#minyoongi

The bathroom is entirely too bright. The harsh, clinical glare of the lights bounces off the porcelain and the chrome, piercing your eyes and exposing every corner of the room with merciless clarity. You sit frozen on the very edge of the stone tub; you can feel the cold of it even through your sweatpants, keeping you in place. You stare at the small plastic stick resting in your hands as if it were a bomb just waiting to go off, a piece of live ammunition that has quietly dismantled your entire reality in the span of a mere three minutes.

It stares back, taunting you.

Two pink lines. Dark. Definite. Unmistakable.

A suffocating wave crashes over you from behind, hitting you with the force of a tidal wave and knocking the air clean out of your chest. Your breath catches sharply in your throat, trapping a half-formed gasp. The walls of the bathroom feel like they are actively constricting, pressing inward to trap you here. Your heart slams against your ribs, generating an erratic rhythm that vibrates all the way up to your jaw, making your ears ring with an all-too-familiar, high-pitched, deafening buzz.

Pregnant.

The word feels like acid in the back of your mouth. It echoes, heavy and terrifying.

The room begins to tilt, the horizon blurring as you feel your chest tighten so fiercely it feels like an iron band is being cranked shut around your lungs. You try to inhale, desperate for oxygen, but your throat feels entirely closed. You can only draw in microscopic, ragged sips of air. A cold, clammy sweat breaks out across the back of your neck and the palms of your hands, making your skin feel frozen yet burning all at once

Your mind spirals instantly to Yoongi.

He isn't a regular husband. He doesn't have a standard 9-to-5 where he leaves his work at the office. Min Yoongi is a global icon, a musical titan whose name is carried on the lips of millions across the world. For three years of marriage, you have quietly walked a tightrope alongside him, navigating the relentless, exhausting whirlwind of his reality. You have lived through the brutal world tours where he leaves his soul on a stage every night, the gruelling comeback preparations that reduce his sleep to a handful of hours on a studio couch, the 16-hour days locked inside the dark walls of the Genius Lab, and the constant, suffocating paranoia of media scrutiny.

You love him with a depth that terrifies you, but in the years of building a life in the shadows, the two of you have never explicitly talked about having kids, or more importantly, when. There was never time. You were always just trying to survive the current schedule, always trying to protect the fragile sanctuary you had built together.

His schedule is already breaking him, a dark, insidious voice whispers in your head, feeding the panic until it grows claws. Look at him. He’s already running on empty, pouring his blood, sweat, and tears into a microphone just to hold the weight of his career. Now there's a massive stadium tour looming. Rehearsals start in days. How can he handle a baby? What if he thinks this will ruin everything that he sacrificed his youth to build? What if he looks at you and gets mad? What if he looks at this child and just feels trapped by a duty he never asked for?

The hyperventilation catches up to you completely. Your vision begins to tunnel, the edges turning a fuzzy, dangerous grey. Black dots dance across your sight like ash. Your leg bounces uncontrollably before weakness invades your limbs, and you drop your head heavily between your knees, sliding down the side of the tub till you hit the floor. Your hands are shaking so violently that you can barely grip your own hair to anchor yourself. You feel like you are drowning in dry air, spinning out of control into a void of pure terror.

Stop. You command yourself.

The word rises from somewhere deep within your gut, sharp and sudden, slicing through the thick panic with a stubborn, fierce grit. You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing your consciousness away from the terrifying future and bringing it back to the present.

Breathe. Come on, you can do it, breathe. In for four, hold for four, out for four.

You draw in a ragged, trembling breath, forcing your stubborn lungs to expand against the phantom weight on your chest. You count the seconds in your head, focusing entirely on the numbers. You pull your hands from your hair and press your palms flat against the tiles of the floor, letting the frigid temperature shock your system, grounding your racing thoughts.

Look at everything you’ve handled. Look at who you are.

You haven't spent the last three years being fragile. You have kept a high-profile marriage entirely under the radar of millions of invasive eyes, weathering the loneliness of six-month world tours without a single complaint, holding down the fort in an empty apartment while he was across the globe creating masterpieces. You have smiled through the anxiety of internet rumours, handled the heavy weight of his exhausting lifestyle, and remained his absolute safe haven through sheer resilience. You are not weak. You are a pillar. You can handle two pink lines on a piece of plastic. You are absolutely not going to break down over a blessing, even if it feels like the most terrifying thing you’ve ever faced.

Slowly, mercifully, the dark spots recede from your vision. The dizzy tilt of the bathroom rights itself. Your breathing evens out into a steady, controlled rhythm, though your heart still thumps heavily, a dull ache behind your breastbone.

You lift your head and look back at the counter. The fear doesn't magically disappear—it hovers over you, heavy and thick—but the paralysing grip of the panic attack is gone. Your strength is back, even if it's trembling.

Wiping a stray tear from your cheek with the back of an unsteady hand, you reach out and pick up the plastic test. It feels heavier now, loaded with the weight of an uncertain future. Terrified of throwing a wrench into the fragile gears of Yoongi's current schedule, you swallow the lump of anxiety in your throat. You stand up, slip quietly out of the bright bathroom, and walk into the dim, quiet stillness of your shared bedroom.

Holding your breath, you open your closet door, reach into the very back of the bottom drawer, and slide the test deep beneath a thick stack of sweaters. You close the drawer, leaving the life-altering secret buried in the dark, the echo of your racing heart the only sound breaking the silence of the room.

It is a Tuesday evening, and by some miracle, Yoongi drags himself through the front door before midnight. He doesn't look like an international superstar right now; he looks like your exhausted husband. He sheds his heavy black trench coat, leaving him in an oversized, faded band tee, his dark hair dishevelled and sticking out in wild tufts from wearing a beanie all day.

He walks straight into the kitchen where you are standing by the stove. Without saying a word, he steps right into your space, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His strong arms wrap securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He lets out a long, shuddering sigh, his entire body going limp against yours as he drinks in your familiar scent.

