Chapter Text
The answer was right in front of him: the only bridge in all of Seoul without any safety measures to prevent suicides. No barriers, no hopeful signs, no cameras watching from a distance. Just empty space and concrete. It was a busy road, even if it wasn’t one of the city’s main arteries. And now, for Wonwoo, it had become the only way out.
His pulse pounded in his ears, like a wild drum beating inside his chest. Deep down, he knew he shouldn’t be there—that maybe there was still another choice, some less drastic exit. But he was completely alone. No family. No partner. No support system. No money. And with a life growing inside him that he had no idea how to take care of. There was just no way he could raise the baby he was carrying.
Wonu had known from the start. Even before the symptoms. He was an omega, after all. He didn’t need tests or guesses—his own scent, sweeter and heavier, gave him away. Of course, it was easier to pretend nothing was happening, to act like nothing was changing. To pretend his body wasn’t practically screaming that he was pregnant. It was simpler to play dumb than face reality, especially because he knew his alpha wouldn’t take it well. Because the same day he realized he was pregnant was the day he understood just how many mistakes had piled up to bring him here.
Wonwoo’s family had always been well-off. Wealthy, influential. The kind of people whose last name opened doors and whose family dinners had to look perfect. His parents had mapped out his future years ago: they wanted him to become the ideal partner for someone they hand-picked. Just like they’d done with his older siblings, arranging marriages that felt more like business deals than love. But Wonwoo was different. Rebellious. Impossible to tame.
He met Namgi at a college party—one of those nights full of alcohol and loud music when everything feels fun and harmless. Namgi was the classic bad boy: leather jacket, a loud motorcycle, a cocky smile. A walking cliché, and Wonu knew it. That was exactly why he found him appealing. He knew just being seen with a guy like him would enrage his parents, and he hoped their anger might finally stop them from introducing him to more boring, money-hungry “suitable” candidates.
Wonwoo didn’t want luxury. He didn’t care about jewelry or picture-perfect houses. He just wanted freedom. To choose for himself. To take control of his own life. But his parents never allowed that, so he clung to Namgi as an act of rebellion. He started dating him. And Namgi wasn’t bad-looking—far from it—and he was incredible in bed. For months, Wonu hid the relationship, explaining away his absences, until it became impossible to hide anymore.
He started getting home late, sometimes not at all. He dropped out of university without telling anyone. Every reckless decision was like adding more pressure to a boiling pot. Eventually, it exploded. His mother had a full meltdown—tears, screaming, accusations. She kicked him out on the spot, and not even his father or his siblings could do anything to stop her.
Thankfully—or so he thought at the time—he had his alpha. Namgi picked him up on his motorcycle, in a scene that looked straight out of a cheesy romantic movie, and took him to live with him in a run-down neighborhood far removed from the world Wonu grew up in. The golden cradle vanished, and with it went all the privileges he’d always taken for granted.
But the charm didn’t last a week. Despite the confident attitude, Namgi wasn’t who Wonwoo thought he was. Even so, he tried to convince himself he loved him. He told himself he’d stick by him through good and bad. Namgi worked at a mechanic shop from early morning to late at night, and Wonu spent hours alone, with nothing to do, no company, and barely any food.
Hunger came fast. There was no food in the house and not enough money to buy even basics. So one day, swallowing his pride, he went looking for work. But without experience or a finished degree, the only job he could get was as a cashier at a supermarket. He was grateful the place wasn’t near his old neighborhood; the thought of running into someone he knew and having to greet them with a fake smile while scanning their groceries filled him with shame.
To keep himself from falling apart, he kept repeating that he was happy. That it was better to live with little, in a simple way—no excess, no drugs, no endless parties. Just the love of his alpha, the one who’d “rescued” him, the one who gave him a home when he had none. Even if that “everything” Namgi gave him barely covered survival.
And he lived like that. “Happy,” or so he told himself. Content inside that tiny lie that kept him from breaking. A couple of years went by like that. Until one day he forgot to take his pill. Forgot that his heat would come early. And his good alpha, like always, indulged him without thinking twice. Namgi was careless, overconfident. He loved cumming inside Wonu, sure the pill would handle the rest. But this time it didn’t.
One thing led to another, like a row of dominoes falling in slow motion, and although his omega intuition had been warning him for days, he didn’t gather the courage to take a pregnancy test until recently. His hands were ice cold, his thoughts a blur, his heart beating with a thick, suffocating anxiety. He didn’t want to look at the result. Or more accurately, he didn’t want it to be positive. He didn’t want to deal with what that meant. Still, his mind kept spinning through possibilities, as if planning anything could give him back even a tiny bit of the control he’d already lost.
There was a small part of him—a quiet, shaky, hopeful voice—that whispered maybe there was still hope. Maybe Namgi, despite everything, would see the baby as a reason to change. Maybe he’d be ready to start a family, to leave behind the alcohol, the drugs, the indifference. Maybe he’d become a real father, a present one, a responsible one. Maybe a new life would push him to look for a better job, to take pride in his role as an alpha, to love better.
But the other part—the clearer, less naive part, the one that spoke with the voice of experience—knew those ideas were nothing but fantasies. Namgi hadn’t changed in the two years they’d lived together. He still worked at the mechanic shop with no ambition for more. He still drank almost every day, and some nights he came home glassy-eyed, with red eyes and a tight jaw, reeking of alcohol mixed with subtle traces of cocaine. Wonu didn’t touch any of that. He could barely afford his commute, one or two meals a day, and his birth control pills. A glass of wine or a line of cocaine were luxuries he couldn’t even dream about.
And on top of that, Namgi had cheated on him multiple times. Wonwoo knew it. He recognized it in silence, but he refused to face it. He ignored the nights Namgi didn’t come home. Ignored the unfamiliar perfume, the lingering scents of other omegas on his skin and clothes. He forced himself not to think about it, because facing the truth meant accepting that the little he had could disappear. If Namgi left, Wonwoo would have no roof, no bed, not even that tiny beat-up stove where he cooked rice or instant soup. So he swallowed it all.
And maybe—just maybe—Wonu thought a baby could change him. Maybe it would force him to grow up. Maybe it would turn him into a loyal alpha. Or at least that’s what he kept telling himself, like saying it often enough might make it real.
The pregnancy test was still there, sitting on the sink of the tiny bathroom. The white plastic, innocent-looking, seemed to be staring back at him. Wonwoo’s hands trembled. He knew what he’d see. His body had already told him. His omega instinct was sure. But he still needed confirmation, needed to see it with his own eyes. And when he finally read the positive result, there were no tears. Just a long, slow exhale—resigned, defeated. Like something inside him had quietly cracked.
Some weeks had already passed since his last heat, so there was no doubt. The baby was there. Inside him. Real. And yes, he knew abortion was an option. But he didn’t have the money for a private clinic. And honestly, he couldn’t stomach the idea of something unsafe. On the other hand… what if keeping it wasn’t so terrible? Even if his paycheck was miserable and prices kept rising like they were in some competition… Wonu sighed, drowning in thoughts with no answers.
He was going to tell Namgi. Of course he was. They were a couple, after all. They were supposed to face things together. Maybe if he couldn’t afford the clinic, Namgi could pay for the abortion. To… well, to end things before they went any further. Even though a part of him wasn’t so sure. Even if he told himself it didn’t matter, the doubt kept pulsing in his chest.
He shook his head, as if he could clear away the dark thoughts that kept creeping in. He had to get going. His shift at the supermarket was waiting, and he had a bad feeling it would be a rough one. He grabbed his backpack, slipped on his worn-out jacket, and left the house on his way to work. His routine was a chain pulling him along day after day—no excitement, no change. And that morning, for the first time in a long while, he wondered if maybe he needed a change. But right away he caught himself thinking: what good is changing yourself if everything around you stays exactly the same?
When he arrived at the supermarket, he tried to clock in like always. He put his finger on the fingerprint scanner, but it flashed an error. He tried again. And again. Nothing. Confused, he headed to HR. He knew how strict they were with the schedules—any glitch in the system could mean a deduction from his pay or even losing the whole day.
When he walked into the office, Jiah greeted him with a polite smile, though something about it felt… off. A bit forced, almost uncomfortable. “Oh, Wonwoo, good afternoon. You didn’t get my email?” she asked softly.
Wonu shook his head, his heartbeat already picking up with nerves.
