he groans quietly, pressing his face further into your hoodie. “it’s too early for talking.”

“you literally talked first.”

“that doesn’t count.”

you laugh softly under your breath.

he sounds so sleepy it’s almost unfair.

you turn slightly in his arms so you can look at him properly.

big mistake.

his hair is messy in every direction, eyes barely open, cheeks still soft with sleep, and somehow he still looks devastatingly pretty.

your heart immediately folds in on itself.

nicholas notices you staring after a second.

“…why are you looking at me like that?”

“like what?”

“like you’re having a full internal crisis.”

you let out a soft laugh. “maybe i am.”

“why?”

you smile a little into the pillow, cheeks warm. “because you look really cute right now.”

nicholas pauses for a second.

then, very quietly, he pulls the blanket up over part of his face like that somehow fixes the situation.

you stare at him.

“…are you hiding?”

“no.”

“you literally are.”

“it’s too early to be perceived.”

you laugh again, brighter this time, and he peeks at you over the blanket like he physically cannot help it.

there’s something so soft about him in the mornings.

less composed.

less careful.

just yours.

you try sitting up again.

before you can get very far, nicholas catches the sleeve of your hoodie lazily between his fingers.

“where are you going?” he mumbles.

“the bathroom.”

he frowns immediately, still half asleep. “again?”

you blink. “i haven’t gone yet.”

“oh.”

he thinks about that for a second.

then tightens his arm around your waist anyway.

“still. don’t go.”

you laugh softly. “you’re so clingy in the mornings.”

“only because you’re warm,” he murmurs against the pillow.

then, quieter:

“and because i like you a lot.”

his voice is lingering when he says it, like it slips out before he can think too hard about it.

and somehow that makes your heart feel even lighter.

because he says it like it’s nothing new.

like it’s always been true.

like it’s just part of the morning, the same way the sunlight is.

your face warms immediately.

nicholas notices, of course.

he always does.

a small, drowsy smile tugs at his lips. “there it is.”

“what?” you mumble, already trying to hide behind the pillow.

“you getting all shy again.”

“i’m not shy,” you insist, though your voice comes out softer than you mean it to.

you pull the blanket up a little more anyway, hiding your face.

nicholas lets out a quiet laugh and gently tugs it back down just enough to see you.

“don’t hide,” he says, still smiling. “i like seeing you like this.”

your chest melts a little at that.

actually, a lot.

you glance down after a second and realize—

“…wait. this is your hoodie.”

nicholas hums softly, still half asleep. “yeah.”

you blink slowly. “when did i steal this?”

“you didn’t steal it,” he says.

“then why am i wearing it?”

he takes a moment, eyes barely open, like he’s searching his sleep-fogged memory for the right explanation.

“because you said yours didn’t smell like me.”

you go completely still.

“…i said that out loud?”

“mhm.”

your voice drops immediately. “that’s so embarrassing.”

nicholas just smiles a little against the pillow. “i thought it was cute.”

you make a small noise of protest and hide your face in the pillow right away.

he laughs softly and reaches over, fingers brushing your hair back with slow, careful movements.

“you were half asleep,” he murmurs. “you also called me ‘home’ like it was a personality trait.”

“nicholas,” you whine quietly. “please stop remembering things.”

“and then,” he continues anyway, way too pleased with himself, “you took my hoodie and refused to give it back.”

you peek out slightly. “in my defense… it’s really comfortable.”

“i noticed.”

you sit up a little, still hiding half your face. “so this is what our relationship has come to?”

nicholas hums thoughtfully, eyes soft.

“apparently,” he says, “i just get robbed and complimented a lot.”

you finally crack a smile.

“and you’re okay with that?”

he reaches for your hand under the blanket, lacing your fingers.

“yeah,” he says simply. “i’m willing to suffer through it."

you peek up at him finally, and he’s already looking at you.

softly.

like he always does when you’re not paying attention.

your stomach flips a little.

“what?” you ask quieter this time.

nicholas shrugs slightly against the pillow.

“nothing,” he murmurs. “i just really like waking up next to you.”

your entire brain goes completely still.

he says things like that so gently too.

never dramatic.

never forced.

just honest enough to make your chest ache.

“you’re being suspiciously sweet right now.”

nicholas hums a little, still half-asleep. “maybe i just like you.”

you blink at him, caught off guard for a second.

then you smile anyway, like you can’t really help it.

“that’s not a fair answer,” you mumble softly.

he shifts closer under the blanket, “why not?”

“because now i don’t know what to say.”

that makes him smile—small and drifting, but so fond it’s impossible to miss.

his hand finds yours under the blanket again, fingers slipping into yours easily.

“you don’t have to say anything,” he says quietly. “just stay.”

your chest feels warm immediately.

“…i was going to,” you admit, voice softer now.

“good,” he murmurs. “then we agree.”

you glance at him, still smiling a little.

he’s looking at you like this is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

like he wouldn’t want anywhere else.

and somehow, that makes you relax even more into him.

“i never want mornings like this to end,” you say quietly.

his expression softens instantly.

he’s quiet for a moment, then breathes out a small laugh that isn’t really amused—more like he’s trying to believe you.

“why would it have to?” he asks gently.

The sky was perfectly dark, undisturbed, and star studded, dotted with a million twinkling specks as if glitter had spilled across the universe. Harua had dragged you to his favorite spot, a small hill on the outskirts of town where you could see everything without city lights blocking the view. It was quiet. Just the soft rustle of the grass and distant crickets chirping.

You sat cross legged beside him on the blanket, peacefully looking up at the stars while Harua laid on his back next to you, head resting on your legs right where your skirt ended.

Harua wasn’t stargazing.

Instead of staring at the cosmos above, he was staring at you.

His dreamy eyes were extra big tonight under the moonlight, downturned lashes casted little shadows as he watched every tiny movement you made. How your eyes blinked up trying to find constellations. The soft rhythm of your breathing…

A small dimpled smile formed on his face as he reached up to tap your chin, widening when you blinked down at him in surprise. “Hey.” That voice came out softer than usual under the open sky. Harua brushed a loose strand of your hair behind your ear before his fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary near your cheek. He pushed himself up slightly on one elbow, his warm breath ghosted over your lips that made your breath hitch and cheeks warm instantly before he leaned in.

It was a sweet press of lips; soft and slow, a peck that lingered like the two of you had all night. His mouth moved against yours gently as he cupped the side of your face with one hand. Warm and tender. And just so Harua. Gentle but confident.

When he pulled back just an inch, your lips stayed slightly parted, still tingling from the softness of it. His dark eyes blinked and searched your closed ones for a reaction, which, clearly you were waiting for more in a silent, patient manner. 

The boyish smile on Harua slowly faded as tilted his head slightly before kissing you again– a little deeper this time. His tongue barely slipped past your lips as a shy brush against yours to test. One hand remained cradling your face while the other casually slid around your back, pulling you forward just enough so you could lean into him with straining. You were still sitting cross legged, but now he was half upright, his knees slightly curled up as he kissed you under the sea of stars.

Your own hands instinctively lifted to rest on both sides of Harua’s velvety face, fingers delicately threading into the soft strands of his black hair as you kissed him just as sweetly… clumsily once a tiny, breathy giggled escaped past your lips.

The sound of your light laughter made Harua’s lips twitch once again into a smile. A soft ‘hmph’ vibrated between you two as you both giggled quietly into each other’s mouths now. Small bursts of laughter muffled by one another’s lips while you continued kissing anyway, completely refusing to pull away. The moon was now a witness to a joyful mess between two lovesick dorks whose noses bumped awkwardly as they kept trying to press their lips together. 

