Chapter Text
Their home had a way of telling on Santa even when Santa tried not to.
It showed up in the small accommodations that had quietly become part of the house’s grammar: a stool tucked near the kitchen counter that Santa insisted was “for aesthetics,” but that always somehow ended up under him the moment his color went off; a pantry drawer full of “safe” snacks—plain crackers, dried fruit, a specific brand of soy milk that didn’t trigger anything; and a laundry shelf that was basically Perth’s quiet obsession—unscented detergent, the kind for babies and omegas with sensitive noses, because if the house smelled “too much,” Santa’s appetite disappeared even faster.
There was a small tin in the top drawer too—heat patches, blockers, the boring medical stuff Santa only remembered to use when Perth slid it into his palm without a word.
And somewhere in the soft furniture, there was always a trace of alpha—Perth’s hoodie draped over the armrest, the pillow that smelled like him, left behind on purpose so Santa could breathe easier without admitting he needed it.
Santa had always been like this. Even before pregnancy. Slim bones, narrow shoulders, an appetite that arrived late and left early—a body that worked hard but hated being forced. Allergies that meant he couldn’t be careless even when he wanted to be. And yes—pickiness too, in the plain, human sense: he liked what he liked, hated certain textures, could taste one wrong note in a dish and lose interest immediately. So he chose what was safe, what was predictable, what let him keep going.
And he had kept going.
He carried Domiia to term while still acting, still showing up for JASP.ER as much as he could, still insisting he was fine even when Perth had to slide a palm to his lower back and murmur, “Nong… enough. Rest.” Later in the pregnancy, Perth had gotten stricter—no hard practice, no dancing that made his breath shorten, no “I’m okay” that sounded like a lie. Santa complained, rolled his eyes, called Perth dramatic.
But he listened. Mostly.
After birth, he recovered well. He did.
It just… cost him a little bit of something. Stamina that used to return in a day now took two. When he pushed too hard, his body didn’t give polite warnings; it yanked the world sideways—dizziness blooming white at the edges, a sudden hollowness behind his ribs, weakness that made him angry because it felt unfair and childish.
Most days, he could manage it. It wasn’t dangerous, not really.
But sometimes, when it hit, it hit.
And for the last two weeks, it had been hitting more often than Santa wanted to admit.
JASP.ER had been busy—shoots, events, rehearsals that weren’t “real rehearsals” sometimes but still ate time. They were in comeback mode now, releasing a new album, and there were early talks and preparations for a possible world tour next year—meetings that multiplied, schedules that tightened, a constant hum of what’s next.
Sleep became shallow. Meals became inconsistent. Santa’s appetite, already unreliable, turned downright stubborn.
And then there was Domiia—mid–elementary now, somehow made of pure electricity. He came home with grass on his socks and glitter on his uniform from a craft project, talking a mile a minute about who said what and who ran fastest and why he absolutely, definitely needed to show Papa a new “trick” that was usually just him testing gravity off the couch.
He was like Perth in all the ways that made Santa sigh and smile at the same time—free, energetic, a little too fearless, mischievous in a way that could look like naughtiness if you didn’t know him. But at the base he was still a good, polite kid: wai-ing properly, saying khrap when he remembered, stopping to help Jaidee with his bag without being asked. He just had Perth’s appetite for life, and Santa’s heart was often the one trying to keep up.
Perth had been out of town more—location shoots far from Bangkok, overnights, early call times, long days that ended with him coming home smelling like studio air and coffee. So Santa had quietly taken the reins at home the way he always did when life got busy: mornings and lunch boxes, chasing a shoelace that refused to stay tied, signing worksheets, answering the parents’ chat, negotiating vegetables, washing mud off knees, and sitting through the same story told three times in circles because Domiia needed to be heard before he could settle.
Perth had insisted they hire a nanny again—like when Domiia was a baby. They didn’t lack money; the suggestion was practical, almost gentle in its own way. Someone to help with pick-ups, homework, bedtime. Someone to take the load off Santa when his body was acting up—and especially now, when Perth’s own hours didn’t belong to their house.
But Santa had shaken his head every time, stubborn about it in the quiet way that meant it mattered.
“We don’t need it,” he’d said, voice soft but certain. “I can do it. It’s my baby, Phi.”
Sometimes he added, half-joking, half-true: “He already has too many adults. Let him have his Papa.”
Perth would look at him for a long moment, jaw tight with worry, then let the argument go—not because he agreed, but because pushing would only make Santa dig his heels in. So he did what he always did when he couldn’t control the schedule or the weather or Santa’s stubborn little appetite.
He built scaffolding.
Not the loud kind. The kind that hid inside convenience.
Fruit already peeled in the fridge, appearing at the edge of Santa’s day like it had always belonged there. Broth replacing spicy leftovers without commentary. A quiet message to the housekeeper—restock the safe list—and the pantry obeyed. Groceries arriving even when Perth wasn’t home, delivered so smoothly it felt like the house had ordered them for itself.
And then the subtler adjustments: a clinic slot that “just happened” to open on Santa’s only free morning; a driver “on standby” around school pick-up hours, no questions asked, just in case. Little protections built into the day so Santa didn’t have to admit he needed protecting.
Perth tried. He really did—limited by distance, by call times, by a schedule that didn’t care who was waiting at home.
