Ruofei's POV:
March 11th - 2:47 AM
The pain wakes me.
Not the dull, constant ache I've grown used to over the past months, but something sharp and searing that rips through my abdomen like lightning.
I gasp, hands flying to my belly, and feel it—the unnatural tightness, the way my body is clenching in on itself.
No. Not yet. It's too soon.
Another wave of pain crashes over me, worse than the first, and I bite down on my lip hard enough to taste blood.
Four days. The twins aren't supposed to come for four more days.
But my body clearly has other plans.
I reach for my phone with shaking hands, pulling up Wenli's contact. It rings twice before he answers, voice thick with sleep.
"Ruofei? What's wrong?"
"Hospital," I manage, breathless with pain. "I need—fuck—I need to go to the hospital. Now."
I hear rustling, the sound of him moving quickly. "I'm coming. Two minutes."
The call ends, and I'm left alone in the darkness with the pain.
It's getting worse. Each contraction—because that's what they are, I realize with growing panic—is stronger than the last, coming faster, giving me less time to recover in between.
And underneath it all, worse than the physical pain, is the screaming.
The bond.
It's not subtle anymore, not the dull ache I've learned to live with. It's shrieking, demanding, pulling at me with such intensity I can barely breathe.
Alpha, it's saying. Need alpha. Need bond. Need—
"Qingyue," I whimper, the name torn from me without permission.
I press my hand over my mouth, horrified at myself. I can't. I won't. I refuse to be that weak, that needy.
But another contraction hits, and the bond flares so intensely I see stars.
"Qingyue," I gasp again, tears streaming down my face. "Please. Please, I need—"
The door bursts open. Wenli is there, still in pajamas, hair wild, eyes wide with panic.
"Ruofei—oh fuck." He's across the room in seconds, helping me sit up. "Okay. Okay, we're going. Can you walk?"
"I don't know." The admission feels like failure, but it's the truth.
He doesn't hesitate, just scoops me up in his arms—surprisingly easy despite my pregnant bulk, testament to the beta strength he retained after his transformation.
"I've got you," he murmurs. "I've got you, soulmate. Just breathe."
The stairs are a blur. The car is a blur. Everything is pain and the desperate, clawing need for someone who isn't here.
"Qingyue," I sob into Wenli's shoulder as he settles me into the back seat. "I need—I can't—"
"I know." His voice is gentle, sad. "I know, Ruofei."
Another contraction. I curl into myself, hands pressed to my belly where I can feel the twins moving, distressed by whatever's happening.
I'm sorry, I think to them. I'm so sorry. Your father should be here. He should be holding my hand, helping me through this. But I can't—I can't let him—
The bond screams louder, and I scream with it.
The hospital is chaos.
Nurses appear with a wheelchair the moment Wenli carries me through the emergency entrance. Someone is asking questions—how far along, when did the contractions start, any complications—but I can barely hear them over the roaring in my ears.
"Dr. Park," I manage. "Need Dr. Park."
"She's been called," a nurse assures me. "She's on her way."
They're wheeling me somewhere, down bright corridors that make my eyes hurt. Wenli is beside me, holding my hand, saying something I can't quite make out.
Then Dr. Park is there, looking alert despite the early hour, her hands cool and professional as she examines me.
"Ruofei, I need you to focus on me," she says firmly. "Can you do that?"
I nod, though I'm not sure I can.
"The twins are in distress. Your body is going into labor early, and I don't think we can stop it." She's already moving, gesturing to nurses. "We need to do an emergency C-section. Right now."
"No," I gasp. "It's too early. They're not—"
"They're close enough. Thirty-seven weeks and four days is considered full-term for twins. They'll be fine." Her voice softens. "But we need to get them out quickly, or there could be complications."
Another contraction rips through me, and I nearly black out from the pain.
"Ruofei." Dr. Park's voice cuts through the agony. "I strongly recommend we call your alpha. Having him present will make this easier, safer—"
"No!" The word tears out of me. "No. He can't—I can't—"
"Ruofei—"
"Please." I'm begging now, past pride or dignity. "Please don't call him. I can do this. I can—"
The bond flares again, so intense I actually do black out for a second.
When I come to, they're already moving me to the operating room.
"We'll do it without him," Dr. Park is saying, though her expression says she thinks this is a terrible idea. "But Ruofei, this is going to hurt. More than it should. Your body wants your alpha here, and going against that will make everything harder."
"I know." My voice is barely a whisper. "I know. But please. Please don't call him."
She nods, though I can see the disapproval in her eyes.
"I'll be right outside," Wenli says, squeezing my hand one last time before they wheel me through the operating room doors. "You've got this, soulmate. You're the strongest person I know."
Then I'm alone with the surgical team, and the real nightmare begins.
They said it would hurt.
They didn't say it would feel like dying.
The epidural helps—dulls the physical pain of the incision, makes it bearable. But it does nothing for the bond, which is now screaming so loudly I can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but endure.