Each little giggle made Harua press closer, smiles squishing together until it became a cycle of sweet kisses interrupted by quiet puffs of laughter. Both of your shoulders shook as amusement bubbled up from how pure this moment was. The two of you were making out between stifled laughs like dumb teenagers who just discovered kissing for the first time. The stars kept shining above as if they were gleeful too.

@danisofair

You’d know; you were currently five months in and you couldn't wait for the next four months to get over.

Oh and then there would come the birth, postpartum depression, the probability of not loving your baby afterwards and being judged by society because you’re a woman and we’re all destined to die under the thumb of patriarchy one way or another—

And you’re crying again.

Fifth time today.

Great for you. 

The tears came hot and humiliating, sliding down your cheeks while you sat curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket wrapped around your swollen body. Your back hurt, your ankles hurt, your breasts hurt. Even breathing too deeply felt uncomfortable now, like your own ribs were protesting the life growing beneath them. You pressed a trembling hand against your stomach and laughed weakly through your tears.

You remembered when the test had first turned positive. Euijoo had stared at it for a full ten seconds in complete silence, eyes wide and disbelieving before looking at you as though the world had just handed him something sacred. Then he’d laughed—a startled, breathless sound—and pulled you into his arms so quickly you nearly dropped the test into the sink.

“We’re having a baby?” he’d whispered against your hair like he still couldn’t believe it.

Back then, happiness had been easy, bright and weightless.

Euijoo had kissed your stomach every night despite there being nothing there yet. He’d spent hours researching cribs and vitamins and the safest baby monitors as if preparing for an exam he absolutely could not fail. You still remembered how he’d looked sitting cross-legged on the floor of your shared apartment, reading parenting forums with a furrow between his brows so deep you’d laughed at him until he pouted and claimed he was being a responsible father.

And God, you loved him.

You loved him in the way he always reached for your hand during crowded walks, in the way he memorized your coffee order after hearing it once on your second date, in the way he looked at you like you were something soft enough to protect and strong enough to admire all at once.

Euijoo loved through warm meals waiting for you after exhausting days, through fingers combing gently through your hair when migraines left you unable to speak, through sleepy midnight conversations and forehead kisses and the habit he had of pulling you closer in his sleep like his body knew yours by instinct.

And he still loved you now. 

Even when pregnancy had hollowed you out and replaced your patience with exhaustion and your confidence with fear.

Euijoo rubbed lotion onto your stretch marks with reverent care, woke up at three in the morning to hold your hair back when you got sick, whispered ‘you’re beautiful’ so sincerely that sometimes it made you cry harder because you couldn’t understand how he still saw beauty in someone who felt so miserable all the time.

You were happy. You were.

But happiness and pain could exist together, and nobody warned you about that part. Nobody told you that growing a child could feel miraculous and unbearable at the same time. That you could want this baby with your entire heart and still feel moments where you wanted to give up simply because everything hurt too much.

You wiped your eyes with a sleeve already stiff from salt, and the motion made you think of his sleeves. Euijoo’s, how they’d always been soft.

You hadn’t met him in some grand, cinematic way. It was at a friend’s cramped apartment, a board game night. He was quiet, but his laughter was a sudden, clear sound that cut through the noise, and you found yourself trying to make it happen again. 

He had a way of listening that made you feel like your thoughts were being gathered like mushrooms from a forest. His hands were gentle—he sketched in margins, on napkins, on the back of your hand once, a tiny, perfect star.

When Euijoo loved you, it was with a quiet certainty that felt like shelter. He remembered the songs you hummed absentmindedly and learned them. He cooked meals that were colorful because he said your joy deserved a palette. Your love was the steady warmth of a hearth in a room you both built, brick by brick. You’d talk for hours about everything and nothing—the ethics of fictional worlds, the shape of clouds that looked like old memories, the best way to eat an avocado.

The catalyst for your tears today was an avocado.

A stupid, simple, perfectly ripe avocado you’d been craving for two days. You’d finally mustered the energy to go to the market, stood in line feeling like a swollen monument to inconvenience, just for this one thing.

You got it home. You sliced it in half with ceremonial care and the pit—the damn pit—wouldn’t budge. You tried the knife trick, you tried a spoon, you tried gripping it with a towel, your hands slippery. Nothing. 

You stood there in the silent kitchen, wrestling with this stubborn seed, and a wave of pure, childish frustration crested over you. It wasn’t just about the avocado anymore. It was about the jar you couldn’t open yesterday, the socks you couldn’t bend to pick up this morning, your own body becoming a series of locked doors you no longer had the keys to.

You gave it one last, furious wrench and the knife slipped. It didn’t cut you deeply, but it nicked the side of your thumb, a bright bead of red welling up against the green flesh of the fruit. And that was it. 

The dam broke.

You weren’t crying over the avocado, or the cut. You were crying because you felt broken, defeated by a vegetable. The tears were hot and silent as you sank down in defeat onto the small kitchen island seat, cradling your hand, the uncut avocado halves staring up at you like mocking, green eyes.

A memory came into your mind—his hand, steady and warm under yours. A night on the sofa, early in your relationship, bathed in lamplight. You were talking about dreams and stars and whatnot. 

"Draw me one.” You’d said, pointing to your skin. He’d produced a pen from behind his ear—he always had one—and drew a tiny star on the back of your hand. His touch was feather-light, his concentration absolute. 

"There.” He’d said, sealing it with a soft kiss to the ink. "A piece of a constellation, just for you. So you're never lost." You felt chosen, adorned, seen in the most delicate way.

You looked at the same hand now, the star long washed away. In its place was a small, stinging, your wedding band feeling tight and foreign. You weren't a canvas for dreams anymore, you were a clumsy, sore vessel. The contrast was so violently absurd it made a sob catch in your throat.

Stupid stupid stupid.

___________

The front door clicked shut with a quiet thud.

Euijoo stepped inside carefully, shrugging off his coat with one hand, exhaustion still clinging to the slope of his shoulders from work. The apartment was warm and washed gold by the evening light filtering through the curtains. Usually, you’d call out to him by now. Usually there’d be the soft sound of your slippers against the floor or your sleepy voice asking what he wanted for dinner.

Instead, he heard a tiny, muffled sniffle from the kitchen and his heart dropped instantly.

Not out of irritation or alarm, just that immediate, aching tenderness that always seized him whenever you cried now. Pregnancy had made your emotions delicate in the same way frost made flower petals delicate—one small thing and suddenly everything trembled apart. Euijoo set his bag down and followed the sound. 

And there you were. Perched miserably on the kitchen stool in one of his oversized shirts, face damp with tears, one hand cradling the other while a mutilated avocado sat abandoned on the cutting board beside you like evidence of a crime scene. For a moment, he simply stood there unnoticed.

And God.

You were so beautiful.

Soft and angelic, the incarnation of heaven, and carrying something precious inside you at tremendous cost to yourself.

The curve of your stomach beneath the fabric made something deep in his chest ache with overwhelming affection. His child, your child, a tiny life the two of you had somehow created together, nestled safely beneath your ribs while you sat there crying over an avocado with the saddest expression he had ever seen in his life.

He loved you so much it frightened him sometimes.

Loved the sleepy puffiness beneath your eyes in the mornings, loved the stretch marks beginning to bloom faintly across your hips, loved the way you absentmindedly held your stomach now when you were upset, protective even through your frustration.

Euijoo looked at you and saw devotion made flesh, saw every sacrifice your body was making to bring your baby into the world, saw strength in the exhaustion and beauty in the tenderness of you.

His throat tightened painfully.

You sniffled again, wiping at your face angrily with the heel of your palm, and he noticed the tiny cut on your thumb immediately. That did him in completely.