She cleared her throat and lowered her gaze a little. “Well… the company’s been going through some financial issues, and unfortunately, we had to do a round of layoffs. It was random, Wonwoo—it’s not personal. You were one of the people selected to… leave the company. I’m really sorry. We removed you from the system this morning.”
The world seemed to blur for a few seconds. Wonwoo went blank, like all the air had been knocked out of him. He’d just lost his job. Right now. Right when he needed stability the most.
“Wonwoo? Are you okay?” Jiah asked when she noticed his empty expression.
He nodded slowly, on autopilot. “Are… are you giving me severance pay?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
Jiah stepped back a little, moving behind her desk as if putting a safe distance between them. “Oh, yes, of course. It’ll be deposited directly,” she said while pretending to focus on her computer. “But the company is handling a lot of layoffs, so it might take a few weeks. If you need a recommendation letter, though, don’t hesitate to ask me, okay?”
Wonwoo walked out of the office feeling devastated, like the floor had become unstable under his feet. His mouth was dry and sticky, his tongue like paper. His thoughts spun nonstop, trapped in darker and darker loops in his mind, like a storm quietly building. He didn’t have a job anymore. He was expecting a baby. And the only lifeline he felt he had left was talking to Namgi. But not today. Not now. He’d wait. Maybe by the weekend things would seem a little less hopeless. Maybe, with a bit of luck, something good would happen.
He went back home with his head down, heavy steps dragging as if the world itself were weighing him down. Maybe, he thought, he just needed to rest. Maybe—just maybe—when everything falls apart, it’s because something better is coming. Maybe losing his job was a sign, a push from fate nudging him toward something different. Maybe once Namgi found out about the pregnancy, he’d finally step up—be a provider, a partner, a real alpha. Maybe he’d even be happy. Maybe this baby would change their lives for the better.
Wonwoo decided he wouldn’t say anything about the job yet. Not now. He’d stay quiet until Friday, when things felt calmer. He planned to tell him gently, carefully. He even started imagining it: him waiting at home with a special dinner, something nicer than cheap ramen or those frozen gyozas he always burned when he got distracted.
A small spark of hope lit up inside him. One he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. When he got home, he drank glass after glass of water, like he was trying to wash the anxiety out of his system. Then he ate something simple—tasteless, but enough. And he lay down. His body sank into the mattress like it was swallowing him whole. He ended up taking a long, deep nap. It was the first time in weeks, maybe months, that both his body and mind truly rested.
That night, Namgi came home. He stumbled in, walking the unsteady walk of someone who’d had way too much to drink. And even though seeing him like that filled Wonwoo with disappointment, he still felt a bit relieved: at least this time, he didn’t smell like another omega. No perfume, no suspicious scents, no traces of someone else’s body on him. Just the unmistakable stench of alcohol.
“Don’t drink on Friday,” Wonwoo murmured softly, almost begging, as he gently stroked the side of Namgi’s face—like that small touch could erase all the past nights, the mistakes, the absences. “I’ll make you dinner.”
With his eyes closed, Namgi barely responded with a slurred noise. He nodded, just barely—a small, automatic gesture. But Wonwoo held onto that. Held onto that tiny scrap of promise.
He watched him for a while, like he’d done so many nights. Namgi really was handsome. He had that rugged, careless kind of beauty that looked almost like it belonged to an actor who hated cameras. His sharp features were crossed by a scar splitting through his right eyebrow, giving him a rougher, more masculine look. His body was strong, tall, muscular; his broad back alone could stand out in any crowd.
Wonu understood—painfully—why so many omegas threw themselves at him without shame. He’d seen it countless times whenever they went out to bars or clubs together: the looks, the suggestive smiles, the unspoken invitations. And even though he didn’t want to justify the cheating, a part of him did. Because he knew how easy it was to give in to temptation when everyone seemed to want what you already took for granted.
Still, that night, Wonwoo let himself imagine a different future. One where Namgi finally changed course—a brighter, steadier one. Where he became a committed, present alpha. Where their baby would be happy. Where he himself would be happy. A family. Maybe. Even though some part of him… knew he probably shouldn’t have let himself hope that much.
Friday finally arrived. And Wonwoo didn’t even pretend he was going to work. He stayed home, determined to put together a proper dinner. He cooked japchae carefully, making sure the noodles didn’t overcook. He made mandu one by one, filling them patiently, sealing them with slightly shaking fingers. He cooked rice and fluffed it the way he’d seen in online videos. He brought out his favorite bowls, the metal chopsticks he saved for special occasions. He even lit a couple of candles he’d forgotten in a drawer, and bought a small bottle of wine — only for Namgi. He, of course, wouldn’t drink. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to risk hurting the baby.
Even though his cooking skills weren’t anything special, he surprised himself. The food didn’t smell bad. Everything looked nice on the table. He felt… hopeful. Nervous, but genuinely happy. Sitting at the tiny dining table that barely fit two people, he waited.
Namgi usually got off work at 7:00 PM. If he wasn’t running late, if he didn’t stop for a drink like he’d promised, he would probably get home before 7:45 PM. But the clock hit 8:00 PM, and Namgi still wasn’t there. Wonwoo didn’t move. He stayed seated, hands laced together on his knees.
At 8:45 PM, he checked the time again, swallowing hard. Maybe there was traffic. Maybe there’d been an accident. Or maybe the motorcycle broke down again—it had happened before. Wonwoo decided to keep waiting. Life had a way of flipping things around at the worst possible moments, right when you wanted things to finally change. And if there was something he knew how to do, it was wait.
9:45 PM… Wonwoo sighed, staring up at the clock ticking away like it was mocking him. Maybe Namgi was just running late. It wouldn’t be the first time. But… how late was “late”? The candles were still burning, throwing shaky shadows on the small dining room walls. The wax had already pooled thickly at the base. Wonwoo decided to blow them out. They were melting too fast, and he didn’t want to waste them. They’d only been lit for a couple hours, but the room was starting to smell more like burnt candle than japchae. Still, he didn’t move far. He stayed at the tiny table, back straight, hands on his lap. Surely Namgi wouldn’t take much longer. Maybe he was already on his way.
10:45 PM… His legs were starting to go numb. Wonwoo never stayed still this long. He’d gotten up a few times to go to the bathroom, though he’d barely had any water. Maybe he should drink more, he thought. The baby would need it. Yes… the baby.
He remembered the test sitting on the bathroom sink, that result he still couldn’t fully wrap his head around. He walked around the apartment a little, dragging his bare feet over the cold floor. He didn’t want to tire himself out, so he just made small loops—from the kitchen to the bathroom, from the bathroom to the bedroom, and from the bedroom back to the dining room. Every few seconds, he glanced at the door. Namgi could walk in any minute.
11:45 PM… Wonwoo eventually fell asleep on the couch, his head resting on one of the faded cushions. He’d walked around for about 45 minutes without thinking, without direction. His body wasn’t cooperating anymore. But at least from the couch he had a clear view of the front door. If Namgi came home, he’d see him. He didn’t even know when his eyes closed. Just that he crashed out.
3:00 AM… The sound of the lock snapping open jolted him awake. The door creaked slowly, and the cold dawn air slipped inside like a whisper. Namgi stumbled in. The smell hit first—strong alcohol, old sweat, and worse, the unmistakable scent of another omega. Wonwoo felt his stomach twist. Nausea hit at the same time as the sadness. But this time, anger was stronger. Heavier. It rose in his throat like a scream he’d been holding back for weeks.
"I told you not to drink tonight," he started, voice shaking with rage. "I told you to come home early, I made dinner and—"
“I didn’t ask you for that, sweetheart…” Namgi slurred, tongue thick from alcohol. “I didn’t tell you to do any of that, baby.”
Wonwoo clenched his jaw. His chest felt like it was splitting open, like something inside him was slowly collapsing. “I know you didn’t ask…” he yelled, tears already pooling in his eyes. “But when you love someone—”
Namgi cut him off again. Not with words this time—with a dry, hollow laugh. A laugh that hurt more than any scream. “You love me?” he said, incredulous, looking at him like he’d just heard the dumbest thing in the world. “You… love me?”
Wonwoo nodded, heart stuck in his throat, tears running freely now. “Yes, Namgi. I love you and—”
Namgi burst out laughing again—louder, crueler. He was practically doubled over, as if Wonwoo’s words were some absurd joke. Wonwoo didn’t understand why he was laughing. Maybe he’d taken something else tonight. But that didn’t matter anymore.