"Qingyue," I sob, not caring anymore who hears. "Please. Please, I need you. I can't do this without you."
"You're doing beautifully," Dr. Park says, but her voice sounds distant, underwater. "Almost there, Ruofei. Just a little more."
I feel pressure, pulling, the strange sensation of something being removed from my body.
And then—
A cry.
Thin and reedy and absolutely perfect.
"It's a girl," someone announces. "A beautiful baby girl."
I try to see, craning my neck, but they've got her over by the warming table, doing whatever it is they do to newborns.
"One more," Dr. Park says. "Stay with me, Ruofei. One more."
More pressure. More pulling. The bond is still screaming, but under it now is something else—anticipation, joy, need.
Another cry joins the first.
"And a boy. Congratulations, Mr. Huang. You have a son and a daughter."
Tears are streaming down my face, hot and unstoppable. "Are they okay? Please tell me they're okay."
"They're perfect," Dr. Park assures me. "Small, but healthy. Strong lungs on both of them."
Relief crashes over me so intensely I nearly pass out again.
"Can I—" My voice cracks. "Can I see them?"
"In just a minute. We need to finish here first."
The next few minutes are a blur of medical procedures I don't fully understand. Stitching, cleaning, monitoring. All I care about is the sound of my babies crying, proof that they're alive and here and real.
Finally—finally—a nurse appears beside me, holding two tiny bundles.
"Would you like to hold them?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
She places them carefully in my arms, one in each, and the world stops.
They're so small. So impossibly, perfectly small. The girl is on my left, wrapped in a pink blanket, her tiny face scrunched up and red. She has a shock of black hair—Qingyue's hair—and when she opens her eyes for just a moment, they're purple. My eyes.
The boy is on my right, in a blue blanket, and he's slightly smaller than his sister. His hair is white—my hair—wispy and soft. His eyes, when they flutter open, are blue. Not Qingyue's dark blue-grey, but a lighter, brighter blue that's somehow both of us and neither of us.
"Hi," I whisper, voice breaking. "Hi, babies. I'm your... I'm your dad. I've been waiting so long to meet you."
The girl makes a small sound, not quite a cry. The boy yawns, tiny mouth opening impossibly wide.
And just like that, I'm in love.
Completely, utterly, irrevocably in love.
"You're perfect," I tell them through my tears. "Both of you. So perfect."
I'm vaguely aware of being moved—from the operating room to recovery, from the gurney to a bed. The twins stay with me the whole time, one nurse hovering nearby to make sure I don't drop them in my exhausted state.
Wenli appears at some point, his face lighting up when he sees the babies.
"Oh, Ruofei," he breathes. "They're beautiful."
"They are, aren't they?" I can't stop staring at them. Can't stop cataloging every tiny feature, every small movement.
My parents arrive shortly after—my mother in tears, my father suspiciously misty-eyed.
"Congratulations, son," Dad says quietly, gently touching the boy's tiny hand. "You did so well."
"They're healthy?" I ask again, needing the reassurance.
"Perfectly healthy," Dr. Park confirms from the doorway. "Five pounds two ounces for your daughter, four pounds fifteen for your son. Excellent weights for twins born at thirty-seven weeks."
"Have you chosen names?" my mother asks, settling into the chair beside my bed.
I shake my head. "Not yet. I'm too tired to think straight."
It's the truth. Exhaustion is pulling at me, making my eyelids heavy, but I don't want to let go of the twins. Don't want to miss a single second of being with them.
"You should rest," Wenli says gently. "We'll watch them."
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intend. "I need—I want to hold them a little longer."
He doesn't argue, just pulls up a chair on my other side.
We sit in comfortable silence, my entire family gathered around this bed, watching two tiny miracles sleep.
I'm almost dozing off when I hear it—a sharp curse from across the room.
One of the doctors has knocked over a tray of instruments, and the clatter makes both twins startle.
"Fuck," he mutters, bending to pick them up.
I fix him with my best glare—which is probably not very effective given my current state, but the intent is there.
"If you say something like that again near my children," I say, voice sweet but carrying an unmistakable edge, "I will personally help you keep your mouth shut for the rest of your life."
The doctor pales. "I—yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
Wenli snorts, trying to hide his laugh. My mother is openly grinning.
"That's my boy," Dad murmurs proudly.
I look down at the twins, still sleeping peacefully despite the commotion, and feel my heart swell.
This is what matters, I think. This right here. My children, safe and healthy and loved.
The bond is still aching, still pulling, still demanding I go to Qingyue.
But for the first time in seven months, I feel something stronger than the bond.
I feel complete.
Not because I don't need Qingyue—I do, desperately, more than ever.
But because I have something worth fighting for now. Worth protecting. Worth making the hard choices for.
"I love you," I whisper to the twins, pressing a gentle kiss to each tiny forehead. "Both of you. So much."
The girl makes a small cooing sound.
The boy's tiny fingers curl around my thumb.
And for this moment, in this room, surrounded by people who love me and holding the two most precious things in my world...
I let myself be happy.