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Summary
Yuki Tsunoda had never been particularly sentimental. He loved hard, lived in the moment, and rarely sat still long enough to think too deeply about what he had. But tonight, lying on the couch with a blanket over his lap and a cup of chamomile tea cooling in his hands, he found himself staring at the framed photograph across the room.
They had chosen him.
Him. The loud, stubborn omega who swore too much and cooked too little. They’d chosen him and never once made him feel like he had to be anything else.