#co parenting

[jackandjackiekennedyfan]

[jjkvisions]

Are we really over?-part1 || Jeon Jungkook

Five months after breaking up, you and Jungkook are no longer lovers — just parents doing their best for your daughter. But co-parenting blurs lines, and unresolved love doesn’t fade quietly.

Between shared dinners, late-night FaceTimes, and misunderstandings that cut too deep, old feelings resurface where they were never meant to.

Some love stories don’t end. They just pause — waiting to be confronted.

Masterlist

𐙚 Genre: parents au, exes to lover, soft-angst,slow-burn, emotional slice of life

𐙚 Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

𐙚 Warnings: Emotional Angst, Breakup Aftermath, Misunderstandings, Child Involved (co-parenting themes), Mild Emotional Distress

𐙚 wc:5.4k

𐙚 Part 1

____

Five months.

That’s how long it had been since the words we’re done were spoken out loud. Since boxes were packed, tears were swallowed, and love was folded away like something fragile—something that would shatter if handled wrong.

Yet somehow… Jungkook never really left.

He stands in your doorway now, jacket still on, like he hasn’t decided whether he belongs here or not.

“Her shoes are on the wrong feet again,” he says gently, crouching in front of your daughter as he fixes them. His fingers are careful. Familiar.

The same hands that once held your face like it was precious.

Mila—your daughter—is staying with him for a little while. It’s his turn to have her.

“She likes it that way,” you reply, leaning against the kitchen counter with your arms crossed. “Says it makes her faster.”

Jungkook huffs out a quiet laugh before he even realizes it.

God. That laugh still does something to you.

Mila giggles as he lifts her effortlessly, planting a kiss on her cheek. She smells like baby shampoo and crayons and the kind of love that makes heartbreak complicated.

“Daddy, are you staying for dinner?” she asks, stuffed bunny clutched in one hand as she wraps the other arm around his neck.

The question hangs in the air.

Jungkook’s eyes flick to you. Just for a second—long enough to say everything he won’t say out loud.

“Mmm… if Mommy says it’s okay,” he answers carefully.

“Please, Mommy,” Mila pouts, eyes wide and pleading. “Can Daddy stay?”

Your chest tightens.

You know she misses him. Every night she asks for her dad.

And when she’s with him, she asks for you.

The change has been hard on her.

You hate that you’re the reason.

You should say no.

Boundaries. Healing. Moving on.

But Mila looks at you like you’re the only thing standing between her and happiness.

So instead, you nod. “He can stay.”

Something shifts in Jungkook’s expression—relief, maybe. Or regret. Or hope. You don’t let yourself name it.

──

Five months broken up, and yet here you are. Sharing school schedules. Doctor appointments. Late-night texts about fevers and nightmares. Pretending your heart doesn’t race every time you hear his voice.

You tell yourself this is all for your daughter.

You don’t know if you still love him.

You just know that every time he leaves, the apartment feels too quiet.

Too empty

And every time he comes back—for her—you wonder if this is really the end—or just the pause before something starts again.

Later, Jungkook sits on the floor of Mila’s room, listening intently as she talks about her Barbies like it’s the most important thing in the world.

You watch from the hallway.

And for a moment—just a moment—it looks like a life you almost kept.

You lean against the wall, arms wrapped around yourself, afraid the moment might disappear if you breathe too loud.

Jungkook sits cross-legged on the floor, tiny plastic shoes scattered everywhere, holding a Barbie delicately between his fingers as Mila explains their entire lives—who’s married, who’s fighting, who stole whose dream house.

He nods along like it matters.

Like she matters more than anything.

“And this one,” Mila says seriously, pointing, “is the mommy. She’s sad.”

Jungkook’s smile falters. Just a little. “Why’s she sad, baby?”

“’Cause the daddy doesn’t live with her anymore.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look at you, but you feel it anyway—the weight of it pressing into the room. He swallows, then gently sets the Barbie down.

“Sometimes,” he says carefully, “grown-ups live in different houses. But they still love each other. And they always love their kid. Always.”

Mila thinks about that, bunny tucked under her chin. “So you still love Mommy?”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

The pause is too long. Heavy. Honest.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “Very much.”

Your throat tightens. You turn away before either of them can see the tears burning your eyes.

You don’t know if that answer was for her… or for you.

You busy yourself in the kitchen—straightening a counter that’s already clean, wiping a spot that doesn’t exist. Anything to keep your hands from shaking.

From the hallway, you hear Mila giggle again. Bright. Pure. Unaware of how broken things really are.

You remember when Jungkook used to sit on the floor like that every night. When this house still felt full. When you thought love was enough.

Then it hits you.

Dinner.

──

You exhale slowly and pull ingredients from the fridge on autopilot. Pasta. Something easy. Something that doesn’t require thinking.

You feel him before you hear him.

Jungkook leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you move like it’s still allowed.

“I can help,” he offers.

You shake your head. “I’ve got it.”

He doesn’t argue. He never does anymore. Instead, he sets the table like muscle memory never broke.

The silence is loud.

Mila chatters as Jungkook lifts her into her chair, cutting her food without being asked. You pass the sauce without looking at him.

It feels… domestic.

Too domestic.

“So,” Mila says brightly, twirling pasta onto her fork, “Daddy, Mommy makes better spaghetti than you.”

You snort before you can stop yourself.

Jungkook grins. “Wow. Betrayal.”

For a split second, it’s easy. Natural. Like nothing ever ended.

Then Mila looks between you. “Why don’t you eat together like before?”

Your fork freezes.

Jungkook stiffens beside you.

“That was a long time ago, baby,” you say gently.

“Oh,” she murmurs. “I liked it.”

You swallow the lump in your throat.

Dinner drags on longer than it should—tiny bites, endless stories—like Mila knows what comes next. Like she’s trying to stretch time until it breaks.

You catch Jungkook watching her with that look. The one that says he hates this part as much as you do.

After dinner Mila insists on Dessert, ice cream. Sprinkles. Too many sprinkles.

Jungkook lets her put some on his nose, and you laugh—actually laugh—before remembering you’re not supposed to.

The sound fades too quickly.

Later, as Mila brushes her teeth, Jungkook rinses dishes beside you.

“Thank you for letting me stay,” he says quietly.

You nod. “She needed it.”

“She always does.”

Mila grabs her stuffed bunny again and asks. “Daddy, can I show you my Barbies again before we go?” She pleads.

You can tell she doesn’t want to leave. Not you. Not him. She doesn’t want either of you to be alone.

You all know it.

Jungkook hesitates. Just for a second. Then he nods. “Okay. Five minutes.”

You stand in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, listening to their muffled laughter from the bedroom—soft, familiar sounds that no longer belong to you.

When they return, Mila’s already in her jacket. Too small now. You make a mental note to buy a bigger one.

“I’ll bring her back Sunday night,” Jungkook says quietly, reaching for her backpack.

You nod. “Her inhaler’s in the side pocket.”

“I know.”

Of course he does.

Mila hugs you tight, face pressed into your stomach. “I’ll miss you, Mommy.”

Your chest tightens. “I’ll miss you too, baby.”

She pulls back, looks between you and Jungkook. “Can you come with us?”

The question hits like a punch.

Jungkook freezes.

You crouch in front of her, forcing a smile that hurts your cheeks. “Not tonight. But Daddy’s gonna take really good care of you.”

He meets your eyes over her head. Steady. Serious. “I promise.”

She nods, then takes his hand.

You walk them to the door.

Jungkook pauses there, keys in hand, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Of the apartment. Of this life.

“She’ll call if she wants to,” he says.

“I know.”

Their fingers are already intertwined when he opens the door.

Mila waves. “Night, Mommy!”

“Night, my love.”

The door closes.

The silence that follows is different this time.

Louder.

You lock the door, press your forehead against it, and exhale shakily.

This—this—is the part no one talks about.

Not the breakup. Not the fighting.

The moment you have to watch your child walk away with the person you still love…

…and stay behind alone.

──

Jungkook doesn’t start the car right away.

Mila’s already buckled in the backseat, bunny tucked under her chin, eyes fixed on the window like she’s memorizing the shape of the building. The same building he just walked out of. The same door that closed a little too loud behind him.

He grips the steering wheel until his knuckles ache.

This part never gets easier.

“Daddy?” Mila’s voice is small. Careful. “Mommy’s gonna be okay, right?”

His chest tightens.

“Yeah, baby,” he says, forcing the words out steady. “She’s okay.”

He pulls out of the parking spot, the apartment shrinking in the rearview mirror. He doesn’t look for long. If he does, he knows he’ll want to turn around.

The silence in the car is heavy—different from the comfortable kind it used to be. Mila hums softly to herself, kicking her feet, trying to be brave in the way only kids are.

Jungkook hates himself for this part most of all.

For making her learn how to split her heart.

He stops at a red light and exhales shakily, forehead dropping forward for half a second before he straightens again. He can’t fall apart—not now. Not with her watching.Not with her inside this car.

He thinks about you standing at the door. The way you smiled for Mila but not for him. The way your eyes looked tired. Lonely.

Still beautiful. Still home.

He shouldn’t have said it.

Yes, I still love Mommy.

But lying to her felt worse than telling the truth.

Because he does.

Every damn day.

“Daddy,” Mila says again, softer now. “Why don’t you live with Mommy?”

His throat tightens. He swallows.

“Because Daddy made some mistakes,” he answers honestly. “And Mommy needed space.”

“Do you miss her?

The question lands like a punch to the chest.

He nods, even though she can’t see it. “Yeah. I miss her a lot.”

Mila is quiet for a moment. Then: “I miss when we were all together.”

So do I, he thinks.

He pulls into traffic, city lights blurring as his eyes burn. He blinks hard, forcing it down.

