I stop.
Donghwa is standing there in nothing but low-slung black sweatpants, a towel draped carelessly around his neck. Water is still dripping from the ends of his hair, sliding down the cords of his neck and tracking over the ink on his chest. The tiger tattoo looks like it’s prowling as he breathes, the black ink stark against his pale skin, water droplets clinging to the plum blossoms on his shoulder.
He looks incredible. Obviously. That’s just his baseline state of existence.
But something is wrong.
He’s flushed. Not the healthy, post-shower pink from hot water, but a feverish, high-contrast flush that burns high on his cheekbones. His chest is heaving, the breaths coming a little too fast, a little too shallow. And his eyes... his pupils are blown so wide the dark brown is almost swallowed by black, making him look dazed.
"Hey," I say, my annoyance evaporating instantly. I take a step toward him. "What’s wrong?"
Donghwa blinks, like he’s having trouble bringing me into focus. His grin slips, replaced by a tight grimace.
"What? Oh." He shakes his head, sending a spray of water droplets flying. He tries to lean casually against the doorframe, but it looks more like he’s propping himself up. "Nothing. Just my rut starting."
He says it casually. Like he’s telling me the Wi-Fi is spotty.
My eyes widen. "Already? You said the weekend. It’s barely Friday night."
"Biology isn't an exact science," he rasps. He clears his throat, trying to force his voice back into its usual cool register, but it cracks. "Don't worry about it. I can suppress it. We don't have to do anything tonight. I’ll probably be fine until morning."
I look him over, incredulous.
He is absolutely lying.
I can see the tremors running through his arms, the way his knuckles are white where he’s gripping the doorframe to keep himself upright. The muscles in his abdomen are coiled tight, rigid with the effort of holding back. And the smell—it’s hitting me now, rolling off him in waves. That crisp, cold winter scent isn't crisp anymore; it’s heavy, thick, and suffocating, smelling like ozone right before a lightning strike.
He’s burning up. He’s standing there, vibrating with biological need, trying to be the polite, civilized host because he doesn't want to jump me five minutes after dinner.
I scoff, shaking my head.
"No," I say, closing the distance between us. "You’re not."
Donghwa’s eyes narrow, that stubborn glint flickering through the haze. He licks his lips—slow, deliberate, like he’s tasting the air between us—and murmurs my name, soft as a warning. “Sihwan.”
I silence him with a finger pressed to his stupid, perfect lips, invading his personal space until our chests collide. The heat rolling off his body hits me first—like standing too close to a bonfire, but worse, because his skin is fever-hot beneath my touch. Then comes the scent, god, the scent. It pours off him now like a damn river, that wintry air turning oppressive, clinging to my throat until breathing feels like drowning in him.
I don't give him a second to protest. Fuck debating. Fuck logic. I tilt my head up and slam my mouth onto his, all teeth and desperation.
The sound he makes is fucking erotic—a rough, punched-out groan that vibrates against my lips like I've just kicked the last bit of his self-control out from under him. His hands fly to my hips, fingers digging in hard as he jerks me forward until we're pressed flush together. And holy shit, he's already rock-hard against me, his cock grinding against mine through the layers of our clothes with enough pressure to make me see stars. My dick jumps in response, like even my biology is cheering for this disaster.
I arch into his grip instinctively, shameless, my stomach muscles twitching as his palms slide under my sweater, shoving the fabric up past my ribs. His mouth tears away from mine only to latch onto my throat, lips scorching a trail down to my collarbone while his teeth scrape over skin already oversensitive.When he finally—finally—grazes my scent gland with just the barest edge of his teeth, my legs give out entirely.
For someone who spends half his time pretending to be above it all, he sure knows how to ruin me efficiently.
I shudder hard, clutching his shoulders to stay upright. His pheromones flood the room, heavy and commanding, turning my head fuzzy around the edges. Rational thought fuzzes out; it’s just need now, pounding in my veins. But even through the haze, I know I would’ve surrendered anyway. No suppressants, no bond override. I want this.
His hands knead my ass, pulling me tighter against that insistent bulge, and something clicks in my chest. This doesn’t feel like losing anymore. Back when we started, letting him take over always twisted something ugly inside me—made me feel small, like the king dethroned. Now? It feels right. Steady. Like slotting into place after wandering lost too long. I trust him to hold me up while I fall apart.
“Fuck, hyung,” he rasps against my throat, voice wrecked. “You smell so good.”
I lean back against the desk as Donghwa's fingers hook into the waistband of my pants, yanking them down my thighs in one rough tug. The cool air hits my skin, but it's nothing compared to the heat blasting off him. He doesn't stop there—grabs the hem of my sweater and hauls it over my head, tossing it somewhere behind him without a glance. I'm bare now, exposed, my chest heaving as his eyes rake over me like he's starving.
A choked gasp escapes me when his fingers close around my cock, his grip tight and knowing. He pumps slowly at first, dragging his rough palm from the base to the tip in these excruciatingly perfect strokes that make my thighs tremble. My hips jerk up instinctively, chasing the friction like I'll die without it, and his thumb swipes over my leaking slit, smearing precumdown my shaft. The obscene wet sound of his hand moving over me fills the quiet room, mixing with my ragged breathing.
"Fuck," I grit out between clenched teeth, my fingers digging into the desk so hard the wood groans in protest.
He doesn't give me a second to recover. His free hand skims lower, cupping my balls, massaging them in his palm just enough to make my stomach clench. Then—with the kind of calculated cruelty only Donghwa possesses—his fingertips trail lower, tracing the crease of my ass before he presses a single finger against my entrance. The first push is slow, deliberate, relentless. I suck in a sharp breath, my whole body tightening around the intrusion, but he doesn't stop.
