Chapter Text
☾ ⋆˚࿔
Mingyu hated waiting rooms. No, he hated this waiting room.
It smelled like antiseptic and citrus cleaner and something faintly sour, like spilled juice that had been wiped up badly. The aircon hummed too loudly, constantly whirring against his ears, and somewhere to his left a child was crying in a high pitch, relentlessly, like the world had personally betrayed them.
Mingyu’s nose twitched. His thigh stuck to the plastic chair. He adjusted, immediately regretted it, adjusted again, and then jerked back a little when the movement made the gnawing feeling in his stomach sharpen into something needy and irritable and entirely unwelcome.
Across from him, a couple sat too close together. The alpha had an arm slung around the omega’s shoulders, fingers rubbing absentminded circles like they were in a drama montage instead of a pediatric clinic. Mingyu scoffed under his breath.
“Disgusting,” he muttered.
Yerim swung her legs, sneakers bumping against the chair frame. “Appa,” she said cheerfully, “that’s not a bad word, right?”
Mingyu got dragged back into reality really fast. “What?”
Disgusting was definitely a bad word. He backtracked immediately. “No—well—yes—but not, like, a swear swear.”
Yerim considered this. “You say it a lot.”
“That’s because people are very disgusting,” Mingyu said, glaring at the couple as the omega leaned in closer.
Yerim hummed. “You’re smelly.”
“I am not,” Mingyu snapped, then paused. He was. His thighs were definitely sweating. His neck too. Why was it so warm in here? Had they turned the aircon low? He tugged at the collar of his shirt and immediately felt worse. His skin felt too tight. Too loud. Something itched under his ribs, a restless coil of awareness that had no business waking up now. Not today. Not here.
He checked the clock on the wall. Ten minutes past their appointment time.
“Why are they taking so long?” he asked no one in particular.
Yerim shrugged. “Maybe the auntie is busy.”
Busy. Right. Because booster shots weren’t just—what—poke and done?
In Mingyu’s defence, it wasn’t his fucking fault. Like any good single omega parent, he’d taken a weekday off work to get Yerim her DTaP booster, something they’d postponed for two weeks because life had happened. He’d planned this carefully. Strategically. Before his heat.
Because his heat was close. Impending. Looming like a bad weather forecast.
Except now his stomach twisted again, sharper this time, and his senses kept snagging on everything: every sound, every smell, every alpha in the room. His mouth felt dry. His palms were damp. People were looking his way too, weren't they?
Miscalculations might have occurred.
The nurse finally called Yerim’s name, and Mingyu exhaled in relief so strong it almost made him dizzy.
“Okay,” he said quickly, standing a little too fast. “Let’s get this over with.”
Mingyu felt it before he even got up to his knees. Not the heat, not yet. But the unmistakable prickle of awareness crawling up his spine, the kind his body registered before his brain could catch up. His shoulders stiffened. His breath stalled halfway in. Slowly, against every instinct screaming at him not to, he turned toward the nurses’ station.
Wonwoo was there. Of course, he was.
Clipboard tucked under one arm, posture relaxed in that maddeningly unhurried way, eyes focused on the chart he was reviewing, until they lifted. Until they landed on Mingyu. The calm didn’t vanish; it sharpened, honed into something precise and clinical, and Mingyu felt it like a hand closing around the back of his neck.
Just a fraction of a second passed. That was all it took.
Wonwoo’s gaze swept him with professional efficiency: the faint sheen of sweat at his temples, the flannel shirt clinging too closely at the collar, the way his pupils had blown wider than they should have under fluorescent lights. His jaw tightened, barely perceptible, but Mingyu saw it anyway.
Oh. Oh, no.
He had picked Thursday on purpose.
Wonwoo never came to the clinic on Thursdays. He’d memorized that schedule months ago, rearranged his entire week around it. Thursdays were safe. Thursdays meant booster shots without awkward small talk, without this, without standing three feet away from Yerim’s doctor while his body decided to betray him early.
The nurse called Yerim’s name, cheerful and oblivious, already ushering her toward the treatment room. Mingyu exhaled, relief sharp and desperate, and stepped forward to follow—but Wonwoo was suddenly in his way.
It wasn’t abrupt. It wasn’t aggressive. Just an easy shift of weight, a subtle repositioning that put him squarely between Mingyu and the corridor, like he’d always been meant to stand there.
“It’s okay,” Wonwoo said gently, already crouching in front of Yerim, voice warm and steady in the way that made parents trust him instantly. “Hello Yerim-ah!”
