Ruofei's POV:
Three and a half years later - February
I wake to small hands on my face and Liqin's worried voice.
"Mommy? Mommy, wake up."
I force my eyes open, though it feels like lifting weights. The room spins slightly before settling, and I have to blink several times to bring my daughter's face into focus.
"I'm awake, baby," I manage, though my voice sounds weak even to my own ears.
"You were shaking," Mingyu says from my other side. When did he climb into bed too? "And making sounds. Bad sounds."
Was I? I don't remember.
The nightmares have gotten worse lately, but I usually don't remember them upon waking.
"I'm okay." I try to sit up and immediately regret it as the room tilts dangerously.
"Mommy's not okay," Liqin says firmly. At almost four years old, she's already mastered the art of the no-nonsense tone. "Mommy is sick."
"Just tired, sweetheart."
"You're always tired," Mingyu points out with his characteristic bluntness. "For a very long time. Years."
Out of the mouths of babies.
The truth is, they're right. I'm not okay. Haven't been for a long time.
Four years. It's been almost four years since I left China, since I've seen Qingyue, since I've had anything except the aching absence of the bond.
And my body is failing.
Not dramatically—there's no single catastrophic event. But the slow, steady deterioration that comes from being separated from your bonded alpha for too long.
Weight loss I can't afford.
Chronic fatigue that no amount of sleep fixes.
The bond itself has gone from aching to burning, a constant searing pain in my chest that steals my breath.
Dr. Park warned me this would happen. Said that omega bodies aren't meant to be separated from their alphas indefinitely, especially not bonded omegas.
I thought I was strong enough to endure it.
I was wrong.
"Come here," I say, pulling both twins close.
They curl against me, small and warm and worried. "Mommy's going to be fine. I promise."
"When?" Liqin demands. "When will Mommy be fine?"
Two more years, I think but don't say. Just two more years until you're old enough, and then we can go home.
"Soon," I tell her instead. "Very soon."
Later, after I've gotten the twins ready for daycare and Wenli has picked them up, I collapse back into bed.
Just for a minute. Just to catch my breath.
I wake three hours later to my phone ringing.
It's Wenli.
"Did you forget to pick up the twins?" I ask groggily, checking the time. It's only noon—too early for pickup.
"The twins are fine. They're with Mum." His voice is serious. "Ruofei, we need to talk. I'm coming over."
He arrives fifteen minutes later, letting himself in with his spare key.
I'm in the kitchen, trying to make tea with hands that won't stop shaking.
The mug slips from my grip and shatters on the floor.
"Fuck," I mutter, staring at the broken pieces.
"Leave it." Wenli is beside me instantly, guiding me away from the mess and into a chair. "I'll clean it up later."
He makes the tea himself, setting a cup in front of me before taking the seat across the table.
"You look like death," he says bluntly.
"So I've been told." I wrap my hands around the mug, trying to absorb its warmth. "What did you want to talk about?"
"You're dying."
The words hang in the air between us.
"I'm not—"
"You are." His voice is gentle but firm. "Maybe not today, maybe not this month. But Ruofei, your body is shutting down. I can see it. The twins can see it. Everyone can see it except apparently you."
"I'm managing—"
"You're not." He leans forward. "How much weight have you lost? When's the last time you went a full day without the bond pain making you dizzy? When's the last time you could climb the stairs without needing to rest?"
I don't answer, because we both know the truth.
"I've made a decision," I say instead. "When the twins turn six, we're going back to China."
Wenli sits back, surprise flickering across his face. "Six? That's still two years away."
"I know. But they need to be old enough to understand, to protect themselves if necessary. Six feels right."
"Ruofei..." Wenli's expression is pained. "I don't think you have two years."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"I'll make it two years," I say stubbornly. "I have to. The twins—"
"The twins need their father alive more than they need to be six," Wenli interrupts. "What good is waiting if you're too sick to make the journey? Or worse?"
I know he's right. But the fear is paralyzing.
