Chapter Text
Every morning, for the last eight years, Lee Minho woke up at 4:30 a.m., took his daily vitamins, stretched, ran, and had his morning coffee before taking the train to a cramped office building to sit at a desk up to ten hours a day. His baby boy, Yongbok, had become an adult in that time; his hair had grayed, his face had wrinkled, his body had softened in that time; his scent had muted in that time; he had dated a man a few years his junior on and off for a couple years in that time.
And he had mourned the career that came before this one. Sitting in that same black rolling desk chair in the same crisp button ups and starched slacks.
Lee Minho, professional boxer, undisputed champion, multi-title holder—something incredibly rare for an equally rare male omega, so much so that he had been inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame in 2018 after his career had officially died three years prior. Teen dad, divorcée. All of that turned injured, single parent office worker with graying hair and fine smile lines. Forty five, an unmated omega, and, now, officially postmenopausal, dealing with the effects of all of that.
But things were fine, great even.
Still close with his son’s other father, a Korean-Australian alpha, Bang Chan, though they had been married only for two years, and out of wedlock—never mated because of that. They were young and stupid, both their heat and rut running their blood hot and giving them their accidental treasure: a certain wide-eyed boy with as many freckles on his warm face as stars in the sky.
Still best friends with his short term ex-boyfriend he had dated in his mid thirties, another alpha, Han Jisung, who caused more hell than he was worth sometimes. But was loved all the same. Created adventures and good memories all the same. Forty, calmer now that he’s older, fancy bar owner, silly lead singer of an acid jazz funk fusion band with a ridiculous name Minho can’t seem to recall if asked on the spot.
Still employed, though not as a boxer any longer, just a slave to the desk and the keyboard. But it put food on the table. And, with his ex-husband’s help, put Yongbok through university and study abroad programs and dance classes and too many clothes to count.
But work wasn’t fun; it wasn’t challenging. It was sedentary and under-stimulating. Going from busted knuckles and knocking men out—mostly alpha and sometimes beta men almost exclusively—as a high profile omega for close to fifteen years to sitting down for eight hours and sending curt emails: it was boring. Minho was fucking bored. And then he was fucking miserable.
“Have you thought about, just, y’know, quitting? Going back into boxing?” Chan had asked on one rare occasion of the two of them and Yongbok sharing dinner together.
“Hyung,” Minho called him now, “it’s not that easy. You know that.”
“What about… teaching it?” Yongbok had suggested. “Like a trainer. A coach? There’s a gym by your apartment that offers classes—I’ve seen it. They would totally hire ‘undisputed champion Lee Minho.’ C’mon, Appa, just talk to them.”
“Minho-yah, that sounds perfect for you.”
Yongbok was right. They did “totally hire ‘undisputed champion Lee Minho.’” Just like that. A fitness center looking for a boxing master and Minho fell into their laps at just the right time. As easily as it had been suggested, Minho submitted his resignation and waited out the three weeks needed to wrap up his work—because Lee Minho was not one to abandon a job just like that.
And maybe Chan was right. Maybe it was perfect for him. He loved boxing, and he was good at it. He could box blind. And raising a child, teaching a child, for twenty seven years now, taught him patience and understanding.
That was over a month ago. The gym had asked, or more like begged, Minho to allow them to prepare for him—to advertise that, after almost ten years of retirement, a multi-title holder and Hall of Fame member would be teaching a beginner’s class at their humble gym. They consistently reached out to Minho, letting him know the preparations, the salary, the sign-ups, the class load, the regulations. How many classes could Minho take on, how many students? Mixed-sub gender classes?
Ultimately, he decided on two mixed sub-gender classes: an omega-beta hybrid class and one for all sub-genders. One in the morning, one in the afternoon, a few days a week, with a total of four students per class. Just to dip his toes into it.
He was given an offer that paid his bills and then some, with a schedule he decidedly loved, as it allowed him free time and time to just be. Graciously, he accepted it. Less than what he was making when he was pro, less than what he was making at the office, sure, but the benefits of free time and doing something he liked outweighed that.
For what felt like the first time in over twenty years, Minho felt nervous.
But his morning routine continues on despite that, though a little later in the morning than before, with just a slight but happy adjustment. Minho’s runners slap into the pavement as he turns a street corner, chest puffing, temples sweating. He flicks his wrist to check the time. Almost 7:15. Yongbok may already be waiting for him at their cafe meeting spot.
It comes into view finally, the quaint cafe situated on both father’s and son’s commute: on the way to the gym and the international school Yongbok has been teaching at for, what, Minho thinks, two years now? He slows his pace down, and the trill of his phone chirps in his ear buds as he wipes the sweat from his face with his sweat-wicking tank. As he flicks his smart watch to his face, he sees it:
Bang Chan
mobile
Minho catches his breath, accepting the call before huffing out an airy “Hello?”
An amused voice lilts through the ear buds. “Our son is making weird fashion choices today.”
Minho’s brows furrow as he comes to a halt. He pushes one of the rubber ear buds deeper into his ear. “This is what you’re calling me about? At 7 in the morning?” Hasn’t Yongbok always made weird fashion choices? God love Chan, but talking to his ex-husband first thing in the morning, on the first day of his new job, is not exactly how he wants to start off this new chapter.
“I just got off FaceTime with him,” Chan explains. “He’s wearing a turtleneck.”
Minho’s eyes flutter closed and he snorts, picking his feet up to walk his burning legs towards the cafe. “In May,” Minho says, sighing.
“In May,” Chan affirms.
“He thinks we’re stupid.”
“Yeah.” A pause. “He hasn’t said he’s dating anyone, has he?”
