Chapter Text
In this world, society was divided into Alphas, Betas, and Omegas. Alphas were regarded as the apex of the hierarchy, the top of the food chain, their presence marked by scents stronger than those of Betas and closely matched with Omegas. They experienced ruts every month or two—intense instinctive cycles that were easier to manage when they had a partner or mate to ground them.
Betas occupied a neutral middle ground, a secondary gender that balanced the extremes. Their scents were mild, noticeable only in passing, and they didn’t experience ruts or heats, which made their lives comparatively steady.
Omegas, meanwhile, lived at the bottom of the social structure. Many people viewed them as little more than objects to be used or controlled, a perception reinforced by generations of prejudice. Their scents were naturally strong, but most were taught from a young age to suppress them, to take up less space, to avoid drawing attention they hadn’t asked for. They also experienced heats every month.
Luckily, there were things called scent blockers or neutralizers. You wore them around your neck, and just like that, you either smelled like nothing or your scent was simply dialed down. They soon became required in workplaces such as office buildings, schools, and other public spaces.
Seungmin had been born an omega, a fact he would have preferred otherwise. Being an omega meant having it the worst, treated more like property than a person—something he hated, though it wasn’t something he let himself dwell on.
It sat quietly in the background of his life, a muted truth he carried the way someone might carry an old scar—present, but no longer sharp. Most days it barely brushed against his thoughts, slipping into the rhythm of routine, overshadowed by the things he chose to care about instead. Even so, it shaped the subtle edges of how he moved through the world, an unspoken influence he rarely acknowledged, even to himself.
Seungmin had lived in Korea for most of his life, sharing a small, quiet world with his younger brother, Jeongin, who was also an omega. When they first realized Jeongin’s designation, a faint pang of guilt settled in Seungmin’s chest—an old, familiar ache he never voiced. Their father had left long before either of them were ready, and their mother’s passing when Jeongin was sixteen and Seungmin twenty-two had only deepened the sense of responsibility he carried. It wasn’t something he dwelled on, not consciously, but the weight of those years lingered in the background of everything he did, shaping the way he watched over his brother and the way he moved through the world.
So it was up to him to make sure Jeongin could make it in the real world. But luckily his wealthy best friend, Felix, let them crash for a year before they finally moved out when Seungmin secured a job at a place called Bang Lux & Cor. Obviously, he probably wouldn’t have chosen this job if life had given him more options, but the pay was amazing.
And somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, Jeongin had made a friend—Hyunjin, an Alpha with a calm, artistic sort of presence that didn’t set off Seungmin’s alarms the way most Alphas did. At first, Seungmin kept a careful eye on him, instinctively wary of anyone getting too close to his brother. But Hyunjin was patient, gentle in a way that didn’t feel performative, and he never pushed Jeongin’s boundaries. Over time, Seungmin noticed the two of them growing closer—closer than he expected, closer than he was sure he was ready for. Jeongin laughed more around him, relaxed more, and Hyunjin seemed to orbit him without crowding, without demanding anything in return.
It wasn’t that Seungmin didn’t trust him. It was just that trusting anyone with Jeongin felt like handing over a piece of himself. Still, watching them together—watching the way Hyunjin’s presence steadied Jeongin instead of overwhelming him—made something in Seungmin’s chest loosen, just a little.
But with his job, Bang Lux & Cor was one of those companies everyone knew by name—sleek, intimidating, dripping with money and reputation. They specialized in luxury branding: fragrances, high‑end fashion lines, exclusive events. In an Omegaverse society, scent was everything, so a company built around it held real power. Seungmin didn’t care about any of that. He just needed a stable paycheck, benefits, and a place where Jeongin wouldn’t have to worry about rent or food or whether the lights would stay on.
He’d been there for months now, long enough to understand the hierarchy, long enough to blend in, long enough to keep his head down. He wasn’t there to climb the corporate ladder. He wasn’t there to impress anyone. He was there to survive—and to make sure Jeongin could do the same.
Still… working at Bang Lux & Cor came with its own complications. The CEO, Bang Chan, was an Alpha with a reputation sharp enough to cut glass. Rumors followed him like shadows—unstable instincts, impossible standards, a temper that could silence an entire floor. Seungmin didn’t believe half of it, but he also didn’t plan on getting close enough to find out.
