Chapter Text
Dust, sweat, and cheap asphalt—that was the standard cocktail for a Friday afternoon on the border between the North and South districts.
The divide wasn’t official. If you asked the city council, the boundary line between Baekhan High and Gwangmyo High was just a stretch of cracked pavement under an overgrown overpass. But if you asked anyone who wore a uniform, that overpass was a demilitarized zone.
To the North, you had Baekhan High. They called themselves the Wolves, though the moniker made Bahng Christopher Chahn wince whenever he heard it or see it scrawled in spray paint on a bus stop (he'd find the ones who did it, tell them to apologize, and make them erase the paint down to the very last dot.)
Chan didn’t like posturing. As Baekhan’s undisputed top dog, his philosophy was simple: master your craft, mind your business, and keep your hands in your pockets unless someone forced them out.
He was a textbook fighter—years of disciplined boxing and kickboxing had carved him into a wall of solid muscle. Under his lead, Baekhan’s crew was surprisingly civilized. They were pacifists by choice, but lethal by necessity. If you didn't look for trouble on their turf, you'd never see them. But if you brought a fight to their doorstep, Chan made sure you didn't have the teeth left to ask for a second round.
To the South, you had Gwangmyo High. The Cats.
If Baekhan was an iron-walled fortress, Gwangmyo was an alleyway brawl waiting to happen. And at the end of that alleyway stood Lee Minho.
Minho was a nightmare to read. He moved with a lazy, deceptively relaxed grace—a bastardized hybrid of clean taekwondo kicks and dirty street boxing—and ran his crew on a single rule: Don’t mess with someone weaker, but if their parents didn't teach them a lesson, hand it out yourself.
They were thugs, technically.
They looked terrifying, traveled in a tight-knit pack, and smelled like stale tobacco and trouble. But they were kind thugs who carried old folks' groceries and helped children cross the pedestrian lane. Minho didn't tolerate bullies, predatory loan sharks, or bastards who talked down to street vendors. And though he fell just a fraction of a hair behind Chan in raw physical strength, he made up for it with blinding speed, ruthless efficiency, and a complete disregard for traditional fighting forms.
Chan and Minho were two sides of the same coin. Though both would beg to differ. Pride climbing higher than the tallest mountain when it came to their nemesis' name, not allowing them to be compared to each other.
They had clashed so many times in their freshman year that they lost count—all fights ending in bloodied knuckles, torn blazers, and a dead draw. After moving up as sophomores, an unwritten treaty held: you don't cross the overpass, I don't cross the overpass.
Normally, a random scuffle between underclassmen wouldn't even register on their radar. If a Baekhan kid came crying to Chan with a black eye, Chan’s usual response was to hand them an ice pack and tell them to practice their footwork and avoid dark alleys. If a Gwangmyo kid bragged to Minho about a street fight, Minho would check if they won. If they did, a high-five; if not, he’d ask if they at least took a tooth with them.
Today, however, was different.
Two Baekhan freshmen—trembling, black-eyed, and clutching bruised ribs—had sprinted into the abandoned garage behind Baekhan High where Chan was wrapping his knuckles. They claimed they had been minding their own business near the arcade when Lee Minho himself had jumped them, beating them half to death for no reason at all.
Chan didn't like injustice. More than that, he didn't like the idea of Minho breaking his own unspoken rule.
Which was why Chan was currently marching down the sun-baked concrete of the underpass, flanked by three of Baekhan’s best: Seo Changbin, a squat beta built like a tank; Han Jisung, an alpha whose light-footed skills made up for his loud mouth; and Kim Seungmin, a calculating alpha who shamelessly fought dirty.
They didn't have to go far.
Halfway through the shadow of the concrete overpass, Minho’s inner circle emerged from the glare of the setting sun. Hwang Hyunjin—a towering alpha with long, striking hair pulled in a bun and an ego to match—walked to Minho's right. Lee Felix, an omega with a soft face and deadly taekwondo skills, walked to his left. Bringing up the rear was Yang Jeongin, a sharp-eyed beta who picked his fights like a hawk and ended it like one.
