POV: Cha Do-yun

The hallway outside 502 still smelled faintly of dust, old wood, and cat.

Do-yun closed his door behind him with a soft click, backpack slung over one shoulder, thermos in hand. It was early. He didn’t expect anyone else to be up. Which, of course, meant he nearly collided with Go I-ram stepping out of 501 at the exact same moment.

I-ram froze mid-step like someone had yanked his plug from the wall. He looked as put-together as always. Neat black button-up, messenger bag slung just right, hair slightly windblown in a way that looked deliberate, even if it wasn’t.

“…Morning,” I-ram said, a beat late.

Do-yun smiled automatically. “Morning.”

For one painful second, they just stood there, both pretending it wasn’t weird.

Then I-ram gave a stiff nod toward the stairs. “I’ll go first.”

Do-yun followed. The stairwell creaked under their combined steps. Narrow. Too intimate. They descended one flight in silence before it happened. A shift.

Do-yun felt it before he processed it. A rush of scent, sharp and immediate. Rain-soaked paper, citrus rind, and something warmer, soft, vulnerable and human.

I-ram.

It bloomed between them like a secret slipping loose.

Do-yun stopped for a moment. His instincts kicked forward—urge, protectiveness, a quiet hunger he didn’t dare name—before he reined them in like a leash snapping taut.

Beside him, I-ram stiffened. His steps faltered.

Do-yun didn’t look at him. Just said, lightly, “Weather’s nice today.”

“…Mmh,” I-ram managed, too clipped to be convincing.

The scent was already fading. Suppressants. Do-yun could smell their sharp, bitter overlay kicking in—scrubbing I-ram’s scent down to near-nothing in a matter of seconds. Do-yun didn’t comment.

They reached the ground floor a minute later. Do-yun held the building door open, letting I-ram pass through first like it was instinct. Maybe it was.

“Heading to work?” Do-yun asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah. Same as always.” I-ram’s voice had cooled again, defaulting to his usual semi-detached tone.

Do-yun smiled. “Have a good one.”

I-ram gave a nod. “You too.”

They walked in opposite directions.

Do-yun didn’t look back, but his hands clenched tighter around his thermos. He couldn’t stop thinking about that flash of scent. How sudden it had been, how real. How it had called out to something in him before I-ram buried it again.

I-ram was not his omega, he reminded himself. Not his to worry about. And yet…

His steps picked up speed, faster than necessary. He didn’t like the idea of I-ram walking through a city like this. Scent slipping, instinct half-awake, and so obviously alone.

Do-yun moved through the crowd like a ghost wearing nice shoes. Present in body, absent in thought. His feet hit the pavement in perfect rhythm, but his mind kept circling the stairwell like he’d left something behind.

He’d seen it in I-ram’s eyes. That flash of panic. And worse, he’d felt it. The scent, thick, honest and unguarded for one second too long. Like the air itself had confessed something.

And then it was gone. Scrubbed away, erased, buried under suppressants.

Do-yun didn’t blame him. He’d be taking suppressants too, if his body betrayed him like that without a warning.
No, what he blamed was how that moment stayed with him, how it clung like a shadow even now.

Other alphas might’ve reacted differently. A sudden scent flare like that on a staircase? It could’ve turned predatory. Territorial. Instinct doesn’t wait for permission.

He’d seen it happen. Years ago. A scent like an apology in the wrong place, and suddenly you’re peeling one person off another. Not always violent, but never safe.

He didn’t want to imagine that happening to I-ram.

He clenched his jaw, adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder, and tried to shove the thought away.
But it wouldn’t move.

It wasn’t just protectiveness. He knew that.

He liked I-ram. That was obvious.
Liked his quiet sarcasm. His careful way of speaking, like he was trying not to spill too much of himself.
Liked how he looked at the rooftop garden like it might explode at any second, but he kept coming back anyway.

Do-yun let out a sharp breath. You’re not helping yourself.

He pulled out his phone. He didn’t open messages yet. Just stared at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering.

Was he overstepping? Probably.
Would I-ram answer? Maybe.
Would it be weird?
…Less weird than pretending like that scent hadn’t curled around his bones and stayed there.

He opened a blank message and typed:

Do-yun:

Hope your trip wasn't too awful. Try not to kill anyone at the office today.

He stared at it for three full seconds before hitting send.

Then he slipped the phone back into his pocket and kept walking.
Trying to breathe. Trying to forget that he already missed a scent that was never his to begin with.

By the time he reached the staff entrance, Cha Do-yun had convinced himself he wasn’t waiting for a reply.

He was just checking his phone because it was a habit.
It wasn’t like he’d pulled it out five times on the walk from the subway. That would be ridiculous.

He pulled it out again anyway. Nothing.

