POV: Go I-ram

The first thing he noticed was the quiet.

It wasn’t the cold, or the ache in his joints, or even the throb behind his eyes. Those things were still there, muted, manageable. But something had shifted in the stillness of the apartment. Like the room had been… stirred. As if someone had exhaled into the air just moments before he opened his eyes.

Go I-ram blinked slowly, lids heavy, lashes sticking slightly from sleep. His body felt tangled in warmth. The blanket—his blanket now, let’s be honest—was wrapped tightly around him. He didn’t remember shifting this much during the night. Then again, he had been barely conscious by the time Do-yun left.

He rubbed his face and winced. His skin still felt flushed, but the fever had passed. Mostly. His nose was still a little stuffy, and breathing through it felt like trying to sip air through a straw wrapped in cotton, but there was something… faint.

Something in the air… A scent?

He frowned, squinting toward the ceiling like it might hold answers. It was subtle. Elusive. But there. Not the rosemary by the window. Not the detergent on the blanket. Something more organic… It tugged at his attention before slipping away again, as if hiding behind the fog in his sinuses.

He sat up slowly, limbs protesting the movement, and pushed the blanket down to his lap. The shift in temperature made him shiver slightly, but he ignored it. There was something crawling back into his memory, urgent and strangely sweet.

And then it hit him.

Not the scent. The memory.

Do-yun.

The previous night came back in fragments: heat, arms, breath against him, and the weight of something that wasn’t just physical.

"He held me."

I-ram’s heart kicked up sharply in his chest.

He’d let Do-yun hold him. No, more than that, he’d leaned into it. He’d fallen asleep in his arms, bundled up like some tired, touch-starved kitten, without a single cutting remark to defend himself.

His face went hot and not from the fever this time.

He groaned into his hands. “I can’t believe I drooled on someone that attractive.”

There was no answer. Just the apartment breathing around him, filled with faint light from the window and the ghost of something strange in the air.

He got up slowly, blanket dragging behind him like guilt, and padded toward the kitchen to prepare some tea. The scent from earlier drifted in again, more present now, clinging to the edges of his awareness.

Still muted. Still unfamiliar, but not… unpleasant.

His stomach turned, not with illness, but with anticipation. Something was coming. Or maybe it had already arrived.

POV: Cha Do-yun

He didn’t plan to knock again.

Cha Do-yun had already made up his mind to give I-ram a day or two to rest, maybe send a text later, maybe wait for I-ram to reach out first. But when he stirred the soup that morning—just a simple broth with rice and soft-boiled eggs—he found himself portioning it into a small container without thinking, adding a note in the form of a post-it: Don’t let it get cold, like you.

Ten minutes later, he was standing in front of 501 with a container in hand, trying not to second-guess his choices. Again.

He knocked twice and heard footsteps.

The door opened and something hit his senses.

It didn’t slam into them like a punch. It bloomed.

The scent—petrichor, citrus rind, and warm cedar—unfurled around him in slow motion, thick and warm and intimate. Do-yun froze. He blinked once, twice, and tried very hard not to breathe too deeply.

It was unmistakable. I-ram’s scent.

His body responded before his thoughts could catch up: shoulders tensing, heat rising in his neck. His blood felt too fast, like he’d just turned a corner and found himself standing in the middle of a memory he hadn’t made yet.

An anchor scent.

It stirred something primal and gentle all at once, something that made his fingers tighten around the plastic lid of the soup container.

“Morning,” I-ram rasped.

Do-yun blinked again, refocusing. I-ram looked better than yesterday, but not by much. His hair was still messy, face still pale, nose slightly pink from too much sneezing or blowing. But there was color in his lips again, and a sleepy softness in the way he leaned against the doorframe, looking a little uncomfortable, with the blanket still wrapped around him. His blanket.

“You’re still sick,” Do-yun said, voice a little lower than he intended.

“I’m better.” I-ram said. “Mostly.”