His expression softened into something unbearably gentle as he crossed the kitchen quietly, as though approaching a frightened animal he didn’t want to startle.

“Baby…” he murmured.

You startled slightly, eyes lifting to him, embarrassed tears immediately gathering harder the second you saw him.

“I hate everything,” you whispered miserably.

Euijoo almost smiled because you sounded so genuinely devastated that it wrapped around his heart and squeezed.

He stepped between your knees without hesitation, hands instinctively settling on your hips before one moved carefully to your injured hand. His fingers were warm, careful as he examined the tiny cut like it was something serious.

“Oh, my love.” The endearment alone nearly made you cry again.

His thumb brushed softly beneath your eye, catching a tear before it could fall. He leaned down until his forehead rested against yours, eyes half-lidded as he looked at you with that same tenderness he’d had the night he drew stars onto your skin.

“I leave you alone for a few hours and you go to war with an avocado?” he murmured softly. A watery laugh escaped and victory flickered briefly across his face at the sound.

Euijoo kissed the corner of your mouth gently before pulling back just enough to look at you again, gaze moving slowly across your face like he was memorizing it.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”

Your lips trembled. “Euijoo—”

“No, really.” His voice was soft but certain. “You sit here thinking you’re falling apart, and all I can think is how lucky I am.”

Another tear slipped free. He caught it with his thumb immediately.

“You’re carrying our baby,” he whispered, eyes shining now too. “You’re exhausted and hurting and still trying every day anyway. And you’re worried because an avocado made you cry?” He kissed the crown of your head softly, “I’d peel a thousand avocados for you if it meant you never had to cry over one again.”

Your breath hitched softly as your tall husband bent down to kiss you, a quiet anchor in the storm of your emotions, like he was trying to pour every ounce of love he had through touch alone.  

One of his hands remained at your hip while the other drifted instinctively over the gentle curve of your stomach beneath the oversized shirt, his palm warm through the fabric. 

Euijoo’s palm spread there possessively, reverently, thumb stroking slow circles over the taut skin. The pressure was gentle, but somehow it loosened something knotted painfully deep inside you. You hadn’t realized how tense you’d been all day until his touch began smoothing it away piece by piece.

Under the steady, loving pressure of his touch, the pain softened from a scream to a sigh.  Your shoulders softened first, then your jaw and then the ache sitting heavy behind your ribs seemed to melt beneath the steady warmth of his hand. You let out a breath you didn't realize you’d been holding, your forehead falling against his shoulder.

“See?” he murmured against your lips, “Even our little one knows to settle down for dad.”

His hand continued rubbing soothing circles over your bump, almost absentmindedly now, like comforting the both of you at once. Every so often his thumb would pause when the baby shifted faintly beneath his palm, wonder flickering across his face each time no matter how many times it happened.

You watched him quietly. The absolute gentleness in him never failed to undo you. One of the many reasons you’d decided to make him your husband. 

“How do you always know what to do?” you asked hoarsely.

Euijoo smiled faintly, brushing his nose against yours. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

“No,” he murmured honestly. “I’m just obsessed with making you feel better.” A weak laugh escaped you again, and he looked absurdly pleased with himself for managing it. 

Euijoo held the kiss until your breathing evened out and your hands unclenched from the fabric of his shirt. “Stay." He whispered, as if you had any intention of moving.

Your husband moved around the kitchen gathering the first aid kit from the drawer. He guided you carefully to stay seated with a hand on your thigh before crouching slightly in front of you. 

He took your injured hand, cradling it in his own, and set about cleaning the tiny nick with an antiseptic wipe. His focus was absolute, his brow slightly furrowed in that way you loved.

Even now—even pregnant, swollen, exhausted—he looked at you like you hung the moon. It made your chest ache. You stared at him quietly while he worked.

His soft sweater sleeves were pushed up to his forearms. His hair had fallen messily over his forehead from the humidity outside. There was still tiredness lingering beneath his eyes from work, but he’d come home and immediately poured every remaining ounce of energy into you without hesitation. 

And the hormones were telling you that you didn't deserve a bit of this and that he deserved to rest properly and you were taking that away from him.

“Ju…” You said softly, “I’m not ridiculous for this, am I?”

“No baby.”  He finished applying a small, cartoon-character bandage. He smoothed the edges with his thumb, his touch lingering. “You could never be ridiculous to me. Overwhelmed? Yes. Fierce? Always. My beautiful, brave, avocado-conquering wife?” He brought your bandaged hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles. “Absolutely.”

Your lip trembled at that. Beautiful, brave—the words felt too large for someone who had dissolved into tears over produce fifteen minutes ago.

Euijoo seemed to notice the doubt flicker across your face immediately because his expression softened even further, impossibly gentle.

“Hey,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb across your knee. “What’s happening in that pretty little head?”

You looked away first, which alone told him enough.

The kitchen fell quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant rain beginning to patter lightly against the windows. Euijoo stayed crouched in front of you patiently, one hand still resting on your thigh. He never rushed you when you got like this, never demanded words before you were ready to give them.

“I just…” You swallowed thickly. “You work all day and then you come home and have to deal with me crying over avocados and stupid things and—”

“None of this is stupid.”

“But it feels stupid.” Your voice cracked softly. “And I feel…..difficult.”

His face changed instantly at that, something akin to hurt flashing across his beautiful eyes. Like the thought of you seeing yourself that way genuinely pained him. His hands felt warm against your skin. Like home. 

“Look at me,” he said quietly. You did and the look on his face made you want to cry all over again. Your husband, oh your darling husband. 

“I need you to understand something, my love.” His voice stayed soft, but there was certainty beneath it now. “Taking care of you is never something being taken away from me.” Your eyes stung immediately.

“I come home tired,” he admitted gently, brushing hair back from your damp face, “and then I see you, and suddenly I don’t care anymore because you’re my home too.”

A shaky breath left you. Euijoo leaned down, resting his forehead against yours again.

“You think I’d rather be resting somewhere else?” he whispered. “Than here with my wife and my baby?”

One of his hands slipped instinctively back to your stomach, spreading protectively over the curve of it. His thumb rubbed slow circles there again, soothing both of you at once.

“I love you.” He said simply. “Even when you cry. Even when that pretty mind is trying to convince you that it’s hard to love you.” His nose brushed yours lightly. “Especially then.”

The tears finally spilled over properly after that, silent and warm.

Euijoo sighed fondly the second he saw them. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered miserably.

“For what?”

“For being emotional all the time.”

He looked genuinely confused. “You’re growing a human being with your organs.” A tiny laugh escaped and he smiled warmly, that smile you’d fallen so deep in love with, “There she is,” he said immediately, eyes lighting up like he’d won something precious, “My sweet girl.”

He kissed you again—soft, lingering, full of affection that felt almost too big for your chest to hold. When he pulled away, he rested both hands around your face carefully.

“You know what I saw when I walked in here?” he murmured.

“A disaster?”

“My favorite person in the world.” Your face crumpled a little at that. Euijoo smiled softly, brushing away another tear with his thumb. “And maybe a slightly threatening avocado.”

You laughed harder this time, wet and breathless, and he grinned so brightly it made him look younger. Like making you smile was the most important thing he’d done all day.

You stayed there for a long time after that, neither of you in any hurry to move.

Euijoo stood between your knees while you leaned into him bonelessly, forehead resting against his chest, your arms loosely around his waist. One of his hands remained spread protectively over your stomach while the other moved slowly up and down your back in absentminded strokes.

The kitchen lights glowed soft and golden above you. Rain tapped quietly against the windows. Outside, the world continued moving at its usual pace, but inside your apartment time seemed to slow into something gentler. Safer. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear 

Home.

