MYFL | Chapter 1.2

He had been someone who barely studied before, but after getting a taste of academic success, he started enjoying it. His grades were improving, and he had convinced himself that he had done it all on his own.

If I hadn’t been so foolish back then, would things have turned out differently? Even though he knew that wasn’t the reason, Beomchan still regretted it deeply.

That day, his tutor looked particularly tired, so when Beomchan suggested he take a nap during the problem-solving session, the tutor didn’t decline and promptly laid down. He was somewhat irresponsible like that.

“Is it okay if I tell my parents?”

His tutor laughed so hard his eyes crinkled and then took off his glasses. It was the first time Beomchan had seen his face without them. He didn’t give Beomchan a chance to admire it, quickly folding his arms on the desk and resting his cheek on them. Beomchan found himself continuously drawn to the half-hidden face.

Even in his sleep, the tutor was quiet. He was so still that Beomchan had to check his breathing just to make sure he was alive. The rustling of Beomchan’s pencil as he tried to solve the problems and the ticking of the clock are the only sounds he remembered from that time. He couldn’t focus at all.

“Won’t it hurt his back? Should I suggest he go to bed? Would that sound weird?” He wanted to adjust the tutor’s position to make him more comfortable but didn’t want to wake him. Despite being right next to a student, his vulnerable state was just so like him.

Between the scents of spring, Beomchan could faintly detect the subtle omega pheromones. For a vigorous high school student, even that slight pheromone was stimulating.

It’s biologically natural for an alpha to be drawn to an omega, but that just means that’s how they’re designed. While special traits like being a beta are rarer, that doesn’t mean alphas and omegas are uncommon.

Even if bodies are designed to be attracted to each other, it doesn’t automatically mean feelings develop—there are always choices.

Pheromones have their own appeal. Some you might just walk past and frown, while others amplify emotions just by reaching your nose. For Beomchan, it was his tutor’s scent.

It tickled his nose and the inside of his chest like the smell of chocolate, which would soon give way to a woody scent if he inhaled deeper. Bitter yet sweet, much like his appearance.

“Would I not have liked him if I had been a beta? I doubt it. From the moment I opened the door and first saw him, I think I knew it would end up like this.”

No letters on the page registered with him as he tried to focus. Eventually, he gave up and quietly admired the face, barely visible beyond the eyes and cheek.

“What did he do yesterday to be so tired? Did he do his assignments? Or maybe he was out with friends? Or maybe…” He clung to the edge of inappropriate thoughts, barely holding them back, as he stared blankly for a long time. It wasn’t until the tutor woke up and looked up with his long eyelashes at the student harboring impure thoughts that the moment was broken.

“You’re going to burn holes in my face.”

His voice was teasing, as if he knew exactly what Beomchan had been thinking and how he had been looking at him. Beomchan’s face turned bright red, as if he had been caught in some wrongdoing, and he had to pretend otherwise.

As a young mind that admired adulthood and his tutor’s composure, could he have known then how deep and intense those feelings would become?

The scene was so vivid that even after waking up, Beomchan had to lie in bed for a while, dazed. Whenever he dreamed about his teacher, his mood was invariably unsettled.

Today was no different. It wasn’t simply bad or subdued. Those words were too simplistic to describe the complex mix of emotions he felt. It was something like longing mixed with regret, a sadness, a depression that soon led to a feeling of powerlessness because he knew all too well that there was no way to turn back time.

He had often thought of his teacher, not just when he eagerly became an adult but also when he entered university, where the stories his teacher had told him about college life were the first to come to mind.

Like the common saying that time heals all wounds, the frequency of these memories faded, but as with many people and their first loves, it was something that, just when you thought you had forgotten, would be triggered again. It was deeply embedded within him, popping into his thoughts unexpectedly.

Unfulfilled wishes often leave a deeper longing, after all.

It was time to wake from the dream. He had reached an age where the tasks right in front of him were more important than lingering in a youthful past, however bittersweet that reality might be. His body, already pushing itself up from the deeply sunk mattress, was preparing to start another day.

He washed away the remnants of sleep and quickly dressed for his morning exercise. He grabbed a coat and headed straight to the entrance, slipping into his sneakers. He tossed on a cap that had been left haphazardly on the shoe rack and swung open the front door.

