sleeves of your cardigan with a light tug, smooth the fabric of your skirt across your lap, and begin pulling out your things—your textbook, a rainbow of highlighters, and your favorite fine-tip pens, all laid out in perfect order. As the professor enters and begins to arrange their notes, the murmurs in the lecture hall die down. You straighten your back, fingers folding neatly on your notebook, but your eyes drift to the side.

Jay sits perfectly still, his focus already back on the textbook in front of him. He hasn't said anything more, hasn't looked at you again, but the tension in your chest remains. You breathe in slowly, catching a trace of his scent in the air. It's just as sharp and grounded as you remember, a mix of something clean and deep that makes your Omega stir with quiet satisfaction.

The professor started to discuss lessons and you are practically listening and somehow taking notes to maybe impress him, and that was working because he took a glance of your side, seeing you highlighting the whole textbook words. Trying to show him that you're serious, intelligent, worthy of more than a glance.

Jay shifts slightly in his seat, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a brief flick of his gaze in your direction.

You keep your face neutral, pretending to be deep in concentration as your highlighter glides over the page. Line after line glows in soft pastel, the entire passage bathed in yellow. A tiny Hello Kitty doodle in the corner of the page, next to a heavily annotated paragraph on communication theory.

You wonder what he's thinking. If he's amused, confused, maybe even slightly entertained. A quiet giggle escapes your lips, and you bite down gently, trying to hide the smile forming there. Your foot taps lightly against the floor, energy buzzing low in your body.

You wait a moment longer, gauging the air between you. He hasn't looked again, hasn't shifted or spoken. So you take a breath and lean a little closer, turning slightly toward him. "Uh... I don't actually get this," you say, voice soft but clear as you point to a section in the textbook—an overly technical explanation on media framing you've probably already read twice. "Can you explain it to me?"

For a second, he doesn't respond. His eyes remain on his book, and you start to wonder if you've crossed a line too soon. But then he exhales quietly, closes his textbook partway, and glances at the page you're showing him. His gaze lingers there for a moment, then shifts to you. "You highlighted the whole paragraph," he says.

Your cheeks flush, but you don't back down. "I like the... vibe of it." Jay looks at you for a second longer, then he leans in slightly, his finger tapping just under a specific line on the page. "It's saying the media doesn't just tell people what to think but what to think about. Focus, not opinion."

"Oh," you murmur, nodding slowly, eyes flicking to where his hand rests just a few inches from yours. "You make it sound easier than it reads."

"I read it twice," he replies, already pulling his book back in front of him.

And though he doesn't say anything more, his voice is still in your ears. You turn your eyes back to your book, pretending to focus, even though your brain has stopped retaining anything. You don't try anything else after that one moment. That single conversation is enough to carry you through the rest of the day. It's the first time Jay acknowledged you, and it left your Omega humming.

Now, walking through the hallway with Ningning by your side, you can't stop smiling. The two of you are giggling, replaying every second of that encounter.

"He definitely wants you," Ningning says with dramatic flair, nudging your shoulder.

You laugh, blushing as you swat her playfully. "Shut up, it was just one line."

"Please. That line had chemistry." You roll your eyes, but you can't deny the heat in your cheeks or the way your heart flips at the memory.

Reaching the vending machine, you step forward, scanning the options. "Huh? No cookies?" you frown, staring at the empty slot. "Ugh, I was craving those."

Ningning leans in, also inspecting the machine. "Tragic," she says with a mock-sigh, then brightens. "What if we cut our next class and check out that new café that just opened near the plaza?"

You blink. "Tempting." Ningning pulls out her phone, scrolling before shoving it toward your face. You lean in, squinting at the tiny text, then pinch the screen to zoom. "Sixty dollars for a matcha latte?" you ask, arching a brow. "Not bad."

Ningning squeals in approval. "Okay, so we do the café and get our nails redone. We need to change the designs anyway—mine are chipped, and yours are too soft for this week's vibe."

"I was just thinking that," you nod. "I need a silver set. Like sharp silver."

"You'll slay," she says, flipping her hair. You're mid-laugh when a voice cuts through the moment.

"Excuse me." 

You and Ningning turn simultaneously, startled. Jay stands just behind you, hand gesturing toward the vending machine.

Your mouth opens. "H-Huh?" He doesn't repeat himself, just nods slightly at the machine again. You immediately step aside, your heart leaping into your throat.

"Sorry," you mutter, voice small. You grab Ningning's wrist and drag her away, heels clicking way too loudly in the suddenly echoing hallway.

You don't speak until you're halfway around the corner. Then, a panicked whisper: "Oh my god. Did he just hear us talking about skipping class?"

Ningning stares at you, wide-eyed. "I think he did."

You gasp, covering your mouth. "What if he thinks I'm irresponsible?! What if he's, like, into punctuality?"

"Oh, calm down," Ningning says, rolling her eyes and giving your shoulder a light slap. "You're hot. He'll understand."

The next day, you're back in class, you move toward the seat beside him. He doesn't look up when you settle in, but he doesn't move away either. That alone feels like a small victory.

Your bag makes its usual soft thump as you place it down, and you take a slow breath, gathering the courage to try again. Your fingers flip open your notebook, the page already prepared with today's topic scribbled in soft pencil at the top. You glance at him once, then look down at your page, pretending to be curious then turn slightly toward him.

"Sooo..." you start, "how do you think politicians build and maintain public personas? Do you think it's all strategy, or is there actual personality behind it?"

Jay's pen pauses mid-sentence. He doesn't look at you right away, but he tilts his head slightly, as if considering the question. "It's both," he says, voice even. "Strategy shapes the narrative, but personality sells it. If the public doesn't believe it's genuine, the image falls apart."

You blink, caught off guard by the depth of his response and the fact that he answered you at all. "That's... actually a good point," you say, surprised by how easily the conversation opens. "So image is controlled, but it needs to feel natural?"

He nods once, eyes still on his notes. "Authenticity matters. Or at least the illusion of it." You nod along, genuinely impressed by how he speaks. There's no flourish, no need to impress. He just says what he means. You turn slightly toward him again, emboldened by the way he hasn't shut you out.

Truth be told, you're not all that invested in the lecture or the textbook you've been pretending to highlight. You didn't choose Media Communication because you had a burning passion for media theory or policy analysis. You chose it because it was flexible, creative, and practical enough to satisfy your parents while still giving you room to breathe. You're more interested in the industry side—branding, entertainment, fashion, maybe even PR.

Your gaze drifts back to him, and without thinking too hard about it, you speak again. "You know, you're like... really serious," you say, laced with genuine curiosity. "I admire that in an Alpha. So quiet, but it's like you always know exactly what you're talking about."

That earns you a glance. "Why did you choose this major?" you ask, trying not to sound too eager. "Was it something you always wanted?"

Jay closes his book, slips a paper between the pages to mark his place, "I chose it because communication controls perception," he says. "And perception shapes power. If you want to understand influence, you have to understand how people see the world and who's deciding what they're allowed to see."

You blink, a little caught off guard by how sharp his answer is, how layered. God, he's so hot. You rest your chin on your hand, pretending to scan your notes while stealing another glance at him. His jaw is sharp from this angle, and the way he absentmindedly taps his pen against the edge of the table feels unintentionally deliberate.

"You make it sound so... intense," you say with a soft laugh, trying to sound casual.

"It's just media," he replies, eyes still on his notes. "But most people don't realize how much it controls them until it's already shaped their beliefs."

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling too hard. He's serious, and he probably doesn't even realize how attractive that is. "I just chose it because I didn't want to take calculus," you admit, shrugging. "I'm aiming more for industry—creative side. Branding. Fashion. That sort of thing."

He glances at you again. "So not here for the theory."

You laugh lightly. "Guilty."

ONE THING about Jay that you've repeated—out loud to Ningning, in your head at night, and even in your journal when you're feeling particularly lovesick—is that he's just so serious. It's not just his expression, which rarely shifts from that calm, focused look, or the way he speaks in clean, measured sentences. It's everything about him. The way he listens before speaking, the way he never fidgets or rambles, how he always seems a little detached from the chaos around him.

Conversations with him are awkward more often than not, mostly because you're doing most of the heavy lifting. You ask, he answers. You joke, he blinks. You try to steer things toward common ground, usually something from the subjects you share, but even then, getting more than a few sentences out of him is like trying to pull sunlight out of storm clouds. Still, there's something about his stillness, the way he never brushes you off, never acts annoyed or dismissive, that keeps you coming back. He may not give much, but he doesn't shut you out either. And for someone like Jay, that's saying something.

You've been trying for weeks now to catch him smile. A real one. Not just a twitch of the lips or a polite curve. You've watched his face like a hawk in lectures, in group discussions, even when someone in class said something truly ridiculous. Nothing, he's a stone wall. A beautiful stone wall.

You're walking beside him after class, textbook tucked against your chest, and your eyes flick up toward him. "Wow," you say, almost without thinking, blend with something a little more flirtatious. "You're like... so tall."

He makes a low sound in response—"Hmmm"—flat, sooo uninterested. His eyes stay forward, no change in his expression, and for a second you want to groan. Why is he like this?

You bite your lip, forcing a small laugh as you quicken your steps to stay beside him. "It's normal for an Alpha to be tall, right?" you continue, "Is that, like, a biological thing or just unfair genetics?"

A beat of silence that almost makes you think he's going to ignore you again—but then, finally, he speaks. "I guess height's common," he says. "It's just bone structure. Has nothing to do with whether or not someone can protect or lead."

And just like that, the conversation slips right back into that oddly philosophical tone he always seems to carry. You blink, unsure whether to be impressed again or just plain exhausted. You hug your textbook tighter to your chest and glance at him, lips parting, but nothing comes out. Because really, what do you even say to that? You were joking. Kind of. Or at least trying to keep things playful. Flirty, maybe. And here he is, treating the topic of Alpha height like it's part of some dissertation.

Why is he like this? Why does every conversation with him end up sounding like it belongs in a debate or a textbook? You let out a soft sigh, almost defeated. Does he not have a sense of humor? At all? Has he ever laughed? Like, genuinely?

He's not cold, and he's not mean—he just seems like he's wired to take everything seriously, to filter everything through logic and restraint. Like the idea of saying something stupid just for fun physically pains him.

"I know there's something under that ice," you mutter as you find yourself collapsing into a seat beside Ningning. "I just haven't figured out how to melt it yet."

Ningning leans in, suddenly serious. "Okay. Then stop letting him steer the tone. Flip it."

You blink. "Flip it?"

"You keep asking him about himself—his thoughts, his perfectly structured, emotionally stunted worldview," she says, waving her hand dramatically. "Ask him something about you. Throw him off. Put him in unfamiliar territory."

You frown, considering. "Like what? My childhood trauma?"

"No!" She glares. "Keep it cute, dumbass. Ask him what nail color suits you. Or what your color palette is. Something visual. Something he wouldn't expect. Make him look at you as you. Not a classmate, not a discussion partner—you."

You blink at her, then slowly sit up, a grin creeping across your face. "That's actually kind of genius."

Ningning preens. "Of course it is. I should start charging for advice."

The next time you see Jay after class, while walking beside him down the stone path lined with early autumn leaves—you wait until the conversation dips into its usual silence. You look down at your nails, freshly done with a soft nude polish and silver accents, then glance at him.

"Hey," you say casually, turning toward him slightly, "be honest. What color do you think would look good on my nails?"

"I—what?" He says. You lift your hand, fingers fanned slightly. He looks at your hand, and for the first time in weeks of trying, he actually hesitates.

"Why are you asking me?"

You raise a brow, keeping your voice light. "Because you have eyes, and I figured you might know what looks good. You're observant. Aren't Alphas supposed to be visually sharp or something?"

Jay's expression doesn't shift much, just that same slow, processing look he gives to everything. As if he's trying to figure out if this is a trick question. "I'm not really an expert on nail colors," he replies.

"Exactly why your answer would be interesting," you say, not letting up. "No overthinking. Just—what do you think would look good?"

He stares at your hand a moment longer, his brows narrowing slightly in thought. "Dark red. Or emerald. Something that contrasts."