Every few minutes Euijoo would press a kiss into your hairline or temple like he simply couldn’t help himself. Sometimes he’d glance down at your stomach with this dazed little expression that still looked new on him every single time.

At one point the baby shifted faintly beneath his hand.

“Oh.’ He said softly, “Hi there, sweetie.” He whispered with quiet wonder.  

You smiled tiredly against his sweater. “She’s been kicking me all day.”

“Already causing trouble like her mother.”

“How dare you?” You gasped weakly. Another laugh escaped you, softer this time, and Euijoo looked ridiculously pleased by it again.

Eventually he tilted his head slightly to catch your eyes. “You wanna go lie down, baby?” he asked quietly. “You look exhausted.”

“I am,” you admitted.

“Mm.” His thumb stroked over your hip. “Bed?” You hesitated.

Euijoo noticed immediately. “What?”

“I don’t know.” You shifted your weight slightly with a small grimace. “I feel like if I lie down right now I’m gonna feel worse.” He listened carefully, nodding once like this was the most important medical briefing he’d ever received.

“The baby wants to move?” he asked solemnly.

“Your daughter,” you confirmed gravely, “wants to move.”

Euijoo hummed thoughtfully. Then a tiny smile tugged at his mouth. “Okay.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Okay what?”

“Let’s dance.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Let’s dance.” He repeated like it was obvious. “Doctor’s orders.”

“There is absolutely no doctor that would prescribe dancing in the kitchen.”

“My medical license says otherwise.”

“You don’t have a medical license, Ju.” You laughed heartily. Your husband could be so ridiculous sometimes. You imagined what he’d be like with your daughter—inventing silly games, prescribing dance breaks for scraped knees—and your heart swelled until it ached.

Euijoo ignored your protest entirely and reached for his phone. A moment later, soft music crackled quietly through—something slow and warm, woven with strings and a gentle piano melody.

The song to which you’d had your first dance at your wedding, when the world was just the two of you and a circle of golden light.

Your husband—ever the romantic. You stared at him as he set the phone down and held his hand out toward you dramatically.

“Come on sweetheart.” His eyes softened instantly afterward, voice gentler. “Just a little.”

You looked down at yourself, oversized shirt, puffy eyes, swollen ankles. Euijoo looked at you like you were something sacred anyway, a statue carved from moonlight. 

“I look awful,” you mumbled automatically.

His expression turned scandalized. “You look like the love of my life.” Your face heated immediately. “Now,” he said firmly, wiggling his fingers at you, “dance with me before our child grows up thinking her mother hates fun.”

A reluctant smile tugged at your mouth as you slipped your hand into his. His fingers closed around yours and his other hand found the small of your back.

The kitchen seemed smaller somehow once you were in his arms, softer and warmer. The rain beyond the windows blurred the city lights into watercolor streaks while your song drifted through the apartment in quiet crackles of piano and strings, the melody wrapping around you both like memory.

Euijoo slid one hand to your waist while the other settled instinctively over your stomach again, protective and tender. You rested your hands against his shoulders, feeling the muscle beneath the soft fabric of his sweater.

And you danced.

Not the polished sway of your wedding day, but something slower and truer, a careful navigation of the new geography of your body. Your steps were small shuffles, a quiet counterpoint to the music, bare feet against cool kitchen tile.

His forehead brushed yours as he hummed softly under his breath, slightly off-key in the way he always was when he got too comfortable. It made you smile instantly.

“You’re ruining our wedding song,” you murmured.

“I’m enhancing it.”

“You sound like a dying cello, baby.”

Euijoo gasped softly in mock offense before spinning you barely half a step, careful of your balance. A startled laugh escaped you, bright and alive enough that his entire face lit up at the sound.

God.

He loved that sound. You could tell, for he looked at your laughter like people looked at sunrises and other such precious things.

The song carried on around you gently, filling all the quiet corners of the apartment with something achingly intimate. Your bodies moved together without thought, without effort, like years of loving each other had taught you a language beyond words.

Then, a flutter, a distinct, rolling thump against the place where his hand rested on your side. You gasped softly against his shoulder. 

“Oh,” you breathed.

Euijoo’s eyes widened immediately beneath yours. “Did she kick again?”

Right on cue, another tiny flutter rolled beneath his palm. Both of you froze. And then you laughed at the exact same time. The sound spilled through the kitchen, warm and helpless and full of wonder.

“Our baby likes this song,” you whispered.

“Well obviously,” Euijoo said seriously. “Excellent taste. Genetically inherited from me.”

You snorted softly, leaning closer into him until your face tucked against his neck. Another kick answered almost immediately, stronger this time.

Euijoo let out the most awed little laugh you’d ever heard from another human being. One hand stayed on your stomach as though he couldn’t bear to lose contact now that your daughter was answering him from inside you.

“Hey there,” he murmured softly to your belly. “You dancing with us too?” 

Your chest tightened so painfully with love you thought it might split open.

The three of you.

In a tiny kitchen washed gold by evening light. An avocado still abandoned on the counter. Rain whispering against the windows. Your husband humming your wedding song while your unborn daughter kicked happily beneath his hand.

And suddenly the day didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

The exhaustion was still there, the aching body, the hormones, the fear. But they no longer felt sharp enough to drown you.

Euijoo pulled back just enough to look at you again. His eyes were soft in that dangerous way they got sometimes—so full of love it almost hurt to be seen by him.

“You know,” he murmured, thumb brushing over your stomach slowly, “I think this might be my favorite version of us.”

Your throat tightened instantly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He smiled, small and unbearably sincere. “You in my arms. Our baby dancing between us.”

The song swelled softly around you both.

You closed your eyes for a moment and let yourself sink fully into it—the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, the tiny life fluttering gently inside you like a second heartbeat answering the first.

Love existed in grand declarations, yes.

But sometimes it existed here too. In kitchens, in laughter through tears, in cartoon bandages and slow dancing and a hand splayed reverently across the curve of new life. A perfect, temporary universe held in the palm of a single dance. 

And as Euijoo held you beneath the golden light, humming your song into your hair while rain painted silver trails against the windows, you thought perhaps this was what happiness truly looked like, not untouched by pain, but glowing softly beside it anyway.

In this moment, paradise truly belonged to you.

With love like this, love that felt like home.

fin.

A/N: first pregnant reader fic and i wrote it for euijoo are we surprised my good people. but yes i did cry whilst writing it like hello brain why are you giving me all this fluff i'll die. Anyways i hope all my people on ovulation are eating this up. Please do give a listen to Love like This by Fujii Kaze!!!

divider by @anitalenia

@eu1joo @kwnnies @nichozzystuffs @blueuijoo @pglpblm @ikigaijo @antonh0lic @dearvampyr @riri4andy @tokunodoll @sunsoomi @makizdoll + Shoot me an ask or comment to be added!

You had carried plenty of things before.

You had carried groceries with plastic handles digging into your fingers. You had carried stacks of books pressed against your chest. You had carried sleeping toddlers from couches to beds, their heads resting on your shoulder, their weight awkward but precious. You had carried babies who could barely keep their eyes open, held close and safe, and not once had their weight felt like a burden.

Weight alone had never been what made something a burden.

A backpack full of supplies could be heavy and still be useful. A child could be exhausting to carry and still be loved. Even the most awkward, cumbersome thing could feel light when it mattered to you.

That was why the dictionary definition had always felt incomplete.

Because when people spoke about burdens, they rarely meant something that was merely carried.

They meant something that drained. Something that took and took and never gave back. Something that turned every step into a struggle.

And that was what you had been.

You felt as if you had entered every room with a problem that someone else was expected to solve. Every conversation felt like it bent around your complaints, your mistakes, your needs. You felt as if people had adjusted their plans for you, lowered their expectations for you, and carried responsibilities that should have been yours.

