#polyship x reader

---

“Y/N, baby,” Jisung grunted, dragging her arm off his head, “I can’t breathe if you lie on my face like that.”

She laughed, dramatic as ever. “That’s how I make sure you appreciate me.”

“You are literally the chaos in our lives,” Minho muttered as he walked past, giving her a pointed glare.

She blew a kiss at him. “You’re welcome.”

The boys loved her, even when she was impossible. But sometimes… it did get to them.

And sometimes… they snapped.

---

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon. Rain tapped against the windows like a lullaby, and the dorm was unusually quiet.

Y/N was bored.

Which, for Stray Kids, meant danger.

She poked Seungmin’s cheek repeatedly while he was trying to read. Stole Hyunjin’s robe and paraded around like royalty. Changed Felix’s playlist mid-song just to annoy him. Tried to pour cereal into Changbin’s protein shake.

But it was Chan she really wanted attention from.

He was on his laptop, working again. eyebrows furrowed, jaw tight, glasses slipping down his nose.

“Hey, grandpa,” she said, flopping on the couch beside him, nudging his thigh with her socked foot. “You gonna die of stress before thirty or what?”

“Not now, Y/N.”

“Oof. Did I hit a nerve? You need a massage? A drink? A new life?”

“Y/N.”

His tone was sharper this time.

She smirked, pretending it didn’t sting. “Come on, Channie. Take a break. The world won’t end if you close the laptop for five minutes.”

“You don’t know that,” he muttered, fingers flying over the keyboard.

She rolled her eyes. “I do. And you’re not even listening. As usual.”

That did it.

Chan slammed his laptop shut, eyes flashing.

“You know what? Maybe I’m not listening because I’m tired of your constant brattiness. Every day, Y/N. Every damn day you push, poke, complain, tease, do you ever think we get tired of being your emotional punching bags?”

Silence.

The room went still.

No one had ever raised their voice at her like that—not him.

Y/N froze, something sharp and cold twisting in her chest.

She opened her mouth. Closed it.

For once… she had nothing to say.

Chan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean—”

But she was already on her feet.

---

She didn’t cry. Not in front of them. Not even when she locked herself in her room and pressed her face to the pillow, feeling like her own heartbeat was betraying her.

It wasn’t just guilt.

It was shame.

Because he was right.

She did push. She was a brat. She had made it harder than it needed to be.

All because it was easier to joke than to say: I’m scared you’ll leave me if I’m soft.

They all tried to reach out. Knocks on the door. Soft calls through the hallway. Jisung even tried sliding notes under the door.

But she didn’t answer.

She didn’t know how.

---

By the next day, she’d disappeared.

Not gone-gone. Just… not home.

Her phone showed one-word replies.

“Fine.”

“Don’t wait.”

“Need air.”

It drove them insane.

Until Minho found her, sitting under the covered rooftop of a nearby park, hoodie over her head, eyes red but dry, staring at the rain.

He didn’t speak at first. Just sat beside her.

They watched the rain fall for a long time.

“You weren’t wrong,” she whispered eventually. “I am a brat.”

“You’re also the one who got Hyunjin new paints last week without telling him,” Minho said. “You’re the one who sets a second alarm just in case I ignore mine.”

She didn’t reply.

“You push us because you’re scared. I get it. But you don’t have to do that with us. Not anymore.”

She sniffed. “I don’t know how to be soft. It makes me feel… stupid.”

Minho tilted his head. “Soft doesn’t mean weak. And even if it did… we’d still protect you.”

“I made Chan snap.”

“He’s human. We all are. You push, we snap. You hurt, we stay. That’s how this works.”

She finally turned toward him, eyes filled with something broken.

“You won’t leave?”

He smiled gently. “You could scream at us for a year straight, and we’d still fight to be near you.”

---

Back at the dorm, she stood awkwardly in the hallway.

Eight pairs of eyes turned to her.

Chan stood slowly, guilt etched into every line of his face.

“I’m sorry—”

“No, I am,” she cut in, voice trembling. “You were right. I—I’m difficult. I say stupid things. I hide behind all the sass because I think if I show you how much I care, you’ll get tired of me faster. I didn’t mean to make you feel like crap. Any of you.”

They all stared at her.

Then, one by one, they moved.

Hyunjin hugged her first, tightly, without words.

