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Chapter Text

The main dining hall of the Theerapanyakul compound wasn’t merely a room; it was a statement. Twenty feet of gleaming teak table reflected the light from three cascading crystal chandeliers, each prism throwing rainbows over the bone china and solid silver cutlery. The walls were lined with portraits of severe-looking ancestors and tastefully displayed antique weapons, a subtle reminder that this family’s elegance was built on a foundation of blood. Tonight, the air, usually carrying hints of polished wood and faint floral arrangements, was thick with the clashing scents of its occupants: the smoky, dominant cedar of Alpha Kinn, the warm, earthy leather of Omega Porsche, the cold, clean ozone that was Korn’s signature, and the sharp, controlled orchid that was Kim’s.

Kim sat three seats down from the head of the table, where Korn presided like a benign king. He wore simple black silk, a stark contrast to the opulence around him, his posture a study in contained tension. Every line of his body screamed unwilling participant. He methodically dissected his herb crusted lamb, the scrape of his knife against the plate the only sound he contributed.

Porsche, seated beside Kinn, was uncharacteristically quiet. His usual vibrant energy was subdued, his scent tinged with an anxious, bitter note. Kinn kept glancing at him, his own cedar scent spiking with protective frustration. The announcement was coming. Everyone knew it.

Korn dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin, the gesture practiced and calm. He cleared his throat, a soft sound that nevertheless commanded the room’s immediate attention.

“I’ve reviewed the final preparations for the upcoming merger with the Japanese consortium,” Korn began, his voice a smooth, pleasant baritone. “It promises to be highly profitable. Stability, therefore, is paramount.”

Kim’s knife stilled for a fraction of a second before he resumed cutting.

“Part of that stability,” Korn continued, his gaze sweeping over his sons, “is the preservation of our traditions. They have served us well for generations, ensuring our strength and unity.” His eyes settled on Kinn. “The tradition is clear, my son. An unmated Omega sibling must be secured, bonded and collared, before an Alpha heir can formally establish a new pack branch. Kinn, your union with Porsche must wait.”

The pronouncement landed like a stone in a still pond. Porsche’s fork clattered softly against his plate. Kinn’s fist clenched on the tablecloth, his knuckles white. “Father,” he said, his voice strained with the effort to remain respectful. “That tradition is archaic. My marriage to Porsche has nothing to do with Kim’s status. We are in the 21st century. Our security doesn’t hinge on such… formalities.”

Korn’s smile was patient, almost pitying. “It is not merely security, Kinn. It is perception. An unbonded, high ranking Omega in our family is seen as a vulnerability, a loose thread. Our enemies could seek to exploit it, to use him as a tool or a target. Or worse, his own biology could force a situation upon us.” His gaze slid to Kim, who was now staring at a fixed point on the wall. “Your heats, Kimhan, however infrequent due to your admirable… suppression, are a biological fact. They make you susceptible. The family cannot afford susceptibility without the proper safeguards. A leash, if you will, for your own protection.”

The word leash echoed in the cavernous room. Kim slowly set his knife and fork down, aligning them perfectly. The orchid scent in the air turned icy, so sharp it almost hurt to breathe.

“I am not a dog to be tethered, Father,” Kim said, his voice dangerously quiet, each word precisely enunciated. “I am Kimhan Theerapanyakul. My designation is a footnote. My skills, my contributions to this family the deals I broker in the shadows, the problems I make disappear those are what define me. They are what secure this family. Not a mating bite.”

“Your contributions are valued, Kim,” Korn replied, his tone hardening just a degree. “But they do not erase nature. Your recent… episode… proves my point.”

A new tension crackled in the air. Three weeks prior, a minor family from the south had overstepped during negotiations. Kim had handled it. The specifics were known only to Korn and Kinn, but the result, the complete financial obliteration of the southern family and the mysterious disappearance of their arrogant heir was not. Kim had done it without raising his scent, without a single outward sign of aggression. He’d done it like a surgeon. Yet here Korn was, using biology to reduce him to a liability.

“That episode was resolved because I am not a typical Omega,” Kim hissed, his control fraying at the edges. “I do not lose control. I am not weak.”

“It is not about weakness, child,” Korn sighed, as if explaining to a toddler. “It is about order. About the natural hierarchy that keeps chaos at bay. An Alpha secures his pack. You are part of Kinn’s pack until he forms his own. Therefore, you must be secured. It is my duty as the head of this family to see it done.”

