Chapter Text
Seungmin had a system.
It wasn’t just a personality quirk, though fans sometimes called it that with affection — that "Seungmin efficiency", or his legendary deadpan. It was habit. Precision. Predictability. Something he could hold on to when everything else around him constantly shifted: tour dates, choreography, call times, flights, cameras, noise.
The system started as a routine. Wake up at the same time every day, no matter what country they were in. Cold water splash. Brief vocal warm-up in the bathroom to clear the gravel from his throat. Hydration: one full glass before breakfast. At least two during rehearsals. Stretch. Dress. Scan schedule. Smile when needed. Rest the face when not.
He was the kind of person managers trusted without worry. The member who could be counted on to keep the others in line without nagging. The one who didn’t need reminders to pack or rehearse or rehearse again.
"Reliable," one of the stylists had called him fondly. "That’s our Seungminnie."
He didn’t mind. He preferred that label to others.
“Have you eaten?” Chan asked, poking his head into the small greenroom backstage.
Seungmin looked up from his phone. “Yeah. Banana and half a protein bar.”
“That’s not eating, that’s… surviving.”
Seungmin shrugged. “We have catering after soundcheck.”
Chan gave him a look but nodded, retreating to check on someone else. Seungmin exhaled slowly through his nose and stretched his legs out. The floor of the venue was cool under his socked feet.
He could hear the others down the hall — Jisung laughing loudly, Hyunjin singing something off-key, Felix trying to teach Changbin a dance trend. Seungmin stayed put, watching the group’s shared Google calendar update in real time as their manager shifted blocks around.
He liked watching schedules move. It felt like solving a puzzle before it exploded.
“Why do you always look like you're planning a heist?” Minho’s voice broke through his focus.
Seungmin didn’t look up. “Because I am. Don’t blow my cover.”
Minho walked in and dropped onto the couch next to him, his head tipping back dramatically against the cushion. His hair was still damp from a rushed wash, smelling faintly of mint shampoo but still not overpowering Minho’s Alpha scent.
“You know there’s no points for being the first to finish getting ready, right?” Minho said, eyes closed.
“There are,” Seungmin replied. “You just don’t get them.”
Minho huffed out a laugh. “Touché.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Seungmin was aware, as always, of Minho’s presence — solid and warm beside him, always slightly too close. He didn’t move away.
He rarely did when it was Minho.
“Are you nervous about Latin America?” Minho asked without opening his eyes.
Seungmin hesitated. “No. Should I be?”
Minho shrugged. “Packed venues. Latin American fans go hard.”
“I like their energy.”
“You like that they scream even when you just blink.”
“There’s that too.”
Minho cracked one eye open, giving him a sideways smirk. Seungmin’s lips twitched — it wasn't a smile, but enough.
That evening, their hotel lobby buzzed with movement. Bellboys dragging suitcases, translators checking clipboards, fans trying not to get caught filming behind plants. The group moved together through the chaos, tired but still in sync.
Seungmin watched as room keys were handed out. He hoped — silently — for his own room. Not that he didn’t love the others. But he liked his solitude. Needed it, sometimes.
Luck was on his side.
He accepted the keycard without comment, slid it into his pocket, and quietly pulled his suitcase along. No one stopped him. No one asked why he preferred it that way.
He didn’t offer a reason.
He never did.
His hotel room was quiet. Neat. Exactly as he liked it.
He unpacked methodically — shoes aligned near the door, toiletries in the bathroom by category, clothes hung rather than folded. His vocal steamer went on the nightstand, charger next to it. He opened the window slightly for fresh air, then closed it again. Routine.
It grounded him.
In the privacy of silence, he peeled off the high neck overshirt he always wore, even in warmer climates. He rolled it carefully and set it aside, fingers ghosting over the padded patch beneath his collar. Still secure.
He’d double-checked before leaving their last location. Triple-checked before getting into the bus. The adhesive held. The blend of synthetic scents hadn’t faded. Still masked. Still safe.
Seungmin wasn’t a light sleeper, but traveling always threw him off a little. Different mattresses, different air. Some rooms felt lived in, others sterile. This one was somewhere in between.
He liked it.
It didn’t stop his thoughts from racing.
His fingers brushed unconsciously over the base of his neck. He rubbed the spot, once, then stopped himself. Habit.
He wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. At least that’s what he told himself.
Minho’s laugh from earlier echoed distantly in his head. So did the heat of him, shoulder to shoulder, his soft scent. So did the way Minho had glanced at him when Seungmin said he wasn’t nervous. As if he didn’t believe him.
Seungmin closed his eyes.
He wasn’t lying. Not really.
He just didn’t have the words to explain the tightness in his chest, or the way his body felt coiled, waiting. Not yet.
Everything was fine.
Fine, and exactly the way it had to be.
The room was still dim when Seungmin opened his eyes.
No alarm. He never needed one. His body had been trained into rhythm long before debut — earlier, even. Before vocal coaches and studio mirrors, before the dorm and the fans. Before he learned how to make silence feel safe.
