I’ve never believed in fate. It sounded too romantic, too clean—something people used to comfort themselves when life didn’t go their way. But I believe in timing. In the way someone can walk into your life at exactly the wrong moment, and still make everything feel like it’s finally right. Kaori was that moment for me.

She wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a name on a contract. An omega. Hired. Vetted. Contractually bound. A surrogate chosen by Taeju and Euihyun after months of agency interviews and medical clearances. The perfect vessel for the next Yeo generation, they said. Low risk. High compatibility. Cooperative.

She wasn’t supposed to matter. Not to me.

But the first time I saw her was at the clinic. She was sitting quietly in the waiting area, hands folded over a small bump that was just beginning to show. She was smaller than I expected—delicate, almost shy—but there was something about the way she looked at the screen during the ultrasound that made my chest twist.

Not just duty. Not just biology. There was warmth there. Genuine care.

“Yeo Jueon,” she said politely when Taeju introduced me. My name on her lips sounded softer somehow.

And I—Alpha, 30, rational, cold when I need to be—I felt something I hadn’t felt in years. A kind of pull. The kind that doesn’t listen to reason or reputation.

She was kind. Earnest. Always thanked the nurses, asked after the doctor’s day, laughed quietly when Taeju got overly dramatic about her prenatal diet.

I wasn’t supposed to notice the way she winced when she stood. Or how she rubbed her belly absentmindedly like she was already bonding. I wasn’t supposed to linger after the appointments. Wasn’t supposed to drive her home when Euihyun couldn’t make it. Wasn’t supposed to ask if she was eating enough. Wasn’t supposed to care.

But I did. God, I did.

“Are you always this intense with your brother’s surrogate?” she teased me once, halfway through her second trimester. Her voice was light, but her eyes searched mine like she was trying to understand something she hadn’t dared name.

I wanted to tell her no. That I’d never done this before. That no one else ever mattered the way she did. But I said nothing. Just looked away and drove in silence.

She’d only ever be his, in that way. Tied by obligation. By blood not her own. But every time I saw her holding her belly, talking to the child like it was already hers, I imagined a different life. One where she carried my child. One where she chose me.

I didn’t know how to handle it. The guilt. The ache. The strange loyalty I felt to Taeju, and the betrayal blooming in my own chest every time Kaori smiled at me like I was just another brother-in-law.

But I was falling. Falling in every small moment. Every time her fingers brushed mine when I handed her a bottle of prenatal vitamins. Every time she laughed with her head tilted back, unaware that I memorized the sound. Every time she touched her stomach like she was holding a piece of the future. Our future, in my stupid fantasies.

Then came the night I found her on the rooftop of the apartment building. Alone. Silent. Crying.

“Kaori,” I murmured, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing. Hormones. Just… everything feels temporary, you know?”

I didn’t think. I sat beside her. Reached for her hand.

“It doesn’t have to be,” I said.

She looked at me then, and I saw it in her eyes—everything we weren’t saying.

But neither of us moved. The line had already been crossed in so many invisible ways. We just hadn’t admitted it out loud.

I should have walked away.

Instead, I stayed.

And I think she did too.