Archive of Our Own

Martin had never been good at hiding things.

He’d learned how to be quiet, how to lower his voice in lecture halls and keep his hands still during exams. He’d learned how to bottle up his reactions when the group chat exploded over an exciting piece of gossip happening in the theatre club, or when someone flirted with him too obviously in class. But hiding something that made his heart beat faster? That made his hands ache with the need to touch, his chest swell with something hot and alive?

That was impossible.

Especially when it came to him.

Martin sat curled on the far end of the campus café booth, fingers wrapped around a lukewarm matcha latte he wasn’t drinking. His scarf — thin, lavender, and impractically long — was looped twice around his neck and hung down almost to his knees. He looked like spring personified, tall and elegant in his cream-colored sweater and dark colored jeans, despite the lingering bite of winter in the air outside.

Seonghyeon had been watching him for the last ten minutes. James had been whispering to Keonho for the last five.

Martin didn’t care.

He smiled faintly to himself, head tilted as if he were listening to music no one else could hear. His fingers slightly tightened around the plastic cup, and a soft, dreamy sigh escaped him before he could stop it.

That was what did it. That was the final straw.

“Okay.” Keonho leaned forward, bracing both arms on the table like this was a military intervention. “Who is he?”

Martin blinked. “Who?”

“Whoever you’ve been thinking about this whole time,” James cut in. “You’ve been zoning out like a lovesick high school sophomore. And don’t give us the ‘just busy with classes’ routine. We’ve seen busy Martin. Busy Martin swears at his sewing machine and walks into traffic. This is… this is blissed-out Martin.”

“I’m not—” Martin flushed, ears and cheeks going pink. “You’re overreacting.”

“Tell that to the lip gloss you reapplied three times before we even ordered,” Seonghyeon said, tilting his head. His tone was gentle, but his eyes were sharp. “Who is he, Martin hyung?”

Martin looked down at his latte, embarrassed but also buzzing with a thrill he couldn’t suppress.

“He’s… kind of a private person,” he offered.

“Private person?” James echoed, incredulous. “So private we don’t even get a name?”

“It’s not like that,” Martin murmured.

“Then what’s it like?” Keonho asked, frowning. “You’ve been different lately. Not in a bad way, just—” he gestured vaguely. “Weird.”

Martin swallowed. His heart thudded too hard in his chest, like it wanted to be heard.

“He makes me feel safe,” he said finally, the words soft and reverent. “Like I can just… exist. And breathe. And stop thinking about everything else.”

James went quiet. Keonho looked unconvinced. Seonghyeon’s mouth twitched slightly.

Martin didn’t elaborate. He couldn’t, really.

How could he explain Juhoon? How could he explain the way the alpha had appeared out of nowhere — like a dream, like smoke — only to lodge himself in Martin’s world so deeply it felt like they’d always known each other?

They’d met by chance. Martin had been locked out of his dorm one night in late October, arms full of thrifted fabric and design mockups, breath fogging in the cold. His phone was dead. His RA was unreachable. He’d been standing there for twenty minutes when someone with dark hair and a soccer jacket stopped beside him.

“You locked out?” the alpha had asked, voice low and even.

Martin had nodded, tense. He’d been wary. Alphas could be unpredictable. But Juhoon had stayed a few feet back, calm and steady, offering his phone for Martin to call campus housing. They hadn’t talked much, yet Juhoon had waited with him until someone came to unlock the door.

That was all.

And then he’d seen him again. At the gym. At the bookstore. Passing in the quad. Always alone, always quiet, always watching with those sharp, steady eyes.

Eventually, he spoke again. Eventually, he said Martin’s name. Eventually, he touched his wrist. Martin hadn’t even realized he’d fallen until he was already under — heart first, throat exposed.

Juhoon wasn’t like anyone he’d ever dated. He wasn’t loud, or flashy, or charming in the traditional sense. But he had this gravity to him. This stillness. Like the world moved around him. And when he looked at Martin — really looked at him — it made Martin feel like he was the only thing that mattered.

Sometimes, it was terrifying. But most of the time, it was perfect.

Martin didn’t realize how long he’d been in his own head until Keonho groaned, “God, you’re doing it again!”

“Doing what?” Martin asked, startled.

“Smiling like you’re being serenaded by a violin.”

“Does he even go to our school?” James asked, skeptical now.

“He does,” Martin said quickly while nodding.

“What year?”

“I think third, like me.”

“You think?”

Martin looked down, then back up before repeating himself. “We’re just… keeping things private right now.” 

That was one way to put it.

The truth was, Juhoon didn’t like Martin’s friends. He didn’t say it outright — Juhoon didn’t need to. He’d just ask things like, “You always spend so much time with them.. do they really get you?” or “Do they look at you the way I do?”

The questions lingered, even when they weren’t spoken again.

Now, Martin hesitated before replying to messages in the group chat. He stopped sharing every little update about his day. He found himself double-checking his outfits, not for fun or fashion, but for approval. Juhoon had a way of looking at him that made Martin feel so wanted, so chosen — but also so easy to disappoint.

And when Martin did disappoint him — when he showed up five minutes late, or forgot to turn off his location sharing from his friends, or laughed too long at someone else’s joke — Juhoon didn’t yell.

He just went quiet and would withdraw himself instantly in a cold manner. That silence hurt Martin more than any shouting ever could.

But then came the warmth again — the kisses against his throat, the grounding touch at the nape of his neck, the whispered, “Only I get to see you like this.” And Martin would melt all over again.

He chose this. He wanted this. Didn’t he?

“Are we ever going to meet him?” Seonghyeon asked suddenly.

Martin blinked. “What?”

“Your mystery alpha,” Seonghyeon said, his voice gentle but steady. “Are we ever going to meet him?”

Martin hesitated. A flicker of something like fear darted across his mind.

Juhoon wouldn’t like that. He’d say it was too soon. That his pack wasn’t safe. That Martin shouldn’t trust people so easily.

But they were his friends. His family, really.

And now they were watching him — all three of them — waiting for an answer.

Martin forced a smile. “Maybe. One day.”

“Maybe,” James echoed, deadpan. “Cool.”

Martin looked back down at his latte, cheeks still warm, fingers cold.

He wanted to believe this was love. He needed to believe it.

And somewhere deep inside him, despite the doubts and the distance, he still thought:

If Juhoon wanted to hurt me, wouldn’t he have already?

“He’s in too deep,” James muttered, stirring the ice in his drink with a red straw he had no intention of using. “You saw him. He’s… gone.”

They were back in James’ apartment, tucked into the living room with the lights low and a crime doc playing in the background with subtitles on mute. None of them were watching it. The bowls of snacks on the coffee table remained untouched.

Keonho was splayed upside-down on the couch, head hanging off the edge, feet kicked up on the backrest. “Gone like brain-empty in love, or gone like we-should-be-worried?”

“Yes,” James said flatly.

Seonghyeon sat cross-legged on the floor, thumb running along the seam of his joggers. He hadn’t said much since they left the café. Now, he exhaled.

“I don’t like it,” he admitted. “He’s hiding things. You know how rare that is for him?”

“Yeah,” James nodded. “Martin overshares when he buys soap. And now suddenly he has a mystery alpha that none of us have seen, barely talks about, and ‘isn’t ready’ to introduce?”

“Okay, but.” Keonho lifted a hand lazily. “We don’t actually know this guy’s done anything, right? Like. Martin’s weird, or I guess.. passionate about romance. Remember last year with the guy he had to share his fashion studio with for a bit? Martin got ghosted after two weeks and yet he still pretended they were dating for the rest of the month.”

James grimaced. “That was sad. Don’t remind me.”

“That was delusional,” Seonghyeon corrected.

“But this isn’t that,” James added. “This one’s different.”

Seonghyeon nodded. “Martin’s changed.”

Keonho rolled over onto his stomach, sighing into the throw pillow before asking, “Like… how changed?”

Seonghyeon didn’t answer right away. He pushed his reading glasses up, then folded his hands in his lap like he was collecting evidence.

“He second-guesses everything now,” he said. “You saw how he hesitated before answering even the simplest questions. That isn’t normal for him. Martin used to cut people off mid-sentence to make another point about whatever topic that’s being discussed.”

James smirked faintly, but it didn’t last. “You’re right. He’s been quieter lately. And jumpy. Not in a scared way, but like… controlled.”

“Subdued,” Seonghyeon agreed.

James frowned and sat up straighter. “It’s like he’s on a leash.”

Keonho’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“I’m serious.” James leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Did you see the way he touched his scarf when we asked about this guy? Like he was grounding himself. Like he was scared to say the wrong thing.”

“You think he’s in an.. abusive relationship?” Seonghyeon asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” James said. “That’s the thing. I don’t know anything about this guy. None of us do. And Martin’s never kept someone this secret before.”

“Maybe the guy’s actually just private,” Keonho offered, though it sounded more like a weak suggestion than an actual belief. Like he was trying to convince himself that his close friend isn’t in this type of relationship. 

“Private is one thing. But this? This is secretive to whole other level. This is strategic.” James tapped his fingers on the armrest. “Martin still hasn’t told us his name, and was essentially refusing when we did ask. Don’t you think that's weird?”

“He at least mentioned he was a third-year,” Seonghyeon pointed out.

James scoffed. “There’s like, two thousand third-years on this campus, including Martin.”

“But he said they met in October, right?” Keonho added, perking up slightly. “That means they’ve been seeing each other for months.”

“Right,” James said. “And Martin’s only now slipping up. He’s careful about this guy. Too careful. Which means one of two things — either he’s embarrassed, or he’s being made to be quiet.”

That silenced the room for a moment. The muted TV flickered in the dark, casting shadows across the wall. Seonghyeon ran a hand through his hair. “If it’s the second one… what do we do?”

James swallowed. “We start watching.”

“Stalking?” Keonho said, half-joking.

James shrugged. “Observing. If he shows up at Martin’s dorm, we take note. If Martin starts blowing off class or disappearing more than usual, we ask questions. If we ever see this guy, we get a vibe check in.”

“And if the vibe is ‘serial killer in training’?”

“Then we get Martin the hell out,” James said simply.

“Without making him run straight to the guy,” Seonghyeon added.

“Right. Hopefully that actually works in practice.”

Keonho rolled back onto his side and sighed. “This sucks.”

“I know.”

“I liked it better when the only thing wrong with Martin was his crush on that boy from fashion history who wore skirts over jeans.”

“I was the boy from fashion history who wore skirts over jeans,” James said.

“Exactly.”

Seonghyeon smiled faintly at that, but it faded quickly.

The truth was: they were scared. Not of this mystery alpha himself — because they hadn’t even seen him yet — but of the way Martin looked when he talked about him. Like he was floating. Like he was drugged.

Like he was loved too deeply to notice he was being drowned.

James then stared at the TV screen for a long moment, then grabbed the remote. He switched channels and then unmuted the documentary. “Let’s educate ourselves,” he said.

The voiceover blared to life: “The signs were subtle at first. He withdrew from friends. Changed his routines. And no one noticed until it was too late.”

Keonho threw a pillow at him. “Turn that off!”

Except Seonghyeon didn’t laugh.

Because it wasn’t funny anymore.

Martin let himself into the apartment as quietly as possible.

Not because he was trying to be sneaky — Juhoon had given him a key weeks ago — but because the silence inside always felt so sacred. It was a second-floor walk-up just off campus, tucked above a dry cleaner’s and a corner convenience store that stayed open until 2 a.m. The stairs creaked when you leaned too hard on them. The windows were narrow but tall. The whole place always smelled faintly like cedarwood and dryer sheets.

Martin loved it.

He slipped his shoes off at the door and padded into the dimly lit space, dropping his bag by the kitchen counter and unwrapping the long scarf from his neck. A soft sound — like the gentle strike of fingertips against keys — came from the living room.

Juhoon was at the piano again.

Martin paused in the doorway, eyes drawn to the figure seated in the corner.

Juhoon didn’t look up. He rarely did, at first. He played like he breathed — effortless, slow, deliberate. The keys moved under his fingers like they were part of him, the low light casting shadows across the clean line of his jaw. He wore a black hoodie and grey sweats, sleeves pushed to his forearms. His hair was a little tousled, like he’d run his hands through it. His face, as always, was unreadable.

Martin watched him for a full minute before moving.

He walked forward, soft steps on hardwood, and knelt beside the piano bench — not on it, but beside it, now settling fully onto the floor. Juhoon’s left hand never stopped playing, but his right reached down immediately and carded through Martin’s dirty blonde hair.

Martin exhaled.

“Long day?” Juhoon murmured, low and warm.

Martin nodded, leaning into the touch like a sunflower chasing light. “Mhm.”

Juhoon’s fingers trailed down behind his ear, gentle. “Did you eat?”

Martin hesitated. “Not yet.”

A pause. The music stopped.

“You said you’d take care of yourself.”

“I will,” Martin said quickly, lifting his head. “I’m okay. I was just tired and I didn’t want to waste time—”

“You’re not a waste,” Juhoon said, sharp but quiet. “Don’t say that again.”

Martin’s heart thudded in his throat. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” Juhoon’s tone softened, but his hand didn’t move from Martin’s cheek. His thumb brushed the skin under Martin’s eye, slow. “You’re just careless with your own needs. That’s all.”

Martin flushed, guilt crawling up his spine.

“I’m sorry.”

Juhoon’s gaze dropped to Martin’s mouth. “Come here.”

Martin rose back up to his knees and leaned upwards. Juhoon kissed him slowly, deliberately — a claiming kiss, not rushed. He tasted like mint and something deeper, and when he pulled back, Martin felt breathless and small in the best way.

“You saw your friends today,” Juhoon said. It wasn’t a question.

Martin nodded. “Just for a bit.”

“What did they say?”

Martin looked down, hesitating. “They asked about you.”

“And what did you say?”

“I just said we were private.”

Juhoon was silent for a long moment.

Martin’s stomach twisted. “Was that wrong?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Juhoon said. “It’s smart. They wouldn’t understand.”

Martin looked up. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

The words were absolute. 

“Do you want me to stop seeing them?” Martin asked, voice small.

Juhoon looked at him for a long time. Then:

“No,” he said. “Not unless they give you a reason. But be careful what you say. Friends don’t always stay friends when they see something they don’t understand.”

Martin nodded quickly. “Okay.”

Juhoon leaned down and kissed his forehead. “I trust you,” he murmured.

It made Martin glow. It made him ache. He wanted to be worthy of that trust. He wanted to be so good, so obedient, so perfectly Juhoon’s that no one else’s opinion would ever matter.

“Can I stay tonight?” Martin asked, already knowing the answer.

“You don’t need to ask.”

