Wonbin’s POV
I haven’t seen Jihan since that night.
Not once.
At first, I told myself it was temporary.
That he just needed space.
That omegas always went quiet after heats, phantom or not.
I leaned on every excuse I could find because they were easier than admitting the truth: I didn’t know how to face him, and some cowardly part of me was relieved he wasn’t forcing me to.
Two months pass anyway.
They don’t ask permission.
They don’t slow down just because I’m stuck replaying the same twenty-four hours on a loop.
Every family dinner feels like pressing on a bruise no one wants to acknowledge.
The Kims still come over—Grandma insists.
The dining room fills with familiar sounds: laughter, the clink of porcelain, Appa clearing his throat when the conversation gets too loud.
Everything looks normal.
Almost convincing.
Until someone notices the empty seat beside Grandma.
“Where’s Jihan?”
It’s always asked casually.
Like an afterthought.
Like the answer won’t change the air in the room.
And every single time, everyone looks at me.
I hate that most of all.
The way their eyes linger, like I’m supposed to know.
Like I’m the obvious answer.
Like whatever happened between us is written all over my face, even though no one says it out loud.
I shrug.
I lie.
“He’s sick.”
“He’s resting.”
“He’s busy with school.”
Sometimes I say all three in the same night, contradictions stacking on top of each other until even I can hear how thin it sounds.
The truth is uglier.
I don’t know where he is emotionally.
I don’t know what he’s thinking.
I don’t know if he hates me, fears me, or has already decided I don’t exist.
I don’t even know if he’s okay.
That’s the part that keeps me up at night.
I want to talk to him. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
God, I do.
I pick up my phone more times than I can count, thumb hovering over his name like it might burn me if I touch it.
I replay that morning over and over, torturing myself with all the versions where I did the right thing.
I should’ve stayed.
I should’ve asked him how he felt instead of panicking about myself—about consequences, about what it meant for me.
I should’ve noticed how small he looked when the haze cleared.
How quiet he went.
How his scent didn’t scream heat anymore, just fear.
I didn’t.
And now the silence feels earned, like punishment I don’t get to complain about.
“You know you’re a jerk, right?”
Juhwan’s voice cuts through my thoughts one night, blunt as ever.
He’s sitting across from me in my apartment, legs stretched out, beer untouched on the table between us.
“How could you do that and not take responsibility?”
I scrub a hand down my face, exhaustion sinking deep into my bones.
“I was drunk,” I say, even though the excuse tastes stale.
“I didn’t know it was him. You all set that shit up—at least tell me the ‘gift’ wasn’t coming. Or he could’ve stopped me. It wasn’t just my fault. He wanted it too.”
The words hang there, ugly and defensive.
Even I hear how hollow they sound.
Juhwan looks at me like he’s peeling back layers he doesn’t like.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” he says flatly.
“You were drunk enough not to recognize him, but sober enough to fuck him and knot him when you knew he was in heat.”
My stomach twists, sharp and sudden.
“You know a heat is a heat,” he continues.
“Phantom or not.
You could’ve gotten him pregnant.
Birth control or not.”
“He said he was on it,” I snap, too fast.
Too desperate.
Juhwan snorts.
“I don’t know if you’re trying to convince me or yourself.”
The room feels smaller.
Like the walls are inching closer.
“Why would he lie to me?” I ask, but my voice cracks around the edges.
I already know the answer.
Fear makes people say a lot of things.
Juhwan doesn’t soften.
“Were you nice to him when you realized it was him? Did you ask if he was okay? If it was his first time?” He leans forward.
“Did you check on him after he got sick?”
Each question lands like a blow, methodical and cruel.
I remember flashes instead of full memories. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
His face when I pulled away.
The way his shoulders curled inward.
The way he went so still it should’ve scared me more than it did.
“Or did you just tell him he better be on birth control because you weren’t ready to deal with the consequences?”
My chest tightens painfully.
I remember his eyes then—how something dimmed.
Like a light switching off to protect itself.
“You didn’t even ask how he was when he took a break from school,” Juhwan goes on.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he breaks off the engagement. Or if they send him abroad quietly because he’s pregnant and doesn’t want anyone to know it was you.”
The world tilts.
I see it too clearly: Jihan in some unfamiliar country, alone.
Carrying something I caused.
Swallowing the truth because it’s easier than letting it destroy everyone else.
Hating me in silence.
The thought makes me nauseous.
“So what do you want me to do?” I snap, panic bleeding through despite myself.
“March up to my brother and say, ‘Hey, your fiancé might be pregnant because I knotted him during a phantom heat after I walked into the wrong room’?”
Juhwan goes quiet.
When he finally stands, his disappointment feels heavier than anger.
“Grow some balls,” he says.
“I don’t want you to regret this. And honestly? I don’t even want you involved if something does happen. I don’t trust what you’d do.”
The door closes behind him.
The silence he leaves is suffocating.
I sit there for a long time, staring at nothing, letting the memories crawl in where they aren’t welcome.
Jihan’s laugh, soft and surprised, like he never expects good things.
The way he leans into warmth without realizing it.
How naturally my body fit around his, instincts flaring in ways I’d never let myself feel before.
How small he felt against me.
How right it had felt—until I made it wrong.
I miss him so much it hurts, a dull ache that never really fades.
It sits under my skin, in my chest, in the spaces between family dinners and empty chairs and unanswered questions.
And the worst part is knowing that missing him doesn’t undo anything.
It doesn’t make me brave.
It doesn’t make me honest.
It doesn’t bring him back to holidays, to laughter, to the life he quietly stepped away from.
For the first time in my life, the fear settles in deep and real— that I didn’t just mess something up.
I ruined something fragile and precious.
Something I never deserved in the first place.