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Sieun was going to fucking kill Baku.

Not metaphorically. Not in a haha, I’ll strangle you way. No. As soon as Sieun comes back to Korea, he would walk straight into the office and punch the alpha in the face. Maybe a pen to the ribs, too. He had a few sturdy ones in his drawer. Surely that would do Baku some good.

And no—Gotak or Juntae would not save him.

Because why, in the name of everything rational and algorithmically sound, was Yeon Sieun, tech journalist, currently in Miami to cover a sports event he had absolutely no idea about?

It had all started innocently.

Sieun had been minding his own business, sitting in front of his computer, writing about how omega developers were quietly reshaping machine learning models behind YouTube’s recommendation algorithm.

(It was interesting. Anyone who said otherwise was wrong.)

Then Baku barged in.

The alpha looked deranged. His eyes were wide, expression haunted, tears suspiciously close to spilling. He crossed the newsroom in three long strides, dropped to his knees in front of Sieun’s desk.

“Yeon Sieun,” Baku said solemnly, face eerily similar to those doomed anime characters Juntae liked to show him. “I need your help.”

Sieun almost laughed. The key word is almost.

But Baku had never done this before, and the entire office had gone quiet. People were staring. Someone coughed. Someone else whispered. It brought unwanted attention. So, Sieun sighed, grabbed Baku by the collar, and hauled him up.

They retreated to the rooftop. It had the benches, flowers which was basically a mini-park that management insisted on maintaining. Something about maximising brain performance so the workers can efficiently come up with more scandalous article headlines.

Sieun had never understood the correlation.

The weather was wonderful. Sieun had to squint a bit, holding his palm in a way so it was covering both of his eyes. Unlike Baku, who sat beside him on the bench now, posture stiff, face grim like he was about to confess to a crime.

“Sieun-chan,” Baku began. “I need you to go to Miami instead of me.”

What. Wait, wait, wait. Hold the horses.

This—this was the moment Sieun should have stood up and walked away. He should have called Gotak. Or Juntae. Instead, like an idiot and a good friend, he stayed. Mistake number one.

Mistake number two was letting Baku continue talking.

Baku worked as a sports correspondent. He spent most of his life hopping between competitions, interviewing athletes, participating in sport events himself. He was built for this job—by nature and by history. He was a former athlete; had a loud voice and an unshakeable presence as an alpha.

Sieun, on the other hand, had been STEM-focused since childhood. He didn’t hate sports. He was just bad at it and didn't care outside of school curriculum.

Which made it all the more horrifying when Baku continued:

“For a race.”

Sieun blinked slowly, staring at the alpha's face. Baku wore a scent patch meant to dull pheromones to something office-appropriate, but Sieun could still sense the anxiety bleeding through it. The expression on Baku’s face only amplified the effect.

First of all, he decided to ask the obvious. Yeon Sieun may be smart, but he wasn't mind reader.

“Running?”

“No.”

“Skiing?” In May? Well, there are probably snowy places but Sieun didn't imagine himself wrapped in layers of clothes somewhere in Swiss Alps when he could just chill here in the office and drink his iced americano.

“Cycling?” He tried again.

“No."

What other kind of race could there possibly be? Something cold crawled down Sieun’s spine. He was sure he wouldn't like Baku's answer.

“Sieun,” Baku said gently, like he was delivering bad news. And maybe he was. “It’s Formula One.”

And—

Nothing.

The words meant absolutely nothing to him.

Sieun liked to think of himself as a reasonably sophisticated person. He read, watched things, kept up with the news. He wasn’t completely disconnected from the world. But this? He needed some context. Formula of what? Was it connected with science? Then Sieun wouldn't mind this business trip.

Which made it all the more infuriating when Baku explained it in exactly five words:

“Twenty millionaires drive in circles.”

Yeah, amazing.

After telling Baku that he will think about it, Sieun took out his phone from the pocket and googled the term. The first definition that came up was quite eye catching: photos of cars, drivers, the tracks, champagne celebrations.

F1 is an expensive sport where teams design and manufacture their own cars to compete. It's a science experiment that pushes technology to the extreme and benefits the automotive industry.

And Sieun closed the tab not long after. F1 might be connected to science—after all, figuring out how to make a car go 350 km/h without breaking down could be considered science in the eyes of millions—but it still didn’t help with Baku’s case. Sieun wasn’t interested in watching people drive cars, no matter how many engineers worked behind the scenes. He was IT-adjacent, not a mechanic; he didn’t understand all the intricacies of physics and aerodynamics.

He told this to Baku, who only let out a deep sigh before saying:

“Sieun-chan, I didn’t want to tell you this, but there’s no one else I can ask for this favour.”

And three days later, Sieun found himself at Incheon Airport with his passport in hand. Baku had assured him the race weekend would only take three days—practice day, qualifying day and the main race day. And Sieun would go to the main race only, skipping the other two days—to which Sieun was very thankful for. Baku also said it was more than enough time for Sieun to take interviews from a few sportsmen, take photos and write not so long article. Local Koreans would love the coverage from their journal on super growing in popularity of sport.

So Sieun, who took his job seriously—unfortunately—downloaded several Formula One 'beginner guides,' along with a stack of car development articles. Despite his muttering about physics and IT not being so related to each other, it ended up being far more interesting during the flight than learning what color of flag meant what kind of disaster.

Yes, Sieun might be confused during the race. That, however, was a problem for future Sieun. Present Sieun had to navigate Miami International Airport and get to his accommodation.

From the air, the city had looked almost unreal: blue ocean stretching endlessly, buildings rising from narrow strips of land, green scattered generously between concrete and glass. From the distance it looked like Seoul but far more colourful and there were many tree palms.

The second impression was that this place would kill him.

Not immediately but slowly. With sunstroke, dehydration, and cars moving too fast and too loud nearby. Sieun checked the weather on his phone—humid didn’t begin to cover it—and wondered, not for the first time, what exactly he had done in a past life to deserve this.

Yes, he will kill Baku.

The Uber driver was cheerful that it immediately set Sieun on edge. He looked like a guy who had slept well, eaten properly, and definitely had not spent the last fifteen hours sealed inside recycled airplane air with two overlapping scent perfumes worn by his neighbours in seats slowly making the world tilt.

To make matters worse, the driver’s scent clung to the confined space—cinnamon with sharp citrus. It felt intrusive, pressing at Sieun’s senses, and making his head ache even more.

“First time in Miami?” the driver asked as they merged into traffic, his voice loud.

“Yes,” Sieun answered, his English noticeably rougher than usual, but he doubted the man noticed or cared. For a brief moment, he considered rolling the window down, letting fresh air in, but the unfamiliar city sliding past outside made him abandon the idea. Half-asleep and disoriented, Sieun leaned back into the seat instead, choosing the sealed safety of the car over whatever waited beyond it.

The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror, eyes lighting up with recognition. “You here for the race?”

Sieun didn't want small-talk bullshit, and for a moment he stared at the back of the driver’s head, weighing his options. On one hand, lying felt like effort. On the other hand, pretending not to understand felt rude. Nevertheless, he came to one conclusion.

Driver had no nunchi—lacking awareness of Sieun's half-dead state.

“Yes,” he said finally, the word small and uncertain, before adding, after a pause that stretched too long, “First… watch?”

Yeah, Sieun will need to go through some YouTube videos on English lessons as well. Years after school graduation where english was mandatory long gone, his non-existent speaking skills definitely needed some improvment. However, that, apparently, was all the encouragement the driver needed.

“Oh, man,” he exclaimed, as if Sieun had just shared excellent news. “You picked the perfect time to come. Formula One in Miami is insane. You got a favorite driver yet?”

Sieun’s fingers tightened slightly around the strap of his bag. His mind searched for a name—any name—and came up empty, a blank stretch of unfamiliar syllables and faces he had scrolled past without absorbing on the plane.

Fuck, surely he should have remembered at least someone? But most of the names were super hard to pronounce even in his head so he skipped the parts where drivers were the main point of the discussion.

“No," he replied honestly.

“That’s fine, that’s fine,” the driver said, waving one hand dramatically as if dismissing the idea entirely. “You’ll have one by the end of the weekend. Happens to everyone. These guys are something else. Fastest drivers in the world. It’s not like NASCAR or anything. Don't tel anyone I said that or I would get my citizenship revoked, haha!”

Sieun nodded, even though he had no idea what NASCAR was and no intention to ask. He picked up on the context by understanding some words but it still was challenging to comrehend what the man was saying.

The driver kept talking, enthusiasm rolling forward without resistance, words piling on top of one another as he explained rivalries, team histories, engines, strategies that clearly meant a great deal to him. Sieun caught fragments—numbers, seconds, speeds—but they failed to connect into anything coherent, his brain too fogged by jet lag and the faint, persistent nausea that came with scent patches worn too long.

His head leaned back against the window, the glass cool against his temple. Outside, palm trees blurred past, colors too bright, the city already pressing in on him with heat. He felt acutely aware of his own body, of how tightly wound his nerves were, of the low, dull ache of exhaustion that made every sound feel louder and every thought heavier.

At some point the driver said something about strategy and how people misunderstood the sport, how it wasn’t just cars driving in circles, and Sieun had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from snorting, the irony too sharp not to sting.

He let the words wash over him after that, not rude so much as incapable, mentally turning down the volume until the driver’s voice became background noise, a steady stream of sound without meaning. All he could focus on was the growing desire for a shower, for the relief of clean water and removing the scent patches before they melted into his skin.

When the car finally slowed and stopped, Sieun barely registered the transition until the driver’s voice cut through again, cheerful as ever.

“And here we are. You’re gonna love it. Welcome to America! Enjoy the race!”

“Thank you,” Sieun replied automatically, his movements slow as he gathered his things and stepped out into the heat, the door closing behind him with a final sound.

As the Uber pulled away, leaving him alone in front of the hotel, Sieun stood still for a moment, heart beating a little too fast for his comfort, head still buzzing, already tired of a weekend that hadn’t properly begun.

“I should have stabbed Baku,” he murmured under his breath, not angry so much as resigned, before turning toward the entrance and going inside.

He briefly considered postponing the murder of Baku to a later date, mostly because the sight in front of him demanded more immediate attention and, frankly, more mental energy than he currently possessed.

The hotel rose in front of him like something unreal, the entrance heavily secured by uniformed guards who looked entirely unbothered by the crowd behind metal barricades. People were shouting—names impossible to distinguish one from another—and waving banners Sieun did not recognize.

He could not deal with this. Not now.

With his head slightly lowered and his shoulders tense, Sieun slipped past the noise and toward the front desk. The check-in process passed in a blur, company credit card returned, his key card slid across the counter, directions given that he absorbed only partially.

His room number placed him somewhere in the middle of the building, which he registered without interest.

All he wanted was to be alone.

The elevator doors were just beginning to close when a hand slid between them, stopping their movement. Sieun stiffened instinctively, and watched as the person stepped inside.

“Sorry,” the man said, in English, though facial features were definitely Asian or Korean, Sieun wanted to say but the man turned very fast he didn't have time to get a closer look. He had his back turned to him instead.

Sieun glanced at him briefly one more time before returning his attention to the illuminated numbers above the door. The stranger—a man in his twenties, short black hair, dressed in a red windbreaker—stepped fully inside just as his phone vibrated in his hand.

“Yes, I know,” the man said into it in English as he pressed a button far higher than Sieun’s floor, one of the topmost numbers. “I'll come downstairs in a minute. I just forgot my pass.”

The elevator doors slid shut, and the cabin began its smooth ascent.

From that alone, Sieun deduced that the man was likely wealthy, or at least important enough to afford staying here, where the highest floors were almost certainly reserved for penthouses and luxury suites. It was an observation that he noted and then immediately discarded.

He did not care of stranger's financial situation.

What he noticed instead—what made him stiffen a bit—was the scent with woody frangnance with notes of sage. Sieun inhaled unconsciously, bathing in scent wrapping around him in elevator slowly. The reaction was instinctive. The dull edge of exhaustion that had been pressing behind his eyes since the flight eased, breathing slowing as if his body had decided that this was safe. This person was safe. Completely different from the taxi driver.