Kinn intervened, his cedar scent expanding in a wave of Alpha authority meant to pacify. “Kim is not a object to be secured, Father. He’s my brother. There must be another way. Porsche and I can wait—”

“You cannot wait indefinitely!” Korn’s voice finally rose, a crack of thunder in the polite room. The ozone scent turned sharp, metallic. “The Japanese respect tradition. A family in disorder is a family they cannot trust. This is not a negotiation, Kinn. It is a decree. Find a suitable Alpha for your brother, or I will. Until he is mated, your marriage is on hold.”

The finality in his tone brooked no argument. Porsche reached under the table, gripping Kinn’s hand. Kim watched the gesture, a strange hollow pain opening in his chest. He saw the love between them, saw how it was being held hostage because of him. Because of what he was.

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the parquet floor. The orchid scent swirled around him, cold and furious. He didn’t look at Korn, nor at his brother’s devastated face. He looked only at Porsche, seeing the disappointment there, however carefully masked.

“Congratulations,” Kim said, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. “Your happiness, it seems, is now my responsibility. How… Omega of me.” He turned on his heel and walked out, his footsteps echoing in the dead silence he left behind.

He didn’t go to his rooms. He went to the soundproofed music studio on the west wing, the only place that ever felt like his. Locking the door, he picked up his favorite Gibson, but his hands were shaking too badly to play. He hurled the guitar across the room instead, where it hit the soundproofing with a dull, unsatisfying thud.

He was the ghost, the fixer, the weapon his family aimed at its problems. He had carved out a space of respect through fear and cold competence. And in one evening, Korn had reduced it all to biology. To a scent. To a need.

He sank to the floor, back against the door, drawing his knees up. The phantom sensation of a collar tightened around his throat. They would try to put one on him. They would try to leash the storm. He let out a slow, shuddering breath, the orchid in the air blooming into something darker, more desperate.

He would see every potential mate they paraded before him. And he would destroy every single one.

Chapter Text

The heavy oak door of Kinn’s private study closed with a soft, definitive click, sealing in the storm of frustration and fear. Porsche was already pacing, his leather scent agitated, like a storm on the horizon. “This is insane, Kinn! We can’t let him do this. Kim isn’t some broodmare to be auctioned off!”

Kinn stood by the fireplace, one arm braced on the mantle, head bowed. The weight of the family, of his father’s will, and now of his brother’s future, pressed down on him. The scent of his distress was a heavy, rain-soaked cedar.

“It’s not an auction, Porsche,” Kinn said, his voice weary. “It’s a selection. And if Kim refuses the selection… Father will make one for him. He’s already started.”

Porsche stopped pacing. “What do you mean?”

Kinn turned, his face grim in the firelight. “The ‘episode’ Father mentioned at dinner. It wasn’t just about the southern family. Last week, Father invited the second son of the Liangkul family for ‘talks.’ He’s a newly presented Alpha, arrogant, from a strong line. Father suggested he… get acquainted with the compound. Gave him access to the private wings.”

A cold dread settled in Porsche’s stomach. “He went to Kim’s wing.”

Kinn nodded, his jaw tight. “Kim was in his music room. The Liangkul pup scented him, decided to force an introduction. Thought he could trigger a submission response, maybe even a pre-heat, with his Alpha scent.” Kinn’s fist clenched. “He barged in. No guards stopped him. Father’s orders, I’m sure.”

“What happened?” Porsche’s voice was a whisper.

A mirthless, hollow smile touched Kinn’s lips. “Kim happened. He didn’t scream. He didn’t call for help. According to the security feed I deleted, he picked up a silver letter opener from his desk. The pup was too busy posturing, filling the room with his pheromones. Kim moved faster than anyone expected. Sliced the femoral artery in the pup’s thigh, then, when he dropped, slit his throat. Efficient. Clinical.”

Porsche stared, horror and a terrible, grudging awe warring within him. He’d known Kim was dangerous, but this was a level of cold, detached lethality that was chilling.

“He dragged the body himself,” Kinn continued, the image clearly haunting him. “All the way to the east garden fountain. Dumped him in. Then he went back, showered, and was back in the music room composing within the hour. The only trace was the scent of blood on the night breeze.” Kinn ran a hand over his face. “That was his message. To Father. To any Alpha. He’d rather kill than be taken.”

