Chưa đặt tiêu đề 6
Charlie lay staring at the ceiling, the rhythmic, soft breathing of the man beside him filling the quiet room. He raised a hand, pressing his palm firmly against his face as the memories of a few hours ago flashed vividly behind his eyes.
He had devoured Babe. There was no other word for it. In the heat of the moment, the walls he had built around his heart hadn't crumbled, but he had certainly climbed over them, driven by a raw, primal hunger he couldn't suppress.
He had let his feelings take the driver's seat, and now, in the cold light of the early morning, he hated himself for it. He was supposed to be in control.
He was an Enigma, a Theerapanyakul—he wasn't supposed to let a "fantasy" feel this real.
Beside him, Babe stirred in his sleep, instinctively snuggling closer. The warmth of Babe's body seeped into Charlie's side, and he felt the gentle, firm curve of the baby bump pressing against his hip.
Charlie's gaze softened for a fleeting second. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he lightly caressed the swell of Babe's stomach. All of this is for you, my son, he thought.
Every calculation, every look, every moment of this forced proximity was to ensure the heir to his bloodline was safe.
Charlie looked up at Babe's face.
The older man was sleeping with a faint, serene smile gracing his lips—the kind of look Charlie hadn't seen on him since before the gala, before the accusations, before the world broke between them.
To anyone else, they would look like a perfect, reunited couple.
But Charlie wasn't happy.
He was acting. He was playing the part of the doting lover because that was the "fantasy" Babe had begged for.
Two weeks to be their old selves.
Two weeks of "Fake Love" domesticity and soft whispers. Babe was currently living in that dream, convinced that if he loved hard enough, the clock would reset.
Charlie's jaw tightened. He wouldn't let his heart be shattered twice.
The wounds from that night at the gala, the sting of being called a back-stabbing cheat in front of the world, seeing the love of his life kissing a man right in front of him, were still raw beneath the surface.
He had built high, thick walls of ice around his soul, and he wouldn't let the heat of a few hours of passion melt them.
He watched Babe's peaceful expression and felt a surge of bitterness. Babe seemed to think that the sex, the proximity, and the kindness meant everything was okay again.
You're dreaming, Babe, Charlie thought coldly, withdrawing his hand from the baby bump. You asked for a fantasy, and I'm giving it to you.
But fantasies end.
He realized then that he couldn't let Babe get too comfortable. If he let Babe believe this was forever, the crash at the end of the fourteen days would be even worse—for both of them. He needed to find a way to remind him.
Even if it was cruel, he had to make sure Babe knew that this was a temporary ceasefire, a bubble that was destined to burst.
He wasn't Charlie the "nerdy lover boy" anymore.
He was the Enigma who had been betrayed, and no amount of smiles in his sleep would change the fact that once the two weeks were up, the walls would stay standing.
The morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow over the bed. Babe stirred, his hand reaching out instinctively for the warmth beside him.
When his fingers met Charlie's skin, a wave of genuine, aching happiness washed over him.
Last night had been everything he had starved for. The intimacy, the way Charlie had finally let go and devoured him—it wasn't just about the physical act for Babe.
It was a reclamation.
In those hours of darkness, the walls had seemed to vanish, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Babe felt seen and wanted. He didn't regret a single second of it.
If anything, he was desperate for more, his heart pounding with the realisation of how much he still craved Charlie's touch, his scent, and the raw power of his presence.
But as Babe shifted to press his face into the crook of Charlie's neck, he felt it—the sudden, stiffening tension in Charlie's frame.
Babe looked up, his eyes searching Charlie's face, hoping to see a reflection of his own joy. Instead, he saw a man face-palming in silence, his jaw set in a hard line.
It was written all over Charlie's expression: regret, or was it REMORSE ..
The realisation hit Babe like a physical blow. Charlie wasn't savouring the memory; he was mourning his own loss of control.
The reminder of the "two-week limit" stung, but Babe's desperation was stronger than his pride. He couldn't afford to waste a single second on hurt feelings.
"Morning,"
Babe murmured, his voice thick with sleep and a lingering trace of the passion from the night before. He snuggled closer, his baby bump resting firmly against Charlie's side, trying to force a connection that Charlie seemed determined to sever.