And Santa—because he was Santa—pretended not to see the scaffolding. He kept his voice bright. He kept his smile easy. He acted like everything was fine, that everything was held, even when Perth wasn’t home to hold it himself. Because the moment he named Perth’s worry out loud, it would become heavier—something he had to carry too.
Especially not in front of Domiia.
Kids saw everything anyway.
At this age, Domiia had grown into limbs that didn’t know where to go, elbows and knees everywhere, a voice that came with opinions, pride, and a sharp sense of “fair” that could turn him frighteningly brave. He wasn’t a bad kid. He was… Santa’s kid. Affectionate to the point of clinging, soft-hearted in the way he tried to hide, loyal like it was a reflex. If Perth was the roof, Domiia was the vine that always wanted to curl around Santa’s wrist, his waist, his sleeve—proof that Papa was still right there.
Which was why Santa knew something was off the moment Domiia stepped into the house that afternoon.
Not because he didn’t call for him—he did, voice bright on the first syllable. Not because he didn’t run to hug him—he did, arms wrapping around Santa’s waist with that familiar habit, cheek pressed into Santa’s side like he needed to anchor himself.
It was the way the brightness died too quickly, like he’d spent it all on the hallway.
Santa caught it before Domiia even said another word: that sharp, unsettled edge in his scent, a young alpha trying to hold himself together and failing. Not heat, just stress and adrenaline scraping at the seams.
Santa’s body answered on instinct.
His throat tightened; his chest went warm. He let out a slow breath through his nose and let his scent go soft—the familiar omega hush that lived in the walls of their home. Something warm and steady, the kind that said you can put it down now. I’m holding it.
Domiia’s arms tightened around him anyway, not playful, not squeezing for fun—tight like fear
“Papa,” Domiia mumbled, voice muffled against Santa’s shirt.
Santa slid his hand through Domiia’s hair, smoothing it back once, twice, slow enough to make the boy’s heartbeat match his. His other palm stayed at Domiia’s nape—gentle pressure, a tether. “Hi, baby,” Santa whispered.
Domiia didn’t protest the “baby.” Not today.
Behind him, two more boys shuffled in.
Jaidee first—His nephew, Phi Joong’s kid—small for his age, face already flushed like he’d been trying not to cry and failing. Then Permpoon—Another one of his nephews, Phi Pond’s son—taller, broader, the kind of kid whose presence seemed to take up space in the air. Permpoon’s eyes flicked across the room fast, checking for safety like a guard.
Santa straightened slowly, careful with his own balance. “Jaidee, Permpoon. Come in, come in. Put your bags there. Where’s Ceri?”
Jaidee drifted in close, fingers curled around Santa’s sleeve—then, like he couldn’t help it, he leaned in just enough to breathe. Santa didn’t comment. Kids did that when they were shaken—seeking a familiar scent the way adults sought words.
“He didn’t come to school today, Uncle Ta,” Jaidee blurted, still a little sniffly. “Ceri went on holiday with his Yaai.”
Permpoon came in right behind him, familiar enough to toe off his shoes without being told. He brushed Santa’s shoulder as he passed—half hug, half check-in—then nodded. “Yeah. His Yaai took him out of town. Ceri said he’ll send pics,” he added, voice tight but comfortable, like this was home too.
Santa nodded as he smiled, warmth automatic. “You guys hungry? I have fruit. I can make noodles too—simple one.”
“No,” Jaidee said too fast, eyes lowering.
Permpoon’s jaw tightened. “We’re okay.”
Domiia didn’t answer at all. He stayed attached to Santa’s waist like if he let go, the whole day would spill out.
Santa’s eyebrow ticked up—small, almost automatic. These three usually never said no to noodles or pantry snacks, not at his home. Not when they’d been running around all day.
Santa guided them into the living room. The house was warm with late-afternoon light, curtains half-drawn. A familiar domestic calm—soft hum of the AC, the faint smell of detergent, the quiet clink of a cup when Santa set it down. Santa moved into the kitchen to pour water and cut fruit, choosing the safe things without thinking: apples, peeled, and a banana split into small pieces. No citrus. No nuts. Nothing complicated.
His body felt a little too heavy today—like gravity had turned the dial up one notch.
He ignored it.
He set the plate down on the coffee table. “Eat. Even if you’re not hungry, just take a bit of snacks. I won’t tell Phi Dunk and Phuwin.”
Permpoon smiled at that, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Jaidee stared at the plate like it was too kind look at.
Domiia finally sat, but he did it stiffly, knees pulled in, arms wrapped around himself. His backpack lay beside him, half-open, zipper stuck on something. Santa watched him for a second, the way you watch a kettle before it boils. Domiia’s foot tapped once against the floor. Twice. The sound was small, but it carried a lot of nervous energy.
Santa crouched beside the table, gentle. “Domiia… what happened?”
“Nothing,” Domiia said again, and this time the word had teeth.
Santa didn’t react. He didn’t push the lid down harder. He kept his scent calm and his hands gentle. He reached for Domiia’s bag to help close the zipper, and his fingers brushed paper—crumpled, shoved down like it had been hidden in a hurry.
A school note.
Santa’s chest tightened before he even pulled it out. He recognized the format. The crisp letterhead. The kind of politeness that meant trouble.
Domiia’s eyes snapped to the paper in Santa’s hand. His shoulders went up. “Don’t.”
Santa’s throat went dry. “Why is there a note?”
“It’s nothing,” Domiia insisted, but his voice shook.
Permpoon sat up straighter, angry on behalf of the truth.