Then Seungmin, arms wrapping around from behind.

Jisung, tearful but smiling, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Felix sniffled. “Even your apologies are cute, ma.”

Changbin held her cheeks and whispered, “We knew you were soft all along.”

Jeongin wiped her eyes. “We just wanted you to let us in.”

Minho squeezed her hand. “No more hiding.”

And Chan… Chan held her last. Arms around her whole body like he was trying to put her back together.

“You’re not too much, Y/N,” he whispered. “You never were.”

She broke then, soft sobs into his chest, trembling but safe.

---

She was still a brat.

She still stole the last cookie. Still made sarcastic comments. Still teased the boys mercilessly.

But now, she didn’t hide when she did something kind.

Didn’t flinch when they said I love you.

Didn’t run when someone snapped.

Because now… she knew.

They wanted the soft heart inside the storm.

And she was finally brave enough to give it to them.

---

Credit banner: @cafekitsune

The break between tour stops is short, barely a few days, but Chan insists they make the most of it. He barely sets foot on the sand before dropping to his knees and opening his arms wide. “Come to Daddy!” he calls.

Berry bolts down the beach straight into his chest, knocking him flat onto his back in a mess of fur, limbs, and sand. He laughs like a man finally breathing fresh air, rubbing his face against her fur. “I missed you, baby girl.”

You trail behind with a tote bag over your shoulder, towels bundled under your arm, and sunglasses perched on your head. Chan looks up just as you kneel beside them to ruffle Berry’s ears. “She’s happy to see you,” you say gently.

Chan’s eyes soften. You nudge his shoulder with your own. The look he gives you is so open, so full of love, it makes your chest ache. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Our Berry.”

The beach is mostly quiet, just a few families scattered across the sand, the cry of seagulls overhead, and the rhythmic crash of waves. As the boys set up towels and umbrellas, you make your rounds with sunscreen in hand.

Hyunjin is the first to offer his back, long hair tied in a bun, already glistening with sun and salt. “Be gentle,” he teases over his shoulder.

Felix stretches out beside him, shirt off and eyes closed, wincing as you touch the base of his spine. “Ow…”

“Still tight?”

“Worse than tight,” he mutters, letting out a breath as your thumbs work slow, deliberate circles into the tense muscle. “You’re magic.”

“Your poor back,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the space between his shoulder blades. “But I’ve got you.”

Meanwhile, Jeongin and Changbin kick around a soccer ball, screaming exaggerated cheers and whoops every time Jisung trips over nothing.

“You suck!” Jeongin yells, even as Changbin scores another goal.

“Louder!” Changbin shouts. “The world needs to hear my greatness!”

From the shade of a wide umbrella, Minho lounges with Berry curled against his thigh. Seungmin sits beside him, sipping a cold drink and wearing his usual unimpressed expression.

“He’s so loud,” Seungmin mutters.

“He’s always loud,” Minho replies. “And Jeongin’s just encouraging him.”

You flop down beside them with a sigh, watching Felix hurry toward the ball. “They’re having fun.”

Seungmin smirks. “We’re having peace.”

You lean your head on Minho’s shoulder and watch the chaos from the shade. Berry rolls onto her back, paws twitching as she dreams. The warm breeze ruffles your hair. For a moment, everything feels completely still, like the rest of the world has been left behind with the tour buses and airport lounges.

Eventually, the water calls to you. You look at the two boys beside you, but it’s clear they don’t care for the water in the slightest.

Hyunjin meets you at the edge of the waves, hair now loose and sticking to his neck. He grins, eyes gleaming.

“I’ll catch you if you fall,” he says, offering his hand.

You take it and run straight into a crashing wave, dragging him down with you. He sputters and laughs, dunking you gently in retaliation. Chan joins a minute later, wiping his face dramatically after getting soaked.

“I’m not built for this!” he cries.

“You’re Australian,” you point out.

“Exactly! I know what’s in the water!”

You, Hyunjin, and Chan end up floating lazily, watching the clouds drift overhead as your legs sway with the tide.

“Let’s never go back,” Chan murmurs.

You smile, eyes closed. “We can stay until sunset.”

Eventually, the water grows too chilly and the sun too hot, so you grab Jeongin and head off to the nearby ice cream stand. You each pick a popsicle, yours mango, his rainbow sherbet, and wander slowly back toward your towel, barefoot in the hot sand.

