Jake x f!reader; established relationship, journey to parenthood
note: sexual content 18+ more fluff and slice-of-life though.
It’s the kind of morning that feels like a soft exhale. The air is warm but not hot, the sun filtering gently through the canopy of trees that line the path of the farmers market. Canvas tents flap lightly with the breeze, and the scent of ripe fruit, fresh bread, and roasted coffee blends into something familiar and comforting. A golden retriever trots past, tongue lolling, and a busker nearby plays a mellow acoustic tune that hums beneath the buzz of cheerful conversation.
Jake walks between the stalls at an easy pace, a woven tote bag slung over his shoulder. It swings lightly with each step, already half-full with fresh herbs, a jar of local honey, and a bunch of sunflowers you’d tucked under his arm earlier “for the kitchen counter.”
You’re only a few stalls down, negotiating the price of a carton of white peaches with an old man who, frankly, looks seconds away from giving them to you just for the smile you gave him.
Jake grins, eyes fond, then turns to the next stall in the row—a familiar one. A small handwritten sign still hangs over the awning: “Marta’s Morning Bakes”. The table is lined with flaky galettes, cinnamon buns spiraled with sugar, and your shared favorite—plum and vanilla scones. The ones you always split in the car, crumbs gathering in the folds of the seat, the taste forever tangled with road trips and quiet Sunday mornings in bed.
“Jake!” Marta beams, her white apron streaked with flour, her round face glowing with delight as he approaches. She’s probably in her late sixties, though the twinkle in her eyes makes her feel more like someone who exists slightly outside of time. “You’re back. I saved you two a few of the scones, just in case.”
Jake’s smile spreads like butter on toast. “You’re the best, Marta. I was hoping you had some left.”
“Of course I do. You and your girl are predictable,” she teases, placing two wrapped scones in a small brown bag with practiced care. “And I say that with love.”
Jake chuckles, pulling out his wallet. “It’s a fair accusation.”
Marta leans on the counter a bit, eyes narrowing in that way older women do when they’re about to get nosy with no shame at all. “How long have you two been together now?”
He thinks for a moment. “Coming up on three years, I think.”
She clicks her tongue, the sound somehow both amused and exasperated. “Three years? Goodness. You’d think with the way you look at her, it would’ve happened already.”
Jake blinks, halfway through handing her a few crumpled bills. “Happened?”
She waves a flour-dusted hand meaningfully. “You know… it. The down on one knee business.”
Jake flushes. “Oh. Well, we’re not really in a rush.”
“No one ever is until it’s too late,” she says, but her tone is gentle, the words wrapped in warmth rather than pressure. “But love like that doesn’t always come around twice. She’s a good one. You’re a good one too, of course, but I like her more.”
Jake laughs, shoulders relaxing as he takes the bag of scones and the teasing in stride. “That makes two of us.”
Marta winks. “Better scoop her up before someone else with a fruit stall and good hair makes their move.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, gaze already drifting back in your direction.
You’re just finishing up with the peaches, cradling them in your hands like little golden orbs of summer. The sun catches the strands of your hair as you thank the vendor, tucking a bill into the jar before turning around. Your eyes find Jake’s immediately, and his expression softens in that way it always does when he looks at you—like the world just got a little quieter, a little kinder.
You smile as you walk toward him, balancing the carton carefully. “They’re ripe. The kind that drip down your chin.”
He raises the bag in his hand. “Marta gave us our usual and scolded me for not proposing.”
Your eyebrows lift. “Did she now?”
He shrugs with a helpless smile. “Said you’re out of my league.”
You both laugh, and Jake gently shifts the tote bag so he can take the peaches from your hands. The scone bag crinkles between your fingers as you link arms again, walking slowly, as if the world outside this lazy little market doesn’t quite exist yet.
You nudge him with your shoulder. “You’re not actually going to let a pastry lady dictate your timeline, are you?”
Jake leans down and kisses your temple, his voice low and amused. “Nah. But… she’s not wrong either.”
You glance up at him, something warm fluttering in your chest. He’s not proposing—not today—but in that moment, with the scent of peaches between you and scone crumbs waiting in the car, it’s enough. Being with him has always made sense. Like waking up in a house where everything smells like home.
The door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud when you arrive home, and the weight of the morning settles around the two of you like a familiar blanket. Jake sets the bags down on the kitchen counter, the scent of the farmers market—sun-warmed fruit, fresh bread, and the lingering cinnamon sugar of Marta’s scones—trailing in behind him.
“Do you want coffee or tea?” he asks, already moving toward the cupboard. His voice is easy, light. The domesticity of the moment is so second-nature it barely needs words.
“Oo tea,” you reply, leaning your hip against the counter. “But iced.”
He grins. “Going fancy on me today.”
“You are,” he says, turning to flash you that playful, boyish smile. “Temperature-wise too, I guess.”
You laugh and swat his arm, then start unpacking the rest of the produce, setting the peaches out on a clean kitchen towel. They’re warm from the sun and so fragrant it’s almost dizzying.
Jake fills the kettle, sets it on to boil, and then steps behind you. His arms wrap around your waist easily, chin dropping to your shoulder.
“Marta’s definitely planning our wedding in her head now.”
You hum. “Do we get free pastries if she officiates?”
You both laugh again, but there's a stillness in the beat that follows—a soft exhale, like the conversation has momentarily caught its breath.
Jake’s voice lowers a little. “She was right about one thing.”
You tilt your head back slightly to glance up at him. “Which part?”
“That being with you just… makes sense.”
There’s no performance in his voice. No grand gesture, no orchestral swells—just quiet sincerity, like the way warm light spills through windows in the morning. Familiar. Certain. You turn in his arms until you’re facing him, and his hands rest against your waist, thumbs brushing slow circles against your hips.
“Yeah,” you say. “It always has.”
Jake looks at you for a long second—eyes flicking over your face like he’s memorizing something he already knows by heart. Then, without a word, he leans forward and kisses you. It’s not rushed. Not heavy. Just soft and grounding, the kind of kiss that says: we’re home. When he pulls back, you’re smiling.
“You’re not proposing, are you?” you tease, voice light.
He laughs under his breath, resting his forehead against yours. “No. Not yet.”
He gives you a look that’s half fondness, half certainty. “You're it for me, I’m not letting anyone else with a fruit stall and good hair steal you.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart tugs in your chest in that sweet, aching way that love often does. “Better start saving for a ring then, Sim.”
He grins and kisses you again—quick, this time, a punctuation mark at the end of a moment.
The kettle hisses and he steps away to finish making the tea. You plate the scones while humming something under your breath. You sit together on the balcony with your mugs sweating in the heat, feet brushing under the table, the rest of the day lazily stretching ahead of you.
