Chapter Text
The neighbor next door was… weird.
When Seonghwa first came to Seoul, he didn’t expect to find a decent apartment. Not when every landlord in the city seemed to flinch at the idea of renting to a mute omega; their gazes sliding away the moment he pointed to his throat and shook his head, the silence between them growing thick and uncomfortable until they’d mutter some excuse about the place already being taken.
Once upon a time, that would’ve offended him. Now he was just numb to it; to the way society treated him like damaged goods, to the way people recoiled as if muteness might be contagious, to the way assumptions stuck to him like dust on forgotten furniture.
A mute omega with no pheromones, thanks to heavy suppressants that left his mouth tasting faintly metallic each morning.
A walking red flag for anyone picky.
Which was why it felt like a miracle when he found a tiny apartment in the outer alleys of Seoul, tucked between old shops with peeling paint and neon-lit corners that buzzed and flickered after midnight.
The landlord, a warm beta woman in her forties with laugh lines around her eyes and flour permanently under her nails, offered him a small lodge for a price so kind it almost made him suspicious; it kept him awake that first night while he stared at water-stained ceiling tiles, wondering what the catch was.
He still needed to find a job to keep it. But that was future Seonghwa’s problem.
The place was small; one cramped bedroom where his mattress touched three walls, a cozy kitchen with linoleum that curled at the edges, cheap wallpaper printed with faded flowers that had probably been cheerful once, but it was enough for someone trying to plant roots in a new city. The walls were thin enough that he could hear his neighbors’ televisions, their footsteps, the hiss and clang of their cooking.
He figured it’d help if he befriended his neighbors. Maybe loneliness wouldn’t dig its claws into him as hard, wouldn’t wrap cold fingers around his ribs every time he came home to silence.
That’s how he saw him.
A relatively shorter man, razor-cut blonde hair that caught the hallway’s fluorescent lighting in sharp angles, sharp eyes that seemed to catalog everything in a single sweep, a dangerous aura that didn’t match his size, like a blade hidden in velvet.
Seonghwa caught a glimpse of him while quietly pacing the hallway, his socked feet soundless against the worn carpet, trying to find potential friends, or at least people who wouldn’t mind living near a mute baker who sometimes dropped pans at two in the morning.
The moment he saw him, curiosity gnawed at him like hunger.
Because Seonghwa couldn’t figure out his sub-gender.
He tried to smell him, subtly, breathing in through his nose as he pretended to check his mailbox. But it didn’t help. The man’s scent was… strange. It was complex; layered in a way that made Seonghwa want to lean closer, to press his nose against the source and unravel it thread by thread.
Spicy, with something cool underneath, like rain hitting warm cobblestone on a summer evening.
He smelled like sunlight.
Which made no sense; sunlight wasn’t supposed to have a scent, wasn’t supposed to leave a warm tingle in your sinuses. Yet the guy did. It was whiskey and embers, the kind that crackled and popped and left smoke clinging to your clothes. And beneath it all, seawater, briny and vast. Seonghwa noticed that after a second breath, after he’d walked past the man’s door and caught the scent seeping through the crack at the bottom.
It resembled alpha pheromones, but not fully.
Not quite.
Not enough.
The dominance wasn’t there, that particular weight that made omegas’ instincts flutter and bend.
It was as if the man was shielding his scent, restraining pheromones, keeping them locked away. Or maybe not.
He was probably just a beta.
Right?
That question alone made Seonghwa decide he wanted to befriend him. He needed to know what made someone smell like contradictions.
He didn’t look like an alpha. Sure, he had tattoos; dark ink snaking up his forearms in patterns Seonghwa couldn’t make out from a distance, and piercings that glinted silver in his ears, and a vibe that screamed danger in the set of his jaw and the way he moved through space like he owned it. But his face was too cute, too soft at the edges where his cheeks rounded and his lips formed a natural pout that seemed at odds with everything else about him.
So Seonghwa did what he did best: he baked.
He made chocolate-chip cookies: his signature recipe, the one his grandmother had pressed into his hands on a grease-stained index card, and stacked them neatly into a small box, still warm enough that condensation fogged the plastic lid. He learnt the recipe before he was taken to the orphanage, and it stuck with him throughout the years.
The kitchen filled with the scent of brown butter and vanilla, with the caramelized sugar smell that clung to his fingertips and made his empty apartment feel less lonely for a few hours.
He added a handwritten note, his pen hesitating over the paper as he tried to find the right words, all to no avail.
He tried to explain that he’d just moved in, that he was looking for friends, hoping it wouldn’t be weird, or wouldn’t make him seem desperate or strange or like the kind of neighbor who’d become a problem.
Then he took a deep breath, before holding the box with both hands, feeling the warmth seep through the cardboard into his palms, and headed toward the weird neighbor’s door.
His heart hammered against his ribs hard enough that he wondered if the man inside could hear it through the walls.
But at the last minute, before the man could answer Seonghwa’s knock, he got this weird gut feeling that told him to stay away; a prickling sensation that started at the base of his skull and crawled down his spine like ice water. Yet there was this weird gravity pulling him closer, making his feet stick to the threadbare carpet, making his fingers tighten around the box until the cardboard edges dug into his palms. The mental alarms in his head had gone off, loud and insistent, primal in a way that made his throat tight and his pulse jump erratically in his wrists, and he didn’t know what to do with them.
