Chapter Text

1.

“What the hell is going on here?”

The young emperor's voice, edged with irritation, broke the silence. Cold white light from the overhead lamp cast sharp shadows across the faces in the room.

Reinhard von Lohengramm, the young Emperor of the Galactic Empire, sat at the long conference table. His slender fingers tapped lightly on the glossy surface as his icy blue eyes narrowed. Standing behind him was Hilda - his secretary and advisor. She let out a quiet sigh as she looked at the two men before them.

Admiral Fritz Joseph Bittenfeld. Commander of the Black Lancers. A tall, hot-tempered man with fiery light-colored hair. His eyes were blazing with raw emotion - likely anger, outrage, frustration, and still simmering agitation.

And a few steps away from Bittenfeld, standing eerily calm and silent, was Paul von Oberstein. The Empire’s cold-blooded Minister of Military Affairs, infamous for crafting ruthlessly pragmatic strategies that could even make Reinhard and Hilda uneasy. As always, Oberstein’s artificial eyes showed no emotion, and neither did his face. He was like a machine. Even now, with a fresh wound on his neck still bleeding.

Yes, a neck wound. A clear mark of a rough bite. And the one responsible stood right beside him - Admiral Bittenfeld, whose hands were clenched like he still wanted to strangle the Minister.

Reinhard tapped his finger again, eyes shifting between the two. “Oberstein. Explain what happened. Briefly,” the young emperor said flatly.

The Minister tilted his head slightly, seeming unfazed by the stares or the bloody injury on his neck. “Admiral Bittenfeld suddenly entered a rut. The medical team believes a hormonal imbalance caused his suppressants to fail. I happened to be passing through the area, and under the influence of his condition, the Admiral marked me.”

Reinhard narrowed his eyes slightly. “Why you? Oberstein? Aren’t you an Alpha?”

That was the strangest part.

Hilda squinted.

Bittenfeld was a textbook Alpha - huge, loud, hard to control, and radiating testosterone, pheromones, and every Alpha trait imaginable. In the military, people like him were valuable, but also volatile. The Empire had measures in place to keep their instincts from causing problems.

Bittenfeld had been taken to a designated Alpha rest zone - areas set up for such emergencies. Omegas and Betas were always cleared from those zones in such cases.

Oberstein was also an Alpha. Presumably, that’s why he hadn’t been evacuated. No one thought there would be an issue. Hilda knew Bittenfeld clearly loathed Oberstein, and she couldn’t imagine someone like Bittenfeld wanting to mark another Alpha, even in a hormone-driven haze. Unless...

Oberstein was silent for a moment, then spoke in his usual flat tone, expression unchanged: “I have some genetic anomalies. Although classified as Alpha, I lack scent and typical Alpha biological traits. I believe Admiral Bittenfeld mistook me due to his impaired state and my… abnormal biology.”

Bittenfeld, who had been quietly lowering his head, suddenly looked up and glared. “Just abnormal? You freak! What kind of Alpha are you, with no damn scent at all?! Who wouldn’t get confused in that situation? If you smelled like a proper Alpha, this wouldn’t have…”

“Bittenfeld, shut up.” The young emperor’s voice was low, annoyance flashing in his eyes as he glanced at the Admiral. Bittenfeld fell silent immediately. Even in his rage, he must’ve realized the emperor was losing patience - and that he’d messed up.

Yes. Reinhard was furious. This wasn’t the first time Bittenfeld’s recklessness had caused problems. I should’ve dealt with him after the Battle of Lügen, Reinhard thought bitterly. Back then, Kircheis had convinced him to forgive Bittenfeld, saying he was loyal and brave. Reinhard knew he was right, but sometimes, Reinhard still felt that Bittenfeld’s limited thinking did more harm than his strength was worth.

Sensing Reinhard’s growing frustration, Hilda stepped in, redirecting his focus: “Your Majesty, I believe Minister Oberstein has more to say.”

Oberstein nodded and continued in the same even tone: “What matters now is not assigning blame for something irreversible, but addressing the fallout.”

“What fallout?” Reinhard tilted his head and frowned.

“There were quite a few officers and soldiers present due to a military press briefing. And, of course, reporters. Meaning many witnesses. This won’t stay secret. If not controlled, the media will frame it as an assault between high-ranking officers, tarnishing the military’s and Your Majesty’s reputation. It may also spark rumors of internal conflict.”

Bittenfeld stiffened, mouth opening to speak, but Reinhard raised a hand to silence him. The young emperor’s blue eyes gleamed. “You already have a solution, don’t you, Oberstein?”

Oberstein’s stance didn’t change. He nodded.

Hilda sighed. Oberstein always had a solution. The problem was how ruthless it might be. As if echoing her thoughts, Reinhard narrowed his eyes. “And I hope that solution doesn’t involve killing all the witnesses.”

“…The officers and soldiers who saw it are valuable assets to the Empire. We cannot waste human resources over something like this. Eliminating journalists would be even riskier,” Oberstein paused, then continued. “There are simpler ways. I propose we announce that Admiral Bittenfeld and I had already begun a relationship prior to this incident. That way, this becomes a personal matter with no political consequences.”

Silence fell over the room. Then…

“No way!” Bittenfeld roared. “Oberstein, who the hell would want a relationship with you?! That’s insane!”

Oberstein’s face didn’t change. “I’m only offering what I believe is the most logical solution.”

Reinhard looked to Hilda. She sighed and gave a small nod. It made sense. If the story spread that a high-ranking officer had attacked and marked the Minister of Military Affairs, it would be a disaster.

“Alpha-Alpha relationships, while rare, are no longer prohibited like in the previous dynasty. Declaring this a personal matter is the cleanest approach.” Oberstein continued. “The Admiral and I have… personal disagreements. But such things rarely reach beyond those close to Your Majesty or the Admiral.”

“It’s absurd,” Bittenfeld snapped, pointing at Oberstein. “Your Majesty, please don’t listen to him! I don’t want to be stuck with him forever. I still want to marry a normal Omega and give my parents grandkids!”

Reinhard frowned, irritation rising again. But Oberstein calmly turned to Bittenfeld.

“Admiral, you won’t be ‘stuck’ with me forever.”

Bittenfeld narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“This relationship is only for political stability during this sensitive period. Once the rumors die down, there will be no need to maintain it.” Oberstein touched the bite mark on his neck. “We can sever the bond through a medical procedure. After that, we can each pursue our personal plans.”

Confusion flickered on Bittenfeld’s face. “Wait… you mean this is just temporary? After a year or so, everything goes back to normal?”

“Admiral, my only concern is the Empire’s stability and efficiency,” Oberstein said coldly. “If there is no longer political risk, I have no interest in what happens afterward.”

Reinhard turned away, rubbing his forehead. After a long pause, the young emperor waved his hand.

“Bittenfeld, Oberstein. Proceed with the plan.”

Bittenfeld froze. “What?”

Reinhard rubbed his forehead again. “That’s enough. You’ve already wasted too much of my time with this nonsense. Oberstein, execute your plan. I don’t want this causing any more trouble.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Oberstein replied quietly, bowing. Reinhard dismissed them. Oberstein suggested they go to the medical wing to consult a doctor. Bittenfeld stared at him like he wanted nothing more than to strangle him. But he gave a stiff nod.

Hilda watched them leave. After a moment, she spoke hesitantly. “Minister Oberstein.”

“Yes, Lady Mariendorf?” Oberstein turned to her.

“I think… when you get to the medical wing, you should let them treat that wound first,” she said.

Oberstein raised an eyebrow. As if he’d only now remembered the bite on his neck was still bleeding.

Hilda suspected the wound was intentional - so Reinhard would see the full gravity of the situation and be forced to accept Oberstein’s proposal. With someone like him, it was entirely possible.

“Thank you for your concern,” Oberstein replied flatly, then turned and walked out, not even glancing at the orange-haired admiral beside him, who was still visibly struggling not to explode.

***

Oberstein and Bittenfeld went to the medical wing together.

The steady hum of diagnostic machines filled the room, but it couldn't ease the simmering tension between the two men sitting across from the doctor.

The doctor adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and looked at the data on the screen. “I’ve checked. A bond has indeed formed between the two of you. This… is uncommon,” he admitted, “but not impossible.”

Bittenfeld scoffed, glancing sideways at Oberstein. “It’s all because of his freakish body. A useless Alpha like him shouldn’t even be classified as one.”

The doctor continued reading the report, unfazed. “Due to Minister Oberstein’s congenital condition, his body produces a suppressed scent and lower pheromone levels than normal. As a result, he wasn’t recognized as an Alpha by someone in an agitated and excited state... And so, Admiral Bittenfeld reacted instinctively.”

Bittenfeld clenched his fists. “This is all his damn fault!”

“…That said, I still have to issue a warning to Admiral Bittenfeld for failing to follow the safety regulations around Alpha rut cycles. You weren’t taking your suppressants regularly, were you? That’s a serious issue, especially with how strong your pheromones are.” The doctor sighed. “I know many Alphas dislike... suppressing their instincts, thinking it’s a blow to their pride. But as you can see, in a military environment, irresponsibility can lead to incidents like this.”

Bittenfeld's face darkened. As always, Oberstein remained expressionless. “That’s not important. What I need to know is how to resolve this situation.”

“Can the bond be broken?” Bittenfeld asked, clearly impatient.

The doctor nodded. “It can, but it’s currently unstable. Trying to remove it now would be unsafe. Minister Oberstein’s suggestion is actually quite sound from a medical standpoint: after a year, the bond should stabilize. At that point, it can be safely dissolved.”

Oberstein tilted his head slightly. “A year is a reasonable timeframe. By then, the rumors should have died down.”

Bittenfeld shot to his feet, his chair screeching loudly.

“A year?! You expect me to walk around with this damned bond for a whole year? And with Oberstein, no less.”

His Alpha scent flared, pulsing in angry waves, but Oberstein remained unmoved.

“It’s only one year. I hope the Admiral can endure a little personal inconvenience for the Empire’s sake,” Oberstein replied coldly.

Bittenfeld’s face burned with anger. His voice turned accusingly: “Oberstein, you planned this, didn’t you? No Alpha or Omega would ever bond with someone like you, so you set me up, didn’t you?”

Oberstein met his furious glare head-on. “My priority is maintaining the Empire’s stability. Your personal feelings are irrelevant.”

Bittenfeld’s hands trembled, itching to punch something, preferably Oberstein’s face. Bittenfeld took a deep breath, fists clenched. Then he turned away, running a hand through his mess of hair in frustration.

“One year. With Oberstein. Goddamn it,” he muttered.

Oberstein, calm as always, simply responded, “I believe, with your usual bravery, Admiral will survive the experience.”

Bittenfeld’s furious roar echoed throughout the room.

Chapter Text

2.

After that, Oberstein and Bittenfeld moved in together.

It was an order - and a necessity, both politically and medically. After all, they had officially declared that they were in a relationship. Medically speaking, staying close would help stabilize the bond more quickly (as advised by the doctor).

Bittenfeld wasn’t an idiot. He understood this was necessary. But to him, moving in with Oberstein - Paul von Oberstein, that calculating, snake-like Minister lurking silently beneath the grass - felt like the world was ending.

Like many admirals and senior officers, Bittenfeld didn’t like Oberstein. Even though they were technically comrades, the Minister of Military Affairs was never considered “one of them.” Oberstein didn’t command a fleet. He didn’t fight on the battlefield. Many seasoned generals saw him as a “desk-bound bureaucrat” who didn’t deserve to wear the same uniform, and resented having to follow his orders.

Beyond that, Oberstein’s personality clashed with theirs. Among loud, aggressive Alphas, always ready to fight and face danger head-on, Oberstein’s behind-the-scenes schemes and cold calculations felt dirty - cowardly even. Things like glory, passion, honor, camaraderie - meant nothing to Oberstein. His mind only focused on logic and results. Everyone knew that no matter how high your rank was, if Oberstein thought it was necessary, you could be sacrificed in an instant.

Wasn’t that exactly how Kircheis died?

Technically, Oberstein wasn’t the cause of Kircheis’s death. But for the senior officers - those who had fought beside and admired the warm-hearted redhead - the line of blame wasn’t so clean. Their grief and bitterness only fueled their dislike for Oberstein. Rumors had long circulated that he’d orchestrated the incident to consolidate power. Bittenfeld believed it - and he’d mentioned it more than once, though never in front of Reinhard. The Minister always ignored those barbed comments, which only kept the rumors alive.

And now, Bittenfeld had to pretend he and Oberstein were together - for a whole year.

When the news broke, many in the Black Lancers were stunned, asking if their commander had lost his mind. Some stayed quiet, maybe sensing there was more to the story. Reinhard’s close subordinates, like Mittermeyer and Reuenthal, already knew the truth. They merely clapped Bittenfeld on the shoulder with pitying smiles.

That made Bittenfeld even more irritated.

The next year was going to be a nightmare, he thought bitterly, hauling his suitcase into the new apartment.

***

But things didn’t go the way Bittenfeld had expected.

He had mentally prepared himself for confrontations, for heated arguments. Instead, the loud, hot-headed, and blunt Admiral found himself trapped in something far worse.

Silence.

The apartment assigned to them was spacious, clean, located in the officers’ housing block - more like a temporary rest area than a real home. The furniture was minimal and utilitarian. Everything was tidy and orderly, to the point of looking lifeless.

Oberstein had moved in first. When Bittenfeld arrived for the first time, the Minister simply showed him his room in silence, then walked off on his own and closed the door behind him. In the days that followed, though they technically lived under the same roof, Bittenfeld barely saw him. Oberstein seemed to come home regularly, but his presence - and his daily routine - was so dull it barely registered.

After a few days, Bittenfeld realized what many officers had long suspected: Oberstein had no personal life.

Every day, he woke up at the exact same time, went to his office, and in the evenings, brought home a stack of documents and shut himself away in his room again. A “paper-pusher” in the truest sense. No friends, no hobbies, no other place to go besides work and home. Bittenfeld had heard Oberstein kept a dog, but there was no sign of it anywhere. Maybe the dog had died. Or run away - maybe even it couldn’t stand a life this colorless.

They didn’t fight. They didn’t speak. Not even a “good morning.” And that was somehow more unbearable than anything Bittenfeld had imagined.

Bittenfeld was the textbook Alpha - if anything, more Alpha than most. Loud, crass, full of energy. He liked crowds, laughter, and the noise of comrades. So this silence drove him insane. A man used to the chaos of the fleet, the noise of the barracks, the buzz of rowdy bars, was now thrown into a hollow, lifeless space.

Put simply, Bittenfeld felt like he was living with a ghost.

He tried to avoid the apartment as much as possible. He stayed out late, trained with junior officers, worked out at the gym until his muscles ached, lingered in the military mess hall, made pointless small talk with subordinates at bars - anything to avoid returning to that place where the silence pressed down on him like a weight.

On some nights, when he came home later than usual, he had the odd, irrational feeling that if he didn’t speak - didn’t make some kind of noise - this place would swallow him whole, into the invisible void that Oberstein radiated.

So Bittenfeld made noise, just to fill the emptiness.

He stomped his feet on purpose. Swore loudly as he tossed his coat onto the chair. Slammed the cabinet doors just to break the suffocating quiet.

Oberstein never reacted. The door to his room never opened.

Not once.

Things weren’t supposed to go like this. They should’ve been yelling, throwing insults, shouting in each other’s faces. But all that existed here was silence.

And Bittenfeld hated it.

***

Before they moved in together, the doctor had instructed them to “interact regularly” to help stabilize the bond.

When he heard that, Bittenfeld was visibly irritated. “What do you mean? How am I supposed to interact with him? Don’t tell me I have to cuddle or some crap like that.” Just the thought made him feel nauseous.

“No, nothing like that,” the doctor replied with a frown. “You just need to occasionally stand close enough to exchange scent markers. That’s enough.”

According to the doctor, this was more important for Oberstein than for Bittenfeld. As an Alpha with weaker biological traits, Oberstein would be more dependent on that kind of contact. Without it, he might experience side effects - dizziness, nausea, pheromone imbalance.

While the doctor explained all this, Bittenfeld stood there with arms crossed, silent and stubborn. Oberstein didn’t seem to care about his attitude. He simply asked, “I assume there are medications that can be used instead.”

“There are,” the doctor admitted hesitantly. “But natural exposure is still better…”

“Prescribe them,” Oberstein said shortly. The doctor sighed and handed him a red box of medication. But he added that during the first few months, while their bodies were still adjusting, occasional physical proximity was still recommended, even with the medication.

Bittenfeld and Oberstein had now been living together for a week or two. They hadn’t “interacted” even once as the doctor advised. Bittenfeld completely ignored the instruction. And Oberstein? He never mentioned it - not even indirectly. He never so much as hinted that Bittenfeld should do anything about it. It seemed he had decided to rely on the medication entirely.

Which was perfectly fine by Bittenfeld. The last thing he wanted was to pretend to be some affectionate couple with a man he outright despised. If Oberstein wanted to act like none of this mattered, Bittenfeld was more than happy to go along with it.

But things didn’t stay that simple for long.

***

The first crack appeared over something very small.

During a meeting, Oberstein paused for a moment.

Just a few seconds - barely noticeable. But Bittenfeld caught it. Maybe it was because the cold, detached silence at home had made him unconsciously more aware of Oberstein’s presence at work.

At first, he said nothing. Maybe Oberstein was just tired. Even a cold, near-inhuman machine had to have limits, right? But then Oberstein’s hand trembled slightly as he reached for a data pad.

And then, the Minister of Military Affairs suddenly staggered. He raised a hand to his head. It was brief, but more obvious this time. Now the others in the room noticed too. Confusion flickered across their faces. Oberstein was a machine. A machine didn’t get dizzy. A machine didn’t get tired.

“I apologize. Let’s continue.”

His artificial eyes looked up as he spoke in an even tone. But his pale skin was even more colorless than usual. It looked like he was breaking out in a cold sweat.

Leaning with his arms crossed near the opposite wall, Bittenfeld narrowed his eyes, a strange sense of unease creeping in.

And then, to the stunned disbelief of everyone in the room, Minister Oberstein raised a hand to his mouth, doubled over - and collapsed right there in the middle of the meeting.

***

Oberstein was taken to the medical wing. The meeting went on as usual, since he had already handed over the necessary documents to Ferner. Aside from the brief disruption and Reinhard’s visible annoyance, everything proceeded as if nothing had happened.

But after the meeting ended, Bittenfeld was summoned to the medical wing.

The doctor sighed as he looked over the papers in his hands.

“I thought you both understood the risks,” he said, voice tinged with reproach.

Bittenfeld crossed his arms, scowling. “What risks?”

“I mean,” the doctor replied, “I warned you both about maintaining interaction to stabilize the bond. What exactly have you two been doing? Minister Oberstein’s body is showing signs of negative effects.”

Bittenfeld’s stomach twisted, but he ignored the feeling. “Tch. He’s an Alpha! This is just some minor thing, nothing serious.”

“Minister Oberstein’s body doesn’t function like a typical Alpha’s, and you , Admiral Bittenfeld, are overwhelmingly dominant,” the doctor cut in, not even trying to hide his irritation. “In the early stages, medication alone isn’t enough. Without proper stability, his body is suffering.”

He gritted his teeth. “So what, this is my fault now? He never said a word! If he was having issues, he should’ve spoken up. I’m not his damn babysitter.”

The doctor stared at him, expression flat. “I don’t care whose fault it is. What I care about is that neither of you followed medical instructions. And now I have to report this mess to His Majesty and Lady Mariendorf.”

Bittenfeld opened his mouth to argue, then stopped.

Of course Oberstein wouldn’t have said anything. And over the past two weeks, even if he had asked for help - Bittenfeld realized - he probably wouldn’t have agreed so easily.

Frustrated, Bittenfeld ran a hand through his hair. “So what the hell am I supposed to do now?”

The doctor gave him a look devoid of sympathy. “What you should’ve done from the start. Reinforce the bond properly.”

Bittenfeld groaned. “I told you, I’m not cuddling the guy. Just thinking about it makes me sick.”

“I already said it’s not necessary to go that far,” the doctor snapped. “All that’s needed is for you two to stand close to each other for a few minutes a day so your pheromones can help stabilize the bond. That’s the bare minimum. Of course, the more the better - but I’m not holding out hope.”

Bittenfeld looked at Oberstein again. The man had been silent the entire time. Finally, he spoke in his usual calm tone: “The bare minimum is sufficient - if the Admiral is willing.”

Bittenfeld let out a long, heavy sigh, as if someone had just dumped the weight of the entire galaxy on his shoulders.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll do the bare minimum.”

Chapter Text

3.

It was the morning after Oberstein collapsed during the meeting.

The Minister of Military Affairs had returned to work the previous afternoon as if nothing had happened. Now, Oberstein - dressed in his usual officer uniform - had just finished his morning coffee. But before leaving the apartment, he silently looked at Bittenfeld, his expression as blank as always.

Bittenfeld knew what he had to do now. That didn’t mean he was happy about it.

“This is so stupid,” he muttered.

With obvious reluctance, he stepped closer and placed a hand on Oberstein’s shoulder. The doctor had said that scent exchange or close contact, even briefly, would help. Bittenfeld leaned in, bringing his head forward over Oberstein’s shoulder. At this range, he still couldn’t smell anything. Maybe Oberstein’s scent was just completely overpowered by his own.

“You better not cause any more trouble,” Bittenfeld grumbled under his breath, then immediately recoiled like he’d touched something hot. “Alright, that should be enough.”

They hadn’t even stood that close for more than two minutes. But it was enough… right?

Oberstein said nothing. He didn’t nod or shake his head. He simply adjusted his collar and turned to leave - as if the moment had never happened at all.

***

Oberstein had returned to functioning normally.

Which meant it was enough.

His hands no longer trembled at work. He didn’t seem dizzy anymore. Meetings passed smoothly, just like before. The minimal interaction Bittenfeld provided was enough - not ideal, not optimal - but enough for Oberstein to operate.

It had to be.

Asking for more was pointless. Bittenfeld had made it clear from the start that he hated this arrangement. And Oberstein didn’t seem inclined to ask for anything further. That was fine with Bittenfeld. Having to stand within inches of the man he despised most in the Empire, even for just one or two minutes a day, was already more than enough.

But after a week, a vague unease began creeping in.

Was this really enough?

Whether he liked it or not, Bittenfeld had gotten into the habit of watching Oberstein more closely during meetings - mainly, he told himself, to avoid blame if something went wrong. And whether he liked it or not, he started noticing cracks. No matter how well Oberstein concealed them, there were still moments, like how he flinched slightly when someone moved too quickly, or how he winced when the bond demanded something it wasn’t getting.

And then there were the pills.

Oberstein still took the red tablets the doctor had prescribed. Even after Bittenfeld had started doing his “bare minimum.” That bothered him ? more than it should’ve. It felt like Oberstein was trying to make a point, trying to say that Bittenfeld wasn’t doing enough.

Finally, one morning, unable to hold it in, Bittenfeld growled, “Can you stop doing that?”

Oberstein looked up from his glass of water. “Doing what?”

“That.” Bittenfeld waved irritably, pointing at the pill in Oberstein’s hand. “Stop acting so damn fragile. Stop making this more of a hassle.”

Oberstein frowned. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“I’ve kept up my end of the deal, haven’t I? So what the hell are you playing at?” Bittenfeld snapped. “You keep popping those pills, and making that face like you’re about to keel over.”

Oberstein was silent for a moment. He set his glass down on the table and said, in an even voice, “If it bothers you that much, perhaps you should take a look at yourself.”

The words hit like a slap.

Bittenfeld’s expression darkened. “What did you just say?”

Oberstein’s voice remained maddeningly calm. “The minimal contact you provide is enough for me to function, but not enough to stop the side effects. If you don’t like me using supplements, then be more involved.”

Bittenfeld’s rage erupted.

“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” His voice turned sharp, cutting. “I told you from the start I didn’t want to ‘live with you’! You said the minimum would be enough, and now you’re throwing this back at me?!”

Oberstein met his eyes. “I said it was enough to maintain function. I never said it would eliminate all negative effects.”

Bittenfeld stared at him, anger blazing.

He wasn’t stupid. Impulsive, yes, reckless, sure, but not stupid. He knew right from wrong. He’d been raised on the ideals of a good Alpha: be kind to comrades, loyal to superiors, honorable with omegas.

But Oberstein wasn’t an omega, a comrade, or a superior in his eyes. And something about Oberstein: his silence, his scheming, his cold ruthlessness… always made Bittenfeld’s blood boil and his reason vanished.

Something snapped.

“You - !” He lunged before he could stop himself.

One second Oberstein was standing by the kitchen sink, and the next, he was shoved up against the nearest wall. Bittenfeld’s fist clenched the front of his uniform, and his other hand pressed hard against Oberstein’s neck, right on the bond mark, still faintly visible.

Bittenfeld’s pheromones burst into the air, overwhelming, heated, triggered by pure rage.

Oberstein flinched, body tensing.

The reaction was instant and biological. The stronger Alpha’s scent rolled out like a searing wave, crashing down to smother everything.

Oberstein’s breath hitched. His fingers gripped the edge of the counter, as if it was the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes widened in a reflex he couldn’t suppress, no matter how much control he usually had.

Bittenfeld bared his teeth. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You want me to play the part ? Fine.”

He leaned in, pressing close to Oberstein’s neck, forcing his pheromones into him.

Oberstein gasped, body trembling. His knees nearly gave out.

Bittenfeld didn’t back off. If anything, he pushed harder, physically forcing Oberstein’s body to acknowledge and respond, whether it wanted to or not.

Oberstein made a sound. It was something strange, something Bittenfeld had never heard from him before, almost a muffled moan.

Bittenfeld smirked.

Then he let go.

Oberstein staggered, grabbing the counter to stay upright. His face was pale, but the tips of his ears were flushed, and his breathing still came in short, uneven gasps, like he was fighting against his own body’s response.

Bittenfeld scoffed. “You wanted more, so I gave you more. Hope you’re satisfied now, Minister .”

He turned and walked off without looking back.

Behind him, Oberstein stayed where he was, trembling slightly. It wasn’t until ten minutes after the door closed behind Bittenfeld that he finally pushed himself upright, straightened his clothes, and walked out the door to begin another workday.

***

Oberstein never told anyone what had happened.

He didn’t report Bittenfeld’s violent behavior, either. At first, Bittenfeld found this puzzling. Oberstein was known for using harsh, even ruthless methods to enforce discipline. An Admiral attacking the Minister of Military Affairs should’ve been enough to get him court-martialed.

And yet, Oberstein said nothing.

After some thought, Bittenfeld understood why.

Oberstein would absolutely punish him if the attack had happened during a meeting, in front of others, when they were Admiral and Minister of the Empire. But this incident had taken place at home, inside a relationship constructed solely to prevent political scandal. A disciplinary report or investigation would draw unnecessary attention. In the end, Oberstein only cared about the efficient operation of the Empire. Bittenfeld’s feelings, and probably even Oberstein’s own feelings, meant nothing.

And that made Bittenfeld angrier. More unsettled. Without knowing why.

So... it kept happening.

Bittenfeld told himself it was just instinct. Just recalibration. Just giving Oberstein what he needed.

“ It ” could begin anytime Oberstein said something that infuriated him, which, given Oberstein’s nature and the hatred Bittenfeld already carried for him, happened often.

It was the way Oberstein spoke - emotionless, clinical, like every conversation was a cold transaction. It was the way he looked at Bittenfeld, like he was a problem to be managed. But worst of all, it was the way Oberstein never reacted.

No anger. No annoyance. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment that Bittenfeld existed.

Every time that distant logic made Bittenfeld’s blood boil - every time he couldn’t take the suffocating silence - he would grab Oberstein, shove him against the nearest wall, grip his collar, and flood him with his scent.

And every time, Oberstein’s body gave in.