And even though there’s no ring yet, no speech or spotlight or flowers—you can feel it anyway. In the way he looks at you across a table. Like it’s always been meant to be.
It’s raining the soft kind of way that makes the world feel smaller, cozier. Inside, the apartment glows with warm light and the faint scent of roasted garlic and basil from dinner still lingers in the kitchen. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, legs tangled with Jake’s, a shared bowl of ice cream melting on the coffee table between you. The TV plays quietly in the background, some low-stakes baking competition neither of you are really watching.
Jake has that look on his face—the one where you know he’s been turning something over in his head all evening. He does this thing with his thumb when he’s preoccupied, absently rubbing it against the seam of the couch cushion, and he hasn’t spoken in a few minutes.
You glance at him. “Okay, spill it.”
“That thing you’ve been mentally monologuing for the last twenty minutes.”
He exhales a laugh and leans his head back against the couch cushion, eyes closing for a beat. “Is it that obvious?”
“Like, cartoon thought bubble obvious.”
Jake bites the inside of his cheek and shifts slightly so he’s facing you more. He brushes his fingers against your knee, gentle and grounding. “I’ve been thinking about… the living situation.”
You tilt your head, not sure what he means.
“I mean, you’ve been here for almost a year now. Since your lease ended. And it’s been—like, actually amazing. Better than I expected, honestly.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You expected it to go badly?”
“No! I mean—no. But it was technically temporary. At first. And I think I kind of just… ignored that part.”
You study him, curious now. “Where are you going with this?”
He looks nervous in a way he didn’t look when Marta suggested a ring. This is different—less about romance and more about logistics, adulthood, permanence. The real, quietly scary kind of stuff.
“I think we should move,” he says finally, his voice quiet but steady. “Together. Like—not just you living in my apartment. Not you squeezing your clothes into the guest closet or your books into my already-too-small shelves. I mean us finding a place that’s ours. From scratch.”
You blink, caught off-guard by the weight of it.
“Not that I don’t love having you here,” he rushes to add, eyes wide. “I do. God, I do. I just—this place was never meant for two people. I’ve had the same couch since college. The water pressure sucks. The neighbors upstairs practice amateur tap dancing at midnight. It’s not where I want us to… keep building.”
You’re quiet for a moment, not because you’re unsure, but because it’s hitting you all at once—how significant it is. This isn’t about space. Not really. It’s about intent. About the kind of partnership that means choosing your shared life, not just falling into it.
Jake watches you nervously. “Too much?”
You shake your head, voice soft. “No. It’s just… weirdly more emotional than a proposal.”
He laughs, the tension easing slightly from his shoulders. “Right? That’s what I thought. People make jokes about marriage being a big deal, but honestly, shopping for a rental together is so much scarier. Like, how do we both agree on natural light, kitchen storage, and commute times?”
“Don’t forget pet policy. I know you’ve been dreaming about a dog.”
A moment of quiet falls between you, but it’s warm, full of all the future things left unsaid. Your heart feels full in that wide, steady way—not fireworks, not drama, but the kind of clarity that seeps into your bones.
You lean forward and rest your forehead slowly against his. “Let’s do it.”
His hands come up to cradle your face, relieved and giddy all at once. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You nod. “Let’s find something ours.”
You found the perfect place together and moved in within 2 months of that the conversation.
The last box was unpacked just before sunset. Now, the apartment is quiet in the way that only new spaces can be bare walls still waiting for frames, echoes bouncing gently off corners that haven't learned your rhythms yet. But the soft lamp glow in the living room, the scent of leftover takeout, and the shared, satisfied exhaustion makes it feel real. Yours.
You’re in one of Jake’s old T-shirts—something soft and oversized—leaning against the kitchen counter with a water glass in hand. He’s across the room, barefoot, tugging a blanket off the back of the couch with the kind of lazy movements that only come after a long day of building furniture and debating where the silverware drawer should go.
He catches you watching him. “What?” he asks, smiling around the edges, cheeks flushed from the heat still clinging to the walls.
You tilt your head. “Just thinking how stupidly good you look when you’re tired.”
He scoffs lightly, running a hand through his already-mussed hair. “I probably smell like cardboard and stress.”
“And yet,” you murmur, stepping toward him, “I want you anyway.”
Jake’s smile fades into something softer, something more aware. When you reach him, your hands slide beneath the hem of his shirt, fingertips brushing warm skin. You look up at him, letting the moment stretch.
“I know we’ve both been running on fumes,” you say, voice low. “But I’ve been thinking about this night for months. Being here. With you. Not in your old apartment. Not temporary. Ours.”
He exhales, like your words winded him. You rise up slightly to kiss him—slow, coaxing. Your hands splay against his lower back, drawing him in closer until your bodies are flush. Jake deepens the kiss with a quiet groan, one hand sliding up your thigh as your leg hooks loosely around his.
“God, baby,” he murmurs against your mouth, “you trying to ruin me?”
“No,” you breathe, lips trailing down his jaw, “I’m trying to take care of you.”
Jake swears softly when you nudge him backward toward the bedroom—barely furnished, but the mattress is there, clean sheets on it, the room still smelling faintly of fresh paint and laundry detergent. He sits on the edge of the bed as you tug his shirt up and off, revealing the stretch of his chest, the subtle slope of his shoulders.
You stand between his knees and let your fingers drag slowly across his skin—up his arms, over his collarbone, down the line of his stomach.
“You’ve done so much,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “You built everything. Lifted everything. Took care of all the details.”
He reaches for you, but you gently press him back with a palm to his chest.
Something flickers in his eyes—need, affection, trust—and he lets you push him down until he’s lying flat, hair splayed on the pillow, looking up at you like you hung the moon. His breath comes shallow as you slowly crawl over him, straddling his hips, and dip your head to press a kiss to his chest.
You take your time. Tracing his skin with your mouth. Whispering soft thanks between kisses. Letting your hands roam with intention—reverent and greedy at once. Every gasp he gives you, every roll of his hips or twitch of his hands against your thighs encourages you to keep going.
By the time you finally reach down, slide his boxers down, and take him in hand, Jake is already half-gone, eyes heavy, lips parted. You tease him at first—just enough to make him curse under his breath, his thighs tightening beneath you.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he groans, throwing an arm over his eyes.
And then you lean down and take him into your mouth. Slow, deep, deliberate. Jake’s whole body shudders. His hand instinctively tangles in your hair, not to control, just to anchor. You work him gently, expertly—savoring every reaction. Every shaky exhale. Every muttered Jesus, baby, and the way his voice cracks when you take him deeper, letting your lips drag slow as you pull back.
You don’t stop until he’s trembling beneath you, his hips fighting not to buck, his voice breaking as he begs—soft and ragged—for you to let him cum. When he does, it’s with your name on his lips and your hair in his fist, chest arching off the mattress as he falls apart for you. You crawl back up to kiss him, lazy and warm, your body draped over his like you’ve found your home in him. Jake pulls you close, still breathless, still stunned.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” he murmurs.