He looked up, blinking his large eyes.
"Kiss me?" Babe whispered.
He tilted his head, practically demanding the affection he craved, trying to bridge the gap that Charlie's regret was creating.
"Just one. To start the day."
Charlie hesitated, his eyes clouded with a conflict that broke Babe's heart. With a silent, heavy sigh, Charlie leaned down and pressed a brief, dry kiss to Babe's forehead. It was a hollow gesture compared to the fire of the night before, but to Babe, it was a lifeline he refused to let go of.
"I'm hungry, Charlie,"
Babe said, trying to steer them back toward the "fantasy" of their old lives. He let a bit of his old, spoiled "racing legend" persona peek through.
"The baby wants something good. Can you cook for me? Like you used to? Those pancakes with the honey and fruit?"
Charlie sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist.
"I'll see what's in the kitchen," he said, his tone flat and disciplined.
"Stay for a minute more," Babe pleaded, grabbing Charlie's wrist.
His grip was tight, almost frantic.
"The two weeks just started, Charlie. Don't rush away. I want to be with you... Every second is valuable to me."
Babe's eyes were glassy. He knew Charlie felt like he had made a mistake by touching him. He knew Charlie was already mentally rebuilding the walls.
But Babe didn't care. He would take the regret, the coldness, and the acting, as long as it meant he didn't have to be alone. He would live in this beautiful, fragile lie for as long as the clock allowed.
Charlie moved through the kitchen with a precision that was almost painful to watch. He didn't fumble, he didn't hum, and he didn't look back at the table where Babe sat watching him. He was a machine, focused entirely on the batter he was whisking, but his rigid shoulders betrayed the tension he was fighting.
Babe leaned back in his chair, his silk robe loosely tied around his waist. As his pregnancy progressed, the silk felt better against his sensitive skin, but today, the loose fit served a secondary purpose.
Babe watched Charlie's back, a small, mischievous smirk playing on his lips. He knew Charlie's weaknesses—he had spent months cataloguing them during their time as lovers.
"You're using too much flour," Babe called out, his voice playful.
"The pancakes will be like rubber. My son deserves fluffy ones, Charlie."
Charlie's whisking hand paused for a fraction of a second.
"I know how to make pancakes, Babe. I've made them for you a hundred times."
"And a hundred times I've had to tell you that you over-mix the batter,"
Babe retorted, his eyes sparkling.
"You didn't even know how to make an omlet Babe ! " Charlie reminded making Babe shrugged his shoulders..
"Phi Alan was good at cooking, and even I can't make omlets I am good at supervising you.."
"It's a wonder you ever survived without me to make breakfast"Charlie muttered, though he subconsciously slowed his movements.
"I survived just fine," Babe teased.
"Liar," "You used to eat protein bars and cold coffee until I taught you what a real breakfast looked like." Charlie returned.
The memory hung in the air—mornings in their Kitchen , Babe barefoot and messy-haired, draped over Charlie's back while Charlie flipped eggs. It was a memory of a time when the only 'strategy' between them was who got the last piece of bacon.
Babe decided to turn up the heat. He shifted in his seat, deliberately letting the silk of his robe slide off one shoulder.
Because of the pregnancy, his skin had taken on a luminous, milky-white quality, and his chest had become more full, more sensitive. As the fabric dropped, it revealed the smooth expanse of his pale chest and a single, protruding rosy-colored nipple, standing firm against the cool morning air.
Babe knew exactly what this did to Charlie.
In the past, Charlie had been obsessed with Babe's chest. He remembered Charlie pinned between his legs, eyes glazed with heat, begging—literally begging—to be allowed to worship him there.
Charlie used to spend hours just kissing the slope of his pectorals, his tongue tracing the aureolas until Babe was breathless.
"Charlie, it's getting a bit warm in here, don't you think?" Babe asked innocently.
Charlie turned around to grab a plate, and his breath hitched. His eyes involuntarily dropped. He saw the milky skin, the contrast of the deep rose bud, and the way the robe clung to Babe's widening hips.
Charlie's throat went dry. He felt a familiar, treacherous heat coil in his gut.
