Wonbin’s POV
I wake up to my phone vibrating against the nightstand, the sound drilling straight into my skull like a punishment I earned.
For a second, I don’t know where I am.
The ceiling is unfamiliar—too high, too smooth, washed in the pale gold glow of hotel lighting that never quite turns off.
My head is pounding, every pulse sharp and insistent.
My body feels wrong.
Heavy.
Overused.
Sticky with sweat and the faint burn of regret clinging to my skin.
The sheets are tangled around my legs, warm in a way that makes my stomach turn instead of comfort me.
The air smells like sex.
Like alcohol.
Like something that was supposed to be empty and forgettable—but isn’t.
I groan, throat dry, and answer the call without even looking at the screen.
“Wonbin-ah—” he hasn’t finished whatever it was he was going to say before I cut him off.
“Yah,” I whisper hoarsely.
“What the hell were you thinking sending me someone who just ended their heat? Did you know I triggered it again? I barely slept.”
My voice sounds rough even to my own ears.
Raw.
Unsteady.
Junhyung’s voice comes through sharp and irritatingly alert.
“What are you talking about?” he says.
“I called to apologize—the gift didn’t make it to your room. I mean, the omega did, but he left before you even arrived.”
I frown, blinking up at the ceiling.
“Left?” I repeat slowly.
“What do you mean he left?”
“He had an emergency. Went home,” Junhyung replies.
“Why? Was someone there?”
My throat goes dry.
I turn my head, slow and careful, like my body already knows what my mind is about to catch up to.
There’s a body beside me.
Curled in.
Bare shoulder pressed against my arm like it belongs there.
Like it’s done this before.
Dark hair spilled across the pillow, soft breaths warming my skin.
My heart stutters.
Before I can say anything, my other phone starts ringing.
“Wait,” I mutter, already sitting up.
“My mom’s calling.”
I answer without thinking, brain still lagging behind my body.
“Wonbin-ah,” my mom says, breathless.
“Grandma Kim just called. Jihan didn’t come home last night. Is he with you? Did he book a room?”
The name hits me like a punch to the chest.
My stomach drops so hard it feels like it slams into the floor.
“I—” I sit up too fast, the room spinning, nausea curling low in my gut.
“I’m not sure. I’ll check.”
I hang up before she can ask anything else and grab the hotel phone, forcing my voice into something calm, professional.
Something that doesn’t sound like my entire life is unraveling.
“Hi. Can you check if an omega named Kim Jihan booked a room last night?”
There’s a pause.
The soft clacking of a keyboard.
“Yes, sir,” the receptionist says.
“He was placed in the room next to yours, as requested. We were informed he was an important guest.”
I close my eyes.
Of course he was next door.
Guilt rushes over me, he was just next door and I— well, it’s not like he would care what I do in my room, right?
I call my mom back and gulping down the lump in my throat formed by guilt, I don’t even know why I feel.
“He’s here, next door. I’ll take him home later.”
She exhales in relief.
Says thank you.
Mentions Grandma Kim again, sharp and watchful even from miles away.
When I hang up, the room feels too quiet.
Too aware of itself.
The scent hits me again—soft, warm, unmistakable.
Not the sharp sweetness of strangers I’ve known before.
Not something temporary.
Something gentler.
Something that feels like safety.
Like sleep.
Like being allowed to stay.
I shift, instinctively ready to get up, to put space between us, to put on clothes and build walls—
A hand closes around mine.
“Please don’t go.”
My heart slams so hard it hurts, like my body is betraying me before my mind can catch up.
My alpha surges at the contact, sharp and desperate, every instinct screaming stay, stay, stay even as panic coils in my chest.
I look down.
Marks bloom across pale skin—bruises I remember too clearly.
My mouth. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
My hands.
My weight.
Evidence I can’t erase no matter how badly I want to.
They aren’t rough.
They aren’t ugly.
They’re intimate.
Claim-shaped.
My chest tightens, breath catching painfully, because some sick part of me recognizes them as proof that he let me close.
That he trusted me.
That his body answered mine without hesitation.
Then I see his face.
Jihan.
Sleepy.
Flushed.
Hair a mess against the pillow, lashes casting shadows over eyes that are too soft for this moment.
There’s no fear in them.
No accusation.
Just attachment.
That’s what guts me.
“My omega,” he murmurs, voice unsteady, almost embarrassed by the admission.
