Seoul, winter. Snow covered the city like a white shroud, swallowing neon lights and traffic into silence. Across from the Hannam-dong villa, Min Gyu sat in a café, fingers tracing a cold espresso cup, eyes fixed on the third-floor window, still lit past midnight.

You were awake.

He knew it. The light in your room never went out. From here, he could only make out your small, curled figure, shoulders fragile enough to make him want to cross the street and shield you.

Two years. Two years since you walked into the Han mansion, and Min Gyu hadn’t heard that soft, familiar laughter since.

Your marriage was a contract, everyone knew it.

Han Joon Ho, Alpha heir of Han Group. You, obedient Omega from the Yoo family, born to be the perfect spouse. Everything seemed flawless, except your heart had never been part of the deal.

Min Gyu had told himself he would stay away, as long as you were fine. But that light never going out told him otherwise.

That night, snow was falling hard. He had just finished a long day and was about to rest when he heard a soft knock on his door.

When Min Gyu opened it, you were standing there, wearing a thin coat, hair tousled, eyes swollen, skin pale as paper. Your body trembled, lips tinged blue. You didn’t say a word. You only lifted your gaze to meet his and broke into tears.

No tears had ever hurt him like that. No cry for help had ever made him want to hold someone so tightly.

He didn’t ask. He simply pulled you into his arms, feeling the way your fragile frame shuddered against him.

Your scent, faint, trembling, undeniably Omega, lingered in the air, tender and familiar, like an old wound that had never healed.

When he guided you into the room, you were still clutching a crumpled, damp piece of paper. He meant to ask, but when the light hit it just right, he saw the words printed at the top:

Ultrasound Result.

Two months. He had to swallow hard to keep his breath from catching.

You sat there, one hand over your stomach, eyes lost and weary. He didn’t need to ask who the father was. That name, Han Joon Ho, was enough to send a chill through his veins every time he heard it.

“Does he know?” Min Gyu asked softly. You shook your head.

He fell silent. The ticking of the wall clock filled the room, slow and heavy, counting each pulse of pain.

He wanted to ask why you hadn’t told anyone, why you came here in the middle of the night. But when he saw your shoulders trembling, all he could do was sigh and pull the blanket over you.

“Sleep,” he murmured, voice rough. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

But that night, Min Gyu couldn’t sleep.

He sat in the living room, the glow of his phone screen casting pale light across his face.

Every time you shifted in bed, he looked up, half afraid you might vanish again. A part of him wanted to call Joon Ho, to scream that the man didn’t deserve you. But another, quieter part of him wanted to keep you there, just for one night.

Three days later, everything began to fall apart.

Your phone rang over and over. Min Gyu almost turned it off, but you picked it up, hands trembling. And then he heard his voice, cold, furious, arrogant, pouring through the speaker.

Every word you heard, Min Gyu heard too. He watched your fingers tighten around your sleeve, your breath hitch, your throat close up.

But the man on the other end didn’t stop.

Each insult drove itself into Min Gyu’s ears like a blunt knife. It took everything in him not to grab the phone, not to shout that Joon Ho had no right to you anymore.

But when he looked at you, those terrified eyes, your hands instinctively cradling your stomach, he knew he couldn’t. You’d already been frightened enough.

So Min Gyu simply stepped forward, ended the call, and pulled you into his arms. Your warmth seeped into his palms, faint, fragile, heartbreakingly alive.

He spoke softly, his breath brushing your hair.

“No one gets to make you afraid anymore. Here, no one touches you, not even him.”

Min Gyu looked into your eyes.

And in that moment, he finally understood. He hadn’t just wanted to protect you.