His Enigma instincts, already heightened by the proximity of his mate and offspring, roared at him to drop the spatula, walk over, and take what was his. He remembered the taste of that skin—sweet and salty—and the way Babe would moan when Charlie's teeth grazed those sensitive points.
Babe noticed the way Charlie's knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the counter. He saw the way Charlie's pupils dilated, a "sneak peak" that lasted a second too long before Charlie forcefully snapped his gaze back to the stove.
"I... I'll turn the fan on," Charlie choked out, his voice an octave lower, rough with a desire he was desperately trying to crush.
"No need," Babe smirked, leaning forward so the robe dipped even lower, nearly exposing the other side. He watched with predatory delight as Charlie's ears turned red.
"Just bring the food. I'm feeling... very hungry this morning."
Charlie felt like he was walking through a minefield. Every time he glanced back to check the pancakes, his eyes were drawn like magnets to Babe's chest. He was becoming restless, his movements growing clumsy as he fought the urge to push Babe against the table and finish what his body was screaming for.
Babe leaned his chin on his hand, his eyes fixed on Charlie's flustered form. He was enjoying this. If he only had two weeks, he was going to use every weapon in his arsenal. If he couldn't break the wall with words, he would melt it with the very fire Charlie was trying so hard to extinguish.
"Charlie," Babe purred, watching a bead of sweat roll down Charlie's temple.
"You're burning the pancakes."
Charlie hissed, flipping a blackened pancake with more force than necessary. He was horny, frustrated, and drowning in the scent of a pregnant Alpha who knew exactly how to play him. The fantasy was only on day one, and Charlie already felt his resolve beginning to crumble under the weight of his own memories.
The smell of scorched batter finally became too much to ignore. Charlie hissed, scraping a blackened pancake off the pan with a frustrated clatter.
"Babe, for heaven's sake, sit properly!"
Charlie snapped, his voice cracking slightly. He turned around, intended to scold the man, but the words died in his throat.
Babe hadn't moved. In fact, he had leaned further back, the silk of his robe now dangerously low. He began to slowly, rhythmically trace the edge of his own collarbone with a slender finger, his eyes locked on Charlie's with a predatory heat.
Then, with a playful wink, he let his hand stray lower, brushing against the rosy peak of his breast.
"You used to say this was your favorite breakfast, Charlie," Babe purred, his voice a low vibration.
"Better than any pancake."
That was the final thread of Charlie's restraint snapping. The "Controled Enigma" persona he had been wearing like a suit of armor shattered. He didn't just turn off the gas; he practically slapped the dial to 'off' and abandoned the smoking pan entirely.
In three long strides, Charlie was across the kitchen. He didn't say a word. He grabbed the edges of Babe's chair and pulled it forward with a sharp jerk, bringing Babe's chest level with his face. He buried his nose in that milky-white skin, inhaling the scent of vanilla and pregnancy-heightened pheromones. His hands, usually so steady, were trembling as he cupped Babe's pectorals, squeezing the firm, lush flesh.
"You're a brat,"
Charlie growled against his skin, his lips finally finding that sensitive, dark-pink bud. He took it into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it with a desperate, starved hunger.
Suddenly, both of them froze.
A strange, warm dampness bloomed against Charlie's tongue. He pulled back, confused, and Babe gasped, looking down. Tiny, pearlescent droplets were welling up at the tip of Babe's nipple, trickling down his pale skin.
"Oh... oh my god," Babe whispered, his face flushing a deep crimson.
"I... I think I'm lactating."
Babe tried to pull his robe closed, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of shy embarrassment he hadn't expected. But Charlie's hand shot out, gently but firmly stopping him. Charlie wasn't disgusted. He was mesmerized. His eyes were wide, fixed on the tiny droplets of milk.
"Babe..." Charlie breathed, his voice full of a raw, primal wonder.
"Is this... for the baby?"
Babe nodded, biting his lip, his usual bravado melting into a vulnerable shyness.
"I read it happens sometimes... early. Because of the Enigma genes."
The sight of those milk-heavy drops was the ultimate catalyst.
Charlie didn't care about the two-week limit anymore; he didn't care about the gala or the betrayal. His Enigma instincts saw a provider, a mate, a miracle. With a low, guttural sound, Charlie swept Babe up into his arms.
