Archive of Our Own

Dohyeon had felt it coming for days—a restless hum under his skin, like a wire pulled too tight. At first, he thought it was just the usual stress. The season was in full swing, and every match felt like a battle. It made sense that he would be on edge, that the tension of constant pressure might wear him down. 

But they had finished their games for the day. They had even won. The sharp focus that usually lingered after a match, the replay of every near miss or mistake, should have settled by now.

Yet the unease stayed. 

It crept beneath his thoughts, made every sound feel like a jolt. The world around him felt slightly off—like a game with bad ping, moving too slow and too fast at the same time. His skin burned no matter what he did, his fists curled tight without him realizing, and every small noise scratched at his nerves. Geonwoo’s phone typing, Hwanjoong bouncing his knee, the constant hum of the air conditioning... none of it should have bothered him. But it did.

And Hyunjoon wasn’t here.

Exhaling, Dohyeon dragged a hand through his hair. He was in the waiting room at LoL Park, surrounded by his teammates, but their chatter barely registered. Everything blurred into a droning buzz of voices and clinks. The sharp clang of metal as Wangho twisted the cap on his water bottle sent a spike of irritation through him, tightening something at the back of his head. His patience was fraying, breath by breath.

He shifted in his seat, crossing his arms, shoulders stiff. His foot tapped restlessly against the floor in an uneven rhythm he couldn’t control. The question came out sharper than he intended:

“Where’s Hyunjoon?”

Wangho barely glanced up from his phone. “Went out for some air. He’ll be back soon.”

That should have been enough.

But it wasn’t.

Dohyeon’s chest felt tighter, anxiety coiling around his ribs. He was about to say something else, but then the door opened and Hyunjoon walked in—and Dohyeon’s brain stopped thinking logically.

The scent hit him first.

Warm, sweet, a honey-peach undertone he recognized too well. Normally, it calmed him, grounded him, settled into his lungs like second nature.

But now, there was something else laced through it. Something unfamiliar, something that didn’t belong to their pack.

Dohyeon’s jaw clenched, breath catching in his throat. A low growl rose unbidden from his chest, vibrating through him before he even registered the sound.

The scent wasn’t Hyunjoon’s alone. Another alpha had left their mark.

Jihoon.

Realization struck like a fist. Jihoon’s scent was woven into Hyunjoon’s clothes, clinging to his skin, almost like a taunt. Maybe it wasn’t intentional, but it hardly mattered. Dohyeon’s blood pounded in his ears, drowning out the room. He sensed rather than saw the shift in his teammates’ attention—Geonwoo cutting off mid-sentence, Hwanjoong freezing, Wangho looking up, eyes sharp. But Dohyeon couldn’t focus on them.

All he could feel was that scent and the fierce urge to do something about it.

He heard himself speak, his voice coming out low, every word too controlled. “Where were you?”

Hyunjoon blinked, seeming confused by the sudden change in tone. “I… ran into Siwoo-hyung and Jihoon. They were outside with the rest of their team. We talked for a bit. Why?”

Dohyeon barely processed it. The name Jihoon rattled around in his head, sparking a surge of unwanted jealousy, irritation, something darker.

Hyunjoon smelled like another alpha, and it wasn’t right. His own body felt too hot, muscles clenched, nails biting into his arms. Hyunjoon was part of their pack, not—

He sensed the tension in the room deepen as Hyunjoon shifted, picking up the hostility in Dohyeon’s stare. But Hyunjoon didn’t back away; if anything, he just seemed unsure, cautious, like he wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong. Which only made the coil in Dohyeon’s chest tighten further. Hyunjoon’s scent adjusted instinctively, a hint of uncertainty winding through his natural honey-peach, but that foreign smell lingered, refusing to let go.

“Dohyeon,” Wangho said, his voice firm, cutting through the thick air. A warning.

Dohyeon barely registered it. Something inside him snapped, a wave of alpha presence rolling off him, too big to contain. It filled the waiting room like a sudden storm, heavy and unrelenting, pressing against every inch of space. Conversations died, Geonwoo’s fingers stiffened around his phone, Hwanjoong went stock-still, and Wangho’s eyes narrowed.

Wangho stepped forward, positioning himself between Dohyeon and Hyunjoon, his stance cautious but unmoving. His gaze gave nothing away, but his scent shifted, calm yet resolute. This was Wangho standing as an omega refusing to yield.

“That’s enough,” he said quietly.

It shouldn’t have enraged Dohyeon further, but his instincts were already on a razor’s edge. The foreign scent on Hyunjoon was like a repeated taunt, a direct challenge.

He needed Hyunjoon to understand. Needed him to realize how wrong this was. The alpha in him roared, demanding a response, a submission, something—but he couldn’t push forward without going through Wangho.

In the split second that followed, Dohyeon noticed the subtle tremor in Wangho’s fingers, the measured inhale he took to steady himself. Even though he was holding firm, it cost him, and Dohyeon realized with a jolt that he was forcing one of his own packmates to stand against him.

That should have been enough to snap him out of it, but it wasn’t—until his gaze slid to Hyunjoon, who stood a few steps behind Wangho. Wide eyes, parted lips, looking at Dohyeon like he didn't recognize him. Hyunjoon wasn’t scared, not exactly, but he looked like he didn’t understand what Dohyeon was turning into.

Something in Dohyeon’s chest loosened all at once, like a string had been cut. The tension drained from his limbs, leaving him cold and hollow. His fingers slackened, no longer digging into his arms, and the fire in his head simmered into numbness.

That look on Hyunjoon’s face—that was what truly shattered him.

He took an unsteady step back, as if he wasn’t sure his legs would hold him. The pressure he’d unleashed began to fade, the oppressive aura lifting from the room. His breath came short, harsh, but he forced himself to keep it together. The burn of adrenaline still danced under his skin, but it felt muted now.

He tore his gaze away from Hyunjoon without speaking. Words felt impossible. If he opened his mouth, he wasn’t sure what would come out—rage, regret, something that sounded like an apology but wasn’t. So he said nothing.

Turning on his heel, he walked out, steps clipped and uneven. His lungs ached with every breath, and his pulse hammered in his ears. Behind him, the door slammed shut, the force rattling the walls, as if to echo the chaos he’d left behind.

The door slammed shut behind Dohyeon, and the echo reverberated through the waiting room like an aftershock. No one moved or spoke for a long time. The air still felt thick with an alpha’s unleashed dominance, like something raw and unsettled clung to the space he’d just vacated. It wasn’t only about Dohyeon’s scent but the lingering pressure of his presence, pressing against their ribs and refusing to let them breathe easily.

Hyunjoon exhaled a shaky breath, fingers curling tighter around the hem of his uniform. His heart pounded hard, but fear wasn’t what had him frozen in place. It was shock. He understood why Dohyeon had reacted like that—he wasn’t oblivious to the tension when Jihoon’s name came up, or the sharp edge in Dohyeon’s voice whenever the conversation hinted at another alpha. But this?

Dohyeon was always the calm one. The measured one. Even when he got frustrated or angry, he never lost control like that. Now Hyunjoon couldn’t shake the image of him standing there, every line of his body taut, eyes burning with a possessive intensity that made it look as if something was being taken away from him.

That thought clawed at the edges of Hyunjoon’s mind, but before he could process it, the silence finally broke.

“Well,” Wangho muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “That wasn’t how I expected this day to go.”

Hyunjoon forced himself to focus on the others. Geonwoo exhaled, rolling his shoulders before crossing his arms. “Dohyeon-hyung shouldn’t have done that,” he said, voice subdued. There was a flicker of uncertainty in his tone, like he was still trying to grasp what had happened.

Wangho sighed. “Yeah.”

Hwanjoong spoke up next, running a hand through his hair as if trying to settle his own nerves. “That was intense,” he mumbled, shifting his weight against the couch. “I mean, we all knew Dohyeon-hyung could be scary, but that? That was something else.”

Geonwoo’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t respond to Hwanjoong directly. Instead, his gaze flicked toward Hyunjoon, who still hadn’t moved from the couch. Then to Wangho, who was sitting unnaturally still, his hands curled faintly by his sides. Geonwoo’s expression said everything: the omegas were the ones who had to endure that surge of alpha dominance.

In the aftermath, Dohyeon could walk away and deal with himself, but the rest of them had been left behind, forced to shoulder that oppressive weight.

Geonwoo tightened his arms across his chest, then spoke, directing his question gently toward Hyunjoon. “Hyung… are you okay?”

The question hung in the air, and Hyunjoon realized he had barely taken a breath since Dohyeon left. His fingers were clenched so tightly around his uniform hem that the fabric pressed creases into his palms. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted, voice catching. He really didn’t. Everything felt jumbled, like his thoughts were tangling into a thousand knots he couldn’t untie.

His admission didn’t sit well with anyone. Wangho finally shifted, rubbing at his temples. The tremor in his hands had faded, but Hyunjoon hadn’t missed the way Wangho had stood between them and Dohyeon, pushing back against an alpha’s raw dominance with nothing more than his own will. It had obviously cost him, though he tried to hide it.

Hwanjoong frowned, his dark eyes scanning Wangho’s posture. “Hyung?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Wangho said, but the thinness in his tone suggested otherwise. Still, no one pushed him. Not yet.

Hwanjoong’s gaze slid back to Hyunjoon. “I don’t care if Dohyeon-hyung is in pre-rut or not. He scared you guys,” he said, an edge in his voice.

Hyunjoon couldn’t argue with that. Fear wasn’t exactly what he felt, but it had been close—some mix of shock, hurt, confusion. He pressed his lips together, unwilling to say out loud how rattled he truly was.

Wangho exhaled slowly. “He didn’t mean to, I think,” he murmured. “But that’s not really the point, is it?”

Geonwoo shook his head. “He still did it, whether he meant to or not.”

A heavy quiet fell over them again. Hyunjoon could feel the tension in the room—a tension that wasn’t just about Dohyeon losing control, but about what that loss of control meant for them as a pack.

Wangho broke the silence in a low, almost resigned voice. “The worst part is… he probably doesn’t even realize how bad it was.”

No one disagreed. It was so Dohyeon to shoulder everything alone, to react before thinking, and then leave without explaining how much had broken inside him. That ignorance, or denial, made it worse. Hyunjoon could picture Dohyeon somewhere else in the building right now, pacing, fuming, not understanding just how violently his presence had hammered against them.

Geonwoo let out a long breath, raking a hand through his hair. “He’s really losing it over Jihoon-hyung,” he muttered.

Hwanjoong nodded, leaning against the back of the couch. “I agree. The moment he smelled Jihoon-hyung on you”—his gaze flicked to Hyunjoon—“everything changed. We all saw it.”

Hyunjoon’s stomach twisted.

He hadn’t meant to carry Jihoon’s scent inside. It wasn’t like he’d sought him out to make Dohyeon upset. He had just… run into him, talked, maybe laughed a little. And somehow, it had set Dohyeon off.

Wangho’s voice was quieter now, as if trying to stay calm. “Dohyeon doesn’t usually react that badly. Even jealousy wouldn’t make him snap like that.”

Hwanjoong blew out a frustrated sigh. “But something did. He was beyond pissed off. He looked ready to start a fight.”

Geonwoo exhaled slowly. “He doesn’t lose it that often, or even at all, really.”

Wangho pressed his lips together, seeming to choose his words carefully. “If he’s in pre-rut, it’s hitting him harder than usual. He was off before, but this... it’s different. He might feel threatened, so everything’s magnified.”

Hyunjoon swallowed, forcing the next question out. “What do you mean, magnified?”

Wangho met his gaze evenly. “If this is what sets him off now, what happens if something bigger triggers him down the line? He’s not just jealous. He’s territorial.”

Hyunjoon’s pulse pounded in his ears. His brain reeled, trying to decide if he was supposed to feel guilty for existing near Jihoon. “I wasn’t trying to—” He cut himself off, breath shaky. It sounded lame even to his own ears. He shouldn’t have to apologize for talking to someone else. But the memory of Dohyeon’s eyes, blazing with something like betrayal, still made him feel sick.

Wangho sighed, gentler this time. “It doesn’t matter what you were or weren’t trying to do. He perceived it as a threat, and that’s all his instincts needed.”

Silence. And then Hwanjoong, in typical Hwanjoong fashion, addressed the elephant in the room. “So what? Every time another alpha gets close to Hyunjoon-hyung, Dohyeon’s gonna throw a fit? That’s not normal.”

Geonwoo shook his head. “No, it’s not.”

Wangho pressed his fingertips to his temple. “If we just let this go, who knows how bad it’ll get next time?”

Another silence settled over them. Tension coiled tight and uncomfortable, like a cord someone had forgotten to unplug. Hwanjoong inhaled slowly, then exhaled. “Guys, we’re spiraling. Everyone just... breathe. We can’t fix this right this second.”

He was right, but the reminder didn’t lessen the heaviness in the room. Geonwoo rolled his shoulders, looking grim. “We should let hyung cool off before we do anything else.”

Wangho nodded. “Confronting him now won’t help. Not in the state he’s in.”

Hyunjoon felt his grip on his uniform finally loosen a bit, though his heart still pounded uncomfortably. The memory of Dohyeon’s eyes lingered, the weight of that furious, near-feral gaze that was so unlike him. “I guess,” Hyunjoon mumbled, unsure.

“Once we’re back at the dorm, we can sit down and talk,” Wangho continued, voice calm again. “Sort this out when Dohyeon’s not about to explode.”

Geonwoo didn’t look entirely satisfied, but he didn’t argue, either. Hwanjoong rubbed a hand over his face, muttering something under his breath about Dohyeon punching walls, and Hyunjoon couldn’t muster the energy to respond. His head felt too full, his emotions jammed into a corner he wasn’t ready to confront.

He cast a glance at the door where Dohyeon had disappeared, his chest tightening one more time at the memory of how he’d looked. Like he didn’t recognize him.

