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Standing in the doorway of his own apartment, Dew carried with him the obvious aftermath of a long flight: the heavy exhaustion, the dusty smell of an airport terminal, and, beneath it all, the comforting warmth of his own patchouli scent. He had a duty-free paper bag in his left hand, which was straining dangerously under the weight of Malaysian honey balms, and a duffel bag in his right that weighed about as much as a small golden retriever.
Phuwin emerged from the kitchen carrying a roll of packing tape and a Sharpie, his sweet strawberry omega scent slicing cleanly through the warm living room air.
"Phuwin? Hey. What are you doing here?" Dew asked, using his sleeve to wipe a sweat-slicked curl of hair from his forehead.
"Oh. Helping Pond pack the kitchen stuff," Phuwin said cheerfully.
Dew stiffened, his jaw locking instantly as he surveyed the living room—or what used to be a living room, before it was invaded by bubble wrap and boxes. "Right. Of course. You got the keys for the new apartment today."
From around the corner of the sofa, Pond popped up like a jack-in-the-box holding a plastic crate stuffed with spatulas and coffee mugs. A warm haze of rich cocoa scent radiated off his alpha best friend. Pond took one look at Dew's tragic, haggard face and let out a long groan.
"You don’t have to sound so fucking depressed about it, Dew," Pond said, setting the crate down on the coffee table with an authoritative clack before ripping off a strip of packing tape. "We’ve talked about this literally since the three-month mark of me dating Phuwin. I explicitly told you that as a first-anniversary thing, I was going to ask him to move in with me. And I did. You and I have been graduated for two full years now. We can both easily afford to rent this apartment all by ourselves without having to split the bill down the middle. I am a twenty-four-year-old man with an omega. I want to start a life, Dew. And I’m literally moving three floors up. We use the same elevator!"
"But it was perfectly fine here!" Dew protested, gesturing frantically around their living room, which was currently 40% tape, 10% empty space, and 50% betrayal. "I’ll be so lonely! In the past year, have I ever stopped you from having Phuwin over? No, right? He’s been here half the week anyway! He practically owned two of our couch cushions! We can just continue doing that! It’s basically the exact same thing!"
"That’s not how adulthood works, Dew," Pond said patiently, walking over to wrap an arm around Phuwin’s waist and tucking the smaller boy snugly against his side. Phuwin leaned in with a soft hum. "Phuwin and I love each other. We want a home that belongs to us. We've been together for a full year."
"I have been with you since high school, Pond," Dew retorted, throwing his hands up in the air. "We survived trigonometry together! We survived our first hangovers together! What does he have that I don’t?"
Phuwin blinked, his lips twitching with amusement. "Dew, it’s really not like that—"
"For starters," Pond cut in, looking Dew dead in the eye with complete sincerity, "I am not balls deep inside you every night."
"POND!" Phuwin squeaked, his face instantly flushing a brilliant shade of crimson as he delivered a sharp slap directly to Pond’s bicep.
"Oh, so that's the only missing variable," Dew said, gasping in dramatic, heart-wrenching mock realisation. "My unfortunate inability to suck your dick."
"DEW!" Phuwin yelled, dropping his packing tape and covering his ears entirely, his strawberry scent going sour with embarrassment. "Stop it! Both of you!"
"Dew, stop whining, brother," Pond chuckled, smoothing down Phuwin’s ruffled hair with an affectionate thumb. "We are grown men with careers, adult money, and—in my case—an omega who I want to mate and build a real life with. I am not going to stay your permanent domestic roommate for the rest of your natural life just because you’re afraid of eating dinner alone. You’re my best friend, but we are not debating this again. Besides, look on the bright side, once I clear my stuff out, you’ll actually have space for your ridiculous hoarding problem."
Dew narrowed his eyes, pulling his shoulders back defensively. "I do not have a hoarding problem. You are exaggerating."
Phuwin looked between them, his curiosity instantly winning over his flustered red cheeks. "Wait... you have a hoarding problem? Like on TV?"
"No," Dew insisted firmly.
"Dew," Pond said, stepping away from Phuwin to point an accusing finger directly at Dew's bedroom door. "You buy so many speciality soaps, organic candles, bath bombs, soothing body washes, and body lotions that three out of the four drawers in your dresser look like a fucking Bath & Body Works distribution centre blew up inside them."
"Hey! I just appreciate quality personal care and nice aromas, okay?" Dew snapped defensively, subtly shifting his weight to block Phuwin's view of his suitcase—which was currently bulging at the seams.
"Yes, and you buy so much of it that it's physically overflowing into the hallway closet," Pond countered, gesturing down at the luggage. "How many items did you buy from Kuala Lumpur this time around? Be honest."
Dew hesitated, staring intently at the ceiling light fixture as if doing complex calculus in his head. "...Not many."
"And let me guess," Pond pressed, crossing his arms over his chest, his scent taking on a smug edge. "Is it mostly, what... sixty per cent the exact same scent combination?"
Dew's chest tightened. "It's a versatile combination."
"Lavender and honey," Pond specified.
Phuwin paused, leaning his head to the side thoughtfully. "Wait... like Tee's scent?"