The first second, he would just barely swallow a soft, stifled sound. The next, his fingers would clench unconsciously, like bracing against some invisible force. And before long, his knees would start to buckle.

Bittenfeld hated that he always felt a flicker of guilt afterward, leaving Oberstein slumped against a wall or table. But then he’d convince himself: Oberstein deserved it.

Because Oberstein was a bastard.

A cold, scheming snake who had orchestrated ruthless strategies that sent thousands to their deaths - all in the name of “efficiency.” Reinhard might trust him, but no one else did. Every admiral in the Empire despised him. And Bittenfeld hated him the most.

And now he had Oberstein.

Not in the way he wanted. Not real justice. But in a way that let him see Oberstein falter. Let him see the man who stood firm through every accusation, every rumor, every glare - reduced by something as simple as instinct.

Bittenfeld told himself it was fine.

That it was fair.

That as long as it didn’t affect their work - as long as it stayed inside the walls of their home, and no one else saw - it wasn’t really a problem.

Just a proper punishment.

***

It happened again on an afternoon two weeks later. By now, it was impossible to keep track of how many times.

Earlier that day, they had clashed in yet another heated military meeting. Oberstein, as always, unshaken, calmly proposing plans that Bittenfeld could only see as “cowardly and dirty,” all in the name of the Empire’s efficiency. The meeting had been intense. By the end of it, unable to take any more, Bittenfeld went out drinking late into the night with other officers. The familiar topic of conversation, of course, was cursing Oberstein.

Maybe that’s why he lost control when he walked into the apartment and saw Oberstein in the living room, probably just getting a drink of water. When Bittenfeld approached, Oberstein narrowed his eyes, his artificial gaze flicking around the room. And once he realized there was no escape, the Minister said in his usual indifferent tone, “If you’re going to do something, make it quick. I have reports to review tonight.”

That was the final straw.

Bittenfeld grabbed him, shoved him against the wall, and did what he always did - used the bond and biology to dominate him.

But that night, Bittenfeld didn’t stop.

Not when Oberstein’s breathing turned too shallow.  Not when his body trembled more than usual.  Not even when his fingers clutched Bittenfeld’s sleeve - not in surrender, but like he was genuinely panicking.

Bittenfeld should have stopped.

Instead, he pressed harder, forcing thick, suffocating waves of pheromones onto Oberstein. He gripped his wrists tightly to pin him in place, not letting him escape. And maybe, in the haze of rage and alcohol, Bittenfeld wasn’t even aware that Oberstein’s body wasn’t responding the way it usually did.

It wasn’t just labored breathing anymore. Oberstein was struggling to breathe. His fingers slipped from Bittenfeld’s sleeve, losing strength.

His body, already fragile after months of strain, finally gave out.

Bittenfeld only realized something was wrong when Oberstein’s knees buckled completely, when he stopped trying to stay upright, and collapsed without getting back up.

The anger vanished. The alcohol left his system in a snap.

Panic crashed down like a wave.

He caught Oberstein before he hit the floor. “Oberstein?” His voice was sharp, almost commanding, but something else was in it. Something he didn’t want to name.

No response.

“Oberstein.” Bittenfeld shook him, trying to wake him, forcing a reaction. But there was nothing. The artificial eyes didn’t open. His chest rose and fell with uneven, shallow breaths. He was limp in Bittenfeld’s arms.

For the first time in months, Bittenfeld felt fear. Not rage. Not frustration. Real, gut-deep fear.

As always, he didn’t waste time thinking. He acted.

He scooped Oberstein up, laid him on the sofa in the living room, and snatched the communicator. “Call a doctor now! Minister Paul von Oberstein needs immediate medical assistance!” he roared, his voice echoing off the cold, white walls.

Medical staff responded instantly, rushing to the apartment. They pulled Oberstein from his arms and laid him on a stretcher. Bittenfeld followed them to the hospital. And later, standing alone in the sterile white hallway of the officers' wing, he was left gasping for breath, his hands trembling.

He had done this.

And now, watching the doctors scramble to save the man he had tormented day after day, Bittenfeld felt something spreading through his chest.

Something worse than anger.

And he didn’t even have a name for it.

Chapter Text

4.

The medical wing was eerily quiet.

Bittenfeld paced back and forth, nonstop. The image of Oberstein, pale, unmoving, barely breathing and unconscious, was enough to make his stomach twist, but he ignored it.

He ignored the tightness in his chest, that unfamiliar feeling he didn’t want to name.

The doctor stepped out and called Bittenfeld into a private room. His brow was furrowed as he reviewed the charts, his expression darker than usual. He pushed his glasses up before speaking.

"The Minister’s body is in severe overload."

Bittenfeld frowned. "What does that mean?"

The doctor’s face grew grimmer. "It’s a condition that occurs when someone with an established bond is deprived of the biological reinforcement their body requires over a prolonged period, and then experiences excessive stimulation all at once. The longer the deprivation, the worse the symptoms become. Exhaustion, nausea, dizziness, cognitive decline. In serious cases, it can be fatal."

Bittenfeld’s throat went dry. He hadn’t known this. Hadn’t realized it was that serious. But the doctor wasn’t finished. He turned to Bittenfeld, and his tone shifted from clinical to sharp.

"Admiral, what exactly did you do to Minister Oberstein?"

Bittenfeld looked away. His fists clenched. He swallowed hard.

"I just... I just didn’t interact with him for a few days. That pheromone exchange thing you mentioned! And then, after those days... maybe I overdid it a little, but still..."

The doctor’s eyes widened in alarm, horror flickering across his face.

"You withheld bond reinforcement," he repeated. "Then dumped it all on him at once?"

Bittenfeld shifted uncomfortably.

"...Yeah. Let’s go with that."

The doctor pressed his hand to his forehead and exhaled heavily.

"A combination of severe deprivation and sudden overstimulation in such a short time, especially in someone with less typical Alpha function like the Minister, can break the body’s self-regulation. His biology couldn’t keep up. That’s why his body shut down. Why he almost..."

He trailed off, sighing.

"I know you don’t like this situation. But once a bond is accepted, Admiral, you cannot treat the person you’re bonded to like this."

Bittenfeld didn’t need him to finish. The truth had already hit him full-force.

He had almost killed Oberstein.

The realization struck harder than he’d expected. And yet, even as guilt clawed through him, he bristled, still trying to push it away.

He crossed his arms, scowling.

"Come on. It’s Oberstein. Who would even want to bond with him?" His voice was sharp, defensive. "And really, who actually wants him around anyway?"

A soft rustle interrupted him.

Bittenfeld turned toward the bed behind them, startled.

Oberstein had just opened his eyes.

He was still ghostly pale, unnervingly so, but he was conscious now, and he had likely heard what Bittenfeld had just said.

For the first time, an unfamiliar expression passed across Oberstein’s face. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t anger. It was something Bittenfeld couldn’t understand.

The doctor stepped back. The disappointment in his eyes was unmistakable.

"I’ll leave you two alone. Admiral, for the Minister’s recovery, it’s best that the two of you remain close. But if anything unusual happens, I’ll be forced to isolate you for medical reasons." His voice was clipped as he exited the room, leaving Bittenfeld standing there, frozen, caught under Oberstein’s silent stare.

Bittenfeld had never hated silence this much in his life.

***

For a long moment, they simply looked at each other in silence.

Bittenfeld had spent weeks tormenting that man, telling himself it didn’t matter. Telling himself that Oberstein deserved it. But now, standing face to face with the consequences of his own actions, he was forced to admit what the feeling in his chest really was: guilt.

But apologizing to Paul von Oberstein was something Bittenfeld would rather bite off his own tongue than do.

While Bittenfeld stood there in silence, unsure of what to say, Oberstein exhaled slowly.

"Admiral. Leave. I want to rest."

Bittenfeld swallowed hard. He didn’t understand why those words unsettled him so much.

Oberstein shifted slightly on the bed. He still looked tired, but his eyes were sharp as ever. Then, as if this were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, he added:

"Next time, be more careful so I can still work the following day."

Bittenfeld froze.

Not "Don’t ever do that again."

Not "You nearly killed me."

Not "Stay away from me."

Just a detached comment, as if Bittenfeld had done nothing more than push him too hard during a training exercise. As if all of it had already been factored into Oberstein’s calculations, a variable in the equation, a risk that might disrupt his schedule.

Bittenfeld’s stomach twisted.

He wanted Oberstein to be angry. He wanted him to yell, to argue, to react like a normal human being. He wanted to be scolded. He wanted Oberstein to look at him with some real emotion, anything at all.

Instead, this was what he got. Cold, distant acceptance. Of everything he had done.

Bittenfeld felt sick.

He should have said something. He should have argued back, done something other than stand there like a fool. But he did nothing.

Except nod, and quietly walk out.

***

The next day, Reinhard summoned Bittenfeld to his office.

Hilda stood beside the Emperor’s desk, watching Bittenfeld closely but saying nothing. Reinhard sat behind the desk, his icy blue eyes showing neither anger nor disappointment. Only irritation.

"Fritz Joseph Bittenfeld. You nearly rendered my Minister of Military Affairs unfit for duty. Do you understand how serious this is?"

Reinhard’s voice was calm, but beneath it was a blade’s edge.

"...The doctors told me," Bittenfeld said quietly, head bowed.

Hilda took a deep breath, as if restraining something. Reinhard simply leaned back in his chair, his gaze cold and calculating. That look always made the admirals uneasy.

"What you choose to do with Paul von Oberstein behind closed doors is your business," Reinhard said, his voice eerily flat. "I do not care."

Bittenfeld’s stomach tightened.

"But," Reinhard continued, his tone sharper, "I need my Minister of Military Affairs functional."

His piercing blue eyes locked onto Bittenfeld, unyielding and merciless. The threat was unspoken, but clear as a blade at the throat.

And Bittenfeld understood.

To Reinhard, whether Oberstein lived or died did not matter. What mattered was whether he could still serve.

"... I understand," Bittenfeld said, head bowed again. But all he could think of was Oberstein’s eyes that day in the hospital bed.

Something inside Bittenfeld twisted, violent and choking.

Reinhard waved him away with a gesture of annoyance. Bittenfeld bowed and turned to leave, that gaze still lingering in his mind.

***

That night, when Bittenfeld stopped by the medical ward…

"You caused this," the doctor said bluntly, arms crossed, his cold expression not unlike Oberstein’s usual demeanor. "Now you’re going to fix it."

Bittenfeld grimaced. "Tch. I brought him here, didn’t I?"

"You forced Minister Oberstein to end up here," the doctor corrected, his voice sharp as a knife. "And now, you will help stabilize his condition."

Bittenfeld’s hands clenched tightly.

The doctor sighed. "He is still in a dangerous state. His biological system is weak and imbalanced. The fastest way to improve it is through physical contact. That means you will stay here, you will stay by his side, and you will not make anything worse."

Bittenfeld snorted and crossed his arms. "You’re saying… what, you want me to sleep next to him or something?"

"Yes."

The answer was so direct that it left Bittenfeld speechless.

The doctor adjusted his glasses. "Just for tonight will be enough. This needs to happen naturally, without force. If his system is not reinforced properly, the more severe symptoms could return." His eyes turned cold. "Admiral, I believe you received a warning from His Majesty."

Bittenfeld gritted his teeth. "Tch. Fine."

Reinhard did not want to see Oberstein collapse again. And it was an order from His Majesty. Reinhard wanted Oberstein to be able to get into his uniform and the meeting room later. And as an admiral, Bittenfeld’s duty was to act according to Reinhard’s wish.

At least… that was the excuse Bittenfeld told himself.

***

That night, Bittenfeld did as the doctor instructed.

The doctor had transferred them to a larger hospital bed, one wide enough for two people to lie in, because cases like this occasionally happened. Oberstein offered no objection. The hospital room was eerily silent.

For the first time, Bittenfeld did not feel the infuriating, suffocating kind of silence he had grown used to.

Instead, he felt something else. And perhaps it was even worse, though he had no name for it.

Oberstein lay in his arms. His body felt impossibly light. Bittenfeld had never thought about his weight before, but now, with the two of them lying close, with his own warmth slowly spreading into Oberstein’s freezing frame, the difference became undeniable.

The heartbeat was too slow. The breathing too faint. It felt as if just staying conscious had become a battle. Bittenfeld had never paid attention to the bond. He had always ignored it, always denied it, only acknowledging it when using it to punish Oberstein, to force a reaction.

But now, holding him in the stillness of the hospital room, he began to feel something else.

It was not just a connection. It was not just a biological thread.

It was pain.

Not his own pain.

Oberstein’s.

It sat heavy in his chest, like something clawing at the edge of his awareness, something he had never noticed before only because he had never allowed himself to feel it.

The exhaustion. The pressure. The slow erosion of a body pushed to its limits, deprived for too long of what it needed.

Bittenfeld swallowed hard.

He had caused this.

He knew that, logically. But knowing it in his mind and feeling it, feeling the way Oberstein’s body responded to his presence, clinging to the faint stability it had been denied for so long, was an entirely different thing.

Oberstein shifted slightly, a small movement, as if trying to stay awake, but his body would not allow it. His head leaned against Bittenfeld’s shoulder. His breathing grew heavier, slower. Finally, his muscles began to relax.

Bittenfeld could feel him beginning to fall asleep. But it did not feel like comfort. It felt like someone who had been exhausted for too long finally surrendering.

"Go to sleep, you damn bastard," he muttered, voice low and rough.

Oberstein did not reply.

And in the silence of the night, Bittenfeld wondered to himself...

What the hell have I done?

***

That night was unusually quiet.

Lying in the darkness of the hospital room, Bittenfeld slowly began to feel as if he had grown used to this situation. Oberstein’s steady breathing, the warmth of his body nearby, the sensation of the bond between them. But in the end, he was not used to it enough to actually rest, and so he remained awake long after the hospital lights had gone out.

Then Oberstein moved.

At first, it was slow, just a faint shift, barely noticeable. Thin, ice-cold fingers reached out and brushed against the sleeve of his uniform.

Bittenfeld froze.

Oberstein’s eyes opened slightly, not fully awake.

And then…

Oberstein’s fingers grasped the edge of Bittenfeld’s uniform, as if searching for something solid, something safe. As if Bittenfeld was that safe place. An action that seemed entirely instinctual. After being pushed to the brink, Oberstein’s body had sought comfort from the one person it was biologically bonded to.

Bittenfeld’s stomach sank. His body reacted before his mind could stop it, and he shoved Oberstein away. Hard. Hard enough that Oberstein hit the wall beside the bed.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

Oberstein snapped fully awake. His eyes widened for a split second, at first seeming confused, not understanding what had just happened. But then, glancing down at the hand that still held onto Bittenfeld’s uniform, he seemed to understand. Oberstein quickly let go. His face returned to its usual expressionless mask.

"I apologize." The words came out without hesitation. "It will not happen again."

Something twisted sharply in Bittenfeld’s chest.

For a moment, he could not move. Could not breathe.

The air between them felt heavy and thick.

Bittenfeld forced himself to scoff and turned away, pretending nothing had happened, pretending he had not just felt a kind of pain he could not name.

"Just go to sleep. You're annoying."

Oberstein said nothing. He turned to face the wall.

He did not reach for Bittenfeld again.

Chapter Text

5.

Oberstein was discharged from the hospital with strict instructions: rest for at least three days. A meaningless order. Everyone in the Empire knew that Oberstein did not rest. He always worked, processed, and calculated. Never wasting time on things too human like entertainment or recovery after hospitalization.

Even so, an order was an order, and not even Oberstein could ignore direct medical instruction. He submitted a request for three days off. He still woke at the same time as before, but after taking his medication and eating breakfast, instead of going to the office, he would return to his room or sit in the living room to read reports. For lunch and dinner, instead of eating in the officers' canteen as usual, he prepared a few simple meals like sandwiches or salads. And almost never made a second portion for Bittenfeld.

Bittenfeld was also off duty. It seemed some odd regulation allowed him to stay home, expecting him to "take care" of the Omega… no, the one he had bonded with. A role Bittenfeld was clearly unprepared for. So instead of resting, he continued going to work as usual, still training in the gym, but in the afternoons, instead of drinking with friends, he would grab a quick dinner and return home immediately.

"Why have you been so lame lately?" Bittenfeld’s officer friends seemed displeased. He just claimed illness, and said the doctor had advised him to stop drinking for a while. They seemed sympathetic, and some even enthusiastically recommended supplements or foods good for liver health, or something like that.

Bittenfeld’s liver was perfectly fine. The real reason the doctor advised against alcohol was because of what he had done to Oberstein while drunk. Bittenfeld kept that hidden. Because he knew if the truth came out, instead of sympathy, his friends - fellow Alphas - would stare wide-eyed and burst out laughing. They would say things like, "Why hold back for someone else? And Oberstein, of all people."

Bittenfeld did not know why, but he did not want to hear those words.

***

The atmosphere in their apartment was less quiet than before. Perhaps because staying home all day made Oberstein’s presence more noticeable. At night, instead of locking himself in his room, he often sat in the living room to read - maybe because it was better ventilated than the bedroom, and the doctor had said Oberstein would have some respiratory issues for a few weeks due to the aftereffects of the collapse.

And Bittenfeld realized that even on leave, Oberstein truly never stopped working. He read reports, took notes, checked some data in endless charts, as if he had never been hospitalized and ordered to rest.

Finally, on the evening of the second day, Bittenfeld snapped.

"You just got out of the hospital. Try acting like it."

Oberstein did not look up. "I am resting. I am only reviewing information during my downtime."

Bittenfeld twitched at the corner of his eye. "That is not called resting."

"Compared to my usual workload, it is."

Bittenfeld rubbed his face. "What a damn stubborn man." Leaving Oberstein in the living room, he returned to his room. That night, when he occasionally came out for water, he saw Oberstein still reading reports. His expression unchanged. His artificial eyes showing no emotion.

A machine, Bittenfeld thought bitterly. But if only that were true. Because Oberstein was not a machine. And Bittenfeld could feel it, through their bond.

Since he had been forced to hold Oberstein in the hospital, the bond felt stronger, easier to notice. Or maybe it was just because Bittenfeld had stopped actively ignoring it. And the truth was, he could feel Oberstein suffering. The work. The body that still had not healed. And the presence of Bittenfeld himself.

Oberstein did not complain. Did not ask for anything. Did not react even when Bittenfeld stood too close or too far. But the bond said the opposite. It was not as intense as before, not desperate, but still off balance - like a wound trying to heal.

Bittenfeld hated that feeling.

Hated feeling responsible. Hated that he was the one who caused all of it.

And hated himself even more for what he was about to say.

"Oberstein." Sitting across from him on the sofa, Bittenfeld rubbed his face, then muttered, "I am sorry."

Oberstein finally looked up at him. For a moment, he just observed, his face as unreadable and expressionless as ever. Then, in that familiar cold, practical voice, he said:

"It is fine."

Bittenfeld flinched slightly.

Because it was clearly not fine.

They both knew that.

Yet Oberstein still refused to call it anything more serious than a nuisance.

As if the days of punishment from Bittenfeld had not happened. As if being pushed to the brink of collapse was a small matter. As if, to Oberstein, it was simply another inconvenience in his schedule. Something he had factored in, like padding extra time in case of a late train.

And that was worse than anger.

"Oh shut up. I sent you to the hospital. I nearly killed you. How can it be 'fine'?"

Oberstein’s expression did not change.

"I have known that for a long time."

"What do you mean?" Bittenfeld frowned.

"That you wanted to kill me." Oberstein looked back down at the report.

Something inside Bittenfeld cracked. His breath quickened, his body stiff with an emotion he could not name. He turned away, stared hard at the wall, forcing himself to breathe.

"Why would you think that?"

"Is it not obvious? You have openly criticized me in the past. You said you wanted to strangle me, or something similar. You, like many other officers, believe I was responsible for Siegfried Kircheis’s death, and you expressed that more clearly than anyone. You are a hotheaded man, driven by instinct." After a pause, Oberstein added, "And the bond between us was unintended. Given those conditions, it is only natural that you would want to kill me."

Bittenfeld was speechless. He did not know what to say.

Oberstein reached for the coffee cup beside him. After sipping a few times, he said:

"Still, Admiral, I suggest you reflect and learn better self-control from now on. I am not your enemy. My existence remains necessary to the Empire."

Bittenfeld should not have asked. He should have let it end there.

But his mouth moved before his brain could stop it.

"...What if one day, you are no longer necessary?"

Oberstein paused. Set the cup down. He was silent for a moment, then said, "In that case, I no longer care what happens to me."

The words were weightless. Calm. Without fear or hesitation.

And in that moment, Bittenfeld finally understood. Oberstein had never been afraid. Not because he was strong. But because he had never expected anything else.

Bittenfeld’s stomach twisted violently. He parted his lips - to say something, to deny what he had just heard, to tell Oberstein he was wrong - but no sound came out.

***

On the third day, Oberstein suddenly said he wanted to discuss something with Bittenfeld. He said they needed to establish a few rules so their shared life for the next year could proceed more smoothly.

Smoothly. Not safely.

Bittenfeld’s first instinct was to refuse. He did not want to acknowledge anything about this relationship, and discussing it with Oberstein made everything feel too serious, too real. But he could no longer pretend nothing had happened. So after a long silence, he nodded.

That evening, Bittenfeld sat across from Oberstein in their shared apartment, arms crossed.

Oberstein, as always, was calm. Focused. As if they were discussing fleet logistics, not the fact that Bittenfeld had nearly killed him two weeks ago.

"So what do you want?" Bittenfeld finally asked, his tone more irritable than he intended.

Oberstein nodded, as if the question were perfectly reasonable.

"I have a few suggestions."

The way he said it - so cold, so detached - made Bittenfeld’s stomach twist again.

Oberstein slid a file folder across the table toward Bittenfeld.

"This is a course on anger management. I think you should enroll. It will also benefit your combat performance."

On instinct, Bittenfeld grumbled. He had always rejected these kinds of psychological counseling programs. Like most Alphas, he saw them as weak, not suited for his gender. He also hated being told he was too impulsive or instinct-driven in battle. Charging into danger without fear was supposed to be a strength for a strong Alpha.

But in the end, Bittenfeld picked up the folder and muttered, "...I will consider it. But no promises it will do anything. I have always been like this."

Even so, he had to admit Oberstein’s suggestion was reasonable. Bittenfeld’s temper had sent Oberstein to the emergency room, after all.

Oberstein nodded and continued, voice steady.

"I know psychological treatments like this take time to show results. So if you need a method to manage your anger, I can set aside scheduled time blocks for…"

"Stop."

Bittenfeld’s voice came out too quickly. Too sharp.

Oberstein tilted his head. "Is there a problem?"

Bittenfeld gritted his teeth. "You are about to tell me the best times for me to..."

Hurt you. Attack you.

He could not say it.

Oberstein blinked, unfazed. "If there is a set schedule, it will make it easier for me to manage my time and workload."

"No." Bittenfeld snapped and stood up. His chair scraped loudly against the floor. Oberstein flinched slightly. "No. You cannot talk about things like that as if they are normal."

Oberstein looked at him with quiet confusion, as if Bittenfeld was the one being unreasonable.

"If the alternative is uncontrolled escalation, then planning is better."

"That is not normal." Bittenfeld slammed his hand on the table, his breathing unsteady, his chest tight. "You cannot plan for something like that. Are you even human? If I get angry, your response should be to run, resist, push me off, scream - something human."

He put a hand over his face, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of what was happening. Oberstein just sat there. Silent and waiting. Once Bittenfeld seemed calmer, he spoke again.

"Admiral, if I resisted in those moments, would you have stopped?"

That question silenced Bittenfeld. And Oberstein went on.

"Admiral, you are physically much stronger than I am. If we were in conflict, resisting would only increase the harm to me. So I am choosing the most practical and least dangerous option."

Bittenfeld had always believed that was just how Oberstein was - cold, emotionless, like a machine. But now, looking at him directly, Bittenfeld realized something was very, very wrong.

He dropped back into the chair and rubbed his face.

***

"Oberstein, I have another suggestion." Bittenfeld exhaled heavily, ran a hand through his hair, then looked Oberstein straight in the face. "From now on, every morning, you will come see me. For close contact, scent exchange, whatever."

Oberstein added, "As before."

"No… Not like that. This time, I will do it properly." Bittenfeld’s hands tightened into fists. "And I will not..." He swallowed, forcing the words out. "I will not use those moments to discipline you anymore. That will not happen again."

Oberstein watched him carefully, but his expression remained blank.

"If that is your decision." Clearly, he did not believe a word of it.

Bittenfeld clenched his jaw. "It is not a decision, damn it. It is what should have happened from the start."

Oberstein tilted his head slightly, as if considering. "If you feel it is too much, I do not need..."

Bang .

Bittenfeld slammed his hand on the table.

"You need it."

The words came out rough and unrestrained. Oberstein froze. Bittenfeld inhaled deeply, trying to stay calm.

"Alright then. Every day, you come to me. No more waiting until you almost collapse. No more pretending until you can no longer function."

Oberstein was silent for a long time before nodding.

"If that is what you want."

Bittenfeld groaned and ran a hand through his hair.

"It is not..." He exhaled hard, forcing himself to stay steady. "Just... promise me. You will remind me if I forget. Or ignore it. Or look like I am losing control."

Oberstein tilted his head, thinking. Finally...

"I will try."

Bittenfeld did not know if that would be enough. But it was a start

Chapter Text

6.

Their lives after that did not change very much.

Bittenfeld was still himself – loud, impulsive, someone who argued too much, fought too much, and laughed too loudly. His days were still full of rowdy subordinates and the noisy camaraderie of admirals. And Oberstein was still Oberstein. Cold. Rational. A man who seemed to exist solely for his work, his reports, and his tireless devotion to the Empire.

The only real difference was that now, Bittenfeld rarely drank to the point of drunkenness. And he took his scent-marking duty toward Oberstein more seriously.

Every single day, without missing one.

At first, it was awkward. Bittenfeld was not gentle, because that simply was not in his nature, but he was no longer rough like before. Every morning, before they left the house, he would take Oberstein by the shoulder, pull him close, lean in just long and close enough, and then pull away without saying a word.

Oberstein never reacted. Never said thank you, never made a comment about it. He simply let it happen, as if it were no different than signing a document or submitting a report.

Aside from that daily routine, they still barely spoke to each other.

Most of the time, Bittenfeld still avoided coming home.

Even though he no longer drank heavily, he started going out again with friends, still getting into bar fights that the fleet would laugh about the next morning. And, as always, they still made jokes about Oberstein. A useless alpha without a scent, no different than some scheming eunuch out of old Eastern tales. A cold, inhuman bastard. A snake who would sell out anyone if it meant gaining efficiency.

Someone would say something like this when Oberstein’s name came up: "Poor Bittenfeld, having to live with that boring guy!" "If I woke up one day bonded to Oberstein, I would rather die!"

Bittenfeld laughed along with them. Because what else could he do?

Argue? Tell them to stop? That would only make things awkward. And besides, they were not wrong.

And after each night of drinking, when he came home with his body still reeking of alcohol and sweat, Bittenfeld would pause when he saw Oberstein sitting at the desk in the living room.

Still working. Still focused. Still existing only for the Empire.

And every time, Bittenfeld would feel that something about it was wrong. About the way people joked about Oberstein as if he were not human. And how Bittenfeld himself had treated him the same way for months.

It was not quite guilt. Just… a strange feeling Bittenfeld could not define. 

***

The year-end holiday arrived, and with it came the inevitable expectations.

Bittenfeld had never thought much about holiday season. It was always the same, he would go home, have dinner with family and relatives. For him, the year-end was a noisy, lively affair, full of shouting, clinking glasses, people crowding into a space too small, everyone talking louder than necessary, everyone laughing more than necessary, but always full of warmth and affection.

But this year was different.

Because Oberstein would be going with him.