It was omega instinct, maybe— the kind that was supposed to be dulled by suppressants but sometimes flickered to life anyway, unwanted and confusing.
So he decided to bail.
He put the box in front of the man’s door; his hands shaking just slightly as he set it down as quietly as he could, wincing at the soft scrape of cardboard against the floor, and ran.
His socked feet slipped on the carpet as he scrambled back to his own apartment, his breath coming faster, shallower, his chest constricting with something between fear and embarrassment.
He opened the door to his own place, fumbled with the handle, and then slammed it a little too loudly. The sound echoed through the hallway like a gunshot, and he pressed his back against the door, squeezing his eyes shut, feeling the cool wood against his shoulder blades as his heart hammered so hard it made his ribs ache.
It was strange, because the man did seem pretty harmless. Sure, he did come back pretty late from what Seonghwa had seen since he had gotten himself accommodated to the building; boots thudding against the stairs well past midnight, the low click of his door opening and closing, the smell of nicotine seeping through the thin edges of his door, but it wasn’t like he harmed Seonghwa in any way, hadn’t even looked at him twice during their brief hallway encounter, had just given him a single disinterested glance before continuing on his way.
He seemed like a pretty chill beta guy. He kept to himself, didn’t make much noise beyond the occasional thump of furniture being moved or the muffled sound of music playing through the walls; something with a heavy bass line that Seonghwa could feel more than hear.
So Seonghwa didn’t know where the chills he had been feeling had come from. Why his body had reacted like that, why every instinct had screamed danger even when his rational mind saw nothing threatening. Why the man’s scent had made something deep in his chest clench and flutter and want even as it told him to run.
He spent the rest of the evening pacing his small apartment, his bare feet making soft padding sounds against the cheap linoleum, occasionally pressing his ear against the wall they shared as if he could divine answers from the silence on the other side.
The next time he opened his door— which was of course, the following morning, since Seonghwa was too much of a coward to actually deal with his problems head on—the box behind the man’s door was gone, not even a crumb left behind to prove it had ever existed. And he was nowhere in sight, his door shut tight, no sound coming from within, no strip of light visible beneath the gap at the bottom.
Only remaining evidence of his existence was that scent, faint but unmistakable, lingering in the hallway like a ghost. Whiskey and smoke and seawater and something else, something Seonghwa’s suppressant-dulled senses couldn’t quite name but made his skin prickle with awareness anyway.
With his befriending neighbor mission failed, Seonghwa decided it was time he found a job.
His landlord ajumma had kindly suggested—over tea that steamed between them in ceramic mugs, her hands wrapped around hers like it could ward off the autumn chill seeping through the windows—that it’d be wiser if he found a job in one of the local cafes or bakeries around the neighborhood. Since it apparently wasn’t a good idea for a mute omega to go out of his way and seek occupation in a coffeehouse chain, where corporate policies and hurried managers might not have the patience for someone who communicated through hastily scribbled notes in his phone and hand gestures.
The small cafe-bakery just around the corner was looking for a new baker according to the woman.
Seonghwa was a little apprehensive of getting in contact with people unaware of their biases regarding omegas and mute people in general, his stomach twisting at the memory of all those landlords who’d looked through him like he was invisible
Yet the beta had tried to soothe his worries away. She’d leaned forward, her voice dropping to something warm, vouching that the owner of the cafe was actually another omega, co-running the whole operation with his packmates.
Good people, she’d said, and something in the certainty of her tone made Seonghwa want to believe her.
Seonghwa was still a little anxious, considering how this was his first real encounter with the outside world; the first time he’d be presenting himself as someone worthy of employment, of trust, of a place in society or maybe even friendship. Yet he could also feel anticipation bubbling in his gut, excitement from the possibility of talking to new people and maybe, just maybe, finding a friend in the process looming in the corners of his heart like a shy animal peeking out from hiding.
It was a Wednesday morning, exactly a week after doubting whether he should give it a shot or not, that he dared to get out of the house. Motivated by the urgency of his rent closing in on him with every passing day, by the dwindling numbers in his bank account that made his chest tight whenever he checked.
He put on a warm maroon sweatshirt; soft fleece that he’d owned since high school, the cuffs worn thin and stretched out, with a plain black shirt underneath. He forgot to straighten his hair, so his curls were all over the place, falling into his eyes and curling at his nape where they always got tangled. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and winced, tried to pat them down with damp palms, but they sprang back up stubbornly. He did want to leave a good impression on his potential boss, but apparently his hair had other plans.
It was mid-autumn, so the weather was rather chilly, the kind of cold that bit at exposed skin and made breath visible in small clouds. Yet the drizzles of rain were his favorite part of the season; soft and persistent, pattering against his shoulders and catching in his eyelashes as he walked down the street. The smell of it filled the air, that clean petrichor scent of water on pavement, mixing with the earthier smell of wet leaves and the faint smoke from someone’s morning fire.
He didn’t get to leave the orphanage that often, and when he sought housing in one of the shelters back in Jinju, he couldn’t muster up the courage to go for a walk in the middle of the evening. The narrow streets had felt too dark, too empty, too full of shadows that could hide anything.