Jaidee’s hands twisted in his lap.
Santa unfolded the paper carefully, because sometimes the way you touch things keeps the room from exploding.
The words were as neat as they were cruel.
An incident during recess. A physical altercation with another student. Raised voice and language not appropriate for school. A request for a parent/guardian to acknowledge and return the note signed, and to arrange a meeting with the homeroom teacher.
There was even a small line near the bottom, almost an afterthought in neat writing: Tried calling at 14:10, no answer. Please contact the school tomorrow.
Santa’s stomach dipped.
He hadn’t seen his phone then—he’d been out, in a fitting, or a rehearsal room, or somewhere with it on silent. He could picture the missed call sitting there like a tiny landmine.
He read the note once. Then again, slower, trying to translate it into reality.
Domiia—who cried when cartoons had sad endings, who always kissed Santa’s cheek before bed, who used the allowance his Daddy gave him to buy Santa a silly keychain because it reminded him of his Papa.
A physical altercation. Used his hands. Not the teacher’s blunt words, but the school’s careful ones.
Santa looked up.
His first instinct wasn’t anger. It was the same thing it always was when something went wrong with his family—check the body before you check the story.
He reached for Domiia’s arm, gentle but firm enough that Domiia couldn’t dodge it. “Let Papa see.”
Domiia stiffened, then went still.
Santa turned the small wrist, slid his fingers up the forearm. No swelling. No bruises blooming. Just a few thin scratches near the elbow—barely more than angry lines, like he’d scraped against a desk edge or someone’s fingernails in the scuffle.
Santa exhaled, shaky with relief he didn’t want to show. His gaze flicked to Jaidee, then Permpoon—quick hands, quick eyes. “You two… are you hurt? Anywhere? Show Uncle.”
Jaidee shook his head hard, scooting closer until his shoulder bumped Santa’s leg, his fingers still curled around Santa’s sleeve. Permpoon lifted his sleeve without complaint, proving clean skin, only his jaw tight with leftover fury.
Okay. No blood. No real injury. Just the kind of messy contact that still mattered.
Santa swallowed and softened his voice again—down, down, down, like coaxing a frightened animal out of a corner. “Domiia… tell Papa what happened.”
“Nothing happened.”
“Domiia,” Santa said, gently but firmer now. “That’s not nothing.”
Domiia’s breathing was fast. “They—” He stopped, swallowed hard, then went rigid again. “It’s not important.”
Permpoon couldn’t hold it. “They were bullying Jaidee.”
Domiia snapped his head around. “Poon!”
Permpoon’s eyes flashed. “What? It’s true.”
Jaidee’s lip trembled. He dropped his gaze so hard it was almost a flinch.
Santa turned to Jaidee, voice lowering, tender. His fingers lifted to Jaidee’s head, stroking gently once, twice—slow enough to soothe. “Jaidee… what happened at school today, hm?”
Jaidee squeezed his fingers together until his knuckles paled. “It’s… it’s okay, Uncle Santa.”
Santa’s heart pinched. Jaidee was the kind of kid who tried to shrink himself so others wouldn’t be annoyed by his existence.
Santa reached out, knuckles brushing softly along Jaidee’s cheek—warm, careful, like wiping away something invisible. “It’s not okay if you look like you want to disappear. Tell Uncle hm?”
Jaidee’s eyes filled instantly, like the permission broke whatever dam he’d been building all day. He blinked fast, trying to stop it.
Permpoon’s voice came out like a growl. “They kept calling him a crybaby omega.”
Jaidee made a small sound, mortified.
Santa’s chest tightened. He didn’t flinch at the word omega—omega males are normal here; a male omega giving birth was normal, just biology in this world. There was nothing shameful about it.
But kids could make anything shameful if they wanted to.
“They said omega boys are weak,” Jaidee whispered, voice barely there. “They said… I cry too much.”
Santa’s face softened until it hurt. “Oh, Jaidee…”
Domiia suddenly spoke, the words spilling fast like he couldn’t hold them anymore. “They kept taking his pencil case and throwing it. He kept telling them to stop, and they kept laughing. And Jaidee was trying not to cry but he couldn’t, and they went, ‘See? Omega baby.’”
Jaidee’s tears slid down quietly, and the sight of it sharpened something in Santa—protectiveness, anger, a deep ache he wished he could swallow for all of them.
Santa shifted just enough to pull Jaidee closer, letting the kid press against him. His thumb wiped the wet track away like it was the most normal thing in the world. Jaidee didn’t move away—he leaned in, clinging to Santa’s sleeve harder for one second, greedy for the safety.
Santa kept his voice steady anyway, because the room needed steady. “Okay,” he said softly. “I understand.”
“No, you don’t!” Domiia burst out, louder than before, and his voice cracked on the edge of it—half anger, half desperation.
Santa stilled. Then he turned from Jaidee to Domiia, eyes lifting, attention fully landing on his son. “Miiang…”
Domiia’s hands clenched in his lap. “You don’t understand because you weren’t there.”
Santa didn’t take the bait. He inhaled slowly. “That’s why I’m asking you to tell me. So I can understand.”
Permpoon cut in, still furious. “Those kids also started saying stuff about you Uncle.”
The air changed.
Not metaphorically—literally. Domiia’s scent sharpened, that young-alpha anger trying to flare into something bigger, and Jaidee went even quieter like his body was bracing for impact.
