Outside the window, a fine rain fell—not a real rain, but a weary one, as if the air itself was weeping from an overflow of days.
Do-jun sat on the floor, leaning against the bed. Before him—a cup of tea, already cold. Nearby—an unopened folder with medical records. He didn't touch it, as one avoids a landmine.
Seungho returned late. Without his coat, with water streaks on his lapels, tired but composed, like a weapon after battle. He didn't turn on the light—he simply walked over and sat opposite him, stretching out his legs.
— You haven't eaten — he stated quietly. His voice didn't accuse, it registered a fact.— Food won't solve what's inside — Do-jun stared at his hands, clasped on his knees.— And what is inside? Name it.— Fear — Do-jun said, uttering it aloud for the first time.
Yun didn't move. Only slightly tilted his head, urging him to continue.
— Fear of what? Not of death. That's too simple.— Fear of becoming a point of failure — Do-jun looked up. — For you. For him. I don't know how to… be passive cargo. All my value was in control and strength. And now—everything depends on you. My body, my breath. If something happens, you'll lose me. And if I survive—you'll be tied down. To this burden, to the constant threat.
Yun slowly got up, walked closer, and sat next to him, almost shoulder to shoulder. His pheromones were severe but stable.
— You are wrong, Do-jun. I am not carrying you. We are holding the structure. Your value wasn't in control, but in the fact that you chose me.— Easy to say for someone who stands firmer. You are an Alpha, Seungho.— You think I'm standing? — Yun smiled without warmth. — I signed twenty contracts today, covering a hole punched by my enemy. But I don't show how I fall, because you are my only reason not to fall.
Do-jun looked up. He saw not weariness in his eyes, but calculation and firmness.
— Why aren't you angry? I drown every day—in nausea, in fear, in powerlessness. And you sit here and… are just present. You allow me to be weak.— Anger is a luxury we don't need right now — Yun answered quietly. — Anger won't keep you afloat. Only closeness holds. Only the fact that you are here, close, gives me the right to continue this war.
The silence stretched, thick, warm. Do-jun inhaled with difficulty.
— I sometimes think it would be easier for you without me. I only complicate everything.— You are mistaken. Without you, I simply… wouldn't be myself. You are my choice, Do-jun. The first, the real one.
These words sounded not like a confession—but like a fundamental fact. And that's why they cut deeper than any pain. Do-jun rested his head on his shoulder, inhaling the scent of damp skin and Alpha strength, which granted him the right to weakness.
⋆⋆⋆
Late that night, Yun went to a meeting—an old warehouse on the outskirts. The metal gates rattled in the wind; the air smelled of rust and paper. Two security officers waited for him by the shelves.
— We found this in the backups, Mr. Yun — one said, handing over a tablet. — Not everything burned at the club. Some files survived in the cloud.— What exactly?— Correspondence. Internal reports. Among the recipients—one of the directors.
Yun scrolled through. The words flashed quickly: "delay funding," "sabotage reports," "Yun distracted." But the main thing—the signature. Kim.
Yun froze.
— Are you sure?— Yes, sir. That's his personal identifier. The files are genuine.— Don't disclose this. Don't take any action yet.
He closed the tablet, looking into the darkness.
— If he sold us out, the next strike will be personal. They will want to show they know where to hit.
⋆⋆⋆
When Yun returned home, it was past midnight. He opened the door silently, as always. The nightlight was on in the hallway. Do-jun was asleep on the sofa, legs tucked up, hugging a pillow. On the table nearby—an open book and an empty glass.
Yun smiled quietly. He took a step—and immediately smelled a scent. Not his own. Alien. Metallic, acrid. Pheromones—not of his rank.
He instantly froze, then rushed forward.
— Do-jun! — he managed to grab his arm as glass shattered somewhere near the window.
A bullet hit the wall, showering them with plaster. Do-jun screamed, instinctively covering his stomach. Yun covered him with his body, pulling him out of the line of fire.
— Don't move!
He darted to the window, eyes catching movement on the roof across the street. A shadow, a flash—and silence. No more bullets. Only a wet trail on the windowsill. Yun stared into the darkness until his heart stopped pounding in his temples.
— They knew where I live — Do-jun whispered.
Yun ran his hand over his face, wiping away the dust.
— Are you hurt?— No. Just... scared.— Good. Don't do anything else. Don't think. Don't move.
He looked into his eyes—long, direct, so that words became unnecessary.
⋆⋆⋆
An hour later, everything quieted down. The outside world seemed to surrender to the downpour. Security checked the perimeter. No sniper was found. Yun took the report without flinching.
He locked the door, took the gun from his belt, and placed it on a high shelf. He sat next to Do-jun, who was still trembling, hugging his knees. The tremor was not from cold—but from nervous tension.
