Month 3. Winter in Bangkok. Cool enough to see breath.

Servants weren’t allowed to carry personal items between wings. So Est and William used the garden boy, Pong. 14 years old. Paid in extra mango sticky rice.

Every Sunday night, a small package moved.

Est sent a shirt. Unwashed. Sleeves still holding the warmth of his skin. Cherry + sweet cream soaked into the cotton. He folded it small and tied it with a blue ribbon. Note tucked inside:

For the nights you dream of me. I dream of you too. Every night. - E

William received it at 2:13am. He didn’t open it right away. He sat on his bed and let the anticipation build. Alpha patience, trained since childhood.

When he finally untied the ribbon, the scent hit him. Full. Unfiltered. Est’s omega, gentle and possessive and his.

Vanilla + espresso surged to answer. His body reacted before his mind could. Chest tight. Jaw clenched. He buried his face in the fabric and breathed.

That night, he slept with the shirt under his pillow. Dreamed of Est’s hands. Woke up at dawn with cherry on his lips and his name stuck in his throat.

He sent one back. His own dress shirt. Unwashed. Cuffs smelling like vanilla and late nights and want. Ribbon black. Note:

I wear this when I can’t stand not being near you. It doesn’t help. It makes it worse. I want you. All of you. One year. - W

Est got it during his heat. Three days of fever and ache and no alpha near. He locked his door. Opened William’s shirt. The scent wrapped around him like arms. He pressed it to his chest and rocked.

He wrote back the next morning, handwriting shaky:

Your scent is the only thing that helps. I’m possessive of it. Of you. Don’t send it to anyone else. Only me. Promise me. - E

William read it twice. Then wrote:

Promise.

Month after month. Shirts. Scarves. A handkerchief Est had cried into. A tie William had worn to a board meeting, thinking of Est the whole time.

They never saw each other. Not once.

But they learned each other’s scent like scripture.