“It could be from—I don’t know—a one night stand kind of deal. Let him have fun.” A turtleneck. Minho almost wants to laugh. Covering hickeys and marks like a teenager. With Yongbok being a beta, Minho and Chan never had to worry about heat-related accidents. And they never had to really worry about a rut-brained, knothead alpha claiming him.
Not that being a beta meant all of that was impossible—it’s just that, per Yongbok, he preferred dating other betas, saying the stakes were lower that way. According to him, he didn’t want to be put in a high-risk situation given the path he wanted to take; and Minho and Chan completely respected that and never took offense to it.
However, they have always had to worry about him dating and getting his soft heart broken.
“Minho-yah,” Chan says firmly, “you know Felix is not a one night stand kind of person.”
A short, cheery laughs bursts from Minho’s mouth. “God, he’s about to lie to my face, isn’t he.”
“Absolutely.”
Again, Minho sighs. “Alright, well, I’ll let you know what he says.”
“You’re going to ask him about it?”
“Of course I am.” Then, apropos of nothing, Minho smirks. “How’s your back by the way?”
He can hear Chan awkwardly sputter. “Um, I don’t— It’s fine,” Chan ultimately decides on saying.
“Binnie-hyung said you threw it out?” Minho’s smile reaches his eyes, teeth showing. Chan clears his throat and tries to say something, but Minho cuts him off. “Something about trying to”—Minho lowers his voice to a whisper—“fuck him against a wall?”
“Minho-yah,” Chan whines, a little too childishly.
Minho smiles, rolling his eyes. “You’re not thirty anymore, old man.”
“Enjoy your first day of work, Minho-yah. I’ll text you later?” And then, not directed at him: “Yah, baby, you can’t just—”
The line goes dead, much to Minho’s amusement.
How hard will it be to get that kind of information out of Yongbok, though?
As Minho stamps his sneakers onto the pavement, passing by blooming cherry trees and feeling the balmy May weather, his nose catches his son’s faint scent—similar to his own, a top note of sweet orange. As the years have passed, as his body has aged and senses diluted, Minho, a once haughty omega, can barely pick up the scents of others. Omegas and betas—their scents are faint, oftentimes Minho unable to pick them up at all. The world returning to, what Minho thinks, it was before people had evolved into this.
But even then with alphas, usually, his nose still tingles with a whiff of them—just not like it used to. The smells not as potent, not as intoxicating or mouth watering, blending into the background the way a neighbor’s laundry detergent might filter from their patio door into the next door unit, or passing by a young woman with a floral perfume in the department store.
But Yongbok is his son, his flesh and blood. His scent, no matter how small it had always been, no matter how old Minho gets, will always be the easiest to pick out, even in the most open air of spaces.
There he is. Minho catches his son, blond hair and absurd turtleneck sweater a stark contrast in the small morning crowd, slinging a loose arm around another man’s shoulders. Taller than him, in an exercise tank with a bit of definition beginning to peak under the skin of his arms, dark hair in need of a trim. They break as easily as they had joined, and Minho raises an eyebrow. He debates texting Chan immediately, but decides against it.
The other man is already offering a short wave as he walks away, adjusting the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Yongbok returns it, a sweet smile on his face. As if on cue, his doe eyes immediately fall onto Minho’s own, and his smile practically breaks across his freckled face.
“Oh!” Yongbok calls, lifting his arm to wave. Yongbok’s gentle orange scent skates in the breeze, and Minho laments, a bit bitter-sweetly, that he can no longer pick up Yongbok’s delicate rose undertone. “Appa!”
Something else hits him softly, like a cotton ball to the face—something floral and leathery-sweet. Then a tingling spicy bite of amber right at the edges of his nose. Minho can’t remember the last time Yongbok wore cologne, typically preferring perfume above all else. Is this… this mystery boyfriend or girlfriend having Yongbok venture out? Minho grins, unable to help himself, and jogs forward to greet him.
“Yongbok-ah,” Minho replies, an easy smile on his face. “Good morning.”
“Hi, Appa,” Yongbok says, throwing his arms around Minho to pull him into a gentle embrace. The scent is heavier, settling thickly in Minho’s nose. It tastes like jasmine on the back of his tongue. Yongbok’s light green sweater drags across Minho’s bare shoulders.
“Interesting choice of outfit today,” Minho tells him, eyebrows raised, as he pulls away. “A turtleneck in May?” He reaches out to pinch the fabric at Yongbok’s neck.
“Well, you know, the classrooms get cold, so,” Yongbok explains, eyes smiling. Minho almost believes him. He wonders—just how many things has this boy gotten away with over the years? With a ring-decorated hand, Yongbok pulls the cafe’s door open and ushers his father inside.
“Yongbok-ah,” Minho says as he steps over the threshold, warm bread and coffee covering up that curious jasmine scent, “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Yongbok snorts, teeth showing. “Appa,” he lilts. “What do you want? I’ll treat you.”
“You don’t have to lie,” Minho says, placing a hand onto the top of Yongbok’s head as they stand in line. The apples of Yongbok’s cheeks undeniably blush a faint shade of pink. “Dad is concerned,” he begins, deflecting the blame towards Chan instead, and Yongbok rolls his eyes at that, turning his head away. “Who was that just now? The man you hugged? Your boyfriend?” he teases.
“What?” Yongbok’s eyebrows furrow. “No.” Another small grin tugs at Yongbok’s mouth, always so kind, always so friendly. “Just someone I know through Hyunjinnie and Seungminnie.”
Minho gives him a look, and Yongbok sticks his bottom lip out. “Papaaa,” Yongbok whines, “really, he isn’t my boyfriend.” Suddenly Yongbok is holding his small fist up, flicking out his pinky finger for Minho to take. Minho only eyes it with a playful curtness. “Promise,” Yongbok says, shoving his finger closer to Minho.