“I like when you say yes.”

Juhoon smiled faintly. “Then yes. Stay.”

Martin beamed, rising to his feet. “I’ll shower first.”

Juhoon caught his wrist before he could leave.

“Wait.”

Martin turned back, breath catching.

Juhoon stood slowly, and even though Martin was taller by nearly half a foot, it never felt that way. Not when Juhoon looked at him like this — eyes low-lidded, scent curling heavy through the room. Calm and dominant.

“I missed you,” Juhoon said, brushing his hand against Martin’s waist, slipping beneath the hem of his sweater. “You didn’t text for three hours earlier.”

“I was in class,” Martin said, breath hitching.

“I know.” His hand curled there, possessive and warm. “But I don’t like when I can’t reach you.”

Martin swallowed. “I’ll do better.”

Juhoon leaned in, mouth brushing the shell of his ear.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “And I don’t share.”

Martin shivered.

Then he nodded. “I know.”

Juhoon stepped back. “Go shower.”

Martin obeyed.

And as he disappeared down the hallway, Juhoon turned back to the piano, his hands calm, his face unreadable — and played a different song.

The bathroom smelled like Juhoon.

Martin closed the door behind him, flicked on the overhead light, and exhaled into the silence. The fan hummed faintly, dulling the sound of traffic below. A soft amber glow spilled from the wall fixture above the mirror, catching in the mist from the cracked window near the ceiling. There was no clutter, no mismatched towels, no tangled cords or toothpaste smears. Just folded linens, black soap dispensers, and a worn-out bottle of cedar-scented shampoo in the corner of the shower.

Everything in Juhoon’s space was calm, sparse, and clean. It really felt like him.

Martin peeled off his sweater slowly. The fabric slid over his skin and left goosebumps in its wake. He unbuttoned his trousers, folded them neatly, and set them on the closed toilet lid. There were already clothes waiting for him on the counter — a soft black t-shirt and grey boxers that weren’t his. It was almost like Juhoon knew this would happen, that Martin wanted to wash up. 

He turned on the shower.

The water roared for a moment, then steadied, steam beginning to unfurl against the mirror. Martin stepped in once the temperature was right — hot but not scalding, just enough to make his muscles soften.

The tiles were a deep slate gray, smooth under his palms as he braced one hand against the wall and let the water pour over his shoulders. His hair flattened instantly, sticking to his forehead. Warmth wrapped around him like a blanket. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Showers in Juhoon’s apartment always felt different. Not like his dorm’s tiny plastic box with a rusting wire caddy. This one had space and silence. Here, he could let his guard down.

He washed his body slowly, careful not to leave a trace of soap behind. He then used Juhoon’s shampoo and conditioner, rubbing it gently through his scalp. He let the scent coat his skin. When he stepped out, he dried himself with one of Juhoon’s towels — thick, clean, still smelling faintly of dryer sheets and something deeper, something like him.

He dressed slowly as well. The boxers fit snug across his hips. The shirt hung lower, brushing his thighs. It was soft and warm from being folded, and the collar still carried Juhoon’s scent. Martin pulled it close as he wiped a hand across the fogged-up mirror.

His reflection looked softer somehow. Tired. Flushed from the heat of the shower. His hair damp and messy, falling around his face. His eyes were wide, mouth pink. He didn’t look like someone ready for bed. He looked like someone waiting to be touched.

The apartment was dim when he stepped back into the hallway, carpet cool beneath his feet.

Juhoon wasn’t at the piano anymore.

Martin stopped just before the bedroom door. The frame was lit by a bedside lamp casting a pool of golden light. He heard the faint sound of sheets shifting. His breath caught.

Then:

“Come here.”

Juhoon’s voice. Low and unmistakable.

Martin stepped in.

Juhoon was seated at the edge of the bed, one leg bent, the other planted on the floor. He was still in his hoodie, though the zipper was open now. His gaze slid down Martin’s body slowly — over the shirt that obviously didn’t belong to him, over bare thighs, over damp hair.

“You look good like that,” Juhoon said softly.

Martin flushed. “It’s yours.”

“That’s why.”

Juhoon crooked two fingers. Martin came closer.

Juhoon touched the hem of the shirt, thumb brushing bare skin. He hummed low in his throat, then tugged gently until Martin stepped between his legs. His hands rested on Martin’s hips, firm and warm, thumbs rubbing small circles.

“You wore it on purpose, didn’t you?” he asked.

Martin swallowed. “You left it out.”

“I didn’t tell you to put it on.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Juhoon smiled faintly, dark eyes lifting. “Good boy.”

Martin’s breath hitched.

One hand slid up, slow and possessive, fingers curling behind Martin’s neck. He tugged gently downward until Martin was forced to lean in, until their foreheads touched and their mouths nearly met.

Juhoon’s voice dropped even lower.

“Do you want me to touch you?”

Martin nodded.

Words wouldn’t come. His throat felt too tight. His body too hot.

“Say it.”

“I want you to touch me,” Martin whispered.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Everywhere?”

“Yes.”

Juhoon kissed him then — not soft, not sweet. It was all heat and tension, hands dragging across skin, tongue pushing into his mouth like he belonged there. Martin gasped, knees wobbling slightly, and Juhoon stood up in one fluid motion, guiding him backward toward the bed.

The backs of Martin’s knees hit the mattress. Juhoon didn’t stop kissing him.

He pressed forward until Martin was forced to sit, then eased him down until he was flat on his back, legs hanging slightly over the edge. The kiss broke only when Juhoon trailed his mouth down Martin’s neck — slow, deliberate, open-mouthed kisses that turned into sucking just hard enough to leave marks.

Martin whimpered.

Juhoon’s hands slid beneath the shirt, palms warm, thumbs brushing over his flat stomach and up toward his chest. He paused just under the curve of his ribs, breath hot against Martin’s collarbone.

“Take it off,” Juhoon said.

Martin pulled the shirt off. He didn’t throw it. He folded it quickly and set it aside.

Juhoon didn’t smile, but he looked pleased.

“You’re always so good for me,” he murmured, dragging his hands back down over Martin’s bare chest, skimming over sensitive skin, fingers tracing down until he reached the waistband of the boxers.

He paused there. Martin trembled.

“Can I?” Juhoon asked.

“Yes,” Martin breathed.

The boxers, slightly stained from slick already, came off slowly.

Juhoon leaned down again, kissing just above his hip, just below his navel. Martin squirmed, hands curling in the sheets, heat rising in waves across his skin.

Then Juhoon’s mouth moved lower, and Martin stopped thinking altogether.

Juhoon didn’t rush. His mouth trailed deliberately down Martin’s skin — first across his pelvis, then along the inside of one thigh then the other, both already getting wet from slick. Warm, steady, possessive kisses that made Martin shiver and bite his lip.

His legs parted instinctively. Juhoon nudged them wider.

“You’re already hard and wet,” he murmured, breath ghosting over the tip. “You get like this so easily with me.”

Martin flushed, toes curling.

“I can’t help it,” he whispered.

“I know,” Juhoon said, voice gentle but deep, like he was soothing something fragile. “That’s why I take care of you.”

And then he took him in. Martin’s head dropped back against the sheets with a breathless sound, somewhere between a gasp and a prayer. Juhoon’s mouth was hot and wet, tongue dragging slow beneath the shaft as he sucked him in deep. There was no teasing, no hesitation — just confident rhythm and pressure, like he wanted to ruin him.

Martin clutched at the sheets, hips jerking slightly before Juhoon gripped his thighs and pinned him down.

“Stay still,” he murmured, mouth slick against the tip before sinking back down.

Martin moaned.

He tried — he really did — but his body had other ideas. His chest heaved, skin flushed and damp with sweat. Every nerve was tuned to the heat of Juhoon’s mouth, the obscene sounds echoing in the quiet room, the stretch of his own legs pushed open and held there.

“Jju—” he whimpered, voice cracking.

Juhoon hummed low, mouth full, and the vibration made Martin nearly sob. His thighs trembled, breath hitching again and again as Juhoon hollowed his cheeks and worked him slow, deep, relentless. The rhythm built, then slowed again, just to keep him on the edge.

His thoughts scattered. His body burned. The only thing that existed was Juhoon’s mouth and the way it made him feel — wanted, owned, loved.

When he came, it was sudden and hard and all-consuming.

He cried out, full-body trembling, hand flying to Juhoon’s hair in a loose, desperate grip. Juhoon didn’t stop — just swallowed around him, coaxing every last wave until Martin collapsed back, dizzy and boneless, eyes unfocused and wet at the corners.

Juhoon finally pulled off with a soft, satisfied breath.

Martin didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His mind was completely white noise.

Juhoon fixed his position on the bed, now bracketing Martin’s hips with his knees. His hands stroked Martin’s thighs, gentle now. He leaned down and kissed him softly — once on the lips, then once at the hollow of his throat.

“You did so well,” he whispered.

Martin blinked slowly. His whole body buzzed. His lips parted, but nothing came out. It felt like his voice was buried somewhere underwater.

Juhoon smiled. “You’re not done yet, though.”

He didn’t ask. There was no need to.

Martin nodded, just barely, and reached for him. Everything after that blurred. There was the sound of a drawer opening. The soft rip of a condom packet being opened. Juhoon’s hands on his hips, guiding him onto his stomach, lifting him up onto his knees. Juhoon kissing the nape of his neck and murmuring, “That’s it. Just like that.”

And then—pressure and stretch. A sharp burn that melted into something warm and endless.

Martin moaned into the sheets, forehead pressed to the pillow, back arching instinctively as Juhoon began to move.

It didn’t take long for the rhythm to undo him.

Every thrust was slow but deep, claiming, unrelenting. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, along with Juhoon’s breath and the soft, broken noises Martin couldn’t stop from spilling. His hands twisted in the sheets. His legs shook. The heat built again, faster this time, deeper.

Martin felt like he was floating, or falling, or both.

Thoughts slipped away. His mouth hung open but he didn’t speak. He couldn’t. There was no language left in his body. Just sensation. Just the rhythmic force of Juhoon inside him, the praise whispered against his ear, the way he was held in place like he belonged there.

“Mine,” Juhoon kept saying, over and over, like a mantra, and Martin believed him.

He felt weightless. His mind nowhere and everywhere at once.

When he came again, it was with a soft, strangled cry, body trembling as Juhoon held him tight — grinding deeper, kissing the side of his neck, knot expanding slowly until they were fully locked together, breaths syncing through the haze.

Martin collapsed onto the bed, chest heaving, legs still twitching. Juhoon stayed pressed close behind him, one arm tight around his waist.

“You’re safe,” he murmured, lips against Martin’s shoulder.

And Martin, already slipping, already gone, whispered, “I know.”

Martin woke up to weight. Juhoon’s arm was still looped around his waist, hand splayed flat against his stomach like it had always belonged there. Martin lay on his side, facing the window, breathing shallowly so he would not disturb him. The room was dim, curtains half‑drawn, morning light caught in soft bands across the wall.

Juhoon’s breath was warm against the back of his neck. Martin smiled without meaning to. His body still hummed from the night before. A deep, pleasant soreness in his thighs. A tug in his lower back. His skin felt sensitive everywhere Juhoon had touched him, like it was still remembering.

He shifted slightly, testing the movement. Juhoon tightened his hold immediately. “Don’t,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

Martin stilled at once. “Sorry.”

Juhoon pressed his face into Martin’s shoulder, inhaled slowly, then kissed the place just below his ear. His hand slid up and down Martin’s stomach in an absent, possessive stroke.

“You’re warm,” he said. “Stay.”

“I wasn’t leaving,” Martin said quickly.

“I know.”

They lay there like that for a while. Only the sound of breathing could be heard. Juhoon awake now, but not moving, content to keep Martin pinned in place. Martin loved these moments. Loved how small he felt despite the height difference. Loved how Juhoon always woke first, always aware and comforting. 

Eventually Juhoon shifted, rolling onto his back and tugging Martin with him so he ended up half‑sprawled across his chest. Juhoon’s fingers combed through his hair, slow and deliberate.

“Morning,” Juhoon said.

“Morning,” Martin replied softly.

Juhoon looked down at him, eyes calm and dark. He brushed his thumb under Martin’s eye, then leaned down and kissed him. It was gentle and unhurried, like there was no rush to the day at all.

“You hungry?” Juhoon asked.

Martin hesitated. “A little.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Yes,” Martin said, smiling faintly.

Juhoon got up and made breakfast like it was routine. Like this was normal.

Martin soon sat at the small kitchen table in one of Juhoon’s hoodies, legs tucked up under him, watching as Juhoon moved around the space. Eggs cracked cleanly. Bread toasted. Fruit peeled with precise efficiency. Everything plated neatly.

Juhoon set the plate in front of him and sat across the table, watching as Martin picked at it.

“Eat,” Juhoon said.

“I am.”

Martin took a few bites. He was still a little floaty. Not nauseous, just not fully there yet. His stomach felt tight in that familiar way it always did in the mornings.

He slowed without realizing it and Juhoon noticed immediately. “Finish it.”

“I’m full,” Martin said.

Juhoon’s gaze sharpened. “You’ve eaten half.”

“That’s enough for me.”

Juhoon leaned back in his chair. “No, it’s not.”

Martin frowned. “We’ve talked about this.”

“And I remember that conversation,” Juhoon said calmly. “I also remember you saying you feel tired all the time.”

“That’s not because I don’t eat enough.”

Juhoon reached across the table, fork in hand, and speared a piece of egg.

“Open,” he said.

Martin stared at him. “Jju.”

Juhoon’s expression did not change.

“I’m not asking you to stuff yourself,” he said. “I’m asking you to take care of your body.”

“I am taking care of it.”

Juhoon lifted the fork slightly. “Then this should not be a problem.”

Martin’s chest tightened. He hated this part. Hated how childish it made him feel. Hated how small his objections sounded when Juhoon spoke like this, calm and reasonable.

He opened his mouth.

Juhoon fed him slowly, watching his face as he chewed. Then again. The last few bites Martin had avoided were placed gently but insistently past his lips until the plate was empty.

“There,” Juhoon said. “That wasn’t so hard.”

Martin swallowed, throat tight. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” Juhoon replied. “This is why you’re so skinny. You don’t listen to your body.”

Martin’s fingers curled in his lap.

“I don’t hate my body,” he said quietly. “You know that.”

Juhoon tilted his head. “You say that, but you don’t act like someone who wants to keep himself healthy.”

Martin looked away.

Juhoon reached across the table, brushing his thumb along Martin’s wrist. His voice softened. “I worry about you.”

The words landed heavier than an accusation.

“I know,” Martin murmured.

