Archive of Our Own ^beta

Fifteen wasn’t adult. Not really. But Thomas liked to pretend it was close enough.

He didn’t whine about chores the way he used to. Helping out around the house felt different now, almost like proving something. Especially when Newt was nearby.

He stood a little taller these days, posture less slouched and more upright. He’d started eating more too! Out of hunger, yes, but also as a quiet drive to grow into himself. And when there were shopping bags to carry, he didn’t wait to be told. He just took the heavier ones, felt the weight pull at his arms and spine, and never complained.

It wasn’t like Thomas wanted to be an adult. Not yet. But he was done being treated like a kid. He wanted to be seen as something bigger! Like an Alpha.

His shoulders had broadened in the past year, chest tighter under his stretching shirts. And things had started feeling less like growing up and more like being carved into, like someone had taken something pointy and metallic to sharpen him from the inside out.

This wasn’t just a growth spurt.

It was biology. Instinct. Nature or whatever. 

And it hurt his jaw sometimes.

Still, Thomas liked being ahead of others.

Especially other alphas in his year.

They were still trying to be the loudest in the room—shouting over each other, shoving in hallways, laughing too hard at their own unfunny jokes. But Thomas didn’t need to be noticed. He needed to be ready.

His tutors must’ve noticed too, because lately the curriculum had shifted. No more just calculus or physics. Now there were units with titles like Alpha Conduct & Legal Boundaries. And Thomas hated how that phrase made the back of gums prickle, like teeny tiny thorns determined to keep him grounded.

There were entire chapters now—dense, clinical pages about scent regulation, consent rights, power imbalance. Behaviour Case Studies. Warnings. Laws!! 

They talked about alphas who didn’t know their own strength. Alphas who lost control and ruined people without even meaning to. There were fines. Trials. Restraining orders. Prison. And biting—biting.

That was a whole section on its own. 

Pages and pages. Blood markers. Bond triggers. Chemical shifts in nerve recognition and scent. Emotional contamination. Physical consequences. Legal ones. Thomas didn’t want to read about it.  He didn’t even want to think about it. Because biting was serious.

Not that Thomas had any intention of biting Newt, obviously. 

That would be insane. 

Stupid.

Gross, even.

Still. The tutors always looked at him a little too long when they talked about it. 

And he hated that more than anything.

Because he couldn’t explain what he had with Newt—not to them, not even to himself. What he felt—it wasn’t dangerous. It wasn’t dark or feral. It wasn’t twisted or wrong. It was just him and his best friend. 

Like it had always been. His best friend who just so happened to be an Omega assigned to him in the Alpha guidance unit—something Thomas didn’t even know his mother had signed him up for when he was seven. His best friend, who always smelled like freshly crushed petals and that mild herbal lotion they apply to bruises. And if Thomas sometimes felt his throat tighten during certain lessons, he blamed the aircon. If his skin prickled when Newt pressed too close on the big couch, he told himself to sit up straighter and focus. 

You know, yesterday, he’d asked Minho—half-joking—if he thought his instincts were starting to kick in, half-hoping for some solidarity, but Minho was too busy trying to copy answers off his test before the teacher looked his way. So Thomas was on his own.

And honestly, it made sense. 

This shedding feeling. Like he was swimming out of himself, stretching beyond what his bones had space for.

His limbs were too long for his kid-clothes now. His jaw, sharper meant his voice kept cracking at the worst moments. Puberty was rewriting him from the inside out. Bone by bone, nerve by nerve. Even his teeth! Did you know they were the only bones you could clean by brushing?

Thomas was almost sixteen now.

Almost old enough to find a mate.

Not that he was looking. Not like the other alphas, who st rutted down the halls like their hormones were social currency. He didn’t feel like he needed one. Not really, not in the way they all talked about it in locker rooms and tutor groups, loud and cocky and nauseating.

It was supposed to be instinctive. Natural!

But most days, all Thomas could feel was this loud and—and, traitorous thumping in his chest that had nothing to do with his instincts and everything to do with Newt.

Not in some dumb alpha-mate-omega way.

He didn’t want to claim him. He just… wanted Newt to laugh at his jokes. 

To roll his eyes but still text back. to pick his side in an argument. to tap his foot beside Thomas’s under the lunch table, and maybe not move away right after.

And yeah—okay—he knew it was weird.

Weirder than anything his body was doing right now. Weirder than his changing voice, his too-long limbs, or the pain in his jaw from teeth growing out too fast, too soon. Because this week, for the first time in five years, he hadn’t gone with Newt to his hospital check-up.

Not because he didn’t want to. Not because he forgot. 

And that wasn’t supposed to be a big deal.

But it felt like a big deal.

Like all those years didn’t mean anything. 

Like Thomas hadn’t memorised the route on the public bus.

Like all the times Thomas memorised dosages and side effects and watched the nurses draw Newt’s blood like it was his blood being taken—none of it meant anything anymore.

Like he didn’t matter anymore.

And Thomas didn’t know why that made his stomach feel hungry. 

Why his stomach had felt hollow all morning, like he’d missed a meal or maybe a step on a staircase.

But maybe—maybe, because Newt was older and more independent now, this was meant to be the new normal.

It should’ve been easy for Thomas to not sign his name under the “Guardian” line. Easy to wake up on Sunday to an empty bed, sun peeking through the curtains, and just know Newt had already gone without him. Except it wasn’t.

Not really!

Because when he woke up that morning—his body felt like it remembered something his brain didn’t want to remember. Like packets of memories from another morning stitched into this one. A different bed. Softer pillows, one always missing from beneath his head because someone small with needy hands had stolen it. Eleven-year-old Newt beside him, pulling at his hoodie strings like he wanted to pull it off Him in his sleep and keep all of Thomas to himself. 

And the scent—something soft and floral, tucked beneath Thomas’s chin. The sunlight bleeding warm through his bedroom window.

And the knock—always gentle, never rushed.

"Hey, Edison. Wake him for me will you?"

Newt’s dad used to say that.

Right before Newt would groan awake and mumble something snarky in Thomas’s direction, only to soften immediately once he realized his father was waiting outside.

He’d jump off His bed too fast. Feet tangled in the blankets, or in the hoodie pile he'd made into a nest the night before. And Thomas would always catch him. Just a hand to the wrist or a steadying grip on his elbow. Sometimes brushing his scent glands.

Back before Thomas knew what it meant to be an alpha.

But now? Now it was different.

His body had changed faster than his mind could catch up. His feelings tangled with his thoughts until he couldn’t tell which were his and which were just biology clawing its way out of him.

And the way he looked at Newt felt different.

But never in the way people assumed. Never in the way that felt wrong. Just… like Newt was breakable. Like he was Thomas’s to shield from everything sharp and ugly.

Newt wouldn’t get it.

He’d never seen the version of Thomas that existed after school sometimes—scrappy and simmering, throwing punches he never wanted to throw because another alpha had said something about him.

It wasn’t about dominance. Or pride.

It was about Newt.

That’s why Thomas only really got along with Minho. 

Minho was smart—it didn’t matter to Thomas what Mrs. Lee would say about his grades. To Thomas, Minho was smarter than the rest of them. Minho saw Newt as a friend. Not as an Omega. 

For some reason other Alphas couldn’t wrap their heads around that.

Alphas like Alby.

Thomas didn’t like Alby. Never had. Something about the way he looked at Newt was just weird. Like he wanted to gobble Newt up while Thomas wasn’t looking. And he was always annoying with his remarks—winning arguments or whatever. 

And Thomas barely tolerated Gally—he always wrestled too hard in the sandpit when teachers weren’t looking—but his mum and Gally’s mum were friends. Old school friends or something, and Gally’s mum worked as a nurse and a part time pharmacist, so they ended up seeing each other a lot. 

Especially on the weekends when they picked up Newt’s prescription refills.

So Thomas had to stand there at the cash register quietly, trying not to glare daggers at Gally while their mums chatted across the Pharmacy counter and a tiny Newt waited patiently behind the lollies rack, picking gluten-free sweets and pretending not to notice that Thomas kept checking the labels on every bottle, even though he already knew what they were.

He would read the packaging. Every side effect.

Because what if one day Newt took the wrong thing? What if Thomas wasn’t there?

That was the whole point, wasn't it? Being an alpha? Having all this strength? Having teeth that could tear raw skin and instincts that could choose not to.

Like right now.

Ugh.

*CLUNK*

Thomas heard the tray hit the table before Newt even sat down. Loud as always, like a spotlight snapping on him the moment he entered. 

Newt was the kind of person who didn’t just arrive. 

He announced his presence, like the whole world needed a reminder he existed. That the earth wouldn’t dare forget about him, and Thomas liked the certainty in it.

He nudges his butt over the seat to make more room for Newt to sit.

Next to him, Thomas can feel Newt’s breaths. They’re not loud, just.. liquid. Like each inhale had to pass through something muddy before it reached his lungs. His shoulders were lifting slowly, and Thomas suddenly had this awful feeling that whatever He was trying not to say was louder than the entire cafeteria.

And the cafeteria was loud.

Cutlery clashing, chairs scraping, someone laughing too loudly. Two Beta girls from his science class waved at him from the canteen line.

Thomas stared at the table, awkwardly nodding his chin up in their direction.

The metal was proliferated with tiny holes, like someone had spent countless hours stabbing the end of a pen—or maybe a blunt needle into it over and over again—punctures without purpose. Maybe left behind by someone who was trying not to scream. Rows and rows of little silver empties. The kind you peeled open when something was wrong and hoped the right ripe pill might fix it.

*crunch*

He took a bite.

It was technically oatmeal, yeah—but it was also a mess of cinnamon and honey, shredded apple, and half-mashed banana. Sweet sugary golden heaven. 

He stirred the spoon once, watching the honey pool and swirl like it was trying to make up for something the oats lacked.

“You know, if you wanna—"

Thomas scooped up some honeyed-oats.

“If you wanna be with other omegas, I don’t care.”

The spoon in his hand stopped halfway to his mouth, oatmeal threatening to slide off. 

“—just not in my bed.”

It dropped back into the bowl with a soft *plop.*

Thomas didn’t look up. His gaze locked on a crack running along the table’s edge and pressed his thumb into the corner of his tray.

                what?

He opened his mouth to say something, but his tongue was covered in sticky oats, like it didn’t know which direction words were supposed to go. 

And then he smelled it. Just a hint of thinning out sugar that sat opposite him, turning bitter around the edges like steeped tea left too long to cool—

“You could at least pretend to acknowledge me, Tommy.”

Thomas didn’t look up. 

Instead, his eyes dropped to Newt’s hand.

There was a bandaid curling at the edge of his palm, one corner already lifting, like it was giving up. 

A faint, but obvious stain of red showed through the gauze.

He knew it would take at least a week to heal. Maybe longer. Probably.

Thomas knew Newt tried to be careful, but the pills had their cost—two, sometimes three before meals. Suppression, regulation, a precise balance meant to keep everything inside him quiet. Necessary, they said. Even if the side effects left his skin too sensitive to basically everything. He’d learned to measure time by the emptying of Newt’s pill packets.

Mornings were the hardest. With the dose wearing thin, Newt would move slowly, stretching like he was shaking off sleep—or shedding a skin. He’d rub his eyes, crack his neck, then toss out something casual like, “Fancy a jog, Tommy?” as though the idea weren’t ridiculous for someone who could barely keep down dinner the night before.

When Thomas watched him tie his shoes—laces messy, double- and triple-knotted like charms against tripping—he pretended not to notice the tremor in his hands or how long it took him to get the loops even.

Maybe the jogging was about exercise. Or maybe it was Newt’s way of clinging to something normal, something untouched by medicine. A routine that kept him tethered.

And yet, on those mornings, as Newt pulled on his hoodie and left with too much energy for someone still half-drained, Thomas hoped—quietly, fiercely—that the pills were at least doing something.

Even if Newt’s jog ended up just being a walk.

*CLINK*

Thomas looked up.

Newt was playing with his food—nudging the fruit around his tray like it didn’t belong there. Like it hadn’t taken Thomas twenty minutes in the cramped student services kitchen to prepare.

He still liked this recipe, right? It had been the same for three years—apples, banana cinnamon pancakes, topped with a bit of honey, just how little Newt liked them. He’d said that they were good. That Thomas made them perfectly. “A-plus Tommy!”

That had to count for something.

But Minho always had something about it.

“Feed him something new”, he’d suggest, always with that too-bright light bulb in his eyes, like he’d just cracked some genius code. Like Newt was just supposed to suddenly crave variety. That his food wasn’t tied to comfort or memories or—God forbid—choice. 

Thomas knew better. 

Newt didn’t like when people decided things for him. Especially not what went on his plate.

So then, what was wrong with today’s pancakes? 

His eyes flicked to Newt’s neck—no scratching at the chin or jaw, not yet. That usually meant texture. Maybe the batter was off? Too mushy? No, Newt liked them mushy. Too crispy on the edges, then? Did the crunch set off something weird on his tongue? Or maybe—

*SCRAPE.*

Newt dragged his fork across the tray again.

Thomas winced.

He wasn’t not eating. Just… moving things. And then he didn’t move at all.

He stopped.

No more movement of his wrist—and then—the only thing that moved were his eyes.

Honey-brown, flecked with bruléed sugar at the edges of the iris.

When sunlight caught them just right, they glowed like honeycombs—tiny sanctuaries for bees. Sometimes Thomas dreamed of flying straight into that golden syrup, desperate for a taste.

“What?” Newt asked, the word barely more than a breath.

No answer.

Thomas tapped his fingers once against the scratched metal table, then froze. His gaze didn’t wander. It stayed. Staring at the curve of Newt’s neck where honey was the sweetest. He should’ve looked away. But he didn’t.

*SCRATCH SCRATCH.*

Newt’s hand brushed lightly against his cheek.

Okay. 

Something was off. Probably the pancake texture after all.

Newt wasn’t eating so much as shuffling food around, like rearranging it might somehow make it better. Thomas kept glancing between the fork and Newt’s neck—because the neck was distracting, it always was—until Newt suddenly held out his fork.

Balanced on the end was a single slice of banana.

