Chapter Text
•••••
i wake up every morning with the years ticking by
i’m missing all these memories, maybe they were never mine
i feel the walls are closing, i’m running out of time
i think i missed the gun at the starting line
starting line / luke hemmings
•••••
You never really know just how quickly your life can change until the moment hits you at light speed. Or, in Jimin’s case, at one hundred and forty-five miles an hour.
It was the Japanese Grand Prix and everything was going perfectly. He’d been creeping up behind the McLaren ahead of him, the gap narrowing with each turn as he planned his next move. The overtaking opportunity was just ahead at the next corner. It was a chance to take first position and cement his dominance in the race.
Rain had delayed the race start earlier that morning, leaving the track slick and treacherous even this late in the session on Lap 46. His brakes had been faltering since Lap 38—a detail Jimin had relayed to his race engineer, Seokjin, with steadily increasing concern. But what could they do? The gap between him and the McLaren was too small, and there was no room for error if he wanted the win. He had to push the car to its limits. There was nothing that could stop him. Not the rain, not the risk, and certainly not the nagging voice of his engineer.
Coming in hot off the long straight, Jimin had managed to close the gap even tighter, his Ferrari’s nose nearly making contact with the back of the McLaren. The slipstream pulled him forward, giving him the extra speed he needed to be able to execute his attack and pass on the upcoming curve. His foot hovered over the brake pedal, every muscle in his body tense and at the ready for this crucial moment. This was the corner. The overtake was his.
But when he pressed the brake, nothing happened.
Instinctively, he lifted his foot and pressed down again, harder. Still nothing.
Milliseconds ticked by, each one spelling disaster. In Formula 1, every fraction of a second is precious, and Park Jimin had built his entire career on staying composed under pressure. Two Drivers’ Championships and countless wins hadn’t come from panic, and they weren’t about to start now.
His foot slammed down harder, desperate for a response. Nothing. The brake pedal was dead, unyielding beneath his boot.
The corner loomed ahead, fast and unforgiving. The McLaren in front began its turn, but Jimin’s Ferrari was still hurtling forward with no signs of slowing. He hit the radio, his voice urgent.
“Fuck, brakes are out!”
Reacting on instinct, he yanked the steering wheel left, narrowly avoiding a rear-end collision and taking them both out, but it threw his car into chaos. The slick asphalt betrayed him and his tires lost what little traction they had. The Ferrari spun sideways, hurtling off the track at a terrifying speed.
He heard Seokjin’s voice crackle through the radio, but the words were lost in the chaos. The world blurred around him as his car hurtled through the runoff, and all Jimin could see was the wall that was going to meet him head-on.
Crashes weren’t new to Jimin. He’d had his fair share of accidents over his career in Formula racing. But none like this. None this fast. None this terrifyingly inevitable.
What only took a matter of seconds felt like an eternity.
Jimin had never believed the stories about your life flashing before your eyes in a moment of impending doom. But as the wall loomed closer, memories rushed in, unbidden and relentless.
He saw himself as a child, his first karting victory etched in the proud smile of his parents. He saw himself lifting the Formula 2 Drivers’ Championship trophy, the moment that sealed his seat in Formula 1. He saw Jeongguk’s eyes on the day of their mating ceremony, the soft glow of love as he whispered, “I love you,” in front of their closest friends and family. He saw himself standing atop the podium in Formula 1, the first Omega to ever win both the Drivers’ and the Constructors’ Championships, the crowd chanting his name.
Through it all, there was always one constant. Jeongguk. His smile, his touch, his reassurance even in the moments of chaos. The feeling of their bond running through his veins and seeping into his soul. He could see the fire that would light Jeongguk’s eyes when he looked deep into Jimin’s own.
The wall was there now, unrelenting and merciless. And as the car collided with the barrier, metal crunching and tires shrieking, the last thought that crossed Jimin’s mind was Jeongguk.
And how he hadn’t seen that look in his eyes in far too long.
Then, everything went black.
— — — — —
Waking up was difficult.
The world swam sluggishly into focus, as though he were surfacing from the bottom of a deep, murky lake. At first, there was nothing but the muffled hum of distant sounds and the heavy pull of exhaustion anchoring him to the bed. His eyelids refused to cooperate, his body too leaden to move.
