That electronic chirp triggers a biological response in me usually reserved for apex predators or incoming nuclear missiles.
My blood runs cold. I know that code. I know who has that code. There is only one person in the world terrifying enough to bypass the doorman, the elevator security, and my own lock without calling first.
Mother.
Panic, sharp and electric, overrides every ounce of exhaustion in my body. I launch myself out of bed, ignoring the protest of my overused muscles and the distinct wobble in my legs.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I chant, a mantra of pure terror.
I spin around and see Donghwa still comatose, face buried in the pillow, looking like a statue of a fallen Greek god carved out of marble.
I don't have time for gentle. I don't have time for romance.
I deliver a sharp, ungraceful kick to his exposed hip bone.
"Get up!" I hiss, hopping on one foot as I try to locate a pair of boxers in the debris field that is my floor. "Get the fuck up, Donghwa!"
Donghwa grunts, shifting sluggishly. He blinks one eye open, looking at me with the glazed, hollowed-out expression of a man who has spent the last seventy-two hours depleting his entire life force. His voice is a wreck, a deep, raspy scrape of sound.
"What?" He sounds like he’s gargling gravel. He tries to roll over, pulling the sheet with him. "Is the building on fire?"
"Worse!" I screech, whispering-screaming as I snatch a pair of sweatpants from the lampshade—why are they on the lampshade?—and hop into them. "My mother! My mother is at the door!"
Donghwa blinks. The information travels slowly through the fog of his post-rut brain. "Your... mom?"
I scramble over a pile of towels, snatching up a t-shirt that looks vaguely clean, and hurl it at his face.
"Put it on!" I snap, grabbing a pair of grey joggers from the floor and throwing those too. They hit him in the chest. "Get decent!"
The sound of the front door unlatching echoes through the apartment like a gavel slamming down in a courtroom.
Donghwa freezes, his eyes snapping wide. The fog of sleep vanishes instantly, replaced by a sharp, terrifying clarity. He looks at me, then at the door, and moves.
I’ve never seen a man put on pants that fast in my life. He yanks the grey joggers up, stumbling slightly as he hops on one foot, and drags the t-shirt over his head in a single fluid motion. It’s impressive, athletic even, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if he's fully clothed. It doesn't matter if he suddenly pulls a tuxedo out of his ass and starts reciting Shakespeare.
I look around the room, and a whimper dies in my throat.
We are screwed.
The bedroom looks like a bomb went off inside a laundry factory. The sheets are half on the floor, tangled in a heap that screams“we did unspeakable things here.”There are empty water bottles, protein bar wrappers, and—oh god—the distinct, shiny gleam of a lube bottle tipped over on the nightstand.
But the visual damage isn't even the worst part. It’s the smell.
The air is thick enough to chew on. It’s a heavy, suffocating cloud of burnt cedar and musk, layered with the sharp, biting scent of winter air. It smells like aggression. It smells like sex. It smells, undeniably, like two Alphas spent the last three days tearing each other apart.
"Sihwan?"
Her voice cuts through the hallway, sharp and polished as a diamond cutter. It’s followed by the terrifying, rhythmicclick-clack-click-clackof designer heels on hardwood.
I lunge for the bedroom doorway, my hand outstretched to grab the handle, desperate to slam it shut and buy us thirtyseconds to maybe shove Donghwa out the window or set the room on fire as a distraction. But I’m too slow. My legs are still jelly from three days of marathon sex, and my coordination is shot.
I barely make it to the frame when she appears.
Choi Yerim, Executive Director of Oh! Paradise Hotels and the woman who once told me my triceps looked "sad" at a family dinner, stops dead in the hallway. She is immaculate. Of course she is. She’s wearing a cream-colored power suit that probably costs more than my car, her hair is coiffed into a razor-sharp bob, and her makeup is flawless.
She stands there, a beacon of corporate perfection, staring into the abyss of my degeneracy.
I freeze, gripping the doorframe like a lifeline. Behind me, I can feel Donghwa’s presence, a looming heat radiating off his back.
