Archive of Our Own ^beta

Consciousness came back to him in uneven pieces. Not all at once, but in fragments—heat ebbing and returning, the dull ache of his limbs, the unfamiliar weight of pelts against bare skin. Sungho lay there for a while, unsure how much time had passed, staring at the man in the room while his body slowly caught up to the fact that he was still breathing.

The black-haired man stayed where he was, still as a shadow, posture steady and commanding. His jaw was tight, eyes assessing Sungho like he was trying to decide what to do with him.

“You live,” he said at last.

The words were simple. Too simple. Like someone unused to speaking much at all. A bitter sound escaped Sungho’s throat. “You—you call this living?” His voice shook, not from cold, but from the heat still crawling beneath his skin, the echo of pain in every muscle. He shifted slightly, wincing as the raw, angry lines of rope burns stung along his wrists and forearms, the lingering ache of bruises blossoming where teeth had bitten into him, dark and angry against pale skin. Every movement reminded him of how thoroughly his body had been violated, how fragile he had been, how helpless.

“You were bitten,” the man continued, as though reciting a fact. “You did not die.”

Sungho’s throat closed. “Bitten—?” His hand trembled as it rose instinctively, fingers brushing the fresh mark on his neck, warm and tender, the edges still raw. The pressure made him flinch.

A pause stretched between them, and in that thin slice of silence, a flicker of something unreadable crossed the man’s dark eyes.

“By alpha.”

“I don’t understand.” Sungho clutched the furs tighter, his fingers white-knuckled. “Why am I here? Why am I—” He stopped himself before saying naked, though the shame burned hot in his cheeks.

The stranger’s gaze did not soften. “Your body changes. It will change again. You will stay here until it is done.”

That was all. No explanation of what he was changing into, no why, no how. Only that strange, heavy certainty in his tone. Sungho’s breath came faster.

“I don’t want to stay here. I want to—”

“You cannot leave.” The man stepped closer, slow and deliberate, the weight of his presence filling the space between them. “The forest will not let you. I will not let you.”

The words sent a shiver through him, though whether from fear or something else, he could not tell. Before Sungho could speak again, the pelt curtain over the doorway stirred. A new scent washed into the room. Bright, sharp, and strangely sweet, like peeled oranges under a summer sun. It hit him in a way that made his head turn before he even thought to move.

A smaller figure stepped inside. Hair the color of bright orange copper, catching the light in quick, warm flashes; eyes curious and gentle.

“Oh,” the newcomer said, a smile blooming easy and kind. “You’re awake!”

Something in that smile, in that citrus-laced presence, loosened the knot in Sungho’s chest—just a little, just enough to dull the fear pressing at his ribs.

The orange-haired boy’s smile faded as his eyes slid toward the black-haired one. Something passed between them—no words, no gestures, but heavy enough to change the air. The black-haired man’s jaw tightened. He muttered something low, sharp, and left the room without looking back.

The orange-haired boy turned to Sungho again, his expression softening.

“Sorry about Jaehyun,” he said—and Sungho wondered briefly if that was the man’s name. “He can be… intimidating sometimes.”

He took a slow step toward the bed. Sungho’s whole body stiffened, fingers clutching the fur beneath him. The boy noticed. He stilled, shoulders easing in a deliberate motion—tension bleeding out like a signal: I’m not a threat. Then, almost imperceptibly, it came again—that scent. Bright citrus, tinged with something warmer, like sunlight caught in cloth. It curled through Sungho’s nose, through his chest, coaxing his breath to slow.

“I won’t hurt you, okay?” the boy said, voice pitched softer now. “I’m here to take care of you. I’m Riwoo. What’s your name?”

It took effort to push the word past his dry lips. “…Sungho.”

Riwoo smiled. Not wide, not forced, just enough to make the sharp edges of the room dull a little. “Sungho.” He said it like tasting it, letting it linger on his tongue. “Can I come closer? Just to check your injuries?”

Sungho hesitated. But the citrus scent swelled again, and something in him—something new and strange—eased. He gave a small nod.

Riwoo moved nearer, careful not to make the bed’s furs shift too much. Up close, Sungho could see him clearly: the gentle slope of his nose, the warmth in his gaze, the way his bright hair caught the dim light like embers. His skin was pale but kissed with faint freckles across the bridge of his nose. When he smiled again, his lips pulled just enough to reveal slightly sharp canines. He was… pretty. Disarmingly so. Pretty in a way that made Sungho forget, for a moment, the bite in his neck and the ache in his bones.

Riwoo’s fingers paused briefly before brushing lightly against the fresh bite on Sungho’s bare neck. “I’ll be gentle,” he murmured, his touch careful, the wound throbbing under his fingertips, tender and hot. Sungho flinched at the sharp, unfamiliar sting, and Riwoo leaned closer, letting his breath ghost over the mark as he inspected it, eyes steady and intent. “It’ll heal properly,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Sungho’s gaze dragged downward. The bruises—dark, blooming purple—and the bite marks explained nothing of the other pain. The searing, molten ache that curled deep inside him like a slow fire. It was unbearable, yet it didn’t feel like any injury he’d ever known. He swallowed hard, unsure if the tremor in his breath was from fear or the fever’s heat.

Riwoo’s eyes flicked up, reading something in his expression. “Are you feeling feverish?”

Sungho nodded. The movement made his head swim.

“It’s okay, honey,” Riwoo said. The endearment slipped out so naturally it startled Sungho. “It will pass soon.”

A fresh wave hit. It rolled through his body like molten metal, dragging a low sound from his throat. He clenched his fists against the fur, breathing fast.

“Don’t worry,” Riwoo whispered, catching his hand in both of his. His grip was firm but warm, grounding. “I’m here.”

The citrus scent surrounded him again, heavier now, clinging to his skin, filling his lungs. Something deep inside him responded, loosening the fight in his muscles. And then the heat surged again, harder, swallowing thought. The edges of Riwoo’s face blurred, the world tilting sideways—and Sungho collapsed into darkness, cradled in that scent.

The fire came back in the night. It didn’t burn the skin—it bloomed from inside, hot and relentless, coiling deep in his belly, spreading outward in shuddering pulses. His muscles seized against it, his breath coming in ragged pulls. Each beat of his heart seemed to force the heat further into his veins, until there was nowhere left to run from it.

Sungho thought the pain might split him apart. His hands clawed at the furs, nails scraping over the soft pelts. There was no wound to point to, no injury to tend. It was as if his body itself had become the battleground.

And then, something shifted. A soundless snap, deep in the marrow. The fire began to ebb. What replaced it wasn’t relief exactly—more a hollow ache, as though the fire had burned a new shape into him and then left him to discover what remained.

When he woke again, silence filled the room, the faint light of the oil lamp casting soft, wavering shadows across the walls. His head still swam, but there was something else. Warmth. Not the stifling fever, but a steady, living warmth pressed close to his side.

He turned his head. A wolf lay beside him, paws tucked neatly under its body, watching him with eyes the color of amber. Its fur was a bright, gleaming orange, like firelight through autumn leaves. Like Riwoo’s hair. And the air was thick with that same scent: bright and clean, citrus and something sweeter beneath.

Sungho didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. This was Riwoo.

The thought should have frightened him—and maybe it did, a little—but mostly it eased something in his chest. If Riwoo had meant him harm, the chance had long passed. He let himself sink back into the pelts. The exhaustion weighed heavier than any fear.

He must have closed his eyes for only a breath, because the movement was sudden. The press of warmth pulling away, the rustle of fur shifting. Then a voice, gentle but near enough to startle him:

“How are you feeling?”

Sungho’s eyes flew open, startled.

Riwoo was no longer pressed against him. He was hovering over Sungho now, impossibly close. Very much human. Very much naked. His smile was soft, his canines glinting faintly in the low light. Sungho’s mouth opened, but no words came. His gaze darted away, heat creeping into his face that had nothing to do with the fever. Sungho’s face went hot the moment his brain caught up with what his eyes were seeing.

“You’re—” he blurted, voice catching, “you’re naked.”

Riwoo blinked, then his mouth curled into a small, amused grin. “Yeah.”

Sungho’s ears burned. “Right. Great. Perfect. Fantastic.”

Riwoo chuckled, the sound warm and low, as if Sungho’s flustered scrambling was the most endearing thing he’d seen all day. He didn’t seem in a hurry to cover himself either, which only made Sungho focus harder on the folds of the pelt he was clutching. For a while, they just sat in the quiet hum of the room, the scent of citrus still curling around Sungho’s senses.

Finally, he found his voice again. “What… happened to me?”

Riwoo tilted his head, his expression softening. “Jaehyun bit you. Your body’s changing. That’s why you’ve been… feverish.” He paused, but didn’t elaborate further, as if the rest of the truth was a door he wasn’t ready to open.

Sungho frowned faintly. “Jaehyun—he called me something. And his voice…” His throat tightened. “My body moved on its own.”

Riwoo’s smile faded. He didn’t look surprised, but the disapproval was clear. “He used the voice?” The way he said it was sharp, clipped. Not a question expecting an answer.

Sungho’s hands curled into the pelts. The memory was too vivid. That hollow pull in his chest, the way his limbs had obeyed without his permission. He’d felt like a puppet with its strings jerked.

His eyes stung. “I wanna go home.”

Riwoo’s gaze softened again, but there was something in it that told Sungho the words he was about to hear weren’t up for debate.

“This is your home now, honey.”

The words settled over Sungho like a weight, leaving the air thick and still. Then, from the doorway, a voice broke the quiet.

“Riwoo, the soup is ready—”

The voice cut off. Sungho’s head snapped toward it, his muscles going rigid. A tall, lean man with pale blond hair stood in the doorway, his hand still on the frame. Handsome in a clean, sharp way.

Something primal tore through Sungho’s chest. Stranger. Stranger. Every nerve screamed it. His heart slammed so hard it hurt, ribs aching with each frantic beat. Then the smell hit—sharp and wrong, bursting into the air like something spoiled split open. Rotten apples. Sweet once, maybe, but now sour and fermented, thick enough to sting his eyes.

The blond’s nose wrinkled instantly, and Riwoo’s expression tightened in the same way. And Sungho—Sungho knew. He didn’t know how, only that the certainty lodged itself inside his skull like a truth too loud to deny. The stench was coming from him. From his skin. From whatever was happening inside his body.

“I’m sorry,” the blond murmured quickly, guilt flickering over his features. “I didn’t know he was awake.” He looked like he wanted to step backward, to evaporate entirely.

Riwoo, calm as ever, waved it off. “It’s okay.” He glanced down at Sungho, his voice soft but steady. “This is Leehan. He’s part of the pack. He’s family.”

The word family was meant to be reassuring, but Sungho’s shoulders stayed taut. He didn’t know this man.

Riwoo crouched closer. “I’ll bring you soup, okay? You have to eat.”

But the second Riwoo shifted to rise, Sungho’s hands shot out and wrapped around his wrists. “Don’t leave. Please…”

The plea was quiet, almost shamefully so, but it still made the room pause. Riwoo’s gaze softened instantly. Over his shoulder, he and Leehan exchanged a silent look—a conversation without words.

“I’ll bring soup for you guys,” Leehan said finally, his voice gentler than before, before disappearing down the hall.

He came back a few minutes later, balancing a wooden tray with three steaming bowls. “Can I get closer?” he asked from the doorway.

Riwoo looked at Sungho instead of answering. The blond did, too. It was strange, having two pairs of eyes on him at once—both waiting for him to decide. After a moment, Sungho nodded.

Leehan’s steps were measured, his movements slow, as if approaching something fragile. As he drew closer, a soft sweetness unfurled in the air—warm and spiced, like sugared tea steeped too long, like crushed cardamom and something faintly floral beneath it. It brushed against Sungho’s senses, muted and gentle, nowhere near as sharp or overwhelming as Riwoo’s citrus, but grounding all the same.

He set the tray carefully at the foot of the bed, then passed a bowl to Riwoo, then one to Sungho. Finally, he claimed his own and sat on the far edge of the bed, posture straight, the bowl cradled in both hands.

Riwoo drank without hesitation, blowing on the broth between sips. Leehan followed suit. It took Sungho a few extra heartbeats before he tried. One cautious spoonful turned into two. Then three. Then he stopped noticing the count altogether. The soup was rich and savory, warming all the way down. By the time he scraped the bottom of the bowl, it felt like days of hunger had been quietly filled in.

When he lifted his head, Leehan was already looking his way, studying him with quiet interest. “You eat well,” the blond said simply.

Heat crept into Sungho’s cheeks. He ducked his gaze, unsure why the words felt like praise.

Leehan’s features softened. The firelight caught in his brown eyes, turning them warm amber for a moment. His blond hair fell slightly into his face, the sort of charming mess that made him seem like a prince from a children’s book.

Riwoo chuckled quietly. “That’s a compliment from him, you know.”

Leehan hummed in agreement. “Means you’ll get strong fast.”

Something about his tone—calm, certain— made Sungho’s stomach flutter in a way he couldn’t quite name. He set his empty bowl down on the tray, fingers lingering on the warm ceramic. The silence between them was comfortable enough now that he dared to speak.

“…How many of you are there? In this… pack...”

Riwoo smiled like he’d been waiting for the question. “Well… you’ve already met Jaehyun.”

Sungho’s shoulders tensed at the name, but Riwoo kept going, voice gentle.

“There’s Woonhak—he’s basically the pack’s pup.” Riwoo’s mouth quirked. “And Taesan.”

“That one,” Leehan added, as if confiding a secret, “acts cold, but honestly… he’s like a baby kitten.”