The only real bright spot in the building was Jisung, an omega, a loud and playful one that never let anyone dimmed his light and also one of the executive secretaries. Seungmin had met him on his second week, when he’d gotten hopelessly lost trying to find the HR office. Jisung had laughed, handed him a map, and then proceeded to ignore the map entirely as he personally walked Seungmin to every floor “so you don’t die here.” They’d been friends ever since—Jisung’s energy balancing out Seungmin’s quiet steadiness in a way that made the long days feel less suffocating.
And then there was Minho—Jisung’s partner, an alpha, who drifted in and out of the office like he owned the place. Technically, he didn’t… but being one of Chan’s closest friends meant he might as well. Minho was the kind of Alpha who didn’t need to posture; his presence was calm, controlled, and oddly comforting. Whenever he visited Jisung during lunch breaks, he’d always spare a nod or a small smile for Seungmin, like he’d silently accepted him into their little circle.
That circle also included Changbin, another alpha, another one of Jisung’s friends who’d somehow become one of Seungmin’s too. Changbin worked in the marketing department, loud in personality but sharp as a blade when it came to strategy. He’d taken to dropping by Seungmin’s desk with snacks, gossip, or complaints about deadlines, usually in that order. Between Jisung’s sunshine energy and Changbin’s chaotic commentary, Seungmin found himself laughing more at work than he ever expected to.
Besides all of that, everything was good. He’d managed to get a pretty decent apartment—two bedrooms, three bathrooms, and all the essential spaces like the living room and kitchen. This would be the first month he actually paid the rent, mostly because Felix had finally argued him into it, insisting it was time he handled his own responsibilities instead of letting things slide.
He was currently in the kitchen making cup noodles for himself and Jeongin, AirPods in his ears playing Strategy by Twice. His hips moved to the beat as he lip‑synced along, completely absorbed in the small moment of peace before the rest of the day could catch up to him. It wasn’t often he let himself unwind like this, and the quiet of the apartment made it easy to pretend life was simple for a minute. Behind him, the noodles softened, the scent filling the kitchen while he swayed, his own scent kept low and steady the way he’d trained it to be. Even relaxed, the omega in him stayed tucked beneath the surface, controlled out of habit more than thought. He moved lightly, unaware of how instinctively careful and soft his presence became when no one was watching.
His phone rang on the counter. He carefully picked it up, thumb swiping across the screen to check the new notifications. There were two, but the one that caught his eye was from the Ring camera—motion detected, followed by the familiar chime of the doorbell. A soft smile tugged at his lips.
“Jeongin! Someone’s here for you!” Seungmin called out, voice echoing through the apartment.
Almost immediately, the sound of hurried footsteps padded down the hallway, growing louder as Jeongin came running in socked feet, nearly slipping on the smooth floor. His scent, light and familiar, brushed past Seungmin like a breeze—warm, a little sweet, and tinged with curiosity. Seungmin stepped aside, still stirring the noodles, as Jeongin skidded to a stop beside him, eyes wide with anticipation.
“Who is it?” Jeongin asked, peering at the phone screen.
Seungmin tilted it toward him. “Figured you’d want the surprise.”
He watched as Jeongin walked toward the front door and pulled it open, revealing Hyunjin standing on the other side. A small smile spread across Jeongin’s face, soft and a little shy, the kind he only ever wore around certain people.
Hyunjin stood with his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, his scent already drifting into the apartment—warm, sharp, unmistakably Alpha. His eyes lit up the moment he saw Jeongin, and he offered a lazy grin, the kind that made Jeongin’s ears flush pink.
“Hey,” Hyunjin said, voice low and easy.
“Hey,” Jeongin echoed, stepping aside to let him in.
Seungmin turned back to the stove, pretending not to notice the way Jeongin’s scent spiked just slightly, a subtle shift that only another omega might catch. He stirred the noodles with a little more focus than necessary, giving them their moment without comment. It wasn’t his business—at least, that’s what he told himself.
He heard as they walked toward the couch and plopped down onto it, the cushions giving a soft thud under their weight. Jeongin’s laugh followed, light and breathy, mixing with Hyunjin’s deeper tone as they settled in. Seungmin stayed in the kitchen, pretending to be focused on the noodles, but his ears caught every shift in their voices, every pause that stretched just a little too long.