"God, I missed you," Yoongi rasps, his voice deep, gravelly, and rough from spending the last twelve hours vocal-directing in the studio. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the sensitive skin just below your ear, making you shiver. "My brain was turning to mush. All I could think about during the last meeting was coming home to my wife."

Your heart swells, a sweet, aching warmth blooming in your chest. You turn around in his embrace, framing his pale face with your hands. He has dark circles under his eyes, but the moment he looks at you, his expression softens into pure, unadulterated tenderness. You guide him to the kitchen island and place a steaming bowl of homemade stew in front of him.

He eats quietly, a contented hum escaping him as you sit on the barstool right next to him, gently running your fingers through his soft hair. It is so peaceful, so deeply intimate. You watch the rhythmic movement of his jaw, the slight, relaxed slouch of his shoulders.

Now. Just tell him, you think. You can do it. Just say the words.

You swallow hard, your knuckles turning white as you grip your glass of water. "Yoongi?"

"Hmm?" He looks up, pausing with his spoon halfway to his mouth. His heavy-lidded eyes are entirely open, attentive, and filled with a soft focus.

"I... um..." Your throat suddenly closes up. Your eyes drop to the faint strain in his neck, the slight tremor in his hand from sheer physical fatigue. Tomorrow, his gruelling eight-hour choreography rehearsals start for the upcoming tour. The words freeze on your tongue. The fear of disrupting this hard-earned peace, of adding a massive life-altering variable to his bursting idol schedule, completely paralyses you. "...I forgot to get some of that ginger tea. I'll get it tomorrow."

Yoongi lets out a low chuckle, the corners of his eyes crinkling beautifully. He reaches to take your hand and rubs his thumb over your knuckles. "Don't stress about it, sweetheart. I'll get some on the way back tomorrow. Just sit with me."

Soon. You think. I'll tell him soon.

The next time you try, it's on a Thursday night, dragging well past two in the morning. The steady drumming of rain against the living room windows is the only sound breaking the silence of the apartment. You sit on the floor by the coffee table, a heating pad in your lap and a fresh cup of hot tea resting nearby. You are waiting. You are always waiting these days, but tonight, the weight of the hidden plastic stick in your closet feels like a physical anchor pulling you under.

The electronic lock on the front door finally clicks, a weary chime that signals his return.

Yoongi steps into the entryway, and your heart aches at the sheer sight of him. He doesn’t just look tired; he looks entirely hollowed out. His black hair is damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead beneath a crumpled bucket hat. He is wearing an oversized, fleece-lined hoodie, his shoulders slumped forward in a sharp posture of defeat. Today was a ten-hour run-through of the new album's choreographies—brutal, high-impact routines designed for stadium energy—and it has clearly taken every single ounce of life he had to give.

He kicks off his shoes with a heavy, dragging sigh, his joints practically popping in the quiet apartment. When he looks up and sees you sitting there under the dim light of the lamp, a faint, incredibly weary look of relief washes over his face.

"Babe," he rasps, his voice a low, gravelly friction that tells you he’s been shouting over loudspeakers and backing tracks all day. "You shouldn't have stayed up."

"I wanted to," you say softly, your voice steady despite the sudden, familiar fluttering of anxiety in your stomach. You stand up. Okay. You can do this. It's only Yoongi. He loves you more than anything.

You don't let your own fear show. Instead, you walk over to him, take his heavy leather duffel bag from his hand, and set it aside.

Yoongi doesn't even have the energy to walk to the bedroom. He collapses straight onto the living room rug, propping his back against the base of the sofa and letting his head drop back with a groan. His eyes close instantly. You sit down cross-legged right beside him, opening a fresh jar of anti-inflammatory muscle rub. The sharp, medicinal scent of menthol fills the air as you scoop some onto your palms, rubbing your hands together to warm the cream before pressing them gently against the tense, locked muscles of his neck and shoulders.

Yoongi lets out a deep, guttural sigh, his entire body shuddering beneath your touch. "God, your hands are a miracle," he mumbles, his head tilting back into your palms, completely surrendering his weight to you. "My knees are completely shot today. The performance director made us run the bridge seven times in a row. I felt like my lungs were going to explode."

You massage the tight knots in his shoulders, your thumbs working with a rhythmic, heavy pressure. Every line of his face speaks of the crushing burden he carries as a producer and an idol. He is bearing the expectations of millions of fans, the financial pressure of a massive label, and his own unforgiving perfectionism.

And right now, tucked beneath your skin, a tiny secret is growing.

Just say it, you tell yourself, your jaw tightening as you stare at the dark crown of his hair. You can’t keep hiding this from your husband. He has a right to know. Just open your mouth and tell him he’s going to be a father.

You swallow the thick lump of nerves in your throat. You draw in a deep, hidden breath, stabilising your heart rate. "Yoongi?"

"Yeah, babe?" he murmurs, his eyes still closed, a relaxed, soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips purely because you are touching him.

"I need to tell you something. Something important." The words leave your lips, quiet but clear. Your heart begins to race, that familiar bird fluttering against your ribs again.

Yoongi hums, his eyelids fluttering open slowly. He turns his head, looking up at you from his spot against the couch. His eyes are heavy with an exhaustion that goes bone-deep, his pale skin shadowed by the dim light. Before he can ask what it is, he lets out a dry, humourless laugh, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Man, I hope it's good news," Yoongi sighs, his voice dropping into a vulnerable register that makes your blood run cold. "Because if anything else gets added to my plate right now, I think my head might actually split open. The label just added three more broadcast appearances to the comeback week, and the producers in LA are messing up the final master for track four. If this comeback isn't perfect, Y/N... if anything goes wrong now, with the stakes this high for the tour... I don't know what I'd do. I'm completely at my limit."

The words hit you like a physical blow to the sternum.

The confession dies instantly in your throat, freezing into ice. You look at the deep, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes. You look at the slight tremor in his fingers from pure physical depletion. The terrifying vision of his world collapsing under the weight of an unplanned, life-altering pregnancy flashes before your eyes. If you tell him now, he won't sleep. He will look at you with stress. He will worry about your safety, about the fans finding out, about how to be a father while living out of a suitcase on a global stadium tour. He is at his limit, and you refuse to be the thing that breaks him.

