nini's archive

REQUEST:

KIM MINGYU | 1 |

LEE CHAN | 1 |

XU MINGHAO | 1 |

JOSHUA HONG

but if it's forever, it's even better*

no one's ever had me, not like you*

won't let them break your heart*

i don't think i could love you more*

ONE SHOTS

I choose you and me religiously

I might just love you until the end

good graces

one sunday morning

thank my lucky stars for that night

don't make me fall in love again

pull up

JEON WONWOO

have I told you lately, i'm grateful you're mine

sweet nothings

this is how you fall in love

game boy

hearts don't break around here

won't let these little things

cluelessly yours

maybe maybe

chase the cut

when our paths cross again

chase the cut - the spin off

in his orbit

black and white and golden

so highschool | wishlist

CHOI SEUNGCHEOL

fight my way

cheek are red like cherries in the spring

god bless your dad's genetics

skittles

in the quiet of us

drowning in the deepest of truths, i think i'm falling for you*

thank all your lucky stars, i'll always be the lucky one

i only think of you, will we be together soon

ddaddu #1

magnets - part 1 - part 2

bend the break | beyond the tracks

how long before we fall in love

the archer

for tonight and forever

be the rest of your life or whatever

before it sinks in

protective or possessive? call it passive or aggressive?

bound to fall | bound to fall: inbound to you

dark nights and daylight

gonna get you back

vitals - part 1 | part 2 | part 3

casualties of chemistry - part 1 | part 2 | part 3

YOON JEONGHAN

wake up to your sunset

apartments we shared

sincerity is (not) scary

rings and roadblocks

strawberry sunday girl

in case of falling - part one | part two

KIM MINGYU

but on a wednesday i watched it begin again

benefit of friends

ruin the friendship

LEE SEOKMIN

i'm inlove with all your charm

handlebars

CHWE VERNON

as long as stars are above you and longer if I can

grumpy cat's secret soft side

breaking the ice

never too much

headlights and headliners | bonus

XU MINGHAO / THE8

not dating huh

chasing fire

KWON SOONYOUNG / HOSHI

my ins and my means

LEE JIHOON / WOOZI

The silence started bothering him at 7:12 a.m. Because by then, usually, there was already something. A complaint or a craving or a random observation. A message about your daughter moving too much at dawn like she personally hated sleep.

But that morning nothing.

Seungcheol checked again while pouring coffee. Still nothing.

By 8:03 he sent first.

Seungcheol: Morning. Want breakfast?

The reply took thirteen minutes. Long enough that he noticed.

You: No thanks

He stared at the screen. Then sent again later, trying casual.

Seungcheol: Lunch later? I can bring something.

This time the answer came faster.

You: No, Thanks. I’m good.

That period should not have mattered. It did. Because now every instinct he had built around you over months started lighting up at once.

You never answered like someone who was actually fine.

By noon he had read those two replies enough times that even Wonwoo noticed he had not touched half the paperwork in front of him.

“You’re reading punctuation like it insulted you”

“She’s quiet”

Wonwoo barely glanced up “So go check”

“I’m at work”

“You haven’t done work in twenty minutes”

That was enough. By early afternoon he was already driving. The entire way there his mind kept building possibilities he hated.

By the time he reached your apartment, his pulse had already climbed too high for how still the hallway looked.

You opened the door after the second knock and immediately something felt wrong. Your face looked composed in the deliberate way people wore when they had been trying very hard for too long.

“What happened”

“Nothing” That word again.

He looked around instinctively. No sign of vomiting. No visible mess. No emergency. But you were standing too straight, like even your shoulders were trying not to reveal anything.

“You didn’t text”

“I answered”

“You sent two words”

“I’m tired”

“You look like you cried”

That made your jaw tighten immediately “I’m fine”

There it was. The phrase he trusted least.

He softened his tone instinctively “Did something happen today?”

“No.”

“Did something hurt?” 

“No.”

“Did she move?” 

“Yes.”

“Did you eat?”

A pause “Yes.”

Lie. He knew because your eyes moved left when you lied badly so he stepped closer.

“I’ll make something”

“I said I’m fine”

“You haven’t eaten”

“I did” 

Something in you snapped a little at how easily he kept seeing through everything. Because that gentleness, the same gentleness that had comforted you for months felt unbearable today.

So when he reached for the kitchen as if this apartment belonged naturally to his care too you stopped him.

“Cheol”

He turned and your voice came sharper than intended.

“I said I’m fine”

“You’re not”

That should have comforted you. Instead, it hurt worse because the truth sitting ugly in your chest had become too tangled to separate now.

You heard him last night. You thought he was sacrificing too much. You thought someday you would become the reason he missed his own life.

And worse than all of that you now knew the ache inside you when imagining him with someone else was not friendship.

It had crossed quietly while you were too distracted surviving to notice.

And loving him now felt unforgivably selfish.

Because what right did you have? Pregnant. Broken. Carrying another man’s child. Already leaning too much. Already taking too much.

So when he took another step toward you, concern plain on his face you panicked.

And panic made cruel things come faster than thought.

“Just go, okay?”

He stopped completely but not because of the words, because of how they sounded. Still you kept going, even when the words hurts you twice back.

“I don’t need pity”

“This isn’t pity”

“I don’t need care either” Your voice cracked slightly now but still you forced it.

“I don’t need you.”

Silence. Absolute silence. The second the words left you, you knew they were false. So false they almost knocked the air from you yourself.

Because if there was one truth clearer than anything right now, it was the opposite. 

You did need him.

Too much.

And that was exactly why saying it felt safer than admitting anything real.

His eyes stayed on you. No anger. Only that quiet wounded stillness from someone hit somewhere unguarded.

And seeing that expression hurt you far deeper than it should have if this were only friendship.

That was the moment it arrived fully, undeniable:

You loved him.

Not slowly enough to soften. Not lightly enough to excuse.

Loved him selfishly enough that hurting him made your chest feel like it split open.

Loved him enough that seeing him with someone else in your mind had wrecked you before anything even happened.

And because of that realization, fear sharpened further.

So instead of taking the words back you pushed harder.

A lie over a wound “I’ve asked enough already.”

Still silence. Then finally he spoke, voice lower than usual.

“You think that’s what this is?”

You looked away because if you met his eyes, you would break.

“I think you should stop rearranging your life because of me”

Something flickered across his face, understanding almost, but incomplete.

He exhaled once through his nose and for one second it looked like he might say everything. Whatever he had buried. Whatever sat right behind his restraint. But your face stopped him.

So instead he only nodded once, like agreeing with you right now physically hurt.

“If you want space, I’ll go”

That gentleness broke something in you harder than anger would have.

He just moved toward the door and when it clicked shut behind him the apartment felt immediately unbearable.

You stood there exactly three seconds before your legs gave enough that you had to sit.

Then the first sob came, nothing graceful about it. And suddenly it hurt more than that night months ago when your world first split open because back then grief had a clear target.

Now the pain came from your own mouth, from words you did not mean.

From watching the one person who never failed to show up finally leave because you pushed him there yourself.

And for the first time in months, you cried with both hands over your face while your daughter moved quietly beneath your ribs like she felt everything too 

=

For almost two weeks, Seungcheol learned something ugly about silence:

It could become louder than any argument.

Every day without you became its own kind of noise. No morning texts. No random complaints. No messages about swollen feet. No annoyed updates about your daughter kicking at impossible hours.

Nothing.

And he hated how quickly his life still bent around checking anyway.

He told himself he was respecting what you asked for. Space. Distance. Whatever that conversation had become.

But respecting it did not stop the constant thought:

Did you eat? Did you nap? Did you try reaching something too high alone? Did you walk too long because no one was there to stop you?

The worst part was that last look on your face kept replaying.

Because your mouth had said I don’t need you but your eyes had looked devastated even before he left.

And Seungcheol knew you. Knew the way you lied when scared. Knew the way your voice sharpened when what you really wanted was the opposite.

He had wanted to believe anger would fade and you would call.

You didn’t. So by the time the second week ended, he had become restless in ways even work could not cover.

Wonwoo noticed it immediately. How could he not when Seungcheol was practically moping. 

“What’s wrong with you?”

Wonwoo asks when he sees his friend glaring, again, at his laptop. A common expression Cheol wears nowadays. 

“Nothing”

“Mhm, and I have 20/20 vision. Surely this is about Y/N”

Cheol visible tenses at the mention of your name, a reaction Wonwoo didn’t miss. 

“Did you two fight?” he asks

“No”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes, taking a seat infront of Seungcheol’s desk. Determined to get some answers.

“Okay, let me rephrase that. Is she avoiding you? Because you’ve been staying after hours here which you havent done in like 8 months. So either she’s not answering you or you finally decided this one sided relationship isn’t workling”

Seungcheol looks up from his laptop to glare at his friend, making Wonwoo chuckle. 

“There it is, I’m guessing the first option then?”

“Don’t you have work?”

“Yes, but I’ve heard 3 people say they’re scared to approach you because you have this permanent scowl on. I had to see it for myself”

Cheol only rolls his eyes, “People need to get a life”

“And you need to grow a spine, what are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

Wonwoo gestures all over, “You, this, her. Don’t tell me you’re actually staying away when she needs you the most”

Silence. 

“So secrets and silent treatment. You’re really something you know that”

“You didn’t see the way she looked at me, she told me to go”

“And you did?”

For a second the two men just stared at each other, because Wonwoo could not believe that this is the same man who considered committing a crime the moment he heard about the cheating issue. 

The same man who hunts down sweet potatoes at midnight, buys candied grapes and goes to every doctor’s appointment. 

The same man who thought loving someone could be a burden to them so he’d rather suffer in silence. 

“You could have done that months ago, Cheol. But you didn’t. And whether or not you plan to admit it, you love her. Leaving was never an option for you, not back then so why now?”

Seungcheol can only stay silent because he didn’t have the answer to that. Or maybe he did, he just can’t admit it yet. 

“You’re taking away her freedom to decide her own feelings the same way you’re stopping yourself from feeling your own. Don’t destroy a good thing just because you’re scared”

That evening he was driving home after work, Wonwoo’s words from earlier still playing in his head. 

One hand loose on the wheel, exhaustion sitting heavy behind his eyes, and then your name lit up his dashboard.

Everything in him reacted instantly. He answered before the second ring.

“Hello?” Already expecting your voice.

Instead “Is this… Choi Seungcheol?” A stranger.

Immediate cold through his chest.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“I’m calling from the emergency contact listed on Ms. Y/L/N’s phone”

His grip tightened so hard his knuckles blanched. The car nearly drifted before he corrected sharply

“What happened?”

“She was brought in a little while ago. She collapsed.”

Everything after that came in fragments. Hospital name. Neighbor. Pale. Unresponsive briefly.

He did not even remember the drive fully afterward, red lights felt like an insult, hands shaking on the steering wheel.

The violent rhythm of one thought:

No. No. No.

By the time he reached the hospital, he was already halfway running.

Reception barely finished your name before he was asking where. A nurse met him outside the maternity ward.

“She’s stable right now” 

And still that wasn not enough to calm him.

“What happened?”

“She apparently went to a neighbor saying she felt dizzy. Then she collapsed before sitting down. They rushed her to the ER about an hour ago”

His jaw tightened “And the baby?”

The nurse glanced at the chart 

“There was fetal distress for a while. Her blood pressure dropped badly when she came in. We were concerned about early labor because contractions started briefly.”

His chest went cold “But they stopped?”

“For now.”

For now. Words he hated immediately.

“She’s severely exhausted. Dehydrated too.”

That one hit hardest because guilt arrived instantly, sharp and deserved.

The nurse continued gently “She needs proper monitoring tonight. Stress likely contributed”

Stress. He almost laughed bitterly because the source of that word felt too obvious.

Him leaving. You alone. Two weeks of pretending fine.

He looked through the glass before entering and the anger turned fully inward.

You looked small. Too small. Far too pale against white sheets. One hand resting weakly over the blanket near your stomach like even asleep your body stayed searching for reassurance.

The monitor beside you beeped steadily.

Your daughter’s heartbeat audible now. Soft, fast, alive. The sound nearly took his knees because for days he had imagined worse without permission.

Now hearing it made everything inside him loosen and tighten at once.

He stepped inside quietly. The chair beside your bed scraped softly when he pulled it close.

Your face looked thinner somehow in only two weeks or maybe guilt made everything harsher.

He sat then leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped tight enough to hurt.

He’s mad, mostly at himself because the memory came immediately. The lie in your eyes and he had still left because you asked.

He should have known better, should have ignored pride, should have checked anyway sooner. Should have come back the next morning, and the next, and the next.

Instead he gave distance to someone who never knew when to stop carrying too much alone.

A slight movement then your eyes opened slowly. It took two seconds before focus reached him.

Immediately the tears gathered before you even spoke.

“Don’t.” His voice came lower than intended as if stopping apology before it started

“Cheol…” the name came weak

And he hated how much relief that tiny sound gave him.

He stood immediately, leaning close

“Why didn’t you call?”

“I was fine” The lie was so automatic he nearly exhaled in disbelief.

He stared then softer, more broken than angry

“No, you weren’t.”

Your eyes filled fully now because of course that sentence hurt when spoken like that.

The monitor kept its steady rhythm. He looked once toward your stomach then back at you.

“The nurse said she was in distress”

That made your hand move instinctively to your belly, small panic in your face.

“She’s okay?” 

“She’s okay.”He said it immediately. 

You shut your eyes briefly in relief. One tear slipped anyway.

He saw it and something inside him gave way. All remaining anger dissolved into something rawer.

He reached without thinking. His hand covering yours where it rested over the blanket.

And your fingers trembled beneath his.

His voice lowered “You scared me.”

“I didn’t mean—” “I know.”

“But you don’t get to disappear and collapse alone because you’re trying to prove something.”

Your throat tightened “I wasn’t trying to prove anything.”

He looked at you for a long moment then finally said what had sat bitter for days

“Then why did you look at me like I was someone you had to lose before I even left?”

That silenced you completely.

Inside that small room, the distance of two weeks suddenly sat between both of you like something breathing.

And yet his hand never left yours.

Not even once.

And when your daughter kicked suddenly beneath his palm through the blanket, sharp enough both of you felt it, his jaw tightened unexpectedly, eyes lowering there.

A tiny reminder.

Alive.

Still fighting too.

He closed his fingers slightly over your hand.

And for the first time since arriving, his voice broke just enough to show how close panic had truly come.