Unlike the sleeping baby in someone's arms, you had offered no comfort in return.

Unlike the heavy box that eventually reached its destination, you had never seemed to move forward.

You had simply remained there, an ever-present weight.

Others carried you because they felt obligated to, not because they wanted to. They supported you because they were kind, not because you made their lives easier. And with every passing day, you had become harder to justify, harder to defend, harder to lift.

If someone had asked for an example of a burden, they could have opened a dictionary and found a definition.

Or they could have pointed at you and the explanation would have been much shorter.

Burden burden burden.

Undeserving, unworthy, unlovable burden.

You had felt like an unwanted presence in everyone's life. Not hated, exactly. Hate required passion, attention, investment. You had imagined something worse—that people merely tolerated you.

You had walked into rooms convinced that your absence would improve them. You had accepted kindness with suspicion and criticism with certainty.

In your mind, worth was something other people possessed naturally. They deserved patience. They deserved comfort. They deserved gifts and second chances and understanding. You could spend hours helping someone through a bad day and never question whether they deserved your effort.

Of course they did. The question never even occurred to you.

But the moment someone offered the same care to you, your brain twisted it into something else. Obligation, pity, politeness, anything except genuine affection.

If a friend listened to your problems, you told yourself they were only being nice. If someone checked on you, you assumed they felt responsible. If someone stayed, you searched for a reason other than love.

Because love, as far as you were concerned, seemed like something that happened to other people. Not you.

Never you.

You had tried to escape that way of thinking more times than you could count.

You had promised yourself that this would be the year you learned to accept kindness. The month you stopped apologizing for existing. The week you stopped measuring your worth by how useful you were to other people.

Sometimes it even worked. For a while.

You would make progress. You would convince yourself that maybe you weren't as terrible as you thought. Maybe you deserved a seat at the table. Maybe people actually enjoyed having you around.

And then one mistake, one awkward conversation, one unanswered message, one bad day and suddenly you were right back where you started.

Back at the same stupid point, the same familiar conclusion, wondering why you had ever believed things could be different.

Then you met Yuma and for the first time in a very long time, being around someone felt easy.

He wasn't loud about it. He didn't deliver grand speeches or magically fix everything that was wrong inside your head. He simply existed in a way that made the world feel less hostile.

His presence was comforting—the kind of person who made silence feel less lonely. The kind of person who remembered things you mentioned in passing. Who checked on you without making it feel like an interrogation. Who treated your feelings as if they mattered.

And that should have changed everything. Maybe, from the outside, it looked like it did.

But underneath all that progress, underneath the smiles and the laughter and the growing trust, there was still a part of you that remained stubbornly unchanged.

The same frightened person was still living there, the same people-pleaser, the same person who measured her value by what she could give. The same person who found it easy to love others and nearly impossible to believe she could be loved in return.

You could spend hours thinking about how much Yuma deserved happiness, how much he deserved kindness, how much he deserved loyalty and patience and understanding.

But when the thought turned toward yourself, your certainty vanished. Because somewhere deep down, beneath all the healing and all the hope, you still carried the old fear that one day he would see what you saw.

And when that happened, you thought, he would realize that the person he cared about was just the same girl she had always been—still trying to earn a love that had already been given to her.

And still unable to believe she was worthy of receiving it.

That was the problem with never believing good things belonged to you. You couldn't simply enjoy them when they arrived. You interrogated them, doubted them and picked them apart like splinters from a finger.

So you kept most of it to yourself. You swallowed the insecurity when it surfaced. Smiled when people asked if you were okay. Changed the subject when conversations drifted too close to the things you were afraid to say out loud.

You told yourself you were protecting everyone. You told yourself nobody wanted to hear it. You told yourself you were being reasonable.

But feelings don't disappear just because you refuse to acknowledge them. They accumulate.

One bad thought became ten. Ten became a hundred. And eventually they stacked on top of each other until the smallest thing could knock the whole unstable tower over. Some days you managed to keep it together. Some days you didn't.

Today had been one of those days.

You had been sitting on the couch with some show playing in the background. You weren't paying much attention to it. It was just noise filling the apartment while you scrolled through your phone and tried not to think too much.

Then the front door opened, Yuma coming home from work. The familiar sound comforted you, seeping in like warm butter on cinammon rolls. Your beloved never failed to make your chest feel a bit cosier.

You looked up when he stepped into the living room. And there they were.

Your favorite flowers.

Held carefully in one hand while he shrugged off his jacket with the other. For a moment, you just stared.

It was just a random day. He had been out living his life, working, dealing with whatever stress came with his job, and somewhere in the middle of all that he had seen your favorite flowers and thought of you.

A normal person probably would have smiled.

Instead, your stomach dropped. The first thought arrived so quickly you barely noticed it.

Why would he do that for me?

Then another.

I didn't do anything to deserve that.

And another.

He's too good to you.

The floodgates opened and suddenly your brain was dragging up every mistake you had ever made. Every conversation you wished you could take back, every time you had been needy, every time you had overreacted, every awkward moment, every insecurity, every flaw, as if you yourself weren't a big flaw (burden, burden, burden).

It was as if your mind had been waiting for an excuse.

You looked at those flowers and somehow ended up staring directly at everything you hated about yourself.

Yuma was smiling as he walked over. And all you could think was that he was wasting his kindness, that there had to be people more deserving of it. People easier to love, people less exhausting, people who weren't a hassle.

The flowers sat in his hands like evidence that he cared, that he thought about you, that you mattered.

And the thought sat at the bottom of your throat like a stubborn dust-bunny that if he cared this much, then one day he was going to be disappointed.

One day he was going to realize you weren't the person he thought you were. One day he was going to see all the things you saw.

"Hey," Your boyfriend said, holding the flowers out toward you. His smile was warm as the sun on a winter afternoon. "I saw these on the way home." His smile was every sweetness in the world combined to make big beautful thing even poetry couldnt describe.

You took them carefully. Your hands felt strangely unsteady.

"They're beautiful," you managed.

And they were.

But as you looked down at them, all you could think was that beautiful things never seemed to belong in your hands.

Yuma sat beside you on the couch, his shoulder brushing yours, close enough that you could feel the familiar comfort of his presence. The venomous moth that sat on your lungs unfurled its wings and made the pressure on your ribs even more evident.

He was being kind for no reason other than wanting to be and you didn't know what to do with that.

The moth kept buzzing inside of you, listing all your flaws like a declaration and reminding you of every reason you supposedly didn't deserve to be sitting beside someone who cared about you this much.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Yuma hummed, tapping your thigh with his finger.

You looked at him, taking a shuddering breath and then looking back to the flowers. You ran a finger along one of the petals, feeling the softness of it. Though you'd given up everything other than numbness a long time ago, still, it was comforting to feel like softness. The petal bent beneath your fingertip, delicate enough that you worried you might damage it if you pressed too hard.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke. The television continued murmuring in the background, some half-forgotten show neither of you were really watching. Beside you, Yuma shifted.

"Are you okay?" he asked, quieter this time.

The question settled between you. You stared at the flowers. The moth beat its wings.

"No," would have been the honest answer.

Instead, you smiled faintly. "Thank you for the flowers."

Yuma's expression softened. "You're welcome."

"They were really sweet."

"They made me think of you."

The moth dug its claws deeper. You swallowed. "Which is still kind of crazy."

His eyebrow lifted. "Why?"

You laughed softly. The sound came out wrong. "I don't know." You traced another petal. "I just don't think I deserve things like this."

The words escaped before you could stop them. The moment they did, you regretted them. So you immediately tried to smooth them over.

"You know. Because I'm obviously a terrible flower owner." You held up the bouquet slightly. "These poor things have no idea what they've gotten themselves into."

