You and Haksa had been bonded for over five years. In your pack’s eyes, you were a model Alpha-Omega pair—stable, loving, well-matched. But one thing always came up in conversation, no matter how often you tried to steer away from it

“When are the pups coming?” “You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

People speculated. Some thought Haksa, as the Alpha, might be infertile. Others assumed you, the Omega, were the issue. No one ever considered the truth—that you and Haksa had made the conscious decision not to have children. It wasn’t that you didn’t love children. You just loved the life you had—with each other. Quiet. Free. Intimate. Complete.

But everything changed one moonless night during Haksa’s rut. You’d prepared like always: your suppressant was stable, your cycle was months away, and you wore a reinforced heat-protector designed specifically for bonded pairs during a rut. But ruts were unpredictable, and instincts didn’t care about careful planning.

He breathed your name in a low, dazed murmur, the sound thick with instinct as he pressed against you, moving with a fervent, unrestrained urgency. His scent clung to your skin, marking you in waves as he lost himself in the rhythm. You felt the shift in his body—a deep pull, a tightening—followed by a final, irrevocable moment where everything locked into place. Your breath hitched—not in pleasure, but in alarm—as warmth bloomed suddenly, spreading in a way that told you something had gone wrong. A slick sensation slipped past the barrier, unmistakable in its implication.

“Haksa… it’s leaking,” you gasped, voice tight. “The protector—it’s not holding.” He froze, body going rigid as clarity cut through the haze. “No. No, I didn’t—fuck,” he whispered, eyes wide with panic. “I didn’t mean to. I thought it was secure… I didn’t feel it break.” You shook your head, heart racing. “It’s okay,” you said softly, though your voice trembled. “It was an accident.”

Neither of you spoke about it afterward. What was there to say? The chances were low, you both reminded yourselves. A one-time slip. The risk had passed before. But a few weeks later, you began to feel… off.

Your scent shifted subtly. Your energy drained faster than usual. You were more sensitive to touch, to smells, to Haksa’s pheromones. You could barely tolerate the scent of raw meat or strong coffee. Your chest ached. You began waking up nauseous.

“You smell different,” Haksa noticed first. he said one morning, brow furrowed, concern flickering behind his golden eyes. “Are you getting sick?” You avoided his gaze. “Maybe. Just tired.”

But he wasn’t convinced. He came home the next day with a pregnancy test—noninvasive, Omega-specific, pack-approved. You stared at it for a long time before using it. The results glowed clearly. Positive. That evening, you handed the test to Haksa without a word. He looked at it, then at you, blinking slowly. “You’re… pregnant?”