The scent of Alpha and Omega mingled faintly in the air, not overwhelming, but enough to make Seungmin’s instincts twitch. He exhaled slowly through his nose, grounding himself. It wasn’t his business. Jeongin was old enough to make his own choices, and Hyunjin—well, Hyunjin had always been careful, respectful. Still, Seungmin couldn’t help the flicker of protectiveness that stirred in his chest, quiet but ever-present.
He looked at the done cups of noodles, left one in the microwave for Jeongin, and headed back toward his room. The hallway was dim, lit only by the soft glow spilling in from the kitchen. As he passed the living room, he caught a glimpse of Jeongin curled up beside Hyunjin on the couch, their shoulders brushing, laughter low and easy between them.
Seungmin didn’t say anything. He just kept walking, the quiet hum of his AirPods still playing faintly in his ears. His room was a little messy—clothes draped over the back of his chair, a half-finished book on the nightstand—but it was his space. Safe. Familiar.
He set his cup down on the desk, flopped onto the chair, and let it spin halfway before stopping it with his foot. The music in his ears shifted to a slower song, something softer, and he leaned back, letting his head rest against the top of the chair. The scent of the noodles drifted up, but he wasn’t in a rush to eat. Not yet.
His eyes flicked to the window. The sky outside was beginning to dim, the last of the sun casting a faint orange glow across the buildings. It was the kind of evening that made everything feel a little quieter, like the world was holding its breath.
He pulled out his phone again, scrolling through messages he hadn’t answered, most of them from Felix—half of them reminders, the other half memes. A small smile tugged at his lips. Typical. Felix never let him forget anything, whether it was paying rent, taking his vitamins, or replying to emails he’d been ignoring for days. And somehow, in between all that, he still had time to send the most unhinged TikToks known to man. Seungmin didn’t even open them anymore—he just liked them out of habit and moved on.
He tossed the phone onto the bed without checking anything else. The Ring notification still sat at the top of the screen, but he didn’t bother with it. If it was important, Jeongin would yell. Or Hyunjin would knock again. Either way, it wasn’t his problem right now.
He leaned back in his chair, letting it creak under his weight as he stared at the ceiling. The music in his ears shifted to something slower, more melodic, and he let it wash over him. His cup of noodles sat untouched on the desk, steam curling lazily into the air. He wasn’t hungry yet. Or maybe he just didn’t feel like eating alone.
The room smelled like him—clean laundry, a hint of citrus from his shampoo, and the faint trace of his own scent, muted by the blocker he wore around his neck. It was comforting in a way, familiar. Safe. He’d worked hard to make this space his own, even if it was just a rented apartment. The posters on the wall, the stack of books he kept meaning to finish, the hoodie draped over the back of his chair—it all made the room feel lived in. Like he belonged here.
Outside, the sky had shifted from orange to a dusky purple, the kind of color that made everything feel a little softer, a little slower. He could hear the muffled sound of Jeongin laughing from the living room, followed by Hyunjin’s deeper voice. It wasn’t loud, but it carried. Seungmin closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sound settle in his chest.
He didn’t mind the quiet. In fact, he preferred it. But sometimes, when the apartment was full of other people’s voices and scents and energy, he felt like a ghost in his own space. Not unwelcome—just... separate. Like he was watching a life he wasn’t quite part of.
He opened his eyes again, blinking up at the ceiling. The song changed. He finally reached for the noodles, stirring them absently with his chopsticks. Still too hot. Still not hungry.
He sighed, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on the desk. Maybe he’d text Felix back. Or maybe he’d just sit here a little longer, letting the music fill the silence and pretending, just for a while, that the world outside his room didn’t exist.
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Chan was currently in his house—if it could even be called a house. With six bedrooms, seven bathrooms, and two garages, it leaned more toward a private estate than a home. The kind of place that echoed when you walked through it alone. The kind of place that screamed wealth before you even stepped inside. He had inherited his father’s company, a legacy passed down with more weight than pride.
Growing up, Chan had lived in a world of expectations. His mother had been the soft place he could fall—gentle, warm, always ready with a kind word or a quiet hug when the pressure got too loud. She’d been the one to sneak him sweets when his father wasn’t looking, the one who stayed up with him during late-night study sessions, rubbing his back and humming lullabies from her childhood.