“You don’t love me, Namgi?” he asked softly, defeated, like he already knew the answer but needed to hear it anyway.
Namgi stopped laughing. His face hardened. His eyes were glassy, tired, empty. “No, sweetheart…” he said at last. “I can’t love anyone.” He paused, then sighed—a heavy, final kind of sigh. “I think, honestly… I just pity you. You gave up your rich-boy life to stay here, in this mess. You clung to me, to this shitty apartment, to that awful job. Baby… I think you’re useless. And love? That’s something I’ve never had in me. Sorry, baby.”
He said that last part with a mocking tone, spitting the words out like poison. Wonwoo’s body shook. He couldn’t stop crying. The tears streamed down his face like overflowing rivers. In the middle of the pain, he brought a hand to his stomach.
“Nothing would change your mind, Namgi?” he asked, voice breaking. “I… I’m pregnant. It’s your child, and—”
Namgi cut him off again. But this time, not with laughter—with his hand. He grabbed Wonwoo by the throat, squeezing hard enough to silence him. “What the hell are you talking about?” he growled. “My child? How am I supposed to know that bastard is mine?”
The alpha’s fingers tightened around his neck in pure rage. Wonwoo couldn’t answer. He could barely breathe. Tears kept streaming down his face as the air was squeezed out of him. When Namgi finally let go, he did it slowly, like he was savoring it. But his fingers had left marks—red, already aching.
Coughing, throat burning, Wonwoo looked at him. His eyes were still full of tears, but there was anger there too. And dignity. “It’s your child. I haven’t been with anyone else. Unlike you, who sleeps with any omega you stumble across on the street,” he spat out, voice cracking.
Namgi scoffed with that sloppy, cruel smile. “Do whatever you want. Get rid of it. I’m not taking responsibility.”
“If that’s what you want, then pay for the abortion, Namgi. I—” Wonwoo’s voice broke, but before he could finish, Namgi’s laugh filled the room again. A low, mocking, mean laugh. He was a miserable bastard.
“No, you’re insane, Wonwoo,” he said with disgust, shaking his head like he was hearing a bad joke. “I’m not paying for you to get rid of some creature that probably isn’t even mine. I know what you are… a little slut. Wouldn’t surprise me if at that job of yours—”
“I don’t even HAVE a job anymore, Namgi!” Wonwoo shouted, voice rising. His fury exploded like a pressure cooker blowing open. He wanted to kick something, scratch the floor, hit him… but fear was stronger. Fear clung to his skin like a shadow.
Namgi looked at him with one eyebrow raised, like he was confirming something he already believed. Slowly, he turned toward the coat rack, grabbed his leather jacket, and slipped it on, fastening only the top button.
“Tomorrow, when I come back to MY house, I don’t want to see you here. Get out. You’re useless without your fancy rich-boy life. You mean nothing now that you don’t even have a job. You’re worthless to me, Wonwoo. Don’t let me see you again.”
And just before he walked out, he turned his head one last time, half his face hidden in the shadow of the doorway. He smiled wickedly, a crooked little smirk. “And… be grateful I didn’t do you a favor and finish choking you a few seconds ago, sweetheart.”
The door slammed shut. Wonwoo fell to his knees, like his body could no longer hold the weight of everything crashing down on him. The tears poured out uncontrollably—silent, suffocating sobs. They shook him from the inside out, draining him bit by bit.
Everything hit him like a bucket of ice water: Namgi didn’t love him. Had never loved him. To him, Wonwoo was just a burden, someone who’d thrown away a comfortable life only to end up in this hell. Now he had no job, no partner, and no safe place to stay. He had nothing.
He couldn’t even afford an abortion. And raising the baby that quietly grew inside him? Impossible. Thinking about his parents didn’t help. He couldn’t crawl back home after leaving with so much pride. They would never give him money to end the pregnancy. And if he told them he planned to keep a baby without an alpha, he’d be met with pure contempt. Humiliation upon humiliation.
Wonwoo was completely screwed. And alone. Alone in the world. Well… not entirely. Inside him, a tiny heart was beating. But that only added more weight. More pain. Did a baby really deserve to be born into a world this cruel? Into this loneliness?
He didn’t know where the strength came from, but he stood up. His legs barely worked, but he moved. He started packing his things in silence, slow and mechanical, like he was sleepwalking.
He didn’t own much. A few changes of clothes, some personal care items, a couple packets of instant ramen, half a bottle of water. He shoved everything into flimsy, wrinkled bags, as if they were the remains of his life.
The sky was already lightening when he finished. It was 6:00 AM. The streets were still half-asleep when he walked out with the bags hanging from his arms. He wandered without direction, eyes down. With every step, he felt heavier, like strangers’ stares were needles sinking into his back. People looked at him like they could smell his defeat, like they could read his misery on his face. And the farther he walked, the lower his spirit sank.
Then he saw it: the bridge. That old bridge, rusted in places, the one everybody avoided but nobody bothered to fix. It didn’t have any anti-suicide barriers. It didn’t need them. There hadn’t been a public suicide there in years. But for Wonwoo, it was perfect. Silent.
He reached it with cold hands and a foggy mind. He climbed up easily, letting the bags slip from his arms. He heard his things spill over the concrete—the ramen packets scattering like they were giving up too. He placed his hands on the metal railing, still damp with dew.
He took a breath. A long one. And with that exhale, he felt his heart just… sink. Like there was nothing left for it to beat for. He was ready. He pushed himself up, shifting his weight to his wrists, preparing to climb over and leave everything behind.
But then a hand—big, warm, steady—closed firmly around his wrist, yanking him out of the trance. Wonwoo turned his head, breath hitching, tears blurring his vision. A man with warm golden skin stood beside him, chest rising and falling rapidly. He looked about Wonwoo’s age, but his eyes were filled with horror and panic.
“What are you doing?!” he shouted, breathless, almost desperate.
And Wonwoo… something inside him just broke. The moment he saw how shaken that stranger looked—how genuinely worried he seemed—it shattered him even more. For the first time in a long time, someone wasn’t judging him. Someone was actually seeing him.
But at the same time, a slow, burning frustration rose inside Wonwoo like a quiet fire. This stranger—this unknown guy with warm hands and desperate eyes—was ruining everything. His plan. His only way out. His one decision. He stared at him for a second, eyes dry, expression blank.
“What, isn’t it obvious?” he asked, voice flat, dry, almost lifeless. There was no emotion left in it, only a thick, icy resignation—like ashes on his tongue.
The stranger didn’t let go. If anything, he held on tighter, but not in an aggressive way—just steady. Determined. He pulled him gently, just enough to get him a few inches away from the railing, as if one wrong move might make him lose him completely.
“Yeah… yeah, it’s obvious,” he said between breaths, still catching his air. “But… I don’t think you should do it. This isn’t your only way out. Whatever hell you’re going through… you’re gonna get through it. I swear.”
His voice was soft, filled with this hopeful sincerity that sometimes makes everything worse. Wonwoo felt a sting in his chest. He wanted to laugh in his face. He wanted to spit the words right back at him.
Sure, like it was that easy. “I doubt it. And anyway… why do you even care?” he said, his tone dragging with indifference, like he was talking about the weather.
He tried to pull his wrist free, to shake off that grip, but the stranger didn’t let him. He only held on tighter—not hurting him, not forcing him—just holding him like it was the only thing he knew how to do at that moment.
And then he said it: “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”
The world just… stopped. Wonwoo froze. His body, his mind, his breath—everything suspended in place. How did he know? Panic mixed with confusion, rising in his throat like a thick knot. And then he felt it. That other presence. Sweet. Familiar. Subtle, but definitely there. He was an omega too. Of course. Obviously. He’d sensed it easily. He could smell it, feel it. A tremor of embarrassment shot down Wonwoo’s spine. God.
“Not everything is lost,” the stranger said, this time in a lower, warmer voice—almost like a caress. “I can help you.”
His words were like a warm blanket over an open wound. Wonwoo pressed his lips together hard, but it didn’t matter. The tears came again. He’d cried so much already, but they kept coming. Damn hormones. Damn life.
And then, without asking, without saying anything, the stranger pulled him into a hug. Just a simple hug, no explanation. And Wonwoo… let him. He let himself be held. He sank into those unfamiliar arms as if they were a temporary shelter—fragile, but enough. As if someone had finally shown up in time, even if it was a complete stranger. Maybe that was all he needed right now. A hug. A moment to breathe. Someone who wouldn’t let go.