“Don’t do that to me again.”

Because he already knew he would not survive another phone call like that.

By then you were sitting up slightly, pillows stacked behind your back, hospital blanket gathered around your lap, one hand still trembling where his had not left it.

Seungcheol stayed close, chair pulled near enough that his knees almost touched the bed. Still watching you like if he blinked too long you might disappear again.

You looked at him. Tears were already falling before words even came snd when you spoke, your voice sounded fragile enough that he straightened instantly

“You deserve more than this…”

His brows pulled together “What?”

More tears. You shook your head once, as if even saying it aloud hurt.

“More than me.”

Immediate confusion crossed his face, but before he could interrupt you kept going, words tumbling now because if you stopped you knew you would lose courage.

“You’re sacrificing too much of your life for me.”

He opened his mouth.

You kept speaking “For this baby…”

Your voice cracked harder there 

“For someone else’s—” “Don’t.” Sharp enough to stop you instantly.

Not angry. Just immediate. Firm.

“Don’t say that.”

His face had changed completely now. No hesitation, no caution, no polite restraint left. Only certainty.

“She’s yours,” he said, voice low but unwavering. “And that’s all that matters.”

His eyes held yours now in a way that gave you nowhere to hide.

“I don’t care about anything else.”

Then the words finally came, stripped clean and terrifyingly simple:

“I love you.”

And because truth once started rarely stopped neatly, he added softly 

“I love her too.” That did it.

Whatever fragile control you still had shattered completely.

You broke.

A sob escaped so suddenly it shook through your whole chest. Then another.

Then your shoulders were trembling hard enough he moved immediately, standing, leaning in, pulling you carefully into him without disturbing the monitors.

One arm around your back. One hand at the back of your head. Careful of every wire, every ache, every fragile part of you.

And you cried into him like something finally allowed to collapse after months of holding itself upright.

His voice dropped softer instantly “Hey… hey…”

The tone he always used when calming you. Only now it carried relief too and something almost trembling underneath.

Because he had said it. Finally. And you had not pushed him away.

He eased back just enough to see your face.

One hand lifting carefully, thumb brushing tears from your cheeks.

And somehow even like this you looked at him with something so raw it made his own expression soften further.

His smile came small. The kind smile he wore only when emotion hit him deeper than words.

“There’s this selfish part of my brain…”

He waited.

You looked down because admitting it felt shameful and impossible all at once.

“…that hates that”

His brows shifted “Hates what?”

“That she’s not yours”

The confession came broken ad once spoken, you forced yourself through the rest.

“That you’re so ready to love her… and some awful selfish part of me hates that she isn’t yours”

For a second he only stared. Then something almost warm—almost amused through emotion—touched his mouth.

Because of course even now you thought love obeyed blood first.

And he asked quietly “Who says she’s not mine?”

he leaned slightly closer still smiling, faint but certain now.

“Who says she isn’t mine?”

Your breath caught “Cheol…”

“I’m serious. I don’t care whose name is buried in biology.”

Your tears started again immediately because no one had ever said something that frighteningly gentle to you before.

No one had ever chosen this clearly.

He looked down briefly, hand moving to your stomach where your daughter rested beneath the blanket.

“She moves when I talk.” A tiny smile.

“She kicks hardest when you’re stubborn.” Another glance at you.

“I already worry when you skip one meal like the world is ending.”

Then back to your eyes.

“So tell me honestly—what part of this doesn’t already feel mine too?”

That was when your sob returned harder.

Because the answer was nothing.

Nothing about him had ever felt halfway.

He loved like it had already decided for him months ago.

“I’ve been trying so hard not to say this because I thought loving you while you were carrying someone else’s child was selfish.”

You stared. He gave one breath of humorless disbelief.

“But apparently I’m past pretending that matters.”

A tear slipped down his own face this time “I was ready long before today.”

You reached for him before thinking. Hands catching his shirt again, pulling him close because distance suddenly felt unbearable.

He came easily. Forehead against yours. Arms around you carefully.

And when your daughter kicked again between you, he laughed softly against your temple.

“There,” he murmured.

“She agrees.”

You cried and laughed at once, which only made him smile wider. Then he kissed your forehead. Kissed your cheeks, once, twice, making you smile. 

This time it didn’t looked forced or fake, just… you. 

You closed the distance between the two of you, kissing him softly. Like even now you’re unsure if you deserve this but of course he could read you. 

So he reached up, gently cupping for your face before kissing you deeply, fully. Like he meant everything, keeping them all as vows to you. 

And in that small hospital room, with monitors still humming and your body still weak and exhausted something quietly became whole.

Not perfect. Not easy.

But chosen.

Entirely chosen.

His hand never left your stomach after that.

As if he had already decided exactly where he belonged 

=

By 37 weeks, everything had started looking like a countdown.

In the nursery door that stayed half open because both of you kept wandering in just to look.

The folded blankets stacked too neatly, tiny bottles lined like careful soldiers.

The crib Seungcheol had assembled himself after refusing help, despite cursing quietly at the instruction manual for nearly an hour because apparently one screw had offended him personally.

and the fact that his car now carried a professionally installed infant seat he had checked so many times the straps practically knew his hands.

Seungcheol no longer moved through days casually. Everything now had purpose.

Routes to the hospital memorized. Fastest route at noon. Fastest route at night. Backup route if traffic stalled.

Hospital parking entrance. Emergency entrance. Even which convenience store nearby stayed open twenty-four hours.

He had catalogued it all silently like preparing for something sacred.

And because neither of you bothered pretending anymore, he was simply staying with you now.

His things had just begun appearing naturally. A charger by your bed, shirts folded in your laundry basket, toothbrush beside yours, his watch on your kitchen counter. 

And you did not mind.

Tonight the two of you sat cross-legged on the nursery floor, hospital bag open between you.

Tiny baby clothes spread like impossibly small evidence that very soon there would be an actual person here.

Your daughter.

A whole human.

And somehow that reality hit harder now than ever before.

You picked up one of the newborn shirts and just stared. It was absurdly tiny. The sleeves looked unreal. The neck opening looked like it belonged to a doll.

Your eyes immediately softened in that dangerous emotional way he had learned meant tears were near.

“Oh my God…”

Seungcheol looked up from where he was folding receiving blankets badly

“What”

You held up the shirt like proof of some impossible fact

“She’s supposed to fit in this?”

He glanced at it then at your face and smiled. 

There it was again, that expression lately where wonder and fear collided in you at the same time. You looked half amazed, half on the edge of crying.

“It’s so tiny.” Your voice had already gone softer

He reached beside him and picked up a white onesie. Held it by the shoulders.

The entire thing was barely longer than his forearm. He turned it slightly, disbelief finally showing in his face too.

“…That can’t be real.”

You laughed “It is real.”

He frowned lightly at the fabric like it personally challenged logic

“Our daughter fits inside this?”

“She’s supposed to”

He looked unconvinced then found one mitten from the pile. Held it in his palm completely flat. Tiny enough that it barely covered the center of his hand.

He stared for a full second. Then exhaled something halfway between disbelief and wonder.

“This is criminally small.”

That one tiny thing. Too small. Too delicate.

His eyes shifted back to you “Hey”

You wiped under one eye quickly

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

You smiled weakly  “I spent months imagining this and now suddenly… t feels terrifying”

He shifted closer automatically “Terrifying because?”

“What if I don’t know what I’m doing?” The honesty came quietly now

“What if she cries and I don’t know why? What if I do something wrong? What if—”

“You will”

That made you look up immediately. He smiled.

“You’ll do something wrong eventually”

“Cheol”

“So will I”

He set the mitten aside, reached for another tiny sock. Held it between his fingers.

“This small person is going to humble both of us”

That made your mouth twitch despite yourself.

He continued softer “We’ll still figure it out.”

You looked at him for a long second because he said things like that now so naturally, as if there had never been any doubt he belonged in every version of what came next.

He picked up the sock again

“She has feet small enough for this?”

You laughed through the last tear 

“She currently kicks like she has full adult legs.”

“That part I know.”

As if summoned by the conversation, your stomach shifted visibly. A kick. Then another.

He smiled down “See? Already violent.”

“She gets that from you.”

“Impossible.”

“You assembled a crib like it insulted your family.”

“The crib started it.”

You laughed properly this time.

=

It happened on the one night he finally slept.

Of course it did.

After days of living like a man waiting beside a fire alarm, exhaustion had finally caught him hard enough that sometime after midnight he dropped into real sleep. 

The kind he had been denying himself for nearly two weeks.

You noticed because for once his breathing stayed deep. A faint snore every now and then, soft enough it almost made you smile despite the hour.

One arm still draped over you automatically, heavy across your side even in sleep, palm resting near your stomach as if his body refused to fully let go even unconscious.

The room was dark except for the city light slipping through curtains.

Then you felt it. At first just tightening. A familiar hard pull across your abdomen.

Enough that your eyes opened.

Weeks of false alarms so you breathed through it, one hand automatically pressing low over your stomach.

Still half convinced this was nothing. Still telling yourself not to overreact.

You almost closed your eyes again.

Then another came and this time the pressure stayed longer.

A deeper ache blooming down your back.

You shifted carefully.

A clean pain that made your whole body jolt before you could stop it. Your hand grabbed the blanket instinctively.

You turned immediately. Seungcheol still asleep beside you. You almost hesitated because after days of no sleep he looked painfully tired.

Then another tightening built again. Stronger.

You nudged his shoulder

“Cheol” Nothing.

Another wave. Stronger now.

You nudged harder.

“Cheol”

Still half asleep, he made a low sound but did not wake fully then the pain sharpened enough that your voice changed.

“Cheol.” That did it. His eyes opened instantly.

“What?” Then he saw your face and every trace of sleep vanished.

“What happened?”

Your hand was gripping the blanket now

“I—” Another tightening interrupted you

His whole body straightened immediately

“Is it pain?” You nodded once

“How bad?”

“I don’t know—”

“When did it start?”

“A little while ago.”

His expression changed so fast it almost looked unreal. He pushed upright instantly, hand already on your arm.

“How long is a little while?”

“I thought it was normal”

He glanced immediately at the bedside clock. He was out of bed before you finished breathing.

Phone in hand. Lights on. The room suddenly bright.

“What are you doing?” you asked, still trying to sit up

“Timing.”

“Cheol—” “No, absolutely not, timing first.”

His phone is already open. Already kneeling beside the bed. Watching your face with terrifying focus.

“When it stops, tell me”

You almost laughed if it did not hurt because he looked exactly like someone waiting for an exam result.

Another wave passed. You exhaled.

“It stopped”

He checked the timer.

“How far apart was the first one?”

“I didn’t check” Of course you didn’t.

He inhaled through his nose once, fighting panic.

“Okay. Fine. Fine.”

Then another contraction started and your face changed enough that he saw it before you spoke. Immediately he reached for your hand.

“There?”

You squeezed hard “Yes”

He looked at the timer again like the seconds personally offended him. Then after it eased, he stared.

Thirty seconds. Too real now.

He looked at you. You looked back.

And for one suspended second both of you understood together:

This might actually be it.

Your voice came smaller now.

“Cheol…” And he hated how fear sat under your tone immediately.

So whatever panic existed inside him got shoved down fast. His voice softened. Very steady now, even if his pulse was chaos.

“Okay. Okay. We’re okay.”

Another breath.

“We’re just checking. No panic yet.”

You blinked because he said no panic while very clearly already panicking.

He stood, then immediately leaned back down and kissed your forehead. Quick. Grounding himself too.

“Can you stand?” You nodded.

He still helped carefully anyway, one arm around you like glass. The second your feet touched the floor another pressure came and he froze

“You sure you can walk?”

“Yes.”

“You look pale.”

“I’m pregnant.”

Twenty minutes later, the room no longer felt like the quiet apartment you had left.

Now everything smelled faintly clinical. White light overhead. Monitors humming. Footsteps beyond the hallway.

A nurse moving in and out with practiced calm that somehow made everything feel even more real.

And the contractions, those had fully announced themselves. Low, deep, wrapping around your entire middle and down your back until breathing became something you had to consciously fight for.

You were in the hospital bed but not really resting on it, half upright because staying still somehow felt worse, one hand gripping the railing hard enough your knuckles had gone pale.

Your other hand had not left Seungcheol’s once.

Another contraction built. Your grip crushed his hand.

“Breathe.”

You exhaled sharply through your teeth.

“You’re annoying.”

“That means you’re still functioning.”

Another wave climbed. You bent slightly forward, gripping the rail harder. Eyes squeezed shut.

The contraction sharpened hard enough that a frustrated sound left your throat.

And because pain stripped filters faster than anything you muttered through clenched teeth:

“I hate that I can’t even blame you right now.”

“You can blame me if it makes you feel better.”

You opened one eye enough to glare weakly

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

Another pulse hit and your fingers nearly bent his hand backward. He did not react except to move closer so you had more of him to hold onto.

“This is entirely your fault,” you said through another breath

“I accept that”

“You’re way too calm”

“I am not calm”

And that was true. Only his face had learned how to lie better than his pulse. Because inside, he was nowhere near calm. Every time your expression tightened, something inside him tightened too.

Every time you inhaled sharply, his own breathing changed.

He hated that he could do so little beyond stay.

The nurse came, checked monitors, murmured something about progress, and left again. Then another contraction arrived before you had fully recovered from the last one.

This one stronger. Longer.

And when it eased enough for speech, you muttered with deadly seriousness:

“Next time…”

He already knew pain meant dangerous statements were coming. Still he smiled.

“What next time?”

You pointed weakly at him while still breathing hard.

“Pinch me if I say I want another kid.”

That made him laugh again, fuller now. A real laugh that softened immediately when another pain flickered through your face.

“You’re deciding this now?”

“Yes.”

“During active labor?”

“This is the clearest I’ve ever thought in my life.”

He leaned closer, brushing damp hair gently from your forehead.

“I’ll remember the exact quote.”

“Don’t let me romanticize anything later.”

“Noted.”

“Don’t try and change my mind with your stupid handsome face”

He only chuckles, rubbing your back soothingly. 

Then quieter, more tired now 

“This hurts so much.”

There it was. The honest sentence underneath all the humor. Immediately his expression softened completely. The smile faded into something gentler.

He leaned close enough his forehead brushed yours.

“I know.”

Not ‘I know’ because he understood pain because he didn’t. But ‘I know’ because he saw it.

Every second.

And hated every part he could not remove.

Another kiss to your forehead.

