Archive of Our Own

Morning came softly to the cabin. It slipped in through the windows in pale gold ribbons, catching on the edges of the wooden table, warming the stone hearth, settling gently over everything it touched. The kitchen smelled alive—Taesan’s fresh baked bread torn open and steaming, crushed herbs steeping in hot water, something faintly sweet caramelizing in a pan.

Riwoo moved through it like he belonged to the warmth. He kept close to Sungho, refilling his cup before it emptied, nudging a plate closer when Sungho forgot to reach for it, brushing past him just often enough to check that he was still there. His touches were light, almost absentminded, but constant—as if he were quietly stitching Sungho into the fabric of the room.

“Eat.” Riwoo murmured at one point, soft but insistent, sliding a piece of fresh bread toward him.

Across the table, Woonhak was a whirlwind of noise and motion, legs hooked around his chair, laughter loud enough to bounce off the beams overhead. He was telling a story—half exaggerated, half nonsense—about a bird that had stolen something shiny from Leehan’s garden.

“It was definitely a crow,” Woonhak insisted, mouth full, eyes bright. “They’re thieves. Everyone knows that.”

Leehan scowled, arms crossed. “It was not a crow. Crows don’t eat strawberries like that. It was a rabbit. Or you.”

“I would never steal from you,” Woonhak said solemnly.

Taesan snorted into his cup. “You stole his carrots last week.”

“That was borrowing.”

Leehan lunged across the table, and Woonhak yelped, laughter dissolving into chaos as they grappled briefly before Riwoo flicked a cloth at them with a sharp, fond scold.

Jaehyun watched it all from the end of the table. He wasn’t speaking. He rarely did. But for once, his shoulders weren’t drawn tight, his posture wasn’t coiled like a warning. His gaze moved slowly from face to face—Woonhak’s grin, Leehan’s indignation, Taesan’s quiet amusement—with something like ease softening his sharp lines.

Sungho noticed it before he meant to.

This version of Jaehyun—relaxed, almost gentle in the way he observed the pack—felt unfamiliar. Disarming. It was the first time Sungho had seen him like this, not looming or guarded or braced for violence. The realization unsettled him.

Everyone else seemed to sink naturally into the morning. Their voices overlapped, their movements loose, their scents mingling into something warm and layered—comfort, familiarity, belonging. The cabin hummed with it.

Sungho sat perfectly still. He cradled his cup between both hands, fingers wrapped tight around the warmth, spine straight, breathing slow and measured. If someone were watching closely, they might have thought him calm, collected.

He wasn’t.

Something sat wrong in his chest, a pressure he couldn’t shift no matter how evenly he breathed. The unease from that morning hadn’t loosened its grip; it had sharpened instead, honed into something cold and watchful. It followed his thoughts, threaded through the ordinary sounds of the kitchen, whispering beneath the laughter.

Something is very very wrong here.

The thought came unbidden, again and again. Sungho’s thoughts kept circling the forest—the way it had gone unnaturally quiet, the sudden pressure in his head, the blood he’d wiped from beneath his nose like it was nothing. That memory was clear. It sat in his mind with sharp edges, every detail intact, refusing to fade.

What frightened him was everything else. His mother’s face came to him in fragments now. The shape of her hands. The sound of her voice without the words. The village blurred at the edges, houses and paths dissolving the moment he tried to hold them steady. When he reached back, there was resistance, like his mind slid over those memories instead of into them. He didn’t understand how that was possible. How the forest could feel so present while everything that had come before felt thin, distant, already slipping away.

No one had explained what the ritual took beyond his body. They fed him, watched over him, smiled like this was enough. But it wasn’t. He deserved answers. The thought sparked, bright with anger. Quiet, controlled anger, but anger all the same. It surprised him with its clarity. He deserved to know what had been done to him. What this place was. What it wanted.

Sungho lifted his gaze from his cup. Jaehyun’s eyes met his almost immediately, sharp and assessing despite the softness that lingered there. The air between them shifted, subtle but undeniable, like a wire drawn tight.

The others were still laughing, still bickering over nothing at all, voices overlapping in an easy, familiar rhythm—too caught up in each other to notice the tension tightening quietly between Sungho and the pack alpha. The kitchen remained warm, steeped in sunlight and comfort, wrapped in the illusion of safety.

And then Sungho broke it.

“Does the forest always take things from people?”

The words landed heavy. Silence spilled across the kitchen, like a dropped dish shattering in slow motion. The kettle hissed once, thin and uncertain, before someone reached out and turned it off. Even the birds beyond the window seemed to quiet, as if the forest itself were listening.

Sungho set the cup down on the table. He didn’t move after that, hands resting flat against the wood, fingers curled slightly, knuckles pale. His gaze stayed locked on Jaehyun with unwavering intent, sharp and steady, like he’d already braced himself for whatever would come next. There was no tremor or hesitation in him now—only a raw, restrained demand.

Jaehyun didn’t react at first. No flash of anger, no immediate denial. But something shifted in him all the same. His shoulders went still. His expression smoothed into something careful, guarded. This wasn’t how he’d expected the morning to unfold—certainly not like this, not out in the open, not with that question hanging so plainly between them.

Around them, the others froze.

Woonhak’s grin slipped away as if it had never been there. He blinked once, then twice, eyes darting between Sungho and Jaehyun, his usual brightness clouded with confusion and something that looked a little too much like fear. Beside him, Leehan went utterly still, his hand pausing halfway to his cup as his breath caught in his chest, brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of the moment. Taesan didn’t look at Sungho at all. His gaze went straight to Jaehyun instead, searching his face for cues—for answers, for permission.

And Riwoo—

Riwoo moved without thinking. His hand slid across the table, warm and tentative, reaching for Sungho’s fingers like an instinct, like a promise. A quiet I’m here. A grounding touch meant to pull him back, to anchor him before he slipped too far.

Sungho pulled away.

The motion was small. If he hadn’t been so focused on Jaehyun—on the need burning behind his ribs, on the answers he deserved—he might have seen the way Riwoo’s hand lingered in the empty space for a heartbeat too long. Might have noticed the faint hitch in his breath, the hurt that flickered across his eyes before he smoothed it away. But Sungho didn’t look.

The pause stretched long enough for the warmth in the room to feel false. Long enough for the illusion of safety to thin, to fray at the edges.

Then Jaehyun exhaled. It was quiet, controlled, like he was steadying himself before stepping onto uncertain ground. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm—but it carried weight, unmistakable and absolute.

“Leave us.”

No one argued. Woonhak pushed his chair back slowly, glancing once at Sungho, then at Riwoo, uncertainty written plainly across his face. Leehan followed, movements careful, subdued. Taesan rose last, eyes never leaving Jaehyun, expression unreadable.

Riwoo hesitated. His gaze flicked to Sungho one more time, searching, hopeful, worried. For a second, it looked like he might say something—anything. Then he swallowed, nodded once, and stood.

The sound of chairs shifting and footsteps retreating felt too loud in the quiet that followed, the kitchen emptying until only two figures remained. The air felt even heavier now, pressing in on his lungs, thick with everything that hadn’t been said. The last time they’d been alone like this, Sungho had been cornered—his body pinned, his thoughts blurred, his will bent beneath that strange, thrumming weight woven into Jaehyun’s voice. The memory made his chest tighten, breath catching before he could stop it.

He’d been careful since then. Watchful. Keeping his distance in small, deliberate ways. Fear had settled somewhere deep in him, quiet but constant, a warning he couldn’t ignore.

But fear hadn’t given him answers. Fear hadn’t made the fog lift, hadn’t returned the face of his mother or the shape of the village already beginning to blur. It hadn’t stopped the forest from reaching into him, from taking pieces he didn’t know how to protect. And he was tired of shrinking.

Being afraid wouldn’t help him understand. It wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t save what he was already losing. So what was the worst that could happen? The forest was already pulling him apart, thread by thread. Whatever Jaehyun was hiding—whatever truth waited behind that calm, unreadable gaze—couldn’t be worse than this slow unraveling.

Sungho leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table now, hands curling into fists. His gaze locked on Jaehyun’s, unflinching. “You said I can’t go back,” he said, voice steady but edged with tension. “That the woods won’t let me.”

Jaehyun’s eyes narrowed just slightly, like he was measuring the question’s weight. “…Yes.”

“Why?” Sungho’s voice was steady and unyielding, the word cutting through the room. He could feel the question vibrating inside him, a pulse he could not silence. “Why won’t it let me? What… what did you do? Or what did it do to me?”

The alpha’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, the silence pressed against them like a physical thing. Outside, the world hummed with life, sunlight spilling across the kitchen floor, but inside, time slowed. The scent of fresh baked bread and herbs no longer grounded him. He was raw, exposed, and trembling under the weight of the unknown.

Jaehyun leaned back slightly, his hands curling over the edge of the table, knuckles pale. “You don’t understand,” he said finally, voice quiet but firm, almost careful. “It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated?” Sungho’s chest rose sharply with anger, fear, frustration. “I deserve answers, Jaehyun. I’m not… I’m not some thing to be protected from the truth. You can’t just—” His hands clenched tighter. “You can’t just tell me I can’t go back and leave it at that!”

Jaehyun’s gaze flicked away for a fraction of a second, just enough to show that the answer wasn’t simple, that it might hurt if he spoke it. But when he looked back, his eyes were steady, sharp, almost unbearable in their calm. “The forest needs you.”

Sungho blinked, heart stuttering. “Needs me?” His voice cracked just slightly, disbelief twisting through the edge of anger. “What… what do you mean, it needs me?”

The alpha’s hands flexed, pressing into the wood of the table. “You were chosen,” Jaehyun said finally. His voice was careful, clipped. “For something… bigger than you, than me, than this pack.”

Sungho’s pulse hitched. Jaehyun’s cryptic words only knotted the confusion tighter, and something hot began to rise behind his ribs—a fury that demanded not just explanation, but confrontation. “I deserve to understand,” he said sharply. “I’m done guessing. Done being left out. Done…” His words trailed, but the weight was clear. “Done being… kept in the dark.”

Sungho looked at him, waiting for an answer. When none came, the omega’s brow furrowed, jaw tight. “They’ve been… kind. The wolves. But I didn’t ask for this,” he said, voice low, almost a hiss. “I was forced into it.”

“It was either that… or death,” Jaehyun said quietly, each word falling like stone into the tense air between them.

Sungho let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You make it sound like that was… a choice.”

“It was,” Jaehyun replied, each word precise. “And I chose for you.”

The words landed heavy, almost suffocating. Sungho felt his chest tighten, heat rising in his veins. “You don’t get to decide my life like that. You don’t—” His voice cracked, and before he could stop himself, the words spilled out. “My mother doesn’t even know where I am. She thinks I’m—” He cut himself short, jaw tightening, the echo of old fear prickling at the back of his neck.

Jaehyun’s expression softened for a heartbeat, almost human, almost tender. “…I’m sorry.” His gaze dropped to the kitchen table, fingers tightening around the edge as if grounding himself. But when he looked back up, something sharper crept into his tone, coiling beneath the calm surface.

“But don’t forget.” A pause. “Humans… they chose you.” His brow twitched slightly, like he was searching for the words. “They tied you to that post. Left you there—for the wolves.” His voice dragged on the last words. “To… eat you alive.”

Sungho’s chest constricted, anger and grief twining in his stomach, a harsh, hot coil that refused to unravel. The chair legs scraped sharply against the floor as he pushed himself to his feet. “Then give me one reason,” he demanded, the words almost a shout now. His hands braced against the table for a second before he stepped back from it. “Just one. One reason I shouldn’t walk out that door right now.”

For a moment, Jaehyun didn’t move, his gaze fixed and unreadable. Then a subtle shift passed over his expression, slow and deliberate, like a shadow sliding across his face. And suddenly, he understood—Sungho was serious. The alpha rose to his feet as well.

The room felt smaller with both of them on their feet. The air had grown thick with the alpha’s scent, musk and rain pressed heavy against the walls, almost suffocating. Sungho felt it crawl along the back of his neck, making the fine hairs on his arms stand on end.

Still, he moved. One step toward the door. Jaehyun reacted instantly.

“STOP.”

The Voice dropped into the room like a command carved in stone. Sungho’s body obeyed before his mind could even register the words, his foot stopping mid-step. Every muscle in his body locked, stiff and unnatural, like a puppet whose strings had been pulled tight.

A chill shot down his spine. The same one from the first time he had spoken to Jaehyun, in the nest room—the cold, the weight, the impossibility of resisting. Sungho’s stomach turned, sick with the memory. Manipulated, powerless and wrong.

Slowly, he turned his head. His eyes found Jaehyun across the kitchen—wide now, something desperate breaking through the anger. In that instant, Sungho saw it: the moment Jaehyun realized the weight of what he had just done. Regret flickered across the alpha’s features, brief and raw, but Sungho was too consumed by the heat coiling in his chest, too tangled in fury and disbelief, to let it matter.

Jaehyun stepped forward. “I—”

A sharp whimper from Sungho cut him off. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Sungho’s hands trembled as he gripped the fabric of his clothes. The sharp, tangy scent of sour apple clung to him—a clear mark of fear. He didn’t look at Jaehyun. His voice came out quieter now, strained and fragile.

“I… need some air.”

Before Jaehyun could react, Sungho bolted. Through the kitchen, toward the backdoor, his footsteps loud against the floor. He yanked the door open and slammed it behind him, the crash rattling through the cabin walls, sending a shiver of startled energy through the quiet space.

Jaehyun didn’t stop him this time.

Sungho stood in the backyard with his chest still heaving, anger buzzing beneath his skin like a live wire. The cold morning air did little to soothe it. His thoughts looped back to the kitchen—Jaehyun’s words, the sharp authority of his voice, and the way his own body had frozen, stiff and unyielding. The exchange had left a bitter taste in his mouth, a mix of fear and fury and something heavier—grief, maybe, for a life that felt farther away every time he tried to grasp it. He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard, as if he could force the feeling out of his lungs.