Minho looked furious. His feline eyes were dark, his jaw set in a hard, dangerous line.
Fucker, Chan thought, adjusting the strap of his gym bag before tossing it to the curb. They’re the ones who crossed the line, and he’s the one looking like he wants to rip my throat out.
"Minho," Chan called out, his voice low, steady, and carrying effortlessly through the echoing underpass. He stopped ten paces away, rolling his broad shoulders. "I thought you had a rule about picking on people who can't fight back. Or does that only apply when your mood is good?"
Minho’s upper lip curled in a sharp snarl.
"Look who's talking." He said, voice full of rage barely contained. He didn't stretch. He didn't bounce on his toes. He just stared at Chan like he was looking at a pile of garbage. "Just keep your mouth shut, Bahng. Or I'll shut it for you."
"Hm. I don't know. But two of my kids are sitting in the nurse's office with split lips," Chan replied calmly, stepping into a balanced stance. "I think I'll be the one shutting foul mouths up today."
"You better start with yours then, dumbass," Minho spat. "Hyunjin, Felix, Jeongin, have your pick on the others. I'm taking that piece of shit."
There was no further warning. No count of three.
The sound of rubber soles squeaking against asphalt shattered the silence as eight bodies collided.
The fight erupted instantly into a messy rhythm of skin hitting skin, heavy grunts, and fast footwork.
To the side, Jisung threw a lightning-fast left jab toward Felix, but the omega ducked under it with frightening speed, sweeping his leg around in a spinning low kick that forced Jisung to leap backward. Nearby, Changbin was going toe-to-toe with Hyunjin, the beta absorbing a heavy right hook to his guard before shoving the taller alpha back into a metal support pillar with a dull clang. To their left, Jeongin and Seungmin was still observing each other, sizing up their opponent before finally starting their own show.
In the center of it all, Chan and Minho moved in a dance they had rehearsed in their sleep.
Chan led with a crisp jab-cross combination. Minho slipped the jab, parried the cross with his forearm, and immediately retaliated with a roundhouse aimed straight at Chan’s ribs. Chan checked the kick with a hardened shin, the force of the impact sending a vibration up his leg, and countered with a short hook. Minho ducked, his bangs whipping across his eyes, and lunged forward with a dirty elbow to Chan’s stomach.
"You've gotten slow!" Minho taunted, his breath coming in sharp bursts as he pivoted on his heel.
"You're just rushing!" Chan fired back, catching Minho’s follow-up wrist, twisting his hips, and attempting a shoulder throw. Minho instinctively shifted his center of gravity, hooking his leg around Chan's calf to block the throw, leaving them locked chest to chest, breathing each other's air, eyes blazing with competitive hatred.
"What the fuck is that smell?!"
A sudden shout broke through the sound of impact and rustling dust.
Hyunjin. The alpha had disengaged from Changbin, stumbling back a step, his nose twitching as he looked around in bewilderment.
"Are you kidding me right now?! Who brought food to a fight?!"
Jisung and Seungmin, both alphas like Hyunjin with senses far sharper than the betas in the area, faltered mid-strike.
For a second, Jisung stopped to inhale—an involuntary instinct that proved to be a massive mistake. Felix didn't waste the opening; he snapped a sidekick right into Jisung’s chest, sending the alpha skidding onto his rear with a groan. Simultaneously, Jeongin caught Seungmin off guard with a solid right uppercut that cracked against his jaw, sending him stumbling back against the concrete wall.
"Fuck—! Couldn't you have waited for a second?!" Seungmin barked, wiping blood from his lip, but his eyes were wide, darting around in alarm. "Chan-hyung! Something's—"
Seungmin was cut off as Jeongin lunged again, forcing him back into the fray.
"Eyes on me, smartass. Slip again and I'm knocking you out." Jeongin says, smirking.