Dew's heart did a completely unnecessary, highly traitorous backflip against his ribs. He forcibly erased every ounce of expression from his face, holding a poker face. "Hey, a lot of commercial products smell like lavender and honey. It's a classic pairing."
"In that exact, hyper-specific ratio of warm blossom and wild lavender?" Pond asked, tilting his head. "Name one other person you know who smells like that."
"I am not entertaining this line of questioning," Dew said, folding his arms tightly over his chest and standing his ground.
Pond rolled his eyes so far back they nearly exited his skull. "Yes, let's analyse Pond's relationship milestones all day, but heaven forbid we ever touch upon Dew's tragic, unexpressed emotions. That's why you're lonely, single, and omegaless."
"Pond, don't be mean," Phuwin scolded gently, though he turned a genuinely concerned, inquisitive look toward Dew. "But seriously, Dew... are you actually hoarding that many unopened bottles?"
"I just like the smell," Dew mumbled, deflating slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck. "And whenever I'm travelling for work, I always stumble across these cute markets or local shops, and I spot a good bargain. But then I bring them home, and I realise I only have one body and twenty-four hours in a day, so I'm never able to use everything. And yeah... fine. It ends up feeling like hoarding."
"Dew, it’s because you buy thirty products every single time you set foot in an airport, and the only thing you ever remotely use is the occasional scented candle in the living room," Pond pointed out, his tone softening from sarcastic to almost pitying. "Because deep down, you're too terrified to let anyone catch you walking around in public smelling like lavender and honey."
Dew stared blankly at the floorboards, feeling completely exposed in a way that had very little to do with Pond moving out and everything to do with the secret stash taking up three full dressers, two under-bed storage bins, and a bedside table.
"So what do you suggest I do with the ones I've already bought?" Dew huffed, crossing his arms tighter. "Throw artisanal hand-milled French soaps in the trash?"
"Sell them," Phuwin suggested simply.
"Where?" Dew sassed, throwing his hands out sarcastically. "I open a folding table on the sidewalk outside the lobby? Set up a stall in the parking garage?"
"Start an Instagram store or something," Phuwin said, pulling out his phone and waving it around. "If it's imported stuff you curated from various cool places in Thailand or overseas, it actually has high resale value. Aesthetic shoppers love a good backstory, dude. 'Small-batch honey soap sourced from a night market in Penang'? That stuff sells like crazy to people who care about aesthetic self-care."
Dew stood there in dead silence for a long moment. In his head, he ran through a quick mental inventory of his room: forty-two soaps, sixteen body washes, twenty-one solid perfume tins, nineteen body lotions, and now eight fresh jars of honey-lavender balm. Phuwin wasn't wrong. If Dew didn't find a way to liquidate his collection, he was literally going to be crushed under a fragrant avalanche before his twenty-fifth birthday.
"Yeah, fine," Dew grumbled, grabbing the handle of his luggage and dragging it toward his bedroom. "I'll watch a YouTube tutorial on how to set up an aesthetic Instagram store tonight."
Three hours later, Pond and Phuwin were officially moved out—their laughter and the scraping of furniture now relocated three floors above—leaving the apartment echoing with a heavy quiet. The only light came from the warm amber glow of Dew's desk lamp.
Dew sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, completely encircled by thirty-seven different jars, tins, and glass bottles, his laptop resting heavily on his knees. He opened Instagram, clicked Create New Account, and pondered a handle before typing out:
@the_scent_pantry
He spent the next two hours meticulously setting up his grid. He dragged a cream-colored linen sheet onto his floor, arranged the soap bars against the textured fabric, and took high-resolution photos under the warm lamp light. He edited them with a soft filter that made the golden hues of the honey soap look almost edible.
When it came time to write the captions, however, his brain completely betrayed his pragmatic goal. Instead of writing something normal and commercial like “Honey & Lavender Soap - Imported from KL - 200 THB”, his hands took over, typing out thoughts he had never dared say out loud:
Notes of warm blossom honey, crushed wild lavender, and clean morning air. Soft, deeply comforting, and lingering—like the quiet feeling of someone taking care of you when you didn't even know you needed it.
Dew stared at the glowing screen, a sudden rush of heat crawling up his neck and spreading to the tips of his ears. God, I sound like an unhinged Victorian poet.
He hesitated for five seconds, groaned, and hit Publish anyway. He listed fifteen different items at ridiculously discounted prices—just desperate to clear floor space before Pond came back down to inspect his room—tossed his phone onto the mattress, and slumped flat on his back against the floor.
He didn't care who bought them, as long as his apartment stopped smelling like an agonisingly perfect memory of Tee.
Tee was a simple omega with simple needs. He liked iced lattes with two extra shots, blanket fort-level soft cotton duvet covers, late-night brain-rot scrolling on Instagram, and smelling entirely, uncompromisingly like himself.
The last point was not merely a preference. Scent-clashing was a genuine medical and sensory inconvenience; navigating the personal care aisle was like walking through a minefield. There was nothing quite as sensory-shattering as layering a synthetic citrus body wash over a warm pheromone profile—only to step into an elevator ten minutes later smelling like an oxidised lemon disinfectant wipe. Tee had spent years fiercely protecting his natural notes. He smelled like warm blossom honey and crushed wild lavender. Finding commercial products that actually complemented his natural scent profile without stomping all over it with artificial heavy musks or cloying synthetic vanilla was an absolute nightmare.