Riwoo snorted, covering his grin with his hand. “It’s true.”

They both laughed, trading a look that spoke of years of shared moments Sungho couldn’t even picture. He didn’t get the joke—or why the image of a cold-faced man as a kitten was funny—but he stored the names away like pieces of a puzzle. From the way they spoke, he could tell there was history there.

Sungho hesitated, then blurted before his brain could catch up. “Jaehyun is kind of scary.”

Both Riwoo and Leehan turned to look at him.

Heat rushed to Sungho’s face. Shit. I messed up.

Riwoo sighed softly, tilting his head. “Jaehyun… he’s special.”

Leehan nodded, eyes steady but unreadable.

“He has a strong connection to his inner wolf,” Riwoo went on. “Spends a lot of time in that form. That’s why he can be a bit… wild. Plus he’s had a… few rough days lately.”

Something in his tone said this isn’t the time for the whole story. Sungho thought back to their brief meeting. The odd rhythm of Jaehyun’s words. The way his gaze lingered a moment too long, like he was studying prey or… just unused to talking at all.

Leehan spoke up, voice warm. “But he’s really nice. Even sweet, once you know him.”

“If Taesan is a baby kitten,” Riwoo added with a grin, “Jaehyun is a big puppy.”

They both laughed, the sound easy and familiar, but Sungho could only picture a hulking wolf with sharp teeth and mismatched speech.

Sungho’s eyes fluttered open. Silence hung in the room, and the fever haze had faded, leaving only a warm hum in his veins and a bone-deep exhaustion. Beside him, curled at the foot of the bed, lay the now-familiar shape of the orange-furred wolf. His slow, even breathing carried that same bright citrus scent Sungho had gotten used to. It clung to the blankets, to the air, to him. Comforting… impossible to ignore.

In contrast, his own scent was strong, almost overwhelming. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, stuck to his bare skin like a second, sticky layer. The realization made him grimace. He needed to clean up—desperately.

He pushed aside the blanket of pelts, and a dozen other smells hit him all at once. The faint woodiness of the old floor. The metallic tang of the bowl on the bedside table. The lingering traces of Leehan’s warm, sweet-spice scent from earlier. It was… overwhelming. And strangely, he could pick them apart, name them, in a way he’d never been able to before. Sungho’s gaze drifted back to Riwoo. Even asleep, the wolf didn’t so much as twitch an ear.

For a moment, Sungho hesitated. Leaving the bed meant leaving safety. And he didn’t know what—or who—was waiting outside that door. Still, the clammy discomfort won out. He swung his legs to the floor, standing on unsteady feet. His eyes flicked around the room, searching for something to cover himself. In the corner, a folded piece of light brown cloth caught his gaze. A thin robe, simple but enough to spare him going around completely exposed.

One more glance at the wolf, one deep breath of citrus and warmth… and he stepped quietly toward the door.

The hallway beyond smelled different. It opened into a wide, warm space that felt like it belonged in a storybook—the glow of a fireplace washing the walls in gold, shadows stretching and swaying with the flames. Two deep couches sat nearby, but Sungho barely registered them.

The first thing that caught his attention were the wolves. They lay sprawled in front of the hearth, so close to the fire that the heat must have been almost too much. Their bodies were curled together, limbs tangled, breathing slow in a shared rhythm. One’s fur was white, pure, glistening, like new snow catching sunlight. It made Sungho think of Leehan instantly, the same pale, unblemished elegance. The other was larger, its coat a rich brown with a hint of red that gleamed where the firelight kissed it. Something about the easy rise and fall of its shoulders, the relaxed sprawl of its legs, suggested strength—the kind that didn’t need to be flaunted.

Sungho took a slow step into the main room.

The brown wolf’s ear twitched. Then, almost lazily, its head lifted. Their eyes met—dark, sharp, assessing. Sungho felt pinned under the gaze, like the wolf could see straight past his skin, into whatever had changed inside him. The heat from the fire suddenly felt like too much.

It rose with an unhurried grace, muscles shifting under that glossy coat. Its eyes never wavered from Sungho, dark and unreadable, but heavy with something instinctual. Not quite threat, not quite welcome. The white wolf stirred at the movement, a paw twitching, but didn’t wake.

Sungho’s body locked. His breath came shallower as the wolf’s scent rolled toward him—warm, smoky, and grounding, like fire-dried wood and rich sandalwood, earthy and alive. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was overwhelming, commanding his attention in a way he couldn’t shake. Step by step, the wolf closed the distance. Each movement was deliberate, assessing, like it was deciding whether Sungho was prey… or something else entirely.

When it was only a few feet away, Sungho’s instincts finally kicked in.

“Do not come any closer,” he blurted, voice tight, lifting a hand in a stiff, halting gesture.

The wolf paused mid-step. Its gaze flicked to the raised hand. Then, without breaking eye contact for long, it leaned forward, nostrils flaring as it sniffed him. The warm gust of breath over his skin sent a shiver down his spine. A moment later, the wolf’s snout pressed gently into his palm, the damp heat of its nose grounding him in the reality of the moment. Then— unexpectedly—a rough, warm tongue swept over his fingers in one slow lick. The touch lingered even after the wolf pulled back, leaving Sungho’s hand tingling, smelling faintly of fire and wood.

Sungho’s mind was still trying to catch up. One moment, he was staring down a predator, the next, the creature’s head tilted, ears pricking. It blinked slowly, then let its tongue loll out in a panting breath. The sudden shift made Sungho falter. That… looked almost goofy. The fierce, deliberate wolf from seconds ago now had the expression of a dog waiting for scraps at a dinner table.

Without realizing it, Sungho tilted his head slightly, confused. The wolf’s eyes followed, and—to his quiet shock—it tilted its head the exact same way, as if mocking or mimicking him.

A breath of courage slipped into his chest. He reached forward, hesitating for half a heartbeat before pressing his palm between the wolf’s ears. It was warm, dense with thick fur. The wolf didn’t flinch. Sungho ruffled him gently, fingers sinking deeper into the plush coat.

A teasing voice drifted from near the fireplace, light but edged with amusement.

“Are you trying to charm the new one, Woonhak?”

Sungho’s head snapped toward the sound. Where the snowy wolf had been curled moments ago, Leehan now lounged instead, golden hair mussed and tangled from sleep. He stretched lazily, and—Sungho’s eyes widened—he was entirely naked. Of course. Heat rushed to Sungho’s face and he jerked his gaze away, suddenly fascinated by the floorboards.

When he dared look back toward the brown wolf… there was no wolf at all. In its place stood a boy—young, with short brown hair that caught the firelight in warm, red tones. His grin was bright, his eyes alive with mischief. Even like this, human, something in the way he leaned forward and tilted his head screamed puppy.

And yes, he was just as naked as Leehan. Sungho’s gaze betrayed him, skimming from Woonhak’s shoulders to his arms, the faint lines of muscle down his stomach— He snapped his eyes upward so fast it almost hurt, only to find himself staring straight into Woonhak’s amused face.

That’s when it hit him— his palm was still resting against the boy’s head, fingers tangled in soft, warm hair. The realization burned through him. He snatched his hand back as though it had touched hot metal.

“I— I’M SO SORRY,” he stammered, voice cracking, his cheeks so hot they might combust.

Woonhak just laughed—open, cheerful, entirely unbothered—and let out a soft, delighted purr, leaning back slightly as if encouraging Sungho’s hand to stay.

Sungho couldn’t help it—the corners of his mouth lifted. The sight of the big wolf enjoying the touch, leaning into it like it was the best thing in the world, made something in him loosen.

Woonhak rose from the floor, stretching slightly before taking a careful step forward. He closed the distance between them until Sungho could see the faint shimmer of warmth on his skin from the fire. He was tall—taller than Sungho expected—and every bit of that height was leaning just a little too close. The boy’s eyes softened, curious, as he tilted his head and breathed in.

“You smell…” Woonhak’s voice was low, almost purring again. “…amazing.”

Sungho’s brain stalled. Completely. All he could think was: very tall, very pretty, very naked boy standing extremely close. His cheeks burned hotter.

Before he could even try to stammer something out, footsteps padded in from the hallway. “Oh, for moon’s sake…” Riwoo’s voice was still heavy with sleep, his hair sticking out in all directions. And yes—he was naked too. He took in the scene, one eyebrow lifting in slow amusement.

“Woonhakie. Control your alpha urges.”

Woonhak’s head jerked toward him, eyes going wide. “I was just complimenting his scent!”

Sungho wished the floor would open up and swallow him. His blush felt permanent now, his brain could barely string together a coherent thought.

Riwoo wandered over to the couch like he had all the time in the world, stretching lazily before sinking into it. He draped one arm along the backrest, watching the scene unfold with a catlike grin.

Sungho’s voice came out barely above a whisper, his face red. “Does… no one wear clothes in this household?”

From the fireplace, Leehan—still half-curled in the warm glow—actually snorted.

Woonhak tilted his head, still smiling. “We do! Sometimes…”

“It’s not exactly ideal,” Riwoo drawled from the couch, “since we shift so often. Clothes don’t really survive the process.” He stretched out his legs, utterly unconcerned, his bare skin catching the flicker of firelight. “You get used to it.”

Sungho most definitely would not get used to it.

When he finally got a chance to breathe, he found himself sitting at the edge of the couch, Riwoo sprawled beside him like he’d claimed the whole thing for himself.

For a moment, no one spoke. The room was warm, almost too warm, and yet something cold uncurled in Sungho’s chest. He swallowed hard.

“…What is happening to me?” His voice was thin, stretched tight.

Three sets of eyes turned toward him. None of them answered.

Sungho’s throat bobbed. “I shouldn’t be alive. I remember the ritual, the bite, the fever—” His fingers dug into the fabric. “And that… other feeling. Like something was trying to pull me apart from the inside.”

The silence deepened. Even the fire seemed to quiet.

He forced himself to go on. “…Jaehyun called me something. Omega.” The word felt foreign and heavy on his tongue. “I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what any of this means. And I can still feel…” He pressed a hand over his heart. “The fire. The fever. Like it’s still burning under my skin.”

His breath shook. The wolves scents hitting him in waves—citrus, sweet-spice, sandalwood—too vivid, too sharp. Too much.

Riwoo shifted beside him, the teasing completely gone now. He reached out slowly, the way someone might approach a trembling animal. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he murmured. “I promise.”

He didn’t answer the questions—couldn’t, maybe—but his voice gentled around the edges. “I’m an omega too. You’re not alone. I’ll teach you everything.”

The reassurance only fractured something inside Sungho. His eyes stung. His breath hitched.

“I…” His voice broke. “I want to go home.”

Riwoo’s expression softened like a bruise spreading—worry, sympathy, something protective flickering beneath it. Even Woonhak stopped fidgeting. Leehan straightened from the fireplace, gaze sharpening.

Sungho dragged shaky fingers through his hair, tears blurring the room. Reality, thick and heavy, finally crashed into him.

“I want to go home,” he whispered again, smaller this time, like a child lost in the dark.

The sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway. Sungho’s head snapped toward the noise, his whole body going rigid as two figures appeared in the doorway. The first was a tall boy with inky black hair, sharp features softened by the faintest pout in his lips. The second one, Sungho knew.

Jaehyun.

His hair was messy, his clothes rumpled like he’d just rolled out of bed, but his presence filled the room instantly. He looked calmer now, none of the sharp-edged anger from before—but the memory of that voice still clawed at Sungho’s chest. The command in it. The authority.

Sungho whimpered before he could stop himself—his body betraying him faster than thought. The sound was small, barely more than a breath, but it carried. The air changed instantly. His scent twisted, the now familiar sweetness turning sharp and sour, like apples left too long to rot. Fear bled into it, thick and unmistakable, and he knew—without being told—that everyone in the room could smell it.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Riwoo murmured, his tone so steady it almost drowned out the sound of Sungho’s heartbeat in his ears. “You’re safe. I’m here, remember?”

A warm hand settled against the back of Sungho’s neck, not gripping, just anchoring. The scent of fear still lingered, but Riwoo’s steady presence was enough to dull it, pulling Sungho back from the edge.

Across the room, Jaehyun’s gaze softened—noticing, assessing—but he didn’t take a step closer.

While Riwoo kept his voice low, murmuring reassurances to Sungho and rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades, the rest of the room seemed to shift. Leehan stood from his spot near the fireplace, stretching lazily before padding over to where Jaehyun and the tall, black-haired boy were lingering near the doorway.

“You feeling better?” Leehan asked, voice easy, but his eyes held something sharp.

Jaehyun’s gaze flicked briefly to Taesan before he nodded. “Yeah. Much better.”

A faint, knowing smile tugged at Leehan’s lips. “Good. I figured you would be… after Taesan helped.”

Taesan didn’t react much—just crossed his arms loosely, expression unreadable—but there was a faint twitch in the corner of his mouth, like he was holding back an actual smile.

Sungho, from his place on the couch, blinked in confusion. Helped… with what? He glanced between them, trying to piece it together, but the meaning slipped right past him. Whatever they were talking about, it was clearly something he wasn’t supposed to understand.

Riwoo, still pressed close, smoothed a hand over Sungho’s arm. “Don’t worry about them,” he murmured, noticing the crease in Sungho’s brow. Then he glanced over Sungho’s head, toward the brown-haired alpha still lingering nearby.

“Woonhak, can you set the table for breakfast?”

Woonhak blinked, like the request had pulled him out of some internal debate. “Yeah… but—” his eyes darted to Sungho, worry obvious, “—will he be okay?”

Riwoo gave a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll take good care of him. Go, go.”