That realization sat like a stone in Hyunjoon’s stomach. Because at the end of it all, despite the anger and tension, one thought kept echoing in his mind:

If Dohyeon can snap like that once, could it happen again? And would they survive if it did?

The tension in the dorm had reached an all-time high ever since Dohyeon’s pre-rut began. A simmering volcano—that was how Hyunjoon thought of him now. He was usually so collected, so measured, but something about this pre-rut turned him into an unstable force that seemed ready to erupt at any moment. Even Hwanjoong, who prided himself on teasing the older alpha relentlessly, had toned down his antics. Hyunjoon overheard him muttering something about needing “hazard pay,” and that just about summed up the mood in the team house.

After Dohyeon’s outburst in the waiting room, it felt like everyone was walking on eggshells. That one explosive moment in LoL Park lingered over them, reminding them how quickly things could spiral when an alpha was teetering on the edge. Any playful banter or easy conversation they’d usually share had fizzled out, replaced by a tense quiet that weighed down every room they entered.

And Dohyeon?

He was avoiding all of them. He’d gone from being their calm, steady head alpha to someone who barely acknowledged them outside of official practice. If he wasn’t shut in his room, he was gone before they could ask where he was going. Mealtimes had become the worst reminder of his absence—he no longer showed up, and no one really expected him to. One night they waited, food laid out, only for his plate to remain untouched and cold, a silent message that he wasn’t coming.

Since then, Hwanjoong had tried to break the ice—cracking a joke when someone spilled a drink, but it fell flat. Wangho glared, and Geonwoo’s silence only made the atmosphere heavier. Hyunjoon himself barely picked at his food, the uneasy quiet making his stomach twist. Nothing about this felt right.

Later that evening, Hyunjoon found himself sitting in the living room with Geonwoo. They were supposed to be reviewing VODs from their last match, but Hyunjoon’s focus kept drifting. The tension in the dorm pulsed like a heartbeat he couldn’t ignore.

“Is it always like this when Dohyeon’s in rut?” he asked softly, eyes flicking to Geonwoo.

Geonwoo nodded, uncharacteristically serious as he leaned back on the couch. “Pretty much. Last year was the same. Once he knows his rut’s coming, he starts pulling away.”

Hyunjoon frowned, running a hand over the worn texture of the couch. “But he’s usually so... controlled.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Geonwoo said, glancing at him. “He keeps everything bottled up. But when the rut hits, it amplifies all that stress he’s been ignoring. He becomes more intense and avoids us so he won’t snap.”

From across the room, Hwanjoong spoke up. He was sprawled on a beanbag, looking more deflated than usual. “‘Intense’ is putting it lightly,” he muttered. “I feel like I’m living in a pressure cooker. The guy’s glaring at everyone like we ran over his cat, and I’m afraid if I breathe wrong, it’ll set him off.”

Geonwoo shot him a brief look. “It’s not that bad,” he mumbled, though it sounded more like a weak defense than true disagreement.

“It is that bad,” Hwanjoong insisted, sitting up straighter. “He’s been walking around like a thundercloud. One wrong move and we’re all toast.”

Concern gnawed at Hyunjoon’s gut. He couldn’t shake the image of Dohyeon’s face in the waiting room—sharper and fiercer than he’d ever seen. “Shouldn’t we at least try talking to him?” he asked, voice tight with worry.

Wangho cut in from the corner of the room, his laptop resting on his knees. “It’s not our place,” he said, his voice calm but firm enough to make Hyunjoon hesitate. “Dohyeon is still our head alpha. He knows his limits better than we do.”

Hyunjoon’s lips pressed into a thin line. That didn’t feel like enough. Watching Dohyeon isolate himself couldn’t be healthy, not for him, not for the pack. “It just feels wrong to leave him like this,” he said quietly.

Wangho’s gaze softened a fraction, though his tone remained steady. “Sometimes giving someone space is the only way to help, Hyun-ah,” he said with a sigh. “We can’t risk making it worse by pushing him. Once his rut ends, we’ll figure it out.”

An uneasy silence followed. Hyunjoon knew Wangho had a point—Dohyeon’s rut wouldn’t last forever, and confronting him in this state could do more harm. But a knot of unease still twisted in his stomach. What if Dohyeon grew even more distant by the time his rut was over? No one else voiced that fear, and Hyunjoon couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

Across the room, Hwanjoong clicked his tongue, looking like he had more to say but deciding against it. The tense hush that settled over them felt like a physical presence. Geonwoo eventually turned his attention back to the replay on the screen, jaw tight. Wangho resumed scrolling through something on his laptop, expression grim.

Hyunjoon stayed there, perched on the edge of the couch, staring at the paused VOD. The clip on-screen showed Dohyeon making a flawless clutch play a few matches ago, calm and collected as ever. It felt like another lifetime now. He let out a slow breath, wishing there was some way to bridge the gap without lighting the fuse on Dohyeon’s frayed instincts.

But there wasn’t. Not yet, anyway.

So, he swallowed back the knot in his throat and settled for silent waiting, hoping against hope that once Dohyeon’s rut passed, they could mend this rift before it became too wide to cross.

The next evening, they all gathered in the living room at the request of their general manager. It felt like the air had grown heavier in the past twenty-four hours, pressing down on each of them with unspoken tension. Hyunjoon found himself seated on the couch with Wangho, but he wasn’t really comfortable. He kept glancing toward Dohyeon, who sat perched on the armrest, his arms folded tight over his chest, his gaze fixed on the floor. Even in his silence, Dohyeon’s presence seemed to command the room.

Hwanjoong was across the room on an armchair, shifting restlessly as if he couldn’t figure out what to do with his own limbs. Geonwoo leaned against the wall, his posture rigid, arms crossed in front of him. Hyunjoon didn’t miss the tension running through the rest of the pack—he wasn’t the only one on edge.

“Let’s get to the point,” the general manager said, his tone brisk. He stood at the center of the living room, gaze sweeping across them. “I caught wind that Dohyeon’s rut is on its way. It’s going to cause problems if we don’t handle this properly.”

Hwanjoong, predictably, was first to break the silence. “Handle it how, exactly? It’s not like we can just snap our fingers and make it go away.”

The manager’s eyes flicked to Dohyeon, who didn’t move or look up. Then he turned his focus back to the group. “This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. And the easiest way to deal with it is to have the alpha spend their rut with an omega.”

A hush fell over them, tension coiling so tight that Hyunjoon’s breath caught in his throat. His head snapped up, and his eyes found the manager’s in disbelief. Next to him, Wangho stiffened, and Hyunjoon could practically feel Geonwoo’s jaw clench from across the room. Even Hwanjoong, who never seemed at a loss for words, had no immediate comeback.

Dohyeon’s shoulders tensed. Though his arms remained crossed, Hyunjoon could see how tightly he was curling his fists against his own biceps. The weight of his alpha presence seemed to climb, pressing in on everyone like a warning.

Geonwoo spoke first, his voice low but firm. “That’s not happening.”

The manager didn’t seem fazed by the interruption. “But it’s our safest bet—”

“I’ve done it before,” Dohyeon said abruptly, his voice rough. The statement sent a ripple through the room, landing like a stone in water. Hyunjoon felt his own chest tighten, his grip on the hem of his hoodie going white-knuckled.

The manager, oblivious to the silent alarm passing among them, pressed on. “Then you know it works,” he said, turning back to Dohyeon with an expectant air. “It’s efficient. It ends the rut faster, regulates the alpha’s pheromones, and keeps the team functioning smoothly.”

“I know it works,” Dohyeon repeated, this time his tone sharper, colder. “But I’m not doing it.”

The manager frowned, but before he could argue, Wangho spoke up. His voice was calm, though there was an edge of concern to it. “Are you sure?” he asked, glancing Dohyeon’s way. “If it’s just about getting through the rut quicker—”

“It’s not just about that,” Dohyeon snapped, the frustration in his voice unmistakable. He ran a hand through his hair, tension evident in every line of his posture. For a brief moment, his gaze softened when it passed over Wangho, then hardened again. “I’m not comfortable with it. I’m not that kind of alpha anymore.”

Those words felt like a physical pressure, pressing down on Hyunjoon’s chest. He caught the fleeting look of understanding in Wangho’s eyes, and a flicker of something else—maybe relief, maybe regret. Meanwhile, Hwanjoong watched with wide eyes, his attention darting between Dohyeon and Hyunjoon as though trying to piece together what wasn’t being said.

Hyunjoon swallowed, finding his own voice. It came out quiet but unwavering. “Then that’s it, isn’t it?” He looked directly at the manager, hoping the man wouldn’t push any further. “If Dohyeon says no, it’s no.”

The manager’s eyes narrowed slightly, confusion crossing his features. Hyunjoon could tell he sensed something was off in the room—some undercurrent of tension that wasn’t only about an alpha’s rut. But he didn’t understand it, couldn’t place it.

“This isn’t just about Dohyeon, Hyunjoon,” the manager said, tone firm. “It’s about the team. You have an important game in a few days, and if Dohyeon’s rut interferes—”

“It won’t ,” Dohyeon cut in, standing abruptly. His alpha aura practically crackled in the air, making Hyunjoon’s pulse jump. Dohyeon’s voice was stone-cold, his stance rigid as he stared the manager down. “I’ll handle it.”

“How?” the manager challenged, crossing his arms. “You’re already struggling to hold it together. What happens when it gets worse?”

“I’ve handled it before,” Dohyeon repeated, his conviction steady despite the strain in his eyes. “I’ll isolate myself. But I’m not spending my rut with some random omega. That’s not happening.”

Across the room, Geonwoo straightened from his spot against the wall, letting his arms drop to his sides. “He’s right,” he said quietly, but his voice carried a definite note of conviction. “We don’t need someone from outside the pack.”

The manager sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “I’m not forcing anyone,” he said, tone edging toward tired frustration. “But this is about what’s best for the team. If Dohyeon can’t play—”

“Then we’ll figure it out,” Wangho interjected, his voice a calm contrast to the rising tension. He sat forward, meeting the manager’s gaze with a composed determination. “We’re used to adapting under pressure. Forcing Dohyeon to do something that goes against his will isn’t the answer.”

Hwanjoong let out a low whistle, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head. “You’re underestimating how stubborn he is, hyung-nim” he said, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “If Dohyeon-hyung says he’s got it, he’s got it.”

Hyunjoon caught Dohyeon’s eye, worry churning in his chest. He knew how close Dohyeon was to his breaking point, but at the same time, he also believed in him. “We’ll support him,” Hyunjoon said softly. “Whatever he needs.”

For a moment, Dohyeon’s stern expression flickered with something else—something grateful. The tension in his shoulders loosened, just a bit, as he dipped his head in a quiet acknowledgment. It felt like an unspoken thank you , and Hyunjoon’s heart felt a little lighter at the sight.

The manager, meanwhile, scanned their faces, clearly noting the unified front. His frustration was evident in the rigid set of his shoulders, but even he recognized that the pack’s stance was unwavering. Finally, he let out a sharp breath and gave a curt nod.

“Fine,” he said, voice clipped. “If that’s what you’re all set on, I won’t push. But you’d better be prepared for the consequences. If things get worse, and you need outside help, you’d better ask before it’s too late.”

His words hung ominously in the air. Hyunjoon could feel a chill run down his spine, the reality of the situation settling onto him like a weighted blanket. Dohyeon’s rut could get worse . He could spiral again. And if he did, what would they do?

No one said a word, and that silence seemed to be the manager’s cue to leave. He gave a final, pointed look at Dohyeon, then turned on his heel and stepped out, shutting the door behind him with a muted thud. No one moved. It felt like the tension hadn’t lessened in the slightest; if anything, it had settled deeper, coiling beneath their skin. They had stood united against the manager’s plan, yet every one of them knew this was far from over.

Dohyeon exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. Without sparing them a glance, he turned on his heel and walked out of the living room. A moment later, the sound of his bedroom door closing— not quite a slam but firm enough to leave no room for argument —echoed down the hall.

Hwanjoong let out another low whistle, flopping back onto the armchair. “Well,” he muttered, stretching his legs out, “that was fun.”

Geonwoo shot him an unamused look, and Wangho sighed, rubbing his temple. “That could’ve gone worse,” he said quietly, though the strain in his voice suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced.

Hyunjoon barely registered their comments. His attention was locked on the hallway where Dohyeon had disappeared. Only moments ago, he had seen the flicker of exhaustion on Dohyeon’s face—a weariness that couldn’t be hidden. The tightness in his shoulders, the way his fingers had curled so tightly, like he was barely holding himself together. Dohyeon had been fighting this rut, fighting his own instincts and pressures, and now he was completely alone with it.

Hyunjoon’s stomach twisted with worry. “He’s really not okay,” he said softly.

Geonwoo let out a measured breath, leaning against the wall, his own shoulders visibly tense. “He just needs time,” he offered.

Hyunjoon frowned, turning toward Wangho. “Is that really all we can do? Just… wait?”

Wangho hesitated, glancing toward the hallway that led to Dohyeon’s room. “If it were anyone else, I’d say no,” he admitted. “But Dohyeon’s different. He won’t take help unless he asks for it.”

Hyunjoon pressed his lips together, uneasy. He wanted to believe Dohyeon could handle this, but he wasn’t sure it was enough to just sit back and do nothing.

“He’s still our leader,” Geonwoo added, his voice quieter now. “And I trust Hyung when he says he’ll handle it.”

Hyunjoon exhaled slowly. Maybe . But for how long could Dohyeon keep it together without cracking under the weight?

Silence claimed the room again, and then Wangho stood, pushing his laptop aside. “We’ll check on him later,” he said, voice softer. “For now, let’s give him the space he needs.”

Hwanjoong groaned, throwing his arms up in an exaggerated gesture. “Great. So we just sit here and act like we’re not all on edge?”