Do-yun held the container out. “I brought you soup.”

I-ram looked at it, then up at him, confused for a second, like he wasn’t sure if Do-yun was real or part of the haze.

“Thanks.”

Do-yun hesitated. For half a second, he wanted to step forward and ask if he could sit with him again. Hug him and feel that warmth again.

But then the scent hit him once more, almost dangerous.

He wasn’t uncomfortable. He was aware.

Painfully, desperately aware.

He cleared his throat and took a step back. “I should, uh… I should go feed Bori. She’s dramatic when I’m late. Starts knocking over plants.”

I-ram raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question it. “Tell her I said hi.”

Do-yun nodded. “I’ll check in later.”

“Okay.”

He turned quickly, walking back to 502 with a little too much focus. The door behind him closed gently.

Once inside, he dropped the keys on the counter and leaned against the door, exhaling through his mouth.

His heart was racing.

He pressed a hand to his chest like that might do something about it, then muttered to no one, “What the hell was that?”

But he knew. He hadn’t felt a scent like that in years.

And not once had a scent ever made him feel like he could lose control.

POV: Go I-ram

The door had barely clicked shut when I-ram blinked, confused.

Do-yun had looked… startled. Not uncomfortable, but… flustered.

And for the life of him, I-ram couldn’t figure out why.

Was it the conversation from last night? Had he crossed a line? Maybe he shouldn’t have shared so much. Maybe Do-yun regretted staying… But then again, if that were the case, why would he bring soup?

Warm, homemade, smells-like-care soup.

He shuffled toward the kitchen, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, and set the container down carefully. The steam made his face feel better just from hovering over it.

“No way he’s mad,” I-ram muttered under his breath, grabbing a spoon. “Not with this level of soup energy.”

He took his meds, sat on the sofa with the blanket piled around him like a defeated ghost and ate slowly. Spoonful by spoonful, the warmth soaked into his bones, and his head stopped pounding quite as hard.

Ten minutes later, the bowl was empty and his limbs were heavy again with leftover fatigue. He let himself sink deeper into the sofa, blanket now rising to his nose, eyelids fluttering shut.

Sleep claimed him faster than expected.

When he woke, the light outside had shifted again. It was later now, close to mid-afternoon, maybe. Softer shadows slanted across the floor. The hum of the city filtered in through the window in distant layers.

I-ram blinked groggily and sat up slowly.

His head felt clearer. No more pressure in his temples. His fever was gone. He could breathe through his nose again.

And then he smelled it.

Familiar. Unmistakable.

He froze.

The scent lingered like a song caught in the air: something warm, low and refreshing. Not strong, not aggressive… but present. Layered. 

Petrichor.

Citrus peel.

Warm cedar.

It was coming from him.

I-ram’s chest tightened. His fingers clenched the edge of the blanket.

"No… This can't be right."

He hadn't scented it in over a year. Not a hint. Not a trace. After the breakup, after everything, his body had just… stopped. The doctors had said it was likely psychosomatic. That it might come back… Or it might not.

But now…

His own scent hung in the air like it had never left, like it had been waiting all this time to sneak back into his life with zero warning, no apology, and zero regard for timing.

And then it clicked.

Do-yun.

That look in his eyes. The way he’d hesitated. The way he’d stepped back, voice slightly lower than usual. Of course he’d noticed. Do-yun was an alpha.

And I-ram had been broadcasting like an unsealed letter.

His palms went clammy. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, heart thudding unevenly.

How could he have not noticed?

Oh, right… His damn nose. Stuffed all day yesterday. Still half-clogged this morning. He hadn't had access to his own scent. Hadn’t realized it had returned, hadn’t even considered the possibility.

He stared at the empty soup bowl like it might offer him advice or a rewind button.

But it didn’t. It just sat there. Mocking him with its wholesome domesticity.

His scent was back.

And Do-yun had been the first to notice.