He became faintly aware of his surroundings—a stiff mattress beneath him, the sterile scent of antiseptic, the weight of a scratchy blanket over his legs. His fingers twitched experimentally, brushing against the rough texture of the fabric. That small movement sent a throb radiating up his right arm, and he froze, his foggy brain trying to process the discomfort.
When he tried to lift his hand, he found he couldn’t. His fingers barely moved before meeting resistance, the motion accompanied by a sharp tug of pain. With great effort, he forced his eyes open, the brightness of the room stinging like a slap. He groaned softly, squeezing his eyes shut again before trying once more. The harsh lights of the hospital ceiling above greeted him as he blinked blearily around the room.
His gaze drifted downward, landing on his right arm. A bulky splint encased his wrist, the sight of it dragging fragments of memory to the forefront of his aching head.
The brakes failing. The wall. The crash.
Jimin groaned again, dropping his head back onto the pillow with a frustrated thud. His temples throbbed in sync with his heartbeat, the dull ache shifting into something sharper when he moved. His head felt like it had been put through a blender, then hastily glued back together, only to be thrown back in and torn apart again. Concussion, probably. Fantastic.
From the corner of the room came the faint shuffle of movement. Someone rising from a chair. The sound was followed by the light tap of footsteps approaching the bed.
“Jimin? You awake?”
The voice was familiar. Seokjin.
All Jimin could manage was a low grunt. It was more expressive than he’d expected it to be, but it was enough for the beta to step closer, his figure coming into view as Jimin cracked his eyes open again.
“Glad to see you’re alive,” Seokjin said, peering down at him.
“Barely.”
“How’re you feeling?”
Jimin let out a snort, his lips curving into a wry smile despite the ache in his head. “Like I just crashed my fucking car.”
Seokjin threw his head back and laughed, the sound causing Jimin’s head to pound just a bit harder. “Yeah, I’d say that’s pretty accurate.”
“Glad my suffering is so funny to you,” Jimin said as he let his eyes close again, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, come on,” Seokjin shot back. “You totaled a multi-million dollar car and walked away with just a sprained wrist and a concussion. You’ve got to admit, that’s a hell of a deal. The car’s constructors might disagree, though.”
Jimin let out a quiet huff, shaking his head slightly. “I’m sure the team is thrilled.”
“Thrilled you’re still alive? Yeah. Thrilled about the car? Probably less so.”
“You really know how to make a guy feel better.”
“It’s part of my job. You’re welcome.”
Jimin let the moment linger before his next question broke the mood.
“Did Namjoon make it on the podium?”
The question sat in the air for a beat, and after prolonged silence, Jimin opened his eyes to find the humor drained from Seokjin’s face and a frown in its place.
“Seriously?”
“Yes seriously. Did he make it?”
“You just woke up from a crash that could’ve ended your career—or worse—and you’re asking about your teammate’s position?”
The scowl pointed at him does nothing to make him waver.
“Yes, Seokjin. I am.”
The beta sighed heavily, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“Yeah, uh huh,” Jimin replied, nodding dismissively and motioning with his good hand for Seokjin to get on with it. “Namjoon?”
“Unbelievable,” Seokjin muttered under his breath before finally answering. “He placed third. Happy now?”
Jimin exhaled, relief washing over him. “At least the team got points.”
Seokjin rolled his eyes but didn’t press further. “You don’t need to worry about the race right now. Focus on getting better. The team can handle the rest.”
Jimin closed his eyes, the tension in his body easing slightly. “I’ll worry about myself after I’m sure the team’s not falling apart,” he said, earning another exasperated huff from Seokjin.
“You’re truly something special, Park Jimin. I’ll be sure to offer my apologies to Jeongguk when he gets here.”
Jimin’s eyes snapped open at the mention of his mate’s name, his head lifting from the pillow too quickly and sending pain shooting through his temples, his sweet citrus scent turning sharper.
“Jeongguk’s coming?”
“Whoa, whoa, easy,” Seokjin said, reaching out to steady him, gently urging him back down against the bed. “Yes, he’s coming. I got in touch with him after you were loaded into the ambulance.” The beta glanced at his watch. “He should be here within the hour, I think.”
Jimin rubbed at his brow with his good hand, trying to ease the pounding in his skull.