Geonwoo ignored him, straightening from his spot against the wall. “I’m going to bed.”

That seemed to be the cue for the conversation to end. One by one, the pack members dispersed, leaving Hyunjoon still on the couch, staring blankly at the hallway, thinking about the fierce determination in Dohyeon’s eyes before he’d walked out. Eventually, Hyunjoon drew in a slow breath and pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the protests of his tired body.

He had no plan, no perfect solution, and no guarantee that Dohyeon would even let him in. But he knew one thing for sure: he was going to talk to Dohyeon—even if it killed him.

Hyunjoon hesitated outside Dohyeon’s door, his hand hovering just above the doorknob. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, half of him wanting to step away and leave Dohyeon alone, the other half insisting this couldn’t wait any longer. There was too much tension in the dorm. Too many unsaid words. Waiting wasn’t an option.

Finally, he rapped his knuckles softly against the wood. “Dohyeon?” he called, voice careful but steady. “Can I come in?”

For a long moment, no sound came from the other side. Long enough that Hyunjoon considered turning around, assuming he’d be ignored. Then, a gruff voice answered.

“Yeah. But don’t close the door.”

Hyunjoon blinked at the unusual request, but he obeyed. He slipped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar—an unspoken warning to stay back .

Inside, Dohyeon wasn’t on the bed like Hyunjoon had pictured. Instead, he stood near his desk, as far from the door as possible, arms crossed, jaw tight, posture screaming avoidance and distance. Every line of him was coiled, like he was holding himself in check by force alone.

“Hey,” Hyunjoon started, trying to keep his voice light but careful. “How are you feeling?”

Dohyeon flicked his eyes toward him, just for a second. “I’m fine,” he said flatly, gaze dropping to the floor almost immediately. The dismissal in his tone was palpable. “Why?”

Hyunjoon swallowed, his fingers curling around the hem of his hoodie. Dohyeon didn’t look fine at all. “I’ve been thinking about… what the manager said earlier. I could help you instead.”

The reaction was immediate. Dohyeon’s body went rigid, muscles locking so sharply that Hyunjoon felt the air shift. Before Hyunjoon could process it, Dohyeon’s gaze snapped up, pinning him in place.

“Hyunjoon,” Dohyeon said, voice low—almost guttural. It wasn’t anger exactly, but it was heavy with something else.

“If you’re about to suggest what I think you are—don’t.”

Hyunjoon exhaled, forcing himself to maintain composure, even though every cell in his body responded to the sudden shift in the atmosphere. Dohyeon’s scent had grown sharper, pressing around him in a hot, tense wave. It wasn’t the same territorial dominance as before, when he’d lashed out. This felt different—raw and instinctive, coiled tight under his skin.

“But—” Hyunjoon tried again, stepping forward on reflex.

“No.” Dohyeon’s voice cut through the thick air, a razor-sharp refusal.

Then Hyunjoon felt it: the shift . A pulsing wave of alpha pheromones, not just dominance but something else. Something warm and heady lurking beneath the tension.

Arousal.

It was faint, just a whisper, but it was unmistakable. Dohyeon’s alpha wanted this, even if Dohyeon himself refused to admit it.

Hyunjoon froze. His throat suddenly dry, his mind struggling to reconcile the push-pull of tension rolling off Dohyeon’s body. The friction in the air crackled like static. He wanted to breathe, to speak, but the pressure of Dohyeon’s scent curled around his lungs, making it hard to think.

Dohyeon dragged a hand through his hair, the motion tight and agitated. “I’m not doing that with you,” he muttered, each word sounding like it cost him. His voice rasped, strained by the urge beneath his skin.

Hyunjoon’s pulse hammered. “Why not?” he managed, voice subdued but unwavering. His fingers twitched at his sides as he fought the instinct to take another step closer. “I’ve done it before,” he went on, forcing himself to speak calmly, “I know what to expect. It’s not a big deal—”

The moment those words left his mouth, Dohyeon went still as stone. The air thickened again, pressing in on Hyunjoon until he could barely breathe.

Then a short, bitter laugh escaped Dohyeon’s lips.

“Not a big deal?”

Dohyeon lifted his head, and the look in his eyes was enough to make Hyunjoon’s heart stutter. Cold. Distant. Guarded. His fists tightened against his biceps, as though he was holding something in by sheer force of will.

“Yeah,” Dohyeon murmured, quieter but cutting. “Of course you’d think that.”

Hyunjoon’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. He’d only wanted to offer help, to ease Dohyeon’s rut. But now, seeing that flicker of pain in Dohyeon’s gaze, he realized how careless his words had been. Too casual. As though sharing a rut was just another chore to check off a list.

Dohyeon exhaled sharply, shaking his head. His scent shifted from frustrated to something darker, more weighted. A whisper of possessiveness seeped through, coiling around Hyunjoon’s senses until his body tensed all over again.

“Tell me, Hyunjoon,” Dohyeon said, voice measured but laced with quiet anger. “When you say you’ve done this before… you mean with Jihoon, right?”

Hyunjoon’s pulse jolted. He didn’t answer—couldn’t—but Dohyeon didn’t need a response. The silence spoke volumes. Hyunjoon’s fingers clenched around his hoodie, guilt gnawing at his stomach. He saw the tension in Dohyeon’s shoulders ratchet up another notch.

“Dohyeon—”

“You really thought I’d be okay with that, huh?” Dohyeon’s tone was quiet, almost too calm. That kind of calm that comes right before something breaks. “That I’d just be fine knowing you…” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. Then a soft, bitter scoff. “Knowing he did this with you first?”

Hyunjoon felt the weight of Dohyeon’s words like a punch to the chest. It was one thing for Dohyeon to be jealous, but the bitterness in his voice went deeper than that. It spoke of hurt. A sense of betrayal. Maybe fear.

“This isn’t about him,” Hyunjoon said quietly, summoning whatever steadiness he could.

“Of course it’s about him,” Dohyeon muttered, arms crossing even tighter. The sharp edge of anger seemed to waver, replaced by something heartbreakingly weary. “It’s always about him, isn’t it?”

Hyunjoon winced.

No. It wasn’t.

But he couldn’t deny that Jihoon’s name had been caught between them from the start, lurking in every silence, fueling Dohyeon’s resentment.

He noticed the flicker of hurt in Dohyeon’s eyes—pain that he couldn’t quite hide. Hyunjoon’s chest constricted, the ache behind his ribs intensifying. This was bigger than a rut, bigger than alpha dynamics. There was a fear in Dohyeon’s gaze, one that spoke of losing something he’d never been sure he could keep.

“This is about you ,” Hyunjoon insisted, stepping forward. He tried to infuse resolve into his words, even though his legs trembled. “Not Jihoon. Not anyone else. I’m talking about helping you .”

Dohyeon finally lifted his gaze, and for a split second, his guard dropped enough for Hyunjoon to catch a glimpse of raw emotion underneath—maybe longing, maybe fear. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared.

Hyunjoon took another step, determined not to let Dohyeon push him away. He needed him to understand he wasn’t just filling a void, wasn’t just offering out of pity or duty. But before he could close the distance, Dohyeon’s next word sliced through the air like a sharpened blade.

“Don’t.”

There was no anger in it this time, just unyielding finality. Hyunjoon froze mid-step, the warning in Dohyeon’s tone unmistakable. His posture was rigid, jaw locked, eyes shuttered. Everything in his body language commanded Hyunjoon to stay back. To not test the boundaries any further.

Hyunjoon swallowed hard, blood pounding through his veins as he watched Dohyeon exhale in a slow, uneven breath. His fingers dug into his own sleeves, a physical restraint to keep himself from doing something he’d regret. Hyunjoon could practically feel the tension radiating off him.

“You don’t get what you’re asking,” Dohyeon said, voice rough, fraying at the edges. “You think this is just about helping me with my rut?” He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “It’s not.”

Hyunjoon’s throat felt tight, but he refused to back down. “Then tell me,” he pressed, inching forward again, careful but insistent.

Dohyeon’s silence stretched between them like a chasm. The pounding of Hyunjoon’s heart filled the space, echoing in his ears.

Finally, Dohyeon spoke.

“You matter too much.”

Four simple words that shattered Hyunjoon’s defenses. His heart gave a painful lurch, like it couldn’t decide whether to soar or sink. Dohyeon still wouldn’t look at him, but the tension in his voice, the raw vulnerability beneath the frustration, was impossible to miss.

“Don’t you get it?” Dohyeon said, quieter now, voice trembling with pent-up emotion. “You’re not just anyone to me. I can’t risk hurting you like that. Especially when I'm in rut. I can’t lose you.”

The confession knocked the breath from Hyunjoon’s lungs. He stared at Dohyeon, a flood of realization crashing over him. This wasn’t about territory, or jealousy, or alpha pride. It was about fear—fear of losing something Dohyeon valued more than he knew how to handle.

Hyunjoon wanted to respond, wanted to reassure him that he wasn’t going anywhere, that they could figure this out. But before he could speak, Dohyeon’s voice cut through again.

“Get out.”

Hyunjoon’s stomach twisted. The flat, final command stole whatever words he might have said. He could see the tension in Dohyeon’s shoulders, the way his hands were balled into fists. His breathing was rough, each exhale labored. He wouldn’t even meet Hyunjoon’s eyes.

Hyunjoon hesitated, pain ricocheting through his chest. He desperately wanted to stay, to fix this. But Dohyeon had closed himself off so completely, it felt like every path forward ended in a wall. He couldn’t force Dohyeon to talk, couldn’t force him to accept help he wasn’t ready for.

“…Okay,” Hyunjoon whispered, voice barely audible.

He turned slowly and walked to the door, each step weighted with reluctance.

Just as his hand found the knob, Dohyeon’s voice came again, hoarse and quiet. “Close it behind you.”

Hyunjoon halted, his grip tightening on the doorknob until his knuckles ached. For a moment, he stood there, breathing unsteadily, wishing the floor would swallow him. Then, with a shaky exhale, he did as Dohyeon asked, clicking the door shut.

Out in the hallway, the air felt cooler, quieter—but not less oppressive. His heart still thudded painfully, his thoughts spun with images of Dohyeon’s tense posture, the look of raw hurt in his eyes. He pressed his back against the closed door, inhaling slowly as he tried to calm the storm inside him. No matter how much he tried, his heartbeat refused to slow.

Because, for the first time, Hyunjoon truly understood that this was about more than a rut or an alpha’s instincts. Dohyeon was afraid of losing him—and Hyunjoon was terrified of losing Dohyeon, too, even if he had never said it out loud. He had no idea how to bridge that gap, how to reassure a fear so deeply woven into Dohyeon’s heart.

All he knew was that he couldn’t stand by and watch him unravel alone. But for now, Dohyeon had closed himself off, and there was nothing Hyunjoon could do except stand here in the hallway, breath ragged, wishing things had gone differently.

Eventually, he pushed off the door, forcing himself to walk back to the living room. Behind him, Dohyeon stayed locked in his room—still fighting a battle with himself, with the fear that if he gave in, he’d lose more than he could afford.

Hyunjoon’s heart pounded, and he knew this fight was far from over. But for tonight, all he could do was step away and hope that by giving Dohyeon space, he might find a way to come back—without losing everything they’d built together.

The air in the dorm felt wrong—thick, stifling, pressing in from all sides as though even the walls were struggling to breathe.

Geonwoo noticed it first.

He and Hwanjoong had been in the living room, catching their breath after helping Wangho stock the heat room for Dohyeon’s impending rut. The two of them had spent the last hour collecting blankets, water bottles, protein bars—anything that might ease Dohyeon through the next few days. It was routine by now; they’d done it before and expected Dohyeon to stay tucked away until the worst hit.

But he didn’t.

At first, Geonwoo thought nothing of it. Dohyeon had only stepped into the kitchen for a glass of water, as if he’d decided he could still manage everyday tasks despite the tension simmering under his skin. But the moment he entered the room, everything shifted. Geonwoo felt it like a static charge through the air, prickling against his senses.

It wasn’t just the usual stiffness that sometimes settled over them after a disagreement or the lingering unease from whatever tension had brewed the night before. The difference was in the way Dohyeon moved—or rather, the way he couldn’t stay still. Each of his steps felt overly deliberate, yet undeniably uneasy, as though he was treading a narrow path that could drop away at any second. His shoulders were rigid, locked in place, as though any movement might send him spiraling out of control. His breaths came evenly, but too evenly, like he was forcing himself to maintain composure when every instinct in his body was screaming otherwise.

Then came the scent.

Sharp and heavy, it crashed over them in an instant—a dense wave of heat, thick with something raw and barely restrained. It clung to the walls, seeped into the corners of the dorm, winding around Geonwoo’s lungs until he had to fight the urge to cough.

And just like that, pretending not to notice was impossible.

Hwanjoong was the first to give voice to what Geonwoo felt. “Shit,” he whispered, voice almost inaudible. His phone slipped from his hand, forgotten as he stood, gaze snapping to Dohyeon. The usual playful smirk was gone, replaced by a cold edge of concern.

Dohyeon was struggling —that much was immediately clear. He gripped the back of a chair, fingers digging so hard into the wood that it groaned under the pressure. His other hand hung by his side, clenched into a trembling fist, shoulders drawn tight as a bowstring. His head dipped forward, breath stuttering in sharp, uneven intervals.

The scent only intensified, rolling off him in powerful waves, like an unstoppable force. As a fellow alpha, Geonwoo knew what that meant. This was no subtle sign that the rut was coming. It was here, hitting him like a freight train, and Dohyeon was losing control.

“Hyung,” Geonwoo called softly, stepping forward despite the instinctive chill skittering down his spine. “Are you okay?”

Dohyeon let out a ragged exhale, jaw locked so tightly that it looked painful. His entire frame seemed to tremble with the effort of containing his instincts. “Yeah,” he managed, voice scraping out in a low rasp. Then, after a beat, in a softer tone, “No.”

