NLFSD Chapter 107

Chapter 107 – Extra Episode 7

The first to spring up from bed was Jiwoon. In just two full days he was completely recovered and back to daily life. He went straight to the hospital, reported everything, and received an exam; the doctor said there was no issue with the baby — in fact, having received abundant Alpha pheromones, the baby seemed healthier.

By contrast, Seo Taecheon’s high fever dragged on, forcing him to take a total of five sick days.

The Director — robust, never once catching a cold — suddenly absent from the company set the secretariat into overdrive. Only Driver Kim and Secretary Park knew he had imprinted, but most guessed it had to do with his spouse.

Once back, he was swamped clearing the backlog. Yet with superhuman focus he wrapped the day by six, rose like the wind, and left — even lecturing staff not to do overtime and to enjoy their private lives, leaving them baffled.

He had changed that much after marriage.

A chaebol third‑generation Adonis who used to relish solitude and never dated. Female staff had sighed daily at the cosmic joke of his bachelor stance. The Alpha who had once watched only the work pile with a restrained posture and emotionless face was now ensnared by a junior hire, making a habit of leaving on the dot.

By five in the afternoon he would be glancing at the clock, itching to go home. He sometimes even used leave to accompany Jiwoon to prenatal checkups. He called in employees with pregnant spouses to ask for tips, to get recommendations for needed items.

Above all, he fretted over how to manage Jiwoon’s diet. As the belly rounded, should he feed more or keep portions steady? Was unlimited fruit okay? He consulted doctors he knew personally, talked to the cafeteria nutritionist, and even called Madam Choi Yeong‑hee, asking how to handle meals mid‑pregnancy.

Madam Choi’s stance: if Jiwoon wants it, let him eat it.

— Once morning sickness hits, some can’t eat anything. Let him pile in what he loves while he still can.

“Is morning sickness really that serious?”

— If you don’t know, keep quiet. Are you an Omega?

“No, ma’am. Sorry.”

— It varies, but for Omegas, it can hit late. Some throw up everything and can’t digest; some crave madly and eat until they nearly burst, never satisfied.

There were two broad patterns, she explained crisply. Either way, it can make a person sick to death — so feed well, no matter what. If he wants some rare fruit from Africa, fetch it. If he longs for Chicago pizza, get on a plane and bring it back.

There’s a time for everything, and if you don’t lavish love properly in its season, you’ll regret it.

The words had weight. Taecheon made a vow.

Feed him well, without regrets.

Lately, Jiwoon had been sleeping more. As his belly swelled, his sleep time increased in proportion. He napped at all hours; it wasn’t a sleep he could resist — he’d simply flop down, powerless. He especially loved the living room sofa, where sunlight poured in; stuffed with fruit and lying there, it felt like heaven.

Why am I so comfortable? Recessive Omegas, they say, suffer when carrying — especially when carrying a Dominant Alpha’s child: energy runs low, frequent illness. But I feel fine.

…Maybe because I’m receiving so much of Taecheon’s pheromones?

It was a blush‑inducing truth, but since imprinting they’d joined often, at any time of day. There was hardly a day without sex.

Though the doctor’s recommendation was once every three days, one emission only — when conditions allowed, the two could easily manage three or four times per night.

Yet at every checkup, the fetus showed no issues; in fact, they were told their baby measured taller and heavier than peers of the same gestational week. Jiwoon was simply happy, dozing through afternoons and waiting for baby Mango to meet the world.

Right around then, Taecheon’s complexion turned poor. He looked like a salaryman who’d pulled a week of all‑nighters — skin dusky, features drawn. Even seated well‑dressed at the Director’s desk, his secretary asked if he was overworked; passing executives kept asking if he was tired.

Jiwoon noticed the change too.

“Taecheon, you look like you’ve lost weight lately.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. Your face is much more gaunt… Is something wrong?”

“No. I’m just a little tired — there’s been a lot going on.”

“Hmm… You’re not sick, are you?”

He asked anxiously.

“It’ll pass. Don’t worry too much about me.”

Waving it off, he insisted he was fine. He said rest over a few days would reset his condition. He refused to let Jiwoon lift a finger; he did the dishes himself and brought fruit.