“I wanted to,” you whisper against his jaw. “You deserve to feel taken care of too.”
He hums and rolls you onto your side, wrapping himself around you like he’s never letting go. There’s no need to say I love you. It’s stitched into every breath. Every touch. Every decision that led you here. The rain continues outside, soft against the windows. And for the first time, you fall asleep together in a place that’s the both of yours.
The following morning the first thing you register is sunlight. Not glaring—just warm, honey-colored morning light spilling through the windows you haven’t covered with curtains yet. The air in the bedroom is still, cool from the night breeze, and the sheets are tangled around your hips in the aftermath of sleep and the soft wreckage of the night before.
Then you feel him. Jake’s body curved around yours, one arm under your head, the other draped over your waist. His chest rises slow and steady against your back, and his breath flutters against your shoulder, warm and familiar.
You hum softly, shifting under his touch. He doesn’t speak at first—just tightens his hold, pressing his lips against the curve of your neck.
“Morning,” you whisper, voice thick and sleep-heavy.
“Barely,” he murmurs, his voice still low and gravel-soft. “Sun’s only been up for like… ten minutes.”
“Should we keep sleeping?”
Jake chuckles against your skin. “I was thinking the opposite.”
He moves closer, hips pressing against the curve of your backside, and you feel just how awake he is now. One hand slides along your bare waist, fingertips tracing the dip of your hip, the curve of your stomach.
“You did a lot for me last night,” he murmurs, lips brushing your shoulder, then your jaw. “Think I owe you.”
You smile, already melting into him. “Owe me, huh?”
Jake shifts so you’re on your back and he’s leaning over you—hair mussed, eyes still sleepy but hungry.
“I want to take care of you this time.” He kisses your collarbone, the center of your chest. “Make you feel good. Make you feel mine.”
Your breath catches as his mouth trails lower, his hands sliding under the sheets with easy, confident affection. There’s no rush. No pressure. Just slow, consuming warmth as he takes his time—kissing down your stomach, coaxing your legs apart with steady hands and soft groans against your skin.
He’s thorough. Devoted. You gasp his name when his mouth finds you, and Jake groans in response like you’ve just handed him a gift. He doesn't stop—not until your fingers are tangled in the sheets, your back arching, and he’s holding you through every wave that follows. He kisses up your body, catching your breath in his, his hand cradling your cheek like you’re still trembling—and you are.
“You’re dangerous,” you murmur when you finally come back to yourself, nuzzling into his neck.
He grins. “You started it.”
Later, with sleepy limbs and matching coffee cups in hand, you find yourselves in the car—windows down, music low, heading to the farmers market even though it's a longer drive now. Something about it pulls you both back. Familiar. Sacred, even.
The stalls are all the same. The same busker with the soft acoustic guitar. The same flower vendor with the too-proud dahlias. The same stall with the sticky ripe peaches. It feels like time didn't pass—like you just slipped out of your old life into a better one with the same soundtrack.
And of course, there’s Marta. She spots you two from across her stall like a hawk who smells affection.
“Well, look who decided to grace us with their presence,” she calls out, both hands on her hips, her apron once again dusted in flour.
Jake laughs. “We moved a bit further out. Took us longer to get here.”
“Mmhm.” She eyes the two of you over her glasses. “Heard about that. Heard you found a place together.”
Marta grins, smug as sin. “Market grapevine, sweetheart. I know things.”
You and Jake exchange a look.
“Relax,” she says, already wrapping two of your favorite scones. “I’m thrilled. About time you two stopped playing house and actually made it official.”
“Oh we make it official alright,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “New lease. Shared bills. The whole thing.”
Marta squints at you like she’s seen five couples say the same thing and still break up over mismatched dish towels. “Sure, sure. But let me know when there’s a real commitment.”
Jake raises a brow. “Buying furniture together isn’t real enough?”
Marta winks. “It’s a start. But the way you two look at each other? I’m expecting rings. Or vows. Or at the very least, a dog.”
You laugh and take the bag she offers, grateful for the familiar weight of it. Jake slings an arm around your waist and leans in close, whispering just loud enough for her to hear: “We’ll name the dog Marta.”
“You’d better not,” she shoots back without missing a beat, then shoos you away with a smile.
Back in the car, the bag of scones sits between you, still warm. Jake reaches for your hand and squeezes. You glance over and catch the look on his face—quiet, fond, steady.
“You know,” he says softly, “it doesn’t matter how far we move. That place will always be a little part of us.”
You smile. “Especially with Marta haunting our relationship timeline.”
Jake grins. “You think she’d officiate if we asked?”
“She’d probably demand it.”
You share a laugh, then a kiss—sweet and slow, flavored with sugar and sunshine. And as the car eases back onto the road, peaches in the trunk and a shared life unfolding one soft morning at a time, everything feels right.
You’re sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by open boxes of winter clothes you swore you’d organize two days ago. The soft whirr of Jake working in the next room hums in the background, and you’re halfway through refolding a hoodie when your phone buzzes.
You blink, surprised. You haven’t talked to him in a while—not since that impromptu double date with Jake and some girl named “something that starts with M and ended badly.”
You swipe to answer. “Hey! Everything okay?”
Sunghoon gets right to the point. “Remember the black lab who almost stole you from Jake?”
Your breath hitches. “…Storm?”
“The one and only,” he says. “Turns out, my friend—the one who adopted him—needs to move for work and can’t keep him. Long hours, tiny apartment. It’s not fair to the dog.”
You sit up straighter. “Wait, are you serious?”
“Dead serious,” Sunghoon says. “Storm’s still the same—a big, dumb, perfect sweetheart. But he needs a home. And, I mean, I know it’s a big ask, but I couldn’t not call you. The way you looked at him that day…” He trails off. “Jake didn’t even look mad. He looked resigned.”
You laugh, heart pounding.
“I can send you pictures,” Sunghoon adds, like he already knows you’ve softened.
You glance toward the bedroom, where Jake is still on his call, then look back at the heap of hoodies. You close your eyes for a second. “Send the pictures.”
Jake’s leaning in the doorway ten minutes later, phone in one hand, the other braced on the frame. He’s smiling. “So…” he says. “You want to tell me why there are four pictures of a black lab named Storm on my phone?”
You blink innocently. “Because the universe is generous?”
Jake crosses the room, drops onto the couch beside you, and studies your face. “You really want him.”
“He almost did steal me once. It feels poetic.”
Jake grins. “And chaotic.”
“He’s well-trained,” you say. “Mostly.”
Jake gives it two seconds, maybe three, before sighing and nodding. “Yeah. Let’s go meet him.”
