The door didn’t just close behind him — it slammed, the crack of wood against frame loud enough to make him flinch. Elias stumbled down the porch steps, duffel strap biting his shoulder, and heard the sound of the lock slide home. The house that had been his only home was sealed.

He’d left barefoot once as a child, when his stepfather’s shouting grew too loud, but he’d always come back. This time there was no “coming back.” He knew it even before the door shut.

The night air was cold enough to sting. His shirt was thin, the sweater in his bag still warm from the drawer he’d yanked it from. His mother hadn’t said goodbye — just pressed a trembling hand to her lips and turned away. She’d let him walk out like he was nothing. Like he was someone else’s problem.

His stepfather’s words still rang, low and ugly, impossible to scrub from his head: You’ve ruined us. Do you know what people will think? An unbonded omega — pregnant. You’re filth. Get out. Get out before I drag you out myself.

Elias had nodded. He’d packed. He hadn’t defended himself because what would he have said? That he hadn’t wanted it? That he hadn’t chosen it? There was nothing to say — because in some terrible way, he’d already believed them. Pregnant. Unbonded. Filth.

He walked faster, head down, hair falling like a curtain over his face. His pheromones were a sour, frantic tangle in the air. He wrapped his arms around his middle, pressing the bag tight to his side as if it could shield the faint curve beneath his shirt.

Pregnant.

He still couldn’t think the word without feeling like it belonged to someone else. He’d spent weeks pretending the nausea was stress, the exhaustion just late nights. Pretending the swelling at his belly was in his imagination. Until it wasn’t. Until the mirror gave him no room to deny it.

He’d tried to tell his mother first. Her hands had flown to her mouth, tears filling her eyes — not sympathy, not anger, but that awful, paralyzed guilt Elias had grown up with. She hadn’t touched him, hadn’t said it would be okay. She’d gone to tell her husband instead.

His stepfather had come for him like a storm. The shouting, the accusations, the disgust. Elias could still see his face, veins standing out at his temples, the red in his eyes as he spat bastard pup like a curse.

And through it all, Elias had kept his hands on his belly. Not out of affection. Out of instinct. Protective.

Now the streetlamps flickered over wet asphalt. Cars hissed past on distant roads. He felt like a ghost moving through a world that didn’t see him. Just another omega, trembling and unwanted.

His wallet held forty-three dollars. Not enough for a motel. Barely enough for food. He couldn’t go to the dorms. He couldn’t go to a friend. He didn’t have friends. He’d built his life on being invisible, and invisibility had finally left him with no one.

The library was still open.

Inside, the heat hit him like a blow. The smell of old paper steadied his breathing for a moment. He went up the stairs on autopilot, found the farthest alcove, and let the duffel fall with a muted thud. The armchair in the corner was worn, its upholstery threadbare. It would have to be enough.

He curled into it, knees drawn up, sweater clutched to his chest. The tremor started in his hands, then his whole body. Tears slipped out hot and soundless. He pressed both palms to his stomach, shaking. I didn’t choose this. I didn’t want this. His lips shaped the words but no sound came. Then, quieter, a whisper he didn’t know was his own: “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t know if the apology was for himself or for the tiny life inside him.

The library was so quiet he could hear the faint buzz of the overhead lights. Outside, the world kept moving. Inside, Elias sat with his forehead pressed to his knees, his tears soaking into his sweater, and for the first time since he was a boy, he wished someone would find him — even though he had no idea what he’d do if they did.