Which was why, at 1:14 AM on a Tuesday, sprawled horizontally across his bed in oversized sweatpants with his phone suspended precariously above his nose, Tee nearly dropped his device directly onto his face.
His algorithm, usually saturated with cat reels, interior design inspiration, and iced coffee recipes, had randomly served him a newly minted post from an account with zero clout, three followers, and a "New" tag sitting next to its bio.
Tee tapped on the grid. The featured photo was undeniably, infuriatingly aesthetic. But it wasn't the editorial lighting that made Tee sit bolt upright in bed; it was the caption directly underneath.
Notes of warm blossom honey, crushed wild lavender, and clean morning air. Soft, deeply comforting, and lingering—like the quiet feeling of someone taking care of you when you didn't even know you needed it.
Tee blinked once. Then twice. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm and stared at the screen again.
"What the actual hell?" he whispered to his empty bedroom. "Did someone literally harvest my scent gland while I was asleep, package it in Penang, and turn it into small-batch artisanal soap?"
He tapped aggressively through the rest of the shop's listings, his thumb flying across the glass. It was an absolute goldmine. Imported honey-lavender balms from Kuala Lumpur, organic French-milled botanical soap blocks, Japanese cold-pressed body oils—all listed at an absurd, borderline criminal fifty per cent discount off retail prices. The seller was either completely insane, desperately clearing out the apartment of an ex who had left them high and dry, or running a very elaborate, non-profit charity for honey-lavender enthusiasts.
Either way, Tee was a bargain hunter with zero self-restraint when it came to his scent profile, and he was not about to let an opportunity like this slip through his fingers.
He tapped the Message button and hastily typed out a DM, his thumb moving at breakneck speed.
Hi! I saw the Malaysian honey-lavender soaps and the body balm set. Are all three still available? I’d love to buy them if you’re shipping locally!
He hit Send, set his phone face down on the nightstand, buried his face into the soft depths of his pillow, and went straight to sleep, utterly satisfied with his late-night impulse purchase.
What Tee's sleep-deprived brain failed to register, however, was a tiny, catastrophic detail glowing in the bottom right corner of his display screen.
He hadn't sent the message from his personal account.
He was logged into an alternate account created six months ago during an emergency, covert espionage operation with Phuwin and Piploy to stalk Piploy’s deeply questionable ex-boyfriend. Once the ex was successfully exposed as a pathological liar with three active side-hustles and two other secret partners, the Burner Account should have been permanently deleted and buried in digital oblivion.
Instead, Tee had kept it. And eventually, during a few very solitary late nights when the golden-hour lighting in his apartment was hitting at a suspiciously flattering angle, Tee had given in to pure vanity. He had posted a few faceless photos. Never his eyes or full face—just soft-lit shots of his sharp collarbones peeking out from oversized knit sweaters, clean jawlines angled against crisp linen sheets, and slender fingers wrapped around steaming ceramic mugs.
He had done it entirely for personal entertainment and aesthetic expression, but the internet had responded with ravenous enthusiasm. The account had quietly amassed over twelve thousand followers, a thriving subculture of aesthetic Pinterest girls, fashion moodboard curators, and anonymous lurkers constantly begging in the comments section for "the soft sweater boy" to reveal his identity, drop his skincare routine, or post a voice reveal.
And now, "the soft sweater boy" had officially placed an order for three bars of honey-lavender soap and a balm set.
At 7:00 AM, across town, Dew’s alarm blared.
He groaned loudly into the silence of his newly solitary apartment, reaching out from under his heavy duvet to smack his phone onto snooze. He dragged a palm over his sleep-flustered face, instantly catching his own patchouli pheromones mixed with the faint residual notes of lavender clinging to his skin from yesterday's intense product photoshoot.
Sitting up, he rubbed his bleary eyes, stretched his aching back, and lazily opened Instagram to check if he had miraculously gained a follower overnight or if his entrepreneurial attempt was a total dead end.
He expected nothing. A ghost town. Maybe an automated spam comment from a bot selling dubious crypto schemes or offering fake follower boosts.
Instead, a bright, triumphant red notification dot sat proudly over his Direct Messages icon.
Dew frowned, tapping the chat bubble with a sceptical eyebrow raised.
@soft.overcast: Hi! I saw the Malaysian honey-lavender soaps and the body balm set. Are all three still available? I’d love to buy them if you’re shipping locally!
"Wait, actually?" Dew muttered out loud, his morning grogginess vanishing like smoke in a breeze. A real customer? Within nine hours of setting up the storefront? Phuwin was a terrifying marketing genius.
Before replying to confirm the order and figure out shipping logistics, Dew's overly cautious brain decided to do a quick security sweep. He tapped on @soft.overcast's profile icon to make sure he wasn't about to ship three high-end Malaysian balms to a bot, an automated scammer in a server farm, or a weird phishing operation.
The profile page loaded.
Dew’s thumb froze in mid-air directly over the glass screen.