Woonhak lingered a heartbeat longer, then finally padded toward the kitchen, his bare footsteps soft against the wooden floor.

With Woonhak gone, the living room felt quieter. Sungho’s pulse had slowed, the pounding in his ears easing under Riwoo’s calm, steady scent. That sour edge to the air was fading too. Riwoo shifted slightly on the couch, just enough for Sungho to notice. His attention flicked toward the other side of the room, then back down to Sungho’s face.

“Taesannie,” Riwoo called, voice warm, almost casual. “Come here.”

He didn’t look away as he said it. His gaze stayed on Sungho, eyes searching for the smallest change—a flinch, a spike of fear, the souring of scent that came when panic crept in.

Footsteps answered, slow and unhurried. Sungho’s shoulders tightened immediately. His spine went rigid, breath catching halfway in his chest. Another unknown presence closing in while he was trapped on a couch, half-wrapped in borrowed fabric, his body still humming with fever-heat and instincts he didn’t understand.

Riwoo felt it the second it happened. “It’s okay,” he murmured, barely more than a breath, his hand pressing lightly to Sungho’s wrist. Grounding. Steady. “It’s okay. Trust me.”

The words didn’t erase the tension, but they softened its edges. Sungho swallowed, forcing himself not to pull away, not to curl inward. His eyes stayed fixed forward as the footsteps drew closer, stopping just in front of them.

Then the man crouched down in front of them, his gaze flicking briefly to Riwoo before settling on Sungho. Not looming. Not standing over him. Crouching, deliberately, until they were closer to eye level.

Sungho noticed that first, before anything else. The intention behind it. The way Taesan chose not to tower, not to claim space, just to be there, steady and contained, watching both of them like he was waiting for permission to exist in the moment.

“This,” Riwoo said gently, “is Taesan.”

Taesan was striking, in a way that felt quieter than Riwoo’s warmth or Woonhak’s brightness. His hair was black, messy, like he ran a hand through it too often and never bothered to fix it after. It fell into his eyes in uneven strands, shadowing a gaze that was sharp and observant, taking Sungho in with careful restraint. His jaw was strong, cut cleanly, his expression unreadable but not unkind. There was something coiled about him, a sense of contained strength. Handsome, Sungho realized distantly. In a way that made his chest feel oddly tight.

Taesan didn’t speak right away. He looked at Riwoo first—a silent exchange Sungho couldn’t decipher then back at him. Slow. Respectful.

“Sungho,” Riwoo continued, his voice still calm, still anchoring. “I told you about him, didn’t I? Taesan is pack. He’s part of the family.”

Family. The word landed strangely, heavy and unfamiliar. Riwoo had used it before, spoken it like something warm and unquestionable—but to Sungho, it felt borrowed, ill-fitting. His fingers curled into the fabric at his lap. He didn’t know Taesan. He didn’t know any of them, not really. His instincts whispered caution, urged him to stay alert, to catalog every movement, every shift of weight.

Taesan inclined his head, just slightly. Not a bow, but close enough to feel intentional.

“Hi,” he said at last, voice low and even. “I know this is a lot. But you’re safe now. No one here will harm you.”

Taesan’s scent reached Sungho slowly, threading through the citrus warmth of Riwoo like something brewed and familiar, its presence gentler, subdued. Honeyed tea, slightly bitter at the edges. Old paper. Ink. Books that had been read and reread until their spines cracked. It was… comforting. Anchoring. The kind of scent that made his shoulders loosen before he realized they had been tight.

But beneath it—faint, almost hidden—there lingered another note. Musk, rain-soaked earth, the sharp cleanness of a storm just passed. Not Taesan’s, not entirely. A borrowed echo, clinging to him like damp air after thunder.

Sungho swallowed. His eyes drifted without permission, following the slope of Taesan’s neck. And then he saw it. Just beneath the collarbone, still red. Still angry against the skin. A fresh bite—unmistakable, mirrored so closely to the mark burning at Sungho’s own throat that his breath caught. The same shape. The same tenderness.

His stare locked onto it. Without realizing it, his hand lifted. Fingers brushed his own neck, finding the sore, swollen skin there. The bite throbbed faintly under his touch, heat flaring in quiet recognition.

Taesan noticed. Sungho knew it the moment Taesan’s gaze shifted—sharp now, focused, landing squarely on Sungho’s hand at his throat. Something flickered across his expression. For a heartbeat, they held each other’s eyes, the room closing in as the air thickened around them.

Then Riwoo’s voice broke through, light and teasing, shattering the tension. “You can ask Taesan for help if you need anything. He’ll show you around here. And don’t let that resting-bitch-face fool you—he looks intimidating, but he’s… not as scary as he seems.”

Sungho blinked, startled, the moment dissolving like mist. He watched, fascinated, as Riwoo padded forward, fingers already threading through Taesan’s dark hair with an ease that came only from familiarity. The taller boy stiffened at first, his jaw tightening and his brows knitting together in a mock glare, the corners of his mouth tilting into a pout that was almost comical.

“Riwoo!” Taesan grumbled, voice low, rough around the edges. “Stop—”

But his body betrayed him. Leaning into Riwoo’s touch, shoulders softening, posture loosening, he let out a quiet hum of concession, almost reluctant, almost embarrassed. His hands relaxed on his knees, his breath steadying against the gentle insistence of Riwoo’s fingers combing through his hair.

Sungho felt a small, unbidden smile tug at his lips. The sight was… comforting, somehow. There was warmth in the interaction, an intimacy that made the strange room, the foreign faces, and the heaviness of his own thoughts ease just a fraction. He couldn’t help it—watching Riwoo tease and Taesan yield, even just a little, made him feel like he wasn’t completely alone in this new, terrifying world.

Riwoo leaned back finally, grinning, and gave Taesan a playful nudge on the shoulder. “See? Told you. Not scary at all.”

Taesan shot him a pointed look, lips pressing into a line of faux irritation, but the light in his eyes betrayed him—soft, amused, and quietly accepting. Sungho’s lips curved into a fuller smile this time, a little brighter, a little more certain, as the tension in his body eased ever so slightly.

Breakfast stretched long and awkward, the air heavy with Sungho’s unease. He chose the far end of the table on purpose, keeping deliberate distance from Jaehyun, shoulders tense, eyes fixed anywhere but on the alpha’s sharp gaze.

Around him, the others made a show of normalcy, voices soft and casual, trying to mask the tension with small talk. Taesan and Woonhak bickered quietly over toast—“Stop stealing my food!” Woonhak snapped, grabbing a slice—while Leehan laughed at their familiar chaos.

Yet no matter the chatter, Sungho’s discomfort radiated through the kitchen, clinging to him like a second skin, sharp and pungent, impossible to ignore. Jaehyun finished silently, rising without a word, the faint sound of his footsteps echoing in the room as he left. Riwoo’s gaze lingered on the alpha for a long moment, lips twitching with unspoken thoughts, before turning back to Sungho. The tension in his shoulders softened when the alpha’s presence was gone, and Riwoo’s hand found his, squeezing gently.

“We’re going to take a bath,” he said casually, voice calm, grounding, an anchor in the storm of Sungho’s nerves.

“…A bath?” Sungho asked. His skin was still slick with sweat, oversensitive and wrong, and the thought of water made his throat tighten with need.

“To the river! Follow me!” Riwoo’s tone left no room for argument. He rose, bare feet brushing lightly against the floor, hair tousled and unbothered.

Sungho allowed himself to be guided. As soon as he stepped outside, the cool morning air hit his skin, making him shiver. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, and the smell of pine and damp earth wrapped around him like a cloak.

The cabin itself sat nestled in a small clearing, its wooden walls weathered and dark, streaked with moss and age. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, carrying the faint tang of breakfast, mingling with the rich, forest air. The structure was modest, almost hidden among the towering trees, but sturdy, promising shelter. A small porch jutted out over the uneven ground, and a hand-carved railing, smooth from years of use, lined its edge.

Around it, the forest pressed close, shadows and light interweaving among the trunks, whispering with the wind. Every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves made Sungho’s pulse quicken, yet beneath it all, the quiet rhythm of the woods seemed to reach for him, brushing against something newly awakened in his chest.

And there—perched on a rock ahead—was the familiar orange-furred wolf, his amber eyes tracking Sungho’s every move. The moment he saw him step onto the clearing, the wolf rose gracefully, muscles rippling beneath its bright coat, and padded ahead to the narrow dirt path winding deeper into the woods. His movements were deliberate, confident, as if he knew exactly where they should go.

Sungho followed, the thin robe covering his body doing little to protect him from scratches and the uneven ground. Every step hurt his bare feet, but he didn’t stop. The path wound through the trees, filtered sunlight dancing over them, leaves brushing his arms, branches snagging his hair. He could hear the river before he could see it—the gentle rush, the soothing, constant murmur.

Finally, they emerged into a clearing. Sungho blinked against the sun’s reflection on the water. The river spread wide, its surface sparkling.

Riwoo—now human—turned to him, eyes bright and teasing. “Here we are. It’s a bit cold for human skin at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

Riwoo’s eyes sparkled as he gave a teasing grin. In the next instant, his form shifted, sleek muscles rippling beneath fur, and he leapt into the river with a powerful bound. Water erupted around him, fur glistening, teeth flashing as he paddled and twisted with playful ferocity. Waves splashed high, droplets catching the sunlight and scattering into bright, fleeting sparks.

Sungho blinked, mouth open. “Really?” he muttered, half laughing, half incredulous.

He tugged at his robe, cheeks burning, and let it fall to the riverbank. Bare feet touched the water first. A sharp gasp left him—cold, cutting through the heat left by the fever. He hissed, jumping back instinctively, then hesitated, toes digging into the soft mud beneath the flowing current.

The river smelled alive: wet stone, moss, driftwood, and that tang of fresh water mixing with the earthy scent of the surrounding forest. Sungho inhaled deeply, letting it fill his lungs. He could smell the faint citrus of Riwoo’s presence even over the river’s natural scents, grounding him, pulling him in.

Every sound was amplified: the slap of water against Riwoo’s fur, the distant rustle of leaves, a bird calling overhead. His heart raced, senses buzzing. There was something primal here—the river, the woods, the smells, the cold water biting at his skin—and a part of him felt… instinctively alive, alert, awake.

Sungho dipped a hand, then the other, letting the current trickle over his wrists. He leaned forward, chest brushing the water, then slowly lowered himself in. A shiver ran up his spine, but he laughed, surprised at how free it felt. His instincts hummed. The river and forest stirred around him, responding to him as if he were a missing piece finally set back into place.

And then, movement—a flash of orange hair, bright eyes. Riwoo had shifted back into human form, sleek and wet, swimming toward him with a grin. Sungho froze for just a second, then felt an irresistible pull: this was part of the pack, part of him now, and he couldn’t resist following.

Sungho splashed at Riwoo reflexively, water flying over his shoulders and chest. Riwoo yelped in mock protest, spinning and sending a wave back toward Sungho. The cold water bit at their skin, but the sun above made everything sparkle—the river like liquid glass, the forest alive with rustling leaves and the scent of moss.

Sungho couldn’t stop laughing, his body shaking with it, tension finally loosening its grip on his ribs. Riwoo’s eyes crinkled with amusement, as he ducked under the water and surfaced behind Sungho, splashing his hair and shoulders.

“You’re fast,” Sungho gasped, dripping and shivering.

“I’m just happy you’re here,” Riwoo said suddenly, his voice quieter, more sincere. He swam closer, letting the current circle them together. “You don’t know… I’ve always been the only omega in the pack. All of them are precious, yes, but I’ve always wanted someone like you. An omega to share this with, someone who can understand me.”

Sungho froze, a pang of confusion mixing with warmth, his ears turning hot. He blinked at Riwoo, unsure how to respond, but the way the orange-haired boy watched him—so soft, so intent—made him feel… seen. Important. He couldn’t find words. Instead, he splashed again, nervous and shy. Riwoo chuckled, the sound carrying over the river, and moved closer, letting their shoulders brush.

The blush in Sungho’s cheeks was hot enough to sting. Somehow, between the cold river, the sunlight, and the scent of Riwoo clinging to him, he realized that he had never felt so connected to anyone before.

Sungho’s teeth chattered from the cold, but his mind was burning with curiosity and a strange flutter in his chest. “Riwoo… what does it mean… to be an omega?” he asked, voice tentative.

Riwoo swam even closer, letting the current press them together. The orange-haired boy’s warm, damp body brushed Sungho’s side. They floated face to face, eyes meeting, and Riwoo spoke, calm and measured. “Omegas… we usually take on more of the mother or caregiver roles in the pack. We nurture, care, protect.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “The forest mirrors that. It leans toward omegas—the ones who keep life steady, who help it grow instead of taking from it.”

A brief silence settled between them. Then Riwoo looked back at Sungho. “But there’s more,” he said. “Every wolf has a cycle.”

Sungho blinked, brow knitting as he caught on the word. “Cycle…?”

“Yes,” Riwoo said softly, closing the distance between them until their torsos pressed together. The sudden closeness made Sungho’s pulse stutter, caught somewhere between anticipation and confusion.

“Like the fever you just had,” Riwoo went on, his voice calm at first. Then he leaned in closer, close enough that Sungho could feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek. Riwoo’s eyes flicked up to meet his, something playful glinting in them.

“Once every few months,” he murmured, lowering his voice, letting it drag just enough to make Sungho’s skin prickle, “omegas are hit by it. A heat… a crave.”

He tilted his face up, lips hovering near Sungho’s ear now, the words no longer meant just to be heard, but felt. “A craving,” Riwoo whispered, slow and deliberate, voice velvet-soft and unmistakably pleased, “to be… bred.”