Just outside the study door, Porchay stood frozen, a tray of abandoned tea cooling in his hands. He’d come to offer some comfort, something sweet to ease the tension. Now, his blood had turned to ice.

The Kim in that story, the ruthless, deadly shadow, was unrecognizable from the Kim he knew. The Kim he’d watched for years from afar: the musical genius with soulful eyes who played guitar like he was breathing poetry, the quiet, intense brother who moved through family gatherings like a ghost, observing everything. Chay had collected every CD, watched every elusive interview, his childhood admiration blossoming into a deep, silent crush. He’d seen the intelligence, the loneliness, the fierce independence.

To hear it reduced to this, a violent, biological standoff, shattered something inside him. The image of Kim, covered in an Alpha’s blood, was grotesque. But the reason for it, the utter violation, the forced encounter, made his own Alpha instincts coil in anger. No one should be cornered like that.

He heard Porsche’s voice, thick with emotion. “So what do we do, Kinn? We can’t force him. He’ll either kill someone else or get himself killed fighting.”

“I don’t know,” Kinn admitted, the defeat in his voice more terrifying to Chay than any shout. “Father won’t budge. And I… I want to marry you, Porsche. I want that life. But not at this cost. Not over Kim’s freedom.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Chay’s heart hammered against his ribs. He looked down at the tray, at the delicate cups. He was not a fighter like Kinn or Porsche. He was not a shadow like Kim. He was just Chay. Good with computers, better with music, loving his brother fiercely.

But he was also an Alpha. A gentle one, perhaps, but with all the protective drives that entailed. The thought of Kim being forced, of being hurt, of that beautiful, controlled spirit being broken by some brutish Alpha… it ignited a fire in him he didn’t know he possessed.

He took a deep, steadying breath, pushed the door open, and entered.

Both men looked up, startled. “Chay,” Kinn began, forcing a tired smile. “It’s okay. We’re just talking.”

“I heard,” Chay said quietly, setting the tray down. His hands weren’t shaking. He felt eerily calm. “I heard what happened. To P’Kim.”

Kinn’s face tightened with guilt. “Chay, you shouldn’t have—”

“Who will you choose for him, Hia?” Chay interrupted, his gaze steady on Kinn. “If you have to choose an Alpha to satisfy your father, who will it be?”

Kinn looked helpless. “I don’t know. Someone… controllable. Someone who won’t hurt him. But Kim will reject anyone. You saw him at dinner.”

“Then choose someone he won’t kill,” Chay said, the words leaving his lips before he could fully process them.

Porsche stared. “What?”

Chay lifted his chin, his sunflower scent, usually so mild and sweet, gaining a subtle, steadfast depth. “He said he’d kill any Alpha who tries to take him. So send him one who won’t take. Send him one who will… guard.”

Understanding dawned slowly on Kinn’s face, followed by a wave of profound conflict. “Chay… no. Absolutely not. You have no idea what you’re offering. Kim is… he’s volatile. He’s been hurt. He’ll be cruel to you.”

“I know,” Chay said, thinking of the icy glare at dinner, the cutting words. “But he won’t slit my throat in my sleep. He knows I’m your brother. He knows I’m not a threat. I’m not some stranger sent to claim him. I’m just… me.” He met Kinn’s eyes. “You need a solution. P’Kim needs a shield. You and Hia Porsche need to be happy. Let me be the shield.”

Porsche stepped forward, his eyes glistening. “Chay, baby, you can’t sacrifice yourself like this. Marriage is forever. The bite, the bond… it’s not just paperwork.”

“It wouldn’t be a real bond,” Chay insisted, the plan crystallizing in his mind. “We can have the ceremony to satisfy your father. The collar, the legalities. But we don’t have to… complete it. We can live as… roommates. Allies. He gets to keep his freedom. You get your marriage. And I…” He swallowed. “I get to make sure he’s safe.”

The nobility of it, the sheer self-sacrifice, was so quintessentially Chay that it broke Kinn’s heart. He saw the determination in his brother-in-law’s eyes, the same stubborn love that made Porsche who he was. He also saw the only viable path forward.

It was a terrible gamble. Kim might still reject Chay violently. He might make Chay’s life a living hell. But he wouldn’t kill him. And Korn would be satisfied. The family would appear stable.