Domiia’s eyes flashed to Permpoon, panic and anger tangled. “Poon, stop—”
But Permpoon didn’t. “They… they were saying your name, Uncle. And Daddy’s. Like they already had it ready.”
Santa’s fingers tightened around the school note without meaning to.
The fame part was always strange with kids. Adults could be polite. Adults could be discreet. Kids didn’t need explanations for things they’d picked up from older siblings, from a parent’s phone left open, from clips that autoplayed while someone scrolled. They just repeated. They threw words like stones, not even fully understanding the weight.
Domiia’s voice came out suddenly thin. “They said… they said Papa is—”
He couldn’t finish.
Santa waited. He knew if he pushed, Domiia would clamp shut and swallow everything whole.
Jaidee whispered instead, ashamed, like he hated the words the moment they left his mouth. “They said Uncle Santa is… a burden.” His fingers tightened around Santa’s sleeve. “They said Uncle Perth has to carry Uncle Ta all the time. Like… like Uncle Perth is babysitting.”
Permpoon’s mouth twisted with disgust. “They said Uncle Perth deserves someone strong. Not some weak omega who faints.” His voice went harder. “They said you’re always tired and can’t keep up, so everyone has to slow down for you.”
Domiia slammed his palm against his thigh, shaking with anger. “They said you can’t dance like the others now. They said JASP.ER would be better if it was only alphas—no omega.” His eyes shone wet, furious. “They laughed and went, ‘See? Omega boys cry and get sick. Uncle Santa bring problems.’”
His hands clenched tighter, knuckles whitening. When he spoke again, it came out raw—like he was forcing the worst part out because keeping it inside hurt more.
“They said you’re weak because you had me,” Domiia blurted. His voice cracked. “They said your body became like this because you gave birth, so now Daddy has to work more, take care of you, carry you—” He swallowed hard, shaking. “And they… they told me you’d be better off sick and… and die.”
Santa stared at the fruit plate for a second, because if he looked at their faces too long, he was afraid his own would break.
He knew what people said online sometimes. Not always directly, but enough. Fandoms could be cruel. Anonymous comments could be stupid. He’d built skin for strangers—layers and layers of it.
The worst of it had always circled the same thing: his secondary sex. Years of controversy that never really stopped, just changed shape. Back then, before Perth—before being loved loudly, before being accepted without conditions—Santa had learned to dodge it by pretending to be a beta, by keeping parts of himself quiet. Then Perth had swept him off his feet anyway, and Jasp.er: Phi Aou, Phi Pond, Phi Joong had taken him as he was, and at some point Santa had decided: enough hiding. Enough shrinking.
But hearing it come out of children’s mouths—children who had thrown it at his son and his nephews—made it feel different. More violating. More personal. Like they’d dragged something private into the sunlight and stomped on it with school shoes.
Santa swallowed. He lifted his gaze slowly.
Jaidee’s eyes were wet, wide with guilt. Permpoon looked like he wanted to go back in time and bite someone. And Domiia—Domiia was trembling with anger, but underneath it there was that other thing, raw and terrified: the fear of losing him.
Santa’s chest tightened.
He felt it—felt the room tilt toward instinct.
So he did what omegas did when a den started to shake: he anchored it. He reached out first, not to correct, not to lecture—just to gather.
His hand slid to Jaidee’s cheek again, wiping the last tear track with his thumb. Then his palm went to Domiia’s head—gentle, firm, smoothing his hair back the way he used to when Domiia was smaller and the world was easier to fix with a hug.
“Hey,” Santa murmured, low. “Breathe.”
Domiia’s lashes fluttered, angry and wet.
Santa’s thumb stroked once along his hairline—slow, deliberate. “Look at Papa.”
Domiia jerked his gaze up.
Santa tapped his own chest lightly, like he was proving a point with his body. “Papa is here. Papa is okay.”
He let the words land, then repeated them slower, gentler—because kids needed repetition when fear had them by the throat.
“Papa is not weak,” Santa said. “Papa is just… tired sometimes. Like when you run and run and your legs feel jelly. That doesn’t mean you’re broken, right?”
Domiia’s mouth quivered.
Santa’s smile softened. “And Papa is not going to die,” he added, quietly but firmly, like closing a door. “Not from being an omega. Not from having you. Not because some kids said something ugly.”
He cupped Domiia’s cheek for a second—warm, grounding. “You didn’t make Papa worse, Miiang. You made Papa, a Papa.”
Jaidee made a small hiccup sound, and Santa turned that same gentleness on him too. “And Jaidee… crying doesn’t make you weak. It means you have a soft heart. Soft hearts are good hearts, okay?”
Permpoon’s jaw worked, like he was trying not to cry from frustration. Santa glanced at him and gave the smallest nod—acknowledging the anger without feeding it. “I know you’re angry. I would be angry too.”
The room stayed quiet except for their breathing.
Then Santa inhaled slowly. He kept his hand on Domiia’s head—light, steady, a tether—and let his scent remain calm, smoothing the sharp edges in the air.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Now tell Papa. When they said those things… what did you do?”
Domiia’s chin lifted, defiant even through tears. “I told them to shut up.”
Santa closed his eyes for a second—not because he didn’t understand, but because he did.
“Domiia.”
“They were talking about you,” Domiia snapped, and there—there it was. The real core. Not ego. Not temper. Fear and devotion twisted into something sharp. “What was I supposed to do? Smile?”