Yerim grinned, all missing teeth and confidence. “Hello Dr. Jeon!”
“You go in, brave girl,” Wonwoo continued, smiling as he handed her off to the nurse. “Your Appa just needs to step outside for a second.”
"Wait, what???"
Wonwoo looked up. It wasn’t sharp. That was the worst part. It was calm, assessing, unmistakably doctorly, and threaded through it was something that told Mingyu he’d been made, completely and utterly.
Mingyu bristled on instinct. “I’m just fine.”
Wonwoo’s eyebrow twitched. “Mingyu-shi.”
Yerim hesitated, glancing between them. “Appa?”
“I said I’m fine,” Mingyu insisted, even as his knees betrayed him, going oddly loose. He shifted his weight, grimacing when the movement sent another unwelcome wave of warmth through his body. Everything felt too loud, too close. Wonwoo’s scent: old spice, mulberry, grounding, wasn’t helping either.
Wonwoo rose to his full height, expression settling into something firmer, something that did not invite debate. He tilted his head toward the glass door leading out to the narrow veranda.
“Mingyu-shi,” he said quietly. “Come out. I need to talk to you.”
Mingyu opened his mouth to argue. Closed it. Followed him instead, steps unsteady, dignity left somewhere near the reception desk.
The door slid shut behind them, cutting off the noise of the clinic. Cool air washed over him, and Mingyu sagged against the railing, breathing hard, patience snapping like an overstretched rubber band.
He rounded on Wonwoo, teeth nearly bared. “What are you doing here on a Thursday, hyung???”
☾ ⋆˚࿔
Mingyu’s life, if you asked him, had never been conventional. He’d presented late. Eighteen, a full four years after Minghao, two after Seungkwan, and when it finally happened, his body had twisted and settled into that of an omega. Nobody had been particularly shocked. The signs had always been there, scattered so generously across his childhood that in hindsight it almost felt rude of him to have delayed it. The meticulous need to organize things that did not belong to him, the way he cared too much and too loudly, the instinctive pout that surfaced whenever he felt wronged, even slightly. So maybe that was why no one batted an eye at a tall, broad-shouldered Mingyu turning out to be an omega after all.
That, perhaps, was also what he hated about it.
Not the omega part; he knew better than to resent that. He loved it, mostly. Loved the way it had reframed his life after Yerim’s unplanned birth, loved the softness it allowed him to claim without apology. He even tolerated his heats, begrudgingly. What he could never quite reconcile was how his body, all mushy and sensitive and reactive on the inside, insisted on looking like this on the outside. Built like an alpha’s bad decision, all shoulders and height and hands that made people assume things.
He’d been like that even before he presented. He remembered it vividly, because Jihoon never let him forget.
“Gyu,” Jihoon had said one afternoon, sprawled dramatically across Mingyu’s bed, shoes still on despite Mingyu’s repeated objections, “you organize your socks by color?”
“They wrinkle if I don’t,” Mingyu replied, hands on his hips. “Take your shoes off.”
“No.”
“Hyung.”
“You’re pouting right now.”
Mingyu clamped his mouth shut, cheeks heating in betrayal. Dongmin laughed, full and unrestrained.
“Face it,” Dongmin said. “When you present, you’re gonna cry about it.”
“I will not,” Mingyu said, immediately offended. “If anything, you cried.”
“That was a deeply emotional moment,” Dongmin argued.
When he finally did present months later, feverish and shaking and furious about the timing, Jihoon had shown up at his place with coffee and zero sympathy. “I knew it,” Jihoon said, nodding sagely at him. “Called it years ago.”
Mingyu had glared at him from the bed. “If you say omega vibes I will actually kill you.”
Jihoon grinned. “Omega vibes.”
That, Mingyu thought, was exactly the problem. People had always thought they knew what he was before he ever opened his mouth. Before he presented, it had been a harmless joke, something Jihoon teased him about and Dongmin laughed through. Afterward, it became a question: polite at first, then invasive, then exhausting.
Hyunwoo had asked him three times on their first date.
They’d been sitting across from each other in a café that tried too hard, exposed brick and menus that listed coffee origins Mingyu didn’t care about. Mingyu had ordered something warm. Hyunwoo had ordered black, like he was proving a point.
“So,” Hyunwoo said, stirring his drink without looking at him, “you’re an omega.”
Mingyu blinked. “Yeah.”