You meet Storm two days later. He’s even bigger than you remember—still all shiny black fur and tail-wagging optimism. He recognizes you instantly, bounding forward like no time has passed, knocking your shoulder with his head before flopping onto his side for maximum belly access.
Jake crouches beside you, hand cautiously brushing over Storm’s back. After a few tail wags and one full-body dog sigh, he glances at you and murmurs, “We’re so done for.”
Your first Saturday as dog parents begins with wet nose nudges and a 6:22 AM tail slap to the ribs. Jake mutters something unintelligible into his pillow before groaning and dragging himself out of bed to clip on a leash. Storm, it turns out, loves mornings. And couches. And chicken. And trying to eat the mail.
But he loves Jake best of all—trailing after him from room to room, sleeping on his feet while he types, thumping his tail against the couch every time Jake looks at him.
“You’re such a traitor,” you tell Storm one afternoon.
Jake smirks. “He just knows who gives the best belly rubs and who comes home from the grocery store with treats.”
You roll your eyes. “Let’s take him to the market.”
Jake looks up. “Seriously?”
You nod. “Marta has to meet him. It's a requirement.”
Storm walks through the market like he owns the place. People stop to pet him. Vendors wave. One little girl gives him half a granola bar and after he scarfs it down you have to explain, gently, that it's not okay to accept bribes from toddlers.
When you reach Marta’s stall, she’s elbow-deep in powdered sugar and muttering to herself about someone’s botched almond glaze. She doesn’t look up until she hears the leash jingle.
“Well, well,” she says, eyes widening as she takes in the beast at your side. “So the rumors were true.”
Jake raises an eyebrow. “What rumors?”
Marta snorts. “Someone saw you two at the pet store. Buying food. A few collars. I have sources.”
Storm sits politely, tongue lolling, tail thumping like a drum. Marta crouches, holding his face in both flour-dusted hands. “You’re a good boy,” she murmurs, rubbing his ears. “You’ll keep them honest.”
She glances up at you. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
You already see it coming. Jake sighs.
Marta stands and brushes off her apron. “Dog’s the gateway to more commitment. Mark my words. First it’s chew toys. Then it’s wedding favors.”
Jake laughs. “If we even think about setting a date, you’re banned from the guest list.”
Marta scoffs. “Honey, I’d officiate. And I’d bring cupcakes.”
As you walk away, Storm trotting between you, you glance over at Jake. He looks peaceful—content in that settled kind of way, like this weird, wonderful life is exactly what he’d always hoped for, even if he hadn’t known it yet. You slide your hand into his.
“You realize this dog is just more proof we’re doing the life thing, right?”
Jake squeezes your hand. “Good. I like doing life with you.”
Storm barks once, happily, as if in agreement. And just like that, you keep walking—into whatever comes next.
And apparently that thing is hosting. You weren’t trying to make it a big thing. It started with a group chat. Just a “hey we’re thinking about having people over this weekend, nothing big.” And somehow that turned into Sunghoon and his roommate bringing two bottles of wine, Heeseung showing up with a six-pack “just in case,” and Jay dropping by despite saying he was busy but he brought homemade pasta so no one had the heart to question him.
Now there are too many shoes by the door, music buzzing low from the speaker, and Storm curled up right in the center of it all like he’s the host. Jake keeps muttering about someone stepping on the dog, and Sunghoon has already declared this “the most mature party I’ve ever been to, and I love it.”
You hand out mismatched mugs because you haven’t unpacked the real wine glasses yet. Jake opens another bag of chips with his teeth. Heeseung accidentally sits on a throw pillow that turns out to be Storm’s chew toy and yelps so loud everyone looks over.
“This place is so domestic,” Jay says, looking around with a grin.
“You’ve got candles. You’ve got framed photos. You’ve got dog hair on your floor.”
Jake raises a glass. “Cheers to settling down.”
You clink mugs. The music shifts to something nostalgic. The wine does its work.
Later—much later—you’re tucked into the corner of the couch beside Jake, your legs across his lap, his hand idly rubbing circles into your shin. Sunghoon is sitting cross-legged on the floor with half a cookie in one hand and a bottle in the other, eyes glassy but happy.
He points at you both. “You guys ever think about, like…” He pauses, squints. “The future-future?”
Jake blinks. “You mean like figuring out what's for dinner tomorrow or do you mea the next ten years?”
“Yeah,” Sunghoon says, nodding too hard. “Like… weddings. Babies. Or—or like… joining Costco. That kind of commitment.”
You snort. “That escalated.”
Jake looks at you, something soft in his eyes. “We talk about stuff sometimes.”
“Do you want that?” Sunghoon asks, and the question—drunk or not—hangs there for a second longer than it needs to.
Jake doesn’t look away. “Yeah. Eventually. Not because it’s expected. Just… because it’s her.”
Your heart trips over itself.
Sunghoon blinks. “Whoa. That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard while holding a beer bottle…”
Jay, from across the room: “Write that in your vows!”
Jake turns slightly, voice low, meant only for you. “Seriously, though. No rush. Just… whenever we’re ready. I’m in.”
You smile at him, leaning in to hold his hand. “…Thank you.”
It’s well past midnight by the time everyone’s gone. The lights are low. Storm is snoring softly at the foot of the couch. Jake is brushing his teeth in the half-lit bathroom while you pull on one of his shirts and finally let your hair down. You catch a glimpse of yourselves in the mirror—him behind you, sleepy and smiling, you leaning into the frame like you belong there.
“You looked so calm when you said it,” you murmur.
Jake wraps his arms around your waist. “Because I meant it.”
He chuckles. “Especially the Costco part.”
You laugh into his chest, and he presses a kiss to your temple, slow and sure.
Back in bed, the two of you curl around each other like always. Storm eventually finds his place by the door, loyal and half-asleep. The apartment is quiet again. And you think about the conversation from earlier: The future? Yeah. We’re building it already.
Storm’s been acting weird lately. Not barking or whining—just hovering. Following you more than usual. Sitting by the bathroom door every time you go in. Sniffing your lap like you’ve rolled in something suspicious. He even tried to climb halfway onto the bed while Jake was kissing down your stomach last night, completely unprompted and definitely unwelcome.
You’d laughed it off—“he's needy tonight”—but Jake had narrowed his eyes like he was starting to wonder about something. And now, tonight, you’re curled up on the couch, Jake’s hand under your shirt and his mouth warm against your neck, when Storm gets up from his bed and pads straight over.
Right in front of the couch, he sits. Tall. Still. Watching.
Jake pauses, then mutters with a groan, “Okay, what is with you lately?”
Storm just thumps his tail once and tilts his head toward you.
Jake’s eyes flick to you. “…You’ve been feeling weird at all?”
You laugh lightly, fingers threading through his hair. “You mean other than feeling some type of way because our dog is giving me side eye?”