His father, on the other hand, had been a different story. Stern, exacting, and impossible to please, he’d raised Chan like a soldier, not a son. Every mistake was a lesson. Every success, an expectation. There was no room for softness, no space for hesitation—especially not for an alpha who was meant to lead. Chan had learned early on that affection was earned, not given, and that love came second to legacy.
He wasn’t an only child, but sometimes it felt like it.
His younger siblings had been spared the brunt of their father’s ambition, shielded—intentionally or not—by Chan’s willingness to carry the weight alone. From the moment he was born, the expectations had been carved into his path like stone: firstborn, alpha, heir. It had always been him. The one who had to be perfect. The one who had to lead.
Hannah, his younger sister, was a Beta—sharp, observant, and quietly brilliant. She had their mother’s calm demeanor and their father’s intellect, but none of the crushing pressure. Their father never looked at her the way he looked at Chan. To him, Betas were support beams, not cornerstones. Hannah had been allowed to explore, to fail, to breathe. She’d gone to art school, then pivoted to architecture, and now ran her own firm with a quiet confidence that Chan admired more than he ever said aloud. She called him when she wanted to, visited when she could, and never once asked about the company. She didn’t have to. She’d been allowed to live outside its shadow.
Lucas, the youngest, was another alpha—but by the time he came along, their father had already poured most of his ambition into Chan. Lucas was still expected to succeed, of course, but the edge was dulled. He was the “spare,” not the heir. Their father was harder on him than Hannah, but never with the same ruthless intensity he reserved for Chan. Lucas had room to breathe, to rebel, to find his own way. And he did—loudly, sometimes recklessly, but always with the knowledge that his mistakes wouldn’t bring down the family name.
Chan had never had that luxury.
Even now, with the company officially under his name, his father’s voice still echoed in boardrooms and quarterly reports. Retired, yes—but never silent. He still called after every major decision, offering “advice” that sounded more like commands. Chan listened, nodded, and did what he thought was best anyway. But the pressure never left. It clung to him like a second skin.
He was deep in thought until his phone pinged. The sharp chime broke through the silence like a warning bell. Chan glanced at the screen, expecting a calendar alert or a message from his assistant. Instead, his eyes locked on the headline, and his stomach dropped.
“CEO Bang Chan Linked to Former Convict in Late-Night Rendezvous.”
He stared at it, unmoving. The article was already spreading—accompanied by a blurry photo of him outside a restaurant, standing beside a man whose face was half-obscured by a hood. The tabloids didn’t need a name. The implication was enough.
The man in the photo had a record. Fraud, embezzlement, a stint in prison. Someone Chan had known years ago, back when he was still trying to figure out who he was outside of his father’s shadow. They’d crossed paths again by accident—an unexpected run-in, a brief conversation, nothing more. But the press didn’t care about context. They cared about scandals.
Now, the whispers were everywhere. Investors were nervous. Employees were speculating. The board was already circling like vultures. And Chan could feel the weight of it all pressing down on his chest.
He could practically hear his father’s voice, sharp and cold: “You let your emotions cloud your judgment. Again.”
Even after handing over the company, his father never truly let go. He still called after every major decision, still offered his “advice” like it was law. And now, this—proof, in his father’s eyes, that Chan wasn’t fit to lead. That he was too soft. Too reckless. Too human.
Then he felt his phone ringing. The sharp vibration against the desk made him flinch, already on edge from the headlines. He glanced at the screen, and the name flashing across it made his entire body go still.
His father.
His posture stiffened instinctively, shoulders squared, jaw clenched. For a moment, he just stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the answer button like it might burn him. He could already imagine the tone on the other end—disappointment wrapped in control, concern disguised as criticism.
With a quiet breath, he tapped the screen and brought the phone to his ear.
“Hello.”
“You’ve seen it,” his father said flatly. Not a question. A statement.
“Yes.”
A pause. Then came the sigh. Heavy. Measured. “You’ve embarrassed the company. You’ve embarrassed me.”
Chan’s grip on the phone tightened. “It’s not what they’re making it out to be.”
“It doesn’t matter what it is,” his father snapped. “It matters what it looks like. You’re an alpha, Chan. You don’t get the luxury of mistakes.”