Kinn walked over and placed his hands on Chay’s shoulders. “You are a better man than any of us deserve, Porchay,” he said, his voice thick. “If you are sure… if you truly understand what you’re walking into…”

“I’m sure,” Chay said, though fear was a cold knot in his stomach. “Talk to him. Make the arrangements.”

As Chay left the study, his sunflower scent trailed behind him, no longer just sweet, but carrying the solid, sun baked warmth of a promise. He walked to his own room, his mind reeling. He had just volunteered to marry the boy of his dreams, who also happened to be a beautiful, terrifying stranger who might hate him forever.

He sat on his bed, picking up his own guitar. He strummed a few chords of a song Kim had written years ago, a melancholic, complex piece. He played it imperfectly, but with feeling.

He would be Kim’s shield. Even if the shield got battered and dented in the process. It was a better fate, he thought, than watching Kim be destroyed.

Chapter Text

The Theerapanyakul family chapel was a masterpiece of gilded hypocrisy. Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows depicting scenes of pious devotion, illuminating the gathering of the most ruthless criminal dynasty in the country. The air was a cloying mix of expensive perfumes, Alpha dominance, and Omega submission pheromones. Everyone was here. Minor Family Alphas with their sleek, decorated Omegas. Business associates. Allies. All here to witness the securing of the elusive Omega son.

Kim stood before the ornate altar, feeling like a specimen pinned to a velvet board. He wore a traditional Omega ceremonial robe of white and gold, its high neck and flowing lines meant to symbolize purity and grace. It felt like a shroud. His hands were clasped tightly in front of him, nails digging into his own palms. The only thing keeping him anchored was the icy fury burning in his veins.

He had been informed of his marriage two days prior. Not asked. Informed. By Kinn, who had looked more like he was delivering a death sentence.

“It’s Chay,” Kinn had said in Kim’s soundproof music room, his voice low and urgent. “Porchay. He volunteered. No one else, Kim. He’s doing this to protect you, to give us a way out. He’s promised no bond, no bite, no real claim. Just the appearance.”

Kim had laughed then, a brittle, horrible sound. “Protect me? He’s a child. A puppy. And you’re using him as a human shield. How noble of you, brother.” The betrayal had been a physical blow. Kinn, who knew what the idea of possession did to him, had agreed to this.

“It’s the only way!” Kinn had pleaded. “Father was going to choose someone like the Liangkul pup every week until one succeeded or you were dead! This way, you keep your autonomy. Chay understands. He won’t pressure you.”

Autonomy. The word was a joke as he stood here, on display.

The great doors opened, and a hush fell over the crowd. Porchay entered, flanked by Porsche. He looked… beautiful. His wedding attire was a simpler, elegant black suit, a nod to his Alpha role but without the militaristic severity of Kinn’s. He looked young, sincere, and terribly nervous. His sunflower scent, usually so free and sunny, was carefully restrained, a gentle, warm pollen on the air.

As Chay walked down the aisle, his eyes found Kim’s. There was no triumph there, no possessiveness. Just a deep, unwavering resolve, and something that looked like an apology.

Kim looked away, his orchid scent spiking with bitterness.

The ceremony was a blur of archaic pronouncements. The priest, paid handsomely for his discretion, spoke of the sacred Omega duty to submit, to nurture, to obey. Of the Alpha’s divine right to protect, provide, and claim. Each word was a needle under Kim’s skin.

Then came the moment. A senior Omega attendant, her head bowed, approached bearing a velvet cushion. On it lay the physical manifestations of the “leash” Korn had spoken of.

First, the collar. A masterwork of silversmithing, delicate yet undeniably strong. It was etched with intricate, swirling patterns that echoed the family crest, and set at its center was a teardrop-shaped amethyst, the color of a fading bruise. It glittered coldly in the chapel light.

Next to it rested the chastity cage, a matching silver device, small and cruel-looking, also adorned with a tiny purple stone.

Finally, the plug. Jeweled, ornate, obscene. Its amethyst base would sit like a brand against skin, a constant reminder of an Omega’s supposed purpose.

A soft, eager sigh rippled through some of the older traditionalists in the crowd. This was what they came to see: the fierce, untouchable Kimhan Theerapanyakul being symbolically broken.

The priest nodded to Chay, the expectant silence pressing down.

