Jake x f!reader; established relationship, journey to parenthood
note: sexual content 18+ more fluff and slice-of-life though.
Itâs 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 youâd tucked under his arm earlier âfor the kitchen counter.â
Youâre 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 rowâa familiar one. A small handwritten sign still hangs over the awning: âMartaâs Morning Bakesâ. The table is lined with flaky galettes, cinnamon buns spiraled with sugar, and your shared favoriteâplum 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.
âJake!â Marta beams, her white apron streaked with flour, her round face glowing with delight as he approaches. Sheâs probably in her late sixties, though the twinkle in her eyes makes her feel more like someone who exists slightly outside of time. âYouâre back. I saved you two a few of the scones, just in case.â
Jakeâs smile spreads like butter on toast. âYouâre the best, Marta. I was hoping you had some left.â
âOf course I do. You and your girl are predictable,â she teases, placing two wrapped scones in a small brown bag with practiced care. âAnd I say that with love.â
Jake chuckles, pulling out his wallet. âItâs a fair accusation.â
Marta leans on the counter a bit, eyes narrowing in that way older women do when theyâre about to get nosy with no shame at all. âHow long have you two been together now?â
He thinks for a moment. âComing up on three years, I think.â
She clicks her tongue, the sound somehow both amused and exasperated. âThree years? Goodness. Youâd think with the way you look at her, it wouldâve happened already.â
Jake blinks, halfway through handing her a few crumpled bills. âHappened?â
She waves a flour-dusted hand meaningfully. âYou know⊠it. The down on one knee business.â
Jake flushes. âOh. Well, weâre not really in a rush.â
âNo one ever is until itâs too late,â she says, but her tone is gentle, the words wrapped in warmth rather than pressure. âBut love like that doesnât always come around twice. Sheâs a good one. Youâre a good one too, of course, but I like her more.â
Jake laughs, shoulders relaxing as he takes the bag of scones and the teasing in stride. âThat makes two of us.â
Marta winks. âBetter scoop her up before someone else with a fruit stall and good hair makes their move.â
âIâll keep that in mind,â he says, gaze already drifting back in your direction.
Youâre 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 Jakeâs immediately, and his expression softens in that way it always does when he looks at youâlike the world just got a little quieter, a little kinder.
You smile as you walk toward him, balancing the carton carefully. âTheyâre ripe. The kind that drip down your chin.â
He raises the bag in his hand. âMarta gave us our usual and scolded me for not proposing.â
Your eyebrows lift. âDid she now?â
He shrugs with a helpless smile. âSaid youâre out of my league.â
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 doesnât quite exist yet.
You nudge him with your shoulder. âYouâre not actually going to let a pastry lady dictate your timeline, are you?â
Jake leans down and kisses your temple, his voice low and amused. âNah. But⊠sheâs not wrong either.â
You glance up at him, something warm fluttering in your chest. Heâs not proposingânot todayâbut in that moment, with the scent of peaches between you and scone crumbs waiting in the car, itâs 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 marketâsun-warmed fruit, fresh bread, and the lingering cinnamon sugar of Martaâs sconesâtrailing in behind him.
âDo you want coffee or tea?â 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.
âOo tea,â you reply, leaning your hip against the counter. âBut iced.â
He grins. âGoing fancy on me today.â
âYou are,â he says, turning to flash you that playful, boyish smile. âTemperature-wise too, I guess.â
You laugh and swat his arm, then start unpacking the rest of the produce, setting the peaches out on a clean kitchen towel. Theyâre warm from the sun and so fragrant itâs 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.
âMartaâs definitely planning our wedding in her head now.â
You hum. âDo we get free pastries if she officiates?â
âHonestly, probably.â
You both laugh again, but there's a stillness in the beat that followsâa soft exhale, like the conversation has momentarily caught its breath.
Jakeâs voice lowers a little. âShe was right about one thing.â
You tilt your head back slightly to glance up at him. âWhich part?â
âThat being with you just⊠makes sense.â
Thereâs no performance in his voice. No grand gesture, no orchestral swellsâjust quiet sincerity, like the way warm light spills through windows in the morning. Familiar. Certain. You turn in his arms until youâre facing him, and his hands rest against your waist, thumbs brushing slow circles against your hips.
âYeah,â you say. âIt always has.â
Jake looks at you for a long secondâeyes flicking over your face like heâs memorizing something he already knows by heart. Then, without a word, he leans forward and kisses you. Itâs not rushed. Not heavy. Just soft and grounding, the kind of kiss that says: weâre home. When he pulls back, youâre smiling.
âYouâre not proposing, are you?â you tease, voice light.
He laughs under his breath, resting his forehead against yours. âNo. Not yet.â
He gives you a look thatâs half fondness, half certainty. âYou're it for me, Iâm not letting anyone else with a fruit stall and good hair steal you.â
You roll your eyes, but your heart tugs in your chest in that sweet, aching way that love often does. âBetter start saving for a ring then, Sim.â
He grins and kisses you againâquick, 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 thereâs no ring yet, no speech or spotlight or flowersâyou can feel it anyway. In the way he looks at you across a table. Like itâs always been meant to be.
