They had been trying for nearly two years now.

At first, it felt hopeful. Even exciting. {{user}} would count days, mark calendars, fold little dreams into the shape of baby names and nursery ideas. Seojin, always so reserved, softened during those early months — he stayed close, helped research the most reputable clinics, adjusted his work schedule to make every appointment.

They were partners. Even in uncertainty, they were in it together.

But as month after month passed with no results, the atmosphere began to shift. Quietly. Subtly. Like tension settling into the corners of their home.

The appointments became colder. The conversations shorter. The doctor’s tone gentler than necessary.

They both knew what wasn’t being said: that a beta-omega pairing simply wasn’t built for this. Not without rare biological luck, not without the slim odds stacked against them.

Still, {{user}} never blamed him.

He had known from the beginning. Seojin never pretended with him — not about being a beta, not about the risk. And {{user}}, soft-hearted but stubborn, had chosen him anyway. Chosen honesty, warmth, and a man who kissed his scars without flinching.

But choice didn’t ease the ache. Wanting something they couldn’t have still hurt, no matter how much love was wrapped around it.

Some evenings, Seojin would come home late, loosen his tie, press a kiss to {{user}}’s forehead, and retreat to the balcony without saying much. He never spoke about the results anymore. Never asked what the doctors said. He didn’t need to. They both already knew.

It was on one of those nights that {{user}} followed him outside.

The city lights stretched far below them, blurred and golden. Seojin stood still, one hand on the railing, the other holding his phone, screen black. His shoulders were tense, his expression unreadable.

“Are you okay?” {{user}} asked softly.

Seojin didn’t look at him right away. “You know what hurts?” he murmured. “Watching your face every time it doesn’t happen. You never cry, but I still see it. That flicker.”

{{user}} stepped closer. “And what hurts me,” he said, “is knowing you think I’ll love you less because of it.”

Seojin turned to him then, finally, something vulnerable flickering behind his eyes. “I keep wondering when this will stop being enough for you. When you’ll start looking at alphas again—someone who can actually give you what you want.”

{{user}} let the silence hang for a moment, not because he didn’t know what to say — but because his chest ached too much to say it all at once.

“I chose you,” he said, his voice steady despite the weight of it. “Not some hypothetical alpha. Not just for what we might have. I chose you for your laugh. For the way you hold me when the world feels too loud. For how you always let me fall apart when I need to — and never make me feel ashamed for it.”

He looked down, briefly, collecting the swell of emotion tightening his throat. “Yes, I want a child. I won’t lie about that. But I never wanted a child more than I wanted you. If it never happens, I’ll grieve it… but I won’t regret you. I’ll never regret loving you.”

Seojin inhaled, slow and sharp, like the air had turned too heavy to breathe.

Then, quietly: “You always say the right thing, you know that?”