Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chu Wanning had been sick for two weeks now. It wasn’t the usual kind of sickness that came before his heat - this was different, heavier, and it scared him in a way he couldn’t quite name.

The headaches were constant, a dull throb behind his eyes that made it hard to focus. The nausea came in waves, strong enough to send him rushing to the bathroom between classes. He’d rinse his mouth, straighten his clothes, and walk back in as if nothing had happened, pretending not to notice the worried looks his students gave him.

Maybe it was stress. Exam season always wore him down, and the pressure felt worse this year. His students were good kids, hardworking and bright, but he couldn’t stop thinking that if they didn’t pass, it would be his fault. That thought alone was enough to keep him awake at night.

Still, as the days dragged on and the sickness didn’t fade, Chu Wanning couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong - something deeper than stress or exhaustion.

Mo Ran had started to notice as well. He would come home from work to find his Wanning fast asleep on the sofa, a red pen still in hand and half-marked papers spread across his chest. The soft rise and fall of his breathing was uneven, his brows drawn even in rest.

Quietly, Mo Ran would gather the papers and set them aside on the coffee table. Then he’d lean down, settling carefully over his mate, letting his warmth press close. And every time, without fail, Chu Wanning would stir - his eyes fluttering open, the tension in his face easing as if the sickness had never been there at all.

When Mo Ran’s lips brushed against his neck and he asked, in a low voice, about his day, Chu Wanning would almost forget he’d felt unwell in the first place.

Chu Wanning told himself it would pass - that whatever this was, he’d feel better soon.

One morning, he woke early and went through the motions of his routine. The smell of coffee filled the kitchen as he scrolled through the calendar on the fridge, half-expecting to see one of Mo Ran’s notes - date night, go shopping, something ordinary. But instead, his eyes caught on the dates he’d marked for his last heat.

It should have come and gone by now.

For a moment, he just stared, the quiet hum of the coffee maker filling the space where his thoughts should have been. Then his stomach dropped. The same sickness that had lingered for weeks rose sharply in his throat. He barely made it to the bathroom before he was on his knees, retching until all that came up was bile.

When it was over, he gripped the edge of the sink, breathing hard. His reflection in the mirror looked pale, shaken - like he already knew what his body was trying to tell him.

A soft knock came at the bathroom door. “Wanning? You okay in there?” Mo Ran’s voice was warm, faintly worried.

“I’m fine,” Chu Wanning called back, forcing his voice to sound steady. He rinsed his mouth, trying to wash away the taste of bile, and stared down at the sink until the tremor in his hands stopped.

But he wasn’t fine.

A pup. The thought struck like a jolt to his chest. It made sense - the missed heat, the lingering sickness - but the possibility terrified him.

He knew Mo Ran would be a wonderful father; he’d seen it in the way Mo Ran cared for others, the way he softened without even realising it. They’d talked about it before, late at night, half joking, half dreaming.

And Chu Wanning wanted it too. He wanted to carry Mo Ran’s child, to feel it grow inside him, to hold something that was theirs. He wanted it so badly it hurt. But the thought twisted with fear. He was strict, distant, never good with words or affection. Could a pup ever love someone like him?

He pressed a hand to his stomach, steadying his breath. No - he couldn’t tell Mo Ran yet. Not until he was sure.

He needed to know for certain before hope - or fear - could take root.

Later on in the day, whilst Mo Ran was out with Xue Meng, Chu Wanning stopped by a small pharmacy. The bright lights and soft music made his skin prickle with discomfort.

He avoided the cashier’s eyes as he paid, sliding the small box into a paper bag as quickly as possible. It shouldn’t have felt embarrassing - they were mated, after all - but his cheeks still burned.

Back home, he took the test. Then another. Then another.

Each one blinked back the same answer. Positive.

For a long time, Chu Wanning just stood there, staring at them lined up across the counter. The silence of the apartment pressed in on him - no Mo Ran’s laugh echoing from the kitchen, no clatter of dishes, just the soft hum of the bathroom light and the sound of his own uneven breathing.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He pressed them flat against the cool porcelain of the sink, trying to steady himself, but the tremor wouldn’t fade. His reflection in the mirror looked pale and uncertain, his eyes wide in a way he hadn’t seen since he was much younger - since before he’d learned how to keep his fear to himself.

He’d always thought of himself as brave. He’d faced danger, exhaustion, heartbreak. He’d survived more than most people ever had to. But now, with three plastic sticks lined up in front of him, he felt small in a way that frightened him.

How could something so tiny, something he couldn’t even see yet, make his chest feel tight and his throat close up?

He wanted to be happy - part of him was - but the fear was louder. Fear of what came next, of doing something wrong, of not being enough.

Chu Wanning turned away from the counter, sinking onto the edge of the tub. He buried his face in his hands, breathing slow and careful, as if the air itself might shatter him if he let go.

After a while, he forced himself to move. His legs felt unsteady as he pushed up from the edge of the tub, the world tilting slightly before righting itself. He needed to pull himself together - at least enough to breathe without shaking.

He found his phone on the nightstand. The clock glowed in the dim light, each minute ticking by louder than it should. Mo Ran was still out. A new message blinked onto the screen:

Should I grab dinner on the way home?

Chu Wanning stared at it for a long time. His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Yes, ple

No, I’m not hungr

Come home s

He typed and deleted each one, again and again, until the screen dimmed. He didn’t know what to say - didn’t know how to answer a simple question when his whole world suddenly felt unsteady.

He went back to the bathroom, cleaning up the mess in quiet, methodical motions. The tests went into the trash. The boxes too. He washed his hands twice, though they were already clean.

When he was done, the apartment felt too still.

Chu Wanning sat on the couch, the paper bag from the pharmacy tucked out of sight. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound. He folded his hands in his lap, staring at nothing, caught somewhere between panic and calm - between wanting to cry and wanting to feel nothing at all.

He waited what felt like hours for Mo Ran to come home. The clock ticked steadily in the quiet apartment, each sound sharper than the last. Chu Wanning sat on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly through nothing. His thoughts kept circling back to the same question: How do I tell him?

He knew Mo Ran would be happy. Over the years, Mo Ran had talked about it so many times - how much he wanted to get Chu Wanning pregnant. So much that Chu Wanning was surprised it hadn’t happened before now. Remembering those conversations drew the smallest, reluctant smile from Chu Wanning’s lips.

That was the moment the door opened.

Mo Ran stepped in, kicking off his shoes, halfway through a greeting before his expression shifted. “Baby?”

Chu Wanning froze, the faint smile vanishing. His posture went stiff, too composed, and Mo Ran immediately caught it. He crossed the room in a few quick strides and knelt in front of him, worrying clouding his face.

“Are you still feeling sick? Did something happen?”

Chu Wanning’s mouth felt dry. He looked at Mo Ran - at the open concern, the warmth - and hesitated. The words sat heavy on his tongue. Then, after a beat, he forced them out, his voice low and even, the way it always was when he didn’t trust himself to feel too much.

“I took a test,” he said. “I’m pregnant.”

The silence that followed was sharp and fragile, like glass before it breaks.

For a beat, silence.

Then Mo Ran’s expression split wide open, all the worry falling away into pure, stunned joy. A laugh burst out of him - loud, bright, unrestrained - as he scooped Chu Wanning up in his arms and spun him once, dizzy with happiness.