“You can be angry,” Santa said carefully, steadying the boundary like a hand on a railing. “You can hate what they said. But you can’t hurt people.”
“I didn’t hurt—” Domiia’s voice rose, then shook, the bravado cracking. “I just… I pushed him a bit. Okay? It wasn’t— I didn’t—” He swallowed hard, eyes flashing wet. “I didn’t want to be like that.”
Santa lifted the note slightly. “The note says there was a fight. And that your words were not appropriate at school.”
Domiia’s face reddened further. He looked away. “He deserved it.”
Santa’s jaw tightened—not angry, but strained. Tiredness sat behind his eyes like pressure. He didn’t want to parent from fatigue. He hated it.
“Domiia,” Santa said, still soft, but now with that unmistakable parent firmness, “No one ‘deserves’ to be hit. You can defend Jaidee. You can defend yourself. But you don’t use your fists. You don’t put your hands on people.”
Domiia stared at him like Santa had betrayed him.
The betrayal expression on a child was always heartbreaking because it was so earnest.
“But they were—” Domiia’s voice cracked. “They were laughing. They were calling Jaidee names. They were calling you names. And the teacher—” He sucked in a breath, furious tears forming. “The teacher didn’t hear it, Papa. She only saw me and Poon punched him. So we got in trouble. And they didn’t.”
Santa’s chest tightened. He understood that kind of injustice too well.
He softened his voice again. “That’s not fair. You’re right. It’s not fair.”
Domiia’s breath hitched with relief at being understood.
Santa continued—still gentle, still steady. “But the solution is not to use your hands like that. Not to swing, not to hit. The solution is to tell the teacher, to tell us. So adults can handle it.”
“Adults don’t handle it,” Domiia whispered, and something raw slipped out in that sentence, something too big for his age. “They always say, ‘Ignore them.’ But ignoring doesn’t make it stop.”
Santa’s throat went tight.
He crouched closer, because distance made children feel abandoned. “Listen to Papa,” Santa said, voice soft like cotton. “If someone bullies Jaidee, if someone says things about our family, you tell me. You tell Daddy Perth. We will handle it. But you can’t—”
Domiia cut him off, sudden and sharp: “Daddy is never home!”
The words hit the room like a thrown object.
Permpoon’s eyes widened. Jaidee flinched.
Santa blinked, surprised more by the grief under it than the accusation itself. His scent gland throbbed once—sharp, embarrassed, like his body wanted to call for its alpha even when his pride didn’t want to admit it.
“Domiia…”
“He’s always working,” Domiia said, voice shaking as he doubled down, because once kids say something painful, they either collapse or charge forward. Domiia charged. “And you’re always tired. You’re always—”
Santa felt the warning before it fully arrived, the subtle sway inside his skull.
He shifted his weight carefully, palm touching the edge of the coffee table for balance. A small, unconscious move.
Domiia saw it instantly.
His face changed.
Fear flooded his eyes so fast it looked like anger.
“You see?” Domiia cried, voice breaking. “You’re not okay! You keep saying you’re okay but you’re not!”
Santa hated the tremor that slipped into his own voice. “I am okay. Papa just—”
“You’re pale,” Domiia insisted, tears spilling now, furious and helpless. “You don’t eat! You only eat two bites and you say you’re full. Daddy makes soup and you pretend you drink it but you don’t finish. And then you sleep on the couch and your eyes look… like you’re—”
He stopped, choking, because he couldn’t say the real fear out loud.
Santa’s chest tightened, and for a second he couldn’t breathe properly. His scent almost spiked—distress, sharp and thin—He swallowed it down hard and pushed warmth back out instead. Calm. Calm. Keep the den calm.
He reached out slowly, palm open. “Come here.”
Domiia didn’t move. His hands trembled. His whole body looked like it was vibrating with too many feelings.
Santa kept his hand out anyway. “Come here, baby.”
Domiia flinched like the affection hurt. “Don’t call me baby!”
Santa’s heart did that stupid painful thing again, because he knew it wasn’t really about the word. It was about Domiia feeling small.
“Okay,” Santa said softly. “Not baby.”
He tried to keep his tone calm, but he couldn’t let the moment slide. He couldn’t let Domiia think screaming and resorting to violence was acceptable just because the world had been cruel first.
“Domiia,” Santa said, firmer now—still gentle, but with something steady underneath it. “Papa understands why you were angry. Papa understands you wanted to protect Jaidee and Papa. But this—” he lifted the note a little, not as a weapon, just as a boundary, “—this part, the words you used and the way you used your hands… it can’t happen again.”
He held Domiia’s gaze, softening only at the edges.
For a second, looking into those wet, furious eyes, Santa felt strangely… lost. Like he was standing in the middle of a wide road with no one beside him. This was the kind of moment Perth usually helped carry—not by being gentler (Perth was rarely gentler), but by being there, steady and solid, the second set of hands on the wheel when the car started to skid.
Santa had been doing most things alone lately. He could handle lunches and shoelaces and bedtime stories. But this—this line between discipline and comfort, between holding his child and holding a boundary—made his chest ache with a sudden, helpless need.
I can’t do this by myself, a thought flashed, sharp and embarrassing. Phi Perth… I need you.
His omega wants safety, wants the alpha of the house, wants the den to stop shaking.
He swallowed it down. Drew a careful breath. Stayed upright anyway.
“You’re going to apologize, okay?” Santa continued, voice steady even when his insides weren’t. “To the teacher first—Papa will talk to her too. And then… to the kid you hit. Not because you’re a bad boy—because you’re a good boy who has to learn a better way.”