The air shifted again, a second pressure wave slamming into the living room like a violent change in gravity. Geonwoo barely steadied himself in time. Dohyeon’s alpha presence wasn’t controlled anymore; it was raw and unrestrained, something primal that vibrated against Geonwoo’s nerves. Hwanjoong’s shaky breath rattled beside him. “Where’s Wangho-hyung?” he muttered, eyes darting toward the hallway.

But they had no time to call for backup.

Dohyeon swayed , his knees buckling for half a heartbeat. He sucked in a sharp, ragged breath—like he couldn’t even draw air without agony. The tremors in his body worsened, and Geonwoo realized with abrupt clarity that they had to move now , before something worse happened.

A guttural growl ripped through the room, raw and animalistic. Geonwoo moved on instinct, closing the distance in one swift lunge. “Shit,” he muttered, grabbing Dohyeon’s arms before he could hit the floor. “Hyung—look at me!”

Dohyeon’s head snapped up, pupils dilated, breath coming in short, strained bursts. “Get—me—out,” he choked, each word barely forcing its way past his clenched teeth.

Geonwoo’s heart pounded, adrenaline cutting through him like a knife. No hesitation. No second-guessing. “Hwanjoong, help me!” he barked, tightening his grip on Dohyeon’s arm.

Hwanjoong darted forward, slipping under Dohyeon’s other arm. Between the two of them, they hauled him upright, bracing him against their shoulders as they steered him toward the heat room. Dohyeon was heavy, burning hot, body stiff with tension—like every muscle was knotted, fighting some internal battle he couldn’t hope to win without help.

His breathing turned shallow, rasping in his chest. They needed to lock him away as fast as possible, before his instincts broke free. Before he could lash out or collapse under the rut’s crushing weight.

Then, just as they were nearing the hallway, Dohyeon stopped. His entire body went rigid. Pressed so close, Geonwoo felt the sudden shift, sensed the way Dohyeon’s muscles locked as though he’d been electrified. A breath caught in Dohyeon’s throat, and his head jerked toward the far corridor.

Geonwoo didn’t even need to see to know what happened. He recognized the primal alert in Dohyeon’s stance.

He had smelled someone.

Or rather—Hyunjoon.

Geonwoo’s stomach dropped. The one person who could either soothe Dohyeon or set him off like a fuse, depending on which instinct took the lead. Cursing softly under his breath, Geonwoo risked a quick glance, confirming it was indeed Hyunjoon standing in the hall, eyes wide with concern.

Of course. Of course it had to be Hyunjoon.

“Hang on,” Geonwoo whispered, forcing Dohyeon to keep moving. But in the back of his mind, dread coiled, because he knew this might be just the beginning. Dohyeon was in full rut mode now, and if Hyunjoon’s presence added fuel to the fire, everything could spiral even faster than they anticipated.

They needed to get him into the heat room, shut him away, let him ride it out safely. Because if they didn’t, nobody in this dorm would walk away unscathed.

Hyunjoon wasn’t sure what pulled him out of his room. Maybe it was the low rumble of voices coming through the dorm walls, just loud enough to make him wonder if something was off. Maybe it was the way the air felt—heavy, pressing against his skin with a weight that settled like a quiet warning in his stomach. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

Maybe it was him.

Even before he stepped out, he sensed it. An unease coiled at the edges of his mind, subtle but insistent, growing tighter with every breath. Something in the dorm had shifted . It wasn’t obvious at first, but the longer he stood there, the heavier it became, until the air felt dense and stifling, thick with something unseen yet impossible to ignore.

Then he heard it.

A curse—sharp, muffled, urgent.

Followed by the thud of rushed footsteps, uneven and heavy.

And then Geonwoo’s voice, tense and tight. “Almost there, hyung, just hold on—”

Hyunjoon’s grip on the doorknob tightened. Something was definitely wrong. Instinct propelled him forward, his heart pounding a little faster, an unsteady drumbeat in his chest.

He stepped into the hallway, not even realizing he was holding his breath. In an instant, it felt like everything stopped. The voices. The shuffling of feet. Even the thick sense of movement he’d felt moments ago. The dorm felt frozen, like someone had paused time, leaving them all in a moment so fragile that the slightest movement might shatter it.

Then he locked eyes with Dohyeon.

Hyunjoon hadn’t even crossed the threshold into the living room—he was still practically in the hallway. But it didn’t matter. The second he appeared, Dohyeon saw him. There was something in Dohyeon’s stare that set off every alarm in Hyunjoon’s mind. He inhaled sharply, feeling his breath catch. Something was definitely wrong.

Dohyeon wasn’t just looking at him—he was staring. His pupils were blown wide, nearly devouring the brown of his irises. His chest rose and fell in harsh, uneven gasps, sweat gleaming on his skin as waves of heat radiated off him. He looked feverish, unstable, like he was barely keeping himself upright. His hands gripped Geonwoo and Hwanjoong’s arms in a vise, but it was clear he wasn’t seeing them anymore.

He was seeing Hyunjoon .

The silence in the dorm turned suffocating, pressing in from every side, until a sudden snarl tore through the air, visceral and raw. Hyunjoon felt every muscle in his body lock up, the instinctual urge to run warring with the need to help. His mind reeled, and then he realized:

It was his scent.

That was what froze Dohyeon in place. Hyunjoon wasn’t doing anything , he was just there . But the whiff of his presence was enough to arrest Dohyeon’s motion entirely. The tension in Dohyeon’s face twisted into something pained, his fingers digging so hard into Geonwoo’s arm that it had to hurt. His entire frame trembled, not just from strain but from holding back .

Hyunjoon’s stomach twisted. He’d seen Dohyeon angry before—seen the tight set of his jaw after a tough match, the sharp frustration in his eyes when things went wrong. He’d seen him reckless, pushing limits like he had something to prove. But this was… different.

Dohyeon didn’t let people see his limits. He didn’t falter, didn’t show exhaustion, didn’t let frustration slip any deeper than a scowl or a short remark. Whenever he struggled, he locked it away, hidden where no one could reach. Hyunjoon had never seen him drained, never seen him buckle under a force he couldn’t control.

Yet right now, he looked like he was unraveling —like he was inches away from breaking apart.

“Dohyeon—” The name slipped out before he could think, panic lacing his voice as his body moved on autopilot, stepping forward.

“Stay back, hyung!”

The command cracked the tension like a whip, so sharp it made Hyunjoon flinch. Geonwoo’s voice, raw and urgent, left no room for argument.

Dohyeon let out a strangled sound, something stuck between a growl and a whimper. The noise froze Hyunjoon’s blood. He couldn’t remember the last time Dohyeon had ever made a sound like that. Even through the toughest losses, through anger and disappointment, Dohyeon remained controlled. But now? That sound—it was pure torment, a raw edge of pain and need that speared straight through Hyunjoon’s chest.

He felt something press against his ribs, something unbearably hot and heavy. It tightened around his lungs, making it impossible to breathe right. The urge to rush forward, to do anything to help, overwhelmed him. He couldn’t just stand there. He couldn’t just watch Dohyeon suffer.

But his feet stayed rooted in place, dread spreading through every nerve. If he stepped any closer, would it help? Or would it push Dohyeon’s instincts over the edge?

Hwanjoong, his own face pale, shot Hyunjoon a wide-eyed look that said, Don’t move. And Hyunjoon forced himself to lock his knees, fighting the instinct to close the distance. He wanted to reach out, to anchor Dohyeon the way the alpha had always anchored them. But fear choked him. Fear of making it worse.

He hated this—hated the helplessness, the way Dohyeon’s agony carved its way into his own bones. But there was no time to think, no time to act. Geonwoo and Hwanjoong were already dragging Dohyeon down the hall, staggering under his weight. Dohyeon’s breathing was ragged, shallow, and he looked like he was seconds away from collapsing altogether.

A fresh wave of heat rolled off him, the oppressive weight of his rut filling the corridor like a smothering fog. Hyunjoon swallowed hard, chest tight, as he realized he was still holding his breath. It took conscious effort to exhale, to let air back into his lungs as he watched them wrestle Dohyeon into the heat room.

A distant part of him knew he should follow at a safe distance, or at least stand by in case he was needed. But he couldn’t move. His limbs felt like lead, locked in place by the memory of that strangled sound on Dohyeon’s lips. He could hear Geonwoo and Hwanjoong’s urgent whispers, the echo of Dohyeon’s labored breathing, but it all blurred together in a sickening loop.

Before he knew it, the door to the heat room slammed shut, muffling the chaos behind it. The silence that followed was suffocating, like the dorm itself had drawn in a shuddering breath and couldn’t release it. Hyunjoon stood there, heart hammering, trying to process what he’d just witnessed.

Trembling hands rose to Hyunjoon’s face, pressing against his cheeks, trying to steady himself. His chest still burned with that phantom weight, the need to help colliding with the warning that he might only make it worse. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing a choked breath, half-expecting to hear Dohyeon’s growl slice through the dorm walls again.

But the corridor remained silent. No more pounding steps, no strangled cries. Just a tense hush that filled Hyunjoon with dread.

Dohyeon was suffering. And Hyunjoon had no idea how to fix it.

The heat room door was shut.

Locked.

Hyunjoon stood near the hallway, breath coming in shallow bursts, his pulse hammering against his ribs as though it were trying to break free. The adrenaline from earlier still coursed through his veins, leaving him tense and on edge, bracing for an impact that might never come. The walls felt closer than usual, and the air was heavier—pressing in from all directions.

Geonwoo and Hwanjoong had already left, both of them exhausted after hauling Dohyeon into the heat room. They’d exchanged only a few glances before stepping away, their silence an acknowledgement that, for now, nothing else was in their control. They’d done their part.

Now, it was just Hyunjoon and Wangho.

Wangho stood by the living room entrance, staring at his phone with a razor-sharp focus that made Hyunjoon’s heart twist. Every motion of his thumb over the screen was deliberate, like he was fighting an internal battle with each tap. His shoulders looked too stiff, his jaw clenched so tightly it had to be painful.

Something cold settled in Hyunjoon’s stomach when he realized which contact Wangho’s thumb hovered over. The manager’s name.

Hyunjoon swallowed, his mouth dry. “Hyung,” he said carefully, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

Wangho didn’t look up. His gaze stayed fixed on his phone, his expression rigid. “We need to call the manager,” he said, his words clipped and final.

Hyunjoon’s stomach twisted harder. His hands curled into the sleeves of his hoodie, trying to anchor himself. “No, we don’t,” he managed, voice firmer than he felt.

That made Wangho pause. Finally, he raised his head and looked at Hyunjoon. The intensity in his eyes nearly made Hyunjoon’s breath catch—it was clear he was terrified , strung too tight, barely holding it together.

“Hyunjoon,” he said, his voice controlled and deliberate. There was an edge to it, a warning. “You saw what happened back there. Dohyeon is in rut—unstable. We have to let the team know so they can handle it.”

“No.”

Hyunjoon surprised even himself with the conviction in his tone. His heart pounded harder, but his feet were already moving, carrying him closer to Wangho. It felt like something inside him was pushing forward, no matter how much his brain screamed to slow down.

“You have to trust me,” he said, the words spilling out before he fully processed them.

Wangho stayed rooted to the spot. An emotion flickered in his eyes, fear , before he schooled his features back into that stoic mask. His fingers clenched around his phone. His chest heaved once with a restrained inhale.

“Trust you?” he repeated slowly, emphasizing the words as though they might hold a hidden meaning. His breathing grew tighter, sharper. “Hyunjoon—”

“You have to,” Hyunjoon insisted, cutting him off. He swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing his voice to stay steady even though his hands were shaking. “I can help him.”

Wangho’s entire body tensed at that. It was like he’d been hit with something physical—his spine straightened, his gaze locking onto Hyunjoon’s face. The air between them felt taut, humming with unspoken tension.

“No,” Wangho said immediately, his voice unyielding, leaving no room for argument. “You can’t . ”

“Yes, I can,” Hyunjoon pressed, stepping closer. He could practically taste the tension in the air, thick and sour. “Please, hyung. You have to let me try.”

Wangho sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes flicking to the hallway that led to the heat room. Hyunjoon saw realization settle on his features, along with the dread that came with it. He already knew what Hyunjoon intended to do, and it was clear he couldn’t accept it.

“Hyunjoon,” Wangho said again, his voice faltering. It wasn’t commanding now—it was almost shaky.

That was all the opening Hyunjoon needed.

“He won’t hurt me,” Hyunjoon said, voice quiet but unwavering. Those four words resonated through him like a mantra. He had no idea if it was true, not for certain—but he believed in Dohyeon more than he feared his alpha.

A heartbeat of silence.

Then Hyunjoon moved.

Fast.

Too fast for Wangho to stop him.

He darted around the older omega, heart pounding in his throat, adrenaline roaring in his ears. By the time Wangho realized what was happening—by the time his instincts screamed at him to stop Hyunjoon—it was already too late.

Hyunjoon’s hand closed on the heat room doorknob.

He twisted it—pushed inside.

And with a decisive click, the lock fell into place behind him.

Wangho had told himself he was prepared for anything. When Dohyeon’s rut started hitting harder than usual, he’d gone through the routine—extra blankets, water, high-calorie snacks—making sure the heat room was stocked. He’d known it might get chaotic, but he’d never expected this.

Not Hyunjoon marching straight into the heat room and locking the door behind him.

The moment it happened, a decisive click echoing in the hall, Wangho felt his heart drop. For one long second, he froze—unable to make sense of the fact that Hyunjoon had just sealed himself in there with Dohyeon, an alpha in rut. Then the realization hit like a punch to the gut.

“HYUNJOON!”

