"You look terrible," he says by way of greeting, stepping inside before I can even invite him in.
"What the hell are you doing here?" My voice comes out rough, deeper than usual. I wince at the sound of it. "I didn't call you."
Donghwa kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. He walks past me into the kitchen, setting the coffees down on the island with a calm deliberation that makes my teeth grind.
"I know you didn't," he says, turning to face me. He leans his hip against the counter, crossing his arms. "You were going to wait until you were climbing the walls, and then you were going to try to suffer through it alone for half the day because you're stubborn."
I bristle, mostly because he’s right. "I was going to text you."
"Sure."
"I was!" I snap, the aggression flaring up instantly. My temper is on a hair-trigger, the rut stripping away my usual filter. "And how did you know, anyway? Do you have a tracker on me?"
Donghwa taps his temple. "Math, Hyung. It’s been exactly six weeks since the last cycle. Biology is predictable. You, even more so."
"You've been tracking my cycle?" I stare at him, a mix of indignation and something darker, something hotter, curling in my stomach. "That is creepy. You know that, right? That’s stalker behavior."
"It’s practical," he counters, unbothered. He gestures to the plastic bag. "I brought electrolytes, energy bars, and those wet wipes you like because you get fussy about the mess."
I open my mouth to tell him to get out, to tell him I don't need a babysitter, but the scent reaches me.
Now that he’s in the enclosed space, his pheromones are bleeding into the air.Winter air. Ink. Ginseng.It cuts through the humid, suffocating heat of my own scent like a blade. It hits my nose and travels straight down my spine, settling heavily in my groin.
My knees unlock. The anger evaporates, replaced instantly by a desperate, clawing need.
"Fuck," I breathe out, leaning against the wall for support. The throb in my ass—the phantom ache that only he can fix—pulses in time with my heartbeat.
Donghwa watches the change happen. He sees the way my pupils blow wide, the way my posture shifts from defensive to pliable. A dark satisfaction settles in his eyes. He doesn't move toward me, not yet. He just stands there, letting his scent do the work, forcing me to acknowledge the reality of the situation.
"Still think it's creepy?" he asks, his voice dropping that terrifyingly attractive octave.
I glare at him, but there's no heat in it. I’m already walking toward him. I can’t help it. The bond is a physical tether, reeling me in.
"I hate you," I mutter, grabbing the front of his hoodie and yanking him forward.
"I know," Donghwa murmurs, dropping the act as his hands come up to grip my waist, his thumbs digging into my hip bones. "Now, are we going to talk, or are you going to let me take care of you?"
I bury my face in his neck, inhaling deeply, and surrender.
The next forty-eight hours are a fever dream, a blur of heat and friction and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that usually only comes after swimming a marathon.
Ruts are messy, undignified affairs. Usually, I spend them alone, miserable, wallowing in a nest of blankets and self-pity while chewing on ibuprofen like candy. But this? This is different.
It’s terrifyingly effective.
Donghwa manages me like I’m a project. When the fever spikes and I’m clawing at his back, begging for friction, he gives it to me—rough, claiming, and precise. He knows exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure to apply to my hips to keep me grounded when my brain is melting out of my ears.
But it’s the downtime that freaks me out.
It’s Sunday afternoon. The worst of the fever has broken, leaving me feeling like a wrung-out towel. I’m sitting on the kitchen floor—because apparently, the walk to the living room was too far—wearing one of Donghwa’s oversized hoodies that swallows my hands.
Donghwa is standing at the stove, reheating porridge. He’s shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, the dark ink of the tiger on his back flexing as he stirs the pot.
"Eat," he says, turning around and handing me a bowl. He slides down the cabinet to sit next to me, his knee knocking against mine.
"I'm not hungry," I grumble, though my stomach immediately betrays me with a loud growl.
"Open up." He doesn't even look at me, just scoops a spoonful, blows on it, and holds it to my mouth.