It wasn’t wholly irrational on his part; the fear and the reluctance. He had been on heat-suppressants since he hit puberty, the pills bitter on his tongue every morning, leaving that metallic aftertaste that never quite went away. And when he turned out to be an omega on top of being mute, he became an easier target to harass. Heat-suppressants dulled his scent at the beginning; made it fainter, less appealing, like fruit just starting to go bad, and then completely annihilated it. Seonghwa couldn’t remember what his pheromones smelled like, couldn’t recall if they’d been sweet or subtle or strong enough to make people turn their heads.
Yet, despite having no scent, people tended to pick up on him more often than not. Following him around with eyes that lingered too long, jabbing at his scentlessness with cruel curiosity, giving him weird looks that made his skin crawl, like he was something unnatural, something broken.
So in the end, he decided to keep to himself. Isolating himself was a safer option than risking getting harassed or even, his mind shied away from the word, but it sat there anyway, heavy and cold—assaulted.
But now that he was in Seoul, and since nobody knew who he was or where he’d come from, he felt more inclined to leave his house. To smell the rain, to walk under it and let it soak through his sweatshirt until the fabric clung to his shoulders, to appreciate the orange leaves of trees scattered on the ground like discarded gold, their edges curled and crispy, to slowly crush them under his shoes, feeling them crackle and give way, releasing that sweet decaying smell that meant the world was changing seasons. To go look at all the shops around him; their windows fogged with condensation, displays of handmade jewelry and secondhand books and strange little figurines visible through the glass, even though he could never afford to go and buy anything there.
Even just looking was enough.
The streets were quiet this early, just a few ajummas with umbrellas hurrying to the market, a businessman in a rumpled suit smoking under an awning, a stray cat picking its way delicately between puddles. The neon signs were turned off now, looking dingy and harmless in daylight, and Seonghwa could see the neighborhood for what it really was: worn but lived-in, shabby but warm, the kind of place where people knew each other’s names and looked out for one another.
He pulled his sweatshirt sleeves down over his hands, tucked his chin into the collar, and kept walking.
The cafe was just around the corner. He could smell it before he saw it; fresh bread and coffee and something sweet, vanilla maybe, or cinnamon. The scent curled around him like an invitation, and despite the anxiety still fluttering in his chest, despite the voice in his head that whispered they won’t want you, he found himself walking faster.
Just around the corner.
He could do this.
The little bell rang as he entered; a bright, cheerful chime that seemed too loud in the quiet morning, and he was hit with a wave of different scents. None of them were unpleasant or aggressive by any means, especially since they were mingled with the scent of coffee and baked goods; dark roast and caramelized sugar and yeast and butter. But he felt an overwhelming rush of sensation engulfing him, making him dizzy for a moment as his senses tried to process it all. Alpha, beta, omega; all layered together in a way that should have been chaotic but somehow wasn’t. It settled over him like a blanket, warm and lived-in.
The café wasn’t big or crowded. It seemed to be more of a bakery, really; display cases lined with pastries and breads, their crusts golden and glossy, dusted with sugar that caught the soft overhead lighting. The decoration was all wood, honey-toned and worn smooth with age, with different plants adorning the space in mismatched ceramic pots. Lavender, Lilies, Marigolds, Moon flowers; all of Seonghwa’s favorites, their petals still holding drops of water from what must have been a recent watering. The sight of them made something in his chest loosen, making the space feel less intimidating.
Someone here cared about growing things.
Seonghwa took a deep breath, trying to memorize all the scents, to catalog them and tuck them away somewhere safe in his memory. He hesitantly but surely stepped closer, his sneakers squeaking slightly on the clean floors, leaving faint wet footprints from the rain outside.
There weren’t a lot of people at the front reception, only a tall, puppy-like man with a scent of freshly brewed coffee and toffee; sweet and rich and comforting in a way that made Seonghwa think of childhood, of things that were safe and uncomplicated.
His smell was very kind—whatever that meant—and he didn’t seem particularly aggressive. No sharp edges to his pheromones, no dominance pressing against Seonghwa’s instincts: just warmth, open and genuine, like sunshine through a window.
The guy brought his head up when he realized there was a person standing in front of the cashier, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.
His face lit up, a smile spreading across his features that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Hi, welcome to Precious Lost!” He waved at Seonghwa with an enthusiasm that seemed uncontainable, his whole body animated with it. “How can I help you?”
Seonghwa froze for a moment, clearly not expecting the friendly tone; to be greeted like he was a normal customer, like his presence here was welcome and unremarkable.
He brought his hands up to sign on instinct, his fingers already forming the first gesture, but then he realized that the man in front of him probably didn’t know any sign language. Most people didn’t. His hands faltered, dropping awkwardly to his sides.
He reached for his phone in his pocket, fumbling it on the way out, his fingers clumsy with nerves, nearly dropping it before he managed to grip it properly. The case was slippery from the rain still clinging to his sweatshirt.