“Should we have gotten some for the others?” you ask.

Jeongin licks his cone thoughtfully. “They’ll live.”

The moment you return, all hell breaks loose.

“No way,” Felix gasps. “Ice cream?”

“You betrayed us,” Hyunjin cries, clutching his chest.

You shrug. “You’re the millionaires, not me.”

Chan reaches out for your cone with puppy eyes. “Just one bite.”

“No bites for losers,” Jeongin says, mouth full.

Berry barks once like she agrees.

Eventually, you surrender to a group cuddle pile under the umbrella. Felix tucks himself under your arm, Seungmin rests his head on your thigh with a book open beside him, and Minho stretches across everyone’s legs with Berry dozing peacefully against his stomach.

Changbin, Jeongin, and Hyunjin are still wet from swimming, huddled together in a sandy tangle on the next towel. Chan lays closest to you, his hand laced with yours in the warm sand.

The sun dips low, painting everything in honey and amber. You watch the light play across their faces, the people you love most, and feel full in the deepest, softest way.

“Best day off,” Felix mumbles, eyes fluttering shut.

“Best day,” Chan echoes, gently squeezing your hand.

between you and husk, youre the softer one

he doesnt mean to be rough, and hes gotten better with it but he tends to approach things with a certain attitude

dont whine just keep going kind of attitude, shit happens

though that doesnt mean hes going to have you doing all the work when it comes to cheering angel up

he may be more cynical but hes still going to try

he provides realism to the problem and you ease it

if the three of you arent drinking together after a hard day youre mostly going out to have some fun!

asides from the drinks, clubs arent really husks favorite place but you and angel convince him to come on out for the night

lots of exchanges between the three of you as you talk

you both listen to angel as he vents, and get angry with him

its a lot more getting angry for him and trying to work through that than pampering him

You don’t ask questions.

You’ve never been the nosy type. If your boyfriends, yes, plural, and no, you don’t know how that happened either, say they’re going on a “group trip to Tokyo for a few days,” you just tell them to pack enough clean socks and sunscreen.

Han texts you that they’re off to “another city thing.” Chan FaceTimes you from what looks like a fancy hotel in LA and says they’re rehearsing. You just think they’re part of a really enthusiastic dance club. Or a boy scout troop with exceptionally good jawlines.

Look, it’s not your fault they never explicitly said what they did. You just assumed they were all rich, hot, polyglots with expensive hobbies. You’re not shallow. You’re just very chill about red flags. Because why would you assume idols over trust funds…

Today, you’re walking home from the convenience store, humming, when you glance up at a massive LED screen above a department store.

And freeze.

Because staring back at you, in crisp HD, are eight extremely familiar faces. Your boyfriends. Wearing leather. Posing in sync. Singing.

"♪ STRAY KIDS EVERYWHERE ALL AROUND THE WORLD ♪"

You blink.

"...Wait a second."

You squint. Is that… Minho doing a spin kick? Felix growling in slow motion? Seungmin with a mic and a smolder?

You nearly drop your corn dog.

⋆｡°✩

⋆｡°✩

You’re sitting on the couch in stunned silence as eight of the most famous men in the world sheepishly crowd around you, trying not to laugh.

“I thought you were, like… international gym bros,” you whisper.

Minho snorts.

“We have an endorsement with Louis Vuitton.”

“Okay but that could be gym clothes!”

Felix cuddles you from behind. “Does it bother you?”

You look around. At the men who cook you dinner, take turns cuddling you when you’re sick, and sneak kisses like they’re still getting away with something. All of them nervously awaiting your reaction.

“No,” you mumble. “I just feel like I missed a memo. Or several… world tours’ worth.”

Han grins. “We’ll give you the full discography later.”

Seungmin leans in. “Starting with our debut, or the pre-debut reality show where Chan hyung scolds every episode?”

Chan buries his face in a pillow. “WHY.”

You look around at your “very normal” boyfriends. And sigh.

“Okay. But next time, if any of you get invited to the Met Gala or something… please just tell me.”

Jeongin smirks. “You mean again?”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN AGAIN?!”

The hospital discharge was supposed to be the end of the line.

The contract stipulates a week of rest in the dedicated ward for new mothers, followed by a transfer to a corporate apartment for a month of recovery and transition. It is clean, efficient, and guarantees a swift, professional departure. But Minho and Jisung dismantle that plan with a quiet, efficient determination.