He rose without sound, feet barely touching the floor. His movements were habitual, efficient. Shirt off, folded at the foot of the bed. Bathroom light flicked on low.
The sink water ran cold. He cupped his hands beneath it and splashed his face once, twice, the shock anchoring him more than the temperature. He blinked at himself in the mirror.
No shadows under his eyes. Skin clear. Posture tight but intact.
He reached for the pale soap, unscented. Then the spray — same bottle he always used, unmarked. He tilted his chin, misted just below the jawline, then again beneath the collarbone. It clung faintly to his skin, neutralizing everything else.
He paused.
Fingers brushed lightly along the base of his neck, checking the patch. Still flat. Still sealed.
The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease — not exactly — but it didn’t worsen either.
His vitamins came next. Two bright capsules for skin, energy, and bone support. One smaller pill, swallowed without water. He didn’t let himself linger on that one.
The gym was mostly empty this early. A single staff member adjusted a machine near the back, headphones in. Seungmin offered a polite nod, then headed for the treadmill, towel folded over his shoulder.
He liked the sound of his steps on the belt — measured, even. He set the incline low, the speed high. Let his body move the way his mind wouldn’t.
Cardio came first. Then floor work: planks, crunches, stretches held a fraction too long. Controlled. Contained.
When he stretched his arms overhead, the collar of his shirt shifted slightly. He pulled it back fast — a twitch more than a motion — before anyone could notice the thin outline of the patch.
Still, he avoided mirrors.
Back in his room, he peeled the damp shirt off slowly, careful not to tug.
He stepped into the shower, set the temperature cool. Not cold, not hot. His body didn’t want either. Not now. Too much of anything could be… dangerous.
Steam rose anyway. His fingers lingered on his shampoo bottle. Unscented. Conditioner too. His skin smelled faintly clinical when he stepped out, like antiseptic and hotel linen.
He dried off quickly. Reapplied the neutralizing spray. Checked the patch.
The others wouldn’t wake for another hour. Seungmin opened his laptop. Practice clips loaded, pixelated in the weak morning Wi-Fi.
He watched himself from the night before — a step slightly early, a glance too long in Minho’s direction during the bridge. His jaw clenched.
No one else would notice.
He did.
He always did.
It wasn’t about fear. Not exactly.
It was about calculation. It was about staying ahead of the moment — a fraction of a step, a breath, a glance — because sometimes being safe meant no one looked too close.
Minho always looked close. But Minho didn’t ask.
Seungmin exhaled through his nose, slow.
They called him the band’s most reliable beta. Level-headed. Steady.
He hadn’t corrected anyone.
Not once in all these years.
Because Seungmin wasn’t a beta. He was an omega.
And the system only worked…
if nobody ever found out.
The practice room was alive with familiar noise — laughter bouncing off the walls, feet tapping rhythms, voices overlapping in endless chatter.
Jisung flopped onto the worn couch, resting his head on Felix’s shoulder without a care. The two omegas were naturally drawn to each other, their easy closeness a quiet contrast to the steady presence of Changbin and Hyunjin nearby. The betas leaned against the wall, arms folded, exchanging low jokes and fixing their sleeves.
Across the room, Chan, Minho, and Innie moved with the confident energy only alphas seemed to carry effortlessly. Chan was already making notes about the set list, Minho tossed a towel over his shoulder, and Innie adjusted his collar before pacing to the speaker system.
Seungmin watched from his usual spot by the window, shoulders hunched just enough to disappear into the corner. He sipped water carefully, eyes flicking between the others — the easy way omegas could be close, the quiet strength of the betas, the commanding warmth of the alphas.
He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear and checked the small patch at the base of his neck, hidden beneath his shirt collar, masking his omega scent.
No one saw it.
No one needed to.
Minho sat down nearby, careful not to crowd. His scent was faint but undeniable, a subtle pull beneath the surface that made Seungmin’s chest tighten without warning. Minho didn’t say much — just a soft question about how Seungmin was holding up — but even that made the room feel smaller, warmer.
Seungmin forced a small nod.
Later, the band clustered in groups as usual. Felix and Jisung murmured about an upcoming event, their conversation punctuated by quiet purrs and easy smiles. Changbin and Hyunjin exchanged looks when the talk turned serious but stayed steady as ever.
As practice wrapped up and the others began packing, Seungmin felt a weight settle deeper in his chest.
He was the reliable band’s beta. Calm, collected. One who knew that if his secret slipped, everything would change.
And so he stayed, quiet and still, the soft pulse of his truth beating just beneath the surface.
Seungmin held his breath for a second too long.
The stylist’s fingers brushed the base of his neck while adjusting his mic pack, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single point of contact. Too close. Too deliberate. He managed not to flinch, but it cost him. As soon as the clip was secured, he gave a tight-lipped thank you and stepped out of reach.
His pulse beat like a snare drum.
“Just tired,” he muttered to himself, ducking into the bathroom. “You’re just tired.”
He locked the door and stared at his reflection. Pale, but not unhealthy. Eyes clear, if a little drawn. He rolled his shoulders back, trying to will the tension away. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a slim spray bottle and misted the scent blocker against the glands just under his jawline. The chill made him shiver.