“Did you want a bite?”

Thomas just blinked at it. He wasn’t sure if the right response was yes or what are you doing. Before he could figure it out—“Hey losers!” Minho arrived.

He swaggered over and clapped a hand onto Thomas’s back hard enough to shove him forward in his seat. Thomas scowled.

Minho just grinned, sliding down into the seat across from them like he owned the whole place.

“Why do you look like you haven’t slept in weeks? Oh, wait—” He snapped his fingers with mock revelation. “Because you probably haven’t.”

Thomas’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. 

“You get off on harassing him or something?" Newt smirked, chewing like a rabbit on a bit of banana.

Minho leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist. "It’s one of my greatest joys in life, yeah.”

Thomas shot him a glare but didn’t bother saying anything, scooping up another spoonful of his A+ oatmeal. He was starving and no interruption, not even Minho, was going to stop him from inhaling it.

Before Thomas could Minho’s morning rants out completely, Gally and Alby showed up with their trays.

Alby spoke first—of course he did. “Hey, Newt.” His voice had that smooth, polite tone that always sounded fake.

Thomas’s eyes slid down to his oatmeal. He shoveled in another spoonful. Alby didn’t need his attention. The guy sat next to Newt without hesitation, like it was his spot.

Gally claimed the last seat with a mutter about the lunch line, and just like that, Thomas’s focus on Newt’s neck snapped. The table felt smaller, more crowded.

Minho kicked his feet up and rocked his chair dangerously. “So, what’s the drama today?”

“What, you think I just produce drama?” Newt’s laugh was short.

“You and Tom exist, so yeah.”

Thomas exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his temple with one hand and keeping his spoon in the other. He shoveled more oatmeal in, because at least oatmeal didn’t talk back.

Newt flicked a bit of pancake at Minho. It skimmed past his cheek. Thomas knew Newt could aim better.

Alby didn’t even notice. He was leaning ever so slightly toward Newt, close enough that Thomas caught it without meaning to. He didn’t care. Not really. Not worth thinking about. Alby was fine—strong, respected, the kind of alpha people wanted around. And Thomas didn’t trust him. Not in any way you could point at, just… the way you don’t trust a locked door you’ve never seen opened.

“Newt,” Alby said suddenly.

Newt blinked. “What?”

“You alright?”

Thomas bit down hard, teeth pressing into the soft of his gums. Too hard. A warning ache spread through his jaw, sharp enough to make his eyes sting. If he kept doing this, he’d draw blood. Again.

He needed to stop. Stop chewing at himself. Stop eating all the time.

But then Newt nodded absently at Alby’s question, dragging an apple slice through the cinnamon dust, slow and deliberate. Like he was sketching something private into the plate. Then he lifted it—tongue sliding over the curve, licking the cinnamon clean before biting down.

Thomas’s jaw locked so tight it hurt. His teeth ground against each other, desperate, hungry, as though they might split enamel just to release the pressure. He could almost taste the cinnamon on his own tongue. Sweet. Spiced. Followed by sparks of someone’s sweet skin. If only—

He swallowed hard, but his mouth only watered more, pooling with saliva that made his throat ache to gulp it down. Every part of him screamed eat. Not the apple. Not the dusting of spice.

His teeth pressed deeper into his gums, until he felt that faint metallic bloom of blood, sharp and coppery. He clung to it, almost grateful. But just the image of patient lips, the taste of blooming sap—the feel of a tongue sliding over lips—what would his Tutors think! 

Control yourself, Thomas.

An Alpha is responsible for his strength.

An Alpha respects boundaries.

An Alpha never confuses instinct for permission.

Those words were carved into the back of his teeth, the same way they were drilled into him during Alpha Conduct & Legal Boundaries. They’d shown him case studies—cold, clinical pages of alphas who hadn’t known when to stop. Who’d leaned too close. Who’d bitten because their biology told them to. And every single one had ended the same way: fines, trials, apologies that didn’t matter.

Thomas fingers twitched against his spoon. He blinked, forcing his gaze down into his oatmeal, drowning the thought in another mouthful. 

Newt wasn’t looking at him anymore. But ever since that flicker—the sudden spark of imagining what it might be like to kiss him—Thomas felt stupidly guilty for wanting it so badly.

__________

Sometimes Thomas wondered what storms were turning over inside Newt’s head.

After class, he had to slow his stride so Newt could keep up, though Newt hardly seemed to notice. He was staring down at his own hand like it belonged to someone else.

Thomas adjusted the weight of the two bags slung over his shoulders—his own, and Newt’s messenger bag. He didn’t mind. If anything, he liked the tiny reminder of closeness: the matching keychains dangling side by side, clinking lightly with each step.

But Newt wasn’t looking at that. His gaze was fixed on his sleeve, distracted, fingers brushing the fabric like he was searching for something invisible there.

“Oi,” Newt said suddenly, breaking the silence. “You’re doing it again.”

Thomas blinked. “Doing what?”

“Carrying my bag like I’m some toddler you’ve been told to mind.” Newt kicked at a pebble on the path, his voice sharp but not without humor. “We’re sixteen, Tommy. Sixteen. I can handle a bloody messenger bag.”

Thomas tightened his grip on the strap. “Yeah, well, you didn’t look like you were handling much back there. Nearly tripped on the stairs.”

“That was once.” Newt shot him a look, all mock outrage and flushed cheeks. “You keep hovering like I’m about to snap in half, and it’s—patronizing.”

Thomas fought back a grin. He’d expected this. Newt was always good at spotting the quiet ways he tried to look after him. “Fine. Next time, I’ll let you fall on your face. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Newt muttered, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward. He shifted closer, shoulder brushing against Thomas’s for just a second before drifting away again. “Anyway. Did you see Winston’s face in class? Looked like he’d swallowed chalk when the teacher called on him.”

Thomas chuckled, letting the bag slip a little lower on his shoulder. Newt rambled on—about teachers, about star wars, about nothing at all—and Thomas let the sound of his voice settle in his chest.

By the time they cut past the school gardens, Newt had insisted on slinging his own bag over his shoulder again, tugging it higher with a little huff like he had something to prove. The two of them walked side by side, gravel crunching underfoot, the air sharp with the scent of cut grass.

The oval stretched wide and green ahead, track lines still faintly chalked in the late sun. Thomas felt his muscles twitch with the memory of running laps there. He knew Newt would watch him from up on the bleachers sometimes.

The sky was painfully clear, blue so bright it hurt to stare at, and the birds seemed to be screaming about it—sharp, high cries that cut over the quiet. One swooped low without warning, wings slicing through the air close enough that Thomas flinched.

Newt barked a laugh. “Ha! Must be that mop you call hair. Looks like a nest.”

Thomas glared at him, brushing a hand through the messy strands. “It does not.”

Thomas sighed, setting his crayon down. It rolled across the glass table and tapped against Newt’s arm. Newt didn’t notice. He was too busy with his drawing. Another duck, wings bent at odd angles, a beak too big for its head. 

His tongue stuck out the side of his mouth in concentration.

A dry leaf was still tangled in his hair. His jacket dangled off one shoulder, and both shoes were loose, laces trailing across the floor like they’d given up. He looked like someone half-put together, like he’d always wander into the room carrying a piece of the outside stuck to him.

Thomas’s fingers curled into fists on the desk. He wanted what? To fix him? To yank the leaf out of his hair? To tie those laces? To shake him a little for being so messy? Or maybe just squeeze his cheeks until the fizzing in Thomas’s chest stopped.

Newt smelled especially soft and flowery today. So flowery it was dizzying. Thomas’ mum had said sometimes Newt didn’t go to school because his pheromones were too much for everyone else, probably. But here, sitting close, Thomas didn’t want to pull away. He wanted to lean in until the scent swallowed him up!

Newt’s honey-brown eyes lifted suddenly, catching him. They were wide and gentle, like he didn’t even know he was being watched. Thomas froze. The look made his insides twist tight, buzzing like wings under his ribs.

Newt was sweet, soft, something to guard. But landing felt dangerous.

Thomas pressed his teeth together hard until it passed.

Newt smiled at him for no reason at all, small and lopsided, before going back to his ducks. The room stayed quiet, except for the scratch of his crayon.

Thomas said nothing. Just sat there, flapping invisible wings, keeping himself still. 

He narrowed his eyes. Not in anger but in the way you do when something’s bothering you and you’re trying to make sense of it. The leaf. The jacket slipping. The shoelaces dragging. It all stacked up until he couldn’t sit still anymore.

Slowly, he rolled down his sleeves over his wrists, hiding his scent glands the way his mum had taught him. Just in case. Then, before he could change his mind, he reached across the desk.

Newt blinked up, puzzled, as Thomas plucked the leaf from his hair and flicked it to the floor. He tugged the boy’s jacket back over his shoulder, smoothing the collar flat with the neatest care he could manage. Newt’s hair was still a mess, but at least it wasn’t carrying the outside anymore.

Thomas slid off his chair and crouched by Newt’s feet. The laces were hopelessly tangled, so he gave up untying them and just pulled the shoes off altogether. “You’re not supposed to wear these inside Minho’s house,” he muttered, half to himself, setting them neatly by the wall.

Newt just stared at him, honey eyes wide and glinting like he thought Thomas was doing magic. Then, as though he’d only just remembered what really mattered, he beamed and shoved a piece of paper right into Thomas’s face.

“Look, Tommy!”

The crayon duck was enormous, wings like lopsided pancakes, a smiley beak stretched ear to ear. The wax lines were heavy enough to crinkle the page. 

“See? Duggy’s walking to the pond!” Newt explained, pressing it closer until Thomas had to lean back to breathe.

Thomas huffed, fighting the ridiculous urge to laugh and growl all at once. His chest fizzed again—the itch that made him want to shake Newt again. Instead he just held the paper carefully, like it was something fragile, and said in the quietest voice, “Yep. I see it.”

Newt’s grin stretched wider, bright and pleased, while Thomas swallowed against the strange buzzing in his ribs. Still hovering, but close enough now that he could reach out, if he dared.

He set the paper down on the desk—duck and all—just as Newt leaned sideways to snag another crayon.

This was what Thomas liked best. Quiet time. Just the two of them (until Minho came back from the toilet..) No shouting games in the yard, no teachers hurrying them along. Most days at primary school were full of noise—running, chasing, kids tumbling and laughing like scraped knees didn’t sting. But Newt didn’t always join those days. Sometimes he wasn’t there in the morning at all, and other times he would fade out halfway through, gone by the afternoon like the sun slipping behind clouds.

A little growl twisted through Thomas’s stomach. He was hungry, but not just in the way that made him think about the biscuits his mum packed in his bag.

His gaze drifted to Newt. To the way his eyes narrowed with concentration, to the soft puff of flowery scent that seemed to bloom each time he shifted in his chair. And then the buzzing came back, stronger this time.

Thomas pressed a hand to his middle, willing it away. He couldn’t explain it, and it didn’t feel fair. All he wanted was to sit here. To have this quiet, where the room felt safe, where Newt’s ducks waddled across the page, and the outside world could wait. But he was so hungry!

Hours later, the smell hit him before anything else—smoky, rich, curling through Minho’s house like it had been waiting just for them. Thomas’s stomach twisted again, this time in a much louder complaint.

“Oi, sit down before you faint,” Minho teased, tossing Thomas a grin as his mum set a big plate of chicken wings on the table. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Newt was already leaning forward, eyes bright, practically bouncing in his seat. The soft omega-scent of him—fresh and flowery, sweet with anticipation—rolled across the table, pulling Thomas’s focus in tight. Newt grabbed for one of the spicy wings before either alpha could stop him, ignoring Minho’s warning, and bit in with a muffled, “Mmm.” 

His whole face lit up, eyes scrunching as he grinned. 

Minho chuckled, shaking his head. “Knew you’d like the spicy ones.” He lifted the tongs, twirling them like a sword before flipping a strip of meat sizzling on the grill. The oil popped, sharp and dangerous, and Thomas instinctively shifted his chair closer to the edge—closer to Newt. If anything spat out, it’d hit him first.

Thomas braved one of the spicy wings too, but coughed immediately, ears burning. He grabbed for his water. “Nope. Nope. Too much.” He slid the rest across to Newt, who didn’t mind at all. But then came the bulgogi. The glossy sauce clung to the meat, sweet and rich, soaking into the noodles Minho’s mum ladled into his bowl. Thomas took a bite and sighed in relief. Sweet, savoury—perfect.

“Here, watch.” Minho leaned over the grill, his movements precise, almost protective in their own way. He showed Newt how to flip the meat without tearing it, how to snip it neatly into pieces with the kitchen scissors. “See? Bite-sized. Easier for you.” His tone softened, careful.

Newt copied him eagerly, tongue poking out in concentration, before popping a sizzling slice into his mouth with a happy hum. 

Thomas didn’t even notice at first, but Newt had started stealing bits from his plate—quick little fingers snatching pieces of bulgogi while Thomas was distracted watching the grill. Every time Thomas looked down, his noodle pile was mysteriously smaller.

“What the..,” Thomas muttered, though there wasn’t a shred of bite in it. Newt only grinned at him, cheeks puffed full of meat, his scent smug and pleased.

“And this,” Minho added proudly, scooping a little pile of kimchi and radish onto Newt’s plate, “is how you do it properly. Meat, kimchi, perilla leaf..boom.” He demonstrated with the precision of a chef, folding it together before stuffing it into his mouth.

Newt followed suit, eyes wide, chewing with an excited hum. His fork darted back to the kimchi instantly. He tried to copy Minho exactly, a perilla leaf flat on his palm, a neat stack of meat, kimchi, and radish balanced on top. He folded it just like Minho showed him, but the bundle turned out far too big for his mouth. Still, Newt was determined. He shoved it in anyway, cheeks puffing out instantly.

Thomas choked on a laugh. Newt looked like a chipmunk, eyes wide as he tried to chew but couldn’t quite manage. His little hum of effort came out muffled.

“Newt slow down!” Minho snorted, reaching for the tongs.

Newt shook his head stubbornly, cheeks ballooned, making muffled “mmf” sounds as he chewed. His flowery scent was all flustered, warm and sweet, tinged with determination.

