Chapter Text
The air outside the restaurant feels heavy with heat, especially since they just stepped out of an airconned space.
Their breath shows briefly, pale and thin, before the streetlights swallow it. The group spills onto the sidewalk in the familiar untidy way of people who have eaten well and have nowhere urgent to be. Mingyu complains about the price even though he chose the place. Soonyoung talks over him, already planning next week’s outing, voice bright enough to make the night feel less sharp. Jihoon walks slightly apart, hands in his coat pockets, gaze angled downward as if he is still hearing music that no one else can.
Junhui stays close to Minghao.
Wonwoo stays where he always stays, a half-step out of the center, present without taking up space. He laughs at the right moments. He answers when addressed. He keeps his hands his pockets and his expression calm.
Inside, the question does not leave him.
Junhui used to play piano. Not anymore.
It is a simple fact, offered without ceremony, but it follows Wonwoo out of the restaurant like a shadow. He listens to the group talk around it as if the world hasn’t changed, as if the sentence hasn’t opened a door that should have remained closed.
When they reach the intersection, Soonyoung stretches his arms overhead and groans.
“I’m going to sleep for eighteen hours,” he declares. “I only have afternoon class tomorrow and I deserve it.”
“You never deserve it,” Mingyu says.
“I deserve everything,” Soonyoung replies, grinning. “Junhui, you’re coming next time too, right?”
Junhui smiles. “If I’m free.”
“You’ll be free,” Soonyoung says, as if willpower can rearrange schedules. He looks pleased with himself for having said it, and for a moment Junhui’s expression softens into something almost fond.
They split at the crosswalk. Mingyu heads toward the station. Jihoon peels away in the opposite direction with a brief nod. Minghao walks with Junhui, talking in low, quick Chinese that Wonwoo cannot fully catch from behind. Soonyoung and Wonwoo remain together, because they always do, because their dorm building waits in the same direction.
Wonwoo does not turn his head.
He feels Junhui’s presence receding anyway, as clearly as if someone has lowered the volume on the world.
Soonyoung bumps his shoulder lightly with his own.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” Wonwoo says.
Soonyoung makes a sound of disbelief, but he doesn’t press. He talks about a class presentation instead, complains about a professor’s harsh grading, laughs at his own story. Wonwoo lets the words wash over him. He nods in the right places.
When they reach the dorm entrance, Wonwoo holds the door without thinking. Soonyoung bounds ahead, still talking, and Wonwoo follows.
He is halfway through taking off his shoes when his phone vibrates.
A message in the group chat.
Minghao: Junhui’s not feeling well. I’m bringing him back.
A second message arrives almost immediately.
Minghao: He says he’s fine. But he’s not looking good.
Wonwoo’s hand stills against the lace of his shoe.
Soonyoung, already halfway toward the elevator, looks back at him. “What?”
Wonwoo’s throat tightens in a way that feels irrational. His mind supplies a calm explanation before his body can react: late night, heavy food, fatigue. The simplest answer is usually correct.
Yet his attention sharpens, the way it always does when something threatens to fall out of place.
“He’s not feeling well,” Wonwoo says.
Soonyoung steps back toward him, face rearranging into concern as he checks his phone. “Junhui? Is he sick?”
“I don’t know.” Wonwoo’s voice stays even. It takes effort.
Soonyoung is already tapping on his phone screen. “I’ll call Minghao.”
Wonwoo watches him do it. Watches the way Soonyoung’s expression shifts as he listens. Watches his eyebrows lift.
“What do you mean he can’t breathe?” Soonyoung says, suddenly quieter. “No, not like asthma, like… what? He’s sweating? He’s dizzy?”
Wonwoo’s fingers curl slowly into his palm.
Soonyoung glances at him, eyes wide now. “Minghao says Junhui’s pheromone blocker might be failing.”
Wonwoo does not move.
The words hang in the air, clinical and blunt. Blocker failing. As if Junhui is a device, as if bodies are machines. Wonwoo’s mind reaches for explanation. Blockers fail. Omegas have cycles. That is normal.
