kenma x reader | Baby's first week.
characters: kenma | wc idk | genre. pure fluff !| cw/tags. fluff, teen pregnancy, birth.
teen pregnancy series masterlists here!
The first week felt like time stopped.
Not in a romantic way. Not like in a movie.
More like the kind of stop where you blink, and it’s been three hours, but also: it’s still Tuesday.
was a blur of hospital sheets, checklists, and nurses telling you how to feed her, how to burp her, how to change her. Your arms were shaky. Your body ached. You felt like a puzzle missing half its corners. You weren’t even sure your brain had caught up with your body yet.
Kenma had spent the night in a chair beside your bed, hoodie bunched up under his head, waking up every time the baby made a noise.
He didn’t say much. Just kept holding your hand. Kept watching you. Kept watching her.
Like he was afraid you’d both disappear if he blinked.
And then—sometime that morning, maybe mid-morning, maybe not—you were handed the baby by a nurse with a smile far too calm for the chaos inside you.
“It’s time to try nursing,” she said gently, like this was a normal sentence. “Let’s see how she latches.”
Your brain fizzed. You looked down at the baby. Then at Kenma. Then back at the baby.
And you said, “Like… now?”
The nurse nodded. “Now’s a great time.”
You turned to Kenma, wide-eyed and red-faced, and he looked equally horrified—like someone had just asked him to solve a math equation on live television.
“I can, uh—leave?” he offered, halfway out of his seat already.
The nurse laughed. “She’s gonna be doing this a lot. Might as well get used to it, dad.”
You wanted to disappear into the mattress...
Kenma stared at the wall.
You stared at him.
Then you both burst out laughing—nervous, breathless, half-delirious laughter.
“She’s going to scream,” you said, adjusting the blanket around your chest, panic bubbling just under the surface.
“She’s tiny,” he said. “I think you can take her.”
You didn’t feel ready. Not even close. But still, you let the nurse guide your arms, position your body, and then—
There it was.
The first latch.
The first quiet sound of breathing.
The first moment you were feeding your baby.
And just like that, everything stilled.
Your hands stopped shaking.
Your chest felt full in a new way—heavy, but not bad. Just… full. Present.
Your daughter’s tiny fingers curled instinctively against your skin.
He didn’t look away.
He just looked soft.
Blushing, obviously. Still visibly out of his depth.
But there was something new in his eyes. Something warm and wide and wrecked.
“You’re kind of amazing,” he said, voice just above a whisper.
You scoffed. “I’m leaking and half-naked. I feel like a cow.”
“You’re a cool cow,” he deadpanned.
You both laughed again, quieter this time. Tired. Real.
And in that quiet blur of discomfort, awe, and absolute exhaustion—
you knew:
Your mom helped you buckle the car seat in. You checked it five times before sitting down yourself...
The ride felt too fast. The corners too sharp. Every bump in the road made you clench your fists and check the mirror to make sure she was still breathing.
Kenma sat beside you in the backseat the whole way, hunched slightly forward with one hand on the car seat handle, like if the world tried anything, he could stop it with his palm.
Your room felt smaller now. Her bassinet took up half the wall, and the diapers and wipes were stacked in old shoeboxes near the window. There were soft blankets folded in a basket, and a little mobile someone had gifted you at the baby shower.
She was here. In your space.
Not an idea. Not a “someday.”
Here.
And she cried.
And cried.
And cried.
You tried to nurse her, but it hurt. Then you tried a bottle, and she spit it up. Then you cried too.
Kenma came over that night and found you curled up on the floor with your back against the dresser, the baby finally asleep in your lap.You were too tired to get into bed. Too sore to stand. Your eyes were red and your throat burned.
You looked up at him with red eyes and whispered, “I’m already failing.”
He just crouched down and rested his forehead against your knee, gently curling his fingers around your ankle.
“We’re not failing,” he said. “We’re just… new.”
Unfortunately? She woke up so you asked him to change the next diaper. 50%because you physically couldn’t get off the floor yet and another 50% cuz you felt a little grossed out heh...