The day you are cleared to leave, you find Minho talking to the nurse manager while Jisung packs your single hospital bag. When you mention getting the address for the recovery apartment, Minho turns, his expression calm but absolute.

“We’re taking you home,” he says.

“But the agreement-”

“The agreement is for your health and comfort,” Minho interrupts smoothly. “And our house is more private, more comfortable, and already fully staffed. We can monitor you better there. The baby is only ever a few steps away.”

Jisung zips the bag, his movements surprisingly delicate. “You shouldn’t be alone right now,” he murmurs, not meeting your eyes. “You just had a baby. We’re not leaving you in some clinical building.”

“You’ll want to breastfeed, right?” Minho asks, after he organizes the rest. “It’ll make it easy.”

You know it is illogical. You know it violates the entire point of the transaction. But the thought of leaving the warmth of their care is unbearable. You don’t fight it. You follow them.

⋆｡°✩

Four months in, the lie is too heavy to lift.

You are supposed to be gone a month after the delivery, before really, for the initial recovery period. The guest room is supposed to revert to a guest room, your presence a fading memory, a warm story the boys will tell the baby someday. But the guest room doesn’t exist anymore. It is your room. Your clothes are folded neatly in the custom closet. Your favorite oversized mug, the one Han bought you after you complained about the tiny ceramic ones, is always the one Minho pours tea into. Your reality isn't a temporary contract, it is a deeply ingrained, comfortable routine.

You spend most of your nights in the master bedroom, the baby’s bassinet pulled right beside the king-sized bed, ostensibly for easier nighttime feeds. But you know it is for warmth. Minho always curls into your back, a silent, heavy anchor. Jisung usually drapes an arm or a leg across you, a soft, snoring weight that proves you are safe and wanted.

This shift is most obvious at 3 AM.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the electric breast pump whirring softly, the rhythmic tug of the flanges the soundscape of your new existence. Your shoulders ache, and your eyes feel gritty.

“She hungry?” Jisung murmurs, already sitting up.

“You don’t have to stay awake,” you whisper, feeling guilty.

“I know,” he says, not bothering to lower his voice beyond his usual sleep-mumble. He doesn’t try to help, but he leans over, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Okay, look. This STAY sends me a picture of his dog wearing a tiny, ridiculous hat. It looks like a sad biscuit.”

He holds the phone up, and you crack a genuine smile, the exhaustion receding slightly. Jisung is loud, distracting, and exactly what you need.

Minho grows at the sounds and rolls over. “Sleep when you’re done,” he murmurs, his touch intensely grounding. “I’ll take the first wake-up.”

⋆｡°✩

The baby achieves a monumental level of disaster. Jisung, ever the drama queen, volunteers to take the lead.

“Okay, darling,” he sings, holding the tiny legs. “Papa is the best diaper changer in the world. This is just like changing the sheets on my bed, except… messier.”

He starts off with focused enthusiasm, but a rogue foot kicks a fresh mess onto his favorite gray hoodie. Jisung emits a sound that is half-yell, half-whimper, pulling his hands back as if the diaper is rigged with explosives.

“Minho! Backup! This is like a Level Five Bio-Emergency!” He scrambles back, accidentally knocking over the tub of wipes. He looks utterly defeated, the energy draining from his face as he stares at the catastrophe. “I tried, I really tried. I’m just… I’m not built for high-pressure sanitation, hyung.”

Minho, who had been watching from the doorway, sighs, the sound is exaggerated, but his eyes are warm with exasperation and fondness. He moves with clinical calm, stepping over the fallen wipes.

“It’s a tiny person, Ji,” Minho mutters, taking his place. “Not a philosophical debate.” Minho manages the change flawlessly, his hands steady and precise, demonstrating the practiced efficiency you’ve come to rely on. “See, easy,” Minho says, snapping the fresh diaper closed. His face is triumphant. But then, he attempts the swaddle.

He tries the classic diamond fold. The baby’s arm pops out. He tries the straightjacket fold. The baby’s leg shoots free. Minho’s lips thin, and a rare, genuine crack shows in his calm. He grunts in frustration. “Why is this so difficult? I watched the tutorial three times.”