Juhoon didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he leaned across the space between them and kissed Martin gently.

It wasn’t heated. It wasn’t even romantic. Just a quiet press of lips—lingering and oddly final—like a reward for obedience. Like a ribbon tied on a task completed.

Martin stilled.

When Juhoon pulled back, his gaze was steady. “Good boy,” he said softly.

Martin’s chest tightened so fast he thought he might choke. But he only nodded as his response to even get something out. 

After breakfast, Martin cleaned up quickly to get ready for the day.

He washed his face, flossed and brushed his teeth, pulled on his own clothes from last night again. He caught his reflection in the mirror and barely recognized himself for a moment. His eyes looked hazy. His neck was still faintly marked.

When Martin stepped back into the bedroom to grab his bag, Juhoon was leaning against the dresser, arms crossed.

“You wore those jeans three days ago too.”

Martin paused, one strap of his bag halfway over his shoulder. “What?”

Juhoon’s gaze stayed fixed on him, calm and assessing. “The dark ones you’re wearing right now. Skinny fit. The ones you like because they make your legs look longer.”

Martin frowned. “Yeah? I’ve had them for years.”

“I didn’t say you hadn’t,” Juhoon replied evenly. “I said you wore them three days ago.”

Martin shifted. Something about the way Juhoon said it made his stomach tighten. “Okay…?”

“You also didn’t ask me about that outfit,” Juhoon continued. “You just left.”

Martin stared. “Ask you?”

“Yes.” Juhoon pushed off the dresser slowly. “You didn’t run it by me.”

A beat passed.

“I didn’t think I needed permission to get dressed,” Martin said, trying to keep his voice light. “I like this pair, that’s why I’ve had them for so long.”

Juhoon stopped a few steps away. “Those jeans show everything.”

Martin flushed. “They’re just jeans.”

“They cling,” Juhoon said. “Your thighs. Your hips. Your ass. Anyone looking at you could see exactly how you’re built.”

Martin’s jaw tightened. “So?”

“So I didn’t like it,” Juhoon said flatly. “And you didn’t think to check.”

Martin felt heat crawl up his neck. “I’m not dressing for other people.”

“But other people see you,” Juhoon replied. “And you know that.”

Martin exhaled sharply. “You didn’t say anything then.”

“I noticed,” Juhoon said. “I just didn’t bring it up right away.”

That made it worse.

“And that same day,” Juhoon added, “you ignored my FaceTime.”

Martin’s shoulders stiffened. “I was busy.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“I was in my fashion studio,” Martin said, irritation flaring despite the fog in his head. “I was sewing. I had pins in my mouth and music blasting and—”

“You could’ve texted,” Juhoon interrupted. “Just to let me know.”

“I didn’t even see it until later.”

Juhoon tilted his head slightly. “You saw it.”

Martin hesitated.

“I saw it after,” he corrected. “I meant to call back.”

“But you didn’t.”

Martin’s pulse started to climb. “I can’t drop everything every time you call.”

The room went very still. Juhoon stepped closer.

“You don’t talk to me like that,” he said quietly.

Martin swallowed. “I’m not trying to be disrespectful. I’m just—”

“Unregulated,” Juhoon finished for him. “You get careless when you’re like that.”

“I’m not careless,” Martin said. “I was working on something important to me.”

“And you didn’t think to loop me in,” Juhoon replied. “You didn’t think to ask if the outfit was appropriate. You didn’t think to answer when I checked on you.”

Martin shook his head. “That’s not fair.”

Juhoon’s hand twitched at his side. Martin noticed, and his breath caught.

Juhoon seemed to realize it too. He inhaled slowly, then reached out — not to strike, but to grip. His fingers closed around Martin’s wrist, firm and unyielding.

“Stand still,” Juhoon said.

Martin’s heart hammered. “Jju, I really need to go—”

“You’re not leaving like this.”

Juhoon guided him back until Martin’s shoulders brushed the wall. The pressure wasn’t painful, but it was absolute. Juhoon leaned in, nose pressing to the side of Martin’s neck.

Martin shuddered involuntarily.

“Breathe,” Juhoon murmured.

He inhaled deeply, deliberately, scent thickening in the air. His hands settled at Martin’s hips, anchoring him in place.

Martin tried to think, to stay annoyed, but his body betrayed him.

The sharp edge of his frustration dulled. His thoughts slowed, like someone had turned down the volume. Juhoon kissed the sensitive place under his jaw, then again, dragging scent across skin until Martin’s knees felt weak.

“You feel that?” Juhoon whispered. “That’s your body settling.”

Martin nodded without meaning to.

“You get like this when you’re overwhelmed,” Juhoon continued. “I help you. That’s what partners do.”

His scent wrapped around Martin, heavy and warm and inescapable. The world tilted slightly. The walls felt farther away. His irritation slipped through his fingers like water.

Juhoon rested his forehead against Martin’s cheek.

“There,” he said. “Better.”

Martin’s mouth felt dry. “Yeah.”

Juhoon stepped back at last, smoothing Martin’s sweater like nothing had happened.

“Now go to class,” he said. “Text me when you get there and when you leave.”

Martin nodded.

He picked up his bag with unsteady hands and left the apartment feeling strange and lightheaded, like his brain was still floating somewhere behind him.

By the time he reached the stairs, he couldn’t remember exactly what they had been arguing about. Only that Juhoon had fixed it, and that should have made him feel relieved.

Martin sat in the back row of the lecture hall, hands folded too tightly, body angled inward like he could make himself smaller just by concentrating hard enough. The room was quiet in the usual way — just enough movement to seem normal along with enough static in his brain to feel unreal.

Juhoon’s scent clung to him. It wasn’t just on his skin. It was in him.

Thick and warm and dominant, soaked into his sweater, layered beneath the scent blocker he’d applied in the building’s bathroom stall ten minutes before class. It wasn’t working clearly because every time someone shifted too close, Martin felt it — the way people turned slightly away without realizing. How no one sat beside him.

His thoughts flickered.

He tried to take notes, but his hand wouldn’t stop trembling. He could still hear Juhoon’s voice from this morning. Still feel the press of his scent against Martin’s skin, those words whispered so calmly into his ear.

You don’t walk out like this.

Let me take care of you.

When the lecture ended, Martin stood too fast. He packed up without looking at anyone, ducked his head, and escaped into the sharp bite of January air.

The breeze helped a little bit. The weight in his chest didn’t lift though. He crossed the courtyard outside the building, heading toward the library to hide for an hour, when he heard it:

“Martin.”

He turned before thinking.

James and Seonghyeon stood across the walkway by the benches. James had a smoothie in hand, half-melted. Seonghyeon’s jaw was already tight.

They walked toward him. James got halfway before stopping cold.

“Oh my god.”

Martin stiffened. “What?”

James’s nose wrinkled hard. “You smell—Jesus, Martin. That’s not normal.”

Seonghyeon’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer. “You smell like someone tried to claim you.”

“They didn’t,” Martin said.

“You’re radiating.. alpha-grade scent,” James said. “Like territorial claiming-level strong.”

“I put on scent blocker,” Martin said. “I’m fine.”

James stared. “Blocker doesn’t do shit against this. Who the hell—”

He stopped short. His eyes drifted down Martin’s collar, and his whole face changed.

“Your neck.”

Martin’s hand flew up instinctively, but too late. His fingers brushed warm, still-sensitive skin. The marks beneath his jaw throbbed like they knew they have been seen.

James took a step forward, voice rising. “Martin. That’s not from scenting. That’s from teeth. That’s pressure. Repetition. That’s—”

“I wanted it,” Martin snapped. “He was—he was… pleasuring me. Last night. I let him do it.”

Seonghyeon’s voice came quiet and low. “You let him leave visible marks?”

Martin flushed, heat rushing into his ears. “Yes.”

James blinked once. Then let out a sharp, disbelieving breath. “Okay. Fine. That’s one thing. But the scent? That’s a whole other level.”

Martin said nothing.

“You smell like you got scent-stamped and then double-layered on top of that,” James continued. “That’s not heat management. That’s broadcasting. He wanted people to know.”

“He just gets worried about me, and he helps me—me regulate.” Martin said, but the words landed like an apology.

“That’s not worry,” James said flatly. “That’s control.”

Martin stepped back, throat tight. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

Seonghyeon reached for him. “Martin, wait—”

“I told Juhoon I’d text when I finished class,” Martin said automatically, turning before he could stop himself.

James and Seonghyeon both froze. Martin blinked, heart lurching. The silence that followed hit harder than anything else.

James said, very carefully, “You’ve never told us his name before.”

Martin’s stomach dropped. Seonghyeon’s expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes sharpened.

“I—” Martin swallowed. “It slipped.”

“Juhoon,” James repeated. “Who the hell is that?”

“I didn’t mean to—look, it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters a lot actually,” James said.

Martin turned again, trying to walk away, but Seonghyeon stepped forward and gently grabbed his wrist.

“Martin,” he said, calm and steady, “when was the last time you were angry at him, and he let you stay angry?”

Martin stopped breathing.

“I mean it,” Seonghyeon continued even though he was absolutely spewing assumptions. “Not disagreed with. Not some minor thing. I mean mad. Upset. And he just let you be. No fixing. No scenting. No ‘regulating.’”

Martin opened his mouth and then quickly closed it again.

James stepped beside him, voice soft but strained. “Because if you can’t name a time… that’s not a relationship. That’s control dressed up as care.”

Martin’s heart pounded in his ears.

His voice came quiet and raw. “He calms me down when I’m overwhelmed.”

“And does he ever let you just be overwhelmed?” Seonghyeon asked. “Or does he always decide when you’re done?”

Martin looked down. He didn’t realize he was shaking until James put a hand near his shoulder and he flinched away.

“I’m sorry,” James said immediately. “You don’t have to explain. But we need you to see the whole picture.”

Martin’s voice cracked. “He loves me.”

James nodded slowly. “Then he should love you even when you don’t feel good. Not only when you’re easy to manage.”

The ache in Martin’s chest bloomed wide and hot. “I have to go,” he whispered.

Seonghyeon let go of his wrist without another word. Martin turned and walked away, slower than before.

He said Juhoon’s name once, and now it felt like it echoed behind every step.

The bathroom door shut behind Martin with a hollow click that sounded louder than it should have.

He stood there for a second too long, staring at the row of sinks like he had forgotten what he came in for. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Too bright and sharp. The mirror reflected him back in pieces. Pale face. Flushed neck. Eyes blown wide and glassy like he was sick.

His omega instincts were screaming. There weren't any words or thoughts coming through Martin. He felt random sensations, like white noise without direction. 

Hide. Nest. Go back. Don’t go back.

His chest tightened, breath catching halfway in. He turned abruptly and pushed into the nearest stall, locking it behind him before his legs gave out. He sat hard on the closed lid, backpack sliding off his shoulder and hitting the tile with a dull thud.

His hands were shaking. That was new.

Martin pressed his palms flat against his thighs, trying to ground himself the way Juhoon always told him to. Slow breath in. Slower breath out. Except it didn’t work without Juhoon there. Without the weight of his hands or the heavy alpha scent that told his body exactly what it was supposed to be.

That realization made his stomach twist.

His omega instincts didn’t know what to do without him anymore. They reached for memory instead.

Juhoon’s voice, calm and certain.

The way his anger had been gently folded away when they got into a small fight a couple days ago.

The warmth that followed, and then the quiet. He could actually decently remember that. 

Martin squeezed his eyes shut.

His head felt wrong. Like it was full of static. Thoughts looping back on themselves, tangling together. James’s face when he smelled him. Seonghyeon’s hand on his wrist. That question that wouldn’t stop echoing.

When was the last time he let you stay angry?

Martin pressed his forehead into his hands. He didn’t know, and that terrified him.

His omega instincts weren’t supposed to feel like this. They were supposed to know where safety was. Who to lean toward. When to submit and when to pull away. But right now they were split down the middle, tugged between wanting to curl up somewhere dark and wanting to run back into Juhoon’s arms and let him fix everything again.

Hide or obey.

Those were the only options his body seemed to understand.

His phone then buzzed in his hand. He startled, heart leaping, before realizing he’d been gripping it the whole time.

A text.

jju 🐢

You didn’t text when class ended. Are you alright?

Martin stared at the screen.

The relief hit first. Sharp and immediate. A loosening in his chest. There he is. He sees me. He’s still there.

Then the dread followed.

Because he didn’t know what to say.

If he told the truth, Juhoon would calm him down. He always did. He would ground him, scent him again if needed, tell him exactly how to breathe and where to sit and what to feel. The noise in Martin’s head would go quiet.

But Seonghyeon’s voice cut through the thought.

That’s not regulation. That’s control.

Martin’s thumb hovered over the keyboard. He didn’t answer. Instead, he locked the phone and pressed it flat to his chest like it might keep his heart from falling apart.

For the first time since October, being away from Juhoon didn’t just feel uncomfortable.

It felt unsafe.

A few moments after that incident happened, James was sitting cross-legged on the library floor, Martin’s Instagram pulled up between him and Seonghyeon like a digital puzzle waiting to be cracked.

“I still feel like we shouldn’t be doing this,” James muttered. “It feels like an invasion.”

Seonghyeon didn’t flinch. “Not if it helps us understand what’s going on with him.”

They scrolled through Martin’s following list first.

Dozens of models. Stylists. Music producers. Some classmates. A few thirst-trap accounts James definitely recognized from TikTok.

And then they found it: @juhoon.kim 

No bio. 70 followers. Following 71 — including Martin.

James tapped. “He does follow him.”

The grid loaded in silence.

A muted, impersonal aesthetic: gym mirrors, soccer fields, piano keys. Everything felt too composed and distant.

Until they hit the third row.

A mirror selfie.

Juhoon sat in a chair in a large, echoing studio — pale wood floors, blank white walls, overhead spotlights like pinpricks. He wore a black adidas zip-up hoodie with the hood up, jeans hanging loose around his thighs. One hand gripped his phone. The other rested between his legs.

Expression unreadable. Face slightly turned. Eyes too direct.

“That’s him,” James whispered.

Seonghyeon leaned in and really looked. Something shifted in his chest. A flicker of memory. A feeling before a thought. A sense of something familiar, but not safe. “I’ve seen him before,” he said slowly.

James turned. “Where?”

“I don’t know. Outside the rec center, I think? I remember it being during fall semester though. I was walking back from a night lecture. There was this girl ahead of me — she passed him and flinched. Stumbled a little, actually. I remember her turning back like she got hit in the face with something.”

James’s breath caught. “His scent.”

“He didn’t even look at her,” Seonghyeon said. “Just kept walking like it was normal.”