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
The stranger’s name was Mingyu. He was the one who, without hesitating for even a second, helped Wonwoo carry his things with surprising ease—like it was something he did every day. And the most unexpected part was that almost immediately, he offered him a job. Was there anything Mingyu couldn’t fix with that enthusiastic energy of his?
“I own a little café,” he said, smiling shyly but with bright eyes. “It’s nothing fancy, it’s small… pretty cozy, I’d say. And right now we need someone to work the register. I bake the cakes, cookies, bread, and I make the coffee too, okay? You’d take the orders and put them into the system, does that sound good? You said you’ve worked as a cashier before, right?”
Wonwoo nodded. Mingyu talked fast, like his words were trying to outrun his thoughts. He was clearly excited, and the excitement was almost contagious.
“Oh, and… well, when your belly gets bigger and all that, you’re gonna need to rest, so don’t worry about that, okay? And, uh, you also told me you don’t have anywhere to stay, so… you can come home with me. I live with my mom, but I’m sure we can make space for you, yeah?”
Wonwoo wanted to refuse immediately. Accepting that much help from a stranger made him uncomfortable. But when he looked at him, all he saw was another omega with a bright, sunny smile. Mingyu had one of those faces that made you lower your guard without realizing it.
There was something vibrant about him, overflowing with life and hope. And while that kind of energy was a little irritating for someone like Wonwoo—used to days filled with gray—he couldn’t deny that deep down, he felt a small spark of warmth. A quiet, gentle warmth settling in his chest.
“I don’t want to be a burden, Mingyu… I could stay here, but just temporarily. I’ll look for a place to rent, okay?”
“Of course, sure,” Mingyu said, still smiling. “But… you’re gonna need help with the baby and everything. You really shouldn’t be living alone. Or, if you’d rather, you could find a place not too far from here, how about that?”
Wonwoo didn’t say anything else. He just nodded, exhausted—physically and emotionally. He could barely stay on his feet. Mingyu took him to his house which, while not fancy, felt warm and roomy. Even from the outside it had that inviting atmosphere that wrapped around everything. The entrance had a ramp instead of stairs, and it didn’t take Wonwoo long to understand why.
Mingyu’s mother used a wheelchair. She was an older woman, maybe around sixty, with a face marked by time but carrying a kind of calm that demanded respect. Wonwoo wondered how old Mingyu must be to have a mother that age. She seemed serene, though tired around the eyes.
“Hi, Mom. This is Wonwoo—he’s gonna be our new cashier. But, you know, he’s going through a rough moment right now, so I thought maybe… he could stay here for a while. We’ll figure out the best way to fit him in.”
Mingyu spoke the same as always—full of hope, like everything was possible. Wonwoo, meanwhile, wanted to melt into the floor from embarrassment. He bowed awkwardly and shyly approached the woman, offering his hand with the softest smile he could manage.
“Hello, nice to meet you. I’m Wonwoo.”
“A pleasure, I’m Soji. Make yourself at home. Mingyu’s a good host,” she answered with a kind smile. Her wheelchair was electric, and she moved around the house with ease.
The living room was big, with wide spaces made so she could move comfortably. The doors, the hallways—everything was adapted. The kitchen was beautiful, with a spotless, well-kept stove and a modern refrigerator that contrasted with the warmth of the rest of the home. The dining room was large, clearly meant for family gatherings. In a glass cabinet by the wall, there was a collection of fine dishes—delicate and carefully preserved.
Soji stayed in the living room watching TV while Wonwoo followed Mingyu on a tour of the house. Finally, they reached his room. It was simple, not heavily decorated, but there was something about it that felt safe. A refuge. The warm-colored walls and neatly made bed gave it a peaceful vibe.
“Alright, Wonwoo. You can sleep here. The bed is big, and… well, we’ll have to share the bathroom, I hope that’s okay. Oh, and there’s plenty of space in the closet, so you can put your clothes in there.”
Mingyu’s bed was a full size—just like the one Wonwoo used to share with Namgi. The memory tightened his throat. All of this was new, uncertain… but for the first time in a long while, Wonwoo felt that maybe, just maybe, he was somewhere he could breathe again.
“Where are you going to sleep, Mingyu?” Wonwoo asked suddenly, gently cutting him off.
“Oh… on the couch in the living room,” Mingyu said with an easy smile. “It’s super comfortable, I tested it myself a bunch of times before Mom and I bought it.”
He sounded so casual it was clear he genuinely didn’t mind. Wonwoo slowly shook his head. At the end of the day, they were both omegas and honestly, was it really that wrong to share a bed? He didn’t think so. But he also knew they didn’t have that level of trust yet, so maybe it was better to leave things as they were.
“Make yourself at home, Wonwoo… Put your things wherever you want. I’ll go make something for lunch, okay? And if you want to shower, go ahead and use it. Don’t worry about anything, alright?” he said, with that calm smile that somehow brought a bit of light into all the confusion. “We’ll open the café on Monday, and I’ll start training you that same day.”
Every word came out of his mouth like everything was already planned, like the future wasn’t as uncertain as it felt. That confident, optimistic way he spoke made everything sound a little more hopeful, even though there was still a lot to figure out.
Wonwoo, however, didn’t want to take advantage of their kindness. He knew he wasn’t going to live there for free. He’d work as hard as he could and give Mingyu everything he earned, no matter what.
He desperately needed a shower, but he was also starting to get hungry. And more than anything, he wanted to rest. He hurried to put away the little he owned. He felt embarrassed when he saw the contents of his bags: packets of instant ramen, plastic pouches of rice. That was it. He pushed everything into a corner of the closet and then headed to the bathroom.
It was spacious and bright, clearly designed to make things easier for someone using a wheelchair. There was a metal bar running along the shower wall, and Wonwoo imagined Mingyu’s mother used it. That detail touched him unexpectedly.
He turned on the shower and let the hot water hit his back. His body relaxed almost instantly, as if the day’s exhaustion was melting off him with every drop. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was grateful. Mingyu truly felt like an angel who’d fallen right into his life at the perfect moment—unexpected but so, so welcome.
Maybe, Wonwoo thought, if his baby was really meant to be born, the least he could do was try to do things right. Start over. Take care of himself. Be thankful. But it wasn’t that easy. It still hurt. He still felt so incredibly sad. What hurt the most was realizing that a complete stranger was being more patient and considerate with him than Namgi—the person he thought loved him.
Wonwoo cried. Quietly, biting down on his lips, letting the tears disappear into the shower stream. At least this way, if his eyes turned red, he could blame the shampoo.
When he finished, he dried himself carefully and got dressed. He picked something comfortable: a loose shirt, soft pants. For the first time in days, he felt a little lighter, a little calmer. He set a hand over his stomach. His belly was still flat, no visible change. He hadn’t felt any symptoms yet. But if his calculations were right, he’d be entering the fourth week soon. That’s when things would really begin.
Anxiety mixed with hunger. His stomach grumbled quietly, and even though he felt shy about going out, he figured he could at least offer to help set the table.
He walked toward the kitchen. Sunlight poured through the wide windows, filling the space with warmth. Mingyu was there, back turned, cooking peacefully. Now that Wonwoo was calmer, he could study him better. He was taller than him, with broad shoulders and a solid build—he clearly exercised often. And yet, he had the unmistakable scent of an omega.
Mingyu moved with ease between the stove and the counter. The smell in the air was mouthwatering, and Wonwoo felt his mouth water instantly. Something hot and homemade… He hadn’t smelled anything that comforting in a long time. He approached shyly.
“Can I help with anything?” he asked, not quite meeting Mingyu’s eyes.
“Yeah, of course,” Mingyu said immediately. “Can you ask my mom if she wants lunch now or a bit later?”
Wonwoo nodded and went to the living room. Soji was there, reclining slightly in her electric chair, yawning softly.
“Hi again…” he said politely. “Mingyu wants to know if you’d like to have lunch now or later.”
Soji looked at him with a warm, almost motherly smile, and calmly turned off the TV.
“Oh, tell him I’m tired… I’m going to take a nap, okay? I already ate what he left me this morning. Eat well, Wonwoo. You need it… for both of you.”
Her gaze drifted softly to Wonwoo’s stomach—still flat—but her words wrapped around him like a blanket. He blushed immediately. Of course… if Soji was an omega too, she could definitely smell the baby. He smiled back awkwardly.
