Chapter Text
"Once you put your pride aside
You can notify me
You're the best I ever had"
The scent in the small apartment was a violent collision of ozone and bitter citrus, the smell of two people who wanted to be anywhere but in the same zip code as each other. Juhoon slammed the refrigerator door hard enough to make the thin apartment walls tremble. Inside, the shelves rattled and the glass jars clinked sharply together, their lids tapping like nervous teeth.
He glared at his own stomach as if he could evict the occupant by sheer force of will. "I hate you," he hissed, though it wasn't clear if he was addressing the embryo or the man sitting at the kitchen table.
Martin didn't look up from his tablet, though the muscle in his jaw jumped. "The feeling is mutual, Jju. Believe me, 'fatherhood' with a man who tried to file a restraining order against me last Tuesday wasn't on my vision board."
"You tripped me!"
"You were trying to key my car!"
Juhoon let out a frustrated growl, his fingers curling into the edge of the counter. His nesting instincts were screaming at him to find a soft corner, but his pride was screaming louder. His body felt like a high-tension wire, vibrating with a frantic, jittery energy that made his breath come in short, jagged hitches. The pregnancy hormones were turning his typical spikes of anger into a dizzying, overwhelming tidal wave of anxiety.
He felt a sob rising in his throat, fueled not by sadness but by pure, unadulterated rage, and his scent turned sharp and metallic.
Martin finally looked up. He could see how Juhoon's shoulders trembled with each uneven breath, his knuckles white where they dug into the edge of the granite. The Alpha’s instinct to protect lashed out against his personal desire to remain petty.
"Don't come near me," Juhoon warned, his voice cracking as he sensed Martin standing up. "I swear to god, if you touch me, I’ll–"
Without touching him or stepping into Juhoon's personal space, Martin leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and let a low vibration rumble up from deep in his chest.
Juhoon's first instinct was to brace for a growl. Instead, a rhythmic, velvet-thick sound rolled from Martin’s chest, a croon that felt like heavy blankets drawn over a shivering frame.
Juhoon's next insult died in his throat. The low croon sank into his bones, a steady vibration that eased through his chest and stole the breath from his lungs, like a physical hum that bypassed his brain and went straight to his frantic pulse.
His grip on the counter loosened, a scowl tugged at his mouth, searching for the familiar spark of hatred that usually kept him upright, but suddenly his knees felt betrayingly soft. The low, steady vibration wore down the jagged edges of his temper.
"Stop it," Juhoon mumbled, but the bite was gone. His head lolled forward, his chin tucked toward his chest.
The croon deepened as Martin stepped closer, turning into a rich, melodic thrum that seemed to vibrate through the room. His hand rose almost without thought, reaching toward Juhoon's back only to stop an inch away, hovering in the narrow space between them.
Instead of trying to pull away like he normally did, Juhoon found himself leaning into the warmth of Martin's palm. The tension that had held his shoulders rigid for weeks loosened all at once, and his weight sagged into the counter as if his bones had suddenly gone soft.
"Sit down," Martin murmured, his voice barely a whisper beneath the continuous, soothing vibration.
And somehow Juhoon found himself obeyed without a word. His limbs felt thick and uncooperative, every movement slow as if the air had turned to honey. The chair pressed against the backs of his knees and he let himself sink into it, head resting on his arms.
His head lifted slowly, through heavy-lidded eyes he found Martin again, the last brittle edge of anger dissolving under the slow pull of instinct and exhaustion. The low croon threaded through the room without pause. Warm fingers found the nape of his neck, thumb pressing slowly into the tight muscles until the ache there began to loosen.
"Stupid Martin," Juhoon slurred, his cheek pressed against the cool wood of the table. Then he reached out, his fingers clumsily snagging the hem of Martin's shirt, pulling the scent of the man closer. "I fucking hate you."
"I know, baby." Martin said, his chest vibrating against Juhoon's shoulder as the croon shifted into a grounding rhythm. "Now go to sleep."
Juhoon's eyes drifted shut, breath deepening into slow, steady pulls. Even then, his fingers stayed tangled in the shirt of the man he swore he couldn’t stand.
