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The world had always been a quiet, muted place for Lee Haechan. Not silent, he could still feel the vibrations of a slammed door, the thrum of a bass speaker, the rumble of thunder, but the intricate tapestry of sound that woven the world together was lost to him.
In high school, this isolation was a physical thing, a glass wall between him and everyone else. His shyness, compounded by his deafness, made him a ghost. He was fortunate, once, to be found by two other omegas, Renjun and Chenle, in a foreign language class. They had deaf family members, their hands already fluent in the language he needed to be seen. For a few precious years, Haechan had a bubble of a world with them.
But college was a cruel, wide ocean, and the bubble burst. Renjun and Chenle went to different universities, and Haechan was adrift once more, a solitary island in a sea of hearing, chattering people.
He learned to navigate the campus by sight, memorizing routes, always early to classes to get a seat in the back corner where he could observe without being expected to participate. He was a master of invisibility.
It wasn't that people never tried. In his first semester, a bubbly beta girl with bright pink hair sat next to him and introduced herself on a piece of paper. She was earnest, her smile wide and hopeful. For a few weeks, she would write notes to him during lectures, pass him snacks, and wave enthusiastically whenever she saw him on campus. But the novelty wore off quickly. Haechan could see it in the way her notes grew shorter, the way her smiles became more strained. Conversations through paper were slow, tedious. She couldn't share a quick joke, couldn't gossip about professors, couldn't do all the effortless things friends did. One day, she simply stopped sitting next to him. She waved at him from across the cafeteria, a guilty, apologetic look on her face, and then she never waved again.
There was a boy in his sociology class who seemed determined. He learned a few basic signs, enough to say hello and ask how Haechan was. But his patience was thin, his frustration evident when Haechan couldn't understand his clumsy attempts. He would repeat himself louder, as if volume could bridge the gap, his face growing redder with each failed attempt. Eventually, he gave up too, muttering something Haechan couldn't hear but could read on his lips: Too hard.
It was always the same story. People were curious at first, drawn to the mystery of the quiet omega in the corner. But curiosity was a fragile thing, and the patience required to truly know Haechan was a currency few were willing to spend. They wanted easy friendship, effortless connection, and Haechan required work. He required slowing down, learning a new language, paying attention in ways most people never had to. And so they came, and they went, and Haechan learned to expect nothing else. He stopped hoping for more.
It was in a general psychology lecture that he first registered Na Jaemin. Not by name, but by presence. Jaemin was an alpha who seemed to exist in a state of perpetual sunshine. He was loud in a way Haechan could feel in his chest, his laughter a bright, visible thing that crinkled his eyes and drew people to him like moths to a flame. He was everything Haechan was not.
Haechan didn't think Jaemin ever noticed him, not really. He was just the quiet omega in the corner, a piece of the classroom furniture.
He was wrong.
The first time their worlds collided was at a crosswalk. Haechan was waiting for the light, his eyes fixed on the blinking red pedestrian sign. He was tired, his mind elsewhere, and he took a step forward a second too early. A car, its horn a frantic, high-pitched scream he could only feel as a sudden, violent vibration in the air, was barreling down the street. Before he could process the danger, a strong hand clamped around his wrist and yanked him back onto the curb. He stumbled, falling against a solid, warm chest. He looked up, startled, into the concerned face of Na Jaemin.
Jaemin’s mouth was moving, his expression frantic. Haechan, flustered and heart hammering, could only stare. He saw the shape of the words "Are you okay?" on Jaemin’s lips, a phrase he’d learned to recognize. He gave a shaky nod. Jaemin didn't let go of his wrist, instead pulling him further back from the edge, his gaze scanning Haechan for any injury. In that moment, Haechan realized Jaemin saw him. The invisibility cloak had been ripped away.
From that day on, Jaemin was a constant. He started sitting next to Haechan in class, a bright, solid presence that Haechan couldn't ignore. When he realized Haechan couldn't hear him, he didn't get frustrated or give up. Instead, the next day, he slid a small, yellow sticky note onto Haechan's desk. It had a little drawing of a bear and the words, "Hi! I'm Jaemin. I'm glad you're okay."
Haechan’s heart had stuttered. He wrote back a simple, "Thank you. I'm Haechan."