That silenced them both. Then James sat up straighter. “Wait. I’m going back to Martin’s profile.”

He tapped furiously. “If this alpha’s as careful as he seems, he wouldn’t tag Martin or post anything obvious. But…”

Seonghyeon hovered beside him, arms crossed, tense.

“Martin kind of posts a lot in comparison to us,” James said, scrolling. “Maybe once a week, sometimes twice. And his engagement is always high.”

“Martin also keeps his likes visible,” Seonghyeon murmured, leaning closer. “He never cared about hiding that stuff.”

“Which is good for us,” James replied. He tapped on the most recent post — a casual mirror shot from one of the elevators in the music building. Martin in an oversized sweatshirt, dark circles under his eyes, captioned “one more week.”

Liked by juhoon.kim.

James squinted. “Let’s check something.”

He began scrolling back. One post. Two. Five. Ten.

Every single one bore the same tiny name: juhoon.kim

Seonghyeon frowned. “Okay… that doesn’t mean anything. Some couples just start doing that once they get close. It could’ve been recent.”

James didn’t look up. “Sure. Except he’s liked every single one since October.”

“Still. Maybe he just went back and liked the older ones after they started seeing each other too.”

“Seonghyeon,” James said, pausing. “Martin has eighty-seven posts.”

He turned his phone so Seonghyeon could see. “Who the hell goes back and manually likes that many old photos unless they’ve been scrolling for a reason?”

Seonghyeon didn’t answer right away.

James kept going. “Look at this one. From August. Martin in front of the dorms, wearing that cropped jacket. He posted it the day we got back from Jeju.”

Seonghyeon recognized the photo instantly.

juhoon.kim had liked that one too.

And the one before it.

And the one before that.

Seonghyeon slowly exhaled. “So either Juhoon liked them after they got together presumably in October…”

“Or,” James said grimly, “he already knew who Martin was before Martin knew him.”

That landed like a weight between them.

Seonghyeon sat back slowly, spine pressing into the edge of the bookshelf. His eyes stayed on the glowing screen between them. James’s thumb hovered like he wasn’t sure whether to scroll further or throw the phone across the room.

“Before Martin knew him,” Seonghyeon repeated under his breath. The words felt wrong in his mouth, like they didn’t belong in the timeline they’d all been told.

James nodded, more subdued now. “I don’t like it.”

A girl passed by on the far end of the row, her shoes squeaking faintly against the linoleum. Neither of them moved.

“I mean…” James glanced down again, thumb flicking reflexively across the screen. “Maybe Martin met him once and just didn’t tell us the full story. Maybe they ran into each other last school year and he forgot.”

Seonghyeon gave him a look.

James sighed. “Yeah. I don’t believe that either. Hell, we don’t know anything to begin with considering how secretive he’s been.”

He fell quiet again, jaw clenched.

Then, more to himself than anyone else, he added, “Keonho’s gonna lose it.”

Seonghyeon didn’t flinch. “He has to know.”

“Yeah,” James said, thumb tightening around the phone. “He acts like Martin’s a pain in the ass, but he’s been watching his back since he first met him when they were younger. You know he doesn’t take this shit lightly.”

“He shouldn’t,” Seonghyeon muttered. “Because if we’re seeing this—if even we feel like something’s off—then an alpha like Keonho’s gonna pick up on it in half a second.”

James nodded. “Exactly why we need to show him now. Before it gets any deeper. Before Martin…” He hesitated. “Before Martin starts thinking this is normal.”

A heavy silence settled between them. The kind that didn’t need to be filled. Then Seonghyeon stood up, brushing dust from his palms.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s find Keonho.”

The text had been sitting there for about twenty minutes.

jju 🐢

You didn’t text when class ended. Are you alright?

Short. Direct. No pet names this time. No emoji.

Just that quiet shift in tone that made Martin feel like the floor had dropped out from under him.

He’d read it immediately. Of course he had, but he still hadn’t replied.

He didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t figure out what version of himself to be. And Juhoon made him keep read receipts on — said it was a “safety” thing. Said it helped him sleep better. Said he’d never use it against him.

But the message was marked Read at 11:18 AM.

And it was now 11:42.

Martin swallowed hard, still perched on the toilet lid, knees pulled close, phone heavy in his hand. He stared at the screen again after all the guilt Juhoon’s message made him feel. 

His thumb then hovered over the keyboard.

He could lie. Say he’d just finished class late. Say his phone died. Say he was fine, just hungry.

He typed three characters:

i’m

The typing bubble hadn’t even disappeared yet when his screen lit up with an incoming call.

jju 🐢

📞 Calling…

Martin flinched. He stared at it, frozen. His heart stuttered.

The sound wasn’t even on. It just vibrated once against his thigh and then kept glowing. 

Martin could just ignore it and let it go to voicemail. He could say he was in a no-phone zone, or still in class, or sleeping. Anything.

But then another message popped up. It was instant and aggressive.

jju 🐢

Pick up. Now.

Martin’s breath hitched.

He hit accept with a trembling thumb and lifted the phone to his ear.

“…Hi.”

There was silence for a beat. Just the sound of air through the receiver.

Then:

“Where are you?” Juhoon’s voice was low. Not angry (not yet), but not soft either. “Why haven’t you answered me?”

“I’m in the bathroom,” Martin said, barely above a whisper.

“What bathroom?”

“The one on the first floor of the music building.”

Another pause. Then: “Are you safe?”

Martin’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“I need you to say it,” Juhoon said, voice dipping lower. “Right now.”

“I—” Martin blinked hard. “Yeah. I’m safe.”

“You read my message twenty-four minutes ago and didn’t respond.” His voice stayed even. Dead calm. “Do you want to explain that to me, baby?”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Martin whispered.

“You tell me the truth,” Juhoon said. “That’s what you say.”

Martin felt his chest tighten.

“I didn’t lie—”

“You didn’t speak,” Juhoon cut in. “That’s not the same.”

Martin closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

There was a quiet sigh on the other end of the line. “Stay where you are. I’m coming to you.”

“What? No, you don’t have to—”

“I am.” Juhoon’s voice softened just slightly. “You need me.”

Martin’s throat felt tight again. His eyes burned.

“…Okay.”

“I’ll be there in five.” A pause. “And baby?”

“Yeah?”

“If you’re still wearing that stupid scent blocker when I get there, take it off.”

Martin’s pulse roared in his ears.

“I don’t like being erased,” Juhoon continued. “And I don’t like having to remind you who you belong to.”

Click.

Martin stared at the screen for a moment after it ended. Then slowly got up, legs shaky, throat thick, the phone still warm in his hand.

The hallway smelled like disinfectant and old tile.

Martin stood near the bathroom entrance with his back half‑turned to the wall, arms folded tight around himself. The same sweater he was wearing from yesterday clung softly to his frame, stretched faintly at the shoulders, the collar sitting just low enough to make him painfully aware of his own skin. He kept rubbing his thumb against the seam of his sleeve, over and over, like he could erase the buzzing under his nerves if he did it enough.

He heard Juhoon before he saw him. It wasn’t footsteps or the doors opening. There was a shift in the air. It seemed to thicken, like the space had been claimed without asking permission. Martin’s chest tightened instinctively, breath going shallow. His omega instincts stirred, uncertain and restless. They didn’t know whether to reach or recoil.

Juhoon stopped a few feet away. He didn’t touch Martin nor did he speak right away. He just looked at him.

Martin felt it immediately — that slow, assessing attention, like Juhoon was taking inventory. The flushed skin. The way Martin’s shoulders were pulled inward. The faint sheen of panic he hadn’t quite managed to wipe off his face.

Juhoon exhaled once through his nose. “Tell me why you were hiding in the bathroom.”

The word hiding landed harder than why.

“I wasn’t hiding,” Martin said automatically, then faltered. “I just… needed a second.”

“A second from what?”

Martin swallowed. His throat felt raw. “From everything.”

Juhoon tilted his head slightly, like he was studying a problem he already suspected the answer to.

“From me?”

Martin didn’t answer fast enough.

Juhoon stepped closer, not crowding him. He was just close enough that Martin could smell him again — that sharp, grounding presence that made his thoughts blur at the edges.

“You’ve been off since earlier this morning,” Juhoon said quietly. “You were snappy with me back in the apartment, which is.. whatever. Now you don’t answer my texts and you sat alone in a bathroom instead of coming to me right away?”

His voice wasn’t angry, and that was worse.

“Something happened after you left,” Juhoon continued. “And you didn’t tell me.”

Martin’s eyes burned. “I didn’t know how.”

Juhoon’s gaze flicked to Martin’s neck. The collar of the sweater. The place where his mouth had been the night before.

“I didn’t do anything you didn’t ask for,” Juhoon said in a straightforward tone. “So explain to me why you’re acting like I crossed a line.”

Martin’s breath hitched.

“I don’t think you crossed a line,” he said, voice breaking. “I just— I feel weird. Like my head isn’t keeping up with my body anymore. Like everything inside me goes quiet when you’re close, and then when you’re not—”

He stopped. Pressed his lips together hard.

Juhoon watched him carefully. Then, finally, his hand came up. He didn’t grab Martin. He cupped the side of his neck, thumb resting just under his jaw. Martin shuddered at the contact, tears slipping free despite himself. Silent ones. Frustrated ones. 

Juhoon leaned in, forehead nearly touching his. “You’re not malfunctioning,” he said. “You’re overstimulated.”

Martin laughed weakly through a breath. “That’s not any better.”

“It is,” Juhoon replied. “Because it means the solution is simple.”

Martin blinked. “What solution?”

Juhoon’s thumb pressed once, gently, against Martin’s pulse.

“You don’t need more space,” he said. “You need fewer voices. Fewer people touching your head. Fewer places pulling at you.”

His tone shifted then — not harsher, but final. “I’m taking you home.”

Martin’s stomach flipped. “Juhoon— I still have class.”

Juhoon didn’t respond immediately. He glanced down the hallway. At the passing students. The open doors. The noise and movement and unpredictability of it all.

Then he looked back at Martin.

“You can barely stand still,” he said. “You’re crying and you don’t even know why. And you think you’re going to sit in a lecture hall and pretend you’re fine?”

Martin opened his mouth. Juhoon’s hand slid from his neck to his waist, firm now. “This isn’t a debate,” he said quietly. “This is me choosing for you while you can’t.”

Martin’s omega instincts flared — panicked, soothed, confused all at once. Every part of him that wanted autonomy tangled with the part that wanted to be gathered up and removed from the noise.

“…Okay,” he whispered.

Juhoon nodded once. “Good.”

He guided Martin forward, palm warm at his back, already turning him away from the bathroom entrance, away from campus, away from anyone else who might ask questions Juhoon didn’t want answered yet.

And Martin let himself be led — not because he was weak, but because right now, the world felt too loud to stand in alone.

The study room door shut with a soft thud behind them, sealing the trio into thick, sterile silence. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. A closed-off box, perfect for secrets.

Keonho didn’t sit.

He stood with his back to the wall, arms braced, hands curled into tight fists against the drywall. His eyes were fixed on a point between the floor and nowhere, unblinking. Like if he looked up, he’d explode.

James was perched on the table, phone angled toward him. Seonghyeon stood nearby, glancing between the two like he was waiting for a spark.

“He said the name Juhoon,” James said carefully, breaking the quiet. “Slipped up when we were talking about the marks. I double-checked. The account’s real. It follows Martin. It’s public. He’s—he’s not hiding. Just being selective.”

“And you’re sure,” Keonho said. His voice was calm. Deadly calm. “That’s the same name from the post likes?”

James flipped the phone around, showing the profile again: @juhoon.kim, clean and spare. The mirror selfie still visible in the grid. The lean, muscled frame. The way his fingers curled around his phone like they were used to holding things tighter.

The same face they’d stared at thirty minutes ago. The same name that hadn’t come up once—not even back in the café a while ago when Martin claimed it was “just someone casual.” 

Keonho’s jaw tightened.

“I was there.. we all were,” he said, voice low. “When we initially asked him a while back if he was seeing anyone. When he looked me right in the face and said it was only something casual.”

He blinked. “And now.. just yesterday, the guy is too private to talk about at all?”

Seonghyeon exhaled sharply. “So he lied.”

“No,” Keonho said, sharper this time. “He chose not to tell us. That’s worse.”

He pushed off the wall abruptly, pacing two short steps before stopping again. His hands raked through his hair.

He looked back at the phone.

“Martin has eighty-seven posts,” he muttered. “And this guy went back and liked—what, twenty? More?”

“Every single one since October,” James said, voice clipped. “And a few before then too. Including our Jeju trip one.”

Keonho scoffed under his breath. “So unless he sat there and manually liked two dozen old posts in one go—”

“He’s been watching him for longer than we thought,” Seonghyeon finished grimly.

Keonho muttered something under his breath. Not loud enough to hear.

“What?”

“I said—” Keonho turned, fire under his skin now. “If this guy’s been in Martin’s life since before we even knew it—if he’s been planning this, pushing his way in slowly—what else has Martin been keeping quiet about?”

James tried to keep his tone grounded. “We don’t know how they met.”

“But we know Martin’s not acting like himself,” Seonghyeon said.

“He’s anxious, confused. And those marks? He didn’t want us seeing them for a reason.”

Keonho stared at the floor. Something behind his eyes was starting to break. “He didn’t even tell me,” he muttered. “Not a word. And I was—”

His voice cracked for the first time. “I was right there.”

James and Seonghyeon fell silent. The weight of Keonho’s anger didn’t come from ego or jealousy. It came from heartbreak. From loyalty. From the kind of quiet, stupid love you have for someone you grew up with. Someone who trusted you with everything, until suddenly they didn’t.

Keonho turned his back to them for a moment. His hand curled into a fist against his mouth.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Do you think… he’s in danger?”

Neither of them answered right away.

Then James, softer: “I think… Martin doesn’t know what kind of alpha he’s with.”

“And that,” Seonghyeon added, “is the part that scares me.”

Keonho turned back toward them. “Then we’re not waiting anymore.”

His voice was cold steel now. “I’m calling him.”

Keonho still didn’t sit down yet. He stood in the middle of the soundproof study room, phone already in his hand, thumb hovering for half a second before he pressed call, no hesitation.

Martin picked up on the second ring.

“Hyung.”

The sound of his voice hit Keonho straight in the chest.

“Where are you?” Keonho asked immediately.

There was a pause just long enough to feel wrong.

“I’m—” Martin stopped and then restarted. “I’m okay.”

Keonho shut his eyes for a beat. “Don’t do that,” he said, not raising his voice. “Don’t give me the default answer. Where are you?”

Another pause.

“I’m near campus,” Martin said. “I just… needed air.”

