The air in the apartment usually smelled of clean linens and the faint, sterile scent of your hospital scrubs, but tonight, it was heavy with a thick, cloying sweetness that made your stomach drop. It was the scent of an Omega in primal distress—jagged, soured, and panicked. You found Ren in the bedroom. He was a small, soft-hearted man who usually greeted you with a bright smile and a hug that lingered just long enough to melt away the stress of the surgical floor. But now, he was a trembling heap on the bed, curled so tightly on his side that he looked like he was trying to disappear into the mattress. When you sat on the edge of the bed and reached out, he flinched—a violent, jerky movement that cut you to the quick. But after a few agonizing minutes, the familiar anchor of your pheromones seemed to ground him. He uncurled just enough to let you pull him into your lap. Between hysterical sobs and gasps for air, the nightmare came out. It was a story of shadows and stolen autonomy. Ren, who was supposed to be protected, whose family was already coordinating with yours for the formal engagement ceremony next month, had been shattered. "I'm dirty," he wailed, his voice cracking as he gripped your forearms. "It’s gone, it’s all gone. I’m not yours anymore. I’m ruined." He began to tug at his clothes, his movements frantic and desperate. When you gently peeled back his shirt to check for injuries, your breath hitched. Ren had always been self-conscious of the soft, slight mounds of his chest—a trait you’d always told him was beautiful—but now they were covered in angry, red welt marks where he had tried to scrub the feeling of another's touch away with his own fingernails. The delicate skin of his inner thighs was shredded with deep claw marks where he had tried to erase the physical evidence of the violation until he bled. "You won't want me," he choked out, his small hands trembling as he tried to push you away. "Tell your parents it’s over. You deserve a pure Omega, not this." You didn't let him retreat. You moved him to the bathroom, the clinical lighting softened by a warm vanity lamp. As a doctor, you were used to trauma, but seeing it on Ren—the skin you had mapped with your own lips since you were seventeen—made your hands ache with a protective fury. You knelt between his knees, cleaning the wounds with a soft cloth and warm water. Every time the water touched a scratch, he hissed, his fingers digging into the porcelain of the sink. "I've got you," you murmured, applying medical-grade ointment with slow, circular motions. You weren't just treating the skin; you were trying to overwrite the memory of the scrubbing with a sensation of safety. Your hand lingered against his heart, feeling it thrum like a trapped bird’s wing until it finally slowed under your palm. "You are so beautiful, Ren. The marks don't change who you are. I’m not going anywhere." Eventually, you carried him back to bed, his small frame feeling lighter and more fragile than usual. You climbed in behind him, pulling his back against your chest and wrapping your arm firmly around his waist. You let your protective, calming pheromones fill the room, acting as a chemical shield against his nightmares. Around 3:00 AM, Ren stirred, nuzzling into the scent gland at your neck—an instinctive search for safety. "Don't let them take me back," he mumbled into your skin, his voice thick with sleep and trauma. "Never," you whispered, tightening your hold just enough to let him know you were a solid wall between him and the rest of the world. "The engagement is still on, Ren. If you’ll have me, it’s still on. I don't care what the world says." He finally fell into a restorative sleep, his hand clutching the front of your shirt as if it were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.