Chay looked at the items, then at Kim’s frozen, pale face. He saw the barely perceptible tremble in Kim’s clenched hands. He remembered his promise.

He stepped forward, not towards the cushion, but closer to Kim. He leaned in, so close his lips were almost at Kim’s ear, his voice a whisper meant for him alone against the echoing chapel.

“You don’t have to wear them,” Chay breathed, his sunflower scent enveloping Kim in a gentle, defiant cloud. “Not for real. Not for me. I don’t see a fragile Omega up here. I see Kim. The musician. The strategist. My brother’s brother. We can just… be. No rituals. Let them see what they want to see. But between us, it’s just us.”

For a fleeting second, Kim’s icy mask faltered. He felt the sincerity in Chay’s whisper, the stunning, stupid bravery of it. This boy was offering him a secret rebellion in the heart of his own surrender. It was the only act of true kindness he’d been shown in weeks.

And it made him furious.

Because it was a lie. A beautiful, pathetic lie. The collar would still be expected. The cage would still be implied. Chay’s noble sacrifice didn’t change the facts. Kim was owned now. The paperwork would say so. The world would see it.

He turned his head the slightest fraction, his lips nearly brushing Chay’s ear in a grotesque parody of intimacy. His voice, when it came, was a venomous, frozen thread.

“Your charity is as pathetic as your presumption,” he whispered back, each word a shard of ice. “You think playing the noble savior changes anything? You’re still the guard on my cage. Don’t mistake this arrangement for anything other than what it is. You are my warden. Act like it.”

He pulled back, meeting Chay’s eyes. He saw the words land, saw the flash of pain before Chay’s expression shuttered into careful neutrality. Good. Let him hurt. Let him understand what he’d signed up for.

Kim turned to the attendant and gave a single, sharp shake of his head, rejecting the offering of the adornments. A scandalized murmur ran through the crowd. Korn, seated in the front row, smiled his thin, knowing smile. This was expected. The first battle in a long war.

Chay, following Kim’s cold script, simply nodded as if this was their prearranged agreement. The ceremony rushed to its conclusion, the binding of wrists with a silk cord, the pronouncement of union, the applause that sounded more like a sigh of relief.

As they turned to face the crowd, a married couple, Kim’s face was a beautiful, empty mask. Chay’s smile was strained but genuine, a sun trying to break through perpetual winter.

They walked back down the aisle together, the scent of cold orchid and wounded sunflower trailing behind them, a bitter bouquet for a wedding that felt like a funeral for Kim’s freedom.

Chapter Text

The door to the marital suite closed with a soft, final click, sealing Kim and Chay into a silence more deafening than the chapel’s echoed vows. The room was opulent, a showcase of the Theerapanyakul wealth meant to cradle a new union. A vast four-poster bed dominated the space, dressed in black silk and silver thread. French doors led to a balcony overlooking the city’s glittering spine. A chilled bottle of champagne sat in a sterling silver bucket, two crystal flutes waiting beside it. It was a scene from a luxurious dream, and it felt to Kim like the interior of a beautifully appointed tomb.

He didn’t look at Chay. He strode directly to the balcony, pushing the doors open to let the cool night air flood in, trying to dilute the clashing scents in the room, his own sharp orchid, Chay’s warm, nervous sunflower. He gripped the cold railing, the city lights blurring into meaningless smears of color. The weight of the ceremonial robe was unbearable. With swift, jerky movements, he tore at the golden clasps at his throat, shrugging the heavy fabric off his shoulders. It pooled at his feet like a slain bird. Underneath, he wore simple black trousers and a thin cotton shirt. He was reclaiming a piece of himself, however small.

He heard Chay move behind him, a hesitant shuffle. The boy was probably hovering, unsure of what to do with his hands, with this terrible, awkward reality.

“You can have the bed,” Kim said, his voice flat, still facing the night. “I have no intention of sharing it.”

There was a pause. Then, the sound of the velvet cushion being placed gently on a dresser. Kim didn’t need to turn to know the hated adornments were now sitting there, glittering mockingly in the lamplight.

“Kim,” Chay began, his voice quiet but steady. “What I said at the altar… I meant it.”

Kim’s shoulders tensed. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want the complication of kindness.