The second layer of blocker didn’t burn like it used to. Maybe he was too used to it. Or maybe the instinct beneath it had simply gone numb from years of being silenced. But the weather was warm and humid. Just another reason to be more careful.
He pressed his palms against the cool porcelain sink and leaned forward, lowering his forehead to his hands. Just until his heartbeat slowed.
Tour days blurred together: makeup chairs, dance run-throughs, van rides and fan signs. It was loud and chaotic and full of overlapping needs. Seungmin managed it the way he always did — with order.
Check the schedule. Double-check the venue. Know where your bag is at all times. Monitor hydration, avoid crowding, stay two paces behind alphas if possible.
Every instinctive guideline had become muscle memory. There were no manuals for omegas pretending to be betas in high-profile idol groups, but Seungmin had written his own rules a long time ago.
He couldn’t afford to slip.
“Why are you glaring at your water bottle like it owes you money?” Minho asked, dropping into the seat next to him in the greenroom.
“I’m strategizing,” Seungmin said flatly.
Minho raised an eyebrow. “Against hydration?”
“Against the possibility of drinking too much and needing a bathroom break during soundcheck. Timing matters.”
Minho leaned back, grinning. “You’re such a freak.”
“You say that like it’s news.”
Still, Minho stayed close. Their knees bumped once, then again. Seungmin didn’t move away. He never did when it was Minho, not because he didn’t notice, but because some part of him always noticed too much.
His instincts screamed at him to lean in — to relax, to exhale — but he couldn’t. That door didn’t open. Not with Minho. Not with anyone.
“You’ve been twitchier than usual,” Minho added, tone softening. “Everything alright?”
Seungmin shrugged. “Jetlag.”
Minho didn’t press, but he didn’t look convinced either.
A beta wouldn’t have noticed how Minho’s scent lingered in the dressing room. A beta wouldn’t have reacted when Chan brushed his neck. A beta wouldn’t need to count every breath to stay calm.
He watched Felix laugh, carefree and light, omega to his bones and yet so visibly, openly accepted. Felix didn’t hide. He didn’t have to. Jisung leaned into Changbin’s side and teased Hyunjin across the room, their secondary dynamics messy but never questioned.
Seungmin’s place in the room was always just outside that warmth. He wasn't excluded — never that — but he was careful. Controlled.
“Your timing’s off.”
Seungmin looked up. Their manager stood in the doorway of the hallway rehearsal studio, arms crossed. He wasn’t scolding, but his voice was low, private.
“You’re pushing too hard. That last turn? You hesitated.”
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“That’s not what this is.”
A beat of silence passed between them. Then the manager sighed.
“You need to be honest with me if it’s getting too much,” he said quietly.
Seungmin’s jaw clenched. “It’s not.”
The manager didn’t push. “We’ll talk after Latin America,” he said, and walked away.
Dinner was quiet that night. Jisung was too hungry to talk, and Chan was reviewing notes on his phone. Seungmin picked at his rice, appetite dull. He felt Minho’s eyes on him across the table.
They had a rhythm, he and Minho. It wasn'nt always warm, not always kind. But it somehow felt familiar. Predictable in a way that made Seungmin feel tethered. Minho could read him better than most — sometimes too well.
When they returned to the hotel, Minho caught up to him at the elevators.
“You wanna hang out for a bit?” he asked. “Could use background noise while I pretend to stretch.”
Seungmin’s throat went dry. His instincts leapt at the idea — being close, warm, safe — but he forced a shake of the head.
“Can’t. Gotta shower. And we’re up early.”
Minho nodded, thoughtful. “Right. Don’t burn out before the show.”
In his room, Seungmin sat on the edge of the bed, still dressed. He stared at the wall.
He dimmed the lights, letting the dark settle around him like armor. In the quiet, his thoughts hummed. A constant reminder of the effort it took to pretend and hide. To perform even offstage.
And somewhere, buried deep beneath the routine and the silence, a part of him wondered: how long until pretending wasn’t enough?
The fans were loud enough to rattle bone. Their energy surged through the venue like a live current — banners waving, voices screaming, synchronized chants erupting from every corner. It was the kind of crowd idols dreamed of.
And Seungmin loved it. He did. In theory.
But it was hard to enjoy anything when your instincts clawed at your skin from the inside.
He kept his smile intact during rehearsals, kept his hoodie sleeves pulled past his wrists, kept a respectable distance from Minho, from any alpha. He leaned into his habits — structure, control, focus. That’s what had kept him safe for this long. Not the suppressants alone, but the masking of every other detail: his posture, his scent, his breathing.
“Seungmin!” Felix called, waving him over. “Come look at the crowd signs!”
He jogged over, feigning enthusiasm, and pretended his head wasn’t already pounding. There was a dull feeling at the base of his neck, a persistent ache like something waiting — but he shoved it down. As he always did.
The air was heavy with humidity, clinging to his skin. The heat made it hard to breathe, harder still to keep his instincts from clawing their way closer to the surface. The moments he usually buried — irritability, restlessness, a near-constant awareness of touch and space — buzzed under his skin like electricity.