“You’re doing so well.”

You gave him a look that clearly said you did not feel well. Still, his hand stayed steady around yours.

Then his eyes flicked once toward the monitor, the rhythm of your daughter’s heartbeat.

And for a moment emotion hit him quietly enough that his next words came softer than before.

“She’s almost here.”

And then just like that after hours that felt endless and somehow too fast at once, after pain and breath and trembling hands and nurses moving around you and Seungcheol never once letting go—

the room changed.

A cry. Sharp. Small.

The kind of sound that split everything before it into before and after.

For one suspended second nobody moved inside Seungcheol’s chest because his whole body forgot how.

Then the cry came again.

Louder. Alive.

And suddenly the world narrowed to one impossible truth: your daughter was here.

He had imagined this moment for months and still nothing had prepared him for the first time he saw her.

So small she almost looked unreal. Wrapped carefully in a soft pink blanket. A tiny newborn beanie tied with a ribbon so oversized it looked absurdly precious, almost larger than the top of her head.

Her face—God.

That face.

Tiny nose. Eyes still squeezed shut. Cheeks soft and unmistakably yours. So unmistakably yours it made something in him ache instantly.

And when the nurse placed her briefly where he could see her properly, he felt it land all at once with absolute certainty.

Only one clean overwhelming fact… that he would love this little girl for the rest of his life with the same terrifying certainty he had for you.

Maybe because she came from you. Maybe because he had already been loving her before seeing her.

Maybe because the second she existed in front of him, something in him recognized her immediately.

The nurses moved gently around you while checking everything, murmuring soft instructions.

And because you needed those few moments to breathe they placed her in his arms.

Seungcheol took her like something sacred. Both hands instinctively careful. Broad arms suddenly impossibly gentle.

The weight startled him. Warm. Tiny. Fragile enough that he instinctively held his breath.

Her whole body fit against him like she had always belonged there.

Her little face tucked under the pink blanket, mouth opening slightly as if still deciding whether to protest existence again.

His voice, when it came, was softer than anyone in the room had probably ever heard it.

“Hi.”

The word barely above a whisper. Her tiny face twitched, one fist moved under the blanket.

He laughed softly through his nose, eyes already warmer than usual

“So…” a tiny pause “Nice to finally meet you.”

His thumb brushed lightly over the edge of the blanket near her cheek, careful not to disturb her.

She made another tiny sound.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, by the way.”

He shifted slightly in the chair beside your bed, angling her instinctively so she stayed supported perfectly.

“Mostly that you kick like you own every room you’re in.”

Another tiny movement. He looked almost fascinated.

“As of last month, you also apparently hated your mother sleeping.”

From the bed,  you watched through tired eyes, too exhausted to fully smile but unable not to.

Because seeing him like this, seeing the way his entire face had softened around her felt almost unreal. He continued quietly, like introducing himself mattered even if she understood none of it yet.

“I’m Seungcheol” His mouth twitched slightly at how formal that sounded.

Then softer, “I know you’ll probably figure that out later.”

One finger barely touched her hand through the blanket. Her tiny fingers shifted reflexively.

And when one curled around the edge of his finger… he went silent.

Completely.

Because that one tiny reflex nearly ruined him.

His throat moved once before he found words again.

“So that’s how it is.” He looked down like she had already personally negotiated terms.

“You hold on the first day and expect me to survive this?”

His voice had gone even quieter now. As if the room disappeared and it was only him and this tiny new person who had somehow arrived already rearranging him.

He glanced toward you then. Saw your eyes on him and whatever he felt deepened further because now both of you were here safe.

He looked back at her then continued like he was telling her secrets already.

“Your mother is stubborn” You made a weak, offended sound from the bed. He smiled without looking up

“She doesn’t eat on time unless someone watches her.”

Another tiny pause.

“She also pretends she doesn’t need help when she absolutely does.”

Your tired voice came soft “She can hear you.”

“I know.”

Then to your daughter again

“You’ll learn that quickly.”

His thumb brushed her cheek this time, impossibly gently.

“And you should know she’s the bravest person I know.”

He looked at your daughter as though already making promises she would not understand for years.

“I’m going to love you very well, okay?” His voice almost broke there, just enough that he cleared it quietly after.

“Both of you.”

The baby shifted again, mouth puckering. He leaned closer immediately like every tiny movement now mattered.

“No pressure. You just got here.”

And for the first time since the cry that changed everything. Seungcheol looked completely at peace.

Like all the routes memorized, sleepless nights, fear, waiting, hospital bags, tiny onesies. all of it had led precisely here. 

Your daughter had settled against him in that tiny pink blanket, ribbon tilted slightly now, one cheek pressed into the fold near his chest.

She looked impossibly small there. Like she belonged in a photograph more than real life.

And he kept looking at her like he still hadn’t fully accepted she existed outside imagination.

His thumb moved once along the blanket edge. Then stopped.

His eyes stayed on her tiny face when he said quietly

“One day…”

Another small pause.

“One day, when you think I deserve it…”

His voice lowered further.

“So I’ll earn it first” He swallowed once, barely noticeable

Then with that same quiet honesty that made every word land heavier:

“I can be your appa.”

The sentence sat in the room gently. Just simple truth offered like a promise he did not want to force into existence before she chose him herself.

He looked down at her tiny hand tucked near the blanket.

“For now…”

A faint smile touched his mouth, sad only because it carried too much tenderness.

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”

His finger adjusted the edge of the blanket under her chin.

“Whatever you need me to be, okay?”

The baby made a tiny sleepy sound, mouth twitching like she objected to being spoken to during important newborn business.

That made him smile properly again. A small breath of laughter left him.

“Very demanding already.”

He leaned closer, voice nearly a whisper now.

“So grow up well.”

Another pause.

“That’s all you have to do.”

He looked at her like he meant every word as contract, prayer, and vow all at once.

“Grow healthy.”

“Sleep properly.”

“Don’t scare your mother too much.”

From the bed your tired voice came hoarse but amused:

“Why is that the third thing?”

Without missing a beat he answered softly “Because I already know you’ll both team up against me.”

You almost smiled despite how exhausted every muscle felt then his eyes returned to the baby again.

And whatever humor had touched his mouth softened into something deeper.

“I’ll handle the rest.”

The kind of promise made without needing witness. He shifted slightly, careful to support her head better though she had barely moved.

Then continued, almost as if explaining the world to someone who had arrived late to it.

“You don’t have to hurry for anything. Take your time. No one’s waiting for you to become anything except yourself.”

A tiny breath from her. He watched even that like it mattered.

“And if you cry, cry.”

“If you’re stubborn…” his mouth twitched, “well, clearly that’s inherited.”

You made a weak sound of protest again.

“But if something hurts… tell me first.”

That one hit differently because it came from somewhere old. Something private. Something protective enough to sound almost fragile.

He lifted his gaze then—finally toward you. You had been watching him the entire time.

There was something almost shy in his face now, like he hadn’t expected you to hear all of it. But he did not look away.

Instead he glanced back down at her and added, quieter:

“Your mother worked hardest bringing you here.”

His thumb brushed the baby’s tiny shoulder through the blanket.

“So if you love anyone first, make it her.”

Of course that was what he chose to teach first.

Not himself.

You.

Then he leaned his head slightly toward the baby, voice almost conspiratorial now:

“But later, if you decide I’m acceptable…”

A faint smile.

“I’m very available.”

That tiny sleepy fist shifted again near his chest.

He stared like she had answered.

And for a long moment neither of you spoke.

Just watched him there, broad shoulders bent protectively around someone so tiny, face softer than you had ever seen it, every part of him already rearranged around fatherhood even before he dared fully claim the word.

=

Two years later, mornings had become their own kind of beautiful chaos.

The apartment no longer stayed neat for more than ten minutes. Soft blocks under the sofa. Picture books stacked crookedly near the living room rug. A stuffed rabbit face-down beside the hallway. Tiny socks appearing in places neither of you remembered putting them.

The dining table had permanently changed too.

One side still yours and his.

The other now occupied by a small boosted high chair strapped carefully into place, a pastel plate already waiting there, divided into tiny sections because apparently food touching each other had become a serious offense this month.

A matching pastel cup sat beside it with a bent straw. Half a banana already sliced. A tiny spoon with cartoon clouds.

The morning light poured through the kitchen window while you stood beside Seungcheol at the counter, hair clipped up lazily, still mid-sentence about groceries.

“I’m telling you, if we buy fruit from that other place it’s cheaper but somehow worse by the next day.” You were slicing strawberries while talking 

He stood beside you cracking eggs into a bowl with the kind of efficiency that had only come from two years of learning how to cook one-handed while carrying a child.

“Because you keep buying too much at once.”

“We have a child who eats strawberries like she’s funding the industry.”

“She eats three and then demands yogurt.”

“Yesterday she ate seven.”

“Yesterday she was negotiating.”

You laughed softly.

Because yes your daughter negotiated meals now. Negotiated bedtime. Negotiated socks. Negotiated whether the moon looked tired.

And somehow Seungcheol took every negotiation like he was speaking to a board member rather than a toddler.

Toys littered the floor behind him. Domestic evidence everywhere. 

Proof of two years. Proof of staying. Proof that somewhere between labor and sleepless nights and first fevers and first birthdays and first steps… this had quietly become home in every possible sense.

You were about to continue your story about nearly forgetting milk when it came. That small voice from down the hall.

Still sleepy, still carrying that little morning rasp toddlers had when they had only just woken up.

“Appaaaaaaa…” It floated down the hallway like a ritual now. Daily.

And still every single time it landed exactly the same.

Both of you paused because no matter how many mornings passed, that voice calling for him first always did something immediate.

You looked up first. He already had that expression. That automatic softness. That helpless almost-smile he had never learned to hide.

Again came the call, louder now, impatient because apparently one response delay of three seconds was unacceptable.

“Appaaaaaa—!” and then tiny footsteps. Unsteady only in the way toddlers still ran like their bodies slightly outran their balance.

Then she appeared.

Little Aera.

Little Choi Aera.

Hair wild from sleep, one side flattened, the other sticking out because she had clearly turned half the night. Pink pajamas wrinkled. Bare feet pattering against the floor. One hand rubbing her eye. The other clutching the ear of her stuffed rabbit by force rather than affection.

And the second she saw him arms lifted immediately. Without hesitation, without acknowledging you first because priorities remained offensively clear.

“Appa.” this one softer now

Seungcheol did not even pretend resistance. He put the whisk down immediately and bent to lift her, one smooth practiced motion like he had done this thousands of times which he had.

She landed against him automatically, head finding his shoulder like instinct.

Still half asleep. Still warm from bed and the second she settled there, one tiny hand patted his cheek as if confirming possession.

You leaned against the counter watching “Good morning to me too, apparently.”

Aera lifted her face just enough to look at you then smiled, tiny and mischievous already.

“Eomma.”

You narrowed your eyes “Oh, now I exist.”

“She’s strategic,” Seungcheol said, already rubbing her back lightly

Aera’s attention returned fully to him. Hair in his face now because she tucked closer.

And then with complete seriousness “Appa carry.”

He looked down at her, amused “I’m already carrying you.”

She considered that. Accepted it then pointed toward the stove.

“Egg.”

“You want egg?” A nod

“No green.”

You laughed immediately because yesterday’s spinach incident had apparently left scars.

“She remembers everything inconvenient.”

Aera ignored you both and simply stayed attached to him, one arm looped around his neck now while she blinked herself more awake.

And watching her there, small face still soft with babyhood despite how much toddler had arrived, it hit again, the quiet impossibility of time.

Because this was the same baby wrapped once in pink with a ribbon bigger than her head. The same tiny fist that curled around his finger before she understood anything.

The same little girl he had once whispered to:

Grow well.

And she had. God, she had.

She grew loud. Bright. Curious. Possessive over crayons. Demanding bedtime stories twice. Laughing with your eyes. Sulking with his mouth.

And somehow despite that night he once whispered love your mother first—this little girl had chosen her own order very early.

Because her first word had not been eomma. Not milk. Not ball.

It had been Appa.

Clear. Certain. Repeated endlessly ever since.

As if she had decided on her own that the man who once asked permission to deserve the title would simply have to accept he already belonged there.

Aera suddenly lifted her head again. One small palm on his cheek.

“Appa.”

“What?”

She whispered with deep toddler importance “Dream monster.”

You blinked “Oh no.”

Seungcheol instantly serious, because dream monsters were legal matters in this household.

“Still there?”

Aera nodded solemnly.

He looked toward the hallway like he might personally investigate.

“I’ll talk to it later.”

Satisfied, she leaned back down immediately. Problem solved.

You watched him kiss her hair absentmindedly while reaching one-handed to lower the stove heat.

So natural now. So far from the careful uncertainty of that hospital night.

And for a second you remembered his voice then. ‘One day, when you think I deserve it, I can be your appa.’

Meanwhile now your daughter refused breakfast unless he sat beside her. Demanded his shirt when upset. Called his name before fully opening her eyes.

And wore his acceptance of fatherhood like it had never once been in question.

Aera suddenly spotted the strawberries.

“Mine.”

You pointed at the chair “Sit first.”

“No.”

“Sit first.”

She turned to Seungcheol instantly, because appeals court existed.

“Appa.”

He tried not to laugh “Sit first.”

Her tiny face shifted into offended disbelief at united parenting then reluctantly he lowered her into the boosted chair.

She crossed her arms dramatically.

Miniature outrage. Exactly like him, unfortunately.

You slid her plate over.

She stared at it then announced “No green.”

“No green,” you repeated patiently, because yes, this would be today’s law again.

Seungcheol sat beside her, handing the tiny spoon over.

And Aera—still suspicious—finally accepted breakfast because her hand stayed touching his sleeve while eating. The way children touched people they trusted most without realizing they were doing it.

And across the table, you looked at them both. Your husband who once asked for permission to be called father, and little Choi Aera who had answered long ago by never calling him anything else. 

And there you thought quietly, she had grown exactly as asked. Well loved, well held, and entirely certain where home was.

=

It happened on a day so ordinary it almost felt insulting afterward.

Late afternoon sunlight.

Aera in one of her little cotton dresses, shoes already dirty because she had decided the sandbox and grass and pavement all deserved equal attention.

The park crowded enough to feel lively. Parents talking, strollers passing, children shrieking somewhere near the swings.

One of those normal days you had come to love because normal had once felt impossible.

Aera was a few steps away near the little climbing structure, fully focused on carrying three leaves and one pebble like they were priceless treasure.