Not because he wanted him to. Not because he thought Oberstein would enjoy being there. It was just that, on paper, they were bonded. And that meant appearing together for occasions like this. That was the story. All of it was just for show. Oberstein had said so himself.

So Oberstein went with him when Bittenfeld returned home on the first evening of the holiday. And as expected—he did not fit in.

The Bittenfeld family was exactly what one would imagine after meeting Bittenfeld himself. Loud. Warm. Cheerful. Vibrant.

They rushed to hug him, kiss his cheeks and forehead, slap his back with rough affection, drag him into rambling conversations about fleet politics, ridiculous unit gossip, funny childhood stories no one would remember after a few beers. Drinks flowed endlessly, and his mother always made more than enough food for everyone. The Bittenfelds were always full of warmth. And when they heard he had bonded with another Alpha, they were surprised, but still tried to be supportive and sent congratulatory letters. Bittenfeld’s aunt had even sent them two pairs of matching knit gloves, which Bittenfeld hurriedly hid before Oberstein could see.

When Oberstein followed Bittenfeld into that house, everyone gathered around. They were curious about the life partner of their son, grandson, cousin. Maybe they all thought they needed to do everything they could to bring Oberstein into their warm, familial circle, so the smiles, hugs, and greetings were even more enthusiastic than usual.

But Oberstein was still Oberstein.

Too stiff. Too quiet.

Although he nodded in return and did not react when Bittenfeld’s mother kissed his cheek or when the uncles slapped his back and laughed like they wanted to blow the roof off, he showed little emotional response. His face stayed frozen—neither uncomfortable nor pleased.

He was simply… there. At the dining table. Like an unfamiliar object, silently existing in a space never meant for it. The Bittenfeld family tried to be welcoming, but something could not click. Because Oberstein was Oberstein.

When Bittenfeld’s sister smiled and asked warmly, “So Paul, Fritz says you’re the Minister of Military Affairs? That must be an important job, right?” Oberstein only replied, “It is a necessary position.”

When Bittenfeld’s uncle laughed and said, “So who made the first move? I bet it was our Fritz. He’s always like that. But that’s how Alphas should be. Back in my day, generals trusted their instincts more. Now it’s all stats and reports, gives me a headache.” Oberstein calmly said, “Statistically, relying too much on instinct increases the risk of strategic failure by sixty percent.”

When a cousin blinked and asked, “How did you two meet? Do you have anything in common?” Oberstein replied, “We work together.”

When Bittenfeld’s seventy-year-old aunt smiled sweetly and asked, “Would you like me to knit sweaters for you two? What animal patterns do you like?” Oberstein just shook his head and said, “That will not be necessary.”

And after just a few of those stiff interactions, the entire family quietly gave up.

Bittenfeld could feel the shift in real time—from “Let’s welcome the newcomer” to “Just ignore him.”

And thatirritated him. Not because he wanted Oberstein to truly fit in with the family. But because Oberstein seemed completely unaware that it was happening. That he was making people uncomfortable. That everyone was avoiding him.

By the middle of dinner, Oberstein stood up and said he had to step out to take a work call. Of course he did. Bittenfeld sighed, rubbed his face, and leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting toward the now empty seat. Oberstein’s absence was glaring. Conversation picked up again around the table, voices suddenly more relaxed, as if everyone silently agreed that things could go “back to normal” now that Oberstein was gone.

He should not have been surprised.

What did surprise him was when his father leaned toward him and spoke in a low voice only they could hear. “Fritz, come outside. I need to talk to you.”

Bittenfeld followed him to another room, using the excuse of getting more drinks. When they were alone, his father turned to him with a serious face and said, “Fritz, when is this little act going to end?”

Bittenfeld froze.

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on. I’m your father. Of course I know you too well.” His father patted his shoulder, shaking his head. “Minister Oberstein isn’t your type. You two clearly don’t get along. So what’s going on, Fritz? Are you being tricked?”

Bittenfeld frowned. He suddenly remembered the comments from other admirals. Maybe Oberstein had let himself be marked on purpose. Maybe no one ever looked at him, so he got desperate and decided to trap Bittenfeld.

He didn’t react right away. Didn’t say anything. After a while, Bittenfeld lowered his head and muttered, “Dad, it’s a long story… But I was the one who messed up first.”

His father narrowed his eyes, clearly trying to dig deeper. Eventually, he said, “So… can this end? And when? So you can find a normal omega,” he added. “Have kids. Live properly. Your mother may smile, but she sighs a lot when she hears you bonded with another Alpha.”

Bittenfeld swallowed hard.

His hand tightened around the bottle of liquor he had pulled from the kitchen, as if letting go would break something. He could have argued. Could have pushed back, made some defensive excuse—said it’s not like that, it’s not really serious, it doesn’t matter.

But instead:

“One year. Just one year.”

His voice was lower and quieter than he had expected.

His father nodded with satisfaction, as if that was the only acceptable answer. They returned to the dining room together. Oberstein was back in his seat, silently sipping his drink. As Bittenfeld sat down next to him, he felt those artificial eyes glance at him for a moment. But then Oberstein simply looked away.

Bittenfeld took a slow sip of his drink.

Trying not to think too much. Trying not to let those words settle too deep.

One year. Yes. Maybe even sooner than that.

Then this would all be over.

And that would be that.

But even so… for some reason, he did not feel relieved at all.

***

Bittenfeld had thought that dinner with his own family was already a disaster, but the next dinner—at Oberstein’s family home—proved him wrong.

Like everyone in Reinhard’s inner circle, Bittenfeld knew nothing about Oberstein’s family aside from the fact that they were aristocrats. After all, there was still a "von" in his name. Bittenfeld had braced himself for meaningless bragging or old noble pretension, or perhaps cold detachment. The latter seemed more likely: Oberstein was such a bloodless, emotionless person that it would not be surprising if his family treated things the same way. Bittenfeld had pictured stiff conversations, formal politeness, and a clear emotional distance among the family members.

But reality went far beyond anything he had imagined.

This was not just coldness.

This was indifference.

When the two of them stepped into the mansion, no one came to greet them. Bittenfeld and Oberstein waited in the sitting room for a while before the father finally emerged. He said nothing, only nodded and shook Bittenfeld’s hand. His brow furrowed slightly at hearing the name, which clearly did not sound noble at all.

They were then led into the dining room and invited to sit at a long, polished table. The utensils and dishes were perfectly aligned, like pieces on a chessboard. The meal that followed was quiet and rigid, without laughter or conversation. Only the clinking of cutlery on porcelain filled the room.

No one spoke unless necessary.

There was no laughter. No warmth. Nothing that resembled “family.”

Bittenfeld gradually began to feel uncomfortable.

He was used to noise, laughter, and physical closeness. He was starting to understand why Oberstein lived the way he did. But this silence felt like more than just habit or personality. Since entering this house, Bittenfeld had sensed a quiet malice. In the father’s raised eyebrow. In the mother’s cold gaze. In the whispers of the maids as they passed through the hall.

Finally, Oberstein’s father spoke, addressing his son directly. “Minister, so you have bonded with another Alpha. With Admiral Fritz Josef Bittenfeld, is that correct?”

Mid-chew, with no idea what he was eating, Bittenfeld straightened up and quickly answered, “Ah, yes, I and Oberstein... I mean, Paul and I...”

Lady Oberstein frowned slightly when a bit of food flew from Bittenfeld’s mouth. He quickly grabbed a napkin to wipe his lips. Embarrassment surged when he realized he had just used Oberstein’s given name. Probably a leftover habit from the previous night with his own family.

Oberstein did not look at him. He simply answered evenly, “Yes. Everything has been arranged.”

The father cut in, voice sharp. “Minister, you have always been physically weak. But I did not expect you to give up your role as an Alpha so easily.”

Now that Bittenfeld had calmed down, he noticed something odd in the father’s way of addressing his son.

Not "my son." Not “Paul.” But “Minister,” as if Oberstein were a guest in his own house.

Lady Oberstein brought a napkin to her lips and said coolly, “So you have given up any hope of producing an heir? You are prepared to relinquish your right of inheritance?”

It was not a question.

It was a flat statement, like commenting on a delayed shipment order.

“Yes,” Oberstein replied.

Just one word. No explanation. No expression.

As if he had long grown used to this.

Bittenfeld’s stomach turned.

Not because of the words themselves. He had heard worse, and he had said worse to Oberstein himself.

What unsettled him most was the cold, indifferent tone in the mother’s voice. As if she was not speaking to her own child.

The father narrowed his eyes.

“As you wish, Minister.” He lifted his wineglass and said with icy detachment, “In any case, your siblings will carry the family name. I hope you at least prove useful to the one you bonded with.”

No one reacted. No one blinked. Not even a frown.

Not from Oberstein.

Not from his mother.

Not from the siblings seated far down the table. No one defended him. Because to them, that was not an insult. It was simply... the truth.

Suddenly, Oberstein’s father turned to Bittenfeld—for the first time, looking him in the eye. His gaze was cold and glassy, evaluating Bittenfeld like an item he had not ordered. Then, raising his glass, he said coldly, “Admiral. I hope you are the right person to manage the Minister.”

Manage.

Not love. Not partner. Not walk beside.

Just a burden. A nuisance to supervise.

Bittenfeld clenched his fists on the tablecloth.

He had never liked Oberstein. Had called him cold, unfeeling, a snake. But watching a human being be treated as if he had no right to exist in his own family was something else entirely.

Before Bittenfeld could stand and cause a scene, Oberstein raised his wineglass toward him, staring as if waiting.

Swallowing down his anger, Bittenfeld lifted his own glass. And they drank in silence.

That was how Bittenfeld’s first dinner at the Oberstein estate ended.

***

When they returned, the snow had begun to fall.

Snow drifted lightly outside the car window. Inside the vehicle, silence filled the space. Oberstein simply gazed out at the scenery. He made no mention of the dinner they had just left.

When they reached the edge of the city, the driver turned back with a hesitant expression and informed them that a few roads had been blocked due to unexpected incidents.

“No problem. We can walk. It’s only a short distance,” Oberstein replied. Without waiting for Bittenfeld’s agreement, he opened the car door and stepped out.

Bittenfeld blinked for a moment, then followed. He had the sense that Oberstein’s actions were slightly off—perhaps the man wanted some relief after the suffocating dinner.

Or maybe, as always, Oberstein was simply being practical. It was indeed just a short walk. Walking would be faster and more efficient.

They walked in silence. Passing through a quiet park, Bittenfeld finally said, “…You didn’t tell your family about the one-year bond?”

Oberstein turned to look at him, his gaze so emotionless it was unnerving. “They are nobles. They should not be given access to internal information.”

Bittenfeld clenched his teeth.

Oberstein had answered like it was a matter of political calculation, not a personal relationship. Because, to Oberstein, nothing was personal.

Not their relationship. Not even his relationship with his own family.

Bittenfeld exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair, the feeling in his throat like swallowing a chunk of unmelted ice.

“Your family… they don’t seem to like you much.”

Oberstein blinked.

Then, calmly, without a hint of reaction—as if it was obvious and not worth discussing, he said, “That is correct.”

The bluntness of it, the simplicity, made something twist in Bittenfeld’s chest.

He had expected that answer. But not this kind of detached cruelty. Not that voice so devoid of emotion. Not the attitude of someone who regarded being hated by family the same way one would a statistic in a work report.

“Why?”

Oberstein glanced at him.

Bittenfeld frowned slightly.

“Why do they hate you that much? I know you’re a cold-hearted bastard… I even said once that only a dog could stand you. But still, they’re your family.”

Bittenfeld truly did not understand. Blood is thicker than water—wasn’t that the saying? Even with the occasional arguments or tension between siblings, parents, or relatives, he had never once doubted that his family would listen to him, would welcome him back with open arms, even if the rest of the world turned against him.

Oberstein watched him for a moment, as if weighing whether the question was worth answering.

Then—calm, detached, without the slightest hesitation—he answered.

“Because I am blind.”

Bittenfeld’s eyes widened.

“I had a condition that caused blindness from a young age. In earlier times, I would likely have been killed due to congenital defects. I cannot see without artificial eyes. My family probably saw a child like that as a burden and an embarrassment.”

Bittenfeld stared at him.

It sounded simple. But the way Oberstein said it so calmly made it feel unbearably wrong.

“That’s it?”

Bittenfeld clenched his fists at his sides. He knew nobles could be cruel. But this? A child scorned for a birth defect? Then he remembered something else. He himself, along with the other admirals, had mocked Oberstein for those artificial eyes, for the cold, inhuman aura they gave him.

Unaware of Bittenfeld’s turmoil, Oberstein continued in an even tone. “Also, I am a substandard Alpha.”

Bittenfeld inhaled slowly. He knew this was coming.

“I have almost no scent. Even after puberty, I exhibited few Alpha traits. My ability to produce offspring is low. And I cannot carry children like an Omega.” Oberstein said this flatly. “To a family that values bloodline, my biological abnormalities are a failure.”

Bittenfeld wanted to say something.

To argue. To say it wasn’t true, that it wasn’t fair. But...

He had thought those same things.

He had used that very reasoning to insult him. He had laughed when others compared Oberstein to a eunuch. He had believed that Oberstein was a deviation, an anomaly, unworthy of standing among true Alphas.

And now Oberstein was stating those things with calm acceptance, as if they were just components of his identity.

No bitterness. No resentment. No anger.

And Bittenfeld felt sick.

Their apartment building came into view. They climbed the stairs together. Oberstein continued, “But I believe the main reason is that I chose to follow His Majesty.”

“That’s a reason too?” Bittenfeld frowned.

Oberstein said evenly, “The nobility wants to retain power. I sided with the one who opposes them. That is enough for them to despise me.”

Bittenfeld stared at him, wide-eyed. “You really believe that’s the main reason?”

Oberstein looked at him, his artificial eyes blank as ever.

“Of course. Class conflict and political interest are the most important factors in human conflicts.”

Bittenfeld hated that answer. Because he knew it wasn’t the whole truth.

Oberstein’s family hated him. Not just because he aligned himself with Reinhard, as he believed. But because of everything before that: his physical defect, his unsuitable presence, the way he never belonged in the aristocracy. Aligning with Reinhard was simply the final excuse to cut him off completely.

And what Bittenfeld could not stand…

Was that Oberstein did not even realize that. Or perhaps deliberately refused to.

***

They stepped into the apartment. After a hot shower and returning to the living room, Bittenfeld noticed Oberstein had also changed his outer coat. He was working again, as usual.

Bittenfeld still could not shake the lingering wrongness from that dinner—the way Oberstein accepted that his family had never cared about him, with a calm so unnerving, the way he stated it like a fact, like a variable in an equation, with no emotion, no weight, and no demand for anything.

And then, while Bittenfeld was still trying to soothe that vague discomfort, Oberstein, calm as always, continuing to work as if the conversation carried no importance—suddenly said:

“Your family need not worry about the bond between us.”

Bittenfeld frowned. “...What do you mean?”

Oberstein did not look up.

“They do not need to concern themselves with my presence. After one year, the bond can be dissolved by surgery. I believe, with your strong health, Admiral Bittenfeld, you will recover quickly and be able to formally pair with an Omega. I expect your ability to father children will not be affected. Very soon, you will have the heir your family is expecting.”

Bittenfeld suddenly realized: Oberstein had overheard the conversation between him and his father, perhaps when he returned to the dining room after that phone call.

Bittenfeld scowled, leaning back in his chair, staring at him.

Not out of anger.

Not exactly out of shock either.

But something else rose in his chest—heavy, unfamiliar, and without a name. Oberstein’s face was unchanged—expressionless, neutral, showing no hint of disturbance. As if he were discussing troop deployment. Or a budget proposal. A procedural decision.

And Bittenfeld didn’t understand why that made it so hard to breathe.

He sighed, clenched his fists, frowning as if trying to suppress a discomfort boiling up from inside.

“…Let’s just get through the year first.”

Chapter Text

7.

Bittenfeld had never been the kind of person who liked to overthink.

He lived on instinct, acted impulsively, let things happen however they wanted, and if problems arose, he would deal with them later.

But tonight, in the silent room, in the middle of a cold snowy night, Bittenfeld sat glued to the screen. He had been sitting still like that for hours without realizing time had passed. His eyes scanned dry lines of text, academic articles, medical analyses about unlinking procedures.

He told himself it was just ordinary curiosity.

That he was just skimming to confirm what he already knew.

That this—the conflicted, twisted link between him and Oberstein—was temporary. One year. Just one year. Then it would all end. He would shed all responsibility, remove the shadow of that man from his life, and keep living as if none of it had happened.

But the more he read, the colder he felt.

Because the truth was not as simple as he thought.

***

According to what Bittenfeld had read, a link between two alphas, though rare, was not impossible. And if needed, it could be severed.

For him, the consequences would not be too severe. His body—strong, stable, well within standard biological norms—would react a little, perhaps a few nights of insomnia, some restlessness, some irritability during the first months, but everything would eventually return to normal.

The stronger one always recovered faster.

Bittenfeld leaned back in his chair, exhaled sharply through his nose. Of course it would be that way.

But then he kept reading. And the more he read, the colder he became.

Because Oberstein was not like him.

As the weaker person in the link—with already unusual health and unstable scent—Oberstein’s body would not adapt normally. The imbalance would not just cause temporary dysfunction but leave long-term effects: deteriorating physical condition, a weakened immune system, chronic sleep disorders, migraines, reduced cognitive function.

And in the worst-case scenario, it could shorten his life.

His finger froze on the screen mid-scroll.

In unbalanced alpha/alpha link cases, if one party has significantly weaker biological foundations, breaking the link can cause permanent damage, reducing life expectancy by 5 to 10 years.

Bittenfeld sat there, staring at the line of text, as if hoping it would disappear if he stared long enough.

But it did not. It burned into his eyes. And into his chest.

Eventually, Bittenfeld shut off the datapad.

Not because he was done reading. But because he could not keep going.

He brought his hand to his face, as if trying to squeeze something out of his chest—a feeling he could not name. But it was useless. That feeling kept rising, nearly drowning him. And now, when he was alone in the stillness of night, Bittenfeld finally admitted what it was.

Regret.

What the hell had he done?

From the start, he should never have been so careless. He should not have lost control. He should never have so easily agreed to the very proposal Oberstein himself had made: to cut the link after a year.

A political solution. A bandage over a deeper problem.

It was never meant to matter. It was never meant to have consequences.

And yet now—with the lights off, the room quiet, and no more excuses—Bittenfeld faced a brutal truth:

Oberstein must have known.

He always knew.

As someone that coldly rational, a mind of logic and numbers, Oberstein had surely researched everything that would happen once the link ended. He knew he would no longer be the same. He knew his body would never fully recover. He knew he would suffer consequences not for months or years, but for the rest of his life.

And yet Oberstein calmly presented that option. Calmly said that Bittenfeld’s family had nothing to worry about, because he would be just fine afterward.

Because for Oberstein, stabilizing the situation and resolving a political inconvenience had always mattered more. His life, his body, his future—they were never things worth protecting.

Bittenfeld gripped the bridge of his nose, throat dry, a shapeless fury twisting in his gut—not aimed at Oberstein, but at himself.

And now he understood…

Oberstein had accepted the ending from the very beginning.

***

The next morning, Bittenfeld tried not to think about what he had read the night before.

Tried to pretend it wasn’t there, haunting the corner of his thoughts, that no invisible claw was tearing at the fragile peace in his mind. Tried to convince himself that “nothing had changed.” That everything was the same. That if he just ignored it, the truth would disappear on its own.

But then he saw it.

A small detail. Nearly invisible.

Something he knew for certain he would never have noticed before.

Oberstein was reaching for a file—likely full of dry military reports as usual—and for one brief second, his fingers hesitated. The motion slowed by a beat. His arm stiffened. The movement slightly uncoordinated in a way almost impossible to detect.

Nothing obvious. Nothing dramatic.

But Bittenfeld had read all night.

He knew the signs.

Joint stiffness. Mild motor impairment. Declining control over body movement due to hormonal imbalance.

All listed in last night’s medical literature.

And now they were right in front of him.

Bittenfeld frowned, ran his hand through his hair in frustration—a gesture he didn’t even realize he made, like he was trying to smooth out a thought screaming in his head. Without a word, he crossed the room in two long strides, grabbed the file, and shoved it into Oberstein’s hands with a click of his tongue: “You have a mouth, don’t you? Could’ve just asked for help.”

Oberstein blinked, glancing down at the file as if to confirm it was what he needed. Or confirm that Bittenfeld had actually just handed it to him.

“…Admiral, I am fully capable of retrieving it myself.”

Bittenfeld snapped, “Yeah? Well now you don’t have to.”

Oberstein stared at him for another second—not with suspicion, not even confusion.

Just acknowledgement.

Like he was logging a new data point in the spreadsheet of his mind.

Then, with that same infuriatingly flat tone that made Bittenfeld want to bang his head into a wall, Oberstein said, “Understood.”

Tch. That guy couldn’t even say thank you. No wonder everyone hated him.

Bittenfeld clicked his tongue again, turned away before he could say anything else, even dumber.

That the way Oberstein slowed down, even for just a second, just one tiny movement, was enough to make his chest tighten in discomfort.

That he—someone who had once intentionally hurt Oberstein, who had ignored every warning sign—was now starting to notice.

He was not sure how much longer he could keep pretending.

***

The morning after, their short break was over. Time to return to work.

Bittenfeld woke up early, groggy, and stumbled into the kitchen.

Even after years in the military, he still hated waking up early, and probably always would.

His morning routine was simple, almost instinctual: drag himself out of bed half-awake, shuffle to the kitchen like a beast emerging from hibernation, clumsily make something barely resembling “coffee,” and growl at anyone or anything that moved within a three-meter radius—until his nervous system finally registered that the sun had risen.

But today was different.

Because when he walked into the kitchen, eyes barely open, pajama top slipping off one shoulder, hair a tangled mess, he saw Oberstein already fully dressed and eating breakfast. That wasn’t too weird. The strange part was…

There were two cups of coffee on the table.

One was Oberstein’s—he was sipping it while reading the news. The other…

Oberstein silently pushed it toward him as Bittenfeld sat down. Bittenfeld gave him a suspicious look.

Was it his?

If this had been a few months ago, Bittenfeld would never have accepted a cup of coffee—or any food or drink—from Oberstein’s hands. He used to joke with his coworkers that working with Oberstein daily meant accepting a constant risk of being poisoned. But now, after a moment of silence, Bittenfeld picked up the cup and took a cautious sip.

Not bad.

Not as strong as the terrifying brew he usually made himself. But smoother on the throat. Not too sweet. Just enough to wake him up while half-asleep.

His eyes flicked to the other side of the table, where Oberstein was still reading the news.

“Oberstein… You…”

Bittenfeld cleared his throat, unsure if it was the coffee or something else tightening it.

“You made this for me?”

Oberstein did not look up. He replied dryly, “…Admiral, asking that after you’ve already drunk it might be a bit late.”

Silence.

Bittenfeld blinked.

“…Why?”

Oberstein turned the page, voice still flat, like he was answering a personnel inquiry.

“You helped me yesterday. It is reasonable to return the gesture.”

Bittenfeld narrowed his eyes.

“…You don’t need to return a favor just because I helped you.”

This time Oberstein looked up. One slow blink. As if trying to process data that did not fit any expected pattern.

Bittenfeld clicked his tongue.

“Whatever. At least your coffee is drinkable.”

Oberstein did not react. No smile. No sarcasm. He just went back to reading the news. Bittenfeld exhaled deeply, ran a hand through his hair, still bewildered as if he had stepped into an alternate reality.

And what annoyed him most was that, none of the previous chaos had confused or rattled him as much as this one damn cup of coffee.

***

If someone had told Bittenfeld that he would gradually pay more attention to Oberstein, Bittenfeld would have laughed, thinking that the person had gone crazy.

In the past, Bittenfeld had never thought about Oberstein, about his habits, about his weaknesses, about his existence. Oberstein was like an annoying ghost, occasionally appearing during military meetings, driving him crazy and then disappearing as if melting into the night.

Now, he began to notice those things unconsciously. Or rather, what Bittenfeld noticed was not Oberstein. But what this connection had done to him.

The way Oberstein stopped when reaching for something too far away.

The way he stood up slower than usual, his back still straight for a few seconds as if waiting for his body to adapt.

The way he did everything with maximum efficiency as if saving every ounce of energy.

And Bittenfeld… gradually adjusted himself.

If he saw Oberstein hesitate to reach for something, he would grab it first and hand it over without saying a word. If there was something to be carried, he would do it before he had a chance to move his hands. When he saw Oberstein standing still in the doorway, as if waiting for his body to recalibrate its balance, he would pretend not to see.

And in return, Oberstein would make him another cup of coffee in the morning. After a few times, Bittenfeld felt that Oberstein had gotten the right estimate of Bittenfeld’s taste. Or simply that Bittenfeld had drunk too much and had become accustomed to it.

And Bittenfeld always drank it all.

They weren’t close. Maybe they never would be.

But at least Bittenfeld no longer felt like he was trapped in the same apartment with a ghost.

***

That day had been long. Bittenfeld returned home later than usual, half-thinking that Oberstein had probably gone to bed—or more realistically, was still at his desk, stiff and unmoving like a machine that never powered down.

But no—he wasn’t at his desk.

That alone made Bittenfeld uneasy.

He frowned, stepping further into the apartment, eyes drifting toward the hallway leading to Oberstein’s room. The hallway lights were dim. The silence in the house was so heavy it made his back prickle.

Then he heard it...

Dragging footsteps. Slow. Exhausted.

His frown deepened as he rounded the hallway corner—just in time to see Oberstein, still in full uniform, standing in front of Bittenfeld’s bedroom door.

At first, Bittenfeld thought Oberstein had forgotten which room was his. A ridiculous thought—Oberstein never forgot anything. But he just stood there, unmoving.

His shoulders slightly slumped. The usually solid posture is now off balance. His head tilted slightly—not in thought, but like he was “listening” to something subconsciously. His gaze unfocused, drifting.

“What are you doing in front of my room?”

Bittenfeld approached, grumbling. Oberstein looked up at him, but didn’t reply.

Feeling something was wrong, Bittenfeld reached out and touched the minister’s forehead. He immediately recoiled.

Too hot.

Oberstein was running a fever—nearly delirious, his body slipping from its usual grip of reason. And somehow, on a subconscious level, it had brought him to Bittenfeld’s room.

Bittenfeld exhaled heavily, rubbing his tired face.

“…Figures, doesn’t it?”

Because this bond—this thing they both refused to acknowledge—was still working in its own way. No matter how much they tried to discard it, treat it as an empty formality, deny its value... Oberstein’s body still recognized it.

And now, when Oberstein was too weak to deny it, too weak to control or suppress himself, instinct had brought him here. Seeking comfort from the one he was biologically bonded to.

Bittenfeld sighed again. Then he stepped forward, grabbed Oberstein’s arm—not roughly, but firmly enough to keep him steady—and pulled him into his own room.

Oberstein did not resist.

Did not say a word.

“What a damn nuisance,” Bittenfeld muttered. “Come on. Stop wandering around like a ghost in the hallway.”

Oberstein remained silent. Bittenfeld wasn’t sure if he even understood what was being said.

He sighed again, almost pushed Oberstein down onto the bed. Oberstein sat there, looking up at him—the usual blank expression unchanged, but a layer of exhaustion now dulled his gaze.

Bittenfeld folded his arms, scowled. “Are you going to lie down or do I have to force you?”

Oberstein tilted his head. Then, without protest, without question, he slowly leaned back onto the bed. Bittenfeld watched him for a moment—longer than necessary—his gut tightening with something he couldn’t name. Then he muttered, “Stay put. I’ll get the fever meds.”

Oberstein didn’t move.

Bittenfeld shook his head, turned to leave, muttering curses under his breath.

He didn’t know what annoyed him more—that Oberstein had wandered into his room unconsciously, or that it made so much sense he couldn’t even blame him.