Thomas, heart lurching, grabbed for the nearest cup and slid it into Newt’s hands. “Drink!!”

Newt gulped gratefully, washing it down in little swallows until the bundle was finally gone. He slumped back with a dramatic sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then grinned at both of them like nothing had happened.

“See? Easy,” he said, still a little breathless. His scent puffed out bright with pride.

Thomas rolled his eyes but couldn’t fight his smile. Minho just shook his head, laughing as he cut more meat with the scissors. “You’re hopeless,” Minho muttered, but there was no bite in it. He shoved another piece onto Newt’s plate anyway. “Stick to two layers. You’ll live longer.”

Newt stuck his tongue out at him, already reaching for the kimchi again.

Thomas stayed close, keeping the water within reach.

__________

The little charcoal grill sizzled between them, smoke curling up into the rafters of the barbecue place. The air was thick with the smell of marinated meat and garlic, the chatter of other groups around them, and the clatter of scissors against tongs.

Newt sat pressed a little closer to Thomas than the table technically required, a quiet patience about him that made Thomas all the more conscious of his role at the grill. He’d taken the tongs without a word, flipping each strip of pork belly carefully so the edges browned but didn’t burn. Oil hissed and popped, and every time it spat, Thomas’s hand twitched slightly, as if his body were already prepared to shield the omega at his side.

Newt didn’t tease him for it, not tonight. He was just waiting, chin tipped on one hand, a soft little necklace glinting against the collar of his black button-up. His shirt was casual but neat, sleeves rolled to the elbows, jeans worn in but clean. It was understated, but Thomas couldn’t help noticing how deliberate it looked, like Newt had thought about tonight more than he’d admit.

Thomas had dressed simply too, dark jeans, a grey t-shirt under an open overshirt—but sitting here with Newt made him feel like they were on the edges of something that wasn’t quite a date, and yet wasn’t not a date either.

Minho tipped back his glass, grimacing after the swallow. “She’s gonna dump me, I’m calling it now. Three weeks, tops. Maybe two.”

“You said that last month,” Gally said, not unkindly, and clapped Minho’s back hard enough that Minho nearly choked.

“Yeah, and I was right to say it then too!” Minho groaned, sagging against the booth. “You don’t get it, she keeps saying she likes me ‘for now.’ For now. What the hell does that mean?”

Thomas smirked faintly, turning the meat with a calm precision. “Sounds like you’re on borrowed time, mate.”

Minho groaned louder, while Newt just grinned and plucked up the empty lettuce leaf waiting on his plate. “You’re too dramatic,” Newt said. “And rubbish with girls. Always were.”

Minho gasped in mock betrayal, while Gally just muttered, “He’s not wrong.”

The server passed by, dropping off a fresh bottle of soju. Minho immediately poured for Gally, who poured back, the two alphas trading banter. Newt’s eyes lingered on the green glass, just for a moment, before flicking away. He wasn’t old enough yet—and being an omega, the rules bent a little tighter around him.

Tommy noticed. Of course he did.

He filled Newt’s cup with water instead, sliding it over without comment. But when Newt glanced at him sidelong, Thomas relented, pouring the tiniest sip of soju into his own glass, then nudging it toward Newt under the table’s edge.

“Just one,” Thomas murmured, leaning closer to Newt.

Newt’s lips curved, secretive, and he leaned in to steal the briefest taste before setting the glass back in Thomas’s reach. His necklace shifted against his collarbones with the movement, catching the low restaurant light.

The grill sizzled louder, snapping Thomas back into motion. He clipped a strip of meat with the scissors, set it carefully into Newt’s leaf, topping it with kimchi just the way Minho used to teach them back when Alby came along too. The thought twisted something low in Thomas’s chest, but he didn’t say it. Neither did Minho, or Gally.

“Here,” Thomas said instead, sliding the bundle onto Newt’s plate.

“Thanks, Tommy.”

__________

The night air outside the restaurant was cooler, still buzzing faintly with city traffic and neon glow. The smoky scent of grilled meat clung to their clothes, and Newt exhaled happily, rubbing his stomach.

“Full?” Minho asked, stretching his arms above his head.

“Stuffed,” Newt admitted, but there was no drag in his steps. If anything, he was restless, bouncing a little as the group moved down the pavement toward the car.

Thomas walked behind him, keys in his hand, eyes flicking between the road and the omega ahead of him. Graduation was only a month away. Too quick. It felt like yesterday Newt was tugging him down hallways, or last week when he’d been drowning in test papers while Newt’s heat knocked the air out of both their schedules.

Newt gave a sudden giggle, breaking Thomas’s train of thought, and spun around a lamppost as they passed. He hooked his arm around it and swung himself out, hair falling into his face, shoes skidding a little on the concrete.

Thomas’s chest lurched. “Newt!” he barked, lunging forward just as Newt’s balance tipped. His hand caught the omega’s arm, steadying him before he could crash sideways.

Newt tilted his head back, laughing breathlessly, cheeks pink under the streetlight. “Oi, relax. Didn’t fall, did I?”

Thomas frowned, heart still pounding, and gave his arm a light shake. “What if there was a car? You could’ve—” His words cut short when he leaned in closer, nose twitching.

Newt smelled… wrong. Or not wrong—just different. His scent was still there, soft and flowery, threaded with warmth, but under it, faintly, was something sharper. A burn that reminded Thomas of the soju bottle back on the table.

“What the hell,” Thomas muttered, narrowing his eyes. “You smell like you downed half that bottle. You only had a sip.”

Newt grinned up at him, clearly unbothered. “Must be pheromones, yeah? Guess I’m a lightweight in more ways than one.”

Thomas fought a smile that threatened anyway. “You’re dangerous.”

“Mm, but you caught me,” Newt teased, tugging on Thomas’s sleeve before skipping a step ahead again, necklace glinting as he moved under another glow of light.

Behind them, Minho was still ranting about his doomed relationship while Gally hummed in vague sympathy. But Thomas barely heard. His focus stuck stubbornly on the omega in front of him—full, glowing, smelling just a little too much like alcohol, and laughing like the whole night belonged to them.

Thomas sighed, shoving his keys into his pocket as they reached the car. 

The car smelled faintly of smoke and sweet sauce when they piled in, still carrying the heat of the restaurant on their clothes. Thomas slid behind the wheel, checking the mirrors out of habit. Minho and Gally immediately claimed the back, Minho sprawled across half the seat while Gally shoved him into place with a grunt.

“Stop hogging the space, you ox.”

“You’re just bitter because you’ll never get dumped—no one’s dumb enough to date you in the first place.”

“Shut up, Minho. And I have dated!”

“Once.”

Their voices filled the car, bickering like background noise, but Thomas’s focus was elsewhere.

Newt dropped into the passenger seat, pulling his seatbelt across with a little click. He leaned his head back against the window, necklace catching the glow from the passing streetlights, his mouth curved in a small, secret smile. His scent rolled soft and warm, laced with that odd edge of alcohol that still puzzled Thomas.

“Comfy?” Thomas asked, glancing at him as he started the engine.

Newt hummed. “Happy.” His voice was loose, light, almost dreamy. “You’re a good cook, Tommy. Or, uh… good flipper.”

Thomas huffed a laugh despite himself. “That’s not a real compliment.”

“Sure it is.” Newt turned his head, eyes half-lidded, looking at Thomas with the kind of fondness that made his stomach twist. “You always look after me.”

Thomas gripped the wheel tighter, throat working. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

Newt didn’t answer. He just gave a little hum, eyelids drooping as the steady rumble of the car lulled him. Within minutes, his head tipped sideways, resting against Thomas’s shoulder. His flowery scent pressed in close, mingling with smoke and that faint sharpness of soju, warm and dizzying.

“Oi, careful,” Thomas murmured, though he didn’t move him away. He let Newt stay there, even leaned ever so slightly into him to keep his head steady. “I’m driving.”

From the backseat, Minho snorted. “You two are disgusting.”

“Shut it,” Thomas shot back automatically, ears burning.

But Newt didn’t stir, already drifting, his necklace glinting faintly with each streetlight they passed. Thomas kept one hand on the wheel and the other close enough to nudge Newt if he stirred, his chest buzzing. Invisible wings fluttered behind him.

__________

The elevator would have been faster, but Newt was stubborn. “Walking’s better,” he muttered, fingers curled tight in Thomas’s hoodie as they took the stairs. He had one hand on the railing, the other hooked over Thomas’s shoulder like he was scaling a mountain instead of climbing three measly flights.

“You’re being dramatic,” Thomas grunted, steadying him when he nearly missed a step.

“I’m not,” Newt said primly, though his voice wavered as his foot slipped. He clutched Thomas tighter, cheek brushing his shoulder. “See? You’d miss me if I tumbled down.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, though his chest tightened. “I’d catch you.”

By the time they reached their floor, Minho was already jogging ahead to pull the door open. “There, lover boy. Your royal highness has arrived safe and sound.”

Gally leaned lazily against the frame, smirking. “Don’t let him drool on you, Tom.”

Thomas glared at both of them but muttered, “Thanks,” anyway. They knew the drill by now, always making sure he got Newt home without fuss. With waves and a chorus of goodnights, the two headed down the hall, leaving Thomas and Newt in the quiet.

“Alright, we’re here,” Thomas said, maneuvering Newt to lean against the wall as he dug for the keys. The new knob gleamed faintly in the dim hallway light. The old one had finally snapped off two weeks ago after one too many slams, and Thomas still hadn’t figured out the lock’s little quirks.

Behind him, Newt gave a soft thump against the door and slid lower, shoulders collapsing like his knees might give out. Thomas whipped around. “Newt—!”

But instead of crumpling, Newt burst into laughter, soft and airy, eyes glinting as he looked up at him from where he half-sat, half-slumped.

“You should’ve seen your face,” he giggled, head tilted back, curls falling into his eyes.

Thomas froze, caught somewhere between relief and exasperation. “You—Don’t scare me like that.”

Newt only smiled wider, dimples showing, and propped his chin in his hand as if he had all the time in the world.

Thomas’s ears went hot. He turned back to the stupid lock, trying to ignore the weight of Newt’s gaze burning into him. “You had one sip,” he muttered. “One. Sip. You can’t be drunk.”

“’M not,” Newt said cheerfully. “Just… happy.”

The key finally clicked, the door swinging open. Thomas bent down, offering his hand. “C’mon. Inside.”

Newt took it without hesitation, fingers threading through his, and let himself be hauled up. For a second he wobbled again, pressing close to Thomas’s chest, breath warm with the faint tang of soju. His necklace brushed cool against Thomas’s arm before he leaned back with that infuriating, fond little smile.

“See? Told you I’d be fine,” Newt murmured.

Thomas rolled his eyes, but he didn’t let go of his hand. 

The door clicked shut behind them, and Thomas didn’t even think. The second the latch caught, he spun, pressing Newt back against the wood with a low thud. His mouth was on him before either of them could breathe, hungry, desperate, the taste of smoke from the grill and the faintest trace of soju still lingering.

Newt’s gasp turned into a smile against his lips, hands sliding up into Thomas’s hair, tugging just enough to make Thomas groan. The necklace at his throat bumped cool against Thomas’s chin as he tilted his head.

The hallway’s dim light cut off when the door closed, but neither of them reached for the switch. They didn’t need it. Newt’s fingers fumbled with the buttons of Thomas’s shirt instead, tugging at the fabric until his knuckles brushed bare skin.

“Newt—” Thomas half-breathed, half-laughed against his mouth, fumbling blindly behind him with one hand for the lock. He kissed him again between the words. “Give me—second—gotta—lock—”

Newt only hummed, lips chasing his, hands sliding lower, pulling Thomas closer until the space between them was gone.

“Forget the bloody lock,” he whispered, muffled against Thomas’s mouth.

But Thomas managed it anyway, the quiet snick of the deadbolt sealing them in just as Newt tugged his shirt open wider. Thomas’s free hand slid up Newt’s side, curling under the hem of his tee, fingertips grazing warm skin.

Newt shivered, arching into him, and Thomas kissed him harder, invisible wings flapping madly in love.

Thomas kissed Newt like he’d been holding his breath for years, stumbling them away from the door. 

They turned and tripped in circles around the tiny dorm room, laughing against each other’s mouths whenever Thomas knocked over a chair or almost tripped on a duffel bag. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the way Newt’s hands wouldn’t leave his hair, the way Thomas couldn’t stop tugging him closer.

At some point, Thomas backed him toward the desk, and Newt let himself be pulled up onto it with a soft hop, perching on the edge like he belonged there. Thomas’s arm curled firm around his waist, his other hand sweeping over the mess of notebooks and pens, shoving them aside without a care. A couple tumbled to the floor with a clatter, but Newt only laughed, lips chasing his again.

“Tommy,” Newt murmured between kisses, breathless now, necklace shifting against his collarbones as his shirt strained under Thomas’s tugging fingers.

Thomas paused—not to pull away, never that—but to be careful. The black buttons gleamed faintly in the dark, stubborn under his fingertips. He eased them open one by one, deliberate, careful not to tear. The fabric beneath his hands was impossibly soft, silk-like against his fingers, tagless, and molded perfectly to Newt’s slender frame. He remembered too well the way Newt’s eyes had lit up when Thomas had given it to him a few weeks ago—“properly sharp,” Newt had said, standing in front of the mirror, fingers ghosting down the smooth material.

“I’m not ruining this,” Thomas muttered, brushing his mouth against Newt’s jaw as he slipped another button free, marveling at the way the fabric clung and curved without restriction.

Newt tilted his head back, exposing his throat, breath hitching at the careful attention. His necklace glittered faintly against his chest, the small charm catching the low light, and Thomas felt himself hypnotized by it, drawn in as if he could stare at it forever.

“Could buy me another,” Newt teased softly, though the warmth in his eyes betrayed how much it mattered that Thomas remembered.

“Not the point,” Thomas said, voice low, pressing a kiss down Newt’s throat as the last button gave way. He slid the shirt gently from Newt’s shoulders, letting the tagless, soft fabric slide down his arms until it pooled behind him on the desk.