Chan didn't hear them. His ears were ringing, a quiet heat suddenly blooming at the base of his neck. His skin felt strangely hypersensitive, the draft beneath the underpass turning from cool to scorching in the span of a single heartbeat.
What the hell...? Chan thought, shaking his head to clear the sudden fog.
Minho didn't give him time to think. Capitalizing on Chan’s split-second distraction, Minho sprang off his back foot, launching an axe kick targeted directly at the side of Chan’s head.
Under normal circumstances, Chan would have slipped left and answered with a body slam. But as he went to plant his right foot, his knee unexpectedly buckled.
His leg lost balance, turning to dead weight. Chan collapsed forward, crashing hard onto one knee on the asphalt.
Minho’s kick whipped through thin air an inch above Chan’s ear, the wind of it rustling Chan’s curly hair. Minho landed smoothly, spinning around with an eyebrow raised, his arms dropping slightly as he stared down at the kneeling man.
"What was that, Bahng?" Minho sneered, though his eyes held a flick of genuine confusion. That move didn't look intentional. "Losing your touch? Did a little breeze knock you down?"
Chan glared up at him through his damp bangs. His heart was hammering against his ribs—not from the exertion, but from a sudden wave of molten heat spreading through his blood. He forced his shaking fingers to curl into a fist against the floor, pushing himself up.
"Shut up," he muttered, his voice raspy, stubborn to a fault, refusing to give in to whatever tricks his body was pulling on him.
"Man, seriously!" Hyunjin’s voice echoed again from a few yards away. He ducked a heavy swing from Changbin, looking genuinely pissed off. "It smells like a fucking caramel factory exploded! It’s too sweet I'm tasting it! Which one of you bastards spilled syrup on yourselves?!"
At the word caramel, four people froze.
Changbin’s arm stopped mid-punch. His head snapped toward Chan, his eyes wide with horror as his brain pieced the puzzle together. Jisung and Seungmin, having learned their lessons the first time, backed away first to create space before taking a quick, worried glance over their eldest friend.
Rich, burnt caramel, toasted sugar, and warm vanilla.
It was a scent that didn't belong in a dirty alleyway. It didn't belong in a high school brawl.
It was Chan's scent.
Chan stood frozen on the asphalt, his throat dry. His heat wasn't supposed to happen for another three weeks. He tracked his cycle meticulously. He took his suppressants every morning with his vitamins.
This made no sense.
But another wave of warmth swept up his spine, making his knees tremble.
Fuck.
This was real. The suppressants had failed. Or something had triggered a spike. Could be the start of an irregular cycle too. Either way, he was standing in the middle of a warzone, smelling like a dessert that confused a cup with a bucket of sugar.
Minho watched Chan’s expression turn pale, then flush a deep, angry crimson.
Chan forced his shoulders back, puffing out his chest and glaring directly into Minho’s smirk.
"Let's finish this now, Lee," Chan growled, throwing his guard up, hiding the slight tremble in his hands. "It’s getting old."
Minho scoffed, folding his arms over his chest.
"What, ran out of gas already? I knew Baekhan’s 'disciplined training' was all bullshit. You've got zero stamina, grandpa."
A dangerous spark lit up in Chan's eyes. Despite the heat pooling in his gut, despite the overwhelming urge to curl up in a quiet room, his stubborn pride roared to life. He raised a dark brow, a sharp, filthy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"You'll never beat me in terms of stamina, Minho," Chan purred, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a double meaning that was unmistakable. "In any room."
Minho’s face instantly twisted in disgust.
"You disgusting bastard," he hissed, his eyes narrowing to slits. "I'm going to kick your teeth down your throat."
Minho lunged. Chan ducked.
The brawl reignited, but the atmosphere had irrevocably shattered.
To make matters worse, the echo of footsteps thundered down the underpass. Dozens of them. A mass scuffle on the border never stayed small for long. Students from both Baekhan and Gwangmyo had heard rumors of their top dogs clashing and had rushed to reinforce their sides. Within seconds, thirty, forty kids flooded the space, screams and curses echoing off the concrete pillars as an all-out riot erupted.