You blink, surprised not just by the answer, but by how confidently he says it once he decides. "Really?" you ask, grinning. "Why?"

"Because it would stand out. You wear a lot of soft tones. That would break it."

You pause, smile lingering. Your Omega purrs beneath the surface, pleased by his answer. You didn't even realize you were releasing pheromones until you caught his glance again, he felt it but chose not to say anything. You quickly pulled back, muttering your goodbye before walking away, your steps light, body buzzing with something that made you feel like you could float. Or run. Or scream.

Ningning fans herself dramatically as you finish the story, eyes wide and lips parted like she's about to faint.

"I need to breathe. I actually need to lie down. This is too much. He wants you that bad."

Over the next few days, you find yourself leaning in more, talking more, weaving pieces of yourself into the quiet spaces he allows you to fill. You know you're chasing him. Carefully. Waiting for him to slip just enough to let you in.

You tell him about your shopping trip with your parents, narrating it like a story you hope he'll secretly enjoy. You pull out your phone and show him your new emerald nail set, his suggestion—and even though he only glances and gives a barely-there nod, your heart races.

Today, you're back beside him again, phone already in hand before class starts. He's reading—he's always reading—but you angle the screen toward him anyway.

"Look," you say softly, tilting your phone so he can see. "This is the new design for the Flower Knows. Isn't it cute?"

He barely lifts his gaze. "Hmm."

"I'm planning to buy the whole set," you continue, your tone light with just enough excitement to keep the conversation moving. "The design is so cute—it's like, magical fairy princess energy."

You start digging through your bag, rummaging past highlighters and hand cream, determined to show him more proof of your obsession. "And look—this clip? Also from Flower Knows. And my mirror, too."

You finally pull it out and hold it up between you. It's pastel pink with gold accents, the mirror rimmed with delicate little flowers and a tiny pearl charm dangling from the corner. You tilt it toward him with a proud smile. "Cute, right?"

Jay glances up, gaze flicking to the mirror in your hand. He studies it for a beat longer than usual, eyes moving across the details before they shift back to your face. Yes, attention!

Your Omega stirs instantly, thrilled by the flicker of focus. "You really like this brand," he says.

Your eyes sparkle at the sound, and you nod, heart fluttering. "I do," you say, tone bright. "They make everything so pretty—romantic, even. It's like they design everything with soft people in mind."

Without missing a beat, you shuffle through your bag again, fingers brushing past pens and notebooks until they close around the familiar small tube. You pull it out and hold it in front of him, the packaging all shimmering red and pink. "This is my favorite," you say, showing him the lip glaze. "It came from the set called Strawberry Cupid. Even the name's adorable."

You twist off the cap and hold the wand up, careful not to get it too close. "It smells like candy, and it's got this tiny gold shimmer in it. I'd let you try it, but I don't think that's your vibe."

Jay doesn't respond, just silence as he calmly turns back to his textbook. The brief moment of attention is gone again, and you're left staring at the side of his face. But you don't stop. You refuse to stop. You lower the gloss, cap it again, and rest your elbow on the table, head tilting slightly as your eyes drop to his hand—broad, still, resting lightly over the open page of his book. His fingers are long, neat, relaxed.

"Stop it, Jay," you say, a teasing lilt in your voice. "Your hand is like sooo big." He doesn't move, but his pen pauses in place. You slide your hand next to his on the table, palms flat, fingers stretching to match his. The size difference is comically obvious.

"Look at this," you say, eyes flicking between your hand and his. "This is ridiculous. I look like a baby." Still no verbal reply, but his eyes shift to the sight of your hand beside his. "You could literally hold my entire face with one hand," you add, smirking.

Jay exhales, finally speaking, tone flat. "Why would I do that?"

"Dramatic emphasis," you reply without hesitation, grinning.

You expect him to ignore you again. Instead, he flips the page in his textbook, slowly, and mutters under his breath, "You're so fucking loud."

It should sting. Maybe from someone else, it would. But from him? The words are dipped different—dry annoyance with no real bite. There's no edge, no tension, just the sound of someone resigned to your presence. Your smile creeps in. You lean in, shoulder gently nudging his with the kind of softness that borders on familiarity, even if he hasn't quite given it to you yet. "Sorry," you whisper, all fake innocence and playful sweetness, like you didn't just take another step into his space on purpose.

His shoulder stays pressed lightly against yours, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. And for someone like Jay, who seems to guard every inch of his presence, that quiet stillness feels louder than anything he could say.

⋮ ⌗ act three

     "ARE YOU seriously telling me," Giselle says, crossing her arms with a look of pure judgment, "that after three months, all you've done is compare hand sizes with him?" She raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her tone teetering between disbelief and secondhand embarrassment.

Before you can even open your mouth, Ningning jumps in ready to defend your honor. "He's an unmated Alpha, Giselle! That means it's a big deal. He doesn't even look at people—he looked at her! That's progress."

Giselle snorts. "Bitch, at this rate, she could be asking him if he can help her with her heat. You've got permission to flirt, not write a slow-burn tragedy."

You gasp, swatting her playfully. "Stop it! I am not ready for the R-18 version of my life yet." You wave your finger in front of her face, trying not to laugh as Ningning snickers beside you. "I'm building a connection," you say, mock-offended but fully grinning. "You don't rush art."

You're not in a rush because you enjoy it—every small, awkward, quiet moment with Jay. Even when he gives you nothing. Even when he sighs like he's this close to telling you to leave him alone. You still slip into the seat next to him, still nudge his shoulder with yours, still talk about nail polish and dessert-shaped blush compacts.

The bond might not be spoken or returned yet, but it's there, and in every moment he lets you stay.

"Ayoo? What's with the two of you lately?" Yeonjun calls out, grinning. A chorus of teasing follows from a few classmates, the usual ooohs and wolf whistles echoing louder than necessary. You instinctively push a strand of hair behind your ear, face warming as you try to brush off the attention.

"Stop it, guys," you mutter, rolling your eyes and waving them off. Jay, of course, doesn't respond. He just walks to his usual seat, unfazed, calm as ever. But you catch the slight tightening of his jaw. The way he adjusts his bag a little more roughly than usual before sitting down.

You follow, naturally, and as you pass Yeonjun, you give him a light kick to the side of his foot, just enough to make your point. "Asshole," you hiss under your breath. "Lover girl," he sings back, winking. You ignore him and slide into the seat beside Jay, acting like your heart isn't pounding.

Jay doesn't say anything when you sit beside him. You try not to let it bother you. You tell yourself he's probably tired, or focused on the lecture, or maybe in one of his quiet moods again. Still, halfway through class, you lean in a little, whispering something light—maybe a comment about the ridiculous diagram on the slide. Something harmless, something that usually gets you a sigh, a glance, something.

Instead, all you get is a sharp click of his tongue, like you're a fly buzzing too close to his ear. You freeze, pouting slightly as you pull back. The sting isn't sharp, but it's enough to make your Omega shrink a little, unsettled by the rejection. He's never been warm, never welcoming, but he's never snapped either—not like this.

You spend the rest of the lecture trying to focus, eyes flicking to him now and then, hoping he'll say something that'll make it feel less harsh. He just stays silent, attention locked on the lecture like you don't even exist beside him.

When the class finally ends and students begin packing up, you gather your things slowly, debating if you should say something at all. "Do you want to have lunch together?" you ask, voice trying to sound casual, hopeful. "KFC's maybe? Or Wendy's? I'm, like, really craving fast food right now—"

Jay stops mid-motion, his hand frozen over his bag. Then, without even looking at you, he speaks. "Would you please leave me alone?"

You flinch. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. A soft, involuntary whine escapes your throat, your Omega reacting before your brain does. You stare at him, stunned, lips parted in disbelief.

"I don't know what you want from me," he says, finally turning to look at you. His face isn't just unreadable now—it's annoyed. "But I'm fucking sick of tolerating your presence."

Your stomach drops. The air feels colder, every word sinks deep into your chest, past the teasing, the efforts, the months of hope. "Leave me alone. It's annoying. We're not even friends," Jay says, and then he turns away.

Your eyes begin to blur, the weight of humiliation building too fast to swallow down. You inhale sharply, trying to hold it in, trying not to let it show but your Omega doesn't listen. It reacts, a wave of distressed pheromones leaks from your skin. You step back instinctively, shoulders curling inward as you twist away, walking fast in the opposite direction.

You missed the way Jay stop his steps and looked back at your retreating figure.

You focus on your steps, your breathing, anything to distract yourself from the way your chest feels like it's caving in. The hallway seems longer than usual, you feel the subtle shift in the atmosphere as you pass other students, their gazes following you, some of them turning their heads slightly, noses lifting as they catch the scent of your distress.

You duck into an empty hallway, one rarely used between classes, and slip into the corner near a closed-off faculty room. There, out of sight, you finally let yourself breathe as your hands tremble against the cool wall.

Your Omega coils in your chest, quiet but wounded. It doesn't understand. Alphas aren't supposed to reject so harshly. Not when there's been a connection. Not when you've tried this hard. Not when every instinct told you he was the one. But you remind yourself—Jay is different. He always has been. Cold, closed-off, serious to a fault. And today... maybe today he's just having a bad day. Maybe something pushed him too far, and you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You should've backed off sooner. You should've noticed the signs.

You had gotten comfortable, too comfortable, that's right. You let yourself believe that his tolerance meant quiet acceptance. You convinced yourself he was letting you in, little by little. But maybe you crossed a line he never gave you permission to approach.

You press your palms to your face, grounding yourself with the contact. You can't cry here. Not now. You have to calm down. Hide the scent. Regain control. You're not his Omega. He never claimed you. Never promised you attention, affection, or anything beyond silence. If he wants space, if your presence has started to feel more like pressure than connection, then you'll give him that.

But that doesn't mean you're giving up. You let your forehead rest against the cool wall, inhaling deeply, trying to draw your scent back under control. Your Omega, though bruised, isn't broken. It whimpers, but it doesn't turn away. You can give him time. You can give him distance. You can even pretend not to care when you pass him in the hallway or when he walks into class like you don't exist but you're not walking away. Not now.

"It's not rejection," you say, trying to keep your voice steady as you explain yourself to your friends later that afternoon. "It's resistance."

The three of you are sprawled across Ningning's bed, surrounded by takeout containers, open makeup palettes, and the unmistakable comfort of long, unfiltered conversations. The topic has shifted—again—to Jay.

Giselle scoffs from the foot of the bed, tossing her phone onto the blanket. "Isn't it unhealthy for an Omega to keep chasing someone who keeps bruising your bond like this? You need to find a new Alpha. Preferably one who actually talks."

You sigh, pressing your palm to your forehead. "You don't get it. He is my Alpha. I can feel it."

"No, you're just being delusional," she mutters.

"No, seriously—" you sit up a little straighter, voice more defensive than you'd like—"I've been pushing too hard. I know that. He's not the type who responds to pressure. I should've paced myself."

Ningning, who's been quiet until now, hums as she applies cuticle oil. "His walls are so high. You're gonna throw out your shoulder knocking like that."

"I'm not stopping," you say, shaking your head. "I just need to knock quieter. That's all."

There's a beat of silence before Giselle shoots you the most deadpan look imaginable. "You literally sound insane." You open your mouth to argue, but before you can say a word, Ningning chimes in without even looking up from her phone. "Let her be," she says, popping a gummy into her mouth. "She's a walking 22-year-old virgin who hasn't spent a single heat with an Alpha since her first one. She's overdue for a little delusion." She pauses, then adds with a knowing smirk, "Besides—Jay is hot. If I were feeling the bond with someone like him, I'd be annoying 24/7 too.

You shove a pillow at her with a groan. "I am not annoying!"

Still, the next day, you choose not to sit beside him.

You walk into the lecture hall early, find a spot a few rows behind his usual seat, and keep your head down as students filter in. When Jay walks in and takes his usual seat, you stay still behind your book, peeking just slightly over the top to watch him placing his things down. Then he reaches for something on the desk.

There, resting against his notebook, is a small box of almond chocolates—his favorite—and a pale pink sticky note with your handwriting:

I'm sorry :<

He stares at it for a moment, no visible change in his expression. Just the smallest pause as he reads the note. Then, slowly, his eyes lift and lock onto yours. You freeze behind your book, immediately ducking your head lower, pretending to read, cheeks burning.

