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Pai forgot.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t neglectful. It wasn’t even unusual.
But February this year round had teeth.
It sank into Pai’s bones and refused to loosen its grip.
Expansion negotiations for Empire Malls had sharpened into something almost predatory. Investors circled with polite smiles that did not quite reach their eyes. Analysts questioned projections with just enough skepticism to test him. His grandfather had chosen this exact month to review every strategic decision Pai had made in the last fiscal year.
“You wanted leadership,” the older man had said calmly across the boardroom table. “Leadership requires endurance.”
Pai had not argued.
He endured.
Twelve-hour meetings. Contracts rewritten three times in a day. Alphas twice his age watching him carefully, waiting for the slightest miscalculation.
An omega CEO was still novelty enough.
A pregnant omega CEO would be something else entirely.
They did not scent it yet. His tailoring remained impeccable. His composure sharper than ever. His control absolute.
But Pai felt it.
Pai was sixteen weeks pregnant now. The gentle outward curve of his stomach no longer theoretical. His omega scent warmer, rounder, threaded with something faintly maternal beneath the creamy sandalwood and jasmine he carried into boardrooms. He’s tired in a way that sleep did not fix, slower in ways he wasn’t used to admitting, aware of his body in every meeting in a way that was new and faintly disorienting.
And yet inside that room he remains powerful.
His omega instincts did not weaken him. They sharpened him. He scented agitation before it surfaced. He read tension before voices rose. He knew when to press and when to yield.
But it cost him.
By eight-thirty, the office was empty. His jacket hung off his chair. His tie was loosened. His glasses slid down his nose as the numbers blurred together.
His hand drifted to his stomach.
The bump was not dramatic. But it was there.
A quiet declaration.
“Just a little longer,” he murmured softly.
To the projections.
To the expectations.
To the life inside him.
His phone buzzed.
Tim:
You alive, my boss baby?
A tired huff of laughter left him.
No one else called him that. No one can really dare to.
Pai:
Unfortunately. Why?
The response came instantly.
Tim:
Just checking. Come home soon. I miss you ❤️
The tightness in Pai’s chest shifted into something warm.
He glanced at the date.
February 14.
His stomach dropped.
Valentine’s Day.
He had completely forgotten.
Guilt flickered sharp and quick. Tim remembered things. Not because he was sentimental for spectacle, but because he paid attention. To moments. To meaning.
Pai shut his laptop immediately.
Empire could wait.
˚✧ ˚✧ ˚✧ ˚
When Pai stepped into the apartment, he expected something overt. Candles. Music louder than necessary. Some kind of visible evidence that he had failed to participate properly in a romantic ritual.
Instead, the lighting was warm and steady. No theatrics. No performance. Just the quiet glow of lamps and the low hum of music drifting from the kitchen. The scent hit him first — garlic, butter, something simmering slowly and lovingly.
And beneath it all, steady and grounding, Tim.
Cedarwood. Clean cotton. Alpha.
Pai exhaled, taking a deep breath of home.
The omega can see his alpha stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, wooden spoon in hand, brow furrowed in serious concentration as if the fate of the world rested in the sauce pan in front of him.
Pai stopped in the doorway and simply watched.
There was something about Tim cooking that always did things to him. The steadiness of it. The domestic confidence. The way his shoulders shifted beneath his shirt when he stirred. It was grounding in a way boardrooms never were. It was safe.
Pai lets his shoulder dropped.
The weight of the day loosened, if only slightly.
Tim glanced up from the stove.
“There you are,” he said easily. “I was starting to think Empire had swallowed you whole.”
There was no accusation in his tone. Just relief.
Pai stepped forward, toeing off his shoes.
“I forgot,” he admitted immediately.
Tim tilted his head. “Forgot what?”
“You’re not going to make me say it?”
A faint smile curved Tim’s mouth.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Pai said, almost accusingly. “I forgot.”
Tim shrugged and turned back to the stove.
“Okay.”
Pai stared.
“…Okay?”
Tim glanced over his shoulder.
“You’ve been working nonstop. You’re growing a tiny human. I think I can survive you forgetting a commercial holiday.”
No disappointment. No passive edge.
Just understanding.
“You remembered,” Pai said quietly.
“Of course I did,” Tim replied simply. “It’s our first one as three.”
As three.
The words settled somewhere deep.
But the composure Pai had been holding all day cracked then, not emotionally — instinctively.
