Chapter Text
The TV casts a soft glow across the living room, the paused football match frozen mid-play. The air carries the familiar mix of ramen steam and the clean bite of Changbin’s citrusy fabric softener, threaded through with the comforting warmth of his beta scent.
Chan and Minho are both seated near Jisung. Chan looks like he was born to fill the space he’s in, all broad shoulders and quiet authority, even when he’s slouched back in the armchair. Minho carries the same gravity, but in a different register. His strength is quieter, controlled in a way that settles into the room rather than pressing against it.
Next to them, Jisung always feels a little smaller, no matter how much he lifts or how loud he talks. He’s curled at one end of the couch, ramen bowl balanced precariously on his knee, chopsticks tapping in rhythm against the rim. Minho’s at the other end, half-reclined, one arm stretched along the backrest, close enough that Jisung can feel the warmth between them.
On the table, Minho’s bowl sits untouched, steam still curling from the surface. He’d made dinner for both of them the moment Jisung said he was hungry. Maybe he just isn’t in the mood to eat anymore.
Jisung tastes the ramen, and it's perfect. Minho’s ramen always is, with an extra egg in the broth and the spice toned down exactly the way Jisung likes it. So he slurps extra hard, loud and obnoxious, just to show his appreciation.
Minho doesn’t look up when he snorts. “Lovely. Really elevates the dining experience.”
Jisung grins around his chopsticks. “Adds ambience, hyung.”
Minho shakes his head with a smile. He reaches over, plucks a coaster from the table and slides it under Jisung’s bowl before it tips. His fingers brush Jisung’s knee, light and thoughtless, but it lands like static.
“Try not to ruin Chan’s couch,” Minho warns gently.
“I wasn’t going to,” Jisung mutters, but the protest comes out too fast, too defensive.
Across from them, Chan finally looks up from his screen. “Guess what just reopened?”
“The cafeteria noodle bar?” Jisung perks up immediately, hopeful.
“Better.” Chan angles his phone toward them, a grin tugging at his mouth. “The Chase sign-ups just went live.”
That gets everyone’s attention. Even Minho’s gaze lifts from his phone.
The Chase is a relic that somehow survived progress. Society has long since moved past the old traditions of feral mating rituals and dominance games, but once a year, the city still hosts it anyway. An open event where unmated alphas and omegas can sign up to find a mate the traditional way. Jisung is yet to make up his mind on whether it's romantic or just straight up barbaric.
Jisung squints at the bright poster on Chan’s screen, the sleek logo glowing red and gold. “Already? I thought it wasn’t till next month.”
Chan shrugs and drops his phone onto the coffee table. “They moved it up. Guess everyone’s desperate to find their soulmate this year.”
Changbin strolls out of the kitchen with a carton of chocolate ice cream and three spoons. “Or,” he says, dropping onto the couch beside Chan, “they just wanna hook up in the woods without getting arrested. You know...tradition.” He waggles his eyebrows in emphasis.
Jisung grabs a spoon, flashing a quick, mischievous grin. “I mean… a little run, a little fresh air, maybe a cute omega at the finish line? Doesn’t sound terrible.”
Chan stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “You think sprinting through the woods in the middle of the night is a good time?”
Jisung scoops up a mouthful of ice cream and shrugs. “Still better than writing a paper on the emotional resonance of basslines."
Chan snorts and sinks deeper into the armchair. “Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather not get tackled by some eighteen-year-old alpha hopped up on hormones and god knows what else.”
“Coward.” Changbin cackles, elbowing him hard enough to make Chan let out a grunt. He turns toward the couch. “What about you, Minho-hyung? You signing up?”
Minho doesn’t even lift his head fully, just glances up briefly through his lashes. “Hard pass.”
Jisung huffs a laugh, leaning forward with a grin. “That’s for the best. Gotta leave some for the rest of us.”
It’s a joke.
Except… not really.
Because Minho is absurdly strong. Jisung’s watched him lift things the rest of them struggled with—couches, equipment boxes, Changbin once, just because Hyunjin bet he couldn’t. Every boxing match also ends in a similar fashion, with Minho barely breaking a sweat while his opponent rethinks all their life choices.
Jisung’s already priming his next joke when Minho finally looks at him—really looks. It’s subtle, just a shift of attention, but the room seems to dim around the edges.
“You’re actually thinking of joining?” Minho asks.
Jisung goes still. The easy answer—Yeah, why not?—jams somewhere behind his tongue. His hand drifts to the hem of his hoodie, fingers scratching lightly against the band.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe? Feels like something I should try once. Alpha bucket list or something, y'know.”
Minho’s mouth tilts, not quite a smile. “Thinking about it and doing it aren’t the same thing.” The blue TV glow washes across his face when he looks back up, sharpening the line of his jaw and cheekbones. “Other alphas are out there, too. Slip once, and you’re the one getting chased.”
He says it like a joke, dry in the way he usually is, but the warning drops between them with real weight. Something low and instinctive uncoils in Jisung’s stomach before he can clamp down on it.
Jisung laughs back, a little too quick, a little too sharp. “Yeah, well, I’m not planning on being anyone’s prey.” He sets his empty bowl aside and sinks deeper into the cushions, rolling his shoulders. “Even if someone tried, I’m fast. I’d be gone before they could so much as blink.”
It’s bravado, and they all know it. Especially Minho.
Minho’s eyes drag down his frame in a slow, thoughtful sweep before lifting again. “You really think so?”
Jisung’s pulse jumps, traitorously obvious. “Yeah,” he manages, voice aiming for cocky and landing somewhere closer to breathless. “I could outrun any of you.”
Minho hums thoughtfully. “Maybe.” He shifts back, arm stretching along the couch until his fingers settle just behind Jisung’s neck, light and casual, but close enough that heat skims the edge of Jisung’s skin. “But some predators,” he murmurs, his gaze never leaving Jisung’s, and intent enough to root him in place, “prefer the ones who run.”
The air tightens, and Jisung swears he feels the couch dip infinitesimally closer between them.
And then—
Changbin’s laugh explodes through the room, loud and oblivious, as he leans over to jab Jisung painfully in the ribs. “You didn’t look that predatory last week when that cockroach came at you, Sungie!”
The spell shatters.
Jisung jolts, whipping toward Changbin with a scowl. “It flew at me. With intent. You didn’t see it, Bin — it was basically a winged rat.”
Changbin snorts. “Pretty sure rats don’t have wings.”
“Exactly my point!” Jisung insists, horrified.
Chan wheezes from the armchair, shaking his head. “The forest’s gonna eat you alive, mate.”
Jisung groans. “Shut up, both of you.”
Changbin leans back with a wicked grin. “You're probably gonna scream when an omega bats their eyelashes at you.”
Jisung points his chopsticks at him, deadly serious. “Keep talking, and you’ll scream first, Binnie.”
Their bickering dissolves into a wave of laughter. Changbin’s the loudest naturally, because everyone knows he could bench-press Jisung for fun and has, on more than one occasion, threatened to. Jisung sinks deeper into the couch with a petulant scowl, and the tension from earlier loosens just enough for him to breathe again.
Then Minho shifts. His arm slides down from the backrest, settling across Jisung’s shoulders in a way that's effortless. Innocent, even. His fingers brush the nape of Jisung’s neck, running through the shorter hairs absently.
Jisung freezes.
It’s nothing, he tells himself. Just a touch, and that too, a casual one.
Yet, the air around them shifts again like the room quietly remembers the tension Jisung spent the last few minutes trying to shake off.
The street’s quiet by the time they leave Chan’s place, the kind of quiet that makes every footstep sound sharper against the pavement. The air has that cool, just-rained freshness to it. Streetlights stretch soft gold across the road, catching on Minho’s dark hair when he walks under them.
Jisung stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I swear, Chan-hyung’s been looping the same playlist for two weeks. If I hear that one Aussie surf song again, I’m chucking his speaker out the window.”
Minho’s head tips, clearly amused. “Or you could just make your own playlist.”
Jisung frowns. “I did! He said it ‘ruined his creative flow.’” He kicks a pebble, watching it bounce down the path. “Like—sorry for having taste.”
Minho releases a quiet puff of breath that might be a laugh.
Their shoulders brush when they turn the corner, and neither pulls away. The air between them feels different now, quieter, like the street has shrunk to just their two shadows.
Minho’s voice breaks the stillness. “Why are you doing it?”
Jisung glances over. “Doing what?”