He went for his notes app, and recklessly typed out, his thumbs hitting the wrong keys twice before he managed to get it right:
“Hi. I heard that you were looking for a baker…”
The sentence sounded stupid even as he typed it, but Seonghwa couldn’t think of any better sentence at that moment. His mind had gone blank, all the practiced phrases he’d rehearsed while walking here evaporating like steam.
He anxiously brought his phone up and gave it to the man standing at the cashier, his hand shaking just slightly as he held it out.
The man took the phone, his fingers brushing Seonghwa’s for just a second, warm and dry, reading the note carefully, his brow furrowing in concentration. Then his expression cleared, brightening again as he looked up. “You’re a baker?” His voice pitched up with interest, with what sounded like genuine excitement.
Seonghwa nodded, dread seeping through his gut like poison anyway, cold and insidious despite the man’s warmth. He was still waiting for the dismissal, for the polite rejection, for the way the man’s face would close off when he realized Seonghwa couldn’t speak.
He played with his hands indecisively, picking at the stretched cuff of his sweatshirt, feeling the damp fabric between his fingers.
The man handed the phone back, his smile never wavering. “That’s great! Please come inside, I’ve gotta go get the boss!” His voice was still bright, still welcoming, like this was the best thing that had happened to him all morning.
He signaled Seonghwa to go behind the cashier, gesturing to a gap in the counter that led to the back. Seonghwa hesitated for a moment before obeying.
This felt too easy, too smooth, like surely something had to go wrong.
He slipped through, his hip brushing against the wooden counter, following the man deeper into the bakery where the scents grew stronger. Flour dust hung in the air like snow, and he could hear the distant sound of an oven timer beeping, of someone humming tunelessly in another room.
The man hadn’t been rude or dismissive. He hadn’t looked at him with pity or confusion or that particular kind of frustration people got when they realized they’d have to accommodate him. That made Seonghwa feel a little bit better, a tiny spark of hope flickering to life in his chest, considering how the man was an alpha. His pheromones were unmistakable now that Seonghwa was closer, that coffee-toffee scent carrying the underlying weight of alpha hormones. But it didn’t feel threatening. It didn’t make Seonghwa want to bare his teeth or run or any of the things omegas were supposed to do around alphas.
It just felt… nice.
Maybe his landlord ajumma had been right. Maybe these were good people.
“Young-ah! We’ve got a baker!” The puppy-like man announced as they entered the kitchen, his voice carrying across the space with unconstrained enthusiasm.
Seonghwa was nothing short of enchanted.
The kitchen was just as cozy as the cafe itself; warm and lived-in, with that particular kind of comfortable chaos that spoke of people who actually worked here, who knew where everything was even when it looked disorganized. It was nothing crazy or extravagant; copper pots hung from hooks on the wall, their bottoms darkened with use. Wooden spoons stuck out of a chipped ceramic container. A stand mixer older than Seonghwa sat in the corner, its white paint yellowed with age but its motor probably still strong. From the looks of it he could tell that all the goods were handmade; no industrial equipment, no assembly line efficiency, just ovens and hands and time.
A boy just as young materialized in front of them, emerging from behind a rack of cooling bread like he’d been summoned. His hair was long and black, falling in a sleek curtain down to his shoulders, so dark it seemed to absorb the light. He was beautiful, his features sharp in all the right places; high cheekbones, a defined jaw, eyes that tilted up at the corners like a cat’s. A slow smirk adorned his face, knowing and amused, like he found something funny about Seonghwa’s presence but not in a cruel way.
What made Seonghwa feel incredibly safe, and made the tension in his shoulders finally start to ease, was the fact that he smelled of Earl Grey tea and smoked vanilla. A sultry smell that only added to the boy’s ominous aura, yes, but underneath it all was the unmistakable sweetness of omega pheromones. The scent was rich and complex and layered, the kind of scent that came from someone confident in their sub-gender, someone who didn’t hide what they were.
Another omega. The boss, Seonghwa realized. He was the one the landlord ajumma had mentioned.
The boy wiped his flour-dusted hands on his apron, black fabric already stained with various shades of brown and white, and looked Seonghwa up and down with assessing eyes.
The boy raised an eyebrow as he leaned in, invading Seonghwa’s personal space, close enough that Seonghwa could smell him properly now, something floral and sweet mixed with vanilla, distinctly omega beneath the bakery scents clinging to his clothes.
“You the baker?” The omega raked his gaze up and down Seonghwa’s body, clearly analyzing him; taking in the damp maroon sweatshirt, the unruly curls, the nervous way Seonghwa stood with his shoulders hunched slightly inward like he was trying to take up less space.
Seonghwa only shook his head, pulling his head away, trying to create distance.
“Alpha, beta, or omega?” He asked, folding his arms across his chest. His voice was sharper now, protective. “I don’t want an alpha as my baker. My pack alphas won’t be comfortable with having another alpha around.”
Seonghwa swallowed, his throat clicking dryly. The boy was intimidating, small but fierce, like something that would bite if you got too close.
He held up three fingers, keeping them raised for a moment so the omega could see clearly. Then he pointed at his lips, his finger hovering just in front of his mouth, before bringing both hands up and crossing them in front of his throat in an X, to gesture no, or can’t.
The expression on the boy’s face shifted, not into pity, but into surprise. His eyes widened, his arms dropping to his sides.