Yuma didn't laugh. He knew you from head to toe and he knew exactly what you were doing.

"Pretending that was a joke doesn't make it one."

You groaned quietly. "Wow. Harsh."

"You know I'm right."

Unfortunately, he was. You focused very hard on a flower that suddenly seemed fascinating. The moth continued buzzing, listing, accumulating.

You felt Yuma move beside you. Then his hand slipped into yours. His fingers threaded between yours and squeezed gently.

"Why do you feel like that?" he asked.

You stared at your joined hands. "I don't know."

"Penny for your thoughts?"

You sighed. "I genuinely don't know."

"You do."

The annoying thing about Yuma was that he always said things softly, patient enough that lying felt like an impossible task. You looked away—the television, the coffee table, the wall, anywhere but him.

"I think you're giving me way too much credit."

His thumb brushed across your knuckles. "That's not an answer."

"It kind of is."

"It isn't."

You huffed a laugh. "You're very persistent."

"I learned from the best."

You rolled your eyes. The gesture lacked any real annoyance. The silence stretched again.

The moth fluttered violently against your ribs.

You hated how vulnerable this felt, how difficult it was to say something that had lived inside your head for years. Your fingers tightened around his.

"I don't think I deserve you."

Your voice was barely a whisper. The confession sat in the air, small and fragile like a child in a church that had no idea what god it worshiped.

You laughed nervously. "There." You gestured vaguely. "Now we've identified the world's most pathetic thought."

Yuma's hand squeezed yours..

You risked a glance at him. There was no disappointment on his face, or frustration or exasperation. Just…..sadness.

"Baby."

Your eyes immediately dropped again. "I know."

His voice was gentle. "So do I."

You blinked. "What?"

"I know all the reasons you think that."

The moth went still, for the first time all evening.

"You've told yourself the same story for years." His thumb moved slowly across the back of your hand. "That everyone else deserves kindness more than you do."

Your throat tightened. "Yuma—"

"That if somebody helps you, they're doing it out of obligation." You looked away. "That if somebody stays, eventually they'll realize they shouldn't have."

The pressure behind your eyes became difficult to ignore. That was it. That was exactly it—the ugly thing you'd spent years trying to hide. Yuma looked down at your intertwined hands. Then back at you.

"And I think you've repeated that story so many times that it feels true." His smile was small and tender.

"But you've never stopped to consider that maybe you're just wrong."

"And what if I'm not?" You said, feeling a stupid tear roll down your cheek, the moth stirred again, "And what if I'm not wrong Yuma? What then?"

Silence stretched again, taut like mesh stockings. Yuma took a breath and just assessed you. He smiled again and chuckled.

Yuma huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head. "It's funny."

"What is?"

"I was actually going to suggest we go to the beach tomorrow."

You blinked. "The beach?"

"Yeah." His thumb brushed over your knuckles. "The beach." Yuma shifted closer on the couch. "Can I tell you my favorite thing about the ocean?"

You shrugged. "Sure."

He glanced toward the flowers in your lap before looking back at you. "Have you ever noticed how the waves keep coming back to the shore?"

You tilted your head and nodded, unsure where he was going with this. If this was a distraction mechanism, then damn was it working.

"The waves." His voice was soft. "They keep returning." He traced absent patterns against the back of your hand. "Again and again and again." You stared at him. "The shore pushes them away every single time." A lump formed in your throat. "But they come back anyway."

Yuma's gaze never left yours. "They know exactly what's going to happen." You looked down. The moth had gone strangely quiet. "They know the shore isn't going to leave with them."

His fingers squeezed yours gently. "They know they're going to be sent back." Another tear rolled down your face. "They even leave little gifts sometimes." His eyes flicked toward the flowers. "Shells, sea glass, little pieces of themselves."

Your vision blurred. "Yuma..."

"But they still come back."

His voice remained steady. "Again." The tears spilled freely now. "And again." You looked away. "And again." The bouquet trembled in your hands.

"They don't stop because the shore can't love them the way they love the shore." You sucked in a shaky breath. "They don't stop because it's difficult." The moth felt smaller now. "They don't stop because it would be easier to stay away." Your chest hurt. "They come back because that's where they want to be."

The room had become impossibly quiet. Only the television murmured somewhere in the distance. You stared down at the flowers.

The shore.

The sea.

You.

Yuma.

The realization hit with enough force to make your chest ache.

"Yuma..." Your voice broke completely.

His expression softened instantly. "Oh, sweetheart."

You covered your face. A sob escaped before you could stop it. The moth unfolded completely, and, for the first time in years, it stopped fighting.

Because you were exhausted. Exhausted from carrying it. Exhausted from arguing with every act of kindness. Exhausted from trying to earn things that had already been freely given.

"I don't understand why," you choked out.

"Why what?"

"Why you stay." The words came out through tears. "Why you're still here."

Yuma's eyes widened with heartbreak. He carefully took the flowers from your lap and set them on the coffee table. Then he turned back toward you.

"As if there's anywhere else I'd rather be."

You shook your head. "You don't get it."

"I do."

"No." Your shoulders trembled. "I'm a burden." The word tasted poisonous. "I am."

Yuma sighed. Then he reached up and gently brushed tears from your cheeks.

"Okay."

You blinked. "Okay?"

"If that's what you think." His hand cupped your face. "If you genuinely think you're a burden." His smile returned. "Then I'd still carry you."

Fresh tears spilled over immediately. Yuma laughed softly at your expression. "I mean it." His forehead rested against yours. "If you're a burden, then you're my burden."

"Yuma—"

"I'd carry you tomorrow." His nose brushed yours. "The day after that." Another tear slipped free. "Next year." You made a wounded sound. He smiled. "When we're old." Your eyes squeezed shut. "When we're grey." His voice dropped to a whisper. "When we're sitting on some beach somewhere complaining about our backs and arguing over what to have for dinner."

A laugh escaped through your sobs. "And if you're still convinced you're a burden then..." He kissed your forehead.

"I'll carry you then too."

The last of your defenses finally collapsed. You buried your face in his shoulder. Yuma immediately wrapped both arms around you, ho;ding you close as he always did. His hand moved slowly through your hair.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until the pressure in your chest loosened enough to let you breathe.

The waves really didn't know when to give up did they?

For a long time neither of you spoke. You simply sat there in his arms, the flowers resting nearby, the television forgotten, the moth finally quiet.

Maybe the dictionary had been right after all.

Here, wrapped safely in Yuma's arms, you realized something important.

Being carried and being loved had never been opposites. Sometimes they were the very same thing.

And if Yuma were to carry you?

He'd be carrying the weight of his entire world.

fin.

A/N: hahaha nooo this is totally not based off of irl experiences lmao wdym lol yes it is anyways wow we're on quite the fluff run nowadays is this a minhosimthings record

divider by @chrisssiren

@eu1joo @7yataki @frenchkisstheabyss @yumangel @nichozzystuffs @blueuijoo @pglpblm @ikigaijo @antonh0lic @dearvampyr @riri4andy @tokunodoll @sunsoomi @makizdoll @solairemelo @cece0710 + Shoot me an ask or comment to be added!

at first you think about just sucking it up and getting it over with. but you'll probably be moody and grumpy the whole time and yuma deserves better than that. you would also like it if you could go when you would actually be able to enjoy it.

no other way around it then. you let out a long dramatic sigh and grab your phone to dial your boyfriend. he picks up on the second ring.

“yuma…”

“yes sweetie?!” he sounds so excited you feel doubly worse for what you're about to do.

you chew on the inside of your cheek. “okay, please don't be mad, but…”

“what? did you watch another episode of resident playbook without me again?”