Hyunwoo nodded slowly, eyes lifting then, scanning him in a way that made Mingyu sit up straighter. “But, like—”
Mingyu felt it coming. “Like what?”
Hyunwoo hesitated. “You’re…tall.”
Mingyu stared. “Okay.”
“And built,” Hyunwoo continued, gesturing vaguely, as if Mingyu’s shoulders had personally offended him. “I just mean, I’ve dated omegas before, and they were usually more—”
“More?” Mingyu prompted, tone flat.
Hyunwoo waved a hand. “You know. Softer.”
Mingyu smiled then, polite and automatic. “I am soft.”
Hyunwoo laughed, like Mingyu had made a joke. “Right. No, I mean—subgender-wise.”
Mingyu’s smile thinned. “What about it?”
“I’m just asking,” Hyunwoo said quickly. “You don’t look like—”
“Like an omega,” Mingyu finished.
Hyunwoo winced. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
They’d dropped it after that, or so Mingyu had thought, until Hyunwoo brought it up again over dessert, and then once more, later, when his hand lingered too long on Mingyu’s wrist and he asked, carefully, whether Mingyu liked being led.
Mingyu had gone home that night and stared at himself in the mirror for a long time. Broad shoulders. Solid frame. A body that seemed to contradict the way his insides ached and softened and folded around people he cared about. It wasn’t that being an omega was the problem. It was the way people decided what kind of omega he was allowed to be.
Hyunwoo had never stopped asking. Not really. The questions just changed shape. Became expectations. Became rules Mingyu kept failing without realizing he’d agreed to them. The thought sat heavy in his chest now, uninvited and unwelcome, and Mingyu felt his jaw tighten as his mind spiraled, heat and memory tangling together in the worst possible way.
“Hey,” Wonwoo said softly.
The sound of his voice cut through the fog immediately, gentle and grounding in a way that felt almost unfair. Mingyu blinked, realizing he’d been staring at the floor of the veranda for longer than was normal.
Wonwoo was closer now, concern etched plainly across his face. “I’m taking you with me,” he said, tone leaving no room for argument, thumb brushing briefly against Mingyu’s wrist. “Home. Okay, Min-ah?”
☾ ⋆˚࿔
There had been a time; brief, fragile, and largely powered by caffeine, when Mingyu had believed being an omega could be normal.
This was after marriages and courtrooms and pediatric waiting rooms. Before heat calendars taped discreetly inside planners. Back when his biggest problem was an open-plan office and a boss who thought “synergy” was a personality trait.
Mingyu worked nine to five at a startup accelerator downtown, officially titled Senior Marketing Associate, unofficially responsible for everything from pitch decks to reminding founders to drink water. The building smelled like burnt coffee and ambition, all glass walls and exposed beams, like transparency was something you could architect into people.
He was good at it. Annoyingly so.
“You reorganized the entire campaign timeline,” Jihyo said, leaning against Mingyu’s desk, chewing on a straw thoughtfully. “Again?”
“They were out of order,” Mingyu replied without looking up, fingers flying over his keyboard. “You can’t launch brand awareness after lead acquisition. That’s insane.”
Dahyun rolled her chair over dramatically, knocking her knee against Mingyu’s. “You’re literally glowing right now, oppa.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” Dahyun insisted. “You get this look. Like you’re one Google Sheet away from world domination.”
Mingyu finally looked up, frowning. “Why are you both at my desk? Don’t you have jobs?”
“We do,” Jihyo said calmly. “But our jobs involve avoiding work.”
Dahyun nodded. “And emotional support.”
Mingyu narrowed his eyes. “For who?”
“For you,” Dahyun added immediately. “You’re doing the thing again, by the way.”
Mingyu blinked. “What thing?”
“That thing,” Dahyun said, stage-whispering, glancing around like HR might descend from the ceiling. “You’ve been reorganizing aggressively for the past hour.”
“That’s just my personality.”
“That’s what you said last time,” Jihyo murmured mildly, “and then you forgot to eat and almost passed out in the elevator.”
Mingyu huffed, turning back to his screen. “I’m fine.”
Jihyo tilted her head, observing. “How many days out of heat are you?”
Dahyun’s eyes lit up. “Oh. Oh fuck, unnie, you caught it.”
“I said I’m fine,” Mingyu insisted, a little louder this time. His chair squeaked as he shifted. His collar felt suddenly too tight. Had it always been this warm in here?
Dahyun sniffed the air. Then jerked back with a whimper. “—Gyu.”
“What?”
“Your suppressants.”