"What if something happens? What if I was wrong about it being safe? What if—"
"What if, what if, what if." Wenli reaches across the table and takes my hand. "Ruofei, you can't live your life in fear of what might happen. At some point, you have to choose to live."
"I am living—"
"No, you're surviving. There's a difference." He squeezes my hand. "And I don't think you can survive two more years of this."
The truth of it settles over me like a shroud.
"Two more years," I whisper. "Just give me two more years. Let them turn six, let them be old enough to understand. Then we'll go home."
"Promise me something," Wenli says seriously. "No matter what your feelings for Qingyue are—and I know you love him, I know you've forgiven him—promise me you won't just accept whatever explanation he gives. Make him tell you the real story. Make him explain why he marked you without clear consent. Don't let love blind you to the truth."
"I won't," I promise. "I need to understand. Even if I've already forgiven the action, I need to know the why."
"And promise me you'll be careful," he continues. "When you return to China. His world is dangerous, and you'll have the twins with you. Don't let your guard down just because you love him."
"I promise." I meet his eyes. "I'll be careful. I'll protect them."
"And yourself," he adds firmly. "Protect yourself too, Ruofei. You matter just as much as they do."
I nod, though I'm not sure I believe it.
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, drinking our tea.
"Two more years," Wenli finally says. "I'll hold you to that. But if you get worse—if I think you can't make it that long—we're moving up the timeline. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
That night, I can't sleep.
Not unusual, but tonight the bond pain is worse than normal.
It feels like something is clawing at my chest from the inside, trying to tear its way out.
I'm lying there, staring at the ceiling and trying to breathe through it, when I hear my door open.
Two small shadows appear in the doorway.
"Mommy?" Liqin's voice is small, uncertain. "Can we sleep with you?"
"We're worried," Mingyu adds. "You were making the bad sounds again."
"Of course you can." I pull back the covers, and they scramble into bed on either side of me.
They're getting so big.
Almost four years old, tall for their age, losing the baby roundness in their faces.
Liqin looks more like Qingyue every day—his elegant features, his intensity.
Mingyu has my bone structure but something of Qingyue's quiet strength.
They deserve to know their father. Deserve to have both parents.
"Mommy," Liqin says softly, once they're settled. "Are you going to get better?"
"Yes," I promise, even though I'm not sure it's true. "When you turn six, we're going to take a trip. Back to China, where I was born."
"Really?" Mingyu's eyes light up. He's been fascinated by China ever since I started teaching them about it.
"Will we see Grandmother and Grandfather?"
"Yes. And Uncle Wenlan, and Aunt Lexin." I hesitate. "And maybe... maybe someone else too."
"Who?" Liqin asks.
I take a breath. "Your other father."
Silence. Then:
"We have another father?" Mingyu's voice is full of wonder.
"Yes." My throat is tight. "You do. He doesn't know about you yet, but when we go back, you'll meet him."
"Why doesn't he know about us?" Liqin asks, with that devastating directness children have.
"Because Mommy was scared," I admit. "I thought I was protecting all of us by staying away. But I was wrong. And now I'm going to fix it."
"In two years," Mingyu confirms. "When we're six."
"When you're six," I agree.
"Will he like us?" Liqin asks, and the vulnerability in her voice breaks my heart.
"He'll love you," I say with absolute certainty. "He'll love you more than anything in the world. I promise."
They seem satisfied with this, curling against me like they used to when they were babies.
"Love you, Mommy," Liqin mumbles, already half-asleep.
"Love you," Mingyu echoes.
"Love you both," I whisper. "So much."
I hold them close, feeling their small bodies warm against mine, and let myself imagine it.
Two more years.
In two more years, we'll go home. I'll introduce them to their father.
We'll be a family.
If I can just survive two more years.
The bond burns in my chest, and I press my hand over it, trying to soothe the ache.
Wait for me, I think toward Qingyue. Just two more years. Please wait for me.
Qingyue's POV:
Same time - China
"Say that again."