“How long have I been out?”
“About six hours, give or take.”
Jimin groaned, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. The thought of Jeongguk seeing him like this—broken and splinted, with a pounding head and a bruised ego—was nauseating. Sweat began to bead on his forehead as the feeling worsened.
“Uh, there’s also something I think we need to talk about,” Seokjin said, his voice oddly hesitant.
“What is it?”
“While you were unconscious, the medical team ran some standard tests to check for internal injuries. And, well... one of the results came back with something unexpected.”
“Seokjin, get on with it.”
Seokjin licked his lips nervously, looking down at his hands before glancing back at him.
“Jimin, you’re, uh... you’re pregnant. About sixish weeks, according to the tests.”
The words hit the omega like another collision, this one inside his chest. He stared at Seokjin, blinking as if the words were in a language he didn’t understand.
“That’s not possible,” he said flatly, his voice barely able to manage a whisper. “I’ve been on suppressants since I was like sixteen.”
“I know,” Seokjin said gently, “but the test was pretty definitive. They even ran it twice to confirm.”
Jimin’s mind raced, the pounding in his head intensifying as he replayed the timeline in his head. Six weeks? He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think clearly.
Summer break. The week he’d spent with Jeongguk during his rut.
“Oh, my God,” he muttered, realization dawning. He felt his stomach churn violently, nausea rising faster than he could control.
“Jimin?”
“I’m gonna—”
Jimin didn’t finish the sentence before he lurched forward, his body wracked with heaves. Seokjin quickly grabbed a basin from the bedside table, holding it steady as Jimin retched into it, his entire body trembling.
“Just breathe,” the beta soothed with a hand on his back.
When Jimin was finally able to lean back, his breathing ragged and his face pale, Seokjin set the basin aside and handed him a cloth to wipe his face.
“Six weeks,” the omega whispered, the words like lead in his mouth.
“Yeah.”
Jimin’s grip on the cloth tightened. How had this happened? They’d always been so careful, so meticulous about his suppressants. But now...
A sharp twinge of panic shot through him and his hand instinctively moved to rest over his stomach. He might have walked away from the crash relatively unscathed, but what about the baby? The thought hit him like a punch to the gut.
His eyes widened as he looked up at Seokjin, fear tightening his throat. “Is... is it okay? The baby?”
“The doctor said everything looks fine. They checked as soon as they realized you were pregnant. Despite how hard the crash was, everything appears normal.”
“You’re sure?” Jimin asked, his heart still racing. His hand pressed slightly harder against his abdomen as if he could somehow belatedly protect the little life growing inside him.
“I’m sure. The doctor said there was no sign of distress or complications. You were really lucky, Jimin.”
Jimin’s shoulders sagged, the relief almost overwhelming. He hadn’t even known about the baby until mere moments ago, but the idea of something happening to it because of him felt almost too much to bear.
“Lucky,” Jimin murmured, head tilted back against his pillow. “Not sure that’s the word I’d use.”
For a moment, silence settled between them, broken only by the faint hum of machines monitoring his vitals. Jimin stared at the ceiling, his gaze unfocused and mind a swirling mess of relief, fear, and uncertainty. His hand remained on his stomach, as though trying to ground himself in the reality of what Seokjin had just told him.
“God dammit,” Jimin muttered. The anger that crept into his tone wasn’t directed at anyone but himself, yet it did little to mask the fear beneath it. “What the fuck am I gonna do?”
“We’ll figure it out, okay?” Seokjin said, trying to soothe him. “There’s still time before the next race. We’ll get the reserve driver prepped, so you don’t have to worry about the team and—”
“Reserve driver?” Jimin cut him off, bewildered. “What are you talking about? I’m not quitting.”
“But–”
“No.” Jimin sat up straighter, using his good arm for leverage. He locked eyes with Seokjin. “I am not giving up on this championship, Seokjin. Everything I’ve worked for has been leading up to this. I’m not just going to walk away now.”
“Jimin,” Seokjin sighed. There was a pitying look in his eyes that Jimin hated, a look that spoke of both doubt and inevitability. “You know as well as I do that the team won’t let you keep racing if you’re pregnant.”
“But I could—”
“Jimin.” This time, Seokjin cut him off. “Ferrari loves you. They love everything you’ve done for the team, for racing, for omegan representation in the sport. But this? Racing while pregnant? It’s a massive liability and you know it.”