Your strength reasserts itself, but this time, it forces you to lock the secret away even deeper, shielding him from the burden. You swallow the truth, forcing a soft, reassuring smile onto your lips, though your chest aches with a heavy, hollow pain.

"It is good news," you lie smoothly, your voice a gentle balm as you lean down and press a soft, lingering kiss to his warm forehead. You slide your hands down to cup his cheeks, your thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones. "I was just going to say that the agency called earlier. They approved your request for a four-day break right after the promotion cycle ends. You’re going to get to rest."

Yoongi’s eyes widen slightly, a genuine, breathless laugh escaping him. The relief that washes over his face is so palpable, so immense, that it makes your heart break a little bit more inside your chest. He reaches up, wrapping his large, warm hands over yours, pulling your palms to his lips to press a deep kiss into your skin.

"Thank God," Yoongi breathes, closing his eyes again as he pulls you down until you are lying against his chest on the living room floor. He wraps his arms securely around your waist, burying his face in your hair. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Y/N. You're the only peace I have in this chaotic life."

You hold him back, your fingers gripping the fabric of his hoodie tightly as you stare blankly at the dark window, the rain pouring down outside. You press your cheek against his racing heart, keeping the silent tears from falling, carrying the heavy weight of your shared future entirely on your own shoulders for just a little longer.

Three weeks pass. Three weeks of carrying this secret entirely on your own. Morning sickness has kicked in, and you have become a master of hiding the dry heaving, but you cannot hide the emotional distance. You are quiet, anxious, and jumpy.

And Yoongi has absolutely noticed.

It is a Friday night. Yoongi walks into the living room, completely ignoring his heavy studio bag, leaving it slumped by the door. He walks straight over to the couch where you are curled up into a tiny ball, staring blankly at the TV screen.

Without a word, he sits down next to you, scooping you up effortlessly and pulling you directly onto his lap. You stiffen slightly, your instincts screaming to hide, but Yoongi doesn't let go. He wraps his large, warm hands around your arms, rubbing them gently up and down, before shifting to cup your cheek. His dark eyes swim with profound worry and a quiet, heavy concern.

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice incredibly soft, laced with a raw, genuine fear that hits you right in the chest. "Look at me, babe. Please."

You force your eyes up to meet his. He looks so understanding, so entirely devoted to you after three years of marriage, that it makes your chest tighten past the breaking point.

"You’ve been somewhere else for weeks," Yoongi whispers, his thumb gently wiping away a tear that you didn't even realise had fallen down your cheek. He leans forward, resting his forehead firmly against yours, his breath warm against your lips. "Talk to me. Did I do something? Are you unhappy? Whatever it is, we can fix it. Just please don't shut me out."

Hearing the slight crack in his raw voice breaks the final dam holding you back. You let out a ragged, choked sob, burying your face in the crook of his neck as you break down crying completely. Yoongi immediately holds you tighter, his arms locking around you like armour, rocking you back and forth on his lap. He whispers a litany of "I've got you," and "It's okay, sweetheart, I'm here," into your hair, his hand gently patting your back.

Still crying, you grab his wrist, your fingers digging into his skin. You cannot say the words. Your voice is completely gone.

You guide him out of the living room and into the bedroom, pulling him by the hand. Yoongi follows you silently, his brow furrowed in deep concern. You walk over to your closet, reach into the very back of the sweater drawer, and pull out the small box where you have hidden the positive tests.

With shaking hands, you turn around and hold the box out to him.

Yoongi looks at the box, then up at your tear-stained face, sheer confusion lacing his own. Slowly, carefully, he takes it from your hands and pops the lid open.

The moment his eyes land on the multiple positive test results, they go wide—his quiet, intense demeanour completely shattering. He freezes, his mouth parting slightly as he stares at the distinct pink lines. The silence stretches for three seconds, five seconds, ten seconds.

Seeing his utter shock, your worst fears flare up. Your inner strength deserts you, and you immediately shrink back into yourself, crossing your arms over your chest and pulling your shoulders inward, instinctively trying to make yourself look as small as possible to brace for a negative reaction as silent tears continue to roll down your cheeks.

Yoongi looks up from the box and catches your movement. His expression instantly softens into utter confusion, followed quickly by deep heartbreak. "Baby? Why are you holding yourself like that? Are—are you scared of me?" He lets out in a whisper, almost like he can't believe it. He drops the box and moves to hold onto your arms, rubbing them up and down whilst he cranes his head to be almost level with yours.

"I... I wasn't sure if you wanted them yet," you sob out, the words tumbling out of you in a panicked, incoherent rush. "With your career, and the comeback, and the tour... we never talked about it, and your schedule is already breaking you, and I thought it was too early and you'd get mad or stressed—"

"Oh, my God, no. Y/N, look at me."

Yoongi doesn't even let you finish the sentence. He lunges forward, catching you in a fierce, desperate hug. He pulls you so tightly against his hard chest that you can feel the frantic, rapid thumping of his heart beating in sync with yours. He rests one arm around you, the other on the back of your head. Both hands move in soothing motions.

"No, no, no, babe, how could you think that?" Yoongi gasps, his own voice cracking as thick tears finally spill over his dark eyelashes, wetting your shoulder. He pulls back just enough to frame your face with his warm hands, his thumbs frantically wiping your cheeks as he rains loving, desperate kisses all over your forehead, your eyelids, your nose, and finally your lips. "Fuck the tour, fuck the comeback. None of that matters compared to this. I could never, ever be mad at you for this. Never."

"You're not disappointed?" you whisper, sniffing loudly, looking at him through blurry vision.

"Disappointed?!" Yoongi lets out a watery, breathless laugh, a radiant gummy smile breaking across his face. His eyes shine with sheer happiness. "I'm ecstatic. I'm so incredibly happy, babe. I love you so much. I've wanted this, I've wanted a family with you for so long, I was just always afraid to ask because of my lifestyle."