Newt shivered, bare skin meeting the cool air, but Thomas was already close, pressing him tighter. The room was dark, but Thomas could feel every curve, every subtle shiver.

And then there was the scent—Newt, heady and intoxicating, drifting up into Thomas’s senses: a swirl of light smoke from burnt meat on the grill (Gally’s fault), sweet soju (one tiny sip, impossible to explain), and the natural flowery warmth of his omega.

The pens and papers lay scattered on the floor, forgotten, another shove of Thomas’s hand brushing them aside. 

For a moment, Newt’s hand pressed against Thomas’s bare chest, fingers splayed lightly as he felt the steady thrum of his heart. Thomas froze, chest tightening at the closeness, and Newt leaned forward, resting his head against Thomas’s shoulder with a soft, contented sigh.

“You smell really good today,” Newt murmured, voice low, warm. “Reminds me of my dad.”

Thomas’s chest tightened further. This topic usually brought tears, but now Newt’s eyes were bright and bubbly. Not sad. Not broken. Just curious.

Not wanting to ruin the fragile, intimate moment, Thomas carefully lifted him from the desk, arms wrapped securely around the tall skinny frame. “C’mon,” he whispered, moving toward the bed, every step careful, deliberate. Newt let him carry him without protest, trust clear in the little tilt of his head against Thomas’s shoulder.

On the bed, Thomas gently helped Newt slip out of his pants, soft fabric sliding down to the floor. Newt shifted slightly, settling onto the sheets, necklace still catching the low light, sparkles dancing across his chest with each shallow, excited breath.

Newt reached up, fingers brushing the charm idly, mesmerized by the tiny sparkle, waiting as if it held all the answers.

Thomas hovered at the edge of the bed, shirt already half-open, pausing to drink in Newt’s scent again—the faint smoky tang from the grill, sweet hints of soju lingering even after that single sip, and the natural warmth of his omega pressing against him. His gaze drank in Newt too: soft curves, the delicate rise and fall of his chest, the trust shining in his wide eyes. Safe.

“Tommy,” Newt whispered, voice small and breathless, fingers still fidgeting with the necklace. His pupils were slightly dilated, bright with the tiny rush coursing through him. “My heart feels funny.”

“Yeah,” Thomas’s chest rumbled softly, a low, reassuring vibration. Invisible wings buzzed. “Alcohol does that,” he murmured, voice deep and steady, though his hand lingered over Newt’s side.

Then, with careful but confident movements, he began to loosen his belt, sliding it free, all the while keeping his eyes on Newt.

Thomas could already feel it creeping under his skin.

An itch. A restless weight in his chest, his hands, even his jaw. 

It wasn’t supposed to come this soon. Not when Newt was padding barefoot across the floor in nothing but one of His shirts, the hem brushing the tops of his thighs, BONDS underwear playing hide and seek.

Newt’s hair was mussed from a nap, his pale legs sharp and lean under the loose fabric, and he was bent slightly at the fridge, peering in like he’d forgotten what he’d been looking for. 

Thomas’ throat locked.

He gripped the knife tighter and pressed down through the strips of steak, pretending that the sight of him standing there didn’t make every nerve in his body buzz. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Newt had just come off his last heat a week ago! And Thomas had sworn—sworn to himself—he wouldn’t take advantage of him. Not now. 

He tried to breathe around the burning coil in his gut. 

Thomas thought of the books he’d read over and over when he was in highschool, pages of words cutting through, pages that spoke in clinical tones about what happened to alphas during rut. 

Manageable. 

He had survived Newt’s heat twice now, hadn’t he? Sat with him through every hour, stroked his hair, kissed the sweat from his temple, let him rest without going out of control just from the scent of honey. He could do the same now. 

But then Newt closed the fridge door, his lips pursed, his eyes soft when they flicked up like he already knew. Thomas’ chest tightened. He looked away too fast. 

The knife slipped.

“Shit.”

The blade caught his finger, a bright sting, and then blood welled up quick and hot. The metallic tang hit the air and Newt’s head whipped around, nostrils flaring.

Newt was at his side in an instant, faster than Thomas thought possible, snatching his hand away from the cutting board. His brows pinched tight as he inspected the cut, careful but scolding, instincts sharp in every movement. “Tommy.”

Because they were bonded now. 

“You idiot.”

Newt’s voice was low but steady, carrying that soft edge. He wasn’t trying to sound threatening.

Thomas tried not to shiver under the feel of Newt’s hands on his own, tried not to lean into the soft warmth of it. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice even, trying not to sound like every cell in his body wasn’t screaming to pin Newt against the counter and kiss the air out of him.

“Whoops. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing, my foot,” Newt muttered, pressing a wet cloth into Thomas’ palm. 

And then it buzzed right below his nose, hovering under him, sugary sweet with undertones of delicious, nutty, nectar—

Thomas clenched his teeth.

__________

Dinner should’ve been normal. It should’ve been fine.

Thomas plated Newt’s food first without even thinking, sliding the dish across the table like devoted muscle memory. 

“Dinner’s served,” he said, trying for casual—but his grin came out thin, voice cracking halfway through. He stuffed a mouthful of rice into his mouth before Newt could ask anything, chewing far too long for something that tasted of soy and garlic and guilt.

Newt noticed anyway. He always did.

Usually Thomas was halfway through seconds before Newt had even sat down, wolfing down his meal with the kind of reckless energy that made Newt laugh. But tonight Thomas ate slowly. Like he was trying to convince himself food still mattered.

His gaze kept flicking—sharp, restless—never quite settling. It drifted from the curve of Newt’s hand to the slope of his neck, lingering at the faint mark where his bite had healed.

The same spot Thomas had dreamt about the last three nights since.

Newt’s fork stilled mid-air. 

“What’s up with you?” 

He said it lightly, but the line of his shoulders was tight, wary. 

His tone said don’t lie to me.

Thomas blinked like someone caught stealing sunlight. “Nothin’.” He stabbed his broccoli a little too hard, eyes darting anywhere but Newt’s face. His hands shook faintly.

Newt watched him for a long second, his expression unreadable except for that soft crease between his brows.

Thomas had been running himself ragged lately, making sure he ate, rested, drank water, all the small, stupid things that somehow meant everything. Newt wanted to call him out, tell him to stop hovering. But the truth was, he liked it.

He liked being seen. Looked after. Liked him.

Later, when the dishes were done and the kitchen quieted under the hum of the night, Newt hummed softly to himself, drying a plate with a towel. He expected Thomas to be leaning against the counter offering to dry the rest—but the space beside him was empty.

He frowned, drying his hands on a towel. 

“Tommy?”

He found him at his desk.

Not reading, not writing. Just there.

The book open before him was untouched, pages glaringly white under the spill of moonlight. His eyes weren’t on the paper—they were on the window, fixed on the heavy, silver sky. 

The moon stared back.

“Oh.”

Thomas flinched. Too slow to hide the way his fingers trembled as he shut the book. The motion was clumsy. Almost embarrassed, like a toddler hiding a secret. 

“Newt—” 

“Tommy,” Newt stepped closer. He folded his arms, pretending to be stern, but his voice was fond in ways it couldn’t be taken mean. 

“You idiot.”

Thomas’s fists clenched against the desk. He was trying so hard, so hard, not to tremble, not to let the scent rolling off Newt—sweet, rich, steady as honey—undo him.

He wanted to touch him. God, he wanted. But he was supposed to be strong! To stay in control!

But the full moon didn’t care about that.

And neither, it seemed, did Newt.

Newt moved first. He crossed the room with the ease of someone who’d already made up his mind, shutting blinds one by one, cutting off every trace of silver light. The room folded into a soft amber hush. The kind of quiet where heartbeats sounded loud.

Thomas muttered, “Newt, I don’t even feel it.” A lie.

Newt ignored him, pulling open the wardrobe. He began layering the bed with blankets and hoodies, all of them Thomas’s—shaping them into the right spots. The motion was brisk, familiar, but there was care in every fold. Intent.

Thomas stood frozen, watching him. His heart pounded stupidly against his ribs, all warmth and awe and hunger. He’s seen Newt make nests before. But this was different.

Because when Newt turned around, fingers at the hem of his shirt—His shirt—Thomas moved without thinking, catching his wrist. “Wait.”

Newt’s eyes flicked up, startled. The air between them sparked, their faces inches apart.

“I can handle it, Tommy.” Newt said quietly. “You need me.”

Thomas swallowed, words thick like A+ Oatmeal in his throat. “Not a full session.” He paused. Eyes devouring the determined look in Newt’s eyes. “It’ll be too long. Too much.” His hand stayed on Newt’s wrist, not to stop him, but to restrain himself. “If I lose it—if you need me to stop—you have to say it, alright? You have to tell me to stop.”

Newt’s mouth twitched into a small, crooked smile. 

A little nervous. 

Stubborn.

“I know,” he murmured.

For a second, neither of them moved. 

Newt’s pulse fluttered fast. A foolish*BA—DUMP* thudded in his chest when their eyes met and held, and Thomas’ fingers twitched with the urge to trace the line of Newt’s jaw—just to make sure he was real, just to prove he was really trusting him with this—“Promise me.”

Newt looked like he wanted to say something, maybe something brave—but then forgot the words halfway through. And then, before Thomas could remember the third paragraph in Chapter Two of Alpha Conduct & Legal Boundaries, honey was in his mouth. 

A sweet tongue, sweet and uncertain. The faint accidental scrape of canines against soft lips.

A mistake or maybe mercy.

Thomas’ licked Newt’s lip like an apology.

Newt didn’t breathe at first—too startled. Thomas was too hungry. Then instinct took over. His hand slid from Newt’s wrist to his jaw, cupping him like something fragile.

Newt gasped softly, grabbing at Thomas’s shoulder for balance as he guided him backward until the edge of the mattress caught him, the bed pressed against his legs.

A loose strand of blonde hair slipped into Newt’s eyes. Thomas couldn’t help it—he brushed it aside, fingertips grazing warm skin.

The next sound that came from him next was half a laugh, half a noise too rough to name. Newt felt it vibrate through his chest where their bodies met, something wild buzzing against his ribs.

Then, Thomas pressed his forehead into the crook of Newt’s neck, breath catching, breathing him in. The scent there—soap, faint spice, and something that was just Newt filled his lungs until he felt almost dizzy with it.

Invisible wings twitch to fly.

Newt sat still, patient as ever, perched awkwardly on the edge of the mattress while Thomas—this fierce, unpredictable creature—folded himself small against him. Like something wild trying to pretend it wasn’t dangerous.

Newt’s lips curved faintly. He could feel the tremor running through Thomas, the twitch of a touch-starved alpha forcing himself to be careful. Too careful.

Tommy’s gone all soft.

It was ridiculous, really—this same boy who could pin him to the wall without trying, who once grabbed his wrists so tightly he left faint marks. Now trembling, trying not to breathe too close.

Thomas had been working through that stupid workshop, too—How to Manage Alpha Instincts, or whatever the full title was. He’d come back muttering about “primal responses,” “omega-prey associations,” and how old alphas used to aim for the neck mid-argument to assert dominance.

Newt had laughed for a solid minute. Thomas hadn’t.

So now, here he was—acting like one wrong breath might shatter him.

After a while, Newt started swinging one foot lazily, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Tap. Tap tap.

“Newt.” Thomas growled warningly. “Don’t.”

Newt didn’t stop.

With a sudden snarl, Thomas caught his ankle, pinning it easily in one hand. Newt froze, eyes wide, the beginnings of a grin curving his lips.

Thomas’ grip softened almost instantly, thumb tracing slow circles above the bone, like he was checking for a pulse.

“Cheeky,” Thomas muttered, chest vibrating.

Newt’s laugh was a quiet thing, more breath than sound.

Thomas hand slid up, finding Newt’s arm, following the lean lines of muscle and the faint ridges of bone as if memorising them. He was still trembling, the leash on his instincts pulled tight.

Holding his hand, Newt let Thomas push him back onto the bed in one swift motion. 

But unlike during heat, this time he stopped, looking for permission in Newt’s eyes.

Newt only smirked.

Thomas climbed after him, hands trailing up pale thighs, dragging slow. When his fingers caught on the hem of Newt’s shirt, he tugged it upward, inch by inch, until cool air met warm skin and Newt’s breath stuttered when smooth pale skin came into view.

Newt’s chest was rising and falling.

Thomas' eyes lingered—longer than he meant.

Newt leaned back on his elbows, that wicked little spark flickering in his eyes. Then, deliberately, he shifted—slowly, lazily—pretending to crawl backward across the bed. Like he might retreat. Like he might deny him.

Something in Thomas snapped taut. His instincts roared to life.

In one motion, he grabbed Newt’s thighs and dragged him back down the sheets, a rough jerk that made Newt yelp out a startled laugh. It cut off when Thomas’ voice came low and sharp:

“Stay.”

The words made Newt’s skin prickle. His instincts hummed in response, spine tingling.

Thomas loomed over him, chest heaving, his breath brushing Newt’s lips. “You’re teasing me,” he growled, voice cracking under the weight of restraint.

Newt blinked up at him, eyes wide and gleaming with mischief. “Teasing?” His lips curved, all innocence. “I don’t know what you’re—”

Thomas cut him off with a low, frustrated sound that was almost a growl, almost a plea. His skin buzzed—no, hummed—with energy, like a hive beneath the surface. Every nerve alive, every instinct straining. He wanted to scent Newt’s skin, to feel the pulse beneath his tongue. He wanted to claim, to keep.

But instead, he hovered—shaking with the effort not to break what he worshipped.

He’d been trying, ever since that ridiculous workshop on “managing alpha instincts.” How to suppress the urge to bite during an argument. How to not treat your omega like prey. He’d sat through every lecture, hands clenched, pretending the lessons didn’t sound like they were describing him.

And now here he was, this worker bee of a man—buzzing, burning, desperate to please. Trying to touch the flower without crushing the petals.

Except Newt wasn’t a flower. Never had been.

