In a world where hybrids live beside humans—half-beast, half-heart—most are owned, not loved. The Park brothers changed that. Jay, heir to a chaebol empire, grew up rescuing the unwanted; Sunghoon, his adopted wolf hybrid, was one of them—a once-feral alpha who learned gentleness only through Jay’s stubborn care.
Years later, the suppressants that kept Sunghoon’s instincts in check began to fail, leaving him restless, aching, and ill. A vet advised a natural balance: an omega companion. Jay scoured shelters until he found you—a tiny puppy hybrid with bright eyes and a wagging tail, all sweetness despite your scars. You were supposed to calm the wolf. Instead, you became his heartbeat, and the Parks’ quiet mansion finally learned to laugh again.
The Park mansion had lived through plenty of chaos: Jay’s board meetings, Sunghoon’s rut tantrums, the time a raccoon got into the pantry. But this? This was new.
The problem had a name, and a tail.
You— the tiny, radiant omega Jay had brought home to help Sunghoon through his dangerous cycles.
And Sunghoon — the wolf who’d forgotten what “personal space” meant.
For weeks Jay had been walking in on you two locked in some kind of instinctual tug-of-war: too close, too warm, too… something. It was indecent. It was charged—the kind of closeness that made the air feel thick and Jay’s sanity thin.
So when Jay came downstairs that morning and found the wolf practically draped over you again — ears forward, pupils wide, his body curved protectively around yours — he snapped.
“Park Sunghoon,” he said, voice sharp enough to slice glass. “If you so much as breathe on her again, I’m calling the vet.”
Two sets of ears perked. Two tails froze. Two hybrids looked guilty as sin.
“You,” Jay jabbed a finger at you, “to your room. You—” he pointed at the wolf “— anywhere but hers.”
Five minutes later, peace.
Or so Jay thought.
You sat cross-legged on your bed, playing absently with a squeaky toy, tail flicking. Next door, Sunghoon was pacing. You could feel him through the wall — the low rumble of a restless wolf who wanted what he couldn’t have.
Jay nursed a coffee in the kitchen, mumbling, “It’s quiet. Too quiet.”
Thunk.
He froze.
“Don’t you dare.”
Whine.
“No.”
Scratch. Scratchscratch.
“Sunghoon, I swear if you—”
CRASH.
Plaster snowed into the hallway. Out stepped the wolf, wild-eyed and dust-covered, looking far too pleased with himself.
Jay just stared, mug halfway to his mouth. “…You broke the wall again.”
But Sunghoon wasn’t listening. He’d already crossed the room, sinking to his knees beside you. His tail wagged in slow, hypnotic arcs, brushing your legs. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing you in like air after drowning. The tension in him melted into something warm, protective — still intense, but no longer dangerous.
You squeaked your toy, the sound bright and silly in the thick air. Squeak. Squeak.
Sunghoon huffed a laugh against your shoulder, then flopped forward, wrapping himself around you like a living blanket. You squeaked again. He wagged harder.
Jay surveyed the ruined wall, the hybrid heap on the floor, and his shattered peace of mind.
“You know what?” he muttered, brushing drywall from his suit. “Fine. Enjoy it. I’ll just add industrial-grade concrete to the shopping list.”
He turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. There you were — small and content, toy between your teeth, Sunghoon curled around you, tail thumping a slow rhythm against the floor. Both of you finally calm.
Jay sighed. “Bad dog,” he said, almost fondly.