The next day, and the one after that, and the one after that still—you keep leaving small things for him. Almond chocolates, the occasional matcha drink, and those tiny, handwritten notes folded carefully on top. Hope you're not too tired today. Good luck on your quiz. This one has extra almonds. Thought you'd like that.

You don't speak to him. You don't sit beside him again. You don't even make eye contact. You just leave them, quietly, and watch from a distance—sometimes through the gap between your fingers, sometimes from behind your open book, pretending to be invested in your notes. And every time he takes them, your Omega flutters with soft satisfaction. He never says thank you, never even glances your way, but he takes them. That's enough. That means something... doesn't it?

Until it doesn't.

That afternoon, after a particularly long lecture, the room empties slowly. Jay rises from his seat, slips his bag over his shoulder, and walks out like usual. You follow—at a distance, your steps soft and measured, like you're just heading in the same direction. But as you round the corner into the hallway, you see him stop by one of the large trash bins outside the exit. You pause instinctively, half-hidden behind the corner, confused.

Then you watch. He takes the small snack bag you'd given him that morning—still unopened—and the note still clinging to the wrapper with your careful handwriting. You expect him to tuck it into his bag like he always does.

Instead, he drops it straight into the trash. Your breath catches in your throat as you watch him toss it in casually. He walks away without a backward glance. You stay frozen in place, unable to move. Your arms hang limp at your sides, your fingers trembling.

Your steps are slow as you walk toward the bin, you kneel beside it, reaching in carefully, pulling out the small snack bag you'd wrapped with quiet hope that morning. The note is still stuck to the front, your handwriting slightly crinkled now, and there's a smear of dust on the plastic.

You brush it off gently with your fingers, your vision blurs again, and this time, you don't try to stop it. One tear slips past your lashes, then another, rolling down your cheek as your lips press together in a tight pout. You blink down at the chocolate, hugging it to your chest.

"Sighs..." you whisper to yourself, trying to breathe through the heaviness in your chest, the sting in your throat. "I think... the things I've been giving him just aren't his taste."

You wipe your cheek, trying to laugh at yourself but failing. "Maybe I just went overboard," you murmur, looking down at the crumpled note. "Maybe it's my fault for pushing too hard."

You press your lips together, swallowing the lump in your throat, trying to stand a little straighter, to feel a little less small. "I think I'm gonna need... a little break."

⋮ ⌗ act four

     "HEY, Omega, can you get that book over there?"

You don't look up. Your eyes remain fixed on your nails, turning your hand slightly under the light, examining the way the gloss catches at the curve of your cuticles. You're mentally circling between two shades—pearl lavender or muted coral—and trying to picture which would match better with the new outfit you've had saved in your cart for weeks. Your thoughts drift again, this time to the Girlcult makeup set Ningning brought back from her trip to China. The packaging was ethereal, like it came from another world. You want it badly. The blush alone looks like a soft dream.

"Hey, Omega, I said get that book."

The same voice, sharper this time. You still don't look up. Instead, you straighten your fingers and flex them once more, admiring the length you've managed to grow out. Not bad. Not too long either. You make a mental note to book a silver chrome set next week, something reflective. You're already planning your errands after this group meeting, maybe squeeze in some bubble tea, maybe check the thrift shop two blocks down.

You're not even sure if being in the same group as Jay is luck or a cosmic joke. You've stopped chasing him—paused, really—told yourself you'd shift your focus back to yourself. You haven't talked to him since that day in the hallway. Haven't even looked at him directly. You've been pretending, performing the role of the girl who's moved on, who's reclaiming her time and redirecting her energy.

And maybe... maybe it's not all a lie.

You're starting to remember what your life was like before he stepped into it. You used to think he was the missing puzzle piece, the final shape to make you feel whole. But lately, you've started wondering—what if that puzzle piece was never meant for your life? What if it was too sharp, too heavy, too incompatible, no matter how perfect it looked from the outside?

You snort quietly to yourself, the thought making your lips curl. What a ridiculous metaphor. But then again, you've been living inside one long, drawn-out metaphor for months now.

"I think he's talking to you," your classmate beside you whispers, nudging your arm.

You finally glance up, slowly, turning your head toward the group. The guy across the table—one of your assigned groupmates, name forgotten—stares at you with thinly veiled irritation, clearly waiting.

Your eyes shift lazily to the book he's pointing at on the next table, then just as quickly, return your focus to your nails. You study the shimmer of the topcoat, the slight chip on your thumb, the way the light catches at the curve of your cuticle like it deserves more attention than the boy sitting across from you.

"No," you say, voice flat, disinterested, unapologetically dismissive. "Get it yourself."

You don't even look at him when he tenses. "Bitch," he mutters under his breath, loud enough to be heard but quiet enough to pretend it was an accident. He stands up with more aggression than necessary, his chair scraping the floor as he strides toward the book and snatches it up from beside you. The motion sends a wave of his scent into the air, unrefined, bitter, and arrogant. The kind of pheromones that announce a need for dominance rather than any actual strength.

You sniff, subtly, wrinkling your nose at the pungent trail left in his wake. You press your lips together in annoyance, roll your eyes, and lean further back into your seat. Across the table, the other Omegas in your group shift in their seats, instinctively straightening their spines, adjusting their posture, some avoiding eye contact altogether.

You sigh through your nose, blowing lightly on your nails to dry them, annoyed by the way his pheromones cling to the air like spoiled cologne. 

Geez. Alphas and their fucking pheromones. Always so loud, so desperate to remind everyone who and what they are. Like the rest of you couldn't already tell the second they entered a room—the posturing, the tone, the overconfident glances, and worst of all, the way their scent fills up the space without permission.

The air still feels saturated when the guy flops back into his seat, smug, clearly thinking he's made a point, display of Alpha irritation.

"Contain your pheromones," a voice says, "or leave."

Heads turn. Your own heart skips in a way you hate to admit, and when you look up, Jay is already staring—his eyes hard, fixed on the Alpha who had just returned to his seat.

The boy shifts, clearly startled by the sudden command, shoulders stiffening as he mutters a quiet "Sorry," and adjusts his seat, shrinking ever so slightly, signal that he knows his place in this moment. He won't challenge it.

You don't know the mechanics of how Alphas seem to instinctively understand where they fall in the unspoken hierarchy of power, how one look or tone can be enough to force silence from someone who just seconds ago thought they were the loudest voice in the room. And Jay didn't raise his voice. He didn't bare teeth. He didn't do anything except exist in that moment with enough intensity to silence another Alpha without breaking a sweat.

Your Omega, which has been stubbornly quiet ever since you promised yourself to stop chasing him, curls subtly inside you. As if it remembered something you've spent days trying to forget. As if it's reminding you that no matter how cold his words were last time, no matter how many days you spent replaying them in your head until they broke you down—he still has that effect on you.

You mentally curse yourself for letting it happen, for giving him that piece of your attention again over something so minimal. He didn't even do it for you. You sit through the rest of the group meeting in silence, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes on the clock instead of the people around you. You just want to finish this, get out, and focus on the rest of your day—the things that don't involve Jay or his infuriating gravity.

At the end of the meeting, Jay stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder, his tone cool and clipped as always. "I'll be sending a link to our group chat. Check it regularly. I'll monitor your progress there. Meeting dismissed. I hope you all play your parts well."

You're already halfway out of your seat, eager to breathe air that doesn't smell like Alpha ego or quiet tension. You gather your things, mentally going over your to-do list. But then, just as you're zipping your bag shut, you feel a presence behind you. A very specific one.

Your shoulders freeze. "Huh?" The sound escapes you as you turn—and there he is. Jay. Standing directly in front of you. Towering, and composed. And despite everything, your stupid heart does that ridiculous flutter. Worse, your Omega purrs at the nearness of him, curling up.

Shut up, you scream at yourself internally.

"Your number," he says flatly.

You blink. "My what?"

"Your number," he repeats, irritation edging into his voice. "Everyone else wrote theirs down. You didn't. You were too busy with your nails."

Ouch. Wordless, you take the phone he's holding out to you. Your nails click sharply against the screen as you type the digits in without looking at him, hit save, and hand the phone back in one clean motion.

And then you're gone. You grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and walk. Stupid. Stupid feelings. Stupid Omega being submissive at a single glance like a lovesick fool.

You manage to avoid Jay at least as much as someone can when stuck in the same group project. As long as you submit your parts on time, follow whatever standards he insists on, and keep your head down, you figure you can survive the rest of the semester with your pride mostly intact.

Still, that doesn't mean you don't notice him. It's impossible not to. Jay is effortlessly composed when he works, all clean lines and focus, voice low but commanding in the way that makes people listen without question. It makes you roll your eyes every time one of the other Omegas in your group drifts closer than necessary, pretending they need him to review something just for a whiff of his scent.

You watch it all unfold from your seat—one girl biting her lip, leaning over the table, another brushing her fingers too close to his. You can see what they're doing from a mile away. 

Pathetic, you think, scoffing silently. Why isn't he cold to them? Why does he let them stay close, speak freely, like he's not made of ice and silence? When you tried—when you pushed just a little closer—he burned you for it.

It's not fair. But fine. Whatever. You keep walking like it doesn't bother you, like you've got better things to think about than Jay and the unfair softness he shows to people who aren't you.

You're halfway down the hall between classes when Yeonjun spots you. He slings an arm across your shoulder like you're best friends. "What happened between you and Jay?" he asks, almost sing-song. "It's kind of sudden, you know? You two went from talking all the time to... nothing."

You roll your eyes and shrug his arm off, but he only cackles and throws it right back around you, dragging you a little closer as you walk. "Come on," he prods. "Tell me. Did you break up or something?"

"First of all, fuck off," you mutter, elbowing him in the side. "We weren't a thing to begin with. I just figured out that maybe he doesn't like company, so... friendship over." The words sting especially when you remember exactly what Jay said that day. "We're not even friends."

Yeonjun winces dramatically. "Yooo, that's brutal. And here I thought you had someone lined up for your next heat."

You whirl on him, scandalized. "Stop talking about my heat!"

He laughs like it's the funniest thing in the world. "I know I get moody during pre-heat, okay?" you continue, huffing as your steps grow heavier. "I know I get annoying. Sorry if that's inconvenient for everyone." And just for emphasis, you stomp down hard on his foot.

He yelps. "Ow! Is that how you apologize?!"

You glare at him. "Bitch, these are Louboutins. Don't test me."

He gasps, stepping right back on your foot in retaliation. "Designer or not, that was uncalled for!"

You've managed to keep your mind light, your mood even lighter. You spent the afternoon giggling over new makeup releases and trying on three different outfits before settling on the one that made you feel just a little too confident. You even let one of your classmates borrow your Chanel perfume, the limited edition one that cost more than most people's weekly groceries. That alone says a lot about your good mood.

"This scent is so good! It's so long-lasting!" the girl gushes, practically bouncing in her seat as she sprays another generous mist onto her wrists and neck.

You wave your hand in front of your face, before turning back to your conversation with Ningning. She's already pulling up swatches of a new lipstick line, and you're halfway through deciding whether Burnt Rose or Peach Silk suits your skin tone more.

Until the moment Jay walks straight toward your table.

"Hey."

Your smile falters, but you hold your composure. Ningning immediately straightens, and you feel her pinch your leg under the table. You don't react. Instead, you retaliate with a subtle kick to her foot, keeping your expression as neutral as possible while turning your head slowly toward him. Jay stands there with one hand gripping the strap of his bag, his eyes fixed on you with that same expression he always wears, cool but unmistakably annoyed.

"W-What's up?" you ask, hoping your tone sounds casual even though your Omega is already squirming, stupidly alert under his gaze.

He narrows his eyes. "Where the hell did you get the source for your part of the group output?"

You blink. "Huh?"

Jay pulls out a folded printout and slaps it onto the table in front of you. You recognize your paragraph immediately—highlighted, annotated, and very, very questioned.

"That," he says, tapping the page, "reads like it was pulled from a blog post written in 2007."

You squint at it, leaning forward. "I mean... it's informative."