The backyard stretched quietly around him, calm. The grass was uneven, trampled into narrow paths, and beyond it the forest loomed—dark, dense, and watching. Sungho’s gaze drifted toward the edge where the yard dissolved into trees, and that was when he noticed the narrow pathway cutting through the undergrowth. It hadn’t been obvious from the cabin, half-hidden by ferns and low branches, but now it seemed to tug at his attention, a thin line of possibility pulling him forward.

He walked closer. At the mouth of the path stood a small wooden sign, crooked on its post and weather-worn, clearly made by hand. The letters were uneven and slightly too big, carved with more enthusiasm than skill. “Leehan’s Garden”, it read.

Beneath the words was a carving: a wolf, simplified and soft around the edges, with unmistakable bunny ears perched on its head. The sight of it caught Sungho off guard. There was something so earnest about the clumsy lines, so unapologetically gentle, that the tight knot in his chest loosened just a little. A quiet huff of breath escaped him—almost a laugh—and before he could stop himself, his mouth curved into a small, fleeting smile.

He followed the path with his eyes. It slipped between the trees and vanished into shadow, the forest swallowing it whole. Sungho couldn’t see where it led, only that it went somewhere. Somewhere away from the cabin, away from truths that were being kept from him.

After a brief hesitation, he decided to go for a walk—just a short one, enough to clear his head. He stepped forward and crossed the threshold into the woods, the shadows stretching long and cool across the path as it pulled him deeper inside.

The woods were quiet. Sungho followed the narrow path deeper in, bare feet pressing softly into the packed earth, the sign for Leehan’s garden long behind him. The forest smelled alive: damp soil, crushed leaves, sap warming under the sun. Birds called to one another overhead, sharp and quick, while the wind threaded lazily through the branches, setting leaves whispering against each other.

The walk did nothing to clear his head. Any calm it offered lasted only seconds before Jaehyun’s words crept back in, uninvited, threading themselves through his thoughts.

You were chosen.

Sungho exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. He thought he understood what Jaehyun meant—at least the outline of it. Chosen by the forest. Chosen by something older, larger than him. But the logic stopped there. Why him? What had made him the answer to a problem no one had explained? And if the forest had chosen him, why did that choice mean he could never go back?

There were too many gaps. Too many missing pieces. Every time he tried to grasp the idea, it slipped through his fingers, leaving behind nothing but a dull, persistent throb of frustration behind his eyes.

So he reached for something else, clinging to the thought of his mother. He tried to summon her face the way he used to—without effort, without fear. The curve of her smile. The way her eyes crinkled when she laughed. But the image came blurred at the edges, like a reflection disturbed by rippling water. He blinked hard, willing it to sharpen, but it didn’t. The harder he pushed, the more it slipped away, dissolving into impressions instead of details. Warmth without a source. A voice without words. Panic curled low in his chest, sharp and sudden. He kept walking, faster now, breath uneven, frustration bleeding into anger.

Then it hit him.

That buzz again. It slammed into his head without warning, a violent, thrumming pressure that made his vision stutter. Sungho gasped, stumbling over the rough path, sharp stones biting into his bare feet. Pain flared behind his eyes, hot and blinding, and for a heartbeat he thought he might go down. He caught himself on instinct, knees bent, one hand braced against a tree trunk. He sucked in a shaky breath. Then another. Slow. Careful. The buzzing didn’t fade, but it dulled enough for him to stay upright.

Just as before, the woods had gone silent. No birds. No wind. Even the leaves seemed to have stilled, frozen in place. Sungho straightened slowly, heart hammering against his ribs. The quiet pressed in on him, thick and wrong, crawling under his skin.

Then—a sound behind him. A rustle, faint at first, almost swallowed by the stillness, yet unmistakable. Sungho’s head snapped over his shoulder, every nerve on edge, heart hammering as he turned, straining to catch a glimpse of movement in the shadows.

At the far end of the path—the way back to the cabin—something was moving. Branches shuddered. Bushes twisted, dragging themselves inward with unnatural speed. The trees leaned, bark creaking, roots groaning beneath the soil as the path began to narrow.

Closing.

It wasn’t slow, or careful, or patient—the forest was closing in with a force that felt alive, sharp, almost ravenous. Panic surged through Sungho, sharp enough to cut through the buzzing in his head. Every instinct screamed the same thing, loud and urgent: Run. Don’t let it reach you.

Sungho didn’t hesitate.

He turned and ran. Each heartbeat thundered in his chest, legs barely keeping pace with the frantic rhythm of the forest pressing in around him. The pain in his skull flared with every step, the buzzing roaring now, but he pushed through it, lungs burning, feet pounding against the earth. Branches clawed at his clothes as he tore down the path toward Leehan’s garden, never once looking back—because he knew, with terrifying certainty, that if he did, the forest would swallow him whole.

Air seared his throat with every gasp, each breath scraping raw against his throat as the path blurred beneath his feet. The buzzing in his head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, loud and relentless, but he didn’t slow. He couldn’t. The forest felt too close behind him, pressing, reaching, alive with intent.

The path pulled him forward, narrowing and then loosening as the trees ahead began to thin, their shadows breaking apart while light spilled through the gaps. He ran straight toward it—toward the end of the path, toward Leehan’s garden—bare feet striking hard against roots and stone, every step a sharp jolt that shot up his legs, but he didn’t stop. The forest was finally starting to give way. And there, just beyond the last stretch of dirt, where the trees opened into brightness, he saw a figure standing still.

“Sungho!”

The familiar voice cut through the panic like a lifeline.

“Leehan!” Sungho screamed back, the sound tearing out of him as he ran harder, vision blurring with tears.

Leehan moved immediately, breaking into a run—toward him, toward the forest. Panic flared white-hot in Sungho’s chest.

“Don’t!” he shouted, voice cracking. “Run away—Leehan, don’t!”

But Leehan didn’t stop. He didn’t even hesitate. Behind Sungho, the forest rustled violently. Branches snapping and twisting, the sound sharp and predatory. Sungho felt it at his back, that terrible certainty settling in his bones—now. If it reached him now—

Leehan reached him first.

In one swift, decisive motion, Leehan grabbed Sungho by the shoulders and spun them both around, placing his own back to the advancing woods. The movement was sudden enough to knock the air from Sungho’s lungs. He gasped, hands clutching at Leehan’s clothes on instinct, fingers fisting in fabric as his body shook uncontrollably. Leehan wrapped his arms around him and held on. It wasn’t gentle or careful. It was firm, unyielding—like he was bracing Sungho to the earth itself.

“I’ve got you,” Leehan said, voice low and steady against Sungho’s ear. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Sungho couldn’t answer. He clung to him, forehead pressed into Leehan’s shoulder, breath coming in ragged, broken pulls. His entire body trembled, fear buzzing through him long after the pain in his head began to ebb. And then—

The forest stopped.

The rustling cut off mid-motion. Branches froze where they were. Leaves hung suspended in the air as if the world itself had been paused.

Sungho dared to lift his head. Over Leehan’s shoulder, he saw it—the trees at Leehan’s back pulling away. Slowly. Cautiously. As if recoiling. Bushes shrank back into themselves, branches withdrawing with a faint, reluctant shiver. The path widened again, earth settling, roots sliding back beneath the soil.

The forest was retreating.

The pressure in Sungho’s head faded away, leaving behind a sudden, fragile quiet. His breath slipped out of him—long and shaky at first, then steadier, easier. He stayed still, watching the woods pull back, retreating beyond Leehan’s back. Relief flooded his limbs all at once, so heavy and sudden that he sagged forward, his knees threatening to give out.

Leehan tightened his hold, keeping him upright without a word. Sungho exhaled shakily into his shoulder, the sound half a sob, half a laugh he didn’t recognize. The woods were quiet again—but this time, it felt different. Watchful. Wary.

“What the hell…”

Sungho’s voice came out hoarse, barely more than a breath. His hands were still clenched in Leehan’s clothes, his body slow to catch up with the fact that the forest had stopped moving. The sweet, spiced warmth of Leehan’s scent curled around him, grounding him, easing the last of the tremor from his limbs until the panic finally loosened its grip.

The beta loosened his hold just enough to pull back and look at him properly. His expression was calm—almost unnervingly so—but his brows drew together in a faint furrow, his lips pouting just slightly. Even now, with panic still clawing at him, Sungho couldn’t help but notice how striking he looked. Leehan’s eyes searched his face with quiet focus as he lifted one hand and gently touched beneath Sungho’s nose.

“You’re bleeding.”

Sungho blinked, confused. He hadn’t felt it. The world still seemed tilted, sounds distant, his pulse loud in his ears. Leehan drew his hand back, and only then did Sungho see it: a dark smear of red across the younger’s fingers.

His stomach dropped.

Leehan didn’t comment on it. He didn’t look alarmed, either. He simply turned and took Sungho’s wrist, his grip light but certain, and began to guide him down the path.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s go.”

Sungho hesitated for half a second, breath still uneven, legs weak beneath him. The woods loomed at the edges of his vision, quiet now but far too aware. Then he nodded, swallowing hard, and followed.

He stayed close to Leehan as they walked, every step still echoing with leftover fear, his hands trembling despite his best efforts to steady them.

The path led them away from the forest’s grip, toward the garden—and Sungho didn’t look back once. Now that the adrenaline had faded, the ache in his bare feet hit him. He winced as each jagged stone and rough patch of soil bit into him. The path finally widened, the trees thinning until the woods seemed to step back of their own accord. Sungho stumbled out of the shadows and into a clearing—and stopped short.

Leehan’s garden unfolded before him like something out of a storybook. It wasn’t orderly in the way human gardens were meant to be. There were no strict rows, no clean borders. Instead, life spilled freely across the clearing, lush and abundant, as if the forest itself had decided to grow something gentle here. Wildflowers bloomed in soft, reckless clusters—pale blues and yellows, blush pinks tangled together. Tall stalks of herbs swayed near the edges, their scent sharp and clean in the air, cutting through the lingering iron taste at the back of Sungho’s throat.

Vegetables grew wherever there was space: leafy greens heavy with dew, thick vines curling around wooden stakes, round shapes hidden beneath broad leaves. Small signs—hand-carved and uneven—marked some of them, their lettering crooked and faint, as if Leehan had stopped caring halfway through writing them. Bees drifted lazily from flower to flower, unbothered by their presence, and somewhere nearby, water trickled softly, steady and reassuring.

It was beautiful. Sungho felt something inside his chest loosen, just a fraction. The tight coil of fear that had followed him out of the woods eased, replaced by a fragile sense of safety, like stepping into a place the forest had agreed not to touch.

At the far end of the clearing stood a small wooden shed. It leaned slightly to one side, weathered and pale from years of sun and rain, its roof patched with mismatched boards. A single window caught the light, its glass fogged and imperfect, and a bundle of dried herbs hung beside the door, swaying gently in the breeze.

Leehan didn’t pause to explain. He simply led Sungho through the garden, careful where he stepped, navigating the narrow paths as if they were second nature to him. Sungho followed close behind, still shaky, still half-expecting the ground to shift beneath his feet—but nothing did.

Inside the shed, the air changed immediately. The space was small—barely more than a single room—but it was warm, insulated from the outside world. Gardening tools lined one wall, neatly arranged despite their worn handles and rusted edges. Pots crowded every available surface, some overflowing with green, others holding soil ready for the next planting.

Against the far wall sat a small couch, clearly handmade. Its frame creaked faintly when Leehan brushed past it, the cushions uneven and patched in places, the fabric faded from years of use. It looked old. Loved.

Leehan closed the door behind them, the soft click sounding final in the quiet. He guided Sungho to the small couch and pressed a gentle hand to his shoulder, wordlessly urging him to sit. Sungho obeyed, legs still unsteady, palms resting uselessly against his thighs as the adrenaline slowly bled out of him. The shed felt too quiet now, the kind of quiet that rang in his ears.

Leehan turned away and began rummaging through the narrow desk cluttered with tools and jars. Wood knocked softly against glass, metal clinked. After a moment, he returned with a folded handkerchief—clean, though worn thin at the edges, soft from use. He crouched in front of Sungho, bringing himself down to his level.

“Hold still,” Leehan murmured.

Sungho didn’t argue. He barely breathed. The blond lifted the cloth and dabbed carefully beneath Sungho’s nose, movements slow and precise, as if afraid of hurting him. His touch was gentle, grounding. Up close, Sungho caught his scent properly—sweet spice and cardamom, something warm and alive that cut through the lingering panic still buzzing in his veins.

His gaze drifted, unbidden, to Leehan’s face. His brows were drawn together in concentration, lashes low as he focused on his task. His brown eyes glimmered in the soft amber light filtering through the shed window, calm and steady. There was something earnest in the way he cared, something unguarded. Sungho swallowed.

He’s so beautiful. The thought slipped in, his heart giving a small, traitorous skip.

Leehan shifted closer to clean a stubborn smear of blood, and Sungho froze, acutely aware of the space between them—or the lack of it. He stayed perfectly still, letting himself be taken care of, letting the moment stretch thin and quiet.

When the blond finally lowered the handkerchief, he hesitated. Then, almost without thinking, he reached up and brushed his thumb along Sungho’s cheek. The touch was slow, deliberate—no longer searching for blood, just grounding him there, warm and steady against his skin.

Sungho swallowed. “What… was that?” His voice came out tighter than he expected. “Back there… is that normal?” He gestured faintly toward the door, toward the woods beyond. “The forest… trying to hurt me?”