And so began their unique language. A conversation built on sticky notes, on shared glances, on Jaemin pointing and gesturing with exaggerated expressions until Haechan understood. He’d leave a note on Haechan's desk if he was going to the library, asking if he wanted to come. He’d walk Haechan to his next class, sometimes just falling into step beside him, a silent, comforting shadow. He learned Haechan's favorite coffee order and would have it waiting for him. He never made Haechan feel like a burden for being different.
In Jaemin’s presence, the quiet wasn't so lonely.
At first, Haechan was wary. Alphas were intense, and he had never been close to one. But Jaemin was different. He was patient, his care a gentle, persistent tide that slowly eroded Haechan's defenses. He made Haechan laugh, a sound that was more like a breathy wheeze, but it was real. He showed him parts of the world he'd been too afraid to explore, always making sure Haechan felt safe. He grew to trust Jaemin more than he thought possible.
And somewhere along the way, Jaemin stopped being just a friend who wrote notes. He became Haechan's voice in a world that couldn't hear him. When professors spoke too fast, Jaemin would scribble furiously in his notebook, tearing out pages and sliding them to Haechan with the key points of the lecture scrawled in messy but legible handwriting. When they went to restaurants, Jaemin would read the menu aloud, his lips forming the words slowly so Haechan could follow, then point to each dish and raise his eyebrows in question until Haechan nodded or shook his head. When Haechan wanted to contribute to a group discussion, Jaemin would gently tap the table and say, "Haechan has something to add," before turning to Haechan with an encouraging smile, waiting patiently as Haechan typed his thoughts on his phone and held up the screen for the group to read.
It wasn't perfect. There were misunderstandings, moments of frustration, times when Haechan could see the exhaustion flicker across Jaemin's face after a long day of constant translation and note-writing. But Jaemin never complained. He never sighed or rolled his eyes or made Haechan feel like he was too much work. Instead, he found new ways to bridge the gap by drawing silly pictures on sticky notes, using exaggerated gestures that made Haechan laugh, learning to read Haechan's expressions and body language so well that sometimes words weren't needed at all.
He was Haechan's interpreter, his bridge, his connection to the hearing world. And he did it all without hesitation, without ever making Haechan feel like a burden for needing him.
The confession came on a quiet evening, a month before finals. They were sitting on a bench, the campus sleepy and still. Jaemin had been fidgeting, a rare sight. Then, he turned to Haechan, his expression serious, and spoke slowly, so Haechan could read his lips. He said he liked him.
Haechan’s world tilted. His first instinct was panic. It had to be a joke, a cruel prank by the popular alpha on the deaf, friendless omega. His insecurities, dormant for so long, surged back with a vengeance. Jaemin will get tired of writing notes. He'll want a partner he can talk to on the phone. He'll want to hear his omega's voice. You can't give him any of that. He shook his head violently and ran, leaving a confused and hurt Jaemin behind.
He ignored him for days. It was agony. Every missed sticky note, every empty space beside him in class felt like a physical wound. Jaemin was persistent, though. He didn't text or call, knowing Haechan couldn't hear. Instead, on the third day, he cornered Haechan outside the library. He didn't speak. He raised his hands, and with a shaky, clumsy, but determined grace, he began to sign.
I. Learn. For. You.
He signed slowly, his face a mask of intense focus. I know not perfect. But. I. Love. You. Haechan.
He then signed, tapping his chest over his heart. Deaf. No matter. My love. More than words.
Haechan stared, tears blurring his vision. He saw the hours of practice in Jaemin’s clumsy movements, the sheer, stubborn will of an alpha who would learn a whole new language just to tell him his heart.
The wall Haechan had built around himself crumbled. He launched himself into Jaemin's arms, burying his face in his neck, feeling Jaemin’s arms wrap around him tight, a silent, perfect promise.
After that, Jaemin finally began to truly learn the language of Haechan's world. He practiced for hours every day, his fingers fumbling over signs, watching tutorial videos late into the night. He made mistakes, mixed up signs, accidentally said something rude instead of sweet. But he never stopped trying. And every time he got a sign right, every time Haechan's face lit up with understanding and joy, Jaemin felt like he had won something precious
Ten years later, the silence was no longer a barrier but a foundation. It was filled with the soft shuffles of their home, the gentle vibrations of Jaemin’s laughter, and the profound peace of knowing one another entirely.
Haechan was seven months pregnant, his belly a firm, round globe that he carried with a mixture of awe and discomfort. His omega was already round-cheeked, but now they were fuller, softened, making him look younger, more vulnerable.