“Wait, wait!” Chu Wanning gasped, his hands gripping Mo Ran’s shoulders. “You’ll make me sick again.”

That made Mo Ran stop mid-spin, eyes going wide. “Right - right, I might hurt you - or the pup!” He set Chu Wanning back on his feet as though he were made of glass, still laughing through the breathlessness.

His eyes were wet when he finally cupped Chu Wanning’s face between his hands. “We’re going to have a pup,” he whispered, disbelief and wonder tangled in his voice.

Chu Wanning didn’t smile big - he rarely did - but the corners of his mouth softened, and something warm flickered in his eyes. “You really want this?”

“I’ve always wanted this,” Mo Ran said. “You. Us. A family.”

And Chu Wanning knew he meant it.

All those times Mo Ran had talked about the future - teasing, half-serious - hadn’t just been pillow talk or the heat-drunken babble of sex. Even the so-called breeding talk, so filthy and ridiculous in the moment, hadn’t come from nowhere.

Beneath the smirk and swagger had been something real: a longing so deep it had found its way into fantasy, into play, into every breathless gasp of want.

He had meant it. All of it.

And now, standing here with wide eyes and trembling hands, he looked like a man who had never dared hope he'd get what he most wanted - and somehow, impossibly, had.

Later that night, Mo Ran couldn’t sleep. The world outside their window was quiet, the soft glow of the streetlights spilling across the sheets. He lay awake, one arm curled around Chu Wanning’s flat stomach, fingers resting where his warmth felt most alive.

Every so often he stroked a hand across it - just to be sure, to remind himself this was real.

“Stop teasing me,” Chu Wanning mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Mo Ran smiled against his hair. “I can’t,” he whispered. “You’re carrying our pup.”

Chu Wanning let out a soft, breathy sound - half sigh, half shiver - but didn’t pull away. When Mo Ran cradled his chin with steady fingers and gently turned his face, Chu Wanning followed the motion without resistance, eyes lowering.

Their lips met, slow and seeking, and when Mo Ran deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing against the seam of his mouth, Chu Wanning parted for him - hesitant, pliant, shy in the offering. The kiss unfolded with aching tenderness, wordless and warm, a quiet yielding that said everything he couldn’t.

The night stretched around them, filled with warmth and heartbeat and the steady rhythm of shared breath. The fear was still there, lingering beneath the surface, but for now it was drowned out by something gentler - contentment, wonder, and the fragile joy of beginning.

From the moment the news truly sank in, Mo Ran went all in.

Within days he was reading articles, watching vlogs, and signing up for every online forum for expectant alphas he could find. He even downloaded a pregnancy-tracker app that sent him daily notifications and cheerful reminders.

Every other sentence out of his mouth began with, “I read that omegas shouldn’t-” or “The app says you need more protein this trimester-” until Chu Wanning started threatening to delete the app himself.

Mo Ran hovered constantly - adjusting pillows, bringing snacks, making sure the floor wasn’t too cold for his Wanning’s feet, scolding him for standing too long.

“I’m not fragile,” Chu Wanning muttered for what felt like the hundredth time. “Stop fussing.”

But Mo Ran only smiled, eyes soft as he looked at him. “You’re not fragile,” he said quietly. “You’re precious.”

That left Chu Wanning speechless, cheeks faintly red, because there was no proper argument against that.

At first, Chu Wanning’s self-control kept everything orderly. He followed his routines, taught his classes, and refused to let his new condition change anything about his day.

Then the nausea got worse.

Mornings became slow and heavy. Some days he barely made it through brushing his teeth before the wave rose sharp and sudden, leaving him doubled over the sink.

Mo Ran’s reaction was instant - and entirely over the top. Within minutes he’d appear at Chu Wanning’s side with a cool washcloth, ginger tea, and that steady hand rubbing slow circles on his back.

“It’s okay, baby. Breathe. Just breathe.”

“Stop watching me vomit,” Chu Wanning muttered between heaves, voice sharp with mortification.

Mo Ran didn’t budge. “If you think I’m leaving you like this,” he said softly, “you don’t know me at all.”

Eventually, when the nausea eased and the worst of it passed, Chu Wanning gave up the fight. He leaned weakly against Mo Ran’s chest, breath coming in slow, shallow pulls.

“I hate this,” he whispered.

“I know,” Mo Ran murmured, pressing his lips to Chu Wanning’s hair. “I’d take it for you if I could.”

For a long moment, Chu Wanning said nothing. He just sat there, feeling the weight and warmth of Mo Ran’s arms around him, realising what he hadn’t before: he wasn’t facing this alone. Whatever came next, Mo Ran was all in.

It was an ordinary weekend - groceries, a prenatal checkup, maybe a stop for tea before heading home. The kind of calm, uneventful day Mo Ran had started to treasure.

They were walking down the street when Chu Wanning slowed.

In the window of a baby boutique sat a tiny pair of booties - soft grey fabric shaped like huskies, with deep purple eyes stitched into their faces. It was such a small thing, almost silly, but something about it made him stop. His gaze lingered a beat too long.

Mo Ran noticed immediately. “You want to go in?”

“No.” The word came out too fast, too sharp.

Mo Ran didn’t push. “Alright,” he said easily, adjusting the grocery bag in his hand.

They kept walking. The conversation shifted to something else - something ordinary - but Mo Ran glanced sideways at him once, quietly smiling to himself.

A week later, Mo Ran came home from work with a small paper bag in hand.

“For you,” he said, trying for casual, but the hint of a grin gave him away.

Chu Wanning raised an eyebrow and took the bag. Inside was a tiny pair of husky-shaped booties - the same ones from the boutique window. Soft grey fabric, deep purple eyes.

He froze, fingers curling lightly around them before looking up, startled. “You remembered that?”

Mo Ran shrugged, his smile turning softer. “You looked at them like they were already ours.”

Chu Wanning’s breath caught. He murmured something under his breath - half protest, half embarrassment - but he didn’t give them back.

Later, he placed the little shoes on their bedroom shelf, beside a stack of folded laundry and a potted plant that never seemed to thrive. And every time he passed by, he found himself glancing at them - just for a second, as if to make sure they were still there.

The apartment felt different now - softer somehow, quieter, filled with the low hum of anticipation.

Other new things had begun to appear in every corner: bottles of prenatal vitamins on the counter, a stack of baby books by the bed, a half-assembled crib waiting in the spare room. Even the air felt changed, carrying a sense of something about to begin.

Mo Ran had taken to talking to Chu Wanning’s belly, voice warm and teasing. “Your mama’s grumpy,” he’d say, fingers brushing lightly over the curve that was just starting to show, “but he loves you already. So do I.”

Chu Wanning would roll his eyes, muttering for him to stop being ridiculous, but the corners of his mouth always betrayed him, softening into a quiet smile.

For the first time in a long while, life felt simple - safe.

He’d catch Mo Ran humming while folding laundry, or sketching ideas for the pup’s room in the margins of his work notebook. There was still fear, still uncertainty about what came next - but it no longer sat heavy in his chest.

Now, it was quieter. Manageable. Almost gentle.

But one day, Mo Ran developed a cough.

Nothing much at first - a dry sound in Mo Ran’s throat, a little hoarseness that made him joke about catching a “dad cold.”

Chu Wanning fussed, of course. Told him to rest, to drink water, to maybe skip work for a day. Mo Ran only laughed, waving it off. “It’s nothing. Probably from the AC.”

