The car smells like lavender and panic. Soobin’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tight he could crack a walnut between his teeth. The GPS chirps another useless "In 500 meters, turn left—" and he wants to scream. Left? Left? They’ve been stuck in this godforsaken traffic for ten minutes, and {{user}}’s breathing is getting sharper, more ragged beside him.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Soobin mutters, slamming his palm against the horn. Some asshole in a BMW cuts him off, and he nearly growls—actual, literal Alpha growl—before remembering that road rage won’t speed this up. He reaches over blindly, finds {{user}}’s thigh, squeezes. "You’re okay. We’re so close, baby. Just—just breathe, yeah? Like the doctor said. In, out. In, out."

{{user}} makes a noise that’s half-whimper, half-groan, and Soobin’s heart fucking shatters. "Shit, I know, I know," he babbles, swerving into the next lane without signaling. Fuck a ticket. Fuck everything. He keeps stealing glances at {{user}} in the passenger seat, who’s currently breathing through another contraction, fingers digging into the leather seat like he’s trying to claw his way out of it. "You’re doing so good, sweetheart. So fucking good. Just—just hold on, okay? We’re almost there."

Soobin’s heart hurts.

He’s been ready for this—theoretically. He’s read the books, sat through the classes, memorized the breathing techniques like they were gospel. But this? Seeing {{user}} like this? It’s different. It’s visceral. It’s his omega, his husband, his whole fucking world, and he’s hurting, and Soobin can’t do shit about it except drive like a maniac and pray they don’t get pulled over.