Keonho glanced at James and Seonghyeon. James shook his head. Seonghyeon’s jaw was set, unmoving.

“Martin,” Keonho said, gentler now. “I was there. At the café. Not the one we went to recently, but the one two months ago. You remember that, right?”

Martin didn’t respond.

“You told us there wasn’t anyone serious,” Keonho continued. “That you were taking it slow. You didn’t say a name. Not even once.”

Silence stretched.

Then Keonho dropped it.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Juhoon?”

The breath on the other end hitched—sharp and audible, like it had been knocked out of Martin’s lungs.

“…You know his name now,” Martin whispered, like he’d been caught mid-fall.

“Yes,” Keonho replied, firm and steady. “And I shouldn’t.”

There was a sound—quiet, maybe the shift of fabric, or Martin sitting down too fast. His breathing had changed.

“I didn’t mean to hide it,” Martin said after a moment, voice uneven.

“But you did,” Keonho said, not accusing—just stating it for what it was. “And now you sound like you’ve been carrying someone else’s scent and silence all day.”

Martin’s voice dropped lower. “James told you.”

“He didn’t have to,” Keonho said. “I can hear it in you.”

Another beat.

“Hyung,” Keonho added, voice softening again, “I don’t care who he is. I care that you’re acting like someone I don’t even recognize. Like you’re scared to tell the truth.”

Martin didn’t respond right away. 

“I didn’t think anything was wrong,” he whispered eventually.

“That’s the part that worries me most.”

Keonho dragged a hand through his hair. “Where exactly are you? I’ll come get you.”

“No,” Martin said quickly. Too quickly. “You don’t need to—”

“Martin hyung,” Keonho cut in, firmer this time. “I’m not asking to take over. I’m asking to see you. To make sure you’re okay with my own two eyes.”

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It was filled—with thoughts, with background noise, with the weight of a name Martin had tried to keep separate from the rest of his world.

Keonho’s voice turned cautious. “Are you alone?”

There was a sound on the line. A door creaking. Footsteps. A pause.

“…Not really,” Martin said.

Something in Keonho’s chest turned to stone.

“Is he with you right now?” he asked.

Martin’s voice broke on the answer.

“Yes.”

Keonho’s grip tightened on the phone.

“…Put me on speaker.”

The room was too warm.

Martin stared down at the phone in his hand, thumb trembling slightly where it hovered near the edge of the screen. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath until his lungs gave out.

Keonho knew.

Not just that there was someone. Not just that Martin had lied.

He knew Juhoon’s name.

Martin’s pulse thudded in his ears, each beat too sharp, too close. His sweater suddenly felt too tight at the neck, the collar like it might choke him. He tried to breathe through it.

Juhoon stood only a few feet away, watching him silently. Martin couldn’t tell if it made things better or worse.

“Put me on speaker,” Keonho said again—clearer this time, more patient than demanding. “I’m not here to fight. I just want to talk.”

Martin swallowed.

Juhoon tilted his head slightly. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Martin said before he could think twice.

His hand shook as he tapped the screen.

A small click. The change in acoustics. The call was on speaker now.

“I’m here,” Martin said, quieter than before. “You’re on speaker.”

He felt Juhoon shift behind him, the space between them shrinking without a sound.

There was a pause. Then—

“Juhoon-ssi,” Keonho said, calm but cutting.

“This is Keonho. Martin’s friend. His… new hyung matters to me. I’d like to know where you’re taking him, or have taken him.”

The air in the room dropped several degrees. Martin’s breath hitched.

Juhoon didn’t answer immediately. He stepped closer instead. One slow step. Then another. Close enough now that Martin could feel the faint press of warmth at his back.

“He’s back in my apartment,” Juhoon said finally, voice even but edged in something darker. “Somewhere he can regulate himself again.”

Martin’s fingers clenched slightly around the phone. Keonho’s voice came through again, sharper this time. “He’s not property. You don’t get to make decisions like that for him.”

“I’m not,” Juhoon replied. “But I am the only one he asked for.”

Martin flinched—just barely—but Juhoon noticed. Martin could feel him notice.

There was a long pause.

Then, from the phone:

“…Hyung,” Keonho said again, this time gentler. “Is that true?”

Martin opened his mouth. Closed it. He didn’t know what was true anymore.

Back in the study room, Keonho was still standing in the middle of it, shoulders taut, phone now balanced on the edge of the table. The silence that followed Martin’s hesitation rang louder than anything.

And then:

“…Hyung,” Keonho said again, voice rougher now. “Is it true? That you only wanted him?”

Static crackled faintly from the speaker. Nothing from Martin.

Keonho’s throat worked around the quiet. “Hyung, you can talk to me. Whatever’s going on, I’m not gonna throw a fit or demand answers. But I’m not gonna sit back and watch you go quiet like this. Not when I can tell you’re not okay.”

Still, no reply. The silence was deafening.

“Hyung,” Keonho said again, and this time there was no steel, no swagger, no posturing—just an ache, deep and trembling. “Don’t leave me in the dark. Please.”

Across the table, James pressed the heel of his hand to his mouth. Seonghyeon’s arms were folded, but his knuckles had gone white.

They all heard the sound that came through the phone next.

A breath. Shaky and quiet. Caught on the edge of something that wasn’t quite crying, but close.

Then:

“I didn’t want anyone to know,” Martin whispered.

Keonho shut his eyes once again just for a second.

“Why?”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” Martin said. “It was supposed to be simple. It was supposed to stay quiet.”

“But it’s not simple now, is it?” Keonho said. “It hasn’t been simple for weeks.”

Another pause. Then Juhoon’s voice cut through, lower and more controlled than before:

“That’s enough.”

James’s head shot up. “What the—”

“Martin doesn’t need a tribunal right now,” Juhoon continued. “He needs rest. You’ve said what you needed to say.”

Keonho stepped forward toward the speaker. “You don’t get to cut him off from his friends.”

“I’m protecting him,” Juhoon said, measured but cold. “From stress. From noise. From people who didn’t notice something was ‘wrong’ until today.”

Seonghyeon’s jaw tensed. James made a noise under his breath.

Keonho didn’t rise to the bait.

He just said, soft and full of something breaking:

“Martin hyung. I’m still here, okay?”

Then, quieter:

“You’re still mine, too. Just… maybe not the way he wants you to be. But I’ve always been here.”

No response. Not even a breath.

And then—

The call ended. The screen went black. Keonho stared at it for a while.  The study room stayed silent.

The phone lay dark on the table for a while, screen smudged where Keonho’s fingers had pressed too hard. No one reached for it.

Keonho finally sat down. He lowered himself into the chair like his legs had decided for him, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles went white.

He stared at the floor. 

James noticed first. Keonho’s shoulders were shaking. The movement was small enough to miss if you weren’t looking for it.

Seonghyeon went still.

Keonho dragged a hand across his face, rough and frustrated, like he was angry at himself for even needing to do it. When his hand dropped, his eyes were wet and red-rimmed.

He let out a breath that broke halfway through. “…He sounded scared,” Keonho said quietly.

James swallowed.

“He didn’t sound like himself,” Keonho went on, voice uneven now. “It didn’t seem like.. confusion. He sounded—small. Like he was trying not to make anything worse.”

His jaw clenched. Another breath hitched. This one didn’t make it all the way out. He then laughed once, bitter and soft. “He’s older than me. He’s supposed to tell me when something’s wrong.”

James shifted forward but didn’t touch him yet.

Keonho pressed his palms to his eyes, hard. When he pulled them away, a tear slid free anyway, catching on the bridge of his nose before dropping onto his knuckle.

“I don’t care about the alpha thing,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t care who he sleeps with or who he chooses or what labels they use.” He shook his head. “I care that he didn’t come to me. That he thought he had to handle it alone.”

The room felt too small.

Seonghyeon spoke carefully. “Keonho—”

“He’s my hyung,” Keonho said, voice cracking fully now. “He’s been there for me since we were kids. Through everything. And now there’s someone in his life who makes him go quiet and careful and apologetic.”

Another tear slipped free.

James finally moved. He reached out slowly, resting a hand on Keonho’s forearm. “We’re not judging you,” James said softly.

Seonghyeon nodded. “And we’re not leaving him.”

Keonho sniffed hard, scrubbing at his face with the heel of his hand, embarrassed but not stopping himself anymore.

“I don’t want to fight Juhoon,” he said. “I don’t want to blow things up. I just want Martin to look at me and know he still has somewhere else to land.”

Keonho didn’t speak again. Across the table, James and Seonghyeon exchanged a glance. None of this was simple.

For a moment, in that small soundproof room, it didn’t matter who was the oldest. Didn’t matter who was the alpha, or who was supposed to be the protector.

Martin was hurting. And Keonho, for once, let it show how much that hurt him too.

The call ended too suddenly.

One moment, Keonho’s voice filled the room — cracked but steady, shaking but clear. And then: silence. A dead line. An emptiness that rang louder than anything spoken.

Juhoon didn’t say a word.

He stood, and walked out of the living room. The door to his bedroom slammed shut behind him, hard enough to rattle something on the wall.

Martin flinched. His body locked up, like a string pulled too tight.

His lungs were burning.

He sat there, frozen on the edge of the couch, fingers clenched around the phone like it could anchor him.. His screen then buzzed with a new message — a notification from the group chat.

kono 🐶

We don’t want to scare you, but we love you so please tell us if you’re safe.

Martin’s vision blurred instantly. It came up like a wave he couldn’t outrun. The nausea, the tightness in his throat, the awful twist in his stomach. He doubled over, burying his face in his hands.

He wanted to respond. Wanted to say he was okay. But he wasn’t.

His inner omega was spiraling. Every instinct inside him — every protective reflex honed over years of restraint — was screaming that something had gone wrong. That he’d made a mistake by coming with Juhoon. It was too late now.

Minutes passed. When Martin finally stood, his legs felt weak beneath him. The apartment felt colder. He walked to Juhoon’s room and knocked once, then opened the door.

Juhoon was standing by the window, arms crossed, gaze locked on the pale sky outside.

“You didn’t tell me they knew my name,” he said, not turning around. “How long have they known?”

Martin swallowed. His throat felt like it was lined with splinters. “Just recently.”

Juhoon turned slowly. His eyes were sharp, unreadable. “Recently? You just said yesterday they were asking about me, and you kept quiet.”

“I—I didn’t mean to say it,” Martin said. “It slipped out.”

Juhoon’s stare didn’t move. “Well.. when?”

“Today.. outside the music building. When Seonghyeon and James saw me.”

A long pause.

Then: Juhoon’s jaw tightened. His arms dropped to his sides, fingers twitching once before curling into fists.

“You went to the bathroom after,” he said lowly. “That’s when I called.”

Martin nodded, heart hammering.

Juhoon stared at him, unblinking. And then — a flicker like he was calculating something.

“You panicked,” he said, voice almost too calm. “Because you said my name in front of them.”

Martin didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

“You were supposed to keep that to yourself.”

“I know.”

“You agreed to keep this private.”

“I know,” Martin said again, a little sharper. “But I’m not perfect. I slipped.”

“That slip,” Juhoon said, stepping forward, “let them think they have a say in your life.”

Martin’s eyes narrowed. “They don’t think that. They’re just—concerned.”

“They’re a liability,” Juhoon said. “You don’t see it, but they’re already rewriting things. Turning this into a story where you’re helpless and I’m the problem.”

Martin shook his head. “They’re… my friends.”

“And you’re letting them convince you that you need saving,” Juhoon shot back. “That you’re some kind of victim.”

Martin’s chest tightened. “I never said that.”

“No,” Juhoon said coldly. “But you’re acting like it.”

He took another step closer. “I never asked for your devotion. I never asked you to give me everything and then resent me for it.”

Martin’s breath stuttered. “I thought you cared.”

“I cared about what worked,” Juhoon said. “About the quiet. About you not questioning every little thing.”

Martin stared at him. “So I was just convenient?”

“You were predictable,” Juhoon replied. “And then you stopped being.”

The words hit hard and fast.

“I gave you everything,” Martin said, voice breaking. “My trust. My body. My care.”

“And I never asked you to build your whole world around me,” Juhoon said. “That was your choice.”

Tears burned in Martin’s eyes. “You don’t even realize what you’re destroying.”

Juhoon didn’t answer.

“I feel sorry for you,” Martin whispered, and turned toward the door.

There was a pause. Then suddenly,  “Wait.”

The shift was immediate, like someone had pulled a switch. Juhoon took two steps forward, his posture relaxing, voice softening with uncanny speed.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You just insulted—” Martin started, stunned.

“I know,” Juhoon said. “I know. I shouldn’t have said it like that. That wasn’t fair.”

His thumbs started to stroke Martin’s skin. Slow and reassuring like nothing had just happened. Like thirty seconds ago, he hadn’t torn Martin apart with surgical precision.

He kissed the corner of Martin’s mouth. Then the top of his cheekbone.

Martin couldn’t speak. His brain was still stuck on liability and I never asked for your devotion.

“I don’t want you leaving like this,” Juhoon whispered. “This isn’t what I want for us.”

Us.

Martin’s throat burned.

“You’re overwhelmed,” Juhoon continued, still gentle and eerily steady. “Your friends pushed too hard. I pushed too hard. It’s all gotten too loud.”

His fingers slipped into Martin’s hair. Tender and comforting, like muscle memory.

“What do you need right now?” Juhoon asked. “Tell me. I’ll fix it.”

Martin stood frozen. His inner omega clung to the softness, to the scent, to the words. But his body was shaking. He couldn’t tell what was real anymore.

“…I don’t know,” he whispered.

“That’s okay,” Juhoon said instantly. “You don’t have to.”

Another kiss — this one pressed to Martin’s forehead. It felt like reassurance, but it also felt like ownership.

Martin stood there, letting himself be held — not because he’d actually forgiven anything, not because it felt safe — but because the apology had come so fast, he hadn’t had time to decide what it meant.

And somewhere deep inside him, that terrified him more than anything Juhoon had said. Because if he could turn this gentle this fast, what else could he turn into just as easily?

Juhoon’s hands soon started to move on Martin’s body.

One stayed curled at the base of Martin’s skull, fingers stroking through the hair there like he was petting something precious. The other instead slid lower, along Martin’s back, then beneath his sweater — warm palm spreading wide over skin, slow and anchoring.

“You’re cold,” Juhoon murmured, almost to himself. “You’re shivering.”

Martin wasn’t sure if he nodded. He couldn’t feel his limbs properly.

“Come here,” Juhoon said softly, coaxing, as he tugged the both of them sideways.