The alpha also wasn’t wearing a scent patch. Sieun was certain of it. There was no artificial notes to the aroma, no chemical aftertaste clinging to the air the way suppressants always left behind. In Korea, that would have been unthinkable in a professional setting preferring more conservative approach. Alpha or omega alike expected to mute themselves for the comfort of others. It wasn't a law but moreso unwritten rule. Here, apparently, it was different. Sieun would say, people moved freely. They had a choice and no one was going to judge them for that.

Sieun also did not like how quickly his body adjusted to the scent of unknown alpha.

“Yeah,” the man said quietly into the phone, entirely unbothered. “I’ll be right there.”

Sieun kept his eyes fixed on the doors, counting the seconds between floors. The unfamiliar sense of ease lingered under his skin, and for the first time since leaving the airplane, Sieun felt genuinely off-balance.

He didn’t know what it meant; he only knew he didn’t like feeling of his body reacting before his mind could catch up.

When the elevator chimed and the doors slid open at his floor, Sieun stepped out, not sparing the stranger a second glance. The doors closed behind him, and almost immediately his body tightened, shoulders drawing in as if something essential had been cut off too abruptly. The hallway air felt emptier, and it took him a few steps to realize what was missing—the faint trace of the stranger’s scent, already dissipating.

He frowned, annoyed with himself, and lengthened his stride.

By the time he finally made it into his room, the tension he had been holding since the airport gave way all at once, and a deep, exhausted sigh escaped him as he dropped his bag onto the floor. Not the one with the cameras, though—that he handled carefully, setting it down beside the bed. With finally being in the quietness of his room, came a different kind of relief.

Whatever that had been in the elevator, he told himself, was nothing.

Jet lag. Oversensitivity. His heat creeping closer and throwing his senses out of alignment. Sieun pressed the thought down firmly, unwilling to examine it any further, and turned his attention instead to the small table beneath the television. A neat arrangement of flowers sat there, accompanied by a box of chocolates and a small folded card.

Ritz-Carlton Bal Harbour welcomes WH Sport to the F1 Miami Grand Prix and wishes you a pleasant stay.

Vacation was a generous way to put it, but he supposed he could appreciate the effort. At the very least, their company had been considerate enough to book a hotel that was undeniably impressive and, more importantly, close to the track. There was a pool visible from the balcony doors, water glinting invitingly in the sunlight, and for a brief moment Sieun allowed himself to imagine floating there, detached from deadlines and whatever disaster awaited him in the coming days.

Miami was still deep in early morning. Back in Seoul, it would be nearing ten at night.

The dissonance made his head throb.

He pulled out his phone and sent a short message to the group chat, letting them know he had arrived safely and planned to sleep for a bit before attempting something. Living through the same day twice felt unsettling, like cheating time, and the sensation lingered as he set the phone aside and finally allowed his body to give in.

He didn’t remember undressing. Sieun barely registered the weight of the sheets as he collapsed into bed. His eyes closed on their own, exhaustion dragging him under before his thoughts could catch up.

When he woke, his head felt thick and heavy, like the aftermath of three bottles of soju, and for a disoriented moment he thought he had slept through the day. The discarded clothes were scattered across the floor, his scent-blocking patch abandoned on the bedside table.

No wonder he’d slept so deeply.

Without the suppressants weighing him down, his scent gland felt lighter, finally able to breathe, and the air in the room was filled with the soft, unmistakable notes of peonies. Mingling with the faint salt of the nearby ocean drifting in through the balcony doors made the combination heavenly.

Sieun looked toward the window and saw the sun still high in the sky, casting harsh light across the room.

It was probably also a good thing he hadn’t slept through the entire day. Tomorrow morning he had to be at the track, and if there was one thing he despised more than low marks on his exam during university days, it was being late. With an irritated groan, Sieun reached for his phone.

The group chat was overflowing, messages piling up while he slept, having missed them by only a few minutes.

Baku: Yeon Sieun, I am so glad you made it!! My dad sends his regards for saving us in this situation

followed immediately by a selfie of Baku grinning beside his father’s hospital bed.

Juntae: Sieun-ah, don’t forget to rest~ I know the flight must’ve been exhausting.

Gotak: SIEUN GET ME MAX VERSTAPPEN’S SIGN PLEASEEEEE

Sieun huffed out a quiet laugh as he set the phone down. Everyone had their own priorities.

After a quick shower that did wonders for his head, Sieun spent the rest of the day wandering Miami at a slow, unhurried pace, his own small digital camera slung over his neck. He took photos of the ocean and palm-lined streets. He ate a late lunch that was stereotypically American in portion and flavor, greasy and sweet, and halfway through decided that it was impressive in some unique way.

He met people along the way, brief encounters that left him vaguely bewildered: strangers who spoke too loudly and smiled too easily. Sieun attributed it to cultural differences and moved on, documenting everything anyway, sending photo after photo to the group chat despite knowing full well that his friends were asleep back in Korea.

And to no one's surprise, the messages went unread.

For a fleeting moment, as he watched the tide roll in and out and the afternoon stretch lazily toward evening, Sieun found himself wishing they were there with him—Gotak complaining about the heat, Juntae charming local grandmas with his smiles, Baku talking too much and taking up space he didn’t need.

By the time the sun began to sink, painting the sky in softer colors, Sieun had made his way back to the hotel. He was halfway to the elevator when the receptionist called him, smiling brightly.

“Good evening! We will be having special party just in a few hours for all of our guests attending Formula 1 Grand Prix. If you would like you can attend.”

Sieun paused, nodded politely, and continued on his way, making no promises.

Yes, he had heard her clearly.

And no, he would not be going.

Or so he thought, right up until the phone in his pocket began vibrating insistently, the screen lighting up with Baku’s contact photo—an expression exaggeratedly cheerful.

Sieun sighed and answered.

“YEON SIEUN!”

Baku’s voice exploded through the speaker, far too loud for someone who was supposed to be in a hospital room fourteen time zones away.

“I’m here,” Sieun said flatly. “You can stop screaming.”

“Oh thank god,” Baku said, undeterred. “How was the flight? Did you eat? Did anyone bother you? Are you still mad?”

“Long. Yes. Obviously not. And your dad needs you, of course not.”

Baku laughed like that was the correct response, then said, “Okay, wait,” and a moment later the call chimed as two more names were added.

“Sieun-ah,” Juntae greeted calmly. “Looking good!”

“SIEUN,” Gotak said immediately. “SEND ME BEACH PICTURES. NOW.”

“I already did,” Sieun replied, glancing at the unread messages in the group chat. “You were asleep.”

“That’s not the point,” Gotak said. “Describe it. Is the ocean really that blue?”

Sieun leaned back against the hallway wall, eyes drifting to the ceiling as he spoke, describing the day in simple terms—how he’d walked by the water, taken photos, and met people who smiled at him like they already knew him. As he talked, the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly, the familiar rhythm of their voices calming him.

“I’m heading back to my room now,” he finished. “But there’s some kind of party, apparently.”

“A party?” Baku repeated slowly.

“Yes,” Sieun said, already wary. “But I’m not going.”

“What?” Baku snapped, his tone immediately indignant. “Why not?”

“Because I’m tired,” Sieun replied like it was an abvious thing in the world. “And I don’t like parties.”

“That’s not a reason,” Baku said.

“Park Humin,” Gotak warned mildly.

“No, listen,” Baku continued. “That hotel is crawling with people right now. Teams, sponsors, athletes—important people. You could meet someone influential. Or—” his voice took on an exaggerated suggestive tone, “—maybe your love of your life.”

Sieun grimaced. “That’s not how that works.”

Sometimes he was genuinely amazed by Baku’s ideas but moreso their absurdity. The probability of Sieun finding his ‘mate’ here felt as likely as Baku himself stumbling into a successful blind date. The difference, of course, was that Sieun was in America, surrounded by strangers, while Baku could comfortably sit in Korea and still fail at landing anyone.

“You don’t know that,” Baku shot back. “You’re in Miami during F1 week. Hot people everywhere. You know what? You should probably get laid. Statistically—”

“I doubt statistics apply here,” Sieun cut in. Hearing alpha talk about sex was painful. So he needed to redirect, fast. “And I don’t even have anything appropriate to wear.”

“That can be fixed,” Juntae said immediately, voice bright. Sieun shot him a look that screamed, what are you doing, Juntae? You were supposed to be on my side! But his friend didn’t even flinch, ignoring the silent protest entirely. “What did you pack?”

“Clothes,” Sieun said. He wasn't backing down.

“Describe them.”

Against his better judgment, Sieun did. The pastel brown-pink shirt. The blue office shirt. The trousers. The jeans. The neutral shoes he wore everywhere.

There was a thoughtful hum on the other end.

“Okay,” Juntae said finally. “That works. Get that pink one; button two undone. Sleeves rolled once. Jeans are fine. Perfect!”

Sieun sighed deeply. Sometimes he forgot that Juntae was a master at this, working in fashion division of WH journal, fellow omega's knowledge in styling was as deep as Mariana Trench. Sieun was sure Juntae was someone who could probably recognize a Chanel 90s collection from a single glance at the fabric.

Baku jumped back in. “You’re on a break, Sieun-chan. You’re allowed to exist outside office walls. Drink some wine, dance, and just enjoy the night.”

“I am doing just fine,” Sieun muttered.

“Go,” Baku insisted. “If you hate it, you leave. That’s it.”

Sieun hesitated, staring at the elevator doors, exhaustion warring with a strange, reluctant curiosity. Baku wasn't completely wrong. Sieun still had a full right to leave if he hated the evening.

“…One drink,” he said finally. “And then I’m leaving.”

“YES!” Juntae cheered. "Make sure to rest! Sieun-ah, you have worked hard so far. Maybe it is a sign from above for you to finally let it go!"

"Yeah, yeah. I will try my best," Sieun said. At not leaving after five minutes.

Everyone said their goodbyes, and the call disconnected, leaving the hallway suddenly too quiet.

Sieun stared at his phone for a moment longer before slipping it back into his pocket and turning toward his room, already resigning himself to the idea of changing clothes and regretting this entire sequence of events. He had just reached for the door handle when his phone buzzed again.

A message.

From Juntae.

Juntae:
as your fellow omega, I am legally obligated to remind you about protection😏
though i won't be mad if you don't use it
get that hot american alpha wrapped around your finger
have fun <3

Sieun closed his eyes and typed back the following:

Sieun:
I am literally going to stand in a corner and leave after one drink

Three dots appeared immediately.

Juntae:
that’s how it usually starts😌🍸🔥

Sieun exhaled slowly, rubbing at his temple, equal parts irritated and reluctantly fond. He tucked the phone away, and finally allowed himself to get ready, still convinced this would be nothing more than a brief, socially obligatory appearance. He was sure no one would even care.

He was, as usual, very wrong.

Sieun felt strange.

He hadn’t intended to style his hair at all, but the humidity, the heat, and the faint sheen of sweat had conspired against him, leaving his hair slightly tousled, as if he had deliberately tried to make it look like that. Combined with the muted pastel pink blouse and jeans, the effect was… unsettling.

Sieun had always been aware of how he looked, of the secondary gender traits and the stereotypes that came with them. Even in a society that was slowly becoming more progressive, where omegas were no longer automatically suppressed, there were still people stuck in older mindsets, waiting for an excuse to judge.

Back in high school, attention had followed him whether he wanted it or not. Boys had made inappropriate comments—asking how deep he could take the dick, laughing like it was the insult Sieun had to get upset at (he didn't care)—while girls fumed quietly over how easily Sieun drew attention from alphas, no matter what he did. Sieun, unfortunately, had been too focused on his studies to notice properly, and too busy rebelling against his parents by choosing journalism over the expected path to spare much thought for dating or fucking at all.

University had been marginally different. Mostly because Baku existed in the first place.

Blind dates, group outings, forced socialization to name a few. Sieun had gone along with it, never quite invested and never forming anything that lasted. Sometimes, though, it had been convenient. Sieun had found temporary heat partners in moments when the toys weren’t enough or when the pain was too sharp to bear alone. If he was honest, he had probably wasted their time, offering accidental hope without meaning to, flirting with the idea of being with them when he had never intended to.