"Charlie! The pancakes!"
Babe yelped, though he was already wrapping his arms around Charlie's neck.
"Let them burn," Charlie rasped.
He carried Babe into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them. He laid Babe down on the rumpled sheets and set to work devouring him with a ferocity that made Babe's head spin. He gave special, worshipful attention to Babe's chest, his tongue catching every drop of milk as if it were the most precious substance on earth.
As Charlie moved to enter him, the reality of the situation flickered in Babe's mind. He reached up, cupping Charlie's face, his eyes searching the younger man's.
"Charlie, please," Babe begged, his voice breaking.
"Don't regret this later. Don't wake up and be cold again. This is us. I love you so much... please just be mine."
Charlie didn't answer with words. He couldn't. His eyes had begun to glow—a haunting, brilliant gold that signaled his Enigma side had taken full control. He flipped Babe over, pushing him into a breeding position, by hands and knees .
Babe let out a choked moan of pleasure. From this angle, he could feel the sheer power radiating off Charlie. He looked back over his shoulder and saw Charlie's fangs begin to descend, sharp and lethal, ready to create the sacred bond.
The sight didn't terrify him; it amazed him.
Babe wanted that mark. He wanted the world to know he belonged to this Enigma.
Charlie leaned down, his hot breath ghosting over the scent glands on Babe's neck. He sniffed deeply, his growl vibrating through Babe's entire body. Babe bared his neck, leaning into the touch, waiting for the sharp sting of the bite that would bind them forever.
Do it, Charlie. Mark me. Claim me, Babe thought desperately.
But the bite never came.
At the very last second, Charlie's hand flew up, covering Babe's scent gland protectively. Instead of sinking his teeth into Babe's skin, Charlie slammed his own arm against his mouth, biting down hard on the back of his own hand.
Charlie let out a muffled roar of agony and frustration as he used the pain to shock his system back into control. He wouldn't form the bond. Not like this.
Not while he was still hurt, and not while Babe was trapped in a two-week fantasy. He continued to thrust into Babe with a desperate, rhythmic intensity, but the golden glow in his eyes was clouded with a deep, silent sorrow.
The rhythm of their bodies was a haunting contrast to the silence of the room. Charlie continued to move, his thrusts deep and possessive, his hands roaming over Babe's skin as if trying to memorize every curve, every scar, and the new, soft fullness of his pregnancy.
He kissed Babe's shoulders, the nape of his neck, and the sensitive skin behind his ears, providing the physical pleasure Babe craved—yet the one thing Babe truly hungered for remained out of reach.
Babe remained on his knees, his hands trembling as they gripped the headboard. Every time he felt Charlie's breath hitch or felt the Enigma's fangs graze his skin, his heart leaped with a desperate hope.
Mark me. Please, just bite me.
Babe wanted the bond. He wanted the spiritual tether that would lace their souls together forever, making it impossible for Charlie to ever truly walk away.
But the bite never came. The sting of rejection was sharper than any fang could ever be. Babe began to sob, the sound muffled by the pillows. He wasn't crying from pain; he was crying for the loss of a future he could see right in front of him but wasn't allowed to touch.
With tears streaming down his face, Babe finally gathered the strength to turn his head, his eyes red and searching.
"Why?" he choked out, his voice a broken whisper.
"Charlie... why won't you?"
The question acted like a physical barrier. Charlie stopped his movements, his body still joined with Babe's, the heat between them suffocating. The golden glow in Charlie's eyes flickered, replaced by a profound, weary sadness. He gently took Babe's waist and turned him over onto his back.
Charlie leaned down, hovering inches from Babe's face, his weight supported by his forearms. With a thumb that was unexpectedly tender, he wiped the hot tears from Babe's cheeks.
"Don't cry, Babe," Charlie said softly, his voice steady despite the raw intimacy of their position.
"I love you, Charlie... please,"
Babe begged, reaching up to wrap his arms around Charlie's neck, trying to pull him down to his scent gland.
"Give me the mating bond. Tie me to you. I don't care about anything else."
Charlie looked at him for a long, silent moment before gently shaking his head.
"Come to your senses, Babe," Charlie whispered, the words cold despite the warmth of his breath.
