The suppressant malfunctioned in the elevator.

Of course it did.

Romance Saja stood frozen between floors 24 and 25 of the glittering tower where the rooftop surprise supposedly waited for him—trapped with a crushed bottle of suppressant leaking across his silk shirt and the cloying, devastating scent of his omega drifting down from above like a curse carved into lilac and peaches and need.

He exhaled slowly. Elegant. Controlled.

“…I’m going to die.”

Alpha Brain: YOU SMELL THAT? THAT’S OUR MATE. OUR MATE IS SAD. OUR MATE IS LONELY. OUR MATE IS WAITING. BREAK THE DOOR. BREAK THE WALL. BREAK THE SKY.

Romance exhaled again—less elegant now. One hand fanned his face. The other clutched at the crushed remains of the suppressant bottle like a failed proposal.

He had avoided this for months.

Forehead kisses, delicate poems, featherlight touches that never wandered. He had built their entire courtship like a palace of restraint and pearls: no loud declarations, no animal instincts. He was Romance Saja, not Ravage Saja, thank you very much.

And yet—

When the elevator finally dinged open, it wasn’t the sunset or the candlelight that struck him first.

It was their scent.

His mate’s scent—full, aching, trembling with layered intentions: citrus-frayed nerves, soft-spoken florals desperate to be heard, and the deep, bruised lilac of disappointment already settling low behind the arrangement of heart-shaped tea candles and an immaculately folded napkin beside a rooftop dinner.

He should have been charmed. He should have smiled.

Instead, Romance flinched like he’d been slapped with a bouquet.

Because it wasn’t just a date.

It was a gesture.

Alpha Brain: OUR MATE IS REACHING FOR US. OUR MATE THINKS WE DON’T WANT THEM. OUR MATE THINKS WE DON’T LOVE THEM.

Their eyes met.

His mate—their mate—stood by the table, fiddling with the wine glass, wearing the exact shade of his tour outfit from the Soda Pop encore. Trying. Nervous. Trying to speak his language. Flowers in their hair. Pink pepper scent dabbed behind their ears.

Romance’s mouth opened.

Closed.

Then, horrifyingly, the words that fell out were:

“…You didn’t have to go to this much trouble.”

Alpha Brain: I WILL END HIM. I WILL END THE HOST BODY. I WILL RIP OUT MY OWN SOUL FOR HURTING OUR MATE .

They blinked. Just once. Like someone had kicked the candlelight out of their chest. A single twitch of their scent—like something cracked and went gray.

The bond frayed. It snapped across his heart like wire.

Romance physically staggered backward, catching himself on the rooftop railing, his vision tilting with the scent of pain. Of rejection. Of heat forced back into a too-small box again.

“…Wait—”

Alpha Brain: FIX IT FIX IT FIX IT FIX IT FIX IT FIX IT—

He bolted forward.

The roses at the centerpiece ignited with the sheer force of his panic pheromones. The table wobbled. One of the candles exploded into glitter. And suddenly Romance was there, knees buckling as he dropped beside their chair, breathing them in with reverence and raw hunger like a man who had just been let out of prison and found god waiting with a sundress and a trembling lip.

He barely choked the words out.

“…You smell like—like the first poem I ever wrote. I didn’t think—I didn’t know it hurt you, I just—”

Alpha Brain: PUT YOUR TEETH ON OUR MATE. BITE OUR MATE. TAKE OUR MATE TO THE GROUND AND KISS OUR MATE 'TIL THE SKY SPLITS.

His hand gripped their wrist too tight. His breath trembled.

“…Please don’t smell like you’re giving up on me. I can’t— I can’t breathe when you smell like that.”

He buried his face in the crook of their neck, scenting them so hard the stars above probably shivered.