To prove his words, Yoongi slowly sinks onto his knees right there on the bedroom floor. He wraps his strong arms completely around your waist, burying his face directly against your still-flat stomach. He presses a warm, lingering kiss right through the fabric of your shirt, his shoulders shaking slightly as he cries tears of absolute relief and joy.

"Hi, baby," Yoongi whispers softly against your skin, his large hands gently splaying across your stomach as if protecting the most fragile thing in the universe. He looks up at you, his face a beautiful, tear-stained mess, his smile completely taking over his features. "We're going to be parents, babe. I'm right here. I'm going to take care of both of you, I promise."

The sun hasn’t even broken through the curtains when the familiar, violent wave of nausea hits you. You bolt from the bed, throwing yourself onto the cold bathroom tile just in time to empty your stomach into the toilet.

Within seconds, the heavy, comforting warmth of Yoongi’s presence is right behind you. He doesn't care that he only got two hours of sleep after a late-night recording session. His large, warm hands immediately gather your hair, pulling it gently away from your face, while his other hand rubs soothing, heavy circles into your back.

"I’ve got you, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep but laced with absolute devotion.

When the dry heaving finally stops, he flushes the toilet for you and gently wipes your mouth and forehead with a damp, cool washcloth. He carefully lifts you up, carrying you back to bed as if you are made of glass. He tucks you under the duvet, slips a piece of ginger candy into your mouth, and presses a lingering kiss to your temple. "Just breathe, princess. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

You sit anxiously on the examination table, the thin sanitary paper crinkling loudly beneath you with every nervous shift of your weight. The dim, clinical room smells faintly of rubbing alcohol, a sterile environment that makes you feel slightly on edge. The OB/GYN squeezes a generous dollop of gel onto your lower stomach. It's shockingly cold, making you gasp softly and tense up as it slicks across your skin.

Yoongi is sitting in the plastic chair squeezed right next to the table, and the moment you flinch from the cold, his hand clamps around yours.

He is wearing his usual low-profile uniform—a black bucket hat pulled low to shield his face, a dark, oversized hoodie, and a black medical mask pulled down just beneath his chin. For three years of marriage, you’ve watched this man command stadium stages with absolute, unyielding stoicism, projecting an aura of effortless cool that leaves millions breathless. But right now, stripped of the stage lights, he looks like a terrified, nervous kid. His jaw is set tight, and he is squeezing your fingers so hard that your knuckles are turning white and your hand is going practically numb. You can feel the rapid, frantic beat of his pulse pulsing right through his palm.

"Just breathe, babe," he whispers, though it sounds more like a reminder for himself than for you. You internally chuckle at the thought, but it grounds you.

The OB/GYN smiles reassuringly, dimming the overhead lights before grabbing the transducer. The static hum of the machine fills the quiet room as she presses the plastic probe into the cold gel, gliding it slowly across your abdomen. You find yourself holding your breath, your eyes locking onto the dark monitor. The sheer gravity of this moment makes your throat tighten with a sudden, overwhelming vulnerability.

The black-and-white screen flickers, shifting through static and grey shadows until the doctor stops her hand, angling the probe slightly. A tiny, blurry, pulsing pixel appears right in the centre of the screen, swimming in the darkness.

"There it is," the doctor says, her voice incredibly gentle. "There’s your baby. And let’s listen to the heartbeat."

She presses a button on the console. A second of static cuts through the air, and then, suddenly, a rapid, thunderous thump-thump-thump-thump completely fills the room.

It is the loudest, most beautiful sound you have ever heard in your life. It echoes off the sterile walls, fast and fierce, sounding exactly like a galloping horse racing through a storm. It is a cadence of pure, undeniable life.

You look over at Yoongi, and your heart melts completely, shattering under the weight of pure love. His mouth is slightly open, his breath hitching audibly in his throat. His sharp eyes go glassy, capturing the monitor's ambient glow before a heavy wave of tears instantly wells up and spills over his pale cheeks. He doesn't even bother to wipe them away. The man who spends his entire life meticulously crafting masterpieces in a dark studio is completely undone by a single, erratic audio frequency.

As if in slow motion, Yoongi lifts your trembling hand to his face. He presses his lips firmly against your knuckles, kissing them repeatedly, his hot tears soaking into your skin. His eyes never leave the screen, staring at that tiny blinking pixel as if it were the centre of the entire universe.

"That's ours," he whispers, a broken, breathless laugh escaping his lips as a fresh sob catches in his throat. He squeezes your hand, leaning closer until his forehead rests against the edge of your mattress. "Look at our baby, Y/N. God, just look at it. That's our baby."

It is three in the morning, and you are staring wide awake at the ceiling, your stomach aggressively demanding ramen and vanilla ice cream. Together.

You glance at Yoongi, who is snoring softly beside you. He had a gruelling 10-hour dance practice today, and his joints are aching. Knowing how much pressure he is under, you swallow your craving and sigh softly as you try to roll over and go back to sleep.

But the shift in the mattress wakes him. Yoongi blinks through the darkness, immediately reaching for you. "Babe? What’s wrong? Do you feel sick?"

"No, no, I'm okay," you whisper quickly, feeling guilty. "Go back to sleep."

He sits up, rubbing his eyes, his voice a deep rumble. "You're hungry, aren't you? What do you want?"

"Yoongi, it's fine. It's just a weird craving, and it's way too late, and you're tired from practice, it's fine—"

"Hey." Yoongi cuts you off, his tone shifting into something fiercely protective. He cups your face, his eyes dead serious even in the dark. "Don't you dare hide it from me. I don't care about being tired. I will drive across Seoul right now, I'll find a 24-hour convenience store, and I'll do whatever it takes. You're carrying my child, for God's sake, Y/N. Let me take care of you."

The sheer intensity of his love makes your chest ache in the best way. You softly tell him what you want, and within ten minutes, he has a heavy hoodie on, kissing your forehead as he grabs his car keys with a tired but deeply contented grin.