Seungcheol had gone to the kiosk by the path because Aera had demanded juice and then changed her mind twice before he left.

You stayed near the bench, eyes always on her even while half distracted by your phone.

Then someone stopped in front of you.

At first, it was only a shadow then a voice you had not heard in years.

Your name.

Everything in your body tightened before your mind fully caught up.

You looked up.

And there he was.

Older. Slightly rougher around the face. Still carrying that same expression that once made excuses sound convincing until it no longer did.

Your ex.

The man who had disappeared when consequences became real.

The man who had known about the pregnancy, the man who had known exactly what he was walking away from.

And still walked.

For one second your throat closed.

Not fear. Not anymore.

Just disgust sharp enough to feel physical.

His eyes shifted immediately past you… to Aera.

And that alone made something cold move through your spine, the way he looked at her was not earned. Not after years. Not after absence.

“She’s…” He almost smiled like he had some right to recognition

“She’s mine, isn’t she?”

The sentence barely finished because another body stepped between you before you even stood, fast enough that you almost startled.

Seungcheol.

He must have seen him from the path. Juice still in one hand, the other already free. His whole body placed squarely in front of you before any thought even finished forming.

Protective in the most immediate, instinctive way.

When he spoke, his voice came low and flat enough that even you felt the warning in it.

“Leave.” Sharp enough that it landed harder than shouting.

Your ex looked irritated immediately like he believs old entitlement would work

“I’m talking to—” “Leave.”

Still frighteningly calm. And that calm was exactly what meant danger because Seungcheol angry rarely looked explosive at first.

It looked quiet.

Your ex looked past him toward Aera again and that was the mistake.

“That’s my d—”

“My daughter.” Seungcheol cut him off so cleanly the words barely survived

Not louder just absolute. He stepped half a fraction closer, enough that the distance vanished.

“Mine.”

Your ex opened his mouth again, offended now.

Biology ready on his tongue like a weapon he thought still mattered.

But Seungcheol did not let him reach it

“She was never yours.”

Each word landed colder now.

“The moment you cheated on her mother. The moment you walked away.”

Still not raising his voice and somehow harsher because of it.

“You do not get to disappear for years and suddenly show up because you saw a child in a park.”

The juice box in his hand crinkled slightly under pressure

“You don’t deserve shit”

Your ex gave a humorless laugh, defensive now “You can’t erase what she is”

“No,” Seungcheol said “But I can make sure she never knows disappointment wearing your face”

That sentence made even your breathing pause. The exact line between anger and promise.

And your ex heard it too and the arrogance thinned.

Still, tension climbed another step, and that was when you moved.

Not because Seungcheol was wrong or not because you disagreed but because Aera was ten feet away laughing to herself over a leaf crown and did not deserve this atmosphere attaching itself to her afternoon.

You touched Seungcheol’s arm.

“Cheol”

He did not move immediately.

You squeezed once more this time softer.

“Aera.” That worked.

Always her.

His eyes shifted instantly toward your daughter. Still oblivious. Still innocent in the way only children could be while adults dragged old damage into open air.

His shoulders stayed tight another second then loosened just enough.

Your ex noticed so he tried again “You never even told me—”

“I didn’t owe you anything.” this time you answered. Your own voice surprised even you.

No apology.

“You made your choice before she was even born”

He looked at you as if expecting softness that no longer existed.

“She should know who—”

“She knows exactly who her father is.”

You did not need to look at Seungcheol when you said it.

Because the truth stood beside you already.

Visible. Proven.

At scraped knees. At midnight fevers.At first words. At hospital beds.

Your ex’s mouth tightened.

Then a tiny voice cut through all of it.

“Appa!” Aera running now. Tiny shoes hitting pavement fast, straight toward Seungcheol.

No hesitation. No uncertainty. No confusion about where safety lived.

He bent automatically before she even reached him. Lifted her one-handed when she collided into his legs. She wrapped both arms around his neck instantly.

Still smiling “Juice?”

He took one breath.

By the time he answered her, his voice had completely changed. Warm again.

“Here, princess”

She noticed another person then, looked over his shoulder curiously at the stranger.

No recognition. Of course none.

Then she buried her face against Seungcheol’s shoulder instead. Choosing disinterest. Choosing home.

Your ex watched that and maybe for the first time understood there was nothing here available to reclaim.

No gap.

No vacancy.

No place where his absence had left room waiting.

Because another man had filled every inch of fatherhood so completely that even blood had become irrelevant.

Seungcheol adjusted Aera higher against him.

Then looked at him once more.

Final now.

“You heard her.”

A pause.

“Leave before she remembers your face.”

And that was what ended it because there was nothing left to argue against after that. Not when the child in question already had her arms around the man who had stayed.

Your ex lingered one second too long.

Then stepped back.

Turned.

Walked away.

No apology.

No redemption.

Just departure which suited him, really.

Aera lifted her head the second he disappeared.

Completely unconcerned.

“Juice now.”

You almost laughed from the absurd whiplash of it. Seungcheol finally exhaled properly.

You touched his wrist lightly.

“I’m okay”

Aera meanwhile had already taken the straw out herself badly and announced

“Appa mad?”

He blinked once then kissed her forehead.

“No.”

Tiny suspicious eyes “Little mad”

That made you laugh despite everything. And finally even he gave in, a short breath of laughter against her hair

“Little”

Then she nodded like that was acceptable, took her juice, and leaned against his shoulder again, entirely certain the world remained exactly as it should.

And whatever tension adults carried fading outside the borders of her small safe afternoon.

The tension didn’t disappear immediately.

It lingered the way difficult things always did. You could still feel it in the way Seungcheol sat a little too still when you returned to the bench.

But Aera, entirely untouched by adult history, climbed into his lap like the world had never shifted at all.

Juice box first. Then herself. One tiny knee planted on the bench.

Then a determined little wiggle until she settled sideways against his chest, perfectly comfortable. She tucked herself there automatically, like she had done it a thousand times.

Because she had.

Her straw between her lips. Juice held with both hands for exactly three seconds before one hand abandoned it to find him.

Always him. 

Tiny fingers reaching without looking until they caught one of his. Then that familiar habit, her whole fist wrapping around a single finger of his like she genuinely believed that was enough to anchor him permanently in place.

Her tiny hand absurdly small against his.

She had done that since she was small enough to fit against one forearm.

Even now, older, heavier, taller still the same instinct. When she sat on his lap. When she got sleepy. When they sat in the car.

One hand always finding his finger.

Holding him there.

Seungcheol looked down at her hand too.

And you saw it happen that exact second his anger finally broke.

Melted cleanly.

Because she looked up right then, cheeks round from the straw still in her mouth, and pointed dramatically toward the path.

“Appa, see dog” A tiny white dog trotted past

He followed her gaze obediently

“I see.”

Another sip then instantly

“Appa look flower.” A crooked yellow flower near the bench

“I see that too”

Then she leaned back against him harder, still holding his finger hostage

“Appa hug”

She said it casually this time, not even asking just declaring what should happen. And immediately his free arm tightened around her middle, pulling her closer until her back rested fully against his chest.

You watched the transformation happen in real time.

The same man who minutes ago had looked capable of frightening grown men into silence now sat entirely dismantled by a child clutching one finger and narrating flowers and dogs.

“Appa.”

“What?”

She held up her juice proudly “Mine.”

“Clearly.”

You sat beside them watching quietly, and something inside your chest settled too.

In Aera’s world there had never been confusion, no complicated definitions, no bloodline questions. no late arrivals from old mistakes.

In her language, father had always sounded like one name.

One face. One lap. One hand big enough for her entire fist.

Every sentence began there naturally.

Appa this. Appa that. Appa look. Appa come. Appa hug.

As though no other possibility had ever existed. And truly for her, it hadn’t.

The man from earlier had been a stranger in the park and nothing more. 

Because love repeated daily becomes identity stronger than biology ever can.

And Seungcheol had repeated it every day until it became the most natural fact in her life.

=

Ever since that day—and truthfully, long before it—Seungcheol had become something you sometimes still struggled to explain properly because the word partner often felt too small for what he actually was.

He had become the person your life leaned toward naturally. In ways that only became obvious when you looked back and realized how much of daily life now rested on the quiet certainty of him being there.

Yes, he was a remarkable father to Aera. That much everyone saw easily.

The patience. The consistency.

The way he remembered tiny preferences no one else noticed.

How she only liked strawberries sliced a certain way, how she wanted the blue cup in the morning but forgot by lunch, how bedtime stories had to include unnecessary voices or she would protest.

The way he never treated care as help, but simply responsibility that belonged to him too.

Forms signed before you remembered they existed, medicine stocked before bottles emptied, tiny socks folded because apparently he believed there was a correct way to fold socks small enough to fit in one hand.

And more than that, the way he never once behaved as though fatherhood had been borrowed.

There was nothing performative in it.

Nothing temporary.

Just complete belonging.

But somehow, even while being all that for Aera, he had also become the place your own tiredness went first.

Your constant support in ways you had not realized you once lacked until you had it every day.

The person who noticed before you admitted exhaustion.

Someone who knew when your silence meant overstimulation and when it meant sadness, someone who handed you water before headaches started, and someone who learned exactly how your face changed when your patience ran thin and quietly took over before you had to ask.

Years together had not dulled that attentiveness.

If anything, it had sharpened.

Like tonight.

Aera finally asleep after an unnecessarily dramatic bedtime involving two stories, one rejected blanket, one accepted blanket, and a final debate over whether stuffed rabbits required water.

The apartment quiet now.

The day long enough that both of you carried that particular adult fatigue where conversation slowed. You stood in the kitchen rinsing the last cup.

Hair tied carelessly.

One of his shirts on because at some point your own clothes had become mixed so deeply with his that ownership stopped mattering.

And without warning warm hands settled at your waist from behind.

Close enough that his chest touched your back. His chin briefly resting near your shoulder.

“You missed one” His voice low, amused

You glanced downm, one spoon still in the sink

“I was getting there”

“Clearly”

He reached around you, turned off the tap, then stayed there anyway.

His hands stayed where they were. Warm. The kind of touch years never made ordinary.

You leaned back into him automatically.

Then, as naturally as breathing, he pressed a kiss just behind your ear. One that lingered just enough to make heat climb your neck anyway.

Even now. After years.

After hospital nights and grocery lists and shared bills and school schedules and arguments over whose turn it was to buy detergent.

Somehow simple affection still caught you off guard.

You exhaled quietly

“That still works?” His mouth curved against your skin.

“You tell me”

Another kiss this one lower. Near your neck. And ridiculous as it felt, you could already feel yourself blushing which he noticed immediately because of course he did.

A soft laugh “Years later and still.”

“Stop sounding proud”

“I am proud”

He turned you gently then until your back rested against the counter and he stood between your knees.

The same ease of someone who had always believed this space beside you belonged naturally to him.

Like a habit formed by love and time. And the truth was that space had become his.

Not because he claimed it.

His thumb brushed your cheek once.

“You’re tired.”

“So are you.”

“Mm.”

Then another kiss. This one properly yours. The kind reserved only for late nights after ordinary days.

When he pulled back, only slightly, you stayed close enough to feel his breath.

“You know,” you murmured, “you’ve ruined men for me permanently”

That earned a quiet grin “A little late to compare now”

“I’m serious”

“I know” Because he did know.

You had told him before in different words.

That he had raised your standards so high they now existed somewhere unreasonable.

That after him, love no longer looked like grand effort but steady presence.

That after him, affection meant someone who noticed.

Someone who stayed. Someone who kissed your forehead while reheating leftovers. Someone who knew exactly when to say nothing and simply stand near.

His hand slipped lower again, settling at your waist

“And yet,” he said softly, “you still blush like I’m doing something impressive”

“You say that like you’re not fully aware what you’re doing”

“I am”

That honesty made you laugh.

Of course he was aware.

He had learned exactly how to undo you in the smallest ways.

A kiss to the temple while passing by. A hand at your lower back in crowded rooms.

The way he always sat close enough that knees touched if space allowed.

How every shared couch somehow ended with your legs across him.

And always those kisses reserved differently when Aera was asleep, gentler, quieter, deliberate in a way that reminded you beneath parenthood and routines, he still saw you first too.

From the hallway came a tiny sleepy voice

“Appaaaa…”

Both of you froze then immediately laughed.

He kissed you once more quickly before stepping back.

Duty calling.

But not before murmuring against your mouth

“Save my spot”

Like there had ever been doubt. Like the place beside you had not already belonged there for years.

The door clicked shut behind him with the familiar sound of keys against metal, followed by the quiet thud of shoes being pushed aside near the entrance.

“Hey,” Seungcheol called automatically, voice warm, already shrugging off his jacket as he stepped inside your apartment

“I brought—” he stopped. No answer.

Usually, even on your worst days, you answered him somehow, sometimes half asleep from the couch, wrapped in a blanket, or from the kitchen telling him to come in but tonight the apartment was dim, silent except for one thing.

A sharp, painful sound from deeper inside. Then another. He froze for half a second before recognizing it.

Vomiting.

His expression changed immediately “...Shit.”

The grocery bag in his hand hit the counter almost carelessly before he moved fast down the short hallway, guided by the sound until he reached the bathroom door half-open.

You were kneeling on the floor. One hand gripping the toilet seat, the other braced weakly against the tiles, shoulders trembling as another wave hit you hard enough that your whole body folded forward.

Seungcheol was beside you in an instant. One hand gathered your hair away from your face, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades, rubbing slowly, steadily.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said quietly, voice lower now, softer, the kind of voice he only used when he knew you were hanging by a thread “I’m here.”

You didn’t answer because you couldn’t.

Another dry heave wracked through you, harsher this time, leaving almost nothing but pain behind. By the time it eased, tears had collected at the corners of your eyes—not from crying, just exhaustion, the strain of it all.

You stayed there breathing hard, forehead nearly touching the toilet seat.

Seungcheol didn’t move his hand.

He just kept rubbing slow circles into your back.

“When was the last time you kept anything down?” he asked after a moment

Your answer came weak “Half a cracker”

He looked at you “Today?”

You gave the tiniest nod. It had been like this for days now. Ever since the nausea had fully hit, mornings were bad, afternoons were worse, and nights somehow became unbearable.

At nine weeks, your body had decided mercy wasn’t part of the plan. And because life apparently wasn’t cruel enough, you were doing it while nursing a heartbreak that still sat fresh under your skin.