“You want me to… what?” “She’s just a baby, Kenma.” “She’s, like, a bomb. A wiggly one.”
“Do you want me to cry again?” you warned flatly.
He scrambled to grab the wipes.
You watched—half delirious, half amused—as he fumbled with the diaper tabs, holding her little legs like they were sticks of TNT, accidentally getting baby lotion on his hoodie sleeve, and almost crying when she peed mid-change.
“Did she just—?! Is that aimed at me?!”
You were wheezing with laughter by the end of it, forehead resting on your arm, breathless from a full day of exhaustion and emotional whiplash.
The diaper ended up backwards.
There was a wipe stuck to her sock.
But she didn’t cry.
And Kenma looked up, wide-eyed and sweating, like he’d just disarmed a bomb.
“I did it,” he whispered.
You looked at him—completely serious—and said, “You’re the strongest man alive.”
Day Three, Kenma skipped practice.
Kuroo didn’t even complain. Just sent him a text that said,
“take care of ur girls. practice will still be here.”
Kenma came over after school with a plastic bag full of snacks and two textbooks. You didn’t bother pretending to study.
Instead, you handed him the baby while you grabbed five minutes of sleep on the couch.
When you woke up, he was standing in the middle of your room, gently rocking her while watching a tutorial on how to swaddle with one hand.
His hoodie sleeves were pushed up, and his hair was a mess.
You had never loved him more.
That night, she didn’t wake up.
Not at midnight.
Not at two.
Not even at four.
You both sat there in the quiet, staring at the bassinet like it was haunted.
“Is she—?”
“She’s breathing,” Kenma whispered, leaning over her like he was watching a loading screen.
You both stood there in shocked silence for a full minute, then backed out of the room like you were trying not to disturb a spell.
Back on the couch, you blinked at each other in disbelief. Then, slowly, a grin tugged at the corners of your mouth.
“She actually slept,” you whispered.
Kenma slouched lower into the couch, covering his face with his hands.
“I think I forgot what it’s like to feel rested.”
You laughed quietly and handed him one of the snacks he brought—some cheap chocolate and a half-squished bag of gummies.
It felt weirdly like a date.
You were still in your pajama pants. He hadn’t brushed his hair in two days. But in that small, quiet moment—with the baby finally asleep and the two of you sitting shoulder to shoulder in the soft hum of night.
Day Four, everything felt heavier.
Your parents were kind—
But kindness had limits.
And exhaustion had sharp edges.
They didn’t yell. They didn’t shame you. But the air around them was thin with worry.
Your mom kept suggesting naps you didn’t have time for. She hovered when you tried to soothe the baby, gently implying, without words, that maybe you weren’t doing it right.
Your dad never said much at all—but you caught him frowning at bills more often now. Doing quiet math at the kitchen table with a pencil between his teeth.
And sometimes, even though it was your house, your childhood room— You felt like a guest.
Like someone squatting in borrowed space with a crying, hungry plus-one strapped to your chest.
Kenma’s parents weren’t cold. But they weren’t here boviusly.
His mom sent food in neatly labeled containers that smelled like home and patience.
His dad slipped folded bills into Kenma’s backpack and said things like, “It’s not much, but it helps.”
But they didn’t see.
Not the late-night panic over formula brands. Not the way your hands shook when the baby wouldn’t stop crying. Not the way your body still felt like it didn’t belong to you.
Kenma came over that evening looking like a question mark.
His school tie was still loose. His bangs were damp and clinging to his forehead like he’d run there. Or cried.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked in, dropped his bag, and looked at you like he wanted to fix something but didn’t know where to start.
You were on the floor again—because that’s where you always ended up lately. Back against the dresser, knees up, baby half-asleep in your arms.
You looked up at him with tired eyes.
He crouched down, this time even slower than usual.
“I’m trying,” you said, and your voice broke on the second word.
You hadn’t meant to say it. It just slipped out of you like steam from a kettle.
Kenma touched your ankle, gentle as always.
“I know,” he whispered.
Then, quieter—like it hurt to admit:
“I’m trying too.”
Day Five, you cried again.
Kenma’s room was a mess of blankets, burp cloths, and panic.
