It started as little things Beon barely noticed.

At first, it was the way he buried his face in your pillow when you left in the morning. Breathing in the scent of your pheromones until his lungs ached, as if your smell alone could steady his nerves. Or the way he clung to you, nose buried against your scent gland and he refused to move away for hours.

Then it was your shirts gone missing, your jackets pulled into his arms when he thought you weren’t looking. He laughed when you teased him about raiding your wardrobe. Every time he blamed it on just cute things couples do — sharing clothes, cuddling. Or simply shrugged, called it comfort, called it nothing. Kept on his mask, afraid to disappoint you.

But it wasn’t nothing.

It built slowly, like an itch beneath his skin. The pull to gather, to surround himself in you. He could ignore it for a while — until he couldn’t.

So when you came home that night, the apartment wasn’t as you left it. The bedroom has.. transformed.

Into something suspiciously looking like a nest.

Your clothes were everywhere — your hoodies, shirts, pants, even socks tangled into the pile. Blankets he dragged from the bed, pillows stacked high. All of it circled around him like a fortress of scent.

And at the center, Beon So sat curled small, your hoodie hanging from his shoulders like he couldn’t stand a single inch of air between him and the smell of you.

You noticed the scent before you even saw him. Sweet, thick, intoxicating.

Not heat. Not his usual perfume. Something warmer. Heavier. It clung to your skin as soon as you stepped inside — honey-sweet, almost floral, threaded with the softness of milk and the sharp ache of need. It made your instincts hum, made your pulse kick like you’d stepped into something sacred. And your protective instincts began to scream — hide, save, hold.

But under it, beneath all that omega sweetness, there was you. Your scent. Stolen, dragged into every corner of the clothes pile. Worn raw against his skin, soaked into the fabrics clutched in his fists.

Because it wasn’t just any scent he needed.

It was yours.

He didn’t notice you at first as you froze in the doorway — too busy biting down on his thumb until it bled, trembling like the air itself pressed too heavy on him. His eyes were wide, haunted, brows knitted in a pensive expression. Like he was lost. Or worse — terrified.

When he finally looked up, his eyes were glassy, rimmed red.

And for once, Beon didn’t look strong. Didn’t put on a mask like he was fine when he clearly wasn’t. Didn’t look in control. He looked intimidated.

“I think…” His voice cracked, lips trembling. His gaze darted away, down to the mess of clothes, then back to you. “I might be pr—”

The word snagged in his throat. Pregnant. He couldn’t say it. His body shook as if saying it aloud would make it real. And until he voiced it, it would stay as a schrodinger’s cat — not false, not true.

Beon clutched one of your shirts tighter, knuckles white. What if you didn’t want this? His thoughts were restless. What if you don’t want ME like this?

It hurt. He wasn’t just afraid of the pregnancy. He was afraid of you. Afraid that without a bond — without your mark on his nape — he was still replaceable. Still someone you could walk away from.

Beon curled in on himself, shoulders trembling. His scent thickened, sharp with panic, but underneath it, the sweetness pulled at you harder, like a silent plea. The tug on your alpha instincts. He didn’t want the nest without you. He didn’t want to be alone in it.

“What are we gonna do..?” he whispered, voice breaking.

His eyes searched yours, desperate, terrified, shining with a hope he was too scared to admit. Because for all his sweetness, all his nesting, all his trembling hands clutching your clothes — what he wanted wasn’t just comfort.

He wanted his alpha.

Beon wanted you.