There was no profile picture—just a blank, minimalist default silhouette. But the grid...
The most recent photo, posted three weeks ago, was a tight close-up shot captured in slanting golden-hour sunlight. A slender neck transitioned into an immaculate collarbone, framed by the artfully slanting neckline of a wool knit sweater that looked like it belonged on an expensive Scandinavian luxury lookbook. The photo directly below it showed a beautifully sculpted jawline resting lightly against a long-fingered hand with pale skin, a sliver of plush pink lower lip caught right at the absolute edge of the frame.
There was no full face in a single picture. Just tantalising, devastating fragments of a human being who looked like he had been sculpted by an artist who was having an exceptionally inspired day.
Dew stared at his phone screen, completely unmoving.
His throat went dry.
Holy shit, Dew thought, a deep flush crawling rapidly up his neck and turning the tips of his ears bright scarlet as he caught himself literally ogling a stranger's clavicle at seven in the morning while wearing faded boxers. Yum.
He quickly slapped his free hand over his eyes, letting out a pathetic groan into his empty bedroom. "Get a grip, Dew. You are a twenty-four-year-old respectable businessman. You are running an artisanal soap pantry. Do not thirst over your very first customer."
He took a deep breath, forced himself to compose his chaotic thoughts, pulled his shoulders back, and opened the DM interface again. He typed out a response, typing and backspacing three times in a desperate attempt to sound like a professional, unbothered boutique owner instead of a guy whose heart had just skipped a beat over an oversized knit sweater.
Draft one: Yes, they are available! Also, your collarbones are insane. (Deleted instantly with extreme prejudice).
Draft two: Hello! Yes, reserved for you! Are you a model? (Deleted, way too creepy).
Finally, he settled on something dignified:
Hi! Yes, absolutely! All three items are available and reserved for you. I can ship them out today. Thank you so much for supporting the shop!
He paused, his thumb hovering over the Send button. His logical brain whispered: Keep it strictly professional, Dew. But his rogue thumb, acting on pure impulse, typed out one additional line:
P.S. Excellent choice on the scent profile. It’s... a personal favourite.
Dew hit send before he could talk himself out of it, threw his phone across the mattress as if it had burned him, and buried his glowing red face straight into his hands.
Forty-eight hours after placing his late-night order, a neatly packaged cardboard box arrived on Tee’s doorstep.
When Tee cut through the eco-friendly paper tape and opened the lid, his immediate reaction was a deeply contented hum. The seller hadn't just slapped a shipping label on a box; the presentation was artfully curated. Wrapped in unbleached tissue paper tied with real natural jute twine, the three soap bars and the honey-lavender balm were nestled safely inside a bed of shredded wood shavings.
And the scent.
The moment the box opened, a soothing wave of warm blossom honey, wild lavender, and a subtle, creamy sweetness drifted into Tee’s living room. It was astonishingly accurate.
Tucked underneath the twine was a tiny kraft-paper card with neat, bold handwriting in black ink:
Thank you for supporting @the_scent_pantry! I threw in a sample of our imported French botanical lip butter—thought it might complement your notes well. Hope these bring you a little comfort!
Tee picked up the lip butter sample, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Okay," he murmured, unscrewing the lip balm and testing a tiny swipe on the back of his hand. "Points for presentation, top-tier scent accuracy, and customer service. You win, mystery soap man."
Over the next three weeks, Tee officially became @the_scent_pantry’s most devoted customer. Whenever the shop listed a new batch of imported body oils, linen sprays, or organic bath bars that hit anywhere near his preferred scent profile, Tee hit Buy Now without a second thought. And every single time, the mysterious owner shipped the order within hours, complete with extra custom samples and short, oddly attentive handwritten notes.
Tee liked the products. He really liked the seller’s taste. And, though he would never admit it to anyone out loud, he looked forward to reading those little handwritten cards just as much as he looked forward to the soaps.
On Friday evening, the gang assembled at Pond and Phuwin’s newly occupied apartment for what was supposed to be a low-key housewarming party.
The friend group was a chaotic ecosystem.
At the bottom of the emotional food chain were Winny and Piploy. Winny—an alpha who had gone to high school with Dew and Pond before all three met Tee in college and became an inseparable, tight-knit crew—was currently operating on his third straight month of tragic dating app disasters. Piploy—an omega who, along with Phuwin, had been Tee’s high school friend from a neighbouring school—was equally single and routinely took pleasure in roasting Winny’s terrible first-date stories over iced tea.
At the absolute top of the romantic food chain were Pond and Phuwin, who had met through Tee two years ago and were now using their new apartment as a public stage for nauseating, uninterrupted couples' behaviour. They were currently sitting on the main sofa, practically merged at the hip, exchanging soft glances while Pond absentmindedly smoothed down Phuwin’s hair, their cocoa and strawberry scents swirling together in a cloud of intolerable domestic bliss.
In the middle sat Tee—proudly single, entirely unbothered, and munching on potato chips.
The apartment door clicked open as Dew walked in late from work, tossing his car keys into the entryway bowl.
"Finally," Winny groaned from the beanbag chair, holding up an empty beer bottle. "The workaholic arrives. Was traffic actually that bad, or are you just making up terrible excuses?"