He lunged for the door, slamming his hands against it so hard the impact jarred his wrists. But he barely felt the pain. His fingers fumbled for the knob, yanking and twisting in a desperate attempt to open it. Nothing. The lock held firm.

“Hyunjoon, open the door!” he shouted, voice sounding raw in his own ears. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shouted like that— pleading rather than commanding. “Right now!”

No answer. Pressing his ear to the wood, he caught only a faint shuffle—someone’s ragged breathing, though whether it was Hyunjoon or Dohyeon, he couldn’t tell. His stomach twisted painfully at the thought that Dohyeon, already on the edge, might lose control. If anything happened to Hyunjoon...

“No, no, no—Hyunjoon, get out! Get out now!”

Still no response. The heat room was built to contain omegas in heat and alphas in rut, soundproof and unyielding. Exactly the kind of space Hyunjoon had no business being locked inside.

Wangho’s head spun with worst-case scenarios. Dohyeon was beyond unstable—his body overheated, instincts razor-sharp, rational thought slipping with every second. If he hurt Hyunjoon, even by mistake...

A surge of nausea swept him. With trembling hands, he yanked out his phone, mind screaming at him to do something. Call the manager? That was the responsible protocol. Get outside help, have them forcibly subdue Dohyeon if necessary. But as he scrolled to the manager’s contact, his thumb hovered, unwilling to make the call.

Hyunjoon had insisted: Trust me.

Wangho’s grip tightened on the phone, knuckles going white. How could he trust this?

The sound of rushed footsteps jerked him from his indecision. He spun around just as Geonwoo and Hwanjoong appeared, wide-eyed, breathing heavily.

“What happened?” Hwanjoong asked, voice nearly cracking.

Wangho forced the words out through a throat gone dry. “Hyunjoon… went inside.” Even saying it felt surreal. He’d let Hyunjoon slip right by him with that determined look. I should have stopped him...

Geonwoo’s expression hardened instantly. Without asking for more details, he lunged at the door, kicking it so hard the frame rattled. “What?!” he roared. “Are you kidding me?! What the hell was he thinking?!”

Hwanjoong, pale-faced, turned to Wangho in confusion. “He went inside? You mean… with Dohyeon-hyung ?”

Wangho swallowed, the burn in his lungs reminding him he’d forgotten to breathe properly. “He said… he said I should trust him.” The words felt hollow the moment they left his lips. Trust him, as if any of this was remotely safe.

Before anyone could respond, a guttural snarl tore through the hall, freezing them all in place. The hair on Wangho’s arms stood on end. Another crash followed—something heavy smashing against a wall or toppling over. His brain conjured images of Hyunjoon pinned, cornered, at Dohyeon’s mercy.

“Hyunjoon!” he and Geonwoo yelled in unison, panicked. Another dull thud echoed, then a scraping noise that made Wangho’s stomach lurch. He could almost taste Dohyeon’s alpha pheromones leaking under the door, thick and oppressive even out here.

Geonwoo hissed a curse, stumbling back from the door, fists balled. “We have to get him out of there,” he said, turning frantically to Wangho. His gaze was wild, fear warring with frustration.

Wangho planted both palms on the door, chest heaving. “I know,” he whispered, voice tight. But how? If they forced the door, it might push Dohyeon over the edge. If they called in outside help, Hyunjoon’s plan—whatever it was—would be ruined. What if Hyunjoon was actually handling it? The question felt absurd, but he clung to any thread of hope.

The moment Hyunjoon locked the door behind him, the air pressed against him with a suffocating intensity. It filled his lungs with something too heavy to expel, each breath a struggle in a room already thick with heat. But it wasn’t just the temperature that made it so unrelenting.

It was him.

Dohyeon.

Heat poured off his body in massive waves, turning a merely stuffy room into something closer to an inferno. He was hunched low on the floor, knees digging into tile, his arms braced in front of him as if his body could no longer support its own weight. Muscles shook under the strain of self-restraint, sweat dripping from his temples. His fingers had curled into tight fists that pressed hard enough into the tile to crack it.

Hyunjoon took a slow, cautious step forward. Every part of him screamed to be careful, but he couldn’t stop. “Dohyeon,” he called softly.

No response.

From the other side of the door came a flurry of noise—fists pounding on wood, urgent shouts. Geonwoo’s voice, sharp with anger and frayed with panic, tore through the thick air: “Hyung! Open it!” But Hyunjoon barely registered it. His entire focus was on Dohyeon.

He inhaled, steadying himself. His inhibitors were still fresh in his system, dulling some of his senses, but even they couldn’t mask the sheer potency of Dohyeon’s rut-scent now. It coated the walls, filled his lungs, wrapped around his skin like a living thing he couldn’t peel away.

It was strong. Too strong.

An intoxicating edge of an alpha deep in rut, layered with something raw, something… wrong .

Hyunjoon’s chest tightened in sympathy. He took another small step forward, voice trembling between concern and calm. “Dohyeon, I’m here,” he said, softly but clearly.

A sharp inhale. Dohyeon’s entire body twitched, jerking up violently, fingers pressing deeper into the floor. H e slowly lifted his head—and Hyunjoon’s breath caught.

Dohyeon’s pupils were blown wide, swallowing most of his irises. His breathing came in deep, ragged gasps, like his lungs no longer worked smoothly. His hands, half-formed into claws, trembled from the force of holding back. He looked both feverish and dazed, as though he was on the brink of collapsing under instincts he couldn’t quell.

“It’s okay,” Hyunjoon whispered, stepping closer with careful deliberation. He tried to sound gentle, reassuring. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Dohyeon shuddered . His lips parted slightly, and for just a sliver of a moment—a fleeting heartbeat—Hyunjoon swore he saw a flicker of recognition. A spark of the old Dohyeon underneath the haze, seeing him .

Then came a growl—low, deep, and unrestrained.

Hyunjoon froze, not out of fear for himself but from sheer awareness of how raw that sound was. It rumbled through the heated space like a warning, vibrating in the air between them. Still, he forced himself to keep calm, though adrenaline spiked in his veins.

“It’s okay,” he repeated, voice gentler now, more like a reassurance.

Another growl.

This time, Hyunjoon felt it was more than a mere sound. It was a threat. And then Dohyeon moved—swiftly, too fast for Hyunjoon to even register. Before he could react, before he could breathe , he was shoved backward.

His back hit the wall with a force that rattled his entire body, the impact knocking air from his lungs. Dohyeon loomed over him, hands fisting into Hyunjoon’s shirt, weight pinning him mercilessly against the cold surface. The heat radiating off Dohyeon was unbearable, like standing too close to a blazing furnace.

And yet, Hyunjoon wasn’t afraid. Not of Dohyeon himself.

“Dohyeon—” he started.

Dohyeon’s head dipped, his nose brushing against the vulnerable spot of Hyunjoon’s throat. Hyunjoon’s chest constricted with instant awareness: he was scenting him.

Danger flickered through Hyunjoon’s nerves, but he refused to resist. Dohyeon was hurting, instincts razor-sharp. Hyunjoon wanted him to feel safe, wanted to give him even the smallest sense of solace. So he let him.

“I’ve got you,” Hyunjoon murmured, voice steady despite the frantic hammer of his heart. He pressed his hands lightly to Dohyeon’s shoulders, hoping the minimal contact might reassure him that he wasn' t alone.

Dohyeon exhaled shakily, a tiny bit of tension slipping out of his grip. For a brief, fragile moment, Hyunjoon believed it might be working. The worst of the tension in Dohyeon’s shoulders seemed to ebb, though his body still burned hot and trembled with exertion.

For that single heartbeat, Hyunjoon felt hope. Maybe his presence was enough. Maybe Dohyeon could ride this out with him, no violence, no forced submission.

Then Dohyeon’s fingers clenched around Hyunjoon’s waist—hard.

Hyunjoon’s stomach dropped. A second ago, Dohyeon’s hold had been barely-there, almost accepting of Hyunjoon’s attempt to soothe him. Now it became vice-like, digging into muscle with too much force.

The air shifted once more, like the room’s temperature jumped. Dohyeon’s breathing turned coarse, uneven, ragged. The tension that had briefly waned came roaring back, his body settling heavily against Hyunjoon with a sense of claiming , not comfort .

Then Dohyeon spoke—a word that carried the finality of a thunderclap.

“Mine.”

Hyunjoon’s blood ran cold, because the certainty in that word wasn’t Dohyeon. Not the Dohyeon he knew. It was his rut talking, pushing through in a near-feral growl.

And Hyunjoon realized, with stark clarity; if Dohyeon bit him now—if he claimed him—it would be irreversible . No going back. A biological bond neither of them had consciously chosen.

Deep in his rut, Dohyeon wasn’t himself anymore. He saw Hyunjoon only as an omega, not as the friend or teammate Hyunjoon had always been. This was the exact nightmare Dohyeon had wanted to avoid. He had warned Hyunjoon that there were limits he couldn’t overcome with sheer will.

And Hyunjoon finally understood.

Dohyeon had been right: this wasn’t something Hyunjoon could simply fix with presence alone.

Worse, it wasn’t even something Dohyeon wanted. He was fighting against it, clawing at the tatters of his restraint, and losing.

Dohyeon’s grip on Hyunjoon’s waist tightened further, body too hot, breath too rough. Hyunjoon felt the alpha’s labored gasps brush against his ear, the sweat-soaked fabric of Dohyeon’s shirt pressed against his chest. Then he felt it—Dohyeon’s teeth lightly grazing Hyunjoon’s scent gland at his neck.

Not a bite.

Not yet.

But too close.

Hyunjoon’s pulse hammered wildly. Every part of him wanted to run— move —but another part, the omega in him, responded to Dohyeon’s raw dominance.

It would be so easy to give in, to let Dohyeon claim him, mark him.

Stop thinking, stop fighting.

But Hyunjoon was scared.

Not of Dohyeon—but of what this would mean.

They hadn’t sorted out what they were to each other. Dohyeon wasn’t even himself right now. Not like this.

Hyunjoon’s body screamed at him to break away, but he didn’t. Because beneath the suffocating heat, beneath the brutal weight of Dohyeon’s rut, Hyunjoon felt him fighting. Every muscle in Dohyeon’s body trembled with the force of not biting down, not taking what his instincts demanded. It was ripping him apart.

His hands trembled against Hyunjoon’s skin, shoulders shaking violently. Each breath was choked, pained. Hyunjoon could have sobbed at the sight—Dohyeon was killing himself not to hurt him.

“Dohyeon,” Hyunjoon whispered, voice shaky. “Please—”

He pressed his hands against Dohyeon’s chest, feeling the frantic drumming of his heart beneath sweat-soaked fabric. “Please—”

A sharp, pained sound tore from Dohyeon’s throat—no longer a growl, but something cracked open, raw and miserable. In a flash, he jerked back. The sudden loss of weight left Hyunjoon gasping, arms reflexively still half-raised.

And that’s when Hyunjoon saw it.

Blood.

At first, his mind refused to parse the scene. Then the horror clicked into place. Dohyeon had bitten himself, not Hyunjoon—teeth sinking deep enough into his own forearm that blood stained his skin. Hyunjoon’s stomach lurched, revulsion at the self-inflicted wound colliding with intense relief that he hadn’t been bitten.

Dohyeon still shook, breath ragged. His arm trembled, bright red seeping from the wound. But when his eyes lifted to meet Hyunjoon’s, they weren’t fully wild anymore. The feverish haze remained, but something was clearer—enough for tears to slip unbidden down his cheeks.

Hyunjoon felt his own chest spasm in empathy. He’d never seen Dohyeon like this—stripped of all composure, forced to hurt himself rather than risk hurting Hyunjoon. The fight was evident in every trembling muscle, every strained inhale, every choked sob. He’d been dragged to a place where nothing felt like it was his choice anymore—body betraying him, biology demanding a claim he never wanted to make.

The extent of that sacrifice hit Hyunjoon like a blow.

“Joonie,” Dohyeon whispered, the nickname cracking in the middle. Hyunjoon had never heard him sound so broken.

“Dohyeon,” Hyunjoon breathed, voice ragged, hands hovering uselessly between them, unsure whether to reach out or stay back.

Dohyeon’s shoulders sagged. All the tension, all the strength he’d mustered to hold himself upright seemed to drain in an instant. His head fell forward, breath coming out in weak, uneven exhales. Whatever last reserves he’d had—he’d used them to keep from biting Hyunjoon.

And that final cost showed in the defeat splayed across his face.

“Please, leave.”

Two words that flayed Hyunjoon’s heart. He couldn’t leave, not like this—but the wreckage in Dohyeon’s eyes told him there was no room for debate. The tremor in Dohyeon’s voice wasn’t anger now; it was fear, a pleading edge that said Go, or I can’t keep this up.

Hyunjoon wavered, body torn between staying and leaving, between comforting him and running. “Dohyeon, I—”

“Please.”

That word landed heavier than any growl or shout ever could. Hyunjoon swallowed, his throat too tight. 

He wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around Dohyeon, promise he’d be all right—but he couldn’t. Not now.

Finally, he forced his muscles to move, shuffling backward. He couldn’t watch Dohyeon suffer like this. Couldn’t risk pushing the older alpha past what remained of his limits. His entire body felt like lead, limbs shaking with the aftershock of near-disaster.

Just as he reached for the door, it burst open, a rattle of the handle and a bang against the frame. The sudden movement jolted both of them—Hyunjoon spun around, eyes wide, and felt Dohyeon’s presence falter behind him.

The outside world flooded in, the dorm’s fluorescent lights seeming too bright, figures crowding the doorway—Geonwoo’s fierce expression, Wangho’s panic, Hwanjoong’s white-knuckled grip on the door. Their shouts merged into a blur as they surged forward, frantic to pull him out or check Dohyeon.

And Hyunjoon—

Hyunjoon could only stand there, torn between relief and heartbreak, breath still uneven, staring at Dohyeon’s exhausted form. This nightmare wasn’t over, but for now, the door was open, and people poured in to help.

