This chapter was too small to be its own thing but was too much of a time jump to be combined with the previous so... Enjoy this mini chapter.

Kaiseng finished the last of his instructions with a small smile. “Take it easy on that shoulder,” he added lightly, tugging his gloves free as the patient nodded and headed down the hall.

He turned back toward the nurses’ station, dropping the gloves into the bin as he joined the others, just as Bellamy leaned back against the counter beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. One of Bellamy’s hands rested on the edge of the station—positioned just behind Kaiseng, casual and unassuming.

Two other nurses were mid-conversation, voices low as they compared shift notes and complained about charting. End-of-day fatigue softened the space, the kind that came with routine rather than crisis.

Bellamy glanced sideways at him. “You’re popular,” he murmured.

Kaiseng huffed quietly. “It’s the bedside manner.”

“Everyone knows Nurse Park is popular,” Mai said as she stepped over, slipping a pen into her pocket. “Handsome. Nice. Funny.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Bellamy added lightly. “Funny is subjective.” He leaned in just enough to murmur, “Just kidding,” before straightening again.

Kai glanced up at the group as Bellamy pulled away.

The three women were watching them now—knowing smiles, faintly flushed faces, the kind of attention that lingered a beat too long to be coincidence.

They weren’t exclusive. But in the month since Kaiseng had returned to work, it hadn’t gone unnoticed how close they’d become. Bellamy didn’t keep him at arm’s length or tucked into quiet corners. He folded him easily into his circle—friends, lunches, offhand invitations—until Kaiseng was no longer the one hovering at the edge of things.

The automatic doors slammed open.

“Trauma coming in—now!”

The room snapped into motion.

Kaiseng didn’t think—he moved. Gloves on. Gurney rolling. Someone calling vitals while another nurse cleared space. The paramedics pushed through fast, voices overlapping.

“Male, mid-twenties. Found on the shoulder just off the highway. Passing car called it in.”

The patient’s face was swollen—one eye already purpling shut. Blood matted his hair, streaked down the side of his neck. His chest rose shallowly, uneven. Defensive wounds bloomed across his forearms and hands—knuckles split, fingers stiff, bruises layered beneath older ones.

He adjusted his grip automatically as they transferred the patient, noting the way the ribs moved, the tension locked into the man’s shoulders even unconscious. The injuries weren’t wild. They were controlled. Measured. The kind meant to hurt without killing.

“BP’s unstable,” one of the medics said. “He was conscious for maybe thirty seconds. Kept trying to curl in.”

Kaiseng guided the gurney through the doors, already cataloging damage the way muscle memory demanded. He didn’t need to look twice to know this wasn’t a mugging. Or a bar fight. This was a loser who hadn’t been worth finishing. Someone who’d lasted just long enough to be inconvenient.

The doors swung shut behind them.

Only then did he realize Bellamy was beside him again, matching his pace, voice low and steady as they worked. 

“Looks like a dump job,” Bellamy said under his breath.

“That’s the third dump job this week,” another nurse muttered.

“We need an immunoassay,” Kaiseng said loudly. “He’ll likely have something in his system.”

It was off-season for the professional circuits. Underground fights always surged when the lights went dark—entertainment for people who liked to gamble on men breaking each other when no one was watching.

***

The water was too hot.

Kaiseng didn’t adjust it.

He stood beneath the spray, head bowed, letting it beat against the crown of his head, streaming down his shoulders and along his spine, until his skin flushed and his thoughts thinned into something manageable.

He felt it before he heard it. The soft slide of the shower door. Familiar movement behind him. Unhurried. Lips pressed lightly between his shoulder blades.

“Are you okay?” Bellamy asked quietly. “You’ve been quiet ever since that last patient.”

Kaiseng dipped his head lower, letting the water pound louder as Bellamy’s body settled against his back, arms slipping around his waist. He lifted his chin just enough to speak out of the spray, fingers tracing down Bellamy’s forearm in a grounding, absent gesture.

“I used to know someone in that kind of scene.”

There was no pressure in the pause that followed.

Bellamy hummed softly. “I hope they never had to experience that.”

Kai’s eyes closed briefly. “I…” His breath hitched, barely there. “I hope so too.”

“Y–your pheromones,” Bellamy said softly.

He shifted, turning just enough to look at Kaiseng’s face—and Kaiseng mirrored the movement, forced to meet his eyes. Steam curled between them, the air heavy now with something sharper beneath the heat.

Kaiseng dragged a hand back through his wet hair, exhaling slowly. “Sorry. I didn’t realize they were leaking.”

Bellamy’s brows knit—not alarmed. Attentive. “You’re stressed.”

Kaiseng let out a quiet huff. “Occupational hazard.” Then, after a beat, more deliberate: “My rut’s coming up. Soon.”

Something in Bellamy’s expression eased.

“Oh,” he said. “Right. That makes sense.”

It wasn’t just an excuse.

Usually, this part came and went quietly. A few days where his body felt muted, dulled by routine and chemistry. Suppressants kept the edge off, kept others from noticing. When the rut arrived, blockers did the rest.

He’d gotten used to it—handling it on his own, riding it out without needing anyone else in the room. Without needing a scent to anchor to.

He’d built his life around that control.

Bellamy made it harder to pretend it was still enough. There was only so much suppressants and blockers could hold back.

“You don’t have to suppress it around me,” Bellamy added gently. “I don’t mind.”

“Oh?” Kaiseng murmured, unable to resist the tease as he leaned closer, nose brushing Bellamy’s jaw.

Bellamy inhaled sharply despite himself. Color bloomed faintly across his cheeks as his hand slid up Kaiseng’s abdomen, over his chest, and came to rest at his jaw.

“I don’t want to be forward,” Bellamy said, voice low, earnest. “But if you need someone to help you through it… I’m here. And if you want space, I can do that too. Just—tell me what you need, and I’ll follow.”

Kaiseng closed his eyes.

“Do I have to decide right now?” The question came out softer than he meant it to, exhaustion threading through it.

“No,” Bellamy said without hesitation. “You set the pace.”

Something in Kaiseng loosened at that. He leaned in, lips tracing the warm pulse at Bellamy’s throat, scent slipping free to mark him.