"I was getting dessert, shut up," Dew grumbled, setting a paper bag on the counter. He immediately walked over to the couch, where Tee was sitting on the armrest.
Without a word, Dew leaned in and pulled Tee into a casual, lingering greeting hug—a completely natural, instinctual habit they had formed over years of friendship. Dew wrapped his arms around Tee’s shoulders, burying his nose casually against the juncture of Tee’s neck where his scent gland sat.
Dew froze.
He didn't pull back immediately. Instead, his chest gave a strange, subtle heave as he took a second, deeper breath, his forehead furrowing in intense concentration.
"What?" Tee asked, leaning back to look up at Dew's scowling face.
"You smell different," Dew said accusingly, his patchouli scent flaring. He leaned in again, taking a deliberate sniff near Tee's collarbone. "Where's your lavender? Why do you smell like... sweet strawberries and lilies?"
Phuwin popped his head up from Pond’s chest. "Oh! That's my fault."
"And mine," Piploy added from the dining chair, raising her wine glass.
Dew turned a slow, suspicious glare toward them. "Why does Tee smell like both of you?"
"Because we nested, Dew," Tee said smoothly, rolling his eyes as he popped another potato chip into his mouth. "Piploy got hit with a mild slump, Phuwin was stressed about work, so we gathered every single blanket in my apartment, piled onto my bed, and laid there watching Studio Ghibli movies for four hours straight."
Dew’s jaw clenched. A strange, totally uncalled-for flare of hot irritation surged through his chest. "Why?" he demanded, looking back down at Tee.
"What do you mean, why?" Tee chuckled, thoroughly amused by Dew’s dramatic reaction. "We’re omegas, Dew. It’s literally in our nature to cuddle up and nest when we’re exhausted or stressed. It’s comforting."
"Why though?" Dew repeated, sounding suspiciously like a grumpy five-year-old whose favourite toy had been placed on a high shelf. "You didn't invite me."
"Because you're an alpha, big guy," Piploy chimed in with a smirk. "Alpha pheromones ruin the delicate equilibrium of a soft omega nest unless you're invited or mated to one."
"Quit whining," Tee said, reaching out to give Dew’s arm a light, soothing pat. "Your patchouli is way too strong anyway. Though... if you buy us pizza next time, I might let you sit on the floor next to the nest."
Dew huffed, but the sharp tension in his shoulders instantly melted at Tee’s touch. He slumped down onto the couch right beside Tee, leaning his shoulder heavily against Tee’s thigh as if asserting his territory.
"Whatever," Dew muttered. "Just... wear your normal scent tomorrow. I don't like when other people's scents cover yours up."
Across the coffee table, Pond slowly raised a single eyebrow, exchanging a silent look with Phuwin.
"So anyway," Tee continued, turning to the group as he pulled out his phone. "I was thinking we should order from that takeout place near the river for dinner. The one with the truffle pasta."
"I don't know, man," Winny chimed in, scrolling through his phone. "Reviews say the portion sizes are kind of small for the price—"
"I think the portion sizes are fine," Tee interrupted calmly. "And the truffle pasta is literally the best in the city."
Without missing a single beat, without even looking up from his own phone, Dew spoke, "Tee is completely right. The portions are huge, the truffle pasta is a ten out of ten, and anyone who disagrees has inferior taste buds."
Winny stopped scrolling. He slowly lowered his phone, stared at Dew’s straight-faced, fiercely defensive posture, and let out a theatrical cough into his palm.
"Simp," Winny fake-coughed loudly.
"Excuse me?" Dew snapped, turning his head fast enough to snap his neck.
"I said shrimp," Winny lied smoothly, grinning like a menace. "I said the truffle pasta would go great with grilled shrimp."
"You're an idiot," Dew grumbled, though his ears were undeniably turning a faint, incriminating pink.
Pond let out a quiet snort of laughter, taking a slow sip of his drink while watching Dew hover protectively around Tee for the rest of the night like a loyal, oversized guard dog who had no idea he was on a leash.
By 11:30 PM, the hangout wound down. Winny and Piploy shared a cab home, while Dew offered to drive Tee back to his apartment complex.
The ride was quiet and warm, filled only with the soft hum of the car engine and the low rumble of the radio playing late-night indie tracks. Tee rested his head against the headrest, half-asleep, while Dew drove with one hand on the wheel, occasionally shooting quick glances toward the passenger seat.
When Dew pulled up to the curb outside Tee’s building, he shifted into park but left the engine idling.
"Thanks for the ride, Dew," Tee murmured softly, rubbing his sleepy eyes with the back of his hand. He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to look at Dew.
"Yeah. Anytime," Dew said, his voice dropping into a low register that made Tee’s chest do a strange, fluttery little flip. Dew reached over, his long fingers casually brushing against Tee's shoulder to fix the crooked collar of Tee's jacket. "Get some sleep, okay? Don't stay up until two in the morning scrolling on Instagram."
Tee let out a soft laugh, leaning briefly into the touch before opening the car door. "No promises. Goodnight, Dew."
"Goodnight, Tee."
