When it's YOU || minsung

Lee Minho is a 25-year-old alpha, and if you ask him what defines him, he'd say three things without hesitation: dance, cats, and the quiet dream of building something that's his.

Not necessarily in that order.

Most days, he's at a local dance studio in the nearby village—a fifteen-minute ride down a winding path lined with mossy stones and towering pines. There, he teaches beginners to find rhythm and advanced dancers to lose themselves in it. The studio smells like sweat, wood, and old speakers—home in another shape.

For Minho, dance has always been sanctuary. The one place where everything quiets down. Where emotion moves through muscle. Where silence becomes sacred, not empty. One day, he wants to open a space of his own. Not a business. A home. A refuge for people who don't quite fit the mold they were handed.

At the end of each day, he returns to something even more precious than rhythm and choreography: his boys. Doongie, Soonie, and Dori—his cats, his companions, his softest spaces.

Doongie is dignified and quiet, always nearby.

Soonie is his shadow, a tiny purring echo.

And Dori? A little chaos god in fur, constantly knocking things off shelves with suspicious accuracy. They curl up beside him on the bed, the windowsill, his lap. They're his calm after the storm. The warmth he doesn't ask for but always needs.

Despite being an alpha, Minho doesn't align with what the world expects that to mean. He's not loud or aggressive. He doesn't play dominance games. His strength is quiet—measured, deliberate. Not in command, but in restraint. In clarity. In kindness offered sincerely, not often. And maybe, in the way he keeps standing even when it would be easier not to.

He's wary of omegas—not out of disdain, but caution. Some have used their vulnerability like a weapon, turning heat into manipulation, chemistry into obligation. Others blurred lines, assuming proximity meant permission. Some expected him to behave a certain way just because of his secondary gender, and it made him recoil—made him feel like a role, not a person. But alphas haven't fared much better in his eyes. So many wear entitlements like a crown—obsessed with hierarchy, drunk on control. They're the loudest in the room, the slowest to listen.

Minho has spent years shedding that skin. Unlearning what he was taught. Walking away from those who think being alpha means being the biggest presence in the room.

Which is why the pack he's found still feels like a small miracle.

Tucked deep in the forest, far from city noise and expectations, the pack house is sanctuary. A wooden villa built across three staggered levels, with wide balconies and slanted roofs dusted in pine needles. It creaks when it's quiet. It feels lived in.

The trees around it are dense.

Morning light drips through like honey.

At night, owls hoot and foxes rustle.

Sometimes the wolves run—shifted and silent, stitched to the earth.

It's wild.