Sungho froze, heart hammering. The words sank in, and with them, the weight of Riwoo’s closeness. He could see every drop of water clinging to Riwoo’s damp hair, the way sunlight made it glint like copper. His skin glowed, flushed from the cold water, and the faint brush of his fangs past his lips caught Sungho’s eye. He was breathtaking, impossibly close, and utterly real.

Sungho instinctively tried to step back—only to find a solid rock pressing against his spine. There was nowhere to go. Riwoo’s voice dropped, intimate, almost teasing. “It’s not dangerous… not with the pack. But it’s strong.”

Riwoo’s fingers lingered along his side, light, almost teasing, tracing the curve of his ribs. Beneath the water, the sensation bloomed strangely intense, a quiet shock that rippled through Sungho’s body and left him unsteady.

“It can make your head spin,” Riwoo continued quietly. “Your body gets heavy. Thoughts blur. You might feel too warm, too sensitive—like everything is happening all at once. And sometimes,” he added, voice dipping lower, “you forget how to hold yourself back. Instincts get louder than manners.”

Sungho’s breaths came faster, chest rising and falling against Riwoo’s. The warmth, the scent, the press of their bodies—it was dizzying. He felt flushed, exposed, overwhelmed by sensations he didn’t understand.

“That’s when omegas need grounding. Someone they trust.” Riwoo tilted his head, watching him carefully, letting the orange hair stick to his forehead in damp strands, eyes locked on Sungho’s. “You’ll learn… and I’ll help you,” he murmured. “You’re safe with me.”

Sungho’s head spun. Riwoo’s presence was intoxicating. The river’s current tugged at them both, but Sungho barely noticed. His heart hammered, ears ringing with the closeness, the warmth of Riwoo pressed against him. His mind was dizzy, overloaded with the river’s cold, the omega’s scent, and the strange, pulsing awareness of his own body.

Sungho’s eyes flicked to Riwoo’s lips, full and parted slightly, and heat pooled low in his chest. He couldn’t think—couldn’t breathe properly—but the pull was magnetic. Without planning it, without allowing his mind a say, he leaned in, closing the small distance between them. Their lips met, tentative at first, a spark of shock and heat. Everything narrowed to the press of Riwoo’s warmth, the sharp taste of him, the tense quiet between breaths.

Then—instinct took over. Riwoo’s hand pressed gently against Sungho’s side, holding him close, while Sungho’s fingers dug into Riwoo’s waist, tension coiling in his body like a living thing, aware of every shift, every inch, every shared heartbeat.

The cold water splashed around them unnoticed, the forest muffling everything except the rapid thumping of their hearts. Sungho’s body relaxed into the unexpected warmth of the kiss. Riwoo’s lips moved with a natural rhythm, something almost urgent, almost desperate, as if his body remembered what he had always yearned for.

The kiss deepened, Riwoo’s lips pressing harder, then rolling into a slow, relentless rhythm that stole the strength from Sungho’s legs. Water dripped from their hair, running down their faces, mixing with the heat of their closeness, glistening on their skin. Sungho could feel Riwoo’s warmth seeping into him, the press of his chest against his own, the brush of wet hair across his face.

His own hands roamed, tentative at first, then with more daring, following the curve of Riwoo’s waist, tracing the lines of muscle under slick, damp skin. The world narrowed to the press of lips and the ragged, intoxicating rhythm of shared breaths.

Sungho’s resolve slipped. A low, shuddering moan escaped him, raw and startled, and he froze at the sound, cheeks burning hotter than ever. Riwoo broke the kiss instantly, pulling back just enough to meet his wide, flushed eyes. Their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling, hearts still hammering in wild, frantic sync.

“I—” Riwoo started, voice barely above a whisper, eyes wide. “I’m sorry… my body… it just—”

Sungho blinked, cheeks burning hot. “I—I didn’t… neither did I…”

They froze, both flustered, confused, hearts still racing. An invisible pull lingered between them—quiet but relentless, as if the river itself had braided their instincts together and refused to let go. Around them, the water rushed on, indifferent to the bond tightening in its depths.

Riwoo’s cheeks were pink, his lips still glistening from the water and the kiss. He stepped back slightly, swallowing hard, eyes darting away.

“I—uh…” he started, then paused. Instead of finishing, he shook his head and a low, rumbling sound came from his throat.

Before Sungho could ask, Riwoo’s body shivered, fur sprouting quickly over his form as he transformed into his wolf form. His canine eyes met Sungho’s for a brief moment—soft, apologetic, and teasing all at once—before he turned and padded gracefully toward the riverbank, tail swishing.

Sungho stood frozen, water dripping from his hair, the chill of the river now mingling with the heat of embarrassment burning through his chest. His hands clutched at the water, fingers flexing uselessly as if he could steady himself that way, as if grounding his body might quiet the chaos spiraling through his head. He could still smell Riwoo’s citrus scent clinging faintly to the wet air—even now, even after the wolf had disappeared behind the trees—bright and warm and impossible to ignore.

He dragged himself out of the river at last, bare feet sinking into the cold mud at the bank. His robe lay where he’d left it, darkened with damp; he snatched it up and shrugged it back on with clumsy hands, fabric sticking to his skin as a shiver tore through him from head to toe.

Nothing inside him felt settled.

His emotions were a tangled mess, loose threads pulled too tight all at once. One moment his chest felt light, fluttering with something dangerously close to joy, and the next it dropped heavy and hollow, like he’d stepped off solid ground without realizing it. He pressed his lips together, breath shaking. Maybe this was part of it—part of whatever the bite had done to him. The fever, the instincts, the way everything felt too sharp, too vivid, as if his heart had lost its skin.

Because how else could he explain this?

He had laughed. He had kissed a boy by the river, let himself be pulled into warmth and teasing smiles and a closeness that made his pulse stutter. He had enjoyed it—gods help him, he had—and the realization twisted something deep in his chest until it ached. Guilt crept in like cold water, seeping through every crack. His mother’s face flashed unbidden in his mind: her hands clasped tight, her eyes red and hollow, mourning a son she believed dead. While she grieved, he stood here, alive, breathless, flushed with lingering warmth that had nothing to do with the river’s cold.

What kind of person did that make him?

His throat tightened. He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. He hadn’t asked to be taken, to be bitten, to be changed into something that felt so unsteady, so easily swayed by touch and scent and presence. And yet—another truth rose, unwelcome but stubborn—some part of him had leaned into it. Some part of him had wanted Riwoo close, had responded before guilt could catch up.

Sungho dragged a trembling hand through his wet hair, pressing his fingers against his scalp as if he could push clarity into his muddled thoughts. The river’s chill clung to his skin, mingling with the heat of embarrassment and lingering tension, and it left him raw, unsteady. His emotions were no longer anchored where they used to be—too much had shifted, too fast. His body no longer felt entirely his own, and his heart—his heart didn’t seem to know which direction it was allowed to pull.

Without warning, a low, crawling buzz clawed its way up from the ground, pressing into his bones and filling the hollow behind his eyes with a strange, unnameable pressure. He froze, fingers curling reflexively at his side as the other dragged through his damp hair, and the world tilted. The hum deepened, pressing into his skull with a weight that made him stagger, and instinctively, he leaned back, letting his shoulder find the rough reassurance of a tree trunk.

“—gh…” His voice caught somewhere between a gasp and a stutter, swallowed by the strange resonance thrumming through the air.

The forest went silent.

At first, it was subtle—the song of the river muted, the birds’ chatter cut off mid-note. Then the wind stopped entirely. Leaves hung frozen in the branches as if time itself had slowed to a crawl. Even the usual rustle of small animals vanished. Sungho’s chest tightened. The pressure behind his eyes bloomed into a full, dizzying ache, and he swayed, gripping the tree trunk as if it could keep him tethered to the world.

His breath hitched. A sudden awareness crept over him, prickling at the back of his neck—the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Every nerve in his body screamed it. The hairs along his arms stood on end, his stomach clenched, a deep, sinking dread threading through him like icy roots. The feeling wasn’t rational. There were no shapes, no shadows—only the unrelenting sense of eyes boring into him from all directions at once.

A shiver ran through him, and his fingers dug into the rough bark of the tree, grounding himself as the unease coiled tighter in his chest. He wanted to move, to run, but his legs felt unsteady, unresponsive, as if the forest itself had reached out to root him in place.

The sound of a soft tap caught his attention. So faint he almost dismissed it as imagination. Then it came again—another tap, clearer this time. Sungho’s gaze fell to the ground. A few drops had landed near his bare feet. Wet, dark, and stark against the muted greens and browns of the forest floor. He blinked, confused, heart stuttering. Slowly, hesitantly, his fingers rose to his face. When he pulled them back, the sight stole the air from his lungs.

Blood.

His stomach lurched violently, nausea coiling in his gut. He brought a trembling hand to his nose, dabbing at the crimson streaks with the back of his fingers. His pulse raced, wild and unsteady, and for a long, suspended moment, the world felt impossibly heavy, quiet, and wrong.

Then—sudden, brutal—sound slammed back into the forest.

The river gushed in a rush of silver and white. Birds erupted into terrified, chattering flight. Leaves shivered, and small creatures bolted through the underbrush, sending twigs snapping underfoot. The forest exhaled as if nothing had happened, every vibration and murmur restored to the chaotic symphony of life.

Sungho slid down the tree trunk, chest heaving, blood still clinging to his fingers. His head throbbed, a dull echo of the hum that had almost split his mind. He blinked rapidly, as if the motion alone could shake away the residue of the silence.

Something had been there.

The thought lodged itself deep, stubborn and unwelcome. He pressed his back to the rough bark, grounding himself in its texture, in the scrape of wood against skin, in anything that felt real. His pulse was still racing, skittering beneath his ribs, and the buzzing—faint now, but unmistakable—continued to vibrate somewhere behind his eyes, low and restless.

Was it his body?

Since waking in the forest, everything about him had felt different—expanded, heightened, as if the world had been turned up a notch and he’d been forced to catch up. The instincts, the sharpened awareness, the way every sensation landed heavier, brighter, louder—it all pointed to the same answer. Omega. Newly made. Still settling. His system trying to find balance after being wrenched apart and stitched back together.

He stared at the drying blood on his fingers, at the way it had darkened in the creases of his skin, and swallowed hard. Omegas were supposed to be sensitive, weren’t they? The forest, the hum, the pressure in his skull—maybe it was just that. His body recalibrating. Learning how to exist like this.

But the thought refused to sit right. The sensation hadn’t felt internal. It hadn’t risen from within him the way instincts did, blooming warm and unavoidable. This had been different. As if something had brushed against his mind, with intent—testing the edges, pressing just enough to let him know it could.

Sungho pushed himself upright, suddenly unable to remain still. The forest felt closer now, the trees standing too straight, too attentive. Every rustle of leaves set his nerves alight.

He didn’t want to know.

Whatever had been there—whatever might still be there—he wanted no part of it. He wiped his hands against his robe with a sharp, irritated motion, as if he could rid himself of the blood, of the proof that something was wrong, and started moving.

At first he walked, forcing himself into a steady pace, counting his breaths, focusing on the landmarks that led back to the cabin. But unease crept into every step, a prickling awareness at the back of his neck that refused to fade. The buzzing flared again, faint but persistent, and his strides lengthened without conscious thought.

The forest seemed to watch him go.

His heart hammered harder the closer he got to the cabin, relief and fear tangling tightly in his chest. He didn’t look back. He wouldn’t. The urge gnawed at him, sharp and insistent, but he kept his eyes forward, fixed on the narrow path ahead.

All he wanted was the door. The walls. The illusion of safety.

Behind him, the forest remained quiet—too quiet—as if waiting.

The cabin door creaked softly as he pushed it open. The moment he stepped inside, the forest cut off, reduced to a muffled presence beyond the walls, and the pressure in his chest loosened just enough for him to breathe. Warmth greeted him instantly—woodsmoke lingering faintly in the air, the quiet crackle of the dying fire somewhere deeper inside. The contrast made his body shudder, the cold still clinging to his clothes, to his skin, to his bones.

“Hey—”

The voice was gentle, careful, as if it didn’t want to startle him.

Sungho looked up and found Taesan standing a few steps away, a towel folded neatly in his hands. Calm eyes, relaxed shoulders, the kind of presence that filled a room without demanding attention.

“You look freezing,” Taesan said, offering the towel without hesitation.

Sungho didn’t think twice. His fingers closed around the fabric immediately, grateful, almost embarrassingly so. The towel was warm—fresh from near the fire, maybe—and he brought it up around his shoulders, pressing it into his damp hair, his neck. Another shiver ran through him, this one softer, more relieved.

“Thank you,” he said, voice a little hoarse.

Taesan smiled, small and genuine. “Anytime.”

Sungho hadn’t realized how tense he’d been until that moment—how tightly he’d been holding himself together. Standing there, wrapped in warmth, he felt something inside him ease. He barely knew Taesan. They’d exchanged just a few words earlier in the day, but there was something undeniably comforting about him.

His scent reached Sungho then, subtle but distinct. It reminded him of drinking tea in an old library—paper and wood and something quietly sweet beneath it all. Familiar. Safe. The kind of smell that made you want to sit down and stay awhile.

Taesan gestured toward the inside of the cabin. “You can sit closer to the fire if you want. It’ll help.”

Sungho nodded, moving slowly, the towel still clutched around him like a lifeline. Each step felt heavier than it should have, exhaustion finally catching up now that the adrenaline was gone. He sank onto the soft pelts near the hearth, letting the heat soak into him as he watched the flames dance.