“Okay,” Minho says with a nod, wrapping his own little finger around Yongbok’s as he looks forward at the menu board.
“They have a crème brûlée flavor I think you’ll like,” Yongbok suggests, dropping their hands and letting go.
“Actually, I think I’ll have a jasmine green tea this morning.”
“Ah, is that so? Then…”
—
Drinks in hand, Minho and Yongbok make their way towards a small table for two at the back of the cafe, Minho sitting with his chair against the wall and Yongbok sitting with his back to the door. The leathery, jasmine scent curiously wafts again, tickling at Minho’s nose. A prickling tinge of spicy amber and a woody aroma.
“The scent you’re wearing is nice, Lix,” Minho comments before taking a sip of hot tea. It’s hot and fragrant as it drips down the back of his throat.
Quickly Yongbok picks his head up, eyes wide. “Scent?” he says a little too fast. He clears his throat, then touches idly at his neck through the wool of his sweater. “What scent? What does it smell like?” rushes out of his mouth.
Minho gives him a puckered look, eyebrows furrowing. “Your cologne, son,” Minho says, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You don’t typically wear spicy scents.”
“Ah,” Yongbok says slowly, mouth a little too wide, as he nods his head. “The friend I just ran into—he’s an alpha, so”—Yongbok’s face softens—“maybe you’re picking up his scent? I didn’t think it was that strong today though,” he says, eyes quirking up thoughtfully. “Surprised this li’l old man can smell the linger.”
“Yah,” Minho raises his voice playfully, “forty-five is not old.”
“Pfft, you call Dad old all the time.”
“Because he’s forty-seven.”
“Two years!” Yongbok laughs. Minho only smirks, his smile reaching his eyes.
A couple in their mid-thirties sits closely to their table, two women and clearly mated with the way the omega’s faded mating bite shows like a gentle bruise in the warm light of the cafe. Though the alpha’s fangs are shorter than a younger alpha’s, they still stick attractively past her lips when she smiles at her mate. She thumbs across the omega’s cheek before tucking her dark hair behind her mate’s ear, and Minho’s heart clenches only a little bit. The alpha’s mouth moves to the cut of the omega’s soft jaw, whispering something that has the omega’s face turning rosy as she bats her hands, embarrassed, at her alpha’s forearm.
It’s been a long time, Minho reminisces, since an alpha acknowledged him, hit on him, made an advance. He had a few flings here and there after Jisung and before menopause, but nothing that stayed. No one worth mating, let alone dating long term.
He was a good looking man, sure. But his scent had dulled; his pheromones dissipated; his heats had stopped; his cunt stopped slicking; his cock took longer to get erect. His body had ultimately turned off. He had become too busy with, and then too tired from, work that dating felt more exhausting than he wanted it to. It just wasn’t viable, not really.
And dating isn’t that important to him. He will admit, quite shamefully, that he misses knots, he misses fucking. Misses world-ending orgasms and being so full of alpha dick he feels pregnant all over again. But he’s old now. And unmated alphas don’t want an omega that has barely any pheromones, let alone ones who can’t enter heat or have even a trickle of goddamned slick. But the drive to fuck went down the drain during menopause, right with his scent, slick, and pheromones.
Yongbok takes a careful sip of his overly sweet coconut flavored latte, a choice that surprised Minho. It’s warm and surprisingly familiar, comfortably nostalgic even. “Are you seeing anyone, Appa?” Yongbok asks, eyes flitting from the couple to Minho’s expressionless face.
Minho turns to Yongbok, setting his cup onto the small table. “Ah, no, not right now.”
“Maybe you should look?” Yongbok suggests with a small tilt of his head. “You haven’t dated anyone since...” Yongbok clears his throat, suddenly awkward, and his eyes cast to the table.
Minho smiles. “Since Jisungie, I know,” he says. But it was a mutual end. Two people better off as friends, despite the sex being great. For some reason, the romantic feelings simply didn’t click. They had tried and tried—because the connection was there, just not in the way they were both seeking, not even during a heat or a rut. It was like they were forcing it. They were both older, in their mid to late thirties, unmated and feeling some kind of way about that.
Different from Chan, with whom he knew they only tried to stay together for Yongbok, to make it work, not because they genuinely thought there was anything there. Never mating because they knew that. Divorcing after only being married from ‘98 to 2000. But it all worked out, didn’t it? Yongbok is still loved. Yongbok is still spoiled. Jisung and Chan are still his closest friends. They’re still happy, fulfilled adults.
Continuing, Minho adds, “I guess no one is interested in your old man.” I don’t work like I used to.
Yongbok’s brows come together, annoyed. He scoffs. “I don’t think that’s true. You just never leave your apartment.”
At that, Minho can’t help but laugh. True. “You may be right about that.”
“Maybe you’ll meet the man of your dreams teaching this boxing class,” Yongbok says with a smile, and Minho isn’t sure if he’s joking or if he’s serious.
He humors his son. “Mm, maybe.”
Yongbok touches his warm hand atop Minho’s before saying, “Appa, I’m really proud of you. For continuing boxing. For quitting that desk job. You’re going to feel so much better.”
“Yongbok-ah,” Minho whines, “you’re going to make me cry.”
“If you cry, I’ll start crying,” Yongbok explains, placing his hand back in his lap. “And I can’t have a bunch of high schoolers see my blotchy, red face right before I teach them French conjugation. They would never take me seriously again.”
🥊
A few press from Dispatch did, as he expected they would, show up and give him a bit of hassle. But he bowed, he waved amicably, he greeted them, answered their questions vaguely but politely, as they flashed cameras in his face. After so long, it felt foreign. He had denied every interview, every invitation, every offer since 2015—the final year of his career, where his physician and physical trainer both agreed his rotary cuff was not going to make it much longer if he kept this up.