Itâs 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. Youâre curled into the corner of the couch, legs tangled with Jakeâs, 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 faceâthe one where you know heâs been turning something over in his head all evening. He does this thing with his thumb when heâs preoccupied, absently rubbing it against the seam of the couch cushion, and he hasnât spoken in a few minutes.
You glance at him. âOkay, spill it.â
He blinks. âSpill what?â
âThat thing youâve been mentally monologuing for the last twenty minutes.â
He exhales a laugh and leans his head back against the couch cushion, eyes closing for a beat. âIs it that obvious?â
âLike, cartoon thought bubble obvious.â
Jake bites the inside of his cheek and shifts slightly so heâs facing you more. He brushes his fingers against your knee, gentle and grounding. âIâve been thinking about⊠the living situation.â
You tilt your head, not sure what he means.
âI mean, youâve been here for almost a year now. Since your lease ended. And itâs beenâlike, actually amazing. Better than I expected, honestly.â
You raise an eyebrow. âYou expected it to go badly?â
âNo! I meanâno. But it was technically temporary. At first. And I think I kind of just⊠ignored that part.â
You study him, curious now. âWhere are you going with this?â
He looks nervous in a way he didnât look when Marta suggested a ring. This is differentâless about romance and more about logistics, adulthood, permanence. The real, quietly scary kind of stuff.
âI think we should move,â he says finally, his voice quiet but steady. âTogether. Likeânot 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 thatâs ours. From scratch.â
You blink, caught off-guard by the weight of it.
âNot that I donât love having you here,â he rushes to add, eyes wide. âI do. God, I do. I justâthis place was never meant for two people. Iâve had the same couch since college. The water pressure sucks. The neighbors upstairs practice amateur tap dancing at midnight. Itâs not where I want us to⊠keep building.â
Youâre quiet for a moment, not because youâre unsure, but because itâs hitting you all at onceâhow significant it is. This isnât about space. Not really. Itâs about intent. About the kind of partnership that means choosing your shared life, not just falling into it.
Jake watches you nervously. âToo much?â
You shake your head, voice soft. âNo. Itâs just⊠weirdly more emotional than a proposal.â
He laughs, the tension easing slightly from his shoulders. âRight? Thatâs 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?â
âDonât forget pet policy. I know youâve been dreaming about a dog.â
âOr a cat,â you concede.
A moment of quiet falls between you, but itâs warm, full of all the future things left unsaid. Your heart feels full in that wide, steady wayânot fireworks, not drama, but the kind of clarity that seeps into your bones.
You lean forward and rest your forehead slowly against his. âLetâs do it.â
His hands come up to cradle your face, relieved and giddy all at once. âYeah?â
âYeah.â You nod. âLetâs find something ours.â
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.
Youâre in one of Jakeâs old T-shirtsâsomething soft and oversizedâleaning against the kitchen counter with a water glass in hand. Heâs 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. âWhat?â he asks, smiling around the edges, cheeks flushed from the heat still clinging to the walls.
You tilt your head. âJust thinking how stupidly good you look when youâre tired.â
He scoffs lightly, running a hand through his already-mussed hair. âI probably smell like cardboard and stress.â
âAnd yet,â you murmur, stepping toward him, âI want you anyway.â
Jakeâs 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.
âI know weâve both been running on fumes,â you say, voice low. âBut Iâve been thinking about this night for months. Being here. With you. Not in your old apartment. Not temporary. Ours.â
He exhales, like your words winded him. You rise up slightly to kiss himâslow, 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.
âGod, baby,â he murmurs against your mouth, âyou trying to ruin me?â
âNo,â you breathe, lips trailing down his jaw, âIâm trying to take care of you.â
Jake swears softly when you nudge him backward toward the bedroomâbarely 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 skinâup his arms, over his collarbone, down the line of his stomach.
âYouâve done so much,â you murmur, almost to yourself. âYou built everything. Lifted everything. Took care of all the details.â
He reaches for you, but you gently press him back with a palm to his chest.
âLet me, baby.â you say.
Something flickers in his eyesâneed, affection, trustâand he lets you push him down until heâs 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 intentionâreverent 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 firstâjust enough to make him curse under his breath, his thighs tightening beneath you.
âYouâre gonna kill me,â he groans, throwing an arm over his eyes.
You smile. âNot yet.â
And then you lean down and take him into your mouth. Slow, deep, deliberate. Jakeâs whole body shudders. His hand instinctively tangles in your hair, not to control, just to anchor. You work him gently, expertlyâsavoring 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 donât stop until heâs trembling beneath you, his hips fighting not to buck, his voice breaking as he begsâsoft and raggedâfor you to let him cum. When he does, itâs 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 youâve found your home in him. Jake pulls you close, still breathless, still stunned.
âYou didnât have to do all that,â he murmurs.
âI wanted to,â you whisper against his jaw. âYou deserve to feel taken care of too.â
He hums and rolls you onto your side, wrapping himself around you like heâs never letting go. Thereâs no need to say I love you. Itâs 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 thatâs the both of yours.