The living room of your apartment is completely buried under a wave of familiar chaos. Takeout containers litter the coffee table, laughter bounces off the walls, and the ambient noise is loud enough to wake the neighbours. After a brutal two-week stretch of non-stop dance rehearsals, the guys have finally been granted a single night off, and they chose to spend it piling into your home.

You stand by the kitchen island, laughing as Jin and Jungkook loudly bicker over who gets the last piece of fried chicken. You are in your element, playing the role of the unflinching hostess to seven grown men who act like teenagers the second they step through your door. Even after all these years, this loud, chaotic brotherhood never fails to warm your chest.

Suddenly, a pair of warm, pale hands slides around your waist from behind.

Yoongi presses his chest against your back, his chin resting securely on your shoulder. He doesn’t care that five seconds ago he was sitting on the couch arguing with Namjoon about track arrangements; his internal compass always pulls him back to you. His hands splay flat against your lower stomach, his fingers sifting slightly through the fabric of your oversized sweater. He has been hyper-protective since you told him, a quiet, fierce guard dog who refuses to let you out of his sight.

"Are you tired?" he whispers in his gravelly, low voice, his breath fanning across your neck. "Your ankles sore? I can make them leave."

You let out a soft chuckle, covering his hands with yours. "Yoongi, they just got here. I’m fine. A few hours of hosting your brothers isn't going to break me."

He hums, but he doesn't pull his hands away from your belly. He catches your eye in the reflection of the microwave door, a soft, conspiratorial glint in his feline eyes. "Let's tell them. Before Hoseok tries to pour me a shot of whiskey."

You take a deep breath, your heart fluttering with a sudden, beautiful rush of excitement. You nod.

Yoongi lets go of your waist, takes your hand firmly in his, and guides you into the centre of the living room. He clears his throat, a sharp, authoritative sound that instantly cuts through the noise. The guys blink, looking up from their various spots on the couch and the floor.

"Listen up," Yoongi says, his voice steady, though you can feel the slight, nervous tremor in his palm as he squeezes your fingers. He doesn't waste time with a grand speech. He just looks down at you, a blinding, radiant gummy smile breaking across his pale face, and states it cleanly. "Y/N is pregnant. We’re having a baby."

The silence that hits the room is absolute, heavy, and instantaneous.

For two entire seconds, it feels like the collective brains of seven global superstars completely short-circuit. Namjoon freezes mid-sip, a splash of cola dripping off his bottom lip. Jungkook’s chopsticks hover an inch from his open mouth, a piece of pickled radish slipping out of his grip and dropping back onto the plate with a dull thud. Jin’s windshield-wiper laugh cuts off mid-syllable, his eyes widening to the size of saucers. Nobody breathes. Nobody moves. They just stare at the two of you as if you’ve suddenly started speaking an alien language.

Then, the apartment completely explodes.

"What?!" Jin shrieks first, slamming his hands onto his knees as he bolts upright. "Yah! Min Yoongi! Are you serious? You? A father? You can barely wake up before noon on a weekend, and you're making a whole human?!"

"I wake up perfectly fine, shut up," Yoongi fires back defensively, though his gummy smile only grows wider.

Hoseok lets out a loud, high-pitched scream of pure, unadulterated joy, throwing his hands in the air and lunging off the sofa. He sprints across the room, completely bypassing Yoongi to wrap you in a massive, warm, careful hug, vibrating with excitement. "Oh my God! A baby! I’m going to be an uncle! A real uncle! We have to celebrate! Wait, no alcohol for Y/N—someone get her water!"

"Hold on, hold on!" Jungkook shouts, his doe eyes practically bulging out of his skull. He drops his chopsticks entirely, jumping on the spot like an eager puppy. "A mini-Min Yoongi? Or a mini-Y/N? Oh my God, I’m definitely the favourite uncle. I'm going to teach them how to lift weights before they can even walk. I can carry the baby and the stroller at the same time!"

"A baby needs love and gentle care, not a gym partner, you muscle-head!" Jimin interjects loudly, shoving Jungkook out of the way. His sweet eye-smile is fully on display, though his eyes are already blinking back sudden, emotional tears. He gently takes your hands, his voice dropping into a soft, choked-up register. "Y/N, congratulations. Truly. Please tell me I'm the primary babysitter. Don't let Jungkook near the nursery, he'll turn the crib into a squat rack."

"Excuse me, I clearly have the most sophisticated taste here," Taehyung chimes in, his boxy smile radiant as his fingers already fly across his phone screen. "I’m buying the baby a tiny leather jacket. No, wait, a tiny designer trench coat. They’re going to be the most stylish kid in Seoul, I swear. We're going to art galleries together."

"Hey! Back off, I'm the oldest, I get to choose the first outfit!" Jin yells over the din, gesturing wildly. He walks over, his eyes incredibly soft despite his loud voice, and pats his younger brother's head with deep affection. "Look at you, Min Yoongi. A father. I still remember when you were a teenager sleeping on a studio floor, and now you're going to be changing diapers. I'm getting old. Are you gonna rap the lullabies in a minor key?"

"I am a brilliant lyricist, my lullabies will be masterpieces," Yoongi retorts, his chest puffing out playfully.

Namjoon stands up, a massive, dimpled smile breaking across his face. He looks incredibly proud as he walks over to clap Yoongi heavily on the shoulder. "Wow. Three years of marriage and now this. A whole new chapter. I'm just worried about you analysing the structural integrity of the baby wipes before you use them."

"I'll have you know I've already researched the best organic brands," Yoongi mutters, though his voice is thick with a rising wave of emotion.

You stand in the centre of the room, completely surrounded by an overwhelming fortress of love, loud bickering, and pure, chaotic love. The boys are already arguing over who gets to hold the baby first, who will be the most responsible caretaker, and whether the baby will inherit Yoongi's fierce scowl or your bright energy. The initial fear you carried for weeks evaporates completely under the sheer warmth of their reactions. These aren't just global superstars; this is your family. This is the village that is going to help raise your child.

Yoongi pulls you back tightly against his side, his arm wrapping securely around your shoulders. He looks at his members, his eyes swimming with a deep, fiercely protective love as he presses a sweet kiss right to the crown of your head.