Bittenfeld returned with fever medication and a damp cloth. As he sat down on the bed’s edge and reached out to help Oberstein sit up slightly, he immediately sensed something different.

Oberstein leaned toward him instead of away. A purely instinctual move.

Bittenfeld froze.

Oberstein’s breathing was slow and uneven, his body burning with fever, but strangely, fully relaxed—the constant tension in every muscle gone. Then, before Bittenfeld could react, Oberstein moved.

No hesitation. No restraint. Oberstein leaned in, clung to him. His arm looped around Bittenfeld’s. His fingers gripped Bittenfeld’s uniform like it was the most natural thing in the world.

A faint, almost unconscious, almost dreamlike smile flickered across Oberstein’s face.

And then, before Bittenfeld could form a single thought—

Oberstein mumbled something.

So soft. And Bittenfeld’s heart nearly stopped.

“Admiral.”

…

“You’re warm.”

Bittenfeld almost forgot to breathe.

His heart pounded so hard it felt suffocating, the reflex of someone faced with something impossible.

And then Oberstein slumped forward, resting his forehead against Bittenfeld’s chest. His head leaned gently against his side, his breath warm, his entire body naturally seeking the warmth and stability he had always rejected.

Bittenfeld swallowed hard, throat tight. Oberstein shifted closer, burying his face deeper into Bittenfeld’s side. Then, slowly, like dreaming, he whispered…

“Smells nice.”

Bittenfeld’s brain stopped.

No reaction. No comprehension.

Oberstein’s actions weren’t calculated. Weren’t controlled. No rational shell to shield them.

It was pure instinct.

And that was what unsettled Bittenfeld the most.

Bittenfeld took a deep breath through his nose, body stiff as stone, not knowing what to do, what to say, or even whether to move.

Oberstein, of course, noticed nothing. He just exhaled softly, the sound tired but peaceful.

Then finally, Oberstein’s breathing steadied. His arm went limp.

And he fell asleep.

Bittenfeld sat there, unmoving, staring down at the body pressed against him. His mind was blank. His hand twitched, as if wanting to touch Oberstein’s back—then stopped, hovering midair, unsure what to do with it.

He exhaled, trembling slightly, covering his face with his hand. He let out a long, miserable sigh, as if he had never been so tired in his life.

“You're going to regret this when you wake up.”

Chapter Text

8.

It was the second time Bittenfeld shared a bed with Oberstein.

But it was the first time he felt Oberstein pressed up against him, clinging to him as if the warmth of Bittenfeld’s body was the only thing tethering him to the world. The first time he felt the hazy embrace of a feverish body, unconscious and searching for stability—and ironically, it found it in him.

Strange.

And yet, for some reason, Bittenfeld didn’t push him away. Didn’t grumble something like “Get a grip, damn it.”

He just… let it be.

Let Oberstein breathe slowly, evenly, beside him. Let that quiet warmth spread between them like an invisible tide. Let himself become the thing Oberstein’s instincts reached for when logic could no longer function.

And sometime during the night, Bittenfeld drifted off too.

***

The next morning, Bittenfeld woke to uneven breathing.

It took a few seconds for him to register the unfamiliar weight against his side. And then he remembered.

Oberstein. The fever. The unconscious clinging. Those fevered words Oberstein had mumbled the night before.

Bittenfeld groaned, covered his face with a hand, and reluctantly looked down.

Oberstein was still asleep. His face looked more relaxed than usual—not because he was at ease, but simply because he was too exhausted to tense.

Still burning up. The fever hadn’t broken.

Bittenfeld sighed. “What a pain.”

Carefully, slowly, he slipped out from under the blanket without waking Oberstein, even though the man instinctively tried to hold onto the warmth for just a second longer before letting go.

Bittenfeld stood, stretched his back, then walked over to the console. Using his authority, he submitted a sick leave request for Oberstein.

That part was easy.

But then another thought—a passing one—made him freeze. His gaze returned to the bed. Where Oberstein still lay. Still burning up. Still too out of it to be aware of anything.

Bittenfeld pressed his lips together. And before his rational mind could stop him—

“I, Admiral Bittenfeld…” He licked his lips, then spoke quickly into the device. “...I am also requesting leave for today.”

When the system confirmed the request and the call ended, Bittenfeld let out a growl of frustration, dragging his hands through his hair like he could pull a reasonable explanation out of his skull.

So stupid. So damn stupid.

Looking back at the unconscious Oberstein, he muttered, “You better be grateful for this, you bastard.”

***

Late in the morning, the doorbell rang.

Bittenfeld, still sitting at the edge of the bed, frowned. He had just managed to get Oberstein to drink a bit of water—still burning with fever—and the last thing he wanted was to deal with someone disturbing them.

He stood, walked to the door, scowled already on his face, ready to send whoever it was packing. But when he opened the door, he immediately froze.

Anton Ferner.

Oberstein’s aide.

Probably the only officer who could endure working with him.

Bittenfeld’s expression darkened. “What do you want?”

Ferner, as composed as ever, gave a slight nod. “I’m here on behalf of His Majesty and Lady von Mariendorf to check on Minister Oberstein.”

Bittenfeld exhaled sharply. “Of course.”

Naturally Reinhard and Hilda would send someone. Oberstein calling in sick was unheard of. They’d want to know when he’d be back at work. But not only that…

When Bittenfeld caught Ferner’s look—brief, assessing—he understood. This wasn’t just about Oberstein. They were checking on him too.

Bittenfeld stepped aside and jerked his chin toward the bedroom. “Still unconscious. Fever’s high.”

Ferner nodded, followed him into the room. His gaze settled on Oberstein’s pale, unmoving figure. Bittenfeld could tell the man was observing carefully, as if looking for signs of something suspicious.

Ferner’s eyes moved around the room, briefly pausing on Bittenfeld’s clutter—but he said nothing.

Bittenfeld folded his arms, expression tense and cold.

“I haven’t killed him yet.”

His voice was gruff, defensive—even though no one had accused him of anything.

Ferner gave a subtle nod. “I understand.”

A pause.

Then—calm, measured—Ferner asked, “This is your room, Admiral?”

Bittenfeld stiffened slightly. Then snapped, “Yeah. What of it?”

Ferner didn’t react. “Just… unexpected.”

Bittenfeld snorted. “He was so delirious he wandered here on instinct. What, you think I should’ve dragged him back to his own bed?”

Ferner tilted his head slightly. “His Majesty and the lady will no doubt be surprised, as I was.”

Every word was chosen carefully. Bittenfeld’s scowl deepened. “They think I’d…”

Ferner didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. The implication was clear.

Bittenfeld ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily.

Of course they’d think that. And they had every reason to.

They knew full well he was the one who’d landed Oberstein in the hospital before.

Ferner didn’t accuse him. Didn’t even imply judgment. But just being there—watching politely, speaking with that calculated distance—was a kind of judgment in itself.

Bittenfeld clenched his jaw. “You’ve seen it. He’s sick. I’m just taking care of him.”

Ferner nodded again, eyes flicking to the towel and water glass by the bed. “I understand. It’s good that you recognize the concern.”

It sounded neutral. But Bittenfeld felt like something had just stabbed into his chest. He hated that he couldn’t argue. Because if the roles were reversed, he’d be watching himself just as closely.

Ferner took one last look at Oberstein, then nodded.

“Hopefully the minister recovers soon. There’s still a great deal of work waiting for him.”

Bittenfeld exhaled. “Yeah, yeah.”

Ferner turned to leave. The soft click of the door closing echoed faintly behind him. Bittenfeld stood there, fists clenched, stomach knotted with something he couldn’t name.

***

Around noon, Oberstein woke up.

Still not fully lucid, clearly disoriented, but coherent enough for Bittenfeld to feed him a few spoonfuls of soup without choking to death. As Bittenfeld grumbled, changing the damp cloth on his forehead, Oberstein stirred, shifting weakly under the weight of his fever and fatigue.

Bittenfeld noticed the moment those artificial eyes found him.

And then, in a hoarse, fevered whisper, Oberstein rasped, “Why are you here?”

Bittenfeld snapped, “You think I’d leave you to die in a corner somewhere?”

Oberstein blinked slowly, like even processing the answer took effort. His fingers twitched faintly atop the blanket. Then, in a voice that sounded more like a broken thought than a real question, he said:

“You hate me.”

Bittenfeld froze.

Oberstein wasn’t even looking at him anymore. His eyes had gone distant, cloudy, like he wasn’t speaking to anyone present at all. His voice, weak and dazed, carried no anger.

“That’s fine. Everyone should hate me.”

Bittenfeld’s stomach twisted.

“You’re delirious.”

Oberstein breathed slowly, heavily. His face was unreadable, even in exhaustion.

“It’s necessary.”

Bittenfeld frowned. “Necessary for what?”

The next words were fragmented. Fevered. But the logic behind them was sharp, chilling.

“The admirals… can’t turn on each other.”

Bittenfeld went still.

Oberstein’s eyelids fluttered—struggling to stay conscious—but his voice, thin as it was, retained that cold, inevitable clarity of someone stating a self-evident truth:

“They’re always competing. If there’s no common target… ambition turns inward. They’ll fight each other. Fight His Majesty.”

A pause followed.

“Better… to let them… take it out on me.”

Bittenfeld stared at him, something heavy rising in his throat.

Oberstein went on, no longer clearly addressing anyone—not Bittenfeld, not the room. Maybe not even himself.

“Hatred, if managed well… is useful. Containable. Efficient. Someone like His Majesty… can’t be smeared. Can’t be resented.”

Bittenfeld’s fists clenched. He understood. Instantly.

Oberstein wasn’t just aware of the hatred. He had chosen it. Let it happen. Encouraged it. Because if the admirals, the officers, and the whole military could direct their hostility at one man, they wouldn’t tear each other apart.

Wouldn’t betray Reinhard.

Wouldn’t collapse the Empire from within.

So Oberstein had made himself the target. Willingly. Silently.

Or maybe he simply accepted that he could never be loved—especially after Kircheis died—and decided to turn that into something useful.

Bittenfeld couldn’t breathe. His whole body tense, like something inside was caving in. He’d hated Oberstein for so long. Thought it was justified. Natural. Deserved. He thought Oberstein was an unfeeling machine, cold and ruthless, willing to sacrifice anyone for order and efficiency. And maybe he was. But at the very least, Bittenfeld believed their hatred was mutual. That Oberstein hated them just as much.

But now—he wasn’t sure anymore.

Because Oberstein didn’t seem to hate them at all. He welcomed it. Because he had chosen to be the one hated.

And Bittenfeld—the one who mocked him, hurt him, trampled on the person everyone claimed wasn’t really human … Suddenly didn’t know what to do with himself.

***

Oberstein shifted again, his face still distant.

Bittenfeld sat there for a long time, quietly watching him fall back into sleep, body damp with fever, breath unsteady. He still didn’t know how to respond to anything he’d just heard, when Oberstein murmured:

“I’ll probably die alone.”

Bittenfeld swallowed hard. The fever seemed to loosen Oberstein’s tongue more than usual. He probably wasn’t even aware of what he was saying.

“I… always felt I wouldn’t outlive His Majesty.”

A faint smile touched his pale face.

“I’ll probably die alone. No one else… no friend at my side. News of my death… might go out on a notice. And no one will mourn.”

His hand reached out, like grasping for something in the air.

Bittenfeld sighed, running a rough hand through his hair.

“You’re overthinking it,” he muttered. “His Majesty’s young. And if he dies early, what then? Scheming bastards like you always find a way to survive.”

Oberstein gave a weak chuckle.

“No matter who takes power… no matter what happens after His Majesty dies… I know too much, I’ve done too many dirty things… No one will forgive me.”

…

“But it’s fine. It’s all right.” Oberstein closed his eyes, voice faint and dreamlike. “That’s enough for me.”

Bittenfeld suddenly needed to get out. He needed air.  He needed to pretend none of this happened. But he couldn’t move. Instead, his hands clenched.

And before he could think too much, before he could stop himself—

He climbed into the bed. Let out a slow breath. Lay down beside Oberstein. Pulled him close. One arm around his waist, the other resting gently on his back—just enough to keep him steady, to keep him from drifting too far into delirium.

And Oberstein, still unconscious, still unaware—responded.

Bittenfeld exhaled, burying his face in Oberstein’s neck, breathing in that faint scent—never strong, never "Alpha" enough.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Bittenfeld let his own scent spread into the room.

Oberstein let out a soft breath, barely audible—but his body relaxed just a little more.

Bittenfeld held him tighter, leaned closer, and whispered, hoarse and low against his ear:

“You better just close your eyes and sleep.”

A pause. Then:

“I don’t like people lying in my bed talking about other men. Even if it’s His Majesty.”

Oberstein didn’t answer.

And by the time Bittenfeld finished speaking, Oberstein had already fallen back asleep. Still holding onto him. Still completely unguarded—for the first time in his entire frozen life.

And Bittenfeld… had no idea what to do with that.

So he sighed, closed his eyes, and held him tight.

Chapter Text

9.

The next day, Oberstein recovered.

And once recovered, once the fever had passed, Oberstein returned to his normal state very quickly, as if nothing had ever happened. He made no mention of the things he had said in his delirium. He did not touch upon the fact that Bittenfeld had taken care of him, had held him, had soothed him. As if he didn’t remember clinging tightly to Bittenfeld during the fever, whispering words no one should ever have heard.

At first, Bittenfeld wasn’t sure whether Oberstein had truly forgotten, or was simply pretending to ignore it. But over time, Bittenfeld gradually realized: perhaps Oberstein really didn’t remember anything at all.

Bittenfeld honestly didn’t know how to feel about that. On the one hand, he was relieved to avoid… some very complicated conversations if Oberstein still remembered. And he had the feeling that Oberstein would readily silence anyone who had heard those too sincere words from deep within his heart during the delirium. But on the other hand, Bittenfeld couldn’t help but feel a sense of regret, for some unclear reason.

Meanwhile, Oberstein had returned to his usual schedule as if his body hadn’t just broken down a few days prior. He sat back at his desk. His posture was still stiff, his tone still flat, once again burying himself in reading reports, attending meetings, discussing policies as before.

Everything returned to order far too quickly, to the point that it made Bittenfeld uneasy.

And yet, Bittenfeld vaguely felt that something had changed markedly between them.

Oberstein still spoke little. But his shoulders no longer tensed every time Bittenfeld marked his scent on him each morning.

As if, even without the memory, Oberstein’s body still remembered what had happened between them while he was delirious.

***

Bittenfeld still remembered very clearly, even though he had very much wanted to forget.

He wanted to forget everything Oberstein had said while delirious and weak—things hidden within that cold, calculating mind. He wanted to forget that no matter how rational he was, Oberstein was utterly alone. Not simply because people disliked him. But because he had deliberately made himself someone to be hated, a scapegoat, a target—for the sake of the Empire. And no one would ever reward or acknowledge that. Oberstein had always believed it was too late, too pointless to seek affection, so all he could do was make the most “useful” use of everyone’s hatred.

Bittenfeld felt disturbed by that thought—more than he wanted to admit.

Perhaps that was why, one night, without thinking, he blurted out:

“Hey, where’s your dog? You had a dog, right?”

Bittenfeld had once heard that Oberstein kept a dog. A stray that had followed him and was taken in. That gesture—perhaps one of rare kindness—had become a running joke among the Admirals. Bittenfeld himself had mocked it, joking that while humans couldn’t stand their Minister, at least dogs could.

Looking back now, it really had been a cruel joke. There was no reason for them to mock the one living creature that perhaps didn’t hate Oberstein. Bittenfeld was beginning to find the dog’s absence deeply strange.

Oberstein was at his desk reading documents and didn’t react at first. He simply turned a page, glanced over the data screen, as though the question had nothing to do with him. Then, without looking up, Oberstein replied: “I sent it away.”

Bittenfeld blinked. “Sent it where?”

Oberstein finally looked up, tilting his head slightly at the confusion in Bittenfeld’s voice: “I retired my housekeeper early and asked him to take care of the dog. At this point, it’s probably with him in the countryside somewhere.”

Bittenfeld frowned. Right—of course Oberstein would have a housekeeper or someone handling his daily life. But their apartment… was only visited by cleaning staff every other day.

“You sent away both the housekeeper and the dog? Why would you do that?”

Oberstein answered without hesitation: “Because I anticipated our relationship would become unstable. I didn’t want the dog to be stressed or injured. And the fewer people coming and going who know what’s happening between us, the better.”

Bittenfeld froze, almost forgot to breathe. He stared at Oberstein. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. The first feeling that surged up was anger.

What the hell? You think I’m that bad?

Oberstein truly believed Bittenfeld was violent enough to require a safety plan for the dog?

But at the same time… Bittenfeld also felt more awkward.

Oberstein had genuinely cared. Not for himself. But for the dog. And maybe, to a small extent, for the housekeeper too. Oberstein had cared enough to send the dog elsewhere with the housekeeper. Had planned for its safety. And that…

…was not the Oberstein Bittenfeld thought he had always known.

***

A few days later, Bittenfeld found himself sitting in his office all day, calling one person after another just to track down the dog’s current whereabouts. And once he had the information, once he knew exactly where it was… there was no turning back.

Without saying a word to Oberstein, Bittenfeld quietly went and brought the dog back.

***

Bittenfeld hadn’t even stepped fully into the apartment when the dog shot past his legs like a gust of wind, tail wagging.

The moment it saw Oberstein by the desk—back straight, datapad in hand as always—it bolted straight toward him. And then...

Oberstein froze.

A startled expression briefly flickered across that cold face. And when the dog lunged forward and began licking Oberstein’s hand, before Bittenfeld could even process what he was seeing...

Oberstein smiled.

A real smile. Not the cold curl of the lips. Not a political smile. But a genuine, natural, warm smile—more human than anything Bittenfeld had ever seen on him.

The dog barked excitedly, over and over. Oberstein gave a soft gasp of surprise, crouched down to hug it, and from his throat came a sound—Laughter.

A sound that seemed impossible from this man. A laugh that Oberstein surely hadn’t meant to share with anyone—just something that slipped out, born of sudden happiness, something deep inside being stirred awake.

Bittenfeld stood frozen in place, completely paralyzed. His brain felt like it had shut down.

He had never seen Oberstein react to anything like that. The Minister always wore the same stone-faced mask, whether faced with death, political schemes, immense power, or the hatred, suspicion, and contempt of others. And yet a dog—just a dog—could bring out such raw emotion in him.

Bittenfeld had no idea how to handle this.

Oberstein was still crouched, one hand gently holding the dog, the other stroking its fur with astonishing ease. Then he looked up, met Bittenfeld’s eyes…And did something even worse than smiling. Something that shattered Bittenfeld’s entire mental defense system. He looked straight at Bittenfeld, smiled at him, and said:

“Thank you, Admiral.”

Bittenfeld felt like someone had hit him over the head. His entire body froze. His brain couldn’t process it.

It was a smile—and a thank-you—both deeply sincere…

Bittenfeld felt his face flush hot. He muttered, crossing his arms and looking anywhere but that face.

“Ugh, don’t make a big deal out of it. Your housekeeper’s getting old—no need to trouble him with taking care of this dog anymore.” Recalling what Oberstein had said the other day, he sighed and grumbled, “... I’m not so terrible that I’d harm an innocent animal. Just let it stay here.”

Oberstein only blinked at him.

Bittenfeld swallowed hard. This was going too far.

Too dangerous.

He needed a drink. Immediately.

Without another word, Bittenfeld scowled, spun around, and stormed out as if his head would explode if he didn’t leave the room right that second.

Behind him, the dog let out a joyful bark.

Bittenfeld growled under his breath. This was not how things were supposed to go.

But no matter how fast he walked away, he couldn’t hide the truth... That Oberstein’s sudden smile was still clinging to his mind, and he couldn’t shake it off.

Chapter Text

10.

That evening, after having a cold beer at the officers’ mess (just one glass, no more), Bittenfeld finally started to calm down. Finally managed to shove the memory of Oberstein’s smile deep into the back of his mind. Finally convinced himself he could pretend that it never happened.

But when he got home, another “incident” occurred. The moment he opened the door and stepped inside, Bittenfeld heard barking from the living room. It was followed by Oberstein’s low voice.

“Fritz. Come eat dinner.”

The dog wagged its tail and trotted off into the kitchen, where Oberstein had just placed a dish of food on the floor.

Bittenfeld froze.

For a moment, he thought he’d misheard. But no. Oberstein had really looked the dog straight in the eye and called it by that name. And the dog had happily wagged its tail in response.

Fritz.

Bittenfeld felt his eye twitch. He suddenly remembered that Oberstein’s housekeeper had seemed a bit hesitant when he heard Bittenfeld’s name. And come to think of it, the man had never once said the dog’s name in front of Bittenfeld. Now he understood why. Because the dog’s name… was the same as Bittenfeld’s first name.

“Oberstein, did you just call this dog… Fritz?”

Oberstein blinked at him, his face calm, as if Bittenfeld had asked about the weather. “That’s right.”

Bittenfeld felt like he’d just been slapped in the face.

“You named your dog… Fritz?! The exact same as my first name?! Oberstein? You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

Oberstein stepped back slightly. But then he just tilted his head and calmly replied, “No, it’s just a coincidence. Fritz is a common name, you know, Admiral.”

“You’re telling me…” he pointed back and forth between Oberstein and the dog, “you named your dog Fritz, and somehow, by coincidence, my first name is also Fritz?!”

Oberstein nodded with total seriousness. “Exactly.”

Bittenfeld stared at him, as if trying to dig out some sign that Oberstein was messing with him. But there was nothing. Oberstein was completely serious. And more importantly, Bittenfeld noticed that Oberstein had subtly stepped back, his shoulders tense. It seemed he was bracing for Bittenfeld’s anger.

Bittenfeld sighed. He took a step back to put some distance between them—enough for Oberstein to feel safe—then raised a hand to rub his face. “... I’m not mad. Just surprised, that’s all… When did you name it?”

Oberstein looked at the dog, frowning slightly as if to sift through his memory, then answered, “When I adopted him.”

“I mean, before or after we met?”

Oberstein paused in thought for a moment. Then replied, “After that.”

Bittenfeld’s head started to ache with a dull throb.

“You… don’t think that’s weird? Didn’t you realize that was my name?”

Oberstein stared at him.

“Admiral, the first name of some subordinate officer isn’t something I would consider relevant when naming my dog.”

“You…” Bittenfeld felt like something had just punched him in the head. He immediately grimaced, but took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and told himself: Calm down, calm down, Bittenfeld. Oberstein isn’t trying to insult you or belittle you. He’s just always like this.

And yet… that was the worst part.

Oberstein really was the kind of person who wouldn’t bother remembering someone’s name unless it had strategic value. And at the time, Bittenfeld had been nothing more than a reckless officer, one who frequently screwed things up. Maybe he still was. Which meant that, in Oberstein’s eyes, he simply wasn’t important enough to be remembered.

Bittenfeld rubbed his temples, trying to soothe the storm of anger boiling beneath his skin. Then he dropped himself onto the sofa and let out a tired sigh. For the first time, he felt thankful that Oberstein was mostly isolated—because if people found out the dog’s real name, he’d never hear the end of it. Especially from someone like Reuenthal.

Oberstein looked at him, a faint note of confusion on his face. “Does this bother you that much?”

“What if I got a cat and named it Paul—how would you feel?” Bittenfeld huffed.

Oberstein tilted his head. “The lunch lady at my boarding school had a cat named Paul.”

Bittenfeld ground his teeth.

“Ugh… Just forget it! But don’t call the dog that name outside, okay?”

Oberstein nodded and turned back to pet the dog. Completely unaware of the emotional chaos unfolding nearby, Fritz the dog barked cheerfully, rubbed up against Oberstein’s pant leg, and then bent down to eat from the dish. Oberstein patted its head and said, “Fritz, don’t leave food behind. Lick it clean.”

Bittenfeld leaned back in his seat and grumbled, “You’re seriously messing me up.”

Oberstein replied in his usual flat tone, “Admiral, I trust that you are fully capable of understanding words in context.”

Bittenfeld nearly lost it on the spot.

And Fritz the dog just happily ate his dinner, tail wagging.

***

From that point on, life in the apartment changed even more.

No—perhaps it had already gone through many changes since they moved in. At first, there was only the suffocating tension between two people who disliked each other but were forced to live together. Later, as their relationship gradually eased, the space became less tense and cold, though still quiet. Bittenfeld had grown used to this atmosphere. Used to Oberstein living very quietly, used to the sound of his typing often being the only noise in the apartment. And sometimes—despite being a loud Alpha who liked crowds—Bittenfeld would tell himself that this wasn’t so bad.

But now… things were different.

Now there was a dog in the apartment.

An old, ugly Dalmatian with a dumb-looking face, completely spoiled, picky about food, and no less annoying.

And Bittenfeld was slowly going insane because of it.

***

The first issue was the food.

Bittenfeld had never thought about what dogs ate. Simple, right? Dogs eat dog food. End of story. Open the bag, pour it into the dish, and that’s that.

Except… not this dog.

One afternoon a few days later, Bittenfeld came home with a bag of dog food he’d seen by chance and impulsively bought. Not because he had any soft feelings for that ugly dog—just because the packaging looked nice, that’s all. But when Bittenfeld poured the food into the bowl and whistled for the dog to come over…

Fritz (the dog) just looked at him in silence.

Then it looked at the bowl.

Then looked back at Bittenfeld.

And then, with the air of a cranky old aristocrat, the dog turned its head away.

Bittenfeld stared wide-eyed. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

From across the room, Oberstein’s voice sounded: “Fritz doesn’t eat mass produced dog food.”

Bittenfeld spun around, grumbling, “You mean this dog isn’t just old, ugly, and grumpy—it’s also picky?”

Oberstein nodded, as if there was nothing more to discuss. At that moment, the dog had already turned its butt to Bittenfeld, like a nobleman turning his back after properly scolding a foolish servant.

Bittenfeld glared.

And then an hour later, while passing through the kitchen, Bittenfeld saw Oberstein cooking. He had just finished boiling some chicken and was carefully shredding it, mixing in a few minced ingredients, and pouring everything into the same dish from before.

For. The. Dog.

Sensing Bittenfeld staring, Oberstein turned and explained,

“Fritz only eats very tender chicken.”

Then he turned back, calmly continuing to prepare the meal as if there was no further explanation needed.

At that moment, Bittenfeld felt a rush of anger rise up in his throat. Was he not allowed to be pissed? All these months of cohabitation, Oberstein had never cooked anything for Bittenfeld. Not even instant noodles. Not even a boiled egg. Not. A. Single. Thing.

And yet, here he was, cooking personally… for the dog.

Bittenfeld growled under his breath and walked away, pretending he hadn’t seen anything.

***

The second issue was space.

To be honest, Bittenfeld didn’t even understand why he was so angry about it. Maybe because it was too far off from what he’d imagined. He had thought that dog or no dog, Oberstein would always be the same—cold, distant, never letting anyone or anything get close. Honestly, Bittenfeld had felt absurdly privileged when Oberstein began responding with a few short words on those evenings when Bittenfeld rambled on about something or other for no reason.

But now...

Wherever Oberstein was, the dog was there too.

Oberstein walked into the living room, and the dog would happily trot over, waiting to be scratched behind the ears. When Oberstein sat down on the sofa, the dog immediately jumped up, nestled into his lap, and wagged its tail in complete satisfaction.

The worst part?

Oberstein let it.

No shooing it away. No frowning. No complaints. He simply rested his hand lightly on the dog’s back, stroking it absentmindedly, eyes still fixed on the data on his screen—as if this was completely normal.

One evening, Bittenfeld saw this and nearly had a stroke on the spot.

“You’re letting it sit on the couch?!”

Oberstein looked up, blinking slowly as though he were being asked something very strange. “Yes.”

“You’re letting it rest its head on your lap?”