You chuckle, stepping in. “It’s physics, not choreography, Appa. You have to anchor the shoulder.”

You take over, effortlessly tucking the little arm and wrapping the blanket tight and secure. The baby, instantly comforted, stops wriggling. Minho stares at you, his eyes wide, then slowly softens into an expression of pure, unadulterated awe.

⋆｡°✩

You hum softly, a melody you learned from Jisung's demo reel years ago, as you snap the little teddy-bear footie pajamas around her wiggling legs.

“Such a good girl,” you coo, gently kissing the top of her head. “My little mischief maker.”

The baby, wide-eyed and content, reaches up and grabs a handful of your hair, pulling tight. You laugh, bending down to let her clutch the strands. The simple, messy intimacy of the moment, the soft chaos of dressing a 5-month-old, fills you with an overwhelming rush of love, the purest kind, completely untainted by the complex origins of this family.

You feel the change in the air before you see them. You know if you looked up you would find Minho and Jisung standing silently in the doorway, their shoulders brushing. They haven't made a sound.

Jisung is leaning against the frame, his energy completely subdued. His expression is soft, his gaze locked entirely on you and the baby, a faint, trembling smile on his face. It’s the look of someone watching a dream they never thought would come true.

Minho is less relaxed, his posture attentive and still, like a statue carved out of devotion. His eyes, however, are wet. He makes no attempt to wipe them away, allowing a single, quiet tear to trace a path down his cheek. He isn't looking at the baby's tiny face; he is watching the way your hands move, the way your body leans, the unstudied, effortless rhythm that has become the bedrock of their house.

They stand there for nearly a minute, silent, breathing in the scene. They are not waiting to be acknowledged; they are simply watching you belong.

⋆｡°✩

A week later, You’re in charge of introducing the baby to the slightest taste of puréed apples. The attempt is a messy, beautiful disaster. The baby gurgles happily, wearing more applesauce than she eats, her tiny fist grabbing at the spoon.

“She’s an artist!” Jisung declares, wiping a green smear off his own cheek. “A true abstract expressionist.”

You laugh, the sound warm and easy, but a sudden, sharp ache makes you pause. You shift in your seat, your bra instantly feeling tight and damp. You glance down, the right side of your shirt is already blooming with a faint, telltale circle. You forgot to pump.

“Hold her,” you say quickly, standing up. “I need a towel.”

You move toward the kitchen, but Minho is already standing in the doorway, quiet, observant. He doesn't look at the mess on the baby; he looks directly at the damp patch on your shirt. He knows immediately.

Jisung is too busy cooing at the baby to notice. “Wait, Appa, she’s almost done with her finger painting!”

Minho ignores him, his gaze never leaving yours. “Watch her, Ji.”

Jisung, mollified by being put on baby duty, settles in front of the high chair. Minho silently guides you out of the kitchen and into the nearest quiet room.

“Clogged?” he asks, his voice low.

“No, just full,” you whisper, embarrassed, pressing your arms across your chest. “I meant to pump an hour ago. I don’t want to hand-express… It takes forever.”

Minho studies you. His gaze is intense, analytical, but devoid of judgment. His focus is on the problem and the need for relief. He steps closer, reaching up to gently touch the curve of your breast over your shirt. You gasp, the contact sending a sharp jolt of sensation through you.

“The pump is loud,” he murmurs. “And slow.” His eyes drop to your lips, then back to your eyes, a question hanging heavy and intimate in the air. “I can help?”

You don’t say no. You can’t. The ache is relentless, and the offer of his focused, intense care, disguised as something so primal, is overwhelming. You nod once, unable to speak.

He pulls you deeper into the room, away from the light. He unbuttons your shirt and slips down your bra with practiced ease. He reaches out, not with hesitant fingers, but with his mouth, wrapping it firmly and entirely around your nipple and areola.

It is a primal gasp of relief that escapes you as he begins to pull. He is warm, firm, and deliberate, suckling slowly, his tongue working to draw out the pressure that has been building for hours. He swallows, with a quiet focused sound that makes your eyes fly open.

Minho is focused, his hands cradling your breast, his eyes closed in concentration. The rhythmic pull is exactly what you need, but the small, satisfied noises he makes feel undeniably intimate, a new level of physical knowledge that only he possesses.