Taesan remained nearby, deliberately keeping his distance— close enough to be there, far enough not to press.

A few quiet minutes passed like that, the crackle of the hearth filling the space between them. Sungho focused on the towel in his hands, patting at his skin, careful as his fingers reached his neck. The bite there was still tender, the skin warm and sensitive beneath the fabric. He slowed unconsciously, dabbing instead of rubbing, as if too much pressure might make it real all over again.

“You…” His voice came out hesitant, softer than he meant it to be. Taesan looked up immediately. Sungho swallowed. “You have one too.”

His fingers hovered at his own throat as he said it, mirroring the place where Taesan’s collar dipped just enough to reveal the mark—fresh, unmistakable. Proof.

Taesan hummed, low and thoughtful. “Yeah.”

That was it. No explanation. No elaboration.

Sungho frowned, confusion knitting between his brows. “Are you… like me?” He hesitated, then pushed through. “An omega? But Riwoo said—” He stopped himself, shaking his head slightly. “He said he was the only one. Before I came.”

Taesan’s expression didn’t change much, but something in his eyes sharpened, attentive. “I’m not an omega,” he said calmly. “I’m a beta. Leehan too.”

Sungho blinked. “A… beta?” 

Taesan shifted his weight, settling more comfortably against the couch beside him. “It’s different,” he explained. “Different than alphas. Different than omegas.”

That… did not help. Sungho tilted his head, still lost. “How?”

Taesan opened his mouth, clearly about to say more—and then the quiet shattered.

Loud footsteps echoed down the hallway, followed by laughter, bright and unrestrained. Taesan’s lips twitched, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t the cool, unreadable expression Sungho had seen so far. This one had mischief in it. Something playful. He glanced toward the door, then back at Sungho, eyes gleaming. “We’re cooler,” he said, utterly unhelpful—and clearly pleased with himself.

“What—” Sungho started.

Too late. The door burst open and Woonhak stumbled inside, half-laughing, half-yelping, Leehan right behind him. Leehan’s arms were locked around Woonhak’s waist, dragging him back with ease as he tried to squirm free.

“Stop—!” Woonhak protested between breathless laughs. “Leehan, I swear—!”

“You swear what?” Leehan grinned, fingers digging mercilessly into Woonhak’s sides. “That you won’t steal from my garden again?”

“I was hungry!” Woonhak squealed, finally losing the battle and bursting into laughter as he tried—and failed—to pry Leehan’s hands away.

They nearly toppled over each other, all limbs and noise, filling the room with chaotic energy. Sungho watched, wide-eyed, as they wrestled and laughed without a care in the world.

Taesan straightened beside him, the teasing glint in his eyes softening into something warmer as he watched them. Sungho didn’t get another chance to ask. The moment had passed—swallowed whole by laughter and the sudden warmth of the room.

After the laughter faded and Leehan tugged Taesan away down the hall—murmuring something Sungho didn’t quite catch—the cabin slowly settled again. The fire crackled low and steady, filling the space with warmth and shadows that danced along the walls.

Sungho stayed by the hearth, hands wrapped loosely around the towel draped over his shoulders, still chasing the last of the chill from his bones.

He was just beginning to relax when he felt it.

One moment Sungho had space, the next Woonhak was there, dropping down beside him with zero hesitation. Too close. Way too close. Their shoulders brushed immediately, thighs touching, the alpha leaning in as if that was simply how people were meant to sit.

Sungho stiffened. He’d already noticed it before—how Woonhak seemed entirely unfamiliar with the idea of personal space. Taesan kept distance with intention. Riwoo moved carefully, always watching. Woonhak, on the other hand, barreled straight through boundaries like they didn’t exist.

“H-hey—” Sungho started, but the sound died in his throat.

Woonhak tilted his head, then nudged forward without warning, his forehead bumping lightly against Sungho’s neck. His nose brushed skin that was still warm from the fire, breath ghosting over Sungho’s pulse.

“You really do smell divine,” Woonhak said quietly, lips close to Sungho’s skin.

Sungho’s brain short-circuited. Heat rushed up his neck, his ears burning as his scent spiked in sharp, startled waves. His hands flew up on instinct, landing on Woonhak’s shoulders—solid, warm—trying to push him back. Just a little. Enough to breathe.

“W–Woonhak,” he said, flustered, voice cracking despite his effort to steady it.

But Woonhak didn’t pull away. He didn’t look offended or confused. He just blinked at him, then broke into a wide, unapologetic grin—bright and open, so unmistakably puppy-like it almost hurt.

“Oh,” he said, delighted. “You react so cutely.”

Sungho froze. Mortified. His fingers were still curled into Woonhak’s shirt, his heart racing so loudly he was sure the alpha could hear it.

Then Woonhak’s eyes lit up with sudden excitement.

“I wanna show you something!” he announced, already bouncing to his feet. He grabbed Sungho’s wrist—not rough, just eager—and tugged. “Come with me!!!”

Sungho barely had time to process.

“I— wait—” he tried, stumbling as he was pulled up. He glanced helplessly toward the rest of the cabin, but there was no one nearby to intervene. No Riwoo. No Taesan. Just Woonhak, smiling like he’d already decided.

And somehow… Sungho found he couldn’t say no.

He let himself be dragged along, heart still hammering, cheeks burning, wondering distantly how he’d gone from terrified of everyone in this place to being hauled away by an overexcited alpha who smelled like fire and trouble.

By the time they reached a narrow staircase, Woonhak was already chattering. “There’s this crawlspace behind the guest room—it’s got all these old pack carvings in it. Nobody really goes there, but I thought you’d think it’s cool. Oh, and maybe we can sneak some bread rolls from the pantry later. Taesan makes the best ones, you have to try them when they’re still warm—”

The “crawlspace” turned out to be more of a low, narrow attic hidden behind a slanted door at the far end of the hallway. Woonhak crouched to unlatch it, his wide shirt slipping over one shoulder as he grinned back at Sungho.

“Watch your head. And, uh, maybe your knees.”

The air inside was warmer, dust-heavy and smelling faintly of pine resin. The wooden beams were etched, every inch of them covered in swirling lines, spirals, and claw marks that didn’t seem random. Some looked old, smoothed by time; others were fresh, sharp-edged and pale against the darker wood.

Sungho crouched, tracing a fingertip over one. “What are these?”

“Pack history,” Woonhak said simply, settling cross-legged in the middle of the cramped space. “Stories. Names. Warnings, sometimes. If you look over there—” He pointed toward a beam near the back, where the marks were deeper, almost gouges. “—that one’s about a fight with a rival pack. See the long slash marks? That’s an alpha challenge.”

Sungho followed the patterns with his eyes, frowning. “And this?” he asked, gesturing to a smaller symbol, more delicate—two crescent shapes facing each other.

Woonhak leaned over, his hair brushing Sungho’s arm. “That’s… an omega’s mark. It means they found a mate.” His voice softened.

Sungho let his fingers hover over it for a second longer before pressing them gently to the wood. The grooves were shallow but deliberate, the curves smooth, almost reverent. Whoever had carved it hadn’t rushed. He traced the crescent shapes slowly, feeling the faint resistance beneath his fingertips, and something in his chest pulled tight—a quiet ache. It was… pretty. Intimate. Like a promise left behind for someone else to find.

“…Is this,” he asked hesitantly, still staring at the mark, “from your ancestors? Your parents? People from your pack?”

Woonhak’s smile dimmed just a little—not sadness, more like thoughtfulness. He shook his head. “No. Not ours.”

Sungho looked up at him, surprised.

“When Jaehyun formed the pack,” Woonhak continued, shifting so his shoulder brushed Sungho’s knee, “this place was empty. The cabin, the land—no one living here. No pack. We didn’t inherit it from anyone.” He reached out, tapping one of the darker beams. “These marks were already here. From… before.”

“Before you?” Sungho echoed.

“Before all of us,” Woonhak said easily, like that fact alone didn’t unsettle him. “Different wolves. Different packs. Maybe not even packs the way we understand them now.”

Sungho swallowed. The space suddenly felt warmer, the air thicker with resin and dust and something he couldn’t quite name. “So… how long have you lived here, then? With them?”

Woonhak blinked, genuinely caught off guard. He opened his mouth, then paused. His brow furrowed as if he were trying to grasp something just out of reach.

“I—” He laughed softly, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know. A while?”

“A while?” Sungho repeated, incredulous.

“Yeah,” Woonhak said, still smiling, but there was something uncertain behind it now. “Long enough that it feels like forever. Like… I can’t remember a time before this place. Or maybe I can, but it’s fuzzy. Slippery.” He gestured vaguely around them. “Like trying to remember a dream after you wake up.”

Sungho’s gaze drifted back to the carvings, to the layers of marks etched over one another. “That’s… strange.”

Woonhak hummed in agreement. “Jaehyun says the woods do that. Not in a bad way,” he added quickly, glancing at Sungho. “Just… they hold things. Time, memories, feelings. If you stay long enough, they kind of wrap around you.” His grin returned, softer now. “You stop counting days. You stop worrying about where you came from. You just… belong.”

Sungho hesitated, frowning. “Isn’t that… kind of scary?” The image of the forest flashed through his mind unbidden—the sudden dizziness, the way the world had gone eerily silent, the crawling sensation at the back of his neck that he still couldn’t shake. His fingers curled slightly at his sides. “Not remembering… how you got here, or anything about your past?”

Woonhak tilted his head, watching the sunlight flicker across the beams of the attic. “Maybe it sounds scary,” he admitted slowly, voice soft. “But… it feels more like freedom. Like… I don’t have to fight against anything. I just am here. Part of the woods, part of the pack. I belong, and that makes everything else… less important.”

Sungho let the words sink in, the weight of them twisting in his chest. His fingers rested against the omega mark again, his pulse thrumming beneath his skin. He wasn’t sure why, but the idea both comforted and unsettled him—like the forest itself was listening, patient and ancient, waiting to decide how much of him it would keep.

“Want to make one?” Woonhak asked suddenly, grinning again like he hadn’t just dropped a little emotional weight into the air. “So the next person who finds this place knows you were here.”

Sungho hesitated, caught between the warmth of the offer and the faint unease curling in his gut. “I don’t know…”

“It’s okay. No rush. If you want to leave it for another day, that’s fine.” The alpha shifted closer, brushing his shoulder against Sungho’s, letting the warmth of his body press gently into the older’s side. “We’ve got all the time in the world,” he murmured, voice low, a playful curve on his lips. Then, slow and deliberate, he leaned closer—close enough that his nose brushed Sungho’s hair, breathing in deep.

“Sungho…” The word drifted out, soft, a little breathy, almost a sigh. “You reaaaally smell… so good.”

Sungho’s ears burned, his cheeks flaring hot, and his pulse kicked into overdrive. His heart hammered in his chest, each beat loud enough to drown out his thoughts. “You keep saying that—” His voice faltered, catching in his throat.

“You… you smell like… like warm apple pie,” Woonhak said softly, a little grin tugging at his lips. “Sweet. Really sweet. Can I… scent you?” He leaned just slightly closer, eyes bright with eagerness, every movement radiating impatience and curiosity.

Sungho’s stomach flipped, heat pooling low and high, a tremor running through his fingers as he tried—and failed—to pull back. “Scent me? What… what does that even mean?” His words stumbled out, breath shallow, body stiff with a mixture of confusion and embarrassment.

“Wolves have scent glands,” Woonhak explained, tone suddenly more serious—though the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him. “Most people think about the ones in the neck, but…” He held up his hand, turning his wrist so the soft skin faced Sungho. “…we’ve got them here too. Less intense. Y’know, for when you don’t wanna overwhelm someone.”

Sungho hesitated, but Woonhak moved even closer, holding his wrist right under Sungho’s nose.

“Smell. Right here.”

Reluctantly, Sungho leaned in. The scent hit him like a warm breeze—richer, deeper, the same underlying Woonhak-smell but more concentrated, more real. It carried the warm, smoky richness of fire and the subtle, grounding scent of sandalwood, curling in his chest like comfort.

“That’s because there’s a scent gland there,” Woonhak said proudly, lowering his arm. Then, without much warning, he rubbed both wrists along the sides of Sungho’s neck, slow and deliberate. The brush of skin was warm, almost ticklish, and Sungho shivered when Woonhak’s wrists slid over his upper arms too, leaving a faint trace of that rich scent on him.

By the time Woonhak stepped back, Sungho felt… weirdly calm. Safe.

“There,” Woonhak said with a grin. “Now your turn!”

Sungho blinked. “My turn?”

“Uh-huh!” Woonhak leaned forward expectantly, offering his neck like it was the most casual thing in the world. “Come on. Fair’s fair.”

“I—I don’t even know how to—”

“It’s the same,” Woonhak cut in, stepping closer so Sungho’s back hit the wall of their little nook. “Just… put your wrist against my skin and rub. Easy.” His grin softened.

Sungho swallowed hard, pulse ticking in his throat. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he lifted his wrist to his nose. His own scent—sweet at first—was now mingled with Woonhak’s, sharper, more intoxicating, and almost addictive in the way it clung to him. The thought of leaving that on someone else made his stomach do a strange flip.

Woonhak waited, patient but close enough that Sungho could feel his breath. “Go on.”

Taking a breath, Sungho pressed his wrist gently against the side of Woonhak’s neck. The skin there was hot from the fireplace, and Woonhak made a low hum—half pleased, half teasing—as Sungho dragged the contact slowly down to his collarbone.

When Sungho pulled back, Woonhak was smiling wider than before, cheeks faintly pink. “Mhm. We smell so nice now.”