“The Chase.” Minho keeps his eyes forward on the streets. “You don’t really seem like the type who’d enjoy running around half-feral in the woods.”
Jisung huffs a laugh, the sound shakier than usual. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.” He bites the inside of his cheek. “Maybe I just… want to see what it’s like. That spark everyone talks about. When you meet someone, and it hits, and it feels like you’ve known them forever.”
Minho turns his head the tiniest bit, brow lifting. “You think you’ll find it in The Chase?”
“Maybe.” Jisung shrugs. “Seems like a good place to test if it’s even real. If I chicken out, I can just pretend I never considered it.”
For a moment, Minho is quiet, their footsteps the only sound between them. “It’s real,” he says finally.
Jisung looks over, surprised. “Yeah?" He asks with a curious smile. "Didn’t have you pegged as a romantic, hyung.”
Minho’s mouth twitches. “I didn’t say it was romantic, just that it exists. Call it fate, call it instinct, it’s the same pull.”
Jisung blinks at him, thrown for a second. Minho rarely talks openly like this. He's usually impossible to read, nothing like the loud alphas that brag about instinct and fate and hierarchy. People joke that Minho is half beta because of how calm he is, even though everyone knows that is not actually possible.
Which must be why hearing him admit he believes in something like this feels strange. Stranger still is the way he says it, like it is not something he’s embarrassed about at all.
Jisung clears his throat, eyes back on the road. “Yeah. When I see couples like Hyunjin and Felix or Seungmin and Innie, it kind of feels like it could be real, and I wouldn’t mind feeling that once. I mean, I could write a song about it and be the next Dean or something.”
That gets him a small snort from Minho. “So it’s not about finding an omega. It’s about getting a hit single.” His smile turns teasing as he lightly nudges Jisung's shoulder. “How romantic, Jisungie.”
Jisung presses a hand to his chest with an affronted expression. “Excuse you! I’m a man of depth and emotion and artistic integrity. What's more romantic than that?”
Minho lets out a low chuckle. “Right. Nothing screams romance like sprinting through mud and tackling someone until they surrender.”
Jisung groans loudly. “Why do you make it sound so unromantic?”
“It is unromantic,” Minho deadpans, not even missing a beat.
Jisung hums, thoughtful. “Is that why it bothers you so much?”
Minho doesn’t answer immediately. He gives Jisung a sideways glance, curious and assessing. “Who says it bothers me?”
“Your face,” Jisung says, grinning as he steps closer to tap the space between Minho’s brows. “This wrinkle right here? Dead giveaway.”
Minho blinks, caught off guard, then lets out a laugh as he softly brushes Jisung’s hand away. “I’m not against it.”
“Really?” Jisung asks, a little too quickly.
“Yeah.” Minho’s voice evens out. “There’s something honest about it.” He looks ahead for a moment, the streetlight spilling gold across his sharp, handsome profile. “There's no pretending, no mixed signals. You either feel the pull or you don’t.”
Jisung’s throat tightens unexpectedly. “Sounds like you’ve thought a lot about it.”
Minho’s mouth twitches, almost a smile, almost not. “Maybe.” He pauses, as if hesitating. “Just… not usually on the side you’re taking.”
Jisung stops mid-step. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Minho shrugs, easy on the surface, except for his shoulders stiffening just a hair. “Running around out there, letting your instincts lead?” He shakes his head once. “Doesn’t really sound like you.”
Jisung frowns, more curious than offended. “Why not?”
“You get curious too easily.” Minho’s voice dips, softer, dark eyes flicking up to meet his. “And people could take advantage of that.”
The line lands lighter than it should, but it hits deep anyway, like Minho’s trying not to say the louder part hiding underneath.
Jisung scoffs, heat creeping up his neck. “I haven’t even signed up. It’s just a maybe.”
Minho hums, a low, unreadable sound. “Okay.”
They keep walking. The street narrows, lamps stretching their shadows long across the pavement. Their shoulders brush again, and neither of them shifts away. The silence settles warm between them, not awkward, just full.
Jisung clears his throat, voice softer than he meant. "Are you ever gonna try it? The Chase?”
Minho is silent for a moment. Then he just turns his head, eyes catching in the dim light, darker and sharper in a way that makes Jisung’s steps falter. “Maybe,” Minho says finally, voice low. “If there’s someone worth catching.”
The pause that follows hits harder than the words. For a second, Jisung imagines Minho in that forest, moving the way he does in the ring, and thinks, That’s what a top alpha is supposed to look like. He pushes the thought away before it settles.
Jisung forces a laugh, too quick, too thin. “Right. Well, good luck with that, hyung.”
Minho’s smile is small, but something about it feels like it settles under Jisung’s skin. “Thanks,” he murmurs, eyes catching Jisung's again. “Pretty sure I won’t have to look far.”
The air shifts a little. Warmer, or colder, Jisung can’t tell. His hand goes to his phone just for something to do, pretending to check it even though the screen’s black.
When he looks up again, Minho is still watching him with that same strange intensity in his eyes, as if he’s piecing together thoughts Jisung hasn’t even said out loud. Then, just as quickly, his gaze moves away.
Jisung swallows, heat curling low in his chest. He tells himself it’s nothing. Just Minho being weirdly intense for no reason, like he tends to get sometimes.
But his heart doesn’t settle for the rest of the walk home.
Jisung cuts across the campus courtyard, earbuds in, hoodie hanging half-zipped. The sky is slipping into that warm gold before sunset. Chan’s playlist hums through his ears, the same Aussie surf song Jisung swore he hated a few nights ago but has since come to like, though he'd rather die than admit it to Chan after the fuss he kicked up.
He's half lost in the rhythm when someone slams into his shoulder.
“Sorry, man,” Jisung says automatically, stepping aside.
The guy whips around like he has been waiting for a fight. “The hell’s your problem?”
Jisung blinks, the apology still on his tongue, which is when the guy’s scent hits him. Alpha, sharp and metallic, heavy enough to scrape at his instincts. It spikes through the air, aggressive in a way that makes Jisung’s spine stiffen.
“Nothing,” Jisung says, voice flattening. “I said I was sorry. Relax.”
“You telling me what to do?” the alpha snaps, stepping in.
Jisung feels the burn rise in his throat, reflex kicking in. His own scent flickers up in response, cinnamon and smoke curling out in a warning he did not mean to give. His muscles tighten without permission, instinct pushing at the back of his mind to match aggression with aggression.
The guy snorts, looking him up and down in one slow, insulting sweep. “You call that a warning?” he says, lip curling. “Smells like a scented candle.”
Heat flashes up Jisung’s neck, his jaw locking. He knows his scent is milder than other alphas, but the fact that it was this asshole who pointed it out makes it worse. Jisung feels his scent spike again, the cinnamon sharpening with anger. People nearby glance over and then look away fast, instincts telling them to avoid two alphas circling each other.
“Back off,” Jisung says lowly. “I’m not looking for trouble.”
The other alpha steps closer, chest almost brushing his. “Yeah? Then stop pretending you’re on my level.”
The air between them stretches thin.
Then suddenly, Minho’s voice cuts through it. “Is there a problem here?”
Jisung turns, and relief hits him like a wave when he sees Minho standing a few steps away, hands in his pockets, expression calm. Too calm. It's the kind of stillness he only gets when he's really pissed.
The other alpha freezes. His scent collapses, dominance draining out of the air so quickly it is almost embarrassing. He mutters something low, eyes darting away, and walks off with his tail between his legs.
Jisung stares after him, dumbstruck. “What the hell?” He turns to Minho. “What did you do?”
Minho shrugs, shoulders loose as he pushes his hands deeper into his jacket. “Nothing.”
“Nothing,” Jisung repeats, incredulous. “He looked like he saw a ghost.” Jisung’s skin still prickles with leftover adrenaline and something that feels like embarrassment. Once again, he is the alpha who needed another alpha to step in.
Minho’s mouth twitches into a sardonic smile. “Maybe he just changed his mind.”
Jisung frowns, but doesn't push it. “Yeah. Maybe.”
They fall into step together, the kind of easy rhythm they always slip back into. The sun is low now, stretching their shadows long across the pavement. Minho walks close enough that their arms brush once.
Jisung breaks the silence. “That guy... he was weird from the start,” he says after a moment, shoving his hands into his pockets to fight the chill now that his instincts have calmed down. “Some guys are just dickheads, sure, but he felt… off. Like he was one nudge away from snapping.”
Minho hums quietly. “The Chase has everyone worked up. Too many hormones in one place and no idea where to put them.”