At another stoplight, he checks the rearview mirror. Mila’s eyelids are drooping now, exhaustion finally winning. She looks peaceful. Safe.

That’s the only thing keeping him upright.

When he finally pulls into his driveway, he carries her inside carefully, like she might break. She curls into him instinctively, face pressed into his neck.

He breathes her in.

After he tucks her into bed, after the lights are dim and the door is cracked open just the way she likes it, Jungkook sits alone on the edge of his couch.

The apartment is quiet.

Too quiet.

He pulls his phone out without thinking, thumb hovering over your name. He doesn’t text. He never does. He knows better.

Instead, he stares at the screen until it goes dark.

He leans back, covers his face with his hands, and lets the regret sink in—heavy and unforgiving.

Loving you was never the hard part.

Letting you go…

was the mistake he doesn’t know how to live with.

──

Jungkook sinks into the couch, shoulders heavy, head leaning back against the cushions. The apartment is quiet now—too quiet. Mila’s bedroom door is slightly closed, her soft, even breathing drifting through the gap. She’s asleep. Safe. Peaceful.

And he’s not.

He runs a hand through his hair, gripping the armrest until his knuckles turn white. His chest feels tight, like it might cave in at any moment.

“I ruined it,” he whispers to the empty room. The words sound weak, swallowed by the silence. “I ruined everything.”

It wasn’t love that ended things between you and him. That part had never wavered. He loved you too much. Maybe too much to see straight.

But love… isn’t always enough.

He remembers the fights. The tension that built like a storm, the pride that made him shut down instead of opening up. The jealousy he never admitted, the stubbornness he never apologized for. The nights he chose work over you, excuses over honesty.

“I wasn’t ready,” he admits quietly, voice breaking. “I wasn’t ready to be the man you needed. To be the partner… the one you deserved.”

He thinks back to the night it all ended—the fight that should have been solved with words instead of walls. You had said, I can’t do this anymore. And he… he hadn’t fought hard enough.

“I could’ve been better,” he whispers, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve loved you without holding back, without letting my fear… without letting myself ruin us.”

He lets out a harsh, uneven breath, tears blurring his vision. He hates himself for the timing of everything, for the choices he made that tore your lives apart.

He thinks about the little things from tonight—your laugh when Mila put sprinkles on his nose, the way you leaned in to straighten her hair, the soft way you talked to her. He remembers how alive the apartment felt when you were all together.

He wants that back. Desperately.

But he knows the truth. He and you… you can’t just go back. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“I love her,” he murmurs to himself, voice cracking. “I love her so much… and I lost the one I shouldn’t have.”

He leans back into the couch, staring at the ceiling. The tears slide down his face, silent and unrelenting.

Outside, the city hums on, unaware of the regret sitting in this little apartment. Inside, Jungkook is just a man who loves too much, broke too easily, and has to live with the consequences.

──

The apartment feels wrong the second the door closes.

Too big.

Too quiet.

You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, keys still in your hand, listening to nothing. No little footsteps. No soft humming from the living room. No Jungkook clearing his throat like he always did when he didn’t know what to say.

You lock the door and lean your forehead against it, breathing out slowly, like if you don’t do it carefully you might break.

Mila’s room is the worst part.

You pass it on the way to the kitchen and instinctively glance inside. The bed is made. Too neat. Bunny missing. The faint smell of her shampoo still lingers, like proof she was here and then suddenly wasn’t.

You don’t go in.

You make tea you won’t finish and sit on the couch, curling your legs beneath you. The spot next to you is empty. It always is now. Still, your body hasn’t learned yet.

Your phone lights up.

For half a second, your heart jumps.

It’s not him.

You let the screen go dark and stare at it anyway, like maybe if you wait long enough his name will appear.

It doesn’t.

You think about him driving away. About Mila in the backseat,

You shouldn’t think about the way he looked at you tonight. Careful. Regretful. Like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing and losing you all over again.

You hug a pillow to your chest and exhale shakily.

“I’m doing the right thing,” you whisper to the empty room.

You repeat it like a promise.

Like a lie.

Because doing the right thing shouldn’t feel this lonely.

You stand and wander into the bedroom, opening drawers you don’t need to open, straightening clothes that don’t need fixing. Avoiding the bed for as long as you can.

When you finally sit, the weight hits you all at once.

This was the side you used to sleep on.

He always slept there.

You lie back and stare at the ceiling, eyes burning.

You remember the last fight—the real one. The one where you begged him to listen, to stay, to choose you without hesitation. The way he shut down instead. The way silence did more damage than shouting ever could.

“I needed you,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I still did.”

Your chest tightens, grief pressing in from all sides.

You don’t miss the arguments.

You don’t miss the fear.

You miss the way he made the world feel less heavy when he tried.

Your phone buzzes again.

Your breath catches.

Still not him.

You roll onto your side and finally let the tears come, quiet and ugly, soaking into the pillow. You bite your lip to keep from making a sound, like he might hear you through walls and distance and guilt.

“I still love you,” you admit to no one.

The words don’t change anything.

You fall asleep that way—curled around emptiness, heart split between the man you let go and the child you had to.

And somewhere across the city, without knowing it, Jungkook stares at his phone too.

──

Morning comes too early.

Sunlight spills through the curtains in thin, pale lines, landing across the couch where Jungkook spent half the night awake. He blinks, disoriented, before memory settles in all at once.

Mila.

He pushes himself up just as her bedroom door creaks open.

“Daddy?” she whispers, rubbing her eyes, bunny dragging along the floor behind her.

He’s on his feet instantly. “Hey, baby.”

She walks straight into his arms like it’s instinct, like she’s been doing it her whole life. He lifts her easily, pressing a kiss into her hair and breathing her in.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asks.

She nods, then pauses. “Mommy didn’t come.”

His chest tightens, but he keeps his voice steady. “Mommy’s at home. Remember? It’s Daddy’s weekend.”

“Oh.” She thinks about that, then rests her head against his shoulder. “Okay.”

Breakfast is pancakes—slightly uneven, a little too brown on one side—but Mila doesn’t care. She sits on the counter in her pajamas, swinging her feet while he flips them.

“You make funny shapes,” she giggles.

“That one’s a dinosaur,” he says confidently.

“It looks like a blob.”

He laughs despite himself. Real, warm, and brief.

They eat together at the small kitchen table. Mila tells him about a dream she had where all three of you lived in a pink house with a big yard and a dog that talked.

Jungkook smiles and nods, even as his chest aches.

After breakfast, they end up on the living room floor. Coloring books. Crayons everywhere. Mila insists on drawing your family.

She draws three stick figures.

One tall. One with long hair. One small in the middle.

She adds hearts. A lot of them.

“Who’s that?” Jungkook asks gently, pointing.

“That’s Mommy,” she says easily. “And you. And me.”

He swallows. “That’s nice.”

She looks up at him. “Are we still a family?”

The question is innocent. Curious. Not meant to hurt.

It still does.

“Yes,” he answers after a moment. “We’re just… a different kind of family right now.”

She nods like that makes sense. Kids are better at accepting broken things than adults.

Later, they get dressed to go to the park. Jungkook ties her shoes—on the correct feet this time—and watches her race ahead of him, laughter echoing through the air.

Other parents watch. Couples. Families.

He doesn’t let himself look too long.

At the park, Mila climbs and runs and laughs like nothing in the world is wrong. Jungkook pushes her on the swings, higher and higher, until she shrieks with joy.

“Again!” she yells.

“Okay, okay,” he laughs, arms aching, heart full and breaking at the same time.

As she swings, he pulls out his phone without thinking.

Your name is right there.

He doesn’t call.

He doesn’t text.

But for the first time that morning… he almost does.

──

Your POV

Morning feels wrong without Mila.

You wake up automatically at the time she usually crawls into bed with you, hair in your face, bunny shoved between you. Your arm reaches out before your brain catches up.

Empty.

You sit up slowly, staring at the small dent in the mattress that’s already fading. The apartment is too quiet again—no cartoons humming, no tiny footsteps, no soft Mommy from the doorway.

You move through the morning on autopilot. Coffee. Toast you don’t finish. You pass by the entryway and your eyes land on the hook where Mila’s jacket usually hangs.

It’s not there.

And suddenly you remember last night. The way it barely zipped. The sleeves that stopped too short at her wrists.

Your chest tightens.

“She’s growing so fast,” you murmur to yourself.

The thought hits you all at once: She needs a new jacket.

The idea gives you purpose—something to do with the ache instead of just sitting in it. You grab your keys and head out, convincing yourself it’s practical. Normal. A mom thing.

The kids’ store smells like cotton and detergent. Soft. Safe. You run your fingers over tiny coats, checking sizes, colors Mila would like.

Pink is her favorite right now. With stars.

You smile sadly as you lift one from the rack. “She’d love this.”

You imagine her wearing it. Jungkook zipping it up. The thought makes your chest hurt in that quiet way you’re getting used to.

You take the jacket to the register, holding it close like it already belongs to her.

On your way out, you spot the café across the street. The same one you and Jungkook used to take Mila to on Sunday mornings.

You don’t know why you look.

But you do.

And that’s when you see him.

Jungkook stands just inside the store next door—the kids’ clothing section—holding a jacket in his hands.

Your heart jumps.

Then your stomach drops.

Because there’s a woman standing in front of him.

She’s close. Too close. Laughing softly, head tilted toward him in a way that feels familiar. Comfortable. Like she belongs there.

Your fingers tighten around the shopping bag.

You freeze.

You don’t hear what they’re saying. You don’t see the jacket he’s holding. All you see is the way she touches his arm lightly when she laughs.

Something sharp twists in your chest.

Already?

Five months and already?

You take a step back before either of them can notice you.

You tell yourself you have no right to feel this way.