The following morning the first thing you register is sunlight. Not glaringâjust warm, honey-colored morning light spilling through the windows you havenât 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. Jakeâs 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 doesnât speak at firstâjust tightens his hold, pressing his lips against the curve of your neck.
âMorning,â you whisper, voice thick and sleep-heavy.
âBarely,â he murmurs, his voice still low and gravel-soft. âSunâs only been up for like⊠ten minutes.â
âShould we keep sleeping?â
Jake chuckles against your skin. âI was thinking the opposite.â
You open one eye. âOh?â
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.
âYou did a lot for me last night,â he murmurs, lips brushing your shoulder, then your jaw. âThink I owe you.â
You smile, already melting into him. âOwe me, huh?â
Jake shifts so youâre on your back and heâs leaning over youâhair mussed, eyes still sleepy but hungry.
âI want to take care of you this time.â He kisses your collarbone, the center of your chest. âMake you feel good. Make you feel mine.â
Your breath catches as his mouth trails lower, his hands sliding under the sheets with easy, confident affection. Thereâs no rush. No pressure. Just slow, consuming warmth as he takes his timeâkissing down your stomach, coaxing your legs apart with steady hands and soft groans against your skin.
Heâs thorough. Devoted. You gasp his name when his mouth finds you, and Jake groans in response like youâve just handed him a gift. He doesn't stopânot until your fingers are tangled in the sheets, your back arching, and heâs holding you through every wave that follows. He kisses up your body, catching your breath in his, his hand cradling your cheek like youâre still tremblingâand you are.
âYouâre dangerous,â you murmur when you finally come back to yourself, nuzzling into his neck.
He grins. âYou started it.â
Later, with sleepy limbs and matching coffee cups in hand, you find yourselves in the carâwindows 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 passâlike you just slipped out of your old life into a better one with the same soundtrack.
And of course, thereâs Marta. She spots you two from across her stall like a hawk who smells affection.
âWell, look who decided to grace us with their presence,â she calls out, both hands on her hips, her apron once again dusted in flour.
Jake laughs. âWe moved a bit further out. Took us longer to get here.â
âMmhm.â She eyes the two of you over her glasses. âHeard about that. Heard you found a place together.â
Marta grins, smug as sin. âMarket grapevine, sweetheart. I know things.â
You and Jake exchange a look.
âRelax,â she says, already wrapping two of your favorite scones. âIâm thrilled. About time you two stopped playing house and actually made it official.â
âOh we make it official alright,â you say, gesturing vaguely. âNew lease. Shared bills. The whole thing.â
Marta squints at you like sheâs seen five couples say the same thing and still break up over mismatched dish towels. âSure, sure. But let me know when thereâs a real commitment.â
Jake raises a brow. âBuying furniture together isnât real enough?â
Marta winks. âItâs a start. But the way you two look at each other? Iâm expecting rings. Or vows. Or at the very least, a dog.â
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: âWeâll name the dog Marta.â
âYouâd better not,â 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 faceâquiet, fond, steady.
âYou know,â he says softly, âit doesnât matter how far we move. That place will always be a little part of us.â
You smile. âEspecially with Marta haunting our relationship timeline.â
Jake grins. âYou think sheâd officiate if we asked?â
âSheâd probably demand it.â
You share a laugh, then a kissâsweet 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.
Youâre sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by open boxes of winter clothes you swore youâd organize two days ago. The soft whirr of Jake working in the next room hums in the background, and youâre halfway through refolding a hoodie when your phone buzzes.
You blink, surprised. You havenât talked to him in a whileânot since that impromptu double date with Jake and some girl named âsomething that starts with M and ended badly.â
You swipe to answer. âHey! Everything okay?â
Sunghoon gets right to the point. âRemember the black lab who almost stole you from Jake?â
Your breath hitches. ââŠStorm?â
âThe one and only,â he says. âTurns out, my friendâthe one who adopted himâneeds to move for work and canât keep him. Long hours, tiny apartment. Itâs not fair to the dog.â
You sit up straighter. âWait, are you serious?â
âDead serious,â Sunghoon says. âStormâs still the sameâa big, dumb, perfect sweetheart. But he needs a home. And, I mean, I know itâs a big ask, but I couldnât not call you. The way you looked at him that dayâŠâ He trails off. âJake didnât even look mad. He looked resigned.â
You laugh, heart pounding.
âI can send you pictures,â Sunghoon adds, like he already knows youâve 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. âSend the pictures.â
Jakeâs leaning in the doorway ten minutes later, phone in one hand, the other braced on the frame. Heâs smiling. âSoâŠâ he says. âYou want to tell me why there are four pictures of a black lab named Storm on my phone?â
You blink innocently. âBecause the universe is generous?â
Jake crosses the room, drops onto the couch beside you, and studies your face. âYou really want him.â
âHe almost did steal me once. It feels poetic.â
Jake grins. âAnd chaotic.â
âHeâs well-trained,â you say. âMostly.â
Jake gives it two seconds, maybe three, before sighing and nodding. âYeah. Letâs go meet him.â
You meet Storm two days later. Heâs even bigger than you rememberâstill 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 Stormâs back. After a few tail wags and one full-body dog sigh, he glances at you and murmurs, âWeâre so done for.â
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 allâtrailing 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.