Leehan’s hand stilled. His brows drew together, something guarded flickering in his eyes. “No,” he said, slowly. “That’s… unusual.”

Sungho let out a thin, shaky breath. “Because you didn’t look surprised,” he added quietly.

Leehan’s gaze dropped for a moment before lifting again. “The forest is alive,” he said. “Paths shift. Things move when they want to. It follows its own rules.” His fingers curled slightly around the handkerchief. “But that?” He shook his head. “That was… aggressive.”

A quiet pause stretched between them, thick and uneasy. Sungho leaned back against the couch, exhausted, confusion pressing in from all sides. Leehan stayed crouched in front of him, close.

Sungho didn’t know what scared him more—the forest itself, or the fact that he had no answers at all. His fingers curled into the fabric of his pants, knuckles pale. He stared at the floor for a second, then lifted his gaze back to Leehan, eyes glassy.

“I thought…” He swallowed. “I thought it was going to swallow both of us.”

Leehan tensed almost imperceptibly.

“The path,” Sungho went on, words coming faster now, chasing the memory before it could slip away. “It was closing. I could feel it—like it had teeth. And when you ran toward me, I—” His voice cracked. “I thought you were going to get caught too.” His hands shook as he gestured weakly. “But the second you touched me… it stopped. Just—stopped. Like you’d drawn a line it wouldn’t cross.”

The blond was quiet for a long moment. Then he exhaled, slow and measured, and straightened slightly from his crouch.

“I’m a beta,” he said.

Sungho blinked. “Okay…?”

A faint, almost fond smile tugged at Leehan’s mouth, a hint of amusement at Sungho’s ignorance. He hesitated, then continued, choosing his words with care. “Alphas and omegas have a strong connection to the forest. Always have. It’s… instinctive. The magic reaches for them. Talks to them. Pulls at them.”

Sungho’s chest tightened.

“That can be a good thing,” Leehan said quietly. “The forest protects. It heals. It binds packs together.” His jaw set. “But it can also be a bad thing.”

He lifted his eyes to Sungho’s, steady and serious. “Betas don’t get that connection. Not the same way. We don’t feel the pull omegas do, or the pressure alphas feel. We can walk where alphas start to choke on it. Where omegas feel it sinking into their bones.”

Understanding began to dawn, slow and unsettling.

“The forest can’t really… touch us,” Leehan finished. “Not like that. Not unless it’s already breaking its own rules.”

Sungho’s breath came shallow. “So when you grabbed me—”

“It backed off,” Leehan said. “Because I was there.”

Sungho leaned back, staring at the wooden wall as if it might offer answers. The forest. The path. The way it had surged toward him with single-minded intent—and then recoiled, almost wary, when Leehan stepped in.

“So what does that mean?” he asked after a moment, his voice low, strained. “If it can’t touch you… but it can touch me.” His fingers curled against his knees. “If I can’t leave… and I can’t even walk safely inside the forest…” The thought lodged like a splinter in his chest. His gaze shifted back to Leehan, sharp now, uneasy. “Am I supposed to just stay locked inside the cabin forever?”

The words came out quieter than he intended, but they carried a raw edge that made them feel heavier than a shout. Leehan exhaled slowly, his brows drawing together as he leaned back on his heels, thinking. His eyes drifted slightly—staring at Sungho as if he were trying to turn over pieces of knowledge that refused to fit neatly.

“The forest hasn’t… accepted you yet,” he said after a moment. “There must be a reason.”

He leaned forward slightly, close enough that Sungho became suddenly aware of the warmth radiating from him, of the faint, comforting sweetness of his sweet scent, warm and grounding, curling through the air between them.

Leehan’s eyes narrowed a fraction, thoughtful. Then, slowly, he reached out, his fingers closing gently around Sungho’s wrist. Sungho startled at the contact, breath catching, but Leehan’s touch was careful, grounding. His thumb brushed lightly over the inside of Sungho’s wrist, right where the scent glands lay beneath the skin. He rubbed there in small, absent circles, as if testing something.

“The transformation worked,” Leehan murmured, almost to himself. “Your scent is stable… your body responded properly.” His brows furrowed deeper, confusion creeping into his expression. “You are an omega,” he said, quieter now. “There’s no mistake there.”

Sungho swallowed, watching him. Leehan’s hand stilled. Slowly, his gaze shifted upward—to Sungho’s throat. To the bite mark at the base of his neck. He stared at it for a long moment, his expression tightening in concentration, like someone staring at a puzzle with one missing piece—until suddenly, something in his eyes changed. A small flicker of realization.

“Unless…” he said under his breath.

Sungho leaned forward immediately, heart jumping into his throat. “Unless what?”

Leehan didn’t answer right away. He was still looking at the mark on Sungho’s neck, his expression thoughtful now rather than startled. When he finally spoke, his voice had shifted—slower, deliberate, as if he were choosing each word with care.

“The bite Jaehyun gave you,” he began, lifting his gaze back to Sungho’s face, “wasn’t just a transformation bite.”

Sungho stilled.

“In traditional packs,” Leehan continued, “when an alpha chooses a partner—they would bite them here.” His fingers hovered briefly near his own neck, indicating the same place. “It’s called a mating bite. It establishes a tie that isn’t meant to break. Not easily. Sometimes not at all.” The air felt heavier somehow. “It marks the omega as his,” Leehan said, softer now. “And binds them to the pack through him.”

Sungho’s stomach tightened. “But you are not a traditional pack,” he said carefully.

“We are not,” Leehan agreed. He reached up then and, without ceremony, tugged the collar of his shirt aside. “Look.”

Sungho hesitated only a second before leaning closer. He had to move into Leehan’s space to see it properly, close enough that the warm trace of cardamom wrapped around him again. His breath caught slightly as he focused. There, just above the line of Leehan’s collarbone, half-hidden in shadow, was the faintest outline of teeth. Barely visible unless you were looking for it. A bite mark, old and healed, but unmistakable. Just like the one he had seen on Taesan’s neck. Just like the one he carried himself. Leehan let the fabric fall back into place.

“Jaehyun bit all of us,” he said simply. “Not out of possession. Out of necessity. Our pack is tied together differently. Instead of one alpha and one omega, everything runs through him. The bond stabilizes it.”

Sungho swallowed. “What does that mean? A bonding bite.”

Leehan’s gaze drifted briefly toward the window, toward the trees beyond the glass, before returning to him.

“It means you’re tied to the pack now,” he said. “To him. To the woods.” A beat passed. “At least physically,” he added, almost under his breath.

Sungho caught it immediately. “At least…? What do you mean?”

Leehan hesitated. For a moment, it looked like he might answer—like he might say something more, something important. But whatever thought had sparked behind his eyes dimmed just as quickly.

“We should tell Jaehyun,” he said instead.

“No.” The response was immediate. The word came out sharper than Sungho intended, edged with something raw and defensive. He shook his head once, jaw tightening. “I’m not talking to him. Not today. Not about this.” Not ever, his thoughts supplied, though he didn’t say it aloud.

Leehan studied him quietly, concern softening his features. There was no judgment there—just a careful kind of understanding.

“Alright,” he said after a moment. “Then we’ll talk to Taesan instead.”

Sungho exhaled slowly, tension still coiled tight in his chest, but he nodded. “Okay.”

Leehan must have seen something shift in his expression, because his features softened almost immediately. “Hey,” he murmured. He reached forward without hesitation and cupped Sungho’s cheek, his palm warm against cool skin. His thumb brushed lightly just beneath Sungho’s eye, slow and grounding.

“Don’t spiral. We’ll figure it out. Together,” Leehan said gently, his thumb tracing a slow, absent arc along Sungho’s cheekbone. “And if something feels wrong,” he added more quietly, “you come to me. Not after. Not when it’s too late. You come to me first. Alright?”

The shed suddenly felt warmer. Leehan’s scent had deepened in the confined space, sweet spice blooming softly in the air, grounding him. It mixed with Sungho’s own apple-sweet scent, the two weaving together until the space smelled distinctly like them.

The effect was immediate. The tight coil in Sungho’s chest loosened. His omega, still rattled from the forest’s aggression, settled under the steady press of warmth and proximity. The world felt less sharp. Less threatening.

He nodded, once. “Okay.”

Leehan’s hand lingered for a second longer before easing away.

Sungho didn’t look away. Up close like this, he could see details he hadn’t let himself notice before—the fine line of Leehan’s brows, still faintly drawn in thought; the pale gold of his hair where the light caught it; the softness of his mouth, plush and pink in a subtle half-pout. There was something unfair about how composed he looked, even in confusion. About how beautiful he was. Sungho realized he was staring, but he couldn’t seem to pull his gaze away.

Leehan tilted his head slightly, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. “Do you want to see it?”

Sungho blinked. “See what?”

“The garden,” Leehan said.

Sungho hesitated only a fraction of a second before nodding again. “Yeah, I do.”

Leehan pushed the shed door open and stepped aside, gesturing for Sungho to follow. The garden unfolded beyond it like something carefully hidden from the rest of the world.

“This part’s practical,” Leehan said, leading him first toward a neat stretch of raised beds. “Vegetables. Fruit. Things we actually eat.”

Tomato vines climbed their supports in tidy spirals, heavy with green and blushing red fruit. Peppers hung like polished ornaments. Lettuce leaves layered in soft, crisp folds.

“The tomatoes are safe,” Leehan added, glancing back at him with a faintly smug expression. “Woonhak hates them, so he won’t touch them. It’s the only reason they survive.”

Sungho huffed a small laugh. “And the strawberries?” he asked, noticing a patch carefully netted and thriving in the corner.

Leehan’s expression shifted instantly—brightening, almost boyish. “My pride and joy,” he said. “I’ve had to threaten bodily harm to keep Taesan from eating them before they’re ripe.” He crouched and lifted one of the leaves gently, revealing a cluster of red fruit tucked beneath. “They’re sweeter this year.”

Sungho bent closer, and the scent washed over him—sweet and green, warm from the sun. It was sharp yet gentle, overwhelming in the most comforting way. He hadn’t realized how muted the world had been before. Now every note seemed sharpened—soil rich and damp beneath the surface, leaves breathing out something crisp, the faint citrus tang of crushed stems where someone had brushed too close.

He straightened slowly, eyes drifting past the practical rows toward the deeper half of the garden. The flowers. They grew in layered clusters—lavender and pale blue, bright yellows, deep velvety purples. Petals thin as silk, others thick and waxy. Some climbed, others spilled outward in bursts of color. He stepped toward them almost without thinking.

“This is…” he trailed off, turning slowly in place.

Leehan watched him with quiet satisfaction. “Better than the old cabin, right?”

Sungho nodded, almost dazed. “It’s beautiful.”

A flicker of movement caught his attention. Butterflies hovered lazily among the flowers—white and pale gold and a striking one with deep blue along its wings. They dipped and lifted without fear, drifting closer to Leehan as he stepped between the rows. One settled without hesitation on his shoulder, another brushed his sleeve.

Sungho stared.“They really like you,” he said, incredulous.

Leehan only hummed in agreement, entirely unbothered. Then one butterfly, pale and delicate, fluttered upward and landed squarely against Leehan’s mouth. Right on his lips.

Sungho blinked, then laughed—bright and unguarded. “I think they really like you,” he managed.

Leehan’s eyes crossed slightly as he tried to look at it, then he nodded enthusiastically as if this were a well-established fact. “They do.”

The butterfly lingered another second before lifting away. Sungho was still smiling. Standing here, surrounded by color and warmth and the steady presence of someone who had built this place with his own hands, the fear from earlier felt distant. Muffled. The woods beyond the hidden boundary of the garden no longer seemed so immediate. The air smelled like sweet spice and crushed leaves and strawberries ripening in the sun. It smelled like safety.

“I get why you come here,” he said quietly.

Leehan glanced at him, a small, warm smile tugging at his lips.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said. “Makes me happy to see you enjoying yourself.”

Sungho stayed quiet, cheeks warming, shy under Leehan’s soft smile. His eyes drifted, and something caught his attention under the big oak—a mound of leaves, piled high like a tiny, leafy mountain.

Leehan followed his gaze, chuckling. “Oh, that? I pile up the leaves that fall into the garden. Sometimes I like to nap in it.”

Curiosity pulled Sungho closer to the mound of leaves, his fingers itching to brush against the soft, sun-warmed pile. Before he could get a proper look, Leehan darted forward with a mischievous grin and gave him a gentle, playful shove.

Sungho flailed, arms windmilling, as he toppled backward, landing squarely in the leaves with a soft thump.

“Leehan!!!” he shouted, flustered, leaves flying in every direction.

The blonde’s laughter rang out, loud and infectious, carrying across the garden. “Sorry, sorry!” he gasped through his giggles, though the sparkle in his amber eyes made it clear he wasn’t sorry in the slightest.

Sungho squirmed, brushing leaves off his sleeves, but a small smile tugged at his lips despite his irritation. Leehan crouched beside him, eyes sparkling. “Comfy?” he asked innocently.

It… wasn’t so bad. The leaves were soft, warm from the sun, and Sungho felt a strange, comforting ease in the chaos of colors and scents around him.

“Told you!” Leehan said triumphantly. “Best place to nap.”

Before Sungho could even form a protest, Leehan began peeling off his shirt. Sungho’s eyes, unbidden, followed every movement—the pale sweep of his skin, the gentle curve of his shoulders, the faint definition of muscles beneath soft, smooth flesh. His heart hammered, cheeks flushing, tracing the rise and fall of Leehan’s torso with his gaze.

The beta didn’t miss the look. There was a faint pout in his lips, and a glint of mischief in his eyes. He moved to tug at his waistband and that was when it hit Sungho—he’d been staring. His voice came out strangled, sharp and panicked.

“W-what are you doing?!” Sungho’s pulse raced.

