Jihan’s POV
I sit on the edge of the examination bed with my hands folded tightly in my lap, staring at the pale blue curtain across from me like it might give me answers before the doctor does.
The paper beneath me crinkles every time I breathe too deeply.
I told my bodyguards it was just a routine check-up.
A follow-up.
Nothing serious.
I even smiled when I said it—practiced, light, convincing.
They believed me.
Or maybe they pretended to.
Either way, they’re waiting in the lobby like I asked, giving me privacy I didn’t know how to ask for honestly.
I needed to be alone for this.
If I’m wrong—if this is just stress, phantom symptoms, my body reacting to fear—then I don’t want witnesses to my foolishness.
And if I’m right… I don’t think I could survive hearing it out loud with someone standing beside me.
I should’ve bought a pregnancy test first.
That would’ve been simpler.
Cheaper.
Less terrifying.
But there’s no privacy at home.
Eyes everywhere.
Concern dressed up as affection.
Questions waiting behind every corner.
Even buying one outside felt impossible.
What if someone recognized me?
What if word got back to Grandma before I could breathe around it?
What if he somehow found out before I was ready to decide what this meant?
So I came here instead, heart pounding so loudly it feels like it’s echoing inside my ribs.
The doctor is an omega.
That helps more than I expected.
Something in my chest loosens, just a fraction.
She doesn’t rush me.
Doesn’t look at me like I’m naïve or reckless.
She scans my chart quietly before looking up.
“So you haven’t taken a home pregnancy test yet,” she says gently.
“And you’re not mated. What made you suspect you might be pregnant?”
The question is clinical.
Neutral.
My answer isn’t.
“My brother keeps saying my scent has changed,” I say softly.
“And that I’m… gaining weight.”
The word fat stays lodged in my throat.
I can’t make myself say it again.
She hums, thoughtful, jotting something down.
“Any nausea?
Fatigue?
Food aversions?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“All of it.”
She glances up.
“Is someone here with you today?”
I know what she’s asking.
Who my alpha is.
Who’s supposed to be holding my hand.
“No,” I answer.
Then, because the truth is complicated, I add, “There are people waiting. But I don’t have an alpha. Or a boyfriend.”
I hesitate, then force the rest out.
“If this is negative, I suppose I’ll still have a fiancé. And if it’s not…” My voice thins.
“Then I’ll really be alone.”
The room goes quiet in a way that feels intentional.
“Did something happen with your fiancé?”
Her gaze sharpens just slightly.
Not judgmental.
Protective.
“Is he… the father?”
My fingers twist together until my knuckles ache.
“He is,” I admit.
Saying it feels like peeling skin back.
“But I don’t want someone who’s afraid of responsibility to be the father of my child.”
The words come out steadier than I feel.
Stronger.
Like something I’ve rehearsed in the dark.
She nods once.
No surprise.
No pity.
“All right,” she says.
“We’ll do this properly.
We’ll start with blood work—check your hormone levels, confirm pregnancy.
After that, we’ll do an ultrasound.”
She pauses, then adds more quietly, “To be honest… your scent already tells me a lot.
You smell settled.
Anchored.
But we don’t rely on instincts alone.”
That word—anchored—lodges itself somewhere deep.
The blood draw is quick.
A sharp pinch, then warmth.
I stare at the ceiling and focus on breathing while the vial fills, my life reduced to numbers and levels and things that will soon be undeniable.
Then comes the waiting.
It’s the worst part.
I’m sent back to the waiting area right outside the doctor’s office with instructions to sit tight.
Results won’t take long.
The room is full.
Pregnant omegas leaning into their alphas, hands resting over bellies both flat and round.
Some couples are alpha–alpha, some beta, some mixed.
All of them look… chosen.
Wanted.
I feel something twist painfully in my chest.
I wish—just for a moment—that someone was here with me.
Someone whose hand I could squeeze while waiting.
Someone who wanted this with me.
Someone who didn’t vanish the morning after.
I wish he was here.
The thought hurts more than I expect it to.
I don’t realize I’m crying until someone gently presses a tissue into my hand.
“Sir? Are you all right?”
I blink, startled.
My vision blurs.
“Oh,” I whisper, embarrassed.
“I’m fine. I didn’t realize I was crying.”
He smiles kindly, like he understands without needing explanations.
Before I can say anything else, a nurse calls my name.
Inside the office, the doctor is already smiling.
“Mr. Kim Jihan,” she says warmly.
“Your blood work confirms it. You’re pregnant.”
The word lands heavy and bright all at once.
Pregnant.
“Based on your hormone levels, you’re about six weeks along. That aligns with your symptoms.”
Six weeks.
I nod, breath shaking.
Relief crashes into fear so hard it makes me dizzy.
“We’ll do a preliminary ultrasound now,” she says.
“At six weeks, you may not hear a heartbeat yet—but we should see the gestational sac.”
The screen flickers to life.
It’s small.
Blurry.
Barely anything at all.
And yet—
“There,” she says softly.
“That’s your baby.”
My chest caves in.
I press my lips together, tears spilling freely now.
“Is that happy tears I see, Mr. Kim?” she asked with a smile.
I smile back, even as my heart feels like it’s breaking and blooming all at once.
“Of course I’m happy,” I say, because it’s true.
“It’s mine, after all.”
She talks gently as she wipes the gel away—about prenatal vitamins, omega-safe diets, rest, stress management.
She tells me not to lift heavy things, to listen to my body, to call her anytime.
She encourages me to tell someone I trust.
I nod through everything, clinging to each word like a lifeline.
When she hands me the printed ultrasound, my hands shake.
I stare at it longer than I should.
Proof.
Not just pain.
Not just consequences.
Life.
When I step out of the elevator and back into the hospital lobby, my guards stand immediately.
“Did you wait too long?” I ask softly.
“Not at all,” Jisung says gently.
“Are you okay? What did the doctor say?”
I force a small laugh.
“Did someone tell you to interrogate me?”
He looks away, caught.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Tell them I’m okay.”
Then, because I suddenly feel unbearably empty, I add, “Can we eat? Somewhere outside. Japanese food, maybe.”
He blinks.
“You could just ask the chef at home.”
I wrinkle my nose.
“I don’t like his cooking right now. I feel like I can taste him in it.”
That makes them laugh, thankfully.
“But you’ll be eating alone if—”
“No,” I cut in quickly.
The word comes out sharper than I mean it to.
I soften.
“You’re all coming. Please.”
I pout without thinking.
They sigh like they always do.
“As if we have a choice,” Chan mutters.
I smile, small and tired but real.
I like them.
I feel safe with them.
They neutralize their scents for me without being asked.
They never pry.
And when I want something—anything—they make sure I get it.
As we walk out, I press a hand lightly over my stomach, unseen.
I’m terrified.
I’m uncertain.
I don’t know how this will end.
But beneath all of it—quiet, steady, undeniable—
I feel… complete.
And for now, that has to be enough.