"You guys can argue all you want," Yoongi warns playfully, his voice cracking slightly with the weight of his happiness. "But yeah. We're having a baby."

It's a rare, blessed night off during your second month of pregnancy. Yoongi had strictly told his management that he was completely unavailable after 6:00 PM, refusing to compromise.

He drives you out past the neon lights of Seoul, up into the quiet, secluded hills where the city noise fades into nothing but the sound of crickets and the wind through the trees. He parks the car in a hidden clearing, opening the trunk to pull out a massive, plush duvet and a mountain of thick pillows.

Now, the two of you are lying side by side on the blanket under a vast, dark sky blanketed with brilliant, shimmering stars. The air is cool, but Yoongi has you tucked securely against his side, his arm acting as your pillow while a heavy blanket covers you both. His fingers are tracing slow, mindless patterns over your stomach, where a tiny, barely-there swell is beginning to form.

"Look at that one," Yoongi whispers into the darkness, pointing up at a particularly bright star. "That’s going to be our little one's star."

You smile, leaning your head heavily against his shoulder. "Do you think it's a boy or a girl?"

"I don't care, as long as they have your laugh," he murmurs softly, turning his head to press a warm kiss to your temple. He sighs, a deeply contented sound that warms your skin. "When the tour is over, I'm taking a long hiatus, Y/N. I don't care what the label says. I want to be there for every single doctor's appointment, every weird midnight craving. I want to build the crib myself. I want to watch them crawl across our living room floor. Say their first words. Take their first steps…"

He shifts, rolling onto his side so he can look down at you in the starlight. His eyes are incredibly soft, filled with a peaceful, dreamy look you rarely see when he's bogged down by work.

"In a few years, we'll buy that house in the countryside we always talk about," Yoongi says, his voice a low, comforting melody in the quiet night. "The one with the big garden. We'll build a swing set. I'll teach them how to play the piano. We're going to give them such a beautiful life, babe. Just you, me, and our baby."

You reach up, tangling your fingers in his hair, pulling him down into a soft, slow kiss that tastes of sweet promises and a future that feels so beautifully close you can almost touch it.

The peace of that starry night is violently ripped away just three days later.

It happens on a suffocatingly hot Thursday afternoon. You are sitting on the living room couch when a sudden, violently sharp cramp rips through your lower abdomen, so intense it takes your breath away and forces a gasp from your lips. Shaking, a cold dread instantly pooling in your chest, you rush to the bathroom. The moment you look down, your entire world grinds to a halt.

Bright, heavy, unmistakable red blood.

Panic, cold and completely suffocating, seizes your throat. You call Yoongi, your hands trembling so violently you almost drop the phone. The moment he answers, your voice breaks into choked, terrified sobs. "Yoongi... Yoongi, help me, please. Something is wrong. There's—there's blood."

On the other end of the line, you hear a massive commotion. Yoongi is in the middle of a high-stakes, final title-track choreography review with the entire performance team and senior label executives. But the moment your broken cry hits his ears, the idol persona vanishes. You hear his chair screech violently against the floor, his voice slicing through the studio with a sharp, terrifying, thunderous authority: "Stop the music. Clear the room. I'm leaving. Now." Before anyone can even utter a word of protest, the line goes dead.

The world is a jarring, terrifying blur of shrill siren wails and flashing red lights. You are lying on the narrow, hard stretcher in the back of the ambulance, the vehicle swaying violently as it navigates the chaotic Seoul traffic at breakneck speed. The paramedics are talking right over your head, their voices low and urgent as they exchange rapid medical jargon, checking your vitals and adjusting the oxygen mask over your face.

You try to focus on their faces, on the rhythm of the sirens, on anything outside of your own body, but you are spiralling completely out of control.

The physical pain in your lower abdomen is a sharp, twisting blade, but the mental torture is a thousand times worse. Your mind is a vicious vortex. All your strength is fracturing into dust under the sheer weight of your terror.

Not like this, you think, your hands trembling so violently you can barely press them against the damp fabric of your sweatpants. Please, God, not like this.

Just days ago, you were lying on a blanket under a universe of stars, listening to Yoongi weave a beautiful, quiet tapestry of your future. You could still hear the warmth of his voice promising a house in the countryside, a swing set, piano lessons, and a lifetime of protected peace. Now, the contrast is suffocating. You are trapped in a sterile, metal box, drowning in the scent of antiseptic, completely alone.

The ambulance screeches to a halt at the ER bay, and the back doors fly open. The rushing movement starts again. The wheels of the stretcher clicking furiously against the linoleum floor, the hospital hallway's bright, harsh ceiling lights passing over you like dizzying streaks of white. You are wheeled into a small, curtained triage cubicle, and suddenly, the paramedics vanish, replaced by an ER nurse who hooks you up to monitors that beep too loudly, too frantically.

And then, they leave you for a moment to page the OB-GYN on call.

The sudden silence behind the fabric curtain is loud enough to split your head open. You sit propped up on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and the spiral turns into a suffocating avalanche.

Your breathing hitches, turning into shallow, panicked gasps as you pull the oxygen mask away from your face. Your chest tightens so fiercely that you feel like you are being crushed by an invisible weight. The guilt you fought off weeks ago breaks through your defences with a vengeance.

Did I do this? The insidious voice screams in your head, making your eyes sting with hot, furious tears. Did I ruin it? I panicked too much in the beginning. I stayed up too late waiting for him. I stressed about his idol schedule, I worried about the fans, and I let myself get overwhelmed. My body is failing. I couldn't even keep our baby safe for three months.

The monitor beside the bed registers your skyrocketing heart rate, its beeping turning into a frantic, continuous whine. You grip the metal rails of the hospital bed, your knuckles white, your teeth chattering from pure shock and cold dread. You look desperately at the gap in the curtain.

Where is he?

You know he’s coming. You know, the second he heard your voice, he tore through the label executives. But the terrifying possibility of him walking in, only to find everything gone, makes you want to crawl out of your own skin. You are terrified of the silence that might be waiting for you on the ultrasound screen. You are terrified of seeing the light die in your husband's eyes.