“Fair enough,” Jisung says with a shrug. “The omega lineup is especially good this year, after all.”
He expects Minho to tease him. Instead, he gets a mildly curious look. “Is there anyone you have your eye on?”
Jisung huffs out a little laugh. “Not really. I guess Yeosang’s the obvious pick, but everyone’s going to be running after him.”
Minho’s brow lifts. “What about you? Planning on joining the stampede?”
“I don’t know,” Jisung admit, eyes on the ground. “He’s pretty, sure, but I don’t like him enough to risk possible death via trampling. I’ll probably just wait around and see which scent hits me. Let instinct decide, or whatever.”
Minho tilts his head, studying him in a way that makes the back of Jisung’s neck warm. “Instinct doesn’t always lead where you expect."
Jisung blinks at him, thrown by the tone more than the words. Minho has been saying strange things all week, little comments that sit under his skin longer than they should. It's like he knows something Jisung doesn’t but refuses to share it with him.
Jisung shrugs loosely. “Well… hopefully mine leads me to my soulmate.”
Minho’s mouth curves. “Maybe.”
Their steps fall in sync again, the quiet stretching out just a little too long to feel normal. They reach the café, warm light spilling across the pavement, the smell of honey toast drifting through the door.
Jisung tells himself it’s fine, that he’s just overthinking Minho's behaviour as of late. But even when they step inside and the door swings shut behind them, he can’t stop replaying that moment, the calm, the control, the way the other alpha folded.
And underneath it all, the strangest part is how his own body reacted to it.
Not afraid or angry.
Just aware.
Too aware.
The dorm smells like detergent, leftover noodles and the warmth of three people who have breathed the same air for too long. The overhead light buzzes like it is trying to drill through Jisung’s skull.
Chan is folded over his desk, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, laptop fans wheezing like they are minutes from death. Changbin is half upside down on the couch, one leg hooked over the armrest, phone perched on his stomach.
Jisung drops into the armchair with a thud. He curls in on himself, hands buried in his hoodie sleeves. His pulse is still skittering from the courtyard, and it refuses to calm. “Can I ask you guys something weird?”
Changbin doesn’t look up. “Everything you ask is weird.”
Chan sighs, rubbing at his temple. “If this is about that cursed group chat again, I swear—”
“It’s not.” Jisung interrupts, and it comes out sharper than he means. “It’s about Minho-hyung.”
Both their heads lift immediately.
Changbin sits up. “What about him? You two practically share a brain cell, so shouldn’t you know if something’s wrong?”
Jisung drags a hand through his hair. “That's the thing, I don’t know anything this time.” The memory of Minho’s voice flicks through him, a cold drop of silence down his spine.
Chan shifts to face him fully, brow knitting. “You look wound up, Sung. What happened?”
Jisung slumps back into the chair, hoodie pulled to his chin. “Do you ever think there’s something… off about Minho-hyung?”
Changbin snorts. “Obviously. I caught him behind the gym last week having a full conversation with a stray cat.”
Jisung blinks, momentarily distracted. “Like—talking talking?”
Changbin nods, dead serious. “The cat meowed. He meowed back.”
Jisung snorts, shaking his head. “Okay, but that’s just Minho being Minho. I mean off in a different way.”
Both of them give him identical blank stares.
Jisung leans forward, elbows on his knees, pulse quickening. “Some alpha bumped into me today and started shit for no reason. But then hyung shows up and says literally three words, and the guy just… stops. No scent, no posturing. Nothing. He just...folded.”
Chan tilts his head. “Maybe he realized he was outnumbered.”
“Sure,” Jisung says. “Except hyung didn’t do anything. He didn’t even smell like an alpha in that moment. It was just… quiet. The wrong kind of quiet.” He feels his pulse pick up again, that same cold flicker running under his skin as it had earlier.
Changbin’s eyes light up. “Maybe he’s an Enigma.”
The room goes quiet for a full beat as the words sink in.
Chan groans. “Binnie. Please. Not this again.”
“What?” Changbin says, affronted. “Think about it. Maybe he’s one of those natural dominants. You know… top of the hierarchy glitch.”
Chan gives him a flat look. “Enigmas aren’t real. They’re basically the boogeyman version of alphas at this point.”
Changbin waves a dismissive hand. “You say that because you’ve never been dominated into silence by someone’s vibe.”
Jisung’s knee bounces, restless. “It wasn’t just a vibe, though. It felt… wrong. Like something I wasn’t picking up properly.”
Chan softens a little. “The guy probably just realized he was being a dick. That’s still more likely than Minho being a mythical apex.”
That should’ve been the end of it, but Jisung is curious. Far more curious than he has any right to be, just like Minho warned him all those nights ago.
“So what’s the deal then?” Jisung asks, pulse quickening with anticipation. “Do they, I don’t know, shoot lasers from their eyes?”
“Better,” Changbin says. “They don’t give off scent unless they want to, but when they choose to? Everyone folds. Doesn’t matter if you’re Alpha, Omega or Beta, instinct just gives up.”
A tightness settles under Jisung’s ribs. “That sounds terrifying.”
“That’s the point.” Changbin flashes him a grin. “Some people even say an Enigma can mate with an Alpha.”
Jisung chokes, a small, startled sound that he tries to cover with a cough, but his hand slips against the armchair, and his knee knocks the table.
Chan looks over, mildly concerned. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Jisung says too quickly. “Just… swallowed wrong.”
Changbin keeps going. “Imagine it, Jisungie. An alpha getting claimed. Branded. Bred.”
Jisung’s breath stutters. His fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie before he can stop them. “That’s impossible,” he manages, quieter than before. “Alphas don’t— it doesn’t work like that.” He clears his throat. “Biologically, I mean.”
Changbin smirks, pleased with himself. “Yeah, I know. But it's fun to speculate.”
Jisung tries to laugh, but the sound slips out thin, almost shaky. He looks away quickly, eyes dropping to the carpet as if it suddenly became fascinating. His heartbeat thumps harder than the situation warrants, a little too close to his throat.
He pictures it without meaning to:
An alpha being pinned by someone stronger.
An alpha losing control of instinct.
An alpha folding, not out of fear, but because their body simply stops fighting.
His stomach twists. Heat flares low and confusing before cooling into a faint chill that crawls up his spine, brushing a place inside him he hasn’t allowed himself to look at.
Chan leans forward slightly, oblivious to the way Jisung’s fingers tense against his knees. “That’s why it’s just a story,” he says, voice dry. “Every generation makes one up.”
Jisung forces a breath, then a laugh. “Yeah. Has to be.” He rubs his thumb over a loose thread on his sweatpants, grounding himself, willing the flutter in his chest to settle.
Changbin knocks Jisung’s foot lightly. “Besides, even if an Enigma existed, it’s not Minho-hyung. He literally folds his socks by colour. That’s not exactly apex behaviour.”
Chan snorts. “Yeah. Our Minho. Enigma of Laundry.”
Jisung laughs automatically, but something in his chest pulls tight. Because part of him, the part he tries very, very hard to ignore, isn’t laughing.
It’s remembering the courtyard.
Remembering the quiet.
Remembering the way his instincts went completely still under Minho’s voice.
And that part is whispering the thing he doesn’t want to hear:
What if he is an Enigma?
The midday sun hits the campus lawns hard, turning the grass into sheets of gold. The day before the Chase always feels like this; everyone's all keyed up even if they are not participating.
Jisung hasn’t signed up yet. The registration page is still sitting open in a background tab on his laptop, glaring at him every time he switches windows.
Out on the field, a crowd of alphas are training. Bare skin, loud voices, territorial shouts, and pheromones hanging thick in the heat.
In response, Jisung feels his reflexes kick in. His shoulders go tight, a small growl catching in his throat. Every instinct says stay alert because there are too many alphas in one place. Beside him, Minho stands without reacting at all.
Jisung stares. “How do you do that?” He presses his wrist to his nose, trying to block out the scent. “You have the nose of a bloodhound. How are you not dying right now?”
Minho scans the field impassively, then shrugs. “I guess I’ve always been this way.”
Jisung breathes shallow, trying not to choke on the mixture of sweat and territory-marking musk. Minho’s scent is barely there beside him. Clean lavender and cedarwood, more like soap than anything instinctual. It never crowds him, never spikes or jolts his instincts awake. It feels safe in a way he can’t explain.
Minho bumps Jisung’s shoulder lightly. “Thinking about getting some practice in?”