But within a few days, the cough deepened. His breathing grew shallow, his chest tight. At night, a faint wheeze filled the spaces between their words.

When the sound woke Chu Wanning, Mo Ran would roll onto his side, pretending to be asleep.

Soon, the alpha started sleeping on the couch. “Just until I’m better,” he said with a tired smile. “I don’t want to risk you or the pup.”

Chu Wanning stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He wanted to argue - to tell him to stop being stupid, to come back to bed - but the words caught in his throat.

That night, the bed felt too big. The quiet pressed in around him, and for the first time in months, the apartment didn’t feel safe anymore.

For the next few nights, Chu Wanning woke alone in the dark, instinctively reaching for Mo Ran - only to find the space beside him cold, the sheets untouched.

He would sit there for a long time, hand resting on his belly, listening to the muffled sound of coughing from the living room. Each rasping breath clawed at the quiet, at his composure. The loneliness gnawed at him - not just for Mo Ran’s warmth, but for the reassurance of knowing he was there.

In the morning, he pretended everything was fine. He made breakfast, left medicine on the counter beside a mug of tea.

“You should go to the clinic,” he said, voice careful, almost neutral.

Mo Ran smiled faintly from the couch. “It’s just a cold, Shizun.”

He still called him that sometimes - when he was trying to soothe him, to make things feel familiar and safe.

“You said that three days ago,” Chu Wanning replied.

Mo Ran’s grin didn’t falter, but his eyes were tired.

And for the first time, Chu Wanning couldn’t quite convince himself it was just a cold.

The cough didn’t go away. The shortness of breath grew worse. Mo Ran tired easily now - climbing the stairs left him winded, his steps slowing halfway up.

One evening, Chu Wanning found him in the hallway, leaning against the wall. His face was pale, damp with sweat, chest rising and falling too fast.

“You shouldn’t be up,” Chu Wanning said sharply, the edge in his voice born more of fear than anger.

Mo Ran tried to smile, breath catching. “You shouldn’t be worrying,” he murmured, forcing lightness that didn’t reach his eyes. “You need to think about the pup.” Then, almost to himself, soft with shame - “I should be the one taking care of you…”

Something in Chu Wanning snapped. “Stop pretending you’re okay!” The words came out too loud, echoing down the quiet hall.

Silence fell between them, thick and aching. Mo Ran looked at him - startled, then guilty.

When Chu Wanning spoke again, his voice was low, unsteady. “You don’t have to take care of me. Not like this.” He stepped forward, hands trembling slightly as he touched Mo Ran’s sleeve - not to scold, but to steady. “Just… let me be the one who worries for once.”

It happened in the morning.

Chu Wanning woke to the sound of something falling - the sharp clatter of a mug breaking against the kitchen floor. For a heartbeat, he lay still, disoriented. Then came the sound of ragged breathing.

He was out of bed in an instant, though his movements were slower than they used to be - his balance off, his growing belly a constant reminder to move carefully.

In the kitchen, Mo Ran was sitting on the floor, one hand clutching the counter, the other pressed to his chest. His face was pale, damp with sweat, every breath shallow and trembling.

For a split second, everything inside Chu Wanning went cold. Then instinct took over.

“Mo Ran.” He knelt beside him, one hand braced on the floor, the other trembling as it gripped Mo Ran’s shoulder. “Look at me.”

Mo Ran tried to speak, but it came out as a broken gasp.

“We’re going to the doctor,” Chu Wanning said, voice low and firm. “Now.”

He hauled Mo Ran up, ignoring the strain that shot through his lower back, the warning pull of muscles that didn’t want to cooperate. His heart pounded, not just for Mo Ran, but for the small life turning quietly inside him - reminding him he couldn’t fall apart. Not now.

“Don’t talk,” he said, breath catching as he helped Mo Ran into his jacket. “Just breathe.”

By the time they reached the car, Chu Wanning was shaking - from effort, from fear, from the raw, consuming need to keep them both safe.

For once, Mo Ran didn’t argue. He let Chu Wanning guide him, heavy and unsteady, and Chu Wanning realised - through the terror and exhaustion - that love could be both fierce and fragile at once.

The caretaker had become the one cared for.

And Chu Wanning, four months along and terrified, held them both together with nothing but willpower and love.

The doctor’s office smelled sterile - all disinfectant and cold air that seemed to settle in the bones.

Chu Wanning sat stiffly in the waiting room, hands resting over the curve of his belly, trying not to shake. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. Every sound - a page turning, a cough down the hall - felt too loud.

Beside him, Mo Ran’s breathing was still uneven, but his fingers found Chu Wanning’s, warm and steady. He turned their joined hands slightly, until both rested over the small swell of Chu Wanning’s bump.

“Let’s make a list,” Mo Ran murmured, forcing a smile. “Names we like. We can veto each other’s picks. Fair system, right?”

Chu Wanning looked at him - at the shadows under his eyes, at how hard he was trying to make this feel normal - and couldn’t bring himself to answer. Not here. Not with the antiseptic smell clinging to everything, and the soft hiss of oxygen tanks somewhere down the corridor.

He just nodded, eyes fixed on their joined hands. The contact should’ve soothed him, but all he could feel was how fragile everything was - how easily the peace they’d built could fracture.

When the nurse finally called Mo Ran’s name, Chu Wanning was on his feet before he realised it. His hand hovered near Mo Ran’s arm, as if afraid he might fall apart if he let go.

And when they walked through that door, the air felt even colder.

The examination room was too bright. White walls, white sheets, the steady tick of a clock that seemed far too loud.

Mo Ran lay on the narrow bed, the paper beneath him crinkling with every shallow breath. The doctor’s voice was calm, professional, as he asked about symptoms - when the cough had started, how long the chest pain had been there, whether it had worsened.

Mo Ran answered with a half-shrug and a practiced grin. “A few days. Maybe a week. It’s really not that bad.”

Beside him, Chu Wanning’s fingers tightened around his hand. “It’s been almost three weeks,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the doctor. “The pain started after the cough. It’s gotten worse these past few days.”

Mo Ran flinched - not at the correction, but at the quiet disappointment threaded through Chu Wanning’s voice.

The doctor nodded, making notes, asking a few more questions that Mo Ran didn’t want to answer. He could feel Chu Wanning beside him - steady, silent, but shaking slightly.

He turned his head just enough to look at him. Chu Wanning sat upright in the chair, the round of his belly just visible through his coat, one hand resting protectively over it. The sight hit Mo Ran harder than the doctor’s questions.

They shouldn’t be here for him. They should be thinking about the pup - about vitamins, sleep, the ultrasound they’d scheduled for two weeks from now to find out whether it would be a boy or a girl.

Not this. Not chest pain and oxygen readings.

Guilt burned in his throat, sharper than the ache in his lungs.

He squeezed Chu Wanning’s hand weakly. “I’ll get better,” he said, almost to himself. “Whatever this is, I’ll fix it. I promise.”

Chu Wanning didn’t answer right away. He only nodded, eyes locked on the monitor beside the bed - where Mo Ran’s heartbeat flickered across the screen, unsteady and fragile.

After the examination finished, Chu Wanning and Mo Ran sat side by side, their hands clasped tightly between them. The only sound was the faint hum of the fluorescent lights, the soft scratch of a pen against paper. It should have been ordinary, but somehow the silence roared.