But it still hurts.

──

Jungkook POV

Jungkook stands in the kids’ section, staring at the rack of jackets like it’s a puzzle he’s failing. Mila stands beside him playing with all the clothes that stands on the rack.

“Why are there so many sizes?” He mumbles

He lifts one off the hanger, frowning. Mila had complained about her sleeves riding up at the park. He should’ve noticed sooner.

“This one’s cute,” a voice says.

He turns.

“Oh—” He blinks in surprise. “Hey.”

The woman smiles easily. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

It’s someone from his past. Not recent. Not that past—but familiar enough. Someone who knew him before everything broke.

“My daughter ,” he says quickly, holding up the jacket. “I’m, uh… shopping for her.”

Mila peeps around her dad’s leg and he brushes her hair softly.

She laughs softly and squats down to her level.

“Hello” Mila hides again shyly from the lady.

She stands back up and looks directly at jungkook

“You always were bad at choosing clothes.”

He huffs. “Still am.”

They make small talk. Safe talk. She gestures to a different jacket, pointing out the size tag. He nods, grateful for the help but distracted, thoughts still stuck on Mila. On you.

He doesn’t notice the way she steps closer.

Doesn’t see the moment you pause across the street.

“Congrats, by the way,” she says. “Being a dad suits you.”

“Thanks,” he replies quietly. “She’s… everything.”

He smiles—but it’s tired. Fond. Not the kind that means more.

He pays for the jacket, thanks her politely, and steps outside, phone already in his hand.

Your name hovers on the screen again.

He doesn’t know that across the street, you’ve already turned away—heart heavy with a picture you didn’t have context for.

And just like that, something fragile shifts.

──

“Daddy.”

The word pulls him out of his thoughts instantly.

“Yes, baby?”

Mila kicks her feet lightly in her car seat, eyes bright through the rearview mirror. “I want McDonald’s.”

He smiles automatically. “You do?”

She nods enthusiastically. “Chicken nuggets and Happy Meal.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he starts the car. “You know you don’t have to say both, right? It’s the same thing.”

She gasps, offended. “Nooo. I want chicken nuggets and a Happy Meal.

He laughs louder this time. “Alright, alright. Can’t argue with that logic.”

They pull into the drive-thru not even ten minutes later. Mila narrates the entire process like it’s an event, pointing at the menu, reminding him not to forget the apple slices.

“You want a toy?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says seriously. “But not a boy toy.”

He grins. “Got it.”

When he hands her the box, she lights up like it’s Christmas, immediately rummaging through it for the nuggets. By the time they’re back on the road, she’s happily chewing, crumbs dotting her jacket.

He glances back at her, heart squeezing.

Too small.

He should change her jacket when they get home.

“You happy?” he asks.

She nods, mouth full. “Mhmm.”

That’s enough.

At home, he helps her out of her seat, wipes her hands, and lets her choose her favorite show. She settles onto the couch with her bunny, legs tucked under her, utterly content.

The TV fills the room with bright colors and cheerful music.

Jungkook sinks onto the couch beside her, exhaustion finally catching up. He watches her more than the screen — the way she hums along, the way her eyes droop just slightly when she gets comfortable.

For a moment, everything is quiet.

Normal.

But his phone buzzes in his pocket, and without even checking it, he thinks of you.

Of the store.

Of the strange heaviness in his chest he can’t shake.

He has no idea you saw him.

No idea that while his daughter eats her nuggets and laughs at the TV, you’re somewhere else, replaying a moment that meant nothing to him…

And everything to you.

──

Jung-kook POV

Bedtime sneaks up faster than he expects.

Mila’s movements slow, her energy fading in that gentle way kids do when they’re trying to stay awake longer than their bodies will allow. She drags her bunny by one ear as she pads into the kitchen, climbing onto the stool like it takes more effort than usual.

“Daddy,” she murmurs, rubbing her eyes. “Can you make me a banana milkshake?”

He pauses mid-step.

Her favorite.

“Of course,” he says softly. “You sit right there, okay?”

She nods, chin resting in her hands as she watches him peel the banana. He moves carefully, quietly — the blender only pulsed once, just enough to mix everything without startling her.

When he sets the cup in front of her, she smiles. A small one. Tired. Sweet.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

He watches her sip it slowly, her legs swinging less and less, until finally she sighs.

“I miss Mommy.”

The words land heavier than he’s ready for.

He keeps his face calm. Gentle. Like he practiced. “Yeah?”

She nods, eyes glossy. “I like when she tucks me in.”

His chest tightens.

“Do you want to talk to her?” he asks, carefully. “Just for a little bit?”

Her head lifts immediately. “Can I?”

“Yeah,” he says, already reaching for his phone. “I think Mommy would like that.”

He FaceTimes you before he can overthink it.

It rings once.

Twice.

He shifts closer to Mila, angling the phone so she’s in frame, thumb hovering anxiously.

Then your face appears on the screen.

For a split second, he forgets how to breathe.

You look tired. Soft. Like the day took more out of you than you wanted to admit.

“Mila?” you say, surprise melting instantly into warmth.

“MOMMY!” she squeals, nearly dropping her cup as she leans into the screen.

You laugh — that laugh — and Jungkook feels something crack open in his chest.

“There’s my girl,” you say. “What are you doing?”

“I’m having banana milkshake!” she announces proudly. “Daddy made it!”

You look at him then.

Just briefly.

Your eyes meet his through the screen, and for a second, it’s like the space between houses disappears.

“He always makes it best,” you say quietly.

His throat tightens. “I try.”

Mila yawns hard, resting her head against his side. You notice immediately.

“Someone’s sleepy,” you murmur.

“She fought it,” he admits softly.

Mila pouts weakly. “I didn’t.”

You smile gently. “You wanna tell Mommy goodnight?”

She nods, lifting the phone closer to her face. “Goodnight, Mommy. I love you.”

Your voice catches. He hears it.

“I love you more than anything,” you whisper. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

She nods, already drifting.

Jungkook watches your face as you watch her.

Two people loving the same small human from opposite sides of something broken.

When he ends the call, the silence feels heavier — but warmer too.

He lifts Mila carefully, milkshake forgotten on the counter, and carries her to bed.

As he tucks her in, he thinks about how easy it felt to call you.

How natural.

And how terrifying that is.

Because loving you never stopped.

He just learned how to live with the ache.

──

Jungkook POV

Mila falls asleep fast.

One minute she’s murmuring something about her bunny, the next her breathing evens out, lashes resting against her cheeks. Jungkook stays beside her longer than necessary, hand resting lightly on her back like she might disappear if he moves too soon.

He straightens her blanket. Tucks the bunny under her arm.

“Goodnight, baby,” he whispers.

He closes the door halfway, leaving it cracked like he always does, then sinks onto the couch with a quiet exhale. The apartment feels different at night. Smaller. Too still.

His phone rests in his palm before he realizes he picked it up.

He opens your chat.

The last message sits there like a line he never crossed.

Jungkook: She fell asleep. Thank you for talking to her.

He types it. Deletes it.

Types again.

Jungkook: Goodnight.

His thumb hovers.

It would be harmless. Polite. Normal. Parents say goodnight.

But his chest tightens anyway.

Because he knows if he sends it, he’ll wait for your reply. And if you reply, he’ll want more. Another message. Another moment. Another excuse to stay connected beyond Mila.

But he does it anyway.

He exhales sharply and locks the phone.

He sets it facedown on the table like it burned him and leans back, staring at the ceiling.

Loving you quietly is the only way he knows how to survive this.

──

Your POV

The apartment is too quiet after the call ends.

You sit there longer than you mean to, phone still in your hand, thumb brushing over the dark screen like she might call back. Like her face might reappear if you wish hard enough.

You miss her already.

You stand, wander into the kitchen, rinse a mug you never used. The silence presses in — familiar now, but still cruel.

Your phone buzzes.

Your breath catches instantly.

Jungkook: Goodnight.

Just one word.

You stare at it longer than you should.

Your fingers go cold.

Goodnight.

Not thank you. Not she fell asleep. Just that.

Something about it makes your chest tighten, makes your thoughts spiral before you can stop them.

You imagine him typing. Hesitating. Wondering.

Then the image from the store flashes back — him smiling at that woman, standing close, holding a jacket.

Your stomach twists.

No.

You shake your head slightly, forcing the thought away.

It’s nothing.

People run into people.

Smiles don’t mean anything.

You tell yourself that a dozen times until it almost sticks.

You don’t reply right away.

You set the phone down, pace the room once, then come back and type.

You: Goodnight.

Simple. Neutral. Safe.

You place the phone screen-down afterward like it might betray you if you keep looking.

Standing there alone, you press your arms around yourself, suddenly chilled.

You tell yourself he’s moved on.

You tell yourself you’re okay with that.

And maybe you believe it — at least enough to get through the night.

But when you finally crawl into bed, the space beside you feels wider than ever.

And you wonder — not for the first time — if the hardest part isn’t letting go…

But pretending you already have.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ──

Thanks for reading come back for part 2 !!

[urumashunistheonlyone]

Can I request a gojo slow burn love/fluff/family dynamic vibes? (Is that combo too much?) hahah

Love youuuu 💕💕💕🥹

omg sorry this took so long i was wondering what i should do for ittt. i love you too, you’re so kind 🫶🫶🫶:333

co-parenting

pairing: gojo satoru x reader

genre: domestic, soft angst, romantic tension, ex-lovers to maybe lovers again, slice of life

warnings: mentions of co-parenting, emotional tension, longing, light suggestive humor

synopsis: co-parenting with satoru wasn’t easy especially when you’re both still secretly in love with each other.