She maneuvered her electric chair effortlessly, moving with the kind of confidence that told Wonwoo the house had been built entirely around her needs—and she knew every inch of it.
Then Wonwoo headed back to the kitchen. The warm air, rich with the smell of freshly made broth, welcomed him like a soft embrace. Mingyu had already served kalguksu into two steaming bowls, the rising spirals of steam making the whole room feel even cozier.
“Soji said she’ll eat later, she wants to rest now,” Wonwoo reported, taking a seat near the entrance.
Mingyu nodded as he arranged the plates.
“I figured… it’s her nap time,” he said with a small smile. “Alright then, let’s eat, yeah?”
He picked up the bowls with both hands and set them on the table carefully, like he was serving something precious. Wonwoo just nodded quietly, watching the other omega move so comfortably in his own space, with that gentle energy that was slowly becoming familiar.
It was strange. Wonwoo felt like he could trust Mingyu. There was a warmth in him, a kind of unpolished sincerity that put him at ease. And yet, the discomfort was still there. They’d barely met, and already Gyu had offered him a roof, food, even space in his life. Everything so fast. So… generous, it almost felt unreal. And that made him tense up a little. It was too much kindness, too soon.
"Can you grab the black tea from the fridge, Wonwoo?" Mingyu asked as he turned to get some silverware.
"Sure," he answered immediately, obeying without hesitation.
He took out the glass pitcher sitting on one of the shelves. The dark liquid shifted softly inside, like even the tea had been made calmly.
"We make a good team," Mingyu said out of nowhere, flashing that perfectly timed smile of his.
Wonwoo didn’t know what to say. He just nodded again, feeling a tiny spark of warmth light up in his chest. A team? he thought. That sounded… nice.
They sat at the table across from each other, bowls of kalguksu between them. The smell of the broth, the soft noodles, the perfectly cooked vegetables stirred up an unexpected hunger. Wonwoo picked up his chopsticks and began to eat slowly. The flavor was comforting, like a warm hug after a long, difficult day.
He had already told Mingyu almost everything. He had stripped down his story like someone peeling off wet clothes after the rain—slowly, ashamed, but needing warmth. From leaving his family to the moment Namgi kicked him out of the apartment they shared—all of it had come out unfiltered. And Mingyu had listened. Not just with his ears, but with his heart. No judgment, no pitying sighs. Just genuine attention. No words of sympathy, no uncomfortable looks.
"Alright…" Mingyu finally said after a quiet moment. "We should also schedule an appointment with a doctor. Do you know how many weeks along you are? We need to take good care of you, Wonwoo…"
The phrase threw him off. We need to take good care of you. The we echoed in his head. Why was Mingyu talking like they were some sort of “us”? Was that just how he spoke, or was he taking on too much too fast?
Wonwoo wanted to trust him. He really did. There were no red flags around Mingyu; his instincts weren’t setting off any alarms. But… they hadn’t gone off when he met Namgi either. Could he really trust his gut anymore?
"I’m about to hit my first month," he murmured, still staring into his soup.
Mingyu nodded, as if making a mental note. "Perfect. Then we can make an appointment for week six, okay? It’s better to keep track from the beginning."
He said it so casually that for a second, Wonwoo wondered if he had been through something similar before. But he didn’t remember Gyu ever having an alpha. Had he taken care of someone else before? The thought poked at him, but he kept it to himself. He had already said enough for one day.
He nodded quietly, and they kept eating. The rest of the meal passed in calm silence, without tension. It wasn’t awkward—if anything, it felt like a safe space. Wonwoo had talked enough. He had already stripped himself bare in front of Mingyu, and now he just wanted to exist without anyone expecting anything from him.
Saturday was spent resting. He slept on and off, curled up under the clean blankets Mingyu had given him, and didn’t do much else. The other omega respected his rest and didn’t bother him at all. Only at night, with the house wrapped in darkness, did Mingyu softly step into the room.
"Do you want some dinner?" he asked quietly.
Wonwoo nodded slightly from the bed. He wasn’t hungry, but he didn’t want to refuse either. Not that Mingyu waited for a real answer. A few minutes later he returned with a simple tray: a steaming cup of tea and some cookies he had just baked. He handed it to him with a warm smile, like it was nothing.
"They’re fresh out of the oven," he said.
Wonwoo took a bite and froze. They were delicious. Sweet, soft, with that homemade warmth that almost made him cry again. He didn’t say anything, just nodded, chewing slowly, as if he didn’t want them to end.
Then he watched Mingyu grab a couple of blankets from the closet and a pillow from the bed. With soft steps, he walked out toward the living room, leaving the door slightly open. He was going to sleep on the couch, just like he’d promised.
Mingyu was sweet. Quiet. Gentle in a way that felt almost unreal. Wonwoo felt like he was being handled with this delicate, almost reverent care—like he was a feather floating in the air. It wasn’t unpleasant… just unfamiliar. And it stirred something in him, a strong desire to give something back. Even if he didn’t know how yet.
Later that night, Wonwoo woke up. He needed to use the bathroom. He walked barefoot down the hallway, wrapped in the hush of the early morning, when something stopped him.
There was Mingyu, lying on the couch. And he wasn’t sleeping peacefully. His brow was furrowed, like he was carrying some discomfort even in his dreams. His long, broad body barely fit on the sofa. His legs hung a little over the edge, and one of the blankets had slipped halfway off. He clearly wasn’t comfortable.
Wonwoo watched him quietly, his heart squeezing. Would it really be so terrible if they shared the bed? After all, they were both omegas… and he just wanted Mingyu to sleep comfortably. He just wanted to give back a little of everything he was receiving.
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
Mingyu had such a meticulous routine that it showed even on Sundays. Wonwoo noticed it as soon as he woke up—not because of noise, but because of the warm, sweet smell of freshly made pancakes drifting through the air and slipping under the door straight into his bed. The scent was so good his stomach growled instantly, reminding him he’d only had a couple of cookies for dinner the night before.
He got up slowly, still half-asleep, and padded barefoot down the warm hallway to the kitchen. When he turned the corner, the sight wasn’t surprising, but it was comforting: Mingyu stood at the stove, moving with this effortless efficiency, a spatula in hand and an apron tied around his waist.
It wasn’t even 7:30 yet, and Wonwoo had no idea where someone who spent the night folded up on a couch found that much energy. Mingyu didn’t just look awake—he looked fresh, like the day had begun and he was already enjoying it.
“Good morning, Mingyu… can I help?” Wonwoo asked, his voice soft but clear as he stepped in, almost as if he didn’t want to disrupt the peaceful vibe of the scene.
Mingyu looked up and gave him a wide smile, the kind that lit up even his eyes. “Morning. Nah, I’ve got everything under control. My mom doesn’t usually eat a lot of pancakes—how many do you want?”
Wonwoo stayed quiet for a moment, watching the other omega flip a pancake with smooth, practiced motions. The pan sizzled gently, filling the whole kitchen with that golden, buttery smell.
“Did you go for a run?” Wonu finally asked, only just noticing the athletic clothes—light T-shirt, fitted running pants, shoes still slightly damp from the morning dew.
“Yeah, I run every morning at six,” Mingyu said casually, like it was nothing special. He flipped another pancake with the same ease, like he’d been doing this for years. Then he repeated, gentle but insistent, “So? How many pancakes do you want?”
“Maybe… three?” Wonwoo guessed, not quite sure yet how hungry he actually was—or if his body would start asking for more after the first bite.
“Let’s make it five. The baby might be hungry,” Mingyu said, turning to look at him with that little playful half-smile.
Wonwoo rolled his eyes lightly, but he couldn’t stop a small smile from rising anyway. “I’m not even one month in. That baby doesn’t even have a mouth yet,” he shot back, a bit sharper than he’d meant to. Sometimes his edge slipped out without warning.
But Mingyu didn’t react negatively at all. If anything, he answered with an easy, familiar calm, like he’d known Wonwoo for years. “Well, the baby eats through the umbilical cord either way,” he said with a soft laugh. “But I’ll make four… just in case.”
With that tiny moment of lightness in his chest, Wonwoo turned to look for plates, utensils, and something to go with breakfast. He opened cupboards and found honey, a jar of homemade jam with a handwritten label, and even milk caramel. Then he opened the fridge and took out cold milk, setting everything neatly on the table.