He pulls away only when the pressure eases and the leaking subsides. A drop of milk escapes, tracing a path down your breast. Minho follows it instantly, lapping up the drip with a slow, deliberate movement of his tongue, ensuring not a single drop is wasted. He looks up at you, his mouth wet with your milk, his eyes dark and honest. He just looks at you like you are the most natural, necessary thing in the world.

He gently wipes your skin with the edge of his shirt and slowly rebuttons your blouse, his knuckles brushing your collarbone.

“Better?” he asks, his voice rough.

“Yes,” you breathe, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

“Good.” He presses a quiet, firm kiss to your forehead.  He opens the door and guides you back toward the kitchen, but Jisung is already marching toward you, his arms crossed over his chest, lips pushed out in an exaggerated frown.

“You guys took, like, forever!” Jisung huffs, but his eyes are searching, noticing the slight flush on your cheeks and the careful way Minho is standing close to you. “What was the big emergency that I couldn’t help with? I’m good at towels!”

Minho just rolls his eyes, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. 

Jisung looks between the two of you, his pout softening into something genuinely needy. He throws his arms around your shoulders, squeezing you tight. “It’s not fair! You guys had a secret moment of intense care and I missed it! I want to be the one who gets to, you know, help with the private things sometimes, too. I’m an Papa!”

Minho gently detaches Jisung and bumps his shoulder. “Maybe later. Go get the baby down for her nap. I’ll make coffee.”

Jisung sighs dramatically, but the genuine worry leaves his eyes. He gives you one last, quick squeeze. “Promise I get included next time there’s a secret mission of comfort?”

“Promise,” you murmur, heart full.

You stand there alone, your body tingling, your mind spinning. This accidental family you’ve built has blurred every line, replaced every clause, and created a new need you didn't know you had. You close your eyes, consciously choosing to melt into the warmth, letting the terrifying, beautiful fear of loss wash over you. The conversation about staying is inevitable. But right here, right now, curled between the two fathers of your baby, you know you are already home.

The gentle process of weaning has been complete for weeks now, and you're nearing nine months postpartum. The baby, now a chaotic little crawler, represents the beautiful end of your contractual obligation. You feel the original agreement breathing down your neck, even though you know you can't make yourself leave. The house is home now.

You are in the living room, attempting to organize the mountain of toys, when Minho and Jisung come in. They move together, years of being together has them mirroring each other unconsciously, their approach says they are about to deliver serious news.

Minho sits you down on the edge of the couch. Jisung nervously takes a seat opposite you, immediately fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie.

“The company pushed again,” Minho says, his voice low and serious. “They want the final contract documents signed by the end of the week. They want to know when we are scheduling your move.” He cuts his gaze to yours, intense and steady. “The answer is never.”

Jisung leans forward, his hands clasped tightly. “I mean… We can sign all the documents but- But we don't want you to move out. You made this baby for us, but you helped build this family with us too. We want you to stay. As her mother, and as our partner... If you’d like that”

The sheer weight of their offer is paralyzing. It is everything you want, but accepting it means committing to a future that breaks every rule you've given yourself and requires you to put yourself out there, vulnerable.

“I… I can’t- Right now…” you whisper, the words barely escaping your throat. “I need a couple of weeks. To think about what this means.”

Minho’s face hardens, but he nods, pulling Jisung into a tight hug as you leave the room. 

⋆｡°✩

The two weeks feel like an eternity. Everything is normal, yet everything is shadowed by your unanswered choice. Minho maintains a quiet distance, respectful of your space, giving you time to think, yet you catch him watching you with the baby, his eyes heavy with longing. Jisung, true to form, fills the silence with frantic energy, constantly seeking your proximity for comfort. You know they're anxious to hear your answer but it's not helping you relax at all.

Your baby girl is your anchor, as you drown in your thoughts, you spend hours on the floor of the nursery. An unconscious claim of your role. The baby, oblivious, has entered a phase of language exploration. She practices clicking sounds, puffs of air, and endless strings of da-da-da and ba-ba-ba. You're holding her while she attempts to demolish a soft block tower. Minho and Jisung are in the kitchen, their voices low as they discuss work, or maybe you… 

You lay the baby on the soft mat, playing with her, naming her features. She responds with gleeful gurgles and frantic kicking. Seeing your face, she reaches out a clumsy hand and grabs your nose. She stares at your mouth, mimicking the shape of your lips. Then, a distinct, deliberate sound leaves her lips, a sound she has never made before.