"Where did you get it?" he repeats, more firm this time.

You glance at Ningning, who looks like she's holding in a laugh, and then shrug a little, hoping the smile you offer is at least semi-charming.

"U-uh... Wikipedia?" Jay's expression goes flat. Like truly, utterly done-with-your-shit flat. You watch his jaw shift slightly before he inhales and exhales. "Are you kidding me?"

"I added bullet points?"

"I told everyone to use peer-reviewed journals."

"I thought Wikipedia was, like... collaborative academia?"

He gives you a look, the kind that doesn't even require words to communicate just how unimpressed he is. Then he scoffs. "Meet me at the library. 4:30," he says, already turning away. "You're going to repeat this shit."

Shit? What a mean guy! Jay is so mean!

When the time comes, you're at the library exactly at 4:27. You've changed into something a little more presentable. You even brought real sources this time: three articles you barely skimmed and one you printed just because it looked like it had graphs in it.

You walk toward the group study section, scanning the long tables until you see him—Jay, already seated, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, laptop open in front of him. One hand rests on the keyboard, the other pinching the bridge of his nose. You approach cautiously, pulling out the chair across from him. "Hi," you say, quietly. You sit down, trying to slide your printouts toward him.

He barely glances up. "Do you even know what the research topic is?"

You pause. "Media manipulation in digital spaces."

"What's your angle?"

You blink. "Angle?"

Jay leans back in his chair and exhales, clearly restraining himself from saying something cruel. He rubs his temple for a second, then looks at you fully. "I need you to actually try today," he says.

You nod, more serious now. "Okay. I'll try. I am trying."

He watches you for a moment longer, then gestures to your stack of papers. "Start by telling me why you picked those."

You look down at your papers and clear your throat, suddenly aware of how quiet the library is and how loud your pulse feels in your ears. "I thought the one with the graphs would impress you..."

Jay closes his eyes for a moment, not even sighing anymore, just exhaling through his nose like he's trying to summon patience from a part of himself that's already empty.

From there, the next hour becomes a slow kind of hell. Jay doesn't just skim your work or toss it aside. He makes you repeat it—all of it. Line by line, paragraph by paragraph. He makes you read it aloud, then explain what each section means in your own words. You try to follow, but his questions come fast and firm, drilling into the parts you only half-understood, peeling away the fluff you thought might pass.

And it becomes painfully clear, to both of you, that you don't know what the hell you're talking about.

You stammer your way through vague definitions, hope a few filler words will distract him, even throw in a shrug and a weak laugh at one point, but it's useless. His expression never changes. He just stares, waiting for a real answer that never comes.

It's not like you wanted to be useless. It's just—why does this topic have to be so soul-crushingly dull? Media manipulation in digital spaces? Who even cares? You'd rather re-organize your lipstick drawer alphabetically and by tone than sit through another journal article about algorithmic bias and digital literacy. And yeah, maybe you chose the wrong major. But still, it's not like you're trying to drag the group down on purpose.

Jay finally leans back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes still locked on you with that same, merciless calm. "I'm going to monitor your progress from now on," he says, "If you want to fail, that's your business. But don't take the group down with you."

You blink, stunned, not sure if you're more embarrassed or pissed. "Other people are working hard to get what they want. Be mindful of your attitude," he continues. "If I see you half-assing this again, I'll pull you out of the group myself."

You just sit there, mouth slightly open, because—what the actual fuck? There's a long pause as he packs his things neatly, methodically. And all you can think is: That was so hot.

God, you hate yourself. Because that shouldn't have been attractive. The tone, the authority, the focus, the absolute lack of patience for your bullshit—none of it should've made your heart flutter. And yet, there it is. That annoying, heavy thump in your chest, that quiet curl of heat in your stomach that says yes Alpha, scold me more, and you genuinely want to scream into your tote bag.

What the hell is wrong with you?! You glare at him as he pushes his chair back and stands up, towering over you.You used to like him? You wanted to bond with that?

He grabs his bag and walks off without another word, and you're left staring at his retreating back, jaw tight, fists clenched in your lap. What about what you want to have? What about your dreams? What about the fact that you're trying your best to live, breathe, and survive your academic burnout in peace?

     AND YOU'RE starting to think Jay's entire academic mission in life is to personally destroy any shred of peace you have left. Maybe he's taken it upon himself to make sure you never get the luxury of coasting through college with eyeliner perfectly winged and notes scribbled in pink ink. Because every single time—every single fucking time—you submit something for the group work, he reads it, glances at you like you just personally offended the concept of intelligence, and hands it back with that cold expression that somehow hurts more than yelling ever could.

Jay leans back in his seat, flipping through the stapled pages you handed him five minutes ago. His jaw is tight, brows drawn as his eyes scan the words. You've already started chewing on the inside of your cheek, fingers tapping nervously against your notebook as you wait for the inevitable.

He exhales, and you already know what's coming. "Repeat this," he says, placing the papers in front of you. "Out loud. Paragraph one. Let's go."

You blink, confused. "You want me to read it?"

"No. I want you to explain it," he replies. "Read it out loud, then tell me what it means. If you can't even do that, what are we doing here?"

Your mouth opens, you lower your gaze and start reading, voice wobbling slightly as you stumble through your opening paragraph. It's not even bad writing—at least, not in your opinion—but when Jay stops you halfway through and points out a vague phrase, you already know you're in for another hour of this.

"What do you mean by 'societal shifts influence perception'?" he asks, eyes narrowing.

You blink. "Like... when society changes, people... think differently?"

Jay just stares, filled with judgment, as if he's holding back a lecture you probably deserve.

"Okay," you add quickly, trying to fix it. "I meant that media narratives change based on what society is focused on. Like trends. Or politics. Or cultural stuff—"

"You wrote that it influences perception subtly, not directly," he interrupts, "what evidence do you have for that claim?"

Your mouth opens again. Nothing. "If you're going to write like that, you need to know what you're saying. You don't write just to sound smart. You write to prove a point. Understand the difference."

Your face burns as the words hit. You look at him, then back at your paper, your throat tightening with a quiet mix of shame and frustration.  Maybe you are the weakest link in the group. Maybe he's right to be this intense.

Still, your pride kicks in, even if it's bruised. "Fine," you mutter. "I'll fix it."

Jay doesn't say anything. He just nods once, and starts typing again on his laptop like he didn't just deliver a verbal slap to your ego. You stare at your paper, the corners slightly bent, the ink smudged near the margin where your hand had rested too long. You don't even know what you're doing anymore. You thought you were doing it right. You thought your revisions were enough. But every time you hand him a draft, he finds something else wrong with it. Too vague. Too shallow. Too casual. Then when you finally overcompensate and make it dense, academic, he tells you it's too overexplained. Redundant. Forced.

You're caught in a loop of not-good-enough, and no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to get it right.

But the worst part is you still want to impress him. You still want him to look at something you've done and actually pause. To read your words and see you through them. Not just tolerate your work, not just skim it and correct it like it's another chore—see you. And maybe that's pathetic. Maybe that's your Omega talking again, that deep, aching need to be acknowledged, to be worthy.

So you double down. You study harder. You stay up late rereading articles, highlighting passages you barely understand but force yourself to analyze. You start drafting, rewriting, reformatting, again and again, until your vision blurs. You give up your free time, your peace, and slowly, without noticing, everything else begins to fall away.

You don't realize how long it's been since your last self-care day. How your perfectly manicured nails have started to chip around the edges, the gloss dulled and peeling. You can't remember the last time you joined Giselle and Ningning for a boba run, or went out shopping just to feel cute, or even indulged in a quiet, overpriced matcha latte while scrolling through lip gloss swatches and pretending your life was still soft and simple.

You've skipped parties. Canceled lunch dates with your girlfriends. You haven't even opened that package of new lashes you ordered two weeks ago.

You're too busy chasing a moving target. One that wears black sweaters and critiques your grammar. Your planner is full of deadlines and corrections now. Your lipstick is worn off by mid-afternoon. Your back aches from sitting in stiff library chairs too long, trying to fix a sentence for the fifth time because Jay didn't like the way it sounded.

"Girl, I'm going to set a schedule later for my lashes and nails," Ningning announces cheerfully, flipping through her phone as you sit beside her in the campus café. "Want to join? Or are you too busy trying to impress Mr. Alpha again?"

She wiggles her eyebrows dramatically, and you let out a long, heavy sigh as you slump forward, resting your forehead against the edge of the table. The paper you've spent the past two nights slaving over lies flat in front of you—neatly printed, annotated with references. You've read it three times already and rechecked your citations. You even color-coded the margins for clarity, just in case Jay needs yet another excuse to nitpick.

"I'm satisfied with this," you murmur, voice muffled against the table. "This time, it's solid. No room for criticism. I met every single one of his standards. I even used academic journals and added a transitional thesis. If he questions me again, I'm ready to defend it like my life depends on it."

Ningning raises an impressed brow. "Well, goodluck, babe." You lift your head slowly, exhaling as if you've run a marathon. "Thanks."

She grins and reaches across the table to squeeze your hand. "Okay, good. Because once this is over, you're coming with me. Nail care, hand massage, and I'm thinking a soft almond-shaped acrylic set for both of us. I'll send my inspo to your messages, and we can hit the spa together. Maybe swing by Dior? Just a quick peek."

The moment she says it, something in you lifts. "Count me in," you say, finally smiling. "Full hand care, nails, the works. I'm thinking soft chrome this time. I'll send you the mood board later."

Ningning lets out a delighted squeal, clapping her hands in excitement. "Thank you, God! She's back! You finally have time for yourself again!"

You laugh, the kind of laugh that feels real after so many tense days. "So... does that mean I'm allowed to come to the party tomorrow night?"

Her eyes widen. "Wait, what?! You're actually going?" You nod, biting your lip like the idea excites you more.

     YOU CLUTCH your final draft in both hands as you make your way toward the library. Your mood is still high, the conversation with Ningning echoing in your mind. You can already feel the scent of the spa oils in your imagination, hear the bubbling jets of the foot bath, see the pale pink Dior bag swinging from your wrist.

You're ready for peace again. You enter the library and spot Jay at the usual table, eyes glued to his laptop as always. You walk over, straighten your shoulders, and place the paper gently in front of him. He glances at it, says nothing for a moment. Then, slowly, he picks it up and starts reading.

You sit across from him, waiting. Trying not to fidget. Trying not to let your nails dig into your palm when he pauses at paragraph three. He flips a page. Eyes narrow. Brows twitch. Then comes the inevitable—he looks up.

"This part here," he says, pointing to the section you rewrote three separate times, "it's too vague again. You're brushing over your argument. What do you actually mean here?"

You blink. "What?" you whisper.

He turns the page again. "And here, this is fine, but it's padded. Cut the filler. Focus on your point."

Your heart sinks. "You're kidding, right?"

Jay looks up, calm as ever. "This isn't clear enough to include in the final draft. You'll need to revise it again."

Something in you cracks. You don't say anything. You think about all the nights you stayed up rewriting that same paragraph. You think about how you skipped lunch three times this week to finish this stupid draft, how you canceled plans, missed parties, ignored calls, stopped living—just for this. Just to hear him say it was good enough.

You're just... tired. The kind of tired that isn't about sleep or stress, but about the feeling that you're endlessly reaching for something that keeps stepping back, just out of reach. You think about the spa day you promised yourself, the almond-shaped nails and soft chrome polish you were so excited to get. You think about that moment of stillness with Ningning, sipping boba and laughing like you didn't have the weight of someone's judgment pressed onto your shoulders. You think about Dior. About the party. And you feel it all slipping right through your fingers.

You exhale, and swallow the tightness building in your throat. "When do you need it?" you ask, your voice so small.

Jay doesn't look up from your paper, fingers flipping back to that same third paragraph. "Your part is the only one that still needs fixing," he says bluntly. "Everyone else is moving ahead with physical presentation prep. So fix this tonight and send it back by tomorrow."

That's it. No thank you. No acknowledgment of the effort you've already poured into it. Just another deadline, another reminder that nothing you do will ever be enough.

Fuck him. You sit up a little straighter, lips parting. "But I think I already did my part perfectly," you say, pointing to paragraph three.

