The music in the club hammered against his chest, as if the city's heart were beating out its rhythm. Neon lights played across faces—cold, green-blue, like water reflecting lamp glare. The crowd moved in waves, and the smoke from hookahs carried the scents of pheromones, alcohol, and cheap perfume—all blending into one thick, hot aroma.
Do-yun stood at the counter, a stranger among his own people. He was back in his work uniform, but everything inside him felt off. His skin was hypersensitive, the air dense, and his breathing faltered, shallow and uneven.
He reached out the tray to the bartender, but his hand trembled.
— Tired? — Seung-ho asked, appearing beside him like a shadow. His voice was nearly swallowed by the music, but Do-yun still flinched—at the sound, at the proximity.
— It's just hot, — he replied, trying to sound steady.
Yoon leaned slightly closer, inhaling subtly, as if by accident, but his eyes darkened.
— Not just hot, — he said quietly.
— What?
— You smell different.
Do-yun stiffened; his shoulders froze instantly.
— Seung-ho, don't start. This isn't the place.
Yoon took a step back, but his smile was strained.
— I'm not starting anything. I'm just… curious about the new note in your scent. It's not your usual spring aroma. More… dense. — He paused, looking him in the eyes. — And unstable.
Do-yun looked away, cheeks burning.
— It's from cigarette smoke and cheap perfume.
— No, — Yoon said softly. — It's from you.
A heavy silence fell between them, even as the club roared around them. Do-yun gripped the tray, trying to focus on his work, but Seung-ho didn't leave. He stood close, observing how the skin beneath his collar was damp, how his breathing had become strained.
***
When the club closed, the neon lights died, and the hall resembled a shell after a storm—empty, quiet, the lingering smell of alcohol and pheromones thick in the air. Do-yun slowly removed his gloves, massaging his wrists. His head spun, the world tilted at an odd angle.
Seung-ho stood at the exit, arms crossed.
— Are you going home alone?
— What, have you become my driver? — Do-yun offered a tired smile. — I just don't want you passing out on the way.
Do-yun wanted to argue, but Yoon's gaze left no room. He only nodded, and they left together.
The apartment greeted them with thick silence. Do-yun took off his shirt, tossed it over the back of a chair, and walked into the kitchen. Yoon followed silently, eyes sharp and assessing.
— You're not eating, — he said. — For the second night in a row.
— I don't have an appetite.
— Then drink. — He poured a glass of water.
Do-yun sipped, but almost immediately set it down. A strange heaviness settled in his abdomen—not pain, not a spasm, just a dense, inexplicable weight. His hand unconsciously brushed over his lower stomach.
Yoon noticed.
— Does it hurt?
— No. Just exhaustion.
— It's not just exhaustion, — Yoon said quietly. — Your body is acting differently. I can feel it.
Do-yun froze.
— You feel everything, don't you?
— When it concerns you—I cannot afford not to.
Yoon stepped closer. Do-yun wanted to retreat but couldn't—his back pressed against the cold countertop. Yoon's hand lightly traced his neck.
— Breathe, — he whispered. — You're shaking.
The Alpha's pheromones slid through the air, soft and calming. Do-yun inhaled—and felt his own scent flare in response. Not the fresh spring aroma, but now a warm, honeyed note emerged, unfamiliar and rich, like a misplaced anchor.
Yoon frowned; concern clouded his eyes.
— Omegas in heat don't smell like that. People who are… — he cut himself off, unwilling to name it.
— Who are what? — Do-yun's voice trembled.
Yoon didn't answer. He lifted Do-yun's chin, forcing him to meet his gaze.
— Are you absolutely sure you feel physically normal?
— I told you—yes.
— Then explain why I sense this distortion.
Do-yun pushed him away.
— Enough, Seung-ho. You're acting like you're looking for a reason to provoke me!
— I'm trying to figure out what's threatening you!
— I'm fine!
He raised his voice, then swayed; his head spun, his vision dimmed. Yoon caught him, pressing him close.
— Easy.
Do-yun braced his hands against Yoon's chest.
— Let go…
— I can't, — Yoon replied quietly. — Your body says otherwise.
He leaned closer, inhaling again. The scent had truly changed—warm, deep, as if something inside Do-yun had been fundamentally rearranged. Yoon felt everything inside him clench—not jealousy, but the realization of irreversibility. This wasn't just a reaction. It was a trace.
He rested his forehead on Do-yun's shoulder, holding his breath.
— Whatever this is… you shouldn't ignore it.
Do-yun exhaled, eyes closed.
— I don't want to talk about it now.
Yoon pulled back, fingers still brushing his wrist, checking the pulse.
— Then at least don't hide. If something has fundamentally changed, I need to know.
Do-yun nodded without looking. Silence thickened, almost tangible.
Later, when Yoon left, Do-yun stood by the window, moonlight reflected in the glass. His hand unconsciously rested on his abdomen. The heaviness remained, but no pain followed.
It's my imagination, he told himself. Just exhaustion. Just stress. Yoon's looking for a problem where there is none.