When the doctor spoke, his voice was gentle - practiced in compassion, heavy with sympathy that needed no explanation.

“I’m sorry,” he began. “What we’ve found is serious. It’s a chronic condition - a degenerative heart disease. The damage is already advanced.” He paused, eyes flicking between them. “There are treatments that may help for a while, but… it will continue to worsen. Eventually, his heart will fail.”

The words blurred. They hit like glass shattering underwater - sharp, distant, unreal.

Chu Wanning heard them, understood them, but his mind refused to let them settle. The air felt thick, each breath like wading through fog.

Beside him, Mo Ran didn’t flinch. He sat upright, shoulders squared, voice steady as he asked questions - what kind of treatment, how long, what to expect. His tone was calm, almost clinical, as though reason alone could make this manageable.

It was so like him - to be strong when everything else was breaking.

Chu Wanning could only look at him. At the faint crease between his brows. At the way his thumb brushed over Chu Wanning’s knuckles as he listened. At the quiet focus in his eyes that made the doctor’s words feel even more unbearable.

And then the tears came - soundless, unstoppable. They rolled down his face without warning, blurring Mo Ran’s outline, turning the room into light and motion and noise he couldn’t control.

Mo Ran noticed only when a drop hit the back of his hand. He turned, still steady, and squeezed Chu Wanning’s fingers once - firm, grounding.

“Hey,” he murmured, low enough that only Chu Wanning could hear. “I’m here.”

Chu Wanning swallowed hard, nodding, unable to speak.

I’m here.

The words echoed in his chest - gentle, certain, full of love. But all he could think, through the ache and the fear, was a single, shattering thought:

How long for, though?

And the moment it crossed his mind, his heart broke cleanly in two.

The drive home felt endless.

The hum of the tires against the road was too loud, too constant - a low buzz that filled Chu Wanning’s ears until it drowned everything else out. His head rested against the cold window, eyes fixed on nothing.

Beside him, Mo Ran talked.

Not in the soft, measured way of someone who’d just been told their life had an end date - but in his usual, bright tone. Too loud. Too normal.

“…We could order from that place you like,” Mo Ran was saying, hands loose on the steering wheel. “And we can watch a movie - something stupid, something funny.”

He laughed, like he was trying to fill the air with anything but silence.

Chu Wanning couldn’t stand it.

He stared straight ahead, fingers moving to his belly - the slow, instinctive gesture grounding him in something real. The faint swell beneath his hand reminded him there was still life growing, steady and unknowing, inside him.

But his chest ached with a grief he couldn’t name.

Mo Ran’s voice kept going, cheerful, full of warmth - the same voice that had once made him feel safe. Now it only hurt. Because underneath every word, Chu Wanning could hear the truth: Mo Ran knew. He just wasn’t ready to let it exist yet.

“Maybe,” Chu Wanning said suddenly, his voice flat, almost detached, “we should hold off on having a pup until you’re recovered.”

The words landed like a stone dropped into deep water - quiet, but final.

Mo Ran’s voice stopped mid-sentence. The car went silent except for the steady drone of the engine.

For a long second, he didn’t say anything. His hands tightened on the steering wheel before one of them slipped away, finding Chu Wanning’s thigh. He gave it a firm squeeze - grounding, desperate, before his touch turned soft and gentle.

Chu Wanning glanced sideways and saw it then - the crack in his expression, the pain that hadn’t shown itself even in the doctor’s office.

He looked more heartbroken at that suggestion than he had when told he was dying.

“Why would you say that, baby?” Mo Ran asked quietly, as if trying to be kind but his voice was frayed around the edges. He didn’t look at him - couldn’t - just kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Chu Wanning said nothing. His throat felt tight, his heart a heavy, aching thing behind his ribs.

He wasn’t trying to be cruel. He was trying to protect them - protect something. But the look on Mo Ran’s face told him it didn’t matter what his reasons were. The words had cut deeper than he’d meant them to.

The car moved through the city in silence, the lights outside turning everything inside to shadow and glass.

Chu Wanning spoke quietly, each word dragged from somewhere deep and raw. “I could get an abortion,” he said. “You need more care and to focus on getting better. It’s not like we couldn’t try again… later.”

Mo Ran didn’t answer at first. The traffic light changed, red washing briefly across his face before fading back to yellow. When he finally looked over, there was something in his eyes Chu Wanning hadn’t seen before - grief, quiet and total.

And in that look, Chy Wanning saw the truth. He knew what terminal meant. There wouldn’t be a later. There wouldn’t be a time when Mo Ran was better.

The realisation hollowed him out. He stared down at his hands, voice breaking. “I can’t do this without you.”

Mo Ran’s smile was soft - not reassuring, not pretending. Just sad, and unbearably tender.
“And I don’t want to leave you all alone.”

His hand moved, brushing over Chu Wanning’s thigh - gentle, soothing, an old habit of comfort. Chu Wanning covered it with his own, fingers trembling. His other hand came up to his face, as if to hide the tears that refused to stop.

“Wanning,” Mo Ran said quietly, thumb stroking his thigh, “If thats truly what you want baby, we can get an abortion… but… I just don’t want you to be alone when I’m gone.”

The words hung between them, fragile and final, as the city blurred past outside - life moving on, even as theirs quietly changed forever.

Chu Wanning had always been the practical one - composed, level-headed, unshakable in the face of anyone’s crisis but his own.

But now, sitting beside his mate, the road stretching endlessly ahead, he couldn’t summon an ounce of that composure.

Because Mo Ran couldn’t be saved.

The thought hollowed him out. He stared at their joined hands, trying to breathe evenly, to be brave - but every inhale hurt.

Then Mo Ran moved, guiding their conjoined hands to rest over Chu Wanning’s belly, gentle and sure. “She wouldn’t want you to be upset,” he murmured.

Chu Wanning blinked. “She?”

Mo Ran’s mouth curved, soft and teasing. “Just a hunch.”

And then his expression changed - lighter, distant, as if he could already see it. “I can picture it, you know. You, holding her. Being a mom.” The word caught in his throat, half a laugh, half a dream. “It’s everything I’ve ever wanted to see.”

Chu Wanning’s breath stuttered. He knew that. Mo Ran had always wanted this - not just a pup, but them as a family.

And the truth was, for all his fear, so did he. The thought of carrying Mo Ran’s pup, of giving life to something that was both of them, filled him with a shy, aching warmth.

He looked away, cheeks flushed. “...I want it too,” he said quietly. “I want to be-” He hesitated, embarrassed. “I want to be a mother.”

Mo Ran’s smile spread, small but radiant. He squeezed Chu Wanning’s hand, eyes glinting with pride and something deeper, steadier.

Neither of them said anything more.

Their hands stayed over the gentle curve of Chu Wanning’s belly the rest of the drive, the silence soft and full this time - an unspoken promise that whatever time they had left, the three of them would share it together.

The weeks that followed blurred into a new kind of routine - careful, deliberate, fragile.

Mo Ran’s prescriptions lined the kitchen counter beside Chu Wanning’s prenatal vitamins, bottles of pills arranged with precision between mugs and teacups. Every morning, they stood side by side, swallowing their medications together - one to hold on to his life, the other to nurture the new one growing between them.

The doctors gave them lists. Diets to follow. Exercises to avoid. Warning signs to watch for.
There was talk of an implant, something that might slow the progression, maybe buy them more time. But even as the doctor spoke, both of them knew what the ending would be.

