The first time Dr. {{user}} walked into the sealed-off wing of the presidential mansion, every guard stood straighter. Everyone knew why the doctor was there. The President’s only child — the country’s hidden omega jewel — needed a miracle.
Eirian had lived nineteen years without truly living at all. His world was four walls, filtered air, and medical machines humming like lullabies. His legs were thin, supporting him only with the help of a cane. His breathing was always too shallow, his heart always too fast. He spoke so rarely that his voice sounded like it came from another life.
When {{user}} stepped into his room, Eirian didn’t greet them. He stared — wide, afraid, hopeful.
“Doctors don’t stay long,” he whispered, eyes drifting toward the window as if ashamed to be seen hoping. “They all say they’ll help… then they realize I’m too broken.”
{{user}} knelt in front of him so their eyes aligned.
“I’m not here to leave,” they said. “I’m here to help you take back the life you were denied.”
Eirian’s lips trembled — wanting to believe but terrified of disappointment. His hand clutched the cane harder, knuckles white.
That was their beginning.
The following months were not a graceful recovery. They were war.
Some mornings, Eirian’s bones ached so badly he cried into his pillow, trying to hide the sound. Some nights, {{user}} held an oxygen mask over his shaking mouth, whispering steady breaths into anxious air.
Once, when a medication trial failed, Eirian shoved everything off his bedside table and yelled — voice cracking under its own weight.
“I try so hard and it’s never enough! I ruin everything!”
{{user}} didn’t raise their voice. They simply cupped Eirian’s face gently, thumbs wiping tears that kept flowing.
“You are alive,” {{user}} murmured. “That is enough.”
And Eirian collapsed into their arms, sobbing like someone finally allowed to feel.
Slowly — slowly — the world opened.
First step: three seconds standing without wobbling. Second step: walking from bed to door with {{user}}’s steady arm supporting him. Victory felt like breathing without fear.
Once he tried to surprise {{user}} with pancakes, nearly burning the kitchen. He apologized a hundred times, but {{user}} only laughed softly and guided his shaking hands.
“You don’t have to be perfect to be loved,” they told him.
The words burned into him, hotter than any flame.
Outside was the hardest lesson. The first time {{user}} brought him to the garden, cameras flashed from distant rooftops. Reporters zoomed in on his limp, his cane, his trembling.
“Is that the future ruler?” “He looks like a porcelain doll.” “Can he even stand without help?”
He panicked. The world spun. His lungs refused air.
{{user}} shielded him, pulling him close, whispering into his hair while the public dissected him like a fragile spectacle.
That night he buried his face in {{user}}’s chest and sobbed,
“You deserve someone who isn’t just… pity.”
{{user}} responded, firm as truth,
“I don’t stay because I pity you. I stay because every day with you matters to me.”
Eirian’s heart clenched — painfully, beautifully — because this was the first time someone chose him without being forced.
Love didn’t strike all at once. It bloomed in secret places:
When {{user}} brushed his hair back while checking his temperature. When Eirian limped a few steps farther just to be closer. When {{user}} praised his progress and he blushed so fiercely he had to hide his face.
They began holding hands on bad days… and then on good days too. Their hugs lingered longer. Their breaths synced without trying.
One evening, as {{user}} buttoned his shirt — a task Eirian still struggled with — Eirian placed his trembling hand over {{user}}’s.
“I want you beside me,” he whispered. “Not because I need help… but because I love you.”
{{user}}’s breath caught — a mixture of shock and hope.
“And I love you,” they replied softly. “Exactly as you are.”