The apartment had transformed into a bunker. Stacks of sheet music covered every available surface. The dining table was buried under a blizzard of manuscript paper, red pens, and empty coffee mugs.
Jaemin sat at the center of the chaos, hunched over the score of the Brahms Violin Concerto.
It was just past 3:30 AM. His hair was a mess, his eyes red-rimmed with strain. He scribbled furiously, crossed it out, and scribbled again, pressing down so hard that the lead of his pencil snapped.
"It's not working," he muttered, throwing the offending stationery onto the table. "The transition to the andante. The sustained bassoon note... without the full wind section to cover the hand-off, the texture is too thin. It sounds hollow."
As he dropped his face into his hands, a sharp spike of cherry blossoms, sour and anxious, wafted off him, cutting through the stale air of the room.
From the sofa, where he had been answering legal emails on his laptop, Do-hyun looked up. He set his computer aside and disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a steaming mug of herbal tea.
"Drink," he said gently, placing it near Jaemin's elbow.
"I can't," Jaemin groaned, staring at the notes that refused to cooperate. "If I don't solve this, the bridge collapses. And if the bridge collapses, the whole second movement falls apart."
"My solo will hold it," Do-hyun said. He pulled a chair out and sat across from Jaemin. "But you're spiraling. I can smell it."
Jaemin flinched. "Sorry. I'll—"
"Don't apologize," Do-hyun interrupted. He watched Jaemin carefully, his gaze intense but calm. "It's not just the music, is it? You're worried about something else." He paused, then reached out carefully to touch a lock of Jaemin's hair. "What is it? Talk to me."
Jaemin's shoulders slumped. "It's… He's been too quiet. We just went viral. We just booked a major gig. But we haven't heard a whisper from him in four days," he mumbled, a shiver of unease running down his spine. "Why hasn't he attacked? He should be trying to bury us right now."
"He isn't attacking because he thinks he doesn't have to," Do-hyun stated, his voice cold. "He thinks his moves were enough, that we're going to fold on our own."
Jaemin shivered. Choi Seungcheol thinks we're already dead, he realized. He's just waiting for the corpse to float to the surface. The thought made his skin crawl, an unpleasant, eerie sensation prickling at the back of his neck.
"What if this doesn't work?" he asked, voice almost a whisper. "You put so much money into this… What if we flop? What if—"
"Jaemin. Look at me."
Jaemin looked up, meeting Do-hyun's dark gaze. The alpha was leaning forward, arms resting on the table top.
"This might sound arrogant, but the thing about having money is that it's meant to be spent. What good would it do being saved in a bank if I can't use it to try and save our dream?"
Throat tight, Jaemin stared at him. "'Our'…?"
Do-hyun nodded. "Ours," he confirmed gently. "Yours, mine… The rest of the orchestra. You keep talking like you're the only one who wants the SPS to succeed, like you're the only one under attack. But we're not just fighting for you. We're fighting for ourselves too."
Jaemin looked away, blinking hard. He knew Do-hyun had meant for his words to be comforting, but on top of his own current state of fatigue, the burden of all that was at stake weighed heavy on him. He picked up another pencil, but his hand was trembling so hard the tip rattled against the paper.
Do-hyun watched the tremor, his brow furrowing. "You're shaking," he observed quietly. "You can't write like this, Jaemin."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, soothing register.
"Can I try something?" he asked softly. "I want to release some of my pheromones. Just a little. To help you settle."
Jaemin shifted uneasily. The memory of the nausea—the violent physical rejection of his mate just a few nights ago—was still fresh. But there was a tight, painful knot in his chest, and the phantom smell of bitter tea was lurking at the edges of his senses, doing nothing to help his exhaustion and anxiety.
He looked at Do-hyun. At the man who was waiting so patiently for him. The man who had kept his scent locked tightly away for the past few days, just so that Jaemin could function. The man who was currently burning through his savings to keep Jaemin free and his—no, their—dream alive.
"Okay," he whispered.
Do-hyun nodded, then stood and walked around to Jaemin's side of the table. He kept his movements slow and steady, watching Jaemin closely for any signs of rejection, until finally he stood behind Jaemin's chair.
He placed his hands gently on Jaemin's shoulders. The heat of his palms seeped through the thin fabric of Jaemin's shirt.
"Close your eyes," the alpha murmured, leaning down so his lips were close to Jaemin's ear.
Jaemin obeyed.
Slowly, carefully, a scent began to envelop him. It wasn't the overpowering storm of the rut, nor the aggressive spike of a fight. It was the smell of sun-warmed wood, of a forest after rain.
Cedar. Do-hyun's.
It hit Jaemin's senses, and his body tensed instinctively. His stomach rolled, a reflex reaction to the alpha presence clashing with the venom residue. He gagged slightly, hands flying up to cover his mouth.
Immediately, Do-hyun pulled back. "I'm sorry," he said, the scent vanishing instantly. "It was a bad idea. I'll stop."
"No," Jaemin gasped, his hand shooting up to grip Do-hyun's forearm, anchoring the alpha in place. "Don't stop. Please."
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe through the nausea. It's him, he told himself. It's Do-hyun. It's safe.
"More," Jaemin commanded, his voice trembling. "I need to get used to you again, to overwrite his mark… Please."
Do-hyun hesitated, worry radiating from him, but he slowly let the scent return. He leaned closer, wrapping his arms loosely around Jaemin's chest from behind, enclosing him in a warm, scented cocoon. He kept his pheromones steady, a low, constant hum.
Jaemin breathed it in. He focused on the warmth of Do-hyun's chest against his back, on the steady rhythm of the alpha's heartbeat. He visualized the cedar wrapping around his frayed nerves, soothing the jagged edges of his anxiety.
Slowly, miraculously, the nausea began to recede. The knot in his chest loosened. The cedar didn't smell like a threat anymore; it smelled like an anchor.
He let out a long, shaky exhale, his head falling back to rest against Do-hyun's shoulder.
"Better?" Do-hyun asked quietly, his warm breath ghosting against Jaemin's temple.
Jaemin opened his eyes, amber soft. "Yeah. Much better."
He picked up his pencil again, his hand now steady. The solution to the transition—giving the sustained note to the violas instead of the missing winds—suddenly seemed obvious.
"Thank you, jagi," he murmured, a small smile touching his lips as he turned back to the music.
Do-hyun nodded. He sat himself beside Jaemin, his scent lingering, wrapped gently around his mate like a soft, comforting blanket, a quiet sentinel holding vigil through the rest of the long night.