Jisung keeps his eyes fixed on the field. “I’m just looking. Observing. Gathering intel. Strategising.”
Minho lets out a quiet laugh. “Right.”
Jisung frowns, affronted. “What?”
“It means,” Minho drawls, “that if you participate, you’ll have to get through about thirty alphas before you even get a sniff of an omega.”
Jisung blinks at him, caught off guard. His mouth opens, then closes again before he manages, “…Yeah. Obviously.”
“Good.” Minho raises a brow, the slightest curl at the corner of his mouth. “Just checking.”
Heat crawls up Jisung’s neck. “I know how it works, hyung.”
“Sure you do.”
Jisung bristles. “I can handle myself fine.”
Minho steps in before Jisung processes the movement. His hands land on Jisung’s upper arms, fingers settling into the firm skin. The touch isn’t intimate, not exactly, but it sends a quick pulse through Jisung’s stomach.
Minho scans him, eyes moving down and back up. “You’re stronger than before, but you don’t exactly have the build or the skills to overpower someone bigger.”
His thumbs brush once, almost absent, and Jisung’s breath catches before he can stop it.
“Wow, rude,” Jisung mutters, trying to ignore how warm his skin feels under Minho’s hands. “Maybe I don’t have a ton of muscle, but my heart is very strong. That counts for something.”
Minho’s laugh comes out bright and amused. “So your plan is to charm your opponents into surrendering.”
Jisung shoots him a half-hearted glare. “I’ll figure something out eventually.”
The moment he says it, he hears how tragic it sounds.
Minho’s hands stay on Jisung’s arms for a moment longer than they should before he steps back smoothly. The air where his touch used to be feels colder. He looks out at the field again, where a mess of alphas are yelling and scent-marking like animals.
When Minho speaks again, his voice is quiet enough that Jisung almost misses it. “I can teach you some moves if you want.”
Jisung blinks, startled. Then a grin splits across his face before he can stop it. “For real?”
Minho shrugs lightly, still watching the field. “Why not. I’d prefer not to watch you get mauled tomorrow.”
Jisung scoffs on reflex. “I’m not that helpless. I might not be built like you, but I can hold my own.”
Minho turns to him slowly, eyes filled with a disbelief so pure it hits harder than any insult. They both know exactly how much physical training Jisung does. His main muscle groups are his vocal cords and whatever it takes to carry his laptop.
“Is that so?” Minho says. His tone is mild, but Jisung can hear the amusement sitting right under it.
“Yes,” Jisung insists. He tries for confidence and lands somewhere between defensive and fully delusional. “You underestimate me.”
Minho’s smile is small, tilted, knowing. “Then show me,” he says, straightening. He isn’t posturing like other alphas, not widening his stance or scenting up the air. But somehow he still feels larger, heavier, like the gravity under Jisung’s feet shifts toward him. “Alpha.”
Jisung’s instincts jump instantly at the challenge, heat sparking under his skin as cinnamon and warm amber slip out into the air before he can pull it back.
Minho notices. His eyes sharpen, nostrils flaring once in acknowledgement. He does not scent back. The absence makes something coil tight inside Jisung, confusing and electric.
“Let’s go then,” Jisung blurts, faster than his brain can scream at him to shut up.
The smile that flickers over Minho’s mouth is soft and dangerous, like he was waiting for exactly that. “Okay. Let’s go.” Minho’s already moving before Jisung can backpedal. He crosses the street with that long, deliberate stride of his, just expecting Jisung to follow.
And of course, Jisung does.
The sports building door clangs open, and heat washes over them immediately. The place smells like rubber mats, sweat and metal that has been handled too many times. Jisung’s palms grow damp.
Minho doesn’t slow as he heads toward the empty practice room.
Jisung’s stomach dips. This suddenly feels a lot more real than the cute, delusional version in his head.
Minho walks straight to the boxing ring in the corner. The moment Jisung sees the ropes, he stops dead at the edge of the mat.
“Wait,” he blurts, voice hiking up in betrayal. “You meant actual training?”
Minho turns with a flat, unimpressed look. “What did you think I meant? Guided meditation?”
Jisung flushes hot. “I don’t know, man. Something less… murder-adjacent.”
Minho huffs a laugh and steps through the ropes, the ring creaking softly around him. He rolls his shoulders, the movement fluid and confident. “Are you nervous, Sungie?” he asks lightly.
“No.” The lie falls out instantly.
Minho’s mouth curves like he hears the truth anyway.
Jisung tries not to stare, but Minho makes it impossible. He moves differently in here, like the room bends around him instead of the other way around. Jisung has seen alphas posture. He has seen Chan command a crowd with nothing but presence. None of it touches the silent yet dangerous aura Minho has when he isn’t pretending to be harmless.
Then Minho shrugs off his jacket and tosses it aside.
The black tank underneath clings just enough to show the cut of his shoulders and the shape of his chest. He is lean but strong in a way that makes Jisung’s throat work against a swallow. His forearms flex as he adjusts the wraps on his hands, the muscles shifting with an ease that looks like second-nature.
Jisung swallows again. Fear, he tells himself. Or respectful intimidation. Or appreciation for good upper-body conditioning. Something neutral.
Definitely neutral.
Minho tilts his head at him, eyes half-lidded and unreadable, and it knocks the air out of Jisung’s lungs more than the heat in the room. “Well? Are you getting in, or do I have to drag you up here myself?”
Jisung blows out a breath, too sharp, and shrugs out of his jacket. He steps into the ring, the ropes brushing his hips as he climbs through. The moment his feet hit the mat, everything feels different, like the air seems to hold its breath with him.
Jisung tries to cover his nerves with an awkward laugh. “Just saying, hyung—if you go full strength on me, that’s basically a hate crime. You’re literally the strongest guy on the boxing team.”
Minho lets out a soft breath of laughter, then smiles at him, gentle in a way that never matches the sharp edges he carries everywhere else. “Relax, Sungie.” His voice is steady, almost warm. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’ll just teach you the basics.”
And embarrassingly, it helps. Some of the tension drains out of Jisung’s shoulders, the knot in his chest loosening because this is Minho. Minho, who never pushes him too far. Minho, who always steadies things before Jisung even realizes he’s overwhelmed.
Minho steps closer, barefoot on the mat. His movements are soft and soundless. When he lifts his hands, Jisung notices the faint dusting of chalk clinging to his knuckles from earlier training.
“First rule,” Minho says as he settles into a stance, body relaxed but practised. “Lower your center. If you square your shoulders, you’re asking to be thrown.”
Jisung tries to mimic him. He ends up shifting his weight too far, then not enough, knees stiff, then loose. He looks like someone trying to impersonate a tree.
Minho’s mouth twitches. “Not bad. Better than I expected.”
Jisung opens his mouth to argue, but Minho moves in before he gets the chance. His fingers skim along Jisung’s forearms, guiding his elbows inward, lifting his guard with slow, careful pressure.
“Here,” Minho instructs. “Keep them in. Higher guard. Don’t open your chest.”
Jisung nods, eyes forward, pretending he is focused on technique and not on how close Minho is.
Then Minho steps in again, just a fraction, but it's enough for their bodies to almost touch. Heat rolls off Minho in waves, familiar and unsettling at the same time.
“Now you’re balanced,” Minho says near his ear.
Jisung swallows. His throat still feels tight.
Minho doesn't give him time to recover. “If someone grabs you,” he says, taking Jisung’s wrist gently, “don’t fight strength with strength. Redirect it.”
He moves in one smooth pivot. Jisung stumbles forward with a startled sound and catches himself with a hand on Minho’s chest. Minho’s other hand catches his shoulder, holding him up without effort.
Heat climbs Jisung’s neck, slow and traitorous. He lets out a shaky laugh and pulls back his hand. “You make it sound easier than it is.”
“It is easy.” Minho’s eyes track him in a way that makes it hard to think. “You just think too much.”
“Right,” Jisung says, trying to reset his stance. “So no thinking.”
Minho’s gaze lingers on him, something soft flickering under the usual calm. “Exactly.” He steps back, but only slightly. “Now,” he says as he sets his stance, chin lifting a little, “try to grab me.”
Jisung blinks. “Sorry, what?”
“You’re an alpha in the Chase,” Minho says, tone matter-of-fact. His arms settle into a loose, open guard that looks almost inviting. “Someone is in your way. You want them gone.” His eyes meet Jisung’s. “So grab me.”
