Chapter Text
New Dorm
The air in the dorm was thick with unfamiliar scents. Not in a bad way—Wooyoung had smelled worse, especially in the subway during peak hour—but this… this was different. Pungent but warm. Like leather soaked in cedar and citrus, coffee grounds and spice. Alphas.
He paused just inside the doorway, suitcase wheels bumping against the threshold, as if the entire room had inhaled him the moment he stepped through. Three distinct scents hung in the space, layered over furniture, wood, fabric—and Wooyoung, a natural-born Omega with heightened scent sensitivity, felt it like a fingerprint on the back of his neck.
“Don’t just stand there, come in,” San chuckled from behind, nudging him forward with a hand low on his back. “They don’t bite.”
Unless they’re in rut, Wooyoung thought, but kept his mouth shut.
He stepped into the apartment-style dorm, eyes sweeping over the interior. It was… decent, for four college-aged Alphas. Lived-in. A few stray hoodies hung over chairs, an open laptop blinked on the coffee table. Guitars leaned against one wall. A faint haze of cologne lingered in the air.
“You’ll be staying in my room, obviously,” San said, grabbing Wooyoung’s suitcase and dragging it further inside. “The guys already know the rules. No scenting, no touching, no heat jokes. You’re mine.”
Wooyoung smiled at San’s possessiveness, even if something inside him stirred uncomfortably at the idea of being spoken about like a thing. Still, San meant well. He was proud. He was protective. And honestly, he had every right to be—San was practically an Adonis, with a jawline carved by heaven and a body honed by hours on the court. Wooyoung was lucky.
Or so he told himself.
“Yo, you’re early,” came a voice from deeper in the dorm.
Wooyoung looked up just as a tall figure appeared from the hallway, drying his damp hair with a towel. Yunho. He was shirtless—of course—and wore sweatpants slung low on his hips, his scent a blend of paper, vanilla, and rain. Clean and sharp.
“Hey,” Yunho greeted, voice mellow, and eyes flickering just slightly longer on Wooyoung before he smiled. “You must be Wooyoung.”
“I am.” Wooyoung nodded, trying not to glance too obviously at the vee of muscle leading into Yunho’s waistband. “Thanks for letting me stay here.”
“Dorm rules don’t say anything about girlfriends or boyfriends,” Yunho said easily, tossing the towel over his shoulder. “As long as you don’t mind the noise.”
“What noise?” San asked.
“Hongjoong’s band practice. Mingi’s horror movies. And me… breathing too loud, apparently.”
From one of the other rooms, a door opened, and another presence entered—this one smaller, sharper. Hongjoong, black hair tousled from sleep, shirt half-buttoned, and a pen tucked behind his ear. He exuded quiet intensity. The kind of Alpha who didn’t need to say much to get everyone to shut up and listen.
“Wooyoung,” he said, like a question and a statement all at once.
Wooyoung nodded. “Hi.”
Hongjoong tilted his head slightly, then crossed the room without further comment, vanishing into the kitchen.
“Ignore him,” San muttered. “That’s just his morning personality. He warms up after coffee.”
“I heard that,” Hongjoong called.
“You were supposed to,” San shot back.
Wooyoung let out a soft laugh. The tension in his shoulders loosened—not much, but a little. These weren’t strangers anymore. They were San’s friends. San’s people. And if he wanted to be part of San’s life, he had to be part of this.
Mingi appeared last. Hair wet from the shower, shirtless like Yunho, towel hanging loosely around his neck. He paused in the hallway when he saw Wooyoung, eyes widening just a little before his lips curved into a grin.
“Well, well. We finally meet the mysterious Omega.”
“Mingi,” San warned, voice edged.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“Yet.”
Wooyoung chuckled again. “It’s okay. I’m not that mysterious.”
“You’re San’s, huh?”
“I am.”
“Hm.” Mingi stepped forward and stuck out his hand. “Mingi. Guitarist, horror addict, cereal thief. I call dibs on the bathroom at night.”
“Wooyoung,” he replied, shaking his hand. Mingi’s grip was warm, rougher than expected, and his scent—amber and firewood—curled around him like smoke.
There was a flicker in Mingi’s eyes, something unreadable. Not aggressive, not rude. Just… curious. Intrigued, maybe.
San cleared his throat, stepping between them. “Alright, introductions done. Let’s get your stuff in the room before Yunho and Mingi start circling you like feral dogs.”
Wooyoung raised an eyebrow. “You make it sound like I’m prey.”
San looked over his shoulder with a grin. “You kind of are.”