“I know sign language,” the boy said, his voice softer now, excited. Not squeaking exactly, but close.
It made Seonghwa chirp in excitement; the sound escaping before he could stop it, high and pleased, a sound he hadn’t made in front of another person in years. His hand flew to his mouth immediately, embarrassed.
It made the boy laugh, his whole face transforming with it, nose scrunching up. “What’s your name? I’m Wooyoung!” He said it like an offering, like they were already friends.
Seonghwa brought his hands up slowly, careful to make each sign clear. He started with his right hand near his shoulder, fingers loosely gathered, then opened it outward in a small, deliberate motion—sung, star. Then he brought both hands up to chest level, palms open, and moved them outward and slightly down in a smooth, flowing motion—hwa, bright, or blooming.
Seonghwa; like writing his name in the air.
“Seonghwa?” Wooyoung asked, his brow furrowing in concentration as he tried to piece it together, just to make sure. “Like the stars?”
Seonghwa nodded enthusiastically, a smile plastering itself across his face before he could help it, his cheeks aching with it.
“You’re so cute!” The tall alpha said from somewhere behind Wooyoung, and Seonghwa had almost forgotten he was there. The alpha was smiling too, his eyes warm.
Seonghwa felt himself blush, heat creeping up his neck and into his face until his ears burned. He brought one hand to his chin, fingers together, then moved it down and away — thank you — the sign small and almost shy.
“Okay, Seonghwa-ssi!” Wooyoung said cheekily, before signaling him toward a doorway that led deeper into the kitchen. “I need to see how good you are. Is there any specific recipe you’d be comfortable making for us now?”
Seonghwa’s mind immediately went to the chocolate chip cookie recipe. That one he could make with his eyes closed, the same one he had made for his neighbor.
So that was what he signed. He brought his non-dominant hand up flat, palm facing up as if holding something. With his dominant hand, he formed a loose claw and tapped it lightly against the palm — cookie — the motion mimicking snapping a biscuit in half. Then, he pointed to himself and moved his dominant hand forward over the flat palm, as if sliding something into an oven — bake.
Wooyoung’s face lit up. “Cookies? Perfect. Our cookie baker just left last week, so we really need someone who can do those.” He turned and started walking toward the kitchen, already talking over his shoulder, expecting Seonghwa to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you where everything is. Do you need me to write anything down, or are you good with just watching?”
Seonghwa hurried after him, his heart hammering in his chest but lighter now, hopeful. He held up his hand and made an “okay” sign.
He was good. He could do this.
The kitchen opened up before them, all stainless steel and worn wooden counters, flour dusted across every surface m, and the warm yeasty smell of bread rising somewhere in the back.
Seonghwa got to work immediately, knowing the recipe like a mantra at the back of his head, muscle memory taking over as his hands moved through the familiar motions. Measuring, mixing, the rhythm of it soothing in a way nothing else ever was.
Wooyoung instructed him about the whereabouts of each tool, pointing to drawers and cabinets, opening them so Seonghwa could see inside. Whisks here, measuring cups there, the good vanilla extract hidden in the back because Yunho kept using it for his coffee experiments. And Seonghwa tried not to show how unnerved he was, how his hands wanted to shake every time one of them looked at him, waiting to see if he’d mess up.
He wanted to put his best effort in. He already liked the atmosphere of the place. And the two people he had met seemed to be good people. Real people, not the carefully constructed versions people showed to strangers.
He was in the middle of combining the batch; folding chocolate chips into the dough with a wooden spoon, watching the way they scattered through the butter-yellow mixture, when another person joined them.
His hair was a combo of yellow and red, like fire blazing, ombré fading from crimson roots to golden tips, styled up and away from his face. Yet his scent was much more mild than Seonghwa had expected for someone who looked like that. He had a very delicious scent; piña colada and shortbread, sweet and buttery and tropical, that made Seonghwa start to salivate despite having just eaten one of Wooyoung’s muffins.
He was just as tall as the puppy man, whose name Seonghwa had come to realize was Yunho, but he seemed to be much more reserved at first glance. Quieter, more careful in the way he held himself.
He was a beta.
He stood at the threshold of the kitchen awkwardly, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder, clearly unsure what to do with the presence of a stranger in the kitchen. His eyes darted to Wooyoung, then to Seonghwa, then back.
He cleared his throat. “Woo—, ummm.” He stammered, his voice deep but soft. “The ingredients are here.”
“Baby!” Yunho’s face lit up even more, if something like that was possible, the scent of coffee overflowing, going from pleasant to almost overwhelming in its intensity. Pure alpha excitement, unfiltered. “Come meet our new baker!”
Seonghwa stopped in his tracks, pausing mid-fold, before smiling at the boy. He brought one hand up in a small wave, fingers wiggling slightly—Hi—the informal sign. Then he looked at Wooyoung, waiting for him to translate.
“This is Seonghwa,” Wooyoung supplied, gesturing between them. “He’s saying hi!”
Mingi cracked a toothy smile, his whole face transforming with it, gums showing. “Hi! I’m Mingi! Nice to meet you, Seonghwa-ssi.” He bowed slightly, that awkwardness melting away now that he had something concrete to do.
Seonghwa bowed back, careful not to get flour on his face.