âYouâre such a traitor,â you tell Storm one afternoon.
Jake smirks. âHe just knows who gives the best belly rubs and who comes home from the grocery store with treats.â
You roll your eyes. âLetâs take him to the market.â
Jake looks up. âSeriously?â
You nod. âMarta has to meet him. It's a requirement.â
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 Martaâs stall, sheâs elbow-deep in powdered sugar and muttering to herself about someoneâs botched almond glaze. She doesnât look up until she hears the leash jingle.
âWell, well,â she says, eyes widening as she takes in the beast at your side. âSo the rumors were true.â
Jake raises an eyebrow. âWhat rumors?â
Marta snorts. âSomeone saw you two at the pet store. Buying food. A few collars. I have sources.â
Storm sits politely, tongue lolling, tail thumping like a drum. Marta crouches, holding his face in both flour-dusted hands. âYouâre a good boy,â she murmurs, rubbing his ears. âYouâll keep them honest.â
She glances up at you. âYou know what this means, donât you?â
You already see it coming. Jake sighs.
Marta stands and brushes off her apron. âDogâs the gateway to more commitment. Mark my words. First itâs chew toys. Then itâs wedding favors.â
Jake laughs. âIf we even think about setting a date, youâre banned from the guest list.â
Marta scoffs. âHoney, Iâd officiate. And Iâd bring cupcakes.â
As you walk away, Storm trotting between you, you glance over at Jake. He looks peacefulâcontent in that settled kind of way, like this weird, wonderful life is exactly what heâd always hoped for, even if he hadnât known it yet. You slide your hand into his.
âYou realize this dog is just more proof weâre doing the life thing, right?â
Jake squeezes your hand. âGood. I like doing life with you.â
Storm barks once, happily, as if in agreement. And just like that, you keep walkingâinto whatever comes next.
And apparently that thing is hosting. You werenât trying to make it a big thing. It started with a group chat. Just a âhey weâre thinking about having people over this weekend, nothing big.â And somehow that turned into Sunghoon and his roommate bringing two bottles of wine, Heeseung showing up with a six-pack âjust in case,â 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 heâs the host. Jake keeps muttering about someone stepping on the dog, and Sunghoon has already declared this âthe most mature party Iâve ever been to, and I love it.â
You hand out mismatched mugs because you havenât 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 Stormâs chew toy and yelps so loud everyone looks over.
âThis place is so domestic,â Jay says, looking around with a grin.
âYouâve got candles. Youâve got framed photos. Youâve got dog hair on your floor.â
Jake raises a glass. âCheers to settling down.â
You clink mugs. The music shifts to something nostalgic. The wine does its work.
Laterâmuch laterâyouâre 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. âYou guys ever think about, likeâŠâ He pauses, squints. âThe future-future?â
Jake blinks. âYou mean like figuring out what's for dinner tomorrow or do you mea the next ten years?â
âYeah,â Sunghoon says, nodding too hard. âLike⊠weddings. Babies. Orâor like⊠joining Costco. That kind of commitment.â
You snort. âThat escalated.â
Jake looks at you, something soft in his eyes. âWe talk about stuff sometimes.â
âDo you want that?â Sunghoon asks, and the questionâdrunk or notâhangs there for a second longer than it needs to.
Jake doesnât look away. âYeah. Eventually. Not because itâs expected. Just⊠because itâs her.â
Your heart trips over itself.
Sunghoon blinks. âWhoa. That was the most romantic thing Iâve ever heard while holding a beer bottleâŠâ
Jay, from across the room: âWrite that in your vows!â
Jake turns slightly, voice low, meant only for you. âSeriously, though. No rush. Just⊠whenever weâre ready. Iâm in.â
You smile at him, leaning in to hold his hand. ââŠThank you.â
Itâs well past midnight by the time everyoneâs 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 mirrorâhim behind you, sleepy and smiling, you leaning into the frame like you belong there.
âYou looked so calm when you said it,â you murmur.
Jake wraps his arms around your waist. âBecause I meant it.â
âEven the Costco part?â
He chuckles. âEspecially the Costco part.â
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. Weâre building it already.
Stormâs been acting weird lately. Not barking or whiningâjust hovering. Following you more than usual. Sitting by the bathroom door every time you go in. Sniffing your lap like youâve 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.
Youâd laughed it offââhe's needy tonightââbut Jake had narrowed his eyes like he was starting to wonder about something. And now, tonight, youâre curled up on the couch, Jakeâs 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, âOkay, what is with you lately?â
Storm just thumps his tail once and tilts his head toward you.
Jakeâs eyes flick to you. ââŠYouâve been feeling weird at all?â
You laugh lightly, fingers threading through his hair. âYou mean other than feeling some type of way because our dog is giving me side eye?â
âExactly that,â he says, and kisses you again. âForget it. Weâll deal with his jealousy later.â
He slips his hand further up your shirt.