Leehan frowned just a little. “I’m gonna shift. Don’t want to tear the clothes…”

”Oh.” Sungho forced himself to look away, heat rising through his chest, his pulse loud in his ears.

A sudden weight landed beside him, pressing into the leaf pile with a soft thud that jostled Sungho and sent dry leaves fluttering around them. Glancing over, his eyes widened at the massive white wolf, fur catching the filtered sunlight and shimmering like spun snow as it shook itself. The sheer size, the closeness, the unexpected softness under his hands made his chest tighten, and despite everything, a laugh escaped him—half disbelief, half delight at the ridiculous sight.

Sungho’s laughter faded into something softer as the wolf turned its head toward him. Their eyes met. Even like this—larger, wilder, wrapped in white fur instead of pale skin—Leehan’s gaze was unmistakable. Warm, playful. Slowly, almost reverently, the omega lifted his hand. He meant to touch him, to feel the thickness of that gleaming fur beneath his fingers. But just before contact, he hesitated, his hand hovering inches away.

“Is it okay?” he asked quietly.

The wolf’s ears twitched. Then, without breaking eye contact, Leehan leaned forward and pressed his snout gently into Sungho’s flushed cheek. It was a soft, deliberate nudge—warm breath ghosting over his skin, fur brushing against him like a whisper. He lingered there for a moment, a wordless way of granting permission, of telling Sungho it was safe to touch, safe to be close.

Sungho’s lips parted in a small, startled smile. “Okay,” he murmured.

His fingers finally sank into the wolf’s fur. It was softer than he expected—thick and impossibly warm, the strands slipping between his fingers as he stroked carefully along the curve of Leehan’s neck. The wolf let out a low, pleased rumble that vibrated against Sungho’s palm.

Leehan relaxed immediately under his touch. His massive body shifted closer, settling into the leaves with a heavy exhale. Sungho felt the steady rise and fall of his chest through the press of fur and muscle, the rhythm slow and calm, anchoring.

The garden seemed to breathe with them. A light breeze threaded through the trees overhead, stirring the leaves and carrying the layered scents of flowers and sun-warmed earth. The pile beneath them was soft, still faintly warm from the morning light. Sungho’s fingers continued their gentle path through white fur, slower now, lazier. He focused on the sensation—the warmth beneath his palm, the steady breathing against his side, the way the leaves cradled him, their softness grounding him in place.

His omega, so recently unsettled, quieted completely. Sungho’s eyelids grew heavy without him noticing. He shifted slightly, cheek brushing against the wolf’s shoulder, the fur softer than any pillow. Leehan huffed quietly but didn’t move away—instead pressing closer, a silent allowance.

The breeze sighed through the garden again. Sungho’s fingers stilled in the fur. His lashes fluttered once, twice. And then, wrapped in warmth and sunlight and the steady rhythm of Leehan’s breathing, he drifted into sleep.

Sungho woke slowly, the way one did when sleep had been deep and warm and safe. For a few moments he didn’t move, drifting in that soft in-between state, aware first of sensation rather than thought—the faint rustle of leaves beneath him, the steady warmth pressed along his side, the gentle rhythm of breathing that wasn’t his own.

A small sound reached him. A light, irregular patter—soft little thumps against the soil, followed by the faintest rustle of greenery. His eyes fluttered open. At the edge of the garden, near one of the vegetable beds, a small brown rabbit hopped between the plants, nose twitching as it investigated a row of greens with absolute confidence, as if it belonged there. Sungho blinked, still drowsy, then let out the quietest breath of surprise.

“…Leehan,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

The massive white wolf beside him didn’t stir at first, sprawled half on its side, half against him, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. The omega lifted a hand and nudged the warm fur gently.

“Leehan… we fell asleep.”

One ear flicked. Then the wolf stirred, stretching in a long, languid motion—forelegs extending, back arching, jaws parting in a wide, silent yawn that revealed sharp teeth in a way that should have been intimidating but somehow wasn’t. Not like this. Not here. Amber eyes blinked open, focusing on him. For a heartbeat, they were calm and heavy with sleep. Then they brightened.

Before Sungho could react, the wolf shifted suddenly—rolling toward him with surprising speed. The movement sent a wave through the leaf pile, dry leaves whispering and scattering as the large body bumped into him.

“Hey—!”

Sungho laughed, half startled, half breathless as he tried to push back against the solid weight. The wolf nudged him again, insistent, playful, pressing its head against his shoulder.

“Leehan— wait—!”

He tried to shove at the thick fur, but it was like trying to move a warm wall. Still, the pressure never became overwhelming. Even in the playful scuffle, Sungho could feel the restraint—the careful way the wolf shifted its weight, the way its paws landed lightly instead of pinning him fully. Leehan was holding back, always adjusting, always careful not to hurt him. That realization warmed something soft in his chest.

They wrestled awkwardly in the leaves, Sungho squirming and pushing while the wolf nudged and blocked him with broad shoulders, tail sweeping through the pile in excited swishes that sent leaves flying everywhere.

In the end, it was inevitable. With a final, playful shove, the wolf rolled forward and ended up looming over him—large body braced on either side of Sungho, effectively caging him into the soft dip of the leaf pile. Sungho froze for half a second, breath catching, amber eyes meeting his. Then the wolf lowered its head and licked his cheek. Once, twice.

“Hey—! Leehan!” The omega protested, laughing helplessly, trying to turn his face away while his hands pushed at the thick fur. “That’s— gross—!”

The wolf huffed in what sounded suspiciously like satisfaction. And then—suddenly—there was no wolf anymore. The weight shifted in an instant, warmth changing shape, fur vanishing beneath Sungho’s hands as the body beside him reshaped itself. Leaves rustled sharply, settling again around them as the movement stilled.

Sungho blinked, and found himself staring straight into Leehan’s amber eyes. The blond boy hovered above him, braced on one arm, the other still half tangled in the leaves near Sungho’s shoulder. He was smiling—open and playful, eyes bright with leftover laughter. Loose strands of pale gold hair had fallen forward during the shift, brushing against Sungho’s cheek with the faintest tickle.

For a moment, Sungho forgot how to breathe. Up close like this, there was nowhere for his gaze to hide. It caught first on Leehan’s face—the soft curve of his mouth still lifted at the corners, the warmth in his eyes, the faint flush still lingering across his nose from their roughhousing. His attention drifted lower, to the smooth line of his throat, to the delicate shadows along his clavicle, rising and falling with each steady breath.

Leehan’s skin looked warm in the dappled light filtering through the leaves overhead, faintly golden where the sun touched it. Sungho’s gaze drifted despite himself, tracing the line of Leehan’s shoulders and the bare plane of his chest—then snapped back up immediately, heat rushing to his face all at once. His eyes flew to Leehan’s, mortified.

Leehan hadn’t moved or said a word, but the slow, unmistakably amused curve of his smile made it painfully obvious that he had noticed—every single second of it. Sungho’s cheeks burned hotter. The beta’s brows lifted just slightly, expression soft and teasing without a single spoken word, his eyes warm with something that looked a lot like quiet fondness. And somehow, that silent knowing look made Sungho’s heart stutter even harder than being caught staring in the first place.

“Mm,” Leehan hummed softly, tilting his head just a little, strands of pale hair slipping further into Sungho’s face. His eyes gleamed with quiet mischief. “Like what you see?”

The words were light, almost playful—but they hit Sungho like a spark to dry tinder. A strangled, mortified sound escaped him before he could stop it, something halfway between a whine and a groan. “Leehan—!” he protested, voice cracking as he tried to turn his face away, only to realize there was nowhere to go with the other boy still hovering so close above him. His hands came up instinctively, half-covering his face as if that might hide the furious heat spreading across his cheeks.

Leehan’s smile only deepened, warm and thoroughly pleased, the kind that said he had absolutely no intention of letting Sungho live it down anytime soon. The beta leaned closer. Close enough that Sungho could feel the warmth of his breath, could see the tiny shift of his pupils. Before Sungho could fully process it, Leehan closed the last bit of distance and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his lips.

It was quick. Careful. Sungho’s breath caught sharply, chest rising under him, fingers tightening unconsciously in the leaves beneath his back. His heart kicked hard against his ribs, loud enough he was sure Leehan could feel it.

The blonde didn’t pull far. He hovered there, close enough that their noses nearly brushed, eyes searching Sungho’s face with quiet, unmistakable caution. Giving him time. Giving him a way out.

Sungho’s breath came out shaky—but he didn’t turn away. His lips parted slightly, more from surprise than intent, and something in Leehan’s expression softened all at once. So he leaned in again.

This time the kiss landed properly against Sungho’s mouth—still gentle, still tentative, but warmer now, lingering for a heartbeat longer. And when he kissed him a third time— It wasn’t testing anymore. It was real. Soft, slow, and steady, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile. Like he was trying to tell him something without words.

Sungho melted into the leaf pile beneath him before he even realized it was happening. The tension drained out of his limbs, his hands loosening, his body sinking into the soft rustle of leaves as he breathed in Leehan’s scent—sweet spice, warm and grounding, wrapping around him like a quiet promise. For a moment, the world narrowed to that warmth, that closeness.

When Leehan finally pulled back, it wasn’t by much—only enough that their foreheads nearly brushed, their breaths still mingling in the narrow space between them. Their eyes met immediately, and as his breathing slowly evened out, Leehan’s lips curved again, just slightly, that familiar playful glint slipping back into his gaze.

“…Still gross?” he murmured.

Sungho stared at him for half a second—then let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “Shut up.” His cheeks were burning.

Before Leehan could react, Sungho grabbed a fistful of dry leaves and tossed them straight into his face. Leehan sputtered, laughing instantly, hands coming up too late as the leaves rained down over his hair and shoulders.

“Hey—!”

Sungho didn’t give him time to recover. He lunged forward, and suddenly they were wrestling again—all limbs and breathless laughter, rolling across the grass as leaves scattered everywhere around them.

This time, though, Sungho didn’t lose. With an awkward but determined shove, he managed to flip their positions, momentum carrying them into the soft grass just beyond the pile. They stilled there. Sungho hovering above him, hands braced on either side of Leehan’s shoulders, chest rising and falling quickly, hair falling into his eyes. Leehan lay beneath him, equally breathless, a wide, unguarded smile still tugging at his lips.

Sungho’s lips curled, breath still uneven but his expression bright with a rare, triumphant smugness. “Got you,” he panted softly, pushing his hair out of his eyes with a quick shake of his head.

Leehan only looked up at him, thoroughly unimpressed—amused, if anything. The corners of his mouth twitched, eyes warm and teasing. “Did you?” he murmured.

Before Sungho could react, Leehan’s hands slid to his waist. With a sudden, effortless pull, he tipped their balance again. The world shifted in a blur of grass and sky—then leaves rushed up to meet them with a soft rustle. They landed tangled in the pile, the impact knocking a surprised breath from Sungho’s lungs. They rolled onto their sides, facing each other, barely a breath apart amid the crushed leaves. Leehan leaned down just enough that his breath ghosted over Sungho’s lips, voice dropping into something low and intimate, threaded with playful menace.

“If you keep being this cute,” he whispered, “I might just eat you up.”

Sungho’s mind went completely blank. It took him a full second to register the position—how close they were, how warm Leehan’s body felt, how the deep timbre of that voice seemed to vibrate straight through his chest. The beta leaned closer as he spoke, the movement slow, deliberate. His breath ghosted over the side of Sungho’s neck now, warm against the sensitive skin where the bite still lingered. For a fleeting second, his lips brushed there—barely a touch, softer than a whisper.

Heat exploded across Sungho’s face. He made a strangled sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a squeak, cheeks flushing so quickly it felt like his skin might actually burn. His heart slammed wildly against his ribs, fast and erratic, as if it had forgotten how to keep a normal rhythm.

Leehan stared at him for half a heartbeat—then burst into laughter. “Wow,” he said, clearly delighted. “You’re even redder than my tomatoes.”

Sungho let out a mortified whine, eyes squeezing shut as if that could somehow erase the moment. “Please, stop talking,” he mumbled weakly. And then, in a final act of surrender, he let his body go slack—dropping all his weight straight against Leehan’s bare chest.

Leehan only laughed harder, the sound bright, his arms instinctively tightening around Sungho as their bodies settled together in the grass. Leehan’s laughter eventually softened into something quieter, until it faded into a contented exhale. His hands shifted almost absentmindedly—sliding higher, fingertips brushing lightly along Sungho’s sides before settling at his back. His nose brushed along the curve of Sungho’s jaw, then his temple, slow and unhurried. Sungho felt it immediately—the soft press of breath against his skin, the faint tickle of Leehan’s hair grazing his cheek—and then the scents themselves began to mingle, growing stronger where their bodies touched.

Close like this, Leehan’s scent wrapped around Sungho completely, rich and steady, easing the last tight knots in his chest. And beneath it, he could feel his own scent responding, bright and soft—apples, crisp and sweet, blooming instinctively in the warmth between them. The two blended together in the still air of the garden, settling into something gentle and balanced.

The beta let out a quiet hum, satisfied, his shoulders relaxing as he rested his cheek briefly against Sungho’s hair. Sungho didn’t move either. His body slowly loosened, tension melting away as he focused on the steady rise and fall of Leehan’s breathing, the warmth beneath him, the rustle of leaves shifting softly around them in the breeze.

For a while, they simply stayed like that—wrapped in the calm of the garden. Eventually, though, Leehan stirred. He tipped his head back slightly, eyes flicking toward the sky through the branches overhead, as if judging the time by the angle of the light.

“We should probably head back soon,” he murmured, voice quiet and reluctant.

Sungho made a small, disappointed sound but nodded. The blond shifted carefully, easing out from beneath him before rising to his feet in one smooth motion. Dry leaves slid down from his skin as he straightened. Then he reached down, offering his hand without hesitation. Leehan’s grip was warm and firm as he pulled him up effortlessly, steadying him when Sungho wobbled slightly from the sudden movement.