“Exactly that,” he says, and kisses you again. “Forget it. We’ll deal with his jealousy later.”
He slips his hand further up your shirt.
Later that night, it’s different. It starts slow, like it always does when Jake’s in this kind of mood—lazy, reverent, confident. Like he wants to see you fall apart, not just feel good. The sheets are half-kicked off. Your shirt is gone. His hands are everywhere, warm and steady and just this side of rough.
Jake moves between your thighs, breath hot against your skin. He holds you open, mouth working you in slow, sinful circles until you're gasping, reaching, shaking. He doesn’t rush. He never rushes. His voice—low, coaxing, filthy—falls in between kisses and groans:
“Let me hear it, baby…”
“You’re already dripping, fuck…”
“You sound like you missed this—did you?”
You barely have the breath to answer. Then he’s up again—lips swollen, pupils blown—sliding into you with a low, grateful moan. The kind that makes your stomach flutter in that way you’ve never really been able to name.
Jake fucks you like he means it. Deep. Slow. Arms caging you in as he rocks into you, forehead brushing yours, both of you panting between messy kisses. You clutch at his back, nails dragging when he angles just right, hitting a spot that turns your moans into whimpers.
His mouth is right against your ear now, his voice almost pleading. “Let me give it to you—want you full, baby—want you fucked full and shaking—”
You do shake. You fall apart around him, crying out his name as your body clenches, pulls him deeper, and God, he loves that—he groans like he’s losing it, thrusts once more, and spills into you, hips twitching through it.
You hold each other after. His chest slick against yours, your thighs trembling, his lips pressed to your temple like he’s trying to ground himself in the moment. Neither of you speaks for a while. Until Storm whines from his spot by the door.
Jake lifts his head. “Okay, now I’m concerned.”
You’re standing at the bathroom mirror, brushing your teeth, when it hits you. You freeze. Spit. Rinse. Think. And think. You grab your phone. Open the calendar. Count backwards. Twice.
You stare into the mirror and whisper: “…holy shit.”
Storm walks in smug and noses your hip. You blink down at him. “You knew.”
He pants at you like that’s old news.
Ten minutes later, you crawl back into bed and press your forehead to Jake’s chest. His voice is gravelly. “That bad?”
“Wait—did you cry? What happened?”
You look up at him, eyes wide, heartbeat in your throat. “Jake.”
His demeanor changes instantly. “Talk to me.”
You whisper it. Just once. “I think I’m pregnant.”
Jake stills. Then—softly, carefully—he cups your face. “Are you okay?”
You nod. “I’m… yeah. I’m okay.”
He lets out a breath you didn’t realize he was holding. “Okay,” he says, pulling you into him completely. “Okay. We’re good. We’re so good.”
You bury your face in his chest and feel his heartbeat thumping strong and steady against your cheek. You both hear Storm settling in his bed.
Jake groans. “He called it.”
You laugh. “Yeah. Before either of us did.”
Jake kisses your hair and whispers, “He’s gonna be a big brother.”
And suddenly, it doesn’t feel scary at all.
The rain starts sometime around 9 a.m.—gentle at first, then steady enough that Storm sits by the window with his chin on the sill, watching each droplet like he’s waiting for it to spell something important.
You’ve been curled into Jake’s side on the couch, half-asleep and tangled up in his hoodie, warm mug in your hands, when he murmurs: “Wanna go see Marta’s new shop?”
You blink up at him, surprised. “Now? In this weather?”
He grins, leans in to kiss your cheek. “It’s perfect weather. She’ll be open, and I’ve been craving those orange cardamom buns since she posted them.”
You pretend to think it over. “Will there be hot chocolate?”
Jake squeezes your thigh. “I’ll make her serve you two. Extra whipped cream. Bribe her if I have to.”
You kiss him, slow and soft. “You got your priorities straight.”
The shop is nestled on a quiet corner, all red brick and mossy charm, the kind of storefront you’d walk past and hope is as good as it looks. The windows fog with warmth from the inside, golden light spilling out across the rain-slick sidewalk.
Marta’s new sign reads:
Sweet & Honest Breads • Pastries • Stories
Jake opens the door for you with a dramatic bow. The bell overhead jingles. The warmth hits immediately—cinnamon, brown butter, a hint of fresh basil from something still baking.
It’s cozy and lived-in already: mismatched chairs, local artwork hung with charm, shelves lined with jars of jam and recipe books. You’re peeling off your coat when Marta looks up from behind the counter and beams.
“Oh my God, if it isn’t the dog parents I’ve been keeping tabs on—get over here.”
You laugh as she hugs you, flour still on her hands, smelling like heaven. Jake accepts a one-armed hug while reaching toward the pastry case like a man on a mission.
“You’ve got almond croissants, right?” he asks.
You settle into a corner table by the window. Storm lies at your feet, tail wagging faintly every time someone walks by the front door. Jake’s warm knee bumps yours beneath the table. Rain whispers against the glass. You eat slowly, talk lazily, laugh too much over nothing. You tell Marta about the party, and she tells you about the guy who tried to return a croissant because it “wasn’t the right texture for a sandwich.”
Eventually, between bites and sips, she pauses. Leans against the counter. Looks at you both with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “Okay,” she says. “You two are glowing. Like, suspiciously.”
Jake shifts in his seat. His thigh brushes yours.
You press your lips together, trying not to smile. “Marta…”
She gasps so dramatically that Jake actually chokes on his hot chocolate.
She claps a hand to her mouth. “Wait, actually?!”
You nod. Slowly. “We haven’t told anyone yet. Not really.”
Marta sprints out from behind the counter to hug you. “You sneaky little wonder. You’re gonna be such a good mom.”
Jake stands too, pulling both you and Marta into his arms like he can’t not be a part of it. He’s beaming. Quiet, proud, glowing just like she said.
By the time you leave, the rain’s slowed to a mist. Jake holds your hand the whole walk home, paper bag of extra pastries swinging in his other. Storm trots ahead like he knows the way by heart. You’re walking slower now—not because you’re tired, but because it all just feels so right. Like this life is unfolding gently, with purpose, and you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
Jake glances at you. “That was kind of… surreal.”
You nod. “In a good way?”
He lifts your hand to his lips. “The best way.”
The mist halos around you in the streetlight. The smell of sugar still clings to your coat. And inside your belly, quiet and small and still just a whisper, something new is growing. You smile to yourself, press closer to him.
You’re in bed getting ready to sleep when Jake starts talking again. His arm is around your waist, his hand splayed gently over the lower curve of your belly—protective, absentminded, always there now. The lights are off. The room is warm. Storm is snoring lightly at the foot of the bed.
And Jake whispers, soft and drowsy, mouth pressed just behind your ear: “So, little bean,” he begins, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, “you missed a weird day.”