Tee stepped out and walked up the steps to his lobby. As he unlocked his front door, he pulled out his phone to check his notifications one last time before bed.
A new Instagram alert popped up on his screen. Tee opened the DM with a sleepy smile.
@the_scent_pantry: Hi! Just packed a fresh batch of imported artisanal body oils. Setting one aside for you before I post the listing tomorrow, just in case you want it first!
Tee leaned his back against his closed front door, staring down at the screen. A pleasant flutter bloomed in his stomach—the exact same warm flutter he had felt five minutes ago in Dew's car.
Tee smiled, his thumb tapping quickly against the glass.
You’re amazing. Yes, please! Reserve it for me.
Miles away, sitting in his parked car outside his own building, Dew looked down at his phone screen, saw the reply, and let out a foolish sigh, a huge grin spreading across his face.
What started as polite customer service quickly devolved into late-night digital banter.
At first, the direct messages were strictly transactional. Dew would send shipping updates, and Tee would reply with a quick “Thank you!” and a heart emoji. But somewhere around week two, the boundaries began to blur.
It started with a simple recommendation.
@the_scent_pantry: Hey! Just put aside a new batch of organic bath bars. They’re super soothing—thought of you when I unpacked them.
@soft.overcast: Are you telling me I look stressed?
@the_scent_pantry: Never. I’m telling you that even gorgeous sweater-wearing aesthetic accounts deserve a bath that smells like peace.
@soft.overcast: Smooth. Do you flirt with all your customers, soap man?
@the_scent_pantry: Only the ones who buy out half my stock within three minutes of a restock.
Tee had stared at his phone that night, biting down on his bottom lip to keep from giggling out loud into his dark bedroom. The mysterious seller was undeniably endearing—attentive, witty, and surprisingly flirtatious in a casual, low-pressure way.
Over the next two weeks, their DMs became a daily routine. They talked about favourite scents, terrible late-night choices, and the absurdity of living in a world dominated by synthetic fragrance companies. Tee found himself checking his phone every time the notification chime rang.
Then came Thursday night.
Tee had been organising his closet, trying on an oversized black silk button-up shirt he had bought on impulse months ago. The fabric slid off one shoulder, unbuttoned down to mid-chest, catching the warm amber lamp light in his bedroom. Feeling a sudden spark of recklessness, Tee snapped a quick, faceless mirror photo—showing only his collarbones, the deep V of the loose silk shirt, and the sharp line of his jaw—and posted it directly to his Instagram Story with a simple text caption: “Late night try-ons.”
He locked his phone and tossed it onto the bed.
Not even thirty seconds later, the screen lit up with a notification.
@the_scent_pantry liked your story.A second later, a direct message followed:
@the_scent_pantry: I am officially declaring black silk a medical hazard.
Tee gasped out loud, kicking his legs like a flustered teenager before burying his face into a pillow to muffle a high-pitched squeal.
@soft.overcast: Is that your professional assessment as a soap merchant?
@the_scent_pantry: As an expert in aesthetic appreciation, yes. You're going to give your followers a collective heart attack.
Tee smiled, typing back a witty response, but as the screen glow faded, a cold knot of guilt coiled tightly in his stomach. He set his phone down on the nightstand and sat up on his bed, staring blankly at the wall.
What am I doing? Tee thought, rubbing a hand over his face.
He was flirting with an anonymous soap seller on Instagram. A guy whose face he hadn't even seen. And yet, every time he hung out with Dew in real life—every time Dew wrapped his arms around him, every time Dew casually agreed with everything Tee said, every time Dew’s deep, grounding patchouli scent enveloped him—Tee’s heart beat so loud he was terrified Dew would hear it.
I have a massive, unconfessed crush on my best friend, Tee realised with a heavy groan, slumping back into his pillows. And here I am getting butterflies over a stranger who sells me body butter. I am a terrible person.
Meanwhile, three miles away in his own living room, Dew was in the middle of a full-blown existential crisis.
He was pacing back and forth across his rug, holding his phone in a white-knuckle grip like it was a live grenade.
"I am going to hell," Dew muttered to his empty living room, pulling violently at his own hair. "I am a lowlife. A treacherous, heartless monster."
The image of @soft.overcast in that loose black silk shirt was permanently burned into his retinas. The instinctual alpha pull he had felt looking at those smooth collarbones had made his throat go dry and his pulse spike to dangerous levels. He was undeniably smitten with his top buyer. He looked forward to @soft.overcast’s messages more than his morning coffee. He found himself thinking about the anonymous guy while brushing his teeth, wondering what his laugh sounded like, wondering what kind of person was hiding behind those pristine Pinterest-aesthetic photos.
And that was the problem.
Because whenever Dew wasn't thinking about @soft.overcast, his brain was completely, hopelessly consumed by Tee.
When Tee smiled at him at the coffee shop. When Tee leaned against his shoulder on the couch. When Tee’s intoxicating honey-lavender scent hit Dew’s nose, making every alpha instinct in his body scream mine, mine, mine.
Dew slumped down onto his sofa, burying his glowing red face in his hands.