— Let's go — Yun said, his voice husky. — You need to warm up.
He didn't ask, he took his hand and raised him up.
Yun led him to the bathroom. Warm steam was already settling on the tiles, thick as fog. The light of the candles, placed on the shelf, flickered, as if reflecting the internal tension, but created an intimate sanctuary.
Do-jun sat in the water. The hot water instantly relaxed his muscles, but his shoulders still remained tense, constricted. Yun settled in behind him; the water rose; he hugged him from the back, allowing their bodies to touch. His hands settled on Do-jun's abdomen, the movement both possessive and protective.
— I can't take it anymore — Do-jun whispered, his voice cracking. — Every time you leave, I expect you won't come back. Or that they'll find me while you're away.— I always come back. And they won't find you. You are within my perimeter — Yun buried his nose in his wet, jasmine-scented neck. — Their world ends where our door begins.— But one day... reality will break through.— Don't say it — Yun cut him off, his voice hardening like steel. He kissed his shoulder, then his neck, leaving a hot, dominant touch.
— While I'm here, think only of this. Only of us and the warmth — Yun slid his hands over his chest, down to his hips, to where fear mingled with desire, creating a dangerous but alluring cocktail. He washed his thighs, his legs.
Do-jun's body responded instantly—with a tremor, a deep intake of breath, a quiet moan. He leaned back, pressing against the Alpha's strong chest. Yun slowly began to caress him through the water; his movements were insistent but incredibly tender.
The water sang around them; the candles cast reflections on the wet, shimmering skin. Yun turned him to face him; his wet hair fell onto Do-jun's shoulders.
— Don't fear me, Do-jun. I am not the force that will break you. I am your shield. Your anchor — he whispered, looking him straight in the eyes.— What if the shield cracks? What if your world collapses?— Then I will become the skin — his answer was instantaneous and ruthless. — Through the pain, through everything. I will hold you on myself.
Do-jun couldn't hold back; he reached out, meeting his gaze. Yun's eyes—dark, but not cold; pure, possessive will burned in them. He touched his lips, and the kiss was long, deep—the taste of salt, water, and life mingled together.
Yun lifted him, seating him on his lap. The hot water gently flowed around their thighs, intensifying the density of the pheromones. Do-jun instinctively wrapped his legs around him, pressing with his whole body. Yun didn't hurry, allowing him to get used to this vulnerable position. He leaned down, kissed his abdomen—long, reverently, asserting his right to protection.
— I'm coming in now — Yun whispered, his voice trembling with restrained power. — If you feel even a shadow of discomfort... you will tell me.
Do-jun nodded; his eyes were closed, but his lips were slightly parted in impatience. His entire Omega essence demanded this act of branding, the affirmation of their bond in the face of danger. He wrapped his hands around his hips, surrendering to this closeness, which was the only proof he existed outside the threat.
Yun tended to him, preparing his entrance with a wet hand. His movements were soft, but insistent. He slowly pressed in, and Do-jun let out a muffled, but consenting moan.
They merged—gradually, millimeter by millimeter, in the warmth of the water. Yun waited until Do-jun fully received him, and only then began to move.
This was not just a physical act—it was an act of burden transfer, a vow spoken by their bodies. Yun moved softly, almost carefully; his thrusts were deep but controlled, as if he feared hurting not only Do-jun but also the new life he carried. In every movement was the weight of responsibility and the tenderness of possession.
Fear dissolved, giving way to something greater—trust that couldn't be begged for with words. Do-jun responded, his hands sliding over Yun's wet shoulders, pulling him closer, demanding more strength, more presence.
Yun held his waist; the movements were fluid, almost ritualistic, until waves of pleasure began to spill over the edge of the tub, splashing onto the floor. The climax was deep, liberating; Yun finished inside, his pheromones sealing the moment, filling the water around them with the damp, potent scent of the Alpha.
Water streamed down their bodies, as if washing away everything—threats, shadows, past fears. When it was all over, Do-jun quietly rested his head on his shoulder. His breathing was even, and his pheromones, mingled with Yun's, smelled of calm and home.
— I feel a heartbeat that isn't just mine, but ours — Do-jun whispered, touching his and Yun's palm on his abdomen.— That is the meaning — Yun replied, holding him tighter, not withdrawing. — As long as it beats—we are alive. And as long as you are here—I am here.
They sat in the water until the candles burned down, casting long shadows. Steam rose, concealing them, and it seemed as though the world outside no longer existed.
⋆⋆⋆
In the window—light reflecting in the drops on the glass. Yun stood by the door, talking on the phone:
— Find Kim. Not today—now.
He turned. Do-jun lay in bed, wrapped in a sheet, eyes closed. His face bore a trace of peace, rare and almost impossible.
Yun allowed himself a short smile. He knew: this peace was temporary.