She leans in again, and this time, Soojin on my other side decides to join the party. Sensing the competition, she flares her own scent—something floral, like heavy, powdery jasmine.
The two scents collide in the air right under my nose, mixing into a horrific, chemical cocktail. Strawberry-jasmine-vanilla sludge.
My saliva glands flood. And not in the good way.
A violent wave of nausea rolls up my esophagus, hot and acidic. The room spins. The flashing disco lights, which were fun thirty seconds ago, are now stabbing directly into my brain. The smell isn't just unappealing; it feelswrong. It feels like rotting fruit left out in the sun. It feels like a biological error message flashing in neon red across my vision.
Don't puke. Do not puke on the girl.
I swallow hard, trying to force the bile down. "I... wait."
"You okay, man?" Seungchan’s voice cuts through the fog. He’s looking at me from across the table, a half-eaten shrimp chip hanging from his mouth. "You look green."
"I’m fine," I lie, but sweat is breaking out on my upper lip. Cold, clammy sweat.
Hyesoo nuzzles into my neck, right near the bandage hidden under my shirt. Her nose presses against my pulse point, inhaling deeply, and the sensation makes my skin crawl. It’s unbearable. It feels like bugs skittering over me. Every instinct in my body is screamingGET AWAY. WRONG. WRONG SCENT. WRONG OMEGA.
My body is rejecting them. It’s rejecting the sweetness, craving something else.
The realization makes the nausea double.
I gag. It’s audible. A wet, retching sound that cuts through the music.
Hyesoo jumps back, looking horrified. "Oppa?"
"I gotta..." I clap a hand over my mouth, scrambling to my feet. My knees hit the table, sending empty beer cans clattering to the floor. "Bathroom."
"Sihwan?"
I don't wait. I shove past Soojin, stumbling over someone’s legs. The smell is everywhere, sticking to my clothes, sticking to my skin. I can’t breathe. I need air. I need to get this scent outof my nose before I empty my stomach right here on the sticky carpet.
I burst out of the private room and into the hallway. The corridor is narrow, lined with doors to other rooms, vibrating with the muffled sounds of terrible singing. The air here is stale, smelling of old cigarettes and disinfectant, but it’s better than the suffocating cloud of omega pheromones back in the room.
I sprint. I shoulder-check a waiter carrying a tray of fruit, not even stopping to apologize as melons go flying.
Men’s room. Men’s room.
I hit the door with my shoulder, bursting into the tiled sanctuary. It’s empty, thank god. I dive for the nearest stall, kick the door open, and drop to my knees in front of the toilet just as my stomach convulses.
I heave, my body trying to turn itself inside out.
It’s violent and miserable. I grip the porcelain rim, my knuckles white, tears pricking the corners of my eyes as I retch. Nothing much comes up—just beer and bile—but the spasms won’t stop. It’s like my body is trying to purge the very scent of those girls from my system.
Finally, the heaving stops. I slump back against the stall wall, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I’m trembling. My legs feel like water, and my heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"What the hell?" I whisper, my voice raspy.
I stare at the graffiti-covered door of the stall.Call for a good time,someone wrote in black marker.
This is not a good time. This is a nightmare.
I’m an Alpha. I’m supposed to love that smell. I’m supposed to drown in it. I’ve spent years chasing that exact scent profile. Why did it make me feel like I was swallowing poison?
I drag myself up from the tiles, my knees protesting against the hard ceramic. The bathroom smells like bleach and urinalcakes, a distinct downgrade from the VIP room, but at least it doesn't smell like a strawberry factory exploded.
I stumble to the sinks, gripping the cold porcelain like a lifeline. I look like a wreck. My skin is clammy, pale under the harsh fluorescent lights, and there’s a sheen of sweat on my upper lip that screams "I just hurled my guts out."
I cup my hands under the tap, splashing freezing water onto my face, trying to shock my system back to factory settings. I rinse my mouth out, spitting the taste of bile and cheap beer into the drain.