Sungho didn’t trust himself to answer. His own scent lingered in the air now, woven with Woonhak’s, and the mix made his chest feel warm in a way he couldn’t explain.

Woonhak’s eyes lit up, a mischievous spark dancing in their depths. “I’ve got an idea,” he whispered. “Let’s raid the pantry. Just a little… stealth mission.”

Sungho blinked. “Right now…?”

“Yes! Just come with me,” Woonhak said, already padding toward the staircase. His bare feet made barely a sound against the wooden steps.

They crept down the hallway, Woonhak leading with the confidence of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. Sungho followed, careful to step where Woonhak did, smirking at the ridiculousness of the situation, wondering how he’d ended up sneaking through the cabin like some sort of mischievous accomplice.

The pantry door came into view, a small wooden thing tucked into the corner. Woonhak crouched to unlatch it, peeking over his shoulder at Sungho with a grin that was all teeth and delight. “Ready?”

A teasing smile tugged at Sungho’s lips. “I… guess so.”

The moment the door swung open, a rush of warm, fragrant air hit them. Fresh herbs, the earthy tang of stored vegetables, and the sweet promise of baked bread filled the space. Woonhak dove in first, plucking a loaf from the shelf and holding it triumphantly in his hands. “Taesan makes these best when they’re warm… but honestly, they’re still really good even now.” he whispered, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

Sungho crouched beside him, eyes wide as he glanced around. Everything smelled rich and alive—the pantry was almost magical in its abundance, like a secret world tucked away from the rest of the cabin. He reached for a small jar of preserves, fingers brushing Woonhak’s, and the jolt of warmth that shot through him was almost too much.

Woonhak leaned back, loaf in hand, eyes glinting. “See? Told you it’d be fun. Just you and me, the best snacks in the world, and nobody to tell us we can’t.”

Sungho’s lips curved into a small smile.

Then came a soft sound at the kitchen doorway, sharp in the quiet of the cabin. Both boys froze mid-motion, Woonhak’s hand hovered over the small sack of bread, Sungho caught with a piece already half-lifted to his mouth. A tall shadow slipped into the room, stretching long and familiar across the warm, amber glow of the kitchen light.

Leehan. His blonde hair was tousled, falling carelessly into his eyes, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe. One eyebrow lifted, sharp and teasing. “What… exactly are you two doing?” His voice carried amusement, easy and confident, but the instant presence made Sungho’s back stiffen and his heart skip.

Woonhak’s grin faltered for the briefest heartbeat, then he shrugged, all casual innocence. “Uh… snack inspection?” he offered, as if that explained everything.

Leehan snorted softly, stepping fully inside, feet thudding lightly against the floor. He tilted his head, scanning Sungho first, then Woonhak, his eyes glinting with quiet mischief. After a beat, a slow, crooked smile spread across his face. “Inspection, huh?” He shook his head as though conceding to their ridiculous logic. “Fine. But if you’re stealing, I’m stealing too.”

The blond didn’t bother waiting for permission—he simply reached for a small sack of dried fruit, fingers nimble, and tossed a few pieces into his mouth. The soft pop of fruit between his teeth, and the sparkle in Woonhak’s eyes, broke the tension entirely. Sungho felt the tight knot in his chest unravel, and a laugh slipped past him, light and unguarded.

Woonhak was crouched low, fingertips brushing the rough wood of the bottom shelf as he reached for a thick glass jar of jerky, when a sudden, swift movement caught him off guard. A hand darted past his shoulder, snatching the jar first.

“Hey!” he hissed, eyes snapping up.

Leehan stood there, smirking, the jar dangling just out of reach. “You’re too slow,” he teased, tone light, playful, but edged with that familiar spark of mischief.

Woonhak’s lips pressed into a tight line as he rose onto his toes to snatch it back. The movement brought them almost chest-to-chest, close enough that Leehan had to tilt his head up to meet his glare. Their whispered bickering filled the kitchen, bouncing softly off the wooden walls, mingling with the faint scent of pine and dried herbs that clung to the cabin.

Leehan tilted his head, casual but deliberate, holding the jerky just beyond Woonhak’s grasp. “Say please.”

“In your dreams,” Woonhak shot back, his voice a soft growl, but his body betrayed him, leaning in, drawn to the impossibly close warmth of Leehan.

And then—quick as a blink—Leehan leaned down, lips brushing against Woonhak’s in a kiss that was brief but startlingly intimate. Woonhak froze, a sharp inhale catching in his throat, before he sputtered a protest. But Leehan didn’t pause; a piece of jerky was shoved gently into Woonhak’s mouth, almost as a tease, almost as a reward.

Sungho’s eyes widened. The closeness, the heat of their bodies pressed together, the soft laughter and low murmurs between them—it was impossible to ignore. Woonhak’s protests were half-hearted, and though his eyes flashed with indignation, his body leaned into Leehan’s touch, tilting forward, chasing the ghost of that kiss with a tension that made Sungho’s chest tighten.

A flicker of memory flashed in Sungho’s mind: that morning by the fire, two wolves curled together, sleeping in easy comfort, warmth radiating between them. He blinked, suddenly aware of the unspoken bond, the quiet intimacy.

“So… are you two… like… partners?” His voice was soft, hesitant, carrying a mix of curiosity and awe, unsure if he should even be asking.

Sungho’s words seemed to hang in the air, fragile and uncertain, as both boys turned their attention fully to him. For a moment, the kitchen felt smaller, the faint smell of dried herbs mixing with the warmth radiating off their bodies.

Leehan’s amber eyes sparkled with amusement, a slow, teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He was the first to break the silence, his voice calm but deliberate, carrying a note of patience as if he were explaining something simple to a confused child.

“In traditional packs,” Leehan said, head tilting as he studied Sungho’s reaction, “wolves usually… pair off. One mate. That’s how it works.” He paused, letting the weight of the words settle.

Sungho blinked, unsure where this was going, caught between curiosity and the faint rush of embarrassment still clinging to his chest.

Leehan’s smile widened, teasing but not unkind. “But that’s not us.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting as he leaned just a little closer. “We… we don’t follow all the rules. We care about each other. All of us. And that makes things… different.”

Woonhak nodded eagerly, his grin infectious. “Exactly,” he added, voice full of warmth and energy. “We share everything, look out for each other, and… well, we’re all important to each other. Every single one.”

Sungho blinked, letting Woonhak’s words sink in. He’d seen it: the way they moved around each other, the teasing smiles, the soft nudges, the casual closeness that made everything feel light and warm. He’d watched them laugh together, play together, sit shoulder to shoulder without a thought, and it had struck him how natural it all seemed.

And now… now he wondered where he fit.

Jaehyun hovered somewhere in the back of his thoughts, but Sungho tried not to dwell on him. Instead, he noticed the welcoming warmth radiating from the others, the way they’d tried to make him feel like part of this strange, vibrant little world. It wasn’t forced—it was careful, deliberate, but gentle. Thoughtful.

Does that mean… he could belong here, too?

The idea made something in him ache. Not fear—longing. And that scared him more than anything else. Because wanting this meant admitting he didn’t hate being here. That he felt drawn to the pack, to the quiet care, to the way they were making space for him. He didn’t know if staying was wrong or if leaving would hurt more—but the fact that he was even torn at all filled him with shame.

His mind wandered to Riwoo. The closeness they’d shared in the river. The light, teasing touches that carried undercurrents Sungho hadn’t been prepared for. That wet, messy kiss—they hadn’t even spoken after, but the memory clung to him, alive and insistent, making his chest thrum and his pulse spike.

Sungho’s own flustered scent betrayed him, rising sharp and sweet through the air, and he knew, in a flash of mortified clarity, that he was blushing. Heart hammering like it wanted to escape his chest, throat tight, hands fisting into the side of his robe, he tried to shrink into himself, willing the reaction to be invisible.

He didn’t notice Leehan’s amber gaze lingering just a moment too long, sharp and perceptive, until a slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of the blonde’s lips. Leehan tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming as if he’d just solved a puzzle, and Sungho’s blush deepened further.

“So,” Leehan said at last, voice light but edged with mischief as his gaze stayed fixed on Sungho, “what’s going on in that head of yours?” His nose twitched almost imperceptibly. “Because your scent just spiked—sweet and all flustered. You thinking too hard again?”

Sungho froze, mind blank, pulse hammering in a panic he couldn’t quite tame. And then—without thinking—words tumbled out before he could stop them.

“I—I kissed… Riwoo… at the river,” he blurted, eyes wide, chest tightening.

For a heartbeat, silence fell.

Then Woonhak gasped, the sound sharp and incredulous. “Riwoo?!”

Sungho’s eyes shot to him, mortification flooding every nerve. “I—I didn’t mean to start anything,” he blurted. “It just… happened. And it felt right, and then I realized what I was doing and—yeah.”

But Leehan, on the other hand, didn’t look nearly as shocked. A slow, approving nod curled into his grin. “Good for you,” he said, voice teasing, almost lazy in its ease.

“Good for me?!” Sungho sputtered, hands flying to cover his face in futile embarrassment.

Woonhak, finally finding his voice, muttered, “Well… that explains a lot of your scent earlier.”

Sungho’s head nearly exploded. “WHAT?”

Leehan chuckled, low and sharp, letting the moment stretch just long enough to savor Sungho’s helpless fluster. “Relax,” he said, grin widening. “You kissed him, it’s fine. Honestly… it makes you kind of fun.”

After a pause, his eyes glinting with mischief, he added casually, “And now… you smell like Woonhak too.”

Sungho groaned loudly, burying his face in his hands, heat and embarrassment radiating off him. The two of them shared a brief, teasing glance before the room filled with soft laughter, the moment dissolving into a warm, chaotic familiarity.

After the pantry raid, Sungho found himself perched on the porch, cradling a warm cup of tea that Leehan had prepared with care. The steam curled up in delicate spirals, carrying hints of honey and something earthy that made his chest feel a little lighter.

Both Woonhak and Leehan had left shortly after finishing their own cups, vanishing into the trees for an evening run. Sungho watched as their wolf forms weaved between the trunks, one a snowy white blur, the other a reddish-brown streak, bending and twisting with effortless grace until they were swallowed by the forest. He lingered until the last trace of movement disappeared, then slowly made his way inside, the wooden boards cool beneath his feet.

He was halfway to the kitchen when his ears caught the edge of a raised voice. He didn’t move, barely breathed, and let the shadows of the hallway cloak him as he edged closer, drawn by the unmistakable sound of Riwoo’s tone—sharp, taut, a simmering edge he rarely heard.

“That’s not fair,” Riwoo said, low and steady, though the tension under his words made it tremble. “He didn’t ask to be here. He’s… he’s all alone in a house full of strangers.”

Sungho’s stomach clenched. The words cut clear—he knew immediately they were about him. A pulse skipped in his chest, sharp and unpredictable. He pressed a hand to the wall, trying not to make a sound, heart hammering.

Another voice answered, deep, husky, clipped with authority. Jaehyun. Sungho stiffened, muscles tensing reflexively, every instinct warning him.

“You keep questioning my choices,” Jaehyun said, calm but hard, as if trying to steel the other against his own temper.

“I’m not questioning,” Riwoo replied, the edge of anger softened with something heavier—care, frustration, almost pleading. “I’m telling you to do better. He’s here now. You have to take responsibility. You brought him in. That’s on you.”

Jaehyun muttered something in response, words slipping past Sungho’s ears like wind through the trees. The syllables were muffled, unintelligible—but the tone, clipped and deliberate, made Sungho flinch.

“I’ve always been clear,” Riwoo pressed on, his voice quieter now, but no less firm, almost intimate, like he was speaking a secret meant only for this space. “Omega bonds… they matter to me. You know they do. Woonhak has his place. The betas have each other. But I… I’ve always craved that. Another omega I can share this with. And I won’t let it be broken. I’m going to protect that. I’m going to protect him.”

Sungho’s chest tightened so fiercely it hurt. His fingers curled against the wall, knuckles whitening. The words reverberated in him, weaving warmth and tension through his veins. The hallway felt smaller, the cabin somehow quieter around him, as if the walls themselves were listening, and Sungho realized, with a strange, dizzying clarity, that he wasn’t invisible here. Someone cared—someone he already knew would fight for him.

The living room was dim, firelight breathing softly against the dark walls. Sungho sat curled into the corner of one of the couches, close enough to the hearth that the warmth kissed his shins, though he barely felt it.

His mind wouldn’t slow. Riwoo’s voice echoed again and again in his head—I’m going to protect him. The words tangled with everything else he’d learned today: the way this pack worked, the way they touched without fear, the way belonging here didn’t seem conditional or fragile. It made his chest ache in a way that felt too big, too sudden.

He stared into the fire, watching the logs shift and settle, sparks snapping softly. He didn’t hear footsteps. Didn’t hear his name. Only noticed the change when the couch dipped beside him. Sungho startled, breath hitching, head snapping to the side—

Riwoo.

He was close. So close Sungho could feel the heat of him through the cushions, through the space between their arms. Riwoo looked a little sheepish, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks as he met Sungho’s eyes.

“I—” Riwoo started, then stopped, clearing his throat. “I called you. A couple times.”

Sungho blinked, still half somewhere else. “Oh—sorry. I was… in my own head.”

“It happens,” Riwoo said quietly. He shifted, settling back, giving Sungho space—but not leaving. The fire popped between them. The pause stretched, delicate and heavy, full of things neither of them seemed sure how to name.

After a long moment, Riwoo spoke again, voice softer. “I’m sorry for running away earlier. At the river.”