⸻

the text comes in just as you’re halfway through your morning coffee.

toru: your daughter tried to feed me shampoo. again.

you stare at the message for a beat before laughing into your mug.

you: maybe she’s trying to improve your hair care routine.

toru: rude. my hair is already flawless. this is sabotage.

toru: also, bring coffee when you come. the good kind :3

you can almost hear the mock injury in his tone through the screen, and it’s enough to make your chest ache with the kind of fondness you wish you didn’t still feel.

and just like that, your morning softens. it’s always like this with him. the little things, the easy of it all. you’d think after everything, it’d fade. but it doesn’t.

co-parenting with gojo satoru was… unconventional. the kind of arrangement that shouldn’t have worked — two people with too much history, too much chemistry, and one tiny human who somehow inherited all of your stubbornness and all of his chaos. and yet, it did work. somehow, the universe hadn’t imploded yet.

by the time you arrive at his apartment — sleek high rise, all glass and clean lines, the kind of place that looks too modern for a man who leaves cereal boxes open and never remembers where he puts his shoes — he’s already left the door unlocked.

you step inside to the familiar smell of pancake batter and sugar, and the distant sound of your daughter giggling. the living room’s flooded with sunlight, the city glittering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

the kitchen’s a mess — flour dusted across the counter, syrup dripping down a cabinet handle, one of his socks (just one) hanging from the edge of the couch for no discernible reason, one of your daughter’s stuffed animals sitting beside a stack of jujutsu reports.

“hey, mama!” she beams, batter on her cheek.

“hi, sweetheart,” you say, pressing a kiss to her head before your eyes shift to gojo. “what’s this?”

he spreads his arms wide. “breakfast. obviously.”

you blink at the absolute war zone around him — flour on the counter, syrup dripping from the edge of the table, and a frying pan emitting a suspicious sizzle.

“looks more like a massacre,” you deadpan.

he gasps. “such cruelty, this early in the morning?”

you shrug. “i speak the truth.”

gojo grins, leaning a hip against the counter. “you know, most people would say thank you for making breakfast.”

“most people don’t have to clean it up afterward,” you say, but your voice is soft, your smile unguarded.

he’s wearing a loose white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, and for some unfair reason, he looks good — effortless, comfortable.

“you look like you just rolled out of bed,” you comment.

“i did,” he replies, smirking. “we can’t all wake up looking like cover models.”

“oh, right. because you do.”

“you said it, not me.”

he watches you as you move — reaching over to wipe syrup from your daughter’s hand, rinsing a cup in the sink. his gaze lingers longer than it should.

“you didn’t have to come so early,” he says, breaking your thoughts. “we were about to head out to the park.”

“you and her?”

he nods. “yeah. figured she’d tire herself out before nap time. she’s been asking about you, though.”

“she has?”

he nods again, eyes glinting. “asked me why i didn’t live with mommy anymore.”

you freeze for a moment, then manage a small, strained laugh. “what’d you tell her?”

“that mommy kicked me out because i snore.”

“you don’t snore.”

“don’t ruin my credibility,” he says, smirking again. “i’m the tragic exiled dad now.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

gojo leans against the counter, looking as you cross the kitchen, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “you look nice, by the way.”

“i’m in sweatpants,” you mutter.

“yeah,” he says easily, grin widening, “nice ones.”

you give him a look, one brow raised. “are you flirting with me right now?”

“what if i am?” he asks, stepping closer. the space between you shrinks until you can feel the heat of him, the smell of coffee and faint cologne. his voice drops to that teasing low timbre that always gets to you — the kind that shouldn’t sound so intimate, but does.

you tilt your head, smiling now, the sarcasm curling in your tone. “then that’s disgusting. we have a child.”

he laughs — a low, amused sound that fills the kitchen. “and chemistry,” he says, smirking wider, “don’t forget that part.”

“you’re impossible.”

“and yet, you’re smiling,” he points out, his grin boyish and victorious.

you shake your head, fighting the way your heart jumps. “you’re a menace.”

“a charming one,” he says, before turning back to the stove as if he didn’t just make your pulse trip over itself.

you move to rinse the bowl in the sink, and he’s right there beside you, far too close, reaching for a dish towel he definitely doesn’t need.

he’s always close — like gravity bends around him a little differently, like the space between you is just another thing he can manipulate at will.

“so,” he starts, casual, like you’re not hyperaware of his arm brushing yours, “you free tonight?”

you arch a brow. “why?”

“thought maybe we could do movie night again. you, me, her. she’s been asking for it.”

“she always asks for it,” you point out. “you’re the one who makes popcorn with half a bag of sugar.”

“exactly,” he says, completely unashamed. “that’s called being the fun parent.”

“you’re the unhinged parent,” you correct, but your tone is soft, fond.

he smiles at that — a real one this time, not the usual cocky grin, but something smaller, warmer. “maybe both,” he murmurs.

you hate the way your chest tightens.

you tell yourself it’s for your daughter — that you linger after she’s already packed, that you clean his kitchen and fold his disorganized laundry because you want her to have stability.

but it’s more than that. it’s the way he hums when he makes coffee, the way he knows exactly how to make her laugh so hard she hiccups, the way he still looks at you sometimes like he remembers what it felt like to love you… and maybe still does.

the morning unfolds in that quiet, familiar routine — the three of you eating pancakes (slightly burnt, but still good), your daughter talking with her mouth full while gojo pretends to take her seriously. she giggles every time he sticks syrup on his nose just to make her laugh, and you catch yourself thinking, this feels too easy.

you stay longer than you should. you always do.

while your daughter colors on the living room floor, you find yourself tidying up his place, wiping down counters, picking up toys from the floor, tucking one of his shirts into the laundry pile. you tell yourself it’s out of habit — not because it feels like home.

“you know,” he says from the doorway, arms crossed as he watches you, “if you keep cleaning like that, people are gonna think you live here again.”

you glance up, meeting his gaze.

“someone has to make this place livable.”

he grins. “oh, so you miss living here?”

“i miss organization.”

“that’s code for me,” he says, standing up, stretching lazily.

you glance over your shoulder, and there’s that look again — soft, like he’s memorizing something he’s afraid to lose.

“you’ve got that look,” you say.

“what look?”

“the one you get before you say something stupid.”

“ah,” he nods solemnly, stepping closer, “the romantic one.”

you snort. “that’s debatable.”

he grins, but his voice dips, quieter now. “you ever think about it?”

“about what?”

“us,” he says simply. “trying again.”

the words hang there — fragile, dangerous, warm.

you turn to face him fully, your heartbeat picking up. “satoru…”

he smiles faintly, though there’s something vulnerable beneath it. “don’t make that face. i’m not saying we need to. just… wondering.”

you exhale, slow, your hands gripping the counter behind you. “you don’t just wonder about things like that.”

“don’t i?” he asks softly, stepping close again, close enough that your knees almost touch. “because i do. every time you’re here. every time you laugh at something i say, or clean my kitchen like it’s still yours.”

your lips part, but the words don’t come out.

he leans forward, resting his elbows on the counter beside you. “i miss it, you know. us. the late nights, the arguments about who got up for her bottle, even the way you’d steal my blankets.”

you meet his gaze, that stupid, unfairly beautiful gaze that’s always felt like a universe all on its own. “you’re doing that thing again,” you whisper.

“what thing?”

“making it hard to breathe.”

his grin softens. “then you still feel it too.”

the silence stretches between you, heavy and tender. your daughter laughs from the living room, calling for him, and it breaks the moment like sunlight through water.

he straightens up, rubbing the back of his neck. “so about move night. you’re staying?”

you should say no. you should draw that line. but instead, you nod. “fine. one movie.”

“one movie,” he repeats, smiling like he’s already won.

later, the three of you sit on the couch, your daughter fast asleep halfway through the film. gojo’s arm stretches across the backrest, just behind your shoulders, his fingers occasionally brushing your hair. the city lights paint the room in gold and blue, and his breathing evens out beside you.

he glances down, voice low. “see? feels right, doesn’t it?”

you don’t answer, but your silence says enough.

because it does.

maybe the world keeps giving you reasons to drift apart, but somehow, you always end up right here — in his apartment, your daughter between you, the chemistry still burning quietly between words.

and for now, you’ll accept it.

[callmeawifeorwhatever5]

Could you maybe do a fic of ilia and reader were so in love in till he started focusing on skating more. And so they break up. But then she finds out she pregnant and hides it from him because she doesn’t want to give up on figure skating. And so she has the baby. And then maybe she runs into his mom and Liza at the store and the clearly see the baby. And his mom was always really close with reader so she agrees to keep it a secret. But Liza later that night accidentally lets it slip to ilia. And then you can run with the ending I’ll be happy with anything! Also I love your work!

(aw,thank you so much! grab some tissues)💋

“i missed everything”

Ilia had never imagined the love of his life would walk away. But he’d watched her do exactly that.

The argument had started small. It always did.

Missed phone calls.

Cancelled dates.

Training camps.

Competitions.

Interviews.

Everything revolving around skating.

At first she’d understood. Then she’d waited. Then she’d gotten lonely. And eventually she’d gotten tired.

“You don’t even see me anymore,” she’d whispered through tears.

Ilia had been exhausted, stressed, carrying the pressure of expectations on his shoulders.

And instead of choosing his words carefully, he’d chosen the ones that would haunt him forever.

“You’re holding me back in a way.”

The second the words left his mouth, he wanted them back.

But the damage was done.

The hurt on her face had been immediate. Like he’d physically struck her.

“Okay.”

That was all she’d said.

Okay.

A week later they were over.

And Ilia spent the next year pretending he was fine.

Pretending skating was enough. Pretending he didn’t still stare at her photos every night. Pretending he didn’t still love her…

Two months after their breakup, she found out she was pregnant.

She sat alone in her bathroom staring at the test.

Positive. Every test positive.

And the first thing she thought wasn’t fear.