His voice stayed even, but his hand lifted a little, palm open like a promise. “And Papa will make sure the school deals with what they said to you, PermPoon, and Jaidee, and that they apologize as well. Next time, you tell Papa. You tell Daddy. We handle it. But you have to apologize. Understand?”
Domiia stared at him, tears clinging to his lashes.
And then his face twisted, something in him snapping—not because he didn’t love Santa, but because shame and fear had nowhere else to go, because apologizing felt like admitting the bullies had been allowed to touch his family and walk away clean. His scent spiked with it too—sharp, ugly, metallic in the back of the throat, it pushed into the room without permission.
“So they were right?” Domiia whispered, and the whisper was the cruelest thing, because it wasn’t meant to be cruel. It was pure fear.
Santa froze.
His omega instincts reacted before his mind did—like the air itself had teeth. He tried to steady his breathing, tried to keep his scent warm and even, but it wavered at the edges, slipping thin for a second, then tightening again like a hand clenching.
Domiia’s breath shook. “That… That you really are tired because of us? That you really can’t do everything because you’re—”
He couldn’t say weak. He couldn’t.
So he said the next worst thing.
“Because you’re… because you gave birth to me.”
Santa’s eyes stung instantly.
He tried to hold it back. He really did. He tried to keep his scent in that familiar soft register—home, safe—because the moment it cracked, the kids would feel it.
But the fatigue, the dizziness, the stress of the last weeks, the sudden image of Domiia defending him in a schoolyard with his fists and his mouth because he didn’t know what else to do—everything pressed down at once.
Santa’s voice came out thin. “Domiia… You can’t say that.”
“I’m trying to protect you,” Domiia cried, voice rising—rising with his scent too, that rough edge getting louder, the air turning dense and unpleasant. “Why are you scolding me like I’m bad? I’m not bad! I’m not!”
The sharpness kept coming, crowding the space, and Santa’s own omega trait—usually a balm—started to misfire under it. His warmth flared too fast, then stumbled, a stutter of scent that betrayed him: unsteady, overwhelmed, scared.
“I know you’re not bad,” Santa said quickly, and his own voice wobbled on the edge, he tried to keep his tone calm—but the more Domiia’s scent pressed, the more Santa’s own body started responding like it was being cornered. “I know. But you still can’t—”
Domiia stood up abruptly, chair legs scraping. The sound cut the air.
Santa instinctively rose too—too fast.
The room tilted hard.
He caught himself with his hand against the couch, swallowing nausea. He kept his face composed on sheer will. But the movement made it worse—the momentary loss of balance, the way his body broadcasted weakness without meaning to. His scent slipped, thin and sharp around the edges, like a cracked cup trying to hold water.
Domiia saw it anyway, and smelled it.
And his alpha reacted like an alarm system going haywire—fear turning to aggression because aggression felt like control. His scent came out harsher, uglier, uncontrollable, pushing hard enough to make even the air feel tight.
Domiia’s voice cracked when he raised it. “You always—” he started, then choked on the rest, hand jerking toward Santa’s knee where he’d caught himself. “Papa’s a liar!” The words came out too loud, too ugly for him, but he couldn’t pull them back. “You’re not okay! You’re not!”
Santa’s throat tightened.
His scent snapped—just for a second. Not sweet, not warm. A thin flare of fear and hurt, raw and exposed.
“Domiia, enough,” Santa said, sharper than he meant to be, the word cutting like a clap.
The sound of it—plus Santa’s scent finally slipping—hit the room like glass breaking.
Domiia’s face crumpled.
To him, that one firm word didn’t sound like his gentle Papa. It sounded like rejection. Like stop being too much.
Santa reached out, trying to pull him back before it got worse—instinct, love, the parent part of him that always wanted to pull his child back into safety. His fingers brushed Domiia’s wrist.
And Domiia, overwhelmed, panicked, ashamed, lashed out like a trapped animal.
He shoved.
Not a calculated push. Not hard enough to injure.
But hard enough.
“Ow—” The sound slipped out before he could swallow it.
It wasn’t the bump itself. It was the way the world lurched right after, like someone had grabbed the room and tilted it. The light smeared at the edges. His stomach rolled. His knees went suddenly loose.
And with the loss of balance came the thing Santa hated most: his scent truly breaking. Fear—real fear—spilled into the air, thin and shaken and unmistakably omega, like a call that hadn’t meant to become a call.
Santa reached for the couch arm, fingers scraping fabric, missing. His palm hit the wall instead—harder than he meant to, a small slap against the paint—and then his strength just… left.
He sank down, not graceful, landing on the floor on one knee first, then sitting back with his hand braced to keep himself from tipping fully over.
The air changed.
Not just because Santa fell—because his scent did. It fluttered into something raw and frightened, the kind that made children’s bodies react before their minds could. Even Jaidee went still for a heartbeat, eyes widening, like his system recognized danger.
Domiia froze too.
He smelled it.
He smelled the fear in his Papa.
And because he was Perth’s son—because his alpha was dominant and still half-feral with panic—his scent did something ugly in response: surged sharp, possessive, frantic, like it wanted to cover Santa up and also didn’t know how not to bite
“Uncle Ta!” Jaidee’s voice went thin with panic. He lurched forward, clinging to Santa’s sleeve like a lifeline, eyes huge and wet.