He told himself it was the altitude. Or the exhaustion. Or the sheer intensity of the tour schedule.
He didn’t tell himself the truth.
“Late night?” their manager asked casually, stepping into Seungmin’s room with a quiet knock.
Seungmin was sitting cross-legged on his bed, a water bottle half-empty beside him. He blinked up, then closed the bottle cap. “Just couldn’t sleep.”
The manager shut the door gently behind him. “I talked to the pharmacy about your prescription.”
Seungmin’s stomach clenched. He didn’t speak. This couldn’t be good.
“They can’t fill your suppressant prescription here. It’s not approved for sale in Latin America — something to do with the hormonal balance not meeting their import standards.”
Seungmin’s heart dropped. No. No! “I can’t change brands!” Seungmin pressed out. “We’ve been through this.”
“I know,” the manager said, quiet. “And you only have…?”
“Four doses left.”
There was a beat of silence. The kind that stretches with unspoken risk.
“If you time them right, they won’t last until we leave. Min…” The manager looked at him. His words didn't feel like a staff member was talking to Seungmin. More like someone who’d known him since his trainee days. “You’re cutting it dangerously close.”
Seungmin swallowed, throat dry, resignation lacing his voice. “I’ve done worse.”
“Not on a tour this big. Not this far from home. If you miss even one dose, or if your body reacts to the stress—”
“I know,” Seungmin said, harder than intended. He looked down. “I know.”
The manager sighed. “I’ll keep trying. Discreetly. But if something changes… you need to tell me. Before anyone else notices.”
Seungmin nodded. It wasn’t a promise. But it was the best he could give.
He stared at the door.
He’d timed this carefully. Had done the math before they even flew out. But he hadn’t expected the shipment delay. Hadn’t prepared for regulations.
He was an omega. An omega who hadn’t presented publicly, who hadn’t had a heat in years. Who didn’t have time for complications.
He remembered the first time he brought it up to his mother: back when training was still new, back when he still believed there was room to be honest.
“They’ll see you differently,” she’d warned gently and protective. “Even if they don’t mean to.”
And he couldn’t risk that. Not when being seen differently might mean being left behind.
His fingers twitched.
He wasn’t panicking. Not yet.
But the calm in his chest felt thinner than it used to.
Seungmin hated how familiar this feeling was — the tightening in his chest, the ticking clock in his mind, the unrelenting sense that something was slipping just out of reach.
He stood in the bathroom, steam curling around him in lazy coils. The hotel mirror had fogged over entirely, sparing him the sight of his own reflection. That was fine. He wasn’t sure he’d want to look at himself anyway.
The pill case sat beside the sink. Sleek. Discreet. Labelled like a vitamin organizer. He flipped the lid, eyes tracing the four identical white pills nestled inside.
Four days.
Four days before he’d run out.
He swallowed one dry, without water. It caught slightly, scraping the back of his throat. Seungmin blinked hard and gripped the edge of the sink.
He’d made it through worse.
But he wasn’t sure this counted as “making it.”
His instincts — always manageable before — were louder now. More insistent. He could feel them curled like a spring at the base of his spine, waiting.
The pills were doing their job, suppressing the physical signs. But the emotional ones? Those crept through the cracks: a persistent ache, a want for closeness, for scent and voice and steady warmth.
Seungmin buried his face in his hands. The others couldn’t know.
He couldn’t afford a mistake. Couldn’t risk disrupting the balance they’d built as a team — or his position in it.
They all thought he was a beta. And as long as the pills held out, they would keep thinking that.
But something inside him whispered that the clock had started ticking.
The rehearsal room buzzed with motion. Speakers thumped as the choreographer shouted counts and directions, sneakers scuffed against polished flooring, and sweat clung to every inch of skin.
Seungmin moved through the routine like muscle memory. But today, his limbs lagged a half-second behind his mind. He knew it. Worse — others noticed too.
“Seungmin, that turn—try to reset your weight before pushing off,” the instructor called.
“Got it,” Seungmin said, too quickly.
Hyunjin glanced over. Concern flickered in his gaze. Changbin raised a brow but didn’t say anything. Felix offered him a water bottle during the break, smiling gently.
“You okay?” Felix asked.
Seungmin nodded, unscrewed the cap, and sipped slowly. “Just a little jetlagged.”
He wasn’t lying. Jetlag was real. But it was also the least of his problems.
“Still no way around it?” he whispered later, standing half-hidden in a hallway behind the venue. His hoodie was pulled up over his head despite the heat.
His manager rubbed a hand across his jaw, frustration plain in the gesture. “I tried. Your brand isn’t cleared for use here. Some ingredients are flagged under local pharmaceutical laws. It’s… complicated.”
“I can’t just switch mid-cycle,” Seungmin said, voice tight.
“I know.”
“I’ll go into—” he cut himself off, glancing around, though no one was nearby. His pulse beat in his ears.
His manager stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You still have a few days. We’ll figure something out.”
Seungmin’s hands were fists inside his sleeves. “Don’t tell the others.”