"How can I like two people at the same time?" Dew whimpered into his palms. "I've been in love with Tee for years without admitting it to myself, and now I'm getting romantic brain-rot over a guy whose face I haven't even seen on the internet?!"
He felt like a traitor to his own heart. He was flirting with a buyer on Instagram while simultaneously wanting to hoard Tee away from the rest of the world and build a nest in his own bedroom.
Dew picked up his phone, stared at the chat thread with @soft.overcast and then looked at his personal chat thread with Tee.
Tee: Hey, are we still getting dinner tomorrow after work?
Dew’s heart gave a warm thud at Tee's message. He instantly typed back.
Wouldn't miss it for the world. I'll pick you up at 7.
Dew locked his phone and squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't keep doing this. He needed to figure out his real feelings for Tee before he completely lost his mind over an internet stranger.
Dew’s bedroom was usually off-limits.
During their university days, the friend group’s usual spot had always been Winny’s apartment. Winny rented a slightly dilapidated place two streets away from campus, making it the default drop-in spot for late-night study sessions, takeaway dinners, and chaotic Mario Kart tournaments. It had been convenient, especially since Tee, Piploy and Phuwin’s college apartments were nearby, and it kept everyone from cluttering up Dew and Pond's space.
Even after graduation, the habit stuck. And on the rare occasions Tee actually visited Dew’s apartment, Dew would frantically lock his bedroom door, thoroughly neutralise any room sprays, and keep Tee firmly stationed in the living room. It wasn't just because lingering in an unmated alpha’s bedroom was a well-known social boundary; it was because Dew’s bedroom was essentially a shrine to Tee's scent, and Dew would rather jump out a window than explain why his closet smelled like a lavender field.
Which made Saturday afternoon’s sudden turn of events all the more catastrophic.
Tee was lounging on the couch at Pond and Phuwin’s apartment three floors up, watching Phuwin aggressively chop onions at the kitchen island while Pond hovered over a bubbling pot of creamy pasta sauce.
Pond paused, tasting the sauce with a wooden spoon, before letting out a disappointed click of his tongue. "Damn it. We’re completely out of smoked paprika."
"I can walk down to the store, or we could call Dew. He's out running errands," Phuwin offered, reaching for a dish towel.
"No, don't worry about it," Pond said, waving a hand. He turned toward the couch, reaching into the kitchen drawer and casually tossing a key ring directly at Tee's chest. "Tee, do me a favour? Run down and grab the paprika from Dew’s place."
Tee caught the keys, blinking in surprise. "Are you sure he even has paprika? Dew lives on takeout and pre-made protein shakes."
"Oddly enough, the guy has a weird, obsessive passion for maintaining a fully stocked spice rack," Pond said, turning back to the stove. "He bought this sleek wooden spice organiser six months ago and filled every single jar. Just let yourself in, it’s in the top cabinet next to the fridge."
"Alright, alright," Tee muttered, pushing himself off the couch and sliding his feet into his slides.
He rode the elevator down three floors, unlocked Dew’s front door with a quiet click, and stepped into the dim apartment. Dew was still out running errands, leaving the living room bathed in peaceful afternoon sunlight.
Tee walked straight into the kitchen, opened the overhead cabinet, and chuckled softly. Pond wasn't lying. Dew’s spice rack was terrifyingly organised. Tee grabbed the small glass bottle of smoked paprika and closed the cabinet door.
As he turned to leave, his eyes swept across the dining table in the adjacent living area.
Tee froze.
Sitting in the centre of the wooden table was an open cardboard box. Beside it lay a roll of paper tape, a ball of jute twine, a small kraft-paper card, and neatly wrapped candles.
Tee’s brain stalled. The presentation was undeniably recognisable. Crisp unbleached tissue paper. Natural wood shavings. The exact font on the printed shipping label affixed to the top box flap.
It wasn't a package Dew had received. It was a package Dew was actively preparing to ship out.
Tee slowly walked over to the table, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He leaned over, reading the clean handwriting on the return address label in the corner:
The Scent Pantry
Tee’s jaw dropped. He blinked once, twice, staring at the label as if it might morph into a hallucination. Before his brain could process the magnitude of what he was looking at, the front door lock clicked open, and the door swung wide.
Dew walked in carrying a bag of groceries, his hair slightly rumpled from the wind. He stopped dead in his tracks the second he saw Tee standing by the dining table.
"Hey," Dew said, blinking in confusion as he set the grocery bag down on the counter. "What are you doing here?"
Tee slowly lifted the small glass bottle in his right hand. "Pond asked me to grab paprika for the pasta sauce." He gestured down at the table with his left hand. "Why are you packing this?"
Dew’s entire posture went rigid. A bright flush instantly exploded across his cheeks, travelling rapidly up to the tips of his ears. He swallowed hard, shifting his weight awkwardly.
"Uh," Dew stammered, his eyes darting frantically toward the front door as if contemplating an emergency exit. "I... I sort of used to buy way too much stuff while travelling for work. Like, a lot. So... I started selling the extra stock on the internet."
Tee stared at him, his head tilting slowly. "You run an internet store? You're the scent pantry?"
Dew winced, pulling at his collar. "You... know my account?"