He stands there like he’s carved out of certainty. Relaxed shoulders, easy posture, no tension anywhere. Not even a flicker of competitiveness in his scent.
It does something weird to Jisung’s stomach, and before he can talk himself out of it, he lunges.
Minho doesn’t even dodge dramatically—he just isn’t there anymore. One small shift of weight, and Jisung goes stumbling past empty air like an idiot. A warm hand brushes the small of his back as he rushes past, pulling him back. The touch is barely there, yet it burns straight through the fabric of his shirt.
“You’re predictable,” Minho says near his ear. “Your eyes give you away every time. Don’t look where you want to strike.”
Jisung whips around, cheeks hot. “How am I supposed to not look?”
“Instinct,” Minho replies easily. The word lands heavy. “Stop thinking with your head.”
Before Jisung can try to come up with a smart-ass reply, Minho moves again, not stepping in, just circling. Quiet, controlled, eyes tracking every tiny shift in Jisung’s shoulders and breath.
“Again,” Minho commands.
Jisung forces a slow breath out, grounding himself. He steps left, feints right, commits to the angle with everything he has.
It doesn’t matter.
Minho cleanly catches his wrist mid-strike, like he saw the move a full second before it happened.
The grip shocks a breath out of him. Minho doesn’t release him. He meets Jisung’s gaze up close, eyes too calm for the way Jisung’s pulse is jumping.
“Better,” Minho says quietly.
He guides Jisung forward with that same hold, their weight shifting into a shared line.
“But you’re top-heavy,” he adds.
Jisung blinks. “What is that supposed to—”
Minho lifts his free hand and presses his palm to Jisung’s stomach, just under his ribs.
Jisung freezes. The weight of Minho’s hand settles into him like a spark. Every muscle in Jisung’s body tenses, heat curling deep in his gut.
“Here,” Minho murmurs. His voice is low enough that Jisung feels it more than hears it. “This is your center. If you’re holding tension up here, you’ll fall.” His thumb brushes once, and it sends another tight pulse of heat spiraling through Jisung’s core.
Then, just as soon as he touched him, Minho steps back, letting go all at once.
Jisung stumbles, breath catching, chest buzzing like something inside him just short-circuited. He forces a laugh. “You’re, uh… kind of a hands-on teacher.”
A faint twitch pulls at Minho’s mouth. “Is it helping?”
Jisung bites his lip. “I… don’t know yet.”
That draws a soft laugh from Minho. He steps forward again, close enough that Jisung forgets how to breathe for a second, then takes Jisung’s hands in his own, adjusting his grip methodically. Each shift is light, uncomplicated, but Jisung’s skin buzzes and hums under every point of contact.
“Once more,” Minho says. His fingers skim over Jisung’s knuckles. “Don’t look at my eyes this time. Watch my shoulders. They’ll move first.”
Jisung nods, trying to get his breathing under control. “Shoulders. Right.”
He tells himself not to look at Minho’s eyes, which of course only makes it harder not to. He forces his gaze lower, but that doesn't help either. Minho’s shoulders are right there, broad under the thin stretch of his tank top, muscles shifting slow and clean with every inhale. It draws Jisung’s focus in a way that has nothing to do with technique.
Jisung moves anyway. A half-formed lunge, too readable, too eager.
Minho sees it the moment the thought sparks. He pivots once, and Jisung’s balance slips out from under him. Before he can recover, Minho is behind him, one smooth pull bringing their bodies flush.
Jisung’s breath catches hard in his chest as Minho’s arm locks around him, pinning Jisung’s arms to his sides. The hold is controlled and secure, not meant to hurt but to show exactly how easily he could if he so wished.
Jisung feels everything—the solid press of Minho’s chest against his back, the warmth radiating off him, the even rhythm of Minho’s breathing. His own heart thrashes in response, loud and uneven.
Minho draws him closer with a small shift of his hips, his breath grazing the side of Jisung’s jaw. It's the smallest brush, but it’s enough to send heat curling low in Jisung’s stomach. Minho’s hand slides from Jisung’s shoulder to the side of his throat, fingers tracing the line of muscle with deliberate care before settling there. His grip is gentle as his thumb tilts Jisung’s chin up a fraction to expose the line of his throat.
Jisung goes still. Every instinct in him tightens, a sharp clash of fight and something darker, deeper, uncomfortably soft. He should pull free, twist out, do something.
But he doesn’t. His body won’t move.
“See?” Minho says, voice low and hot against his ear. “If I were another alpha, you’d already be done.”
Jisung tries to pull breath into his lungs. It doesn’t work. Minho’s arm stays around him, solid and unrelenting, thumb still resting at his jaw like he has all the time in the world.
“You wouldn’t stand a chance,” Minho finishes, quiet and sure.
A chance at what? Winning? Surviving? Dominating?
Or something else entirely, something he cannot bring himself to name.
Before Jisung can compose himself, Minho’s grip shifts. A quiet, controlled squeeze that says stay still, that reminds him exactly who’s holding him and who’s choosing how close they stand.
It steals the breath from Jisung’s throat. A sound slips out of him before he can swallow it, small, cracked, and humiliatingly soft. The room tilts, and everything edges too bright, too sharp, instinct and adrenaline tangling until he can’t tell which one is dragging at his bones.
As if in response, Minho’s scent shifts.
It is soft at first, familiar lavender and quiet cedarwood. Then something deeper slips under it. A warm, heavy note that hums low in the air, like lightning rolling through the horizon, hot pressure curling over Jisung’s skin like a hand he cannot see.
It lasts only a heartbeat before it’s gone, so fast that Jisung almost convinces himself he imagined the whole thing.
But then, Minho breaks the hold. He steps back with smooth, composed ease, as if none of it touched him. As if he didn’t just take Jisung apart in the span of a second and walk away untouched.
“That’s enough for today,” Minho says lightly, like they’ve just finished a warm-up. “Any more and you’ll fry your brain trying to keep up.”
Jisung stands there, barely trusting his legs. His heart is pounding loud enough that he’s sure Minho must hear it, but Minho only crouches to grab his jacket. He has the same unreadable expression he always wears, as if nothing slipped.
Minho rises, brushing his palms absently against his sweats. His gaze sweeps over Jisung, slow and lazy on the surface, but the sharpness underneath feels anything but casual.
“Are you changing your mind?” Minho asks. “About The Chase?”
Jisung’s throat closes. He should say no. He should laugh it off, bury the moment, pretend nothing crawled under his skin and rewired him from the inside out.
But his mouth betrays him.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I guess I have.”
Minho only nods. He looks unsurprised. “Alright. Let’s pack up.”
He turns toward the door with his usual stride, and Jisung follows, pulse hammering against his ribs. The air outside hits him cool and sharp, but it does nothing to calm him. He still feels the ghost of Minho’s hand on him — the grip, the warmth, the way his whole body had gone quiet, instinct curling in submission he shouldn’t even be capable of.
The worst part isn’t the shock.
It’s the truth of it.
He hadn’t hated the feeling.
He had leaned into it.
He had wanted more.
Alphas do not want that from other alphas. That isn’t how any of this works.
Shame crawls beneath his skin, hot and impossible to blink away.
What the hell is happening to him?
They walk side by side beneath the streetlights. Minho talks about footwork, terrain, breath control. Jisung nods at the right moments, but none of the words stick. His mind loops around the moment in the ring. The stillness. The scent change. The way Minho had not looked startled. Not even surprised.
Like he expected it. Like he knew exactly how Jisung would react.
They reach their usual split at the intersection. Minho stops first and looks toward him.
“You did well today,” he says quietly. “Better than you think. You adapt fast when you stop fighting yourself.”
Jisung tries for a smile. It comes out thin. “Thanks, hyung.”
Minho gives him one back, softer and warmer. “Get some rest, Jisungie. You’re holding a lot of tension.”
Jisung chews the inside of his cheek. His chest feels tight, restless. The words leave him before he can stop them.
“I’m gonna do it.”
Minho’s brows lift slightly. “Do what?”
Jisung swallows hard. His voice comes out rough. “The Chase.” He stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets so Minho won’t see the tremor. “I’m signing up tonight. Before they close.”
For the first time, Minho looks a little off balance. It’s tiny, barely there, something Jisung wouldn’t notice if he weren’t staring straight at him. “I thought you changed your mind.”
“I did,” Jisung says. A shaky laugh slips out. “For ten minutes.” He shrugs, but it feels defensive more than anything. “You said I adapt fast, right?”