The omega clenched his jaw, his hand curling into a fist atop the blanket. He closed his eyes, forcing down the lump of anxiety rising in his throat.
“This can’t be it, Jin,” he said, pushing past the tightness in his chest. “It can’t.”
“It might have to be.”
“I could… I could make changes,” Jimin said, his voice was softer now but no less determined. “We could work with the medical team. Monitor me closely. The FIA allows for some medical exemptions, right? And I can stay cautious—change my driving style, avoid taking unnecessary risks. Or… or I just don’t have to tell them.”
“Jimin,” Seokjin said, running a hand through his hair. “You have to tell them. This isn’t just about you anymore. Racing is already dangerous, but add a pregnancy into the mix and it’s…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“But it could be possible,” Jimin pressed. “If we plan everything carefully, it’s not impossible, Seokjin. I know it’s a risk, but I’ve taken risks my whole career. And I’ve won.”
“Maybe. Maybe it could work. But even if the medical team agrees, and even if Ferrari agrees, there’s no guarantee the FIA will approve it. And…” He hesitated. “You have to think about Jeongguk in all of this. This affects him just as much.”
Jimin’s chest tightened at the mention of his mate. His gaze dropped to his lap.
“Before you make any decisions. He deserves to know,” the beta says softly. “That’s his entire world we’re talking about here.”
Jimin nodded faintly but said nothing. The idea of telling Jeongguk verged on overwhelming. How would he react? Would he be happy? Would he demand that Jimin step back? That he put the baby first?
And then there was the other thought, the one Jimin’s omega hated to even acknowledge, the idea of terminating the pregnancy. He felt the nausea creep up once again just thinking about it, but wasn’t it something he should consider? His entire career, his identity, all of it was tied to Formula 1. How could he give it all up now?
The nausea returned in full force, and Jimin swallowed hard, gripping the blanket tightly in his fist.
“You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” Seokjin said, sensing the omega’s turmoil. “Just take it one step at a time.”
Jimin exhaled shakily, nodding again. But the questions kept piling up in his mind, louder and more insistent with every passing moment.
How drastically would this change his life? His career? His relationship? And could he really find a way to keep racing, to keep chasing his dream, with everything else hanging in the balance?
The thoughts derailed, however, when Jeongguk entered the room.
The alpha’s scent hit him first. Sandalwood, but tinged with something acrid, like it had been charred around the edges. It wasn’t anger. No, it was worry. A worry so intense it had begun to curdle. His eyes swept over Jimin in the hospital bed, taking in the wrist splint and the faint bruises dotting along his skin from the impact.
“Baby,” Jeongguk said, his voice laced with concern.
The sound of it made Jimin pause. This wasn’t the first time Jeongguk had seen him this way, had looked at him like this, with worry etched into his features after a crash, but something about it now struck Jimin differently. Maybe because it had been so long since they’d really seen each other. Maybe because, underneath the worry, Jimin can sense guilt .
Jeongguk stepped closer, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly now after his alpha had seen Jimin awake and alert. He exhaled a shaky breath, his brow creased with a mixture of relief and lingering worry.
“Has he been awake long?” he asks Seokjin, eyes never leaving Jimin’s face.
“Only a little while.”
Jimin swallowed hard as Jeongguk made his way over and sat in the chair beside the bed, reaching out to adjust the blanket draped over Jimin’s legs, nodding in silent thanks to Seokjin as he quietly slipped out of the room.
For the past couple of years, things between them had been… strained, to say the least.
It wasn’t just the weeks apart because of the races. Plenty of drivers had mates who made it to nearly every event, showing up in the paddock to cheer them on and offer support after. No, it was more than that.
It was also Jeongguk’s success back home. His talent, once admired by a small accumulation of fans, had skyrocketed him into mainstream stardom. He had evolved to become one of the most sought-after actors in Korea, and his schedule very much reflected it. Film after film, event after event. There was always something pulling him away, something more important than flying to Europe or North America or wherever Jimin was racing that weekend.
And it hurt.
