AGAINST THE RULES: their scentless omega-Chapter 55: a rut

’How could I have forgotten that single part of the memory...’

The thought struck him so sharply that he instinctively slowed down, the bike gliding toward the side of the road before he even realized he had made the decision. The engine hummed beneath him for a second longer before he killed it. Silence rushed in, loud and suffocating, broken only by the distant sounds of passing cars and the restless thud of his own heartbeat in his ears.

He swung his leg over and stepped off the bike, helmet still in his hand. The air felt colder now, thinner somehow, as if it were pressing against his lungs instead of filling them.

So the feeling I had been having...

His fingers curled slightly against his chest. It wasn’t just adrenaline. It wasn’t just worry. It wasn’t anger either, no matter how much he tried to label it that way. It was something far more dangerous, something he had buried under arguments, pride, and the illusion of moving on.

"I know what it means now," he whispered to himself, the words leaving his lips before he could stop them.

The realization didn’t bring comfort. It brought urgency.

He shoved the helmet onto the bike seat and took off toward the apartment building, his steps quickening into a near run. The stairwell echoed with the sharp rhythm of his shoes hitting each step, breath growing heavier as he climbed. Floor after floor blurred together, the railings cold beneath his palm whenever he used them to pull himself upward faster. His mind replayed fragments, Ethan laughing in the cafeteria, Ethan handing him the flyer, Ethan’s smirk, Ethan’s silence the last time they fought. Each image overlapped until they became one tangled knot in his chest.

By the time he reached Ethan’s door, his lungs burned and his pulse was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the climb. He stood there for half a second, hand hovering in the air, fear and determination wrestling inside him.

Then he knocked.

No, he pounded.

"Ethan! Open up!" His voice echoed down the corridor, louder than he intended, edged with something dangerously close to panic. He waited. Nothing. The silence on the other side felt wrong, heavy, like the room itself was holding its breath.

He knocked again, harder this time. "Ethan!"

Still nothing.

His hand dropped to the doorknob almost on instinct. He twisted it, half expecting resistance, half hoping for it. The lock clicked open easily.

Unlocked.

A thin line of unease crept up his spine. Ethan was careless sometimes, but not like this. Not recently.

Lucian pushed the door open slowly. The first thing that met him wasn’t darkness or clutter.

It was scent.

Pheromones lingered thickly in the air, clinging to his senses before his eyes could even adjust to the dim lighting. They were sharp, restless, almost suffocating, like a storm that had already passed but left the humidity behind. His throat tightened involuntarily. Even being scentless didn’t make him immune; it only dulled the edges. The emotion embedded within that scent, frustration, agitation, something close to desperation, was impossible to ignore.

"Ethan?" he called out, voice softer now as he stepped inside.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. No music. No television. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator somewhere in the background. His gaze swept across the living area, taking in the scattered signs of recent presence, shoes kicked off near the couch, a jacket draped carelessly over the armrest as if someone had meant to pick it up but never did.

He moved further in, each step cautious, eyes searching every corner. On the small table near the sofa sat a leftover bowl of instant noodles, the broth dried along the edges. Beside it lay a half-empty can, condensation long gone, the metal warm from being left out too long. It wasn’t just mess, it was neglect. Ethan usually cleaned up, even if half-heartedly. This felt different. Rushed. Distracted. Unwell.

Then Lucian’s gaze caught on a small orange bottle near the edge of the table.

He picked it up.

Rut Suppressant.

The label was slightly crumpled, like it had been handled too often in a short period of time. His thumb traced the printed instructions, eyes scanning the dosage. Two pills missing. No—three. His stomach sank. Suppressant medications weren’t something Ethan used lightly. They were last resorts, taken when control was already slipping.

Lucian swallowed, the room suddenly feeling smaller, the air heavier. He set the bottle back down carefully, almost respectfully, as if it were fragile evidence of a truth he didn’t want to face.

"Ethan..." he called again, quieter this time, the name barely more than a breath.

The silence answered him once more. And in that silence, realization settled fully into his chest, not just about the feelings he had tried to deny, but about the state Ethan must have been in when he chose to disappear.

The memory he had forgotten wasn’t just a conversation.

It was the moment he started caring without noticing.

He moved down the short hallway, each step slower than the last, as if his body already knew what his mind was still trying to deny. The closer he got to the bedroom, the heavier the air became. It wasn’t just scent anymore, it was pressure, thick and suffocating, pressing against his skin and slipping into his lungs despite his attempts to steady his breathing.

"Ethan...?" His voice came out quieter than intended.

He reached for the doorknob and pushed the door open carefully. The wave of pheromones that rushed out was overwhelming, concentrated and dense, forcing him to instinctively take a step back. His fingers tightened around the frame for balance as he exhaled slowly through his sleeve, trying to dull the intensity. The room was dim, curtains half-drawn, light slicing through in thin lines that barely illuminated the space.

His eyes adjusted, scanning the bed.

There, under the blanket. A figure lay still, the fabric pulled up over the face as if hiding from the world itself.

"Ethan?" he called again, softer now, uncertainty creeping into his tone.

He stepped inside, one cautious stride at a time, his free hand hovering near his nose as the scent thickened with every inch he closed. The silence in the room felt fragile, like glass that would shatter if he moved too quickly. He reached the side of the bed, heart pounding against his ribs.

"It’s Lucian... I just wanted to ask if you—"

He didn’t get to finish.

A sudden force caught his wrist and yanked him forward. The world tilted in a blur of motion before he found himself falling onto the mattress, a sharp gasp escaping his lips. The blanket shifted, and Ethan was suddenly there, too close, hands gripping his arm, breath uneven and hot against his skin.

Lucian’s eyes widened as he met Ethan’s gaze.

They were unfocused, dark, burning with a feverish intensity that sent a jolt of realization through him. His chest tightened. Rut. The word formed instantly in his mind, heavy and undeniable.

"Ethan...?" he said again, this time calm on the surface, though his pulse was racing.

Ethan’s jaw clenched. His breathing was ragged, shoulders tense as if every muscle in his body was fighting itself. For a second, it looked like he didn’t even recognize him, like Lucian was just another presence invading a space he could barely control.

"What the hell are you doing here..." Ethan’s voice came out low, rough, dragged through frustration and exhaustion. His grip tightened before loosening just a fraction, conflict flashing across his expression. "Leave," he growled, biting down on the word as if forcing it out hurt more than keeping it in.