There was no need to meet with press and board members and magazines. He was tired. He wanted to take care of his family. He wanted to heal. He wanted to move forward with what he currently had. In 2015, he had decided it was over. And he was going to stick to that.
But as he wraps one solid hand around the front door’s handle, he wants to laugh at that. At saying it was over. He must look foolish. He shrugs it off despite that, stamping his foot over the threshold into the cool air condition of the building, and begins the start of his new daily routine.
The gym is already extremely familiar to Minho after him having visited several times a week over the last month. He had become acquainted with all of the staff—everyone from the janitors to the other instructors to the office clerks—especially the HR manager, an adorable, friendly thirty something year old omega, Kim Nayeon-ssi. She excitedly relayed to Minho that her beta partner taught a female kick-boxing class at a gym in Seodaemun-gu and was so jealous that Lee Minho had become an employee here. It made Minho shy to hear that, even after so much time, he was still admired—surprised he hadn’t faded into obscurity, much like he thought he had.
In the locker room, Minho washes his hands at a sink carved out into the long counter, and rakes his eyes over his appearance. The smile and frown lines are there, the wrinkles that tug at the corners of his bright eyes, the graying hair at his temples. His under eyes, which have gotten a bit puffier, a bit darker, as he’s moved along through his forties.
No matter what he did or how he ate, his body still had that softness of age and undoubtedly post-menopause as male omega specifically, two things that made it hard to retain firmness. A bit of a belly, a plump chest, round thighs and arms that wouldn’t quite go away; not unless his routine became rigorous, which he no longer felt the need for, so long as he was healthy.
However, his body is still built under his softness. Still strong in his core, in his strength. Always, despite being retired, making sure he was still in the best condition he could be. His body and fitness were—are—his pride; and even if he couldn’t go as hard as he did before, he did his damnedest.
With an air of confidence, he reminds himself that he still looks good. That he’s fit and well taken care of and could still wipe the floor with probably any local challenger, no matter their age or status or if they’re an alpha.
Despite that though, he wonders, will his students think less of him for being older? For his past shoulder injury that still gives him problems every now and again, the one that ultimately ended his career? Would they take him seriously? Treat him delicately? A rare male omega, an injured one at that, with a glittering past that overshadows his dull, dusty present?
Inhaling deeply, Minho flicks his wet hands in the basin before pulling a paper towel from the dispenser.
Take it or leave, this is Minho. Injured multi-title holder, unmated, and a tired, post-menopausal omega. What other people think of him isn’t his concern; he’ll give this class his all, if not for himself, for his son Yongbok who believes in him.
—
The boxing studio itself is comparatively smaller to traditional boxing gyms Minho has trained in, but the class size should fit comfortably, so long as he decides against upping the pool in the future.
At the coffee shop with Yongbok, he had looked over the names and the sub-genders of the morning class in his email. Hwang Yeji (Alpha), Lee Chaeryeong (Beta), Choi Beomgyu (Omega), and Yang Jeongin (Alpha). All in the same age group, likelihood of them being friends, colleagues, or acquaintances: high. Fairly comfortable, Minho thought, easily controllable. Two alphas didn’t concern him: He’d bested plenty of alphas in the ring, and if push came to shove, he’d easily be able to mitigate any animosity by force if necessary.
And this class had a rule, as most mixed gender gyms did: scent blockers and pheromone inhibitors were required to be worn the duration of the class. Only to be applied by an onsite nurse during pre-class screening to ensure it wouldn’t be overlooked or purposely ignored for any reason, just as Minho had experienced during his prizefighting career.
Back in the early to mid-2000s, pharmaceutical grade scent blockers were the standard, but extremely debilitating both mentally and physically. Your scent is you, with so many people often seeing it and feeling it as hugely part of their gender identity and sexuality.
Minho hated his prescription despite it being something that likely saved his life in the ring. A high contact, high energy sport. An aggressive sport. A male omega causing concussions and fractures to alphas. Alphas fighting alphas. But the script made his skin feel too tight, made him nauseous, made him irritable with the need to feel like himself and to connect with the people he loved.
It was a necessary evil, though. Boxing was considered the most barbaric sport for centuries, particularly because of the rage and head rush it caused. Before blockers, alphas were killing each other. Omegas and betas never even stood a chance in the sport until medical advancements had been made in the 1920s: the introduction of a highly potent blocker, easily accessible with the Korean healthcare system.
But it was already dying out in the 2000s due to the physical and emotional toll it took on the body, though still used in the medical field in the modern era.
When patches and balms were introduced and perfected, finally replacing the oral blocker in ninety-nine percent of situations that required it, Minho immediately purchased a sachet and walked home feeling like he was hovering above his own body, watching himself.
After applying one with shaking hands, he remembers sobbing in the living room, feeling a bit freer, his close friend Bada having to hold him tight around his shoulders to keep him calm. Nuzzling his neck with her nose, she reassured him over and over that this was a good thing.
Several long tests had been conducted, and finally by 2005, all four major international boxing organizations had approved the use of modern scent blockers.
A person’s scent and pheromones were still there, just dull, bare minimum. Perfect for those who need scenting reassurance during high stress situations; perfect for families with mixed gender siblings; perfect for those who have particularly overpowering scents that cause their partners to be in constant states of scent-drunk, et cetera. A comfortable hum of scent and pheromones that made it easier to live your very specific life.
Minho remembers specifically him and his ex-husband being on blockers during their short marriage due to their careers, and how it made intimacy almost impossible on the certain days either of them were using them. A particularly bad time: during the first heat Minho experienced since Yongbok had been born—which had been extremely important to him, to feel that connection with Chan—was so agonizingly unsatisfying to the point that he cried frustrated tears for hours after.