"All of this... the careness, the cooking, this bed... It's just for two weeks. I don't want you stuck in a bond with me"
Charlie knew the weight of an Enigma's mark. Once the bond was sealed, it was a life sentence. It was a knot that could never be untied, a connection that would bleed through every second of their lives until death. And Charlie couldn't do that to either of them.
He didn't want Babe to be shackled to a man who couldn't trust him anymore.
Charlie had loved Babe with a purity that bordered on worship, and when Babe had shattered that trust at the gala, it wasn't just a heart that broke—it was Charlie's entire world view.
To Charlie, trying to fix their relationship was like trying to glue back together a crystal vase that had been crushed into dust. You could put the pieces back, but it would never hold water again.
"I will give you everything you want for these fourteen days," Charlie continued, his voice dropping to a hollow tone.
"And even after the baby is born, I will provide for you. You will never want to wait for anything. But we can't be together, Babe. Not like we were."
"Charlie, please—"
"Stop," Charlie interrupted gently.
"You asked for this two-week fantasy. I'm giving it to you because I still care for the person you used to be. But I don't want you to be hurt when the clock runs out. So stop crying. Come back to reality. Enjoy the fantasy for what it is."
The words felt like ice water over Babe's soul.
The reality was a prison. He realised in that moment that no amount of teasing, no amount of shared meals, and no amount of passion would melt the permafrost around Charlie's heart. He had lost the man he loved, and he was currently being held by a ghost who looked like him.
Heartbroken and realising his powerlessness, Babe didn't pull away. Instead, he let out a jagged breath and pulled Charlie closer, burying his face in Charlie's chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, choosing the lie over the cold truth.
Charlie began to move again, his thrusts slow and deliberate. He didn't speak again. Both men were broken in their own way—Babe by his guilt and his desperate love, and Charlie by the betrayal he couldn't move past.
The intimacy was a strange medicine; it made the ache in their chests bearable for a few moments, even if it changed nothing about the goodbye waiting for them at the end of the fortnight. In the quiet of the room, the only sound was the rhythmic friction of their skin and the soft, tragic sighs of two people who were never more alone than when they were this close.
The three days that followed were a blur of domestic ghosts.
To a stranger peering through the windows , they looked like a picture-perfect couple. They shared meals in the sun-drenched breakfast nook, watched movies on the plush velvet sofa, and slept tangled together in the oversized bed.
But the air between them had shifted.
Charlie noticed the change first. The desperate, clinging energy Babe had exuded on the first day had been replaced by a quiet, hollow stillness.
Babe no longer teased him with flashing skin; he no longer begged for kisses that weren't offered freely. He was polite, compliant, and devastatingly distant.
He's finally getting it, Charlie thought, though the realisation didn't bring the satisfaction he expected. He's accepting the reality of the two-week limit. He knows that once the baby is born next week, he will deliver the heir and walk away. It's better this way. Less messy.
In reality, Babe wasn't "getting it"—he was grieving.
Every time Charlie's hand brushed his or they shared a silent look, Babe felt a fresh wave of agony. He finally understood that he had become nothing more than a vessel to Charlie.
To the Enigma, he was a walking, breathing incubator for the Theerapanyakul legacy. The love he had thrown away at the gala hadn't just been damaged; it had been incinerated.
As he sat on the couch, staring blankly at a muted TV, Babe felt a phantom ache in his chest. If he could go back in time, he would scream at his past self. He would slap the arrogance right off his own face before he ever opened his mouth to humiliate the only man who had ever truly seen him.
But time only moved forward, and forward was leading him toward a life without his son and without Charlie.
The couch shifted as Charlie sat down beside him.
"Babe," Charlie said, his voice softer than usual.
"You've been cooped up in here for days. Shall we go out? You need some fresh air. It's not good for the baby to be stuck inside this long."
It was the third time Charlie had asked that day, and the tenth time since Tuesday. Usually, Babe would shake his head and pull Charlie down, begging him to just stay and cuddle, trying to steal every second of proximity.
But today, Babe turned his head and looked Charlie directly in the eyes. His expression was unreadable, wiped clean of the desperation that usually resided there.
"Okay, Charlie," Babe said quietly. "Let's go out."