The tension between Minho's brows doesn’t smooth. “You do,” he says carefully. “But still—”
“Still what?” The words come out sharper than he means them to, too sharp, too raw. He turns fully toward Minho, heat rising unpleasantly in his chest. “You think I’m not alpha enough? Is that it?”
Minho goes still. His eyes widen just slightly, just enough for Jisung to catch the flicker of something raw underneath. “No,” He says firmly, almost too quickly, leaving no room for argument. “That’s not it, Jisung. Not even close.”
Jisung swallows. The frustration, the shame, the leftover tension from training, all of it bunches up tight under his ribcage. “Then what?” he pushes. “Because from the way everyone’s been talking, it kind of feels like I’m supposed to sit this one out. Like I’m… I don’t know. Too soft for it.”
Minho’s jaw flexes once. “I just don’t want you walking into something dangerous.”
Jisung lets out a humorless sound. “Too late.” He lifts his chin, hoping it hides how tight his throat feels. “I’m going.”
Silence settles between them, thick, heavy, and unbearable.
For a moment, Minho looks like he might say something else. Something that explains the scent shift. The grip. The way the air changed between them like something clicked into place.
But he doesn’t.
His mouth tightens into something neutral. “Alright,” he says finally. The word lands flat. “Good luck, Jisung.”
Minho turns and starts walking before Jisung can answer, his shoulders held in their usual line. Except this time, the line looks too stiff, too controlled.
Jisung stands there, watching him disappear down the path, and feels something sink hard in his chest.
He never snaps at Minho. Not like that. Not ever. The guilt bites at him immediately, sharp and ugly. He shoves it down, jaw clenched, and forces himself to move.
If he stops now, he’ll turn around, apologize and inevitably back out. Pretend none of this is happening.
He can’t do that, not after today.
He heads back toward campus on autopilot. The registration centre is still lit up, fluorescent lights humming behind tall glass panes. A few students filter in and out, some laughing too loudly, some visibly shaking, some pretending they aren’t terrified.
Jisung pauses on the sidewalk, staring at the door.
This is stupid. He could go home. He could pretend the entire day didn’t flip him inside out. He could act like Minho’s scent never hit him like a punch to the lungs, like his knees didn’t almost go out from under him, like he didn’t fold in a way no alpha should.
He could walk away.
But instead, he walks in.
The volunteer barely looks up. She hands him a clipboard. Name. Age. Status. Liability waiver. He fills everything out, fingers only trembling once or twice.
“First time?” the volunteer asks.
“Yeah.”
“Exciting,” she chirps, like this isn’t a feral ritual dressed up as college tradition. She snaps a wristband around him. “Keep this on until check-out tomorrow. Good luck.”
Jisung nods, because his own voice feels far away. He steps outside again, the night air colder than before.
He looks down at the band, and his stomach twists.
Anticipation, he tells himself. Or excitement.
He peels it off carefully — he’ll put it on properly tomorrow — and slides it into his pocket before heading toward the dorms.
He tries not to think about the hollow ache under his ribs.
Or the way Minho’s voice had sounded when he said good luck.
Or how badly Jisung suddenly wants to take it all back.
The next day, the dorm feels wrong.
Voices echo down the hallway too sharply, someone slams a locker like they’re trying to break it, and the air smells like nerves. Nervous alphas, jittery omegas, betas pretending not to be invested. Pheromones cling to the walls, restless and sour, tangled with burnt coffee and cheap cologne.
Jisung’s room isn’t helping. It's a total mess of clothes, books and music records. His space feels like his head does — cluttered, rushed, not ready in the slightest.
He crouches by his backpack and rolls the registration band between his fingertips. The numbers catch the afternoon light like they’re taunting him. Harmless right now. Harmless only because the Chase hasn’t started yet.
He should be thinking about strategy.
The omega lineup.
The terrain.
Scent rules.
He’s thinking about Minho instead.
His thumb keeps sliding over the band, back and forth, but it doesn’t settle anything. Something hums under his ribs, hot and restless, too loud to ignore and too confusing to name.
He wants—
He doesn’t know what he wants, and that scares him more than the Chase.
His body decides for him long before his brain catches up. He gets to his feet without thinking, the motion strangely automatic. He picks up the wristband, turning it once between his fingers, then slips it into his pocket like the choice was already made hours ago. And before he can talk himself out of it, he’s moving out the door, into the hallway, letting momentum carry him wherever it wants to take him.
The hallway hits him like a wall, but it all blurs into background noise. His feet move on their own, guided by something low and stubborn inside him. By the time he stops, he’s in front of Minho’s door. The sight of it punches something tight in his chest. He lifts his hand automatically… and freezes.
Why is he nervous?
He never gets nervous around Minho.
But now—
Now his breath feels thin. His hand hovers in the air like it’s waiting for permission.
Jisung closes his eyes for half a second.
Then he knocks. It swings open almost immediately.
Minho stands there in a soft grey tee and loose sweats, hair slightly mussed like he had been dragging his hands through it. His eyes widen just a fraction, just enough to show he had not been expecting anyone.
“Jisung?” Minho’s voice sounds concerned. “What’s wrong?”
The way he says his name hits somewhere soft. Jisung clears his throat, trying to sound normal, failing miserably.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he lies, stepping inside when Minho moves aside without hesitation. “I just… needed a minute.”
Minho closes the door, gentle like he’s handling glass. “Is this about tonight?”
“About everything,” Jisung mutters as he sinks onto the edge of Minho’s bed like he’s done a hundred times before, except tonight his hands won’t cooperate. They keep fidgeting, rubbing against each other, tugging at his hoodie sleeves. His scent keeps slipping, thin and nervous, no matter how hard he tries to hold it together.
Minho crosses the room in a few quiet steps and sits beside him. Not touching, but just close enough that the warmth of him settles against Jisung’s shoulder like gravity.
Minho’s voice softens. “Talk to me, Sungie.”
Something unclenches in Jisung’s chest. He drops his elbows onto his knees, fingers tangled together. “It’s stupid,” he mutters. “I know it’s stupid.”
Minho doesn’t say a word. Just waits. He always waits.
So the words spill like water through a cracked dam.
“The Chase suddenly feels real.” Jisung laughs, but the sound is shaky. “I joked about it, acted like it was fine, but now that it is actually happening tonight, I am freaking out.”
Minho shifts closer, barely enough for contact, but enough to anchor him.
“I keep thinking about all the other alphas,” Jisung admits. “How they grew up doing things like this. Fighting. Scent clashes. Instinct games.” He shakes his head. “That has never been me. I think too much. I hesitate. And that is exactly what happened with that guy the other day.”
“Jisung,” Minho says quietly.
“And what if I lose?” Jisung blurts, cutting him off. His breath stutters. “What if I get taken out in ten minutes? What if everyone out there can smell how unsure I am? What if instinct chooses someone I do not want?”
Shame burns up his throat.
“It's supposed to be fun,” he says softly. “A tradition. Whatever. But it does not feel fun. It feels like everyone else is built for this, and I'm just pretending.”
Minho lets the silence settle. When he finally speaks, his voice is low enough to cut straight through Jisung’s pulse.
“Jisung.” Minho leans in just slightly, enough for their shoulders to brush. “You are not weaker than anyone out there.”
Jisung scoffs, looking away.
“I’m serious,” Minho insists. “You overthink, yes. But you're sharp. You react fast. You don't hide when you're scared. You move anyway.” He nudges him lightly with his shoulder. “And today you didn't back down. Even against me.”
Jisung swallows, throat tight, eyes fixed on a speck on the floor like it might save him.
Minho tilts his head, studying him in that quiet, unblinking way he has. “You’re easily the best alpha I know.”
Jisung lets out a soft scoff, half laugh, half disbelief. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” Minho’s hand lifts again, hovering just shy of Jisung’s wrist, close enough that Jisung feels the heat skim over his skin. “I’ve seen you. Really seen you, Jisung.”
The words land like a hit to the chest. Something hot and unsteady stirs inside Jisung, tightening behind his ribs.
He doesn’t know what to do with the way Minho’s looking at him, or the way his scent lingers around him without pressure, settling over his nerves in a way that feels calming.
Minho holds his gaze for another heartbeat before rising. “Wait here,” he instructs, firm and steady.
Jisung blinks. “For wh—”
Minho is already gone, slipping out of the room without another word.
Left alone on the edge of the bed, Jisung exhales slowly. His pulse finally begins to even out, the frantic buzz under his skin tapering into something he can almost manage.