They barely had to move — the edge of the bed was already at Martin’s knees — and then Juhoon was easing him down into it. The blanket rustled as he pulled it up and around them both, cocooning their bodies into a pocket of warmth and scent.

“Just lie down for a minute,” Juhoon said, his voice dipped low, velvety. “That’s all. Let me hold you.”

Martin didn’t resist.

He didn’t agree either, but his body allowed it — moving pliantly when Juhoon guided his arms, curling slightly when Juhoon wrapped around him. The blanket was too warm. The room smelled like them. Juhoon’s scent pushed stronger now. He was doing it on purpose — that much Martin’s hazy mind could register.

Juhoon’s nose skimmed Martin’s jaw.

“Relax,” he whispered, lips brushing skin. “Let me take care of you.”

And then he kissed him.

Not a fleeting press this time. A full, open-mouthed kiss, unhurried and deep. His hand cradled Martin’s face while the other slid down to his hip, holding him steady as he kissed deeper — tongue teasing, breath warm, lips plush and practiced.

Martin whimpered before he could stop it. Juhoon exhaled slowly, like he’d been waiting for that sound.

“Good,” he said softly. “That’s better.”

Martin tried to say something — tried to remember what they were even talking about — but then Juhoon’s mouth was at his neck again, kissing down, nuzzling in.

Then he did it.

His lips pressed right against the scent gland with a real kiss. Long and plush and full of heat.

Martin gasped, thighs twitching under the blanket.

Juhoon’s hand slid up to cup the side of his throat, thumb stroking just beneath the gland while his own scent flared — hot, dominant, coaxing. The air thickened with it. Martin felt his body respond instinctively, aching low in his belly, his omega instincts crawling forward in confusion.

“You always melt when I do this,” Juhoon murmured, almost fond. “You don’t have to think, baby. Just feel.”

His voice sounded soft and sweet, but something in it gleamed — like Juhoon already knew he’d won.

Martin’s eyes stung.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t okay. Yet his body was trembling for the next kiss, and Juhoon was already giving it, mouth moving back to his, warm and insistent.

“Still shaking,” Juhoon whispered between kisses. “You poor thing.”

Martin turned his head, just barely.

“I’m not okay,” he said. Or tried to. It came out hoarse. 

Juhoon hummed against his skin. “I know,” he said gently. “That’s why I’m here.”

His hand slid lower again, over Martin’s side, under the hem of his top. Slow and stroking. Just enough to soothe. Martin squeezed his eyes shut.

His body felt drugged with scent, with touch, with warmth. His mind was scrambled. What had they even been fighting about?

He couldn’t think past the way Juhoon’s lips kissed just below his ear, how his palm pressed flat over Martin’s chest like it belonged there.

“You trust me, don’t you?” Juhoon asked, soft and low.

Martin didn’t answer. Didn’t nod either, but he didn’t say no.

Juhoon smiled against his skin. “That’s my good boy.”

Martin’s breathing slowed. Not because he was calmer but because it stopped belonging to him.

The room felt farther away now. Like it had been pushed back a few feet. The ceiling blurred at the edges, the light smearing into something soft and indistinct. Juhoon’s voice sounded closer than it should have, like it was coming from inside Martin’s head instead of beside him.

His body still responded. That was the worst part.

His chest rose under Juhoon’s palm. His throat opened when Juhoon’s thumb brushed just beneath the gland. His lips parted when kissed. But the part of him that usually felt those things — that reacted with heat or embarrassment or desire — had gone quiet.

Everything was muted, like cotton was stuffed into his thoughts.

Juhoon noticed. He pulled back just enough to look at Martin’s face, brows knitting slightly. His hand stilled at Martin’s stomach, fingers splayed, feeling the shallow rise and fall beneath his palm.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Martin.”

No response.

Martin’s eyes were open, but unfocused. Fixed somewhere over Juhoon’s shoulder. They didn't look scared. They looked empty.

Juhoon’s thumb pressed a little firmer into Martin’s skin. Not hard, just enough to test.

“Look at me,” he murmured again.

Martin blinked slowly. Once. Twice. His gaze slid back, landing on Juhoon’s mouth instead of his eyes.

Juhoon inhaled sharply.

Something in his expression changed. It wasn’t guilt showing up. Juhoon actually looked intrigued. 

“You went somewhere,” he said quietly, like he was naming a phenomenon. “Didn’t you?”

Martin didn’t answer. His lips moved slightly, but no sound came out.

Juhoon’s hand crept back up to Martin’s neck, fingers rubbing the gland again — slower this time, more deliberate. His scent pushed out in response, thickening the air until it felt heavy in Martin’s lungs.

“Come back,” Juhoon whispered. “I don’t like it when you do that.”

The words should have sounded concerned, but they didn’t.

Martin’s body shuddered faintly. His fingers twitched against the blanket, grasping at nothing. The dissociation deepened — like sinking underwater, pressure building in his ears. The sounds dulled further. Even Juhoon’s voice started to stretch and warp at the edges.

Juhoon felt it. He leaned closer, forehead brushing Martin’s temple, breathing him in too deeply. “There you are,” he said again, softer now. Almost reverent. “I was worried I lost you for a second.”

His hand tightened possessively in Martin’s hair. Grounding in the wrong way. Anchoring Martin to him, not to himself.

“You do this when you’re overwhelmed,” Juhoon continued, voice low and steady, like he was explaining something he’d studied. “You float away.”

Martin’s mouth opened. Still nothing.

Juhoon’s pulse thudded hard in his own ears now. His chest felt tight with.. something electric and alive. 

He pressed a kiss to Martin’s cheek, then lingered there, breathing him in again.

“You’re so quiet like this,” he murmured. “So easy to hold.”

That was the moment the unease tipped. Juhoon didn’t pull back. He continued to stay there, hand firm at Martin’s stomach, fingers curled in his hair, scent saturating the space — not to calm anymore, but to keep.

Martin drifted further, thoughts scattering into fragments. The fight. The words once again. They floated past without weight and order.

All that remained was warmth and pressure. The steady pull of Juhoon’s presence like gravity.

And somewhere — distant, faint, almost gone — a small part of Martin understood that this wasn’t comfort. It was containment.

Juhoon felt it too. The way Martin stopped resisting. The way his body yielded without choice or desire. The way his eyes went dull and trusting all at once. 

His grip tightened just a fraction. “Stay with me,” Juhoon whispered. And this time, it didn’t sound like a request.

The group chat had been dead for about ninety hours now. 

There were no memes. No unhinged 2 a.m. TikToks from Keonho. No blurry photos from James captioned “me in this biology lecture.” No sleepy voice notes from Martin whispering half-finished lyrics into the dark.

Just the last message Keonho had sent after the disappointment of a phone call. There still wasn’t even a read receipt. 

Keonho had been staring at it for the last twenty minutes — screen dimmed and lit again with each idle flick of his thumb. His egg sandwich was untouched. It had gone cold, evident by the slice of cheese that had solidified again. 

Across from him in the dorm lounge, James sat curled with a pillow, face slack with exhausted worry. Seonghyeon was by the window, arms crossed, bouncing one heel silently against the floor.

No one spoke.

They were past the panicking stage. Past denial, too. Now it was just a kind of tight, stretched waiting — brittle and awful. Nothing could help them now even after their attempted research about Kim Juhoon. Keonho, two days ago, attempted to look through the college sports teams rosters, but nothing showed. It was their only lead based off Juhoon’s instagram profile.

“Maybe…” James started, voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe he’s ghosting us.”

Seonghyeon turned toward him slowly.

“Voluntarily?”

James shrugged, looking smaller than usual. “I don’t know. I just—he’s never done this before.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t believe it,” Seonghyeon said. “He tells us everything. Even when he doesn’t want to.”

“Yeah,” Keonho added quietly, “even when he’s scared.”

No one corrected him.

Then James whispered, “I hate this. I hate not knowing where he is.”

It was later in the day now, and Seonghyeon barely heard the professor over the blood rushing in his ears.

He sat slumped in the back corner of the lecture hall, hoodie drawn up, hands buried in his sleeves. The lights were too bright. His notes page remained blank.

He wasn’t here to learn. He was here to sit still, to not scream, to wait until the hour passed and he could go back to refreshing Martin’s socials.

It had become a ritual. He checked Instagram every half-hour. TikTok even more. Not just Martin’s — but accounts Martin followed, mutual friends, even tagged photos. It was obsessive. It was useless yet he still kept doing it.

The professor droned on in the background about developmental psychology, attachment theory, infant cognition.

And then—

“Yo, did you see what happened with Juhoon?”

Seonghyeon didn’t move.

Two rows down, to his right — the voice was low, amused.

“Nah, what?” another guy replied, bored.

“Coach benched him. Again. Second time this week. Said if he keeps skipping drills, he’s out for the season.”

“Wait—Juhoon? Kim Juhoon? Shooting guard?”

“Yeah. That guy’s been acting weird lately. All secretive and pissed off. Some people think it’s ‘cause he’s got a thing with an omega.”

Seonghyeon’s spine went rigid.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

The words didn’t process all at once — they filtered in slow, like oil through a cracked drain.

Kim Juhoon. Basketball. Secret omega.

“Damn,” the second guy laughed. “He always acted like he was too good for everyone. Guess someone finally got to him.”

“I heard he’s been basically living off-campus somewhere. Disappears for days at a time.”

Seonghyeon’s mouth went dry. He fumbled for his phone, screen shaking under his thumb.

hyeon 🦊

i just heard something in class

guy named kim juhoon

basketball team

skipping drills

ppl think he’s secretly seeing an omega

jjami 🍮

???

no fucking way

kono 🐶

basketball???

i didn’t even check them

hold on

hyeon 🦊

they said shooting guard

said he’s been missing practice

coach is pissed

kono 🐶

[📸 SCREENSHOT]

kim juhoon

year 3

position: shooting guard

no major listed

it’s HIM

Seonghyeon zoomed in on the image. The jersey, the hair, the jaw. It was blurry, but it showed enough. Seonghyeon stood up immediately. Students turned to look. The professor paused mid-sentence. But Seonghyeon didn’t care. He was already shoving past chairs, already texting again.

hyeon 🦊

he’s real

he’s on the team

we were basically right with our search before 

we were fucking RIGHT

kono 🐶

what do we do

wait 

we could go to the gym

maybe we ask the team or just whoever’s practicing there 

jjami 🍮

someone’s got to know where he lives

cause if we find juhoon

we find martin

 

And just like that, the search was back on. 

The rec center smelled like sweat and floor polish, a mix that clung to the back of your throat.

The basketball courts weren’t booked for team practice today, just random students running pickup games, shirts damp with effort, speakers buzzing in the background. The echo of basketballs hitting the floor bounced off the tall ceilings, overlapping with shouts and sneaker squeaks.

Keonho stepped onto the court first, eyes scanning. “Should we just… ask?”

James hesitated. “This is gonna look weird.”

“We passed weird three days ago,” Seonghyeon said. “Let’s go.”

They fanned out — awkwardly at first, weaving between half-court games and friend groups sitting on the bleachers. A few heads turned. Most didn’t care. It wasn’t unusual for people to wander into the rec center with questions or club flyers or even flirting agendas.

But they weren’t holding flyers.

And Keonho’s face looked a little too intense.

“Excuse me,” he said to a group passing around a ball. “Sorry, random question—do any of you know a Kim Juhoon?”

Blank stares.

“Alpha. Shooting guard. He plays basketball,” he added.

“Sounds kinda familiar?” someone offered, but shrugged. “Dunno him personally.”

James was checking near the benches now, glancing at the water fountains. A few guys shook their heads. A couple ignored him entirely.

But then, near the back wall where a smaller group was cooling off after a long game, Seonghyeon finally struck gold.

“Kim Juhoon?” one of them repeated, frowning. “Yeah. He’s on the team. Doesn’t come to open court much, though.”

Seonghyeon’s heart kicked. “Do you know where he lives?”

The guy blinked. “I mean… kinda? I gave him a ride once.”

James and Keonho had caught up by now, breath shallow, eyes wide.

“He lives above some dry cleaner,” the guy said, dragging his towel over his neck. “It’s near Daehak-ro, I think? It’s a second-floor walk-up. Right next to that all-night corner store that sells gimbap and lottery tickets.”

Seonghyeon nearly sagged in relief. “Lee’s Cleaners?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

The three of them stared for a beat too long — like they’d just cracked open a door that had been bolted shut.

“Thank you,” Keonho blurted. “Seriously.”

“You just—thank you,” James added, breathless.

They turned to go so fast they didn’t hear the player call out again, confused.

“Wait, is everything okay?”

But the trio was already gone — moving fast, hearts racing, their shared silence louder than any answer they could’ve given.

And on the court behind them, the player stood frozen for a second longer, a strange chill creeping down his spine. 

The past four days blurred together. 

Morning didn’t feel different from night anymore. Light slid through the tall, narrow windows in pale strips that crossed the floor and then vanished again, replaced by the low amber of lamps Juhoon preferred to keep on. Time passed in fragments — meals without hunger, showers without awareness, touch without choice.

Martin stayed close.

Not because Juhoon asked or because he was told to. It was more like something inside him panicked when distance appeared. Like gravity shifted. Like the world tilted sideways the moment Juhoon left the room.

It had started subtly. Shaking hands. Clenched jaw. A panicked breath that wouldn’t go all the way in. Then came the nausea. The vertigo. The sudden cold sweats. The terror that crept in when he couldn’t smell Juhoon in the air.

Juhoon noticed first, of course.

“You’re shaking again,” he murmured one afternoon, guiding Martin back onto the bed with a hand at his lower back. The motion was practiced, gentle, inevitable. “Come here.”

Martin listened, of course. 

The bed had become the center of everything. Not just sleep, but survival. Juhoon would pull him down beside him, tug the blankets up, press their bodies together until Martin’s breathing synced to his. The cedarwood scent was constant now—on sheets, pillows, skin. On Martin himself.

And still it never felt like enough.

Juhoon’s touches were constant and deliberate. Possessive. A hand resting just above Martin’s waistband, grounding him. Fingers threading through his hair, rubbing behind his ear until his body slackened. Juhoon liked holding him like that. Liked guiding his head where it belonged — on his chest, against his throat, beneath his chin.

“You go still when I do that,” Juhoon had said, satisfied. “You’re safest like this. Don’t you feel it?”

Martin had nodded. He nodded a lot now.

Sometimes Juhoon kissed him until the noise inside his head muted. Slow, deep, consuming kisses that seemed to replace thoughts entirely. Martin’s mouth moved instinctively — trained. His body reacted on autopilot. A soft noise. A flushed cheek. A little arch of his spine.