Once the greetings died down and the apartment’s energy settled into a gentle hum, Wooyoung found himself alone in San’s room—well, mostly alone.
Yunho stood near the doorway, casually leaning against the frame like he wasn’t 6’2” of Alpha aura and unbothered charm. “Need a hand unpacking?”
Wooyoung blinked, mid-kneel at his open suitcase. “Oh—uh, I can handle it.”
Yunho smiled. “I don’t mind.”
Wooyoung hesitated, then nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”
The room smelled like San. Strong, steady, with that warm cinnamon-oak musk Wooyoung associated with long hugs and heated kisses. But now, layered over that, a new scent entered—light rain and amber. Yunho.
Wooyoung tried not to think too much about it as he pulled out his folded shirts and stacked them on the bed. Yunho took the hangers and opened the wardrobe.
They worked in silence for a moment, until Wooyoung reached for a duffel bag on the floor—and Yunho, turning to help, didn’t notice.
Their bodies collided with a thud.
“Ah—!” Wooyoung fell back, landing against the mattress, soft thump muffled by sheets. Yunho, startled, tripped forward in the same motion. One arm braced against the wall, the other caught Wooyoung’s waist instinctively to stop his fall.
But now—there they were.
Too close. Too warm.
Yunho’s palm still against Wooyoung’s side. His breath shallow. Wooyoung’s chest heaving just a little too fast. Their noses barely a breath apart, lips unintentionally parted. Something primal stirred. Like scent recognition, like heat anticipation, like—
“I—” Yunho pulled back suddenly, as if electrocuted. “Shit, sorry! That was—totally my fault.”
Wooyoung sat up, blinking rapidly, heart pounding in his ears. “It’s—uh—it’s okay. Don’t worry.”
Yunho took two steps back, rubbing the back of his neck. A faint flush tinged his ears. “I’ll let you finish unpacking.”
He turned and left before Wooyoung could say another word, his scent trailing after him like static.
Alone again, Wooyoung exhaled slowly. He touched his waist where Yunho’s hand had been, fingertips tingling. He shouldn’t feel anything from it. He had a boyfriend. San was his Alpha. His bond.
And yet.
He shook it off, shaking out a pair of jeans and folding them aggressively. “Nope. Not thinking about that.”
Thirty minutes later, all his clothes were hung or folded. San’s side of the wardrobe still took most of the space, but Wooyoung didn’t mind. He set his toiletries in the bathroom cubby and wiped his slightly flushed face with cold water.
By the time he stepped out into the main room, the others had already gathered around the dining table. The scent of warm rice, grilled meat, and kimchi filled the air. Mingi was laughing at something, chopsticks mid-air. Hongjoong sat beside him, picking at his food with a knowing smirk. Yunho…
Yunho sat across from San.
Wooyoung froze just for a second—but San waved him over.
“There you are,” he said, voice light. “Come eat. We didn’t start long ago.”
Wooyoung nodded and walked toward them, willing his body not to react to the heat that rushed to his cheeks the moment Yunho looked away, purposefully avoiding his gaze.
He sat beside San, who instinctively rested a hand on his thigh beneath the table. Protective, grounded. Wooyoung leaned into it.
“I tried to cook, but Hongjoong said I’d ruin the rice, so—”
“Because you use water like you're drowning the grains,” Hongjoong cut in.
“Cooking’s a science,” Yunho added softly, still not meeting Wooyoung’s eyes.
“Cooking’s an art,” Mingi countered, mouth full.
“Cooking’s stressful,” Wooyoung said, finally chuckling—and that seemed to break the tension slightly. Not entirely, though.
San served him a bowl, his arm brushing against Wooyoung’s as he did. “You okay?”
Wooyoung looked up at him, startled. “What?”
“You look a little red.”
“Oh—just warm. Probably from unpacking.”
San narrowed his eyes briefly, but then smiled. “Take it easy. It’s your first day. You don’t need to impress anyone.”
Wooyoung nodded, heart skipping for entirely the wrong reasons.
Across the table, Yunho finally glanced up—and their eyes met for a second too long.
They both looked away.
Lunch passed in a blur of casual conversation and playful jabs, but underneath the laughter, Wooyoung felt the static of what had happened with Yunho still clinging to the air. Or maybe it was just him—overthinking. Maybe that touch, that fall, that unspoken shift… was all in his head.
He hoped so.
After the meal, San stood from the table and grabbed his phone, glancing at the screen with a deep sigh. “Damn it…”
Hongjoong raised an eyebrow. “What now?”
