My gaze drops.
To my hands. To the IV taped against my skin. To the faint bruises left behind from earlier insertions. My fingers curl into the sheets, the fabric twisting tightly between them.
My partner's trait.
Dr. Lee's voice cuts through the silence—gentle, but insistent. "Mr. Kael, I know this is personal. But as your doctor, I need to know."
A pause. The kind that carries weight. "Please tell me—is your partner an Omega?"
I stay silent. The seconds stretch between us, thin and fragile as spun glass.
I hear the soft tick of the monitor beside me, the distant hum of the ventilation, the quiet rhythm of my own breathing.
She waits. Patient. Unhurried.
"It's alright if you're not comfortable," she says at last. Her voice remains soft, professional—but there's something beneath it. A warmth I haven't noticed before.
"We can talk later."
