POV: Go I-ram

Go I-ram lay sprawled on his back, half-swallowed by blankets, blinking up at the ceiling. The room was heavy. Not just the normal Monday kind of heavy… the "something is wrong and your body knows it before your brain catches up" kind of heavy. It hit him all at once, as if someone had peeled back his skin: his scent was back since the day before.

The room smelled like... him. Him, but wrong. Wild. Uncontrolled.

“No. No, no, no…” he hissed, clawing at the sheets like he could physically scrub the air clean. He tried to control the release of his pheromones, but it was useless.

Panic chewed up the edges of his thoughts. His instincts, dulled for so long they felt foreign now, snapped awake with a violent jolt. His whole apartment was saturated, his scent bleeding into the walls, the floors, the air he breathed.

If he went outside like this… No, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

He scrambled for his phone. There was already a message.

Seo-woo [editor]: "How are you feeling from your cold? Don’t die. I don’t want to train another emotionally repressed columnist."

He didn’t even laugh. Just typed one-handed, fast and pleading:

I-ram: "Medical emergency. Need a day."

The reply came back almost instantly.

Seo-woo: "Fine. Hydrate and suffer in private."

He dropped the phone onto the bed, breathing hard, dragging both hands through his hair until it stood up in frustrated spikes.

What if someone smells it?
What if the people in the bus notice?
What if…

The memory of Do-yun hit him again. The way he’d stepped back awkwardly, voice slightly lower than usual. The look in his eyes. Overall, the way he’d hesitated.

It wasn’t supposed to come back like this. It wasn’t supposed to come back at all.

The scent clung to him. No matter how hard he tried to breathe past it and control his pheromones, it was there: stubborn, embarrassing and alive.

Dragging in a ragged breath, he snatched up his phone again, pulled up his contacts, and stabbed another message.

To Dr. Moon: "Emergency. Need to come in today."

Five minutes later, an automated text buzzed back:
"Appointment confirmed. 9:15 AM. Be prompt."

I-ram sat there for a long, miserable moment... Then he stood up, and once he was ready, he grabbed the keys with a hand that didn’t quite stop shaking, and walked out the door into a world he wasn’t sure he belonged to anymore.

Hospitals always smelled the same: bleach, disappointment, and bad news disguised as paperwork.

I-ram hunched in one of the hard plastic chairs, arms folded tightly across his chest like that alone could trap the wild edges of his scent still escaping. His body felt alien, like some inconvenient meat suit designed for public humiliation.

“Go I-ram?” a voice called.

He practically launched out of his chair. The nurse gave him a mildly concerned look but said nothing, leading him down a fluorescent-lit hallway that seemed longer than usual.

Standard consultation room. Posters on the walls: “Manage Your Heat Cycles Safely!” and “When to See Your Specialist”. I-ram resisted the urge to claw them off the wall.

He perched stiffly on the exam table, hands clutching the edges like it might eject him into the sun if he let go.
The door swung open with a soft click, and in walked Dr. Moon. Calm, unhurried, a slight air of clinical efficiency.

“Good morning, I-ram,” he said, settling into his chair with a tablet balanced on his knee. “You said it was urgent?”

I-ram opened his mouth to speak and immediately regretted it. His throat was dry, words sticking like poorly chewed rice cakes. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“My scent,” he rasped. “It’s... back. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Dr. Moon’s brows lifted slightly out of curiousity.
“Back,” he repeated. “Are you sure?”

He wouldn’t know, of course. He was a beta. “Yes,” I-ram muttered.

“I see. We will need to run some tests.” Dr. Moon tapped something into the tablet, then leaned forward slightly. “Any particular triggers you can recall?”

I-ram flinched internally.
Strong arms wrapping around him. A heartbeat he could feel through his own skin.
He swallowed hard.

“No. Nothing... important,” he lied badly.

Dr. Moon, a seasoned veteran of other people's stubbornness, didn’t press. Instead, he pulled out a small scanner device. After a few minutes, the machine beeped. Dr. Moon leaned back, studying the data.

“Well," he said, neutral. "Your scent glands are active again. Not fully stabilized, but functional. This isn’t just residual hormonal drift. It’s significant.”

The word landed like a stone. Significant.
He hated how much hope—and dread—those syllables carried.

“But,” Dr. Moon continued, flipping to a new chart, “your control reflexes are out of practice. You seem to be leaking more pheromones than is typical for your baseline.”

I-ram scowled. “I noticed.”