Which, fine. Reasonable. I-ram probably had morning meetings. Or deadlines. Or he’d thrown the phone into a canal out of sheer spite and chosen a hermit life.

Do-yun stepped into the back hallway of the facility and swiped his ID badge across the security pad. The light blinked green. The door clicked open.

He greeted a passing assistant with a nod and slipped his phone into his coat pocket.

He was being dramatic. It was a message, not a declaration of war or love.

He’d just sat down at the edge of the prep table when his phone buzzed.

He blinked. Froze. Then checked it in a movement so casual it would’ve fooled no one, had anyone been watching.

I-ram:

Almost fell asleep on the bus. Office as boring as ever. Thanks for checking.

That was it. Simple, normal and casual.

And somehow it landed like someone had loosened the knots in his chest one by one.

He read it twice.
Then once more.
Then let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, like a cliché in a bad romance novel he would casually admit to reading.

He didn’t reply. Not right away. The moment felt good exactly as it was. Small, unspoken, warm. He pocketed the phone with quiet satisfaction.

Then looked up to see Jae-min staring at him across the room with a raised eyebrow and a coffee cup halfway to his mouth.

“Wow,” Jae-min said. “Okay.”

Do-yun blinked. “What?”

“You made a face.”

“I did not.”

“You made a face,” Jae-min repeated, dragging out the vowel like it physically hurt him to witness such romantic subtlety. “You read something on your phone and smiled like a man in a K-drama with a terminal illness and a six-episode arc.”

Do-yun flushed and looked down at his clipboard. “It was just a message.”

“Uh-huh,” Jae-min said, sipping slowly. “Must’ve been one hell of a message.”

Do-yun muttered something about needing to check the humidity readings in Section B and stood up with all the grace of a man trying to exit his own emotional vulnerability.

But he smiled anyway. Just a little.

Because he had messaged.
And I-ram had answered.

The lab was already humming by the time the door opened again.

Do-yun stood at the workstation near the west wall, calibrating nutrient dispersal data from the hydroponic tanks. He didn’t look up when the door opened.

Until he heard the manager’s voice. Cheerful and maybe a little too loud.

“Everyone! Quick moment, please!”

The room collectively paused. Do-yun glanced up.

The manager stood in the doorway with a woman beside him. Small, neat, sharply dressed. Her hair was cut in a sleek black bob that framed her jawline perfectly, and her hazel eyes swept the room like she was cataloging it.

Her scent arrived before she spoke.
Floral. Sweet. Not overwhelming, but intentional. A subtle nudge.

“This is Yoo Bo-ra,” the manager announced. “She’s joining us in the botany division starting today. Let’s all help her feel at home.”

There were nods and murmured greetings. The manager gestured toward the empty desk across from Do-yun’s, diagonally behind him.

Bo-ra followed the direction with her eyes, then glanced at Do-yun. Her smile sharpened slightly.

He gave a polite nod. “Cha Do-yun. Welcome.”

Bo-ra tilted her head just a fraction. “Nice to meet you,” she said smoothly.

Do-yun gave a noncommittal sound and turned back to his screen.

Behind him, he could feel her moving, setting things down, adjusting her chair, powering up the workstation. A few minutes passed and then…

“Excuse me,” she said, just over his shoulder. “Do you mind helping me with these folder settings? They’re different from my last place.”

He turned. “Sure.”

He walked the few steps to her station, leaned down slightly to glance at the screen. A soft, familiar puff of her pheromones slipped into the space between them. Closer now, more specific.

Do-yun registered it the way he might notice a change in air pressure. Present, yes. Pleasant, maybe. But meaningless.

He showed her the basic steps. Folder directories, sync settings, the cloud system the lab used. Her eyes didn’t move much. She was watching his hands more than the screen.

“What kind of music do you like?” she asked suddenly, tone light. “You seem like someone who listens to quiet things.”

Do-yun didn’t look away from the screen. “Instrumentals. Sometimes jazz.”

“Ooh. Sophisticated.”

He clicked one more setting. “It’s mostly background noise.”

“What about food? Are you the kind that cooks?”

He shrugged. “I eat what’s there.”

She laughed gently. “So mysterious.”

Do-yun stood upright. “That should fix your folders.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said sweetly. “You’ve already saved my first day.”

Another soft push of scent, more deliberate this time. Curious. Testing.

Do-yun nodded, unaffected, and returned to his desk without further comment.

Bo-ra watched him go with narrowed eyes and a faint pout before turning back to her screen.

Her scent lingered in the space between them like steam after tea.
Do-yun barely noticed.

He had work to do.
And somewhere in his pocket, the memory of a text thread with a boring, sarcastic columnist brought a smile to his face.