Though Minho is aware of the negative impacts of inhibiting the body’s natural function, he’s also aware of the benefits of doing so. He can’t have two alphas snap during a class he’s responsible for. A traumatic experience for all involved just waiting to happen.
Waivers are signed for a reason.
Knocked out of his thoughts by the sound of easy going conversation and squeaking sneakers, Minho immediately straightens and secures a kind smile on his face. Upon entering, the chatter fizzes out into complete silence, all their wide eyes quickly hitting the floor as they bow in greeting. Peculiar jasmine wind floats on the breeze, and Minho’s nose wrinkles.
“It’s an honor to meet you, sabumnim,” the class says in hasipsio-che.
Minho returns it. “Yes, yes, nice to meet you.” Eyes scanning across the small set of students, his gaze immediately halts on the shorter of the two men. A familiar silhouette, Minho thinks. His face had been mischievous when talking, but at rest, he’s “favored crown prince” handsome. A face and body type that Minho’s sure considers him to be a kkonminam, pretty enough to be mistaken for an idol. That plaguing scent from this morning gets louder the longer he looks at him. Fox-like features, sharp white fangs that poke just past his slim lips. Too attractive. Like a gumiho.
With a defensive hand, Minho guards his heart as he smiles at him, features twitching as he tries to focus on the other students. He must be the alpha of the two males, Yang Jeongin.
Clearing his throat, Minho starts, “Before we begin, please introduce yourselves. Though I’m sure you already know each other.” His smile reaches his eyes, and he locks his arms behind his back. “Your name, why you’re here, if you’d like. Though not necessary. Then I’ll run by the expectations of the class, what the first few days are going to look like, et cetera.”
The three to the right of whom Minho assumes to be Hwang Yeji, a cat-like alpha with delicate fangs, turn to look at their established leader, and her face blushes. Her high ponytail swishes when she leans forward.
“Hwang Yeji,” she says, bowing. Her hand reaches out to grasp the wrist of the woman next to her. “My mate and I are taking this class together,” she explains with a smile. “We thought it would be fun to try something different. We’re tennis players associated with the WTA.”
“Ah,” Minho vocalizes, nodding his head with a smile. “That’s great. My son has on and off played tennis—but he’s not very good. I’m happy to have you here. Then you must be Chaeryeong-ssi?” Two French braids plait her hair beautifully, and Minho briefly wonders if her partner had done it for her.
“Yes, sabumnim, thank you for letting us work with you.”
“Good, good, thank you for joining me.”
The aura of Jeongin seeps like honey, thick and slow, while Minho tries to give full attention to his pupils. A warm and tingly pressure squeezes at Minho’s flesh, armpits beginning to sweat as he stands there. Inconspicuously he nods to Beomgyu next, the only omega of the group—a male one at that, just like Minho—as he desperately tries not to acknowledge Jeongin.
It’s as if every rise of his chest, every intake of air, and every minute twitch have Minho’s eyes begging to travel to his peripheral, just to observe him. If there hadn’t been a screening before class, Minho would swear that Jeongin has foregone blockers—his scent too strong in comparison to Yeji’s, whose alpha scent is so muted he can’t determine the top note. Not even with her mate hovering closely by her side, which he assumes would spike it just enough for him to get a whiff.
Minho speaks up to break the tension, ignoring the holes Jeongin seems to be boring into his face. “Choi Beomgyu-ssi, I presume?” he directs at the omega, his eyes stuttering, trying to drag towards Jeongin like a magnet. When Minho swallows, he tastes a saccharine, floral perfume coat his throat. Jeongin shifts his weight from one hip to the other. Minho’s eyes narrow in automatically to the teeth indents in Beomgyu’s slender neck, scarred over and pleasantly pink.
“Yes, sabumnim.” He offers a bow, and when he straightens up, there’s a flippant smile on his delicate face. “I’m here for moral support,” he says with a laugh, head rolling on his shoulders to tilt it towards Jeongin. Playful fingers dance intimately up Jeongin’s forearm, and Jeongin’s face deepens in color. It reminds him of how he and Chan interacted when they were young.
Jeongin closes his eyes. “Beomgyu-yah, seriously, don’t,” the alpha practically whispers, his voice warbling miserably. Ah, embarrassment, Minho thinks, eyes flitting from Beomgyu to his flushed peer.
“I promise you bringing someone you know makes this more fun,” Minho assures Jeongin, trying desperately to take only the shallowest of breaths. Jeongin’s scent is potent. Uncommonly, almost unnaturally, so. It’s starting to make Minho lightheaded. “The class is specifically advertised that way. Everyone starts out as a beginner. It’s easier when you have someone with you. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Timid, vulpine eyes cast downward, and Minho thinks fondly of him. A shy alpha. How sweet. “Yes, sabumnim,” he assents. “Thank you.”
“Your fellow classmates Yeji-ssi and Chaeryeong-ssi are in the same situation, no? Think of it as they do: a couple’s bonding experience.”
Both Yeji and Chaeryeong snort, and Minho raises a brow. Beomgyu’s mouth opens a fraction, but Jeongin beats him to it. “We’re not together,” Jeongin says quickly. “We’re just friends.” Jeongin knocks his hand against Beomgyu’s wrist, which causes Beomgyu to hiss. “And maybe ‘friends’ is pushing it,” he mutters under his breath.
Not really my concern, Minho wants to say, but he offers a polite smile.
“Well,” Minho says thoughtfully, “maybe it will repair your friendship then.” When he smiles in Jeongin’s direction, Minho doesn’t miss the way the alpha wets his dry bottom lip, fangs digging into the pink skin.