"Yoongi," you sob out into the empty, sterile cubicle, your voice small, broken, and utterly stripped of the grit that usually keeps you standing. You pull your knees up to your chest, curling into a tight, shivering ball on the scratchy hospital sheet, completely swallowed by the terrifying, lonely darkness of the spiral, praying desperately for his footsteps to shatter the silence.

Thirty minutes later, the heavy fabric curtain of the triage cubicle is ripped back with a violent, jarring screech of metal rings.

Yoongi bursts into the room.

He looks entirely unrecognisable, stripped completely of the polished, untouchable idol persona that the world knows. He is still in his sweat-drenched dance clothes—a damp, oversized black t-shirt and loose track pants—and his hair is a chaotic, plastered mess against his forehead from where his beanie had been ripped off. But it is his face that makes your breath catch in your throat. He is entirely pale, his skin a ghostly, translucent white that bleeds out all the colour from his lips. His eyes are wide, dark, and swimming with a raw, unchecked terror that goes bone-deep.

He doesn't say a single word. He doesn't look at the monitors, he doesn't look at the nurses, and he doesn't care about the world outside that curtain. His eyes lock onto your shivering form, and in three frantic, stumbling strides, he is at the side of your bed.

He lunges forward, throwing his upper body over yours and pulling you fiercely into his arms. He clutches you against his chest with a desperate, crushing intensity, his hands burying deep into the fabric of your oversized hoodie as if he is trying to physically pull you back from the edge of a cliff. The moment his chest presses against yours, you feel it: a violent, uncontrollable shudder. His entire massive frame is shaking like a leaf caught in a gale, his heart hammering against your collarbone in a terrifying, erratic rhythm. He just holds you, burying his face in your hair, his breath hitching over and over again as he tries to anchor his own spiralling mind. "I'm here, baby. I'm here," he murmurs, followed by a kiss to the top of your head. And it's enough to bring you back from the cliff edge.

The agonising suspense in the room reaches a suffocating peak when the heavy wheels of the ultrasound machine rattle into the cubicle. The doctor follows, her expression tight and solemn, carrying an aura that makes the air in the room completely unbreathable. The overhead lights are dimmed, plunging the space into a shadowy twilight, save for the harsh, blue-white glow of the monitor.

The doctor speaks in quiet, hushed tones, apologising gently as she squirts the ultrasound gel onto your lower stomach. The slick fluid feels horrifyingly cold against your skin, a cruel, mocking contrast to the warm starlight of the hill just days ago.

Yoongi slowly shifts, refusing to untangle his lower body from yours. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his face just inches from yours. His large, pale hand slides back into yours, his fingers locking between yours in a grip so fiercely, painfully tight that your knuckles turn entirely white and your fingers begin to ache. You welcome the pain. You cling to it because it is the only real thing left in the room. His eyes are fixed on your face, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle ticks beneath his pale skin, his thumb frantically tracing back and forth over the back of your hand.

You force your eyes away from him, turning your gaze to the black-and-white monitor. Your eyes burn with hot, unshed tears, blurring the screen as the doctor presses the plastic transducer firmly into the gel and glides it slowly across your abdomen.

Please, your mind begs, the voice small, broken, and desperate. Please, just let us hear the horse. Just let us hear the galloping horse.

The doctor moves the probe, angling it deeper into your pelvis. The static grey shadows shift on the screen, and then, the tiny, familiar shape of your baby swims into view.

But there is no motion.

The doctor pauses her hand, her thumb clicking a button on the console to activate the audio monitor. She dials the volume knob all the way up.

But there is only silence. A deafening silence that rushes into the room like a vacuum, swallowing every ounce of oxygen. The speakers don't erupt into that rapid cadence of life. They only hiss with a low, empty white noise—a flat, mechanical static that sounds like a dead wire. The tiny pixel on the screen is completely, utterly still. There is no rhythmic flicker. There is no heartbeat. The galloping horse has stopped running.

"I'm so incredibly sorry," the doctor whispers softly, her voice heavy with a profound, crackling sympathy that cuts straight through the static. She doesn't keep looking at the screen; she gently lifts the probe, wiping the gel from your skin with a towel, and reaches over to turn off the monitor, plunging the room back into darkness. "There is no longer a fetal heartbeat. You’ve suffered a miscarriage.” She pauses. “I'll give you both some time alone."

The heavy click of the machine powering down echoes like a gunshot. The doctor steps away, pulling the fabric curtain shut behind her, leaving the two of you in the absolute vacuum of the cubicle.

And then, the world completely shatters into a million jagged, unrecoverable pieces.

The shock wears off, and the reality of the silence hits you in the chest like a physical blow. A raw, guttural scream of pure, unadulterated grief tears itself from the very depths of your throat. It’s a sound so broken it doesn't even sound like it belongs to you. You rip your hand from Yoongi's grip and bury your face in your palms, your entire upper body slamming forward onto your knees. You break down completely, your ribs racking with violent, uncontainable sobs that pull at the phantom empty space inside your lower belly. You weep for the house in the countryside, you weep for the swing set, you weep for the piano lessons that will never happen, your tears soaking through your fingers.

At your side, Min Yoongi breaks completely.

The stoic leader, the unflinching artist, the man who holds the weight of a global empire on his shoulders, vanishes entirely, leaving behind nothing but a broken husband and a grieving father. A loud, choked sob rips past his lips, a raw, wounded sound that hits the quiet air. He throws his arms back around you, lunging forward to pull your violently trembling body flush against his chest once more.

He buries his face deeply into the crook of your neck, his large hands gripping your back so tightly it bruises. His shoulders shake violently, racking with heavy, broken, silent tears that instantly soak completely through the thin cotton of your hospital gown, burning hot against your bare skin. He holds you with a terrifying, desperate strength, as if he is trying to squeeze the broken pieces of your reality back together, trying to absorb the blinding agony radiating out of you. He grips you like a drowning man clutching a lifeline, his own heart shattering into dust in the quiet darkness as he rocks his grieving wife, weeping for the universe you just lost.