"This?" he asks, tapping the paragraph with the back of his pen. "You think this is perfect?"

You don't answer. Because there's something in his voice that already tells you he disagrees, and he's not going to soften it for your sake.

"This isn't perfect," he continues. "This is surface-level observation dressed up with vague language and soft transitions. It sounds nice, sure, but it doesn't say anything."

Your lips press into a tight line, and your stomach knots. "You keep writing like you're trying to be liked instead of trying to prove a point," he goes on, relentless. "Academic work isn't about sounding pretty. It's about clarity, direction, precision. You can write circles around a subject and still say nothing."

You swallow hard, your hands tightening in your lap. "I spent hours on this," you murmur, eyes fixed on the paper. "I canceled everything today."

Jay doesn't blink. "Then you should've spent those hours understanding the material, not decorating it."

You flinch like he hit you. For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. At the face you used to admire. The eyes you used to chase. The person you once thought you could belong to. Now all you see is a wall. Impenetrable. And your reflection on the other side, small and shrinking.

You glance down without thinking, your gaze drawn to your hands resting tensely on the edge of the table. Your fingertips are trembling, knuckles pale from how tightly you've been pressing them together. Your leg is bouncing under the table, nervous energy you didn't notice until now. And then—you feel it. A sharp snap. You blink.

Your pointer finger.

One of your nails has cracked. A clean break down the middle, right through the glossy polish you barely had time to care for in the last two weeks. It shouldn't matter. It's a nail. But it feels like the last thing keeping you together just gave out. The smallest fracture, and suddenly the whole image starts to crumble.

"I—" you start, voice rough in your throat. You lift your hand slowly, staring at the cracked nail.

Jay looks up. "I'm leaving the group," you say, the words escaping, not with anger, not even with emotion. Just exhaustion. He doesn't speak right away. Maybe he's surprised, or maybe he simply doesn't care. You wouldn't know. You're not looking at his face anymore.

"I'll tell the professor," you add, folding your papers neatly with hands that feel numb. "You can find someone better to work with. Someone who actually knows what they're doing."

Jay's lips part slightly, you tuck your papers into your folder with care, as if this small act of order will keep you from unraveling completely. And then you push your chair back, rising to your feet.

You sniffle softly, and the sound makes your chest burn with embarrassment. The worst part isn't the tears welling in your eyes or the sting of your pride cracking—it's the scent. The way your distress pheromones are seeping out of you, so bitter, practically painting the air with your emotions. You hate it. You hate how it betrays you, how it clings to your skin and floats around you, a silent broadcast to any Alpha nearby that something is wrong, that you are fragile.

You quicken your steps, head down, trying not to let anyone see your face. You need to get out of here. Away from Jay. Away from everyone. You press your folder to your chest and move faster, your shoes echoing against the tile floors of the hallway. You're hyperaware of your scent, how sharp it is, and how it must be overwhelming for anyone in a ten-foot radius. It's humiliating. You feel exposed, like every nerve is on fire and there's nowhere safe to hide.

Fuck being an Omega. You clench your jaw, pushing the thought down, but it bubbles up again. Fuck this life. You didn't ask for this. You didn't ask to be the one who spirals whenever something doesn't go right, whose emotions get turned into a scent that others can detect before you even process how you feel. You didn't ask to be born into a dynamic where every misstep is amplified by your biology. You didn't ask to be someone whose sadness inconveniences people, whose mere presence becomes a disruption the moment her emotions are too loud.

You wipe your cheeks aggressively with the back of your hand, smearing whatever's left of your concealer, your eyes stinging as the tears you've been holding in finally break free. You keep walking, cutting through unfamiliar halls, your mind racing, heart hammering. You don't care where you're going, you just need to not be seen.

It hits you again—most Omegas your age are already bonded. Already paired off with their perfect, compatible Alpha. They have someone who wants them. Someone who protects them, grounds them, holds them without flinching when their scent turns sour. And you? You're here. Unbonded. Unwanted.

You reach a quiet corner of campus, a dim side hallway near the back of the gym where no one usually lingers. Your eyes fall on the row of lockers near the old changing room, and without thinking, you grab one. It creaks open under your hand, the inside barely wide enough for a person. But you don't care, you step inside, shoulders hunching as you pull the door halfway shut behind you. It's cramped and it smells faintly like dust and old sweat, and it's hidden.

You press your forehead against the cool wall, you bite down on your lower lip, hard, trying to silence the sound rising in your throat, trying to muffle the sob you know is coming. You have to control it. You have to stop the pheromones from leaking further into the air, because no Alpha wants to smell this.

No Alpha would ever come to comfort this. Not yours, not anyone's. What Alpha wants an Omega who breaks down like this? Who can't even hold herself together over something as stupid as a paper? Who spirals at a cold tone and a red mark on the margin? Who loses control of her scent like a teenager going through her first heat?

You sob quietly at first, trembling fingers rising to your face to hide it even though there's no one around. Then your gaze drops, landing on your hands—your once-manicured, carefully polished hands. And there it is.

The crack in your nail. The one you tried to ignore. The chip in the gloss. The way it's uneven now. Ugly.  You stare at it, and your bottom lip begins to tremble. "My nails," you choke out, the words wet and shaky. "My nails..."

Your breath stutters, chest rising and falling with jagged movements as another sob claws its way up and escapes. You curl your body tighter inside the narrow locker, arms wrapped around your legs now, your head resting against your knees as your chest heaves and your sobs grow louder. The scent of your distress is suffocating, shameful, but still safer than being seen. You let it pour out of you because at least here, you thought you could fall apart alone.

Then suddenly, you feel it—the shift of air, the creak of the locker door being pulled open. Light spills in, and you squeeze your eyes shut tighter, your sobs not stopping even when your safe space is breached.

"Stop it," comes a voice, low, gritted and breathless.

You flinch at the sound, your face still buried against your knees.  "Go away!" you cry out, voice high and strangled. "Just leave me alone!" Your hands grip tighter around your legs, nails digging into your skin, but it's not enough to ground you. This was your only escape, the one place you could cry without shame, without someone telling you to quiet down or keep your scent in check. And of all the people who could've found you, it had to be him. Of course it had to be him.

"I hate you!" you scream through a sob, full of weeks of silence, stress, disappointment, and aching humiliation. "I hate you, I hate you—"

"Stop it," Jay says again, but this time, his voice sounds different. It is strained. You still don't look up. You shake harder, body trembling with every breath that fights to escape, until—

"Stop crying," he says again. His voice is breaking, it is desperate. "P-Please. Stop. Just—stop."

You feel him kneel in front of you, his shadow cutting into the narrow locker space, and that's when you finally glance up through tear-blurred eyes. Jay is there, crouched low, his breathing uneven. His forehead is damp with sweat, his jaw clenched tight like he's in pain. There's a rawness in his eyes you've never seen before, and behind the sharp lines of his face, there's some physical strain. He presses a hand to his chest as if it aches. The muscles in his neck twitch, his skin looks pale beneath the lights, and there's a faint tremble in his hand as it rests on the locker door.

"You're—" he stops, swallowing hard, brows furrowing like the pain just spiked. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, okay?" he repeats. He inches forward, his hand reaching out slowly, fingers tentative as they move toward yours.

You flinch. Before his skin can touch yours, you tug your hand away, clutching it tight to your chest as if his apology might burn you. You're still crying, your soft eyes red-rimmed, lashes clumped together with tears, and yet somehow still full of that hurt that makes you look even smaller. Cracked open, and trying so hard to hold yourself together in front of the person who shattered you. Jay's hand lingers in the space between you, suspended there, unsure of where to land. "Stop crying," he says quietly. "Please."

Your shoulders still tremble, your sobs haven't stopped, and when you sniff hard, trying to pull yourself together, it only makes the moment more pitiful. You lift the back of your hand to your face and wipe at your running nose, eyes still wet and red, cheeks stained with salt.

You hiccup slightly before whispering, "M-My nails."

Jay blinks, startled, his eyes flickering down as you lift your fingers toward him. Your hand is shaking as you hold it in the air, palm open, fingers spread, showing him the chipped polish and cracked tips, the ruined manicure you once wore so proudly.

"Do you know," you begin, voice catching, "that a lot of Omegas cut their nails short? On purpose? Because they don't want to hurt their Alpha during bonding? Or during... during anything."

You trail off, your throat tightening as you look down at your nails again. "I've never done that. I've never had to. I've never had someone to protect or to protect me. I don't have an Alpha. That's why I love doing my nails." You swallow hard, bottom lip trembling. "I design them because it makes me feel special. It makes me feel pretty. It's the only thing that makes other Omegas jealous when they look at me. Not because I'm bonded, or claimed, or loved... but because at least I had this. At least I had something."

Your voice breaks again, and you curl your fingers into your palm, slowly lowering your hand as your gaze drops to the floor.

"But now even that is broken." The words fall from your lips and it all comes rushing back. You're back to sobbing, your scent blooms again.

Jay flinches. He physically recoils for half a second as the weight of your distress crashes over him. His jaw clenches hard, his hand bracing against the wall as he sucks in a breath through his nose.  The pressure in his head spikes, a dull, piercing throb that radiates behind his eyes. His chest aches—not emotionally, but physically. A deep, pulsing pain that makes it hard to breathe. His Alpha is reacting, rising to the surface.

Jay's never been overwhelmed like this, not by scent, not by an Omega's emotions. But your cries; they're hurting him. Not in the way he can brush off or rationalize. His Alpha instincts roar, screaming at him to do something. To calm you. To fix it. To soothe. And he doesn't understand why. Why you? Why now. Why does your sorrow feel like it's shattering something inside him?

He presses a hand to his chest, wincing at the tightness blooming there. "I'm sorry," he says again, more firmly now, trying to reach you. "I'm sorry."

He moves toward you without thinking this time, and when he reaches out, you don't pull away. You don't flinch or snap at him like before. You let your weight fall against him, and he catches you with arms that are hesitant but firm.

He wraps them around you carefully. One hand at your back, the other gently settling at your shoulder. You press your face into the curve of his neck, sobs still shaking through you, but not with the same violence. You're exhausted now, and it spills out in softer, helpless trembles.

"You're so mean," you whisper between gasps, your small fists thumping once, twice against his chest. The hits are weak. You don't push him away, you just cry harder, your fingers curling into his shirt as the last of your composure crumbles.

Jay closes his eyes tightly, his throat working around the lump that's formed there. His arms draw in more, and his scent changes with soft, warm and calming.  He doesn't even realize he's doing it at first, the slow flood of pheromones wrapping around you as his Alpha tries to soothe you the only way it knows how.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs again, as his hand moves slowly up and down your back, matching the rhythm of your shuddering breaths.

You melt. There's no other word for it. The moment his scent hits you fully, your crying doesn't just slow, it stops. Your eyes are closed and your breathing has steadied.  His scent is laced with a deeper musk only present when an Alpha's instinct is fully engaged presses through your senses.  It's warm, subtly spiced, and just faintly sweet underneath. A scent that speaks of strength without force, safety.

Your Omega responds instantly. A soft, involuntary purr builds from deep within your chest. It's loud. Embarrassingly so. You freeze for a moment, cheeks flushed with the sudden realization but you don't pull away, because your Omega won't let you.

Jay doesn't say anything, doesn't even pull back. If anything, his arms around you tighten just slightly. He tilts his head down, his cheek brushing lightly against your hair as if to acknowledge the sound and accept it all the same.

⋮ ⌗ act five

     YOU WERE officially presented as an Omega when you were ten years old. The ceremony was brief, celebrated with quiet tradition, and you remember thinking it didn't feel like the life-altering moment everyone made it out to be. It was just a title, a biological box that people were eager to check off. You didn't feel different. You didn't feel powerful or delicate or particularly wanted.

Your first heat came at sixteen, a little late, but still within the accepted margins of development. Everyone waited for the shift—the moment you'd become undeniably, instinctively desirable. The moment Alphas would take notice, the moment you'd feel the pull, the need, the overwhelming ache they all whispered about.

But when it happened... nothing did. There were Alphas, of course—ones who noticed the shift in your scent, who approached you cautiously, trying to offer comfort, trying to scent you. But nothing clicked. Their pheromones did nothing to you. You didn't feel warm or safe or bonded. You didn't even flinch.