Chan said nothing. He’d heard this speech before—variations of it since he was old enough to understand what being an alpha meant in their world.
“You need to fix this. Immediately,” his father continued. “We’re going to announce a relationship. Something clean. Controlled. Familiar.”
Chan’s brows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“A fake relationship,” his father said, like it was the most obvious solution in the world. “You need to redirect the narrative. Show stability. Commitment. Something the public can latch onto. Investors want to see that you’re grounded. That you’re not chasing shadows from your past.”
Chan’s stomach turned. “You want me to lie.”
“I want you to lead,” his father snapped. “And if that means lying, then yes. You’ll do it. You’ll pick someone safe. Someone who won’t make a mess.”
There was a pause. Then, with a tone that made Chan’s skin crawl, his father added, “Your assistant. What’s his name? Seungmin. He’s an omega, isn’t he?”
Chan’s blood ran cold.
“He’s quiet. Obedient. Polished. He knows how to follow orders. He won’t make trouble. He’s perfect for this.”
“He’s not—” Chan started, but his father cut him off.
“He’s convenient. That’s all that matters. Make it happen.”
Chan’s jaw clenched, the words settling like ice in his chest. “You want me to use him like a prop,” he said, voice low.
“I want you to survive this,” his father snapped. “You think this is about feelings? About fairness? This is about optics, Chan. About control. You’re an alpha, and alphas don’t get to be sentimental. They get to lead—or they get replaced.”
Chan’s silence stretched, but his father wasn’t finished.
“You’ve already let this scandal spiral. You were seen with a criminal, and now the entire board is questioning your judgment. Investors are pulling back. The press is circling like sharks. You need to show them you’re stable. That you’re focused. That you’re bonded—or at least close to it.”
Chan’s fingers dug into the edge of his desk. “Seungmin isn’t—he’s not part of this. He’s my assistant.”
“Exactly,” his father said, tone sharp with finality. “He’s already in your orbit. He’s quiet, obedient, doesn’t ask questions. He knows how to follow orders. He’s the kind of omega people expect to see at your side. Not some street-slicked mistake from your past.”
“He’s not a pawn,” Chan said, voice rising despite himself.
“He’s an employee,” his father countered. “And if he’s smart, he’ll do what’s best for the company. For you. Unless you’d rather I step in and clean this up myself.”
Chan’s breath caught. That wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” his father added, voice cooling. “You’ve always been good at doing what needs to be done. Don’t disappoint me now.”
And with that, the line went dead.
Chan stood frozen, the silence in his office suddenly deafening. The phone slipped from his hand onto the desk with a dull thud. His reflection in the dark screen stared back at him—tense, cornered, furious.
He sighed, rubbing his hands over his forehead, the weight of the conversation with his father still pressing against his temples like a vice. His phone buzzed again, and for a moment, he didn’t even want to look. It was probably another message from his father—another command disguised as advice, another reminder that he was expected to fix everything, no matter the cost.
But curiosity won out. He glanced at the screen, bracing himself.
Minho.
A breath he didn’t realize he was holding slipped out of him, shoulders easing just slightly. The message was simple, casual, like nothing in the world was on fire.
“You eat yet? There’s a new Italian place that just opened. Appetizers probably cost more than my rent. Wanna go?”
Chan huffed a quiet laugh, the first real one in hours. Trust Minho to cut through the chaos with something so absurdly normal. He could practically hear the teasing lilt in his voice, the way he’d raise an eyebrow and smirk like he wasn’t asking, just waiting for Chan to admit he needed the distraction.
He stared at the message for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He should say no. He had a PR crisis to manage, a fake relationship to orchestrate, and a father breathing down his neck. But the idea of sitting across from someone who didn’t want anything from him—who didn’t see him as a CEO or a headline or a disappointment—was dangerously tempting.
He typed out a reply.
“Yeah, send the location and I'll be there in 20 minutes.”
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Seungmin stared—really stared—at the text Jisung had just sent him.
“HESSOFREAKINGIEOWBFBEBWFINEEEE”
He even tilted his head, squinting at the screen like maybe the angle would help it make more sense. But no, that chaotic string of letters was still there, loud and proud, like Jisung had just slammed his face into the keyboard mid-swoon.
Seungmin blinked slowly. “What in the unholy alphabet soup…”
Then it clicked.