It was a chaotic madness.
In the center of the storm, Chan was fighting for his life—against Minho, but also against his own body. Every time he threw a punch, his limbs felt heavier, like he was moving through water. His chest heaved, sweat pouring off his brow, soaking his school shirt until it stuck to his skin.
Minho stepped back, parrying a jab from Chan, and let out a breathless chuckle.
"Look at you. Flushed red and panting like a stray dog after a jog."
Chan wiped his brow with the back of his hand, trying to keep his footing.
"You... don't look much better," he gasped, forcing a confident smirk.
Minho raised an eyebrow. Sure, Minho was sweating, his fringe plastered to his forehead, but he wasn't tired. For Minho and Chan, a fight like this was usually just a warm-up. They could go for forty-five minutes straight before feeling the strain. But Chan had been fighting for less than ten minutes, and he looked like he was about to collapse from a marathon.
Minho’s smirk slowly vanished.
He backed out of Chan's range and stopped moving.
"What?" Chan panted, halting his own attack, his head swimming as he squinted through the haze of sweat. "Finally giving up?"
Minho didn't answer. His sharp eyes scanned Chan from head to toe.
The weird buckling of the knee earlier. The unnatural dark flush creeping down Chan's neck. The heavy gasping for air. The sheen of sweat that smelled less like iron and more like...
Burnt caramel.
Just as Hyunjin said.
Minho’s stomach dropped.
Holy shit.
It wasn't a joke. It wasn't a weird perfume someone was wearing. Nor was it a lunatic bringing a packed caramel like they're out on a picnic instead of a scuffle.
Bahng Christopher Chahn—the scariest, most disciplined, untouchable street fighter in the North district—was an omega in active heat.
Minho’s head snapped around, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs for a completely different reason. The air in the underpass was becoming suffocatingly thick. The sweet, cloying scent was spreading fast, amplified by the thrilled pheromones of multiple sweaty teenagers beating the hell out of each other that even a beta like Minho was getting affected.
Minho cursed in his mind.
More than a quarter of those teenagers were alphas.
Minho didn't like Chan. He hated his arrogant fighting style. He hated his perfect reputation. He hated that they were perpetually stuck in a tie. But Minho was not a monster. He had a goal to accomplish after entering this fight, but even more than that, he had a basic sense of human decency. An omega dropping into heat in the middle of a mob of adrenaline-fueled ruffians wasn't a rivalry anymore—it was a fucking tragedy waiting to happen.
"You idiot—" Minho started, stepping forward.
Before he could finish, a shadow lunged from the crowd. It was an alpha named Kangyul from Gwangmyo who usually hung around the edges of Minho’s group. Kangyul’s eyes were bloodshot, pupils blown wide, blinded by the pheromones flooding his system. He didn't look like he was going in for a fight. He had his arms outstretched, a hungry sneer on his face, targeting Chan’s exposed neck.
Chan swung a wild left hook to defend himself, his force was still there, but noticeably lacking his usual strength.
"Get the fuck off!" Minho roared. He darted forward, grabbed Kangyul by the collar, and threw a sidekick straight into the alpha's chest, sending the larger boy crashing into two other Baekhan students. Minho followed up with a vicious right cross to another Gwangmyo kid who was dazed and stumbling toward the scent like a moth to a flame.
Chan blinked, his eyes wide, glazed over with heat, shock written all over his flushed face as he watched his mortal rival defend him.
"Minho? What the fuck are you—"
"Shut your stupid face!" Minho yelled, grabbing Chan’s collar. Minho wanted to punch him so badly his knuckles ached. "Don't you know your own body, you asshole?!"
Chan blinked at him, too stunned to react since Minho's aggression is not translating to his fist.
Minho frantically scanned the crowd, searching for Changbin. That guy was a beta like Minho, and he was currently the only one in Chan's immediate circle who wouldn't be affected by the sweet thick air.