Later that night, itâs different. It starts slow, like it always does when Jakeâs in this kind of moodâlazy, 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 doesnât rush. He never rushes. His voiceâlow, coaxing, filthyâfalls in between kisses and groans:
âLet me hear it, babyâŠâ
âYouâre already dripping, fuckâŠâ
âYou sound like you missed thisâdid you?â
You barely have the breath to answer. Then heâs up againâlips swollen, pupils blownâsliding into you with a low, grateful moan. The kind that makes your stomach flutter in that way youâve 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. âLet me give it to youâwant you full, babyâwant you fucked full and shakingââ
You do shake. You fall apart around him, crying out his name as your body clenches, pulls him deeper, and God, he loves thatâhe groans like heâs 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 heâs 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. âOkay, now Iâm concerned.â
Youâre 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: ââŠholy shit.â
Storm walks in smug and noses your hip. You blink down at him. âYou knew.â
He pants at you like thatâs old news.
Ten minutes later, you crawl back into bed and press your forehead to Jakeâs chest. His voice is gravelly. âThat bad?â
âWaitâdid you cry? What happened?â
You look up at him, eyes wide, heartbeat in your throat. âJake.â
His demeanor changes instantly. âTalk to me.â
You whisper it. Just once. âI think Iâm pregnant.â
Jake stills. Thenâsoftly, carefullyâhe cups your face. âAre you okay?â
You nod. âIâm⊠yeah. Iâm okay.â
He lets out a breath you didnât realize he was holding. âOkay,â he says, pulling you into him completely. âOkay. Weâre good. Weâre so good.â
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. âHe called it.â
You laugh. âYeah. Before either of us did.â
Jake kisses your hair and whispers, âHeâs gonna be a big brother.â
And suddenly, it doesnât feel scary at all.
The rain starts sometime around 9 a.m.âgentle at first, then steady enough that Storm sits by the window with his chin on the sill, watching each droplet like heâs waiting for it to spell something important.
Youâve been curled into Jakeâs side on the couch, half-asleep and tangled up in his hoodie, warm mug in your hands, when he murmurs: âWanna go see Martaâs new shop?â
You blink up at him, surprised. âNow? In this weather?â
He grins, leans in to kiss your cheek. âItâs perfect weather. Sheâll be open, and Iâve been craving those orange cardamom buns since she posted them.â
You pretend to think it over. âWill there be hot chocolate?â
Jake squeezes your thigh. âIâll make her serve you two. Extra whipped cream. Bribe her if I have to.â
You kiss him, slow and soft. âYou got your priorities straight.â
The shop is nestled on a quiet corner, all red brick and mossy charm, the kind of storefront youâd 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.
Martaâs new sign reads:
Sweet & Honest Breads âą Pastries âą Stories
Jake opens the door for you with a dramatic bow. The bell overhead jingles. The warmth hits immediatelyâcinnamon, brown butter, a hint of fresh basil from something still baking.
Itâs cozy and lived-in already: mismatched chairs, local artwork hung with charm, shelves lined with jars of jam and recipe books. Youâre peeling off your coat when Marta looks up from behind the counter and beams.
âOh my God, if it isnât the dog parents Iâve been keeping tabs onâget over here.â
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.
âYouâve got almond croissants, right?â 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. Jakeâs 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 âwasnât the right texture for a sandwich.â
Eventually, between bites and sips, she pauses. Leans against the counter. Looks at you both with narrowed, suspicious eyes. âOkay,â she says. âYou two are glowing. Like, suspiciously.â
Jake shifts in his seat. His thigh brushes yours.
You press your lips together, trying not to smile. âMartaâŠâ
She gasps so dramatically that Jake actually chokes on his hot chocolate.
She claps a hand to her mouth. âWait, actually?!â
You nod. Slowly. âWe havenât told anyone yet. Not really.â
Marta sprints out from behind the counter to hug you. âYou sneaky little wonder. Youâre gonna be such a good mom.â
Jake stands too, pulling both you and Marta into his arms like he canât not be a part of it. Heâs beaming. Quiet, proud, glowing just like she said.
By the time you leave, the rainâs 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. Youâre walking slower nowânot because youâre tired, but because it all just feels so right. Like this life is unfolding gently, with purpose, and youâre exactly where youâre supposed to be.
Jake glances at you. âThat was kind of⊠surreal.â
You nod. âIn a good way?â
He lifts your hand to his lips. âThe best way.â
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.
Youâre 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 bellyâprotective, 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: âSo, little bean,â he begins, like itâs the most natural thing in the world, âyou missed a weird day.â
You smile, eyes still closed.
âFirst of all,â he continues, rubbing slow circles over your stomach, âyour mom made these insanely good noodles for lunch and didnât even act like it was a big deal. But it was. I almost cried.â
You let out a quiet laugh. Jake kisses your shoulder, keeps going.
âThen Storm found an empty bag of chips under the couch and tried to frame me for it. Not cool.â
He shifts closer, his body curling around yours instinctively. His voice softens.