You smile, eyes still closed.
“First of all,” he continues, rubbing slow circles over your stomach, “your mom made these insanely good noodles for lunch and didn’t even act like it was a big deal. But it was. I almost cried.”
You let out a quiet laugh. Jake kisses your shoulder, keeps going.
“Then Storm found an empty bag of chips under the couch and tried to frame me for it. Not cool.”
He shifts closer, his body curling around yours instinctively. His voice softens.
“And then I spent twenty minutes just… sitting in your room. Thinking about you. And us. And how it’s gonna feel the first time I hold you.”
You blink your eyes open slowly, throat catching.
Jake’s voice cracks just a little. “I don’t know what kind of music you’ll like, or if you’ll have my nose or her hair, or if you’ll keep us up every night like a tiny goblin, but—”
He stops. Breathes. His hand stills.
“I can’t wait to meet you. I’m already so in love with someone I haven’t even met.”
You roll over and tuck yourself into him, your forehead pressed to his collarbone, arms wrapped tight around his ribs. You don’t even try to speak—just let your breath carry the answer.
Jake holds you close and rests his chin on your head. He whispers, “We’ve got you, little bean.”
And that’s how you fall asleep.
You don’t even get a word out before Sunghoon squints at you from across the table, halfway through his bibimbap, and says, “Something is off.”
Jay nods, suspicious. “You’re glowing.”
Sunoo gasps. “Like, skincare glowing, or like… divine intervention glowing?”
Jake coughs into his drink. You press your lips together to hold back a smile.
Sunghoon sets down his chopsticks. “No, seriously. What’s going on?”
You and Jake exchange a look—he lifts his brows like, ready? You nod, fingers laced together beneath the table.
Jake clears his throat. “So, we wanted to tell you guys something—”
Sunoo shrieks. “OH MY GOD YOU’RE ENGAGED.”
Jay practically flips the food containers. “WHAT?!”
“NO—” Jake waves his hands, laughing. “Not engaged! Can I finish?”
Sunghoon stares like he’s solving a math equation. “Then what else can it be?”
You reach over, pick up your drink calmly, and say, “I’m pregnant.”
The silence is immediate. Then:
“You’re LYING.” — Sunghoon“
Stop it. STOP—ARE YOU SERIOUS?” — Jay
Sunoo just starts crying. Literally crying. “Oh my God, the baby’s gonna be so cute.”
Jake grins so wide you think his cheeks might cramp. “We found out a few months ago but wanted to wait until was got a solid, healthy 13 week scan. We’re still adjusting. But yeah. It’s happening.”
Jay launches across the table to hug you both. Sunghoon follows with a stunned “holy shit,” and Sunoo squeezes into the group with wet eyes and the biggest smile. Storm barks once and immediately regrets it when three people try to include him in the hug.
After they settle down (barely), the follow-up chaos begins:
Sunoo: “Can I plan the baby shower? I already have ideas.”
Jay: “They’re gonna need a crib. I’ll build a crib.”
Sunghoon: “Wait. Does this mean I have to start being responsible around the baby? I can’t say shit anymore.”
You spend the rest of the night fielding ridiculous name suggestions (Sunoo’s convinced the baby should be named something celestial, Jay is lobbying hard for names that have cool nicknames, and Sunghoon just keeps saying “Maverick” like it’s a dare). But when things calm down and everyone’s full and happy and a little sleepy, Jake catches your eye.
The room’s glowing with laughter. Your belly’s just barely starting to show. And you’re surrounded by love you didn’t even know you’d get to have. Jake leans in, kisses your temple, and murmurs just for you: “Little bean’s gonna have the best uncles in the world.”
The plan was supposed to be simple: Have the guys over. Build the crib, dresser, and rocker. Order food. Make progress on the nursery.
The plan goes sideways around ten minutes in.
“I’m positive this piece goes here,” Jay insists, holding a mysterious slat upside-down.
“That’s the bottom of the drawer, you maniac,” Sunghoon counters, flipping through the manual.
Sunoo’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, every tool spread neatly around him like he’s hosting a live tutorial. “If you two would just let me pre-sort the hardware, we could all avoid emotional trauma.”
Jake’s kneeling next to the half-built crib, screwdriver in hand, grinning like a proud but slightly overwhelmed dad already. “I’m just here so the baby has somewhere to sleep that doesn’t collapse.”
From the doorway, you laugh and lean against the frame. “I’m taking Storm for a walk,” you say, hand rubbing your small-but-growing belly. “Try not to build a time machine by accident.”
“We make no promises,” Jay says solemnly.
Jake turns and catches your eye. He walks over, presses a kiss to your forehead, then another one—quick and reverent—to your belly. “Bring me back a muffin?”
You smile. “If you survive this, maybe you get two.”
The sidewalks are quiet this morning, golden leaves sticking to the wet pavement, the chill just soft enough to enjoy with a scarf wrapped high and your coat zipped snug. Storm walks close beside you, leash slack, nose twitching at every rustle of a bush.
When you round the corner, the scent of cinnamon and espresso hits you first, and then you see her. Marta stands just outside her shop, hands on her hips, hair up in a messy clip, watching the light drizzle mist her front window.
She sees you and immediately smiles. “Hey, mama.”
You laugh. “Hey, muffin dealer.”
She tilts her head, eyes soft. “You walking the beast or running from the men?”
She holds the door open for you with a knowing look. “Come on. My bet is you’ve got ten minutes before they start calling you for reinforcements.”
Inside, it’s warm and fragrant and humming with low music. Marta fixes you a tea without asking and hands Storm a little treat from behind the counter. But then, she does something unexpected. Instead of launching into a story or teasing you about Jake’s inevitable meltdown over Allen wrenches, she just leans on the counter, elbows propped, and looks at you.
Like she’s really seeing you. “You doing okay?” she asks softly.
It catches you off guard in the best way. You nod slowly. “Yeah. I am. Tired. A little achy. But… I’m good.”
She keeps her gaze steady. “It’s a weird thing, isn’t it? Growing a person. Being known from the inside.”
You blink. Then exhale. “It feels big in ways I didn’t expect.”
Marta reaches across the counter and squeezes your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You’re allowed to feel all of it. The bigness, the joy, the fear. It doesn’t mean you’re not ready— it just means you’re already carrying more than one heart.”
Something in your throat tightens. You weren’t expecting to tear up over tea and muffins, but here you are.
She grins at you, soft and solid. “Also, for the record? You and Jake are gonna raise one hell of a cool kid.”
You laugh wetly. “We’ll settle for one that sleeps.”
Storm thumps his tail at your feet.
Marta walks you back to the door, tucks a muffin bag into your hand, and kisses your cheek. “Next time, bring me a belly update. I have plans to teach your kid the fine art of brioche folding.”