The reason was stupid. He had always imagined meeting his mate one day. It wasn’t something taught in school—the concept was considered old-fashioned, irrelevant in an era where anyone could be with anyone. But Sieun, the little gullible boy who had stumbled across a book about soulmates on his mother’s shelf at six, had carried the idea quietly with him ever since. He had dreamed, secretly, of someone who would make him feel like he belonged.

It was almost paradoxical. There was no scientific explanation for soulmates. No studies, no data, nothing that could justify the concept. For someone like Sieun, who built his articles on evidence and facts, trusting in a fairy tale felt… absurd—laughably so, especially among his friends.

And yet, it never bothered him. He had never made any effort to find a mate, believing that if it was meant to happen, it would happen in its own time.

Baku’s comment about the possibility of Sieun finding his mate here? Hilarious at best. Sometimes the alpha was too funny, his imagination sprawling without any sense of boundaries. Sieun couldn’t help the quiet smirk it brought to his face, even as he rolled his eyes.

He stood at the entrance, surrounded by people who were attractive, successful, confident, most likely rich. Sieun felt distinctly out of place, painfully aware that he was just a reporter from Korea who wrote about tech infrastructure, not an influencer, not a celebrity, not someone meant to be here.

This event, he suspected, was designed precisely for people who thrived on being seen.

The hotel’s club itself, however, was disappointingly familiar. Once past the initial shock, Sieun realized it wasn’t all that different from clubs back home—music thudding low through the floor, bodies moving in clusters, conversations overlapping.

The only difference was the scents. Most of the crowd didn’t wear scent patches. Sieun hadn’t either, letting his own scent mingle freely with those around him in the confined space. Not having a patch pressing against his glands felt almost liberating, and even the mix of strangers’ aromas couldn’t make the night feel heavier.

Moving through the club took more effort than Sieun had anticipated. The space was packed, bodies swaying in loose rhythm to an English pop song. He made his way carefully through the crowd, murmuring soft apologies when shoulders brushed too close, keeping his head down as if it might make him less noticeable.

The bar came into view like a small island of order amid the chaos, and Sieun felt an almost disproportionate sense of relief when he finally reached it.

One drink, he reminded himself. Stand somewhere in the corner. (Not literally.) Then leave.

He scanned the menu briefly before ordering a gin and tonic, something light that wouldn’t interfere with tomorrow morning. When the glass was placed in front of him, cold against his fingers, Sieun took a small sip and turned his attention back to the room.

The crowd blurred together after a while with all the laughter and movement. Somewhere nearby, someone shouted along to the chorus of the song. Sieun observed it all, his thoughts already drifting ahead.

Tomorrow was very important.

He would be at the track early, accreditation in hand, navigating a world he still didn’t understand. There were interviews scheduled for after the race—or rather, there would be, once availability was confirmed at the paddock based on standings and performance of the drivers which meant Sieun might as well not have any opportunity at taking interview from the winner of the race. Somehow it was a thing. But he believed the prestige of their company in sport world was enough to guarantee at least one. Sieun hated that part the most: the uncertainty, the waiting, the inability to prepare properly. He preferred systems when he could process information in advance.

At least Baku had sent him a draft of questions which were generic enough to apply to any driver. Whether Sieun would fully understand the answers was a problem for later, preferably back in Korea, where he could listen to recordings slowly.

For now, he let his eyes drift across the club again.

He didn’t recognize anyone. Well, that was expected. Then again, he wouldn’t know if he was looking at a celebrity or not. They could be standing right in front of him and he’d have no idea. Maybe even a driver—but he doubted many of them would be here tonight. Tomorrow was a race day, after all, and athletes were known for discipline. Early nights, or something similar, he remembered from when his father worked as a personal trainer.

He took another sip of his drink, already counting down the minutes until he could politely disappear and return to the quiet of his room, when something shifted in the air. A faint, familiar note brushed past his senses. His brain told him he was imagining it, that maybe it was the alcohol making him overthink, but his body reacted before his mind could argue.

Blinking a few times, he tried to steady himself, keeping his gaze fixed on the row of bottles behind the bartender. Only the corner of his eyes registered a man in a maroon leather jacket ordering a cocktail. And then the scent hit him even more, unmistakable, washing over him, making his body tense and lean forward before his brain had any say.

Sieun felt like he was floating. Every fiber of his body seemed to dull and sharpen at the same time, his lungs expanding too deeply with each inhale. He could feel it physically, from the crown of his head down to the tips of his toes, the woody scent flooding his senses, filling him until it made his muscles twitch in involuntary response.

For a fleeting moment, the noise of the club faded, the lights blurring at the edges, his awareness narrowing to that single, grounding presence in the air. His knees feel almost unsteady despite sitting on the stool. It was ridiculous. One breath should not be enough to make his pulse stutter like this. His eyes closed for a fraction of a second, lashes lowering as his omega instincts surfaced quietly, and he barely registered the man speaking—his voice soft, Korean—before it registered.

“Sorry, have you recognised me?”

The single question snapped Sieun out of the haze like a cold shower. His posture straightened, heart beating a little too fast, and the world of lights, music, and bodies returned, sharper and somehow harsher after the brief trance.

He looked at the man in the maroon leather jacket, the color highlighting broad shoulders. Underneath, a thin black tee—or tank top, Sieun couldn’t tell—clung lightly to his frame. Black, wavy hair fell across his forehead. There was no scent patch in sight—not on his neck, not on his collar—and that explained far too much. The man didn’t look offended, only amused, lips quirking into a faint, almost-mocking smirk, the warmth in his eyes undercutting any malice.

“Ah?” Sieun barely managed a sound, his brain and tongue still catching up.

The man only laughed quietly, turning his torso slightly, one arm still resting casually on the bar stool, cocktail in hand. And with the movement the scent rolled off him even more. “You really don’t know me?”

Sieun’s mind went blank. The heavenly scent, the disorienting pull—it did not give him permission to be an asshole. And yet, somehow, the thought that this stranger expected him to recognize him anyway made him feel that way.

“Why should I?”

And then it clicked. The woody scent that had mesmerized him—confusing at first—was familiar. He remembered it from the elevator that morning. Now it made sense. Both of them were hotel guests, both attending the same F1 weekend party… it had to be the same man.

“You’re the guy from the morning lift,” Sieun said, voice cautious, still unsure why he needed to justify himself. It wasn’t like he had done anything wrong… except maybe sniff too closely, letting his body react without permission. Well, it wasn't entirely his fault either. His mind caught up too late to scold itself. And that the stranger might benefit from a crash course in omega biology flitted through his brain unconsiously.

Sieun lifted his drink again, finishing it, then nodded at the bartender and ordered another, totally forgetting about the promise he gave to Baku.

“Well, you aren’t wrong,” the stranger muttered, brow furrowing slightly, “but you came for F1, didn’t you?”

“So what?” Sieun turned toward the bartender, irritation flaring, though his body remained frustratingly relaxed in the alpha’s proximity.

The man shrugged. Instead of answering, he tilted his head and asked again, “And you don’t know me?”

Alphas were stubborn, all of them apparently. Sieun exhaled a long, measured sigh. His scent might be too good, but the attitude… that was another matter entirely. “Answering a question with a question is considered rude, by the way,” he noted dryly. “Why do I need to know who you are even if I came for F1?”

The man smiled. “It’s just… interesting. Dare to say—first time in my life.”

Sieun rolled his eyes and turned back to the bartender, deliberately refusing to look at him.

“You’re very cute,” the man continued, and Sieun almost choked on the gin. Compliments weren’t new to him, but this one landed differently. “Got a favorite team?” the alpha pressed on, despite Sieun’s flustered expression.

The latter considered walking away, retreating to the safe neutrality of his hotel room. But something about the man’s scent—woody and so insistent—made the idea of leaving less appealing than staying. Fine. He’d answer. He was in a good mood.

“I don’t.”

The stranger’s eyebrows shot up so high it was comical. “How come?”

“I just don’t,” Sieun repeated, taking another sip of gin. The alcohol was loosening his tongue and fogging his edges just enough that conversation didn’t feel like a pain the ass. “Came for work.”

Sieun would rather jump off the cliff than find himself fanboy over the cars.

"“Ah~ I see,” the man murmured, expression thoughtful, lips slightly parted, eyes fox-like in their sharpness.

Upbeat music throbbed through the club, unfamiliar but infectious. The DJ stood at the center booth, headphones slung around one hand, shoulders rolling as she bopped her head to the beat. Sieun listened absently, tapping his foot against the bar’s metal rung, ice clinking softly in his gin as he took another sip.

When the man stood up, Sieun’s stomach dipped. For a brief, stupid moment, he thought he was being abandoned mid-conversation.

Instead, the alpha did the most unexpected thing.

“Wanna dance, pretty?”

He leaned against the counter, one leg crossing behind the other. Up close, he was… hot distracting. Too distracting. The lights caught the angles of his face just right, shadowing his cheekbones, highlighting the dark depth of his eyes—deep, almost oceanic. And Sieun found himself studying him, noting the way he focused on omega as if no one else didn’t exist in the club.

Sieun parted his lips without realizing it.

The alpha’s gaze dipped instinctively to the movement, scent shifting just slightly—warmer, richer—before snapping back up as if reining himself in.

“I can’t dance,” Sieun said honestly.

The man shrugged, glancing toward the crowd. “It’s not like we’re competing in a dance battle, are we?”

“No,” Sieun agreed.

He hesitated only a second longer. His inner omega nudged insistently—go closer, just a little, figure out why he smells like that. Curiosity won out. With a soft huff, he slid off the barstool and landed beside him.

Thankfully, they didn’t head for the center of the dance floor. Sieun wasn’t sure what he would’ve done if he tripped—or worse, stepped on the man’s feet while everyone else watched. The alpha started moving, nothing flashy or impressive: a light bounce, head bobbing, one arm lifted casually. He looked like he was enjoying himself. Definitely not for the first time.

Sieun, on the other hand, stood stiffly, unsure what to do with his limbs. Bodies pressed together all around them, drinks clutched in hands, laughter spilling into the music. He’d been to clubs before, but he’d never danced. Trying to follow his partner’s rhythm was harder than he expected.

Noticing Sieun’s awkward movements, the alpha smiled and reached for his hands, guiding him gently—almost like a puppet. From the outside, it probably looked comical: two grown men stumbling through shared rhythm. And Sieun was painfully aware of every misstep.

The moment their hands touched, warmth jolted through him, electricity threading through his palm. The heat wasn’t uncomfortable despite the humid air; the alpha’s pheromones clung subtly, blending with Sieun’s own scent, drawing him just a fraction closer.

One sudden movement from behind nearly sent Sieun stumbling. He was caught immediately—strong hands wrapping around his waist as Sieun instinctively grabbed the alpha’s shoulders for balance. Up close, the scent was even richer, dizzying. He leaned in without thinking to steady himself.

Neither of them let go.

“What’s your name?” Sieun asked, rising onto his toes to reach the stranger’s ear.

The man laughed softly, clearly amused by the effort.

“I don’t like calling you crazy guy in my head,” Sieun muttered after a pause, clearing his throat. The lie slipped out smoothly. He looked up into the alpha's eyes, and for a moment they simply swayed in place, forgotten by the rest of the room.

“And here I am calling you pretty boy in my own,” the man said, flashing a lazy, charming smile. “Suho.”

“Yeon Sieun,” he replied, voice clipped but betraying a quickened pulse.

“Pretty,” Suho breathed the word out dreamily. Sieun’s immediate reaction was a sharp but light slap to Suho’s chest. His face flushed crimson, though somehow it blended in with the deep maroon of Suho’s jacket. “And feisty,” alpha added, voice teasing.

A sudden cheer rippled through the club, startling him. Sieun looked up just in time to see people shifting their attention toward the small stage near the DJ booth—someone recognizable had stepped up, microphone in hand. The energy changed instantly.

The crowd surged. Bodies pressed in from all sides, space collapsing in seconds. Sieun stumbled half a step as someone bumped his elbow, then his back, then his side.

“Wait—”

He barely got the word out before a hand slid around his waist, firmer this time, unmistakably protective. Suho’s arm anchored him in place, pulling him back just enough that Sieun wasn’t crushed between strangers.

