After the prenatal checkup, the air in the apartment seemed recalibrated by the rhythm of the fetal heartbeat. No longer only cold confrontation, nor deliberate avoidance, but a cautious tension—an attempt to realign.
She no longer merely adjusted diet and environment clumsily. Her changes seeped into subtler places. When I rubbed my lower back after too long at the computer, she quietly slipped a soft cushion behind me. When pregnancy heat made me kick off the blanket, she entered silently at night to cover me again. She even began reading the pregnancy guides I left on the coffee table, brows furrowed, studying them with the focus she reserved for the most important business contracts.
These gestures were no longer superficial "responsibility," but attentive care born of observation. She seemed truly, earnestly trying to understand what a pregnant Omega needs.
Most impossible to ignore was her pheromone. Once restless, sharp, cedar–whiskey aggression, it had become steady, warm—like sunlit pine forests, dry and reassuring. No longer suppressing or provoking my white-tea scent, it spread gently through the home, building a silent sanctuary.
My Omega instincts, wrapped in this steady warmth, stirred like seeds beneath frozen soil, craving more. Reason still shouted caution, but my body, honest, began to relax.
By mid-pregnancy, my body grew heavier, more uncomfortable. Back aches, swollen ankles, difficulty rising… these changes forced me to "use" her presence. The first time she offered her arm to help me up, my fingers hesitated. That brief touch carried not only strength, but the heat of her palm, and the unmistakable joy in her eyes at being needed. In the end, I placed my hand on hers. Because struggling alone was simply too hard.
It was like a switch. From then on, her arm steadying me on stairs, her hands massaging cramps in the night, the blanket she laid over me after a nap on the sofa—all became habit.
Hatred still lurked, but now coexisted with a strange dependence born of necessity. I despised the weakness, yet could not deny that her silent, reliable care made the hardest moments… less unbearable.
What truly shook me was that evening in the garden. The baby's movements grew sudden and fierce, like tiny fists practicing martial arts. I stopped, inhaling sharply. She rushed close, tense: "What's wrong? Did he hurt you?" I shook my head, and almost unconsciously, drew her hand to my belly. "He's practicing his kicks," I said, my tone carrying a softness I hadn't noticed in myself.
When her warm, calloused palm felt the steady thumps, I saw her eyes ignite—shock and joy cascading like stars. Her eyes reddened, lips trembling, but no words came.
In that moment, all grievances seemed shut out by the force of life. No hatred, no resentment, no cold contracts or forced marriage. Only two parents, awed by the miracle of new life.
The pure, unhidden love and emotion in her eyes pierced my thickest ice. I realized—perhaps her love for this child was real. Not about me, but simply because he was her blood. That recognition was a key, loosening the lock on my heart.
At night, lying in bed, feeling the child's movements, I recalled her tears in daylight, her steady scent, her quiet care. Hatred remained part of me. The wounds, the cold past, cannot be erased. But the scales seemed to tilt.
One side: familiar hatred and vigilance. The other: the child's bond, her apparent sincerity, the subtle warmth of her actions, and… a fragile expectation that perhaps things could be different.
I knew ice does not thaw in a day. Trust cannot be rebuilt so quickly. But I no longer pushed her away as firmly as before. Perhaps… I could watch a little longer. Perhaps… for the child, I could give these signs of change the smallest, most cautious chance.
Hand resting on my belly, I whispered silently: Child, give your father a little more time. Let me see if this warmth from your biological father can withstand the test.
The season of thaw is muddy, messy, yet full of rebirth. My struggle remains, but the sunlight piercing the ice has already brought irreversible change. The ice is still there—but it has begun to flow.