Oberstein tilted his head slightly, still gently petting the dog’s back. His artificial eyes held a faint trace of confusion. “Is there a problem with that?”

Yes. There was a problem. There were many problems.

Bittenfeld was about to say exactly that. But then he froze.

What, exactly, was the problem?

The dog wagged its tail, lifted its head, and barked a few times—almost like a challenge.

***

And even that wasn’t the worst of it.

This—this was the truly unbearable part. A betrayal that crossed every line of tolerance.

Because after the dog arrived, Bittenfeld accidentally discovered something that shook his entire worldview to its core.

Contrary to the image of the cold minister everyone imagined, Oberstein actually liked to talk. One could even say he was chatty. Like a bored old aunt in a quiet neighborhood.

But he only talked to the dog.

***

It happened one night. Bittenfeld woke up in the middle of the night and heard...

Oberstein’s voice.

Low and steady. The tone was no longer the usual flatness associated with Oberstein—it had something close to… human warmth. Oberstein seemed to be having a very animated conversation with someone.

“...That won’t do. Eating that much will harm your liver.”

Bittenfeld blinked, tilting his head to hear better. His eyes caught the wall clock. Who was Oberstein talking to at two in the morning? It didn’t sound like a work call.

Driven by curiosity, Bittenfeld got up and stepped into the kitchen, where the voice was coming from. And he saw… Oberstein sitting in a chair, eyes on the dog, speaking to it completely naturally, as if this was something he did every day.

As if Oberstein had been doing this for years.

“You’ve gained too much weight. I’m sorry. You’re craving sweets again, aren’t you? But the answer is still no.”

The dog let out a whiny groan, rolling around on the floor like the whole world had betrayed it.

Oberstein nodded:

“I understand your frustration. But at your age, if we don’t control your weight, it’s dangerous. We’ll need to ask the vet at your next appointment for a full check-up to plan a better diet.”

The dog snorted and turned its head away. Oberstein tilted his head, eyebrows raised:

“I warned you already.”

Bittenfeld stood there, mouth hanging open, then closing. Then opening again. His brain had stopped functioning.

Oberstein—the man who treated words like scarce resources, who could ignore the Emperor himself if he felt a conversation wasn’t worth the breath—was sitting here, at midnight, talking. To. A. Dog.

Bittenfeld stepped forward. Oberstein finally turned his head, only now noticing him.

“You… you’re capable of holding a casual conversation like a normal person?!” Bittenfeld still couldn’t believe it.

Oberstein tilted his head slightly:

“Admiral, I am a normal person.”

“But you…” Bittenfeld sputtered. “You’ve never talked to me like that! Never said more than a few words to me unless it was official business. And now you’re staying up to chat nonsense with a dog. Why?!”

Oberstein was completely unbothered.

“Dogs respond well to full sentences and a calm tone. I need to help Fritz get used to the new environment.”

Bittenfeld felt his insides smoldering.

“So you’re saying I don’t ‘respond well to full sentences’?!”

Oberstein blinked, then calmly replied:

“Based on my observations in work contexts, Admiral, you respond best to short, direct commands.”

Bittenfeld seriously considered throwing himself out the window. He felt insulted in his soul.

“It doesn’t have to be about work!” Bittenfeld snapped. “You clearly can make small talk. And yet you’ve never talked to me like that. Why?”

Oberstein blinked. Then, in his usual flat, emotionless tone, replied:

“You never asked.”

Bittenfeld felt the world collapse under his feet.

After that, after that…

He didn’t go back to his bedroom. Using the excuse of being hungry, he made himself a late-night snack and then spent the rest of the evening sitting in silence, face dark, occasionally glancing at Oberstein while trying to process the shock.

Oberstein, of course, continued chatting calmly with the dog, as if everything were completely normal, as if someone hadn’t just nearly burst a brain vessel because of him.

The dog, as if it understood exactly what had just happened, wagged its tail once, then leaned smugly into Oberstein’s lap.

Bittenfeld swallowed hard. He now understood. That damn devious dog was clearly showing off.

Oberstein didn’t notice at all, and continued talking until the dog fell asleep.

***

Bit by bit, little by little, the atmosphere in the apartment had changed.

It wasn’t just about food. It wasn’t just the dog stealing seats, claiming someone’s lap, or the fact that someone still chatted with it every single night.

It was the way the entire apartment… had changed.

Now there were the sounds of happy pawsteps across wooden floors. There was barking when either of them came home. There were new expressions on Oberstein’s face—like when, thinking no one was watching, he would lean down to scratch behind the dog’s ears, murmuring something no one could hear.

And the strangest thing of all? The thing Bittenfeld would never, under any circumstances, admit out loud…

…was that just a little—just a tiny bit—he was beginning to feel like this place was starting to resemble a home.

Chapter Text

11.

The weather was gradually warming up, though winter hadn’t yet passed, and Oberstein had started occasionally taking Fritz (the dog) out for evening walks.

It was like the habit of an old man. Bittenfeld thought that and sighed. Oberstein wasn’t actually much older than him, thirty-five, maybe? And yet even elderly men seemed to have more interesting personal lives than he did. Honestly, the only reason Oberstein even left the house was because of the dog. He’d explained that staying indoors too long was bad for an animal’s mental health.

Must be nice, being a dog nowadays, people worrying about your “mental health” and all. Bittenfeld scowled at the thought. But in the end, he still went with Oberstein and Fritz (the dog).

Those walks were usually quiet. Oberstein was smart enough not to chatter to the dog in public. So typically, they just strolled a few laps around the area, stopping at a relatively sheltered spot. Oberstein would sip coffee on a bench while looking out over the city below the hill, and Bittenfeld would try (and fail) to teach the useless dog a simple trick.

“Listen up, you stupid creature,” Bittenfeld crouched down, eyes serious enough to make any rookie soldier tremble, “I’m going to teach you how to shake hands like a proper gentleman.”

But Fritz wasn’t a rookie. He let out a long yawn, lifted a paw to scratch his ear, clearly unimpressed. Bittenfeld ignored the blatant disrespect. He held out his hand.

“Fritz. Shake.”

The dog stared at him.

“Come on, shake. Do it and I’ll buy you chicken tonight.”

The dog turned his head… and leisurely lay down. Bittenfeld’s face darkened. On the nearby bench, Oberstein sipped his coffee and remarked calmly, “Admiral, I don’t think it’s worth the effort.”

“Shut up. I just need to demonstrate again. Hey, you little bastard, watch this.” Bittenfeld gritted his teeth, grabbed the dog’s front paw, and placed it in his own hand. “See? Shake. Easy.”

The dog immediately withdrew his paw, rolled onto his side, and looked ready to drift off into a peaceful nap.

And in that moment, Oberstein suddenly lifted a hand to his mouth and let out a laugh. It was soft, but genuine. And in that laugh was warmth. The corners of his eyes crinkled. His usually lifeless artificial eyes seemed to flicker with light, and this time… it was a gentle light.

Bittenfeld looked up just in time to see that smile. The gears in his brain ground to a halt all at once. He stood there, stunned. Until Oberstein frowned, his expression went back to cold neutrality: “Admiral, is something wrong?”

“No… nothing.” Bittenfeld blinked, snapping back to himself. He quickly turned away and grumbled, as if justifying himself, “I seriously don’t get why a cold-blooded, practical guy like you would keep a useless dog that can’t even shake hands.”

Oberstein looked down at the dog sprawled across the ground, completely ignoring Bittenfeld’s efforts. He said slowly, “The value of a pet does not depend on effectiveness or usefulness. It doesn’t need to prove a reason for its existence.”

Bittenfeld felt his chest tighten.

Then why do you always live like you have to prove you’re useful?

He didn’t say it aloud. He knew their relationship wasn’t deep enough for that kind of talk.

But that thought and Oberstein’s soft laughter kept looping in his head, over and over.

***

From that night on, something between them had started to slip out of control.

It began with Oberstein’s occasional laugh, real ones, fleeting, and almost always directed at the dog. They always made Bittenfeld freeze in place. I’m just surprised, that’s all. Who would’ve thought that robot could even laugh? At first, Bittenfeld convinced himself with that. But gradually, he found himself laughing too, especially when the two of them watched Fritz (the dog) do something idiotic. And worse: he began to think that laugh… was adorable .

That word skimmed through his mind like a blast of icy wind. He shot upright, almost tempted to slap himself awake. But it was too late. Like a door had been cracked open to something he should’ve kept sealed, other thoughts began to slip into his head.

He started to notice the way Oberstein tilted his head when deep in thought, the way those long, slender fingers glided across a datapad. The thin lips that were almost always pressed together, cold, but refined. The sharp cheekbones, the harsh angles of a face that could seem rigid, but in some light, held a distinct, memorable impression.

And then… Bittenfeld did the worst possible thing: he imagined.

Just for a second. A fleeting image that flashed uninvited through his mind. Oberstein lying next to him like that night he had the fever, pale skin under the dim light, expressionless eyes barely open, breath shallow, lips parted like he might whisper someone’s name.

Bittenfeld immediately flushed red, as if he’d been caught committing a crime.

“Goddammit!”

He was sitting at the command console when he suddenly yelled out, clutching his head, his heart hammering wildly out of control.

That was the moment he realized blatantly, undeniably...

“Shit,” he growled under his breath.

Bittenfeld wanted Oberstein. And right after that came the revulsion .

Revulsion at that desire. Revulsion at himself. Revulsion that in a single, unguarded moment, he, Fritz Joseph Bittenfeld, an Alpha of overwhelming instinct, an Alpha who could charm any Omega... had thought of Oberstein. Someone broken, unpleasant, infuriating, unwanted by anyone.

Why the hell him ? That emotionless man, that soulless husk, cold and mechanical. The same man who’d made him want to punch a wall with every razor-sharp comment. The man he’d once sworn he’d never understand, never wanted near him.

And yet now…

Just a smile. Just a gentler glance as he petted that damned dog… and Bittenfeld was reeling.

“No. No way.” He shook his head over and over, forcing himself back into reality, as if repetition alone could delete every stray thought.

But it wasn’t that easy. The images kept drifting through his mind, as if Bittenfeld’s own brain had turned traitor. And as he scrambled to justify himself, Bittenfeld realized: the very need to deny it said more than enough. Something inside him had already crossed a line.

***

That afternoon, Bittenfeld didn’t go home.

Instead, he went to a place he hadn’t visited in months. A bar.

Not the kind of rowdy pub where he usually got drunk with friends. No, this was a bar where single Alphas circled like hawks, looking for a one-night partner to sate desire and leave without strings. Needless to say, someone like Reuenthal was a regular here. Meanwhile, good boys like Mittermeyer would probably sprint out like he’d just seen a ghost.

Bittenfeld wasn’t one to believe in the pleasure-seeking lifestyle Reuenthal indulged in, but he was an Alpha, and with a stronger than normal sexual drives. He needed an outlet. Suppressants only worked so well. And now, stepping back into this bar after so many months, the unfamiliarity hit him. It reminded him just how long it had been. Specifically, since he’d bonded with Oberstein.

Of course, their pairing was purely superficial. Bittenfeld doubted anyone would care if he slept around. Reinhard wouldn’t bat an eye, and Oberstein along with that frostbitten excuse of a family certainly wouldn’t. Still, in the early days, Bittenfeld had felt he should restrain himself a little after screwing up so badly. For the first two weeks, he’d gritted his teeth, muscled through the urge, and kept himself in check.

But then came Oberstein’s hospitalization. Then everything that followed: the fever, the care, the dog. And to his own astonishment, Bittenfeld realized something...

He, an Alpha governed by primal instinct, with a libido that usually gnawed at his sanity… had been so mentally consumed by everything else, he hadn’t even thought about sex.

That was dangerous.

Bittenfeld rubbed his chest like he was trying to steady a racing heart.

The... budding feelings he had toward Oberstein must be because of this. Just hormones, nothing more. It had been too long. That’s all. A temporary imbalance. If he didn’t fix it soon, he might end up confiding in Oberstein’s damn dog.

So Bittenfeld marched to the bar with the determination of a man trying to prove something, perhaps to himself more than anyone. That everything was still fine. That he was still the same. That all the chaos in his head was just a passing phase. He slid onto a barstool, ordered a strong drink. Downed it fast, like he meant to burn the confusion out of his throat. Then a second. A third. 

When the alcohol had warmed him enough t, when the gold lighting of the bar softened the world into a gentle blur, he turned and struck up a conversation with a woman nearby. Short dress, red lipstick, eyes that had clearly seen every kind of man walk through this door. She smiled with practiced grace, answered just enough to keep the banter going, nodded at the right times. And after some casual, forgettable chatter, she leaned close, her lips brushing his ear with a whisper:

“My place is nearby, if you’re in the mood.”

Bittenfeld looked at her for a long time. At the even layer of powder on her cheeks, the carefully painted lips, the lashes curled just so. A beautiful woman. Sweet perfume brushing his nose. So soft, so inviting. Thiswas what he liked, wasn’t it? She was gorgeous. Intelligent, too, from their short conversation.

But just as he stood up to follow her…he suddenly felt..

Tired.

“…I’m sorry.” He stood awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. “I just remembered I’ve got something to do tonight. Really sorry.”

***

The night wind lashed against his face as he stepped outside, cold enough to sting.

Bittenfeld could not recall when, exactly, he had made it home. Only that he had been standing before the door for what felt like a very long time, unable to cross the threshold, caught in a hesitation he did not fully understand. Something restless gnawed at him, a discomfort that felt suspiciously like guilt, though for what, he could not say.

When at last the door opened and light spilled from the kitchen, he felt his chest ease, as though a weight had been quietly set down.

A dog’s bark broke the hush. He stepped inside, his gait uncertain, one hand braced against the wall, muttering under his breath as though rebuking himself:  “My head hurts...”

Crouched on the floor beside the dog, Oberstein glanced back at him. His brows drew together ever so slightly. And when Bittenfeld collapsed onto the sofa, Oberstein finally asked, “You’ve been drinking?”

“Mm.” The reply was heavy, listless. “But somewhere along the way… the mood just died.”

And then Bittenfeld noticed.

Oberstein was bent over a bowl, carefully ladling food for Fritz: the faint, warm scent of freshly cooked chicken and steamed vegetables rising in the air. The dog wagged his tail in bliss, eyes shining, watching Oberstein with the blind devotion of one who, night after night, receives the blessings of a god.

That stupid dog would eat nothing but chicken. But Oberstein, insisting that such a diet was not nutritious enough, had begun adding vegetables cut into pieces small enough for the creature to manage.

“Even dogs these days need a balanced diet, eh?” Bittenfeld muttered. He had meant only to think it, but in his drunkenness the words came out aloud. “If I were a dog, I’d probably be eating like a king now.”

Oberstein finally turned to him. For several long seconds he regarded him, as though gauging the depth of his inebriation, and then he rose to open the refrigerator.

Bittenfeld squinted. “And what are you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t starve to death,” came the calm reply.

Bittenfeld snorted, with the faintest edge of mockery: “No need to fuss. I’m not a dog. Hardly worth your trouble.”

“Don’t worry. It’s no trouble at all,” said Oberstein, in the same unruffled tone. “I’m only using what’s left over.”

Ten minutes later, a bowl of steaming soup was set before him. Chicken bones, finely chopped vegetables, a clear broth, seasoned just enough. Simple, unadorned yet plainly made with care. And just as plainly made from the scraps of Fritz (the dog)’s dinner.

Bittenfeld stared at it, his face contorting as though some deep pride had been insulted. But then he took up the spoon and drank.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

And then he couldn’t stop. Before long the bowl was scraped clean. He laid the spoon down, tapped it lightly against the rim, and muttered, almost grudgingly:

“Not bad.”

Oberstein did not answer.

He remained seated, one hand absently stroking Fritz’s head, eyes fixed on the datapad in front of him, as if nothing at all of note had occurred. Bittenfeld sagged into the cushions, tilted his head back, and exhaled, as though half a lifetime had just been poured out of him in the space of half an hour.

Fritz barked once, a sound of cheerful agreement. Bittenfeld snorted, shut his eyes, and covered his face with one hand.

Then he murmured, so softly it was almost swallowed by the room:

“Goddamn it.”

Chapter Text

12.

Then one day, from the moment he woke up in the morning, Bittenfeld felt something uneasy, something uncomfortable creeping into every crevice of his body. He was restless, his throat was dry. And when he returned home in the afternoon, feeling his whole body burning like fire, he suddenly realized: His rut had come.

A rut that was out of cycle. Unaffected by the suppressants. A problem caused by his unusually strong Alpha traits. A hot, tense, smoldering desire that seeped into his flesh, burned every nerve, pushed him into a state of near-crazed that he was all too familiar with.

It wasn't a surprise. Bittenfeld told himself. He was prepared. He had a plan. He would lock himself in his room, wait it out, deal with it himself, or wait for the suppressants to take effect.

But…

Before Bittenfeld realized what he was doing, he had barged into Oberstein’s room, without knocking, without warning, without thinking.

For days now, every sound of Oberstein’s footsteps, every glance, even that emotionless voice had caused Bittenfeld’s body to react violently. He had tried to ignore it. Tried to endure it. Tried to lock himself away. But at this moment, when all the layers of control had broken down, Bittenfeld could no longer bear it.

Oberstein was in the room. He was reaching up to untie the tie around his neck. He had just returned from taking Fritz to the vet. The dog had been a little sick for the past few days. Perhaps because Oberstein was still worried about the dog, or simply because he had just returned, he had not locked the door behind him. When Bittenfeld barged in, his pheromones in the air, Oberstein stepped back, frowning. But there was not a trace of surprise in his eyes.

As if he had been expecting it all along.

As if this was a given.

Bittenfeld gritted his teeth, the anger not knowing who it was aimed at, Oberstein, himself, or the damned lust that was eating him up from within. He stepped closer to Oberstein. The minister looked around. But then, perhaps realizing that he was pressed against the wall, he stopped looking around and faced Bittenfeld, still remained silent.

Bittenfeld's breathing was rapid, his chest heaving. His body trembled not from fear, but from the limit of his repression. And then his voice broke out, hoarse, low, filled with something he did not dare name:

"I want to sleep with you."

Oberstein tilted his head. The artificial eyes did not move. Then he lowered his head and muttered: "I understand. Admiral, go back to your room. Give me a moment to prepare."

The simple, cold, emotionless answer should have driven Bittenfeld mad. He should have turned and walked away, slammed the door, cut things off before they got out of hand. Instead, something urged him to grab Oberstein right now, at this very moment. Struggling to muster the last of his sanity, Bittenfeld nodded, turned and headed back to his room.

He didn't know how long he'd waited. In his state of excitement, every second felt like a century. Rolling in the rut, Bittenfeld even thought he might have been tricked. But finally, there was a soft knock on the door. Bittenfeld jumped up and opened the door. Oberstein stood there, changed into his pajamas, just looking at him, saying nothing as usual.

He grabbed Oberstein.

He pulled him into his arms, into his hot breath, into his rough, bare embrace. The feeling on Bittenfeld's hot skin was heightened to the point of pain. He half expected Oberstein to protest. But he just silently accepted, leaning against Bittenfeld's body.

Bittenfeld’s last shred of sanity crumbled. His grip tightened on Oberstein, and he yanked him toward the bed. His own bed. The door slammed shut behind him. Oberstein’s body was pressed against the bed.

A low, feral growl escaped Bittenfeld’s throat.

His breathing was ragged, his grip almost painful, his body heat radiating like a volcano waiting to erupt.

“Fuck.”

Bittenfeld leaned down, and kissed the man beneath him.

***

Although it was embarrassing to say it, lately, ever since Bittenfeld discovered that he had begun to have… desires that were not quite appropriate for the minister, Bittenfeld could not stop his imagination or dreams from painting images of… what Oberstein would be like in bed. And the surprising thing was, those images were completely different from what was in reality.

He had thought that Oberstein would be as cold as ever. That even in bed, the man would remain calm, dry, distant, treating everything as a task to be completed rather than something intimate or emotional. But the moment Bittenfeld touched Oberstein, pressed his body against his skin, pressed his lips to his neck, and slid his hand under the minister's pajamas…

He realized that he was wrong. Completely wrong.

Because Oberstein's body was surprisingly sensitive. Almost painfully so.

As Bittenfeld pressed Oberstein down, teeth biting through bare skin, hands tightening around his waist, groping his chest, his feverish mind still more or less expected Oberstein to remain as expressionless as ever… But instead, Oberstein shuddered.

A real reflex. His body jerked slightly, his breath caught for a moment. A sound that Oberstein probably didn't expect came out from his lips.

Bittenfeld paused for half a second, his brain almost numb with surprise.

And then, unable to believe what he had just seen, he tried again. This time he forced himself to take it slow. His hand continued to caress his chest, sliding down his spine, while his lips pressed against Oberstein's neck…

When Bittenfeld's hand touched Oberstein's crotch, the minister let out a breath - a shaky, uncontrolled breath.

Bittenfeld felt his heart stop.

Oberstein's body responded. For him. For this moment. For the naked instinct that surrounded them.

He pulled back a little, just enough to see Oberstein's face. Bittenfeld's breathing was still rapid, his chest heaving as he tried to hold on to some semblance of consciousness. He had expected to see a look of annoyance, or reluctance. But no. Oberstein's lips were slightly parted, his artificial eyes were also blurred, as if pulled away from their normal thoughts. Nothing dramatic or excessive. But Bittenfeld could feel the man beneath him trembling, like a string of some music instruments that had been constantly vibrating after being pulled by someone's hand.

Bittenfeld leaned down, hugged Oberstein tightly, and whispered in his ear: "So you're so sensitive."

Oberstein shivered as his hot breath fanned his ear. His body trembled. His hand rose, as if to push Bittenfeld away. But then he let it fall.

And Bittenfeld lost the last thread of self-control.

As soon as Bittenfeld realized how sensitive Oberstein was, every boundary he had ever drawn collapsed. He held him tight, planting kisses all over him, touching, breathing, teasing wherever he could, and was rewarded with increasingly obvious tremors, gasps, even sudden sounds that escaped Oberstein's mouth, despite the minister's best efforts to suppress them.

It was too easy. Like playing a game Oberstein had no chance of winning in the first place.

A gentle bite on the earlobe, and Oberstein let out a soft moan. A caress on the neck, and Oberstein's whole body trembled. A teasing stroke along the inner thigh, and Oberstein's body shuddered beneath his.

Oberstein's body was responding to him. And Bittenfeld wanted more. He gritted his teeth and chuckled softly right next to Oberstein's ear: "You're like a virgin who hasn't been touched by anyone."

Oberstein replied between gasps, trying to regain his usual composure as his trembling voice completely betrayed him: "... So what?"

Bittenfeld clicked his tongue, biting the minister's shoulder lightly.

"Interesting," Bittenfeld whispered softly. "That means I am gonna have loads of fun."

Finally, when Bittenfeld was satisfied with that cat-and-mouse game and pushed his hot desire into Oberstein, the rational, calm shell that the minister was trying to maintain collapsed completely. Oberstein unconsciously put both hands over his mouth, as if trying to hold back his own screams, but to no avail.

"Why cover your mouth... Let me hear it... Your voice sounds much better now than when you read the report." Bittenfeld smirked.

He continued to press Oberstein, exploring every reaction, every breath, every unexpected sensitive spot of the other body. He repeated the thrusts that made the other body tremble. He forced him to feel, to endure, to respond. Bittenfeld wanted to see Oberstein unable to avoid, unable to deny the way he jerked every time he was pushed to the limit, unable to hide the trembling, the frown, the intermittent gasp. Unable to hold back the strangled cry because Bittenfeld was holding his hands tightly. And Oberstein probably didn’t have enough sanity to do it anymore.

Bittenfeld was wild, passionate, completely lost in the excited feeling that he had made a man like Oberstein lose control. He loved all of it.

***

When all the passion was over, when Bittenfeld was exhausted, his body burned out by the instinctive pleasure… He still didn’t let go.

Instead, he pulled Oberstein to his chest, his arms tightening around his waist. His breathing slowed, deepened, but his body was still hot. Their scents still mingled, filling the room.

And Bittenfeld, exhausted, satisfied, let out a low groan in his throat, holding him as if he still wouldn’t let go. Like a wolf coiled around its prey. None of them said anything. None of them wanted to break the silence. But none of them pretended that it wasn’t true.

Bittenfeld growled softly, leaned down, and bit Oberstein’s neck lightly.

“Mine… Mine…”

Oberstein shivered again.

At that moment, Bittenfeld knew for sure that there was no turning back.

Chapter Text

13.

That morning, when he opened his eyes, Bittenfeld felt completely at ease.

His body was light, relaxed. It had been a long time since he’d felt like this. The feverish heat of rut had passed. All that remained was a pleasant warmth, the satisfaction of having his needs met after so long, both physically and mentally, and the comfort of holding the warm body of his partner in his arms.

Wait a second. Partner.

Bittenfeld’s eyes flew open. And his heart nearly stopped when he saw… Oberstein in his arms.
And both of them completely naked.

For the first few seconds, his brain froze. Then the memories flooded back. The heat. The skin. The faint breath Oberstein let out when he touched him. The way his body actually responded. The way Bittenfled himself had drowned in Oberstein’s body like a man with nothing left to lose…

Damn it.

Damn it damn it damn it.

Bittenfeld shot upright. His movement woke Oberstein up as well. He pushed himself up with one arm. The artificial eyes flashed briefly, perhaps adjusting their focus.

Bittenfeld’s head spun with a mess of thoughts: This is serious, this is a mistake, this should never have happened, damn it, damn it, damn it, what the hell am I supposed to say now? And the first thing that came out of his mouth was:

“I… I’ll take responsibility.”

The room instantly fell silent.

Bittenfeld felt his face heat up, his heart pounding wildly. He’d never said that to anyone before. All of his flings had been with people who, like him, knew exactly what they were getting into. Just a night or maybe a few weeks of fun, no strings attached.

But somewhere deep down, the “lessons” his parents had drilled into him since childhood about how a chivalrous Alpha should behave were carved into his heart. Even though he often complained, “The old folks are so old-fashioned, nobody my age thinks that way anymore,” right now those words were spinning around in his head.

“An Alpha must take responsibility.”

“A real man never turns his back on what he’s done.”

“You can’t take an Omega to bed without thinking about bringing them home to meet your parents.”

Even though Oberstein wasn’t an Omega.

Oberstein, entirely unruffled, merely blinked once as if Bittenfeld had said something absurd. Or maybe it was just to lubricate the artificial eye. Who knew.

Then, in his typical flat, emotionless tone, Oberstein said: “There’s no responsibility you need to take on, Admiral.”

Bittenfeld’s eye twitched.

“What do you mean by that?”

Oberstein tilted his head, his gaze calm as if he were discussing a defense plan.

“I’m an Alpha. I can’t get pregnant.”

Bittenfeld froze. Then, flushing bright red, he shouted: “That’s NOT what I meant!”

Oberstein exhaled softly, then stood up with infuriating composure.

“Besides, we were already bonded before this. This changes nothing.”

Bittenfeld nearly choked.

“... How the hell does this not change anything?!”

Oberstein looked at him but didn’t bother answering. Instead, he asked: “How’s your body, Admiral? I assume your more unpleasant symptoms have passed?”

“Uh, yeah…” Bittenfeld scratched his head, startled. “Pretty much back to normal.”

“That’s good.” Oberstein headed toward the bathroom, leaving a final remark: “I’m glad I could be of assistance.”

Bittenfeld was still sitting stunned on the bed when Oberstein disappeared behind the glass door. The sound of running water followed. He could already guess that in just a few minutes, Oberstein would step out of the bathroom as if last night had meant nothing at all.

And that made Bittenfeld want to slam his head into a wall.

When it was his turn to shower and he stepped back out, he found Oberstein in the kitchen making coffee. Footsteps pattered across the floor. Fritz (the dog) had woken up, crawled out of his bed, and happily trotted over to nuzzle Oberstein’s legs.

