Rain pounded against the windows with relentless fury, breaking the silence of the house.
A thunderclap tore through the sky, and Hanjae woke with a jolt.
His heart hammered in his chest, his skin slightly damp with sweat. He looked around, disoriented.

It was dark.
Only the bluish light from the streetlamps cast trembling reflections on the walls.

His body felt rigid, his head heavy, as if running from something—or maybe just remembering.
He was only fifteen, and the pain didn’t yet have a name.
Just a vice around his chest.
Just the feeling of being wrong, broken in some way.

His body burned, his skin felt too tight.
The air was thick, hard to breathe.
Hormones raging, glands pulsing.
He was alone; the house was empty and silent, except for the screaming wind and the relentless rain hammering the windows.

How long had he been alone in there? He didn’t know anymore.

His parents treated him like a lost object, passing him back and forth while too busy fighting to notice he existed, that he was growing, that he needed them.

He tried calling them. No answer. Not even a message.
He wanted to leave, run to the hospital, ask for help, but the thought of being touched, examined, or sedated paralyzed him.

He was scared. Scared of himself. And he had no one. No one, except one.

In a desperate gesture, he grabbed his phone. His hands trembled. He typed:
“I’m not okay. My body is burning… I don’t know. I’m scared.”

He hesitated. The cursor blinked. He could delete it. Pretend it never happened.

Then he pressed send.

He sent it to him.
To Jeon Jiwoon.

The minutes that followed felt eternal.
The phone remained silent until it rang, but he didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Yet he knew he would come.

And so he did.

The sound of the front door made him jump. Wet footsteps thudded against the floor, the hallway light cutting through the darkness of the room.

“Hanjae?!”
Jiwoon’s voice.

When he saw him beside the bed, shirt soaked and eyes full of worry, Hanjae felt like a child.

“How did you get in…?” he asked softly.
“You hid the keys under the flowerpot, genius.”

Jiwoon moved closer. He looked at him like one looks at something precious and fragile. He sat gently, then wrapped him in an embrace.
He said nothing more, only:
“I recognize it… I’ve been through it too…”

“W-what is…?”
“Your Rut, Hanjae… Seems you’re really an alpha.”

The news hit him like a knife to the heart, but he said nothing; the pain in his body, the burning in his skin, was too intense to process.

“Hey…” Jiwoon held him tighter, and Hanjae smelled him for the first time. His scent, the faint mix of lavender and soap.

It was home.
It was refuge.
It was love.

In that moment—even though he didn’t dare call it that yet—Hanjae understood:
he could never want anyone else but him.

A thunderclap. The present hit him like a cold wave.

Hanjae ran a hand across his face and got out of bed. Bare feet against the cold floor. The hallway was dim. The rain kept falling, relentless.

He stopped in front of Jiwoon’s half-open door.
He entered.

He found him asleep, lying on his side. Relaxed face, lips slightly parted. Slow, deep breathing.

Hanjae stayed and watched. There was something cruel in the way the moonlight kissed Jiwoon’s perfect features, as if reminding him how far away he was, even when just a step away.

Need overwhelmed him. Not just physical, but something deeper, more intimate.
The desperate desire to belong, to be chosen.

He gently lifted the covers and slid into the bed.
He had known Jiwoon his whole life. He knew his sleep was deep, unshakable.

He slipped into his arms as he had countless times before, but this time it was different.
He settled slowly, back against chest. Fingers curling around his torso.

And then it happened.
Jiwoon moved in his sleep, instinctively. He held him tighter. He kept him as if it were natural, as if it were right. But Hanjae knew.
He knew that probably, in the dream, he wasn’t hugging him.
It was Minji.

The thought pierced him.
He lifted his gaze, studying the face he knew better than his own.
He brushed a strand of hair from Jiwoon’s forehead, touched his cheek.

How many times had he wanted to kiss him like that?
How many times had he forced himself not to?
How long had it been since he realized he loved him? Years?

At first, it had been a tender feeling. Admiration. A crush.
Then it had grown, silently, like something forbidden.
A love he had to suppress, learned to hide with smiles and jokes.

Over time, he had accepted being just a friend.
Watching him love someone else.
Comforting him, then stepping aside when things went well.

But now it was different.
Now that he had tasted Jiwoon’s lips and skin, now that he had felt that closeness, his heart could no longer pretend. Meanwhile, Minji kept writing.
Short, direct messages. Asking to meet. To talk. To clarify.

Hanjae knew.
He knew that sooner or later, Minji would come to claim him.
Jiwoon couldn’t say no, not entirely. Perhaps he didn’t even want to, and so he buried his face in his chest. Smelling him.
Suppressing a sob.

“How much longer can I keep you away?” he whispered.

Jiwoon moved again, arms tightening around him.

Hanjae’s heart broke a little more.
The pain.
The guilt.
The love.

A single vortex that swallowed him, suffocated him.

Once, he had only wanted to be near him. But now?
Now, he wanted to be chosen.

He closed his eyes.
Just for a few hours.
Just for the tonight.