“I won’t.”
“If they find out…”
“They won’t,” the manager said, more like a hope than a promise. “I’ll keep trying. Quietly.”
Seungmin nodded. Once. Then turned and walked away.
Dinner was loud and warm, as always. The others filled the space with easy conversation, bickering over who had to sit by the air conditioner and who stole whose chopsticks.
Seungmin barely touched his food.
He stirred his noodles, watched them go limp in the broth. Jisung nudged him under the table.
“Did you and Minho switch souls or something?” he teased. “You’re so quiet. Should we be worried?”
“I think he’s possessed,” Hyunjin added, slurping dramatically. “We should do a ritual.”
Minho said nothing, but his eyes flicked over to Seungmin and lingered.
Seungmin forced a smile. “Just tired. Don’t summon anything.”
He left the table early, claiming he needed to stretch before bed. They let him go.
He could feel their gazes even as he walked away.
His hotel room was dim and silent when he returned. He locked the door, double-checked it, and pulled the curtains shut even though the view was just rooftops.
Routine, routine, routine.
He ran the shower. He was absolutely sure the sound helped him think. Or not think. The bathroom mirror fogged again. He stared into it anyway, watching his own outline blur.
He could feel it beneath the surface — that subtle restlessness, the shortness of breath he pretended was from dancing, the burn in his muscles that didn’t fade with rest.
The suppressants didn’t stop everything.
They blocked the chemical signals, dulled the hormonal shifts. But instincts? Longing? Emotional rawness?
Not a chance.
His omega-self existed like a thread pulled taut. It didn’t disappear just because it was hidden. It twisted tighter the longer it was ignored.
You chose this, he reminded himself. You wanted to debut. You wanted the world to see you as strong.
Certainly not vulnerable or soft or inferior.
He didn’t realize how long he’d stood there, until—
A knock.
He froze.
Then: “You left your in-ears in the practice room,” Minho’s voice came through the door, muffled but calm.
Seungmin opened it a crack, just wide enough to meet Minho’s gaze.
“Thanks,” he said quickly, reaching out.
Minho didn’t hand them over right away. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
Seungmin hesitated. Then nodded. “Just tired.”
Minho studied him for a beat too long, pausing for a moment.
“If that changes,” Minho said, finally handing over the earpiece, “you can come to me.”
And then he walked away.
The door clicked shut, and Seungmin stood in its shadow, fingers curled tight around the in-ears.
Later, in the quiet sanctuary of his hotel room, Seungmin found himself folding the same corner of his blanket over and over again. He straightened the pillows, then fluffed them again. Something inside him stirred — an instinct he barely recognized but couldn’t ignore.
Before he realized, he had layered his hoodie over a sweater Chan had left in the laundry, tucking a soft towel beneath them like a shield.
Nesting. It was a word that should have sounded foreign to him. Yet the need was urgent, primal.
Panic flared in his chest. No scent could betray him—not yet—but this feeling, this need to build a safe space, was impossible to suppress.
He pulled the layers apart quickly, folding each with precision, trying to erase the evidence of his weakness.
The hotel room was still. Too still.
Seungmin had always appreciated silence. Sought it out, even, in the stolen hours between flights and fan signs and rehearsals. But today, silence was pressing in from all sides. It pooled in the corners, settled between his ribs.
He stared at the white pill.
One last pill for tomorrow. That was it.
The suppressants had been a constant in his life for so long, their bitter aftertaste a footnote in his daily routine. Swallow. Move on. Stay stable. Stay in control. But now, the edges of that control were starting to fray. It wasn't anything physically, not yet, but emotionally. That was the thing the pills didn’t quiet.
He’d tucked the bottle deep in his toiletries bag after this morning's dose, hiding it as carefully as ever, even from himself.
Just one left.
“You’re tense,” Chan said casually later that morning, when they crossed paths near the elevators. “Everything okay?”
Seungmin offered him a too-easy smile. “Fine. Just tired.”
Chan didn’t pry. He never did. But he watched a beat longer than usual as Seungmin stepped inside and pressed the button for the lobby.
The manager found him a little while later, just outside the venue, seated alone behind a sound truck with his hood pulled low. The afternoon sun was bright, painting long shadows across the asphalt.
“I called every pharmacy we know,” the manager said quietly, crouching beside him. “Nothing. Not even a close substitute. That brand’s not approved here, and local options aren't metabolically compatible without tapering. Your system would react badly.”
Seungmin’s hands clenched around the paper cup he was holding. “What does that mean, exactly?”
The manager lowered his voice further. “It means we’re out of time. We don’t have any other options....”
A beat of silence.
“I don’t know how fast your system will respond to the absence, especially after years of consistency. You could start showing symptoms slowly, or—”
“Or I could crash.”
The manager didn’t respond. His silence was answer enough.
Seungmin’s jaw tightened. His throat burned.
He had never let himself think this far ahead. The plan was always to stay medicated. Always in control. He’d built his whole persona around being composed, focused—normal. His bandmates trusted him because he never faltered. Never gave them reason to.
“What are the chances no one notices?” Seungmin asked quietly.