Eventually, they stopped trying. Word spread quickly, as it always does. The strange Omega who doesn't respond. The one who doesn't purr, doesn't submit, doesn't bat their lashes when an Alpha walks by. "Difficult," they called you. "Hard to please." The kind of Omega Alphas would rather avoid than attempt to figure out.

You started to wonder if you'd been misclassified. Maybe you were a Beta. Maybe they'd gotten it wrong. After all, you didn't feel the way other Omegas did.

On some nights, when you were alone in bed staring up at the ceiling with your sheets pulled up to your chin, your mind would wander. You'd catch yourself imagining what kind of Alpha you would want if you were normal, if you were soft in the ways everyone expected you to be.

"What kind of Alpha do you want?" someone had asked you once, during a sleepover.

You remember blinking at the ceiling and whispering, "I don't know," but you did.

Maybe you'd want someone soft. Not weak, just gentle. An Alpha who didn't have to snarl to be heard, who didn't need to dominate a room to feel secure in his own presence. Someone with a good sense of humor, the kind of person who could laugh at himself without losing dignity. Someone charming, not in a sleazy way, but a smile that made you forget how tired you were of pretending.

You imagined he'd be kind. Someone who could calm you with words instead of scent, who didn't see your guarded heart as a problem to fix but a treasure to earn. An Alpha who wouldn't expect you to kneel just because biology said you should, but one who would offer his hand and wait patiently until you wanted to take it.

In your mind, his face was always beautiful. Sharp cheekbones softened by expression, a strong jaw. Preferably someone with a dimple that appeared only when he laughed, and cat-like eyes that could read yours too well.

That was the Alpha you wanted.

But Jay is not soft, not sweet, not patient, and certainly not kind.

And yet, here you are—sitting in a plush pink chair at your favorite nail salon, eyes still swollen from crying, hands resting in warm water as your nail designer hums a gentle tune while prepping your cuticles. Jay is standing outside the glass wall of the shop, leaning against the brick exterior with his phone in one hand, glancing at you every few minutes like he's checking if you've calmed down enough to run again.

The nail designer glances up at you with a teasing smile, she tilts her head toward the window. "Is that your Alpha outside?"

You follow her gaze, eyes landing on Jay. His brows are slightly furrowed as he scrolls through his phone.

You let out a sound that's part laugh, part exhausted exhale, and shake your head slowly. "No," you murmur, voice rough from all the crying. "Just the one paying."

"Ohhhh," she says with a gasp, eyes twinkling with amusement as she resumes working on your fingers. "That's new."

You blink at her. "What is?"

She chuckles softly as she buffs the surface of your cracked nail, now softened and prepped for a fresh layer of polish. "It's rare for an Omega to come in for nails, you know. Especially without a bond. Most of them don't bother once they've settled, or their Alpha handles appointments for practicality. But when they do come in?" She leans in with a whispery grin. "The Alphas don't wait outside. They call. Bark orders. Or sit inside and stare at the clock. I barely get through the second coat before they're knocking on the door asking how much longer."

You glance toward the window again. Jay is still there. Same position, same scowl, waiting.

"And when that happens," the designer continues, blowing gently over your fingertips, "I get a heads-up from the customer to charge three hundred dollars instead of sixty."

You blink. "What?"

She giggles. "Because they don't ask. They just pay." She shrugs, placing a gentle fingertip under your wrist to turn your hand slightly. "But yours? He handed the card over and even said to 'fix it properly,' and then waited outside."

You glance at the window again. Jay is still there, standing beneath the soft golden hue of the salon's lights bleeding through the glass. There's no sign of impatience in his posture, no fidgeting, no checking the time on his phone.

"He's not my Alpha," you reply, eyes on him.

A sudden spark of lights behind your eyes, paired with a smile that starts curling at the corner of your mouth.

"I'd like to change the design of my nails, please," you say, turning back to the nail artist, eyes gleaming.

"Oh?" she blinks. "I though we're just going to fix your nails?"

You simply shake your head and pull up a new image on your phone. "Not anymore."

You show her a new set: longer tips, alternating pink and pale green, soft chrome underlay, two nails with tiny gold foil hearts, and the rest glazed with a delicate sparkle that catches the light like fairy dust.

It takes longer than it should. And you don't care one bit. You hum along to the salon music, giggle when the tech turns your hand to show you the finished look, and snap a picture to send to Ningning.

By the time you push the door open, the sky has started to shift into sunset. The second you step out, you flex your fingers in front of you with delight, admiring the glossy finish and gold flecks. You're practically glowing.

Jay looks up from his phone. "You said you were just going to get it fixed," he says, his voice low, but not hard, not annoyed.

You glance at him and catch the way his gaze lingers on your hands. His eyes move slowly, following the way your fingers fan in the air. And though his expression doesn't give much away, you feel it: the attention, the awareness.

"My natural nails were showing," you say with a casual shrug, the corners of your lips lifting. "So I decided to get a new design."

You twirl your wrist once for emphasis, watching the gold hearts flash under the salon lights now trailing out onto the pavement. "Aren't they cute?"

Jay doesn't respond immediately. His eyes are on your nails, then your face, then back to your nails again. His jaw shifts, like he's about to say something but it never comes.

Instead, he just says, after a beat, "Yeah."

You can't help it, your lips curve into a soft, delighted smile, and a giggle slips past your throat. The sound is light, genuine, your Omega responds instinctively, pleased by the subtle approval, the calm energy humming from him. A soft purr begins to rise in your chest.

Jay doesn't comment on it, but you notice the faint glance he casts your way, a quick flick of his eyes before he slides his phone into his pocket.

As the two of you walk down the sidewalk, when the pavement narrows, he moves slightly ahead of you, then subtly angles his body so you're walking on the inside, closer to the storefronts and farther from the road.

THE NEXT few days aren't as bad as you expected. It's just the relief of not having another academic interrogation session with Jay. You breathe easier. You don't flinch when your phone buzzes. You even start sleeping without checking the group chat at 4 A.M. for passive-aggressive updates.

But of course, that peace doesn't last.

Because right when you've settled into the comfort of thinking maybe you're out of this, Jay appears again dropping a printed sheet onto your desk without so much as a warning.

You stare down at the familiar format, your section highlighted in faded yellow, some of it annotated in his godawful sharp handwriting. Your brow twitches, your mouth falls slightly open.

"I said I left the group," you snap, glaring up at him with disbelief. "I told you. I'm not doing this."

Jay doesn't blink. "I'm the group leader. You don't get to decide that."

Your jaw clenches. "Are you serious right now?"

"The presentation's in less than a week," he says. "If you want to walk out after that, go ahead. But until then? You're still on the list."

You huff, slamming the paper onto the table with far more drama than necessary. Still, he's not being cruel. Not sarcastic. Just... irritatingly direct. Which, honestly, is worse in some ways. At least when he was mean, you could hate him without confusion.

You cancel another hangout, another meeting gets scheduled. You text your friends a dozen half-bitter emojis and a fake promise to reschedule, then you drag yourself back to that too-bright room with its flickering ceiling light and cold whiteboard.

And there he is.

Jay. Seated at the far end of the table, flipping through slides and adjusting his notes. But what makes it worse—so much worse—is what you see next.

Two Omegas from another department are seated nearby, whispering with smiles on their lips, occasionally leaning closer to Jay's side of the table. One of them flips her hair unnecessarily, another giggles at something he mutters. And the worst part? He lets them.

He talks back. Calm and patient, not once does he snap or look annoyed. When one of them asks for help adjusting her outline, he glances at it and actually helps her—politely.

You fold your arms tightly across your chest and glare holes into the edge of the desk. He's so relaxed. So damn calm. When he corrects them, his tone is gentle.

What about you? Where was that gentleness for you? Why didn't he speak like that when you were trying?

If you hadn't cried... would he have ever treated you differently?

"The meeting hasn't even started and you're already having another mood up," Jay says, sliding into the seat beside you.

You don't look at him. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip your hair over your shoulder, pretending to focus on your untouched notes while your fingers drum silently on the table.

"Maybe don't take it personally," you say coolly, keeping your gaze forward. "I have moods without your help, thanks."

He makes a sound—half a scoff, half a hum—and leans back in his chair, one leg stretched out a little too far beneath the table, invading your space.

You huff, snapping your gaze toward him. "Why are you even here, anyway?" Your voice is sharp with irritation, your hand rising instinctively to push against his arm in a shooing gesture. "Go sit somewhere else. Far from me."

Your fingers press lightly to his shoulder, trying to shove him away with far less force than your words imply but of course, he doesn't move an inch. Jay stays firmly planted in his seat, turning his head slowly toward you.

"This is my seat," he says, tone unbothered. "And I'm the group leader."

He gestures vaguely toward the front of the room, where a few other group members are still settling in, some half-glancing your way with interest, clearly sensing the tension as it builds, again, between the two of you.

"So?" you snap, turning to glare at him again. "I don't care. Go sit somewhere else."

Jay doesn't even flinch. He just lifts one shoulder in the barest shrug, as if your words were nothing more than background noise, and proceeds to adjust his laptop and flip open his folder.

You scoff loudly, dramatic on purpose, making sure it carries across the room. But of course, it gets you nowhere. Jay begins the meeting laying out the agenda.

You lean back in your seat, annoyed and done with pretending to care. You don't hear a word of what he's saying. Instead, you pop open your notebook and flip to a blank page, yanking a glittery pen from your pouch. You start doodling out of habit—little flowers, cartoon hearts, bunny ears, some sparkles near the corners.

Your pen drifts to the center of the page, and you write your name in big, curly letters. You add hearts around it. A tiny tiara on top. You smile softly to yourself.

Almost without thinking, your hand moves again.

You write his name. Park Jongseong

Small. Lower than yours. Your pen pauses.

Then you grin. You begin crossing out the common letters between your name and his, counting the ones that remain.

You mutter under your breath, "F... L... A... M... E... S..."

Your pulse quickens as you count through the acronym, matching the number of leftover letters.

And then you land on it.

L- Lovers.

Heat rushes into your cheeks, flooding your face, suddenly horrified at your own middle-school-level behavior.

You quickly scratch a line through the whole thing, snapping the notebook closed. Jay turns his head toward you, his eyes narrow faintly. You roll your eyes immediately, slouching down in your seat and pretending nothing happened, praying your scent doesn't betray the flush still prickling your skin.

He watches you for another second, eyes narrowing slightly like he's almost figured it out—then turns back to the group, resuming the discussion without a word.

Lovers. Well, you hate that idea.

⋮ ⌗ act six

     YOU DON'T even know how it got to this point. How your days used to be peaceful without his presence, and now every hour near him feels like a quiet war between your pride and your Omega instincts.

Yes, your Omega purrs when he's close. Yes, there's a pull you feel in your chest that doesn't seem to respond to reason. That strange heat low in your belly, the calm that settles around you every time his scent brushes past your skin—it's all real. And yes, part of you feels it might be bond. That terrifying, delicate whisper of compatibility.

But you will never forget how he treated you. How he made you feel small and stupid. How he picked apart your efforts like they were inconveniences. How he barely looked at you unless you were crying or crumbling. You try to remind yourself of all of that now, as you sit at the edge of the room, your leg bouncing, compact mirror in one hand, lip gloss in the other. But it's hard—so hard—when you look up and see him.

Jay. His hair is slicked back neatly, exposing that unfairly sculpted face, those sharp cheekbones that could cut glass. His glasses sit low on his nose, and he pushes them up with two fingers—the same fingers you just found yourself staring at for far too long. They're long, veined, strong. So sexy.

You glare at your mirror, annoyed with your reflection. Screw your Omega for having such high standards. Selective, sensitive, spoiled instincts—and it chooses him? Of course it does!

You twirl a strand of your hair around your finger, trying to look casual, pretending you're just focused on your appearance. But your Omega shifts restlessly beneath your skin, picking up on the subtle stress in the room. You're not the only one reacting—other Omegas are nervous, too. Their scent clouds the air, full of unease. It's enough to make your skin twitch.