The ex-boyfriend who got you pregnant had left more damage behind than just betrayal.

You had found out about the cheating first. The girl from work. Messages. Pictures. Late nights that suddenly made sense. Promises that turned into excuses.

Then the breakup.

Then weeks later, two pink lines you had stared at in silence until your hands shook so badly you nearly dropped the test.

You hadn’t even told many people. Just Seungcheol. And once he knew, he simply… stayed.

Every day after work. Every grocery run.Every doctor appointment. Every time you insisted you were fine and clearly weren’t.

Now he crouched beside you in his office clothes, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, looking like he belonged nowhere near a bathroom floor and yet acting like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

He reached for the cup near the sink, filled it with water, and brought it to your lips.

“Rinse first”

You obeyed because arguing took too much strength. Afterward, he helped you sit back against the wall.

Your skin looked pale. His brows drew together as he pressed the back of his hand lightly to your forehead.

“You’re freezing”

“I’m fine”

“You say that every day”

“I mean it differently every day”

That actually pulled the smallest breath of a laugh from him then his face softened again.

“You should’ve called me earlier”

“You were working”

“And?”

You didn’t answer because there was no answer he would accept.

Seungcheol leaned his shoulder against the wall beside you, still close enough that if another wave came, he’d catch you before you fell forward again.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you whispered, voice rough, “I hate this.”

Not the pregnancy, not exactly. The helplessness. The nausea. The loneliness that sometimes hits harder than the sickness itself.

“I know”

“I throw up and then I cry because I’m hungry, then I try eating and throw up again.”

He nodded like this was a serious medical report “Terrible system”

“Very bad design”

“We should file a complaint” that made you smile faintly despite yourself.

A weak thing, but real. Seungcheol noticed because his own expression softened immediately, relief flickering there like he had been waiting for even that much.

Then your face changed again. Another wave. He reacted before you even bent forward, hair already gathered, hand steady on your back while your body tensed again.

This one lasted longer. When it ended, you were shaking.

“Okay,” he said firmly, decision already made “No more bathroom floor”

“I live here now”

“Not tonight”

Before you could protest, he stood, reached down, and slid one arm behind your back, the other under your knees.

“Seungcheol—” He lifted you easily, you barely had strength to resist anyway

“I can walk”

“You nearly tipped sideways five seconds ago”

“I had balance”

“You were hugging a toilet”

“That counts”

He laid you gently onto the couch, arranged the blanket over you, then disappeared into the kitchen. You heard cabinets opening, the sound of something being unwrapped. He returned with ginger tea, plain crackers, and that same look he’d been wearing more and more lately.

Concern sharpened into quiet determination.

“Tiny sip,” he instructed

You obeyed because again, arguing required energy you did not possess. He waited while you drank then handed you half a cracker.

“Slow”

You took a bite. After a minute, he exhaled quietly. You leaned back, exhausted. He sat beside you but not too close, giving you space while still staying within reach.

Your voice came small after a while “You don’t have to keep doing this every day”

He didn’t even look at you when he answered

“Yes, I do”

“No, you don’t”

That made him finally turn. His eyes held yours steadily.

“Yes,” he repeated, gentler now, “I do.”

Because underneath all his calm, there was something else there. Something he never forced into words.

Not now. Maybe not yet.

But it existed in every grocery bag he brought, every pharmacy receipt tucked into his wallet, every hour spent sitting beside your bathroom floor after work like it was the most natural place in the world for him to be.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured

“For what?”

“For being… like this.”

That answer made his expression harden.

“You’re growing a whole person while surviving heartbreak and barely sleeping. You’re allowed to throw up and be miserable.”

A tear slipped before you could stop it. You wiped it quickly but he had already seen. And because Seungcheol had always known exactly what to do when you were one breath away from breaking, he simply reached over and wiped the next tear before it fell.

“No apologizing tonight” he said quietly

You swallowed hard then another whisper “I didn’t think it would feel this lonely”

That finally cracked something in his face, because that, more than anything, was what he hated. How you kept carrying pain like it belonged only to you.

His voice lowered, “You’re not alone”

Simple. Certain. No hesitation. The kind of promise that sounded dangerous only because he meant it completely.

And sitting there, wrapped in a blanket, stomach unsettled, body exhausted, heart still bruised—you believed him.

Because every day since everything fell apart, he had shown up. Without fail. Without complaint. Without asking for anything back.

=

The office was loud in the usual end-of-day way—keyboards clacking, muted conversations near the glass meeting room, someone laughing too hard at something near the pantry.

Seungcheol barely noticed any of it.   His attention stayed fixed on the phone lying beside his keyboard. Screen dark. No new message.

He tapped it awake for what had to be the fifth time in ten minutes.

Still nothing from you.

His brows pulled together. You had texted earlier that morning that you needed to go out for a few hours—something about work paperwork you couldn’t delay anymore and he had replied immediately

Cheol: Text me when you get there. Text me when you leave. Call if you feel sick.

You had sent a thumbs up but that had been hours ago. He checked the time again. Then your chat.

Then the time again.

“Still playing baby daddy?” The voice came from his left. Lazy. Amused. Entirely too entertained. Seungcheol didn’t even need to look up to know who it was.

Wonwoo leaned one shoulder against the divider of his desk, coffee in hand, glasses low on his nose, wearing the exact expression of a man arriving solely to be annoying.

Seungcheol finally lifted his eyes. The glare he gave him was immediate.

Wonwoo looked delighted by it “That look means yes”

“It means leave”

“But if I leave, who’s going to listen to you pretend you’re not one text away from driving across the city because she hasn’t replied in two hours?”

Seungcheol glanced down at his phone again before he could stop himself and Wonwoo caught it instantly smirking wider.

Wonwoo took a slow sip of coffee “You know, from an outside perspective, this is fascinating”

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, jaw tight “Do you have work?”

“Yes. But this is more interesting”

His thumb hovered near your contact before locking the screen again and Wonwoo watched the whole thing like a nature documentary.

“There it is again,” he murmured “That face”

“What face”

“The one where you look like you’re calculating whether calling her would be supportive or overbearing”

Seungcheol finally looked up “Why are you here?”

Wonwoo ignored that “You’ve been doing this every day for weeks now”

“She’s sick”

“She’s pregnant,” Wonwoo corrected mildly “And you are acting like an expectant husband in a medical drama”

“She lives alone”

“And?”

“And she needs help”

Wonwoo gave him a long look then deliberately sat on the edge of the desk

“You know what I enjoy most?”

“I’m not interested.”

“The fact that after all these years, you still think nobody can tell.”

Wonwoo had watched the entire thing happen in slow motion. Watched Seungcheol fall quietly and permanently long before anyone said it aloud. Watched him keep it to himself because timing never lined up, because friendship mattered more, because you smiled at someone else first.

And then you dated someone else. Seungcheol had stepped back exactly the way he should have.

No crossing lines. Just distance. Respectful.

Even when Wonwoo knew every time your name came up, something changed in Seungcheol’s face. Then the breakup happened. The cheating. The office girl. And Wonwoo also still remembered that night clearly because he had been there when Seungcheol found out.

The way Seungcheol stood so suddenly his chair nearly hit the floor. The look on his face that had made Wonwoo genuinely wonder whether he needed to physically stop him from doing something illegal.

“I’m going to kill him.” Direct. Calm. Which somehow sounded worse.

Wonwoo grabbed his sleeve immediately and said, “Prison is inconvenient”

“He cheated on her.”

“Yes, and murder remains dramatic”

“He cheated on her” Seungcheol repeated, voice lower, angrier.

Wonwoo had almost believed he would actually do it.

“You know,” he said lightly, “if someone didn’t know better, they’d think you’ve been waiting for this your whole life”

Seungcheol’s jaw flexed, “Be careful”

“See? Threatening. Very paternal.”

Another glare. Wonwoo smiled behind his coffee cup. Then his gaze dropped when Seungcheol’s phone lit up.

Seungcheol snatched it up. Wonwoo laughed under his breath because of course he did.

You: Sorry. Threw up in the clinic bathroom. Phone was in my bag. I’m okay now. Going home soon.

The tightness in Seungcheol’s shoulders eased but only slightly.

His fingers were already typing

Cheol: Clinic? Why clinic? Are you alone? Did you eat? Send location. I’m coming.

Wonwoo leaned enough to catch the edge of the screen then sighed dramatically.

Seungcheol stood, already grabbing his jacket.

“You’re leaving?”

“She’s at a clinic.”

“She said she’s okay.”

“She threw up in public.”

Wonwoo spread his hands “Right. Obviously life-threatening”

Seungcheol shoved his phone into his pocket “Do your work”

Wonwoo watched him move around the desk. Then added, because he truly could not resist, “If she ever realizes you’ve loved her since forever, I expect front-row seats.”

Just enough that Wonwoo caught the warning in his face. But also the truth.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, voice less teasing now, “I think she already trusts you more than anyone.”

Then his phone buzzed again. Your location. And another message

You: Don’t panic. I’m just tired.

Too late. He was already walking.

“Tell HR I left.”

Wonwoo called after him, grin returning “Should I also tell them parental leave is approaching?”

This time Seungcheol didn’t even bother answering.

Just lifted one hand without looking back—half warning, half dismissal—while already dialing your number the second he reached the elevator 

By the time Seungcheol reached the clinic, the evening traffic of Seoul had already thickened into slow-moving lines of headlights and brake lights stretching along the road.

He barely noticed any of it. The moment he turned into the curbside lane, his eyes found you immediately.

Sitting alone on a bench just outside the clinic entrance. One hand resting near your stomach without thinking, shoulders slightly hunched, looking tired in the way that had become too familiar lately—like your body was spending energy faster than you could recover it.

The second he saw you, he parked badly enough that another driver honked.

He ignored it, already crossing toward you.

Your head lifted at the sound of hurried footsteps, and before you could even greet him, he was standing there, brows drawn tight, scanning your face like he expected to find evidence you hadn’t mentioned.

“Why are you sitting outside?” he asked immediately

You blinked up at him “Because I was waiting.”

“You could’ve waited inside.”

“I wanted air”

“You threw up again?”

“A little”

“A little,” he repeated flatly, like the phrase personally offended him. You almost smiled.

He crouched just enough to meet your eyes properly “Are you dizzy?”

“No.”

“Headache?” “No.”

“Can you stand?”

That one made you laugh softly, tired but real “Yes, Seungcheol.”

Still, he took your bag before you could reach for it, then offered his hand like he didn’t fully trust your answer. And because arguing with him in this mood never worked, you let him help you up.

The walk to the car was slow. Not because you couldn’t manage, but because he kept adjusting his pace to yours so precisely it was impossible not to notice. At the passenger side, he opened the door first. Waited until you sat. Then leaned in, buckled your seatbelt himself, checking that it sat comfortably before closing the door gently.

By the time he got into the driver’s seat, you were already watching him with that quiet look that always made him pretend not to notice.

He started the engine. Only pulled away once he was sure you were settled.

For a few minutes, the car filled with soft heater air and city lights sliding past the windows.

Then he glanced at you.

“So.”

You leaned your head lightly against the seat “So?”

“What did the doctor say?”

You exhaled slowly “That apparently I’m dramatic”

He looked over immediately “She said that?”

“No,” you said, deadpan. “She said what I think is excessive nausea is apparently normal.”

His mouth tightened “Throwing up all day is normal?”

“Unfortunately, yes”

“That seems poorly designed”

“I told you.”

“What else?”

You looked out the window for a second, replaying the appointment

“I told her I can barely keep food down some days. She said small meals, bland food, ginger, rest… and she said if it gets worse, I might need fluids.”

“You didn’t tell me that part in the text.”

“Because I’m not at the fluids part”

“You still should’ve said it”

You looked at him sideways “You were already panicking.”

“I was not panicking”

“You left work in ten minutes”

“That’s efficiency”

That got the faintest smile from you.Traffic slowed at a light. He used the pause to glance over again.

“What else did you do today?”

“Two client meetings”

“You went to both?”

“I’m still employed”

“You looked exhausted yesterday”

“I looked exhausted because your tea tastes like boiled sadness”

He finally made a quiet sound that almost counted as laughter.

“It kept your crackers down.”

“Barely.”

You continued, voice softer now, tired enough that words came slower.

“First meeting was okay. Second one I almost had to excuse myself because someone opened tuna kimbap in the room.”

His face changed immediately. “You almost threw up there?”

“I survived.”

“That is not surviving.”

“I survived enough.”

Another pause. Then you added, almost absentmindedly, gaze still out the window:

“On the way here I passed a street cart.”

“Hm?”

“The egg bread one.”

He glanced at you, you were still looking outside.

“It smelled so good,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “I’ve been craving it for days.”

That finally made him turn his head slightly.

“Egg bread?”

You shrugged like it didn’t matter “The little ones from street vendors.”

“Why didn’t you buy some?”

You gave him a look “Because five minutes later I threw up in a clinic bathroom.”

A fair answer but he had already heard the important part.

Craving.

And unlike most people, Seungcheol treated any food you wanted lately like urgent medical information. Especially because wanting food and keeping food down were two very different things, and when your body asked for something specific, he paid attention.

He said nothing for the next minute. Just drove. Then suddenly signaled right. You noticed immediately.

“Why are we turning?” No answer.

“Seungcheol.” Still nothing.

“You’re not—”

He pulled over near a corner lined with evening vendors, warm lights glowing beneath small carts where steam rose into the cold air.

And there it was. The smell reached even the car. Fresh bread and egg.

He parked. Unbuckled.

“You cannot be serious.”

He already had one hand on the door.

“You wanted it.”

“That was not a request.”

“It sounded medically important.”

“It absolutely did not.”

But he was already out.

You watched through the windshield as he crossed toward the cart without hesitation, speaking briefly with the vendor, hands in his coat pocket while waiting.

Streetlight caught against his profile. Hair slightly messy from rushing out of work. The kind of scene that should not have made your chest tighten the way it did.

But lately everything he did landed somewhere you were trying very hard not to examine too closely.

Because there was something dangerous about kindness when you were already fragile.

And Seungcheol had been too kind for too long.

A few minutes later he came back carrying a warm paper bag.

The smell filled the car instantly the second he opened the door. He handed it over carefully.

“Small bites first"

You looked at the bag, then at him “You really stopped"

“You wanted it"

“I mentioned it”

“You mentioned it twice”

“I did not”

“You did in your head loud enough” Despite yourself, you smiled.