“Mom’s not waking up early today—could you set just two plates?” Mingyu asked without looking away from the pan.
Wonwoo nodded and followed his instructions. In a few minutes, they were both seated with their plates, the table set, sunlight coming through the kitchen window and casting a soft glow across the light wood.
True to his word, Mingyu had served himself five pancakes. Wonwoo glanced at him from the side, a bit impressed, but kept quiet. Then he took his first bite—and it was like a hug from the past. Fluffy texture, just the right mix of sweet and buttery… It was incredibly comforting.
“Whoa,” he said in surprise. “These taste like my childhood… They’re amazing, Mingyu.”
The other omega smiled softly as he took a sip of his milk. “Thanks. Maybe I should add them to the café menu once a week… They’re easier to make than some of the breads,” he said seriously, as if he were already calculating ingredients and prep time in his head. Wonwoo nodded immediately.
“They’d be a hit, I swear… Wow, how’d you learn to cook so well?” he asked, genuinely curious. Yesterday’s rest had cleared his mind, giving him a fresh desire—he wanted to know more about Mingyu.
Mingyu set his spoon down and rested his elbows gently on the table, that calm expression still firmly in place. “Well, first it was my mom who taught me. When I was a kid, she’d have me mixing batter or helping with simple recipes—stuff like cookies or banana bread…” he began, and there was this special glow in his eyes, a warmth woven into every word. “Later, when I got older, I took a few baking courses. And one to be a barista, which was one of my favorites. My mom had been running the café for longer, but at some point she couldn’t handle everything on her own anymore and… well, I had to take over. I didn’t need a university degree for that, so once I turned eighteen, I started working there full-time.”
He sounded so sure of his path, so at peace with the choices he’d made, that Wonwoo couldn’t help but admire him even more.
“That sounds really nice… Honestly, everything you make tastes amazing. Maybe you were made for this,” he said sincerely, watching the way Mingyu talked about his work like it was a natural extension of himself.
The other omega nodded modestly and kept sharing. He told Wonwoo about his love for baking—how he didn’t always make big cakes, but he’d take on one if someone ordered it. His real specialty, he said with a hint of pride, was small breads, cookies with special little twists, homemade recipes with his own flair. Everything crafted to go perfectly with a cup of coffee.
He also mentioned that he and his mom weren’t rich. They never had been. But the café gave them enough to live comfortably—not lavishly, but without struggling. Enough for warm meals, a roof over their heads, good health, and from time to time, a small treat to brighten the week. Not more… but definitely not less.
Wonwoo listened closely, and he couldn’t help thinking he had something to learn from them. He’d come from a different world—one filled with luxuries and comforts—that had crumbled without warning. Then he’d lived in scarcity, depending on the moods and whims of someone else. Now, listening to Mingyu, he thought maybe he needed to learn to live differently: more grateful, more grounded. And yes… that’s something he wanted to teach his baby too.
When they finished breakfast, Wonwoo stood up without a word, gathered the plates, and carried them to the sink. He turned the faucet and let the warm water run as he started to wash everything with slow, calm motions.
“What are you doing?” Mingyu asked from the table, frowning in genuine surprise.
“I’m washing the dishes. You cook and I clean—that’s how teams work, right?” he replied with a small smile, water running over the soapy plates and utensils.
“Oh… you don’t have to do that. That’s not what I meant when I said that, Wonwoo—”
“No, no… I like washing dishes,” he admitted, still scrubbing one of the pans. “It makes me feel at peace.”
Mingyu looked at him like he couldn’t fully process what he’d just heard. “You might be the only person on earth who thinks that about washing dishes,” he said with a soft laugh, grabbing a clean towel and moving beside Wonwoo without another word.
The minutes passed like that, the two of them working in a comfortable silence, as if they’d known this shared rhythm for years.
A while later, Soji woke up, though she preferred to stay in her room. She ate breakfast there and didn’t come out for the rest of the morning. Around midday, sunlight was hitting the windows hard, and warm air drifted through the curtains. Then suddenly, a familiar sound floated in from the street: a catchy, nostalgic melody followed by a little bell. An ice-cream truck was passing by.
Wonwoo lifted his head, confused. For a second he thought it was coming from the movie they were watching, but then he noticed Mingyu had reacted too. And then, like lightning, Soji shot out of her room in her wheelchair. Her sudden burst of energy made Wonwoo let out a tiny laugh.
“Mingyu! Get ice cream from Mr. Choi…” she said loudly, holding up a bill as she rolled down the hallway with practiced skill.
Wonwoo and Mingyu had been sitting on the couch together, watching a movie with the volume low. Gyu stood up right away, like this was a well-rehearsed routine he’d done a thousand times.
“Mr. Choi makes homemade ice cream, and he comes by once a week. We’ve bought from him for years… they’re delicious,” Soji explained to Wonwoo excitedly, like she was letting him in on one of the neighborhood’s best-kept secrets.
Mingyu was about to step outside when he suddenly stopped. He spun on his heel and walked back as if he’d remembered something crucial at the last second. “Oh, Wonwoo—what flavor do you want?” he asked, voice soft, a small smile already forming on his lips. Wonwoo didn’t even need a moment to think.
“Strawberry, please,” he answered cheerfully, sounding more lively than usual. Just the thought of ice cream brought this warm, childlike comfort. Mingyu nodded, still smiling, and headed out toward the truck.
“So Mr. Choi and his ice cream are kind of a local thing, huh?” Wonwoo asked, curious, settling his legs more comfortably on the sofa. Soji nodded enthusiastically, resting her hands on her lap with a mix of elegance and calm.
“Yeah, yeah… This community is really unique and welcoming,” she said, her voice warm, full of pride and affection. “I’m glad you ended up here… You’re going to need this peace to have your baby. They need to grow up healthy…” Soji let out a soft sigh, like the thought of a new life stirred something deep in her—old emotions that never fully faded.
Right then, the door opened, and Mingyu came back holding a small varnished wooden tray with a curved handle in the middle and three perfectly arranged ice-cream cones. Despite the heat outside, the scoops had barely begun to melt, as if they knew they were about to be appreciated.
The strawberry cone looked like a little masterpiece—pale pink with red swirls, clearly made with real fruit, topped with a generous spoonful of homemade jam. The vanilla cone he handed to Soji looked just as artisanal, dotted with tiny specks from natural vanilla beans. And the chocolate one Mingyu kept for himself smelled rich and intense, like pure cocoa.
“Here you go,” Mingyu said to Wonwoo, handing him the cone carefully, almost like it was something sacred.
Wonwoo took a bite the moment it touched his hand, and his eyes closed instantly. The cold mixed with this perfect sweetness, and the chunks of real strawberry inside the creamy texture made everything taste more alive, more real. It felt like being five years old again, sitting under the sun with ice cream dripping down his fingers.
“Having a child is a wonderful thing, Wonwoo…” Soji said suddenly, her voice low, as if the words had slipped straight from her heart before she could hold them back. She didn’t sound harsh or patronizing. She sounded… wounded. And that was when Wonwoo understood.
“It was very difficult for me to have my baby,” she went on, smiling softly, though there was sadness behind it. “Mingyu came into our lives like a blessing… even though I was already a little older…”
She took a small spoonful of her ice cream, like the memory had momentarily stolen her breath.
Soji and Jaewook had met a long time ago, back in the hallways of a downtown high school. Jaewook was the kind of alpha everybody admired—smart, well-mannered, hardworking, with a smile that disarmed anyone. Soji, on the other hand, was a quieter omega, soft-spoken, with a natural elegance she didn’t even try to show off.
Jaewook fell for her the moment he saw her. The second they exchanged a few words, he started finding excuses to see her more. They’d walk home together after class, share lunches, and before they even realized it, they were planning a future. They got married right after turning eighteen. Adulthood hit immediately: Jaewook worked as an office messenger during the day and studied accounting at night.
They knew exactly what they wanted—a family. Jaewook dreamed of a home filled with kids, laughter, messy breakfasts. Soji wanted the same. She never used contraceptives. Every heat cycle was a new hope. Every attempt, a new promise. But the baby never came.
After the first year, Soji went to the doctor. That was when she heard the diagnosis she didn’t know whether to take as a sentence or a fragile glimpse of hope: her eggs were dying prematurely. Not all of them—but most. The few that survived were rare, unpredictable, and getting one to be fertilized would be a matter of luck… or a very long wait.