Lunch break arrived like a sigh no one had the energy to release.

Do-yun sat in the breakroom, his usual quiet corner claimed with a lukewarm coffee in hand and a notebook half-filled with plant diagnostics. He was trying to focus.

Jae-min plopped into the seat across from him like a man arriving for judgment, peeling open his third protein bar of the day.

“You,” he said, mouth already half-full, “are either the most respectful alpha in the country or the densest man alive.”

Do-yun blinked. “What?”

“Bo-ra,” Jae-min said, gesturing vaguely toward the lab. “Flirting. Scent. Proximity. Eye contact that could probably get us flagged by HR. Ringing any bells?”

“She’s being friendly.”

“She’s circling you like a shark in lip gloss.”

Do-yun took a sip of his coffee. “I helped her set up her folders.”

“You helped her emotionally unbutton her future,” Jae-min muttered, shaking his head. “And she’s not even your type, is she?”

Do-yun didn’t answer.

Jae-min leaned back in his chair, grinning like a man with popcorn and a front row seat.

“So,” he said. “Any developments in the land of rooftop rebellion and emotionally constipated pining?”

Do-yun choked on his coffee.

“Go I-ram?” Jae-min added casually, as if that wasn’t the verbal equivalent of lobbing a grenade across the table. “The neighbor with the deadpan glare and the aura of someone who’s allergic to joy. That one.”

Do-yun stared into his coffee like it had betrayed him.

“You know,” Jae-min continued, ignoring the silence like a professional, “some of us just grow herbs on the roof. You? You’re growing an entire secret longing."

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jae-min snorted. “I know that you checked your phone five times before lunch. What were you doing? Re-reading his message 5 times? And with a smile on your face, every-single-time”

“That’s... not proof of anything.”

“It’s proof that your heart does, in fact, beat. And apparently only for socially anxious omegas. Will you introduce us someday? I want to meet the one who stole your heart.”

Do-yun pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re just neighbors.”

“Uh-huh. With text history. And a shared rooftop garden. And emotional tension thick enough to use as insulation.”

Do-yun said nothing.

Jae-min leaned in with a grin that should be illegal in most emotional contexts.

“Let me ask you this,” he said. “When she touched your arm this morning, what did you feel?”

“Nothing,” Do-yun admitted.

“And when I-ram’s is around you?”

Silence.

Do-yun didn’t move.

“Yeah,” Jae-min said, sitting back, smug and unbothered. “That’s what I thought.”

POV: Go I-ram

Go I-ram had just settled on the couch with a bowl of instant soup and the vague intention to stare into space for forty-five minutes when it started.

Scratch. Scratch.

He frowned.

The sound came again: low, rhythmic, impossible to ignore. Like something—or someone—refused to be forgotten.

He stood with a sigh, padded barefoot toward the door of 501, and opened it just a crack.

Bori was sitting on his welcome mat like she owned it.

Tail flicking in annoyance. Eyes judgmental.

She meowed once. Not pitifully or even politely. Just loud enough to make a point.

“…You have an apartment,” he said.

Bori did not move. She just stared, head slightly tilted.

And then she took one imperious step forward.

I-ram blinked. “Are you seriously…”

She meowed again, cutting him off, and pushed past his legs with the elegance of someone who had clearly made herself at home before.

He turned to watch her as she strolled in like a tiny empress, leapt up onto the couch, and settled into the warm spot he’d just left.

“Well, that’s fine. Come in. Take over.”

Bori blinked at him and he closed the door.

He crossed the room slowly, sat down beside her, and let his body slump sideways until he was lying on the couch with Bori curled at his hip. One of her paws nudged his thigh.

And then she purred.

It wasn’t loud. Just a soft, steady vibration. I-ram reached out and rested a hand on her neck. She didn’t flinch or move. His eyes closed before he realized it.

It was stupid, how fast the quiet cracked him open. How the gentle hum of a cat’s purr could rattle something loose in his ribs.

He hadn’t touched anyone since… He swallowed and didn’t finish the thought.

Instead, he focused on the small, living thing beside him.

She was clean. She smelled faintly of plants and fabric softener. She smelled like Do-yun’s apartment.

And for a brief, terrifying moment, he wished she were him.

Not for anything romantic. Just for... closeness. For the feeling of being seen and not pulled apart.

That ache again. That stupid, needy, nameless ache.

“I’m fine,” he whispered, as if she’d asked. “I’m totally fine.”

Bori purred louder. Maybe tomorrow he’d be braver. Maybe tomorrow he’d name the thing coiling in his chest.

But tonight?

Tonight, he would lie here with the cat that betrayed her owner, in the apartment that smelled like longing, and pretend he didn’t want to be touched.

End of Episode Sixteen