The panel had been a war crime in five acts.

Five full hours of high-pitched squeals, oversized pacifiers, one marriage proposal from a fan dressed as a bottle of formula, and a stage manager who kept handing Baby Saja stuffed animals like he didn’t have his full-grown omega waiting in his penthouse suite and a rut clawing at the base of his spine.

"Do the voice!" "Say ‘goo goo ga gaa’ again, oppa!" "How does it feel being the cutest baby alive, teehee?"

His molars ached from smiling. His scent blockers were two hours expired and degrading fast. The assistant they'd assigned him for the event was drenched in some generic beta floral mist that now clashed violently with the sweet-bright alpha cocktail bleeding from his skin.

Pineapple, cherry, sugarcane… All the superficial top notes of the fake Baby brand, sticky-sweet and photogenic.

But underneath, the deeper layers were leaking.

Charred wood. Smoke. The bitter, hot scent of someone trying so hard not to murder a fangirl with a plushie microphone.

The moment the panel wrapped, he didn’t even wait for the exit cue. Just teleported from his chair with a smile so flat it could cut glass, leaving his bandmates to mop up the chaos.

The hotel suite was silent when he entered.

Silent—but not safe.

He stepped over his own designer sneakers at the threshold. The scent hit first—his scent, but not the public one. The real one. The one he never wore in interviews. The sunset-burnt base of coal and sugar and primal hunger. It was thick in the room. Coated everything.

And curled right at the center of it—

His omega.

Nestled inside a cocoon of stolen pink sweaters, high-pile scarves, and that ridiculous “BABY” bib from the hot sauce shoot. Curled into the exact spot where the bond knew he would look first. They didn’t stir. Didn’t have to.

They’d already done enough damage just existing in that position.

His fingers twitched. Not with tenderness—with restraint.

He dropped his phone somewhere by the door. Didn’t care if it cracked.

“Don’t move,” he muttered. Voice still hoarse from fan service. “You have no idea what I just endured.”

He stood there, frozen between instinct and image. The panels were still clinging to him like glitter and shame. Alpha suppression patch half-peeled on his neck, releasing that maddening slow-drip of sweetness into the air like a faulty smoke alarm.

He could smell himself on them. Not just on their skin—on the nest. On the sheets. He hadn’t even touched them in three days and yet the bond was reaching, whining inside him like a kicked dog.

His knees gave the tiniest, most treacherous buckle.

“...They gave me a rattle today,” he said flatly. “A rattle. With my name on it. One of them asked if I wore diapers offstage. I almost bit her.”

No reply. Just the subtle twitch of their wrist in the fluff. A visible inhale.

Baby’s nostrils flared. A low, involuntary growl rose in his throat before he bit it down into a cough. Laughed—bitterly.

“You think this is funny?”

Silence again.

They shifted deeper into the nest.

His eyes flicked to the faint pulse at their neck. The omega pulse. Calling to him. Singing to the ache in his gut, the fire behind his eyes.

He stripped off the beret first. Threw it. Peeled the sticky sweater off like it offended him. His scent exploded in the room now—no longer public, no longer safe. Sugarcane and embers. Molten and possessive.

“You wore the bib,” he said, voice rawer now. “You wore the damn bib.”

They didn’t move.

But Baby did.

And the smile he wore now had nothing cutesy about it.