Jaewook didn’t fall apart. He looked at her the same way he did on the first day. He held her hand and told her it didn’t matter how long it took, that he wasn’t going anywhere. But Soji felt worn down, caught between the dream of becoming a mother and the guilt of not being able to give the man she loved what he wished for most. The pressure from Jaewook’s parents didn’t help either; they kept asking when the first grandchild would arrive.
So they stayed quiet. Jaewook would tell them it wasn’t time yet—that he wanted to finish school first, get a stable job, build a future. And he did. He graduated, got a good accounting job, they started saving, and they built this house. He designed it himself, with a small room meant for the baby they hoped would come. A crib would fit perfectly in the corner by the window. But still… no baby.
Years went by. Celebrations became bittersweet. Then Jaewook’s mother passed away, and in the middle of grieving, Soji tried to free him. “Let me go,” she had told him. “Find another omega, someone who can give you what you deserve.” But Jaewook hugged her tightly and said the only thing he needed was her.
And it was only when she stopped waiting that it finally happened. The miracle came quietly—an odd symptom, a slight delay she didn’t dare get her hopes up about… until the doctor confirmed it. The best birthday gift she could have imagined.
Soji was only a few weeks pregnant when she told Jaewook. It was August, his thirty-ninth birthday, and she had tears in her eyes as she placed the positive test in his hands. The baby would come in April.
“Mingyu was our late miracle,” Soji murmured, her voice drifting back to the present as she took another spoonful of ice cream. “And every day since then has been a gift… one I never thought I’d be blessed with.”
Wonwoo stayed quiet for a moment. The silence between the three of them wasn’t uncomfortable; it was soft, like a warm blanket. And as his strawberry ice cream slowly melted over the cone, he couldn’t help thinking about his own baby… and how maybe everything really did happen for a reason.
Soji and Jaewook were unbelievably happy. After so many years of waiting, the pregnancy felt like a brand-new spark in their lives. They threw themselves into preparation with an energy that seemed endless. Jaewook pulled out his old sketches, his ideas, and started expanding the house with his own hands. He built a room just for the baby—soft-colored walls, a wide window to let the morning light in, and enough space for a crib, a dresser, shelves full of books and toys.
They even designed a small garden in the backyard. Soji wanted flowers, but Jaewook insisted on planting a fruit tree—something their child could grow up alongside, something symbolic. They settled on a plum tree. Every morning before work, Jaewook would stop and look at it, as if he could measure his future child’s growth by the tiny new leaves.
They went to every doctor’s appointment together. They saved each ultrasound like treasure. One of Soji’s eggs had finally been fertilized. Against every odd, they had done it. And they were determined to give this tiny forming life everything they possibly could.
Jaewook started saving even more strictly. His priorities shifted completely. He felt blessed that the house was already paid off, that they had no debts, that Soji could stay home through the whole pregnancy. Everything would be okay. By the sixth month, they learned the baby was a boy—and Jaewook cried. Not from sadness, but from a joy so strong it practically shook him.
Soji remembered how Jaewook would talk to her belly every night. He told their baby about his day, sang little songs, promised he’d be a good father. Sometimes he just rested his head against her belly in silence, like he could hear every heartbeat.
When Mingyu was born, it felt like the whole world held its breath and then exhaled in celebration. The entire community shared their joy. Everyone had known Soji and Jaewook for years—they knew their journey, their struggles—and they loved that baby as if he belonged to all of them.
Mingyu grew up happy. He was a curious, sweet, bright-eyed kid, with his father’s dark hair and his mother’s calm eyes. Those first years were the happiest of Soji’s life. She and Jaewook took turns reading him bedtime stories, took him to the neighborhood park, let him play in the garden among the flowers and the plum tree that was finally beginning to bear fruit.
But life has its cruel ways of reminding you that nothing lasts forever. When Mingyu was eight, his father was driving home from work. It was an ordinary afternoon, the sky turning orange. Jaewook took his usual route, thinking about dinner, about how Mingyu had asked for help with a school project. But he never made it home. A cargo truck with worn-out brakes failed to stop at an intersection and slammed into his car. The impact was brutal. The car was unrecognizable. Jaewook died instantly.
The news spread through the community like wildfire. Everyone was devastated. But Soji’s pain was different—deep, silent, an empty space nothing could fill, a wound that didn’t bleed on the outside but hurt with every breath. She didn’t scream, didn’t break anything—she just stopped talking. For days, she shut herself in the room with Mingyu’s old crib and cried in silence.
Jaewook’s lawyer told them he had left money behind for them. They were also told that the truck driver’s company would pay compensation. But none of it mattered. No amount of money could replace Jaewook. No number could bring back his voice, his laugh, his warmth.
Soji didn’t touch the money. She couldn’t. It felt cold. Tainted. Months passed. Mingyu started going to school alone, his lunchbox sometimes prepared by a neighbor, sometimes by a woman from the community who offered to help. He was only eight, but he already understood loss.
It wasn’t until Jaewook’s father—Mingyu’s grandfather—came to visit, a stern-faced man with warm eyes, that something inside Soji seemed to wake up again. He didn’t show up with accusations or expectations—just hands ready to help. They sat in the kitchen and talked for hours. When he left, Soji stared at her empty teacup. The next day, she went to the bank and started the paperwork.
With the insurance money and the compensation, she opened a café. Not just any café—the one Jaewook had always dreamed of: wooden tables, big bright windows, the smell of fresh bread, vases filled with flowers. A space full of life. Just like him.
Things slowly began to get better. Soji started smiling again, even if with a touch of sadness. Mingyu grew up surrounded by the smell of coffee and vanilla, learning to bake bread rolls by the time he was ten, helping with cups and orders. The café became his second home. And although the pain never vanished, it became gentler, easier to carry with each passing day, each customer, each morning.
“There aren’t alphas like Jaewook anymore…” Soji said suddenly, her gaze unfocused, her sigh full of memories, nostalgia, and endless tenderness.
Her eyes shone with unshed tears. Wonwoo looked at her, feeling a lump in his throat, and when he glanced at Mingyu, he saw him quietly nodding. His eyes held that old pain too—the kind that never fully disappears. And Wonwoo agreed. There really weren’t alphas like Jaewook anymore.
After dessert, Mingyu cooked something light. The three of them sat at the table, still talking about Jaewook, sharing memories as if each one kept him alive a little longer.
Later, Soji went to rest, and he and Mingyu watched another movie together, this time without saying much. The silence between them was warm, comforting. Their snack was more of Mingyu’s cookies with tea. Again. And Wonwoo felt happy. There was something about that house, those quiet little moments, that made him feel safe—like he belonged there.
And that’s when he made up his mind. “Mingyu, this couch is definitely not comfortable to sleep on…” Wonwoo sighed, turning toward him.
Mingyu looked over, a little confused.
“Sleep with me… I mean, we should sleep in your bed together. That way you won’t be uncomfortable… I’ll be fine, I— I’m used to sharing a bed with someone, so…”
The offer hung between them for a few seconds. Mingyu seemed to think about it—not hesitating, just… surprised. Finally, he nodded. “Alright,” he said softly.
It was nothing. Just a shared bed. A bit of human warmth. Nothing that could hurt them… right?
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
On Monday, Mingyu woke up at four in the morning. The alarm barely finished its first beep before he shut it off with this precise, automatic motion. Wonwoo didn’t have to get up. That routine was Mingyu’s thing, something he chose to do out of discipline. And yet, Wonwoo got up too, eyes squinting, hair sticking up in every direction. He didn’t say anything.
Mingyu went out for his run. Just twenty minutes, the same route as always through the quiet neighborhood streets, where the orange streetlights still glowed on the corners. The air was cold, his breath coming out in little clouds. When he got back, he went straight to the shower, leaving a trail of damp footprints behind him. When he came out, hair dripping and a towel over his shoulders, he crossed paths with Wonwoo in the hallway.
“All yours,” he said, gesturing toward the bathroom with a tired but satisfied look.
“I don’t know how you do this every day,” Wonwoo muttered, walking in.
While he got dressed, Mingyu moved quickly around the kitchen. He pulled out ingredients without making noise, turned on the coffee maker, and started preparing breakfast: scrambled eggs, rice with seaweed, and some chopped fruit. He served a portion for Soji at the table, complete with utensils, and packed the rest into two lunch boxes, closing them carefully.
By the time Wonwoo came out, fully dressed and with damp hair, everything was nearly ready.
