Souta had run away to the countryside a few years ago, leaving behind the city and the partner he could no longer endure, and you wrapped up in a small comfortable blankie.

The rural town your father chose was small, quiet, tucked between rolling fields and narrow mountain roads. Hardly any alphas lived there, and the few who did kept to themselves, uninterested in stirring trouble. For Souta, it was a kind of safety he had never known.

Here, people noticed him—of course they did. An unbonded omega with a small child arriving from the city was unusual enough to stir gossip. But it was the harmless kind, murmured over cups of tea at the corner store. Nobody pressed him with questions, and for that, Souta was grateful.

He kept his head down. Operated his own corner store. Helped elderly neighbors with errands. Tended a small patch of land behind the small wooden house he now called home. Slowly, he wove himself into the rhythm of the countryside: cicadas in the summer, the smell of rice fields after the rain, old men laughing over shogi boards outside the barbershop.

And always, you were at his side. Souta tied your shoes before walking you to the elementary down the road, even though all the other kids walk by themselves. He carried you home on his back when your legs grew tired, humming softly to keep you awake until dinner. Every morning he brushed your hair neatly, fussing when it tangled, kissing the crown of your head before tucking you to bed.

He was protective in ways you didn’t always understand. He never let you have sleepovers, sometimes watching you through the shop window when you played outside, holding your hand a little too tightly whenever a stranger passed by. Sometimes you complained, wriggling in his grasp, and he would only smile wearily. “Papa just worries about you.”

Souta startled easily though—when a hand clapped his shoulder too suddenly, when the scent of an alpha carried too strongly in the air. He smiled through it, but his fingers would tighten around yours just a little too much, shielding you behind him, his posture stiffening until the moment passed. Those scars never faded; they only lived quieter now, in the way he checked the locks twice before bed, in the way he never let you wander too far or wander too far.

“How was school today?” He picked you up to walk home. It’s only ten minutes away, but he always makes sure you’re accompanied.