It was Ilia.

The second thing she thought was the last thing he’d said to her.

“You’re holding me back in a way.”

So she cried.

Then she made a decision. One she would carry alone. She wasn’t going to stand in his way anymore.

Pregnancy was hard.

Harder because she did it alone.

Harder because every ultrasound made her wish he was there.

Every kick.

Every doctor’s appointment.

Every tiny milestone.

She missed him.

But she never called.

And when her beautiful baby boy was born, she held him against her chest and whispered,

“Hi, Roman.”

Named after Roman….

The grandfather he’d never met.

Two months later she was shopping with Roman sleeping peacefully in his stroller when she froze.

Standing at the end of the aisle were Tatiana and Liza.

Ilia’s mother and his little sister.

Liza immediately gasped.

Tatiana’s eyes dropped to the stroller.

Then widened…and then filled with tears.

Nobody spoke.

For several seconds the world seemed frozen.

Finally Tatiana whispered,

“Oh my God…”

She looked up.

And knew instantly.

The baby, the age, timing…everything.

Tears slipped down her face.

“Can I… can I hold him?”

The question came out broken.

She hesitated.

Then slowly nodded.

Tatiana carefully lifted Roman into her arms.

And immediately started crying.

The baby blinked up at her.

Completely unaware he was breaking hearts.

“What’s his name?” Tatiana asked.

She swallowed.

“Roman.”

Tatiana let out a sob.

Roman looked up.

“After his grandfather.”

That did it.

Tatiana covered her mouth as tears streamed down her face.

“Oh sweetheart…”

For several minutes she simply held him.

Swaying with him, memorizing him.

Then she looked at her.

“Can I come see him sometime?”

The hesitation lasted only a second.

Then she stepped forward and hugged her.

“Of course.”

Tatiana squeezed her tightly.

“Promise me you don’t tell him.” she breathed out.

“I won’t tell Ilia.”

She meant it, she truly did.

But 12 year old Liza had other plans.

Well accidental plans.

That night everyone was eating dinner when Liza casually said,

“The baby was really cute.”

Silence.

Ilia looked up.

“What baby?”

Liza froze.

Tatiana froze.

Roman froze.

And suddenly everyone knew exactly what had happened.

“Oh.”

Liza’s eyes widened.

“Oh no.”

Ilia slowly stood.

“What baby?”

Nobody answered.

His voice rose in confusion.

“What baby?”

Liza looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her.

“The one at the store. With umm…”

Ilia’s face went white.

“…What?”

Tatiana closed her eyes.

“Mom?” Ilia whispered.

Nobody spoke.

Then Liza quietly said,

“She had a baby.”

The room tilted.

“Is it mine? I have a kid?”

The plate slipped from Tatiana’s hands.

It shattered across the kitchen floor.

Ilia jumped over automatically.

“Mom…”

Then stopped.

Because his mother was crying.

Hard.

“Mom?”

She looked at him.

And whispered the words that changed everything.

“He has your eyes.”

Ilia felt sick.

Actually sick.

He ran to the bathroom.

Dropped to his knees.

And threw up.

An hour later he sat on the bathroom floor.

Numb….Shaking…His mind racing.

A son.

A son.

A son.

He had a son.

For almost a year he’d gone through life not knowing.

Not knowing she was pregnant.

Not knowing she’d given birth.

Not knowing he had missed everything.

The first ultrasound, first kick, birth…everything.

He called her.

Out of service.

Again.

Out of service.

Again.

Out of service.

And eventually he broke down crying.

That night nobody slept.

At three in the morning Ilia came downstairs.

His parents sat at the kitchen table.

Wide awake.

Just as miserable as he was.

“You saw him.”

Tatiana looked up.

Slowly nodded.

“She let me hold him.”

Ilia’s eyes filled.

“He looks like me?”

Tatiana shook her head.

“No and yes.”

His stomach dropped.

Then she smiled sadly.

“He has his mother’s dark hair and her lips. But your eyes.”

And somehow that made Ilia cry harder.

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

Tatiana looked down.

“She didn’t want to be in your way.”

The words felt like a knife.

Because he knew exactly where she’d gotten that idea.

From him.

His fault.

“What’s his name?”

Tatiana immediately started crying again.

“…Roman.”

Ilia completely shattered.

His chair scraped back.

His father stood first.

Then his mother.

Both wrapping their arms around him.

Holding their son while he sobbed.

“What am I going to do?”

His voice broke.

“I missed all of it.”

Neither parent had an answer.

The next day he searched.

Her old apartment.

Gone.

Her number.

Disconnected.

Her parents.

Blocked.

Everything blocked.

Every door closed.

Until finally he found Hope.

Her best friend.

Hope crossed her arms.

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Hope.”

Tears filled his eyes.

“I didn’t know.”

She looked away.

Struggling.

Then finally sighed.

“She takes a walk with him every day at 2.”

His heart stopped.

“Where?”

“I’m not saying.”

“Hope…”

“I won’t.”

He nodded.

Accepting it.

Then hugged her.

“Thank you.”

Three parks.

Nothing.

The next day.

Nothing.

Then the third day.

Forty minutes outside town.

A quiet park….a walking trail.

And there she was pushing a stroller.

Sunlight catching her dark hair.

Looking smaller than he remembered, but somehow even more beautiful.

Ilia couldn’t move.

For ten minutes he simply watched.

Then finally walked forward.

She saw him immediately.

And froze.

Tears instantly threatening.

“She promised she wouldn’t…”

“She didn’t.”

His voice cracked.

“My sister.”

She laughed despite herself.

A watery laugh.

“Of course.”

Silence followed.

Then Ilia asked the question he’d been carrying for days.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She looked away.

“I didn’t want to hold you back anymore than I already had.”

His eyes shut.

Because hearing his own words repeated back nearly killed him.

“I’ve regretted that every day.”

She didn’t answer.

Just looked at the stroller.

Trying not to cry.

Then Ilia whispered,

“Can I please hold my son?”

For a moment she saw the fear in his eyes.

The desperation.

The heartbreak.

And she couldn’t be cruel.

“Yes, Ilia.”

She lifted Roman from the stroller.

Walked forward.

And placed him carefully in his father’s arms.

The world stopped.

Roman blinked.

Ilia looked down.

His eyes.

Her mouth.

His nose.

Both of them together.

A tiny little person…a tiny little miracle.

Tears immediately streamed down his face.

“Hi buddy…”

His voice cracked.

“I’m your dad.”

She broke then too.

Tears slipping down her cheeks.

Ilia looked up.

At the woman he’d never stopped loving.

And finally said what he’d should have said a year ago.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice shattered.

“I loved you so much and I let you go.”

Tears fell faster.

“I’ve kicked myself for it every single day.”

She wiped her face.

“I know.” she whispered.

“I still love you.”

Her breath caught.

“Ilia…”

“No.”

His voice broke.

“I love you.”

He held Roman closer.

“I still look at our pictures.”

More tears.

“I still have every card.”

Another.

“I want to be a family.”

His voice became almost a whisper.

“You both deserve that.”

She looked away.

Trying not to hope.

Trying not to fall again.

“I want you in his life.”

“Then let me be.”

“So much has happened, Ilia.”

Ilia gently touched her cheek.

“We can try.”

She closed her eyes.

Then nodded.

“Let’s just focus on you getting to know your son.”

He smiled through tears.

“Okay.”

But deep down?

He already knew.

He was going to spend the rest of his life earning her back.

Back at her cottage, she showed him everything.

Every ultrasound.

Every pregnancy picture.

Every hospital photo.

Every smile.

Every milestone.

And with every picture, Ilia’s heart broke a little more.

Because he should’ve been there.

Because she’d done it all alone.

Because he’d made her think she wasn’t enough.

Then Roman started crying.

She stood and carefully handed him over.

“Fatherhood starts now.”

Ilia laughed through tears.

Then took his son.

Walking him around the living room.

Roman slowly settled.

Tiny fingers wrapped around Ilia’s finger.

And Ilia looked down at him.

“You have a good mom.”

Across the room she smiled despite herself.

Then Ilia looked up at her.

The woman he loved.

The mother of his son.

The woman he’d never stop fighting for.

“And I’m going to take care of both of you.”

Six months later, Roman took his first wobbly crawl across the living room floor.

Straight toward Ilia.

“Da…da!”

The tiny voice made Ilia freeze.

Then immediately burst into tears.

Again.

Because apparently becoming a father had made him cry at everything.

She laughed so hard.

“You’re crying.”

“He said dada!”

“Barely.”

“He said dada!”

Roman laughed and crawled faster.

A year later, Ilia stood in their backyard holding Roman while the little boy sat on his shoulders.

She walked outside carrying lemonade.

Roman immediately pointed.

“Mama!”

His favorite person.

Always.

Ilia watched her smile.

Watched sunlight hit her face.

Watched Roman reach for her.

And suddenly realized something.

For the first…

Everything felt right.

Not perfect.

But right.

The three of them together.

Their family.

Their home.

Their future.

Ilia wrapped one arm around her waist and kissed her temple.

“I love you.”

She smiled.

“I know.”

He grinned.

“Good.”

Roman immediately grabbed both their faces.

Demanding attention.

They laughed.

And for the first time since that horrible breakup, neither of them was looking backward anymore.

Only forward…And hoping for the best.

[mediumplaceresident]

abbot's kid

Abbot's six year daughter gets hurt and is brought to the pitt by her teacher inconsolable , hurt and scared and only wants her mikey who works there . The day shift docs try to find mikey but are unable to .however Robby rushes seeing abbots daughter on the board, worried out of his mind about his sunshine and only when he picks her up and talks to her she calms down, much to the surprise of the other docs .