"Changbin!" Minho screamed over the deafening noise of the brawl. "SEO CHANGBIN!"
But Changbin was pinned down, grappling with Hyunjin, who was growling and holding his nose, completely overwhelmed by the sweet pheromones. Minho’s voice was lost in the sea of yelling, metallic thuds, and shattering glass.
Two more alphas—one from Baekhan, one from Gwangmyo—turned toward Chan, their noses twitching, moving in sync like dazed zombies.
"Fuck this," Minho cursed loudly. He locked his hand tightly around the collar of Chan’s shirt. Chan tried to pull back purely out of reflex, but Minho’s tight grip doesn't leave him much choice in his current condition.
Minho yanked Chan behind him and began brutally carving a path through the mob. Anyone who got within three feet—Baekhan or Gwangmyo, friend or foe—received a swift kick to the knee or a sharp elbow to the throat. Minho didn't care whose kid he brought down. He moved quickly, prioritizing speed over efficiency, plowing through the crowded underpass like an armored vehicle, dragging a stumbling Chan right behind him.
They broke through the edge of the crowd, ducked around a concrete pillar, and sprinted down a narrow back alley behind a row of closed hardware stores.
Minho didn't stop until the noise of the fight faded into a distant echo.
He hauled Chan down into a dead-end alley littered with discarded wooden pallets and rusty trash cans. Without breaking stride, Minho threw Chan back against the brick wall.
"Fuck you!" Minho shouted, leaning over, hands on his knees as he wheezed for air.
Chan slid down the wall, his rear hitting the dirt floor, his mind a jumbled mess of heat, instinct, and confusion. He looked up, his dark eyes glazed over, his chest heaving under his damp shirt as he glared instinctively.
"Fuck you... too," Chan wheezed out.
"Are you fucking begging for it?!" Minho snapped, throwing his hands in the air, his face contorted in disbelief and rage.
Chan’s jaw dropped. Genuinely offended despite his burning state, he croaked out,
"What the fuck did you just say to me?"
"Why the hell are you out here fighting when you're in heat?!" Minho yelled, stepping closer and poking a finger aggressively toward Chan’s chest. "Are you fucking stupid?! Do you not know how to track a simple calendar?! Do you have any idea how many alphas were in that underpass?! Do you want to get fucking assaulted, you pea brained fucker?!"
Chan’s temper flared, his pride clashing violently with his biology.
"I do track it!" Chan yelled back, his voice cracking slightly. "It was supposed to be three weeks from now! I took my pills! It came out of nowhere, you bastard, I didn't plan this!"
Minho stared at him for three quiet seconds before slapping his palm against his own face, dragging it down with a long, pained groan.
"I can't believe this," Minho muttered to the sky. "I actually can't believe I'm dealing with this." He straightened up, kicking a loose pebble into the trash. "Go home, asshole. Go home right now before I change my mind and break your legs myself."
Chan scoffed softly, resting his head against the cold brick wall. A small, faint smirk tugged at his pale lips.
"You won't."
Minho spun around, his eyes flashing a dangerous fire. "Who said I wouldn't?"
"Please. We both know you're not gonna do jack shit right now," Chan murmured, confident, his eyes half-closed as he panted softly. "If you actually wanted to beat me up... you wouldn't have dragged me out of there. You wouldn't have helped me."
Minho’s eye twitched. His gaze landed on an innocent, half-broken wooden broom leaning against a trash can next to him. Without a word, he grabbed the broom and hurled it straight at Chan’s head.
Even in his dazed state, Chan’s instincts fired. His arm shot up, effortlessly blocking the flying broom handle, deflecting it to the dirt. A weak, rumbling chuckle escaped Chan's chest.
"Fuck you," Minho spat, his fists clenching at his sides.
Chan raised a lazy eyebrow, his lips curving into a teasing smirk despite the flush consuming his cheeks.
"Say please... and I might let you."