Charlie blinked, surprised by the sudden compliance.
"Really? Where would you like to go? The park? A quiet dinner?"
"I want to go to the track," Babe replied, his voice gaining a flicker of its old strength.
"I haven't talked to Alan since I came back here. I need to see him."
Charlie's posture stiffened. Mentioning the racing world—and Alan—brought back the sharp sting of the life they used to lead before everything shattered. He didn't like the idea of Babe being back in that environment, especially with the pregnancy so far along, but he had promised Babe two weeks of his "old life."
"The track is loud, Babe. And crowded," Charlie cautioned, his Enigma instincts already bristling at the thought of Babe being around so many people.
"I want to go there Charlie "
Charlie nodded slowly, his expression unreadable as he grabbed his car keys.
"Fine. If you want to see Alan, we'll go to the track. But we stay in the VIP suite. I'm not having you down in the pits with the fumes and the crowds in your condition."
Babe didn't argue. He just wanted to get out. He needed to see a face that didn't look at him with cold calculation or hidden regret. He wants to see Alan.
The Range Rover moved with a heavy, armoured grace, sandwiched between two black guard vehicles in the front and two bringing up the rear. Inside the Vehicle, the silence was suffocating.
Babe sat in the passenger seat, his gaze fixed on the road, but his mind was miles away, trapped in the memory of how things used to be. Back then, Charlie didn't drive with this cold, military precision.
He used to drive with one hand lazily on the wheel while the other was permanently entwined with Babe's. Charlie would lean over at red lights, calling him his "pretty passenger princess," kissing his knuckles and promising him the world.
Today, Charlie's posture was rigid. Both hands were gripped firmly at ten and two on the steering wheel, his knuckles white. There was no casual affection, no lingering glances.
"Charlie..." Babe began, his voice barely a whisper.
"Can you... can you hold my hand? Like you used to?"
For a heartbeat, Charlie didn't move. Then, as if responding to a command he couldn't ignore, he reached out and grasped Babe's hand. He held it tightly—too tightly—as if he were trying to anchor himself.
Babe could see the gears turning in Charlie's head, a storm of thoughts hidden behind that disciplined Enigma mask.
There was one question that had been eating at Babe's soul since they left the mansion, a fear that had grown into a monster.
"Charlie," Babe asked, his voice trembling.
"Are you going to marry an Omega after I leave?"
The car swerved almost imperceptibly as Charlie's head snapped toward him, his eyes wide with shock.
"What?"
"You said you don't need me in our child's life," Babe continued, the words tasting like ash.
"So it means... you'll be taking someone else. Someone to be a mother figure to my son. Some Omega or Alpha or a Beta who isn't... me."
The accusation hit Charlie like a physical blow, and the pain instantly curdled into a dark, sharp anger. His grip on Babe's hand tightened to a crush, making Babe wince and let out a small, pained gasp.
Realising his strength, Charlie abruptly let go, slamming both hands back onto the steering wheel.
"I am not like you, Babe," Charlie spat, his voice gritted and low, vibrating with a decade's worth of hurt.
"You can change lovers like you change clothes. I saw it. I saw how you kissed a total stranger at that gala like it was nothing, right in front of me. I saw how easily you threw 'us' away."
Babe flinched, looking down at his lap, his face burning with shame. Indeed, karma was a bitch, and every day he spent was a reminder of the wounds he had inflicted.
"I'm sorry," Babe muttered, the apology feeling pathetically small.
"I don't want anyone, Babe," Charlie continued, his voice hardening into a wall of ice.
"No Omega. No Alpha. No one. In my life, I loved only you. It was only ever you. But I don't love you anymore. And since I can't love you, it means I don't want anyone or any relationship in this lifetime. Love is fake. Love is just a vessel for hurt. My child is enough for me."
The words were like daggers. I don't love you anymore. Babe felt the hot prickle of tears in his eyes. He knew he deserved the coldness, knew he deserved the rejection, but hearing it out loud made the "fantasy" of the last few days feel like a cruel joke.
Babe didn't argue. He didn't have the right.
Instead, he silently reached out, his trembling fingers searching for Charlie's hand again. Charlie didn't pull away; he simply went limp, allowing Babe to take his hand.