Sungho’s heart kicked hard against his ribs. Riwoo’s ears burned red, but he forced himself to look at Sungho. “I was embarrassed.”

Sungho swallowed, throat tight, pulse loud in his ears. “It’s okay. Really. It doesn’t have to… happen again.”

For a second, Riwoo only watched him. Then his lips curved—first into something small and hesitant, and then into a grin that turned teasing, almost daring. It made Sungho’s breath catch.

“That’s not what I meant,” Riwoo said. He leaned in just enough that Sungho could feel his warmth, feel the quiet certainty of him there. “I liked it.”

The words struck like lightning. Sungho’s chest lifted, unraveled, the ache inside him twisting into something light and reckless and terrifying all at once. His thoughts scattered, replaced by the awareness of Riwoo’s closeness, the memory of the river, the way everything had felt so inevitable in that moment.

Riwoo held his gaze, grin lingering, playful and bold. “What are you gonna do about that, love?”

Sungho opened his mouth, heart racing, but the words never came.

Riwoo’s expression shifted first—subtle, instinctive. His nose twitched. He leaned in, invading Sungho’s space without quite touching him, head tilting as he breathed in slowly, deliberately. Sungho froze, every nerve lighting up as Riwoo’s attention zeroed in on his neck, his shoulder, the curve where warmth still lingered beneath his skin.

Riwoo’s eyes narrowed. “…Did Woonhak scent you?” he asked quietly.

Sungho nodded once, small and unsure. “Yeah. He—he showed me how it works. About scent glands. And stuff.” He gestured vaguely at himself, ears burning.

Riwoo hummed, thoughtful, still close enough that Sungho could feel his breath. “Mm. He did, huh.” Then, gently: “Do you know what scenting means?”

Sungho hesitated. The fire crackled softly beside them, filling the pause. “It’s about comfort, right?” he said, uncertain. “Like… making someone feel safe.”

Riwoo chuckled, low and warm, the sound sending a shiver straight down Sungho’s spine. “Scenting isn’t just about comfort.”

Sungho blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

Riwoo tilted his head. “When a wolf scents you,” he said slowly, “they’re marking you as someone important. Someone they want close.” His voice dropped, intimate. “It’s a way of telling the whole pack—this one is mine. Don’t mess with him.”

Sungho’s heart stuttered hard against his ribs. “M-mine?!”

Riwoo laughed softly at that, clearly delighted, and reached out to tap a finger lightly against Sungho’s chest. “Not in a scary way,” he said. “But yeah. It’s possessive. Intimate.”

His nose twitched again, inhaling deeply, eyes half-lidding as he took Sungho in. “And you’re covered in Woonhak’s scent,” Riwoo added, amused. “Your neck. Your arms. It’s everywhere.”

Sungho’s face felt like it was on fire. “I— I didn’t know it’d be like that.”

Riwoo smiled, softer now, something fond beneath the teasing. “If anyone else walks in,” he continued, “they’ll know immediately.” His gaze flicked back to Sungho’s eyes. “That someone’s been close to you. That you let them.”

Riwoo’s hand slipped into Sungho’s like it was nothing. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. His grip was warm and steady, thumb brushing lightly against Sungho’s knuckles as if to anchor him there, on the couch, in the moment.

“I’m… really glad you’re adapting,” Riwoo said quietly. The teasing was gone now, his voice softer, more careful. “That you’re finding comfort with Woonhak, with the betas.” A small smile tugged at his lips.

Sungho’s chest tightened. He hadn’t realized how much that was true until Riwoo said it out loud.

“I know this whole situation isn’t easy,” Riwoo went on. “Being brought here. The changes. The confusion.” His gaze dropped briefly to their joined hands. “But… I’m happy you’re here, Sungho.”

For just a second, something flickered across his face—something heavy. A shadow of guilt. Of responsibility. Like there were things he wasn’t saying, things he carried quietly. Sungho noticed it, the way Riwoo’s smile faltered at the edges, the way his shoulders tensed.

Sungho opened his mouth, unsure what he was even about to say.

Riwoo blinked. And just like that, the moment shifted. “Anyway!” Riwoo said brightly, standing up in one smooth motion and tugging Sungho with him before he could react. “That’s enough deep emotional bonding for one day. Time for bed!”

“Wait—” Sungho stumbled to his feet, flustered, heart still racing.

“Nope,” Riwoo cut in cheerfully, already dragging him toward the hallway. “You’re exhausted, and tomorrow you’ll have more questions, and I’d rather deal with those when you’re not half-dead.”

He glanced back over his shoulder, grin wide and warm. “Come on.”

And Sungho let himself be pulled along, thoughts tangled, hand still warm in Riwoo’s—aware that something important had just been said… and something else had been carefully tucked away for later.

When the orange-haired boy pushed aside the pelt curtain, a soft glow spilled from the room—pillows strewn across the wide bedding, blankets layered in loose heaps, the faint scents of oranges and apples woven deep into the fabric.

Sungho hesitated at the threshold, his gaze sweeping over the bed he’d been carried to when he was hurt. Guilt pricked at him.

“...This is your room, isn’t it?” he asked quietly. “I shouldn’t keep taking your bed. I’m fine now, I can sleep on the couch, really—”

Riwoo turned so sharply his hand tugged Sungho forward a step. His expression was almost offended, but softened at the sight of Sungho’s uncertainty.

“Nonsense,” he said firmly. “This isn’t my room.”

Sungho blinked. “It’s not?”

Riwoo shook his head, stepping closer. His thumb brushed over Sungho’s knuckles, grounding him.

“This is a nest room. An omega room. Only omegas can come here.” His voice dropped, soft but sure, as if reciting an unshakable truth. “Betas and alphas… they have to be invited in. They don’t belong unless we want them to.”

Sungho’s breath caught.

Riwoo squeezed his hand tighter, gaze unwavering. “This is our room now. Our bed. Our safe space. No one can take that from you.”

The words sank deep, curling inside Sungho’s chest like a fragile warmth he didn’t know he needed. Riwoo tugged him fully inside the room. Then, without hesitation, he shrugged out of his shirt.

Sungho’s brain short-circuited.

The fabric hit the floor, followed by the loose pants, and suddenly—again—Riwoo was bare before him, moving with the same easy comfort as if they weren’t standing in the same room, as if it was normal to strip the moment you reached the nest.

Sungho’s throat went dry. He forced his gaze to the wall, to the blankets, anywhere but—his eyes betrayed him, sliding back, following the dip of Riwoo’s shoulders, the curve of his waist, the soft lines of muscle that weren’t sharp like an alpha’s, but something gentler. Softer. His mind snagged on the word before he could stop it: beautiful. His stomach flipped.

Riwoo didn’t notice—or maybe he did, and just didn’t care. He padded to the bed, climbing onto the pile of furs and blankets with a feline stretch, his scent wrapping thick and sweet through the air. He settled into the nest like he belonged there—because he did.

Then he patted the space beside him, looking up at Sungho with a little grin.

“Come on,” he said. “You belong here. With me.”

Sungho froze at the edge of the bed, heart hammering. His face burned, his scent twisted in knots.

How am I supposed to survive this place? How am I supposed to survive him?

Sungho lingered by the edge of the bed, fidgeting with his robe. His pulse thudded loud in his ears. He shouldn’t. He absolutely shouldn’t— But the warmth of the room, the heavy comfort of omega scent, and Riwoo’s expectant gaze broke something in him.

“...fuck it,” Sungho muttered under his breath.

His hands moved before his thoughts could catch up, fingers finding the tie at his waist. He loosened it with a shaky pull, the robe parting as he shrugged it off his shoulders. The fabric slid down his arms and fell to the floor in a soft heap, leaving him exposed.

He was aware—painfully aware—of Riwoo’s eyes tracking every single motion. Not subtle. Not even trying to hide it. By the time Sungho climbed into the bed, his ears were burning, his whole body stiff with embarrassment.

Riwoo didn’t comment—just let that small, knowing grin curl his lips. Then, casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he slid closer. An arm slipped around Sungho’s waist, pulling him against soft warmth and the thick comfort of the nest.

Sungho went rigid. His breath caught. Every nerve in his body lit up like fire, his skin tingling where Riwoo’s hand rested. Riwoo only hummed, cheek brushing lightly against Sungho’s shoulder, his grin never fading.

Sungho’s face was so hot it had to be visible.

I’m going to die here. I’m actually going to combust.

Riwoo’s hum deepened, pleased—and Sungho realized, with sudden dread, that this was only the beginning.

The first thing Sungho noticed when he woke was the scent. Thick, heavy, warm—it clung to the air like fog, sinking into the pelts, into his skin. Bright citrus layered over soft apple-sweetness, Riwoo’s sharp, sunlit presence tangled with his own until the two were inseparable. His and Riwoo’s, mingled together so completely he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Then something tickled his nose. He cracked his eyes open, blinking at strands of soft hair brushing against him. It took a second for his vision to adjust, for his thoughts to catch up—and then his heart stuttered.

Riwoo was curled against him, breathing slow and steady, mouth parted slightly as he exhaled against the curve of Sungho’s neck. Too close. Impossibly close. Their chests pressed together with every inhale, legs tangled, hips aligned in a way that made Sungho’s whole body buzz with awareness.

The pelts had slipped to the floor at some point in the night, leaving the pale curve of Riwoo’s body exposed, his skin soft, smooth, pretty.

Sungho swallowed hard, frozen in place. And then, almost without thinking, his fingers moved. Just barely, brushing down Riwoo’s arm. The faint dip of his back. The elegant line of his neck. His skin was warm under Sungho’s touch, his body pliant in sleep. It wasn’t until his fingertips grazed the nape of Riwoo’s neck that Sungho snapped back to himself.

What the hell am I doing?

He jerked his hand back, mortified. And Riwoo—still deeply asleep—whined. A small, soft, broken sound, like he was searching for something he’d lost. Sungho froze. His chest ached at the sound, the raw need in it. His hand hovered uncertainly… and then gave in, returning to thread gently through Riwoo’s hair, brushing it back from his face.

That’s when it happened—a low, deep vibration thrumming against his skin, a sound he felt before he could understand it, resonating through his neck where Riwoo’s face was pressed. Sungho’s eyes widened as his whole body went utterly still.

Riwoo was purring.

Not a quiet hum, but a loud, rolling rumble that filled the room, vibrating against Sungho’s bones. He felt it in his chest, in his throat, everywhere. The sound wrapped around him, warm and intoxicating, like the purest sign of comfort and trust. It made Sungho lose his breath.

He’s purring. Because of me.

And in that moment, tangled in warmth and scent and sound, Sungho thought he might never recover. The purr rattled through him so strongly he almost didn’t notice when it changed—when Riwoo’s breath shifted against his skin, warm exhales turning steady, deliberate.

The weight against him shifted. Riwoo blinked awake, slow and heavy-lidded, his lashes brushing Sungho’s throat before he tilted his head up. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he raised himself just enough to balance on his elbows, his chest still pressed flush to Sungho’s, arms bracketing him in. Trapped beneath the omega, he could feel every inch of Riwoo—his warmth, his softness, the faint rumble that hadn’t quite faded from his chest.

“Did you sleep well?” Riwoo’s voice was still thick with sleep, low and husky.

“Yes,” Sungho managed, though his voice cracked embarrassingly at the end. He could feel the heat burning across his face, but he couldn’t look away. Not when Riwoo was this close. Not when their noses were almost touching, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between them.

He wanted to glance anywhere else, to focus on something other than the way Riwoo’s body covered his, but his gaze betrayed him. It caught on the small mole under Riwoo’s eye. On the faint pink flush across his cheeks from sleep. On lips that were curved, just slightly, into the hint of a smile. Sungho swallowed hard. His chest rose and fell too quickly.

Riwoo tilted his head, studying him, unbothered by the closeness. For him, maybe this was natural—pack comfort, omega touch, easy familiarity. But for Sungho, it was brand new. His every nerve screamed with awareness, with the rightness of it, even though his mind could hardly keep up.

He shifted nervously, but Riwoo didn’t give him space. If anything, he leaned a fraction closer, his eyes narrowing like he was listening—like he could feel Sungho’s pulse racing beneath him.

“…your heart,” Riwoo murmured, lips curving into a sly little smile. “It’s loud.”

“I—” Sungho’s voice cracked, his throat tight. “I can’t help it.”

Riwoo tilted his head, closer still, until his hair brushed Sungho’s forehead, until Sungho could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. The purr had softened to a quiet hum now, vibrating low in his chest as though it belonged to Sungho too.

“Are you nervous,” Riwoo asked softly, “or excited?”

Sungho’s breath caught. He couldn’t look away—not from the way Riwoo’s eyes held him, not from the warmth of his body pressed so perfectly against his own. Every nerve hummed, every thought scattered.

“I—”

He never finished. Riwoo closed the last inches between them, pressing his mouth to Sungho’s in a kiss that was slow but certain. His lips were soft, coaxing, tasting faintly of sleep and warmth.

Sungho’s entire body jolted, his hands gripping at the pelts beneath him for something to hold onto. For a split second he forgot to breathe, forgot to think, forgot everything except the way Riwoo’s mouth moved against his—gentle, teasing, but deliberate.

When Riwoo finally pulled back, just enough to look at him, his eyes sparkled. “So? Nervous?”

Sungho, flushed down to his chest, stared at him wordlessly before blurting the truth in a whisper. “Both.”

Riwoo laughed, low and pleased, the sound vibrating right against Sungho’s lips as he leaned in again—stealing another kiss, slower this time, like he intended to savor every inch of Sungho’s trembling. It started soft. But Riwoo had a way of tilting his head, of brushing his tongue against the seam of Sungho’s lips, of smiling into the kiss like he knew he had Sungho trapped.