Jaemin, his alpha, was a force of nature. He worked a demanding job, but he came home every night with a smile, his first priority always Haechan. He was ten times more attentive now, always making sure Haechan was comfortable, well-fed, and happy.
But Haechan hated feeling like a burden. He saw the tired lines around Jaemin’s eyes, the way he’d sometimes fall asleep on the sofa after dinner. He was an alpha, a provider, and Haechan, an omega, was supposed to be his comfort, not his chore. So, he tried to be less of one. He insisted he could get his own water, his own snacks. Don’t worry, I’m fine, he would sign, even when his back ached and his cravings roared. Jaemin would just look at him fondly, kiss his forehead, and sign back, Call me for anything.
Haechan didn’t.
His latest craving was for a specific, spicy, pickled radish from a market two blocks away. It was a foolish, stubborn decision. He waddled out of their house while Jaemin was at work, a vision of a very pregnant, very determined omega on a mission.
He navigated the bustling stalls, the noise of the market a thick, tangible hum he could feel in his bones. He got his radish, along with some tteokbokki and a few other snacks he’d seen, and started the slow, waddling journey home, feeling triumphant.
He was halfway up the path when he saw Jaemin’s car in the driveway. His heart dropped. Jaemin was home early. As he got to the door, it swung open, revealing Jaemin, his face pale with a terrifying mixture of fear and worry. He was just about to leave, phone in hand, probably to call for help.
Jaemin’s eyes widened when he saw Haechan. He rushed forward, his hands cupping Haechan’s face, his eyes scanning him from head to toe. Haechan, startled and feeling horribly guilty, dropped the bag of food. The plastic split, spilling some tteokbokki and radish onto the ground. The sight of the ruined snacks, coupled with the panic on Jaemin's face, was too much. Haechan’s face crumpled, and a soft, whimpering sob escaped his lips.
Jaemin’s panic instantly morphed into a fierce, protective tenderness. He gathered Haechan into his arms, carefully mindful of his belly, and led him to the sofa. He sat down, pulling Haechan onto his lap. He held him close, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back, the other signing against Haechan’s thigh.
I was so worried. Not mad. Just worried. Okay?
Haechan sniffled, burying his face in Jaemin’s chest. He nodded, then pulled back just enough to sign, his hands trembling.
Sorry. Wanted food. You tired. Don’t want burden.
Jaemin’s heart clenched. He kissed the top of Haechan’s head, then gently tilted his face up. He leaned in and kissed the pout right off Haechan’s lips, a soft, lingering kiss that said everything his words couldn’t. When he pulled back, his hands moved with deliberate, tender precision.
Listen to me, my love, he signed, his expression firm but his eyes soft. You are never a burden. Never. Not when you need me to order your food. Not when you need me to translate a conversation. Not when you need me to hold you at 3 AM because the baby is kicking and you can't sleep. You are my heart, Haechan. The best part of every day. The reason I hurry home. The reason I work so hard. Not because I have to take care of you, but because I want to. Because taking care of you is the greatest joy of my life.
He paused, letting his words sink in, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear from Haechan's cheek.
So please, don't hide from me. Don't try to do everything alone. When you need something, tell me. When you want something, tell me. When you're scared, or sad, or craving pickled radish at 2 PM, tell me. We go together. Always. That's what being mates means. You and me, together, no matter what. Okay?
Haechan's lip wobbled, but this time it wasn't from sadness. He nodded, a small, watery smile finally appearing. He was so adorable, with his teary eyes and flushed cheeks, that Jaemin felt his heart overflow. He retrieved the fallen bag, salvaging what he could, and brought it to the sofa. He picked up a piece of tteokbokki and held it to Haechan's lips.
Haechan opened his mouth, his chubby cheeks puffing out as he chewed. A moment later, he made a face and delicately spat a piece of onion into Jaemin’s waiting, open palm. He then continued chewing, his eyes already lighting up as he pointed to another snack in the bag. Jaemin laughed, a silent, body-shaking thing that Haechan felt deep in his own chest. He wiped his hand and signed, Eat slowly, baby.
And as Haechan happily munched on his snacks, nestled in the lap of his loving alpha, the quiet of their world was not empty. It was filled with the warmth of a shared look, the gentle weight of a hand on a belly, and a love that had grown from a single, sticky note into a lifetime of understanding.