“You’ll meet the others tomorrow on your shift,” Wooyoung explained as Seonghwa shaped the dough into balls and arranged them on a parchment-lined baking sheet, spacing them evenly.
“San is my mate and one of our baristas.” Wooyoung’s vanilla scent went sweeter when he said mate, the scent of Earl Gray engulfing Seonghwa. “Yeosang is our baker. He’s mostly in charge of bread, while I’m in charge of the cakes and doughnuts. But you can always give me a hand if you want.”
Wooyoung pressed a mini chocolate muffin into Seonghwa’s hand, urging him to try it with an expectant look. Seonghwa took a bite, still warm, the chocolate melting on his tongue, perfectly moist. He made an appreciative sound and gave Wooyoung a thumbs up.
Wooyoung beamed. “Yunho is our cashier.” He gestured to the tall alpha, just for the guy to wave at Seonghwa again with that same puppy enthusiasm.
Seonghwa waved back, unable to help the silent giggle that shook his shoulders.
“Mingi is our other barista, and Jongho is our waiter, although the roles aren’t fixed. We do change roles if the cafe gets too busy.” Wooyoung counted them off on his fingers like he was afraid he’d forget someone.
Seonghwa slid the batch of cookies into the preheated oven, the blast of heat making his face flush, before nodding his understanding. He set the timer; twelve minutes, always twelve minutes for these, and wiped his hands on the apron Wooyoung had lent him.
Wooyoung hummed thoughtfully, leaning against the counter. “I hope you’re not too busy. Because I’ll probably need you to work on the weekends too. Although we do change cycles, so you’ll have two weekends to yourself every month. The pay will be good though, so you wouldn’t have to worry about that. Our cafe is pretty famous around the neighborhood.”
Seonghwa brought his hands up, signing slowly so Wooyoung could follow. He tapped his chest once with his dominant hand — me. Then he gestured outward with both palms, a calm, open motion — stay, or be. He indicated the space around the kitchen —. He touched his chest again, briefly, then relaxed his hands — always. He pointed to Wooyoung — you. And finally, he reached both hands forward in a gentle, offering motion — need.
“I’ll be here anytime you need me.”
It wasn’t like he had anything better to do anyway. No friends waiting, no family dinners, no obligations pulling him elsewhere. Just his small apartment and the quiet that filled it.
As they waited for the cookies to bake, the kitchen filling with that irresistible smell of butter and sugar and chocolate, the other boys engaged in conversations. And Seonghwa only listened, watching their faces, trying to follow along even though he couldn’t make much out of it. The thread of the conversation kept slipping away from him, too fast, too many inside jokes.
They were talking about a guy Wooyoung hadn’t introduced, so Seonghwa figured he probably wasn’t part of the staff.
“Do you know where Hongjoong-hyung is?” Mingi asked, directing the question at nobody in particular as he unpacked the ingredients he’d brought, bags of flour and sugar, and cartons of eggs.
“When do you ever, really…” Wooyoung rolled his eyes, frustration evident in his tone.
“He texted me last night, asking whether we’d found a new baker or not.” Mingi said it a little apprehensively, like he wasn’t sure how Wooyoung would react.
Wooyoung squinted. “Why didn’t he ask me? Is he still sulking? What a man-child.”
Seonghwa brought one of his hands up, tapping Wooyoung’s arm gently to get his attention.
Once Wooyoung looked at him, he signed:
Who is that?
Wooyoung rolled his eyes again, but his expression softened. “He is our—” He hesitated, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Head alpha. Yeah. Sort of.”
Seonghwa’s brow furrowed. He signed again: Pointing to the cafe around them, then making a questioning gesture, then signing work:
He doesn’t work here?
Shouldn’t a pack alpha be there to protect the pack? That was the whole point, wasn’t it?
“No, not really,” Wooyoung supplied, something complicated in his expression.
Mingi, who must have picked up on Seonghwa’s confusion from his face alone, supplied helpfully, “He’s a DJ.”
Seonghwa’s mouth shifted into an O, his eyes widening, clearly awestruck.
A DJ?
That sounded so cool. Seonghwa had never seen one before. He had only heard about them in passing, in the background noise of other people’s conversations.
But also… he signed hesitantly: What is a DJ?
Wooyoung’s eyes widened. “You don’t know what a DJ is?” He didn’t mean it in a cruel way, he was clearly just surprised, like Seonghwa had said he’d never seen the ocean or tasted ice cream.
But Seonghwa flinched anyway, his shoulders drawing up, suddenly aware of how sheltered he must seem. How small his world had been.
“A DJ is someone who plays and produces different kinds of music at a club,” Yunho said kindly, his voice gentle, clearly picking up on Seonghwa’s body language, the way he’d curled in on himself slightly. “They mix songs together and create beats. Make people dance.”
“You don’t have to worry about him,” Mingi said suddenly. “He doesn’t really come here.”
Seonghwa nodded again, relief and disappointment tangling together in his chest. Relief that he wouldn’t have to meet another person today, wouldn’t have to navigate another alpha’s expectations. Disappointment because… well… He was curious now.
That was when the oven timer rang, a shrill beep that cut through the conversation.