His body, however, reacts first.
Heat rises under his skin. Something closer to panic, to a protective surge that has no place in him and no permission to exist.
He takes one step, then another, before deciding to.
“Where are they?” he asks.
Soonyoung answers without hesitation. “Freshman dorm side. Minghao’s trying to get him upstairs.”
Wonwoo is already moving.
He leaves his shoes where they are. He doesn’t register the cold floor under his socks. He hears Soonyoung scrambling after him, calling his name, but he doesn’t slow. His world narrows into direction and distance.
Freshman dorm side. Freshman dorm side.
The night air cuts across his face when he pushes outside. He walks fast, then faster, breath sharp in his chest. Something in him strains toward a point he cannot yet see.
When he reaches the freshman building, he spots them immediately.
Minghao stands near the entrance, one hand gripping Junhui’s elbow. Junhui’s head is angled down, hair falling forward to hide his eyes. His shoulders rise and fall too quickly, breaths uneven. Even from several meters away, Wonwoo sees the sheen of sweat at his temple. The careful containment is gone. Something has broken through.
Minghao looks up and sees him.
Relief flashes across his face, quick and raw. “Wonwoo.”
Junhui lifts his head at the sound of the name. His gaze lands on Wonwoo as if pulled there by force. For a second his eyes are unfocused, glassy with strain. Then something sharp crosses his expression, not recognition exactly, but alarm.
“No,” Junhui says, voice thin. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”
Minghao tightens his grip. “You’re not okay.”
Junhui swallows hard. His sleeve is still pulled down, but his fingers tremble slightly where they curl around the strap of his bag. His breathing stutters again, and he squeezes his eyes shut as if trying to push sensation back into order.
Wonwoo stops in front of them.
He should ask what happened. He should keep his voice low and neutral. He should not touch. But his body has already made a decision his mind is still catching up to.
Junhui’s scent leaks through the air in faint, uneven waves. It is muffled by blockers, broken by suppressants, but underneath it there is something unmistakable. A familiar note that his body recognises the way it recognises his own heartbeat.
Wonwoo’s vision sharpens. It feels like a threat response, a pull of instinct so strong it borders on violence.
Junhui flinches as if he can sense it, as if the air has tightened between them. His eyes dart away, searching for distance.
Wonwoo does not move closer. He locks his hands together in front of him to keep them still.
“Junhui,” Minghao says, gentle but firm. “We need to get you help.”
“I took my suppressant,” Junhui murmurs. “I did. It’s… it’s just early. It happens.”
Soonyoung arrives breathless, eyes flicking over Junhui’s face. “What happened? How are you feeling?”
Junhui’s jaw tightens. He tries to straighten. The motion costs him. His breath catches, and for a moment the composure cracks into something painfully human.
Wonwoo watches it happen and feels something inside him shift again, the same quiet irreversible movement he has been resisting for days.
Junhui’s body is in distress.
And Wonwoo is here.
His mind offers the solution that has always been his refuge: distance. Step back. Don’t interfere. Let Minghao handle it. Let Soonyoung handle it. Let someone else—
But Junhui’s gaze flicks toward him again, involuntarily, and his breathing falters.
The air seems to tilt.
Jihoon appears at the entrance as if summoned by the tension itself, coat half-buttoned, hair slightly messy as though he came straight from his room. His eyes take in the scene in a single sweep. He does not ask questions. He moves. And Wonwoo distantly recalls that Jihoon is the only omega in their friend group, before Junhui, that is.
“Okay,” Jihoon says, voice calm. “Junhui, look at me.”
Junhui’s eyes find him, grateful in a way that is almost invisible.
Jihoon steps closer, keeping a respectful distance, positioning himself between Junhui and Wonwoo without making a show of it. “Can you walk?” he asks.
Junhui nods once, too quickly. “Yes.”
