Jihan’s POV
I wake up slowly, the way you do when your body doesn’t want to let go of warmth yet.
For a few seconds, I don’t move.
I just breathe.
The bed is soft beneath me, unfamiliar but safe, sheets heavy and tangled around my legs.
There’s an arm near me—not touching, not quite—but close enough that my omega settles instead of panics.
I know where I am.
I know who I’m with.
And the realization doesn’t scare me the way it probably should.
The room smells like him.
Not overwhelming, not sharp—just there.
Clean and warm and unmistakably alpha.
It clings to my skin, my hair, my throat.
Proof that last night wasn’t a dream, that I didn’t imagine the way he held me like he meant it.
I shouldn’t be here.
I know that.
But my omega is calm in a way it hasn’t been in a long time, humming softly under my ribs like it’s finally found the place it’s been circling for months.
I tell myself it’s just the aftermath of heat.
That this closeness doesn’t mean anything more than biology.
Even as my heart refuses to believe that.
I shift slightly, turning toward him without fully opening my eyes.
His presence is solid, grounding.
He’s still asleep—or at least quiet—and something in my chest loosens at that.
I don’t want to be the first one awake.
I don’t want to see his expression before I know what this is.
Because last night felt… mutual.
It felt chosen.
I remember the way he looked at me.
The way his hands hesitated like he was asking permission even when he didn’t have to.
The way he murmured my name like it mattered.
That doesn’t feel like nothing.
I curl in a little closer before I can stop myself, my shoulder brushing his arm.
That’s when he stirs.
I feel it before I hear it—the shift in his breathing, the tension snapping into place.
His body goes still in that way alphas do when they wake up too fast, instincts firing before thought.
I panic.
My hand moves on its own, fingers closing around his before he can pull away.
“Please don’t go,” I say, voice soft, raw with sleep and something more honest.
The words slip out before I can stop them.
I don’t mean don’t leave the room.
I mean don’t turn this into something I imagined alone.
He freezes.
I open my eyes.
He’s sitting up now, looking down at me with something fractured in his expression—shock, confusion, something like fear.
My heart stutters, suddenly aware of how exposed I am.
I follow his gaze.
Marks bloom across my skin when I move—bruises, faint and darker in places I know he kissed.
My omega stirs, pleased and sensitive, leaning into the reminder like it’s something to be proud of.
I flush.
Not with shame.
With attachment.
“My omega,” I murmur, embarrassed but truthful.
“He doesn’t like being alone after…”
After you.
I don’t say it, but it’s there.
Hanging between us.
The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable.
His face drains of color as realization sets in, like something heavy dropping into place.
He looks wrecked.
And for one terrible second, I think it’s because he feels the same. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Then he speaks.
“Oh shit—tell me you’re on birth control.”
The words hit me so hard I almost miss the rest of the sentence.
“I’m not ready to be a dad. I don’t want unwanted pups.”
Unwanted.
The room tilts.
My omega recoils so sharply it hurts, like being yanked backward by the spine.
My chest tightens, breath catching painfully as my mind scrambles to catch up.
That’s what this is to him.
A problem.
A consequence.
A mistake that needs to be managed.
I feel small.
Suddenly, painfully aware of how naked I am—not just without clothes, but without defenses.
Without the careful distance I usually keep between myself and alphas like him.
I search his face, desperate for something—hesitation, regret, softness.
Instead, he laughs.
Not because it’s funny.
Because he’s scared.
“I mean—” he says quickly, voice too light, too casual.
“It’s not like we’re going to do this again.”
That’s when it really breaks.
Not the birth control question.
That.
The implication wrapped inside it.
The way he says it so fast, so sharp, like last night needs to be categorized and disposed of before it grows teeth.
Like whatever we felt—whatever I felt—was nothing more than heat, lust, bad timing.
Like I was temporary.
Convenient.
Something that happened to him, not with him.
My chest tightens so suddenly I almost forget how to breathe.
Because I hadn’t gone into that room thinking about consequences.