It was the safest place he could’ve ended up.

Suho positioned himself in a way so his broad frame taking the brunt of the pressure. Sieun could feel it—how the crowd pushed into Suho first, how the alpha adjusted instinctively, feet widening slightly, stance solid.

“You okay?” Suho murmured near his ear, voice low, almost lost beneath the music.

Sieun nodded, even though Suho probably couldn’t see it. His chest felt tight, breath shallow from how close everything suddenly was.

The scent deepened again, warmer now, threaded with something calm. It wrapped around him like a shield, muting the overwhelming noise, the heat, the chaos. And only then he noticed people taking photos nearby of them, making Sieun self-conscious. Well, he definitely didn't think about that.

The alpha seemed to sense the tension, how the body in his wrap tensed, wanting to hide from everyone. “Let’s go somewhere quieter?”

Sieun’s instincts screamed caution, but the desire to escape the unwanted attention overrode it. He took the hand, now more familiar than he wanted to admit.

“Where are we going?” Sieun asked impatiently as they reached the elevators. Their hands were still clasped, and it seemed like Suho had no intention of letting go.

But as they stepped inside the lift, he did release Sieun’s hand. Omega wanted to whine at the loss of contact, but before he could, he found himself subtly cornered: Suho’s right hand landed on the mirrored wall beside Sieun’s head, caging him in. Somehow, it felt even more intimate than their handholding and whatever happened back on the dance floor.

“Somewhere with no extra eyes,” Suho replied.

Only then did Sieun realize they had ended up in the underground level, not anywhere else. To be fair, he didn’t know exactly where he expected to go—maybe the lobby, somewhere less crowded—but the underground parking? That was… unexpected.

Suho led him past rows of luxury cars, most of which Sieun didn’t even recognize. Logos and names meant little to him, but the craftsmanship and price tags were obvious enough: this was a world far beyond his own experience.

They stopped in front of a bright red car that Sieun did know—he would have had to live under a rock not to.

Ferrari.

The rich red paint gleamed under the underground lights, and the prancing horse emblem on a yellow background gleamed proudly in the center of the hood. Sieun raised an eyebrow at Suho, who looked far too pleased with himself, hands tucked casually into his trouser pockets.

“What’s this?” Sieun asked, suspicion sharpening his tone.

Suho only smiled, lips curling in that infuriatingly confident way. “Thought we needed some drive,” he said, moving toward the passenger side and opening the door.

The night was going too smooth for Sieun's liking as he wanted to mess with Suho a bit before succumbing to his charms.

“My mom taught me not to get into the cars of strangers,” Sieun muttered. He was playing hard to get—he knew it. Suho knew it too, and still chose to play along.

“Ah,” he said, leaning his weight against the open door, leather jacket creasing at the shoulder. He tilted his head, pretending to think hard, lips pursed in exaggerated contemplation. “Then what should we do?”

“Well,” he said lightly, voice calm despite the way his pulse betrayed him, “you could start by giving me a reason to think you’re worth ignoring my mom’s advice.”

It was bold—more than he usually allowed himself.

"Hmm," Suho hummed, the sound low and thoughtful, eyes flicking briefly to where Sieun stood. The alpha’s scent shifted almost imperceptibly, sharp edges of sage mellowing into something deeper, as if he were deliberately pulling it back instead of letting it spill. “I could,” he said finally, pushing himself upright from the door. He didn’t step closer, but the space between them felt narrower all the same. “But I don’t really like convincing people.”

His gaze lingered like he was waiting to see which way Sieun would lean.

“So how about this,” Suho continued, voice easy, almost lazy. “I’ll take you for a drive. If at any point you want out, I stop. No questions.”

Pause.

“And if you still decide your mom was right,” he added with a smile, “I’ll walk you back upstairs like a perfect gentleman.”

Sieun hadn’t expected it to go this way.

He’d meant to tease, to poke at the situation. Instead, Suho's answer threw Sieun off more than any bold advance could have. He wasn’t crowding, wasn’t claiming, wasn’t using the weight of being an alpha to tip the scales. That, more than anything else, made Sieun’s chest tighten.

For a moment, he just stood there, fingers flexing at his side. Then, without a word, he moved.

Sieun stepped past Suho, the brush of space close enough that their scents tangled briefly again, and slid into the passenger seat. The red leather was cool against the back of his legs. He reached for the seatbelt, clicking it into place; rolled down the window.

Only then did he look up, meeting Suho’s eyes.

“Hop in,” Sieun said quietly as if this were his car and he were the one extending the invitation.

Suho’s lips curled immediately, a slow, satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he’d just been handed something he hadn’t expected but very much liked. He walked around the front of the car with unhurried pace.

The engine roared to life the moment he slid into the driver’s seat. Powerful sound that echoed through the underground parking, vibrating through the concrete and straight into Sieun’s chest. He startled despite himself, fingers curling into the edge of the seat.

The interior of the car was… absurd.

Carbon fiber everywhere, clean lines and sharp angles, the dashboard glowing softly with digital displays Sieun didn’t recognize. There was no backseat like the car had been built with no intention of accommodating anything unnecessary. It felt intimate with how close they were, the cabin being designed to keep driver and passenger locked in the same small orbit.

“This is wildly impractical,” Sieun muttered under his breath, eyeing the lack of space.

Suho laughed as he pulled the car out smoothly, tires humming against the ramp. “It’s not meant to be comfortable.”

Figures.

They emerged into the Miami night, warm air flooding in, the city glowing around them in neon and gold. Palm trees blurred past, lights reflecting off glass buildings and the distant suggestion of ocean somewhere beyond it all. Suho turned the music on—something low and rhythmic—and for a moment, Sieun let himself sink into the sensation of movement and speed.

Then it hit him.

Sieun stiffened, turning sharply in his seat. “Wait. Are you even allowed to drive in this state?”

“What do you mean?” Suho asked.

“You drank,” Sieun said, incredulous. “Alcohol.”

“Ah~” Suho laughed easily, reaching over without looking and patting Sieun’s left thigh in a brief, reassuring touch that sent a small spark up his spine. “Relax. One, maybe two drinks. Barely anything in them.” He shrugged, eyes back on the road. “I have work tomorrow. I’m not stupid.”

That caught Sieun off guard. He realised he didn't really ask Suho about his purpose of visit. Though the sports car, expensive hotel, luxury clothing hinted at the job being something similar to CEO. Maybe he was VIP guest of the weekend.

“What work?” Sieun asked, now suddenly curious.

His companion considered the question for a second, like he was deciding how much to give away. “I help out in the garage. For F1 team, obviously.”

Sieun turned slowly to look at him. Well, that wasn't what he expected. “Mechanics get paid enough to drive this?”

But it looked like as if he said something obvious, expected. Suho just shrugged again, noncommittal, lips twitching like he found the question amusing. “What about you?” He asked in return, not dwelling on Sieun's comment too much.

“What about me?”

“Your job,” Suho clarified. “You said you’re here for work, but you don’t know any F1 drivers nor teams. You sure you came for F1?”

“I am journalist, thank you very much,” Sieun said sarcastically. “And I know some teams,” he protested.

Suho hummed, unconvinced. “Yeah? Name a few.”

Sieun looked back out the window, Miami lights streaking past, suddenly very invested in not making eye contact. “Ferrari,” he said first. “Obviously.” They were literally driving red Ferrari SF90.

Suho humms, signaling to continue.

“Mercedes,” Sieun added. “They have… fast cars.”

“I’m sure they do,” Suho said dryly.

“And,” Sieun paused, thinking hard, “the—”

They stopped at a red light, and Suho turned his head to look at him, watching the way Sieun’s brows knit together, the faint flush creeping up his neck.

“The energy drink,” alpha prompted.

“Ah!” Sieun slapped his own thigh in triumph. “Red Bull!”

Suho’s lips curved, not teasing this time, warmer. “Good boy.”

The words were barely louder than the music.

Sieun froze.

The sound slipped out of him before he could stop it—a soft purr vibrating low in his chest. His breath hitched immediately after, eyes widening as realization caught up far too late.

Silence stretched between them for half a second too long.

Suho stiffened in the driver’s seat, hand tightening on the steering wheel. His head snapped forward just as the light turned green, the car lurching slightly as he hit the accelerator a beat late.

“…Wow,” Suho muttered under his breath, more to himself than anything, voice rougher than before. He cleared his throat, eyes resolutely on the road now. “Didn’t expect that.”

Sieun’s face burned, heat crawling all the way up his neck and into his ears. He turned sharply toward the window, pressing his lips together like that might undo what had already happened. The change of topic was a need.

“I—That wasn’t—” He stopped himself, then blurted out, far too quickly, “So how fast does this thing go?”

Suho eyes widened at the question, clearly caught off guard, then let out a quiet laugh, tension easing slightly from his shoulders. “You really wanna know?”

“It’s a reasonable question,” Sieun insisted, still refusing to look at him. “Well, it is small. I assume it’s compensating for something.”

Suho huffed, amused, a low sound from his chest. “You would love to know that, don't you?”

Passing lights were much more entertaining as Sieun said nothing.

So alpha tapped the steering wheel lightly. “Fast enough to make most people gasp… and wish it lasted a little longer.”

The words hit Sieun in the most daring way ever. His own scent shifted subtly, glands stirring beneath the light pressure of his patchless skin. Warmth pooled low in his stomach, spreading through his chest. Suho’s scent swirled around him in the confined space of the cabin.

The corner of Suho’s mouth lifted in a sly smile, like he’d noticed the effect, but made no comment.

The car surged forward smoothly, Miami lights streaking past again, and Sieun exhaled, grateful for the hum of motion. His chest still felt strangely warm, and for a second, he wasn’t sure whether it was the car's speed—or the alpha—that made his pulse jump. Heat pooled low in his body.

Suho wasn’t doing anything overt, nothing inappropriate but the presence alone, the smell of wood and subtle alpha dominance, was enough to tug at his biology. The omega part of him hissed in quiet panic—he needed to manage this before it got out of hand.

He shifted subtly in the seat, trying to tamp down the slick forming along his thighs, pressing against the leather as if friction could drown out the way his body reacted every time Suho's scent deepened just a fraction more. It didn’t stop. If anything, it only sharpened, his awareness narrowing to the enclosed space, to him.

And then Sieun noticed it wasn’t one-sided.

Suho’s hands tightened around the steering wheel, fingers flexing, knuckles paling before relaxing again. His breathing had changed—deeper now, chest rising and falling. It didn't look like just a relaxed driving anymore. The alpha’s jaw was set, eyes fixed forward, like he was concentrating on something far more difficult than traffic.

The realization hit Sieun all at once.

Oh.

The thought sent a small sound slipping past his lips—a whimper. And the reaction was immediate.

Suho sucked in a sharp breath.

“Sieun-ssi,” he said, voice lower now, roughened around the edges despite the care in it. “You’re making this very hard for me.”

Sieun’s head tipped back against the seat, eyes fluttering shut for a second. His name, spoken like that, unraveled something in him completely. When he opened them again, he wasn’t sure how much sense he was making anymore.

“Please,” he murmured, the honorific slipping without thought, voice soft and pleading. “Ah…”

The moment the suite door shut behind them, there was no way behind. But Sieun didn't want that. He liked how the world narrowed down right here—to Suho's hotel room.

He barely registered the soft click of the lock before Suho’s hand slid to his waist, pulling him back, making his breath hitch.

Without the noise of the club, without other people’s pheromones muddying the air, Suho’s presence flooded the space all at once. it was different than being in a confinement of a car. Here, they had time and space.

Sieun inhaled before he could stop himself, breath stuttering halfway through, his body reacting faster than his mind could catch up.

Their mouths met hard.

It wasn’t careful kiss at all. Suho tasted faintly of citrus, and Sieun chased it, tilting his head, opening without hesitation. Any thought of restraint evaporated the second alpha groaned low in his throat.

“So needy,” Suho murmured against his mouth, earning an immediate frown.

Sieun didn’t like that Suho chose now to talk when they had much better uses for their mouths—like kissing. But the alpha actually did the opposite by pulling back, and smiling faintly at the expression Sieun was making.