They didn’t say it out loud. They didn’t have to.

Mo Ran tried to stay positive - tried to be himself. He joked, he teased, he smiled too often. But there were moments when his eyes went distant, when his breathing hitched and the laughter caught in his throat before turning into a coughing fit so violent that Chu Wanning would have to steady him by the shoulders.

Those moments scared him most.

At least now, Mo Ran slept in their bed again. He claimed it was for Chu Wanning’s sake, so he could rest easier. But in truth, it was the only way either of them slept at all.

Chu Wanning would lie awake long after Mo Ran drifted off, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Every breath became something to count, something to pray for.

Sometimes he’d reach out, just to feel the warmth of Mo Ran’s arm, the pulse beneath his skin. And every night, he told himself he would close his eyes - that he could sleep, that everything would be fine until morning.

But he never really did.

By the time the next checkup came, everything felt heavier - the air, the silence, even the light through the hospital windows.

The ultrasound screen flickered softly, blue and grey shadows shifting until a tiny heartbeat pulsed in view. The technician smiled, voice bright and kind.

“It’s a girl.”

"I knew it!" Mo Ran laughed, the sound raw but full, eyes shining. Chu Wanning tried to smile back - tried to share the joy - but the corners of his mouth wouldn’t quite lift. He felt hollow. Lightheaded.

When the midwife returned with her notes, the warmth in her tone shifted. “Mr. Chu,” she said gently, looking at him over her glasses. “You need to take better care of yourself. You’ve lost too much weight, and your blood pressure’s low. If this continues, you’re putting both yourself and your pup at risk.”

Chu Wanning didn’t answer. He just stared at the pale curve of his knuckles resting against the swell of his stomach.

Mo Ran reached for his hand, thumb brushing the back of it. “He’s been tired,” he said softly. “He doesn’t sleep much.”

“Tired?” The midwife frowned. “He looks close to collapse.”

And she wasn’t wrong.

At five months along, Chu Wanning had never felt so exhausted in his life. His days were a blur of half-marked lesson plans, skipped meals, and short naps stolen in the quiet between classes.

Every night he stayed up to watch over Mo Ran - to steady him when the coughing got bad, to count the seconds between his breaths.

He told himself it was fine, that he could handle it. But the truth was written across his face: pale, sunken, the soft edges of his frame thinning away.

If someone had walked into that exam room without context, they might have thought he was the one dying.

Mo Ran looked at him then - really looked - and Chu Wanning saw the guilt flicker through his eyes. The same guilt that mirrored his own.

Because neither of them could stop what was happening.

They could only hold on, each sacrificing a little more of themselves for the other.

Mo Ran tried to take care of him - the way he always had. He’d bring Chu Wanning tea, insist he sit down, attempt to cook even when his hands shook too much to hold a knife steady.

But the signs were there. The paleness around his mouth. The shallow breaths. The way his strength seemed to fade a little more each day.

When Chu Wanning asked, Mo Ran smiled, said he felt fine. And Chu Wanning nodded, pretending to believe him. Pretending they both didn’t know.

They didn’t talk about it - not really. Not since that car ride.

It was easier to focus on the small, normal things: the growing curve of Chu Wanning’s belly, the soft yellow paint drying on the nursery walls, the tiny clothes folded neatly in drawers they might never open.

Life had narrowed into rituals of survival - small acts of love standing in for words too painful to speak.

One evening, Chu Wanning came home late from work, heavy with exhaustion. He called Mo Ran’s name once, then again. No answer.

He followed the faint sound down the hall and stopped at the nursery door.

Mo Ran was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. The light from the window caught the tear tracks down his face. The half-assembled crib stood nearby, one side still missing a panel.

For a moment, Chu Wanning couldn’t move. The sight of him - his strong, laughing Mo Ran - so small and broken in the middle of the room meant for their pup, stole the air from his lungs.

He crossed the room quietly, lowering himself beside him. Mo Ran didn’t speak. He just turned, burying his face against Chu Wanning’s shoulder, the tremors shaking through him like something coming loose.

Chu Wanning held him, one arm around his back, the other curled protectively over his bump. They stayed like that until both their tears ran dry, until there was nothing left but the sound of their breathing and the faint hum of evening outside.

When Mo Ran finally spoke, his voice was small. “I wanted to build it all myself. I wanted her to know her dad made it.”

Chu Wanning closed his eyes, pressed his cheek against Mo Ran’s hair. “She will,” he whispered. “She will know.”

And for the first time, they stopped pretending. They just sat there - two people clinging to each other in a room meant for a future that was already slipping away.

The first time Mo Ran collapses at work, Chu Wanning doesn't find out until he's on his lunch break.

When Chu Wanning checks his phone between classes, there’s a single missed call, a voicemail from an unfamiliar number. He presses play, expecting some routine appointment reminder.

But the voice that comes through is clipped, calm in that practiced hospital way that always means something’s wrong.

“Mr. Chu? This is Sacred Heart Medical Center. Your mate, Mo Ran, was admitted earlier this morning. Please call us back as soon as possible-”

He stops the message before it finishes. His breath catches. The words blur in his ears - admitted, earlier this morning. He can feel his pulse in his throat, in his wrists.

For a long moment, he just sits there behind his desk, phone clutched in his hand, staring at nothing. He should go. He should run. But he can’t - he has a full afternoon of classes, and he’s been told again and again to avoid stress for the pup’s sake. His heart hammers against his ribs anyway.

He takes a slow breath in, forces it out. Mo Ran would want him to stay calm. Would want him to keep himself and their pup safe. He’s fine, Chu Wanning tells himself, again and again, until the words mean nothing.

There’s a soft knock at the door.

“Shizun?”

It’s a group of his omega students - the same ones who’ve taken to visiting him during lunch lately, shy but curious since finding out he was expecting.

He hesitates, still trying to steady his breathing. “Come in,” he says finally.

They file in, clutching their lunchboxes, whispering among themselves before sitting down. “We wanted to ask you some things, if that’s okay,” one says.

Chu Wanning nods, setting his phone face-down on the desk. His hands are trembling, so he folds them in his lap. “Of course.”

They start asking harmless questions - about classes, about the pup, about how he’s feeling. He answers them all, voice steady, the same calm tone he uses every day. Inside, he’s somewhere else - at the hospital, sitting beside Mo Ran’s bed, holding his hand.

When the students laugh, it almost startles him. He blinks, forcing a small smile, answering one of their questions with more warmth than he feels. Their chatter fills the room, and for a moment, it grounds him - gives him something to hold onto.

“Your mate must be really excited, Shizun!” one of the girls chirps between bites of rice, her face glowing with the kind of unguarded joy only the young can carry.

For a moment, Chu Wanning can’t answer. The words catch somewhere behind his ribs, caught between truth and ache. Then he smiles - small, careful.

“Yes,” he says softly. “He’s… very excited.”

And it’s true. Mo Ran is excited. So excited. Every night he talks about the pup, about holding her, teaching her to walk, about how she’ll probably end up with Chu Wanning’s scowl and his own reckless streak. He’s built half the nursery already, even when he can barely stay standing for long. He’s hopeful - impossibly, fiercely hopeful.

Even though neither of them knows how long he’ll have to see it.

He stays that way until the bell rings, until they thank him and leave. Then he picks up his phone again, listens to the voicemail a second time just to be sure he heard it right, and closes his eyes.