I hadn’t thought about pups or risks or probabilities or how often omegas actually get pregnant from one night.
I hadn’t thought about statistics at all.
I thought about him.
I thought about how gentle he was when he didn’t have to be.
How careful.
How he touched me like I wasn’t fragile, but mattered.
I thought about the way he said my name like it fit in his mouth.
It was my first time with an alpha.
And I let myself believe that meant something.
I swallow hard, my throat burning, because suddenly everything inside me is too loud—my omega pulling inward, confused and hurt, my heart racing like it’s trying to outrun the realization settling into my bones.
“Oh,” I say.
The word comes out flat.
Controlled.
Practiced.
Like I’ve had years to learn how to sound unaffected when something hurts too much.
“Yeah. I am.”
The lie slips out smoothly.
Too smoothly.
I am on birth control.
I’ve always been.
Because that’s what omegas say when they need the moment to end.
When they need to make themselves smaller, safer.
When they need to reassure an alpha who looks like he’s already halfway out the door.
It doesn’t matter that it’s not true.
It doesn’t matter that pregnancy isn’t guaranteed, that couples go years without it, that biology isn’t a sentence handed down after one night.
What matters is that he didn’t hesitate.
He didn’t ask how I felt.
He didn’t say are you okay.
He asked how to make sure nothing tied him to me.
Relief flashes across his face before he can stop it.
It’s brief.
But I see it. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
And something inside me folds in on itself, quiet and final, like my omega curling up to protect what little is left.
I nod once.
Carefully.
Like if I move too fast, I’ll crack.
I don’t cry.
I don’t get angry.
I don’t ask why he kissed me like that if it didn’t mean anything, why he held me through the worst of it, why he let me fall asleep against him like I belonged there.
I’ve learned how to survive disappointment with grace.
“We should clean up,” he says after a moment.
“Your grandma’s worried.”
Of course she is.
Of course the world didn’t stop just because mine did.
“Okay,” I say.
And I pull away first, because I know now that if I don’t, he will—and that would hurt worse.
I dress quietly.
Every movement feels heavy, like my body is resisting the idea of leaving something behind.
The sheets that felt safe hours ago now feel suffocating, clinging to my skin like they’re asking me to stay when I know better.
His scent clings to me stubbornly.
Cruel in how comforting it still is.
It wraps around my omega, confuses it, makes it ache in a way I don’t have words for yet.
I wonder how long it will take to fade.
I wonder if I’ll ever forget how right it felt to be held by him.
When we leave the room, the hallway feels too bright, too clean.
And it hits me then— he didn’t went in my room like I thought he did because he was looking for me, he was never meant to be there.
He was just in the wrong place from the beginning.
That tracks.
I walk half a step behind him without thinking.
Not because I have to.
Because I already learned where I stand.
At breakfast, I sit beside him because that’s what’s expected.
Because families are watching.
Because appearances matter more than truth.
My knee brushes his under the table once, accidental.
I jerk back immediately.
So does he.
Like we’ve both been burned.
Conversation flows around us—engagement talk, plans, futures I’m supposed to be excited about.
I smile when I’m meant to.
Laugh softly at the right moments.
Nod when spoken to.
No one notices my hands shaking when I lift my cup.
No one notices the way my omega has gone completely still, like it’s learned that wanting is dangerous.
By the end of the day, I barely speak.
It’s not punishment.
It’s survival.
Because now I understand.
Last night wasn’t reciprocation.
It was timing.
Biology.
Heat.
I was wrong to think it meant more.
I walk beside him, shoulders drawn in, and try to ignore the ache in my chest—the one that whispers how easy it would’ve been to stay, how much I would’ve given if he’d just looked at me like I wasn’t a problem to solve.
I tell myself it’s fine.
That this is what I deserve for hoping.
Still—
His scent follows me long after we part.
And no matter how many times I replay it, the words won’t stop echoing in my head.
Unwanted pups.
Unwanted.
Just like me.