Jimin hated the sting of it, hated the way it made his chest ache whenever he thought about how things used to be. Before Ferrari, before the alpha’s big break, when they still managed to steal whole weeks together without a clock counting down. Back then, Jeongguk would have been in this room the moment Jimin opened his eyes, his sandalwood scent warm and grounding, protecting him from anything else the world could throw at him.
But his packed schedule had become some sort of an unyielding obstacle, robbing them of the time they used to freely share. What once felt like a true partnership now often felt like parallel lives—two people running on separate tracks, rarely ever meeting in the middle.
Jimin often had to fight the simmering anger that tried to creep up inside him. He had no right to be upset. Jeongguk had once put his own dreams on hold to support Jimin’s, traveling with him during his early years in Formula 1 when he was just a rookie fighting to prove himself. Back then, Jeongguk had been his rock, always there in the paddock, in the garage, in the quiet moments after a race.
But sometimes, late at night across the world from his mate, when the loneliness gets to be unbearable, Jimin would catch himself wishing Jeongguk hadn’t made it big at all. Wishing for a version of their lives where Jeongguk wasn’t revered for his talent, where he didn’t have the world pulling at him from every direction. Those thoughts always left him feeling awful. How could he begrudge Jeongguk’s success when Jimin had fought tooth and nail for his own?
He hated himself for it. For wishing, even for a moment, that Jeongguk hadn’t made it. That they could have stayed as they were, two people chasing one dream instead of their own separate ambitions.
His gaze flicked to Jeongguk’s face, to the worry etched into his features, and his chest tightened further.
The guilt tasted sour crawling up his throat. He loved Jeongguk, adored him. And yet, the distance between them was so constant an ache that no amount of rushed scenting or fleeting phone calls could ever even begin to soothe the sting.
Sometimes, he wondered what life would have been like if they’d chosen something simpler. Normal jobs, normal lives, falling asleep in each other’s arms every night instead of spending weeks, sometimes months, apart. Not these rushed moments, these fragmented pieces of time they tried to stitch together into something whole.
Jeongguk shifted in his seat, his brow furrowed as he reached out to touch Jimin’s good hand. The warmth of his skin startled Jimin out of his thoughts.
“Are you okay?” Jeongguk asked softly, his thumb brushing over Jimin’s knuckles.
“I’m fine,” Jimin said, his voice hoarse. He regretted it immediately, knowing how hollow the words sounded.
“You’re not fine,” Jeongguk replied, his brows knitting together. “You crashed at over a hundred miles an hour. You could’ve—” He stopped himself, his jaw tightening as if the very thought was too much to voice.
“But I didn’t.” He looked down to where Jeongguk’s fingers traced soft patterns against his own and swallowed hard, guilt tightening in his chest, right next to the unconsciously growing bundle of disappointment.
Even now, with Jeongguk right beside him and their hands entwined, it was obvious the alpha didn’t know.
He hadn’t noticed the milkiness in Jimin’s scent, the unmistakable change that should have clued him in weeks ago. An alpha— his alpha—should have been able to sense the shift pretty early on.
But Jeongguk hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t reacted.
Jimin told himself it wasn’t Jeongguk’s fault. They hadn’t been close enough in the past few weeks for him to even be able to pick up on it—not physically, not emotionally. Too many miles had separated them, too many days spent apart.
And yet… it still burned.
A pinpoint sting of rejection settled deep in his chest. His omega whimpered inside him. The smallest, most primal part of him aching at the fact that their mate hadn’t realized he was carrying their child.
Jimin exhaled slowly, forcing himself to push it down. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe he needed Jeongguk to stay unaware a little longer, to give himself time to figure out how to tell him, how to even process it himself.
Still, he couldn’t stop the way his fingers curled slightly, gripping Jeongguk’s hand just a little tighter. A quiet plea for something he wasn’t quite ready to ask for.
He couldn’t tell him. Not now, at least. Not here and not like this.
“Thanks for coming,” Jimin murmured instead.
Jeongguk’s thumb, which had been tracing absent patterns over the back of Jimin’s hand, stilled. “Of course I came, Min,” he replied, his voice carrying a hint of hurt. “You shouldn’t have to thank me for that.”
Jimin scoffed under his breath, looking away. His jaw tightened as he stared at the blank wall across the room, bitterness pressing at the edges of his words. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you had actually been at the race like you said you would.”