Jihoon watches his breathing, the tremor in his hands. “Not alone,” he says. “Minghao, support him. Soonyoung, call campus health. If they’re closed, call an ambulance. This doesn’t look like a normal heat onset.”
Soonyoung’s mouth opens, then closes. He nods and fumbles for his phone.
Wonwoo remains still, every muscle coiled.
Jihoon’s gaze flicks toward him briefly in assessment. “Wonwoo,” he says, voice low enough that only he can hear, “you need to step back if you can’t control your response. You’re making it harder.”
Wonwoo’s throat tightens.
“I’m not doing anything,” he says.
Jihoon’s eyes hold his. “Your body is.”
The words land like a slap, quiet and precise.
Junhui swallows and presses his lips together. His posture says he is trying to remain dignified, trying to remain unremarkable, trying not to become a scene.
Then his knees buckle slightly.
Minghao catches him.
That is enough.
Soonyoung is already on the phone, voice shaking. “Yes, it’s an omega in distress, blockers failing, he’s dizzy and sweating, yes, yes, we’re at the freshman dorm entrance—”
Jihoon nods once, as if he has done this before. He turns to Wonwoo again, voice controlled. “You’re going to help get him to the hospital,” he says. “Because Minghao and Soonyoung are betas and can’t help him if he needs pheromone stabilising, and Junhui will pretend he’s fine, and you—” his eyes narrow slightly “—you will do what you’re told if it keeps him safe.”
Wonwoo’s jaw tightens.
Junhui’s gaze flashes to him, sharp with refusal. “No,” Junhui says again. “I can go with Minghao.”
Minghao looks helplessly between them.
Jihoon does not soften. “Junhui,” he says, “you can argue later. Right now you need medical help.”
Junhui’s lips part, then close. He swallows, eyes briefly shuttering as another wave of discomfort passes through him.
Wonwoo hears himself speak before he chooses the words. “I’ll take him,” he says.
Junhui’s head snaps up.
Wonwoo keeps his voice even, factual. “Campus health will send you to the hospital anyway. It’s faster if we go now.”
Junhui stares at him as if trying to decide whether this is cruelty or practicality.
The ambulance arrives before Junhui can decide.
Lights wash the building in intermittent blue. The medics move with brisk efficiency, asking questions in practiced tones. Jihoon answers first, concise, clear. Minghao supplies details. Soonyoung hovers too close, hands fluttering uselessly.
Wonwoo stays slightly back until a medic looks at him.
“Are you his mate?” the medic asks, blunt in the way professionals become when time matters.
“No,” Wonwoo says.
The medic’s gaze sharpens. “Then why are you responding like one?”
Wonwoo does not answer.
His body has betrayed him already. There is no clean explanation.
Junhui is guided onto the stretcher. His eyes are half-lidded now, breath uneven, face pale. He looks angry at himself more than anyone else.
“Junhui,” Jihoon says softly, leaning close enough to be heard. “It’s okay. Let them help.”
Junhui’s fingers curl into the blanket. “I don’t want this,” he whispers.
Jihoon’s expression does not change, but his eyes soften. “You’ll be fine.”
The stretcher is wheeled toward the ambulance. Wonwoo follows without being asked.
A medic stops him with a hand to the chest. “Family only.”
“I’m—” Wonwoo starts.
Jihoon steps in smoothly. “He’s the closest available alpha,” he says, a calculated half-truth that makes the medic’s eyes narrow but does not give them time to argue. “And Junhui’s scent response is fixating. If you separate them abruptly, it can worsen distress.”
Junhui’s eyes flick toward Wonwoo again, unfocused but searching. His breathing spikes.
The medic exhales sharply. “Fine. Get in. But you sit back. You don’t touch him unless instructed.”
Wonwoo nods once.
The doors close.
The ambulance hums to life, and the world becomes fluorescent light, sterile smell, and the sound of Junhui’s breathing struggling to become even again.
Wonwoo sits on the bench seat, hands clasped tightly between his knees. His entire body thrums with a need to move closer that feels humiliating in its strength. He stares at the floor, as if eye contact would be a surrender.