Permpoon was already up, fast and steady, scent flaring sharp for half a second. “Uncle—!” He grabbed the coffee table instinctively to keep it from sliding, then crouched beside Santa, one hand hovering at Santa’s shoulder like he wasn’t sure if touching would hurt.
Santa’s face tightened in a way he couldn’t quite hide.
He blinked hard—once, twice—trying to pull himself back together, trying to pull his scent back into shape too. He tried to force warmth—Papa is okay, Papa is okay—but fear and stress kept leaking, stubborn and thin.
“Domiia…” Santa whispered.
The sound of hurt in Santa’s voice hit Domiia like a slap.
The child went still.
His eyes went wide, horrified.
He saw his Papa on the floor, blinking through a thin sheen of tears, one hand instinctively clutching at his hip where he’d knocked it. He saw Jaidee hovering close and trembling, Permpoon crouched beside Papa with panic written all over his face, like both of them were trying to decide whether to touch, whether to call for help.
He smelled what he’d done to the room.
He smelled his own scent—sharp, ugly, overwhelming—pressing up against Papa’s shaky sweetness like a storm against a candle.
The heat in him drained out all at once. He sobered.
And then he saw Santa look up at him.
Not angry. Not disgusted. Just… love first. Worry second. The kind of concern that made Domiia’s chest go cold.
The heat in him drained out all at once. He sobered.
For one second, he looked like he would run into Santa’s arms and beg forgiveness until he disappeared.
His lips parted. “Papa, I—”
But shame grabbed him by the throat.
Shame made him do the stupidest thing.
“No,” Domiia choked, backing away. “No— I didn’t— I didn’t mean—”
“Domiia, baby, it’s okay,” Santa tried to say, even through tears, because Santa was always like this—gentle even when he's hurting. He pushed warmth into his voice like a hand held out, and tried—tried—to make his scent steady again “Come here. Papa’s okay. Come—”
Domiia shook his head hard, panicked. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry—”
And then he turned and ran.
Barefoot, because he’d kicked his shoes off at the door. Backpack still half-open, zipper stuck.
The front door flew open.
Slammed.
The frame shuddered.
For half a second the house held its breath.
Then Santa moved.
“Domiia—!” His voice tore out of him, raw. He lunged up too fast, too fast, and the room tipped—only he didn’t have time to respect the warning. He just ran.
Permpoon shot up immediately. “I’ll go after him—”
“Stay—” Santa tried to say, but it came out broken as he pushed past, hand scraping the wall for balance, feet already carrying him to the foyer.
He yanked the door open.
Outside, the air hit him damp and cool—late afternoon slipping into early evening. The sky had that heavy, bruised color that meant rain soon. The garden lights hadn’t switched on yet, so everything looked dim at the edges.
And there—there.
A small frame in motion.
Domiia’s hair was messy from Santa’s fingers. His shoulders hunched like he was bracing against the whole world. He ran across the front porch, down the path cutting through the garden, feet slapping soft against stone and grass, faster than Santa expected, fast like fear gave him wings.
“Domiia!” Santa shouted again, and the name cracked.
Domiia didn’t turn.
He bolted past the trimmed hedges, past the little fountain that usually made him laugh when he flicked water at it, past the potted plants Santa always told him not to knock over. His backpack swung wildly, zipper gaping like a mouth.
Santa ran after him.
Not far—he tried—but he ran.
Each step made his head pound harder. The world narrowed to one thing: my child running away.
He reached the porch steps and the ground shifted under him, a sudden wave of dizziness blooming white at the edges of his vision.
Still, he forced himself forward.
Domiia was already at the gate.
The tall metal gate that usually felt like safety—gated estate, guards, cameras, lights, rules—looked suddenly too big, too heavy, too slow to stop anything that mattered.
Santa’s eyes darted hard to the guard post, to the driveway. Where’s the guard? The thought came panicked and sharp, like accusing the air. Why is no one—?
Domiia slipped through the gap—small body squeezing past the bars as the gate cracked open. Santa saw Domiia’s bare feet flash through it, saw his son squeeze out with the desperate speed of a child who didn’t want to be caught.
“Domiia, stop—!” Santa tried, voice hoarse.
But Domiia was gone.
One second he was there—small, angry, shaking—then he was a streak past the gate, down the path beyond the property line, swallowed by the trees and the curve of the road.
Out of sight.
Santa’s lungs seized.
He took two more steps and his body betrayed him fully—knees going weak, stomach turning, the world tilting hard like the ground was no longer trustworthy.
He grabbed the nearest pillar by the porch with both hands, knuckles whitening, swallowing bile, blinking fast.
No.
No no no—
He could not chase like this. Not safely. Not when his vision was sparking and his heartbeat was loud enough to drown out his own thoughts. If he ran and collapsed outside, then what? If he fell on the path and Domiia was out there alone—
Panic surged, hot and sharp, and Santa’s throat closed around it.
Behind him, Permpoon’s footsteps thudded to the doorway. “Uncle Ta—!”
Jaidee’s voice, small and frightened, followed. “Uncle Santa…?”
Santa didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. He stared at the gate like he could will Domiia back into view.
His hands trembled against the pillar.
Then he forced himself to move—back inside, back into the house where the phone was, where adults could do what adults were supposed to do.
He grabbed his phone.
Perth was out. Script reading. Santa knew that. He had known it all morning: Daddy’s busy, Daddy’s working, we let Daddy work.