The manager hesitated. “As long as it stays mild, and you stay away from triggers, we might buy some time. But if your body reacts hard—”
“I won’t let it,” Seungmin cut in. “I can’t.”
“Seungmin, it’s not a choice. We could always try to schedule a break—”
“I’m not telling them,” he said harshly. “I’m not making this their problem. They’re already juggling everything else. I’m not adding to it.”
The manager exhaled. “I’ll support you however I can. But if things go south, I need you to be honest with me. That’s all I ask.”
Seungmin nodded, but his chest was a vice. The idea of cracking—of being seen cracking—was unbearable.
“I’ll handle it,” he murmured.
That evening, their rehearsal space was filled with laughter and noise. Jisung was trying to balance a water bottle on his head. Hyunjin lay draped across three chairs. Chan and Felix were coordinating harmonies. Seungmin sat at the edge of the room, back straight, hands folded.
He laughed at the right moments. Contributed where expected. But inside, something coiled and tugged. His instincts—so long dulled to silence—were humming now. Faintly present and slowly pushing into something noticeable. Like muscle memory starting to twitch.
He silently watched Chan laughing at Felix’s jokes, an affectionate hand brushing his shoulder, just next to his neck. Felix’s scent bloomed, happy omega started to whirl around the room, mixing up with Chan’s calming alpha notes. Seungmin’s heart clenched.
His body wasn’t betraying him yet, but his heart reminded him of everything he ever wanted.
He pushed through it. He always did.
He didn’t cry.
But later, his eyes burned long into the night.
Seungmin swallowed his last suppressant pill that morning with hands steadier than he expected. The water in his bottle was lukewarm. The taste of the pill was chalky, clinging to his tongue even after two gulps.
He stared at the empty container for a long time afterward.
He had counted the days meticulously. Today, the medication would still be in his system. He was still safe.
But it was no longer about logic.
It was about the not knowing. How quickly would the medication leave his system? How long before the physical balance he’d depended on since pre-debut began to shift beneath him like sand?
He dressed mechanically, his usual routine offering little comfort. Every part of his body felt too tight, like the fabric of his shirt clung too close to his skin. He shook it off and reached for his phone, blinking harder than necessary to focus.
The rehearsal venue was bright and humming with activity. Everyone was running on too little sleep and too much adrenaline. Still, the energy felt different to Seungmin. Harsher. More intense. Like every sound grated a little more than it should.
“You okay?” Hyunjin asked, handing him a mic pack.
“Yeah.”
“You look like you fought someone and lost.”
“Just didn’t sleep much.”
“Want me to cover your parts during soundcheck?”
Seungmin hesitated. “No. I’m good.”
Jisung bumped shoulders with him during blocking and laughed at something Felix said, and Seungmin didn’t laugh back. His skin itched faintly where Jisung’s arm had pressed against his.
Too much.
Everything was too much.
Later, in front of a van parked behind the venue, the manager’s voice was quiet. Serious.
“Seungmin, we need to take caution.” he said, holding up his phone to show an unreadable string of Spanish emails. “I talked to the pharmacies again. There’s no way to replace your brand of suppressants.”
Seungmin gripped the armrest, hard. “How long until I—?”
“We don’t know,” the manager admitted. “Every omega reacts differently. You might have less time. Your brand was pretty strong.” Only someone disciplined as Seungmin was able to hold up this regime. High doses, being taken on point. No exception.
A pit opened in Seungmin’s stomach.
His voice was quiet. “What happens if someone notices?”
The manager looked at him, softened. “Seungmin, I think someone will notice. You can’t just ignore this. We adjust the schedule. We keep you safe. But Seungmin—you have to tell me the moment anything feels off.”
Seungmin nodded once. But in his head, he was screaming.
If someone noticed—if they smelled it, saw it—everything could fall apart. His image. His friendships. The fragile sense of control he’d spent years perfecting.
He wasn’t ready to let them see him like that. As an omega. As something fragile, something needing.
Something breakable.
“You don’t have to tell the others what’s going on exactly..,” the manager said quietly with a clipped smile. “We’ll say it’s a stomach bug. No one needs to know.”
Seungmin nodded, grateful but burdened. The idea of hiding still felt like another weight pressing down on him.
“I’ll handle it,” the manager assured him. “You focus on getting through the day.”
Seungmin had expected something to happen.
He didn’t know what exactly — a spark beneath his skin, a spike of temperature, maybe the faintest trace of scent curling in the air. But morning came like any other. Cold water. Vocal warm-ups. Teeth brushed, skin washed, patch carefully pressed over his scent gland.
Nothing.
He held the spray bottle in his hand longer than necessary, thumb poised over the cap. One spritz. Then another. Cool mist against his jaw, clean and scentless. The same routine, except today it wasn’t just routine. It was camouflage.
He stood in the bathroom too long, waiting for a flicker of difference in the mirror. Something to mark him as changed. Vulnerable. Real.
But everything looked the same.
His skin didn’t glow or flush. His scent—still blocked. His heartbeat was a little fast, but that had nothing to do with biology. That was fear. Plain and quiet.
