"I have hands, Donghwa. I’m an Alpha, not a toddler."
"You're shaking," he points out calmly. "And if you drop that bowl, I’m not cleaning it up until tomorrow. Eat."
I glare at him, but I open my mouth. The porridge is warm, savory, and settles the hollow ache in my gut instantly. He feeds me the whole bowl in silence, wiping a stray drop from my chin with his thumb. It’s so casual. So practiced. Like we’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks.
That’s the part that scares me. The sex is biology; I can blame the bond for that. But this? The domesticity? The way he anticipates my needs before I even vocalize them? That’s something else.
Later, we shower.
Usually, I’m territorial about my bathroom. It’s my sanctuary of expensive hair products and carefully curated lighting. But now, the room is filled with steam, and Donghwa is crowded in there with me.
My legs are still shaky, so I lean back against his chest, letting him take my weight. He lathers shampoo into my hair, his fingers massaging my scalp with a firm, rhythmic pressure that makes my eyes roll back in my head.
"You use too much product," he murmurs, rinsing the suds away. "Your hair feels like straw."
"It’s called styling," I slur, eyes closed, head lolling back against his shoulder. "You wouldn't understand, Mr. I-Woke-Up-Like-This."
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest and into my back. He grabs the bar of soap and starts washing my shoulders, avoiding the fresh bite mark he left there last night with a surprising amount of tenderness. He traces the ink of the tattoos on his own arm against my skin as he reaches around to wash my chest.
I look down at our bodies—my tan skin against his paler complexion, the water sluicing over the hard muscle of his forearm draped across me. It looks right. It looks like a set.
I squeeze my eyes shut.Stop it,I tell myself.Don't get used to this. He’s a stuck-up ass. He’s annoying. He’s temporary.
But when we stumble back to bed, clean and smelling like my expensive body wash mixed with his winter scent, I don't kick him out.
I curl up on my side, burying my face in the pillow. Donghwa settles in behind me immediately. There’s no hesitation, no awkward "where do I put my arm" dance. He just wraps himself around me, pulling me back until my spine is flush against his chest. He throws a heavy leg over mine, pinning me in place, and buries his nose in the hair at the nape of my neck.
"Sleep," he commands, his voice thick with sleep already.
"You're heavy," I whisper, but I don't move.
"You're warm."
He sighs, his breathing evening out within seconds.
I lie there in the dark, listening to the steady thump of his heart against my back. The bond hums between us, a quiet, contented static in my brain. The nausea is gone. The anxiety is gone. The fever and the all consuming lust will return later, once the high from our first couple rounds this morning fade. But now, for the first time in weeks, I don't feel like I have to perform. I don't have to be the loudest guy in the room or the strongest Alpha on the block.
I just have to exist.
I drift off with his scent filling my lungs, terrified by the realization that waking up alone tomorrow is going to feel a hell of a lot worse than the rut itself.
The next morning I wake suddenly, and the first thing I register is the silence.
The frantic, animalistic heat that’s been boiling my brain for the last three days has finally simmered down to a dull, manageable hum. My head feels stuffed with cotton, my limbs are made of lead, and there is a very distinct, very heavy weight pinning my left leg to the mattress.
I crack one eye open. The morning sun is filtering through the blackout curtains I forgot to close properly, slicing across the disaster zone that is my bedroom. Clothes are scattered like they were fired out of a cannon. The air is thick, stale, and smells aggressively of sex and burnt cedar.
And then there’s the culprit.
Donghwa is sprawled on his stomach, taking up seventy percent of my California King bed. He’s naked, the sheet tangled around his waist doing absolutely nothing to cover the sprawling ink of the tiger tattoo rippling across his shoulder blades as he breathes. His arm is thrown over my waist, his hand resting possessively on my hip bone.
For a second, just a second, I don't panic. I just look at him. He looks younger when he’s asleep, less like a stoic genius sent to torment me and more like a guy who just needs a nap.
Then, the sound cuts through the room like a gunshot.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
My heart stops. I know that sound. That is the cheerful, electronic chime of my front door’s smart lock.
