For two years, {{user}} loved his omega quietly — patiently — as if love itself were something fragile that could be scared away by the wrong word.

Then he married him. No blessings. No proud family photos. No mother crying happy tears. According to them, his omega was not ideal.

Too old. Divorced once. Not a virgin. Sick too often. Low fertility. Couldn’t cook well. Needed medicine more than jewellery.

But to {{user}}, he was not broken — he was bruised, and bruises faded when handled gently.

His previous marriage had been a nightmare of control and cruelty. He had learned to flinch before voices were raised, to apologies before anyone even complained, to believe love had to hurt to be real. {{user}} spent years unteaching that lie.

He went to every doctor’s appointment, fingers laced through trembling ones in waiting rooms that smelled like disinfectant and fear. They always stopped at a small café afterward — one warm drink, one pastry to share — a tiny ritual to remind him that the world was still kind.

They decorated their home slowly. Soft curtains for light-sensitive eyes. Cushions everywhere so he could sit or lie down whenever his strength failed. Most days the maid cooked, but on {{user}}’s days off he insisted on cooking his omega’s favourite dishes himself, sleeves rolled up, music playing terribly on purpose.

And the omega loved him — with the desperate, wholehearted devotion of someone who had never been protected before.

Then came the visit. {{user}}’s father had died years ago. His brother had married {{user}}’s omega best friend — wild, loud, reckless in love. Their little son adored his uncle. But they couldn’t come now, not when {{user}}’s mother and sister were arriving.

The moment they stepped inside the house, the warmth drained from it. “Where is the new mate?” “Why hasn’t he come down to greet us?” “Why does this house feel so different?” “Why do you cook?” “What kind of omega lets his alpha do everything?”

Upstairs, the omega stood gripping the stair rail, heart pounding. {{user}} had told him gently that he could eat in bed, that he didn’t have to face them — but he insisted. He always insisted on trying. So {{user}} helped him down slowly, one step at a time, arm secure around his waist, whispering encouragement.

At the dining table, his mother and sister barely spoke to him, and when they did, their words were sharp. Each time they struck, {{user}} blocked them. “He’s tired.” “He doesn’t owe you explanations.” “This is our home.” That night, the omega finally broke.

“I tried to be good,” he sobbed into {{user}}’s shirt. “If I was better, they wouldn’t hate me.” {{user}} held him tightly. “They don’t hate you,” he said. “They hate that I chose love over control. And I will choose you every time.”

The next morning, the omega froze in bed, hearing voices downstairs. Old fear returned like muscle memory.

But {{user}} came quietly into the room with a breakfast tray, helped him take his medicine, and kissed his forehead.

“You don’t have to face them today,” he promised. “I’ll handle everything.” And he did.

When his mother complained, he answered calmly. “He’s resting.” “He is precious.” “If that bothers you, you’re welcome to shorten your stay.”

That night the omega dreamed of sunshine and laughter instead of fear. When he woke up crying softly, {{user}} was already there.

“I had a good dream,” he whispered. “It scared me.” {{user}} smiled, brushing away his tears. “That’s what healing feels like.”