Mingyu’s stomach dropped. Slowly, he reached into his bag. Then another pocket. Then his jacket. He had forgotten them.
“I took them this morning.”
Blatant lie.
“I know you meant to,” Jihyo said. “You thought about it. That doesn’t count.”
Mingyu swallowed. His palms were damp. The office suddenly felt very loud. Very full of people who were absolutely not minding their own business.
Dahyun leaned back in her chair slowly, eyes narrowing with the kind of curiosity that should have been illegal before lunch.
“…So,” she said, sing-song, “is this the part where you pretend you’re fine until you keel over, or the part where you call him?”
Mingyu jerked back into his chair. Jihyo only blinked. “Him?”
Mingyu did not look up from his screen. His shoulders were very stiff. “There is no him.”
Dahyun gasped theatrically. “Wow. He’s been demoted.”
“I didn’t say that,” Mingyu snapped, finally swiveling his chair toward them. “I just said—this is work. I can handle it.”
Jihyo hummed, unconvinced. “You say that every time. And then you mysteriously take two days off and come back looking…well-rested.”
Dahyun grinned. “Suspiciously so.”
Mingyu’s ears burned. “That’s called self-care.”
“That’s called having a heat partner,” Dahyun corrected brightly. “One you disappear to like clockwork.”
Jihyo tilted her head. “You never bring him to company dinners.”
“Because it’s none of your business,” Mingyu said, too fast.
Dahyun leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Is he an alpha?”
“No.”
Jihyo raised a brow. “An omega?”
“No.”
Dahyun’s eyes went wide. “Oh.”
Mingyu grabbed his coffee cup and took a long sip he absolutely did not need. “Drop it.”
Jihyo studied him for a moment, then smiled faintly. “You always go to the same place, though. Same days. Same excuse.”
“And you always come back calmer,” Dahyun added. “Like someone wrung the static out of you.”
Mingyu stared at his keyboard, jaw tight. “Can we not psychoanalyze my personal life at my desk?”
Dahyun laughed. “We absolutely cannot.”
Jihyo checked the time on her phone, then looked back at him. “You’re three days out, aren’t you?”
Mingyu didn’t answer. That was answer enough.
Dahyun softened, just a little. “You should text him,” she said gently. “Before your body decides for you.”
Mingyu hesitated. His thumb hovered over his keyboard uselessly, then stilled. “…He must be busy,” he said finally.
Jihyo smiled, knowing and quiet. “He always makes time, doesn't he?”
Mingyu exhaled through his nose, something tight and conflicted pulling in his chest. He didn’t argue. He just turned back to his screen, blinking once too hard.
Dahyun grinned at Jihyo. “I give it ten minutes.”
“Five,” Jihyo replied.
Mingyu’s phone vibrated in his hand. He didn’t look at it.
☾ ⋆˚࿔
Six years ago, Mingyu had thrown up in Soonyoung’s car.
In his defence, he was eight months pregnant, freshly released from his second divorce hearing, and the smell of the lemon air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror was actively hostile. He barely had time to fumble for the plastic bag Jihoon shoved into his hands before he gagged, shoulders curling forward as his stomach revolted violently.
“Oh my god,” Soonyoung yelped, swerving just enough to be alarming. “Are you okay!?”
“Eyes on the road!” Jihoon snapped from the passenger seat, already twisting around to grab Mingyu’s hair and hold it back with practiced efficiency. “Gyu, breathe. Don’t choke. Please don’t choke in the car.”
Mingyu coughed, miserable and sweating, tears leaking out of his eyes as he slumped back against the seat once it passed. “I’m sorry,” he croaked weakly.
“You’re pregnant,” Jihoon said flatly. “You could set the car on fire and I’d still be on your side.”
Soonyoung glanced at Mingyu through the rear-view mirror, panic edging into his voice. “Gyu, you don’t look okay.”
“I am okay,” Mingyu said automatically, which was a lie. His lower back ached. His stomach felt tight and wrong. The baby kicked, sharp and insistent, like it agreed with Soonyoung.
Jihoon took one look at him and swore. “We’re not going home.”
“What???” Mingyu protested weakly, a whimper escaping his lips. “But I just want to lie down.”
“You just puked in a moving vehicle,” Jihoon said. “You’re eight months pregnant and emotionally destroyed. No.”
“So where are we going?” Soonyoung asked.
Jihoon didn’t hesitate. “Wonwoo.”
“Wonwoo?” Soonyoung repeated. “My Wonwoo?”
