The road to the club stretched like a long grey ribbon, reflecting pale lights in the wet asphalt. The city seemed damp and sleepy, wrapped in a glassy mist. The car moved almost silently, yet inside, despite the hum of the tires, a heavy silence reigned.
Do-yun sat with arms crossed, breathing shallow, as if there wasn't enough room in his chest for air. He avoided looking at Seung-ho, focusing instead on the throbbing ache in his head.
Seung-ho glanced at him, quick, assessing.
— You didn't sleep, — he stated, not asking.
— Not really, — Do-yun rubbed his temple carelessly. — Head's pounding. Probably the pressure.
Yoon's smile held no lightness—only knowledge.
— Your "probably" always means sabotage. Coffee instead of breakfast again?
— How did you guess? — Do-yun tried to joke, but the lie tasted bitter.
Yoon already knew. Behind every "probably" hid a deliberate silence about pain. Since the investigation turned dangerous, Do-yun had learned to hide his vulnerability as evidence.
***
The club smelled of rain, cigarettes, and the chemical freshness of cleaners. Everything seemed to pause for a heartbeat, acknowledging Yoon's arrival.
— Morning, — he said curtly, walking toward the stairs.
Do-yun followed. Each step echoed dully, as if the floor beneath him had vanished. Halfway up, he swayed. The world trembled in the light. He clutched the railing.
— Are you okay? — Yoon stopped, pheromones tensing instinctively.
— Just dizzy, — Do-yun waved him off, forcing a strained smile.
— Seriously? It's nothing? —
— That's a lie, — Yoon said softly. — Your body doesn't know how to lie. You're pale. It's not the lighting.
Do-yun couldn't argue. His body had been acting strangely for three days: sudden hot flashes, a dull heaviness in his lower abdomen, a metallic taste in his mouth each morning. Yet he refused to acknowledge it, afraid to give Yoon any reason for control.
***
The office was cold. Yoon bent over documents by the window.
— They cut off access to the archives, — he said, sharp with realization. — Too fast. Someone inside realized we were too close.
Do-yun sank into a chair. Numbers blurred on his screen; letters danced. His eyes stung.
Yoon leaned over him.
— Fatigue, or can't focus?
— Just tired, — Do-yun snapped, slamming the laptop shut, leaving no room for argument.
— Fatigue doesn't make you wobble in the hallway, — Yoon said quietly, pheromones pressing subtly. — If you want me to go home—don't.
— I'm fine, — Do-yun muttered, eyes closed.
Yoon didn't respond. He knew "fine" had long meant crisis. He sensed the shift in Do-yun's scent—the pheromones softening, warmer, losing their sharp springiness.
***
As evening approached, the club's noise became muffled, as if behind a thick wall. Do-yun felt his body grow heavier, like a spring winding too tightly. He didn't complain, just worked—counting bills, reconciling invoices—until numbers blurred again, meaningless ripples.
He tried to stand; the chair rolled back, air leaving his lungs. Fingers trembled.
— Do-yun? — Yoon's voice was immediate, a warm hand on his shoulder, steadying him.
— It's fine, — Do-yun breathed. — I just…
He didn't finish. The room tilted, light dimmed, ears ringing. Yoon seated him quickly, handing a glass of water.
Do-yun sipped and felt nausea surge, heaviness under his ribs. He turned, clenching his fingers.
— Probably overwork. It will pass.
— No, — Yoon said quietly, unwavering. — It's something you refuse to see.
Do-yun lifted his head. No fear, only stubborn resolve—the kind he always held, even as his body betrayed him.
— I won't break, — he stated. — Not now.
Yoon studied him, long and penetrating.
— Then let me be close while you hold on. Don't push away the only person who sees your collapse.
***
Night fell quickly. They drove home in oppressive silence. Neon lights fractured across the windshield, scattering like shards of reality.
Do-yun closed his eyes, fatigue creeping like illness. His abdomen pulsed faintly; he pressed a hand to his chest.
— Do-yun… — Seung-ho murmured.
— I'm just tired, — Do-yun said softly, eyes closed. — I'll manage.
Deep down, he knew: no, managing was growing impossible.
At the apartment, the air felt thick, saturated. Do-yun shed his coat, pressed his forehead against the cold glass. The city outside was calm; inside, everything trembled.
Yoon approached, standing nearby.
— You need to lie down.
— I need time.
— Then I'll stay near, — Yoon said softly, not touching, just anchoring.
The Alpha's pheromones filled the space, soft, stable, like an invisible dome protecting him from the wave he was silently fighting.
And in the depths of that quiet, Do-yun realized: his body knew the truth before his mind accepted it. And Yoon, as always, had felt it first.