A real one this time. Small, but enough that something in his face softened immediately, almost unconsciously.

You took one careful bite, for the first time all day, your expression changed into something close to relief.

He noticed instantly “Well?”

You chewed slowly “It’s good.”

“Stay there,” he said immediately, eyes still on you like he expected a sudden reaction. “Don’t eat fast.”

You laughed softly through the second bite.

He finally started driving again, slower now, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift while occasionally glancing over to make sure you were still okay.

=

By week eleven, the nausea had not disappeared but it had changed shape. Less violent some days, more unpredictable on others.

One morning you could keep toast down. That same afternoon the smell of rice nearly sent you running to the sink.

And the cravings. those had become something else entirely.

At first they came quietly. A specific food sounding nice. Something easy enough to ignore. But lately, they arrived like full emotional emergencies. Ridiculous in how urgent they felt.

And tonight was worse because it had started small—just a passing memory of roasted sweet potatoes from a street cart earlier that week.

The smell of caramelized sweetness in cold air. Soft steam rising when broken apart. Then your brain had decided that was now the only thing in the world that mattered.

By eleven-thirty, you were still trying to reason with yourself.

You drank water, ate half a cracker. You told yourself normal people did not call someone near midnight because of sweet potatoes.

By eleven-fifty, your eyes were burning.

By eleven-fifty-six, you were sitting cross-legged on your bed staring at your phone like it had personally offended you.

This was absurd. He had already come by earlier.

And now here you were.

Hovering over his name. Your rational mind said wait until morning, the craving said absolutely not.

Your thumb pressed call before dignity could intervene.

The ring barely lasted long enough for regret to settle. He answered immediately.

“Hey.” His voice came low, rougher than usual, like he had been lying down but not asleep yet.

And immediately sharper after half a beat 

“What happened?”

Because you never called this late not unless something was wrong.

You opened your mouth but nothing came out at first because suddenly saying it aloud felt embarrassingly childish.

He waited exactly one second “Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Did you throw up?”

“No.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Are you crying?”

That made you blink because your voice had betrayed you that fast.

“No.”

A pause.

“That sounded suspicious.”

You covered your face with one hand “This is stupid.”

“Okay,” he said, already sounding like he was sitting up “Tell me the stupid thing.”

You almost hung up, like actually considered it but the craving had already won and apparently pregnancy removed all remaining pride.

“I want roasted sweet potatoes.”

For a moment it was just silent, then he speaks again

“What?”

Your eyes squeezed shut “I want roasted sweet potatoes.”

Another silence but thhis one shorter “Right now?”

Your voice dropped into a miserable mumble.

“Yes.”

“It’s midnight.”

“I know.”

“You called me because of sweet potatoes.”

The shame deepened “Yes.”

Then the worst possible thing happened. He laughed. Not mocking. Just sudden, warm laughter he clearly failed to stop in time.

Your offended voice came immediately “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“You are laughing.”

“I’m failing.”

“You’re horrible.”

That only made him laugh quieter, softer, like he was smiling now and somehow that made it worse because now you were genuinely close to tears again.

“Forget it,” you muttered. “Go back to sleep.”

That changed his tone instantly “Hey.”

You stayed quiet. He heard the shift anyway and when he spoke again, his voice softened.

“You’re really upset.”

“It’s hormones,” you said, hating how fragile that sounded. “And I can’t stop thinking about it.”

A pause.

“I tried not to call.”

That did something to him, enough that the smile left his voice completely. Because he could picture it too easily, you alone in your apartment, trying to be reasonable while your body and emotions ignored reason entirely.

He looked at the clock beside his bed.

11:58 PM. Weekend. No meetings tomorrow.

Decision made instantly.

“Stay there.”

You frowned “What?”

“I’m coming.”

“No.”

“I’m already getting up.”

“Seungcheol, no, that’s insane.”

“You called me at midnight sounding like you might cry over a sweet potato.”

You heard movement already.

“Do you know how many street vendors are still open right now?” you asked weakly

“I’m about to find out.”

“You should sleep.”

“You should stop sounding like this over root vegetables.”

You made a noise halfway between protest and embarrassment but he ignored it.

“Unlock your door.”

“Cheol—”

“Unlock it.”

The first thing Seungcheol realized after getting into the car was that midnight in Seoul made cravings significantly harder to solve than cravings at six in the evening.

The second thing he realized was that you had sounded genuinely close to tears over roasted sweet potatoes which meant turning around and going back to bed had never been an option.

The roads were quieter than usual, city lights stretched long against the windshield, convenience stores glowing at corners while most street vendors had already disappeared for the night.

His phone sat mounted near the dashboard, screen still lit from your last message:

You: Drive safe. If you can’t find any, it’s okay.

He had not answered because he already knew that if he texted back, you would tell him to forget it and he was not forgetting it.

Not after the way your voice cracked around I tried not to call.

His fingers tapped once against the steering wheel while he slowed near another corner where a vendor usually parked during colder nights.

Empty so he kept driving. Another block and still nothing. A third turn near the station, still nothing except closed shutters and a delivery scooter disappearing down an alley.

He exhaled through his nose.

This was ridiculous.

Entirely ridiculous.

And yet he was still scanning every side street like finding one specific roasted sweet potato cart determined the outcome of the night because if there was one thing he had learned these past weeks, it was that pregnancy ignored dignity, schedules, and logic equally.

One minute you were insisting you were fine the next minute egg bread became urgent enough to reroute traffic.

Tonight apparently sweet potatoes had won.

He checked the time.

12:11 AM.

Then finally, near the far side of the station entrance, he saw the faint orange glow of a small cart tucked beside a closed newspaper stand.

Steam rose under a yellow light.

A woman in a padded jacket sat behind it, peeling foil from freshly roasted sweet potatoes.

Relief hit harder than expected. He pulled over immediately. The cold hit the second he stepped out, but he barely noticed, already crossing toward the cart.

The woman looked up when he approached. Older, sharp-eyed, the kind who missed nothing.

“You’re lucky,” she said before he even spoke “I’m closing.”

“How many do you have left?”

She lifted the foil lid, revealing a few still warm inside “Enough if you’re quick.”

“I’ll take four.”

That earned him a glance “Four?”

He nodded “Big ones.”

She began wrapping them carefully, hands practiced and quick. At this hour the street was almost silent except for distant traffic and the soft crackle of heat from the cart.

Then she asked casually, like it was obvious conversation 

“Your wife sent you out this late?” the question landed without warning.

He should have corrected it immediately. Normally he would have. Instead, because his mind was still partly on you sitting alone at home trying not to cry over food, he answered without thinking.

“Craving.”

The woman looked up again, smile already forming.

“Ah.” One knowing sound “Pregnancy cravings?”

He hesitated only half a second then nodded once.

“...Yes.”

Her smile widened instantly, amused in that particular way older women often were when they believed they understood a story before you explained it.

“Aigo, then the wife won tonight.”

His hand paused halfway to his wallet. The wife.

Simple words. Ordinary. Harmless. And yet something about hearing it in relation to you landed strangely deep—so sudden that for a brief second he forgot to answer at all.

Because the image came too easily. Too naturally.

You at home in oversized sleep clothes, probably sitting on the couch waiting.

Half annoyed at yourself for calling. Half relieved he came. Your tired face lighting slightly the moment he handed you what you wanted.

And against all reason, the woman’s sentence fit that picture too neatly.

As if it had always been waiting somewhere in the background, dangerous only because he had spent years refusing to let his mind stay there too long.

He paid. The woman handed over the paper bag, sttill warm.

“First child?” she asked casually. 

The answer should have been complicated. Impossible, even.

But what came out was quieter than expected.

“...yes”

He bowed politely, took the bag, and turned back toward the car.

Cold air again. Warm paper in his hand. Inside the car, the smell of roasted sweet potato filled the space almost immediately.

He sat there for one second longer than necessary before starting the engine.

The woman’s words still annoyingly present.

The wife won tonight.

And worse, the fact that he had not corrected her, but not because explaining felt inconvenient, not because it was late.

But because for one selfish second, hearing it had felt... good.

Too good.

His fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel. He knew exactly where lines existed.

You were vulnerable. Pregnant. Recently hurt and he had spent years learning how to put what he felt in a locked place where it would never burden you.

That had not changed, would not change. 

=

By twelve weeks, Seungcheol had accepted two things as fact.

First: pregnancy cravings did not obey logic.

Second: once you wanted something, pretending you didn’t usually ended badly—for you, for your stomach, and for whatever fragile patience he still had left watching you suffer through it.

Which was exactly why, three days after the midnight sweet potato incident, he had stood in your kitchen with both arms crossed and told you in a tone so unnecessarily strict that you had nearly laughed in his face:

“If you want something, call me.”

You had leaned against the counter, chewing slowly on toast

“It was midnight.”

“I don’t care.”

“It was a sweet potato.”

“I still don’t care.”

“You looked personally offended.”

“I was.” That had earned a full laugh from you. When you laughed harder, he only narrowed his eyes.

“I mean it.”

“You’re making cravings sound like emergencies.”

“They become emergencies when you wait until you’re almost crying.”

That shut you up faster than expected.

Because unfortunately, he was right.

And Seungcheol, noticing your silence, softened only slightly.

“It’s better to see you eat than hear you throwing up all day.”

Simple sentence. Matter-of-fact.

So from then on, you tried. now and then, he’d get random messages that made absolutely no sense without context. Which was exactly why, during lunch with Wonwoo, his phone buzzing on the table immediately pulled his attention.

Wonwoo noticed because Seungcheol always looked first when your name appeared.

Your message was short:

You: Do grapes that taste like cotton candy actually exist or is that internet lying again.

You: Because if they exist I suddenly need them

Seungcheol stared for half a second then typed back without hesitation.

Cheol: They exist. I’ll stop by after lunch and bring some.

Send. Phone down. He reached for his water again like nothing happened.

Across from him, Wonwoo had watched the entire exchange with zero shame.

Then slowly put his chopsticks down “No.”

Seungcheol ignored him.

“No,” Wonwoo repeated, leaning back now, deeply entertained. “Absolutely not.”

“You didn’t even ask if she’s joking.”

“She’s not joking.”

“You answered in under five seconds.”

“She wants grapes.”

“Cotton candy grapes,” he said, “You’re really leaving lunch to hunt specialty fruit because she texted two lines.”

“I said after lunch.”

“That changes nothing.”

“It changes timing.”

Wonwoo gave him a long look Then, with complete seriousness:

“That kid is going to look like you.”

Seungcheol finally looked up. Flat stare.

“No.”

“Genetics be damned,” Wonwoo continued, fully committed now. “At this point the universe owes you resemblance.”

“That is not how biology works.”

“No, but emotional investment should count for something.”

Seungcheol went back to eating Which only encouraged him.

“Imagine the baby comes out with your glare.”

“Eat your lunch.”

“Or your stubbornness.”

“Wonwoo.”

“Tiny angry eyebrows.”

That finally pulled the smallest exhale through Seungcheol’s nose—the closest thing to amusement he would allow.

Later he dropped by the store quickly, getting 2 bags of grapes before going to your place. The moment you opened the door wearing that unmistakable expression. Slight scowl, tired eyes, brows drawn together like the day had personally offended you.

“You took long.” that was your greeting. Just immediate complaint but he only chuckled. 

Seungcheol held up the paper bag “You asked for specialty grapes.”

“You said after lunch.”

“It is after lunch.”

“You still took long.” But even while saying it, your eyes were already on the bag. And he knew that look now.

The exact moment irritation started losing against curiosity.

He stepped inside without comment, slipped off his shoes, and handed the bag over.

You took it immediately, opened it standing right there near the entryway. Plucked one grape, bit into it and right before his eyes, the entire mood changed.

A complete, absurd one-eighty.

The scowl vanished. Brows relaxed. Then came that small hum—soft, involuntary, pleased enough that it almost sounded like you forgot he was there.

He stared for half a second then laughed under his breath because honestly, there it was again—that strange little victory he kept collecting lately whenever food stayed down and made you smile instead of grimace.

By the time he finished washing his hands and stepped toward the living room, you were already curled into the couch with the bowl in your lap, eating one grape at a time like you had discovered treasure.

Another quiet hum.

He leaned one shoulder against the kitchen doorway, watching.

“It’s good?”

You looked up, cheeks slightly full, and nodded immediately. Too happy to even answer properly.

He chuckled.

Your expression made it impossible not to.

“Internet didn’t lie,” he added.

Another nod. Then a tiny, almost suspiciously satisfied

“They actually taste like cotton candy.”

“Mm.”

You reached for another grape. Mood entirely restored.

And it struck him again how dramatic the shifts had become lately, how fifteen minutes ago you had looked ready to reject human interaction, and now one bowl of grapes had apparently repaired the universe.

He moved into the kitchen, setting down the extra pack he had bought because Wonwoo had unfortunately been right.

Behind him he could still hear occasional soft sounds of approval every few bites.

He was rinsing a glass when your voice came again.

“Hey, Cheol.”

Something in the tone made him look over immediately. You were no longer smiling quite the same way but still holding the bowl, fingers slower now, thoughtful.

He stayed where he was.

“Yeah?”

You hesitated “I have a scan next week.”

He turned fully “What kind?”

“The one where they might tell me the gender.”

Then your eyes dropped to the grapes again.

“I don’t want to go alone.”

That was all it took.

He was moving before you even looked up again.

Kitchen forgotten. By the time your gaze lifted, he was already crouching in front of the couch, one hand resting lightly against the edge near your knee, face level with yours.

Close enough that his attention felt immediate, complete.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, absurdly, he could already hear Wonwoo’s voice:

Look at you. One sentence and you’re kneeling like a proposal scene.

Which was annoying because from the outside, maybe it did look painfully obvious.

He ignored that thought.

“What day?” he asked first

You blinked, slightly caught off guard by how fast he answered.

“Thursday.”

“What time?”

“Eleven-thirty.”

“Which clinic? Same one?”

You nodded slowly. He repeated it once under his breath, already memorizing.

Then his expression softened. That steady, reassuring smile he used only when he knew you were asking for something that cost you more courage than it should have.

“I’ll come if you want me to.” No hesitation

“You’re not busy?” The pout appeared too—small, tired, almost guilty.

As if asking already felt like asking too much and that expression did something dangerous to his chest every single time.

Because you still asked like he might say no. Still asked like you hadn’t learned yet that if it involved you lately, he rearranged things before considering inconvenience.

His smile deepened just slightly.