He scrolled up a few messages and saw the blurry photo Jisung had sent just before—Minho, caught mid-laugh, head tilted back, eyes crinkled, looking unfairly good in a fitted black turtleneck and coat. The lighting was soft, golden, and warm, like something out of a drama. Of course Jisung was losing his mind.
Seungmin shook his head, a fond smile tugging at his lips. They’ve been together for how long now? And he still reacts like a fanboy every time Minho breathes. It was ridiculous. And kind of sweet. In a nauseating way.
He typed out a quick reply—“You’re down so bad it’s embarrassing.”—then tossed his phone aside before Jisung could spiral further into emoji chaos.
With a sigh, Seungmin pushed himself up from the couch and padded back into the living room. The sound of Mario Kart filled the space, along with the occasional yell of frustration or triumphant cackling.
Hyunjin and Jeongin were still at it, controllers in hand, eyes glued to the screen. Jeongin was hunched forward, tongue poking out in concentration, while Hyunjin lounged like a smug cat, drifting around corners with practiced ease.
“MOVE—MOVE—NO, YOU DID not just red shell me!” Jeongin shrieked, nearly falling off the couch.
“Oops,” Hyunjin said, not sounding sorry at all. “Maybe if you didn’t drive like a grandma.”
Seungmin dropped into the armchair with a dramatic sigh. “You two are louder than a kindergarten field trip.”
Jeongin didn’t even look up. “You love it.”
Seungmin rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. Maybe he did. Just a little.
Then he glanced at the time—9:34 p.m. His brows lifted slightly. It was getting late, and he was pretty sure Hyunjin still had a fifteen-minute drive ahead of him, assuming he didn’t get distracted by a late-night detour for bubble tea or some other craving.
“Hyunjin, it’s getting late,” Seungmin called out, his voice cutting through the sounds of screeching tires and celebratory whoops from the TV.
Hyunjin didn’t look away from the screen. “Five more minutes,” he said, leaning into a sharp turn with the kind of intensity usually reserved for actual racing.
“You said that twenty minutes ago,” Seungmin replied, arms crossed as he leaned against the doorframe. “At this point, you might as well sleep on the couch.”
Jeongin snorted, eyes still locked on the screen. “He might as well. He’s losing anyway.”
“I am not,” Hyunjin snapped, mashing buttons with renewed fury. “I’m just letting you win so you don’t cry again.”
“I didn’t cry,” Jeongin shot back, indignant. “My eyes were sweating.”
Seungmin shook his head, amused. “You two are hopeless.”
He walked over to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water and leaning against the counter as he watched them. The apartment was warm, filled with the kind of easy chaos that made it feel like home. For a moment, he let himself enjoy it—the laughter, the banter, the normalcy.
“Well, if you do end up staying over, please make sure my baby bread is warm and toasty tonight, even if you have to sleep next to him,” Seungmin said, voice smooth and far too casual as he leaned back in his chair, sipping from his water bottle.
Both Hyunjin and Jeongin froze mid-race, controllers going slack in their hands. The screen flashed as their characters veered off the track, tumbling into digital lava.
“Seungmin!” Hyunjin choked, his voice pitching up an octave as a deep blush bloomed across his cheeks. “What the hell—”
Jeongin looked like he’d just short-circuited. “I—I’m not—he’s not—what do you mean baby bread?!”
Seungmin raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “You know, soft, warm, a little squishy. Needs to be kept cozy or he gets all pouty.”
“I do not get pouty,” Jeongin muttered, ears turning red as he sank lower into the couch.
Hyunjin was still sputtering, trying to recover. “I’m not sleeping next to him! I mean—not that I wouldn’t—I mean, not like that! I just—he hogs the blanket!”
Seungmin snorted. “Sure. That’s the only reason.”
Jeongin buried his face in a throw pillow. “I hate it here.”
“No you don’t,” Seungmin said with a grin, standing up and stretching. “You love it. Just like you love each other.”
Hyunjin opened his mouth to protest again, but the words died on his tongue. He glanced at Jeongin, who peeked out from behind the pillow, their eyes meeting for a second too long.
Seungmin caught it. He didn’t say anything more, just smirked to himself and wandered back toward his room, leaving the two of them in a flustered silence broken only by the Mario Kart theme looping in the background.