✦✦✦✦✦
"Better try me
Don't you mess with me"
The memory hit Juhoon like a physical blow, more nauseating than the morning sickness that had plagued his last twelve weeks. Rain hammered the pavement that night, turning the city streets into black mirrors that caught every flicker of neon.
The shared gallery opening had been an event neither of them could avoid. Three hours passed in sharp remarks traded over the hors d’oeuvres, their mutual disdain jagged enough that everyone else in the room quickly learned to keep a safe distance.
"Your work is derivative, Martin" Juhoon hissed, leaning in close so only the Alpha could hear. "It’s all muscle and no soul, just like you."
Martin let out a dry laugh, his gaze darkened, slowly dragging over Juhoon like he had just spotted something he wanted. "And your 'soul,' Juhoon? It’s just a mask for the fact that you’re terrified of anyone actually getting close enough to see how much you want to be looked at."
The air between them felt ready to spark, tension stretched tight enough to ignite.
A metallic sound rattled through the elevator as it lurched to a stop between the fourth and fifth floors. The lights flickered once, twice–then went dark, leaving only brushed steel walls and the heavy scent of ozone hanging in the air.
His skin started to itch, a restless prickle crept across his skin. Suddenly, the elevator felt smaller, the air heavy and warm as Martin's scent unfurled through the space, crowding every corner until each breath dragged it into his lungs. It was the scent of a storm about to break.
"Don't," Juhoon whispered, his back hitting the cold metal wall.
"Don't what?" Martin's voice had dropped an octave, vibrating through the small space.
Those words never made it out. A surge of sweet, searing heat rushed to his lower belly, a biological response to the Alpha’s proximity that made his knees feel like water. His hands moved to push Martin away, but his fingers betrayed him, involuntarily hooking into the Alpha’s jacket instead.
Whatever this was, Juhoon swore it wasn’t romance. It was a collision.
He could feel the slide of teeth dragging frantically against the sensitive skin of his neck. His hands clutched at Martin's shoulders, pulling him closer even as his mind scream "No." It was a war fought with naked skin and desperate breath, a feral need to bridge the gap of the hatred they had spent years building. They had used each other as a way to vent the pressure of their rivalry, a frantic, wordless exchange that left the elevator smelling of sweat and spent adrenaline.
Twenty minutes later, the elevator doors finally slid open. The two stepped out in silence, straightening crooked collars and tugging their clothes back into place. Neither spared the other a single glance. Once clear of the elevator, they walked off in opposite directions, both firmly convinced that they could bury that night under more layers of bile and sarcasm.
Three weeks later, even the scent of coffee made his stomach drop like a lead weight.
Back in the present, Martin’s hand shifted on Juhoon's back, the steady thrum of his croon pulling Juhoon away from the memory.
Juhoon's eyes opened just enough to see the gray of Martin's shirt beneath his cheek. The familiar flare of anger stirred sluggishly somewhere in his chest, but his body refused to move away. His fingers stayed knotted in the fabric, clinging to the warmth he should have rejected.
✦✦✦✦✦
"The way I kissed your scars
The way I fixed your heart, oh
Don't you miss me, babe?"
Tuesday morning sun bled through the kitchen blinds, slicing the room into harsh lines of light that felt like personal insults to Juhoon's pounding head.
He stood at the counter, breath breaking into short, irritated huffs. Everything feel wrong. The smell of coffee turned his stomach, his sweatpants felt like sandpaper against his swollen ankles, and the silence of the apartment was ringing in his ears like a siren. The moment he shifted his weight, a sharp twinge tugged at his lower back.
His gaze fell to the swell beneath his shirt, the fabric drawn tight across it. The shape of a constant, physical reminder of that one lapse in judgment, that one night where hatred had burned hot enough to turn into something else.
"I hope you grow up to be nothing like him," Juhoon hissed at his stomach, voice trembling with a cocktail of exhaustion and hormonal fury. "I hope you have my nose and my temper and literally zero percent of his DNA."
