Ruofei's POV:
Six months later - September
The crying wakes me at 3:47 AM.
I know without looking at the clock that it's been exactly forty-three minutes since the last feeding.
I know because I've been living in forty-three-minute increments for the past six months, my entire existence reduced to a cycle of feeding, changing, soothing, and brief moments of unconsciousness that don't quite qualify as sleep.
I drag myself out of bed, every muscle protesting.
My body hasn't fully recovered from the C-section—how could it, when I haven't had more than two consecutive hours of rest since bringing the twins home?
The nursery is dark except for the small nightlight, casting everything in a soft blue glow.
Liqin is the one crying—she usually is.
My daughter inherited her father's intensity and my stubbornness, a combination that means she Makes Her Needs Known at volumes that should be impossible for someone so small.
"I'm coming, baby," I murmur, lifting her from the crib. "I'm here."
She quiets slightly at my voice, her little face scrunched up and red.
At six months, she's hitting all her milestones—rolling over, babbling, even starting to sit up with support.
She's also discovered that she has opinions, and she shares them.
Loudly. Often.
I settle into the rocking chair and start feeding her, and within moments Mingyu begins to stir in his crib.
Of course. Because they have a sixth sense about these things.
Unlike his sister, Mingyu doesn't cry immediately.
He makes small sounds—little grunts and sighs—before escalating to actual crying only if ignored.
He's the calmer twin, content to observe the world quietly while his sister demands its attention.
"Give me five minutes, sweetheart," I tell him softly, continuing to feed Liqin. "Your sister was first this time."
He settles back down, and I close my eyes for just a moment.
Just one moment of rest.
I wake with a start to find Liqin asleep in my arms and sunlight streaming through the window.
Fuck. How long was I out? An hour? Two?
Mingyu is awake in his crib, not crying but clearly ready for breakfast, watching me with those bright blue eyes that are so like and unlike his father's.
"I'm sorry, baby," I say, quickly putting Liqin down and picking him up. "I'm so sorry. B
Mommy fell asleep."
He doesn't seem to mind, just nuzzles against me as I start his feeding.
This is my life now. Has been for six months. An endless cycle of feeding and changing and soothing and trying desperately not to fall apart completely.
Wenli's family helps when they can. Auntie watches the twins sometimes so I can shower or eat or pretend to be a functional human being. Minji comes by to play with them, giving me brief reprieves. Even Chenyu, in his gruff way, has learned to hold them without looking terrified.
But it's not enough. It's never enough.
Because at the end of the day, I'm a single parent raising twins, and no amount of help can change the fundamental exhaustion that's seeped into my bones.
I haven't spoken to my parents in China in weeks—haven't had the energy or time for more than occasional texts.
Haven't checked my old phone in months, letting Qingyue's messages pile up unread because I can't bear to see them.
Can't bear to be reminded of what I'm missing. What the twins are missing.
Every time I look at Mingyu's blue eyes or Liqin's black hair, I'm reminded of their father.
The man who doesn't know they exist.
The man I'm protecting by staying away, even as it destroys me.
The bond aches constantly now, worse than it's ever been.
Some days I can barely breathe through the pain of it. But I've gotten good at pushing through, at functioning despite the agony.
I have to. The twins need me.
Even if I'm running on empty.
"Ruofei, you look like death."
Wenlan's blunt assessment comes from the doorway, where he and Qingxue have just arrived.
I look up from where I'm trying to convince Liqin to eat her pureed sweet potato—she's decided today that she hates it, despite loving it yesterday—and try to muster a smile.
"Thanks. You always know just what to say."
"He's right, though." Qingxue crosses the room, her expression shifting from pleasant greeting to genuine concern as she gets closer. "Ruofei, when's the last time you slept?"
"I sleep."
"For more than an hour at a time?"
I don't answer, which is answer enough.
Qingxue and Wenlan exchanged a look—one of those married couple silent conversations—before Qingxue gently takes the spoon from my hand.
"We're here for a week," she says firmly. "And you're going to use that week to actually rest. Sleep. Eat meals sitting down. Remember what it feels like to be human."
"I can't just—"
"You can and you will." Wenlan is already picking up Mingyu, who's been lying on a play mat trying to grab his own feet. "These are our niece and nephew. We're more than capable of caring for them."
"But—"
"Ruofei." Qingxue's voice is gentle but firm.
"You're going to burn out completely if you keep this up. And then you won't be any good to them at all. Let us help. Please."
I want to argue. Want to insist that I'm fine, that I can handle this.
But the truth is, I can't.
Haven't been able to for months.
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."
The first day, I can't sleep.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening for crying that doesn't come.
Every instinct screams at me to get up, to check on the twins, to make sure they're okay.
But Qingxue and Wenlan are more than capable. I can hear them downstairs, Qingxue's soft voice singing to one of the babies, Wenlan's quiet murmur as he changes a diaper.