He just hoped it wasn’t already too late.

The door burst open, and the world snapped back into motion.

Hyunjoon’s body jolted, his heart still hammering against his ribs, his mind stuck in that liminal space of fight-or-flight. In the span of a breath, hands grabbed hold of him—strong and unyielding—yanking him away from where Dohyeon still knelt on the floor, trembling under the crushing weight of his rut.

For a split second, Hyunjoon’s entire being resisted, instincts screaming at him to fight, to lurch forward and reach for Dohyeon again. He couldn’t just leave him like that—shaking, hurt, bleeding. But then—

A voice. Sharp, urgent.

“Hyunjoon, let go!”

He barely registered it was Wangho. The older omega’s fingers dug into his arm, the pressure bruising, forceful enough to break through the haze in Hyunjoon’s head. Another figure—Geonwoo—inserted himself between Hyunjoon and Dohyeon, stance low, his body language screaming authority. Geonwoo radiated an alpha presence just strong enough to act as a wall, dividing them.

And Dohyeon…

Dohyeon let out a ragged snarl, the sound too raw to be coherent, still locked in the suffocating grip of his rut. Even now—even after biting himself, even after begging Hyunjoon to leave—he was still fighting it, his body wracked by brutal instincts that wouldn’t let up.

Wangho yanked Hyunjoon back another step, and Hyunjoon stumbled, breath hitching as he finally felt the lingering pain on his own wrists and sides, where Dohyeon’s hands had pinned him so tightly. His skin ached, his body registering the bruises only now that the immediate crisis was shifting. He hadn’t even realized how hard Dohyeon had been holding him—how hard his body had demanded Hyunjoon to stay.

“Hyunjoon.” Wangho’s voice was low but frantic, his grip on Hyunjoon’s arms like a vice. He shook Hyunjoon slightly, forcing their gazes to meet.

Hyunjoon blinked, vision blurring at the edges, ears still ringing with residual adrenaline. His lungs felt too small, like he couldn’t drag in enough oxygen. He dimly noted the stark worry in Wangho’s face, the rigid tension in his jaw.

Then Geonwoo moved.

He was in front of Dohyeon now, arms raised just enough to provide a buffer. Hyunjoon could sense Geonwoo’s alpha presence pressing outward in a steady, anchoring way—like he was telling Dohyeon: I’m not challenging you, but I’m here. Breathe.

“Hyung.” Geonwoo’s voice was level, careful. There was a razor edge beneath that calm—something that said he was ready to react if Dohyeon lunged. 

Dohyeon didn’t blink.

Didn’t respond.

His fists remained curled, blood dripping down his injured arm. But Hyunjoon couldn’t ignore how Dohyeon’s eyes kept zeroing in on him, not Geonwoo. There was something dark and haunted in that stare, tangled between need and shame . He parted his lips, like he wanted to speak—but all that emerged was a faint, broken sound.

Then Geonwoo took one careful step forward.

Dohyeon flinched violently, his body coiling up as if prepared to strike or flee, teeth clenching so hard Hyunjoon feared they might crack. But instead of another snarl, a small, weak sound slid from Dohyeon’s throat—a whimper.

Hyunjoon froze. The noise hit him like a cold shock, chilling him to the core. Dohyeon’s hands shook where they still dug into the tiles. Slowly, his entire body sagged, breath stuttering unevenly, and then—like a string snapping—he collapsed, his forehead hitting the floor.

The only sound left was Dohyeon’s ragged breathing, each exhale a tortured rasp.

Geonwoo stood still, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight, his own breathing measured but heavy with stress. Then, slowly, he exhaled and turned back toward Wangho. The expression he wore was dark, frustrated—something beyond simple anger.

“Get hyung out of here,” Geonwoo said, voice clipped.

Wangho’s grip on Hyunjoon’s arms tightened painfully.

“No!” The refusal burst from Hyunjoon’s throat before he even realized it. He couldn’t leave Dohyeon, not like this—

“Now, hyung.” Geonwoo’s voice sliced through the air like a whip.

Hyunjoon froze.

Geonwoo never spoke that way to Wangho.

Never.

Wangho, too, hesitated for half a second, shock evident in the flicker of his eyes. But then he recovered, and without another word, he started dragging Hyunjoon toward the doorway.

Hyunjoon fought, twisting against Wangho’s iron grip, his entire body thrumming with the need to stay , to do something. “Wait—let me—”

“Choi Hyunjoon!” Wangho’s voice broke.

And that—that—stopped Hyunjoon cold.

Because Wangho sounded… shaken. Not just angry or frustrated, but truly rattled. Hyunjoon stilled, finally letting his gaze focus on Wangho.

His breath caught.

Wangho’s hands were trembling around Hyunjoon’s arms. His eyes—so often calm and steady—were wide, unfocused, reflecting a swirl of fear. Each breath he took came in uneven bursts, and his grip was almost painful , like he was terrified Hyunjoon would slip away again.

Hyunjoon shifted his gaze toward the rest of the room, heart clenching.

Geonwoo was still standing between them and Dohyeon, posture stiff, hands raised just enough to warn against another attack. Ready. Watching Dohyeon like he might snap at any moment.

And Hwanjoong…

He stood by the doorway, silent. His usual easygoing grin was gone, replaced by a stark emptiness in his face. Not neutral, not cold—just… blank, like he’d shut down, unable to process what he was seeing.

And then it struck Hyunjoon: all of this, all that had happened, was because of his choice.

He had thought he could handle it. Thought he could help Dohyeon. Thought that if he just stayed, if he just clung to Dohyeon, he could anchor him through the worst of his rut.

But he’d been wrong.

Dohyeon had tried to warn him. He hadn’t listened.

The weight of that realization slammed into him, forcing the air from his lungs in a trembling exhale. His chest felt tight, like something was squeezing his ribcage. A slew of images assaulted him at once—Dohyeon bleeding, Geonwoo braced for a fight, Wangho’s trembling hands, Hwanjoong’s empty stare. He’d put them all through this.

He had believed he could walk into the storm and not get swallowed.

But he’d miscalculated.

A raw spike of guilt crashed over him, squeezing his heart until it felt impossible to breathe. Tears threatened, stinging at the edges of his vision, but he forced them back. No time for that now.

“Hyunjoon,” Wangho said again, his voice lower, still shaky. Still frayed. “Come on.” His grip loosened slightly, but remained firm enough that Hyunjoon knew there was no use fighting.

Hyunjoon’s body trembled. He could feel the bruises on his wrists throbbing, each pulse reminding him of how hard Dohyeon had clung to him, how desperately his body wanted relief. And he’d done nothing but push Dohyeon to the edge, forcing him to choose self-harm over harming Hyunjoon.

His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. Shame, regret, grief—all of it tangled in his chest until it was a suffocating knot. Then he let Wangho pull him away.

Hwanjoong stepped aside, letting them pass. He still didn’t speak, didn’t look directly at Hyunjoon—like he couldn’t bear to. Geonwoo stayed with Dohyeon, shoulders tense, eyes scanning Dohyeon’s trembling figure for any further signs of danger.

Hyunjoon tried to glance back, to check on Dohyeon one last time, but Wangho was already steering him into the hallway. The dorm lights felt too bright, glaring. His vision swam, everything blurring around the edges.

He could still feel Dohyeon’s presence behind him, the scent and heat clinging to Hyunjoon’s skin, echoing in his mind. Every bruise, every ache was a reminder that he’d failed —that he’d been reckless enough to believe he could shoulder an alpha’s rut alone.

At last, he shut his eyes, letting Wangho pull him onward. Shame churned in his stomach, but he had no words left. I’m sorry , he thought, but couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud.

All he could do was let himself be guided away, each step reinforcing the brutal truth: He couldn’t fix this. He’d done more harm than good. He’d forced Dohyeon to a breaking point—and now, maybe, had broken something else in the process.

He’d hurt the pack, and he’d hurt Dohyeon the most.

The living room felt both too big and too small at the same time. The space around Hyunjoon stretched on, empty and suffocating, yet somehow it pressed in on him as well, the silence wrapping around his body like a second skin he couldn’t shed. It wasn’t the kind of silence that promised peace—this was the kind that made his chest feel too heavy, his breaths too shallow, his thoughts too loud.

He curled into himself on the couch, knees pulled up, arms wrapped tightly around them, as if making his body smaller might make everything feel less overwhelming. But no matter how hard he tried to hold himself together, it wasn’t working. He could close his eyes, but the second he did, he still felt it: the weight of Dohyeon’s hands on him, the heat of his breath, the way his grip had been too tight, too desperate, too much. The way his voice had stopped sounding like himself.

Hyunjoon had gone in believing he could help, believing that if he just stayed calm enough, still enough, he could anchor Dohyeon through his rut. But he’d been wrong—so, so wrong.

Wangho was the one who had pulled him out of that room, had practically dragged him. Hyunjoon still felt the lingering pressure on his wrist, the bruising force of fingers digging in, as if Wangho had been holding on so tightly because letting go would mean everything collapsed. The second the door to the heat room slammed shut behind them, though—that physical hold was gone. Now, Wangho was pacing.

His footsteps cut back and forth across the living room in sharp, uneven strides, like he couldn’t bear to stay still for more than a moment. His hands wouldn’t settle. They clenched into fists, then raked through his hair, then pressed against his hips, only to repeat the cycle. It was an energy Hyunjoon had never seen from Wangho before. Usually, nothing shook him—not a loss, not a tense in-game situation, not even the worst late-night scrim disasters. But now, he looked like he was one step away from shattering.

Hyunjoon barely moved from his spot on the couch, hunched in on himself.

The silence swelled between them, stretching too thin. Then, finally, Wangho’s voice cracked through it like a whip. “What the hell were you thinking?!”

Hyunjoon flinched. He couldn’t remember the last time Wangho had yelled at him. The older omega had always been calm, the level-headed one, the stabilizing presence no matter how bad things got. But now, his voice was raw, hoarse, like it had been dragged out of him against his will.

“You locked the damn door!” he spat, pacing coming to a stop as he turned to face Hyunjoon. His voice shook, all of his forced composure collapsing. “Do you have any idea what that did to us?!”

Hyunjoon opened his mouth to respond, but the words got stuck in his throat. Yes, he wanted to say, he knew now—he knew exactly how reckless he’d been, how it had felt from the outside. He wanted to say he was sorry. But before he could, there were more footsteps, heavy and quick, cutting through the tension.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

Geonwoo stood in the doorway, his entire posture coiled, tension radiating off him like a storm about to break. His shoulders rose and fell with each deep inhale, only to drop too fast on each exhale, as though he couldn’t quite get enough air. His hands flexed at his sides, curling into fists, then opening again, as if he couldn’t decide whether to lunge forward or stand still.

Hyunjoon had never seen Geonwoo look at him like that.

This was his sweet pup, the one who usually followed him around, the one who never raised his voice at him—ever. The one whose eyes always held admiration, warmth, trust. But now, Geonwoo’s gaze was unreadable because it was too full—full of betrayal, of anger, of disappointment. Something very close to heartbreak flickered in that glare, and Hyunjoon felt his own pulse stumble in response.

He wanted to shrink away, but he was already curled in on himself. The silence that followed felt suffocating, each breath costing him more effort than it should have.

Geonwoo spoke, his voice like a razor’s edge. “You could have gotten hurt, hyung.”

The words sliced through him, setting his heart pounding. Hyunjoon pressed his fists against his knees. “I—I didn’t—”

“You didn’t think,” Geonwoo bit out, voice flat and unforgiving. “You didn’t think, hyung. Not about yourself. Not about us. Not about him.”

Each sentence landed like a punch, and Hyunjoon could only grip his knees tighter, trying to steady himself. Because Geonwoo was right—Hyunjoon had thought only about helping Dohyeon, not about the cost to himself or the team. Not about the potential consequences.

And now, the trust he’d built with Geonwoo—trust he hadn’t realized mattered this much—was damaged. Not gone, but cracked, and the fracture line cut straight through Hyunjoon’s chest.

He sucked in a shaky breath, tears pricking at the edges of his eyes, though he didn’t let them fall. Because the hurt on Geonwoo’s face stung more than any of the words could, more than any physical wound might. It was the realization that he had let them all down—hurt them—by rushing in headfirst, thinking he could handle Dohyeon’s rut on his own.

Silence clamped down again, thick with everything left unsaid. Hyunjoon didn’t know how to fix it. All he managed was a small nod that did nothing to convince anyone he was all right. He could feel Wangho’s anger, Geonwoo’s anger, the lingering smell of adrenaline in the air. And behind it all, a hollow ache where Dohyeon’s presence should have been—if only Hyunjoon hadn’t made it all so messy.

He wanted to speak. He wanted to say he understood, that he knew he’d messed up, that he was sorry in ways words couldn’t begin to cover. But he couldn’t force it out. The words lodged in his throat, and he clung to the couch like a lifeline, trying not to crumble under the weight of it all.

And that hurt more than anything else could.

Admittedly, Geonwoo had been wary of the newcomers when they first joined the team. He hadn’t meant to be unfair; it wasn’t like he disliked any of them. But there was a difference between disliking someone and not trusting them. He simply couldn’t trust people who appeared out of nowhere, not after everything that had already happened once before.

When their old team—their old pack—had been whole, it had felt solid, like the kind of foundation no one could tear apart. He, Dohyeon, and three others had built something strong, something stable. Each of them knew their roles, their places, their responsibilities to each other. But in esports, nothing lasted forever. One by one, his former teammates moved on, not because of any ill will, but because that was how the scene worked. It left Geonwoo and Dohyeon alone, standing together in the wreckage of what used to be so secure.