This was the first without a single thread of suppressant in his body. The pills were gone. Gone. A perfectly planned routine just shifted.
Seungmin—idol, performer, the band’s reliable beta—tugged his hoodie up and pulled his sleeves down. Nothing visible. Nothing shifting. Still fine.
Still safe.
Right?
Rehearsals were loud. Blinding stage lights, echoing instructions, microphones testing static. It should have been distracting, but Seungmin’s thoughts pulsed like a drumbeat under it all:
They’ll know. Someone will know. Something will slip.
He scanned the others on autopilot. Chan was barking counts at Hyunjin, alpha-focused and distracted. Changbin and Jisung were roughhousing again. Minho was off to the side, stretching his calves, gaze flicking briefly Seungmin’s way.
Too briefly.
He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You’re fine.
Seungmin adjusted the mic pack himself before the stylist could reach for it. She looked surprised but didn’t comment.
No one said anything. No one gave him a second glance.
Backstage, he perched on the couch like he didn’t want to sink into it. Which was half-true. His body ached for softness, for heat, for comfort that shouldn’t have been rising to the surface this early. There was no heat cycle. No crash in hormones. Just a barely-there ache low in his belly and the unbearable weight of waiting.
Craving something he wouldn’t let himself have.
The urge to nest was a ghost at the edge of his thoughts. Blankets. Pillows. A familiar hoodie. Felix’s voice, soft and close.
No.
He clenched his fists and reached for his water bottle instead. Drank. Focused.
Minho sat down beside him a minute later. Familiar comfort, unscented and steady. Seungmin’s spine stiffened anyway.
“You’re really fidgety today,” Minho muttered.
“I’m not.”
“You are. You re-rolled your sleeves five times.”
Seungmin didn’t respond. Didn’t dare.
Minho looked at him sideways, but didn’t push. “Weird day,” he said simply. “Hope it’s over fast.”
Seungmin nodded and forced a shrug.
He made it through the day.
No slip-ups. No symptoms. No questions.
But in the quiet of his hotel room later, peeling off his shirt and tossing it aside, Seungmin caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror — the soft curve of his collarbone, the faint outline of the patch beneath the skin.
Still in place. Still covering him.
He touched it once, then quickly pulled his hoodie on. Too warm, but it helped. It covered everything.
Seungmin sat cross-legged on the bed, fingers twitching with the impulse to surround himself with cushions and familiar scents, to give in just a little.
He didn’t.
He stayed where he was, still and small, holding onto the silence like armour.
Because even if his body hadn’t shifted yet, his mind had. The instincts were coming back. And sooner or later, someone would notice.
He just had to make sure it wasn’t tomorrow.
Seungmin woke before his alarm. His skin was already warm, sticking faintly to the sheets. For a moment, he lay still, trying to locate the discomfort — whether it came from a dream or from somewhere deeper in his chest.
His pulse felt strange. He couldn't really pinpoint it. Somehow loud.
He sat up slowly, blinking against the muted light in the hotel room. The air felt heavy. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his back, and there was a clammy sheen on the inside of his elbows, behind his knees. The bedding he’d arranged the night before had twisted around him like vines.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pressed his feet into the carpet, grounding himself. This was the third day. The first without a single thread of suppressant in his body.
And he felt it.
Everything was... off. Like a violin slightly out of tune. His sense of self was being pulled sideways by instinct and habit, craving and fear. He padded to the bathroom, blinking at his reflection. Pale. Clammy. And something in his eyes that unsettled him — like looking at a stranger wearing his skin.
His hands trembled as he tore open a fresh scent patch. He pressed it to his neck, where the last one had been. The patch bit into his skin a little too much, the synthetic citrus-musk mix curling into the air like a lie.
Still, he put on his hoodie, sprayed a mist of neutralizing spray around his collar and neck, and pulled his mask up. The effort felt like armour.
He made it down to the hotel breakfast, keeping his head low.
The dining area was warm and bright — too bright. Chan and Hyunjin were already seated, chatting over toast. Minho had headphones in, eyes on his phone. Jisung was at the buffet, humming a bit under his breath.
Seungmin grabbed a plate and stared blankly at the offerings — eggs, toast, fruit, something vaguely meat-shaped — and suddenly felt his stomach turn. The smell of the coffee machine alone made his throat tighten.
“Morning,” Chan said, voice casual. “You sleep okay?”
“Fine,” Seungmin mumbled. His voice sounded dry.
Hyunjin blinked at him, tilting his head. “You sure? You look flushed.”
Seungmin gave a short nod. He kept his eyes low and shuffled toward the table, carrying an empty plate for show. Sitting down felt like punishment — the heat in the room clung to him, and his hoodie suddenly felt like it was choking him.
Jisung returned and paused mid-sit, glancing at him. “You’re sweating.”
“I’m fine,” Seungmin repeated. But his hand trembled when he reached for a napkin, and he had to clench it into a fist to hide the shake.
“You should eat something—”
“I said I’m fine.”
The tone was too harsh. Everyone blinked at him. Chan’s brows pinched, but he didn’t say anything.