Of course.

He’d never hated Sundays before, but today felt like some slow, cruel cosmic joke. His body was too weak to move at full speed, but his brain had switched into panic mode somewhere around the fifth pass through the living room.

His scent was back.

Back, bold, and unmistakable. And not just lingering in the blanket or subtly tucked into his pillow. No, this was ambient. Thick in the air. Laced into his walls like it belonged here, like it had never left.

His whole apartment smelled like a person again.

Like him.

He dropped onto the couch and buried his face in his hands.

“Why now,” he muttered. “Why the hell now?”

Hadn’t he made peace with this? Hadn’t he accepted it? Hadn’t he said, out loud, that his scent was gone and wasn’t coming back? That whatever used to be him had faded with time and trauma?

It had been over a year.

So why...

Why was it back?

Was it the cold? The fever? The damn blanket? He’d spent one night on the rooftop, slept under a patchy sky, got carried to the couch by a man with soft hands and patient eyes and suddenly, BOOM! Pheromones.

He wanted to scream. Or cry. Or throw something at Mister Needle and apologize immediately after.

What was he supposed to do? Call his doctor?

He glanced at his phone. It was Sunday. No appointments. No clinic hours. Nothing.

Should he tell Ah-ra? She’d know what to do. But he didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to survive that level of intensity just yet.

What about Do-yun?

His chest tightened.

Of course. Do-yun had definitely noticed. That strange, careful shift in his expression. The slight flush. The way he hadn’t come inside. The soup handoff, like a transaction. The awkward excuse about Bori, who probably wasn’t even awake yet.

Good grief.

He needed to apologize. At the very least…

He opened his texts. Fingers trembling slightly, he prepared a message.

I-ram: I’m sorry about this morning. I didn’t realize I was releasing pheromones.”

Straightforward and honest. But above all, utterly humiliating. He hit send before he could overthink it.

Seconds later, the reply lit up his screen.

Do-yun: “You have a cold. It’s okay. I understand. How are you feeling?”

His heart did something weird in his chest. A twist? Or maybe a pull... A flicker of something warm that wasn’t panic, for sure.

I-ram: “I’m feeling better. At least I can use my nose now…”

The reply came instantly.

Do-yun: “I’m glad. I hope the soup was good. Rest a lot. If you need anything, I’m right next door. Bori sends her regards (she tried to bite her own reflection in the rice cooker this morning. I’m not sure she’s okay).”

I-ram laughed. Out loud. A short, surprised, honest sound that felt like opening a window after too long.

I-ram:“It was exactly what I needed. Thank you. I’ll rest now.”

The conversation stopped there, and still, he held the phone for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he leaned back into the couch. Wrapped himself tighter in the gray blanket. Closed his eyes and breathed in.

The scent wasn’t going anywhere. Neither was he.

POV: Cha Do-yun

Bori growled softly.

She was curled at the end of the couch, eyes half-lidded but alert, ears flicking at something invisible. Do-yun reached down and scratched behind her ear, fingers steadying himself on autopilot.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice low, “what’s up?”

She didn't answer, of course. Just gave a small, warning chuff and flicked her tail.

But he already knew.

He’d felt it the moment he stepped away from 501. The shift in the air. The way his skin prickled. The slow, simmering heat settling into his chest and refusing to leave.

It wasn’t desire. Not exactly.

It was instinct. Low, biological and ancient.

A response he hadn’t felt in years.

He leaned back into the cushions, staring at the ceiling like the answer to how he felt was gonna fall from it.

His hands were still shaking, even after all the hours that passed.

He pressed his palm flat over his chest, right where the feeling seemed to hum the loudest. It wasn’t a storm. Not yet… But the clouds had gathered.

And the scent...

That scent...

Petrichor. Citrus. Cedar.

It was in the walls now. In his clothes. In his thoughts.

And it wasn’t going away…

End of Episode Fourteen

End of Part I