At the small dining table, Martin leaned back in his chair, cradling a mug of coffee as steam curled into the quiet kitchen. He took a slow sip, unbothered, the slate-gray t-shirt pulled tight across his shoulders. The Alpha’s scent, a grounding mix of cedarwood and rain-damp earth, was localized and polite, tucked away behind a wall of indifference.
Juhoon hated that composure. He needed it to break, he needed something to break because his own nerves were frayed to the point of snapping.
Thud!
Juhoon took a step toward the fridge, his heel hitting the floor with unnecessary force.
Thud! Thud!
His grip tightened on the handle before the door was yanked open, the condiment jars inside erupting into a frantic clink of glass. Cold air spilled out as he stared into the pale interior, eyes stinging. He wanted to drink orange juice. No, he wanted to throw the orange juice at Martin's head.
"We’re out of juice," Juhoon announced, his voice rising to a jagged edge.
"I bought a carton yesterday, Jju. Bottom shelf, behind the milk." Martin's voice was a calm, low baritone that grated on Juhoon's raw senses like a file.
Juhoon spotted it, then pretended it wasn’t there. "It’s the wrong brand! It has pulp! I hate pulp! It’s like drinking liquid hair!" He slammed the fridge door shut, the sound echoing through the open-concept space.
Forward steps came in an aggressive waddle, hips rolling with the careful weight of an Omega who was physically burdened by his body but spiritually ready for war. He stomped past the table, his shoulder brushing Martin's intentionally.
"You’re in my way!" Juhoon snapped.
"I'm sitting on a chair, Jju. I am stationary."
"Your aura is in my way!" Juhoon turned on his heel, his face flushing a hot, blotchy crimson. He could feel the familiar, terrifying rage surged in his chest, a mounting impulse to explode that felt like a physical pressure. It was a tension that would only ease when a specific frequency of sound vibrated through his bones.
He would never ask Martin to croon to him! Nope! He refused!
Silence hung in the air as Martin rose from the chair, every motion smooth with calmness that seemed to mock Juhoon’s frustration. Even though Martin blocked his path, Juhoon still didn’t budge, walking straight into the alpha’s chest. The jolt made them both stumble, but he stayed, head pressed to Martin’s sternum.
"Go away!" He grumbled into the fabric of Martin's shirt, even as his hands instinctively bunched into the material.
Large palm pressed against Juhoon's shoulder, moving downward with a deliberate, steady force that guided his ragged breathing back to a calm rhythm. The first note hit like a current through the floorboards and into Juhoon's chest. It was a vibrating pulse, throbbing in time with his heartbeat, leaving him rigid and alert all at once.
Juhoon’s knees gave a treacherous wobble. "Stop it," he whimpered, his voice cracking.
Martin ignored the command, leaning down to press his jaw against the crown of Juhoon’s head. The crooning deepened, becoming a steady, resonant hum that seemed to reach inside Juhoon’s chest and manually slow his racing heart. The physical pressure of the sound acted like a sedative, melting the rigid cords of muscle in Juhoon’s neck.
"You’re so annoying." Juhoon muttered, his forehead was now resting heavily in the crook of Martin’s neck. His eyes were fluttering shut against his will, his lashes damp against Martin’s skin. "I fucking hate you. I hate your face and I hate your stupid throat making that noise and I hate whatever this is!"
The faintest laugh shivered in Martin’s chest, and Juhoon felt it pulse through his own bones, a wordless comfort that drew the fight out of him. He pulled Juhoon closer, tucking the smaller man’s arms between their bodies.
" Sure you do," Martin murmured, his voice barely a breath against Juhoon’s temple, not letting the low, soothing croon falter for a second. "Hate me all you want. Just do it while you’re lying down."
He tried to pull away, to fight one last time, but his body refused, melting like water. His fingers, which had been clutching Martin’s shirt in anger, now simply hung there, hooked weakly into the folds of the fabric.
Minutes passed, and the stomping and shouting gave way to the measured weight of sleep, broken only by the grudging mumble of a man who refused to acknowledge the peace settling over him.
End.