“I can move anything.”

“You don’t even know what you have that day.”

“I know what matters first.”

The words came too naturally. Too honest.

He noticed it right after saying them. So did you, judging by the way your eyes stayed on him a second longer than usual.

He added more lightly, “It’s one appointment.”

You looked down again, picking another grape but not eating it yet.

“I just…” A pause “I don’t want to sit there by myself if they tell me.”

He understood immediately. Not the scan itself. The moment. The weight of hearing something important and having nobody beside you to look at first.

Nobody to share the first reaction with.

And suddenly crouching there, looking up at you from the floor, he felt that familiar sharp pull again—that impossible mixture of tenderness and restraint that had defined nearly every day lately.

Because it would have been so easy to reach for your hand right then.

Too easy.

Instead he kept his voice steady.

“You won’t be alone.”

That made you finally eat the grape still in your fingers.

Slowly.

Then after swallowing, quieter:

“Okay.”

He stayed there another second longer than necessary. Just because your face had softened again. Because relief looked gentler on you than exhaustion ever did.

Because this close, with afternoon light catching across the couch and the bowl of ridiculous grapes in your lap, he understood exactly why Wonwoo never stopped teasing him.

It probably was obvious.

Painfully obvious.

Especially now—him crouched in front of you like your next sentence might determine his entire week.

Still, he didn’t move until you looked at him again and asked:

“Did you buy only one pack?”

He blinked. Then almost laughed.

“Check the kitchen.”

That earned the smallest smile.

A real one.

And when you smiled like that, even something as ordinary as buying extra grapes somehow felt absurdly worth it 

=

By the time Thursday came, Seungcheol already knew two things before you even said a word.

First—you had barely eaten breakfast.

Second—you were nervous enough that your silence felt louder than usual.

The drive through morning traffic in Seoul had been mostly quiet, not uncomfortable, just filled with that specific kind of tension he had started recognizing in you lately.

You answered when he asked simple things. Short replies. Small nods. 

But your fingers kept moving. Twisting the edge of your sleeve. Checking your phone without reading anything.

Looking out the window, then away again.

And by the time the two of you sat in the clinic waiting area, that nervous energy had settled fully into your body.

Your knee bounced fast enough to shake the chair slightly.

One hand kept drifting to your nails. Picking.

Tiny repeated motions.

He noticed immediately. He had seen that habit before, long before pregnancy, long before heartbreak—always the same when your thoughts got too loud.

And always bad enough that if nobody stopped you, you’d keep going until skin broke.

You probably didn’t even realize you were doing it.

He watched for half a minute. Then without ceremony, he reached over and took your hand. Warm fingers wrapping gently but firmly around yours before your nails could catch skin again.

The motion startled you enough that your head turned instantly.

Eyes lifting to him, already ready to protest and he knew that look too.

So before you could say anything, he answered casually, voice low enough not to draw attention.

“You pick at your nails when you’re nervous until it bleeds.”

You blinked. Your mouth opened then closed.

Then came the small, almost defensive mumble “I don’t do it that much.”

He gave you a look. You knew better than to argue with that look ecause both of you knew he was right.

Still, he didn’t let go. And this time—you didn’t pull away. Your hand stayed where it was in his.

At first maybe because you were distracted. Then because, little by little, the warmth helped more than you wanted to admit.

Your knee slowed too.

Around you, the waiting room stayed busy in quiet clinic ways—soft footsteps, low voices, pages turning.

From anyone sitting across the room, the picture likely looked obvious.

A couple waiting for an appointment.

Because there you were: seated close enough that your shoulder occasionally brushed his arm, your bag resting on his lap because he had taken it from you the second you tried carrying it yourself, and your fingers still loosely caught in his hand like neither of you had properly acknowledged it.

At one point you leaned slightly toward him.

Not fully just enough that your shoulder settled against his arm.

Then tugged lightly at the side of his sleeve.

“Did you check if parking expires?”

He looked down “Two hours.”

“You checked?”

“Before we came in.”

You nodded like that answered something important.

And somewhere in another version of this morning, if Wonwoo had witnessed any of it, Seungcheol knew exactly what expression he would wear:

Hopeless. Completely hopeless.

Because yes, from the outside it looked obvious. From the inside too, if he was being honest.

The dangerous part was how natural it felt. Holding your hand. Carrying your bag. Watching every little nervous movement like it mattered as if his body had already learned its role before his mind allowed it.

Then the nurse called your name imediately your fingers tightened around his.

He only stood, still holding your hand until you were fully on your feet. Then picked up your bag too.

Inside the scan room, the light dimmed. You climbed onto the bed slowly, still visibly tense. He stood near your side, bag set aside, hands in his pockets now only because he needed somewhere to put them.

The technician smiled politely, professional and calm, beginning routine questions before applying gel across your stomach. Cold enough that you startled.

Seungcheol immediately looked over “You okay?”

“It’s cold”

The technician laughed softly “Always cold”

Then the screen flickered. Shapes appeared. Movement. That strange grainy image that somehow still made everything feel impossibly real.

For a second, nobody spoke. The technician focused. Measured. Clicked through angles.

And Seungcheol, who had come here prepared to simply sit quietly and support you, felt something shift unexpectedly when he saw movement on the screen.

A tiny shape. Small but real.

His chest tightened before he had words for why. Beside him, your hand found the edge of his sleeve again. Without looking, you tugged lightly. A nervous habit.

Then the technician smiled slightly. “Well…” A pause. Another angle.

“It looks like a girl.” The room went quiet. Just long enough for the sentence to land fully.

A girl.

You blinked first. Eyes fixed on the screen.

“...A girl?”

The technician nodded, still smiling “Yes. Very likely.”

And suddenly your face changed. All the tension from earlier loosened at once into something softer—something caught between disbelief and emotion.

A tiny breath left you that sounded dangerously close to tears. Beside you, Seungcheol forgot entirely that he was supposed to stay detached from moments that did not belong to him.

Because hearing girl hit him harder than expected too.

Not his child. Not his place. And yet standing there, watching your eyes shine while staring at that screen, all he could think was how impossibly small she still was.

How fiercely you had already fought through weeks of nausea and exhaustion for someone not even born yet.

And before he realized it, he smiled.

You turned your head then, finally looking at him instead of the screen. And because emotion made honesty simpler than usual, you whispered

“A girl” Like you needed to hear it again from someone beside you.

His eyes met yours “A girl,” he repeated gently.

Your fingers tightened once more around his sleeve and this time neither of you let go because for one suspended moment it felt less like surviving another appointment and more like something tender neither of you quite knew how to name yet 

=

By twenty-one weeks, asking Seungcheol for help no longer felt like crossing some line you had once drawn out of guilt.

At first, every favor came with hesitation. Every request felt heavier than it should have, because somewhere in your mind you still heard yourself saying he has his own life, he shouldn’t have to keep doing this, you cannot keep leaning this much.

But time had a way of softening resistance when someone showed up often enough that their presence stopped feeling borrowed.

He still came after work. Still checked if you had eaten. Still carried things you could absolutely carry yourself and ignored every complaint about it.

And somewhere between week twelve and now, the guilt had thinned into something harder to define. Not gone. Just quieter.

Because lately his presence had become... natural. The kind of natural that only became noticeable when you caught yourself expecting him before he arrived. Or when your first instinct at seeing something funny, annoying, exhausting, or strange became I should tell Cheol.

That should have felt ordinary—he had always been your best friend but lately you noticed things you had spent years deliberately not naming.

Things that became harder to ignore now that he stayed so close to your daily life. Like how absurdly unfair it was that someone built like him moved so carefully around you.

Broad shoulders. Tall enough that in crowded places people stepped aside without thinking. That serious expression strangers always mistook for coldness. The glare that made people straighten immediately when aimed their way.

And yet the moment you spoke, even mid-sentence, something changed.

His brows eased. His mouth softened slightly. His attention sharpened in that complete way that made the rest of the world look temporarily unimportant.

You had told yourself for weeks that it was simply kindness. Because that was safer.

Kindness fit. Kindness explained midnight sweet potatoes, clinic visits, grapes that tasted like cotton candy, carrying your bag, waiting through appointments, remembering what food stayed down and what smell made you nauseous.

Something else… that was harder. So you kept choosing kindness.

Even while lately, more and more often, you caught yourself noticing things that made the explanation thinner.

Seungcheol picked you up earlier than usual under the excuse that he had things to do at home anyway and you might as well stay there instead of being alone all day.

You had argued, naturally

“I’ll be fine at my apartment”

“You said that last week and then forgot lunch because you fell asleep sitting up.”

“That happened once”

“You threw up twice before noon”

“That is unrelated”

“It is exactly related”

And somehow, as always, you ended up in his car anyway.

Now his apartment looked suspiciously prepared for your arrival. Extra pillows stacked on one side of the couch. A folded blanket already placed within reach. Water bottle on the coffee table. Snacks lined neatly beside it.

You also chose not to comment because if you did, he would shrug like it meant nothing so instead you settled into the couch, one leg tucked carefully under the other, phone in hand, while he moved around the apartment doing errands he claimed he had ignored for too long.

Laundry first. Then something in the kitchen. Then you heard drawers opening somewhere deeper inside. And because apparently distance no longer stopped either of you from continuing conversations, he texted you even when he’s just in the other room

Seungcheol: Why is your hand inside the snack bowl but you’re not eating?

You: Are you spying on me?

Seungcheol: Reflection from the TV

You looked up instinctively toward the blank television and narrowed your eyes.

“Creepy”

From the other room, his voice came back calm “Eat.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway. Your shirt had ridden slightly upward from how you were sitting, exposing the soft curve of your stomach. One hand rested there absentmindedly, fingertips moving without thought the way they had lately whenever you sat still too long.

You were halfway through typing another complaint about his hoodie collection when the apartment door opened. You barely registered it.

A click. Then footsteps.

Jeon Wonwoo appears with one iced coffee in hand, clearly meant for Seungcheol, and had already stepped fully inside before his eyes landed on the couch.

Then stopped. Because from his angle, what he saw was: You stretched comfortably across Seungcheol’s couch. Pillows arranged around you like someone had built a nest. Snacks spread on the table. Your hand resting over your stomach. Your shirt slightly lifted enough to make the pregnancy obvious.

And the overall atmosphere of someone entirely at ease in another person’s home.

Wonwoo blinked once. The amusement arrived first. Then confusion. Then dangerous understanding.

Seungcheol, unfortunately, caught that exact expression immediately and the glare he shot him could have stopped traffic.

A very clear: Don’t you dare.

Wonwoo looked delighted “Ah.”

That one syllable alone sounded criminal. You finally looked up.

“Oh. Hi.”

Wonwoo lifted the coffee slightly like proof he came peacefully.

“Hi”

Seungcheol spoke first, voice flat “You’re early”

“I can leave,” Wonwoo said, not sounding like he meant it at all

“You should”

“But then I’d miss whatever this is”

You frowned faintly “What do you mean, whatever this is?”

Wonwoo looked at you. Then very deliberately at Seungcheol. Then back at you.

“This looks… domestic”

Seungcheol immediately moved forward, taking the coffee from his hand harder than necessary.

“It looks like she’s resting”

“It looks,” Wonwoo corrected mildly, “like you kidnapped a pregnant woman and built her a comfort station”

You almost laughed. Seungcheol did not.

“She didn’t want to stay alone.”

“Mm” Wonwoo’s gaze dropped to the table again

“Sit down or leave”

You looked slowly toward Seungcheol. He refused eye contact immediately, suddenly very interested in placing coffee on the counter.

Wonwoo saw your expression shift and nearly smiled to himself. So naturally he stepped deeper into it. He sat in the armchair opposite the couch like he had arrived specifically for entertainment.

“You want coffee too?” Seungcheol asked you immediately, changing subject

“No”

“Tea?” “No”

“Fruit?” “I’m not a zoo animal”

Wonwoo leaned back “He asks like that every ten minutes?”

“Yes” you answered before Seungcheol could stop you

“Because she forgets to eat”

“Because he acts like I’ll vanish if unsupervised”

Wonwoo looked at Seungcheol again, slow and deeply entertained.

“You know, if anyone walked in right now, they’d assume this is his wife.”

Silence. Immediate silence. Your eyes widened just slightly. Seungcheol looked ready to physically remove him.

Wonwoo, sensing impact, added calmly “Especially with the hand on the stomach.”

You looked down instinctively, your palm still rested there. You pulled your shirt down at once.

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, not because of you, but because Wonwoo had noticed the exact thing he had spent all morning pretending not to stare at.

Then, suddenly a small movement under your palm.

You froze. The shift came again. Tiny but unmistakable.

Your breath caught “Wait”

Everything changed instantly. Both men looked at you. You stared down, hand pressing lightly. There it is again.

You looked up too fast, eyes wide.

“I think—” Seungcheol was beside the couch before you finished. All annoyance gone. Wonwoo forgotten.

“What?”

“She moved”

His expression changed in real time. Softened so quickly it almost hurt to look at.

“Now?” Y

Y&ou nodded. He crouched immediately in front of you, instinctive, like every serious thing involving you now pulled him lower, closer, gentler.

“Again?”

“I don’t know, wait—” You inhaled sharply and without thinking, your hand caught his wrist and placed it there. Right over the curve.

For one suspended second no one moved. Seungcheol went absolutely still his large hand under yours. Then… another tiny movement. Barely there but enough.

His eyes lifted slowly to yours and whatever he felt in that moment showed too clearly.

Wonwoo, for once in his life, did something rare. He stayed quiet. No teasing. No smug I knew it expression spoken aloud, even though it absolutely lived in his eyes. He only leaned back deeper into the chair, coffee untouched in his hand, watching the two of you as if instinct told him this was not a moment to break.

Your entire focus stayed on the small place beneath your palm. And Seungcheol’s hand remained there too, large and impossibly careful under yours, like even breathing too hard might disturb something fragile.

Then another tiny movement. Your whole face changed instantly. Mouth parting into that smile he had come to recognize as the dangerous kind, the kind that hit him directly in the chest because it appeared without effort, pure and unguarded.

“That’s so weird,” you whispered. Then softer “But also… she’s alive.”

Your hand stayed over his and now you were smiling fully, looking down at your stomach like you had just met something miraculous and ordinary at once.

Seungcheol looked at you instead bcause this expression was worth every sleepless midnight run, every worried clinic wait, every swallowed anger from months ago he refused to revisit.