He was something that could fly too—graceful, untouchable, half light and half laughter. Not a queen bee, not even a bird like those ducks that glided calm across the pond that took twenty minutes outside to walk around, but thirty minutes for Newt. No, Thomas thought dimly, pressing his forehead against Newt’s temple, breath shuddering.

Newt was more like an angel who forgot he had wings.

“Mine,” Thomas whispered, the word rough and reverent all at once.

Newt saw the flicker in his eyes—the feral edge sharpening—but instead of fear, a smirk tugged at his lips. He reached up, fingertips brushing along Thomas’ jaw.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said softly, “you don’t need to growl at me to prove it.”

Thomas’ chest rumbled, helpless, the sound spilling from him like the hum of a hive.

Newt’s smirk softened as he reached up, cupping Thomas’ face. His thumb brushed along the sharp line of Thomas’ jaw, the heat radiating off him almost startling.

“Look at you,” Newt murmured. “All growly and brooding.”

Thomas tried to scowl, but it broke into a shudder when Newt’s fingers slid higher, pressing against his cheek, then slipping past his lips.

He leaned forward instinctively, head bowed in apology more than hunger.

Newt didn’t pull back. He traced along Thomas’ teeth with deliberate care, fingertips brushing the smooth edges, then pausing where Thomas’ canines curved sharper than the rest. Testing them.

Thomas’ saliva pooled, hot and heavy. It spilled over Newt’s fingers. Drool trailed down his knuckles.

And still, Thomas didn’t look away. Couldn’t. His eyes were locked on Newt like a creature guarding its heart, pupils blown wide, chest heaving.

Newt’s brows arched, playful. “Hungry?”

Thomas swallowed hard, throat bobbing, unable to answer.

His jaw trembled against Newt’s touch. Hungry wasn’t the word—it was want, it was desire, it was worship. He’d barely eaten his dinner, too distracted by Newt’s scent, by the vulnerable stretch of his neck, by the phantom taste of him still buried somewhere deep in his memory.

Newt leaned closer, one hand sliding up the back of Thomas’ neck, holding him steady—as though he were the fragile one. “For me?” he asked quietly, voice low, teasing but sure.

Thomas’ eyes squeezed shut, a raw growl tearing through his chest. Every muscle strained between wanting and restraint, between instinct and the vow not to hurt him.

His lips closed around Newt’s fingers—gentle, trembling. He sucked instead of biting, drool spilling down his chin again. Newt’s other hand came up to wipe it away, thumb smearing the saliva across Thomas’ skin almost tenderly.

“These have gotten sharper.” Newt stroked along those canines, calm as anything.

He traced again, over the curve of each canine. Thomas shivered slightly, arms tightening around Newt’s waist like he might slip away if he didn’t hold on.

“You’re drooling,” Newt murmured, almost fond, watching drool spill down Thomas’ chin. He wiped it away with his thumb, only for Thomas to chase the touch, mouth opening again, desperate.

“Newt—” Thomas’ voice cracked when he tried, the single word mangled by the rut crawling under his skin. His hips twitched forward, his whole body humming.

Newt tilted his head curiously, studying him. “You’re holding back.”

“Have to,” Thomas rasped, nuzzling into his wrist, inhaling until the world narrowed to the scent of him. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

Newt smiled faintly, something secret glinting in his eyes. His instincts purred at the sound of that growl, the sight of his alpha trembling with restraint. But instead of gloating, he brushed his nose against Thomas’ temple. “You won’t.”

Thomas’ chest rumbled again—primal, protective. His teeth grazed Newt’s fingers, the faintest prick of danger before he tore himself away, horrified. He buried his face in Newt’s neck, panting like he’d been running.

“I almost bit you,” he gasped. “I almost—”

“Doesn’t count,” Newt interrupted gently, threading his fingers through Thomas’ damp hair, tugging his head closer, right into the crook of his throat.

Thomas’ jaw clenched against Newt’s neck, every inhale drowning him in that sweet, intoxicating scent. His restraint was splitting at the seams.And still, when Newt shifted—hips tilting forward, thighs parting to let him closer—Thomas only groaned, half-growl, half-whimper. Instead of sinking his teeth where instinct begged him to, he turned his head and dragged them bluntly along Newt’s skin. Not biting—just gnawing. His jaw worked slowly at the curve of Newt’s shoulder, like he could ease the hunger by chewing him without breaking the surface.

It was ridiculous. An apex creature trying to kiss the air around its prey without killing it.

Newt startled with a laugh, soft and breathy, “that tickles.”

That only encouraged him. Thomas’ mouth moved lower, jaw nudging against Newt’s collarbone. His tongue flicked out, soft and trembling, to soothe the faint red marks his teeth had left. Then up again—the hollow of Newt’s throat, the curve of his jaw, the pink in his ears.

Chew, lick, kiss. Over and over.

Sometimes his mouth gentled, pressing kisses that were almost reverent. Other times he nipped and tugged until Newt squirmed and swatted at him with mock-annoyance.

Thomas’ hands weren’t still either. 

They traced the curve of Newt’s hips, pressed along his thighs, lingered at his waist as if trying to anchor himself, fingers squeezing just enough to pull small moans from him. And Newt didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in, legs parting a little more, pretending it was for comfort and not invitation.

Newt’s own hands were never idle. They threaded through Thomas’ hair, tugging, stroking, gripping whenever canines grazed a particularly sensitive spot.

It wasn’t that Thomas had never touched him before, he had. But this, this was different. Clingier. Needier. There was something desperate in how he kept reaching, how his thumbs traced idle circles over Newt’s skin as if memorising it. 

Thomas, who was usually composed and always careful—the one who carried bandaids in his pockets and scolded Newt for eating too fast—now looked wrecked. His hair stuck to his forehead and his tongue was still lathered with saliva. 

“Tommy,” Newt murmured, voice low and husky, teasing, dangerous. He tugged at Thomas’ hair, forcing his gaze. “You’re making a mess.”

Drool glistened along Newt’s chest, catching the faint light like dew across skin. Thomas blinked down at it, momentarily dazed, as though he hadn’t realized his own doing.

He didn’t answer. Just shifted, hands firm on Newt’s hips. “I’ll clean you later.”

Newt huffed a laugh, quiet and warm. He could feel Thomas’ heartbeat, wild and fluttering against his ribs. So careful, still, even when half undone. I

He tilted his head, brushing his nose against Thomas’ temple. “Tommy,” he whispered again, softer this time.

And then—he let go.

It wasn’t visible, not at first. But Thomas felt it immediately, like air breaking open. The scent hit him in a slow, sweet rush of sunbaked honey.

Newt’s pheromones bloomed into the space between them, light and golden, wrapping around Thomas like invisible hands.

The effect was instant.

Every line of tension in Thomas’ back-muscles softened. His breath stilled, then steadied. His shaking eased, the strain in his jaw loosening as if he’d just unclenched from holding himself too long. 

Newt’s fingers slid down his neck, tracing lazy patterns. “There you go,” he murmured.

Thomas let out a soft, half-laughing breath against his collarbone. “You did that on purpose.”

“Maybe,” Newt said, voice light, fond.

“Cheater.”

“Mm,” Newt hummed, dragging his nails lightly across the back of his head. “You like it.”

Thomas didn’t deny it. His head dipped lower, nose brushing over Newt’s chest until his lips found the faint ridge of his sternum. 

Newt chuckled quietly, the sound rumbling under Thomas’ cheek. He reached behind him for the blanket and tugged it up over Tommy’s bare shoulders, tucking it there.

Thomas made a small noise of protest, but didn’t move. He only burrowed closer, forehead pressing against Newt’s chest. His hair tickled Newt’s skin—soft, damp from sweat—and Newt’s hand fell automatically to the back of his neck, rubbing slow circles.

“Feels good,” Thomas mumbled, voice barely more than a sigh.

“I know,” Newt whispered, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw.

Outside, the world was silent—just the distant hum of the wind beyond their dorm—but inside, it was all breathing and warmth and heartbeat. Thomas shifted again, nose nudging along Newt’s skin like a sleepy animal finding its nest.

“Tomorrow,” Newt murmured after a moment, eyes half-lidded. “You’ll probably hit rut.” 

Thomas made a faint grunt of acknowledgement, half-asleep already, though his fingers still clutched at Newt’s waist like he didn’t want to drift too far.

“Probably,” he murmured against his chest, words vibrating softly through skin. “Then you’ll have to deal with me again.”

Newt smiled, brushing his lips against Tommy’s hairline. “I think I can manage an alpha during a full moon.”

Newt sat cross-legged near the sandpit, his white shirt already smudged with gold dust, tie half undone. His hat drooped over his ears, a size too big, but that didn’t matter.

He was busy. Very busy.

A tiny red ladybug had landed on Minho’s lunchbox, right between the faded sticker of a NIKE logo and a stormtrooper’s head. Newt leaned in close, breath held, watching its little legs tick across the metal. “Hey,” he whispered softly, voice gentle as he lowered his finger beside it. “You’ll get squashed if you stay there.”

The ladybug climbed on like it understood him. Newt smiled, and crouched down to find it a flower. 

The playground didn’t have much in the way of flowers, just a few stubborn yellow weeds by the fence. He tiptoed over anyway, cupping his hand around his tiny passenger like it was something sacred. Behind him—“You’re supposed to be helping, Newt!” Minho yelled, sand flying as he flung a handful at Gally. 

It missed and hit Thomas instead.

“HEY!” Thomas laughed, tossing a bucket down. “We’re trying to make the border strong enough!

“Stop digging like a dog!” Alby remarked, shaking sand out of his hair.

“I am a dog,” Gally barked, using both hands to tunnel through the sand with alarming determination.

Newt barely heard them. The ladybug had reached the edge of his fingertip, wings twitching. He crouched lower, brushing the flower’s petals with his other hand. “There you go,” he whispered, guiding it on. “Nice and safe.”

The ladybug paused. Then, with a lazy flick of its wings, lifted off and landed squarely on his nose.

Newt went perfectly still. His eyes crossed, trying to see it. The others froze for a moment too. 

Minho snorted. “It likes you, Newt.”

“Duh,” Thomas said, grinning as he approached with another bucket of water. “You’re like a walking flowerpot.”

Newt’s cheeks went pink under the shade of his hat. “Shut it,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose carefully so the ladybug wouldn’t fall.

Thomas crouched beside him, brushing sand off his own knees. “Don’t move,” he said, suddenly serious in that bossy way of his. “I’ll help it off.”

But before he could, the ladybug spread its wings again and flew away, catching the sunlight as it drifted over the sandpit.

Thomas grinned. “We’re building a wall around you, and you’re playing zookeeper.”

“It’s not a zoo,” Newt said primly, brushing his hands on his shorts. “It’s helping.”

Minho flopped beside them, hat crooked. “You’re lucky we like you, Newt. Otherwise, we’d bury you in the sand for real.”

“Can we still?” Gally asked.

“No!” Thomas said immediately, throwing a handful of sand at him.

Sand flew everywhere. Thomas’s throw missed Gally by a mile and smacked harmlessly against Minho’s lunchbox instead. 

Newt, still half-crouched, barely noticed. His eyes had wandered to the patch of weeds near the fence. The same ones he’d rescued the ladybug to. Something about the yellow petals shimmered faintly in the sun, dusted with fine grains of pollen. He tilted his head, drawn in.

He loved things like this. Small, hidden things other kids didn’t care about. While alphas built tunnels, Newt liked to make tiny little observations. See the glint of mica in a rock, the way ants made perfect little trails, the shape of seed pods clinging to the wind.

“Hey,” Thomas called, jolting him back. “You spacing out again?”

Newt turned, a smudge of dirt on his cheek and a guilty spark in his eyes. “Found something.”

Minho groaned. “If it’s another ‘cool’ pebble—”

“It’s not just a pebble,” Newt interrupted, holding up a speckled rock the size of a marble. It shimmered faintly in the light, a pattern like veins running through it. “See that? That’s quartz. Might’ve broken off from the rocks near the oval.”

Thomas leaned closer. “How’d you know that?”

“’Cause I look,” Newt said simply, tucking the little stone into his pocket. “You’d see it too if you stopped throwing sand at people for five minutes.”

Gally barked a laugh. “You sound like my mum.”

Thomas rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. “Fine, Plant-boy. You can be in charge of decorations for the wall.”

Newt frowned thoughtfully, scanning the ground. “No, no—if we’re building a wall, it should be strong. You need the heavy rocks for the bottom, then smaller ones on top. That’s how real builders do it.”

Alby squinted. “Where’d you learn that?”

Newt shrugged. “Watched the janitor fix the garden bed last week.”

The others exchanged glances. Then Thomas sighed, resigned. “Alright. You heard the man. Newt’s in charge.”

Immediately, the group scattered to collect rocks, though Gally somehow turned it into a competition, racing Minho to see who could find the “biggest and manliest boulder.” Thomas stayed near Newt, pretending to supervise but really just making sure that he didn’t get trampled over Alby’s attempts at a ‘barricade’.

When Newt crouched again by the weeds, he found another ladybug, this one climbing a thin blade of grass beside a dandelion. “They always come in pairs,” he murmured, watching its slow, determined climb.

Thomas leaned down beside him, his hat’s brim brushing Newt’s shoulder. He tilted his head, watching the way Newt’s fingers hovered, careful not to disturb the grass. “You’re weird,” he said finally, but his voice was soft.

“Thanks,” Newt replied with equal calm.

Then Alby yelled from across the sandpit, “GUYS! THE TUNNEL CAVED IN!”

Everyone turned. Gally’s shovel was stuck upright in the ground, and water from one of the buckets was spilling fast, soaking their freshly built wall. 

Thomas groaned. “There goes our fort.”

Minho, ever the show-off, hopped down to fix it—only to slip on a half-buried rock. He went sprawling with a sharp “Ow!” that echoed through the playground.

For a second, no one moved. Then Gally barked out a laugh. “Nice one, tough guy.”

“I’m fine,” Minho grumbled, sitting up and brushing sand off his scraped knee. But the blood said otherwise. Thin and bright against his tan skin.

Newt’s stomach twisted. “That’s not fine,” he said, voice small but firm. He dropped to his knees beside Minho. “You’re bleeding!”

