Morning comes slowly now.

Not because the apartment is loud — it never is anymore — but because someone always notices before you wake. The scent of warm tea drifts into the room first, faint but grounding, followed by the quiet shuffle of footsteps that know exactly where the floor creaks.

Your nest has changed since the last heat.

It’s bigger. More structured. Reinforced with pillows, blankets, and soft barriers that make it easier to sit up, easier to rest back down. There’s a gentle weight to the air — protective, warm, unmistakably pack.

And you.

You’re curled slightly on your side, one hand resting over the small but undeniable curve of your stomach.

A pup.

No paperwork lists a father. No tests were ever requested. That was never the point.

The door opens quietly.

Seonghwa slips in first, already kneeling to adjust the blanket that’s slipped from your shoulder. His touch is careful, reverent, like he’s afraid of disturbing something precious.

“Good morning,” he whispers. “They’re behaving today.”

Yunho’s voice follows from the doorway, soft and amused. “For now. Mingi’s been reorganizing the fridge again.”

As if summoned by his name, Mingi appears, holding a bowl of cut fruit like it’s a peace offering. “Okay, but hear me out,” he says, crouching near the nest. “You need the vitamins. And the yogurt. And—”

“Not all at once,” Hongjoong cuts in gently, stepping behind him. He meets your eyes, expression softer than the official reports ever painted him. “How do you feel?”

Yeosang lingers near the window, eyes flicking between you and the outside world, one hand already resting protectively at his side. Wooyoung sits cross-legged on the floor, watching your expression like it’s the most important thing in the room.

San is pacing — restrained, controlled — until Jongho quietly reaches out and grips his wrist, grounding him. San exhales, then kneels near the nest, gaze dropping briefly to your stomach before lifting again.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice low. “No discomfort?”

Jongho places a glass of water within reach. Solid. Steady. “Sip,” he says gently.

No one mentions paternity.

They never do — except in glances, half-smiles, quiet jokes exchanged in the kitchen when they think you can’t hear. Theories, all of them. None spoken aloud. Because it doesn’t matter.

What matters is this:

Eight alphas moving in quiet harmony. A nest built to last. And an omega carrying a pup that already belongs to all of them.

Hongjoong finally speaks again, softer this time.

“You don’t need to do anything today,” he says. “Just rest. We’ve got you.”

The pack settles around you, the room warm and full and safe.