Junhui lies on the stretcher, eyes shut, brow furrowed. The medic adjusts monitors, checks vitals, asks questions in a calm voice.
“What suppressants are you on?”
Junhui answers faintly.
“When was your last cycle?”
Junhui hesitates, then gives a date.
The medic’s gaze flicks briefly to Wonwoo again. “And you’re not his mate,” he repeats, as if refusing to accept the inconsistency.
“No,” Wonwoo says again, voice flat.
The medic makes a note anyway, the pen scratching against the clipboard.
Wonwoo’s palms sweat. His heartbeat is too loud in his ears. He feels ridiculous, out of control, as if his body has been hijacked by something older than reason.
When they reach the hospital, everything becomes faster.
Doors. Hallways. Curtains. Junhui’s name spoken by strangers. “Omega distress.” “Blocker failure.” “Elevated stress response.”
Wonwoo is told to sit.
He does not sit until Jihoon arrives, breathless, coat thrown over his shoulders. Minghao and Soonyoung trail behind him, eyes wide, faces tight with worry.
Jihoon’s presence steadies the room. He speaks to the nurse with quiet authority. He asks what unit Junhui is being taken to. Wonwoo watches him and feels an unexpected flare of gratitude that has nowhere to go.
A few beats later Mingyu arrives, half panting as he approaches. He shares a look with Minghao, checking and confirming he is alright. He turns to Wonwoo. “What happened to Junhui?” he asks, voice low. “He was fine at dinner.”
Wonwoo keeps his gaze forward. “I don’t know,” he says.
It is true. It is also insufficient.
Junhui is taken behind a curtain.
The waiting area smells of antiseptic and instant coffee. The chairs are hard. The lighting is too bright. Time stretches, elastic and cruel.
Wonwoo’s body does not settle.
He remains tense, hyperalert, as if he expects to be called into action at any moment. He listens for footsteps. For voices. For Junhui’s name. His hands shake slightly when he loosens them from his clasp.
Jihoon watches him, expression unreadable. “You’re reacting,” he says quietly.
Wonwoo’s jaw tightens. “Stop.”
Jihoon tilts his head. “You’re not his mate,” he says, repeating the line as if testing it against reality. “And yet you’re reacting like one.”
Wonwoo says nothing.
Soonyoung shifts uneasily. “Okay,” he says, attempting levity and failing. “This is… new.”
Minghao’s gaze flicks between them, sharp with unease.
A doctor appears.
She is calm, mid-thirties, hair neatly tied back, expression professional. Her eyes take in the group, settle briefly on Wonwoo.
“Wen Junhui?” she asks.
Minghao stands immediately. “Yes.”
“He’s stable for now,” the doctor says. “We’ve managed the acute distress. He’ll need monitoring for the next few hours.”
Soonyoung exhales shakily.
The doctor’s gaze returns to Wonwoo. “And you’re the alpha who came in with him in the ambulance?”
Wonwoo nods and stands.
“Are you his partner?” she asks.
“No,” Wonwoo says.
The doctor studies him for a beat longer. “We observed a strong protective response from you during intake,” she says, voice still neutral. “Alphas can react to omega distress even without a formal bond. But your response was unusually pronounced.”
Wonwoo does not react outwardly. Inside, shame burns hot and sharp.
“I need accurate background,” the doctor continues. “Any registered partnership? Mating bite? Bond certification?”
“No registered partnership. No mating bite.”
“History?” she asks.
Wonwoo glances toward the curtain behind which Junhui lies. Junhui is not here to consent to this. Junhui would not want strangers hearing their past. Yet Junhui is in a hospital bed because his body has stopped coping.
Wonwoo chooses the least emotional version of the truth.
“We dated,” he says. “Years ago. As teenagers.”
“How long?”
“Six months officially. About two years of close contact.”
“Did you separate and met again after a period of time, probably years?”
“Yes.”