Abbot rushes to the pitt after a phone call from school , sees robby with his baby fast asleep on his chest .robby being absolutely still so the kid remains sleeping even though he has million other things to do as chief ,. realises robby has been a co parent and partner for so long and is unable to stop himself from confessing his love . They get together and live happily ever after with their little girl

P.S. If this idea inspires you, please go ahead and write a fic. I don't possess the skills to write but Id absolutely love to read such a fic 😊

[swaggy-lee23]

“Bruce is the better parent to Damian” “Talia is the better parent” blah blah blah. F that you know what I wanna see the two of them trying to co parent. We all know there would be no gas station drop offs with their dramatic asses.

Like imagine this Bruce and Damian are in the middle of an interview or maybe they’re at a gala and the whole place just gets swarmed with assassins and everyone is running and screaming. The lead assassin is like “ We are here to collect the prince” and everyone is like wtf???? And Bruce is just like “Okay sweetheart have a nice time at your Moms” and “You tell her that before you adopt any more pets that their needs to be a discussion” and Damian just gets whisked off by assassins and he doesn’t even bat an eye he’d just like “Bye Baba make sure to walk Titus while I am gone.”

And then he leaves and Bruce is just like “Ex’s am I right?” And walks off to get another drink leaving everyone around him gaping because wtfff did they just witness?????

[inkedwithcharm]

Terms & Conditions Apply | Kim Seokjin

Pairing: Kim Seokjin × Reader (Y/N)

Genre: Romance · Co-Parenting · Slow Burn · Friends-to-Lovers · Slice of Life

Sypnosis: A warm, intimate story about two people who learn that love does not always begin with certainty. It grows in the in-between moments: shared routines, unspoken care, late-night conversations, and the quiet joy of raising a child together. What they try to keep practical slowly becomes personal, then essential. By choosing patience, honesty, and each other, they discover that love is not a sudden leap. It is the steady decision to stay, until staying feels like home.

You’re sitting on the edge of the couch with a mug of coffee growing cold in your hands, watching Kim Seokjin wage a very serious battle with a pink hair tie.

Your daughter is perched between his knees on the living room rug, legs swinging, humming to herself as if this is the most normal thing in the world. Which, to her, it is. Dada braids hair on Saturday mornings. Mama pretends not to smile too much while watching.

Seokjin squints at the strands in his fingers like they’ve personally offended him.

“No, wait. I messed up again,” he mutters, starting over for the fourth time.

“You said that three tries ago,” you say, voice light, fond in a way you don’t acknowledge out loud.

He glances up at you. Grins. That same grin that has always undone you a little. “This time is different. I’ve learned.”

“You said that too.”

Your daughter giggles, tilting her head obediently as Seokjin gathers her hair again. His hands are big and careful, all gentleness and concentration. The braid comes out uneven. A little crooked. The ends stick out like they have opinions of their own.

He ties it anyway and leans back, satisfied. “There. Perfect.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s… generous.”

He gasps, offended. “She loves it.”

Your daughter looks at you with wide eyes and nods solemnly. “Pretty.”

Your heart does that thing again. That quiet ache mixed with warmth that never quite settles.

Seokjin beams like he’s won an award. “See? Critic approved.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. It slips out easy. Natural. Domestic in a way that feels dangerous if you think about it too long.

This is how it always starts. Innocent moments. Soft ones. Moments that blur the lines you agreed so carefully not to cross.

You stand and walk over, crouching to fix the braid just a little, smoothing it where it sticks out. Your fingers brush Seokjin’s knuckles. Neither of you move away.

For half a second, the room goes quiet in that familiar way.

He clears his throat first. “She wanted the yellow dress today.”

You nod. “Of course she did.”

Your daughter kicks her feet. “Sun!”

“Sun,” Seokjin repeats, smiling at her like she hung the stars herself.

You straighten, stepping back before the moment grows legs.

This is co-parenting. This is normal. This is safe.

You repeat that to yourself like a promise you’ve already broken once.

Three years ago, your friend’s apartment had been too small, the music too loud, the air sticky with cheap alcohol and unspoken exhaustion. Everyone you knew was there. Your shared circle. People who had seen you at your worst and loved you anyway.

You remember standing on the balcony, plastic cup sweating in your hand, city lights flickering like they didn’t care about you at all.

Seokjin had found you there.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard,” he’d said, leaning beside you, offering you half a smile and the rest of his drink.

You laughed then. A tired sound. “You ever notice how everyone else seems to be moving forward?”

“Define forward,” he replied. “Because I burned instant ramen earlier.”

That made you snort despite yourself.

The night had already softened you. The alcohol helped, sure, but it was the honesty that did most of the damage. The way you both had been newly single. Bruised in different ways. Carrying breakups that hadn’t healed yet.

You told him things you hadn’t meant to say out loud.

He listened. No fixing. No jokes to deflect. Just Seokjin, quiet for once, eyes steady on yours.

“My ex used to say I loved like it was my fault,” you’d said, staring at the skyline. “Like I was too much just for wanting to stay.”

He’d gone still beside you.

“That’s not too much,” he said quietly. “That’s just… wanting someone to choose you back.”

You remember looking at him then. The city noise faded. The party behind you blurred into background sound.

“What about you?” you asked.

He exhaled, slow. “I stayed longer than I should have because I thought loyalty meant endurance.”

You turned toward him fully. “It doesn’t.”

“I know that now.”

There was a beat. One of those moments where something could tip either way.

Inside, the music shifted. Someone pulled you both back in, hands grabbing wrists, laughter spilling everywhere. You lost him for a while. Danced with friends. Took another drink you didn’t need.

Later, a slow song came on. One of those old tracks everyone pretends not to know but sings anyway.

Seokjin was suddenly in front of you again.

“Dance with me,” he said, not quite a question.

You should have said no.

You didn’t.

His hands found your waist easily, like they already knew where to go. You swayed together, laughter fading into something quieter. The room felt smaller. Warmer.

“This is a bad idea,” you murmured.

He smiled down at you, eyes soft. “Probably.”

Neither of you moved away.

You remember the way his forehead rested against yours. The way your hands curled into his shirt. The way the world narrowed until it was just the two of you breathing in the same space.

Later, in his apartment, there was laughter. Shoes kicked off. Words tumbling over each other.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” you said, voice unsteady but honest.

“I’m not asking it to,” he replied, just as honest.

And that was the truth.

You didn’t regret it.

Back in the present, Seokjin lifts your daughter into his arms, her laughter filling the room.

“Snack time?” he asks.

She cheers like it’s the best idea anyone’s ever had.

You watch them from the kitchen doorway, sunlight spilling across the floor, dust motes dancing like quiet witnesses.

This is your life now.

And somewhere between braids that don’t quite work and memories that won’t stay buried, you wonder when exactly co-parenting started to feel like home.

Flashback

You wake up already tired.

A heavy, low ache that sits in your body like it’s waiting for something to happen. The room is pale with morning light. Dust floats lazily near the window. The world feels oddly hushed, like it’s holding its voice.

You stand in the bathroom longer than necessary, staring at your reflection. You look the same. That unsettles you more than anything else.

The test waits on the sink.

You had bought it the night before with toothpaste and dish soap, tucked between ordinary things like it was just another errand. You tell yourself you’ll look later. You don’t.

Two lines.

They appear with cruel calm.

You sit down slowly, the cool tile grounding you as your thoughts scatter. The sound of your own breathing fills the room. You press your palms against your thighs, then your stomach, as if touch might translate disbelief into something understandable.

You laugh once. It comes out thin.

“This isn’t real,” you whisper, even as your eyes stay fixed on the proof.

You think of Seokjin in fragments. His voice when he’s tired. The way he listens with his whole face. The night that keeps replaying itself when you close your eyes. Not regret. Never regret. Just confusion wrapped in warmth.

You don’t cry yet.

You shower. Let the water run longer than usual. You dress carefully. You make tea you forget to drink. You check your phone three times without knowing what you’re looking for.

When you finally sit down, fingers hovering over the screen, your hands shake.

Can we talk today?

It feels insufficient. Everything does.

His reply comes fast.

Of course. Are you okay?

You stare at the words until they blur.

I think so. I just need to see you.

A pause.

I’m home. Come over whenever.

His apartment looks the same. That detail almost undoes you.

Shoes by the door. A jacket draped over the chair. The faint smell of coffee and something citrusy. It feels like walking into a memory that hasn’t realized it’s about to change.

He opens the door barefoot, hair slightly damp, concern written plainly across his face.

“Hey,” he says softly. “What’s going on?”

You step inside without answering. Your throat refuses to cooperate.

He doesn’t push. He closes the door behind you and waits.

You sit at the kitchen table. The chair feels too solid beneath you. Seokjin pours you water without asking. Sets it within reach like he’s afraid you might tip over.

You pull the test from your bag and place it between you.

For a moment, he doesn’t understand what he’s looking at.

Then his breath stutters.

He picks it up slowly. Turns it over. Stares.

“Oh,” he says.

The word lands heavier than shouting ever could.

“You’re sure?” he asks after a long stretch of silence.

“Yes.”

He nods. Stands. Sits again. Runs a hand through his hair like he’s searching for something to hold onto.

“I didn’t think…” he starts, then stops. “I mean. We were careful. Mostly.”

You swallow. “I know.”

Neither of you blame the other. That might be the first kindness.

“This is… okay,” he says finally. “This is just information. We don’t have to decide everything right now.”

You stare at your hands. “I’m scared.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Me too.”

The admission settles between you. Honest. Equal.

“What are you thinking?” you ask.

He exhales slowly. “That I don’t want you to feel like you’re carrying this alone. And that I don’t want to pretend I can promise a fairytale when I can’t even promise I won’t mess this up.”

You look up at him then.