“no! i was just wondering if we could... maybe postpone our picnic date and just stay in instead today?” there's a beat of silence.

“i am SO mad that i'm gonna come over with your favourite snacks and punish you with kisses all over your face before we watch the next episode of resident playbook together,”

you heave a sigh of relief. you knew he wouldn't really be mad – you had been more worried about disappointing him but the fact that he was being so chill about it eased your mind. “ugh, i love you. i'm sorry baby, i know you were really excited about today,”

“it’s okay. i know you were looking forward to it too so if you wanna postpone it there must be a reason. is everything okay? you sound a little off,”

if he were here, you would've kissed him for that.

“i just feel dead tired and don't feel like doing anything today. plus i couldn't get much sleep last night because i kept waking up to pee,” you frown, “i have the bladder control of a pregnant woman when i'm on my period, which is ironic,”

he chuckles. “sorry to hear that, sweetie. do you want me to get you anything on the way? do you have enough tampons at home?”

“yeah i do, thank you. oh but could you get some ice cream?”

“of course. you sure you don't need anything else? juice? diapers?”

“diapers? i don't use period diapers.”

“i didn't mean period diapers. i meant adult diapers in case, you know, you piss yourself or something,” he teases, and you can picture his cute little snaggletooth sticking out (ik he doesn't have his snaggletooth anymore but let me have this plis i miss it 😭) as he grins mischievously.

“ha ha very funny. let's see how funny it is when you get here and i tickle you until you piss yourself,”

“yeah no okay no pissing. only kissing please. do you have the energy for that?” the teasing tone of his voice makes you blush just a little.

“oh there will be plenty of kissing, nakakita yuma, don't you worry about that,”

“well then i guess i'd better hurry,”

🪐 jo (cravings)

it is no secret that asakura jo is an absolute sweetheart, someone who is too nice for his own good. he finds it hard to say no in general, but even more so when it's you and you're giving him your biggest, widest puppy eyes. he would've caved even without you doing all that, honestly. so needless to say, whenever you're craving anything – especially on the days leading up to and during your period – he makes sure you have it even if it's 11 pm, because he wants to do anything he can to help make it easier.

however, he soon learns his lesson when he sees the damage his overindulgence does to you. he realises the sort of foods you crave also unfortunately happen to be the sort of foods that made cramps and other period symptoms worse. obviously, this is not news to you. you just figure that if you were going to be miserable either way, you might as well eat what you like at least. but jo makes up his mind to change things, and it does not start well. for someone so soft-spoken, you find that jo could be surprisingly assertive when he wanted to. and you do not like it at all, especially since you are so used to just him giving in to whatever you want.

while he makes it seem easy, only he knows the effort that goes into staying resolute. he hates seeing you sulk and wants to do anything to make you smile again. but then he reminds himself that you'll be the one to suffer later, and that helps him hold his ground.

he does not completely cut you off from your guilty pleasures, of course. he just makes sure you have limited and carefully curated access to it, unlike before. it takes you a little getting used to, and you whine and complain about it even though you are aware of the fact that you are probably acting like a spoiled little kid throwing a tantrum and well, it isn't far from the truth - you were used to being spoiled by your sweetheart of a boyfriend. but even though jo hates to see you pout, he continues to remain firm. to make things easier for you, he even looks up recipes and makes you dishes using healthy ingredients and tries to make them as suited to your taste as possible.

he keeps track of your cycle and starts keeping an eye on your diet a couple of days before your period is due – which is exactly when the cravings start. today is one such day when you are displeased with this arrangement – it's the third day of your cycle and you're desperately craving some caffè mocha, but jo said you've already used up your share of cheat meal/drink for today. you sit there sulking like you usually do, half-heartedly working on your assignment.

then it hits you that not only have your cramps substantially reduced this cycle, you also don't feel as tired as you usually do. your other symptoms are better too. guilt kicks in along with the realisation – all that he has been doing really did help.

you abashedly make your way to his room where you find him sketching. you stand at the door watching him for a while, then walk over and wrap your arms around him from behind.

“jojo….” you start, your tone apologetic.

putting his pencil down, he turns around in his chair and pulls you into his lap. “not mad at me anymore?” he asks, a soft smile on his lips. the smile is not teasing or gloating, just pure and pretty, like him.

you bury your face in his neck and groan. you've been a brat and this is still how he reacts? you suppose you shouldn't be surprised.

“you need to stop being so nice…. you've spoiled me rotten,” you mutter.

he chuckles. “ahh, so it's my fault?”

“no, it's not. i'm sorry, jojo. you're so sweet and thoughtful and i have been behaving like a starving victorian child. i've been doing nothing but complain and whine,”

“it's okay sweetie, i know it's hard,” he says, stroking your hair. “if i had periods i'd probably be way more dramatic,”

“oh, no, i think you would still be a saint,” you say and tilt his chin up as you lean in for a kiss.

🪐 harua (nausea)

it has only been a few months since you started dating harua so he doesn't know everything about you yet. like why you go MIA for a few consecutive days every month where he is only able to contact you through texts. on those days, you usually tell him something came up at your part-time job or that you're staying over at your friend's place or that you have to meet your grandma.

today, however, you decide to be somewhat truthful for once. which you end up regretting when he shows up at your door half an hour later. it goes like this:

harua🐇: hi y/n!! d'you wanna go shopping with me later today?

you : i would've loved to but i'm not feeling too good right now so maybe some other day? sorry xoxo

harua🐇: oh, okay, it's np! ♡ hope you feel better soon :(

and then he shows up at your place and your heart drops. under normal circumstances, you would've been happy to see him but right now you're positive you look like shit.

harua doesn't care about that, however – at least not in the way you do. how could he not come when you told him you weren't feeling well? he even brought a sick kit, although unfortunately it doesn't have much to help the kind of ‘sick’ you are right now – he thinks you probably have a cold or are running a temperature.

“oh rua….you're so sweet. but you really didn't have to come,” you say, hastily smoothing out your hair and fixing your shirt.

“no, i'm glad i came. you don't look too good, are you okay standing?” he leads you to your couch and sits down beside you, scrutinizing you with concern.

“no it's really okay…i go through this every month…” you begin, and he tilts his head quizzically.

you sigh with defeat. “i might as well just tell you, i guess. i'm not actually sick, i'm just on my period…i get horribly nauseous during the first three days of my cycle and sometimes even end up puking. i didn't want to tell you because well, it's not exactly a fun fact, is it?”

realisation dawns on him. “ohhh, so that's why you disappear for a few days every month!”

you smile sheepishly, your cheeks flushing. “yeah. i didn't think you kept track,”

“please, i was starting to think you were a werewolf or something and needed to get away to phase,”

you start to laugh but stop midway when you feel a wave of queasiness coming on and immediately clamp your mouth shut with your hand.

“y/n? you okay?”

you put your head between your knees and hold one hand up. thankfully it passes soon, and you sit up when you feel a little better.

“i think you should leave now,” you tell him.

“why? do you not want me here?”

“yes. i mean, no, not that i don't want you here– well i don't– but it's not because…i just…what if i puke? i don't want–”

“i'll hold your hair up,” he shrugs nonchalantly, like it's the most obvious thing ever.

you stare at him incredulously. he returns your gaze with his own stubborn one.

“did you perchance forget that i'm your boyfriend?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.

“no?”

“then treat me like one, will you? let me be here for you,”

and how could you say no to that?

he does, however, leave soon after, saying he needs to run somewhere real quick and that he'll be back before you know it. he returns with lemon soda, ginger ale and some mint leaves for peppermint tea.