The doctor goes still for a moment, calculating. Then she nods once, as if a pattern has snapped into place.
“It’s possible he carries an incomplete bond imprint,” she says. “Especially if attachment formed during developmental years.”
Soonyoung frowns. Minghao leans forward slightly.
“What does that mean?” Minghao asks.
The doctor folds her hands. “A partial bond imprint can remain biologically active even without a formal bond. The body recognises a specific counterpart. Normally, pheromone regulation and conscious awareness keep responses within manageable range.”
Her eyes return to Wonwoo.
“But your friend has been on long-term pheromone blockers,” she continues. “Those suppress not only scent exchange but internal awareness of physiological response. If he re-entered sustained proximity with the imprint target, his body would still react. He just wouldn’t feel or recognise the changes.”
“So his body…” Soonyoung’s voice wavers. “Has been reacting this whole time?”
“Yes,” the doctor says. “Gradually. Quietly and without conscious feedback. Stress accumulates when a system is responding without behavioral adjustment. Eventually the blockers can no longer compensate.”
“And then?” Minghao asks, though his expression already knows.
“And then the body forces recognition,” the doctor says. “Acute distress. Autonomic overload. Sudden bond and pheromone awareness. What you witnessed today was not a new reaction. It was the collapse of prolonged suppression.”
Silence settles.
Wonwoo’s stomach drops, slow and heavy.
“We’d like to run an assessment,” the doctor says. “We’ll check for hormonal markers, scent receptor imprinting, and neural response signatures. It will help us determine risk and appropriate management.”
Wonwoo hears Soonyoung and Mingyu draw in a breath.
Minghao looks tense, uncertain.
Jihoon’s gaze remains steady.
Wonwoo’s instinct is to refuse. Not because he fears the test, but because he fears what it will imply, what it will drag into the open.
Jihoon speaks before he can. “Do it,” he says, quiet but firm.
Wonwoo looks at him.
Jihoon’s expression does not soften. “If it helps him,” he says simply.
Wonwoo nods once.
The nurse leads Wonwoo down a short corridor painted in a soft, institutional blue. The door closes behind them with a sound too final for something that is meant to be routine.
The room is small. One examination bed. A rolling tray of sealed instruments. A monitor with a quiet electrical hum. The overhead light is bright enough to erase shadows.
Another doctor introduces herself, confirms his name, confirms consent, explains the procedure again in careful, even Korean. Her voice is steady. Professional. Used to people who do not know what they are agreeing to.
Wonwoo listens without interrupting.
He does not tell her that agreeing is not the difficult part. Not when Junhui is lying behind a curtain down the hall, breathing unevenly because of something that has already happened.
He sits in the chair she indicates. The vinyl is cold through his trousers.
“First, a blood draw,” she says.
The tourniquet tightens around his arm. The needle slips in. A vial fills dark and slow. He watches the line of his blood without flinching, noting the slight tremor in his own fingers with detached curiosity. He is not afraid of needles. He is irritated by the loss of control.
Next, a swab inside his mouth. Quick. Efficient.
Then the monitor.
A thin adhesive pad is pressed just below his collarbone. Another at the base of his neck. A third along his wrist. The machine lights up, numbers scrolling in green.
“This will measure autonomic response to controlled scent exposure,” the doctor explains. “You may feel discomfort. If it becomes too strong, say so.”
Wonwoo nods.
A small vial is opened. Barely a drop is released into the air.
Junhui’s scent, diluted and filtered through medical standardisation, reaches him.
It is softer than memory but unmistakable. Clean skin after rain. Warm rice steam rising from a bowl held too close to the chest. A trace of citrus that never quite sharpens, only lingers. Something quietly sweet underneath, like breath against the inside of a wrist.
His body reacts before his mind finishes recognising it. A tightening in his chest. A sharp awareness behind his eyes. A pulse that seems to move through his spine rather than his veins. Heat beneath his skin. A need—directionless but insistent—to get closer to the source.
His jaw tightens. He keeps his breathing slow. His hands still.