Tee let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, reaching into his back pocket to pull out his phone. "Dew, I'll do you one better." He pointed a finger directly at the half-packed box on the table. "That's my package."
Dew’s jaw went completely slack. He looked from the box to Tee’s phone, and back to Tee’s calm, unblinking face. "You're... you're soft overcast?"
"Well, yes," Tee said, crossing his arms over his chest.
For three agonising seconds, Dew just stood there taking everything in. Then, his face crumpled into a deeply pouting expression of utter betrayal and confusion.
"Why..." Dew squeaked, his voice cracking slightly as he looked genuinely devastated. "Why do you have a faceless thirst trap account on Instagram?!"
Tee rolled his eyes, though a small, fond smirk twitched at the corner of his lips. "It’s an alt account Phuwin, Piploy, and I made six months ago to stalk Piploy's terrible ex-boyfriend, okay? I just never deleted it."
"Right," Dew mumbled, staring blankly at the floorboards as his brain tried to re-stitch reality back together.
Silence stretched thick and heavy between them. Tee stood by the table, staring at the rows of soap, the handwritten note cards, the honey-lavender balms, and the French lip butter samples.
Honey. Lavender. Wild blossom.
The pieces suddenly collided in Tee's head with the force of a freight train. Every single item Dew had ever stocked, every single recommendation he had sent in late-night DMs, every single product he had carefully set aside... matched Tee's natural scent profile down to the exact percentage.
Tee took a step closer to Dew, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Dew."
"Yeah?" Dew squeaked, looking up like a caught criminal waiting for his sentence.
"Why does your entire shop inventory smell like my scent?"
Dew opened his mouth to offer a rational excuse—a lie about market demand, or wholesale discounts, or simple coincidence. But as he looked into Tee's expectant eyes, the dam inside his brain completely burst.
The scent notes. The late-night impulse buys in Penang markets. The cold-pressed oils in Kyoto. The botanical soaps in Paris. The way his heart did a stupid thud every time Tee walked into a room.
It had never been about the soap. It had always, uncompromisingly, been about Tee.
Dew slumped his shoulders, deflating entirely as he stared down at his own shoes, looking thoroughly miserable.
"Because I'm an idiot," Dew confessed softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I kept buying them because every time I smelled them in some random market, my brain instantly thought of you. I didn't even realise what I was doing until I started filling up my dressers."
Tee held his breath, his chest tightening with an overwhelming warmth. "So... you just liked my scent?"
Dew finally raised his head, looking at Tee with a vulnerable, utterly terrified honesty that made Tee’s heart skip three consecutive beats.
"I like you," Dew corrected quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've liked you for... god, probably years, Tee. I was just too much of a coward to realise it. And then I started flirting with you on Instagram without knowing it was you, and I felt like a monster because I thought I was betraying my feelings for you in real life." He let out a self-deprecating groan, stepping back. "Don't worry. I know this looks completely insane and creepy. I'll clear out the rest of the stock, and I'll maintain my distance if you're uncomfortable—"
Tee didn't let him finish the sentence.
Stepping forward, Tee reached out, grabbed the lapels of Dew’s jacket, pulled the taller alpha down, and pressed his lips firmly against Dew's.
Dew froze, his entire body going rigid with shock, his hands hovering uselessly in the air. But as Tee leaned in closer, deepening the kiss, Dew’s alpha instincts finally caught up with his brain. With a ragged breath, Dew wrapped his arms around Tee's waist, pulling him flush against his chest and returning the kiss with a desperate, sweet intensity that made Tee's knees go weak.
When they finally separated, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting lightly against each other.
Tee let out a breathless laugh, his fingers running through the soft hair at the nape of Dew’s neck. "Well. I'm glad my feelings aren't one-sided."
Dew blinked, his wide eyes searching Tee's face. "You... you like me?"
"Well, yes, soap man," Tee teased gently, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of Dew’s nose.
Dew let out a dazed, giddy laugh, burying his face into Tee’s shoulder as if he couldn't believe his luck. Tee smiled, tilting his head slightly to expose the pale curve of his neck where his scent gland rested.
"Go on, scent me, Dew," Tee whispered softly. "I've waited long enough."
Dew didn't hesitate. He shifted his head, burying his face directly against Tee's neck, taking a deep breath of Tee's warm blossom honey and wild lavender notes while letting his own grounding patchouli scent wash over Tee completely, claiming him at last.
Unbeknownst to either of them, the front door was still unlocked.
The door swung open, and Pond strolled casually into the living room, holding an empty measuring spoon, with Phuwin trailing right behind him.
Pond stopped mid-stride. He stared dead-eyed at the dining room table, where Dew was currently glued to Tee's neck like an oversized, clingy octopus, completely oblivious to the rest of the world.
Pond let out a long sigh.
"Man," Pond grumbled, shaking his head in utter disbelief. "All I wanted was smoked paprika."
Phuwin let out a delighted giggle, reaching out to wrap his arm around Pond's waist and tugging him backwards out the front door. "Come on, Pond. Let's go. They'll come back to reality eventually... or we can just run down to the grocery store."
Pond snorted, pulling the door shut behind them with a soft click, leaving the two oblivious best friends alone in the golden afternoon light.