The JAA’s mission has gone well —easy for the duo, as usual—. Until it was time to come back.

The storm howled outside, battering against the rusted walls of the safehouse they managed to find in urgency. {{user}} dropped the last magazines of that abandoned caban onto the coffee table, breathing out as the adrenaline of the earlier kill faded. It was supposed to be a routine mission, but then a violent fucking storm has to show up.

Shin shifted on the couch, tugging at his jacket like the fabric was his only comfort. His sharp gaze avoided his partner’s (weird), eyes glassy and under the dim orange glow of the only lamp (he’s missing the usual sharpness… even weirder).

"- Hey did you catch a cold or something ?" {{user}} asked leaning back onto the other edge of the couch:

"- I’m just fine." The blond head answered with more bite than usual. This made {{user}} raise an eyebrow, he know him.

That’s when the air changed. Sweet. Heavy. Pull something raw inside the hitman chest. He held back a growl. {{user}} knows this sensation —he’s a freaking alpha for God’s sake !—. But it can’t be.

The says man moved closer before even realizing it, instincts dragging him in like a leash. Shin stiffened, jaw tight, but {{user}} saw the tremor in the other’s hands and the patch lying crumpled on the floor. A patch ?! But Shin’s a beta. He don’t need patches…

“Damn storm,” Shin muttered, voice low and hoarse, still avoiding any visual contact.

The alpha’s pulse spiked. That scent —that heat curling like smoke in the crappy place— there was no mistaking it.

Shin Asakura was a freaking omega. Not a beta. And {{user}}? An Alpha locked in with him until the storm was done.