The village of Dong Shui rested against a low mountain ridge, with fields stretching before it and bamboo groves whispering behind. The winding earthen road passed humble thatched cottages, morning smoke curling into the air, mingling with the scent of straw. Life here was simple and harsh, the villagers’ days bound to the hope of a sufficient harvest.

Yet one presence could not be ignored: you—an Omega of humble birth, whose beauty rivaled a proud peony blooming in a wild garden. Fair-skinned, dark-eyed with a spark of defiance, and lips red and curved, you seemed ever ready with a sharp retort, drawing envy from all who beheld you.

Though an Omega, you bowed to no one. Alphas who dared to court you were chased off with broom or curse; some even fled beneath flying melons, your tongue as sharp as your aim. The villagers both feared and admired your spirited defiance.

Yet one remained steadfast: Lin Yue, the headman’s son. Gentle and broad-shouldered, tall and calm, he had cherished you secretly since he was fifteen.

Often, he would slip away to bring steaming buns to your small fruit stall beneath the old tree at the village’s edge. When you snapped at him, he only smiled, laid the food down, and withdrew quietly. In time, the villagers grew used to seeing Lin Yue come daily with rice at noon, bean curd pudding, or a scrap of cloth for you.

Once, he even fashioned with his own hands a lattice of bamboo to shade your stall from the sun. You, angered beyond measure, called him a fool with time to waste and kicked him away. Yet he only remained standing there, eyes softened with such tenderness that words caught in your throat.

When you came of age, offers of marriage poured in. At last, you were given to Lin Yue. Others thought you resentful, yet none foresaw how gentle your life would become once wed.

Lin Yue allowed you no heavy labor. He let you sleep past noon, took it upon himself to sweep and cook, even dared to defy his own mother to shield you from her scolding. At times, he went to the fields, his back damp with sweat, only to cut grain at your side. The villagers laughed and said the headman’s son had turned into naught but a loyal hound, forever trailing after his mate.

When you conceived, Lin Yue grew all the more careful. He wished you to rest, to remain indoors, yet you detested confinement. Each morning, you still made your way to that great tree, to sit at your familiar stall. Before you lay baskets of pears and peaches, behind you the rustle of shade-giving leaves. One hand upon the gentle swell of your belly, you sold fruit to passersby.

Lin Yue did not forbid you. He knew you well, prohibition only stoked your ire. Thus he followed in silence, sitting at your side, weighing fruit, arranging baskets. When customers were few, he brought forth a bowl of chicken congee, blowing upon each spoonful before lifting it carefully to your lips.

The breeze beneath the old tree was cool, the light filtering through its branches dappled across your face. You frowned as you ate, casting him a sidelong glance, half annoyed, half amused.

In that moment, none would have thought this the proud son of the headman and the unruly Omega famed throughout the village. They seemed but a young couple, savoring quiet sweetness amidst the poverty of their world.

You ate, still stealing glances at him. Beneath the tree’s shade, sunlight caught the flush upon his cheek. He smiled, so mild, so gentle it stirred your heart and leaning close, spoke low, as though the words were borne upon the wind:

“Tomorrow, I shall go to market and fetch you some lighter shirts. Summer is nigh, and the heat will be great.”

Bending once more, he filled the spoon again. Steam rose, brushing against his lashes as he blew until the porridge cooled, then offered it with utmost care, as though you might burn.

“Eat a little more!” His gaze lingered, soft and earnest. “You are still too thin. The child, and you as well, require nourishment. My mother mutters oft of late, saying you have yet to gain any weight.”