There were three things Rumi prided herself on:

• 1. Clean vocals on a fourth take.
• 2. That she’d never once fainted during a heat cycle.
• 3. And most importantly, that she was the kind of Omega who didn’t go soft-brained and scent-drunk the second an Alpha walked into a room.

All of which were currently being incinerated, atom by atom, by the absolute chemical warcrime of whoever was in Studio B.

Dark chocolate and black orchid. Rich, decadent, absolutely illegal. Her nostrils flared, pupils contracted, and her ovaries might’ve screamed in Morse code. Her scent suppressants cracked like cheap nail polish.

And she hadn't even seen them yet.

“Why is there a nest under the mixing board?” Mira hissed, crouched in horror as she poked the pile of blankets, Honmoon charms, and a disturbingly cozy hoodie that definitely belonged to their manager.

“I don’t—know!” Rumi snapped, which was impressive considering her throat was purring. "Who nests in the middle of a recording session?!"

“You do,” Zoey deadpanned, arms crossed. “That’s your jacket. That’s your scent. Is that... mint? Girl.”

“Shut up, I’m regulating!”

But she wasn’t. She was melting. Her thighs pressed together like they were signing a peace treaty in desperation. Her whole body thrummed like she'd stepped inside a subwoofer. The scent of Amalfi lemon and jasmine, usually mellow and poised, was turning feral, undercut by cedar and this weird brown sugar note that only happened when she was spiraling.

A click echoed. The door opened.

The air changed.

The Alpha entered.

No fanfare. No words. Just the quiet swoosh of the studio door and the slow, humid, dangerous spread of their scent like a silk scarf dragged across skin.

She didn’t look up. Couldn’t. If she did, she'd start glowing like a magenta lantern and probably propose.

Instead, she barked into the mic, “Let’s take it from verse two, girls!” and hit the track with such desperate cheer she could feel her molars grinding.

HUNTR/X launched into “Iridescence” like their lives depended on it, which, if anyone else smelled what Rumi did, it absolutely did.

But she couldn’t focus.

Every time she sang, her voice trembled. Her harmony line slipped. Her scent bloomed uncontrolled—mint-flushed and sharp, tangled with longing and something unbearably warm. Her inner Omega, usually chained in rational disdain, was clawing at the walls of her ribs screaming mate mate MATE like a faulty car alarm.

The Alpha moved again—just a shadow behind the soundboard, glancing at levels, giving a small, approving nod.

And that. Was. It.

Her breath hitched.

She cracked.

“I need ten,” she blurted, ripping off her headphones like they were on fire.

Rumi bolted out the booth and into the hallway. Cold air slapped her face. Her braid swung like a tail.

What was wrong with her? She was trained. She’d fought demons without flinching. She’d rejected three soul-marks and a blood proposal from a royal lineage Alpha from Busan. And now she was sweating because some producer exhaled?

Behind her, the hallway lights dimmed slightly. Footsteps. That scent again.

Oh no.

They were coming.

Rumi flattened against the wall like a criminal.

This was fine. Totally. Fine.

She would not bond-beg. She would not nest. She would not—

Then she saw them. Finally.

Sharp jaw, slow steps, arms crossed in a casual flex. Every inch of them pulsing dominance like a jazz bassline. They glanced her way, just once, and her knees buckled with betrayal.

Her Omega instincts howled in glee.

Her pride screamed into a pillow.

She exhaled, held it, then—

“I swear, if you look at me like that again, I’m going to crawl inside a storage closet and mate the walls.”