Numbers on the monitor spike, settle, spike again.
The doctor notes them without comment.
“We need you to provide timeline,” she says next, turning off the vial. “When did you meet?”
Wonwoo answers.
“How long were you together?”
He answers.
“Any physical intimacy?”
He answers, voice flat.
“Any mating marks. Any bond initiation?”
“No.”
“Did the omega experience pregnancy?”
Wonwoo’s breath stops for half a second.
He forces it to resume.
“No,” he says.
The doctor writes and does not question the pause.
“In the years since your separation,” she asks, “did you experience persistent preoccupation with the omega?”
Wonwoo does not answer immediately. Not because he is uncertain, but because he must decide how to frame the truth.
“I thought about him,” he says. “Occasionally.”
The doctor’s gaze remains neutral. “Did those thoughts interfere with daily functioning?”
Wonwoo considers it.
Four years of controlled living. University. Military service. Schedules stacked with purpose. No empty time left unfilled. No silence left unattended.
“No,” he says. “I remained functional.”
The doctor nods, making a note.
“Did you experience restlessness, irritability, or unexplained agitation during periods of extended isolation?”
Wonwoo’s fingers press once against his knee.
He remembers nights in the barracks when sleep would not come. The sense of vigilance with no object. The impulse to walk perimeter checks he had not been assigned. The way physical exhaustion became easier than stillness.
He answers carefully.
“I enlisted a year after high school graduation,” he says. “It provided structure.”
The doctor does not miss the deflection, but she does not press.
“Did that structure resolve the agitation?”
Wonwoo breathes once, slow.
“No,” he says.
“Did you experience recurring dreams involving the omega?”
Wonwoo’s jaw tightens.
“Yes,” he says. “Occasionally.”
The doctor notes it.
“Did you seek alternative attachments during that time?”
“No.”
The answer is immediate. Clean.
After several more questions, the sensors are removed. The adhesive pulls faintly at his skin. A small irritation. A minor pain. Nothing compared to the quiet violence of what just happened inside his body.
“You can return to the waiting area,” she says. “Results will take some time.”
Wonwoo nods, stands, smooths his jacket as if preparing for a meeting rather than a revelation, and steps out.
By the time he returns, the group has rearranged itself around anxiety.
Soonyoung sits forward on his chair, elbows on knees, fingers laced. Minghao stands by the window, arms crossed, eyes unfocused on the parking lot outside. Jihoon occupies a corner seat, posture relaxed but gaze sharp.
Mingyu’s eyes flick toward Wonwoo. Then away again, polite enough not to ask the obvious question out loud.
Wonwoo sits.
No one speaks for a while.
The hospital hum surrounds them. A cart rolls by. Someone laughs down the hall. A baby cries briefly and then quiets.
Jihoon straightened on his seat. He pulls out his phone, scrolls once, then locks the screen again.
“I looked it up,” he says quietly. “Incomplete bond imprint. It’s rare, but not unheard of. Especially if two people were in close proximity for a long time during adolescence.”
Mingyu looks up. “Close proximity like… dating?”
“Like living in each other’s pockets,” Jihoon replies. “Emotional connection. Physical intimacy. But no formal bond.”
Silence settles heavy among them.
Mingyu turns toward Wonwoo. “You said you dated in high school.”
Wonwoo nods once.
“How long?” Mingyu asks.
“Six months.”
Soonyoung exhales. “That’s not exactly a short relationship.”
“No,” Wonwoo says.
“And you were in the same places a lot?” Jihoon asks. Not prying. Just filling in medical logic.
“Yes,” Wonwoo answers. “After-school clubs. Weekends. Study sessions. For two years.”
Minghao’s brows draw together. “Then why,” he asks, “did you both act like you’d never dated?”
Wonwoo does not answer immediately.
He folds his hands together. Unfolds them. Refolds them.
“We separated,” he says. “Before graduation. No contact afterward.”
“So you decided,” Soonyoung says slowly, “to pretend the past didn’t exist.”