“You’re feeling better?” Oberstein scratched the dog’s head. “Looks like the vet’s medicine worked.”

The dog barked cheerfully, licked Oberstein’s hand, and wagged his tail.

Bittenfeld felt even more annoyed. And maybe just a little hurt.

He’d slept with Oberstein last night. And yet Fritz (the dog) seemed to be getting more affection and attention than he was.

Bittenfeld clicked his tongue, ran a hand through his hair, and exhaled sharply as if to push out the heat still lingering in his chest.

“Mmph. Screw it.”

***

The next few days, Bittenfeld used the excuse of being busy to hole up in the barracks. He didn’t dare go home.

Bittenfeld knew he was acting like an irresponsible Alpha. But he couldn’t stand the way his face kept heating up whenever he saw Oberstein at home, in pajamas, or bending down to scratch the dog’s head. He also didn’t want to see the way Oberstein treated that night as nothing more than a mission.

After work, even if there was nothing else to do, he still didn’t go home and instead agreed to drink with other officers. Bittenfeld no longer drank himself into oblivion like before. Now he only had a beer or two at most. He didn’t want to get drunk and lose control again. But being with close friends still made him more comfortable. The familiar setting, the old jokes made Bittenfeld feel like he hadn’t changed, like he was still “normal.”

But then, one evening, someone mentioned Oberstein’s name. And as usual, the mocking comments came fast.

“That guy’s like a machine. Probably doesn’t even need to sleep.”

“His hobby must be memorizing the fuel consumption rates of every fleet.”

“Pfft. If he even had a hobby, I’d walk on my knees. The guy’s nothing but a walking report.”

Laughter burst out around the table. Loud, familiar. Part of military life: they laughed to survive, to blow off steam, to bond. Especially at the expense of enemies… or those who, even as comrades, still weren’t “one of us” like Oberstein.

And then, one of the officers leaned over.

“Admiral Bittenfeld, hey, seriously, I’m guessing you and Oberstein only paired up temporarily for some unavoidable reason… But have you slept with him yet?”

Bittenfeld froze. But he quickly laughed loudly to cover his discomfort.

Another officer laughed too.

“Come on, don’t joke. There’s no way the Admiral would find that guy attractive. Ever heard this one? Only dogs want to be with Oberstein.”

More laughter erupted. It was a joke everyone knew. Bittenfeld knew it too, because he was the one who had started it.

But this time… he couldn’t laugh.

And his mind immediately asked itself:

“So… does that make me a dog?”

***

Bittenfeld should have ended the conversation right there.

He should have made an excuse to leave early. Or steered the topic toward something else. But Bittenfeld was still frozen with that sudden thought of his, so he reacted too late. And the officer from earlier turned to him again, pressing:

“But surely the Admiral wouldn’t want to… try it out? If it were me, I’d have to see whether that guy could be conquered in bed or not. Though if I had to kiss him, I’d probably need to rinse my mouth out for an hour afterward.”

At this point, Bittenfeld should have just laughed it off, tossed out a sarcastic remark, and brushed past it as if it weren’t worth his attention. But no. His damned, toxic, stupid pride wouldn’t allow it. So Bittenfeld nodded.

“Yeah, well… I did. Once.”

A chorus of “oohs” went around. Someone whistled, another tapped the edge of the table. The officers around him fixed their eyes on Bittenfeld, clearly waiting for his reaction.

“Bet Oberstein’s as stiff as a board in bed, huh?”

Laughter broke out again. Bittenfeld’s whole body tensed. He could have just shrugged. He could have tossed out some bland, dismissive jab and walked away.
But he didn’t. Because his Alpha instincts were screaming: if he didn’t hit back, if he didn’t flip the situation, if he hesitated for even a moment…

Someone in the room would suspect.

That he’d actually enjoyed sleeping with Oberstein. That an Alpha as “prime” as him had developed some sort of attachment to the man…

And that would be worse than death.

So, as always when cornered, Bittenfeld struck back before his brain could intervene. He gave a mocking snort, leaned back, laced his hands behind his head, and smirked arrogantly.

“Stiff as a board? Tch, you guys don’t know a thing. No, no. That bastard actually looked desperate. Like no one had ever touched him in his life, which might actually be true.”

Bittenfeld shook his head, his voice dripping with contempt, as if recounting some cheap joke.

Someone whistled again. Bittenfeld’s smirk widened.

“Tch. Almost made me feel sorry for him. Just touching him had him trembling all over, like an Omega locked in a cage too long who’d just been set free. I barely even played with him before…”

He gave a mocking shiver.

“…his whole body went soft like wax. Like I was doing him a favor.”

Someone slammed a hand on the table.

“Wait, are you saying Oberstein’s that horny?”

More laughter, more jeers, more looks and congratulatory slaps on the back.

Bittenfeld kept going. Because now he had to keep going.

“Pitiful, really. He’s probably counting the days till my next rut. Not that I’d ever touch him again. I’d puke.”

Laughter exploded. One officer slapped him so hard on the back his chair nearly tipped over.

“You’re doing the whole Empire a favor, Bittenfeld! Hey, if he’s that desperate, maybe he’d spread his legs for all of us. Not that I ever want that corpse.”

Bittenfeld laughed, pretending nothing was wrong, pretending everything was perfectly fine.

Then the conversation moved on. And Bittenfeld tried to forget about it.

***

But the next morning, and the morning after that…

Bittenfeld realized the jokes he’d made at the drinking table weren’t going to just fade away. They had consequences.

And the one who bore those consequences was Oberstein.

Every time Oberstein walked down the hallway, every time he stepped out of a meeting room, still with that same composed gait, the same cold, expressionless eyes as always… the mocking smiles appeared. The smiles of those who “knew something others didn’t.”

The looks were no longer hateful, but worse: condescending.

As if from now on, Oberstein was nothing but a joke. Just an “Alpha unfit to be an Alpha.” Someone cheap, desperate, hornier than even an Omega.

And Bittenfeld felt a heavy weight in his chest.

Because this was his fault. He was the one who’d caused this.

And worst of all… Oberstein didn’t react at all.

Of course he didn’t. He was Paul von Oberstein, Minister of Military Affairs, chief strategist to the Emperor. He would never bother with anything that didn’t affect operational efficiency. And that should have made Bittenfeld feel relieved. Should have made him think it was no big deal.

But it didn’t.

It only made Bittenfeld feel worse.

***

A few days later, when Bittenfeld came home after a night of drinking with the other officers, he found a bowl of soup placed on the table, as if waiting for him.

It was chicken soup. And vegetables and fruit. Carefully covered to keep from losing heat. Oberstein was sitting beside it, feeding the dog. When Bittenfeld looked at him, Oberstein merely explained:

“I bought a bit too many ingredients. Cooking only enough for Fritz wouldn’t have been optimal.”

That was all. No greeting. No words of concern. Oberstein then just retreated into his room to complete some reports.

And yet it made Bittenfeld’s chest tighten.

That night, after finishing the soup, Bittenfeld washed the dishes and sat absentmindedly in the living room for a long while… Then, without quite remembering how, he found himself standing in front of Oberstein’s door. His hands clenched, his gut in turmoil. Taking a deep breath, Bittenfeld knocked.

Then came the familiar voice. Calm, even, emotionless to the point of being infuriating:

“Come in.”

Bittenfeld pushed the door open, stepping inside as if he were walking straight to an execution ground.

Oberstein was still seated at his desk, the light from the screen reflecting off his impassive face. The same man as always. Cold, precise, showing no sign whatsoever of being hurt.

Bittenfeld exhaled sharply, ran a hand through his hair, and said quietly:

“I… I have something to tell you.”

Oberstein looked up, hands folded in front of him, as if waiting for Bittenfeld to deliver a work report.

Bittenfeld swallowed hard, jaw clenched.

“…The other day, when I was out drinking, I told my friends… some awful things about you. That you were… easy and… desperate like a…”

Oberstein didn’t move. Bittenfeld couldn’t finish the sentence. But then Oberstein merely turned his head away, eyes on the screen.

“I already know.”

“You…” Bittenfeld frowned. “You know? And… that’s all you have to say?”

Oberstein looked up again. The artificial eyes still held no emotion, yet they made Bittenfeld freeze.

“My work requires that I be aware of what kinds of information are being circulated. I heard about those jokes. However, they are only an internal matter among senior officers, and have no effect on military strategy or the army’s public image, so I don’t consider them worth addressing. I have prepared a few measures to prevent the rumors from spreading further and affecting the bigger picture. None of those measures require your cooperation, so I didn’t feel the need to inform you.”

Bittenfeld’s hands clenched tighter.

“Goddamn it, that’s not the point! I…”

He drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders, forcing himself to look straight into those expressionless eyes.

“I said things I shouldn’t have said. I’m sorry. For making you sound like…”

…like a cheap whore.

The words caught in his throat; he couldn’t bring himself to say them.

Oberstein, still perfectly calm, only replied:

“It’s not important.”

Bittenfeld stood frozen. And finally, unable to bear it, he leaned forward and barked:

“The hell do you mean, not important?! Why aren’t you angry? Why aren’t you angry at me? Even if the rumor doesn’t leave the inner circle, you’re fine with them looking at you like… like…”

Bittenfeld broke off. Realizing that Oberstein had shifted slightly back when he advanced, Bittenfeld took a deep breath to steady himself and stepped back to the original distance. A distance that seemed… safer.

Oberstein watched him for a moment, then glanced toward the door, as if measuring the space he’d need to leave should Bittenfeld suddenly lash out violently.

Then Oberstein said:

“I’ve always been hated. This rumor doesn’t change the current situation.”

Bittenfeld felt his breath leave him.

And Oberstein continued:

“Besides, I also understand your perspective, Admiral.”

“What do you mean?” Bittenfeld asked, panting. He had the distinct feeling he was about to hear something infuriating.

“Under normal circumstances, you would not have slept with me. So I understand why you  would be dissatisfied with the current arrangement.” Oberstein bent down to sign some documents. “That said, Admiral, I hope you remembers that our connection is temporary, and exercises patience for the sake of the Empire.”

Bittenfeld… felt his heart stop.

Oberstein hadn’t said that to insult him. Or to mock or provoke him. He said it because it was a cold fact. An universal truth in Oberstein’s mind. Like gravity. Like planetary orbits. Like an unshakable reality.

That the idea of Bittenfeld or anyone genuinely wanting him was… laughable.

And Bittenfeld, through his public insults, had proven to Oberstein that this belief was correct.

Bittenfeld raised a hand to his face, exhaling shakily, and said in despair:

“No, that’s not it.”

“If the Admiral has nothing further to ask, I need time to work.” Oberstein’s voice remained level, his head still bent. “Please close the door when you leave.”

“Damn you to hell, Oberstein!” Bittenfeld roared.

And with those words, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter Text

14.

Since that night, Bittenfeld occasionally continued sleeping with Oberstein.

At first, Oberstein would frown and ask if Bittenfeld’s rut symptoms hadn’t fully passed yet. But after Bittenfeld mumbled that he simply wanted to, Oberstein stopped questioning it.

In those moments, Bittenfeld would loiter near the sofa where Oberstein worked. For someone as hot-tempered as him, he could never be direct with Oberstein. All he could do was awkwardly mumble, “Are you free tonight?”—a question that embarrassed him to death. Why? Why, damn it? Bittenfeld didn’t understand. He wasn’t a shy virgin or anything.

Oberstein always figured out what he meant right away.

Sometimes, Oberstein would say yes. Other nights, he’d glance at his screen or a report and reply curtly, “Not tonight.” The reason was always work-related—a late report, a meeting, or simply the fact that he had to be in the office by 4 a.m.

Still, on the nights Oberstein agreed, Bittenfeld would wake up the next morning feeling refreshed and light, like a weight had been lifted.

He often wondered if he was losing his mind—continuing to sleep with Oberstein long after the biological impulse had passed. Maybe it was because, though he was ashamed to admit it, he liked it. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to prove something to Oberstein—to ease the guilt—that the rumors were wrong. That Oberstein's assumptions were wrong. That he slept with Oberstein because he wanted to, not because he was driven by instinct or forced by circumstance.

Those nights weren’t like anything he’d experienced before.

Bittenfeld once thought he needed fire, chaos, noise, and passion—but he discovered he was addicted to the silence before and after those nights with Oberstein. Addicted to watching Oberstein slowly unbutton his shirt with long, slender fingers like he was performing a ritual. Addicted to the stillness that settled over the room afterward, when he held Oberstein tightly in his arms and drifted off into a deep, satisfied sleep.

In those moments, the whispers outside no longer mattered. The dumb jokes from their comrades. The sideways glances. That tired old joke echoing through the military ranks: “Only dogs want Oberstein.” None of it mattered anymore.

At least in the quiet dark of that room, Bittenfeld no longer wanted to be ashamed of what he desired or pretend he didn’t.

After each time, Oberstein always tried to go back to work. But Bittenfeld would stop him—a gentle tug, an arm wrapped around his waist, holding him in place. And Oberstein—though he’d resist at first—would eventually stay.

He’d lie back down, blinking at the ceiling, almost confused. As if he still didn’t know how to exist without duty constantly tugging at him.

And even on the nights Oberstein was too busy and turned him down, Bittenfeld still found himself hovering nearby. He realized he just wanted Oberstein’s presence.

That strange stillness—almost peaceful—of simply sharing the same space. It wasn’t just about sex anymore. Somehow, just coming home, sitting on the sofa across from Oberstein, flipping through a newspaper, idly poking at a screen… that was enough.

Sometimes Bittenfeld would doze off right there in the chair, while Oberstein kept quietly typing away.

I want this—but why?

Bittenfeld couldn’t understand.

***

The biggest obstacle was always Fritz.

That damn dog would sprawl across the couch like a little king, curled up against Oberstein’s thigh, growling whenever Bittenfeld tried to push it aside. And Oberstein never did a thing about it. He barely seemed to notice Bittenfeld’s irritation as he sat across from them. That blatant “favoritism” always made Bittenfeld bristle.

But one night, Fritz was more tired than usual. It left the couch on its own, slowly dragging itself to the bed in the corner of the room, curling up to sleep. And Bittenfeld knew: his chance had come.

He immediately sat down beside Oberstein, in the spot the dog usually claimed. A rush of triumph surged through him, and he struggled not to let a smug grin show.

Oberstein said nothing. Maybe he wasn’t even paying attention to the childish rivalry. That night, Oberstein was clearly exhausted—his artificial eyes moved slower across the screen. And after a while…

Oberstein’s body, after nodding slightly, suddenly leaned sideways. He’d fallen asleep—likely from sheer fatigue—and his head rested on Bittenfeld’s shoulder.

Bittenfeld froze.

In the extended silence, he didn’t move, didn’t even breathe deeply. He just stared up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the warmth resting against him. He didn’t want to break the moment.

But then, Oberstein stirred. He blinked slowly, realized where he was, and stiffened at once.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, already starting to sit up. “I didn’t mean to.”

Bittenfeld reached out and held him there.

“Just rest,” Bittenfeld said, voice low and rough. “Seriously. You barely sleep.”

Oberstein looked at him, eyes uncertain. But slowly, he leaned back down—this time, deliberately resting his head on Bittenfeld’s shoulder again.

He didn’t sleep.

But he didn’t say anything more, either.

***

At some point, Bittenfeld had started calling Oberstein by his first name.

Of course, only when no one else was around.

The first time it happened was one night in the apartment. Oberstein was working as usual, and Bittenfeld was stretched out on the couch, lazily flipping through a newspaper. The air was quiet—that familiar kind of silence that had settled between the two of them over time.

Then, out of nowhere, Bittenfeld said—more to himself than anything:

“Paul, have you read this report? What the hell is this idiot even saying?”

Oberstein’s fingers paused for a beat on the keyboard. But he didn’t correct him. He simply replied,

“He’s proposing that His Majesty allow the formation of autonomous zones.”

“Stupid,” Bittenfeld muttered.

“Yes, very stupid,” Oberstein replied. They both went back to what they were doing, heads down. And only much later did Bittenfeld realize something that floored him:

Oberstein hadn’t objected to being called “Paul.”

A small, quiet joy bubbled up in Bittenfeld’s chest. Then, just as quickly, he felt silly. It wasn’t a big deal—nothing worth getting giddy over. But still, he felt it. That tiny spark of happiness.

So in the days that followed, Bittenfeld kept calling Oberstein by name. Not in public. But here, in this apartment—this private, enclosed space where it was just them. Or when they were walking the dog together. Or when they were in bed.

For some reason, it stirred something strange in his chest—restless, tender.

Then, about a week later, Bittenfeld realized something else:

Oberstein had never once called him by his first name. Not even when Bittenfeld hinted. Not even that one time, half-joking but secretly hopeful, when he mumbled:

“Paul, you know… once in a while you could call me Fritz too, you know?”

Oberstein didn’t look up from his screen.

“No.”

The flat rejection made Bittenfeld blink in surprise. He grumbled,

“What, you think it’s not fit to army regulation or something?”

Oberstein’s fingers kept typing steadily.

“My dog’s name is Fritz.”

Bittenfeld frowned and shot a glare at the dog.

“Well, at the very least… when we’re in bed, you could call me by name.”

Oberstein stopped. Then turned to Bittenfeld with that usual emotionless gaze and said, completely flat:

“No.”

“Why?” Bittenfeld scowled. He had to admit it now—he felt a little hurt.

“Because it makes me feel like I’m sleeping with the dog.”

Bittenfeld nearly spat out his coffee.

“You’ve got one hell of an imagination.”

“In any case, it’s unnecessary,” Oberstein said, turning back to the screen, voice steady. “Our connection will end in a year anyway.”

Bittenfeld’s stomach dropped.

“You…” He opened his mouth but couldn’t get the words out. And in the end, all he could do was sit there in silence, watching Oberstein type, the unease in his chest growing heavier with every passing second.

***

One day, it was his mother’s birthday, so Bittenfeld’s whole family planned a get-together. He hadn’t expected Oberstein to come. Still, he asked—awkwardly, roundabout, half-hoping for an unexpected yes.

Oberstein only tilted his head slightly and replied calmly:

“Not necessary. Everyone will be more comfortable without me.”

So Bittenfeld went alone.

At first, his family made a few polite inquiries about why Oberstein wasn’t there, but then it was forgotten in the usual lively atmosphere of the party. The house was warm, filled with laughter, familiar stories retold, and food constantly being passed around. Bittenfeld joked with his brothers, argued with his cousins, and let the little nieces and nephews climb all over him. It was genuinely pleasant.

But somewhere during the meal, Bittenfeld began to feel the absence beside him. Not an empty seat. Someone was sitting there. But something else was missing—clearly, undeniably—though no one said a word.

He tried not to think about what Oberstein was doing. Was he reading at his computer? Drinking coffee? Walking the dog, like always? But the image of the minister clung to him.

Then, when dinner ended, his sister showed off a black cat she’d recently adopted.

“Fritz, isn’t he cute?” she said.

Bittenfeld jolted, nodding quickly. In his mind, he cursed that damn dog. Because of Fritz (the dog), he now felt weird whenever he heard his own name.

The cat in her arms was black, skinny, not particularly good-looking. Its ears flattened when it saw Bittenfeld. It didn’t run, but its eyes were full of wary tension. His sister laughed and said:

“He kept lurking around the trash bins behind the house. He looked so pitiful I decided to take him in. No collar. Probably chased off a lot. People say black cats bring bad luck, so everyone avoids them. And getting him to come home wasn’t easy either. I had to put food in the same spot every day and never get too close. If he saw someone approach, he will run. Took a long time for him to trust me enough to follow me home.”

She scratched gently behind the cat’s ear, and to Bittenfeld’s surprise, it leaned into her hand.

“Cats are like that,” she added. “They don’t show affection openly—especially the ones that have been hurt. But if you give them space and don’t force them… little by little, they’ll come closer. And eventually, all they’ll want is to stay near you.”

Bittenfeld said nothing.

He stood there, looking at the cat—and all he could see was Oberstein.

A stray.

A creature people avoided, whispered about, blamed.

Someone the world didn’t know what to do with, so it chose to ignore or cast him out.

If you give them space and don’t force them… little by little, they’ll come closer. And eventually, all they’ll want is to stay near you.

Bittenfeld sighed, rubbed his forehead, trying to shake the feeling. But it only grew heavier.

Later that night, when the guests had all gone home and the house had quieted down, Bittenfeld’s father called him aside and whispered: “There’s a new omega in the neighborhood asking about you. I hope you’ll settle things with… Minister Oberstein soon, and start a proper family.”

The words hit him like a punch to the chest.

Bittenfeld didn’t respond. Because he suddenly realized something: this was all going to end.

One year. That’s what they’d agreed on. There was no future beyond that.

And Bittenfeld, even while surrounded by the warmth of his family… felt completely out of place.

Because the only thing he wanted in that moment… was to go home.

He clenched the wine glass in his hand. And for the first time, he truly asked himself:

What will I do when this one year is over?

***

When Bittenfeld got home that night and opened the door, he saw the kitchen light was still on. He exhaled softly in relief.

Oberstein was still there. Sitting at the dining table—posture relaxed but still upright—quietly reading something, a cup of coffee beside him still steaming. His face, as usual, was unreadable. At his feet, the old dog lay sleeping, breathing steadily.

Bittenfeld stood there for a moment longer, letting the scene sink into him like a faint warmth. He hadn’t said he’d be coming home tonight. But Oberstein had left the door unlocked.

“You’re back,” Oberstein said without looking up. “You said you'd stay until tomorrow.”

That was true. But after the talk with his father, something had compelled him to come back. Bittenfeld tossed his coat over the back of a chair and muttered,

“Something came up. I’ve got work tomorrow.”

Oberstein nodded, showing no doubt in the excuse. After a short silence, Bittenfeld murmured,

“...I’m hungry.”

That made Oberstein glance at him. He replied in his usual neutral tone, like analyzing military intel: “That seems highly unlikely. You just returned from dinner with your family. Given your mother’s cooking habits and your family's dining traditions, I’d estimate you consumed enough for two days.”

“Well…” Bittenfeld grumbled, slumping into the chair across from him. “Still hungry.”

Oberstein didn’t argue. He simply said there was food in the fridge and got up, heading to the kitchen.

A little while later, the food was served. Just reheated leftovers. Bittenfeld ate in silence. Oberstein said nothing more. The old dog shifted slightly in its sleep, ears twitching.

And as the seconds passed in this stillness—almost warm, almost peaceful—Bittenfeld looked at the scene in front of him and felt a small ache in his chest.

Oberstein across the table.

Soft light from the kitchen.

The old dog breathing steadily.

And a quiet, half-formed thought drifted through Bittenfeld’s mind:

I’m not sure I want this to end.

Chapter Text

15.

A month passed in silence.

Bittenfeld went to work. Came home. Ate whatever was cooked or whatever had been reheated. Walked the dog with Oberstein. Occasionally slept with him. Some evenings, they chatted. Other times, they simply sat next to each other in the living room, each doing their own thing.

Then, one day, Bittenfeld happened to run into Ferner in the hallway.

"Good day, Admiral." Ferner bowed slightly, his expression calm, the kind worn by someone who had worked under Oberstein for so long, he no longer feared anything.

Bittenfeld nodded. He might have walked right past Ferner, but the aide suddenly spoke up:
“Is the Minister in his office? I need to confirm the schedule for next Thursday’s meeting. I don’t think he has plans for his birthday, but it’s better to check.”

That was it. But Bittenfeld paused, blinking: “What? Oberstein’s birthday?”

“It’s nothing, Admiral,” Ferner shrugged. “Not something you need to worry about.”

Then he walked away.

Bittenfeld stood alone in the hallway, blinking at the dull gray walls.

Oberstein’s birthday. Next week.

Not something I need to worry about?

Bittenfeld growled under his breath and kept walking. He didn’t want to think about it. And there was no need, right? Oberstein probably wouldn’t care anyway. The man barely acknowledged himself as human, let alone indulged in frivolous things like birthdays.

Besides, in February, his birthday came and went without so much as a word from Oberstein…

Forget it. Not his concern, right?

But later that day, Bittenfeld heard Reuenthal’s voice echoing down the hallway. That playboy  bastard was talking about some fancy restaurant with candles and classical music. Perfect for a secret date. Bittenfeld rolled his eyes instinctively.

Still… he remembered the name.

And the next day, Bittenfeld looked up the place online. The website was sleek. Limited seating, reservation required. The prices...

Bittenfeld sighed as he looked over the menu, muttering that for that kind of money, he’d better be eating an entire elephant.

He picked a date and time: Oberstein’s birthday evening. Then hit “pay.”

Afterward, Bittenfeld sat with his chin in his hand, staring at nothing. He had no idea what the hell he was doing.

***

It was a stupid plan, and Bittenfeld knew it. He knew it when he booked the reservation. He knew it when he told Ferner to add a “domestic relations dinner” to Oberstein’s schedule (Ferner had stared at him for a moment, but simply nodded). And he was especially aware of it when he stood in front of the door bearing the gold-plated nameplate: La maison de la mémoire. Of course, he had no idea what that even meant.

“I’m here for a domestic relations dinner.” When Oberstein entered the dining room and saw only Bittenfeld, he frowned.

“That’s right. Domestic. Within our household.” Bittenfeld shrugged, scratching his head. He knew that if he’d said it outright, Oberstein would have refused. And maybe the minister was already about to say no, but Bittenfeld pressed on. “Anyway, the reservation’s already made… So, I figured, let’s try eating fancy for once.”

“I need to go back and feed Fritz,” Oberstein replied.

That damned dog. Bittenfeld gritted his teeth, muttering under his breath, “A dog won’t die from eating dinner a little late.”

Oberstein said nothing. He glanced at his watch, as if calculating how much time he was willing to waste on this nonsense, then nodded. “Understood.”

Bittenfeld exhaled in relief. They sat down. A server came by to pour water. Bittenfeld looked around at the place he’d reserved for the first time, and he immediately regretted it.

It was definitely a luxury restaurant. Nothing like the “beer and sausage” bars he was used to. The room had ivory white walls with elegant décor, lit by dim, ambient light. Soft piano music drifted in from somewhere. Unlit white candles sat on every table, and there was a faint scent of fresh flowers in the air.

A plump woman in an oil painting on the wall seemed to stare at Bittenfeld with judgment. He had the distinct feeling—just like with the server nearby—that everyone here knew he didn’t belong.

The menus were printed on thick, leather-bound paper. Bittenfeld stared at the words like he was trying to crack an enemy code.

What the hell is “foie gras torchon”?

Clearing his throat, he glanced at Oberstein. The man was calmly reading the menu, showing no signs of confusion. Bittenfeld scratched his head. “This dish… is it chicken or meat?”

Without looking up, Oberstein replied, “It’s goose liver.”

“…And this one? That symbol means ‘poultry,’ right?” Bittenfeld pointed at a page with a stylized bird illustration. “Is that chicken? Or duck?”

“Slow-cooked duck breast with cherry sauce. If you don’t like sweetness, you may want to avoid it.”

Bittenfeld grumbled, “Who the hell cooks meat with jam?”

Oberstein said calmly, “I recall your mother puts apples in curry.”

“Yeah, well, that’s different,” Bittenfeld muttered irritably. “What about this one?” He pointed to a starred item on the menu.

“Snails in garlic herb butter with a special house blend of spices.”

“…Forget it.” Bittenfeld flipped the page. When he saw a section that looked like meats, he pointed again and learned it was premium veal with cocoa sauce and caramel glaze.

Oberstein quietly turned the page. “You can ask the server for the chef’s recommendations.”

Bittenfeld was about to do just that, then changed his mind. Scratching his head again, he muttered, “For the main… I’ll go with the duck. Sounds… safe.”

“What about the other courses?”

“You order whatever you want. I’ll follow your lead.”