“Yes, your Wonwoo,” Jihoon snapped. “Your calm best friend who literally deals with pregnant people and screaming children daily and will not freak out when Mingyu throws up again.”
Mingyu sniffed. “But I’m not crying, hyung.”
His voice cracked lightly as the words came out of his mouth.
Jihoon twisted fully around in his seat then, eyes softening. “You don’t have to be okay today, Gyu.”
That did it. Mingyu turned his face toward the window, blinking hard as Soonyoung took the next turn without another word.
Wonwoo’s clinic did not explode into chaos so much as absorb it badly.
The bell over the door chimed once before Jihoon shouldered it open, half-carrying Mingyu inside while Soonyoung hovered uselessly behind them, hands fluttering like he didn’t know where to put them.
“Careful—careful—okay, chair,” Jihoon said, guiding Mingyu forward. “Gyu, sit. Sit, sit.”
Mingyu did not argue. He barely seemed to register the instruction at all, eyes glassy, body slack in that worrying way that came after too much nausea and not enough air. His head lolled forward slightly before Jihoon caught him by the shoulders.
“Hey,” Jihoon said sharply. “Hey. Stay with me.”
“I think he’s going to pass out,” Soonyoung blurted. “Is he supposed to be this pale? He looks—he looks grey.”
From the hallway, a familiar voice cut in, calm and unhurried. “Soon, if you say one more alarming sentence, I will make you leave.”
Wonwoo appeared then, coat already halfway off, expression composed in a way that suggested this was not even the strangest thing he’d dealt with today. His eyes flicked to Soonyoung first, brief and unimpressed.
“You said you were just dropping off documents,” Wonwoo said.
“I lied,” Soonyoung said immediately. “He's not okay.”
Wonwoo’s gaze shifted to Mingyu. “Okay,” Wonwoo said gently, already stepping closer. “Let’s sit you down properly.”
His hands were careful as he took over from Jihoon, guiding Mingyu into the chair, one hand braced at his elbow, the other steady at his back. Mingyu made a small, incoherent sound but didn’t resist, eyelids fluttering as he sagged forward.
“That’s it,” Wonwoo murmured, voice low. “I’ve got you.”
Jihoon hovered. “He came from court.”
Wonwoo nodded once, filing it away. “Nearing delivery?”
“Yes.”
“Any bleeding?”
“No.”
“Fever?”
“Not that I know of.”
Wonwoo crouched slightly to bring himself level with Mingyu, voice softening further. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Wonwoo. Can you look at me for a second?”
Mingyu’s lashes fluttered. He didn’t quite manage to lift his head, but his eyes shifted vaguely toward the sound.
“That’s good,” Wonwoo said immediately, like it was a victory. “You’re doing great.”
He took Mingyu’s wrist, fingers light but sure, checking his pulse. His brow furrowed just a little. “When was the last time you ate?” Wonwoo asked.
Mingyu swallowed. His lips moved. No sound came out.
“That’s okay,” Wonwoo said without missing a beat. “You don’t have to answer. I can guess.”
Soonyoung leaned in. “He had coffee with us.”
Jihoon groaned. “That doesn’t count.”
“Coffee never counts,” Wonwoo agreed calmly. He glanced at Mingyu again, thumb pressing gently at the inside of his wrist. “You’re dehydrated. Blood pressure’s low. Stress, nausea, probably a vasovagal response.”
Soonyoung blinked. “Is that bad?”
“It means his body hit its limit and pulled the plug,” Wonwoo said. “He’s not in danger. He just needs to lie down before he proves me wrong.”
He slid an arm behind Mingyu’s shoulders, firm and professional, supporting his weight without hesitation. Mingyu slumped into it instantly, eyes finally closing, breath evening out.
“There,” Wonwoo said quietly. “That’s better.”
Jihoon watched him for a second, something easing in his expression. “You’re good at this.”
Wonwoo huffed softly. “I should hope so.”
As he adjusted Mingyu more comfortably, the baby kicked, sudden and sharp beneath his palm. Wonwoo paused, hand stilling instinctively.
“Oh,” he murmured, almost fond. “Hello.”
Mingyu made a small sound, something between a hum and a sigh.
“You’re okay,” Wonwoo said to him, voice steady and certain. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
Six years later, standing on a clinic veranda with his heat creeping up and Wonwoo’s thumb warm against his wrist, Mingyu thought dimly that maybe this had always been the problem. That Wonwoo had always been calm when Mingyu was falling apart.
☾ ⋆˚࿔