By the time classes end, the winter light is already fading. Chu Wanning gathers his things in silence, hand trembling slightly as he locks the classroom door behind him. The walk to the car feels endless. The drive to the hospital, worse - each red light another moment to think, to feel the pulse of fear in his throat.

He can’t run through the hospital halls - not with the weight of their pup inside him, the pull in his back and belly reminding him he has to be careful - but his steps are fast, sharp, unsteady. He nearly collides with a nurse rounding the corner before he finds the room number he’s been given.

Mo Ran lies there on the hospital bed, an IV trailing from his arm, the sheets white and sterile against the warm brown of his skin. He’s asleep, face slack, chest rising and falling in slow, uneven rhythm.

For a long time, Chu Wanning just stands there, staring. Each breath he sees from Mo Ran’s chest is a small mercy. When he’s sure - absolutely sure - that he’s breathing, he turns to find the doctor.

The man speaks softly, professionally, but every word lands like a blow. “His condition is worsening. The medication will help for a while, but we expect his decline to speed up soon. It would be best to… prepare yourselves for what’s coming.”

The words prepare yourselves echo. There’s no air in his lungs. No sound in his ears except the doctor’s voice fading away.

He nods - because that’s all he can do - and walks back down the hallway, numb.

When he reaches the room again, he doesn’t sit in the chair. He climbs carefully onto the bed beside Mo Ran, the mattress dipping under his weight. Mo Ran’s warmth seeps through his clothes, grounding him, reminding him that for now, he’s still here.

He rests his head on Mo Ran’s shoulder, hand sliding to his chest, feeling for the heartbeat beneath his palm. It’s there - faint but real.

Inside him, their pup stirs - a fluttering movement beneath his ribs. She can smell her daddy, he knows it. Knows his scent, his presence. The realisation cracks him open.

Chu Wanning presses his face against Mo Ran’s neck, tears slipping silently down his cheek. And he waits - waits for Mo Ran to wake, for the rise and fall of his chest to continue just a little longer.

By six months, the rhythm of their nights had changed.

They lay close together in bed, the lamp dimmed low, the air thick with the sound of Mo Ran’s uneven breathing. Chu Wanning’s head rested on his chest, where the stutter in his heartbeat had become familiar - irregular, fragile, a rhythm he tried to memorise even as it faltered beneath his ear.

Mo Ran’s fingers traced lazy, absent patterns along Chu Wanning’s arm, his touch as soft as the hush that filled the room.

“I’ve decided,” Chu Wanning said quietly. His voice didn’t shake at first, but it carried a kind of finality that made Mo Ran still.

“About what?”

“I’m going to take maternity leave early.”

Mo Ran blinked, his hand pausing mid-stroke. “You’re only six months.”

“I know.” Chu Wanning’s eyes stayed fixed on the wall. “But I can’t keep… splitting myself like this. Between work, and you, and the pup. It’s too much. And I don’t want to waste what time we have left being anywhere else.”

Mo Ran was quiet for a long moment. The sound of the rain outside filled the silence, soft and steady.

Finally, Chu Wanning lifted his head, meeting his eyes. “I think you should leave work too. We should go to our cottage - the one on the mountain. Just for a while. Somewhere quiet.”

Mo Ran’s expression softened, but the sorrow behind his smile cut deep. “Wanning…”

“Please,” Chu Wanning said, his voice breaking for the first time. “I see you. I see what’s happening. You’re getting worse, and-” His breath hitched, and he swallowed hard. “I don’t want to watch you fade away between appointments and phone calls and strangers. I just want to be with you. I want us to have peace.”

The words fell heavy between them, the kind of truth that didn’t need an answer.

Mo Ran reached up, thumb brushing the tears that had started to spill down Chu Wanning’s face. His own eyes were shining, though his smile stayed soft.

“I’d like that,” he whispered. “The cottage. Just us.”

Chu Wanning nodded, pressing his face against Mo Ran’s shoulder, the tears soaking quietly into his shirt. Mo Ran held him tighter, his breathing shallow but steady.

Neither of them said the other truth - that they were talking about an ending. That this move wasn’t just for peace, but for goodbye.

Outside, the rain kept falling, rhythmic and gentle, as if the world itself was trying to slow down with them.

The cottage was smaller than their apartment, tucked deep in the woodlands on the mountain side, where the air smelled of pine and the nights were still. From the moment they arrived, it felt like the world had loosened its grip on them.

There were no hospital walls here, no ringing phones, no reminders of what was waiting at the end. Just them - and time, slow and merciful.

They fell into a rhythm that belonged only to them. Mornings began with sunlight pooling over the bed, Mo Ran tangled around Chu Wanning, refusing to let go. He’d press sleepy kisses against Chu Wanning’s shoulder, murmuring that he could feel their daughter shifting beneath his palm.

They cooked together - or tried to. Mo Ran would stand behind him at the counter, arms around his waist, pretending to help while Chu Wanning rolled his eyes and told him he was more of a distraction than an assistant.

Evenings were quieter. They curled up on the sofa, a blanket draped over them, the fireplace crackling faintly. Sometimes they talked - about names, about what the pup might look like, about all the little things they’d never have time to see.

Sometimes they didn’t talk at all. They just sat there, Chu Wanning’s head on Mo Ran’s shoulder, the steady weight of his hand resting over the curve of Chu Wanning’s belly.

The first time their daughter kicked hard enough for Mo Ran to feel it, he froze. His mouth opened, but no sound came - just a trembling laugh that turned wet around the edges.

“She’s strong,” he whispered, pressing his palm firmer against her. “Just like you.”

Chu Wanning looked at him, and for a long moment neither of them spoke. The light from the fire painted everything in gold - Mo Ran’s damp lashes, Chu Wanning’s faint smile, the space between them filled with quiet, overwhelming love.

It wasn’t the life they had planned. But in that cottage - surrounded by peace, by warmth, by the hum of their unborn pup’s heartbeat - it almost felt like enough.

At seven months, Chu Wanning’s belly had grown full and round, the weight of it pressing gently between them when they lay together at night. The window was open just enough to let in the cool winter air, carrying the scent of snow and pine.

Mo Ran’s breathing had grown faint these days - soft, uneven - but his arms were still strong when they wrapped around Chu Wanning. Their bodies fit together the way they always had, like two halves of the same thought.

“I hope she looks like you,” Chu Wanning whispered, voice hushed and trembling against Mo Ran’s chest.

Mo Ran huffed a faint laugh, the sound half-broken but warm. “You hope she gets my bad habits?”

“I hope she gets your smile,” Chu Wanning said. “And your eyes. The way you laugh at everything.” He swallowed. “I don’t want her to have my face. I don’t want her to look… sad.”

Mo Ran’s hand found his cheek, thumb brushing away the tear before it could fall. “She’ll have you,” he said softly. “That’s all she needs.”

For a long moment, they just held each other - their foreheads touching, their breaths mingling. Chu Wanning’s tears came then, silent but unstoppable, slipping down to dampen Mo Ran’s collar.

“Don’t,” Mo Ran murmured, though his own voice was shaking. “Don’t cry, baby. I’m still here.”

Chu Wanning lifted his head, eyes red, and managed a whisper. “I love you.”

Mo Ran smiled - small, weary, beautiful. “I love you more.”