“I don’t want to build a relationship out of fear,” you say. “I don’t want our child to think love means obligation.”

His eyes soften. “Then we won’t do that.”

You talk. Slowly. Carefully. About logistics. About money. About space. About how both of you are still learning how to trust your own hearts again.

“I don’t know how to be someone’s partner right now,” you admit. “I barely know how to be myself.”

“I don’t want to be someone’s reason for staying,” he says. “I want to be someone’s choice.”

The words sink deep.

“So what does that leave us?” you ask quietly.

He leans forward, forearms on the table. “It leaves us as two people who did something human and ended up with something life-changing. And we can either make this harder by pretending we’re strangers or make it kinder by choosing respect.”

You blink. “You’d really do this?”

“I already am,” he says.

You reach for a napkin from the holder and smooth it out on the table. The action surprises him.

“What are you doing?”

“Making this real in a way that doesn’t scare me,” you say.

You write slowly.

No pressure to be together.

Shared responsibility.

Honesty over comfort.

No disappearing when it gets hard.

Seokjin watches, then pulls the pen from your hand and adds his own.

We protect each other’s dignity.

We don’t use the child as a reason to hurt each other.

We choose kindness even when we’re tired.

Your eyes burn.

“This feels ridiculous,” you say.

He smiles softly. “Most important things do at first.”

When the napkin is full, you both stare at it like it’s a contract signed in ink and trust.

Later, when it’s time to leave, he walks you to the door.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says.

You nod. “We will.”

As you step outside, the air feels different. Heavier. Fuller.

You place a hand over your stomach without thinking.

Behind you, Seokjin watches the door long after it closes.

The napkin doesn’t survive long.

It becomes a joke at first. A photo you take with your phone because neither of you trust yourselves to remember everything you promised that day. Then it becomes a document. Shared. Editable. Labeled something painfully practical like Parenting Agreement v1.0.

Seokjin adds bullet points at midnight. You wake up to notifications.

You revise his phrasing over coffee. He accepts your changes without comment.

It grows quietly. Footnotes. Clarifications. Small jokes hidden between serious lines. A living thing that changes as you do.

Rule #3 appears sometime around the second trimester.

No falling in love.

You don’t remember who typed it.

You only remember neither of you deleting it.

Arin arrives on a Thursday morning when the sky is pale and undecided.

The room smells like antiseptic and clean sheets. Your body feels split open and stitched back together by exhaustion and disbelief. The world narrows to a small, wrinkled person placed carefully against your chest.

Seokjin stands frozen at your side, eyes glassy, mouth parted like he’s forgotten how language works.

“That’s… that’s her?” he asks quietly.

You nod, tears slipping free before you realize they’re there. “That’s Arin.”

He laughs then. A broken sound. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, already emotional in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

“Hi,” he whispers to her. “I’m your dad. I’m going to mess this up sometimes. But I’m going to try really hard.”

You watch him say it like it’s a vow.

And he keeps it.

Seokjin is good at this in a way that startles everyone.

He learns her cries faster than the nurses. Figures out the bottle temperature by touch. Sings softly at three in the morning when neither of you have slept enough to feel human.

He never acts like he’s helping you.

He acts like this is his life too.

Friends visit in cautious waves. They coo over Arin, bring food, exchange glances when they see the way Seokjin tucks a blanket around your shoulders without asking.

“You two are…” Jimin starts one afternoon, watching Seokjin bounce Arin gently against his chest.

“Not together,” you say at the same time.

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Seokjin smiles politely. You pretend not to hear the way your heart stumbles.

By the time Arin turns three months old, weekends belong to him.

It isn’t something you ask for. It’s something he declares.

“I’m blocking off Saturdays and Sundays,” he says one evening, scrolling through his calendar. “No meetings. No rehearsals. No plans. No exceptions.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell him.

“I want to,” he replies. “And I don’t want her growing up thinking I’m someone who drops by when it’s convenient.”

So he arrives every Friday night with groceries and baby wipes and a ridiculous amount of tiny socks. He sleeps on the couch. Wakes early. Takes over.

“Go,” he tells you Saturday mornings, handing you coffee before you’ve even opened your eyes. “Shower. Walk. Disappear. I’ve got her.”

You hesitate the first time. Hover in the doorway. Watch him settle Arin against his shoulder, whispering nonsense to her like it’s a secret language.

“You sure?” you ask.

He looks up at you. “I’m not visiting. I’m parenting.”

That sentence stays with you.

You leave. Slowly. Guilt tugging at you all the way down the stairs. When you come back hours later, lighter somehow, the apartment is warm with laughter.

Arin squeals on the floor. Seokjin lies beside her, making ridiculous faces.

“She laughed,” he announces proudly. “At me. Not at the toy.”

You sit beside them, heart full in a way that scares you.

It becomes routine.

Park visits. Grocery runs. Sunday naps where Seokjin falls asleep sitting upright with Arin on his chest, trusting you to wake him if she stirs.

Friends stop asking questions and start making comments.

“You sure you’re not together?” Taehyung asks one day, watching Seokjin wipe spit-up from your shoulder without comment.

You answer automatically. “We’re co-parenting.”

Taehyung hums. “Looks a lot like love.”

Seokjin clears his throat. “Rule three.”

You repeat it like a shield. “No falling in love.”

Later that night, after everyone leaves, you sit on opposite ends of the couch. Arin asleep between you.

Seokjin speaks without looking at you. “Do you ever worry that we’re lying to ourselves?”

You keep your eyes on your daughter. “Do you ever worry we’re telling the truth too early?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It’s thoughtful.

On Sunday evenings, he packs up slowly.

He kisses Arin’s forehead. Lingers. Looks at you like he’s memorizing something.

“I’ll see you Friday,” he says every time.

And every time, you answer, “Drive safe.”

What you don’t say is how quiet the apartment feels when he leaves. How weekends have started to feel like borrowed happiness. How Rule #3 sits in the Google Doc like a warning neither of you know how to follow.

Arin turns two on a morning that begins in chaos.

She wakes up before the sun, climbs out of her toddler bed with the confidence of someone who has never once considered gravity, and toddles down the hallway calling for you and Seokjin like it’s a roll call.

“Mama. Dada. Wake up.”

You opened your door just as Seokjin stirred awake on the couch.

She beams, triumphant.

“You both here,” she announces, like she’s solved something important.

You exchange a look over her head. One of those silent conversations you’ve grown far too good at.

Seokjin scoops her up before she can escape again. “Good morning to you too, boss.”

She pats his cheeks, entirely pleased with herself. “Pancakes.”

You glance at the clock. “It’s six.”

“Pancakes,” she repeats, louder.

Seokjin laughs. “She’s got you there.”

He heads for the kitchen, Arin perched on his hip, already narrating her plans for the day. You follow behind, rubbing sleep from your eyes, heart full in a way that never stops surprising you.

This is your life now. Loud. Warm. Constantly moving.

Arin talks like she’s afraid of missing something.

She names colors incorrectly on purpose, insists every animal is a dog, and narrates her emotions with brutal honesty.

“I mad,” she announces when you won’t let her eat a crayon.

Seokjin crouches to her level. “That’s okay. Being mad doesn’t mean you get to eat art supplies.”

She considers this. “Okay. Snack?”

You and Seokjin answer at the same time.

“No snacks before breakfast.”

She squints. “You same.”

Seokjin grins at you. “She’s catching on.”

Seokjin still blocks off weekends. He still shows up on Fridays with groceries and ridiculous toys. Sometimes he stays longer. Sometimes he leaves later. No one keeps track anymore.

You finish each other’s sentences. Know where everything is in each other’s apartments. Have toothbrushes in both bathrooms.

Friends notice.

They always do.

“You realize you two act more married than my parents, right?” Jimin says one afternoon, watching Seokjin help Arin wash her hands while you pack snacks.

“We are not married,” you say automatically.

Jimin hums. “You share a child, a schedule, and emotional labor.”

Seokjin dries Arin’s hands carefully. “That’s called being responsible adults.”

Taehyung snorts. “That’s called denial.”

You ignore him. Focus on tying Arin’s shoes. Seokjin steadies her foot without being asked.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

He shrugs. “Team effort.”

That phrase has become dangerous.

Arin is painfully observant.

One night, while you’re tucking her into bed, she frowns thoughtfully.

“Why Dada sleep there?” she asks, pointing down the hall.

You hesitate. “Because grown-ups sometimes need their own space.”

She considers this. “But Dada come every day.”

“Yes.”

“And Dada eat here.”

“Yes.”

“And Dada kiss me goodnight.”

“Yes.”

She nods, satisfied. “Dada live here.”

You laugh softly. “Not exactly.”

She looks unconvinced.

The next morning, she drags her blanket to the couch and snuggles up next to Seokjin, announcing she’s having a sleepover.

Seokjin looks at you, amused. “Guess I’m the chosen one.”

“You’re definitely her favorite,” you say.

He smiles. “I don’t mind.”

The way he says it stays with you all day.

There are moments when the truth presses too close.

Like when you’re all sprawled on the couch watching cartoons and Arin falls asleep between you, one small hand in yours, the other clutching Seokjin’s shirt.

Or when he brings you tea without asking because he knows your head hurts.

Or when you catch him watching you across the room, expression unreadable, as if he’s memorizing the way you exist.

Friends tease. You deflect.

“You two need to stop pretending,” Hoseok says one night over dinner.

“Pretending what?” you ask.

“That you’re not already a family.”

Seokjin clears his throat. “We are a family. Just… unconventional.”

Hoseok smiles softly. “That’s not what I meant.”

No one says Rule #3 out loud anymore.

It still exists in the Google Doc. Untouched. Unedited.

Waiting.

That night, after Arin falls asleep, you sit at opposite ends of the couch. The distance feels wider than usual.