“Cookie time!!!” Wooyoung announced happily, clapping his hands together, and Seonghwa clapped too.
Seonghwa pulled the cookies from the oven, the sheet hot even through the mitts, the cookies golden-brown at the edges and still slightly soft in the center, exactly how they should be. The smell was heavenly, rich and comforting, and the texture was neither too soft nor too crunchy when he tested one with his finger, feeling the slight give.
Wooyoung distributed them once they’d cooled enough, pressing warm cookies into each person’s hands.
It turned out awesome.
“This is so good!” Mingi squeaked around a mouthful, clearly enjoying the taste, his eyes closing in bliss, crumbs clung to his lips.
Seonghwa felt warmth flooding his body, spreading from his chest outward until even his fingertips felt hot. He flushed, his ears burning, pleased and embarrassed in equal measure.
Wooyoung winked at him cheekily, his smile wide and genuine. “Welcome to Precious Lost, Seonghwa-ssi!”
And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Seonghwa felt like he’d found somewhere he could get accustomed to.
When his orientation at the cafe was over, Wooyoung sent him home with a batch of different cookies, breads, and pastries, packing them carefully into a white cardboard box, layering parchment paper between the items so they wouldn’t stick together.
He called them a celebration treat for Seonghwa’s employment at Precious Lost, his hands moving excitedly as he signed congratulations along with the words, the sign a little clumsy but earnest.
It made Seonghwa feel warm inside, like a warm blanket engulfing him from the inside out, fluttering his heart despite the chilly weather outside, as if he’d found something he didn’t even know he’d been looking for. Maybe it was belonging, or just kindness without conditions attached.
Whatever it was, it gave Seonghwa something to look forward to for the next day.
The walk to the apartment was grounding. The bustling crowd and the smell of street food on the way home made him smile; tteokbokki and hotteok and roasted chestnuts, the vendors calling out their prices in sing-song voices that echoed off the wet pavement. Steam rose from their carts in white clouds, and Seonghwa let himself get lost in it all, just another person in the flow of the city.
He could get used to this.
When he got into the elevator, the metal box rattling and groaning as it climbed, fluorescent light flickering overhead, he couldn’t contain himself anymore. He started opening the pastry box Wooyoung had given him, his fingers working at the tape holding it shut, careful not to tear the cardboard. The smell hit him immediately when he lifted the lid; butter and sugar and cinnamon, still faintly warm. His mouth watered.
His head was still down, giggling at the thought of all the sweet treats he was going to have, maybe he’d eat one now, maybe he’d save them, maybe he’d bring some to his landlord ajumma as thanks—when he walked out of the elevator.
The voice that came out stopped him in his tracks, making him freeze on the spot.
“Hello, Princess. Whatcha got there?”
Seonghwa‘s breath hitched, his head shot up in an instant.
It was the neighbor.
The beta neighbor guy.
He had a leather jacket on; black and worn, the kind that creaked when he moved; a velvet crimson shirt underneath that looked almost obscene against his pale skin. A lollipop played on his lips, the stick moving from one corner of his mouth to the other as he spoke, the candy clicking against his teeth. Cherry-flavored, from the artificial sweetness Seonghwa could suddenly smell. He looked vicious, piercings adorning his eyebrows; two silver bars through the left one, the corner of his lips, his ears climbing up the cartilage in a line of gleaming metal that caught the hallway’s dim lighting.
He was leaning against Seonghwa’s door, arms folded lazily across his chest, one booted foot crossed over the other. He looked completely at ease, like he had every right to be there, like he’d been waiting.
He looked very nice.
Too nice; the kind of nice that made Seonghwa’s instincts scream contradictory things— closer and run tangled up together until he couldn’t tell which was which.
Seonghwa felt the spot behind his ears begin to burn.
His birthmark; the small patch of white and silver-inked skin behind his left ear, shaped vividly like a crescent moon, something he’d had since birth and never thought about except when it itched. But now it was burning, hot and insistent, almost painful. Like someone had pressed a flame to it.
Why was his birthmark tingling?
He stood there in the hallway, the pastry box clutched to his chest, staring at the man who still hadn’t moved, who was still watching him with those sharp, dark eyes, the lollipop still rolling across his tongue. That scent hit Seonghwa again; whiskey and smoke and seawater and sunlight—impossible sunlight—and the burning behind his ear intensified until he had to resist the urge to scratch at it, to claw at the skin until the sensation stopped.
The man’s smirk widened, like he could see exactly what Seonghwa was feeling, as if he knew something Seonghwa didn’t, some secret written across Seonghwa’s face in a language only he could read.
“Cat got your tongue, Princess?”
Seonghwa flinched at that, embarrassment curling up his neck in hot waves, making his face burn almost as much as the birthmark. His fingers tightened on the pastry box until the cardboard buckled slightly under his grip.
He wanted to take his phone out to type something; some response, some explanation, something to fill the silence that stretched between them like taffy. But the man was so intimidating that Seonghwa wanted to avoid looking stupid in front of him more than he already had, more than he felt he did just by existing here, frozen and wordless.
So he just pointed at his throat; finger hovering over his Adam’s apple, before crossing his hands in front of it in a cross. The gesture was sharp, defensive.