âAnd then I spent twenty minutes just⊠sitting in your room. Thinking about you. And us. And how itâs gonna feel the first time I hold you.â
You blink your eyes open slowly, throat catching.
Jakeâs voice cracks just a little. âI donât know what kind of music youâll like, or if youâll have my nose or her hair, or if youâll keep us up every night like a tiny goblin, butââ
He stops. Breathes. His hand stills.
âI canât wait to meet you. Iâm already so in love with someone I havenât even met.â
You roll over and tuck yourself into him, your forehead pressed to his collarbone, arms wrapped tight around his ribs. You donât even try to speakâjust let your breath carry the answer.
Jake holds you close and rests his chin on your head. He whispers, âWeâve got you, little bean.â
And thatâs how you fall asleep.
You donât even get a word out before Sunghoon squints at you from across the table, halfway through his bibimbap, and says, âSomething is off.â
Jay nods, suspicious. âYouâre glowing.â
Sunoo gasps. âLike, skincare glowing, or like⊠divine intervention glowing?â
Jake coughs into his drink. You press your lips together to hold back a smile.
Sunghoon sets down his chopsticks. âNo, seriously. Whatâs going on?â
You and Jake exchange a lookâhe lifts his brows like, ready? You nod, fingers laced together beneath the table.
Jake clears his throat. âSo, we wanted to tell you guys somethingââ
Sunoo shrieks. âOH MY GOD YOUâRE ENGAGED.â
Jay practically flips the food containers. âWHAT?!â
âNOââ Jake waves his hands, laughing. âNot engaged! Can I finish?â
Sunghoon stares like heâs solving a math equation. âThen what else can it be?â
You reach over, pick up your drink calmly, and say, âIâm pregnant.â
The silence is immediate. Then:
âYouâre LYING.â â Sunghoonâ
Stop it. STOPâARE YOU SERIOUS?â â Jay
Sunoo just starts crying. Literally crying. âOh my God, the babyâs gonna be so cute.â
Jake grins so wide you think his cheeks might cramp. âWe found out a few months ago but wanted to wait until was got a solid, healthy 13 week scan. Weâre still adjusting. But yeah. Itâs happening.â
Jay launches across the table to hug you both. Sunghoon follows with a stunned âholy shit,â 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: âCan I plan the baby shower? I already have ideas.â
Jay: âTheyâre gonna need a crib. Iâll build a crib.â
Sunghoon: âWait. Does this mean I have to start being responsible around the baby? I canât say shit anymore.â
You: âYou just said it.â
Sunghoon: âOh my GOD.â
You spend the rest of the night fielding ridiculous name suggestions (Sunooâs convinced the baby should be named something celestial, Jay is lobbying hard for names that have cool nicknames, and Sunghoon just keeps saying âMaverickâ like itâs a dare). But when things calm down and everyoneâs full and happy and a little sleepy, Jake catches your eye.
The roomâs glowing with laughter. Your bellyâs just barely starting to show. And youâre surrounded by love you didnât even know youâd get to have. Jake leans in, kisses your temple, and murmurs just for you: âLittle beanâs gonna have the best uncles in the world.â
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.
âIâm positive this piece goes here,â Jay insists, holding a mysterious slat upside-down.
âThatâs the bottom of the drawer, you maniac,â Sunghoon counters, flipping through the manual.
Sunooâs sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, every tool spread neatly around him like heâs hosting a live tutorial. âIf you two would just let me pre-sort the hardware, we could all avoid emotional trauma.â
Jakeâs kneeling next to the half-built crib, screwdriver in hand, grinning like a proud but slightly overwhelmed dad already. âIâm just here so the baby has somewhere to sleep that doesnât collapse.â
From the doorway, you laugh and lean against the frame. âIâm taking Storm for a walk,â you say, hand rubbing your small-but-growing belly. âTry not to build a time machine by accident.â
âWe make no promises,â Jay says solemnly.
Jake turns and catches your eye. He walks over, presses a kiss to your forehead, then another oneâquick and reverentâto your belly. âBring me back a muffin?â
You smile. âIf you survive this, maybe you get two.â
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. âHey, mama.â
You laugh. âHey, muffin dealer.â
She tilts her head, eyes soft. âYou walking the beast or running from the men?â
She holds the door open for you with a knowing look. âCome on. My bet is youâve got ten minutes before they start calling you for reinforcements.â
Inside, itâs 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 Jakeâs inevitable meltdown over Allen wrenches, she just leans on the counter, elbows propped, and looks at you.
Like sheâs really seeing you. âYou doing okay?â she asks softly.
It catches you off guard in the best way. You nod slowly. âYeah. I am. Tired. A little achy. But⊠Iâm good.â
She keeps her gaze steady. âItâs a weird thing, isnât it? Growing a person. Being known from the inside.â
You blink. Then exhale. âIt feels big in ways I didnât expect.â
Marta reaches across the counter and squeezes your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. âYouâre allowed to feel all of it. The bigness, the joy, the fear. It doesnât mean youâre not readyâ it just means youâre already carrying more than one heart.â
Something in your throat tightens. You werenât expecting to tear up over tea and muffins, but here you are.