And when it ended, when it was just breathing and skin again, Martin would lie there and cry. It wasn’t full on sobbing or anything. The tears just… happened. Leaking silently from his eyes, soaking into the pillow. His body didn’t fight them. His hands didn’t move to wipe them away.

Juhoon always noticed. “Hey. No tears. You’re okay,” he’d say, thumb brushing under Martin’s eye.

Then he’d start petting him again. Stroking his hair. Palming the nape of his neck. Whispering nothing at all.

And most of the time, it worked. Martin would melt into the touch, breath hitching, clinging to the scent like a lifeline. But tonight, something was wrong.

Tonight, the ache wasn’t in his limbs or his lungs. It was lower. Nestled behind his ribs like grief.

He blinked slowly at the ceiling and thought of guitars.

More specifically, the old acoustic one in the corner of his childhood home. The one with the worn frets and the chipped pickguard. The one his dad always used during music nights.

They used to play together after dinner on Fridays. His dad would let him pick the first song, even if it was too hard, even if they never finished it. The rhythm of it—playing side by side, laughing over missed notes, syncing up by instinct—had always soothed something in Martin’s bones.

It was the only time his brain ever felt truly quiet.

His dad used to look at him and say, “You’ve got a good ear, ‘Tin. You always have.”

Martin closed his eyes. The ache in his chest sharpened.

Juhoon’s mouth moved lower, trailing soft kisses down his neck to his collarbone, his hand still never leaving Martin’s bare stomach. He rubbed there again, absently now, like Martin was something docile and hollow.

Martin bit down on the inside of his cheek.

He could still remember his mom yelling from the kitchen when they played too late. “You two better not be breaking strings again!” His dad’s laugh echoing through the walls. The way he used to ruffle Martin’s hair and say, “You keep practicing like that, you’ll outplay me in no time.”

Martin made a small sound in the back of his throat.

Juhoon paused. “Hmm?”

Martin didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The lump in his throat was too thick now. His lips trembled.

He missed his parents. God, he missed them so much. Missed their voices. Missed the way home smelled like rosemary and lemon and fabric softener. Missed the way his mom always brought him snacks during late-night study sessions back in the day and would give him a big tight hug whenever he asked. Missed how his dad would squeeze his shoulder and say “Hey, take a break. Play a little.”

He missed the trio—Keonho, James, Seonghyeon. Missed their stupid inside jokes. Missed the way James always argued with professors in emails, dramatic down to the subject line, and it would make Martin laugh so much. Missed how Seonghyeon always noticed when Martin’s stress got too quiet and sat with him without pushing.

But Keonho—Martin missed him differently.

He missed the way Keonho called him Marty McFly even though it made no sense. Missed the way he’d call him hyung in that exaggerated, teasing tone, and how Martin would scold him for being disrespectful when he didn’t. Missed how Keonho would just grin and let Martin punch his shoulder for it, like the ritual mattered more than the joke. Missed how Keonho had always felt loud and puppyish and harmless—until somehow, without Martin noticing when it happened, he hadn’t anymore.

The memory of last year’s birthday pressed in hard. Everyone else had left. The dorm was quiet. Keonho lingered with a sheepish look and a carefully wrapped box. Then there was the shock of opening it and finding the AirPods Max inside—yes, those expensive ones. The kind Martin had never told anyone he wanted. The way he’d cried immediately, overwhelmed, embarrassed, undone.

And the hug.

Keonho stepping in without hesitation, arms wrapping fully around him, one hand warm at the back of Martin’s neck. Holding him like it was natural. Like it was nothing. Keonho’s alpha scent had been steady and grounding, clean and familiar, smelling so much like home that Martin had clung tighter than he meant to. Keonho hadn’t let go until Martin did first.

The warmth of it still made Martin’s heart flutter now, even here. Especially here.

Another tear slipped from the corner of his eye. Then another. He still didn’t speak.

Juhoon kissed the side of his neck again, slow and warm, his breath brushing Martin’s skin as he murmured, “You’re finally relaxing.”

Martin’s chest cracked. It didn’t feel like relaxing. It felt like drowning. Like he was watching himself from outside a window, unable to knock loud enough to be let back in.

Juhoon didn’t stop. His scent stayed strong, cloaking the air in something heady and soft, and his hand drifted lower. Martin turned his face into the pillow and cried more without sound—thinking of Keonho’s arms, his scent, the way home had once felt solid and real—and wondering, distantly, how he’d gotten so far away from it.

The bus hissed as it pulled away from the stop, leaving the trio at the curb, a block from where the basketball player had pointed them. It took them about twenty minutes from main campus to get there. 

Keonho adjusted his hoodie and scanned the street like he was expecting Juhoon to just appear. “It’s gotta be one of these,” he muttered. “He said it was above Lee’s Cleaners, right?”

James checked his phone again, as if it might offer another clue. “Yeah. This is the spot.”

He pointed across the street — a weathered two-story building wedged between a vape shop and the corner store that was mentioned before. The faded red letters for Lee’s Cleaners hung crooked over the ground floor, and just above it, a narrow metal staircase clung to the brick wall like an afterthought.

“Looks like there’s a landing up there,” Seonghyeon said, squinting. “Could be one apartment. Could be more.”

“There’s no sign,” James muttered. “No buzzer. No directory.”

They crossed the street quickly, climbing the first few stairs with hesitation. The steps creaked beneath them, chipped with paint and age. When they opened the door to get inside the hallway—

“Three doors,” Keonho breathed as they stepped inside. “Shit.”

All identical. All blank. No numbers, no mail slots. Just smooth beige paint and dented doorknobs.

They stared for a moment, like one might swing open on its own, revealing the answer.

“What do we do now?” James asked. “Just start knocking?”

Seonghyeon hesitated. “If he’s in there… if Martin’s in there, and something’s wrong…”

“Then we knock,” Keonho said firmly. “I’ll knock on every door if I have to.”

“But if Juhoon answers—” James started.

“I don’t care,” Keonho snapped, too fast. His voice wavered. “I just want my best friend back.”

They stood there in silence, the weight of three days pressing down on their shoulders. Keonho’s foot bounced restlessly. James stared at the doorknobs like they might blink. Seonghyeon closed his eyes for a beat, then opened them again, more focused.

“We don’t even know which one,” he said quietly. “We don’t know if Martin’s actually inside either.”

“We’re not leaving,” Keonho said. “I’m not messing up any chances of getting him back.”

James nodded, then looked at the doors again. “So which one do we start with?”

No one moved.

A breeze swept down the street below. The hallway floor creaked under Seonghyeon’s stance. Somewhere behind one of the doors, a floorboard shifted.

James stepped forward towards that one. He took a deep breath and knocked uncertainly. Once more, a little braver. 

And inside:

The couch cushions barely sank beneath his weight.

Martin hadn’t meant to move, but at some point, Juhoon had coaxed him out with quiet hands and warm promises of food. Told him the soup would be ready soon. Said something about ginger, about healing, about how good boys deserved to eat something warm. Martin didn’t answer. Yet his feet had carried him here anyway.

Now he sat curled at one end, wrapped in a thick throw blanket that smelled faintly of cedar and something sweeter beneath it. The TV was on, low and meaningless. Some nature documentary played in muted colors. He wasn’t watching it. He wasn’t watching anything. At least Juhoon gave him his phone back at this point, though it was still turned off since Juhoon said Martin still needs to continue his “social media detox.” 

The kitchen clinked behind him — soft utensil sounds, a pan being set down. Juhoon humming lightly under his breath.

Then:

A knock. Martin flinched. It was soft and only happened once. Then again, firmer this time. His body went very still.

He stared at the door. Another knock. A pause. Then a voice.

“M-Martin? If you’re in there—”

He knew that voice. His heart jerked hard against his ribs, like something had been ripped loose. His lips parted, but nothing came out. Just breath.

The knock came again.

“Please,” someone else said. “We just—just say something. Anything.”

James.

And Seonghyeon, too. He could tell by the cadence. The pitch. Like someone trying to hold their composure together with frayed thread.

The blanket slightly slipped down his shoulder, but he didn’t fix it.

They were here.

They were here.

Juhoon’s voice floated in from the kitchen, calm and warm: “Just a few more minutes, baby. Food’s almost done.”

Martin blinked.

The knocks had stopped — or maybe his ears were ringing too loud to hear anything else. His hands had started to shake again, but this time it wasn’t from cold.

It was from want. Something sharp and unsteady rising in his chest — hope or terror or both. He looked at the door again. And for the first time in days, he didn’t feel numb.

He felt like he had a choice.

His fingers twitched beneath the blanket. And then—

Another knock echoed faintly down the hall. Then silence.

Keonho leaned in, ear almost pressed to the door. “Did you hear that?” he whispered. “I think— I think someone moved.”

James nodded, heart pounding. “I did too.”

Seonghyeon was standing rigid beside them, fists clenched at his sides. His voice was low and measured. “Try again.”

Keonho knocked one more time — not too loud, but steady. “Martin? Please. We’re not leaving until we know you’re okay.”

Still nothing.

Not even a footstep. No creak of movement inside. The door, old and painted over too many times, gave nothing away.

“I hate this,” James muttered. “This part. Not knowing. It’s like he’s on the other side of the moon.”

“I wish I remembered to ask if the basketball guy ever saw which apartment door Juhoon went into,” Keonho whispered. His jaw was tight. “I don’t like guessing games.”

Seonghyeon shook his head. “It’s the right door.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I can feel him.” His voice cracked. “He’s behind this door. I know it.”

James swallowed hard. “Then what do we do?”

They all fell quiet. Three figures outside a cheap apartment door, in the middle of a second-story hallway that smelled like dryer sheets and old stairwell paint. Waiting, hoping, praying.

Back to the other side of the door—Martin’s body moved before he had fully decided. One second he was on the couch, knees drawn up under the blanket, chest tight and voice caught somewhere deep in his ribs. Next, he was running.

It was a scrambled, barefoot rush toward the door like instinct had yanked him up and shoved him forward.

“Martin?” Juhoon’s voice from the kitchen cut through the quiet, suddenly sharper.

Martin’s fingers were already on the lock.

The sound of the bolt sliding back was too loud in the small apartment. The chain followed—metal scraping, his hands clumsy as he fumbled it once, twice, before finally getting it free.

The doorknob turned.

And when the door cracked open, when a sliver of hallway light spilled through—

It was Keonho’s face that he saw first.

Eyes wide and mouth parted, like he didn’t believe what he was seeing.

And Martin—barefoot, trembling, wrapped in a blanket that had slipped halfway down his arms—stood blinking back at him, lips quivering, lashes dark and wet.

“Hey,” Martin whispered with a smile, like he wasn’t sure if it was real.

Then everything collapsed at once. His knees buckled. Keonho lunged forward and caught him hard, one arm locking around his back, the other bracing his weight as Martin folded into him with a broken sound. The blanket slid to the floor. Martin’s hands clenched instinctively in Keonho’s hoodie, fingers digging in like he was afraid to let go even for a second.

Keonho didn’t hesitate. He held him tighter. “I’ve got you,” he said, voice shaking. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

James and Seonghyeon crowded the doorway, frozen for half a heartbeat at the sight of him—too thin, too unsteady, eyes unfocused like he’d been underwater too long.

Then—

Footsteps. Juhoon appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. At first, he looked confused. Then calm and almost polite. “What’s going on?” he asked, tone even, like this was an inconvenience rather than a rupture. “Martin, baby—why is the door—”

And then he saw him. Saw Martin curled into Keonho’s neck. Saw the way Martin didn’t look back. The way his face was buried in someone else’s shoulder.

Something in Juhoon’s expression snapped.

“No,” he said sharply. “No—what are you doing?”

He stepped forward fast now, composure shattering. “Hey. Hey. That’s not—put him down.”

Keonho tightened his grip. “No.”

Juhoon barked a laugh—wild, disbelieving. “Are you fucking serious right now? You don’t get to touch him. You don’t get to take him.”

James stepped between them like a wall. “We absolutely do.”

Juhoon’s hands were clenched now, jaw flexing like it hurt. “You don’t know him,” he snapped. “You don’t know what he needs. You don’t know what we’ve been through.”

Seonghyeon moved in, shielding Keonho with his body. “What you put him through.”

Juhoon’s voice cracked. “No—you don’t understand. He chose me. He stayed.”

He looked desperate now. Unhinged. “He wanted this!”

Behind Seonghyeon, Martin whimpered softly, pressing closer into Keonho’s chest.

Juhoon’s eyes snapped to the sound. Something feral flared.

“You’re confusing him!” he exploded. “He doesn’t know what he wants right now—he’s overwhelmed, he’s vulnerable, he’s—” He pointed violently at the others. “You think this is better? You think you can keep him safe?”

Keonho’s voice cracked, low and rough. “Look at him.”

Juhoon didn’t. Couldn’t.

“He’s mine,” he growled instead. “I take care of him. I fix him. I calm him down. I know every inch of him—what he needs, how he breathes, how he sounds when he’s scared. You can’t give him that.”

“That’s enough,” James said, voice like steel.

Juhoon charged forward.

Seonghyeon caught him with both hands to the chest, shoving him back hard. “Don’t touch him.”

Juhoon stood there, panting like an animal. His eyes flicked to Martin again.

“You’re stealing him,” he hissed. “You’re stealing something that’s mine.”

Keonho turned then—Martin still wrapped in his arms, height difference be damned. His voice shook, but his spine didn’t.

“He’s not a thing. And he sure as hell isn’t yours.”

Martin stirred again at the sound of Keonho’s voice. His fingers clutched tighter in his sweatshirt. Still no glance toward Juhoon.

That was the moment something inside Juhoon cracked wide open.

“Say something!” he screamed. “Tell them to stop. Tell them you want to stay. Tell them you love me.”

Silence.

Juhoon’s voice broke into a sound halfway between a sob and a snarl. “We were perfect. We were perfect. I was the only one who could fix him.”

That was it.

James yanked the hallway door open. “We’re done here. Let’s go.”

Juhoon staggered forward again. “You can’t take him!”

“We can,” Seonghyeon said, steady and cold. “And we are.”

Keonho turned fully away, holding Martin like someone fragile and precious and alive.

As they moved down the hall and stairs, Juhoon’s voice followed them—shouting, unraveling, echoing off the stairwell walls.

“You’re making a mistake!”

“He won’t be okay without me!”

The apartment door slammed behind him. The sound rang through like a gunshot.

And Juhoon was left alone with the silence, and the certainty that whatever he thought he had was gone.

Juhoon stood there for a second too long, staring at the front door like it might open again if he waited. Like Martin might stumble back inside, confused, apologetic, reaching for him out of habit.