The man’s expression shifted instantly, his smugness draining away like water through a sieve, turning into something akin to guilt. His smirk faltered, the lollipop going still in his mouth.
“You can’t talk?” He asked, surprise evident in his tone; genuine surprise, not the performative kind people sometimes used. His eyebrows drew together slightly.
Seonghwa shook his head, curling into himself yet again, shoulders hunching inward as if doing that would make him disappear. As if he could fold himself small enough to become invisible.
“That’s okay, princess,” the guy said, his expression unreadable now, something shuttered and careful replacing the guilt. “Don’t look so shaken up for me. I won’t bite.” He paused, that smirk ghosting across his lips again. “Not you anyway.”
Seonghwa had to stop himself from pouting, his lips pressing together hard. It was weird, because why was he feeling disappointed upon hearing that a stranger wouldn’t bite him? Why did something in his chest sink at those words, like rejection?
Was he not biteable?
He guessed not.
Who would want a scentless omega anyway? One who couldn’t even speak, couldn’t even purr or chirp properly or make any of the sounds omegas were supposed to make to attract attention. He was defective on every level that mattered.
“Are you an omega?” The man asked, tilting his head slightly, studying Seonghwa like a puzzle he was trying to solve. “You smell like one. Although it’s pretty faint.” Almost non-existent, his tone implied.
Seonghwa froze, his breath catching in his throat.
How—How had he smelled him?
Seonghwa didn’t have any scent. The suppressants had stripped it away completely, left him sterile and blank. That’s what every doctor had told him, what every alpha and beta who’d gotten close enough had confirmed with their wrinkled noses and confused expressions.
Before Seonghwa could actually answer his question, could reach for his phone or try to sign or do anything, the man smirked again, wider this time. “Oh you definitely are an omega. Ain’t no way you’re not.”
Seonghwa frowned, his eyebrows drawing together.
What was that supposed to mean?
Mean beta neighbor.
He was mean. Seonghwa didn’t like him. He didn’t like the way he made Seonghwa feel off-balance and exposed, like all his carefully constructed defenses were paper-thin.
“You left those cookies for me, didn’t you?” He asked next, and Seonghwa couldn’t help but feel like he was getting interrogated. It felt as if he was being pinned down under a microscope, every reaction catalogued and analyzed.
He only nodded, still frowning, his jaw tight.
“Why?”
Seonghwa took his phone out this time, fumbling it slightly, his fingers clumsy with nerves, since there was no way he could make the guy understand what he was going to say otherwise. His hands were shaking as he opened his notes app, the screen too bright in the dim hallway.
He typed out, each letter feeling more humiliating than the last: I wanted us to be friends.
He felt extremely stupid writing that out, considering the guy’s attitude, considering the way he’d just been warned away like a child reaching for something dangerous.
He showed the screen to the man, holding it up between them like a shield.
The man read it, his eyes scanning the words. “You wanted us to be friends?” He repeated slowly, as if tasting the words in his mouth, rolling them around like the lollipop.
Seonghwa only swallowed, his throat clicking dryly, already knowing what was coming.
The man only chuckled, low and dark and patronizing in a way that made Seonghwa’s stomach twist. “Oh sweetheart.” He clicked his tongue. “You’re adorable, but—” He stepped closer, until he was invading Seonghwa’s space completely, until Seonghwa could feel the heat radiating off him, until there was nowhere to look except at him. “Stay away from me. I’m not the type you’d want to be friends with, gorgeous. Not now and not ever.” His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “If you get too close, I will bite. Are we clear?”
Seonghwa’s breath hitched, catching painfully in his chest. He could smell sunlight burning; that impossible scent intensifying until it was almost overwhelming, making his head spin. Whiskey and smoke as if they were on fire, crackling and consuming everything around them. The man’s pheromones pressed against Seonghwa’s senses like a physical weight, making his knees weak.
His birthmark also burned, searing hot now, so intense it almost hurt, like someone had branded him.
Seonghwa nodded frantically, his head bobbing up and down, clearly scared. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he thought it might crack them, and his hands trembled around his phone and the pastry box.
The guy only hummed in satisfaction; clearly having gotten what he came there for. Whatever point he’d been trying to make, he’d made it.
He retreated, stepping back and giving Seonghwa space to breathe again. And that was only then, only when there was distance between them again, when the air wasn’t quite so thick with that burning sunlight scent, that Seonghwa could feel himself breathe again. His lungs expanded shakily, dragging in oxygen that tasted like rain and hallway mustiness and lingering whiskey.
The man put the lollipop back in his mouth, settling it in the corner like it belonged there. “Thank you for the cookies though.” His voice was almost pleasant now. “They were delicious, baker bunny.”
With that, he turned and walked away, his boots thudding softly against the floor, his leather jacket creaking with movement, leaving a confused, shaken Seonghwa to grapple with what the fuck had just happened.
Seonghwa stood there for a long moment, his back pressed against his door, his legs trembling. The pastry box was crushed slightly where he’d gripped it too hard, and he could feel his pulse in his throat, in his wrists, behind his ears where the birthmark still burned like a brand.
What was that?
And why did a part of him—some stupid, irrational part buried deep in his omega hindbrain—want to follow?