My children are safe.
I can rest.
But rest doesn't come easily.
The second day is slightly better. I manage a full four hours of sleep before my body jolts awake in panic, convinced I've missed a feeding.
"They're fine," Wenli assures me when I stumble downstairs. "Both napping. Go back to bed."
I do, and this time I sleep for six hours.
It's the most I've slept since the twins were born.
On the third evening, there's a soft knock at my bedroom door.
"Come in," I call, expecting Wenli or maybe Auntie.
Instead, Qingxue slips inside, closing the door quietly behind her.
She's carrying a bag I don't recognize.
"I brought you something," she says, sitting on the edge of my bed. "From Qingyue."
My heart stops. "What?"
"He doesn't know I took them," she says quickly. "Or that I'm giving them to you. But Ruofei... you're bonded. You need his scent. Your body is craving it, and going without for this long is making everything harder."
She opens the bag and pulls out several hoodies.
They're Qingyue's.
I recognize them instantly—the black one he wears around the house, the grey one that's his favorite, the navy one I bought him for his birthday two years ago.
The scent hits me like a physical force.
Alpha. Qingyue. Mine.
Every cell in my body responds instantly, the bond singing with recognition and desperate need.
"I can't," I whisper, even as my hands reach for the hoodies without my permission. "I can't, it's not fair to him—"
"Fair?" Qingxue's voice is gentle. "Ruofei, nothing about this situation is fair. Not to you, not to him, not to those babies downstairs who deserve to know their father. But right now, in this moment, you need this. Your body needs this."
She presses the hoodies into my arms, and I clutch them like a lifeline.
"I'll come back for them before we leave," she says quietly. "He'll never know. But for this week, let yourself have this. Let yourself rest properly."
She leaves before I can respond, and I'm left alone with my arms full of Qingyue's scent.
I should push them away. Should give them back. Should maintain the distance I've worked so hard to create.
Instead, I bring one of the hoodies to my face and breathe in.
The effect is immediate and overwhelming.
My entire body relaxes in a way it hasn't in months, the bond purring with satisfaction at finally, finally having what it's been craving.
I'm crying before I realize it, tears soaking into the soft fabric.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the hoodie, to Qingyue who can't hear me. "I'm so sorry. You should be here. You should know about them. You should—"
A sob cuts me off.
I pull on the black hoodie—it's huge on me, hanging past my hips, the sleeves covering my hands.
It smells like him.
Like home.
Like everything I've been missing.
The guilt is crushing.
How can I take comfort in his scent while keeping his children a secret?
How can I let myself have even this much when I've stolen so much more from him?
But I'm so tired. So desperately, bone-deep exhausted.
And his scent is like a balm to every aching part of me.
I gather all the hoodies and climb into bed, surrounding myself with them.
One under my head, one clutched to my chest, one draped over me like a blanket.
The bond hums with contentment, finally getting what it's needed for months.
"I miss you," I whisper into the darkness. "I miss you so much it physically hurts. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for everything."
For leaving without explanation.
For keeping the twins a secret.
For being too afraid to reach out, to tell him the truth, to let him be part of this.
"Mingyu and Liqin," I continue, voice breaking. "That's what I named them. Our son and daughter. They're perfect, Qingyue. So perfect. And they look like you. Liqin has your hair, your elegance. Mingyu has your intensity in different eyes. They're six months old, and you've missed everything. First smiles, first laughs, first time rolling over. And it's my fault. All my fault."
The tears won't stop now, soaking into the hoodie pressed against my face.
"I don't know how to fix this," I whisper. "I don't know how to keep them safe and bring them home to you. I don't know how to be enough for them when they need their father. I don't know anything anymore except that I love you and I'm failing everyone."
The exhaustion pulls at me, the combination of Qingyue's scent and three days of actual rest finally catching up.
"I love you," I murmur one last time, already drifting. "I never stopped. I never will."
Sleep takes me gently, wrapped in the scent of the man I love, the father of my children, the person I can't have but can't stop wanting.
For the first time in six months, I sleep deeply.
And I dream of home.
Not Korea, comfortable as it's become.
But China. Qingyue's arms. The four of us together, a family.
The dream feels less like fantasy and more like memory of a future that should have been.
When I wake hours later, the hoodies are damp with tears and the bond is quiet—not content, exactly, but less agonized.
It won't last. I know it won't last.
But for now, for this moment, I let myself have this small comfort.
Even if it makes the guilt worse.
Even if it makes leaving again that much harder.
Even if it changes nothing.
I bury my face in the hoodie and breathe in his scent, committing it to memory for the months and years ahead when I won't have even this.
"Thank you," I whisper to Qingxue, to the universe, to Qingyue who doesn't know he's given me this gift.
"Thank you."