You were sitting on the floor beside the bed, knees drawn up, tears in your eyes, and the baby screaming her lungs out in your arms. Your chest ached. Your back ached. Your brain felt like static. The baby wouldn’t latch. She wouldn’t stop. Nothing worked.
You’d tried rocking her, walking her, even that stupid shushing app. But she was red-faced and furious, and you were one second away from breaking down again.
Kenma sat beside you, trying to help, but she didn’t want him either. She only screamed harder when he tried to hold her.
Your voice shook as you tried to explain everything and nothing at once:
“My homework is late, I haven’t slept, my stomach is still disgusting, and someone just messaged me asking if I’m actually gonna keep her like she’s a piece of trash. And she—won’t—stop—crying—”
“She’s not trash,” Kenma said, quiet but firm, his bangs stuck to his forehead from stress. “She’s ours. And yeah, she’s loud. And fussy. And when she gets mad, she looks exactly like me.”
That earned a wet, exhausted laugh from you—just a breath.
“I’m so scared,” you whispered, eyes burning.
“I am too,” he murmured. “But if we’re scared together, it’s… less scary.”
You were just starting to breathe again when the door creaked open.
Kenma’s mom stepped in, holding a plate of warm food in her hands. She paused the moment she saw the scene:
—You, red-eyed and shaking.
—Kenma, crumpled beside you, tired.
—The baby, screaming like the world was ending.
The look on her face flickered between concern and judgment.
“She’s still crying?” she asked, keeping her voice low, but you heard the edge. “It’s almost midnight, Kenma. I don’t think this is good for either of you. Y/n and the baby should be at her home.”
“She is home,” he said simply.
His mom frowned. “I didn’t mean—”
“She’s not just some mistake,” Kenma interrupted, his voice sharper than usual. “She’s a person. A mom. and y/n is doing everything she can, and it’s not your job to decide where she belongs.”
You stared at him, stunned.
“She’s exhausted,” he added. “She’s in pain. And she’s taking care of our daughter while doing more than most grown adults could handle. So if you came here to say she shouldn’t be here—don’t.”
The baby wailed louder, her tiny fists flailing.
His mom’s expression faltered.
“I didn’t come to fight,” she said after a moment. “I brought dinner.”
She set the plate down on his desk and, after a long pause, walked over and gently reached out her arms.
“Can I try holding her?” she asked.
You hesitated—but then slowly handed her over.
The baby wailed a little less when she shifted positions.
Day Six, you caught him singing to her.
The house was finally quiet.
The kind of quiet that felt like holding your breath—fragile and borrowed.
You were heading down the hall with the soft pink blanket in your arms, the one she liked best, the one she wouldn't sleep without. You’d forgotten it in the dryer, and now you were padding barefoot toward your room, exhausted and aching and half-asleep.
That’s when you heard him.
Low. Careful. Almost not there.
You froze just outside the door.
He was singing. Or something close to it—soft humming, a lullaby-like melody from a video game you half-recognized. It drifted through the crack in the door like mist.
He was sitting on the edge of your bed, cradling her in his arms with his hoodie sleeves rolled past his elbows, her little face tucked against his chest. His fingers stroked her hair in slow, nervous motions, like he was scared of doing it wrong.
You just stood there in the hallway, clutching the warm baby blanket to your chest like it was the only thing keeping you upright.
You tried not to cry again.
But it hit you anyway—the way he looked at her. Like she was made of stars and secrets. Like she was the final level of a game he never expected to reach but wanted so badly to win.
And maybe that was the first time you realized—he wasn’t just doing his best.
Day Seven, she smiled in her sleep.
But it made everything freeze.
Kenma had been talking to her—about some weird game he was playing—and when it happened, he looked up at you like did you see that too?
And for the first time all week, the exhaustion didn’t feel like drowning.
It just felt like proof, she was here and things would work out .
@lauraofthewoods @anyaswlrd @atinyrosedoor @b1xi
i know i already had a taglist in the past but since i went offline for so long and feel kinda lazy lately to go back and search pls comment /dm me again to be added, apologies ToT!