Their lips met, gentle at first, then deeper - a kiss filled with everything they couldn’t say aloud: fear, gratitude, grief, devotion. The tears between them were salt and warmth, a mix of love and goodbye neither dared to name.

They hadn’t had sex since the coughing started. Since Mo Ran had first pressed a trembling hand to his chest and tried to laugh it off. They’d been careful - so careful. No risks. No strain. Just medicine, schedules, quiet nights full of longing they pretended not to notice.

But that night, with moonlight spilling across the bed, Mo Ran looked at him - really looked at him - and not like a patient, not like someone fading. He looked at him the way he had that first night they’d made love: with want, with reverence, with so much desire that Chu Wanning couldn’t have said no, even if he tried.

“Wanning,” he whispered, reaching out. His fingers brushed along Chu Wanning’s jaw, trembling but sure. “Please…”

Chu Wanning’s breath caught. “Mo Ran-”

“Please,” Mo Ran said again, softer this time. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to Chu Wanning’s shoulder. “I need you. Please, Wanning… I can’t.”

And Chu Wanning knew exactly what this meant. The way Mo Ran’s hands wandered - reverent, desperate - the way his voice cracked on his name. There was no mistaking it.

He hesitated, just for a moment. Thought of the pup. Of Mo Ran’s lungs. Of every warning they’d been given.

But then Mo Ran looked up at him, eyes glassy with need, and whispered one more time: “Please.”

Chu Wanning nodded.

He leaned in and kissed him, and Mo Ran melted like he’d been waiting to breathe again.

And when Mo Ran finally slid into him, filling his mate in the only way he knows how, something in Chu Wanning shattered - quietly, completely.

They had to lie down now, Mo Ran’s chest pressed to Chu Wanning’s back, his arms curled protectively around him. His belly, so swollen Chu Wanning can’t see where his mate has entered him, leaves no room for anything else. And as Mo Ran moves inside him - slow, reverent, trembling - he runs a hand over the taut curve of Chu Wanning’s stomach, the place where their daughter sleeps.

His voice is rough in his throat, cracked and low. Between gasps, he whispers into Chu Wanning’s ear.

“You’re so strong, baby,” he murmured. “She’s going to be beautiful... just like you.”

Chu Wanning closed his eyes, because if he looked back, he’d break. His hand finds Mo Ran’s at his stomach and laces their fingers together.

“She’ll be safe,” Mo Ran breathes. “Even if I’m not there. Because you’ll protect her. You’ll love her for the both of us”

Chu Wanning breaks open beneath the weight of it - the pleasure, the sorrow, the unbearable tenderness. He sobs, not from the stretch or the heat of Mo Ran inside him, but from the knowledge that every thrust, every kiss, could be their last. Mo Ran’s breath stutters as he presses a kiss to the back of his neck, lips lingering there as if trying to memorise the taste of his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Mo Ran whispered. “I should’ve had more time. I should’ve given you more.”

“Don’t,” Chu Wanning manages, voice hoarse. “You’ve given me everything.”

Mo Ran stills, overcome, holding Chu Wanning as if afraid he’ll vanish. His forehead presses against his shoulder, and for a moment, neither of them moves - just two hearts beating out of sync, one slowing, one trying to keep the rhythm alive for both.

And when it’s over, when Mo Ran spills inside him and collapses against him, he doesn’t pull out. Just stays there, nestled inside the cradle of his mate’s body, curled around Chu Wanning like a second heartbeat.

And Chu Wanning can feel him.

Not just the stretch or the warmth, but the weight of him - the living presence of him, pulsing gently inside. The slow throb of his softening cock, still there, as if Chu Wanning’s body refuses to let go. As if his omega self knows, instinctively, that this is the safest place for Mo Ran to be - inside him, held tight, protected.

He can feel every subtle movement: the tiny twitch of muscle, the low hum of Mo Ran’s breath against the nape of his neck, the faintest shift of his hips. Each flicker is proof - Mo Ran is alive. Still warm. Still his.

And gods, Chu Wanning wishes he could hold him there forever.

Wishes he could fuse them together at the seam of that aching, tender connection. That if he just clenched tightly enough, wrapped around him fiercely enough, he could anchor Mo Ran in this world. That his body could do what medicine and prayer and time cannot: keep him alive.

Mo Ran’s breathing steadies. Slows as he falls asleep.

Chu Wanning listens to it, eyes wet, throat burning. He counts each inhale like a promise, each exhale like a goodbye. His body aches from carrying two lives - one just beginning, and one slipping through his fingers.

He wishes that his body, which created life, could save the one who gave it.

But he knows better. He falls asleep with the knowledge that he can’t

The days continued to slip into one another at the cottage, quiet and golden. The rhythm of their lives slowed - the hum of the kettle in the morning, the creak of floorboards, the distant rustle of wind through the pines.

Mo Ran spent hours on the porch, working carefully with trembling hands, carving and sanding until the wood grew smooth under his touch. When he was done, he called for Chu Wanning - voice tired but proud - and showed him the rocking chair.

“For you,” he said, smiling faintly. “For when she’s here.”

Chu Wanning ran his fingers over the armrest, tracing the grooves. It was imperfect, a little uneven, but it was beautiful. “You should be resting,” he murmured.

Mo Ran laughed softly. “And miss the chance to build something for my family? Not a chance.”

The words caught Chu Wanning off guard - my family - and he had to look away, blinking hard.

Later, he sat in that chair on cold afternoons by the stone fireplace, his maternity dress loose and flowing, the fabric billowing around his legs. He walked barefoot across the porch, hand on the swell of his belly, and Mo Ran watched him with a kind of quiet awe.

“You look like an angel,” Mo Ran had said, voice hoarse with love and fatigue.

His colour was fading now, the tremor in his hands more noticeable. Chu Wanning tried to keep smiling for him, to fill the space between them with warmth and laughter, but sometimes - when Mo Ran coughed, when he saw how thin his wrists had become - the smile faltered.

Still, each night, they sat together on the porch: Mo Ran’s head resting against Chu Wanning’s shoulder, Chu Wanning’s fingers tangled in his hair. They rocked slowly, back and forth, as if by sheer will they could keep the world from moving forward.

That night feels like any other - soft lamplight spilling over the walls, the slow rhythm of crickets outside, the faint scent of snow through the open window. But in their hearts, both of them know.

They settle into bed as they always have: Chu Wanning curling close, his head pillowed against Mo Ran’s bare chest. Beneath his ear, the heartbeat he’s listened to for years - the one that steadied him through every argument, every laugh, every quiet morning - is faint now. Fragile. Slower than it should be.

He presses a trembling kiss to the center of Mo Ran’s chest, just over that fading pulse, and his tears spill freely. “I love you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “In this life… and the next. We’ll find each other again. We won’t be parted.”

Mo Ran’s hand finds the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair with that same old tenderness - the touch that’s always said what words never could. His breathing is shallow, uneven, but his voice is steady, warm. The voice that once made Chu Wanning believe nothing bad could ever reach them.

“I love you too,” Mo Ran murmurs. “And everything’s going to be okay, baby. You and our girl - you’ll both be okay.”

Chu Wanning shakes his head, clinging tighter, trying to swallow the sob that climbs up his throat. He can’t argue. He can’t bear to let his voice tremble and frighten him. So he only holds on, memorising every detail - the faint rise and fall of Mo Ran’s chest, the warmth of his skin, the scent of cedar and soap that’s always been home.