Only once Sungho was standing did Leehan turn to retrieve his discarded clothes, scooping up his shirt first. He shook loose a few clinging leaves, then pulled it over his head in one easy motion. Sungho’s gaze was drawn helplessly to the way Leehan’s torso moved as he dressed, the smooth stretch of pale skin disappearing beneath fabric, the subtle flex of his stomach muscles as he lifted his arms. Heat crept back into Sungho’s face in a slow, traitorous wave. He snapped his eyes upward a second too late—just in time to catch the faintest hint of amusement tugging at Leehan’s mouth as he tugged his shirt down into place. The beta didn’t tease him this time, he simply turned, brushing the last leaves from his clothes, and motioned for Sungho to follow.

Together they crossed the garden slowly, weaving between the neat rows of vegetables and the bright clusters of flowers until the soft earth gave way to the familiar narrow trail at its edge—the path that cut back through the woods toward the cabin.

The moment Sungho saw it, his steps faltered. His chest tightened, the memory crashing back all at once—the way the trees had bent inward, the suffocating silence, the panic clawing up his throat as he’d run without knowing if he would make it out. His heartbeat began to quicken again, breath growing shallow as his eyes lingered on the dark line of the forest ahead.

He almost didn’t notice Leehan slowing beside him, until warm fingers slipped between his own. Sungho startled slightly as Leehan’s hand found his, their fingers interlocking with quiet certainty. The touch was steady, grounding—solid in a way that pulled him back out of the spiraling thoughts before they could fully take hold. Leehan gave his hand a small squeeze.

“You don’t have to worry,” he said softly, glancing at him. His voice carried the same calm assurance it always did, low and even. “You’re safe with me. The forest won’t hurt you while I’m there.”

Sungho swallowed, the tightness in his chest easing just a little under the weight of that certainty. He nodded, holding onto Leehan’s hand more firmly this time.

Together, they stepped onto the path. The woods remained quiet as they walked, leaves whispering gently overhead, the air cool and still. Nothing shifted. The trees stood tall and watchful, but no longer threatening. And with Leehan’s hand warm in his own, guiding him steadily forward, the path back to the cabin felt far less frightening than it had that morning.

When they stepped into the backyard, Sungho noticed it immediately. On the wooden stairs leading up to the kitchen backdoor, a patch of early-afternoon sunlight spilled across the boards like liquid gold—and stretched comfortably within it lay a black wolf. He was sprawled on his side, utterly at ease, soaking in the warmth as if he had claimed that exact spot a hundred times before.

As Sungho and Leehan approached, the wolf’s ears flicked. Its head lifted in a slow, unhurried motion, and sharp dark eyes locked onto them. Recognition struck Sungho at once. The fur was pitch black, but under the sunlight it shimmered faintly, each strand catching the light so that it looked almost star-dusted, ethereal despite the animal’s solid, powerful build. It was large—broad-shouldered, imposing—but not towering in the unmistakable way of an alpha.

Taesan watched them for a beat longer, then rose to his feet in one fluid motion. He gave himself a full-body shake, dark fur rippling and scattering tiny motes of light, before turning toward the door without a sound. With a glance back over his shoulder—as if to make sure they were following—he padded up the remaining steps and slipped inside, clearly expecting them to come after him.

Inside the kitchen, everything was quiet. The faint scent of breakfast still lingered in the air—warm bread, honey, and tea—but the heavy, clashing traces of Sungho and Jaehyun’s fight had faded. In their place, the soft fragrance of drying herbs drifted from the shelves. Sungho drew in a slow breath, the smell grounding him.

The black wolf padded a few steps inside, and then shifted. The transformation happened in a smooth ripple of motion, fur receding, limbs reshaping, until Taesan stood there in human form, bare skin catching the soft light filtering through the window. He stretched his arms overhead with a slow, unselfconscious ease, back arching slightly as muscles rolled beneath his skin.

Sungho, who had stepped in right behind him, froze. His eyes betrayed him immediately—drawn first to the broad line of Taesan’s shoulders, then the strong taper of his back, the subtle flex of muscle beneath pale skin as he moved. His gaze drifted lower before he could stop it, sliding down—down—

—and the second his brain caught up with what he was staring at, Sungho whipped around so fast his neck almost hurt, fixing his attention on the window with desperate intensity. Outside, bushes swayed gently in the breeze. Very interesting bushes. Extremely fascinating. He focused on them like his life depended on it.

Behind him, he heard Leehan bustling closer, his voice light with poorly hidden amusement.

“Let’s cover you up before our poor omega collapses,” he said cheerfully.

“I am okay,” Sungho insisted immediately, though it came out thin and strangled enough to prove the exact opposite.

When he finally dared to turn back, Leehan was already wrapping a robe around Taesan’s shoulders, fingers deftly pulling the fabric into place. The familiarity between them was effortless—easy, practiced, intimate in a quiet, natural way that made it clear this was something they’d done countless times before.

Taesan stood still for him, watching with soft amusement, something warm and unmistakably fond resting in his gaze as Leehan fussed with the knot at his waist.

“There,” Leehan said, satisfied, tightening it with a small tug. “Done.”

The moment their eyes met, Taesan leaned down without hesitation, arms sliding around Leehan’s waist as he pressed quick, affectionate kisses across his cheeks—one, two, three—careless and unguarded.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

Leehan laughed, bright and easy, nudging at his shoulder.

Watching them, something inside Sungho softened all at once, warmth spreading quietly through him at the simple, unspoken closeness between them. Taesan’s attention shifted to Sungho then, the softness still lingering in his expression from a moment ago.

“I was actually about to bake something,” he said, voice easy. “Cookies, maybe. Do you… want to help?”

The offer caught Sungho off guard. He blinked, startled, “Sure, but…” His words trailed off as his gaze slid instinctively toward Leehan, intent and uncertain all at once.

Leehan caught the look immediately. The lightness left his posture, his shoulders straightening just slightly. When he turned back to Taesan, his voice was calm but more serious than before. “We wanted to talk first,” he said. “Let’s sit.”

Taesan stilled at once. He was perceptive enough to feel the shift in the air—the tension threading through Leehan now, the nervous tightness in Sungho’s stance. Without a word, he nodded and moved toward the table. They sat together, the quiet settling heavy around them.

Leehan glanced at Sungho and gave a small, steady nod—an unspoken reassurance. It’s alright. We can trust him.

Sungho drew a breath and turned to Taesan. His hands rested on his knees, fingers curling tightly into the fabric. “This morning,” he began, voice low, “after the… argument with Jaehyun… I went to Leehan’s garden. I took the path through the woods.” He swallowed. “And I was attacked. By the forest. If Leehan hadn’t come when he did, I—”

His voice faltered. The memory made his hands clench harder, knuckles whitening.

Leehan spoke quietly to fill the space. “It was aggressive,” he said, his tone grave. “The path was closing in. The forest was… moving like it wanted to swallow him whole.” He shook his head faintly. “We know the woods. We know their whims. But I’ve never seen anything like that.”

Taesan’s brows drew together as he listened, the seriousness settling fully into his expression now. He leaned forward slightly, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that clearly did not fit the natural order they all understood. Then his gaze returned to Sungho—sharp, searching.

“Has this happened before?” he asked quietly. “The first time you walked into the forest… did you feel something then?”

Both betas were watching him now, waiting. Sungho hesitated, the silence stretching tight in his chest, and then, slowly, he nodded.

“The first time, it felt like pressure building inside my head. Like a buzz—not a sound exactly, more like a vibration. Too loud. Too much.” He pressed his fingers to his temple unconsciously. “I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. It was like something was pushing against my skull from the inside. The pain was so hard I couldn’t process anything else.”

The memory made his stomach flip.

“It made me dizzy. My vision kept blurring, like the whole world was tilting… I thought I might collapse.” He hesitated, swallowing. “And… I had a nosebleed.”

Across from him, Taesan and Leehan locked eyes. It was subtle, just a glance. But Sungho saw it. Concern settled over their faces, quiet and calculating, like the slow realization that the situation was worse than they had thought.

Silence stretched between them, long enough for the tension to settle into Sungho’s bones. Across the table, Taesan drew in a slow breath, like someone steadying himself before saying something difficult.

“From what we know…” he began carefully. His voice sounded calm enough, but his eyes betrayed him. “The woods are rejecting you.”

The words landed heavy, dropping into Sungho’s chest like a stone thrown into deep water. The ripples spread slowly outward, cold and sinking.

“But why?” Taesan continued, his brow furrowing as the thought worked itself out loud. “The transformation worked. The bite—”

His words faltered then. Something flickered across his face—a subtle shift as his thoughts rearranged themselves. The realization was almost visible, the way the pieces seemed to click together behind his eyes.

“…The bond isn’t complete?” He said it quietly, almost to himself.

Leehan straightened beside him, his posture tightening just slightly. When he spoke, his voice was gentler—but there was a certainty there that hadn’t been before. “I think so too,” he said. “Something’s missing.”

Sungho’s gaze moved between them, confusion tightening in his chest. “The bond… isn’t complete?” Almost unconsciously, his hand rose to his neck. His fingertips pressed against the spot where Jaehyun’s teeth had broken the skin, the memory of it still vivid beneath his touch. “But the bite…” he said slowly. “Wasn’t that supposed to be enough?”

He was about to ask more when Taesan exhaled sharply. “We should tell Jaehyun.”

Sungho’s shoulders tensed immediately. “Don’t.”

Both betas looked at him now. Taesan leaned slightly across the table. His fingers found Sungho’s wrist, curling gently around it, rubbing softly in a steadying rhythm.

“This is important, Sungho,” he said, his voice calm but insistent.

The omega flinched slightly at the touch, then relaxed just a fraction under the warmth and steadiness, the motion grounding him more than he expected.

“I know,” Sungho said quietly, his voice wavering. “Maybe not yet. I—”

His mind flicked back to that morning, to Jaehyun’s clipped, abrupt words, the way each syllable had hit like a cold blade. The low, commanding tone that had made his body freeze, made his chest tighten and his spine shiver. Sungho swallowed hard, the taste of fear and frustration tangling together, and he pressed his hands against the table to steady himself. “I—”

Before he could finish his words, footsteps pounded in the hallway—quick and loud, each thud bouncing off the walls. Woonhak stumbled into the kitchen, chest heaving, hair tousled from running, sweat glinting in the soft light. His eyes were wide and bright, sparkling with excitement, and his voice rang out, cheerful and almost breathless, cutting through the tension.

“Taesan!”

He grinned and the kitchen seemed to brighten a little in his presence, even if just for a heartbeat. But Sungho noticed it then—Woonhak’s eyes flicked, a tiny flash of something crossing his expression. He froze for a fraction of a second, taking in the three sets of eyes fixed on him, the serious lines of Taesan and Leehan’s faces, the tension that still lingered in the air.

“Is… is something wrong?” Woonhak asked, his voice catching slightly, as if he had just realized he’d walked into a storm.

Taesan shook his head, his hand dropping from Sungho’s wrist as he leaned back slightly. “No,” he said softly, masking the weight behind his words. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

Woonhak studied them for a long moment, curiosity and concern warring in his gaze, before the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. He tried another smile, smaller this time, a quiet attempt to push the heaviness away. His eyes shifted—locking onto Sungho.

“Sungho…” he said quietly. “Are you okay? After what happened this morning?”

Sungho felt something in his chest soften at the question. He gave a small, reassuring smile. “I’m okay.”

The omega reached out, his fingers closing gently around Woonhak’s wrist. The contact was light at first, tentative. Sungho’s thumb brushed slowly over the scent gland there, rubbing in small, absent circles.

Woonhak gasped, a soft, startled sound that made the air between them hum. He hadn’t expected Sungho to reach out, and the gesture caught him completely off guard. But the surprise quickly melted into delight, his eyes lighting up. Without hesitation, he threw his arms around Sungho, hugging him tightly, pressing close. Sungho relaxed in his arms, letting the warmth and earnest energy of the younger alpha wash over him.

“I really am okay,” he murmured softly, leaning into Woonhak’s shoulder. He inhaled, catching the comforting warmth of the younger alpha’s fire-scented skin, letting it ground him for just a moment.

Across the kitchen, Taesan and Leehan exchanged a quick glance. Woonhak made a small sound—half a huff, half a quiet whine—and nudged his nose into the curve of Sungho’s neck, rubbing there instinctively. “I missed you this morning,” he murmured. Sungho couldn’t see his face, but he could hear the pout in his voice clearly.

“I’m sorry,” Sungho said quietly. “I went to Leehan’s garden,” he added after a moment. “It was very pretty.”

Woonhak finally pulled back, though slowly, like he wasn’t entirely ready to let go. His hands lingered at Sungho’s sides before dropping. Then he glanced over toward the table, just in time for Leehan to snort.

“He didn’t steal my carrots, unlike you.”

Woonhak snapped immediately. “That was ONE time.”

“You dug them out like a raccoon.”

“They were ripe!”

“They were not!”

Their voices rose at the same time—overlapping, loud and indignant—as the argument immediately spiraled into something that clearly had no intention of ending anytime soon. Taesan and Sungho exchanged an amused look. When it became obvious the carrot dispute was only gaining momentum, Taesan leaned back against the counter and called over the rising bickering

“So— what did you want?”

Woonhak turned mid-argument, as if only just remembering.

“Oh. Right.” He looked at Taesan, hopeful. “Come hunting with me?”

Taesan glanced sideways at Sungho without even thinking about it. “I promised Sungho we’d bake.”

Sungho immediately shook his head, quick and earnest. “You should go if you need to. It’s fine, really—”

But Taesan cut him off with a small, firm shake of his own head. “I want to spend time with you, too.”

