Wonbin’s POV
I knew they were coming before the door even opened.
Mom’s scent always arrived first—warm, grounding, unmistakably hers.
It carried memory with it.
Home.
Obligation.
Expectations I’d never asked for but somehow inherited anyway.
But beneath it—threaded through it like a quiet confession—I caught something softer.
Lavender.
Rain-soaked air.
Something fragile enough it made my chest tighten on instinct alone.
Omega.
Jihan.
My thumb stilled over my phone screen.
I didn’t look up.
Not because I didn’t want to—but because if I did, something in me would fracture beyond repair.
Because the last time I’d allowed myself to really see him, I’d gone home and torn my room apart just to scrub his scent from my skin.
Because I’d replayed the way his lashes fluttered when he smiled, the way his laugh had startled out of him like he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to make noise.
Control.
That was the only thing keeping me upright.
“How rude,” Mom teased as they stepped inside.
I could hear the smile in her voice.
“You didn’t even look at us.”
I inhaled slowly, deliberately.
“Mom, I smelled you before you even reached the door. There’s no need to look up.”
It was the truth.
Just not the whole truth.
What I didn’t say was that I’d smelled him first.
That my alpha had gone unnervingly still the second Jihan’s scent brushed my senses—like a predator freezing, recalibrating.
That every instinct in me had already turned toward him, tracking the soft shuffle of his steps, the careful way he moved like he was prepared to apologize for existing.
I didn’t need to look to know when he realized I wasn’t looking.
I felt it anyway.
The disappointment hit me low and sharp, like a bruise forming under my ribs.
My alpha reacted before I could stop it—angry, restless, aching to close the distance.
To reassure.
To claim.
To do something.
I hated that I could feel him so clearly.
When I finally lifted my gaze—just briefly, just enough—I caught it.
The way his shoulders stiffened.
The way his smile faltered, fragile as glass, before he straightened himself like he’d decided not to ask for more than he was given.
That hurt more than anger would have.
He looked… unbearably beautiful.
Soft fabric clinging gently to his frame, hair neat like he’d taken extra care, eyes too thoughtful for someone so young.
Quiet elegance—unintentional, unguarded.
My mother’s voice echoed in my head, distant and mocking.
He’ll like you.
Like me?
I almost scoffed.
I was already past liking him.
So far past it I didn’t remember when it had crossed into something dangerous.
Something that lodged itself beneath my skin and refused to leave.
We ordered food.
I let Mom talk.
I responded when required, nodded at the right moments, kept my voice even.
Detached.
Every movement was measured, practiced—years of control honed into something sharp enough to cut myself on.
Every time Jihan spoke, I catalogued it.
The slight hitch in his voice when he said my name.
The way he folded and unfolded his hands in his lap like he didn’t trust them to stay still.
The way he paused before answering, as if weighing whether honesty would cost him something. New chapters come out on g.com first.
He kept glancing at me.
Trying not to be obvious.
Failing.
And every time he did, I pretended to be absorbed in my phone, even though the words blurred together.
If I met his eyes for too long, my alpha would surge forward.
Ask questions I wasn’t allowed to ask yet.
Want things I wasn’t entitled to want.
I was supposed to be distant.
Careful.
Appropriate.
Nothing had been made official.
Nothing had been promised.
And if I crossed a line now, it would be me who destroyed whatever fragile arrangement was forming.
Then Mom’s phone rang.
I watched Jihan chew on his lower lip when she excused herself.
He looked… torn.
Like he was calculating exits, mapping routes in his head.
My alpha bristled immediately.
Don’t leave.
The instinct was sharp, almost desperate.
Mom returned briefly—only to leave again, apologizing, insisting we finish lunch without her.
The door closed.
The quiet pressed in.
That was when my phone buzzed.
I shouldn’t have answered it.
I knew that.
I knew better.
But my restraint was already splintering, and I needed a distraction—something solid to anchor me before I reached across the table and asked Jihan what he was thinking.
Before I asked whether he felt this pull too.
“Yeah,” I said into the phone, keeping my voice steady through sheer will.
“You can come over. My mom already left.”
I felt it immediately.
Jihan froze.
The air shifted.
His scent tightened—guarded, uncertain, hurt.
I hated myself for that.
When the door opened again, another omega’s presence filled the room—sweet, confident, familiar.
Someone I’d known forever.
Someone safe.
Someone who didn’t make my alpha claw at my ribs like this.
Jihan’s reaction was instant.
His scent shifted—just slightly.
Enough that only someone like me would notice.
Withdrawal.
Hurt.
That subtle closing-off he did when he felt like he didn’t belong.
I watched his hands curl into fists beneath the table.
No.
This wasn’t what I wanted him to think.
“Say hi,” I said, too casually, hating the sound of my own voice.
“It’s Grandmother Kim’s grandson.”
The omega greeted him easily, then asked the question I’d been bracing for.
Are you his fiancé?
I held my breath.
Jihan answered carefully—too carefully.
Each word placed distance between us.
“Nothing is official.”
But it did.
Because that distance wasn’t just for them—it was for me.
Because I’d earned it.
Because I’d chosen restraint over honesty one too many times.
I looked at him then—really looked.
The forced smile.
The dulling in his eyes.
And something ugly twisted deep in my chest.
I needed him gone.
Not because I didn’t want him here—but because watching him pull away like this was unbearable.
“Are you done eating?” I asked.
He blinked, surprised.
Gods, even that simple reaction felt like a knife.
“Yes.”
“We need to go somewhere,” I said.
“I’ll pay the bill.”
It was an offer.
An out.
A quiet plea.
He laughed instead.
And refused.
Each polite word that followed landed like a small rejection wrapped in grace.
Another commitment.
Paying for himself.
Calling someone else.
I noticed everything—the tremor in his fingers, the careful dip of his voice, the way he avoided my eyes like meeting them might undo him.
When he stood, thanked us, and left, my alpha surged violently to the surface.
Don’t go.
Don’t walk away from me.
I stayed seated.
I always stayed seated.
I watched him through the glass—phone pressed to his ear, shoulders folding inward like the world had grown heavier the second he stepped outside.
And then I saw him.
Another alpha.
Younger.
Taller.
Moving toward Jihan without hesitation, arms already open.
Jihan didn’t pause.
He stepped into him like it was instinct.
Like it was safe.
Something inside me snapped—not loudly, not dramatically—but cleanly.
Like a thread pulled too tight at last.
So this was how it was.
“He’s seeing someone,” Juhwan said beside me, tone light.
I glared.
“I told you this was a bad idea.”
“If you didn’t want to see it,” he replied, unimpressed, “you shouldn’t have come.”
What did I want?
I wanted Jihan to look at me like that.
To lean in without fear.
To trust without restraint.
To soften instead of pulling away.
I wanted him to stop treating me like something distant and dangerous.
“I should’ve talked to him,” I muttered.
“The first time I saw him at school. Now I can’t even greet him properly without feeling like I’ll scare him off.”
Juhwan laughed.
“That’s your problem, not mine, cousin.”
I watched Jihan disappear down the street in someone else’s arms, jaw tight, fists clenched at my sides.
I was losing control.
And the cruelest part?
He had no idea how much restraint it took not to chase after him.
No idea how badly I wanted him.
No idea how much it hurt to believe I never could.