The apartment feels entirely too large and suffocatingly quiet when you return home the next day. The silence weighs down on your chest like a block of concrete, making every breath a chore. You sit on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the floor, wrapped completely in Yoongi’s oversized black studio hoodie. The sleeves cover your hands, but nothing can cover the hollow emptiness stretching inside your womb.

As the hours tick away, the grief mutates into something dark, ugly, and toxic inside your mind. The inner strength you usually pride yourself on feels entirely eroded, leaving behind nothing but a raw, gaping wound of insecurity.

"I'm sorry," you whisper into the empty bedroom, your voice cracking, tears dripping off your chin onto the fabric of the hoodie. "I'm so sorry."

Yoongi walks into the room carrying a mug of warm herbal tea. He hasn't left your side for a single second, his own eyes bloodshot, his face pale and worn. The moment he hears your whispered apology and sees your slumped, broken posture, his heart bleeds. He sets the mug down on the nightstand and immediately crawls onto the bed behind you. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you tightly back against his chest, tucking his chin over your shoulder.

"Why are you apologising, babe?" he whispers against your ear, his voice thick, raw, and completely wrecked from crying. "You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for, my love."

"I do," you sob out, the toxic thoughts finally spilling past your lips as you turn around in his arms to face him, your heart bleeding out. You look into his swollen eyes, your voice rising in a panicked, heartbroken pitch. "I wasn't good enough, Yoongi. Your schedule is so crazy, and you were so happy, and you were dreaming about the future... and my body... my body isn't even good at making babies. I couldn't keep our baby safe. I couldn't give you the family you wanted. I ruined it. I'm not good enough for you."

"Hey! Look at me. Look at me right now," Yoongi commands, his voice dropping into a fierce, unyielding register.

He grips your face in his large, warm hands, his fingers firm but incredibly gentle against your jaw, forcing your wild, tear-filled eyes to meet his. His eyes are swimming with a fresh wave of tears, but his gaze is filled with an absolute, undeniable intensity that demands to be heard.

"Don't you dare say that about yourself," Yoongi chokes out, a heavy tear spilling over his eyelashes and tracking down his pale cheek. "Don't you dare blame your beautiful body. This was a tragedy, Y/N. It is a horrible, heartbreaking, unfair tragedy, but it is not your fault. You did not ruin anything. You are the most perfect, incredible, resilient woman in the world, and you did absolutely nothing wrong. Do you hear me? Nothing."

"But the baby—"

"I love our baby, and I am grieving our baby with every single piece of my soul," Yoongi says, his voice cracking completely as a sob escapes him. He presses his forehead firmly against yours, closing his eyes as his tears mingle with yours on your cheeks. "But I love you more. I married you, Y/N. Not a future child. You. For three years, you have been my anchor, my sanity, my absolute entire world. We can try again, if that's what you want. And if we never try again, if it's just you and me in that countryside house forever, that is also a perfect life to me. You are more than enough. You are everything I will ever need, and you never have to be sorry for something you didn't do."

The raw honesty in his voice pierces through the thick layer of guilt in your mind. You let out a broken cry, wrapping your arms around his neck, and Yoongi pulls you down onto the mattress with him.

He tucks you securely under the heavy, warm duvet, pulling the blankets up to your chin. He wraps his entire body around yours like a protective shield, tangling his legs with yours so tightly that there is no space left between you. Yoongi slides his large, warm hand underneath the fabric of the hoodie, splaying his palm completely flat against your bare, aching lower stomach. He doesn't do it to feel for a baby anymore; he does it to anchor you to the earth, pouring his warmth, his love, and his healing energy directly into your skin.

He holds you through the long, dark hours of the evening, never letting go. He kisses away every fresh tear that falls, whispering sweet, soft, grounding praises into your hair. He tells you how strong you are, how much he adores you, and how you are going to heal together, day by day.

As the night deepens, the heavy, frantic sobs finally begin to fade, replaced by quiet, exhausted breaths. You close your eyes, listening to the steady, rhythmic beating of Yoongi's heart beneath your cheek.

"I've got you, babe," Yoongi murmurs softly into the quiet room, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of your head as his hand gently strokes your stomach. "We're going to take all the time we need. We will always have each other."

Days go by. Then weeks. Then months. The dark does not stay sharp forever; eventually, it softens into something you can breathe through.

Outside your apartment, the city of Seoul continues its relentless, indifferent hum, illuminated by millions of artificial lights that try to drown out the night. But inside the quiet sanctuary of your room, the only rhythm that matters is the slow, steady rise and fall of Yoongi’s chest against your back, and the heavy, grounding thump of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

Yes, the galloping horse in the static has gone quiet, leaving behind a vast, echoing space. But over time, you learn that true strength isn't about refusing to break. It is about letting the pieces fall, knowing that the hands holding you are entirely devoted to helping you gather them back up.

Three years of marriage have taught you how to survive the noise of the world, but in this quiet room, you learn how to survive the silence.

Yoongi doesn't venture far from you for a while. He remains the protective anchor you know him as, holding you fast against the current of your grief. He doesn't offer empty words or hollow promises to fix what cannot be mended by human hands. Instead, he just breathes with you, inhaling your sorrow, exhaling his unyielding devotion, making sure you know that you are not drowning alone.

Somewhere, far beyond the smog of the city, high up in the clear, hidden hills where you once lay on a plush blanket, a single star burns a little brighter in the velvet dark. It is no longer a destination, but a lighthouse; a quiet, eternal monument to a love that changed shape, but never truly died.

You close your eyes, letting the phantom weight in your chest ease just a fraction as you press closer into his warmth. The future you imagined has fractured, but as Yoongi draws you tighter against his heart, whispering your name into the shadows like a sacred vow, you realise the foundation hasn't moved an inch. The house in the countryside may be quiet for now, but the universe you built together remains entirely intact. He is still your peace, you are still his anchor, and together, in the soft, unbroken quiet of the dark, you will learn how to begin again.