“I’m prescribing a mild suppressant to help regulate your output during public hours.” He tapped a few commands into the tablet, sending the prescription directly to the pharmacy.

“And if I don’t?” I-ram asked, voice tight.

“You might overwhelm your environment. Draw unwanted attention. Confuse your own instincts...”

Dr. Moon gave him a small, almost kind smile. “I recommend practicing natural control on weekends, when you’re safe at home. It’ll be uncomfortable at first. But you’ll need to re-learn how to manage your scent naturally.”

“Awesome,” I-ram muttered.

Dr. Moon chuckled under his breath. “Consider it physical therapy for your secondary gender.”

“Is it permanent?” I-ram asked quietly. “The scent coming back?”

Dr. Moon’s expression softened just a hair. “There’s no guarantee. But the fact that it returned at all is promising.”

Promising. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly.

Dr. Moon rose “Just be mindful. Your body is trying to trust the world again. Be patient with it.”

The pharmacy bag crinkled in his hand as he held it. Those suppressants were his only hope for some normality. He wasn’t about to lose them.

Suppressant therapy... What a clinical way to say: "Congratulations, your body's a broken vending machine, and now you need special coins to function."

He was supposed to be happy about this. Right? He was a "functioning omega" again. Except it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like being shoved into an old uniform he’d long since outgrown, suffocating at the throat.

He popped the cap off the bottle with a sharp snap, shaking a pill into his hand. He hesitated for a stupid second. Like the universe might swoop down and offer him a better deal. Nothing happened.

“Coward,” he muttered under his breath.

He tossed the pill into his mouth and dry-swallowed it with the stubbornness of someone losing an argument with gravity. The effect wasn’t instant. But slowly, imperceptibly, he felt it: the aggressive edges of his scent softening. His body sighed in relief even as his heart thrashed in protest.

He hated it.
Hated how easy it was to erase himself again.
Hated that somewhere, in the stupid apartment building he lived in, a stupid man with a cat and soft eyes was probably wondering why he had a scent now.

Suppress the scent. Suppress the self. That was the new deal, right? He knew how to do that. He’d been doing it for a while.

What was he supposed to do now?

Pretend the soup container sitting on his kitchen counter wasn’t practically vibrating with unspoken thanks?

Pretend Do-yun hadn’t held him like something fragile and precious and breakable all at once?

The thought hit harder than he expected.

Do-yun hadn't recoiled when he held him. Hadn’t made a joke about what I-ram told him. Hadn’t even hesitated, really… not when it mattered.

Suppress it all. The scent. The longing. The stupid human need to be seen, to be held, to be wanted for more than instincts and biology...

The apartment was too quiet when he got home.

Go I-ram dropped his keys into the bowl by the door with a metallic clatter that felt like a firework in the silence. Suppressant fatigue tugged at his limbs, but he pushed through it.

He didn’t want to remember that his body had decided, without consulting him, that it was time to feel things again.

His apartment smelled... like him. He opened a window to let the scent go out. He wanted to get rid of the one thing that had made things feel alive for one, terrifying day.

Like pretending the cracks in the foundation weren't widening every time he breathed.

He dragged himself toward the kitchen, craving movement, distraction, something… And then he saw it.

Sitting primly on the counter, right where he'd left it yesterday: the soup container. Do-yun’s stupid soul-healing soup container. I-ram stared at it like it might explode.

The container was innocent enough. Ordinary.
Except it wasn’t just that. It was proof.

Proof that someone had noticed when he was drowning. That someone had cared enough to cook for him. Proof that he wasn't invisible no matter how much he tried to be.

He approached the container like it might sprout legs and run. Picked it up. Turned it over once, stupidly. Like it might have instructions printed on the bottom: "Return with heart attached."

No such luck. He should return it.

Neighbors returned things. Civilized adults returned things. People who weren't a complete emotional landfill sites, returned things.

Maybe he could just leave it outside Do-yun’s door. Anonymous. Easy. No risk.

The idea almost appealed to him—cowardice always had a certain seductive charm—but deep down he knew: He wanted to see him.

He wanted to hand it back in person. Wanted to look into those warm, steady eyes and remember, even just for a second, that not everyone left when things got messy.

He hated himself for wanting that.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. He'd wait until later. Until his scent—and his dignity—were back under control.

Then he’d knock on 502’s door, hand back the container, make a dry joke, and retreat before he did something incredibly stupid. Like stay, for example.

It was a plan.
A terrible one.
But it was better than letting that stupid container sit there and guilt him into oblivion.