He barely made it three steps before he sank down to the cool marble floor.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a collapse.
It was instinct.
He crouched first, feet flat, knees bent wide around the curve of his belly. He folded forward, forehead resting against crossed arms.
The marble was cool.
Grounding.
The posture would have looked strange on anyone else. On him, it was pure omega instinct. A way of lowering himself safely. Re-centering.
His belly made it slightly awkward now. He adjusted with a faint pout, then stretched fully onto his back against the tiles.
Tim turned the heat down without urgency.
This was familiar.
Pai, who commanded rooms effortlessly, sometimes came home and needed to simply be someone’s mate.
After a moment, Pai lifted both arms towards him, palms open.
His voice was softer now. Rough around the edges.
“Please scent me. I’m tired.”
Tim’s expression softened immediately.
“Hard day, ducky?” he asked gently.
Pai nodded once.
That was enough.
Tim crossed the kitchen and crouched beside him. One hand slid beneath Pai’s neck, lifting him slightly. The other settled at his hip, thumb brushing the swell of his stomach without hesitation.
His alpha scent deepened.
Warm. Protective. Solid.
He bent and pressed his nose slowly along the gland at the omega’s neck.
Pai shuddered.
Tim inhaled deeply, scenting him thoroughly.
“Mine,” he murmured softly.
Not ownership.
Belonging.
Pai melted.
The tension that clung to him from the boardroom loosened visibly. His fingers curled into Tim’s shirt. His breathing slowed.
Tim brushed his lips along his neck and into his hair, reinforcing the bond until Pai’s omega scent softened into honeyed warmth.
“You push too hard,” Tim murmured against his skin.
“They push back,” Pai replied faintly.
“And you still win.”
Tim helped him up carefully and guided him to the couch. Pai folded into him without resistance, curling sideways into Tim’s lap, head tucked beneath his jaw.
In the boardroom, Pai’s scent carried creamy sandalwood and jasmine.
Here, it was warmth and honey.
“Omegas aren’t weak,” Tim said quietly, arms wrapped securely around him. “You just choose where to be soft.
Pai stilled slightly.
Because that was true.
He was not soft everywhere.
He chose softness here.
˚✧ ˚✧ ˚✧ ˚
Dinner resumed easily.
“I made that pasta you like,” Tim said once Pai was settled at the counter. “The one with too much garlic.”
“There’s no such thing as too much garlic,” Pai replied automatically.
Tim smiled. “You say that every time.”
“I also made chocolate strawberries. Burned the first batch.”
Pai huffed softly. “Of course you did.”
“Don’t judge me. Romance is hard.”
Pai continued to watch the older male move around the kitchen. Watched the way he moved easily in the kitchen. Watched the way he adjusted heat without panic. Watched the way he didn’t make a single comment about Pai being late, or tired, or forgetful.
Lucky didn’t begin to describe the feeling.
He had grown up surrounded by wealth and power, and expectations wrapped in cold, polished affection. Love had always been conditional, carefully structured, almost strategic.
As a child, he used to tell himself that if he was good enough—disciplined enough, successful enough—one day he would earn the kind of love he deserved.
And now, here was Tim.
Barefoot. Cooking garlic-heavy pasta because Pai liked it that way. Remembering a date Pai had forgotten. Including their unborn child in it without hesitation.
Pai felt it in his bones.
He was so impossibly lucky.
Lucky that Tim never felt the need to compete with his power, never turned their relationship into a quiet struggle for dominance. He was an alpha who understood his own strength so completely that he did not feel threatened by someone else’s. There was no edge of jealousy, no subtle need to prove himself. His confidence was steady, grounded, and generous.
Lucky that Tim never tried to reshape him into something easier to explain or more comfortable to display. He never treated him like a failed version of what an omega was supposed to be. There were no comparisons to others, no lingering disappointment, no pressure to soften the sharp parts. He was allowed to exist exactly as he was, without apology.
Lucky that Tim’s love came without conditions and without hidden fears. It was not possessive, not fragile, not dependent on fitting into a role. It was patient and deliberate and certain. The kind of love that did not ask him to make himself smaller in order to keep it.
Lucky that the father of his child remembered Valentine’s Day not because of commercial traditions, but because it marked their first one as a family.
˚✧ ˚✧ ˚✧ ˚
Dinner was simple and perfect. Pasta with too much garlic. Chocolate strawberries. Grape juice for Pai. Wine for Tim. Their knees brushing under the table.