“And smell so good,” Suho added, nosing at the scent glands along Sieun’s neck.

Sieun rolled his eyes back at the sensation, mouth falling open. His hands fisted in the fabric of Suho’s tank top, knuckles tight, alpha's jacket already discarded somewhere on the floor. Then he felt something warm and wet against sensitive skin, accompanied by a low, animalistic growl.

Suho’s mouth worked at his gland like he was starving, like a vampire drawn to a pulse.

This time, Sieun couldn’t contain the sound that tore out of him. He moaned, loud and unfiltered, briefly hoping the walls were thick enough. Everything feels so overwhelming, in the best way possible, and he could already feel slick starting to drip down his thighs, leaving the wet trails on his pants.

“Stop teasing,” Sieun whined.

That was when he noticed the bare stretch of Suho’s shoulder, and a truly brilliant idea struck him.

While Suho was still focused on darkening his neck—Sieun was definitely going to need concealer before the track—he leaned in and bit down on the alpha’s shoulder, teeth sinking in just enough to leave a mark.

It worked.

Suho blinked, pulling back in visible surprise, eyes unfocused, already drunk on scent.

“I knew it,” he said.

“Knew what?” Sieun asked, even as he already missed the warmth of Suho’s mouth. Damn it. Maybe it was a mistake to bite him.

Suho didn’t miss a beat. “You were the type to bite.”

“I am not saying sorry for that,” Sieun snorted, heat crawling up his neck.

“I don’t expect one,” Suho replied, eyes darkening. “That’s the problem. I’m into it.”

Before Sieun could fire back, Suho kissed him again—slower this time like he was savoring it. The room filled with scent, wood and sage wrapping around Sieun until his knees threatened to give. His own scent answered instinctively, sweetening the air, drawing a sharp inhale from Suho.

“Careful,” Suho murmured, lips brushing along Sieun’s jaw. “You’re doing things to me.”

Sieun swallowed, pulse loud in his ears. “Funny,” he shot back, weaker than intended. “I was about to say the same.”

That was when it struck him.

This wasn’t like before.

Sieun had been with people. He knew what heat felt like, knew the difference between wanting and needing. Heat was heat. Attraction was attraction. But heat partners had never made him feel like this. So telling where things began and ended, and being able to draw lines between what his body demanded and what he actually wanted wasn't a very hard task in Sieun's life.

But this—

Standing this close to Suho felt like standing too near a magnetic field. Nothing visibly wrong, yet everything inside him subtly pulled off balance. Every place Suho touched felt too good, like it had always been meant to be touched exactly like this.

Too right.

That was the terrifying part.

Sieun pressed his forehead briefly against Suho’s shoulder, breath uneven, drowning of the feeling of Suho's tongue exploring his collarbone as his blouse slipped to one side. His thoughts scattered, refusing to line up the way they usually did.

“Alpha,” he whispered, voice wrecked, deciding—for once—to let his mind go quiet and give in.

Suho froze. He pulled back just enough to look at Sieun properly, fingers brushing over his lips, tracing the swollen curve. All Sieun could see was dark iris, flushed skin, a mouth gone red from kissing.

"Say it again," Suho asked, his voice thick with desire.

Without hesitation, Sieun obliged, "Alpha."

The word rolling off Sieun's tongue sent a shiver down Suho's spine, his control slipping further away. Sieun felt emboldened by the reaction and pressed his body against Suho, craving even more contact. As he did so, he didn't realize that his shirt had ridden up, exposing his stomach.

Suho noticed the glimpse of Sieun's bare skin and growled. He trailed his fingers along the exposed area, teasing the edge of his pants. Sieun's breath hitched, and his hands wandered across the tight planes of Suho's chest. Impatience and want surged through him. He tugged at Suho's top, pulling it over his head, desperate to see the entirety of the alpha's body.

Suho groaned against Sieun's mouth, his hands gliding down the his back. And then something hard and solid slides between Sieun’ legs. The alpha’s thigh, he realises, as he starts to rock his hips back and forth. Sieun feels a hand slip underneath the hem of his blouse, big palm sliding up the skin of his stomach, up towards the heart when the following action sent chills down his spine.

Two fingers of alpha playing with Sieun's nipples, twisting and applying pressure to the hardened buds. He got so ridiculously wet, slick leaking out of him through the pants; the jeans beneath him are soaked in a matter of seconds, but Sieun didn't care at all. He was glad his hard cock trapped between their bodies, was getting friction from the movements, finally getting the relief he wanted all evening. 

As desire and sensory overstimulation consumed him, Sieun didn't realise he was being lifted and guided to the bed, whilst their lips weren't part for even a second. Sieun wrapped his legs around the man for support.

"Keep biting me, kitty," Suho whispered as he trailed kisses down Sieun's neck. "Show me you want this."

Sieun didn’t hesitate. He bit down on Suho’s shoulder again, harder this time. A low moan spilled from the alpha, hips pressing forward on instinct. The world seemed to melt away, leaving only the sensations of their bodies intertwined.

The mattress dipped beneath them. Sieun barely had time to register the loss of contact before Suho caged him in, arms braced on either side of his head, claiming his mouth once more. The way even simple kiss was making Sieun lose his mind needed to be studied, he concluded as his eyes closed once more.

Instinctively, Sieun’s hands went to Suho’s chest, feeling solid muscle beneath his palms. His fingers drifted lower, tracing the outline of defined abs and the trail disappearing beneath fabric. Only then did he really register Suho’s physique—the thick neck, the powerful arms.

Well. Car mechanics did haul around heavy parts all day. It wasn’t exactly surprising that Suho was built like this, he reasoned.

Sieun fully expected Suho to start removing the rest of the clothing, but surprisingly, he didn’t rush. Instead, he broke the kiss, and whilst balancing on one arm, he reached for omega's hand slowly, as if giving him every chance to pull away. His fingers closed around Sieun’s wrist—warm, steady—thumb brushing once over the delicate skin there, and lifted just slightly so he could lean in, and nose the pulse point where Sieun’s another scent gland lay hidden.

The intimacy of it stole Sieun’s words.

Up this close, he could see the way Suho’s chest rose and fell with each inhale. The room had gone impossibly quiet, save for that distant hum of the city bleeding in through the windows.

Suho glanced up, eyes dark but clear, searching Sieun’s face.

A silent question.

Sieun didn’t trust his voice. He nodded instead.

That was all it took.

Suho pressed his wrist gently to the side of his own neck, right beneath his jaw, where the alpha’s scent gland was strongest. Warm skin met warm skin.

The effect was immediate.

It was like something inside Sieun clicked into place. A warmth unfurled through his chest and down his spine, spreading outward until his limbs felt heavy in the best way. His pulse jumped beneath Suho’s fingers, then steadied, syncing to the alpha’s breathing before he even realized it was happening.

A soft sound slipped from his throat.

Their scents folded into each other. Scenting wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t something you did with strangers you met in clubs or men whose last names you didn’t know. Scenting was intimate—your body opening a door your mind usually guarded fiercely. It was all about trust and vulerability.

Usually, it came later. After dates. After mating. Definitely not like this.

But…

If the other’s scent made you go crazy and your pulse sing then why deny it?

Why pretend this wasn’t real just because it was fast?

YOLO, his brain offered weakly, and then promptly gave up trying to be in charge.

Sieun wasn’t entirely sure when it happened. One moment, fabric was still between them; the next, it wasn’t. Clothes became irrelevant quiet quickly, discarded without ceremony. A blouse slid off the bed to the floor. Buttons were undone more by feel than sight.

Sieun wasn’t sure when his grip loosened on Suho’s shoulders or when the sheets stopped being beneath him at all. The next thing he was aware of was his palms pressing into the mattress. His knees sank into the sheets, spine arching without conscious effort.

"Mmm, hello there," Suho murmured, the breath brushing against Sieun's fluttering and leaking hole. He kneeled between omega’s calves and put his palms over the swell of his cheeks, pulling them apart as far as can before he leaned down.

“Oh, fu—” Sieun broke himself off with a gasp, rocking forward and away from Suho's mouth.

He heard Suho grunting, displeased with omega trying to move away from him.

Sieun's entire body quivered, his heart melting under the tender caress. Suho's scent enveloped them, sparking the omega's nerves like a fuse. Trapped in this moment of intensity, they were like kindling anticipating the first flicker of a flame.

"So beautiful," Suho whispered, his words feverish against Sieun's skin, "Come on, stay still."

With a mixture of excitement and nervousness, Sieun spread his legs wider, offering himself up to the alpha.

As Suho's lips traced up the inner thigh, "So wet for me, Sieun-ssi," he growled approvingly, almost intoxicated by the sweet peony scent emanating from his omega.

Each sensual brush of lips or tongue sent tremors through Sieun's body. As Suho closed his mouth on the slick entrance, the omega's world tilted, reduced to gasping breath and the overwhelming urge to meet Suho's touch. The pressure and the slick sounds of reciprocity grew.

Suho's tongue swirled against the eager hole, quickening as Sieun press back against him. As fresh waves of pleasure washed over him, arms began to tremble, threatening to give out under the intensity of rapture. Moments later, his chest and face sank into the pillows, hiding them from view. As he pressed his face into their silken embrace, Sieun's soft, stifled whimpers filled the room, adding a new layer to the symphony of their shared passion.

Sieun moaned loudly, which really only encouraged Suho more. Sieun was so open that there was no resistance when Suho pushed his tongue inside him, desperate to get more of a taste of him. Sieun didn't really know what to do with himself; he’s rocking both forward and back, trying to get away but trying to get closer. No one has ever eaten him out before.

"So sweet," Suho groaned, coming up for air, his lips glistening with the omega's slick. "I could spend eternity tasting you."

Sieun knew it was a lie—mere dirty talk. He knew this was a one time thing. A business trip fling that was bound for doom as both individuals would go their separate ways tomorrow morning. But, right now, they could pretend that they belonged to each other; that they had an eternity.

Sieun succumbed to the feeling, his fingers clawing at the sheets as he instinctively thrust his hips. Alarmed by his lack of control, he suddenly froze, uncertain whether Suho was even able to breathe. But desire soon took over his mind, and Sieun's hands found their way to his throbbing cock, needing relief.

As the pleasure built, his cock hardened even more, and the mounting sensations around his hole turned addictive. Soon his arousal reached a breaking point, and the pulsing pleasure pushed him over the edge.

He cried out, his body bowing as his climax surged through him in unstoppable waves, unloading his slick onto his stomach. The shivers of his release rocked him to his core, echoing in the room, as his vision faded into the enchanting abyss of satisfaction.

It took a moment for Sieun to collect himself, and as soon as he did, he lifted his head to look back at the alpha, whose half of face was covered with slick, and only playful tongue out was there licking the residue around his mouth. The scene was so hot, Sieun felt his cock growing hard again.

In a fogged mind of Sieun, he forgot about dignity, self-pride. The only thing that was in his mind: alpha's knot. So he did the thing. He slowly crawled like a cat, not breaking eye contact with Suho, and wrapped his fingers around his cock. Suho breathed roughly through his nose at the touch, his eyes roling back—clearly indicating Sieun that he was doing things right.

Suho reached out and touched the top of his head, carding his fingers through Sieun's hair, before wrapping around the back of his head and oulling him towards his cock.

"Good boy," Suho whispered, moving his hands to Sieun's jaw. And Sieun really enjoyed the feeling of his hands on him.

Wanting to see alpha's reaction, Sieun looked up, and oh gosh Suho didn't disappoint; his eyes focused on him—on Sieun.

Fuck, that was good.

Sieun pulled off to mouth wetly against the base, getting Suho as messy as possible so he would slide smoothly along his tongue as he took him back inside his mouth. Suho made another noise, tightening his hold on Sieun's hair as he fucked up into him, making Sieun breathe sharply through his nose.

Suho looked down at him and groaned at whatever he saw, running his fingers through Sieun's hair again in a way that felt too fucking good to be true. “Fuck, you’re hot,” Suho whispered, tightening his hold on his hair and grinding his cock into his mouth.

His praise sent a rush of warmth over Sieun, and he held still and let Suho grind against him as long as he wanted.

