Elena let out a tired sigh and gave her husband a faint nod.

"Yes, Mish. Late manifestation. And a strong one, it seems."

Mikhail took another sip, looking thoughtfully at the steam rising from his cup, then glanced up toward the ceiling, where no sound was coming from anymore. A faint, wry smile crossed his lips.

"So what are we going to do about this son-in-law, Len?" the engineer asked quietly, shaking his head. "It's written all over his face he'll tear half the house down if we so much as try to go upstairs. Did you see him? Kid looks like he's guarding a state secret, not our son."

Elena smiled tiredly, appreciating her husband's attempt to lighten the mood, but her fingers stayed clenched tight around the edges of her sweater.

"First, tea," she said gently. "And we should let his parents know."

The foreign scents flared up with fresh, almost suffocating force in the half-light of the room. Stuart's concentrated forest cedar and Alexei's rising, creamy-sweet gardenia collided in the closed space, crowding out the familiar air.

Alexei sagged back against the smooth surface of the door, drained. The graphite blazer still hung on his narrow shoulders, holding onto Stuart's warmth. His knees kept trembling faintly, his breath still uneven, but here, in his own space, he finally let his eyes close.

Stuart didn't back off an inch. He stood right in front of him, breathing hard and deep. His whole body tensed as he slowly raised a hand and touched Alexei's pale cheek, and Alexei's eyes came open at the touch.

"Al," his voice came out unusually rough, almost hoarse with the rut he was holding back. "I'm here. You're home."

Alexei swallowed hard, feeling the sweetness of gardenia rise in a hot wave at that simple touch, drowning out everything else. He gripped the sleeve of Stuart's white shirt tighter, not letting him pull away.

A quiet knock at the door made Stuart's head snap up at once. His gray-blue eyes narrowed, and his fingers, still holding Alexei's slender hand, tightened a fraction, his protective hold locking in.

The door eased open, and Elena appeared on the threshold of the graphite bedroom, carrying two large mugs, steam rising thick off them. Careful not to cross the invisible line where the air went dense with the mixed scent of dry cedar and creamy gardenia, she stopped right at the edge of the two zones, scanning the room with an analyst's careful eye.

Already changed into a loose black hoodie, Alexei lay propped against the pillows, the feverish flush faded from his fair skin, his straight dark hair combed neatly back. Elena kept her engineer's composure on the outside, giving nothing away.

Stuart sat straight on the floor by the bed, long, muscled legs crossed. Against the sterile, monochrome order of the room, his broad-shouldered frame in a white shirt with an open collar looked like some huge, brutal monolith. His large hand cradled Alexei's palm, mindful of its own strength.

"I brought you tea," Elena said, stepping forward to the white desk by the window. She set the mugs down exactly parallel to the pencil organizer, respecting her son's need for order. "Herbal, with mint. It'll help stabilize your blood pressure."

Alexei smiled weakly, still not letting go of Stuart's hand.

"Thanks, Mom. I feel much better."

Elena turned a direct, focused look on Stuart. Under her steady gaze, Stuart straightened his shoulders. The hum in his chest, working like a biological tranquilizer for Alexei, deepened for a second, as if warning that he was ready to defend his claim.

"Stuart," she said, working to keep her usual even tone. "My husband's downstairs right now with Dr. Hayes, sorting out the medical paperwork. Alexei needs complete rest for the next three or four days. His readings are stable thanks to you, and we're grateful for that. I need to let your parents know what's happened, and, I don't even know how to ask this, request that you stay here for a while, if that doesn't disrupt anyone's plans."

Elena's eyes filled with tears at that.

Stuart looked at her, calm, no trace of teenage awkwardness. His eyes stayed crystal clear, and his low, still-changing voice carried the cold, adult independence of someone long used to the emptiness of a huge brutalist house.

"Nothing to worry about," he answered, and something in his tone quietly grounded the fear hanging in the room. "My parents won't be back until the end of the week. I'll have the estate manager send some things over, and I'll let them know myself."

Elena gave a small nod and, wiping her eyes, slipped quietly out of the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her.

The two boys were alone again. Stuart waited until the footsteps on the floating staircase faded, then tried to fish his phone out of his pants pocket. A funny grimace crossed his face, and he twisted awkwardly, one big, muscled leg, crossed and still for half an hour, had gone completely numb. Alexei, catching this sudden shift from dominant titan to ordinary teenager, let out a quiet, soft snort, hiding a smile in the high collar of his oversized hoodie.

Stretching his legs out on the carpet, Stuart unlocked the screen. Dialing the Kingsley estate manager, he rattled off his instructions in the clear, commanding tone of a corporate heir. Stuart listed off what he needed: a change of clothes, his own workout gear, a tactical tablet. He asked for the box to be delivered to the Kravtsovs' side entrance within the hour. He paused for a second, then added a request for the first-aid kit from his own room, and asked the chef to send along something special, something sweet, an instinctive gesture of care for the fragile omega, whose own creamy scent right now needed quiet, careful comfort.

Once he'd finished the call, Stuart went still for a moment. His thumb hovered motionless over the lit screen, his gray-blue eyes darkening with an unfamiliar, weighted thoughtfulness. He was clearly torn, his eyes moving between the formal, curt "Father" and the softer, familiar "Dad" in his contacts. The smell of cognac, thick cigar smoke, and the crushing metal of Kingsley Sr.'s office seemed to press through the numbers on the screen alone. Stuart knew too well that calling Victor Kingsley right now meant a cold legal review and immediate intervention from the holding company's security team. Setting his clean-shaven jaw, he pushed past the hesitation and pressed Mark's name instead.

The call connected fast, as if the phone on the other end had already been in hand. Stuart kept his voice short, dry, stripped of feeling as much as he could manage, and gave nothing away about the hormonal disaster that had just torn through the Academy.

"Dad, hey. I'm not coming home for a few days. Staying at a classmate's. Everything's fine, it's my call."

A heavy, physical silence settled on the other end of the line. Through the speaker it almost seemed as if the anxious, thick scent of white sandalwood carried across the line. Mark Kingsley knew his dominant, headstrong heir far too well to believe an offhand "everything's fine."

"I hear you, Stuart," his father's voice came through gentle but unusually stern and cold, carrying a weight that was almost frightening. There was no panic in it, only unbending parental authority. "Arguing with you right now won't get me anywhere, I know how stubborn you are. But keep this in mind: once everyone's home, you've got a very serious conversation waiting for you. With both of us."