“It’s nothing,” Minho insisted, jaw tightening. He tried to stand and immediately winced.

Thomas was already beside him, expression snapping into serious mode. “You’re not walking on that. Gally, help me.”

“Wha—”

“Now.”

Gally sighed but obeyed, grabbing Minho’s arm. Between the two of them, they lifted him easily, ignoring his loud protests.

“I can walk, you know!”

“Sure you can,” Thomas said flatly, adjusting his grip. “Right after you stop dripping all over the sand.”

Newt hurried after them, Alby following suit, clutching Minho’s dented lunchbox against his chest. The sun beat down, the air thick with the smell of sunscreen and warm dirt.

When they reached the shade of the teacher’s bench, she looked up from her clipboard, eyebrows rising. “What happened?”

“Accident,” Alby blurted before anyone else could speak.

“In the sandpit,” Gally said.

“Rocks,” Newt added quickly. “We got too much of them, and—”

“Blood,” Thomas cut in dramatically, widening his eyes. “So much blood.” He leaned toward Newt, making grotesque faces, tongue out, until Newt broke into a helpless giggle and swatted him in the face.

She sighed, the kind of sigh only a teacher of four rowdy boys and one distracted omega could manage, and fetched the first-aid kit.

“Up on the bench,” she said gently, pouring water from her bottle over Minho’s knee.

Minho squeezed his eyes shut, shoulders going rigid. “Doesn’t sting,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

“It definitely stings,” Newt whispered, frowning at the wound.

Thomas already had a box of bandaids in his pocket (of course he did). He handed one over like a soldier offering supplies. “Use this one. It’s the waterproof kind.”

The Teacher chuckled. “You boys come more prepared than I do.”

While she dabbed the scrape clean, Gally stood awkwardly to the side, scuffing his shoe in the dirt. Thomas hovered, inspecting every step like a doctor-in-training. Newt set Minho’s lunchbox beside him and fiddled with the latch, trying not to stare too obviously at the wound.

Finally, the teacher pressed the bandaid into place. “There. Good as new.”

“See?” Minho said proudly, sitting up straighter even though his voice wobbled a bit. “Told you I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” Gally muttered, hovering a few steps back. He folded his arms, trying to look bored, but his eyes kept flicking down to Minho’s knee. “You shouldn’t be walkin’ on it yet. You’ll get, like, germs in it or something.”

Thomas raised a brow. “Since when do you care about germs?”

“I don’t,” Gally said quickly, face flushing under the brim of his hat. “I just don’t wanna hear Minho whine about it later.”

Before anyone could tease him, he huffed and stomped over to grab one of the plastic chairs from the picnic table nearby. He dragged it back with a loud scrape and dropped it behind Minho.

Minho took the seat anyway, stretching his leg out gingerly. And of course, was milking it for all it was worth. “Hey, if I limp a bit more, think we can get out of maths?”

__________

The kitchen smelled like toast and determination.

Thomas stood on his tiptoes at the counter, spatula in hand, watching the eggs sizzle. 

His hair was a mess from sleep, but his eyes were sharp with purpose. His mum moved beside him, pouring pancake batter onto the griddle with the kind of patience he wished he had.

“You don’t have to do all of this,” she said, smiling as she flipped a perfect golden round. “It’s just breakfast.”

“It’s not just breakfast,” Thomas muttered, grabbing the butter. “Minho won’t eat oatmeal. Alby only eats eggs if they’re runny. Gally loves jam. And Newt—” He stopped, peering at the pancakes. “Newt likes pancakes and I like sausages.”

His mum chuckled, sliding the next pancake onto the growing stack.

Thomas tried his best to flip the eggs, cheeks warm. He peered over his mum’s pancake pan, “can you make sure they’re a little crispy?”

From the hallway—“MINHO! HURRY UP!” Gally’s voice cracked with desperation. “I’M GONNA EXPLODE!”

“Five more minutes!” Minho yelled through the door. “This is serious business!”

Alby’s voice followed, exasperated. “We’ve been awake for ten minutes.”

Thomas grinned to himself. “Minho’s been in there for nine,” he said, flipping a piece of toast onto a plate.

Then Alby poked his head into the kitchen. “Newt’s still out cold,” he said. “He’s nesting with one of your pillows. Won’t let go.”

Thomas frowned, trying not to look too pleased. “Yeah, that sounds right.” He glanced toward the hallway. “He’ll wake up once he smells food.”

His mum gave him a knowing look but said nothing. Instead, she handed him a plate. “Alright, Chef. Pancakes for Newt, crispy on the outside, your sausages, no eggs.”

Thomas smiled. “Perfect, thanks!”

Gally stumbled in next, looking like a man on the verge of tears. “Minho’s still in there.”

“MINHO!” Thomas yelled automatically, sliding a plate toward him. “I GOT YOUR EGGS AND TOAST!”

The sound of a toilet flushing.

Gally grumbled but sat, stabbing his fork into the yolk with dramatic flair. Then he chewed.

“Those were Minho’s.” Thomas said bluntly.

“I know.”

“HEY!!” Minho’s voice came faintly from down the hall. “DON’T TOUCH MY FOOD!”

Thomas laughed under his breath, stacking Newt’s pancakes carefully. The top one had to be just right, golden, soft, still steaming. He cut the sausages into neat little pieces and arranged them around the edge of the plate.

His mum leaned against the counter, sipping her tea. “You really want to impress, huh?”

Thomas paused, hand on the honey syrup bottle. He nodded once.

She smiled softly.

A few minutes later, Thomas peeked into his room to see Newt still curled up in the blanket nest with the faintest frown of sleep on his face.

Thomas crouched beside the bed. “Psst,” he whispered, brushing a bit of hair from Newt’s forehead. “We made pancakes.”

Newt stirred, eyes fluttering open. “Tommy?” he mumbled, voice rough from sleep.

“Yeah.” Thomas smiled, pushing the tray closer. “Breakfast.”

Newt rubbed at one eye with the heel of his palm, hair sticking up in about seven different directions. The blanket slid down his shoulders, “s’mells good.”

Before Thomas could answer, there was a thunder of footsteps down the hall.

Minho’s voice, loud as ever. “YOU ATE MY EGG!”

Then, somewhere down the hall, Gally yelled, “GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY TOAST!”

Thomas groaned, standing up. Newt followed after him, laughing. 

__________

Minho was halfway through a dramatic standoff with Gally, both clutching slices of toast like weapons. Alby sat at the table between them, calmly buttering his own as if this were a perfectly normal morning.

“I didn’t eat your eggs,” Gally said, glaring. “You left them on the counter for, like, thirty seconds. That’s fair game.”

“Thirty seconds is not fair game!” Minho snapped. “You’re like a toast thief and an egg criminal!”

Thomas set the tray down and sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Can we not fight before I’ve had my breakfast?”

Newt wandered past him, still sleepy, and dropped into a chair beside Alby, pulling his plate close. He didn’t bother with syrup, just tore his pancake in half with his hands and started munching, cinnamon dusting his fingers.

Thomas gave up and joined him, shovelling eggs and sausages into his mouth with all the focus of a starving man.

Alby sat down too, chewing aggressively on a thick slice of buttered toast. “Butter,” he announced through a mouthful, “butter is all you need. Simple. Classic. Just butter.”

“That’s boring.” Minho plopped down opposite him, glaring but also stealing another piece of bread. “You need, like, crunch. I like when it’s so crispy it hurts to bite.” Thomas nodded in agreement.

“That’s just burnt,” Gally said flatly, spooning jam onto his own slice with neat precision. “Toast is better when it’s soft in the middle. Sweet strawberry jam, crunchy edges. Perfect.”

“Boooring,” Minho repeated. “You just like sugar.”

Gally gave him an offended look. 

Then, Minho leaned back in his chair, toast hanging from his mouth, and said, “what do you think a billionaire puts on their toast?” There was a pause. 

Even Thomas had stopped chewing.

Alby wiped his hands on a napkin. “Probably something posh. Like gold flakes.”

“Or caviar,” Gally said, scrunching his face. “Who wants fish eggs for breakfast?”

Minho made a gagging sound. “Rich people are so weird.”

Newt piped up between bites, “Maybe they like peanut butter.”

Everyone turned to look at him.

“What?” he asked, blinking. “Peanut butter’s nice.”

Thomas smiled at that, watching the way Newt’s fingers were now dusted with cinnamon and pancake crumbs. “Bet the richest guy in the world still burns his toast sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Minho said thoughtfully, crunching another piece. “And when he does, I bet he makes his butler eat it.”

That got a round of laughter. Even Gally cracked a grin. 

Newt reached across the table, snagged the smallest sausage from Thomas’s plate, and popped it into his mouth. Thomas stared at him.

“Sharing,” Newt said with a grin, crumbs on his fingers.

__________

The dormitory kitchen smelled like burnt toast and cheap coffee. Gally stood in line, shifting from foot to foot, arms crossed over his chest. He’d been waiting ten minutes—ten!—for a single, slice of toast.  One. Uno. 하나. Not even fancy toast. Just the regular, cafeteria kind that came out too soft on one end and too charred on the other. And all he wanted was strawberry jam! He could smell the sweetness from a distance, that same strawberries-and-cream scent that seemed to hang in the air whenever—*POP!*

The toaster jumped, and so did Gally. He snatched out the slice, half-burnt, half-underdone, and sighed through his nose. Figures. He slathered on jam with a butter knife that looked like it had survived a war, balancing the uneven bread on his tray like it was precious cargo.

The kitchen was mostly empty. Quiet. The omega dorms were on the other side of campus, probably where Thomas was right now, fussing over a picky-eater’s breakfast. 

Then it came back. That smell of ripe berries. Gally chewed slower. “Morning,” he said around a mouthful, not bothering to look up.

Minho leaned over his shoulder, hair sticking up like he’d just rolled out of bed, tie hanging halfway undone. He snagged two slices of toast straight from the toaster without a hint of shame. “You’d think they’d make enough bread for everyone, huh?”

“They did,” Gally said flatly, elbowing him aside. “You just showed up late.”

Minho grinned, spreading jam on both slices like he was performing surgery. “Nah, I just knew you’d save me some.”

Gally rolled his jaw. “Yeah, right. This one’s burnt.” He shoved his spare slice toward Minho anyway.

“Yum,” Minho said through a mouthful. “Thanks.”

Gally tried not to look at the bit of jam clinging to the corner of Minho’s mouth. Tried, and failed. He looked away fast, biting into his own toast just to have something to do. “You’re gross, eat with your mouth closed.”

Minho just laughed, licking the corner of his lip. 

They left the kitchen together, toast in hand, walking through the courtyard together. 

“Race you,” Minho said suddenly, already jogging ahead.

Gally groaned but followed anyway. 

By the time they reached the dining courtyard, Thomas and Newt were already there.

Thomas looked miserable. Eyes heavy, shoulders slouched, like he hadn’t slept since Tuesday. He was staring at his bowl of oatmeal like it had some deeper meaning to life. Newt sat beside him, bright as morning honey, hair glowing gold in the sunlight, chewing like a rabbit on a pancake.

Minho grinned, sliding into the seat across from them like he owned the whole courtyard. “Hey, losers!” he called, slapping Thomas on the back hard enough to make him lurch forward.

Thomas groaned, a noise somewhere between despair and death and muttered, “It’s eight a.m.”

“Why do you look like you haven’t slept in weeks? Oh, wait—” Minho snapped his fingers, mock revelation in full swing. “Because you probably haven’t.”

Thomas’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing, scooping up another bite of oatmeal like it might protect him from further abuse.

“You get off on harassing him or something?” Newt asked, smirking, chewing daintily on a bit of banana.

Minho leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist, eyes bright. “It’s one of my greatest joys in life, yeah.”

Thomas shot him a glare, which Minho ignored, and then proceeded to steal a glance at Newt anyway, quick, almost shy, before pretending he hadn’t. Gally noticed. Not that he cared about the looks—they were all alpha, all harmless—but it made him tighten his jaw slightly.

He flopped down beside them, still chewing on his toast. “I waited twenty minutes in line for this,” he muttered, dragging the words out, “and for what? Strawberry jam on charcoal.” He jabbed a finger at the toast, then flicked a glance at Minho, who was too busy licking jam off his fingers to notice. “At least eat it properly.”

Minho just grinned, ignoring him. Gally huffed, shoving the last bite of toast into his mouth. 

Newt tilted his head, watching the two of them with faint amusement, honey-gold hair falling into his eyes. Thomas, for his part, kept scooping oatmeal for himself with a sort of distracted intensity, eyes flicking up now and then to Newt’s throat like he was—“Hey, Newt.” Then Alby sat down, all minty freshness and unapologetic yawns.

__________

Gally grabbed a perilla leaf from the small dish in the center, fumbling slightly with his fingers. He didn’t really know the proper way to do it. Normally you wrapped meat in it or something—but Minho’s eyes were already on him, impatient and amused, so he peeled it carefully, like it was some rare, delicate treasure.

“Here,” Gally muttered, sliding the leaf across the table.

Minho raised a brow, staring first at the leaf, then at Gally, then across the table—where Thomas and Newt were being disgusting.

Thomas was half-leaning over the grill, whispering something into Newt’s ear. And Newt was smiling all soft and golden, drinking straight from Thomas’ soju cup. He wasn’t even old enough to have his own yet, technically, but apparently that rule didn’t exist when he was sitting in Thomas’s lap metaphorically—or literally, depending on the minute.

“Ew,” Minho muttered, gesturing at them with his chopsticks. “Do they even know we’re here?”

Newt caught his eye, grinned, and raised the stolen glass like a toast before taking another sip. Thomas didn’t even look embarrassed! Just smoothed his thumb along the back of Newt’s hand and murmured something low enough to make Newt flush brighter than the soju.

Gally grimaced. “They’re gonna give me cavities.”

“Please,” Minho said, smirking as he leaned closer, elbow brushing Gally’s. “You’d do the same if you had someone looking at you like that.”

Gally blinked, stiffening. “What?”

Minho tilted his head, all lazy grin and sharp eyes. “I’d say your alpha instincts are coming through right now.” He nudged Gally’s shoulder lightly.