Babe gathered Charlie's hand with both of his own, pulling it onto his lap and holding it against the swell of his stomach, where their son kicked softly against his father's palm. They stayed like that for the rest of the journey—joined by skin but separated by a canyon of grief—as the Range Rover pulled into the familiar gates of the racing track.
The heavy tires of the Range Rover crunched over the gravel as the small motorcade pulled into the X-Hunter track. The sight was intimidating—five black, armored SUVs surrounding the lead vehicle like a military escort.
From the pit wall, North and Sonic froze, their eyes wide with a mix of awe and sheer panic. They had heard the rumors of the Theerapanyakul power, but seeing the physical manifestation of it in their own backyard was another thing entirely. However, the moment the rear door opened and Babe's familiar silhouette stepped out, the fear evaporated.
"Babe!"
Sonic and North yelled in unison, sprinting toward him. They didn't care about the stone-faced guards or the Enigma watching from the driver's side. They crashed into Babe, careful of his protruding stomach but hugging him with a desperation that spoke of months of worry.
Charlie stepped out of the car, his presence instantly commanding the space. He didn't look like the boy who used to hide behind a laptop; he looked like a king surveying his territory. Alan walked toward him first. There was a heavy silence between them before Alan reached out and pulled Charlie into a brief, firm hug.
Alan couldn't find it in his heart to blame Charlie for the coldness or the guards. He hated the idea of Babe being separated from his child, but he was a man of logic—he knew Babe had built this life with his own words and actions.
"How are you, Charlie?" Alan asked, pulling back to look at the younger man.
It was still hard to reconcile this powerful Enigma heir with the nerdy boy who used to blush when Babe teased him. Alan truly wished he could snap his fingers and take them all back to the days when their only worry was lap times.
"I'm good, Phi Alan," Charlie replied with a small smile, his voice neutral but not unkind and Charlie respect Alan as a person.
North and Sonic pulled away from Babe to greet Charlie with hesitant but genuine smiles, while Alan finally reached out for Babe.
The moment Babe felt Alan's arms around him, he crumbled. Babe hugged Alan with everything he had, burying his face in the older man's shoulder. To the world, Babe was a legend; to Alan, he was just his bratty, brilliant younger brother who had lost his way.
"Let's go inside," Alan whispered, sensing the eyes of the public on them. He led the group toward the main garage, the Theerapanyakul guards fanning out instantly to secure the perimeter.
Inside the garage, the atmosphere was electric. It was trainee day, and the building was buzzing with young drivers, mechanics, and fans who had managed to get pit passes.
As Babe walked in, the room went silent. He walked with the characteristic waddle of pregnancy—moving like a duck, as Sonic whispered with a fond chuckle—but he had never looked more radiant.
The pregnancy glow had turned his skin into porcelain, and his eyes, though tired, held a depth that captivated everyone. The trainee drivers, mostly young Alphas and Betas, stared at him with watering mouths.
Babe had always been the "Pretty Alpha," a man whose beauty rivaled any Omega's, and seeing him now—softened by pregnancy but still carrying that legendary aura—was almost too much for them to handle.
Babe didn't seem to notice the stares. He waddled straight toward his old racing car, his fingers trembling as he touched the cold, sleek metal of the hood. He stroked it lovingly, a silent goodbye to the life he was prepared to leave behind.
Behind him, cameras flashed incessantly. Fans were whispering, their phones out as they captured the image of the "Pregnant racing legend" and the " Prince of the racing world"
"Look at them," Sonic laughed softly to North.
"The internet is going to break before we even hit lunch. 'The Legend Returns with his Heir.'"
Babe heard the laughter, but his focus remained on the shadow behind him. Charlie was walking just half a step back, matching Babe's slow, uneven pace perfectly. Charlie's hands were poised, twitching slightly every time Babe hit a slight uneven patch of concrete, ready to catch him before he could even think of falling.
A pang of bittersweet irony twisted in Babe's gut. To the fans, it looked like the ultimate act of devotion—a lover protecting his pregnant mate.
But Babe knew the clinical truth behind the golden eyes. Charlie wasn't protecting Babe. He was protecting the Theerapanyakul bloodline inside him. He was a bodyguard for a child, walking behind a man he no longer loved.