“stuff that helps with nausea, apparently,” he explains when you look at him questioningly. “did a quick google search. oh, i also bought some scented candles although i don't know how effective those will be… i didn't know what you might like so i picked up a bunch of random ones. i know you like citrus fruits so i bought a few of those and these here are floral scents. later when you're feeling better we can go together and pick more out–”

you pull him into a tight hug, catching him off guard. “i love you,”

he smiles and squeezes you back in return. “in case it wasn't already clear, i love you too,”

🪐 taki (irritability)

you've had a rough day. your professor had shouted at you in front of the whole class for something that hadn't even been your fault. then he made you walk all around campus running errands for him. and like that wasn't enough, you tripped and fell in PE. you didn't sustain any major injuries - just a few scrapes here and there but it was nonetheless not fun and extremely humiliating. you heard a few classmates snickering. and to top it all off, you're on your period.

given the mentally and physically exhausting day you've had, you're so relieved to finally come home and be able to sulk in peace. but before long, your flatmate who is also your boyfriend, also gets home – the one day you're not excited he's home early. while you love him dearly, you would really like some alone time right now.

taki is known as the mood maker in every room he's in. he's lively and cheerful and talkative and fun to be around. he loves putting a smile on people's faces so when he comes home to his favourite person evidently in a shitty mood, what does he do? takes it upon himself to make sure you're smiling again, of course.

and so it begins. he starts talking about everything he did that day and everything he's going to do tomorrow and about the date he has planned for you this week and what he's going to make for dinner tonight. he doesn't ask you about your day because he doesn't wanna make you talk about something you clearly don't want to. and so he talks on your behalf as well. you usually love it when he yaps away like this, he talks so animatedly it's endearing to watch. a lot of the time when he goes on one of his ‘yappathons’ as you call it, you're the embodiment of the blah blah blah proper name place name backstory stuff meme.

but not right now, not today. right now you're just sitting there silently, your irritation steadily rising, willing him to stop. if only you had said that out loud instead of bottling up until it burst, what happens next could have been avoided.

the final straw comes when he starts telling you about how one of his friends fell and how it was so funny everyone was laughing including the guy who fell. little do you know that he's doing this solely in an attempt to get you to laugh or at least crack a smile – nobody fell, at least not today. the logical part of you knows taki does not know that you yourself had an embarrassing fall today and so he most definitely does not mean this to be a jab at you, leaving your ego bruised. the logical part of you also knows that the anger you're feeling towards him right now is misdirected and irrational. but you're already so done at that point that logic flies out the window and you just snap at him.

“oh my god taki can you shut the hell up and leave me alone for ten minutes?! will your head explode if you don't keep talking all the damn time?”

taki was evidently not expecting such a reaction. he stares at you for a few seconds, stunned into silence. then he mumbles a sorry and gets up and walks away without another word. you hear the front door click shut a minute later. great. as if this godforsaken day hadn't been bad enough you've also managed to hurt the one person who was actually trying to make it better. tears prick your eyes as regret and worry slowly eats you up.

it is only when he returns a little after an hour later that you breathe a sigh of relief. he doesn't so much as look in your direction, however, and heads straight to his room.

“taki, wait!” you call after him.

he stops, but doesn't turn around. you go over to him and take his hand, and he finally looks up at you. his expression is sharp and unreadable, but the hurt is evident in his eyes.

“i'm...really sorry, taki. you didn't deserve that. it was a shitty thing to say and i wasn't even mad at you, i just had a shitty day and am on my period and needed a bit of time to myself to calm down. one of my professors shouted at me for something i didn't even do and then he made me go all around campus asking me to do this and that and then i tripped over my own fucking feet and fell in PE and it was so embaassing–”

“you fell? are you okay?” he asks, eyes wide and hands immediately flying up to clutch your arms.

you wince. “yeah, it was nothing. just a few scrapes and uh, you're actually kind of pressing on one right now,” you say, holding up your elbow.

he lets go immediately. “shit, sorry. where else did you get hurt? did you clean it properly and apply antiseptic cream?”

“yes, i did, i'm fine really,” you assure him, taking his hand in yours again and stroking it, feeling simultaneously guilty and relieved at how quickly whatever anger and hurt he might've felt about what you said earlier dissolved when you told him what happened.

he looks down at his hand in yours, then back up at you and sighs, lacing his fingers with yours. “if you needed some time to yourself you could've just told me, you know,”

“i know, i'm sorry. it was stupid. i'll tell you next time, i promise. don't take what i said to heart okay?”

he smiles a little. “it's alright. i know i would've been worse if i were to get my period,”

“way worse,” you agree, and he hits you playfully.

“so, am i still your favourite yapper?” he asks.

you roll your eyes and pull him close to kiss his cheek. “always,”

his smile widens and your heart feels lighter. “alright then, come on,” he says, tugging your hand. “tell me what you feel like doing. i'll make up for the shitty day the universe dealt you,”

🪐 maki (stomach and back pain)

you and your boyfriend are having a movie night with your friends taki and harua at his place. taki has the bean bag while you, harua and maki are sitting on the couch in that order – they usually try to keep you and maki separated during movie nights because otherwise you either won't keep your hands off of each other or keep making jokes and speculations about what's going to happen next.

halfway through the film, harua and taki are deeply engrossed in the murder mystery but maki has noticed that you haven't been able to sit still for some time now – it's clear you're uncomfortable. but he knows it's not because of the movie because you've always had a stronger stomach for gore and morbid stuff than he has.

he discreetly reaches for his phone to text you.

maki : why have you been squirming and wiggling for the past ten minutes. are you testing out the ‘would you still love me if i was a worm’ hypothetical?

your phone pings, notifying a message. when you grab it to reply, harua rolls his eyes. maybe they should confiscate your phones as well the next time.

you : no tf 😭 im just tryna get comfortable cuz my back and stomach hurt :( d’you think i could go lay down just for a few minutes maybe?

maki : what omg

maki : is it cuz of your period? why didn't you tell me sooner? and ofc you can go lay down you don't even have to ask!! actually wait i'll come with you

before you can tell him it's fine he's already speaking up.

“hey guys, you can continue watching the movie. y/n isn't feeling well so we're gonna take a little break and come back later,”

taki and harua enquire after you with concern and you assure them you'll be fine if you just rest for a bit. they don't even ask maki why he's accompanying you to the bedroom because they know there's no way he'll be able to focus on a movie when there's even the slightest thing bothering you.

the relief you feel when your back hits the soft mattress is heavenly. “ohhh that feels so good…”

“better? what about your stomach?” maki asks, caressing your cheek, his forehead creased with worry.

“still hurts a bit,” you frown, placing your hands on the area where it hurts. “should've brought my heating pad. but it's fine,”

“do you want me to go get you one, babe? i'll try to be back as soon as i can,” maki says as he gets up but you pull him down.

“nooo don't go anywhere. stay here,”

“but i want to help,”

“well then…” you take both his hands in yours and his eyes widen as you pull up your top, leaving your stomach exposed. then you place both of his hands on the lower part of your stomach. as expected, the warmth and the pressure eases the ache a little. “don’t press too much but just apply a bit of pressure here like you're doing now,” you instruct.

he leans over your abdomen and wags a threatening finger at it, “hey you, stop hurting my partner or else!” he looks up at you beaming. “is that enough pressure?”

it's dumb and not even that funny, but you can't help giggling. “you are so silly,”

“silly in loooove,” he sings and you roll your eyes. with his hands still on your stomach he leans down to kiss your belly button.

you giggle and then wince. “babe i'm not sure doing anything ticklish is a good idea right now,”

“right, sorry,”

the both of you end up talking about the movie and you fall asleep listening to him ramble about who he thinks the killer might be and why. he keeps his hands on your stomach until you wake up an hour later and assure him you're more than fine.