Sungho let out a small, shy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck before glancing up at Taesan. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I’d like that.”

Leehan, watching the scene unfold, let a slow, smug grin spread across his face. “Then I’ll go with Woonhak,” he said brightly. Before the younger could protest, Leehan grabbed him by the arm and started herding him toward the doorway.

“You—hey—don’t touch me—”

“Come here,” Leehan cooed, immediately peppering his face with exaggerated, noisy kisses.

“STOP—LE—HEY—”

Their voices faded down the hallway, Woonhak’s muffled squawks mixing with Leehan’s delighted laughter, the sound echoing through the house long after they disappeared from view.

The ingredients for the cookies had already been laid out across the table—bowls of flour and sugar, a small dish of softened butter, eggs waiting patiently in their basket, and the faint, comforting scent of vanilla lingering in the air. Sungho lingered beside the table for a moment, taking it all in before glancing over at Taesan.

“Do you enjoy baking?” he asked.

The beta looked up from where he was measuring flour, the question catching him slightly off guard. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“At first?” he said, tipping the flour into the bowl. “Not really. I was just curious.” He shrugged lightly, reaching for the sugar next. “I’d never done it before, so I figured I’d try. Just to see if I could.”

The memory seemed to soften his expression as he spoke.

“The first time I made something, the others practically devoured it,” he continued with a quiet laugh. “I think Woonhak ate half the tray by himself.”

Sungho smiled faintly at the image. Taesan stirred the ingredients together slowly, thoughtful.

“They looked so happy,” he added after a moment. “All of them sitting around the table, stealing cookies before they’d even cooled down.” His voice grew a little softer then. “Seeing the pack smile like that… because of something I made.” He glanced back at Sungho, warmth clear in his eyes. “It made me want to get better at it.” His shoulders lifted in a small, easy shrug. “And somewhere along the way, I realized I actually loved it.”

He paused, then pointed the spoon at Sungho in mild warning. “But don’t tell the others I just said that.”

Sungho blinked at him. The beta huffed softly, looking almost embarrassed now. “They’ll get all worked up about it,” he muttered.

For a second Sungho just stared at him—then a quiet laugh slipped out. “Don’t worry,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “Your secret’s safe with me.” His lips curved slightly as he added, teasing, “We’ll maintain that cool persona you’ve got going on.”

Taesan snorted under his breath, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. Sungho found himself smiling a little more than he expected. Because for someone who tried so hard to act nonchalant—composed, effortlessly cool—Taesan was surprisingly soft-hearted. The kind of person who learned to bake simply because it made the people he cared about smile. And somehow, that made him even more endearing.

Sungho’s thoughts didn’t have time to settle before Taesan nudged the bowl toward him. “Your turn,” the beta said, handing over the mixing spoon.

The bowl was warm from Taesan’s hands. Sungho took it automatically, fingers curling around the edge as he began to stir. The dough came together easily under the spoon, thick and soft. He worked it in smooth, practiced movements, scraping the sides, folding the mixture back into itself. Across the table, the beta watched for him—a small, surprised smile tugged at his mouth.

“You’re pretty good at that,” he said. “Have you done this before?”

Sungho glanced up briefly, still stirring. “Yeah,” he said. “Not a lot, but… I have.”

His hand slowed slightly as the words settled in his own ears. Because he had done this before. He knew the motions without thinking—the steady rhythm of the spoon, the way to turn the bowl just enough to catch the flour that clung stubbornly to the sides. His body remembered it clearly. But when he reached for the memory behind it… something slipped.

Sungho frowned faintly, his gaze drifting down to the pale dough as he stirred. He had baked with someone before—he was sure of it. There had been another pair of hands nearby, a voice, soft laughter, the faint clink of bowls against a countertop. He searched for the memory, pushing a little harder, trying to pull it closer, but the shape of the other person refused to form. Their face was wrong—blurred at the edges, as if someone had smudged it away—and their voice slipped from his grasp the moment he tried to focus on it. Only fragments remained: warm light, flour dusted across a surface, a hand guiding his wrist once, gently correcting the motion of the spoon. Sungho’s chest tightened. He slowed his stirring, staring down at the dough as if the memory might somehow rise from it.

“Sungho… Sungho?”

Taesan’s voice cut gently through the fog in his mind, pulling him back. When Sungho looked up, the beta was watching him with a small crease between his brows.

Sungho offered a quick smile, a little sheepish. “Sorry,” he said. “I spaced out for a second.”

Taesan’s expression softened immediately, the concern easing into something warmer. “You okay?”

Sungho nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine.” The answer came easily, but a strange, unsettled feeling lingered faintly in his chest, like something important had slipped just out of reach.

Taesan jerked suddenly, “Oh—”, the bowl in his hands tilting far more than it should have. A soft cascade of flour spilled over the edge and onto the table in a pale cloud. For a second, the beta just stared at the mess.

“…Oops.”

His voice came out small and a little wounded, like the bowl had betrayed him personally. Sungho blinked once—then laughed. Taesan looked up at him with a faint, whining huff, flour dusting his robe and the counter like fresh snow.

“Don’t laugh,” he muttered.

But the omega only laughed harder, the sound light and warm, the strange feeling in his chest already forgotten as he watched Taesan fuss helplessly with the spilled flour.

Taesan shot him a look. “Oh, you think that’s funny?”

Before Sungho could answer, Taesan reached out and flicked his nose. A faint puff of flour brushed across the tip, leaving a soft white smudge behind.

“There,” he said, satisfied, leaning back to admire his work. “Now you look like you stuck your face in the bowl.”

Sungho blinked, and his eyes lit up, sharp with sudden mischief. “Oh,” he said slowly. “You are on.”

He grabbed a full handful of the flour Taesan had spilled across the counter and tossed it straight at him. A pale cloud exploded in Taesan’s face, making him cough immediately, sputtering as the powder puffed around him.

“Yah—!”

But he was already laughing, wiping at his face while Sungho doubled over, clutching the counter for balance.

“Oh, that’s it,” Taesan said between coughs, grinning despite himself. “You’re done.”

Sungho bolted. Laughter spilled through the kitchen as Taesan lunged after him, swiping at handfuls of flour and trying to return the favor while Sungho darted around the table, dodging just out of reach.

“Come back here!” Taesan demanded.

“Make me!”

Another puff of white burst across the counter as Taesan tried—and failed—to grab him. Sungho was too quick, slipping away each time with breathless, unrestrained laughter. But Taesan was patient, and faster than he looked. The moment Sungho tried to dart past him again, Taesan caught him around the waist and pulled him back against his chest.

“Got you,” he said triumphantly.

“Hey—!” Sungho squirmed immediately, still laughing too hard to put up much of a fight as Taesan locked his arms around him from behind, holding him in place.

“Too late,” Taesan murmured, breath warm against his ear, his honeyed tea scent wrapping around Sungho as he tightened his hold just enough to keep him from escaping.

Sungho only laughed harder, completely trapped now, flour dusting both of them and drifting slowly through the warm kitchen air. After a moment, Taesan finally loosened his hold and let him go. The omega turned to face him, still a little breathless. For a second they simply stared at each other—and then both of them burst into quiet laughter again.

They were a disaster.

Flour clung everywhere: across Taesan’s hair and the bridge of his nose, smeared along Sungho’s cheek and dusting the front of both their clothes. Pale streaks painted them like ghosts.

Sungho huffed a small laugh, wiping at his face and only managing to spread the flour further. “We’re a mess.”

Taesan glanced down at himself, then back at Sungho, and gave a solemn nod of agreement. “Yeah.”

He tipped his chin toward the counter, where the neglected bowl of dough sat waiting—slightly lopsided, a ring of flour scattered around it like the aftermath of a small explosion.

“And we should probably finish that,” he added.

Sungho followed his gaze and snorted softly. The poor dough had been completely abandoned, waiting patiently while the last traces of flour drifted through the warm kitchen air.

After shaping the cookies and setting them to bake in the small stone oven built into the hearth, the kitchen slowly settled back into quiet. The fire crackled softly, its warmth spreading through the room, and the faint, sweet scent of baking dough began to drift into the air.

Sungho and Taesan found themselves sitting side by side on the wide kitchen table, two cups of warm tea between them. Flour still lingered in pale smudges on their clothes and in the loose strands of their hair. Taesan held a damp cloth in one hand, trying to wipe the last stubborn traces from his face. He dragged it across his cheek with little success.

Sungho watched for a moment, amused. “Let me.”

Before Taesan could protest, Sungho reached over and gently took the cloth from his hand. The beta stilled as Sungho leaned closer, the cool fabric pressing softly to his cheek while he wiped away the thin streaks of flour with slow, careful strokes. The cloth traced the curve of Taesan’s cheekbone, slid across the bridge of his nose, and down again, Sungho’s fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. Up close, Taesan was unfairly handsome. Sungho’s hand slowed without him meaning it to as the cloth drifted near his mouth, the damp fabric brushing lightly over the plush fullness of his lips before moving away again.

For a moment, Sungho forgot about the flour entirely. Taesan’s scent reached him in full—honey and warm tea, threaded with that deeper, grounding note he knew well, like old books left in the sun. It wrapped around him, familiar and steady, tugging at something quiet inside him, magnetic and insistent. He felt lighter here, in Taesan’s presence, the tension that so often lived in his chest loosening without him even noticing.

Taesan didn’t move while Sungho finished wiping the last traces of flour from his face, simply watching him with quiet, attentive eyes. “You know,” he said softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “being an omega suits you.”

Sungho blinked, uncertain. “...Is that a compliment?”

Taesan leaned back slightly, amused, clearly enjoying the moment. “I’d say so,” he murmured, eyes flicking over Sungho once more. “You’re gentle.”

Sungho’s chest warmed, a faint flush creeping up his neck and across his cheeks. He coughed lightly, trying to dismiss it. “I—I guess. Maybe.”

Taesan’s smile deepened at the nervous edge in his voice, his teasing eyes lingering. “Maybe?” he repeated.

Sungho swallowed, shifting slightly. Then, curiosity slipping past the blush, he asked, quieter now, “And… what’s it like? Being a beta?”

Taesan’s eyes softened, a flicker of amusement still lingering in them before it faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. He leaned back a little, as if turning the question over in his mind.

“We’re not driven the same way. Not like alphas or omegas.” His voice dipped, gentle but steady. “There’s no pull under the skin, no instincts pushing you one way or another. Not that sharp sensitivity omegas have, or that edge of aggression you see in alphas.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “Betas tend to balance things out in a pack. Keep it steady when everything else gets… loud or too much.” He huffed a quiet breath, almost self-conscious. “It’s not very noticeable, I guess. But it’s important.”

Sungho tilted his head, listening, intrigued. “So… kind of like… quietly keeping everything together?”

“Exactly,” Taesan said, a smile tugging at his lips. “You notice things others don’t. You step in before a problem grows. Make sure everything flows the way it should, without anyone noticing.”

Sungho considered that, his gaze drifting to Taesan’s hands, the calm steadiness in his movements. “Sounds… complicated.”

Taesan chuckled softly, leaning back just enough to meet his eyes. “It is. But it has its rewards.” He glanced at Sungho, voice dropping a fraction lower, teasing, but warm. “You get to see the pack safe, the pack happy… and sometimes, you get to enjoy little moments like this.”

Sungho’s chest fluttered, and he felt lighter somehow, the warmth of Taesan’s presence threading through him, comforting and grounding. The younger shifted, close enough that the omega barely noticed the movement until gentle fingers brushed against his hair.

Sungho stilled instinctively as Taesan’s hand moved more deliberately, carefully picking at something caught in the strands—a stray bit of flour from earlier. His touch was unhurried, almost absentminded, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But when he should have pulled away, his fingers lingered, resting lightly against Sungho’s head. He threaded them through his hair, gently, before they began to move, tracing a path downward, brushing past the curve of his ear, grazing the sensitive skin just beneath it before sliding to the side of his neck.

The touch sent Sungho’s heart hammering against his ribs, loud and unsteady, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the beta. Taesan’s fingers lingered at his neck, warm and barely pressing, just enough to be felt.

“Betas also help both omegas and alphas during their cycles,” he said softly, watching Sungho carefully. His thumb shifted, almost unconsciously, dragging in a slow, shallow stroke along Sungho’s pulse point.

“Our bodies… they adapt. We can sense when our mate needs something, help guide them through it.” His voice stayed soft, gentle—but the way his fingers moved sent sparks skittering under Sungho’s skin, far too intense for something so light. “It doesn’t matter if it’s an omega or an alpha… we can respond. Be what they need, in our own way.”

Taesan’s gaze darkened then, slow and deliberate, locking with Sungho’s like he was weighing every flicker of thought behind those wide eyes. His hand stilled at his throat, thumb resting just beneath his jaw.

“And… spending your heat with a beta?” His voice dropped, low and intimate. His thumb pressed—barely—then dragged slowly upward, tracing the line of Sungho’s jaw as if mapping it. “It can be… just as satisfying as with an alpha.”

He let the words hang, heavy and warm between them, each syllable dragging like a promise.

Sungho’s chest tightened sharply. Heat bloomed under Taesan’s touch, spreading from his neck down through his body, pooling low and unfamiliar. His pulse thudded against Taesan’s fingers—fast, betraying—and the awareness of it only made his breath stutter more. He didn’t know what to do—pull away, lean in, speak—but his body refused to listen, caught somewhere between tension and want.

He blinked, flustered, his lips parting slightly as heat crept up his neck to his cheeks. His stomach tightened at the words, a memory flickering across the edges of his mind. Riwoo, at the river—the way he had explained the omega cycle, the need that ran deep, raw, and unrelenting.