“Do you ever think,” Seokjin says quietly, “that we made this too easy?”

You glance at him. “Easy how?”

“We built something that works,” he says. “So well that pretending it doesn’t mean anything is starting to feel like lying.”

Your chest tightens.

“Maybe,” you say carefully, “it means we’re doing it right.”

He nods. Doesn’t argue.

But when you turn off the lights and head to your room, you lie awake longer than you should, listening to the quiet hum of a life that already knows what it is.

You don’t find out in some dramatic way.

No confession. No confrontation. No moment that announces itself as the beginning of something painful.

You find out because Seokjin checks his phone one evening and smiles.

It’s small. Almost nothing. The kind of smile that passes through a face and leaves no trace behind. Except you notice it. You always do.

“Everything okay?” you ask, stirring a pot that doesn’t need stirring.

“Yeah,” he says easily. “Just… making plans for tomorrow.”

You nod. “Oh?”

“Dinner.”

The word settles in your chest. Heavy. Uninvited.

“With friends?” you ask, tone light, careful. Practiced.

He hesitates just long enough for the answer to change shape. “A date.”

There it is.

You laugh. It comes out sharp and bright, like a glass tapping the edge of a table.

“Wow,” you say. “Look at you. Finally rejoining society.”

He frowns slightly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“No, no,” you wave him off. “It’s great. You should date. You deserve that.”

He studies you, searching for something you won’t give him. “You’re okay with this?”

“Of course,” you say, too quickly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Because this life you built together has weight. Because weekends feel like promises. Because Rule Three has been sitting untouched for too long.

But you don’t say any of that.

Arin toddles into the kitchen, clutching her stuffed rabbit by one ear. She looks between you, sensing the shift the way children do.

“Dada go?” she asks.

“Dada has dinner plans,” Seokjin says gently.

She tilts her head. “With Arin and Mama?”

You answer before he can. “No, sweetheart.”

She thinks about that. Her brows knit together. “Why?”

You force another laugh. “Because grown-ups have different friends.”

She nods like she understands, then toddles away, already distracted.

Seokjin watches you for a long moment. “You don’t have to pretend.”

You shrug. “I’m not pretending.”

But the room feels tighter after that. Like the walls have leaned in just a little.

The next day stretches.

Everything irritates you. The way the clock moves. The way your phone stays silent. The way Arin keeps asking when Dada's coming.

“He’ll be here tomorrow,” you tell her.

She crosses her arms. “I wait.”

You sit beside her on the floor. “You can wait. But we don’t get mad.”

“I not mad,” she says. “I sad.”

You swallow.

Seokjin comes over the following evening.

He looks the same. That’s the cruelest part.

Clean jacket. Familiar shoes by the door. The same careful knock like he’s still afraid of intruding.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you answer.

You don’t ask how it went.

He doesn’t offer.

Dinner is quiet in a way that feels staged. You keep your voice light, sarcasm slipping in where honesty wants to live.

“So,” you say, passing him a plate. “Have fun?”

He glances up. “It was… fine.”

“Fine,” you echo. “High praise.”

He exhales slowly. “You’re upset.”

You smile. “I’m tired.”

He doesn’t push. That almost makes it worse.

Arin watches you both, eyes sharp despite her age. She pokes at her food, then looks at Seokjin.

“Dada.”

“Yes, bug?”

She points at you. “Mama mad.”

You laugh again. Too loud. “I’m not mad.”

Arin shakes her head. “You mad quiet.”

Seokjin’s gaze snaps to yours.

You look away.

She climbs down from her chair, toddles over to Seokjin, and tugs on his sleeve. “Dada.”

“Yes?”

“Kiss Mama.”

The room freezes.

Seokjin stills completely. Slowly, he turns to look at you.

Your heart thunders in your chest. You keep your face carefully blank, but your hands curl into the fabric of your pants.

“Arin,” you say softly. “That’s not—”

“Kiss,” she insists. “Mama sad.”

Seokjin swallows.

“I…,” he starts, then stops.

You look at him then.

His eyes are warm. Conflicted. Full of questions neither of you are ready to answer.

“It’s okay,” you say quietly. “She’s just being silly.”

Arin crosses her arms. “Not silly.”

Seokjin kneels in front of her. “Sometimes grown-ups don’t do that, okay?”

She considers this. Looks at you. Then at him.

“Why?” she asks.

Neither of you answer.

The silence stretches. Thick. Heavy. Alive.

Finally, Seokjin stands. “I should put her to bed.”

You nod. “I’ll get her pajamas.”

In the hallway, as he lifts Arin into his arms, his fingers brush yours.

It lingers.

Neither of you pull away.

Later, after Arin is asleep, you sit on opposite ends of the couch again. The space between you feels louder than any argument.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Seokjin says quietly.

You stare at the darkened TV screen. “You didn’t.”

“That’s not what she saw.”

You close your eyes. “She doesn’t know what she saw.”

He turns toward you. “Do you?”

You open your eyes then.

“I know,” you say, voice steady despite the ache in your chest, “that I don’t get to be angry.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” you say. “We agreed.”

Rule Three hums between you, unspoken.

He nods slowly. “We did.”

But when he leaves that night, the apartment feels colder than it ever has.

And for the first time since Arin was born, you wonder if pretending is starting to cost more than telling the truth.

You start doing it without realizing.

Answering later. Laughing softer. Turning conversations into jokes before they can turn into anything else.

It isn’t coldness. It’s restraint. The careful kind that looks like maturity from the outside and feels like grief from the inside.

Seokjin notices by the third day.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He never rushes you. He lets the sarcasm slide, lets you redirect conversations toward logistics and schedules and Arin’s favorite snacks. He tells himself you’re tired. He tells himself this is temporary.

But distance has a sound to it. A quiet click when a door closes just a little too softly.

Friday evening arrives like it always does. He shows up with groceries and a new book for Arin, cheeks flushed from the walk over.

“You don’t have to stay late,” you tell him immediately, too cheerful. “You probably have plans.”

He pauses in the doorway. “I don’t.”

“Oh,” you say, already moving toward the kitchen. “Well. You should. You know. Make the most of it.”

He watches you from across the room. “Make the most of what?”

You shrug. “Being single. Dating. Living your best life.”

The words sound rehearsed. That’s what gives you away.

Arin toddles in, waving her book. “Dada read.”

“Of course,” he says, crouching down. But his eyes flick back to you, searching.

Dinner is awkward in a way that’s hard to name. You fill the space with commentary. Observations about the weather. About a coworker you barely know. About a show you haven’t actually watched.

Seokjin eats quietly.

“You’re very enthusiastic about me going out lately,” he says eventually.

You smile without looking up. “I’m supportive.”

“That’s not support,” he replies gently. “That’s a push.”

You set your fork down. “Why are you reading into it?”

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Because you haven’t looked at me all night.”

You scoff. “That’s dramatic.”

“Is it?”

Arin hums to herself, oblivious, coloring between the lines with complete confidence. The innocence of it makes your chest ache.

“You should go,” you say again. “You’re going to be late.”

“For what?” he asks.

“For your date,” you say lightly. “Or whatever.”

He goes still.

“I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

“Well,” you reply, standing up, “you can’t cancel your entire life just because you’re here.”

He looks at you then. His voice changes. Loses its softness.

“What is your problem?”

The question lands between you. Sharp. Necessary.

You freeze.

“I don’t have a problem,” you say evenly.

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You’re sending me out the door like I’m inconveniencing you,” he says. “You’re acting like I don’t belong here anymore.”

Your laugh sounds hollow even to you. “That’s not true.”

“Then tell me what is.”

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Arin yawns loudly, announcing her exhaustion like a verdict. You scoop her up before the silence can stretch any further.

“I’m putting her to bed,” you say.

You carry Arin down the hallway, her head resting against your shoulder, small and warm and safe. You tuck her in carefully, smoothing her hair, kissing her forehead.

She smiles in her sleep.

You stand there longer than necessary, letting the quiet settle into your bones.

When you turn, Seokjin is in the doorway.

“Talk to me,” he says softly.

You shake your head. “Not tonight.”

“Please.”

You look past him, toward your room. Toward the place where you can be alone with the truth.

“I said I don’t have a problem,” you repeat. “So stop asking me to invent one.”

You walk past him.

He calls your name once. Then again.

You close your door.

Your phone buzzes a few minutes later.

Seokjin: Please don’t shut me out.

Seokjin: I don’t know what I did wrong.

You stare at the screen until it goes dark.

Outside your door, the apartment settles into uneasy quiet.

Inside your chest, something gives way.

Part ll

@parapiop7 @andoyuki @pp0810 @maariinaaaaa @xtaemeex @jimochi @whoa-jo @kittenan2 @misschelliejeon @jksusawife @llallaaa @j0cgr0c @mar-lo-pap @svnbangtansworld @easterlyfusilli @mellyyyyyyx @zeebmaster @audreyny @wonznme @butterymin @amarawayne @maybesbabys @bts123746 @yooforeaa @notsooperfect @eeeeeeeruab

[toobytoobs]

I need a fic where all the magic users know that the Champion of Magic is a child so they just start unintentionally co-parenting Billy.

Like, John Constantine will take him on outings to hell. Billy will run off and come back with a piece of Constantine’s soul that had been gambled away and Billy will refuse to explain how he got it.

Dr. Fate (against his better judgment) sets up a playdate between Billy and Klarion the Witch Boy where they are just running around causing chaos (nothing harmful thanks to Billy)

Zatanna lets Billy come to her shows where he’s putting every other audience member to shame with how loud he claps and cheers whenever Zatanna does a trick.

Give me a scenario where magic users are regularly teleporting into the watchtower just to give Captain Marvel a packed lunch, and telling him off —in front of the JL— for forgetting it.