The door opens again. Minho steps back inside with a large paper bag. It is the same kind he brings whenever Jisung forgets to eat. It is always filled with things Jisung never asks for but always ends up needing.
Jisung takes it and peeks inside. Electrolyte packets. Energy gels. A chilled water bottle. A towel. A blister kit. Everything tucked in tightly, arranged with the same quiet precision Minho uses in everything he does.
“You really didn't have to,” Jisung says. His voice comes out smaller than he intends.
“You stop eating when you are anxious,” Minho answers simply.
It hits Jisung right where his breath sits, because Minho notices. Always has. Before exams. Before music shows. Before anything that shakes Jisung off balance, Minho is there with water or food or a steady hand on his shoulder, never making a big deal out of it.
Jisung laughs weakly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Thanks, hyung.”
Minho comes closer, just enough that Jisung feels the warmth radiate off him. His hand lifts and taps just below Jisung’s ribs, the same place he’d pressed during training, the touch that had emptied Jisung’s lungs far too easily.
“Keep your weight low,” Minho reminds him. “And don’t let other alphas bait you with their scents.”
“Got it,” Jisung says. “I’ll be careful.”
A flicker of worry crosses Minho’s expression, but he smooths it out with an encouraging smile. “I know you will, Sungie.”
Jisung tries to laugh, but it comes out stitled. “Then why do you still look worried?”
Minho hesitates. The pause is small, but Jisung feels it settle between them like something heavy. “Everyone goes into that forest trying to prove something,” Minho says quietly. “Not everyone comes back the same.”
The words don’t slam into him; they just sink. Quiet. Heavy. Real.
Something warm rises in Jisung’s chest, unexpected and a little frightening. It makes him want to close the distance, to comfort Minho for once instead of the other way around.
“Hyung,” he says softly. He leans in without noticing it, his knee brushing Minho’s. “Even if I come back with a mate or whatever…” He tries for a smile, but it falters halfway. “I’m not losing you over this.”
Minho goes still. Jisung pushes through the moment before he can lose his nerve.
“You’re important to me,” Jisung tells him. “Not just because you look after me. It’s because you’re one of the few people I actually trust.”
His fingers curl tighter against his knee. “I don’t trust easily. You know that. But you’re different. You're a constant. You’re the person I always come back to.”
The moment stretches. Jisung’s voice warms without him meaning it to. “So whatever happens in that forest, whoever I meet, whatever instinct throws at me… it doesn’t touch this. Us.”
His throat feels like sandpaper. He forces the last words out anyway. “You’re the one thing I’m not letting go of.”
Something shifts in Minho’s face. Small, quick and unreadable.
Jisung tries to laugh it off. “And if I do start acting weird, just hit me. I know you held back today.”
Minho’s mouth curves into something softer, almost relieved. “Okay,” he says.
The word settles between them, warm and fond, and for a moment they do nothing but hold each other’s gaze, the silence as delicate as a thread about to snap.
Jisung grins, wide and uncontrollable. It feels stupid and warm and too easy.
Minho rises and steps toward the door, fingers curling loosely around the frame. “Keep your head clear tonight. It’s easy to get overwhelmed out there.”
Jisung nods. “Yeah. I know. I’ll try.”
Minho studies him again. A slow, careful sweep of his eyes, like he’s memorizing something. There’s a hesitance in his shoulders, as if he’s fighting the urge to reach out.
Then Minho says, “I’ll be there.”
Jisung blinks. “In the audience?”
Minho gives a small smile. It’s familiar, but something else sits underneath it too, something he hides almost immediately.
“Yes,” he says. “In the audience.”
Jisung frowns. “I thought you didn’t approve of this.”
Minho puts his hands in his hoodie pockets. His shoulders tighten by a fraction. “Looks like you changed my mind.”
Jisung opens his mouth. He has no idea what he was about to say. Maybe a joke. Maybe a question about which omega he has in mind for the chase. Maybe something ridiculous just to keep Minho standing in front of him for a few seconds more.
Minho speaks before Jisung could verbalise any of the several thoughts crisscrossing his mind. Minho steps forward and touches Jisung’s elbow, guiding him toward the hall with a gentle, steady push. “Go, Jisung-ah,” he murmurs. “You’ll be late.”
Jisung lets himself be moved. The cooler hallway air folds around him, but his pulse stays tangled behind him in Minho’s room, in Minho’s scent, in the weight of everything they did not say.
He walks back toward his dorm with Minho’s voice stuck in his head and Minho’s worry sitting warm under his skin. His thoughts slide back to the first time he ever saw Minho. It happens without warning sometimes, like the memory enjoys reminding him that it still has a hold on him.
It was freshman week. The corridors were packed, the scents overwhelming, the maps useless. Jisung had been stumbling through the chaos with a crushed schedule in his fist, pretending like he wasn't panicking while absolutely panicking.
Then he turned a corner and saw him.
Minho.
Leaning against a railing with his hands in his pockets, as if the hallway had been built around him. Still and steady and present in a way nothing about orientation day had been.
Jisung stared for a beat too long before forcing himself over. His voice came out thin and apologetic when he held out his schedule. “Sorry. Do you know where the music building is? I think I walked into the science lab three times.”
Minho looked at him, slightly surprised that Jisung had approached, then pointed down the hall. “You’re close. Left at the end. You’ll hear the practice rooms.”
It was simple. A normal exchange.
But Jisung remembered the exact thought that punched through him before he could stop it.
That is the most beautiful person I have ever seen.
And worse, a second thought arrived, even more humiliating. He smells really good.
Which made absolutely no sense because alphas were not supposed to think that about other alphas. His instincts should have pushed him away. Instead they went warm and fluttery, like his chest was trying to embarrass him on purpose.
He blamed it on nerves. Hunger. Heat exhaustion. Any excuse that made sense.
Later, he met Chan and Changbin in class. They clicked instantly. A few days later, Chan introduced Minho, casual and unaware of how he was changing Jisung's trajectory for good.
That was when Jisung learned who he had wandered up to during freshman week. Lee Minho. The alpha everyone on campus already knew. The one other alphas watched from a distance instead of challenging. The one omegas straightened their posture for. Even betas whispered about him, confused by the strange calm he carried like a second scent.
The worst part was not that Minho remembered him. Or that he gave Jisung a bright, toothy smile and said, “You’re the music kid with the poor sense of direction.”
The worst part was how fast Jisung got attached. Minho had slipped under his skin before Jisung even knew it was happening. Everything around Minho felt quieter, easier, like Jisung could breathe again without effort.
They fell into rhythm without trying. During late-night composing spirals, Jisung would glance up to find Minho setting food near his elbow, his expression stubborn and impossible to argue with.
Eat, without saying the word.
Minho never needed explanations either. Not when Jisung melted over a melody, or when his scent spiked from stress, or when his thoughts tangled themselves until he could not sit still. Minho always knew when to talk and when to stay silent.
Sometimes Jisung pulled Minho out of the library when he had been studying too long. He dragged him into empty practice rooms and made him move, telling him to dance until Minho finally cracked into a laugh.
Sometimes he left sticky notes on Minho’s door. Don’t die. Drink water. Minho kept every single colorful note in a neat little line on his desk.
Slowly but surely, they carved out space in each other’s lives without ever discussing it.
Maybe that was why Minho’s concern felt so familiar in Jisung’s chest now, even as he stood alone in his room with the Chase wristband in his hand. Maybe that was why his thoughts kept circling Minho, his breath kept tripping over the memory of Minho’s grip.
His instincts were simply tugging him toward the person he trusted most in the world.
Jisung looks down at the wristband again.
Right. The Chase.
He should feel excited or ready or something closer to what everyone else was buzzing about.
Instead, something pulls tight beneath his ribs. Not fear or nerves like he expected, but a strange awareness. Almost like Minho’s eyes are still in the room.
Jisung can’t tell if that grounds him or makes everything worse.
The woods are alive in a way Jisung never expected.
The moment Jisung steps past the rope line, the sounds lessen, folding into a low hum beneath the trees. The last strip of sunlight filters through the canopy, painting the path gold. A volunteer rattles off the usual rules about boundaries, medics, the emergency signal, and Jisung nods along, catching maybe half of it. The rest gets lost under the thrum in his chest and the cool slide of forest air settling along his skin.
This is stupid, is his last clear thought before he steps over the rope. He could be in his room, finishing a beat, eating convenience store ramen. Instead, he is here because some ugly part of him wants to walk out of this forest with something to show. A story. A bond. Proof that he is not the softest alpha in the world. A feeling shaped like the memory of lavender and warm cedar.