“We don’t have to play their game in here,” Chay continued, taking a cautious step closer. His sunflower scent was gentle, a tentative offering. “This can just be a room we share. You can have your space. I’ll have mine. We can… we can even put up a screen, if you want.”

A screen. Like children at a boarding school. The absurdity of it, the sheer, naive innocence, was the final straw. Kim turned slowly, the movement fluid and predatory. The city lights cast his sharp features in stark relief, his eyes like chips of obsidian.

“A screen,” he repeated, his voice a low, dangerous purr. He took a step towards Chay, who instinctively stood his ground, though his scent spiked with anxiety. “How delightfully simple. You think this is about privacy, Porchay? You think a piece of fabric will change the fact that you are now, by the law of this family and the customs of this world, my legal owner?”

Chay flinched at the word ‘owner.’ “I’m not—”

“You are,” Kim cut him off, advancing another step. He was close enough now that Chay had to tilt his head up slightly to meet his gaze. Kim radiated a cold, controlled fury. “Your name is on the certificate. Your scent is in this room, mingling with mine against my will. Your noble sacrifice,” he spat the words, “has made you my jailer. So don’t stand there and offer me a screen and platitudes about being ‘just Kim.’ You took that away the moment you said ‘I do.’”

“I did it to help you!” Chay’s voice rose, his own frustration breaking through. The sunflower scent gained a heated, peppery edge. “To stop them from sending worse! You think I wanted this? You think I enjoy being resented for trying to keep you from getting raped or killed?”

The raw word “raped” hung between them, brutal and honest. It stripped away the pretense of politics and tradition, revealing the ugly core. Kim’s breath hitched, the memory of the Liangkul Alpha’s invasive scent flooding back. He covered it with a sneer.

“So now you’re my savior? How magnanimous. Tell me, do you expect gratitude? Should I kneel and thank you for your benevolent imprisonment?” Kim’s eyes flicked to the dresser, to the silver collar. “Is that what you’re waiting for? For me to put on my new jewelry and thank you for the privilege?”

Chay’s face flushed, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I’m not waiting for anything! I told you, you don’t have to wear it!”

“But it’s here!” Kim roared, the control finally snapping. He stormed over to the dresser, snatched up the collar, and thrust it toward Chay. The amethyst caught the light, winking. “It’s here because this is what this is! This is what you agreed to! The symbol of your control! So either put it on me and be the Alpha you’re supposed to be, or stop pretending this is a partnership of equals! We are not friends, Porchay. We are not allies. You are the guard. I am the prisoner. Act like it!”

He was breathing heavily, the collar trembling in his outstretched hand. He had cornered Chay, forced him to confront the ugly reality of the power dynamic Chay himself had invoked to save him.

Chay looked from Kim’s furious, wounded eyes to the silver in his hand. The fight seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a deep, weary sadness. He didn’t take the collar. He reached out instead, slowly, and closed Kim’s fingers around it, his own hand warm over Kim’s cold one.

“Then I’ll be the worst guard in history,” Chay said softly, his sunflower scent softening back into its warm, steady core. “Because this prisoner keeps his keys. The collar stays there. The bed is yours. I’ll take the couch. Goodnight, Kim.”

He turned and walked away, pulling a blanket and a pillow from the massive bed before Kim could react. He settled himself on the large, plush sofa across the room, turning his back, a clear and quiet end to the confrontation.

Kim stood frozen, the cool metal of the collar biting into his palm. The fury that had sustained him all day suddenly had nowhere to go. Chay hadn’t taken the bait. He hadn’t risen to the anger, hadn’t tried to exert dominance. He had simply… disengaged. He had called Kim’s bluff and chosen peace.

It was infuriating. It was disarming.

The hollow victory tasted like ash. Kim dropped the collar back onto the dresser with a clatter. He didn’t look at Chay’s form on the couch. He stalked to the bed, turned off the lamp on his side, and lay in the darkness, staring at the canopy.

The scent of sunflower was faint but persistent, a gentle, stubborn presence in the dark. It was not the cloying, dominant scent of an Alpha claiming space. It was just… Chay.

Kim lay rigid, listening to the soft, even sounds of Chay’s breathing from across the room. The guard was asleep. The prisoner was wide awake, trapped in a gilded cage with a warden who refused to lock the door, and he had never felt more confused, or more terrifyingly alone.