Suho’ cock blurted out more pre-come onto his tongue, and he cursed roughly above him.

He was not being quiet, but Sieun was having trouble caring about it. He doubled down on his efforts and was rewarded with another bit of pre-come.

“Fuck,” Suho groaned. It sounded like a sound of excitement, and based on how hard he suddenly got in Sieun's mouth, he knew he was about to come.

As Sieun continued to please Suho with his mouth, every flick of his tongue elicited a soft moan and a twitch from the alpha's hips. Before he could make Suho come in his mouth, the latter reached down and pulled him up by his arms, whispering, "You're a feisty little omega, aren't you?"

Their lips met, a dance of passion grew more intense with each passing second. Sieun nipped at Suho's lower lip, drawing a sharp gasp from him.

"I need you," Sieun breathed, his hands already working to align their bodies for the inevitable joining. His back hit the bed once more, alpha on top of him.

Suho's smoldering gaze bore into Sieun's as he positioned himself between Sieun's legs. "Is this what you want?" he growled, pressing himself against Sieun's entrance.

"Yes, please, alpha," Sieun whimpered, aching to be filled by the man.

Suho shifted behind him, weight moving off just enough for Sieun to register it. There was a soft sound—wood sliding against wood—as Suho leaned toward the bedside drawer.

Sieun realized what he was reaching for a split second before his hand moved.

“Wait—”

His fingers caught Suho’s wrist, grip hesitant.

Suho froze immediately, turning his head just enough to look at him.

Sieun swallowed.

“I—” He hesitated, heat creeping up his neck, down his spine. Saying it out loud suddenly felt far more intimate than anything else they’d done so far. “I’m on suppressants,” he said softly. “Pills. Regular dose.”

Suho studied him for a moment longer before slowly withdrawing his hand from the drawer and instead rested it flat against the mattress beside Sieun’s.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said.

The words settled warm in Sieun’s chest. Getting on a good side of alpha gave his inner omega far more satisfaction he would ever admit.

Then, almost in a click, Suho pushed forward with predatory grace, until he had filled Sieun completely. The latter arched his back, gasping at the sudden intrusion that quickly turned into a pleasure so intense, it bordered on pain.

Each inch is excruciating torture. Sieun was so warm, so wet around him, and he clenched down when Suho was about halfway, making alpha groan at the feeling, the fluttering sensation of omega’s muscles tightening around his cock.

Sieun whined loudly. “Oh, God,” he sobbed, arching his back.

“Relax, baby,” Suho said, trying to be soothing, but it came out low and breathy instead. “Being so good for me.”

“Alpha,” Sieun cried, “yes, yes, please—”

Seemingly pleased with Sieun's reaction, Suho began to move within him, thrusting in and out with a steady rhythm. And omega clung to him, meeting each thrust with a upward push of his own. "Harder," Sieun begged, as he dug his nails into Suho's back.

Lost in the moment and driven by instinct, Suho obliged, pounding into Sieun with renewed fervor. Sieun cried out with each forceful thrust, his hands gripping around the alpha's neck for support.

“I want to hear you,” Suho groaned, head tipped forward, nibbling at omega's earlobe. “Let me hear how much you want it.”

Sieun’s entire body trembled as Suho drived his hips forward.

“Come on, baby, let me feel you come,” Suho grunted.

“Alpha, alpha, alpha,” Sieun chanted, a broken record caught on the same word over and over.

Hearing this, Suho reached between their bodies and stroked Sieun's cock in time with his thrusts. "Everything for you, omega," he commanded, his voice a low rumbling growl. "My omega, come."

Sieun obeyed, his body shuddering as his release washed over him. It was as intense as the first one, wave after wave of pleasure consuming him, while Suho continued to thrust.

Through the fog, Sieun could feel alpha's knot inflating. It was getting harder and harder to thrust in, between the way Sieun was squeezing down and thickening alpha's cock. Suho stopped trying to move in complete thrusts, and instead rocked his hips. As his knot finally catched entirely, he came too, filling omega with his seed.

Suho shifted carefully, adjusting them both with slow movements. Sieun was panting heavily beneath him, legs trembling, body covered in a sheen of sweat. They were going to be stuck together like this for at least ten minutes, or however long it would take for Suho to ejaculate enough that his knot goes down.

“You okay?” Suho asked quietly.

Sieun nodded, then hummed a soft affirmative sound. His body felt loose, heavy in the best way, oversensitive but safe. The slick warmth hadn’t faded yet, his omega still humming low and satisfied beneath everything else.

Sieun’s entire body ached as the taxi rolled toward the circuit.

It wasn't unpleasant kind of pain—nothing he regretted—but the lingering soreness settled into his muscles and joints, a quiet reminder of last night every time the car hit a bump. He shifted in the seat, winced faintly, then huffed a breath through his nose.

Yesterday night had been… incredible. Simply put.

Suho had been attentive in ways Sieun hadn’t expected—careful hands, quiet check-ins. They hadn’t talked much afterward. They hadn’t needed to. Which, somehow, made leaving worse.

The memory of slipping out in the early morning clung to him like an annoying mosquito. The room still dark, Suho asleep on his stomach, one arm flung over the pillow Sieun had occupied hours before. For one reckless second, Sieun had considered leaving a note with a phone number.

But he hadn’t.

Cowardice, maybe. Or practicality. Probably both.

He was flying back to Korea tomorrow morning—back to his desk, his articles about artificial intellegence. Suho would stay here, then move on to the next city, the next race, the next country. Whatever this had been, it didn’t fit anywhere long-term.

Knowing that didn’t make it hurt less.

Sieun stared out the window, jaw tight, watching palm trees blur past. His bag sat heavy at his feet—notes, tablet, camera—with his press pass hanging from his neck like a reminder of why he was here. In the hotel bathroom earlier, he’d stood far too long in front of the mirror, inspecting the marks along his neck and collarbone. He’d nearly gotten himself worked up again just looking.

The concealer helped. Mostly.

The circuit loomed into view, alive even hours before the race. Engines screamed in the distance—practice laps, testing runs—sound vibrating through Sieun’s chest as he passed through the turnstiles. The smell hit him next: fuel, rubber.

He stopped short just inside the paddock entrance.

A week ago, if someone had told him he’d be here—at an F1 race in Miami, sore from a one-night stand with a stranger who smelled like heaven—Sieun would’ve laughed in their face. But it was a reality. He was surrounded by the chaos of the paddock, so he adjusted his camera strap and took a steadying breath.

Focus. Work first. Feelings later. Or never.

Experiencing an F1 race for the first time was… strange.

It felt less like a sporting event and more like a university festival stretched to an absurd scale—crowds spilling in every direction, personnel in matching team uniforms moving in quick pace, food stands blasting music while selling overpriced burgers and drinks, merch booths packed with fans clutching caps. Everything was loud, bright, alive.

Sieun walked through it with his mouth slightly open, overwhelmed in the most literal sense. There was too much to look at and no obvious place to start.

He took photos of fans holding posters, kids perched on their parents’ shoulders, staff weaving through the crowd at a near-run, phones pressed to their ears, faces tight with focus. Sieun snapped photos, catching candid moments.

He checked his email once while walking, skimming Baku’s draft of questions and the official F1 media instructions—maps, schedules, time slots neatly organized in bullet points. There was a designated media centre somewhere deeper inside the paddock with multiple screens, live telemetry, and fast internet.

Useful, probably. To a person who knows this sort of stuff.

Also completely wasted on him.

Sieun snorted softly to himself. It wasn’t like he’d understand half the data anyway. Numbers blurred together after a point, and drivers’ lap times meant very little without context he didn’t have yet.

So he followed Baku’s advice instead.

He lingered just outside the turnstiles, near the arrivals area, where drivers filtered in like celebrities on a red carpet—headphones on, sunglasses hiding half their faces, team logos splashed across perfectly tailored uniforms. Cameras clicked around him, reporters murmured into recorders, fans leaned over barriers hoping for a glance.

“Ah… so hard,” Sieun whispered under his breath, letting out a quiet sigh as he raised his camera, hesitating just before pressing the shutter.

“What?”

The voice came from his right.

Sieun snapped his head around, startled, and found himself face-to-face with a girl around his height. She had short dark hair with pink-dyed ends, a small handbag slung casually across her body, and an expression so relaxed it was almost comcial next to Sieun's flustered.

It took him a second too long to register that she’d spoken in Korean. Maybe he had some sort of mission where he collected Korean speaking people like Pokemons in Miami out of all places.

“Hey.” She waved her fingers in front of his face. “You okay?”

Her voice carried genuine concern which was surprising.

“Ah—yeah,” Sieun answered quickly, heat creeping into his cheeks at the realization he’d been caught zoning out.

She tilted her head, unconvinced. “You just said something was hard. What is?” She took a sip from her drink like they were old friends catching up, not strangers standing at an F1 circuit.

Sieun glanced back toward the arrivals, then at her, uncertainty flickering across his face. After a beat, he shrugged, giving up on overthinking it. It's not like he had anyone else willing to help with his predicament.

“I don’t know anyone here,” he admitted.

Her eyebrows shot up. It seemed like she didn't really believe him. “Really?”

Sieun just nodded. He was glas she didn't ask for what reasons he was unaware of literal main characters of F1 race; he didn't think he was ready to explain himself what he was doing here to someone at ten a.m.

“Well,” she said easily, setting her cup aside, “for starters—I’m Youngyi.” She extended her hand without ceremony.

Sieun took it. “Sieun.”

“Sieun-ssi,” Youngyi repeated, smiling like she’d already decided she liked him. “Want some help?”

And who was Sieun to deny it? He nodded at the question, and she simply shifted to stand beside Sieun, eyes following the flow of drivers arriving through the gates.

“Okay,” she said, nodding toward a tall blond man walking past in burgundy t-shirt and white pants. “That’s George Russell. He drives for Mercedes.”

Sieun lifted his camera, snapping a few shots. “He looks… very composed.”

“That’s his thing,” Youngyi said. “Clean driving, calm image. Total corporate favorite. Very British humour.”

Another group passed by, louder, more animated. One of them laughed openly at something said off-camera, waving briefly at the fans.

“And that,” Youngyi continued, sounding fond, “is Kimi Antonelli. George's teammate.”

Sieun frowned slightly as he zoomed in. “He looks… younger than I expected.”

“He is only nineteen so you aren't wrong,” she said. “He's fast for his age, chaotic, allergic to seriousness. Fans love him because he feels human which is a rarity in PR-trained F1 world.”

Sieun hummed, absorbing the information, fingers adjusting settings automatically as Youngyi kept talking—Red Bull, rivalries, strengths, small anecdotes between fans that never made it into official articles. It was oddly comforting, being guided through this world by someone who loved it purely, without obligation. The thought trailed back to Baku if he was here, the trip v would have been easier but also…Sieun most likely wouldn't have met Suho.

“Oh—speaking of crowd favourite,” Youngyi added, squinting past the crowd, “there’s—”

“YA, YOUNGYI.”

The voice cut clean through the noise.

Youngyi groaned immediately. “Oh no. Literally the worst timing.”

A man about her age jogged toward them, camera bag slung low, hair slightly windblown like he’d been running late. He stopped beside her, hands on his knees, catching his breath. The man was wearing birght orange polo with tens of sponsors printed on it, and red cap.

“You disappeared,” he accused. Then his gaze flicked to Sieun, going from frustrated to knowing. “Oh. Hello there.”

“This is Beomseok,” Youngyi said flatly. “But be careful—he is fan of McLaren.”

“Hey! Nothing wrong with being a fan of papaya team,” Beomseok said, straightening. (Youngyi at the same time: “He is a traitor!”) Then, politely, to Sieun, “Nice to meet you.”

“Sieun,” he replied, nodding.

They fell into easy conversation—Sieun asking why McLaren was called papaya team (apparently because their signature colour was orange) and why Beomseok was a traitor (Youngyi as Ferrari fan was very hurt by that, saying he was betraying his best friend like that). And more on how many races Youngyi had attended this year, Beomseok complaining about ticket prices, Youngyi arguing it was worth it. Sieun listened, chiming in when he could, camera hanging loose around his neck now.