That's why the professors decided to separate the rooms. Alphas in one, Omegas and Betas in another. It was supposed to make things more manageable. Less hormonal mess. But it doesn't stop the other Omegas from eyeing Jay as he passes through the door.

You watch as two of them flutter their lashes, practically sighing in his direction. Like they think he'll turn and offer them some comforting word. Maybe a calming touch. You snort under your breath and roll your eyes, brushing a fleck of highlighter from the corner of your cheek. Heh. Do they expect him to soothe them? Not a chance.

"Can you all calm your fuck-ass selves down? Geez, it smells so weird in here." You mutter under your breath, wrinkling your nose in full disgust as the wave of distress pheromones builds again around the room. It's a mix of nervousness and poorly concealed anxiety and it's ruining your makeup mood. With a sigh, you grab your perfume bottle from your bag and spritz it into the air.

You roll your eyes again when another Omega releases a second burst of distressed pheromones. It's always the same ones too—biting their nails, fanning themselves, looking around like an Alpha is going to walk in and magically tell them everything's fine. You pull your collar slightly up, shielding your nose, and shake your head.

You decide to tune out, popping your phone out to scroll through your gallery, pretending you're anywhere but here. You check your reflection in the black screen, turn the camera on just to make sure your eyeliner hasn't smudged, then swipe open your beauty folder to admire the selfie you took yesterday with your freshly done nails. That alone settles you better than any scent could.

Another minute ticks by. You sigh and fish out your compact mirror again, tapping a bit of powder under your eyes, then dabbing a blush-tinted balm across your cheeks. A slick of gloss on your lips finishes the look, and you smile at yourself.

But when you begin to organize your bag—tucking your phone into its pocket, snapping your powder closed—you pause.

Then freeze. Your fingers sift through the bag again, more urgently this time. Compact, wallet, charger, lip tint, another gloss, perfume bottle, travel brush...

Your heart starts to beat faster. No. Your hand dives deeper, digging through the small pocket, then the zipper compartment. You pull everything out and lay it on the table in front of you.

Gone. It's fucking gone. Your Swan Ballet Flower Knows hair clip!

The one Ningning gave you for your birthday. The one that matches your current nail design. The one you literally wore this morning.

"Fuck," you whisper, eyes wide, chest tightening. You pat your head, your pockets, your bag again, but it's not there.

The air shifts. Your scent, which had been calm and delicately sweet with your perfume, now spikes full of frustration and distress. 

"Hey, are you okay?" one of the Beta boys beside you asks cautiously, his brow furrowed as he catches the sudden change in your scent. "Are you nervous?"

"No," you snap, still rummaging through your bag, tossing a pen and your lip gloss back into it with force. "Fuck off."

The Beta holds his hands up, muttering, "Okay, damn," before sliding his chair just slightly away from you.

"Did someone see my baby blue ribbon hair clip?!" you call out, a little louder now, nearly breathless as you look around the room, eyes scanning every desk, every chair, every bag.

"H-Hey, calm down," one of the nearby Omegas says gently, reaching out with an awkward hand, trying to soothe. But the second her fingers brush your arm, you slap her hand away without thinking, eyes wild and furious.

"Shut up!" you snap, voice cracking. "Don't fucking tell me to do shit!"

A wave of your scent bursts out. It was acidic with panic and anger. It's enough to make the others shift uncomfortably, their own scents flaring in reaction. You're frantic now, pacing the space between the tables, swiping aside books, opening bags that aren't yours before realizing what you're doing. Your hands tremble as you search under a desk, and when you straighten back up, your eyes are glassy. Your lower lip quivers, forming a tight, desperate pout.

You blink fast, but it's no use. The tears are there, threatening to spill.

The door suddenly opens, and Jay walks in with a bothered and confused in his eyes. Immediately, the room straightens. People hush. Even the air seems to still.

"What is happening?" he asks, brows furrowed as he takes sight of the room, the overturned bags, the tension heavy in the air and then his eyes land on you.

You unraveling, being frantic, teetering.

He strides toward you, cutting through the space between tables. Without hesitation, his hands find your shoulders softly. You blink up at him, trying to bite down on your emotions, but your throat tightens further under the weight of his presence. His brows draw in closer when he sees your expression—your glossy eyes, your flushed cheeks, your trembling mouth.

"M-my clip is m-missing," you whisper, barely holding your voice together. "The Flower Knows one. The baby blue..."

You can't finish. Your chest heaves, a sob barely swallowed down. You try to inhale sharply through your nose, but it only floods you with more of your distress. Jay closes his eyes, jaw tight as he rubs a hand down his face in exasperation at the spiral you're falling into. His Alpha is reacting instantly, tension building in his shoulders, his posture coiled with the weight of your unfiltered panic.

He opens his eyes again and looks down at you. "You're this worked up over a clip?"

You nod, a tiny motion, but desperate. "It's not just a clip. It's mine. Ningning gave it to me. I wore it today. I—I need it."

Jay breathes out through his nose, nostrils flaring slightly as he processes the full weight of your panic. Without another word, he turns his head sharply to the room.

"Everyone," he says, commanding. "Stop what you're doing and check around your desks. Bags, floor, jackets—everything."

No one speaks. No one even thinks about arguing. The entire room shifts, heads ducking, hands moving, chairs scraping quietly as people begin to search exactly where he told them to. Jay's hands slide down from your shoulders, and he moves beside you, quietly steering you toward the hallway. His hand stays on the small of your back, anchoring you as he leads you out of the overwhelming scent-thick room.

Outside, the air is cooler. The moment you're free of the enclosed space, you feel your body tremble in a release of breath you hadn't realized you were holding. Jay steps in front of you, hands still light but steady on your arms, you feel his scent shift, soothing, that that makes your Omega instincts sigh from under the anxiety.

"God," he breathes out, more to himself than to you, pressing his palm briefly over his forehead before it drops to your back again. "I thought something actually happened to you."

Your forehead drop into his shoulder, your face burying in the soft cotton of his shirt, the scent of him wrapping around you. He sighs again, hand moving in slow, steady circles along your spine.

"You need to stop crying," he murmurs into your hair, trying to sound stern, but it comes out gentler than it should. He pauses, lets out another breath. "You're going to short-circuit every Alpha in the building with your pheromones."

"I need my hair clip," you say into his shoulder, voice muffled, watery, and heavy with emotion. "It was the only thing that made me feel pretty today."

Jay's hand stills on your back. He doesn't say anything at first, like he's trying to figure out what to do with that sentence.

Finally, he moves again. "We're going to find your hair clip," he says. "Just... stop throwing tantrums."

One thing's for sure, Jay is exhausted. You can see it in the tension in his shoulders, the faint crease between his brows, the sighs he thinks you don't hear. He's tired of your tantrums, your attitude, your dramatics, your endless emotions.

You don't have the energy to question it anymore—why he's the one calming you down, why his presence, of all people, is what your Omega keeps clinging to. It doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense.

The rest of the day passes in a dull, gray blur. Your clip was never found. Your mood tanked. The presentation came and went, and you barely remember how you spoke or whether your words even made sense. You didn't shine. You didn't sparkle. You didn't even get a single compliment on your outfit, and by now, you're convinced your eyeliner is probably smudged beyond repair.

You expect it—Jay's frustration. You've seen it before. You're braced for the moment he corners you, arms crossed, brows furrowed, ready to lay into you with that cold, composed tone that always makes you feel twelve years old and three inches tall.

But it never comes.

You're sitting alone on the back stairs behind the building, eyes unfocused, arms draped over your knees, the wind ruffling your hair slightly as you stare into nothing. You've taken off your shoes, letting the cool stone press against your heels. Your bag is a mess. Your gloss is gone. Your scent, now flat and dulled by defeat, barely lingers in the air.

Jay appears beside you, quiet as ever, lowering himself onto the step next to you. He doesn't speak at first, doesn't sigh or scold or even look at you. Just sits.

You blink and glance sideways, lips parting to speak. "I know I messed up my part," you say quietly. "I already told you I'm sorry. No need to make me feel this bad—"

"I found your clip."

You blink. Jay pulls something out from his coat pocket. A small baby blue satin with gold trim and a little flower-shaped crystal that glitters in the soft light. "I went back to the hallway after the rooms were cleared," he says, tone casual, almost bored. He sets it in your hand.

You stare down at it, fingers curling slowly around the familiar shape. Your vision blurs instantly. "You—" your voice cracks, and you clear your throat, trying to hold it together. "You really went back for it?"

Jay leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed ahead. "I figured if I didn't, you'd tear down the whole school."

You burst into laughter and then, just as quickly, into tears. Before you can stop yourself, your body moves on its own, throwing itself into him with a weight that startles even you. Your arms wrap around his middle, face pressing into the side of his chest as another wave of laughter and tears shakes through you.

You can feel the tension ripple through him, every muscle going stiff like he wasn't built for this kind of contact. He lets out a long, quiet sigh, and then his arms slowly move. One drapes around your shoulders with hesitation, the other lifts awkwardly before landing a stiff, uncertain pat on your back.

It's the most awkward hug in the universe.

Your tears are light, your Omega purrs radiates through your skin. The air shifts, your scent changes into soft and sweet wrapping around the both of you.

Jay breathes it in and his body instantly relaxes, just a little. He just sits there, letting you sob against him while your Omega hums in contentment, pleased that—for once—it wasn't wrong about him.

He's still not the Alpha you dreamed of. He's cold, awkwad and complicated. But, you think... he's okay?

⋮ ⌗ act seven

     "HE definitely likes you."

You roll your eyes at Ningning's voice as you carefully curl your lashes in front of the mirror in the girls' comfort room. You keep your focus steady on your reflection, refusing to acknowledge the glint of mischief in your best friend's eyes.

"If I were still the delusional girl I used to be," you mutter, lashes releasing from the curler, "then maybe I'd let myself believe that."

Ningning lets out a dramatic huff from where she's leaning against the sink, arms crossed but clearly enjoying this more than she should. "Come on! Even Giselle agrees now—and you know she's allergic to optimism."

You don't answer. Instead, you reach for your mascara, unscrewing the tube with steady fingers, and begin sweeping it through your lashes. You focus on each slow stroke, using the rhythm to drown out the flutter in your chest.

"Seriously," Ningning says, She leans closer against the counter beside you, folding her arms with that all-knowing gleam in her eye. "What type of Alpha would go out of his way to calm you down over a missing clip? A hair clip, girl. It's not like it was a life-or-death situation."

"It was a Flower Knows clip," you say, still brushing your lashes without missing a beat.

"Exactly," she deadpans, then scoffs. "A Flower Knows clip is like eight bucks. And you—Miss Chanel, Miss Limited Edition Lip Oil, Miss I Only Drink Matcha If It's Imported—you could replace that clip five times over."

You pause, blinking at your reflection. "He didn't have to find it," she continues. "But he did. He went back. He picked it up. He brought it to you, and you know Jay's not the type to do stuff like that. He barely blinks at people."

You glance sideways at her, lips twitching. "Maybe he just felt bad," you mutter, setting the mascara wand down. "Like that other time I cried in the gym and practically soaked his shirt. Maybe he just has a guilty conscience."

"Girl," Ningning groans, throwing her head back. "That man does not do things out of guilt. He does things because he means to. Jay isn't the type to play pretend. If he didn't want to deal with you, he wouldn't."

You fidget with your gloss now, unscrewing the cap but not applying it yet. Ningning steps in closer, placing both hands on your shoulders and spinning you gently toward her.

"Just make a move again," she says. "This time, don't cry first. Just be bold. You are bold. You're all glitter and gloss and crazy perfume names. He's just... stuck in his own head. Maybe you have to shake him out of it."

You snap the cap back on your gloss and toss it into your bag with more force than necessary, jaw tight. "Shut up," you mutter, "I'm not going to be broken-hearted again."

And you mean it. You swear you mean it. You're done with chasing. No one, not even Ningning with her relentless optimism, can convince you otherwise.

But then the universe, in its favorite tradition, decides to humiliate you anyway.

You're late. Because of course you are. Your package—your limited edition, out-of-stock-everywhere Flower Knows powder compact—finally arrived, and there was no way you were missing the delivery. Not when you'd already cried once this semester. So yes, you're late. But you're late looking good.