You pause, hand on the door, and look back. “Thank you. For being… real with me.”
She smiles. “Anytime. This shop runs on flour and feelings.”
When you get home, there’s sawdust on the living room rug and someone’s gloves hanging from a curtain rod. “Progress?” you call out.
Sunghoon’s voice drifts from the nursery: “Depends on how you define progress.”
Sunoo’s follows: “We’ve built four out of seven pieces correctly and one of them is now an elaborate birdhouse since we accidentally messed it up.”
You step into the hallway and Jake rounds the corner, hair mussed, screwdriver in his back pocket, and a guilty-but-proud look on his face. He pulls you into a one-armed hug and kisses your temple. The nursery isn’t done yet. The house is a mess. You’re exhausted. And somehow, everything feels exactly right.
Jake is rearranging the nursery books for the third time. You’re sitting on the floor—well, technically on the plush rug he insisted on getting—with Storm curled beside you like a bodyguard. One of your hands rests over the curve of your belly, a gentle habit now.
Jake’s kneeling by the new little shelf, sorting a stack of board books that’s already growing faster than you expected.
You smile. “You do realize they won’t even be able to read for, like, years.”
He glances over his shoulder. “I know. But I want them to have good taste early on.”
You laugh softly. “Jake. One of those is The Very Hungry Caterpillar.”
“Exactly.” He holds it up, grinning. “Classic literature.”
He chooses a book, sits beside you, then shifts until he’s lying back against the wall, legs long and bent at the knee. He pats his thigh. “Come here.”
You scoot over and tuck yourself between his legs, back resting against his chest. His arms wrap around you automatically, one hand finding its favorite spot over your belly.
“Comfortable?” he murmurs.
“Mmhmm.” You tilt your head so your cheek rests against his jaw.
Then, quietly, like it’s not a big deal: “I wanna read to them.”
Your chest tightens, but not in a painful way—in that this is real way. The kind that wraps around your ribs like something sacred.
He opens the book slowly, his fingers trembling just a little. And then he reads. Soft and a little shy at first, voice gentle as he weaves his way through the pages, pausing to do the little voices, making you laugh with his caterpillar impersonation. His chin rests lightly against your temple. Every now and then, he stops to kiss the top of your head or trace your belly through your shirt with absentminded reverence.
“And then, after being a caterpillar… he became a beautiful butterfly,” he finishes, voice quiet.
He closes the book, lets the silence settle. You both stay like that for a minute. Breathing. Listening to the quiet hum of the house. Storm snoring somewhere outside the room. Jake speaks again, but this time to your belly.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice lower now. “I hope you liked the story. Your mom’s the real reader in this house, but I’ll try to keep up.”
His hand brushes over your skin.
“I just… I want you to know my voice. Even before you get here. I want it to feel safe.”
You blink fast, heart aching with tenderness.
Then Jake says, even softer: “We love you so much already. Okay? We’re so ready for you.”
And that’s when it happens. Just the faintest, fluttering pressure under his palm—not gas, not digestion—a soft, definite movement.
Jake freezes. “Did you—?”
You nod, eyes wide. “Did you feel that?!”
He looks completely wrecked in the best way. “Oh my God.”
His hand spreads wider, both of yours covering his, like if you press together hard enough the baby might kick again. It does.
Jake’s eyes shine. “Holy sh—” He stops himself. “Holy… muffins. That’s you, huh?”
You laugh through a tear and kiss his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “First kick.”
Jake leans down and you make room for him to kiss your belly like it’s a person. “Hi,” he whispers. “Can’t wait to meet you.”
One day you start to feel heaviness low in your belly that’s hard to place. Not pain—not exactly. Just… off. You haven’t felt the baby move all day, and while you tell yourself that’s normal. The baby’s small, they nap, you yourself were busy—something in your gut won’t settle.
By the time Jake gets home from running errands, you’re sitting on the edge of the bed with both hands over your stomach, trying not to spiral. He freezes in the doorway the second he sees your face. “Hey,” he says gently, dropping the bag of groceries. “What’s wrong?”
You try to explain—the quietness, the stillness, the not-knowing. Jake’s expression shifts slowly, from concern to full-on worry. He crosses the room in two strides and kneels in front of you, his hands already lifting your sweatshirt, his palms warm and shaky on your belly.
“Okay. It’s okay,” he murmurs, more for himself than you. “Let’s go in. Just to be safe. We’ll check. We’ll hear them.”
He’s already helping you into shoes, grabbing your coat, moving fast but careful— like he can’t think straight but won’t let it show. Storm whines at the door as you leave. The ride to the hospital is mostly quiet except for the sound of Jake’s hand squeezing yours in rhythm.
When the nurse leads you into the triage room, you change into the gown with Jake’s hands still on your shoulders. He kisses your temple three times—a ritual now—and murmurs, “I’ve got you. We’ve got this.”
The monitor is cold against your skin. The nurse says something reassuring, but you’re barely hearing her. You’re staring at the ceiling, breathing in twos and fours, and Jake’s forehead is pressed to your hand.
Then — woosh-woosh. woosh-woosh. woosh-woosh.
The sound hits like a wave. Jake exhales all at once, a half-sob trapped in his throat. Your eyes fill instantly.
“There you are,” he says hoarsely, rubbing his face into the crook of your arm. “Oh my god, there you are.”
The nurse smiles. “Strong little heartbeat. They were probably just curled up, taking a nap. It happens.”
You nod, wiping your cheeks. Jake kisses your knuckles, your wrist, your shoulder—like if he doesn’t keep kissing you, he’ll come undone.
Later, in the car, his hand rests over your belly again. He doesn’t say much. Just: “I didn’t realize how much of me already lives in you.”
And you press his hand tighter to your skin.
A few weeks later your friends show up with bags. Sunghoon practically kicks the front door open, balancing a giant giraffe plushie under one arm and a stack of gift bags under the other.
“Okay,” he announces, “I refuse to be the boring uncle.”
Jay comes in behind him, arms full of neatly labeled boxes. “Some of us read the registry.”
Sunoo enters last, dragging a bag the size of a small child and grinning like Christmas came early. “I went rogue. You’re welcome.”
You’re barely able to contain your laughter. “We said small things!”
Jake shrugs. “We said that. But we knew better.”
In the next hour, your living room becomes a tornado of tiny socks, organic baby lotion, books about feelings, and the loudest battery-operated swing on the market. Sunghoon insists the giraffe should be named something “majestic, like Fabio.” Jay quietly sets up a white noise machine in the corner like he’s nesting harder than you. Sunoo hand-delivers a onesie that says “Team Chaos” and then cries when Jake promises to frame it.
You and Jake collapse on the couch, surrounded by the evidence of people who love you.