Minho’s jaw went slack. He clutched his hair with both hands, letting out a strangled, furious scream of frustration that echoed off the alley walls. He thrusts an aggressive middle finger directly into Chan’s face, turned on his heel, and stalked toward the alley exit.
"I'm leaving you here to rot."
"Wait!"
Minho stopped. He didn't turn around, his back tense, but he stopped.
Chan swallowed hard, his throat feeling like sandpaper. The temporary rush of adrenaline was dying out, leaving his muscles soft, heavy, and useless.
"I'm... I'm grateful for the help. Really," Chan admitted softly, the playful banter disappearing from his tone. He paused, biting his lower lip, embarrassed. "But... can I ask for one more favor?"
Minho slowly turned his head over his shoulder, his expression icy.
"What?"
Chan looked up at him, a guilty, helpless smile plastered across his flushed face. His heavy breathing fluttered his damp bangs, his arms and legs lying limp in the dirt like a discarded ragdoll.
He looked innocent, raw, and dangerously omega.
"...Could you maybe... help me get home?"
Minho stared at him. Then, a slow, terribly sarcastic sneer spread across his face.
"What's the matter? Couldn't use your legs anymore, old man? Where's all that strength you boast of now?"
Minho braced himself for another stubborn, filthy comeback. He expected Chan to bark back, to push himself up and prove he didn't need anyone.
Instead, Chan just let out a soft, exhausted chuckle, his head drooping forward slightly.
"...Sorry," he muttered quietly. "I really can't move."
Minho froze. The sight of the untouchable top dog of Baekhan High looking so fragile, apologizing so sincerely, broke whatever remaining anger Minho was holding onto.
"Damn you," Minho grumbled under his breath, stomping back toward the alley wall. "I'm not helping you. Go die here."
And Chan... laughed.
He laughed because even as Minho was cursing his entire lineage, the beta was already crouching down, grabbing Chan’s arm, and hauling it over his shoulders.
"Up, you heavy bastard," Minho grunted, wrapping his other arm firmly around Chan’s waist to support his weight.
Chan gasped softly at the sudden contact. Minho’s touch was solid, warm, and firm. As Minho pulled him up, Chan had to bite his tongue so hard to forcibly suppress a shuddering moan that threatened to spill past his lips.
Don't you dare, Chan thought hysterically.
If he moans in Lee Minho's ear right now, he will literally have to jump off the overpass.
"Walk," Minho ordered, practically carrying seventy percent of Chan’s body weight as they shuffled out of the alley.
The walk to Chan’s house was probably the most entertaining thirty minutes of the omega's week, and the worst half an hour of the beta's life. Minho wasn't gentle. He bumped Chan’s shoulder into lamp posts, dragged him roughly over curbs, and hurled insults at him every three steps. He called Chan a dick, a shit show of a fighter, an old man, and a non-recycable garbage to society. Chan, too weak to fight back properly, settled for chuckling softly into Minho’s shoulder, his sweet caramel scent heavily coating Minho’s school uniform.
When they finally reached the quiet neighborhood in Baekhan territory, Minho navigated to the modest two-story house Chan mumbled directions to.
Minho dragged Chan up the front porch steps and reached out, ringing the doorbell violently three times.
"Stop ringing it like that," Chan slurred, chuckling weakly. "My mom's gonna think it's the police..."
The front door swung open. A middle-aged woman with kind eyes and Chan’s exact dimples appeared, her expression shifting instantly from annoyance to horror as she took in the scene: her son, drenched in sweat, flushed crimson, smelling like a caramel factory, being held up by a menacing-looking boy from a different school with blood on his collar and bruised knuckles. Both teenagers looking like they just got out of a fight with a laundry machine and lost.
"Oh my sweet lord—Christopher!" she gasped, rushing forward and inspecting Chan.
"Hi, Mom." Chan greeted cheerfully, a cloy, innocent smile on his face, as if he didn't just nearly gave his poor mother a mini heart attack.