“Yes, sir,” Jeongin assents again.
Polite, isn’t he? Obedient. Doesn’t argue. Minho likes that.
Minho looks at him longer and suddenly recognizes his arms in that black sweat-wicking tank, that familiar cloying but spicy scent that wafted off Yongbok’s sweater. “Are you friends with Lee Yongbok?” Minho suddenly asks.
Surprise washes across Jeongin’s face at the abrupt question. “No, sabumnim. I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Ah,” Minho says, nodding. “Well, moving on… Yang Jeongin-ssi,” Minho says with a lilt, “and why are you here?” He watches Jeongin’s sharp Adam’s apple bob in his creamy throat, unblemished, free of a mating bite.
Immediately Jeongin straightens his spine, but his eyes still never lock on Minho’s own. “I’m sabumnim’s fan,” Jeongin admits, albeit rather shyly. Almost so small that Minho thinks he didn’t quite hear him right.
“Pardon?” Minho asks, smiling in a way that it reaches his eyes, so much so that it accentuates the wrinkles that tug from his temples.
“I’ve been your fan since primary school,” Jeongin says with a bit more confidence, eyes coming to finally meet Minho’s own. His face is that of a twenty something: soft, unblemished save for a stray beauty mark, clean shaven, wrinkle-free except when his forehead creases, smile lines only faint marks at his cheeks in comparison to Minho’s own deep ones. An alpha, but he looks like a deer caught in headlights. “I’ve always admired you.”
At that, for some reason, Minho can’t help but laugh. “Really? Is that so? Earning a spot in this class must be like winning the lottery for you, then,” Minho jests.
Fan? This kid? This alpha that evokes some kind of silly desire in Minho to tease him? Someone who couldn’t be but twenty-two at the least, much too young to surely care enough about Minho’s career to follow him even before he’d descended into obscurity. Quite possibly even after he descended into obscurity.
“Primary school, hm? That’s amazing. You graduated high school, what, in 2022?”
Beomgyu coughs next to Jeongin, trying to hide his smile.
“2017, sabumnim,” Jeongin answers.
“Ah, I see,” Minho says. “Well, I’m happy to have you as part of my class. Let me go over everything, then we’ll do a cardio warm-up. After that, I’ll help everyone wrap their hands. Did everyone bring wraps? If not…”
The unease Minho had felt earlier in regards to their opinions of him has completely dissipated now that he’s spoken to the students comfortably, not at all denying that Jeongin’s surprising confession of being a fan since childhood boosted his ego to a height he didn’t expect. A young alpha, idolizing him since he was maybe just the height of Minho’s hip. Still liking him, enough to use time, energy, and money to learn from him as a fully grown adult. Twenty-five, wasn’t he? If he had graduated 2017, only two years after his son, Yongbok. A twenty-year difference. Minho shudders at the thought. Was this what idols past their prime felt like when they ran into fans born the year they debuted in restaurants and shopping malls?
Despite his mind wandering, he gives his run down of the class expectations, the routines, goals, the pace, assuring everyone that taking it slow was perfectly okay. This wasn’t the military. For now, this was a blossoming hobby. No need to overexert yourself to the point of injury.
The warm-up goes completely fine, everyone starting and keeping a good pace, as it seems the participants do physical training on their own time, whether in their own fields or for hobbies. Easily enough, Minho keeps up with them, even holding himself back, much to his own surprise.
Yes, the warm-up goes fine, until it doesn’t go fine. Until the smell is radiating off Jeongin’s warm and flushed sweat-damp skin. Sweet opium smoke from a glossy wooden pipe. Plum soju wafting from a lover’s tempting mouth. The body heat and sweat only make the scent thicker, Minho able to taste the underlying green note and earthy kick on his palate. The saliva gathers in his mouth. His head is starting to hurt. His stomach feels empty. Though it isn’t even cold, he feels his nipples pebble.
There’s no way, there’s just no fucking way, that this kid is wearing a scent blocking patch. What, does he have some kind of medical excuse?
He has to text Nayeon-ssi. He has to text her now.
“Good job,” Minho announces as the warm-up tapers out. He avoids making eye contact with Jeongin. He’s sure it’s obvious. “I’ll let you have a break,” he says, searching for any excuse to use his phone, “since it’s the first day. But don’t expect one so early next time.”
The class bows, Jeongin’s eyes particularly heavy on Minho’s side, and they break off to hydrate.
Immediately Minho ambles unceremoniously to his bag to yank his phone out of one of the pockets.
Lee Minho-nim (8:20 AM)
Hi, Nayeon-ssi. ◁
Everyone in the class has on blockers, correct? ◁
Kim Nayeon-ssi (8:21 AM)
▶ Of course, Minho-nim. The nurse on site applied blockers to the students during the pre-class screening, according to protocol.
▶ Don’t worry, your first day will go smoothly ❤️ Hwaiting!
Okay.
Okay. So he has blockers on, fine. Minho accepts that. But just how in the fucking world is his smell so strong? Even to Minho, someone who hasn’t reacted so readily to an alpha’s scent since his early 40s. Not even Jisung’s or Chan’s, two alphas he’s had disgusting amounts of sex with, have smells he notices like this anymore. Maybe because they, too, are older? None of the kids seem to have any issues with it—though maybe because they’re used to it. They all seem to be close, at least enough to make humorous jabs at each other. Is Jeongin just some potent freak of nature? A walking opium pot?
This is absolutely going to be a problem, isn’t it?
Minho clears his throat, feeling that jasmine flavor dissipate, and slides his phone back into his bag. “Alright, everyone,” he says as he turns, “short break is over. Get your wraps and I’ll help you.”