But even after a full weekend’s rest, nothing improved. On weekdays he still left early, yet his face thinned further. Normally sturdily built and muscular — not a lean type — he now looked noticeably slimmer, his facial lines sharper, dark shadows under his eyes, the picture of an ailing man.

Jiwoon urged a hospital visit; Taecheon deflected every time. For a man with firm convictions who always spoke his mind, it was unlike him.

…My darling is hiding something from me.

Jiwoon, prone to overactive imagination, began spinning scenarios — good ones, bad ones, never stopping at “what if.”

Hmm. What is he going through? What secret is he keeping from me?

A sharp thought flashed.

What if it’s a terrible illness, and he’s hiding it?

He recalled a drama he’d watched not long ago — a smash hit that walked a tragic cliché. The male lead had an incurable disease but hid it to spare his lover pain, then died quietly alone. He remembered vividly the scene where the lover scattered ashes from a cliff and wailed.

No. Don’t go there. I refuse to be the tragic Omega…!

He slapped his own cheek and forced himself to think positively.

Or maybe… a brutal diet? Maybe someone told him to slim down. Or to look cool for me, he’s skipping lunch? Or hitting workouts hard? That could be it.

But on closer inspection, the diet theory had holes.

Every lunchtime, Taecheon sent him photos of his meals; he never skipped. For breakfast and dinner, he cooked — including portions for Jiwoon — so skipping was nearly impossible.

He’d always exercised a lot — gym sessions, weekend swims — but frequency hadn’t increased.

Conclusion: no matter how you sliced it, this looked like illness.

My love… Don’t tell me you’ll die young?

Tears pooled in Jiwoon’s eyes. I have to figure out what it is. Drag him to the hospital if I must.

While Jiwoon floundered alone in his fantasies, beside him, Taecheon wrestled with his own difficulty.

My stomach’s been off. Why do I keep dry‑heaving?

Frankly, he suspected a gastric issue. Whenever he ate, nausea surged. Sometimes even water made his stomach roil. Even with foods he normally liked, smells felt overpowering — at an important meeting, he’d clapped a hand over nose and mouth the instant food arrived.

He’d slipped to an internal medicine clinic without telling Jiwoon, but his stomach was declared normal; the doctor prescribed mild digestives. He took them diligently, yet the stomach refused to settle.

A stranger symptom appeared alongside: a sudden, intense craving for sour things — so strong it felt as if something would go wrong if he didn’t get them immediately.

In over thirty years, he’d never cared for sour flavors. If anything, he preferred bitter or clean tastes.

But lately at cafes he ordered grapefruit juice only. When the secretary fetched drinks, he asked for lemonade; with clients, orange juice. Even two a day didn’t suffice. While constant nausea and poor digestion made food hard to keep down, tart drinks slipped through; at some point, lunch had become juice. There was a reason the weight had fallen off.

The most peculiar episode came one evening commute. With his car in the shop, he took public transit. Exiting the crowded subway station, he froze: a small truck parked along the street sold soondae (Korean blood sausage). The aroma alone made his mouth water.

As if spellbound, he approached and bought four portions. He took them home, fed Jiwoon, and ate as well. It slid down easily, absurdly delicious.

…I’m not the type to eat street snacks. Strange.

Jiwoon had brought gochugaru‑dusted salt, chojang (vinegar‑chili sauce), and doenjang (soybean paste), dipping pieces for him in turn. The standard salt was good, but the combination with chojang was astonishingly sublime.

“Soondae… is it really this good?”

“Don’t you eat it often?”

“No. Honestly, I think this is my first time as an adult.”

“This delicious, and it’s your first? You’re eating like you love it. Must suit your taste.”

It was true he’d never had this platter‑style soondae before; soondae‑guk (soup) he’d tried once, but never the street‑stall version bought out of pocket.

One story did surface in his mind: during a call with Madam Choi to discuss Jiwoon’s diet, she’d told him this —

When she was pregnant with him, her morning sickness was so severe she could barely keep anything down. One day, a friend brought soondae — and she could eat that. From then on, she craved it and ate it three times a day.

Perhaps she’d used up her lifetime’s soondae allotment then; perhaps that was why he’d never cared for it. He’d lived by that conclusion for thirty years — until suddenly, he fell in love with soondae.

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