Jeongguk stiffened, his brows knitting together. “Jimin—”
“You said you’d be there,” Jimin cut in, his voice sharp. “Japan isn’t that far from Korea, Jeongguk. It’s the closest race to home all season. And you still didn’t come.”
Jeongguk exhaled slowly, but Jimin could see the way his shoulders tensed. “I told you I couldn’t make it.” His tone is more clipped now, tired. “I let you know as soon as my schedule changed. I apologized—”
Jimin let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “An apology doesn’t change much.”
“What do you want me to say, Jimin?” Jeongguk’s jaw ticked, frustration creeping into his expression. “That I should’ve abandoned a production with hundreds of people relying on me? That I should’ve gotten on a new flight and somehow made it there in time? I wanted to be there, but I couldn’t.”
“You could’ve if you wanted to badly enough.”
Jeongguk let out an exasperated breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “You act like I’m choosing to miss your races. I tried, Jimin. I really did, but I coul—”
“You couldn’t ,” Jimin cut in, his tone harsh. “You never can.”
Jeongguk opened his mouth to respond but stopped, his jaw tightening.
“I just wanted you to show up for me, Jeongguk,” Jimin said, his voice cracking slightly. “Just once. I get that your schedule is insane and that you’re constantly being pulled in a million directions. I get that, I really do. But I just needed you to show up and be there.”
“And what about me?” Jeongguk asked, his voice suddenly sharper, strained with something deeper than just the frustration simmering in his scent. “When do I get to say I need you , Jimin? Because it feels like I’m always the one left behind, watching you race off to the next circuit while I try to catch up and not let it eat at me that you’re gone. You think it’s easy for me to miss this? To find out through a goddamn news clip that you crashed and got carted off in an ambulance?”
Jimin flinched at that, but Jeongguk kept going.
“Do you know what that felt like? Sitting in my trailer, about to go on set, and suddenly my phone is blowing up because my mate— my fucking mate —got into a wreck and no one could tell me if you were even alive?”
Jimin pressed his lips together, his fingers curling around the blanket in his lap. He knew. He knew what that must have felt like for Jeongguk, but the hurt in his own chest was too fresh, too consuming to let him back down.
“You say that, but still never show up.”
Jeongguk froze, Jimin’s words hitting him like a ton of bricks. He leaned back slightly, his hand pulling away from the omega’s.
“Are you serious?” Jeongguk asked, his voice quieter now. “You think I don’t want to be there?”
“Other mates make it work,” Jimin said, and the second the words left his mouth, he knew they were the wrong ones.
“Wow,” Jeongguk breathed, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head, hurt and betrayal flickering in his eyes. “So that’s what you think of me?”
Jimin stayed silent, unable to take the words back.
Jeongguk let out a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You think I don’t care because I miss your races? Because I can’t drop everything at a moment’s notice?” He gestured around vaguely, his frustration finally breaking through. “I keep up with every race, I watch every goddamn qualifying session in between my own work, I stay up at insane hours to follow your stupid post-race briefings, I—” He broke off, shaking his head as he looked away for a moment, as if trying to find the right words and retain his anger. “I try so fucking hard, but it’s never enough, is it?”
The words sliced through Jimin like a knife. Jeongguk’s shoulders slumped slightly, his exhaustion finally showing.
“I hate being away from you,” Jeongguk admitted. “I hate that I can’t just drop everything and be there for every moment. I wish I could but I can’t . I’m not—” He broke off, his hands gripping his knees. “I’m not superhuman, Min.”
The tension between them felt suffocating, the air thick with burnt sandalwood and sour citrus, both warped by the bitterness of frustration.
“I know,” Jimin said softly. “I know you’re trying, Jeongguk. And I know I’m not always fair to you. I—” His voice cracked and he swallowed hard. “I get caught up in my own world sometimes and push too hard and don’t always think about what you’re sacrificing, about how hard it is for you to be away too.”
He paused, his eyes lifting to Jeongguk’s face. Even under the stark fluorescent lights of the hospital room, Jimin was struck by just how beautiful Jeongguk was, even now—his features had sharpened slightly with age, his soft, rounded jaw giving way to more defined angles. The tattoos winding along his arms, the piercings adorning his ears—they were all reminders of how much Jeongguk had grown into himself. Yet beneath it all, Jimin still saw the young alpha who’d laugh until his nose scrunched up, who’d hold Jimin tight in the dark, whispering promises neither of them could fully keep.