Chapter Text

The days that followed solidified into a cold, silent war of attrition. Kim was a master strategist, and his battlefield was now the shared space of their wing. His weapon of choice was not violence, but a devastating, precise neglect.

He established a routine of utter disregard. He would wake and leave the bedroom without a glance at the couch, where Chay always folded his blankets neatly. He took his meals in his music studio or at odd hours in the kitchen, ensuring their paths never crossed at the table. If he entered a room and found Chay there, he would stop on the threshold, his expression blank, then turn and walk away as if the space had suddenly become unacceptable.

His words, when he was forced to use them, were scalpel-sharp and delivered with icy calm.

One afternoon, Chay, trying to bridge the impossible gap, had carefully learned a complex riff from one of Kim’s older, more obscure songs. He played it tentatively on his own guitar in the living room, hoping it might spark a conversation, a shared moment over music.

Kim appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He listened until Chay finished, the last note hanging in the air. Chay looked up, a hesitant hope in his eyes.

“The tempo was off,” Kim said, his voice devoid of any inflection. “You flattened the third. And the emotion you’re trying to convey is sentimentality. The song is about contempt. You didn’t just play it wrong. You misunderstood its entire nature.” He pushed off the doorframe and left, leaving Chay feeling flayed open, the guitar suddenly heavy and stupid in his hands.

Another time, Chay, noticing Kim had been holed up in his studio for over twelve hours, brought a tray of food spicy basil pork, rice, fresh fruit and left it outside the soundproofed door. An hour later, he found the tray untouched in the hallway trash bin, the food dumped unceremoniously. The note Chay had written “Thought you might be hungry” was crumpled beside it.

The message was clear: Anything from you is tainted. I would rather starve than accept your charity.

Chay’s sunflower scent during these weeks became a study in patience under siege. It never turned bitter or angry, though it would sometimes wane, growing faint with hurt. More often, it persisted a warm, golden, unchallenging presence that lingered in rooms after Kim had stormed out, on the cushions of the couch he refused to sit on, on the books he left lying around.

Chay did not retreat. He adapted. He stopped trying to force interaction. Instead, he began a campaign of quiet, unobtrusive care. He noticed the brands of tea Kim ordered. He found the obscure, dense textbooks on music theory and quantum physics Kim read. He would leave them on the coffee table with no note, sometimes with a relevant, difficult-to-find academic paper bookmarked inside. He replenished the high-quality strings for Kim’s guitars without being asked. He had the piano in the music room tuned.

He was a ghost in reverse, instead of haunting, he was slowly, patiently, making the space habitable. He was proving, action by silent action, that his presence was not a threat. He was a resource. A fact. A persistently warm spot in a cold house.

The hardest nights were when Kim’s nightmares came. Chay would wake on the couch to the sound of muffled, distressed cries from the bedroom. Kim never screamed; it was always choked, internal sounds of terror. Chay’s Alpha instincts would roar to life, demanding he go in, comfort, protect. But he forced himself to stay on the couch, heart aching. He knew if he entered, Kim would see it as a violation, an Alpha exploiting a moment of weakness.

So Chay did the only thing he could. On those nights, he would sit on the floor in the hallway outside the bedroom door. He wouldn’t speak or try to enter. He would just sit, letting his calm, steady sunflower scent seep under the door. A silent, scent-based reassurance: You are not alone in the dark. I am here. I will not come in.

One morning, after a particularly bad night, Kim emerged from his room pale and hollow-eyed. He stopped, seeing Chay already in the kitchen, making coffee. Chay simply nodded, said a soft “Good morning,” and pushed a full cup across the island towards Kim’s usual spot before turning back to the window.

Kim stared at the steaming cup. It was his exact preference, down to the rare, expensive bean. He hadn’t heard Chay order it. He must have paid attention. This wasn’t grand gesture; it was simple, practical care. The wall of Kim’s anger felt suddenly, exhaustingly high. The constant effort to maintain it, to hurt this persistently gentle boy, was beginning to feel less like a defense and more like a sickness.

He didn’t thank Chay. He didn’t throw the coffee away. He picked it up, took a sip, and the rich, perfect flavor was a betrayal. It was good. It was kind.

He took the cup and retreated to his studio, but the heat of it lingered in his hand. The wall was still standing, but for the first time, Kim felt the quiet, insistent pressure of water against its foundation, and he wasn’t sure which would break first. The wall, or himself.