The journals smelled faintly of antiseptic and paper, like the corridors of the hospital had clung to them even after leaving. Lior sat cross-legged on the sofa, a blanket draped over his shoulders, the thick volumes spread between them on the low table. Morning sunlight spilled through the curtains of Kaein's living room, touching the worn edges of the notebooks as if trying to soften what they contained.
Neither of them spoke at first. Kaein leaned back, one hand rubbing at his temple, the other tapping restlessly against his thigh. He was steady in most things, unshaken even when storms raged, but now—now his composure carried a weight, as though he feared the words on these pages would rearrange the world they thought they knew.
Lior's fingers brushed over the ink, the hospital's neat handwriting describing with clinical distance something that felt unbearably personal.
"Lunar—an exceedingly rare secondary gender, dominant and fertile, able to both mark and be marked, to bear children, to induce rut in Alphas. One in a billion."
He exhaled slowly, gardenia scent curling in the air, rich and grounding, as though his body itself sought to defend him against the sharpness of the words.
Kaein caught the scent immediately, head tilting slightly. Wisteria rose in response, subtle but insistent, wrapping around gardenia like vines around a pillar. His pheromones always came when he sensed Lior's unease, as if his body betrayed what his mouth never rushed to say: I'm here. You're not alone.
Lior's lips parted, then closed again. His eyes traced the lines again and again, but the words refused to become easier. "It says… permanent markings," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not one claiming the other but—both. At once."
Kaein leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching him. "Does that frighten you?"
Lior's throat bobbed. "It unsettles me. To carry something that overturns every rule of Alpha and Omega. To know I could… even make you—" He stopped, cheeks heating, words tangling in shame before they could finish.
"Make me what?" Kaein asked softly, though his tone carried none of the sharpness of interrogation. Only patient curiosity.
Lior's voice shook, but he forced it out. "Force you into rut."
The air thickened between them. Not in hostility—never that—but with the raw truth of what they had shared the night before. That memory alone pressed against the back of his mind like a pulse: passion that burned but never collapsed into violence, heat that pulled them together until the line between Alpha and not-Alpha blurred.
Kaein didn't flinch. "You think I felt forced?"
"You didn't resist. You… let it happen."
"That wasn't surrender," Kaein said firmly, eyes steady on him. "That was choice. My choice."
Gardenia stirred again, sharper now, trembling at the edges like a storm cloud about to break. Lior clenched the blanket tighter around himself. "Choice or not, it makes me dangerous. It makes me something…" He shook his head. "Other."
"Different," Kaein corrected. "Not dangerous." His voice was low, carrying the calm authority that had always been his anchor. He reached across the table, his hand brushing Lior's knuckles. "And if this is what you are—Lunar—then it doesn't change the way I see you. Not as less. Not as too much. Just you."
The contact jolted Lior, warmth seeping from Kaein's skin to his own. Wisteria deepened, flooding the space until it mixed with gardenia in a harmony neither sharp nor overwhelming, just… whole.
For a moment, they breathed together in silence.
From the kitchen came the faint clatter of dishes—Kaein's younger sister humming as she prepared tea. Family noise, ordinary and grounding, seeping into the edges of their heavy conversation. Lior let it settle into him, that reminder that life didn't stop or shatter simply because their world had shifted.
Kaein pulled one of the journals closer, flipping through more pages. His eyes scanned quietly until he found another section, underlined twice by the researcher's hand.
"Lunar individuals have cyclical heats, often mistaken for Omega presentation, yet maintain the capacity to dominate and impregnate Alphas after permanent bond formation. Markings must be mutual, or the cycle destabilizes."
"Mutual," Kaein repeated, thoughtful. "Not one above the other."
Lior frowned. "That makes it sound… balanced. But balance can be fragile."
Kaein leaned back again, gaze turning briefly toward the ceiling. "Or it can be stronger. Two pillars, not one carrying all the weight."
The words struck something deep inside Lior, though he didn't know how to name it. He closed the journal, the soft thud of paper echoing more than it should.
"Do you want this?" he asked suddenly. His voice was too raw, too uncertain. "This bond—this… future? Even if it means—"
"Stop." Kaein's interruption was gentle but firm, like a hand placed against a runaway thought. "Don't twist it into a curse before we've even lived with it." His gaze softened. "I've already chosen. You."
Gardenia swelled, unrestrained this time, and Kaein inhaled it without hesitation, letting his own wisteria weave around it until the air itself felt like an embrace. The tension in Lior's shoulders loosened, the edge of panic dulling under the steady thrum of Kaein's presence.
A knock sounded on the doorframe. Kaein's sister poked her head in, carrying a tray of tea and small plates of food. "You two are still brooding over those journals?" she teased lightly, her smile bright and unbothered. "Eat first. Heavy words sit easier on a full stomach."
Kaein gave a small smile in return, while Lior ducked his head, embarrassed at being caught in the middle of such intensity. But when the scent of warm bread and tea drifted in, something in him eased further. The world was still ordinary enough to hold them.
They ate in quiet companionship, the journals closed for now, the family's easy chatter filling the air around them. Lior felt the weight of insecurity still pressing at the back of his chest, but less crushing than before. Kaein's steadiness, his family's warmth, the simple act of tea on the table—these threads wove together into something stronger than fear.
Later, when the house grew quieter and they found themselves alone again, Kaein reached across once more, fingers brushing Lior's.
"Read more tomorrow," he murmured. "Tonight, just… be here."
And for the first time since the word Lunar had been written into his identity, Lior let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—it wasn't a sentence, but a beginning.