—
When it comes to wrapping the class’s hands, he shows them first on his own before undoing the cloth, unraveling the ribbons and placing them on one of the small tables they’re gathered by. Carefully he goes over his motions in detail, explaining the ways to have the cloth be secure and protecting around the fingers, each student diligently following along with their eyes. Jeongin’s scent had become the least of Minho’s concern, the taste of it finally gone from his tongue, completely forgotten.
Until Jeongin is standing in front of him with his large hands between them, fingers splayed with his palms facing up. His scent—his fucking scent—it’s like warm steam in his throat, foamy, washing against his tongue. Cloying and hot at the same time. Chili infused floral honey. Saliva gathers on Minho’s tongue, and he swallows, palms sweating, as he takes Jeongin’s fingers into his shaking hands. There’s quiet singing in his veins, a low hum.
The noisy chatter of the other students fades into the background, Minho focusing too hard and too long on the boy in front of him.
Minho pulls the cloth around Jeongin’s knobby knuckles, admiring his beautiful hands as he does so, and their eyes catch just as Minho explains what he’s doing. When Minho swallows again, he swears he feels a lump hit his stomach. It only makes him hungrier.
Jeongin’s eyes aren’t following Minho’s hands, rather, they’re right on his mouth, eyes vacant but head nodding along. At this, Minho tries not to smile, but it cracks weakly across his mouth anyway.
“Are you— Are you paying attention, Jeongin-ssi?” It’s hot in here. Minho’s chest hurts. His breath is stuttering in his throat.
“Yes, sabumnim,” Jeongin says airily. Minho doesn’t like it, doesn’t like that his warm breath is sweet. Doesn’t like that he sounds like that. Another flit of that pink tongue across his bottom lip, another glint of those sharp canines. “But you’ll likely need to show me again next time.”
“Of course.”
Shit, he’s handsome. Shit, he smells good. Omegas and even betas must be dropping to his feet just for the chance to feel his knot inside them. Even has this old man thinking about what his alpha cock might look like, taste like—sweet like his breath?—at 8 in the morning, like some middle-aged pervert. Though Minho won’t deny, when he was younger, Jeongin was exactly the type of alpha he liked riding, squeezing and milking their knots for all they’re worth, sucking up every last drop with his cunt. He’s younger than your son, Minho. He’s your student, Minho. Get it together. You don’t even work right anymore, remember? Despite that, for a split second, Minho thinks both his cock and his cunt twitch.
“Your scent is different from your profile online,” Jeongin suddenly says. Minho’s hands immediately halt, feeling the warmth of Jeongin’s fingers against his skin. He grips the cloth tighter. “Sorry,” Jeongin immediately sputters. “Sorry, that was extremely inappropriate. I—”
“Jeongin-ssi,” Minho starts, tone light, and then continues wrapping Jeongin’s hands. “You are certainly mistaken.” He laughs, though it feels disingenuous. “You must smell my son on me. We met just before class. At my age, my scent is basically non-existent.”
“I’m sorry, sabumnim. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean it disrespectfully.”
“All is forgiven, little alpha,” Minho assures him, patting Jeongin’s hands gingerly before continuing his wrap. The scent only worsens. “I understand alphas have their own set of complexities. I’ve dated several.”
“I-is that so,” Jeongin stutters, then clears his throat. “Thank you, sabumnim.”
“Very little offends me, Jeongin-ssi. Don’t worry about it. And may I remind you”—Minho grips both of Jeongin’s wrapped hands—“I am not a famous prizefighter. I am your ahjussi boxing instructor, okay? You can relax around me.”
“I don’t see you as an ahjussi,” Jeongin says, almost thoughtfully, a little too seriously, as Minho wraps the last section of cloth around his hand.
“You’re wagging your tail, Jeongin-ssi,” Minho warns him, trying not to laugh, as he lets go of Jeongin’s hands. He carefully looks over his work, until Jeongin’s hands fall to his sides.
There’s too much determination in Jeongin’s voice when he speaks up. “Sabumn—”
Cutting him off, Minho announces to the class, “Okay, everyone, now that your hands are wrapped appropriately, let me go over some basics.”
The entire rest of the class, Minho ignores Jeongin as respectfully, as politely as possible. Training his eyes to focus on the analog clock on the wall or on one of the unused heavy bags dangling from the ceiling when he wasn’t needing to speak to any of them, just so he wouldn’t gaze, transfixed, on this curious fox-like alpha. It’s not right. It’s really not right.
“You did wonderful today, everyone, thank you,” Minho says as he bows.
It’s returned just as eagerly, his students faces dripping sweat onto the floor. “Thank you, sabumnim,” they all say.
“I’ll see everyone Wednesday, then?” Minho says, smiling.
“Yes,” they say in unison, each of them wiping the sweat from their foreheads, unwrapping their fists, gathering their bags. All of them have their phones in their hands by the time they’re hovering by the entrance of the boxing studio.
“Sabumnim,” Beomgyu speaks up. Minho watches Jeongin’s Adam’s apple bob in his throat. “Do you want to have coffee with us? Yeji and Chaeryeong’s friend owns a cafe around the corner.”
“Ah,” Minho begins, “thank you for the invitation, but I’ll have to decline today.” Jeongin’s scent is still practically singing his fucking nose hairs, and Minho wants nothing to do other than step out into the sunshine alone and breathe in so hard his lungs hurt over the stretch.
“Next time, then?” Jeongin speaks up, adjusting his duffel bag on his unfortunately beautiful shoulder.
“Mm,” Minho hums. “Maybe. Be safe getting to wherever,” he says.
In unison, everyone gives their goodbye, and Minho watches them enter the lobby, Jeongin at the tail end of their line, until they file out onto the sidewalk in front of the gym. With nosy eyes, Minho watches them even through the tinted windows. Jeongin gives a seemingly embarrassed punch to Beomgyu’s bicep, and Beomgyu hits him back as they walk out of sight.