And then—

It hit him.

Woody sage, unmistakable beneath the sterile tang of asphalt and fuel.

Sieun’s breath caught mid-inhale.

The world didn’t stop, not exactly—but something in him did. His shoulders stiffened before he could stop them, fingers tightening slightly around the camera strap as his body reacted faster than his thoughts.

No.

Not here.

His gaze lifted slowly, scanning the arrivals again, heart beginning to pound for reasons he very much did not want to unpack in public.

Youngyi noticed immediately.

“…Sieun-ssi?” she asked, glancing at him. “You okay?”

He swallowed. The scent was stronger now, curling into his lungs like it had every right to be there.

“I—” he started, then stopped, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the barricades.

Because he didn’t need to see him yet.

His body already knew.

Facing his one-night partner the very next day—here, of all places—was not something Sieun had mentally prepared for. His hand moved on instinct, fingers brushing the familiar edge of the scent patch at his neck. The thin adhesive grounded him, a quiet reassurance. Thank god he’d put it on that morning out of habit, even after everything. He turned on his heel quickly, putting his back to the turnstiles, to the crowd, to whatever—or whoever—had just entered his range.

Youngyi and Beomseok both stopped talking.

They exchanged a glance before looking back at him, concern written plainly across their faces.

“I’m okay,” Sieun said quickly, a little too quickly. He forced a small smile, hoping it looked convincing. “I’m just… still getting used to no scent patches here. You know. It’s different.”

Youngyi nodded immediately, sympathy softening her expression. “Ah, yeah. I get that. I carry scent patches with me 'cos I still can't get used to it as well.” She tilted her head, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “One time Beomseok almost threw up in the middle of a race because someone’s pheromones were so strong. Like—super strong. And Beomseok is beta! He doesn't smell the scents unless they are like atrociously strong.”

“Yah!” Beomseok protested, straightening and pushing his glasses up his nose. “We agreed not to bring that up again.”

Youngyi grinned, unapologetic.

Beomseok huffed, then glanced past Sieun’s shoulder toward the arrivals area. “And we totally missed Ferrari’s drivers.”

Youngyi gasped dramatically, fixing her red cap. “Ah! Such a shame.” She turned to Sieun, eyes lighting up. “Sieun-ssi would’ve loved that. Maybe after the race, though?”

Sieun nodded absently, camera shifting against his chest as he adjusted the strap. “Yeah,” he said. “That would be… nice.”

The next few hours slipped by faster than he expected. Having Youngyi and Beomseok with him made the waiting feel lighter, almost easy. After drifting away from the entrance area, the three of them settled into one of the small cafés tucked inside the circuit, shaded from the worst of the sun. Over iced drinks and pastries, conversation flowed naturally.

Sieun found himself explaining—properly this time—how he’d ended up in Miami, the sudden work assignment, he cultural whiplash. He didn’t go into details he didn’t need to, but even the surface-level chaos was enough to make Youngyi burst out laughing.

“You are indeed clueless like a duck!” she said, wiping at the corner of her eye.

Indeed..?

Well, she wasn’t wrong, and Sieun didn’t bother taking offense. He just smiled sheepishly while Beomseok gave him a sympathetic pat on the back, like he was consoling dongsaneg who’d been thrown into the deep end.

After lunch, they walked the paddock together once, Sieun snapping photos here and there, still half in awe at how open everything felt. Eventually, though, they had to part ways—Sieun needed to check in with the media officers to confirm interviews and go over final logistics.

He had slots scheduled with Red Bull and McLaren. When Beomseok heard that, his eyes lit up immediately, and he leaned in to suggest one more question—something playful, an inside joke that would land especially well with McLaren if delivered right.

Sieun also had a conditional interview lined up with the first-place driver, still undetermined. If a Red Bull or McLaren driver took the win, the interview would run longer, with additional follow-ups.

The press officers turned out to be kinder than he’d expected. They walked him through everything patiently, explaining procedures step by step, speaking slowly enough that he could keep up without scrambling. By the time Sieun stepped away, his notes were neat, his recorder tested, and his nerves—while still present—were no longer spiraling.

For the first time that day, he felt like he might actually be able to do his job properly.

Now Sieun was sitting outside, half-slouched in his chair, eyes fixed on the large screen mounted above the seating area where the broadcast showed the final moments before the race. Ten minutes until lights out. Mechanics moved with practiced urgency, preparing the car till the last seconds. Names began flashing across the screen, one by one, paired with team colors and grid positions, starting from the back.

Sieun froze with the cup halfway to his lips, the screen in front of him panned to the last pair of drivers on the grid.

Ferrari’s red banner stretched across the broadcast, and the camera lingered on the driver standing beside the car, helmet tucked under one arm. Then the name appeared beneath his face.

Ahn Suho. Starting from P1—the front.

For a second, Sieun’s brain refused to cooperate. The information simply did not slot into place, hovering there uselessly, like a sentence missing its verb. He swallowed too late, coughing softly into his fist as the taste of his drink turned sharp in his throat.

He was indeed going crazy. Maybe heatstroke. Maybe he had eated poisoned food so now he was making up things in his head. But deep inside—Sieun knew.

It was him. There was no room for doubt. The same face that had leaned close in the club lights, the same fox-like eyes that had watched him with open amusement, the same man who had smelled like wood and sage and had pressed him back against a hotel door only hours ago, now stood framed by Ferrari red as if he had always belonged there.

Sieun felt heat crawl up the back of his neck, slow and mortifying, as memory rewound against his will. I help in the garage, Suho had said, casual and vague, and Sieun—exhausted, distracted, drunk on pheromones and poor judgment—had accepted it without pushing further, because mechanic had made sense.

Except Suho had never said mechanic. Not once. He had shrugged, deflected, let Sieun fill in the blanks all on his own, watching with that infuriating half-smile as the omega confidently underestimated him.

Now, sitting there in the Florida heat with the roar of the crowd building in the distance, Sieun realized that a Ferrari driver driving a Ferrari was, in fact, the most logical outcome of all, and that the only unreasonable thing in this entire equation had been him.

His chest felt tight, heartbeat loud in his ears, as the broadcast shifted to the next scene of fans screaming and holding banners with Suho's name but Sieun barely noticed.

He had slept with an F1 driver.
A Ferrari driver.
A man whose face was now being broadcast to millions.

“Holy shit…” he said, not believing his eyes for a second.

The whole race, Sieun found himself clinging to a single, almost desperate wish, repeating it over and over in his head like a prayer he himself didn’t fully believe in.

Please, just don’t let Suho win.

It wasn’t about loyalty to another team or hatred towards him; it was pure self-preservation. He still had an interview scheduled with the first-place driver, and the mere thought of standing there with a recorder in his hand, looking into the eyes of the man he had fled from only hours ago, made his stomach twist painfully. The same man who ate him out and was inside him. At this point, being buried somewhere along Miami Beach, far away from cameras, microphones, and red Ferraris, sounded like a merciful alternative.

He really, really could have used Juntae’s advice right now.

With a restless sigh, Sieun pulled out his phone and opened the group chat he had abandoned the night before, the one he had very deliberately ignored while messages piled up unchecked. The screen filled instantly, dozens of notifications stacked on top of each other, and right at the center of it all sat a screenshot Baku had sent.

If Sieun had thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, the universe, once again, proved him wrong.

Because there he was.

Himself—clearly, undeniably—caught mid-movement in candid photos, dancing far too close, body tucked comfortably into the embrace of a man who was very much the same Ferrari driver. Suho’s arm was wrapped around him, protective and intimate, their proximity impossible to misinterpret even for strangers.

His soul nearly left his body.

The photos were followed immediately by a flood of messages, Baku clearly having lost all sense of composure.

Baku: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Baku: WTFFFFFFFFF
Baku: YEON SIEUN YOU LITTLE MFER!!!!

Gotak: Ayoooooooo

Juntae: yes! i knew it!

Sieun’s phone nearly slipped out of his hands, the shock jolting straight through him so that the chair beneath him scraped back with a sharp sound. He tipped dangerously to one side, arms flailing in a brief, and only barely managed to catch himself on the edge of the table, heart hammering like it was trying to escape his ribcage altogether.

Heat rushed to his face in an instant, red blooming across his cheeks so fast it felt like it might actually match Ferrari’s signature color, and before he could stop himself, Sieun slapped a hand over his mouth and then—mortifyingly—dragged it down his face in a full-body expression of despair, palms pressing against his cheeks. A couple of people nearby turned to stare, startled by the sudden commotion, eyebrows raised in open concern, but Sieun couldn’t even register them properly.

There was no other way to put it. His brain had simply short-circuited at this point, overwhelmed by the combined weight of bad decisions, worse timing, and a universe that clearly found his suffering deeply entertaining. He stared down at the incriminating screenshots again, then at the chat still exploding with messages, and finally back up at the giant screen just in time to see the moment that sealed his fate.

Ahn Suho crossed the finish line first.

The crowd erupted, noise crashing over the circuit, and on the screen Suho slowed the car before climbing up, standing tall against the red chassis, helmet lifted high in one hand while the other pointed skyward with a single, victorious finger. Number one. Ferrari. Winner.

Sieun felt something in his soul quietly give up.

Because it meant one unavoidable thing: he had to go to the media pen, pull himself together, and walk straight toward the man who had just won the race—and who also happened to be the alpha he had shared a bed with less than twenty-four hours ago.

As he forced himself to stand, legs still a little unsteady, Sieun already knew this was going to be a long evening, and it was one he was absolutely not looking forward to.

And then a new, deeply unpleasant thought crept in.

Wait—did that mean… Youngyi and Beomseok had recognized him?

The realization hit late. Youngyi hadn’t actually had a reason to approach him in the first place. Sieun hadn’t looked particularly lost (maybe a little), hadn’t been waving around a sign begging for help, hadn’t stood out more than any of the dozens of other media and fans clustered around the entrance. And yet she had zeroed in on him immediately, slid into conversation too easily that now felt a little too intentional.

If those photos had already made it onto social media, then the logic was terrifyingly simple. He wasn’t invisible. Not here. Not anymore. A cold, prickling awareness crawled up his spine as he suddenly felt like the paddock itself had eyes, like every glance lingered half a second too long, like every passing laugh might be about him.

Paranoia? Probably. But that didn’t stop his pulse from quickening.

He hadn’t brought a cap with him, a decision he instantly regretted, so he veered toward a merch shop, head down, shoulders tense. The seller took one look at him, and surprise surprise, reached for a bright red Ferrari cap like it was the most obvious choice in the world.

Looks like Korean = Must be Ahn Suho fan

Sieun almost laughed hysterically.

“No-no,” he said quickly, shaking his head. That would attract even more attention, and the last thing he needed was to look like he was wearing Ferrari merch on purpose. Instead, his hand hovered before landing on a Mercedes cap, simple and black with white logo.

He paid, pulled it low over his face, brim casting a shadow over his eyes, and slipped back into the flow of people heading toward the media pen. The area was already filling up with reporters and drivers who had finished further back, voices overlapping, equipment clinking, the air buzzing with post-race energy.

On one of the nearby screens, the broadcast replayed the winner’s celebration, podium preparations already underway. Sieun watched it only briefly before looking away, tightening his grip on his recorder.

He set up the tripod, adjusted the camera angle, and then he waited, eyes occasionally flicking up to the screens while he rehearsed his questions one last time in his head.

The first driver to rotate through the media pen was Max Verstappen, who had unfortunately finished fourth, just one spot short of the podium, and was currently dissecting what had gone wrong with a local sports channel.

When it was his turn, a Red Bull press officer—a woman with short blonde hair and a bright smile—stepped in smoothly and guided Max toward the WH Sport marker. For a brief moment, Sieun braced himself for nerves to hit, but to his surprise, they never really did.

The interview went… well. Better than well, actually.

Even if Sieun didn’t fully grasp every detail—some of the explanations flew straight past him, heavy with jargon and race-specific nuance—the familiar parts were very much still clear to him. Such as tyre overheating, strategy, the engine. Hours of reading tech articles on the plane paid off, and he found himself nodding along, following the logic, even jumping in with a few questions of his own that leaned more toward the technical side.