Then the newcomers arrived, filling the empty spots in the roster. Geonwoo didn’t know how to let them in. He didn’t want to risk losing another pack. Losing his place. Losing a sense of belonging that he had just gotten a glimpse of. So he watched them from a distance—Hwanjoong, Wangho, Hyunjoon—measured their movements, tested their limits. It might have come across as standoffish, but he didn’t know how else to protect himself.

Yet somewhere along the way, while he was keeping them at arm’s length, something changed. He gradually stopped watching them with guarded skepticism and started protecting them instead, in subtle, often unspoken ways. Before he knew it, he had let them in, and a promise formed deep in his chest, in every instinct he had as an alpha. He would protect them, even if he never said it out loud.

Hwanjoong—

Even if he teased Geonwoo constantly, prodding him with jokes and challenges until Geonwoo was this close to snapping. Even if he never seemed to take anything seriously except when it truly mattered.

Wangho—

Even if he still treated Geonwoo like a kid at times, acting as though Geonwoo had not already grown past that stage. Even if Wangho was so used to being the calm, collected one that he forgot Geonwoo was capable too.

And Hyunjoon—

Especially Hyunjoon.

Who took care of him like he was his own pup.

Him. A pup.

When he was only two years younger.

At first, Geonwoo scoffed, rolling his eyes whenever Hyunjoon pulled him along to eat, nagged him to get more sleep, or draped his jacket over Geonwoo’s shoulders without a second thought. But as much as he pretended to hate it, he never truly pushed Hyunjoon away. In his own careful, grumbling way, he accepted it, because even if he hadn’t wanted a new pack at first… he had ended up trusting Hyunjoon.

Now, Hyunjoon was curled up in front of him, shaking from everything that had happened, and Geonwoo couldn’t forget Dohyeon’s voice before the rut started: “If anything happens—if I lose control—please protect him. Protect the pack for me.” And Geonwoo had failed. He had stood by, watching helplessly as Hyunjoon locked that door, watched him disappear into the worst possible situation, all because Hyunjoon believed he could handle it. Geonwoo hadn’t protected him then, and that burned more fiercely than any anger or betrayal ever could.

“Hyung is so sorry, Geonwoo-ah,” Hyunjoon said, voice cracking under the weight of emotions. A tremor ran through him, the sound raw and unsteady. His eyes glistened, shoulders trembling like he was trying to contain everything and failing spectacularly. Geonwoo felt his own chest tighten at the sight.

Hyunjoon’s voice was fractured—desperate, even. Then came a ragged sob that tore from his throat, shaking his entire frame. He was clutching his own arms, his fingers twitching from how tightly he gripped his sleeves, like he was physically holding himself together. Geonwoo felt it, too. It was like a shard of glass wedged between his ribs, twisting deeper each time Hyunjoon sobbed, cutting past anger, frustration, every bitter word Geonwoo wanted to hurl at him for being so reckless.

Because this wasn’t Hyunjoon.

Not the Hyunjoon who nagged him over missed meals or slung a jacket over Geonwoo’s shoulders without a second thought.

Not the Hyunjoon who dragged him into random hugs, grinning when Geonwoo squawked in mock protest, ruffling his hair like he was some little kid.

That Hyunjoon was warm, steady, always there when the team needed him.

This Hyunjoon was trembling, undone, crying because of him. Because Geonwoo had stood by and let him get hurt. Guilt and regret mingled with relief—relief that Hyunjoon was here, alive, still breathing, but also angry at himself for not doing more.

Geonwoo’s entire body locked, a surge of emotions crashing over him, too big to handle. He wasn’t supposed to see Hyunjoon like this, wasn’t supposed to be the reason Hyunjoon was at the end of his rope. It was all too much.

He saw Wangho shift on the edge of his vision, like he was about to intervene, but Geonwoo moved first. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, crossing the distance between them in a heartbeat. He reached for Hyunjoon and pulled him in.

Hyunjoon stiffened for a fraction of a second, eyes wide, as though he hadn’t expected Geonwoo to move. Then he collapsed into the embrace, as if the last bit of tension snapped. His entire frame slumped, arms wrapping around Geonwoo’s back, his fingers gripping the material of Geonwoo’s shirt. The omega’s breath came in choked, uneven gasps, his tears damp against Geonwoo’s shoulder.

Instinct kicked in. Geonwoo held on tighter, as though he could anchor Hyunjoon, shield him from whatever horror he’d just gone through. He could feel his heart pounding out of rhythm, chest aching with something unnameable—guilt, relief, regret, all of it swirling into a single, raw pulse of emotion that made it hard to breathe.

Hyunjoon exhaled shakily, warm breath brushing Geonwoo’s neck. “...Pup.”

It was barely a whisper, and if Geonwoo weren’t right there, he might have missed it. The word made his chest twist painfully. Hyunjoon had called him that so many times—offhand, teasing, affectionate in a way Geonwoo had never known how to handle. He’d always grumbled about it, told Hyunjoon to stop calling him that, insisted he was an alpha, not some child. But right now, hearing that nickname spoken in Hyunjoon’s broken voice did something devastating to him.

“I’m sorry, pup,” Hyunjoon whispered, thick with guilt. “I’m so sorry.”

Geonwoo squeezed his eyes shut, arms tightening around Hyunjoon like he could will reality to rewind, to prevent this moment from existing. If only he had protected Hyunjoon better. If only he had kept him from walking into that room.

“Don’t ever do that again, hyung,” Geonwoo managed, his voice rough and unsteady. It came out like both a plea and a desperate warning. “Please. I’m begging you.”

Hyunjoon let out another shaky breath, his shoulders trembling. Then another presence pressed in on them, and Geonwoo recognized Wangho by the familiar set of his shoulders. He slipped an arm around Hyunjoon’s back, pulling both Geonwoo and Hyunjoon closer, like he needed the physical contact to assure himself they were all still here.

Geonwoo exhaled, his forehead leaning slightly against Hyunjoon’s shoulder, taking a moment to ground himself in the sound of overlapping breaths, the warmth of two bodies pressed against his. It was all too tight and too much, but at least Hyunjoon was here, safe for now.

Then the couch dipped on the other side, and Geonwoo felt Hwanjoong slide in. The usual teasing lilt in Hwanjoong’s voice was missing, replaced by something hoarse. “You guys are so dramatic,” he muttered, though his arms looped around just as tightly.

No one answered him. Instead, Hyunjoon’s shaky sobs finally broke free, as if that small comment had given him permission to let go. Geonwoo braced him, holding him, feeling his own heart splinter under the weight of everything that had gone wrong.

And so Hyunjoon broke—finally, completely—while Geonwoo just held on, closing his eyes and hoping that, somehow, this moment could be the start of fixing what they’d lost.

Dohyeon exhaled slowly, leaning against the doorframe. His body felt like lead, heavy with exhaustion, every muscle aching from days of tension. He breathed in and out, trying to steady himself, but his pulse still throbbed out of rhythm, the phantom pull of his rut clinging to his skin like a fever that refused to break.

This rut had been bad—worse than anything he’d experienced before. He remembered only fragments beyond the suffocating, all-consuming pull of heat and need. It had swallowed him whole, drowning him in a haze where nothing mattered except the way his body burned from the inside out. His thoughts had barely existed, aside from one thing:

Hyunjoon.

Even now, that name twisted something in his stomach. It was as if every nerve in his body tensed at the memory. He forced himself to move, pushing away from the doorframe, his limbs protesting every step. The sweat clung to his skin, the thick, heavy feeling still wrapped around his ribs like a vice.

He needed to wash it off.

His fingers fumbled with the hem of his shirt as he made his way toward the bathroom, peeling off the layers he’d worn through the worst of his rut. He realized, partway down the hall, that he had no idea how long he’d been out of it. Hours? Days? The thought made something coil in his chest, a sudden flash of unease. But he shoved it down. He’d deal with it later.

Stepping into the bathroom, he turned on the shower, letting the scalding water hit his skin. A sharp shudder ran down his spine, and he reflexively curled his fingers against the tiled wall to keep himself upright. The steam filled the small space, but it didn’t bring relief the way it usually did.

It should’ve felt good.

It should’ve been the moment he finally felt clean—finally felt like the rut was truly over. Instead, the water merely stripped away the physical grime, leaving his nerves and muscles still thrumming with leftover tension. His body ached in ways deeper than just fatigue, and his lungs refused to open up fully, as if something were still lodged beneath his ribs.

He breathed in the steam, gritted his teeth, and dragged a hand over his face. This was supposed to be the part where everything felt normal again. He’d survived the rut. His body would recover, his mind would settle—just like every other time before this.

So why…

Why did everything feel so off-balance?

By the time he stepped out of the shower, the unease coiled in his chest had only intensified. He dried off as best he could and tugged on fresh clothes, but the fabric clung to his still-damp skin, and the silence of the dorm pressed in on him. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been expecting some kind of noise—the sound of someone moving around in the kitchen, the low hum of voices, even the gentle click of a keyboard.

But there was nothing.

His pulse kicked up as he walked through the hallway. His fingers brushed the edges of the walls for balance, his steps deliberate, as if bracing for some sudden impact he couldn’t name. He took a slow breath, and then stopped, skin prickling with unease.

Something was wrong.

Hyunjoon’s scent should’ve been everywhere—fresh, lingering in the corners of the dorm. But it was faint. Too faint. The traces were still there, yes, but they felt old and tired. Like they hadn’t been refreshed in… who knew how long?

Dohyeon’s stomach dropped.

His gaze flickered over the living room, scanning every corner, searching for anything that might mean he was imagining things—that Hyunjoon was just out of sight, maybe sleeping, maybe on a call. But the couch was empty, the kitchen silent.

He made his way to Hyunjoon’s room, fingers ghosting over the doorframe as he peered inside. The blankets on the bed were tucked in neatly, the room unnervingly tidy. It looked like no one had slept here in days.

No. No, no, no.

A sudden, sharp thud of panic pounded against his ribs. His mind tried to reject the obvious answer staring him in the face—that Hyunjoon was gone. Not just out—gone gone, as in left.

He clenched his fists, swallowing hard. His thoughts spun, replaying flickers of the rut, flashes of Hyunjoon’s scent on the other side of that locked door. Now, all that remained was a fading memory in the air.

Hyunjoon wasn’t here. Hadn’t been here for a while.

And that was when it truly sank in.

Hyunjoon had left.

The dorm door creaked open.

Dohyeon’s head snapped up. A sharp jolt ran through him—a flash of instinct, raw and immediate—until he realized who stood in the doorway.

It was just Wangho.

Some of the tension in Dohyeon’s shoulders loosened, but not by much. Wangho, still framed by the open door, stood completely still when he saw Dohyeon. For a moment, his expression showed genuine surprise, almost as though he had not expected to find him here yet. Then, his features settled into calm neutrality.

“Welcome back,” he said, voice steady and casual, as if it were a normal greeting. He spoke as though Dohyeon had not spent days locked away, lost in his own mind.

Dohyeon did not respond immediately. Instead, his gaze flicked downward to the tray Wangho was carrying.

The scent of warm food drifted through the air—a comforting, familiar smell. 

Their auntie’s cooking. 

Dohyeon hesitated, caught between conflicting instincts. He felt drained, as though his body had burned through every ounce of energy it had just fighting off the worst of his rut. Yet the growl of his stomach reminded him he needed to eat. And Wangho was waiting, looking at him with that carefully composed mask that did little to hide the subtle worry in his eyes.

Without a word, Dohyeon turned and walked toward the kitchen. His feet felt heavy against the floor, but he refused to let that slow him. He heard Wangho’s footsteps behind him—steady, reassuring in their own way.

The kitchen felt almost too still. It was a place that usually buzzed with chatter and clinking dishes—somewhere the whole pack often gathered. Now, it was just the two of them.

Wangho set the tray on the small table and gestured for Dohyeon to sit. Dohyeon lowered himself onto the chair, rolling his sore shoulders once before he reached for the food. The smell made his stomach twist painfully with hunger and unease at the same time.

He ate in silence. Wangho leaned against the counter, arms folded over his chest, watching but not pushing. In that quiet, Dohyeon became too aware of every movement—how each spoonful felt, how each swallow reminded him his body was still drained.

After several minutes, Wangho spoke in a low voice. “How are you feeling?”

Dohyeon kept his gaze on the half-empty bowl. “I’m fine.”

Wangho exhaled softly, not convinced. “How’s your arm?”

Dohyeon’s hand paused in midair. Memories flashed—biting into his own arm to keep from doing something worse, the sting of sharp pain, the taste of blood. His stomach flipped, and he clenched his jaw.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, quieter than before. “Just sore.”

Wangho didn’t press. He just watched, waiting. Dohyeon forced down a few more spoonfuls, then set his utensils aside. He couldn’t eat anymore.

Silence hovered between them for a moment. Then Dohyeon took a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“I’m sorry,” Dohyeon said quietly.

Wangho seemed unsurprised, but he waited for Dohyeon to continue.

“I shouldn’t have used my alpha dominance on you,” Dohyeon admitted. “It was wrong, even if I was out of it.”

Wangho’s posture shifted, his face showing a flicker of something like concern. “I know you weren’t yourself,” he said simply, not in an accusing way. “You just did what you thought made sense at the moment.”

Dohyeon let out a shaky exhale, rubbing the bandage on his wrist. “Doesn’t make it right,” he said. “Or fair to you.”

Wangho offered a small nod. “It’s done now. You’re alive, and I’m fine. We’ll deal with the rest.”

For a second, Dohyeon almost managed a half-smile. But the heaviness in his chest wouldn’t let him. He straightened in his seat instead, and a moment later, Wangho spoke again.

“You’re still mad at him,” he said softly, not needing to name Hyunjoon for Dohyeon to know who he meant.

“I’m not really mad , ” Dohyeon said, his voice raw around the edges. “I’m just…” He exhaled, brow furrowing as he tried to find the right word. “Disappointed, I guess. He walked into that room knowing the risk, hyung. He could have gotten hurt.”