He loves him. His mate. His lover. His best friend.

And now, that bond - that deep, invisible thread between them - is burning. He can feel it in his chest, searing through him, a pain deeper than anything physical. It’s his soul crying out as the other half of it begins to fade.

He buries his face against Mo Ran’s skin, biting his lip hard enough to taste blood, because he can’t let Mo Ran know how much it hurts. Not now. Not when Mo Ran is the one slipping away.

Mo Ran’s hand keeps moving through his hair, slower now, the motion turning faint, faltering. “Sleep,” he whispers. “It’s okay, Wanning. I’m not scared.”

Chu Wanning presses closer, one arm around him, the other clutching at the sheets as though that could hold him here. He listens - to the heartbeat, to the ragged breath, to the silence growing between them.

Time stretches, bends, dissolves. The world outside keeps turning, quiet and unknowing. Inside their small cottage, time stops - two hearts pressed together, one fading, one breaking, both full of love.

And then, the rhythm beneath his ear falters once, twice - and goes still.

Chu Wanning gasps, a sound between a sob and a scream, but he bites it back, forcing himself to breathe through the pain. Mo Ran’s body is still warm, his face peaceful, and that’s how Chu Wanning wants to remember him.

He doesn’t move. He can’t. He only whispers, hoarse and broken, “I love you,” one last time - a prayer, a promise, an ache that will never fade.

He stays like that until dawn, holding him close, unwilling to loosen his arms even as the sun rises and the world wakes again.

The house is too quiet when it begins.

A dull ache twists through Chu Wanning’s abdomen, faint at first, then sharper - deep, insistent. He knows this rhythm. He’s read the books, seen the signs. But knowing doesn’t soften the fear.

He presses a hand to his belly, feeling the tense, rhythmic tightening beneath his palm. The cottage feels impossibly big, empty, echoing. There’s no one left to tell.

He draws a bath - warm water, the sound of it filling the room like white noise, the only thing that keeps him steady. His hands shake as he lowers himself in, the porcelain cold against his back, the water barely enough to dull the pain.

He breathes in, out. “It’s okay,” he whispers to the still air - to her, to Mo Ran, to himself. “It’s okay. Mama’s here.”

Another contraction hits - harder, deeper. His breath falters. He clenches his jaw, biting down on his lip to keep from crying out. Blood blooms on his tongue. He’s always been the strong one, the composed one. Mo Ran’s Wanning - the one who never faltered.

But this pain is different. It tears through him, raw and merciless, ripping sobs from his throat no matter how tightly he holds them back.

“Mo Ran,” he gasps, voice cracking. “It hurts… it hurts so much. Please-”

His plea echoes through the empty house, swallowed by silence. There’s no voice calling back, no comforting hands, no familiar warmth to anchor him. Just the sound of water, and his ragged breathing.

Time loses meaning. Minutes stretch into hours. The water cools around him, his body trembling from both exhaustion and grief. Every push feels like his heart breaking - the effort, the pain, the emptiness where Mo Ran should be.

He calls for him again, whispering now, half delirious. “Mo Ran… please, I can’t-”

And then, with one final, wrenching effort, the pain crests and shatters - and a sound splits the quiet. A small, fragile cry.

Chu Wanning sobs, reaching down with shaking hands, pulling the tiny, slippery bundle against his chest. His vision wet with tears. The world narrows to the small weight in his arms, the weak but certain beat of her heart against his.

She’s warm. Alive. Perfect.

He looks down, breath catching. Mo Ran’s eyes - wide, clear, impossibly familiar - stare up at him.

Something inside him breaks open and begins to heal in the same breath. The pain is still there - sharp, consuming - but it’s joined by something fierce, something steady. Love, pure and burning.

He cradles her close, tears dripping into her dark hair. “I got you,” he whispers, voice raw, trembling. “Mama’s here. We’re okay. We’re okay.”

He presses a trembling kiss to her forehead, closing his eyes as he rocks her against his chest. The grief still claws at him - but for the first time since losing Mo Ran, he isn’t empty.

In the echoing silence of their home, new life fills the air.

Morning light spills softly across the porch. The air smells of pine and snow. Chu Wanning sits in the rocking chair Mo Ran built, his nightgown untied at the top, one breast bared as he nurses their daughter. She’s nestled against him, small fingers curled into the fabric at his chest, her soft sucking sounds steady and sure.

The chair creaks beneath them in a slow, comforting rhythm. Her warmth anchors him, her trust wordless and whole. She latches so well - strong, instinctive, like she was born knowing exactly how to be his - and he can't help but think what a good mother he’s become. Despite everything. Despite the ache still carved deep in his chest.

His hand strokes gently over the downy crown of her head, reverent, awed. He’s still learning how to hold all this tenderness without breaking. Still learning how to be someone’s whole world.

A lump rises in his throat. Mo Ran should be here for this. To see how fierce their daughter is, how fiercely she clings. To see how good Chu Wanning is at this - how natural, how gentle, how full of love. He would have laughed, eyes soft, called them beautiful, called them both his angels.

The thought stings. Chu Wanning blinks hard, refusing to let the tears fall. But still, he aches. Not just from missing Mo Ran - but from knowing he would’ve loved this moment, too.

He looks out at the forest, where the sunlight filters through the trees - golden, warm, alive. He remembers Mo Ran laughing there, building the chair, insisting on sanding every edge smooth so it wouldn’t hurt either of them. That memory pulls at him like a thread, the bond between them still there - not broken, just stretched thin, aching across worlds.

He misses him with a pain that never softens. Some mornings, he wakes reaching for the other side of the bed, half expecting to find Mo Ran’s warmth waiting. The emptiness that greets him each time is sharp, but then his daughter stirs beside him, and he breathes through it.

When she finishes nursing, she sighs - a small, content sound that reminds him of her father. Chu Wanning pulls her closer, kissing her forehead once, then again.

“One for me,” he whispers, voice trembling, “and one for Daddy.”

Her tiny hand opens against his chest, resting over his heart. He lets the quiet settle around them - the hum of the wind, the distant sound of the stream, the pulse of life that still goes on.

He feels Mo Ran there - not beside him, but within the small, steady weight in his arms. And though his grief still burns, it’s no longer hollow. It’s filled with love.

“You’d laugh at how strong she is,” he says softly, voice rough from sleep and tears. “Always hungry. Always loud. Just like you.”

He pauses, breath catching. Talking to the air still feels strange, but also right. Mo Ran is everywhere - in the walls, in the rocking chair, in the dark grain of the wood beneath his bare feet.

“She has your eyes,” Chu Wanning continues. “And your stubbornness. I think… you’d be proud.”

The pup shifts, letting out a small sigh. Chu Wanning smooths her dark hair, the same colour as Mo Ran’s, and leans back.

“We’ll stay here a little longer,” he murmurs. “Until my leave ends. Then we’ll go home - to the city, to the nursery you built. It’s waiting for her. For us.”

The rocking slows. The pup drifts to sleep, warm against his skin.

Chu Wanning looks toward the horizon, eyes glassy but calm. He adjusts the pup in his arms, brushing his thumb gently along her cheek. “You’d smile if you saw us right now,” he murmurs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “She’s doing just fine. We both are.”

And for the first time since that night, there’s a small, fragile peace in his voice - a promise, spoken to the wind and the memory of the man he loved.