The server returned, and Oberstein placed the order for both of them smoothly, barely glancing at the menu. Bittenfeld pretended to adjust his cuff. Once the server left, he muttered, “Didn’t expect you to be so good at this.”

Oberstein replied plainly, “I am from a noble family, after all.”

The food arrived in small, carefully arranged portions, each on delicate plates, with sauces painted like brush strokes and garnished with edible flowers. It looked pretty but Bittenfeld was dismayed by the pitiful portions. He sighed, already resigned to raiding the fridge after this overpriced meal.

As for the taste… Honestly, Bittenfeld had no idea what he was eating. He felt like he’d need a lab analysis to identify whether it was meat, fish, poultry, or some kind of suspicious animal. He stared at his main course, now covered in flowers.

“I could’ve sworn I ordered duck, not salad.”

“The dish is marinated with lavender,” Oberstein replied.

“Of course it is.” Bittenfeld sighed again. He deeply regretted picking this restaurant.

But then he noticed: Oberstein was eating calmly.

His face was expressionless, his movements mechanical, as if there were no difference between this luxury meal and food from the military canteen. But when he paused to sip his wine, Bittenfeld thought he caught the faintest flicker of satisfaction in the corner of his eyes.

That’s enough, Bittenfeld thought.

Even if the food looked like it belonged in a science exhibit. Even if he couldn’t read a single item on the menu. Even if this was the dumbest thing he’d done in years…

This was okay.

And so, Bittenfeld straightened in his seat and kept eating his cherry-sauce duck breast, scattered with lavender petals.

***

Dessert was brought out like the final act of a magic show, served under a glass dome that the waiter lifted with artistic flair, releasing a thin mist that smelled faintly of caramelized sugar and some kind of flower Bittenfeld couldn’t name. The dessert underneath looked more like a piece of modern sculpture than something edible.

Bittenfeld stared at it.

“This… is this even food?” he asked, genuinely unsure.

“Of course,” Oberstein replied calmly.

The waiter refilled their wine glasses. Dinner fell into silence. Finally, it was over. Bittenfeld could go home and raid the fridge, just as he’d hoped. His stomach was unsettled, partly from hunger, partly from all those edible flowers. But still, he remained quietly sipping his wine. Somewhere deep inside, he felt like he didn’t want this dinner to end just yet.

Then Oberstein set down his glass and quietly asked,

“Admiral, why this dinner?”

Bittenfeld didn’t answer right away. He looked at the plump woman in the oil painting.
Then, after a pause, he finally found his words.

“Today’s your birthday, isn’t it?” Bittenfeld began. But as his face warmed, he stammered,

“Yes. I know. I saw the annual birthday memo the military sends out to senior officers like me.”

“That’s not the same,” Bittenfeld blurted, shaking his head quickly.

Oberstein said nothing. He just sat in silence. The white candles on their table reflected soft light in his artificial eyes. As always, they gave away no emotion.

Bittenfeld shifted in his seat, clearly regretting bringing it up.

“I didn’t mean for this to be anything romantic or whatever… I just thought… maybe you wouldn’t want to eat leftovers today. You know?”

Still no reply.

So, out of awkwardness, Bittenfeld tried to act gruff: “You didn’t even give me anything on my birthday.”

That, finally, made Oberstein look up. Calmly and slowly, he said:

“I didn’t think you’d welcome a gift from me.”

The words stunned Bittenfeld.

He had expected something like “Not necessary,” or “Birthdays are frivolous.” But this…

This wasn’t indifference, or defiance, or dismissal. It was caution.

Like a black cat unsure whether it’s safe to come closer, wondering if the danger had truly passed.

The candlelight softened the harsh angles of Oberstein’s face. Across the table, the minister sipped his last bit of wine with mechanical precision, and Bittenfeld looked at him, a sentence beginning to form in his mind…

Then next year, get me a birthday gift.

But Bittenfeld couldn’t say it.

Just one simple line. He could’ve delivered it with a smirk, like a joke. But he knew he didn’t want to joke. He wanted to see how Oberstein would react.

Next year, I’ll take you to a different restaurant.

And next year, don’t forget my birthday.

And maybe… maybe this bond between us doesn’t have to end so soon. Maybe we could stay together just a little longer.

Even if I still don’t know for how long.

But Bittenfeld couldn’t say any of it.

Instead, he simply looked down. One hand holding his wine glass. The other, unconsciously resting on the pocket of his coat.

Inside was a small box.

Bittenfeld’s thumb brushed across it.

Inside was a silver cufflink. Meant for women, technically, but its design was plain enough that a man could wear it. Bittenfeld’s mother had given it to him years ago. She said it was a family heirloom. “Give this to the one you’re going to stay with on your wedding day”, she said. Back then, Bittenfeld had laughed it off, said he wasn’t ready to be tied down. But he’d kept it in his drawer all these years. Out of habit, maybe.

And today, before coming to the restaurant, for some reason… he had pulled it out and slipped it into his coat pocket.

He hadn’t planned to give it to Oberstein. That would be ridiculous.

Yet here it was, sitting with him now, across from Oberstein, beneath the soft flicker of candlelight.

Bittenfeld swallowed hard. Looked away. A pressure rose in his chest, like something was about to burst. He desperately wanted to say something but feared it at the same time.

And in the end, all he could say was:

“…Let’s go home, Paul. You’re probably worried about Fritz.”

Oberstein nodded and stood up without another word.

***

They left the restaurant together.

The night was cool but clear. The air carried the faint scent of early spring rain. The restaurant was close to their neighborhood, so neither of them used cars. They walked back through the park, their footsteps echoing in steady rhythm along the quiet street.

Beside Bittenfeld, Oberstein walked with his usual stiff posture. Bittenfeld stayed silent, unsure of what else to say. Then, unexpectedly, Oberstein spoke.

“Thank you, Admiral.”

Bittenfeld turned to him, surprised.

“For the dinner,” the minister continued. “And for remembering my birthday.”

Bittenfeld was stunned. Oberstein’s face remained calm, but the gratitude in his words felt different, unlike the Oberstein he knew. Bittenfeld grinned wide. “You liked it?”

He expected Oberstein to dismiss it. But instead, he was quiet for a moment, then said: “It was… acceptable.”

That made Bittenfeld laugh. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d been until that laugh burst out of him. Something in his chest had just relaxed.

Their shoulders brushed.

And somehow, when Bittenfeld pulled his hand out of his pocket, his fingers accidentally touched Oberstein’s, and then they were holding hands.

Just like that.

Oberstein didn’t pull away.

A strange shiver ran down Bittenfeld’s spine, making him tremble slightly. Why? Why, dammit? He’d slept with Oberstein before. With many others before that. He’d done unspeakable things to this body. He knew exactly how Oberstein reacted under his hands. And yet this… this simple touch, this unguarded contact felt…

Trying not to overthink it, Bittenfeld focused on the feeling of Oberstein’s hand. As if trying to memorize every detail of this moment. His fingers were longer, thinner, colder than Bittenfeld’s own. In the past, he might’ve mocked him as “cold-blooded” or “heartless.” But now, knowing that it could be due to some endocrine imbalance of Oberstein’s, Bittenfeld instinctively squeezed tighter, as if trying to share warmth through the touch.

For a few blocks, the world was very quiet, very far away. Just the sound of their shoes on pavement. Streetlights. And their hands, clasped together in a simple, strange gesture of intimacy.

Until laughter broke out at the corner, loud and familiar.

A group of officers. People Bittenfeld knew. Comrades who fought beside him, drank with him, told dirty jokes.

Instinct overwhelmed reason. Bittenfeld let go, like he’d been burned.

Oberstein stopped walking.

He didn’t say anything. Just turned his head slightly, looking at Bittenfeld with a quiet, unreadable expression.

Bittenfeld opened his mouth. Then closed it. The group of officers passed by, likely too drunk to notice them, and the silence fell again.

But this time, the silence was heavy. Wrong. Like something had been left undone.

Bittenfeld wanted to reach out again.

But Oberstein had already slid his hand into his coat pocket. Calmly, as if it were a perfectly natural motion.

The rest of the walk home passed in silence. Oberstein’s posture, expression, and gaze didn’t change.

But for the rest of the way, he never took his hand out of his pocket again.

Chapter Text

16.

It was a few days after Oberstein’s birthday.

Outwardly, nothing had changed. Oberstein remained as silent as ever and never brought up that night, or the moment Bittenfeld let go of his hand. And somehow, that made Bittenfeld feel even more unsettled. He had convinced himself at the time that it wasn’t a big deal, but as the days passed, the guilt grew sharper. Like a splinter buried in his palm, it began to ache more and more. But why? It was such a small thing... and yet why?

Bittenfeld didn’t understand. But he also kinda did.

That birthday dinner, and the thoughts he’d had that night, had reached a dangerous threshold. The emotions or obsession he felt for Oberstein were growing, bit by bit. And still, Bittenfeld refused to name them. Or more precisely, he didn’t dare.

And just when Bittenfeld was already in this turmoil, he came across something in Oberstein’s personal file.

Just a few short lines.

But they would lead to something he never expected.

***

Honestly, Bittenfeld had no intention of snooping through Oberstein’s file.

Even though they’d grown closer, even though he’d already learned (from that cold visit with the Oberstein family) that Oberstein had issues at home, he had never felt curious about the man’s past. Simply put, even after knowing Oberstein had a family and personal troubles, Bittenfeld had grown used to the idea that Oberstein had always been like this: Entering the world already distant, emotionless, and chillingly cold in the way he’d come to expect.

It all started with a coincidence. The government office needed to verify some small detail in Oberstein’s official records. The minister was in a confidential meeting and unreachable. So they asked Bittenfeld to access the file through the system—a right he had by virtue of their bond.

Bittenfeld felt a little unnerved by just how much authority he had over another person’s life. He intended to find the information quickly and then log out. But as he skimmed through the file… his eye caught on a note from when Oberstein had been in military boarding school during middle school.

“December: Submitted a report accusing upperclassmen of misconduct in the dormitory.”

Bittenfeld’s scrolling hand froze.

He squinted and read more carefully. But the rest was only a few short lines.

There was no specific detail about the report itself. It only stated that Oberstein had accused them of “morally inappropriate behavior.” But the school had rejected the report due to lack of evidence. No disciplinary action was taken against the students Oberstein had named.

And the strangest line of all…

“Oberstein was removed from the dormitory. The school mandated counseling to correct behavioral issues.”

What the hell was this?

Bittenfeld furrowed his brow, more confused by the minute.

At that age, barely early middle school, Oberstein had spoken out against misconduct from older students. And yet, the result was that he was the one removed. He was the one labeled as needing “correction.” If it had been a year ago, Bittenfeld might have laughed and said something like, “Probably tried to eliminate the academic competition and got caught.” But now, he knew better. He knew enough of Oberstein to realize that the man would never do something unnecessary.

So what really happened?

Bittenfeld sat still in his chair, lost in thought. He became so absorbed that he didn’t hear the sound of footsteps on the floor.

And then Oberstein opened the door and entered the room.

“You… finished the meeting already?” Bittenfeld snapped to attention, startled. He spoke quickly.

“The meeting just ended,” Oberstein replied, glancing toward Bittenfeld. His eyes paused briefly on the screen.

Bittenfeld quickly added, “The government office asked me to confirm some information.”

Oberstein gave a small nod and simply said, “Ah. I know what it was.”

And just like that, as if he didn’t care at all, he walked past Bittenfeld and returned to his work.

Bittenfeld stood up, shut off the screen, and said loudly, perhaps trying to shake off the shame, “Paul, do you want anything for dinner tonight? I can cook something.”

“I think the noodles you made last time weren’t bad,” Oberstein replied.

And just like that, they went on with their day as if nothing had happened. That was always the way with Oberstein. Even after that night on his birthday, he’d never said a word about it.

And yet…

That night, lying in bed with his face buried against Oberstein’s back, just like always, Bittenfeld found himself unable to sleep.

***

Bittenfeld knew very well he shouldn’t be doing this.

He shouldn’t be digging into another person’s past. It wouldn’t change anything.

And this was Oberstein. If that careful and ruthless minister ever found out Bittenfeld had been snooping through things that weren’t his business, who knew what might happen? Or worse, Oberstein, with his innate indifference, might not care at all. That second possibility made Bittenfeld feel even more miserable.

But after reading those dry short lines, Bittenfeld couldn’t let it go.

He didn’t know exactly what had happened. But he couldn’t help wanting to dig deeper.

Without realizing it, Bittenfeld had become increasingly eager to know more about Oberstein. Not just the cold, unfeeling Minister everyone else saw, and not just the quiet man who brewed morning coffee and walked with him and Fritz (the dog) in the park on weekends.

He wanted to know what had happened to this man… what had shaped him into such a lonely, sorrowful existence.

And the little he found only made everything worse.

In the old notes, the names of the students who had been accused were listed. Only four names, so Bittenfeld remembered them very clearly. With their names and graduation years from military school, tracking down their lives was easy.

One was dead, just a number in a casualty report. Another had drunk himself into a car crash. A third had lost most of his fortune in Reinhard’s reforms and now lived quietly with some desk job…

But one of them… One of them was still alive. And successful.

A nobleman who had managed to move his assets in time, then through some lucky investments, managed to retain his status and wealth. A well-respected and accomplished man.

Currently, he was the head of a company that supplied materials to the military.

And as bitter irony would have it, he was set to attend a public event in just a few days. A formal standing reception with classical music or something. Exactly the kind of stiff event Bittenfeld hated.

But still, Bittenfeld went.

Because he felt like he needed to see this man.

***

At the party, Bittenfeld spotted him almost immediately. Of course, he had looked up his photo beforehand.

A man in a sharp suit, hair sleek and polished, holding a wine glass and smiling like he’d never known suffering a day in his life.

Bittenfeld walked over. The man recognized him and broke into a smile. One of those fake, overly familiar smiles Bittenfeld had grown to hate in politicians.

“Oh, Admiral Bittenfeld, isn’t it? What an honor. Such a brave, admirable man. I’m honestly surprised to see you here, you rarely show up at these kinds of events!”

Bittenfeld forced a half-smile. “This time’s an exception.”

The nobleman chuckled. “A rare treat indeed.” He sipped his wine. “So what brings you to such a boring little party like this?”

Bittenfeld raised his glass, drank a few sips, and replied, “Heard you used to attend the military boarding school. That makes us sort of schoolmates. Figured I’d say hello to a senior.”

“Ah, those days.” The man sighed wistfully. “Feels like a whole other life. But I… quickly realized I wasn’t cut out for the military. Finance and investments suited me better.”

Bittenfeld forced another smile. He was starting to realize that living with Oberstein had maybe taught him a bit of patience. “Judging by your age… you must’ve known Minister Oberstein at school, right?”

And just a second later…

The nobleman laughed.

As if Bittenfeld had brought up some harmless old joke.

“Oberstein? Oh, sure, I remember. Strange guy. Always serious, quiet, a total buzzkill. Never wanted to join in anything. Just buried his nose in books.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I always thought Oberstein would grow up to be exactly the way he is now. Cold, all about work, doesn’t know how to take a joke. Some people, you can just tell what their whole life’s gonna be like from one look.”

Bittenfeld’s fingers tightened around his wine glass. His heart pounded in his chest.

The man spoke Oberstein’s name without a shred of tension. As if he were reminiscing about some quirky old classmate. As if there had never been any incident where Oberstein had reported him for misconduct and been kicked out of the dorm as a result.

He didn’t remember at all.

Or worse, he’d never considered it important to begin with.

Bittenfeld’s stomach twisted with a nameless emotion.

“You ever speak to Minister Oberstein these days?” he asked.

The nobleman chuckled. “No, why would I? Sure, I supply to the military, but mostly through the offices and staff. We don’t really keep in touch. Didn’t have much in common back in school either. I doubt Minister Oberstein even remembers me.”

Bittenfeld’s grip clenched tighter. He had to force himself not to explode.

Because the man in front of him—the one laughing, drinking, standing under shimmering chandeliers—was part of something that had taken something away from Oberstein.

There was no proof. But something in Bittenfeld’s gut told him this was true.

And although Reinhard had scolded him many times for relying on instinct, Bittenfeld trusted his gut more than anything.

This man had been part of an incident that forced a child to file a report, and be punished for it.

And worse, that child had learned an early lesson in what life had in store for him: no one would care about his pain, his discomfort, or his exhaustion. His voice would not be heard, no matter how loudly he spoke.

And now this bastard still stood here, still smiling, still carefree. As if nothing had ever happened. As if Oberstein had never existed.

“So, about that dorm incident from back then…”

Bittenfeld stepped forward, fists clenched. But then…

“Admiral.”

A low, familiar voice cut through the air. Bittenfeld turned, his stomach still churning from rage.

And there, at the entrance, stood Oberstein.

***

The nobleman quickly shifted his attention to Oberstein as if Bittenfeld didn’t exist.

He smiled broadly.

“Minister! What an honor to see you here too. We were just reminiscing about our old school days. Hard to believe how long it’s been, huh?”

Bittenfeld held his breath, and felt even more disturbed.

The nobleman’s tone was that polished, fake familiarity Bittenfeld hated. But there wasn’t a shred of tension or caution. As if Oberstein was just some old acquaintance. Or more accurately, a person worth connecting with for business purposes.

Clearly, he’d either forgotten what had happened between them or had never thought it important to begin with. Just some childish spat not worth remembering.

But Oberstein’s reaction told Bittenfeld a different story.

Outwardly, his expression showed no change. Still blank, emotionless. His demeanor as he approached and shook the man’s hand remained composed and distant. But Bittenfeld, who had spent long enough by Oberstein’s side to catch his subtle shifts, saw something off.

Because for just a fleeting moment, when Oberstein’s gaze passed over Bittenfeld’s shoulder and landed on the man… He paused.

It was the tiniest hesitation, something no ordinary person would catch. But Bittenfeld saw it.

He saw the flicker in Oberstein’s eyes before they returned to their usual lifeless state. Saw the slight tension in his fingers before they uncurled to extend for a handshake. Saw the stiffness in his shoulders.

And Bittenfeld’s stomach sank.

Oberstein had recognized that man.

Bittenfeld’s fingers twitched, wanting to reach out, to grab Oberstein and pull him away. But then Oberstein acted first.

“Admiral, His Majesty wishes to see you. There’s an important and urgent meeting. We need to leave now.”

“I understand,” Bittenfeld nodded.

And before Oberstein could say anything else, Bittenfeld reached out and took his hand. “Let’s go.”

Oberstein’s artificial eyes widened slightly. It seemed the move had caught him off guard. Bittenfeld suddenly became aware of what he was doing—especially when he noticed the eyes around them…

But it was too late to let go.

“Admiral…” Oberstein blinked, tilting his head slightly.

“Come on. You said it was urgent,” Bittenfeld said, voice sharp as a blade.

Oberstein looked at him. His expression unchanged. Then, in that familiar empty voice, he said, “Understood.”

And they walked out together. Neither of them looked back. Even as they reached the car, Bittenfeld never let go of Oberstein’s hand.

It was cold.

Even through the glove, it felt colder than he remembered.

***

They went through a silent car ride. Endured a tense meeting with Reinhard. And when they left the conference room half an hour later, walking down the quiet hallway back to the officers’ quarters, Oberstein suddenly asked:

“Admiral, why did you go to that party?”

Bittenfeld tensed. Then frowned instinctively.

“Why? Am I not allowed to go to parties?”

“You looked into my past, didn’t you?”

Bittenfeld flinched. His heart pounded in his chest.

Oberstein didn’t look up, just kept walking.

It wasn’t a question, or even a probe. It was a statement.

Bittenfeld clenched his fists. For a second, he considered lying. Making a joke to deflect, to avoid the topic, saying something like, “I feel like partying every now and then.”

But that was pointless. Oberstein knew exactly the kind of parties Bittenfeld liked and this hadn’t been it. He also knew Bittenfeld had no official duties at that event. He knew Bittenfeld despised fake-smiling aristocrats like that man. Knew that Bittenfeld wouldn’t go near someone like that unless someone had a gun to his head.

And yet, Bittenfeld had done all of it.

There was no reasonable explanation… except that Bittenfeld had gone there to see that man.

And the only thing connecting them… was Oberstein’s past.

So Bittenfeld couldn’t lie. Couldn’t make excuses. He simply exhaled, and muttered,

“Yeah. I did.”

At last, Oberstein looked up at him. His artificial eyes were as cold and emotionless as always. But there was—maybe—just a trace of… weariness. Or maybe it was just the lighting in the hallway.

Still, there wasn’t a hint of surprise.

“I see.”

That was all Oberstein said.

No accusation. No demand for an explanation. No reproach for Bittenfeld digging into something so personal.

Bittenfeld didn’t know what to say.

He had prepared for a fight, for Oberstein to scold him, to coldly tell him to stay out of other people’s business. But the calmness—so eerily calm—caught him off guard.

And he couldn’t bear it.

As usual, when Bittenfeld couldn’t make sense of his emotions, it came out as anger.

“Tch. You’re not even going to ask why I did it?”

Oberstein kept walking. He tilted his head slightly, as if that was an odd question.

“I can guess. Admiral, you must have been curious about something that happened during my middle school years.”

Bittenfeld clicked his tongue in frustration. Curious wasn’t the word he wanted to use at all.

“But I think you needn’t waste your time, Admiral.”

Oberstein continued.

“It was just a school matter. It has no significance.”

And that sentence…

Was what made Bittenfeld snap.

“No significance my ass!”

Bittenfeld came to a sudden stop in the hallway. His voice, sharp and furious, tore through the air like a gash.

Oberstein flinched, something incredibly rare for the ever-calm minister, and he stopped walking too.

Bittenfeld was breathing hard, fists clenched. His anger teetered on the edge of losing control. But when he saw the wariness on Oberstein’s face, he forced himself to pull back, stepping away to put some space between them, rubbing his forehead.

“If it meant nothing, then why did you act like that! You shook hands with that bastard like it was nothing! But I saw—I know that wasn’t it!” His voice was hoarse and rough. “You just wanted to get the hell out of there, didn’t you?! Paul! And yet you still shook his hand!”

Oberstein didn’t blink.

The tension in his face lessened slightly when Bittenfeld stepped back, but didn’t vanish.

Then he straightened, looked directly at Bittenfeld, and after a pause, spoke.

“He’s an important partner in current military strategy. The event had many influential figures in attendance.”

Another pause.

“This is how the world works, Admiral.”

Something cracked inside Bittenfeld.

“Not everyone’s like that! Just you!”

“You’re the same, Admiral,” Oberstein said, unblinking. “Do you not remember? You’ve said many times before that you wanted to strangle me. That you couldn’t stand someone like me existing among your ranks. And yet, you have not strangled me yet. You’ve endured me all this time for the sake of our shared mission.This is no different.”

Silence.

A heavy, suffocating silence.

Bittenfeld’s anger collapsed all at once. And in its place was something twisting and far more painful. Like a blade slowly turning in his chest.

His eyes burned. Bittenfeld didn’t cry. Crying was a ridiculous thing—not for an overwhelming Alpha like him. And yet he couldn’t deny the raw, searing pain that rose to his throat, threatening to choke him.

Endure.

Was that how Oberstein saw their relationship?

As mutual endurance.

Like the way he had moved through his whole life, always knowing that no one, perhaps nothing (except a dog), would ever fully accept him.

Was that how Oberstein still saw it, even now?

Did he lie next to Bittenfeld every night still believing that this man might, in some other circumstance, if the situation allowed… would strangle him out of disgust?

No.

This wasn’t normal.This was not how a person should have to live.

Bittenfeld took a deep breath.

His head throbbed, temples pulsing. Continuing this conversation right now would do no good. He didn’t want to lose control again and lash out at Oberstein physically like he had once before.

After a while, when his breathing had steadied, Bittenfeld spoke: “...Let’s go home. Anything left in the fridge? I’m starving.”

He’d barely eaten a thing at that damned party.

Oberstein’s eyes widened slightly. But then he just nodded and replied:

“There’s some sausages and eggs in the fridge. And chicken.”

“What, you feeding me Fritz’s leftovers?” Bittenfeld muttered as they began walking again.

“Admiral, you usually don’t complain.”

They walked together. Back to a home where the old dog waited. A quiet dinner. And a night of sleep beside one another, as usual.As if nothing had happened.

But the unease in Bittenfeld never truly faded.

He knew this wasn’t over.

Things weren’t going to end this easily.

Chapter Text

17.

The next day, Bittenfeld went to work.

He sensed something was off. And by mid-morning, he realized it was the way people were looking at him. The way they seemed to whisper behind his back but fell silent every time he passed by. From bits of hushed conversation, he realized…

They were talking about him and Oberstein.

About them holding hands last night. About how he had held Oberstein’s hand tightly and didn’t let go as they left the party together. Mittermeyer and Müller looked at him, bewildered, as if wondering whether he had lost his mind or whether they could believe what they’d heard. Reuenthal merely sneered. Bittenfeld remembered now that Reuenthal had been present at the party. Maybe hating Oberstein almost as much as Bittenfeld once did, Reuenthal must’ve been the one to spread the rumor among the other officers.

Near the end of the morning, Müller came to see Bittenfeld. His face was full of concern, and in a low voice, he asked:

“Bittenfeld, about you and... Oberstein last night at the party…”

“... Later. It’s almost time for the meeting.” Bittenfeld cut him off and quickened his pace.

Yes, they had a strategic meeting coming up. But really, Bittenfeld was trying to avoid the confrontation.

It was true: he had held Oberstein’s hand last night. He had felt that Oberstein needed it, and he had acted on instinct. But now, with the moment passed and the weight of everyone’s gazes bearing down on him, Bittenfeld began to question it...

What if things continued like this, and people stopped approaching him?

Bittenfeld was a man of camaraderie, of noisy team spirit and crowds. He didn’t know if he could stand it if everything around him suddenly fell silent—the way the meeting room always did when Oberstein entered.

Enough. He shook the thoughts away and rubbed his forehead with a sigh. Without thinking, he moved his seat to the far end of the table, further from Oberstein than usual. Whether or not the Minister noticed this, he didn’t show it. His gaze never turned toward Bittenfeld. He only continued reviewing reports, documents, and strategic screens as usual.

But something about Oberstein still felt… off. A silent tension cloaked his normally composed presence. And maybe only Bittenfeld could notice it.

What’s going on?

Bittenfeld wondered whether it was about the previous night. But he felt it wasn’t that. Not only that.

And Bittenfeld realized: This conference room… wasn’t their usual one.

***

Yes. This wasn’t their usual meeting room.

A technical issue had forced them to relocate to a smaller conference space. And during the meeting, the ventilation system wasn’t functioning properly, making the air feel stuffy and warm.

It wasn’t unbearable. For Bittenfeld and most admirals, used to much harsher conditions, it was nothing. Rearranging everything again would be inconvenient and waste time. Practical as always, Oberstein had agreed to stay, just to finish the meeting on schedule.

But when Bittenfeld glanced over at Oberstein… He realized things weren’t so simple.

Something wasn’t right.

Outwardly, Oberstein was calm, expressionless as always. Posture perfect. Hands folded neatly on the table in front of him. To anyone else, he looked completely normal.

But Bittenfeld could see Oberstein’s fingers tightening slightly. Saw the tension in his shoulders.
Noticed his breathing was just a little too slow, like he was consciously controlling it. Something was wrong. And Bittenfeld didn’t like it.

What he hated most was that Oberstein didn’t say a word. The meeting dragged on. The heat rose. The scent of too many Alphas in one enclosed space became thick and stifling. A typical problem when senior officers gathered. After all, most of the military’s upper ranks were Alphas and their scent usually wasn’t an issue for other Alphas.

But Oberstein wasn’t a typical Alpha. Without a scent of his own, Oberstein could be overwhelmed by an Alpha who deliberately tried to dominate him. Bittenfeld himself had once done this, during one of their earlier conflicts, using scent to “punish” him.