He draws in a slow breath, letting the air settle in his lungs. The forest is cool and sharp around him, pine threaded through damp soil, a faint trace of other alphas already carving their way deeper inside. He eases into a jog, legs finding a steady rhythm as he follows the marked trail. The path narrows quickly, the tape giving way to moss-soft ground and roots curling out like fingers. The voices from the starting zone drift farther and farther until they blur into nothing. With every step, the woods absorb the noise behind him.
Then he catches it.
A sweetness. Definitely omega. Not strong yet, but close enough to catch and follow. Somewhere deeper in the woods, an alpha shouts, triumphant or frustrated.
Jisung's pulse quickens. He’s actually doing this. He’s actually—
He freezes.
The change is so slight that he almost dismisses it at first. It is just a soft shift in the air, like the forest has paused mid-breath. But then, the quiet settles deeper and heavier, raising the hairs along the back of his neck.
Jisung slows without meaning to. His pulse climbs into his throat in warning.
He draws another breath, slower this time, letting the scents separate.
Pine. Damp earth. The faint trail of the omega he had been tracking, light and sugary, drifting somewhere ahead.
And tucked beneath it—so subtle he almost misses it—is something clean and crisp. A scent like cooled glass, like night air just before rain. It is not heavy or demanding, but its steadiness catches him in a way that makes his heartbeat stumble.
Jisung swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “Hello?” His voice is low and thin, trembling in a way he can’t hide.
The forest does not answer with sound. It answers with a kind of silence that feels aware, like it is listening back.
Jisung turns in a slow circle, shoulders pulled tight. His instincts prickle along his arms and down his spine. The omega scent flickers once more, faint as thread-thin smoke, before dissolving into the trees far too quickly.
No omega masks that well. Not without someone else interfering.
He steps forward, cautious at first, then again with more weight, drawn by something he cannot see yet feels clearly. The quiet around him shifts in subtle waves. The air grows cooler against his skin. His pulse refuses to settle, climbing higher with every breath.
Someone is watching him. The certainty settles deep and cold under his ribs.
Whoever it is cannot be an omega.
“You're early.”
The voice cuts through the silence with perfect clarity, close enough that the sound lands straight in his bones.
Jisung spins, heart tripping over itself.
Minho stands a short distance away, leaning against a pale birch as if the forest belongs to him. His posture is relaxed and collected in that way that always makes Jisung want to stare.
Relief hits him so fast it stings. Confusion follows, heavier and tangled.
“Hyung,” he says, trying to gather himself. “What are you doing here? Are you volunteering or something?”
Minho’s mouth curves in a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Something like that.”
Jisung exhales, almost laughing, although none of this feels funny. “You can’t just wander in here if you didn’t sign up. They’ll throw you out. Maybe ban you for life.”
Minho steps away from the tree. His stride is careful and quiet as it usually is, but it sends a tight pull through Jisung’s chest. “Are you looking for someone?”
Jisung blinks. “I mean... yes. That’s the point.”
“Anyone in particular?” Minho asks.
His tone sounds casual, but there is a weight under it that presses against Jisung’s instincts, nudging them in Minho’s direction.
Jisung shifts, trying to ground himself. “I was just going to look around. See what feels right.”
Minho watches him with that unreadable calm. He doesn’t lift his chin or adjust his stance, yet the air seems to shape itself around him. The woods feel quieter, almost drawn in his direction, and the sensation travels up Jisung’s arms like the start of a shiver.
It isn’t fear. It is something much harder to define.
“How romantic,” Minho says, voice dry, almost amused.
Jisung rolls his eyes, although the corner of his mouth lifts a little despite himself. “Please. I'm hardly the romantic type.”
Jisung realizes again that he still cannot scent Minho. Not lavender, not cedar, nothing. His mind fills in the familiar warmth, but the air itself remains blank, and that blankness unsettles him enough to make his pulse jump.
“So what about you?” Jisung asks, trying to keep the tone light even though the question pulls at something deeper. “Anyone you have your eye on?”
The silence that follows is heavier than the forest around them. Minho’s expression does not change, but something quiet shifts behind his eyes. The moonlight through the leaves hits at the right angle, turning the brown into a cooler, sharper shade, like light glancing off water at dusk.
It feels like Minho sees him too clearly.
“Yes,” Minho says.
Jisung laughs under his breath, or tries to. It comes out thin and unsure. “Alright then. Who is it? Maybe I passed them.”
Minho doesn't look away. “You.”
The single word settles over Jisung like warm pressure. His breath catches and breaks before he can mask it.
“Hyung,” Jisung says, trying to find a lightness he doesn’t feel. The smile on his mouth wavers. “Be serious.”
“I am,” Minho answers. His voice is calm and certain in a way that leaves no room for doubt.
Jisung's pulse rises, slow and thick, each beat louder than the one before. The air feels thin around him, pulled tight between instinct and breath, and he can’t tell if he should step back or forward.
Minho steps first. He moves the same way he always does, with a quiet confidence that makes space bend around him. Each step closes the distance with deliberate ease, and Jisung feels the pull of it straight down his spine.
Jisung forces out a crooked grin. “You’re not even registered for the Chase.”
Minho’s gaze stays steady and sure, and that calmness makes Jisung’s stomach twist. “I don’t need to be.”
A cold ripple crawls through Jisung’s spine. His body goes still. His instincts rise too fast, too loud, too tangled to understand.
“Whatever this is,” he says, trying for annoyed but sounding closer to shaken, “it’s not funny.”
Minho’s expression softens, but the gentleness does nothing to ease the pressure around Jisung’s ribs. If anything, it makes the pressure settle deeper. “I’m not joking, Sung.”
Jisung opens his mouth to argue, but Minho steps in again. The shift in distance is small, only a few inches, but it changes everything.
“You think I came out here just to watch you pick someone else?” Minho asks quietly.
Jisung freezes. The laugh that slips out is thin and uneven. “You can’t say things like that. We’re both alphas. That’s not how any of this works.”
Something flickers in Minho’s face, something honest and unguarded that Jisung is not used to seeing uncovered. “I stopped caring about how things are supposed to work the moment I met you.”
For a second, Jisung honestly thinks he misheard. But then Minho keeps going.
“You don't believe me,” Minho says, and there is no accusation in it. He says it as if he already knows the answer, as if he expected it.
Jisung opens his mouth, not sure what he intends to say.
Minho lets out a breath before he can get a single word out.
It is small. Quiet. Nothing dramatic.
But something in the air changes with it.
His scent rolls out slowly, like warm water rising over stone. It starts with that familiar lavender and cedar, the clean softness Jisung has always associated with him. But underneath it, another note begins to unspool — something that feels like it has been sleeping under the surface for a long time and is finally stretching awake.
It doesn’t hit like an alpha scent. It doesn’t spike or flare. It expands. It fills the space between them in a controlled, deliberate sweep, and the forest reacts. The leaves still. The air cools as if the woods step aside for him.
Jisung feels it before he understands it. His stomach drops. His breath stumbles. His fingers curl into his palms. His knees feel ready to bend or bolt or do anything except stand their ground.
His instincts surge so fast the world tilts.
He wants to run.
The urge crashes through him, sharp as a shock. His lungs tighten around it, and he tries to force it down, tries to think, tries to make sense of the sudden instinct spike.
Minho watches him unravel.
“This,” Minho says, “is what I have been holding back.”
Jisung tries to speak. The first sound that leaves him breaks thin and startled. “I don’t… hyung, this is…”
Minho steps toward him again, slow and measured. His scent follows and folds around Jisung like a warm tide.
“You felt it first,” Minho says softly. “Long before you understood what you were reacting to.”
Jisung’s pulse stumbles. The forest feels thinner, like every path except the one between them has faded to shadows. His body coils tight, instincts clashing in his chest: fear, fight, want.
Minho leans in just enough for warmth to brush Jisung’s skin. His eyes are fixed on Jisung’s, dark and unwavering.
“Run from me.”
It isn’t a threat. It isn’t even a command. It feels like a truth offered gently, a truth Minho already knows Jisung won’t fight.
Jisung’s breath trembles. His legs tense, pulling tight the way prey does before it bolts.
Minho watches the shift take him. A quiet, certain understanding moves through his expression.
“Run, Jisung.” he says again, still soft, but there is no mistaking the command behind it.
Jisung doesn’t choose to move.
His body moves for him.
He runs.