Seungmin stood up too quickly. “I’m going back to my room.”
He didn’t wait for a response.
His hands were shaking too hard to open his hotel door at first. When he finally made it in, he locked it and leaned against it, breath heavy.
Panic clawed at the edges of his chest.
He was overheating. He could feel it. It didn't feel like a fever yet, but the burn of something deeper. His instincts were pacing like a caged animal, bristling beneath his skin. His clothes were suffocating. The patch on his neck itched. The scent in the room had shifted slightly from neutral to something more raw — still faint, but real.
He dropped to the bed and curled forward, pressing his forehead to his knees. He was losing control.
With trembling fingers, he texted.
Seungmin: [09:27]
I need you to come up. Now.
The Manager arrived ten minutes later. He took one look at Seungmin and closed the door behind him carefully.
“Jesus,” he breathed. “You look like you’re overheating.”
“I’m not—” Seungmin started, but the tremble in his voice betrayed him.
The manager crossed the room and crouched by the bed, eyes scanning him with practiced concern. “Patch isn’t holding anymore, is it?”
Seungmin shook his head. His breath hitched. “I don’t think so. I feel wrong. I’m too warm. I couldn’t eat. Everything hurts.”
“Your body's ramping up. Withdrawal is starting. This looks like pre-heat—when symptoms start but you haven’t spiked yet.”
“So what—what do we do?” Seungmin asked, voice cracking. “If it happens—if I go into heat—on stage? If they find out—”
“You’re not going to go on stage like this,” the manager said firmly. “We’ll make a plan. Now.”
He sat back and pulled out his phone, already texting someone.
“We’ll say it’s a stomach bug. We’ll clear your schedule. You stay in your room. I’ll get a heat kit delivered discreetly — blankets, waterproof bedding, hydration packs, painkillers, balm, whatever you need.”
Seungmin curled tighter into himself, panic prickling at his neck. “I don’t want this. I’m not supposed to be—”
His voice broke again.
“You’re allowed to be scared, Seungmin.” The manager’s voice was low, calm. “We’re doing everything we can. We don’t need to tell the others.”
“They’ll know.” Seungmin’s hands clenched in the duvet. “What if someone smells it? What if I get stuck in heat in the middle of the night? What if—”
He didn’t finish the thought. He just whined — a quiet, high sound, helpless and embarrassed. His body shook with the effort of trying not to cry.
The manager reached for a water bottle from the minibar and offered it. “Drink. Slowly.”
Seungmin obeyed, lips trembling against the bottle rim. His mouth felt like cotton.
The manager checked his neck. “Patch is still on, but it’s not holding your base scent. I can smell the edge of your shift.”
Seungmin shivered.
“Alright,” the manager murmured. “I’ll get the kit here within an hour. I’ll text the coordinator and say you’ve got a stomach bug. No one will come near your room unless it’s me.”
Seungmin nodded slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”
He didn’t want this. He hadn’t prepared for this moment — neither emotionally nor physically. But the fact that someone else was prepared for it helped dull the edges of his panic.
Still, when the manager left to make the calls, Seungmin remained curled on the bed, burying his face in the blankets.
He was losing control of his own body.
And the worst part wasn’t the heat itself — it was the thought of facing it all alone.
In the lounge of the hotel’s private floor, the remaining members of the group hovered restlessly. It wasn’t like Seungmin to disappear for this long without saying anything.
Jisung fidgeted with a stress ball he’d stolen from a promo table two countries ago. “Do you think he’s just, like, burned out?”
Chan sighed, folding his arms over his chest. “He didn’t eat this morning. Barely touched anything yesterday either.”
“I saw him pushing food around his plate,” Felix offered quietly. “Didn’t speak much either.”
“He didn’t even yell at me for using his charger,” Hyunjin said with a faint frown. “That’s how I know something’s wrong.”
Minho frowned. He didn’t want to admit how much he’d noticed too — how Seungmin had pulled away from touch, how shadows under his eyes seemed permanent now.
“Maybe he just needs space,” Minho said finally, rising. “I’ll bring him something. Maybe he’ll eat if it’s not in front of everyone.”
No one argued.
Minho stepped off the elevator carrying a tray with rice porridge, honey tea, and a few fruit slices — a peace offering disguised as breakfast. Someone had to check on Seungmin.
He made it halfway down the hall before he stopped.
There was a bag outside Seungmin’s door.
Not a suitcase. Not a fan gift. It was black, blocky, padded — and looked oddly clinical. Curious, Minho set the tray on the floor and crouched down. The bag was unzipped slightly. The contents peeking through made his breath catch.
Cloth-covered packs. Electrolyte sachets. Disposable sheets. A sealed plastic pouch clearly marked emergency heat supplements.
His stomach flipped. A heat kit?
His first thought was disbelief. Then something else crept in. Anger, confusion — betrayal?
Why the hell would Seungmin have something like this?
Was someone staying in his room? Was he helping someone? Hiding something?
Minho stood up and grabbed the bag. His jaw clenched.
He didn’t knock. He pounded.