Ever since that night of reckless sex in Pier’s club bathroom, something has changed.
Hanjae feels it on his skin, deep in his chest, in every little gesture Jiwoon gives him—but above all, he sees it.

He sees it in Jiwoon’s eyes when he looks at him. The long stares, distracted and dazed. He sees it in the way Jiwoon touches him: hungry, yet tender, as if rediscovering his body all over again. As if he never wanted to stop.

The bite mark is still there, on his neck.
The faint ridges pressed into pale skin between collarbone and shoulder haven’t faded completely, and every time his fingertips brush over them, his heartbeat quickens.

It’s an unstable mark, alpha to alpha.
It won’t last long, but Hanjae doesn’t care. Sometimes he traces it slowly, hidden beneath his sweatshirt, sometimes in front of the mirror, and smiles.

Jiwoon has changed. He’s clingier. More present.
Sweeter.

Sometimes he falls asleep against him. Sometimes he grabs his hand in the middle of the street. Sometimes he shows up at the bookstore just to watch him study, and Hanjae is getting used to it all. Unbothered by the fear curled up in a dark corner of his soul. By the voice that whispers: don’t get your hopes up. But he can’t help himself.

It’s late afternoon. The bookstore is quiet, only a few omegas scattered with books in hand, the usual barista pouring coffee behind the counter.

Hanjae lifts his eyes from his textbooks—criminal law, economics, civil code—and feels it before he sees it.
A whiff of lavender reaches him. Soft, yet unmistakable.

He turns, and there Jiwoon is, leaning against the doorway. Arms crossed. Crooked smile.

Hanjae’s heart lights up. He smiles.

“How much longer?” Jiwoon asks, walking up to him.
He stops beside him, resting a hand on the pile of books.

“Hmm… maybe half an hour more. Why?”

Jiwoon gently ruffles his hair, threading fingers through the strands. Hanjae lowers his gaze to hide how much he likes it.

“I was thinking about dinner. Eun Woo recommended this place.”

“Yeah? With who?”
Hanjae’s eyes flick past Jiwoon’s shoulder. A pair of omegas sitting nearby are watching, whispering to each other. He feels their stares burning into his skin. He tries to ignore it.

“What do you mean with who? Just us two.”
Jiwoon strokes his cheek, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “Hotel Glad Mapo. Four stars, fusion cuisine. Supposed to be quiet, with a view of the city.”

Hanjae’s eyes widen. “You’re serious? What do you need to apologize for, Jeon Jiwoon?”

Jiwoon laughs, dropping his gaze. “A semi-permanent mark… and…”

“And?”

Jiwoon sits down beside him, rubbing his face with hesitation. Hanjae stares, heart racing. “What, Jiwoon?!”

“A gala. At my grandfather’s house. Next Sunday.”

Hanjae blinks at him. Then it bursts out: “You’ve got to be kidding me?!”

Heads turn. He slaps a hand over his mouth, cheeks burning. “Forget it.”

“Come on! Don’t make me go alone! They’ll grill me about the breakup with you-know-who.”

Hanjae stiffens. “And if they smell you on me? Or see the mark? It’ll take at least another five or six weeks to fade!”

“It’s winter. We can cover it. And the scent’s not a problem—my rut’s coming, so my hormones will be stronger. They’ll cover everything.”

Hanjae stares, unconvinced.

“And besides…” Jiwoon adds, voice lower, “even if they did notice—it’s none of their business.”

Hanjae looks down. Says nothing.
He knows that’s not true. In Jiwoon’s family, mixed unions are frowned upon. The perfect son, the ideal heir, is always born of alpha and omega.

But he sighs. And nods.
He’d cover himself up well that day. Avoid every problem.
For him. Only for him.

That evening, dinner feels like a private show.

The restaurant is elegant, with glass walls overlooking the glittering city.
Soft lighting, jazz music, waiters moving like dancers.

Jiwoon booked a corner table—discreet, but with a view.
Hanjae arrives in a long coat, scarf wrapped high around his neck. His eyes lined dark, hair styled in soft waves.

Jiwoon looks at him like he’s staring at the moon up close.

“Stop it,” Hanjae mutters, lowering his gaze, embarrassed.

“I didn’t say anything,” Jiwoon replies, but he takes his hand. Keeps it on the table through the entire dinner.

They share dishes. Tease each other. Play a game: guess the mystery ingredient. Whoever’s wrong has to do a dare.

By the third course, Hanjae’s already losing.

“Okay, okay… a dare. Tell me.”
Jiwoon looks him in the eyes, smiling mischievously. “You have to send me a sexy picture tonight. Just for me.”

Hanjae smacks him with the napkin.

He laughs.

Laughs so hard his eyes crease, his cheeks turning red.

They feel light. Normal.
For a moment, there are no ranks. No marks. No families.
Just them.

At the end of dinner, Hanjae gets up, takes his coat, and heads for the exit, but Jiwoon gently grabs his wrist, pulling him back.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“We’ve got a room.”

He says it with a sly smile, eyes darkening.

Hanjae stares as Jiwoon leans in.
“Here? How much did it cost you?”

“Does it matter?” Jiwoon wraps his arms around his waist, pulling them closer.

Hanjae glances around quickly, then back at him, smiling. “You really would do anything just to bring me to your family, huh?”

That makes Jiwoon laugh hard. He grabs his hand again and leads him toward the elevators.

It would be another night of passion—but above all, of sweetness.