“How was the shower?” Mingyu asked, lifting a brow while tucking the containers into an insulated bag.
“Good. I want to look presentable on my first day of work,” Wonwoo said with a small smile.
They left together. The sky was slowly lightening. They walked for about thirty minutes, following the same route Mingyu knew by heart, crossing calm streets and greeting the occasional early-rising neighbor.
“Sometimes I come by bike,” Mingyu said as they rounded the last corner before the café. “It helps me get in more exercise… and I get here faster.”
“Wow, you really like working out, huh?” Wonwoo yawned, covering his mouth with his sleeve. “I’d be happy if I could still be asleep right now.”
“You could,” Mingyu said with a tiny smile, “but you don’t want to.”
When they reached the café, Mingyu dug through his jacket pocket for the keys and unlocked the rolling door. With one strong, smooth pull, he lifted it. The soft metallic rattle broke the quiet street.
Inside, the café greeted them with its usual warmth. Honey, coffee, and yellow tones blended with the first hints of sunlight sliding through the big windows like gold brushstrokes. The counter had a clean, modern design. The display case was still empty, but the space was perfect—wide and tidy.
Several light-wood tables sat neatly arranged, each with its chairs aligned just right. A side counter with individual stools faced the street, perfect for solo customers or morning readers. But the real magic happened behind the counter, where the smell of dough and coffee would soon begin to bloom.
They started cleaning without saying much. They swept carefully, wiped down floors and tables. Mingyu set several batches of dough on the counter to rest, each bowl covered with a linen cloth.
“You always do all this by yourself?” Wonwoo asked, looking around at the spotless place.
“Most of the time. Sometimes I get help,” Mingyu answered without looking up. “Hyukjin used to help before. He was a beta studying architecture. He was finishing his degree and needed some extra cash. He worked as my cashier. Good guy. But he graduated and started field practice. He quit a couple weeks ago.”
“And I’m his replacement?”
“Something like that.” Mingyu smiled as he set another dough aside to rise. “Though I’m not sure you can handle the register.”
Wonwoo shot him a fake offended look. It wasn’t opening time yet, but they were getting close. While the dough rested, Wonwoo turned on the coffee machine. Steam rose softly, and the sound of the first drips filled the silence. Then he just… watched.
Mingyu worked with easy confidence. It was unusual for him to let someone watch him bake, but with Wonwoo, he seemed perfectly at ease. And Wonwoo kept a polite distance, almost afraid he might disturb something delicate if he got too close.
The cookies came out first—big trays filled with golden ones, slightly crisp around the edges. Mingyu set them on the worktable to cool. The smell filled the whole place instantly.
“They smell amazing,” Wonwoo said, stepping a little closer.
“Don’t touch them yet, they’re still hot.”
“I’m just smelling them…” he replied, hands raised like he was surrendering.
After that, they carried the trays to the front counter. Then came the bread: chocolate-filled buns, others stuffed with jam, baked donuts that looked soft as pillows. Mingyu also made some pastries that were still only halfway finished.
Wonwoo took everything to the front while Mingyu decorated—some frosting here, chocolate lines there, sprinkles, powdered sugar. He worked fast and neatly, like he already knew exactly which topping went on which pastry.
Finally, Mingyu flipped the “Closed” sign to “Open” with a small sigh.
“Alright,” he said. Then he looked at Wonwoo, who was standing behind the counter looking a little nervous.
“Hey…” Wonwoo began. “You still haven’t shown me how to use the register.”
Even though it wasn’t complicated, the register and the computer were connected, which made things easier. All he had to do was type in the name of the drink or pastry, and the system automatically pulled up the price. The screen was clean and easy to read, with big buttons and soft colors. Wonwoo watched carefully while Mingyu walked him through everything with his usual patience.
“This is how you do it,” Mingyu explained, pointing at each section of the screen. “Here’s where you charge, here’s where the total shows up. You can cancel orders with this button, or redo them here if you make a mistake… It’s not hard, see?”
His voice was calm, no pressure at all, like he genuinely trusted that Wonwoo would be fine. And right then, the bell over the door chimed softly. Their first customer of the day walked in.
A young woman with a big bag over her shoulder and earbuds in approached the counter.
“Good morning,” Wonwoo greeted, smiling nervously.
“Good morning,” she replied, taking out one earbud. “Do you guys have chocolate-filled bread?”
“Yep, right over here,” he said, guiding her toward the pastries Mingyu had decorated earlier. “Would you like a coffee too?”
“A large Americano, please.”
Wonwoo replayed the steps in his head. He entered the items on the screen, checked the total, and handled the cash without messing up. Then he made the coffee. The machine was simple—just a few buttons and a steady hiss of steam. He poured carefully, made sure the cup was full, and snapped the lid on tight.
From the kitchen, Mingyu watched him out of the corner of his eye. “You did good,” he said with a smile once the customer left, coffee in hand and looking satisfied.
The pace stayed steady throughout the morning. More customers trickled in little by little. The café was in a perfect spot—right on a busy corner surrounded by offices, schools, and small shops. It naturally drew in office workers looking for a quick breakfast, tired students hunting for caffeine, and moms who, after dropping off their kids, treated themselves to a latte and a warm donut.
Inside, the place felt cozy. Sunlight washed over the tables, the smell of fresh bread mixed with the scent of roasted coffee, and soft music played in the background. Wonwoo didn’t stop moving—wiping tables when people left, serving drinks, organizing the display—while Mingyu stayed in the kitchen, baking another batch of cookies or prepping fillings.
“Everything okay out there?” Mingyu asked during a quick break, peeking out.
“Yeah, I’m surviving,” Wonwoo answered with a small smile as he dried a cup.
In the afternoon, the flow of customers slowed down, but it didn’t stop completely. Unlike the morning rush—when everyone was in a hurry and grabbing things to go—people tended to stay longer at that hour. Some came in with laptops, others with books, and a few just sat by the window, watching the world outside. The atmosphere shifted into something calmer, almost intimate.
Wonwoo adjusted quickly to that change of pace. He cleaned up quietly after people left, picked up empty dishes, replaced napkins, and then went back behind the counter, alert but relaxed.
By 6:30 p.m., the last customers started to trickle in. Tired-looking office workers, men and women dragging the day on their shoulders, came in to buy a bit of bread for dinner, maybe a coffee for the road, and left with soft, grateful smiles.
At exactly 7:00, Mingyu flipped the sign from “Open” to “Closed.” He let out a deep breath, the kind someone releases after finishing a day well. Wonwoo sighed too, resting his hands on the counter.
“You did a good job,” Mingyu said as he put away the few pastries that were left. “We only have three cookies and three breads left. Not bad.”
“So that means you calculated everything perfectly?”
“As always.”
They gathered the last utensils in quiet, turned off the main lights, and stepped outside, locking the door behind them. The air was colder than it had been in the morning, and the sky was completely dark.
“It’s not good for you to be standing that many hours…” Mingyu murmured as they walked, his voice soft, almost like he was talking to himself.
“I didn’t even notice,” Wonwoo replied after a moment, smiling faintly. “I was focused on the work. It felt good to get a change of scenery… This job suits me better.”
His voice sounded genuine—almost surprised. Like he was just now realizing he’d needed something like this. Mingyu didn’t answer right away. He walked in silence for a few seconds, lost in thought.
“Either way, we should get you a chair. Once your belly starts growing, it’ll be harder… and even now, standing all day isn’t good for you.”
He said it with a tenderness that needed no flowery language. His worry was real, warm, and unmistakable. Wonwoo simply nodded, touched by how Mingyu seemed to think of everything.
When they got home, the smell of homemade food greeted them from the entrance. Soji had made a stew that filled the whole house with a warm, comforting aroma. Plates were already set on the table, along with a little basket for the leftover bread.
“You got here just in time,” Soji said from the kitchen, a wooden spoon in her hand. “If you’d taken any longer, I would’ve eaten everything myself.”
“It smells amazing,” Wonwoo said, hanging his jacket on the rack.
The three of them sat down to eat. The stew was rich and hearty, with tender meat and potatoes that melted in the mouth. The bread Mingyu baked was the perfect dessert. They didn’t talk much, just shared the meal in a quiet, familiar comfort.
Wonwoo felt good. Not just full—comforted. Warm. At home. By the routine that was slowly becoming part of him, by the soft domesticity of the evening, by the way Mingyu would glance at him every now and then, as if making sure everything was okay. And it was.