Chapter Eight #3
I’m impressed despite my discomfort. When Hyunwoo said he “knew a guy,” I’d imagined something considerably less polished than this.
Some shady character in a back alley, maybe, exchanging forged documents in a dimly lit print shop in a questionable part of town.
Crumpled papers with obvious imperfections, forgery that would fool a casual glance but crumble under any real scrutiny.
But this is an actual lawyer’s office with real credentials framed on the wall—a Yonsei law degree, a bar association membership, certificates from continuing education programs. And the documents look authentic, indistinguishable from genuine claiming papers as far as I can tell, complete with what appears to be a legitimate notary seal and properly formatted filing reference numbers.
So real, in fact, that I feel deeply uneasy.
I glance between the two alphas sitting on either side of me—Hyunwoo to my left, still grinning, and Mr. Lim behind his desk, his hands folded neatly on the surface, his expression giving away absolutely nothing. My eyes settle on the lawyer.
“Are you sure these are fake?” I ask.
Hyunwoo nods beside me without hesitation. “Of course they’re fake. That’s the whole point, Yuggie.”
But I’m not looking at Hyunwoo. I’m looking at Mr. Lim, searching his face for reassurance or confirmation, or just the simple honesty of eye contact from someone who isn’t my best friend with a vested interest in getting me to sign.
Mr. Lim meets my gaze, and for a fraction of a second—so brief I almost miss it—his eyes flick sideways toward Hyunwoo.
It’s quick. A glance that lasts less than a heartbeat before his attention returns to me, his expression resettling into smooth, professional neutrality.
“Yes,” he says, his voice flat and even. “Fake. Of course.”
My stomach knots tighter. Something about the exchange—that split-second glance between the two alphas makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle.
But I have no concrete reason not to trust Hyunwoo on this.
We’ve been friends our whole lives. He’s never screwed me over, never lied to me about anything that mattered, never given me reason to doubt his word on something this significant.
And more importantly, Hyunwoo doesn’t want to claim me any more than I want to be claimed.
We’ve been explicitly clear about that from the very beginning—no bonding, no claiming, no strings.
Hyunwoo values his freedom and his bachelor lifestyle too much to voluntarily tie himself to anyone, even his best friend.
The man can barely commit to the same restaurant for more than two visits.
The idea of him willingly entering into a permanent, legally binding claim on another person is laughable.
He would have done his due diligence in making sure all his bases were covered and that these papers are exactly what he says they are.
I’m overthinking this. I’m tired, I’m pregnant, my hormones are doing things to my brain that make me suspicious and emotional about everything, and I need to stop looking for problems where there aren’t any.
I sigh and set the paper back down on the desk. “Give me a pen.”
Hyunwoo’s grin widens, and he reaches into the inner pocket of his blazer and produces a pen—a heavy, expensive-looking thing with a matte black barrel and gold accents, even his writing instruments have to be designer.
He places it between my fingers, his own fingers brushing mine as he does, and his dark eyes gleam as he watches me lean forward over the desk.
I find the signature line—the one labeled “Claimed Omega” with my printed name above it—and press the pen tip to the paper.
My handwriting comes out slightly unsteady, the characters not quite as clean as they usually are, a faint tremor running through the strokes that I blame on the awkward angle of leaning over the desk from a deep leather chair.
I finish the last character of my name and set the pen down, flexing my fingers.
Hyunwoo takes the pen from the desk and scribbles his own signature in the space above mine with a confident flourish, the pen moving fast and sure across the paper. He doesn’t read the document again before signing. Doesn’t even glance at the text. Just signs with breezy carelessness.
Mr. Lim gathers the completed papers into the manila folder smoothly, squaring the edges and closing the flap.
He stands and extends his hand to Hyunwoo first, then to me, his grip firm and dry.
“Everything will be filed and processed by the end of the week,” he says, and the phrasing strikes me as oddly specific for fake paperwork that isn’t actually being filed anywhere, but I push the thought aside.
Hyunwoo and Mr. Lim exchange pleasantries as we head toward the door—something about a golf outing next weekend, a mutual acquaintance’s birthday dinner, men who move in the same circles.
I hover near the doorway, my arms crossed over my chest, watching them talk.
The knot in my gut hasn’t loosened. If anything it’s pulled tighter, a persistent, nagging discomfort.
But Hyunwoo claps me on the back as we step into the elevator, his palm warm and solid between my shoulder blades, and grins at me in the mirrored walls.
“See?” he says. “Told you it’d be fine. Easy.”
I look at our reflections—him bright-eyed and pleased, me pale and uncertain—and manage a smile. “Yeah,” I say. “Easy.”
The elevator descends in silence, the floor numbers ticking down on the digital display above the doors. I press my hand against my lower belly, a habit I’ve developed without realizing it, and try to convince myself that the uneasy feeling in my chest is just pregnancy hormones and nothing more.
Later, after we’ve eaten and I’ve showered and settled into my room for the night, I sit on the edge of my bed in a pair of clean sweatpants and nothing else, my damp hair dripping cold trails down the back of my neck.
The apartment is quiet. Kal and Machete are in their crates for the night, and I can hear the faint sound of Hyunwoo’s TV through the wall that separates our bedrooms, some variety show playing at low volume.
I should be tired. I am tired—my body feels heavy and sluggish the way it does every night now, the pregnancy sapping my energy reserves. But my brain won’t shut off. It keeps circling back to that office, to those papers.
I press my palms flat against my knees and stare at the far wall of my bedroom, at the gaming setup Hyunwoo installed for me and the weight rack in the corner and the deep green curtains he picked out because he knows it’s my favorite color.
Everything in this room was chosen with me in mind.
Everything in this apartment has been arranged for my comfort since the day I moved in.
Hyunwoo has been generous and attentive and thoughtful in ways that go well beyond what our arrangement requires, and I know that, and I’m grateful for it.
But something about tonight sits wrong in my chest.
I rub my face with both hands, pressing my fingertips against my closed eyelids until I see spots.
My brain feels like it’s wading through mud, every thought arriving slow and blurry, the pregnancy fog making it impossible to hold onto a single thread of logic long enough to follow it to its conclusion.
I keep reaching for clarity and it keeps slipping away from me, dissolving into fatigue and hormonal static.
I can’t tell if the unease in my gut is legitimate intuition or just my body being weird and oversensitive because it’s busy building a tiny human from scratch.
I’m still sitting there, hunched on the edge of the mattress with my elbows on my knees, turning the same handful of worries over and over like stones in my palm, when my bedroom door swings open without so much as a courtesy knock.
Hyunwoo steps inside and crosses the room in a few long strides, and before I can turn all the way around his arm hooks around my waist from behind, pulling me back against his chest. His face presses into the curve of my neck, his nose and lips settling right against my scent gland, and I feel his chest expand as he takes a deep, slow breath through his nose.
His body is warm and solid against my bare back, and through the thin fabric of his sweatpants I can feel his cock, already hard, pressing against my hip in a way that makes his intentions extremely clear.
I tilt my head to look at him over my shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “What’s gotten you so horny tonight?”