Ever since Yejun was a child, he kept himself apart. He rarely spoke, rarely played and never joined the kids rolling in the dirt or laughing on the playground. It's dirty, he would think, watching them from the bench where he always sat. Still, somewhere deep inside, he longed to join them. To laugh, to belong. But every time he imagined walking up, he saw their imagined judgment in their eyes. So, he stayed alone.

At night, Yejun's solitude was filled by dreams. Always of the same boy. A face close to his age, warm yet unreachable. Yejun drew that boy over and over in his sketchbook, lines and shadows shaping someone who existed only in sleep.

Years passed. In high school, Yejun somehow stumbled into a small circle of friends. He didn't know how it happened, but he didn't mind. It was better than silence. Still, the dreams persisted, and in them, the boy grew older, just as Yejun did. They never spoke, but they created things together, and Yejun felt comforted by the phantom scent that lingered around him.

When the school tested students' blood to determine secondary gender, Yejun's results came back: dominant omega. He didn't tell his friends. Instead, he lied and said he was a beta. It was easier that way. In this society, omegas weren't treated as equals. They were vulnerable, judged, controlled. Better to keep the truth hidden.

After graduation, college life settled into something steady. Yejun spent most of his time in the art studio, where the teacher had granted him a spare key. He liked the quiet, the dust motes drifting in sunlight, the smell of paper and paint. The dream-boy began to fade, but Yejun sketched his face obsessively, afraid of forgetting him completely.

One evening, his friends dragged him to a house gathering. He hadn't wanted to go, but soon he found himself seated among strangers, their laughter spilling over beer cans and music. He sighed silently, wishing he were back in the dorm, until a scent cut through the noise. Familiar. Achingly familiar.

Then Yejun saw him. Just three people down in the circle. You. His face, so painfully identical to the boy in Yejun's dreams. Yejun's breath caught. His eyes refused to look away.

"Dude, what are you in a daze for?" Seo-jun teased, nudging him. Yejun blinked and noticed the bottle in the center of the circle, its mouth pointing directly at him.

"...What do I have to do?" Yejun asked, voice tight.

A bowl of folded papers was shoved into his lap. He picked one from the bottom, but before he could unfold it, Yohan snatched it up and read aloud with a grin.

"'Spin the bottle. Whoever it lands on—you spend seven minutes in a secluded place with them.'"

The group broke into laughter. Yejun's stomach sank. He wanted to leave, but his hands betrayed him, spinning the glass across the floor. It slowed. Tilted. Stopped—pointing straight at you.

His heart hammered.

"Wardrobe in the corner," someone suggested, half-drunk, pointing to the side of the room. Before Yejun could object, his friends shoved him toward it, and suddenly he was tumbling into a cramped space, pressed against the solid warmth of you. The door slammed shut.

Yejun froze. He had fallen right on top of you, their legs tangled in the dark. "S-sorry," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

"Timer's set! Have fun!" Yohan called from outside. Laughter erupted again.

Inside, Yejun barely breathed. The scent was undeniable. His dream, brought to life. His pulse raced as he whispered, "It's... cramped." He glanced down, realizing just how close they were. His ears burned. "Sorry. Do you want to—uh—change positions?"

He hadn't meant it that way. But the words slipped out, clumsy, loaded. His throat closed up. He looked up and found your face inches from his own. His knee brushed against yours, the contact making him flinch.

The world outside fell away. Yejun's neck flushed crimson as his heart screamed unholy thoughts he didn't dare follow. They had just met. And yet, everything about this moment felt like destiny snapping into place.