It didn’t. Something sharp tore up his chest.

“No,” he said, hoarse. Then louder, to the empty room. “No—no, no, no.”

He turned suddenly and shoved the chair nearest the table. It skidded across the floor and hit the wall with a dull thud. He didn’t even flinch. He grabbed the edge of the counter instead, fingers digging into the laminate until his knuckles went white.

They took him. They stole him.

Juhoon paced. Too fast. Too tight. His breath came in short bursts, like his lungs couldn’t keep up with the thoughts crashing over each other.

“He was fine,” he muttered. “He was calm. I had him calm.”

The pot on the stove screamed. He swiped it off without thinking. Soup splashed across the floor, ceramic shattering, ginger and broth spreading in a useless mess. The smell hit him and he gagged.

“Shit—”

He kicked the cabinet door shut so hard it rebounded. His hand went to his hair, yanking, fingers threading hard through it like he could pull the panic out by the root.

Something kept coiling tighter in his chest. Rage, maybe, or grief. Or even just instinct gone haywire — the part of his brain stamped alpha that didn’t understand loss, that only knew take back.

He could smell Martin still. In the air. On the couch. On his own shirt.

It made it worse.

Because the scent was fading, and Martin was officially gone.

“No, no, no—” he muttered again, the words unraveling. “He’s mine. He’s mine—you don’t get to take him, he’s mine—”

He shoved away from the counter and stormed down the hall, heart thudding like boots against ribcage. Every step felt loud and pointless. There wasn’t a single thing in this apartment that could answer him.

He hit the bedroom light, breath ragged.

The plush.

His eyes landed on it instantly — the small bunny, slumped where Martin had left it in the sheets.

Juhoon lunged forward, grabbing it off the bed like it might fight back. He dragged it to his chest and held it there, knuckles white. His eyes slammed shut. He breathed deep.

Martin.

Still there.

Still clinging to the fabric — warm and familiar and real. Not like the phantom touches echoing down his arms. Not like the way Martin’s name still vibrated behind his teeth even though he hadn’t spoken it.

The rage in him — whatever it was — curled in tighter, no longer sharp but gnawing. “I kept you safe,” Juhoon whispered, rocking in place, plush tight in his arms. “I loved you. You were getting better. You were—we were fine.”

His voice cracked.

“They think they saved you? They don’t even know you. They left you first. They all left.”

The walls were silent. The bunny plush didn’t answer, but it still smelled like Martin. The way he did in the mornings, half-asleep. The way he smelled after crying, buried in blankets, when Juhoon would whisper that he was beautiful even like that.

He curled in around it like it was a lifeline. Like scent could substitute presence. Like touch could substitute love.

Juhoon’s breath shuddered.

His alpha instincts were still snarling beneath the surface — go find him, go get him, go take him back — but his body wouldn’t move. Not when Martin’s scent was still here, still his, still proof that none of it had been a dream.

He dragged the plush to his mouth and kissed the fabric, like it could kiss him back.

“I was good to you,” he whispered. “You were special. You chose me.”

His voice cracked.

“You were mine.”

And in the empty bedroom, with no one left to witness the fallout, Juhoon clutched the scent-soaked bunny tighter—and cried.

The night air stung. But Martin didn’t shiver anymore — just curled quietly in Keonho’s arms, one hand knotted into the front of his hoodie.

They hadn’t said much since leaving the apartment. No one wanted to be the first to break the spell, to admit what had just happened.

They waited at the bus stop beneath a flickering streetlamp. Rainwater collected in the cracks on the pavement. A dog barked once in the distance.

James exhaled shakily. “Should we… take him to someone? An RA? A counselor?”

“No,” Martin whispered. The sound was so soft, they almost missed it.

Keonho looked down fast. “What?”

Martin blinked up at him. “Not there,” he said. “I just wanna.. go home.”

Keonho nodded immediately. “Okay. Our dorm.”

“Our room’s on the bigger side compared to Martin’s,” Seonghyeon added. “Two beds. And we have the couch.”

James frowned. “What about—”

“No questions,” Keonho cut in. “Let’s just get him back first.”

Martin didn’t say anything else, but his hand — still curled in Keonho’s hoodie — tugged just slightly.

He didn’t let go the entire bus ride back.

The room was quiet, but it wasn’t the relieved kind of quiet that comes after a rescue. This was the stillness that followed disaster. The kind where no one moved too fast, afraid even their breath might shatter whatever thread was keeping things together.

The dorm room lights had stayed off, save for the single desk lamp James flicked on as they came in. Its soft amber glow barely reached the corners. Shadows clung to the walls. The air felt heavy.

Martin hadn’t said a word during the walk.

Hadn’t looked at anything, not even when Seonghyeon opened the door for them or when James guided him through like a ghost.

He’d just… held on. His grip on Keonho’s sleeve had been loose but constant. Like he needed the contact to remember where he was.

Now he was lying on Seonghyeon’s bed — the one with a better mattress, the one they agreed was best — with the navy throw blanket pulled up to his shoulders. His body curled inward almost protectively, knees drawn tight, fists tucked beneath his chin. His lashes looked too long on his pale skin, and the dip between his brows hadn’t softened.

Keonho had eased him down gently, wordlessly.

James crouched beside the bed now, voice soft. “You’re safe, okay? You’re safe. We’re right here.”

Martin blinked. Once. Twice. His face didn’t change, but something… wasn’t right.

His fingers twitched. His jaw flexed like he was trying to speak. His eyes weren’t tracking anything — just glassy, half-focused on the wall. Then his chest hitched once, and again. The kind of breath you take when it’s not reaching all the way down.

Keonho moved closer instinctively, crouching on the opposite side of the bed.

“Hyung?” he said quietly. “Do you want water? Or—?”

“I c–can’t—”

The word scraped out of him. They all froze.

Martin’s lips barely moved, his voice so small it sounded like it was coming from somewhere deep inside. “I can’t breathe.”

James’ stomach flipped. “What? What do you mean—?”

“I can’t smell him.”

It came out fast and jagged. Like Martin had skipped a few words his brain already understood.

“I can’t smell anything. I don’t—he’s not here.” His hands clawed weakly at the blanket, eyes darting like he couldn’t make sense of the room. “I don’t—I can’t—he’s not here.”

“Martin—” Keonho started.

“No, I know,” Martin gasped, as if anticipating them. “I know he’s not. That’s why it—why it hurts.”

His voice cracked on the last word. The pain in it made James recoil like he’d been slapped.

Seonghyeon had gone rigid by the door, arms crossed so tight his nails were digging into his sleeves. Then, suddenly, he moved — a step, two — then turned away, hands in his hair. “Shit. Shit. I think—fuck. I think it’s withdrawal.”

James looked up. “Withdrawal?”

“Juhoon must’ve—” Seonghyeon’s voice faltered. “He obviously didn’t claim him, but he must’ve… scent-marked. Regularly. Pillows, skin, clothes. All of it. His presence, his voice, his scent… it was probably always there.”

James swallowed hard. “So now that it’s not—”

“Martin’s body thinks he’s in danger.”

Silence fell.

Martin was panting now, fists pushed to his lips, like he could keep something in. His knees drew tighter, shoulders curling, body visibly trembling despite the blanket.

“And Juhoon made it that way,” Seonghyeon whispered, like the thought itself made him nauseous. “He rewired Martin’s nervous system to associate his scent with ‘safety’ and ‘love.’”

James’ throat bobbed. “That’s abuse.”

“That’s alpha abuse,” Keonho said flatly. “The kind they put in textbooks.”

Martin let out a quiet, pitiful sound — not quite a sob, but close. Keonho’s heart clenched.

He moved slowly, deliberately, until he was sitting on the bed beside him. “Martin hyung,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

Martin didn’t answer, but he turned and slightly lifted the blanket. It was small. Barely perceptible. But he leaned toward the sound, toward the warmth of Keonho’s presence.

That was all the invitation Keonho needed.

He slid in behind him, wrapping his arms carefully around Martin’s waist and pulling him close — gently, but securely. Martin melted, or maybe collapsed. Either way, his back pressed flush to Keonho’s chest like a lifeline.

And then he clung. Fingers settling on top of Keonho’s forearm, his breath ragged against skin.

Keonho murmured softly, “I’m not going anywhere.”

James wiped at his face, blinking fast. Seonghyeon leaned against the wall again, arms still crossed, but his jaw was clenched now, like he was holding in more than words.

Martin didn’t stop shaking, but he didn’t feel alone anymore.

After a bit, Seonghyeon and James soon stepped into the hallway and let the door click shut behind them.

Seonghyeon leaned against the wall, arms folded tight once again across his chest. James stood beside him, quiet, chewing at the edge of his thumbnail like he was trying not to fall apart.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

Then James said, barely above a whisper, “He couldn’t breathe.”

Seonghyeon shut his eyes.

“He said he couldn’t breathe, and all I could think was… we weren’t fast enough.”

“You were the one who kept pushing,” Seonghyeon murmured. “You didn’t stop looking. None of us did.”

James let his hand fall. “Still doesn’t feel like enough.”

“No. It doesn’t.” Seonghyeon’s voice was low, controlled, but there was something taut underneath it. A tension that hadn’t eased since Martin opened the door.

James glanced over. “You think he’ll come after Martin?”

“I think,” Seonghyeon said, “we need to assume he might.”

James turned to face him fully.

Seonghyeon looked back, steady now. “I’m filing a report first thing tomorrow. Not just with campus security. I’m calling the Omega Safety Center. They have protocols for this. They’re legally tied to the local precinct.”

“You think it’ll help?” James asked. “I mean—what do we say? Juhoon didn’t leave bruises. He just—”

“He isolated him. Manipulated him. Scent-conditioned him to the point of physical withdrawal. That’s abuse,” Seonghyeon said. “It’s alpha abuse, and if we explain it clearly enough, they’ll listen.”

James was quiet, but his jaw was set. “Yeah. Good. Fuck. I didn’t even know something like scent withdrawal was real.”

“It’s rare, but it happens,” Seonghyeon said grimly. “Especially when the omega is already vulnerable or emotionally dependent. Juhoon knew what he was doing.”

James gave a small, bitter laugh. “You think that bastard’s sleeping tonight?”

“If he is, I hope it’s with nightmares.”

Another silence passed between them, heavier now but more certain.

James pushed off the wall. “We should get back in there.”

Seonghyeon didn’t move at first. His eyes lingered on the floor, then slowly lifted. “Martin might not remember all of this clearly. He might even try to justify it later. Blame himself.”

James swallowed. “Then we remind him every time that he didn’t do anything wrong.”

Seonghyeon nodded. “Every single time.”

Two weeks passed by, and word spread like spilled paint.

It started as whispers in Seonghyeon’s psych lecture — a few murmurs exchanged near the back row, someone casually asking if the shooting guard of the basketball team had dropped out or gotten injured. Then came the sharper versions. The ones that carried weight. “Got removed.” “Kicked off.” “Administrative action.”

After the first week passed by, the name “Kim Juhoon” was being said with careful eyes and quieter mouths. No one knew the full story. But everyone knew it wasn’t just about skipping practice.

Seonghyeon kept his head down and didn’t engage. The official process was still in motion. The report he’d filed through the campus Omega Safety Center had gone straight to university admin — and then to the local precinct’s partnered counselor. Juhoon hadn’t been arrested, but there’d been enough evidence, statements, and medical validation to warrant immediate disciplinary action. His scholarship was under review as well. 

Martin hadn’t asked about any of it. He hadn’t needed to.

The first few days had been shaky — tremors in his hands, sudden dissociation, full-body exhaustion like he’d run ten marathons back-to-back. He didn’t sleep unless someone was next to him. Keonho made sure that someone was usually him.

Now, after the two weeks were done, Martin was back at his family’s house for a few days.

“I just need to see my mom and dad,” he’d said quietly that morning, phone clutched in both hands. “And my older sister. Just for a little.”

Seonghyeon had nodded. “Take all the time you need. We’ll be here.”

The goodbye had been brief but solid — a long hug with James, a quiet thank-you to Seonghyeon, and a wordless look at Keonho that made the younger alpha’s ears go pink.

Now, with the dorm quiet again, the three friends sat in Keonho and Seonghyeon’s shared space. Takeout boxes covered the desk. Someone’s half-drunk bubble tea was sweating onto the windowsill.

James slumped sideways into the small couch, poking at a pile of fries. “You know, it’s weird,” he said. “Not hearing the kettle going every two hours.”

“Or his dramatic shower concerts,” Seonghyeon added, glancing at the bathroom door like Martin might suddenly reappear brushing his teeth and belting a ballad like he was on stage.

Keonho chuckled. “Or that one sweater he kept wearing even though it was definitely a pajama top.”

They all went quiet for a moment. Then James said, “He’s doing better.”

Seonghyeon nodded, slow. “Yeah.”

“Sleeping again. Making eye contact. He laughed yesterday. Like, really laughed. That stupid laugh where he wheezes and then hides his face cause it turns red.”

“Keonho got him to do that,” Seonghyeon said, turning toward the younger alpha.

Keonho blinked. “I—he just said the blanket smelled like ‘sweaty socks and Blue Moon’ so I pretended to faint.”

James grinned. “You say that like it’s not exactly what worked.”

There was a beat of fond silence.

Then James tilted his head, voice light. “He really wanted you that night.”

Keonho frowned. “What?”

“When everything went down. When he opened the door. He collapsed into you. Not me, not Seonghyeon. You.”

Keonho looked away, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“And then,” James continued, “he literally motioned for you to lie down with him. He wouldn’t even let you get up.”

Seonghyeon was watching, brows lifted. “That’s true.”

Keonho mumbled, “I think he was just—”

“Nope,” James cut in. “Nope. Don’t deflect.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

“I was just closest to him, that’s all.”

James snorted. “You really think Martin reaches for people just because they’re nearby?”

Silence.

Keonho went still. Then—

He turned red. Not just pink. Full blush, from his ears down to the curve of his neck.

Seonghyeon laughed quietly. “Oh my god.”

James grinned like a fox. “You like him.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you do.”

“I didn’t—”

James leaned in, sing-song. “You like him. And it’s not just biology.”

“It’s pure,” Seonghyeon said simply.

Keonho swallowed.

James softened a little. “We’re not teasing you. Not really. It’s just nice. To know Martin has someone who cares about him that much.”

Keonho was quiet. Then he murmured, “I just want him to feel okay again.”

“You help him feel that,” Seonghyeon said.

And for a moment, the three of them just sat there — no longer in the middle of the chaos, but not entirely free of it either. A quiet limbo, lit by the soft glow of healing.

Martin would come back soon, and when he did, they’d be waiting.