“You’re staring again,” Tim said halfway through the meal.
“Am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Pai looked down at his plate, but the truth was unavoidable.
“Stop looking at me like that.” The alpha murmurs quietly almost shy at the implication.
Pai captures Tim’s shy eyes, “I look at you like what?”
“Like I hung the moon.”
Pai didn’t answer, but he keeps his soften gaze steady.
Because the dangerous part was that it didn’t feel entirely inaccurate.
˚✧ ˚✧ ˚✧ ˚
After the dishes were done and the music had softened further, Tim disappeared briefly into the bedroom.
When he came back, he was holding roses.
Red. Full. Pai’s favorite.
Pai’s breath caught in his throat.
“They’re your favorite,” Tim said simply.
Pai stepped forward and accepted them gently, fingertips brushing Tim’s. The scent was rich and familiar and suddenly overwhelming in the best way.
Then he noticed the second bouquet that the elder male was holding.
Sunflowers.
Bright and unapologetically cheerful.
Pai frowned faintly. “What are those for?”
Tim blinked like the question was unnecessary.
“For my other Valentine.”
Pai stared at him.
“How could I ask you to be my Valentine and not ask our little ducky too?”
The world tilted.
Tim continued casually, as though he hadn’t just unraveled Pai’s composure.
“Roses for you. Sunflowers for the little duck. They’re bright. Dramatic. A little stubborn. Seemed fitting.”
Pai didn’t remember crossing the space between them. He only knew that suddenly his arms were around Tim’s neck, holding him tightly and pulling him close.
“God, I love you,” he breathed.
Tim laughed softly, wrapping his arms carefully around Pai’s waist, mindful of the bump between them.
“I was hoping that would be the reaction.”
Pai pulled back just enough to look at him.
“You bought flowers,” he said, voice thick, “for someone who doesn’t even have lungs fully developed yet.”
Tim shrugged. “They’re still my Valentine.”
And that was it.
That was the moment Pai understood, completely and without reservation, that this man was going to be the best father.
˚✧ ˚✧ ˚✧ ˚
They moved to the couch afterward, Pai curled into Tim’s side, head tucked beneath his chin. Roses and sunflowers glowed softly from the coffee table.
Tim’s hand rested instinctively over Pai’s stomach.
They were talking about nothing in particular — names they half-liked, nursery colours they disagreed on — when Pai suddenly stilled.
Tim felt it immediately.
“What?”
Pai blinked.
“Wait.”
There it was again.
A flutter.
So soft he nearly dismissed it.
Then again.
Tiny. Real. From the inside.
“Tim,” Pai whispered.
Tim straightened instantly.
Pai grabbed his wrist and pressed his hand firmly against the bump.
“Just wait.”
They held still.
They waited.
Then the faintest movement.
Tim’s breath caught sharply.
He slid to his knees without thinking and pressed his palm flat against Pai’s belly.
Another flutter.
His alpha scent surged warm and thick with awe.
Tim’s eyes widened.
“…Was that—?”
Pai nodded, tears already burning behind his eyes.
“It’s too early for a full kick,” he managed. “More like fluttering.”
Tim looked at his hand like it was sacred.
“Oh my god,” he breathed. “That’s them.”
It happened again.
Tim gasped, then laughed helplessly, then leaned down and pressed his lips to Pai’s stomach.
“Hi, little ducky. It’s Daddy,” he whispered softly. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
The baby fluttered again.
Tim’s voice cracked. “They answered.”
Pai laughed through tears. “They did not.”
“They absolutely did.”
Tim rested his forehead against the bump, eyes shining with something raw and unguarded.
And Pai saw it all at once.
Tim kneeling beside a crib at two in the morning.
Tim pacing gently with a sleepy newborn against his chest.
Tim crouched at a playground, arms wide open.
Tim being the steady center their child would orbit around.
“You’re going to be such a good father,” Pai whispered fingers threading themselves in the alpha’s dark locks.
Tim looked up, startled.
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“You already have,” Pai replied. “You make me feel safe— we feel safe.”
And that mattered.
Because Pai would always carry ambition. Power. Expectation.
But here, wrapped in cedar wood and warmth, he allowed himself to be held.
Not because he was weak.
But because he was strong enough to choose softness.
Empire could wait.
This — this quiet, domestic, scent-warmed room filled with roses and sunflowers and the first flutter of life — was the future he was building.
And he would endure anything to protect it.