Babe leaned his forehead against the cool glass of his car's windshield, closing his eyes. He wanted to be happy to be home, but the "reality" Charlie had forced him into earlier in the car felt heavier than the baby he was carrying. He was a guest in his own life, and the clock was still ticking.
Babe looked from the sleek, aerodynamic curves of his car to the man standing like a sentry behind him. A flicker of the old, mischievous Babe sparkled in his eyes, though it was softened by the exhaustion of his heavy frame.
"Charlie," Babe murmured, reaching out to tug at the sleeve of Charlie's expensive jacket.
"Can you race my car for me? Just once? I want to see you drive it on the track. For me?"
Babe tilted his head, giving Charlie the same puppy-eyed look that used to make the younger man melt instantly.
Charlie's expression flickered, a battle playing out behind his golden eyes.
"Babe, I can't leave you alone," he countered, his voice low and protective.
"Not here. Not with this crowd."
"He isn't alone," Alan interrupted, stepping forward and placing a firm hand on Babe's shoulder.
"We're with him. Besides, North has to get his training laps in today anyway. Why don't you both go out there and race like you used to?"
North beamed, his face lighting up at the prospect of challenging the Enigma on the tarmac.
"Come on, Charlie! One heat. For old times' sake."
Charlie looked hesitant, his gaze darting to the perimeter where his father's guards stood like statues.
"Don't worry, Charlie," Babe said with a small, sad smile.
"I can't exactly run away, can I? Your guards are everywhere. I'm just a 'carrier ' who can't even see his own feet right now."
Charlie scanned the garage one last time, seeing the wall of black-suited men surrounding the building. Finally, he nodded. As he and North walked toward the locker room to change into racing suits, the air seemed to shift.
The moment the door clicked shut behind them, the "family" atmosphere evaporated. Alan and Sonic immediately flanked Babe, ushering him toward a private viewing area that overlooked the main straight of the track. The area was open but cordoned off; no fans or trainees were allowed near.
Babe leaned against the railing, feeling the heavy gaze of the Theerapanyakul guards who stood twenty paces back, monitoring his every breath.
"What the hell were you thinking, Babe?" Alan snapped, his voice a harsh whisper the moment they were out of earshot of the guards.
"Phi Alan..." Babe started, his voice trembling.
"No!" Alan gritted his teeth, his eyes flashing with suppressed anger.
"The plan was for you to get one week. Seven days to find a window to get you to the safe house before the surgery. But you asked for two? You threw the entire timeline into chaos! What were you thinking? Did you honestly think Charlie would change his mind in an extra seven days?"
Babe looked down at his lap, his fingers tracing the swell of his stomach.
"I'm sorry, Phi Alan... I just... I just wanted to spend a little more time with my Charlie before I had to run. I wanted to remember what it felt like to be loved by him, even if it was an act."
Babe sniffed, a stray tear falling onto his silk shirt. Sonic immediately moved, positioning his body to block the guards' view of Babe's face, giving him a moment of privacy to break down.
Alan let out a long, ragged breath, his anger softening into pity. He looked out at the track where the engines were starting to roar.
"And now? What is your plan now, Babe? We can't stay here forever."
Babe wiped his eyes, his expression hardening into something desperate and determined. The "fantasy" was over. He knew now that Charlie would never give him the bond. He knew Charlie only saw him as a biological necessity for the heir.
"Please call Way again, Phi Alan," Babe said, his voice dropping into a deadly serious tone.
"Tell him I'm ready. Tell him I am ready to go with him."
Babe looked out at the track as his car—driven by Charlie—roared out of the pit lane.
"I can't live without Charlie, and I can't live without my son," Babe whispered, his hand clenching over his heart.
"But if Charlie doesn't want me in his life... if he only wants to take my child away and leave me with nothing... then I have to go. I won't let him take my baby, I cant let him Phi Alan. I won't. I love both of them to let go.."
As the car screamed past the viewing deck at two hundred miles per hour, Babe watched the man he loved disappear into a blur of speed. He was choosing to become a ghost, to disappear with the only piece of Charlie he had left, before the two weeks reached zero and left him nothing
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