But his child, his baby, had just run out of the house.
He pressed call.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then Perth picked up, voice already lowered as if he’d stepped out the moment he saw the name on screen.
“Hey love.” Perth said, light and familiar, the kind of tone that usually came with a smile. “Baby.. I was just thinking about you. Mm—what’s up?”
Santa tried to speak.
His throat closed.
Tears slid down again, hot and helpless.
“Phi…” Santa whispered, and his voice broke on the word. “Phi Perth— Domiia—”
Perth’s tone changed instantly—no more smile, no more teasing. Just alertness, sharp and focused, like he’d gone still on the other end of the line.
“Ta.” One syllable, grounded. His voice came calm, steady, like a hand pressing gently between Santa’s shoulder blades. “Breathe, Ter. One breath. Then tell me.”
Santa sucked in air that didn’t feel like enough. “He ran out,” Santa choked. “He— he ran out of the house. He’s barefoot. I— I can’t chase. I feel— I feel dizzy, Phi.”
Silence for half a second—Perth going still.
Then a small sound: movement, a chair sliding back, a muffled, polite apology to someone nearby.
Perth’s voice returned lower, sharper with controlled urgency. “Which way did he go—what happened?”
“I—I don’t know,” Santa cried, hating himself.“It happened so fast. I… I scolded him—I shouldn’t have— I— he just ran. The door—”
Santa tried to explain—tried to make it make sense—but the words kept slipping.
Normally it’s fine, his head insisted, frantic and useless at the same time. Normally Domiia is outside and it’s fine. He knows the guards. He knows the rules. He’s always got someone—Mae, the driver, his friends, his uncles and aunties. Even when he’s alone, it’s still inside the complex gates.
But this wasn’t normal. Not with the way Domiia’s face had looked when he ran. Not with the light outside already thinning. Not with the air smelling like rain.
Out loud, it came out broken.
“Phi—I—” Santa choked, and it wasn’t a sentence so much as a sound. His breath hitched, turning thin. “It’s… it’s safe, Phi. It should be, it’s—”
The words broke apart. A small sob slipped out before he could stop it, humiliating and helpless. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, but it only smeared the wetness.
His voice shook harder, ragged at the edges. “But it’s dark already. The sky’s… it’s going to rain. He ran out angry—so angry.” Another sharp swallow, another tremble in his throat. “I’m scared he’ll do something stupid. Reckless. I— I can’t… I can’t, Phi—”
“Okay,” Perth said—still firm, but softer now, like he was cupping Santa’s panic in both hands instead of pushing it away. “Hey, baby. Listen to me, hm? Sit down first. Please. I need you safe.”
His voice stayed low, steady. “Take one sip of water. Just one. Don’t run after him like that, okay? Not when you’re dizzy.” A small pause, and then, quieter: “Let me handle this.”
Santa swallowed, shaking. “But— Phi—”
“I’m coming,” Perth cut in, and the words landed like a promise sealed shut. “Right now. I’m on my way, love.”
“Your work—”
“Forget my work,” Perth said, gentle but absolute. “I’ll handle it. You stay with me.” His voice tightened for a beat—love turning protective, not sharp. “Call our security now. I’m calling the complex security.”
He kept his voice warm as he gave structure. “Tell them Domiia just ran out barefoot. Pull up CCTV, and sweep the usual routes—front road, back lane, garden side. Tell them he’s barefoot and what he’s wearing, okay? Baby, breathe while you do it.”
A beat, softer again. “Is the housekeeper still there with you?”
Santa glanced at the two boys—Permpoon hovering, ready to bolt; Jaidee crying silently, guilt splashing across his face like he thought this was all his fault.
“No,” Santa whispered. “She went home already. Permpoon and Jaidee are here.”
Perth paused for half a second—processing, then setting it aside. “Okay. Good. Keep them with you. I’ll text Joong and Pond so they know their boys are safe.”
Santa’s breath shook. “Okay.”
“And Ta,” Perth’s voice softened by one degree—just enough to reach Santa’s chest, not his head. “Whatever happened, This is not your fault. We’ll find him.”
He didn’t dismiss Santa’s fear; he wrapped it in something steadier. “Domiia will be okay. He’s angry, but he’s smart. He won’t get far. The estate is gated and security is already moving. You hear me? Our baby will be okay.”
Santa pressed the heel of his hand to his mouth to keep the sound inside him. “Mm.”
“I’m here,” Perth said again, low. “Stay on the line with me. Go to the panel, call the guard—okay? I’m not hanging up.”
Santa nodded even though Perth couldn’t see. “Yes.”
“Good,” Perth murmured. “Go. I’m with you.”
Santa turned, wiping his face quickly, trying to become functional in front of the kids. His voice came out soft but urgent. “Permpoon. Come with Uncle, okay? Help me call security.”
Then, gentler, he reached to steady Jaidee with a touch to his shoulder. “Jaidee… sit here. Don’t move. It’s not your fault, baby.”
Jaidee’s shoulders shook as he nodded.
Permpoon’s eyes were wet too, but he blinked it back hard. “Yes, Uncle Ta.”
Santa moved to the security panel by the foyer with shaking fingers, the house suddenly too quiet, his heart pounding loud enough to feel like it could be heard through walls.
On the phone, Perth’s breathing stayed steady—one long exhale after another—like he was anchoring Santa from kilometers away while his own world rearranged itself around one goal: to find their baby.