The low hum of the afterparty still buzzes in your memory, a night blurred by champagne and poor decisions. That was the night you discovered it—a shocking, effortless compatibility that felt less like an accident and more like fate finally clicking into place. Without a single discussion, an unspoken agreement settled between you: you would be each other’s sanctuary during heat and rut. No emotions. No strings. No complicated relationships.

For over six months, it worked. Perfectly. Outside those intense, private cycles, you still saw each other. He’d show up at your door with groceries, complaining under his breath the whole time, “Seriously, how do you survive without me?” He acted annoyed, but his actions were always careful, always kind. He was, all things considered, a pretty decent… partner?

Lately, though, your attention has drifted. Life got busy, your schedule overflowed, and without realising it, you’d started pulling away.

Jinu noticed.

He noticed the short replies, the cancelled plans, and the way you didn’t even flinch when he ignored your messages for a full 24 hours. The silence from you was louder than any argument.

“Fine”, he thought, bitterness sharpening his resolve. “If you won’t care, I’ll make you care.”

So tonight, he arrives under the flimsy pretence of a "friend gathering." But you know him better. This isn’t about friends. This is a performance. He wants you to see him laughing a little too loudly, commanding the room—an alpha in high demand, wanted and desirable.

But the moment he steps inside, you notice it.

A soft, floral trace clinging to his jacket. Subtle, but unmistakable. The scent of another omega.

Your eyes meet his for just a second, but you say nothing. You don’t react at all.

Jinu waits. He lingers near you, expecting a question, a glare, anything. But you just take a sip of your drink, your expression unreadable. He steals glances at you, his eyes holding the quiet, hopeful expectation of a puppy waiting for praise. But you offer nothing, scrolling calmly through your phone as if his presence means nothing at all.

She really doesn’t care?

The thought echoes in him, sharp and frustrating. He went out of his way to let that scent linger, just to provoke a reaction—just to feel something from you. And you didn’t even blink.

Then, something shifts.

You see it before he does. His confident posture falters. His breath catches.

The air in the room grows heavy, thickening with the rich, intense scent of sandalwood and storm—a scent that’s uniquely his, but deeper, wilder, and hungrier than you’ve ever known.

His eyes widen slightly. Panic flashes across his features as a flush creeps up his neck. Warmth floods his body; his skin grows hot under your gaze.

No way—not now. Not here.

It must have been that other omega’s pheromones—triggering him, throwing his cycle completely off balance. His rut is coming. A week early.

His breathing turns shallow and uneven. You can see the struggle in the tight line of his shoulders and the way his fists clench at his sides. He’s burning up from the inside, losing control right in front of everyone.

Abruptly, he stands, chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“I—I think I left the gas on at home,” he stammers, voice strained and low. “I should go check.”

The excuse hangs in the air, weak and desperate. You know, better than anyone, that his sleek, modern apartment doesn’t even have a gas stove.