The studio reeks. Like twenty-five year old, virile alpha. Minho helps the cleaning crew scrub the studio before the next class, until the smell of chemical cleaner rubs his nose and throat raw.
—
“Hyung!” Jisung’s bright voice comes in through the receiver of Minho’s cell phone. “Hi.”
“I had the weirdest thing happen to me today,” Minho tells him without so much a greeting as he punches his pin number into the keypad of his apartment door. Once the electronic trill rings in the hallway, he pushes open the door with his fist tight around the cool handle.
“Hum,” Jisung says airily. In the background, Minho can barely make out the sound glasses clinking and mild employee chatter. Jisung must now be preparing to open the bar for the evening. “Don’t tell me— A weird fanboy signed up for your class.” Jisung gives a bright laugh. The kind that lets Minho know Jisung thinks he’s funny.
“N—” Minho pauses, pressing his back against the door to click it closed. “Well,” he says, then sighs. “Yes, but—but that’s not it.” He transfers the phone from one ear to the other as he pushes his shoes off in the entranceway. “I met Bok-ah this morning—”
“Oh, ah”—Minho hears rustling against the speaker—“really? What did… What did he, uh, do that was weird?”
“He was wearing a goddamned turtleneck, for starters,” Minho starts curtly. “I asked the little liar about a boyfriend—” Jisung clears his throat. “Fuck, wait, I’m getting off topic.” Minho brings his hand up to his forehead and presses his fingers into his eyebrows. “I have an alpha in my class.” Socked feet on the floor, Minho traipses to his bedroom, passing the kitchen. “Well, two, but there’s a male. A little younger than Yongbokkie.”
“Okayyyy,” Jisung drawls. “Sounds normal. Was he… aggressive or?”
“No, no,” Minho assures. He pulls the phone away from his face to put Jisung on speaker, then immediately throws it on his bed. Speaking up, Minho continues, “He had a patch on, and I could still smell him.”
“Ah…” A pause. “Ah?” Another pause. Minho tugs his wicking tank from his torso, over his head, and places in gingerly into the hamper. Then his socks. Then his shorts. “Really?”
“Really.” Minho pulls open a dresser drawer to fish out a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, a pair of underwear, then a towel from another drawer. “It made my head spin.”
“That’s— Man, that’s, yeah, not usual for you,” Jisung agrees. “Maybe he’s just… a really potent alpha. It happens.”
“But why can I smell it?” Minho whines. “It makes class genuinely difficult for me. I just started this career path.” He sighs again.
“Not to be vulgar, but—”
“Jisung, don’t—”
“Okay, let me rephrase what I wanted to say.” Another pause. Too long for Minho’s comfort. “And how did that make you feel?” There’s a shit-eating smile in his mouth, Minho can hear it.
“Han Jisung.”
“C’mon, bro,” he says in English. “Be honest with me. I know how you get.”
“You know how I used to get,” Minho corrects him. He sits on the edge of the bed and snatches the phone from the comforter. Hazy vignettes of his past float through his head. Of alpha smells that made his mouth water. Of pulling them into bar or club restroom stalls at the whiff of a scent that made his cunt throb. Of drinking in their pheromones and feeling their cocks push deep into his belly. His tongue darts out to swipe across his bottom lip. “I do not work like that anymore.”
Jisung clears his throat again before continuing. “Maybe he’s, uh, really freakishly”—his voice lowers a bit—“virile?”
“Virile,” Minho says flatly, eyes staring unblinking at the white of his bedroom wall.
“Like— Like he’s built for baby making. God’s natural fuck machine. And any unmated omega within, like, a twenty foot radius—” Then, not directed at Minho: “What?!” Jisung shouts, likely to one of the servers. “I’m having a very important conversation.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up.”
“Hey, hey, hey!” Jisung says. “I am just being honest.”
“It’s annoying.”
“Can you kick him from the class?”
“What? Absolutely not. That wouldn’t be fair to him.”
“Okay,” Jisung says again. “Then—?”
“Then…” Minho inhales deeply, then exhales, eyelids fluttering closed. “Fuck, I don’t know. I’ll keep you updated.”
“Yay.”
“Goodbye, Han Jisung.”
“Stop by soon, yeah? Just let me know when, so I can prepare for you.” A short laugh follows, airy and awkward.
Minho snorts. “Prepare what?”
“Gotta make sure my little bar looks good for my favorite hyung,” Jisung lilts.
“Mm, maybe one day this week? I have dinner with Yongbok-ah Friday, though.”
“‘Kay, we’ll play it by ear, then?” There’s a small pause, then hushed chatter before Jisung continues. “Bye, hyung. See you later.”
“Mm, see you later.”
The calls ends. Minho throws his bare back against his comforter, and he looks at his ceiling. Soft hands travel across his even softer stomach, to the waistband of his boxers. His fingertips trace over the hem, then dive towards his small, flaccid cock. He swallows, ear popping, throat warm, and drags his pointer across his shaft. The scent of jasmine and amber play in his nose, in his mouth. Parting his legs, he pushes his fingers under his cock, against his sack, then to his cunt. A warm hum thrums gently in his cunt, vibrating up to his cock, making it twitch. Or so he imagines.
So long—it's been so long. Eyes squeezed shut, Minho sighs and withdraws his hands.
I’ve always admired you, rings gently in his head. Minho should’ve hummed something flippant at that, to tease, with his eyes narrowed and teeth showing through his lips. But that would’ve been wholly inappropriate.
Maybe Yang Jeongin really is his own personal gumiho.
This, most definitely, is going to be a problem.