Sungho tried to hold himself back, tried to stay gentle—but then Riwoo shifted, pressing their hips flush together, and something in him snapped. A choked sound escaped him as his hand shot up, tangling in Riwoo’s hair. He pulled—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to claim. His other hand slid down to Riwoo’s waist, fingers digging into soft skin like he was afraid the other would vanish if he let go.

Riwoo moaned straight into his mouth, sharp and breathless, and Sungho nearly lost his mind. The sound vibrated through his chest, poured heat into his veins. Riwoo was purring again, but it was rougher now, broken between gasps as he deepened the kiss, teeth grazing, lips demanding.

Sungho thought he would drown in it—the taste of Riwoo, the warmth of him, the intoxicating mix of their scents filling the room until nothing else existed. His grip tightened, desperate, dragging Riwoo closer, closer, until there was no space left at all.

When Riwoo finally tore back for air, his lips were swollen, his pupils blown wide, and his voice was wrecked when he whispered, “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

Then—a soft rustle came from the edge of the room. The pelt curtain stirred, letting a thin ribbon of light slip through, and a curious face appeared, peeking inside.

Woonhak’s eyes went wide immediately at the sight—Sungho sprawled in the nest, hair mussed, lips flushed and unmistakably shiny. Riwoo hovered over him, one knee braced at his side, a hand fisted in Sungho’s hair as if he’d forgotten to let go.

For a heartbeat, none of them moved. Then Woonhak’s mouth curved slowly, wickedly.

“Oh,” he said, far too pleased. “Did I… interrupt something?”

Riwoo let out a long, dramatic groan, tipping his head back like the universe itself had personally wronged him. “You have the worst timing, you know that?”

Sungho made a small, mortified sound and immediately tried to disappear, curling inward and pressing his burning face against Riwoo’s chest. His hands clutched at the omega’s bare back, as if Riwoo were the only solid thing in the world.

Riwoo huffed a laugh despite himself, his arms wrapping around Sungho instinctively, pulling him closer in a protective, fond gesture—more soothing than heated now. After a moment, he shifted slightly, tilting his head over his shoulder with a teasing glint in his eye. “Come here, you silly dog,” he called, voice warm and amused.

Woonhak didn’t hesitate. With a naughty grin, he dashed forward and leapt onto the bed, nearly headbutting both of them in his excitement.

“That’s it,” Riwoo muttered. “Moment officially ruined.”

Sungho’s face burned hotter, pressing even closer into Riwoo’s chest, while Riwoo shifted slightly to make space, still holding Sungho protectively against him.

Woonhak peeked between them, eyes wide and gleaming with mischief. “Whoa… you two smell insane together! You can keep doing that, I won’t stop you,” he said, voice almost breathless with delight.

Riwoo groaned, rolling his eyes, but there was a smirk tugging at his lips. “You wish, you little pest,” he said, voice low and teasing—but then leaned down anyway, brushing a soft, daring kiss over Woonhak’s lips. His other hand stayed on Sungho’s neck, fingers curling possessively, holding the omega close, while his eyes sparkled with sly amusement and something darkly electric.

Sungho peeked out from under Riwoo and finally locked eyes with Woonhak. His chest lurched. The playful grin on Woonhak’s face made his stomach flutter—he was blushing all over again.

“Sungho… you look so pretty,” Woonhak teased, voice low, “all blushed up.”

“Shut up,” Sungho whispered, cheeks burning hotter than before, his words barely leaving his throat.

But Woonhak wasn’t waiting for a reply. He leaned closer, eyes sparkling, and pressed a quick, bold peck to Sungho’s lips. Sungho, caught off guard, couldn’t help the small, eager tilt of his head, leaning into the kiss, chasing it before Woonhak even had the chance to pull back. Woonhak gave a fleeting, amused blink, but Sungho’s pulse refused to calm, his cheeks burning hot as a dizzy, fluttering heat curled in his stomach. It was startling—how natural it felt, how easy it was for Woonhak to lean in, for Riwoo to hold him close. Their attention, their warmth, pressed against him in a way that made everything else fade away.

He liked it. Liked the closeness, the kisses, the way they made him feel noticed, alive, and unafraid. His chest tightened, heart thudding fast, and a thrilling, electric awareness blossomed through him. Maybe… he liked them more than he realized.

Sungho barely had time to dwell on the warmth coiling through his chest before a sudden thump drew his attention. Riwoo flopped onto the bed with a dramatic huff, sandwiched perfectly between him and Woonhak, pressing close enough that the warmth of all three of them mingled, the space around them shrinking to just this moment.

Riwoo faced him, one shoulder brushing Sungho’s, his back pressing against Woonhak’s chest. Sungho’s gaze drifted almost unconsciously. Woonhak’s hand had crept up to Riwoo’s middle, moving with deliberate slowness, tracing soft, teasing patterns over skin that glimmered faintly under the morning light. Each movement was intimate, confident, and somehow casual—an ease of touch that made Sungho’s pulse stutter.

“I actually came to tell you,” Woonhak said, voice slow and warm, “that breakfast is ready.”

Riwoo whined, leaning his head back against Woonhak’s chest, eyes half-lidded and utterly spoiled. “Noooo,” he moaned, voice thick with mock despair, “I don’t want to leave the nest. I’m comfy here… with my babies.”

Sungho’s cheeks flamed, heat crawling from his ears down to his neck at the pet name. Babies… he thought, heart doing that peculiar flip it always did whenever Riwoo called him “honey” or “love.” The intimacy of these words, the way he said it so naturally while Woonhak’s hand lingered on him, made something coil in his stomach, low and trembly, and—

A sudden growl rolled up from his stomach, deep and involuntary. Sungho froze, mortified, eyes darting between the two of them.

Of course… of course my body would do this now…

Riwoo let out a small, teasing laugh, rolling slightly to meet Sungho’s wide-eyed stare. “Well,” he said, mock stern but with a playful glint in his eye, “we better have breakfast then.”

Woonhak padded out of the nest first, giving them a cheeky grin over his shoulder as he disappeared behind the curtain. Riwoo stretched languidly, brushing his hair back, then tugged a long, soft dress shirt over his head. The fabric fell almost to his knees, loose and flowing, hiding yet accentuating the lean curve of his body. Sungho’s gaze flickered, drawn to the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the way the light caught the smooth lines of his shoulders. He swallowed hard, cheeks warming.

“Wait here,” Riwoo said softly, kneeling to adjust the hem of his shirt. “I’ll fetch some of Leehan’s clothes—they’ll probably fit you better.” He glanced at Sungho, eyes bright with that teasing, familiar warmth, and his lips quirked into a grin. “Be right back, honey.”

Before Sungho could react, Riwoo leaned forward, brushing his lips gently across Sungho’s forehead. The touch was soft, grounding, and the warmth of it spread through Sungho in an almost dizzying wave. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, inhaling the citrus-tinged scent clinging to Riwoo.

As the omega began to stand, moving toward the curtain, something in Sungho lurched. His hand reached out on instinct, fingers closing around Riwoo’s wrist with surprising urgency.

Riwoo paused immediately, looking back at him.

Sungho’s breath slipped out slowly. “Thank you,” he said, voice low and sincere, the words simple but weighted. His fingers relaxed around Riwoo’s wrist, thumb brushing lightly as he added, “For… everything.”

The rest lingered, unspoken yet heavy between them. For the way Riwoo had stayed close from the beginning. For the patient explanations, the careful guidance, the gentle hands that never pushed, only steadied. For making the forest—this strange, breathing place—feel less like a trap and more like something he could survive.

Riwoo’s expression softened at once, the playfulness ebbing into something warmer, more intent. He turned fully back, lowering himself again without a word. One hand came up to cradle Sungho’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly along his jaw, grounding in its tenderness. Then the omega leaned in and kissed him—slow, warm, unhurried. A promise pressed into a single, gentle touch.

Sungho’s eyes fluttered shut, breath catching as the moment sank into him, as if his body wanted to memorize the feeling.

When Riwoo finally pulled back, his forehead lingered briefly against Sungho’s. “Anything for you, love,” he murmured, the words low and intimate, as natural as breathing.

He eased his wrist free at last, careful, unhurried, and turned around. The pelt curtain rustled softly as he slipped through, the sound fading quickly—leaving behind only the faint echo of his scent.

Sungho lingered on the nest, the warmth of Riwoo’s touch clinging to him like a second skin. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, the soft scent and heat of the omega lingering in his senses—comforting, grounding. For a moment, he let himself drift there, letting the world shrink to the small space of the bed, the curve of pelts beneath him, the quiet certainty of the pack just beyond the curtain.

It felt… safe. The thought settled easily and his body relaxed around it. Muscles unknotted. His breathing deepened. He sank deeper into the nest, every thought loosening as the pelts cradled him. He stared up at the low ceiling, unfocused, content to simply exist in the afterglow of warmth and closeness.

His mind wandered. It traced familiar paths, looping gently through the last events—Riwoo guiding him with patient hands, showing him where to step, how to listen to his body instead of fighting it. Woonhak’s laughter followed, loud and unrestrained, the playful nudges and teasing. The way his tone shifted when he spoke about the pack, softer then, reverent in a way that had surprised Sungho. And the betas—quiet, steady presences, watching without hovering, offering help without expectation.

It was strange, how quickly it all felt… normal. A flutter stirred in his chest, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. Something tender. Something that almost felt like gratitude.

And then—

Something slid through the warmth. A faint ripple, like a shadow passing over sunlight. The feeling was subtle enough that he nearly missed it, a slight chill brushing the edges of his thoughts. His brow furrowed, breath stuttering as his body reacted before his mind could catch up.

The warmth dimmed.

Guilt bloomed. It surfaced slowly, heavy and cold, sinking into him as if it had been waiting for the right moment. His stomach tightened, a slow, nauseating twist that made him draw his knees closer without thinking. For a heartbeat, he didn’t understand why. The feeling was there, pressing down on his ribs, but its source remained frustratingly out of reach—like trying to recall a dream already slipping away.

His thoughts scattered, scrambling for purchase.

Why did he feel like this?

The nest seemed too quiet all of a sudden. The warmth that had felt so soothing moments ago now pressed in on him, thick and suffocating. His chest tightened, breath coming shallower as unease crept in, crawling along his spine.

Then it hit him.

The ritual.

The memory crashed into him in fragments—firelight and chanting, the metallic tang of blood in the air. The sudden, blinding pain of teeth breaking skin. The weight of something enormous and dark looming over him. Yellow eyes. A presence that had swallowed the world whole.

The big black wolf.

Jaehyun.

Sungho’s breath hitched, a sharp, broken sound tearing from his throat. His heart began to race, slamming against his ribs as the images sharpened, refusing to stay distant. The forest floor beneath him. The scent of damp earth and iron thick in the air. The way his body had wobbled, head spinning until it felt like the world might tilt away.

And then—

His mother.

The memory of their farewell surged forward with brutal clarity. The way she had held his face between her hands, thumbs trembling against his cheeks. The way her smile hadn’t quite reached her eyes. Those eyes—hollow already, heavy with a grief she hadn’t yet earned but somehow already carried. As if she’d been saying goodbye to someone who was already gone. Already mourning a son she feared she would never see again.

Sungho curled inward, arms wrapping around himself as if he could hold the memories in place. His throat burned. His stomach churned violently.

How could he have forgotten?

Even for a moment.

The realization struck harder than the memories themselves. The fact that he’d been able to laugh, to relax, to feel safe—while all of that existed just beneath the surface—sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. His hands clenched in the pelts, fingers digging in as though he needed something solid to anchor him.

Something cold brushed the back of his mind. A sensation—a quiet, invasive presence, sliding along the edges of his awareness. Unease sharpened, different from guilt, more insidious. It settled deep, coiling slowly, deliberately.

Something was wrong.

The nest felt smaller now, tighter, as if the walls had crept closer while he wasn’t looking. Shadows stretched where they hadn’t before, darkening the corners of the room. The quiet pressed in, heavy and expectant.

And then he remembered Woonhak’s words.

I can’t remember a time before this place.

The woods do that. They hold things.

Sungho’s blood ran cold. His heart pounded in earnest, each beat sharp and frantic. The pieces slid together with terrifying ease, forming a shape he didn’t want to look at too closely. The forest. The warmth. The way it wrapped around you, eased the sharp edges, made it so easy to stop looking back.

What if that wasn’t kindness?

What if it was hunger?

His thoughts spiraled, breath turning shallow as dread unfurled in his chest. What if the memories faded not all at once, but like this—softened, blurred, pushed aside whenever they became inconvenient? What if the warmth was the price? What if safety was just the first thing it offered, so you wouldn’t notice what it was taking?

What if one day he woke up and couldn’t remember his mother’s face at all?

The idea sent a jolt of panic through him. His hands shook as he pressed them into his lap, knuckles paling. He tried to hold onto the memories, to list them in his head like a litany—her voice, her hands, the way she said his name—but they already felt… slippery. Not gone. Not yet. But fragile.

The nest, once a refuge, now felt like a trap. Warm. Enclosing. Too easy to sink into. His breathing grew uneven, chest aching as he fought the urge to curl back into comfort, into forgetfulness.

He had just started to feel like he belonged. And now he understood—with sickening clarity—that belonging here might mean letting go of everything that had made him who he was.

The realization settled slowly, inexorably, like frost creeping across glass. Belonging came at a cost. And even the sweetest warmth could not shield him from it.