He caught Mister Needle in the corner of his eye, perched smugly on the windowsill, soaking up the light like he was above all mortal concerns.

“Traitor,” I-ram muttered.

Mister Needle did not respond.

Returning the container should’ve been simple.

Go I-ram stood outside apartment 502, one fist raised halfway to knock, the plastic container balanced awkwardly in his other hand like an offering he didn’t understand.

He knocked. Silence answered him.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Part of him itched to just drop the container at the door and flee before his brain caught up. But something stubborn rooted his shoes to the ugly floor.

Maybe he’s on the rooftop, a tiny voice offered.

It wasn’t hope exactly.
It was worse.
It was expectation.

He sighed, and trudged toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. He pushed the rooftop door open and squinted against the soft light.

There he was.

Cha Do-yun was near the old raised beds, a battered gardening apron tied haphazardly around his waist, sleeves pushed up, hands deep in a container of potting soil.

I-ram hovered at the threshold for a second longer than necessary, clutching the container like a defective security blanket.

Do-yun looked up, caught sight of him, and smiled. It hit harder than the scent ever could have.

“Hey,” Do-yun called, brushing his hands off on the apron. “Didn’t expect to see you up here.”

I-ram shuffled forward, awkwardly holding out the soup container like a hostage exchange.

“Returning your... thing,” he said, brilliantly.

Do-yun took it without hesitation, cradling it carefully in both hands like it was something precious.

“Thanks,” he said, easy as breathing.

“Soup was good,” I-ram added after a beat, because apparently he hadn’t embarrassed himself enough.

Do-yun’s smile widened a fraction. “Glad you liked it. It’s my aunt’s recipe. It’s supposed to help when... things feel heavy.”

I-ram didn’t answer. His throat closed around the words like a trap snapping shut. Instead, he looked around the rooftop, desperate for a safer subject.

“Are you... planning to grow an empire?” he asked, voice dry.

Do-yun laughed. “Nothing that ambitious. Just a place that feels good to come back to.”

The words lodged somewhere deep inside I-ram, scraping against old wounds he hadn’t realized were still open.

“Looks better already,” he mumbled.

Do-yun didn’t push. Just smiled again, that infuriatingly patient smile, and gestured at the rooftop in general.

“I think they miss you, so come whenever you want,” he said.

I-ram’s chest twisted painfully around something he didn’t want to name.

He nodded, muttered something that might’ve been "I’ll keep that in mind" and took a careful step back. Suppressants dulled the edges, but not enough to erase the truth:

I-ram wanted to stay. He just didn’t know how to yet.

He retreated toward the door with the elegance of a spooked alley cat, muttering another quick goodbye before slipping back down the stairs to the safety of the familiar fifth floor.

At his back, the rooftop and Do-yun stayed behind, stubbornly waiting for him to return.

POV: Cha Do-yun

Do-yun sat on the worn bench under the gazebo. The rooftop was quieter now without I-ram's awkward, restless energy flickering around... He hadn’t expected I-ram to come up here today.

After everything that happened the days before, after the crash of boundaries breaking, the way I-ram had sagged into his arms like a house collapsing under its own weight… his unexpected intriguing scent. Do-yun thought he might pull further away. Hide.

But he'd come.
Quiet and defensive… But he’d come.

Do-yun could barely catch a trace of his scent now. It was like looking at a painting covered in dust.

He understood. He did. But it didn’t make the hollow ache in his chest any easier to ignore.

He set the container down beside him with gentle hands, letting the weight of it anchor him.

It wasn’t about the soup.
It never had been.

It was about offering something when words weren’t enough. About making space without demanding anything in return. About saying: I see you. I’m not afraid of you.

And he knew better than to push. I-ram wasn’t a project to be fixed. He was a life finding its own shape after too many years spent under hard frost.

Do-yun leaned back against the weathered bench. Somewhere nearby, Bori yawned and stretched, a flash of cream and beige among the pots. She sauntered over and hopped onto the bench beside him.

“There you are,” he murmured fondly, scratching behind her ears. She purred like an idling engine, satisfied with her conquest.

He didn’t know when—or if—I-ram would come back up here again, but he would be here when he did.

Not waiting like a demand or an obligation.
Just... here. Steady. Patient... Open. He could wait for as long as it took.

Do-yun closed his eyes and let the rooftop's heartbeat settle into his bones. When I-ram was ready, he would find his way back. Until then, Do-yun would stay.

Tending the garden. Tending the space between them.
Tending the hope that someday, I-ram would choose to stay, too.

End of Episode Fifteen