Wonwoo’s voice remains level. “I did not think it was appropriate to bring it up.”
“Because…?” Mingyu asks.
Wonwoo lifts his eyes. Not defensive. Just precise.
“Because we are no longer part of each other’s lives,” he says. “Or so I believed.”
The sentence lands. Simple. Clean. With no place to hide.
Jihoon nods, understanding the implication. “And he followed your lead.”
Minghao looks unsettled now. “So both of you were pretending to be mere acquaintances,” he says, “while sharing a half-formed bond.”
“Apparently,” Wonwoo says.
Soonyoung leans back in his chair, letting the absurdity settle.
“That’s,” he says, “just terrible.”
Wonwoo does not disagree.
No one speaks for a while after that.
Minghao glances toward the corridor again. “Does he know?” he asks. “That he carries a half-formed bond with you?”
“I don’t think so,” Wonwoo says.
Mingyu swallows. “He’s going to find out,” he says. “And it’s going to be… a lot.”
Wonwoo only nods.
Minutes pass. Then another hour.
Wonwoo does not check the time. He only notes the gradual dulling of adrenaline, the way his body refuses to fully settle, as if waiting for another alarm.
A nurse appears at the waiting room door and calls Wonwoo’s name.
He stands immediately. His friends rise too, instinctively, but the nurse lifts a hand.
“Only you,” she says gently. “The doctor would like to speak with you privately.”
Soonyoung nods at him. Minghao’s eyes are tight with worry. Jihoon gives him a single look that says go. Mingyu says nothing, but his hand presses briefly against Wonwoo’s arm before he lets him pass.
The corridor feels longer this time.
Wonwoo follows the nurse into a small consultation room. It is neutral in every possible way. Beige walls. A table. Two chairs. A box of tissues placed with deliberate optimism. The fluorescent light hums faintly overhead.
The doctor is already inside, reading a tablet. She gestures to the chair across from her. Wonwoo sits. He keeps his posture straight. Hands folded loosely. Expression composed.
The doctor sets the tablet down.
“We have your results,” she says.
Her tone is calm. Not dramatic. Not hesitant. This is not personal for her. It is another case, another chart, another set of data. That steadiness makes the words land harder.
She studies him for a moment, then sets her tablet aside.
“It’s positive,” she says. “You and Wen Junhui share an incomplete bond signature. It is highly likely your body has been maintaining an incomplete bond imprint throughout the separation period.”
Wonwoo absorbs this without visible reaction.
The doctor continues, now with context firmly built.
“The imprint is old but strong. Likely formed through prolonged proximity and emotional attachment,” she says. She pauses, letting him absorb it.
The word attachment lands wrong in Wonwoo’s chest, like a hand pressing on a bruise.
Wonwoo does not react outwardly. He notices, distantly, the faint tightening of his chest. He breathes once. Slow. Controlled.
The doctor continues.
“Incomplete bonds are not uncommon,” she continues. “Under ordinary circumstances, such an imprint either completes into a formal bond as the couple decide to mate, or fades naturally over time after the couple separates. In your case, it persisted.”
She looks at him with quiet certainty. “Persistence over several years without completion or natural dissolution is rare. That typically suggests ongoing physiological activation.”
Meaning, he thinks, without allowing his face to change: ongoing feeling.
He does not say it. He does not confirm it. He cannot.
Wonwoo’s fingers curl once against his knee. He smooths them flat again.
“And this,” the doctor says, “is what likely contributed to today’s event. When you re-entered close proximity after years of separation, the omega’s regulatory system destabilised. Your nervous system, in turn, responded with a protective mate reaction.”
Wonwoo hears the words as if through glass.
Protective mate reaction.
He does not comment on how accurate that felt. How immediate. How involuntary.
“No mating bite has occurred,” the doctor adds. “So surgical bond removal is not applicable.”
Wonwoo nods once. He does not ask how she knows. The test already told her.
He lifts his eyes.