She grins at you, soft and solid. âAlso, for the record? You and Jake are gonna raise one hell of a cool kid.â
You laugh wetly. âWeâll settle for one that sleeps.â
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. âNext time, bring me a belly update. I have plans to teach your kid the fine art of brioche folding.â
You pause, hand on the door, and look back. âThank you. For being⊠real with me.â
She smiles. âAnytime. This shop runs on flour and feelings.â
When you get home, thereâs sawdust on the living room rug and someoneâs gloves hanging from a curtain rod. âProgress?â you call out.
Sunghoonâs voice drifts from the nursery: âDepends on how you define progress.â
Sunooâs follows: âWeâve built four out of seven pieces correctly and one of them is now an elaborate birdhouse since we accidentally messed it up.â
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 isnât done yet. The house is a mess. Youâre exhausted. And somehow, everything feels exactly right.
Jake is rearranging the nursery books for the third time. Youâre sitting on the floorâwell, technically on the plush rug he insisted on gettingâwith Storm curled beside you like a bodyguard. One of your hands rests over the curve of your belly, a gentle habit now.
Jakeâs kneeling by the new little shelf, sorting a stack of board books thatâs already growing faster than you expected.
You smile. âYou do realize they wonât even be able to read for, like, years.â
He glances over his shoulder. âI know. But I want them to have good taste early on.â
You laugh softly. âJake. One of those is The Very Hungry Caterpillar.â
âExactly.â He holds it up, grinning. âClassic literature.â
He chooses a book, sits beside you, then shifts until heâs lying back against the wall, legs long and bent at the knee. He pats his thigh. âCome here.â
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.
âComfortable?â he murmurs.
âMmhmm.â You tilt your head so your cheek rests against his jaw.
Then, quietly, like itâs not a big deal: âI wanna read to them.â
Your chest tightens, but not in a painful wayâin 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.
âAnd then, after being a caterpillar⊠he became a beautiful butterfly,â 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.
âHey,â he whispers, voice lower now. âI hope you liked the story. Your momâs the real reader in this house, but Iâll try to keep up.â
His hand brushes over your skin.
âI just⊠I want you to know my voice. Even before you get here. I want it to feel safe.â
You blink fast, heart aching with tenderness.
Then Jake says, even softer: âWe love you so much already. Okay? Weâre so ready for you.â
And thatâs when it happens. Just the faintest, fluttering pressure under his palmânot gas, not digestionâa soft, definite movement.
Jake freezes. âDid youâ?â
You nod, eyes wide. âDid you feel that?!â
He looks completely wrecked in the best way. âOh my God.â
His hand spreads wider, both of yours covering his, like if you press together hard enough the baby might kick again. It does.
Jakeâs eyes shine. âHoly shââ He stops himself. âHoly⊠muffins. Thatâs you, huh?â
You laugh through a tear and kiss his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. âFirst kick.â
Jake leans down and you make room for him to kiss your belly like itâs a person. âHi,â he whispers. âCanât wait to meet you.â
One day you start to feel heaviness low in your belly thatâs hard to place. Not painânot exactly. Just⊠off. You havenât felt the baby move all day, and while you tell yourself thatâs normal. The babyâs small, they nap, you yourself were busyâsomething in your gut wonât settle.
By the time Jake gets home from running errands, youâre 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. âHey,â he says gently, dropping the bag of groceries. âWhatâs wrong?â
You try to explainâthe quietness, the stillness, the not-knowing. Jakeâs 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.
âOkay. Itâs okay,â he murmurs, more for himself than you. âLetâs go in. Just to be safe. Weâll check. Weâll hear them.â
Heâs already helping you into shoes, grabbing your coat, moving fast but carefulâ like he canât think straight but wonât let it show. Storm whines at the door as you leave. The ride to the hospital is mostly quiet except for the sound of Jakeâs hand squeezing yours in rhythm.
When the nurse leads you into the triage room, you change into the gown with Jakeâs hands still on your shoulders. He kisses your temple three timesâa ritual nowâand murmurs, âIâve got you. Weâve got this.â
The monitor is cold against your skin. The nurse says something reassuring, but youâre barely hearing her. Youâre staring at the ceiling, breathing in twos and fours, and Jakeâs forehead is pressed to your hand.
Then â 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.
âThere you are,â he says hoarsely, rubbing his face into the crook of your arm. âOh my god, there you are.â
The nurse smiles. âStrong little heartbeat. They were probably just curled up, taking a nap. It happens.â
You nod, wiping your cheeks. Jake kisses your knuckles, your wrist, your shoulderâlike if he doesnât keep kissing you, heâll come undone.
Later, in the car, his hand rests over your belly again. He doesnât say much. Just: âI didnât realize how much of me already lives in you.â
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.