Gally huffed, trying to sound unimpressed. “Keep talking like that and you’ll choke on your own soju.”

Minho laughed, soft and slurred, a sound that rolled under Gally’s ribs and stayed there. He leaned back, tipping his glass toward Gally. “You know, you don’t have to pretend you like feeding me. I can tell.”

“I’m not pretending,” Gally muttered, staring down at his plate.

“Mm,” Minho hummed, chewing thoughtfully on the perilla leaf. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Gally ignored him and just peeled another leaf.

The soju bottle sat between them, half-empty now.

The bell by the pharmacy door jingled twice.

Gally straightened immediately, puffing his chest out behind the counter like he actually worked there. He didn’t.

Not really. 

His mum just let him sit on the stool sometimes if he promised not to touch the register.

“Don’t lean on the scales, hun,” she called from behind the partition, rustling through prescription slips.

“I’m not!”

He was.

He stepped back fast, like the scale had bitten him, rubbing his palms on his jeans as if that’d erase the evidence. The bell above the pharmacy door jingled, and in came a short brunette—hoodie up, hands jammed in pockets, giving off a forced sort of swagger that Gally immediately recognized. The kind other alphas practiced in mirrors. 

And right behind him was Newt, all messy blond hair and wide eyes, trailing along like a golden retriever in human form—way too curious, way too soft for a place that smelled like disinfectant and old lozenges.

Then came Thomas’s mum.

Gally’s spine snapped straight. He pushed his shoulders back, jaw tight, the picture of calm competence.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said in his deepest, manliest tone. He wasn’t supposed to sound like he was trying. He wished his voice just came out rough and steady by default, like Minho’s did. He wished his arms looked stronger, or that his shirt didn’t wrinkle weird at the shoulders.

“Hello, Gally.” Tom’s mum smiled politely. “Is your mother around?”

“She’s dispensing,” Gally said, proud of knowing the word. He turned the computer screen slightly, pretending to check something, clicking a few buttons with the mouse just to look busy. 

“Do you have a script?”

Thomas gave him a look. “You don’t work here.”

“Do you?” Gally shot back, forcing a shrug that he hoped looked confident and not defensive. He hated how his voice always squeaked a bit when he got annoyed. He tried to drop it lower, like Minho’s—steady, gravelly, grown-up—but it just sounded fake in his own ears.

Newt had already wandered off toward the candy rack, fingers hovering over a row of gluten-free gummies shaped like bears. He squinted at the back label, tongue poking out a little in concentration. “What’s… air-three-ol’? (erythritol)”

“Sugar substitute,” Gally said automatically. Then, lowering his voice, “Tastes weird. Like sweet air.”

Newt glanced up at him, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sweet air?”

“Yeah. Like… fake clouds,” Gally said, then immediately regretted it.

Great. Real tough. Comparing sugar to clouds.

Newt giggled.

Thomas was busy sorting through a small paper bag his mum had handed him. “Mum, the prescription says twenty-two milligrams—that’s higher than last month’s.”

“I’m sure they know what they’re doing, honey.”

Thomas frowned, checking the label again. “This word looks different. What if it’s a typo?”

“Tom,” his mum sighed. “Let’s just wait for the pharmacist.”

Gally leaned on the counter again, pretending he wasn’t stung by how easily she dismissed him as *not* the pharmacist. He tilted his chin higher. “You always this intense, Tom-boy?”

Thomas glared. “Someone has to make sure it’s right.”

“Yeah, okay, doctor,” Gally muttered under his breath, but loud enough for Newt to hear.

Newt snorted and almost dropped the gummy pack. “Tommy’s very serious about things,” he said in a whisper that wasn’t really a whisper. “He wants to be a doctor.”

Thomas crossed his arms. “You’ll thank me when you’re not taking the wrong pills.”

“I dunno,” Newt said, holding up a pink bear between his fingers. “If they taste like these, maybe I wouldn’t mind.”

Thomas rolled his eyes but his ears went pink.

Gally caught that Thomas always got weirdly twitchy when Newt smiled at him like that. It was funny. Weird, but funny. He didn’t really get it. Newt was an omega. Omegas were delicate, apparently. Sweet-smelling and always smiling. Alphas though—alphas were supposed to be cool. Fast, loud, brave. The kind people looked at and thought he’s got it handled. Gally wondered if he’d ever look like that to anyone.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard,” Newt said suddenly.

“Huh?”

“You’ve got your scrunchy face.”

“I don’t have a scrunchy face.”

“Yeah you do,” Thomas said flatly, still hovering over the candy bag like it might explode.

Before Gally could come up with something witty, his mum came out from the back, lab coat crisp and glasses low on her nose. “Newt, Thomas, Mrs. Edison, good to see you three.”

“Mum!” Gally hissed. “I was handling it.”

“You were handling nothing,” she said, sliding behind the counter. “Go stack the cough drops.”

“But—”

“Now.”

Gally grumbled under his breath, heading for the shelves. He stacked the boxes neatly, then less neatly, then gave up halfway through and just stood there with his arms crossed, pretending he didn’t care. But from the corner of his eye, he saw Newt lean on the counter, chin resting in his hands while the two mums started chatting about school and the weather.

Thomas was standing beside him, still serious, but he kept stealing glances.

Gally shook his head. Thomas was weird. Weird about grades, weird about prescriptions, weird about Newt.

He adjusted his shoulders, like that might make him look taller. Then glanced back again.

Newt was laughing now, shoulders shaking, and Thomas was smiling. Not the tight, adult kind—real smiling. The kind that softened his whole face.

And Gally… didn’t really get it. Omegas were fine, sure. Cute sometimes. But if anyone asked, he’d rather hang out with Minho any day. He just didn’t want people to think he was soft, too.

He wandered back to the counter, grabbing a tissue so he’d look busy again. “So, uh,” he said, leaning toward Newt, “you want those cloud bears or what?”

__________

Breakfast is hell.

That’s Gally’s first thought when he slides into his seat and surveys the place. The dining hall hums with chatter, trays clattering, and the smell of burnt toast thick enough to suffocate a man.

Across the table, Minho glares down at his plate. 

He’s frowning at sad bread. 

“Why is it soggy?” he mutters darkly, poking at it

“Alby made it,” Gally says without looking up. 

Minho scowls. 

Gally rolls his eyes. Across the room, Thomas is chatting up some beta-girl by the juice dispenser, all dimples and animated hands.

Then Newt arrives.

He looks half-asleep, blond hair a wreck, dragging his feet like every step costs him something. His tray lands on the table with a thud that makes the cutlery rattle. 

Pancakes.

“Newt!” Alby beams, reaching across the table to squeeze his shoulder like they’re lifelong mates. “Looking good today.”

Terrible line.

Newt blinks at him, unimpressed. “I just woke up.” He ignores Alby completely, tearing a piece of pancake with the lazy precision of someone who’s too tired to care. 

Minho’s pretending not to watch but failing miserably; every few seconds, his eyes flick sideways, lingering on the slow movement of Newt’s jaw as he chews.

Alby’s still trying, bless him. “You should’ve seen the training schedule.”

Newt hums without looking up. 

Gally’s halfway through his eggs when Minho, across the table, leans over Newt’s plate like a starving animal. “Gimme a bite.”

Newt rolls his eyes but slides the plate forward anyway, resigned to his fate. “Don’t take the whole damn thing.”

Minho ignores that completely, tears off half the pancake, and shoves it into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. Then—he freezes. A face typically reserved for sour-warheads conjures around his eyes.

“What?” Newt asks.

Minho just sits there, chewing in slow motion, eyes unfocused like he’s had a religious experience. “Your saliva.”

“My what?”

Minho shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s, uh…” He clears his throat, trying to get his words out like it’s some delicate thing, wincing. “It’s like... honey.”

Newt nearly chokes on his tea. “What?”

Minho fans his face like he’s just stepped into a sauna. “No, seriously, that was—holy shit—why is it so sweet?” He’s rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly nervous.

There’s a pause. A long one.

Gally just stares at him, fork frozen halfway to his mouth. “Honey,” he repeats flatly.

Minho nods, still flustered, grin twitching on his face like he can’t decide if he’s embarrassed or impressed. “Newt’s omega spit,” he says, half-laughing. “It’s—God.” He gags dramatically. “I can still taste it.”

Gally drops his fork. 

That’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.

But the way Minho’s still fanning his face, cheeks a little red, talking about Newt’s saliva like it’s some michelin star dessert—it’s stupid, but it feels a bit like watching your best mate whisper something funny to someone else and laugh the way he never does around you.

Gally crosses his arms, jaw tight, trying to look bored. 

Alby, mid-sip, freezes. His eyes widen in horror, and he nearly spits it out.

Newt, now alarmingly red, grabs a napkin and aggressively scrubs Minho’s mouth like he’s trying to erase evidence. “Minho, I swear to God—”

Minho’s laughing now, breathless and loud, but there’s still a flush creeping up his neck. Gally can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment or something worse.

He looks between them, the warmth of the table suddenly prickling at the back of his neck. He doesn’t like this. The air feels sticky.

He kicks Minho’s chair leg under the table. “You’re disgusting,” he says, aiming for teasing but missing the tone completely.

Minho just laughs, obliviously leaning back in his chair.

Gally doesn’t get it. 

He doesn’t get any of it.

He’s about to say something rude, snarky and disgusting when a shadow falls over the table.

That’s exactly when a tall brunette walks up, standing at the end of the table, tray in hand. 

His brows are slightly furrowed, eyes flicking over the scene in front of him. Newt’s angry, and Minho’s still processing his existential crisis while Alby stares with wide eyes.

Thomas sets his tray down with military precision, takes in the disaster before him and Gally wants to leave.

Gally watches him pull a bottle of sanitizer from his pocket without a word, squirting some into his palm, and starts rubbing it in like he’s seen this kind of thing before.

Then Thomas looks up. Looks at Gally for some kind of explanation.

“…Do I even want to know?”

Minho, still visibly suffering, makes direct eye contact with Thomas—and immediately chokes on his own spit, nearly doubling over. He’s coughing so hard the entire table shakes.

__________

“Do you ever, shut up?” Gally finally muttered, dragging his fork across the plate.

“I’m just saying,” Minho insisted, half-grinning, voice a little too loud, “I’ve kissed other omegas before, and none of them, none, tasted that sweet.”

“Minho,” Gally groaned, stabbing harder than necessary at his food. “We’re eating, mate.”

Across the table, Alby leaned back with a smirk that made Gally’s jaw twitch. “Maybe Newt’s just special, huh?”

Minho perked up like that was the best theory anyone ever came up with. “That’s what I’m saying. Like, what if it’s genetic? What if—”

A spoon clattered against a plate. Everyone looked up.

“Fucking hell, Minho,” Thomas swears, “uou planning to write an essay on it?”

“Might.” Minho grinned, unbothered. “You jealous?”

Thomas’ glare could’ve set fire to the table. Newt rolled his eyes, though it was hard to tell if it was at Minho or Thomas. Maybe both. Gally pretends to focus on his food.

__________

“I can’t,” Gally replies.

“...what?” The voice at the end of the line is raw, tightly restricted. 

Gally scuffs his runners against the rubber track, jaw tightening. “Yeah, he’s not here.” A pause, then— “His stuff is, though. On the benches. So he’s here. Just not on the track.”

Thomas is here, but not here. Why’s Newt calling him, anyway?

“Whatever. Grab his phone.”

Gally sighs, muttering something under his breath as he rummages through Thomas’ half-open duffel bag. Minho’s arguing with Alby and Ben about lap counts again. “Got it.”

“Check his email. He’s got my prescription.”

“The hell? Thought you weren’t starting till next week.”

“I don’t give a damn,” Newt snaps, his voice raw and trembling. “I need them now.”

That tone slices through Gally like cold air. He straightens. “What’s his password?”

There’s a beat of silence. “…abc pancakes.”

Then, flatly, “Seriously?”

“Oh my god—Gally, I’m in heat!” 

“Oh- shit-SHIT!” 

He’s already waving an arm across the track. “Alby! Minho! Get on the damn phone!”

Minho’s still catching his breath from laps when he jogs over, towel slung around his neck. “What?”

“It’s Newt,” Gally pants, holding up Thomas’s phone. “Needs his meds. Something prescription—said Thomas had the refill email.”

Minho’s brows knit. “Didn’t he just start some new stuff last week?”

“That’s what I thought!” Gally snaps, voice rising despite himself. “Said he can’t wait. He sounded—” He stops, jaw tightening as he looks down at the phone, the word catching somewhere in his throat. “He’s in heat.”

Minho freezes, the towel slipping from his shoulder. The air seems to thin. Then he turns around, scanning the length of the track with sharp, searching eyes.

There—Thomas. Across the field, under the late sun, talking to a girl with dark curls and a bright smile. He’s laughing, relaxed, completely oblivious.

Minho’s chest tightens. He cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “THOMAS!” The word tears out of him, loud enough to startle a few runners nearby.

Nothing. Thomas just blinks, still mid-laugh.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Gally mutters, already joining in, voice booming across the field. “THOMAS! PHONE!”

Alby’s voice joins the chorus a second later, sharp and commanding. 

“IT’S NEWT!” Minho yells.

Finally Thomas’s head jerks up. 

__________

By the time they made it into town, the sky had gone heavy.

Minho stood beside him in line, bouncing on his heels, trying to look casual and failing miserably. The girl behind the counter scanned through prescriptions with the patience of a saint.

“Shouldn’t Thomas be doing this?” 

Gally shrugged. “He’s with Alby.”

Minho grimaced. “No, but—”

He cut off mid-sentence. Gally didn’t have to look to know why. The rack. Right beside the counter. Rows of boxes. Silver. Red. Black. Bold print. 

Gold.

Condoms.

Different sizes, different flavours.

Minho’s eyes flicked toward them, away, then back again like he couldn’t help himself. His tongue darted out to wet his lips.

Gally exhaled through his nose. “You’re an awful person.”

“I’m not,” Minho said too quickly.

“You are.”

Minho’s jaw worked. “Just thinking. You know.. in case.”

“In case, what?”