My intelligence officer shifts uncomfortably under my gaze. "Sir, we received confirmation from a source. Huang Ruofei was pregnant when he left China. Approximately six days along, based on the timeline."
The words don't make sense. Can't make sense.
"Pregnant," I repeat flatly.
"Yes, sir."
I lean back in my chair, processing.
If Ruofei was pregnant when he left... that was almost four years ago. Which would mean...
No. It's not possible.
"Children can't survive without their alpha parent present," I say, more to myself than to the officer. "Especially not in the first few years. The omega's body would fail, the pregnancy would terminate, or the child would be too weak to survive."
"That's generally true, sir," the officer says carefully. "But not in all cases. Bonded omegas have a better chance, and if the omega received proper medical care—"
"Ruofei is a recessive omega," I interrupt. "The chances of him even getting pregnant from one encounter are minimal. Medical intervention usually required. This is..." I shake my head. "It's not possible."
But even as I say it, something in my chest tightens with desperate hope.
What if it is possible?
What if Ruofei is—was—pregnant?
What if somewhere out there, I have a child I've never met?
"Continue investigating," I tell the officer. "But don't get your hopes up. This is likely false information."
"Yes, sir."
After he leaves, I sit alone in my office, staring at nothing.
A child. My child. Ruofei's child.
Our child.
The thought is intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.
But it can't be true. The medical facts don't support it. Recessive omegas don't conceive that easily. Children don't survive without their alpha parent present.
Ruofei would have told me—wouldn't he?
Unless he didn't know.
Unless he left before realizing...
No. I'm grasping at straws, letting hope override logic.
"There's no child," I say aloud, testing the words. "It's not possible."
But my hand goes to my chest, pressing against where the bond sits.
And I wonder.
If there was a child—if somehow, against all odds, Ruofei managed to carry and raise our child alone—what would they look like?
Would they have his white hair or my dark?
His purple eyes or my blue-grey?
Would they know about me?
Would Ruofei have told them about their father?
Stop, I tell myself firmly. You're building castles in the air. Focus on facts.
The facts: Ruofei left
almost four years ago. Someone claims he was pregnant. Medical probability says this is unlikely to result in a living child.
Therefore: there is no child.
I repeat it to myself like a mantra.
There is no child. There is no child. There is no child.
But deep down, in the part of myself I try to keep locked away, hope whispers:
What if there is?
What if, somewhere in Korea, your child exists?
What if you're a father and don't even know it?
The hope is dangerous. Painful. Because if it's true and I've missed four years of my child's life...
I don't know if I could forgive myself.
"It's not true," I say again, more forcefully. "It can't be true."
But I pull out my phone and send my daily message anyway.
Qingyue: Day 1,460. I heard something today that I don't dare believe. Please, princess, if it's true... please tell me. I'll wait forever if I have to, but please don't keep this from me. I love you.
I press send and set down the phone.
Then I allow myself exactly five minutes to imagine it.
A child with Ruofei's eyes and my hair. Or my eyes and his hair. A son or daughter who has never met their father because I made the mistake of marking their parent without clear consent.
The guilt threatens to overwhelm me.
If it's true, I think desperately, if there really is a child, I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to both of them. I'll be the father they deserve. The partner Ruofei deserves.
If it's true.
But it's not. It can't be.
Can it?
The question haunts me for the rest of the day.
And that night, for the first time in years, I dream.
I dream of a child—faceless, nameless, but unmistakably mine.
They're reaching for me,
calling me father, and I'm frozen, unable to move, unable to respond.
I'm sorry, I try to say. I didn't know. Please, I didn't know.
But the child fades, and I wake alone in the darkness, heart racing and tears on my face.
"Please let it be true," I whisper to the empty room. "Please let there be a child. I'll be better. I'll be everything they need. Just please, let it be true."
But the silence offers no answers.
Only hope. Dangerous, desperate hope.
And the fear that even if it is true, I might never get the chance to meet them.