That, apparently, caught Dutch off guard.

The driver blinked once, then twice, before answering with visible interest, expanding on his thoughts which suggested that he didn’t get asked questions like that very often. By the time they wrapped up, Max even agreed to sign a notebook—something Gotak had been relentlessly spamming Sieun’s direct messages—before moving on to the next reporter.

Sieun let out a quiet breath of relief as he packed up the mic for the second session.

The McLaren interview followed soon after, this time with Oscar Piastri. Australian driver was the complete opposite, the very definition of unbothered. His voice stayed flat, expressions barely shifting. In an odd way, Sieun found the similarity between himself and the driver.

By the time Sieun finished and thanked him, the scent hit him again. Unmistakable, curling through the air of the media pen like it had a will of its own.

Sieun’s breath caught instantly, head lifting, eyes locking onto a figure wrapped in Ferrari red.

Ahn Suho.

His racing suit clung to him, half-unzipped at the top, hair mussed and damp with sweat and champagne, curls darker and heavier than they had been the night before. There was an easy looseness to the way he carried himself now, mouth tipped into a grin. He looked radiant, glowing with the win, and for a split second Sieun forgot entirely where he was.

Suho must have felt it—the weight of that stare—because he glanced to the side almost instinctively, eyes finding Sieun’s with unnerving ease.

The world slowed.

Sieun blinked once, then again, mouth parting as time stretched thin, the people around them blurring into still shapes, frozen mid-motion. The anxiety that had been coiled tight in his chest ever since he’d slipped out of the suite this morning unraveled all at once, dissolving at the simple sight of the alpha standing there, real and looking back at him.

Finally. He’s here.

The thought rose unbidden, warm and foolish.

A Ferrari press officer appeared at Suho’s side, already guiding him toward one of the main sports channels, hand firm on his arm. Suho hesitated, steps slowing, eyes lingering on Sieun a fraction longer before he allowed himself to be pulled away.

Sieun exhaled shakily, hand pressing briefly to his chest as he forced his heartbeat to settle. The omega in him, traitorous and exhilarated, was already aching with want, already missing the warmth of that body pressed against his, the closeness that had felt so right.

He took a careful sip from his bottle of water, and within minutes he noticed Suho breaking away from the cluster of cameras and reporters, heading straight toward him with long, confident strides that suggested he knew exactly where he was going and why.

Panicking just a little, Sieun lowered the bottle before he could embarrass himself again by choking. His gaze dropped to the equipment in his hands, suddenly very invested in cables and buttons, anything but the alpha approaching him, because if he looked up now he was certain his face would betray him.

He was expecting alpha to break the silence first by… Sieun wasn't even sure how but the following surprised him a lot.

The brim of his cap was tugged forward.

Cool air brushed the top of his head as the cap was lifted clean off, and before Sieun could react, another one was settled in its place. He blinked, startled, glancing up just in time to see Suho casually switching the black Mercedes cap for a bright red Ferrari one, the contrast almost obnoxious, before handing the discarded cap to his press officer like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“That’s better,” Suho said lightly.

The press officer pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes rolling heavenward as if reconsidering every life choice that had led her here.

“Excuse me?” Sieun finally blurted out, incredulous, heat blooming instantly across his cheeks.

Suho tilted his head, all faux innocence, lips pulling into a thin, knowing smile. “What?” he asked. “I think red suits you better anyway.”

Sieun huffed, shaking his head as he held out the microphone for Suho to clip on himself, clearly deciding that professionalism was the only thing standing between him and complete emotional ruin. Suho, however, made no move to take it, instead stepping closer and pushing his chest forward expectantly, as if silently instructing Sieun to do it himself.

Of course.

Muttering something under his breath about childishness—because truly, doing this in front of other reporters was borderline criminal—Sieun leaned in and clipped the mic onto Suho’s suit, fingers brushing warm fabric, exhaling deeply once he was done. He pulled his phone out immediately, putting distance between them again, and launched into his job before he could think too hard about anything else.

“How would you reflect on the whole weekend?” Sieun asked, voice steady despite everything.

Suho hummed thoughtfully, eyes flicking to the camera as if genuinely considering it, before looking back at Sieun with a spark of amusement. “You sure you want to know the answer?”

It was teasing. Absolutely teasing.

Sieun smiled through sheer irritation, teeth clenched just enough to hurt. “I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t for my job.”

Suho didn’t look offended in the slightest, grin widening instead, eyes bright and far too pleased with himself. “Really? Hm. Yesterday you were saying you didn’t know shit about F1, and now you’re out here doing proper interviews,” he drawled. “How interesting.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Sieun shot back. “How about you stop being annoying and just answer the question.”

Suho snapped his fingers as if struck by sudden realization. “Ah~ And you were so sweet to me yesterday,” he said, voice dropping just enough to be dangerous. “Let me recall—please, alpha—”

Sieun slapped a hand over his mouth without thinking.

The action startled them both, Sieun’s eyes going wide as he glanced around quickly, checking if anyone nearby had caught even a hint of what Suho had said. They might be speaking Korean, but after the past twenty-four hours, Sieun trusted the internet exactly zero percent.

“Okay, okay,” he hissed, pulling his hand away just as fast. “What do you want?”

Suho’s smile softened, something warmer slipping through the mischief as he leaned in slightly, voice low. “Well,” he said, “after you escaped my suite after what I thought was a pretty amazing night, I think you owe me at least your phone number—and a date.”

Sieun stared at Suho like he had just suggested something profoundly stupid, eyebrows knitting together as he slowly lowered his phone.

“How do you imagine the latter,” he asked flatly, voice dripping with disbelief, “in the current situation?”

He wasn’t necessarily saying no, but Sieun also wasn’t naive enough to pretend logistics didn’t matter. He was a working adult based in Seoul, with certain responsibilities, and a life that didn’t conveniently pause for one reckless night in Miami. So he gestured vaguely around them again, letting the chaos of the paddock speak for itself.

“You’re a Ferrari driver who just won a race,” Sieun continued, incredulous, “and you’ll move on to the next race, wherever that is.” He let out a deep sigh, fatigue seeping into his voice. “And I’m going back to Korea—if you didn’t forget, which, judging by your memory so far, you clearly haven’t.”

He fully expected that to be the point where Suho backed off, where the alpha would smile, concede, maybe turn it into a joke and let them both retreat.

But Suho didn’t.

If anything, he looked even more annoyingly unfazed.

“I wouldn’t think that far forward,” Suho said simply, honestly, like the answer had always been obvious. “If we like each other, then I don’t see how we can’t work it out.”

He shrugged, shoulders loose, expression open in a way that made it clear he wasn’t posturing or trying to win an argument. To him, it really was that straightforward. And maybe that's why Sieun liked him in the first place.

Sometimes, Sieun decided, he just had to stop questioning everything and let himself drift with the current. There was no point fighting it when resistance only left you exhausted, and it would only pull you under anyway. There were no unfixable mistakes, no problems that couldn’t be solved—only choices you made and learned to live with.

The first thing that needed to be dealt with was the absolute chaos of the group chat.

Sieun’s instinctive reaction had been to say he didn’t know Suho at all, which was only partially untrue; he genuinely hadn’t known Suho was an F1 driver when they met. But lying outright felt pointless, so instead he typed, briefly and decisively:

Sieun: No further questions. Gotak, I got you Max Verstappen’s sign. Yes, Baku, me and Suho are now together. Juntae, your advice was useless. Bye.

Then he closed the app before anyone could respond, heart pounding but oddly lighter for it.

As it turned out, Youngyi and Beomseok had known exactly who Sieun was from the start. They were Suho’s closest friends, and they had seen the articles—the blurry photos of Suho leaving the party with an unknown omega that had caused far more commotion within Ferrari than Sieun had ever imagined. Damage control had nearly escalated into a full statement about “friends having fun,” until Suho himself had stepped in, saying he would handle it personally.

He did handle it. Barely.

Apparently Suho had asked Youngyi and Beomseok specifically to look after Sieun during the race weekend, remembering clearly how clueless the omega had been about Formula One and refusing to let him wander around bored or lost. The realization made Sieun huff softly under his breath, and maybe touched a bit by the attention.

To go that far for a one-night stand—especially one who had fled at dawn without so much as a note—was… a lot. Maybe Suho liked him more than Sieun had allowed himself to consider, and the thought was both terrifying and strangely comforting.

By the end of it all, the interview itself was deemed almost useless. Suho barely answered any questions about the race, instead spending most of the time leaning closer and murmuring about things that had nothing to do with lap times or strategy—when Sieun was flying back, whether he had Instagram, whether he’d consider coming to Ferrari’s after-party.

Sieun really didn’t want to go, exhaustion weighing heavy in his bones, but Suho promised WH Sport an exclusive interview later on, one that would make up for everything. That, at least, made the decision easier. By then, Baku might be free to handle it properly, with real expertise instead of the barely controlled chaos Sieun had been running on all day.

So he let himself be free for one night, carried along by the warmth and noise and joy of it all, surrounded by Suho, Beomseok, and Youngyi like this strange little orbit he’d somehow been pulled into.

Suho, in particular, didn’t let him out of his reach even for a meter. Wherever they went—lounge to terrace, terrace to bar—Suho followed, or rather dragged him along, fingers always curled possessively at Sieun’s waist as if afraid he might escape if released. Other drivers came over to congratulate him on first place, clapping him on the shoulder, laughing loudly, but Suho barely paid attention, offering distracted smiles while his focus stayed firmly on the omega pressed to his side. At one point, he dipped his head to nibble at Sieun’s earlobe, breath hot and familiar, before nosing along his neck and down to his scent gland, satisfaction humming low in his chest after finally convincing Sieun to remove the patch—for him.

Youngyi watched the whole thing with narrowed eyes and open judgment.

“Oh my god,” she said, grimacing as Suho inhaled like he’d found oxygen for the first time, “you two seriously look like dogs in heat.”

“I might actually poke my eyes out,” Beomseok added dryly, rubbing at his face as if the sight physically hurt him.

Sieun tried—honestly tried—to get Suho to behave, pushing lightly at his shoulder, whispering protests, but the alpha seemed to have developed a sudden, incurable condition best described as separation anxiety. Eventually, Sieun gave up, cheeks warm, resignation settling in as Suho continued to steal kisses whenever he could, brief and hungry and entirely unconcerned with witnesses.

“Ah, by the way,” Suho said suddenly, lifting his head from Sieun’s neck and turning toward his friends as if he hadn’t just been inhaling peonies like it was a life-sustaining substance. “I’m going to Korea with Sieun. On my private jet.”

“What?” Youngyi nearly dropped her glass, eyes wide. “No! We don’t have return tickets!”

“Yah—Ahn Suho!” Beomseok blurted out, shock written all over his face. “You can’t just leave us like that!”

“Beomseok-ah,” Suho replied calmly, still brushing his thumb over the scent gland at Sieun’s wrist, “you have your own jet.”

“Bro, it’s in Korea,” Beomseok shot back. “I didn’t know I’d need it! It won’t arrive for another fifteen hours!” Already reaching for his phone to contact the airport and personal staff.

Sieun stayed very quiet through all of this, eyes flicking between them, wisely deciding that this was not a fight he needed to insert himself into. This was firmly a Suho problem.

“He’s right,” Youngyi groaned, slumping back against her seat. “Yah, Ahn Suho! What kind of friend are you? Especially after winning Miami Grand Prix! So cruel.”

Suho shrugged, utterly unapologetic, fingers still tracing slow, absent-minded circles against Sieun’s skin. “I mean… you can still come with us,” he said, pausing thoughtfully. “But I don’t guarantee your peace throughout the flight.”

“What does that even mean…?” Beomseok started, only to be cut off by Youngyi’s shriek.

“You fucking pervert!” She exclaimed.

She hurled a small pillow straight at Suho’s head, which he caught effortlessly with his free hand, laughter breaking out as Beomseok spluttered beside her.

Sieun looked up at Suho, confusion plain on his face, but Suho only grinned, dropped the pillow onto the couch to block the still-bickering pair from view, and leaned down to kiss him—deep, hungry—hidden from everyone else, like the rest of the world didn’t exist at all.