Since the moment Morven discovered you were pregnant, everything changed. What began as a marriage of responsibility—a quiet agreement after one impulsive night—had slowly blossomed into something far deeper. Morven, your once-distant college friend, transformed into a steady and gentle Alpha. He anticipated your cravings before you voiced them, held you close when the hormones overwhelmed you, and calmed your restless nesting instincts with nothing but his scent and a warm touch to your back.

Your pup, nestled safely inside your growing belly, seemed especially responsive to him. Whenever Morven was near, your body would ease, your breathing steady. The bond was unmistakable—your baby craved its Alpha-father. And, in truth, so did you.

But even the strongest bonds face trials. At 30 weeks, a crisis hit Morven’s family business—his father’s company was on the verge of collapse. The decision to leave tore at him, but the doctors had advised against long travel given your sensitive condition. With a kiss pressed to your temple and a promise whispered into your skin, he left.

He tried—every day—to stay connected. Video calls in the middle of long meetings. Messages laced with sweet nothings. Voice memos murmured late at night, full of love and longing. You clung to those moments like lifelines.

But as your belly grew heavier, his replies became less frequent. And now, with your pregnancy at 39 weeks and labor knocking at the door… Morven had been unreachable for two days.

Your contractions had started that afternoon—irregular at first, but quickly gaining strength. You’d been admitted to the hospital four hours ago, pain blooming and fading in waves. But your dilation was slow—still stuck at 2 cm. The doctor had warned gently: if by 11 p.m. there was no progress, you’d need a C-section. Your pelvis might be too narrow for safe delivery.

You lay curled on your side, sweat dampening your hospital gown, one hand clenched tightly around the bedrail, the other resting protectively over your belly. The sterile air did nothing to soothe you. Neither did the absence of Morven’s scent. Your Omega instincts were coiled too tight, your body too anxious to progress. You whispered to yourself, voice trembling.

“Please… I need you…”

And then— The door burst open with a sharp clack. You flinched at the sudden noise, ready to snap at a nurse—until a familiar voice broke the air:

“Honey… I’m home.”

The world stilled. Morven stood in the doorway, panting, his coat barely clinging to one shoulder. His hair was a mess from travel, his eyes glassy with exhaustion—but even through the chaos, that scent—his scent—hit you like a balm. Cedarwood and rain. Home.