"WE ARE COMFORTABLE"
pairing : choi seunghyun x f!reader (established marriage).
contents : slightly angsty fluff
synopsis : seunghyun reassures you during your pregnancy.
word count : 1429
a/n : I was inspired by this twitter thread and I just had to get this scenario out of my mind……… pmdd havers (me included) may relate to some of the feelings mentionned so beware!!!!!! also finally having the courage to post something 😭😭
The afternoon light leaked around the edges of the velvet curtains, cutting a sharp, bright line across the floorboards. In the dark, the bedroom just felt stale. It smelled like trapped heat, the bitter dregs of a cold mug of chamomile tea on the nightstand, and the faint, woody bite of Seunghyun’s cologne still trapped in the sheets. You stayed buried under the mountain of duvets, pulled up so high you were probably just a shapeless lump of fabric. Good. If you couldn't see your own body, maybe it didn't exist.
Lately, it hadn't felt like yours anyway.
You’d expected the physical stuff—the books and the weekly tracker apps laid it out clearly enough. But nobody warned you about the mood swings. It wasn't a sudden flash of crying; it was a flat, heavy exhaustion that settled over everything. A quiet conviction that you were just a drain on his life, an anchor dragging down his studio time, his art, everything vibrant about him. You kept your mouth shut, biting the inside of your cheek until it bled, terrified that saying it out loud would make it real.
A sudden, violent wave of nausea rolled through your stomach, instantly followed by a sharp pressure on your bladder.
Great. Again.
The bathroom door was maybe fifteen feet away, but staring at the light under the frame made it feel like a mile of broken glass. Your joints throbbed with a dull, aching resistance, and your skin felt stretched so tight across your stomach it actively itched. Just the thought of throwing off the blankets and swinging your legs over the mattress made your throat tighten up. You couldn't move. You were just stuck there, staring at the floorboards, analyzing every single one of your flaws until the room felt too small.
Downstairs, the low, repetitive thud of a bass line suddenly cut out. For hours, that vibration through the floor had been the only sign of life—proof that Seunghyun was in his studio, giving you the stubborn, angry space you’d demanded earlier.
But he never stayed away long when you went quiet. He had a radar for it.
A moment later, the heavy, unhurried tread of his footsteps sounded on the wood floor. The bedroom door clicked open. The mattress groaned, dipping low as he sat on the edge, bringing the crisp, cool air of the rest of the house into your humid blanket fortress.
He didn’t try to pull the covers down. Instead, his large hand found the curve of your shoulder through the thick duvet, his thumb digging into the tight muscle there, kneading it with slow, heavy pressure.
"You've been under there since noon," his voice rumbled, low and gravelly from hours of working. "Are you breathing, or did you finally turn to stone? I was about to call a sculptor."
You pulled the blanket tighter, burying your nose in the fabric. "Don't look at me, Seunghyun. Go back downstairs. Finish the track."
He let out a soft huff—half a laugh, half a weary sigh—and leaned closer. In the dim light, the sharp, intimidating angles of his face softened completely. "Why would I do that? It's boring downstairs. The music sounds flat without you complaining about the bass."
"I’m a mess," you whispered. The words caught in your throat, and your eyes stung instantly. You hated how easily you cried now, how a single kind word completely broke your defenses. "I'm huge. I feel disgusting. I’ve been throwing up all morning, my face is swollen, and I just... I can't look at myself. Don't look at me."
Seunghyun didn’t offer any empty platitudes. He didn't tell you that you looked like a magazine model. Instead, he reached for the edge of the duvet and firmly, deliberately pulled it down past your shoulders. The cool air made you shiver, and you reached out to grab the fabric, but his hands caught your wrists first.
They were large and warm, completely swallowing yours. He didn't squeeze, but he held them steady against the mattress until you stopped resisting. Then, he just looked. His eyes traveled slowly, taking in the dark circles under your eyes, the wild mess of your hair, and the way your oversized shirt stretched unevenly across your stomach. There wasn't any pity in his face—just that quiet, intense focus he gave to things he cared about.
"You think because your body is changing, it's losing its value?" he murmured. "You think I only care about clean lines? You're overthinking again. Your brain runs too fast."
He let go of your wrists, his thumb tracing a rough line down your cheek to wipe away a tear before his palm came to rest flat against your bare belly. It was warm and solid.
"Look at the art I buy," he said, his voice dropping into that serious, academic tone he used when he was genuinely passionate about something. "Think about the oil paintings I keep on my phone, the ones I talk about until your ears bleed. The massive, heavy brushstrokes. The raw flesh. The canvas showing the actual strain and weight of being alive. Society wants everything filtered through a tiny, perfect lens. It's a prison."
You blinked, listening to him drift. "Seunghyun, are you lecturing me on contemporary art theory right now?"
He paused, his dark eyebrows twitching as he realized he’d gotten carried away. He let out a deadpan huff. "Stop talking. I'm trying to be romantic."
A tiny smile actually managed to pull at your lips.
"What I mean," he continued, his palm pressing a little warmer against your stomach, "is that those paintings are beautiful because they take up space. They demand to be seen. You're growing a person. Of course it’s heavy. Of course it changes. That’s what makes it real. I’ve never cared about things being perfect anyway."
He leaned down, resting his forehead against yours, completely ignoring the messy tear tracks and the sweat dampening your hairline.
"We are comfortable, so we get fat," he muttered against your skin, quoting his old lyrics in that low, singsong rasp. The corners of his eyes crinkled. "Remember? I wrote it down. It’s in a song, so it’s law. It means we're safe. We don't have to hide behind the lenses anymore. We can just exist."
A ragged, half-strangled laugh caught in your throat, turning into a small, tearful sob. Leave it to him to bring up an old music video lyric when you were sweating and miserable under a pile of blankets. The dark cloud didn't magically clear out of the room, but the solid weight of him leaning against you stopped the walls from closing in.
"I need to use the bathroom," you admitted softly, shifting uncomfortably as your bladder twinged again. "But everything hurts. My knees feel like lead."
"Okay," he said, shifting back. "Let's go."
He didn't ask if you could manage. He just slid one long arm under your back and the other beneath your knees, pausing for a brief second to get his footing before lifting you off the mattress. You buried your face straight into the crook of his neck, holding onto his shoulders tight. His steps were heavy and deliberate, the floorboards groaning under his feet, but he felt entirely steady.
"You're not heavy," he murmured into your hair, as if reading the exact worry crossing your mind. "You feel like nothing."
When he set you down in the bathroom, he didn't just let go. He kept his large hands firmly clamped onto your waist, waiting until your aching joints locked and you actually had your balance on the cool tile. He reached up, gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, making sure your legs weren't going to buckle.
"Take your time," he said, pressing a brief kiss to the top of your head.
He stepped back just enough to give you privacy, but he didn't close the door entirely. Instead, his broad back stayed planted firmly against the wooden doorframe, his shadow stretching across the floor. He crossed his arms, staring out into the dim hallway.
"I’m not going anywhere," his voice drifted in, steady and quiet. "I’ll carry you back when you’re ready."
Sitting there, listening to the quiet, rhythmic sound of his breathing just outside the door, the tight feeling in your chest finally began to loosen. For the first time in weeks, the noise in your brain went quiet. You closed your eyes, let out a long breath, and just breathed.