“What are the options?” he says.
The doctor studies him for a moment. She has likely learned to recognise different kinds of fear. He is not showing panic or denial. But the quiet, dangerous kind that calculates consequences before emotion.
“There is no single path,” she says. “But there are medically accepted approaches.”
Wonwoo’s voice is even. “What is the least painful option for him?”
Not for us. Not for me. For him.
The doctor’s expression softens by a degree almost imperceptible.
“For the omega,” the doctor says, “the least physiologically destabilising course is constant exposure to the imprint counterpart.”
Wonwoo remains still.
“Omega regulatory systems are more reactive,” she continues. “When an imprint persists without resolution, their bodies carry the adaptive burden. They compensate hormonally, neurologically, autonomically. Over time that compensation becomes strain.”
Meaning, he thinks, the body suffers what the mind cannot name.
“If the imprint counterpart remains in proximity,” the doctor says, “we can stabilise the system through gradual recalibration. If both parties consent, completion of the bond allows the omega’s physiology to settle into a sustainable baseline.”
She lets the words land before adding,
“Without completion, the imprint continues to draw on his regulatory capacity. You, as an alpha, would primarily experience psychological and affective consequences. He bears the physical load.”
The words are clinical.
The implications are not.
Close proximity. Strengthening. Completion.
Junhui would have to agree. Junhui would have to trust him. Junhui would have to accept a future that Wonwoo once decided to deny him.
Wonwoo swallows once.
“Alternative,” he asks. “If completion is not…desirable?”
This time, the doctor pauses longer.
“There is long-term suppression medication,” she says. “It’s potentially lifelong. It can reduce imprint activation. But it is not ideal. Side effects include autonomic instability, emotional blunting, reduced stress tolerance. There is limited longitudinal data.”
Wonwoo listens.
Lifelong medication. Blunted emotion. Reduced resilience.
A life spent managing a condition born from a bond Junhui never consented to carry alone.
Wonwoo’s jaw tightens. Not in anger, but in resolve.
“What about distance,” he asks. “If I remove myself? Like overseas. For a few years.”
The doctor meets his gaze steadily.
“It might reduce activation over time,” she says. “But you reunited after prolonged separation. His system has re-registered your presence. Abrupt withdrawal now carries a high risk of separation shock.”
“He has already endured one long adjustment alone,” she adds, gentle now without becoming sentimental. “Another sudden withdrawal could be destabilising.”
Wonwoo exhales through his nose.
Another abandonment would hurt him more.
He nods once. He understands. He hates it. There is no path where Junhui walks away untouched. Only paths where harm is measured.
The doctor slides a pamphlet across the table. Words. Diagrams. Statistics. Support contacts.
Wonwoo does not look at it yet.
He asks no more questions. There are no questions left that lead to an answer he can tolerate.
The doctor looks at him. “He’s in a drug induced sleep,” she says. “We’ll keep him under observation. When he’s stable enough, we’ll explain the situation and discuss consent-based options. He will not be pressured into any decision.”
Wonwoo nods again.
Consent. Options. Decisions. All words that assume Junhui has room to choose.
Wonwoo inclines his head in thanks and leaves the room. The corridor feels shorter this time. But his steps are heavier.
Wonwoo sits back down in the hard plastic chair. His hands are calm now. His body is still tense, but a different kind of tension, more controlled, more deliberate. Like bracing for impact.
He thinks, for the first time, not of romance, not even of regret.
He thinks only of one unacceptable fact.
Junhui is suffering.
And whatever this bond is, whatever it means, whatever it has been doing quietly in the background of their lives for years, it has now made itself a visible problem with consequences.
Wonwoo can endure consequences. He has been trained for them.
He cannot accept Junhui paying for them.
The curtain rustles faintly.
A nurse steps out, checks a chart, disappears again.
Wonwoo remains sitting in the same chair, posture composed, face unreadable. The heir to a dynasty under fluorescent lighting, waiting for the one person he has never been able to treat like a problem to solve.