“He doesn’t like being alone after…”
After me.
After everything.
The words hit all at once—realization, humiliation, fear crashing together until my ears ring.
My birthday.
The heat.
The possibility of going in the wrong room.
The way he curled into me like I was something safe.
Me, thinking I knew what I was doing when I didn’t know anything at all.
What I did was real.
That’s the problem.
“What the fuck did I do,” I whisper, not even to him.
To myself.
To whatever version of me that didn’t stop this when I should’ve.
And then—because I’m terrified, because fear always makes me cruel, because saying the worst thing feels safer than admitting the truth—the words fall out of my mouth like a weapon.
“Oh shit—tell me you’re on birth control,” I blurt.
“I’m not ready to be a dad. I don’t want unwanted pups.”
The second it leaves my mouth, something inside me knows I’ve made a mistake.
A fatal one.
The moment freezes.
I see it in real time—the way his expression shutters.
Like a door closing quietly.
Like something fragile folding inward, carefully, to survive me.
And the sickest part?
There’s a flash—just a flash—of something else inside me.
Relief.
I hate myself for it.
“I mean—” I rush on, laughing too loud, too hollow, trying to bury the damage before it finishes bleeding out.
“It’s not like we’re going to do this again.”
I don’t know who I’m trying to convince.
Him, maybe.
Myself, definitely.
The silence that follows is unbearable.
It presses against my ears until I can hear my own heartbeat, loud and accusing.
“Yeah,” he says eventually.
“I am.”
The relief hits fully this time, heavy and undeniable.
And then—immediately—
Regret crashes into it so violently it makes me nauseous.
Because the moment he says it, something ugly and honest twists in my chest.
A part of me wishes he wasn’t.
A part of me had already imagined it—his scent changing, deepening, tied permanently to mine.
The quiet inevitability of it.
The way claiming him would’ve made sense in a way nothing else in my life ever has.
I don’t want pups.
I don’t want responsibility.
But I want him.
I want to take it back.
I want to rewind time, bite my tongue until it bleeds, pull him closer instead of pushing him away.
I want to tell him I panicked because I wanted him too much.
Because the idea of him being tied to me—of me failing him, of hurting him worse—terrified me more than anything.
Because wanting to claim him feels dangerous.
Instead, I stand.
I choose distance.
I choose control.
I choose the lie that pretending this meant nothing will make it hurt less.
“We should clean up,” I say stiffly.
“Your grandma’s worried.”
He nods.
No argument.
No anger.
Just quiet acceptance, like he’s already learned how to fold himself smaller when he isn’t wanted.
That’s worse than if he’d yelled.
Later, when we leave the room, it hits me fully—I wasn’t even supposed to be there.
I was in the wrong room the entire time.
Like some cruel joke the universe decided to play on us both.
In the hallway, he walks half a step behind me.
At breakfast, he sits beside me because it’s expected.
Because families do that.
Because appearances matter more than truth.
His knee brushes mine under the table once, accidental, and we both flinch like we’ve been burned.
My alpha surges again, furious and needy, screaming mine even as I force it down until it hurts.
Our parents talk.
Plans are mentioned.
The engagement.
The future.
No one notices the way his hands tremble when he lifts his cup.
No one notices the way I stop breathing when he laughs softly at something my aunt says, like he’s trying to be normal.
Like he’s trying to be okay.
The rest of the day, he barely speaks to me.
Every answer is polite.
Every smile practiced.
He keeps just enough distance to remind me I set it there.
And it finally lands.
He thinks I didn’t want him.
That I expected someone else.
That he was a mistake.
That the night we shared was something I regret.
Maybe I taught him that.
Maybe I carved it into him with my own mouth.
I watch him walk beside me, shoulders drawn in, and something twists painfully in my chest.
Not regret.
Not desire.
Something worse.
Longing.
I want to tell him I wanted to stay.
That I wanted to keep him there, wrapped in sheets and warmth, to forget about birthdays and expectations and family names and just… run.
I want to tell him that when he said he was on birth control, part of me broke because it meant I had no excuse to keep him.
No mark.
No bond.
No reason that wasn’t selfish.
I wanted to reassure him.
To tell him he wasn’t unwanted.
That he wasn’t an accident.
That he was everything I didn’t know I was missing.
Instead, I let him go quiet.
And the worst part?
His scent never really leaves me.
And neither does the look on his face when I made him feel small.