“Coach just moved practice an hour earlier,” San muttered, already walking toward the bedroom to change. “Apparently half the team had midterms, so now it’s ‘mandatory evening scrimmage’—whatever the hell that means.”
Wooyoung stood, his plate in hand. “You’re going now?”
“Yeah,” San said, slipping into his basketball hoodie. “I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”
Wooyoung tried not to show his disappointment, though it curled tight in his chest. San walked over to him and gave a kiss to his forehead—gentle, brief. It should’ve been reassuring.
It wasn’t.
He whispered, “Love you. Get some rest after unpacking.”
“I will,” Wooyoung replied softly. “Good luck.”
Then San was gone, the front door shutting behind him with a solid thud.
Wooyoung stood in the quiet that followed, hands fidgeting with his sleeves. Mingi had disappeared into his room muttering something about game night with his online friends. Yunho had retreated to the library again—of course—saying he’d come back before dinner.
Only Hongjoong remained, sprawled on the living room couch, one knee propped up and his beloved cherry-red electric guitar across his lap. His fingers moved with casual ease, coaxing smooth, seductive notes that made the air shimmer. He wore a loose tank top and sweatpants, his alpha scent warm like dark honey and lingering spice.
Wooyoung lingered near the doorway longer than he meant to.
Hongjoong noticed.
“You can sit, you know,” he said without looking up. “I don’t bite.”
Wooyoung flushed. “I—I wasn’t trying to stare…”
“I know,” Hongjoong said simply, then grinned. “You looked like you were trying not to stare. That’s different.”
Wooyoung let out a quiet laugh and made his way to the couch, perching on the other end. “You’re really good.”
“Thanks. Been playing since high school,” he said, fingers still strumming. “Music's kinda the only language I care about sometimes.”
Wooyoung tilted his head. “That sounded deep.”
“Did it?” Hongjoong smirked. “Maybe I’m just shallow and like the attention.”
That made Wooyoung laugh again—lighter this time.
Hongjoong looked over at him for the first time since the lunch table, and the smile softened into something thoughtful. “You’re not what I expected.”
Wooyoung blinked. “Expected?”
“I mean…” Hongjoong’s voice lowered. “San talks about you like you’re some fragile little pet he needs to protect.”
Wooyoung blinked, caught between flattery and mild offense. “And you disagree?”
“I think,” Hongjoong murmured, “you’re more dangerous than you look.”
There was a beat of silence, filled only by the quiet hum of the amp.
Hongjoong looked away and picked up the guitar again. “Wanna learn something?”
“What?”
“Guitar,” he said, nodding at the instrument. “You’ve got curious fingers. I can teach you a chord.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be any good…”
“You don’t need to be good. You just need to be willing.”
That shouldn’t have sounded as suggestive as it did.
Wooyoung hesitated, then moved closer. “Okay. Teach me.”
Hongjoong shifted on the couch, inviting him to sit beside him, close enough their thighs brushed. Wooyoung inhaled slowly—the scent of Hongjoong was more potent now, the proximity making his skin tingle.
“Put your hand here,” Hongjoong guided, his hand warm as it wrapped over Wooyoung’s fingers, adjusting them over the frets. “Press harder—no, not too hard. You’ll kill the note.”
Wooyoung chuckled nervously, trying to follow, but the closeness was getting to him. He could feel the strength in Hongjoong’s hand, the steadiness of it, the control. And the way Hongjoong leaned over his shoulder, practically breathing into his ear—
“There,” Hongjoong murmured. “Now strum.”
Wooyoung did—and a sharp, clean chord filled the room.
“Hey,” he grinned. “That’s not bad.”
“Natural instinct,” Hongjoong teased. “I like that.”
Wooyoung turned to smile at him—only to realize how close they were now. Too close.
Their eyes met.
For one long second, neither of them moved. Wooyoung’s heart thudded, slow and deep. Something unspoken passed between them—like a flicker of scent, like a tether tightening.
But then Hongjoong leaned back, breaking the moment with a lazy grin. “See? Music’s easy. Just takes a little pressure in the right places.”
Wooyoung swallowed. “Thanks. That was… fun.”
“Anytime,” Hongjoong said, setting the guitar down beside the couch. “Though if San catches us like this, he might get possessive.”
Wooyoung flushed. “We’re just playing.”
“Sure,” Hongjoong said, standing up with a stretch. “But scent bonds don’t lie.”
And with that cryptic line, he left Wooyoung alone in the living room—cheeks warm, skin buzzing, and heart a little too loud in his chest.