Wonbin’s POV
I’ve spent the entire week waiting for this moment.
Every day felt longer than the one before.
Every message from him made my chest twist—little glimpses of him, teasing, careful, just enough to keep me on edge.
I couldn’t see him, touch him, even know if he was safe… and it drove me insane.
Now, the doors to the hotel open, and my stomach tightens.
I’m surrounded by people—omegas, family, all of them—and yet my eyes search instinctively, impatiently.
I thought I’d get a head start, maybe find him first, but of course, he’s not here yet.
I feel a flicker of disappointment.
Damn it, I should have asked where he was.
I hate feeling like a coward.
And then—
He steps through the door.
It’s like the world suddenly tilts, like everyone and everything else vanishes.
Omegas who were hovering, trying to get my attention, trying to flirt, trying to make me smile—they all evaporate.
My universe narrows, and he is the sun at its center.
His clothes, his hair, the way he moves—I notice it all, every tiny detail, and my pulse spikes.
He looks nervous.
My stomach twists.
My chest aches.
Every week apart has been agonizing.
And now here he is, radiant and alive, and I can’t even breathe properly because the thought that he could be with someone else—my brothers, other omegas—makes my stomach sink, makes my hands ache to reach for him.
I tell myself to calm down.
It’s my birthday.
Maybe… maybe I can let myself have him tonight.
But my brain knows the truth: I don’t get to keep him.
I can only orbit him, hoping he notices, hoping he stays near.
His eyes find mine.
Just like that.
Instantly.
The room tilts.
I feel my knees weaken, my heart thundering.
His gaze—sharp, hesitant, nervous—meets mine.
And all of a sudden, every ounce of control I’ve been trying to maintain for the last week evaporates.
My hand closes around his arm.
My fingers press gently, possessively.
“Hey,” I murmur, low and careful, almost painfully.
“Where are you going?”
His scent hits me fully, familiar and grounding, and the ache in my chest twists tighter.
I try to keep my voice steady.
Don’t panic.
Don’t let him know how desperate you are.
“You’re not disturbing me,” I add quickly.
“You actually… saved me.” My words are quiet, but I can feel him registering them.
The way he blinks, uncertain, makes my stomach flip.
“I think our families are already together,” I continue, forcing myself to sound casual.
“If you want, I can take you there.”
He nods, shy, fumbling slightly.
My chest tightens further.
God, he’s so delicate.
So small.
And I… I want to protect him.
Always.
“Happy birthday,” he says suddenly, handing me a bag.
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face, the way my chest warms.
“You didn’t have to,” I murmur, but the words feel meaningless.
I want him to know—every gesture, every thought, every inch of him—he matters.
“I wanted to,” he admits softly.
I glance at him and see the flush rising to his cheeks.
My fingers itch to brush it away, to calm him, to hold him closer.
We walk side by side, the world around us a blur.
Every time I see him glance at Chansoo, that slight flicker of something in my chest tightens—the jealousy, the possessive ache.
He’s mine.
I don’t care if it’s wrong.
I need him tonight.
We reach our table, and I make sure we sit close—just close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him.
It’s not enough, and yet, it’s everything.
I’m hyperaware of him—every breath, every movement, every small expression—and I feel the pull of my own restraint faltering.
I watch him laugh, nod, shift his weight, talk quietly.
I lean slightly closer, just enough that he can feel me, just enough to mark the space I occupy near him.
Every instinct screams that he belongs here, near me.
That no one else should get a chance to sweep him away while I’m still holding him in my orbit.
“You look… different,” I whisper at one point.
He blinks, nervous.
“Different how?”
“Lighter,” I say, voice low, careful.
“Like you’re not in pain anymore.”
He swallows, and I see his chest rise with the weight of that small admission.
I feel my own chest tighten in response.
He’s mine.
He could be mine, if only I let myself cross the line.
When we eat, I find every excuse to brush against him, to hand him a dish, to lean closer when he’s distracted.
My fingers touch his almost by accident, and for a heartbeat, we linger there, frozen in that contact.
I clear my throat, face burning, and he smiles faintly.
I want to reach across and capture that smile for myself.
Every small motion, every glance, every sigh he lets slip—my mind seizes it all, catalogues it, hoards it.
My birthday doesn’t matter.
The party doesn’t matter.
The noise around us doesn’t matter.
Only him.
And when he leans in, breath soft against my ear, and whispers something meant only for me, I realize I don’t want tonight to end.
I want him orbiting me, close enough to burn, close enough that I can’t stand it but can’t let go.
He’s here.
He’s real.
And I ache for him in a way I can’t explain, a way I know I shouldn’t feel—but I don’t care.
Not tonight.
Tonight, it’s mine to hold, mine to orbit, mine to keep as close as I can without crossing the line…
And maybe, just maybe, on my birthday, that’s enough.