As if completely disregarding his sullen mood, the day was remarkably beautiful. It was as if reality was reminding him, “That was a dream; this is real.”

The last hints of warmth were fading, making way for a period when both day and night began to feel pleasantly cool. The sky was clear, and a perfectly crisp autumn wind blew, ideal for wearing a light jacket over a T-shirt. By the time he would jog back home, he’d probably be warm enough to carry the jacket home.

Descending the rooftop stairs, he crossed the third-floor hallway from the rooftop to the second floor, and then down to the first. His steps halted abruptly in front of the entrance to the shopping center. Something caught Beomchan’s attention, causing his pupils to flicker.

The worn front door of the building was slightly ajar, letting in a draft that carried a scent that tickled his nose.

“Beomchan.”

They say smell has the power to trigger memories. For a moment, he was almost convinced he could hear his low, gentle voice—a figment of his imagination, surely.

Ridiculous, he thought, yet a small part of him couldn’t help but hope, even knowing it would likely lead to disappointment.

Hesitating for a moment with his hand on the glass door, Beomchan finally pushed it open.

⋆˚🐾˖°

Ever since he had become an adult, Beomchan had often imagined what it would be like to run into his teacher again. What would he look like? How would their reunion unfold? Would he even recognize Beomchan? He had played out numerous scenarios in his head, but none of them involved bumping into him unexpectedly on his way to morning exercise. Yet, there he was.

Joo Seungjae stood looking at the vacant shop on the first floor of the shopping center. Despite the years that had passed since their last encounter, Beomchan recognized him immediately, even just from his profile. Aside from lighter hair, Seungjae looked almost the same as he had eight years ago—so unchanged that Beomchan had to wonder if he was still dreaming.

Frozen by the improbability of the situation, Beomchan stood motionless, watching him. As if to push him forward, a gust of autumn wind blew from behind.

At that moment, Seungjae turned toward him, seemingly catching a whiff of Beomchan’s scent on the breeze.

Their eyes locked.

“…Teacher.”

It was a title he hadn’t used in eight years. Though it felt awkward and tingling to say, there was no discomfort. Perhaps because he had just been dreaming of him.

Unlike Beomchan, who recognized him immediately, Seungjae squinted through his glasses, staring intently as if trying to place a familiar face. It made sense. To Beomchan, Seungjae was a significant first love, but to Seungjae, Beomchan was likely just one of many students he had taught over the years. Disappointing, but inevitable.

Unable to endure the awkward silence any longer, Beomchan took off his ball cap and ran his hands roughly through his hair, hoping that showing his face more clearly might help jog Seungjae’s memory. Fortunately, it seemed to work as Seungjae’s eyes widened in recognition, and he approached with a warm smile.

“Beomchan.”

It was a voice he thought he’d only hear in dreams, lightly tinged with laughter and instantly uplifting. The difference between imagining it and hearing it in reality was staggering.

He had once thought he could handle this moment with composure, given how much time had passed and that he was no longer the young boy he used to be. But he realized that was arrogance; such thoughts were only possible because Seungjae hadn’t been there. In front of him now, Beomchan felt as raw and green as ever, his emotions swirling uncontrollably at the mere sound of his name.

“Do you remember me?”

“Of course, you’ve changed so much I almost didn’t recognize you. It’s really been a long time. How many years has it been?”

“Eight years.”

Beomchan answered immediately.

“Has it really been that long? Time flies. So you are…?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Wow, you seem to have grown even taller since then?”

Seungjae, now standing close, compared their heights by waving his hand over Beomchan’s head, making a few passes between the jawline and his own crown. Beomchan had indeed continued to grow even through college. Knowing Seungjae remembered even such small details was overwhelming, even if it might just have been a polite exaggeration.

“You still live in this neighborhood?”

“Yes. I run a taekwondo dojo upstairs.”

Beomchan gestured upward with his eyes towards the dojo. Seungjae’s gaze followed the direction indicated.

Beomchan watched his face quietly, then clenched his fist tightly at his thigh. This might be his last chance to make up for all the years of regret and longing.

“Were you looking at the store?”

“Yeah. I was thinking of opening a small café, just looking around the area.”