You strut into the lecture hall, tote bag slung over your shoulder, heels clicking until your eyes fall on your seat. Your seat. The one next to Ningning, the only tolerable spot in the entire damn classroom.

And sitting in it was Yeonjun.

"What the fuck," you hiss, marching over, already reaching to swing your bag off your shoulder. "Get out of my seat, loser." You kick his foot under the table.

Yeonjun just laughs, dragging out a pout. "Relax, princess. It's just a chair." He tilts his chin, gesturing toward the only empty seat left in the room. "That one's free. Enjoy."

You follow the line of his smug finger. Your stomach sinks. Of course the only available seat is next to Jay—stone-faced, hyper-focused, glasses on, notebook already open, refusing to even glance up.

"Fuck you," you growl under your breath, kicking Yeonjun again—harder this time—before straightening up, your eyes narrowing in betrayal at Ningning, who's already failing to hide her grin behind her notebook.

"Miss," the professor calls from the front, already halfway into his introduction. "You're late. Care to sit down already?"

You grit your teeth, casting one last glare at the two traitors pretending to be your friends, then march down the row and plop down into the seat beside Jay, the sound of your bag dropping beside you far louder than necessary.

You're not here for him. You're here because Yeonjun's an ass, because the universe hates you, and because the professor called you out in front of the whole class.

But still, your Omega, ever the traitor, is practically curled up in delight beside him, soothed by the way he hasn't even acknowledged you, his scent like a steady anchor in a sea of your annoyance.

You grumble under your breath and shift in your seat, opening your notebook with a loud, irritated flick of your wrist. You pretend to read a line from the handout, then, without thinking, reach into your bag and pull out the one thing guaranteed to bring you joy: your brand-new compact powder.

The packaging is perfect. You run your finger lightly over the embossed strawberry on the front, admiring the pearlescent detail. You smile to yourself, the tension in your shoulders melting just a little.

If you were sitting next to Ningning right now, you'd be yapping. Nonstop. Yapping about how this compact was almost impossible to find, how you tracked it across two continents and seven different sold-out websites. And to be fair, you'd yap with anyone—about lip tints, palettes, perfume layering combinations, finish textures, and highlighter formulas. You live for the details.

So, of course, you can't help yourself now even with Jay sitting next to you. "I didn't get the whole set," you begin, voice charged with the thrill of finally talking about something you care about. "Because, like, sometimes Flower Knows won't ship directly here, and some bitches already hoarded the preorder."

Jay doesn't move.

"But guess what," you continue, tapping his arm lightly with your nail before holding up the compact in your palm. "I finally got the powder, and it is so cute. Like, look at this texture. It's shaped like whipped cream frosting. And—oh my God—smell this."

You pause, opening your pouch again, digging through until you find the matching tube. "Also, I bought their lipstick too. The one from the Swan Ballet line. It smells like candy clouds, but also slightly floral. Honestly, it's genius. I kind of want to buy another one just to keep it in the box—"

You stop mid-sentence with the lipstick tube held in front of you. Jay turned his head, his eyes are on you, listening.

And you realize you've been yapping. You blink, lips still parted, frozen with your product halfway. Then he blinks, turns his head back to his notes, and says quietly—

"Keep going."

The words are so simple, so softly said, that you almost think you imagined them. Your heart flips in your chest. Your Omega lets out a pleased little purr that almost makes your spine tingle.

"And then," you whisper, "I found a reseller who didn't charge triple the price, and I swear to you, Jay, it was like fate."

And then it becomes a thing.

Every damn time, without fail, Ningning and Yeonjun pull their little stunt. They laugh, wink, and somehow, through force, they make sure your seat ends up next to Jay. One of them will be "saving your seat" only to abandon it the moment you enter, or "accidentally" block it with a pile of books. And every time, you glare, you groan, you curse under your breath.

But you still sit next to him. You tell yourself you don't want to talk. That you'll just sit in silence, that this time you won't fall back into the same pattern. That your Omega will behave. That you will behave.

And then you open your mouth anyway.

You start rambling about the new things you bought, or how underpriced the campus café is, or how this semester's syllabus is personally trying to kill you. Sometimes you don't even know what you're saying—just that he's listening, and somehow that makes you talk more. And every time, Jay just sits there, occasionally replying, sometimes looking at you.

You don't even realize when it happens when the tension begins to fade, when your Omega starts curling softly in contentment. It's like your body is choosing to forget. Forget all the ways he made you feel ignored. Forget the moments he brushed you off, dismissed you, didn't care.

"Smell this," you say one day, voice light and sweet as you pull your sleeve up and offer him your wrist. "It's my new Jo Malone—Wild Bluebell with a hint of Peony and Blush Suede. I think it fits well with my natural scent, don't you think?"

Jay doesn't even flinch. He reaches out, gently holding your wrist between two fingers. His head lowers, slowly, and his nose brushes just above your pulse point.

It's subtle but his scent deepens, and grows warmer. Like his Alpha side responded before he could think it through.

You giggle. You fucking giggle, and your Omega purrs without shame, flooding the air with the soft, pleased lilt of someone finally receiving attention they've craved for too long.

He blinks slowly, releases your wrist, clears his throat. He turns back to his notebook like nothing happened.

Jay is not the Alpha your Omega deserves. No matter how many times your instincts try to paint over the truth, you remember. You remember the way he ignored your efforts, dismissed your excitement, and made you feel like you were just noise. Your Omega might conveniently purr every time he's near, lulled by the safety of his scent or the quiet steadiness of his presence, but your heart? Your mind? They haven't forgotten a single bruise.

It's infuriating how easily your instincts betray you. How they curl toward him, like he deserves you—like he's ever earned the softness your body keeps offering without your permission.

And Jay, for all his cool-headed composure and sharp intelligence, doesn't make it easier. He never explains himself. He just shows up beside you, around you, in all the quiet corners where you swore you'd stop caring and somehow keeps slipping beneath your guard again. Like he knows he doesn't need to try, because your Omega has already made the decision for you.

What's wrong with him, anyway?

Why is he always so composed, so perfectly infuriating? Why can't he just say what he wants? Be blunt, be cruel, be anything instead of this calm, silent wall you keep crashing into. And you—you're doing it again.

You're showing him the new earrings you ordered from a Korean boutique. Rambling about the shade match of a concealer that finally works for your undertones. Talking about the sale that's coming up and which perfumes you plan to layer next. He doesn't interrupt, doesn't mock, doesn't even look annoyed. Just lets you talk while he listens in that quiet way.

But the entire time, a weight builds in your chest. A creeping fear.

What if he gets annoyed again? What if this—all of this comfort, this strange new rhythm you've found ends the moment you say too much? What if he gets tired of you again, pulls away again, tells you you're too much?

What if he says it's time to leave him alone?

That fear clutches at your chest, and it hurts in a way you can't explain. Because the last time he rejected you—even indirectly—you swore you wouldn't give him another chance to do it again. You swore you'd protect yourself. That you'd stop offering pieces of your joy to someone who never asked for them.

But here you are. Sitting next to him. Talking like he hasn't shattered you before. Laughing like your Omega isn't already begging for something deeper.

Make him yours, your Omega whispers again, insistent and eager, like it hasn't learned a damn thing.

But you're exhausted. Emotionally wrung out. And today, you wake up already irritated.

The sunlight filters too harshly through your curtains, clinging to your skin. The room is warm, your sheets twisted, your silk pillowcase thrown somewhere on the floor, and your hair—your perfect blowout—looks nothing like what it was when you fell asleep. The ends are flat, the roots are puffy, and there's a weird dent on the side from sleeping too hard. You stand in front of your mirror for twenty minutes trying to fix it, but no amount of brushing or oil can save it.

Your closet stares back at you with the same smug silence it always has. You try on three outfits, one after the other, but nothing feels right. One's too stiff. The other clings wrong. The third is fine—but fine is not how you want to look when the world's already pulling at your nerves.

So you give up.

You toss your clothes onto your bed in frustration, pull on the safest thing you can find, and leave your room without bothering to match your lip gloss to your top. You're annoyed, tired, and in no mood to deal with your usual routine of being put-together. You skip your first class without a second thought—no one was taking attendance anyway—and instead sulk in your favorite café, sipping iced matcha that tastes too bitter and scrolling through your phone like it'll fix something.

By the time your second lecture rolls around, you're still not in the mood. You step into the room later than usual, ignoring the way some of your classmates glance up. You don't care. You don't scan the rows for him. You just go straight to the back, dropping your bag onto the seat beside you and pulling your phone out.

"Fuck off," you hissed when you hear footsteps approach and see Yeonjun and Ningning out of the corner of your eye.

Yeonjun raises both hands. "Damn, chill, princess. I was just gonna ask why you're back here."

You shoot him a glare. "I thought you and Jay were good again," he adds, eyebrows raised. "Did he breathe wrong or something?"

"Fuck. Off." you growl again. Your fingers tighten around your cup, the condensation sliding between your skin and the plastic.

"Okay, okay—calm down," he mutters, retreating with exaggerated caution. "God, I think I know what's coming with you."

You roll your eyes but don't respond. Because he's not wrong. You already know what's happening.

The ache behind your eyes, the restless way your Omega keeps curling and stretching like it's searching for something—or someone.  Your scent has started to shift subtly and the minute it hit the air, you knew it wouldn't be long. You can feel it coming in. Your pre-heat.

Your Omega can't even wait for it. It's already humming at the idea of being close to him again, already reacting to memories of his scent, his presence, his voice.  Your control is fraying at the edges, and you hate it. You hate how easily your body turns traitor.

You've skipped half the day now, letting yourself exist in the quieter part of campus, tucked on the familiar stairwell where the lectures can't reach you. Where your makeup-free face, your messy ponytail, and your emotional disarray don't need to perform for anyone. You sit with your legs folded close, your phone dimmed in your hand.

"You're skipping lecture again."

You already know it's Jay. No one else has a voice that smooth, that neutral, that sharp around the edges without trying to be. He settles beside you on the stairs.

"Fuck off," you mutter, eyes still focused on nothing, fingers idly picking at the hem of your sleeve. But your Omega stirs anyways.

"You're not wearing makeup today." It's not a compliment. Not an insult either. Just a flat observation.

"Fuck off," you repeat.

He doesn't move. "Is something wrong?" he asks.

"Fuck off."

Jay's mouth shuts without resistance. The silence between you grows. You keep your face buried in the crook of your arm, knees drawn to your chest like you can fold yourself out of existence if you just hold tight enough. You don't want to look at him. You don't want to see whatever look he's wearing.

You're done reading his silences like they owe you answers. So why the hell is he here? The lecture isn't over. There's no reason for him to be outside with you, sitting in this stairwell like it means something.

"Do you want to drink some matcha? I noticed it's your—"

You lift your head abruptly, eyes flashing with frustration, and he stops mid-sentence. "I don't know what you want from me," you cut in, "Or why you're suddenly acting like you care. Why you keep showing up every single time I go distress."

Jay doesn't move, but something in his expression flickers. You stand up before he can respond, grabbing your bag in a quick, jerky motion, stuffing your things back inside with clumsy hands. Your breath is uneven. You hate how tight your chest feels, how your Omega keeps curling in confusion, still wanting to stay close despite everything your brain knows.

"If this is about you feeling guilty," you say, your voice cracking against the emotion climbing in your throat, "then congratulations. You're forgiven. For everything."

You hoist your bag onto your shoulder, your back turned now as you take a step down the stairs. "Leave me alone," you add without looking at him. "It's annoying. We're not even friends."

And with that, you walk away.

[dksfml]

hiiiiiiii author, wanna know if you're already done writing eighteen part 4 ☺️ really excited to read itt !! tyy

not yet done, but almost there...

[dksfml]

Hiii, I just wanted to tell you that I absolutely love reading "Eighteen", and now every time I listen to "Free" from The K-pop Demon Hunters movie I think about it (Jinu's voice sounds so much like Jungwon's). So if you haven't checked it out I recommend it. <3

TYSM BABEEE AND HEY i watched the showwww, and omg "free" also kind of reminds me of heeseung's voice 😩