âOkay,â he announces, âI refuse to be the boring uncle.â
Jay comes in behind him, arms full of neatly labeled boxes. âSome of us read the registry.â
Sunoo enters last, dragging a bag the size of a small child and grinning like Christmas came early. âI went rogue. Youâre welcome.â
Youâre barely able to contain your laughter. âWe said small things!â
Jake shrugs. âWe said that. But we knew better.â
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 âmajestic, like Fabio.â Jay quietly sets up a white noise machine in the corner like heâs nesting harder than you. Sunoo hand-delivers a onesie that says âTeam Chaosâ 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 thatâs 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 âfor calcium.â Storm lies across your feet, smug and certain heâs the baby.
Jake glances up from the disaster zone of half-built furniture, grinning like a man deep in purpose. âI feel like weâre building a whole world,â he says.
You meet his eyes. âWe are.â
And itâs messy. Loud. A little unhinged. But itâs 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 itâs the soft light filtering through the curtains. Maybe itâs how Jakeâs 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. Thereâs 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. âDamn,â he murmurs. âIt looks like someone actually lives here.â
You nod, squeezing his fingers. âAlmost.â
He lets go of your hand only to wrap his arm around your waist, pulling you gently against his side. âI keep picturing it,â he says quietly. âLate nights. You rocking them here. Me falling asleep on the rug because I said Iâd stay awake with you.â
You smile. âStorm snoring louder than the white noise machine.â
Jake laughs, resting his chin on top of your head. âI want all of it.â
The weight of his words settles over your chestâwarm and grounding. You lean back slightly, look up at him. âIâm a little scared,â you admit. âBut in a way that makes me want to do everything right.â
Jake doesnât flinch. âMe too.â And then, softer: âBut I think weâre doing it. Right now. Just by loving them this much already.â
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.
âHey,â he whispers, hands on either side. âYour roomâs ready. Weâve got books and giraffes and way too many wipes, but⊠mostly weâve got love. And your mom. And me. And Storm, whoâs convinced heâs the favorite.â
You laugh through a tear.
Jake looks up at you, eyes shining. âWeâre ready when you are, okay?â
Youâre already in bed when Jake slips out of the room. He thinks heâs 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. Heâs sitting on the rug, cross-legged, one hand buried in Stormâs fur. The lights are low, the world hushed.
Jake sighs and scratches behind Stormâs ear. âI know. Everythingâs changing.â
Storm rests his chin on Jakeâs thigh like he understands exactly what that means.
Jake keeps going. âYouâre 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.â
He pauses, stroking Stormâs back slowly.
âBut now weâre gonna have a baby. A real one. And I donât want you to feel left out. Because Iâm gonna need you, buddy. To help me show them how love works.â
Your throat tightens. Storm snorts like heâs making a promise.
Jake leans forward, resting his head on Stormâs shoulder. âTheyâre gonna love you. And youâre gonna love them. I just know it.â
You wait until heâs 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 thereâs a baby in it. Wearing the onesie you laid a week ago. This isnât a daydream anymore that elicited a feeling that tugged at your chest.
An actual baby. Your baby.
Youâre 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 âevery pastel color known to man.â Her fingers twitch occasionally, her nose scrunching as she settles deeper into sleep. Her warmth, her weight, the sleepy rhythm of her breathingâit 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. âYou know,â he says softly, âI thought this room felt alive before.â
You smile down at your daughter, smoothing a thumb over her cheek. âMe too.â
âBut this is differentâŠwarm.â Jake reaches out and brushes your leg gently. âIt feels like ours.â
You let out a breath before crying for the third time today. âI didnât know I could love something this much while falling apart.â
Jake looks up at you, and something flickers across his faceâraw and reverent. âHey, you didnât break,â he whispers. âYou make us whole.â
You reach for him, and he rises to kneel at your feet, resting his head gently on your thigh. For a moment, thereâs 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.
âWhereâs the baby!â
âJay, sheâs probably sleepingââ
âToo late, I already announced our arrival. Sheâs getting all these uncles right this minute.â
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. âI think I want one too.â
Sunooâs already washed his hands and is reaching out gently. âCan Iâ?â
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. âShe looks like both of you. But mostly her mom.â
Jake wraps an arm around your waist. âThatâs why sheâs perfect.â
The guys come with pre-prepped meals, a bag of household essentials, and an unspoken agreement to run the vacuum while theyâre here (but not when the babyâs sleeping). Jay fixes the crooked cabinet door youâve been ignoring. Sunghoon changes the battery in the smoke detector. Sunoo somehow manages to organize the fridge without you realizing he opened it.
Itâs a miracle. You and Jake get to sit down. Together. Like humans.
Later that evening, when the house is quiet againâjust the four of youâJake wraps you in a blanket and guides you to the couch. The babyâs in her bassinet beside you, fingers twitching, mouth in a perfect little pout.
âYou wanna know something?â he murmurs, pulling you into his side.
âI used to think the nursery would be the center of everything. But itâs here. Right now. Wherever we are with her. Thatâs home.â
You close your eyes and rest your head on his shoulder. âWeâre not sleeping well for a long time, are we?â
âAbsolutely not, but we got each other and she has us.â
You both laugh softly, tired to your bones. But also loved, anchored, home.