“I… Riwoo told me a bit,” he admitted, his voice small, shy. “About… omega cycles. About… the need.” He swallowed, heat creeping over his neck. “It sounds intense.”

Taesan’s gaze softened. “It is. It can be overwhelming, even dangerous if the pack isn’t careful.” His fingers slipped away from Sungho’s jaw, returning to his hair instead, brushing lightly through the strands before slowly pulling back. “You don’t have to worry about that now. We’ll take care of you when the time comes.”

Sungho’s brows furrowed, curiosity peeking past his blush. “Do… betas and alphas have cycles too then?” he asked, his voice curious, hesitant, the flush still warm on his cheeks.

“Alphas do,” Taesan said softly, leaning closer. “It’s called a rut. Omegas… they go into heat. But betas? We don’t have a cycle of our own. We’re… designed to help, to guide both omegas and alphas through theirs.” His eyes flicked toward Sungho’s neck, lingering on the faint bite there, the mark that mirrored his own. “I helped Jaehyun through his rut not long ago,” he added, voice low, almost intimate. “The bite… it’s proof.”

Sungho swallowed, heat pooling in his chest, both fascinated and unsettled. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, tugging at the fabric almost absentmindedly, a small gesture of nerves. Even with Taesan explaining, even with his own growing awareness, some things felt… larger than he had ever imagined. But the pack had been kind and patient. Maybe—he thought carefully—he could trust them. And when the time came, when he was ready… he would trust them with this too.

Sungho stepped into the main room carrying a wooden tray piled with fresh cookies, the heat from the hearth washing over him the moment he crossed the threshold. The space was warm and dim, the fire crackling softly in its stone cradle. It smelled like burning wood and baked dough—like home—and beneath it lingered the familiar blend of pack scents, musk threaded with something bright and citrusy that hung gently in the air.

He walked a little farther into the room, careful not to tip the tray, and then slowed. On one of the wide couches near the fire, Riwoo and Jaehyun lay tangled together, both completely bare. They must have fallen asleep in their wolf forms and shifted back sometime during their nap.

Riwoo lay stretched along the cushions on his back, his bright orange hair spread across the armrest, while Jaehyun was draped over him like a particularly clingy blanket—one arm slung across Riwoo’s chest, a leg thrown lazily over his hips. The two of them looked utterly passed out, breathing slow and even in the warm glow of the firelight.

Sungho stepped a little closer, curiosity tugging him forward despite the small flicker of wariness in his chest at the resting alpha. Before he could take another step, Riwoo shifted slightly. The omega’s nose wrinkled faintly, like he had caught a scent in his sleep. A moment later his eyes blinked open—still heavy with drowsiness— and settled on Sungho. The omega smiled, soft and sleepy, warm in a way that made Sungho’s chest ache.

“Hey, baby,” Riwoo murmured, his voice thick with sleep and affection.

Sungho’s heart soared. There was something about Riwoo—something he couldn’t explain. A pull that lived somewhere deep in his chest, quiet but powerful, drawing him closer without effort. Being near him felt… right, in a way Sungho had never felt with anyone before. A connection he didn’t have words for, only the steady certainty of it blooming inside him.

The omega lowered the tray carefully to the floor beside the couch, the warm scent of fresh cookies drifting up between them. Then he crouched down, resting lightly on the balls of his feet. Riwoo’s nose twitched again, his sleepy smile widening.

“That smells really good,” he murmured.

Sungho ducked his head a little, shy but pleased. “Taesan and I made them,” he said. “He showed me how. It was fun.”

Riwoo hummed softly at that, clearly pleased. “Yeah? Look at you, already making yourself at home.”

Sungho’s fingers brushed absently against the wooden edge of the tray. “I also went to see Leehan this morning,” he added. “In his garden.”

He hesitated for half a heartbeat. The memory of the forest flickered briefly at the edge of his thoughts, but he pushed it away just as quickly. There was no reason to bring it up right now.

Riwoo’s expression brightened instead. “Leehan showed you the garden?” he said, sounding delighted. “He’s been working on that place forever. If he likes you enough to bring you there, that’s a good sign.”

Sungho smiled faintly. “I think he liked having company,” he said.

Riwoo shifted slightly on the couch, one arm lifting to lazily comb his fingers through Jaehyun’s hair where the alpha lay sprawled across him. The movement was absentminded, affectionate, his hand smoothing gently through the dark strands while they talked.

Sungho’s gaze drifted down to the sleeping alpha. Up close, Jaehyun looked even bigger somehow—broad shoulders relaxed in sleep, his weight draped heavily across Riwoo like he had no intention of moving anytime soon. The slow rise and fall of his breathing was steady, deep.

Sungho shifted slightly, unsure. Riwoo noticed. His fingers stilled briefly in Jaehyun’s hair before he glanced back at Sungho, the corner of his mouth curling with quiet understanding.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured softly. “He sleeps like a log.”

As if to prove the point, Jaehyun let out a faint, sleepy huff against Riwoo’s shoulder, barely stirring. Riwoo chuckled under his breath, gently brushing another strand of hair from the alpha’s face. “Seriously,” he added. “He won’t wake up anytime soon.”

Sungho’s gaze drifted back to the sleeping alpha. This was the closest he had been to Jaehyun since arriving. Up close, the alpha looked… different somehow. Peaceful. His brows, usually sharp with focus, were completely relaxed now. Long lashes rested against his cheeks, and his lips had fallen into a faint, sleepy pout as he breathed slowly against Riwoo’s shoulder.

Even his scent had softened. Musk and rain still lingered in the air around him, but it was calmer now, quieter—something steady and grounding that curled through the warm room like distant thunder after a storm.

Sungho found himself watching the slow movement of Riwoo’s fingers as they combed gently through Jaehyun’s hair, the orange-haired omega absentmindedly brushing the strands away from the alpha’s face. His gaze drifted, settling on Jaehyun’s neck, the soft curve of his shoulders. Riwoo was pretty—delicate in a way that drew the eye, all warm lines and soft curves. Jaehyun, by contrast, looked solid beside him, broad and strong even in sleep, his weight draped heavily across the omega’s body.

Sungho’s eyes traced the quiet contrast between them—the way Riwoo curved easily beneath the alpha’s weight, the steady line of Jaehyun’s back, the shape of their bodies tangled together on the couch. His gaze drifted lower before he could stop himself, curiosity tugging at him in a way that sent heat rushing suddenly across his face. Sungho’s ears burned, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to look away.

The quiet in the room didn’t last long. The front door creaked open, letting in a gust of cool air and the faint scent of the river. Sungho looked up just as Woonhak and Leehan stepped inside. Their hair was damp, dark strands clinging to their temples and necks. They had probably stopped by the river after hunting to wash off, the clean scent of water and forest still clinging faintly to their bodies.

Leehan took one look at the couch and grinned. “Well, you two look cozy.”

Woonhak’s attention had already drifted elsewhere. His nose twitched once, then again.

“Wait,” he said, squinting slightly. “Is that—” His eyes landed on the tray. “Cookies!”

Before Sungho could react, Woonhak was suddenly right there, leaning straight into his personal space as he crouched beside him. Sungho felt the immediate warmth of the young alpha’s body, the familiar scent of sandalwood rising around him as Woonhak reached for the tray without hesitation.

“Don’t mind if I do.” He grabbed one of the cookies and bit into it immediately.

Sungho watched him chew, unable to hide the small smile that crept across his face at the sight of Woonhak’s pleased expression. Behind them, Leehan wandered toward the couch, taking in the tangled pair with mild interest. He didn’t bother with subtlety. With a dramatic sigh, he simply let himself fall across them. The couch dipped under the sudden weight, and Riwoo made a strangled sound beneath him.

“Leehan—!”

“Relax,” Leehan hummed lazily, completely unbothered as he sprawled across both of them. “You’re soft. It’s comfortable.”

“Now there are two of you on me,” Riwoo complained weakly from somewhere under the pile.

Leehan ignored him. Instead, he leaned down toward the sleeping alpha and began peppering Jaehyun’s face with exaggerated kisses. His nose wrinkled faintly in his sleep, a quiet, irritated huff escaping him as he turned his face deeper into Riwoo’s shoulder. But he didn’t wake. Sungho blinked, honestly a little impressed. Leehan only chuckled at the lack of reaction before leaning down again, this time pressing a gentle kiss to Riwoo’s lips. Riwoo melted instantly, his earlier complaints dissolving into a soft sigh as he sank deeper into the couch beneath the comfortable weight of the two wolves.

From where he crouched beside the tray, Sungho watched the whole scene unfold, warmth spreading quietly through his chest at the easy affection filling the room. Leehan’s eyes drifted toward him then, sharp and amused.

“Well?” he drawled, wiggling his eyebrows. “Want one too?”

Sungho’s face burned instantly. He cleared his throat and looked away, suddenly very interested in the cookies on the tray. “Don’t tease me,” he muttered.

Leehan opened his mouth, clearly ready with another comment—but he never got the chance. Taesan stepped into the room and paused just inside the doorway, taking in the scene before him. The beta raised an eyebrow. “…Cuddle pile?” He crossed the room and lowered himself beside Sungho on the floor, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.

Woonhak, still chewing loudly, pointed at the tray with the half-eaten cookie in his hand. “These are really good,” he said around a mouthful. “Seriously.”

Taesan huffed a quiet laugh, nodding toward Sungho. “We made them together.”

Woonhak’s head turned immediately, looking at Sungho with sudden interest. “They’re great.”

Sungho smiled, warmth creeping up his neck again. “Thanks.”

Crumbs clung stubbornly to the corner of Woonhak’s mouth. Almost without thinking, the omega reached out and brushed them away with his thumb. Woonhak blinked at him, still chewing, completely unbothered.

“Messy,” Sungho murmured softly.

The gesture felt strangely natural, the same quiet instinct that had been nudging at him all day—the urge to fuss a little, to smooth things out, to take care. And Woonhak, bright-eyed and happily munching cookies beside him, made it almost impossible to resist.

Leehan snorted softly from the couch. “Look at that,” he said, clearly delighted. “Omega instinct kicking in already.”

Sungho whipped his head around, embarrassed. “Stop.”

Leehan’s eyes drifted lazily over the room for a moment, a slow smile spreading across his face. “This cuddle pile,” he announced, sounding deeply dissatisfied, “is still lacking.”

Riwoo groaned beneath the current weight of bodies. “Leehan, please—”

Before Sungho could even process what that meant, Woonhak suddenly perked up, clearly catching onto the idea. A playful grin spread across the alpha’s face as he leaned forward and grabbed Sungho’s wrist.

“Hey—!”

Woonhak tugged, laughter already in his voice. Sungho barely had time to catch himself before he was pulled forward, the world tilting as the alpha dragged him toward the couch.

Riwoo’s laughter burst out immediately, quickly turning desperate. “Oh no—Woonhak, don’t you dare—!”

Sungho stumbled right into the mess of limbs. The couch was already overflowing, bodies pressed together with no real space left, and yet somehow they all tried to make room anyway.

Which, predictably, did not work.

Sungho ended up half sprawled across Riwoo’s side, one knee awkwardly trapped between the cushions, while Woonhak leaned in from the other side like an overenthusiastic addition to the pile. Taesan followed a second later with far less energy and no more success in finding actual space, settling close enough that Sungho could feel the steady warmth of his shoulder pressed against his back.

The shift pushed Sungho forward just enough that his face ended up dangerously close to Jaehyun’s. Close enough that he could feel the slow, steady warmth of the alpha’s breath brushing faintly against his cheek with every exhale.

“There is definitely not enough couch for this,” Riwoo complained from somewhere near the bottom of the pile, though he was still laughing.

“Shh,” Woonhak said cheerfully. “It’s perfect.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Sungho muttered, face heating again.

“You love it,” Leehan replied.

“I absolutely do not—”

The body beneath them shifted slowly, a subtle movement rippling through the tangled pile of limbs. A quiet breath stirred the air, and then a low, sleep-rough voice murmured from somewhere at the center of it all.

“…why are there so many people on me?”

Jaehyun blinked his eyes open, lashes fluttering slowly as he tried to bring the world back into focus. For a moment his gaze drifted unfocused across the blur of bodies and warm light—then it landed on Sungho.

They were close. Far too close.

Sungho felt his breath catch as the alpha’s eyes settled on him, dark and heavy with sleep. For a second neither of them moved. Sungho’s heart did something strange in his chest—an uneven little stutter that made his pulse rush to his face. He was still wary of the alpha. The instinctive tension was there, coiled quietly beneath his ribs, the same unease that had followed him since the first moment they met. And yet… there was something in the alpha’s gaze now. Soft, hazy with sleep, almost endearingly unfocused. Sungho found himself unable to look away.

The moment was broken by Riwoo’s voice. “Good morning,” he said, smiling faintly despite being pinned beneath what now felt like the entire pack.

Jaehyun frowned slightly, clearly trying to piece together the situation. “…did I miss something?” he asked hoarsely.

Taesan huffed softly beside Sungho. “Leehan and Woonhak decided the cuddle pile wasn’t big enough.”

Woonhak tilted his head, grinning. “Don’t act like you don’t love this. You’re just too emotionally constipated to admit you like cuddling.”

Taesan’s expression went flat. And then he lunged.

“Hey—!”

The two of them immediately dissolved into a half-shouted wrestling match on the edge of the couch, all elbows and muffled protests as Taesan tried to retaliate without actually crushing the already overcrowded pile.

“Stop moving—” Riwoo groaned from somewhere underneath them.

“Stop—hey—!” Woonhak squirmed as Taesan’s hands suddenly found his sides instead, digging into his ribs. “Stop tickling me! That’s not fair!” he wheezed between helpless bursts of laughter.