For a dangerous second, he forgot Wonwoo existed entirely yhen Wonwoo finally spoke, voice light enough not to shatter the softness.

“Oh—it’s a girl? Congrats.” The word landed like a pin through a bubble. Instantly both you and Seungcheol looked up.

The moment broke just enough for awareness to return. You realized your hand was still over his. Realized how close he was crouched between your knees.

Realized Wonwoo had watched the entire thing. Heat rushed straight into your face.

Seungcheol cleared his throat first and stood up immediately, too quickly almost, like distance would fix whatever had suddenly become obvious.

“Yeah,” you answered, voice smaller than before “A girl.”

He busied himself with the pillows which did not need fixing, then the blanket folded even though it had already been folded.

Wonwoo watched this performance with enormous internal satisfaction. He said nothing but the smile he bit back was criminal.

“You found out recently?” Wonwoo asked, shifting attention to you because clearly Seungcheol needed several seconds to remember how normal people behaved

“A few days ago”

“How are you feeling?”

You shrugged “Hungry half the time. Sick the other half. Emotional for no reason.”

“Not no reason,” Wonwoo said mildly

“Yesterday I almost cried because my toast was uneven.”

“That sounds valid”

And just like that, conversation settled easier. You asked about work. Wonwoo told you stories—mostly exaggerated, likely to annoy Seungcheol, which worked because every third sentence from the kitchen came with corrections.

You laugh at Wonwoo’s stories, the sound carried through the apartment easily.

And each time it did, Seungcheo who was pretending to do anything except stand there listening, felt that quiet shift inside him he no longer knew how to control.

Because hearing you laugh here, in his place, had started to feel far too right.

Dangerously right.

=

If there was one thing Seungcheol noticed more clearly once you reached twenty-eight weeks, it was exhaustion. Just constant in small ways that added up enough for him to track without meaning to.

You moved slower now, sat down more often mid-conversation. Paused before stairs like your body negotiated whether the effort was worth it. And lately, no matter how much sleep you got, there was always that same heaviness behind your eyes by late afternoon.

Which naturally meant he adjusted around it without announcing he was doing so. If you had somewhere to go, he checked the time you’d finish. If you needed errands, he offered to drive. If you said you could take a cab, he ignored that entirely.

And tonight was no different.

You had gone out with friends for dinner. Something he had actually encouraged because lately your world had become too clinic-home-work-repeat and he knew you needed voices other than his around you.

Still, he parked nearby before your agreed pickup time anyway because he also knew how quickly your energy dropped now once evening came.

When you finally came out, two shopping bags hung from your wrist and your face already carried that unmistakable tired softness.

He was out of the car immediately

“Why are you carrying those”

“I have hands”

“You also have a back that complained yesterday”

He took the bags before you could argue. You got into the passenger seat muttering something about him being dramatic, but your voice lacked force.

By the time your seatbelt clicked in, he already knew you were exhausted.

The drive started with your usual attempt to stay awake. You talked while staring half at the window, half at the bags now in the backseat.

“They bought so much,” you murmured

“What did they get?”

“One bought tiny dresses”

“Mm.”

“And socks. More socks. So many socks”

You continued, words slower now “One bought this rabbit blanket…”

A pause “And this weird plush thing that plays music”

“What kind of music?”

“I think lullabies? Or maybe forest sounds. It sounded expensive.”

Another pause “And someone gave diapers which honestly felt the most practical.”

Your speech had begun to blur slightly between thoughts he noticed immediately. You kept talking anyway, stubbornly.

“They kept saying she’ll be spoiled already and she’s not even here yet…”

A small yawn interrupted you then another. Your hand moved over your stomach automatically.

“She kicked after dinner too much. Maybe she liked noodles.”

Silence lasted a few seconds then nothing after that. He glanced sideways. Your head had tipped slightly toward the window. Eyes closed. Asleep.

The city outside kept moving, headlights streaking softly over the windshield, but inside the car everything quieted instantly.

And for a moment he kept driving the route toward your apartment by habit.

One turn then another. Then at the next intersection, his hands stayed on the wheel while his mind ran through the practical facts he had already lost to.

You were asleep. deep enough that waking you meant making you walk upstairs. Your apartment meant stairs from parking to lobby because the elevator on your floor had been unreliable this week.

His apartment was closer from here. Fewer stairs. Softer couch. Extra pillows already there because somehow they had never really left after last time.

He exhaled once. Then took the turn toward his building.

Just for tonight, he told himself. For you and the baby.

Nothing else. Not because seeing you asleep beside him made something dangerous settle too naturally inside the silence or because your hand remained loosely over your stomach in sleep like even unconscious you protected her.

Not because there was something painfully domestic about driving with you like this.

No. Practical. Only practical.

He repeated that twice before parking. He hated waking you abruptly, so he touched your shoulder lightly first.

“We’re here”

A sleepy sound. Your eyes opened halfway, confused.

“My apartment?”

“No. Mine.”

That woke you slightly more “Why”

“You fell asleep”

“I can still go home.”

“You can also sleep first”

You looked at him for exactly three exhausted seconds before losing the argument simply because staying awake clearly cost too much energy.

He unbuckled your seatbelt when your fingers fumbled once, took the bags, walked slowly beside you to the elevator because now your steps had that familiar late-night heaviness.

Inside his apartment, the lights stayed soft. You barely reached the couch before another yawn overtook you.

“Sit,” he said

He already had water on the table, blanket unfolded, pillows adjusted. You watched him with half-open eyes, too tired now to comment on how practiced he had become at this.

Then your hand pressed lightly to your stomach

“She moved”

“Too much?”

“No… just saying hello, maybe.”

And exactly as expected, before he even returned from setting the bags aside you were already asleep again. One hand tucked near your face. The other still over the curve of your stomach.

Seungcheol stood there longer than necessary. Then quietly adjusted the blanket higher over your shoulder.

Just tonight, he told himself again. He let you sleep on the couch for exactly seven minutes before deciding it was a bad idea because even from where he stood in the kitchen doorway, he could already see the angle.

Your neck bent wrong. One arm trapped awkwardly under you. Lower back unsupported. And he knew what that meant tomorrow. complaints about stiffness, one hand pressing your side, that small wince you tried to hide when standing too quickly.

So eventually he crossed the room quietly, before kneeling slightly beside the couch.

“Hey” Nothing.

A second softer touch “Wake up”

Your brows moved first then your eyes opened halfway, unfocused and heavy with sleep.

“What…”

“You’ll sleep on the bed”

A tiny frown. Too tired even for full resistance.

“I’m okay here”

“No, you’re not” he added, gentler “Come on.”

You only gave a sleepy sound that might have been an agreement and pushed yourself upright. He stayed close automatically while you stood. One hand hovering near your elbow without touching unless needed.

You shuffled toward his room with that slow exhausted pace he had seen more often lately.

By the time you disappeared into the bedroom, he grabbed a spare shirt and comfortable shorts from his drawer, things loose enough not to bother your stomach and took the blanket from the couch too.

He gave you privacy long enough to change, waiting outside a moment before knocking lightly and stepping back in.

And then he stopped. You were already on his bed, settled against the pillows. His oversized shirt hanging loose enough that it slipped over one shoulder. The sight hit him so unexpectedly that for one suspended second he forgot to breathe.

You looked not like a guest. You looked like you belonged there in a way his mind accepted far too easily. Like the room had been waiting for that exact picture, like you had always been meant to soften the sharp edges of that space simply by existing inside it.

And because exhaustion had softened your face, because your eyes were already closing again, because the room was too quiet and too warm… something dangerous slipped through the cracks he usually kept sealed shut.

A thought. Not new. Just louder tonight.

That in another life—

another timeline—

this could have been ordinary.

You in his bed. Late night. Soft breathing. A child growing between shared futures instead of broken ones.

And before he could stop it, another thought followed. The selfish one. The one he hated every time it surfaced. There had been one ugly, human flash of something he never forgave himself for:

He wished, for one impossible second, that the baby had been his.

Not because he wanted to erase what happened. Not because he resented her existence.

Never that.

But because the idea of you carrying a child and it belonging to someone who hurt you had ignited something violent and helpless in him he still refused to examine too closely.

Because some reckless part of him had thought:

If it were mine, I would never make her carry this alone.

That thought had terrified him enough to bury it immediately. Especially because you were grieving enough already. Especially because love—his love—had no right to become another weight on your shoulders.

So he buried it. Deep.

Every day after. Under clinic visits. Under grocery bags. Under late-night cravings. Under pretending that all of this was simple friendship stretched a little farther because circumstances demanded it.

Because saying it aloud can change everything.

He could survive loving you quietly, what he could not survive was losing you.

The truth he had made peace with, quietly, alone, was this. That baby girl did not belong in his mind to the man who made you cry. Never to him.

In Seungcheol’s heart, she existed as yours. Entirely yours. And because she was part of you… because she would carry your smile, your voice, your habits, your softness somewhere he already loved her too.

Enough that raising another man’s child did not even feel like sacrifice if it meant protecting what was yours.

You shifted slightly then, pulling him back from thoughts he never let linger long.

Your eyes half-opened “You’re staring.”

His expression reset immediately “I’m checking if you need another pillow.”

Then another yawn. He moved closer anyway, adjusting one pillow behind your back until the angle improved.

“You’ll feel better like this.”

You made a quiet sound of approval already drifting again. As he pulled the blanket properly over you, your fingers caught his wrist lightly.

“Stay until I sleep,” you murmured.

And because refusing was impossible, he sat carefully on the edge of the bed.

Your hand loosened but did not fully let go. Within minutes your breathing deepened again.

Sleep taking you completely and Seungcheol sat there in the dim room longer than he should have watching the woman he loved sleep in his bed,

Telling himself once more that silence was kinder than confession, even while his heart had already crossed lines his mouth never would 

=

When morning light pushed faintly through the curtains, the first thing Seungcheol noticed was warmth at his arm. Your hand still clutching his sleeve.

He looked down for several quiet seconds and that same dangerous thought threatened again. So carefully he loosened your fingers one at a time. He stood slowly, pulled the blanket higher over your shoulder then left the room before he could look too long.

The gym was supposed to fix his head. Routine, he told himself. So he trained harder than usual. Longer too. Enough that muscle fatigue should have replaced whatever sat in his chest.

It did not.

Which was exactly why when Wonwoo spotted him there, one glance was enough for suspicion.

“You look like someone lost an argument with himself”

Seungcheol grabbed water “I’m working out”

“You’re punishing dumb decisions”

And somehow not an hour later,  Wonwoo sat in the passenger seat while they drove back toward the apartment because even while pretending calm, Seungcheol kept checking the time.

“She’s probably still asleep” Wonwoo said

“She sleeps lighter lately”

“You know that like a husband” Silence. Wonwoo let that one go. Rare mercy.

Back at the apartment, Seungcheol unlocked the door quietly, expecting silence.

So they stayed in the kitchen, voices lower than usual. Wonwoo leaned against the counter, watching his friend with the kind of patience that only existed because he had watched this same story unfold for years.

“Just tell her”

“No” Seungcheol didn’t even look up.

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose “You’re rearranging your entire life around her”

“She needs help”

“You know what week every appointment is”

“She forgets dates”

Wonwoo waited until Seungcheol looked up then said it plainly

“And you still think pretending this is only practical is believable?”

His jaw tightened “It doesn’t matter what I think”

“It matters if you’re in love with her” That word stayed in the kitchen heavier than either admitted aloud usually.

Seungcheol looked away first “She doesn’t need that right now”

Wonwoo’s voice stayed calm “She deserves truth and you deserve to stop acting like loving her is some crime”

That hit harder than expected.

Seungcheol’s answer came lower now “If I say anything and she pulls away, what then”

Wonwoo said nothing immediately because there it was. The real answer.

Not fear of rejection. Fear of absence. Fear that one confession could cost the place he already had beside you.

Then quieter, Wonwoo said “You think staying silent protects her. Maybe it protects you”

“She’s pregnant. Hurt. Trying to survive all of this. I’m not putting something selfish on top of that.”

Wonwoo frowned “Loving someone isn’t selfish”

“Now it is”

The kitchen fell quiet and neither of them noticed the bedroom door had opened slightly.

That you had woken earlier than expected, you had stepped closer at the sound of voices and caught only fragments.

Tell her. You deserve it. She deserves truth. Rearranging your life around her.

If I say anything and she pulls away…

Fragments without the whole. Fragments sharp enough to cut wrong.

Of course. Of course eventually this became too much. Of course there was a truth he wasn’t saying because how could there not be?

You were in his apartment. Sleeping in his bed. Calling him for cravings. Clinic visits. Rides home. Every week more of his time. More space. More care.

And suddenly all the things you had allowed yourself not to question arrived together, ugly and loud. You were asking too much. Holding him too long in a role that was never his. You and your baby were not his responsibility.

For one ugly second another thought came—one worse because it hurt before you could stop it.

Someday there would be someone else here. A woman who belonged naturally in this apartment. A woman he loved openly. A child that was theirs.

Not borrowed moments. Not careful boundaries. Not obligation dressed as kindness.

That image came so quickly it stole your breath. And before you realized it, tears had already gathered.

So you did what pride always made you do first. You cleaned evidence. Changed clothes. Washed your face.

By the time Seungcheol checked the room again, expecting sleep you were sitting at the edge of the bed, shoes on, bag beside you.

That alone made him stop “You’re awake.”

You nodded without looking long enough at him “I should go home”

His brows pulled together immediately “What?”

“I stayed too long”

“You were sleeping”

“I’m okay now” your voice sounded controlled in that way he recognized instantly as dangerous.

He stepped closer “Did something happen?”

“No.” A lie too quick. You stood before he could block it, adjusting your bag strap though he immediately took the bag from your hand out of habit.

“I’m taking you home”

That should have sounded ordinary. Usually it didbut today it landed differently because all you heard underneath was what your own mind had already decided. He doesn’t have to.

And maybe that was the part that hurt most. That you had started forgetting he never had to do any of this at all.

You looked away quickly before your eyes betrayed anything again.

“I really don’t want to keep bothering you.”

That made him still completely because the sentence came from nowhere.

His voice lowered immediately

“You’re not bothering me”

You gave the smallest smile. One that convinced neither of you.

But you nodded anyway and said nothing more because if you did, you were afraid your voice would break again first. 

The moment he dropped you off he knew something was wrong, you didn't even look back when you got out of his car. Arms crossed over yourself as if you're physically holding yourself together.

Not even a quick goodbye.