Usually, working alongside the admirals, Oberstein never showed any sign of this. He must have been taking suppressants or simply enduring through sheer cold willpower.

But today was different.

Bittenfeld saw the signs worsening. Oberstein’s skin had gone pale—not his usual pallor, but a sickly, chalk-white hue. His breathing was too slow, too careful. His hands were no longer moving. His knuckles had turned white from gripping the table for too long.

Bittenfeld’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t the usual discomfort that Oberstein silently ignored. This was something else. A silent struggle. And of course no one else noticed. Of course not. Because Oberstein was Oberstein. And Bittenfeld hated that. Hated how Oberstein pretended his body wasn’t betraying him. Hated how no one else saw it. Hated how only he could see it.

When the meeting finally ended, Oberstein stood immediately and left the room at a brisk pace. It looked like his usual robotic efficiency—moving swiftly to the next task.

Without hesitation, Bittenfeld stood up and followed. He heard whispers behind him. He thought he caught Müller’s worried voice calling out. But Bittenfeld was already overwhelmed with concern. And Bittenfeld being Bittenfeld, he knew multitasking was not his strength.

He had only one focus now: Not letting Oberstein walk away alone, not when he was clearly on the verge of collapse.

***

They walked down the hallway. Oberstein kept his head down, never once looking back. It wasn’t clear whether he realized Bittenfeld was following him. And when they entered Oberstein’s private office—no one else around—his foot faltered slightly.

Bittenfeld saw Oberstein’s shoulder stiffen. The already pale complexion of his skin now turned ashen under the cold glow of fluorescent lights.

And then…

“Paul!”

Bittenfeld caught Oberstein just in time before he collapsed to the floor.

“Can you stand? Let me call someone…”

Bittenfeld started to get up to fetch help. But Oberstein clutched his sleeve.

“Unnecessary.”

Eyes closed, breathing labored—so different from his usual robotic stiffness—the Minister spoke.

“It’s not serious. It will pass soon.”

Oberstein’s body trembled slightly, just enough for Bittenfeld to feel it clearly. He offered no explanation for collapsing in his own office. Propping himself up, Oberstein pressed one hand to his forehead, body rigid as though resisting the very concept that he needed help.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Bittenfeld snapped irritably. “Don’t give me that crap! You’re clearly not fine! I’m calling someone… ”

“Unnecessary.” Oberstein’s voice had weakened, but it was still maddeningly calm.

Bittenfeld gritted his teeth. It had been a long time since he’d felt this angry. But before he could launch into a full-blown argument, Oberstein suddenly stood and shoved open the adjacent restroom door next to the office.

Bittenfeld rushed in after him.

Just as he entered, Oberstein doubled over in pain, then staggered toward the sink. Before Bittenfeld could react, Oberstein collapsed over the basin, vomiting violently.

It was truly awful.

And strange.

And upsetting—because Bittenfeld had no idea what to do in this situation.

His first instinct was to leave Oberstein and run down the hall to find someone, anyone, to assess how serious the problem was. But he hesitated. Because even like this, Oberstein seemed determined not to show weakness in front of others.

There was something about that stance—admirable, but also heartbreaking—that made Bittenfeld stop in his tracks. He, a man of brute strength who always acted before thinking, now didn’t even know whether he should approach Oberstein. So he stood there, frozen at the doorway.

After a while, the vomiting subsided.

Oberstein didn’t panic. He didn’t groan. He did nothing but breathe slowly, gripping the edge of the sink so tightly that his pale fingers trembled, threatening to snap. His artificial eyes stared into the mirror—like he had completely forgotten Bittenfeld was there.

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Oberstein turned on the tap, washed his face, rinsed his mouth, and walked out.

Bittenfeld stood there, tense and helpless. He didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know how to handle someone like Oberstein—someone who had collapsed a moment ago and now behaved like nothing had happened.

Silently, Bittenfeld took out some tissues and handed them to Oberstein. Without hesitation, Oberstein accepted them, wiped his face and the water from his sleeves. His posture remained straight—as if he had just come back from a standard exercise drill, not a sudden breakdown. His expression returned to its usual state. Calm. Controlled. No trace left behind.

“Admiral, you can return to your work. I have other things to handle.”

Oberstein walked past Bittenfeld as if nothing of significance had occurred.

Bittenfeld stared after him. His fists clenched. He quickened his pace to catch up and snapped:

“Continue? You just collapsed! And now you're going back to work without a medical check? What if it’s something serious?!”

Oberstein tilted his head slightly.

“It’s not serious. I’ve experienced this a few times before. It has already passed—there’s nothing to worry about.”

He’s experienced this before?

That answer alarmed Bittenfeld even more, not less. Refusing to leave, he stepped closer and asked: “What’s wrong with you?”

Oberstein had already sat down at his desk. He didn’t look at Bittenfeld. He didn’t blink. He simply replied in his usual flat, detached tone, eyes on the report:

“Nothing.”

Bittenfeld clenched his jaw. His vision turned red with frustration. And suddenly, he slammed his hand down on the desk.

A thunderous noise echoed through the room.

The impact was so strong that everything on the desk bounced, shifting out of place. Oberstein looked up at him. The Minister said nothing. He seemed too exhausted by what had just happened to muster any response.

In that moment, Bittenfeld regretted it. He shouldn't have lost it like that. He shouldn't have exploded. But it was done now. He bit his lip, forcing himself to focus on the immediate problem.

“Don’t give me that tone. You look like you’re about to pass out. Paul—what the hell is wrong with you?”

Oberstein exhaled slowly. His shoulders stiffened. He seemed even more tense than before. Then, as if stating a dull, unimportant fact, he answered:

“The temperature and conditions of the room affected me more than I expected.”

Bittenfeld frowned.

“What do you mean?”

A brief pause. A moment that felt far too unusual. Though Oberstein’s voice remained as calm as ever:

“It was simply a biological reaction.”

Bittenfeld held his breath. That wasn’t nothing. He could tell Oberstein was downplaying something serious.

“...Why?”

Bittenfeld pressed.

Sure, the room had been hot, and he could guess the scent of too many Alphas was uncomfortable for someone like Oberstein. But no one had actively attacked him with scent. His reaction didn’t seem normal—did it?

Oberstein stayed silent. Which only made Bittenfeld more convinced something serious was being hidden. And then, once again, Oberstein gave the same familiar line:

“It’s not important.”

Bittenfeld clenched his fists.

“It is important. You just don’t want to tell me.”

Oberstein looked up at him.

“Admiral… I don’t see any benefit in doing so—for either of us.”

Because that was Oberstein’s goddamn problem. Always benefit. Always efficiency. Always the job. He treated everyone—including himself—like a machine. As long as he wasn’t dead, there was no need for concern. As long as he could still stand, then nothing was wrong. A man more ruthless with himself than with anyone else.

Bittenfeld gritted his teeth, trying to swallow down the rage rising in his chest. He couldn’t take it anymore. But Oberstein had already begun adjusting his uniform, smoothing out every wrinkle, erasing all signs of weakness, preparing to return to work like nothing had happened.

Bittenfeld knew he couldn’t stop him. Forcing Oberstein to rest would be useless. And he didn’t want to push Oberstein to speak, either. Not after seeing how the man reacted to that outburst earlier.

So instead, Bittenfeld did something else—

He bent down and took the Minister’s cold hand in his.

Oberstein froze. Bittenfeld didn’t look at him. Didn’t say anything right away. He just held that hand tighter.

“I won’t force you to talk. I know you still have things you want to hide… and that’s your right. But…” Bittenfeld lowered his head, speaking softly. “Don’t push yourself to this point without saying a word to anyone.”

At last, he looked up at Oberstein. And saw something flicker in those artificial eyes. Something unguarded. Something that said Oberstein hadn’t expected this.

And Bittenfeld finished, voice hoarse, thick with an emotion he didn’t dare name:

“You’re not living alone anymore. Got it?”

Oberstein didn’t reply right away. But he didn’t pull his hand away either. He only stared at Bittenfeld, long enough for Bittenfeld to almost regret saying it.

Then finally, Oberstein simply responded.

“Got it.”

***

That afternoon, Bittenfeld came home late due to a fleet training session. When he returned, he happened upon a strange scene.

Oberstein was asleep on the sofa.

His hair was still slightly damp. He had changed into his loungewear. It was clear Oberstein had just taken a shower. A file folder rested by his hand. Perhaps Oberstein had intended to return to work, but was too exhausted and fell asleep on the couch.

Fritz (the dog) came over, rubbing his head against Bittenfeld’s trouser leg. Was he hungry? Bittenfeld walked into the kitchen, reheated the stew Oberstein had prepared for him, and poured it into the dog’s dish. But Fritz just looked at him, then turned his head back toward Oberstein. Bittenfeld suddenly understood. The dog was worried.

Sighing, Bittenfeld patted Fritz on the head and said, “Got it, nothing to worry about. I’m here now.”

As he spoke, he thought how ironic it was — Bittenfeld himself used to grumble about how Oberstein only talked to the dog. Maybe after living with Oberstein for this long, his brain was getting weird too. Who knows, maybe sometime soon, he’d be the one talking to the dog at night.

Just then, Bittenfeld heard the comm device ringing. He hurried to silence it before it could wake Oberstein and stepped back into the kitchen. On the other end was Müller. After a few lines of small talk, Müller suddenly fell quiet, then asked hesitantly:

“Are you doing okay lately?”

“Me? What’s wrong with me?” Bittenfeld responded, confused.

The line went quiet again. And then Müller said:

“Bittenfeld, people are talking. About you and Oberstein… lately.”

Bitenfld bit his lip. A heavy feeling dropped in his chest. Just as he expected. People were gossiping. Probably because of the hand-holding at the party that night. And after what happened following today’s meeting.

Müller — one of the few who was close to Bittenfeld and knew about what really happened between him and Oberstein — said quickly:

“Reuenthal and some others are starting to wonder... I know you’re the type who likes adventure, or… a taste of something exotic. But Bittenfeld, you should be more careful. If people think you’re… getting too close to that guy Oberstein, it won’t be good for your reputation.”

“Got it, thanks. I’ll keep it in mind,” Bittenfeld replied curtly and ended the call.

He was irritated and just wanted to end the conversation as quickly as possible — partly because he was annoyed, and partly because he wanted to go back to the one sleeping on the sofa.

But as he stepped out of the kitchen, Bittenfeld froze. Only now, after ending the call, did he fully understand what Müller — and everyone else — was really thinking.

“You like adventure. You like exotic tastes.”

They were thinking Oberstein was just a passing amusement — a risky fling. A bold little experiment for Bittenfeld. Like trying some weird, exotic dish just to brag about it to friends later. Like how Alphas often boast about their conquests to prove their manhood.

Bittenfeld’s first reaction was anger.

How could Müller think something like that?

Then another thought — colder, and tighter — gripped his chest.

What if... Oberstein always thought that, too?

Because Bittenfeld had never given him a reason to think otherwise. Looking back, Bittenfeld’s behavior… kind of did look like that. He could hold Oberstein in the dark — but had once mocked him loudly, even boasted to others about how submissive and “desperate” Oberstein supposedly was in bed.

Maybe Oberstein had always believed that.

That what happened between them — the nights together, the times Bittenfeld held him — were just part of some Alpha curiosity, or a momentary thrill.

Like someone forcing themselves to try a rare fruit with a bad smell… just to say they had.

The thought paralyzed Bittenfeld. Fritz nudged his leg, but Bittenfeld said nothing — just stood there, mouth agape.

If that were true…

If that were true, then Oberstein’s emotional distance, even after all this time — even after they’d shared a bed for so long — would make perfect sense.

He still expected it. Still believed that one day, when Bittenfeld’s curiosity wore off, he’d go back to being cold, dismissive. He fully expected to be abandoned, rejected, mocked — even strangled.

But for Oberstein, perhaps… even that was a minor matter. Even his own safety was small in comparison to the ability to get up, go to work, and function the next day. Bittenfeld’s tenderness or cruelty — to Oberstein, it probably didn’t make much difference at all.

Was that really it?

Was it really that sad?

Bittenfeld jolted. And then, in a sudden movement that startled Fritz, he strode into the living room.

Oberstein was still asleep, eyes closed. For some reason, Bittenfeld’s anger faded.

He sighed, bent down, and lifted the minister into his arms. And carried him to bed.

Though Oberstein was tall, he felt lighter than Bittenfeld expected.

Bittenfeld laid him down on the bed and got in beside him. As Bittenfeld pulled the blanket over Oberstein, the minister stirred for a moment. He blinked toward Bittenfeld, seemingly not yet fully aware of what was happening. Or perhaps his artificial eyes just hadn’t adjusted focus yet…

“Go back to sleep…” Bittenfeld whispered softly, brushing the hair from Oberstein’s temple. “You’ve probably been tired these past few days. Whatever work you have can wait.”

Those unfocused eyes kept staring at him. Then closed again. And this time, he slipped back into sleep.

Only Bittenfeld remained awake. He watched Oberstein lying there. And something slow and warm — and painful — spread through his chest.

Why? Bittenfeld asked himself. Why do I feel this way? Why does looking at this face make me feel like this?

If it wasn’t a passing thrill...

If it wasn’t curiosity, or Alpha instinct chasing something novel...

Then what was it, that kept pulling him back to this man?

Why did he feel so frustrated whenever Oberstein built walls around himself?

Why did he get so furious at the smug face of the nobleman who might’ve wronged him in the past?

Why did he feel rage at the whispered words of others?

And why — why did a rare smile from Oberstein, or the soft way he pet Fritz’s head — still haunt Bittenfeld’s mind long after they’d passed?

Bittenfeld stopped moving.

His hands froze in Oberstein’s hair. His eyes went wide.

Yes.

The answer was simple.

He liked seeing Oberstein smile.

He liked touching this man’s hair.

He loved those quiet dinners, those silent nighttime walks they shared.

It was simple. Undeniable. And there was no reason to deny it anymore.

He was in love with Paul von Oberstein.

Chapter Text

18

A few days later, Bittenfeld met that nobleman again at an event.

As the man walked past Bittenfeld to greet someone else, the tip of his shoe brushed against Bittenfeld’s foot for a moment. The noble glanced over, gave a polite smile, and apologized. Normally, Bittenfeld should have just nodded and let it go. The noble thought so, and so did everyone else there.

But Bittenfeld only smirked.

“No need to apologize. I’m not letting it go.”

Then, to everyone’s astonishment, Bittenfeld swung his arm and landed a thunderous punch on the nobleman’s jaw.

***

Reinhard’s anger afterward… was something to behold.

“Have you lost your mind, Bittenfeld? Or are you even stupider than I thought?”

Hilda, on the other hand, seemed doubtful.

“Was it really just because… he brushed against you by accident, Admiral?”

Standing before Reinhard and Hilda, Bittenfeld puffed out his chest and insisted, “That’s all there is to it, I’m sorry.”

Reinhard promptly threw Bittenfeld out of his office, probably sick of dealing with him. He would be disciplined and have his pay cut for a few months. Bittenfeld sighed. He’d have to cut back on expenses. Still, he felt much better after landing that punch.

No one knew the real reason. Everyone assumed Bittenfeld had drunk too much again, or simply acted on impulse as usual. After all, he was infamous for leaping before he looked. And yet…

Oberstein had silently watched him for a long time. Without saying a word.

Bittenfeld didn’t explain his actions either. The truth was, lately he found it harder to talk to Oberstein—ever since he had realized… his feelings.

Bittenfeld suddenly felt embarrassed.

Ridiculous. They weren’t high school kids anymore. But once he understood, Bittenfeld found his ears burning whenever he thought about saying anything to Oberstein, even something as mundane as “Fritz is running out of chicken” or “The water bill’s high this month, isn’t it?”

Oberstein never spoke unless Bittenfeld did first. So a strange silence always hung over the room.

Until one evening a week later, when they walked together after dinner…

Oberstein was sitting on a bench, his dog Fritz curled up beside him, his pale fingers absently stroking the soft fur. It was one of those rare moments when Oberstein looked… almost ordinary.

Not the cold, untouchable Minister of War. Not the man everyone feared and despised. Just someone sitting with his dog under the moonlight.

Bittenfeld sat down beside him, whistling a march tune. But said nothing.

The dog yawned and stretched lazily. Oberstein kept petting it, his gaze distant, calm, as always.

Bittenfeld sighed, running his hand through his hair. His mind still lingered on the image from the other day in the conference room—Oberstein collapsing yet acting as if nothing had happened. The fact that if Bittenfeld hadn’t been there, no one would have noticed at all.

He wanted to say something. That Oberstein shouldn’t keep living like this. But before he could speak, Oberstein broke the silence.

“Admiral, why did you hit him?”

Bittenfeld turned to look at Oberstein, but the other man didn’t look back. He kept stroking the dog, calm to the point of irritation, as if he’d just asked about the weather.

Bittenfeld swallowed.

“Pft. Just like they said. I’m just a hothead, that’s all.”

“No. You’re not like that.”

Still bowing his head, Oberstein quietly continued:

“Admiral, I know you act on impulse and are driven by emotion. But usually you act with a clear reason. This time wasn’t like that.”

Bittenfeld blinked. Was Oberstein… praising him? No, no—just another objective observation, as always.

“Tch.” Bittenfeld scratched his head. “You’re right. I didn’t hit him just because of something that petty. I hit him because he got under my skin. Because he’s still living happily, carefree… after what he did to you.”

It was as simple as that.

He couldn’t stand that smug smile. Couldn’t stand how the man seemed to have forgotten everything, as if the past hadn’t left a mark on him at all. The exact opposite of Oberstein.

“Admiral, do you realize you’re crossing a line?” Oberstein said. “You don’t even know what really happened. Perhaps I was at fault. Or perhaps it was nothing more than childish nonsense, not worth caring about. You don’t even know how I see it.”

But Oberstein wasn’t acting like it didn’t matter.

Even if he hid it, Bittenfeld knew. Still, he muttered and looked away. “I know. I’m sorry. I just wanted to hit him.”

Oberstein was silent for a while.

“It’s all right.”

Bittenfeld looked up. “What?”

Oberstein’s expression didn’t change. His voice was steady, cold, unnervingly so.

“It’s understandable you’d be curious. And when you don’t know the facts, it’s easy to act on instinct.”

Bittenfeld ground his teeth.

“It wasn’t just curiosity…”

But Oberstein went on, cutting off Bittenfeld’s irritation with that infuriatingly calm tone:

“To save you the trouble of digging further—or being misled—I’ll tell you outright what happened.”

Bittenfeld held his breath. Oberstein finally turned, meeting his eyes. His face was as cold as ever. But Bittenfeld could sense…

Something heavy.

Something buried so deep even Oberstein couldn’t erase it completely.

The dog sighed softly, nuzzling Oberstein’s leg. His pale fingers kept moving absently through the fur. Then, with the same icy precision he applied to everything, Oberstein spoke:

“It happened when I was thirteen.”

And in that moment, Bittenfeld knew… this would not be an easy story to hear..

***

Oberstein’s voice was steady. Too steady. Cold, precise—like he was reading a tactical report, not recounting his own life.

“It was during the holiday. Most students had gone home. I stayed in the dormitory. When I returned to my room that evening, I noticed the smell was too strong.”

Bittenfeld frowned. A sickening premonition hit him. His fist clenched against his knee. He knew what that meant.

At the boarding school, students were divided by whether they were alphas. Oberstein must have been assigned to a group of upper-class alphas—even if he was a defective alpha, one without a scent.

And it wasn’t rare for young alphas to enter their developmental stage while still in the dorms.

Bittenfeld knew what that implied.

Oberstein continued.

“The school had strict regulations. Anyone affected had to take suppressants. But the boys in my room weren’t exactly obedient.”

A brief hesitation.

“They hated the pills. Said they made them weak. That suppressants undermined an alpha’s pride. So they chose not to take them.”

Another pause. Bittenfeld’s hand clenched so hard it hurt.

“I meant to walk back out, maybe return to the library. Or report it to the dorm supervisor. But they locked the door.”

Bittenfeld nearly leapt to his feet right then. But he didn’t—because Oberstein hadn’t stopped speaking.

Sensing his fear, Oberstein glanced at him, stayed silent for a moment, then said:

“Admiral, it’s not what you think. Nothing… excessive happened. They only enjoyed using their scent to dominate me.”

Bittenfeld ground his teeth. He trusted Oberstein wasn’t lying. But he also didn’t know what Oberstein considered “excessive.”

“You see, my body has no scent. So I have no defense against other alphas. It’s easy for me to be overwhelmed if they deliberately corner me… Just as you did once before, Admiral.”

Bittenfeld clenched harder. Without gloves, he thought his hand would have broken skin.

“They liked watching it. A pastime for upperclassmen to amuse themselves in the dorm, since no girls were allowed inside.”

…

“Afterward, I filed a report.”

And that was when things got worse. The part that made Bittenfeld’s stomach knot so tight he couldn’t breathe.

“It was dismissed. No investigation was carried out.”

Because it was Oberstein. Because he was alone.

A boy on the margins. Blind, ignored, eccentric, without friends. A perfect victim for a system too lazy, too rotten, too indifferent to care.

Bittenfeld’s hands shook. He could hear his own breathing.

But Oberstein just sat there, calm, cold—as if recounting another man’s life. As if those things had happened to someone who no longer existed.

And Bittenfeld couldn’t bear it.

He couldn’t accept that Oberstein wasn’t angry. Because if Bittenfeld didn’t rage—

Who else would rage for him?

***

Silence stretched on. For a long while, no one spoke.

The dog stirred faintly, pressing closer to Oberstein’s leg, sensing the tension. Oberstein’s hand kept stroking its fur, steady, slow, as if nothing had happened.

As if he had just told Bittenfeld something mildly inconvenient. As if the whole story were just a trivial footnote in his life.

Bittenfeld exhaled, ragged, choked. There was too much he wanted to say. But nothing felt enough.

“Why didn’t anyone help you?”

Oberstein didn’t even turn to him.

“It was the holiday. Most students had gone home. Only those with failed classes or make-up exams remained.”

“Then why were you still there?” Bittenfeld growled, frowning. “Paul, you’re smart. It couldn’t have been because of a retest.”

And for the first time since this conversation began, Oberstein faltered.

Just for a second.

Then, in his usual flat, emotionless tone:

“My family didn’t want me home. So I usually stayed at the boarding school during holidays. It was quieter, easier to study. If I returned, it would only make the atmosphere at home uncomfortable, and I couldn’t focus anyway.”

“Bullshit.” Bittenfeld’s voice cracked, hoarse, trembling with something he couldn’t restrain.

But Oberstein cut him off.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Final. As though he had accepted it long ago. Because the moment Oberstein desired anything… he was confronted with everything he had already lost.

Bittenfeld bowed his head. He wanted to get up, to strangle the boys in that story—or Oberstein’s cold father—right then and there. But he forced himself to stay seated, and asked:

“What happened afterward?”

“I was transferred to another room and warned not to speak of it, lest the school’s reputation be damaged. But nothing stopped those boys from seeking me out, or entering my room after class. So even after the transfer, they continued for a while. Since they weren’t disciplined, they had no fear. They said they’d crush my artificial eye if I made noise or tried to avoid them.”

Bittenfeld’s stomach twisted.

But Oberstein didn’t stop. He didn’t seem to notice that Bittenfeld’s breathing was uneven, that his hands were clenched so hard against his knees it was all he could do not to leap up.

“If I fell, they laughed. If I reacted, they laughed even louder.”

Bittenfeld’s breath caught in his throat.

Thirteen years old. Scentless. An alpha who wasn’t truly an alpha.

Locked in a room with older boys, abandoned because no one cared about a useless child his family was already ready to throw away.

“They kept at it for months,” Oberstein said, voice unchanging. “And eventually, they got bored.”

His fingers moved absently through the dog’s fur, slow, steady, like a repeated habit.

“Some of them got girlfriends outside the school and found other distractions. Then they graduated and moved on to the senior dormitories.”

His voice never shifted. As if to Oberstein, it was nothing but a series of events.

Something that happened. Was finished. With no reason to revisit.

And Bittenfeld wanted to scream.

Because this wasn’t normal. It should never have been told in a voice that made it sound like nothing more than a nuisance. Yet Oberstein spoke as if it had been a temporary irritation, something to endure and then leave behind.

“You…” Bittenfeld’s voice cracked before it could grow firm. “You can’t just—”

“The rest, I think you has already figured out.”

The finality in Oberstein’s tone made Bittenfeld’s gut twist.

“I don’t think about it anymore.”

Bittenfeld stared at him. He wanted to say something, anything—but sat frozen, wooden. Oberstein went on.

“After His Majesty took over the Empire, I oversaw reforms to the school system. The complaint procedures were changed. No student will be expelled for filing a report in such cases. And things like that will not happen again.”

His fingers still moved, scratching lightly behind the dog’s ear, as if nothing serious had just been spoken.

“For me, it’s over. The problem has been resolved at the root.”

Finally, Oberstein turned, his face unchanged.

“So, Admiral. You don’t need to trouble yourself either.”

***

Bittenfeld felt as if someone had struck him straight in the face. His mind still burned, his chest still heaved with anger that refused to subside.

And yet Oberstein sat there, unmoving. As if it had all been just an incident—something tidy, efficiently handled. As if it had been processed. As if it had been fixed.

And for him, it truly had.

Oberstein’s enemy had never been people. It was the system. The system had been reformed. The mechanisms had changed. In Oberstein’s mind, there was nothing more to discuss.

And that was the fundamental difference between them, wasn’t it?

Because to Bittenfeld, nothing had been resolved. The injustice Oberstein had suffered had never been acknowledged, never compensated. That thirteen-year-old child had gained nothing from resisting the system.

And now Bittenfeld understood. Why that closed conference room had shaken Oberstein so deeply. Not just because of the heat, the stifling air, or the physiological reaction to the suffocating scent of alphas. But because that experience must have been far too much like the dormitory back then.

Far too much like what had once happened to Oberstein. Locked in a sealed room. Surrounded by alphas, their scent flooding the air, pressing into his lungs, forcing his body to react in ways he couldn’t control.

Bittenfeld felt his breath catch. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The most terrifying part of this realization was that he himself had done the same thing to Oberstein.

He remembered now. Every time he had pinned Oberstein down, surrounding him with his own scent, pressing in until that body could no longer resist. Until Oberstein couldn’t move, couldn’t fight back.

And every time, Oberstein had endured it. Because he had learned very early that resistance was meaningless.

Something shattered inside Bittenfeld.

Because he had never realized. Never once thought about why Oberstein hadn’t fought back, why he hadn’t reacted beyond what his body couldn’t hide. Never once asked why he had never said “no.”

Oberstein still sat there. Still stroking his dog, perfectly calm, utterly expressionless. As if that conversation had never taken place.

And Bittenfeld couldn’t move.

He couldn’t look at him.

Because now, every memory, every moment between them—every time he had pressed Oberstein down, smothered him with his scent, forced that body to respond on instinct—

All of it meant something different.

Oberstein had moved past it long ago. Had decided early on that this was simply how the world worked.

But Bittenfeld? He wasn’t sure he could move past it. Or forgive himself.

***

They walked home without a word.

The streets were quiet, broken only now and then by the passing of a soldier or the hum of an engine disrupting the stillness of the night. Inside Bittenfeld’s mind was a storm. Beside him, Oberstein walked as though nothing at all had changed.

But when they returned, just as Bittenfeld thought Oberstein would vanish back into his usual work, Oberstein suddenly turned his head.

Bittenfeld noticed how his fingers paused, just for a moment. As though he were hesitating before a major decision. A rare thing for Oberstein, who always seemed to know exactly what he wanted.

“Admiral, if I may ask one thing…”

“What is it?” Bittenfeld exhaled. He half-hoped Oberstein would tell him to go and wring someone’s neck. But he knew that would never happen.

Yet what Oberstein said next startled him even more.

“If you doesn’t mind, Admiral, tonight I would like to have sex with you.”