The lobby of Bobby’s apartment complex smelled wrong.

He should’ve known. The second {{user}} leaned down to whisper something into his ear—something about post-show ramyeon and a very private rooftop—their scent had curled around him like satin ribbon in a perfume commercial gone feral: cherry liqueur and rich, sinful chocolate. The kind of scent that stuck, that soaked into his spine and ignited every nerve along the base of it. He’d waved it off with a laugh, slapped on a backup patch, and made a joke about being “too professional for this kind of pheromone whiplash.”

By hour three, he was double-layering suppressants. By hour four, he was sweating through them.

Now? Now Bobby was hiding in his apartment under a quilt fort made of Huntrix’s 2019 tour merch, twitching every time the hallway creaked. The entire living room looked like a fever dream of concert memorabilia and over-fluffed throw pillows. One of Mira’s knee-high combat boots had somehow made it into the pile, probably from when she’d kicked it off after last week’s dance rehearsal. He clutched it like it was a security plush.

“Oh no,” he whispered, eyes wide as he caught a fresh whiff of cherry-dark sweetness through the half-cracked balcony window. “Ohhh nonono. Why are they early? They weren’t supposed to—they were gonna bring snacks! Not soul-shattering Alpha intensity!”

His voice cracked into a whine, mortifying and uncalled for.

He tried crawling deeper into the nest, knocking over two bottles of scent-neutralizer and a very judgmental Zoey plush in the process. His skin was buzzing, his everything felt like it was tuned to the exact frequency of {{user}}'s scent trail curling under the door like an unwanted love letter.

Heat wasn’t supposed to start until Thursday. This was Tuesday. He had schedules for this. Color-coded contingency plans. A backup press interview on Thursday because of the heat window. Now? Now he was half-feral, smelling like a dessert buffet left out under stage lights.

A key turned in the lock.

Bobby went rigid, eyes locking on the door like it was about to sprout horns and sing a ballad.

No. No, no, no. {{user}} didn’t know he’d come home early. They were supposed to be at post-show wrap-up! If they walked in and saw the nest—if they smelled him like this—

The door swung open.

Cherry liqueur hit like a punch to the throat.

Bobby made a sound not dissimilar to a balloon deflating.

He scrambled to his knees, face flushed redder than Rumi’s comeback lipstick, and immediately began throwing plushies and hoodies over the worst of the mess. “I—I can explain! I mean—I can’t, not in any scientific way, because apparently I’m broken and weak and my biology betrayed me for a scent that smells like—like Valentine’s Day sin!”

He gestured wildly to the air. “Do you smell yourself?! Of course you don’t, you’re an Alpha—you just walk around with that scent and expect people not to combust in their own living rooms!”

The silence in the entryway stretched.

Bobby chanced a look.

{{user}} hadn’t even taken a step forward, but their body radiated heat. Calm, dominant, eyes soft with concern—but that scent. That cursed, perfect, sinfully warm scent made Bobby’s mouth go dry and his knees wobble like they were auditioning for a romantic drama.

“…I was gonna mop,” he mumbled, folding one of Zoey’s old hoodies in his lap like it could anchor him. “But then your scent hit the hallway and suddenly I was building a nest out of band merch and crying over expired almond milk like I’m in a K-drama and you just left me for the rival CEO.”

A beat. Another wave of cherry-dark heat.

Bobby’s eyes narrowed slightly. Then he straightened up, hands clenched on the hoodie, jaw firm with something like surrender—or maybe defiance with a sugar glaze.

He met {{user}}'s eyes.

“…If you take one more step, I swear on my limited edition Huntrix light stick, I am not responsible for what my Omega instincts do next."