My mother’s eyes don't look at me first. No, that would be too easy. She lifts her chin, her nostrils flaring delicately as she inhales. The expression that crosses her face is one I’ve only seen her make when a waiter brings her the wrong vintage of wine—a mix of confusion and profound distaste.
She smells it. There is no way she doesn't. The air is so thick withAlpha—with musk, sweat, and the undeniable, pungent tang of spent sex—that it’s practically visible.
Her gaze drops. She scans the room over my shoulder.
She sees the pile of clothes. She sees the twisted, ruined sheets. She sees the lube bottle on the nightstand. And then, her eyes land on Donghwa.
Donghwa is standing by the bed, barefoot, wearing my grey joggers that are slightly too short for his long legs and a t-shirt that is definitely too tight across his chest. His hair is a mess, his lips are swollen, and he has a fresh, purple bruise on his neck that I definitely put there around 3:00 AM.
He doesn't cower. Because he’s Donghwa, and he lacks the survival instinct God gave the rest of us, he just stands there and blinks at her, face impassive.
My mother’s gaze snaps back to me. Her eyes narrow into slits.
"Sihwan," she says, her voice dangerously calm. "What is all this?"
My brain short-circuits.
I open my mouth, and a hundred lies die on my tongue.
We were wrestling.No, the room smells like a brothel.
He’s my personal trainer.No, personal trainers don't sleep over for three days and leave hickeys.
I’m being robbed.No, he’s wearing my favorite sweatpants.
There is no explanation for two Alphas smelling like this unless they were trying to kill each other or screw each other. And since we aren't bleeding, the verdict is damning.
I look at her. I look at the disaster behind me. I look at Donghwa, who is watching me with a sudden, sharp intensity, waiting to see if I’m going to throw him under the bus.
If I tell her the truth—that I accidentally bonded with a freshman rival and we just spent a rut hate-fucking—she will have an aneurysm. She will disown me. She will cancel my credit cards and scrub my name from the family registry before lunch.
But if I lie... if I spin this right...
I swallow hard, my throat clicking. I straighten my spine, trying to summon some shred of dignity despite the fact that I’m barely standing upright.
I let out a shaky breath and gesture vaguely toward the six-foot-three disaster standing in the middle of my room.
"Mom," I say, my voice cracking only a little. "This is... my boyfriend."
I turn slightly, gesturing back to the terrifying woman in the cream suit, praying Donghwa doesn't say anything stupid.
"Donghwa, this is my mother."
I wait for the world to end. I wait for the walls to crumble, for the floor to open up and swallow me whole, or for my mother to simply vaporize me with her laser-vision glare.
But the explosion doesn't come.
Instead, Donghwa moves.
He steps forward, navigating the minefield of discarded boxers and empty water bottles with a grace that frankly pisses me off. He stops three feet in front of her, brings his heels together, and executes a bow so perfect, so crisp and respectful, that you’d think he was wearing a tuxedo instead of my stretched-out grey joggers and a t-shirt that’s clinging to his chest for dear life.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Director Choi," Donghwa says, his voice rough from sleep but steady as a rock. He straightens up, meeting her eyes with a calm deference that screamsbreeding. "I apologize for the untidiness. We weren't expecting company."
My mother blinks. For a split second, the corporate mask slips.
Her eyes dart over him, sharp and assessing. She’s not looking at the clothes anymore; she’s looking at the bone structure, the posture, the way he holds himself. And she’s smelling him. I see her nostrils flare, just a fraction.
She smells theAlpha.