And that’s when nesting begins. It starts with Jake determined to assemble the changing table tonight. Sunghoon joins in, fueled by cold brew and raw ambition. Jay tries to enforce organization: labels, bins, systems. Sunoo starts folding the baby clothes by color, mood, and potential vibe.
You sit back, one hand on your belly, the other holding a root beer float that Sunoo insisted you needed “for calcium.” Storm lies across your feet, smug and certain he’s the baby.
Jake glances up from the disaster zone of half-built furniture, grinning like a man deep in purpose. “I feel like we’re building a whole world,” he says.
You meet his eyes. “We are.”
And it’s messy. Loud. A little unhinged. But it’s home.
The nursery has been coming together for weeks: furniture built in chaos, walls painted between takeout meals, tiny clothes washed and folded with more care than your college laundry ever saw. But today, for some reason, it feels real. And it hits you all at once.
Maybe it’s the soft light filtering through the curtains. Maybe it’s how Jake’s hand finds yours as you both step into the room, no music, no laughter from friends… just quiet.
The crib stands against the far wall. There’s a cozy rocker in the corner, and a shelf filled with board books, some you recognize from your own childhood. The changing table is stocked, organized in a way that only lasted because Sunoo labeled everything. A basket of stuffed animals sits beside the rocker, with Fabio the giraffe poking out like a proud mascot.
Jake exhales slowly beside you. “Damn,” he murmurs. “It looks like someone actually lives here.”
You nod, squeezing his fingers. “Almost.”
He lets go of your hand only to wrap his arm around your waist, pulling you gently against his side. “I keep picturing it,” he says quietly. “Late nights. You rocking them here. Me falling asleep on the rug because I said I’d stay awake with you.”
You smile. “Storm snoring louder than the white noise machine.”
Jake laughs, resting his chin on top of your head. “I want all of it.”
The weight of his words settles over your chest—warm and grounding. You lean back slightly, look up at him. “I’m a little scared,” you admit. “But in a way that makes me want to do everything right.”
Jake doesn’t flinch. “Me too.” And then, softer: “But I think we’re doing it. Right now. Just by loving them this much already.”
You nod. Then he walks you over to the rocker, helps you sit, and lowers himself to the floor in front of you, head resting gently on your belly.
“Hey,” he whispers, hands on either side. “Your room’s ready. We’ve got books and giraffes and way too many wipes, but… mostly we’ve got love. And your mom. And me. And Storm, who’s convinced he’s the favorite.”
You laugh through a tear.
Jake looks up at you, eyes shining. “We’re ready when you are, okay?”
You’re already in bed when Jake slips out of the room. He thinks he’s being quiet, but you can hear the soft pad of his socks across the hallway, the faint creak of the living room floor, the telltale sigh of Storm stretching out. You wait a minute before tiptoeing to the doorway. He’s sitting on the rug, cross-legged, one hand buried in Storm’s fur. The lights are low, the world hushed.
Jake sighs and scratches behind Storm’s ear. “I know. Everything’s changing.”
Storm rests his chin on Jake’s thigh like he understands exactly what that means.
Jake keeps going. “You’re still my first. Okay? You made me a dog dad before I ever thought I could take care of anything. You taught me about showing up and being soft and knowing when someone just needs you to be close.”
He pauses, stroking Storm’s back slowly.
“But now we’re gonna have a baby. A real one. And I don’t want you to feel left out. Because I’m gonna need you, buddy. To help me show them how love works.”
Your throat tightens. Storm snorts like he’s making a promise.
Jake leans forward, resting his head on Storm’s shoulder. “They’re gonna love you. And you’re gonna love them. I just know it.”
You wait until he’s done, then tiptoe back to bed with tears in your eyes and a heart so full it hurts.
The nursery looks the same as it did when Jake and the guys finished it a month ago. But now there’s a baby in it. Wearing the onesie you laid a week ago. This isn’t a daydream anymore that elicited a feeling that tugged at your chest.
An actual baby. Your baby.
You’re rocking slowly in the chair, your daughter curled up against your chest, tucked into one of the many impossibly soft onesies Sunoo insisted you needed in “every pastel color known to man.” Her fingers twitch occasionally, her nose scrunching as she settles deeper into sleep. Her warmth, her weight, the sleepy rhythm of her breathing—it roots you to the floor like nothing ever has.
Jake is on the carpet, back against the crib, head tilted to the side as he watches both of you. “You know,” he says softly, “I thought this room felt alive before.”
You smile down at your daughter, smoothing a thumb over her cheek. “Me too.”
“But this is different…warm.” Jake reaches out and brushes your leg gently. “It feels like ours.”
You let out a breath before crying for the third time today. “I didn’t know I could love something this much while falling apart.”
Jake looks up at you, and something flickers across his face—raw and reverent. “Hey, you didn’t break,” he whispers. “You make us whole.”
You reach for him, and he rises to kneel at your feet, resting his head gently on your thigh. For a moment, there’s nothing but the soft sound of your baby breathing, the slow creak of the rocker, and the quiet hum of the baby monitor blinking steadily beside the crib.
The front door opens not long after that, and your peaceful bubble is promptly burst by the unmistakable trio of footsteps, half-shouted greetings, and the clatter of grocery bags.
“Jay, she’s probably sleeping—”
“Too late, I already announced our arrival. She’s getting all these uncles right this minute.”
Jake laughs from the hallway as you trail behind him with the baby safely nestled against your chest. Storm trots ahead of you, tail wagging like a proud big brother.
Sunghoon freezes at the sight of her. “I think I want one too.”
Sunoo’s already washed his hands and is reaching out gently. “Can I—?”
You nod and pass her over, heart aching in that weird new way that comes from loving your child and letting her be held at the same time.
Jay just smiles, eyes crinkling. “She looks like both of you. But mostly her mom.”
Jake wraps an arm around your waist. “That’s why she’s perfect.”
The guys come with pre-prepped meals, a bag of household essentials, and an unspoken agreement to run the vacuum while they’re here (but not when the baby’s sleeping). Jay fixes the crooked cabinet door you’ve been ignoring. Sunghoon changes the battery in the smoke detector. Sunoo somehow manages to organize the fridge without you realizing he opened it.
It’s a miracle. You and Jake get to sit down. Together. Like humans.
Later that evening, when the house is quiet again—just the four of you—Jake wraps you in a blanket and guides you to the couch. The baby’s in her bassinet beside you, fingers twitching, mouth in a perfect little pout.
“You wanna know something?” he murmurs, pulling you into his side.
“I used to think the nursery would be the center of everything. But it’s here. Right now. Wherever we are with her. That’s home.”
You close your eyes and rest your head on his shoulder. “We’re not sleeping well for a long time, are we?”
“Absolutely not, but we got each other and she has us.”
You both laugh softly, tired to your bones. But also loved, anchored, home.