“Ma,” she coos, a clumsy, accidental affirmation. Her eyes are locked on yours, her face lit with pure triumph at having made a sound that got your attention. She repeats it, a little hiccup of sound. “Ma. Ma ma.”

Tears instantly blur your vision.  You press your face into her soft, sweet-smelling hair. You laugh, a full, rich sound that echoes slightly off the walls, and the baby stares at you, blinking slowly.

⋆｡°✩

Jisung has tried everything to break the serious tension, but tonight he attempts a makeshift date. He sets up the largest blanket fort you've ever seen, complete with twinkle lights, movie snacks, and a laptop balanced precariously on a stack of pillows.

“It’s a safe zone,” he whispers, pulling you inside. “No mindchurning allowed. Only bad horror movies and bad jokes.”

He settles beside you, and for the first hour, the date is exactly that. But when the jump scare hits, you don't just jump, you lean into his warmth. You rest your head against his neck, a silent gesture of comfort and choosing. He stiffens for a moment, surprised, before melting into the touch. He wraps his arm around you, holding you captive and secure against his chest.

Later, when Minho appears after setting the baby to bed, he observes the scene from the entrance of the fort. You look at him, smiling, and gently grabbing his hand and pulling him down. You hold him captive for a moment, before you doze off. 

⋆｡°✩

It's early morning, you are in the master bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed. You're gently pulling a clean onesie over the baby's head, cooing at her as you dress her for the day. Minho and Jisung in and out, quietly starting their own routines, but their focus is entirely on you and the baby. They stand near the door, arms crossed, watching the effortless, domestic intimacy.

You kiss her forehead. "Who are you, my little sunshine? You're a princess, aren't you?"

The baby giggles at the kiss and tries to grasp at your hair. “Ma,” she coos, a clumsy sound but adorable nonetheless. Her eyes are locked on yours, she repeats it, a little hiccup of sound. “Mama.” She smiles like she knows she just got you in trouble.

Minho and Jisung freeze instantly. They saw the movement, they heard the word, and the silence that follows is absolute. You smile at her before turning to face the boys, you pick up the baby and carry her out to the living room, where Minho and Jisung instantly fall silent, their faces etched with anxiety. The look in their eyes, the sheer terror that you might actually be leaving, breaks your heart and solidifies your choice.

You walk right up to them, your voice soft.

“She’s done it before you know,” you state, looking directly at both of them.

Jisung gasps, burying his face in his hands. “She- what?”

You smile, a genuine, blinding smile that reaches your eyes. “She called me Mama.” You step closer. “I’m staying. I love her, I love this life, and I love you two.”

Minho’s composure finally melts. He lets out a single, rough exhale, and gently takes the baby from your arms. He steps aside just as Jisung launches himself at you, enveloping you in a tight, desperate hug that lifts you off your feet.

“We’re a family!” Jisung sobs, any other things he says come out mumbles into your shirt.

"We already were, you idiot." Minho steps into the embrace, bringing your little princess right between the three of you. The hug is tight, uneven, but so warm and gentle, at least until the baby girl decides she’s bored and starts pulling hair.

⋆｡°✩

Later that night, the house finally settles into silence. You and Jisung are curled up on the bed in the nursery, the soft glow of the table lamp illuminating the room. Minho is murmuring a story to your now-tucked-in little girl.

You hear his low voice drifting through the room, reading one of the worn picture books the boys had bought her. “...And here is Toto, too. And oh, Aunt Em! I'm so glad to be home again!”

Jisung leans over and kisses your temple, his touch lingering. He pulls the edge of the comforter higher over your shoulders.

“Happy?”

“Terrified, but yes,” you whisper back, smiling.

You let out a small, involuntary shiver as the cool air from the vent brushes your skin. Jisung smiles, he reaches over you to the wall unit, his thumb brushing the up arrow on the smart thermostat.

“It’s a bit chilly tonight,” he murmurs. “What temperature do you like best?” He looks at you, his eyes asking a silent question. 

"23"

"Is this better?"

You pull his hand down, holding it against your chest. “It’s perfect. Everything is perfect.”

Minho’s voice is soft and rhythmic, as he kisses babygirl goodnight. The numbers on the thermostat slowly tick upwards.