A male Omega steps in. And yeah, Soyoung’s right. He’s stunning. Doe eyes, soft hair, the kind of face that launches athousand ships or whatever. He freezes when he sees us, his hand still on the doorknob, eyes widening as the heavy Alpha pheromones in the room hit him.
"Oh," he breathes, blinking rapidly. He bows his head, looking properly cowed. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know anyone was in here. I just... I needed to grab some sheet music from the cabinet."
Soyoung doesn't dial it back. She leans against the curve of the piano, spreading her legs in that careless, domineering sprawl she favors, and flashes the kid a grin that is equal parts invitation and threat.
"Don't let us stop you, sweetheart," she purrs, her voice dropping an octave.
The kid turns pink. Not a subtle flush, but a violent, blotchy red that creeps up his neck and stains his ears. He keeps his head down, murmuring a frantic apology that neither of us really catches, and scuttles toward the filing cabinet in the corner like a mouse that just realized it walked into a cat café.
I just watch, resting my elbow on the keys, creating a low hum.
He’s pretty, sure. Objectively. Soft skin, wide eyes, smells like vanilla or fabric softener or whatever generic "come get me" scent is trending this semester. But he’s... easy. He’s terrified. He’s reacting exactly the way biology dictates he should react to two Alphas occupying a small, soundproofed space.
It’s boring.
He grabs the binder he needs, clutching it to his chest like a shield. He practically trips over his own feet trying to turn around, but before he hits the door, he pauses. He looks back. His gaze darts between Soyoung’s leather jacket and my turtleneck, lingering for a second too long. His eyes are wet, wide, and painfully hopeful, scanning us with that distinct look of someone who wouldn't mind being told what to do.
Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Silence returns, heavy and comfortable.
Soyoung lets out a low, appreciative whistle that cuts through the quiet.
"Damn," she laughs, shaking her head as she reaches for her rosin again. "Was all that for you or me do you think?"
"What do you mean?" I ask, frowning.
Soyoung stares at me like I’ve suddenly started speaking French. She gestures vaguely at the space the kid just vacated, her nose twitching.
"The smell, Donghwa. Are you congested? The air in here is thick enough to chew on."
I blink, confused. I flare my nostrils, taking a deliberate, deep drag of the practice room air. I expect the usual assault—that cloying, sugary sweetness that usually clings to the back of my throat. I’m waiting for the headache-inducing floral notes or the heavy vanilla that Omegas usually project when they’re flustered.
Nothing.
I smell the dust in the acoustic tiling. I smell the rosin on Soyoung’s bow. I smell the metallic tang of the brass doorknob. But the Omega? It’s like he was never here.
"I don't smell anything," I say flatly.
Soyoung’s jaw actually drops. She lowers her violin, staring at me with genuine bewilderment.
"You have got to be kidding me," she says, her voice rising in disbelief. "Seriously? That kid was practically leaking pheromones. It was potent, Donghwa. Like, 'bend me over right now' potent. I’m practically creaming my jeans over here, and you’re getting nothing?"
I shift on the bench, a weird unease settling in my gut. That’s not right. I’m a Dominant Alpha; my senses aren't just good, they’re a curse. I can usually smell an Omega entering the building before they even get to the floor. I hate it. It’s distracting and intrusive.
But now? It’s a void. A dead zone.
"I'm serious," I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. "I picked up zero. Maybe he was wearing blockers?"
"Blockers don't work like that, not when they’re that flustered," Soyoung argues, her eyes narrowing as she studies me. She looks like a scientist examining a particularly stupid lab rat. "That is... bizarre. You usually complain about the smell of the freshman class being too loud."
She steps closer, tilting her head. Her expression shifts from confusion to a calculated curiosity.
"Okay, let's try something," she says. "Can you detectthis?"
She doesn't wait for an answer. She just lets go.
It hits me instantly. A wall of aggressive, burning scent—burnt cedar, ozone, and sharp citrus. It’s hostile. It’s the olfactory equivalent of a punch to the throat.