He’d loved Jeongguk for so long now that it felt woven into his very being, something he could never fully untangle from himself even if he tried. But lately, the distance between them had stretched unbearably far, and it felt like they were slipping—slipping toward something he couldn’t bring himself to name.
Jimin drew in a shaky breath, his gaze still fixed on Jeongguk’s tired, sad eyes.
“But that doesn’t make it hurt any less. It doesn’t make it okay that I feel like I’m losing my mind for needing you,” he whispered, words trembling despite his effort to hold himself together. “I wanted you here. I needed you here. Not just because I crashed, but for all of it. Because you’re my mate. I need you for the wins, for the losses, for whatever moments come in between. You used to be there, Jeongguk. And now you’re not.”
Jeongguk dragged a hand down his face, frustration giving way to something heavier—something that seemed almost broken.
“I’ve been killing myself trying to make this work, Jimin,” he said hoarsely. “You’re not the only one who feels the distance, who feels the need. Don’t you know it hurts me, too?”
Jimin’s lip trembled, words caught in his throat.
“What am I supposed to do, Min?” Jeongguk whispered, almost pleading. “Tell me, because I’m running out of answers.”
Jimin looked away, unable to meet Jeongguk’s eyes.
“I don’t know what to do anymore,” Jeongguk continued, his voice cracking with strain. “I’m trying so hard to keep us together, but sometimes… sometimes it feels like it would be better to just—”
A soft knock at the door interrupted him, followed by the quiet creak of it opening. Both their heads turned as a nurse stepped into the room, her gaze flicking quickly between them.
“Oh! You’re awake!” she exclaimed, her tone far too cheerful for the tension lingering in the air and the persistent ache pounding through Jimin’s head. “I’ll notify the doctor, he’ll want to check on you right away.”
Jimin nodded stiffly, his throat too tight for a response. The nurse offered them a brief, apologetic smile before retreating and leaving the door slightly ajar behind her.
In the sudden quiet, their eyes met again. The sadness reflected in Jeongguk’s gaze mirrored Jimin’s own, twisting painfully in his gut.
“It’s late,” Jimin murmured softly. “You should find a hotel, get some rest. The doctor will be here soon.”
Jeongguk’s brows knitted together, lips parting as if he might argue or pick up where he'd left off. But Jimin shook his head gently, stopping him before he could.
“Please, Gguk. Just go. I need—” His voice faltered and he took a deep breath, steadying himself before continuing, “I’ll see you tomorrow”
Jeongguk didn’t move immediately, his shoulders rising and falling unevenly. Jimin finally relaxed back against the pillows, carefully shifting onto his side with his back facing Jeongguk. He winced sharply when he accidentally jostled his splinted wrist, causing his scent to spike, sour with the pain he couldn't fully hide.
Behind him, Jeongguk’s breath caught, distress clear even without turning to look, the alpha’s scent turning bitter around the edges. The seconds stretched, long and heavy, until finally Jimin felt the gentle warmth of Jeongguk’s lips pressing softly against the crown of his head. It was hesitant and brief, filled with regret and unfiltered sadness.
Then, without another word, Jeongguk stepped back, footsteps slowly retreating until Jimin was left alone in the echoing silence of the room.
Jimin’s omega howled silently, an instinctive cry clawing desperately from within him, aching for his alpha’s comforting presence, for the familiar warmth that only Jeongguk could provide. But logic and pride held Jimin firmly in place. He had started this fight and now he had no choice but to lie in the bed he’d made for himself.
The ache in his chest deepened as the tears he’d held back earlier finally broke free, slipping silently down his cheeks and soaking into the pillow beneath him. He shut his eyes, trying in vain to quiet the restless storm inside his mind, but the weight of every spiteful word he’d said pressed down on him relentlessly, impossible to escape.
And now, the reality of his pregnancy hovered above him like a storm cloud, threatening to burst at any moment and wash away whatever remained of their fragile bond. Jimin curled tighter around himself, the pain in his chest expanding as he wondered just how much longer they could endure this—how many more battles they could fight, how much more distance they could bear—before their connection finally snapped, and they both learned what it really means to be alone.