Chapter 65

Gi-hyeon experienced another bizarre dream that night, waking to the damp, uncomfortable reality of his ruined underwear.

Recognizing the unmistakable signs of a wet dream, he could only shake his head in profound, empty disbelief. Resigned, he forced himself to jerk off the moment he rolled out of bed.

Tragically, his sole fantasy material remained Jo Yeon-oh, or more precisely, the memory of the single night they had spent together. Relying on the very man he was desperately fleeing felt pathetic, but his mind simply refused to conjure anyone else. It felt less like desire and more like an inescapable physical habit, much like how his exclusive use of his left hand for masturbation had caused his dick to curve slightly to the left over the years.

…Besides, who else could he possibly imagine? While his peers obsessed over porn, Gi-hyeon found himself far more aroused by the memory of a sweltering summer day when Yeon-oh casually lifted his t-shirt to wipe his sweaty forehead, inadvertently flashing the rock-hard plains of his lower abdomen.

Yet he wasn’t entirely homosexual either. Explicit scenes in movies featuring women could still elicit a physical response. However, he fundamentally lacked the dedication to actively seek out pornography just to facilitate a quick wank. Consequently, his mental spank bank remained entirely monopolized by the memory of his first and only sexual encounter.

He felt zero guilt. Yeon-oh had been blackout drunk and remembered absolutely nothing. Even if the bastard magically recalled the event, his only reaction would be violent retching. While the memory would undeniably horrify Yeon-oh, his current amnesia rendered the event functionally victimless. Gi-hyeon rationalized it as scavenging: he had merely salvaged a discarded, perfectly usable item from the trash and brought it home for his own use.

If a crime had occurred, the guilt lay squarely on the bastard who couldn’t hold his liquor. Why should Gi-hyeon shoulder any blame?

Standing under the showerhead, he found it effortless to summon the memory of Yeon-oh flexing his forearms. As his first sexual experience, the intense physical stimulation had permanently burned itself into his neural pathways, making it impossible to forget. Having finished the task, he watched the evidence of his climax swirl down the drain. As he moved to shampoo his hair and wash his body, he felt an undeniable, slick wetness between his ass cheeks.

“Goddammit…”

When would this perpetual dampness end? The mysterious fluid, which had started as a minor nuisance, now seemed to flow constantly. Existing as an Omega was proving to be a logistical nightmare.

The physician at the Pheromone Internal Medicine clinic, whom he had consulted immediately after discovering the pregnancy, had issued a similar warning.

“Your heat cycle will be suppressed temporarily due to the pregnancy, but you must prepare yourself for its return shortly after delivery. Having lived your entire life as a Beta male, you need to mentally prepare for a lifestyle completely alien to anything you’ve experienced.”

Back then, he had ignorantly equated being an Omega to contracting a chronic disease or a permanent disability. He assumed the doctor was simply advising him to endure the inevitable discomforts associated with a medical condition.

He had been spectacularly wrong. Being an Omega didn’t mean losing existing physical functions; it meant your body suddenly executing terrifying, autonomous protocols completely outside your control.

This humiliating secretion was a prime example. The fact that getting sexually aroused triggered his body to literally soak the back of his underwear was horrifying.

“Fuck, I’m going to end up a bedwetter at my age.”

He sighed heavily, instantly regretting the profanity. Pressing both palms firmly against his lower abdomen, he silently apologized to the fetus as if shielding its ears. The sheer absurdity of the gesture triggered a hollow laugh. Swallowing his amusement, Gi-hyeon killed the shower and stepped out of the bathroom.

Today was his day off. Jisu had surprisingly offered to cover the shift at the gambling den. Digging out the most respectable clothing he had packed, Gi-hyeon drove the scooter into town to report his progress to the clinic.

“I’ve been taking the medication consistently, but I’m experiencing some mild nausea,” Gi-hyeon reported.