Sungho watched the playful fight unfold inches from his face. A moment later, the omega felt a yawn sneak up on him. He tried to stifle it, but it still slipped out, slow and wide. His shoulders sagged a little afterward, the warmth of the room and the weight of the pile finally catching up with him.

Riwoo noticed immediately. “You sleepy?” the omega asked softly, tilting his head to look at him.

Sungho nodded, rubbing at one eye with the back of his hand. “A little.”

The orange-haired omega hummed thoughtfully, fingers still idly combing through Jaehyun’s hair. “Then we should probably head to bed.”

Leehan lifted his head from where he had been lounging across the pile, eyes bright with interest. “Can I join you tonight?”

Instead of answering, Riwoo glanced at Sungho. The look was quiet and gentle, clearly waiting. Sungho blinked, a little surprised by the silent question, and something warm loosened in his chest as he understood. Riwoo wasn’t deciding for him—he was letting Sungho decide. He hesitated only a second before nodding.

“Sure,” he said.

Leehan’s grin widened immediately. “Great.”

From the other side of the couch, Woonhak groaned dramatically. “Why the nest room?” he complained. “We should all sleep in the alpha’s. There’s more space.”

Riwoo turned his head slightly, expression still soft but his tone firm. “Woonhak… Sungho’s still getting used to the pack,” he continued gently. “We shouldn’t overwhelm him.”

The younger alpha quieted at once, his mouth pressed into a small pout. “…I know,” he muttered.

He shifted closer to Sungho then, the movement slow and deliberate, before leaning in and rubbing his face lightly against the side of the omega’s neck. “Sorry,” he mumbled against his skin.

The contact was warm and soft, the scent of sandalwood surrounding him all at once. Sungho’s entire face went hot. The apology, the closeness, the quiet affection in the gesture—it made something in his chest melt immediately. His shoulders softened without him meaning to, instinctively leaning just the slightest bit into the contact.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly, still blushing.

The pile slowly unraveled after that. It took a moment—too many limbs, too little space—but eventually everyone managed to disentangle themselves from the couch. The room filled with soft laughter, sleepy complaints, and the quiet shifting of bodies stretching after being folded together for too long.

Jaehyun pushed himself upright first, still blinking heavily as if he hadn’t fully left sleep behind. Woonhak immediately hooked an arm around his shoulders, already steering him toward the hallway, with Taesan quietly trailing a few steps behind them. Sungho watched them disappear down the hallway before Riwoo gently touched his arm.

“Come on,” the omega said softly.

Leehan stretched lazily as he slid off the couch, long limbs unfolding with an exaggerated groan. “Finally. My back was starting to become part of that couch.”

Riwoo chuckled softly, giving Leehan a playful nudge with his finger. “Don’t blame the couch—this was your brilliant idea, remember?” He then guided them down the short corridor.

The nest room was warm when they stepped inside. Soft lamplight spilled across the room, dim and golden. As they stepped in, the scent of citrus and apples from the furs reached them first, mingling with the lingering warmth of the hearth and the familiar, tangled traces of Riwoo and Sungho. The room smelled like home—and like them.

Riwoo stepped in first, already reaching for the hem of his shirt. Without ceremony, he pulled it over his head and let it fall to the floor beside the bed. Leehan followed suit with equal ease, shrugging out of his clothes one piece at a time, movements loose and unbothered. Sungho hesitated for just a second. Warmth crept up his neck as he slowly began to undress, folding his clothes neatly beside the others before climbing onto the bed. The blankets dipped under his weight, impossibly soft beneath his hands.

Riwoo settled beside him almost immediately, sinking comfortably against the pillows and tugging part of the furs over Sungho’s legs. Sungho felt the familiar warmth of the omega pressing gently against one side of him, grounding him.

From the other side, Leehan climbed in with far less grace, half-flopping onto the mattress with a contented sigh. He leaned closer to Sungho, close enough that the younger could feel the faint scent of him—a small thrill running through him as the beta nuzzled near his shoulder.

“Much better,” Leehan murmured, voice lazy and amused.

Sungho let out a small laugh, which earned him a soft shift from Riwoo, who pressed a little closer, tucking another blanket carefully over Sungho’s shoulder. “There,” he murmured, voice gentle.

Leehan rolled onto his side, chin resting in his hand, still leaning in just slightly, amber eyes tracing Sungho’s face with an affectionate grin. Sandwiched between them, Sungho felt the warmth and scent of both of them, the closeness softening every corner of his chest.

A yawn tugged at him, heavy and welcome. He sank deeper into the blankets, letting the quiet of the room and the steady weight of their bodies lull him toward sleep.

“…yeah, much better,” he mumbled, already half-drifting, comfort pooling in him like sunlight.

But Leehan wasn’t sleepy—not by a long shot. His voice, soft but full of excitement, began to tumble out in a stream of words, scattering through the room like leaves in a breeze.

“I showed Sungho around the garden today,” he said, stretching his arms lazily across the pillows. “He kept stopping at every little patch of flowers, just… staring at them, like he’d never seen something so tiny and perfect before. Totally fascinated. And then… we took a nap because the weather was so perfect, you know? Warm, but not too warm. Totally perfect for lying in the shade.”

He turned slightly toward the omegas, as if reading their reactions. “Then Woonhak and I went hunting. Caught a deer! Well… I mean, we worked together, obviously, but Woonhak was so proud—he almost tripped over himself running back.”

The beta’s grin grew wider, eyes sparkling with mischief. “And later… we went to the river. Oh, this part was the best—I threw Woonhak in. He was whining the whole time, flailing around like some ridiculous fish, and I couldn’t stop laughing. It was… honestly, the funniest thing I’ve seen all day.”

Riwoo hummed softly in response to Leehan’s endless stream of tales, eyes glimmering as he glanced at the younger. There was something entirely endearing about him—the way he moved, the way his excitement spilled over, making everyone around him want to smile along.

Sungho felt the warmth of both of them—the steady, gentle weight of Riwoo at his side, and the restless energy of Leehan. His eyes grew heavy, the comfort of the blankets and the low hum of voices pulling him closer to sleep. He let out another small yawn, the edges of his mind softening.

A soft noise at the doorway caught their attention. A shadow lingered there, silhouetted by the dim light of the hall.

“Um… can I join?” Taesan’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

Riwoo glanced at Taesan and smiled. “Of course,” he said softly. Leehan shifted then, moving quietly onto Riwoo’s other side with a contented sigh, leaving the space beside Sungho open.

Taesan moved into the spot, letting his arm brush lightly along Sungho’s, fingertips lingering with a careful, tentative touch. “Is this… okay?” he asked, voice low and cautious.

Sungho swallowed, heart thudding, then nodded. With a slow, careful motion, Taesan pressed himself against Sungho’s side. The warmth was immediate, comforting—and intoxicating. Sungho inhaled, catching the familiar sweetness of honey and old books from Taesan, layered with the lingering, heady scents of Woonhak’s sandalwood and Jaehyun’s musk, pressed close to his skin. There was something different now though, a subtle sharpness in the mix that tugged at him in a way he couldn’t place. It made his pulse quicken, heat pooling in his chest, and left him achingly aware of the bodies pressed close around him.

“Oh,” Riwoo murmured, his voice soft but teasing. “You smell naughty.”

Taesan’s ears flushed red, and he buried his face into Sungho’s shoulder. “They’re… still going at it,” he muttered, voice muffled. “I just want to sleep. I’m so tired.”

Leehan’s quiet laugh rumbled through the blankets, and Riwoo’s soft chuckle followed, both clearly amused by Taesan’s flustered admission. Sungho’s cheeks warmed as he finally registered the subtle shift in Taesan’s scent—heady, intimate, and undeniably… telling. His stomach fluttered, embarrassed.

The room gradually quieted, bodies pressing closer as blankets were tugged snug, furs settling around them like a cocoon. One by one, their breathing slowed, each wolf succumbing to the comfort of pack warmth and proximity. Without even thinking, Sungho inched slightly closer to Taesan, arms slipping around the beta’s waist, pressing him softly against his side, while Riwoo’s steady warmth grounded him on the other.

And like that, with the quiet hum of the room and the gentle weight of trust around him, Sungho let his eyelids fall, drifting into sleep tangled between the two, safe and content in the pack’s embrace.

Sungho stirred, a small shiver rippling through him as his eyes flickered open to the dim, shadowed room. The pre-dawn darkness clung to the corners, soft and thick, and the warmth he had grown used to—the steady press of bodies, the quiet heartbeat beside him—was gone. A hollow chill settled over his skin where shoulders and arms had been, and he drew them closer instinctively, rubbing at his arms as if the motion alone could summon comfort. The air smelled faintly of furs, the lingering traces of orange, honey and sweet spice, but the absence of their warmth made even the familiar scents feel distant. His lips parted in a soft, uncertain whisper, a sound swallowed quickly by the stillness.

“Riwoo?”

The room answered with silence. Sungho blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the faint gloom, and realized the nest was empty. No familiar weight beside him, no steady breathing to anchor him. Only shadows pooled in the corners. Another small chill crept along his spine, and he wrapped his arms around himself again, shivering.

Careful not to make a sound, he swung his legs over the side of the nest, his feet touching the cool floor. For a moment, he hesitated, unsure whether to call again or stay put. The dark stillness pressed in around him, heavy and uncomfortable.

Finally, he drew in a slow breath and pushed himself upright. He padded softly down the hall, careful with each step, until he reached the doorway of the main room. Faint voices floated from the kitchen, carrying the sound of the pack deep in conversation. Relief washed over him in a quiet rush—he wasn’t alone. Sungho’s shoulders loosened, and he allowed himself a small, almost shy smile. After a moment, he stepped forward, moving quietly toward the kitchen, drawn by the voices of the others.

Before he could reach the kitchen, a voice cut through the hallway.

“It was aggressive. I’ve never seen anything like it. They attacked him, with intent. The forest wanted to kill him.”

Leehan’s words hit him like ice. Sungho froze, his heart dropping into his stomach. They were talking about him. Again.

“Has it happened before?” Jaehyun’s tone was low and careful.

Taesan’s voice followed, quieter, clinical almost. “There was one time before this… he said he felt pressure in his skull, got dizzy, and even had a nosebleed.”

Sungho’s chest tightened further. He had trusted Leehan and Taesan with his wishes—he’d told them not to tell Jaehyun about the attack at the woods—and yet here they were, speaking anyway. As if his words hadn’t mattered at all. His hands curled at his sides, warmth and comfort from the night before vanishing, replaced by a hollow, raw ache.

Taesan’s voice cut through the quiet again, softer this time. “You don’t look surprised.”

Then Riwoo spoke, calm but heavy. “We… thought it may be the case. Jaehyun could feel something.”

Woonhak’s voice rose, a frustrated edge crept into his tone. “The bond didn’t work? But he’s clearly an omega—”

“It did work… but not fully,” Jaehyun said, clipped. “It’s not completed.”

Sungho stayed quiet, crouched in the shadows of the hallway, listening. If this was the only way he could understand what was happening, he would stay put until the conversation was over.

Leehan’s voice came again, worried. “What should we do?”

Riwoo’s tone was almost matter-of-fact, but every word weighed like stone. “If the omega core destabilizes, the forest collapses.”

“We can’t afford for him to leave,” Jaehyun replied.

Confusion twisted in Sungho’s chest, sharp and unwelcome. Omega core? What did that even mean…? He remembered Jaehyun’s words—how the forest needed him. Could it all be connected?

“What did we do wrong?” Woonhak demanded, frustration and confusion lacing his voice. “We’ve been… welcoming.”

“Attachment was supposed to make it easier,” Riwoo said quietly. “So he wouldn’t resist…”

Those words landed like icy stones in Sungho’s chest. What did they mean by that? Had their kindness—the warmth, the laughter, the gentle teasing—been a calculated act? No. It couldn’t be. His mind shook its head, refusing the thought, but even as he tried to deny it, a darker understanding seeped in.

They needed him here. And every smile, every small joy, every careful touch—they had given it to make sure he stayed. To make sure he couldn’t leave.

Sungho’s chest tightened, a hollow ache filling him, and the tears came without warning. He pressed his palms to his face, trying to smother the sting, but it only worsened the sinking in his heart. This… this couldn’t be.

The omega tightened as memories clawed at him—Leehan laughing in the garden, sunlight catching his hair as he’d shown him every flower with that endless enthusiasm; the quiet warmth of the kitchen while baking with Taesan, flour dusting their hands and laughter spilling over the edges of the counter; Woonhak leading him up to the attic, sharing the pack’s history like he was passing down a treasure.

And then… Riwoo.

That one hurt the most. Every time he was near the omega, there had been that pull, that strange flutter in his chest that made his heart soar. That undeniable tether that had felt mutual, like a promise whispered in silence. But now—he could only wonder. Was it ever real? Or had it only been on his end?

They don’t love me because I belong. I belong because they need me alive.

The thought slid into something worse, curling icy fingers around his spine.

If I stopped being useful…

A shiver ran through him, and Sungho pressed himself against the wall, trying to ground himself in the quiet, in the shadows, but the fear wouldn’t let go. His own scent suddenly hit him, too sharp, too sour, and a sick realization clawed through him.

I need to get out of here. I need to leave. Right now.

He padded quietly at first, every step deliberate as he left the kitchen behind, moving toward the front door. The hallway stretched before him, silent except for the soft scrape of his feet, and his pulse thudded in his ears.

The door loomed ahead, dark and solid. Sungho’s hand trembled as he gripped the handle, the weight of everything—fear, betrayal, the need to survive—pressing him forward. With a sharp inhale, he threw it open.

The cold early morning air hit him like a wall, biting at his skin and clearing his mind. The forest sprawled before him, shadowed and endless, alive with the rustle of leaves and the whisper of unseen creatures.

He didn’t hesitate this time.

He ran, straight into the forest.