“He thought he could help,” Wangho replied. It sounded like a gentle reminder rather than an argument.

Dohyeon snorted, rubbing a hand down his face. “And look how that turned out.”

They both knew there was blame on both sides, but neither was ready to dive into that. Instead, Dohyeon’s jaw tightened, and he let out another slow breath.

Wangho watched him for a moment, his gaze steady and thoughtful. Finally, he spoke. “Siwoo actually came by two days ago and picked him up. He wanted to make sure Hyunjoon was far from the dorm during your rut.”

Dohyeon blinked, a wave of conflicting emotions rolling over him.

“He’s staying at a hotel in Seoul,” Wangho went on, shifting the tray in his hands. “Siwoo’s keeping him company. No Jihoon, so you don’t have to worry.”

Dohyeon swallowed hard, trying to quell the swirl in his gut. A part of him felt oddly relieved there was no one else—no extra source of drama. Another part of him churned with something like regret, or resentment, or both.

He cleared his throat, buying himself a second to steady. “So... he’s been there,” he said, voice subdued. “All this time.”

Wangho nodded. “He didn’t want to risk making things worse for you. And I think he needed space too.”

A bitter laugh slipped out before Dohyeon could stop it. “Yeah,” he murmured, pressing his lips together. “Space.”

Silence settled between them. The distant thrum of the fridge seemed louder now, filling the pause with a faint hum. Wangho stared at him, not pushing, not lecturing—just waiting for Dohyeon to process everything.

Eventually, Dohyeon inhaled slowly and forced out the words he’d been skirting around. “I can’t talk to him yet. Not after everything.”

“It’s okay. But he’ll be back here tomorrow,” Wangho said softly, after a moment. “He only planned to stay in Seoul for a short while. Just enough to clear his head… and let you get through your rut.”

Dohyeon felt that same twist in his gut—relief, dread, something he couldn’t quite name. He clenched his jaw, forcing his reaction under control. “Why didn’t you say all of this sooner?”

Wangho raised an eyebrow. “Would you have been able to handle it if I had?”

The words hung in the air, neither harsh nor accusatory, yet heavy with truth. Dohyeon pressed his lips together, knowing Wangho was probably right. There was no reason to pretend otherwise.

Seconds later, he pushed himself to his feet, each movement weighted by fatigue. “I’m... gonna rest,” he said. It was part explanation, part escape.

Wangho nodded, shifting the tray in his arms as he stepped aside. “All right,” he murmured, not trying to argue. “Take it easy.”

Dohyeon didn’t respond. He only walked out of the kitchen, each step feeling heavier than the last, as though he was pushing against a current. Tomorrow was too close, too soon, but there was nothing he could do to slow it down.

He just hoped that by the time Hyunjoon came back, his own disappointment wouldn’t still be burning holes in his chest, and they could face each other without ripping open wounds that were barely starting to close.

Sleep proved impossible for Dohyeon. Every time he closed his eyes, his thoughts swarmed, dredging up the events of the past few days—his rut, Hyunjoon leaving, the guilt that gnawed at him from all angles. After an hour of tossing and turning, he gave up and slipped out of his room, drawn to the only place in the dorm that felt remotely familiar: the practice room.

A faint glow spilled through the cracked door, a dim light against the otherwise dark corridor. Dohyeon hesitated briefly, then pushed the door open. The soft click of the latch sounded louder than it should have in the quiet hall.

Inside, the overhead lights were off, but one of the monitors cast an uneven glow across the rows of PCs. The faint hum of the computer’s fan reached his ears, accompanied by the low background music of the game’s menu.

Geonwoo sat in the far corner, headset resting around his neck, fingers idly tapping at the keyboard. He wasn’t in a match or even a practice session; he just seemed to be sitting there, half-lost in thought.

When Dohyeon walked in, the door gave another slight creak. Geonwoo turned his head, pausing his aimless keystrokes.

“Oh,” he said quietly, voice carrying a note of surprise. “You couldn’t sleep either, hyung?”

Dohyeon shook his head and stepped farther into the room, letting the door close behind him. “No,” he admitted, crossing the space between them at a slow pace. “Thought I’d come down here… I guess old habits die hard.”

Geonwoo huffed a short laugh, though it held little humor. “Same, I guess.” He lifted one hand to rub the back of his neck, gaze drifting back to the screen. “Didn’t feel like lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.”

Dohyeon gave a short nod and grabbed a spare chair, positioning it near Geonwoo but leaving enough space so he wouldn’t feel crowded. For a moment, they both stared at the game’s menu idly flickering on the monitor.

“I was worried about you, hyung,” Geonwoo said at last, a hint of frustration bleeding into his words. “But… I couldn’t do anything.”

“You did plenty actually,” Dohyeon replied, though a thread of guilt wound through his chest. He fixed his gaze on the lines of text on the screen, anything to avoid looking at Geonwoo’s face directly. “I asked you to take care of things. You did.”

Geonwoo shifted, tapping one key repeatedly. “I just wish I could’ve stopped… everything.” His jaw clenched briefly. “With Hyunjoon. With you.”

Dohyeon exhaled slowly, letting the tension in his shoulders drain as best it could. “None of us saw that coming,” he said, voice low. “I mean, we knew it could get bad, but—” He swallowed, the weight of the memory pressing on him. “I didn’t think he’d do that. Lock himself in with me.”

“Yeah,” Geonwoo muttered. “Guess we were all unprepared.”

Silence settled again, the background music looping quietly. Dohyeon glanced at Geonwoo, noticing the deep lines of worry etched around his eyes. Tired. Strained. Reminding Dohyeon that he wasn’t the only one who had been through hell.

“I’m sorry,” Dohyeon murmured, a raw edge to the words. “I asked you to keep everything together, and then… I pushed you all away anyway. I hurt you.”

At that, Geonwoo’s hands stilled on the keyboard. He tilted his head to look at Dohyeon, a flicker of something vulnerable passing through his eyes. “You were hurting too, hyung,” he said, voice tight. “I get it. It just… it sucked.”

Dohyeon’s lips curved into a wry smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. It did.”

They both lapsed into quiet again, but it felt marginally easier this time—like neither had to scramble for words or explanations. The faintly glowing screen flicked through different scenes, the game’s idle animations playing out unheeded.

Eventually, Dohyeon shifted in his chair, stretching out his legs with a soft groan. “I don’t know if I’m ready,” he admitted, almost under his breath. “For when Hyunjoon comes back tomorrow. I don’t know how to face him.”

Geonwoo’s expression didn’t change much, but he lifted a hand to fiddle with the volume dial on the headset around his neck. “You don’t have to figure it out all at once, hyung,” he said carefully. “We’ll… handle it when it happens.”

Dohyeon mulled that over. It wasn’t a solution, not really, but it was the closest thing he had to reassurance. He let out a long exhale, nodding slowly.

“You did well, Geonwoo-ah,” he said after a moment, keeping his gaze on the keyboard. “Thank you for taking care of the pack while I was gone. I’m so proud of you.”

Geonwoo sniffed, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “You’re welcome, hyung.” A pause. “I’m just glad you’re back and okay now.”

Dohyeon wanted to tell him he wasn’t exactly okay—but that might be too much honesty for the night. Instead, he reached out and gave Geonwoo’s shoulder a light squeeze.

“Thanks,” he said, voice soft.

Geonwoo nodded. Another beat of silence passed, and then he cleared his throat. “We should try to get some rest. Tomorrow’s… well, it’s tomorrow.”

Dohyeon let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Guess it’s not going anywhere.”

He stood up, and Geonwoo followed suit, powering down the computer with a few keystrokes. They moved toward the door in unspoken accord, the practice room falling into darkness behind them.

Just before stepping out, Dohyeon turned to Geonwoo. “I’ll… see you in the morning,” he said. The words sounded hollow, but he hoped they carried enough of what he meant: I’m still here. We’re still a team. We’re still a pack. We’ll get through this somehow.

Geonwoo caught his gaze, giving a small nod that felt steadier than his earlier uncertainty. “Good night, hyung.”

They parted ways in the hallway, the hush of the dorm returning as the door to the practice room clicked shut behind them. And with that, Dohyeon found himself alone again—alone with the knowledge that soon, Hyunjoon would be back, and none of them could predict the shape of the confrontation that loomed.

For now, at least, Dohyeon felt a little less like he was drowning, and that would have to be enough.

Everything still felt wrong. Dohyeon had tried to push the tension aside as they prepared for their qualifier match against T1, but the unease clung to him like a second skin. The pack wasn’t really together. Hyunjoon was back in the dorm, yet somehow, he felt even further away now than when he’d been gone.

Dohyeon didn’t want to acknowledge it, not when they had such an important game ahead, but he could feel it in every corner of LoL Park’s waiting room. No one had really talked since they got here. Wangho sat near the door, scanning their draft prep with a furrowed brow. Hwanjoong hovered by the couch, uncharacteristically quiet. He was usually the one to crack a joke or lighten the mood, but today he just tapped his foot, restless and uncertain.

And then there was Geonwoo, phone in hand, arms draped over his knees as he hunched forward. Dohyeon caught a glimpse of how tightly Geonwoo’s jaw was clenched, tension all over his face. When Hyunjoon finally came to sit across from him, Geonwoo’s fingers tightened around his phone. The sight left a dull ache in Dohyeon’s chest.

That was when he realized he was avoiding looking at Hyunjoon too. The memory of everything—the locked door, the gnawing heat of his rut, the aftermath of what Hyunjoon had tried to do—still simmered in the back of his mind. He’d told himself he wasn’t mad anymore, just disappointed. But it was a lie he wasn’t sure even he believed.

“Are you good?” Dohyeon heard himself ask, his voice coming out calm and steady despite the chaos in his head.

He hadn’t spoken directly to Hyunjoon since the night everything fell apart. It felt too soon, too raw. Yet here he was, forcing the words out because the silence was worse.

Hyunjoon swallowed, meeting his gaze. “Yeah,” he said, voice even. “I’m good.”

It was obvious he was lying, and Dohyeon could only stare back for a moment. He felt something close to resentment flicker in his chest. Couldn’t Hyunjoon at least be honest now? But he said nothing. There wasn’t time, anyway—the stage manager poked his head in, telling them they had five minutes.

They lost the match. The defeat didn’t come with any dramatic stomp or highlight reel misplay—it just sort of happened, like the team had collectively let go of the rope. Their synergy felt off, calls coming a second too late, mechanical errors stacking up until T1 capitalized. By the end of it, Dohyeon barely remembered the scoreboard. He only remembered the feeling of the nexus exploding and knowing their Spring run was over.

No trophy. No miracle run. Just a slow, inevitable slide out of contention.

In the aftermath, Dohyeon couldn’t shake the weight of disappointment—disappointment in himself, in the team, in Hyunjoon. Maybe if they’d been on the same page, if they’d had more time to heal the rifts between them, they could’ve played like a real pack. Instead, they’d let it slip away without a proper fight.

Now, the season was done, and the team prepared to leave the dorm for the break before Summer Split. Wangho zipped his suitcase with that same quiet focus he’d had in the waiting room. Hwanjoong was heading home—he said something about family obligations, but Dohyeon sensed he just needed to get away from the tension. Geonwoo had his own things packed in neat rows by the door, though he hadn’t yet decided where he was actually going.

Hyunjoon was leaving for Seoul again. Dohyeon watched from the hallway as Hyunjoon double-checked his luggage, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. A part of Dohyeon wanted to ask if this was another escape, but Hyunjoon had already said it wasn’t—that he was just going to clear his head, meet with some friends, figure out how to come back stronger.

Somehow, that stung more than if he had just run away.

Dohyeon set his jaw, glancing at the half-open door to his own room. He hadn’t packed yet. He told himself he had plenty of time, that he’d do it tomorrow. The truth was, he wasn’t entirely sure where he was going. He only knew he didn’t want to stay here, not with the dorm so empty and full of ghosts.

He didn’t speak to Hyunjoon. Hyunjoon didn’t speak to him, either. Their paths crossed in the corridor, and for a moment, Dohyeon caught the flicker of regret in Hyunjoon’s eyes. That did nothing to ease the tightness in his own chest.

They both walked away, letting the silence between them say what words couldn’t.

He thought back to the qualifiers, how Hyunjoon had said “I’m good,” and how obvious it was that he was not. That none of them were. But they’d gone on stage and tried to pretend everything was fine. Maybe that was the real reason they’d lost—because they were lying to themselves. Because they weren’t a pack, not really. Not anymore.

He wasn’t sure if they ever would be again.

But there was a sliver of hope, or maybe just stubbornness. Summer Split was around the corner, and if they were going to do anything at all—if they were going to prove they still had something left to fight for—they needed time. Time apart, time to think, and then time to figure out if they could come back together and fix what was broken.

So Dohyeon let Hyunjoon go. Let him head off to Seoul without any last-minute confrontation, no big argument or tearful goodbye. It wasn’t acceptance, exactly, but it was the best Dohyeon could do with the anger and disappointment still simmering beneath his ribs.

When the dorm door closed behind Hyunjoon, Dohyeon found himself in the hallway again, alone. A grim sense of finality pressed on him. He took a breath, inhaling the faint scent of disinfectant and dust, and reminded himself that this wasn’t the end—just a break. They all had to heal, one way or another.

By tomorrow, the dorm would be empty. Hwanjoong’s laughter, Wangho’s calm instructions, Geonwoo’s happy presence, even Hyunjoon’s teasing—none of it would remain. Just echoes.

Dohyeon knew he couldn’t stay angry forever. He also knew he wasn’t ready to forgive yet. Summer Split felt like a distant, uncertain thing—but he had to hope that when it arrived, they could find a way to stand together again. Or at least figure out where they truly belonged.

With that thought, he turned back into his room, leaving the hallway in silence.