Minho didn’t answer. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor tiles.

Gally didn’t press. He didn’t have to. He knew what was running through Minho’s head or at least, he could guess. He wasn’t stupid. Minho liked girls. He liked omegas. He liked the way they smelled, the way they leaned in close when they laughed. And lately, the way Newt tasted. 

Gally shifted his weight, jaw tense. “You think Newt’s gonna ask you for that?” he asked, nodding subtly toward the display.

“What!?” Minho’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “No, I mean, I don’t know. Maybe. He’s—it’s his heat, right? Sometimes things just… happen. It could be me, ya know? Or Thomas. It’s different with him!”

Gally always figured Newt and Thomas were… something. Whatever they were, it wasn’t his business. But now Minho was in the picture, and suddenly Gally didn’t know who belonged to who anymore.

“Next,” the pharmacist said.

The line moved forward.

Gally stepped up, showing a link to the QR-code to an e-script Thomas had texted them. The woman glanced at the name and gave them that polite, curious look people always got when they thought they’d overheard something private.

“Picking up for a friend,” Gally said before she could ask. His voice came out rougher than he meant.

Minho hovered behind him, still fidgeting. He caught sight of the rack again. His hand twitched like he might reach for it, then dropped.

Gally couldn’t help himself. “Go on then,” he muttered.

Minho blinked. “What?”

“Get what you’re thinking about. Might as well, since you’re not hiding it.”

Minho flushed, glaring. “You’re a dick.”

“So?” Gally said, deadpan. “You’re a bad liar.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. 

Then the pharmacist slid the paper bag across the counter. “All set.”

“Thanks,” Gally muttered, grabbing the bag and turning away, shoulder brushing Minho’s as he headed for the door.

Outside, the air felt heavy again. Warm and sticky, like the day hadn’t breathed since morning. 

Minho jogged to catch up, kicking at a loose bit of gravel.

“Think he’s okay?” he asked quietly.

Gally shot him a glance. “He’s tougher than he looks.” 

Even if Newt seemed made of glass half the time, he knew how to stand his ground. 

Chin up, chest out, yelling for help if he had to.

“Still,” Minho said, softer now.

Gally didn’t reply.

He looked down at the bag in his hand, fingers worrying at the pharmacy receipt poking out, before folding it neatly between his thumb and forefinger.

__________

The bathroom smelled like antiseptic, cardboard, and someone’s faint, misplaced mint.

Gally wrinkled his nose. 

The stench of Alby’s scent markings had clung to the tiles, thick enough to make his palms sweat. 

It was kind of gross. 

He understood why though. 

Why alphas would be alphas, trying to mark their territory everywhere—always craving that omega haze like they couldn’t help themselves.

Focus, he told himself.

He’d done this a hundred times under his mum’s watchful eye, but now, with the clock ticking and his pulse climbing, everything felt off.

He set the paper bag on the counter, tapping it lightly against the porcelain. “Right,” he muttered, counting under his breath. “Two for tomorrow, one for today. He’s low on scent blockers. And… yeah, that’s his inhaler.”

Behind him, Alby leaned against the counter, arms folded like he owned the room. “You sure you remember how to do this?”

Gally met his eyes in the mirror, jaw tight. “I’ve got it,” he said flatly. His fingers hovered over the blister packs, lining them up in perfect rows. “Seriously. I know what I’m doing.”

He didn’t add what he was really thinking, that maybe if the rest of them treated Newt like a person instead of something sweet to orbit, they wouldn’t need any of this in the first place.

Alby wandered off.

Gally exhaled hard, muttering under his breath as he ran through the list again. “Two for tomorrow, one for tonight, blockers restocked…” His hands moved automatically, but his brain buzzed.

He crouched to shove the meds bag under the sink, squinting at the boxes inside. 

“Extra, in case he—no, wait—” He pinched the bridge of his nose. Count twice, Gally. Always count twice. His mum’s voice, as sharp as the smell of antiseptic hanging in the air.

Behind him came the sound of breath, tired, deliberate.

Through the mirror, he caught Minho leaning against the counter, jaw tight, arms crossed like he was trying to act casual. The faintest twist of scent rolled off him with a strange undercurrent of pride.

 Strawberries wrestled with mint leaves.

Alphas. 

Always leaking possession into the air. Couldn’t help it. Like the smell alone meant they’d earned something.

The honey-sweet trace of Newt’s scent still clung to some towels drying on the rack. It was softer now, diluted under all the disinfectant, but enough to stir something in Gally’s chest that felt uneasy. 

He hated how easily people forgot Newt was fragile sometimes. 

Newt always liked the quiet things in life. Tea over coffee. Tiny things. Sunlight through curtains. Like some damn fairytale omega, made for softness and pretty things. But sometimes Newt liked big heavy rocks, tall plants, scary bugs with stingers—

“Let’s move,” Minho muttered, shifting off the counter.

Gally nodded but stayed crouched, watching Minho’s reflection through the bathroom mirror. 

His jet-black eyes kept flicking to the pills, the blockers, the faint sheen of condensation on the mirror.  That look, half anxious, half satisfied made Gally’s throat itch.

He got it. He really did. 

Minho was the one sleeping beside Newt tonight.

For protection, obviously. 

But still. The smugness in his scent mix said enough. 

Gally dug into the duffel bag and slid a condom pack under the pillow. 

Just in case. In case only. 

He straightened up slowly, fixing Minho with a glare so sharp it could’ve cracked the tile.

“Last resort.”

Arms crossed, Minho’s mouth twitched. But he didn’t argue.

From the side came Alby’s voice, sharp, mid-argument again. Something about turns and timing and Thomas and who should’ve handled what. 

Gally didn’t care. Not now. He stepped over the damp patch in the carpet, grabbed the duffel, and opened the door. The hallway light was dim and gold, washing over Newt where he stood opposite to someone else standing there.

Gally shoved the bag past him. It hit the floor beside Thomas’s feet with a dull thud.

Newt just stared at it. 

Gally watched his fingers twitch, like he wanted to reach down and fix something he couldn’t see. For a second, he looked so lost it made his chest tighten. Gally moved closer, hand curling around Newt’s arm. “Come inside.”

“Stop.”

The word slipped from Newt, soft but steady, like a baby bird testing its wings. His gaze stayed fixed on Thomas, but Gally could feel the tremor running through him.

The girl next to Thomas flinched, eyes wide, stepping half behind him as Gally’s scent rolled through the space, just a touch of warning. He didn’t notice. Didn’t even realize how strong he smelled right now, how the air itself burned with it.

All he could think about was the faint, honey-sweet trace of Newt’s scent against his sleeve, fragile, flickering, like something that might vanish if he let go.

Then, barely a whisper: “You’re leaving?” 

Newt’s shoulders shook once, almost like he was trying to hold himself still.

Minho and Alby brushed past Gally, their movements sudden, immediate. Hands closed around Newt’s wrists, then his collar, tugging—pulling him back toward the dorm with more force than care.

Newt stumbled, feet scraping against the floor. His fingers clawed instinctively at the grip, nails catching on skin—but alpha strength held. Pure reflex.

*BANG!*

The door slammed.

Gally hadn’t meant to do it that hard, but the sound cracked through the air like a gunshot.

Newt had flinched, and Gally stood there, palm still pressed to the door, breath shaking. Alby still hadn’t let go of Newt’s shirt, Minho’s palms were on Newt’s wrist where scent glands might be, and the butter charred against Gally’s gums.

__________

Minho sat on the curb, head bent, trying to wrestle a knot out of his shoelaces.

He looked stupid. 

Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, shirt clinging in uneven patches. 

Coach was about to call them for another lap any second.

Gally took a long pull from his water bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Oi,” he said. “You planning on finishing that before graduation?”

Minho grunted. “You ever uh,” He paused, squinting down at the lace like it might give him the right words. “You ever wonder what it’s like?”

“Huh?”

“You know… with an omega?”

Gally froze mid-sip. The water boiled going down the wrong way. He coughed once, glaring at him. 

“I’m just asking!” Minho threw up a hand defensively, cheeks pink. “Not about like—not about Newt or anything, just in general.”

“Uh-huh.” Gally capped his bottle with slow precision, the kind of slow that meant he was trying really hard not to deck him. “You do realize we’re in public? Running laps? There’s a time and place, Minho.”

Minho shrugged, finally freeing the lace with a victorious noise. “Yeah, but I was just wondering, you know, how a knot might-”

“Don’t,” Gally warned.

Minho shut his mouth immediately, then opened it again anyway. “Fine. I just meant, since you’re seem to know all this omega safety stuff, maybe you’ve,”

“Used a condom?” Gally cut in, deadpan.

Minho’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “What? No! I didn’t even..” He made a strangled noise. “I didn’t touch him, okay?”

Gally raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Because I distinctly remember sliding one under the pillow.”

“Yeah, well, I didn't need it.” Minho’s voice softened, shoulders dropping. “He uh… he couldn’t stop crying last night. After everyone left.”

The words hung there, catching on the humid air.

Gally sighed, jaw tightening. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Figured.”

“He wasn’t crying like… sad crying,” Minho added quickly. “More like scared. Just kept saying sorry. I didn’t know what to do.”

“You did fine,” Gally muttered, glancing at the track where Coach was waving them over. “He just needs time. It’s a lot for him.”

Minho nodded, still fiddling with his laces. “Guess I shouldn’t’ve brought it up, huh?”

“No,” Gally said, tossing his bottle into his bag. “Keep your brain outta your mouth. Especially when it’s about him.”

__________

Minho looked up, squinting against the sun. “Can I ask you something weird?”

“Knowing you, probably not.”

Minho hesitated anyway. “You know, when stuff happens, and pheromones get all messed up. Like, do omegas—uh—can they still smell you after?”

Gally blinked. “Minho. We’re about to run another lap.”

“I’m serious!” Minho whispered harshly. “It’s just-Newt’s scent hasn’t gone back to normal. I know it takes time, but then Thomas well, he-” He broke off, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Gally frowned, jaw tightening. “I know.”

“So, like,” Minho went on cautiously, “what are we supposed to do now? Wouldn’t he be craving sex and all that shit? Is it the pheromones that,”

“Mate,” Gally cut in flatly.

“Right. Sorry.”

Gally exhaled hard, shaking his head. “We take care of him. Keep his space clean. Keep his scent neutral. Make sure he feels safe. That’s it.”

“Yeah, I know, but what if the pheromone stuff sticks around? Like, you can smell it, right?”

Gally stopped mid-stride, glare sharp enough to stop him cold. “You asking if I can smell him?”

Minho raised both hands. “No! I mean, not like that! Just scientifically.”

“Scientifically,” Gally repeated, dry as dust. He started jogging again.

_________

The sun was sinking low, bleeding orange and gold across the field.

Newt sat hunched on a bench out front, elbows braced on his knees, hair sticking up like he’d lost a fight with his own thoughts. He looked better. Less ghostly than before, but still worn thin. A sandwich sat on the plate in front of him, barely touched except for a single bite at the corner.

Alby stood beside him, softer than usual, all careful edges and quiet words.

“Yo,” he said, voice low. “Got his stuff?”

Gally nodded.

Newt glanced up, a flicker of relief cutting through the haze in his eyes.

Before Alby could move, Gally stepped forward and handed over the paper bag. dDidn’t even think about it, just did. Their fingers brushed, and Gally’s skin prickled like he’d touched a live wire.

“Should help,” Gally muttered. “Take one after you eat.”

“Yeah.” Newt peeked inside the bag and nodded. “Thanks.”

Alby hovered, looking like he had a whole speech lined up, something sentimental or stupid, probably both. Gally shot him a look.

Newt didn’t say much. Just leaned back against the bench, tearing the sandwich apart crumb by crumb. His gaze kept flicking toward the empty track. The runners had cleared out half an hour ago, but he looked like he hadn’t noticed.

Gally didn’t ask.

The silence stretched. Alby shifted like it was pressing down on him. “You should eat,” he said finally, uselessly.

Newt hummed without looking up. “I’m fine.”

“You look less like shit,” Gally said.

That earned him a faint smirk. “Thanks.” He tried to sound casual, but his fingers were shaking as he picked at the crust.

Gally watched a few crumbs fall to the dirt.

“Wanna head back?” Alby asked after a beat.

“Yeah.” Newt stood, stuffed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth, more defense than appetite, and started walking before either of them could ask another thing.

__________

Gally watched them go. 

Newt and Alby walking slow across the field, silhouettes stretched long in the dying light.

The plate was still warm in his hand, sandwich crusts and all. He’d been told to take it back to the kitchens, since Alby was walking Newt to the dorms.

Protective, gentle, patient—yeah right. Nobody was fooled. Not with how he’d been glued to Newt’s side ever since they said Thomas wasn’t allowed near him anymore.

Gally started down the bleacher steps, his boots echoing on the metal. 

Halfway down, a sound caught him, Newt’s laugh. Sharp and unguarded, floating back across the field. He was by the alpha change rooms, standing close to Alby. His smile followed, soft and bright, like how omegas were supposed to look when the world wasn’t looking constantly for them.

Gally scratched at his arm, eyes flicking down. 

The freckles there looked like the crumbs left on Newt’s plate. He tried to shake them off into the grass, but they scattered wrong, dusting the petals of a few buttercups. Some crumbs stuck anyway, glued down with butter.

Ugh. 

Butter. Greasy stuff. 

Everyone liked a little of it, sure—but too much made your hands slick and your stomach into a washing machine. Gally didn’t like how his scent shifted either when he got angry into burnt stuff and smoke. Hard to wash off.

He was still thinking about that when the shouting started.

Voices carried from the change rooms, Minho’s sharp, Thomas’s rougher, louder.

Gally crossed the oval fast, plate still in hand, and shoved the door open with a—*BAM!*

“You like him too.” Minho’s voice was breathless.

Inside, Minho was pinned against the wall, one arm up in defense, the other clutching Thomas’s bottle like it was evidence. Thomas’s hand was around his neck, face twisted, eyes wild, chest heaving. He looked ready to tear into him.

Gally dropped the plate. Heard it *CRACK!* into pieces. Then he lunged.