What happened next was something Chan knew he would treasure for the rest of his natural life (considering Minho doesn't end it).
Lee Minho—the terrifying, unpredictable, cold-blooded king of Gwangmyo—instantly went rigid as a board. His ears turned a shade of dark red that put Chan’s flush to shame.
"G-Good afternoon, ma'am," Minho stammered out, bowing his head so fast his hair whipped his face, his voice completely stripping itself of all street thug bass and adopting the polite tone of a honor student. "I... I am Bang Chan's... acquaintance. He... he fell ill during... extra-curricular activities."
Chan had to press his face into Minho’s shoulder to muffle the laughter threatening to explode from his chest. Minho’s fingers dug warningly into Chan's hip, silently threatening murder.
"Oh, sweetie, thank you so much!" Chan’s mother cried, smelling the distinct heavy pheromones in the air and immediately recognizing the situation. "Come in, come in! Please, help me get him to his room! I'll get his medicine and the first aid kit!"
She darted off toward the kitchen.
After kicking both their shoes off, Minho practically hauled Chan up the stairs, pushing the bedroom door Chan pointed at open with his foot. The moment they reached the bed, Minho tossed Chan onto the mattress without an ounce of ceremony.
Chan hit the soft duvet with a muffled sound, his body sinking into the mattress. And as his back hit the bed, a soft, involuntary sound escaped his throat—a quiet, delicate noise that sounded dangerously like a moan.
Chan instantly buried his face in a pillow, cursing his sensitivity and praying to whatever higher power existed that Minho hadn't heard it.
Minho stood at the foot of the bed, his face flushed, looking at Chan like he was a live grenade.
"Don't show your face around me ever again," Minho spat, pointing an accusing finger at Chan’s back. "If I see your shadow loitering near the overpass after this, I'm breaking your nose. Got it?"
Before Chan could even lift his head from the pillow to offer a proper thanks, Minho spun around, walked out of the room, and closed the door with unnatural care—clearly mindful of Chan’s mother downstairs.
A few seconds later, Chan heard the faint sound of muffled polite voices from the living room, followed by the soft click of the front door opening and closing.
Five minutes later, Chan’s mother walked into the bedroom carrying a glass of water, a fresh pack of heat inhibitors, and a small box of bandages.
"Here, drink this first," she said gently, helping Chan sit up as he swallowed the pill. She sat on the edge of the bed, unboxing a tub of cooling ointment. "Your friend is very polite, Christopher."
Chan swallowed the water, leaning his head back against his headboard, feeling for the inhibitor to slowly start to battle the fiery rush in his veins. He gave a weary laugh.
"He's not my friend, Mom."
His mother paused.
"Your boyfriend?"
Chan choked, feeling the water come back up through his mouth and nose. "What?! No! We can't even tolerate each other!"
His mother gave him a scolding look before lightly slapping his shoulder with a roll of gauze.
"Don't be silly. You clearly get along well. He carried you on his shoulders, greeted your mother politely, and refused money for his trouble. If you insist you're not, then those are the kinds of people you should be befriending." She smiled warmly, placing a small plastic container of fresh chocolate chip cookies on his nightstand. "He tried to say no, but I forced him to take a tub of my cookies and some ointment for his knuckles."
Chan stared at the space where Minho had been standing just moments ago. He could still smell a faint trace of Minho’s crisp, clean scent clinging to the edges of his clothes—a grounding contrast to his own overwhelming caramel.
A slow, genuine smile spread across Chan’s face, his dimples cutting deep into his flushed cheeks.
He leaned back into his pillows, feeling the heavy exhaustion finally settle over his limbs as the heat began to dull into a manageable warmth.
"Yeah," Chan murmured softly, his eyes fluttering closed as he pulled his blanket up, letting his mother take care of him. "Maybe you're right, Mom."
He was definitely going to visit Gwangmyo territory next week. He might have to pretend to be a little weak and pitiful just to keep Lee Minho from breaking his nose... but, well, Christopher was more than willing to play the part.