The doctor merely hummed, briefly evaluating Gi-hyeon’s impeccable, ramrod-straight posture.

“I see… It appears you’re somewhat prone to the side effects. The fetus is perfectly safe, but you might experience some complications, Mr. An. It’s nothing life-threatening, but you may suffer from increasingly severe dizzy spells accompanied by anemia. I’ll prescribe some iron supplements; make sure you take them religiously.”

Gi-hyeon recalled reading that while male pregnancies involved grueling deliveries, their superior muscle and bone mass usually negated the need for additional iron. Clearly, the artificial pheromone stabilizers were wreaking havoc on his system.

Reassured that the child remained unharmed, he nodded and headed to the pharmacy. Handing over the prescription, he waited for the pharmacist to dispense the pills. When he slapped a 50,000-won bill on the counter, the pharmacist predictably asked if he needed a cash receipt for tax deductions. Knowing that leaving a financial paper trail was a guaranteed death sentence, he swiftly declined.

Walking back to his scooter in the public lot, he spotted a local elementary school kid sprinting past, aggressively devouring a skewer of fried rice cakes slathered in spicy sauce. The sight instantly triggered a ferocious, blinding hunger. The desperate craving for tteok-kkochi completely hijacked his brain, obliterating all other thoughts.

“I’m going to turn into a fucking pig,” he muttered in disbelief as he hunted down the nearest snack shop.

Predictably, the stall sold the exact skewers the kid had been inhaling. When the owner warmly greeted him, Gi-hyeon rattled off his order: four tteok-kkochi skewers, a serving of spicy tteokbokki, a serving of blood sausage mixed with offal, two fried seaweed rolls, and two fried dumplings, all thoroughly smothered in the tteokbokki sauce.

“Oh my, it’s scorching out today. Come inside and eat,” the owner offered.

“It’s fine. I’ll be quick,” Gi-hyeon replied, adding a cider to his order.

True to his word, the tteokbokki, blood sausage, and fried snacks vanished in record time. Having already demolished three of the skewers before the owner had even finished slicing the sausage, he reached for the final one. A sudden prickle of awareness made him glance down. Two elementary school kids were staring up at him, their eyes wide with awe.

“Excuse me, mister, are you filming a mukbang?” one of them asked.

“No,” Gi-hyeon replied simply, stripping three rice cakes off the skewer with a single bite.

The kids remained highly skeptical. “Then why are you eating so much? If you eat that much junk food before dinner, you’re gonna get in huge trouble.”

Sliding the final rice cake off the stick, Gi-hyeon countered effortlessly. “I’m a grown-up. I can eat all this and still eat a huge dinner without getting yelled at.”

“Aww, no fair…” the kids whined, clearly convinced he was lying.

Ignoring their disbelief, Gi-hyeon tossed the empty sticks into the trash and approached the counter to settle the bill.

“Ma’am, please get these two a slushie each,” he requested, paying for a cola and a Fanta slushie for the kids.

“Whoa!” the kids gasped.

“My mom said never take food from strangers!” one protested valiantly.

“Do you know the owner here?” Gi-hyeon asked.

“Yeah!”

“Then the owner is giving it to you, not me. You’re getting it from someone you know.”

Grinning, he accepted his change from the chuckling owner, shoved the coins into his pocket, and headed back toward the parking lot.

The ride home was unchanged. The recent rains had deepened the vibrant green canopy overhead, unexpectedly triggering a memory of the sprawling, immaculately manicured gardens at Yeon-oh’s family estate. …That reminded him; he had fled without even offering a proper goodbye to Yeon-oh’s mother, Yeongwon. Despite the underlying tensions, she reliably supplied him with seasonal kimchi every year, and he had always made sure to formally thank her. He knew she would be heartbroken when she inevitably discovered his number was disconnected, but it couldn’t be helped.

Vroooom.

The sputtering scooter trundled down the rural road, the faded yellow center line flashing by like a forgotten memory.

***